Penumbra

2

Rana Rao crossed the crowded foyer of the Calcutta police headquarters and paused before the plate-glass door. In the second before it swished open, she caught a glimpse of her reflection. The sight of herself in the trim khaki uniform often caught her unawares. She saw the girl she had been in her surprised eyes and thin face, and the woman she was now in her lieutenant’s uniform, and she found it hard to reconcile the two images. She sometimes felt guilty at the privilege conferred by the uniform; she wanted to tell people that she was nothing special, that she too had once been the lowest of the low.

She stepped through the glass door and stood beneath the red-and-white-striped polycarbon awning. Rain lashed down, drumming on the awning, bouncing off the slick tarmac of the busy road. The monsoon clouds piled over the city had brought a premature twilight to the afternoon. All along the wide pavements paan sellers, fortune tellers and laser beauticians switched on their orange glow-tubes and huddled beneath stolen scraps of polycarbon.

Rana looked up and down the street for her car. No doubt it was stuck in the traffic. Her driver was old and slow, which she didn’t mind most of the time. But today she had a meeting with a street-kid she was helping; she had arranged to meet her at a certain time and a certain place, and she knew from experience that street-kids didn’t wait around. When the whole city is your home, you move from place to place in search of the necessities of life: food and baksheesh.

“Rana-ji! Over here!”

The gnarled head of her driver emerged from the side-window of the battered patrol car, lodged in a line of stalled traffic ten metres away.

Rana was about to make a dash for the car when her communicator clicked in her inner ear. She twitched her lower jaw to activate the connection and snapped, “Yes? Lieutenant Rao here. Who is this?”

“Commissioner Singh.” The voice, weighted with forbearance, sounded in her ear. “Have you set off yet, Lieutenant Rao?”

“Not yet, Commissioner.” She peered along the line of traffic to her driver and waved that she would be with him shortly.

“Jolly good. I will come with you today, ah-cha?”

“Ah-cha, Commissioner. I’m just outside the building. Please hurry. My driver’s waiting.”

Commissioner Singh cleared his throat with censure and cut the connection. Rana cursed the fat, pompous pig. He liked to “get his hands dirty’, as he said, from time to time. See how his men were coping on the front line. Rana could have done without his ignorant presence today. He would frighten the kids away. She had worked hard to gain their trust over the years, to show them that she was an exception to their generally correct assumption that all cops were corrupt.

A minute later Commissioner Singh stepped through the sliding doors. He was not alone, Rana saw with dismay. In his wake shuffled a subservient private, turbaned like Singh himself.

The commissioner nodded. “Lieutenant Rao, Private Khosla.”

Khosla nodded. She knew the tall, gangling private. He was a file-shuffler in the computer division, one of a few young men who resented Rana her position of lieutenant and showed it by jibing her whenever they met. Not today, though; Khosla was on his best behaviour, toadying up to the commissioner. She wondered why he was coming out with them on this patrol.

The introductions over, Singh looked imperiously up and down the street. “Where is your car, Lieutenant?”

“Over here.” Rana led the way, dodging through traffic to where her driver had leapt from the car and opened the passenger door. He had seen the commissioner and was working for his tip. “Thank you, buba.” Rana smiled with feigned grace and slipped into the passenger seat.

Her driver goggled, then quickly whipped open a rear door. “Please, sir…”

Singh slumped heavily on to the back seat, leaned forward and tapped Rana on the shoulder. “So what is your agenda today, Lieutenant?”

The car started up and inched down the street.

“I’m going over to Howrah to talk to a group of children who live beneath the bridge,” she replied. “They’ve formed a co-operative: shoe-shining, tailoring, tattooing… This sort of enterprise is to be encouraged.”

“Ah-cha, but what about the Choudry girl?”

Shiva! So that was why the fat pig was with her today. Vandita Choudry had run away from home three weeks ago, a home where, Rana knew, she was being beaten by her father. She had fallen in with the group of children who lived beneath the Howrah bridge. It was Vandita who had first suggested the co-operative, and Rana had helped them get it started. Of course, she should have picked up Vandita Choudry and returned her to her father, but Rana didn’t play by the book. The kids knew this and respected her.

Rajiv Choudry was a Brahmin and a big-shot in engineering, and he was no doubt putting pressure on Commissioner Singh to find his daughter.

They crawled through the jhuggis to the south of the city, kilometre after kilometre of drab slums, dilapidated polycarbon and polythene shacks little bigger than com-screen kiosks housing entire families. Overhead, bright ad-screens hovered like giant butterflies beneath helium-filled dirigibles, their gaudy images offering the poor glimpses of an unattainable other world.

Amid the blare of horns and tangle of metal that was the usual congestion of traffic by the Howrah bridge, Rana’s driver slowed and indicated to turn off down a track to the wharf. Rana caught a glimpse of a gaggle of kids, Vandita among them, beside the water. The Choudry girl saw her, waved and ran towards the car.

“Keep straight on, buba,” Rana told her driver. “Not this side of the bridge, the other.”

The car accelerated, turned on to the bridge, and Rana began to breathe again. She stared back at the commissioner; he had suspected nothing. He probably wouldn’t have recognised Vandita from any other street-kid, anyway. It was amazing how even a Brahmin girl, with plaited hair, Chanel perfume and expensive shoes, could soon discard all the meretricious trappings of wealth and blend in with her barefoot peers.

They crawled across the bridge in a procession of slow-moving traffic. The space not taken by vehicles was packed with pedestrians, a surging crowd of humanity making its way back and forth across the bridge in a never-ending flow.

They turned off the bridge and Rana told her driver to pull up on the bank of the Ganges. She climbed out and walked to the edge of the wide river, Singh and Khosla joining her. A gang of kids, Dullits by the look of them, bathed their skinny brown bodies in the filthy shallows.

Khosla was shaking his head. “These days it seems there are more kids than ever,” he said. “It is an insurmountable problem.”

Rana stared at him, doing nothing to conceal her dislike.

“You are right, Private,” she said, emphasising his rank, “it seems there are more street-kids than ever. But at monsoon time each year this is always the case. You see,” she went on, as if explaining the obvious to a simpleton, “many children have nowhere to live other than in the storm drains. So when the rain falls, the monsoon drains fill up, driving the children out and on to the streets. When the monsoon stops, they will return to their homes.”

She fell silent, staring at a young boy dunking himself repeatedly in the brown water.

“And as to your claim that it is an ‘insurmountable problem’,” she continued after a short while, “I would dispute, first, that it is a problem, and then whether it -whatever ‘it’ is—is insurmountable. The only people the kids pose a problem to are the rich, who don’t like to be reminded of their guilt, and the tourists, who can go to hell. The children provide the means for a thriving economy to flourish. If you talk to the kids, you will find that in most cases they’re perfectly happy living on the streets. As for it being an insurmountable problem, well, if the government were to invest in more schools and jobs… but then these kids are only kids, aren’t they? They have no power, no vote.”

She stared at Khosla until he looked away. She caught the superior smile that played on his lips. She knew what some people said about her back at headquarters, that she loved street-kids because she had never known the love of a man. Well, she might never have known the love of a man, but that wasn’t the reason why she felt compassion for these children.

Commissioner Singh cleared his throat. “That is all very well, Lieutenant, but I am more concerned with the runaways, the children who leave good homes and families to live on the streets. It is all very tragic for their families.”

Rana felt a tightness within her chest. “It’s also tragic for the children that they feel they have to run away in the first place.” She glanced at the commissioner. “They have a lack of love and affection in their lives.”

Khosla looked at her with an expression that said, What do you know about love?

Not much, Rana admitted to herself, staring across the river to the lights of the ad-screens floating above the city, but I know something about the lack of it.

She pulled a sheaf of pix from the hip pocket of her trousers and walked towards the kids dancing about on the muddy river bank to get dry.

“Can I talk to you?” she said to them in Hindi. “I’m Rana and I’m looking for this girl. I wonder if you’d be able to help? Look, these pix can buy you food.”

She passed a dozen pix of Vandita Choudry to the gaggle of kids bustling around her to get a closer look. The pix showed a version of Vandita that bore no resemblance to what she looked like today: she was prim in a red Western-style dress, short white socks and plaited hair tied with ribbons. The kids were more bothered about the promise on the reverse of the pix: each one could be exchanged for behl puri at certain stalls along the Howrah bridge.

When Rana returned to Singh and Khosla, Singh said: “Where are the co-operative kids? I thought we were going to question them, Lieutenant?”

“I was going to talk to them,” she said. “But they seem to have disappeared. Well, they have better things to do than talk to me. Maybe another day.”

She was going to suggest they return to the car when a tiny figure squeezed from the press of humanity flowing from the bridge and ran across to her. Rana glanced at Singh and Khosla, but they were watching the antics of the Dullit kids who were playing kabbadi, with the pix as prizes.

Rana hurried across to the girl. “Vandita,” she hissed in Hindi. “I’m with my boss today. We can’t speak.”

Disappointment showed in the brown eyes of the twelve-year-old.

Rana glanced back at the commissioner. He was watching her, but clearly didn’t recognise Vandita. The girl had traded her red dress for a torn brown smock, was barefoot, and wore her hair long and tangled. In just two weeks Rana had watched Vandita turn from an unhappy little rich girl into a happy, confident child revered by the children she helped to look after.

“Ah-cha. We can talk for two minutes, but no more. They’re looking for you. Your picture’s all over.”

Vandita laughed. “I’ve seen it. They’ll never find me.”

“How’s work?” Vandita and another girl cleaned cars and bicycles for ten rupees a time. Rana was trying to get them to spend a little of their earnings on school classes set up by private foundations around the city.

“Lieutenant!” Singh called impatiently in English. “When you can spare the time…”

“Run!” Rana said. “I’ll see you tomorrow or the next day. Be careful.” She watched Vandita turn and squirm through the crowd surging across the bridge.

Rana returned to the car. Singh was examining the mud on his boots, and when he looked up his gaze suggested that Rana was responsible. “Very well… I have seen enough here. Do you have your com-board, Lieutenant?”

Rana slipped it from her belt. “I am due to visit the City Children’s home at six to give a talk on road safety, and at seven—”

“Ah-cha, enough. Give the board to Khosla—he will be taking over now.”

“Why? I mean—”

“Don’t argue, Lieutenant.” Singh turned and spoke to the driver. “Back to headquarters. Then take Private Khosla to the City Children’s home.”

This time Singh appropriated the front seat for himself. Rana sat in the back and passed her board to Khosla without meeting his glance, wondering what all this was about. Was she being relieved of duty for good, or just for this shift? She wondered if word had got back to Singh about Vandita and the other rich kids she’d helped.

She watched the city teem by as the car carried them towards the police headquarters. So this was why Singh had come out with her, along with Khosla, to strip her of her post and charge her with dereliction of duty…

Ten minutes later she climbed out and hurried after Singh as he crossed the pavement and entered the crumbling Victorian building. The interior was as modern and comfortable as the exterior was ancient. Rana sometimes felt guilty that she worked in such luxury, while outside so many citizens lived in squalor.

She shared the clanking elevator with the commissioner in silence, alighted on the tenth floor and followed him along the corridor to his office, as cowed as a beaten puppy. She wondered where her insubordinate spirit had vanished to now, when she needed it most.

“Take a seat.” Singh indicated an uncomfortable-looking upright chair and seated himself like a maharaja, pulling up his padded swivel chair so that his swelling belly butted the edge of the desk.

Rana sat down, her stomach churning.

Singh scrolled through something on his computer screen, the blue reflection giving him the colouration of an overweight Krishna. He tapped his lips with a plump forefinger, clearly delighting in keeping Rana in suspense.

“I’ve been going through your records of late,” he said at last. He left it there.

Rana merely nodded. She felt cold sweat trickling over her ribs.

“You joined the academy at the age of fifteen.”

A silence followed. He tapped his lips judiciously.

“You had no formal education, but you passed the entrance exams with flying colours.”

She closed her eyes briefly, feeling sick. Singh had found out about her past. He was not here to reprimand her about her most recent conduct, but to accuse her of falsification of records, of lying to gain admittance to the academy.

And she knew the penalty for that sin was automatic expulsion.

“Very interesting… You came in off the streets, applied for a place on the examination rota and gained a pass mark of ninety-five per cent, one of the highest passes for the past ten years.” He paused again to regard the screen.

Rana wished she was out on patrol, talking to the kids, helping them make the best of a corrupt, uncaring world.

“Your achievement was noted by the then commissioner, and he kept tabs on your files and records.”

So this was it. Now he would come out with the evidence against her.

“He commended you to me when he retired. He had you marked out for great things. I took his advice and followed your career. I must admit that I have been quietly impressed over the years.”

It was all the worse because she knew what he was doing: building her up for the fall. Praising her, cataloguing her achievements, only to hit her with the fact of her duplicity.

“Your work with the street-kids is truly impressive. The instituting of work schemes and co-operatives, self-education and health programmes.” He shook his head. “Exceptional.” Then he pierced her with his gaze. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

She opened her mouth to speak. At last the words came. “I… I was only doing my duty, sir. I volunteered for the position at Child Welfare, to work with the underprivileged, and saw that the scheme as it stood was lacking—” She stopped herself. It was no good trying to justify what she had done if Singh intended to accuse her of dereliction of duty.

He was nodding. “As I said, I’ve been watching your progress for some years, and in my opinion the time has arrived for me to act on my predecessor’s recommendations. You are wasted working with the street-kids. Your talents for organisation and problem-solving can be used to greater effect in a different department.”

He went on, but Rana hardly heard a word. She had expected the worst, and he was offering her promotion, a move away from her work with the street-kids—and the idea filled her with horror.

“…so as of now, Lieutenant, you are officially a part of the homicide team working under Investigating Officer Vishwanath.”

He beamed at her, slivers of gold glinting between his big paan-stained teeth.

“Well, do you have a tongue in your head, Lieutenant?”

“I…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I… I can’t accept. I don’t want to work at Homicide. My place is with the children. I think that my skills can be utilised to greater effect at a grass-roots level with those who find themselves at the bottom of society…” She realised that she was rattling off the line she used when high-caste acquaintances scoffed at her work with the kids.

Singh was having none of it. “My dear Rana, I run a police force here, the biggest law enforcement agency in India, not some welfare scheme for Dullits, beggars and pick-pockets.”

“I like working with children, sir. I wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.”

“Your skills are needed elsewhere, Lieutenant.”

“Are you saying that if I were less skilled at my job, then I would still be able to work with the kids?” The thought appalled her.

“I am saying, Lieutenant, that the department’s work with the homeless children of Calcutta is low-priority.”

“But it’s necessary work, sir! Much of what I’ve done has given these kids jobs and security, kept them from prostitution and thieving.”

“Lieutenant, your work will be carried on. I am not eradicating the post you held.”

“Who?” Rana asked. She stared at him. “You can’t mean Khosla? I thought he was only taking over temporarily?”

“He’s a young, intelligent and ambitious officer.”

“Ambitious for promotion, maybe,” she said. “But he doesn’t know the first thing about the kids. You heard him today. He’s ignorant and dangerous. He has not the slightest sympathy with them.”

“Then perhaps, Lieutenant, a year or two in the post will educate and enlighten him.”

They stared at each other for what seemed like long minutes, opponents who would not concede defeat and back down.

“What if I refuse the promotion?” Rana asked at last.

“Then I will be forced, with great reluctance, to ask for your resignation.”

She shook her head. Was he calling her bluff?

Commissioner Singh gave an indulgent laugh. “I’ve heard a lot about your unconventional spirit, Lieutenant. My predecessor called you a wild cat. I think he was understating the case.”

Rana felt tears prickle her eyes as she realised what she had to do. Ah-cha, so she might not be able to work officially with the kids any more, but she could still see them in her own time. She would continue helping them, try to counter the mess Khosla would make of his posting.

“When do I start, sir?” she asked at last.

“Good. I’m glad you’ve seen sense. You can go and clear your desk immediately. Vishwanath’s department is on the eighth floor. You’ll find him a good man and a hardworking boss. I hope you do as well in Homicide as you have done in Child Welfare, Lieutenant. Well done.”

She stood, saluted, wheeled around and left the room. In a daze she made her way back to her office on the second floor.

An efficient fan turned on the ceiling, disturbing what little paperwork sat on her desk. Her com-screen glowed with a dozen files she could no longer call her own. She stared at the windowless walls. One was filled entirely with the pix of young boys and girls, gazing out at her with eyes made tired by experience.

Her screen flashed. It was Singh. “Oh, Lieutenant. I forgot to mention a couple of things. Firstly, you’ll be moving into a new apartment near the river. Also, you’ll be receiving a pay rise. I’ll download the information right away.”

Seconds later Rana was staring at her new contract. She read the clause detailing her yearly salary. Either her pay as the Child Welfare officer had truly represented the law enforcement agency’s contempt of the post, or the officers at Homicide were grossly overpaid. She would be earning three times the amount she’d been paid in Welfare.

She considered all she would have been able to achieve if the money had been directed at her office, and not at the fat cats upstairs. Then again, she supposed, someone had to catch the killers.

She read through the details of her new apartment overlooking Nehru park. It sounded fantastic: three air-conditioned rooms, fully furnished, the building patrolled by security guards. It was a far cry from the sultry, one-room apartment she had now in a poor district of the city prone to burglary. She considered the luxury of a three-room apartment, and then felt a sudden pang of guilt.

She began the quick job of clearing her effects from the desk. They filled a small plastic bag: a stylus and an antique biro pen, an old softscreen recording from her childhood and an effigy of Ganesh, the elephant god, which her mother had given her years ago. She no longer believed in anything like that, but it was her only reminder of her mother. She decided to keep these things at her new apartment, now that she could be assured of security.

She stood and looked around the room. One thing caught her eye. She walked over to the wall and knelt to examine the pix. A small girl with jet-black bangs and frightened eyes stared out at her. On the tag-line beneath the pix was the computer code and a name: Sita Mackendrick.

Rana slipped the pix into her pocket and took the elevator to the eighth floor.