Tempest at Eastern Nest

Eastern Nest the housing society I lived in was well known in Indra Prastha Extension of East Delhi. Its reputation was built over years not only because of its quality facility management but also of the educated and urbane residents who had made the place their homes and lived with peace and harmony. A few residents were conspicuously affluent, a few others acquired prominence for their involvement in and connections with sports, cinema and politics, but the majority were like us, ordinary peace loving congenial people.

I, with my wife and son, was residing at a sixth floor apartment in Tower C of the complex which had four towers, alphabetically designated from A to D. The other two members of my family were familiar faces in the society but I was sort of a stranger and often the residents identified me as my son’s father or my wife’s husband. Not that I was too introvert or reticent, but because of the nature of my profession which demanded extensive travels, I remained mostly invisible in the society.  

In the beginning of 2019, more than a year before the pandemic struck its first wave, my visibility improved significantly. A couple of reasons made it happen. I superannuated from full time employment and could afford the luxury of free time to socialise and attend events which I had missed in the past. Another important incident that catalysed my prominence was the election of my wife to the post of society president, an honorary position heading the society management. Husband of the president enjoyed elevated status at least among society employees who never failed to shower with extra doses of reverential greetings whenever they sighted me. I made some new acquaintances and friends but I drew close to a convivial man, more than ten years my junior. He was Aniket Bose who had recently moved in our society and started living in an apartment in Tower A. He looked average in all physical parameters, height, built and complexion but exuded an aura of intellectuality on his face because of elegantly styled shiny black hair, sharp eyes and impeccably groomed french cut beard of salt and pepper shade.

Intimacy with Aniket grew faster because of his wife’s conservative mind-set which seemed inexplicable to me. She could not convert her husband to a consummate teetotaller but strictly banned consumption of alcohol inside her home. To circumvent this unilateral imposition, Aniket was often my guest to enjoy a few pegs and as bonding over alcohol grew, I could know him better. Behind his low profile appearance there existed a high profile professional astuteness only known to the corporate honchos, for he worked with several corporate giants on matters of crimes related to business world. This esoteric professional pursuit of his reflected over two words “Truth Seeker” that emblazoned the business card he gave to me. He never shared any anecdotes of the truth he successfully sought and unravelled and whenever I was persistently inquisitive, my probing questions were either dodged with a contemptuous laughter or quelled summarily in the pretext of his oath bound official secrecy. Luckily my wait ended soon.

Sensational suicide of veteran resident Ranjit Mitra jolted us all in the society. The gentleman was above seventy and was respected for two reasons, philanthropy and fitness. The guards, maids, drivers and other workers who earned their livelihood from our society could count on his unfailing support whenever they needed money to marry off daughters, meet medical expenses, pay school fees or buy household durables. His fitness which was the result of doing yoga and keeping healthy life style was envy of all including those who were several years younger than him. He was a retired mechanical engineer, a graduate of IIT Kharagpur. His wife, deceased a couple of years back, was a retired electrical engineer from Jadavpur. The lady engineer was not keeping good health for several years and suffering from diabetes which progressively aggravated due to her uncontrolled culinary indulgence. She however died of electrocution from a faulty bathroom appliance, a power switch, just after taking her bath. The death of an electrical engineer by electrocution remained a hot topic of discussion not only in our society but also in the neighbourhood ones for several months. It was more so because a few weeks before this tragic incident, she, while fiddling with the incoming power cable inside the main distribution box of the apartment, received severe electric shock. It could be life threatening but she survived somehow. Next time lady luck deserted her in temerarious encounter with electricity.

After her death Mr. Mitra turned a bit recluse and was seen outside his Tower D apartment only for daily morning walk and yoga in the lawn and evening prayer in the temple. His munificence for the religious activities however surged manifold.

On the fateful day in the wee hours when the residents were asleep a night watchman heard a thud at the Tower D parking lot. The sound of a heavy object hitting the ground woke up a few residents too. Mr. Mitra’s body was found lying dead on the ground in grisly pool of blood. It was an appalling sight to witness for all of us living in the society. Mr. Mitra committed suicide. He used a stool to climb up the balcony railing and jumped to his death, a horrible act which nobody even in wildest imagination could ever think of.

Mitra couple was highly sociable and had many friends who often visited them regularly. Old age never deterred them to be enthusiastic party revellers and hardly they missed any social events whenever invited. They also generously patronised the local Bengali Club to celebrate the Durga Pujas with éclat every year. Mr. Mitra used to play bridge. Every Saturday at around five in the afternoon, three of his friends putting up in other societies close by, reached his apartment to play contract bridge till eight in the evening. Even after his wife died the routine of bridge sessions continued for a while till one of his friends relocated himself to his son’s place far away in Bangalore.

In his working years Mr. Mitra worked in a public sector consulting company in Delhi and was involved in design and engineering of petroleum projects. He was a competent engineer and sought after by multi-national majors. Opportunities, lucrative both in terms of money and job status, regularly came up but Mr Mitra did not accept any except one, for Mrs Mitra employed in a Delhi based renowned public sector company was not keen to move with him. The only exception was his deputation to a French engineering major in Paris. He was posted there for three years on a technology transfer mission. It was a prestigious assignment which Mrs. Mitra persuaded his unwilling husband to accept. She too could have managed a sabbatical from her work but did not for their only child Neha, a daughter, five-year-old that time, got admission in a coveted school extremely competitive to get in. Mr. Mitra moved alone and during the three years, every year he visited India during Christmas and his family holidayed with him in August, the vacation month in Europe. As luck would have it, his stay in France was not financially rewarding. He lost all his savings there, as Mrs Mitra told everyone in the society, on gambling. It was in fact gambling on stock market. Under toxic influence of unabashed cupidity, he had foolishly invested his hard earned money in third grade stocks causing financial disaster.

After return from France and strongly reprimanded by his wife he stayed away from stock market and instead focussed on real estate and gold to invest in. The suicide note was found in the note pad of his phone. It intriguingly read like this “Threat of DNA. Can’t reconcile with my own daughter. Decided to end my life. I am only responsible. None to blame. I revised my will, hand written. Witnessed by N & T. Ajay informed. My last wish: don’t break open my safe use the code CDNHS. Aniket will help”

Neha was known to be very affectionate to her father. She lived in Chennai with her husband and a teenaged son. Only a few months back she with her family visited her father. They holidayed together first in Ranthambore and then in Shimla. It was difficult to conceive Neha tormented her father and pushed him to take the extreme step. It was however easy to identify N & T, Niranjan Basak and Tarit Chakladar, Mr. Mitra’s bridge partners. I was also right to identify Ajay Bose, the advocate living in another society not far from ours. Aniket, as he said, had chanced upon meeting Mr. Mitra about two weeks back near Tower A close to the main entrance of our society. He introduced himself, complimented Mr. Mitra for his fitness and gave his business card to him but Mr. Mitra was smilingly laconic and not keen to continue the conversation. Thereafter they did not meet again.

Police started the investigation. When informed Neha did rush to Delhi from Chennai. Husband Nikhil could not come for the son Arjun had an important test to sit for. Father’s death and insinuation in his suicide note made her awfully miserable. Entire society started aspersing her and she suffered unenviable ignominy when the police arrested her and charged abetment to suicide. She had to spend a night inside the lockup of the local police station. She pleaded innocence and kept on insisting she loved her father from the core of her heart but the police were not convinced. Fortunately, her husband was a lawyer working for a top legal firm in Chennai, when informed he too promptly boarded a flight to Delhi and from Chennai itself alerted a senior advocate, his personal friend, in Delhi. The advocate appeared in the court vehemently argued on the point that the suicide statement unequivocally mentioned nobody was to blame. Neha was granted bail.

Knowing that Aniket was a truth seeker, Neha, accompanied by her husband, approached him to unknot the truth and prove her innocence before the next date of the court hearing about a month later. Aniket said he was not a qualified criminal investigator but they cajoled earnestly as they had no faith on the inquest of the police. Aniket, as he later told me, unwillingly agreed only because Mr. Mitra himself wished him to decode the lock and open the safe. The police were not keen to go by the sentiment of Mr. Mitra’s last wish and wanted to break the lock to take out the will. The Assistant Police Commissioner of east Delhi was known to my wife. She requested him to grant Aniket a few days to crack the code, the ACP who also knew Aniket gave three days. 

The safe was embedded inside the large cupboard in the bedroom of Mr. Mitra. It was a strongbox made of steel about two and half feet long, two feet wide and two feet high. The six-inch-long five-digit numerical lock, made of brass and horizontal in alignment, was at the centre just above a brass embossment displaying the manufacturer’s logo, name and trade symbol. It was made in Lyon, a prominent city in France.

The code mentioned by Mr. Mitra was CDNHS, all alphabets but the lock was numerical. I did try to work out a solution assigning each alphabet a number and manipulating them using arithmetic operations but could not succeed. Aniket spoke to Mr. Mitra’s bridge partners who had witnessed the testament signed by Mr. Mitra and also Ajay Bose the solicitor. Even before the two days of the three-day deadline passed, Aniket cracked the code. It was 55344 in that order. In-spite of my repeated requests, he did not divulge how he could come up to the right answer.

The lock was opened. The will, hand written and witnessed by Mr. Niranjan Basak and Mr. Tarit Chakladar was discovered. It was dated ten days prior to the date of Mr. Mitra’s suicide. The content of the will was weird but it prolonged the agony of Neha. By this will Mr. Mitra bequeathed all his immovable assets to an NGO and only the movable and financial ones to Neha, his daughter and the only child. Neha was extremely disappointed for the value of her share was drastically truncated. She coveted the three lucrative properties her father owned, two commercial flats, one each in Gurgaon and Noida fetching handsome rental income and also the apartment in our society where he resided. Deprived in father’s will Neha faced further defaming by the society residents as the allegation of harassment by the daughter leading to eventual suicide of the father gained traction. The police came to know and it was obvious they would not absolve Neha of the grievous charge of abetment to suicide. She was barred to leave the society till the next hearing at the court.

Our family was dejected at the turn of the events. Neha was a good friend of my wife Kavita. Whenever she travelled to Delhi the two families, ours and theirs, always had spent quality time over two reciprocating dinners, one at our apartment and another at theirs. This time we were not keen to welcome them but that day Nikhil and Neha came at about eight in the evening without prior intimation. I was dismayed and my body language signalled they were unwelcome guests but Neha was in tears. She narrated to us several anecdotes, a few of them we had heard already, to testify the cordiality of relations she and Nikhil had with Mr. Mitra, as if we were to pronounce the judgement of her acquittal, but fell short of denouncing her father. Nikhil was not that polite, he used some nasty words to deride his father-in-law and even accused him as ingrate. During our nearly one sided conversation, they spoke and we patiently listened. I phoned Aniket. Fortunately, he had come back from work and at my request promptly arrived. Seeing Aniket Neha wailed even more and implored him once again to extricate her from the mess she was in.

Nikhil had to travel back to Chennai as he had professional commitments. Besides their son who was studying in class twelve and preparing for competitive examinations was staying alone in their apartment there. He thanked us for our empathy and requested Kavita to take care of Neha. We had a spare bedroom and requested Neha to stay with us but she politely declined and decided to stay in her father’s flat.

The NGO, the major beneficiary of Mr. Mitra’s will, was not unknown to many of us in the society. The name of the NGO was Vendeur de reve. This was a French name meaning Dream Seller. The Pondicherry based outfit was run by a lady in her mid-thirties. Their mission was noble undoubtedly as they sheltered destitute children and ensured they were not starved of nutrition, education and health care. It was set up just three years back when the lady, Anamika her name, visited our society as part of fund raising campaign in Delhi and convinced Mr. Mitra to part with some money. Exact amount was unknown but Mr. Mitra’s propensity to philanthropic contributions made us believe it was not insignificant.

The solicitor Ajay Ghosh informed the police and also Aniket that previous will of Mr. Mitra, now superseded by the new one, was in favour of Neha as the sole beneficiary. He was unable to make out why Mr. Mitra had made this new will as the e-mail he received did not provide the answer. It was an e-mail sent around one in the morning about a couple of hours before the fatal jump which ended his life. Ajay was in Kolkata that time and saw the e-mail next morning. He returned to Delhi cutting short his private engagements in Kolkata. The police received a shot in the arm and the ACP shared his conviction about Neha’s abetment to her father’s suicide but was clueless of the plausible motive. The police were delving into the circumstantial evidences that could fit into their theory.

Informed by Ajay, as solicitor of Mr. Mitra, Anamika arrived about a week later but just spent two days in Delhi. She was a busy woman who could not be away from work long. She wept a lot before the photo of Mr. Mitra. The photo framed in glass and wood, rectangular in shape, three by two feet in size and wrapped around with an oversized tube rose garland was placed on the large coffee table in the living room of Mr. Mitra. Adjacent to the photo was placed some tube rose sticks in a crystal flower vas and also was there an incense stand emitting sandal wood fragrance of fuming incense sticks. On the wall behind, among a few framed photographs and copy of famous paintings, was hung another garlanded framed displaying a group photo with younger Mr. Mitra at the centre. Neha clarified it was clicked in the farewell party of Mr. Mitra in Paris.

Anamika as we could make out was not fluent in Bengali. After unsuccessful struggle of expressing in Bengali, she gave up and paid her tribute to deceased Mr. Mitra in English. It was a eulogistic accolade. I felt the monetary value of Mr. Mitra’s bequeath actuated this adulation. She met Mr. Mitra only once when she had come to our society three years back but maintained contacts with him through WhatsApp chats and e-mails. She said had been entreating Mr. Mitra over these years and at times, not frequently, had received some money but never imagined he would suicide and bequeath his properties to her. At the end she sobbed uncontrollably.

The cold vibes of Neha towards Anamika was understandable. She was not only deprived but entangled in a legal trouble because of her father’s suicide note incriminating her. Anamika consoled Neha who was also in tears with signs of deep anguish reflected on her face. She averred repeatedly she had no inkling about Mr. Mitra’s intention to leave a largesse for her organisation and vehemently vowed she would spend the money for charitable purpose only and not for her personal use.

The date of the next court hearing was about three weeks away but the clock was ticking fast for Neha. There was no apparent progress made my Aniket in next four days. He got busy in his professional work and simply could not spend time in this case. This raised anxiety of Neha who every evening came to our flat, cried before my wife over a cup of tea and elaborated in tearful words how innocent she was and how her family would be terribly stigmatised if she were convicted.

On the coming Sunday I met Aniket in the local meat shop. He was buying chicken and my choice was mutton. To my humble enquiry he tersely replied he had sent an email to France through his client, the Indian subsidiary of a French company, based in Noida. My next inquisition was brushed aside with a chuckle.

We planned for a holiday at a Club Mahindra resort in Pondicherry. Two days before we were to leave, Aniket came to our flat for an evening drink and chat. He was flying to Chennai next morning on a professional mission. Hearing about our planned five-day nesting and relaxing in Pondicherry, he said he would also like to spend there a couple of days. We booked a two bed room apartment in the resort. One bed room would go vacant as our son could not get leave to accompany us. Out of courtesy I offered him to stay with us expecting a polite refusal but to my surprise he consented.

When we were chatting Neha dropped in. It was her routine visit to share her grief and shed tears. She knew of our planned holiday in Pondicherry. When she learned we would first fly to Chennai and then take a taxi from the airport to our resort, she invited to visit her home in Chennai. We declined politely. The invitation was extended to Aniket who did not decline directly saying he would try, time permitting. Aniket did not mention his intended visit to Pondicherry and stay with us, so we kept quiet about it. Neha recounted her mother’s visit to Chennai and Pondicherry just three months before she died and recounted fond memory of the magnificent candle light dinner they enjoyed together at a famous French restaurant in Pondicherry. Kavita was attentively listening interjecting with some exclamatory remarks and we two, Aniket and I were busy sipping single malt. 

Our visit to Pondicherry was full of fun and excitement. We visited the well-known tourist attractions like Aurobindo Ashram, Auroville and French Quarter and of course the beautiful beach. Aniket stayed two nights with us. He moved around of his own alone but treated us with two lovely dinners, one at the famous French restaurant Neha talked about and the other at the sea food joint inside our resort. Even in those wonderful days of rejoicing and rejuvenation, agony of Neha and her family haunted my conscience. I could do nothing except poking Aniket. I indeed did a few times but every time he put a quietus.

We returned to Delhi. Neha stopped her routine visit to our flat. Aniket too did not turn up for a drink. Kavita got busy with society activities and I too resumed my post retirement daily life.

Time flowed as usual at its own irretrievable pace. The next hearing at the court was drawing near. Kavita and I lost all hope and were sure Neha too. When barely three days were left before the hearing date, an unexpected phone call from Aniket flashed a ray of optimism. Aniket called a meeting at Neha’s place next evening. As an omnivorous reader of detective stories, I knew such meetings were called only at the climax stage to unfold the mystery and ferret out the truth.

We reached at eight thirty sharp. Nikhil and another gentleman were already there with Neha. I had not met this gentleman before. He was Arvind, Nikhil’s lawyer friend handling the case of Neha. Ajay Ghosh joined followed by Aniket. We were served filter coffee with digestive biscuits. Aniket enigmatically informed that someone’s flight from Chennai landed a bit late but she would be joining in any moment soon. Just at the same time the security guard from the society gate called. Anamika arrived.

“What is the most mystifying in the suicide message of Mr. Mitra?” The question was asked looking at me, so I volunteered an answer “The locker code”

“Well perhaps that is the least” he quipped.

Then he began emulating Hercules Poirot in the detective episodes I watched a lot.

“The genesis of the mystery I am unfolding now is linked to the lady on the photograph hung on that wall”, he pointed to the farewell photo of Mr. Mitra in Paris.

It was a group photo of only four persons. A skilled photographer vividly captured the memorable moment when a lady, seemed Indian, presented a memento, a bottle of expensive Cognac, to Mr. Mitra. There were two on- lookers one looked older and the other younger than him and both seemed to be European, could be French.

“Do you know who this lady was?” Aniket looked at Anamika and asked.

“How would she know?” Neha intruded between them and answered “She was the secretary of my father. I met her at his office in Paris. I met even the older gentleman in the photo. Mr Bolout, a French, was a junior colleague of my father.”

“Right. Where was your father living in Paris?” Aniket asked her.

“He used to live in a small studio apartment, arranged by the French company, in Levallois. A commune in the north-west of Paris.” Neha replied

“So when you and your mother holidayed in Paris, all of you lived together in this place.” Aniket inferred.

“No we lived in Saint Denis, a commune in the north. The spacious two bed room apartment was owned by Mr. Boulot. In every August he and his family vacationed in their country home in south of France allowing us to use the apartment” Neha clarified.

After that no question was asked and no answer was given for a while.

A monologue of Aniket commenced.

“In every living being, DNA, the complex molecule of double helix structure, stores biological information derived from parental linage. The first word in the suicide note of Mr. Mitra was DNA suggesting his own offspring. An offspring who may or may not be born out of legitimate wedlock. Mr. Mitra spent three long years in Paris away from his family. She was attracted to a beautiful woman recuperating from the pain of divorce from her perfidious husband. The attraction was one sided in the beginning but slowly gained mutuality and in less than a year developed into a deep amorous relationship. The lady lived in her one room flat in Massy, a commune in south of Paris. Mr. Mitra spent many weekend nights in that flat where eventually the romance culminated to the birth of a child. The child is grown up now. She is Anamika”

“Rubbish” Anamika fulminated. “You may be a truth seeker or whatever. Don’t dare to malign my mother or else…”

Neha hurled choicest invective and almost pounced on Anamika. I was nonplussed seeing a docile doe behaving like a tigress. Nikhil and Aniket acted swiftly to calm her down.

“Which passport do you hold Anamika? Is it not French?” Aniket’s question apparently rattled her but she tried to put up a brave face and retorted “So what? I am a French citizen of Indian origin”

“Look at the photograph of your mother presenting a bottle of Cognac to your father. Disowned by your father, it was she who raised you” Aniket said.

Anamika looked crestfallen. Signs of her pumped up confidence had evaporated. She looked down with the palms touching head and tears rolling out of her eyes.

Aniket continued “That day when Anamika in this very room was paying rich attribute to Mr. Mitra and heaping generous words of admiration, my eyes caught the lady in the photograph. What you all perhaps did not notice is the stark similarity of the nose of the mother and that of the daughter.”

Indeed, I did not bother to have a close look before but now could make out. Even the nose pins they wore seemed quite similar.

“Are you wearing your mother’s nose pin Anamika?”

She did not reply but started sobbing profusely.

“Anamika’s mother, Mrs. Anuradha Rane, was a French citizen. I am saying ‘was’ because she is no more now. About six years back she died of cancer.”

Anamika started wailing. In teary voice she revealed “Father wanted my mother to abort me. She did not agree. Father took advantage of her financial situation. He gave her all his savings in French bank account and in return extracted a promise from her to sever all contacts with him.”

“I verified this from Mr. Boulot. He is a nice man. Out of genuine compassion he helped your mother and you to the extent he could. He told me your mother had disclosed you the identity of your father in her dying days in a French hospital.” Aniket said and added “Mr. Mitra had lost nothing in stock market, he concocted a cock and bull story to explain disappearance of his French savings”.

“Loss of my mother deeply grieved me. Why should I be disowned by father?” Anamika said in a voice choked in tears.

“Anamika came to India soon after her mother died” Aniket continued “A friend of Mr. Bolout lived in Auroville in Pondicherry, an erstwhile French colony. Anamika stayed there with his family and founded her NGO with the noble objective of rehabilitating destitute and abandoned children. She needed money for the philanthropic work she undertook. She came to know about Mr. Mitra’s whereabouts and visited him three years ago when Mrs. Mitra was alive. I checked and found that Mr. Mitra used to send her money from time to time. But perhaps Anamika was expecting more. She started blackmailing him threating to spill the beans of the relationship Mr. Mitra had wanted to bury for ever.”

“No I did not blackmail I just demanded my legitimate right to be recognised as his daughter” Anamika replied in creaky voice.

“Did you not say to Mr. Mitra you would sue him and force him to go for DNA test to establish paternity?”

“Yes because I just wanted to be recognised as his daughter. Do you think claiming my rights is akin to harassment?”

“I know you met Mrs. Mitra when she visited Auroville a few months before her death. She was mentally shattered hearing about her husband’s clandestine affair and love child. Would you now let us know what she had told you?”

“She offered money to silence me but I refused”

“She was a woman of high self-esteem. She trusted her husband. The betrayal forced her to end her life. I believe, though not sure, her death was not an accident. She committed suicide by electrocution in second attempt having failed in the first one. Anamika, you incited not one but two acts of suicide.”

Simmering in anger Neha traduced Anamika hurling abusive words and under influence of impulsive rage threw the empty coffee cup to her. It found its target and that was Anamika’s forehead. Act of this violence caused a bit of blood oozing but it was not serious. Anamika did not retaliate and Neha retracted. Both were crying softly.

“Pestered by Anamika Mr. Mitra ended his own life as he could not face the DNA test and bear the stigma that would follow. Genuinely contrite he wanted to expiate his sin and that is why he decided to leave an important legacy in his will for Anamika’s NGO.” Aniket said. 

Anamika suddenly looked at Arvind the lawyer and said “Can you defend me if I renounce my claim on my father’s bequeath in favour of Neha?”

Neha surely did not expect this question but seemed pleased to hear it.

“Well my first job is to vindicate Neha and that will depend on your testimony in the court. The suicide declaration of your father alluded harassment by daughter. It won’t be difficult to prove what your father perceived as harassment was nothing but your legitimate demand to be recognised as his daughter.” Arvind replied.

“There is no legal compulsion for you to abnegate in favour of Neha. But if you wish I can take care of the legal formalities.” Said Ajay Ghosh who was in listening mode so far.

It was then turn of Neha to be magnanimous. She gave a tight hug to Anamika. Two sisters did not utter any word, tears rolled down their eyes.

Neha said to Ajay “I want to make amend to the wrong done by father. Anamika will not be deprived.”

“I totally agree. She needs money to support the abandoned children.” Nikhil added.

“Well, you mutually decide and let me know.” Ajay said.

I was dying to ask a question which I could ask at the end.

“How did you crack the locker code?” I asked Aniket.

“Had I known how to play bridge, I would have cracked sooner. Tarit Chakladar, Mr. Mitra’s bridge partner, provided the clue. In contract bridge, a game is achieved, if bid is at 5 level for Club and Diamond, 4 level for Heart and Spade and 3 level for No Trump.” Aniket paused and asked me “Do you remember the code?”

“Yes of course. CDNHS” I answered promptly.

“This is abbreviation of Club, Diamond, No Trump, Heart and Spade. Replace these alphabets with the corresponding game achieving bid level and get the answer- 55344” Aniket said wearing his characteristic omniscient smile.

“You are a genius” Consciously perhaps I did not want to say this but it popped out from my mouth involuntarily and spontaneously.