Witness the Night Read online

  I thought I would never do this again (my last experience as a do-gooder had almost convinced me that there was no point to it), but when I read about this case, it intrigued me because it was in my home town, Jullundur. I had a very good idea what it was like to grow up as a small-town girl. It may sound like misguided conceit, but I thought I could understand Durga better than most people. I could perhaps help her cope with her distress. These days everything becomes ‘a cry for help’. Killing thirteen people could also qualify for this, I suppose.

  We all have our little weaknesses. Mine has always been to wade in where others feel it wiser not to. When Amarjit, an old college friend (we had shared our moments) who had always encouraged my work in the jails, and who was now Inspector General in Punjab, called me, I could not refuse. He wanted me to meet the girl, give her some support, help the police reach some sort of a decision, whatever it might be, about her mental health. He also felt responsible, because the girl’s parents had been close friends of his. Now she had no one. Except a sister-in-law in Southall, who had escaped death only because she had recently gone back to the UK. Her husband, Durga’s brother, was dead.

  So here I am, at 3 a.m., staring at a candle in a police guest house. My night clothes are full of sweat. I strip off and step under the shower, instantly relieved by the cool water. I randomly pick up each flabby forty-five-year-old breast and check it for lumps or bumps. Nothing. But I can’t stop worrying. Are we somehow trapping a fourteen-year-old in a swamp of guilt? Could she have really killed thirteen people? In one night? All of them had been poisoned, some were slashed with a knife, a few had been half-heartedly burnt. Had it not been raining, it is possible that the house would have burnt down.

  And she had been raped. Or had she? Is my judgement going haywire or am I being lured into the kind of pop psychology which brands female adolescent sexuality a crime? The Lolita syndrome. I am reminded uncomfortably of another case I read about, earlier today, which has probably affected me more than I thought. While the internet has shrunk the world—it has also made it bloodier, and less trustworthy. If in the past I had treated every case as unique, I know now I can always find something if not more gory than the one I am dealing with, then at least something which could provide a glimmer of understanding. If people grope the internet for soulmates, I click on to find twisted minds and tortured lives. And hopefully, some information about why they became the way they did.

  This latest concerned a young girl called Billie Jo who had been killed in Hastings, in the UK. Her stepfather was accused of killing her. A teenager, she was stabbed to death while she was painting the front door. Some of the testimony seemed to imply that the adopted girl knew she was attractive, and used that to manipulate the father (who was a schoolmaster) and the other male teachers in her school. There was a suggestion of an illicit affair, of the stepfather not being able to control his own anger or his passion, or perhaps being blackmailed by his daughter. Ultimately he was acquitted. Clearly, the easy explanation isn’t always the right one.

  It is precisely the easy explanation I have to watch out for. As my mind sifts through various possibilities, I know that Durga’s case fascinates me. The name itself is so apt—Durga, the fiery, many-armed goddess whose capacity for blood and mayhem is pure mythological theatre. However, the Durga I have come to examine in Jullundur’s overcrowded jail seemed terribly insecure and rather vacuous. We had our first meeting yesterday and I found myself at a complete loss.

  Obviously, there is a chasm between us. I left Jullundur, a dusty, haphazardly-constructed city in Punjab, which resembles an ambitious village, when I was twenty. I broke all the rules and my mother’s heart, as well as my engagement to a sardar who appeared to have a Very Promising career in Hosiery. Initially, because all around me girls were being ‘arranged’ into marriages, I assumed that I had no choice, even though I was eighteen and above the age of consent. Fortunately, the lingerie business can be very liberating. Once I thought I had learnt enough about v-fronts and padded bras, and the difference between synthetic and natural fibres (mostly taught to me on long drives on a Vespa scooter which eventually meandered into fields of suitably long-stemmed sugarcane), I felt I should move on.

  Now, returning to the same city, still unmarried but a woman of the world, veteran of several love affairs, seasoned traveller, an expert on ‘Women in Incarceration: What Unfreedom Does to Women’, twenty-five years later, what can I possibly have in common with a young, frightened girl who had been brought up in this provincial town?

  Durga looks older than her years. I had seen pictures of her on TV but she is much thinner in real life. The snub nose and sulky full-lipped mouth are set in an oval face. When she was brought into the ante-room, on one side of the warden’s office (I had insisted that I needed privacy), she was wearing a plain blue salwar kameez, not the jail uniform—a special concession, given that every high official in the government had known her parents, and known her since she was a child. It is embarrassing for them now to see her in the lock-up. And worse, she is still little more than a child. So a few allowances have been made for her: better food, proper clothes, occasional access to television. (Though I was told that it had been cut down after she reacted very badly to some of the coverage of the murders). By another court sanction the police have been able to seal off a room and keep her there.

  None of these concessions would have made her popular with the other inmates, and fortunately she did not have to see them. But the sad thing is that she should not be here anyway. She should be in a proper juvenile home. Unfortunately, the juvenile home was recently raided and newspaper headlines screamed that many of the children were being sexually exploited and used for prostitution. So Durga has been put here, in a makeshift ‘remand home for children’.

  The regular Nari Niketan (the reformist school for ‘fallen’ women) was another possibility; but it was also ruled out because of the high risk of exposure to drug and prostitution rackets. Or so I was told. From my experience, any institution which robs you of your freedom is a place where every kind of vice can be found, but if the courts have decided that she should be kept here, I cannot question it. Besides, till she agrees to see a lawyer, nothing can be done anyway. Right now, she is still too vulnerable and traumatized to be forced into any kind of situation.

  Durga is not pretty, but she has a healthy, pink complexion like most Punjabi girls from semi-rural India, who have been brought up on fresh milk and homegrown food. Yet she hunches as she sits down, anxious not to be noticed. Or at least, not have any attention drawn to her. Her clothes are loose and, even though she is tall and well built, she gives an impression of frailty, further enhanced by her meek demeanour.

  I introduced myself.

  She looked at me and looked away as though what she saw did not quite please her. I asked her to tell me about herself.

  ‘I’m in Class 10, in St Mary’s convent school.’ She lapsed into silence and I could see tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. She said nothing about her family; perhaps the thought of them was far too distressing.

  ‘What subjects?’

  ‘Literature, history…computers.’ She was almost whispering now. Her English was accentless, which was also an indicator that her parents had belonged to the Punjabi upper-middle class, where the language is spoken clearly, and with little indication of the region you come from.

  ‘Durga…’ I reached out to touch her hand lightly and she flinched as though I had hit her. On her arm I noticed a small, intriguing tattoo, but she quickly covered her arm with her dupatta. For the first time, I noticed a light in her eyes. She seemed to smile. Or it may have been a nervous tic at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘I’m here to help you, Durga. I’ll come every day, and we’ll talk about whatever suits you. Is there anything you want?’

  ‘How long do I have to stay in here?’ she asked softly, gazing at the dusty floor.

  ‘I don’t have the answer to that, but let’s hope it won’t be long. Is there anything you want to talk to me about?’

  She hung her head and said nothing. After that she completely withdrew and stared at the floor, as though there was a meaning in the squares of cement that puzzled her. I gave her some paper and asked her to write down anything she might want to share with me, and touching her briefly on the head, left.

  So young! The thought drummed through my mind. It never failed to shock me. Over the years I had met children capable of the most vicious crimes and it always saddened me, the loss of a childhood. Very occasionally, they were freed and able to walk out, but usually they grew up behind bars, and despite all my attempts to educate them, get them into yoga, teach them music and song, even theatre, most of them I knew were just waiting for a chance to avenge themselves on the world that had robbed them of the one thing they would never enjoy again, their childhood.

  I needed to get away from the claustrophobia of the city and the jail. I desperately needed a glass of cold beer. But I knew that in Jullundur a woman drinking in public would be an aberration. Indeed, during the days of terrorism, women here had been forced to cover their heads and threatened out of their jeans to wear only salwar kameez. No better than the Taliban.

  Now, lying in bed in the stuffy guest house, early in the morning, I can still hear her voice, muffled by grief, perhaps even an inability to grasp the cards that life has dealt her. I can only hope that things will improve over the next few weeks. For the first time in my life, I doubt my ability to deal with a situation. Does she remind me of myself at fourteen? Confused and depressed? Could I have ever killed another person?

  I stub out the cigarette and try to sleep. The important thing is to remember to organize some liquor if I am going to stay on here. Should have brought some in my s
uitcase from Delhi.

  To [email protected]

  Hi, u don’t know me, but I got your email id from Amarjitji. He has been a big help to all of us. I am Durga’s sis-in-law. Obviously this is a blow for all of us. I wish I could come back but my baby is due any day now. I love Durga. Please look after her. She’s been thru a lot. So have I, but at least I’m at home with my parents. If u’re ever in Southall…u know who to contact. Cheers, Brinda.

  PS. u can call me Binny.

  To [email protected]

  Dear Binny,

  It’s wonderful to communicate with someone who knows Durga well, and cares for her. You can imagine how sad she is, and I am trying very hard to get her to speak to me. If there is anything you think will make her feel comfortable enough to talk, let me know. And of course, if there is anything you think I should know, let me know that too. Believe me, I will keep it confidential.

  Do you have any family photographs? If you email them to me, it may be nice for Durga. Let us know when the baby comes along.

  With best regards and thanks, Simran

  CHAPTER 2

  10/9/07

  It is true that my life is difficult to understand, and not many people can even hear me when I speak. If I don’t leave here soon I will never be able to speak again. The memories keep swirling in my mind. What could I have done? Is there anything that can change things?

  Yes, I will ask you to bring my books. My books which kept me alive and happy for so many years. I will read and be transported to another world, far away from that dark depressing house in Company Bagh. I remember the sweetness of those fantasies, which became more and more elaborate over time, spun out of my books. Someone would love me, someone would hold me close. Till one day, they became real.

  When Sharda was detained in school for skipping a class, I stayed back too, so that we could go home together. I was her alibi, since she could later say that I had an extra lesson and she kept me company.

  We crept into the library and opened up all the cupboards, even the shelves which we were not allowed to touch. As an angry Sharda deliberately took out the forbidden books on reproduction, on sexuality, she found copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, even a dog-eared copy of Geet Govinda, and showed them to me, I tried to understand it all. This was a world I knew nothing of—but as we turned the pages they enthralled us. It was almost as though we had discovered another very secret world and were being launched on a voyage of discovery. It was a warm, quiet afternoon, and as we giggled our way through the books, we found ourselves getting flushed, and very aware of each other, and because we knew each other so well, there was little shyness. As we touched each other I remember laughing because everything was so funny, because we were together and that was all that really mattered.

  I understood some things that Sharda explained to me and some I had no idea about, but as she told me what the books said I think I fell in love with her beautiful face, her eyes, her lips all over again. She was no longer upset, she was smiling and her body felt warm to my childish touch. Do you want to see what you will be like one day? she asked me.

  Sharda was so much older and I was a curious nine-year-old. Under the desk in the library—the nuns were away in their rooms—Sharda lifted up her skirt and closed her eyes. I was almost clinical in my examination as she spread her legs and I gazed upon the most beautiful triangle of hair. It was like an anatomy lesson as I compared it to the drawing in the book, and then Sharda gently took my hand and put it between her legs and white sticky residue seemed to form. She asked me to come closer and asked if I wanted to see her breasts. They were white with brown nipples. As I touched them I had never felt so close to her before. It was a beautiful game.

  Every one of those memories is attached to my books. We played other games as well. Often we would read stories of princes and princesses and enact them at home. I was the prince and Sharda was the delicate princess whom I would rescue. She became my idol—and even though I was much younger, I felt I had to protect her. We had always been a little isolated from everyone else and now there was a new reason to remain that way.

  Sometimes we lay in bed, our arms wrapped so tight around each other that it was difficult to breathe…Till one day…well, what can I say? Things change, people change. Sharda was no longer interested in my lavish declarations of love. She was often missing from her bed at night. I missed her. And then she went away forever. Like everyone else.

  I feel alone, as I have always been. The child who should never have been born anyway.

  The files of newspaper clippings and other material related to the murders given to me by Amarjit’s office weighed about six kilos. I staggered to an empty desk where I could read them peacefully. I wished I could smoke but no doubt it would create a scandal. This demure, bespectacled, saree-clad woman smoking—chee chee chee! It was another warm summer day, at least 40 degrees in the shade, and the jail compound was quiet, except for an occasional bell announcing the day’s routine. The women inmates had been herded into various rooms for different activities which, piously but mistakenly, were meant to make them better human beings. As they cooked and cleaned and stitched, could they be drawn away from their terrible past? Or at least better adjusted to life outside the jail? If they ever left it.

  I had spoken to Amarjit to see if we could get the sufi singer Imtiaz Ali to entertain them one day. He had looked at me as though I was quite mad. Why would they need any comfort or sense of normality? They were here to be punished, to repent, not to be entertained. Next I would be asking for air-conditioning and beauty parlours. I should concentrate on my case, not try for jail reforms, he said. In any case, I was only a voluntary worker, I had no authority to interfere, he said. These women were murderers and thieves. They had no pity for their victims. I should never forget that.

  I opened the first file.

  ‘Atwal case? I am the Superintendent of Police here, Ramnath Singh.’

  I looked up from the bloody photographs, bemused, at the slight man with suspiciously black hair combed right across his bald pate. He stood in front of me in full police regalia.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to brief you. It’s a very complicated case.’ Ramnath sat down, uninvited, in front of me. He peered at the file from his upside down angle. ‘Don’t these photographs make you feel ill? If you had actually been to the house on that day…if I were to describe it to you…’ He grimaced and stared away for a minute. He was friendly, if talkative.

  ‘Please do. I met the girl yesterday. She seems quite traumatized. What do you think actually happened, Mr…er?’

  ‘Call me Ramnath. What do you know about her?’ He sat down, checked his knife-edged trouser-crease and carefully crossed his legs. His polished black boots shone like twin headlights in the afternoon sun. He flicked open another file and glanced through it.

  ‘Nothing much, really. She is fourteen, belongs to a wealthy family…’

  ‘Very, very wealthy family.’

  ‘Is studying…was perhaps raped.’

  ‘We don’t know if it was rape. There was definitely sexual intercourse.’

  ‘Oh…did she…have a boyfriend?’

  ‘They would have cut her throat if she did! So maybe she cut their throats before they could do it!’ Singh laughed as he spoke. A slightly high-pitched whinny of a laugh.

  I refused to get angry. Something about this very slick police officer made me uneasy. He reminded me of all the small-town men I had known; men who would look at a woman and quickly decide that she was a certain kind. I got the impression he was only being helpful because he had been told to do so—did he resent my entry into what should have been an open and shut case? And therefore, would he really be willing to share all his information with me? I was used to this reaction: people who knew who I was treated me like a social butterfly who had flown off-course temporarily, and would flit back to her five-star haunt soon enough.