The Peacock Feather
As unintelligible sobs echoed through the congested station, she wailed and flapped her hands uncontrollably.
I looked at her closely. At five-foot-eight, this dark, distraught woman was astoundingly beautiful, notwithstanding her kaajal smudged face and dishevelled hair.
“A classic sniveler in a daily-soap”, Hari would inform me two days later, as we discussed the case which disrupted our game of cards. She looked well-fed and our rust-ridden chair groaned under her weight. Her bridal mehendi and gold bangles caught my attention.
“Those bangles could support this station”, I thought.
Hari’s glare forced me to finish the case and get back to the game. Nobody batted an eyelid at the sight of a wailing woman.
“Arre behen, bas”, I blurted out. I placed a glass of water in front of her. For the first time, she didn’t look through me but looked at me. Gazing at the glass for almost an eternity, her hand inched towards it.
There, we are getting somewhere.
But she picked up the peacock-feather behind it and ran her fingers through the dusty, yet iridescent plumage.
“You aren’t from Simraon, right?”
“No, I am from Landawa, Rajasthan.”
Hari looked up, startled. He was from Rajasthan, too.
I smiled inwardly. I wouldn’t have to do this alone. As I had predicted, Hari walked towards us, his cards forgotten.
What humanity and duty couldn’t achieve, the knowledge of being from a common state accomplished.
“You don’t look like a Rajasthani”, he accused her, as if it was her fault that he couldn’t recognize a fellow Rajasthani.
“We Landawans…..we look a bit different. I wouldn’t blame you.”
She looked down and started playing with the peacock feather.
“Your name?”
“Shyama”
“Age?”
“Nineteen”
“Complaint?”
Silence.
“Arre behen, tell fast. We have a lot of...”, Hari trailed off, looking at Shekhar and Arjun playing cards. She looked at them too. Her eyes tightened, and she spoke again.
“I am the newly-wed wife of Satya, a blacksmith in Simraon.”
Hari and I exchanged looks. Satya was one of the richest and most influential people in Simraon. I remembered meeting him last week to buy a duplicate lock and chatting over a cup of chai and game of cards. He could barely contain his excitement over his impending marriage.
“Are you Satya’s wife?”, asked Shekhar to the distraught woman.
“Yes.”
“Behen, you are extremely lucky. That khambakht can smell victory, especially with cards. Even if he loses his job, he can provide you food”, claimed Shekhar, the juice of his paan dripping from his mouth.
I looked away, repulsed. Shyama started heaving nervously. I feared a breakdown again.
“Congratulations on your wedding”, I said, authoritatively. “Now, may we know why you are here?”
She stopped heaving and picked up the feather again. She gulped down some water and spoke, her voice weary.
“We reached Indra Bhawan last night. I was still in my uncomfortable bidaai dress.”
“Indra Bhawan, one of the most luxuri- “, began Shekhar, but I silenced him with one piercing look.
“He was sitting on the porch. Reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, he gave me one of the creepiest smiles I had ever seen.”
“His name?”
“Dev.”
I could almost hear the whizzing brains of my colleagues, all of whom were wondering the reason for Dev’s presence in Satya’s house at midnight. It was a well-known fact that Dev, who hailed from the neighbouring village, was envious of Satya’s prospering business. Contrarily, Satya seemed to be blissfully unaware of this and bragged about Dev, his soul-brother in Simraon. I wondered whether this was a mask of modesty which covered a face of all-knowing cunningness.
“I quietly went inside. It did sting me that my husband cared more about a friend than his newly-wedded wife. I stumbled around the house, found my way and freshened up. I peeked through the window of my new kitchen. Both of them were sitting on a chattan, a deck of cards separating them.”
“Bored and my phone locked in the luggage and the key with my husband, I decided to make hot pakoras at that ungodly hour. Though apprehensive, I was excited to cook my first meal in my sasural. I went to serve them but stopped in my tracks. With liquor bottles all over the place, I saw that man leering at me and my husband’s bloodshot eyes. After looking at me for a long time, he said, “Go”.”
“Oh no”, said Arjun, his hand clamped on his mouth.
“I turned back and ran inside, but not fast enough,” said Shyama, a tear slipping from her eye.
“He dragged me out of the house. My husband lay motionless. My muffled screams did nothing to wake the neighbours. He dragged me to my husband’s car and- “
“Behen”, I said gently. “ Stop.”
I could picture what transpired. Was Satya wasted, or was he sober enough to realize that he had placed his own wife as a bet?
“Hari”, I said, realizing bile had risen up till my throat,” Take the jeep. Find Dev.”
Shyama gripped the feather tightly as she saw Hari leaving. She opened her mouth to say something and closed it. She did it again.
“Shyama, it’s fine.…”
“Sahab”, she said, her voice cracking, “he didn’t rape me.”
Hari’s puzzled expression mirrored mine.
“He didn’t?”
“No.”
This didn’t fit in the scenario I constructed in my head. Puzzled, I asked her,” Then why did he drag you into the car?”
“He did try to force himself on me sahab. I swear,” she said hysterically.
“Before leaving, my husband kept a screwdriver in the bonnet. I took it out with difficulty. I hit him using it, but he didn’t even feel anything. The second time, I did it a bit too hard.” With this, she began sobbing again.
Surely a screwdriver couldn’t have killed Dev.
“My wasted husband was oblivious to everything,” she screamed.
I tried to find my voice. “If-If what you said is true”, said a voice my brain couldn’t identify.”It was a case of self-defence. Shekhar, go to Indra Bhawan and verify the facts. Bring Satya.”
“Sahab”, said Shyama in an eerily calm voice.
Oh God, no.
“He woke up this morning. He didn’t remember anything but knew that something terrible had happened. I threw the old pakoras and made fresh ones for breakfast.”
“You cooked for him?”
“He died a painless death”, she said tonelessly.
The court proceedings took place quickly. Within two hearings, the session judge sentenced Shyama to death.
Hari and Shekhar couldn’t stop discussing the case. I couldn’t even bring myself to think about it. When I see the clear, vibrant peacock-feather sitting innocently on my desk, I could only think of the day in court, when she answered the judge’s last question.
“How could you kill your own husband?” he had asked furiously.
“I-I don’t even remember how he looks. I hadn’t seen his photo before marriage, neither could I see his face in the car. When I try to picture him, he looks like no-one and everyone at the same time!”
This article was written in collaboration with Saatvi Suresh, Antony Terence and Abhishek Ramachandran.
