MURKATTA OF JOYPUR

MURKATTA OF JOYPUR

 Joypur was mainly a sleepy little town where nothing really exciting ever happened. The summer of 1980 was different though. What began as a breezy rumor laughed off by most people, turned into a storm of panic stricken reports of a psychopathic killer lurking around lonely streets, jumping on unsuspecting passersby and cutting off their heads. For the people of Joypur who had not even had the dubious excitement of having had a chain snatched, not a single murder even to break the monotony of a peaceful, if boring existence, all this was very exciting. Neighbours, who disliked each other intensely and had not spoken for years, suddenly started talking to each other about the “murkatta”, as the chopper of heads was nicknamed. Others spoke ghoulishly about the possibility of Mr. Chopra who worked the night shift in a local steel factory, as being the next victim. As soon as she had finished cooking, Mother would rush to the hedge between the two houses, wiping her hands on her sari, to talk to Mrs. Sharma on the other side for the latest news on Murkatta. At street corners, shops, schools and dinners, no one talked of anything else.

 As the reports and rumors grew fast and furious, it was difficult to distinguish between fact and fiction. No one that we knew had ever seen a body with a chopped off head but someone who knew someone they knew, had. A dhobi was rumored to have been beheaded going early in the morning to the riverside to wash his bundle of clothes. A beggar was said to have been found with his head on his stomach. A woman vegetable vendor going early to purchase her stock from the sabzi mandi was found minus her head in Centenary Park. However, it was not until a rich, local trader was actually found beheaded and seen by one of our neighbours, that the panic came home and people felt more scared and less excited. No one knew whether it was the murkatta who had killed him or whether it was an enemy of the trader, taking advantage of the rumors who had done so.

 The street on which we lived had people mostly belonging to the upper middle class, living in houses with attached servant’s quarters. The houses faced a very busy front street, which during the day was dangerous to cross and during the night became even more so, due to the steady stream of newly manufactured trucks rushing thorough the night. There was a lull for about two hours between midnight and two in the morning when you could hear a pin drop. Across the road was a cricket stadium and next to it shallow hills and bush land. The houses were serviced by a back lane reached through a back door next to the servant’s quarters.

 As the summer was coming to an end, the air was hot and humid with the expectancy of the monsoon rains. One day one of the servants on our street told ours that the murkatta would strike in our locality – he had already beheaded a servant in the suburb next to ours, so he said. Now, the servant brigade was up in arms. They became leaders overnight and their organization skills were awe inspiring. They rounded up all the servants, the able bodied young men, the not so able bodied older ones and requested, shamed and cursed them into forming an army of sorts. They armed themselves with whatever came to hand – kitchen knives, hockey sticks, cricket bats, walking sticks and curtain rods. A decision was made to sit at the front and back of alternative houses during the night, every night. This included the residents of the houses on the other side of the service lane. The enforced democracy was acceptable in the united cause of the fight against Murkatta.

 For three nights nothing happened. By the time the fourth night rolled around tempers were fraying and most of the ‘soldiers’ were ready to give up, declaring that the murkatta was too frightened to come to our street. Masters had begun to flex their authority. Democracy was beginning to grate on their nerves and pride. At about half past one, when everything was so silent that you could hear even the gentlest of snores, there was a piercing scream that froze even the bravest of the soldiers. For a few seconds nobody moved. Then all of a sudden, it was as if an avalanche had descended towards our front street. The servant brigade with the masters turned soldiers rushed as one, waving their weapons above their heads towards the sound. One word rent the air as together the entire brigade shouted – MURKATTA. I am sure it must have chilled the blood of whoever was out there.

 There were sounds of scuffling and on hovering nearer you would have seen a tall, dark man being beaten to within an inch of his life screaming, “I am NOT the murkatta – I am only a thief!” Somehow he managed to escape and limped screaming and scraping through the bush and over the hills. When the crowd cleared we saw a very frightened Mr. Chopra who, upon returning from his night shift a little early, had been pushed off his bicycle by the thief. He had thought that he been attacked by the murkatta and his eyes looked ready to fall out of his head. He was taken shivering to his house in the next suburb, his bicycle restored to him, in need of his wife’s gentle care. He was of course first soundly admonished for returning in the night, then given some sweet kheer to make him feel better.

 The rumors of the murkatta episodes died down soon after that and Joypur’s fevered excitement cooled with the monsoons. Very few people spared a thought for the thief, who we suppose will think long and hard before venturing again into a life of crime.