Kali’s Revenge (short story)
By Neel Anil Panicker
For three whole days it was an endless sea of mourners that laid seige to Kolkata.
For the first 24 hours, it was as if all roads ended up the Bidhan Sagar Lane, the official residence of the late leader.
The sprawling 45 acre 25 room colonial era pure marble single stone structure was a den of frenzied activity as world leaders, party loyalists, workers, hoi polloi—all like bumble bees to honey swarmed the otherwise quiet and highly restricted area, all converging to pay their obeisance to the ‘Great Leader.’
With tearful eyes they came, departing with even more teary eyed crestfallen visages.
On day two, a good 29 hours later, the body was taken in a cavalcade decked with a mountain of flowers, (all red roses—his favourite colour, with one even nipped to the coat naple of the eighty year old).
And as the massive Army entourage that accompanied the the main vehicle that carried the dead man who was lain in a open casket that was mounted on an spring elevator raised to a height akin to a two story building, the skies resonated with wild shrieks of ‘Koustav Babu Amar Hai’ (Our Kostav Babu is immortal)
Such was the massive turnout of mourners that it over eight hours for the cavalcade to reach the Nigambodh Burning Ghat, and another three before the late diginarty’s mortal self was finally consigned to the flames.
The nation was given another four days to mourn the death of their dear deported leader.
On the fifth day, a young man managed to sneak into the late leader’s once heavily fortified now la bungalow, and left after planting a single red rose at the fest of the lone full sized photo of the man.
Beside the rose, was laid a single white paper on which were written in clear cursive writing the words, “This, from your son from another woman who you’ve refused to accord the status of wife in your lifetime. Now, wait till I usurp all that you have built, and that includes your legacy, your huge stash of unaccountable wealth that you believe is safe in an unnumbered Swiss bank account, your 27 benami properties, and of course, your political legacy. Dear Dad, you may have been the most powerful man in India, you may have founded and led a party to power the maximum number of times in the history of independent India, you may have even forgotten that while you were busy chasing, achieving and acquiring all these materialistic and egoistic boosters, you had led a hapless woman and her only child—your own flesh and blood—to live of utter penury and deprivation.
Ironic isn’t that? Or, shall simply call it tragi-comedic that within a half mile radius from where you lived a life of luxury with your ‘wife and three children’, also existed another family of yours, a family you left behind, refused to acknowledge, drunk as you were with the pitiable pelfs of power and false glory.
Dear Amrendra Chattopadhya,
I, your ‘illegitamate’ hereby vow in the name of my mother, the woman you once loved and promised the moon, and then cruelly turned your face away from, that I shall take all that was yours, all that you have so far owned and transferred to your first family, and I shall do it within the next one decade. That, and that alone will be my tribute to my mother, and a fitting reply to your, dear departed Prime Minister of India.’
Clearly, Biswanath aka Kali, the son, the one world had yet not known, had arrived.
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