Rust On The Astute Sword

Prologue

Close to midnight; April 14

Multiple lines of worry emerged on Dr. Prasanth Patra’s forehead. A sinful political propaganda was on the roll, and Dr. Patra had to lay down the carpet. He leaned back on his chair and contemplated on the phone call he received two minutes ago. It not only did rock his boat but certainly drowned the entire set of principles, obligations and oaths he took as a doctor. The savior without a sword. He thought sarcastically.

He was one of those few doctors who didn’t play puppet at the hands of ministers in power. He, who never even charged a single coin for treating people under the poverty line, had his own hospital but still eked out time for Howrah District General Hospital (HDGH). Men like him were must in government hospitals, who would work for the people instead of being threaded to control by the higher ups. His father had told him.

He was living up to it, until that ill-fated phone call.

He was the only doctor present at HDGH at that time.

The orders from the higher ups could not be more distinct. A depressive feeling, jumbled with fear in the gut was all Dr. Patra could feel.

Suddenly his thoughts spiraled back to his family. He had a proud father, still full of beans, a lovely wife that supported him like a mast and a beautiful daughter who had her boards in the coming year. He had lost his mother to cancer a few years back.

He took out his phone and for a moment considered calling his friend, Ravi Sanyal, who happened to be the Assistant Chief Commissioner of Police. But the stakes were really high.

“I saw your daughter the other day,” the man said with tone full of virility, when Dr. Patra didn’t acquiesce to his demands. “Such a beautiful and voluptuous body. I see you’re the only father who would love to see his daughter forced, I guess.”

A man has many duties, some to his nation and its people, others to the members of his family, individually. As a doctor he had a few more.

Dr. Patra had to make the toughest choice of his life. He was nonplussed.

He kept pacing his chamber. Tears huddled up in the corner of eyes ready to dive down his cheek. His mind had hit the pause button.

He could neither trade his daughter’s safety nor his father’s trust.

The caller had been strict that the matter would be buried, and none would ever come to know of it, but his conscience had declared war. He could not live with such a burden. An entire life’s commitment was a few minutes away from getting shattered. What had he done to deserve this? He had no answer.

Instead he opened his gallery and clicked on a folder. It had the pictures of his daughter, Rima’s last birthday.

He let out a deep sigh and kept his phone aside. He had found a way out of the mess.
He put down his stethoscope and took out his prescription paper.

                                   ***

The security guard, Ramesh, of HDGH had his eyes glued to his mobile screen. He was watching pornographic content. At nights like this he longed to be home, in bed with his newly married wife. But the situation in the country was dwindling every hour, and it called for extra hours of duty.

Cursing vulgarly in his native tongue he said to himself, “People will die and still we people have to do duty even when we run risk of getting infected.” He was growing restless due to the slow network speed. He gave up finally on the video.

He got out of the small cabin he called bathroom.

What he saw stole the colour from his face. His legs gave way and his phone fell from his hand.

Two cold and unblinking eyes kept staring at him. The body was lying in a broken state, crooked beyond human relaxations. Blood smeared on the ground.

Ramesh somehow gathered himself and scampered close. Hankering, he took a look at the face.

The person had multiple lines of worry on his forehead.

Some days ago; Mumbai
Maharashtra CM, Manoj Thakre was in deep slumber. The continuous shrill ringing of the mobile infuriated him. Rubbing his eyes and putting the glasses above his nose he glanced at the number.

The name didn’t pop up, but Thakre unequivocally knew who the caller was. Cold sweat broke over his forehead. Not a good omen, he thought.

Muttering Shri Ram’s name he picked. The man at the other end barked instructions apathetically.

Manoj was left in turmoil. The instructions were too obtrusive. His government couldn’t risk such exposure. Moreover it was beyond constitutional rights. “This cannot be done,” his tone was soft as if the other was the man in power.

The man laughed. “I knew you would say this. Anyway, we have a definite Plan B for you. Check your email. Personal one. Madam asked me to send you personally. That too only for now,” the last sentence had a slight disturbing emphasis.

“Personal, why?” Manoj sounded clueless. But the line had gone dead then.
He sat on his PC, which was on his bedroom. It was only for his personal agendas, secured with high-level modern surveillance under his personal cyber security team.

He clicked on his email account. His jaw dropped when he saw the attachment.
Few minutes ago he was still feeling dizzy, now his eyes felt like they would pop out. The sender was anonymous.

Never in his life had he a vague idea that it would come to this. A buried past was torn open from the Earth’s gut, it seemed.
He quickly changed the password of his mail account, still coming to no reasonable conclusion at this implausible state of affairs.

Then suddenly he turned his head to look at his wife. She was sound asleep. She hadn’t seen a thing.

His demons had risen from hell again, and now he had to dance at their bidding.
He went to bed; an obvious trepidation eclipsing his view.