Night falls. It is moonless, but it does not appear so in the outhouse because of the reflected glow of the thousand lights which have lit up Swapna Palace like a giant candle. There is a party in the palace. The Police Commissioner has come, as well as the District Magistrate, and a whole host of businessmen, socialites, journalists and writers. The sound of soft music and laughter drifts down to the outhouse. We hear the clink of wine glasses, the buzz of conversation, the jingle of money. In my room there is an eerie silence, broken only by Shankar's laboured breathing. Every half-hour or so his body is racked by convulsions. But he is most bothered by the constriction in his throat, where a viscous, stringy spittle has formed, causing him great discomfort. Now he goes into a spasm even at the sight of a glass of water. The slightest gust of air produces the same result.
Of the many ailments a person can die from, perhaps the cruellest is hydrophobia, where water, which is supposed to give life, becomes the cause of death. Even a cancer patient is able to entertain some hope, but a rabies patient has none.
Watching Shankar's slow death, I can only imagine how utterly heartless Swapna Devi must be, to allow her son to die in this horrible fashion while she was having a party in her house. It is lucky that I threw that Colt revolver into the river, otherwise I would definitely be committing another murder tonight.
As the night progresses, Shankar's spasms become more frequent, he shrieks in agony and begins foaming at the mouth. I know that the end is near.
Shankar finally dies at twelve forty-seven am. Just before dying, he has another lucid moment.
He holds my hand and utters a single word, 'Raju.' Then he clutches his blue notebook and cries, 'Mummy, Mummy,' and then he closes his eyes for ever.
* * *
Agra has become the city of death. I have a dead body in my room and a blue notebook in my hands. I flip through the pages aimlessly, staring at pencil sketches of a woman who was a heartless mother. No, I will not call her 'mother', because to say that would be an insult to all mothers.
I do not know how to react to Shankar's death. I could scream and shout like Bihari. I could abuse all the gods in heaven and all the powers on earth. I could batter down a door, throw some furniture, kick a lamppost. And then I would break down and cry. But today, the tears refuse to come. A slow, molten rage builds up in my guts. I tear the pages from the notebook and shred them into tiny little pieces. Then, all of a sudden, I pick up Shankar in my arms and proceed towards the lighted palace.
The uniformed guards bar my way, but as soon as they see the dead body in my hands they hastily open the gate. I pass along the curved driveway, where the expensive imported cars of the guests are lined up one after the other. I reach the ornate entrance and find it open in welcome. I pass through the marbled foyer into the dining room, where the guests are about to be served dessert. All conversation ceases the moment they see me.
I climb on to the table, and place Shankar's body gently in the middle, in between a creamy vanilla cake and a bowl of rasagullas. The waiters stand as still as statues. The smartly attired businessmen cough and shift uncomfortably in their seats. The ladies take hold of their necklaces. The District Magistrate and the Police Commissioner watch me with worried eyes.
Swapna Devi, sitting at the head of the table, clad in a heavy silk sari and loaded with jewellery, looks as if she is going to choke. She tries to open her mouth, but finds her vocal chords paralysed. I look directly at her with as much contempt as I can muster and speak.
'Mrs Swapna Devi, if this is your palace, and you are its queen, then acknowledge the prince. I have come to deliver the dead body of your son Kunwar Shankar Singh Gautam to you. He died half an hour ago, in the outhouse where you have kept him hidden all these years. You did not pay for his treatment. You did not fulfil the duty of a mother. Now honour your obligation as a landlady. Please pay for the funeral of your penniless tenant.'
I say my piece, nod at the guests who watch in frozen silence, and walk out of the stuffy palace into the cool night. I am told that no one had dessert.
* * *
