Trial by Fire

By Himanshu Ghate

Chief inspector Mushtaq Hussain is posted to a police station in Patparganj a small hill station nestling in the Western Ghats.
While idly leafing through the old case files at the station, he comes across one that had caused a sensation of sorts when he used to be a student-boarder at the Palace School, Patparganj. Though the file is marked Closed many questions remain unanswered
Susan, whose memories stir feelings in Mushtaqs heart, had been found, late at night, lying unconscious beside Altaf, their classmate, in a clearing in the bush around the Palace school estate. What was the duo doing there at that time?
Susan had been badly mauled and angry scratch marks had appeared all over the skin exposed due to torn clothing. Who had attacked Susan and why?
Altaf had his head bludgeoned with blood flowing through a gaping wound near his neck. Who had struck Altaf?
Gonu, the mentally challenged school mascot, had stood at the crime scene with a bloodied hockey stick in his hand. Why? How did he get there?
Miss Stokes, Gonus mother and the first one to witness the tableau, had come across Gonu struggling with a person, who, when confronted by Miss Stokes, had fled away into the thicket before she could have a closer look at his face. Who was the fourth person?
Mushtaq decides to investigate. He sets the stage for the dramatis personae of that night to come together once again hoping to reignite the passions that could throw up some answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Sep 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781482811438

Himanshu Ghate

Himanshu Ghate has made his debut as a writer with this novel. Half of his school life was spent in a boarding school in India. He is a storyteller at heart and in whatever time his profession as Chartered Accountant allowed, he has managed to put together his first book.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T he train hauled by two steam engines, rolled into Patparganj—a hill station, nestled in the mountain ranges of western India. Not many alighted from the carriages and the two constables that had come to receive Chief Inspector Mushtaq Hussain had no difficulty spotting him. The Chief Inspector was not in uniform but the hair cut and the bearing were a dead giveaway. They hurried forward to greet him.

‘Constable Ram Naresh and Constable Jeev Prakash welcome you, Sir!’ the saluting constables uttered in unison.

The Chief Inspector waved his hand in acknowledgement and eyed them authoritatively. The older one, probably over forty, had a full blown potbelly while, that of the younger one’s had just begun its forward march. Both grew mustaches and were obviously related.

‘Sir, your luggage, sir?’ the elder of the two enquired looking around.

‘In the compartment on berth C 60,’ Mushtaq answered and strode towards the station exit. He took quick steps and the constables just about managed to catch up with him at the gate.

‘Welcome to Patparganj,’ the station master who also doubled as ticket checker intoned as he punched out Mushtaq’s ticket. ‘Have a pleasant stay.’

The weather had been dark and wet throughout his journey from the metro. He had sullenly watched the grey green scenery roll by as rain drops splattered the compartment window. Water had seeped through the window frames up his cuffs wetting his right sleeve. It now irritatingly stuck to his arm. On the brighter side, it had stopped raining in Patparganj but the chill winds from which he had been sheltered in the compartment sent an involuntary shiver up his spine. He rubbed his palms together to keep out the cold wishing for the Sun to put in an appearance. It was as if he had rubbed Aladdin’s lamp, for a moment later, the Sun obliged.

‘A fortuitous omen,’ he thought, ‘the cloud under which I left my earlier posting seems to be dispersing.’ He blew a stream of steam in His direction in appreciation. He felt relaxed and the world looked a better place already.

Last five years had been hectic and had sapped his energy. During a routine medical checkup at the police hospital, the resident doctor had advised him to take it easy. He had ignored the advice and the police department, short of good staff, had turned a blind eye to the doctor’s recommendations. Chief Inspector Mushtaq had no grouse with the department and he voluntarily took up extra work that kept him busy for 24-hours-7-days-a-week.

‘Why choose such a killing schedule?’ the doctor had asked.

‘Because it is there,’ he had replied, echoing the sentiment of a renowned mountaineer who had been asked as to why he climbed mountains. It was not a complete answer to the doctor’s query but he had managed to ward off further questions. And as is wanton to happen in such cases, the punishing schedule took its toll. Initially, there were small errors on the job but over a period they grew in frequency and consequence. One day, under the influence of alcohol, he shot dead a suspect criminal. A departmental enquiry followed and it squarely pinned the responsibility on Mushtaq. His earlier record was a mitigating factor that led the enquiry to hand down a one year ‘Cool-your-heels’ transfer order to a minor police station. They had been gracious enough to allot him the one of his choice—Patparganj Police Station.

The police jeep was parked just outside and the young constable was at the wheel. The elder had not got in yet. He was waiting for the inspector to choose between the front or the rear.

‘Ram…’ Mushtaq said and paused.

‘Sir!’ responded the driver.

Noting, by elimination that the elder one was Jeev, the inspector instructed, ‘Deliver the bags to the quarters and we will meet at the police station. I will walk it.’

The constables looked uncertain.

‘Don’t worry, I have been here before; I will find my way,’ he told the twosome.

They nodded and drove away.

The Sun once again went behind the clouds. The rains had adorned the hillside with a fresh blanket of emerald green and silver waterfalls winked and danced down the slopes in the muted noon light—muted, by the dark grey clouds, whose lighter wisps caressed the top of hill slopes. The pearly grey ambience was awe inspiring.

‘Not much seems to have changed,’ was Mushtaq’s first impression as he dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He had not returned to this town since he finished high school more than twelve years ago. The terrain around was as mountainous; the vegetation as thick; the shops as quaint; the roads as narrow as he remembered them from his schooldays. Among all these, right across where he stood, was the majestic structure of the Palace. Though once the abode of rich royalty, it was now run as a boarding school by the Palace Education Trust. The Palace School, as it was inevitably called, was a trendsetter of sorts. It had been the only boarding school for years before a dozen or so, me-too schools, sprouted all over the town. Some were bigger with modern architecture but none had the aura and the sense of history that the Palace School with its imposing structure seemed to exude. It was the royalty amongst the hoi-polloi. It was also his alma mater; his past; a world very different from where he was coming. He was happy to be back and his eyes danced around taking in the familiar landmarks. He looked for and located the road that led up to the Palace School. It was still a dirt track wide enough for a horse drawn carriage to comfortably trundle through. He had traveled that road a number of times in the past but today he had other priorities. The police station lay to the left and that was the direction he took.

As Mushtaq recalled, the police station was housed within the premises of the town hall—a colonial edifice of lime and stone built in Victorian style, complete with a statue of the prince astride a horse, mounted just at the hall entrance. The high domed hall in the centre was supported by two storeys of smaller halls that ran all along its perimeter. The wide stone-stepped entrance running the entire length of the face of the structure, led into it through a wide arch. Atop the arch was the clock tower which marked time for the town. It had a sonorous bell that tolled that many number of times as the hour it traced. A single toll marked the end of the half hour in between.

He set a brisk pace and was huffing slightly by the time he reached the town hall. Like an Escher drawing all the roads seemed to climb up. Jeev and Ram were already on the town hall steps waiting to guide him to the police station. He was accompanied past the land record office, the life and death registry, and two other offices before they came to the police station. He was informed that the municipal commissioner’s office and the public library were on the upper floors. The police station consisted of two halls—a detention cell and adjoining working office. The rooms were large and a separate cabin was carved out with plywood panels for the Chief Inspector. His staff and a record room accommodated themselves in the remaining space.

His cabin had a regulation table, a functional chair and a wooden cupboard on one side. There was a glass of water on the table. He went behind the table and sat on the chair. A window looked out on a row of small shops against the backdrop of the omnipresent mountains. He drank the water. Jeev came in with a register and some files. Mushtaq motioned him to keep them on the desk.

‘Who is on night duty?’ Mushtaq asked just to establish his authority.

‘Ram, Sir’

‘Only Ram… ?’

‘Yes sir. There is a requisition for one more constable sir. He will come by next month sir.’

Like the proverbial next day, Mushtaq knew next month would never come. He picked up and flipped through the register and files. There was nothing in it of interest to him. He had expected some sort of a climb down in the work content but the situation at hand was abysmal. The full import of it hit him as he stared at the inconsequential files. He had no work to do! The awareness of emptiness slowly sank into his consciousness with pain akin to the one he encountered when the work never seemed to cease while he was at his earlier postings. It was ironic he thought, that an inspector of police should feel depressed by the fact that there was next to no crime in his precinct.

He thanked the thought that had made him bring the law books along with him to read. He had taken up a Special Officers Course while on duty in the city. He had passed all the modules of the course except for the one that dealt with Criminal and Procedural Law. He intended to use this time to study. The examination was due in a couple of months. If these two months were to be subtracted from the twelve (statutory minimum) he intended to stay; it left him with 10 months of unplanned nothingness. He shuddered at the prospect.

‘Show me my quarters Jeev,’ he said shutting the files and getting up from his chair.

This time he rode the jeep. Within five minutes he was in front of a standalone house against the mountain. Three rooms, kitchen and verandah—all with high ceilings and wooden doors, formed his living space. Across the road were a few houses and a small petrol station with a convenience shop. His bags were kept on the bed. He hauled them down pulled off his jacket and lay on the bed with his hands beneath his neck.

It wasn’t planned but the first day of the new chapter of his life was his birthday. He was born this day thirty years ago. He had no friends, only acquaintances and of these only a few knew where he was and those that knew, were unlikely to call and wish him on his birthday. His parents had died early and he had no memory of them. His uncle and aunt who supported him early in his life were a distant memory. They had migrated to Canada to live with their son. He was alone and it frightened him at times. He felt a familiar urge rise inside him. A voice within egged him to go for a drink—‘Just the one,’ a part of his mind prompted. ‘Retain control’, the saner one admonished. He lay there battling it out. Then, all of a sudden, he got up threw on the jacket and walked to the corner shop. He purchased a full bottle whisky and returned to his quarters. He put it beside the table then lay down again and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER 2

T he rains began late in the evening and most likely would continue throughout the night. It was a normal occurrence in Patparganj for that time of the year. Miss Sheila Stokes heaved a sigh of relief as she looked out of her window—the rains were on time and that was good news for her berry farm. Last year the rains had been scant and had adversely affected her farm produce. The shortage had been serious enough to affect her finances. Soon a situation had arisen when she was unable to pay her business loan installment. Her forehead wrinkled in distaste as she recalled the brief run-in she had had with the town’s bank regarding her overdraft.

She had approached the bank and citing the difficulties she faced at the farm, had requested it to postpone the loan installment. The bank manager, newly transferred from the city, had been downright rude and had resorted to a language unbecoming of a gentleman. He had called her cheat and had threatened to sell off her farms if she did not cough up the bank dues within a week. She had been embarrassed and had turned red as the strawberries in the packet she had brought along to gift the manager. She had held back her tears and it was only when she returned home and thrown herself on her bed had she cried. Not to be beaten down for long, she had got up and walked to Bawaji who owned the big restaurant in town and was counted as one of its wealthier residents. He was also the town’s moneylender. She had planned to pawn her ornaments for money to repay the bank loan and have nothing to do with the horrid manager and his bank thereafter. She was aware that Bawaji’s interest rates were steeper. ‘So what?’ she had thought; ‘at least he is decent.’ When she had shown up unannounced at the restaurant steps, he was gracious enough to guide her to the alcove seat. He had sat opposite her and ordered the waiter to get her an iced lemon tea. Once the waiter served the beverage and left, Bawaji had smiled encouragingly. She had picked up the glass and drained the contents at one go. How thirsty she had been! He had waited patiently for her to begin. He had listened without interruption as she narrated the encounter she had had with the new bank manager. He had thought for a while in the silence that followed and then had asked her a few details about the loan. He had then excused himself and gone to the other room. While she had waited she had been offered pastries and cakes by one of the waiters. He had returned some minutes later and had announced that the matter was taken care of and that her next installment would commence six months later.

‘But?’ she had fumbled.

‘Don’t worry, the manager will also apologize for his behavior,’ he had told her.

She had thanked him profusely and walked out with her self-respect restored.

Incidents such as these, she reflected, were the ones that made her feel that she had made the right decision in staying back in Patparganj when she had the alternative to move to England.

The rain changed direction and water began to wet the floor of her room. Sheila got up and shut the window. It would not close properly. The dampness made the frames go grumpy. She sighed again and pulled the window shut with a quick tug. All this wetness had made her feel cold and was looking forward to the tea she had concocted and left to stand in the kitchen. She poured herself a cup and padded upstairs to her bedroom. The ceiling had developed a leak towards the end of last year’s rains and she wanted to know if the repair work done by the Shaoin was as good as he claimed it to be.

‘Shaoin?’ she checked herself.

She had thought she would never get used to using the word but now it came to her naturally. They were thus called, she had been told, after the grunting noise the local laundry cleaners made when they came down heavily on the laundry block with the wet clothes swinging over their heads. And now anybody in the town who provided household services like plumbing, masonry, carpentry, gardening, etc. were categorized and called