She Stoops to Kill | Stories of Crime and Passion | Ed. Preeti Gill |
Speaking Tiger, 2019 |ISBN 97893888748283 | pp256 | 350

Outpourings of frustrated anger

Preeti Gill introduces eight stories in this anthology as ‘outpourings of frustrated anger’ of the writers who usually do not write on crime and murder. The women writers have succeeded in bringing out the inside-out sort of violence within close family circles and familial relationships burrowing into the enigmas of identity and the stresses of everyday life.

Paro Anand’s And Then He Said is a well-crafted piece, its style of narration–forthright, unambiguous; like a woman alone could have written.

‘Her warm wet kiss was what he needed right now.’ About his wife he remembered, ‘she had moved out of his room and right out of his heart. It was more a dry and dusted act of procreation. Not much more.’ In contrast, ‘Since Archi…life had been worth living. Sex had been about more than bodily fluids and babies. It had become drive, pleasure, want, need, desperation, even ‘–a perfectly perfect’ life; and he enjoyed the thrill of being ‘that man.’ Introspection ate away his consciousness forcing to ask, ‘What do I offer you?’ Was the question only to Archie or equally to his wife? His life swung between happiness and guilt. The table turned when faced with reality and commitments, ‘I could kill for you.’ Her insistence, ‘I need, I need for you to do it now’ reminds Kaikeyi demanding the three boons– Yes, I want them now; just now.’ Paro Anand leaves the reader with the question, ‘As he lifted his hand to wipe his face, he saw it was covered in blood. Whose blood was it then? Had he…?’ Preethi states, ‘She was mad at her husband and wrote this story, leaving her beloved husband unscathed.’ Will it fit into the genre ‘curative psychotherapy’ –the patient fantasizes, creates images like what he likes to be and destroys.

Mitra Phukan’s Poison In The Paan taps into humanity's desire to uncover the seemingly unsolvable around a crime, a murder. Shraddha Devi, her crooning, the way she adjusted the folds of her sari across her ample chest on the stage reminds one of a typical dancing girl, in the Mughal tradition from Lucknow. The unthinkable happened setting the stage for Prabeena to step in with authoritative outbursts, ‘Who is in charge of drawing the curtains? Quick.’ The story thereafter reminds Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express – and detective Hercule Poirot. A woman murdered on the stage in full view of all yet nobody could be accused. The police and Prabeena, the female Poirot in this story, interrogate a dozen strangers on and off the stage. Nothing special or new other than in old crime fictions, yet Mitra succeeds to sustain the curiosity of the reader to walk the talk with Prabeena to the end. The reader is also educated on the difference between ‘A Gift Simplifier’ and ‘A Conditional Gift’.  

Pratyaksha’s Ginny Kalra, I Loved You fits into ‘locked room mystery’ genre–it happens under seemingly impossible circumstances– for someone three hundred kilometers away enter a room, commit a murder and join office next day. ‘The door bell is ringing. I stagger out and there is a crowd outside. Someone pulls at me and I walk, zombie-like, into Ginny Kalra’s flat, into the blood that is everywhere…I scream and black out.’ Elena D’Souza introduces the murder of Ginny Kalra, narrating how police started with, ‘Why did you do it?’ thrown on her face and various stages involving successive suspects and finally Arun, son of Mrs Mudgaonkar, from the other side of her flat. Pratyaksha’s narration, like of a story teller makes it appealing.

Venita Coelho’s Sister brought in as ‘a flash of white in the crowd,’ ‘a head taller than most of the crowd’ has the touch of a celluloid screen hero –the more when realized that she was a eunuch. Sister reminds Edgar Allan Poe’s Auguste Dupin in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ (1841), considered the first detective fiction. Though not a professional detective, Dupin combines considerable intellect with creative imagination, puts himself in the mind of the criminal to unravel crimes using the technique Poe termed ‘ratiocination.’

‘When the priest unlocked the temple, a boy lay in the blood at Kali’s feet. It was an axe. The same the priest (Lalaji) had swung with such skill to behead the sacrificial goat... When Inspector Rakesh pointed out that it was his axe, he shrugged and said, ‘If I had killed him it would have been a clean cut.’ Sister bent over the body. ‘I know the boy,’ she said. ‘He is a very rich man’s son.’ Sister nodded. ‘He is the boy who was in love with Item.’ ‘Who?’ Inspector Rakesh asked ‘Which Item.’  ‘Item is a dancer at the Night Queen bar.’ He has been coming here for about two months to see her dance.’ ‘Who would want him dead?’ ‘Not Item. She was in love with him.’ ‘Who is Sethna?’ asked Inspector Rakesh. The girl (from the slum) turned to him and smiled. ‘He is our – Mamaji.’ Sethna sank back in his pillows. ‘I think there are only two motives for murder – love and money.’…‘Save my poor child, begged Sethna.’ ‘They killed him to stop him. I hate them!’ ‘Who are they, child?’ asked Sister gently. ‘His mother, the bitch. She didn’t want him to marry me. He told me.’

‘Ah – here is the officer in charge of the case,’ said the Chief. ‘Meet Mrs Jindal.’ Item sobbed hysterically. ‘He’s dead. Sethna is dead!’ ‘The old lady (an attender of Sethna) hesitated, then let off a rattle of Tamil.’ The story with sufficient twists and turns keeps the reader glued to the end–a fit narrative for a full length movie or a small screen serial. ‘So, one man was killed with an axe, another with perfume? This damn case gets weirder all the time’, said the police officer. Sister leaves no ambiguity except for her statement that ‘The boy was killed twice.’ Item says, ‘I was angry but I didn’t hurt Prem badly. It was Lalaji); Sister tells Mrs Jindal addressing her Heera, who once danced in the same slum, ‘Your son followed you. Stepped into a bar. And saw another young girl dancing. Like his father before him – he fell in love.’ ‘Brother fell in love with sister.’ The story almost ends with Heera’s confession, ‘We had to stop it. Sethna and I were desperate. That is when we thought of Lalaji.’ ‘Sister’s concluding statement ‘Random kindness is all that stands between us and despair’ could be a prop to start a flash back.

Manjula Padmanabhan’s Serial Killer, a sociopath, has poor sense of right and wrong and can’t understand or share another person’s feelings. ‘Serial Killer’ is presented as an autobiographical sketch or a confession by Dr Shankar, followed by Jessica. Sociopaths are often portrayed in the role of a villain or antihero; Manjula Padmanabhan makes a difference in her narration. ‘I understood what was behind her X-ray vision… she was same as me.’ Shankar admits that, ‘The name that might be given to me is ‘sociopath’ Manjula Padmanabhan succeeds to portray the circumstances and company during the formative ages giving fillip to sharpen the antisocial urge and a few operational techniques adopted by such people – An absorbing story to read, probe into. 

Uddipana Goswami’s Beloved of Flowers – Cozy mysteries feature minimal violence, sex, and social relevance; a solution achieved by intellect or intuition rather than police procedure – featuring honorable  well-bred characters; setting in closed communities like in works of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and Elizabeth Daly. Beloved Flowers based on an Assamese Folktale, developed into an aura crime thriller fits into this genre–knowledge of the folktale, Tejimola will make it sweeter.

The rich merchant’s daughter, Tejassini raised by her step-mother, Kuxumpriya baideo who pretended to love but burned with envy of her beauty, intelligence and love of her father, was murdered. Where she was buried a creeper grew with beautiful flowers. Uddipana cleverly starts from here. ‘As Dino turned to close the rickety iron gate, the flowers seemed alive, articulate, about to break into a tale of tormented love, or hate, or perhaps of love and hate’ When Dino saw her the first time, ‘For a brief moment, his heart ached’ and continued to think that, ‘If she was married and covered herself from head to toe, she would become a heap of silver flowers floating, gleaming on a stretch of pink silk.’ For two brief seconds, his eyes clashed and held with the girl’s.’ Long after, in Guwahati he faced Kuxumpriya baideo as a benefactress.  The story tells of his search for the source of that ache, the tribulations went through and final realization, ‘The creeper was gone. Tejassini was gone.’ An excellent re-structuring of a sensitive, delicate folktale.

Janice Pariat’s The Nurse – And she’d forgotten what it felt like, skin on skin’ a matter of fact statement of what happens in most households in traditional societies–an ‘abandonee’ she did not want to be an ‘abandoner’ hopping to save him from being a robot all his life. Sex by itself was not the problem; it was touch beyond that. A friend told her of the languages of love. She experimented, planned for a quality time together; felt happy that on the flight he held her hand; her heart was elated. But that was not for long. She learned to be separated even while together and how people built relationships. She treasured his touch or a stray kiss on the forehead on rare occasions; every time received like reward making her unbelievably happy; had to earn that to prove his love.

Then she fell ill. He touched her forehead, even clasped her to him. It was wondrous but when better affection dropped. To get continued care her illness had to be extended. What would she choose? A precarious balance between life and death –She stopped at a pharmacy and walked back resolutely to conjure her last illness that night. It started slowly. She imagined a cluster of cells growing inside her…It felt cosmic connecting something deep in the universe that gave life and took it away. ‘Nurse’ is like an excellent, emotional, delicate short story– no crime –not even a suicide– She wanted a prolonged illness only. It is scripted from a feminine point of view– frustration, longing and humiliating dependency–desiring his closeness as one cared, nursed back every time she fell sick.

Bulbul Sharma’s A Murder In The Wedding Season – The cold-blooded murder gets unraveled because of keen, yet casual observations of an intelligent girl –our sympathies goes with the murderer - she had a very justifiable reason. She, Banno Bua, confessed: ‘I know, I have blood on my clothes. He came into my room three days after my husband died. I was fifteen years old and afraid of him. He tore my white sari off me that night; filled my body with shame. He put scars on me that I can never erase. I just cut his throat a little bit. Stupid old man!’  Rapist being a political leader, an MLA, the story moves on to indifferent police investigation, Chief Minister’s intervention and usual gossip, particularly so because associated with a marriage festival. Mita (the bride) held Banno Bua’s hand and led her away. ‘Ma and I will take care of you,’ Mita said in soft, soothing voice– words that carried real gender biased concern for a rape victim. 

A Word of Appreciation: Preeti Gill’s writers excel in craft, the way the stories are conceived, formatted, developed and in styles of narration, the way reader’s interest is captured till the last –make the reader feel that the stories happened in their immediate surroundings or family –   deserve to be in the front rank in world of crime fiction. Preeti Gill deserves accolades– a job well done.