Death Will Follow: A Murder Mystery of Electoral Fraud, Land Grab and a Vanishing Voter in Habibpur

I

Vivek Kumar stretched back in his chair, then yawned. He lazily picked up a Form-7 from the stack on his desk, glanced at it and made a face. The form enabled complaints by individuals against other voters, alleging a variety of reasons why they didn’t deserve to be on the electoral rolls and asking that they be struck off. Processing the complaints added needlessly to Kumar’s already substantial workload.

He squinted at the barely legible handwriting. The form alleged that Syed Najeeb Ahmad was not an Indian citizen and demanded his deletion from the voter list. He shook his head and sighed, “Busybody. This is not the way.”

Kumar did not like to be rushed. And yet, here he was, having been appointed Booth Level Officer (or BLO Babu) to oversee the special revision of the electoral rolls of Habibpur constituency within an impossibly short period. He would have to verify the papers of every Habibpur voter and make a revised voters’ list, and then there were these jokers submitting Form-7 complaints causing him to initiate enquiries that would go nowhere. Syed Najeeb Ahmad was a wealthy man. Everyone knew he was not Bangladeshi. He would show his birth certificate, there would be a big argument about the inconvenience caused to him, and eventually he would get his name back on the list.

Vivek Kumar’s was only a clerical post, but he always thought of himself as a thinker. Unnecessary paperwork annoyed him. It served no purpose. He let the form fall, pushed his chair back and went out into the veranda of the village panchayat office to see what else was interesting.

II

He didn’t have to go far. The Pradhan himself was in office today, confabulating with Maiti Babu, his mentor and benefactor. The Pradhan was a man of common intelligence, who enjoyed the minor perks of his public office. Maiti Babu, on the other hand, was his kingmaker and sought to achieve more from it. He had carefully selected the Pradhan as his protégé and actively helped his campaign for election as head of the village committee. Maiti Babu was a civil works contractor and, ever since the Pradhan’s election, he had been awarded all the village development tenders.

In the small office, Maiti Babu was holding forth. “These people only have hatred for Hindus”, he said with conviction. “So much land! Is he going to take it to his grave? He has no family. All his community people have left the village and gone, then why is he hoarding it? Why is he not giving it to us?”

Kumar already knew who was being spoken of, but he thought it best to clarify. “Who, sir?”

“Your nawab sahab, that’s who! Najeeb Ahmad,” said Maiti Babu with irritation. “These children of the Mughals! They invaded our land and to this day they are not giving it back.”

“Land Jihad,” said the Pradhan, helpfully.

“Sir, the national highway is being constructed not far from Habibpur. All this land will be prime property. Very good investment. It is better to take it from him now,” said Vivek Kumar.

“Arrey, I went to Najeeb Ahmad personally! I offered a fair price for his land, but he is refusing to sell it to me. And I am not doing this for any personal profit, but only in community interest.” Maiti Babu looked at the Pradhan, “If Panchayat supports me, I will donate land for a grand temple. I will build a big supermarket, and a cinema hall here. There will be a fancy mall. Then everyone from the district will come to Habibpur for all their shopping.”

“Dada, Panchayat will always support you, but how can we force Najeeb Ahmad to sell?” The Pradhan gestured helplessly.

Maiti Babu let out an exasperated sigh.

“Sir, someone has submitted a Form-7 complaining that he is not an Indian citizen. It is not practical. I will destroy the form. Better to have another one submitted claiming he is dead,” said Kumar quietly.

Maiti Babu stared at him for a long moment, until his face relaxed as he smiled in comprehension.

“Najeeb Ahmad is old. He takes so many medicines, has so many dietary restrictions. One Chhoton is the caretaker and cook. He does everything and gets nothing in return. You can ask him, Sir,” Kumar continued.

III

Pradyut Singh had just realised that this was his first independent brief, and an outstation one too, when the Vande Bharat Express pulled into Rudrapur.

He had spent two unhappy years at a small law firm and not learnt very much. He had gone to speak to the managing partner about having summited the learning curve, and to ask for a promotion. But the wily partner had smiled at him and said, “Have you worked on waqfs—Muslim charitable trusts? I have a very interesting matter for you. An old client has suddenly resurfaced. Still has so much prime land, but he says he is being harassed by local strongmen. He doesn’t want his ancestral property to fall into their hands. He wants to create a waqf for charitable purposes.” The partner had also added adroitly, “He is my client. I’ll draw up the waqf deed. You just take it to him, insert all the land details, and have it signed.”

Pradyut jumped smartly down to the platform. He looked to his right, then to his left, expecting a driver with a placard announcing his name. He saw nobody.

Sometime later, looking more harried, less smart, he found himself in the deserted parking lot of the small station. He called the partner. “Sir, there is no driver to take me to Habibpur.”

The partner rolled his eyes, “Bhai, I can’t find you an Uber sitting here, no? Hire a vehicle and make your way. You have the address.”

It took Pradyut an hour to find a very noisy auto rickshaw that agreed to take him to the village. He whipped out his phone and called his girlfriend as he settled in the backseat. “Rudrapur is the district town—already the boondocks. Village is another 30-35 km away, and he is saying, ‘find a vehicle’. He is pushing me to leave, yaar.”

IV

Pradyut Singh had regained some of his composure by the time the auto pulled into the large compound. He got off and looked around him. The mansion looked old and decrepit and in need of much repair. “First, get your own house renovated, before making donations,” he muttered. There was a big lock on the front door, and the widows seemed bolted. Still, he knocked loudly and waited. He rapped again at the nearest window, and heard a slight sound in response from one of the upstairs windows. He looked up sharply and heard a tap-tap again, but the window was shut. It even had a tin sheet on the outside, covering it. “Anyone here?” he yelled.

“Sir, try the back-side,” yelled the auto driver from his seat.

Pradyut walked to the back of the house, along a path full of weeds, and into a banana grove. There was an overgrown garden beyond. He saw a man resting on a mat in the shade and called out in relief. “I am here to see Najeeb Ahmad”.

The man seemed surprised to see a stranger. He sprang up and said, “Saheb is no more.”

“He’s passed away? When?” Pradyut frowned.

“Three-four days ago.”

“Arrey, what are you saying! He called my office three-four days ago. Where is his family? Who is making that noise on the first floor?”

“He has no family, sir. I am the only one here. I used to work for him.”

“What’s your name? What happened to him?”

“I am Chhoton. He was old, Sir. He had his dinner, which probably did not suit him. He fell ill and passed away. I informed Pradhan Babu and Maiti Babu immediately. Better you speak to them, Sir.”

“You couldn’t be bothered to find your own way to the village, so now you’ve killed him? This way, how will you continue at the firm?”

V

Pradyut sat before three men, a glass of tea in front of him, and Chhoton hovering behind. “I heard a noise on the first floor, but Chhoton is saying that he has died. Ahmad called my firm a few days ago.”

“I am the BLO. I personally verified the matter,” said Kumar. “Form-7 was submitted almost one month ago notifying that Najeeb Ahmad was dead. After proper verification, his name was deleted from the voter list. It is official now. See the list?” The BLO shoved a typed list in front of Pradyut. “See? Not there.”

“Chhoton is saying he died only three-four days ago, and you say you were notified a month ago?”

“What does Chhoton know? We cared for him,” snapped Maiti Babu.

Pradyut felt in his pockets for his cigarettes, then took them out and gestured that he wanted to step out to have a smoke. He felt a mild panic on Najeeb Ahmad’s behalf.

He could hear Maiti speak inside, “Two nights ago, I gave you those tablets to increase strength. Did you give them to him? Or have you locked up the old man somewhere with a mind to create trouble for me later?”

“Saheb, the strength pills work gradually,” said Chhoton, blankly. His tone scared Pradyut.

He took out his phone to call his partner again, but there was a message waiting from him: “We have always found you wanting in your professional commitments. He is our old and valued client. If you can’t retain clients, perhaps this is not the place for you.”

He took a last drag, steadied himself and went back inside with new resolve.

“Listen, I can confirm that he called my office. He wanted to create a waqf from his land.”

“What land! He sold me the land,” Maiti Babu stood up.

“You have a copy of the sale deed? Is it registered?”

There was a long moment of silence. “Anyway. I am a lawyer and I can help with registration, etc. Later, if you want to sell it to a big developer, I can help with that also.” He took out his card, scratched out the firm’s name and wrote on top: ‘Independent practice’. Then he formally proffered it to the three men.

Shahrukh Alam practices law at the Supreme Court of India and also likes to write murder mysteries