Reunion

They reached the resort just before noon. Sreekumar stopped the rented car at the gate for the security guards’ inspection.

‘Am I going to regret this?’ he muttered, more to himself than to Deepa. She noticed the dread that flickered across his tired-looking eyes. The crease between his eyebrows deepened.

‘Welcome to Fantasy Island,’ she said with a grim smile.

Both were in their forties, medium height, lean going flabby, presentable. They could be mistaken for siblings, hair more white than pepper, nose slightly large and fleshy, dimple on the right cheek, strong forearms and straight back. Their eyes were different; his black, deep-set, expressive, with long lashes and creases at the side; hers smaller, brown, feline. His lips were full, hers thin. His khaki pants, denim shirt and sneakers were a bit frayed; her white cotton blouse, blue jeans and sandals looked new.

The guards gave them the go-ahead.

The resort was on a forty-acre peninsula projecting onto a backwater. Near the gate, huge banyan trees gave a natural touch but that ended there. The place was green and landscaped, on the whole as comforting as a Japanese garden in the middle of a rain forest. The cottages, well-hidden by the vegetation, exuded faux rustic charm and rural closeness.

‘Why is it always the same?’ Deepa read aloud the signboards along the way, ‘Massage, spa, infinity pool, special discounts for enema, purgation and vomiting, spiritual and physical rejuvenation, bring out the old you, become the new you.’

‘The company might produce that effect,’ Sreekumar said.

He stopped the car in front of a three-storeyed modern building. That used to be the hotel before conversion to ethnic resort.

‘If they give me any grief, I will scoot,’ he said.

‘Don’t forget about me,’ she said. ‘Come on, it’s just for twenty four hours…we’ll survive…as long as the bathroom isn’t some public affair.’

x

Check-in was quick. A stout jovial guy with name-tag saying Alexander was there to greet them. He walked with them and the bell-boy to their cottage.

‘Let us know if you need anything…we have captured the whole resort,’ he said. ‘You are just in time for the inauguration…at half past twelve.’

‘Long speeches…?’ Sreekumar asked.

‘Lunch will start at one. That, if not the booze, should stop the speakers.’

‘Liquor that early…?’

‘Have you forgotten the old crowd?’

‘Trying to…’

Alexander laughed. ‘You remember me, don’t you?’

‘Memory isn’t what it used to be,’ Sreekumar said.

‘Nothing is what it used to be,’ Alexander said with an exaggerated wink. ‘That’s why everyone’s supposed to wear a name-tag at all times,’ he paused, ‘even to bed…old goofies like us wake up in the morning and say, darling, what’s your name,’ he guffawed and slapped Sreekumar on the back.  ‘God, how I talk…surely you remember me now.’

‘Loose Alex,’ Sreekumar said.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ Alexander laughed. ‘Guess what...people have placed bets on whether you would turn up…and if you would bring your girl.’ He turned to Deepa, ‘Jolly good of you to drag this guy here, Deepa.’

He left them at the cottage.

The bell-boy opened the door and placed their bags inside. For all the rustic charm displayed outside, the inside was tastefully done with modern amenities.

Sreekumar sat on the King-size bed. It creaked loudly. He asked the bell-boy, ‘Any problem with the bed?’

‘Sleeping no problem, sir,’ the bell-boy said with a dead-pan expression. Sreekumar gave him a generous tip.

‘Use door-chain,’ the bell-boy said.

‘Thieves…?’ Deepa asked.

‘Wrong customer wrong cottage,’ he replied and left.

‘Very comforting chap.’ She inspected the bathroom. ‘Ooh la la…bath tub! Darling, care to hop in?’ She washed her face and hands. A little later, she said, ‘Loose Alex reminds me of an Agatha Christie character…what’s that book…something mirror…’

‘Mirror Crack’d…?’

‘Yupp…remember the garrulous victim in that?’ She smiled. ‘A murder here would be interesting.’

x

Lunch was in a banquet hall in the main building. Old boys and girls sat with their respective partners and kids. Their old Principal was the chief guest. Couple of teachers were on stage looking like old relics placed there for charm.

Deepa leaned towards Sreekumar and whispered, ‘That Principal seems to be in the best shape compared to you guys…quite tasty I say…not a celibate priest, I hope.’

Sreekumar nodded, grinning.

‘So, he wasn’t the molester?’ she asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

‘Surely, there must have been a few of those in those days.’

‘They are all dead.’

‘Murdered?’

‘Hush, Deeps,’ Sreekumar whispered. A few heads had turned towards them.

‘Deeps, huh…? Hmmm…’ She sat back with a smile.

The speeches were full of old memories dredged up for the occasion, like going through old family albums, nice and sentimental but irrelevant.

The lunch buffet was good, not only as an excuse to delay the ritual of mingling and reminiscing. The teachers were given a quick farewell after lunch. Some families retired for siesta; some headed to the spa; a few opted for a boat-ride. A group of men went to a cottage to resume their binge-drinking. Another moved to a conference room to discuss crowd-funding of a start-up. Sreekumar and Deepa followed the rest to the large shady lawn by the backwater.

It had rained the previous night, a light monsoon downpour, the ground was already dry, the humidity low and the sun mild. The resort-staff laid thick rugs on the lawn. There were also hammocks tied to coconut trees. 

Old classmates gravitated towards each other. They talked less about the old days and more about what they were up to. Deepa joined a group of wives and chatted for a while.  Then, she strolled alone around the embankment studying the plants and the backwater. Sreekumar stood near the water, with his back to the group.   

Alexander and a tall, attractive lady joined him.

‘Remember me?’ she asked. She had beautiful smiling eyes.

‘Hi Shweta,’ Sreekumar said.

‘When did you land?’ she asked.

‘This morning…’

‘Where are you these days?’

‘Hereabouts…’

‘Sreekumar, we are not going to visit and spoil your peace.’

‘No fixed place…really…’

‘How long are you in town?’ Alexander asked.

‘A week…’

‘Back to whereabouts…?’

‘After a few days in Hyderabad…’

‘Is she from Hyd.?’

‘Hmmm…’

‘Where did you two meet?’

Sreekumar’s eyes followed Deepa.

Alexander said, ‘I am a bored bureaucrat.’ ‘Bored but right at the top,’ Shweta added. ‘My two kids are in our old school,’ he said. ‘Mine are studying in US, oh I feel so old with such old kids,’ she said. Turning to Alexander, she asked, ‘Are you involved in that start-up?’ ‘Us bureaucrats are too poor,’ he said. ‘Yeah, right, stingy fellow…they have roped in hubby,’ she said. ‘I left academic life,’ she told Sreekumar. ‘Her hubby owns a medical college and a chain of hospitals,’ Alexander said. ‘I work part-time with a NGO…helping the abused, women-empowerment and such,’ she said.

‘What are you up to these days?’ Shweta asked.

‘Still retired,’ Sreekumar said.

Deepa was about fifty meters away from them. She was bouncing pebbles off the water. She turned, waved and walked towards them.

‘I thought you didn’t like the birdie types,’ Shweta said.

‘Birdie types?’ Sreekumar asked.

‘That’s what you used to call them--the serious ones interested in the actual birds and the bees, your words, not mine.’

Sreekumar smiled. They remained silent till Deepa reached them.

‘I hope I am not interrupting your discussion,’ Deepa said. She slipped her hand around Sreekumar’s arm.

‘Shweta was saying that you are not his type,’ Alexander said.

‘Alex! You are definitely loose, man!’ Shweta protested with a laugh. The couple too laughed.

‘She was searching for Karl Marx and got Groucho,’ Sreekumar said. ‘And, I was looking for Edwige Fenech and got Greta Garbo.’

‘Who’s Edwige Fenech?’ Shweta asked.

‘She used to act in serious Italian movies.’

‘Oh…’

‘And Groucho was Karl’s younger brother.’

‘Yeah, right, I am not that dumb…’ Shweta said.

Alexander introduced the ladies, ‘Shweta, this is Deepa, Sreekumar’s current partner. Deepa, this is Shweta, Sreekumar’s first love.’

Shweta scowled at Alexander with mock anger. ‘I swear, Alex, one of these days, someone will kill you.’

‘We too were talking about that,’ Deepa said.

Alexander laughed.

‘Sree was hoping to meet you here,’ Deepa told the other lady. Shweta tried to look confused. Deepa added, ‘He told me about you on our second date.’

‘What all we did in the past,’ Shweta said.

‘And still do in the present and future,’ Deepa said.

‘Not us boring family lot,’ Shweta said. Alexander nodded vigorously.

A group of six men and women joined them. The men introduced themselves to Deepa, ‘We were in Sreekumar’s inner gang.’

They moved to sit on a rug. Hotel staff came around with tea and snacks.

Sreekumar and Deepa did not have to talk. The others’ non-stop chatter shifted from work and kids to travel and struggles in the gym. Most of them looked fit and attractive.

‘He used to be our star athlete,’ a guy told Deepa. He turned to Sreekumar, ‘Man, is that a pot belly? Gross!’

They touched upon the classmates who had not made it to the reunion. ‘The ones in bad shape medically, financially and emotionally,’ one said. ‘Aren’t we all?’ They laughed. ‘Quite depressing,’ another laid that to rest. They did not forget the four dead classmates. ‘We invited their parents for the last get-together.’ ‘I didn’t know them…the dead ones. You knew them, didn’t you, Sreekumar? You knew everyone. The parents would have liked to meet you.’

‘Man, you shouldn’t have gone into your shell. You were such an inspiration for some of us.’

Deepa laid her hand on Sreekumar’s thigh. He did not look at her or anyone. The others continued.

‘Come on, Sreekumar, break-ups and other shit happens. Look at me, my wife died and I recovered, didn’t I? Now I am remarried, with lovely kids from that too. Shit happens!’

‘You didn’t have to chuck your job too. What was that all about…power struggle, pay not enough? If only there was the perfect job.’

‘You were always too obsessive.’

‘From what I heard, it was an ego issue. I know she slept with another guy, but it was all about ego.’

‘Man, I knew that beautiful one would give you grief.’

‘I tried to reach you. Her folks contacted me. We could have helped.’

‘We are so happy you have Deepa now.’

Deepa leaned towards Sreekumar.  ‘Sree, I need to go to the cottage. Could you come with me?’ Deepa said. To the others, ‘Excuse us, please.’

Sreekumar did not move. She patted his thigh.

‘What?’ he snarled.

‘Come with me,’ she said again.

His lips quivered with anger. The eyes stared, unblinking, drained of all expression, just a black depth. The others kept quiet. She stood up and walked towards their cottage. He followed her. The group shouted to the couple, ‘Hey, fun starts at seven, see you then.’

x

Back in the cottage, Sreekumar stood by the French windows and stared outside. Deepa stretched out on the sofa. After a while, she got up and filled the kettle. While the water was boiling, she opened the fridge.

‘That’s strange,’ she said. ‘Why is the mini-bar empty?’ 

She prepared tea and placed the complimentary cookies on a plate.

‘Come, have tea,’ she said.

He joined her on the sofa. ‘I don’t have tea.’

‘Throw it away then.’

He picked up his cup and sipped, ‘I prefer it black.’

‘Sree, you are going to get it from me.’

‘Oh yeah…?’

‘If anyone mentions gym once more, I will stick a dumbbell up theirs,’ she muttered. ‘Surely, they don’t have to rub it in.’ She looked at him, from top to toe. ‘But, seriously, you need a bit of time in a gym.’

He scowled at her, ‘Oye, no personal comments.’

She grinned widely. ‘Shit happens.’

‘Tell me about it.’

They finished off the tea and cookies.

‘Sree…’

‘Hmmm…’

‘What would you have done if I had not airlifted you out of there?’

‘When did you start calling me Sree?’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Me Sree, you Deeps...’

‘Don’t schmooze, old man. Answer my question.’

‘What would I have done?’ he said. ‘Oh, just the usual…’

‘Which being…?’

He shrugged.

‘Physical…?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Verbal…hard-core…you would pack your bags and leave if you saw…heard that me…’

‘Fancy yourself as incredible Hulk, huh?’ she said. She pinched his arm. He smiled.

She asked, ‘Have you tried counselling…anger management or something?’

‘I can handle it on my own,’ he said.

‘Famous last words…’

‘I just have low tolerance levels…at times…’

‘Best to stay away from such triggers,’ she said.

‘I don’t need triggers,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem.’

They stared at each other. Their heads moved closer as if for a kiss. They sat back a little embarrassed.

‘To be fair, an outburst could be justified in that scenario…’ she said.

‘You are not supposed to encourage me,’ he said.

They slipped into a long silence.

‘Have you tried all those things?’ Sreekumar asked.

‘What things?’

‘Counselling, whatever management…?’

She nodded.

‘Worked?’ he asked.

‘I haven’t murdered you yet.’ She paused. ‘I could have murdered them. All that gym talk…made me feel like a bean bag.’

‘One bean bag calling another: do you want to scoot?’

‘Oye, no personal comments…you are supposed to say I look svelte or curvaceous or whatever.’

He rolled his eyes. She threw a cushion at him.

‘Well…?’ he asked.

‘I love this room. You have already paid for it, haven’t you?’

He nodded.

‘I am going to soak in that tub for a while,’ she said. ‘Want to join me?’

‘Oh yes…oh yes…’

‘Dream on, lover boy. Now, be a good boy and watch some movie while mommy pampers herself.’

‘Mommy, there’s no Edwige movie now.’

‘You and your Edwige…’ They laughed.

She moved to the bathroom. She left the door open. While adjusting the taps, she said, ‘She seems the nice sort…’

‘Who…?’

‘Shweta…’

‘Hmmm…’

‘You sure you don’t want to be honest with her.’

‘In the past, I might have…not in the present or the future.’

‘Story of your life…’

After she had settled in the tub, she said, ‘Sree…’

‘Huh…’

‘Those wives wanted to know if we are trying for babies. A gynaecologist offered to help with IVF. Some were curious about live-in affairs. One asked me if there’s more fun in that.’

Sreekumar did not respond.

x

A little after seven, they joined the others on the lawn. The hotel had set up a stage. The lawn was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Deepa whispered to Sreekumar, ‘I am going to have fun.’

‘I will catch you after you hit the ground,’ he said.

‘Oh promises, promises.’

The evening’s programme began with song-and-dance sequences from the kids. The adults responded with polite applause and occasional whoops and cheers. Then, it was the turn of the adults. That received a more honest response with boos and loud comments. Everyone, including the kids, looked relieved when a professional band took over. Some tried to dance. Sreekumar and Deepa impressed the crowd with a parody of the dance scene in Pulp Fiction.

‘Definitely Thurman and Travolta with four left feet,’ Alexander told the couple after the dance. His wife and kids, Shweta and her handsome husband were also there. They all laughed.

Sreekumar went to get a round of drinks.

Deepa told Alexander, ‘Sree noticed something strange in our room…the mini-bar is empty.’

‘That’s funny…has he forgotten he told me to keep the mini-bar empty?’ Alexander said.

‘Did he?’ Deepa said.

Food was served. The parents fed the kids. Adults concentrated on the hors d’oeuvre which was very good. They also made frequent visits to the bar and the restroom. Sreekumar nursed a can of beer. Deepa stuck to lime juice. Shweta asked her, ‘Do you drink?’ and got a noncommittal shrug along with a laugh. Shweta waited to be asked the same but Deepa did not oblige.

After dinner, there were three distinct groups. The largest with parents and kids, another revolved around the bar and the bushes.

‘It’s getting quite messy,’ Alexander said to the third group at the back. ‘Let them get it out of their system,’ someone said. ‘That is their system,’ Alexander said.

His group consisted of “the big shots”: a high-ranking policewoman, two senior bureaucrats including Alexander, a politician’s personal secretary, couple of doctors and engineers in high government posts, Shweta’s husband who was considered as one of them, an entrepreneur regarded as the financial whiz-kid of the batch, three from abroad, a military guy with soft hands and two others who claimed to be poor farmers but looked like rich sheikhs who had never been in the sun.

Deepa moved towards them. Sreekumar stood a little away with the spouses of the group.

Alexander made space for Deepa in the circle. ‘General pow-wow,’ he whispered. Deepa listened without saying much. They treated her like an understudy. A few took to explaining to her current affairs and controversies.

When they replenished their drinks, someone offered to get her one. She nodded and then shook her head soon after. Her hands clenched and unclenched. She searched her shoulder-bag, took out a napkin and wiped her eyes and lips. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She turned and looked at Sreekumar. He winked at her. She smiled and winked back. He moved his hand across his throat, head lolled to a side with tongue stuck out, as if his throat was cut. She pursed her lips, held back a laugh and nodded.

The policewoman talked about ‘the dangerous menace of conversion for marriage’.

‘If religion isn’t dangerous, how is conversion dangerous?’ Deepa asked.

‘Don’t be naïve,’ the policewoman said. ‘Only the wrong lot do that or make others do that. Trust me…I have come across lots of cases lately.’

‘People have the right,’ Deepa said.

‘On paper,’ the policewoman let out a bark of a laugh. ‘Let me be frank, I despise people who even think of conversion.’

‘Despise? I spit, shit and piss on them,’ the entrepreneur said.

‘Our parents used to say the same about inter-caste marriages,’ Deepa said.

‘If you had kids of your own, you would think differently,’ the policewoman said.

The entrepreneur said, ‘My Great Dane tries to mount the neighbour’s Labrador. Bad idea for a fuck, bad for animals, worse for humans…’

‘Bad for you only because the good ones, in any group, won’t come near you,’ Deepa said. ‘You might not even get a half-decent fuck, if people in your group searched elsewhere.’

 ‘I bet you play by the same rules,’ the entrepreneur said. ‘Sreekumar didn’t go out of his group when he tried to get married. Don’t know about you. I mean, before him.’

 ‘Any chip on your shoulder?’ the policewoman asked.

‘Such as…?’ Deepa asked.

‘Someone ditched you…as in Sreekumar’s case?’ the policewoman said.

‘What if someone did…?’

‘Such losers turn liberal to screw up others’ lives too,’ the policewoman said.

‘Real stinking turds they are,’ the entrepreneur said.

‘What depresses me most is when a person with good education turns out to be a right-wing prick,’ Deepa said.

Alexander tried to pacify, ‘Oh, come on, no one’s right-wing here, just capitalists, that’s all.’

‘Nazi collaborators used that excuse…’ Deepa said. ‘But then, you could be right, it’s usually just economics. That and insecurity.’

‘Race and religion, what would scum-bag politicians do without that?’ one of the farmers said.

‘It helps to maintain order,’ the military guy said.

‘Fascist order, you mean,’ Deepa said.

‘No, proper democracy,’ Alexander’s bureaucrat-colleague said. ‘A good democracy needs a strong majority. Their rules might seem odd but they will be a good parent to the minorities.’

‘Wow, I didn’t know democracy was supposed to serve only the majority and not all,’ Deepa said.

‘That’s practical democracy, get off your armchair.’

‘What a democracy needs are people who will do their job instead of kissing the ass of politicians?’ Someone tried to protest but Deepa cut him short, ‘When people have no faith in any institution, do you think free and fair voting will make a democracy?’

Sreekumar moved closer to Deepa.

She said, ‘Do you know the problem with most of you? You are scared to change. Or admit past mistakes.’

‘What about you?’ someone challenged her.

‘Me…? My middle name is blunder…only constant in my life has been change.’

Alexander said, ‘Hey, Sreekumar, you won’t last long.’ The group laughed.

‘Let me correct a mistake…’ she said, ‘what depresses me most is the fact we will be friends in spite of such differences.’ She let out a mirthless laugh.

‘That laugh reminds me of Shoshamma Madam…remember her, guys?’ the entrepreneur said.

‘Who can forget her?’ another guy said.

‘Who was it who peed in his shorts in front of her? Was it you, Alexander?’

‘Not me…that was Nagaraj…good that he’s not here…’ Alexander said.

The entrepreneur said, ‘He did something else too in her class…’ The men laughed.

The policewoman asked, ‘What?’ There was a chorus from the ladies, ‘What did he do?’

The men sniggered, ‘Not for dainty ears.’

‘Did he jerk off in her class?’ Deepa asked.

‘Sreekumar, you told her!’ Alexander accused Sreekumar.

‘He did not,’ Deepa said, ‘isn’t there at least one wanker in every batch?’

x

It was close to ten by then. The band and the bar closed shop. The kids were packed off to bed. The organizers announced that an ‘informal bar’ had been set up in one of the bigger suite-cum-cottages and that another had a ‘mini-casino’.

One of the farmers, who seemed more enthralled than intimidated by Deepa, asked her, ‘Do you gamble? Care to join?’

Deepa looked at Sreekumar. He mouthed silently, go ahead. She made a gesture with her eyes asking if he would join. He shook his head.

‘He was always like that,’ the farmer said, ‘we were never sure when he would be a live wire or a wet blanket.’

‘With that, I agree,’ Deepa said with a soft laugh. She held Sreekumar’s arm and they followed the farmer to the ‘casino’.

There were couple of tables for bridge and rummy in the drawing room. In one bedroom, there was poker; and in the other, blackjack. Deepa chose the latter. The other players there were Alexander, the farmer, their wives, Shweta’s husband, the policewoman and the entrepreneur. The players sat cross-legged on the double-bed. Shweta and Sreekumar sat on chairs behind their respective partners.

The players took on the role of dealer by rotation. Someone produced a shoe for the deck of cards. Sreekumar offered to shuffle the cards. The others whistled enthusiastically when he showed off his skill in that. 

‘The minimum bet is ten, maximum is hundred,’ Alexander announced.

‘Ten what…?’ Deepa asked.

‘Rupees, idiot…’

‘Chicken…’

‘Then, how much…?’

‘Minimum five hundred, maximum ten thousand…’

There was a pause in the proceedings before everyone agreed. The policewoman wiped her forehead without realizing what she was doing. Though everyone seemed more tense and attentive, no one lost their cool. They played with good spirit, always remaining courteous.

Deepa was not an expert in the game. If she knew that percentages played a part in the game, she did not show it. During a break, Alexander offered to bring drinks for the group. She asked for a ‘double scotch neat’. She kept the glass next to her. While she played, her finger kept circling the rim of the glass. She seemed to be preserving it for a winning streak.

Sreekumar shifted from the chair and sat behind her on the bed. She nudged his legs with her elbow. He raised his legs so that she could lean against him. Sreekumar lost his balance and knocked her glass to the floor.

‘What the…?’ she growled.

Her lips shrunk to a line, clenched jaws bulged. She concentrated on her cards. By half past eleven, she had busted her twenty thousand. She made a move as if to quit.

‘Giving up so fast?’ the entrepreneur asked. ‘Maybe, you need a change after all.’ No one else joined in his poke.

‘Not so fast,’ Sreekumar said, ‘she is not even half done.’ He shelled out thirty thousand from his wallet. Deepa stared at him.

‘Shall I get you a drink?’ he asked.

‘Lime juice, please,’ Deepa replied.

‘Let me get it for you,’ Shweta offered.

The entrepreneur lost his pile soon after and decided to sit out and watch. By the end of play, around one, Deepa had a profit of ten thousand. Shweta’s husband had lost the most and Alexander’s wife was the biggest winner.

‘Wow, that was fun,’ Alexander said. The others agreed, even the entrepreneur.

‘Deepa, you are definitely a wild card,’ Shweta said, appreciatively.

Deepa gave a small bow. The others applauded.

Then, they dispersed to their respective cottages.

‘Do you know why I love the company of gamblers and drunkards?’ Deepa said on the way to their cottage.

‘You sound drunk,’ Sreekumar said.

‘There are no pretensions with that crowd,’ she said.

‘Time for bed, Ms Philosopher…’

‘Lead the way, Angry Old Man.’

x

Deepa paid back what she had borrowed plus half of the gains. Sreekumar tried to refuse but she insisted.

‘You could have lost it all,’ she said.

‘Every loan goes with such expectation. It was for a good cause,’ he said with a grin.

‘You didn’t have to knock down my drink,’ she said.

He did not respond.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

They were standing in front of the King-size bed.

‘Deeps, which side do you want?’ Sreekumar asked.

‘Excuse me…’

‘Which side of the bed?’

‘I don’t care as long as I get a half,’ Deepa said

‘Ok, you take the left.’

After they had switched off the lights, Deepa said, ‘Sree…’

‘Huh…?’

‘Why left?’

‘What left?’

‘Left side of the bed, idiot…’

‘I usually sleep on my left side.’

‘So…’

‘If I slept on the left side, I would be facing you all night…won’t you feel funny?’

‘We will be sleeping, right?’

‘Still…’

‘Duh…’

They settled down for the night. Deepa stared at the ceiling. Sreekumar slipped his head under the blanket. For a while, there was no sound apart from the creaking of the bed and her regular breathing. Then, in the semi-darkness, she could make out that his side was tenting up. 

‘Sreekumar!’ she said sternly.

He poked his head out. ‘What?’

‘I hope you are not doing what I think you are doing.’

His head went back under the blanket. He giggled. ‘Join me.’

‘What…?’

‘Oye idiot, come down under,’ he commanded.

Deepa slipped her head under the blanket. He switched on the flashlight of his mobile. He had built a barricade with his pillows.

‘Command centre of the Allied forces calling evil forces,’ he said from behind the pillows, ‘surrender all your weapons or face annihilation, rocket-head.’

‘Surrender, my royal foot…get ready to see Hell, O ye chicken-livered carrot-top low-breed!’ she declared building her own barricade.

All hell broke loose. The pillows withstood the onslaught but half an hour later, the foot of the bed crumbled with a loud crack under their weight and vigorous exertions.

Someone from a nearby cottage reached their door and asked, ‘Are you ok?’

‘Yes,’ the couple said sheepishly.

They informed the night-desk about their predicament. The night-manager was very apologetic about the poor quality of the bed. The couple, then looking haughtily displeased, asked for the bedding to be laid out on the floor.

x

Next morning, at the breakfast buffet, they were received with loud cheers. One of the ladies remarked, ‘Oh you unmarried lot…’

Later, there was a round of hugs, photos and promises. Shweta came to the couple’s room before leaving. She smiled at the broken bed.

‘Deepa is the one you were searching for,’ she told Sreekumar. ‘Wish you two the very best.’ They promised to keep in touch.

The couple checked out after lunch.

‘Thank you,’ Sreekumar said, during the drive to the airport.

‘Wait till your payback,’ Deepa said with a worried look.

‘Is it going to be tougher than this?’ he asked.

‘What do you think--my family, relatives, family friends and if that wasn’t enough, my niece’s wedding? This will seem like a stroll in the park,’ she said.

‘Oh boy…’

‘Oh boy, indeed…and, we won’t get a chance to break a bed. You might have to share a room with one of my widower uncles.’

‘Bloody hell…are they the fun-loving type?’ he asked.

‘Not really…more the honour-killing type,’ she said with a grin.

‘You are right. I shouldn’t thank you till I ain’t dead,’ he said.

‘Hey, you can pull out if you want to.’

‘That would go against the sharing policy,’ he said. ‘Unless, you don’t want me there…don’t you?’

She thought for a while.

‘I too need you,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s settled then.’

‘Will you be staying with your folks?’ she asked.

‘Hmmm…’

‘Won’t they ask about me? They will hear about me.’

‘I will say you will meet them next time,’ he said.

‘Next…three nights and four days in Hyderabad,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t sound fair at all. You got me only for two days and a night.’

‘Hey, this means as much to me,’ he said. ‘I am really glad I found you.’

‘Me too…’

‘I hope the start-up does well.’

‘Is there a big market for sharing escorts like us?’

‘Who knows?’

hanging

i can't wish her happy birthday.
what a lonely loser, she will think,
hanging onto yesterday with no today or tomorrow.

The Writer

“Is she me?” she asked. She raised a clenched fist squeezing the life out of a printout. I recognized the title on that offender.

We had the coffee-room to ourselves. She had waited for this opportunity to confront me alone.

“No,” I replied.

She kept on staring at me, undecided how to proceed with her rage or misery or whatever. She turned around and marched out, her wide rear shaking disapprovingly at me.

The printout was of my flash fiction titled ‘Big Bottoms’. It is about a lady in a ménage a trois.

She is one of the few to seek clarification. Most blacklisted me without trial or appeal.

That was not the first trouble of the day. Earlier, I had received communication that my visa application for an overseas project had been rejected. No reason is given but I can guess. The interview at the Consulate had focused mostly on my online activities. They wanted to know about the ‘imagery, symbols and what-not’ in my children’s story ‘Grab the Pussy’.

Life used to be comfortable. I was a regular person with a ten-hour job in a decent corporate with good company in office and loving spouse and kids at home. I did not have any dark secrets or nefarious activities. All that I did not disclose to the world was a thirty-minute me-time every night when I quickly wrote flash fiction which I posted on my blog. My identity was hidden behind a virtual avatar. Only readers I used to get, that too rarely, were couple of virtual acquaintances killing time being nice. I was happy being an unknown wannabe-Elena-Ferrante.

About six months back I made a mistake and submitted one of my stories for a contest. There was no entry fee. The prize money seemed attractive. The only minus point then was that they did not accept anonymous entries. I had to submit a write-up and, with ample diffidence about my chances, I mentioned my blog along with other personal details.

I won the first prize. The attractive prize money, after being split between the top three and ten consolation winners, turned out to be a grand, in local currency. It must have been a dull day for the media. I entered the front page in a two-paragraph column titled ‘City analyst’s story wins grand prize’.

My spouse must have looked at my blog but there has been no response, not a comment nor any criticism. The kids are too young, thank god. Couple of long lost relatives and friends called to congratulate and promised to look at the blog. That was three months back.

If only that was the case in office too.

At the time of the press release, the leading story on my blog was about a boss whose fingers had an affinity for the crotch of underlings, without gender bias. That must have caught the attention of my colleagues. One story must have led to another story.

The blacklisting followed immediately.

The bosses, mine and other, have not complained but they seem cool. Or is it cold?

Human Resources Department has not shot off any memo. There is a story about HR being nasty to a sexually harassed employee.

People do not enter the lift with me. There is a story about a person in a lift who observes the state of colleagues’ underwear.

One guy asked me if he was the one I was in love with. I am not sure which story led to that conclusion.

Stories being stories, there is a lot of sex. I have felt like standing on my table and shouting, “Come on, can’t you see, my friends? Surely, we don’t have that much sex here. Do we?” Their unfriendly stance seems to say that I might be the only asexual one there.

Some guys, when they catch me alone, share their experiences. I am not sure if their only aim is to enter print, even if it is just on a blog enjoying overextended Warholian fame. Some seem to think I need more than passive narration to get a feel for their story. If my situation was not as bad as it is, they would have experienced my knee on their crotch.

I am avoided in the office canteen even though there is no story about the canteen.

Time might heal but people seem to be taking their time with the flash fiction. I should have tried longer stories. I would have escaped this lynching.

I have thought of removing my blog but that might confirm their fears.

I have stopped writing. I could still write long-hand in a notebook but I do not want to risk my chances at home.

sing along

There are too many politicians in my family.

There is one.

He stood for election once.

He got two votes.

His mother, wife, son or daughter?

Or all?

Who betrayed him?

That remains an unsolved mystery.

[Chorus]

There are too many politicians in my family.

There is one.

There are too many lawyers in my family.

There is one.

There are too many doctors in my family.

There is one.

There are too many bureaucrats in my family.

There are none.

relationship manager

She was my relationship manager.

She helped me out with one of those god-knows-wtf-it-is documents. Or rather, she tried to help me.

I went to the office holding a rejected copy of the document I had submitted in good faith. She told me she would find out  why it got rejected.

I went home. She called me around dinner-time. Sir, I am still trying to find out the reason, she said. Are you still working on it, I asked her. Go home, I told her. I am working from home, she said. I will work on it, she added. Good night, I said. Good night, she said.

I saved her number in my contacts list.

I was on the verge of sweet sorely-missed sleep when I got a call from her number at eleven that night. Hi, I said. Oh sorry, a man said. Who is this, I asked. Oh I accidentally hit my wife's phone and this call happened, he explained. Oh sorry, he said once again.

The next day, she called around noon. Sir, I am still working on it, she reminded me.

His call came at midnight that day. Oh, it is you, he accused.

The next day, he called. She didn't. He didn't even say Oh.

A few days later, she called to tell me that I had to resubmit the document again and that that might solve the problem. She admitted that she wasn't sure why it got rejected the first time. Will it get rejected again, I asked. She laughed. I too laughed.

I wasn't surprised when that too got rejected. I thought of telling him, Oh I got rejected once again. He calls regularly. But we are not on speaking terms. 

irretrievable

On the third day of our honeymoon, for the first time, she told me, 'I love you.'

I would have replied 'Me neither' if the much-abused 'Je t'aime moi non plus' wasn't on my list of irritants along with fascists' views on nationalism and communists' claims about social equality.

The honeymoon happened nearly a year after the wedding. That wasn't due to disinterest or lack of passion. We were new in our jobs. The wedding gifts did not help either. Most returned whatever our parents must have given--cups, clocks, used cushions, plastic containers. The cash component, after parents' claims, was fifteen thousand five hundred and eighty. Thirteen thousand six hundred went on a washing machine, thousand five hundred and fifty on a gas stove and connection. We must have had a lavish dinner at a cheap vegetarian restaurant with the rest (and given a generous tip of thirty, if the mood was right).

We were in one of those cities with too many tourists and honeymoon couples like us. The resort was quite decent, luxurious in fact. We had gone overboard with the expenditure to make the trip memorable.

We were quite comfortable with each other by then. We trusted each other, I think. We enjoyed lots of the same stuff. We were not fond of public display of affection or animosity. At times, we were formal.

On that third day, in one of those formal moods, she asked me, 'Do you need some time on your own?'

'What do you mean?' I asked. If I was reading the manual of my SLR, I must have looked up. I remember staring at her.

'You know what I mean,' she said.

I am not sure why that rubbed me the wrong way.

'I guess what you mean is that you want some time on your own,' I stressed on both the 'you's.

'Here?' she asked.

'What do you mean here?'

She rolled her eyes. Ok, I had repeated what-do-you-mean but we weren't in a just-a-minute competition, were we?

She sighed, 'Here...here with overweight men waiting to sneak out for a drink or that special massage?'

'They are not all overweight...look at me! And...I am not waiting to sneak out.'

'Might explain why I am still with you.'

I counter-attacked after a kiss or two, 'Just curious...if not here, where would you want some time on your own?'

'Oh...let's see...if we were in some place with...' she thought, 'Tom Cruise or...'

'Tom Cruise?' I shrieked, 'Brrr...no way...even producers and directors know that he doesn't fit that...'

'What do they know?'

'Even Tom Hanks would be better...' I said, 'though that would be a horrible stretch of imagination.'

'Come to think of it, both of them would do just fine,' she said.

I think our first child was conceived in that passionate heat. It was after the act, still curled up against each other, that she told me, 'I love you.' We slept well. She did not protest, then or later, about the lack of response from my side.

I can't remember how our second child was conceived. I guess we were already experts at that game or we were sailing smoothly, if those are the right metaphors. We were not complacent in our roles. Thank god, she is not the type to say oh-sex-is-different-for-women. And I must have been one of the pioneers in the field of equal parenting. I was always there for them.

Not even once did she ask me why I wasn't passionate about love or some such thing like that. I had thought about it though. I can't remember when or why I changed. I was different when I was young, I think. I remember thinking differently about how I would be with 'my girl'. Somewhere along the way, such stuff must have been locked away in the attic of irretrievable past.

We had quite a scare when she fell ill and slipped into a coma.

The kids were in their early teens. I made sure they stayed away from the hospital. I hated the place. I could have made it easier for myself. I could have watched TV in the waiting lounge on the ground floor. Instead, I chose to spent those days in the stairwell leading to the ICU. There was quite a crowd there. We were not allowed in the ICU, of course, not even on that floor. A security guard stood by the glass-paned door to the stairs. Whenever nurses or doctors came out of the ICU, we tried to catch their attention for some update.

We did not smile when someone got good news. Good luck was on short supply. It was a cruel lottery, the losers had to really lose.

We did not socialize. Most prayed and prayed. Some got ready for the disaster the loss would bring, the unpaid loans, the cancelled wedding, kids' education interrupted. The person inside was the least of their problems. In a story, that could seem amusing. There were two good samaritans on one of the days. They had brought an accident victim. Someone later reported that the two appeared on TV. So...that's why they were here, another remarked. Maybe, we were bitter. Some managed to take breaks for a bath or a meal or to go home. Some followed a shift system. There were a few who remained there, with too little sleep and food, with blank stares and nothing to say. I was one of them. Another was a young chap. He cried a lot, silently.

On the third day, when I got back after a brief toilet-break, I saw him at the door. I heard him ask a nurse about her.

He saw me when he turned around. I must have raised my eyebrows or made some gesture. He shook his head as if to say, no development. He stood by the door. I sat on the steps.

The next day, he came to me, face pale, lips bloodless. I thought he would faint.

'Doctor wants to see...you,' he said.

'Come with me,' I said.

The doctor told us they were going to attempt a 'procedure'. He was frank with us, even though the young man's condition must have made him think twice about that. 'The chances are not good,' we were told. 'Why don't you go in and see her?' he suggested.

Visitors were allowed in the ICU only in such conditions, one at a time. I told him to go in first. From the door, I watched him approach her bed. He stood next to her. I saw him tell her something. It must have been 'I love you'. I went in next. I pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. She looked as if she was sleeping.

We went back to the stairwell. I thought he would collapse. I made him sit next to me. I held him when he cried. I too cried but I had to be the strong one.

The 'procedure' happened only the next day. There was some complication.

The doctor came to the door after the operation. 'Miracle,' he said. We thanked him a lot. 'Take care of her brother,' he told me, pointing at the young guy who was crying once again. 'Yesterday, I thought I would have one more in critical care.'

The young man kept on saying, 'Oh god...oh god...' He looked as if he wanted to hug. We didn't.

After a while he said, 'I should go now.'

He should have left without another word.

'We never...' he added, blushed and left.

I was allowed to see her much later that day. 'Don't trouble her,' a stern nurse told me. I stood by her. I smiled. She smiled. I pushed back another strand of hair. We didn't speak that night.

The next day, I was again given the same warning. I told her about the kids. I told her about the young man.

'Do you want some time on your own?' I asked.

'Here?' she asked.

with or without

It was a lunch-invite dressed up as a date.

That was the result of playful sparring on the phone. I had feinted deep hurt about her hosting a party for the rest of the gang before I got home for the summer break. She asked me what I would like as compensation or repentance. I asked for a lunch at her place. I thought she would laugh it off. Instead, she agreed. I laughed nervously then. She must have caught that. She started teasing me. Asked me what I would like her to wear. A tiny dress, I said. With or without, she asked. I nearly choked. Ok, without, she said. We laughed. I thought that was settled and forgotten.

Two days later she told me that my lunch was ready. I got there around noon. I tried to act cool. I sweated and felt like I was hopping on one foot and then the other. I hope that was just my imagination.

She was wearing a tiny dress.

Where are your parents, I asked. They are out, she said.

Her parents do not like me, never have, never will. I am not sure why. There's one thing I know about girls. If a girl's parents hates a guy, the guy should never be with the girl in her house, or elsewhere, without her parents around.

When do you have lunch, she asked. Early, I said. I was really nervous. It's ready, she said.

She, or was it her maid, had set a glass-top table on a balcony. The view was fantastic. I could have fallen and no one would have heard me make a mess. The noon air was still. Her tiny dog took its place beneath the table. Does he have to be there, I asked. It's a she, she said. Ok, then it's fine, I said.

There was rice, dal, stir-fried vegetable, salad, curd. I waited. She served. I waited. Oops I forgot, she said. She called to the maid. A large covered dish arrived.

She opened the cover. There were three pieces of fried chicken wing flat. She gave me one and took one herself. She did not cover the dish. The remaining one kept staring at me. The dog too stared at me.

She talked about life, in general. Then she offered specifics she could have avoided. She expected me to offer something in return.

I thought about the rule of three, why it had to be three.

She leaned forward. In those days, that used to be a subliminal stimuli that could fluctuate to supraliminal.

Without, she said. Huh, I burped. She laughed.

She talked about a friend she had met recently, a Deepa or a Divya or some D.

I thought about fried chicken wing flat. I like to pop it in my mouth and suck the flesh off leaving the bones still joined at one end.

Her legs parted a little. The dress climbed up.

She told me that Deepa or Divya or some D expected us to be an item in the near future. She was of course teasing.

Something puzzled me. Was it for a third person? The other? Was it for me? Was it to be left alone? The epistemology of chicken wing flats was too much for me.

We heard the sound of a car.

Oh, they are back, she cried. She ran inside to her room. I saw her reaching for a pair of jeans and some other items. She closed the door.

The dog barked.

I put the third chicken wing flat in my mouth.

Her parents entered the scene.

What are you doing, young man, her mother snarled in her cold polite way. Her father did not say a word.

I pulled out the bones and placed it on my plate.

She came out of her bedroom, looking too proper. 

I left. With chicken, without her.

valentine

I finished Valentine's Day with 'You Have Got Mail',
With memories of letters and cards and funny ways,
With the thought that everything happened yesterday.

And there I was giving up on hope for today and tomorrow,
One last memory entered before I flipped the Closed sign,
Didn't I promise to wait for you forever and ever?

heroic love

About 30 years back, I told her, "I love you."

"Have I done anything to deserve that?" she asked.

"No," I replied.

"You know that I love another guy, right?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Ah!"

"Ah."

"So, are we done with that?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...are you going to put this under unrequited love, write idiotic poems, get drunk..."

"I don't drink," I interrupted.

She continued, "...tell your grandkids some 30 years from now about a long lost love?"

"Maybe..."

She glared.

I grinned.

"Can we get back to the debate topic?" she said.

"Ok," I said. "How are we going to speak against bravery awards and customs honouring heroism?"

"Heroism is a fictitious idea created by ingenious cowards who want to benefit from the foolish acts of a few," she declared.

"Like love?" I asked.

She thought for a while. "Like love."

"I don't think we should put it that way," I said.

"Won't work?" she asked.

"We might get lynched," I said.

"Hmmm..."

After some time she asked, "By the way, with regard to that declaration of love..."

"Yes...?" I said hopefully.

"When was the last time you said that?" she asked.

"About 3 months back," I admitted.

"Got the same response?" she asked.

"Of course."

"One of these days, some fool is going to spoil your act," she said.

I smiled.

I met her recently. She has grandkids.

"Have you told them about your long lost love?" I asked.

She looked at me blankly.

She Went

Alex’s story starts with the ending: She went.

The first time I read that story, a few years back, I took it as a smartass beginning. Writers should grab attention from the word go, diktat one in writing one-oh-one. In the same uncharitable vein, I expected a sentimental melodrama. It turned out to be an odd love story, if that is the right genre–odd not because of the matter-of-fact delivery; not due to his death either, although that has made everything about him unsettling, unfamiliar. Alive, he would be the stranger he had become. We parted ways long back, ten fifteen years, all lines cut, pretence nought. Dead, the best friend resurrected. I did not go for the burial. I still avoid his folks and our common friends. But, he refused to let go of me. Five months after his death, I ran into his mother and got the story he left for me.

I was arguing with the fruit-seller at Statue Junction. He is a cheat but he has his regulars, like me, with time to waste or an urge to needle him. He objected to me picking and choosing oranges, ‘You can’t take all the good ones.’ I dared him to stop me. In the background, the lame half-wit at the lottery-stall chuckled. Those at the coffee-shop and the newspaper-stand observed impartially. He did not like my quote. I placed the money on his pushcart, ignored his protests and turned to leave with my purchase.

I saw her then. She was watching me with a smile.

‘Hullo, Aunty,’ I said.

She has greyed a little, otherwise the same; above average height, back straight, beautiful, graceful; and, with the same steady gaze, her soft, kind eyes.  

She raised her hand and ruffled my untidy prematurely grey hair. ‘You should use dye,’ she said.

‘I know, searching for the cheapest white,’ I said.

She lowered her hand to my arm.

‘Sanjay, it’s been a long time.’

‘Lovely to see you,’ I meant it.

‘Can’t you drop in to meet us old ones?’

I shrugged.  

‘Come with me,’ she said.

‘Now...?’

‘Yes, now.’

She held my hand. It was tough walking side-by-side on that crowded street, dodging vehicles and pedestrians, avoiding holes in the footpath. I must have stopped when we got to their lane, twenty meters from the Junction. She did not let go. I thought I saw two young lads race past, Alex and I. Where were we going–to the British Council Library behind the Secretariat or for a treat at Arul Jyothi, the vegetarian joint near the Junction? Those institutions, like us, have vanished or changed beyond recognition. Once, we ran after a car with two lovely sisters in the back seat, their parents in front too surprised with our enthusiasm to protest. The girls laughed and waved when we quit the chase, leaving us doubled over, panting and carelessly happy.

At their gate, I nearly called out his name like I used to. His father had a mean-looking Doberman and I always made sure someone was minding the dog. I turned to Aunty. She nodded. I reached over and opened the latch. It was like stepping into an old photo, without the people or the dog. The Portuguese-style villa, the courtyard untidy with leaves of the guava and mango trees, the steps where I remove my shoes even though I am told not to bother, they wear footwear in the house, the wood panelling,  high ceiling, red-tiled floor, polished sturdy old furniture, the old-world charm I envied. There was also the smell of fried fish from the kitchen, and that whiff of irritation that came with the rest.

I sat in the drawing room. That was not like before. I used to go straight to Alex’s room.

I asked about Uncle.

‘At the farmhouse,’ Aunty said.

They never got along, lovely characters both–the beautiful disciplined doctor and the handsome engineer turned urban cowboy; her quiet elegance; his machines, lousy friends and loud curses. Alex got the best from both.

We never talked about his parents, or mine. If I had told him I felt like a bastard in my happy home, he would not have understood. He must have thought I was luckier than him that way, the only way I managed to be better than him.

‘Theirs must have been a love marriage,’ I told him. We must have been talking about marriage, in general. Then, I believed in the adage about opposites attracting, and that groovy people never settled for a staid arranged affair.

Alex corrected me, ‘No love marriages in my family.’ He pointed at the photos on the wall, the sepia prints of proud ancestors, men in suits, educated ladies. ‘Only good genes admitted, never love.’ That could have been a joke.

He was proud of his lineage. He bragged about a photo of a maternal great grandfather, taken ‘when the grand old man still wore the sacred thread’. I never got to see that photo of ‘the converted Brahmin’. I did not hide my disgust when Alex talked of such. He brushed aside my protest, referring to it as a chip on my shoulder rather than taking it as a liberal progressive protest. It is possible I felt short-changed. Class and lineage hardly mattered when we were in school. We were boys in similar white shirts and black shorts or pants. History started with us. That changed after school. Some like Alex got a past, those like me continued without a rewrite.

‘I discovered my history and porn at the same time,’ I told him.

‘That explains the scant attention one topic received,’ Alex observed.

That must have been a year or two before we went our own ways. Jokes apart, I did search for and find my own set of photos and stories, to show, to hide, to tell, to remain untold. There was obvious poverty and talk of old money with little to show.

‘There was love in my family,’ I declared. He did not ask for details. I did not have to reveal I was not really sure about the love part. Sure there were men and their women, no dearth of kids either, in and out of wedlock. Some cases sounded cute, a few cruel, no major heartbreak or tragedy. As far as I could make out, the affairs were amicably settled, with sound economics winning over equal opportunity.

We compared our families’ rogue gallery too. The rascals, unlike the ambiguous lovers, made our families seem similar. I presented a grand uncle as the prime villain, a revolutionary Robin Hood with a penchant for beheading his rich victims. His signature used to be a bloody handprint at the scene of crime. Alex laughed when I noted that my ancestor got caught red-handed even without forensic science and fingerprints. From Alex’s side, it was a rapist uncle. His guy took a shortcut home through a cemetery one night, came across a barely-conscious woman lying half-naked and bleeding, clearly a victim of a heinous gang rape. He too raped her before scooting from the scene. I asked Alex if the police had investigated that case; he told me to get real. I was quite sure he made up most of that but the burden of proof was on me. He won that contest too.

Aunty brought a tray with a tall glass of juice and a plate of plum cake, just like in the old days, well, almost; there used to be a glass for Alex. She sat next to me on the sofa.

‘What happened to you two?’ Aunty asked.

I shrugged.

‘You two were like brothers.’

She was right. We were like brothers, the best of friends.

‘Was it because of some girl?’ she asked.

I nodded. That was a convenient lie.

The end of the relationship was gradual and unsurprising, not even bitter, an end that began with an unequal balance that gave way to a lost meaning.

She talked about his depression before the suicide.

‘I was abroad then,’ I told her. Not that I would have visited even if I was here.

She was kind, ‘I knew you would not come for his burial.’ 

She wept. I held her.

‘He will always be with us,’ she said.

I nodded.

‘He left something for you,’ she said.

I winced. Bloody Alex, he always had to have the last say.

She went inside and returned with a yellow envelope, the type with waterproof padding. She handed it over.

‘To Sanjay,’ his neat scrawl occupied little space on the cover.

‘In his sui…’ she paused, choking on those words, ‘in his last note, he mentioned he is leaving you a story. Remember his stories? He never gave up writing, not even after becoming a successful doctor.’

I sat with her for a long while, neither of us speaking much. I left promising to visit again. She seemed pleased even though she must have understood it was a lie.

The envelope was well-sealed. He need not have bothered. They would not have bothered to read his story, even if it was for them.

Once or twice he let out his bitterness. ‘They treat my writing like how people dealt with lepers.’

‘That will change…just get published, or win some prize, make some money,’ I said.

‘You don’t get it, do you? Even then, they won’t read my stories,’ he said.

That too was a topic we did not touch upon too often. It would have been the same with my family, that is, if I tried my hand at writing. It is just not the kind of stuff folks like us do, they would say.

He could always depend on me to read his writing; maybe, I am his friend for that; and, to be one up on me in almost every way.

…

At home, after dinner, when I was sure I would not be interrupted, I opened that envelope. Considering my first impression, I must have been irritated then.

The story, nearly a novella, focuses on the two in love. Their names are not revealed (she is referred to by a nickname once, ‘Deeps’). He does not waste space on the beginning or the ending of the love affair, allowing those two words at the start ‘She went’ to say all about the denouement. As for how he (that is, the protagonist) met her, he offers this: ‘I met her, like most such cases, not through love at first sight or some unforgettable encounter but via a circumcatalyst.’  That was his word for a mixture of circumstances (around which one’s life circles) and a catalyst (in this case, a common friend to whom he felt a physical attraction). Why they needed a catalyst or why a particular set of circumstances resulted in love, those questions are supposed to be irrelevant.

There are no details of other actors, friends or families, pressing demands or complications. The little there is about that is included in casual talk in some crowded place, it could have been about the weather instead, it seemed as if those were code-words for some secret love-chat between the two. The story was all about them. Strangely, the minutiae of their moments together do not seem tedious or pointless, racy or awkward. I still have the notes I jotted down in that first sitting:

1.    Definitely autobiographical;

2.    A celebration of life and love;

3.    What.F.Luck!;

4.    She went? Wrong usage or intentional? She left? She went away? She was taken away? She had to go?

5.    Is the life-after irrelevant?

The last point was because I was trying to unearth some clue about Alex’s depression and suicide. The third was just envy, I admit–another battle lost in the endless war between us. I hate to think he defeated me in the search for love too. Of course, this could be just fiction, his best fiction. I am not really sure, even now, about that first point.

…

For a while I thought of getting it published. It remained in a storage box along with old diaries and love letters, and went with me to Berlin, London, Bangalore and Mumbai. I shifted through three jobs in those years, moved away from academia to the corporate world. Life was more or less the same though. On the personal front, I was not yet ready for marriage. I had good relationships that did not last too long. Then, a ‘circumcatalyst’ happened.

For about two years, Veena and I were just colleagues in two departments of the same company, exchanging Hi-n-Bye’s and corporate gossip. I admired her, she is beautiful and intelligent, but from far. Then, at an interdepartmental get-together), we were in the same cricket team (HR’s idea that outdoor games would improve the synergy between departments, irony one might say with hindsight). I held her spectacles when she bowled and she enjoyed my sledging. Later that evening, before drinks and dinner, we got some time on our own and we talked. I could not sleep that night. She told me later that she did not have any such problem. She arranged the lunch at a Chinese restaurant the following weekend though. I got her a gift, a stuffed toy. She liked it a lot.

That stuffed toy was not my idea. I was already using Alex’s story as a handbook. I tried to convince myself it was not shameless plagiarism. Are we truly original all the time? Don’t we use all the books and movies and songs we have come across? Fiction does not die. Isn’t it because many have used it successfully that oft-repeated scenes are passed from one generation to the next? Even our gestures and mannerisms, aren’t those copied from past masters? Didn’t some famous writer say so in one of his novels? Was it one of those Latin American or East European writers, those writers with names so well-suited for writers, Marquez, Kundera? (Alex used to complain: ‘Have you ever heard of a writer named Alex?’)

I was enjoying the love affair too much to envy Alex for having thought of it first. I must have when I had a free moment, though that was rare in those heady days. 

I stuck to Alex’s script. Eating out, time together at home, lover’s quarrels, presents…when I had gone through all the scenes in his story, I tried minor variations and shamelessly produced sequels and remakes. Nothing could beat the original. One thought used to intrigue me a lot: how could it work so well? Once, we were in a movie-hall and a scene from Alex’s story was reproduced almost verbatim: the holding of hands, rub of arms, touching her breasts, how she moved closer. It was a full show. We did not think about the people around us. We did not care if someone would object or if we would be abused and tarred by some moral police. We were so selfishly and deliciously obsessed with ourselves.

She too went.

…

Did I expect it? It was not a sad or bitter ending. She has kids. When her relationship with her husband improved, or when his promises had to be given a chance, and their separation ended, she went. I think I would have married her if given a chance. Or, that’s me painting an honourable picture of myself. For a few days the vacuum she left behind seemed unendurable. But then, we are made to endure worse hangovers. What if it had been death that separated us, would I have wasted time complaining to God?

Alex was right, I realized. Those moments in love are all that matters. The funny thing about love is that it refuses to be relegated to the past. A new love would just have to learn to live with that, possibly re-enacting some of it if not all of it.

That begs the question: when Alex had that, why did he get depressed and kill himself (even if it was fiction and even if he could not write a finer piece)?

Months went by. I started to think of settling down. I bought a house. I got a promotion. I got married.

I made a resolution before that. I decided not to use even one scene from Alex’s story in my marriage.

A few days after our wedding, when we were going through the gifts, I came across a lovely gift. The card with it said, ‘To Deeps and her hubby, Your BFF, Swathi’.

I asked my wife, ‘Are you called Deeps?’

‘Some close friends from my younger days call me that,’ she said.

I thought of asking her if she knew a guy called Alex. I did not.

I do not call her ‘Deeps’. Alex’s story has to end.  

after the cyclone

At half past eight, the morning after the cyclone, the lights came on after a 20-hour power-disruption. There was still no water supply. That happens whenever there's a flood. I wasn't really bothered. It was chilly. Hot food and sleep were my top priorities.

I plugged the mobile in for charging and called her.

"Hey," she said, sounding sleepy.

"You didn't call to check if I am ok," I complained.

"Why? What happened?" she asked, voice a blur.

"The cyclone," I said.

"Cyclone?" she asked.

"Yeah, cyclone, I am still here and not under debris," I sulked.

"Oh good," she said. "Hey, can I call you later? It's been really hectic out here."

"Bye Lekha," I said.

"Hey, this is Sreedevi," she said promptly.

"Bye Sreedevi," I said.

I flipped through the day's paper. My phone rang. The number wasn't that of my contacts.

"Sree, how are you?" she asked.

Couple of days back, a customer service person in Philippines or somewhere called me Sree. I nearly fell in love with her. We connected so well. She used the nickname so sweetly. She reminded me of a long lost love, how she used to call me, that one used my actual nickname of course, but this one made it seem that familiar.

"I have been trying to reach you forever," she continued. "Are you ok? The cyclone got me so worried."

"It was nothing, just the normal rain with a bit of wind," I said.

"Really?" she sounded worried. "You are telling me the truth, aren't you?"

"Of course, why would I lie to you?" I said.

"Oh, I don't know, you always shield me from bad stuff," she said.

I thought about something.

"Sree, you are really ok, right?" she asked.

"Yes, I am fine. Hey, I think it's my boss on the other line. Let me call you later, ok?" I said.

She made a sound that could have been a kiss or a sulking disapproval. I disconnected. Who was that, I wondered.

I went over to Vidya's house for lunch. Her male-cook served chapathi, a salad, a spoon of vegetable curry and a smaller spoon of something that was supposed to be chicken masala. She talked about her latest activities with slum kids in South-East Asia, Africa, Bangladesh. I could have asked her, why not India. Maybe, she does India too. I kept my eyes on her face. I wondered why I never went beyond her face, that was when I wasn't wondering about the missing chicken in the masala. Later, in front of the TV, we cuddled. Poor fishermen, we said watching the news. We kissed. The government should have issued the warning much earlier, we remarked. We fondled and teased. Of course, they should be angry, we agreed with the protesters. We came. Thank god it's over, we said and switched off the TV.

Sreedevi called me at five.

"Hey, this is Lekha," she said.

She used more of the sarcasm.

I called Lekha at half past five.

"Sreedevi told me that you called her Lekha," she said.

"Geez, news travels real fast," I said.

"You didn't check up on me during the cyclone," she complained.

"You didn't either," I retorted.

"What? Have you forgotten my call?" she sounded shrill.

I wasn't sure if she was pulling a fast one on me. Or was she the one who called me Sree? But she never calls me Sree. And never so sweetly. The call got over before I could think more.

I went to a club around seven. A friend from the US, now working in Australia, with family living in Europe, had landed in town during the cyclone for a 24-hour-visit. He's always in the thick of things. Another friend also turned up. He talked about his TV shows. He then talked about spirituality. He talked about his connections in the new government and how he could do good when the good ones are in power forever. He then said he felt like an animal whenever he's with women.The two talked about their wives and kids and friends. They talked about a friend who got laid. I should have listened to that. But I wanted to talk about the cyclone. They did not talk about the cyclone even once.

I got back home around midnight. There was no power, no water. Nothing new. Was there really a cyclone?

the play

My kids disturbed my siesta.

I woke up screaming, "No, I didn't take the chocolate."

"Hey, old man," my son said. He is in that phase now, the life-long antagonism between sons and fathers. I scowled at him.

"So, it was you," my daughter said.

"Don't do that," I pleaded.

"Do what?" she asked.

"Sound like my mother-in-law," I said. I decided to change the topic. "What do you two want at this unearthly hour?"

"It is 4 pm," they said.

"So?" I responded.

"We want a play for the school Drama competition?" my daughter said.

"How many plays?" I asked eagerly.

"One, of course," she said.

"There are two of you," I reasoned.

"We are in the same house," she said.

"You have no idea about us, do you?" my son added.

"I do. You are in the 10th standard..." I said.

"9th..." he corrected.

"When did you fail?" I asked.

"See.." he said.

"I bet you two don't know in which house I am in office," I said.

"Outhouse," my son said.

"You don't have any house," my daughter said. "Come on...the play!"

"Ah! The play!" I rubbed my hands with glee.

I thought for a while.

"In standard 8, I adapted a N.N. Pillai play," I said.

"Aren't his plays a bit crude?" my daughter asked.

"It was hilarious. The crowd loved it. My wife is pregnant...or is it my daughter...there is some confusion about the father..."

"Did they allow that then?" my son asked, totally incredulous.

"I am not sure if it was allowed. We did it," I said triumphantly. I added, "Well, from the next year, they insisted on knowing the storyline before the final day."

"Ah...so, that's when it started," they said.

"In the 9th, it was an Agatha Christie play. I was a lovely lady in a lovely dress...and the murderer too," I said.

"No wonder Ma wears the pants," my son said.

"That won't work now," my daughter said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Anti-women," she said.

"In the 10th, I was a blind beggar, award-winning stuff," I boasted.

"The differently-abled will get hurt," my daughter said.

"The beggars will protest," my son said.

"In the 11th, it was another hilarious play. I was this old man with a daughter in love with a rich waiter," I said.

"Too many negatives...old people...girl in love with money...waiters will want to know why them," she said.

"In the 12th, the priest-convict scene in Les Miserables. I was Jean Valjean, another award-winning stuff," I said.

They were not at all impressed.

"That's a Christian priest, right?" my son asked.

"Hey, he is a nice Christian priest," I said.

"They will think they are being poked at," my daughter said.

"How?" I asked.

"How do I know..won't do...it will hurt their sentiments," she said.

"It wil definitely hurt Hindu and Muslim priests," my son said.

"How did they come into the picture?" I protested.

"Exactly...why aren't they in it, they will protest," he said.

"In France...then?" I pleaded.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"How about the epics? There is that much-adapted story. The orphan who actually belongs to a second-class family brought up by a third-class family..."

My son whistled the tune of 'Sometimes I feel like a motherless child...'

I ignored him and continued, "He goes to a first-class teacher pretending to be one of them. He gets cursed by his teacher. He gets cursed by a second-class person too. Come to think of it, only the third-class did not curse him. He has a more fortunate brother who was only cursed by a scorned woman and then became a transvestite for a year."

"Eeeks," she cried, "too many groups offended."

"Is that a Greek epic?" my son asked.

"Indian, I think," I said. "If it was Greek, the two brothers would have become lovers and developed a new complex. It was  definitely Indian. The fortunate brother kills the much-cursed one, that too via treachery suggested by gods."

"Do you want to get us lynched with gods in negative role?" they cried.

"Ok...how about Shakespeare? I always wanted to act in one," I said.

"He is problematic," she said.

"Merchant of Venice?"

"Anti-Semitism."

"Julius Caeser?"

"Men in skirts."

"Romeo and Juliet?"

"Teenage sex."

"Othello?"

"Anti-coloured."

"Hamlet?"

"Anti-crazy."

"I think you should stick to some Aesop's fable," I suggested.

"Those hurt too," they said.

scene from a first night

"Are you saying you would not have got into this arranged marriage if you had found a girl for love marriage?" she asked.

"huH," he said.

"Are you saying you are in bed with me only because you could not find a girl to fall in love with?" she asked.

"hUh," he said.

"Do you know how that makes me feel?" she asked.

"Huh huH," he said.

"I guess you think it's just logical, use head not heart," she said.

"UhH," he said.

"For me it was love at first sight," she said.

"uHh?" he asked.

"I fell in love when I first met you," she said.

"HuH?" he asked.

"Yes, all heart no head," she said.

"uhh?" he asked.

"You reminded me of a guy I was in love with," she said.

"Uhh huh hhU," he said.

where memory fails (not)

The place felt like a resort, all fake and great.

Problems started at the reception. The computer had no memory of my booking. The manager, that's what she claimed to be and the rest of the staff could not disagree, alloted a room, a suite she called it. It turned out to be a pokey room at the back, already occupied. The bellboy took me to another. It seemed unoccupied. There was a suitcase in the cupboard. See, only suitcase, no skeleton, he said with a laugh. It could be in the suitcase, I said. He said he was wanted elsewhere. How could he remember that, I wondered.

I went for lunch after a short nap. Have a lovely dinner, the man at the door said. I asked for steak. They got me the season's best vegetables. That's not what I ordered, I said. We don't have beef, the waiter said. Do you think I am the kind who has beef, I asked. But you ordered steak, he argued showing the slip on which my order had been noted. I did not, I said forcefully. A senior person came to the table and told the waiter to get me porridge. Who are you, we asked. How do I know, he said.

At the spa, the lady next to me kept on talking about her grandson. You know, my grandson Appu is a great swimmer, she kept on repeating. The lady on the other side whispered, she never had kids. I could not find out more. Someone objected to me being in the ladies section.

I went to the unisex toilet. Two men were sharing the same pisspot, arms over shoulders and the free hands holding the you-know-whats. A man and a woman were in a stall. They had forgotten to lock the door and also what they had intended to do. The rest were in a messier state. I wasn't sure what I was doing there.

I met an old girlfriend the next day. I pretended not to know her. My bra size is thirty six, she said. Bloody girl was trying to signal to me that she knew me. Long back, I had asked her for that information. I am not sure if that was before or after she got married. No, my dear, yours is thirty four, a lady told her. What a pity. I could have sworn she was my old girlfriend.

I came across my wife too. So, this is where you hide, she exclaimed. Who are you, I asked.

at the zoo

"What's so special about him?" I asked.

"Trauma, it says," she read the board on the cage.

"He just sits there," I grumbled.

"But, look..." she said.

"What?" I asked, looking at the next cage.

"He has something to say all the time...but he can't say anything," she explained.

"Bah! Postmodern silence, is that what they call it?" I said.

"You are so insensitive," she said with a smile.

"Come on, let's check out the lady in the next one," I said.

"Now, that you wouldn't mind silent," she said.

"Bah!"

anniversary

"You forgot the anniversary," she said.

"No, I didn't. How could I?" I said.

"You always do, every year for nineteen years," she said.

"You are all I think about," I said.

"Admit it. You don't remember the day I died," she said.

How do I tell her she never died?

goodbye

All my life, if there's been a constant, it's been goodbyes. It was places at first. I wondered why my mom asked me, aren't you sad. I must have been six or seven. I wasn't sad but that wasn't the point, did she spot something wrong with me. Places were followed by pals. Bosom buddies I forgot overnight. Let me get this straight, I wasn't the only one doing the forgetting. Pals, loves, real close ones who were not pals or loves, I was as good as a one-night-stand. My overnight despondency turned into weeks-long depression. I wasn't just lonely, I was sucked dry.

They decided that I should talk to someone. He seemed like a good guy. He seemed to understand. Seemed, I hate that word with disappointment its shadow. He listened to me though. That must have been tough. But it was tougher when I had to listen. He told me that not all of the goodbyes were goodbyes. Just an interval, he said. That was the good news. The bad news was that not all of them were ever there. Yeah, right, I cooked up goodbyes. Can you believe that?

Somewhere along the way I got married. I thought it would be loving to confide my worst fears. I told her about the goodbyes. How she laughs. Did you marry because of that, she pokes. She can rub it in. Man, you are needy for company, she taunts. That's a goodbye not going to be a goodbye. I never forgot what the guy said. What if my wife is imaginary, I grinned. It's not bad, not at all bad, this word so real so imaginary.

She came along then. She's there, really there, I can feel it, a dream more real than real. No more goodbyes, she says, we'll be together forever. She has her moods, don't they all. Why do you treat me as if I am not here, she asks. Hey, what can I say to that.

company of story-tellers

There are two photos in my wallet, me aged 13 and 15. They would see that when I bought them coffee or tea. I would point at one photo and say, that was my twin brother. Was, they asked. He died in a train accident, I would say to the company in the train. What type of accident, he or she would ask. He went to the pantry and never came back, I would say and then stare at the passing scenery as if I was holding back tears. I would not say more. That was enough.

Are you married, they asked me. Divorced and a widower, I replied. Oh, they exclaimed and sat back unsure. I would wait for their prompt. The uncomfortable would joke about divorcing after death. The concerned would say sorry. I would wait patiently for their preference. Most liked to hear about the divorce, only a few about the death. Only once did I try a mystery about death during divorce. It wasn't very convincing.

The last time I was on a train, I did not have to say much. There were two men, one in his mid-twenties, the other in his forties. One was a doctor, the other in IT, I forget which. I remember thinking that they ticked all the boxes as far as stereotypes were concerned. But I remember little else about them. They talked to each other but they treated me as the wise one, kept looking at me as if they were seeking my approval.

The twenty-something talked about a wedding that didn't happen. His ex-fiancee sexted him from her friend's phone and he had flirted back with the then unknown sender. She got onto a moral platform and sent him packing, he said. He should not have smiled then. A blank face would have kept us guessing.

No smartphones in my time but a clunky landline did the job, the forty-year-old said. I was actually ready for that call, in those days every guy expected such a call the day before his wedding, he recollected. And paused. It was too obvious a dramatic pause. He continued, the anonymous caller told me that there is a mole on my wife's upper right thigh. And there it was, he said. I should have looked at the percentages, 50% would have it or not have it, 50% of that would have it on right or left, he calculated. He should not have. When you get your math wrong, the story loses effect. This guy was nearly wailing by then, as a boy I couldn't cycle, I couldn't even whistle, and there I was a married man, and I couldn't do you-know-what. He was laying it really thick. I thought of slapping him. But, the twenty-year old seemed impressed.