Wonderful Tonight

Aditya entered his penthouse apartment at 18:45. His wife Sneha greeted him at the door.

He raised an eyebrow in appreciation and whistled softly. She smiled.

"Aren't you overdressed for a dinner with your uncle and his family?" he asked.

"Oh come on...please get ready soon..." she said.

"Hey beautiful, there's more urgent stuff to take care of," he said, pulling her to him. He slipped off his shoes and clothes. "It's late in the evening..." his voice almost like that of Eric Clapton. 

"Aditya..."

"She's wondering what clothes to wear..." he continued, slipping off her dress. Their living room stood above every other apartment in that area. "Turn around, love..."

He finished the song in the bathroom.

"We'll be late," Sneha said in the lift, "Chittappan likes his dinner at half past seven."

"We won't be late," he smiled.

He drove slowly to the hotel. She spoke about her day in office. He asked questions. He contributed details about his day. 

Meanwhile, he thought about a day five years back, in their first poky apartment, about six months after their wedding, the first visit of her father's younger brother and his family.

He was in the kitchen. Beef curry was ready much earlier. Rice too. Kunjamma then told him that Chittappan had chapathi at night, and that he did not have beef then. He cooked a chicken curry. Made chapathi too, with ghee. When a dozen were ready, Kunjamma entered the kitchen again and told him Chittappan liked his chapathi 'sukha'. He made half a dozen of those. It was ready by 19:30. Kunjamma had told him that too.

"Not bad, I say, not bad at all," Chittappan said, his mouth full. "Sneha is one lucky girl." He laughed mirthlessly.

Sneha returned from office at 20:15. She apologized to her uncle and family for being late. They shushed her. 

"You have to work hard, my girl," Chittappan said. "At your age, that's most important. It's a sin to sit at home jobless."

"It's important to have kids too, that too at the right time," Kunjamma said.

"Oh yes," Chittappan agreed, "you should think of it, Sneha. He's free, after all. But, you should first get out of this small apartment."

"My company is looking for a better one for us," Sneha said.

"Aditya, you are lucky," Chittappan guffawed, "her salary will pay for that too."

Sneha had brought ice-cream. They drooled over that.

"Finally, something classy to eat," Chittappan said.

Chittappan and Kunjamma took the bedroom. Sneha and her dear cousin took the floor cushions in the small middle room with the TV. Aditya lay on a floor mat in the smaller front room with the fridge. 

Sneha and her cousin whispered till late. With two closed doors in between, they must have thought Aditya was out of earshot.

"Is he searching for some job?" her cousin asked.

"I don't know. He's still fixated with his research," Sneha replied.

"Thank God you have a great job. What would you have done otherwise?" 

Much later, the cousin asked, "Does he still sing Wonderful Tonight?"

"Oh God, don't remind me of that song," Sneha groaned. After a long silence, "Now, even that's not there."

"Given his situation that's normal, I guess," the cousin said.

"At least once in a while..."

"It can be very emasculating."

They got to the hotel at 20:25. Chittappan, Kunjamma, their daughter and son-in-law were waiting in the lobby.

"How are your rooms?" Aditya asked the cousin's husband.

"Very good," the young man replied.

"Chittappan has dinner at 7:30," Kunjamma complained.

"Dinner reservation was available only for 8:30," Aditya said.

The food was good. Aditya talked mostly to the cousin's husband.

"How is the job scene...after the lockdown and such?" Aditya asked.

"Quite bad actually," the young chap said, "I got my pink slip last month. That's how this trip happened."

"He's looking for a job here," Sneha added.

"And, your wife..." Aditya looked at the cousin.

"Oh, her job is safe, for now. She's in HR. I was in technical."

"Quite emasculating..." Aditya said.

"Pardon?" the young man stuttered.

"Oh, nothing." Aditya ignored the ladies' stares. 

There was silence for a while.

"Could you help him find a job?" Sneha asked.

Aditya did not reply.

"While he looks for a job, they could stay with us," Sneha said. "Three bedrooms are empty, after all."

"Sure," Aditya said. "You can leave with them."

He gestured to maître d'. 

"Could you please tell the band to play Clapton's 'Wonderful Tonight'?" he told the man.

"Of course, sir. Can I get you anything else, sir?" 

"The best ice-cream, please."

#MaybeAllMen

 

 

"Do you remember the year we sang 'Coward of the County'?" Ajay asked.

"Oh yes, 8th standard Youth Festival. Why?" Jimmy replied.

"One of my patients reminded me of that," Ajay said.

Ajay is a psychologist. He is not the type that divulges patients' stories, even under the cover of anonymity. He must have grabbed our attention because of that. And, not because we (Ajay, Jimmy, Shekhar and I) had run out of topics to discuss after the first peg. We would have found something to talk about, eventually. After all, we were best friends. Various pairs at various times, we had been best friends to each other. Not in the last twenty years. Long back. But we still meet.

"This chap talked about an incident that's haunted him all his life," Ajay said. "He too could have been in the 8th standard, quite young. He went abroad that summer holidays, Singapore. He went to the famous Sentosa island by cable car. That wasn't long after the cable car tragedy there. Do you remember reading about that in the Reader's Digest?"

Ajay sipped his drink, allowing the rhetorical question to bounce around in our empty insides. "Four older girls took him for that outing. A family friend's daughter and her three friends. Nice friendly girls." He paused again.

“Lucky bastard,” Jimmy muttered.

"They were playing on a beach, in the water,” Ajay continued. “He in his shorts. The girls in T-shirts and shorts. The beach was surprisingly empty. Just them. And three men in their twenties or early thirties, one with a pot belly, the usual uncouth lot. The men too entered the water, stood close to the younger group. The men first stared and sniggered. Then came the obnoxious comments. In Malayalam. My chap and his family friend could understand. The other girls, Tamilians, too got the gist. One of the girls opened her mouth to protest or give back but the others warned her not to. They didn't stay in the water for long."

"They moved from the beach to a place where they could change and rest. There, the oldest girl told the boy, "In such times, you should be more than a good boy." He smiled and nodded. He had liked it when the girls had earlier said that he looked mature for his age. He tried to be mature and remained silent."

"That vacation, and in the days and months...the years that followed, that haunted him," Ajay said.

"Pussy should think at least," Jimmy said. "I would have gutted those men."

"Come on, he would have made the situation worse," Shekhar said. "He would have put those girls at more risk. That type of men would have retaliated, badly."

"Not in Singapore, here maybe, not there," I said. "I am quite sure this boy must have thought what the men thought. Wet T-shirt and all that. Hence, the guilt-trip later."

"So, what happened to him?" Shekhar asked.

"Let me call him Bejoy,” Ajay said. “Bejoy remained the quiet calm goody-goody boy, externally. But there were slow changes.”

Ajay paused again and looked at each one of us before continuing.

"His best friend then was a guy known for his switchblade. Do you remember the year the Krishnan brothers bashed up a guy?"

"Which Krishnan brothers?" Shekhar asked.

"Those gusti (wrestling) brothers, I remember them," I said. "Some idiot talked to their sister. What an idiot! Which guy will talk to a girl with such brothers? Anyway, he got it...was in a hospital for a month."

"What's that got to do with your B Joy?" Jimmy snarled. He seemed riled up for no reason.

"Bejoy’s best friend used the switchblade on a guy…for the same reason…the guy talked to his sister," Ajay said. "Just threatened, maybe nicked the guy a little, Chinatown Roman Polanski style. Our man and his switchblade got kicked out of school for that. But Bejoy and him remained best friends. Till…"

"Till the day that best friend phoned Bejoy’s girlfriend, anonymously of course, and talked about her breasts and bra size.”

I laughed. “That used to be a craze then.”

Ajay ignored me. “Funny part is that Bejoy was standing outside the public phone booth then. He didn't know it was his girlfriend at the other end.”

I hooted with laughter.

"Did he get to know?" Shekhar asked.

“Yes, when his girlfriend mentioned the call. That was the end of his friendship with switchblade. That was the end of his friendship with the girl too. He told her what had happened.”

“What an idiot,” I said.

“He apologized. She kicked him out,” Ajay said.

“Serves him right,” Jimmy muttered. “For sneaking on his best buddy.”

“Is that so?” Ajay asked.

There seemed to be some tension between those two. Ajay poured another peg for himself.

“His next best friend was a different sort altogether, a goody-goody chap like him who was a heartthrob with the girls. A good looker, a gentleman, a singer too,” Ajay said. “Bejoy and this best friend were a pair like Cyrano de Bergerac and Christian.”

Shekhar poured a double and downed it in one go.

“Oye, easy man,” I said.

“My chap Cyrano has a cousin. And, our Christian was crazy about her,” Ajay said. “Bejoy knew what his cousin liked, and he wrote a poem for her about her, just like Cyrano. His best friend used that poem, as his own, to capture her affection.”

“That’s twisted…” I remarked. “Didn’t we have a rule: no going after sisters or relatives of friends?”

“Even womanizers have ethics,” Jimmy growled. He had been silent for a while.

“She was a few years older, already in college,” Ajay continued. “One summer break, she returned from the college hostel a bit changed. No more the traditional girl in long skirt, blouse, underskirt, petticoat, what not. She had frizzed her hair, I think that’s what it’s called, wore modern clothes. The day she met our Christian, she was wearing a dress exposing ample cleavage. Our gentleman Christian kept the meeting brief. He later told his Cyrano she looked “sluttish”.”

“But she used to look so good before…” Shekhar said.

“Well, that was the end of that friendship,” Ajay interrupted. “Bejoy got an earful from his cousin sister.”

“What? Did he tell her that his best friend described her as a slut?” I exclaimed.

“Of course,” Ajay replied.

 “He is a sucker for punishment,” I said.

“Oh yes, he is,” Ajay said. “Wait till you hear about his next best friend who turned out to be the best. Or worst.”

Ajay looked punch drunk. No pun intended. Slouching, face twisted, mangled.

“Do you remember Professor Groper in school?” Ajay asked.

Jimmy laughed. “Haha…two or three years our senior, right? What was his name…GK or PK…?”

“BK…Balakrishnan,” Ajay said.

“We were nothing compared to that creep,” Jimmy seemed to have recovered from his slump. “That guy used to hold classes in the school bus. Groping 101. How to stand near a girl, how to jack-y…that guy was a piece! I still remember his three-touch rule. Touch a female once, she might move away. Touch her again, she might still move away. Touch her a third time, the good ones will come near and ask for more. I wonder how many times he got into trouble before getting that good one. Worth it, he used to say. What’s Prof. BK got to do with your chap?”

“His new best friend forever turned out to be this BK’s best student,” Ajay said. “Even Bejoy joined in…at concerts, college auditorium, any public gathering, those two and their groping hands, I wonder what they got out of it,” Ajay grimaced. “Great fun…till the best friend groped Bejoy’s wife…on their wedding day. What could Bejoy do? They were after all comrades-in-arms.”

“Bloody hell!” Jimmy hooted with laughter.

I stared at Ajay. Ajay stared back. I was of course the last to figure out Ajay’s tale. Probably because of the drinks.

“Bejoy…always the good boy who does nothing, just like in Sentosa many years before…he did not do anything,” Ajay said. “Yes, he got more than he deserved with such best friends. One nightmare has haunted him all these years. Bejoy, our Cyrano, captured the nightmare with these lines:

 

My best friends and I,

4 matchstick men on a beach,

Together separate and alone.

Protector, abuser,

Prey, predator,

Those are the names we hear.

A black shroud we see,

Racing fast towards us,

Swallowing the sun and us.

 

Do you know what Bejoy’s best friend forever did recently?” Ajay asked.

“Groped Bejoy’s wife again?” Jimmy grinned.

“No, the best friend went for Bejoy’s twelve-year-old daughter,” Ajay said.

“The bastard should be castrated?” Jimmy snarled.

“Geez…” Shekhar said.

“What do you say?” Ajay looked at me and asked. “Should you be castrated?”

 

 #MaybeAllMen

#fiction

When They Met

 

I was at Inorbit Mall (Malad West), trying out the free cookies at the shop on the ground floor. My wife was trying to drag me away.

"Pree..." I heard someone say softly.

I turned to see my wife say softly, "Sree..."

I bit into the chocolate nut cookie. I saw a lady behind Sree. She was eyeing my cookie. I turned to the counter, yet again, and said, "One more." The girl scowled first and then produced the plastic smile and gave me one more. I gave it to the lady behind Sree. She moved towards me.

Meanwhile, Pree and Sree hugged and started to reminisce about the past.

"I Shake," I said.

"Myself Nutty," she said between large bites.

"Nutty, shall we give them some space?"

"Should we?"

"There's a free coffee counter near Crossword," I said. 

"You Shake, indeed!"

We told Sree and Pree our destination. They did not even hear us.

Seated, coffee in hand, trapped in a serious bubble of self-doubt, we thought about the situation.

"No problem, no?" she asked. 

"Yes, problem, yes?" I asked.

"You know about them?" she asked.

I nodded. She too nodded.

"Look, let's evaluate the situation. What do they have to think about?" I said.

"Love, maybe."

"Exactly, that's all."

"That's all?" She did not sound convinced.

"No house, no bed, no food, no family, just love."

She smiled. Then, she scowled.

"No love for us?" she said.

"No love for us?" I repeated.

We scowled together, the best comrades-in-arms.

"Oh, don't worry, there's love for us too," I said wistfully.

"You think so?" she replied with similar spirit.

Pree and Sree turned up just then. They got for themselves free coffee.

"Flashback over?" we asked them.

"Oh yes, back to the present," they replied.

No future for Nutty Shake, we thought. 

And laughed.

Pree and Sree seemed bemused.

They too laughed.

The Idiot

 I have been a model--- 

twice.

First,

in University:

in a pseudo-advert for a lamp

I played chess;

a copy 

of

Shatranj ke Khilari;

I looked good

With my hand 

covering my face.

Second, 

in Research Institute:

a photo-op

for equal opportunity;

a brown guy

discussing research

with a white lady;

I looked good

With my back

To the camera.

The idiot as role model---

nice.

Revenge 2.0

 

 

I realized I was in love when I signed her name instead of mine at a bank. The bank clerk kept a straight face when she returned the check. Jaya, by my side, saw what I had done and burst out laughing. I glared at her.

That was not the first such instance. Once I dialled her home number, reflex action presumably, and blurted out some message to my mother. Her mother was patient. At the end of my monologue, she said, “Monay (son), this is Jaya’s amma (mother).”

We were mere acquaintances in school, she three years my junior. After I left school, we communicated by letters. And by phone when I was back home for semester breaks. After my Masters, I surprised everyone by not pursuing my dream of a PhD and a career in Academia. I joined an IT firm in Bangalore. Jaya made day-trips from her college in Mysore and spent the day with me in my apartment. Our friends knew we were a couple. Our parents knew too. Jaya used to say her parents trusted me. They must have known we were old-fashioned in many ways.

She was twenty-two years old when she told me that her parents had started talking about marriage. I talked to my parents and told them to meet her parents.

Jaya and I were not there at that meeting. She was sent to a cousin’s house. I remained at home. When my parents returned, I pestered them for information.

“Do you really want this?” my father asked.

I blew my top. I cursed their primitive attitude. I asked them why they treated me like a bastard.

They remained silent then. The next day, when my father went to the temple, my mother told me about the meeting.

Nothing much had happened. They were served tea and biscuits. Spoke little, about the weather and the general state of the roads. They sat on the veranda of Jaya’s house. My parents were not invited inside.

I ignored Jaya’s calls that day. Next day, I told her that I will be at her house later that day.

We stood on that veranda. She said, “Let’s go to my room.” I shook my head and said, “No, Jaya, this is over.” She stared for a while. Then, she slapped my face. I walked out of her house.

Out of that veranda.

Till that day, I had never thought about my caste or Jaya’s. That was textbook stuff, only theory, no ‘practicals’. Till then.

That must have been my Count of Monte Cristo moment. I decided to be a slave to Revenge, burying dreams and principles. Every move on the chess board of Life a step closer to self-annihilation. I wanted it to be a slow, long game waiting for the right, and not just any, kill.

I shifted career yet again. I joined the Civil Services. I wanted to be somebody in society.

I married couple of years later. When our daughter was two, we divorced. Rather amicably, apart from her repeating, “You just can’t love anyone.” I insisted on keeping my daughter. She was fine with that.

From then on, it was just me, my mother and my daughter at home. My father had died a year after my wedding. When I did the last rites, I remembered the pain in his eyes when he asked me, “Do you really want this?”

As a kid, my daughter was a pleasant girl with a lovely smile. The smile remained in her teens but it became more difficult to see her out of her bedroom. We still did lots of things together. I insisted on eating, shopping and doing other chores together. We played when we could. Badminton at first, a bit of tennis later and finally she settled for squash. We were both lousy losers. At the parent-teacher meetings, there were no complaints. Only one teacher said, “She is not a people’s person.”

I had noticed that. It is not that my daughter did not try to make friends. I thought she had a few close ones only to realize a little later that those were already in the past. I thought it was just teenage blues. The mood swings, the irritability, the constant introvert. It worsened when she entered her twenties. I got worried. I asked my mother if I should take her to a psychologist. My mother laughed and said, “Then, we should have taken you. She is just you.” That was not at all comforting.

At twenty-two, my daughter went abroad. She did a MS in an Ivy League college, joined a bulge bracket firm on Wall Street. Her visits back home were brief. Instead, she took my mother and me to her place in New Jersey. I searched for some clues about her personal life. No pets, no photos, a few cactus plants, a well-stocked kitchen and basement and a clean house. She was clearly earning lots.

A year or two after I retired, she left the Wall Street career. My mother and I were there then.

“I am writing books, with two writing selves,” she said. “One for serious fiction (no one reads that but that’s what I want to write) and the other a lucrative series (it’s a crazy genre---psycho-sexual-romance).”

Not surprisingly, I loved the latter and ignored the heavy stuff. She used to translate and read that intimate better stuff to my mother. I pretended not to listen.

We were back there a year later. She had changed in many ways. One change, in particular, affected me. I protested loudly about her conversion to vegetarianism.

“Am I not cooking non-veg for you?” she asked.

“That’s not the point,” I replied.

There were other changes, unconnected to her dietary revolution. I hardly recognized my daughter. She was lost in thoughts, excited, expectant and constantly waiting for something. Irritable too. That was gratefully kept to a minimum by the cause of all that.

We met him. He was a few years younger than her. He seemed to be as smitten with her.

I tried to use him in my fight against vegetarianism.

“Acha (father), I am also planning to become one,” he replied. I groaned. I thought of being petty and telling him not to call me Acha, what my daughter calls me.

That was before I found out he is Jaya’s youngest son.

I got to know that during a dinner together. My mother looked at me. I stared at my plate for a while before continuing as if that did not matter at all.

The next day, when my daughter was not at home, I asked my mother if my daughter knew about Jaya and me. She nodded.

“Why did you tell her?” I asked.

“She found out,” my mother replied.

“How?”

“Probably from all the old stuff in your study room. Your diaries…”

I wondered what my daughter was up to. Was she plotting revenge like me, for me? I knew I could not talk to her about it, after keeping it under wraps all her life.

The kids came back with us to India. They wanted to get married. I agreed to meet his parents.

They arranged the meeting and promised not to be there.

“We really need the blessings from both sides,” they said. I thought there was an implicit threat in that statement of them going ahead even with one side’s blessings or without either.

I knew the way to Jaya’s house. The old house had been renovated. It looked rich and grand. Only the imposing veranda remained as it was.

Jaya and her husband welcomed me warmly, “Come in, come in.”

I suggested sitting on the veranda. Jaya winced, I thought.

I wondered if Jaya had told her husband about us. Her son had not given any indication of that being a family joke. But then, my own daughter had concealed her knowledge of the same.

Jaya’s husband, a successful and very rich businessman, settled those worries with a light-hearted jibe, “Always wanted to meet you, a fellow-sufferer of Jaya’s famous right hand.”

I do not know if my left cheek turned pink. Jaya came to the rescue, “And not because you have been in the papers regularly.”

“I don’t know whether you remember,” Jaya’s husband said, “We met couple of times when the government was laying the groundwork for our industry. I used to tell Jaya that you were the reason we survived.”

I nodded. I wondered if he was being condescending or patronizing, two words I have never really understood. Talk shifted to matters closer to the issue of the day.

Jaya brought tea and biscuits. I wondered if it was the same my parents had had when they visited.

In the background, I could hear them talk of the inter-religious and inter-caste marriages in their family.

“…niece…married a Punjabi…a Kulkarni…that is a Brahmin, is it not…we even have a Polish girl in our extended family now…”

I must have acted well. They continued.

“We have allowed our kids total freedom in choosing their partner. They can bring anyone. Times have changed,” Jaya said.

“Oh yes, anyone…” Jaya’s husband agreed. After a brief pause, “Just not them, though…”

I continued to stare at the last inch of tea in my cup.

“That we have made it clear,” Jaya’s husband said. “They can marry that lot but that would be the end of their relationship with us. Not a penny from us if they go against us on that. That lot…they are just different, aren’t they?”

How much ever I tried then, I could not keep the image of my father’s pained look out of my mind.

There was another image too, my daughter.

My father had taken as much as he could. I just had to take a little bit more. The long, slow kill I had waited for, the check mate, was a move away. I could have justified my actions to my daughter. All for her best, I could say. Trust me, I could plead. I have seen the world more than you, my last argument.

I looked up from the tea-cup, smiled at them and nodded.

For my daughter.

 

The Art of Reading

I am quite sure you are not here to learn from me the art of reading.

Since that's settled, I can confess I have no idea about the art of reading.

I write more than I read. In other words, I hardly read. But, once in a while, I arm-twist a friend or two to read what I write. 

They are good readers. They teach me a lot about how to improve my writing. But, I never learn.

If I had listened to them, my short stories would have been much better.

It is not that I don't listen to them at all. Because of them, I have really cut down or even done without the 'flowery' stuff. Oh, you know, the part where writers go ga-ga, lyrical and descriptive about Nature, moods, etc..

There is one tangential issue I should note. How much do readers affect a writer? 

Some writers carry their own life, character and even acquaintances into the world of their writing. 

Some stay away from their own life, preferring a well-researched setting outside one's own world.

Is that because of the readers they expect?

So, what does all this have to do with (the art of) reading?

After a long time, I have picked up a few novels to read. Last night, I picked up one. I was still in the short-story mode: expecting a quick ending by the end of the chapter, my editing eyes cutting out stuff that would not be there in a short story, impatient when I reached chapter two.

Worse, with short story or novel, I read like a person who knew the author.

I will pick up another novel today. I will try to forget the author. Take each page as it comes. Try not to expect the ABCDE short story structure in every chapter (it is not a structure I personally use). Remain objective. Mildly critical. And, most importantly, try to get lost in that world.

A Love By Any Name...

Recently, I googled "what lovers call each other".

Flashback:

In school, in the pre-Internet era, my gang discussed the same. To be ready for life 10-15 years ahead. We made a list. Even ranked all those synonyms of sugar, baby, dearest, etc.. 

We were thorough. We also talked about what would happen after. That part ended with a collective horror we called nightmare on M-street. What if the first night ended with "Theernno, Chetta?" ("Finished, bro?")? 

(Chetta is one of those ambiguous labels Malayalee ladies use. It could mean elder brother. It could mean husband.)

Back to the Future: 

The lover in my gang (1 out of 8) refused to divulge his mating call. He has 4 kids. The last as recent as 2 years back. Not one a mistake,  he says. My religion forbids protected sex, he adds wistfully.

The raconteur, on his first night, regaled his spouse with his best performance. She suffered a stitch in the side. Called him, "Po Da!" ("Get lost!"). Affectionately though. The consummation had to be postponed till her side mended. What did you call her, we asked. I never got to that part of any story, he said.

The silent one admitted the position mattered more in his case. After many a hit and miss, the silence between them was turning out to be the stuff of art movies (with a script from a prolonged writer's block). They placed the bed beside another window, for better visual sans audio. Till dawn, they lay lost longing. With first light, the cock crowed. They assumed the bird-on-top position. His wife, an amateur ornithologist, twisted and turned. "Look! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" she exclaimed. He lay there, silent still satiated, wondering if his wife had picked up that sweet call from Shakespeare's poem 'Spring'.

The MCP and the fascist did something right. They got four full meals every day.

The communist's wife, in orgasmic frenzy, cried, "Kuttaaaa." (A local version of "Baby.") His father knocked at their bedroom door and asked, "Yes, moley (daughter)?" He had forgotten to tell his wife that her father-in-law's pet name is Kuttan.

The liberal got divorced. He is a lost cause now. I kept it simple, called her darling, he says. We didn't tell him his darling rhymes with Worli, with 3 r's and 4 l's, a capital of each included.

Then, me. I am googling, didn't I say?

A love by any name may not remain as sweet.

(Did the nightmare on M-street happen? It must have, to all. The best horror leave us stunned and silent, don't they, with shivers running down the spine with every reminder: girl with long hair ('The Ring'), doll ('The Poltergeist'), young boy ('The Omen'), etc..)

Phew! Water! Alas!

 A week back, I decided not to trouble my friends ever again with my water woes.

I stayed away, saving you from that depressed grumpy unwashed self with small worries like how to take care of an old mother without water in these coronatimes.

If the times were different, we would have just taken a flight to Goa and stayed in a resort for a month or till the government supplied water.

Last night, we got 800L of water. Phew! 

Now, I can deal with the lighter things in life like fascism, communism, freedom of expression, even basic human rights.

Alas, no! I promise not to touch that basic human right called water. Never again!

Water Crisis

 Major crisis at home (the first of 2021)

KWA water supply in 2021  (Jan 12-19, 2021): 2290L

KWA meter also ran due to AIR (Jan 1-Feb 7): 2600L

Corporation tanker filled sump on 8 days between Jan 1-Feb 7, the last time on Feb 2.

Now, due to sewerage works, even that tanker can't approach the house. (Not even a fire engine! God forbid!)

 

From e-Petition to CM on Feb 7, 2019 (exactly 2 years back):

"Personally, I have given up hope. And, this will be my last letter to

you all regarding this. I guess this will also be forwarded to the MD

of KWA and discarded in some bureaucratic cesspit.

I do not know why the (Residents Association) and community leaders do little to help my

old parents. Is it because they think their job is done if the

majority are happy and a small minority are expendable?

I do not even want to think that caste and religious considerations or

base financial/real-estate interests have played a role, even

subconsciously. Even if that is not in play, the 'apartheid' or

discrimination or step-motherly treatment seems to indicate some such

despicable idea."

From mother's letter to Kerala Water Authority and Councillor on Feb 5, 2021:

"I request your assistance. I am an old lady of 76. We are observing

reverse quarantine in this Covid crisis and that is why we can't come

and see you personally... 

In January, we got water supply (for an hour or so before dawn) only

on these dates: Jan 12-19, 2021.

We have been depending on the Corporation tanker for many months for

water...

 

Since yesterday, the approach roads (on all sides) have been dug up

for KWA sewerage works.

The Corporation tanker can't come to my house. And no one knows when

it will come again...

Everyone cites the elevation as reason for the water supply problem to

our house. But, it is not just because of that. The KWA officials are

well aware of the issues in the neighbourhood and how some people here

oppose equitable distribution of water wanting more for themselves.

My son had sent an e-petition to the Chief Minister two years back (on

Feb 7, 2019)... In that, he also mentioned the

step-motherly treatment we have faced in this area for more than 10

years with regard to water supply.

At that time, I was looking after my ailing husband and without water

supply, it was very stressful (and it remains so). My husband died on

April 14, 2019. We could not even hold his last rites here in my

husband's house because there was no water supply. I am still sad

about that."

From mother's letter to Kerala Water Authority and Councillor on Feb 6, 2021:

"My house received NO water supply last night either. Instead, the

water meter has advanced by 500L because of AIR. Meanwhile, neighbours

seem to be enjoying good water supply. They are busy pumping to

overhead tanks all day long and wasting water we would have loved to

have.

The overhead tank is emptying fast and I do not know what to do other

than to beg to you all.

...there is some talk of a dedicated line...If that happens, it would be good. 

But, as in the past, people in this area would use their connections and power to divert from such

a line. For more than 10 years, they have been torturing us by

depleting our water supply. They do not want us to touch the water

they enjoy. We are untouchables of the 21st century.

Before considering the dedicated line, I request you to consider the

cheaper way of correcting errors of the past:

1. In 2019, the KWA installed a valve in front of house *** for

such emergencies. Sadly, neighbours blocked that with concrete. The

police have not yet found those culprits. If you could close that

valve completely once or twice a week for adequate time during this

phase, our sump might fill. Please do not leave the valve partially

closed (as done earlier)--that might benefit only one house and harm

everyone else including us.

2. 6 years back or so, the *** Residents Association... 

decided to deplete our supply even further by diverting water to house

*** and nearby houses. There is another line running in front of

those houses but their boring point is still from our line with

inadequate supply. Could you please shift the boring point so that

there is more water in our line?

3. 10 years back or so, when this line was put, we received normal

24-hour supply for a week. Then, the line was opened to a downhill

portion serving house *** and nearby houses. The mistake was that

no valve was put before the downhill section. They enjoy unlimited

supply at the expense of those slightly elevated compared to that

downhill area. Overnight, our supply reduced to an hour or so in the

early morning.

Will someone please listen to a desperate old lady's cry for help?"

A Dog's Life

 

I think I loved a girl I called Big Dog.

She had a Labrador. Then, a Great Dane. We used to look at each other, the dog and I. Pedigree mattered there. Even the dog did not wave goodbye.

I think I also loved a girl I called Small Dog.

She had those small types: Pomeranian, Chihuahua and such. Then, she had six of those. The first one and I used to have the same look. Why not me? Why do the others get everything?

I know I loved my Uncle's dog.

Not that Uncle with the boxer. That dog tried to save my Uncle from a cobra, got bit instead and died. A lot like me. The other Uncle had a lovable mongrel. He knew his good relatives and bad relatives. He used to chase the latter. A lot like me.

I know I did not get along well with my wife's family dog.

The first time I went to her house (to see her for the first time, to propose for the last time), we (the dog and I) came to an understanding (the same I have with kids). We need our space and we don't like dirty talk (koochi-koochi-kute, etc.). We also knew we shared the same fate. A short life. And a big drop in the priority list when old age and new entrants like babies came along.

I think I preferred the Bombay dogs to the Bangalore ones.

Once, near the D-mart at Hiranandani, I was near a bunch. A couple of middle-aged ladies too. They were scared of the dogs (and me). Like a gallant knight, I stood in front of my kind and the ladies walked by. Not even a word of thanks from them. I looked at my lot. Us poor migrant workers just cannot bite a royal ass in Bombay, we thought. Our Bangalore cousins could.

What is that old adage? Ah yes.

It's a dog's life every day. 

 

The Rebecca and Maxim de Winter in Us All

 

I used to give my first infatuation a birthday card every month.

She had to call me for her birthday party, after nine cards. There my best friend told me not to trouble her. That they were boyfriend girlfriend. As if that was not enough, she called me her brother at the party. All my friends knew what that meant.

I rebounded then and there, to her best friend. I called her my first love. I gave her a birthday cake. Not every month. Only on her birthday. She left for the US after two cakes. When she came for summer break, it was on her birthday. I was there at the airport with her family and a birthday cake. She introduced us to Mike. We had the cake at the airport, Mike too. I was left with the box.

That is when I decided not to remember the birthday of a woman I wanted to be with all my life.

So, when my wife asked me, "Do you know what is today?", I could only reply, "Today is today." with a smile. Never smile at serious women, I kicked myself mentally.

"It is my birthday and you forgot, yet again." She locked herself in the bedroom. I was in the doghouse yet again. 

How could I explain the situation?

Every married couple has a lot of Rebecca and Maxim de Winter in them.

It did not help that my mother-in-law visited yesterday. 

She told me, "Your wife can't cook."

"She can. Very well too," I replied.

"No, she can't. She is a very busy and successful person. She can't cook."

"But, I cook half the time. I am also slightly busy and successful," I said.

"Get a cook," she said firmly.

"But, I don't like outside cooks in our house," I said.

"Marriage is all about compromise," she said.

"We used to cook and do everything on our own when we were in London," I said.

"That is London. This is not London."

Meanwhile, my father-in-law sat watching Netflix on TV. 'Breaking Bad'. He was trying to say something to me. Last time, it was 'Reservoir Dogs' on another channel. 

A Party to Murder

  

“Keep everyone separate,” Shokie said on the phone at seven in the morning, “get their position and company…throughout the night.”

“They are not forthcoming about what was going on,” Anu said.

“That’s to be expected with such parties but they might offer what they observed till the murders,” Shokie said.

Shokie was given the double murder case around half past five that morning, as soon as it was reported. Along with the case came the caution: wrap it up fast and discreetly. Shokie had immediately sent Anu to take charge at the crime scene which was an hour’s drive from the horrific landslide site with more than fifty dead where Shokie, Anu and the rest of the team had been since the previous afternoon.

“I should be there before nine. Some jokers…politicians are fooling around here and delaying the handover.” Shokie ended the call with, “Anu...keep your report brief.”

The first time Anu received that advice, she had bristled.

“The final report can be a Ramayana. Till that stage of a case, I prefer Hemingway’s style,” Shokie told her that first time, returning Anu’s thick meticulously detailed report without even looking at it.

“I have not read either,” Anu retorted.

“Me neither,” Shokie replied.

I asked for it, Anu thought. That was true. When she was promoted as sub-inspector, she had broken a personal rule and asked her father, a retired superintendent of police, for a professional favour. Her father had clammed up, scowled but finally agreed to her request. He took her to the house of a senior officer in the department, a person Anu called Uncle since childhood but not then.

“I want to work with Inspector Shokie,” Anu requested.

“Why?” the senior officer asked.

“She is my role model.”

The two men looked at each other. The senior officer laughed loudly. Her father continued to scowl.

“Excuse me,” the senior officer sobered up. He smiled at the sullen Anu, “Long back, in a departmental interview, someone asked Shokie who her role model was. Guess her answer.”

Anu shook her head, bit her lower lip. “Her mother?”

“Well, that’s what we told her to say from then on. Her reply had been: no one,” the senior officer reminisced, rather fondly.

“What else can we expect from her?” Anu’s father added.

“But, you two got along,” the senior said. Anu’s father’s scowl got worse.

Anu knew that Shokie had reported to her father at some stage but that remained a topic her father avoided.

“Ok, I will put you with her,” the senior officer told Anu. Then added, “Just do not forget what law, order and justice means.”

Later that night, during dinner, Anu asked her father what the senior had meant by that.

“Since you are going to work with Shokie, let me tell you the first thing you
will learn from her: figure it out yourself,” her father replied with smug satisfaction.

Apart from the advice on report writing, Anu did not receive any other advice from Shokie. She did not receive any praise either, even though she thought her “triple-effort” deserved it. They did not socialize outside office hours and they did not share personal details. Once when Anu requested permission to attend a workshop on female empowerment in modern workplace, Shokie refused. Do your work, Anu was told. She was allowed to attend other programs though. At a course on cybersecurity and advanced weapons, she met Antony who used to work with Shokie. Antony too refused to say much about his former boss, even though his admiration was clearly evident. All that he divulged to Anu was, rather wistfully, “Don’t feel bad when she or you move to other teams, when you are erased from her contact list, without a word, without a farewell, after working together for years.”

When she was told to take charge at the scene of the crime, Anu was determined to put in another “triple-effort” to solve the case on her own; not to enter her boss’s good books if there was one, but to prove to herself she could be as good as Shokie. After eighteen hours at the landslide site, she was tired, hungry and grimy. The adrenalin rush alone kept her on her feet.

She was at her meticulous best at the crime scene. She secured the site, took notes and photos of the scene, never relying solely on the experts in her profession. She isolated the partygoers and personally interviewed them, the main suspects.

Around quarter to nine, Shokie arrived at the resort.

It is a lovely resort at the top of a hill, private, nearly a kilometre from the gate. The nearest neighbours and shops are at the foothill. The resort has a main building with office and kitchen, and a dozen cottages of various sizes. The resort is owned by a politician and an actor, with a driver and an accountant the benami owners. The police knew about the rave parties and other social events that took place there. They were discouraged from taking a closer look.   

Six cottages are to the left lower edge of the hill. The remaining six, where the incidents of the night happened, are to the right. The cottages are widely separated, only a few even visible from each other. The cottages have two exits, a front door and one at the back along with a veranda. There is a pathway on that side of the resort that leads to a charming hilltop gazebo.

Shokie surveyed the scene from a distance. Anu briefed her about the night’s events.

“There are two dead. One a male 50 or so, the other a female in her early twenties. Preliminary estimates suggest he was murdered in his sleep, throat cut from ear to ear, between 2 am and 4 am, no defensive wounds. The young lady consumed poisoned between 4 am and 6 am.”

“13 people, including the dead, arrived late evening to party. Eight in the age group 30 to 50 and five college kids in the early twenties. I have prepared a worksheet of their known positions during the night. Included observations and known relationship too.”

“Of these six cottages on the right, two were used for partying. Party Room 1 is a large cottage with hall which can accommodate 20 or so, and with four bedrooms. Party Room 2 is a cottage with two bedrooms. The older lot had four cottages for themselves but they were mostly partying with various groups the whole night.”

“They had dinner together in the main building from 8 pm to 10 pm. Then, split up in various groups.”

“The dead man remained in his cottage throughout the night. From 10 to midnight, he was with his wife and a young lady. He must have had other company later but no one is admitting to that.”

“His cottage is the exclusive one near the top. The front door is visible from Party Room 2. There is a path from the back porch to the hilltop gazebo.”

“It rained heavily between 4 am and 6 am. If there were any footprints leading to the cottage, they are all gone.”

Shokie nodded. Anu continued.

“The cottages on the left side of the resort were vacant last night. The eleven suspects are in various rooms. We are using one cottage as control room.”

“The staff here is minimal. Two shifts. One front desk person in the office and three in the kitchen, they do the housekeeping too. We have not allowed the night shift people to leave. The day shift is keeping the kitchen open.”

“Has everyone had breakfast?” Shokie asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you tell someone to get me a flask of coffee and some toast and jam?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They walked to the cottage that was set up as control room. Shokie went to the balcony, sat on a reclining chair.

“What a view! We better make use of such resort facilities when we can,” she said. She closed her eyes.

Anu waited till the coffee and toast arrived. She watched her senior put 4 heaps of sugar in the mug of coffee.

“Ma’am, I have e-mailed the worksheet to you. I have noted known position, company and their observations…too few of those.”

“Hmmm…”

“With regard to the 13, the eight older ones seem to be successful professionals, two of them married couples, and the five college…”

“Anu,” Shokie interrupted, “fill me in on those details later.”

“11 main suspects,” Anu remarked.

“12, right?” Shokie asked.

“Yes, 12 if one assumes the dead lady killed the man and then took her own life with poison.”

“Take any dozen. Four will lie. Four will tell the truth. Four will remain silent. Some truths will be lies. Some lies will be truths. The honest ones need not be good,” Shokie mumbled that like a nursery rhyme, half asleep.

“Ma’am?” Anu said after a while.

“Hmmm?”

“Where do you want to start, ma’am?”

“Me? I am going to make use of this holiday. You know what to do. And, Anu…wrap it up fast and discreetly.” Shokie smiled, leaned back, her eyes half-closed, sipped coffee, had toast with liberal amount of jam.

“Ma’am, I have taken blood tests of all. They are all walking pharmacies after what went on last night,” Anu said.

“Keep it,” Shokie said, “that will be part of the discreet.”

Anu left to resume her investigations.

Shokie reached for her laptop and studied the worksheet Anu had prepared. She made notes on the same.

 

xxx

 

20:00-22:00: Dinner together.

22:00-24:00: Dead man (M1) in own cottage with wife (F2) and young lady (F11). Three men and three women in Party Room 1. Two men and two women in Party Room 2. One observation during that period: 30-year-old man (M7) in Party Room 2 saw the twenty-year-olds with them, man (M9) and woman (F10), slip a bottle of expensive wine into a backpack. 40-year-old woman (F4) in the same cottage did not see that.

00:00-03:00: Dead man (M1) is with unknown company or killer in own cottage. Four men and four women in Party Room 1, mostly together during session, though no one can vouch for another. In Party Room 2, thirty-year-old man (M7) was replaced by thirty-year-old woman (F8). Observations: Two men (M5 and M6) going to Party Room 1 think they saw a man and a woman (M9 and F10) go to the room of dead man (M1), carrying a backpack. But, the group in Party Room 2 (F4, F8, M9 and F10) say they were together. The older women (F4 and F8) admit they could have slept a bit. Party Room 2 has the best view of M1’s front door. But, none of them saw anyone enter M1’s cottage.

Shokie nodded appreciatively at a note Anu made with regard to that: Why didn’t the dog bark?

03:00-05:00: Dead man (M1) is with unknown company or killer in own cottage. Two men (M5 and M6) retire to their cottage during that period. The remaining ten were in Party Room 1. Fluid situation with no one really sure who was or was not there, and with no track of time. Observations: The two men (M5 and M6), on their way back from party, once again saw the young couple (M9 and F10) go to M1’s front door. Female F4 says she saw female F13 leave M1’s room. She is not sure when. Rains.

Anu wondered: Did M5 and M6 see M9 and F10 go to M1 twice?

05:00-06:00: Wife (F2) finds man (M1) dead. She waits with man (M3) and lady (F8) in M3’s room. Woman (F4) and man (M7) were together at hilltop gazebo. Two men (M5 and M6) remain in their room. The five college kids are in Party Room 1. One of them, a lady (F13) is found dead. Observations: An expensive bottle of wine is found next to F13.

Anu had also noted: There could have been a flurry of activity behind all that. Man (M3) reported both crimes to the person in office who reported it to police without delay.

 

xxx

 

Shokie poured coffee, heaped more sugar. She looked at the worksheet once again.

“To find the needle in the haystack, put the hay on fire and wash away the ash,” that line in a children’s mystery novel crossed her mind.

She scribbled in a pocket book:

·       Bottle of wine (M9 & F10 to ??? to F13)

·       ??? = M1?

·       Party Room 2---nothing seen at M1’s cottage? Why?

·       F13 & M1---F4 saw---how?

She tried various scenarios.

·       M9 & F10 & F13?

She scowled. “Too many villains ganging up? Unlikely.”

Twice she got up from her seat. Once she even reached the cottage front door.

“Let the kid find out,” she muttered and returned to her position on the balcony. She forced herself to relax.

She took out the pocket book once more. She did not like the conclusions she had reached. This time, she wrote in careful longhand. She always found that to be therapeutic in such moments.

·       M9 & F10 took the stolen bottle of expensive wine to M1, after lacing it with poison. Were they told to come later? Was M1 expecting another? They used the front entrance of M1’s cottage each time. Nothing to hide or not trying to hide? Deep emotions—rage?

·       F13 was with M1. How else could she get that bottle of wine? Did she use the back route to enter and exit M1’s cottage? That could explain why no one in Party Room 2 saw her enter. If she took the bottle of wine, she would definitely take the back route. Then, how did F4 see her? Not on her way to Party Room 1. She was in no position to see F13 on that route. Or, was F4 around the back of M1’s cottage?

·       After F13 left M1’s cottage, F4 must have entered and killed M1. Check the rear part of M1’s cottage, the gazebo and area around for evidence.

·       M9 & F10 must have turned up at M1’s cottage again a little later and found M1 dead. They must have gone there to make sure M1 drinks from the bottle of wine or to retrieve it.

·       F13 took the bottle of wine from M1’s room. She must have had it later, on her own. And, died.

Shokie could guess many reasons as to why M9, F10 and F4 would want to kill M1. She could not think of one reason why F13 had to die.

She scowled, closed her eyes and waited for Anu.

 

xxx

 

Anu turned up around mid-afternoon. She was flush with excitement. Shokie told her to sit down. A constable brought a flask of fresh coffee and a plate of vada. Shokie served the coffee and told her junior to have that and vada.

Then, Anu briefed her about the investigation and her findings.

“Ma’am, the young couple, M9 and F10 in my notes, have confessed. They are actually brother and sister. It seems M1 destroyed their parents. They stole the bottle of wine, poisoned it and hoped to kill M1 with that. Their plans went for a toss. They would not have felt a bit of guilt if they had killed M1 but the death of F13, by chance, is going to haunt them.”

“The other proved to be tricky and a bit of serendipity helped. I found two sets of footprints at the hilltop gazebo, made by the same footwear and same person. One wet and one dry. Someone had been there before and after the rains. It was a lady’s footprint and it turned to be that of F4. She must have gone later with a man to remove old footprints and place new. A bit too clever for her own good. We searched the area around. She made another mistake. She thought it was a steep drop from the gazebo. She did not know that there’s a ledge beneath. If she had thrown with more force, it would have been anywhere. She must have casually dropped the bloody knife wrapped in cloth thinking it would reach the river below and be gone forever. She had not even bothered to wipe her fingerprints off that knife. Maybe, she wanted to be caught. She has not confessed. She has not said a word. But, Ma’am…that M1 was a nasty man.”

“Great work,” Shokie said.

Shokie leaned back in her chair, staring without expression at the beautiful view. Anu too leaned back, with the look of a serious person trying hard not to blush.