Appa and his Son

The loud clang startled me and I jumped out of the bed. It was pitch dark.  For a moment I forgot where I was. In time, the recollection came. ‘What am I doing here?’ I asked myself.  The radium of the wall clock showed that it was ten. I do not usually fall into a deep sleep at this time of the night. But this night was an aberration. Maybe because of the tiresome five hour bus journey from Chennai to this town in the morning. Maybe because of the spate of late night meetings in the office over the last one week. A helpless feeling of lethargy engulfed my body and mind.

Slowly the eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could make out the silhouette of my father leaning down from his cot and struggling with something. For a moment it appeared he would fall down.   He was desperately trying to pick up something from the floor with his shaking hands. I could spot him furtively stealing a glance at me sideways to check if he had woken me up.  I jumped off from my bed and went close to him to inspect.  The water jug that was placed on the table had fallen down. Water was splayed everywhere on the floor. I quickly picked up the jar. There was still some water left inside. I held my father’s frail body by his armpit, gently laid him down on the cot and slowly poured water into his half open mouth. He drank gleefully.  A lump started to form inside my heart and climbed its way up but got stuck in the throat. I could manage to smother the sob but failed with the tears welling in my eyes.

“You could have woken me up, appa”

He wanted to say something but it was too much of an effort. He drank the water some of which spilled all over his face and dripped onto the pillow. He closed his eyes gently and let out a sigh. A low moan emanated from his mouth.

‘This is not the appa I know. This is not the appa I wish to be with, after all these years,’ I cried softly. ‘Is this the form I was longing to see after five years?’ I cursed myself for not being by his side during the last few years. The five years sacrificed at the altar of the US dream.  For five years I pretended to myself that I was taking good care of my father, by sending him forty thousand rupees every month. Yes, you heard me right – forty thousand.

The wife was not particularly humored by this extravagance of mine but she did not press this except for the occasional bouts of zero conversation. After all, she too realized that the alternative is my father coming over to live permanently with us in the States. Her spells of silence were good in one way, in fact, blissful for me.  Would she understand if I told her that I had a conscience to answer?

 When I left for the US five years back, I had put my father and mother in a good ‘retirement community’. Now, this was not an old age home (I am not cruel, you know), it is a senior citizens community of ‘assisted living’, with all facilities available twenty four-seven.  I thought I had done the best for him. Only much later, the conscience beast began to openly question me. It asked me as to whether money thrown about was what filial duty was all about? I knew it was not, I knew my father yearned to have me visit him more often, but I was too busy living the American dream that I managed to smother the conscience beast every time it reared its ugly head.

I should have at least listened to it when my mother passed away last year. I did not. The wife would not let me. ‘See, Mohan, what will he do here in this strange place with no friends to chat with, no temple to go and nothing to do?’ she would wax sweetly. ‘He would be much better off there where he would be engaged’.

I should have said no. I should have, for a change, either visited him more often or brought him along to the States to live with me.

I did neither.

Until I received the phone call from my father’s neighbor one Friday evening informing that my appa was seriously ill and had been admitted to a hospital. And then I rushed. Eighteen hours of flight. Every passing minute seemed an eon to me on the flight.  We do not value time. Rather, we have no clue on how to view time in the right perspective. The last fifty years when my father was hale and hearty meant nothing to me. Right now, each moment counted as if it were my last.  Too late.  And too little.  I once again cried.

I had asked the doctor about my father’s condition. “Pulmonary edema and Pleurisy”, he replied without any dramatics. It seemed he wanted to show off the names of some of the diseases he had memorized while doing his medicine degree.

“And what does that do? In simple terms, how quickly my father could return home?”  I asked.

“Mr. Mohan, let me be candid. This condition is pretty serious.  Not necessarily fatal but given your father’s age, it would be a task for him to recover completely before three months. Till that time, he needs complete care. I can discharge him in a week but after that it is in your hands.”

‘My hands’, I thought bitterly. What would I do? Three months on leave? Certainly not possible. Or maybe I can arrange for a caretaker? Or maybe, just may be……

I quickly banished the thought. The conscience beast was having a field day. Again it reared its grotesque face.  ‘Should you not be taking him with you to the US?’ it mocked.   I should. There is no other solution more apt.  But would I? Can I?

It is not until it is too late does one realize what the bundle of flesh and bones that goes by the name father means in one’s life. In most cases the realization comes a bit too late, at a stage when any course-correction becomes impossible. It has, perhaps, come to me now.

And when it is too late, only the memories remain.  From the montage of memories that formed my childhood, three distinctly stand out. The incidents by themselves do not have any significance. But the memories stand rock solid. Despite the passing of time and best of efforts to shake them off, they continue to haunt.

Memory one - When I was being sent away to Kolkata with a pack of relatives in a train to spend my summer holidays. I was about nine then. That was my first trip alone, without father and mother, to anywhere. I was to spend a month in Kolkata.  The blurred memories of my father coming to the station to send me off and just when the train was about to move, tears in his eyes. I could not believe it. I too nearly cried, even though I and my father were not the best of pals, if you know what I mean. We always maintained a distance between us, a distance fed by mutual respect, admiration and love.  We exchanged few words. And here he is, crying!  As the train moved away from the station, my aunt with whom I was travelling was quick to point this out to me. “I did not know your father loved you so much,” she said. I nearly died of embarrassment.

Memory two – When we (me, my mother and father) were out shopping.  Not the kind of mall hopping we do nowadays. There were no malls then. Our shopping usually began with a visit to the provision store and ended with the vegetable shop.  That particular evening, I vaguely remember that we walked a lot and that I was kind of ill that day, running a temperature. At some point, I stopped walking. I could not take another step. My legs were giving away. The fever was burning. I unclasped my father’s hand and sat down on the platform. My father was worried; I could see it in his face. He did not foresee that my condition was bad; else he would not have taken me for such a long walk.  He came to me and asked, “Mohan, what happened ma? Are you alright?” I don’t remember what I replied. We were about a kilometer from our home. He then gave the shopping bags to my mother and then just lifted me and carried me on his shoulder like he would a baby and walked all the way home! Despite my fever, I was acutely aware of what was happening. It was a heady mix of delirium caused by fever and the warmth of my father’s arms.  That was another instance of a mix of affection and embarrassment for me.

Memory three -   the Three Musketeers!  When I was about seven or eight, it was a daily ritual for me to run to the neighbour’s house every day and rummage through the Cinemas section of the English Newspaper. We had only the vernacular newspaper delivered to our home those days. It was not until I went to Class VIII did my father had it changed to English. I had in my school syllabus, two classics for non-detailed study.  One was ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’ and the other, ‘The Three musketeers’.  I came to know that these two were also made into films. I desperately wanted to watch these two movies. That was the purpose of my daily dash to the neighbor. To check daily if any theatre was showing it. This went on for about a year. I could not shake off my obsession with these two stories.  And one fine morning, I could not believe myself. The Elphinstone theater was releasing The Three Musketeers the next day, a Friday. I could not conceal my glee. I immediately ran back to my father and informed him this news.  Right from that moment, I started pestering him to take me to the film that week end. He neither said yes, nor no. 

Only years later I came to realize that he never had the heart to negate any of my demands, only he had to necessarily worry about the economics of every demand. At this point, I have to explain that our financial situation was not something to write home about those days. My father was working in a private firm as a clerk. Whatever he brought home was just barely enough to feed our family of five. Anything beyond the basic essentials was an effort for him to fulfill. Not that we made many demands on him but this Three Musketeers demand had immediately set him thinking. The ticket price per head was three rupees. Of course, the theatre was only a fifteen minute walk, so we would walk both ways. The interval popcorn or cool drink would set him back by another say two rupees, so it was a question of affording about eight bucks in the last week of the month.  That was what sent him on a worrying spree, but finally he said yes.  My joy knew no bounds.

 I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop. To halt exactly at that point of time in my life when I watched the film with my father.  Athos, Porthos & Aramis were daring and dashing on the screen alright but quite different from the image I had formed of them, from the reading of the book.  That came as a bit of a disappointment. But D’Artagnan did not disappoint one bit. I did not allow myself to realize that this was a film and the actors were just playing their parts. For me, the characters from the novel just leapt out of the book and were coming alive on the big screen. Oh, my, how I relished those ninety minutes! Of what purpose is walking a hundred years on this planet, if for only ninety minutes of it you relish life! Even as I was thoroughly immersed in the gripping duels between the musketeers and Cardinal Richelieu’s men, the film suddenly ended! I was waiting hungrily for a feast but the show ended with just crumbs.

What a disappointment! What happened to all the scenes post the fight, Milady, the Queen, Madame Bonacieux and all the other things?  I felt completely let-down and nearly cried that the film had to end this fast.  My father could sense this, as I had immediately started bombarding him with questions on what happened to the rest of the story and why they were not shown in the film. “The story is too long to be captured fully in one film version”, he consoled me. ‘There are other versions which are better ones. Perhaps we might one day see the Gene Kelly version of the film. That came long back and was very good.”

We never got to see the Gene Kelly version but that does not matter. What matters now is the memory. Of the musketeers, of my father, of the film, the milk ice-cream he bought me in the intermission……….. Why life has to be so sweet only in memories of the distant past and so harsh in the present? Why one has to live life only in memories, when the present is a near-death experience?

No, I did not have the courage to take my father with me to the US after his release from the hospital. I put him back in the senior citizen community. This time, I arranged for a full time help to be with him all day. That was my way of answering my conscience. As I took leave, my father asked me feebly, when he could see me and my two daughters again. ‘Very soon, father” I lied. Maybe next summer, I will bring them along,” I lied smoothly. I knew that was not going to happen. I have a wife to manouevre around, which looked an uphill task.

My father nodded in satisfaction.  He came up to the door to see me off. He seemed quite happy and content. Frail, but happy. Or at least that is what I thought. As I got into the cab, he again called me by name. The cab had already started moving by that time and I had to stop it.

“Yes, father?”

“Mohan, I just wanted to say that I am happy here. The community is nice, I go to the temple daily, take my morning walk in the terrace, and the food is good. The doctor also takes care of us when there is need. You need not feel bad that I am alone here. I am happy. In fact, I do not even miss your mother now. Just that I thought it would be nice to see your daughters. I am quite happy, Mohan, quite happy”

I absent mindedly nodded. I could not bear to look at his face again. I badly wanted to burst out crying, but did not want to, before the cab driver. I cursed life. I cursed my wife. I cursed the whole universe. I cursed myself. That was all my impotence would allow me. To curse. It would not even let me cry.

I am now back in the US. The routine has once again submerged me. For the first one week, I used to make daily calls to my father. The frequency started dropping off gradually. It is now once a week.

Inexplicably, I now vicariously await that single call from the caretaker of the community. That single call which would inform me that everything is over, so that I can spare myself the agony. That single call which would take me to India one final time.

That call has so far not come. I should be happy that it has not.  But am I?

Once Upon A Night

Have you ever tasted revenge? The most delicious thing one can have. Lust for revenge causes weird things to happen inside your body and mind. It germinates as a small knot deep inside your head. In time it drops down to your stomach where it gathers fuel and burns non-stop. There is no way to douse the flame. It feeds on itself as each day passes. It singes our vitals till the last flicker. If you do not believe this, listen to my story. A story of love, lust, betrayal, anger and revenge. Of what started as a fairy tale and could have gone on and on in the same vein but inexplicably went horribly awry somewhere midway. 

I first met Mukesh at the oddest of the places – outside the train compartment toilet. The last place one would prefer to meet, for the first time, one’s would-be life partner. It was around one at night. Not a soul stirred inside the air-conditioned coach. I had had a glass too many of water after the spicy dinner and that led to my midnight bleary-eyed venture to the toilet. 

I spotted him smoking. He had kept the door of the compartment open and was leaning, dangerously to me, against the door. The cool breeze of the Orissa plains swept into the coach. I shivered momentarily. He did not notice me, obviously enjoying every moment of the fresh air and the cigarette. The sound of my turning the knob of the toilet door must have shaken him from his reverie, for, before going in, I could notice from the corner of my eyes, a mildly shocked face turning towards me. 

When I came out, there was no cigarette, but the odour of tobacco lingered. The door was still ajar. He continued to lean on the door and I could detect a faint smile on his face. I felt mildly irritated on his nonchalance. I was undecided as to whether to go back to my berth or ask this moron a question or two. I opted for the second, but decided it will be only one question, asked and then forgotten, not waiting for the answer.

“ Don’t you know smoking is banned in trains?”

I waited for a split second for an angry retort or a stupid smile but neither came. As I was pushing the glass door to enter the cabin, I was halted by the words “please wait a minute”.

I froze and turned my head.

“I am Mukesh”.

“I did not ask for your name”. He did not seem to hear that. 

“I know smoking is not allowed. But it’s been twenty hours and I could not control. I am sorry”

“But where is the coach attendant? He is supposed to remain here throughout the journey!” I said.

“ Usko set kardiya”

I could not help conceal a twitch of my mouth. Bloody bugger has set kar diya.

Only much later did I admit to myself that he had me set kar diya as well.

If this was the first scene, the subsequent ones were set in more presentable surroundings. To cut a long courtship story short, (that spanned twenty four movies, five visits to Digha beach, seven to the Dakshineswar temple and sixteen kisses) we both finally managed to convince our parents for an “arranged” marriage. They saw the hopelessness of the situation when we proffered elopement as the alternative. They had to consent. That we both belonged to the same caste was minor consolation for them. Love marriage is love marriage, and respectable families would have none of it. 

Not that it was a marriage of unequal, so to speak. I had just completed by M.B.A in Bangalore and was undecided about the future when I returned to Calcutta to join my parents. My father, a soon-to-retire college principal, was itching to get me married off to tick off that one last pending chore in his ‘to do’ list. Mukesh worked in a foreign bank in Bangalore and his parents too were settled in Calcutta. We both were the only child for our parents. The college principal gentleman met the just retired Government servant gentleman and they both instantly hit it off with each other, after they came to know that both used to frequent the Coffee House in College Street and visit the Calcutta Book fair every year. 

The wedding itself was a lavish affair. Lasting two days, it was a typical, conservative South Indian marriage, complete with all the mandatory rituals, an army of guests, a mountain of gifts and the mandatory eyes-welled-up-in-tears kanyadhan. I felt a sense of relief when it all ended and we set off for the honeymoon to – where else – Darjeeling. 

Life was cruising along at a comfortable pace for the first few months. He had taken a month off from his work post the wedding, which time was spent in settling down in a newly rented flat in Bangalore. Furnishings were bought, indoor plants were raised, maid was successfully appointed, candle-light dinners were dutifully arranged, sex was plentiful and in short, life seemed one big carnival. After the month got over, he went back to work, and I was not having much to do at home. We had decided that we would not have a child for at least two years and that I would not take up a job in the immediate future. 

Slowly but surely, ennui began to set in. It had to. I am a movie buff and I had seen this situation in many a film. Life has a propensity to imitate films. Happily married, mushy-mushy moments at the beginning, slowly beginning to degenerate to dreary afternoons that never seemed to end and nights that were, at best, monotonous. His work made him leave office very late and when he returned well past mid night most of the times, I found myself half asleep on the bed. I could dreamily sense him slipping in beside me and reaching out a cold arm to hug me. I used to turn the other way and slide into a deep sleep. Even this predictable daily routine would have seemed alright with the passage of time until I discovered that he was cheating on me. 

I could not believe it at first. The late hours he kept, I naively assumed, were because of his work. That it could be because of another woman, I came to know much later. That slut, Priyanka. I should have guessed when I visited his office three months back. Something about her looks, dress and laughter just did not seem right to me then. She was reporting to him in work, Mukesh once mentioned. During the one hour that I was in his office, she barged into his cubicle at least thrice with some file or dossier or notes. Nothing seemed amiss then, though. The discovery of his cheating was to happen much later. 

The first bombshell fell like this. During my endless hours of boredom at home, I began to develop some friendship with Ram, who lived two floors above. He was a research scholar or something and I did not care what he did. He had a fixed routine of going out at eleven every day and returning at six in the evening. He pretty much kept to himself and never had any visitors. In the evenings, he used to stroll in the terrace and since I too had to kill time, I used to strike conversations with him in the evenings. Gradually I began to develop a liking for him, his scholarly demeanour, complete with thick spectacles and a stubble, his ability to discuss any topic under the sun, from Kovind to Kollywood, Leone to les Miserable’s. I may emphasise here that beyond those conversations, there was nothing in our relationship, in case your mind wandered. You might even call our relationship, platonic. In any case, his was a personality that seemed way too above any craving for carnal pleasures. As for me, it was more of boredom that was killing me rather than any short supply of physical intimacy. 

One such evening, he casually mentioned that he spotted Mukesh in that Chinese restaurant downtown the evening before. I quickly remembered Mukesh returning at ten that night, mumbling something incoherent about a Board meeting that was impending. “Was anyone with him?” I blurted out the question and immediately felt stupid. Thankfully Ram did not seem to notice anything odd in my question and calmly replied that yes, there was one lady, sharing the table with Mukesh. 

I felt odd even though my heart told me that a casual dinner meeting my husband might have had with a girl should not cause much concern to me. Bloody, I was not even sure if the girl in the hotel was the one I thought she were. I quickly dismissed any anxiety that day. But rumours, once they start, they keep pouring in torrents. After Ram, two days later, the newspaper boy spotted my husband (again with a lady in tow) in a department store. Not to be outdone, the balding uncle living in the flat a floor below spotted him in a cinema. Suddenly everyone in our neighbourhood seemed to be in a spotting contest of my husband. 

I was beginning to go crazy. I could take loneliness, a few angry words, a lot of physical discomforts but adultery from the husband? I felt humiliated. My immediate urge was to confront him and give him an earful. Then I realised that he would flatly deny. Or worse, he would dare me to go separate ways, which would be a blow to my ego. After all, it took some convincing on my part to get my parents agree to the marriage. I could not bear to go back to them defeated. ‘I will handle this myself’, I told myself. For a brief period, I was feeling strangely helpless and vulnerable. I cried a lot. Despair and despondency completely engulfed me. I had no clue what course I should chart to see this through.

And then the flash struck. I shook off the crying and sobbing. ‘I would not take things lying down. Am not I made of sterner stuff?’ I told myself. ‘Mukesh had to pay for this’. He betrayed my unconditional trust on him. True, the initial romance of the marriage had long evaporated but at least we were getting along with each other without much ado? I had forsaken my career and sundry personal longings just to be with him? And this is what he gives me in return? Infidelity? Anger seethed inside me. The fire of revenge burned. ‘He should get it back’, I reminded myself. ‘He should feel the same pain. Like a stab into his vitals. I would ensure that’. An outline of a plan had formed inside my head and I proceeded to smoothen out the rough edges to give it a final shape. I was aware of the perils involved but I could not care less. 

I distinctly remember the date – July 29th. The day he said he would return from his Singapore trip. Of course, an official trip. The liar, for all I know, would surely have taken the bitch along in his trip. I fumed. This time I would have my retribution ready when he returned from the trip. Yes I forgot to mention, for all his deceit, one thing he never lied about was his date and time of return from outstation trips. July 29th it will be this time. I would make sure he remembered the date.

The day arrived. The time of his return was approaching fast. The flight from Singapore arrived at nine at night. An hour at immigration and customs, another hour in commute, he would be home by about eleven. I prayed to God that nothing go amiss. I don’t want any delayed flight. I have very little time.

The mood of the night too was perfect. It started with a drizzle and then the rain poured. A sharp lightning struck, accompanied by a roaring thunder. Sheets of rain hit the glass window panes and the outside view was just a blur. Heavy winds whooshed. The curtains swayed wildly. ‘How perfectly the night is in sync with my mood,’ I thought. Presently the rain began to abate and stop. There was absolute silence on the streets. The shrill hoot of the metro train pierced the night air. ‘Was that the last train?’ I wondered. ‘That means it should be ten now’. A mild panic gripped me. ‘Where the hell he has disappeared?’ I began to wonder. I began pacing the hall restlessly. The lights went off suddenly. ‘Damn’ I thought. ‘Now, of all times?’ Did I hear a car? I again went to the balcony to check. It was all quiet in the street down. No car. I returned to the sofa. Minutes were ticking away. 

It was getting late enough to be worried. I once again stepped into the balcony and looked down. Except for a drenched street dog that was lying down miserably near the gate, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rain water had puddled under the lamp post. A breeze ruffled the mango tree in the courtyard and a few twigs fell down and broke. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Did I hear a soft knock at the door? I turned back....

.....It was him! He had come down barefooted from the flat above so that there was not a bit of sound. A big feeling of relief engulfed me. Quickly I pulled him inside and closed the door, ensuring to leave it unlocked. It was still pitch dark inside the room but I did not bother to search for the emergency lamp. Without wasting any further time, I dragged him inside the bedroom and started removing my clothes. Ram was panting heavily and sweating. For him it would be a new experience. As for me, it had not taken much time and effort to seduce him during the course of the last one week. I had promised him that it would be July 28th night when there would be consummation. He was moaning in anticipation. I took a quick glance at my mobile. It was 10.30. Enough time at my hands. Enough time for some fun in bed with Ram . . . . . . 

. . . . . . Sure enough the cab arrived promptly at 11 p.m. Mukesh got out, saw that there was no power, proceeded to wearily climb the two flight of stairs, reached our door and turned the knob and entered.

Revenge

'Are you sure, Rhea?' asks my mother.

'Of course I'm. Survival of the fittest, mother. I'm not going against Darwin. Also I don't want unnecessary scars on my body.'

It's a known fact that we are all born to die. And frankly, I don't understand why it has to be made into such a big deal. If it were not for my mother I would have said that to the bunch of people outside my house, some of them with young kids, shouting slogans, waving placards, literally wanting me to cut one of my beating hearts out. "Save A Life. Donate!" they shout.

For someone who is one in billions, 7.125 billion to be exact, I expect to be treated better. Scientists are still befuddled regarding my condition that gave me two hearts in my mother's womb. But years of research and sticking needles into me have led them nowhere, and they have labelled me as a freak mutation. It's so rare - literally one in all humankind - that they didn't even name the anomaly (as they call it, I will call it awesomeness). I wanted to name the condition myself, something on the lines of Rhea's Heartsawesome but the doctors aren't thrilled with the suggestion. Instead they want to cut one of them out and save a life. Huh?

An IQ of 180, increased concentration, exceptional athleticism and a phenomenal metabolism rate - are just the few boring benefits of an increased blood circulation. Why would I ever give that up?

‘Never’, I told myself. The decision was made. The shouting brigade outside can go to hell. It’s my life. And I live it my way. Live it king-size with no ugly incisions, blood or gore to defile it. Look, I knew I was some kind of a museum specimen, a  “subject” as they call in medical colleges right from  the time I was eight.  A double-hearted girl. It did not make much sense when I first learnt it at eight.  Att thirteen, I was a bit uncomfortable whenever someone posed the inevitable ‘how & why’ question, and now at 25, it does not make much difference at all. Until the moment the white-coated doctor prophesied that I will not see my 28^th birthday.  I was heart-broken on hearing the doomsday prophesy. I wanted to live. I wanted to continue relishing the smell of the earth, the dazzle of the rainbow, the quiet of the night and the bustle of the city. Forever. Death had no business to butt in my life. Definitely not within the next two years. I cried on hearing the news.  I cried for three consecutive days.  Alone. And then got over the shock of the prognosis and began thinking ahead of how best I can ensure the two years were happily and contently spent.

But the doctor had also handed me a long rope, a work-around to this little problem of two hearts. Medical advances can ensure, with an 80% probability of success, that I live much longer than the two year blip, if I consent to have one heart removed and may be donate it.   I could not bring myself to the idea of a surgeon’s knife slicing through my chest and prising out what has part of me since my birth. After much thought, I decided against that option. Convincing my mother proved a lot more difficult but after all, this is my life, my body and I would not let anyone decide for me, not even my mother.

But when I made the decision, I also decided that before I exit this planet (which the doctors said would be another two years, if I don’t, well, surrender the second heart) I would accomplish something which would keep me a subject of discussion long after I am gone. Never mind, the discussion would be confined to my family and friends. I don’t intend to die and be forgotten immediately after people leave my grave. I want me and my death to be remembered at least for another two years. That would be just a fitting finale to the twenty five years I have lived so far. I have been wracking my brains on what that one thing I could accomplish, ever since the initial shock of being informed by the doctors that I have only a couple of years left, waned. And when the final contours of my plan took shape, I was elated. ‘That would be interesting…’ I thought. Now that I had decided on the ‘what’ and ‘how’ part of it, the little matter of ‘who’ took did not take much time. It is going to be him. Who I have known for a year…….

……It was a year back, when he walked in for that interview. ”Srivatsa, that’s my name” he told, perhaps for the 100^th time in his life, tired of always being Srivastaved by everyone he met for the first time. “I’m sorry”, I apologized and then went back to poring over his resume. My brief, as the HR senior manager of the bank I was working in, was to find a guy with about 5 years experience in the trade finance domain   to man a position that fell vacant suddenly. This Srivastav..er…Srivatsa’s CV looked promising. A  B.Com degree with high marks, followed by a three year stint in the trade desk of the largest private bank and for the last two years a team leader in the second largest private bank. A CDCS certification   to boot.

After the routine ‘take me through your career, Srivatsa’ type banal questions and some functional domain related questions from my trade colleague with years of experience, all that was left in the interview were questions on his current CTC & notice period. Which he informed is 6 lacs and 3 months, in that order. Time for the final rounding up question.

“Which public figure in India you admire most, Srivatsa, and for what reasons?” I asked him.

He thought for a while and presently mentioned a leading male actor of the South.

“Reasons?”

“Not in the least because he is a versatile actor” he explained, “though that’s why he is a public figure in the first place. Why I like him most is he has the dare to fall in love multiple times, marry multiple times and not feel an iota of guilt for that. Not that the act itself deserves guilt but that’s what the world expects of us – to feel guilty if you fall in love, wriggle out of that  love, fall in love again, slip out again and fall in love for the third time. That requires guts. And a lot of personal conviction.”

That sealed it. I was pretty impressed. He was hired.

I liked the guy right from that very moment. Not very dashing, masculine, Salman Khan  type and  neither very commonplace, ‘doesn’t-deserve-a-second-look’ type but somewhere in-between. Neither too very academic and ‘brainy’ (you know,  the 90% in Physics types in school) nor very hare- brained. These middle types interest me a lot. Neither here nor there.  Neither in Swarg, nor in Narak, the trishanku types

  That was exactly a year after I hired Srivastav..er.. Srivatsa.  . Right from the moment I hired him, I had an eye for him. In fact,  more than an eye. I am not a flirty type, I help hiring lots for the company in my routine, but this guy, well, interested me. The one who would not be Srivastaved at any cost . I always kept an eye on him.

Now is the time to keep more than an eye on him, I realized, when the doomsday prognosis was read out to me.  I started trying right away. I dialed his cellphone.

“Hi Srivatsa?”

“Hi, Rhea.”  Nothing more. It’s going to be a tough job.

“…..Er….well…. how you doing Srivatsa? Its’ now nearly a year since you joined. All okay?”

“Yeah, Rhea (how nicely rhyming), all okay.  Tell me, what can I do for you?”

Like hell, you can do a lot of stuff for me, I thought.  But did not spell out loudly.  “ Well, the yearly appraisals are due next week. You must have got the internal circular. I need to discuss about that.  You know, we have the annual budget on promotions and increments. Your immediate reporting boss should already have discussed this with you.  But from an HR perspective, with you being a team leader I need to discuss a few things. Are you free this evening?’ I asked.

‘Sure, yes’, he replied. ‘Can I come over to your office” he asked innocuously. But the poor guy did not know that I had other plans. That I had an exigent internal assignment to seduce him. “No, I am leaving office early today to meet up with a friend in a hotel. Look, why don’t we meet up at the Trident hotel at say 7 today?”

He agreed. So it was Trident. He did turn up on time. By which time, I had already bid farewell to that imaginary friend of mine. I had the gall, or gumption or foresight, whatever one may call, to have already booked a room for two  in the hotel overnight. The receptionist rang my room and informed that one Mr.Srivatsa was waiting in the lobby to meet me. I came down.

“Hi Srivatsa.”

“Hope I did not interrupt your meeting with your friend” he innocently asked.

“Not at all. In fact, she left just five minutes back. Look, Srivatsa, why don’t we have a quick light dinner and then just go over the appraisal thing? A few points need to be discussed right away.”

Srivatsa’s bemused look betrayed that he was not expecting any dinner together tonight. But he said yes anyway. They moved over to the restaurant at the basement, took a corner table and sat. I ordered some drinks. He was not prepared for that either. I could guess that he was feeling helpless, on how to say no to a boss. I finished the first glass in double quick time, sending out the message to him that he is expected to follow suit. Which he did. I ordered another round and slowly started to discuss a few banalities on Srivatsa’s direct reportees, how to handle their appraisal this year, who performed how this year, and how much of a raise they deserve. He was pretty serious during the discussion while I had the least interest in the topic.  I ordered a third drink.

“ Rhea, I think we should order dinner right away. It is getting late”… he drawled with just that hint of a slur.

“What’s the hurry, Srivatsa, tomorrow is a holiday. Anyway you are only returning to the PG.”

I will be brief on what transpired during the next few hours. Just as you could surmise by now. He got quite drunk, I successfully could limit my alcohol intake to just three extremely diluted pegs, dinner was a real quicky and we staggered out of the restaurant. I suggested to Srivastav that he should not be driving back at this time of the night specially when he is not sober. I also suggested he stay back in the hotel as I have a reservation in my name, for the friend who departed this evening. I myself would be staying in the room. Despite being quite drunk, Srivastav’s countenance was one of surprise as he took in the full implication of the suggestion of sleeping with the boss. Surprisingly, he said yes. Either the alcohol inside speeded up his decision or the real prospect of what lay ahead made his decision easier. 

I turned in key and we entered into the darkness of the room. I fumbled for the socket to switch on the light. Srivatsa swaggered inside and fell on the couch. I removed my clothes one by one. His breathing became heavier. I lay beside him and switched off the lights. The seduction was consummated without much delay.

There is a saying in Tamil, the cat who had caught the taste. This muse of mine too caught the taste and was reluctant to let go. I too played ball. I was amused and amazed at the ease with which my plan was inching towards fructification. The sleeping together increased in number. I could even sense some tongues wagging in the office. I could not care less. After all, my days are limited. When one’s expiry date is pre-known, one does not lose too much sleep in the journey towards the expiry date. Only the first few days after the date is disclosed are painful.

The affairs continued for about six months. Srivatsa had completely fallen for my charm. He was more than willing to lend his body for my playing around anytime I wished now. He was the perfect, well-behaved puppy happy to be tied to my leash. I could play with it, kick it, cuddle with it, cajole it anytime I wished. Srivatsa probably took my advances and carnal demands as the price he had to pay for a healthy career. Strangely, all these affairs seemed to have little effect on the quality of his work at office. He was putting in long hours (that is, when I did not cut it short on days when I pleased), was efficient and energetic all the time and his functional boss had only good things to report about him. It was clear that he had firmly set his eyes on the Senior Manager post just above it, which just fell vacant.  And he was also determined to get to that by dint of hard work, not just inside the office but also on the bed outside of it.

It was during one such steamy session  at a seaside resort on a Friday night, that I proposed to him.  He did not take it seriously though, at first. I firmly informed him that I was dead serious, will he marry me? When he saw my firmness, he realized that this is no prank and he was flabbergasted.

‘Rhea, are you serious?’, he asked. I said I was.

‘But, how can this happen? I, well, …” he was fumbling for words.

‘Look Sri, what is the problem? Both of us are adults and are capable of deciding for ourselves. In any case, neither of us has much of a family, we both are financially secure and I think we know each other enough to take the next step’. He appeared to be searching for the next question when I interjected – ‘Yes I know what you are trying to ask. Why marriage? Why don’t we carry on as we do now, without the bondage of marriage? ‘ Sri was surprised to see my correct guess. I continued – ‘ I think we need to wed because that is the natural progression, Sri. I don’t much believe in marriage as an institution  but it has its utilities. Like ensuring legitimacy to our child, (we both like kids, don’t we?) silencing the wagging tongues of our office permanently and more important, company  as we grow old. Is not all this a good bargain?’

And Sri, expectedly, said yes, though after a week. I felt a swelling of joy inside me. I am coming closer to what I set out to achieve. To be sure, Sri had no idea of my medical condition. No one had, except my mom. And the doctor, of course.

The wedding date was fixed. There was not much preparation to do, it was going to be a small, private affair. I had informed Sri that from my side only my mother would come. We do not have any real circle of friends or relatives, anyway.  The invites were printed. Half the office was kind of expecting this, though for the other half, it was a big disappointment that the fodder for their daily gossip has vanished.

Three days before the wedding, I stopped attending office. I had informed Sri that I and my mother would turn up at the venue of the wedding at exactly the appointed hour in the morning. Two days before the wedding, the packers and movers arrived at my home and did a neat job of packing and loading everything into the truck, to be delivered to the destination after three days. There would be people to receive the things, that has been arranged.  One day before the wedding, I and my mother boarded the flight to Singapore. My cousin who lives there would receive us at Changi.

On the day printed on the wedding card, Srivatsa and his close family and some friends turned up at the venue in the morning. After an hour or so, he called my number. The phone was switched off. He was not much concerned though at that time. Took that I might be on the way to the venue, with the phone switched off and kept at home.  I mentally could visualize in the flight what his subsequent actions could have been.  Trying my phone again. And again. And again. That sinking feeling he experienced when the hour approached faster. That moment of despair and shame as the guests gathered. That drop of tear welling in his eyes. That instant when his heart broke…

….That instant when his heart broke.  That instant of poetic justice achieved .  The justice of breaking hearts. The justice dispensed by a girl with a heart one too many. I could not help laughing aloud . My mother and other passengers in the vicinity were puzzled. After all they could have no idea of what I just achieved and what I propose to achieve in the little time I have left. Sweeping away any little trace of Sri from my mind, I now looked forward to meeting my cousin at the airport in another hour. Another prey waiting.  Another heart to break.

That dark night, that distant past

It was still dawn when I stepped out of the cab and walked towards the entry gate of the Delhi airport. The early morning February air was pleasantly cold.

I was travelling to Bengaluru to attend a college friend's wedding. It had been four years since we graduated from the same college. This wedding was also going to be a reunion of our batch mates. But what I didn't know was that the reunion would begin much ahead of time; right in the queue in front of the airline counter.

I was almost sure it was she. Same height! Same long hair! Same complexion! Curiosity had my eyes glued to her. And then about 60-odd seconds later, when she turned, she proved me right. My ex-girlfriend stood two places ahead of me in that queue. We had never met after the college farewell…..

….Yes, that was Sweta in the queue ahead. A friend I could conveniently wipe clean from my life for four years and pretend never existed. Four years? It still feels like it happened yesterday……

I never had the slightest premonition of what I was getting into when I asked Sweta to join me on a short trip to Agartala, on the farewell day.

“Agartala?  Never heard of it. Where on earth is that and why would you go there? And why me, tagging along?”

“That is just a short flight from here, Sweta.” I explained. “We are now done with college and graduation is over. You are also not expected at home for a few more days. Why don’t we have a short break?” She reluctantly agreed.

We have been going steady for the last two years. It all started two years back at the annual inter-college debate,  that annual opportunity to look beyond our own college and check out who’s hot  at  other colleges in the city.  We had some moments of spark during the debates where each of us took opposite sides but the sparks turned into a raging inferno in the weeks that followed. We took a strong liking for each other, despite (or possibly because of) the differences in us. I liked yellow, she detested it. She found brinjal yummy and I hated it.   One thing led to another and we were firmly in the groove a year later. And we loved to call our relationship ‘platonic’. Not that we used to discuss Socrates and Plato daily, but since ‘platonic’ had a nice ring to it, we preferred to call it that. To be sure, there was nothing physical in our relationship, except for the odd hand-holding while crossing a busy intersection. The carnal thoughts did take an occasional walk inside my mind but they never ran amok even once.

Until,that fateful night in Agartala. To this day, I can’t give one good reason for having suggested Agartala. The place just popped out of my head.  My father, while working in the army, had been posted there for five years. Memories of my school days still carry those Agartala fragrances. Likethe Akhaura check post on the Bangladesh border where aWagah-like flag down ceremony is still held every evening. Like the colorful Bangladeshi trucks lined up our side of the border, waiting to cross over, after unloading rice and fish here.  Like the Kasba Kalibari, overlooking the enchanting KamalasagarLake….

…..theKasbaKalibari. That was where I took her after landing at Agartala.There was something mesmerizing about the place and the small Kali temple there.  A few yards from the temple was a Government bungalow. Sitting on the wicker chairs in the balcony of the bungalow on a late winter evening and staring blindly at the expanse of emptiness beyond would be the nearest equivalent of paradise. I had some old army contacts there, passed on to me by my father, which ensured I could stay in the bungalow.

We arrived at the temple by about five. The arati was at six thirty. We had a leisurely stroll around the place.  Suddenly the thought that college was over and that we would not be seeing each other again, struck us. We were still not sure as to which word could best describe our relationship.  Friendship?  Yes. Love? May be.  Two years and we have still not touched each other. Save for theodd hand-holding ateven the same traffic intersections. One thing we were sure of was that we would go our own ways tomorrow. An uneasy feeling engulfed me to think of the impending parting of ways.  I had already been offered a campus placement and the posting will be at Delhi, in an e-commerce Company.  The money was big,my father liked it and since I dreaded my father, saying ‘no’ was no option. Sweta belonged to Calcutta itself. She had always wanted to do something of her own. Just last week she had mentioned that she would start that painting school in Calcutta after graduation.  I mentioned that she was wasting her MBA degree on a painting school.She replied that an MBA degree was anyway wasted on anything really worthwhile in life, for that matter. I envied her for her straight-talk. I too secretly yearned to do something on my own, follow my life’s calling. There were two problems here, I quickly realized. One, I did not have the faintest idea of what was my life’s calling and two, the sutradhar of my puppet show called life was my father. I had no intention of sacking my sutradhar. I was terrified of pulling the strings myself.

Six-thirty came.  A few people started gathering inside the temple hall.  Two boys in saffron loin clothes were banging the cymbals in perfect unison. The anticipation grew thick in the air. The beat of the cymbals reached a high pitch. The door to the shrine opened.  Kali, draped in a bloody red sari,revealed herself in all glory. The protruding tongue, the raised trident, the demonlying trampled underneath her feet, the priest’s slow dancing, step by step, forward and backward and sideways, in measured paces, in tune with the beat of the cymbals, the circling diya in his hand, people in a trance, all contrived to create a magical, even an eerie ambience. My left hand clasped Sweta’s right. She seemed to retract but only just. We did not try to look at each other. The arati over, we received prasad from the priest, and with hands still holding each other, made our way slowly towards the  bungalow. The caretaker smiled as we entered and greeted me with a “khemon achen babu? bhalo tu?” I nodded back with a smile. After an early light dinner, we retired to the balcony.

For a long time, neither of us spoke.  The moonless night was nippy but not uncomfortably cold yet. The star spangled sky seemed to envelope us in a dark shroudand was intently waiting for us to start a conversation. The headlight of the diesel locomotive of an approaching train was now visible below the cliff, on the Bangladesh plains. The clickety clack of the wheels reached a crescendo and then slowly waned as the train sped away. It was again back to the deadly calm of the night. A cool breeze was now wafting in and Sweta seemed to shiver a bit.

 Holding each other’s hand, we went inside, towards the bedroom. I knew this was coming and had played out this scene mentally much earlier, several times. The plan was that I would sleep on the couch in the adjoining hall and she, in the bedroom.

“Good night, Sweta!”

‘Good night, Mohan, but you need not sleep in the couch. You can very well sleep inside the bedroom”

“Well....er..Sweta… I would be fine here. Besides, there is no extra bed”

“The bed is big enough to sleep two, Mohan, don’t be a prude. Rest assured, I would not let you un-virgin me.”

I was embarrassed.Looking foolish head to toe, I climbed beside her onto the bed. She switched off the light.I tried with all my might to doze off. But the very thought of a girl just inches away on the same bed,put paid to all chances of sleep. The wretched mind started scheming, played out all possibilities.I felt like I had caught a fever. The eyes were burning. Breathing was becoming difficult.  My hand fell involuntarily on her breast. Or was it involuntary? I did not care. The warmth of her flesh did strange things to me. To my horror, she let my hand be.  I made no effort to pull away. The hand lay on her for an eternity. She turned around, facing me. I slowly pulled her towards me. The lingering fragrance of her perfume hit me hard and it seemed to tranquilize me.  I pulled her face close to me and kissed her. Again, there was no resistance. The lack of resistance prodded me on to unknown territories.The room was extremely cold. It was pitch dark all around. Yonder, I could hear the shrill whistle of a train trundling along. The head began to swim. A dreamy state was engulfing me. I was being sucked into space at great speed. I could see stars around. I could feel soft flesh. I could feel warmth. I could hear soft moans. I was hurling along at breakneck speed. My head seemed it would explode. An ecstatic feeling overwhelmed me.The feeling seemed it would never end. The night stretched forever. It began without a beginning and it ended without an ending…..

“….Sir, chai” the voice shook me from my dream. Someone was knocking on the door.  I hurriedly covered myself and opened the door, glancing at the watch. It was eight.

 When was last night? Was it only last night? It was as if last night divided my life into two halves – the years gone by before last evening and the reality that begins afresh this morning. Last night was a chasm. Last night was a void. Last night was from some other life. Last night was another day……..

…....That was another day. This day, my ex-girlfriend stood two places ahead of me in that queue. We had never met after I dropped her off at the Agartala airport. The parting then was without a word from both of us. As if nothing happened during the forty eight hours from the college farewell to the airport departure gate.

“Mohan, how are you?’ she stepped away from the queue and came towards me in measured steps.

“Hi, how are you Sweta” I mumbled weakly.

‘Kalibari.” She almost seemed to whisper to herself.

‘Yes, Kalibari”.

‘What you doing in Delhi, Sweta? Thought you were in Calcutta!’

She broke into a smile. Somehow that smile seemed a bit contrived, made up and painful at that moment.

“So you do remember, Mohan. The painting school brought me here, on some work. You still with that e-commerce company?”

She does remember too! “That I quit long back, Sweta. Now with my own business. You still look beautiful, Sweta..” I bit my tongue. How inappropriate!

She did not seem to mind. “I knew I always were and am. Despite that stupid virus.”

Virus? I instantly knew something was supposed to be wrong with Sweta. She still appeared to be the same old charming girl, but something was sure amiss.

“What virus?” I suddenly felt my stomach twitch without any valid reason.

“HIV can be quite stubborn, Mohan. And quite painful too.”

My heart almost stopped beating.  “Sweta, what HIV? Are you alright?’

‘I am. Or at least that is what the doctors say. The virus that I got after that botched up transfusion has taken a vacation break, it seems” She calmly replied. And then suddenly her face took a darker hue. Her eyes were not the beautiful brown anymore. Her facial muscles tightened. I could see she was trying to restrain something deep inside her heart.

“You know what Mohan? You are a stinking skunk, that’s what you are”

Strangely, this did not flabbergast me. I listened on.

“You are a coward, Mohan, a deceitful, impotent bastard”

“Sweta, what the hell…”

“You do remember the Kalibari night, don’t you Mohan? I do, to this moment. I will, till I die. For that was the night of my life. For that has taken roots deep inside me. For that moment has taken me to realms I would never have imagined.”

“Sweta..”

“You had the question inside you, Mohan. Which you did not ask. Which I desperately expected you to ask the next morning. You did not, Mohan.”

“………”

“But I had the answer even before that night. The YES answer. Only the question was never asked. You did not have the guts to ask, Mohan. Despite knowing what my answer would be. And that hurt. That still hurts.”

“Sweta, I…” I mumbled incoherently, fully aware that what she was saying was the truth. How many times I had played out that question inside my mind, when alone? I could never muster the courage to spit it out to Sweta. How many times I had pardoned myself for not asking aloud the question, since my father had already found out my life partner and saying ‘no’ to him was impossible…….

“Sweta, I thought we had a…well…. platonic relationship.….”

“Oh, yes, Mohan. Did feel extremely platonic inside that guest house that night at Kalibari….”

A sudden surge of anger engulfed me. “Sweta, come on. That was an accident. Or rather, an unintended incident. I can’t believe you saw so much into that one-night, I thought you were…..well… intelligent enough…”

She did not say anything. The queue at the check-in counter was getting longer. The guy standing behind me was unsure if I were still in the queue or not.“Excuse me, but can I move ahead?” he asked. I motioned him to.

Still Sweta remained silent.  She intently looked at me for a minute. Her countenance betrayed an emotion unfamiliar to me. It seemed to be pain and also disgust.   And then she turned and walked away from me, from the queue and towards the exit gate.

‘Sweta!” I yelled, oblivious to the stares around.

I rushed after her and managed to catch hold of her hand. “Sweta”, I panted. She turned and stared at me.

“But exactly what did your diagnosis say? Was the virus inside you when we were together at Kalibari? When did you have that transfusion, before we went on that trip?”

There was a momentary shock on Sweta’s face. A full minute passed before it bore a deadly calm look.She slowly put her bag down. And with the full face of the palm, slapped me. Then picked up the bag and started leisurely walking away.