Tambaku in Hindi means tobacco.
Tobacco usage is injurious to health. The writer does not support use of any tobacco products as they lead to cancer, heart attacks, lung disorders and other deadly disease. And asks everyone to refrain from tobacco usage.
The main character – TambakuMan, has been given the bad habit to expose the bodily harm done on prolonged usage of tobacco.
EPISODE 4: TAMBAKUMAN KILLS A COP
Genre – Fiction
Sub-genre – Noir
Length of blog – 900 words
He saw from afar his foreman exit the construction site. He had given his orders and was leaving for another site survey or would just go someplace and relax. He was the boss, eh! Who was he to cross-question him? The break lights came on as he parked near the teashop on the sloping -bend that exited onto the main road.
It happened oh so suddenly! The tempo carrying steel rods inside the site started to roll backwards, it hit the company van smack on one side of the company van. Both the vehicles reeled. The boss was not in the car. The runaway tempo had not stopped rolling downslope. After bouncing off the van, it rolled onto a parked bike – on which an unknowing soul was sitting – it banged the bike. After knocking over the bike and the stationary passenger the tempo began to careen towards the main road where a steady flow
of vehicles ensued. There were sparks as the tempo hit a pole overhead. The tempo stopped. The electrical wires entangled had slowed the tempo to a stop.
The boss helped the victim on the bike to a nearby hospital in a cab. The police arrived. A complaint was lodged against the construction company. The foreman arrived back after one hour and got the two damaged vehicles towed off. A mechanic found that the brake-cable of the tempo had given way.
“Who was driving the tempo”, the cop asked.
“Let is be sir”, the foreman continued, “The company will pay for the damages. Why take names and spoil the driver’s career. The broken brake-cable is proof enough that it was an accident and fault of no one in particular.”
The foreman was a good man and whenever the driver’s name was asked for, gave his own name and pointed towards the grievances being dealt with by the construction company. The cops left.
“Come with me to the cop station”, the foreman had asked him for help.
The injured biker required some compensation for the leaves he would have to take until his stitches heal. They entered the police station where the 10-12 people gheraoed the foreman. He went through each one of their faces with calm. The result of the discussion on the doorstep of the police station was that 100$ was to be handed over in cash.
“Ask for 200$”, a voice said.
All turned towards the voice. But the foreman had already started to handover the original amount. That voice was a shrill one. It tried to increase the settlement figure again. After the sometime the injured person and the foreman along with the shrill voiced man entered the police station.
A half an hour later, he accompanied the foreman back to the site. The chatty-from-the-incident-manager told how the matter had been settled on the original amount. And they had all entered the police station on his insistence. The settlement was recorded as part of the complaint. The insurance company informed. On enquiry, the foreman revealed that the shrill voiced man was one of the plainclothes policemen.
How could he intervene in a two-party settlement? If he was a policeman, why was he trying to be a mediator? And he was inclined towards the injured getting a larger settlement. That was him being a partial mediator. That evening he tailed the shrill-voiced cop. It was easier than he thought – the shrill voice was a perfect tag. The overconfident peacock attitude caught his eye as soon as he entered the police station. A stakeout of the police entrance and right on cue of the second-shift change the shrill-voiced cop was heading home.
He parked and got into a medical store. On following him into the huge store, he purposefully came face-to-face with the shrill voiced cop.
“I seen you handled the case earlier very well indeed”, tobacco had taken away his fluent speech. But he continued to stutter, “You seem to be well acquainted with the ground work. You are a 3-stripe, right?”
“Nah! I’m one of the drivers of the police vans”, the shrill voice said.
The words made him see red. He had to bite hard on his jaw to stop an involuntary stutter. The next few minutes were a blur of red. The acting-cop did not hear the crowbar until blood was gushing everywhere. The skull had cracked easily, all too easily. It was like this bluff-of-a-cop had a cardboard instead of a skull. No one had seen the incident
in the dark parking lot. He had felt a tinge of panic as he did not know what to do next. Then he saw the police van driver’s car. It was directly in front of where the body lay. He had seen the mechanic fish out the broken brake cable earlier that day. A simple search and the cut brake wire made the van roll onto the dead man’s skull.
He was impressed how it was a perfect match, the blood splatter, the van’s position – the tire marks not disturbing the blood pattern. It looked as of the vehicle had collided head-on onto him leading to his death.
The ride home was a happy one. The crowbar washed and wiped was under his seat. He knew the biased pretend-cop would not influence anyone else. A small step to uproot corruption from one of the government’s esteemed organisation, the police force.
— THE END —