The Best of Our Days

 

 

I turned around in my seat to face the noisy kids. “Could you please shut up?”

It was a lousy movie. It was worse after that.

When lights came on during interval, I thought of apologizing to them. I stood up. They had also stood up. They scowled at me. I noticed they had come with an old couple.

I followed the kids to the snack counter. The brother must be twenty or so, his sister at least half a dozen years younger. He kept an arm around her shoulder as they approached the unruly crowd at the snack counter.

I whispered in the boy’s ear, “Follow me, keep your sister in between, protect her from behind.”

I made way through the crowd. My grumpy nature helped. The kids followed. I heard her ask him, “What did the creep say to you?”

After the movie, I had more reason to have a foul mood. A car was parked in such a way that I could not get mine out. I shouted at the parking attendant. Not that that helped. After fifteen minutes, a lady my age or so came to the car, along with those two kids and the old couple.

“I should have known,” I muttered.

The girl told the lady, “That’s him.”

The lady looked at me. I could see where the kids got their scowl from. I returned my best.

“Shake,” the lady said, the scowl turning into a familiar smile.

That took me by surprise. Some call me Shakes, the fashionably abbreviated form of Shekhar, but only one had ever called me Shake.

“Indu,” I said.

“How are you?” she said.

“Staying alive. You?”

“Same.”

The parking attendant interrupted. “Now, you don’t want to go.”

We ignored him. She introduced her parents.

“You used to drop her off after tuition,” her mother said. I nodded.

Her father asked me what I did. I replied, “Nothing.” He frowned.

The parking attendant muttered something we didn’t hear.

“Better go before I bash him up,” I said.

She smiled.

“Can I have your number?” I asked.

She hesitated. Then, she took out her smartphone and said, “Tell me.”

I told her my number. She dialled. I took out my mobile and looked at her number.

The girl gave a loud hoot. “Look at his phone. What’s that?”

The girl’s mother smothered a laugh, “Shake, really? You still have one of those Nokia thingies?”

I turned to the girl. “Young lady, this has an alarm clock. And, Pinarayi and Shah can’t track me like they track you all.”

That got a loud snort.

They went to their car. I heard the girl ask her mother, “Why did he call you Indu?”

A few days later, I got a SMS from Indu. “Lost my number?”

I called her back.

“You could have replied with a message,” she said.

“My fingers don’t poke where fingers aren’t supposed to poke,” I said.

There was silence from her end.

“I don’t message,” I clarified.

“Definitely not on that thingy,” she said.

We did not talk for long. I told her that I do not do phone calls either. I asked her if she could e-mail. She asked for my email id and immediately sent a Hello. I told her to wait till I logged into my account on the laptop.

“Is your laptop running XP?” she asked.

“Very funny,” I said.

I replied to her email with a Hi.

Before ending the call, I laid down some ground rules. Do not twist anything I write into double entendre or something like that. Any confusion, clarify. She too made her rules clear. Do not think I am hitting on you. Ever. Replies will not be prompt or regular, she added.

Our email exchange turned out to be a regular affair. At least two or three from each side every day.

“We should have kept in touch via letters back then,” I wrote in one.

“We should have at least remained on talking terms,” she replied.

In our final year, we went to the same Physics tuition teacher thrice a week after school. The teacher’s house was close to our school. We took the 15:45 city bus; tuition class was for an hour from four; we walked to a main bus stop two kilometres from there, after having a snack at a small shop; I got off at her stop and walked with her to her house; and, I used to be back home around six.

Her family was conservative and orthodox, so was mine and every other family I knew in my city-town. One mate told me she was Pentecost and did not take medicine even when she was sick. Another told me she was evangelical and sang prayers instead of eating. At home, my folks thought I was turning out to be a fanatic. Later I learned that my school mates thought that too. It did not help that I gave a semi-religious speech for a competition in the final school year. I do not remember the details. It had a lot to do with Hindu pride and nationalistic fervour. I like to think now that I did not really know what I was saying then. I do remember that the speech was met with an uneasy silence from the audience. Younger kids who used to hero worship me maintained a distance from then on.

We used to talk, I am not sure about what, during that walk from the tuition teacher’s house to the bus stop. After that speech, that stopped. After I/she poked at her/my faith.

That is her name, Faith. But I called her Indu. She called me Shake. In the best of our days, we wanted something for ourselves.

Our email exchange revolved around our lives. We did not ask too many questions. We spoke, or rather wrote, our mind. We knew most of the details, life in small places tend to be so. We were divorced. I knew she had had an affair, after her divorce, with one of our old school mates. That idiot bragged about it in a social media group. She exited all social media groups then. I was not on any social media, and hardly in contact with anyone, but got to know all the lurid details. She knew about how my marriage went to the rocks. Those details were well-circulated. She did not know that my affair was with a married woman. I gave her details in an email.

In one email, she wrote, “For the first time, I feel that there’s someone ready to accept my version.”

“Same here,” I replied.

Given our worldviews, experiences and cynicism, we did not add that we might actually be taking in a different version. After all, we had stressed that it was all about feeling that way.

She irritated me when she wrote, “Did you hit her and use all her money?”

I replied with silence.

“Did I irritate you? I am in that kind of mood,” she wrote with a zany look emoji.

I did not tell her what I had typed and then deleted. “Did you sleep with him to ensnare him?” I guess she would not have taken it as a rhetorical question.

Slowly, gingerly, we wrote about all the other stuff people were saying about us.

“Catharsis sucks!” she concluded.

“I’ve got only her to do that,” I wrote.

“Convince me how that isn’t a double entendre.”

“That was the truth.”

In another email, she asked me if I liked kids. I replied with a very quick negative. We did not talk about her kids. Or about our family.

She read my stories. I read her poetry. We did not offer feedback. We gave encouragement. Just two amateurs wanting to be amateurs.

We became comfortable enough with each other to talk about sex.

“He turned out to be only as good, or as bad, as my husband,” she wrote.

“It is usually so,” I replied, trying to sound confident.

“Are you impotent as your wife claimed?” she asked.

“Only with the wrong woman at the wrong place at the wrong time,” I replied.

“So, always?” she wrote.

“Grrr…”

Faith was touched upon a lot later. We jointly came to the conclusion that the biggest plus point about being a social discard is to lose faith in the collective stuff. She did ask if I still gave horrid speeches. To four walls, all the time, I told her.

We probed about the individual. That seemed benign, definitely not malignant. We pushed boundaries. We kept them intact, though.

“Let’s have coffee,” she wrote.

“Outside,” I insisted.

“Definitely. But you might meet my kids.”

“That’s ok. Just make sure they don’t poison my coffee.”

“My son won’t.”

She came in an auto. She told me her kids would pick her up.

Quite formally, we congratulated and thanked each other for what we had shared so far.

“If we were in your story, how would it end?” she asked between sips.

“Probably, in love.” I thought for a while. “But how?”

“Medical emergency and we are there for each other and find deep love,” she suggested.

“Your daughter needs my help and I prove to be an able guardian. God forbid,” I said. She laughed.

She and I listed out the cliché scenes, from the tragicomic to even murder.

I wrote down all the points in my pocketbook.

Her kids turned up.

The boy gave a small smile. The girl had perfected an ugly scowl. When I went to get the kids ice-cream, the girl took the pocketbook I had left on the table and read the points. I did not object about her intrusion when I returned with their ice-cream.

“Why haven’t you mentioned the situation in ‘The Lady with the Dog’?” the girl asked.

“Aren’t you too young to read that Chekhov story?” I asked.

She gave her famous snort.

And, as explanation, she said, “I read.”

“But…” I was interrupted.

“She writes too,” her brother said.

“Oh…”

“Her second novel will be out next month,” he said.

“Her novel…?”

“She has more than thirty thousand followers,” he continued.

“You are joking…no?” I spluttered. “Indu, you could have told me that your kid could help me sell my stories.”

“Do you think she will?” Indu said.

I smiled sweetly at her daughter. No scowl on that poker face.

“I have read some of your stories,” the girl said.

“You have?”

“Too much of you.”

“Too much, indeed.”

“You don’t have to repeat.”

“I don’t.”

“Brrr…have you published any?” the expert asked.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Not good enough…”

The round eyes compressed to slits.

“Not my philosophy,” I said.

“Philosophy isn’t philosophy if kept to oneself,” the girl said.

“She should be locked up,” I complained to her mother.

When we were about to leave, I took out a birthday card from my backpack and gave it to the girl.

“My birthday is not anytime now,” she objected.

“Kids your age should have a birthday every month,” I said.

Indu looked at me. I had said those words to her long back along with the monthly gift of a birthday card.

“Let’s have a party soon,” I said.

“It’s Ma’s birthday next week,” the boy said.

“I will make the cake,” the girl said.

“You cook too?” I asked. Without waiting for the snort, I continued, “Ok, I will bring the enji-mittayi.”

“What’s that?” the kids asked.

“Local delicacy, ginger sweet, what all kids miss nowadays,” I said. “Your mother used to finish off all my money on that.”

“Yeah, right, 50 paisa for ten,” Indu said. “Where are you going to get that these days?”

“I have learned to make that, everything is on the Net,” I said.

It was time to leave. The ladies went to their car. The boy held me back.

“Promise you won’t hurt my mother,” he said.

“I can’t promise that,” I replied without hesitation.

 

 

Never Together Ever Again

We were glad when our son got admission to our daughter's college. The kids moaned and protested about having each other "breathing down the neck again". The senior promised to let loose her batchmates on the fresher. Boys or girls, his only doubt.

When we dropped them off at the college, we stayed in that town for three days. The last night, the four of us had dinner at the Chinese restaurant near the college gate. We tried to be cheerful and tried harder not to cry.

I was the first to cry. "Dragon Chicken always makes me cry," I said.

She nodded with tear-filled eyes.

The kids did not seem embarrassed. I expected some remark from my son. At least, "Bet your parents were tougher." Instead, he kept his head down and chased a button mushroom on his plate with a fork. His sister did not have to kick him.

We did not take the bus from the gate to the hostel complex. It was a long, silent walk. She held her son's hand. My daughter slipped her arm through mine.

"Do you have to go tonight?" my daughter asked. Tough guy couldn't ask that, of course.

Farewell was a quick affair. Quick packing, quick hugs. Silly jokes, nervous laughter.

I think both of us noticed that the kids had the same expression when we got into the taxi and waved goodbye. They had the look that says we will never be together ever again.

En route to the airport, we did not talk. I rubbed my left upper arm, took deep breaths, stared blankly at the road. Next to me, she too must have done something like that.

Every kid has such moments. I had mine when my parents were in their eighties. Not when they were around fifty, like us.

But then, it was not the first time for our kids.

About five years back, they went out of town for a week for some cultural or sports competition. They seemed out of sorts before they left with their school team.

"Will you be here when we come back?" my daughter asked.

"Of course, idiot," I laughed.

"Both of you?" my son probed.

We were shocked. But, we made it seem like a good joke.

Two years back, just before our daughter left for college, we had gone on a short trip to Trichy. We stayed in adjacent rooms in the best hotel in town, with very thin walls. The TV in the kids' room was on till midnight. After that was switched off, we could hear them talk. We were still awake around one.

"He should have a heart attack or something really critical," my son said.

"Shut up," his sister growled.

"Every book and film suggests that," he continued.

"That's fiction," she said.

"Are you saying that even that won't make them love each other?"

She did not reply.

"Stay together?" he pleaded.

"Without us, not even that," she sounded very sure.

I do not know how they reached that conclusion.

If we were shocked then, or earlier, it was because we thought we had managed to deceive them too. Everyone, even our parents and siblings and close friends, thinks we are the ideal couple.

We are good at that. Like the best actors, we never draw attention to ourselves. The roles and the play are more important. It helps that we can be natural with our kids. With each other, to the outside world, we let small touches and brief glances do the trick.

Long back, when the kids were little, we were in Bangalore walking on M.G. Road. I remember the way people looked at us. Maybe, I had slipped an arm around her waist or we had leaned towards each other to share something or she had held my hand. We were one helluva couple. That's what their looks said. That was much before these social media days. Now, at least online, every couple appears so.

We engaged in explicit PDA only once. We were in a movie-hall. We had left the kids with our parents. A much-younger couple in the row before ours were kissing. Some men protested about that. "Ee vrithikkedu evide paadilla (This filthy behaviour isn't allowed here)," they snarled menacingly. Lots of people shook their heads, in agreement or otherwise. I do not know what came over me. "Malayalathil ethiney vrithikkedu yennano parayunnathu (Do you call this filthy behaviour in Malayalam)?" I asked the men politely. "Englishil snogging yennu parayum (In English, it is called snogging)." Then, I turned to her and kissed her, she returned it long and deep. A few couples joined us in that counter-protest. The men left the hall. That turned out to be the best part of that movie-show.

We do not know how the kids figured it out. Inevitable, I guess, given close proximity. They are smart too.

They have never talked to us about these doubts, or conclusions. (Even we have never talked about it.) I don't think it has anything to do with respecting our privacy or whatever. It must have seemed a pointless exercise.

"Do you love each other?" the kids could ask.
"Define love," we will reply.
"Without us, will you two remain together?" they will come to the point.
"Can't think of a life without you kids," we will evade like practiced politicians.
"Are you passionate about each other?"
"Passionate as in fiction?"
"Come on, you know what we mean."
"Come on, don't be schoolkids."

They could ask better questions.

"Do you consider each other as priority number one?" or "Do you race back home from work to be with each other?"

We will have good answers. If nothing works, we will say, "Get real."

Or will we say:

"We are too old to be romantic (Kids, romantic, not romance, ok? The latter's an easy act, the former is a philosophy.) and we are too young to love for senior citizen benefits."?

Maybe, the kids are right. Maybe, we need a lesson on mortality. We have had our ups and down, nothing drastic though. Not too sure a critical situation will change anything.

Will they ask, "Was it always like this? Surely, you two must have been different when you got married?"

"Can't remember."

We were like every other young couple. Curious, excited, ambitious, principled but with rational pragmatism (which love story admits that last one?).

In the early years, we even wasted time on dumb charades with the usual reasons for insecurity: "the other", suspicion, possessiveness. I think I used to tease her with some Zahroof. Or was it Matthew? She wasn't teasing, definitely not amused, whenever she poked me with Faru.

But, long before we had our daughter, we realized that that was just a smokescreen or diversion. Filling the void with something. Temporary relief. Before emptiness swallowed us whole.

With each passing year, was it disillusionment or plain realization? Just another blow to the chin. Face it, bear it, move on. One of many dreams to be left behind with our youth.

If we were bitter or angry or stifled or dissatisfied, it wasn't for long. Role-play, complacency, lethargy and resignation took over. Lethargy is the best of the lot.

We are still attractive. I think it's pointless to look elsewhere. If she won't do, no one else will do either. It's really not about her. I don't know if she too thinks so. I don't know if she has had other lovers. Or if she wants to. Unlikely. I might not notice. Her kids would. But then, those rascals might let her. They are our kids after all.

We are good parents. No doubt about that. Strangely, I might be a good husband too. I care for her. I worry about her. I might die for her. (But then, strangers die for us every day in some foolish tussle for god-knows-what.) We talk. Discuss. We gel well. But my thoughts end there.

What is missing? Imagination? Is that what love is all about?

Maybe, that's just simplifying matters.

We got home, or what should be home. The empty nest felt really empty.

We immersed ourselves in work and social functions and books and movies. Thank god there are these streaming channels for binge-watching. News help too. We hate the same people. We are alike in lots of ways. (Oh, we are different in lots of ways too. But, that's expected.) Maybe, that's one reason. We know each other a bit too well.

Days and weeks passed. We are experts in procrastinating about anything that has to do with just the two of us.

The kids call frequently. At times, they seem surprised. More often, just resigned. Lethargic to do anything different. Like us.

A few days back, she said, "How about a trip?"

Maybe, we are playacting as usual. After all, everyone 'happy' is busy travelling, 'experiencing new places together'.

Europe? Sri Lanka? Far East? Mauritius? South Africa? Machu Pichu? Kashmir? We laughed. We cursed. We laughed again.

We chose Kodaikanal. It is nearby. We had gone there for our honeymoon.

Why not say goodbye where we first said hello?

We checked in at the hotel by the lake. Was it the same old suite?

The food is good. Real-estate development has spoiled the place but we are not too disappointed. We walked around the lake the first day. Just one helluva couple.

She woke me up at 5:30 am the second night.

"What?" my hangover mumbled.

"I want to go for a jog," she said. Was she recreating our honeymoon?

"You crazy or what?" I remember asking her that then. Not this time though.

Then, on that early morning of our honeymoon, we got into a race instead of a jog. I chose a type of interval racing--sprinting and walking. She stuck to the pace of a mile-runner. We managed to cover five kilometers. She came first.

Twenty or so years later, we settled into a slow jog at first. I can walk fast but when it comes to jogging, I have a handicap.

After two hundred meters, she increased the pace. She used to be a long-distance runner. I was a sprinter.

Not again, I thought.

I accepted the challenge and sprinted ahead, saying "Bah" to her. I had to walk after four hundred meters. She caught up with me after six hundred meters, replied with her own "Bah!" I continued to walk. I let her increase the lead by two hundred meters. I sprinted again. She increased her pace. We collapsed around the mile mark.

I felt like vomiting. She too looked a bit green in the gills.

"Bloody old age," we cursed.

The hotel staff did not laugh at us when we got back. One helluva couple. Strays must have dragged in better stuff.

We collapsed on the bed. Took hot shower an hour later, separately. We were fine at breakfast. When we returned to our room, we collapsed on the bed again.

I raised one leg. Tried to stretch it. I told her to get up and lean against it, to push it towards my chest.

"Your tummy is in the way."

"Jokes will be very injurious to your health."

She helped with one, then the other leg.

I groaned. She too groaned.

"My bloody back," I said.

"I am going to the Spa for a massage," she said.

I don't know what got into me. I sat up.

"Let me."

She seemed unsure. Stared at me for a long while. Then she lay down on her tummy.

I started with her neck, ears, scalp. (I 'cracked' the cartilage of her ears. I learned that from a barber up north. She did not let me 'crack' her nose, or her neck.) Then shoulders, arms. I removed her blouse. I worked on her back. I rubbed, pounded, even kissed. I removed the bra. I moved lower. Removed her trousers. Worked each toe, calves, ankles, thighs. Removed her panties. Kneaded her bottoms.

It was time to say, "Turn over."

On our honeymoon, I asked her to turn over. When I massaged her front, facing her, me naked too by then, by her side or straddling her, something had happened.

If only I could remember it exactly. Should I ask her if she remembers what had happened that day? Or will she hold that against me? Does that matter? If it was good, why didn't we try it again the last twenty odd years? What happened then? Or did something happen even before I asked her to turn over? Was it something she or I imagined then? What is the point in remembering that? Did I imagine anything now? Did she?

When she turns over, will we stare blankly at each other?

Or, will we see a spark of imagination in our eyes?

daddy

"You should let them fly the coop," a family friend advised. I wanted to ask if I had restrained her in any way.

There were the bitter moments when I thought I should not have helped her in any way. I had written letters to the MEA with regard to the complications concerning her passport and sorted it out. I had written to everyone I knew who could help her settle out there.

It was the gentler moments that hurt me more; taking her shopping for bags and clothes; and, the quiet dinner later.

I saw daddies there, with my kind of look, helping daughters find the right bag or winter-wear; smiling, sliding into the shadows, holding back the tears, listening to the excited young lady across the table, the lady who was still his little girl.

It is nothing new, I consoled myself then. 

The fight the day before her flight was expected.

At 10 pm, at the airport, she waved and went inside the terminal. I walked back to the parking lot, alone. I knew then I had lost her.

Even she must have realized it when she whispered, "I love you, my darling husband."

Don't Come Back

It could have been just another Monday morning. They had breakfast together. They talked about bills, kid’s PTA meeting, extended family, a trip and even chuckled over a news-column. He got ready to leave. She walked him to the door, his arm around her waist. Before opening the front door, he leaned towards her to kiss her. She moved back. She opened the door.

“Don’t come back,” she told him.

He looked surprised. They stared at each other for a while. She closed the door.

She walked around the house, tidying, trying not to think. Sandbags against a tsunami, what a cliché metaphor, she thought.

She thought of calling him on his mobile, “I was joking.” Or, “I don’t know what came over me.” He would accept it, she knew.

I must pack, she told herself. Move elsewhere. Lawyer…? She shuddered.

The landline phone rang; then, her mobile. She did not pick up either.

It could be him. Or, he has called her folks. She was not ready, she decided.

What’s wrong with him? Do you think you can get a better husband? Get real, he has to work, he has to travel. You get at least couple of days every month, don’t you know how it was with my husband, years! Are you crazy? What do you want?

She was not ready for all that. She did not have answers. She knew she might not have answers even much later.

Maybe, it is exactly because of that she must be doing the right thing, she thought. If she had an answer to all that, she would have been happy with maintaining status quo, she reasoned. No, she does not know him, not enough. Life might go downhill but that’s better than sitting on a ledge admiring a beautiful scene day and night.

She picked up a handkerchief lying on a sofa. It was his. She walked to the balcony of the thirteenth-floor apartment. She dropped it. It fell like a stone. Was it heavy with snot, she tried to recollect.

She raised her head. A man on a balcony in an adjacent building was watching her, frowning at her. She made an apologetic gesture, also indicated that she would pick up the litter.

Then, she saw him drop a handkerchief. He had unfolded it. They watched it float, drop, rise and drop.

#MurderInRaoMarg

Nine years back, in a courtroom, Sandeep got to know that he is crazy. This year, close to that October day, about a kilometre from that courtroom, members of the Tigers Club (the Rao Marg branch) discovered a crisply burnt corpse in a park. There was no evidence or reason to connect the two events.

The Rao Marg (Rao Boulevard before nationalist fervour effected the change) is a sedate area, colourful perhaps but not accustomed to the macabre. At the west end, there are the courtroom and other government offices where the hoi polloi and the hoity-toity voice their grievances, not really expecting that to be settled there. Moving east, there are the affluent gated communities which house the Tigers Club and its kind. The neglected park where the corpse was found comes next, followed by a lively market. At the east end, there is a ghetto of the middle and lower income lot, a tightly-packed beehive with queen bees outnumbering worker bees. The Rao of Rao Marg was initially an eminent scientist of the pre-independence era, given the honour of a street bearing his name even before his death. In the post-independence era, there were not enough streets to carry the names of honourable men and Rao, still alive, had to share the honour with a politician with the same name. The two in fact died on the same day many years later but only the politician was deemed a martyr. The generations that followed never learned about the scientist, aided by a liberal education and a concise curriculum. The martyr became the sole proprietor of the honour. It was in memory of that Rao that the Tigers Club had arranged a Cleanliness Initiative on that fateful October day.

Tigress Mrs Dr Sethu (the ladies, gents and kids of the club are addressed as Tigress, Tiger and Cub, respectively) was guiding her new protégé Ms Swathi in the cleaning endeavour. The latter, a recent entrant to their gated community, was from some suburb of New Jersey, USA. Mrs Sethu had ‘visited many relatives and friends in those parts many times’, and so, she was the obvious choice as mentor. She enrolled her ward in the gym, salsa and cookery classes, monitored attendance and performance, and prepared the younger lady for the full-membership of their august club. But there, in that park, the mentor was at a slight disadvantage.

‘Oooh, it reminds me of New Jersey. I used to rake our lawn,’ Ms Swathi swept gleefully.

‘You had to do it?’ Mrs Sethu posed the rhetorical question (she did not expect others to have answers that suited her). She had four servants – a strict follower of equal opportunities, she had two maids for cleaning and cooking, and two man-servants to drive their three cars, and to take care of the needs of her Cubs and husband Tiger Mr Sethu.

Mrs Sethu handled her broom carefully, and the ground even more gently. She kept a lookout for the club photographer. She wanted perfect photos of the event in the newspaper and on her social networking website.

It was the over-enthusiastic Ms Swathi who disturbed overgrown shrubs in a corner undisturbed by lovers, and discovered the corpse.

‘Oooh,’ Ms Swathi cried.

‘What is it?’ Mrs Sethu responded. Her tone expressed disinterest in any answer. She went to the younger lady’s side and eyed the disagreeable object with distaste.

‘Oooh,’ Ms Swathi cried louder.

‘Hush,’ Mrs Sethu suggested, ‘let it be.’ Definitely not the stuff for her photos, she decided.

The others heard Ms Swathi’s cries. They formed a grave circle around the intrusion. Not before long, their hyperactive moral compass pointed out the right direction. Someone called the police. At the same time, another posted on their club’s webpage, ‘Tigers find dead meat’ along with a photo of the group and the fried object. That trended well on social networking sites under ‘#MurderInRaoMarg’. It was Ms Swathi who pointed out that it could be the club’s tribute to Edgar Allen Poe’s famous story, and that earned her the full membership.    

The police wrapped up their case quickly. The body was charred beyond their limits of investigation. They could barely ascertain that it was a male, probably in his thirties or forties. An erudite inspector suggested dental records and DNA analysis; he opined that realistic books and TV shows on crime suggested that. A constable noted this point in the report, with a question mark in brackets. The police first established that the body was not that of any from the west end society. They then went through the records of missing people. They conducted door-to-door enquiries in the east end for three days and updated the files with new names. The same learned inspector noted with exasperation, ‘everyone in the east end seems to be missing’. That was not an exaggeration. There were many, criminal or not, who liked to slip into anonymity. The singles shifted frequently like gypsies and were difficult to track. There were also a sizeable number with kith and kin who remained forgotten for too long. There were migrants too. The privileged were missed, the majority just slipped through the net occupying no memory space. The police recorded too many instances of, ‘I haven’t seen him for a long time…’ On the fourth day, observing that the case generated little interest, online or offline, the case was closed ‘till further developments’.

There would have been further development in the case if the police had reason to focus attention on items number 7 and 23 in the list of missing people. Item number 7 mentioned that ‘Anand must have shifted to a place better suited for his expertise’ and item 23 carried the statement, ‘I saw Sandeep after a long time but he did not stay for long’. The police should have probed about Anand, given his background, but they cannot be faulted for allowing Sandeep to fall off their radar.

Sandeep and Anand were born in the ghetto at the east end. Sandeep’s father was a gazetted officer in the Secretariat; Anand’s a watchman in the same office. Their paths rarely crossed in office. Both were in the temple management committee. They also met in the bar close to office. They were not friends but treated each other with mutual respect. Anand’s mother was a maid in Sandeep’s house till she got the secure position of sweeper in a government office, but even after taking that job, she used to help Sandeep’s mother when there were visitors or functions. For Sandeep’s wedding, she took leave for a week to assist in the cleaning and cooking.

Anand used to bring the morning milk to Sandeep’s house. Anand and most of their gang studied in the government school. Sandeep and the middle-class kids attended a cheap private school in the ghetto. The standard of education in both schools was roughly the same.

Anand was a few years older than Sandeep, and he had the stature of the wise guru in the gang. Anand was the captain of their local cricket team. He gave the reviews of every movie that ran in town, first day first show. He was a storehouse of information, about the temple, the legends, and the goings on in the east end, and the west end. Sandeep suspected that these accounts had a liberal amount of fiction, but the stories were too good to doubt. The guru knew about the prostitutes in the area, and the ministers and the film stars that came and went. He even knew what went on inside. He claimed that he lost his virginity at thirteen to a young virgin prostitute. The local lads had their first puff with Anand, their first drink too. He got them blue movies. He knew about every rape, murder and robbery in town. He had ethics too. He insisted that his gang should consist of gentlemen. They could ogle at girls, but never bother them. One young boy boasted about pinching a young lass’s bottom and Anand thrashed that boy till the young one promised that he would never again do or think of such stuff, not even with his wife in the distant future.

Sandeep had one more reason to be in awe of Anand.

When Sandeep was fourteen, a troublesome family rented the house next door. They were a constant source of bother – borrowing utensils which they never returned, complaining about the coconut and jackfruit trees that encroached into their airspace, and laying claim to any fruit that fell in their compound. Their daughter studied in Sandeep’s school and she had never-ending heart-rending tales of woe about Sandeep and his friends. The parents had slanging matches, and nearly came to blows. In that same period, Sandeep suffered frequent bouts of fever and also falling grades in school. Sandeep’s father mentioned this worry to his cronies during a temple committee meeting. After the meeting, Anand’s father approached Sandeep’s father.

‘I do not know if you believe in astrology and related sciences. Do you?’ Anand’s father asked.

‘Not really,’ Sandeep’s father said.

‘I have studied it a little, mind you, just a little,’ Anand’s father said.

‘Really...? I didn’t know that.’

‘Ah yes, it is only known to a few I have had the good fortune to help.’

The two men studied each other, as if they were mentally agreeing to a contract, and to take their trust and respect to a higher level.

‘Can you help my son?’ Sandeep’s father asked.

‘I can try.’ Anand’s father touched the other’s arm gently. He nodded his head slowly. Sandeep’s father felt a comforting calm.

They walked silently to Anand’s house. They sat in the small drawing room. Anand’s mother came to greet the visitor, enquired if they would like tea, which they declined, and then withdrew to give the men privacy.

‘I feel a spell has been cast on your son,’ Anand’s father said.

Sandeep’s father sat upright, his body tense, eyes filled with worry, anger and quiet desperation.

‘Do not get agitated, that is what the spell wants. We can beat that,’ Anand’s father said.

He described what had to be done. Sandeep’s father listened with full attention.

Sandeep observed fast for two weeks – he ate freshly-cooked vegetarian food; had cold-water bath before dawn and dusk and went to the temple; stayed away from menstruating women; he had to think purely, slept on the bare floor, gave up his twice-weekly masturbation and read only his textbooks. His mother observed that he developed a glow, even in such a short span.

On a Thursday, around half past seven in the evening, Sandeep and his parents went to Anand’s house. They gathered in a small thatched outhouse at the back. Anand and his mother were also there to assist. Anand sat next to his father. Sandeep’s parents stood outside watching with faith and trepidation. There was a large abstract pattern on the floor, drawn with vibrant colours and natural powders. Sandeep sat in the middle of that pattern, facing the fire in a brick-lined hearth. There was no electrical light in that room. The shadows danced on the whitewashed walls. It was an intense serious affair. Anand’s father gave stern instructions during the procedure, and Sandeep followed it to the word; whenever he faltered, Anand with equal seriousness showed the right moves. That went on for an hour.

After it was over, Sandeep swooned, experiencing a strange but sweet mix of light-headedness together with a surge of confidence. When he regained consciousness, he saw Anand’s father staring at him kindly. Anand took him outside, handed him a glass of fruit juice and a sweet offering. Sandeep felt an increasing closeness to Anand.

‘It was remarkable,’ Sandeep whispered to his guru.

Anand looked at him, as kindly as his father, but did not speak.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’ Sandeep asked.

Anand turned to his junior, his face serious, eyes eerily cold and dark, ‘Do not ever speak about it. Just pray. We are trying to remove the spell on you and we are also trying to hit back. Unless we do it right, our efforts can boomerang and hit us, ten-fold hundred-fold, to destroy us, you, your family, me, my family.’

He turned away and refused to say another word.

Meanwhile, within the room, Sandeep’s parents thanked Anand’s parents profusely. They tried to offer money. Anand’s father refused that offer.

‘We are family, we are in it together,’ he said.

Sandeep continued fasting for two more weeks. He was definitely glowing then, with robust health, confidence and vastly improved grades in school. After the fast, he ate meat but he continued to pray hard, visited the temple twice daily and studiously avoided any thought that might trigger masturbation. That went on for three months. Anand observed that Sandeep paid more attention to trees and birds than to his stories.

‘Take it easy,’ the guru told the pupil, ‘operation successful, patient rescued.’

Sandeep reverted to his normal self. His grades dropped again but that did not bother his parents too much because their son was free of the recurring fever, and the troublesome neighbours had shifted from their area.

Time did what it does.

Sandeep did reasonably well in studies and got a job in a private company. He went abroad for a few years. The old government jobs were still in demand, among the lower classes, but the middle-class aspired for more. Sandeep was working abroad when his parents found a suitable bride for him. He returned home, to the ghetto, married a lovely girl and they should have lived happily ever after.

Two weeks after the wedding, a friend from his days abroad visited the newly-wedded couple. The friend, another lovely girl, wanted to treat the couple in a chic restaurant. Instead of going in a car, they decided to be eco-friendly and walk the short distance of two kilometres to the restaurant.

The friend, without giving her actions much thought, walked arm-in-arm with Sandeep. He had not got a hang of this during his stay abroad. Every time, that activity brought constant worry, whether he should be on the left or the right, or if he should let the traffic or muddy puddles decide the side. Despite these problems, he never refused a woman his arm. Thus, on that day, he was rather engrossed in his usual problem of deciding the best side to walk arm-in-arm; and, he did not give much thought to the other woman, his wife, walking without any arm of his in hers. Even if he had thought of her, he would not have known which arm to offer her.

He and the two lovely ladies, sans expression sans emotion, walked in that fashion, so strange to those parts, on the narrow lanes of the east end. The college students at the tea-stall studied the procession, and they too were confused about the right side. The liquor shop guy paused his rapid covering of bottles with newspaper and the long polite queue followed his gaze. They did not have much choice. The government, ever mindful of the health of the ignorant masses, had shifted every other outlet to the west end. The impeccably dressed middle-aged man who used to be the area’s supplier of smut books and magazines in the pre-Internet era winked at Sandeep. The barber stepped outside to admire. His customer, with one arm raised like the Statue of Liberty and an armpit well-lathered for a shave, followed the barber outside to appreciate the lovely sight. If only the participants knew how they were admired.

After that dinner and after the friend left, Sandeep’s wife confronted him. She came to the point quickly and accused him of emotional infidelity. Sandeep was not sure what that meant but he was sure that he had not enjoyed anything to feel guilty about. So, he told her that she is crazy. He should have known better. She decided to show him how crazy she could be; and, not to be left behind, he matched her efforts. The next three years had short periods of nerve-wracking calm separating long stretches of confrontation. When they were calm, they met counsellors to sort out their problems. If they had used that time to talk to each other, they could have figured out their problems. That remained unclear, even at the end. That was nothing new. Gone are the days of abuse, insanity, infidelity or impotency being the cause of marital breakdown. In their case too, the real problem remained fuzzy. Maybe, his wife had expected a life abroad; maybe, it was because they were still in the east end ghetto and not getting any closer to a life in the west end; maybe, they just started off on the wrong foot and remained on that. Who knows? It became another case of incompatibility but did they go for a no-fault divorce? No, they were too bitter to let go without an attempt to destroy each other.

The divorce case went on for three years. Neutral observers in the legal profession noted that that was hasty justice. They were still handling cases that had started in the last millennium, and milking their clients dry.

In their second year in court, the judge ordered them to meet a marriage counsellor appointed by the court. Sandeep and his wife talked to the counsellor about their fights and also about their earlier efforts with other counsellors. For the first time in his married life, Sandeep felt that he was being understood. He opened up. He joked about the arm-in-arm walk with another woman and his wife; he admitted that he was not too happy with his job and that he felt insecure like most men in such troubled times; and, quite gallantly, he told the counsellor that he was sincerely sorry if he had hurt his wife. After an inordinate delay of nine months, the marriage counsellor filed the report on the mental and physical health of their marriage.

The judge opened the confidential report in court and had no choice but to label Sandeep crazy. Their case ended then when Sandeep’s wife got what she wanted.

Sandeep managed to get a copy of that report by bribing a clerk. It was a concise report, about five or six sentences. The report said that Sandeep had admitted to an extramarital affair. It mentioned that that crazy affair had left him impotent, and that they had had to seek psychiatric counselling for his craziness. The report noted that Sandeep seemed insecure about his job and everything else; and that he was insincerely apologetic without comprehending why he was apologizing. It was so damning that even Sandeep for a moment wondered if it was true. Later, he wondered how that marriage counsellor had been got to. He asked his lawyer who made light of the matter. Too easy, the lawyer said, it is very easy to label a person crazy, just a matter of a few bucks.

After the divorce, Sandeep should have tried another alliance, and carried on with life. Instead of that, he committed the blunder of thinking too much about life, his in particular and in general terms too. That affected his career. He lost his job in two years. For the next two to three years, he flitted from one job to the next, till he decided that enough is enough. He changed track and decided to do something different, to do some good work in the east end ghetto where he grew up.

He became a teacher and took tuition classes for underprivileged children of the area. That went well for a few months. After one class, he saw a group of boys ganging up to bully a girl. Sandeep saw red when one bully fondled the girl. He thrashed the boy, like how his guru Anand used to. The boy’s parents reported that to the police. For obvious reasons, the girl and her parents decided to lie low, and never came forward to back Sandeep. The media had a field day. Some enterprising journalists even dug up the court report labelling Sandeep crazy. The police wanted to believe Sandeep but they could not. Fortunately, for Sandeep, the boy and his parents decided to drop the complaint before it reached the trial stage. Sandeep left the area and the state.

He was away for four years. It is not known what he did then or where he was.

Nine years after his divorce, he came back to the east end ghetto and took a room in a cheap hotel. His parents had shifted from the area after his divorce, to escape the double shame and stigma of a crazy divorce. He did not meet any of his old acquaintances. Anand’s parents had died in an accident. There were rumours that it was not an accident, and more a result of their son’s deeds.

Every morning and evening, Sandeep went to the temple. He lived a simple, nearly austere life. After two weeks, he met his guru Anand there on the steps of the temple. They went past each other, and only a keen observer would have noticed that they acknowledged each other with a slight nod.

Two days after that meeting, Anand slipped into Sandeep’s hotel room around midnight. They hugged each other, like long-separated brothers. Anand had not changed much, physically fit, simply but well attired even at that late hour. He had done well as a hit-man for hire. In the local parlance, he was known as a ‘quotation killer’. Given a ‘quote’ for limb or life, he got the job done, without any questions asked, and without any trace to his client. It was a lucrative business. People found the judicial system too cumbersome, and it was easier and quicker to raise a ‘quote’, for a reasonable amount of money, to settle deals and disputes. During the divorce case, Anand had offered to handle the matter, for free, for old times’ sake. Sandeep had declined his offer then.

Nine years after that case, Sandeep wanted blood for being labelled crazy. Anand agreed to ‘hit’ Sandeep’s ex-wife. She still lived in that area, happily settled with a second husband and couple of kids. Sandeep offered to pay the going rate for the ‘quote’, or even more.

‘We are family. We are in it together,’ Anand said when he accepted the base rate.

They decided to meet three days later, around midnight, but not in the hotel room. They were to meet in the park on Rao Marg.

The next morning, after placing the ‘quote’ on his ex-wife’s head, Sandeep woke up feeling a sense of dread. He thought about what he had arranged, and he realized that all his rage towards his ex-wife had dissipated during the night. He went to the temple but could not enter, feeling guilty of a heinous crime. He wanted to contact Anand but there was no way to cancel the ‘quote’.

Three nights after their meeting, Sandeep waited in the desolate park at the appointed hour. Anand came on time. Unlike their previous meeting, they did not hug each other. They did not even greet each other warmly. There was wariness on either side.

Anand, looking sheepish, said, ‘Sorry, Sandeep, they raised a larger quote on you.’

He was surprised when Sandeep mumbled with relief, ‘Thank God.’

Anand was even more surprised when Sandeep took out a thick iron rod from a carry bag and brought it down on his head with considerable force. It was a quick end for Anand.

Sandeep had not forgotten his guru’s old words, ‘Unless we do it right, our efforts can boomerang and hit us, ten-fold hundred-fold, to destroy us, you, your family, me, my family.’

Sandeep looked at the dead body of his guru with compassion. After all his trials and lessons, in court, and in life about which he had thought a great deal, he would have seemed totally daft if he had not been prepared for Anand’s betrayal, and the reverse-quotation. Sandeep dragged his guru’s body to a distant corner of the park, doused it liberally with petrol that he had thoughtfully brought in a few large bottles. He walked away after lighting the fire.

‘Operation unsuccessful but patient survived,’ he chuckled.

Sandeep left the state once again, promising never to return to the area around Rao Marg.