Not Really A Story

Not Really A Story
Swapna & New Nonentities
June 12, 2011
N OT R EALLY A S TORY
Swapna & New Nonentities
June 12, 2011
c 2011 Swapna & New Nonentities a.k.a. Arjun All rights reserved Certain parts are based on real life - the rest can be considered to be autobiography. Readers are advised to forget reality - ction suits life better.
to
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as usual
Preface
Can I claim a thought to be mine? I must have read it or heard it somewhere - surely, it cant be mine. If not now, sometime soon, I hope there will be a few original lines. I wish I could say for myself Seamus Heaneys lines from Digging:
Between my nger and my thumb The squat pen rests. Ill dig with it.
S WAPNA & A RJUN June 12, 2011
Acknowledgements
To those few friends who were there always: I thank you for your time and consideration. The friends told me what they thought when the acquaintances behaved like strangers and kept quiet.
For hosting this virtual existence, I thank:
Blogger.com: Discarded/Gathered Thoughts - Swapna http://discardedthoughts-swapna.blogspot.com/ http://gatheredthoughts-swapna.blogspot.com/ Sulekha.com: swapna3ss - Swapna http://discardedthoughts.sulekha.com/ Blogger.com: New Nonentities/Just an Avatar http://newnonentities.blogspot.com/ http://justoneavatar.blogspot.com/ Sulekha.com: NewNonentities - Arjun http://new-nonentities.sulekha.com/ Poetry Chain (India): Swapna http://sites.google.com/site/sepoct09/swapna
S WAPNA & A RJUN June 12, 2011
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Contents
Preface Acknowledgements 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Inconsequential Every Dog Has Its Day My Football Days Shame You All The Scream Within The Angry Man Better Luck Next Kid Can you see the eyes The Machete Murders v vii 1 3 5 8 10 15 19 22 23 29 44 49 57 65 68 69
10 The Lady with a Smile 11 Diary Of A Stalker 12 The Hijack on August 13th 13 Stochastic Resonance 14 Laid Off 15 A cage, ?, an idea 16 The Last Time I Wrote About Love
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17 Speechless 18 Lonely with Passion 19 On hearing a woman sob in Cargse 20 Trips 21 My Father is a Good Man 22 After Nights In White Satin 23 The Only One That Remains 24 Path of No Return 25 Love Dies 26 Company 27 School Reunion 28 Not Really A Story 29 If she knew . . . 30 For Gods Sake, Listen! 31 Memory of a Gift 32 Gigolo 33 Why I Left You 34 His Brothers Wedding 35 The Best Thing 36 Lovers & Liars 37 Unofcial Mills & Boon Club 38 My Funny Valentine
82 88 90 91 95 100 105 107 113 117 120 125 129 130 134 137 138 141 144 145 146 149
CONTENTS
39 4% Deal 40 A Story-tellers Sabbatical 41 I See 42 Remembrances
152 173 193 195
1
Inconsequential
The local paper thrives on the inconsequential. Consider this on page 3. Raju, age 27, stabbed to death. His parents, retired school-teachers, teach underprivileged kids at home. His elder sister is a homemaker and her husband is a lift technician working in the Middle-East. The younger unmarried sister is a clerk in a government ofce. There is a picture of their modest house in a respectable lower middle-class locality. Poker Raju was a notorious rowdy. The title of the news-item is Poker Poked. The paper mentions that at the age of seventeen this youth with a decent background turned into a cold-blooded hit-man. The overnight transformation could be a result of careless upbringing or abuse or mental imbalance or extreme provocation, the report conjectures without details. I asked him about that once. Raju replied nonchalantly, You are good at accounting. I am good at what I do. Regarding his nickname he said, Its a bit like the one given by parents, just anothers whim. Personally, I would have preferred Stiletto Raju. That sounds Italian, huh? Raju used to intimidate his victims with a stiletto. He would make the victim place both hands, with ngers splayed, on a table. Using the stiletto he would try to poke between the ngers with increasing rapidity. After the hands, he would shift to the toes and the groin. I am not really good at this game, he sheepishly admitted. I got to know him six years back during Radha Auntys case. She is a widow and a close friend of my mother. She called me to her house one lazy Sunday afternoon. She served tea and lightly buttered cucumber sandwiches, hesitated and dgeted, hum-hawed and pulled at threads of a cushion, and after a long while I got her request which could be summarized as I need someone ready to dirty his hands. Through a friend, I arranged a meeting between Poker Raju and Aunty. She served him
1 . INCONSEQUENTIAL
tea and freshly-baked cookies. His sharp and dark features contrasted well with her fair and chubby countenance. With him, surprisingly, she displayed efcient professionalism. I was present while they negotiated the price. She gave him a name and address. No reason was mentioned to me or Raju. It was after all her grievance and not ours - property or nancial problem; violation of son or daughter; physical or mental threat; marital issues or tussle with relatives; something less or more severe. Some go to court, some confront on their own, some lie low trying to forgive or forget, and others deal with it this way. Thats all. Raju then asked me if I wanted to be present, remaining concealed though, during the job. I was curious. I said yes. It was over rather fast. He exhibited his skills, or lack of it, with his stiletto. Operation successful but patient died, he quipped at the end. He was joking - the man was only nearly dead but a bloody mess. I have used his services a few times over the years. Yesterday, he was supposed to nish a problem that has troubled me greatly. I made the mistake of waiting and hoping. But, problems are like cancer. Finally, at wits end, I told Poker Raju what I wanted. Raju completed the rst part well. He abducted the man, his wife and kid-daughter and brought them to an old deserted building on the city-outskirts. I instructed Raju to kill the wife and daughter rst, in front of the man. For the rst time, he broke our contract. He took the wife and the kid to another room. There, he knocked them unconscious but did not kill them. Hearing their horrible cries before the silence that followed, the man assumed that his wife and kid had been killed. Still, he begged for mercy. Raju returned and started with his stiletto and, nished him off. For me, Raju had failed. I had heard from others that Raju had, on recent jobs, shown signs of softening. That is dangerous. Anticipating Rajus failure, I had contracted two new kids on the block who worked as a team. They were there, remaining concealed in that building. While Raju cleared the dead mans mess, I sent a message to the team. They killed the wife, the kid and Poker Raju and, completed the job. There are two kinds of people in this world: people like him; and, people like you and me.
2
Every Dog Has Its Day
History has a problem with start dates. There are always precursors. At times, we have to enter the story in the middle and move on. What do you remember about May 1991 - the assassination of the Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi, right? Do you remember a story which fought for print space for a day or two, the case of Roy? Try to jog your memory. Roy was a district-level government employee, age around 40, a sincere chap in charge of giving licenses to small-scale enterprises and monitoring their activities. From a FIR of May 1991, we learn about Roys problems with a businessman called Das. The latter owns a chain of budget hotels with a dubious reputation. There are various allegations against him - illicit liquor, sex racket, money laundering, real estate and sand mining maa, income tax evasion, extortion, murder and blackmail are some of the charges. Roy alleges that, following a few confrontations between the two, Das abducted him, his wife (age 35) and two daughters (ages 15 and 13). Roy recounts the following details: . . . He (Das) told his men to remove wife and daughters after using. To me, he said Spoils of war, huh? He and his assistant then thrashed me but kept me alive. If you die, who will tell the story? he gloated . . . The police searched for Roys wife and daughters but they could not nd them, dead or alive. There was no evidence to support Roys complaint. Roy tried to pursue the various charges against Das via the judicial system. For 17 years, he followed postponed and prolonged cases in front of bored judges. The les got thicker with irrelevant details year after year while the relevant sheets and evidence got misplaced or expunged. The lower court ordered psychological evaluation of Roy and he was found to be mentally fragile. Before the end of 2008, Roy decided to take matters into his own hands. Through a blackmarket dealer who had once been his informant, he managed to procure a long-range rie with telescopic sight and a silencer. He had learned shooting in school as a part of NCC. After joining government service, he had continued to practice. He could have competed
2 . EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY
at a high level but an early marriage and kids prompted him to relegate this passion to a mere hobby. In 2008-2009, though rusty, he was still a very good shot. In the months that followed, he practiced with great discipline. During that time, for nearly two years, he also tracked and followed Das. In January 2011, he had nalized his plans. He decided to target his victim from an empty at opposite Dass ofce. On last Friday, he waited for the arrival of Das. At 8 am, he saw Das enter his ofce. He smiled while he centered the crosshairs on his victims skull. He hardly felt the touch of cold steel against the base of his own skull. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Roys world went black or blank. Das received a call on his cell-phone from his assistant. Done? Yes. These idiots - from where do they get such ideas? It must be the senseless violence in todays movies. Das then realized that his assistant had ended the call after the Yes. The assistant, a sincere professional, had kept track of Roys activities and he was cleaning up the killing area of any evidence. Roys photo is in the Deaths & Other Engagements page of todays paper. Poor chap. Well, he is not the rst to think that every dog has its day.
3
My Football Days
I was in the playing eleven for one league match. Twenty minutes into the rst half, I received a kick from behind on my calf and at that same moment, the rival forward I was trying to tackle smashed the ball into my groin with tremendous force. I watched the rest of that match from the sidelines. My team had ve from my family, six if you count me; four rst-cousins, including the captain Biju and the centre-forward Aju; and Shaji, a rather distant cousin but a close friend of my cousins. I used to hang around with those three though they are a few years older than me. It seemed to be the best way to enter the team. I used to look forward to those visits to my paternal grandparents place during extended school holidays. The house consisted of two single-storey buildings separated by a small sandy courtyard. When I see Malayalam movies, I wonder why they never show houses like that rather than the grand ones with pond and what-not. Every village house I knew looked like my grandparents house. Every nook and corner of that house would be lled with people. Rather dingy dark rooms with old smells, a toilet to be avoided, small groups whispering, few loud ones omnipresent, these I remember. My mother and sisters complaining, not about the direct in-laws, but about the other women and their kids who had entered that house like them via marriage; a fair competition between those in the same category, I suppose. My grandparents used to proudly watch their kids arrive in cars. At dusk, my grandmother used to gather the kids for the evening prayer, Rama Rama bhagyama, or something that sounded like that. Meals were rushed affairs between games. For me, and my cousins, life revolved around football. Every evening, a big crowd including most of my family members would gather around the ground next to our house. Our main rivals were from the same neighbourhood. The toss decided the team that played bare-chested. Some had football boots, most played barefoot; most had shorts but some still played the old way with lungi folded and expertly tucked in.
3 . MY FOOTBALL DAYS
The captain of the rival team was a guy named Sasi. He was a tall chap, standing well above six feet, barrel-chested, athletic, fair, light-eyed, aquiline features. I have heard my cousins say, Kuravande veettil aaro purathuninnu mathilu chaadi . . . (Some outsider must have jumped the wall of that low-castes house . . . ). After scoring a goal against us, he would go near the sidelines where my family was gathered and standing in front of them, taunt us with a roar. We also knew that he was putting on a show for the benet of our cousin, Indira. Indira is my most beautiful cousin and Bijus elder sister. Since she was my fathers sisters daughter, I could have married her if I had been her age or older. She treated me like a kid-brother while I teased and ogled. Aju, the son of another paternal aunt, could not view her as anything but a sister. The distant cousin Shaji was right for her by way of age and family lineage. Only two obstacles stood in his path. The main one was that his father was much richer than hers; the minor one being his ugliness and her revulsion towards him. But, whenever he talked to her, it was obvious that he considered her as his by default. I was there when Aju caught her with our rival, Sasi. They had been talking and standing close, Aju told us. Biju confronted Indira and warned her to stay away from Sasi. Why, she asked her younger brother. He is not suitable for us, Biju told his sister, he is poor and though he belongs to our caste, he is of a lower sub-caste. She stared at us without saying a word. We thought she would listen to us and we decided to keep this from the elders. But, the next day, after his team defeated us he strutted in front of her and she smiled at him. We planned our attack well. We knew that he returned to his house from his Club at around nine at night. Two days after the last taunt, the four of us waited in a well-shaded part of that route. We were in briefs; our bodies oiled and greased. We attacked Sasi that night with iron bars, thick sticks and cycle chains. I had a thick stick and I think I managed to hit him once on the head and chest. Shaji was the most ferocious and he used an iron rod against the knees and ankles. When Sasi lost consciousness, we stopped hitting and left the place. The next morning, news came to us from various quarters. Then and now, the elders have never questioned us about that days incident (annaththe sambhavam). Sasi was in hospital for a long time. The police questioned him. When he could speak, he told them that he could not recognize his attackers. We knew his intentions and why he decided not to sneak on us but we could do little after that. My studies took me away from my land. Then, my grandparents died and I had even
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fewer reasons to visit frequently. I used to get the family news. Indira married our rival Sasi. He managed to become a clerk in some government ofce. A few months back, on one of my rare visits to that place, I met Indira and her beautiful kids. She insisted that I should visit her house and her kids tugged and pulled me there. I sat with Sasi in the front-room, discussing local politics and World Cup football, having tea and sharing a plate of biscuits. He walked with a limp and used a walking stick, his nose had a broken skewness and the left side of his face had a slight droop as if patched badly. He caught me looking and smiled; those light-eyes taunting me like then, my football days.
4
Shame You All
I risk losing your attention by beginning with a clich. But, thats how ghts start in my village these days. Its either with the groan It all started when . . . ah! . . . that idiot doctor . . . or the growl On that dark night . . . who . . . damn you . . . wrote that . . . Opinions predictably turn into accusations, names of strangers are confused with that of relatives and friends; sometimes within a minute, usually extending hours; these ghts had to happen. If it has to enter history books, for once let it be facts. In May that year, Dr. Jose joined the Census Panel which was preparing the questionnaire for the census. Along with the customary questions regarding sex, age, property, profession, income, virility, religion, caste and family, question number 11 asked, Have you ever been treated for mental illness? The census was completed before Onam. It took three weeks for the panel to study using computers extensively for statistical analysis. They released a report which included the line, One in each generation of every family suffers from mental illness. The immediate response was to quip As if we didnt know. Someone then pointed out some similarity with the plot of a late 80s movie called Thaniyavarthanam. People familiar with that movie raised the concern, But, that was for a family, that too only the male and they made him mad, right? Here . . . ? Reports indicate that at least four families shifted from the village before November. By late-November, seven marriages were cancelled. In one case, the marriage vows were exchanged but the feast was cancelled. A scufe broke out between the well-wishers of the bride and the bridegroom. The bride suffered severe concussion following a blow to the head and the marriage was annulled. In early December, a reliable source revealed that question number 11 was due to Dr. Jose,
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also adding that Dr. Jose moonlighted as a psychiatrist. New Years Eve celebrations were subdued that year and during that night, unknown persons pelted stones and certain unsavoury items at Dr. Joses house. To add to the woes of the village, the incident of the nasty writing happened around then. In the village, the temple and the mosque are situated, side by side, opposite to the sh market and the church is situated to the right of the market - somewhat like Palayam, Trivandrum. There is a small space in the middle where a board has been placed for pinning important notices (such as the census report). It was denitely a dark night when someone wrote on that board, in crooked and barely legible bold letters, shame you all. The morning after, a large group gathered in front of the board. The majority did not know English and classied the writing as gibberish. Then, a learned person in that group muttered, Tchah! Who . . . is making fun of . . . our institution . . . insulting our sentiments. Damn! People, depending on their afliation, felt that their religion or their market had been deled. The riots that followed that incident lasted only a week. The intermittent ghts that followed the riots understandably injured and killed more. Those are the facts. Some claim that Dr. Jose has a Ph.D. in Chemistry. He tried to incite further trouble by asking, Who isnt mad here? Hes left the village. An unconrmed source has revealed that the police are working on anagrams and that they suspect Shankunni. Hes the ten year old son of Soman, the rubber trader. Suspected of being inuenced by outside elements, Shankunni has been dismissed from the village school. Those who spied on Shankunnis notebooks found more hurtful stuff. shame you all, a seamy hullo, my halal esou . . . om allah yesu . . . this dangerous game with anagrams had to stop.
5
The Scream Within
Do you have a scream? Caged within your mind? Choking each breath? Clogging life? Dont you have that scream? Yesterday, when I walked past the graveyard, I heard her scream. My house is on an island, half a kilometer in radius, in the middle of the city. To the north and east, development took away the places that I used to haunt. A kilometer to the south, at the junction, there are a few shops with no names. Paalukkada (this milk-shop is supposed to be one of the best-sellers in the city), the vegetable shop (the old guy and his wife committed suicide and now its the son-in-law whos there), the hairdresser (All Hair Cut), the grocery shop (owned by two Muslim brothers who have always looked fty-ish), the hotel and tea-shop with a board advertising veg no-veg meals ready special beefu- llathu and then, the scrap shop run by a silent lad named Raman. His father was a brilliant raconteur and people say that his stories were picked up from the scrap. This Onam, Ramans father would have been missing for twenty years. Some say that he ran away with a heroine in a story; some say that he is in Poojappura jail for killing someone; some say that they have seen him in Oolamppara mental asylum. To the west of my house, the graveyard is still there but the old mint is gone. The old mint was not there even when she screamed in the graveyard, twenty six years back. That evening, I had gone for a party at a friends place. I had told my folks that I would be dropped safely at home around nine. For some reason, I felt out of place at the party and making up some hasty excuse, escaped from that group at half past seven. With three kilometers to my house, and one steep hill to climb, I estimated that a brisk walk could get me home by eight. I walked quickly past the low-lying area near my friends place, with the strong stench of the drainage canal in the air. The air cleared when I climbed the hill.
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The streets were empty, as usual; barely lit by old low-wattage street lamps. I dont think it was safer then but I was young. At the top of the hill, I followed the road climbing to the left, alongside the graveyard wall. Then, I heard her scream. It was not a loud scream and if I had not been near that part, I would not have heard it. It bore pain, a brief tired protest too but then and now, it mostly said . . . nothing . . . neither a cry for help nor rage nor lost hope . . . nothing. I felt scared and I wanted to run away from that scene. I do not know why I looked over the wall. I could see the back of a man, brushing dust from his clothes, tucking in his shirt slowly and carefully into open pants, adjusting his underwear, zipping up, taking a small comb from the back pocket of his pants, combing his hair and mustache, spitting. I must have slipped or made some noise. The man turned and saw me. His expression did not change; in fact, he looked bored. I must have opened my mouth in fright. He raised his nger to his lips and then, walked away quite leisurely. I recognized him from photos in the paper and you might know him, too. It was after he left that I saw her lying still near an unmarked grave. I climbed over the wall and went to her. For years, I have wondered why I did that. To be honest, it must have been just curiosity. Her eyes were open, lled with tears, unblinking. Recently, I saw a face like hers - that eighteen year old suicide bomber in Russia, the one with a baby face. At that time, she looked old to me - at least a dozen years older than me. I did not touch her or speak to her. After few minutes, she slowly sat up, her young body shivering. Using a part of her sari, she wiped her body, harshly wiping her thighs, her legs, her upper body, her face. She tore that part of the sari and threw away the rag. She straightened her clothes, trying in vain to x her torn blouse. I took out the plastic raincoat from my backpack and held it out to her. She took it without a word and covered herself. Shall we go to a hospital? I asked. She shook her head, not even looking at me. Shall I come with you to the police station? This time, she looked at me. Again, she shook her head, smiling sadly, O child . . . I must have stood there not knowing what to do, watching her shivering and brushing the gravestone, tears rolling down her cheeks. I looked around and recognized the area. This was that part of the graveyard - the place for the unmarked, the excommunicated, the
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5 . THE SCREAM WITHIN
ostracized, the criminals, the immoral lot and all the other bad ghosts discarded by my society. Why did you come here? I asked hoping that it did not sound like an accusation. I thought that she would not reply or that she might tell me to get lost. But, she asked me, Will you sit next to me . . . just for a moment? She must have seen me move back involuntarily and she added bitterly This is not contagious . . . I sat on the ground next to her. We sat quietly for a while but I sensed that she wished to speak. I must have tted the role, like a stranger on a train, a condante or safe company for a short while. She pointed at the grave, Today is his death anniversary. Then she paused, breathing deeply, The man you saw knew I would come here. For him and his cronies, it was patriotic revenge. He didnt even want to be the rst . . . just watched, and waited till the others were done and gone . . . they said that they felt justied doing this to me, like they were lynching him once again, they said . . . she broke down, leaning against me lightly. I sat there stify, hardly thinking about her . . . what if I had been the victim? For years, I have tried to gure out the answer to that. I knew that she was terribly miserable but to tell you the truth, I have no idea about the extent of her pain. Who is he? I asked, tilting my head towards the grave. Dont you know? Dont you remember? I tried to recollect the days headlines and vaguely remembered a small article in the paper about it being a black day. On that date, three years previously, a terrorist was nabbed - after the terrorist entered a school and killed twenty three people at a primary school, three teachers and twenty kids. One of those teachers was a distant aunt and two of those kids lived in my neighbourhood.
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I think I stood up and moved away from her. I deserve what I got, right? she laughed bitterly. To me, it seemed like she was mocking herself. I went back, knelt in front of her, Sorry. She must have realized that I was not a child nor an adult, and that I meant it. Was he your husband? I asked. No . . . we knew each other . . . met when we could . . . I kept quiet. I should have known that he was a time-bomb waiting to explode . . . we never talked about ourselves . . . why waste time, we thought . . . I could rest my head against his chest and sleep so well. Thats all that I wanted. I used to wake up knowing that he would be there . . . looking at me, tenderly, lovingly . . . thats all we wanted. I try to forget all that he told me . . . but, I didnt listen well I suppose, even when he foretold doom:
In the dark days to come With you, Your words, your kiss, your touch, To know peace, To forget rage, In this world In this damned world, With you, I might survive.
When I heard about what he did, I hated myself more than I had to hate him. I knew that I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember. For three years, I stayed away from this city . . . an unknown person in unknown places. I tried hard not to think of him. But today . . . I knew that he was buried here . . . I thought I should ask him . . . why.
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5 . THE SCREAM WITHIN
Her words and her life did not mean much to me then. We parted that night knowing that we will never see each other. I did not know that her scream would stay with me forever. In the years that followed, I kept hearing that scream. I heard it when I was betrayed, when I felt lost, when I felt defeated - by the system, by my society, by kith and kin, when the judicial system destroyed my life . . . When I had to forget the only memory I wish to remember . . . With pain, a brief tired protest, saying . . . nothing . . . I hear that scream . . . is it my scream now?
6
The Angry Man
When his right st crashed into his boss nose, he felt the jolt in his whole arm along with the crunch and squishy mixing of cartilage, esh and splintering bone in the others face. In those few seconds, as in a slow motion picture, he watched globs of blood splattering and his boss face registering surprise, pain and slippery consciousness. Thirty minutes before that, he had phoned his boss from his desk, I have to go home. Its urgent. Sure . . . but, is todays report ready? said his boss in reply. Yes, I have mailed it to you and Mark. Mark was their boss in London. Oh . . . you have sent it? I must have missed that mail . . . his boss had sounded miffed. He had breached protocol. He was supposed to complete the work and explain all the technical details to his boss; and then, his boss completes the task as usual by presenting the same details to Mark. He had tried to rush the matter, Yes, Mark has already replied . . . says everything looks great . . . Oh, really . . . let me talk to him . . . could you wait for a few minutes? his boss had told him. He was still waiting. He had got three more calls from home during that time begging him to get home urgently. He had gone near his boss ofce couple of times, seen his boss doodling on a piece of paper, feet on his desk, chatting and laughing on the phone. His boss had gestured to him to wait. Back at his desk, he had clenched his st and dreamt. He had dreamt of crashing that st into his boss nose. He thought of leaving without waiting any longer but he could not risk
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6 . THE ANGRY MAN
losing his job. Forty three minutes after he raised his request, he saw his boss walking casually to the toilet and a few minutes later, with small talk and a show of camaraderie to the colleagues on the way, his boss nally reached his desk, Ah . . . are you still here? I talked to Mark . . . everything is ne . . . He thanked his boss and scooted from the ofce. Half-way to his house from the ofce, at the junction where he had to cut across the main road, his car was stopped by a policeman. You cannot go. A VIPs car is coming . . . Sir, can I just cross the main road? Its an emergency at home . . . I just have to cross the road, thats all . . . No . . . the VIP is expected in a few minutes . . . Three local youths standing at a wayside tea-stall, smoking cigarettes and drinking tea, laughed at his frustration. Oy . . . look at blackie . . . blackie cannot cross . . . Not blackie, man . . . just brownie . . . brown faggot . . . The third one sang a song about brown maggots and black crows. It took him ten strides and three seconds to cover the distance to those youths. He had a jack in his right hand and a heavy spanner in the left. He gave the singer a whack on the head with a left swing; and, with a right upper cut, he cracked the jaw of the second youth. The one who had started it all tried to run but he lunged forward and caught him with a tackle. They landed hard on the ground. He pummeled the sides till the youth lost consciousness. Then, he walked back to the car to wait for the VIP. He kept looking straight while he saw those images in his head. The boys left the scene after they nished their smoke and concluded that they had had enough fun at his expense. His hands were holding the steering wheel tightly. He wiped sweat off his forehead and armpits.
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After twenty minutes, the policeman came to him, Look, why dont you park the car somewhere here, cross the road and catch a taxi on the other side? He took the advice. On the other side of the road, he did not nd a taxi till he reached the next junction about seven hundred metres from where he left his car. The taxi-driver was sleeping on the back seat. He woke the driver and told him the destination. The disgruntled driver got out of the back-seat, leaned against the front door, Sorry, boss . . . problem with the engine . . . Please, brother . . . there is an emergency at home. Hey, am I your brother? Dont call me your brother. Boss, I told you, right? There is a problem with the engine . . . He felt his ngers digging like claws into the drivers neck; the thumb on one side and the four on the other side digging deep, nearly circling the air-pipe, ready to pull it out. In his eyes, the driver could see the eyes of a duelist, the eyes of a man ready to kill, ready to die, willing to settle for nothing less. He closed his eyes and he wanted to keep dreaming. But, he was too tired, too angry, too worried; even to dream . . . The problem with the engine disappeared after he offered three times the usual fare. He sat in the back and tried to avoid the drivers eyes in the rear-view mirror. When he reached his house, his young wife came running to him, looking haggard and deeply worried. She was holding their baby tight, their little baby boy. I do not know whats wrong with him. I took him to the hospital this morning for the usual shots and injection . . . after that, Oh God . . . he has not stopped crying. I have been carrying him since then but he wont stop crying . . . shall we take him to the doctor . . . Oh God! Whats wrong with him? He took the baby, cradling him in the crook of his left arm. The baby continued crying, as if in deep agony; the babys cheeks suffused with red; and quite visibly, tired and angry. He looked at his child, at the little bundle in his arms, and felt as if all the barricades made out of strength, will and sense were collapsing within. He did not know what to do. He held his wife close to him, trying to look calm, and he told her, Let me change my clothes . . . lets take him to the doctor . . .
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6 . THE ANGRY MAN
In their bedroom, he laid the baby on the bed, still cuddling and not wanting to let go of the poor little baby even for a minute. The baby stopped crying and gurgled with relief, looking at his mother and father. His tired parents looked at him worried. The baby gave another gurgle of delight and this time, smiled, too. What happened to him? his mother asked his father. I dont know.
7
Better Luck Next Kid
Look at the bright side - its just a 5 minute walk from your house to the Court. It takes one hour for me to get here and more than hundred rupees, not that that will get you anything these days. I am now quite used to his style of delivery with the frequent changes of pitch or volume to emphasize each and every part of a sentence. I met him here at my lawyers ofce two and a half years back and I guess you could call us well-acquainted. I call him Sasi and when he is not around, my lawyer refers to him as Pickaxe Sasi. In the local papers, he is a quotation killer. I once asked him for a rough quote. When he told me the price for a human head, I remarked, Isnt that cheap? Demand and supply, he replied. Another time, I asked him if he is not scared to die. Today or tomorrow, who cares? And after some thought, he added rather reluctantly, I am not that careless. Be with the right people, kill the wrong people. Leave the rest to the system. It works. I have been visiting this ofce quite regularly for the last three years. It is a nondescript and small ofce packed with les, 2 tables and 5 chairs. It is on the rst oor of a commercial building situated right next to a drainage canal and the unbearable stink stays on my skin for days after each visit. My lawyer is rather good but he has no qualms about keeping his clients waiting for long hours in his ofce while he attends to some other case.
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7 . BETTER LUCK NEXT KID
In the rst six months of those three years, I was distraught, depressed and defeated. I survived that phase but my wife didnt. I had to survive for the sake of the other kids. As Sasi says, Life can be shitty, close your nose and keep your head high. What the heck, you have got only one. I tried quoting to him what I remembered of Confucius, You will live a 1000 lives and this could be the only one you will remember. I cannot print his reply, even without the emphasized parts. My sons case has been going on for three years. Initially, I could only think of what he and his group had done. The papers did not allow me to forget the crime and the victims, the kids especially. I could hardly recognize the photo the papers printed, he looked like a killer. And, my honest gaffe was often repeated, . . . he did something evil. In the rst two years, my lawyer expressed hope and told me that my son might get away with a few years or utmost a life sentence. We played all the trump cards that we had manslaughter, accidental victims, background of the intended victims, right religion, right caste, right class, right background and upbringing, even remorse and the possibility for quick rehabilitation. But unfortunately, nearly everyone in my sons group had the same credentials. A few months back, my lawyer conded that I should get ready for the worst. Today, he will be sentenced and my son had requested me not to be there in court. That is why I am here, with Sasi, waiting in the lawyers ofce. My other kids have turned out ok. My other son is inuenced by Lady Gaga and Bono. With my daughter, I have to argue about low-slung jeans, piercing and tattoos. We still have meals together and there is enough money for the occasional visit to the fake KFC for tubs of chicken broast. This son had bad luck. He turned out to be like me. I was younger than him when I started off with Flower Power and sang on the streets with my group of friends, give peace a chance. Disillusionment followed fast and we tried to
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be rebels or fashionable anarchists. We wanted to target nuclear power stations but there werent any in the immediate neighbourhood. We tried to stay away from the unavoidable political afliations. We had our gurus and the godfathers but they were smart enough to prompt only from outside the stage. During a period of unrest in the country, a powerful students group in Delhi taunted our manhood by sending a pack of bangles to our union. We would have showed our machismo with country bombs, knives and cycle chains but the jeep in which we traveled broke down somewhere on the outskirts of Rohtak. We spent the night nishing off two bottles of Old Monk and when the jeep got repaired the next day, none of us were in the mood to go to Delhi. A year later, we made it to a two-paragraph column on page 5 of a Saturday mid-day paper. We were even given a name, Urban Naxals. Since the paper was sympathetic to our ideals of bridging the huge class-divide, the paper also referred to us, in the second paragraph, as Robin Hoods. I left that group when I found my uncles name in a list of victims. I knew that my uncle was bankrupt and that he borrowed heavily from my father and others to keep up his lavish lifestyle. That group lasted for a few seasons and for some reason, without any victims. I was brought out of my reverie when Sasi tapped on my shoulder. My lawyer was climbing the stairs to the ofce. I stood up and waited at the door. My lawyer looked at me and shook his head. Your son and another got death. The judge concluded that they are the leaders. The country needs an example, it seems. I was ready for that, I think. Sasi placed his hand on my shoulder and said, Better luck next kid.
8
Can you see the eyes
Can you see the eyes . . . of the mother, raped, refugee her identity, head covered, baby suckling at bare breast, titled Tragdie; of the newly-wed widow, confused, victim of a causes kill, shielding the warm carcass, mumbling kal; of the soldier, booted, scared, conned with loneliness, wondering if he is, labeled a hero in papers excesses; of youths gazing nowhere, clinging to love long lost, of women with empty cases, owers for a ghost, of the crazed, laughing, snoring, the pillow held tight, of the sane, full of reason and purpose, lofty and might; if you cannot . . . enter the train leading nowhere, stacked neatly, as in a slaughterhouse, cackle merrily, the guillotine is not for you, suppose, waited upon, sipping wine, a sight for windows, gather the friends, for sex or serious talk, ask not why the neighbour is of silent stock, read the Book, be wise, learn the truth, pray to God, pay and confess at the booth, seek serene sleep, the race continues, to be noticed, tagged, love, shackles to be cut loose, do not see the eyes . . .
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9
The Machete Murders
Report in the newspaper Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo Ariyilla Nagar. July 9, 2010. A sustained effort by the city police to nab the suspect in the triple-murder case known as Machete Murders bore fruit, with last nights arrest of the suspect. Commissioner Prasad held a brief press conference late last night in which he revealed that the suspect is being interrogated and that the arrest took place at the suspects residence in Ariyilla Nagar. The commissioner did not reveal the identity of the suspect and he mentioned that all the details will be released once the suspect has been charged. The triple Machete Murders case involved the brutal decapitation, in a period of nine weeks, of the headmaster of a reputed city school, a world-renowned neurosurgeon and the managing director of a MNC based in the city. The murder of the three well-respected individuals had created an atmosphere of fear and helplessness in the city and the citizens along with various political organizations had staged two hartals and various protests. The city MP released a high-brow tweet last night as a sign of solidarity with the netizens, relieved our protests managed to murder city. In a statement released to the press, Commisioner Prasad has stated that he is now in-charge of the case and he lauded the efforts of Inspector Shankar who was the lead-investigator and prime-force behind the investigation. Shankar was not available for comment and a reliable source revealed that he is recovering from minor injuries suffered during the investigation.
The Case Of The Machete Murders by Mrs. Srividya Shankar I am Srividya Shankar, the proud wife of Inspector Shankar, the principal investigator in the Serious Crimes Unit. Here, I will try to provide a thorough description of the case of the Machete Murders. Please excuse me when I am overly verbose. It is my rst attempt after all and possibly my last too, once he gets to know.
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9 . THE MACHETE MURDERS
For long, I have dreamt of being Dr. Watson to my Holmes. I have always followed my husbands cases with keen interest. I guess I should mention right here that Shankar has never responded favourably in any fashion, and worse, he has tried to impede any interest from my side. But I will touch upon that a little later. To understand the case of the Machete Murders, it is important to understand Shankar and his life. Ours was an arranged marriage. On the tenth day after our wedding, we kissed for the rst time. We made a pact to leave our old baggage at the door. Does the past really matter? Now, with hindsight, it seems to matter. I might sound like the new-age freaks who advise on marriage and parenting, but we did build our partnership on trust, respect and understanding; at least, mostly. We have two kids, Lakshmi and Shiva, aged 14 and 11 respectively. He spoils them rotten but he is a good father. Our daughter is like him and my son is more like me; but as Shankar says, we have the duty to make our daughter be like the mother and the son to be like him; and, that will be our failing, he also says. Let them be, that is the advice we get. With anyone you love, how can you let them be? I know that I am trying to make it sound like a fairy-tale. It is never so, is it? Initially, I had problems sitting at home, being a homely wife; and then, the usual in-law problems. When will it be politically incorrect to use that term? Both of us have the clichd love to hate, hate to love relationship with our respective in-laws. I know that I will also be so, if given the chance. I will also try to make my daughter-in-law a daughter who will have to listen to me and she will know that I put up with her because I love my son. As for my son-in-law, I hope I do not have to see him that often, especially if I have to cook for him. But, everything is ne now, like a fairy-tale. Except when he is on a really serious case . . . When he is on a case, he is a man I would rather not know. Once, soon after our wedding, my husbands mentor Commisioner Prasad spoke to me in private. He told me that Shankar is very sensitive. I suppose he was telling me that my husband could snap. Ironical, isnt it, about who snapped at last? During the last case involving a Ripper, once when he shouted at the kids without reason, I confronted him later in the bedroom. I asked him why he cares more about the murdered whores than us, his family who loves him. He did not hit me but he crushed me hard against the wall with his body, his face close to mine and snarled that it is because he lives
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with the horror that evil could visit those he loves, anytime. I saw madness in his eyes. He is not at all nice then. During those months in which he is haunted by a case, we do not even make love, if at all it is just brutal sex. Why am I writing all this? I should not, I know. I was a house-wife, or is it home-maker these days, till the second child was three. Then, I joined as faculty in the multi-disciplinary institute in the city. It feels good to have time and a life of your own. Our parents help a lot with the kids. It allows me to stay late when I have to complete some line of research. Typically, both Shankar and I get back home before eight with enough time for the four of us to eat together and catch up on each others lives. Now, let me briey go through the machete murders. On May 10, 2010, the city was surprised with heavy thunder shower that started around 14:00. By 18:30, it was dark and in several areas of the city, including the area around the Passion School, there was power-outage due to trees that had fallen on electric lines. The murderer, with a carry-bag on the left shoulder, entered the premises of the Passion School unnoticed at 18:45 and went directly to the ofce of the headmaster who was known to work late. The murderer knocked on the door of the headmasters ofce and entered the room after the headmaster asked the visitor to enter. The headmaster was sitting at his desk, with a bright lamp-cum-torch, behind a pile of Geography answer papers waiting to be marked. They were alone in the building. The murderer asked the headmaster, Do you remember Ashwin Gangadharan? Despite the dim light of that torch, the murderer could see recognition enter the headmasters eyes. Then, without any further hesitation, with two steps to get near enough, the murderer took out the machete from the carry-bag, and brought it with a mighty and strong swing to and through the headmasters neck. The murderer then exited the premises. Ashwin studied in that school 20 years back. In the ninth grade, he was abused by a teacher, a paedophile. Ashwin did not reveal this at home but he brought it to the attention of the headmaster. The headmaster reprimanded the teacher in private but allowed him to continue as a teacher in that school. Then, the headmaster called Ashwins father to the school, informed him that his son should leave the school because he is a homosexual. Nobody thought of asking Ashwin whether it is true or not, denitely not in those days. Ashwin committed suicide that night. His father died within a year. Nobody knew about this. The modus operandi remained the same for the other two murders of Dr. Sathyaraj and Mr. Ramesh which occurred on June 14, 2010 and July 8, 2010 respectively. Dr Sathyaraj was
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killed in the secluded underground parking area of his apartment block and Mr. Ramesh was murdered in his penthouse apartment. In these two cases too, if anyone else had been around, the murderer would have pretended to be an acquaintance and aborted the mission, at least on that date. How much time did it take? Utmost two to three minutes no dialogue, no contact, no wasted words, no clues. Dr. Sathyaraj, during his college days, had been a frequent visitor at the residence of a family-friend, Mr. Gangadharan. In that year in which Ashwin and his father died, Sathyaraj became a constant presence and a source of support for the mother and daughter. One day, he abused that trust and raped the girl, aged 17. Her mother later told her to bear the pain; to treat it like a physical injury; to forget the incident. Nobody knew about this, too. Mr. Ramesh was a vice-president and not a M.D. when a smart lady with a Ph.D. came to work for him. They built a great team - the technical expert who trained, guided and signed-off on technical work with nearly zero-tolerance for errors, and the non-technical manager in charge of administration, appraisal and kissing the right ass. Ramesh never abused her, not physically. It was easy for him to place the stumbling blocks, to destroy her role and career. When she had had enough, she resigned. Of course, nobody knew about this. Petty misdemeanours, thats what they committed, according to everyone. Any wrong is just a petty misdemeanour these days. Its good to know, isnt it, that if you commit a misdemeanour, the grim reaper could visit you anytime? When the headmaster was murdered and my husband Shankar took the case, the situation at home got predictably bad. As the days went by without any developments, bad turned to worse. Then, when Sathyaraj was killed, I could see my family crumbling before me. The kids rarely came out of their rooms. They tried to avoid their parents. My husband and I hardly talked. He rarely came home. When he did, I could feel his rage pouring out of his silent menacing self like lava pouring out of a volcano ready to erupt. But, this time, he wouldnt touch me in any way. At night, I could feel him sitting beside me, and in the darkness feel him looking at me like you would look at a pet you have to put down. He was readying a gulf to separate, it seemed. I heard him cry in the bathroom one night. The next day, Ramesh was murdered. I could have left my handkerchief at the last scene or some other clue. But I think this note to my husband is more suitable. He must be wondering why I have not taken my own life. I do not know myself. Ironically, I do believe that one does not have the right to destroy
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life. I do not know whether he will destroy this letter but I do not think he will allow a monster to go free. How could I do this to him and our kids? The kids will manage and they are in his good hands. Then, him . . . this is what I can say truthfully, I wish I did not have to do this. When I want to sleep, I try to tell myself that he, my loving husband, the smart intelligent Inspector Shankar somehow knew. I do not know how but I think he knows about Ashwin, my brother; about Srividya, the 17-year old girl and the destroyed Ph.D. Anyway, this is our last communication. We will not talk or see each other ever again. Will he curse me? Do you think I am smiling, being smug and trying to act wise? Do you think I am smiling? Excerpt from the Interview of Inspector Shankar by Commisioner Prasad on July 9, 2010.
Prasad: When did you know that the killer is your wife Mrs. Srividya Shankar? Shankar: Yesterday. Prasad: Did you suspect her prior to that? Shankar: No. Prasad: In the nine weeks during which the three murders occurred, didnt you have any reason to suspect your wife? Shankar: No. Prasad: Are you sure? Shankar: Do you think I assisted her? Is that what you think of me? Prasad: Shankar, wouldnt you ask the same question if you are the interviewer? Shankar: Yes, sir. Prasad: So, let me repeat. During those nine weeks, and with hindsight, did you have any reason to suspect your wife? Shankar: No, sir. From the material unearthed during the investigation, I found no clue that linked the murders with my wife, that is, till yesterday. This is also clear in the investigation reports I submitted daily to you. In addition, in the investigation team meetings in which you also participated, there was never any reason or clue for me or anyone to suspect Mrs. Srividya Shankar, my wife.
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Excerpt from the Assessment Report Of Inspector Shankar by Commisioner Prasad Based on the lengthy interview with Inspector Shankar and his assisting ofcers and, based on the thorough study of the investigation reports, there is no hard evidence to indicate that Inspector Shankar was aware about the murderous activities of his wife or had any grounds to suspect his wife, Mrs. Srividya Shankar. I recommend that Inspector Sharma should resume work and that the temporary suspension be revoked. As a personal and condential remark, I would like to add that based on thirty years of my service and, based on my deep affection for Shankar and knowing that his past experience and work has been of the highest calibre, I nd it impossible to believe that he did not suspect his wife.
10
The Lady with a Smile
1. Scene of the Crime The dead young woman had a trace of a lingering smile on what remained of her battered face. What could have made her smile? Inspector Arvind muttered to himself rather than to his colleagues, constables Winston and Kutty. They were on the rock on which the ladys body had been found at seven that morning. Arvind looked around from that rock jutting out onto the river. The scene appeared rather poetic though such a thought seemed incongruous at that moment. To him, the river seemed furiously careless; swollen with the recent rains; troubled by eddies, rapids and uneven depths; after being raped and tortured by illegal sand-mining. A hundred metres upstream, near the temple steps where there used to be wide shallow sandy bathing places, wild green growth had invaded along with impassive jagged rocks marking the route like trafc signals leading the new and unsuspecting to deadly depths. An empty sand-miners boat was tied to a tree there. The green trees, the muddy river and the blue skies mirrored the false calm of the dead body. Arvind felt, shamefully, that the body completed the scene very well - a once-beautiful lady lying on those rocks, her white sari in place quite correctly. Rather too correctly, he observed. Her right hand still clutched a betel leaf with temple offerings. A smudge of sandalwood paste could be seen on her forehead along with raw esh and darkening blood. Looks like it wasnt sexual abuse, right? Arvind asked his colleagues. As usual, they treated it as a rhetorical question. With many years of experience between them, the two kept questions for suspects; and, expected statements and orders between colleagues.
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10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE
Arvind waited for a while before continuing with his soliloquy, Someone left her with care. Of course, after bashing the left side of her face to pulp. She must have been facing her killer and even standing quite close. Same height probably, since the blows are from the side. To get bashed on the left, the killer must be right-handed, right? Winston, the baby-faced giant, hitched up his pants above his huge pot-belly and tried to suppress a yawn. The tall scrawny Kutty rubbed his pock-marked face and simultaneously scratched his groin languorously. Feeling that it was time they chipped in, Kutty said, Rajappan the butcher found the body. He reported it along with the barber Sethu. This Sethu says that he was on his way to open his shop when he came across Rajappan in this area. Well, thats what he says . . . At seven, on a Tuesday when the barber shop is closed . . . and his shop is on the opposite side . . . ? Winston added his own suspicions. And, Rajappan had gone to the river for a wash . . . wash indeed . . . when there are better spots near his house a kilometre upstream ... There were two plots of land overlooking that area - one, an uninhabited rubber plantation which extended for a few acres; and the other, a small plot with a hut. There was a muddy path between the two plots and this appeared to be the only way from the rock to the main road. There was no point searching for footprints now after the whole world seemed to have trampled on that area that morning. Arvind pointed at the hut. Winston offered, Thats Maniyans hut, the rubber tapper. A real trouble-maker . . . we booked him once or twice for stealing rubber sheets. We should bring him in. And his wife . . . she is one great piece . . . Kutty silenced him with a glare. Do you know the victim? Arvind asked turning back towards the body. His constables asked back together, Dont you know? Kutty tried to defuse his seniors stare by adding, She is . . . was . . . Prasad Masters daughter, Bharathi.
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Ah! Arvind looked at the battered face once again. He had seen her at the temple once or twice. He had admired her slim curvaceous young body, with equal portions of guilt and pleasure, while he prayed to the Gods to save him from this rural posting. She had smiled at him. Her smile had seemed a trie cold, he remembered. Arvind had even gone to her fathers house once, during his rst week six months back, but he had not seen her there then. Arvinds mentor in college, on hearing that he was leaving for this village, had told him to meet Prasad Master, a retired teacher and a great scholar. Arvind found the teacher to be a straightforward decent human being, too. Though he was invited to visit at any time, Arvind never returned because he did not want to awaken the ghosts of his aspiration. Arvinds father died in an accident a few days after he enrolled for a Ph.D. in literature. Following that disaster, he had to nd a job to take care of his family and he managed to enter the police force. On his record, his IQ and athletic strong body were noted as his pluses; and, his below-par height of ve-eight and an inclination to think too long alone were among the minuses. If he had had some inuence or money, he could have tried for a posting in some place other than this village police station previously manned by the two veteran constables. Before his arrival in the village, Winston and Kutty spread a rumour there that Arvinds specialty was terrorist networks and that he made even the crazy talk sense. This helped in a way and the crimes had so far remained petty in the last six months and catchable if necessary. On one lazy afternoon, the two constables found Arvind reading a book of poetry in ofce. From the displeasure or disgust on their faces, Arvind realized that he should consign such books to those beneath his mattress at home. He also decided that visiting Prasad Master would be inappropriate for his image in that village. She must have been taking this short-cut from the temple to her house. Winston interrupted his reverie. If she had gone to the temple . . . it must have happened between 05:30 and 07:00 . . . Who would kill at that hour? Rather careless, that . . . Kutty added. Uncontrollable rage while killing and then care to cover her body well after the deed . . . Find out if she had a lover. Ask the tea-shop owner if he heard anything. Arvind said knowing that the tea-shop is the nerve-centre of the village.
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Also, grab some of those sand-miners. In his early days there, he had wanted to arrest the whole lot but the common sentiment in the village was it helped a lot of the poor come ashore, the it being illegal sand-mining. Those temple rufans, too . . . ? Kutty suggested referring to a group of unemployed disillusioned youth who treated the stage in front of the temple as their hang-out for card-games, siesta and liquor. Arvind nodded and added, Maybe, even the priests . . . A young woman walking alone on a deserted path from the temple . . . A thick stick or a rock must have been used to bash her face in. It must be in the river. Winston said, scowling at the river. There is no point in trying to recover, is there? You two, arrange for the rest of the formalities. I will go and inform her parents, what a bloody task! Arvind left the scene feeling that the poetry had left long back. He took stock of the area while walking past the rubber plantation to Prasad Masters house, about ve hundred metres from the scene of the crime. Arvinds task at the teachers house was painful as expected. The mother collapsed in front of him and her youngest daughter tried to support without breaking down herself. The father lay unmoving in an arm-chair, with eyes closed and tears owing down his sunken cheeks. The victims younger brother angrily told Arvind to kill the killer. The elder sister stood quietly while listening to her husband describe to Arvind, rather profusely, about the victims activities that morning. When Arvind left that house, he wondered why the brotherin-law knew so much about the victim. On his way to the police station, Arvind studied the list in his hand - he had ten people and another assorted lot in three groups, too. One of them was most likely to be the killer. Or, was it someone not on the scene at the moment?
2. Questions & Answers
On what remained of that Tuesday, Arvind and the two constables Winston and Kutty interviewed nearly all the people other than the family, allowing the family to grieve in
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relative peace. They tried to interview without prejudice or any presumptions. Winston offered Rajappan the butcher stating that the person who discovered the crime usually turned out to be the perpetrator. The other two suspected that a personal grudge was blinding Winston but they did not voice their doubts. Kutty tried to sell Sethus name on the same grounds. Winston knew why Kutty raised the barbers name but he kept quiet. Arvind would have preferred to put cuffs on the brother-in-law because it had to be someone close to the victim; or the sand-miners, because he hated them. Arvind told the constables to deal with the tea-shop owner. Though he was on pleasant terms with the village-folk, he was still an outsider. He knew that even the constables ltered that which he should hear and that which he need not hear. He had realized that there was something about Rajappan and Sethu that his juniors were not telling him. Arvind started with Maniyan, the rubber tapper, whose house was near the scene. In the police station, a sullen belligerent Maniyan informed him that he had left his house around ve. He had cycled to a plantation ve kilometers from his house and after completing on various plots in that area, he had tea at a nearby shop at six forty-ve. Then, he had started on the second phase of collecting and delivering the rubber milk. Arvind checked out this alibi and did not nd anything amiss. Maniyan also told him that he did not work on the plantation next to his own plot. He had fought with the owner, he replied looking quite smug. Every day, God-willingly if it does not rain, I work and return to my house only at ten. Everyone knows that . . . Maniyan informed implying that Arvind must be a damn fool to waste his time talking to him. He also told Arvind that he had never met the victim apart from seeing her around in the village. Next, Arvind interviewed Maniyans wife at the hut. He waited near the river till he saw Maniyan leave the hut around mid-afternoon, probably for his customary tipple. Arvind introduced himself and she brought out a steel chair for him to sit. He had to struggle hard not to stare at her voluptuous body. She could be said to be pretty if not beautiful, with a small upturned nose and a delicate mouth with full pouting lips, her kohl-lined fair eyes seemed to entice. She was denitely a woman who knew her charms. She stood ve steps from him, watching him like a cat. Where were you between ve and seven yesterday morning? Arvind blurted.
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Here. Was your husband here? he checked. No, he had gone for work. Do you know the woman who was killed? No, sir . . . I have seen her around, of course. Arvind detected a hesitation and made a mental note. Did you see her yesterday? No. I did not go near the river. Did you see anyone going to the river? Rajappan went there, around seven. He wanted to take bath, I think. Did you see him before he went to the river? Yes . . . Where . . . ? He asked expectantly. Here. Here? Arvind stuttered. She told him with an amused tone that Rajappan had been there with her from six till seven. Then, she offered to get Arvind a glass of tea or buttermilk. Arvind declined the offer. Has she come to this house? Arvind asked. Now, it was her turn to feel ustered. She replied, She came here once . . . preached to me about morals. I gave her an earful. Who does she think she is?
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Arvind left the hut. He decided that he should talk to his juniors before he interviewed anyone else. It was around tea-time when he got back to the police station. Winston was out trying to get some of the sand-miners. Arvind sat on Kuttys table and asked him, Whats going on between Winston, Rajappan and Maniyans wife? Kutty remained quiet but seeing his boss tightly drawn face, he did not try to evade the question, Nothing, sir. Rajappan succeeded where Winston failed, thats all. How long has this been going on? I dont know . . . heard about it long back. Is this common knowledge in the village? I guess so. And, does he know, I mean, Maniyan? Of course . . . I suppose he gets what he wants. I think even Rajappans wife knows. They always get to know such things. Arvind was at a loss for words. He remembered what Maniyans wife had said about the victim, . . . preached to me about morals . . . Maybe, there was a gulf, created by smalltown morals, between him and the villagers . . . Arvind left the station and walked over to the butchers shop. Rajappan was cleaning the knives and the shop, and getting ready to close the shop for the day. Standing a little away from the dirty water and the stink of offal, Arvind went through his story. He did not learn anything new. Rajappan told Arvind that he did not know the dead lady personally. He refused to admit that he had been to Maniyans hut even after Arvind told him that Maniyans wife had admitted the same. Arvind asked Rajappan whether he had touched the dead body or arranged the ladys clothes after he found the body. Rajappan replied, Why should I? I know a dead body when I see one. I touch only dead animals. And I dont touch the clothes of dead women.
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Arvind went back to the station where he found Winston taking care of some paperwork. Kutty was not in the station. Arvind stood near the constable, Winston, why did Kutty pick out Sethus name? I dont know, sir. You dont know, do you? Arvinds mood was getting darker by the minute. Do you know how it is like to get posted far from your village for the rest of your miserable career? I am not sure, sir . . . I mean, people say that Sethu is a homo. Kutty does not like that kind of people . . . Was Sethu meeting someone there, near the rubber plantation? There is an old shed in that rubber plantation. I have heard that lovers meet there . . . Who is Sethus lover? I dont know, sir . . . Which are the houses in that area? There is Maniyans house, of course . . . then, Prasad Masters house after the plantation. There are only two more houses after that before the paddy elds. One is empty, they are abroad; in the other, there is an old lady and her servant girl. Arvind left the station once again and walked this time in the opposite direction to the barbers shop. When he opened the swing-door, The shop is closed. Sethu said with his back to the door, sweeping the hair on the oor. I will take only a few minutes. Sethu looked up and saw Arvind in one of the mirrors. He turned around immediately, offered a chair and said, Sorry sir, haircut or shave? No, I am here about the murder.
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Oh, that . . . Sethu told Arvind that he had gone for a morning walk and that he met Rajappan near the rubber plantation. Rajappan had looked shaken and so, Sethu had enquired if there was anything wrong with him. When Rajappan told him about the dead body, he had advised him to report it at the station. He had gone along. Didnt you want to see the dead lady or go near the river? Arvind asked. For what . . . ? Arvind left the barbers shop without asking Sethu about his lover or about any meeting. Before dusk, Arvind and the two constables gathered some of the sand-miners. They had not done any sand-mining that day, they said, because of the murder, they added like a complaint. Arvind tried to act tough and roughed up the leader, releasing old pent up anger but all he got back was the retort, Sir, are you trying to scare us? If you are really that bothered about what we do, why dont you catch the big sh? The leader laughed. That murdered lady . . . she also tried the same stunt with us, threatening to nish us. As if she can . . . But, you did nish her? Sir, have you been watching too many movies? When we do not worry about you, will we worry about such small fry? There was nothing more to get out of them. Around six, Arvind walked to the temple alone. As usual, there were a few young men playing rummy, not even bothering to get up or hide the cash when Arvind walked up to the stage. He had seen most of them before. He knew that at least two were post-graduates like him. The youth were just a shade better than the sand-miners when it came to insolence. Yes, they had seen the lady often at the temple. No, she was not the type they liked, they said and further added, though you seem to have liked her, sir.
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Arvind asked them if they had had any confrontation with her. That bitch was itching for a bite, they replied nonchalantly, she had tried to provoke them . . . said she would report their stealing . . . or their gambling . . . or some other stuff. Arvind could imagine what the other stuff could be. He also knew that youth like these lived to get into trouble, to get at least that attention from their society. The dead lady seemed to have gone against nearly all that came on her path. Did she go fatally wrong with one of them, Arvind wondered. Before closing for the day, he met his constables once again. Tomorrow, we will tackle the family. What did you get out of the tea-owner? Winston replied, Its really strange. Kutty added, He told us that nobody talks about her. She must be the only one in the village about whom nobody talks.
3. The Meaning of Her Smile
On the day after the murder, Arvind woke up at ve thinking about his two initial doubts: the smile and the loving hand. He got ready and left his rented house at around half past ve. He walked to the temple. His last visit to the temple must have been a month or two earlier and the two priests looked new to the place. There were two or three ladies praying. He watched the main priest complete the main puja at that hour and while collecting the offering, he requested the main priest for ve minutes of his time. He learned that the main priest and his assistant had joined six weeks back; and, that they were just getting to know the village-folk. They had seen the murdered lady Bharathi in the temple but neither of them knew her any better. Arvind tried to probe further but the priest excused himself stating his temple duties. Arvind approached the temple accountant-cum-ofcer who was giving puja chits to a lady in the temples ofce-room. The ofcer had a perpetual disgruntled look as if he was doing
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a favour to God by sitting there. Arvind gathered that the ofcer did not think it necessary to talk to the villagers except to collect donations. In the temple compound, a lady was sweeping the ground. She was more accommodating. The lady stood at a safe distance from Arvind and talked in whispers and, at all times, kept a lookout for the main priest or the ofcer. From the lady, Arvind learned that Bharathi, the murdered lady, used to visit regularly and that her visits were more frequent before the former priests left the place. She and the former priests used to talk a lot together, she conded. The lady regretfully conceded that she did not know why the priests decided to leave. Arvind thanked the lady and left the temple premises via the temple steps leading to the river. Arvind followed the path that Bharathi had taken. He knew that police sniffer dogs had been used on that path but without any success. He reached the rock where the lady was found. He looked at the area more carefully. He realized that if the killer had taken the muddy path past Maniyans hut, the killer would have been seen by someone. As he looked around, he realized that a person familiar with the place had another route too. Though treacherous and dangerous, a person familiar with the place could go downstream by hopping onto the rocks that dotted the river at irregular intervals. Arvind nervously took that path. He knew that he would meet a watery and bloody death if he made a slight mistake in any jump. It seemed to take ages for him but he knew that it would be less arduous for a local. At each rock, he inspected the area for any clue or evidence. He got lucky on the eleventh rock. He found a handkerchief snagged in a wedge on that rock. There were a few red smudges on that as if blood had been wiped. He slipped it into a plastic cover. When he was about fty metres from the murder site, he realized that the next step was onto a plot and that it was that of Prasad Master. Was it someone from this house or someone from outside? Arvind asked himself. It was then close to half past seven. He went to Prasad Masters house. It appeared empty. The policeman had expected the usual lot of morning relatives and friends or at least the arrangements for the last rites. He knocked at the door. After some time, the two daughters came to the door together. The elder one told him that their parents had gone to a hospital and that father had not
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been well. They did not invite him inside. Arvind tried to ask a few questions but did not get anything substantial from them. Arvind felt, rather angrily, that Bharathi must have done all the talking in that house. The son-in-law then appeared and invited Arvind to step inside. Arvind curtly told the son-in-law to come to the station, at half past eight, along with Bharathis brother. Arvind walked to the station, thinking about all that he had heard so far. Kutty and Winston were there at the station and he told them that he wanted to tackle the son alone. Meanwhile, he wanted the son-in-law to sweat it out waiting at the station. The son and the son-in-law reported at the station ten minutes before the scheduled time. The son appeared nervous rather than angry that morning. He tried to look at Arvind eye-to-eye. Involuntarily, he kept biting and chewing his lower lip. Sethu mentioned your meeting - at what time did you two meet? Arvind decided to bluff with the opening hand. What? the son pretended as if he had not heard properly. Arvind remained silent, tapping his ngers on the table as if to indicate that he was losing patience. He stopped smiling and started scowling. He remembered that the ragging in his college hostel had been quite similar. At six thirty, the son whispered. And, your sister Bharathi knew about it . . . and she did not like your relationship . . . Arvind was hoping that his second bluff would hold, too. Sethu should not have told you that, the young man was on the verge of crying, after all, she is dead. It is not nice to talk ill of the dead. Did she threaten to expose you two? Yes, but we promised not to meet ever again. That was supposed to be our last meeting. But, the two of you killed her, instead. No! That is not true. You are like the rest of them, arent you? For you, our kind should be the killers, the evil ones? the young man was ready to sob.
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Arvind did not bother to correct the young man. He proceeded to get the details about the meeting in the plantation. Then, he kept the son waiting in his ofce, went to the outer ofce. He gave Winston the details and told him to corroborate with Sethus version. Make Sethu give his version, Arvind told Winston and the latter nodded. Arvind then returned to his ofce and questioned the young man about his sisters. He enquired if Bharathi had had any lover. The young man replied that she did not even have close friends. Arvind asked him if the other two sisters were also similar to Bharathi. They are totally different, not so bold or outgoing, the young man said. Arvind tried to ask about his brother-in-law but he felt that the guard was up. And, though he tried to break the defenses, the young man did not utter anything worth noting about his brother-in-law and sisters. Winston returned and indicated to Arvind with a nod that Sethus version matched well. Arvind let the young man leave. He made the son-in-law wait for another hour before calling him in. Why didnt you go with your father-in-law to the hospital? Arvind asked the son-in-law. Father told me to stay with the girls. Of the three, Bharathi seems to have been your favourite. Arvind was shing with meager bait, he knew. What are you talking about? I have heard that you were more close to her than your own wife. Arvind lied. Thats nonsense. You are new to this place. You should believe only half of what you hear. The son-in-law sounded agitated. So, there is a half-truth in what I said. Tell me, did she accuse you of abusing her or the younger one? Who told you that? It is not true. Ask my wife or the younger one. They will tell you that I treat my wifes sisters like my own sisters. But, she did accuse you?
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The son-in-law looked at Arvind desperately, hesitating, probably thinking about the right answer to get out of the mess. Finally, he said, Yes. Arvind spent the rest of the morning questioning, trying to get more but the son-in-laws story was similar to the others. Bharathi the accuser; and in this case, Arvind was not sure whether the accusation was a lie or true. He also knew that it was impossible to know the truth. People do not reveal such truth and worse, such accusation sticks and stinks; like shit on ones sole. The son-in-law had a perfect alibi - he was in the house with the others, he tried to argue. But, without outsiders to conrm, the alibi did not amount to much. Around one, Arvind let the son-in-law leave after asking the nal question, Was she a pleasant character? She could smile . . . I will never forget her smile. The son-in-law said with a smirk. Arvind did not leave for lunch. When Winston and Kutty poked their head in to check on their boss, they found him staring blankly at a wall. They decided to let him be and attended to other work. At half past four, Arvind told them that he was going to Prasad Masters house. He left after telling them that he understood the smile and the loving hand. That was the motive and the clue, he said. Kutty and Winston did not tell their boss what was on their mind; that it was a waste of time to dwell on such crap. When he got to the house, it still looked deserted. Arvind knocked on the door. It took a while before the youngest daughter came to the door. She told him that her father was lying inside. He went with her to an inner room which served as the dining area. A bed shared the space with the dining table and chairs. Prasad Master was lying on that bed, staring outside. On seeing the policeman, he tried to get up. His wife came into the room from the kitchen and helped him. The two daughters stood near the door to the kitchen. The son and son-in-law were not there. Yesterday, he fainted and his fever got worse, the wife explained. She gave a sob and went back to the kitchen. The daughters followed her.
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Poor woman . . . she still cant call it by the right name . . . cancer. He told Arvind that he had been diagnosed with cancer a few weeks back. Then, he asked Arvind if they could get Bharathis body soon. Arvind told him that it might take a day or two. Though he had met the scholar only once before Arvind felt a deep affection for the other. He did not know how to start. From his pocket, he brought out the only evidence, the plastic cover containing the handkerchief, and placed it next to Prasad Masters hand. The teacher looked at for a while before saying, Ah! You have found that. Where did you nd it? Arvind described the location. Instead of asking questions, he remained silent. Like a student waiting for a class to start. When I got to know that I had cancer, I knew I had very little time to correct the problem. One who creates an evil has the responsibility to destroy that, too. The teacher paused to drink water. Wherever she went, whoever she met, she tried to destroy them with her set of morals and her righteous indignation. I do not know if she realized the kind of havoc she was causing all around her. In her family, in the village, in the temple, everywhere . . . He continued with a choked voice, When she was born and she smiled for the rst time, I was the happiest man alive . . . I never realized that I would feel like the most cursed man . . . to see her remove the smile from others . . . as if, only she had the right . . . to smile. Arvind knew that he could lose the only evidence very easily. But, he also knew that he would not and that the scholar before him would not allow him to do so. Do you know what she did when I confronted her on that rock? She smiled. Do you know the meaning of that smile? Prasad Master looked at Arvind, laughed mirthlessly and quoted words which Arvind recognized from Mary Shelleys Frankenstein, You are my creator, but I am your master - obey!
11
Diary Of A Stalker
Tuesday, February 18. Two months back, I came across an article on the Net written by a Chandrika. It was titled Remembering John Galt. John Galt - for how long have I followed the shadow of John Galt? Is that the precursor that made me want to know more about Chandrika? I searched on the Net with search phrase Chandrika but there were too many hits. Then, I tried Chandrika Remembering John Galt. I found that the article had appeared in a weekend edition of a national newspaper. At the bottom of the article in that paper, I found her true name and e-mail address. Let me call her X. I sent an e-mail to her, praising her article and I also tried to explain how John Galt had inuenced my life. She replied with a brief e-mail expressing her gratitude. Around New Years Day, I sent another e-mail wishing her all the best in the New Year. I never received a reply. Meanwhile, I kept searching on the Net for more information about her. I found out that she would be attending a conference, in this city, in the second week of January. Fortunately, the organizers had posted the details of participants, details such as mobile number and home address, in a PDF downloadable le on the website of the conference. I saw her for the rst time on the day she presented a paper at the conference. Since then, it has been hectic. I shifted to an apartment close to hers. I was lucky again. I found one overlooking her apartment. As I write this, I can sip red wine, look at her, taste love, write . . . She is wearing loose (cotton?) pants and one of those loose tops (maybe, a pyjama top). Slightly built, graceful, an attractive face. She is standing on her balcony and not looking straight at my camera.
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Saturday, March 8.
Now, I know her schedule quite well. I also know that she leaves a key with her neighbour - probably because they share the same maid or maybe, just as a precaution. I like to look at her when she rests on a rattan armchair on the balcony late at night. She rarely entertains guests at her place. A few days back, she had a visitor - a young attractive chap who looks a bit wet behind the ears. She told him to sit in the drawing room and went to her bedroom to change. They left the apartment together, walking close but not holding each other. Today, around noon, I saw them together at the chic restaurant near our apartment blocks. They sat outside under an umbrella. I chose to sit inside in the air-conditioned area. It is tough to say whether they are intimate. The easy manner with which they talked and their body language seems to indicate mutual interest. I nished my lunch quickly and waited at a bookshop, facing the restaurant, close to where my car was parked. They left the restaurant around three oclock. She stood on her toes and gave a brief peck on his cheek, maybe just an air kiss. The lad watched her cross the road and go towards her apartment; and then, he proceeded to his motorbike. I left the bookshop and went to my car. At that time of day, it was not too difcult to follow him. On the express highway, I managed to stay behind him. We approached the dangerous crossing on the expressway. Even during those off-peak hours, the trafc on the expressway and those entering via the arterial road caused a mad chaotic rush. Recently, a colleague died right there - a car had hit that colleagues scooter by mistake, pushing it onto the wrong lane and immediately mowed down by the oncoming speeding vehicles. At the crossing, the lad stopped on the right near the middle, waited for the lights to change, precariously positioned a few feet from the deadly frenzy. I was right behind him. All I had to do was countdown and nudge at the right moment when the lights are about to change. I watched the stop-watch on top of the trafc-lights. Seven, six, ve, four, three, two, . . . I had counted down the seconds to end her relationship with this lad. . . . one, zero. I could not say those. I was breathing heavily. Instead, I kept saying,
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11 . DIARY OF A STALKER
I am not a killer. I am not a killer. I let the lad speed away on his motorbike. I stopped following him and returned home. I trusted her to make the right choice. On my way home, I stopped at a crowded public phone booth and called her mobile for the rst time. I nearly cried when she took the phone and said hello. I listened to her voice, her breathing . . . before disconnecting. I cant say anything, can I? I got home and saw that she was sitting outside on her balcony. She seemed to have a puzzled look on her face. She turned her face in my direction. Was she looking at the sky? Could she see me standing behind these curtains? If she could see my face now, will she care about the tears on my face? I feel like screaming at her from my balcony, I love you. I taste bile in my mouth and swallow. The force of dejection and anger surprises me. I am not a killer, I am not a killer, How many times should I write that?
Monday, March 31.
Every day, she gets up early to go to the gym. In spite of that, she is usually in a hurry from seven till eight. I usually watch her routine with amusement - at least, when I can forget my anger. Before she leaves at eight, she boils a large vessel of water on the gas stove. When she returns from work, she lls a set of ve water bottles. This morning, her normal routine was disturbed by a series of phone-calls. Around eight, I saw her rushing out. I stepped out onto the balcony and waited till I could see her, thirteen oors below, getting into an auto-rickshaw and leaving. Then, I turned to go inside. It was while closing the French windows of my balcony that I felt I had missed something. I adjusted the focus of the telescopic lenses and looked at her apartment. I scanned from left to right, and it was on the second time around that I looked more closely at the kitchen. I could not be sure but I was nearly certain that she had left the gas stove on. For a few moments, I froze with indecision. Maybe, the gas will just burn out. Maybe, the water will boil over and douse the ames, and gas would leak. An image of her entering
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the apartment, switching on the lights and everything exploding nearly made me cry out loud. I cant call her. Anyway, she is probably too far away by now. I rushed from my apartment onto the lift and then below, I raced outside towards her apartment block. I was not too sure what I intended to do. Maybe, knock on the neighbours door - the one with a spare key to her apartment. Maybe, tell her that I was passing by and that I could smell gas from the at next to hers. Will she forget my face, I wondered and searched for an alternate plan. As I approached the lobby of that block, I noticed that the security guard was not in his seat. Probably, doing the rounds or irting with some maidservant elsewhere. Calmly, I walked to the phone on the deserted security desk. After referring to the intercom directory placed below the phone, I dialed the neighbours number. When the neighbour picked up the phone, I spoke with a gruff voice and told the lady to go next door and switch off the gas. I repeated the instruction once again to the confused lady and left that apartment block. About half past nine, X was back in her apartment, followed by the lady from next door. The latter must have called her after following my instructions. I watched X inspect the kitchen, especially the gas stove. Then, she turned around and gave the neighbour a tight hug. I could see the neighbour trying to explain - maybe, about the call she had received. X listened carefully, nodding her head, with a puzzled or bewildered look on her face. After a while, the neighbour left. X sat on the edge of a oor-cushion in her drawing room, dgety and looking nervous. While I write this, I can see her scanning the surrounding apartment blocks. Does she know that I am looking at her? I think she can feel me.
Saturday, April 26.
Two weeks back, I met an old acquaintance and he introduced me to his colleague, a teacher in the English Dept. at the University - let me call her Y. His way of introducing me to Y was embarrassing, The person famous for intense crushes - the perpetual adolescent. I nearly blushed. Y smiled at me, understanding my discomture. I think it was instant bonding between me and her.
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11 . DIARY OF A STALKER
Meanwhile, in the last three weeks, X has been trying to solve her mystery. At times, I can see her silhouette in the dark apartment, probably watching outside, waiting to spot someone looking at her. One day, she even left the apartment with the water boiling and the gas stove on. But, she returned soon, and found no messages for her or her neighbour. She looks haggard these days. I have not seen the young lad in the last few weeks. I rarely watch her these days. I am shifting to a place close to Y. This morning, I was busy packing my stuff. Y had promised to come over and help me. When the doorbell rang, I expected it to be Y. I opened the door saying, Ready to carry the crates, love? It took me a while to realize that it was X standing outside my own door. Sorry, thought it was someone else. How can I help you? I explained my blunder, quite breathless. I am looking for my friends apartment. X said. At that instant, the lift opened and Y walked towards my door. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, enquiring silently about X. I gave a small shrug. I think X saw that, turned around and looked at Y. This time, Y asked her, Yes? I am looking for my friends apartment. X repeated. Whats his name? Y asked. I dont know. X said faintly. She looked as if she might collapse. Are you OK? I asked her. Yes, yes,. . . she mumbled and turned towards the next door on that oor, maybe, I should check there . . . if I see him, I will recognize . . . and mumbled to me, sorry to have disturbed you, maam. We left her standing outside and closed the door. I guess she will keep searching for her stalker - some obsessions last long.
12
The Hijack on August 13th
Records show that the IC ight leaving from Mumbai (dep. 05:30) to Trivandrum (arr. 09:00) via Kochi on August 13th had: 9 crew members and 148 passengers (with 34 foreigners of non-Indian origin). Only 6 of those 157 knew that they might not see another sunrise. The ight was on time. Since August 10th , security-check started 2.5 hours before the ight, 30 minutes earlier than usual. There were more ofcers on duty and the inspection of baggage and persons seemed to be more thorough. A mother of two was heard complaining, Do I look the type who would blast a plane? An ofcer replied without expression, I do not know the type, madam. Sorry for the inconvenience. The mother muttered, Sorry - these kids . . . and went to collect her screened baggage. At the departure gate, the situation was normal - chaotic with multiple queues, the harried ofcials, the important crew, the hyperactive kids, the tired, the clean-and-fresh, the noisy, the grumpy, the walkers, the slouchers, the ones-with-at-least-three-newspapers, the old and energetic, the old and wheel-chaired, the-ones-who-Q-for-every-announcement - everything as usual. Any one of them, apart from the kids probably, could be a terrorist or an accomplice. After security-check, a passenger can visit the restrooms, the refreshment and book shops, the various departure gates and the lounges, the areas under maintenance and take multiple routes via stairs, lifts or escalators. After crossing the last security ofcer at the gate and till a passenger or a crew member reaches his or her place in the plane, it is possible for him or her to be in close proximity with airline ofcials, bus drivers, grounds-men, cleaning staff and other possibly-screened persons who walk near the gate or the plane. For a non-expert, it seems like a nightmare to ensure security. At 5:45, the plane got ready to move. The doors were closed; the passengers were seated, buckled and requested to switch off electronic devices; and, the crew was about to begin
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with the safety precautions. In the rst class section, a tall, elegant and well-suited man of about 30 got up from his seat. An airhostess immediately came to his side to request him to remain seated. He leaned forward and whispered to her, I am wearing a bomb . . . take me to the pilot now . . . do as I say . . . The young airhostess felt weak and nervous. What could she do but take him to the cockpit? The man entered the cockpit with the airhostess and he addressed the crew in a clear well-educated tone without over-emphasis or harshness, I am wearing a bomb . . . listen carefully . . . I am not going to repeat. The Captain and his two colleagues there, with a total of 60 years experience, had dreaded such a situation, especially since 9/11. If the terrorist had waved a gun at them or looked like how terrorists are supposed to look like, the Captain or his colleagues might have decided to call it a bluff and tried their luck in overpowering the man. But here, with this man, they didnt want to take any chances. In fact, they felt that there were no chances left and that it was just a matter of time and convenience for the terrorists. But, even when you face Death, you hope He is on his way to face another, dont you? The terrorist continued with his instructions, Tell Control room that the plane has been hijacked and that a bomb is ready to explode. Tell them that you have to park in the space at the east end of the airport - next to the slums. Tell them that you are moving now and tell them not to cause any kind of delay. Then, switch off that link. The Captain followed the mans instructions. Control room tried to ask for details but he switched off. Now, address the passengers. Tell them that the plane has been hijacked. Tell them that my men, who are also wearing bombs, will be collecting every mobile, wallet and handbag. Tell them not to move and to be quiet, very quiet. Tell them to keep all windows closed. If anyone does not follow these instructions, everyone dies at once. You can imagine how 150 people in a conned situation would react to this. But, when 4 men with guns - 1 more in rst class, 1 in the front of economy class and 2 at the back stood up and looked around, it is difcult to describe the shock and fear in each face, the total silence and the state of paralysis. The 4 men were young and tough. They looked like successful professionals. Three were in casual formals and only one wore jeans and
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sported an unshaven look. The 4 men quietly went about the business of collecting all the mobile phones and other stuff. It took them less than 5 minutes. In those 5 minutes, two events happened. It is human to be reckless and stupid. The college student on seat 12B sent out a nervous SMS, hi jak hlp pls to his dad. For the student, it was not at all a lucky day. When he looked up, he saw the unshaven terrorist looking down at him. The latter took the mobile from him, looked at the message and smashed the butt of the gun against the boys nose and mouth, shattering bones and teeth. The terrorist then pointed the gun at the boys forehead and said, Do not even cry. The SMS message did not bring help but it reached the media in 30 minutes. The terrorists had expected such a leak. In fact, their man on the ground would also take care of that important step, not leaving news to chance. The second event was occurring outside. As soon as the Control room received the Captains call, a commando unit and its supporting logistics unit got into action. The latter was the rst in action, clearing all personnel from that part of the airport, putting up screens, surveillance systems and also increasing intelligence ofcers to go through video footage of the last one hour. Under the cover of those screens, apparent confusion and early morning light, four commandos attached themselves to the plane - two under the wings, two beneath the front door, mostly on the left side. Intelligence had informed them that the plane might park at the east end with its right side towards the slums - that is, towards the outside world and the cameras of the media. The commandos risked being seen by some unknown man on the ground. But, this was the only chance for them to stick to the plane before it moved to the open area. The commandos now had to wait for some opportunity, if any, and for more information. Known to them, there were only two sources of information. Since August 10th , every ight to destinations frequented by foreigners had two air marshals and usually, the marshals themselves did not know each other. A secret known to more than two people hardly remains a secret, does it? The terrorists knew that there were two marshals on-board though they did not their identity. It is mainly to ferret out such people that they plant specially trained people among the civilians, and they refer to them as the eyes. The eyes at times have a more deadly function - to choose the right moment and to be the detonator. While collecting the mobiles and personal stuff, the terrorists also got a slip of paper from the last row on the right with the message, (1) 17E. (2) TBC. (note: TBC - to be conrmed)
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One of those 4 young terrorists walked casually from the back to row 17 and shot the young man in seat 17E from behind, at the base of the skull killing immediately. There were some screams and cries but when the 4 terrorists raised their guns, silence was restored. The shooter retrieved the dead marshals gun and a transmitter attached beneath the collar of the shirt. The other marshal - still TBC - was on seat 24C and before the killing he had seen the terrorist reading the message near the last row. He was on the lookout for the eyes and desperate to relay that information to Intelligence. The marshal was inconspicuous, in ordinary dress of checked shirt-pant-black Bata shoes, looked like a lower-middle-class Malayalee returning to his family from the Middle-east. On seat 24B, next to the marshal, the passenger was an ordinary man named Aneesh around 40, graying, old athletic body with muscles going to fat carelessly, beginnings of a pot belly, spectacled, in ordinary dress too. Aneesh had been wondering about his neighbours mumbling. To Aneesh, it sounded like the man was praying Daivame kathu kolka . . . but in between, he had also heard him say, one cockpit . . . two each aisle . . . one front, one middle, two back . . . and again interlaced with prayer, . . . eyes . . . right . . . last row . . . tbc The marshal must have been looked desperate or when he turned his head to study those in the last row on the right, he must have caught the attention of the eyes. The marshal too sensed that he might have committed a blunder. He leaned forward as if to tie his laces. Aneesh felt the man slip something into his shoes. The man whispered to Aneesh, . . . spy in the last row . . . right side . . . nd . . . use this to tell. Then, he sat up, rested his head backwards, eyes closed, mumbling a prayer. Aneesh saw one of the terrorists, the guy with the stubble, look towards him or maybe, towards his neighbour. He saw the terrorist give a quick glance to somewhere behind on the right side. The terrorist walked quickly towards row 24, stood in front and shot the marshal in seat 24C between the eyes. When Aneesh was splattered with human stuff, he vomited over himself, drenching his shirt, pants and shoes. The only emotion the terrorist showed was when he looked at Aneesh with disgust. The terrorist proceeded to relieve the dead marshal of his gun. He could not nd any transmitter. The terrorist wanted to search Aneesh but he felt squeamish searching Aneesh in that state. He must have also felt that Aneesh was not the kind to carry anything.
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The terrorist with the stubble ordered Aneesh to move to the back of the plane. Aneesh looked terried and with wet squelching shoes, he walked to the back. In the last row on the right, he saw three passengers - an old Muslim man at the window who was also mumbling some prayer, a young man in the middle - who looked like any of these 4 terrorists - lightly holding the old mans sleeve, and a woman of around 50 or 60. She smiled at him with sweet crinkling eyes, trying to give him courage. She reminded him of his dead grandmother and Aneesh felt like crying. When Aneesh moved towards the toilet, the terrorist said, No. Strip here. . . in the pantry. Aneesh removed his wet spectacles, shirt, vest and pant. He then retched. The terrorist told him to use the toilet. There Aneesh vomited noisily and violently. He picked up the button-sized transmitter the marshal had slipped into his shoes. To the stinking wet transmitter he whispered, . . . last row . . . right side . . . old woman . . . Then he threw the transmitter into the toilet and ushed the waste. Aneesh tried to wipe his face and body with tissue. The terrorist opened the toilet door and told him to stand outside. Aneesh stood in the pantry, behind a curtain, barefoot and with just his underwear. He sniffed, prayed and kept crying as if with shame, shock or fear. Meanwhile, the other three terrorists had rearranged the passengers. The 34 foreigners were now sitting together near the right door in the front. The terrorists plan was simple. Starting in two hours and stretching over forty-eight hours, they would kill a foreigner every hour or so, and mostly during daytime for better visibility. They would dump the body from the right door, visible to the outside world and especially to the media that would have gathered. If they were attacked at any moment, they would set off the bomb. They hoped for the longer version - from August 13th (8 am) till August 15th (8 am), and then, they would set off the nal reworks for Independence Day. It was now close to 06:15 and the plane had taxied to the east end. The commandos attached to the plane had already been updated with the information from the marshal and also that from Aneesh. The number of terrorists within troubled them. With six inside, the mission could easily become a failure. To rule out a disaster, they had to avoid any exchange of re, especially with suicidal bombers. These terrorists sounded like they were not just suicidal fanatics but also professional killers. Ideally, at the time of entry, the commandos wanted to face only 3 or 4 inside. With each minute spent waiting, they knew that the death-count would just increase. They had to provoke some error without triggering off a disaster. At 06:24, the tall terrorist in the cockpit saw an armoured van approaching from the left, stopping 100 metres away from the plane. He told the Captain, Tell Control room to
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remove that vehicle now . . . after collecting three bodies: two policemen . . . and one civilian for which they alone are responsible. After that message was delivered, the tall terrorist stepped outside the cockpit and told his colleague in the front area, Get those two bodies and chuck them out. Bring someone to teach a lesson. Foreigner? No point in wasting them. The media will not be ready. Get someone expendable. Noticing Aneesh standing at the far end, the tall man asked, Who is that? A stinker. Get him. The other terrorist went to the pantry at the back, prodded Aneesh with his gun and ordered him to move to the front. Aneesh kept crying, dragging his feet and begging for his life. The other passengers tried to avoid his touch. Meanwhile, the terrorists had opened the front door on the left and dumped the bodies of the two marshals. The tall terrorist ordered Aneesh to move fast and to stand still at the edge of the door. He wanted the people in the van to observe this man alive for ten or twenty seconds before killing. At the door, Aneesh wondered whether he should jump to safety. He knew that they would just use him as target practice. Anyway, even if he got away, they would kill one or two or many more. He lowered his head - wondering for how long he could continue to act. Then, Aneesh saw a commando just below him, ready to swing in. The commando gestured with the thumbs-up sign. Even Aneesh knew that there were too many terrorists well inside the plane. Aneesh shook his head slightly and very briey as if to say, Not yet. The commando replied with a nod, smiled and winked. At that time, unknown to Aneesh, there were two commandos above and one more below. All this at the door happened in about 5 seconds. Aneesh let his knees crumple as if in a faint. He started to fall inside backwards. The tall terrorist and the one with the stubble
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jumped forward to grab him, ready to shoot at once, dump and close the door. When they grabbed him, they realized that Aneesh had soiled himself. Shit! The tall man exclaimed. It must have been due to that revulsion that the terrorists lost their balance for a moment trying to support Aneesh. This was exactly what Aneesh wanted. With his 84 kg weight and a solid hold on the two terrorists clothes; after tightening his shoulder muscles like that for a rugby lunge and tackle; and, with a powerful thrust on the edge, Aneesh jumped forward through the door and into open air carrying the two terrorists along. He heard two loud pops near both his ears and a little later, crash-landing on the tarmac falling on top of the two dead terrorists. Then, he fainted for real. Once again, unknown to Aneesh, there had been two snipers in the armoured van. When Aneesh dragged them into open air, the two terrorists were immediately shot multiple times during the fall. At nearly the same time, the 4 commandos entered inside in a ash and killed the 3 terrorists with two shots each. The old lady in the last row had also been fatally hit on the forehead seemingly by a stray bullet. Apart from the marshals, the old lady was supposed to be the collateral damage. Much later, Aneesh was still in the V.I.P. lounge. He had had a much-needed shower and he was given a T-shirt, a pair of trousers and new underwear - all possibly from the airport shop. He had been debriefed. Initially, the ofcials were even suspicious of him:
- What is your name? - Aneesh. - Surname? - None. - Nationality? - Indian. - Which state do you belong to? - I dont know. - Which language do you speak? - English. - I repeat, are you Indian?
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- Aint I?
At that point, a senior ranked person of the armed forces entered the room and interrupted the interview. He came to the interview table. Aneesh tried to get up despite feeling very tired. The ofcer said, Thank you, sir, and thats from my entire commando unit. I have just one question. How did you know that it was the old woman? The old woman was smiling a bit too well at that time. Aneesh replied reluctantly. Aneesh kept quiet for a while and then asked, Sir, is it possible not to reveal my bit? The ofcer smiled and nodded and left. The interview then proceeded more smoothly. After that, there in the V.I.P. lounge, Aneesh watched news on TV - some passengers were being interviewed: Did you at any moment think that you would die? Die? No. We are proud and brave Indians - we would have fought like tigers. We are ghters till the end - we will survive anything. Did you notice how the commandos shot the old woman? Oh yes, they should get better training. I am planning to bring it to the attention of civil rights groups. What was the worst moment? There was this man - a cry baby. Oh God, he was pathetic. Did the terrorists kill him? To tell you the truth, we hoped they would kill him - such a disgusting fellow and denitely unworthy to be an Indian. Aneesh remembered his question to the interviewer, Will I be hounded by the media? The quick reply was Why would they? For them, you are not even a dead coward.
13
Stochastic Resonance
I was nearly dead when I went to the house of Chaathan. The illness started soon after my birthday, I remember. After ten days of misdiagnosis in the hands of the Campus doctor, I was barely conscious of the shivering with high fever, vomiting bile and difculty in breathing along with an unbearable pain in my chest. I begged my friend (the one who was my side-y in the hostel) to take me to Delhi, to my cousins place in Dhaula Kuan. I guess the proper treatment started then. I remember the doctor asking my cousin, How did he reach this state of pneumonia without being diagnosed? The days that followed are hazy. Daily injections blackened my upper arms, steroids and antibiotics became my staple diet, x-rays to monitor progress and consultation with doctors at AIIMS interrupted tful sleep. I think I saw the silhouette of my folks standing near the bed with lowered heads. Was it after the rst or second week that I left Delhi, returned to my hometown and went to the house of Chaathan? The journey used to take couple of hours to reach there. The rst part was on the highway from Trivandrum to Kottayam and that took an hour or so. The rest of the journey was on a narrow road climbing high into deep and dark hilly forest. I think it was a cousin who gave me those details, the one who was cured of jaundice in that place. I do not remember the journey or my rst sight of that house. I do not even remember how many days had elapsed till I regained consciousness there, in that house of Chaathan. When I regained consciousness and opened my eyes, I saw a lady wiping my face and body with a hot towel. She is beautiful. Though I thought she was old then she must have been in the thirties or late twenties. I guess I always remember her as I saw her then - concerned dark eyes, gentle dusky face, pious and sensual in the traditional two-piece sari-set (mundum neriyathu) and, with each touch I felt she was holding me rmly in a comforting embrace. I call her appachi (aunt).
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13 . STOCHASTIC RESONANCE
I saw her turn her head and I followed her look. I saw Chaathan for the rst time. He was standing near the entrance of that room. He is tall with a body lean and muscular from sheer hard work, with a visage of indeterminate age, salt-and-pepper-hair and deep light-brown eyes staring intensely. In the years that followed, I realized that my time in the house of Chaathan was like a permanent tattoo, a mark etched on my mind and actions. I yearned for that and probably tried to mimic or recreate. I remember most the minute and trivial details. In the house, Chaathan wore a mundu (dhoti) and when he went out for business or pleasure, a well-pressed jubba (kurta) too. For kkrishi (farming), he used to wear just a thorthu (light cotton towel). I used to watch him wash his own clothes, meticulously hang the clothes on the washing line and then iron the dried clothes by pressing with his strong brown hands. I observed all that in the days that followed. On that rst occasion, he told appachi Give him hot rice and sh curry, the worst is over. He left my room without another look or comment. I realized soon that both of them were not accustomed to having unnecessary conversation. Though appachi was always approachable, she would often counter my incessant chatter with a smile. Chaathan was ne and normal most of the time but there were dark brooding moments when it was wise to let him be. I realized early that they loved to read and discuss, explore fantasy and science together and it seemed like their passion allowed anything. After a day or two, I was well-enough to roam in that house. It is not a large house. There is a large area in the middle where Chaathan sat in a reclining chair which had a cloth back. Balan, the all-in-all help, used to sit on the oor near Chaathans chair and roll beedis for him. My bedroom was in the west wing along with three empty rooms. In the east wing, there is the master bedroom and the dining-cum-kitchen area. The bathroom and the toilet are a little away from the house, behind and shielded by trees. The house of Chaathan did not have doors. I asked appachi about that and she replied rather confusingly, Doors need locks, and keyholes to spy andEwhen you really want to get out, you might
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nd yourself locked within? Seeing the puzzled look on my face, she added with a less-serious tone, This house is too small for doors, isnt it? When I was well-enough, I started taking my meals in the dining area which was adjacent to the kitchen, with the smell of cooking and wood-smoke clearing my head. One evening, I saw Chaathan with a tattered paperback book in his hand and I realized that it was a book that I carried in my backpack for sleepless moments. It was No Orchids For Miss Blandish by James Hadley Chase. I was having podi-ari kanji (rice porridge), appachi was sitting on the oor xing a murukkaan (paan) for herself and Chaathan, smoking a beedi, started reading the book aloud, his deep voice resonating in that room. Even now, I can hear that story being read well into the night.
It began on a summer afternoon in July, a month of intense heat, rainless skies and scorching, dust-laden winds . . . Miss Blandish watched him come across the room. She saw his new condence and she guessed what it was to mean to her. Shuddering, she shut her eyes . . . Some people could cope with this because they believe in God. I havent believed in anything except having a good time . . .
One night, I was restless, nding it difcult to sleep and I got up to drink the cool water in the kujam (long-stemmed clay vessel). I stood near the bedroom-window for a long time. The moon had gone and I could hardly see anything. I heard a sound behind me and I turned around. A young man, probably about appachis age, was standing inside the room. Even in the dark, I could see his eyes, erce and wild. He approached me slowly. When he was at an arms distance, he reached out and clasped my neck with a strong hand that smelled of sandalwood. My back was pressed against the window ledge. I was shivering violently and I wondered whether the fever was returning. We stood like that for a few long minutes. When he released my neck, I crumpled to the oor. I lay there without looking up. When I did, he was gone. I stood up, trying hard to control the shivering, drank some more water and waited for a while till I could walk steadily. Then, I left my room to go to Chaathans room in the east
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wing. Light from a lamp was streaming from his room. The polished oor had a bronze hue in that light but felt cold to touch. I stopped at the entrance of his room and looked inside. Chaathan and appachi were in a close embrace on the bed. I could see appachis naked back while they kissed deeply. Chaathan, who was facing the entrance, saw me before I could move away. Without breaking away from the kiss, he looked me over from head to toe, taking in the mild shivering and my sweaty state and probably, the panic on my face too. He gave me a slight nod and lifted his palm a little as if to indicate that he would be with me in ve minutes or so. I went back to my room and sat in the dark. It was denitely more than ve minutes before Chaathan came to my room. He switched on the light. His calm composure was soothing. He stood near the entrance, looked around my room carefully, breathing deeply and wiping the sweat on his body with a thorthu. Before I could say anything, he asked me, Did he come? When I nodded, he continued, Are you scared? For some reason, I replied, No. Chaathan smiled with amusement, Arent you scared of the living? You should be. As for the dead, they are not that bad. Dont worry. Try to sleep. As was his custom, he left immediately without waiting for my response. But, I did sleep well after that. Next morning, when I went for breakfast, nobody mentioned anything about the previous night. Later that day, I overheard Chaathan telling appachi and Balan, He is the right one. Not a believer or a disbeliever, without beliefs or doubts. He is like a
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fresh book waiting for the writing. I do not know whether they were talking about me. I was then quite t and ready to venture outside. That day, I stayed within the compound, walking on the sand in the courtyard, scrawling and sketching with my toes and erasing just as quickly, or resting beneath the canopy formed by a maavu (mango tree), a plaavu (jackfruit tree) and a beautiful aal maram (banyan tree). Next morning when I woke up, I saw a youth standing at the entrance of my room. He looked a few years younger than me but that could have been because of his slight build, impish face and an ever-ready buck-tooth mischievous grin. He introduced himself quickly as Kundra, as if that said everything. He told me to meet him outside after breakfast and the morning bath. Then, he slipped out quickly not waiting for any conrmation from my side. But, I was there and Kundra was waiting for me, eating a mango lustily with the syrup dripping down the side of his arms. He held out another one for me but I declined the offer. Then, he rummaged in the waistband of his mundu and came out with a handful of roasted cashew-nuts, and I accepted that greedily. Finally, I had a companion who could chatter more than me. On the days that followed, he was my guide on that land. He told me about the houses outside that estate, the workers homes and the bigger houses that lay empty. Chaathan seemed to be in control everywhere, benevolent or otherwise, sharing their lives in every way. He told me that Chaathans younger brother had been appachis husband. Chaathans brother was found dead near the temple with sandalwood paste on one hand and blood on the other. He whispered that there is a rumour that Chaathan had killed his brother. Kundra took me everywhere. We explored the hills on one side of the house, the rubber plantation, climbed on top of big boulders perched precariously on rocks, collected wild pineapple growing near the rocks and he showed me the cracks where snakes lived. Even the sacred king cobra that leaves a golden trail, he said. On the other side of the house, there were coconut trees, the banana plantation, the fruit trees and pepper creepers on teak, rosewood and mahogany trees with tendrils hanging within reach.
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There is a narrow way downhill on that side to go to the temple and the river. The path ends on a small hill where the temple is located. The hill shields a place called moonattumukku (three rivers junction) and this is the bathing place for women. A turn in the river shields this place from the bathing place for men situated fty meters downstream and the way to that is via the steps at the back of the temple. On our third or fourth day, Kundra showed me a hiding place on a small ledge right above the ladies bathing place. We watched the women bathe. I saw a young woman bathing alone far from the rest and she stood out, a captivating beauty with graceful movements. I looked at Kundra. He seemed bored after nding little that could interest him. He lay on his back and dozed. I wondered, How could he sleep after seeing her? Cant he see her? I turned back to that woman. She was looking directly at me and she gave me an amused smile. I moved away from the ledge, shook Kundra awake and ran away from that place. But, I did not tell Kundra about that young woman. The next day, Kundra did not come. I ventured out alone but I did not go near the river. When I returned, I saw Balan in the courtyard. I asked him, Do you know where Kundra lives? The wizened face looked at me for a while from behind thick beedi smoke before replying, Kundra? My son went to the city a few years back. I was not sure whether I had recovered from the illness or whether my body and mind were still weak and susceptible. That night, I was once again restless. Light from a half-moon gave me shadows to chase. I fell asleep when the half-moon disappeared behind some clouds. A touch woke me up or was it the smell of jasmine? I sat up on the bed. The young woman I had seen bathing was lying next to me. I thought I would start shivering. If she had smiled again, I would have. But she didnt. I looked at her face and wondered whether I deserved her. I didnt know what to do. She touched my face and then my chest. It seemed like she was spreading some balm on those areas which had doubled up in pain so recently. She knew that I was inexperienced and she guided me. We undressed slowly and made love. When she
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left, my rst thought was about how I could convince my batch-mates that I had lost my virginity. In the days that followed, I spent time walking and eating, regaining strength, helping Chaathan in the elds and talking to him and appachi in the dining area. On one of those days, he asked me, Do you know about resonance? I recited from memory, A peak in the signal-to-noise ratio as we change the frequency of the input signal, and it occurs when the frequency matches the natural frequency of the system. And, do you know about stochastic resonance? No, I replied. It is also a peak in the signal-to-noise ratio. But, it occurs as we change the input noise intensity. It is a phenomenon where the presence of noise in a nonlinear system is better for output signal quality than its absence. Why was he telling me this? Chaathan continued, We are more accustomed to linear response where things add up and intuition works most often. But, when we see a wave build up and travel like a solitary wave or a soliton, an immutable and non-dissipating entity, we feel that it is impossible. But it is possible if you step into the nonlinear world. He paused and smoked silently for a while before adding, We have an issue with noise, too. We would like to deal with the signal alone. The noise is unavoidable but we treat it like a distraction to be reduced. But, are we aware about every signal and can we really differentiate noise and signal without uncertainty? Once again, he let these words play upon my senses and strangely, I felt I was beginning to understand him.
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Everything about us and around us is nonlinear and a dirty mixture of signal and noise, especially the mind, the body, thoughts and emotions. When can we perceive more than others? Be free, from constraints; feed the noise, without bias or ltering, in the right environment; let the nonlinear system do the rest. That is when we will sense beyond what we usually sense, when the output signal gets truly magnied with increasing intensity of random feeds. I had a lot of questions but I realized that Chaathan had slipped out of that mood into one of gloomy silence. I slipped away and thought a lot that night. Next day, Chaathan, appachi and Balan sat with me for breakfast. None of us spoke. It was time for me to leave. I kept my head down and nished the food on my plate. When I raised my head, I saw that Kundra and the young woman were also in the room. Then, the others I had seen in that region started appearing in the room. Even the man with the erce eyes stood outside with that group while I bid farewell. I slept on the trip from there. I remember very little of what happened after I left the house of Chaathan and till I reached Delhi once again. I have not gone to the house of Chaathan after those days. Years have passed and whenever I have asked others, they shrug and feign ignorance about Chaathan. Nobody likes to talk about that and most have hinted strongly that I should avoid such talk. Recently, I was talking to my mother about those days. I thought I should try to ask her once again about Chaathan. But, I stopped myself when she started as usual, When you lost consciousness in Delhi, even the doctors lost hope. Only God knows what brought you back from that state when you were nearly dead . . . Some memories have to remain private.
14
Laid Off
I felt cheated when I got laid off after Lehman Brothers led for bankruptcy on Monday, September 15, 2008. I felt cheated because it was not a surprise. I remember the coffee-room gossip. As far back as August 2007, Oh boy, is this the beginning of the end? In early 2008, when Bear Sterns collapsed, we were still saying the same thing. We stayed put. With hindsight, we were like moths seeking a ame, greedy for a speedy death. That last weekend, life depended on unknown people, Hey, Bank of America is going to bailout Lehman. We will be saved . . . On that Monday, I reached ofce earlier than usual. Colleagues, never seen at that hour during normal times, were busy copying les and revising their old-forgotten rsum. My boss sat alone in his ofce looking out through a window probably thinking about his lost big fat bonus. I did not have to think about that. I became part of a world-wide subculture. There were guys like me in Detroit, London, Tokyo, even Wall Street. I am different, I know. Those guys were part of some statistics, inuencing policy and stimulus packages. Who will consider a sweat shop guy as a data point? The rst week, relatives came home to express their condolences. They sat with bowed heads, whispering to each other. In their eyes, was I laid off, or laid to rest with cotton in my nose and coins on my eyes? Maybe not the coins . . . it is good to save for a rainier day. My father-in-law accosted me before the others, Are you really jobless? I nodded.
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14 . LAID OFF
He persisted, But, were you with Lehman? I shook my head. Tchah! If only you were with Lehman, I could have told that to my friends. Whats the name of your company? I told him the nice desi name. My father-in-law walked away, shaking his head sadly. My relatives offered advice. My friends called for the details. When I mentioned to them that I planned to visit, they made themselves scarce. My wife keeps me informed about their enquiries. She mimics and mocks well, Is he there? Dont call him. Has he gone for interviews? Has he tried job portals? Isnt he even applying? Where is he hiding? I made myself more useful at home though I was told that it is unnecessary. I prepared for my kids PTA meetings. The teachers listened to my wife and ignored me. I lost my cool once. These days, she goes alone. My wife says it is my ego. Sometimes, she calls it low-esteem. I hope it is that. It would be tougher if it is because people have nothing to say to me. I used to have the same problem with divorced people. There is little common ground. What do you say to a guy for whom every day is Sunday? I keep in touch with some of my old colleagues. One is facing foreclosure, a few have got some job, another is getting divorced, no suicides, so far. A few months back, my youngest one asked me, Are you now a home-maker? My wife hushed the kid with a stern glance. Maybe, she heard it as home-breaker. I cant tell them that I write, can I? In my circle of family and friends, hardworking men dont write for a living. They dont do that for fun either. I dont write for fun or living. It helps me to kill time. There are supposed to be ve stages to dying: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
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These ve stages apply to being jobless, too. Just in reverse - acceptance, depression, bargaining, anger and denial.
15
A cage, ?, an idea
I am in a cage with no eyes upon me. I could escape, I could, but to a bigger one. It is a circus outside. For them, too. Inside, outside, within, without: mere semantics. Chewing cud, reclining, let me watch those eyes. I am a question mark with no question preceding. Curved, promising, a trace of certainty in the dot, But the symbol stays preserved, chaste. Like the pretty girl whom I watch from far, The question begs to be there; but I stand alone. I am an idea He thought of- just an idea. When He smiles, welts appear upon my skin, At times I cry but I imitate His smile. When He turns the hour-glass, like the sand I obey, Trickling thro Time, entering a new vacuum.
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16
The Last Time I Wrote About Love
The last time I wrote about love, she laughed at me. Then, I was studying at a college in a small village about 250 km from Delhi. It used to take more than 52 hours to reach Delhi by train from my hometown. From Delhi to the village, the travel time used to be 5 to 6 hours. I preferred to take the direct bus but the decision depended on how late the train arrived at Delhi. There was a bus at 22:00 and when I missed that, I had to wait at ISBT till the 05:30 bus. There were terrorists even then and the police did not allow anyone to sleep or leave their baggage unattended. I could also go by the 20:30 train from Old Delhi station to another village 26 km from the campus. Reaching the campus from there involved an hours ride in a jeep at around 03:00 with dense fog and a driver, in a bhang/alcohol induced stupor, spurred on with nudges to the ribs. Life was not that bad in the college. The students rarely went out of the campus other than for the essential visits to the bus stand, the dhaba for paratha-anda bhurjee, that for hot chai-jalebi on a winters night, the hospital with the nurses or the balika vidyapeeth where the computer teacher was a beautiful unmarried Susan. In my second year, I ventured out to nd a typist. I found the typists shop at around 10:00 on a dusty Saturday morning. I had fallen in love for the rst time and I had written my rst love poem. The poem had three sections written separately and feverishly for three earlier one-night crushes. But, it seemed like a good idea to join the feelings for my rst love. It also seemed like a good idea to send that as an entry for her approval and also, as an entry for the British Council All-India Poetry Competition. The latter required a typed entry and thus, entered the typist into my life. They were everywhere in those days. In fact, this typist resembled the one in my neighbourhood back home - a middle-aged educated man, a small shop with three typewriters, three tables, four chairs and two trainees (probably students learning typewriting on a holiday). At the back of that shop, and behind the man, a imsy curtain barred the way leading to the typists house and family.
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16 . THE LAST TIME I WROTE ABOUT LOVE
The typist saw me standing outside, looking nervous and uncertain like a virgin in a brothel. He lowered his spectacles from his forehead, studied me from head to toe for a minute or two, gauged my intentions and with a twirl of his hand beckoned me to sit beside his table. I entered without a word, took out an envelope with the manuscript from my cloth-bag and extended it to him. He blew on the ap, licked his thumb and took out the three sheets of my handwritten love poem. How many copies? he asked. Two. I had planned for one but I had money for two. I wanted my rst love to read every word. When should I come to collect . . . You will have to read this to me, the man interrupted, your handwriting is nice to look at but impossible to read. I looked around the shop. I tilted my head in the direction of the trainees and begged silently to the typist. Its Ok. He leaned forward. They hardly know English. I read and he typed. It was the rst time I was reading my poetry aloud and to others. He guided and manoeuvered, and after the rst stanza, I was reading well. We would stop when he had to use the whitener and correct a mistake. He did not suggest any corrections to my text. Once in a while, he even said Wah! My rst audience and I felt great. I still cherish that. I do not care whether his true intentions were mercenary. I have written lots since that day, never to be seen by others but in my mind I still read to him everything. It was past 11:00 when I read the last lines:
Solitudes Wrath
Which angel scattered diamonds upon this eld O wicked one! Why do you charm me so? Life seems so light with its wish to join you, But the gentle air alone caresses and beckons. Regal trees in slow waltz to Natures measures,
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Gilded crowns lighten the green expanse. O let us tread a measure, my beloved pretty one, Entertain this heart, control its childish raptures. Shafts of light in hazy blue - lanterns of the Path Memory slips away to that distant time When with such a sight we delighted, But now, your hand not in mine, I face Solitudes wrath.
When I stopped at the end and gave a sigh of relief, I heard her laugh. The curtain at the back parted and she entered the room with a tray carrying four glasses of chai. The typist gestured to me and I hardly hesitated before taking a glass. The typist took his glass, signalled with his little nger that he is going inside for 1 and left the room. O dear sir, drink thy cup or should I wait so? I heard her whisper by my side. I glared at her for mocking my words. I kept on glaring but I saw only her eyes, those beautiful eyes, maybe also her lips, and her smiling face, nothing more, I swear; at least, not then. What was she then - her name Shreya, a girl in her nal year at school (at Susans balika vidyapeeth, strangely), two or three years younger than me, staying with her uncle and family. Her parents were abroad and kind of separated. She had two siblings, one married and both abroad, too. I got to know this later. Predictably, I lost my rst love (and I swore I would never send my poetry to any woman - unless, I could not think of a better way to end a relationship) and never heard from the organizers of the Poetry Competition. But every fortnight, on Saturday morning, I would go to the typists shop and get two copies typed of whatever I had written. I waited patiently for the few moments with my critic. I guess I needed her more than she needed me. She did not share any of my beliefs, fears and passion. Many years later, in one of our worst moments, she told me why, For you, everything is just a phase. It was true. I was like a non-addicted chain smoker who had never experienced a nicotine rush. I wanted to wage wars, ght for justice, protest against something but I was just the clichd pseudo-rebel really without a cause.
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Even my writing life had its phases. In middle-school, it was Tagore, Wordsworth and the lot. I knew the Lake District better than my village. I was full of vales, dales, dew, doe-eyed beauty and patriotism. In high-school, I stumbled on Tolstoy, Chekhov, Wilde and Marquez. But, I still wrote like before. Without experience, I barely understood (and in that stage, the above juvenile venture happened). I had a brief dalliance with Che (when I tried to grow a moustache); howling mad days with the Beat generation (when I did not cut my hair); a calm spiritual one with Richard Bach followed by Castaneda and a bit of the Upanishads (I think Pirsigs Zen started that). Then, a lovely mother of a dull friend tried to introduce me to existentialism telling me that a sin-free life is beyond human nature. It was Shreya who introduced me to crime novels (that phase continued till the end of my marriage) and she made me try M&B. I dreamt of being tall, dark and handsome (I had a 33% chance of success, Shreya calculated) sharing champagne and a replace, if not my bed, with a woman. When the concerned women married tall, fair and handsome men, I lost interest and decided to stick to crime. In my third year, Shreya joined a college in Delhi. But, she used to come to her uncles place for Diwali and Holi. I didnt have anywhere to go and home was too far away. She had a great relationship with people in that village, dada-dadi-chacha-chachi everywhere. During my third year Holi vacation, she took me to raddi-chacha and his typical secondhand bookshop in a university-village. I found a treasure for ve rupees - Piaggios Differential Equations. Shreya asked me to take her through the book, if not everything, something, she said. With the permission of her uncle, I held tuition classes on those holidays. I tried my best to share my interest and she did well. I think we enjoyed each others company, too. I was even invited once for lunch. At the end of the fth class, when we decided to stop after going through the basics of partial differential equations in chapter four, she told me, You are a lousy teacher. For you, I am a lousy poet, a lousy teacher . . . I retorted angrily. All that I meant was . . . you dont have the patience to explain. You expect your student to know the subject before you teach. The power of instruction is seldom of much efcacy except in those happy dispositions
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where it is almost superuous. I quoted Gibbon. Bull-shit! she said, It was nice anyway. she added grudgingly. I have wondered about how I was given access to her by her uncle. But, in those days, I was a guy a girl could take home to her parents - as a friend, of course. Somehow, girls folks found me asexual. We got sexual only once, during her Diwali holidays in my nal year. We were alone in the dining room after lunch while her uncle, aunt and cousins rested elsewhere in the house. Have older women made passes at you, touched you? she asked. No, I replied too quickly and uncomfortably. You must not have noticed. Shreya, that I would notice. Why do you ask? She shrugged. There was a nice man in the train. Old man? Not very old. Did he trouble you? No. Whats troubling you then? Nothing . . . I fantasized about him last night. Then and now, I have never been open to discussions about such matters, even with guys. I believe that everyone should grow up without any help and with their own warped sense of sexuality. But, at that point, bravado, curiosity or a mixture of both made me ask, Have you thought . . . about . . . me?
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Long back, came her prompt reply. Oh! During my college days, we never met outside her uncles house. I never invited her to the college. Nor did we try to meet in Delhi. But, we did see each other once in Delhi. Once a month, I would catch the rst bus to Delhi - to take a break and to breathe the sweet city air. I would reach Delhi around 10:00, feeling like an old soggy pair of socks, probably smelling like that too. I would take an auto-rickshaw from ISBT to Connaught Place and there, to Nirulas ice-cream parlour to have a double chocolate ice-cream soda. I was familiar with the waiters and the school-kids kept their distance. On one of those visits, I saw her there with a baby-faced guy. I did not want to skip my drink but I tried to avoid her. I must have stood out like a sore thumb, if not a country bumpkin, in that place. She came over with baby-face, Adarsh, what are you doing here? Drinking soda. She introduced me to the guy, I have forgotten his name, and he did not seem very pleased to share her and a table with me. But, we did talk like adults and during the interval, he excused himself with to refresh and gave me a pointed look. I have always had a thick skin when it comes to other guys. Together alone, I asked, Who is Farex baby? He is smart. How long? Six months. When did it start? Cute, you sound jealous. You wish!
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I completed my time in college and took up a research position in Bangalore. Before leaving college and that place, I met her uncle and family. I even touched her uncles feet and he hugged me with genuine affection. While taking leave, I gave a note to him, That is the telephone number at my parents place - that will not change. In my second year at Bangalore, when I returned to the hostel after a tiring day of research and volleyball, a colleague told me, There was a call. Whose? She said that she is your wife. Did she leave her number? No. In Bangalore, I had managed to lead a good life but on the edge of penury. The closest I came to a meaningful relationship was a close acquaintance - fortunately, she was a vegetarian and quite happy when I treated her at a decent but cheap place to curd rice, bisibele bath and free pickle. But, a recurring nightmare prompted me to end the affair. In that nightmare, I am married to this acquaintance; and, after my strenuous efforts on the rst night she enquires Theerno, chetta? (Darling, over?) It took two months for my wife to call again. This time, fortunately, I was there in the hostel. Adarsh here. I said grufy. Hey, its me. Shreya, you idiot! Where are you? Here, in Bangalore. She had joined a course for MBA. In the months that followed, we met often though not regularly. She had discarded Farex baby for a professor. I asked her why she was going
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after my type. She did not answer. At that time, my rst love popped into my life once again, a brief tempestuous ing before she married someone respectable. I borrowed money from Shreya to nance my affair. I managed to repay when my fellowship was increased in the fourth year and I felt rich for the rst time - I could go to M.G. Road more than once a month. Shreya got a good job after her two-year course. She took me to Karavalli along with a nice girl-friend of hers with whom I irted outrageously. Mid-way through the meal, the friend asked me, You two - are you an item? I looked at Shreya but she kept a blank face, We are too good friends for that. I replied. Shreya smiled. I felt as if my life had been sucked dry. Was I thinking about some North-South divide? Did I think that Shreya would never want to settle in my hometown where I thought I had my roots, ancestral property, what-not? Was I trying to keep Shreya as a friend - I wanted that role at least? Another year went by and I got a fellowship from abroad. I got the news by e-mail. I remember that Thursday evening - it was raining heavily and there were reports that M.G. Road and the area around Ulsoor Lake, where Shreya lived, was water-logged. I desperately wanted to surprise Shreya and celebrate with her. But, I received her call around ve in the evening. Adarsh . . . please come. Where are you? Apartment . . . Are you Ok? Sick . . . I asked a colleague to help me but he told me that it is too dangerous to go on his motorcy-
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cle. I asked the Administrative Ofcer of the Institute whether he could help me. He owed me a favour. When his wife died in an accident, I went with him to the mortuary, shielded him from the arduous task of dealing with the helpers and the ofcials, even bribing to process his wifes body quickly. He arranged for an Institute car to drop me at Shreyas apartment. It took a while for Shreya to come to the door. She was shivering, looking extremely weak and dirty, and her house-coat seemed stained with vomit. Even in that state close to fainting, her eyes contained an apology and she was crying, too. I half-carried her inside. I took her to the bathroom. It was really a mess out there. I lled a bucket with warm water, washed her face and made her rinse her mouth. I got her a fresh nightdress from the cupboard and told her to change her clothes. Once she looked reasonably fresh, I took her back to her bed. I changed the sheets and then, tucked her in. Using her phone, I called my sister, a doctor. Probably just u along with a stomach bug; rest, uids, food and rest, my sister suggested. While she rested, I cleaned the place, washed her clothes, cooked for both of us. I woke her up at regular intervals - to refuel, I told her. Outside, it continued to rain. It remained so till Saturday morning. I was sleeping on the sofa in the drawing room and I woke up in the early hours to nd her sitting by my side. She looked much better. Can I lie here for a while? she asked. She snuggled against my chest and we slept. By the time I woke up, she had already had a bath, looked fresh and rather healthy, and she had oats and coffee ready for me. Do you remember our rst ght? she asked in her usual abrupt fashion. I nodded. On that occasion, it was I who had been sick - bronchial asthma compounded with viral u. When she tried to fuss over me, I told her I know how to look after myself. I went back to my hostel to rest. But I waited for her hoping that she would bring something good to eat, a good soup, maybe. She did not come to me till the next morning. When she did, I told her to get lost. Unfortunately, she listened to me. Later, a colleague told me that she had come the previous night - rather late though, after sulking probably - but did not want to disturb me. I guess it was the rst time we really showed some real emotion to each other - and so, we stayed away from each other for a month or two.
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Why? I asked in reply to her question. She shrugged. She was sitting close to me. I held her hand and kissed her for the rst time - I remember kissing the space between the second and third knuckle of her right hand. I held her arms and drew her close to me. Then, I kissed her on her lips. Just the plain oldfashioned kiss - starting at the middle, light touches here and there and then to the side, exploring together, parting the lips a little, kissing deeper. There are some during which you wait for the end; there are some which make you wish for a strip of Wrigleys (I do not know about the young these days but my generation used to carry Wrigleys rather than condoms - just being realistic, I suppose). Then, there are those kisses which you will label as the kiss of your life. And the rst one with that woman is usually the best - when there are barriers to demolish. When we parted after the kiss, we still held each other. I traced a nger over her left cheek. I looked at that face and thought, God! I need this woman. Then she said, Adarsh? Huh? I cannot have sex with you. I was still holding her. I cannot remember whether my grip tightened or loosened. I am engaged to be married . . . she continued. What?! I exclaimed and then, pushed her away. She gave me the details, it was the same professor, she said. I listened quietly. When I felt rage ready to spill over, I went to the bathroom, washed my face and bashed my right st into the concrete wall. I watched the middle knuckle swelling. And then, I felt that I was in control of myself. We continued chatting, even touching upon the kiss,
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It was . . . she hesitated. Lousy? I shed for a compliment. She just smiled. Her wedding happened a week before I left the country. I took the newly-wed couple for a good lunch at Silver Wok. Pati patni aur woh - just that the three of us seemed unsure about which role to take. But, I wished them well. We made no promise to keep in touch. Nice women get lousy husbands. But, wonderful (and lousy) women unfortunately get great guys. I got married after two years. When I got married, most of my friends were married too. Only when I got divorced did I hear about friends who had divorced or were in the process. Then, even those re-married. I decided to remain single, to concentrate on my career, I reasoned. Is there anything to say about my marriage? No, I guess not, she is a nice woman. I had switched elds and I was rising fast in an investment bank. What did I do? When the margin from old products was not enough to beat hedging errors, I cooked up new exotic products. As long as the customer was not sure about how to price, I made a prot irrespective of whether it was a bull or a bear market, recession or boom time. There were always enough fools around to cheat. I was in the midst of a rather big deal when my phone buzzed and I saw that it was her call. I remembered her husband, switched off the mobile and nished the meeting. Then I took the team to a wine bar and celebrated. I got home late with a pleasant lady, feeling rather lonely till she left at the break of dawn. It was Saturday, around 6 am. I switched on my mobile and remembered that I should return her call. Shreya? Adarsh. Whats up?
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He died last night. I think she disconnected or maybe, I did. It took more than three years for me to get her talking. What do you expect? I didnt go for the funeral. I didnt send a note. I didnt call either. It took me a year to show up at her place. Right at the door, blocking my entry, thats when she told me, For you, everything is just a phase. I nearly retorted, For you, too. But, she was right. And, I was wrong, I knew. I left her place. But, she called me later, that is, two years later. We agreed to meet for lunch. She was doing very well, career-wise. Same with me, too - though, I could feel the beginning of the end of that career. Her husband had been ne for breakfast, in a coma by lunch, thanks to an aneurysm or something. When the doctors had told her that her husband was brain-dead and advised her to pull the plug, thats when she had called me three years back from the hospital. Thats all, she concluded. After that, did we keep in touch regularly? Did I think about her? No and yes, always, as usual. I left my job, went back to my hometown and realized that I had no reason to be there. But, I stayed. Two years passed before I got her next call with the message, My uncle died this morning. Her uncle, my typist . . . I managed to catch the ight to Delhi, with a stopover at Mumbai. I think the bus ride from Delhi to the village still takes 5 hours or so. I am writing this in the plane. I do not know what the ending will be - maybe, she has married once again; maybe, I will propose a long time too late; maybe, she is sick; maybe, the bus will meet with an accident; maybe, its just another meeting between her calls.
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It is not the ending that matters, to me or to her. It is never the ending that actually matters. I will show this to her. I will read it to her. Her uncle would have liked it. The last time I wrote about love, she laughed at me.
17
Speechless
Stef Graf married Andre Agassi a few days after I landed in Berlin. I had two reasons to be in Berlin. I have discussed the rst and main reason elsewhere when I wrote about love and here, that reason is not important. The second and more pertinent reason is that I wanted a speechless life. Why? For thirty years or more, I had been a linguistic chameleon. Till my teens I spoke mainly Malay since my friends were Malay or Iban. I also achieved distinction in writing Jawi. Then, to pass exams here, I had to learn English, my mother tongue and the national language. In the years that followed, out of necessity or love, I picked up Tamil, Kannada and shuddh-gaali (pacha-theri, pure unadulterated vernacular useful for survival) from the north and the south. Language is a weapon for power, to form clubs and to exclude. Sometimes, it is used to communicate, I know. I was usually not offended during business meetings when the language would switch over to that of the majority. I tried my best to gel with them. When the level is intentionally notched up above my level of comprehension, I take the hint and switch-off. It is not a difcult game to play and everyone, including me, has participated as the predator or as the prey at one time or the other. While being that chameleon, I realized that I had another gift, too. I could forget a language just as easily as I could pick up a language. A part of my brain seems to be reserved for this, a slate or a memory drive for writing, erasing and writing again repeatedly without damage. When I realized that, I had to acknowledge the fact that language, and therefore speech, could be irrelevant. That is one of the reasons why I decided to live in Berlin and refused to learn German. Berlin was ideal for this experiment. It is also a beautiful and dynamic city; and, it offered enough escape routes, if necessary.
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I was not there as a tourist with a return ticket but there to live for years. Some decide to go into the wild. I need contact with people to feel exhilaratingly claustrophobic, boxed-in and smothered. Without city air, I would suffocate. But, I did not want to talk and I did not want to understand what others talked all around me. At work, I had to talk at times but it was not essential for my work. I could not speak in the train; in the supermarket and the street-side caf or beer-garden; in the museum, the cinema, the opera-house or the library; and, not even in the police station or the foreign ofce where I had to renew my stay permit every year. I managed - there were irritants, of course, but there were enough nice people who were ready to understand what I wanted to communicate, without talking. Fortunately, my barber was one of those people. There, the barber is not called a barber but a friseur. It was in my third month in Berlin that I found that shop, located a few blocks from my apartment, and I mustered enough courage to go inside for the much-delayed haircut. The chief-friseur and proprietor of the business was a German, mid-thirties, with a friendly but strict smile that reminded me of my class teacher in grade three, buxom and rather unapproachable. The chief took measure of my hirsute mess with a long careful look and then assigned the junior, the only other friseur, to attend to my case. Fortune was still knock-knock-knocking on my door. The junior-friseur was not a German and seemed exible enough to try sign-lingo with me. After a few failed attempts, I managed to register for the combo of hair-wash and haircut. I did not really need the wash since I had shampooed and cleaned my hair thoroughly at home that morning. The friseur handled my head gently from behind during the washing, shampooing, nal washing and drying. I felt her long ngers massaging my scalp and her long nails which never scratched. I kept my eyes closed. Once that was done, she adjusted the chair for the haircut. She stood close and in front of me. She held my hair in the front between her forenger and thumb and with her eyes and a slight pout in her lovely full lips, she enquired about the required length. I indicated with my right forenger a length sufcient to postpone the next visit for just three weeks from then. She must have been around my age if I had been a few years younger; east European, probably from one of those countries which had recently gained independence; two or three inches shorter than me if I kept my head high; slim and athletic; and, on that rst
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17 . SPEECHLESS
day, she wore a black t-shirt and low-slung jeans. The t-shirt went well with her fair skin, black eyes with a tinge of blue and specks of brown, and the Celtic buttery tattoo on the lower back. The haircut went as well as the hair-wash, in spirit if not in deed. She took her time, using just one hairdressing scissor and one comb. She used her ngers to measure and trim, to smooth and set. She moved effortlessly from front to back, left to right. We looked at each other once in a while, face to face or in the many mirrors, smiling only when the chief-friseur was favourably engaged nowhere near. The hair-wash and haircut lasted 20 minutes, every three weeks, on Saturday mornings. On one of those days, we exchanged names like a talisman, or at least a memento. Hers is Delia. I do not know when we became lovers. Well, if this was ction, I would have made that sentence sound true. We never became lovers. In fact, we met outside that shop only twice. The rst time, I met her at the Spar supermarket adjacent to my apartment block. It was close to 1 pm on that Saturday winter afternoon and I was desperate to get home for lunch. I was trying to count the exact change for the gure displayed at the counter. The nice lady at the counter was familiar with my dumb ways and waited patiently with a comfortable grandmotherly smile. I gave her my usual apologetic look and my best smile and, also directed the same at the person behind me in the queue. It took me a moment or two for me to realize that I was looking at Delia. I paid my bill, collected the bags and left quickly. I waited outside. When she came out and saw me waiting, she smiled. I did not know what to do. It was either due to the confusion in my mind or a rumble in my tummy that I gestured to her about eating at the Koreanische restaurant next to the supermarket. She nodded in agreement. We shared soup, kimchi, noodles and bulgogi. I have wondered since then about what we would have talked if we could have talked. I would have described the green hills, the plains with the carpet of coconut trees, backwaters, beaches, education and healthcare, Gods own country, Onam and the wonderful cuisine, secular mixture of cultures, maybe even about my family back home. She would have educated me, I suppose, about the Orthodox Church and the inuence of Moslem culture, the great years of communism, caviar, science and the great academies, ballet, all those great masters, authors, painters, composers, sharing food at Christmas
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and Easter, the land rich with natural resources, the entrepreneurs, the calm plains and the beautiful lakes, holidays at the Black Sea or the Mediterranean. I guess we would not have talked about why we chose to be away from those places we called home. We had a long lunch without a word or a touch. When we looked at each other, we just searched in each others face and eyes. The other senses tend to work better when you are speechless. We shared the bill and when we parted outside, she held my hand for a while. Winter turned to spring and the other seasons followed. Months went by and I kept my appointments with my friseur. It was on a hot summer Saturday that I found that the shop had closed. Or rather, the shop was being refurbished for some other business. I walked back home and did not leave the apartment that weekend. I felt lost without my barber. Or maybe, I was just disappointed that I had to nd a new one. During the early days of the winter that followed, I was on leave on a Thursday. I wanted to visit a photography exhibition that afternoon and attend a concert that night. The exhibition was not exceptional and I was free by 4 pm. It was getting dark and I had a couple of hours to kill before the concert. I walked to a cemetery. Though not in the same league as the Pere Lachaise or the Highgate, there are two or three in Berlin which are great places to walk or sit and think. I used to go there around noon and I usually had company to clear leaves and check the stories etched on gravestones. On that day, it was deserted. I searched for a famous mans grave. It was behind one of those handsome gravestones that I saw my friseur outside the shop for the second time. Delia looked weak and scared of someone. Her eyes kept looking around. When I got close, even in the fading light, I could see that her lovely lips had a nasty cut and that her left cheek was slightly bruised and her clothes seemed dirty. She leaned towards me and I held her. I would have liked to see her smile but she looked as if she had not smiled for quite some time. She did not cry, though. She had a small backpack with her. She said with a weak voice, Hilfe, bitte. I knew those important words which were unnecessary at that time. I knew that she needed help but of what kind I was not sure other than to know that I was not the one she really needed.
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17 . SPEECHLESS
I could only think of two avenues for help. My boss could help but he is like me, earnest, indifferent and insensitive, a rather self-centered person. He is the type who asks at the end of a seminar, Have you said anything which is not trivial? The next and only choice was Susannah, a colleague I liked a lot. I had been to her place for dinner couple of times. She is an armchair liberal and quite useless with practical matters. But, her partner Gudrun seemed to be the right person for Delia since she is involved with various organizations concerned with human rights violation and all that. Susannah and Gudrun lived about 2 kms from Wannsee station and we could get there by the S-Bahn train. From a phone-booth, I tried to contact them but nobody picked up the phone, and I assumed that they were still at work. We waited in the cemetery till it was dark before going to the nearest station. We tried to be inconspicuous but a dark-skinned guy walking around with a disheveled beautiful fair lady is not a common sight anywhere. In the train, we took the bogey right behind the driver. I usually do that when I return late from work. My Lonely Planet advises me to do that. Its got nothing to do with racism. There is no dearth of hoodlums in any part of the world and every place has a local version of skinheads and neo-Nazis. When we reached Wannsee, it was about quarter to six. We walked fast, eager to reach the apparent safety of my colleagues house. Sick with tension, I had thought of approaching the police but Delia seemed reluctant. The road was deserted and we hardly came across any cars on that route. We were a kilometer from the house when a car went past us, stopped a few meters in front and two men got out. They approached us with one holding something that looked like a gun. I would have suggested running if I thought it would be of any use. Anyway, Delia looked spent, defeated and she just crumpled on that sidewalk. I knew that I had to face the two men and ght. Altruism usually has a simple explanation. I had a greater chance of living if I did not ght but if I lived after the ght, I could live without guilt. The two men casually walked towards me. I had seen a lot of movies in which the good guy puts up a good street-ght. I was tougher and tter in those days. I lasted about a minute on my feet. One of those men moved quickly and I tried to follow him. The other then came behind me and immobilized me with a choke-hold. The rst hit on the solar plexus left me breathless. By reex, I raised my hands which were guarding my groin. Predictably, the next kick was to the groin. I nearly lost consciousness but I was still
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standing. After a few more well-aimed punches to my sides, I slipped to the ground. They kicked me a few times as an afterthought. I realized that these guys were not mere street-ghters. They did not leave any visible injury. From that foetal position, I watched one of them drag Delia to the car. The other leaned towards me, roughly grabbed my hair and whispered in my ear, Talk . . . kill. I knew those words, too. I did talk to Gudrun and Susannah. Through them, I talked to the police. But, the talking did not do any good. Maybe, those men were Delias husband and some relative, the police suggested weakly. None of us wanted to admit the bitter truth. Theres too much trafc of that kind, invisible and if not, we prefer to turn a blind eye. I have looked for Delia on the street, amongst cheer-leaders, in resorts, at air-terminals, ports and railway stations. But there are no trafc lights on those avenues used to transport that kind of cheap but protable cargo. I remained speechless.
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Lonely with Passion
The gnarled trees reaching sinking silent screaming love in friendships quagmire.
The white cloud passes that special beautiful one now a past blemish
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On the tree love signs after the kiss the caress before accusing.
The shadows cover Loneliness on crumpled sheets with Passion all spent.
19
On hearing a woman sob in Cargse
It is 7 pm. I am hiding in my hotel room. Next to the road, on a thread-bare bedspread, Thro cheap curtains, theres no view but Im OK. Then I hear a woman sobbing. I repeat, sobbing. This is not the place for a woman to sob. Theres the sea to soothe (with a few irritants ashore). It is scrub land (but city folks paradise). One is loony to be alone (now you know why I hide). But with savage tourist instincts, In the land bereft of natives, with the French speaking English, With the tired cleaning lady covering her bra, To eat paella or burger? Who cares to be naked on a nude beach? This is my rst touch with life, hurrah! I listen to the woman sobbing for 10 minutes, Probably her dog has u, or her bikinis are wet, But for the rest of my stay I could think.
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Trips
Even as a kid, Adarsh knew that his life was different. In school, he listened to his mates daily reports about their life outside. Mostly, it was the same repeated over and over, about parties, ghts with siblings, shopping trips, visitors, gifts and punishment. He thought of it as a prop or a background rather than drama itself since everything sounded plausible and the fabricated sounded empty. He tried to be a good audience, listening well, applauding and cheering politely. For him and, strangely, for the others too, it was like a TV break for meaningless commercials waiting for the main show. During the rst week after every vacation, the stage was his and his alone, and did he deliver to his large young audience. He remembered his rst when he told them about a picnic deep within equatorial forests, by the bank of virgin rivers, with uncharted rapids and the eyes of tribal headhunters, orang utan and vicious reptiles following him and his parents. His mother and her magical rustic spread of tapioca, hot sh curry and other delicacies on a checked red-white sheet; his father disappearing behind water-falls, holding his breath underwater for endless minutes; he told them the believable truth, even admitting how he preferred to sit in shallow waters, with precocious caution and cloudy thoughts. He never had to repeat a place or a trip. He took them to cold mountains and secluded cabins with wild animals howling outside; the big cities and the high rises with the hustling bustling masses; the exclusive beaches and the resorts, the shopping for the latest and the best, the exotic and the shady. As they grew older, his trips matured and they got what they wanted to hear. He made them giggle at strange customs and perversions, wonder with wide-eyes about smoke-lled rooms and falling casino chips, drool over 14-course meals with snake-meat, shark-ns and tender-tortoise, or lick their young lush lips lasciviously listening to the sounds of boulevards where everywhere everyone had a price for everything. In the ninth-grade, Shanthi became his soul-mate. She was part of his audience but to him, she seemed different from the others. Though he found it disconcerting, he liked the
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thought that she understood him. After each vacation, on-stage, he would search for her dusky form, try to read her dark soft eyes, the smile on her lips, interpret her gestures or the way she sat or twirled her straight black hair with her ngers. Off-stage, they talked, exchanged ideas and shared thoughts. That year, just before the long summer break, she invited him to her house for her birthday party. He broke his piggy bank and got for her a cuddly monkey, a pendant, a book and a CD with music compiled just for her. He wanted to give her everything. He felt uncomfortable in his new clothes, kept dgeting with his hair the whole afternoon and tried to get to her house on time, not too early, not too late. She received him at the door, blushed and accepted his gifts. She made him feel special, giving him company more than the others and later, she took him inside, to the dining area, where her parents were busy arranging the dishes. She introduced him. They too seemed really glad to see him. Her father kept a hand on his shoulder, like friends. Her mother gave him a kind smile and enquired, Are your parents in town? Adarsh shook his head. Her father asked him, Shanthi told us that their jobs take them to lots of places. What do they do? Adarsh told him about his parents jobs. Shanthi took him upstairs to show the bedroom she shared with her sisters. She held his hand and told him, I know you are lonely but I dont want you to feel that way ever again, ok? They returned to their mates and joined in the good cheer. Adarsh felt a heaviness creeping in with each passing moment. By the time he left Shanthis house, he was rather breathless and quite numb. He reached his house, sweating profusely as if with high fever. He collapsed on to his usual seat by the bedroom window, with a view of empty streets and shuttered windows, curled up beneath a blanket, clenching the thick material, staring outside seeing nothing. Shanthis words and that of her parents kept echoing in his mind. He felt confused and angry. She had betrayed his trust. He did not want her to evaluate him or to discuss his affairs with anyone. He did not want to be judged or condemned; evaluated or consoled; he did not want anyone to tell him about his life, a life he liked to pick, choose and create;
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he did not want others to enter or guess those parts which he considered to be irrelevant. He wanted to share his life; he did not want them to change it. What does she know about my life? he screamed in that empty room, snarling with spit frothing at the sides of his mouth. There was a knock at his bedroom room. Bhaskar, the old cook-and-caretaker-and-distantrelative, came in with a glass of chocolate milk and asked Adarsh, Are you feeling ok, son? Adarsh nodded and the old man left silently. He really liked the old couple, Bhaskar and his wife. Those two and the driver-handyman Kishore gave him everything - company, care and conversation. Adarsh sipped the drink and relaxed, allowing the earlier thoughts to slip away into the dark night like unwelcome guests, to be forgotten forever. That summer, his parents had arranged to meet him at Cargse. He travelled alone to Paris, took a shuttle bus from the Charles de Gaulle airport to Orly, and barely got the ight to Corsica. His father was waiting for him at the airport at Ajaccio. They had cappuccino and pastry while they waited for his mother to arrive on the next ight. The 50-km car-ride from the airport to their seaside resort cottage at Cargse took about an hour. The three caught up on each others life. They planned to stay together over there for two weeks. As per his parents arrangements, Adarsh attended a youth camp every morning. He enjoyed trekking, swimming and exploring the island-village with the other youngsters. On the fourth day, when he got to the camp, he was informed that it was a holiday. He trudged back to the resort. He went up to his parents side of the cottage. There was a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, probably meant for cleaning ladies. He walked away trying to decide what to do on his own till lunch-time. He walked towards the two churches in the village. He sat outside, between the Greek and the Latin churches that face each other. He smiled at the thought of being a middleman taking messages from one divine authority to the other. After a while, he got up and took the road past the cottages, moving slowly towards the sea-facing cliff. He stood there at the edge, timing the waves that pounded the jagged cliff walls, counting the smooth weather-worn rocks appearing and disappearing, waved at yachts in the calm blue sea stretching till the far away misty hills.
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He felt the old thoughts return, his breathing got heavy and he felt his mind go numb. He cursed Shanthi softly but kindly. Maybe, this time, he will not take the stage and tell them about this place and this trip. Will Shanthi still want to be my mate, he wondered. He thought of a new life off-stage forever. He knew that he had to move away from the edge, to lead that new life; or, to continue and reenter the stage and talk about his trips; or, on that edge, if he thinks about his life, if he trips . . .
21
My Father is a Good Man
Last weekend, at Chennai airport, I saw Shreya and her father - the girl I should not remember and the man I want to kill. For thirty one years, I have harboured that thought. But now, like a serious matter losing relevance, I have to write before the ink fades on that memory. What remains seems like a silent movie with shadows acting. At that time, we lived in Borneo - an island divided and administered by three countries: Indonesia (more than 70%), Malaysia (the two big states of Sarawak and Sabah) and Brunei. When I jog my memory, it is not the best or the worst which comes to mind but two rather irrelevant memories. I remember that, in those days, Brunei did not like to recruit Malayalis because of their communist inclinations. Around the same time, in Sarawak and Sabah, the government was facing the danger of secession and also, communist protests. The government had even passed an order declaring that communists would be shot-at-sight. Even with such conditions prevailing, the people from Kerala were not viewed with a single label. Thanks to that, my father worked as an engineer for the Sarawak government and he even received the medals for long-service and good-service from the Head of the State. My second memory is of the Iban, an indigeneous tribe of Sarawak. At one time, the Iban used to be a fearsome warrior race famous for headhunting and piracy. My father used to tell us that the Iban were a simple lot, quick to please and even quicker to anger; he called them the original human, worthy of trust and loyalty, before becoming primitive like us. We were occasionally invited by my fathers Iban sub-ordinates for simple meals at their longhouse. On one of those visits, to express their affection and respect, my father was presented with a parang, a sword more than 100 years old, well-designed for one handed
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use and probably, with a few human heads to its credit. I used to wish for that parang as my inheritance. The place where we lived was too small to be a town and too big to be a village. There were two Indian families and the rest consisted of Malays, Chinese and Iban. Shreyas family was the other Indian family. Shreya was my classmate from lower kindergarten till primary three. Her father worked in my fathers ofce, in the clerical or accounts division, and both of them reported to a Chinese boss named Mr. Chung. I used to hear my parents discuss about irregularities in the accounts division and about some confrontation between Mr. Chung and Shreyas father. My parents and Shreyas folks rarely socialized. But, my parents treated Shreya like a daughter. Since we were the only Indians in that town, she had to be my girlfriend. I did not complain because she was beautiful, dusky; with lovely black eyes and long lashes; and, she could smile and laugh the way I love. We never played doctor-and-nurseor-patient because she wanted to be the doctor all the time. I used to go to her house for books, jigsaw puzzles and her cycle. She used to play with me in our three-acre compound, treasure-hunting on the green slopes under the shade of huge wild trees. She allowed me to be the guide and her protector. Once, I asked her if she is a Tamil brahmin. A Tamil chettiyar, she proudly corrected. I asked her what it meant, brahmin or chettiyar. We were eight or nine then and neither of us knew. She asked me about what I am. I dont know, I remember saying with a defeated low tone, my father told me that it is not worth knowing, I added weakly. In that village-town, my family used to be invited for a party nearly every other week. My parents got along well with nearly all. We used to have parties in my house too, including the day-long party on Diwali. I used to call Shreya but she could not come without her parents. Of those days, I also remember my mother arguing with my fathers bad habit of not saying no to those who ask for money. Every month, a week after pay-day, I would see my father being approached for small loans. The Iban used to return. Most of the others tried to return with chicken or meat, fruits or vegetable. My father used to take me with him to his ofce when he had to check on some work on holidays. I used to hear him shout and rage with his famous temper. But I knew that it was not really serious. Without my fathers knowledge, I used to receive sweets from his co-workers. They used to tell me that my father is a good man.
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It was a Friday when everything started. Shreya and I were resting inside a freshly-dug pit at the edge of the compound.
- Sree, I got a new jigsaw puzzle yesterday. - (envy and silence from me) - It is different . . . it allows for three different pictures . . . depending on how you start at the center . . . - Wow (curiosity won the battle). . . can I play with that . . . with you . . . - But, you have to show me one thing . . . - What? (what could I have) - Will you show me the headhunters sword . . . the Iban parang?
That evening, while my parents were entertaining some guests, I took my fathers parang from their bedroom cupboard and smuggled it out within my Yonex racket case. It was with great pride that I displayed the sword in her room. Shreya had to beg real hard before I allowed her to hold it in her hand, with my hand over hers to make sure that she did not drop it or hurt herself. We heard someone outside her room. I took the sword from her hand. I didnt have enough time to put it away in its case or within the racket case. I hid the parang beneath Shreyas bed. It was Shreyas mother at the door and she informed me that I was wanted at my place. The next day, I went to Shreyas house at around ten. Shreya told me that the sword had been there beneath the bed the previous night but that morning, the parang was missing. We searched together. When she cried, I wanted to cry too. At noon, I told her that I will return later that day to search the house more thoroughly. That afternoon, heavy equatorial rain caught us by surprise, and by evening, the villagetown seemed like one big muddy ooded playground. But, it was a common affair. At about six, it was quite dark outside when my father received a call from Mr. Chung for some urgent document. I begged my father to take me with him. We went in our old Beetle. At the ofce, I was told to remain in the car. My father entered the ofce through the front entrance. There is another entrance on the right, close to the back-gate, and I saw
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someone exiting the building that way. It was dark and raining. But, I caught a glimpse of the face in the bright search-light placed at the gate. It was Shreyas father but I could not be sure. A few minutes later, I saw a police-van and an ambulance rush into that ofce compound. I sat in the car for a few more minutes while I watched more police cars enter the area. Curiosity got the better of me and I left the car. A constable prevented me from entering the building. A senior policeman there recognized me. Maybe, he had seen me at some party. He ordered one of the constables to take me home. He told me that my father would come later. Nobody asked me anything else. During the days that followed, I heard that my father had found Mr. Chung dead, hacked to pieces. The police were trying to get more details from him. I was assured that he would return to us soon and I believed that my father would return. I saw Shreya a few times but I did not tell her or even my mother about seeing Shreyas father that night. It did not seem to matter and I did not want to cause any trouble for Shreya. In all that confusion, I even forgot about searching for my parang. A week or two later, I heard a Chinese lawyer talking to my disconsolate mother.
- I advised him to go with my story about an Iban. - (my mother was weeping) - I told him to say that he saw an Iban, one of those sub-ordinates, being reprimanded by Mr. Chung and in a ash of anger the Iban had chopped Mr. Chung. But he wont listen to me . . . can you make him listen? - Dont you know that he wont agree to such stuff? - What la, you know it is going to be difcult . . .
A month later, I read the whole story in the newspaper about how my father had a ght with Mr. Chung, how he killed him with his own parang which was found at the scene of the crime. My father was not even able to explain how the parang had reached that place. The rest of the columns described my father as a bad man, a hot-blooded man known to have ts of anger and even a suspected communist. It seems that he was cool enough to take his son to the ofce and even bold to call the police himself. The senior policeman came to our house to question my mother on one of those days. When he was leaving, I approached him. I told him about how I had lost the parang. I told
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him about seeing Shreyas father. The policeman held my shoulders kindly. He told me that my girlfriend had also phoned him to tell him about how the parang was lost.
- I do hope that you and your girlfriend have a better time ahead of you. But, do not tell stories like this, ok? Another person in my place might not take it lightly. - But, it is not a story . . . - Listen, young man. You are now accusing your girlfriends father? I know why you are saying that . . . maybe I should ask your girlfriend about that . . . stop it! Do you understand what I am saying? The next time, I will not be so kind . . .
My mother and I left the country a few days after the execution. I had stopped meeting Shreya long before that. I heard that Shreya and her folks also left for Australia a few months later. Last week, at Chennai airport, I saw Shreya and her father - the girl I could not forget and the man I wanted to kill. She came to me and said,
- Sree, it is me. Shreya, remember? - (silence) - Your father was a good man, Sree. - I know.
22
After Nights In White Satin
I do not know how to begin. Let me start with their tale. On that day, they had the last exam before the Christmas holidays. The exam was over by noon. The four seventeen year-old boys bid happy hols to their classmates and hurried to catch the 12:30 bus to the city center. I asked them once whether they are a steady gang. I was not surprised when they frankly admitted that they are just casual friends, and that their alliance was forged only at the beginning of that academic year when they were seated together in the back row of the class. The fattest, Gopal, is amiably called Chacka (jackfruit) by the others. The fairest and tallest is a North Indian called Mohit - a quiet lad with a pleasant face. The other two, Matthew and Shekhar, are rather nondescript, ve eight to ve ten, athletic, bespectacled and brown. Like Mohit, Matthew is also quiet and pleasant. He appears to be the oldest and the most mature one - the other three refer to him as decent gentleman, making sure that it sounds like a tease or a taunt. The last one, Shekhar, with pimples, deep set black eyes and protruding ears is a volatile buffoon and seems to lead that motley pack. The four reached the city center by 13:00. They walked to a video cassette library where Shekhar had membership. There are two types of video libraries in the city. The rst type has darkly-tinted windows and door, looks like a shady bar and probably caters to policemen and shady clientele. The second type, like Shekhars, looks more respectable and caters to the middle class. This particular library has a jovial manager called Ramanan ever ready to offer tips on selection. Shekhar asked Ramanan if the new ones were in stock. He was directed to a corner. While the four boys browsed over the collection, they could hear Ramanan giving his advice to other customers -
Ramana, how is this? Bestu, mashe, adi poli. (Crude translation: Best. Hit.) This?
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Staaary . . . (One could make out from the drawl that Ramanan had little time for story.) Itho? (Translation: This?) Aakshun!!! (With a glint in his eyes, the manager would step out of his sanctum sanctorum behind the desk and help the customer collect the sequels II, III, IV, Final and VI of that action series.) Atho? (Translation: That?) Kambhi. (Crude translation: Iron rod. This was a colloquial way of referring to soft porn. The ones who want hard porn never ask for advice. They typically approach the front desk silently and Ramanan would surreptitiously hand over a cassette in a thin black plastic bag. The young men who asked for these were at times just middle-men or couriers. Gopal used to brag about being the courier for one of his neighbours - a respectable young couple, he explained, the wife asked me to get it, the husband was too shy to ask me.)
On that fateful (or rather, ill-fated) day, the four boys tried to look sure and condent and they did not ask Ramanan for advice. Matthew made the choice and the other three agreed. The cover looked promising and the title too, Nights in White Satin. The four boys then boarded a bus to Gopals house. Gopal has working parents, an empty house at that time of the day and a VCR. He is also the richest of the four and lives in a very nice posh area with lovely neighbours. Gopals collection of music cassettes, foreign magazines and his two latest toys, a powerful pair of binoculars (military, Gopal boasts) and a good telescope (self-made, Gopal boasts again) are an added attraction for the others to visit his place (since they are well-acquainted, they are quite deaf to Gopals boasts). They reached Gopals house at 13:50. They slipped the cassette into the VCR and let the movie play. They watched silently for ve minutes. Then, Gopal started fast-forwarding the movie. Before 14:15, they realized that they had selected the wrong one. Shekhar took the initiative in giving mock blows to Matthew. Mohit and Gopal joined in, cursing themselves for allowing a decent gentleman to choose a proper cassette with at least some skin-show. Matthew took it all rather well and the frustration subsided soon. Finally, the four agreed that they had all been duped by the exaggerating cover.
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Gopal then suggested going to the terrace with his toys. Shekhar complained, On the terrace in the afternoon sun? Are you crazy? Gopal said knowledgably, At 3, there is a change in shift in the medical college hospital. The hostel is very active at this time. Mohit asked studiously, Can we see till there? Isnt it quite far? Gopal looked smug when he replied, Oh yes . . . not too far, it seems . . . that new multistoreyed hostel is a Gods gift . . .
The four boys climbed to the terrace of the house. Using the binoculars, they surveyed the neighbouring terraces and made sure that they were the only spies. They settled down behind the overhead water tanks - that was the only part of the terrace which was even partially concealed. Gopal set up the telescope on a tripod. They took turns on the binoculars and the telescope. Till 14:40, they saw nothing worth seeing.
That was when Mohit, the one with the telescope then, said, Hey, look at the fourth window on the seventh oor from the top . . . from the left . . .
The tools for spying kept changing hands rapidly. But they maintained total silence, as if stunned or laid numb and cold. They pieced together their observations into a coherent account much later. What they saw in that room was the following:
A man was standing still in the middle of that room watching a woman sleep on the bed. He was wearing a doctors coat. She was wearing a thin slip and a light sheet covered her lower body. The man sat next to her sleeping form and caressed her face. He leaned forward and kissed her lips. Even that did not wake her from the deep sleep. It looked as if she was heavily drugged.
Then, the man quickly dressed the woman in a more concealing outt as if he wanted her to look better in public. He took out a rope from a bag. Standing on a chair, he slipped the rope through a hook in the ceiling, and made a noose for
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hanging. He lifted the woman from the bed, placed her head in the noose, held her for a few moments, as if praying silently. Then, the man kicked the chair and let her hang, watched her body jerk a few times, and then it hung like a dead weight. He touched her hand once again, maybe feeling for a pulse, before leaving the room.
Around that time, Matthew had exclaimed, That man . . . he looks like my fathers colleague . . . His father is a doctor in that government hospital.
I think their tale ended there. I have talked to them a few times to gather all that. Some parts in separate anecdotes, separate moments, separate lives . . . most stories are like that ... Let me continue with the tale . . . with the little I can contribute. That woman, a junior doctor and a post-graduate student, was found dead by hanging later that day by one of her colleagues. The four boys did not watch the rest of the proceedings. They had had enough of spying. The police had arrived on the scene. The newspapers in the next two days followed the case quite well and gave all the details of the police investigation. It was judged to be a suicidal death. There was mention of the woman having rather large, though not fatal, amounts of sleeping drug in her system at the time of death. But all the other details seemed to indicate that she must have taken it herself, to calm her nerves before the nal deed. The day after the death, the four boys paid me a visit. They told me about what they saw. They felt guilty for not approaching the police.
Matthew said at the end, Uncle . . . I saw you . . .
I did not deny my part in the deed. I talked to them most of that day and the day after. We laughed about some details. We explored the insignicant parts in close detail. We rushed through the crucial part. I did not tell them about why I chose to hang her rather than kill her with drugs. I did not tell them why I had to kill her. Had to? I am not even sure if I really had to, but . . . She left me dead long before I killed her.
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Reasons, motive, method . . . that will remain our secret . . . I advised the four boys not to get involved. I assured them that I will not escape, that I will do the needful. Years from now, they will be successful young men, husbands, fathers . . . they do not have to get involved in a murder case as peeping-tom witnesses . . . nobody should ask them why they did not try to call the police or why they did not try to stop the killing. They are good boys. Years from now, one of them might release these notes of mine . . . then, people will be able to laugh or omit or curse. It will be just a story then, a just one though. I do not know how to end. Let the tale end when they post it somewhere . . . like an unmarked grave.
23
The Only One That Remains
Will I be awake or will I be dreaming? When I trace each curve, each thought upon you, With breath-like kisses I will let the ink dry, Below or atop, crushing your sweet love into me But will you excuse if I call the wrong name? Everything has a bright side, they say. Will I be alive buried or will I be dead free? When I watch a white night or a dark noon, On those verdant hills or that ground grey green snot, With serene skies or there where angry clouds hover But will you excuse if I tell her names Solitude? Everything is for the best, they say. I have no questions I need no answers, here. You cannot accuse, in jail, you cannot complain. I look through bars for a Muse on visitors day, You or Love, Life or Freedom, Nature or Solitude, Those fancy names mean little, here. Memory alone tucks me in with a lullaby. When I am awake and when I dream, I stare at the walls and the barred exit, Every minute ticks long by rote. But I have learned to be with shackles, And with my head on Memorys lap, She feeds new-born stories, a shared fantasy.
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From dusk till dawn, haunting Memory beckons me; with moving images in black-and-white or colour; speeding on highways, shufing into alleys, groping for an exit in a cul-de-sac while I trip on psychedelic ecstasy, Im allowed three posters and three songs, On each day one of each for nine lives expired Cant you hear the Muse knocking at the door?
24
Path of No Return
The rst time I saw her she guided me away from the path of no return. That was in the last week of January, 1985. I was on a cruise from Cochin to the islands of Lakshadweep. The cruise itinerary included 4 islands; fun and frolic on an island during the day; and, onboard the ship at night while crossing from one landmass to the next. The trip cost me four hundred rupees. While making the deck reservation, I dreamt of sleeping on hammocks under starry skies. The deck turned out to be a huge dormitory with rows and rows of berths within the cavernous hull. As neighbours, I had friendly agricultural merchants transporting their produce and purchases. On the rst night, I tried to count the number of hands in each cluster (kola) of bananas hanging from frames and cross-beams. On the other days, I was tired after swimming, exploring and walking and did not need that to sleep. The common toilets and shower area were reasonably clean. The food served in the canteen was ne - for breakfast, bread and jam or uppu maavu; for dinner, ration rice (found a dead baby cockroach only once) with vegetable and curry (looked like sh curry or maybe it was vegetable curry). I had lunch at government tourist hotels or small tuck-shops on the islands. Each day, the ship anchored in the deep at a safe distance from an island. At sunrise and sunset, the cruising lot was packed into a small motor boat for the journey to and from the island. I guess life-jackets were uncommon then. We never saw one. On the third day, we were returning to the ship against the tide (was it from Kalpeni or Kavaratti?). It was a terrifying ride. Today, I might compare it to an out-of-control bloody-scary roller-coaster ride. I have stood with awe on many beaches, delighted with the lashing waves and scared of the under-currents, whispering Kadalamme, Rakshikkane (Mother Sea, Please Save). But, in a small boat on the high seas with no sight of land to comfort, the violent deep inspires lesser and more common thoughts appreciating the true sublime magnicence.
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24 . PATH OF NO RETURN
On the row in front of me, a young lady retched. Her husband held her tight with his left hand and held his own seat even tighter with his right. Two boys sitting next to me sang Hindu and Christian prayers. I lost my favourite cap to the wind and the rough seas. I held on to the boat, not even thinking of reaching for it, watching it bob away from me and disappear. I thought that it would be easy for me too, to escape like that, slipping and bobbing away, forever, to somewhere far away. I noticed her then. She was sitting two seats ahead of me and I could see her prole. Her hair roughly caressed by the wind covered her face; her light translucent blouse stuck to her skin like grease-paper; her face was serene, with a wisp of a smile not of amusement but plain secret delight, her eyes contained that smile too; her young untroubled face expressed freedom and hope; and, she did not seem to have any worries about mortality. I forgot my own fears and my plans to escape. I kept on looking at her, amazed and enthralled, till the boat reached the ship. In the rush to get inside the ship, I lost sight of her. I did not see her for the rest of that journey, maybe hidden in some place with a no-entry sign for me. Then, I saw her again a few weeks back, much closer to home. About forty kilometers from Trivandrum, in a backwater lake with a strip of land separating that and the sea, there is an island. It is a small island, roughly half a kilometer in radius. It is about a kilometer from a pier on the mainland. There is a small old temple in the middle of that island. The Trust that administers the temple has appointed a priest to conduct prayers on the rst of every Malayalam month. But, devotees can visit on any day. This temple has two peculiar features and one strange belief associated with it. The rst feature is that the sanctum sanctorum, with the deity, is never closed. The second feature is that there is only one way to enter this island - there is a boat (vanji) and a single boatman who can bring the devotee here from that pier on the mainland. The belief of devotees is that a person with true faith will not return from that island. The island is called Thirichu Ella Thuruthu (Island of No Return). I went there few weeks back. Maybe, I was like most people who visit knowing that they will return. But I felt that my own belief or faith, whatever it might be, was irrelevant.
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I guess I was standing on that pier wondering about that when I saw her again. She came out of the pay-and-use toilet there. To the right of that, and at a fair distance, there is a roofed waiting area. A man, with a kind and friendly face but with no inclination for small talk, runs a makeshift tea-stall in that waiting area. The stall has a gasoline stove, an old kettle, few glasses and plates, and two or three steel vessels with that days specialty. It was idli (with sambhar or chutney or chamandi podi, I guess) and vazhakka appam on that day. She asked the man for a glass of tea, strong. I heard her ask him about the boatman, too. I heard him reply that it would be best if we (the waiting devotees) went to the boatmans house to inform the boatman that we are waiting. She asked him for directions to the boatmans house. I watched her while she talked, while she sipped the hot tea. She looked older, of course. But, it was her, I knew. Those eyes, the smile, her small frame and the way she slips her hair behind the right ear. I studied her face and her body. She must have seen me by then but she did not look in my direction till I approached her. Are you going to the boatmans house? I am also waiting for him. Can I come along? I enquired. Yes, that would be nice, she said and added out of custom or as if it was her place to be hospitable, will you have some tea, too? I shook my head and waited for her. Somewhere along the way, I asked her, Were you at Lakshadweep about twenty ve years back? No. I have never been there. Why do you ask me that? Never mind, I must have seen someone like you. I said. Why is she hiding the truth? The boatmans house was a hut. A lady was washing clothes outside near a well and beside her, a young man was brushing his teeth with umi-kari (roasted paddy husk and salt). Is the boatman here? I asked. The woman gave an angry look towards the hut, Hopeless drunkard. Sleeping like a
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corpse . . . (Mudiyanaya kudiyan. Shavathine ppole kidakkunnu . . . ) I expected her to spit but she did not. Will he come to the pier today morning? my companion asked. Who knows . . . wait till ten . . . that is his usual time. It was only eight in the morning. I looked at the young man, Can you take us there? After he dies . . . (Angeru chathittu . . . ) came the quick harsh reply from the lad. We walked back to the pier. It must have been our common predicament that made us stand together and talk. I pointed at a board nailed to a coconut tree near the edge of the pier. I asked her, Can you read that? We went closer. She read the writing on that board: The Gita, Chapter 8, verse 26:
sukla-krsne gati hy ete jagatah sasvate mate ekaya yaty anavrttim anyayavartate punah
What does it mean? I asked. She hesitated and thought for a while, I am not really sure . . . well, I think its something like . . . there are two eternal paths for mortal beings . . . the day and the night are symbolic of that . . . it is given in the Scriptures . . . the two paths are the path of return through rebirth and the path of no return through union with God. I told her, Sounds like Greek to me. She laughed. Watching her laugh, I was reminded of the young girls expression. She has changed. The smile still entered her eyes. But along with that, there was also sadness or weariness or the hard weight of experience or knowledge or . . .
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It brought back my initial thoughts about the purpose of my own trip. As if to extricate myself from that impasse via association or combined study, I asked her, Why are you here? She looked surprised with that question. A stranger asking a personal question, it must have sounded like that. She looked away from me, looked towards the island, at Thirichu Ella Thuruthu, and remained silent for a long time. I accepted her silence. It was after all none of my business. I sat on the ground, leaned against a coconut tree, watched her and thought. I should admit that my thoughts were not really virtuous. When I was young, I believed in going to temples with a virtuous mind; later, I stopped going because I could not manage that; then, I resumed going resigned to the fact that I could only be myself. I must have laughed at my petty thoughts. She looked at me and asked, Do you believe in superstitions? Not really . . . I replied without hesitation. I dont. But recently, I think I found a reason to believe . . . I avoided wisecracks and wisely I kept quiet. She continued, It started 12 years back. What? I prompted. Whenever I thought about one particular . . . thing, I faced a disaster. Aha! Tell me that you caused 9/11, 26/11, Bush, Lehman . . . I quipped. She looked at me with a serious face, clearly wondering whether she should continue. I raised my hands in apology and silently begged her to continue. How could she under-
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stand that I was trying to cover my own discomfort by jokingEher tale was sounding a bit too familiar. Mostly personal tragedy . . . relationships breaking, job failure, accidents, long-lasting bad luck following a brief tease of good fortune, loss of wealth, loss of those near and dear . . . one by one, till there was nothing . . . at rst, I looked at it as mere coincidence or at worst, improbable chance. I even checked and tested . . . brought disaster on myself voluntarily . . . through that thought . . . but I still refused to believe . . . What happened then? I asked. Now, I have nothing left to lose . . . but . . . I lost even that thought . . . it is like its force is spent or that it had had enough of me . . . What was it . . . that thought . . . what was it about? The only person I loved . . . I was not supposed to think about that . . . till I lost all . . . now I can . . . but, it is gone too . . . strangely, I seem to believe now . . . This person . . . ? I asked. Dead . . . By then, I was not sure whether the voices had ipped. Was it me or was it her . . . who talked about the lost thought? We did not talk after that. At ten, the boatman did turn up, washed and cleaned but surly, smelling of yesterdays liquor, still unsteady on his feet but steady enough to do his duty. Unlike our rst boat journey, this ride was smooth gliding. I returned alone and I do not think I will see her again. The second time I thought I saw her she guided me to the path of no return.
25
Love Dies
A few days back, my friend and I were looking at photos on the Net. On one thumbnail, I felt my friend stiffen with tension. Though she was looking at the photo, her mind seemed to be far away. What happened? I asked. This photo reminds me of a college . . . the hostels . . . I visited that college recently . . . she replied haltingly. She was touching the screen and tracing that photo with her right index nger. Then, she continued, The hostels are shaped like E. This looks so much like the center wing. Do you know . . . on one of those wings on the side of that E, the twelfth and last room used to be 113 on the ground oor and 213 on the top oor. Used to be? I queried. Yes, those rooms were demolished. Why? Some time back, a student who stayed in 113 got into a ght with the local people. It was rare, you know, for students to mix with people outside the campus. Some say that it was a business deal or a local love affair that went awry. One night, a group of locals came to that students room and hacked him to pieces. The college authorities hushed the case real fast. That room remained empty that year but it was allotted to a new student in the next academic year. On the very rst day, when that new student opened the steel cupboard to place his stuff, he found within . . . a severed right hand. Aw . . . come on . . . I exclaimed.
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25 . LOVE DIES
She countered, I know . . . Anyway, students then on refused to stay in 113 or 213 . . . in the other hostels on campus, too . . . and, the college did demolish. I have seen the old photos with the twelfth rooms on that wing. It is not there now. You gooe, every college has such tales. My college had the old chowki (chowkidaar or caretaker) in the red-and-yellow-shawl. This old chowki died in my rst year in college. He was found dead near the X-ray lab a few days before Holi - an old man who was alone in life and death, and always with a red-and-yellow-shawl around his frail body. He used to be really friendly with students. During my second winter there, a student who was studying late at night left his room, to go to the loo, after latching the door. When he returned and unlatched the door, he found an old man inside, an old man in a red-andyellow-shawl. Every winter, we used to have at least one student seeing him. I laughed and she joined in, too. After some time, I could feel that she had slipped away from me once again. Hey . . . are you there? I enquired, touching her hair and tucking it in behind her ear. Can I tell you something . . . maybe, just another laughing matter . . . it might help, I guess . . . to laugh, I mean . . . she asked me. Shoot. I went there recently for recruitment. I heard another story in that college . . . Ah . . . at least, you have called it a story . . . Shut up, will you? Listen . . . Then, she told me the following:
On one Sunday evening long back, two students went together to the Saraswathi temple on campus. He (let me call him Arjun, she said) was not very religious, circled the deity, nished his prayer fast and sat on the cool marble temple steps waiting for her (let her be Swapna, she added). She joined him after some time. She looked weak and tired. What happened, Swapna? Arjun enquired. Just a mild headache . . . I am ok . . . must be migraine . . . sitting here will help . . . and she added shyly, with you.
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After some time, she asked him, Arjun, these steps are very cold, arent they? Not really . . . are you feeling feverish? No . . . but . . . I think I should go back to the hostel. He went with her till the gate of the ladies hostel. Before parting, he said You know, I have been thinking of getting married . . . asked my mother to nd me a girl as soon as I leave and join that company. It was an old joke between them. Every time, she would reply with I have been thinking of going away after college . . . meeting new people, forgetting the old ones and allowing them to forget . . . The college rules did not allow them to touch each other in public but theres a lot that looks can do, too. Anyway, this time, she just smiled without saying those words and went inside. Next day, on Monday, Arjun did not see Swapna in the morning classes. He asked the other girls in his batch. She went with her father, one girl told him. He felt angry with Swapna for not informing him. Later, that day, Arjun received a call at the Wardens house (those were the days before the mobile and even hostel-phones). It was Swapnas father. Arjun could not hear him well and then, he heard Swapnas voice on the line. Arjun, can you please come . . . ? Swapnas father came back on the line and told him, now more clearly, the name of a hospital. He left immediately and met Swapnas father outside the ICU. Her headache got bad. She called us and we brought her here. A few minutes after calling you, she became unconscious. The doctors tell me that they are draining her brain . . . aneurysm, haemorrage, something . . . That night, Arjun waited outside the ICU. According to the hospital rules, visitors were not supposed to hang around near the ICU. But, he waited near the ICU. The doctors and the other staff probably understood and did not make him leave. He did not leave his post that night or the next day. Swapnas family waited in the waiting room on the ground oor. On Tuesday, around 3 pm, a doctor approached him and told him to come back with Swapnas father. They were told that Swapna is brain-dead. Arjun took Swapnas father back to his family, then went up again and requested the doctor for a moment with Swapna. In the ICU, Arjun stood next to her bed, touched her for the rst time and said, I love you, you know that, dont you? That was the rst time they used that word.
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Arjun left the hospital without saying a word to Swapnas family. Swapna never had the chance to face the ve stages of dying (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) and Arjun felt that he had all the time for that. A few days or a few weeks later, he realized that he was beginning to forget her. He felt angry with himself. But, no anger could hide the fact that the dead have no place and that only the living matter. Swapnas family tried to contact him. But Arjun had left that college and that city. He disappeared. Some say that there are days when the steps of the Sarawathi temple feel unnaturally cold.
At this point, her story ended, or I thought that it had. But, my friend continued: When I went to that college, a famous author was there for her book-release. The author read excerpts and at one place, she read from her book . . . love never dies . . . Then, that author did something strange. We saw her pointing at someone at the back. We turned to look but we could not gure out at who she was pointing her nger. The author was talking to someone there . . . Could you please repeat the question? Can you tell me your names, please? the author said. Then, the author addressed everyone, Interesting question from the two at the back. Arjun and Swapna would like to know if there is anyone here who actually believes that love never dies. Those who were familiar with that old story also knew that Arjun and Swapna always returned to mock those words. I held my friend in my arms . . . tightly . . . there is no point in hoping to hold her when she is not there anymore, right?
26
Company
My friend Vishnu has this irritating habit of listing out his reasons for every action. To make it even worse, he loves to classify those reasons under the heading: primary, secondary and tertiary. You sound like a discarded and unused textbook, I have complained. Being my friend, he rarely listens to me. In school and college, he gave his reasons to get educated: to understand a few questions; to irritate others; and, to get a job. When he fell in love: to experience love; to have reliable company; and, to know the pain of loss. I would like to think that he added the tertiary reason later. When he got married: to have reliable company; to have kids and sex; and, to have a second income. Have you told your wife those reasons? I challenged. He smiled, I dont have to tell her. I think she is in it for the same reasons. Two weeks back, he bought a house on a small plot of land. I felt betrayed when he said, Simply no reason. I retorted, I dont buy that . . . let me see . . . to be lord of the manor; to have your own six feet for burial or cremation; and, to have a permanent warehouse to park your stuff and people. He shook his head. A week back, I got a clue about his reasons for buying that property. A mutual acquaintance told me, He got it cheap. Even though it is secluded and very well connected. But, that house is spooky - four unnatural deaths happened there. Ah! I exclaimed. I accosted my friend at his new place. He tried to evade the issue and my questions. I did not give up. Over a mug of beer and a plate of fried karimeen, I told him about a story I had read recently.
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26 . COMPANY
In the story Neela Velicham (Blue Light) by Basheer, the protagonist rents a haunted house. The locals tell him that a girl committed suicide (unrequited love, I think) and no one dares to stay there or even enter that property at night. In the rst few days, either due to fear or false bravado, he talked to himself incessantly in that house, Good morning, Bhargavikutty . . . people say a lot of rubbish about you . . . let them say so . . . Bhargavikutty, some of my friends are coming to stay here, dont do anything to them, ok . . . Bhargavikutty, I am going out, take care of the house; if anyone tries to enter the house, strangle them . . . As days pass, the protagonist starts to forget Bhargavi. The protagonist explains, How many men and women have died . . . all those spirits hanging around . . . like that, Bhargavi will remain . . . just a memory. I narrated all that to Vishnu. Since I could not remember the climax or how the story unfolded thereafter, I stopped there. I looked at him expectantly. Well, it worked, partially. He did not touch on his reasons. But he told me about his new house. This room where we are sitting . . . the drawing roomEthis is where the man of the house was found. He had slashed his wrists. He was found dead, lying in a spreading pool of blood. Everyday, I clean and wipe the oor myself . . . but . . . cant you see . . . look . . . it is a shade different, right? He didnt leave any notes . . . there was nothing that explained . . . That room there . . . my study . . . his wife was found hanging from the ceiling fan. It wasnt a pretty sight . . . bulging eyes, released bladder . . . it never goes . . . that stink . . . In the bedroom, their two young kids . . . poisoned . . . the toys still lying on the ground . . . as if they had interrupted their game for a short break . . . At times, when I sit at my desk and work, I feel eyes staring over my shoulder . . . at what I write . . . I feel breath on my neck . . . Even during daytime, I can feel them next to me while I rustle up a quick meal . . . I trip while walking as if there are toys lying on the ground . . . I can hear the faint buzz of a family sharing meals with us at the dining table . . . Do you know that, at the back of this house, there are steps leading to the river? The rst time I went there, I was sitting on the bottom steps, studying the ravaged landscape . . . thirty years back, it was like paradise, it seems . . . a sandy perfect bathing spot . . . now, after all the illegal sand-mining, there are just rocks, deep hollows and dangerous rapids . . . I was sitting there, with my head on my knees . . . a young lady touched my shoulder . . . I nearly jumped with fright . . . she is the one who told me how it was before . . .
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I have not seen that young lady again . . . I asked about her at the corner tea-shop, the one next to the grocery . . . I described her . . . they told me that it must be Branthi Shanthi (Mad Woman Shanthi) . . . a neighbours daughter . . . usually kept in chains . . . I dont know . . . the young woman I met . . . she didnt look mad . . . anyway, do I look mad or sane? I think . . . it is the woman of this house . . . Vishnu laughed. I laughed, too. Well, for once, he did not tell me his reasons. I think I know.
27
School Reunion
Today, I attended my school reunion. It is a pleasure to see those faces and to remember one of the best phases of my life. Usually, it is held in the last week of December when those abroad come to these shores. This time, for some reason, they requested for the rst Sunday of February. I try to get there early, around 10 am, along with the organizers. I like to grab my seat and watch my old mates enter. People start trickling in at around 11 am. There is ample time to mingle till lunch is served at 1 pm. Till a few years back, the party used to be held at a friends farm. Then, the venue shifted to the new Taj in town. The cost of attendance has shot up but it is really worth saving for. I have attended every party since inception. And, to make it memorable, something always happens. Till ve years back, alcohol used to be served. That year, one of the oldies groped a mates wife and the scene got ugly. That wife was sporting a rather indecent dcolletage and her sari kept slipping all the time. She made such a big fuss. That popular guy was always like that, even during our school days. Anyway, he let bygones be bygones and never misses these reunions. The other one (he is a bit weak in the spine, everyone knows) and his wife have not attended since then; really, quite unfortunate and unforgiving. A year or two after that, two kids created a bit of a utter. Around lunch-time, the respective parents realized that their wards were missing. It was fun actually, searching and shouting for them. The two were found on the terrace, discussing Physics they said but nobody believed that. Some advised the parents to take it cool. But they left immediately. The guy and the girl, they belong to two churches. Anyway, since then, even kids are not allowed. Most nd it easier now to let their hair down. Till date, none of the adults have gone missing. That would have been interesting. I love to watch them enter, with their casual wear and the careful carelessness. It is so different from my usual life. The new Alumni secretary Mathew received everyone at the
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door. This time, Zach was the last to come. Poor chap, his wife is an invalid and it is beginning to show on him. Mathew greeted him at the door, Hey Zach, great to see you here. Hi. I could make out that Zach was trying to t the face with a name. Unperturbed, Mathew introduced himself, I am Mathew. We were together in XI A. I went to C division in XII. Ah! Zach responded and the two joined the others. I got up from my seat ready to it from one group to the next. Most of them have aged so gracefully and done quite well. I went to the large lot in the middle. It is not like the early days when the ones from abroad used to stand apart. Nearly everyone from everywhere get together these days: comparing notes about kids education in Portland, Sydney and Bangalore; the latest in Kochi, Dubai and London; life in Singapore, Mumbai and Vancouver; opportunities in Shanghai, Technopark and Frankfurt. It is amazing to hear how they adapted, the nasal twang, the tough life when they come to India, the recession, the uncertainty and how they had to settle for a vacation at Aspen or Cyprus. I left that lot and joined Shekhar and Deepthi who were standing a little away. We watched as Gopi made his way through the crowd towards us. Shekhar whispered to Deepthi, There he comes . . . Go-pee . . . your love. What was that song he used to sing for you? Deepthi hushed him, Shhh . . . poor chap . . . he is in a miserable state now . . . a widower, divorced too. Which order? How does it matter? If divorced and then a widower, still rich; otherwise, bloody poor . . . Shekhar, shut up! Deepthi hissed. Gopi reached us.
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Shekhar greeted him, Ah! Gopi! We were just talking about you . . . how are you, old man? Look, let me leave you two love-birds alone . . . Laughing, Shekhar moved quickly without acknowledging Deepthis stare. I followed him to Shajeeb (I.A.S.), Suresh Namboothiri (doctor) and Rajeev (professor). Those three are always together. Till 2008, they were into stocks. They claim that they exited when the index touched 21k. Now, they are into real-estate. Shajeeb was asking Rajeev, I am trying to get that hill near Technopark . . . and develop it, man . . . only one more acre to get. It is your brother-in-laws land, man . . . any chance of getting it, man? Rajeev conded, He is in a tough position now . . . up to his neck in debt . . . his latest venture has also opped . . . prawns, he managed to op with . . . prawns! Only my brotherin-law can manage that. I can introduce you . . . good time to approach him to sell that land ... Shajeeb replied, Wonderful, man . . . Dont forget the brokerage for me . . . Rajeev joked rather seriously. Of course, man, of course . . . Shajeeb smiled widely, indicated that he has to go to the loo and left. Bloody Muslim . . . they are grabbing everything . . . Rajeev told the others. Shekhar, the Cupid, entered the fray and needled Suresh, Oye Suresh! Your daughter married recently, right? You didnt call us . . . Suresh reluctantly nodded but refused to comment. Rajeev joined in, Come on, Suresh . . . her guy is from my caste . . . it is not too low, you know . . . chin up . . . you look as if she married a mongrel! Suresh also indicated that he has to go to the loo and left the scene. Bloody Brahmin . . . Rajeev remarked. Shekhar moved to another group and stood behind Anna. In school, he used to sit behind
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Anna. She is a dentist and he has got a perfect set of teeth. I moved away to join a gang of girls. The professionals compared their trips abroad. The homemakers talked about their social welfare groups. They talked collectively about an absent gang-member, Oh, she has become so girlie these days . . . can you imagine . . . she was so tomboyish . . . now, she is all sari, gold and lehenga . . . Lehenga at this age . . . can you imagine . . . They discussed the old days, the tricks they played in boarding school, the old teachers (dead and alive). They took stock of the gang-members. With regard to another absentee, Sheetal, they came to the conclusion She was denitely not in our gang. . . Sheetal is the daughter of a Party leader. She got a job in that co-operative bank, you know . . . courtesy the Party. The gang was denitely against that Party. It was close to lunch-time when I heard a commotion. I knew it . . . something always happens. The whole lot crowded near the entrance. I could hear a few remarks from the front, Shit, man . . . is she dead? That must have been Shajeeb back from the loo. Yeah, not long though . . . hey Mathew, was she in our class? Was it Suresh or another doctor in the group? Hmm . . . I think she was in B . . . dont you remember her? She was just like this even then . . . Mathews voice came clear. What? Dead even then . . . ? Shekhar had to quip. Someone mentioned that we should call for an ambulance or something. Damn! Right before lunch . . . Some of the girls grumbled. I looked at myself, that slumped gure that used to be me. I felt like announcing, Well . . . for once . . . I am the soul of the party . . . That sounded cheap and used. How about, Add spirit to your group . . . or . . .
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I felt sad for spoiling their party, my last reunion. I should not have tried to be one of them . . .
28
Not Really A Story
Yesterday, I asked a friend to tell me a story. Her dimple deepened, she pursed her lips, she kept staring at her toes; well, she did nearly everything other than look at me. If I was less familiar with her ways, I would have assumed that she was trying to recollect an appropriate story. I knew that she was trying to decide whether she should tell me the story. Five minutes later, she started . . . with the disclaimer: It is not really a story . . . some of it is true . . . Around mid-1999, a few months before the dot-coms went bust and the markets crashed, Shankar liquidated his portfolio of over-priced stocks. There was a simple reason for this market-savvy move. He had inherited this portfolio in early 1999 after the timely demise of an otherwise indifferent relative. He wisely decided that he should not own something he did not understand. Shankar planned to use his new wealth to build a house on a small plot of ancestral land he owned. Next, on that list of plans, he would marry a suitable woman. The plot of land is in a village called N about 40km from the capital. The Wikipedia describes N as As of 2001[update] India census, N had a population of 14854 with 6942 males and 7912 females . . . The village is with beautiful scenery and good people. People in different religion, different political parties; but friendly and co operative and eager to help others. here you can nd . . . village offce, sub registar ofce, post ofce. Strangely, it does not mention a rather famous incident that occurred in this village in the early-70s. A group of Naxalites killed a landlord. These days, most say that the landlord was a poor upper-caste gentleman who had never harmed anyone. Others say that the victim should be considered as a symbol or that the killing was a protest against centuries of torture and abuse. In some of those rumours, one of Shankars relatives was a part of
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that group of murderers. That relative died of natural causes soon after that killing (he was bitten by a snake on Shankars plot of land). Shankars plot of land agrees with the description on Wikipedia - with beautiful scenery and good people. At the bottom, there is a stream separating the plot and paddy elds. Around Shankars house, there is tulsi, jasmine and konna in the front; coconut trees, plantain and tapioca on both sides; pepper, yam, bitter-gourd, chilly and okra at the back; two mango trees, a jackfruit tree along with a few teak trees also ght for space. His neighbours are friendly and non-interfering. They share sweets and delicacies during Onam and Ramzan. The plot of land slopes upwards from the house and beyond the vegetable garden it is mostly rubber trees standing mutely in rows at regular intervals. Near the top of that plot and to the left, about 100m from the house, there is a large rock with boulders precariously balanced on top and around this rock there are two cashew trees and wild pineapple. This rock and the hollows around it are supposed to be the abode of snakes. In Shankars family, there is a belief that a king cobra takes care of them and their land. A guiltless person worthy of trust is supposed to be safe from the poisonous reptiles. It is true that in the past hundred years or so, only one person has died of snake bite on that land. Shankar was not scared of those snakes. As a kid, he had stayed there often. His grand-aunt used to live on that plot then, in a small thatched hut with small dark rooms and the sound of scurrying and scratching beneath the bed and on the roof. He was not scared of rodents either. His grand-aunt was a great cook and for Shankar, that more than compensated for everything else. On some holidays, when she was sick (her usual madness, the elders told Shankar), he was not allowed to visit her. He still remembered those dark silent nights with his half-crazy grand-aunt praying and chanting till dinner-time. He was not scared of crazy people, too. As planned, Shankar married a suitable woman. His wife, Shailaja, made his house a home; she took care of him; she cooked well for him. She helped him with his various business interests and the small-scale agriculture on their plot of land. They planned to have kids after a year of marriage, as soon as they had properly settled on that land. They shared their worries and hopes. The couple looked forward to a bright future together. For the rst time in his life, he had a steady companion. This couple, in their own ways, expressed their care and affection for each other. That could have been love.
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Shailaja shared her past and present with her husband. She likes to be an open book to him, she told him. It is not known if she revealed every aspect of her past. Shankar did not have any reason to suspect her. As for Shankar, there was one part of him that he did not share. He was fond of reading and he tried to write, too. He did not like to share his writing with anyone. It is personal, he told himself. And, he believed that none would understand his writing the way he wants them to understand. Five months after they started living in their new house, they got a book-shelf for Shankars vast collection of books. One day, in his absence, Shailaja unpacked a carton of his books. She found a diary. The diary was for the year 1991. But, within that diary, the nely hand-written dated entries spanned three years (1996-1998), some of the entries were on consecutive days, some with a gap of two or three days but never beyond a week. In that diary, Shailaja read about Shankars pre-marital love affair. She read about how he met the lady, how their relationship waxed and waned in the early years, how they bonded, how the relationship strengthened and how they became one. Her cheeks grew hot when she read about their lovemaking, she felt like ripping those dirty pages. She cried when she read about how the lady died. She was still crying when Shankar returned to nd her in their dark bedroom, with the evening lamp still unlit. She was still holding that diary. He took it from her hands, placed it in a drawer of his desk and walked out of the house. He returned late, smelling of tobacco and liquor. She asked him if she should serve dinner. He told her that he had had dinner outside. A brief silence followed. Then, Shailaja started asking questions. He remained silent that night and on every occasion she talked about the diary. She should not have looked at his diary. Maybe. Why cant he open his mouth and talk properly? Why not, indeed! Well, those questions and more will be raised by any audience, right? Couple of months went by. On the outside, everything remained the same for the couple. One day, about seven weeks after she read the diary, the couple was found dead in that
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house. She was hanging from a hook in the ceiling. He was lying on the oor. Post-mortem revealed that he had died of a snake-bite. Post-mortem could not ascertain whether he died before or after her. It could not even reveal if she had taken her life or whether he had killed her. Neighbours told the police that they used to hear Shailaja shouting. They never heard Shankars voice or any sound that indicated that Shankar fought back, they admitted to the police. My friend stopped telling the story right there. I felt as if she had stopped mid-way or that she had more to say. I asked her for more details. She told me that the story is better if the story ends there. I insisted. I had long since realized that her story was not ction. His diary . . . I know about it . . . she said. Know what . . . ? I asked my friend. I have read it . . . Shankar showed it to me once . . . she replied. At that time, he had completed only the rst part - only 1998. What? I must have sounded like a parrot xated with that word. Dont you get it . . . it was all ction . . . he started with the death of an imaginary ladyfriend. That was the rst entry and written on the last page. He worked backwards. The part I saw was very convincing, she admitted. He is crazy. He could have told his wife about that. I protested. When he completed that story, he must have realized that it was and would remain his best writing ever. She continued, I think the story became more than that to him. He had found love through that, unrivalled love, you know . . . the kind of love his wife or anyone would believe. Anyway, do you think his wife would have believed him if he had told her the truth? With all this talk about love, I lost interest quite quickly. Later, before we separated, I asked her, Do you think the snake bit the right person?
29
If she knew . . .
Lessons, near forgotten, guided my ngers: at the back of the neck, a tense spot, was that a murmur, or a sigh, or sheer comfort? Down the spine, at the sides, up to the front, a kiss here and there, a nibble once in a while. How she loves it, certainly not an act; her nipples rising to the touch, selsh ones, forever seeking attention, ebb and ow of the tides; down below, further and further, her eyes close. Relax, relax, relax. Whispered words, caressing touches, sucking, tasting, going on. My masseur, call me that I tell her, but she does not wish to speak, not bothered. In her mind, I suspect, thoughts far from that I wish; In my mind, if she knew, she would cry rape.
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30
For Gods Sake, Listen!
Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin... Arjun stretched comfortably on the back seat of his rms sedan and sang this rst line of the title song from High Noon. The driver turned with an amused look. Arjun smiled back. He felt happy and quite content with life. The 10-day business trip to London had been a success in the company of investment bankers and other looters. A success mainly because it included a great weekend with wonderful weather for shopping and walking. As the car moved slowly from Mumbai airport to Saki Naka, he hardly looked outside while recollecting the time at Canary Wharf, on the tube, on the Embankment, to the Tate Modern, crossing over to St. Pauls, the latest books and movies, classics too . . . what a life! A slight bump with another car shook him out of his reverie. He started making plans for the rest of the day. He wanted to get back home, have a long bath, relax in his armchair, watch the new DVD of High Noon . . . and, of course, spend time with his wife Shanthi. He looked out and saw the Chinese restaurant at Saki Naka. That is where they had gone, before his London trip, to celebrate their fourth wedding anniversary: a cosy lunch and tender loving care for dessert. The thought made him urge the driver to go faster. Right then, he got a call from his wife. What a coincidence, he thought. Arjun: I was just thinking about you. Shanthi: Have you reached? Arjun: Yes. Just passed Saki Naka. Close to that Chinese place, remember? Shanthi: Yeah. Arjun? Arjun: Yupp, thats me . . . dont wear it out. Sorry, old joke, huh? Feels great to be back and Im waiting to be with you. Shanthi: Arjun . . . Ive moved out.
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Arjun: What? Shanthi: I dont want to live with you . . . I mean . . . I want to pursue other interests. Arjun: Interests? Shanthi: I have to . . . separate . . . live . . . without you. Arjun: Have to? Shanthi: Damn it! Stop sounding like your Woody Allen movies, please. Arjun: What do you want me to sound like? Rhett Butler? Frankly my dear and $#%&ing crap . . . Shanthi: Stop shouting, Arjun. Will you please, for once, for Gods sake, listen? Arjun: Dont tell me to listen. Shanthi: OK . . . Arjun: When did you decide? Shanthi: I shifted 10 days back. Arjun: Wonderful . . . did you wait for my ight to leave? Shanthi: Arjun! Its not easy for me. Arjun: So . . . whats next? Shanthi: Do you want to meet? I thought it would be best without meeting. Arjun: See you when I see you, is it? Fine. Shanthi: I have taken the car and the microwave. Arjun: The home theater? Shanthi: Thought you might need it. I have left the fridge and the washing machine, too. Arjun: Thanks. Shanthi: If theres anything I have forgotten, could you drop me an email? Arjun: Sure. A living-out relationship, is it? Shanthi: Maybe . . . after six months or so, my lawyer could get in touch with yours. OK? Arjun: Hmm . . . Shanthi: Take care, Arjun. Arjun: (silent) Shanthi: Bye. Love you. Arjun: Me too. Good luck, kid! The car had reached his apartment and the driver waited outside with the baggage. Arjun stepped out, thanked and gave a generous tip to the driver, nodded at the security guards and took the lift to 13D. Shanthi had remembered to cancel the milkman but not the newspaper-wallah. Arjun gathered the old newspaper and magazines lying inside on the oor. Just out of habit, he started cutting out articles which caught his eye and made quick notes on post-it. The IPL
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tamasha, the war between the Maoists and the government . . . Arjun knew what he was doing, procrastinating. He unpacked and had a long shower. It was late evening and he felt as if the four walls were closing in on him. Claustrophobia, was it? He wanted to take a long walk. But, thats not a great idea in suburban Mumbai. He left the at and nearly took the lift to the basement car park before he remembered that Shanthi had taken the (their) car. He took an auto-rickshaw and gave directions to a bar-cum-restaurant he (they) liked. Arjun took the usual table. Not sentimental, he reasoned, its just the best. The waiter took his order: a double portion of crispy fried chicken (dry and spicy), Shanthis favourite cocktail and a cigarette pack. Shanthi used to be the adventurous one while he stuck to single malt and cigarettes. Her cocktail was: iced vodka over chopped bloody-hot green chilly. As he took the rst sip, he had to blink back the tears and gasp, Fire-and-ice. Damn you girl. It was after the waiter had placed the second glass of the same cocktail that he asked himself, Why? What was wrong with us? What did she mean by pursue other interests- another man, career, hobbies? Arjun had no clue about what she wanted to do in life. He had assumed that she was happy with her current job, to be his wife, partner, friend, philosopher, guide, $#%&-buddy, whatever. What did she want? Is it something which she couldnt do . . . with him? A normal healthy, wealthy and lucky couple we were, Arjun thought. Vacations together, enjoying books and movies together, investing together, sharing responsibility. They were a great couple, werent they? Was it because of kids or rather, the lack of it? But, both had agreed to postpone that - quite indenitely. Arjun didnt give a damn about propagating his genes. At best, he could tolerate kids for a few hours at a stretch and that too, if they were reasonable and mature. As for Shanthi, though she did talk about her biological clock, she never seemed too keen about kids either. At least, they never fought on that issue, Arjun recollected. Was it sex-related? But, they were better than average as judged by most surveys. According to the same journals, by way of frequency, choice of position and place, what-not,
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they were supposed to be great. They were passionate most of the time and quite often, at the same time. Didnt they enjoy it? He did, didnt he, and, Shanthi? Well, they had never fought on that issue either, Arjun remembered. Was it because of family? But, they hardly saw that lot. Were there terrible ghts? Well, nothing really abnormal. Like any maturing relationship, the ghts were just getting meaner, louder and the stretches of post-ght silence were lengthening, but it was never really unreasonable, he reasoned. As per current fashion, they had had a few sessions with a counsellor. They had discontinued when they heard that the counsellor is an alleged paedophile. Maybe, it would have helped if they had not discontinued, Arjun wondered. And love? Arjun grimaced. For him, love was like God. When times are good, one assumes that its there; when times are bad, one hopes that its there; and at other times, who really cares? He respected her, he trusted her, he cared for her, isnt that love-or-whateverin-action, Arjun justied. Why? On the TV at the bar, an advertisement for some bike suggested, Thinking is such a waste of time. That sure helps. Arjun left the place and returned to his at. He reclined comfortably in his armchair, watching High Noon and singing along,
Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin... Wait, wait along...
31
Memory of a Gift
[Excerpt from a recording] Its my birthday and I am stuck in a trafc-jam. Damn! (. . . vulgar words . . . ) Thank God, I got this recorder for myself, my own birthday gift. Look at the fools in those cars. They think I am crazy, talking to myself. Most people talk to themselves, right - even in a dialogue? It shouldnt be like this . . . I mean, today. Come on, move man, move (. . . horn . . . ) My wife and I should be sitting in that restaurant now. Cool and clean, with food and drink. Before or after the rst drink, she would give me my gift. I wonder what it is this year. How many years have we been doing this? Its still like the rst time. You know, the whole year seems to be a wait for that moment. To know what she has got for me. It kind of denes everything, you know. I remember the rst year. (. . . moans. . . ) She woke me up at midnight and made me cut a cake. First time cutting a cake, at midnight or whenever . . . I dont think she got anything else for me. For her birthday, I did the same midnight stuff. But, I got her something salwar? The second year or was it the third . . . when we got creative. She gave me her own painting. And, I gave her my poetry. (. . . chuckles. . . ) Hey, painting is like writing . . . there is good writing and other writing. No point classifying the other as bad, average or improving, right? Copy of a copy of Van Gogh . . . it is the thought that counts, huh?! We tried a year without gifts; another with only cards. The thought is sufcient. Crap!
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That O. Henry and his Gift of the Magi can go and hang! The cloth-gifts were the tough ones. She got me a pink shirt once. Pink! With my colour! Well, I got her a Binny silk sari. Thats what I get for my mother. She told me that she wanted a sari - Chanderi silk or whatever . . . I told her that it wont suit her. She did not like that. I like to speak plainly, you know. Oh yes! The year before the rst kid, she wore sexy red lingerie for my birthday. I felt like asking her how that is supposed to be a gift; especially, when I prefer black! I felt like wearing mens thongs or g-strings for her birthday. (. . . laughs . . . ) I did not know where I could get one. I gave her a watch instead. She wanted an eco-friendly Citizen. I got her a sleek Titan. I wonder what she has got for me this year. Could barely sit in ofce the whole day . . . And, when I was expecting her call that she had left her ofce for the restaurant . . . she calls to say that she got hit . . . what was it? Just a bike . . . why did she have to call me and spoil my day? It must be just a scrape . . . why does she have to go hospital? Thats it, move man, move (. . . blaring horn . . . ) damn you . . . nally . . . hurrah! What were these useless policemen doing? Look at his paunch . . . (. . . long pause punctuated by horn . . . music horn while reversing and parking at the Hospital . . . ) Finally here . . . I hate these hospitals . . . where is she? Must be in the waiting area . . . (. . . mufed queries at Enquiry, quick breathing . . . ) Nurse, my wife was admitted . . . in the operation theatre, why? Why should I talk to that policeman? (. . . stern authoritative voice . . . ) . . . your wife was hit by a motorcycle . . . she seemed ok at rst . . . I saw her talking on her cell-phone . . . was it you? Then, she collapsed . . . I am extremely sorry . . . (. . . breathless wheezing . . . )
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Sir, was she carrying a gift?
32
Gigolo
You are late, I tell him, But with a sheepish grin, He holds me, my whim. Theres no gain If I complain, If all I want is sin. It is late, to drink or dine, Or to be civilized, We lie in the cold, say youre mine, I recline and watch as he strips Is it ne when his nose drips, Is this act ritualized? It is not late, when its done, I wish I could pay, Than wait for morning sun, When I share eggs and toast And news and ofce boast, Alas, at the door, come home early, I say.
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33
Why I Left You
Twenty ve years back, a teacher presented to me the novel Roots (by Alex Haley). From whats given on the cover, I know that the book is about a mans search for his own roots starting with an 18th century African slave named Kunta Kinte. I have not yet read that book and maybe, that is because I wanted to embark on that personal journey myself without anothers help or thoughts or prejudices. I started that task when I was in my twenties. I constructed family trees, tracing branches and even pruning when I had to. Each member gave me stories begging to be told but I knew that I could not use them or give them dialogues they had never used. There were the legitimate and the illegitimate; the aristocrats and the paupers; the educated and the illiterate; the physicians, the farmers, the labourers; and then, the unknown or the crazy or the irrelevant. One day, some descendant might put me in one of those boxes. For now, that life is just irrelevant. In that massive tree, there were two people who really stood out - the one and only famous person in my family; and the second, the only criminal. One had used his life nearly to the full and the other had wasted nearly all. But, these two had one common feature. They left their wife. The famous person was a great man, a good man too, a social reformer and a teacher. His students were mostly those who had stepped a few paces away from bonded labour. From the numerous books about him, I learned that he started when he was in his twenties and with remarkable purpose and clarity continued and extended his work for over fty years. In the initial phase, he used his education and conviction to give the downtrodden community the right to pray and learn. When he gained the faith and respect of many, he asked them to get rid of damaging beliefs and rituals. He taught philosophy but stressed more on practical matters like the importance of personal hygiene and healthcare and, the need for faith, trust and respect in social institutions including marriage. He laid a lot of emphasis on education and secular ideas based on inclusion rather than differentiation.
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In every stage, he tried to make people go beyond what he could teach; to go beyond the idols he had himself installed. I realized why he deserves to be called a Guru. Sadly, very few follow his simple teachings today - even in his, I mean, my family. There was one incident in his life which intrigued me. When he was about twenty, he got married. His wife belonged to a family of similar background as his. Apart from that, there is very little known about her, not even her age or education. A few days after the wedding, he left his house and his wife. He never returned to that life ever again, remained a celibate and immersed himself in social work. I searched in many books, essays, biographies and critical studies but I could not nd any information about that aspect of his life. In one, there was a brief mention about a meeting many years later. During a public gathering, she came to him to ask for his blessing, just like a student with a revered teacher. In my mind, I could imagine that meeting. He would have recognized her and they would have shared a look of regret and deep longing. In my story, the man had left his wife because he knew that he had to give up that life for the sake of the society he was trying to rescue. When I am drunk and depressed, and closer to my true nature, I cursed that great man and even abused by calling him an impotent, a cheat or a crazy idiot. One day, I meet an old lady, a relative of the Gurus wife. In her house, I try to explain my research. She tells me that the Gurus wife stayed in that same house, but died young in a boat accident. Then, she tells me, Theres a lot of old stuff in the attic (thattu) . . . stuff which people forgot to discard. Since she did not have any kids, after her sudden death, there might be some of her stuff. After two hours in that dusty place, I nd a small old steel trunk. Inside, there are some clothes but no books or diaries. Near the bottom, between the folds of an underskirt (pavada), there is a folded piece of paper. I open it and read the rst sentence, Have you wondered why I left you and why I have to send this without anyones knowledge, to be a coward unable to express his love for you? I close the letter and slip it into my pocket. I do not tell the old lady about the letter and I
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33 . WHY I LEFT YOU
leave that house. If I tried, I could prolong that dream about meeting that relative or nding a long lost letter. But, even in my dream, I do not read that letter any further. I use it to light a cigarette and let it burn on my palm. I grind the ash in my palm, hardly feeling the burn. It was like doing the last rites. In that dream, I hear my own voice, Its their story . . . not mine to tell . . . will I ever talk about why I left you? As for the life of the criminal, did I not tell you that that life is irrelevant?
34
His Brothers Wedding
Do you believe in Fate? I try not to. When the psychologist conrmed my suspicions about why I cant (would not, he said) have a baby, I didnt say, My Fate! When I was a kid, I used to play with my neighbour, a girl named Vasanthi. She was twenty years older but played just like my cranky kid cousins. The elders used to praise my patience and understanding. Such a nice kid and so mature; that too, without even having younger siblings, they said. I didnt tell them that Vasanthi was OK; that my kid cousins were not OK, and any younger siblings would have been denitely NOT OK. After Vasanthi, there was Das, my uncles son. Though he was my cousin, he called me maman (uncle). I never played with him. He was younger than me by a few years and quite shy. More truthfully, I had other company. Like Kochumon. Kochumons father Shanku-maman is related to my mother. Not exactly a rst-cousin or even a second-cousin, my mother used to tell me, but still like an elder brother. Since his parents died when he was very young, Shanku-maman was brought up by my mothers parents. He married very late, that too, a shrew. Kochumon is their eldest son. They have another son and a daughter. Even before his rst birthday, people referred to him as simple and no one even thought of giving him a name other than the pet-baby name, Kochumon. He is a few months older than me. Whenever I visited my mothers village, I sought his company. The other cousins used to thrash me in carroms, cards, kabbaddi and worse, they could climb trees and eat raw mangoes with salt and chilly powder. They seemed to know everything and I seemed sickly. Next to Kochumon, I was OK. When Sathyan, the all-in-all helper, used to take me to the aaru (river), Kochumon would come along. While Sathyan swam in the deep, we sat on the steps, usually silent and happy in our own little worlds. A few years later, when the aaru did not reach the steps after being spoiled by indiscriminate sand mining, I still went with Kochumon. When I
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34 . HIS BROTHERS WEDDING
cried, he just stood next to me watching me cry, still silent. We were still in our own little worlds. I remember seeing him on two more occasions in the years that followed. He disappeared from my world while I gathered degrees, joined great places to study and work, made money. Even the person I knew as I disappeared from my world for a long time. Last year, I started seeing the psychologist. I started rebuilding my world. I discarded a lot (paper, photos, CDs, books, movies, money, job, friends, acquaintances, relatives) and tried to gather only that which I wanted to keep (there is no list at present). I thought about Kochumon. But, he seems to have been discarded. My parents tell me that he is in some home for people like him, that he has been there for a long time, even before his parents died. Why, I asked people. Who will take care of him, people asked me. A month back, I met his brother. Or rather, his brother had come home to invite my parents for his wedding. And since I was there, I was also invited. Was that Fate? It does not matter, does it? I managed to nd Kochumon three weeks back. It took some tact and deception. I could not ask his siblings. Even my relatives in the village were not too keen about discussing the matter. In my notes, for the next visit to the psychologist, I have jotted, Is it collective guilt? Or, just minding ones own business? Anyway, every village has loose tongues. I found two, at the Sivan temple and at the tea-shop. A few queries about the wedding, the location of the hall, those invited and those who are not and that discussion eventually led to more intimate details, grudges and the skeletons started tumbling out of the closet. I found him in a home for the retarded. It is run by a semi-government organization. The warden helped me nd him. I didnt notice much about the place or the facilities. I didnt want to. Or maybe, it was just because I was too busy trying to recognize Kochumon in every face out there. He was having breakfast (or was it brunch?). I have changed too much and I was not surprised when he didnt recognize me during that visit. I could recognize only his eyes. Still like a puppy. I didnt stay for long during that visit or the other visits since then. Just a few minutes, silent, just like old days. On the day of his brothers wedding, I got there early with new clothes for him. I helped him dress. We got to the hall well before muhurtham. From the hall-gate, we could see his brother standing outside, inviting friends and relatives, talking and hugging.
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Kochumon tugged at my hand. Come, lets go in, I said. He shook his head. Ok, we dont have anyone there, do we, I asked. He shook his head again. My gift, he said. I smiled and wanted to hug him. I might be simple but you are denitely not, I wanted to say. Once again we were silent and in our own little worlds. I left him at the home. Maybe, I will keep visiting him. You see, I cant take care of anyone, especially people I love, like Kochumon. That is why I cant have a baby either. What if my baby is like Kochumon? When I am not there, what if my baby is discarded? I can discard myself. But, no one should discard my baby.
35
The Best Thing
As a baby in pink or blue, or red-faced when dress tangled with curls or pudgy limbs; Gurgling, shitting, smiling, spitting, suckling, they called my wily charm sheer innocence. As a precocious nymph at Iyengar bakery, bread, butter, I pirouetted, cake too, I pointed; The young men glanced, the old men drooled, they locked me in dirty dungeons, dreams of desire. As a pioneer late or a wordy poet, at Loharu Junction, at deserts edge, with the photogenic, the heat, A lorry driver, a loud woman enter exit a shady shed, they walked past me, a mirage biting dust, unseen. As a lover, a partner in strange beds, homes with half-lies, faked orgasms, true charades, The barter for old times sake, to be safe, secure, I gave, they looked at me with pleasure, that as love, I took. As an old hag with tattered hopes, shattered defense, easy to be cynical, bitter, wise, stoic, bloody fool, The truth is easier - while I nd, lose, misplace, they keep their best thing in their world, not me.
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Lovers & Liars
We are lovers and liars We tease, taunt, tickle, caress, arouse, With excuses and sweet lies whispered, Treacherous foreplay and faked orgasms A regular bonnie-n-clyde holding hands. I am the betrayed underachiever, My concubine the unfortunate discard; The impotent and the barren, the rage and the silence; With blunt talons I want to claw and kill, She is the boxer kod with no comebacks. At dawn and dusk, we walk on sublime paths, Past grafti and billboards with convenient truth, In deserted parks with shrubs and weeds, Where lovers kissed there are self-righteous carcasses. We prefer honest liars, giving all without promises. We are liars but lovers.
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37
Unofcial Mills & Boon Club
Small towns have small clubs. I remember telling you about small town guys some time back. This time, let me tell you about a small club called Unofcial Mills & Boon Club. Three years after I joined as the 17th member, the club reached its peak with 121 members. Only 23 attended the last meeting though there are 76 members in the book. The foundermember is fond of telling the tale about how she was expelled from a convent school for having two M&Bs in her school-bag. For the generation after hers, it had lost its clandestine character but the books still offered hope and dreams. My rst love introduced me to the rst one. She told me that it is different, that there is a working class hero and a kid involved. I dont remember the details. She left but my interest continued. We meet for an hour at 2 pm, on 2nd and 4th Sundays, when we are least likely to be missed at home. In the early days, a rumour spread in town that our club is about free love and loose morals. In those days, girls in jeans and men in shorts had to face the same. Not much has changed since I joined. Marie or Glucose biscuits and black tea are served before the meeting starts. Someone usually jokes about how it matches with caviar and champagne. The rst part of the meeting is a quick review of what people have read. Then, we discuss about what we would like to read in future issues. Once, we sent a letter with these suggestions to the publisher. Since it is an unofcial club, there was some confusion as to who should assume responsibility. In the last part of the meeting, members read their own attempts at writing about love the M&B way. I am a back-bencher in these meetings. I like to listen, remain silent and relax. At times, I dont even listen. Swathi used to sit next to me. She joined a few years back. We rarely talk during the meetings. After the meeting, we walk together till the market where she turns right and I go straight. Given the state of the roads, it is tough to talk while walking. She has a nervous charming girlish smile. It is her delicate face that captivated me and, of course, her eyes. I am not sure when we started exchanging notes during the meeting. I have a notebook for these meetings. We jot down our notes in this. We did not touch on
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home or work. We wrote about the places we have visited, the people we met there, about what we observed, about relationships and light anecdotes. We started writing about the places we wanted to visit and the kind of people we wanted to meet. I would write about Macau and the casinos. She would ask if I would go alone or with company, then she would ask for details about the game I would like to play, why blackjack and not roulette. She would then write about visiting Simla. I have never been there and I would ask for the details. The notebook would pass silently from one hand to the other. Then, we wrote about a place where we were together. A cottage by Kodaikanal Lake, sitting on the porch at night, watching the hotel staff light a bonre. We would go for a late-night walk around the lake, or stand against those thick trees with branches drooping to touch the water. I would try to write about what she would like to read. I would lie about what I liked. I guess she did the same. We wrote about marriage and how we would give space to each other. We never got to kids. At each meeting, we would continue from where we stopped or start on a fresh day, a new morning or another night there. We kept on writing, meeting after meeting, till that day she stopped coming to the Club. I could have got her address and her phone number from the Club register but I did not. I wondered if I had written something wrong. I checked in my notebook, in our story. I could not nd anything amiss. I was worried if she was sick. I waited for her to send a message to me. After the second meeting without her, I found two men waiting for me outside the meeting room. One, a lean man with intense eyes introduced himself as Vishnu and the other as Arjun. The latter remained silent eyeing me suspiciously from head to toe. Vishnu informed me that they are friends of Swathis family. I blurted, Wheres she? Is anything wrong? She is missing. 3 weeks now . . . Vishnu replied. I leaned against the wall, numb and shocked. He continued, It is not the rst timeEthe last two times, she returned after a week or two. This time, too . . . we waited . . . we searched her room once again. We came across this, hidden quite well between old books. He gave me a thick diary. I scanned the pages. It was a love story she had written on her own. I could make out that it was written with the typical M&B formula and I smiled. What are you smiling for? Arjun asked. This is what this Club is about . . . I tried to explain.
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Just a story, is it, and not about you? he queried rather aggressively. I shook my head but he did not look convinced. It talks about a guy telling the girl to escape from her house . . . to him . . . Look, mister . . . I responded, then controlled my anger and turned to Vishnu, why did you come here . . . to me? She gets out of her house . . . outside her room . . . only . . . for these meetings. Vishnu paused before continuing, . . . we asked some of the members here and they told us that you are kind of close to Swathi . . . Too close . . . Arjun added. What have you done to her, man? I stared at them, unable to speak, clenching my sts, rage controlled only by my own thoughts about Swathi. Vishnu moved to stand between me and Arjun. He told me, I think you know where she is. No. I said and walked away from them. A cottage by Kodaikanal Lake, sitting on the porch at night, watching the hotel staff light a bonre. We would go for a late-night walk around the lake, or stand against those thick trees with branches drooping to touch the water. We would continue from where we stopped or start on a fresh day, a new morning or another night there.
38
My Funny Valentine
I got to know my husband on my rst St. Valentines Day, incidentally the rst time away from home. I was 19 that lovely February. Intermittent drizzle gave the fading winter a chilly touch; the grey clouds parting and meeting like new or old couples unsure whether they should be mating or irritating; the sun showed its ckle face just to make one sweat to feel the cold rather than remember its heat. Two of my batch-mates were down with pneumonia. The hostel mess and bogs resonated with rasping coughs, blowing noses and heaving chests clearing phlegm. On that lovely February day, I held with loving care his latest telegram with the sweet succinct misaligned message, me et me. After the rst-semester break, we were on the same train back to Campus. Manoj had got in at Salem without reservation. During the day, he sat between me and a newly-wed couple from Jhansi. That single night, he slept on the oor right next to my berth. The 40hour long journey and that cold January made us enjoy each others company. I had heard of him. He was great in studies, sports and dramatics. He told me that his family hails from Mehboobnagar and that he was brought up in Arcot. Six-feet, broad-shouldered, handsome in a rugged way, deep-set brown expressive eyes, well-read and passionate; I gauged all that. He is the kind of guy represented in the popular ad where the sales-girl says Sorry, no change and she compensates him with a packet of condom. (These things do happen. Yesterday, at the supermarket, the cute sales-man told the lady in front of me, Sorry, no change. She waited for the prophylactic or the mouth-freshener. She didnt get anything. I carry change, always.) That January, on Campus, he gave me a Valentine card every week. He started sending Valentine messages via telegram too, the rst one being i u ok. I guess punctuation marks and a few letters got lost in Morse code but I got the meaning. I responded seriously. Between classes, we shared chai and samosa in the Campus canteen. We went together for the weekly screened movies (English and to express my affection, Hindi too). I was offering nothing more or less than promised allegiance. Then, that Valentine telegram arrived. To me, it announced the intention to cement our relationship forever on that day.
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That evening, Manoj escorted me from the ladies hostel to Pappus, the joint on Campus for milk-shakes and paneer Maggi. We sat on rattan seats outside the makeshift stall. The Valentine setting got more rustic when I realized that Manoj had also invited three other acquaintances. The rst one, Raju, sat opposite to me and to the right of Manoj. I watched Raju slurp his shake loudly and masticate the mushy Maggi with equal vigour. His body shook like a dysfunctional wet grinder when he laughed with a full mouth and even without a joke. The second, Preethi, sat to the left of Manoj. She is a dancer, an intellectual and she works with NGOs during vacation to help the poor and the downtrodden. She is also sexy and a serious poet. So serious, I nearly yawned when she recited a few lines of her poetry; so sexy, I was the only one who nearly yawned. A guy named Shekhar sat next to me, one of those non-descript guys trying to impersonate Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. I looked at him once. He gave me a bored one-raisedeyebrow look. After that, he remained on my blind spot. Manoj entertained them with campus Valentine stories. He started with the comic; then, promised much with the sentimental and the passionate; the ribald soon followed and he continued in that vein. Midway through his fth story, he nished his shake with a long noisy gulp, leaving a trace of milk on his upper lips. Preethi leaned towards him and wiped his lips with her nger. He looked at Preethi with his deep-set brown expressive eyes and much later, turned them towards me. My time was up long before that day, I realized. If I was younger or older, I would have felt angry; I would have campaigned against imperialist, consumerist, non-Indian ideas; I would have joined a group of neoNazi nitwits if they had a sense of humour. All I felt then was relief. After the Valentine party, I returned to the hostel, alone. I thrashed my pillow for a while and then, decided to study. At nine pm, two hours before curfew, I received the message that I had a guest waiting for me at the hostel gate. I rushed to the gate still hoping for the right climax. Raju was waiting for me there. He told me about how he loved me dearly. He said that he was sorry for being opportunistic but he wanted to realize his dream. I did not tell him that I could see his future. After the 4-year course, he would reach the shores of USA (with or without an ankle tag); a big fat dowry before 25; a wife and few kids before 30, all uncouth gluttons like him; a successful professional before 35 and death not before 75. I did not tell him all that.
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I told him that I still had to recover from the shock and that I needed time. He seemed happy to hear that. With drooping shoulders and a forlorn look, which I feigned rather well, I bade him good night. I watched him walk away, with a spring in his step, towards that friend of his called Shekhar. That voyeur had watched the whole scene, again. He gave me his bored one-raised-eyebrow look and shrugged, at me or my predicament. They left me standing there on that St. Valentines Day, alone. Decades have gone by without another Valentine note or card or celebration. My husband Shekhar reminds me of that night once in a while, when I am in a good mood.
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4% Deal
Let me try to tell you a true tale. Here, in this story, I have given all that I know about the characters. The place or setting could be anywhere. The time might have a constraint - it happened before cell-phones, laptops and messaging became popular . . . when time moved slower with pen and paper bearing the weight of hopes and thoughts the message crossed darkly but not deleted forever . . .
Not really a long time ago . . . *** Every year, before the monsoon, Sreekumar took two weeks furlough - from work, from family. He considered those two weeks out of the fty-two in a year as his 4% deal. Friday, 5:30 pm His boss, the Dean, said, Sreekumar, have a good break! Go somewhere and you know . . . the Dean chuckled and then continued, What are you going to do, man? Dont tell me that you have a few books to read in solitary connement! Arre, you lock yourself in too much. So?
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Well . . . sir . . . actually . . . Prof. Sreekumar mumbled hoarsely with a voice that had been silent for most of that day. The Dean erupted, You fool! I really do not know why you waste your life like this. How old are you . . . 35? And acting 75! Go . . . before you make me feel old. Outside, Sreekumar went past boisterous students and their favourite instructors. They hardly noticed him, the peon they called him, in his customary black trousers, white shirt hanging like a shroud, oily complexion, large spectacles and hair pasted onto his scalp. He went to his ofce, arranged the books on the shelf, led a few papers and closed the window. He cleared his desk and left it bare. For the next two weeks, goodbye, he said quietly. His eyes ached. He tried straightening his back but gave up the effort, exhausted after the last few weeks of concentrated mindless work. He took his briefcase and umbrella, and left the University building. At 6:15, he reached his quarters, a mile away. He did not sit on the bed or anywhere knowing that he might fall asleep. He picked up a backpack, already packed and ready for ight. After bidding farewell to his family, with the usual give and take of instructions, he left at 6:30. He tried to run to the auto-rickshaw stand. The rst one in the queue took him on, grudgingly though. Railway station . . . fast . . . 7 oclock train . . . he said getting the insolent reply, What? Slept off? The guilty customer remained silent. Later, he could remember jumping onto the moving train. He had asked someone at the door, S3? and got a nod. Further inside, he requested, Berth 27, please, can you remove your luggage? Please, I have to lie down . . . He could remember climbing onto the upper berth, resting his head on his backpack, falling asleep still holding his umbrella and with his shoes still on. At some time during that night, a ticket examiner had nudged him awake with, Dead? . . . No? . . . Ticket! Saturday, 6:00 am He woke up thinking that he was screaming. He sat up on his berth. Below him, a family with two toddlers, both screaming, was frantically trying to evacuate with their be-
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longings. What happened? he asked from above. The harried father replied with the stations name. Sreekumar felt like screaming, too, on hearing that the train had reached his destination. He gathered his meager belongings and managed to exit behind the family with two toddlers and an endless stream of bags. He transported his stiff body from the train to the nearby bus station. Apart from stranded commuters and queues of red banners, it was deserted. For the second time, he asked What happened? Strike, the surly reply rebuked the ignoramus for asking about the ordinary. He stood there immobile, his mind still working on the dredges of the dream from which he had been startled that morning. In that dream, he was reciting Emily Brontes poem Remembrance. He was near two parallel railway tracks. Then, in that dream, he was lying across one of those tracks. Train after train went past him on the other track and he waited for his, reciting the poem on and on. He smiled at the dream. He moved towards a make-shift tea-stall. There, while munching a bun and between swallows of hot tea, he enquired if there was any transport plying between that town and a hill-station a few hours from there. Only trucks and private vehicles are running . . . try to catch a truck near the highway . . . try the dhaba . . . the helpful answers from a few full mouths. No one there suggested hitchhiking on private vehicles. He walked to that dhaba on the highway, about three kilometers from the bus station. By the time he got there, his grimy and sweaty clothes were sticking to his body like second skin. He learned that only one of the trucks there was going to that hill-station, though in a rather circuitous route with a few stops, and that trucks driver told him that there was no place for him. Sreekumar pleaded with the driver that he did not need a seat up front, that he could sit on the sacks behind. He was informed, You will be in a sack by the end of the journey. Sreekumar replied that that would be ne, too. Choose your own burial, he was told. They bargained amicably about the fee for that. At 10:00, he was told to climb onto the back and to sit tightly in a corner. For the sake of appearance, he laid a few newspapers on the oor before taking seat. He secured his backpack and umbrella and found for himself a few good handholds and footholds. The driver proved to be a true specimen of his species - without care for the natural beauty outside,
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manhandling the gears and brake, screeching and swerving, overtaking dangerously and treating hairpin bends as suicidal as possible. In the rst hour, Sreekumar was threatened by nausea. In the second hour, his muscles gave in and he lay back, feeling paralyzed from head to toe. After that, the journey did not produce anything new. With assured fatality, fatalism seemed sensible and when that failed, he tried to think about his good luck in the present state - the list was short -not wet, not stranded and the road trip had to end. The journey ended at 5 pm. The driver and his two aides climbed onto the back of the truck and woke Sreekumar, or rather, brought him to consciousness. Saar, should I take you to hospital? he was asked kindly. Or, he thought he was asked that because there was a humming in his ears. He felt punch drunk. He got down from the truck and sat on the ground for a while, a sorry gure hugging a back pack and an umbrella. After twenty minutes, he realized that he was at the market in that hill-station. Ten minutes later, he tried standing. A cycle rickshaw driver offered a ride. Sreekumar had had enough of rides on wheels. Tired, dirty and hungry, he started on his way, walking slowly and with increasing steadiness and purpose. At 6:30 pm, he reached the gates of the resort. A young security guard shooed him away. Sreekumar and the guard stood on either side of the gate staring at each other, saying nothing further. An older security guard came to this tableaux a few minutes later, looked at Sreekumar, recognized the backpack and the umbrella, and said, Professor, sorry, sir. This idiot is new. Sreekumar entered the grounds. Saturday, 6:30 pm Gopalakrishnan and his wife Aswathy were seated near a window in the foyer of that resort. They had had a long day of hiking. They planned to have a quick early dinner before going to their room with amorous hiking in mind, that is, if their body would allow. Where is Sudarshana? asked Gopal, reaching for a magazine and hoping that this wait would be brief. Aswathy replied, She is calling home to nd out when her lot will join her here. It is a shame that she had to come alone, with us, and now this strike . . . her voice trailed off.
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She, who was facing the entrance and the counter, stared at a man entering the building. Isnt that your friend? she asked her husband. Gopal replied with little interest, ipping through the magazine, Which one? That lecturer, I dont remember his name. After our wedding, he took us out for a good lunch. And later, he refused to come to our house because he didnt want to bore. Or was it . . . get bored? I think it is him . . . but he is looking . . . yuck! By this time Sreekumar had reached the front-desk and Aswathy decided to stare in a more discreet manner. Sreekumar . . . here . . . ? Gopal queried with pleasure. He stood up, studied the bedraggled state of the man with a smile and then, shouted at the man when the latter moved away from the front-desk, Abhey saala, Sreekumar. Sreekumar raised his head wearily, looked at the source of the pleasantry and approached slowly, Gopal he acknowledged. Both decided against contact. What have you been up to? Rolling in the market? How did you get here? Arrey, you remember Aswathy, right? Gopal asked, without pause. Sreekumar wearily replied, I cannot take friendship at the moment. See you tomorrow. With that, he turned and proceeded to the lift. He waited for the lift, allowed a person to step out before stepping in. In his room, he undressed and put on a bath robe. He had already requested at the front-desk for Saradamma, the cleaning lady. When that lady appeared, he asked her, Saradamma, could you please take care of this? He handed over a plastic cover with his stinking clothes. If you see Murali, please tell him to bring the food at 7:30. And if I do not answer the door, tell him to check if I have got out of the bath. The cleaning lady said, It is good to see you here again. Same here, same here . . . and then he added, Is your grandchild still with you? he handed over a packet for the kid and accepting that the lady left, nodding her head and smiling sadly. She was glad to see Sreekumar again but each time she hoped to nd him in a better state. Meanwhile, downstairs, the person who had got out of the lift joined Gopal and Aswathy.
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Those two were comparing notes as to whose friends were the craziest, the rudest, the meanest . . . Both stopped abruptly and smiled guiltily when Sudarshana asked, I hope I did not start that discussion. You are an angel compared to some we have just met, Aswathy gave an accusing glance at her husband, did you notice that chap who got into the lift? No, I was thinking about something else. Didnt notice . . . Sudarshana said with a resigned tone. So, when will they get here? Gopal asked Sudarshana, trying to switch from the talk about his friend. It seems this strike is going to be a serious affair. Since this afternoon, even private cars are being stopped, it seems. Sudarshana replied, half-convinced. Arre, dont worry, they will be here in a day or two. Now, lets go for dinner. I am starving. And I want to go to bed early today. Tired . . . Gopal tried to sound convincing. How did that guy get here? Aswathy asked, not wanting to let go of the earlier topic. My dear, do you want to go to his room and ask him? Gopal retorted, slipping his arm around his wifes waist. Will I go to the Devil? Sudarshana, you should have seen him . . . Aswathy explained. Sudarshana smiled and followed her friends to the restaurant. She was thinking about how to make the best out of her situation. Maybe, this was the break she had been hoping for - to do absolutely nothing apart from what took her fancy. Lonely, maybe; but for a day or two, it might be good - the solitude. She could read. Maybe, even sketch. And, Gopal and Aswathy were not bad company either. She and the couple had reached a tacit agreement regarding the amount of time they will spend together. Sunday, 5:30 am Sreekumar woke up with an old dream. He sat up and leaned against the pillows. The good dinner and the comfortable bed had done him a lot of good. After his ablutions, he did some stretch exercises, tried a few sit-ups and push-ups. He went down to the main
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pool outside. It was empty. He stepped in and let his senses succumb to the morning chill. He pushed against the pool wall and swam slowly, like a cripple being helped by a physiotherapist. The months of neglect protested and he was not foolish to ignore that. He knew that he had lots to do to exercise his mind and body. He kept to the sides, allowing himself to gasp and rest at frequent intervals in that hour there. Then, he returned to his room to get ready for breakfast. At 7:30, he left his room. In the lift, he looked at himself in the mirror with a bit of surprise - clean shaven, rarely used trendy spectacles and his hair left in a rufed state; casual cream-coloured khakis and a wine-red T-shirt. He went to the restaurant for the buffet breakfast. There, he started piling his plate. Murali, the head waiter, greeted him. The waiter then whispered to him, A couple over there has been staring at you for some time, sir. Sreekumar replied, Friends, Murali, just friends. With his heavy plate, he made his way to the table where Gopal, Aswathy and Sudarshana were having breakfast. They looked up as if they had noticed him just then. Sreekumar greeted them with, Let me rst apologize for my behavior yesterday. I hope you will give me a second chance . . . Gopal, who was familiar with his friends avatars, smiled and introduced the ladies. Aswathy, probably due to some awakened maternal instinct, forgot all grievances and beamed at the man who had taken a seat and started to devour food like a teenager. She encouraged Gopal to join in that boyhood custom. Sreekumars journey and old anecdotes provided topics for the morning chit-chat. When Sreekumar laid his fork and knife down, Murali itted onto the scene, removed Sreekumars plate and left him with a mug of coffee, its aroma lling the air around the table. Sudarshana, who had largely remained silent till then asked, How did you manage that special stuff? Would you like a mug, too? Sudarshana nodded. Sreekumar caught Muralis eye and indicated with a gesture. When her mug arrived, she asked, Are you a regular over here? Not as regular as I would like. Seeing her raised eyebrow, he added, I can manage this only once a year.
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And for how long have you been doing it? Aswathy asked. Since I could afford it . . . the vague reply. After coffee, without any enquiries about each others plans for their stay, they parted. Sreekumar went to his room, collected his washed umbrella, packed his camera and left for a solitary walk, after collecting a packed lunch from Murali. Meanwhile, the other party had gone to their rooms. Gopal and Aswathy invited Sudarshana for a visit to an aunts house. The latter declined the offer politely, informed the couple her approximate whereabouts that day and went to her room. She planned to try sketching. She left her room carrying a college bag with the articles for sketching. She had seen a spot the previous day. It was a little away from the walkers trail, leading to the hill-top, but still within sight of the hotel. She settled down after laying a cloth on the grassy slope, still wet with morning dew. The mist was rising from nearby hills. She waited for the picture to impress on her mind - the trail leading to the hill top, through dense trees, and above the tree-line, a bald top with the gnarled remains of a single tree. She would have loved to go there. Something told her that the view from that tree was even better. But for that day, her sketch would be of that tree, she decided - about promises that lay ahead. If she had not been absorbed in capturing the details of the tree, she would have noticed a man on the other side of the tree, leaning against the trunk, remembering promises. Sunday, 4:30 pm Sudarshana and the couple, Gopal and Aswathy, were resting under a shade in the garden. Aswathy was complaining to Sudarshana about Gopals aunt . . . his aunt thinks that we should be taught how to have babies . . . Sudarshana thought about her day and smiled at her friend. Her sketch had not turned out well - too ambitious for a rusty talent but she was glad that she had tried, and condent that it would get better. She had returned to the hotel for lunch. She had called for room service. Later, she had what she described to Gopal and Aswathy as a refreshing afternoon. Gopal nodded sagely and Aswathy raised an eyebrow at that phrase.
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The couple had returned around 4:00 after the boring and horrendous visit, collected Sudarshana from her room and reached their current state of repose in the garden, munching samosas and sipping hot tea. They saw Sreekumar exiting from a building in a corner of the gardens, quite close to where this group was seated. He approached his acquaintances after reminding himself that he should try to be polite for a while and acknowledge their existence. Gymming, macha? Gopal enquired. Just relaxing in the steam bath . . . He enquired about the couples day and got an account of their time with agony aunt. Then, he asked Sudarshana who seemed to have drifted away from the group with her own thoughts, Did you nish your sketch? Didnt know you are a peeping-Tom . . . she replied defensively, rather insecure about her sketching. That tree over there, right? Turning to the other two, Sreekumar explained, I was on that hill. I saw her looking in my direction. I waved to her but she did not acknowledge. Then I tried jumping and all that, but she just turned away. This poor Devdas had to drown his sorrow in his tears. He said this seriously, even though he did not expect the others to really believe his tease. Oye Sudarshana, how cruel, entered Aswathy. I am sure he was not there. Sudarshana retorted, though half-puzzled. Aargh, I have become invisible. Sreekumar gave a mock cry. Gopal asked, Where were you, saala? I swear I was there. Sreekumar then asked Aswathy if Gopal could join him for a drink. She replied, Only one. And when he enquired, Thats a tight leash . . . one per day? She claried with a
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resigned tone, One per session. The men agreed and promised to be back soon. After the men left for spiritual pastures, Sudarshana spotted a piece of paper, neatly thricefolded to t a shirt pocket, near the spot where Sreekumar had stood. She picked it up. This must have slipped from his pocket . . . she said aloud. She placed it on the table. Aswathy eyed it with curiosity. Aswathy remarked to Sudarshana, That Sreekumar . . . theres something troubling him . . . I can see it in his eyes. When Sudarshana did not bite the bait, she continued, At rst, I thought he is the kind who goes for the other woman . . . Sudarshana replied to that, I am sure his other one wonders about his another one, too ... Aswathy ignored that easy and ippant conjecture, Then, I thought he is the kind who tells a woman Yes, I was in love with you. . . . but, it is not that . . . it is a lost love . . . I am sure . . . Sudarshana just smiled at her imaginative friend. Is that Sreekumars? Aswathy leaned forward and took the paper. Sudarshana did not even try to tell her friend that she should not pry. Aswathy opened one fold and read the writing on one quarter, reciting with emotion and the diction of a school-girl,
At the Wedding of my Love Stop! Raise your chaste lowered eyes, On this altar feel as fever of forever need dies. Burning our illicit love in that wedding re, Add blood, sweat, us naked raw to that pyre.
See, what did I tell you? Aswathy exclaimed to her friend. She opened another fold. This time, she read silently. What is it? Sudarshana queried, now curious herself. Aswathy read with a low voice,
Bid adieu to naughty love of life
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I am now relation, my love, my wife. Stop! Raise your chaste lowered eyes You spies!
Sudarshana burst out laughing. Well, I guess he knows you as well as you know him . . . she ragged her friend. Aswathy folded the paper neatly and placed it on the table. The men returned soon. Sudarshana handed over the paper to Sreekumar without a word. Aswathy maintained a regal composure and silence. Sreekumar had a dead-pan expression, too. The foursome decided to try a restaurant in town for dinner. There, when they were midway through the main course, two unsavoury characters entered the place in an inebriated state. They sat at a table close to the four, talking in a loud vulgar way with explicit comments about the ladies. Sreekumar told his fuming friend, Gopal, dont fall into the trap. Those bastards should be given a hiding, man. Gopal replied, with clenched sts and his teeth gnashing. Listen to me. Lets leave, ok? He called the waiter and settled the bill. The comments from the other table were getting louder and more vulgar. Gopal and the ladies stormed out. The group walked silently to their hotel. Sreekumar trailed behind the three like some pariah. At the hotel, they parted company. Gopal and the ladies went to the couples room. For ten minutes, they brought out the rage within. They realized that they were still hungry and ordered sandwiches. Murali brought them a tray of succulent sandwiches. They were still discussing their nasty experience. Murali set the table and before leaving, told the three, You are lucky. Those men are crazy local thugs with no sense or fear of law. Three years back, they stabbed a guy in a similar situation, went to jail for two years. They will go back again. I think Professor sir was here at that time. He left after that. Aswathy edged closer to Gopal, caressing his shoulders, as if searching for the stab he would have suffered. It was Sudarshana who nally broke the silence,
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We treated Sreekumar quite dreadfully, didnt we? The other two nodded like obedient puppies. After a few minutes, Gopal told the ladies that he was going to apologize to Sreekumar and left the room. But he could not nd Sreekumar. Gopal returned to his room, told the ladies the situation, for a while they sat gloomy before deciding to call it a night. Monday, 7:30 am Without waiting for the couple, Sudarshana went alone for breakfast. This time, Sreekumar was already there, having breakfast, reading a newspaper, his relaxed body showing the signs of physical exercise. His swimming was now facing the last hurdle - an old block, a breathing action he had never bothered to correct. Sudarshana brought her plate and asked him if she could join him. For a moment, he leaned back, just stared at her, as if he had to think a lot. After a while, she told him with a smile, While you are trying to decide, let me take a seat. They had a quiet breakfast and it was only when their mugs of coffee were brought to them, she asked, Where were you last night? We wanted to apologize. For what . . . ? For preventing that ght . . . Murali told us about the thugs reputation. I had no choice. I dont enjoy getting my clothes dirty. Sreekumar answered with a smile. Not even for the honour of ladies? she countered. Not if they pose a threat themselves . . . he argued. Now, we are getting to the point . . . I prefer to beat around the bush. How can the oppressed be a threat?
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The mock oppressed ready and waiting to be the oppressor . . . Scared, you are, she concluded. Woman, you are, he reasoned. With that, they raised the white napkins, as if calling for ceasere, wiped mouth and left the table together. Outside the restaurant, they met Gopal and Aswathy. The apologies and other light banter followed. The couple had received an urgent phone-call from the aunt demanding their presence at a larger family gathering. Aswathy forecasted another course on pregnancy. Gopal cursed himself, I have the only relatives who do not believe in contraceptives, and after some thought, they are out to screw me . . . Can I ask you for a favour? Sudarshana asked Sreekumar once the couple had left the hotel. Your command is my wish. I have heard that before. Can you take me to that tree on the hill? For a while, Sreekumars face became blank and his eyes seemed to look through her, at someone behind her. Do you always have to think so much when I ask you a question? Sudarshana asked giving no hint that she had noticed the strange look. Of course, my lady . . . But, you have to promise that you will ght any thug that will come in our way? Anything for you, my knight...! They made plans to leave at 9 and return for lunch. Neither of them made any suggestion of a picnic. Sudarshana wondered for a while whether she had forced him into a situation he did not like. But felt consoled by remembering that Sreekumar had dismissed niceties with Gopal and Aswathy.
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As for Sreekumar, he was asking himself, Why didnt I say no? Monday, 9:00 am Sudarshana realized soon enough that the trek uphill through the dense foliage was quite arduous. Birdsong competed with her grunts and groans. She thought she saw monkeys peering or were they squirrels or large cats or mongoose? The trees seemed alive, the ground too. At one point, she saw a pile of elephant dung. Wild elephants? she queried. Sreekumar offered studious silence instead of security. After fteen minutes, she realized that her legs were beginning to cramp. He suggested some stretch-exercises. Sweaty and dirty, she cursed her morning wish. They hardly talked. He did not bother to be chivalrous. He allowed her to tackle on her own those dangerous ledges with steep falls, on that slippery muddy path. Worse, they seemed to be lost. For some reason, Sreekumar had decided to try a new route. He consoled her with an unconvincing go up, come down, simple . . . how can we get lost? Dont you know the way? she asked. Not really, he admitted, each time, I try a different starting point and path. Fantastic! she taunted. Its good to be strangers - even with a path -
These banyan trees with peeling bark, Entwined vines, branches and roots, I prefer not to cross them twice To nd them uprooted or with an axed notch; These naughty rascals the life within, Those peering eyes, lurking danger, The rustling leaves, chattering cries, They compare and mock, my many lives; I the husband-father, I the worker-boss,
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I the lonely voyeur, I trying to be me, They compare and mock, At them, I can smile But I prefer not to cross them twice -
Its good to be strangers. So, what do I have? You the fool, me the lost? she accused, feigning disinterest. He gave her a look of mock anger, squinted eyes, sulking mouth trying hard to suppress a smile. Well, well, you the lost? What are you anyway? he parried. She gave a mirthless laugh, Nothing, right? A non-entity . . . He did not let go, and prodded, I have to be the one who knows the way -
A serious wit or a man of steel, I should treat you like my image, Or a restrained seless safe shadow; My words should rest with gravity, You will speak while you hear little; You can try to be the aggrieved, But you do not deceive me with frailty,
Why do I have to be the one who knows the way? She looked at him with aming eyes - tired and exasperated - not ready to let him have the nal word, not realizing that she was biting his bait, Tchah . . . stereotypes and misconceptions, thy name is man . . .
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These trees and I, for you An old used textbook chapter? Blue skies, green canopy, Vales and dale, brook and willow, My hair these vines, My arms these caressing tendrils, The birds and the bees, Remembering pulp romance? A few four letter words Used, misused. I am not a girl, a woman, a mother, A wife, a lover, a womb, a vagina, An idol to worship, serve or curse. Am I trying to shock you? I am not a role For your stage Or any stage. Of right, wrong, norm, deviant, Of values, debt, trust, loyalty, Of past or present memory, real or virtual, Of explanations, justications, Of relations, love, friend, foe, Of utility, used, futility, fate, I want to be me too
Or, is that your domain alone? Good! We agree on one thing at least, he said. When she did not reply, he continued Fine words searching for meaning, like a search for the soul-mate,
Why are we born in chains? From one role to the next Isnt that the old line?
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The face of love Fables and morals dene Familiar features On an easy mould; Thats the tragedy Each role is an easy part. Give me one I pray, just one: Without barter, without give-n-take, Without promises, without vows, Without a black book of credits-debits; Friendship do you suggest, Russian roulette I suggest, Get away you blood-sucking parasites; Love do you suggest, Bluff I suggest, Get away you symbiotic dead. This is in the Scriptures It is in the Book of Trouble; But, this one I pray, just one: Not to share trouble, Not for stale jokes, Not to judge, not to weigh; One without pretense, One to trust, One with faith, One even Death cannot part; Is that Utopia? It is about the precious fragile, The dew on the ower on the branch On the tree on that hill on and on;
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For some, its their senses, their feelings, For some, its them, their own being, But its both, the being and the senses. When you hold that one, The senses take hold, With you and the one separate, Is that it? Feel the fragile within - you, hold, one, Stress each without strain, The fragile feel within - one, you, hold, That is not Utopia. That is not role play. It is tough to be real.
When I hold my soul-mate, will I let it go? Sreekumar and Sudarshana resumed their journey and reached the edge of the tree-line at around 10:00. She was exhausted, exhilarated and gave a whoop of joy. He turned around from a little distance ahead, looked at her with a spreading smile and said, You have bird-shit on your face and front. She glared at him, searched in her bag for a mirror. She had left it behind at the hotel, along with the rest of her vanity kit. Sreekumar came close to her. He took a bundle of tissues from his backpack. He wiped her face, slowly, with a light caress, cleaning her cheek, her jaw, the right side of her neck, her collarbone, a few specks on the collar of her shirt; he opened a button and wiped the last below the collarbone, a little above the right rising heaving breast. Then, he used another set of tissues with water and cleansing soap. He buttoned her shirt at the end. They looked into each others eyes a few times but they did not speak. For some, this is a 4% deal. Some will call this a light and charming adventure or the beginning of a swift, eeting love affair. For some, it is not 4%.
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They stood together, near the tree-line, where there is a brook, but with no willows. They reached the top, untroubled by seasons, the moss always velvet, the branches always gnarled, the view sublime. Sreekumar reclined against the tree. Sudarshana sat near, letting her hair loose against the wind, shielding her face. They hardly talked. Sreekumar napped or scribbled in a notebook. Sudarshana sketched eyes that spoke strangely. Monday, 5:00 pm Sreekumar and Sudarshana returned to their hotel at 2:00, had lunch in the restaurant and then, went to town for shopping. At the front-desk, they left a note with the message that they will be back by 5:00. Gopal and Aswathy returned at 4:40. Their day had turned out to be surprisingly good at the aunts place. The couple decided to wait in the foyer, meet their friends and then go to their room. Around 4:50, it started raining. Five minutes later, they saw Sreekumar and Sudarshana walking quickly, in the rain, for the cover of the hotel. He was carrying his umbrella, as usual, but it was not open. The four met near the entrance and exchanged brief notes about their day. Sreekumar and Sudarshana mentioned that they had had tea and heavy snacks at a delightful tuck-shop in town. The four decided to meet the next morning since no one was keen on dressing up for dinner at the restaurant. Around 10:00, that night, Aswathy asked the cuddling Gopal, Why didnt he open the umbrella? Gopal thought of evading with a curt reply but he was curious, too. Are you going to remain silent? his wife prodded. Sreekumar is a decent chap. He wont touch her. Aswathy turned and faced him with a look, ready to defend her friend. He added quickly, Dont you crucify me now. Why dont you go and ask your friend? Aswathy did just that. She slipped into a dressing gown, leaving Gopal punching the
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pillows. She went to Sudarshanas room and knocked on the door. When Sudarshana opened the door, Aswathy asked, Sudarshana, so sorry, but do you have a band-aid plaster? Gopal got hurt. I thought it is the girl who usually gets hurt . . . She has been with Sreekumar for too long, Aswathy thought. Sudarshana got her a bandage and saw that Aswathy was looking around the dimly-lit room. Dont worry, Aswathy, he is not hiding beneath my bed. Blushing, Aswathy blurted, Oh no, I didnt think that. Gopal told me that Sreekumar wont touch you. Yes, he wont . . . Aswathy did not wait to understand whether that was an observation, a question, a challenge, an amused whatever it could be. Aswathy returned to her bedroom, removed her gown and crept in beside Gopal, hiding her face deep in the pillows. Gopal smiled in the dark but he decided to keep his mouth shut. Tuesday, 7:30 am Gopal, Aswathy and Sudarshana were having breakfast. Sudarshana informed them that her folks would be arriving that evening. Sreekumar entered the restaurant around 7:45 and joined them with a heavy plate. Man, I am hungry. Nearly two hours in the pool. Fantastic. Sudarshanas family is coming this evening. Aswathy blurted. Good. Good. Good. His meal or the pending arrival of her family, no one cared to check. The usual talk ensued and when his mug of coffee arrived, he asked Sudarshana, Is the sketch over? No.
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Do you want to go to the hill-top? Will you take me? Yes. We will be back by lunch-time, Sudarshana told the couple. The rest of the days Sreekumar tried to correct his breathing motion but without any success. On one day, he joined the others for dinner. After 4 days, they left. He stayed on for another week and left wearing black pants, white shirt, with an umbrella in his hand and carrying a backpack. He looked at the gnarled tree. Till next year, my love . . .
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A Story-tellers Sabbatical
Zero The trip was meant to be a sabbatical. They told him, it will do you a lot of good. A story-teller is always on a sabbatical is it not, he asked. You are not a story-teller, they replied. I am not, he agreed, maybe, maybe not, he added. Whatever, they dismissed him. Who is not a story-teller, he wondered wandered alone. Some story-tellers try to write. Some become a postprandial raconteur. Some shy away from an audience. Some prefer to listen, to judge. Some try to forget their stories. Some hide theirs. Some pretend to be otherwise as if there are no stories to be told. Some assume that their story is a test quite meaningless without a grade. Some appear to know it all. Some simply ignore. Some gather kindred souls to ostracize, discourage, restrict, censor. But, stories can escape from solitary connement. Stories might not even end with death. Images, memories, experience, sensation, passion, thoughts, ideas . . . Lover, loner, rapist, father, spouse, partner, polygamous, androgynous, misanthrope, sensual, greedy, devoted, rake, sexual, impotent, psycho, fanatical, dependable, villain, hero, anonymous . . . A million lives to be lived in one . . . One When the bus crossed the state-border, he expected and waited for change. He noticed the pigs, the overowing garbage and the blocked drains. He took in the other differences: the shade of skin-colour, language, volume and tone of conversation; also, the
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new smell of people, place and air that made his nose twitch. The dress and demeanour though similar, of course, looked strange. He waited, breathing slowly, acclimatizing. For him, these days, the acclimatization process usually took only fteen minutes, or utmost half-hour - for his senses to match with that of a local. He knew that the changes were often virtual, a result of his expectations or desire to be different when he crosses any state-border. Recently, he had started feeling like a stranger in his own land. He tried to overcome those attacks with the same process - waiting, breathing slowly and trying to feel like a local, at least at home. The thought of a distant past, of those days when he had shifted from Bangalore to Bombay, made him smile. He recollected how it took him more than three months then to even notice and appreciate women in that new city. They had seemed different and unappealing. Even the street dogs had appeared different. The Bombay ones looked like lovable pathetic characters. The Bangalore dogs he remembered were strong, muscular and waiting to be a man-eater. He was brought out of that reverie when the bus came to a jarring halt. By the time he got out of the bus, he felt only mildly strange in that new place across the border where he had a two-hour wait for the next bus. Two At that rst stop, a bus-station close to the southern tip of the country, a man was shouting at his wife. The woman looked very young, late teens probably; her husband a few years older. They were part of a group of contract workers going home or to the next place of work. A few men in that group were drunk, with dhoti hiked till the upper thigh, swaying in the still late evening air. They told their colleague or friend, that husband, to be quiet. The husband ignored them and pushed his wife roughly. He shouted at her for money. The wife maintained a sullen silence. She squatted on the ground, guarding their meager belongings. The husband raised his voice, telling his wife that he needed money to get something to eat and not for alcohol. She ignored him, or at least tried to, till he pulled angrily and roughly at their bags.
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She reached within her blouse and took out a ve hundred rupee note. He screamed at her again and told her that he wanted change. She reached within her blouse once again and brought out the rest of their savings, two ten rupee notes. He snatched the ve hundred rupee note from her small hand and also grabbed one of the bags, presumably his belongings. He hitched up his once-white dirt-smudged dhoti, stuffed the note in his shorts, scratched his groin and glared at her. Then, he took that note out, crumpling it in his hand, taunting her. He shouted at her, told her to get lost, that he did not want to see her ever again. He marched off in the direction of a liquor shop. The woman sat alone, a little away from the rest of that group. Her dark unblinking eyes followed the back of her husband. Her young lips did not quiver, her jaw remained rm and, her smooth dark sunken cheeks remained as they were, without tears, whitened by smudges of powder and dust. She looked lost. She did not bother to stuff the two remaining ten rupee notes within her blouse. A few minutes later, a bus arrived and that group of contract workers entered that parked bus. The woman remained seated on the ground, holding onto her bag, looking in the direction in which her husband had gone. The tableaux remained the same till the bus started and got ready to depart. The husband entered the scene then. He stood in front of his wife, glared at her and grabbed the bag she was holding. He shouted at her, about how hungry he was. He blamed her and told her that he could not get anything to eat with that ve hundred rupee note. He gave her the ve-hundred rupee note, untouched by others, unused, crumpled. She slipped it within her blouse, treasuring it next to her small rm bosom. As they moved towards the bus, she gave him the two ten rupee notes for the bus-tickets. They touched briey, then. He stood behind her in that departing bus, his arms shielding her. Three An eight hour trip followed - punctuated by some stops and bright lights, silhouettes entering and fading within or without the bus and, a visit to a lthy wayside Pay and Use urinal. He should have pissed in the open, like the others. He should have saved three rupees and avoided olfactory, visual and unhygienic abuse. When he reached his destination at 05:30, he noted that his Lonely Planet guide-book rightly describes there are few more refreshing . . . moments than boarding a bus in the heat-soaked
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plains and disembarking in the sharp pinch of a . . . night. Before 06:00, he was in his hotel-room. He stripped and dumped his grimy travel clothes in a laundry bag, washed his face and hands, wrapped a bath-robe around his naked body and stepped out onto the balcony. He watched the early morning light creep across the lake, rippling the water and nudging life into the sleepy air, lifting a light veil of mist. He looked around. The balconies on his level were empty and the rooms dark and quiet with heavy slumber. On one balcony at the upper level, that of the suites, he noticed a lone gure. The lady was in her night-clothes, quite inadequate like his in that chilly morning air. They looked at each other for a few seconds before looking away. Later, during his stay there, he saw her twice. They were then both deeply veiled behind the purdah of matrimony or propriety, and they had walked past each other like strangers who had never shared anything. That rst morning, they had shared the same scene in that early light; they had listened to the same birdsong; they had felt their nipples stiffening as the fresh cool touch of chilly morning air on naked skin started at the bare toes, up the legs, over the navel and torso, caressing lips and hair; and, they had breathed in the same air with that faint tinge of eucalyptus. They had looked at each other once more before going back to another life inside.
5:54 AM
6:30 AM
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Four Mid-morning brought the rst blues. The usual life and routine had a protective allure. He thought about entering an internet caf. But, he walked past, without even a furtive glance within. The mail not seen, the mail not sent, hoping, avoiding an empty mail box, depending on the others sixth sense. Fool! Five He left the main road, past the usual sights. He felt someone following. He looked behind him - he saw no one. He made a sudden turn to the left, on a gravel footpath, with a steep climb on the right and a never-ending fall on the left. He battled against vertigo, moving forward slowly, his right hand feeling rigid comfort, his left tucked in a pocket, shrinking away from the airy expanse. He listened to the crunch of gravel. It could have been the echo of his footfall. Or, it could have been that of the follower. He reached a turn in that unfamiliar path. A tree blocked his way - a familiar tree on that unfamiliar path.
Trees have stories, too. Long ago, two lovers dreamt of lying beneath this tree. The man gripped the black thread and the locket lying between her full breasts. Remove it, he suggested. She shook her head. His hand strayed from her breasts to her neck, to her navel and thighs. The clouds were beneath them, the heavens too. They wanted to be wild and forget the world around them. What are you thinking, he asked her. She smiled shyly slyly and remained silent. Let me guess, he said. He told her about his dreams, about a trip to such hilly clime, about making love beneath open skies, or within a tent, beneath this tree. Did I get it right, he asked. Yes, she said. He kissed those lips that had uttered a lie. They needed such lies and they built their love on that. With the little time they had, they could not have done a better job with truth.
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He leaned against the tree, hearing no more footfalls behind him, fearing no more the fall in front. Six That afternoon, he entered a steam bath and tried to exorcise all the demons within. Each drop of sweat carried months of self-imposed thralldom. From the health joint, he walked to a tobacco shop. He asked for JPS. They didnt have that. He settled for his old usual. The shop-boy gave a cheeky grin and charged much more than the MRP. It didnt matter to him, not on this trip. He went to his room, ripped it open, after reading the warning, Smoking kills. Tobacco causes cancer. He lit a cigarette and felt the harshness of the rst take. He sat motionless, watching the tip of ash grow. Loneliness kills. Solitude causes emptiness. Seven After tea, he tried the 5-km walk around the lake. Including photos and aimless pondering, it would take him about an hour, he calculated. He realized that the best part about places with nothing much to see is that it allows him to see that he really wants to see. Along with the rst beautiful sight came a bitter thought - he was surprised by the vehemence of that un-exorcised demon.
She and her folks had decided to ignore him, he remembered. They had collectively decided to think wrong of him. Like the aftermath of a forgiven extramarital affair, it will all be ne soon, everything will appear just ne. But, just like the situation after that affair, the relationship will never be the same ever again, never forgiven, never forgotten.
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Eight He walked past happy couples, parents and kids, nearly all holding hands laughing cheering, except for two young foreigners. They walked with long purposeful strides, discussing a research topic. He saw them later sitting together in a secluded part, still talking, now with a hushed soft tone, with their feet nearly in the water. He liked walking against the crowd. He smiled at a newly-wed couple, struggling to get it right on a tandem bicycle. They smiled at him, nearly giggled. A young enthusiastic mother went past him following her young child on a cycle. A man, the father-husband, dragged his feet behind them, pouting his lips, serious and silent. A little later, he met another young family. There, it was the mother-wife who sulked. He should also try to be serious and silent, he decided, just for a change, for a laugh.
He stopped at a locked gate and looked up a path with roughly hewn steps. He could feel those steps beneath him, the climb to that lonely cottage at the top. He thought he could hear the quarrelling, the bickering, the nagging, the recrimination, the thud of slammed wooden doors and the reverberation within the deep green. He could nearly see the feet running down that path, slipping, hurting, hands opening the gate and shadows racing past him, shouting loudly harshly at the other following close behind. He felt a cold silence after, as if those ghosts had sucked the air and created a vacuum around him. He followed them to the old abandoned boat-house, shackled and forgotten. He could see that ghostly couple enact out their own version of Rebecca. In their story, it would be without the refreshing and loving second chance. There will be no Mrs. de Winter for that despondent barely surviving Maxim de Winter ever again. The man held her head beneath the surface of water, counting the bubbles till there were none. That is where they lost love and decided to believe no more.
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Nine He walked away from that boathouse, away from that memory of a second trip that never happened. He walked fast. Thats the only problem with these 5-km circuits, he thought. It is tough to get away when you are in the middle. Another memory lashed at his senses, a memory from his rst trip to this place. He felt weak in his knees, a bit breathless. It was a bright and beautiful cool evening. Was he sweating, he wondered. He was a young boy then, walking alone around this lake. His older siblings had gone ahead on bicycles, laughing, telling him to catch up with them soon.
He must have reached the turn in the path. He must have been looking at the tree house. A respectable-looking middle-aged man was peeing behind a tree. Grey hair, prim and
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proper, he could still see what his young eyes saw then. The half-sweater over long-sleeved shirt, a pant with well-ironed creases, polished shining black shoes; and, those stern eyes staring at the young boy, like a predator eyeing a prey. The mans left hand was holding his penis and with his right, the man waved at the boy, beckoning him to come close. The tree on one side looked like that mans hand, reaching for him. The tree on the other side will remind him of the shadows reaching over him, over the water, engulng, incarcerating and dragging him into those depths away from innocence.
The young boy ran away. He knew the man would not chase. But the boy did not stop till he reached his siblings. They were resting on the green slopes, having an ice-cream. He had felt weak in his knees then, sweating profusely, too. Seeing him in that state, his siblings had asked him, what happened. Later, when they joined their parents, they asked him again, what happened. He kept quiet. Young boys were not supposed to talk adult stuff. Now, decades later, he had the same fears. He walked away. He could not run. Maybe, when memories are just stories, he thought, they will be easier to live with. Ten On the second morning, he set out on a sight-seeing trip along with a motley group of serious kids, hyper-excited parents, stout wives and thin husbands. The trip started late. Everyone expected that. He tried to mimic the stoic expression of the other passengers. But that scene with admirable sang-froid suddenly changed and soon got taut with tension. The Christian driver explained the situation succinctly and disappeared. The people in the bus realized that the delay was due to two over-sleeping Moslem kids.
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Seated next to a fat Hindoo, he precariously hung on to his small narrow seat and every spoken word. He listened to the curses and the outrage expressed within that tempo-van. Everyone had a root cause ready to explain the problem. Ancient and new culture; new and black money; the majority made to give all to the minority; and, even the beard of the errant kids father joined the list of causes. He tried to think of a suitable contribution. When the two bleary-eyed over-slept kids entered the van, they were met with stony silence and dirty glares. At the rst stop, he relaxed and admired the scenery for too long, feeling comfortable with the company of surprisingly benign well-mannered non-human monkeys. This time, when he entered the van, it was he who was met with stony silence and dirty glares. The silence seemed to echo all the complaints against Mallus that must have been aired while they had waited for him.
At the next stop, the group got out, ran down a moderate slope with innocent exuberance and climbed back up feeling as if they were paying for past sins. They felt good when
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they returned to the van, hufng, pufng and breathing hard. The exercise is good, they all said. The driver-guide suggested another spot to the group, great for a nice trek, he said. The group laughed, smiled, hum-hawed and shrugged their heavy shoulders and gut. They prefer to stay close to the van, they all said. That helped to keep the trip short and sweet. At that second stop, the Sardar family in the group got lost in a lm-shoot on that tiring slope with never-ending rows of pine trees. This time, he joined the rest and cursed Sardars. That Sardar family looked apologetic when they returned but he and the rest received them with stony silence and dirty glares.
On the way to the next stop, the driver apologized for the Forest Department. The inconsiderate department had closed the way to Sue Zed Point because it became too popular, the driver explained. But, try the next spot with the two pillars, came the helpful advice. If it is not cloudy, you can see the way down, the driver-guide advertised.
At that stop, the lot from Bihar went missing for a long time. He along with the Sardar family, the Moslem kids and the rest joked about the end of Biharis at Sue Zed Point. When
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the Biharis returned, the whole lot forgot the jokes and greeted them with stony silence and dirty glares. He mastered the rules of the game before the 3-hour trip got over. He took the initiative in gathering the majority within the bus and played the game with vicious delight. Together, they treated the last ones to enter the bus the way anyone should treat any inconvenient minority. The driver-guide kept his choice of shops for the last stop, Sir Madam, here you get pure eucalyptus without kerosene, fresh chocolate daily change, of course, you should buy only if you want to, he implored the group. At that stop, everyone got back late to the van. They forgot to play the game. When it comes to commerce there is no majority or minority, he noted his left-leaning thoughts with rightful distaste on a disposable scrap of paper. Eleven On that day, mid-afternoon brought the blues.
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He thought about another trip. Abroad, attending a summer school or conference, on a measly ofcial allowance, he recollected. He had managed to get a telephone card. Precious little card, limited and irreplaceable, beyond his means actually. He had called her. Her father had picked up the phone. Casual chit-chat followed, formality made him ask for her mother, her sister, her brother and the minutes slipped by. Finally, he could ask for her. She came to the phone. He heard her say, Hello. He heard her breathing hard into the phone. He held the phone rmly, roughly, nearly squeezing, as if it was her. He asked her, How are you. The telephone call ended. The cards life was over. He never got to know her reply. Twelve He was still in the same state that evening. Cigarette stubs, full ashtray, watching a movie with unseeing eyes. It was a movie about a letter in a bottle thrown into some deep dark water.
He has this box of unsent letters at home. On top, there is one to a friend he has known all his life. Nearly all his life, he corrected, he didnt know her till the age of four. That time, so long ago, he had received a letter from her. It had taken months to reach him, trying to follow and keep pace with his nomadic travels. On that night, he had had a dream in which she was in trouble. He got up in the middle of the night. He wrote a long reply to her letter - wishing her well, lling the pages with care, thought, purpose, praying for her. He signed at the end, beneath With lots of love.
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He did not send that letter, wondering about what she would think. It remained in the box with the rest, unsaid thoughts that meant a lot more than all that he has ever said, then, before, or later. Thirteen Around the time dusk bade farewell and night knocked lightly, he entered the near-empty bar, strangely a bit too early to be empty. He played with a peg of his favourite, for old times sake, he thought. A young man sat on a stool two seats away, sporting a sardonic or wry smile and hazy eyes, downing mugs of beer, chasing it down with whiskey more frequently. The barman looked at them, shrugged his shoulder, polished glasses and wiped the bar-top.
A bar is like a train at times - strangers become bosom buddies for an hour or so, then forget and leave. The young man told him, without any preliminary, about a beautiful lady he had met. He had helped her carry a heavy bag of shopping from the departmental store to the bus stop. For the rst time in his life, he had gathered courage and decided not to let the opportunity slip. Before she boarded the bus the young man told her, I would love to have coffee with you some time. He had been stunned when she said Yes let us meet at the caf coffee. She had suggested, how about 4 pm tomorrow. The young man had dressed well and he had reached caf coffee early. She was there even earlier. The young man told the rest after gulping a mouthful of beer. She asked me to join her and her husband, the young man recollected and continued, I had coffee with them and left quickly. I think I heard her laughter behind me.
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Fourteen A loud cackle, followed by the rough gurgle of phlegm, from behind him brought that discussion to an end. He and the young man turned to see an old man nursing his glass. Rough shawl draped over narrow stopped shoulders, creased face which had seen many summers, a crooked toothless mouth sucking greedily at a beedi - the old man looked t to be a stereotype of the veteran bar occupant. The three maintained silence for a few minutes, interrupted by loud slurps, burps and careless farts. He settled the bill with the barman and stood up. That is when the old man grabbed his wrist and asked him, do you believe in ghosts. When love dies, ghosts appear everywhere, the old man said. He continued, you will see a ghost, you will say, that is her hairstyle, that is her gure, her way of walking, the dialogue sounds familiar, the situation and the meeting places all remind you of another time, another place. But, there will always be disappointment at the end, the old man concluded, that is what ghosts do to you. He broke away from the old mans grip and got out of that bar. Fifteen He entered the restaurant. He was shown to a good table. He had a mismatched supper of soup, sh and chips, and chocolate mousse. He ate the sh and chips with style and nesse, using the proper knife and fork, wasting little, all properly done. He remembered an old visit with a best-friend to Indian Coffee House. He had struggled to eat the mutton cutlet with fork and knife. He had stabbed, pierced, chased the pieces, spilled and nally, he had stooped low to get the pieces in his mouth rather than to get the act right. His friend had suggested, use your hands, dummy. He had learned later, how to eat, how to be proper. Along that path of time, somewhere sometime, he and that best-friend had parted ways, and he preferred to eat alone. He could not remember why or when. That is one story he has managed to forget. Sixteen
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A young couple sat at the centre-table. A waiter placed a vase with a beautiful rose on their table, right in between them. The man removed it. They looked at each other, oblivious of the world around them. That will probably be a moment they will store for years, among the good ones. They will talk about it. It will help them forget the unspoken bad times. Her sari slipped. She knew that her husband was looking at it slip a little on the right. She knew he loved to see the mole above her right breast revealed by her low-cut blouse. A few seconds passed before she covered it and arranged her sari. She knew that her husband wanted her to do that, too. Seventeen In the special area between the main dining hall and the lawn, an elegantly-dressed lady and her teenaged daughter were discussing the latters projects in school, probably the International school there. The daughter talked about her boyfriends thesis on Macbeth, about how the play revolved around the carefully concealed extramarital relationship between Duncan and Lady Macbeth. The mother smiled at the idea. We have The Merchant of Venice too, the daughter complained. The mother leaned forward and picked up the daughters textbook. We used to have a censored version, the mother noted. Oh yes, the taunts, the vulgar, the stones, the anti-Semitic parts right, the daughter afrmed. Her boyfriend had told her about that too, the daughter informed her mother. The father joined them. The textbooks disappeared from the table. The father called the waiter and enquired about the wine-list. For a minute, the waiter tried to sell his wares. The waiter failed to observe the sneer developing on that fathers face. Later, for seven uninterrupted minutes, that father educated that waiter and his boss, the head-waiter, about what was lacking in the hotels wine-list and where and how that father had had the best. The waiters listened respectfully. The daughter rolled her eyes on the sly. She smiled at her mother, a quick smile. The elegant lady sat with great poise, expressionless. Eighteen Next morning, he woke up with the pitter-patter of little kids feet outside the door. Every morning, the hotel staff managed the fun-hours for the kids and they took exceptional care. The kids loved the clowns, the amusement, the games, being away from their parents with
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whom they will later tag along, get cuddled, smothered, scolded, instructed and coochicooed. They had two hours of their own, with their own kind. The parents had two hours of their own, too; sometimes separate, sometimes together within or without locked rooms. Nineteen The staff always greeted him cheerfully. He tipped generously. It has been a long time since he stayed in such places. When the staff started to greet him less cheerfully, he wondered about his generosity, whether it had kept in touch with the times. Since it will be a long time till he stays in such places again, he stopped tipping. He stopped thinking about cause and effect. Causality is tough to prove, correlation is easy to calculate, his nal thought on that subject. Twenty He loved walking, on clean footpaths, without sweating, wearing a light jacket, munching fresh chocolate, sipping soda, watching a game of soccer on the school ground and listening to kids from every part of the globe cheering their team. Foreign kids do not pick up an Indian accent, he noted. He likes to speak but he tries to speak very little. Indians nd his accent laughable, he knows. Foreigners think it is quaint. Life around him moved in slow motion - visible, carefree, laughable life. Three unrelated couples walked on the footpath on the right side, avoiding people and at varying distance from each other. In front, an Indian boy and his South-east Asian girlfriend walked together. The girls arm was around the boys waist, the boy had his arm on her shoulder. Once or twice, the boy kissed her, on her hair or the side of her forehead. Each time, they laughed after the kiss. Behind them, a young married couple walked, talked, hardly noticing anyone else. They held each others ngers. They looked at each other once or twice, smiled sweet secrets, laughed too. The third couple watched the two pairs in front. They didnt touch each other, not even once. But, more than once or twice, they looked at each other. She looked at the smile in his eyes, at the laugher wrinkles, his eyes crinkled at the edges. He studied her dark brown eyes, the dimple on her left cheek, her front teeth biting her lower lip. When they looked at each other, they slowed their walking pace. They too laughed and kept on walking.
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He watched life go by in slow motion. Some had a life like his, some lives seem different. He was comfortable with the familiar stories, people he wanted to see, people who seemed to be like him. He preferred and yearned for the uncomfortable lot, the real strange ones, stories he wished for as his own. Twenty one On the journey back from that hill-top place, he took a taxi rather than a bus to reach the heat-soaked plains. He decided to pamper himself with no thought of saving for tomorrow, for that rainy tomorrow. What if that rainy tomorrow brought an earthquake or a tsunami or a nuclear disaster, he wondered. The taxi stopped at a petrol pump. When the taxi was ready to go, the taxi-driver came to his side and mentioned, policeman. He wondered why a policeman wanted to meet him. He felt nervous. The policeman, a sub-inspector, requested for a lift till his village, quarter of the distance down the hills. My kid is sick, the man in uniform explained. He sighed with relief. He asked the policeman to sit with him in the back. I do not want to cause any inconvenience to you, the policeman said and got in front.
The policemans presence helped at the various check-points. The car was not stopped. The policeman talked about a curious case. A man had been caught with a two-day old human carcass in the boot of his car at one of these check-points, the policeman narrated. There are lots of places to dump a body, the policeman added, it is a popular idea in these hills, the policeman laughed.
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It would be tough to dispose a human body in the plains, he knew. If he had a human carcass in the boot of the taxi, it would be a good idea to have a policeman in the car to cross the checkpoints. He noted the ideal places to dispose the carcass before hitting the hot plains.
Twenty two He was dropped at a railway station in the hot plains. He felt like Rip Van Winkle waking up in a new world. There were no newspaper stalls at that station. For the rst time in those few days, he wanted news and started to feel lost without news, even though it had no bearing on him, even though the world went on as usual without him. He claimed a seat in the waiting room. He looked at the brave new world around him. Women sat with parted legs or with one leg on the chair, airing their groin like the men around. Men listened to their wives. Men brought food for the women. The women complained about that food, munching slowly, grimacing, spitting. Young boys and girls tried to behave like men and ladies, but with decreasing differences.
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Universal suffrage, education for all, equal opportunities, he picked up discussions on all that in that hot waiting room with few fans. Some talked about the next government to rule that state. The pan-India lot talked about corruption and governance, they disagreed to agree that each government and their followers should have a free hand. A wise scholarly man talked about a weak ineffective leader. A loud spittle-spraying woman suggested a strong effective candidate. That Hitler, the wise man queried. He tried to join their discussion. Commie, he said. Who me, they asked without rhyme or reason. He felt like Rip Van Winkle, hell, only men should sit with parted legs, he thought. Twenty three A young family sat near him in the train - a cute daughter, a handsome caring father and a sulking attractive mother. It was a sulk that faded fast and the three made a pretty picture. Their kind form the majority, he noted, the kind who dont enter stories and remain happily ever after. At the next station, a professional with a laptop joined them. The new entrant lay on the upper berth, exhausted after a hard days work, roughly stufng his wallet into the front pocket of his pants. A few stations later, the young family got out. About two hours later, the professional woke up with a start, as if from deep sleep or as if he had had a dreadful nightmare. A few minutes later, after buying coffee from a vendor, the professional realized that he had lost his wallet. While he had snored and snoozed, the wallet must have slipped from his pocket. But, where was it, the professional searched and investigated. Or, he was a victim of pick-pockets. He and that professional suspected the young family. That seems to be the only way young happy families can enter stories. It was nearly midnight when he reached his station, his hometown. The professional was still searching. Sweet home, alas! He got into a pre-paid auto-rickshaw. The auto-driver stopped midway, at a secluded place and started haggling for a better rate. He was tired, too tired to carry his suitcases the rest of the way, too tired to ght, too hungry too. He agreed to the autodrivers demands. Sweet home, alas! He felt like a stranger there. He slept tfully on his own bed, sans dreams, sans hope, with stories.
41
I See
I saw her enter the corridor, from the right, sashaying towards me, at ngers reach I took in that familiar perfume, watched her swaying hips and crisscrossing legs and straight back as she moved away, that twenty something. The antiseptic white walls, rm plastic seats, the dull much-washed green, the chrome of stainless-steel and the black around me could so easily be what others see, those beautiful colours with lovely names, amber, azure, crimson red, turquoise, jade, even your favourite amethyst. I can see the light hair and I trace a path from the cheek to the jaw, up and behind the ear. I did that in our rst French class. I sat behind you, to your right, stared at you like a dirty lecher. My friend and I were juvenile, I know, how we made a big deal of repeating lets eat at a brasserie. For three days, you ignored me while you still talked to my friend. I did not expect that from you, you said when I confronted you. Grow up, was my defense. You and I expected a lot, didnt we? Where was I - behind the ear? I am standing right behind you. You entered my ofce, complaining of a stiff neck. Massage lightly, I suggest. How . . . ? you ask. My thumbs at the centre, ngers reaching till the back of your ears, stroking your neck with adequate pressure and down till the upper back and shoulders. I repeated it ve or six times while you kept your head tilted forward and eyes closed. I stopped on my own. You turned towards me. Your eyes looked sideways, outside those Venetian blinds and that door, checking if colleagues had seen us. You laughed nervously. Where did you learn that? Another girl . . . I boasted. With you, I could boast. Not once did you believe me. How I wanted to hold you then. It took a few months for me to reach for your hand, to kiss the space between the third and fourth knuckle. Then, on a day not much later, I held your arms tightly, feeling your muscles straining against my grip, you were hysterical, you were mad with me. I cant remember the reason. I felt like hitting you but you knew I wouldnt. We just locked ourselves in, hungry, misunderstood, crazy. I can still see that rage in your eyes. I prefer to see those eyes when you lie next to me. These eyes . . . I study the softness,
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41 . I SEE
the trust, the creases, the laughter and the smile. Then, I see doubt and suspicion icker within. Like a stranger at the door, disappearing into the night quickly but bringing the party to an end. You thought I saw anothers eyes, didnt you? I didnt, I am sure, I think. Once, you refused to open your eyes and I really felt like hitting you. I could not speak but I was shouting a stupid I-love-you. Were you already deaf, then? I did not cry. I touched your creaseless twenty something forehead, your warm dry lips before the cold entered, when I switched off the ventilator and the doctor walked away. Damn it, woman, open your bloody eyes and look at me! I did not cry. I do not cry. I will not cry. I see too much, you say. When you blow at your ngers, at my ngers, when you stand against the door with mischief in your eyes and when I let my hand move up from the toes or from the neck downwards, I see you, not too much, I say. I see you sashaying towards me, playing hard-to-get, moving away, swaying, inviting. I stood up and made my way to the nurses desk, my hand on the wall, with each step the blur shifting further. I ask the nurse at the counter, (is it the fat one or the old one?) That girl . . . who walked by just now - who is she? Which girl? she asked. I stood there, leaning against the wall. I must have stood there for ten minutes. The nurse did not shoo me away to a hard seat. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to face my granddaughter. She brought me to the hospital, I remember. Achacha (paternal grandfather), the doctor is ready . . . he says that you will be able to see like a twenty year old after the cataract operation . . . I see . . . enough . . .
42
Remembrances
What will you remember When a life ends After the guests are gone With stories of valiant deeds Nice false notes that linger Till the dishes are washed wiped Will you dream With anothers face With lingering memories Suitably mummied A puppet to stick pins A convenient prop Best not to know What you will remember.
195

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Not Really A Story

Swapna & New Nonentities

June 12, 2011

Swapna & New Nonentities

June 12, 2011

S WAPNA & A RJUN June 12, 2011

For hosting this virtual existence, I thank:

S WAPNA & A RJUN June 12, 2011

Swapna & Arjun

39 4% Deal 40 A Story-tellers Sabbatical 41 I See 42 Remembrances

152 173 193 195

2 . EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY

Swapna & Arjun

Swapna & Arjun

Swapna & Arjun

5 . THE SCREAM WITHIN

Swapna & Arjun

5 . THE SCREAM WITHIN

6 . THE ANGRY MAN

Swapna & Arjun

6 . THE ANGRY MAN

7 . BETTER LUCK NEXT KID

Swapna & Arjun

9 . THE MACHETE MURDERS

Swapna & Arjun

9 . THE MACHETE MURDERS

Swapna & Arjun

9 . THE MACHETE MURDERS

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

Swapna & Arjun

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

2. Questions & Answers

Swapna & Arjun

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

Swapna & Arjun

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

Swapna & Arjun

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

3. The Meaning of Her Smile

Swapna & Arjun

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

Swapna & Arjun

10 . THE LADY WITH A SMILE

Swapna & Arjun

Swapna & Arjun

Monday, March 31.

Swapna & Arjun

Saturday, April 26.

12 . THE HIJACK ON AUGUST 13TH

Swapna & Arjun

12 . THE HIJACK ON AUGUST 13TH

Swapna & Arjun

12 . THE HIJACK ON AUGUST 13TH

Swapna & Arjun

12 . THE HIJACK ON AUGUST 13TH

Swapna & Arjun

Swapna & Arjun

Swapna & Arjun

Swapna & Arjun

16 . THE LAST TIME I WROTE ABOUT LOVE

Swapna & Arjun

16 . THE LAST TIME I WROTE ABOUT LOVE

Swapna & Arjun