A dark tale
With his crisp upturned moustache, grey beard, and wine-red turban, the colonel cut a stylish figure, even at 50. When he tucked his stomach in and walked with the purposeful gait 29 years of wearing the olive-green uniform had bestowed on him, he commanded attention. Even if he was only making his way to the stiff Patiala peg of whiskey that awaited him at the bar.
'Sahib' was what his new wife (the second Mrs Shergill), younger to him by 17 years, called him, never being audacious enough to address him by his first name. And that's why the neighbours said she would last. "She is a smart one, this Reenu, not like the other who was stupid enough to show the maid the scar behind her ear where the back of her earring had made a gash from having her head slammed against the wall," they whispered.
The colonel enjoyed parties, and women. With a clink of ice cubes in his glass he always gravitated to where the ladies were, greeting them with an exaggerated dip of his handsome head. His flashing eyes would find his wife, more than a decade younger than the fading partners of his envious course mates and a wave of pride in this new possession would overwhelm him. She was eager to please and he already had her saying "Good evening" in the polished tones of a Convent-educated girl, something he could never teach his first wife.
He would sometimes relive the horror of his earlier marriage – 29 years spent with a fat, dark, illiterate village woman with a long plait, a big maroon stick on bindi and tyres of fat falling around the waist. It was a match fixed by his father - late Sardar Himmat Singh Shergill - to whom none of his five sons ever dared say no. She was a devoted wife – looking after his parents, bearing him four children, cooking butter chicken, even desperately powdering her dark cheeks in a futile attempt to look fair. She would oil his waist-length hair every Sunday, knot them on top of his head and massage his feet. Sometimes she would pluck white hair from his moustache taking as much pleasure in his good looks as he baulked at her ordinariness.
And then, four years after his father died, and the children went away, he decided he wanted out. That was the day it thundered and flashes of lightning lit up the monsoon sky. She had washed her hair and was standing bare feet before the Granth Sahib where she did her paath every morning in the old secluded British time bungalow they lived in, hair ends dripping water over the tiles. Bending slightly to light the jyot, one hand cupped around the match to stop the flame from dying out, she had not turned when he came from behind, stepping quietly, just as he had been trained during the commando course. The pistol had been an inch from her forehead. In a flash it was over. The jyot was still burning when the ambulance came, and those who had gathered around, having heard of the tragic accident, admired the strength in his biceps and the dignity on his face when he stepped out holding his dead wife in his arms. She was depressed and had committed suicide, it was believed, though he never said a word in public. And noone dared to ask.
A year had passed. He stared into the gathering where his new wife smiled with black kajal-rimmed eyes, draped in an embroidered pink silk sari. Fragrant mogra flowers bloomed in her hair and red sindoor glowed in the parting of her hair. He had found her in a poor family that was proud to have a colonel sahib as their son in law. Many happy years awaited him. It was a lovely picture marred only by the hazy face of a big-cheeked woman with a dark stain spreading down her cheek and dripping down her ear. "To win big wars, small sacrifices have to be made," the voice of his academy instructor rang out in his ears. With a quick toast in the direction of his blushing wife, the Colonel emptied his glass and moved back to the bar for a refill.
Sahib: respected man, Patiala peg: double peg of liquor made famous by the Maharaja of Patiala who was partial to it, kajal: eye liner made from coal smoke, sindoor: red colour married Indian ladies apply in their hair parting
Engrossing tale....complete fiction or inspired by living characters?
Good one. To the point, and (as Puneet also conjectures) possibly true...
I mean, in India Mr Shergills exist outside the Army too.
Truely Macabre tale ! loved it.
I believe that mark of a good storyteller is to be able to cover a range of styles and genres and you have done that wonderfully !
Lets hope it doesn't inspire any living characters..........................!
Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.There can be many question marks.How did this low middle class girl come centre stage after a suicide/murder.This 9 to 3 moustach maintaining burra sahib is all shades of grey,a crime story should invariably cover how he erased fingerprints,what about blood splashes,the man was too close,the bullet ricochet and so on.A commando will probably do a more perfect murder,
the setting seems to be 1940s,good you tried your hand on Crime,I feel you can combine crime and comedy well, just home on to one such real life crime incident and unleash your skills,Rachna.
Santosh Rawat
Truely macabre tale (am sure is true.. woven around gossipy stories told in hushed tones). For me, had an element of shock. The instructor's voice left an eerie feeling ..
That was indeed my question too! I suspect that this is a case of art imitating life. I wonder if you have come across an incident that inspired this. Wonderful writing, by the way.
Jhoomar
Good story, though rings true....
In the US, in case of an untimely death, the spouse/partner is instantly the prime suspect and turns out to be responsible in about 70% cases. I am sure this figure is higher in India but sahibs get away scot-free most of the times.
Y S Rawat
It could well be a true story with the name and tool as well as method of execution changed. Very well written Rachna. A soon 'would be best seller writer' slowly but surely getting in to real form. Looking fwd to next story.
you get better and better every time Rachna. Brilliant job!! I love it and was wishing there was more
Nice story.......i feel every man after the wife's size increases from waist must be wanting to do this ..haha...!!! U r a good story teller...........
BIG B JB
Very well written...if it is a true story....I hope it's not repeated again...how can one be so selfish that after looking after everyone..and doing her responsibilities so well..one can be that lunatic to go such gruesome act...my experience has also witness such two acts indicates that still few people are for flash not for mind and soul.....
All the best and now its time to compile all your stories.....beautifully written but have lots of pain when visulize....Psyco, selfish people do exist every where.....
Seems almost real ! I think I know the inspiration behind it :) very well narrated Rachna Bisht ....you got talent girl :)
Ritha Hegde
Oh my god...As much as I hope this is fiction, I know it can be a real life story too....But this story left me asking for more...I mean some more pages to it to be complete. May be I am too addicted to Bollywood, that my heart asks for an ending to a story...either a happy ending or a sad ending. This story has ended in Hollywood style, leaving the chance for a sequel :) Waiting for it!
sunil rawat
..Dark indeed.
This is very different from ur usual blogs...
not humour based.
not based on a true events.(hopefully).
Very engrossing.. Part 2 coming out? Teaser from your book?
Lovely writing.. enjoyed reading it.
I did feel, I would have liked to know why he didn't get caught..
Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.
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To read more of the author's work you could google or check this link
http://www.rachnabisht.com/published-work.html