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.

Nemesis

Sitting on the bar stool, smoking his eighth cigarette, Rishaan stopped counting his drinks. ‘Is this the sixth?’ he asked himself. ‘No, this should be the seventh…..’ ‘Was not that the fifth I was having with the last cigarette, so this should be the sixth…’ The questions kept pounding his head. Not that the numbers mattered. Not that anything mattered. Not now, when there is no turning back…


He knew this was coming. He realized this was one evening he had been dreading for the last nineteen years. He could perfectly re-run the script any time, the course he had imagined it would take, for all of the last nineteen years. His worst fear came true ten days back, exactly at this hour, when Maya called. He bitterly rued his naivete when he let Maya go nineteen years back with a bagful of used notes for five lac rupees. He had then assumed that the ghost will not return. It has, now. He had then believed Maya when she promised that she would never return to his life, the trade-off being loads of money in exchange for Kiara. That was the barter they both agreed on, not long after Maya disclosed that she was pregnant with Rishaan’s child.


Rishaan was aghast then on hearing the bombshell explode. “Pregnant?” Rishaan tried to sound surprised but deep inside he felt no surprise, only an inescapable sensation of nausea.


“Yes,” was Maya’s stoic monosyllable.


“But…but, how is it possible Maya?” Rishaan was desperate. “I took all the precautions and you know that”. As if the precautions taken would wipe away with a single stroke all the consequences and the responsibilities that come with the consequences.


Maya didn’t answer. The first feeling she experienced was one of relief that Rishaan did not raise any doubt on who the parent could be, of the bundle of budding life inside her womb. She didn’t really suspect that Rishaan would run away like a coward, though, in all truth, she admitted that relief is what she felt when Rishaan was hee-hawing on the ‘precautions’ taken rather than dwell on how it could not be him and that Maya was mistaken. ‘Precautions….’ she could not help chuckle, ‘passion, ring-fenced by precautions….’


“Know what Rishaan?” she asked. “Despite the best laid plans, things have a funny way of taking its own course, especially in one-night stand-offs”.


They both kept silent for a while. The coffee pots were turning cold. ‘What next’, was the thought that was occupying both. They knew the options were limited. None of them promising or palatable. But the accountant in Rishaan soon took charge. He did some quick mental math on what this mess could entail financially and psychologically. He quickly decided on what needed to be done and then spluttered out, “ Look, Maya. There is a way out of this…”


Maya was half-expecting what was coming. Even though their relationship was only two months old, she could strip Rishaan mentally and see thro Sitting on the bar stool, smoking his eighth cigarette, Rishaan stopped counting his drinks. ‘Is this the sixth?’ he asked himself. ‘No, this should be the seventh…..’ ‘Was not that the fifth I was having with the last cigarette, so this should be the sixth…’ The questions kept pounding his head. Not that the numbers mattered. Not that anything mattered. Not now, when there is no turning back…


He knew this was coming. He realized this was one evening he had been dreading for the last nineteen years. He could perfectly re-run the script any time, the course he had imagined it would take, for all of the last nineteen years. His worst fear came true ten days back, exactly at this hour, when Maya called. He bitterly rued his naivete when he let Maya go nineteen years back with a bagful of used notes for five lac rupees. He had then assumed that the ghost will not return. It has, now. He had then believed Maya when she promised that she would never return to his life, the trade-off being loads of money in exchange for Kiara. That was the barter they both agreed on, not long after Maya disclosed that she was pregnant with Rishaan’s child.

Rishaan was aghast then on hearing the bombshell explode. “Pregnant?” Rishaan tried to sound surprised but deep inside h ugh what was behind the veneer.


“I am listening”, she said.


“Look Maya, I love you. More than what you could imagine. I love you and our sweet little bundle of joy inside you. But a way has to be found for this. You have always wanted to pursue that exciting career in advertising in Goa in that little start-up you have planned, haven’t you, Maya? We can work that out. To our mutual convenience and good. How about five lacs? That should take care of your aspirations…”


“And your guilt and your impending marriage as well….” Maya could not help interject.


Rishaan shrugged helplessly. “Come on, Maya. What guilt you are talking about? It is all for our well-being and peace of mind, can’t you see? After all, there is a thing called reality. I take care of you till the delivery of the child. And after you recover, you are free to forget everything, like it was a horrible nightmare and go after the things you always loved”


“Like advertising?” Maya sarcastically asked. Rishaan did not spot the sarcasm or pretended not to.


“Exactly! Like advertising”.


“And what do you plan to do with the baby?”


“I shall take care of that too. I can pull a few strings and arrange to bring her up in the best possible way, in a children’s home, all expenses paid by me”.


‘So neat,’ Maya thought. ‘That is the Rishaan I always knew. So meticulous and perfect’. She suddenly felt like throwing up. A momentary flash of indignation overwhelmed her. She felt like slapping Rishaan, one hard, full-palmed slap. But then she bit her lips and began thinking fast. She had the honesty to admit that a baby or marriage with Rishaan was the last thing she wanted. Yes, she really still nurtured that little dream of hers, to become something in the advertising world. She took a deep breath. Now things seemed a little okay. Five lacs was too large a sum to be traded off with some foolish sentiment.


“I accept the offer”, she said. Rishaan heaved a sigh of relief. He always believed in the power of money. Now is the time to demand his pound of flesh.


“There is, though, a small condition….er… request, Maya’, he said. “you are to sever all links with me henceforth. You shall never ever try to establish any contact with me or the child. On my part, I promise that the child will be well taken care of.” Maya agreed.


That was the last he saw of Maya. He admired himself on the felicity with which he disposed off the crisis. After all, his CA & MBA upbringing did not fail him. This episode was just another case study for which he had a ready and convincing solution. As the years rolled by, he kept keeping tab intermittently on what Maya was up to. Looked like she did, after all, found her calling in the glitzy, glamorous world of advertising. She co-founded a firm in Goa which was, well, doing quite decently. ‘What was the last campaign they did? For that baby food?’ he tried to recollect, could not, and brushed it aside as irrelevant. As long as Maya and her baby food did not land at his door, as long as they kept a safe distance, he could not care two hoots. On his part, he felt an odd sense of pride in having kept his word by providing for the child, Kiara, in a high-end children’s home. Kiara! What a beautiful woman she has grown up into! Her brown eyes and the sexy pout always reminded him of Maya. And what a stroke of luck that Kiara got to grow up in his house-hold! God schemes to give good things to good schemers, he thought, reminiscing about how it all happened…..


It was not until he was married to Diya for two years that he realized that she could not conceive because of a medical condition. Which might or might not reverse, but chances are minimal. The doctors suggested adoption. Diya was heart-broken on hearing the news. She loved Rishaan so much that she could not reconcile to the guilt of not being able to bear his children. On his part, Rishaan too loved Diya. More than her, the money she brought along with the marriage appealed to him more. When the subject of adoption came up, he deftly and casually mentioned of a little, beautiful girl in a children’s home he knew of. How did he know? Of course, he knew because the kid is the child of a man he once worked with. The parents died in an accident, how sad! Would Diya care to see the child and then they can decide? No rushing here, Diya, if you feel like bringing her home, maybe I can pull a few strings, cut the paper-work and bring the kid home with minimum fuss. Diya saw the girl, was immediately besotted with her charm and Kiara found her way into her father’s home. All things nicely sewn up and Rishaan was happy. A loaded trophy wife, a doting daughter and a thriving practice….


….Rishaan was momentarily woken up from his reverie by the bartender. “Sir, one more? Frankly I think you have had enough. Shall I call for a cab, Sir?’’


“No James, please, one more. Make it small, okay?” James sighed and turned back to fetch the single malt.


‘How could I have been so foolish to trust the bitch?’ Rishaan cursed himself. ‘But what could I have done otherwise? There was always the risk of blackmail’. As he was asking himself the question, he decided that this time he would ensure that there would be no comebacks. He shuddered to even think of what he was plotting. But the liquor inside him started making plans on its own. ‘I would think about it tomorrow when I am sober’, he dismissed the thoughts that swirled inside his head. ‘For the present, there is a flight to catch tomorrow. As ordered by the bitch’.


His mind turned to the phone call he received ten days back. He was attending a national conference of Chartered Accountants in Delhi. The caller ID showed an unknown number. He ignored the call. Fifty seconds later, the message followed.


MY DOLL RISHAAN, MIND CALLING ME BACK?


It was like a 25000 volt shock. MY DOLL! Only one soul on earth used to call him that. Maya! He nearly had a heart attack. His immediate instinct was to ignore the message but it became impossible for him to concentrate on what was going on in the meeting. He excused himself and half-ran to the lobby of the hotel. With trembling fingers, he called the number.


“Maya?”


“How sweet of you to remember, Doll”


“Don’t call me that”


“But that’s what you loved about me most, Rishaan, callng you Doll!” she mockingly protested.


“What do you want now Maya? I thought it was understood that no more one contacting the other till life?”


“One first and last time, Rishaan, please. I cannot bear to go to the grave without seeing our child. I don’t want any money, Rishaan, lest you think this is something of a black mail. I do well enough in life, nowadays. Heard of Mayajal Media? Well, I happen to co-head that. I know you have kept your word, in fact, more than what you promised. That was very considerate of you to bring Kiara into your home, into your life….Don’t interrupt Rishaan…. We all know what’s happening in the world around us, don’t we?”


“What do you want, Maya?”


She told him again. Just seeing Kiara once and spending a quiet hour with her. No, she would not tell her what should not be told. Just idle chatting, you know, between mother and child! How the meeting is arranged and what plot Rishaan would conceive to set up this meeting is his headache. No, she would not take no for an answer. What if Rishaan said no? That is irrelevant, since she knew there would be only ‘Yes’ to her request. ‘The bitch, so confident,’ Rishaan thought. No, my doll, this is not blackmail. This is just a simple request from a long-lost love, wouldn’t Rishaan please say yes?


He said yes. He had no option. At least, for the present. Strangely, convincing Diya and Kiara about the pressing need for them to take a vacation to Goa (they have not gone on one for the last three years, have they?) was pretty easy. And here they were, on the flight to Dabolim that would help connect long-lost people one last time. At least that is what Rishaan hoped, one last time.


The 90 minute flight was not easy for any of them. For each was pre-occupied with how the reaction would be, when each of them did what they had planned to do after landing in Goa.


Like Rishaan, planning to get over the meeting as quickly as possible, with Maya. And then meet the local real estate big-shot there (who helped him seal a few deals years ago with abundant mutual gains) who had promised that what Rishaan asked for could be arranged for a tidy fee. And there would be no more calls from the owner of the number, Rishaan can rest assured. The number would be gone from his life, so would its owner…….


Like Diya, planning to break the lovely news of her conceiving. The gynecologist had assured her that bearing a child at 42 is perfectly normal and would cause no harm to the mother and the child. Diya had wanted to break the news at Delhi itself but since they were anyway planning on this lovely trip to Goa, it would be perfect to share the sweet tidings in a second honeymoon ambience. Diya was too excited and nervous in the flight that she wondered if Rishaan would find anything amiss in her behaviour….


Like Kiara, who, after much thought, planned to break the news to her parents that she is pregnant, that there is nothing to be worried or alarmed about, that she plans to marry the boy, that the boy’s parents have said yes, that she has been going steady with the boy for two years, that he is Senior Vice President or whatever in a top advertising firm called Mayajal Media, that he is well settled in life…..





In the middle of the flight, Kiara woke up to go to the washroom. When she returned, she was too lazy to push her way into the middle seat. And with Rishaan readily offering to shift seats, the seating arrangement changed. With 20 minutes still remaining for the flight to land, a sleep starved Kiara took another power nap, this time holding Rishaan's right hand more firmly. Rishaan's other hand, though, nervously moved to touch Diya's. Her heart skipped a beat. Diya pulled her hand away. But a defiant Rishaan held her wrist again, this time firmly and more reassuringly. The changing behavioral dynamics between the three perhaps gave out a foreboding of what was to come in Goa.

When the flight landed at the Dabolim Airport, Rishaan felt uncanny...his excitement seemed replaced by an unknown fear that he found very difficult to decipher. The plane had just touched down and……what the hell……why it is not slowing down?…Oh, my God….why are the tyres not screeching and braking?.....the airport building was whizzing past….smoke was billowing from the underbelly…..cries and shrieks everywhere……What on earth was happening?....he clutched Diya’s & Kiara’s hands with his own trembling hands….was the plane raising again?.......is it overshooting the runway?…..an eerie terror of impending death gripped him…….the last he remembered seeing was the left wing of the aircraft clipping the tree top… and then there was a black, a deathly void of black he was plunging into at breakneck speed and then he remembered nothing…….. Not even his best-laid plans.

The Necklace, re-crafted

Yes, we all have heard of that famous Guy De Maupassant short story “The Necklace”. You have not? Well,  I too had not, till a week ago. It was a typical Sujatha type short piece of fiction with an interesting premise. Could have very well also fitted into the Kumudham orupakka kadhai scheme of things.  

For those who are not ‘intellectually’ stimulated to have any interest on the Maupassant types, the story goes like this – A vain glorious woman with a poor, henpecked husband. No prizes for guessing who is the hen. Always envious of her richer friends and derisive of her financially incapable husband. Husband is stark poor, some government department clerk or something. Husband invited for an important office party. Big guns will attend and husband somehow manages an invite just to show off to his wife. Fate strikes here.

Husband asks wife to accompany.  Wife sobs and swoons. Says she cannot attend a richman’s party without an appropriate party gown. Husband splurges on a month’s savings of him to buy her one. Wife still sobs. Says she can’t attend without an appropriate dazzling piece of  jewellery. They both decide that the wife would borrow one from her best (& more important, rich) friend. Borrows one diamond studded necklace and makes it to  the party. Manages to be the cynosure of all eyes there.  Her day made  at the party, returns home. And lo! Discovers that the necklace is lost!

Terrified at the prospect of disclosing this to the rich friend, the couple count the options. First, they ask for some time from the lender for the return of the jewel. That granted, they sit down and think and think about how to manage the hopelessly large sum that would replace the jewel. Left with no options, they decide to  sell off their house. The chastened  wife takes up employment  as a maid, husband moonshines as a cobbler and all that soul-wrenching stuff later, manage to buy an exact replica of the ornament in diamond and return the same to the rich friend. A life-time’s savings lost but what is savings before honour?

Story does not end here. Wife meets friend after 10 years. Wife is now a ragged, miserable-looking hag looking twice her age. After some small talk, wife recalls that incident. Blurts out all that happened that fateful day  and why penury has made her what she appears now. All for that lost necklace. All for that piece of honour. The friend hears her out with consternation and bewilderment. And the story ends with these words of the friend – “O my poor, dear Matilda. Why, mine were only imitation.  At the most they were worth five hundred francs!….”

The Necklace! Worth a measly 500 francs. The necklace that turned upside down the lives of a hard working man and his proud, envy-sodden  wife. The necklace that made a 1000 word riveting story. The Necklace…..

It is here, I take the story of the necklace forward myself. A kind of sequel to the original Maupassant.  In fact, I have made up two sequels, choose as you please. Let me consider two scenarios … For Indianness sake, Matilda, the wife is Mary. The rich friend is Florence and Mary’s husband is Henry . (I know this has been tried out by Archer - multiple endings for a single plot but what the hell, surely he is not going to sue me, he knows better!)

Sequel scenario I

“…….Oh, my poor Mary. Why, mine were only imitation.  At the most they were worth five hundred rupees !...”

Mary  was having a near heart-attack.

“What?”

“I told you, Mary. Mine was a little imitation.  I never keep original diamond jewellery at home. I keep them all in the bank locker. But ten years back, when you asked to borrow it, I did not have the heart to tell the truth. So I just went ahead and lent you the imitation for the party. After all you were borrowing it only for a few hours and hardly anyone would’ve noticed”

Mary was in a daze. Ten years. Ten years of blood and sweat. Ten years of washing dishes and sweeping floors. Ten years of living without your own  roof upon your head.  A decade spent in abysmal poverty. And how can she forgive herself for the destruction she brought upon her toiling husband!  Ten years….

She quickly recovered and composed herself.  Now she had to think fast. Years of hard labor had not in one bit taken away from Mary the dream to dream rich, think rich and be rich. Ten years. …How much that damn necklace cost? Ten lakh rupees? Must  have been fifteen. She didn’t keep an account and did not remember. Ten lakhs, fifteen  lakhs, all mere numbers.  Effortlessly gobbled up by the tsunami  of a ten year long wretched life. She thought for a moment. And then asked,

“ Florence, Is this true? You are not kidding? This is no time to play tomfoolery with  your dearest but poor friend of long time!”

“Why, no Mary. It was an imitation. Now I understand what you went through all these years. It was providence that made us meet today. No, you need not even ask. I would return the original diamond jewellery you replaced ten years back”

The words were  Beethoven’s fifth playing in Mary’s ears. She could not believe what was happening. Fifteen lakhs! Now she can be back to what she had always wanted. Having a house of her own with five maids, a lovely garden, a car, air-conditioning…Why she can even ask her husband to quit working…. Er…., well, she can at least consider that option.

“Florence, you are such a darling. Can I visit you tomorrow to have that ornament back?”

“By all means.  Well…., er… wait. I have to search for it. Can’t exactly remember where it is lying. You know, my husband has this sickening habit of transporting all that resembles diamonds to the bank locker. Probably, this too is sleeping safely inside the locker, my poor husband, how does he know which is fake and which is genuine? Give me a week. I am going on a short  holiday to France with my husband tomorrow. I shall return next Tuesday and trace the thing out. Wednesday, you can come and take it”.

So it has to be a week  days later. Mary sighed. Well, a seven day wait is nothing considering the stakes. They had one more round of coffee and cookies and parted, Mary promising more than once that she would come a visiting next Wednesday.

A week passed.  A week, that seemed  as long as a year for Mary. She could not sleep or eat for those seven  days. She did not even tell her husband of what happened. The poor husband simply did not have a clue. He did spot a flicker of radiance and gaiety on her wife’s face but didn’t bother to ask what it was due to. He certainly did not want to hear that she had decided to attend another party, suitably adorned and attired.

Wednesday, sharp by 10 o’clock, Mary knocked on the doors of Florence. Florence herself opened the door.

“ Mary, how nice to see you. You look beautiful”.

“Thank you Florence. Can I have the jewel now?”

“ Oh, sure. Now what a week I had in Paris, Mary, you must listen.. The sights, the sounds of France are a once-in-a lifetime experience. You must some day visit Paris.”

“ Oh really? Glad that you had a whale of a time on your Paris vacation. Now, I am really in a rush. My husband will be back from night duty any time. Can I have that jewellery please?”

“ Ah, yes, the jewellery. I am bringing it. Now Mary, Air France really offers some nice discounts if you travel in the off-season. And you know what they had on board for dinner? Fabulous gourmet and the best of wines. The tour company too was fantastic. Mary, I strongly recommend you visit France with the same company…”

Mary desperately wanted to cut her short. Her mind was transfixed on that glittering diamond jewellery she had laid her eyes on 10 years back. She could not even recollect how magnificent it looked. All she remembered was the nerve-wracking 15 minutes from the moment the ornament was packed and handed over by the jeweler to Florence’s residence 10 years back. Why she hardly remembered anything about how the piece looked, she now realized.

“…..and the Siene by night!” Florence went on and on. “ An awesome experience. But Mary, you know, the Eiffel Tower is a bit over-rated. I would any day prefer…..”

“Florence, can I have the jewellery now?”

“Yes, the jewellery. I forgot. Glory…” she called out for her maid. “Glory, in my bedroom, top drawer of the right side cabinet, there is a blue jewellery box. Will you please. bring it now”, she ordered.   “Trustworthy maids are hard to come by Mary, these days..” she went on. Mary nodded in a daze. She should know.  She did not want to interject with something inappropriate that  she herself was a maid, with a trust-worthy quotient of 65% as per self-assessment.

Presently the blue box was brought.  Opened.  A white shining ornament was carefully prised out. Florence held it between her fingers, raised it and showed it to  Mary From a distance.  And then again carefully replaced it  inside the box and shut it closed.

“This is the one, Mary?”

For all she tried, she could not remember anything.  “Yes, exactly. How  beautiful!” she blurted out. With another hundred thanks and promises to catch up later, she latched on to the blue box and rushed out. Even before she exited the door than the sweet dream of a ten maided air-conditioned house with a lovely garden played again softly in her mind. 

“Peter”, Florence called out no sooner than Mary exited.

Peter, the husband of Florence, sauntered in.

“You did exactly as I told you, Florence?” he asked.

“Yes, my dear.  But…isn’t this cheating?  How can I do this to an old friend…?”

“You are a fool, Florence.  And a naïve one at that.  Just forget about it.  Don’t ever think about it again”

“But what if she found out?” – Florence.

“Found out what?” – Peter.

“That it is a fake?”

“So what if she found out? Is there any proof? Is there any proof that she handed you the original when she returned the jewellery 10 years back? You just handed her back what she returned then. It was all lying in a locker, unopened. If it is a fake now, it WAS a fake then. Tables turned on her”

“But Peter, some how this does not seem alright, Peter..”

“ it is alright, my dear. After all, who knows what did she return a decade back? I did not even check it out for its genuineness.”

“And, where is that damn original thing now?”

“In the locker.  As always. I hope it is an original anyway. It should be. My instinct says so. After all, we are none-the-poorer even if it is a fake. If it is an original, we profit. If it is a fake, we lose nothing.  Glad that you told me of your little unexpected meeting with Mary a week back. But how could you even blurt out to her immediately that it was an imitation you gave her for the party? You must have consulted me in the first place before telling her that."

“ I could not think along those lines, Peter”.

“Anyway, no damage done. Just relax. If we get an original from the locker, we are richer. If we don’t, we continue to remain as what we are now. Which is rich.” Peter trooped into the bedroom.

Still not convinced, Florence went back to her bedroom for some rest. She could not decide one way or the other. Mary was not a great friend, so what the hell, she thought.  And fifteen  lakhs doesn’t hurt.  Irrespective of the source of the slush. Time, perhaps, for another vacation to the Antartica…

Sequel Scenario II

  “…….Oh, my poor Mary. Why, mine were only imitation.  At the most they were worth five hundred rupees !...”

Mary’s heart stopped. Has she been found out? Is this a ploy by Mary to trap her and force her to admit what she had thought the world has forgotten?  She shivered and sweated at the same time. She hoped, for God’s sake, Florence did not find anything unusual about her ashen face.

“..Er…Florence, what are you saying? I did return a brand new, genuine, 24 karat diamond studded necklace to you that day?”

“You did, Mary, but  what I lent you was an imitation!”

Mary was flabbergasted. She did not have the nerve to admit even now,  after a decade. That, the cause  of her family’s decade-long suffering and hard labour, that damn piece of jewelery she returned to Florence  on that fateful day was, after all, not an original, but an imitation itself! Yes. Not even Henry knew about it. She has the original safely stashed away, under the neem tree of her backyard soon after she purchased the piece from the jeweler. Why, just yesterday she checked it out. Safely nestled. Under the neem tree.

On hindsight, Mary had to admit that it was a sudden flash of genius that made her switch the original with the fake at the point of returning the piece to Florence ten years back. She just banked on providence that Florence would never find out. And she was right. She never did!

Now Mary was caught in a terrible dilemma. She had two options – admit that what she originally replaced was in itself a fake or go ahead and reclaim the “original” Florence thinks she has in her possession now. The first option was no option at all, she realized. How could she admit that she cheated?  A non-option, she quickly discarded it.  And the second option?  Again nerve-wracking. How could she now NOT ask for something she is expected to ask? Damned if she asks to return now, for it would be of no worth. Damned if she doesn’t, since that would arouse the suspicion of Florence. Which sane soul would not ask for a return of something valuable pledged by mistake?

She had to think fast. And still appear normal. She tried. And then came out with this thing.

“Well, Florence, would it be too much if I ask you to return the original piece I replaced a decade back?”

Florence  appeared to hesitate. Mary’s heartbeat increased. What if Florence finds out NOW that it was all along a fake? But then,  there was nothing to prove.  It was all word of mouth, an unwritten code of loyalty between friends.  But she need not have worried.  Florence presently said   "Why, Mary, it is my duty. You had pledged your life for this damn thing.  What is friendship if honesty is absent? I would return the piece you had returned, next Wednesday, after I come back from my France vacation. Should be lying in a locker, I need to check out and retrieve it.”

Mary saw no reason to press ahead for an early release of her treasure. After all, it was a fake. Seven days does not matter. In fact, it does not matter at all, if she even forgets to redeem the prized treasure.

But then she remembered that she had to show some anxiety. So she tried this appropriate-sounding response, “Well, Florence,  I thought it would be helpful if I can redeem it tomorrow, for I am mired in debt and each day’s interest counts, but okay, what’s a week between friends? I will wait for a week”

“It is only providence that made us meet today, Mary. I will trace that piece out soon after I return from France.  It is  probably sleeping in a bank locker now. You know, my husband Peter has that nasty habit of stashing away anything that resembles a diamond into a bank locker. Now I have to go to the bank and scrounge through the contents of the locker and find that piece out. Okay, let’s then settle at Wednesday next, Mary.”

So it’s another seven days before the charade is enacted again, thought Mary. Okay, so be it. As long as the original is safely cocooned  away under that neem tree. 'Nobody is going to dig under that neem tree', Mary thought, 'not in my life time…'

On Wednesday next, Mary promptly forgot to call on Florence, until Florence herself phoned and enquired as to why Mary did not turn up yet.  Mary cursed herself on this little indiscretion and promptly  lied that she was on her way. Caught a call taxi perforce and landed on Florence’s door, all along ruminating on the fate that made her spend 300 bucks on a taxi to claim a fake diamond necklace that would probably go at 200 bucks today.

“Here is your necklace, Mary”, Florence  handed over the jewellery. Her lungs full with emotions of honesty. Equally reciprocated by a massive feeling of feigned gratitude in the lungs of the receiver.  Further pleasantaries were exchanged, coffees consumed and good byes traded. Having been thrust upon this goddamn worthless piece of fake, Mary ruefully trudged to her house. But still thankful that what she did originally ten years back was, after all, justified from the angle of poetic justice and that the fruits  of her 10 year labor is now safely buried under the neem tree.  She would dig that out soon and surprise her husband , she thought. Maybe, the husband can take an early retirement. The thought disturbed her, her husband’s early retirement and she decided that she would shelve that proposal for the time being.  If nothing, she can have that five  maided house and air conditioning and a car with that treasure she has buried deep under the neem tree. She did not dare to dig out the diamond all these ten years lest she be questioned on the source of her new-found wealth. Now is the god-sent opportunity.  An unwitting smile lit her face. She went to sleep peacefully that night, despite the Rs.300 loss during the course of the day, with that ear to ear smile intact.

Now epilogue common to both the scenarios:

In fact, the smile also never left the face of that jeweler on Big  Market street ever since he palmed off a strikingly similar looking fake of a diamond necklace to Mary ten years back. He had profited out of that deal and he still gets a feeling of ecstasy on his coup a decade ago.

An uncle and a gentleman!

Roommates come in different shapes, sizes  and natures.  Looks very much so, when you are twenty three and one of your room-mates is touching 55.  Room it was but mate?  Seems improbable from the outside but when fate throws five of you together into one tenement, every cohabitant of the room turns out to be a mate, cockroaches and lizards included.  That way, Tiwary uncle  sure was a mate for  us five.

And what a mate he turned out to be!

First the scene.

Silchar.  An overgrown village masquerading as a town those times, the early 90s.  Somewhere in south Assam.  Heard of the place?  I mean Assam?  Well, that's where we took roots, not just in the bank, but in life itself.  That's where we were first consigned to, when we joined the bank's hallowed portals.  Coming from different parts of India, all of us probably had their first baptism by fire there, all of us had a taste of what the rest of India tasted like, smelt like and felt like.  Even if the experience had to come in distant Assam, not India.

To cut a long story short, four of us somehow contrived to meet up with one another after joining the bank , became kind of adjusted to one another and thought of taking up a house in Ambicapatty, that locality of Silchar, the Poes Garden equivalent of Chennai.

That was when fate or providence, whatever you would call a mash up of unexpected events, brought us into contact with Tiwary uncle.

He was already leading a cozy life in his company leased house in Ambicapatty.  Company? Leased? In Silchar? yes, quite possible, even in those days.  Know what? Assam is a place that floats on oil and natural gas, which still find a large number of takers in India.  Indian Companies will do anything to dig out oil from that place and bring it to India by truckloads. Being always a fair trade partner, India gives something in return for the booty smuggled out.  It gives pavilions for free in the India Habitat Centre Trade fair every year  for each of the North Eastern states.  It plies trains that takes 50 hours to reach there.  It has even allowed private airlines to ferry passengers there.  (But why am I digressing?  Should take care of this dirty habit of meandering away and finding good in every bad).  The Indian companies employed an army of labour, mostly from Bihar,  to dig out the gas.   The labourers  used to (and still do) dig, dig and dig.   Why,  the British started it you know, when the entire geography which goes by the name North East now, was under their colony! "Dig boy, Dig.  Dig Boy, Dig"  they used to exhort the labourers till oil gushed out and the diggers passed out.  The story is that probably that's how another quaint oil rich town in Assam got that name Digboi.  (That it is Indian Oil's first and one of biggest refineries is another  irrelevant story).

Silchar in Assam too  has loads of gas underneath its lush paddy fields.  I mean, natural gas, not the obnoxious & hydrogen-sulphide contaminated variety or the politicians' public speeches we normally associate the term with..  So India's biggest oil exploring public sector Navaratna has huge operations there. Such operations in a big scale required labour in large numbers.  Such large number of labour required a personnel department.  Such a large personnel department needed a manager.  Ha, here comes our link, Tiwary Saab, that famous personnel manager in ONGC. No prizes for guessing, even to blondes and Indians, that ONGC can afford company leased accommodation to its managers, even in Silchar.  So now you are able to place Silchar and its famous denizen Tiwary in their respective proper perspectives.

Now the Act

Tiwary had already taken up quarters in that palatial kind of house in Ambicapatty, Silchar but singly.  Now single is a status Tiwary uncle  frowns upon except when it is malt.  He wants company.  In plenty.  Of any variety and of any gender.  For the statistics, he had a family of  (only) one wife, and a daughter safely stashed away in Dehradun.  He had a son too, employed somewhere in North India, i.e. some place north of Karnataka extending up to the Himalayas. (Just as anything below the Vindhyas is South India for my Amit friends).  His work had brought him to Assam and after a brief sojourn in Jorhat, he now found himself in Silchar.  Accommodation was procured, furniture was procured and basic comforts procured but what about company?  So he always wanted to take in others, he had decided, when he moved to Silchar.  In fact, he was proceeding on the right track even before he came into contact with us.  He had procured a domestic help for his cooking and  cleaning ( the house) needs.  So his company already had two members in his household.

That was when we five bakras fell into his fold to enlarge his company.  A private company became a public company.  We were looking for a decent house, he was looking for company and the twain met. Two became seven.  From here, the story should pick up.

You would have by now guessed what mould our Tiwary uncle fit into.  He had some very fine gentlemanly  attributes.  Listed below are only two samples.

1  Disregard for age

He was 55 alright but he is fine with a company that is 5 year old, not to speak of us, all of 23/24 years each.  All he needs is someone who can talk in Hindi and atleast four among us qualified in this test.  The fifth one is still trying when last heard.

2  High regard for booze

He strongly believed that for any man to speak and live sanely, booze is required.  Just as food, clothing and shelter.  Every evening of his was an evening of fun and frolic and mirth and booze. Here, I need to elaborate but don't ask why a sub para no. 2 became this long.  This sub-para could as well have become another blog in itself.

Booze, Tiwary uncle adored and consumed but mostly it came free for him.  Every evening, he boozed.  Mosquito free nights are possible in Silchar but a booze-free Tiwary uncle  is inconceivable.  And the sharab was rarely bought by him.  You know how these sarkari Indian companies functioned.  For the uninitiated, it functioned the same way thirty years back as it does now.  Grease appropriate palms and the wheels moved. Quench appropriate thirsts and postings got fixed.  Every evening, some supplicant or the other would be (forcefully) invited to Tiwary uncle's home to get his things done.  Invariably, the things got done after uncle's thirst was quenched.  Great man, Tiwary uncle, he never did make any fuss on any particular brand.  One day it would be whisky, the next brandy and the third whatever.  I run out of varieties, since my general knowledge on booze is weak.

Some say that booze brings out the best from a man. It certainly did for Mirza Ghalib and Kannadasan.    It certainly did for the supplicants-cum-daily evening delivery boys but it even did wonders for the hero of this tale.  During the course of each Daru session, our Tiwary uncle  would spew forth the following gems. The same gems every evening but one never got bored hearing the same thing evening after evening.  They were: 

That he had three philosophies or credos or whatever funda, in life:

a)  "Head office mein ghar hain , kya  L _ _ _ _ ka dar hai?"

     Like a treatise on Bhagvad Gita, I have to explain this.  Tiwary used to emphasize more than once during the course of his evening discourses that he hails from Dehradun.  The place where ONGC is headquartered. He is a Head Office man.  Meaning, some ulta pulta happens means, he can throw his weight around in Dehradun, his home town itself, beware!  "I come from Dehradun, ONGC comes from Dehradun, and so 'aham ONGC asmi'.  That's his credo.  Here what L _ _ _ _ means, you can conjecture.  I will give only two hints.  The last letter is A and the entire word is commonly referred to as a crass Hindi Gali.

b)  " kaun si aisi chokri jo mujse na takri"?

  Even after thirty years, I am still unable to fathom why he used to dish out this theorem or sloka or whatever, but he did all the same, after each evening's booze session.  We saw only one chokri there in the household and that is the dear 50 year old Mashi, the domestic help.    Other than that chokri, why our Tiwary uncle even used to think about any other intimidating chokri we never knew and we never will. That's an unsolved riddle I will carry to my tomb.

Here I should warn readers that I absolutely have no idea of whether the 55  year old Tiwary uncle had any takkar with any 50 year old chokri in ambicapatty.  I am not suggesting anything, but again that might just provide content for another blog, nay, full length novel, if further dug up.

c)  "chad gaya seedi pe, uthar gaya beedi pe"

This gem, though we all know to be an inextricable part of life, the very essence of every mortal's life, assumed huge proportions when it emanated from the great man's mouth.  In fact, Tiwary uncle was no less than Einstein.  Einstein (was that him or Kalam or some other science nazi?) had said something to the effect that every action should have an equal and opposite reaction and he bloody became famous for this simple quote.  Our Tiwary's Beedi philosophy was no less profound.  It encompasses Einstein and much more.  Whoever climbs up must come down.  Heads high, with all confidence, you ascend the seedi but a time will come, a moment will arrive when you all have to descend, that too with a Beedi in the mouth.  Tiwary's oceanic knowledge suggests that the ascent was with a 555 cigarette but the descent has to be necessarily with a lowly beedi.  What deep wisdom!

(But why such profound philosophy was shared only after 7 p.m. every night don't ask.  There has to be an apt time for everything.  Just read that even Osho attained enlightenment after a particularly commonplace event)

So here ends the story.  I know, you are asking 'but when did it begin?' but that's the beauty of Tiwary uncle's life.  His entire life can be beautifully summed up by what he used to do during those two hours of evening booze.  Naturally, when the brew hits him and he falls flat on his bed, the story should end. As MKG said "my life is my message", Tiwary uncle's three gospel messages (see (a), (b), (c) above) were his life.     In fact, there is neither a beginning nor an end to the tales of great men.  

So this is the tale of how one great soul by name Tiwary uncle came across our lives for a brief spell of about 1 year in our early impressionable career lives.  I remember each and every word of his wisdom as would my friends Tshering, Phurba, Deepak and Pradeep, wherever there are.

To be frank, on restropection, after 30 years, he can very well be called a scum, a womaniser, a boozer, an opportunist now.  But who is not?  At least I am one, not necessarily with the above mentioned four virtues but with qualities equally scum-like.  I can't say about the other four guys but every one has some s_ _ _  in him.  The point is, I still remember him after 30 years for nothing.  He did not turn my life around, he remained my room mate only for a few months, he is of the same category as a traveller companion you come across during long train journeys.  ( I still remember one gentleman from Ambassa, Tripura, with whom I shared 70 glorious hours of my life in Guwahati express, never to see him again, never to even remember his name but remembering word by word the conversation).  Co-travellers, yes,  but who add spice to the long, tiring journey called  life.  Helps me in prioritising life's priorities.

His three mantras of life, I would never forget, even though only one of them really holds any relevance to me.   Chokri had never held any fascination for me and it never will.  My ghar will never be in My Head office.The Beedi analogy probably applies to every one.  Me too.  The analogy as well as the Beedi.  

Tiwary uncle, you must be about 85 now.  And still reminiscing about or missing  those Silchar evenings. Do your gharwale still allow you those small luxuries of Ambicapatty which you enjoyed and initiated us into? Godspeed to you, my friend.  And to my four  other fellow- bakras.  And to the mashi for all reasons, disclosable and undisclosable.

Murder, most foul....

The decision has been made.  A tough one, at that. ‘ No going back at this last moment’  he told himself, ‘ it has to be executed at any cost’….  It still gave him the shivers, the very thought of what he would be embarking on.   ‘It’s all a mental thing’, he reminded himself.  ‘Tough men don’t back out, however tough the task be’.  At this final hour, there’s no going back too.  Too late.  All plans have been made.  Just a matter of few hours.  The set hour can’t be postponed.    It has to be done, however tough the job at hand is.

Carefully, he opened the box he just purchased and spread out the wares over the table.  Gingerly picked up the knife and examined it.  It shone brightly under the reading lamp.  The edges appeared pretty sharp enough.  Enough to slice through effortlessly, even  through stone.  Enough to inflict a deep wound and snub out life, if need be.   ‘Enough to complete the task’, he thought.  Placed the knife on the reading table and now picked up the scissors.  He could not say if the implement would be up to the task at hand.  After all, he has not done this before.  And he fervently hoped he need not repeat it, in case the first attempt failed.  Ha, and then the plastic gloves.  ‘So that nothing sticks to the hand’.   He had taken special care to ensure there will be no trace of blood on his hands after the work is done.  And his handlers have already made arrangements to dispose off the body safely.  No one would notice and no one would care.  It would just rot inside some filthy dump and evaporate into the elements.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…..

‘And there would be people around’, he reminded himself.  But of course, that should be no problem.  Everyone would be busy with his chore.  And with some luck, what he does will not even  be noticed.

Visualising the task at hand, he almost puked.  ‘Why should God choose to soak me in this blood and gore?’ he asked himself.  Brought up in an orthodox Tambrahm family, he had not even killed an ant. Immediately he realized, he had no choice.  He should have thought   when he said yes, two years back, when he actually had a choice.  To take that momentous decision that would bring him to this now.  But now he has had enough.  Enough,  with this daily torture of waiting for the inevitable.    Enough,  with procrastination.  Better be done with it.  Hopefully there will be no need for an encore.  How long can one keep postponing?  He wished the moment would never arrive but like taxes, with sure certainty, the moment has indeed arrived.  Thinking of taxes, his mind veered towards death, another sure certainty.  He almost smiled.  And then admonished   himself.  Thinking of death and daring to smile? 

Thinking of death!  But what else he can think of?  THIS IS DEATH AND THIS IS MURDER.  Think of the times spent together with her?  That moment when she gently came from behind and sat on your lap like a bee perched itself  on the flower?  Think of the days when she even partook your food from the same plate?  Or the numerous days when she would hide in each nook and corner and play hide and seek with you when you go after her with a purpose?  Or even dare to enter the bathroom to be close with you when you took a shower?  Ever close but never letting you to lay your hands on?   Always elusive?

But he realized that despite the closeness, despite the daily contacts and fooling around, chasing each other and all, deep inside, he loathed her.  He actually wanted to get rid of her and all her tribe.  Sadly, inspite of having at times made obvious his feelings that he despised her, the poor thing just could not understand.  She kept chasing him.  The farther he ran from her, the closer she pursued him.   Now he has no love lost for her.  He just wanted to get rid of her.  After all, he has to move ahead in life, and this is just a little inconvenience he has to brush aside.

His mind was suddenly yanked violently towards the consequences of his planned action.  What if he failed?  What if someone found out?  Won’t they ridicule him?  What face will you show your neighbours if you fail and get noticed?  After all, the failure will bring forth attention and questions will be asked.  People, undesirable people, will come calling to your home.  At odd hours.     But more important, how would you remove the stains from your hand and clothes if they stuck?  He shuddered to think of the consequences.  He tried to calm himself and went over all the mental preparations he had made over the last few weeks.  ‘I didn’t ask for this’,  he consoled himself, ‘It’s all fate’.  ‘Mine and her, intertwined’.  Just one thought seemed to console him slightly.  That she would never feel the pain.  After all these years together, despite his hatred for her, he could not bear himself to watch her writhing in pain.  He knew she would be sufficiently drugged before he could lay his hands on her.  He was told that she would be,  no doubt about that.  And that gave him some comfort.

With that comforting thought, he retired to his bed, hoping to get some sleep.  To sleep and wake up to tomorrow, Monday, the D-day.  The day his task will be accomplished .   By noon, the next day his XII standard zoology practicals would be over.  Dissection of periplanata americana – the cockroach- would be over.  Failure in the practicals is not an option.  Just not.  He has to get a full 50 if he ever fancies a chance at becoming a doctor….