The Witch Of Senduwar Read online

  THE WITCH OF SENDUWAR

  NISHA SINGH

  Copyright © 2018 by Nisha Singh.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Control Number 2018950014

  ISBN-13: Softcover 978-1-64166-925-2

  Pdf 978-1-64166-926-9

  ePub 978-1-64166-927-6

  Kindle 978-1-64166-928-3

  Rev. date: 06/26/2018

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Bhrigu Mahesh

  Chapter 2 The Mystery

  Chapter 3 The Investigation

  Chapter 4 The Suspects

  Chapter 5 The Trap

  Chapter 6 Men Behind Their Masks

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Now that this book has been published, I recall the one year that I have spent writing it. It has been the most memorable year of my life as I was finally telling a story that the world would love to stop and listen to. But with every dream comes many challenges, many obstacles that need to be conquered daily. I, too, experienced my fair share of them, and had it not been for the support of my family, I would be a dead duck in water. I sincerely feel that my family has worked alongside me to make my dream project come true and if it were not for their love, care, devotion, and unshakeable faith in me and my talents, I would never have been able to evolve as a writer.

  I want to give my first thanks to my mother, Mrs Vinni Singh, who is the one lady who doubles up as an army for me. I feel very proud to say that I had the privilege of having her as my English teacher at school where she taught me great works from great writers including Shakespeare. She was the person who started my love affair with words. I remember as a kid I always used to come running to her with a difficult word whose meaning was a total mystery to me. I was always awestruck at how she used to know the meaning of each and every word. It was like decoding a particularly difficult cipher. She has been my guide, my guardian, the love of my life, and my one-woman army. Whatever I am today, I owe it all to her. She is not just my mother, a most amazing and wonderful teacher who can inspire a generation, but a joy to live every day with. In short, she is my greatest gift from God.

  My father, Dr Arvind Kumar Singh, is a surgeon and he has the hands of an artist—long, slender, and delicate—and that’s why he performs surgery like an artist. He was the reason I loved the field of medicine, which resulted in me graduating as a pharmacist. He has taught me values like discipline, punctuality, honesty, and a never-say-die attitude. Some people might wrongly class him as a workaholic seeing his patients dance around him like bees around a honeycomb, but I call him a person who is very passionate about his job and dedicated to serving humanity with his gift. I have also inherited the same burning passion and dedication towards my work from him. He always wanted me to follow my heart and work hard. That’s exactly what I did and here I am today, with my dream shining as a beautiful reality before me. You are great, Dad!

  Next in the line is my sister Neha Singh, who is serving as an officer in the elite Indian Air Force. Although she is my little sister, I have learned many lessons from her, too. She has taught me the true meaning of the adage ‘When the going gets tough, the tough gets going’. She has such a resilient spirit that nothing can ever break. Her humour, her wonderful wit has always left me in splits and every day with her is such fun that I almost lament when she stops talking. My sister and I are as thick and thieves and almost all the time end up completing each other’s sentences! Had it not been for her support and the sheer happiness she brings into my life with her love and adoration, I would not have any reserve of energy left to write.

  Last but not the least comes my grandfather, late Dr Vijay Kumar Singh, a cardiac surgeon and F.R.C.S. from Edinburgh, U.K. Although he is no longer with us, he will continue to live in our memories. My granddad was an iconic man. I remember his dazzling smile, bright countenance, and a spirit of strength and character that shone brightly through his eyes. His wonderful career as a cardiologist ended when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. He never for once let any worry sully his handsome features. He took the crippling disease in his stride and fought valiantly against it like a true soldier. Even in his last days when his senses and muscles failed him, he would never fail to register a joke and tried to laugh as hard as his failing muscles could allow. He was a true hero, a philanthropist, and a man with a heart of gold. My mother is in every way his spitting image.

  I also thank the Almighty for his blessings. He has indeed been very kind and watched over me so that I never lost hope in the path of pursuing my dreams.

  Nisha Singh

  19-02-2016

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to the memory of a great man whom I call my grandfather and whom the world called Dr Vijay Kumar Singh. I know he must be smiling among the shining stars, watching over me and guiding me through every obstacle.

  Foreword

  I now want to write a thing or two about mystery and why this genre inspires me more than anything else in the world. I am a firm believer of the fact that mystery is an essential ingredient of a rich, healthy and colourful life. Imagine a world where there was no mystery, no suspense, and no intrigue. Wouldn’t it be rather dull and not worth living? That’s the only reason why, in everyday life too, we try our best to search for mystery in the lives of people around us. ‘Oh my god!’ we say ‘Mr.so-and-so’s son is going to marry? Well, who’s the lucky girl?’ We become restless until and unless we find out who that “lucky girl” is, but, mind you, as soon as we come to know of her identity, we lose interest. Why? Because the mystery is solved and there’s no thrill anymore. Well, I might sound like a sensationalist, but the truth is, however we might resent this, it is true. Human beings are wired to gossip because it is a precursor to mystery; as we try to unravel the motivations behind what people do and why they do it. And there’s nothing wrong with it. Studies have proved that a good gossip is actually good for our heart! A good puzzle not just makes slaves of our brains but also provides the fuel, the rush that is imperative to an existence beyond just surviving. That’s the only reason why we are still obsessed with Sherlock Holmes, a detective born in the 1800s, Victorian England. He continues to enchant us with his singular personality and an incessant craving for the just perfect crime. What I am saying is that what the world truly needs is a great detective and a mystery that we can solve alongside him. Bhrigu Mahesh is very different from all the detectives that have gone before him. There came a time when I was drawing a blank and he, with the amazing powers of perception that he has, understood my plight and taking my hand in his, safely guided me through the maze. It was then that I knew that he had now a life of his own!

  My passion fo
r writing was coupled with a burning desire to keep the mundane at bay, and what better way than to dive headlong into an adventure with a detective that I adore? Readers, I now submit Bhrigu Mahesh for your inspection. If you happen to fall in love with him like I did, you can always kick Sutte from his side, implant your thrill-seeking selves, and embark on an adventure that I have crafted only and only for your pleasure.

  P.S. Oh yes! I just remembered. I should duly inform my readers that this book has been inspired by a true incident. In the village of Senduwar, it was indeed raining gold and an article that I read about the phenomenon in ‘The Times of India’, two years ago, fascinated me so much that I decided to weave the net of my first mystery around this once-in-a-lifetime incident. I have exercised my poetic license in describing the beautiful village of Senduwar.

  Nisha Singh

  19-02-2016

  Prologue

  For the past week, the clouds had been building up their strength, gradually darkening from a light grey to a bold black and as their dark canopy overshadowed the earth below, they had relieved themselves at the expense of the poor, defenceless population below. Their unwanted generosity had transformed the landscape of the little village. A day before, the mustard and the wheat crops were standing tall in the fields ready to be harvested, and on the very night, an unexpected torrential rainfall had flattened the crops to the ground. The fields that didn’t have proper drainage stood water logged with the crops in their watery graves. The hustle and bustle of a busy agricultural village had come to a standstill, battling with the uncomfortable dip in temperature and unrelenting, unforgiving rains. No one dared come out of the security of their homes, feverishly praying and hoping that their humble abode won’t give away leaving them at the mercy of the brutal weather. The village alleys were totally empty save for a dog or two that whined unhappily at the gloomy weather. The wind howled moodily and the boughs of trees swung lugubriously to its eerie tune. The small houses around were lit with spirit lamps the flicker of which proved how feeble their only source of comfort was. Dirt roads wound their way into and out of the fields, slushy and dangerously slippery, covered in a combination of dung and mud. The onslaught of this terrible weather had forced every life to withdraw but for her.

  She had run for miles on the narrow dirt road that opened from the back of her room. Her family had been asleep but not before securing and locking her door firmly from outside. But, she had escaped through the ventilator, sustaining only minor bruises at the hip. But what were these bruises compared to the one that was inflicted on her heart and that, too, by her own kith and kin? As her feet touched the sloppy ground, she had run steadily, cautiously, without once looking back.

  Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. She knew that they would find her but not before she was done with her work. Her feet hurt and the slippery road was no comfort but there was no time to stop. She ignored the weather, the whining, rabid dogs, the puddles of mud water, the chilly sword of winds cutting deep into her flesh . . . everything but her object. Her destination loomed closer but her feet didn’t falter as she kept repeating to her—‘Today, I sow the seed of their downfall. They will not escape. . . . They will pay. . . . They will pay. . .’

  As her feet hit their destination, she kneeled and started digging a hole in the soft mud. Her eyes blazed with a ferocity that could outshine the fieriness of the sun. Her hands worked with a feverish, manic energy. At a distance, it looked as if an exceptionally passionate rabbit was digging a hole for its shelter. Finally, she looked at her handiwork with a slow, lunatic smile playing on her lips. It was a wonder how it transformed her pretty face, twisting and perverting its beauty to an extent past all recognition. After finishing her work, she took out a small bottle from the inside of her wet jacket and emptied the contents in her mouth. She smacked her lips with a relish, as if it was some delicious drink. The ferocity was gone, the anger was gone, and the fever was gone. She just stood still with the faint smile still lurking about her lips and eyes shining with the satisfaction of a job well done. She let herself go, swaying gently with the wind, her wet clothes sticking to her bones. A second later, she had hit the ground and as she lay there, she could feel the sound of the rain hitting her body go fainter and fainter with every passing second. Her eyes started to dim as if she were going to drift into a sleep after a long period of exhaustion. Yes, a long peaceful sleep from which she would never awaken.

  Chapter 1

  Bhrigu Mahesh

  1

  I was reposing in my chair that stood opposite the open window. Sun was sinking over the horizon and the last shimmer of red was finding its way into the small, sparsely furnished room. It felt warm and cool all at once. The cool air caressed my face with its gentle whispers and with every breath; I could get a lungful of the wonderful earthy smell that rises from the rain kissed ground. I couldn’t have asked for more. The peace and quiet of the quaint little village was exactly the reason that I had coaxed Bhrigu to pay a visit to his long abandoned hometown to which he had reluctantly agreed. My thoughts were blank as is natural with one in a highest state of meditation. Something in the air, in the soil and in the very surroundings was enough to lull my senses into complete oblivion. But I discovered that like all good things, this heaven was also short-lived.

  ‘Bhriguji! Are you sleeping at this time of the day?! Bhriguji!’

  I was jolted out of my peaceful reverie and my heart pounded with the shock.

  The old woman that stood facing me was around 70 years old. She had a shock of red hair, the inevitable result of vigorous application of mehndi. Her eyes were sunken deep in their sockets and the cheek bones were highly prominent. She was wearing a white sari with a dark red border. Although she was quite emaciated, the way she carried herself spoke of a rigid and inflexible mind. The hint of steel behind her cold eyes also hinted at passive aggression.

  She looked at me and said with a sneer, ‘Oh, It’s you.’ Her voice betrayed a mix of repulsion and irritation.

  ‘Where is Bhriguji?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.’ I replied casually and closed my eyes again, determined to ignore her prattle.

  ‘You should have asked!’ She croaked in her hoarse voice.

  I continued with my noncooperation movement. This old woman was nothing but a burden to my friend and to the society she was a debit to. She could torture him into submission but I was made of sterner stuff.

  I understood that she was far from being done. She stood there like the ghost of a sentinel, searing me with her blazing eyes. ‘I want you to go to Vaidnath and bring the kerosene oil. We have none left.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go after I have had my siesta,’ I mumbled sleepily.

  ‘That won’t do. You go now.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She glared at me. ‘My nephew was much disciplined when he was a boy. The air of the city and your influence has changed him in a bad way. I don’t like it! I don’t like it!’ She stamped her foot in her anger and left muttering under her breath.

  I couldn’t believe the extent to which this woman could exercise evil. No doubt Bhrigu was so reluctant to visit her. He had abandoned his hometown for a decade just to stay clear of this woman. After leaving Nirja Masi, Bhrigu had come to Patna to complete his studies. He used to work the night shift at a K.P.O as a part time job and went to college in the morning. After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Psychology from Hindu College, he sat for the police exam and had passed it with flying colours at his very first attempt.

  I was his neighbour in Patliputra where he had been allotted his government quarters. I first met him at the wedding of a common friend from the neighbourhood, a well--to-do paediatrician called Debashish Sengupta. He was standing with a short, stout, middle-aged man who kept talking to him animatedly. I noticed that the man looked much perplexed and his tale was probably that of woe. But I could clearly observe that even though Bhrigu was just an attentive listener, with a word of c
omfort to offer here and there, the man considerably got better in the spirit towards the end of the conversation and he was practically smiling when they went together to the food stall to try some of the dishes. He had an aura of unassailable peace that was so infectious that his presence alone was enough to make any burdened soul light again. As I continued to observe him, he struck me as a private person, timorous even, with a dignified carriage but somehow I felt that the thick crowd was making him unduly self-conscious. He kept looking towards the gate as if anxious to make a quick dash for it at the earliest possible but the code of etiquette held him back from any such attempt. I was drawn towards this taciturn, mysterious man like moth to a flame. His face was long and narrow; oblong, as my eighth class mathematics teacher would describe it, with a straight nose and thin, sensitive lips. The most striking feature of his remained his round, kind, black eyes that were set deep in his forehead. They had a depth in them that I couldn’t even begin to fathom. It was as if they penetrated your very soul and knew everything that you had stowed away even from yourself. Enchanted, I couldn’t help introducing myself to his person and discovered that he was a soft-spoken man who mostly talked in a few syllables but his eyes seemed to speak volumes. No matter how much you tried to gain, the upper hand in any conversation by your knowledge and articulation, his gentle, nervous smile and the reassurance in those clear, bottomless eyes seemed almost always to get the upper hand. I knew then and there that this unusual man was hiding something very formidable behind his persona, and a week from then, it was proven that I was right.

  It was a column in a leading English Newspaper carrying his picture and an article on him. It said that this man was Bhrigu Mahesh, a cop, and that he had come into the limelight by solving a sensational crime in which a minister of state, Rajshekhar Swami, had been accused of poisoning a young woman to death with whom he was having an illicit affair, within a month of his career. The article further stated that this success was extraordinary as the culprit owned to his crime with such lucidity that people were left puzzled as to whether he was confessing to a crime or narrating a desultory affair from everyday life. One visit from this officer was enough to bring about this result and that, too, without the use of any kind of force.