by Ryan Lobo
‘A pill is insufficient, as we have learned. I believe that if we control what goes into Iyer’s head, we can control what the rest of him does. We control his books, we control his head. And given the trouble he has created, a purge is required. Any questions?’
In the warmth of the afternoon, when many of the residents sleep, Krishna visits Iyer and contemplates his subject, who seems to sleep, covered in a white sheet, as if he is already dead.
His body is marked with wounds in various stages of healing. A few purple contusions radiating outwards from their centres like galaxies, a few cuts – some scabbed and others weeping, and deeper wounds that have turned into keloids, rising from his body like tiny fortifications on a battle-scarred landscape. The wound on his forehead has healed, and all that remains is its impression, shaped, thinks Krishna, like a flying crow.
Krishna whistles in amazement, deducing from the various stages of healing that there were very few gaps between injuries in Iyer’s journey down the river.
‘You know, the wound is the place where light enters you,’ mutters Iyer, his eyes still closed.
‘Or bacteria,’ quips Krishna.
‘You’re still the same quack, Krishna?’
‘Yes, sir. And it is Dr Krishna, not Krishna.’
‘Dr Krishna, why am I chained?’
‘They want you to heal your wounds and not run off,’ Krishna says.
‘Who will battle the advancing darkness, doctor?’
‘I cannot see any advancing darkness, Iyer, and neither can you.’
‘Yes, obviously, imbecile, because it is dark.’
‘I studied psychology for a semester at Ohio State University. I might be able help you, Iyer.’
Iyer begins to laugh but it comes out like a wheeze, his eyes crinkling with mirth.
‘You want to help me? America wants to help me? Everyone knows where that leads,’ he says.
Krishna gives Iyer a thermometer, which he obediently pops into his mouth.
‘How can a young man help an old man? He hash no egshperiensh of being an old man,’ Iyer says, the thermometer under his tongue.
‘Khanolkar thinks that you are clinically insane and has suggested you be moved to his cousin’s mental hospital in Mirzapur,’ says Krishna, taking the thermometer from Iyer’s mouth and holding it up to the light. ‘They keep the hard cases in rooms where they are attached to chains hanging off the walls.’
‘A brahmachari swims in insanity. Modern men like you will drown.’
‘Well, this brahmachari has a 102-degree temperature. You must rest,’ says Krishna.
‘I have sworn an oath to the gods that I will battle Bakasura.’
‘What if he defeats you?’
‘Then I shall have to be his slave for one incarnation. That is the heavenly rule.’
‘Hold still, Iyer, I’m going to give you an injection now,’ Krishna says, taking out the morphine and preparing the syringe.
‘No, Dr Krishna. I do not wish to dull my pain. I approach my death. Can you not see?’ cries Iyer, grabbing Krishna’s arm with a surprisingly firm grip. ‘I die soon. All your science cannot help it. We are powerless. Destiny fulfils herself no matter what you think.’
Unfazed, Krishna taps for a vein and gives him the shot. He waits for Iyer to sleep and then calls Khanolkar, who arrives with Mattroo and Mishra. They start dismantling Iyer’s stacks of books and carry them out into the courtyard. By their third trip, there are no more books to take; only the Reader’s Digests remain, warped and rotted after years of being soaked in phenyl every time the room is cleaned. Krishna agrees they can be left there, as they are unlikely to give anyone any ideas. Worried that Iyer would track his books down from any shop or recycling facility, Khanolkar douses them in petrol and sets fire to them in the courtyard.
Later that evening Iyer awakens, his head spinning from the morphine, and shouts for Khanolkar when he sees his empty shelves.
‘Where are my books? Where ARE my books?’ he sobs, shaking his chain about so hard that it rattles the bedpost.
Rushing up the stairs and into his room, Khanolkar tells Iyer that the Bakasura had come by and burnt his books, fire roaring out of his mouth.
‘There is nothing but darkness in store if you burn the dreams of man,’ Iyer shouts hysterically, trying to pull the chain off his foot. ‘I have to stop him, help me.’
‘We are helping you, Iyer,’ Khanolkar says, trying to calm him down. ‘It’s too late.’ He wonders if the book-burning has made things worse, but pushes the thought out of his mind.
‘Come, come, Iyer, we all burn in the end,’ Khanolkar says.
‘It is not right to burn beings while they sleep. They will carry that agony with them into the next life. They will not know why they have been destroyed. “Who have I burnt to deserve this?” they will ask.’
‘Come Iyer, they’re only books. And you still have the Reader’s Digests.’
‘My books will reappear on some writer’s pen someday. That is their magic. They will appear again.’
‘They are ashes, Iyer, how will they appear again?’
‘As a curse, Khanolkar. As a curse.’
As the days roll on, Krishna begins to gravely doubt his judgement. The wounds on Iyer’s body are healing, but he refuses to speak, lying inert in one spot, barely wincing when his cuts are dressed, not making eye contact, let alone conversation. Krishna wonders if he should buy Iyer replacement books, but then feels that would be even more foolish. Nothing he has learned, in Ohio or in Kashi, has prepared him for such a patient.
The person who has healed in this period of time is Bencho. Drained after his journey, though his boat trip back had been relatively uneventful, Bencho has finally shaken off his fever with a long rest, and has drunk enough milk and turmeric to put some life back into his bones. He has dithered a great deal over visiting Iyer, since he hasn’t brought him the best of luck in the past, but still, he has news for him. And he has something important to ask him – very important. He goes to the home and Khanolkar turns puce upon seeing him. He is banned from seeing Iyer and, indeed, banned from setting foot anywhere near the establishment. Given Khanolkar’s rage, he is grateful just to have left intact. Still, he must see Iyer. Bencho has an idea.
Lying in bed, locked in his gloom, Iyer hears tapping.
‘Sir!’ Bencho hisses. ‘Sir?’
Iyer doesn’t answer, unsure as to whether he is imagining it, scared that he is now hearing voices, and also wondering why they are addressing him so formally.
‘Sir, the window!’
Iyer turns and sees that familiar fat face, and is utterly disoriented. He stares at Bencho, bewildered.
‘Go away, Bencho,’ he says, ‘I am chained. I cannot reach.’
‘No problem,’ says Bencho, forcing the window open from the outside and climbing in.
‘It’s good to be back, sir, isn’t it?’
Iyer turns the other way.
‘Sir, I need a favour.’
No reply.
‘Sir?’
Bencho continues all the same.
‘Sir, I’ve got the money to become a corporator; I’m going to go and meet MLA Jayachandra. Sir, I need you to come with me. You promised.’
‘Bencho, I’m chained to my bed, I’m going to die here. I don’t know what you’re talking about. And where did you get that kind of money, anyway? Who have you robbed?’
Bencho looks down and says nothing.
‘Think of it as a loan, sir. I will pay it back, but I need you to come with me.’
‘A loan from who, Bencho?’
‘A temple on the ghat. My cousin is the caretaker.’
‘A temple?’ Iyers says, sighing. ‘You’re stealing from a temple.’
‘Not stealing, sir, borrowing. What is a few lakhs to the gods? And I will put it all back, and pay it off with honest service, sir. But now I need you to come with me to meet Jayachandra, sir, tomorrow. Meet me at Omnath’s tonga at dawn.’
<
br /> ‘I am chained here, Bencho, can you not see? Even if I wasn’t sickened at you for stealing from a temple to bribe a corrupt man for the opportunity to grow corrupt yourself, I am chained to this bed and to my fate.’
‘No you aren’t, sir,’ Bencho says grinning, pulling a key ring with one Godrej key out of his pocket. ‘I stole the key from Khanolkar’s office.’ He tosses it to Iyer and climbs out of the window.
22
Just before the sun rises, Iyer undoes the lock, taking care not to rattle the chain, and changes into a clean kurta and dhoti. He does a few stretches to see what his body can handle and, satisfied, lowers himself down the side of the building to where Bencho waits, pulling on a chillum with Omnath under the cart. Trishala is loaded with supplies, and the three of them head towards the ghats.
This time, however, Krishna and Khanolkar are better prepared for this eventuality: they have told every policeman and every beggar in the vicinity about Iyer’s proclivity for escape, and have set a reward for his information or capture. And so when Iyer is spotted by the leper he’d insulted during his last adventure, he calls Dr Krishna, who calls Khanolkar. They have only managed to get a few yards away when the two catch up with them.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Khanolkar says, spotting Iyer and grabbing him.
Bencho shrinks away, casting around, looking for an out.
Krishna approaches him and says gently, ‘Iyer, we’re not trying to hurt you, but you might be suffering from mild dementia. Please let us help. Please, Iyer.’
‘Let’s all go back now, Iyer,’ Khanolkar says in his most soothing voice. ‘If you hate the chain, we’ll take it off, OK? Let’s all have a cup of tea, eh? Bencho can come too,’ he says, smiling at Bencho with murder in his eyes. ‘Why don’t you come and join us for breakfast? We’ll arrange something special.’
‘I am not Iyer I AM BHĪMA,’ he says as Khanolkar starts leading him back to the home.
Khanolkar stops when he hears the screech. An entire cavalcade, it seems, arrives, hurtling around the corner, barely missing Trishala and forcing Bencho to press himself against the betel-leaf stained walls. Bencho counts four SUVs with flashing red lights and a black BMW as they drive past him, sirens blaring, sending pedestrians and vendors leaping for cover. The cavalcade comes to a halt by the home. Looking over their shoulders, Khanolkar and Krishna see men in safari suits and policemen tumble out of the SUVs, roughly pushing back the crowd that has instantly formed around them.
A man gets out of the car at the front. It is the inspector whose dead father Bencho had dropped into the gutter. Bencho almost passes out from fear. Never mind his political career, he was unlikely to even live to see the afternoon.
‘We are finished. I told you this would happen,’ mutters a sweating Khanolkar to Krishna, smiling ingratiatingly as the inspector walks up to Iyer, lathi in hand.
Clearing his throat, the inspector addresses Khanolkar, ‘I would like to speak with Mr Bhīma, brahmachari.’ The police have finally arrived, courtesy of that lunatic, Khanolkar thinks bitterly.
‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ Khanolkar croaks, wondering what the hell Iyer has done this time, ‘but may I ask what for?’
‘My noble and precious queen asks for the honour of a word,’ the inspector intones, as if by rote.
‘Yes, of course! She may approach,’ Iyer says, straightening himself.
‘Open the door,’ he says to a constable, motioning towards the BMW. The constable scurries forward and the door is opened. A blast of cold air and the odour of Eau d’Hadrien exit the vehicle. A manicured hand emerges from the shadows, followed by the rest of Ranjana in an immaculate white sari.
‘We meet again, dear Bhīma,’ she says with the same mischievous smile.
‘My queen,’ Iyer says, bowing his head.
‘Let me introduce myself, again. I am MLA Jayachandra’s wife. I wish to thank you for saving me from harm, and my husband wishes to thank you too.’
Krishna elbows Khanolkar in his ribs to tell him to shut his mouth, which has fallen open in an unseemly fashion. So has Bencho’s, which now breaks into a grin. While Khanolkar tries to absorb the relief of the police not being here to drag him away to prison, Bencho pulls himself together, feeling that for once the fates are being kind to him, delivering to his doorstep the wife of the man he wanted to meet so badly. He bounces in front of Khanolkar, ‘Maybe you do not remember me, madam, I am Bhīma’s loyal companion. We are ready for any duties Mrs or Mr Jayachandra Sir may have for us. No problem,’ he says, beaming.
‘My queen, did you come to tempt this brahmachari, or are you bored with the company you keep?’ Iyer asks, and Bencho wants to shake Iyer. He clears his throat meaningfully, but Iyer pays no heed to him.
‘Great Bhīma, love brings me here. You inspired me to tell my husband about your great exploits that you dedicate to your true love. He wishes to see you with his own eyes, as he says no man as pure as you can exist.’
‘Madam, if I may,’ says Dr Krishna, stepping forward. ‘With due respect, this man needs treatment. He is unwell.’
‘I think I know the treatment Lord Bhīma needs,’ Ranjana says, looking Krishna up and down. Krishna feels himself blushing for the first time in years.
‘In truth, Bhīma, we need your presence for an important reason,’ Ranjana says, lowering her voice as if revealing a confidence. Khanolkar, Krishna, Bencho and several dozen others lean forward.
‘This is another game, isn’t it?’ Iyer asks, raising his chin petulantly.
‘No game, sir. My dear husband, who is currently battling all kinds of dark forces while arranging the Kumbh Mela, is in need of your help and advice.’
‘My help?’ Iyer asks, surprised and instantly tempted.
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘What form has Bakasura taken to trouble your husband?’
‘I will explain,’ she says, ‘as long as you promise to pledge your services to us. And hopefully my dear husband will spend less time arranging things and more time enjoying them.’
Bencho nods earnestly, ‘Of course, madam, I give you my word.’
‘So do you agree to come to our aid?’ asks Ranjana, ignoring Bencho.
Iyer takes a deep breath, his eyes not leaving Ranjana’s, and nods slightly.
Sighing with relief, Ranjana snaps her fingers for the car.
‘Now come with us. You can sit with me in my car. Bencho can come in another car.’
‘That will not be necessary, my queen. I prefer not to sit on dead cattle. I have my own vehicle,’ announces Iyer, imperious again. ‘And I always travel with Bencho.’
‘Very well,’ says Ranjana, turning to leave, anxious to get back to the air conditioning.
‘What vehicle?’ Bencho asks, wondering what he’d missed in the weeks he’d not spoken to Iyer. It seemed highly unlikely that that nephew of his had given him his SUV.
‘Follow us then, Lord Bhīma. Let us not waste time,’ Ranjana says, getting back into the car.
The inspector walks up to Bencho and says in a voice that could freeze mercury, ‘Your cell-phone number.’ Bencho stammers it to him and the inspector types it into his phone. ‘Email,’ barks the inspector, and Bencho stutters it out. He gives Bencho a missed call, and glares after them as Bencho and Iyer disappear into the crowd, Trishala in tow.
Krishna and Khanolkar look at each other in shock as the cars start pulling out of the square. Khanolkar is in a daze, and tries to approach the constables, but they ignore him, more concerned with clearing the road of cycle rickshaws.
‘Where’s Iyer?’ whimpers Khanolkar just as the last SUV leaves the square and Trishala bursts out of a side street, attached to Omnath’s tonga. Bencho is sitting in the driver’s seat, Iyer standing erect on the floorboards next to him, one foot raised on the front seat, his hand extended and holding onto his staff, chin pointing at the horizon and the sun full on his face.
‘Oh Iyer, no,’ moans Krishna as the tonga ratt
les past, merging with numerous cycle rickshaws that materialise from nowhere.
‘I’ll bring him back, I swear,’ Bencho shouts, cracking the reins as they disappear into the stream of traffic.
Khanolkar pauses in the middle of the road, his face blank, rickshaws whizzing about him. Krishna walks over and takes his arm.
‘Don’t worry, Khanolkar,’ Krishna says, noticing his stupefaction. ‘I have a plan.’
Damayanti is one of the people in the dispersing crowd. ‘That must be the beautiful Panchakanya that mad bandicoot is in love with!’ Mala says, wide-eyed, sniffing the air that still holds the scent of Eau d’Hadrien.
‘Beautiful? She’s a fat, disgusting pig!’ Damayanti snaps, walking back home in a huff.
23
Trishala runs as fast she can but is outpaced by the cars, and is soon the only thing on a long and empty road. Seeing Iyer’s mournful countenance, Bencho asks him what on earth has happened. He was so excited only a little while earlier, Bencho says.
‘And now you can finally introduce me to Jayachandra!’ he adds.
‘My heart is full of sorrow, Bencho. I am confused.’
‘What are you confused about?’
‘About my duty, Bencho.’
‘Your duty is to murder this Bakasura who only you can see, and also to persuade Jayachandra to give me a chance at a political career, remember?’
‘Yes, Bencho. But murder, even of a foul demon, is a terrible thing.’
‘Sir, don’t worry. When I am prime minister, I will close the case.’
‘I have no need of your favours Bencho, even if you were to become prime minister.’
‘Then what is your problem?’
‘What if this queen asks me to commit a crime? She has tricked me before.’
‘Sir, just keep doing what you do and do not think of the end result. Before you know it, all will be over,’ Bencho says cheerily.
‘Really, Bencho?’
‘Yes, sir. Really. Especially after you introduce me,’ reminds Bencho, his smile fixed, an eyelid beginning to twitch.