The Tinsel

THE TINSEL
(A Short Story)

PROF. N. S. PHADKE

“Please stop! Please let me alone. Do you want to kill me? Believe me I have not committed the theft. I am innocent. Stop, or I shall surely die! Have mercy on me. Please….”

The young girl Bakula gave out piteous wails and shrieks, ducking and protecting herself by folding her delicate arms on her bosom.

And the constable, standing before her, the leather strap raised in the air, barked in a raucous voice: “Shut up. Enough of your shouting and crying! Do you think we want to beat you for nothing? Let us have your confession. Tell us who were your accomplices. Tell us where the stolen jewels are hidden, or whether they have been sold away. We have no need to beat you if you help us. Come on. Be a wise girl. Speak out. Come, come. Ordo you want another bloody crack….?”

Bakula doubled up, pressing her arms even closer on her trembling body. “For God’s sake, don’t hit me,” she bleated like a lamb under the butcher’s knife. “I shall fling myself at your feet. Believe me, I am innocent. May God punish me by cutting my tongue if I am telling a lie. I swear by God….”

The constable cracked the leather strap across her , and, when Bakula whimpered like a dog, he landed a kick on her waist, which made her drop down on the floor, almost senseless. “You bitch!” the constable cried, “we have had enough of your crying. I shall beat you to death unless you open your mouth and tell us everything. I shall skin you alive, you dirty harlot!”

A shudder of disgust ran through my body, as I stood watching the scene I did not want to hear the foul words of the constable. I did not want to look at the young girl, shaking with fear, bearing her agony like a mute animal….She turned up her face, and her eyes caught mine. In a tremulous pathetic voice she implored me, “Will you at least take pity on me, sir, and ask this constable to stop? Why are you torturing me for nothing? I can’t bear this any longer. How can I confess having done what I never did? I beg your mercy.”

I felt like getting up and leaving.
I could not forget that I was an officer and must stick to my duty.

And yet I could not bear to be a witness to this brutal torture….I was overcome with a feeling of utter revulsion. I wished I had never entered this service and become a Police officer….

My service in the Police department was really incongruous with my ground. When I had met my old school teacher in the street, and told him about my job, he patted me on the shoulder, and, with a look of disbelief, exclaimed: “The son of Govind Shastri wearing a policeman’s uniform! What a joke!” And he had gone on to say: “Society needs policemen. Law and order must be maintained. There must be peace. And so there must be policemen. But why should the son of a Shastri think of accepting a job in the Police department? The very nature of a policeman’s duties is such that you have to be hard-hearted. You have to arrest even your friends. You may have to put hand-cuffs on people whom you respect. There is no room for softness or pity in a policeman’s work. You have to be brutal and cruel when you are investigating a crime and obtaining a confession. The policeman’s line is not for such as you….”

“But don’t you think that the Police department will improve, only if educated young men enter it?” I ventured to argue with my old teacher. “You are wrong, sir, if you imagine that I am going to be an ordinary constable, parading the street with a baton in my hand, or standing in a square and controlling the traffic. No, no. I am an officer. I have passed the training course. I am educated.”

“Howsoever educated you may be,” he shook his head as he stuck to his disapproval, “the work of a policeman is such that there will come a time when you will have to forget your education and culture, and behave like a heartless brute. At least, you will have to countenance such brutality committed by men under you. It is impossible for a Police officer to be always kind-hearted. He has to give up all tenderness, all gentleness–even common humanity.” He had then patted my shoulder again with affection and said: “But let that go. You must excuse me for my plain speech, if I have hurt you. But I could not help saying what I thought. I am delighted to know that you have a steady job and you are on your way to settle down in life. God bless you, my dear boy. I wish you all the best.”

My old teacher was not the only person to express surprise when I became a Police officer. Many of my friends thought that I could have done much better. The son of a reputed Shastri, well versed in the Vedic lore, and respected for his proficiency in the Shastras and Sanskrit literature, had chosen to become a uniformed guardian of Law and peace! This was apparently too incongruous to believe. Had my father been living, he would certainly not have allowed me to enter the Police Training School, I could do so only because I was free to do whatever I liked. I had no wish to fall into the usual rut of collegiate education. I could not think of becoming a lawyer or a doctor, since that would have taken several years, and I had no money to spend on these courses. I did not have any talent or inclination for business. My only asset was first class physical health and proficiency in all sports. I might have tried my luck at becoming a film actor. But the president of the physical instruction school which I attended advised me to enlist myself in the Police department. “We have our own Government now,” he had said to me; “the Police department needs educated young men like you. You will easily get a scholarship.”….I had accepted his advice….I had completed the course at the Police Training School with distinction, and I was now a Police officer.

There came occasions during the three years of my service when I had to admit that my old teacher and my friends were right in warning me. I had to shed all softness of the heart in investigating crimes and getting at the truth at the bottom. I had to expose the misdeeds of men who went about as innocent, virtuous, respectable citizens. My confidence in human goodness received cruel shocks, and began to falter. I began to change, and to regret that I was no longer a straightforward simple man who believed in the inherent goodness of people around him.

But I stuck to the thought that all this was a part of my job. Keeping my duty above everything else, I went on doing whatever was necessary. I went on being a witness to acts of apparent cruelty and hard-heartedness.

And yet, even my blunted mind revolted against the injustice of the way in which this young girl Bakula was being treated. Was there any sense in beating her, any sense in presuming that she was a criminal, and lashing her with a butcher-like ferocity?….The constable cracked the leather strap. The girl whimpered and cried. And as an officer in charge of the investigation, I not only looked on but, in a way, encouraged and connived at the shameful act of inhuman torture.

There had been a theft at the Ambassador Hotel. The suite of a Princess had been broken in, and the Princess’s jewels had been stolen. On receipt of the news of this burglary, the wheels of our department had been set in motion. ‘Panchnama’, depositions–all the usual formalities had been gone through. We of the Police department adopt a method of elimination when we set about investigating a crime. We first of all imagine all kinds of possibilities, and proceed to eliminate them one by one and try to arrive at the most plausible explanation. This method, besides being most logical, has proved to be the most practical, yielding amazing results, solving the riddles of the most baffling crimes. Naturally the Ambassador burglary was being tackled in this time-honoured way.

It often happens that our department cannot pin the guilt on any particular individual. We have to let go all persons who are arrested as suspects and put in the Police lock-up. Our investigations bear no fruit, and we are faced with the honest admission that the mystery of the crime cannot be solved. But we try to avoid such an admission, since the prestige of the department is at stake. Then the only recourse left to us is to catch hold of some one suspect and resort to the ‘third degree’. This method brings out a confession, which is sometimes ultimately denied in the court. We have often to deal with confirmed criminals, in whose case beating and torture is the only way to make them speak out the truth. But in many cases we beat the wrong person. We know this very well, and yet we have to do the beating in order to preserve the prestige of the department.

As I watched Bakula lying on the floor in a helpless huddle crying and ducking from the next lash of the whip, I could not help thinking that we were tackling the wrong person...A favourite presumption of the Police department is that no person is innocent unless his innocence is proved and established beyond doubt, and that beating a suspect is perfectly justified. This is evidently contrary to the common man’s belief that a person who denies having anything to do with a crime must be treated as innocent, and it is both unjust and inhuman to try to extort a confession from him. But the Police learn by experience that no offender confesses his offence unless he is compelled to do so, and that what applies to the tougher type of offenders also applies to all other types of people, and, therefore, innocence is, more often than not, a pretence...So the Police become used to forget all the feelings of pity and mercy, and to employ violence when trying to elicit information.

I too, had been by now inured to be hard-hearted.

And yet I could not help being moved as I saw this young girl Bakula being beaten by the constable, and heard her cries. I could not bear to hear the filthy abuse which the constable flung at her. All this was most inhuman and totally unjust, I thought. And a sense of shame came over me at the thought that it was being done with my consent. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to shut my ears.

Would I have been so moved, if Bakula had not been young and handsome? Would mercy and tenderness have swelled in my heart? I did not know. To be honest, I must admit that I had been struck by the beauty of this girl...If a policeman wishes to show integrity in his work, he must keep himself above all corruption. Wine, woman and money are the most corrupting influences which test the character of a policeman. These allurements had been often thrown in my way. But I had succeeded in keeping myself clean and untainted. I had never let myself be a victim to temptation.

I could not understand why, but I was melting and losing my usual hard-heartedness. I knew that there was something wrong with me. And yet I could not check myself. There was no self-deception in the thought that Bakula was innocent. I honestly felt that she was innocent. And in that strange moment I did not hesitate to admit to myself that my faith in the girl’s innocence was prompted by my admiration of her beauty.

I had, of course, come to know by experience that physical beauty had nothing to do with a person’s character. I had come across ugly persons with noble hearts, and also unscrupulous rascals with charming faces. This incongruity between outward looks and inward nature is a matter of common experience for lawyers and doctors. But no one gets such a close view of this incongruity as we of the Police department. I had acquired enough wisdom not to be carried away by a pretty face...And yet I seemed to have suddenly lost my wisdom and balance. A beautiful girl like Bakula could not be a thief. Her innocence was beyond any doubt. It was heartless to inflict any punishment on her. Thoughts like these raced through my mind and a deep sympathy filled my heart. I did not want to hide anything from myself. I was not only admiring the freshness and the youth of this charming girl, but I was losing my heart to her. I was in the clutches of a youthful passion–God alone knew if this was not love.

I believe I had fallen in love with Bakula right at the moment when I had first set my eyes on her. We had gone to the Ambassador Hotel on receiving information of the burglary. We had asked the Princess to produce all her servants and attendants. They had come into the hall, and the Princess had pointed them out one by one murmuring: “My driver. My cook. This is Bakula, my chief maid.” The Princess had said, and at that very moment I had been surprised by the girl’s uncommon beauty. I had even inwardly wondered at the irony of Fate which had reduced to the state of a servant a girl who should really have been the Princess. As Bakula was shoved into the Police van along with the other servants and brought to the lock-up, I could not help feeling sad that this charming young girl was about to be interrogated. I would have set her free if that were possible. But 1 had to be careful lest my superiors should blame me and the constables under me consider my action queer. ‘May God protect her!’–I had uttered this prayer to myself, and checked my sympathy.

But now I could no longer control myself. “Will you at least take pity on me, sir…?” These words of Bakula were enough to shatter my patience. A surge of pity and tenderness swept me off my feet. This little delicate flower must not be crushed, I thought. I must protect this girl.

The constable flung one more filthy curse at Bakula. “Why do you talk to our Sahib?” he chided her. “Talk to me. Tell the truth. Come, Come. Or do you want another kick?”

But I struck his up-raised leg with my cane. “That will do,” I ordered him. “Leave her alone.”

The constable gave me a look of surprise. “She seems to be a tough customer,” I observed, not wanting to give the constable any inkling into my secret thoughts. “We shall have to teach her a good lesson. But that will have to wait till to-morrow. Let her go.”

My mind was crowded with thoughts of Bakula as I lay in my bed that night…It was possible to release Bakula by reporting that it was no use interrogating her and that she could be called again if required. But this was risky. There was every chance of my superiors not accepting my report and challenging the validity of my action. But through these doubts and counter-doubts my mind kept clinging to the thought that I must not only protect Bakula and set her free, but must also have her for myself. It was no use being straightforward and open. And if cunning were to be employed, I must proceed cautiously, calculating every advantage and disadvantage….And again what was the wisest and the safest thing to do after I gave Bakula her freedom?

There was only one way open to me.

If I wanted Bakula to become mine, I must not only leave my service but also run away with her to some distant far-away place….Bakula was a suspect in the Police lock-up. Her freedom could be achieved, only if I turned a traitor to my department and defied the very Law of which I was pledged to be a guardian. Only if I destroyed my character and integrity, that is, only if I committed a sort of suicide, I must be prepared to go out of respectable society. I must accept the life of a run-away hunted criminal.

But I was perhaps in the vicious grip of a single idea. Nothing, absolutely nothing, mattered if I got Bakula. This young alluringly beautiful girl must become mine. Call this madness if you like, but it possessed me. Otherwise, I could not have done what I did.

I set Bakula free, and ran away to Goa with her.

We lived in a room in a large spacious caravanserai attached to a temple at Mangeshi.

I had planned to lie low for sometime, and then to do some suitable business. I had, brought enough money to serve me as capital. I intended to settle down in Goa. I would buy a farm, where I would build a little cottage and run a small dairy. But these sweet dreams would take a few years to materialise. Meanwhile I could live in this caravanserai with Bakula undisturbed and in peace.

The long arm of the Law could nor reach here. We were safe. Money could buy all the comforts we desired. If any inconvenient questions were asked, we could tell lies without fear of exposure. It was easy to make people accept us as man and wife.

Life at Mangeshi was almost idyllic. There was a big courtyard, always kept; spotlessly clean, where seasonal flowering plants were in bloom. The temple of the Goddess Mangeshi was indeed a wonderful place, where you could forget your earthly troubles. And the gorgeous splendour of Nature’s beauty, spread all around the place, made it a veritable paradise. There was no room here for regret or remorse. We ate our meal heartily, sat on our doorstep, watching people going up the temple steps, listening to the unceasing sound of the temple bells. Sometimes we went to the town by bus, wandered through the bazaar streets, and visited the cinema theatres. Such a quiet pastoral life held a bounty of happiness for me and Bakula. What made me incredibly happy was the thought that my dream had come true. I had left my country. I had given up an honourable job. I could never return to my old respectable life. But I had won a prize which no other man could win. Bakula was mine–my very own. Bakula with all her freshness and youth and beauty! She too had accepted the way of life which I had chosen. She loved me. She was grateful to me. She cared for me. What more could a man wish for? In the eyes of the Law I was a criminal. I had done what no honest citizen would stoop to do. I was a sort of a refugee. And yet there was not the least regret in my heart; no darkness in my life. I loved Bakula and she loved me, and our life together was like a moonlit night, fragrant with the scent of wild blooms.

I was, therefore, surprised and also a little disturbed when once at night I found Bakula awake and restless in the bed. “What’s the matter?” I asked her.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But I can’t sleep.”

“Do you want me to sing a lullaby?”

She did not respond to my joke. I thought her face was rather grave when she shook her head and said, “No.”

“Go to sleep then,” I said.

She put her arms round my neck and said, “May I ask you one question?”

“Why one only ?” I tried to be jocular. “You may ask me a dozen.”

“But I do not have the cleverness to think of a dozen questions,” she laughed, amused by her own simplicity. “I have only one question to ask. Will you let me leave you?”

I was so shocked by her unexpected question that I felt as if the floor under me had given way and I was hanging in mid air. “What do you mean?” I shouted, “You want me to let you go? You don’t wish to stay with me? Where will you go? To whom do you want to go?”

She drew me closer and kissed me. “I am very fond of you,” she whispered.

Was she in one of her usual playful moods? “Good gracious!” I laughed.

“You tell me you are fond of me. And you ask me if I would let you leave me! Are you making fun?” I caught her face in my hands and began to kiss her mouth hungrily.

“I am not making fun,” she caressed my hair as she said this.

“You are fond of me?”

“Very fond.”

“Then, why do you want to go away?”

“I do not feel like living with you always,” she told me with utter simplicity, as if she could not see the incongruity which I tried to point out.

“Are you tired of me?”

“No, no. It’s not like that. But….” She paused for a moment, and then asked, “Do you remember I had waited for you at the bus stand this evening when we had gone into the town and you had left me alone because you wanted to talk–I don’t know what–to the owner of a jewellery shop?”

I could not understand what this had to do with her question. “Well!” I murmured.

“I met him there,” she told me.

“Him! Whom?”

“Parsharam.”

“And who is this Parsharam?”

“The Princess’s driver. The first one.”

“What do you mean by the first one?”

“Not the one who was produced before you when you came for investigation, but the one who was in the Princess’s service beforehim. The one who had left the job four days before. Gone on leave because his mother had died. Of course it was a lie. His name is Parsharam.”

“All right. His name is Parsharam. But what about him?”

“He is coming here to take me away to-morrow morning.”

“I cannot understand what you say….” I said half to my-self, feeling greatly puzzled.

“I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “Why should I hide anything from you now? Parsharam and myself–we two had stolen the Princess’s jewellery.”

I gripped her neck viciously as I cried in painful amazement. What! You had stolen the jewellery?”

Her voice was absolutely calm and level as she said, “But listen to what I tell you...”

And then she talked as though she was telling a small child a bedtime story…. Parsharam had run away with the Princess’s jewellery. He had intended to take Bakula with him, but had not succeeded in doing so, since she had been required to be in constant attendance on the Princess. She had remained behind….And now all of a sudden Parsharam had found her last evening at the bus stand in the town.

I could not help wondering at my queer luck….I had myself brought about her meeting with Parsharam.

“I told Parsharam that you had released me from the Police custody and brought me here,” Bakula talked on. And I listened to her in a dazed condition. “Do you know what Parsharam said? He said it must be God Himself who had appeared in your person. He said we must be, ever grateful to you, and that we can never repay your debt. I told him you were very kind and loving. But do you know what he said after that? He held me by the hand and said, ‘Now you must leave the Sahib and come with me!’ He is coming to Mangeshi to-morrow morning. He wants me togo with him, to live with him. That’s why I am asking you. Will you let me go?”

I was speechless with a strange mixture of surprise and disgust and also a burning sense of defeat.

I had fallen in love with this young, beautiful girl. I had taken her out of the Police custody and run away with her. I had believed that she was innocent. I had allowed a sort of madness to possess me, and committed a daring act which no man in his senses would have thought of committing. And, instead of being ashamed, I had been indulging in a kind of pride. The brave alone deserve the fair–I had kept saying to myself. I Want Bakula, I want Bakula–This single thought had rung in my heart like a magic incantation. I had sacrificed my status, my honour, in fact, all the higher values of life, wanting to win the love of this beautiful young woman.

And now, when I had come to believe that she had become my own for life, she was asking me, “Will you let me go?”

I looked at her, unable to find my speech.

I felt as if I was hearing the voice of some stranger when I asked her, “Do you wish to go away?”

“Yes.” This single word fell from her mouth as if it had a complete finality.

“Why do you want to go?” I know the hollowness of my questions, and yet I could not help asking them. “Who is this Parsharam? Is he your husband? Are you his wife?

She simply said, “I am his keep. Have been for a long time...” A dinning noise as of some explosion filled my ears. I could not hear what Bakula was telling me….My arms round her neck became limp. In that moment of defeat and frustration I felt that she was far away from me–beyond my reach–even unworthy of my touch!