Short Stories , Reviews & Literary Criticism by Snehashis Sinha
The Real Sherlock Holmes
By Snehashis Sinha
In world literature, there are few characters that have endured the test of time and stayed in public memory as Sherlock Holmes. A private detective – or consulting detective, as he prefers to call himself – who uses his intellect and scientific knowledge to solve complex mysteries in Victorian era England, has stayed relevant even more a century after his first appearance in the novel – ‘A Study in Scarlet’.
The character was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a physician who had served in the Second Boer War. He based the narrator of the stories Dr John Watson on himself, just that the fictional doctor served in the Indo-Afghan war instead. Doyle wrote the ‘A Study in Scarlet’ in his clinic in-between attending to the few clients that he had.
Though Doyle can be credited for popularising the genius detective trope, he wasn’t the one who created it. Doyle was greatly inspired by Edgar Allan Poe. Poe’s story – ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ is considered to be the first detective fiction story. The story is narrated by a nameless narrator who writes about his friend C. Auguste Dupin, as he solves a mysterious double murder that the police are not able to. Dupin was created before the term ‘detective’ had been coined, but through him Poe laid the groundwork for all the detective fiction that was to come and continues still to this day. Doyle too was clearly inspired, so much that he even mention's Dupin in ‘A Study…’. Dupin appeared further in two stories – ‘The Mystery of Marie Roget’ and ‘The Purloined Letter’, the latter even was adapted by Doyle into the famous Holmes story – ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’.
Apart from literature Doyle also took inspiration from real life. Dr Joseph Bell, a Scottish surgeon and lecturer at the medical school of the University of Edinburgh, was a major inspiration for Holmes. Doyle was Bell's student and later served as his clerk at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary.
While working with him Doyle was impressed by Bell's deductive abilities. Apparently he could look at his clients gait and tell if he was a soldier or a sailor, listening to his dialect tell exactly from where they were from or deduce their occupation from the callouses on their hands. Furthermore, Bell is believed to be involved in police investigations himself, including the Ardlamont mystery of 1893. He also was involved in the famous Jack the Ripper murders.
Sherlock Holmes still remains popular with new writers writing new pastiches on him, there have been multiple movie and television adaptations and even a few video games, each bringing a new spin on the character. But under the numerous interpretations there is still an old magazine that Arthur Conan Doyle read, and a smart old doctor attending to his patients.
A Simple Tale of Revenge
Imagine you’re a guy walking home late at night. As you cross paths with two drunken men sitting on the footpath, you notice a fancy Harley-Davidson bike parked next to them. Somehow, you find yourself in an argument with them. You don’t want any trouble and just want to get away. But before you can leave, one of them hits you on the back of your head, causing you to fall to your knees, while the other kicks you to the ground.
You’re soon overwhelmed by a barrage of kicks and punches as you desperately try to protect yourself, trying to avoid passing out. But eventually, you do. When you wake up, you wish you hadn’t. Your body aches, you’re bleeding, and you stink — after tiring of using you as their punching bag, they dragged you to a nearby alleyway and tossed you into a drain.
With a grunt, I dragged myself out of the drain, picked myself up onto my legs, and immediately fell back down. For what felt like an eternity, I lay in that alley, gazing up at the starry sky as pain radiated through every inch of my being.
Finally, I mustered the courage and strength to stand up. My left ankle throbbed painfully, so I shifted most of my weight to my right leg. With slow, limping steps, I began to walk, looking for help.
***
My name is Hirok Das, but that’s just for the birth certificate. Everyone who knows me calls me Hiro. After being a boxing champion in college, the name came with a reputation of being a hero. However, getting beaten up in the street didn’t quite fit that image. But what could I do? As a formality, I filed a police complaint. The overall advice from family and friends was to forget the incident and let it go.
Two months passed. The doctors said that all my wounds and injuries had healed, and I was completely fine—physically, that is. Naturally, nothing happened with the complaint. Honestly, I didn’t even bother to inquire about it.
That morning was especially hot. I was sitting in my room, looking out the window. From the bright blue sky, my gaze shifted back to my reflection in the glass, stopping on my nose. It had been broken that night. The doctors fixed it, but a small bump remained. To its right, under my eye, was a scar. That area had once been completely black and bruised, swollen into a lump. Now, it was just a faint scar, but it was still there.
"Dada," my younger sister Disha burst into my room. "Can you drop me off at college, please?"
"Take an auto," I replied.
"I'm already late. Come on, please!"
It wasn't like I had anything else to do. I shrugged, threw on a shirt, and grabbed the keys to my motorcycle.
When we arrived at the college, a large crowd of students had gathered in front of the gate, waving flags and banners, ready to protest something, I assumed. "What's happening here?" I asked.
"Students are organizing a rally," Disha said.
"For what?"
"There’s a student in our class, Rina. She's been missing for the past two weeks, and the police aren’t doing anything. So we’re organizing this rally."
"Hmm… so this is why you were late, not because of classes or anything."
"Don’t start lecturing me like Baba now…"
"I don't care. Just make sure you don’t get lost like your friend. Am I going to have to come pick you up?"
"No, I’ll take an auto."
Dropping her off, I went straight to the small shop that stood at the left turn of the road. During my college days, I had spent a lot of time sitting there, smoking. I parked the bike to one side, asked the old shopkeeper for a cigarette, lit it, and then leaned against the wall behind the shop. Inside the house, I didn’t feel it, but outside, the atmosphere was sticky and hot, casting a bright yellow hue over the city.
I was halfway through the cigarette when a Harley Davidson pulled up and stopped in front of the shop. For a moment, it reminded me of the Harley from that night two months ago. Nah… there are more of them cruising around town. The next second, the rider dismounted and took off his helmet—it was the same Harley Davidson.
How could I ever forget that face? That chubby white face with a goatee on his chin and long, side-swept hair with blonde highlights. I saw him over the sole of the shoe that kicked me in the face, right under my right eye. I remember the smirk he had while doing it.
“Uncle, one gold flake,” he said to the shopkeeper. He cast a passing glance at me as he lit a cigarette before sitting down on his bike and starting to scroll through his mobile phone.
He didn’t recognize me—not even a flicker of doubt that he had seen me before. He didn’t take another look. I stood there, staring straight at him, contemplating what I should do next. By the time I took the last drag of my cigarette, I had made up my mind.
A young man walked up to him and slapped him on the back.
“What? Classes are over?”
“Seniors came into the classroom and said we had to go out for the rally. Can you imagine? A rally in this heat.”
“So, what do we do?”
“No point in wandering around. First, let’s get something to eat, then we’ll go to my place.”
'Okay, hop on.'
They both got onto the motorcycle and rode ahead. I got on my bike and took off behind them.
They first stopped at a new fast food joint to eat mutton rolls. After chatting with some other students there, they headed straight to the over-bridge. Getting off the street on the other side, they turned into the right alleyway. They parked the bike outside and went into one of the houses. I parked a little further under the shade of a tree and sat there, waiting.
This was exactly at two-thirty. The sun was shining as hard as it could. The atmosphere was breathless and boiling, only getting worse as I sat there. It was the kind of heat that jangles your nerves and pushes your temper to its limits.
Some five hours passed, and my shirt was soaked. Then another gift from nature arrived: mosquitoes. I struggled with the itching and irritation they caused when he finally emerged.
"Okay, see you tomorrow at the field." He stepped out of the house and hopped on the Harley, and the game began again.
First, he bought some chips, then two cans of beer from a local shop. He took the lane to the left of the over bridge and headed straight to the small Hanuman temple. At that point, he made a left turn and stopped right in front of the fifth house. It was an old two-story structure behind a newly painted brown iron gate. He unlocked the door and went inside.
Now what?
A set of dark clouds growled overhead, their accumulated water ready to pour. It had already started to drizzle as I stood outside, staring at the main door of the house.
What do I do now? Think, Hiro, think. He unlocked the door himself, which means no one else is home. He bought beer, so maybe his parents won’t be coming back tonight. Perhaps they’ve gone out of town, and he’s all alone.
Fuck it. Stop thinking, just go for it.
The rain had started pouring harder.
'Just go for it,' I whispered to myself as I walked through the gate. I tied my red handkerchief over my face and rang the doorbell.
With a soft click the door opened. Before there could be any response to my dacoit-like appearance my balled hit him as a right cross on his jaw making him go back a little. Closing the door behind I charged at him, and let him have a left hook to the ribs and an uppercut on the jaw which made him fall down. I went for another hit but he kicked me away.
He tried to get inside but I dived on him, wrapping my arms around his legs, taking him down on the white tiled floor. We wrestled for some time before he was laying down on his stomach with his right arm twisted behind his back.
The downpour outside was roaring. The heat seemed to be cooling down.
'Who are you? What do you…'
I punched him on the back of his head and it hit the floor and bounced back up. Then I kept on punching again and again… and again… till my fist began to hurt. By then he seemed to have gone in a semi-conscious state, moaning in pain and dazed of all the hits to his head.
Taking a moment to give my fist some rest I looked around. This was the living room, a large one with two different sets of sofas. The TV on the wall was on, he was scrolling through Netflix. An open packet of chips laid on the small wooden coffee table beside two cans of beer, one was half empty.
An old umbrella stand stood in a corner of the room. Along with the umbrellas in it there was an old walking cane in it, made of solid oak, quite heavy.
'This'll do.'
Raising the cane high up in the air I brought it down on his back. He came out of his daze giving the most miserable cry of pain. With each consecutive strike his voice cracked into the most helpless cries. He tried to say something, even managed to form a couple of syllables but failed to form any intelligible words out of it. In the end his body gave up and he just took the hits as they landed on him.
Did he die? No, he still had a pulse.
Throwing the cane away, I walked out of the house. The chill of the rainwater felt soothing and cleansing. The rain fell steadily outside, showing no signs of stopping. This was much better than boiling in the heat. I hoped it would rain again tomorrow.
His name was Ashok Dutta, a third semester social science student. A bright student. He was equally skilled in sports. His parents had gone out of town to attend a relative's wedding. The next morning, they returned home to find their son beaten, broken, and bruised, lying unconscious on the floor. They immediately rushed him to the hospital.
He was now in the eleventh ward, in bed number four, wrapped in bandages with a plaster cast on his right arm. Next to him, on a small chair, sat his mother, weeping. I was sitting on a bench in the corridor outside, pretending to read a newspaper while keeping an eye on each person who entered the ward.
Throughout the day, a couple of professors, fellow students, and friends of Ashok came to visit him, none of whom I recognized. Then, around half past seven, he exited the elevator and walked past me to enter the ward. Yes, it was him, all right. I instantly recognized that hawkish nose on his bony face.
I felt hate and disgust for him, in contrast to Ashok, who nearly jumped out of bed but was pulled back down by his pain. He was introduced to Ashok's mother as Varun. They talked for about an hour, starting with how he was doing now and what actually happened, until a nurse came to inform them that visiting hours were over. He stood up, gave Ashok a light tap, and walked out.
I accompanied him to the ground floor in the elevator and to the parking lot, where he climbed into a blue sedan while I got on my bike. He drove straight out to the main road and kept going until the city on both sides of the road disappeared, replaced by fields of rice. I wondered if he was actually going anywhere or just out for a drive when my eyes caught a glimpse of a building in the distance. Maybe that was his destination.
It was his destination—an old five-story building with a weathered sign that announced it as Lotus Lodge. The rundown structure had long since lost any semblance of beauty. It might have seen better days, but that could be said for anything. A shiny blue sedan looked extremely out of place parked outside. The driver stepped out and disappeared inside. Moments later, the first room on the right side of the fourth floor lit up.
From a distance, I kept watch at the gate, expecting him to come out. But as time passed and my watch showed half past midnight, I realized he wasn't coming out tonight. I couldn’t tell if my luck was good or if this was a trap. Finding him alone in such a place seemed too good to be true. Did he recognize me at the hospital? Could he have made the connection that I was the one who had thrashed his friend? Maybe he noticed me following him and had led me here, to the middle of nowhere. Then I realized I was overthinking things.
It was a chilly, moonless night, the cold accentuated by the stillness of everything around me. The stars, if they were up in the sky, were hidden behind a haze of dark clouds. I pulled my neck gaiter up over my face and walked toward the building, a silhouette illuminated by yellow light spilling from a few windows here and there. The main entrance glowed with a similar warm light, so it wasn't as desolate as I had imagined.
An old, bespectacled man sat behind the reception desk, holding a phone with an old movie playing on the screen, but his eyes were closed, and he was snoring softly. Opposite the reception desk was a flight of stairs. I climbed them with deliberate steps.
The corridors were unlit, but I didn’t turn on my phone’s flashlight; I didn't want anyone to know I was there. Light seeped from the crevices of doors, and murmurs from inside let me know which rooms were occupied, allowing me to pass by more cautiously. It felt like it took a surprisingly long time to reach the fourth floor. This was it, the room right in front of th stairs—room 401.
I pressed the doorbell twice and heard a buzzing sound inside. It was working. However, I got no response, so I pressed the bell again and kept my finger on it until he shouted from inside, "Who is it?"
I buzzed twice again.
"I'm coming!" he replied in an irritated voice.
He turned on the light in the room, got off the bed, and started toward the door. As his footsteps shuffled closer, I felt my pulse quicken. My muscles tightened in anticipation. The door handle clicked and turned, opening about an inch when I focused all my strength on my shoulder and hit the door. It flung open hitting him right on his face. Before he could react I jumped ahead with an uppercut to the solar plexus and a cross to the jaw, which hit the perfect point. His legs wiggled and he dropped down on the floor like a sack. That was a good punch, I could feel it in my fist.
From the looks of it, this was not just a room that he rented for the night; he had been sleeping here for some time. There was a table decorated with bottles of liquor, a rack with clothes messily thrown on it, a double bed adorned with fancy silk sheets, and a woman beneath the covers.
Well, that’s not something I expected to deal with. She sat on the bed, holding the sheets over her chest, wearing a strange expression on her small face. I couldn't quite decipher the emotion behind her expression – she seemed surprised, even shocked, but not afraid. For a moment, I thought she recognized me, and my hand instinctively went to my face to check if the gaiter was still there. It was.
With a finger to my lips, I gestured for her to keep quiet. She nodded. Then I motioned for her to—"get out."
She nodded and slipped out of bed, still holding the sheet over her naked body. She quickly put on the first things she could grab: a pair of jeans and a black shirt, both clearly not hers. In her haste, she fumbled clumsily—her evident drunkenness slowing her down. However, she didn’t forget to grab the small camera resting on the bedside table, nor the car keys lying next to it.
She took a final glance at me before staggering out of the room. I bolted the door.
Varun was sitting on the floor, supported by his arms. From his expression, I could tell he was feeling dizzy, likely on the verge of vomiting, and his face must have been hurting. I knew that feeling; I had taken a few hits to the chin myself.
He looked at me with a mixture of hate and anger. “You’re making a big mistake,” he said.
I approached him with a balled fist, but he managed to keep me away, pressing his knees against my chest and grabbing my arm to prevent my punch. We ended up rolling on the ground, each of us trying to gain control over the other until he found himself on his back, with me holding him in an armbar.
He squirmed in pain, trying to free himself when a growling voice came from downstairs: “Hey, what are you doing up there?”
“A… a man came in the room… he’s beating up…” The rest of her words faded under the sound of a swarm of footsteps pounding upstairs, followed by frantic banging on the door. “Open the door!” “Open it!” “Hey, who is inside? Open the door!” the commotion continued.
Varun, wincing in pain, managed to let out a mocking grin at me – 'I told you you're making a big mistake. You don't know who my father is. These are my father's men, my men. They'll rip you in ha….aaah…' – his last word turned into a cry of agony as I snapped his shoulder.
I got up and ran to the window. No way I could squeeze myself out through those iron grills. As I contemplated what to do, I saw a girl dash out of the building, jump into a blue car, and drive away through the gate. She was gone, just like that. I didn't waste much time cursing myself for letting her go, as the demands for me to open the door grew louder, accompanied by harder hammering.
What a fool I was to get into this situation—a complete idiot! But I was in it now. What to do? What to do? I couldn't just stand there and get beaten up again. Then what?
"What are you waiting for? Break the door!" shouted one voice, followed by a thud against the hard wooden door. It didn't break—yet. Like an idiot, I stood there bracing myself for them to come in, as if I could fight them all by myself.
Then my eyes fell on the bottles scattered around the room. Some were empty, some had a little drink left in them, and a couple were still sealed. Okay… I got an idea. I grabbed one bottle and, with a swift spin, sent it flying to crash on the floor before the door in a satisfying shatter. I followed this with all the other bottles in quick succession until the whole place started to reek of whiskey. I broke all the bottles except for one—a sealed quarter bottle. I poured out some of the liquid, then shoved my handkerchief into it, leaving only three inches poking out of the opening. Afterward, I picked up the lighter lying on the table and lit the cloth.
By then the door gave up and had flung open letting the crowd storm inside.
'No. Get back. Get back!' I barked. They froze, their eyes moving between the bottle in my hand, the glass scattered on the floor and each other. 'Move out or I'll burn this place down.'
They were not keen on following my orders but not dumb enough to pull a stunt in such a situation. I used the torch in my hand to scare them back like wild animals –'go there, to the side, in the corridor. Quick.'
They quickly crowded up the corridor, leaving the stairs clear for me. I slowly stepped down the stairs, still not letting my eyes off them. It was deathly quiet. So much that I could hear the sound of the flames. One by one I stepped down until I was on the third floor. I had only turned and was about to run downstairs when a boot tapped on the tiles upstairs. Without a second thought I flung the bottle upstairs. It hit the metal plate above the room with "401" carved on it and shattered into small flames that landed on the floor and within a blink of an eye turned into a roaring fire.
I didn't wait to see what happened next, just turned and ran. A few doors had a few women peeking out, they gave a yell of terror as I passed by them. Down on the ground floor the old man from reception had woken up and was on his way up, probably to see what all the commotion was about – he side stepped, tripped and fell as he saw me running down.
I didn't stop or slow down on my way out of the building, out of the gate to my bike. I fired it up and gave full throttle and let it take me far away from here.
***
Next morning a photo of a half burnt lotus lodge was on the front page of the newspaper under the headline – "Masked hero rescues girl captive, burns down the lodge". The article below went like this –
"On 18th June, Rina Bhattacharji, a second year college student was found unconscious in a car by a group of villagers. She was immediately admitted in the hospital. As per sources the 20 year old was reported missing two weeks ago by her fellow roommates after she failed to return from her tuition that evening. A group of students even staged a rally after seeing no development in the case.
"Rina has come forward to the media to reveal the circumstances of her disappearance. She claims that Varun Sarkar, son of ruling party MP Abhijit Sarkar, kidnaped her and held her captive in a lodge for past two weeks and sexually assaulted her. Also, many other men abused her, she says.
"When asked about her escape she says that late at night a masked individual forced himself into the room overpowered her captor and helped her to escape. While leaving she managed to retrieve a camera in which the abusers recorded their depraved acts.
"When our reporters investigated further, it was discovered that the Lotus Lodge, the said lodge where the victim was held captive was gutted by fire. Though fifteen people suffered burns, including the main accused Varun Sarkar, there has been no casualty as such. Though none of the injured agreed to talk to media their statements to the police confirms the existence of a masked man who was responsible for the fire.
"As for the masked man, he is yet to be identified. The victim and her friends and family have expressed their gratitude towards him and praised his bravery.
"Meanwhile an official complaint has been filed by Rina Bhattacharji. She is determined to fight and make sure that all of her abusers are identified and punished. It is yet to be seen if justice will prevail."
I tossed the newspaper on the table and sank back on my chair. Masked hero huh? The mask was off, lying on the table like a rag. And the face behind the mask was on the window looking back at me. I didn’t see any hero there.
By Snehashis Sinha
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