Bangtan, a Break-in, and a Bakery

BANGTAN, A BREAK-IN, AND A BAKERY

I woke up hearing my mother’s shrill voice over the phone, as she punctuated her exclamations of horror with gasps and incomprehensible questions. I glanced out the window. It was dark except for the yellow street lights which cast their haloes in circles of light around them. I estimated it was midnight or later. Not a soul on the road outside our flat on the 11^th floor of a building which sat amid a whole bank of tall residential structures in Sanpada, a nondescript suburb of Mumbai. I wondered what had happened to make my habitually-nervous Amma teeter on the brink of a panic attack.

I sprang awake. Amma’s voice had hit 150 decibels and she was waking up the whole building.

“Papa, Papa, wake up, something awful has happened,” screeched Amma to my father who lay a few inches away from her. Trust Amma to convert everything into an afternoon soap opera. The more the drama, the better the program in real life.

“The cook, what’s-his-name, I think Kumaran, is on the line. He is standing outside our bakery. The shutter has been damaged and the bakery is open. Did you hear Papa? The bakery shutter is hanging open.”

“What??” Papa sprang to his feet. He looked disoriented. “Bakery?? What’s the time?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 3.48 am. “Broken in? What has been robbed? Butter cake?? Or Khari biscuits? Really, Leela, I am sure you heard wrong. Don’t panic, woman.”

He gently prised the phone out of her claw-like grasp and listened to an agitated voice at the other end. He finally lowered the phone.

“I think I have to go there and see what has happened,” Papa muttered in his maddeningly mysterious way. Soon he set off for the bakery, which sat on the main road, a stone’s throw away from both our flat and the Sanpada railway station. I wondered all through my teeth-brushing and toast-gulping about what had happened. Had the place been trashed? My childhood wonderland of cupcakes and samosas and tutti-frutti toast, was it now paradise lost? A BTS song lyrics floated in my head, “All the breaths you breathe are already in paradise.”

I could hear Amma calling out to me, “Myra, Myra, where are you?” I lay on the bed, reviewing in my head, all the BTS songs I had been bingeing on last night. I then realized that it was my duty to investigate and find out what had happened at the bakery. BTS spoke to me from across the seas, telling me to find “the Truth Untold”. It often happens to me, in fact I speak on a daily basis to one or the other band member, usually J-Hope. Sometimes for hours on end. Telepathy. Yes, he wrote about me talking to him in that song of theirs.

I later came to know about what had happened. Papa had set out at 3.50 am for the bakery, but not before he had picked up Nair Uncle, our next door neighbor, who is also called Policeman Uncle. Nair Uncle is Venu’s dad, and has been the police constable in Sanpada Police Station for years and years. I immediately thought of Venu. If I had to find my Watson, I would vote for Venu first.  My classmate, Venu, sits next to me at school. He’s cool in an old-fashioned way. I hate him because he hates BTS. He makes fun of K-pop and listens to some pre-historic music called The Beatles and The Moody Blues. But I love him because he is a “liberal” and “an Urban-Naxal” and has some particularly refreshing criticism about the government and the UN and world leaders in general.

No sleep now. I got up. I executed a few dance moves, thinking of BTS’  Jimin. This was my ritual early morning prayer for a good day. I heard Amma calling up her brother in Houston and her sister in Toronto, with the “Breaking news about the Break-in at the Bakery”. I suppose she thought my Houston uncle would solve it the mystery!

But perhaps Policeman Uncle would. After all, Venu’s blood flowed in his veins. And anyway, Venu and I would solve it first. Sherlock and Watson.

Dad disappeared for hours. Seems he spent most of that time in the police station with Nair Uncle to lodge a First-Information-Report, to enable the police investigation into the break-in to begin.

Venu arrived just after breakfast and we visited the scene of the crime. Venu even had a notebook and gloves. Playing sleuth! He gave me a startling piece of info. His father, Nair Uncle has walked past the bakery at 3.30 am and it had been shuttered. He had been on duty, checking up on a deserted space beneath the bridge, which was supposed to be haunted by young drug addicts. “Was he sure about the time? 3.30 am? Exactly?” Venu was sure.

We discussed it. Venu said, “Myra, that seems impossible. The cook, Kumaran, said he had reported to work at 3.35 am. He reached the bakery to find the shutter damaged and the place was trashed. Stuff had been flung across the floor. Kumaran says, and I do not believe him, that he was so upset he felt dizzy and he had to sit down for a while after he discovered the burglary. As soon as he felt better, he phoned up your home, which was at 3.48 am precisely. This is not sounding right. I think Kumaran is our prime suspect.”

I disagreed with Venu. “My dear Watson, what makes you suspect him? I grant it that he’s a disgruntled employee, always grumbling that Papa doesn’t pay him well, but that doesn’t make him the burglar.”

Venu looked very superior. “The time element, my dear Sherlock is what you have overlooked. My Dad walked past the bakery store front at 3.30 am. It was properly shuttered. Nothing amiss. Then Kumaran arrives at 3.35 and finds it broken into, trashed. Is that all possible in 5 minutes? I tell you, Kumaran is lying.”

Suddenly, the Bangtan Boys’ lyrics float again into my brain… “Caught in a lie. Find the me that was innocent.”

I bring myself back to the present. “Well, you do have a point Venu. Kumaran might have collaborated with the burglar. Maybe he just wants to get even with Papa. I don’t know…” I trailed off indecisively.

At the crime-site, we soon discovered what was stolen after the police had made their first enquiry. The little iron safe which was embedded in the south-side wall of the bakery had been forced open and now lay gaping open. I knew what had been inside: Papa’s secret Masala for his cabbage burgers. Our cabbage burgers were the best-selling items in the vegetarian bakery, and stood out as the bakery’s unique selling proposition. Our profits depended on its sale.

By now it was mid-morning and Papa had tidied up the bakery and was manning the counter. Kumaran had been called for interrogation to the police station. And soon the bakery’s second employee, 20-year old Ashok was also whisked away to the police station. My cool, unflappable Papa was still holding onto his calm, smiling and courteous behind the counter, maybe masking his worry. We noticed hardly any customers walk in, a contrast to our usually packed counters.

At noon, Papa lost his calm exterior. Nair Uncle dropped by with some news. He directed us to check our WhatsApp messages, which we had forgotten in the flurry of events and our detective ruminations. My inbox was flooded with the same forwarded message- a message that warned customers of Myra’s Bakery (the bakery was named in my honour) to stay away, as a burglar had entered the bakery premises and it was suspected that he had poisoned some bakery products. The WhatsApp forward quoted some unnamed police “sources”. All my friends had passed on the very same message to us for information.

Papa looked saddened. Unusual lines of anxiety emerged around his forehead and mouth. I was glad Amma was not there. She would have been turning somersaults.

Nair Uncle stayed a few minutes to ensure that Papa was OK. He said, “The other officers back at the police station suspect Kumaran. I think he is might be our culprit. But I do not think he is the mastermind.”

Venu and I spoke in unison, “Then who is? Do you know? Do you suspect?”

Nair Uncle looked around. “I do not know, but I think it might be Ashok. I have never really trusted him. And I do not believe that Kumaran is tech-savvy enough to have started that poisonous WhatsApp, but I do not put it past Ashok. Once a drunk, always suspect. And there is some new evidence against Ashok.” He looked at Papa.

Papa looked distressed. “Oh no. Not against Ashok. I really trust him. We come from the same village in South India. I know his father. I hope he has not done it. I do not expect gratitude for all that I have done for him, but Ashok owes me. For many things. He’s could have been the son I didn’t have.”

“Sorry, but the evidence seems against Ashok. The other constable at our Station came across Ashok last night, walking up and down the service lane near the Railway station at exactly 3.32 am this morning. The timing places him near the bakery. After I had walked past the shuttered bakery at 3.30, Ashok and Kumaran could have trashed the place, stolen the masala, and after a wait of about 5 minutes, Kumaran phoned your house. They interrogating the pair back in the Police station right now.”

My father looked devastated. When I think of Ashok, I think of BTS’ Dionysus. My Papa had employed Ashok because they come from the same village in South India. Ashok had joined and my father had trusted him. At 20 something, Ashok was a silent, but pleasant boy. But I had early on detected that something was eating him: an air of swirling melancholy always surrounded him. He was always asking for an advance on his salary. Nair Uncle said he had been arrested twice for being drunk and causing a nuisance, but charges had not been pressed. Venu said he was into drugs as well, but I thought that was all not true. I could see that Nair Uncle didn’t like him, and suspected he was up to no good, and Ashok had this sullen, rebellious and closed look whenever he met Nair Uncle.

Venu looked thoughtful, as if he had suddenly been struck by a thought. “Be back in a while,” he said and then disappeared.

After lunch, Papa stayed on in the bakery. I realized that Venu was missing. He wouldn’t answer my calls and messages. At about 6 in the evening, just when I was beginning a panic attack (after all I am my mother’s daughter), he texted me: “Myra, I will be home in a short while. I think I have the answer. Meet me at 6.30. Your place. I feel sick.”

Every evening, Nair Uncle came round to enjoy a peg with my Papa. On this day, he arrived as usual, and Papa could leave the bakery as the second shift counter staff had arrived. I overheard Nair Uncle and Papa, seated on the sofa in our drawing room, talking between mouths full of fried snacks and large gulps of whatever they were drinking. They were gloomily reviewing the case.

Venu sauntered in, notebook in hand. He seemed to have lost his gloves. He had a strung-up look about him, as if he was about to take off. He took his place opposite our fathers and indicated I was to be seated. My Amma joined, unusually quiet.

Venu said, hand nervously beating a rhythm on his leg, “Well, Dad, any progress on the case?”

Nair Uncle looked up from contemplating his empty glass.  “Well, it is only the first day of investigation. But it looks like a partnership between Kumaran and Ashok. Ungrateful bastards, They bite the hand that feeds them.”

Venu interjected. “OK. Kumaran seems to have falsified the timings. Maybe he was confused. And Ashok was found near the bakery at the same time when the burglary had taken place. But this is circumstantial evidence. Not conclusive.”

Nair Uncle laughed shortly. “Well, it will be conclusive when the police have finished with their interrogation. They have started giving Ashok the second degree. I think Ashok was close to breaking point when I left the station an hour ago.”

I shuddered. I knew about some of the methods of extracting information from suspects. I felt sorry for Ashok.

Venu drew a long ragged breath and slowly got up. “Well, you can see for yourself in what condition Ashok is.” He opened the front door and gestured to someone outside to enter. It was Ashok.

Ashok looked terrible. A black eye adorned his face, which had streaks of dirt as if he had cried and the tears had smudged the dirt. A blotch of blood was congealing on his forehead, as if he had scraped it in a fall. His shirt has hanging open, all the buttons torn off. And his eyes were tragic. He entered and then stood still and mute.

Papa and Nair Uncle sprang up. My mother gave a little scream. Only Venu smiled bitterly.

Nair Uncle moved forward as if to attack Ashokan. But Venu was too quick. He stepped in between. “No. Dad. That won’t do. You could perhaps silence Ashok. But you cannot silence me.”

Nair Uncle looked his son clear in the eye. And what he saw there changed his very stance. His shoulders slumped, and he staggered back, his hands flailing, search for a chair to drop down into.

Venu looked ill, battered from the inside. Looking down he said in a flat, unemotional voice, “I went to see Eric at the Cyber Cell. He dug up the information about the source of the poisonous WhatsApp message. Tell them Dad.”

BTS sang once more in my head. A moment of 'epiphany'. I suddenly knew then who the burglar was. The timelines did not match. Either Nair Uncle’s 3.30am was a lie or Kumaran’s 3.35 am.

Nair Uncle looked torn. He could meet no one’s eyes. He muttered, “Yes, it was me. I never did go to the bakery at 3.30.” He turned first to Papa and then to Venu, “I’m sorry, friend. And I’m sorry, son. Sometimes I do not understand myself.” He then turned and walked out through the door.

It took at lot of thinking and unravelling of skeins to understand why Nair Uncle had staged the burglary. Much, much later, Venu and Papa explained the whole thing to me. Nair Uncle had been fueled by jealousy, His best friend was making money at the bakery and he himself had remained constable for years. Nair Uncle had woken up to one mad moment one day and thought that it was time to kill two birds with one stone. He could bring down Papa’s business, and at the same time, like the hero he wanted to be, he would “solve” the break-in at the bakery. And he had never liked Ashok anyway. Three birds, one stone.

Papa decided not to press charges. And Nair Uncle never came back to our flat for a drink, ever again. However, my Watson has become Sherlock and remained my good friend. Life went back to near normal. A BTS lyric says it best:

Like an echo in the forest

The day will come

As if nothing had happened

Yeah life goes on

Like an arrow in the blue sky

We're flying another day.

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