SYED Rezaul Karim
Kolkata, West Bengal
Part Five:
life of the fugitive
There is no paved road from Gosaba police station to Kochubére village. The area under Gosaba police station is not like any other; it’s quite unique. This police jurisdiction is spread across seventeen islands, each with four to twelve villages. The government offices, including the Panchayat, are small centers scattered across these islands. People here survive by battling water and forest. It takes around three hours to reach the Sundarbans region from the police station. One has to go by boat, dinghy, barge, or any similar vessel.
There is no paved road from Gosaba police station to Kochubére village. The area under Gosaba police station is not like any other; it’s quite unique. This police jurisdiction is spread across seventeen islands, each with four to twelve villages. The government offices, including the Panchayat, are small centers scattered across these islands. People here survive by battling water and forest. It takes around three hours to reach the Sundarbans region from the police station. One has to go by boat, dinghy, barge, or any similar vessel.
In the morning, Jatin Daroga set out with two constables on the route to Kochubére. The police station is provided with a government launch, used by officers and the force to travel between islands. The distance between the station and the islands is considerable, making administrative work challenging. If there is an unusual death, it’s difficult to ensure proper procedures. They must take the launch from the station, conduct an inquest, bring the body back to the station, and then send it for post-mortem examination. Sometimes, two or three days are spent in transit. Even though communication has improved in other areas, the severe hardship faced by the people of Gosaba remains unaddressed by the government.
After joining Gosaba police station, Jatin Daroga visited Kochubéria twice with Major Babu but never went alone to investigate a case. Therefore, before he set out from the station, Baro Babu gave him thorough instructions. Montu Babu, in his complaint, had listed individuals as witnesses. Baro Babu instructed Jatin to question each one separately and record it in the diary. He was told to gather information about the accused, Palash, and arrest him if found nearby. Baro Babu cautioned Jatin against falling into any traps set by Montu Master.
In the past year, Baro Babu had formed an impression of the locals. His experience sparked some suspicion about Montu Master’s complaint, which felt surrounded by doubt. Through his inquiries, he learned that Palash was the son of Suresh Das, Montu Das’s elder brother. About a year and a half ago, Suresh Das’s body was found near Kochubére's pier, covered in multiple stab wounds, likely inflicted with a knife. Major Babu had conducted an extensive investigation to find out who might have killed Suresh Das and why, using all his knowledge and even spending a lot of money on sources. But the mystery remained unsolved.
Jatin Daroga did not know any of this. Nor was he meant to. Imtiaz Khan, the Baro Babu, had not told him anything, because if Jatin went into the investigation with preconceived notions, his findings might lean in that direction, preventing any unbiased outcome. Baro Babu, knowing everything, stayed as silent as Brahma, allowing Jatin to focus solely on the instructions he’d been given.
In the Suresh Das murder case, Major Babu had arrested two suspects: Vineet and Salim. One was from Bihar, and the other from Magrahat. They were traveling with Suresh Das on the same boat as he returned from Kolkata, which made them prime suspects. Both were known hitmen, contract killers who would murder even their own kin for a hefty sum. After extensive planning, and consulting with Baro Babu, Major Babu managed to arrest them. Yet, even after severe interrogation, they did not reveal any information. On the same day they were arrested, the boatman who had ferried Suresh Das and the two suspects to Kochubére was also found dead, his body lying on the riverbank, much like Suresh Das’s.
Montu Master took this opportunity to protest fiercely. He rallied others to encircle the station and demanded answers from Baro Babu: “Do we have to abandon all hope of living a peaceful life under your authority? Why aren’t you arresting the accused despite our repeated pleas? Why won’t people like my brother Poran Majhi, poor and helpless, receive justice? How long will these killers hold their heads high in society while you stay silent, presumably bought off?” Montu’s barrage of questions left the police administration shaken and pushed Baro Babu to his limits.
The truth, however, was that the names listed in the FIR were not accurate, something Baro Babu had realized in his investigation. Yet, he implored the suspects to surrender in court out of respect. They eventually obliged, and with no evidence against them, Baro Babu removed their names from the case. Nevertheless, he continued to face criticism for this decision.
When Suresh Das was murdered, Palash was only about twelve years old. A brilliant student at Gosaba High School, he had always topped his class. but the premature loss of his father left him in isolation. The once-vivacious child grew quiet and withdrawn, forsaking sports, studies, and even regular meals. Lost in his own world, Palash became nearly unreachable, responding vaguely to questions. Hearing about this from Montu Master, Baro Babu had once called Palash over and scolded him before speaking to him warmly, offering words of wisdom and encouragement, reminding him not to be defeated by tragedy. Even now, Baro Babu Imtiaz Khan finds himself astonished, recalling that day and Palash’s transformation.
Such a serious accusation against Palash? Baro Babu couldn’t easily accept it. So, he intentionally didn’t send any officers to Kochubére for two days. But the way Montu Master reacted made him seem less like a teacher of society and more like a self-serving figure associated with some political party.
The Matla River was low tide, so the launch reached the dock in just forty-five minutes instead of an hour. As the launch anchored Near Kochubére, Jatin Daroga and constables Swapan and Sudhir disembarked.
The sight of the police coming ashore drew a crowd immediately, greeting them with questions and gestures of respect. “Where are you headed, sir? Do you need any help, sir? Would you like some tea, sir? Please sit here, sir.” Amidst the flurry of questions, Jatin Daroga asked one of the bystanders, “Where can I find Nirmal Mondal?”
Nirmal Mondal, a home guard from the police station, lived in Kochubére village. Jatin had instructed him the day before to wait near the dock. Not seeing him, Jatin decided to inquire. One bystander, glancing down the road, said, “There he comes, sir.”
Jatin saw Nirmal pedaling his bicycle rapidly towards them. Once Nirmal arrived, Jatin Daroga, along with Swapan and Sudhir, proceeded to Suresh Babu’s house under his guidance.
Suresh Babu’s home was a two-room thatched hut by the main road, surrounded by a small fenced field and a pond with ducks and geese swimming. Beside the road stood a lone, disconnected electric pole.
An elderly woman, seated on the porch, was Nirmal’s introduction: “She’s Palash’s grandmother.” Hearing the commotion, Palash’s mother, Sita Devi, emerged from the house, half-hiding her face upon seeing the police uniforms. Nirmal stepped up onto the porch and spoke softly to her: “Auntie, our junior officer is here. They need to search the house.”
In a hushed tone, Sita Devi asked, “Why?”
“To look for Palash.”
“What has he done?”
“Why, don’t you know? Your nephew filed a case against him at the station.”
Hearing this, Sita Devi appeared as if she’d fallen from the sky, while Palash’s grandmother looked equally bewildered. She asked in concern, “Montu filed a case? What did Palash do?”
“They say he has taken Anjali away somewhere by force.”
“Palash took her somewhere?” The grandmother’s eyes widened as she whispered to herself. But who would answer that question? Who held the answer? The grandmother tried to make sense of her own questions. For a few days, Anjali had indeed been missing from her home. Her parents were there, but she was not. Where could she have gone alone? Could it be true that Palash had taken Anjali somewhere? Her parents hadn’t mentioned a word to her about this. A flood of questions filled the grandmother’s mind. Rumors about Anjali’s disappearance had circulated in the neighborhood, though no one had linked her name to Palash’s. Now, hearing her son’s name, Sita Devi was left completely shaken.
“Where is Palash?” Jatin Daroga inquired sharply.
“He’s at his uncle’s house, sir.”
“Oh, he’ll surely go there now,” Jatin replied with a sarcastic smirk. “Once I catch him, he’ll learn what it means to truly see his ‘uncle’s’ house,” he added. Then, after a moment’s thought, he asked, “When did he leave?”
“Last Wednesday. On the 25th.”
Jatin Daroga immediately pulled out a copy of the FIR. The incident occurred on the 25th—the same day Palash supposedly kidnapped Anjali. Sensing something suspicious, he asked, “So, Palash hasn’t returned home since Wednesday? What’s going on?”
But how would Sita Devi know? If her son said he’d be gone for two days and ended up staying seven, what could she say? Her in-laws had suggested keeping Palash with them to ease the financial strain, but Sita Devi had refused. He was her only son, her only support. How could she and her mother-in-law manage to live without him in this harsh world? However, she never imagined he’d stay away like this.
Jatin Daroga, bound by protocol, left with a reminder that if Palash returned, he was to report to the police station immediately or face legal consequences.
As he headed back, he bumped into Montu Master, who seemed to have rushed there after hearing the news. Sweating profusely and panting, Montu managed a smile and said, “When did you arrive, sir?”
“It’s been a while. We searched Palash’s house but didn’t find him. Looks like he may have run off with Anjali. Who knows, maybe he’s hiding at his uncle’s. We’ll lock him up as soon as we catch him. Keep an eye out yourself, and let us know if you hear anything.”
“Of course, sir! And please, if you would… grace my humble home…” Montu Master trailed off.
“Oh yes, certainly. I do need to ask your wife and neighbors a few questions,” replied Jatin. “But tell me, why were you rushing here?”
“Oh, don’t ask, sir! When you’re involved in party politics, you must stay engaged everywhere, or how will people vote? I had to go to the primary school; some land settlement officers were there. Feeding them, introducing them to the locals—that’s all my responsibility, as always.”
“Of course,” Jatin Daroga replied with a tone laden with sarcasm. “If it weren’t for people like you, society would fall apart, wouldn’t it? Even our families don’t understand this dedication, I’m sure—perhaps they say you shouldn’t waste time chasing ‘wild boars’ in the ‘forest’,” he added with a laugh.
Montu Master burst into laughter, leading them toward his grand home. As they arrived, Jatin Daroga was taken aback by the sight—it looked more like a palace than a house. Jatin wondered how Montu had managed to build such a grand estate, overcoming every obstacle to gather bricks, cement, and sand.
As they entered, Montu showered them with hospitality. Expensive chairs were brought out, along with a large plate of assorted fruits, biscuits, and steaming Darjeeling tea.
Exhausted, Jatin and his team settled into the chairs. Montu Master took a seat as well and folded his hands, saying, “You must stay for a meal today, sir! A humble meal…”
Before Montu could finish, Jatin cut him off politely. “No need to insist, Master! We must return soon; another team will take over the investigation then. Perhaps another time…”
“You’re men of the government, and I, too, am a public servant,” Montu continued. “Only by working together can we make a difference.”
Before Jatin could respond, Montu eagerly jumped in, “That’s exactly what we want, sir! Progress is only possible through unity. Some people here may badmouth me, saying Montu Das is selfish, only cares for his party, or amassed wealth through dubious means. Don’t believe them, sir—they’re just opposition folks. My brother passed away, and they spread rumors that I had him killed! Do you think any brother could do such a thing? After our father passed, he raised me, got me my teaching job—how could I harm him?”
“So, why do you think your brother’s son, Palash, ran off with your daughter?” Jatin asked, his expression turning serious.
“It’s nothing but an attempt to disgrace me!” Montu replied bitterly. “He’s trying to humiliate me by running off with my daughter, Anjali. It’s all about tarnishing my reputation, blackmailing me, and demanding money.”
“Oh, I see, I see,” Jatin Daroga nodded, as if piecing it all together.
Sipping his tea, Montu Das talked about many things. Jatin Daroga called in each of the witnesses one by one. When they arrived, he questioned them separately. When and at what time had they seen Palash taking Anjali away? They all replied that they hadn’t witnessed the incident firsthand. They only heard Montu Master shouting at Kochubede Ghat, saying, “Palash is escaping with my daughter in that boat!” Hearing this, they got on another boat to chase after him but couldn’t catch up.
Jatin Daroga asked, “Whose boat was it?”
“It’s their own boat, sir! It had been tied at the ghat for a long time.”
“Well, Mr. Montu! Can we find Bikash?”
“How would you find him here, sir? His home is in Sonakhali.”
“Then how did he get acquainted with your daughter?”
“Call it acquaintance or introduction, it happened only once. Right here in Gosaba. My daughter had gone to her friend’s wedding, and that’s where they met. But who could have known Palash would pull off such a stunt…!”
“Don’t worry; I’ll rescue your daughter. I’ll catch the culprit very soon too. I’ll write it up in such a way that he’ll never see the outside of a prison again.”
Saying this, Jatin Daroga took a moment. Then, as if something occurred to him, he asked Mr. Montu, “By the way, Mr. Montu! How old is your daughter?”
“I already wrote it in the complaint, sir! Fourteen years.”
“Do you have any photos? I can put out an ad in the paper. I’ll arrange for it to be broadcast on radio and TV as well.”
Hearing this, Mr. Montu appeared a bit uneasy, and after a moment, he replied, “No, sir! Please don’t do that. My reputation has already been damaged, and if this becomes public, I won’t be able to get my daughter married.”
Who knows how much of this Jatin Daroga actually absorbed? He was staring intently at Montu’s face. The worry that one might expect from a father whose daughter had been abducted wasn’t evident in his expression, though his voice carried a trained tone of concern.
Jatin Daroga said, “Well then, we’ll take our leave, Mr. Montu!”
Mr. Montu, smiling, replied, “I had a confidential matter, sir. Please come into the next room for a moment.”
As directed, Jatin Daroga followed Montu into the adjoining room. Montu took an envelope from his pocket, extended it towards Jatin Daroga, and said, “Sir, this is for you.”
Understanding the gesture, Jatin Daroga, speaking softly to avoid misunderstanding, replied, “Keep that with you, Mr. Montu! Let me handle the job first, and then perhaps…”
“Come now, sir! It’s just our custom. When people from the administration visit…”
“No, Mr. Montu! Don’t take it personally. I’ve never accepted anything from anyone without getting the work done first…” he said, stepping outside.
Then, after saying goodbye, Jatin Daroga and his companions headed off.
Part Six:
The fugitive's Robbery Story
The incident happened a few years ago, but Mr. Verma still cannot forget that day. Anuj Verma was the Superintendent of Police in Birbhum at that time. During his tenure, the bandit Palatok had committed two major robberies — one in Nalhati and the other in the Rampurhat police area. While there wasn’t much to be done in Nalhati, there was a chance to catch Palatok in Rampurhat. Due to the incompeten”e of S.D.P.O. Shubhankar Dutta, Palatok had looted a significant amount of gold, jewelry, and cash all by himself. The scene still flashes before Mr. Verma’s eyes.
On the 28th of February, he received a letter by post. Occasionally, some anonymous individuals write letters in the name of a senior officer to fulfill their own interests, to put an enemy or neighbor in trouble, or for the good of the country. They request necessary action to be taken. Thinking this would be one of those letters, Mr. Verma opened the envelope. The content was sparse, containing only two sentences — about twelve to thirteen words, written in Bengali. Mr. Verma read it and saw that it stated: “On the 10th of March, I intend to rob Monohor’s house in Morigram, Rampurhat. I hope you will be there with your entire force.” — Palatok.
Upon receiving the letter, Mr. Verma did not delay for a moment. He called his reader and said, “Tell the S.D.P.O. of Rampurhat to come to Siuri immediately.”
The distance from ”Iuri to Rampurhat is at most twenty-five to thirty kilometers. Upon receiving the news, Shubhankar Dutta set out right away. He arrived in Siuri within an hour. As soon as he entered the police office, Mr. Verma handed him the letter. Once he had finished reading the contents of the letter, Mr. Verma asked, “Now tell me, S.D.P.O. Sir! How many officers and forces do you need? But this time, we must arrest Palatok. If we fail, I won’t spare anyone.”
The very next day, a similar letter arrived at Monohor’s house in Morigram. Monohor Goel had learned about it via fax while sitting in his office in Burrabazar, Kolkata. However, he did not make any fuss about it. Who knows what others might be planning? Could it be someone trying to intimidate him to keep track of his assets? After thinking about all these possibilities, he told Sonali’s mother, “Let the gold, jewelry, and cash remain as they are in the house. No need to put them in a bank locker. I’ll return home on Tuesday and make the necessary arrangements after speaking with the local administration.”
Monohor Goel is a prominent wholesaler in Kolkata’s Burrabazar. From razor blades to cosmetics, electronics, rice, and grains, he is a wholesale agent for everything. Everyone, from leaders to criminals, knows him by name. When he calls, everyone from the top dealers in Burrabazar to the influential people from Lalbari come, abandoning all their other work. Although Kolkata is his primary source of income and he has considerable wealth in the city, Monohor hasn’t been able to leave Morigram due to his ancestral property. His daughter Sonali and wife Kalpana manage everything there. Nearby relatives and local people also help look after things and assist in times of trouble.
The following day, upon receiving orders from the senior officer, the S.D.P.O. visited Monohor’s house in person to assess the situation. He spoke with Kalpana and his daughter Sonali and contacted Monohor by phone. Assuring him, he said, “There’s nothing to worry about. We have already taken appropriate measures upon receiving the news. A police picket has also been set up next to your house. I will also make regular visits. I will be present there from the morning of the 10th. However, you should come on the 9th. If any planning needs to be done, we can do it then.”
Monohor agreed, “Alright, Sir! I will be there.”
Days passed quickly, and on the 9th, Monohor wrapped up all the work for his employees. By noon, he planned to catch a train from Howrah. His nephew Sunil accompanied him. They sat in front of the P.I. office after buying some snacks, bottled water, and cashew packs. Sunil brought back two cups of coffee, and Monohor’s ears perked up at a conversation happening nearby.
A man sitting next to him was telling the surrounding people, “Listen, my friends! Just the Wednesday before last, I heard from a man from Patna that this holy man had also been in Patna for some time. He told another person about his house, how he lives, and about his children. Can an ordinary person say such things? Such powers are bestowed by God. That day, he told someone that their son would be killed by the fugitive. And it happened! Mahim Ganguly’s son lost his life to Palatok’s knife.”
After taking a breath, he continued, “Why am I standing here away from the office? Let’s see if the grace of the holy man can bring about some good for the disabled boy.”
Monohor was taken aback by the man’s words. He has always had a soft spot for holy men and a deep-seated faith that whatever the deity provides will happen. With curiosity, he asked the man, “Whom are you talking about?”
Hearing Monohor’s question, the man broke into a wide smile. He replied in astonishment, “You’ve never heard of Joyguru? If you haven’t heard his name, you must have heard about crossing the Ganges on foot?”
Seeing Monohor still perplexed, the man continued, “On the 25th of Boishakh, Rabindranath Tagore’s birthday, Joyguru crossed the Ganges on foot. Everyone in Kolkata witnessed it. Buses and taxis stopped, offices closed, and everyone came to see it, and you didn’t come? That Joyguru is here today, outside Howrah station. I’ve been waiting in line for so long for his grace and blessings, and I came here for a cup of tea.”
“Well, how much does your Joyguru take as a donation?” Monohor accidentally blurted out. Hearing this, the man burst into laughter. After a moment, he stopped laughing and said, “You know, my friend! Joyguru doesn’t take a single paisa as donation. Anything he receives in the form of fruits or food, he distributes to the poor.”
Monohor’s heart fluttered. He longed to see Joyguru at least once. He felt that with Joyguru’s blessings, no one in the world could harm him. Unconsciously, Monohor glanced at his wristwatch. It was just 2:15 PM. His train was at 3:30. He still had about an hour and fifteen minutes left. So, what would it hurt to seek Joyguru’s blessings?
The man probably sensed Monohor’s thoughts. Without hesitation, he said, “When the heart desires, let’s go. There won’t be any inconvenience. I have a line reserved there. You can stand right in front of me. Who knows if you’ll ever get this opportunity again in your life?”
Without any further thought, Monohor took Sunil with him and left the platform with the man. Within a couple of minutes, they arrived at the spot. Monohor was astounded by the crowd he saw. It was like a small fair set up outside Howrah station. With great effort, he managed to see Joyguru for just a moment, resting his face on someone’s back. Joyguru was seated in a lotus posture, adorned with a tilak on his forehead, wearing saffron robes, and a rudraksha necklace around his neck. He had matted hair like Lord Shiva, with eyes closed, providing advice to his devotees.
The gentleman entered the line with Monohor. It wasn't just a line; it was more like the Rajdhani Express. You couldn’t see from one end to the other. Monohor couldn't figure out how to wave to Joyguru. Taking a small tin of tobacco from his pocket, he made a pinch of khaini and placed it in his mouth. When he offered a pinch to the gentleman, the gentleman shook his head, indicating he didn’t want any. Monohor then said, "If you won’t take khaini, that's fine. Would you like some paan?"
The gentleman nodded. Monohor called Sunil and sent him to bring paan. Then, as if speaking to himself, he said, "Isn’t it strange? I’ve spent all this time with you, yet I still don’t know your name."
The gentleman replied, "My name is Parashor."
Hearing this, Monohor burst out laughing. Eventually, he stopped and, with a heavy heart, asked, "How did your son become crippled? Was it from birth…?"
"No, sir, no." Parashor protested, "He wasn’t crippled from birth. He was shot in the leg, and that’s what left him like this. He can’t even walk properly. He’s bedridden all the time, shedding tears."
"But how did he get shot?" Monohor Goel asked with a heart full of sympathy.
"What can I say, sir?" Parashor let out a deep sigh. "It’s all fate! Otherwise, would this have happened? Rumor had been spreading around town for a few days that a hyena was loose, attacking children and drinking their blood. So, at my wife’s insistence, I had loaded the gun and kept it ready. I don’t know when my son woke up in the night and started playing with it. We were woken by the sound of the gunshot. When we looked, his leg was drenched in blood. After that, we went to so many doctors, but nothing worked. So now I’ve come to Joyguru. Let’s see what Joyguru says. If, by his grace, my son recovers, I’ve made a vow to sacrifice a pair of goats at Kalighat."
The line had moved up so much that Monohor’s turn was just one person away. There were still ten minutes before the train was set to depart, and these days, trains often ran a few minutes late. Monohor thought to himself that he would have no trouble catching the train.
As soon as the person ahead had finished showing his hand, Monohor extended his right hand toward Joyguru. After carefully examining his hand, Joyguru said, "You’re from Morigram in Birbhum, aren’t you?"
"Yes, sir." Monohor replied, delighted.
"A two-story house. Three people in the household, including your wife and daughter. You’ve got a big business in Bada Bazaar. You’re planning to return home today, aren’t you?"
"Yes, Babaji! I’ve heard…"
Before Monohor could finish, Joyguru interrupted, "Yes, you’ve heard right. A runaway thief will break into your house tomorrow morning. Go quickly and see what you can do."
Without another moment's delay, Monohor leapt over the crowd's barricade, maneuvering past people until he reached the platform, with Sunil in tow. Before his eyes, they saw the Mayurakshi Express moving far beyond the platform. Stricken with despair, Monohor clutched his chest, lamenting, "Oh no, everything’s ruined!" The next train to Rampurhat wouldn’t arrive until five in the morning. Monohor collapsed on the platform, head in hands.
Throughout the night, Monohor couldn’t close his eyes. Restlessness and anxiety made him tug at his hair. His throat was parched with thirst, and his heart pounded like a bellows. Each attempt to contact Sonali's mother by phone failed. In frustration and regret, he pounded the table with his fists, wondering what possessed him to visit the holy man in the first place.
In the morning, Monohor and Sunil caught the Kanchanjanga Express. Monohor hadn’t eaten a bite since the night before. Sunil brought him a cup of tea and two biscuits, which quenched his thirst but not his sorrow. Throughout the journey, Monohor was lost in thought, barely exchanging a word with Sunil. The 6 o’clock train reached Rampurhat at 11. Not wasting a moment after disembarking, Monohor hired a taxi. Ignoring the driver’s haggling, he simply said, "Take me to Marigram quickly."
The driver quickly sensed that something had gone wrong at Monohor's home, so he pressed harder on the accelerator. The car sped up, bumping along the uneven dirt road, tossing Monohor and Sunil back and forth. Despite the rough ride, they didn’t ask the driver to slow down.
After nearly an hour, the taxi finally stopped at Monohor’s doorstep. As they arrived, the SDPO approached with his team, surprised to see two men stepping out of the taxi. He looked at one of the faces and was taken aback—who was he seeing before his eyes?
Monohor, seeing police officers outside his house, grew increasingly anxious. His heart raced with dread—had something terrible happened? Why would the police be at his house so early in the morning if everything was fine? Despite his fears, he took a little comfort in the fact that if something severe had occurred, the police wouldn't just be sitting around. If it were truly serious, they would be pursuing the suspect instead of waiting around.
SDPO Subhankar’s shock had a different cause—he had confused this Monohor with another. Three months earlier, he’d taken charge as SDPO of Rampurhat, but he’d never actually met Monohor in person, only spoken to him on the phone. The few glimpses he’d had were from family photos, and that morning, he’d seen someone who looked just like Monohor, dressed in a suit, leaving the house, saying, "Sir, please assign a few officers to escort me while I deposit valuables in the SBI locker." He had agreed and dispatched twenty officers along with the man. But who was this Monohor, now standing before him in a traditional dhoti and kurta? Did Monohor have a twin?
To clear up the confusion, Subhankar cautiously introduced himself and asked, "I’m sorry, but who are you exactly?"
"I'm Monohor Goel, sir!" Recognizing Subhankar’s voice, Monohor responded, "You called me three times, sir. You ordered me to return home on the night of the 9th, so I left yesterday. But, by a twist of fate, I got stuck at Howrah last night and couldn’t make it home."
Subhankar’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he muttered, "So…?"
His mind racing, Subhankar tried to piece things together. Who, then, was the man who left with his officers, carrying an attaché case? Could that have been the fugitive? If so, when had he even entered the house? Was it possible that his wife and daughter had also been fooled by this impersonation? Subhankar took Monohor and Sunil into the house, where they found the door locked. They broke in and entered the bedroom, finding Monohor’s wife and daughter tied up and gagged on the bed. Monohor broke down, sobbing, while the SDPO held his head in his hands, devastated. He thought, “What a fool I’ve been! What am I going to tell the higher-ups now?”
As he collected himself, he quickly dialed his phone, listening to the ringing before saying, “Sir, this is the SDPO. The man we escorted wasn’t Monohor—it was the fugitive. Get everyone on alert. We must catch him, no matter what.”
Hearing stories of this fugitive, Alok Mitra felt as if he’d been transported into another world. He marveled at the criminal’s cunning, staring at Inspector Jatin, who was beaming with pride. Alok sensed a hint of admiration on Jatin’s face—almost as if he took pride in the fugitive’s brilliance. Alok knew the reason: Jatin had known the fugitive since childhood and had a soft spot for him. But setting that aside, Alok asked, “So, your Joyguru and Parashar were accomplices of this fugitive?”
Jatin laughed and replied, “Of course, sir! The boy’s incredibly sharp. The incident that the Chief mentioned involving the fugitive happened when you were SDPO at Rampurhat.”
Alok sighed deeply and said, “Yes. Back then, the fugitive escaped disguised as a retired school teacher, carrying pearls and diamonds hidden in a hollow cane. One day, I’ll tell you that story in detail. But now, I want to hear from you how Palash became this notorious fugitive.”
“Certainly, sir! I’ll tell you the whole story when I get a chance. After all, Palash was once deeply woven into my life as an officer.”
Part Seven:
The Kidnapping Mystery is Solved
Inspector Jatin waited anxiously for news. Every day, he kept in touch with his sources, subtly gathering information from local folks, hoping for a breakthrough. But no lead came up. His superior, Mr. Imtiaz Khan from Alipore, was under intense pressure. Why hadn’t they found Anjali? Why couldn’t they catch Palash? Mr. Khan, constantly questioned by his own bosses, was growing frustrated, looking for answers wherever he could.
In those days, there were no mobile phones for instant communication, so getting and sending news took time. Yet, Inspector Jatin was not one to give up. He frequented markets, suspected hideouts, and conducted raids. He was determined.
One day, a source approached him. “Sir! Palash is supposed to return home today.”
Inspector Jatin asked eagerly, “Where is he coming from?”
“From Canning,” the source replied.
“Which route?”
“He’ll cross the river by boat from Gosaba Ghat.”
“When might he arrive?” Jatin asked with mounting anticipation.
“No exact time, sir. But he’ll be here today for sure.”
Inspector Jatin handed the source a fifty-rupee note, saying, “Head to Gosaba Ghat, and signal me when you spot him.”
The source nodded, “Understood, sir,” and left.
Jatin devised a plan, quietly briefing two undercover officers and alerting the boatman. Later that afternoon, as he prepared to leave the station, his superior, Mr. Khan, stopped him. Surprised, Mr. Khan asked, “Where are you off to, Jatin?”
“Sir, I forgot to mention, we’ve received a tip about Palash. I’m going to see if we can get him,” Jatin replied.
Encouraged, Mr. Khan said, “Good. If you catch him, bring him in. This man has caused us endless trouble.”
Jatin assured him, “Yes, sir! I’m taking the station’s boat to Gosaba Ghat. If there’s any update, I’ll let you know, sir. And if all goes well, we’ll bring him back tonight.”
Since Palash was young and unlikely to put up a strong fight, Jatin felt two officers would suffice. Wasting no time, they boarded the boat and reached Gosaba Ghat in half an hour. It was the only major pier around; only a couple of smaller docks existed nearby, but boats and ferries rarely stopped there. Daily commuters preferred Gosaba Ghat.
Once ashore, Jatin led his constables to a tea stall. He picked up a newspaper, casually flipping through its pages, but his eyes stayed on his source. As time passed, he grew impatient, though he stayed put in the tea stall. The tea seller, noticing Jatin’s restlessness, asked with curiosity, “Expecting someone today, sir?”
Jatin, though undercover, was a familiar face to locals. Every officer visiting from the Gosaba police station used this route, so the tea seller was accustomed to seeing officials pass by. Recognizing the question’s intent, Jatin replied quietly, “The Additional Officer from Alipore might visit today. So, we’re waiting. Let’s have some tea.”
The tea seller brewed three cups with care and handed them over with biscuits. Jatin and his officers sipped their tea as the sun began to set in the west. Realizing it was late, Jatin thought of returning. His superior, Mr. Khan, was likely worried by now. As he stood up to leave, his source signaled him with a glance.
Jatin, flanked by his two officers, quickly approached the source, who whispered, “The boy in the red shirt heading for the boat—that’s Palash.”
Jotin the officer didn’t wait any longer. Swiftly reaching the boy, he placed a hand on his shoulder from behind and said, “Palash!”
The boy turned his head to look at Jotin the officer and, in a quiet voice, said, “Yes, I am Palash.”
“From Kochubete?”
Nodding, Palash replied, “Yes, but why?”
Without answering, Jotin the officer said, “You’ll come with us on our boat. We need to talk with you.”
Even though he was young, Palash understood he was caught by the police. So, in a defensive tone, he said, “But sir! I haven’t committed any crime.”
Jotin the officer replied, “That’ll be determined at the station.”
Saying this, he held Palash’s hand and led him onto their boat. With a mix of curiosity and surprise, the other passengers on the boat looked on. Some saw the assertiveness of plain-clothes police officers, others observed the accused Palash, and a few were left wondering. Why were the police taking such a young boy? What crime could he have committed?
By the time the boat reached the station dock from the Gosaba dock, it was around seven in the evening. The senior officer was sitting in his chamber at the station. Jotin entered with Palash and announced, “Sir! Here’s your Palash.”
The senior officer looked at Palash from head to toe. Simple, innocent face. Entirely expressionless. It didn’t look like he could commit any wrongdoing. Still, to clear his doubts, the senior officer locked eyes with Palash and asked, “Do you know Anjali?”
After a moment’s thought, Palash answered, “Why wouldn’t I know her, sir? Anjali is my cousin, my uncle’s daughter.”
“Where is she now?”
“That I don’t know, sir! I haven’t been home for a few days. If Anjali’s there, she should be at home. Where else would she be, sir?”
“I heard you took her somewhere?”
“Who said that, sir? I was just working at a tea shop in Canning.”
“Why are you lying?” scolded the senior officer. “Tell the truth. If you tell the truth, we’ll let you go. If not, we’ll have you pulling the grindstone in jail.”
Hearing about the potential danger, tears welled up in Palash’s eyes and silently streamed down his cheeks. Crying, he said, “I don’t know anything, sir! Someone has falsely accused me.”
For nearly two hours, they questioned Palash in various ways, but he provided no useful information about Anjali. Moreover, to verify his story, the senior officer contacted the Canning police. From them, he learned that Palash had indeed been working at the tea shop since the day of the incident. Then why did the schoolteacher file a complaint against him? What was his motive? And where was the proof of this false accusation? Could he send an innocent boy to jail without reason? Yet if he didn’t, there was no alternative. With the way Master Montu was pursuing the case, even a slight slip-up would land them all in trouble. The senior officer found himself in a dilemma. What should Jotin the officer do now? Where was the proof that Palash hadn’t taken Anjali somewhere with ill intentions or left her somewhere? To find that proof, further questioning was necessary. If questioning didn’t yield results, then there would be no choice but to use third-degree methods. But the senior officer’s conscience objected to using third-degree methods. He sat Palash down and spoke with him in a gentle tone, and after a while, he asked, “Why does your uncle have a dispute with you? Why would he file such a big false accusation against you? What could be his motive behind this?”
Palash said, "I can't say for sure, sir! But I can share a suspicion. For the past few days, I had been hanging around Bhombol-da. He helped me get the job at the tea shop. But my uncle couldn’t stand it. He repeatedly warned me not to associate with Bhombol. I feel like Bhombol-da might know something about my father’s murder or something else. Otherwise, why would my uncle be so against my interaction with him?”
“But we still don’t understand what happened to Anjali,” Jotin the officer said. “She didn’t go with you, did she? So, where did she go? Did she vanish into thin air?”
“There’s something I’d like to say, sir,” Palash hesitated a bit before speaking.
The senior officer said, “Go ahead. Say what you have to.”
“Could you give me two days, sir? I could find her and bring you the answer.”
Jotin the officer chuckled and said, “You think we’d just let you go and wait idly? There’s a lot of pressure from the top. Until you’re behind bars, we can’t rest easy.”
“Then what can I do, sir?” Palash said dejectedly. “If I have to eat jail food anyway, there’s no point in talking. But Anjali will return home someday, and you can ask her then whether I truly knew anything or not.”
Palash continued to say many things. Afterward, the senior officer had a long discussion with Jotin about what to do. Ultimately, he decided to take a risk by releasing Palash, moved by his sincerity and his wish to tell the truth. Palash’s straightforwardness and honesty had deeply impressed the senior officer. Moreover, Palash was an orphan with no one to bail him out if he ended up in jail. Taking all this into consideration, the senior officer made his decision.
After discussing the plan with Jotin, the senior officer called Palash into his office and said, “We’ll release you, but on one condition. If you don’t find any information about Anjali within two days, you must come back to the station and tell us. Then we’ll decide what steps to take.”
Palash agreed, “I accept, sir!”
That very night, Jotin the officer fed him well and dropped him off at Gosaba dock. With a respectful farewell, Palash disappeared into the darkness. News of Palash's capture somehow spread, eventually reaching Montu Master’s ears. Elated by the news, Montu Master called in witnesses for the case and hosted them with tea and biscuits. He even practiced with them on what to say in front of the police and handed each of them some money as an offering. Inwardly, he thought that as long as Palash stayed in jail, his path would remain unobstructed. But for the next two days, he would avoid the station at all costs. If Palash saw him there, he would cry and plead for help, which would create problems for him. If he couldn’t get Palash released, Palash might later blame him. Better to feign ignorance and avoid any accusations.
Meanwhile, the next evening, a freed Palash returned to the station. Jotin the officer's heart filled with joy at seeing him, and a wave of happiness washed over the senior officer’s face as well. They realized they hadn’t made a mistake by trusting Palash. Seeing that he had kept his word, they were very pleased. But what news had Palash brought?
Palash said, “Sir, I saw Anjali in Kathalbariya village. She was playing on the school field. That’s where her maternal uncle lives. I heard that my uncle left her there.”
“Then why didn’t you bring her back with you?” Jotin the officer accidentally blurted out, "Why didn’t you bring Anjali along?"
“If I had tried to bring her, another issue would have arisen there. They would have filed yet another case at the Canning police station.”
Hearing this, the senior officer looked at Palash and asked, "Are you sure Anjali will be there if we go?"
"Why wouldn’t she be, sir?" Palash replied confidently.
"Then do one thing: stay here with the junior officer tonight. At dawn, head straight to Kathalbariya village with him and bring Anjali back. I’ll question her myself. If she confirms that you know nothing, you’ll be released. Otherwise, it’s straight to jail. Keep that in mind."
Palash nodded in agreement. That night, he dined with Jotin the officer, who probed him with many questions and learned a lot. As the sun began to rise, Jotin, along with Palash and some officers in plain clothes, set off.
Hearing that Palash had been arrested, Montu Master had initially been elated. But now he was furious. His entire body trembled with rage, and his eyes turned red. He had trusted the police, the senior officer, and had believed that they’d send Palash to the Alipur court on charges of kidnapping his daughter Anjali. Instead, they had released him! Such audacity! Such betrayal! Without informing him, the police were doing as they pleased, disregarding people like him, a small-time member of the panchayat. Montu Master resolved to teach them a lesson, gathering a group of villagers. He discreetly handed out some money from government schemes to ensure their support. Then, he hired a boat and reached the station by evening.
Upon arrival, they began chanting, "We want answers!" Their shouts spread through the station like waves of the Matla River, reaching the surrounding villages. Seeing the commotion, the senior officer came out. The crowd grew even louder, full of anger and resentment. The officer called Montu Master into his office. Montu entered with a few unruly followers, and the senior officer asked, "Why all this noise? What answers do you want?"
Montu replied, "We have reliable information that you let Palash, the accused in my daughter’s kidnapping case, go without sending him to jail. My daughter still hasn’t been found. Why hasn’t the accused been jailed? We demand an explanation."
"You’ve been misinformed," the senior officer replied calmly and carefully. "We haven’t released Palash. He’s still in our custody. There’s no question of letting him go."
"Then where is he? We don’t see him at the station," commented Subal Das, one of Montu’s followers.
As the argument heated up, Jotin the officer entered with Anjali. Seeing his daughter, Montu was stunned. How had the police found her? Jotin said, "Here’s your daughter. We’ll send her to court tomorrow."
Montu was jolted back to reality by Jotin's words. Had Anjali told Jotin the truth? He realized he needed to handle this carefully and re-coach his daughter. He quickly said, "Let me take her home tonight, sir! I’ll bring her here in the morning. She’s just a young girl; how can she stay here overnight?"
"You don’t need to worry about that, Montu," interrupted Jotin, cutting him off. "She’s already told us the whole truth. Palash didn’t abduct her or leave her at her uncle's house. You took her there yourself to frame your nephew. Would you like to hear the full story from her?"
Unable to bear the accusations, Montu, a seasoned politician, protested, "This is impossible. You’ve threatened Anjali to get her to say what you want. I won’t leave her here with you. If necessary, I’ll contact your superior officers right now. We’ll break down this station if we have to."
Jotin’s revelation stirred up chaos within the station. Shouting and yelling escalated, and a riot ensued. Ultimately, following orders from the higher-ups, they were forced to hand Anjali over to her father.
(Gradually)