Red.

He stared at his hands for a few minutes before dipping them into the river. He hadn’t bothered to carry a pack of paper soaps. He hadn’t expected it to be so messy.

He shifted his attention to the almost 6 feet long bundle lying on the riverbed beside him. The red blotches on the white bed-sheet that covered the bundle, were smaller a few hours ago. He hated white. It got dirty easily. But he did not see any sense in paying 100 rupees extra for a colourful bed sheet which would eventually be lost in the river. He prodded the heap with his hands a little. He thought of lifting it and throwing it as far as he could into the river. But it was a heavy bundle. He realised it both while trying to put it into the trunk of his father’s Maruti 800 and while getting it down from the trunk a few minutes ago.

He rolled the bundle with his hands till the edge of the shore and finally gave it a hard push, sending it straight into the river. He waited there, fixing his glance on the bundle, till he was fully convinced it was totally out of sight. He dipped his hands into the river again to free his hands of any stain. He was grateful to his mother for keeping a rough cloth in the car’s glove box.  It was normally used by his father to clean the windshield during fogs, which was common in a hill station like theirs, but would now be used to wipe the steering wheel clean.  After he was done cleaning, he threw the cloth, which had also turned red, into the river and rushed to the car.

He was surprised that he was sweating so profusely. It was a December night; temperature never exceeded 5 degrees on nights like these. But he could feel his body burning. With sweaty hands, he held the gear and started the car. He didn’t take much time to shift from the first to fourth gear. He just wanted to reach home soon.

It was a new moon night. He didn’t remember the last time everything seemed so dark. He could only see the road in front of him, thanks to the car’s headlights. The road through the forest had no street light. It never needed any. Very few people took that road and they preferred to take it at daytime. Many unpleasant stories were associated with that forest and he was fully aware of them. He glanced at the small Ganesh idol attached by his mother, using super glue, on top of the dashboard. Gods always made him feel secure. They were watching over him and they would always protect him. The darkness didn’t scare him anymore.

Though it was totally dark, he checked the rear view mirror from time to time, a habit every driver develops.

On his third time, the darkness seemed to have had been disturbed by something. He checked the mirror again. There was something. It was white. Or was it yellow? It was like a tiny dot, but it was enough to destroy the perfect darkness.

His throat, suddenly, felt dry. There was a water bottle in the back seat. He would have to stop the car to fetch it but he chose the discomfort of having a dry throat. Something stopped him from halting. Something that made him uncomfortable and made his sweat glands work up again. He glanced at the rear-view mirror for the fifth time. It was still there.

He stepped harder on the accelerator, hoping it would be left behind. He kept his eyes fixed on the rear view mirror. It didn’t leave him. It grew fainter at times, but it did not leave him.

His entire body was wet from his sweat. The sound of his heart beating was the only sound he could hear; and it was a loud sound. A very loud sound. His head hurt.

He looked at the Ganesh idol again, seeking help. He wondered if the Gods have decided to punish him for his act. He remembered clearly what his dad had said when he killed for the first time, at the age of ten. It was a house rat that had been creating a nuisance in the house, especially in the kitchen. He was merely helping out his mother get rid of it, but his father, after finding out, subjected him to twenty lashes from his belt, his favourite form of punishment, and lectured him on the principles of Ahimsa. Since then, he knew killing was considered to be against the “basic principles of Hinduism” and its only punishment was death.

But that killing was necessary. His history teacher was a die-hard Muslim. A communalist in the truest sense. It was neither his teacher’s long “Muslim beard” nor the typical Muslim white kurta-pyjama he wore everyday to school that made it so obvious, it was his teacher’s treatment towards Hindus that was a sure sign of his extreme loyalty towards his religion.

His teacher failed almost everyone in the pre-board History exam in his predominately Hindu class, and gave the highest marks to Ali Ahmed, who always topped the class because of his teacher’s biasness. His teacher was especially partial towards him; even failed him in his re-exams. His teacher always failed him in History, in every class; merely because he was a Hindu priest’s son. He was never a good student, but he atleast managed to pass in all other subjects, except Maths and Economics, which were genuinely difficult subjects.  

Failing in 12^th grade pre-board exams enraged his father and he was kept under house arrest. He was even stopped from meeting his friends and barred from using his father’s car till his boards. So, it was essential for his teacher to go. Otherwise, his teacher would have made life miserable for the other Hindus too. His brother, who was in the 8^th grade, could later also suffer his fate. He was about to do a noble thing.

The killing wasn’t as easy as he had hoped it would be. His parents went to bed at 10:30 pm every day. He sneaked into the kitchen at 11:30 pm and took out the knife, the one his mother used to cut chicken with, from the kitchen drawer and rushed out of the house. It was quiet outside and he was careful not to make any noise. He drove to his teacher’s house.

His teacher lived alone. His teacher was young; wasn’t married yet, though someone once told him that his teacher was engaged to be married the next month. For a moment he thought about the girl who was to marry his teacher and what her fate would be if his teacher died. He felt no remorse.

He knocked on the door. The plan was simple: He would knock; his teacher would open the door; he would stab him in his stomach, then take him to the river side and throw him into the river. He had devised every aspect of his plan thoroughly; even watched a few movies to learn the proper method of stabbing. His plan was fool proof.

 His teacher opened the door. He could tell his teacher hadn’t been sleeping, but looked very tired. Though his teacher must have been surprised to see him at his place, so late at night, he greeted him warmly and invited him inside. His teacher even volunteered to make coffee for him. Pretentious bastard.  

But he didn’t want to waste any time. He walked straight towards his teacher and stabbed him in his stomach, just like he had planned to. His teacher didn’t even get the opportunity to scream; he was choking on his own blood within no time. Blood overflowed from his teacher’s mouth. He didn’t stop at that though. He couldn’t. He pulled out the knife from his teacher’s stomach and stabbed him again; this time he attacked the chest. His teacher fell to the floor, rolling in pain. He stabbed him in his face, legs, cut off his fingers; he didn’t even spare his teacher’s genitals.

Finally his teacher gave in; stopped breathing. He paused. He was done too. He stepped away from his teacher’s badly mutilated corpse and looked at it, just like an artist would look at his magnum opus, admiring it. He smiled.

He smiled again. The car was running at 120 km/hr now. Memories of the killing were still fresh in his mind which, ironically, seemed to comfort him. He looked at the rear-view mirror again. The street behind him was empty. Darkness all through. He shifted his attention back to the road. He opened his side window. The cool air hitting his wet face soothed him. He heaved a sigh of relief and slowed down a little.

But he wasn’t destined to feel relieved for long.

He saw it again. It had become bigger. It was closer. Much closer.  

He applied force on the accelerator again. His throat burned.  His bladder could give away any moment.  He needed to get home fast. The fact that home was closer now, however, couldn’t fully relax him.

The quietness of the road was abruptly broken by loud chants of ‘Allahu Akbar’. He felt dizzy. His eyes felt heavy. He was about to give in to its pressure, when he noticed a figure on the road, in front of his car. Dressed in white, from head to feet. It was a man. A man with “Muslim beard”. He stopped breathing for a while and went blank.

 He was moving straight at that figure. He sharply turned the steering wheel; but it was too late to let go off the accelerator.

The speedometer went berserk. The Ganesh idol fell off. Everything was dark again. This time, there weren’t any headlights to guide him either.

  ******************************************************************************

‘Sir?’ called the pot-bellied hawaldar.

‘Yes, Harilal?’ asked the Inspector.

‘Sir, there are two men outside. They have come to report an accident. Near the forest road, sir.’

‘Okay. Call them in.’

The pot-bellied Hawaldar called the two men to the Inspector’s cabin.

‘So, what happened?’ the Inspector asked one of them.

‘Sir, there has been an accident near the forest road. A Maruti 800 hit a tree. The driver is dead, sir. We checked. A very young boy.’ The one, who was asked the question, answered.

‘Did you see it happening?’

‘Yes, sir. It happened early morning sir. Around 4:30.’

‘Hmmm. What were you doing at that road, at that time? How did you find him?’

‘Sir, I am a milk man. I was on my daily duty. Since I live far away I start from home early. I always cross the forest road at that time. It is always deserted at that time, sir. So, I was quite surprised to see a car there so late at night. He was driving very fast. I was behind him on my scooter throughout the road. He had slowed down a little before the accident, so much so that I was about to overtake him, and then he, suddenly, accelerated again. Hit the tree in full speed, sir. It was very odd.’

‘That’s bad.’ The Inspector said. He then shifted his attention to the other man, the man who was dressed in white kurta-pyjama. He wore a Taqiyah and had a beard that extended till his chest, ‘What about you? What did you see?’

‘I was walking to the mosque, sir, when it happened. I was running late for the morning Azan, so I decided to take the shortcut through the forest. He was driving like a mad man. He was coming straight at me. Was probably drunk.’ The other man answered.

 ‘Sir! Sir!’ This time, it was the newly inducted hawaldar that called out to the Inspector.

‘Yes, Neelabh?’

‘Sir, they, I mean, some fishermen, found a body in the river. Covered in a cloth and everything. Badly wounded body, sir. Fully mutilated. Just like in the movies, sir.’

‘A murder? Harilal! Take these two men and go to the accident site. Try to see if the body can be identified. Also take their statements.’ instructed the Inspector, ‘I’ll go check the body the fishermen have found in the river.’

‘Can I please join you, sir?’ plead Neelabh.

‘Alright. You’ll finally have something to inaugurate your career with. A murder in a sleepy town like this?  It’s your lucky day, Neelabh!’