I admit my first
impression of him was prejudiced. He reminds me of a History teacher in secondary
school–lovely old man to most, great teacher and abuser of boys. The man across
the table is in his late sixties, with soft white hair, a pleasant clean-shaven
face, smiling dark-brown eyes, a small nose and dimpled cheeks. The full-lipped
mouth and firm chin add a steadiness to the cherubic features. He speaks
clearly with perfect diction. He rests his strong tanned arms on the table. He still
helps out with the laundry, farming and cooking in the prison. When he was
free, twenty years back, he loved working with his hands, organic farming on
his plot and odd jobs around the house. He is not a big man, medium height and a
little over-weight. I searched for distinctive features, fluctuations in behaviour
or a lisp or even a tic, but there are none.
There are reams of articles
on him. A biographer describes him as ‘a heritage item’, whatever that means. I
am not an expert on him, or his deeds. It was he who contacted me. He sent me a
note, ‘I like your blog.’ I wonder how since it rarely attracts viewers. He added,
‘I am giving my last interview. Would you like to be the interviewer?’
Curiosity, boredom and a convenient writers’ block got the better of lethargy
and wariness. I contacted a cousin, a bureaucrat in the State Home Minister’s
office, and enquired if I have to fill some form in triplicate to interview a
prisoner. He asked me who I want to interview. I told him. His response was
quick, too quick. He told me to find something better to do. The same day, I
contacted an old classmate, a fellow-sufferer of the History teacher and now a
newspaper editor. I resorted to a bit of blackmail and got my name into a small
article in the next day’s paper, ‘Monster invites blogger for final interview’.
My cousin was not happy with me but then, is it not true that one is usually
happier when relatives are not happy with one. Three weeks later, here I am
facing the ‘Monster’.
“What triggered it?”
I asked.
“I do not know,” he
replied.
Fair enough, I
thought. Any other answer would have seemed as well-rehearsed as a fresh MBA
graduate’s job interview.
“It was the riots,
wasn’t it? Your first large-scale act, I mean?” I could have framed it better.
I was hoping the ‘loose, colloquial and ill-structured questions’ would ‘loosen
him to give extra details’. I found that interviewing technique in a journal,
or pulp fiction.
“Hmmm…” He looked down at his old watch,
“well, not exactly the riots.”
“You were sure
setting the train compartment on fire would start the madness?”
“It was a gamble.
But, the odds were in my favour, one could say, given the polarized society
there and the administration in power then.”
“Why?”
“Good question.”
We stared at each
other, not budging from our position for a while. He smiled. I sat with pursed
lips. He made me feel like a petulant kid.
“It was waiting to
happen,” he offered.
We went through the
details–picking out the train with pilgrims returning home, the accelerant used
for the fire in the middle of the night, the chained exits and the fifty six
charred beyond recognition. He stayed on to witness the quick build-up of rage,
hatred and wild accusations, the two-week-long riots that followed and the
massacre of thousands. We could have been discussing the weather. I felt a
churning in my belly. He stared at me, looking concerned. He reached for the
bottle of water on the table and filled a disposable cup. He placed it in front
of me. I accepted the drink. He looked down at the table, as if he was
apologizing for making me uncomfortable, though not for what he did, I presume.
I changed track after
that and probed about his early life. He laughed when I asked about precursors
in his childhood, like maimed strays or boiled pets.
“Of course not,” he
said.
He continued to
laugh, just a good-natured hearty laugh. I laughed with him, feeling rather
embarrassed.
“Is it true the death
of your wife started…?” I searched for the right words.
“You have not done
your homework.” It was a statement of fact, without reproach.
“I know you killed
before your wife’s death, but it escalated to mass murder after that,” I
argued. “The train massacre, the building collapse…now, what was that for?”
“Shoddy construction,”
he replied.
“You just had to point
that out to the world by killing innocents in that apartment, didn’t you?”
“They could have died
like that, without my action,” he said.
“You have a reason
for everything, don’t you? Surely not for murdering a busload of school kids or
do you have a bloody fucking reason for killing those hundred kids too?”
“Overloaded bus,” he
said.
I raised my clenched
fist, pointed a finger at him. My hands were shaking, my head too. I must have
been red in the face, probably crying. “How can you joke about this?” I
spluttered.
“It was never a
joke.” For once, he looked stern, even disturbed. This time, he pointed a
finger at me. “Never ever think I did it, any of it, for a laugh.”
We were both
breathing heavily then.
“Sorry,” he said, “I
should not have angered you so. I should have chosen my words more carefully.”
“Of what use is
speaking in a better way? That won’t change what you did,” I said.
“True,” he said.
I wondered if he
would clam up.
“I just can’t get
it,” I said, “others have wondered too.”
“What?” he asked.
“Why you don’t feel
remorse.” I said.
“Will it serve any
purpose?” he asked. “Isn’t that like telling I love you to a dear one
posthumously?”
“It is not,” I said,
“it is about accepting guilt, about changing one’s ways.”
“I have never said my
actions were not wrong. But, given another chance, would I do differently? I
feel that’s irrelevant after the deed’s been done. If there’s anything
relevant, it must be my thoughts then.”
Again, I must have
slipped into silence, unsure of how to respond.
He leaned towards me
and said, “You are not after some kind of truth and reconciliation charade, are
you? Of what use is that I-am-sorry-I-did-it-now-let-us-be-friends-and-think-about-the-future?”
He paused. “I have never asked for freedom or for a lesser punishment.”
“You have not been
hanged!” I retorted.
“Is that what you
want?” he asked, smiling.
“Well, you seem to be
living happily ever after and that too with poor taxpayers’ money,” I pointed
out.
“True,” he admitted. After
a long pause, “Maybe, I asked for this interview to give you what you want.”
“What do I want?”
“My death, didn’t you
say so?”
“Are you going to
commit suicide?” I blurted out.
He laughed at my
startled expression. “No, of course not,” he replied.
I understood then the
purpose of the interview. Nervous excitement shared space with fear. My initial
wariness in meeting him must have had something to do with that fear.
His case had gone on
for years, like every other high profile case, from the trial court to the High
Court and finally to the Supreme Court, with the customary delays and
adjournments. At first, the public and even the media thought it would be a quick
affair. Who would defend the Monster? Then, there were questions about the
investigation. Legal experts raised questions about procedure and rights. There
was lobbying against the death penalty for him. Even then, no one thought he
would get anything other than a meeting with the Grim Reaper. Many wondered why
he did not share the fate of lesser monsters–a fatal clash among inmates or the
other common end, ‘hanged himself in his cell’. Doubts about some ‘hold’ on
people in high places were confirmed when a newspaper reported about his
‘five-star life in prison’. It was actually nothing other than normal prison
fare for him, but then anything other than death seemed like luxury. Reporters
and biographers tried to make him reveal his trump card. There are
professionals, like my friend the news editor, who would kill their mother to
get the first bite on that scoop. I was not sure I wanted to be the chosen one.
I let him speak. I
listened and kept an eye on the recorder. The last thing I wanted was a goof-up
in recording his words. He kept his head down, looking at the table or the
lines on his palms.
“After my wife’s
death, I quit my job in an investment bank. My two young kids, they were in
their early teens then, needed me. I joined an educational institution, as an
accountant. That campus with schools and colleges was run by a religious cult.”
He mentioned the name of a popular, and financially successful, priest. “I
minded my own business and even adjusted to their style of functioning. From
nine to five, I worked, bowed when required, participated in group prayers,
kept a low profile and accepted the priest’s ‘holiness’. Are you religious or
connected to one of these cults?” he asked me. I shook my head. He continued.
“The power these jokers enjoy might amuse one at first but, sooner or later, one
can’t escape the grim reality. The blind faith of the believers or the
unquestioning servitude of the low-income lot one can understand. There was
another group there and it is that large lot who give you an idea of the power
and the fear in such places. They were faithful slaves and they lived there without
complaint, probably not even realizing their loss of freedom or their inner fear.
How did they manage to get such dependents? I haven’t figured out that one. Even
the worst dictators can’t attract slaves like them.”
“It took me a while
to realize that most of the teachers in their schools belonged to that lot.
They were mostly ladies, married, in their thirties, their kids studied in those
schools, and they lived in quarters on campus. At times, the servants seemed to
get better treatment than those teachers. They could be summoned by the priest
at any time. They were made to wait for hours outside the priest’s office. They
would stand meekly, head bowed. Within, they knelt in front on the priest. They
were shouted at, abused, made an object of ridicule in front of other staff and
visitors. That was not all. When politicians of every hue, intellectuals, the
movers and shakers of society start congregating in one place, what do you expect?
The priest provided all–money, drugs, power and sex.”
“When that busload of
kids died, I thought I succeeded. Some of the teachers lost their kids, they left
the place, the schools faced investigation and the public questioned the
priest’s influence. Sadly, that did not last for long.”
He raised his head
and looked up at me. “The riots you mentioned, the building that collapsed, I
thought it would change the administration. That too ended the wrong way.”
I was shaken by what
he told me but I was in no mood to give him comfort. There is no monster worse
than a devil that sounds like god.
“Every guy like you
ends up saying it’s for some greater good.”
“True.” He thought
for a while. “When some countries do the stuff I did and say the same, people
fall for it. Isn’t that true too?” He smiled, not a smug smile, just a genial
smile.
That smile reminded
me of a question I had while preparing for the interview. Before coming to that,
I wanted to wrap up his confession.
“So, I guess you have
some evidence of the abuse in that place. Is that your keep-head-out-of-noose
card?”
“You guess right.”
“Why have you decided
to come out with it now?”
“The perpetrators
should suffer a bit before they die,” he paused, “before I die.”
“You are not worried
that I might get harmed, are you?” I asked.
“No,” he admitted.
“Do not worry. You will get your five minutes of fame and then, people will
forget you.” He looked at me kindly, “Of course, I leave it to you. You know
how the system works. It is possible they will still come out of it squeaky
clean. They usually do. My fate would be sealed, of course. Tough to speculate
about your fate, fifty-fifty chance if you play it right, I think.”
“Not very reassuring,
are you?” I said with a weak laugh.
“Maybe, you will be
my last victim.”
He laughed. It was
infectious. I laughed with him, quite hysterically. Anyone listening in must
have wondered if we had traded places, if not sanity.
I remembered his
smile. “I have one final question.”
“Good. Out with it.”
“It’s about the way
you got caught.”
“Ah, that…”
For more than ten
years, the police and other investigative agencies had no clue about the
monster behind the mass-murders. Then, some wise guy came across something
unusual when he was going through photos and news reports. There was a common
feature in the photos with the minister who turned up at scene of the crime to reassure
the public with their statement, “We will give funds to the victims and we will
find the perpetrator…” There was at least one photo with the same smiling face
in the crowd around the minister at each crime-scene.
“Why did you do that?
To enter the photo-gallery of the famous…?” I asked. “The Hitchcock touch–the
creator entering his creation?”
He smiled. “You do
not have to lay the sarcasm so thick, do you? Is that your final question?”
“Was it you who
tipped off the police? To look at that smiling face in the crowd…?” I asked.
“Why would I do
that?”
“How do I know? Sick
of your own actions, maybe, or you wanted the glory and attention.”
“Maybe…”
“You talked about
taking care of your kids earlier. Didn’t you think of them when you did all
this?” I asked.
“They were adults
when I got caught,” he said.
“Being the monster’s
kids must have affected their chances in the world,” I said.
“True.” He paused. “I
managed to write a novel here in prison, about a crime I would have committed
outside, about a killer who does not get caught. It sold well. That money must
have helped improve my kids’ chances in the world. Anyway, I am sure they have
the wits to make money on their own too. Is there anything money can’t
improve?”
“A good life…? A life
with their father…? Can money get them that?” I asked.
“They visit me. Even
if I was outside, I would not have expected more frequent or longer visits.
They must think of this as an old-age home,” he smiled.
I sat back and stared
at him. “You are so sure about everything, aren’t you?”
“Let me ask you a
final question,” he said. “You must have gone through the evidence that put me here.
Are you sure I am the monster? Think about it well. Other than the crime of
smiling at the scene of these crimes, did the police have conclusive evidence,
that is, if you forget the evidence they fabricated?”
I must have looked
like a fool, staring at him, mouth open, my eyes round and unblinking.
He laughed.
“Don’t worry. It was
just a question. I am the one. I couldn’t let you go without pulling your leg.”
We laughed.
