Free Murder with Bengali Characteristics by Shovon Chowdhury Page B

have been involved, or perhaps one of the local boys. Although I am sure the local boys there are also very good boys.’
    ‘It’s likely,’ said Li. ‘This place is full of them.’ He handed him a card. It was screenpaper. Above his name, it flashed encouraging slogans, which changed periodically. ‘Avoid feudal and superstitious practices’ it was saying currently. It seemed appropriate. ‘Do apply your mind to the matter, sir,’ he said. ‘If you come up with anything, or receive any information, let us know.’
    ‘Certainly,’ said Amalendu. ‘Our loyalty to the administration is absolute.’
    The hungry woman ushered them out.
    ‘What did you learn from that?’ asked Phoni-babu. He knew that Li was good at investigation. He had heard of this phenomenon. He was curious.
    ‘I learnt that good Bengali gentlemen think they know everything, so they love correcting you,’ said Li. ‘It shows who knows more. And they don’t feed their maids very well.’
    The car was waiting. They got in. ‘The locality of Bhobanipur was home to many members of the Bengali intelligentsia,’ said the car, ‘until real estate prices in Ballygunge went up. Those who have adorned this neighbourhood include immortal leader Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, legendary cine star Uttam Kumar, internationally acclaimed film director Satyajit Ray, architect of the Emergency, Siddhartha Shankar Ray, Commissioner of Burdwan District, Brajendranath Dey, eminent barrister, Rajendra Bhushan Bakshi, Hindu Nationalist pioneers, Ashutosh Mukherjee and Shyama Prasad Mukherjee, melodious singer Hemant Kumar, unforgettable theatre personality…’
    ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot you in the brain,’ said Li. ‘I know where it is.’
    The car lapsed into hurt silence.

12
‘In case you feel an overwhelming urge to obey her, please back away slowly…’
    A famous Indian batsman was weeping on the sidelines, lying on his stomach with his face in his hands. ‘Please don’t make me do any more push-ups!’ he sobbed.
    The Chinese coach blew his whistle. ‘You rise,’ he said.
    ‘I can’t do it any more,’ said the batsman. ‘How will I lift a bat after this?’
    The coach was merciless. ‘You do fifty more,’ he said. He blew his whistle again. This was a punishment posting for him. He had been a swimming coach. He bitterly regretted visiting the
New York Times
website during the Asian Aquatic Meet in Tokyo. He had thought no one would notice.
    Similar scenes of horror were being enacted all over Eden Gardens, a magnificent stadium which had been set on fire repeatedly until they had laid the seats in concrete. Calcutta crowds were naughty by nature. Each of the Kolkata Light Striders now had an individual coach. Each was being pushed to levels of fitness he had never imagined in his worst nightmares. KLS was the sole representative of advanced revolutionary thinking in the Indian Fat Cat League. Nothing less than total domination was acceptable. There were rumours of the death penalty for failure. The authorities had felt bound to clarify and put up a one-line notice in the dressing room. ‘Rumours have been circulating,’ it said, ‘that loss of points could lead to the execution of those responsible.’ Morale, never high to begin with, had plummeted. One of the players had jumped off the team bus while it was passing through Metiabruz, near the Hooghly River, and no one had heard from him since.
    Verma looked around approvingly. You had to give it to the Chinese. They knew how to get things done. ‘It’s about time these guys worked for a living,’ he said. Agarwal found the atmosphere disturbing. Some of the players were friends. He hated to see them suffer. He waved out to one of them, who was stretched out on something that was more or less a rack.
    They walked to the centre of the field, where Junior Khan and his manager were waiting for them. Nearby, a small cluster of players stood in a huddle. One of them was doing a