Michael Corleone

  

Like any other day, she got up at 3 am. Worked without a break. In the kitchen. Around their land. Her three elder brothers and their families had arrived the previous night. She cooked for them. Her sisters-in-law offered to help knowing that she would shake her head. At 11 am, she walked to and back from the fish market three miles away on the other side of the mountain.

After lunch, her eldest brother, the IAS officer, looked at the others. They nodded.

“Is she coming with him?” he said.

She nodded.

“At five?”

A nod again.

“Why do they want to come here with their lifestyle?” her second brother said. He is a government employee, the type no one misses but everyone needs. Not that he thinks that’s his job. His life revolves around movies.

About two decades back, when the second brother got married, the village had asked the same question. The family had got together in that house. The situation was tense then too. His love-bride was from a sect that does not accept a match from outside. Politically influential too. There were lots of brickbats of the verbal and the violent sort. Politicians and hoodlums got involved. They did not enter the village. No one dared to face her.

“She’s the Michael Corleone of the family,” the movie buff said, at the end of that day.

“Am I Sonny?” the elder brother, a fresh IAS officer then, said. “Or Fredo?”

“Who am I?” the third brother said. He started an IT company in the early 90s, now a billion-dollar firm.

“You can be Connie or Tom,” the movie buff said.

It didn’t matter who they were as long as their sister was Michael.

“We are like Superman,” the movie buff said at another time. “There’s a telephone booth just outside the village where we drop the suit and become Clark Kent.”

She managed their land. She got the ancestral house and an acre around the house. The rest of the 70 acres went to the brothers. They lived in the city. They got their share of profit from her work. They had thought of asking her to take a part of that. For your toil and trouble, they could have said. She does not need much, they thought.

The current tense situation began six months back. She seemed unperturbed at first glance. Unapproachable, quiet as usual and working from dawn to dusk or even more. It was the fear in her eyes that troubled them. Not just the family.

The village too. If they were supposed to accept an outsider, that too without raising a question, why is it different when it is her son?

 

She got married a year after her parents died. Barely out of her teens. The marriage lasted 24 hours. She was raped by her husband. In that house. Not rape according to the law of the land. She nearly killed him that night. Made it clear to all what the law in the village should be and will be. No one in the village knows what she did to him. It was enough for him and his family to disappear from the village. Without a case. Leaving a reputation no one would forget.

She did not occupy any position of power. She rarely met people. What she did and what she could do changed the village. She has not got into any confrontation after that. The threat that hangs above one’s head has proved to be more effective.

It is not that the village has turned into some kind of Utopia. They are bad less often. When democracies and legal systems around the world gave way to the whims and threats of authoritarian rule, the village scoffed at the news. Their own legal system seemed intact.

When her fear became known, that too began to crumble.

A poster came up in the market.

“Even gods are hypocrites.”

Some, including most in her family, were relieved. Her exacting standards were stifling them.

 

She was a quiet girl before her marriage. A quieter lady after that night.

Her brothers did not ask her what she had done when they found her burning bloodied sheets just before dawn. They did not ask anything when she was pregnant or when her son was born. Not that she would have had much to say.

Knowing her character, she must have dealt with lists of questions. Will the beast stay away? Will it return through her kid? Will it be murder then?

The kid spoke only after he joined kindergarten. A normal kid otherwise.

She was a good mother. That is, if there’s an absolute and objective idea about being a good parent. One can study the product though. The son grew up reasonably happy and definitely secure. As it must be for every fortunate kid, if one could generalise, there was something missing. There’s little the kid can do about that other than accept it with regular bouts of serious self-pity.

Is there anything about them that can’t be swept under the carpet? For the sake of completeness, let’s not forget that. There was one aspect of the son’s life that was always under severe scrutiny. His interactions with the opposite sex.

There was a hushed-up incident when he was 14. He and a girl from his class disappeared for 6 hours. Exploring his family’s land, he said later. Someone reported the girl’s cry for help. Another said she was bleeding when they resurfaced.

“She was like the Ugra Devi,” the villagers remember the mother’s response. “Blood, even her own, would not have been enough.”

The girl’s family managed to convince her not to do anything. Whatever they did, right or wrong, as long as the issue remained alive, only their daughter would suffer, they said.

Did she punish her son? Was he innocent or guilty? Were the kids chased by a wild boar, as some said.

“Our Mother Goddess has multiple identities, the bloody-thirsty vengeful Ugra Devi to the kind Mother. This one, our self-imposed protector, she has only one face,” the villagers grumbled.

Did that event change the son’s life? Not really. Every teenager in this village faced something similar at some point or the other. Isn’t that why they try to fly the coop as soon as they can? For that, or other boring academic purpose, her son too did that after finishing school at 18.

 

She waited for her son to come back to that house where she suffered the night of terror. She could have changed residence but she knew the ghosts would follow. The family and the village saw a woman untouched by her past. They did not know about her nightmares. In that, her son returns with a woman and it happens again. In the best dream, there’s proper closure. The beast buried forever. Along with her and her son. Such thoughts would have driven any other mother stark raving mad.

Others did not know about all that. It did not help that she kept it all to herself. Some shrink or friend could have helped her face her son, from tiny tot to adult, without seeing the beast that left her son. Or, they would have put her worries in some well-studied slot, shared advice that could help only if she changed herself totally.

 

Her son is in a hedge fund now. Flies back home for a few days’ visit once every six months. He has an apartment in central London. Six months back, his mother got to know that he was living together with a lady.

His handling of that communication could have played a part in the current impasse. Why did the son announce his living status on the extended family’s WhatsApp group without a quiet, literally and figuratively, tête-à-tête with his mother?

There were the expected responses to his message from his uncles. Best wishes. And, when are you getting married? 

“We don’t want to get married,” her son posted, without an emoji, austere, matter of fact.

“But, your kids?” Tom-or-Connie responded. Again, without emoji.

“No kids either.” And, to leave the last word on the topic, her son had added, “

”

He did not post any photos of his new found love. The mystery lady did not show any inclination in communicating with his family.

His mother isn’t on any WhatsApp group. A niece told her about the goings on. That kid’s in the rebellious teen mode and considers her aunt to be the perfect role model.

Her brothers expected a long brood. The fear seemed totally out of character. They did not broach that topic with her. Not that they did that on anything.

 

It remained a faraway London affair till he called his mother two days back.

“We are coming to meet you,” he said.

“Here?” she said.

“Will you come here?”

“I will get a passport.”

“We are coming, Ma.”

“Get her a hotel room,” she said.

“But, Ma…”

“She and you are not sleeping together under this roof.”

Her son knew enough about his past not to argue. He was not really surprised that a rational person like his mother could take such a stand. Rational thought is fine if one can forget the trauma one suffered. He also accepted the implicit accusation. A father can screw up a son’s life even without being there, he thought.

 

“What will she be like?” the movie buff said.

“What’s his type?” his wife said.

“The one he ran away with was bubbly and cute,” the IAS officer said.

“So, the exact opposite of his mother,” his wife said.

The others joined in. The kids too. They did that every time they were in that house. Talked as if they were the only ones there.

“He was 14.”

“Did he run away with her?”

“Who knows.”

“He barely escaped being skinned alive.”

“By her folks?”

“No idiot. By her.”

“Oh.”

“Will he be like his father?”

“Come on, men have changed. Those were different times.”

“Have you talked to women recently?”

“Come on, was I ever like that?”

“Ha. How many times should I have done what your sister did to him?”

“She went a bit overboard.”

“Women can be their own worst enemies.”

“The kids are here. That’s the only reason I’m not saying more.”

“They are living together. It can’t be bad between them.”

“Ask the married people who have suffered each other for decades.”

“It must be different there.”

“When two people live together, there will always be something to crib about.”

“Why haven’t they posted photos?”

“She’s not on social media.”

“She can’t be sweet and bubbly then.”

“Hey, any bets on the sweet cutey pie bubby type.”

“I’m in with a 50.”

“Me too.”

“What’s your type, hubby dear?”

“Don’t you know.”

 

Her son brought his partner home at six in the evening.

It was the tropical equivalent of a cold winter night. Torrential rain, gusty wind, power failure.

“The perfect art movie,” the movie buff said, “first, there was silence, then, there’s darkness.”

They sipped tea with exaggerated slurps of appreciation, loudly munched the savouries and said nothing. That was normal in the presence of the lady of the house. They quickly realised that it was not abnormal in the company of the new lady of the house too. The son seemed to be the only one there comfortably at home. He happily answered all the questions directed at his partner. Is she deaf and dumb, the extended family wondered.

The mother went to the kitchen. The son’s partner followed her.

“Knife-fight at the Kitchen Ledge,” the movie buff said. He tried to whistle a Morricone tune. His wife silenced him with a jab to the ribs.

 

They stared at each other in the dark. Two from the same mould. The mother was uncomfortable with her son’s choice. Freud and Oedipus be damned.

“Is he ok with you?” 

“Yes.”

“You can stay here.”

“Does that mean I’m banished to the hotel?” the son said from outside the kitchen. He had followed them.

“Should we?” his partner asked his mother.

Their smiles remained hidden in the dark. They had a reputation to protect.

 

Destroyed

 

#vss365

The past has an #insatiable hunger to consume the present and the future. Politicians know that too well. Nationalism and patriotism would be nothing without that.

I am digressing.

I have to meet him. The guy my daughter put in jail for abusing her.

My kid was 13. He was 17. Both were destroyed.

He was her hero. The typical schoolgirl crush for the senior star. When I found his photo in her room, I asked her teachers if there’s going to be trouble. He’s not that type, they said. Not a teachers’ pet, they added. They were surprised when he confessed. Without a fight.

He repeated her accusation in his confession, don't know why, Insp. Shokie told me. It was her first case.

Didn’t he know what he was getting into? I have thought a lot about that. When I am not fighting my daughter’s next battle. She is in a state of free-fall. That’s how it is for one with bad luck. Or is it bad karma?

I can’t help her anymore. Can he?

He has just got out. It's Shokie who suggested that he should meet my daughter. She’s not the motherly kind but I could sense a bit of that in her. With him. She didn’t tell me to get lost with my daughter. I would have.

TBC? Whaddayasay?

the storyteller

Early this morning, he was hanged. For five years, the whole country had been waiting for it.

Even last week, I thought of meeting him. To let him know what I thought of what he had done.

A month back, a mob in court had a chance to lynch him. They thought the courts would fail them.

Three months back, the media stopped printing his claims of innocence.

Social media had hounded out the bleeding hearts more than six months back. A few activists had to be charged.

She would have been twelve this year. On her birthday last November, there were candlelight vigils everywhere.

For five years, he was fed and cared for by the state. There were couple of attempts on his life.

I went near the court once, in the early trial stage. I thought he saw me. Maybe not.

He was raped in jail. The papers used to report everything then. Someone had tried to blind him with a shiv.

The country boiled with rage five years back. Everyone had a picture of that sweet seven year old.

How could he, a teacher, do it? Didn't he see her big eyes? Why was he so brutal? Everywhere there were questions.

He was always good with kids, good in luring them, like the Pied Piper, not with a tune, with stories.

Even when he was a kid, just a few years older than me. We used to sit around him listening to his tales.

My best friend chose his company instead of mine. I loved her. She laughed when I told her.

We are just kids, she told me with her very-adult voice.

Anyway, you can't tell stories like him, she teased me then with her childish voice.

Why haven't you grown up, she asked me recently.

I still remember how she laughed and cried and danced around him. He and his stories had that effect.

She left us. I never left him. I followed him and his tales. He had his crowd everywhere, kids, adults too.

Five years back, I lived in the apartment opposite his. I watched him day in and day out.

The kid and her family were his neighbours. They visited him often, listened to him, clapped their hands.

They used to leave the kid with him, for tuition, or when the mother had to go shopping, or when the parents went out. 

I saw them leave the kid with him that day.

I knew his phone number. I called him.

He was glad to hear my voice. I asked for money. Or did I say some medical emergency?

He told me he couldn't leave the kid. I told him it would take only a few minutes.

I had a copy of his front-door key too. It is not tough to get all that if you really want it.

I saw him leave his apartment. No one saw him leave.

No one saw me enter. It actually took only a few minutes.

I left the phone and SIM I had used at his place. It was in his name anyway. I left the key too.

He must have told the police about my call. They never bothered to ask me if I had called.

Interview With The Genial Killer

I admit my first impression of him was prejudiced. He reminds me of a History teacher in secondary school–lovely old man to most, great teacher and abuser of boys. The man across the table is in his late sixties, with soft white hair, a pleasant clean-shaven face, smiling dark-brown eyes, a small nose and dimpled cheeks. The full-lipped mouth and firm chin add a steadiness to the cherubic features. He speaks clearly with perfect diction. He rests his strong tanned arms on the table. He still helps out with the laundry, farming and cooking in the prison. When he was free, twenty years back, he loved working with his hands, organic farming on his plot and odd jobs around the house. He is not a big man, medium height and a little over-weight. I searched for distinctive features, fluctuations in behaviour or a lisp or even a tic, but there are none.

There are reams of articles on him. A biographer describes him as ‘a heritage item’, whatever that means. I am not an expert on him, or his deeds. It was he who contacted me. He sent me a note, ‘I like your blog.’ I wonder how since it rarely attracts viewers. He added, ‘I am giving my last interview. Would you like to be the interviewer?’ Curiosity, boredom and a convenient writers’ block got the better of lethargy and wariness. I contacted a cousin, a bureaucrat in the State Home Minister’s office, and enquired if I have to fill some form in triplicate to interview a prisoner. He asked me who I want to interview. I told him. His response was quick, too quick. He told me to find something better to do. The same day, I contacted an old classmate, a fellow-sufferer of the History teacher and now a newspaper editor. I resorted to a bit of blackmail and got my name into a small article in the next day’s paper, ‘Monster invites blogger for final interview’. My cousin was not happy with me but then, is it not true that one is usually happier when relatives are not happy with one. Three weeks later, here I am facing the ‘Monster’.

“What triggered it?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he replied.

Fair enough, I thought. Any other answer would have seemed as well-rehearsed as a fresh MBA graduate’s job interview.

“It was the riots, wasn’t it? Your first large-scale act, I mean?” I could have framed it better. I was hoping the ‘loose, colloquial and ill-structured questions’ would ‘loosen him to give extra details’. I found that interviewing technique in a journal, or pulp fiction.

 “Hmmm…” He looked down at his old watch, “well, not exactly the riots.”

“You were sure setting the train compartment on fire would start the madness?”

“It was a gamble. But, the odds were in my favour, one could say, given the polarized society there and the administration in power then.”

“Why?”

“Good question.”

We stared at each other, not budging from our position for a while. He smiled. I sat with pursed lips. He made me feel like a petulant kid.

“It was waiting to happen,” he offered.

We went through the details–picking out the train with pilgrims returning home, the accelerant used for the fire in the middle of the night, the chained exits and the fifty six charred beyond recognition. He stayed on to witness the quick build-up of rage, hatred and wild accusations, the two-week-long riots that followed and the massacre of thousands. We could have been discussing the weather. I felt a churning in my belly. He stared at me, looking concerned. He reached for the bottle of water on the table and filled a disposable cup. He placed it in front of me. I accepted the drink. He looked down at the table, as if he was apologizing for making me uncomfortable, though not for what he did, I presume.

I changed track after that and probed about his early life. He laughed when I asked about precursors in his childhood, like maimed strays or boiled pets.

“Of course not,” he said.

He continued to laugh, just a good-natured hearty laugh. I laughed with him, feeling rather embarrassed.

“Is it true the death of your wife started…?” I searched for the right words.

“You have not done your homework.” It was a statement of fact, without reproach.

“I know you killed before your wife’s death, but it escalated to mass murder after that,” I argued. “The train massacre, the building collapse…now, what was that for?”

“Shoddy construction,” he replied.

“You just had to point that out to the world by killing innocents in that apartment, didn’t you?”

“They could have died like that, without my action,” he said.

“You have a reason for everything, don’t you? Surely not for murdering a busload of school kids or do you have a bloody fucking reason for killing those hundred kids too?”

“Overloaded bus,” he said.

I raised my clenched fist, pointed a finger at him. My hands were shaking, my head too. I must have been red in the face, probably crying. “How can you joke about this?” I spluttered.

“It was never a joke.” For once, he looked stern, even disturbed. This time, he pointed a finger at me. “Never ever think I did it, any of it, for a laugh.”

We were both breathing heavily then.

“Sorry,” he said, “I should not have angered you so. I should have chosen my words more carefully.”

“Of what use is speaking in a better way? That won’t change what you did,” I said.

“True,” he said.

I wondered if he would clam up.

“I just can’t get it,” I said, “others have wondered too.”

“What?” he asked.

“Why you don’t feel remorse.” I said.

“Will it serve any purpose?” he asked. “Isn’t that like telling I love you to a dear one posthumously?”

“It is not,” I said, “it is about accepting guilt, about changing one’s ways.”

“I have never said my actions were not wrong. But, given another chance, would I do differently? I feel that’s irrelevant after the deed’s been done. If there’s anything relevant, it must be my thoughts then.”

Again, I must have slipped into silence, unsure of how to respond.

He leaned towards me and said, “You are not after some kind of truth and reconciliation charade, are you? Of what use is that I-am-sorry-I-did-it-now-let-us-be-friends-and-think-about-the-future?” He paused. “I have never asked for freedom or for a lesser punishment.”

“You have not been hanged!” I retorted.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, smiling.

“Well, you seem to be living happily ever after and that too with poor taxpayers’ money,” I pointed out.

“True,” he admitted. After a long pause, “Maybe, I asked for this interview to give you what you want.”

“What do I want?”

“My death, didn’t you say so?”

“Are you going to commit suicide?” I blurted out.

He laughed at my startled expression. “No, of course not,” he replied.

I understood then the purpose of the interview. Nervous excitement shared space with fear. My initial wariness in meeting him must have had something to do with that fear.

His case had gone on for years, like every other high profile case, from the trial court to the High Court and finally to the Supreme Court, with the customary delays and adjournments. At first, the public and even the media thought it would be a quick affair. Who would defend the Monster? Then, there were questions about the investigation. Legal experts raised questions about procedure and rights. There was lobbying against the death penalty for him. Even then, no one thought he would get anything other than a meeting with the Grim Reaper. Many wondered why he did not share the fate of lesser monsters–a fatal clash among inmates or the other common end, ‘hanged himself in his cell’. Doubts about some ‘hold’ on people in high places were confirmed when a newspaper reported about his ‘five-star life in prison’. It was actually nothing other than normal prison fare for him, but then anything other than death seemed like luxury. Reporters and biographers tried to make him reveal his trump card. There are professionals, like my friend the news editor, who would kill their mother to get the first bite on that scoop. I was not sure I wanted to be the chosen one.

I let him speak. I listened and kept an eye on the recorder. The last thing I wanted was a goof-up in recording his words. He kept his head down, looking at the table or the lines on his palms.

“After my wife’s death, I quit my job in an investment bank. My two young kids, they were in their early teens then, needed me. I joined an educational institution, as an accountant. That campus with schools and colleges was run by a religious cult.” He mentioned the name of a popular, and financially successful, priest. “I minded my own business and even adjusted to their style of functioning. From nine to five, I worked, bowed when required, participated in group prayers, kept a low profile and accepted the priest’s ‘holiness’. Are you religious or connected to one of these cults?” he asked me. I shook my head. He continued. “The power these jokers enjoy might amuse one at first but, sooner or later, one can’t escape the grim reality. The blind faith of the believers or the unquestioning servitude of the low-income lot one can understand. There was another group there and it is that large lot who give you an idea of the power and the fear in such places. They were faithful slaves and they lived there without complaint, probably not even realizing their loss of freedom or their inner fear. How did they manage to get such dependents? I haven’t figured out that one. Even the worst dictators can’t attract slaves like them.”

“It took me a while to realize that most of the teachers in their schools belonged to that lot. They were mostly ladies, married, in their thirties, their kids studied in those schools, and they lived in quarters on campus. At times, the servants seemed to get better treatment than those teachers. They could be summoned by the priest at any time. They were made to wait for hours outside the priest’s office. They would stand meekly, head bowed. Within, they knelt in front on the priest. They were shouted at, abused, made an object of ridicule in front of other staff and visitors. That was not all. When politicians of every hue, intellectuals, the movers and shakers of society start congregating in one place, what do you expect? The priest provided all–money, drugs, power and sex.”

“When that busload of kids died, I thought I succeeded. Some of the teachers lost their kids, they left the place, the schools faced investigation and the public questioned the priest’s influence. Sadly, that did not last for long.”

He raised his head and looked up at me. “The riots you mentioned, the building that collapsed, I thought it would change the administration. That too ended the wrong way.”

I was shaken by what he told me but I was in no mood to give him comfort. There is no monster worse than a devil that sounds like god.

“Every guy like you ends up saying it’s for some greater good.”   

“True.” He thought for a while. “When some countries do the stuff I did and say the same, people fall for it. Isn’t that true too?” He smiled, not a smug smile, just a genial smile.

That smile reminded me of a question I had while preparing for the interview. Before coming to that, I wanted to wrap up his confession.

“So, I guess you have some evidence of the abuse in that place. Is that your keep-head-out-of-noose card?”

“You guess right.”

“Why have you decided to come out with it now?”

“The perpetrators should suffer a bit before they die,” he paused, “before I die.”

“You are not worried that I might get harmed, are you?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted. “Do not worry. You will get your five minutes of fame and then, people will forget you.” He looked at me kindly, “Of course, I leave it to you. You know how the system works. It is possible they will still come out of it squeaky clean. They usually do. My fate would be sealed, of course. Tough to speculate about your fate, fifty-fifty chance if you play it right, I think.”

“Not very reassuring, are you?” I said with a weak laugh.

“Maybe, you will be my last victim.”

He laughed. It was infectious. I laughed with him, quite hysterically. Anyone listening in must have wondered if we had traded places, if not sanity.

I remembered his smile. “I have one final question.”

“Good. Out with it.”

“It’s about the way you got caught.”

“Ah, that…”

For more than ten years, the police and other investigative agencies had no clue about the monster behind the mass-murders. Then, some wise guy came across something unusual when he was going through photos and news reports. There was a common feature in the photos with the minister who turned up at scene of the crime to reassure the public with their statement, “We will give funds to the victims and we will find the perpetrator…” There was at least one photo with the same smiling face in the crowd around the minister at each crime-scene.

“Why did you do that? To enter the photo-gallery of the famous…?” I asked. “The Hitchcock touch–the creator entering his creation?”

He smiled. “You do not have to lay the sarcasm so thick, do you? Is that your final question?”

“Was it you who tipped off the police? To look at that smiling face in the crowd…?” I asked.

“Why would I do that?”

“How do I know? Sick of your own actions, maybe, or you wanted the glory and attention.”

“Maybe…”

“You talked about taking care of your kids earlier. Didn’t you think of them when you did all this?” I asked.

“They were adults when I got caught,” he said.

“Being the monster’s kids must have affected their chances in the world,” I said.

“True.” He paused. “I managed to write a novel here in prison, about a crime I would have committed outside, about a killer who does not get caught. It sold well. That money must have helped improve my kids’ chances in the world. Anyway, I am sure they have the wits to make money on their own too. Is there anything money can’t improve?”

“A good life…? A life with their father…? Can money get them that?” I asked.

“They visit me. Even if I was outside, I would not have expected more frequent or longer visits. They must think of this as an old-age home,” he smiled.

I sat back and stared at him. “You are so sure about everything, aren’t you?”

“Let me ask you a final question,” he said. “You must have gone through the evidence that put me here. Are you sure I am the monster? Think about it well. Other than the crime of smiling at the scene of these crimes, did the police have conclusive evidence, that is, if you forget the evidence they fabricated?”

I must have looked like a fool, staring at him, mouth open, my eyes round and unblinking.

He laughed.

“Don’t worry. It was just a question. I am the one. I couldn’t let you go without pulling your leg.”

We laughed.

The Prey

‘Was the door of the compartment open when you went to the toilet?’ the police inspector asked.

‘How many times should I answer that?’ I grumbled, sounding tired and exasperated.

‘I haven’t asked you that before,’ he said with a smile, looking smug.

He was right. He had asked variations of the same. ‘Was the door open when you returned to your cabin?’, ‘Was the door closed when you went around midnight?’, ‘Was the door open when you got out of the toilet, what did you say, ah yes, after half an hour in the toilet, that’s a long time in a train toilet?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t remember,’ I replied, the same for the fourth time.

‘Ok, let’s leave that for the moment. Please bear with me,’ he said, the quintessence of the apologetic good cop, ‘just want to get the report right, you know. There’s a lot of attention on this case. Everyone, even the Home Minister, wants to know how that old man fell off the train around midnight.’ He paused. ‘Let’s go through your account once more, shall we? How about from the moment you boarded the train yesterday?’

I went through the account again, on automatic mode, hardly listening to myself speak.

You should have asked me to start at the hotel, you fool, I thought. A week back, not yesterday. It started then. It…

I must have smirked, or flinched. The inspector looked at me. He should have asked me to share my thoughts. Maybe, I would have obliged.

I would tell you that I checked in around noon, last Friday. I was tired after the day-long onward train journey but real glad to start my annual vacation. I had a shower before going to the restaurant. At the entrance of the restaurant, on a blackboard, ‘Deal of the day – 1 bottle of beer free with burger.’ The ‘1’ was underlined. I wanted to tell the manager that the ‘free’ should be underlined instead.

I sat at a table facing the pool. I decided to have a burger and the ‘1free’ bottle of beer. If you had asked me, ‘When did it start?’ I would have told you, ‘It started with that 1free beer.’

The waiter stood near while I went through the list of burgers.

‘I will have what you will have,’ I told the waiter, a young fair man, boy really, not more than twenty.

‘Sir…?’ he said, bemused, shy.

I thought, God, did it sound like I was flirting?

I clarified to the boy, ‘Help me choose. What would you have?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Come on, which is your favourite burger in this list?’

‘I haven’t had any of those, sir.’

I felt foolish. Did I expect restaurants to feed their waiters the stuff on their menu?

I went through the list quickly and ordered, ‘Creole chicken fillet burger.’

I avoided him during my meal. I left a tip larger than required.

On my way out, I met him near the door. He wished me, ‘Wish you a wonderful stay, sir.’ He has a lovely smile. I smiled, nodded and left.

I did not return to that restaurant for the rest of my stay. But, I met him on the second evening. I was on my way to the City Centre. It must have been around six, the end of a hotel shift. He was leaving by the exit used by the service staff.

He saw me and waited.

‘How are you, sir?’ he asked.

‘Good. How have you been?’

‘Very good, sir…’

We walked together to the main road. We spoke at the same time.

‘Are you going home?’ I asked.

He asked, ‘Are you going out for dinner?’

We laughed.

‘Sir, I haven’t seen you at the restaurant. I hope you were not disappointed with the food,’ he hesitated, ‘or anything else?’

‘No, not at all,’ I replied.

‘Please feel free to ask, sir, if you need anything.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Sir, can I give you my personal number? You can call me, any time.’

He told me his number. He leaned towards me when he told me his name. I pretended that I was adding his number to the contacts list on my mobile. I thought of asking him if he was free, to have dinner with me, or just to talk. I decided not to prey on him.

The next day, Sunday, I checked out of that hotel and shifted to another. I tried not to think about that waiter-boy but that is a logical impasse. The harder I tried he took over me, replacing me in old terrors. Even news items reminded me of him. On Tuesday, the papers reported about a heavy-handed police crackdown on unlicensed spas and massage parlours. I should have been thanking my lucky stars for not getting caught in one of those police raids, instead of thinking of him.

That evening, I got involved in a fracas at a casino. I needed that distraction.

I reached the casino early, around seven. Four middle-aged men who arrived in a dark-tinted SUV were ahead of me at the counter. They wore heavy gold rings and neck chains. Open shirts displayed sick rolls of fat. They leered unabashedly at the female staff and commented lewdly. No one objected. They played at the tables with high bets. I stuck to the slot machines.

The incident happened when I was returning from the gents’. In the badly lit hallway leading to the toilets, one of those uncouth men made a pass at a lady customer. That led to a loud verbal brawl. The bouncers turned up, but before they could throw the two parties out, the lady phoned her husband, or the police. She claimed to be the wife of some big shot. She refused to let her offender slip away and threatened legal action against the casino if they allowed that. The prey and the predator had reversed their roles. He was visibly well-shaken and stirred. His flagging bravado leaned heavily on his cronies’ support. When the police turned up, the lady accused him of physical assault.

She pointed at me and told the police, ‘He saw it.’

I nodded. What I saw is a moot point; maybe, the man made an offer she could refuse. It just seemed right to nod.

That affair went on for some time at the casino; and at the police station most of the next day, till they reached a fair settlement. The lady slipped me, and probably the police too, a percentage of those earnings.

I ended my vacation the next day, Thursday, yesterday. I got to the station by noon, and while waiting for the train, which was delayed by an hour, I thought about the boy again.

Now, that could be of interest to you. You should ask me about my thoughts then; before I boarded the first-class compartment; before I met my companions in the cabin, the young mother with a child of three or four and the old couple. If you are bothered about the motive, you might want to know my thoughts before I met that old man who fell off that train around midnight.

I heard myself tell the police inspector that I do not know the names of those fellow-passengers. I told him that we never introduced ourselves and that we did not engage in idle chat, which was true. I did not tell him that I had noticed ‘Shanthi Biswas, Female, age 28’ on the chart pasted near the door and not the other names, not that that really matters.

I was the last to enter the cabin. The others had already settled down, their luggage tucked beneath the seat. The old couple and the young lady seemed to be acquaintances. I gathered that they are from the same neighbourhood. The kid was a brat, and allowed to make a racket, spit sticky sweets and scatter torn paper on the floor. I scowled at the boy and the young mother caught me doing that. I was persona non grata from then on to that group.

I was seated near the window, with the old man facing me and the ladies near the door of the cabin. The kid demanded a window seat.

‘Sit next to Appuppa (old man affectionately called grandfather),’ the mother told her boy. The way she spoke and pointed out the place next to the old man made it explicit that the kid should not go anywhere near me.

I kept myself to myself, and concentrated on the book I bought at the station, ‘No Orchids for Miss Blandish’. How many times have I bought that book and read it on such trips?

The old man told the boy some story. The kid was more interested in loudly counting the electric poles the train passed. The two ladies talked about their vegetable gardens, the rising cost of foodstuff, the pesticides and poisons used in the market, and by tea-time they were planning to start a women’s co-operative society. After tea, the ladies stretched their legs and napped. The boy finally tired also dozed off, leaning against the old man. The old man sat silently, looking outside. I closed the book and my eyes, but I could not sleep. The old man’s hairy left hand was around the boy’s shoulder and his right paw on the boy’s lap.

Around half past five, a middle-aged lady came to our cabin. The three ladies seemed terribly excited about their ‘surprise meeting’. The newcomer urged the other two to join her in her cabin, which had ‘only one other passenger, and more space for serious talk’.

‘Oh, I can’t leave him,’ the young mother said, pointing at her son.

‘Don’t worry, he will take care,’ the old lady said. Her husband gave a gruff assent, and indicated that they should not disturb the sleeping boy. The ladies scooted off without any further prompting.

 I returned to my book. My thoughts drifted away from the plight of Miss Blandish to the young waiter-boy at the hotel, to my earlier thoughts while waiting on the platform for the train. I wondered about his past, and my past. It can’t be different, I thought, otherwise, he wouldn’t be offering himself to men like me. I also thought about the future of the kid in front of me. I felt bile rise to my mouth. I nearly retched. I felt the chill of sweat in the air-conditioned cabin, my hand and jaw clenched tight. Some get to enjoy daydreams, my kind suffer nightmares, awake or not, repeating, never-ending, too often.  

The kid woke up at six. He was not too disturbed by the absence of his mother, and readily accepted the old man’s explanation that his mother was just next door, and that she would be back soon.

‘Now, don’t get upset over that,’ the old man cooed to the boy who seemed hardly upset. The old man lifted the boy onto his lap, his hairy arm around the boy’s waist, rocking the boy against his groin, laughing, talking some nonsense. Quite engrossed in their play, they did not even look at me.

After a while, the old man got up.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.

The boy did not want to leave his window seat.

‘Come,’ the old man stood at the door and said sternly. The kid followed, holding the old man’s hand.

They were gone for fifteen minutes. The boy returned to his window seat and peered outside. The old man sat close to him.

‘Don’t tell your mother. She won’t like to hear that you made me take you for susu and that you took out your nunu in front of me,’ the old man whispered to the boy. ‘Let it be our secret that we susued together.’

He looked up and saw me staring. He winked at me.

The ladies came back around seven. We were served dinner at eight. By half past nine, the train staff had made the beds and the passengers settled down for the night. I offered my lower berth to the old lady. Her husband took the other lower berth. The young mother and the boy climbed onto the upper berth opposite mine. She resolutely kept her back towards me, shielding herself and her kid. I lay awake and waited.

Around eleven, I stepped out of the cabin. The passageway was dark except for light in the cabin close to the exit near my end of the compartment. I looked in. The ticket examiner occupied the otherwise empty cabin and he was going through receipts and tallying it with the list of passengers.

I knocked at the door. The ticket examiner looked up. Though he seemed taciturn, he turned out to be fine company. I told him that I wasn’t feeling sleepy. He did not mind the chit-chat. When I brought out my hipflask, he smiled. We drank slowly, silently, alert about any footfalls. He had a job to lose and me my plans. None of the passengers even got up for a leak during our drinking session, but given the chill of the air-conditioner, I expected a few to wake up during the course of the night, especially guys like the old man. My drinking partner and I shared a few pegs, even smoked near the exit door beneath the sign ‘Smoking is prohibited’. Around midnight, the ticket examiner decided to catch forty winks before the next train station at 4 am. I told him that I planned to sleep till my stop at 10 am. I went towards my cabin, waited outside for ten to fifteen minutes and then retraced my steps to the exit. On my way, I checked out the ticket examiner’s cabin. He was lying on his back, snoring beneath a blanket covering him from head to toe. I was not too worried about him. Even if he saw me, he would have assumed that I was finishing off the contents of my hipflask or having another smoke. I was quite sure he would deny seeing me, unless he wanted to lose his job by admitting to drinking and smoking with me.

I waited near the door, and watched the dark passageway. I knew that that’s all I had to do, wait; and, of course, steel myself to take a risk or two. The old man had waited that afternoon and taken risks. Someone somewhere must have waited for the young waiter when he was a lot younger, that’s the way with predators, including the one who preyed on me when I was not even ten. Around quarter to one, my wait came to an end. I saw the old man step out of the cabin. He came towards me, head down, shuffling, groggy with sleep, a hand already fumbling with the zip of his pants. I slipped into a toilet. I heard the old man enter the other toilet. I stepped out, opened wide the exit door of the compartment. The night air was fresh, the biting wind refreshing, the area dark and uninhabited, and on either side, the compartments were dark, the train a large black snake slithering forward.

The old man came out of the toilet. He was surprised to see me at the door.

‘What are you doing? Why aren’t you sleeping?’ sounding very much the affectionate old man he wasn’t.

‘Looking at the moon,’ I said, ‘it’s lovely.’

‘Really…?’ he made a move to get past me to the inside.

‘Take a look,’ I said, beckoning him to the open door, blocking the way inside. He obliged, shuffled to the door and leaned a little to the outside.

‘What moon?’ he asked.

‘New moon,’ I said. Then, it sounded like a good joke.

All I had to do was push his back.

I left the exit door open and went back to the cabin. The ladies and the kid were sleeping. I climbed onto my berth and slept soundly.

At six or so, the old lady woke up to find her husband missing.

The old lady told the police inspector, between loud sobs and fainting bouts, that she had not heard her husband, or anyone, get up. She mentioned that her husband had the habit of relieving himself once or twice during the night. But she had not heard him, she kept on repeating, crying. She protested loudly when the inspector asked her if her husband had had any reason to commit suicide.

The inspector did not interview us separately when he was gathering the initial statements. In fact, he seemed to be in a rush to get it stamped as a suicide. I told him that I had used the toilet around midnight, and that I had seen only the ticket examiner. I chose to be vague about the time. The ticket examiner confirmed that he had seen me going to the toilet, adding that he had been going through the receipts then. The ticket examiner placed me there well before midnight.

The young mother told the policeman that she had seen me go out of the cabin around eleven. I wondered how she had managed to see me with her facing the other way. She seemed disappointed when unable to add anything to her account that could inconvenience me.

No one had noticed the old man during the night, in the cabin or near the toilet.

The police did not question the boy. Whatever his experience with the old man remained a secret.

Even later, at the station, I kept my account to the bare minimum. I told the inspector that I sat near the window most of the day, read a book, had tea and dinner when served, used the toilet before midnight and that was that.

It was probably the smell of liquor on my breath, or on the ticket examiner, that made the inspector probe more. That must have made him wonder why I had left that out from my account. If pushed, I was ready to admit the drinking session with the ticket examiner, though the poor chap might lose his job. Maybe, it was not my bad breath that made the inspector focus his attention on me. He had looked at my book and exclaimed, ‘Oh! James Hadley Chase!’ It is possible he thinks that a guy who reads Chase cannot be totally legit. Not that I really care about his suspicions.

‘So, did you see the old man before or after you used the toilet around midnight?’ I heard him ask, trying the fifth or sixth variation.

I smiled and replied, ‘I did not see him, sir.’

The inspector was beginning to lose patience, never a good sign if you are a predator after a prey.