Their trip had an
ominous start.
Sreenath and his wife
Sanjana left their house at half past three, in the cool darkness, aiming to finish
the bulk of the driving before the day got hot and muggy, hoping to reach the
resort around noon. He offered to drive at the start (‘you hate driving in the
dark, right?’) and at the end too (‘not sure if you can take on the hairpin
bends’). She agreed (without any protest about either, feeling groggy with
insufficient sleep) to take on the boring middle. The previous night, they had
planned to sleep early and packed well in advance, but his parents had come
late to pick up the kids after ‘some unavoidable social gathering’. The girl
and the boy – aged ten and eight – were to stay with his parents in the first
half of the break and then with hers. It was well past midnight before they
were packed off with the customary kisses, hugs and much-repeated ‘will-miss-you’s.
To catch up on that lost sleep, Sanjana settled down on the back seat of the
sedan with couple of cushions and a light blanket. She was fast asleep when the
car got stuck in a mile-long traffic jam just half an hour into the journey.
Around two, a public
transport bus and a heavy goods truck had collided head-on at high speed. At
four, the dead and the injured were still being shifted and the police had
cordoned off the collision zone. Traffic inched forward through the limited
space available on the two-lane highway. There was blood, hastily and partially
covered crushed bodies, scattered belongings and debris on the road and on the
mangled remains of the vehicles which had, by chance, escaped a major fire or
an explosion. Sreenath saw white-faced, wide-eyed people in the passing
vehicles, some still waking up from that nightmare or slipping into one, most praying,
crying, cursing, thoughtful, dazed, irritated or relieved; a few with guilty
smiles and some laughing crazily. One of those faces must have been a
reflection of his in the tinted glass of his car or that of a passing vehicle.
He checked the rear-view mirror. Sanjana was curled up, blissfully unaware of
the carnage without. He reached to the back and tucked the blanket well around
that sleeping form. He thought about what she might do if he tickled her awake.
She might giggle, turn around and continue sleeping. She might get up looking
cross and then notice the accident zone. He was quite certain that she would
wonder why he woke her up.
It took an hour or so
to pass that zone. He then relaxed and listened to the comforting hum of the
engine. He lowered the window a little, allowing the cool air to ruffle his
hair. The stink of rotting garbage discarded on both sides of the highway made
him raise the window immediately. He cursed the government for turning nearly
everything – the once-clean state, the economy and his falling investments –
into a dump just by doing nothing. He muttered to himself, with growing
irritation, about the big plans to invest in monorail, ports, airports,
increased subsidies and even a grand museum to store the large newly-found
ancient treasure, all funded by a bankrupt state. When will the government
start doing something – when the tourists stop coming or with the onset of a
plague? He quickly decided that that train of thought would not do, at least
during the trip.
The sky brightened,
the moist and green fields whizzed past, villages and small towns lazed with
hot tea delaying the morning bath and sharing the same old morning news. Street
dogs chased the silent sedan till the edge of their territory. Soon after their
wedding, they had visited some of these places, accepting the invitation of
friends and relatives. They had borrowed his parents’ small car for those
trips. Sanjana had played Hindi songs on the stereo. With girlish exuberance,
she had talked about her new job and colleagues, or held his hand on the gear,
or leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek. They were nearly strangers
then. Sreenath used to puzzle about how she could shift with ease from being a
bubbly girl to a cool, focused professional. On her part, it took time to
understand that he liked to drive enjoying her company along with solitude
offered by silence, that he never used the stereo and that he was the same at
home or at work. A decade or so passed and they had done well together, surfing
the waves of liberalization with the new generation. He chose to be a pioneer
here, in an area at least quarter of a century old abroad, and she played a
role in restructuring and whitewashing old decrepit institutions of which there
was no dearth. They lived comfortably, and by choice not extravagantly, and
joined the club of debt-free double-income families with two kids and able
support groups on both sides.
The sedan was
cruising along a lonely, hilly stretch when the front tyre burst. Sanjana was
awake then. When Sreenath took out the spare tyre from the boot, he realized
that the workshop had goofed up during the last servicing. By mistake, the
garage lot had placed the spare tyre of another car and, unfortunately, that of
a different make. Sreenath took out a road-map from his back-pack and studied
it. He told Sanjana to wait in the car. He waited for a while for a passing
vehicle before deciding to walk to a village further ahead, about three
kilometers from there.
Though she was
accustomed to it, his sang-froid in a crisis still amazed her. If she had to
list her husband’s ten virtues, she was sure that that quality would top the
list. During their early days, he was a little different – he was unruffled
during a crisis even then, but a worrier otherwise. She used to be amused, and
mildly irritated, with the way he would tie himself into knots thinking about
all the things that could go wrong. And, quite paradoxically, when situations did
go wrong, he tackled it as if it was just normal. She remembered a rough boat ride,
on a trip before their fist kid. She had curled up against him, and he had held
her tight in a bear-hug. He had been cool and unperturbed, cracking jokes and
even munching crisps as if the river was placid and not stomach-churning. But,
before that trip, he had been most difficult – pestering the officials about the
age and history of the boat and, of course, asking to see if the required
safety rig was on board.
Suddenly or
gradually, sometime in the years that rolled by, the worrier left leaving behind
only the coolheaded or the coldblooded. She did wonder if that quality of his
was because of some inner faith; or, because the outcome actually mattered
little to him. She also thought about his list of her ten virtues and the
quality that might top that list. Maybe, he did not have a list, she allowed.
Or, assuming he did have one, she would have liked to know if he had been
erasing any points lately.
Sreenath walked to
the village and there, he felt he was doubly-blessed when he managed to hire an
auto-rickshaw and the driver seemed to know of a good workshop ‘a few furlongs
away’. First, they returned to the car, picked up Sanjana and the burst tyre. The
car was left locked and sufficiently balanced on the jack and the ill-fitting
spare tyre which served at least as a prop. The rickshaw driver was talkative and
friendly, and kept them entertained. He was a storehouse of general information
and even quizzed them about current affairs and latest events. He told them
that he was studying for the PSC exam (‘dreaming of a government job to escape
from this wheel’, he confessed) or at least a job with the police. He openly
asked them if they knew people who could push his case with the police (‘necessary
for the job, more than physical fitness’, he stressed and also added, ‘the written
test is easy, not much of a mental job’). When they told him that they did not
know any policeman, he sulked for a while (‘you look the type who would know’,
his mutter was clearly audible). The ‘few furlongs away’ turned out to be a
long ride on bumpy village roads. The couple noticed black posters at regular
intervals on walls and posts. With some prompting, the driver explained at
length, rapidly coming out of his sulk, about the recent political murders.
‘Whose posters are
these, the murdered or the murderers?’ they asked.
‘The murderers, of course. How will the
murdered speak?’ the driver guffawed and then, after taking measure of their
ignorance, explained, ‘Both camps are murderers.’
‘In the old days, the retaliation used to be
quick and the cycle could continue, fast. These days, with media not letting go
of a story, everything gets prolonged unnecessarily. As if there is justice if
it is delayed.’ He complained.
Then, he added with
pride, ‘They really move with the times. Taking into consideration modern surgical
techniques, they have changed their ways. These days, they not only hack off
limbs but burn the hacked limbs too. No use for surgery then, right? Of course,
that is only when they do not kill, and only try to teach a lesson.’
At the workshop, a
recalcitrant though skilful mechanic grudgingly took on their task, constantly
grumbling that a mechanic does not fix tyres, a job he considered to be well
below his station. The couple and their guide waited at a nearby makeshift
tea-shop, having tea and surprisingly fresh buns. There, the driver whispered
to them that the workshop mechanic moonlighted as a hired killer. Later, the
couple were taken aback when the mechanic refused to accept their handsome tip
and surly insisted on taking only what he charged which seemed abysmally low by
city standards or by their estimate of a hired killer’s needs. Their rickshaw
driver, on the other hand, was quite happy to accept that tip (plus ‘extra help
for exams’). He did help Sreenath change the tyre though only by handing him
the tools.
It was nearly noon by
the time they were on their way. Sanjana took the wheel and Sreenath sat next
to her, reclining backwards as much as the seat allowed. They were at least six
hours behind schedule. He closed his eyes.
‘Tired?’ Sanjana
asked, though it seemed redundant.
He laughed.
She could guess the
meaning of that mirthless laugh. After their wedding, they had delayed the
honeymoon trip (‘work should come before pleasure at this stage’, their
unanimous decision). It was after persistent goading from both sets of parents
that they finally went, after nearly eight months. Her parents thought of it as
a necessity to have ‘good news’. His parents’ view was based on comparison (‘you
can also do what he does’, they had told Sreenath in Sanjana’s absence, the ‘he’
being Sanjana’s elder brother). ‘He’ and his wife (both in the US then) had
honeymooned in Hawaii and Sanjana’s parents had shown Sreenath’s parents honeymoon
photos of that delighted, compatible couple. This insistence on trips later became
an annual exercise. Her parents did stop after the advent of the kids. His
parents persisted till her sibling’s no-fault divorce (‘incompatible’, her
brother had explained succinctly and her parents had protested ‘how can a man
and a woman be incompatible?’). By then, the annual trips had become a custom
for the couple and later, for their kids too. Every year, the couple and their
kids visited a new place, on package tours or otherwise – Cyprus and Prague,
whirlwind tour of Western Europe including Lake District (6D/7N), North East
India, Lakshadweep, Kandahar and Uzbekhistan (before kids), Sri Lanka, South
East Asia, China, Australia, South Africa of course, Brazil and Guatemala but
not US (since her brother had covered that). These seasoned globetrotters could
handle the motions of modern day tourists like it was daily routine. But, their
honeymoon was different.
Sreenath planned that
well. Luck seemed to be with them when the travel and the accommodation were
upgraded. But, as soon as the honeymoon started, just everything went awry. After
using the swimming pool on the first evening, Sreenath suffered an eye
infection and a miserable cold for a day or two. Then, for a few days, Sanjana
was irritable and out of sorts with a toothache and associated mild fever. It
rained on the two days they planned to go sightseeing. For the impatient and
frustrated young couple, the trip got registered in memory as ‘fine food,
dysfunctional a/c and bad sex’. The trip improved a little when they got more
than each other’s company and were befriended by a seasoned married couple (‘around
forty or so’) with who they shared drinks on couple of occasions. The young
couple envied, and also admired, the other pair’s elegance and comfort with
each other (‘we will be that’, they promised, renewing their not-yet-old marriage
vows with ‘to walk hand-in-hand, when we are old, agreeably silent and
comfortably together’, imagining themselves in picture perfect postcard scenes).
But, on the stage of that honeymoon, matters turned critical when Sanjana
accused Sreenath of giving undue attention to that admired older woman, and Sreenath
refused to respond. The young couple returned home, silent, bruised and glad to
have other company. In the years that followed, they never suffered so nor did
the issue of infidelity ever raise its head, but that memory refused to fade
away.
Then, recently, his
parents rocked that boat and suggested that the couple should go for a second
honeymoon. Hers had seconded the motion. The couple had been surprised. Her
brother was still divorced and single and so the inspiration must have been some
other source. Sreenath had responded to the suggestion with that same mirthless
laugh.
Couple of nights
later, the couple decided that they should try it out – a trip without the
kids, a second honeymoon. (‘What the heck’, they seemed ready for the ominous.)
The journey proceeded
smoothly. Around two, they stopped and snacked on lightly buttered cucumber sandwiches
and shared a bottle of fruit juice. The car was parked near a temple pond.
‘Want to jump in,
Mrs.?’ he asked.
‘After you, Mr.’ she
challenged.
‘Tempting, so
tempting,’ he said.
They got ready to
move on. While she drove, Sreenath kept talking to Sanjana to counter the
soporific effect of the hot afternoon. The dialogue continued in automatic mode
– about forgettable memories, anecdotes, books, movies and music, avoiding
topics related to relatives, friends and work.
About five, they
exchanged seats. The car left the plains, past the bank of a sad, dry,
sand-mined river, leaving behind dusty roads cutting through paddy fields
shrinking with each passing season yielding space to rubber or concrete. He
maneuvered the hairpin bends slowly, with rocky depths on one side and on the
other, the untouched, uninhabited forest. They lowered the windows and let in the
cool, hilly air. Midway, after the eleventh hairpin curve, they paused, got out
of the car and watched the sunset. He drew her close and kissed her. They
hugged each other briefly, mindful that they needed a change of clothes and a
good shower after the long, tiring, sweaty day. When they returned to the car,
it was already dark and their weariness was obvious.
‘Where would you like
to be now? I mean, if you were not tired and all that.’ He asked her.
‘At a rock concert,
letting my hair down, having good rowdy fun,’ she replied. ‘And you?’
‘Walking in some
garden, one of those lovely ones in large cemeteries, remember the Pere Lachaise or the Highgate? Walking from one gravestone to the
next, that would be nice’
‘That is morbid.’
‘Depends,’ he paused, ‘it could be romantic, too.’
A few silent seconds later, she asked, ‘With who?’
He remained silent. In the dark, the driving was slow and careful.
They reached the resort around half past eight. At the gate, they collected
the key to their cottage. The watchman informed them that their meal was in the
oven. They had called the owners earlier and arranged for this, explaining
their delay and exhaustion. The lights in the Old House where the owners lived,
half a kilometer from theirs, were barely visible through the woods that
separated the two buildings. They took in their well-traveled suitcases and
backpacks. The latter had the usual – change of clothes, toilet kit and
medicines, e-reader, i-pod, camera, writing material and such – though nothing
of their office work, not even their laptops (‘no internet connectivity’, the resort
website stressed as if it was the highlight of the place).
Sreenath showered first and then slipped into a bathrobe offered by
the resort. They felt too lazy to unpack. While Sanjana used the bathroom, he
laid the table in the dining-cum-kitchen and surveyed the stuff in the oven and
the fridge. He poured himself a peg of single malt from a bottle in the kitchen
cabinet. Sanjana came out in a large bath towel. She picked up a spare blanket
from the cupboard, wrapped herself in it and left the towel to dry in the
bathroom. She came to the kitchen and sipped from her husband’s drink. They had
a quick but nourishing meal, the first proper one that day, of rice, breads,
couple of Indian vegetarian and meat dishes they were too tired to identify,
and finished with iced kheer topped with chocolate sauce and nuts. Then, they
slept.
Sanjana woke up around eight. For a moment, she felt disoriented in that
strange, dark bedroom. The curtains were closed. She turned to the right and
found her husband’s side of the bed empty. She heard footsteps outside the room
and assumed that it was Sreenath. Though she felt fresh and energetic after the
good night’s sleep, she remained in bed, happy to laze without pending chores
or deadlines. Maybe, her husband was in the bathroom and he would come out,
greet her with breakfast or a hug and a kiss, even though she didn’t like to
kiss or breakfast before brushing her teeth. After fifteen minutes, she got out
of bed and went to the bathroom, realizing that she was alone in the cottage.
When she came out showered, feeling strangely morose and a lot less eager, she
heard the front door opening. She could hear Sreenath moving to the kitchen.
‘Where were you?’ she asked.
‘I got up early and went for a walk.’
‘Oh.’
‘I brought breakfast from the Old House. Come fast, I am starving.’
‘Let me dress.’
‘Do that later, will you?’ he rushed her.
She was in the kitchen ten minutes later, dressed. He brewed fresh
coffee while she unpacked the hamper. There were bottles of fresh juice, tubs
of sweet yoghurt with fruits, boiled eggs, fried sausages, croissants, jam,
butter and a variety of pastries and cup-cakes.
‘You could have called me,’ she said, nibbling a pastry.
‘You looked so peaceful asleep.’
‘Guess you wanted to go alone.’
‘Want a tour of the place this morning?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘No.’
‘I think I will prowl around. Probably meet the owner at the Old House.
Only the wife was around when I collected the food. She told me that they are
waiting to meet you. When would you like to meet them?’
‘Should I?’
‘Come on, don’t be difficult early morning.’
‘Difficult?’
They ate silently after that. When they had cleared the table, she said,
‘I miss the kids.’
‘I called them from the Old House. They were busy getting ready to go
to the Water World. I talked to my parents.’
‘I hope they won’t catch anything out there.’
‘With your mother and mine around, that’s unlikely. Your parents are
also going along. They have hired a SUV.’
‘Sounds like good fun, would have been lovely to be with them. Feels strange
without them,’ she said.
‘Them? Kids or parents?’ he asked.
‘Kids, of course,’ she replied.
‘Anyway, strange or whatever, I think it’s good to be away for a
while.’
‘I don’t feel that way.’
‘Don’t or can’t?’
‘It’s just different for you and me.’
‘Oh crap. Here comes the good ol’ wireless connection within and
without the womb, spiritual blah-blah between mothers and kids, huh?’
‘It is not that.’
‘Well, they miss you as much as you miss your mother.’
‘All I am saying is that I miss them.’
‘All you are saying is that you can’t admit that you don’t really miss
them.’
‘I bet you don’t.’
‘Maybe not – in fact, yes, I am quite glad to have the space and
time.’
‘Preferably, without me, too, right?’
‘With you,’ he said.
‘Then, why did we come to this place of all places, in the middle of
nowhere?’ she asked.
During one of her official foreign trips, he had taken leave and stayed
at this resort alone. They never talked about it. Sanjana had not even shown
any interest in seeing the photos of that trip. But, when the issue of second
honeymoon came up, she had suggested this place. Maybe, she wants to share his
experience; or maybe, she wants to disturb those memories, he had thought while
agreeing to her request.
‘You chose this place.’ He reminded her and then added, ‘And, I didn’t
stay in this cottage.’
‘I told you that I want to stay in that cottage.’
‘I know. But…’
‘You don’t want to share that with me, do you?’
‘Aw, come on.’
She remained silent, glaring at him, holding back tears.
‘Come with me,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Let me show you around this cottage. We have not even gone to the
drawing room, have we?’
‘I will see it on my own.’
‘Do what you want.’
With that, he stormed out of the dining room. She could hear him
collect some stuff, zipping his backpack and windcheater and then marching out
of the cottage. She wanted to tell him to stay. She didn’t.
She moved to the bedroom and opened the curtains. The sight on that
side, of the lush dense forest and wild flowers, soothed her. The morning
light, filtered through the leaves, danced on the carpeted floor and the bed.
She then went to the drawing room. It was a large uncluttered cosy room, the
dark rosewood of the furniture strangely blending well with the chrome of the
audio-visual system and the leather of big armchairs that could seat two
hugging figures. There were Venetian blinds in the front. These were closed and
the room was lit by reading lamps near the armchairs. She pulled up the blinds
and the natural light softly invaded the room, revealing the near-transparent
French windows that separated the drawing room and the balcony in front. The
view took away her breath, and made her move a few steps back. She realized
then why Sreenath had not stayed here on his previous visit, and also why he
chose this room, for her, if not for them.
She opened the French windows and stepped out. She had known that this
cottage was near a cliff but she had not realized how close it really was to
the edge. The hanging balcony was a marvel. It was a floating construction with
a transparent, open volume of reinforced fiber-glass and steel. The pillars and
supports were hardly visible below or above, giving an unobstructed view all
around. Sanjana stood at the center of the square floor. She felt as if she was
hanging in mid-air, floating with zero gravity. At the back, she could see the
forest, the rocks and the imposing granite face of the hill. Below, there were
translucent clouds, a thin film over the collage of green and brown fields and
the blue-green water of lakes, ponds and a river. And around, on the other
three sides, there was nothing but space. She could fly, she was flying, she
thought. She gave a whoop of joy. She turned, hoping to see Sreenath there, to
share with him her happiness.
Sreenath was not there. She knew that he would not stand there,
looking at her on the balcony, even if he was in the cottage. His vertigo would
not allow him to go near the balcony.
She did not let that thought dampen her spirits. She rushed inside,
got her writing material and came back to the balcony. Seated on the floor,
right at the middle, she wrote about all that she felt then, all that she
wanted to share. She played with haikus, tried other forms of poetry, included
symbols and imagery to capture the experience. She knew that it had been a long
time since she felt so full of life.
Then, she heard footsteps from within the cottage.
‘Is that you, Sreenath?’ she called.
The footsteps receded from the inner rooms. It seemed to move towards
the roof, climbing the walls, clambering and approaching the balcony from above.
She moved inside with her stuff, closed and locked the French windows, drew
down and closed the blinds and then moved away. She wondered if she had
imagined it all but she could not shake off the clinging feeling that someone
or something was lying on the roof, peeping within through unseen gaps or
holes. She was scared. She reached for her mobile forgetting that there was no
network coverage in that resort. She then picked up the old phone in the
drawing room, for internal calls, and got connected to the Old House. Sanjana
spoke to a young lady, and asked if Sreenath was in the Old House, and she was
told that he was. When Sreenath came on the line, all she could manage to say
to her husband was,
‘Please come here, now.’
Sreenath arrived within five
minutes, panting after the sprint from the Old House. She told him about her
frightful experience, admitting that she could have imagined everything.
Sreenath listened to her, holding and calming her. Then, still holding her hand
and keeping her close next to him, they searched within and without, nearly
everywhere. He did not go near the balcony, not even opening the blinds
covering the French windows. They sat together in one of those armchairs, her
legs lying over his, his arms around her, caressing and kissing.
Around one, they requested for room service and ordered a simple lunch
of soup, satay, noodles, mushroom, baby corn and bamboo shoots sautéed with
pork in a light sauce and finished with lychee and ice-cream. They slept till
tea-time and even then, lazed, sipping tea in bed, watching a comedy on TV,
laughing.
‘What did you do this morning?’ she asked.
‘I talked to the owner. He is really into architecture, and he is in
love with Naples. It is stunning – his knowledge about urban architecture, new
and old, and you should see his collection of books and photos. Amazing.’
‘I think I saw that on the balcony. It is marvelous. Have you seen
it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you try?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Chicken!’ she teased.
‘Look who was scared,’ he parried.
Her mood changed, recollecting the events of that morning.
‘I wrote a lot this morning,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘Do you want to read it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Maybe, some other time,’ she hesitated, as if unsure, or waiting for
some show of enthusiasm.
‘Come on, show it to me.’ Sreenath prodded.
She gave him her notebook and sat close while he studied it, slowly,
silently.
‘It is nice,’ he said.
‘Just nice?’
‘Very nice. Lovely.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Come on, Sanjana.’
She took the book from him and got out of bed.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t sulk.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Stop what?’
‘You used to talk. At least, try.’
He remained silent.
‘You used to even try reading between the lines. Now, not even the
lines seem to interest you, right?’ she asked.
He did not know how to tell her whatever she wanted to hear. It was
true that he used to read a lot between the lines. Too much, in fact, he felt.
And that too much used to suit him. But then he had started wondering if the
writing was otherwise. She had realized that part and how he seemed unsure if
the writing was innocuous, favourable or uncomfortable. Then, with time, the
effort and the involvement in interpreting and getting it right or wrong – all
that became avoidable.
She moved to the drawing room and then to the balcony, her space. He
showered and read a book lying in the bedroom. Around five, she came back
within and asked him,
‘Shall we go for a walk?’
He took her on a tour of the resort. He vaguely recollected that the
owner and his wife ‘lived in the Middle-east or Libya or somewhere like that
for nearly thirty years’, and that they used to be ‘in the real estate or
construction or some similar business’. The owner inherited the land from a
bachelor grand uncle (‘everyone should have one’), an entrepreneur of the old
days, who had ‘occupied’ this hill. The lower regions were still used for
agriculture, and like the old days, the servants of the house and the other workers
on the plantation lived there. The rest was kept as it was or nearly as it was
– a virgin forest, without the three buildings. The Old House was built by the
grand uncle, a stone structure with heavy wooden furniture and basic modern
amenities added later, and the owner and his wife lived there. A cook and an
overseer stayed in outhouses behind the Old House. The two new cottages were
added by the present owner, to put to test his interest in architecture – in
the west, near the cliff, their cottage; and to the east, about a kilometer from
the Old House, the cottage where Sreenath had stayed during his earlier trip. By
word of mouth, the place became an exclusive boutique resort. Sreenath took her
to the other cottage. It was further downhill and beside a lake separating the
resort and the next hill. There was a small wooden dock in front of that
cottage and a rowing boat tied there.
‘Tomorrow, let’s row to the far end of the lake. You will like it
there, I think,’ he said to Sanjana.
‘What’s there?’
‘Let it be a surprise.’
‘Yes, let it be.’ Sanjana said excitedly, holding his hand tightly.
She was amazed by the beauty of the place. Her balcony was better, she
evaluated, but this was a very close second.
It was dusk by then. They watched and photographed the changing colour
of the sky and the lake till it was nearly dark. Then, they walked back to the
Old House to have dinner with the owners. They shared a simple meal of thin,
light phulka, steamed rice, dal, beef stew, fried chicken, salad and a tangy
preparation with spinach, potato and coconut. Sanjana liked the old, amiable
couple. During the meal, the four conversed freely about the resort,
architecture and the trip. The old couple was amused by the account of the
rickshaw driver. When they touched upon politics, each one defended their stand
stoutly, finally agreeing to disagree. Sanjana was surprised to find that the
old man was nearly aligned with her center-right views while his soft-spoken
wife was left-leaning and definitely more actively rebellious working with the
workers’ groups in that area, compared to Sreenath’s moderately socialist (‘armchair
New Left’, he admitted) views. After the main course, they moved to the front
porch with bowls of homemade ice-cream. Then, they had a choice of brandy and
almond liqueur. The owner rolled cigarettes for himself and Sreenath. Sanjana
shared her husband’s cigarette. The four hardly talked there, enjoying the
silent company and the sound of the wild. Around half past nine, the younger
couple thanked the owners.
‘Please come for dinner tomorrow too,’ the owner requested, ‘I will
try to fix up a barbeque here – fish, lamb, brinjal and corn. How does that
sound?’
‘Thanks a lot – that would be lovely.’ The younger couple said
together.
‘We plan to use the boat tomorrow, early, around nine.’ Sreenath
informed.
‘Please do. I will keep a picnic basket ready for you. Collect it on
your way,’ the owner’s wife said. Then, when they were leaving, she hugged
Sanjana and asked about that morning.
‘I heard that you experienced something weird.’
‘Yes, it was weird.’
‘She is not really sure if it was a product of an overheated
imagination,’ Sreenath joked.
The old man took Sanjana’s hand and comforted her, ‘One has to get
used to the wild. It is like getting used to life within concrete jungles,
where we pay no heed to endless footfalls on the staircase or the feeling that
eyes peep through windows or keyholes, right? It is the same here – with the
sound of footsteps in the dark, the feel of eyes looking, the strange sights
and the acoustics, silence too. It took me a long time to get used to all
that.’
‘He even thought that it is some act of God,’ the owner’s wife added
with a smile.
‘Her creativity must have overflowed on that balcony,’ Sreenath
quipped and also added, ‘she is really crazy about that.’
‘It needs a poet to understand it,’ the owner said.
‘Well, if you get really crazy with your husband, you can push him
onto that balcony,’ the owner’s wife advised Sanjana, with a kind smile towards
Sreenath, ‘that should make him go crazy.’
When they were walking back to their cottage, Sreenath asked Sanjana,
‘When did you tell them about my vertigo?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then, how did they know?’
‘You must have told them. You even told them about my poetry.’
‘I did not.’
‘You must have, when you told them about my fright this morning?’
‘When did I tell them? You were with me all the time.’
‘Weird.’
Back in the cottage, they watched a DVD they had with them – an episode
of Foyle’s War. Midway, Sanjana asked
him,
‘You actually think that I imagined everything this morning, huh?’
He remained silent, apparently absorbed in the crime show. After that,
they went to bed. In the darkness, she told him,
‘I didn’t imagine.’
His silence continued.
‘Why can’t you say something?’
‘What should I say?’
‘That you don’t have anything to say…’
‘Great!’
‘…to me,’ she completed.
‘Sanjana, please don’t start.’
‘Why do you turn away? Is it like your vertigo? Some fear you don’t
have to face if you just avoid?’
‘What am I avoiding?’
‘Us.’
‘What about us?’
‘It seems as if you are just putting up with it, resigned to live with
it, out of duty or something else.’
‘I live with it because I want it.’
‘But you can feel it, can’t you? How it feels so lifeless?’
‘Sanjana, now you are imagining things.’
‘I wish I was. Tell me the truth. Don’t you feel that it is over?’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘I think you are settling for whatever is there, continuing with it
because that is easy, even if it is so little.’
‘That’s what you think. Not what I think. And you have always been
fixated on that, right from our wedding day.’ Sreenath was losing his cool.
‘But I was right even then. You did say that you considered arranged
marriage only because the love option did not happen.’
‘But that’s true for everyone, isn’t it?’
‘Not for me.’
‘Crap!’
‘Yeah! Swear, shout and cut it short!’
‘Try to get some sleep, will you?’
Then there was silence.
The next morning, they were silent at breakfast , hardly noticing what they had. Around nine, they set off on their
planned picnic, still not talking. They picked up the lunch basket at the Old
House. It was a cool, bright, blue day perfect for their hike. They made it to
the other cottage in quick time. Standing on the wooden dock, they took photos
of themselves and the area around the calm and inviting lake. They untied the
rowboat together. Sreenath rowed alone at first with Sanjana sitting opposite,
facing him. Then she moved over to his bench and sat next to him. They rowed
together, with his right arm around her and holding her oar too. It took them
an hour to reach their destination at the other end, diagonally opposite to the
dock and cottage. There, they pulled the boat onto the pebble beach. They tied
the boat to a tree-stump. From the beach, it was a five-minute uphill hike to the
secluded pond in the flat rocks around, fed by a small waterfall upstream, that
whole area shielded partially by the shady canopy of old trees. Like kids with
too much to choose from, they clambered over the rocks, checking out and taking
their time to pick their spot. They laid a sheet on that flat rock and basked
in the semi-shade, sipping lemonade and sharing a chocolate. They stripped, put on their bathing suit,
jumped in and swam in cold, clear water.
‘Couple of years back, couple of foreigners got into some problem
here,’ Sreenath said, lying on his back, eyes shut, his hands and feet tapping lightly
the surface of the pond, sending circles to the edge.
‘What happened?’ Sanjana asked, treading water near him, between
underwater dives to explore the life below.
‘They were caught for being obscene in the open.’
She laughed, then curious, ‘But, who caught them here?’
He shrugged, ‘Some jealous fool.’ He then opened his eyes, looked at
her with a broad grin on his face and asked, ‘Well, do you want to get caught,
Mrs.?’
‘Ready if you are, Mr.’ she replied with a laugh.
They stayed there till three and then rowed back. They walked back to
their cottage, showered together and rested till it was time to dress for
dinner. They were famished, ready for the barbeque and the chilled beer. After the
meal, they played Scrabble with the old couple, shared a joint and listened to
old songs, some blues, and then jazz and before they left, it was some scratchy
record with psychedelic stuff, probably Syd Barrett when he was totally doped.
The couple walked hand in hand, happy, content and if they had
remembered then, they would have found it amusing that they looked quite like
that older couple they had envied during their first honeymoon.
Quarter of the way to their cottage, they got caught in a cloudburst.
They stood under a huge tree and waited till it reduced to a light shower. They
heard the footsteps when they were about to step out from the shade. They stood
still and the footsteps died down, too. Then, from that direction, they also
heard a snarl and heavy panting, like that of a rabid dog. Sreenath held
Sanjana close, his left arm around her shoulders, his right ready by his side
for any attack. She could sense that he was tense and watchful. The panting got
closer and the snarling louder. They heard footsteps then, separate and moving fast
towards the snarling. They heard the sound of beating and then loud, disturbing
moans of pain. The source of those moans moved away from them. The footsteps
once again stopped. The couple surveyed the trees around, expecting to see a
figure standing there, staring at them. They started walking to their cottage,
the rain a mild drizzle. They could hear nothing other than the sound of rain
drops falling from leaves and branches onto puddles, their feet rustling dead
leaves or the snapping of dry branches or twigs. They saw no one but they could
sense that they were being watched. They did not rush but when they reached
their cottage, they were breathing heavily, wet, cold and flushed.
He stripped off his wet clothes and slipped into the bathrobe. He
helped her remove her wet clothes. She wrapped herself in a blanket and then
excused herself, taking their wet clothes to hang it on a line in the bathroom.
She washed her face, arms and shoulder, taking deep breaths and steadying
herself. She noticed the imprint of her husband’s metal watch-strap on her
shoulder. She then went to the bedroom, still wrapped in the blanket, and found
it empty. She moved to the drawing room. The room was dark but for the eerie
moonlight that flooded the room. The French windows were open and Sreenath was
not within the room.
She rushed to the French window, expecting to see the worst, a
strangled cry in her throat. There, on the balcony, Sreenath was slowly moving
to the center, with his eyes closed. She wondered if he could actually beat
vertigo by closing his eyes. Near the middle of the balcony, he stopped. She
walked up to him and held him.
‘What are you up to?’ she asked softly.
He placed a finger on her lips, as if to silence her. Without opening
his eyes, he kissed her on the lips, lightly. He then sat on the floor,
reaching for her, blindly. She knelt on the floor, in front of him. He drew her
closer, nearly lifting her on to his lap. She sat astride, facing him, with her
arms on his shoulder, their foreheads touching. She could see the face of the
imposing cliff, the dark forest and the empty expanse all around.
‘Do you think someone is watching us?’ she asked.
‘You know very well that I am not in a position to check,’ he said, eyes
shut, his arms enveloping her, pressing her closer.
‘You keep your eyes closed, Mr.’
‘Thank you, Mrs.’
