Footsteps In The Dark

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.’