This story is from a time that no longer exists. The traditional methods of thievery have given way to approaches that are more dangerous and lethal. Thieves no longer drill holes through walls to steal—only the memories of such activities remain. Pickpockets no longer need any tools; the teeming crowd does the trick. Small-time labourers can poison anyone if they want to—though there is not even the slightest chance of them doing it, for, after all, they can never save up enough money to enjoy a lavish life of crime.
Thieves have become a rarity. One of them has set up a bicycle repair shop. Another has a stall at the vegetable market. The one who sells eggs has even built a house—a house of mud tiles, but nevertheless, a house of his own. His daughter studies in Class Four and speaks in Odia.
This town survived on a mountain of information. For example, B knew A well, and although B’s relationship with C was tenuous, C was convinced for this reason—and also proud—that he knew A. Since A was an officer, he did not take the trouble to know anyone.
Also Read | India: A Bengali story in translation
D lost something valuable. Let me tell you right away that the valuable object was not recovered despite D trying his best. And the gruelling process of trying to recover it infuriated D. His chest was now permanently puffed up to such an extent that even aspirants to the army could not match during the recruitment process. Here, too, the middlemen proved to be of great importance. E took D to F. F and D were on their way to meet G when they bumped into H.
*
A police officer lived in this busy and prosperous town. He had a wife, and her beauty was mesmerizing. It was so spotless that every young woman wanted to poison her to death. Strapping young lads, old and infirm men, men who found themselves newly freed from the bonds of monogamy—all were equally enamoured of Bharati aka Kanaklata’s ethereal beauty. Even a fleeting glimpse would excite them and sully their good name.
The Keeper of Desolation translated from the Hindi by Sayari Debnath
It was also true that many had given up on all desire for life after sighting her slender body delicately bent over with the weight of her bosom. The news of her shadow being spotted was enough for the town to envision what death might look like. The curve of her hips was imagined as a boat sailing smoothly on an expanse of water. It was common knowledge that the police officer was the boatman who had untied this boat.
Currents dented and smoothened the edges of the boat as they buffeted it—neither the boatman nor the admirers who were willing to give up their lives for her were aware of this yet. They were also oblivious of the fact that it was not Kanaklata’s heavyset breasts that prompted her to bend over in such a fashion—she was merely imitating a scene from a film.
It was a time shrouded in darkness, which was why it was unclear whether it was a judge, a journalist, or a politician suffering from poor eyesight. Kanaklata was on her way back from having met one of these three. On noticing the milling crowds at the vegetable market, she asked the driver to stop the car. The vegetable market had never witnessed anything as beautiful and delicate before.
The vendors as well as the buyers stopped dead in their tracks. She inspected the vegetables, bargained and made her purchase, all the while tugging cruelly at the hearts of unsuspecting men … This was what should have happened—but it did not.
After a silence lasting an eternity, Kanaklata’s gaze fell on her finger. The ring adorning a long, slim finger of her left hand was missing. Those who heard about it stood still with their feet cemented to the ground. The police officer’s wife’s ring was missing! She quickly pulled out her mobile phone and dialled her husband’s number.
The news of the missing ring engulfed the city like a fearsome cloud of smoke. The police officer spared no time in alerting all the stations’ checkpoints in and around the town. If there is such a thing as an unspoken curfew, it was imposed. Containing her shaking and trembling somehow, Kanaklata made it home, where she broke down
The police officer tried his best to placate her. So what if she had lost her gold ring? He had the goldsmith bring home entire mines of pearls, diamonds and gold, and yet, her beautiful face remained eclipsed in a deep shade of red that refused to fade. Meanwhile, people could not stop talking about the lawlessness of the town—if the police officer’s wife could be robbed, then what would happen to the powerless common man? Phones started ringing at that very moment. Police stations across the town reported that some forty thieves had been taken into custody. The man who pumped air into punctured bicycle tyres, the porter who worked at the vegetable market, and the man who sold eggs were all accused of the crime.
Of the forty, twenty-one were already involved in cases of theft. Eleven of the arrested men came from a long lineage of thieves. The remaining eight were guilty of stealing hearts in their youth and had been rounded up for good measure.
The police officer had the entire town under his thumb and yet, when it came to his wife’s sad face, he felt helpless. He couldn’t bear to look at it. He consoled her with words, he pacified her with caresses. No stone was left unturned in this mission, but his wife’s already haggard face could not be stopped from contorting into ghastlier shapes.
However, a piece of news soon brightened the police officer’s face
.It was afternoon. Weak with exhaustion, the policemen informed the officer that all forty thieves had confessed to the crime! The police officer congratulated them. Good. Well done. When will they return the ring? The policemen gave the thieves one day to return what they had stolen. The very next day, a heap of forty gold rings appeared at the feet of the police officer’s wife. The engraving on each of those rings was exactly the same as the engraving on her stolen ring. None of them missed a carving or motif.
*
It cannot be said whether it was the forty gold rings or the passage of time that was responsible for the eventual dissipation of the police officer’s wife’s sorrow. Now, inevitable trouble was at hand—it was impossible to wear all forty rings at once. Goldsmiths were called yet again. They recommended that all forty rings be melted, and be redesigned into a waist chain.
The police officer’s wife measured her slender waist with a green-coloured tape. Initially, a pink-coloured tape had been assigned for the task, but it so happened that the colour of that tape was so like the complexion of her exposed waist that it became difficult to tell apart the tape from the skin. If I didn’t have to narrate the story of the waist chain, I would surely tell you about the tape that was successful in grazing Kanaklata’s skin and how the goldsmith began trembling with pleasure when the tape was handed over to him.
The waist chain was finally ready, and the news spread across the town like a heady fragrance—such an extravagant ornament had never been designed since the dawn of time. The residents were in a frenzy. They were dying to see this new piece of jewellery. The facts—and rumours—about the intricate design of the ornament had little to do with reality.
In political circles, the news was that there were one hundred and eight beads on the waist chain, and each bead depicted a scene from the Ramayana. Then again, journalists and intellectuals praised the artistry of the goldsmith and claimed that the fine carvings on the chain reminded them of the engravings in prehistoric caves. The artisan had wrought a miracle!
Also Read | Perfume: A Tamil story in translation
Meanwhile, the judge and the attorneys were singing a different tune. According to them—and to hell with the truth!—the total number of beads on the ornament corresponded with the number of articles in the Constitution. The engravings on the tassels were actually depictions of how these articles had been implemented in real life. They declared that this was the right step towards creating a society where citizens were aware of their rights and abided by the law. The words of the judge were like rays of light from a lone candle burning on a cheerless evening.
All three—the judge, the journalist, the politician—were sleepless with excitement. Nobody cared about what the police officer’s wife thought of her new piece of jewellery. They all continued to be deeply in love with her. Each of the three had the opportunity to scrutinise the ornament on separate occasions and under a different light, and yet all of their minds and hearts were in turmoil.
Selected by Mini Krishnan
Reproduced courtesy of Harper Perennial
Illustrations by Siddharth Sengupta
