Forget-me-not

Dev glanced at his watch and sighed. It was 4pm and he should have been back at his lab, giving final touches to his paper on LIPS - Lifestyle Induced Paralysis Syndrome. Instead, here he was, in this white little antiseptic room, with nothing on but a green robe.

The door opened, and a doctor who looked like a wrestling champion walked in, accompanied by a brisk nurse.

“Ah! Dr. Dev Kumar! How are we doing today? I’m Dr. Michael Fowler.”

Dev grunted in reply, but the doctor was already busy, looking through his chart.

“I see you’re all fit and fine. So, you ready to take the plunge?”

An unhappy nod was all Dev could muster. After all, this was not his idea.

He had come home a week ago, still ruminating over the conclusions of his experiments, when he noticed the dimmed lights, the soft music, and the candles that glowed over a table set for two, complete with champagne. He stopped in his tracks, a bit alarmed.

“Darling!” Was that his wife Shireen, clad in an unbelievably sexy negligee?

He was now sure that he’d forgotten something. Darn! Was it their anniversary or her birthday? Still, she seemed in a good mood, and he went along with her.

“You still haven’t wished me,” she pouted, as she removed his shirt.

“Er…” Dev’s hesitation snapped the fragile moment.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” she accused him. “You forgot that it was our anniversary. You always do that to me - every single year! You’re unbelievable!”

“Sorry, dear…I’m so sorry!” he apologised, in a weak attempt to mollify her.

“Well, I didn’t forget, and I’ve got the perfect gift for you!” Shireen presented him with an envelope, smiling wickedly as he opened it. A visiting card dropped out.

“MindEye Inc.” it said. “Memory Improvement just a call away!”

“I’ve taken an appointment next week, for you,” Shireen informed him, as she changed into jeans and a T-shirt. “Your dinner’s in the oven - I’m going to Brenda’s.” Dev watched helplessly as she zoomed off to dine with her best friend.

So here he was, with Dr. Mike, who was doing the mandatory pre-op briefing drone, pointing to a large coloured chart of the brain, with multiple arrows pointing in different directions.

“As you might be aware, memory involves encoding, storage, and retrieval. The hippocampus is the main conduit for moving information from your short-term memory to your long-term memory. Remembering new facts involves passing them through the hippocampus repeatedly, through Papez’s circuit. You with me so far?”

Dev nodded.

“Good. In your case, Dev, we will make minor modifications to this path, so that a minimum number of passes is guaranteed. We’ve done this procedure several times before, and we’ve had a 90% success rate. So, there’s absolutely no reason to worry. Feeling comfortable?”

Dev quelled a feeling of uneasiness.

“OK. You do know you will be unconscious for the rest of the day, so I hope you’ve taken the day off!” The doctor’s hearty laugh made Dev scowl in annoyance.

“Tomorrow, if you feel any pain or discomfort, give us a call right away. And you’ll need to come back next week for a follow-up. All right, any questions now?”

Dev shook his head, glum. He winced as the jab of an injection pricked him. His eyes began to feel heavy, and he was barely aware of the nurse helping him walk to the adjoining room for the procedure.

*****

“Now, where the hell are my damn car keys?” Shireen was hopping mad.

“It’s where you left them, dear, on top of the fridge. You’ve also forgotten to cover the left-overs, and throw out the old milk carton.”

Shireen glared at Dev, who was reading the newspaper over his coffee.

“All right, Mr. Know-it-all! What else have I forgotten today?”

“Hmmm…let me see – you forgot to cancel our dinner invitation to the Roys for today, which means you need to run out and buy some fresh fish. You’ve also forgotten to stock up on eggs for your charity bake-a-cake this afternoon. And you’ve forgotten that your credit card bill was due yesterday.”

Shireen gave him a look that would have skewered the insides of lesser men, and stormed out of the house.

“And darling, don’t forget to pick up my clothes from the cleaners!” Dev called after her, an impish grin on his face.

Peacock

She looked at him across the room, nursing her drink rather disinterestedly. There he was as usual, talking to two PYTs who were fawning on him like adoring puppies . It was always like this: he loved to dangle bait, reel in the almost hypnotised fish, and then throw them away contemptuously, as if dead fish were not really his interest. His chiselled good looks that made women weak-kneed, his far-ranging interests that made him comfortably discuss Formula One with the men and the latest spring collection with the women, his sense of humour that made people giggle senselessly at his almost-there-jokes. A perfect package, one might say. Almost too good to be true.

The truth was he bored her. Nobody seemed to see through his strutting and preening, nobody seemed to see that what he hungered for was admiration. All he wanted was to be toasted and feted and fussed over. Everything he did was focused towards that end. He was the peacock in the garden, and when he danced, he expected people to snap to attention.

That’s how she caught his eye. By not paying attention. He was offended and intrigued. He came over to find out what she didn’t find attractive about him. He couldn’t. He thought he would throw her a bargain with marriage, and so strip her naked. He searched and dug deep, but there were no explanations forthcoming. And that’s how they stayed married all these years. He was still puzzled by her; for her, he was a jigsaw puzzle for beginners, solved several times, and now thrown away with pieces missing, but not missed.

He came across the room.

“Darling, are you having a good time?”

“No, I’d like to go home. I have a headache”.

The power she held over him intoxicated her sometimes. She watched his lithe frame as he walked ahead of her to the car. She could almost see the frown that marred his beauty.

“So, who’s the girl?”

He went pale and turned off the ignition.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be tiresome and deny anything. I know you’re having an affair, aren’t you?”

His lips seemed to weaken and tremble in affirmation.

“I think you know what I’m about to say”.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and she could feel the squeak of his clammy palms against the leather.

“I want a divorce. And it’s final – I don’t want any arguments”.

She felt the sickening surge of triumph as she saw the devastation her decision had wreaked. She would decorate her walls with the peacock feathers.

Sting Like a Bee

She smashed her fist into his face. He passed out.

“Cut!” The director roared, furious.

Yogeshwari stared at the inert form of the hero, Sajan, lying at her feet. Already there was panic on the sets. The obsese producer was surprisingly agile: he jumped up immediately from his comfortable chair and began yelling something quite unintelligible. The assistant director, eager to prove his worth, was already dialling for the doctor on his mobile. Some extras and spot boys had crowded around Sajan. One of them was holding aloft a cup of water, fearfully deliberating if it was worth the risk of losing his job to splash the unconscious hero.

Nobody paid any attention to Yogeshwari, except to dart accusing glances at her. She slipped away from the scene into the tiny common green room, and collapsed into a rickety, torn leather chair. Looking at herself in the panel of stained mirrors that spanned one wall, she almost laughed out loud. She looked ridiculous!

She was clad in a tasteless leather and metal ensemble, the highlights being the Lara Croft breastplates and the tasselled mini-skirt. Her matted, snaky hairpiece was quite askew, and her knee high boots itched at the calves and bit at the toes. Her screen name was, to cap the absurdity, Mona. This was not what she had dreamt of, for sure.

“Director saab is calling you.” A spot boy peeped in nervously, as if afraid of a contagion of rashness.

Mona sighed as she rose. Another lecture awaited her, another you-cannot-do-this sermon.

Sajan glowered at her as she entered the set, nursing his bruised jaw. A little curl of satisfaction unfurled in her, and made her almost want to skip with delight. However, that behavior being highly inappropriate, she suitably lowered her gaze and drooped her posture.

“Yes sir?”

She meekly stood before Vijay Kishore, the director. The producer, Naresh Kumar stood beside him, battle-ready.

“Do you know what you have done, you stupid girl? You have almost ruined our picture!”

The drum-roll of accusations sounded, and Mona prepared herself for the onslaught. How difficult it had been to get Sajan to sign up against a rank newcomer. How costly it was to shoot with these kinds of sets and costumes. How gracious they had been to offer her, a complete unknown, the role. How impossible it would be to continue shooting if she made such foolish mistakes.

About five minutes into the assault, Mona obligingly stuttered an apology. She reproduced with great spontaneity, her well-rehearsed speech on how grateful she was for the opportunity, how stupid she had been, and how it would never happen again. When the trickle of tears threatened to grow into a deluge, the attackers backed off sympathetically. Apologise to Sajan, and we’ll get back on track, they advised her.

Mona made her way to where Sajan was sitting carelessly on his special recliner chair.

“Well?” He was clearly pushing his status as a top B-grade actor.

Mona was at her humblest.

“I am very sorry, Sajan ji. I promise it will…” she mumbled indistinctly, “…happen again”.

It was his turn to play magnanimous.

“What is this sorry-vorry and all? All these things keep happening, you know. All part of the job. I know it well!”

“Thank you, Sajan ji. You are being very kind.”

“No problem, no problem. We are all friends only here.”

He rose and came forward, his arms open in an inviting embrace. Mona gingerly returned the hug, cringing when his hands snaked suggestively around her waist. For once she was glad of the breastplates.

“It is a good thing it was not serious, you know, else…” He gestured a throat-slashing, as he released her from his suffocating clasp. The threat was unmistakeable.

She gave him a sweet smile, all the while seething inwardly.

“Thank you Sajan ji, I will be more careful in future. Now, can you please excuse me, I….I need to …go,” she indicated vaguely in the direction of the restrooms.

“Oh yes,” he winked at her, and as she turned away, gave her a little smack on the bottom. She gritted her teeth as she saw the director and producer watching them.

“Just you wait Sajan, just you wait!” She growled inside.

It was a good thing for her that the movie they were shooting was “Beena: Kshatriyon ki Rajkumari”; a C-grade rip-off of “Xena: the Warrior Princess”.

This was a writing exercise, based on the first line

The Paper Princess

Once upon a time, there was the Paper King. He had a sheaf of daughters, all very pretty and white. He had so many of them that he just named them One, Two, Three, and so on. His favourite was the youngest, whom he called Theend.

One day, their old yellowed and crinkled aunt took the Paper King to task.

"Aren't you going to get your daughters married? It's about time. I can see the first one growing almost as yellow and crinkly as me! Do something before it's too late!"

The Paper King was upset that his nap was disrupted so rudely - his back hurt all the time, and he could barely stand straight by himself. However, he did see the point his sister was trying to make. He sent out all the pages to announce the search for suitable grooms.

The first groom to arrive was the Paintbrush. He was very proud of his thick hair, and his vibrant colours.

“Call me the Camel”, he said, preening vainly.

Princess One fell head over heels in love with him.

"Oooh! I love the way his hair tickles me all over!" she cooed.

The Paintbrush insisted that he give her a makeover, and dressed her in his family colours before the wedding. Princess One made no protest that she had to change so completely to marry him.

The second groom to arrive was Crayola the Crayon. He was a flaky chap - on first sight, he appeared very sharp and handsome, but as you got to know him, you realized he was quite blunt and boring. His behaviour was rather patchy, but Princess Two was completely taken by him.

“Ooooh! I love the way he rubs me all over!” she cooed.

The Crayon too lost no time in given Princess Two a complete makeover, but she did not protest a bit.

The next to arrive was Prince Parker the Pen. He was very smartly dressed in a blue and silver armor, and had a very sharp nose. Princess Three was completely bowled over by him.

“Ooooh! I love the way he teases me all over!” she cooed.

Prince Parker then insisted that Princess Three change according to his whims, and she did not protest.

Theend watched all her sisters getting married thus, changing so drastically that they no longer remained what they were earlier.

“What about you, my child?”, the Paper King asked her fondly.

“My time has not yet come, Papa”, she replied cheerfully.

She waited by her window everyday, seeking the one she would marry.

Finally, the Pencil, came along. He was a brave and cheerful fellow, who soldiered on inspite of having to carry a burden as heavy as lead. He was dressed in red and black, and went by the name of common name of Nataraj.

“Papa, this is the one I wish to marry!” Theend declared.

“Him?” The Paper King was taken aback. “But why, you could have anyone you pleased?”

“Papa, I love him because he will let me be myself!”

The Paper King had no choice but to consent. Theend and Nataraj were married and they lived to a ripe old age, till they both disintegrated.

Futility

She had it all. A perfectly decent middle-class existence, which nearly two-thirds of the population would envy.

A good husband who brought home a five-figure monthly salary, paid without fail the monthly installments for the second-hand Maruti 800 they had recently bought, bought a washing machine at a discount during the festival season, was taking out a loan from his PF for purchasing an apartment in a good area of the city, just like his colleagues.

A good son, who was obedient, was now in his 7th grade, worked hard at his books, went to the market with her to help her with the purchases, and was fearful of his father’s wrath.

Good parents, who had arranged the wedding in a grand manner, invited them over for every festival unfailingly, plied them with good food whenever they visited, and showed utmost deference to their most respectable son-in-law.

Good parents-in-law, who welcomed her into their house like their own daughter, didn’t object when they moved out to their own home, invited them over for every festival, plied them with good food, and showered their love upon their favourite son and grandson.

Good friends, who loved to call her up and chit-chat for hours, loved to go shopping to the discount sales for ‘slightly damaged’ sarees at throwaway prices, loved to bitch about their mothers-in-law and husbands, and loved to drop by for a cup of coffee and stay for lunch.

So, when they found her hanging from the ceiling fan of the bedroom, they were all puzzled. Why would she do such a thing?

They discussed amongst themselves at length and the decision was unanimous. What ingratitude towards such a good life!

The Landlord - Part 2

Part 1


It was a strange feeling sitting in a bus after so many years. I could not even remember when I had had my last bus ride. I watched the passengers: a young woman with her toddler and stuffed hanging bag; a wretched old man in a dhoti and black coat, a middle-aged man in a bush shirt and grey trousers, two serious-looking college students, a stout woman flower-seller with a sackful of assorted flowers, still knitting flowers into the garland she was making… It seemed like I was witnessing vignettes from an eternal scene; only the actors were dressed better now.

Krishnamurthy was sitting beside me, closer to the window. He was nattily attired in a pair of black trousers and a biege T-shirt. I had been a bit startled at the sight of his silvery hair, used to his cap-covered head as I was. He was fidgety, obviously wanting the bus to begin its journey as quickly as possible. He settled down a bit once it roared onto the road in fits and starts, leaving a plume of noxious smoke in its wake.

The early trip, together with the constant rattling of the bus almost made me doze off. I was woken with a start when Krishnamurthy poked me in the side with his elbow.

“The stop is coming now!” Even in my sleepy state, I could see the eager glint in his eyes.

The bus drew up close to the stop, and as bus-drivers are wont to do, titillated the patiently waiting passengers by slowing down to almost a halt, and then nastily pulling away and shuddering to a stop a good 20 metres from the actual bus-stop. People harangued whilst trying to alight from the now over-crowded bus, and sprinters from the bus-stop managed to catch up, and tried to squeeze in or simply just hang on. The odour of cramped bodies, talcum-tainted perspiration, and coconut oil spiced with flowers now overwhelmed the bus.

Krishnamurthy was straining his neck peering outside the window, trying to see if he could spot the girl. I kept a watch on the entry door, hoping I would recognize her from the few glimpses I had caught of her in the past.

“Do you see her?” I asked Krishnamurthy.

He shook his head, still searching.

The conductor’s whistle sounded, and the bus began to move slowly again.

“I didn’t see her either”, I said.

Krishnamurthy didn’t say anything. His pursed lips indicated his displeasure at being proved wrong, and I fell silent. It was obvious - he must have seen some one who looked like her. It was easy to make that mistake nowadays – all youngsters seemed to look alike, dress alike, and talk alike. Perhaps it was the advent of TV that nullified all external differences. You couldn’t tell real from fake now. Why, you could even get Gucci look alike handbags from the local grey market at a fraction of the actual price – I had picked up a couple last time for my pesky cousin Deepa, for whom I had forgotten to bring back a present.

“Let’s get down at the next stop. No use going any further”, Krishnamurthy interrupted my thoughts.

“Why? Are you sure she won’t get onto the bus from elsewhere?”

“Yes, I am quite sure!” The answer was rather abrupt, and brooked no further argument.

We got off at the next stop, and then took an auto back home. Throughout the journey, my companion retained his sullen disposition. Perhaps he didn’t want to be told that he had been a fool. It made little difference to me really: I was quite content with my unexpected morning diversion.

“Sorry for wasting your time, Mehta saab!” He was decent enough to be apologetic about the whole escapade.

“No problem, Krishnamurthy ji! Any time you want my help, I’m ready”.

I put the morning’s events behind me as I meandered through the day’s activities, and lay down to take a good afternoon nap. I was more tired than I realized, and slept for much longer than usual. I was woken up rather late in the evening by a voice I detested – Deepa!

It must be some devious plan of nature to plant these weeds in each family: you view every encounter with them with a mixture of trepidation and desperation, much like the cornered feeling you get when the school-master has detected you passing chits in class, and is advancing towards you with his cane outstretched. The feeling is only outweighed by an intense desire to inflict bodily harm on the offender, the more fatal the better.

“So, where is Ashok?” Her loud query made me wish I could turn invisible, but I doubted if even that would be sufficient to avoid her eagle eye. She bustled into the room: a big, stout lady, looking even bigger in her trademark organza saree, that billowed around her like an apology of a ballerina’s tutu.

“See! How I know you are back? I had to find out from Falguni of all the people! You don’t even bother to keep in touch these days! I only have to come all the way across the city to see you ….” I quailed, drowning in her booming voice, finding it hard to keep track of what she was actually saying.

My wife had conveniently disappeared: first to the kitchen to get us drinks and eats; then to rummage through our still-unpacked bags, and retrieve something gift-worthy for Deepa. So it was left to me to hold the fort, and play hapless victim to Deepa’s earthquake-inducing monologues. Needless to say, I looked at my wife with a great deal of resentment and relief, when she finally rejoined us with some packages.

Heaving a sigh of relief as she attracted Deepa away, I sat back to finally enjoy my tea, my eyes scanning the photos of Deepa’s son’s recent engagement idly. Suddenly, I sat up with a start, almost spilling my tea in the process.

“Who is this?” I interrupted Deepa, pointing to a girl who was standing beside Deepa’s son in a group photo.

“Who?” Deepa snatched the photo out of my hand.

“This girl”, I pointed again.

“Oh! She’s Aarthi. She’s Ved’s colleague”.

“Is she married?”

“No, not that I know of. Why? Do you know any eligible bachelor?” Deepa winked at me.

I ignored her latter remark.

“You’re very sure she’s not married?” I asked her again.

“Yes, I’m quite sure. Just recently, she moved in to our neighbourhood, and stays with 2 of her other colleagues.” Deepa was definitely intrigued now.

“What are their names?”

“Ummm…one is Roopa, the other is Shalini”.

“When did she move?”

“Ummm… I don’t exactly know..er…maybe 2-3 months ago?. Why are you asking all this, Bhai saab? You’re planning to setup a matrimonial bureau or what?” Deepa smirked, and if I wasn’t so preoccupied, I would have cheerfully smacked her on the nose.

“I’m keeping this photo. Er…I need to urgently go to Krishnamurthy’s house”.

“Oh!” My wife understood in a flash, since I had briefed her on my return from the morning trip. I savoured the completely bewildered look on Deepa’s face, as I hurried out of the house. For once, I wished I could have stayed back, just to feed her some nonsensical spiel!

I rang the bell and waited impatiently for the door to open. Krishnamurthy switched on the outside light, peered through the window, and then opened the door, a little stunned to see me.

“Mehta saab?”

“Krishnamurthy ji, see this photo – tell me – isn’t this the wife?” I thrust the photo under his nose.

“One minute, let me get my reading glasses. Oh! Please do come in!” He disappeared behind the floral printed curtain that separated the small front room from the rest of the house.

“No, no, it’s ok”, I called out, hoping he would not insist.

He came out again, glasses perched on nose, and took the photo.

“Yes, this is her! Definitely it is her!” He scrutinized the girl in the photo closely.

“Guess what? My cousin says her name is Aarthi, she stays close by to their house, and – it seems - she’s not married!”

“Yes, yes, her name was Aarthi too! But, what you are saying? She’s staying some where else? And, she’s not married?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what my cousin told me!”

“This is too much, I say! What is all this? Is this some cinema or something? Why are these youngsters nowadays doing all these kind of things? They have told me they are married, and I believed them. Can I make background check for everything now?” Krishnamurthy exploded in anger and disbelief, as he furiously paced up and down in front of the house.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked him a little hesitantly.

“What to do now? What can I do now?” He shook his fist in anger. “I will go right now and find out why that rascal has told all these lies! Just wait…” He thrust the photo into my hands, and disappeared again inside.

I stood uncertainly, wondering whether I should have got involved with all this in the first place. This was promising to become an ugly showdown. It was too late anyway to decide on anything – Krishnamurthy was already out, buttoning up his checked shirt, and wearing his slippers. He led the way to the stairs which curved outside the lower house, marching furiously and muttering in his own language, I had no doubt, the choicest expletives.

The steps led to a narrow, long corridor onto which the main door of the upper house opened, and it further extended to serve as a balcony to one of the rooms. As we made our way along the corridor, I tapped Krishnamurthy’s shoulder and held out the photo to him.

A timing mismatch and a sudden gust of wind succeeded in blowing the photo out of my hands and it bowled along the corridor to the far end. We chased behind it, and as we both bent down to retrieve it, we heard sounds from the adjoining room. Unmistakeable sounds. We froze. We instinctively glanced at the open window, glimpsing silhouettes. Unmistakeable silhouettes. We both knew in a trice what it meant. We glanced away from the window, and each other, highly uncomfortable and awkward, not quite knowing what to do.

After what seemed an eternity, Krishnamurthy whispered to me, “We better go down”.

I nodded in agreement, and we made our way back silently. He handed me the photo, and I turned to go home, still in a rather dazed state. Everything fell into place now. Such an insidiously perfect plan. It just showed that you could never trust anyone nowadays. No one was what they appeared to be! What would happen to the tenants now? How would Krishnamurthy handle it? What would he tell them? Thoughts were crowding my mind uncomfortably like the morning bus crowd.

Our walk the next day was expectedly subdued. I rehearsed a hundred different opening lines mentally, but my companion’s silence proved tough to break. Finally, I could take it no longer.

“So Krishnamurthy ji, what are you going to tell them?”

“Tell them?”

“When you ask them to leave?”

There was a long silence. Then Krishnamurthy answered in a somewhat quavering voice.

“I’m…I’m not going to ask them to leave”.

“No?!” To say I was surprised was a gross understatement.

There was a considered pause, before he answered, in a soft voice, quite unlike his own.

“Mehta saab…how to tell this…I don’t know…but you are a modern man, you will understand. I…in college…I…ummm…I had a friend like that, in college… people were very cruel, they said lots of mean things, lots of misunderstandings…I…my friend….was very scared…he had to keep quiet…he was forced to get married…he suffered a lot in life, Mehta saab. Silently suffering. See, no one understands these things.”

A long silence.

“After all that…I’m thinking… they are not creating any disturbance, they are paying rent regularly…if they are trying to lead a life together, why should I stop them? Why should I?”

We had come to the end of our walk. I watched him go in disbelief – a small man, battling wearily with resurgent ghosts.

* THE END *

The Landlord - Part 1

“Good morning, Mehta saab!”
The cheery voice could belong to none other than Krishnamurthy.

“Good morning, Krishnamurthy ji!”
I could never bring myself to address him in any other way, even though his name stuck in my mouth like a wad of chewed pan. We were both early morning walkers – he in his whitish yellow dhoti, a full sleeved green sweater, and a brown, slightly worn out balaclava, or “monkey topi”, as he called it. His Adidas shoes looked incongrous with the rest of his attire, but it matched the early morning dress-code quite perfectly. His face peeped out from within the woollen cap, his eyes brown and sharp, almost bird-like, the religious marks adorning his face like a warrior prince. His gait was bird-like too, with short and brisk steps, his hands locked together behind his small and wiry frame.

“So, when did you come back from the States?”
We matched step to step, as we marched around the sleepy suburb, still wrapped up in a cold blanket of fine mist.

“Oh! I just came back 2 days ago. Nowadays, it takes more time, you know, to get over the jet lag”.

I was slowly settling back into my routine after a six-month long trip to my son’s house in Boston. It’s always a little unsettling to return to a world that seems both strange and familiar at once. Everything seems to have changed, but you cannot place your finger on what has changed exactly. Perhaps nothing has really changed and it’s just that you see things more clearly, as if you have gotten yourself new glasses. The body undergoes strange withdrawal pangs – you are a stranger in your own home. My wife, on the other hand, did not seem to have any such problems. Maybe it was that she had so many things to keep her occupied: when at Boston, she was busy looking after her grand-son; now, at home, she was getting things back on track – the milk, the maid, the paper, the dhobi… As for me, I missed my early morning walk, chit-chatting with my cronies, and going to the club every evening when I was there. And now that I was here, I was missing the cleanliness, the cars, the tools and gardening shows…

Still, it was easy to slip back into the crisp morning, with Krishnamurthy occasionally chattering by my side, just enjoying the stealthiness of the tentative sun creeping into the clean, cool air.

“So, how is your son doing in New York?” I asked him.

“Oh! He is doing fine – by God’s grace!”

Krishnamurthy’s son and my son had both studied in the same school. We had developed a nodding acquaintance right then, which somewhat deepened when we became morning walkers quite some time later, and discovered that both our sons were in America. Krishnamurthy hated going there – he missed his poojas and temples too much. Of late, he had begun to send his wife off on her own, and was happy to enjoy his “second bachelorhood”, as he termed it. I had been only once to his house, and I fled quickly from the religious fervour it reeked with: the innumerable pictures of various deities, the overpowering pot-pourri of incense, flower, and camphor smells. As a reciprocal courtesy, I had invited him over for some tea, and he was equally uneasy in my plush-sofa-liquor-cabinet-modern-art living room. We diplomatically avoided house-calls after that.

“Your upper floor still occupied?” I asked him with a laugh.

Krishnamurthy lived in the ground floor of a two-storeyed house. He was always having trouble getting the right type of tenants. It didn’t help that he was extremely choosy. He started off with the criteria that they be non-smokers and vegetarians. He then began refining the requirements, and by the time he was done, it didn’t seem likely that he would find any tenants at all. The last casualty in the procession of tenants were 2 boys working in a software company. He evicted them because they had thrown a party which went on beyond 10pm. After much searching, he managed to zero in on a young couple, who appeared very quiet, and were ready to pay the rather high rent he was asking. They had been staying there for at least a month and a half, without any incident, when I had left for the US.

“Oh! Yes, yes! They are still very much there! Actually, only the husband is there - the wife was has gone to her mother’s house – delivery, you know!” He glanced at me with a small grin.

“Oh! That’s good news! When is the delivery due?”

“Must be some time now –after you left, you know, maybe one week after that – she found out, and she wanted to go to mother’s house. You see, after all, husband is working day and night, who will take care of poor girl? You see, they must look after health at such a delicate time!”

“Yes, it is difficult nowadays for the girl – all alone in a new place. Earlier joint families were good for support, but nowadays everyone wants to be on their own”.

“Luckily, her brother had come for an interview here. He took her home. He got the job here only now. So he’s staying also – but I asked for little more rent – you see, how can I allow? Next, some one else will come, and they will allow them also to stay. Anyway, they agreed to pay the extra, so it was good for me!”

Krishnamurthy chuckled, and I shook my head in disbelief. Would he start charging extra rent when the baby came?

We had come to the end of our walk, so we parted to go our own ways.

It was a few days later that I met Krishnamurthy again. I had come down with a slight cold, perhaps due to the change in the weather, or more likely, the pollution, so I had skipped my morning walk for a couple of days. I could see he was a bit pensive, and obviously had something on his mind.

When we began walking, he immediately came straight to the point.

“You know Mehta saab, my tenants?”

“Yes – what about them?”


“Something is not right!”

“Why? I thought you said everything was fine?”

“I know, I know! But, yesterday, I was going to my doctor. You know, Dr. Kalyan. He lives quite far off – it takes minimum 1 hour by bus. And you know who I saw on that bus?”

“Who?” I was curious now.

“I saw the wife, Mehta saab! She got up in between and got off before I got down.”

“Really, Krishnamurthy ji? Are you sure it was not someone else?”

“I’m sure, Mehta saab, very sure! I saw her very clearly. I was sitting near the window seat, you see. So I can see people who are getting into the bus from front very well, and when she got down also, I could see her walking for some time!”

“Er…if you’re so sure, then maybe you’re right! But then this is very odd!”

“Mehta saab, what is more odd is”, he lowered his voice to a consipiratorial whisper, “that she didn’t look … pregnant. You know?” He indicated a pregnant stomach with his hand.

“What?! But…maybe she already had the baby?”

There was a long pause as Krishnamurthy evaluated this possibility. Finally, he shook his head.

“I don’t think so – she didn’t look like that, somehow”.

“So, what are you going to do?” I broke the silence that had pushed its way up between us.

Krishnamurthy cleared his throat.

“Mehta saab, if it isn’t too much trouble, can you come with me today? I want to find out what is happening.”

“But, Krishnamurthy ji, how do you know she will come on the bus again?”

“I think she will, Mehta saab. I saw the conductor give her a ticket without her asking. Normally, they will do that for a regular, see? That’s why I am thinking – she will most probably come today also”.

“You do have a point,” I conceded. “What time is the bus?”

“It starts from here at 8.30am.”

That gave me barely an hour – I would have to skip my leisurely morning schedule. I felt a tingle of adrenalin uncurling within me.

“Right-o Krishnamurthy ji! I will be at the bus-stop at 8.20 exactly!”

I hurried off, excited and nervous at the same time.

To Be Continued