ROSÉ’S…
BENT STEM
People are unknowable
A psychological thriller based on true events
NOMITA KHANNA
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
Copyright Nomita Khanna 2019
FICTION/THRILLER
This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
Contents
Foreword
PART ONE: ME
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
PART TWO: THE DIARY
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
PART THREE: ROSÉ AND THE BENT STEM
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Afterword
FOR MY HUSBAND
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
—MACBETH (1606), ACT 1, SCENE VII
FOREWORD
I’ve known a remarkable girl since she was in pigtails and braces. That girl is the protagonist in this novella and it is her story that I have constructed. Since I saw her in close quarters on a daily basis in the same profession, and since I am basically inquisitive by nature, I came to strongly suspect this here was a girl with a unique story. So, the curious cat that I am, I began sniffing around and after about half a dozen years of investigation/trolling, I commenced work on my manuscript—compelled as I felt to share her story with the world. In doing so, I have changed names in order to protect the identity of all concerned parties and people, including my own. A story too strange to be true. Except it is. Every day, I light a candle for her. Make of it what you will.
PART ONE
__________
ME
One
LUTYENS BUNGALOW ZONE. February, 2019
DEATH BELLS ARE TOLLING! I wake up with a start, my knees hitting the bottom of the Jacuzzi bathtub with a grinding jolt, my gaze flying to and then locking on to my blood-stained wrists. Abruptly, the noise stops and I flop down on my butt. Hugging my bony knees, I rock to-and-fro—my breasts, what did Vikram call them, ripe mangoes, squashed tight.
Vikram?—who is he? I cannot identify my relationship with him. Neither can I remember what led up to this macabre predicament I find myself in. Nevertheless, thankfully, I do remember other things—snippets of information are clawing their way back into my brain. So, for one, I know it certainly isn’t the first time I have blanked out—this sort of thing happens to me what with me being a substance abuser. What? Substance abuser? I marvel contemptuously at the casual way my mind passed on this bomb-shell of a piece of information. For another, I know I have been writing a journal since I turned a teenager and this rather undistinguished record of minutes has now grown to become my fairy godmother as it gives me a sense of continuity if and when I lose time. Probably my best chance at finding answers is to get my hands on this notebook. If I am to guess, an overdose seems to be the only conceivable reason behind my blackout. Also, there has to be some miserable thing in my life which could be the inciting factor responsible for my need to draw this gory pattern on my forearms. Extreme measures—I feel inclined to say—to solve a problem. There’s a religious fellow who swears by the middle path … Christ, Buddha? Why did I overdose? An altercation with … um … again the name, Vikram pops up in my mind. Am I Vikram’s wife? What I do recall with absolute certainty is that I’m in a dignified profession, at the MedMac Hospital. My job’s got something to do with pills, and I very well could be a surgeon. I rubberneck at my damaged arms as though I were a passer-by—hardly dignified.
What’s that smell? Kerosene? Have I called someone for help? Fresh blood spurted out of the imaginably self-inflicted dehisced wound. Furtively, I snatch glances at it, as I fear the sight of blood—not quite haemophobia but close enough to get me to be cautious around this vital red fluid. Oh, thank the Lord, the cut has missed hitting the blue soldier. Still, it’s imperative that I recall what’s what. One thing’s clear, I agree, ruefully perhaps, that robotripping has serious ramifications, periods of oblivion being the most disturbing one. I bang my head against the swanky tiled wall of the posh washroom. More memories jolt loose.
Today is our first wedding anniversary. And yes, I am Vikram’s wife—although not the first one—but probably the one—the ‘love of his life’. At least that’s what Vikram said to me repeatedly for weeks after his first wife’s death. “It’s love on the rebound, Mr. Patel. You are grieving,” I told him. “You ought to give it time.”
Early-onset Alzheimer’s had not only eaten away at his wife’s grey-matter but also his and to some extent mine too, though I have to say that in my case, it was softened by the opulent luxury of the premises. The home care nursing job had been a lot less taxing than my shifts at the hospital.
Having said that, nothing can discount Mrs. Patel’s end, it had been simply horrendous. Why can’t these stupid blackouts erase that memory and the other nightmarish one—that of Emperor-Ashoka-the-Great’s sudden death? ‘Cause these two no-longer-alive folks remain to date my favourite ones in the galaxy besides Mr. Chatterjee, of course. No wonder, Mrs. Patel’s unseeing gaze and my dear puppy’s blue tongue torment me to date. Mrs. Patel particularly went through a rather rough time. The last couple of days when a cud-like-foam unrelentingly oozed out the corners of her mouth, the hapless creature smelled of weeks-old pocket-pita bread.
Pocket? I put my hand into the gusset of my panties, the only piece of clothing on me, and pull out my stash. With trembling fingers, I pop a pill into my mouth and hit my head with a fist. I can feel hot liquid scalding my head—seeping into the gaps of the scrambled brain inside it. Is this a brain haemorrhage or something outside my body or just the imagined effect of the DMT—that’s the name I can now recall of the drug I took or was given—whatever it is, my brain’s on fire. I’m confused.
Another memory breaks free—this time around, a recent one: Something happened. Something really, really, bad. A jigsaw puzzle hard to piece together. Vikram’s one of the pieces for sure. I am another. I now remember cutting myself up with Vikram’s nose scissors—the rounded edges of which had made my task rather difficult but that’s what’s probably saved me— before calling up someone.
But whom? Priyanka? C’mon, DMT, do your job. Tap into the hidden recesses of my brain and shake my memories loose.
Where’s the journal; the diary? That’s the key. Obviously, I know that it helps me revisit my memories. All of a sudden, I hear the sound of the death knell once again, interspersed with a humming drone-like noise, making me jump out of my creamy skin, the thick maroon stream from my wrist cascading into the pink-tinged water in the tub. Searching for the bells, I catch sight of my cell phone—on the rim of the porcelain tub—jumping out of its metallic body not unlike its owner, ringing hard; begging for my attention. A bloodied scissor sits ominously parked alongside it. I shut my eyes tight before opening them again to look back undecidedly at the ringing phone. Six p.m. I recognize Pri, my closest friend. She’s on FaceTim
e. I don’t need that. My eyes dart in all directions. I pick up a sliver of soap. Mmm … coconut.
I look out the window: Now that is freaking awesome. Is this real? Raindrops fall from an alfresco shower mounted in
the ceiling with some of the water spraying on the spring
pansies and flowering tropical plants lined against an exotic stone-walled patio. A crocheted hammock sways gently in the far corner of two of the walls. Right above the faux wood beamed roof, fleecy clouds float in a milky-grey sky. This has to be a beach villa. However, a beach doesn’t quite hit any chord. The door’s locked. A voice in my head screams at me: That bell will not ring forever. Pick up the phone—you do need FaceTime. ‘Trust your instincts,’ that’s what Papa often told me. I press the green button. The first thing I see is an assortment of dull orange bars of light splashed onto the carroty-gingery sky. A split second later, Priyanka’s face comes into focus.
“Tana. You called thrice!” she accused. “And I called back, five unanswered calls. I also left you several text messages. Finally you pi—hey, are you hurt? Your eye’s as black as your burnt toasts—” Priyanka’s eyes widened, her head jerked forward hitting the steering wheel. “Just sit tight. I am seconds away—”
“Vikram and I-I-I … we …” I don’t know who the deer in the headlights is—me or her. My mind’s all over the place, the only constant in it being Vikram. The name’s popping in and
out of it like jack-in-the-box.
“Hang on.” She switched the ignition off.
Seconds later, someone banged on the bathroom door. “Open up. Get out of the tub,” Priyanka’s voice quivered.
Stumbling to the mahogany door I unlock it, my hands shaking as though I have Parkinson’s disease. The blood has
clotted. Quickly I grab a hand towel before wrapping it around
my wrists.
“Oh Tana, Tana. What am I gonna do with you?” She
picks up a plush towel, bundles me up into it and sits me onto
an enormous four-poster bed swaddled in billowing muslin. “Who gave you the black eye?” —she examines a goose-egg on my forehead— “and this? Where is he? What’s that?” She points at the crystal gravel on the French-Brown marble floor.
“Bath salts,” I tell her, my voice wobbly.
“I’m calling the police AND your mummy and the whole world AND their grandmother,” she spits out the words quite the way Jerry the mouse fires watermelon seeds out his mouth in one of the Tom and Jerry episodes.
“Promise me you won’t say anything to anyone. If word gets out to Mummy, it will kill her. Look Pri, I-I … can make this work. Keep it a secret, puh-lease,” I beg desperately, my voice gaining its footing. Even in my discombobulated state I notice a rash or something spreading on her neck. It’s the stress, I think.
“Good God, Tana! Are you mental? I can’t keep such
ghastly secrets,” she said stiffly, an edge to her voice.
“Where is Vikram. Oh, Vik … I have a bad feelin—”
“Let him go to hell. You are coming with me,” she butts in sharply, her dark brown face a study in pain and confusion. “Need I remind you—”
“Let’s not complicate matters unnecessarily. Everyone
deserves a second chance,” I say defiantly, “and most
importantly, I like him.” I add truthfully as I clutch the towel, my knuckles white. Something’s not right, I can feel it in my bones. My heart bobs inside my chest as if it’s a rickety raft in a stormy sea.
“Only on one condition—you will call up Auntie. And she
will stay with you.” She tucks wet strands of my black hair
behind my ears and scratches the tiny red spots on her neck
making pitted pink welts flare up.
“I told you she’s left town. Off to Goa for all we know. I haven’t heard from her for almost a year now,” I sniffle.
Priyanka’s dark, heart-shaped face falls. “Yeah, you told me. Try getting in touch with her. I’ll make you tea.” She looks around her. “My God, the place you live in. This is like the Buckingham Palace but with commoners in it. Can’t believe I passed by the President and the Prime Minister’s residences to get here.” She clears her chocolate brown throat. “I can stay here with you … er … if Auntie isn’t available.” Her eyes shine brightly.
“Oh yeah, this isn’t a coastal area. I live in the Lutyens
Bungalow Zone, New Delhi.”
“Of course you do,” —she grabs my upper arms— “you’ve lost it totally, girl.”
I jump out of the bed, “My-my sandals!”
“What about them?” Unable to comprehend my reaction,
Pri surveys the Louis Vuitton sandals on the floor.
Blushing, I say, “Natural calf leather. Water’s dripping
onto them from the towel.”
She shakes me hard. “Get hold of yourself.”
I kick the sandals under the bed. “Listen,” I say, my
voice small, “I need bandages, I think.” I hold up my bloody wrists, the towel falling off.
“What have you done?” She snaps, blazing like a lightning rod, “Are you happy now? Stay with the Merchant of Venice for all I care. Where is the insufferable prick?”
“I can’t remember.” My face contorts with agony.
She picks up her phone and makes a call. “Dr. Varun—”
I flail my lacerated arms, mouthing silently, “Don’t tell
him.”
“—Tana’s beaten-up badly. Plus, she’s slashed her wrists. Yes,” Priyanka says, “hurry up.” She throws the phone on the bed and pulls out a shiny strip of Allegra tablets from her
bag. “Wait ’till I see him.”
“Why?” I ask nervously. “What are you going to say to him?”
“Nothing.” She pops out a tablet and swallows it.
“Huh?”
“I’m just gonna mop the floor with him.”
Two
Two years earlier, MEDMAC NURSES’ HOSTEL.
January, 2017
“OH, SHUT IT,” I PULL the blanket over my eyes and extend a fair arm to silence the alarm clock. The noise continues. It’s the phone. I extract the phone from under my straggly pillow. The word Mummy flashes on it. At this time?
I take the call, still covered by the moth-eaten hostel
blanket. “What time is it?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“I’ll call you back, Mummy… worked the night shift at the
hospital.”
“There’s something we need to discuss.”
“Oh, what have I done now?” I ask crabbily.
“No, nothing like that… um… er… here talk to Papa. He’s been stressing out. He has decided—you know about what. He wants to speak to you.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine. Though the PTSD is giving him grief.”
“So I’m told,” I say gloomily.
“What does that mean?”
“He doesn’t have PTSD.”
“Who said that?”
“Me.”
“You don’t know the first thing about him. That’s the reason he sought early retirement.”
“He sought? More like they gave.”
“He has a condition, and it’s giving him night sweats.”
“Sweet Christ in Heaven, it’s just sweat, not blood.”
“Can you be nice for once, Tana. He got hurt in the battle.”
I hear Papa’s bellow, “War—not battle.”
“I don’t see a face half-blown off by a grenade,” I whisper to Mummy, not wanting Papa to hear.
“The things you say. Give it a try—regular words once in a
while,” she takes a deep breath. “Talk to him.”
“Not now, Mummy.”
“Now is all he’s got. All day today and tomorrow he has
this ‘Herb and Flower Show’ he’s judging. Here.”
“Taana?” Papa’
s voice hits my eardrum.
Of course, he’s judging. That’s what he’s best at: Judging.
When he walks into a room I half expect the bailiff’s announcement accompanied by drumrolls, “All rise. The court is now in session with the Honorable Judge Lieutenant Shekhar Sharma presiding.”
I throw off the blanket and stand on the cold floor in my
undergarments, blinking away the sleep cobwebs. The live-in rat, Mr. Skin‘n’Bones scurries across my feet making me jump out of my goose bump-sprouting skin. Oh, God, I hate this rat-infested hostel and I hate crappy Delhi winters! Just when
it’s freezing, the stupid landlord thinks of banning blowers.
“Papa?” I brush back my thick black hair. All said and done and despite what I tell Mummy, my respect for my father is unswerving; a man’s man, a tough disciplined real alpha guy, that’s who he is. My childhood memories are strewn with lessons learnt the hard way. ‘Get off the bed,’ he would say to me if I so much as put a teeny-weeny wrinkle on the bedcover. ‘No fan for you tonight,’ was his way of punishing me if I left the lights on. Or, ‘are you going to stuff your face with that mountain of scrambled eggs when half the world is starving?’ If ever I protested, Mummy would say, ‘Show some respect, Tana. He saved Kargil.’ Admittedly, the thought, For God’s sake, put your own house in order first, often crossed my mind. But like I said, despite everything, I did respect him. Sort of a compelling compulsion I guess. Furthermore, you can’t choose your family.
“I have decided,” the decorated veteran says, his voice
clipped.
“And?” I shiver, my heart in my mouth.
“I am proud of myself.”
“Why?” I ask, though I am very well aware of his narcissist tendencies.
“In my opinion, the martyr fund needs it more than you or Mummy. The fund gets our apartment, the Abohar farm, my nest of savings—everything.”
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 1