The steady drip of the water droplets was the only sounds that broke the silence of the lavatory.

Pale light of the setting sun imparted a mellow glow to the room. Each item in the room, be it the muslin towel, the soaps or the other toiletries, stood at perfect angles. Waiting. As patient as a picture hung from a living room fixture. If not for the acrid smell of spilt blood, nothing would have given away that something untoward had happened in that place.

In the middle of the lavatory, stood a hefty bath tub. Within it lay the motionless officer, naked as the day he was born. His eyes stared upwards at the ceiling, painted yellow with intricate floral patterns drawn in white. The water in the tub was crimson. Crimson with the blood of the young man.

His throat was torn into shreds, a mangled masterpiece. The top of his skull bulged inwards, its edges outlined by coagulated blood. Parts of his brain matter wriggled down his ears at the pace of a snail. His mouth was open in a frozen scream. A scream that no one will hear. Even if they did, what could they do about it? Some things cannot be helped.
The water dripped from the corners of the tub. Plink, plink.

With every passing moment, his skin grew paler than it already was. The complexion that he had much pride upon now made him look like a grotesque porcelain doll that some girls owned back in his homeland. His arms and legs were splayed against the walls of the tub. At his time of need, his muscular physique was not good enough to save him.

The predator had become the prey.

The curtains that separated the lavatory from the rest of the house rustled in the evening breeze. Somewhere out there came the sound of a conch. Perhaps the time for the evening service at the Kalika temple had arrived. Just like the dripping water, steady was the flow of time. It waited for none. Not for the servants, nor for the master.

Some light that remained illuminated the glassy look on the corpse's face. Yes, that was what it had reduced him to. Out in the open, a full moon rose from the midst of the grey clouds that perpetually hung over the skies of this quiet countryside. By the time its residents would learn what happened to the new superintendent, it would be a new day.

However, the calm did not last long. The tinkle of anklet bells pierced the quietness that our ears had grown accustomed to. Parting the curtains emerged a middle-aged woman adorned in a frayed saree, with a silver tray in her hands. She did not notice the body in the bathtub at first. It was when she stood at its foot did she see the sight. The handiwork of a lunatic, a demon, as they liked to call it.

"Oh my goodness!"

Her shrill scream reverberated against the walls, ensued by a thump. The maid fell down on the polished marble floor. She let out one harried scream after another, her chest heaving with each breath she took. After an interval of a few moments, the other servants burst into the room. At their sight, the fallen maid pointed a shaky finger towards the bathtub.

"Look, look!"

One of them, a frail man nearing his seventies, inched towards the tub. On seeing its contents, he closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer. This was not good news. This was a bad omen.

"Go and inform the zamindarni about this...incident," he instructed. "Make haste, for we have to make some preparation for the final rites of the babu."

One of the younger men amongst the domestic help, nodded and walked out of the lavatory to do what was asked of him. The old man, seeing that his orders were being carried out properly, turned towards the maid. With a firm grip, he put her back on her feet.

"Get a grip on yourself, Kamala," he said, his voice cold. "You must not show weakness, lest you want to be killed like the babu. Don't you know it thrives on weakness?"

The maid gave a weak nod. She walked back to her coworkers after being released from the old servant's grip. Together, they left the lavatory as a group, the name of their gods on their lips. They were not oblivious, unlike the dead man still lying in the bathtub, about the forces that governed their lives.

Only the old man stood there. Alone. His eyes, occluded by cataracts, gazed at the face of his former master. The firangi who meddled too much. A dark grimace took hold of his otherwise benign features.

This idiot had it coming.

~•~