They had found the corpse face down in red soil, still recognizable but stinking to hell. It was the stink that had driven them to it, in an effort to find out which factory could be polluting the place, discharging its effluent into the river unfiltered. This feeble excuse of a riverside park was the only refuge left for the harassed city dwellers, and the couple had come here frequently for their evening walk. It was only that day that they had ventured so far, looking forward to an extra treat to compensate for this extra exercise on behalf of the Society for Prevention of Pollution. Hitherto they had been conscientious but passive members, but today, a faint stench had aroused the sleuth in Mrs Bandoshi. Who knows which sewage drain was open or which factory discharging its effluent untreated? By the time they reached the deserted tangled patch near the river, Mr Bandoshi was already getting nervous of causing trouble, but his wife would have none of this cowardice. It would do the world some good, she said, if more people took care to not pollute the environment. And who knew, perhaps their exposé may bring them the amateur eco-warrior award. As it turned out, it did nothing of that sort and Mr Bandoshi never let her forget that. To which Mrs Bandoshi always countered that their story had been carried on the third page of the local daily, and if that wasn't fame, what was? It was true that they had connections that enabled them to approach the editor with confidence, but still, there it was: you had to first do something if you wanted to be in the paper, which they had, so it was alright after all. For months later, Mrs. Bandoshi laced her conversations with what she thought were inspired accounts of the event, in a suitably horrifying way of course, but which invariably made her audience wish she was elsewhere.
It had happened this way.
Moti used to be a milkman of the usual sort, diluting his milk with quantities of water from the river before supplying it to the gullible city slickers. Those who dared question, he simply ignored, for was not the river water holy as the scriptures said? He was doing the poor sinners a service, he was. He was a contented man; he had a fair income and sufficient savings for his only child; his cows were cared for and he duly worshiped the river deity as required. But fortune turned her back on him in due course, and his son was pronounced dead because of the chemical waste in the river near his home. From then on, Moti was devastated by degrees. As they say, those whom Gods wish to punish, they rob of reason first. And so it was with Moti. His loss of reason took the form of honesty, a fault hitherto unknown in his community. He went to his customers and confessed to having fed them polluted milk, offering to make amends by charging them less for the pure milk than onwards. Naturally they refused to believe in his sworn word for future good conduct while trusting implicitly his statements regarding the past misdeeds, and his customer base was severely reduced. In any case, the undiluted milk supply could not support many, and with the lower price he now asked, his life steadily went from bad to worse. His wife died of grief, exacerbated by her husband's madness, and if there was a suggestion of the same pollutant being responsible, it was not taken seriously by the raw doctors in the PHC. Moti dispensed sermons and requests for cash equally among his friends, and neither of these being welcome, he lost them too. His family planned to ostracize him, as soon as they could find a socially acceptable reason to do so.
It was then that Moti made the acquaintance of country liquor. It fired through his veins, it dulled his pain, and brought him new friends of a sort. Best of all, it was cheap. Moti spent many nights, and then evenings, and days, with this new companion, and his family went so far as to welcome him back into the fold with loud curses and free food, for this was understandable, and familiar, and erased the stigma of his painful honesty. He saved no more; his cows were neglected, and the customers unhappy, but honest Moti tumbled along life changing nothing. One day he was told he had T.B. of the lungs, and cirrhosis of the liver and something else besides, and if he wanted to live, he must give up this Bacchanalian lifestyle. Over this Moti pondered deeply. He found that he did not agree with the diagnosis and prognosis given to him, and that he wished for a swifter, easier death. So he made his alcoholic plans, and killed, and waited to be arrested and hanged. When no one came to where he had hidden the body, he dragged it out, vomiting a little with the stench, to where it would be seen easier. And where it was found by Mrs. Bandoshi.
Once the news broke, the politicians had a field day trading accusations and counter allegations, as did the religious zealots, and the police were hard pressed to maintain peace and order till the matter died down and the inquiry amounted to nothing. To Moti's consternation, nobody, it seems, connected the murder of his cow to him. He went to the police station to stake his claim to this foul murder and express his guilt at this killing of his 'mother'. The local constabulary investigated, and duly dismissed him as being of unsound mind based on the community opinion. At last he returned as he had gone, bloody lunged, pot bellied, empty handed, resigned to a slow death. And Mrs. Bandoshi had her five minutes of fame.
Note: Found this among old papers and edited it slightly. I had written this in 2000 or so I think, but I really can't be bothered just now to strain my memory, sorry!
It had happened this way.
Moti used to be a milkman of the usual sort, diluting his milk with quantities of water from the river before supplying it to the gullible city slickers. Those who dared question, he simply ignored, for was not the river water holy as the scriptures said? He was doing the poor sinners a service, he was. He was a contented man; he had a fair income and sufficient savings for his only child; his cows were cared for and he duly worshiped the river deity as required. But fortune turned her back on him in due course, and his son was pronounced dead because of the chemical waste in the river near his home. From then on, Moti was devastated by degrees. As they say, those whom Gods wish to punish, they rob of reason first. And so it was with Moti. His loss of reason took the form of honesty, a fault hitherto unknown in his community. He went to his customers and confessed to having fed them polluted milk, offering to make amends by charging them less for the pure milk than onwards. Naturally they refused to believe in his sworn word for future good conduct while trusting implicitly his statements regarding the past misdeeds, and his customer base was severely reduced. In any case, the undiluted milk supply could not support many, and with the lower price he now asked, his life steadily went from bad to worse. His wife died of grief, exacerbated by her husband's madness, and if there was a suggestion of the same pollutant being responsible, it was not taken seriously by the raw doctors in the PHC. Moti dispensed sermons and requests for cash equally among his friends, and neither of these being welcome, he lost them too. His family planned to ostracize him, as soon as they could find a socially acceptable reason to do so.
It was then that Moti made the acquaintance of country liquor. It fired through his veins, it dulled his pain, and brought him new friends of a sort. Best of all, it was cheap. Moti spent many nights, and then evenings, and days, with this new companion, and his family went so far as to welcome him back into the fold with loud curses and free food, for this was understandable, and familiar, and erased the stigma of his painful honesty. He saved no more; his cows were neglected, and the customers unhappy, but honest Moti tumbled along life changing nothing. One day he was told he had T.B. of the lungs, and cirrhosis of the liver and something else besides, and if he wanted to live, he must give up this Bacchanalian lifestyle. Over this Moti pondered deeply. He found that he did not agree with the diagnosis and prognosis given to him, and that he wished for a swifter, easier death. So he made his alcoholic plans, and killed, and waited to be arrested and hanged. When no one came to where he had hidden the body, he dragged it out, vomiting a little with the stench, to where it would be seen easier. And where it was found by Mrs. Bandoshi.
Once the news broke, the politicians had a field day trading accusations and counter allegations, as did the religious zealots, and the police were hard pressed to maintain peace and order till the matter died down and the inquiry amounted to nothing. To Moti's consternation, nobody, it seems, connected the murder of his cow to him. He went to the police station to stake his claim to this foul murder and express his guilt at this killing of his 'mother'. The local constabulary investigated, and duly dismissed him as being of unsound mind based on the community opinion. At last he returned as he had gone, bloody lunged, pot bellied, empty handed, resigned to a slow death. And Mrs. Bandoshi had her five minutes of fame.
Note: Found this among old papers and edited it slightly. I had written this in 2000 or so I think, but I really can't be bothered just now to strain my memory, sorry!
