‘They called him Ungli Baba , because of his habit of pointing a bony finger at the mountain and bellowing ‘Come to Baba!’ before kicking a stone in their general direction and hobbling away on his club foot. This ritual he practiced every morning, till the day he disappeared.
'Soon after, the Bhatinda Paleontological Institute unearthed a cachet of mastodon bones in the Shivaliks, a monumental find that was unfortunately scuppered by the Director's pet beagles who hid them in fifteen villages over twenty six square miles.
‘The villagers discovered these bones and logically concluded them to be the handiwork of what the local newspapers were soon calling terror of the red hills, angry spirit of a hermit whom the mountains were less inclined to heed than Mohammed.
‘Our Behala Mountaineers’ Association had organized an expedition to bag one of the lesser Himalayan peaks that very summer. So when the team reached base camp and found not one single willing porter, it was a blow.'
Banerjee was at the Turntables Club, as was his wont every Sunday. The club made his time in Bhatinda bearable, even with the odious Saxena as secretary. Here he was in his element. Free liquor, fine women, and retired army officers who got as good a tale as they gave.
‘It so happens,’ began the General, ‘I was working with the Governer at that time, and we did come across this story about a ghost. The fellows in the secretariat – all civilians, mind you, not a single bloody sportsman any of them. No golf.’
‘But it is a mystery, isn’t it.’ Said inspector Kalra. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Passed away the year before. Such a fine chap.’ Answered the General.
‘Baba quite simply vanished. ‘ Answered Banerjee. ‘No one has a clue.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Inspector Kalra. ‘Twenty six square miles of bones is a lot of dead bodies.’
‘You will notice that the head bearer has a distinct limp, and talks to himself.’ Noted the General.
‘They were animal bones,’ said Banerjee. ‘To get back to what I was saying, the Behala Mountaineer’s club reached base camp under conditions that would have made many seasoned mountaineers quiver at the knees. The winter of ’92 had been the harshest in years.’
‘Balram Singh joined us here at the club in ’92.’ Said the General.
‘O teri!’ exclaimed Inspector Kalra. ‘Who would guess that man to be a serial killer? Look at how politely he serves the butter chicken.'
'What did your Baba look like?’Asked the General.
‘About my height and weight, slightly paler. I look more like my mother. If you mean Baba ist ed Ungli,’ Banerjee corrected himself in time, ‘six one, dark, scar above the right temple, twisted lip and blind in one eye.’
‘Balram Singh looks about 6’1”, pretty dark for a Hillman, has a scar above the right temple, that lip can only be called twisted, if not outright garroted, and doesn’t seem to see out of his left eye at all.’ Observed the General.
‘There are so many coincidences.’ Laughed Banerjee nervously. ‘But now that I think of it, he had hair of a strange russet-straw color, from dyeing it in some unknown chemicals – some say animal glue.’
‘Balram Singh has hair that is quite certainly not black.’
‘The probability of such similarities is high, given the diversity of our gene pool,’ Banerjee laughed again. ‘ Inspector, I have some news on the Collector.’
‘Oh.’ Said Inspector Kalra. ‘Brilliant, Banerjee. What is it?’
‘I will excuse myself, gentlemen.’ Said the General courteously, walking away.
‘Nothing. Listen, there is no Ungli Baba. I was trying to go one up on the General for his tale of the Siberian tiger last Sunday.’
‘That’s quite a relief, Banerjee. I didn’t fancy being served by a murderer. But it was smart of you to manufacture those details on the spot.’
‘I copied them wholesale from what the books say about Haddi Appa, dreaded serial killer of the Northern plains. He has eluded the Bhatinda police for years.’
‘O teri! No wonder it sounded familiar. Anyway, if Ungli Baba is a tale, we have nothing to worry about from old Balram Singh. Brilliant, Banerjee, brilliant!’
No comments:
Post a Comment