The Inspector and His Suspicions

"Achho..o..o......"

As if a hand grenade had burst in the bedroom of Choube. Only effect it had on him was he turned to other side. As a result, the huge bed creaked and squeaked a little. 

Choube was sure the the teakwood-bed won't give way, the way he was sure another grenade was on its way in tandem. And it came, a touch heavier than even the first one.

He pulled his blanket over his head. He would have a peaceful slumber for another half an hour or so before the morning tea was served.

But his luck didn't hold. He sat up up on the bed with a start. Kavita sneezed once again! That called for suspicion.

Could there be a foul play? Why she sneezed thrice in the morning against her customary two?

"Did you sprinkle pepper on your potatoes last night, Kavu dear?" Choube asked his wife in as romantic a manner as possible with his gruff police-voice.

Kavita had a mosquito-like figure in contrast to her voluminous husband. But she cared two hoots for her hubby's volume, or for his position as an in-charge of a small police station in Ratanpur Town.

"You and your suspicion!" She snubbed, and left the room.

Shambhu Choube is renowned for his suspicions, much the same way his ancestors are remembered for their valour dating back to his royal bloodline. Choubes of Mithila still constitute a family to be remembered with an imperial aura in this part of India.

Choube is proud of his fame at being skeptical. 'It is an asset for a policeman,' he thinks. His suspicions have become a thing of legend over his career in policing spanning over quarter of a century.

Once he had looked suspiciously at a lizard on his office wall with the doubt that it might harbour a hidden camera, and succeeded in pursuing his men to shoo away the tiny reptile following a laborious workout. At the end, the poor creature fell with a thud and escaped, sacrificing its tail in the process.

In another occasion, he doubted a regular pickpocket to have turned into a terrorist because he changed the shade of his hair. He had punished him with the task of writing 'I'm not a terrorist' hundred times. The man was so frustrated after the exercise that he left his rich legacy of pickpocketing, and was seen to sell groundnuts thereafter. He is on records for his statement: 'Getting bashed is way easier and respectable than the punishment I had to endure with.'

Choube was on an important mission the other day. He was on his Royal Enfield. Only this heavy motorbike is considered worth carrying all of his 95 kilos that included his waxed and twirled thickset moustache. It compensated the sparsity of growth on his sparkling scalp.

It was a bright October morning, and a gentle breeze prevailed ln the air. There was no perceptible reason Choube couldn't start humming a favorite number of his, albeit dissonantly. 

As soon as he did, a few things happened in succession. His bike skidded, he toppled on the metal road to roll twice over to be spared with a minor abrasion, and a blackish creature crossed the road hurriedly with a startled mix of honk and squeak.

A crowd of nearby shopkeepers and leisurely onlookers gathered around Choube and looked as if he were an alien from Mars dropped off his spaceship. Befallen police is a rare spectacle, often amusingly so.

"Don't stand like oafs. Help me," Choube tried to roar, but nothing more than a bray emitted. 

Yet it had the desired effect. The crowd moved into action. The policeman was helped to a chair of a teashop and offered a fresh cup of tea. The bike was rescued as well with a lesser amount of effort.

The onlookers, however, refrained from dispersing. They were eager for an impending showdown.

Prem, the barber, approached Choube reverently. "Do you suspect someone, Sir?"

The fact is, he did, right at the moment he fell. Only the resultant jolt and subsequent ruckus clouded his mind a little. Now that he felt better he thought over it again. "Probably a pothole or a piece of brick left on the road. Must be the handiwork of a miscreant," he growled. 

His voice was back to its resonant self.

A comb and search operation was carried out urgently by a group of youth. Nothing incriminating was found at the eventful spot.

"Did you notice the curve on on left of the road, Sir?" A bright boy of around twenty stood facing Choube.

Choube suspected, rightfully so. "Who the hell are you?"

"A small fry compared to you, Sir." The boy was an epitome of humility. "A simple law student."

"What of the road?"

"It has got an unequal curvature, did you notice?"

Choube noticed nothing of the sort. "Of course I did," he gargled.

"You can sue the PWD authorities for this. In the year 1999, in the case of Mahendra Singh vs State......"

"Why don't you sit down." Choube offered him a chair. "A cup of tea for him," he ordered aloud. The boy looked prospective to him.

The grumpy shop owner brought a cup. Choube is not known for benevolence. He often 'forgets' to pay for sundry services.

The boy went on with the case over his tea. Choube suspected it was not his cup of tea to pursue lengthy court cases. "Let's see," he frowned.

The boy's purpose was served. In addition to fun, the free tea was a bonus. He left.

Inspector Choube was about to get up. Then he remembered. I saw some animal crossing the road while I tumbled. There must be a conspiracy in it. 

The crowd, that was about to disperse considering the show to be a damp squib, was ignited once more.

"It must the pig of Chamanlal," said Ponchu, the old carpenter.

"Where does he live?"

"In the nearby slum only, Sir." 

"Summon him here." 

Ponchu complied willingly. He had an old score to settle with the pigkeeper.

Chamanlal resembled a bag of old bones. He listened to the episode while coughing, panting, and puffing.

"Sahib," he folded his hands to Choube, "I do have a pig, but he has not left my house since morning." He panted and coughed again. "And as far as pigs are concerned, I can bet they are the most docile lot. They ain't even think of harming anyone, let alone a policeman of your stature." Looked as if he represented the entire swine community.

Choube developed another doubt bordering on suspicion. The fellow might drop dead any moment. Could it be a ploy to frame him? He let the man go.

As he was about start his bike, he heard someone pass his prophetic judgment, "Everything is God's wish. Can we stop it happening?" 

'God's wish or God's conspiracy?' Choube wondered, while resuming on his way.

'But can I suspect God?' 

He smiled. 'With my credentials, I surely can.'