It had been raining torrentially for hours. Birds were nowhere to be seen in the twilight sky. It was not monsoon and no one was expecting such a dingy weather here in Oudh. The sky had diffused light and the farmers were back in their houses. The local police station had been suffering from a headache since the time they had been left clueless about the 72 murder cases in the locality. The newly transferred police inspector, a Bengali have been posted here. Our village was located at the coast of the sea.
10 miles away from police station, was the road to the village zamindar’s house. The road continued through a stretch of woods. Either side of the lane were filled with deciduous forests. A lateral lane through the woods ended to a Kali temple. Very few people were actually aware of the location of the temple but it had its importance. The temple was home of our family. The deadly family. A group of revolutionists who were trained assassins. For years in the past our ancestors had been in mission of distribution of power and possession. The world needed to be healed and to be started at home. Greed had to be shattered and death was the only penalty. No negotiations, nothing to forgive, it was all about resting in peace. Me? I was the tool of death, the weapon of Thug Behram, I was just a yellow scarf. A scarf that turned dignity made from the blood of the poor, penniless. We were not a just trained assassins, we were brothers in our acts, pledged in our souls.
It was the month of April. Rain had carved grooves through the muddy roads. The zamindar had visited the British General for some treaty. He was on his way back to his home. The horse caravan paced slowly through the road. The driver had slowed down his caravan to prevent from toppling. My master along with his brothers followed the caravan along its path. Without making the slightest of noise, Behram pounced like an animal on the driver, pushing him down on the road. Before the driver could realize and shout for help, his brothers got hold of him and the yellow scarfs tightened up in his throat. The man struggled to loosen it, but ended in pulling out in tongue and falling dead on the ground.
“kyahuya ? “ the zamindar shouted from inside.
“ Nahjikuchnahi! Bash gaddatha” replied Behram who now took the driver’s seat in the caravan.
Instead of continuing through the same road, the caravan turned right and continued towards the temple. Within minutes the caravan stopped. The zamindar annoyed came out of the caravan to ask what was going on. I was tied in Behram’s fist. The zamindar was not surprized, he just kneeled down with his hands folded. Behram looked straight into his eyes. He was smelling his fear. The fear of a living man who has seen death, a man who was inches away from death. Behram had seen several faces before setting them motionless, but this was different. The man had a strange but slight smile in his face.
Behram looked toward the temple, and the caravan that stood near it. His brothers had just climbed up to look for the cash and jewelleries, the zamindar had been carrying. Instead of killing the zamindar right away, he shouted at his brothers frantically running towards the caravan.
“Come back, come back you fools, the caravan has been bom- “, I could not hear his voice anymore. The caravan was on fire. Pieces of black leather burning and corpses of molten flesh slithering out the fire in the car. Behram broke into running followed by his two gang members. The Bengali inspector, taking off his run, took out his revolver. He was joined by four men, who had been following the trail. But Behram could not be tracked. The trail had to end after a day or two.