Murder at Maharaji pul*

 

Murder at Maharaji pul*

For a neophyte doctor establishing successful practice is a Herculean task. Yet, when push comes to shove you have to get going. And that’s what I did: I set up my consultation room in a crowded poor locality, Maharajee pul area by the side of Bagamati River in Darbhanga. It was difficult to find a decent accommodation for a clinic in that area. Someone came to help; he suggested me a small house that was vacant there. The property belonged to a distant relative of the late Maharaja of Darbhanga. The house was in a dilapidated condition, but low rent suited my pocket. It had two rooms, one by the roadside served me as my consultation room, and the other with a table and some necessary paraphernalia served as the operation theatre for minor surgeries.

A local young boy with a few years’ experience offered his services as my assistant. He was hard of hearing, but knew his job. Being a local, he knew people well and he could warn me of troublemakers, of which the area was full. The troublemakers frequently showed up at my clinic, often for no particular reason. They loved to sit with me across the table and talk sweet nothing. I particularly remember a man who often frequented the road in front of my clinic many times a day. He was young, tall and lean with disorderly hair and overgrown beard. He always had a long black gamachha covering his left arm and hand shoulders down. He once came casually and sat down for chitchat. I didn’t mind. In any case, I wanted to develop acquaintance with locals. That day as he sat down, he coolly placed a revolver on my table. I didn’t feel afraid, or wasn’t surprised. I was new there and had no issues with him or anyone else in the area. The revolver in his trouser pocket might have felt uncomfortable and possibly he wanted to feel at ease, I thought! But that wasn’t all. He had another trophy with him- a scorpion in a screw-capped glass bottle. He put it too on my table. Later I learnt, his left hand was all but exposed skeleton; a crude bomb had blown his hand up while he worked on it, someone told me!

I remember another character there who frequently dropped in for no particular reason. He called himself a private tutor for school children. When I asked him out of curiosity what subjects he taught, he proudly replied, ‘also subject!’ I believe, he meant ‘all subjects’.

But men and women selling vegetables and local laborers were my common patients. They found my consultation fee of ten rupees reasonable, and my behavior pleasant.

For a couple of months things went fine. My practice was rule-based and ethical. I scrupulously refused medical termination of pregnancy and never issued fake medical certificates, the former because I had no infrastructure or training, and the latter because I wouldn’t trade in falsehood. Yet, during the first month I made about seven hundred rupees! The next month it was about a thousand rupees. I was happy; those days an MBBS doctor in Bihar Government service received less than that as monthly salary. As such I had very few overhead expenses. I commuted to my clinic on my Avon bicycle, and back home spent time playing with my little daughter who found the whole World amazing as it unfolded before her eyes. Also, a placid life in a sleepy town allowed me opportunities both to practice my newly acquired craft, and ample time to prepare for my postgraduate entrance examination.

But no one knows when life would take a surprising turn. And it did. One evening there was a great commotion outside my clinic. As I looked out, a group of about 5-6 young men trooped into my clinic unannounced. They carried an unconscious man on their shoulders. As they came in, they put the unconscious man on the examination couch and left as quickly as they had come!

Disregarding the suddenness, I and my assistant, Jinu, quickly had a look at the patient. The man on the couch was limp, lifeless, had dilated pupils, and no signs of life. We immediately started cardiopulmonary resuscitation as per protocol. All efforts went futile. It was a case brought dead! And it was my baby now! I had no choice. I called the police. A sub-Inspector came quickly. He was polite and a man of few words. I told him the story. He didn’t have many questions. However,, he inquired if I knew anyone among the men who brought the patient to me. Frankly, I didn’t know them, although some faces were familiar in the area. They all were unemployed local youth who often roamed the area aimlessly. The police sub-Inspector wasn’t interested in much inquiry. He called a vehicle, took possession of the body and left.

It was very late by the time I reached home after the police formalities. People at home were a little surprised due to unusual delay. When they heard the story, their surprise turned into horror.

Today in places big and small, loss of life is no more than a momentary curiosity. Those bereaved suffer, but for others, death is just a statistics! The next day it was business as usual in Maharaji pul area as if nothing had happened. I was a little curious. May be more curious than the police. But in Maharaji pul area almost everyone knew what had happened, and who the culprit was. The victim was a local Marawari boy. The death resulted from a trivial tiff on small amount that resulted in the victim being choked to death as a gamachha tightened gradually around his neck proved the deadly noose. The culprit and the victim were all from a local group of friends, I learnt. They all were well-known to each other. May be things took a deadly turn the way no one expected. Yet, it was a murder most foul!

During a few more months I spent there, I never heard anything about the case. The police never returned to me. May be in the government records this murder was reported as a case of sudden death in young, or a death from fall. Who knows?

Few months later, I received my commission in the Army Medical Corps. I had enough of private practice to test my patience by then. Also I had made up my mind to move outside Bihar. Thus within no time I folded my practice up, shifted whatever belonging I had there, and moved to Danapur cantonment to join my commission. That was Jan 1983. Even today nearly forty years down the line memories of Maharaji pul lingers on! But that’s a different story!!

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Maharaji pul*, a bridge over Bagamati River built by the Maharaja of Darbhanga in Shubhankarapur locality on the outskirts of the town.

Gamachha, a multipurpose cotton scarf of varying length that serves also as headgear, duster, and a sheet to carry things bundled in it.