“Even the Worm will Turn”
Gitanjali Murari, India
Creators of Justice Award 2022 | First Prize: Short Story
Gitanjali is a writer based in Mumbai, India. For long, she has been interested in the values that IHRAF highlights through all its work, mainly beauty in diversity, social justice, the vulnerabilities of people and their exploitation by powerful groups. In her short stories, she aims to write about the complexities of India’s history, philosophy, cultural diversity and its mind-boggling array of issues, in the hope of aiding the efforts of many who are working hard to foster a more equitable future for the weaker sections of our society. She has authored the fantasy-adventure, The Crown of Seven Stars, published by Penguin India.
EVEN THE WORM WILL TURN
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The bus rattled off in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. Manoj looked around. Under the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, the small market wore a deserted look. He walked over to a kiosk fashioned out of a dead banyan tree, its gnarled branches festooned with colourful strings of mouth-freshener sachets.
“I’m looking for Banwari’s house,” Manoj said to the vendor, handing him some cash for a pack of cigarettes. The man appraised the unshaven face, the well-worn sweater and jeans.
“You a reporter?” he asked and at Manoj’s nod, he pointed to his right.
“Go that way. You can’t miss it.”
Following the inadequate directions, Manoj found himself at the edge of the village. The stench of burning rubbish assailed his nostrils. He stopped a cyclist and asked again for Banwari’s house. The man jerked his head towards the smoke in the distance. “It’s on the other side of it.” Walking swiftly past the smouldering heap, Manoj entered a dusty, unpaved lane flanked by single-storeyed houses, all huddled together like frightened chickens in a coop. Asbestos sheets served as roofs and flaking posters of film stars and politicians covered the walls. There was not a tree in sight. Clogged with garbage and flies, the open sewers gave out an unbearable stink. This was the poorest quarter, flung to the outskirts of the village.
Manoj soon spotted a police constable outside a narrow door and showed him his press card. The constable scrutinized it and allowed him to pass. Manoj stepped into a handkerchief-sized courtyard, its brick floor badly in need of repair, and stood facing a group of people on two charpoys, staring into nothingness.
Approaching a gaunt man, Manoj said, “Banwaariji?”
The man tilted his head up, unwillingly. “I’ve said what I had to say.”
Manoj squatted down. “I want to write your version, not the official statement that I’ve been given.”
Banwaari’s smile was mirthless. “My version? Alright. I went looking for my daughter when she didn’t return from school. She used to take a short-cut every day, a lonely path through an empty plot of land. When I reached there, I found her hanging from a tree. That’s all there is to it.”
Manoj pursed his mouth. “It’s true then? A suicide? I got a different impression. Your younger daughter goes to the same school, am I right? May I talk to her please?”
The family stirred. “She’s not here,” Banwari muttered, “we sent her away, far away from here.”
“Where?”
“Someplace where she can learn to wipe out the memory of her sister.”
A woman tugged at the sari pallu covering her head, bringing it down low over her face. “Anu is very intelligent,” she said to no one in particular, a hint of pride in her voice, “she can write with both hands.”
“Shut your mouth,” Banwaari snapped at her.
#
Waiting patiently outside the police station, Manoj’s eyes feasted on the fields of yellow mustard on the opposite side. Finally, the inspector joined him and they walked towards the fields. Manoj offered a cigarette but the inspector shook his head. Lighting it for himself, Manoj clutched the inspector’s hand as if to shake it. There was a crackle of notes as the inspector’s fist disappeared into his trouser pocket momentarily.
“How much?” he asked, darting a quick look over his shoulder at the police station.
“Two thousand.”
“That’ll be two questions.”
“Okay,” Manoj smiled, “is Banwaari close to any of his relatives, someone who might know the whereabouts of the younger daughter?”
The inspector chuckled appreciatively. “You want a lot of information in one answer. Very well. He has a brother in Lucknow city.”
“Phone number?”
“I’ll message it to you,” the inspector said and left.
Crushing the half-smoked cigarette under his heel, Manoj dialled a number on his phone. “Kailash bhai, I am in Bidholi. I’ve got news for you.”
#
Suicide or brutal murder? screamed the heading of a news report in a popular Hindi tabloid. Underneath it, an underage girl with large eyes and a plait hanging over one shoulder, looked out rather blankly. The report went on to state:
A day ago, fourteen-year-old Shalu was found hanging from a tree in the remote village of Bidholi, Uttar Pradesh. She was cremated hurriedly without a post-mortem. Our investigation has revealed that Shalu was allegedly raped and murdered. The alleged culprit belongs to an upper-caste family. He committed the alleged crime when despite repeated warnings, Shalu refused to take the longer route and continued to walk to school with her younger sister through a plot owned by the temple trust.
The death has been registered as suicide and no arrests have been made.
The piece ended with the claim that the information had been culled from a reliable source.
Manoj sighed his satisfaction. If it hadn’t been for Ram Saran, Banwaari’s brother in Lucknow, he might never have got the full scoop on the crime. He had rushed back from Bidholi to his office in Delhi last evening to file the story for the morning’s edition.
His ringing mobile-phone interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes Kailash bhai,” he stepped out into the strip of a balcony abutting his room. Cigarette butts from an overflowing ashtray littered the parapet. “Yes, I’ll get Anu but you have to give me some time. I spoke to her uncle yesterday, and although he was mum about her, I suspect she’s with him in Lucknow. I’m going there tomorrow.”
#
A peeling board proclaimed Slum Re-Development Colony, Lucknow City. Entering through an unmanned gate, Manoj was immediately confronted by a dismal cluster of flats, all neatly numbered. Children played cricket and their unfettered shrieks made Manoj smile involuntarily.
He found the flat easily. A woman, squatting outside her door, chopped vegetables and looked up at his approach.
“I’m looking for Ram Saran,” he said, touching his palms together in a namaste.
“He’s at work,” she replied, “you can call him on his mobile.”
“I tried but he’s not picking up.”
“Oh?” She frowned. “He’s very busy,” she said after a moment, a smug smile smoothening her brittle features, “he’s installing the electrical wiring in an entire office. Give me your name and number. I’ll get him to call you.”
Manoj’s face took on a vague expression. “I’ll wait here,” he said, lighting a cigarette, “if you don’t mind.”
Two hours later, Manoj had gleaned enough information from Ram Saran’s wife. The few hundred rupee notes pressed into her hand had done the trick. “It’s getting late, bhabhi,” he told her, gulping down the overly sweet tea, “please tell Ram Saran I will take care of Anu.”
She dabbed away a tear. “Every night he gets a call from Bidholi. ‘Tell us where you are hiding the girl,’ they say. I’m worried for our safety, bhaiya. We have children too.”
“I’ll sort this matter out fast. Thank you for the tea.”
#
Manoj reached the house around eight at night. Gleaming in Italian marble, it was wreathed in fairy lights. Taking out his camera from his rucksack, he slung it around his neck.
“I’m the photographer,” he informed the watchman, shooting a puzzled glance at the silent house, “am I too early for the engagement?”
The guard snorted, “You’ll be late if you don’t hurry. The venue is Gomti club.”
“So, you’ve been left here while everyone enjoys themselves,” Manoj said chattily, “or are there others like you working inside this palace?”
The guard made a wry face. “The house is empty. I doubt I’ll get dinner tonight.”
Gomti club was decorated with so many flowers that it seemed spring had arrived in a rush, out of breath and season. As Manoj walked in through the gate, his phone rang.
“Manoj bhai,” Ram Saran’s voice crackled in his ear, “don’t interfere in our business. They’ll make life hell for Banwari.”
“Give me the killer’s name. I’ll have it published tomorrow. Then the police will be forced to act—”
“Are you crazy?” Ram Saram screamed, “these are influential people. So far I’ve managed to keep my niece safe but if you insist on interviewing her, they’ll find her and finish her too.”
“I have to go,” Manoj said and hung up.
The banquet hall was teeming with well-groomed people in expensive saris and jackets. Beautiful women became animated when he aimed his camera at them, pouting like film stars. But their eyes remained empty, oddly untouched by their obvious vivacity.
Wading into the crowd, Manoj clicked random pictures until he saw a beaming couple posing for photographers. He elbowed his way around them, keeping a sharp look-out. Then he spotted her, a thin eleven or twelve-year-old standing apart and holding on tightly to a large, shiny Chanel bag. Dressed in a salwar-kameez altered to her size, she stared unblinkingly at the engaged couple as if to imprint their image over the gruesome one haunting her day and night. Manoj drew in a sharp breath. The resemblance to her dead sister was uncanny.
He edged close to her and muttered, “Anu.” The girl started and dropped the bag, her face turning ashen.
“I’m here to take you to a safe place,” he told her in a persuasive voice, “I’ve spoken to your uncle.”
She shook her head and backed away. Manoj held up his press card.
“I work for a newspaper, and I reported about your sister. You must have witnessed it all. Tell me his name. Don’t be scared.”
Trembling uncontrollably, her mouth stretched wide open. Manoj assumed his best kindly expression and put out a reassuring hand. But Anu, finding her voice, unleashed a scream that stunned even the music band into silence.
Manoj hastily stepped away. All eyes were riveted on him and the wailing servant girl who had her arms out as if to ward off a savage blow. Their party ruptured by the raw, agonizing cry, the bejewelled gathering quickly retreated to the far end of the room. The Chanel bag, lying abandoned on the floor, now became the cynosure of all eyes. A young woman in an off-shoulder gown hurried forward.
“Stop yelling,” she scolded Anu, “and pick up my bag. Can’t you take care of even one thing? And who’s this man?”
Manoj opened his mouth to respond when a shout rang over Anu’s unending scream. “I’m here, child.”
At the entry of yet another unwanted character in this coarse melodrama, anger rippled through the audience. Anu ran to Ram Saran and before anyone could react, he hustled her out of the hall. A furious man in an embroidered jacket blocked Manoj’s path. Flashing his press card, Manoj edged past and the music resumed as soon as the door closed behind him.
#
Outside in the cold, the men confronted each other. The girl clung to her uncle. “Leave us alone,” Ram Saran pleaded with folded hands, “I should never have told you anything. The inspector who gave you my number, he has been shunted out, transferred.”
“Bastards,” Manoj cursed under his breath. His eyes slid to the girl. “I want to ask Anu just one question,” he said, “and it’s not the name of the killer. But it’s very important. It can save her life.”
Ram Saran’s arm tightened protectively around the girl. “What do you say, beti?”
Anu peeped from the safety of his arm and nodded, and Manoj became aware that he had been holding his breath.
“Is it true you are ambidextrous?” he asked, “can you write with both hands?”
Uncle and niece stared at him. Ram Saran finally burst out, “All of Bidholi knows not only can she write with both hands, she can use either hand equally well for any task. Why do you ask?”
Manoj’s face cracked into a relieved smile. “It’s a long story, and I haven’t smoked a cigarette in a few hours. I noticed a tea-stall close by. Let’s go there.”
#
The train pulled into Singrauli station. Manoj flicked the stub of his cigarette out of the window, his eyes scanning the platform. Spotting a familiar face, he told Ram Saran, “Please wake up Anu. We’ve reached…home.”
There was an odd excitement in his voice. The girl caught it and sat up, nervously straightening her clothes. As they got off the train, an elderly man in a crumpled kurta and faded jeans reached them.
“Kailash bhai,” Manoj smiled and bent down to touch his feet.
Kailash enfolded him in a warm embrace.
“I’m seeing this rascal after months, all thanks to you,” he told Anu.
She looked at him gravely, her gaze searching his face.
Kailash patted her head lightly. “Shall we go to the school?”
#
A clearing in a thick forest had been turned into a classroom. Rows and rows of children sat on the ground, writing out their lessons with both hands simultaneously. Anu and Ram Saran watched from a distance. Then, curiosity got the better of the girl. She tiptoed between each row, peering over every shoulder.
Kailash turned to Ram Saran, “They’ll never think of looking for her here, not in an orphanage in the jungles of Singrauli.”
The men lounged under a neem tree, munching on roasted peanuts.
Manoj stretched his arms over his head. “Maybe I should move back,” and Kailash laughed, “You’ll be bored in no time! You were always terribly restless.”
“That’s why I could never learn to write with both hands.”
“When he came to me, I was researching into the benefits of ambidexterity,” Kailash explained to Ram Saran, “I wanted to experiment on this wild teenager, to see whether ambidexterity really nurtures whole-brain development.” He paused to smile at Manoj. “But you were a wreck, and it has never failed to surprise me that you turned out so well.”
A moment of deep affection passed between the two men.
Ram Saran asked, “So, this ambi…writing with both hands…how does it help the kids?”
“It gives them a head-start which they don’t get in school,” Kailash began, “there, they get only insults. My first batch of ten Dalit kids have made it to good colleges and that’s given them the confidence they needed badly. ”
“But the low-caste tag is hard to get rid of,” Manoj added with a tinge of sadness in his voice, “even after all this time in a big city like Delhi, it comes back to bite me in the most unexpected ways. I hope these kids have it easier.”
Anu ran up, eyes shining and face flushed pink.
“What’s your dream?” Kailash asked her.
“To go up in a rocket, into the stars,” she answered without hesitation.
Kailash looked at Manoj, “Do you think anyone will dare to spit at a space scientist, because of her caste? The spit will only fall back on them. It’s the sweetest revenge Manoj, and its time has come.”