Loaded Weapon – Part 2

Before she knew it, it was lunch time. Unfortunately the canteen was crowded and they had to share the table she and Surya usually occupied with two ward attendants. This lack of privacy prevented her from telling Surya about the morning’s incident. She would just have to wait until she got home that evening.

She felt nauseated at the very sight of the tiffin carrier and pushed the food around on her plate, looking miserable.

“What’s wrong?” asked Surya. “You’re not eating.”

“I’ve got a bad headache,” she dissembled. “Feeling sick…”

As usual, after lunch Surya picked up the carrier and the bag, exchanged a few words with Shoba about vegetables to be bought for dinner that evening, and left. It was only then that Shoba remembered that Surya would soak the navy blue bag in detergent solution when he got home, as he did every Sunday evening. Shoba would rinse it and hang it out to dry on Monday morning and it would be ready for use again on Tuesday. It was part of their weekly routine…

Shoba walked down the corridor lost in thought, only to find her way barred by the hospital gossip – a lady of considerably large proportions and an even larger repertoire of tales.

“Did you hear about the murder down the road, behind Bhagwandas Chambers?” she demanded breathlessly.

Stunned, Shoba could only shake her head.

“So my suspicions were right – the fellow is really dead,”she thought, desperately hoping that the guilt was not reflected on her face.

Oblivious, Ms. Information proceeded to regale her with the details of the crime – the victim’s name, profession and other particulars. The facts had been gleaned from his ID card and expanded by police enquiries.

Shoba produced gasps of surprise and interjections of “Oh really?” at the necessary intervals, hoping that she wasn’t overdoing her reactions. She gave a sigh of relief when the lady turned away to enlighten some other poor soul on the subject of crime in the big, bad city of Madras.

Now that the police had entered the picture (only to be expected, of course, in the circumstances) Shoba had to think again. She was wondering whether they would come around to question the hospital employees, when a sudden thought occurred to her. Could there have been any witnesses to the incident?

She sat back and considered. The alley wound its way between two office blocks and a shopping complex. She was sure that there were no apartments in any of the buildings immediately around the alley. It was highly improbable that anyone would have been in the offices overlooking the alley so early – and that too on a Sunday. And the spot where the incident took place was not visible either from Trinity Avenue or Mydents Road. she was certain. taking all this into account, Shoba thought she was safe. If, by any chance, the real story came out, she could always plead “self defence”. God knows it was true.

But her fears proved unfounded. the local police, assisted by the crime branch and forensic experts, could not establish any leads. Various motives were attributed to the crime but none proved for want of evidence and witnesses. It was recorded in police files as one of those unsolved crimes which crop up from time to time with unfailing regularity. Needless to say, the murder weapon was never found. Police officials were of the opinion that it lay somewhere in the murky depths of the River Cooum flowing nearby, never even remotely imagining that it sat on the kitchen shelf of a flat in Ashok Nagar.”

~~~~~~~~~~

 

I put down the Saturday supplement of the newspaper with a pleased look on my face. I had every reason to be proud of myself. The short story, Loaded Weapon, published in that issue had been written by me; my name was there in black and white for all to see!

 

The idea had come to me two months ago during the short walk to my office from the bus stop and I had thought, “Why not?” I had changed the names of the streets, organizations and characters involved, of course. It had been a long time since my campus days when I had used my talent for creative writing in the colelge magazine – as well as in the examinations!

 

I could imagine the reactions of my friends and colleagues when they saw the paper; some would be genuinely happy, awed or surprised, others envious, spiteful or just plain indifferent. But the negative reactions could not detract from my pride and satisfaction. That they would not miss it I was sure. Two of my colleagues avidly read every word of the supplement without fail. I was right about this and about the reactions that followed.

 

There was a sudden hubbub in the corner, followed by a few “Oooh!”s and “Aaah!”s, then a surfeit of hand shaking, demands for a “treat” as well as a couple of green eyed looks. After the initial back thumping and euphoria had died down, we all got down to work.

 

At around 11 o’clock I was summoned to the Director’s office. “Probably to congratulate you!” they exclaimed encouragingly.

 

I knocked on the door of the Director’s cabin and entered. I was startled to see a police officer in uniform sitting there. A faint feeling of unease started rowing in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Sonali, did you write this story?” asked the Director, waving the newspaper supplement in my direction.

 

“Yes,” I began uncertainly.

 

“Then please come with me.” It was the police officer who spoke. “There’s been a murder this morning – uncannily similar to the one you have described, and we would like to take you in for questioning.”

 

The ensuing police case, widely covered by the media, ensured that all the copies of that particular newspaper issue were snapped up and totally sold out. And I got more fame than I had ever bargained for.

© Sosha Srinivasan

Loaded Weapon – Part 1

Shoba neatly stepped off the bus before it had come to a complete stop, drawing a look of consternation from the conductor.  It was half past seven on a pleasant Sunday morning, cooled by the unseasonal shower that had drenched Madras the previous night, and Shoba was feeling on top of the world.

She crossed the road, swinging the navy blue bag that held the lunch that she and her husband shared daily.  It was heavy – a good three-quarters of a kilo – and encased in a three tiered steel “tiffin carrier”, but she hardly felt the weight, gripping it by the handle through the fabric of the enclosing bag.  Her handbag swung from her left shoulder.

Shoba worked for a private hospital on Mydents Road as a dietician, and her husband Surya was a service engineer for a telecommunications firm next door.  They usually shared the food they prepared early in the morning, as neither cared for the fare dished out by their respective canteens.

Surya was more often than not on the early shift from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. and he cycled to work, only a fifteen-minute ride from home.  Shoba commuted by bus, working between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.  They worked a six-day week, both managing to wangle their off days each Monday.  It was the thought of the fast approaching morrow that partly contributed to Shoba’s high spirits.  They had been planning to go shopping at T. Nagar where she had spotted some colorful prints in a store window.  She had thought one of them would be the ideal foil for the plain white kurta she had in her wardrobe.  Dining out would end the day perfectly.  Shoba had it all chalked out in her mind as she walked down Trinity Avenue, humming a tune to herself.

The road was deserted except for a couple of elderly men out on their morning stroll and a handful of people at the bus stop.  As usual, Shoba turned right, into an small alley that branched off the main road onto Mydents Road.  As she approached the middle of the alley she suddenly became aware of quick footfalls behind her.  A faint sensation of unease came over her but she shrugged it off and walked on to the bend where the alley curved to the left.

As she turned the corner she realized the person behind her was now running.  Shoba swung around and saw at a glance who her pursuer was.  It was the young man who had been staring at her in the bus that very morning.  “Loud-checks” she had mentally christened him, courtesy the bright patterned shirt he had on.

He was now only a few paces away.  Any illusion Shoba had, that the man was only hurrying on his way to an appointment, was dispelled when she caught sight of the look on his face.  It was a mixture of sadism and lecherous glee and then he was upon her with upraised arms.

Shoba swung her right arm up in an instinctive gesture of self defence.  There was a sickening crunch as the cloth-clad steel connected with the man’s skull.  The fellow stopped as if shot, his legs buckling under him, and he pitched forward without a murmur onto the cold cement.

Shoba backed away, choking back the scream rising in her throat.  She was trembling, dazed by the assault and its aftermath.  It was a terrible, silent nightmare she was being subjected to. and her mind refused to function.  She wanted to sit down, close her eyes and shut out the horrible scene, but she knew she had to get away from this place – and quickly.

She staggered away, down the deserted lane which curved past an empty parking lot, still clutching her belongings.  Looking back once, she saw that the man had not moved.  The scene was surreal, like one out of a “spaghetti” western, awash with corpses and violent crime.

As she turned quickly onto Mydents Road, she suddenly became aware of birds chirping in the tree-line street, and once again there was sound and color in her world.  Now her mind raced, picturing again and again the frozen tableau of the dead man crumpled on the ground.

“Dead man!”  she shuddered as the thought struck her, then suddenly wondered if he was really dead or just injured.  She hurried down the street at a loss as to what to do next.

By the time she had reached the hospital staff entrance, she had calmed down considerably.  During the short walk down the street she had decided not to confide in anyone, except Surya – when they met for lunch.  Thinking about lunch she automatically looked down at the weapon swinging from her hand.  The thought that it might show traces of the crime suddenly struck her.  She smiled absently at Bahadur, the security guard on duty who greeted her, her mind working rapidly all the while.

She quickly crossed the yard and walked to the staff locker room which was fortunately empty.  Entering the small changing cubicle, she latched the door and sat down with a sigh of relief.  Then she turned to examine the bag holding her lunch.  Shoba scrutinized the dark fabric minutely and saw a small, coin sized blood stain near the base with a few short hairs adhering to it.  Removing the carrier from the bag, she left the cubicle and placed it in her locker, while she took the bag to the wash basin and after carefuly brushing off the hairs, washed out the stained corner.

Shoba returned the bag to her locker, twisted the key in the lock and left the room.  She walked slowly down the corridor and entered the section where she worked.  She was the first one in, as usual.  Her colleagues soon began trickling in one after another, and within minutes the place was humming with activity.  The normalcy of the scene had a calming effect on her mind which was still in turmoil.  Work helped her forget, at least temporarily, the terrible experience of the morning.