The Wounds

  

Kolkata is a city that never quite learns to be quiet. It is a place where history, tradition and modern life mingle in a fascinating medley. Known as the cultural capital of India, it has an unmistakable personality of its own. Grand colonial buildings stand beside modern glass-fronted offices; narrow lanes open into broad tree-lined avenues; and yellow Ambassador taxis, buses, auto-rickshaws and private cars compete for space on its busy roads. The air is often filled with the sounds of honking horns, street vendors calling out their wares, bicycle bells and animated conversations.

There is something wonderfully distinctive about Kolkata's street life. The aroma of freshly brewed tea, served in tiny earthen cups known as bhar or bhaar, mingles with the irresistible smell of telebhaja (deep-fried savoury snacks) and freshly prepared phuchka (crisp, hollow puris filled with spicy tamarind water). Bookshops, roadside stalls, old-fashioned sweet shops and bustling markets give the city a character that is difficult to find elsewhere. Beneath its apparent chaos lies a city that loves its literature, music, theatre, food and leisurely conversations.

South Kolkata, however, has its own distinctive charm. Southern Avenue, with its broad roads, elegant residential buildings and magnificent avenues of trees, offers a relatively peaceful contrast to the crowded commercial districts. The neighbourhood has an air of understated sophistication, with old houses, apartment blocks, small cafés and shops existing side by side. Along this avenue lies Rabindra Sarobar, one of the city's most cherished green retreats.

Gunja, an eight-year-old girl, lived with her mother, a government servant, and her father, a businessman. One pleasant afternoon, she accompanied her home tutor, Malini, to Rabindra Sarobar for some outdoor play after their lessons.

The entrance to the park offered a refreshing change from the busy avenue. The moment they stepped inside, Gunja felt as though she had entered a different world. The sounds of traffic became muffled, replaced by the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds and the occasional call of a koel. Towering rain trees, their branches spreading like enormous green umbrellas, provided generous shade. Sunlight filtered through the foliage, creating shifting patterns of gold and green on the pathways.

The lake was the heart of Rabindra Sarobar. Its vast expanse of water reflected the sky, the trees and the occasional passing cloud. The surface glistened in the afternoon light, occasionally disturbed by ripples caused by fish or waterbirds. In the distance, rowers practised their strokes, their long boats cutting through the water in graceful, rhythmic movements. A few birds stood motionless near the water's edge, while others skimmed the surface before disappearing among the trees.

One of the most interesting sights for Gunja was the elderly population that frequented the park. They seemed to have made it their second home. Some senior citizens walked slowly along the shaded pathways, supporting themselves with walking sticks. Others occupied the benches, enjoying the breeze and the familiar surroundings. A few sat with their eyes closed, practising meditation, while others performed gentle stretching exercises. Their silver hair, measured steps and unhurried movements gave the park a certain dignity. Some appeared deeply absorbed in their thoughts, while others simply watched the world go by. For them, the park was more than a place for exercise; it was a daily ritual, a meeting place with nature and perhaps a refuge from the loneliness that sometimes accompanies old age.

Gunja watched them with curiosity. She wondered how many mornings they had spent walking beneath these very trees and how many seasons they had witnessed from the same benches.

Malini found a comfortable place to sit while Gunja wandered towards the children's play area. The swings, slides and open spaces seemed to invite her to forget everything else. She ran about with the uninhibited enthusiasm of an eight-year-old, her shoes crunching over the dry leaves scattered along the path. Every now and then, she turned towards Malini to make sure she was still within sight.

As the afternoon advanced, the light began to change. The sun descended behind the buildings, and the lake acquired a golden sheen. The leaves stirred in the evening breeze, and the shadows of the trees grew longer. Outside the park, Southern Avenue continued with its familiar urban rhythm, but within its green boundaries, time seemed to move more slowly.

For a foreign visitor, Rabindra Sarobar would offer a glimpse of a side of India that might otherwise remain unnoticed. It was neither a monument nor a carefully curated tourist attraction. It was an intimate part of everyday Kolkata, where the young came to play, the elderly came to find companionship, and nature offered everyone a little respite from the demands of city life.

Gunja loved the park for its swings, trees and lake. Malini perhaps appreciated its tranquillity. But Rabindra Sarobar had something for everyone. It was a little piece of breathing space in a city that was always on the move.

The sun had begun to dip behind the trees, casting long, distorted shadows across the pathways of Rabindra Sarobar. Gunja, who had been busy exploring the playground, suddenly turned towards the bench where Malini had been sitting.

It was empty.

She looked around. Perhaps Malini had moved to another bench. Gunja ran towards the lake, scanning the familiar faces, but Malini was nowhere to be seen.

"Malini!" she called.

There was no answer.

She hurried back to the bench. Malini's handbag was gone too.

A strange uneasiness crept over her. She walked towards the entrance, hoping to find her tutor waiting there. But the park seemed suddenly enormous. The trees that had looked friendly only minutes ago now appeared dark and forbidding. The pathways seemed to twist endlessly, and every passing stranger looked unfamiliar.

"Malini! Where are you?" Her voice trembled.

She tried to retrace her steps but soon realised that she no longer knew which direction led to the entrance. The evening crowd was thinning. The elderly walkers had begun returning home, and the children's laughter was gradually fading. The shadows grew longer, swallowing the pathways one by one.

Gunja began to cry.

A little later, a police patrol noticed a small girl standing alone near one of the park's exits. Her eyes were swollen, her face streaked with tears, and she was clutching the strap of her little backpack.

"Where are your parents, little one?" one of the policemen asked gently.

Gunja could barely speak.

"My tutor... Malini... she was here. Now I can't find her."

The policemen exchanged a quick glance.

"Don't worry. We will help you find her."

They took her to the nearby police station, where she was given a glass of water and made to sit comfortably. She told how she came to the park. An officer began asking her questions.

"What is your name?"

"Gunja."

"How old are you?"

"Eight."

"And what is your tutor's name?"

"Malini."

The officer wrote down the details. Then he asked the question that made Gunja burst into tears again.

"Did you see anyone taking Malini away?"

Gunja shook her head.

Outside, the evening traffic roared along Southern Avenue. Inside the police station, the little girl sat silently, waiting for someone to tell her that everything was all right.

But Malini was missing.

And nobody knew where she had gone.

The news of Gunja's disappearance reached Malini's parents within an hour. Panic-stricken, they rushed to the police station to lodge a missing-person complaint. They had been calling Malini repeatedly, but her mobile phone remained switched off. They entered the station in a state of utter desperation, only to find their daughter standing before them.

"Gunja!"

 

Her mother rushed forward and embraced her, but Gunja was unable to respond. For a moment, her parents could hardly believe their eyes. Their daughter had been found, but the circumstances were far from reassuring. The police began questioning them, trying to establish what had happened at the park.

The following morning, a horrifying discovery sent shockwaves through the locality. Malini's body was found floating in the lake at Rabindra Sarobar. The police recovered her mobile phone from the vicinity, an important piece of evidence that could perhaps shed light on the mysterious events of the previous evening.

The news spread like wildfire. What had begun as the disappearance of a young tutor had turned into a suspected case of unnatural death. Residents of Southern Avenue were stunned. The park, which had always been associated with morning walks, leisurely afternoons and peaceful encounters with nature, suddenly became the centre of an unsettling mystery. Questions multiplied. How had Malini drowned? Why had she disappeared? What had happened to Gunja?

At home, Nandini, Gunja's mother, was struggling to make sense of her daughter's confused recollections. She had been relieved to have Gunja back, but something about the child's behaviour troubled her. While helping her change, Nandini noticed bruises around Gunja's genital area.

Her heart missed a beat.

She examined the marks more carefully, her hands trembling. They were not ordinary scratches or bruises that a child might sustain while playing.

"Gunja, does anything hurt?"

The little girl looked at her mother without answering.

Nandini felt a cold wave of dread pass through her. Malini was dead, Gunja had been found alone, and now there were unexplained injuries on her daughter's body.

She knew this was no longer simply a case of a missing tutor or an accidental drowning.

Something terrible had happened at Rabindra Sarobar.

Malini's parents arrived at Nandini's house in a state of utter devastation. Their faces were swollen from crying, their eyes bloodshot, and their bodies seemed almost incapable of bearing the weight of their grief. The sudden and inexplicable death of their only daughter had shattered their world. Balaka, Malini's mother, could barely stand without support. She clutched Nandini's hands and broke down.

"Why? Why did this happen to my child?" she sobbed. "She was so young. She had her whole life ahead of her!"

Nandini tried to console her, but words seemed terribly inadequate. The two mothers sat together, united by grief, fear and a growing sense that something sinister lay beneath the tragedy.

After a while, Balaka asked to speak to Nandini privately.

"I need to tell you something," she said, wiping her tears. "Something I should perhaps have told you earlier."

Nandini looked at her anxiously.

Balaka took a deep breath. Her voice trembled as she began.

"Malini had told me that Rajesh had been making advances towards her. Your husband, Nandini. She said he had been behaving inappropriately, making personal remarks and trying to get close to her. He was unnecessarily present when she came to their house and made advances. Gunja’s mom was always absent. She was uncomfortable, frightened even, but she didn't want to create trouble in your family. She had asked me not to tell anyone."

Nandini stared at her, unable to comprehend what she had just heard.

"Rajesh?" she whispered.

Balaka nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"She was afraid of losing her job. She was afraid of what might happen if she spoke openly. I begged her to leave the tutoring assignment, but she insisted that she could handle it."

For a long moment, Nandini remained motionless. The revelation had transformed her understanding of the tragedy. The death of Malini was no longer merely a mysterious drowning, and the bruises on Gunja's body had suddenly acquired a terrifying significance.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. A young woman entered, her face tense and her eyes swollen with grief. It was Rupasri, Malini's closest friend. She had heard about Malini's death and had come to meet Nandini.

After exchanging a few words of condolence, Rupasri asked if she could speak to Nandini privately. Balaka nodded, sensing that there was something important she wanted to disclose.

"I knew about Rajesh's behaviour towards Malini," Rupasri began. "She had told me everything. He had been making advances towards her for some time. She was deeply uncomfortable, but she was afraid of confronting him."

Nandini felt her stomach tighten.

"But there is something else," Rupasri continued, her voice growing unsteady. "Something much more disturbing."

She paused, struggling to control her anger.

"On one occasion, I witnessed Rajesh touching Gunja's private parts. I was horrified. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I confronted him immediately and told him that if I ever saw him doing anything like that again, I would tell you everything to Nandini. I warned him that I would not remain silent."

Nandini went pale.

"Why didn't you tell me then?" she whispered.

"I should have," Rupasri replied, her eyes filling with tears. "I thought my warning would be enough. I thought he would stop. I never imagined things could reach this point."

The room fell silent. Outside, the familiar sounds of Southern Avenue continued, but inside Nandini's home, an unbearable truth was beginning to emerge.

Nandini could no longer contain herself. Balaka's revelation and Rupasri's testimony had brought together pieces of a horrifying puzzle. But the bruises on Gunja's body continued to haunt her. That evening, when Rajesh returned home, she confronted him.

"Rajesh, I want an explanation. What happened to Gunja?"

Rajesh looked up from his phone. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't pretend you don't understand. I found bruises on her private parts. Rupasri has told me what she witnessed. And now Malini is dead. Do you expect me to believe all this is a coincidence?"

His expression changed. For a fleeting moment, Nandini noticed something resembling fear in his eyes.

"You're listening to other people's nonsense," he snapped. "Don't drag me into this."

"Then explain the bruises! Explain why Malini was frightened of you!"

Rajesh got up abruptly. "You'd better stop this nonsense, Nandini. You have no idea what you're getting into."

His response frightened her more than any confession could have. She quietly stepped away, determined that Gunja would never again be left alone with him.

The following day, Nandini approached the police and shared everything she had learnt. Rupasri's statement, Balaka's account of Malini's complaints and the suspicious injuries on Gunja became crucial leads. Nandini also described Rajesh's threatening response when confronted.

For the investigating officers, this was a significant breakthrough. The statements provided a possible motive for Malini's murder and a reason to investigate Rajesh's movements and communications.

The police examined Malini's recovered mobile phone, scrutinised call records and traced financial transactions and communications connected with Rajesh. What emerged was chilling.

The investigation revealed that Rajesh had hired a contract killer to eliminate Malini. He had apparently feared that she might expose his behaviour and destroy the carefully constructed respectability of his family life. The evidence of their communications and the financial trail helped establish the connection.

The police arrested Rajesh on charges relating to Malini's murder. The man allegedly hired to carry out the killing was also traced and taken into custody.

But the investigation did not end there.

Following Nandini's complaint and Rupasri's testimony, the police initiated a separate investigation into the suspected sexual abuse of Gunja. Her injuries were documented, and she was referred for a sensitive medical examination by qualified professionals. A child-protection specialist was also involved to ensure that her statement was recorded without causing further trauma.

Rajesh now faced not only charges connected with Malini's murder but also allegations of sexually abusing his own daughter.

The man who had once appeared to be a respectable businessman had become the principal accused in a case that had shaken Southern Avenue to its core.

And for Nandini, the most devastating discovery was that the danger to her little daughter had come from within her own home.

Rabindra Sarobar remained where it had always been, nestled in the heart of Southern Avenue, its sprawling trees stretching their branches towards the sky, its lake reflecting the changing colours of the day. The morning walkers returned, the joggers resumed their familiar routes, and the elderly citizens occupied their favourite benches. Some walked slowly along the pathways, their walking sticks tapping gently against the ground; others sat gazing at the water, lost in memories that belonged to another time.

The koel still called from the branches. Squirrels still darted across the tree trunks. The waterbirds continued to skim the surface of the lake, leaving delicate ripples behind them. The boats moved across the water, their oars dipping rhythmically, as though nothing had disturbed the timeless tranquillity of the place.

 

Yet something had changed.

The lake, once a shimmering expanse of blue and gold, now held a terrible secret. The pathways where children had run and laughed seemed strangely desolate. The benches beneath the rain trees, where old men and women had spent countless peaceful afternoons, appeared to carry the weight of an unspoken sorrow.

Kolkata has always been a city of contradictions. It can be noisy and tender, chaotic and contemplative, vibrant and melancholic. Its people have learnt to live with its crowded streets, its relentless traffic and its unpredictable rhythms. But Rabindra Sarobar had always offered them a refuge, a place where the city seemed to pause and breathe.

Now, for Nandini, the sight of the lake would forever summon memories she could never erase. She would remember the afternoon when she had entrusted her little daughter to Malini, the disappearance, the desperate search and the dreadful revelations that followed.

The trees would continue to blossom with the seasons. The krishnachura (flame-of-the-forest) would set the avenue ablaze with its scarlet flowers, and the shiuli (night-flowering jasmine) would scatter its delicate white blossoms on the ground when autumn arrived. Children would continue to play, lovers would stroll along the pathways, and senior citizens would return to their familiar benches.

Life, as always, would go on.

But beneath the beauty of Rabindra Sarobar lay a silence that no birdsong could dispel. The lake had witnessed an afternoon of innocence turn into a nightmare. And perhaps its greatest tragedy was that, while the city would eventually forget the headlines, a little girl would have to live with the memories.

The water would become still again. The wounds would not.