Chapter V
Part 1 – The Murderer’s Confession
Aryan and the
murderer sat in the interrogation room, as the latter finally began the story
of Jay Shah’s murder.
“I couldn't sleep
since many nights, and it was often that I’d pace across the hall. It was
almost a routine now – walking about silently in the darkness as the rest of my
family was fast asleep. You might call me restless, but no, that wasn't it. I
was worried, very worried. “Worried about what?” You may ask, “You have
everything a person needs to be happy” But that wasn't true. I was worried
about my greatest fear coming true. I was afraid – afraid of the truth. And
thus I spent most of my nights hoping against hope that what I had heard was
not the truth. After all, I had done nothing wrong. I had done nothing to
deserve to be punished like this. But doubts still crept up through my
incessant thoughts – memories of my past, memories of being called a sissy,
memories of how I was laughed at just because my voice was too shrill to sound
like a man. However, I brushed them away, telling myself that I was nothing
less of a man.
Suddenly the pin
drop silence of the night was interrupted by the clank of keys opening the
front door. And as the light from the corridor streamed into the hall, and onto
my white kurta, a silhouette entered, and suddenly stopped in its tracks.
“Dad? You’re
awake... It’s quite late”, it said.
“Jay... yes I
couldn't sleep.” I heard myself say.
“What happened? Is
something wrong?” Jay was genuinely concerned.
“No, not really” I
lied. “Why don’t you sit down with me for a bit? Let’s have a father-son talk?”
“Sure” Jay said and
sat down next to me.
I couldn't bear it
any more. They say that ignorance is bliss, but I couldn't put on a mask of
being ignorant when I had been told the truth. I had to find out. I had to know
for sure – the truth must be spoken from the horse’s mouth. After a brief
moment of silence, I said, “You know, father son talks are incomplete without a
good drink.”
“Dad you know that
I don’t drink. Why don’t you go ahead?”
This didn't seem to
be working out. My son would never admit to the truth if he was in his senses.
As I walked to the kitchen, I said, “Well at least have some Pepsi?”
I smiled as Jay
nodded. He looked so ignorant and naive as he sat on my sofa. I poured out some
rum for myself, and a glass of Pepsi for him, but I added some Absinthe to it.
Yes, I spiked my son’s drink. You may point a finger at me and say that I am a
pathetic father, but that night, the father had ceased to exist. I was just a
desperate middle aged man in the pursuit of truth, and I was hoping against
hope that I hadn't given birth to a faggot.
As I walked back
into the hall with a tray full with our drinks, a few fruits and a chopping
knife, I felt for a second that Jay was upset about something, that something
was bothering him. But I pushed it all aside and handed his glass over to him.
Jay’s face squirmed as he had his first sip, and my heart beat increased. Oh
no... Would he realize? That can’t happen! He mustn't know that I added
something to his drink! A few moments passed and I looked at him speculatively,
as he finished the glass in one go. “I guess I was thirsty...” he said, “...
but maybe I should ask mom to get Thums Up next time. I’m beginning to hate
Pepsi” I smiled, and waited for the effects to kick in. They say that Absinthe
acts as a truth serum for someone who doesn't drink, and that’s what happened,
or at least that’s what I think happened. The look on Jay’s face altered. His demeanour
changed from being happy and carefree, to someone thoughtful and maybe even
sad. But that night I was dedicated to finding out the truth.
“So you were at
Harshil’s place today? Did you have fun?” I hissed.
“Ya dad... It was a
lot of fun. We played a lot. You know I always have fun with him... He’s very
special...”
I couldn't believe
my ears. They played? Played what?
Harshil is very special? What did he mean? How special was he? My
heart beat increased again. My memories rushed back to me. The very first time
I’d picked up my sister’s doll... I’d always been fascinated with dolls... How
I’d dressed it up. It looked so beautiful, until my father saw me, and slapped
me hard across my face. It stung hard, and it still stings until today. I could
hear my brothers laughing at me, pointing at me and calling me a pansy. I could
remember my mother telling me to be a man, like how all my brothers were. But
it wasn't my fault if I liked dolls! Jay had continued talking to me, but now
his speech was slurred “... we have been friends since we were kids, you know.
But since college started we got very close...” I took a short sharp breath. Is
this when everything had begun? Is this how long I haven’t known? Since college
started? But my thoughts continued to
haunt me. I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying as I got lost in my
college days. The very first time I’d spoken to a senior, I’d asked him for
directions to my class. And everybody had laughed – laughed long and hard. Why?
Because my voice was girl-like. My voice was shrill though I was 18, and soon I
was famous for it. One night, I remember too well – I remember being cornered in
my very own hostel room as a bunch of them pulled my pants down to check if I
was “a man”. And then they laughed at me, once again, because I screamed in
protest. I screamed like a girl. They laughed at me because I was too small,
because I wasn't adequate enough. They had laughed at me and called me a faggot
as I stood there naked, surrounded by peals of the mocking, jeering laughter
which got imprinted in my memory. I had been humiliated at every step of my
life, because everyone around me thought that I was not a man.
And 25 years ago
when I got married, I thought that I had proved everybody wrong. Three years
later I had proved to them that I was a man, an adequate man, when Jay was
born. I had proved myself. I had shown it to everybody that I am a straight
man. No one had laughed at me since then. I commanded respect from everyone
around me and no one had dared to laugh. “But they will laugh at you again”,
said a small voice in my head, “they will laugh when they get to know the
truth. They will laugh when they hear what Kevin told you. They’ll laugh and
say that only gay men can give birth to gay children.” No! I can’t let this
happen! I cannot be laughed at! I cannot take it anymore! Jay’s slurry words
interrupted my thoughts, “Dad I've alwaaaays trusteeed him... He’s been my
pillar... I caaan’t fight with him... I have to make it up to him... He is
everything I have now...”
No! This cannot be
true! Kevin was right! My son... my son is gay. “They will laugh at you...”
said the voice in my head. And from then on, all I heard was that mocking,
torturing laugh from that night when I was ripped off my shame. I begged it to
stop, but it went on and on. Memories played and replayed in my head. And every
memory ended with that laugh – oh that offensive ridicule I had gone through
over and over again! I had been tortured all through my life! That laughter had
greeted me at every step! I struggled with myself then and I was struggling now.
Struggling to make it stop! Oh but I knew that it wouldn’t stop! “But you know
how you can make it stop” said the voice in my head, “Kill the reason of your
shame!” No!! How could I! But the laughter wouldn't stop ringing in my head! It
was driving me crazy! It had to stop! At any cost! I had to make it stop! I
wasn't thinking at all now. My mind was occupied with one single torture. How
would I live, if this continued! The voice inside me was right. I must stop the
laughter! No, I cannot think of anything else, I must do everything to stop it.
I looked around. The kitchen knife was within my reach, and the next second, I
stabbed him – once, twice, thrice, four times, five times... until his eyes
closed, until the laughter stopped.
My mind was finally
at peace, as I dragged my son out of my house, and laid him down a few
buildings away. I tore his clothes and punched him. I made it look like he had
been attacked for money. I thought that no one would know what really
happened.”
Mr. Manish finally
looked up at Aryan with tears in his eyes, as Aryan said, “The only reason why
Jay was upset about Harshil and talking about him is because Harshil had tried
to seduce him, and your son had walked out of his house in anger. I wish that
you would’ve listened to your son, instead of the ghosts from your past.”
“And one more
thing,” Aryan said as he walked out, “Real men don’t kill their children. They
stand by their choices.”
Part 2 – Epilogue
“Sir, when did you
know”, Shlok said to Aryan when they were back in his office, “That Manish was
the murderer?”
“You remember that
text message I got when I was interrogating Divya? It was our tech guy. His
team had taken Jay’s phone and walked from Harshil’s place to Jay’s house. They
found out that the first time Jay’s phone got connected to an open WiFi
network, was when they reached Jay’s house. That meant that Jay should've
reached home at 1:22 am, because that’s when his message saying ‘I miss you’ got
sent to Divya. And it also meant that the killer was someone from his immediate
family. That’s when Harshil came along, and said that Jay wasn't gay, but both
Divya and I had been told by Kevin that he was. It was obvious that Kevin was
lying, and when he said that he had lied to his father, among others, I knew
that it would bring out a lot of rage within Manish. But the nail in the coffin
was Manish’s reaction when he found out that Jay was straight.”
Shlok was wide eyed
as he said, “That’s brilliant sir!”
Aryan’s expression
altered as he said “But Kevin was in a bad state. He will never forgive
himself, and for god knows how long will he hold himself responsible for his
elder brother’s death.”
“One small lie and
it cost so many people their lives.”
“It wasn't the lie
Shlok. It never was the lie. It was just Manish’s pride and his inability to
accept his past. It brought forth a monster that killed all hopes of a future.”
And with a deep breath, Aryan picked up his coat, and said, “Finally, it’s time
to go home.”
“Not quite.” Shlok
said as he looked up from his cell phone, “We have another murder.”
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