1 Ransom Pinaki Ghosh www.pinakighosh.com“Can you get me the August 15 edition ofElite?” the man asks. “Which year?” the stall owner asks instinctively. He owns an old bookshop where one can find old books and magazines, one of the many in this pavement of College Street, lined with stalls selling books of all kinds. “Current year,” the man says, “the cover carried the title ‘Fifty young entrepreneurs ofIndia.’” The bookseller looks for the edition asked for. It doesn’t take him long to find. The man pays for the magazine, rolls it in his hand and jumps up a tram cruising by. The tram rolls its way through the crowded Kolkata streets, the man gets down before an ancient lane in the northern part of the city. The tram passes by ringing its bell. The man enters the lane lined with old, blackened buildings, walks a few pace and opening a green colored door climbs the dark stairway to the upper floor.
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The room is nearly dark, the man sits before a table on which a table lamp glows. He
opens the magazine, finds what he is looking for. Bringing a pair of scissors from the
drawer he cuts out a picture of a young man. Then he switches on his laptop.
K-A-R-A-N S-E-N-G-U-P-T-A…
The name forms itself on the screen as he types. He clicks on the Images tab. A number
of faces crowd the screen. His eyes rove, and rest on the third on the second row. He
clicks on it and it enlarges. A handsome young man in his mid twenties, short crew cut
hair, a little goatee on the chin.
His gaze gets intent as he looks, his jaws get firm. He clicks on a link mentioned below
the image. The profile of the young man appears on screen. He clicks on a video link. A
window opens up, he maximizes it.
Young men and women dancing under psychedelic lights, among them Karan Sengupta,
the guy with the goatee beard…
Karan stops dancing. His head aches under the flashes of purple lights and loud music.He is too drunk tonight, he needs to pee. He pulls himself away from the din and calls his
driver.
“Get the car ready at the gate. I am coming in five minutes.”
He comes to the washroom and shrivels in disgust. On the floor lies a guy, flat over his
own vomit, its foul smell fills the air.
“F*** !”
Karan curses aloud. How could one be such a… The smelly pouring is splattered all over
the floor. He has to step over it to get himself to one of the booths. Karan thinks of
emptying himself on the man’s face but restrains his urge. He doesn’t want to get into
takes the two bottles to Muslux’s cabin and keeps it there. Muslux is in the room. He
turns his head at him and smiles.
“You will be released soon,” he says.
Snehangshu remains silent. He had heard such assurances before, but they didn’t turn out
to be true. Though this is the first time he heard from Muslux.
Weird guy, this forty something leader of the pirates, Muslux. He always insists that they
are not pirates but Somalian coastguards. He told them why he had resorted to hijacking
ships. During the nineties there was no government in their country. Taking advantage of
the absence of any kind of regulation, ships from other countries would come to their
coasts and dispose off all kinds of toxic wastes, including radioactive wastes, in their
waters. As a result of such irresponsible dumping, thousands of tones of marine creatures
perished. Somalian fishermen used to catch three million dollars worth of tuna, shrimps,
lobsters and many other varieties of fish every year. But due to this rampant dumping all
the fish died and the fishing industry just vanished. It was then that Muslux decided he
should do something about it. He decided to collect tax from the countries that spoiled
their coastline and hijacking ships crossing the Indian Ocean was his means of collecting
the ‘tax’ that would go towards cleaning the coastline. For him, the countries that spoiledtheir coastline are the real pirates. He started his operation in 2005 and had collected ‘tax’
from fifty two ships since then.
Snehangshu notices a framed photo in Muslux’s bunk. A dark African teen of about
eighteen. He hadn’t seen the photo before.
“My boy,” Muslux smiles, “Maxi.”
“Your son?” Snehangshu can’t hide his surprise. He keeps looking at the photo. Maxi, the
boy is smiling. A guileless smile, so much like his father’s…
Lying in the cold floor of a small, dark prison cell in the Somalian capital Mogadhishu
young Maxi muses over his past. So many images float by. He is out in the ocean fishing
with his father, how old was he then? Ten- eleven… they would spend two or three days
in the ocean fishing day and night and would return to their villages with boat load of
shrimps. The entire village would gather in the shore to welcome the cavalcade of boats.
They would get heroes’ welcome, he would always keep the biggest lobsters for his
mother. She would cook it on fire in the open at night, they would gather by the fire, he
and his sisters and father too, eagerly waiting for mother to open the pot. How good were
those days… and how they ended, Maxi sighed.
Huge ships hoisting flags of faraway countries began appearing in their shores. The catch
of fish gradually declined in quantity as more and more dead fish floated up from the sea.Then one day a group of men carrying guns came to their village. Maxi heard from his
father that war had broken out in the country. The men were revolutionaries. From them
the villagers learnt that foreign pirate ships from France, China, Egypt and India are
pouring poison into their waters, the fishes are dying because of that. The young adults of
the villages enrolled themselves with the group that called itself Al-Shabab. His father
formed a group of his own to protect the coastline. The days of fishing were over.
Maxi heard from a friend that the government of their country was nothing but a puppet
in the hands of America and the United Nations and their President is a pimp to foreign
forces. Al-Shabab doesn’t obey the writ of this government; they had plans to overthrow
the government and take control over the entire country and establish the writ of God’s
law. Maxi’s young blood boiled as he listened. The same friend took him to the Al-
Shabab Chief Odawa.
It was such a thrill to take up a AK-47 rifle in his hands for the first time. Adrenalin
rushed in his veins, his fears evaporated, he felt he could conquer the world with his gun.
The training was tough, very tough but he was determined to make it, so were other boys
of his team. Odawa admired his guts, he took a fancy on him. He gave him chocolates
made in USA, made in India, made in China. They tasted so good! Hard in the outside,
“Ok let me tell you the reason. My own son has been taken captive. I have to pay for his
freedom. A hefty sum and without delay.”
Owedah looks at his old pal Rajeev Sengupta, the two look at each other in silence. As if
trying to read each others thoughts.
“It happens in your country too?” Odawa asks, finally.
“It has happened. And if you’re not willing to believe then check it on the net. My son’s
name is Karan, Karan Sengupta.”
“Ok I believe. The entire amount will be deposited in your account in an hour,” Odawa
tells his partner while his fingers type the words ‘karan sengupta’ on the keyboard. Heclicks on the search tab and a pageful of information relating to the kidnapping of
Rajeev’s son appears.
“Load your ship,” Odawa says, any doubt in his voice has disappeared.
“You said and the loading has already started,” Rajeev smiles.
Odawa smiles too, “you are my old pal. How can I be rigid when a friend is in need? And
how can I forget the role you played in the success of the August 24 operation?”
The smile in his pal Rajeev’s face deepens.
Rajeev turns to his secretary switching off his laptop.
“The kidnapper will call in half an hour. Give it to me. He will get the money today. Wehave to know how the delivery has to be made. I want my son back today. Unharmed.”
“Namasker,” the Commissioner utters the cursory greet.
“Namasker,” Biswapriya returns the greeting with folded hands, “do I know you?”
“I am Gouranga Chakraborty, the Police Comissioner,” says Gouranga and does not failto notice the sudden drain of color from his host’s face. He smiles and assures, “Don’t
worry, this is not an official visit. I have come in a hired cab, it is waiting outside. Did
your son come back?”
“My son…,” Biswapriya cannot hide his puzzlement.
“Yes your son. Snehangsu. Wasn’t he outside the country for about a year?” Gouranga
says retaining the smile in his face. It helped Biswapriya to retain his composure.
“Oh yes he returned to India,” says Biswapriya smiling wryly, “he is in Chennai now.
Will come home tomorrow… maybe…”
“Good! Very good!” Gouranga broadens his smile.
“May I ask why you…” Biswapriya mumbles, still confused.
“I have come to give you a little gift.”
Gouranga unfolds a paper roll he is carrying. A sketch of a middle aged man. His features
quite similar to that of Biswapriya.
“Our police artist has drawn this,” the Commissioner explains, “you must have heard
about the kidnapping of Karan Sengupta, son of industrialist Rajeev Sengupta. His driver
Makhanlal remembered the face of the kidnapper. The guy offered him tea outside a
disco where he was waiting for his boss. Naturally it was drugged and he lost his
consciousness. Our artist followed Makhanlal’s description and drew this. Nice work,
isn’t it? Normally they are far behind the mark but this one came out rather accurate, isn’t
it?” The commissioner looks up at Biswapriya and notices blood leave the face all over
again. He smiles, “but you know what. The case would remain unsolved it seems. This