Murders at Midnight: Puri

Murders at Midnight: Tales of a Small-Town Cop

Puri

Bhubaneswar is the capital of the East Indian state of Odisha. About 60 kilometers south of Bhubaneswar lies a town called Puri. In 1965, the town was quaint with little electricity and a powerful sense of security created by the presence of the towering Jagannath Temple.

The people of the town refused to believe anything bad could ever happen in Puri. They believed the single lamp lit in every household, wealthy or poor, from 10 o'clock at night until 4 o'clock the next morning ushered in Lord Jagannath and his protection. The town was shrouded in divinity. But like any other lamp, there was darkness under the lamps of Puri's homes too.

*

Arun was rummaging through his closet, searching for a book he had to return to a woman who had lent him money. He barely remembered what the book looked like, but the numbers inside, the calculations of the lakhs of rupees he had borrowed, were etched in his memory. He threw his clothes on the floor which had begun to look like a local flea market. Arun wasn't a very tidy tenant. The room began to reek of sweat from all the clothes Arun hadn't washed. He was a typical 19-year-old student: untidy, reckless, and unfettered, until now when his debt hung over his head like a sword.

*

Bhubaneswar

Far away in Bhubaneswar, a police officer was getting ready to turn in for the night. It was chilly in Bhubaneswar, with temperatures hovering just above 10 degrees Celsius. There were no clouds outside and the silence surrounding the officer's house was eerie. His name was Bidyut Panda, and he was the Assistant Commissioner of Police. Only that day, he had arrested five dacoits in the jungles on the outskirts of Bhubaneswar. He had led a decorated career but despite his success, there was something he longed for in his profession. Perhaps it was the achievement of justice without having to shoot someone or maybe a feeling of satisfaction on a day off work. Both instances had never occurred in his career.

As Bidyut pulled his blanket over his shoulders, lost in a web of possibilities, there was a sharp knock on the main door of his house and the clattering of steel utensils as they fell to the floor. He awoke with a start.

*

Bidyut's wife, Samantini, was often awake late into the night. That night, she had fed her husband his favorite meal of goat curry and freshly made chapatis. Shortly after, she had eaten a light meal of fruits and drank a glass of warm milk. She hoped that would satisfy the child growing in her womb. After dinner, she washed the utensils with calloused hands. The water was cold, so it stung where the vegetable knife had left cuts between her fingers. The soap entered the partially healed wounds and caused Samantini great pain. But she never showed it. Such was her concentration on her work, that she refused to pay any heed to the burning sensation on her palms. There was a sharp knock at the main door, unusual for such a quiet night. It pierced through Samantini's gentle song and startled her. She dropped the utensils to the ground with a loud clang! Bidyut will surely wake up, she thought, hoisting up her saree to run to the door.

There, she looked through the peephole to see a constable, drenched in sweat from the neck until his waist. His shirt was three shades darker than it usually was. Besides the sweat on a night too cold for Bhubaneswar, the constable looked terrified.

He knocked again, hurriedly, and began to call out, "Panda sir! Please open the door! It is urgent!"

Samantini was worried. She ran to the bedroom, where Bidyut was already changing into his uniform. He took his service revolver, the keys to his jeep, and his police baton before charging past her. It was 11:30 p.m.