Butterfly in a Bind

By Sheba Ghosh

"An idol of Ma Durga washes ashore. Nothing extraordinary for Kolkata, except for the body of a trans woman found inside.

ACP Shyama learns to overcome her prejudices as she travels across the country in search of the victim's truth. A unique tattoo on the victim's leg is her only clue.

During the investigatio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9789360499648

Book preview

Butterfly

in a Bind

Sheba Ghosh

Ukiyoto Publishing

All global publishing rights are held by

Ukiyoto Publishing

Published in 2023

Content Copyright © Sheba Ghosh

ISBN

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

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Dedicated to my Dadu and Nani

Acknowledgment

I want to thank my family for their support and faith in me. This book would not have seen the light of day without my mother’s insight, patience and love, my son being born and flooding my life with joy and possibilities, my better-half’s gentle motivation, my dad’s wise-cracks, and my brother’s wisdom.

I want to thank all my friends, colleagues and the people I have not been able to acknowledge individually but have been instrumental in the shaping of this book.

And last but not the least, I want to thank you, reader, for your invaluable time and consideration.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

T

he first time I hit him was the day that he died. That is a story for another day. Today, it’s about her. This young woman with perpetual stale breath and greasy hair. She is continuously following me with her eyes. They are amber—her eyes, unlike mine that are black with a few licks of whiskey fire to spark a romance.

I still feel the reverberations of my hand, weighing a thousand newtons, as it landed on the back of his head. He was shocked, at first. He turned around and looked at me, a question mark tinged with agony colouring his face. Many years have passed since that day, but not enough. She stares at me with a blackness that seeks to pervade my secrets. It pains me to watch her suffer the absence of her father but I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth about his death.

I want to tell her, Darling, I did not feel your tiny feet press against the walls of my womb. I didn't push you out into this world. I was not the first person to have ever kissed or held you. But I love you. I have loved you from the moment I knew of you. Waiting in the in-between. Hoping to save a lost soul like mine. There I go again, acting as though I was a saviour, killing my guilt with self-righteousness.

What I did say, every time she asked me about him, was that she was his angel. When her questions began to get more demanding of a detailed answer, I began to change the subject with a joke about something else or by scolding her about her grades at school.

Today, as she asked me again, I brought up my deflectors with the practised ease of a General.

Your father died in the fire, Moody; have you finished your homework yet? I asked.

Don’t change the topic! I know how he died. I’m asking you why he died?

I noticed that she had not addressed me as Ma.

Where are your manners, girl? I will not have you speak to me in that tone.

She stared at me without blinking. She quietly asked again, Why did he die in the fire?

Madhu, I drawled, trying to buy time, because he burnt to death. I winced at my own crude description of her father’s death, but Moody did not flinch.

That’s not what I'm asking. There was only one casualty that day. Him. Why did the fire not kill us, you or me? Or anybody else in the building?

Because, my darling, the moment I smelled the smoke I ran to your room and carried you out of the building, all the while shouting about the fire. The other residents were woken up by the alarm and rushed out too. By the time I had reached the bottom of the stairs, there was an explosion. I handed you over to one of the other residents and tried to run back up for your father but they held me back. I’m sorry but it was too late.

Why couldn't Baba run away on his own?

Madhu, you know how your Baba was with his bottle.

No, I don’t. It’s only you who said that to me. I have never seen him drunk! she screamed.

Why was this so hard? Why didn’t they tell me when I wanted to adopt a baby that parenting would be so damn hard? That being accountable for your actions would be that much harder?

That’s because he always drank after you went to bed, sweetheart, I said. I always tucked you in by eight. It was the same that night as well. You were fast asleep and he was a whole bottle down when the fire started. He was too drunk to have gotten up at all.

I could tell that she was not satisfied with my story. She asked, How did the fire start?

I tried to be as vaguely specific as ever. Ah, the fire. I believe that the report stated that the fire started in the bedroom. The report said that he must have fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in one hand and a bottle or glass of neat whisky in the other. The cigarette must have set the whisky ablaze, with the bed catching fire and so on and so forth.

Her eyes shone with suspicion. She leaned in my direction. Her body was taut with undercurrents of something sinister. She asked me softly, every word underlined with hatred, Where were you during this time?

I was in the living room watching television.

Moody’s body sagged a little and her shoulders drooped. It felt as though a light in her had been snuffed out. She looked at me with tears in her eyes. The tremble of her lower lip rattled the cage in my heart to reach out to her and tell her the truth, but I could not. I knew that the look of pain in her eyes was the pain of realisation that one of her parents had harmed the other. I wish I could have changed the narrative that day.

But I was a coward.

Chapter 1

Bijaya

T

he first time that he hit me was the day that we had eloped. I was excited about embarking on a new journey as the wife of the man that I loved. I couldn’t see straight because of the stars crowding in my eyes. I was blind to the fact that my husband had brought me home to a filthy one-bedroom apartment. The bouquet of blossoming romance in my mind overpowered the stench of ammonia and the mustiness that emanated from the yellow, peeling walls of this apartment. When I went to the washroom, the anticipation of our first night together completely misted over the fact that I had to sit on the erstwhile white but now cakey-brown western commode, to take a shower. The drain was just there for show. It let shower water and dirty soap suds accumulate at my feet. As the aura of a newly-wed began to wane, I tried hard not to let the tiny apartment get to me. The kitchen was a narrow nightmare. It was impossible not to knock over the empty plastic water bottles that lined the counter with my elbows. However, I was grateful for the saucepan, gas, stove and basic supplies of milk, tea and biscuits that were already there when he brought me home. Ever since I was a child with access to Hollywood films, I had dreamt that my husband would carry me across the threshold the first time he brought me home. I was a foot and a half taller than my husband. I told myself that was the reason that he did not entertain the idea. I warmed a glass of milk for him because I wanted to uphold certain traditions of a Hindu marriage. I hoped that one day, when the dust from our hurried, run-away elopement settled, we’d be able to claim our places in the folds of our families.

My thoughts were interrupted by his voice booming from the bedroom six feet away. I hurriedly poured the warm enough milk into the glass and made for the bedroom. I mentally ticked myself for not remembering that it was our first night. I wanted it to be special. I pulled the waist of my saree as low as possible displaying a significant expanse of my midriff. He loved trailing his fingers up and down my stomach more than he liked fondling my breasts. I tucked in the lower edge of my red blouse to expose a little under boob and popped the top button to ensure that the glory of my breasts were not hidden under the sheer fabric of my red shimmering saree. I pulled my wet, waist long hair into a loose knot behind my back. I stood outside the bedroom door and knocked softly. He didn't answer. I tap danced in place to tease him with the sound of my anklets and waited. There was no response. I slowly opened the door and found him sitting with his back against the wall, legs bent at the knees, feet firmly planted on the bed sheet that were stained with the ghosts of past inhabitants. I loved how he furrowed his bushy eyebrows whenever he concentrated on something. I also loved it whenever I caught a glimpse of his abundant, curly chest hair sneaking out of the open end of his shirt collar. From where I stood, I could smell his peculiar scent of aftershave and cardamom. He was busy scrutinising a book about the stock market that he’d purchased a month back from a road-side peddler in College Street. I had admired his interest in the stock market then, but I wasn’t happy that he chose this moment, our first night together as man and wife, to be engrossed in something other than me. I sashayed down to his side of the bed, holding the glass of warm milk before me like a fairy lantern and said softly, in the sexiest tone I could imagine,

Darling, I made this for you. Won't you have a taste for me?

He looked up from his book and fixed me with a stare. A feeling of dread flooded my gut. In that moment, I could have sworn that the man sitting in our bed was not my husband. He had the same soft, round, baby face with a cute button nose. His broom-like moustache that looked like a black snake electrocuted mid-air was the same as my husband’s, as were his thin pink lips. His eyes were the same shade of dark brown as my husband’s but the light in them was darker. The man I had thought I'd married had a light of golden sunshine beaming every time they locked on mine. This man’s light