‘Why don’t you do something meaningful? Journalism, after all is meant to dig out the truth. Look at the kind of news you are covering. These actors and actresses going for film screenings and falling in love with each other deserve as much attention as a leaf falling in a dense jungle. Go to the lion’s cave, which is when you will be brave. And justify the money I spent on your education.’

She was accustomed to the advice her father would give time and again. He had been in the army and was habituated of giving instructions.

‘The only good thing you did was to bring out the murder in print. I repent spending so much money on your education. A Columbia grad and working for these petty actors and actresses!’

‘This is a part of journalism Papa. And these people sell.’

‘I have heard this argument before. It’s shallow. You should not waste your training. Look at this.’ He showed her a document. ‘It’s a $100000 prize for best Investigative Journalism. Leave aside the prize but look at the honour. This is the kind of thing you should try for.’ Lavie took the document from him.

‘I know about it. I will see what I can do Papa.’ She said. Even though she was putting up a brave face in front of her father, she knew he was right. Her role in the newspaper had been reduced to a mere Page 3 reporter. It’s not that she had not had any opportunities to cover serious news. It’s just that she hated to go into the field and report on murders, poverty, government inaction etc. She was looking for sensational stuff within easy reach.

Next day she showed the document her father had given to her boss. He studied it seriously.

‘For this you need something path breaking. The run of the mill stuff will not work. It’s difficult to say which story would fetch you this kind of a prize. There are no clues until you go deep into investigation and dig them out yourself. One thing I know for sure though. Some stories just happen to you.’

The last line was stuck in her mind while she was sitting at her desk. In a spur of a moment, Rohan’s mail came into her mind. The word ‘Mining Mafia struck her as something important in this case. Instinctively, she made up her mind to go to Bokaro and investigate further into the death. She looked at the flight tickets, consulted her boss who encouraged her to go and finalized an itinerary for staying there for a week. She flew the next day.

*

The first thing Lavie did on entering Bokaro is contact Bansidhar Murmu, the local correspondent for ’The Indian Express’. Bansi, as he liked to be called was not a permanent employee of the newspaper but provided local news on a contract basis. He met Lavie at the City Center of the city where he was waiting for her at Hotel Classic. He had made all arrangements for her. Short in height with flexible movements in his body which he used regularly for communication, Bansi was around thirty years of age. He was one of the independent voices in the area and worked closely both with the administration and the protestors.

He was waiting for her in the lobby. Lavie called him up to her room after she had freshened up.

‘I am really thankful for your help at such a short notice.’ She said smiling.

‘No problem Madam. I am happy to receive you here.’

‘I did not tell you in detail about the purpose of my visit. I am here to investigate the death of Prof. Rameshwar. Did you know him?’

Bansi shirked, ‘Who did not know him? He was a well-known figure in these areas.’

‘Tell me honestly Bansi, do you think the verdict of suicide given by the government is fair?’

Bansi thought for a while and then replied, ‘Madam, these are the jungle areas. Even small things get complicated when in the hands of the government. It was because of media attention that the government has at least given its opinion. There are many cases where it blindly turns it back on any investigation. Plus these Naxal people are always at their back and have most of their attention. Anyways coming back to your question, suicide seems improbable to me as I knew him closely on a personal level. But nothing else has been found out yet, so any other reason is difficult to formulate.’

Lavie was intrigued by his answer. ‘That is what we journalists are here for, aren’t we?’ She smiled. He responded with a smile.

‘When do we get to meet his landlord?’ she asked.

‘As soon as you are ready. A car has been booked for you.’

*

‘He was a very good man,’ they said. Lavie was interviewing the family which had sheltered Prof. Rameshwar for so many years. She had been guided to their house in Jhumro by Bansi. The household consisted of –Mala, an old woman- her husband Santosh- and their middle aged daughter. Mala was a tall dark woman with a huge nose and a husky voice. She had naturally acquired the habit of bending down while speaking with a hand on her stomach. Her husband was a lean and short man, three-fourths of her height. They had a bamboo thatched hut with mudded walls. It had one room in the front and one at the back. A small window peeped through the hut and one could see wood smoke coming out of the window. They must have been preparing food. Biomass is the source of fuel for these tribal people. Lavie noticed that no electrical equipment’s were present in the house even though she had noticed electric poles while in the car. 

‘He lived a simple life like us. In course of time, he had learnt our culture and way of living. He had good contacts as well. Many foreigners came to visit him and talk to us.’

‘Did he have any enemies?’

‘We don’t know of any. He never fought with anybody here. Every tribal around respected him. Tribal people from far off came and met him. Our friends were his friends.’

‘What work did he do exactly, I mean how did he survive?’

‘As I said, his life was simple. He had learnt to live like us. He could go in search of food with the men, hunt and fish as well. He was working on the use of fallen leaves and dead tree as biomass and he was trying to improve the efficiency of biogas plants. He also kept scouting the forests to look for places where solar plants could be put up. He said to us that he had savings. We always got the monthly rent from him, not once was he late. Working in nearby houses as maid does not pay enough. His rent added to our meagre income.’

‘When did he come here?’

‘Some thirty-five years back. He was a famous professor when he left everything and came to his friend to live in the jungles. They said that he was mad. But we never felt so. He was very good to us and our children.’

‘He had friends here?’

‘Yes. Bada Sahib was his friend from college.’

‘Who is Bada Sahib?’

‘Bada Sahib was a District Collector here for many years. I used to work as a maid in his house. One day Bada Sahib introduced me to Prof. Rameshwar and asked me if I will allow him to live at my house on a rent. I was surprised but I said yes. Since then he has lived with us. Only occasionally he ventures out for work.’

‘Does Bada Sahib still live here?’

‘No. He lives in Delhi with his wife Boudi. Boudi was from our village.’

‘Can you tell me his name and address?’

‘Shantanu Kumar is his name. I don’t know his address.’

‘I can find it out.’ Lavie thanked Mala and told them that she will be around for a week. Mala’s family seemed distressed at the death of the professor and promised to extend whatever help they could in her investigation. Lavie bid them goodbye.

As the car approached her hotel, Bansi asked her, ‘Would you like to have Panipuri Madam? You will love the panipuri at our place.’

‘Mumbaikars never say no to panipuri. I would love to have it.’ Bansi asked the driver to take them to the centre of the market where panipuri stalls were standing in line. There would be around five stalls, each of them looking similar. They had a cubical box for the dry golas, a clay surahi for the tamarind water and a plate where potatoes would be crushed and mixed with spices. The shop owners were clad in a lungi and kurta and kept a small dirty towel at the edge of the stall to occasionally wipe their hands on it. Every stall was crowded with customers. He took her to the one at the centre.

 ‘Oh my god. It’s really spicy,’ she exclaimed after having two of them. But different from what we have in Mumbai. Boss can you put some more sweet in mine?’ Once they were finished, she wanted to take a walk around the market. Bansi asked the driver to park at the hotel and accompanied her as a guide.

‘What do you make of it Bansi?’

‘I think we need to talk to local people close to the professor before we reach a conclusion.’

‘Can we get any help from the police?’

‘Normally we do not go to police for these matters. But the new Superintendent of Police is open to ideas. We could talk to him though I would suggest we should not unless the need is urgent. We should be as secretive as possible.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Madam, as far as the government is concerned the case is closed. If we go and make noises, it will get complicated. We may need to do more explanation to the police than get anything from them. Journalists are not a welcome species with the government.’

‘I see. This is true everywhere Bansi.’

They were close to her hotel. Bansi bid her goodbye confirming that he will be present in the morning tomorrow. At her hotel room in Bokaro, she contacted a journalist friend in Delhi to inquire about a Shantanu Kumar, an IAS Officer. When the reply came, she felt something really odd and a joyous sensation. Shantanu Kumar was a long serving IAS Officer of Bihar-Jharkhand cadre who had married a tribal woman and had a son who is an Economics professor at a management Institute at Mumbai, named Rohan.

*

In the evening, Tapan came to meet Rohan. He had been asked to give structure to an idea of his and start writing an introductory research paper on his idea.

‘This is good,’ said Rohan reading the paper Tapan had handed, ‘you have to bring out the story though. You have all the ingredients, but a little more cooking needs to be done with the analysis and your presentation. Also be careful to add all the references.’ He handed him back the papers. ‘What I would suggest is go through the published reports of some of the regulatory bodies of the U.S.A. They have done some good work on this.’

‘Thanks Sir. What should I do about this parameter? It seems to be an outlier even though conceptually it should have a big impact on the results.’ Tapan pointed his finger at a variable written on his paper.

‘You could do one thing. Check if there is another parameter which is also affected by this one parameter and how it impacts your results. My guess is something among your variables is acting as a natural proxy to this important parameter you are pointing to.’

‘O.K. Sir.’

Tapan then drifted to a paper he had read where a similar argument was made, but it had never occurred to him that his work would need such an approach. Rohan gave a little smile to it. He then started talking about the results and how they could be expanded. Rohan kept listening, as by now he knew Tapan liked to talk a lot. He was also aware of the drifts and jumps he would take in the conversation, changing subjects and then returning back to them again. Anything Rohan did not feel important; he needed only to divert Tapan’s attention to something else. Like he was going to do now, because Tapan had reached a topic in which he had no interest in and was out of the purview of economics the way it had been put. He was saying, ‘Signs and signalling have played a huge role in my life. In fact I am a firm believer that every occurrence in our life is a signal for something to come in the future or a sign of our deeds of the past. In fact sir, you would be interested to hear about a practice in our tribal cultures of Odisha. Whenever a child is born in a village, his name is decided by a small ritual performed by the elders. They put the child in a clean area in the forest and surround him. Then they call a bird by taking different names of the child’s ancestors. The name of the child is kept on the ancestor on whose name the bird turns up in the clearing near the child. The reason of this is not scientific but interesting. They feel,’ Rohan interrupted him, ‘have you looked at the recent auction data for Telecom auctions?’ Tapan would scratch his head and think for a while. ‘No, I haven’t but I will do it today. Sometimes it’s difficult to get data, but nowadays the government websites make it easy for us researchers to get such data.’ Rohan smiled at his Odiya tone pronouncing ‘us’ as ‘ass’ and ‘such’ as ‘saachh’.

His email was open on the laptop in front. An email from Lavie arrived into his inbox. He signalled Tapan with a movement of his hands to be quiet for a minute and turned towards the computer to read her mail.

Dear Rohan,

A very strange coincidence has occurred. You would not believe it but I am in Bokaro, close to the village where the professor died, doing further investigations into the case. Today I met Mala, the head of the family where he used to stay on rent. She told me that your father was a friend of the professor and had helped him find a place with them. Mala used to be a servant at your house in Bokaro. Things couldn’t have been stranger than this.

I apologise for not replying to your mail. Things took place very fast. But now I am really interested in this case, and from what I understand, the story is still not clear. As for your point that a mining mafia could be the common thread of the two murders, I have not discarded it yet.

I am writing to say that I would need your help in this case. Hope you would not mind my occasional inquiries. It would be great for you to visit this place sometime, as these people think highly of your parents. Why not join me if you are free?

Take care,

Lavie.

Tapan was intently staring at his face when he looked up.

‘When do the MBA classes start? Do you have an idea?’

‘In around two weeks,’ replied Tapan.

Rohan stared at the stack of books for a while, ‘Do we have anything else to discuss?’

‘No sir, I will look into what you have said,’ Tapan said realizing that something else had occupied his professor,

‘Fine, thanks,’ Rohan turned to his computer again as Tapan left. He called his mother Boudi to inquire about what Lavie had written. 

*

Lavie called Bansi in the morning and asked him to arrive late as she was expecting a colleague to join her in the noon. She had booked another room for Rohan. He arrived on time,, freshened up and set out with Lavie and Bansi to Jhumro hillocks, Mala’s village. On road, dense jungles passed around on both sides. The roads were smooth with minimum jerks. Occasionally some men would be visible among a herd of cattle with a stick in their hands.

Rohan seemed completely engrossed in the scenes. He was a child when he used to live here with his parents. After passing his fourth standard exams, he was sent to his uncle in Delhi to study further. Sometimes he would visit his father during holidays, but they hardly stayed in Bokaro. Rather it was a family holiday spent at a tourist destination somewhere in India. Hence Bokaro and the surrounding forests of Jharkhand were etched in his memory as a childhood panorama which never got the touch of an adult vision. If it was Tapan, he would have said that the forests were calling him back for what he had missed. Rohan smiled at himself at the thought of it.

The entry was blocked by a door made of bamboo sticks with straw placed between them. It was not hinged, and could be pulled away as a whole. Lavie shouted her name and Mala came out removing the door. She had to bend quite a bit to get out. She did not recognise Rohan but he did. Her hairs had greyed, but she was still imposing. He instantly remembered his mother and Mala sitting in the bedroom talking about the village affairs as mother would be knitting. He said in a low tone.

‘Mala aunty. This is Rohan, son of Shantanu Kumar.’

Mala couldn’t believe it. She put her right hand to her mouth and stared at him intently for a minute, then turned back to call her husband who came out wearing only a stripped lungi over his bare body. The presence of Lavie did not compel him to wear anything above his waist, he seemed quite comfortable with this arrangement. Rohan put forward his hand for a shake which he hastily took. Santosh asked him about his father and they were invited inside the house.

There was a small charpoy on which both of them sat. Mala went into the corner to prepare food on the mud hearth, while Santosh sat on the ground which still seemed a bit wet. Probably they had been laced with fresh mud recently. He was inquiring about Shantanu Kumar and talking about the change of culture since his times.

‘Nowadays Bada Sahibs don’t even meet us in a proper way. They always come with an agenda or a plan for the tribal and show us how much we could benefit from them. But they never engage with us. Earlier, Bada Sahibs would spend time knowing our problems and engage with us. These new Sahibs are only here to fulfill government wishes. They come in big cars and go back in an hour or so. And at their back, the small officers suck our blood.’

‘I remember Papa and Maa would visit these tribal hamlets and return with something exotic for us everytime,’ said Rohan.

‘Yes, yes.’ Santosh smiled. The smile on his face was the same one which a man gets when somebody makes him remember the best days of his life.

Mala turned her head and said, ‘we will not let you go without food.’

‘I don’t think we should trouble you all so much,’ replied Lavie.

‘There is no trouble. We were preparing food for ourselves,’ Mala retorted as Santosh kept reminding them of those old times.

Mala said while serving them food,‘Baba, I never thought I would meet you again.’ She spoke to him in a motherly tone. ‘How big have you become? Boudi used to talk about you all the time.’ Lavie noticed Rohan giving a smile to this six feet two inches tall tribal woman.

‘I know she misses this place a lot. She longs to come here more often but is unwell nowadays.’

‘We know. She writes to Jalaram regularly.’

Rohan was surprised at this statement but chose not to prod further. When both of them were finished, Mala prepared some local drink for them, ‘this helps with digestion.’

‘Thank you for the food and drink.’ These were the only words he said to her in the end before leaving. She smiled as he handed her a small token of gift.

Later at the hotel he told Lavie about it. His father had been brought up at Bokaro where grandfather was a businessman. He had prepared for his UPSC exams in a small house at the outskirts of the city, which his grandfather had arranged. One night, while at home, he was visited by a tribal woman who had been chased by some men of her village. He had sheltered her at the house without anybody else’s knowledge. Later when he qualified for the Administrative Service, he married her without the consent of his parents.

‘Why were the men chasing her?’

‘She was a young woman who was voicing her concern for tribal rights. In her mission, she got on wrong terms with a local politician. His men tried to molest her and she ran away and found shelter at my father’s house. This is what I was told by a close relative. My parents never talked to me about it. I never cared too much. It’s good to be back though. Did you get any clues about a mining mafia?’

‘Mala has consented to take us to meet few people tomorrow. She said they could help us out. Thank you for arriving here. She would never have done so much had it not been for you.’

‘Life is strange,’ said Rohan.

*

Next day Mala took them to a village deep into the jungles. They went some distance on bikes, it was impossible to get a car through. Later on they had to walk into the forests. Mala was swift. On entering a small village, she took them to a small house. A group of men were sitting, as if there was a meeting going on. Mala asked Rohan and Lavie to sit and introduced them to the group in the local Santhali language. Most men would not understand Hindi there, and neither of the two knew Santhali, hence Bansi acted as a translator.

‘Did you know Prof. Rameshwar?’

All of them said yes.

‘Did any of you work with him?’

Some of them raised their hands.

‘You all may know this. Did he have any enemies?’

A middle aged man with a towel spun around his head and carrying a heavy voice spoke, ‘He had no enemies among the tribal like us. Even the other side respected him. But sometimes he had arguments with the policemen as he disagreed with their treatment towards the tribal and helped us in filing complaints against any mistreatment.’

‘Are you suggesting that the police may have a hand in his death?’

Nobody spoke. Rohan asked Lavie if he could ask a few questions. She gave a nod of yes.

‘Recently, did anyone of you notice anything wrong with him?’

‘Yes,’ spoke the man. ‘Baba had become quieter. Also he had started studying a lot, hence he spent a lot of time alone. We thought it was one of his earlier habits, when he would go away into silence for a short stretch of time. But this time it was an elongated period of isolation.’

‘Was he physically fit? Maybe it was because he was ill.’

‘No. He was fit. His diet was normal. We saw no change apart from the incident when Jetan’s son saw him crying near the thick foliage outside our village. Nobody had ever seen him cry before.’

Tea had arrived from the neighbouring hut. A woman was trying to peek in through the window, while the child was distributing the earthen cups one by one. Each member of the group took a cup, some of them smiling at the child who looked so serious in his work.

‘Can you tell us more about him? Was he of any help to you?’

‘He was like our grandfather. He had a deep knowledge of the place. He also had contacts with big people outside, in the city. He was a part of our village and well steeped in our culture. Even though he lived like us, his knowledge of the outside world prevented us from getting fooled by the outsiders. We always took his advice on important matters.’

Mala told them that the men here were members of the Anti-mining group which was opposing the mining of a nearby forest area. The government had allowed the companies to mine the area but the tribal people had not been consulted in these matters. The matter was now with the Supreme Court and hence mining operations could not start unless the court passed its order.

‘Do you also oppose mining operations?’ Lavie asked Mala.

‘No. We prefer to stay away from the agitations. One of our sons, who was educated with the help of Boudi’s scholarship has got a permanent job with the mining company. They are paying him well and we are building a pucca house with that money. We do not oppose mining for the production of energy as long as our trees are not harmed.’ She replied aware of the scoffs of the men present.

‘Is this possible?’

‘Baba said it was possible. He was fighting for this as well. He said a lot of waste in the forests could be used for generation of energy. He also talked about harnessing solar energy along with bringing in money if our forests are not cut, through some international fund.’

They learnt that the professor was actively involved with these people and gave them a voice. He also helped spread the news about the perils of coal mining and the need for the country to look for cleaner means of energy. He worked on United Nations projects and had worked to bring in International funds to prevent deforestation of local forests. He used these funds to uplift the local communities and restore their cultural practices. He provided meat to their argument of forest conservation.

‘There must be other people among you who are with the mining companies.’

‘Yes. But most of them are disappointed too. Their promises have not been fulfilled. Our son was intelligent and lucky to get good education and a job. Otherwise locals do not get a permanent job at these companies. ’

‘What about the police?’

‘Police is with them. They are not our protectors. But they never spoke against Baba.’ The man looked agitated as he answered the question.

‘Did you meet the professor just before he died?’

‘I did. He was his usual self.’

‘But he must have had enemies if he was killed. Or personal problems if he committed suicide?’

‘He was very fit, walked a lot even at his age. But recently he did complain of getting tired very fast. He also took frequent breaks from work. For few days before his death, he was seen roaming around aimlessly. He confessed to Mala that he forgets his routes. We thought old age was catching up with him.’

‘He may have had a medical problem,’ suggested Lavie. Some of them nodded their head.

Later in the evening, the whole village gathered around the two visitors. News had spread that Boudi’s son was visiting. Rohan got to hear stories about his mother while they sat in a circle around a gaslight.

‘She fought for us even after getting married. She donated money for school fees and education of the children of the area. She wrote for us: our slogans, our letters and our official memorandum. Baba, you would not remember these. You were sent out to study at a very young age.’

Rohan felt he was in some other world. It was as if he was not hearing stories of his own mother, but a stranger.

‘He looks so much like her,’ said one of the men who had been staring at him intently. Rohan felt as if it was known face.

‘Mithilesh, if I remember correctly.’

‘Yes Rohu,’ he replied. Mithilesh was his childhood friend. He rose up and hugged Mithiliesh.

Lavie was busy asking questions. ‘Is there any person who is very active in securing mining leases?’

‘It is the MLA of the area. He works with the government and has been persuading us to stop the movement against the mining companies. Recently when the coal blocks were being allocated, he was very active in the stakeholders meeting. The professor was also present and there was a heated argument between both of them regarding the rights of the tribals and role of government in auctioning the mines. Prof. Rameshwar opposed the auction of these mines on account of the displacement it would cause and the lack of adequate compensation for the tribals in the contract signed with the mining companies.’

‘Is the MLA corrupt or does he use force?’

Nobody spoke up immediately. The silence smelt of a secret being preserved in the annals of the heart. It was the silence which speaks the loudest. Lavie knew what she had to do next.

Next day she went to the MLA’s office to ask for an interview with him. The interview was denied. He will not speak to reporters, she was said. The man in the office did not treat her like a stranger. They looked to be in knowledge of her visit. Somehow she felt the MLA knew exactly what she had been doing the whole week in Bokaro.

Rohan returned to Mumbai with a fire lit in his heart. He was disappointed at the result. Lavie had promised him a verdict but he came back with an inspiration. He had consented to give his name in the news report she would file based on the investigation she had done.

Next week there was an article in the newspaper. It was co-written by both Lavie and Bansi, the English version printed in ’The Indian Express’ whereas the Hindi one in the local newspaper run by Bansi. It spoke of Prof. Rameshwar’s death, his support for the tribal movement, for their land rights and the role of MLA in local politics. It also included comments by Rohan about the negatives of corruption. Finally the perils of the mining mafia were discussed.

Abideh read the report and knew something had to be done.