VIII 
The Interrogation 
 

PART I  
Nabanita, 2024, Kolkata 

Nabanita sits on her hospital bed, with one hand tied to the metal frame with a handcuff. She knows what she had done. Killed a man. A husband. A father. 

Inspector Agnihotri, accompanied by Inspector Sneha, walks into the room and pulls up two chairs. An attending doctor is allowed to stay in the room with special permission in case Nabanita’s health deteriorates during the interrogation. 

Nabanita was found lying next to her husband’s body the night she killed him hallucinating, perspiring. To those around her, she had appeared mad in that state. But within, she was terrified. When the police arrived, following a call from the Chatterjee household staff, they took her husband’s body for a post-mortem, and Nabanita was brought to the hospital where she was a familiar face. 

‘Do you know your name?’ Inspector Agnihotri asks. 

‘Nabanita Chatterjee.’ 

‘Do you know your husband’s name?’ 

‘Debashish Chatterjee.’ 

‘Can you tell us why you killed your husband?’ 

Nabanita’s face turns ashen, her expression dropping, eyes widening, hands trembling. The doctor steps forward, but Agnihotri halts him with a gesture. 

‘I did not kill my husband.’ 

‘Do you think your illness will protect you from conviction? Let me correct you, madam.’ 

‘I did not murder my husband. I... I killed my friend’s husband who was trying to kill her.’ 

The room falls silent, all eyes on Nabanita. Agnihotri moves his chair closer, causing Nabanita to flinch and recoil. 

‘Was Debashish Chatterjee your husband or your friend’s? Are you trying to deceive us? You won’t get far.’ 

‘He is my husband.’ 

‘Then you killed him, right? You were right there when his body was found. Look at this photo. Do you see your husband dead and you sitting beside him?’ 

Nabanita stares at the photo in horror, unable to believe her eyes. She doesn’t know what to believe. The line between reality and imagination blurred, entangling her between two worlds. 

Inspector Agnihotri slams the table where Nabanita’s medicines are kept, jolting her back to reality. 

‘Why did you kill your husband?’ interrogates Agnihotri.  
 
‘I don’t know what happened. I killed my friend’s husband because he was hitting her. He was trying to kill her, so I poisoned his tea to protect her.’ 

‘You poisoned your husband, then cut your hair and hurt yourself to appear as a victim. We found letters exchanged with your friend Miranti, where she suggested killing her husband by poisoning his tea. And that is exactly how you have killed your husband. A sly move typical of women, isn’t it? Case solved, Mrs. Chatterjee. Now, tell us how you did what you did that night and don’t try to hide anything.’ 

‘That night…that night,’ Nabanita stammered, then gathered her courage to speak the truth. ‘That night, my husband came home late from his friend’s house. He said he had dinner there but wanted to eat again. I had nothing prepared, so I hurried to the kitchen to fix some food for him. But he was hungry and angry. When I brought him dinner, he refused to eat, dragged me to the bedroom, and hit me for not cooking for him. I know it was my fault. I apologized to him constantly, but he had turned a deaf ear towards me. He said I needed to be punished in such a way that it would cure me of all my shortcomings. So he took scissors and chopped off my hair so I couldn’t show my face to anyone. He then said he was parched and wanted me to make him some tea. So I went to make him some tea. Suddenly, I heard my friend Miranti screaming from the next room. When I ran to her, I saw her husband beating her. She was crawling on the floor, begging him to stop, but he showed no mercy.’ 

Agnihotri interjects. ‘Was Miranti at your house with her husband that night?’ 

Nabanita struggles to answer. Miranti was not in Kolkata but in Indonesia. So whom did she see that night? Who screamed? Did she hallucinate? 

‘Mrs. Chatterjee, why are you telling us these unbelievable stories? No one will believe your made-up tales. They sound like figments of your imagination.’ 

Agnihotri’s own words strike him. Did Nabanita imagine everything? Did she confuse her friend’s abuse from Miranti’s letters with her own reality? Nabanita’s hallucinations were noted in her medical reports after her arrest. When Agnihotri spoke with the asylum she had been in, they mentioned her hallucination episodes. No one knew what went on inside Nabanita’s head. Agnihotri tried to connect the dots. In a moment of hallucination, did Nabanita perceive Miranti’s letters as reality? Did she borrow the idea of poisoning her husband from Miranti’s letters? Did she poison the tea thinking Miranti’s husband would drink it? When Debashish drank the tea, did he succumb to a death that was meant for another abuser miles away? 

PART II  
Miranti, 2024, Jakarta 

The humid Jakarta air feels thick and heavy, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the Kolkata hospital room Nabanita was in. Inspector Oscar leans back in his chair, the worn leather creaking beneath him. Across the small, cluttered table sits Miranti, her face a mask of carefully constructed grief. He’d received the file from Kolkata just days ago, the bizarre case of Nabanita Chatterjee and the death of her husband, Debashish. Nabanita’s claims of Miranti’s abuse at the hands of her husband, the frantic letters detailing a plan to poison him, were all so convoluted. And now, Miranti sits before him, composed and cooperative. 

‘So, Ibu Miranti,’ Inspector Oscar begins, his voice low and measured. ‘You’ve read the reports from Kolkata. Nabanita Chatterjee claims she saw your husband... what was his name again?’ He pauses, feigning forgetfulness, watching Miranti’s reaction. 

‘Rudi,’ she supplies smoothly, her eyes unwavering. ‘Rudi is…a difficult man. Nabanita is a dear friend, very concerned for my well-being.’ A single tear escaped, tracing a delicate path through her pale face. ‘She worries about me.’ 

Oscar nods slowly, unconvinced. ‘Worries enough to kill?’ He places a copy of one of the letters on the table, the words stark and damning in black and white. Miranti’s breath hitches slightly, a flicker of something, a complex mix of guilt and fear crossing her face before she quickly regains control. 

‘Nabanita…she’s very sensitive,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. ‘She…she internalizes things. Rudi and I… we have problems, yes. He…he hurt me. More than once. He is an unkind man.’ She hesitates, then continues, her voice barely a whisper. ‘There was a time…I was so angry, so desperate. I wrote things…terrible things. About wanting to…to poison him.’ 

Oscar’s gaze remains fixed on her. ‘One letter mentions specific details, Ibu Miranti. Details about the type of poison, how to administer it…’ He tapped the letter with his finger. ‘It’s quite detailed for just “venting”.’ 

Miranti’s composure begins to crack. She wrings her hands, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms. ‘I…I never thought she would…that she even read those parts. Those were…private thoughts, written in the heat of the moment. I never actually intended to…’ She trails off, unable to voice the full extent of her intended actions. 

‘But Nabanita did, didn’t she?’ Oscar counters, his voice hardening. ‘She took your “private thoughts”, your “heat of the moment” rage, and acted upon them. And now, a man is dead.’  
 
Miranti’s carefully constructed facade crumbles completely. Tears stream down her face, her shoulders shaking. ‘It was an accident! Nabanita…She gets confused. She…she must have read those letters when I wasn’t thinking clearly. She…she must have thought she was helping me. She…she wouldn’t…not intentionally. She just…she gets things mixed up. She probably read those parts where I was so angry with Rudi and…and applied them to her own situation.’ 

Oscar leans forward, his expression unwavering. ‘So, let me understand, Ibu Miranti. You wrote detailed instructions on how to poison your husband. You shared these letters with Nabanita, knowing her fragile mental state. And now, you’re suggesting she somehow misinterpreted your rage-filled fantasies as instructions for her life, for her husband?’ 

Miranti remains silent, her head bowed, the weight of her actions finally settled upon her. The humid Jakarta air seems to press down on her, suffocating her with the truth. Oscar knows he has his answer.

IX 
Women, beginning to end, everywhere 

 
Domestic violence is a quiet, invisible pandemic. It infects everything: love, trust, family, and even the mind. Nabanita's act wasn’t one of hatred, it was the final, desperate cry of a woman who had been suffocated by years of abuse. But in the end, the silence spoke louder than any confession. Nabanita was driven to take everything down with her, because when one woman is consumed by this darkness, she cannot help but drag the world around her into the void. The real pain wasn't just the bruises on her body, it was the silence that suffocated the truth for far too long. 

That night, Debashish was the victim of an abuse happening many miles away. But he wasn’t innocent. His justice was delivered when he didn’t expect it. Justice awaits Miranti’s husband. One day. Or one night.  
 
The two women, separated by geography, culture, miles, have led the same life. Women everywhere do. Abuse finds its way into their lives in one form or the other. And the lives of all women in this world run parallel at some point or another. A life where some survive, some suffer, some learn to live with it, some embody it. Everyone faces it. 
 
Nabanita gets charged for the murder of her husband. Jailed till death. Death is a strange thing. No one acknowledges it unless it sprouts from within and consumes us. Till death becomes us, we are alive. Nabanita was alive to the world because death didn’t sprout to save her. Her body was alive. But her happiness was dead long back, and with it every inch of her being and her soul. But no one would see that. Life is a strange thing.  

Miranti has been granted permission to come out on bail the next day. Her husband’s lawyers succeeded in holding up his reputation. But Miranti knows what her future holds.  
 
‘A bail to get out of this jail and enter another,’ she thinks. 
 
She takes out a paper and pen to write one more letter.  
 
Dear Nabanita, 
 
I have been granted bail. I will soon be out and free. At least that’s what a bail means right? 
Your mother has always been right. I have been a bad influence on you. After so many years, when our lives decided to collide again, see where it brought us again. I have been no good to you ever.  
 

The police say you poisoned your husband and that my letters provoked you to do that. What years of abuse couldn’t do, my letters did. I feel a certain sense of smugness knowing that. Not one ounce of guilt. Yes, your mother was right, I am indeed a bad woman.   

I wanted to poison my husband, stop his abuse all at once. But I could never do it. But you did it. But even then, our fates are just the same. We are still not free. They still own us. Patriarchy will always own us.  
 
Many years from now, our lives will collide again. I will see you again my friend, maybe as a fellow bird, or as another drop of water in a vast ocean. May this world welcome us again, make us a part of it but spare us the pain of being two women. I am going to plead with your God and mine.  
 
Yours, 
Miranti 
 
The next morning, the jail cell lies empty. Miranti’s spot clinging onto her impression soon before it fades away forever. The post-mortem report handed over to Miranti’s husband says: ‘Death by poison’.   
 

X 
Inspector Agnihotri, 2024, Kolkata 

Agnihotri closes the case file, placing it among the ‘closed’ cases. Before doing so, he takes one final look at the passport-sized photos of Nabanita and Miranti attached to the file. He knows what has happened, but proving it is an entirely different matter.  

As Agnihotri steps out of the room, his colleagues congratulate him on solving the case quickly and efficiently. His promotion is the talk of the hour, an inevitable moment waiting to unfold. Yet, as he walks through the bustling precinct, the weight of the case lingers heavily on his shoulders. 

He enters his boss's cabin, a sense of resolve in his step. His boss looks up, a proud smile spreading across his face. ‘Well done, Agnihotri! You've brought swift justice. I’ve recommended you for a promotion.’ 

Agnihotri stands there for a moment, the word ‘justice’ seems to have pierced his heart. The room's silence amplifies the turmoil within him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his resignation letter, places it on his boss’s desk. The smile fades from his boss’s face. He looks at Agnihotri, confused. 

‘What is this?’ his boss demands. 

‘I can’t accept a promotion based on a case involving domestic violence,’ Agnihotri replies, his voice steady but filled with a profound sadness. ‘I refuse to benefit from the suffering of those women.’ 

His boss stares at him, speechless, as Agnihotri turns to leave. With each step, he feels a sense of liberation, his conscience guiding him away from a system that often turns a blind eye to the harsh realities of abuse. As he exits the precinct, the evening air feels heavy, much like the hearts of those impacted by the case. 

Agnihotri pauses at the threshold, looking back at the place he had dedicated so much of his life to. The image of Nabanita’s haunted eyes and Miranti’s fractured facade lingers in his mind. He knows he cannot erase the past, but he can choose to act with integrity, even if it means walking away from everything he has ever worked for.