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.

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.