The Proof Diaries

By Nidhi Singh

The investigating officer, Padhy gives Kaysar a chance to prove his innocence when he is blamed for rape.
Kaysar embarks on a journey that sees him wading through crocodile infested swamps, hobnobbing with Aghoris and getting into gunfights.
Along the way he makes friends with people tottering on the edge of sanity: the oppressed yet lively Kasturi, the equivocating CEO, the failed-romantic Senapati, the alcoholic but loyal Padhy with his eunuch whores, the cross-dressing contractor and the scheming cook Lola in an incestuous tangle with a long forgotten cousin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nidhi Singh
• Release date: Apr 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310166105

Nidhi Singh

Nidhi attended American International School, Kabul, before moving to Delhi University for BA English Honors. Currently, she lives with her husband near McLeodganj (abode of the Holy Dalai Lama) in the Dhauladhar mountain ranges. Her short work has appeared in Indie Authors Press, Flyleaf Journal, Liquid Imagination, Digital Fiction Publishing Co, LA Review of LA, Flame Tree Publishing, Four Ties Lit Review, The Insignia Series, Inwood Indiana Press, Bards and Sages Publishing, Scarlet Leaf Review, Bewildering Stories, Down in the Dirt, Mulberry Fork Review, tNY.Press, Fabula Argentea, Aerogram, Fiction Magazines, Flash Fiction Press, The Dirty Pool, Asvamegha, etc. Her translations of Sikh Holy Scriptures, essays on Bollywood and a few novels are available in print and online.

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Prologue

The beach in ‘Chandanpuri at Sea’, on the Odisha coastline in the Bay of Bengal was unique- extending nearly five km into the sea. During high tide the water covered the whole beach, its waves licking the embankment and the palm covered bungalows of the Praman (Proof) Colony that lined the shore.

The East India Company found this half-moons shape of the beach ideal for setting up a Proof Range for test-firing their long-range weapons. The Range extended 50 km in length along the sea coast and 50 km into the sea. It was a natural sea-based range with oscillating tide conditions. During low tide, water receded to a distance of about 5 km into the sea beach.

The first firings at Chandanpuri at Sea were carried out in 1895, under the command of a British Captain, R.H. McNamara. The weapons and munitions would come in by rickety trawlers and little boats through the coastal canal from the Ordnance factories at Calcutta.

Old timers recalled that on independence eve, a young British Officer in charge had arrested an Indian jawan who hoisted the Indian flag atop the ‘Praman Bhavan’. He ordered the British flag to be hoisted instead and refused to hand over the arrested jawan or the command to the Indian officials. The police and district officials of Bahubaleswara District rushed to Chandanpuri at Sea to sort out the situation but failed to impress the errant British officer. Finally, the British Embassy was solicited to prevail upon him to leave that place.

Now there hardly remains any reminder of the British legacy. Almost all the old structures have been brought down and replaced with swanky, air conditioned buildings . The colony today is a modern complex with tree-lined green avenues, parks, play grounds and double storied officers’ apartments. The guesthouses, clubs, the CEO’s residences and the Praman offices and ranges are all facing the sea. The range now functions as a joint public-private venture, run by an assortment of soldiers and scientists on deputation, proving munitions and other related items.

One can hear the waves pounding the shore all day, especially during full moon when the high tide is at its peak strength. Approximately twice a month, around new moon and full moon when the sun, moon and Earth form a straight line - the tidal force due to the sun reinforces that due to the moon. The tide's range on ‘Shivratri’ is then at its maximum.

As on this day, after the recent commissioning of Dhamaira Port a few kilometeres down south in the Bay of Bengal, the Odisha government was not keen on renewing the range notification, since the firings could disrupt the nearby shipping lanes.

The days of the old range seemed numbered.

§

@ Chandanpuri at Sea

The sun blazed on the dry seashore of Chandanpuri with a feverish wrath, burning the jagged, black rocks that lined the embankment; sending little red crabs scurrying beneath them. They sought a cool respite from the brilliant burst of fire coming down from the skies. Little fishing boats out at the sea lurked about chasing the shades of their sails, waiting for the cool night to get on with their business.

The tired palms lining the shore swayed drunkenly in the warm, sweaty and salty breeze that came in from the boiling sea. Mongrel dogs that hunted in packs on the seashore huddled in the shade, panting from the heat. Large, cavernous, shrieking crows dotted the guesthouses, hotels and clubs lining the shore; scavenging on garbage and waste. Dust gathered like a thick film on everything that dotted the ugly Indian landscape; trees, leaves, cars, buildings, clothes, faces – anything that did not move for a minute gathered dust.

Sweat glistened on the shiny black backs of tribal girls bent over the lawns of the Range guesthouse – ‘Samudra Darpan’- plucking dead grass and weed. Some girls on lunch break squatted on the pavement in the shade of parked taxis, while the drivers sprawled on the back seats, their feet sticking out the windows; old newspapers covering their faces from the salty, sticky wind.

The Kandha girls were thin like reeds; jet-black, and tall with small, well rounded breasts the size of ripe plums, and narrow hips. They were hairless, had high cheekbones and big wondrous eyes that stared right back at you with curiosity and frankness. They walked with a slow, languorous and inviting gait - in no apparent hurry to get anywhere. Their feminism was seductive with no deliberate effort, and they always walked, sat and slept unselfconsciously with their legs spread wide open. The barefoot girls dressed in bright, colorful cotton saris - riding cycles ramrod straight, not half bent- the breeze keeping them dry.

A young man always accompanied groups of three to four girls, carefully shielding them from the amorous advances of contractors, drivers and diverse agents. The girls needed no less attention either: as they stared, giggled and passed lewd comments equally freely at any passing male of reasonable and suspected manhood. They enjoyed their ripe youth and reveled in the raw excitement of mating signals that came their way in abundant quantity.

The sea at this hour was out at low tide, leaving a salty, clayish and white beach in its wake. The sand dunes dotted with wild creepers and the casuarinas rustling in the breeze created an entrancing moment for any rank first-timer.

The little colony at Chandanpuri was dependent on the sea for logistics, as well as for augmenting their rations supplies. The rations were supplemented by the coconuts and bananas that grew amply in the district, as well as by the fish sold by the Bangladeshi refugees settled in Mirzapur, the nearby fishing community at the confluence of the river Budhabalanga.

The fishermen would come every evening in their little boats during the low tide, and land on the beach at Chandanpuri. The women folk in the colony came to the beach to gossip and haggle for hours with the fishermen over fresh pomfrets and prawns. The beach swarmed with red crabs, which crawled about sideways with merry abandon till the wild dogs gobbled them up. An interesting array of brightly colored Indian Trogons chirped and sang along, while the bustling marketplace carried out its business.

A visit to the beach Haat was often the only happening social outing the small officers’ community had; cut off as they were from much of the rest of the world at this remote, hot and humid outpost of human civilization.

At this moment though, the water was out. It was a warm mid-March afternoon; suddenly become still .

A car drove in and stopped at the guest house entrance.

A tall, heavy set man somewhere on the wrong side of forties got out and stretched himself. He surveyed the scene and walked around to the back of the building to get a glimpse of the sea. All he could see was a vast expanse of white baked sand dunes and a ripple of the ocean several kilometers away.

He was confused; he thought the sea meant huge waves and water everywhere, but here it was just a clay desert with vehicle marks and mongrel dogs chasing crows on the beach. Disappointed, he returned to the front of the building. Telling his driver to freshen up, he walked inside.

‘Hi, I am Kaysar Singh from Delhi. I am reporting for my new assignment,’ he announced to the sleepy manager, showing him an appointment letter welcoming him as the Explosives Consultant at the range.

‘Err, really sir, You want a room? You’ll have to speak to the Admin. Officer.’

The visitor was clearly annoyed at the poor reception. He did not expect this lack of warmth, or rather the entire absence of it – being used to elaborate army rituals of receiving newly arrived officers with great pomp and decorum. And here was a civilian moron who didn’t even have a clue about him.

‘You mean you have no information of my coming? Well, call him up then’, he gruffly told the manager, irritated with his shabby look and defiant attitude.

The manager grudgingly dialed a number and whispered conspiratorially in Odiya to the other party, apparently warning him about the north Indian invader.

A jeep soon arrived at the porch and a puny, plump Odiya officer rolled out, ‘Oho, Hello Kaysar! You are finally here!’

The two shook hands and vaguely exchanged information about each other. Kaysar could not find anything to ask, but the other officer was very inquisitive. The Odiya felt increasingly intimidated and uneasy with Kaysar’s lack of curiosity as well as deference. He suggested that Kaysar move to another guesthouse where it was cheaper. Kaysar was irritated by the insensitive proposal and said he wanted to rest- he had driven 2000 kms, and his driver needed a break. He was not moving anywhere.

So it was agreed that he will stay put for the night in the same guesthouse, untill he takes a call later. The Admin. O. went away after making an arrangement for night stay and food for Kaysar’s driver, while Kaysar retired to his room.

The room was quite well appointed by govt. standards and the best part was – it faced the sea.

The tide was coming in slowly now and the wind had begun to work up a howl, which soon became a constant , loud shriek as it escaped through the gaps in windows and doors like a wild beast. Kaysar walked across the lawns to the watchtower on the beach.

Two Home Guard lady constables huddled behind the pillars. They were skinny and brown and awkwardly wore loose ill-fitting uniforms- sulking because they were not allowed saris- perhaps. The wind was so strong that a heavy man like Kaysar found it difficult to stand still. The palms and beefwood trees bent over, tugging at their roots, begging as if, the earth to let go. Kaysar could smell the rain in the wind coming in from the sea. He enjoyed the scene for a while; it seemed definitely better than the white desert of the afternoon. The lady constables had also begun to take a vague interest in him and cast sideways, surreptitious glances.

Kaysar took out his cell and called up his wife. He tried to describe the fascinating tempest before him but the roar was too loud. So he ended the call and decided to call her from the room later. He guessed he could do with a nice, cold shower.

So far the experience at Chandanpuri at Sea had been very distasteful, and he was glad he had not brought his family along, as they would have been more unhappy at the lukewarm attitude, or rather the cold hostility of the locals.

‘Never mind, let’s take it as it comes’, thought Kaysar, missing his family and hating the isolated place. He finished his shower and fixed a nice scotch for himself. The room service had got him some soda; he was glad he was carrying his booze since this guest house didn’t seem to be having any.

He finished his drink and walked over to the dining hall to eat the worst meal of his life. He was warned the place was cheap and scientists believed in a free and subsidized ride, but this place beat anything he had ever seen subsidized.

A few people shuffled about the place, carrying their plates with watery curry and dry rice, wearing an array of shabby sandals, dhotis, track bottoms, shorts; all the stuff any military mess will keep a mile away. People ate with their hands and spoke while eating. Most waiters were sprawled on the sofas nearest to the TV, watching Odiya songs; least bothered about the guests.

‘The place is run by a contractor with links as far as Delhi. Everything is outsourced, including the R&D’, one factory manager dining next to Kaysar smirked . A few naval pilots also entered the hall. They were usually here to test Unarmed Aerial Vehicles, and the lucky blokes stayed for only a short while. They had brought their wives along for a short picnic.

Kaysar walked on the beach for a while after finishing his dinner. The wind had become dulled and the sea water had begun to recede. ‘End of the day’, Kaysar thought, ‘but what a day! A small journey, but what an end’.

He felt disoriented, and suddenly did not fathom anything anymore. As soon as he hit the sack , his tired body gave in and he went to sleep almost instantly.

Kaysar slept fitfully- the long road journey recurring in his dreams.

The moment he crossed Odisha border, it seemed he had entered into another time zone and country. All signs of civilization abruptly vanished like a magician’s rabbit.

After driving for hours on end, he did not cross a single person, vehicle, building, house or shop. The landscape became dull and barren. Sparse jungle and rolling grey hills stretched alongside as they drove through the rocky, dry valleys.

Tropical dry deciduous forests thickly covered the districts in the interior. Teak, Kendu and Bamboo grew in abundance. There were no signs of animals, either domesticated or wild or even birds, as they sped along all alone. Entire humanity and its telltale signs seemed to have been contrived away. They were passing through Naxal territory and he had been advised to cross the Naxal areas well before dark.

The driver was tired and Kaysar had told him to halt at the first tea stall that they found. He had decided he would drive for a while so that the driver could rest.

Before nightfall they came across a thatched hut with a few trucks parked nearby. They halted and Kaysar asked the driver to order two chai’s while he strolled on the empty highway to stretch himself. After about 15 minutes Kaysar came to the shop to check why tea wasn’t ready yet- they were getting late and he was beginning to get worried about driving in the dark, even though he carried two loaded guns with sufficient rounds. They planned to halt at Sambalpur, but it still seemed to be about two hours away.

‘Why is there nobody in the shop?’ Kaysar asked his driver, seeing the empty stall.

‘Sahib, she has gone behind’.

Curious, Kaysar decided to check where the lady had gone, leaving her shop and customers. The woman was milking a goat tied at the back of the hut. She had some broken twigs at her feet as she squatted on the ground next to the goat. Apparently she had just got the wood from the open forest behind her home. The woman came back to the hut when she had enough milk. Then she began to light a small three-stone stove on which a wobbly cooking pot was balanced. ‘God knows where she had got the water from’, Kaysar wondered.

As the water was boiling the woman dug her hand all the way into her sari, shocking the two men. She pulled out a small key at the end of a thin cord tied to her sari. Then she dragged out a small tin box from under the charpoy which she opened with the key. She took out a small plastic jar half filled with sugar. She carefully measured out two spoons and poured them into the boiling water.

When tea was ready the driver brought along a glass to Kaysar who was sitting on one of the charpoys placed along the road.

‘No thanks, you drink all of it’, Kaysar told him. There was no way he was going to let that thing enter the temple of his body, after having seen where all those woman’s hands had been.

§

The next day Kaysar put on his best dress and went to call upon the CEO of the range, a colorful personality full of contradictions, who secretly coveted a national award or two provided he could nudge the laidback, local scientist community from their state of inertia. The CEO looked to the battle-scarred Kaysar as the scourge upon the barren wall shelves in his office, where the medals should have been sitting.

He had sounded very humble and nice on the phone, but one never knows.

The CEO had been frank; ’ Kaysar you don’t need the Range, the Range needs you!’

Brave words indeed; no one had ever said that to him ever. Being a joint defense-civil venture- with the best minds in the business, Kaysar thought finding ignited attitudes and kindled minds in his new assignment shouldn’t really surprise him.

The CEO was a short man with closely cropped hair. He was rounded everywhere, and inconsolably cheerful - very unlikely soldiering material. He was soft spoken to a fault and equivocated in every sentence that he spoke. Before he finished a sentence he contradicted whatever he had just said, leaving his audience bewildered. The CEO seemed mortally terrified of saying anything that could possibly be held against him; therefore he committed to nothing whatsoever.

He repeated everything he had said on the phone, and told Kaysar that he had huge plans for him. He said that explosives duties were a small part of the overall assignments he had in mind for him, and was going to use Kaysar’s qualifications and experience to the hilt for the range’s benefit.

‘I promise Sir, I will live up to your expectations’. Kaysar assured the CEO.

‘Not up to – exceed them! I am sure you will- not certain, but quite sure’, the CEO giggled. ’I hope you are comfortable- not uncomfortable at least’.

‘Sir, in fact I wanted to tell you that...’

‘Don’t say anymore, we both understand each other very well- not completely, but you can say 90%,’ the CEO interjected.

Kaysar was beginning to get a little confused here. Was this man telepathic, or omnipotent? How did he know what I was going to say?

Later when he discussed the first meeting with Scientist Raghavan, the latter had burst out laughing. Raghavan told him that once an IG Police had come for a meeting regarding the range notification and had asked if he could request the CEO for something.

Without letting the IG complete his sentence, the CEO had famously said to him, ‘don’t worry, I have understood. It will be sent to you by today evening’.

The IG had pestered him all evening about what had been understood, but the CEO just kept insisting that he had. Finally the IG left without asking for anything, and the range remains to this day clueless about what the CEO would have sent across that evening!

The CEO seemed bizarre; it might even turn out to be an interesting stay. At least some fun in this back of the beyond place.

Raghavan had left his wife and a two-year-old daughter for a French UN official while doing service in Africa. His present French wife was now serving in Lebanon; they had stayed separated most of their married life. The poor guy couldn’t trust his wife’s wild partying ways, so he was quitting now. He hoped she would find an employment for him in the UN. Most of the companies he had approached in India had told him that he was over-qualified for them. He was still trying, hoping to land a good job and convince his French wife to come to Indian shores. He was a happy-go-lucky bloke, always in on the latest gossip.

The CEO appeared to be a self-doubting, comical version of Hitler. Other than the moustache, the short height, the plump, rotund figure, and the burning ambition that made him impotent with frustration, there was little common between the two rogues separated by decades of humdrum existence.

He ruled with a limp shaft in a velvet glove. He tried to appease everybody except the military staff, who did all his work for him anyway- being a self-disciplined lot that made no demands on him. They were a silent group who minded their own business, had no truck with politics and gave him unquestioning loyalty and results. They needed neither motivation, nor reward, nor perks nor recognition. Neither did they get any!

On the other hand, every morning in the conference, the CEO gave undeserved credit to the lazy, anaesthetized scientists for the work done by the soldiers, unabashedly in front of the latter, to win over the unrelenting, hostile civilian workforce. In turn, the civilians got used to being praised for even coming to work at all. The civilians had stopped working, and the soldiers had continued working- maintaining the balance, so the organization somehow thrived.

Kaysar was taken to the beach to see the firings by Samantray, the Admin. Officer. Guns fired at one end of the ‘half-moon’ beach; the shells travelled over sea and landed about 20 kilometers on the other end of the beach.

Samantray told him that they had to recover the shells before the chor (thief) party made away with them, though. Young men from the poor little villages dotting the seashore dug little bunkers in the seabed across the range before the firings. Immediately after firing, they run out of their rat-holes and picked up the shells landed on the beach and ran away with them, either on foot or on tiny boats waiting out at sea, like Somali pirates.

Each shell weighed in a good 15-20 kilos and could fetch a man a couple of hundred rupees- more, if it had copper driving bands on it. They sold off the stolen ammunition to a scrap dealer in Bahubaleswara, 16 km away, to buy Handia or to pay for their diseased whores.

The men also used the fuse and detonator for fishing. They went in little boats to the middle of the Budhabalanga River, lit the fuse and threw it in. When the detonator detonated, all the nearby fish would die from the shock of explosion and rise to the surface-tummy side up. You just picked and fried!

After the tea Kaysar decided to explore Bahubaleswara town and scout for some happening places like pubs. The Range had given him a week to sort out his personal affairs and familiarize with the new organization.

Babu Marandi, a tribal Lab Cosmetician, working in his division, was deputed to show Kaysar around town. Lab Cosmetician, Kaysar discovered, was the designation of the guy who swept the floors in Labs.

Kaysar was taken aback with the primeval standards of life in the town as he drove around the narrow, broken roads surrounded by paddy fields, water channels and fish ponds, with half naked men and women lazing about them.

‘I don’t know why these guys get on the wrong side all of the time.’ Raghavan told him one evening, as he and Kaysar were enjoying a drink on the lawns of the Kalinga Club. Raghavan was an incorrigible cynic, finding faults with one and all, having an oblique take on everything. ‘Odiyas even fought in the Kurukshetra War- siding with the wrong guys- the Kauravas. They are also responsible for turning one of our finest soldiers into a religion-peddling monk’.

‘Who?’

‘Asoka- who else. Did you know that the famous battle of Kalinga had taken place just a few kilometers