by Anita Nair
Gowda sighed. Mamtha made him feel tired. Urmila, she made him feel young again. She made him feel that he could still do things; that somehow life hadn’t passed him by.
‘Did you speak to your son?’
Gowda nodded.
‘And?’ Urmila persisted.
‘Some rubbish about the man with him called Osagie which means God Sent in Nigerian having overstayed his visa, etc. And so being a fugitive in the eyes of Indian law,’ Gowda said slowly.
‘But you don’t believe him,’ Urmila probed carefully.
Gowda took a swallow of his whisky. He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t.’
Gowda remembered the shock of discovering a weed pouch rolled up carefully in a T-shirt. In it was a little stash of marijuana and another of hash. Linked to the shock was relief. At least he wasn’t into the hard stuff. Yet.
‘And…’
‘And I dare not confront him. Confrontation leads to either–or situations. And you can’t do that with the people you love.’
‘Is that why, Borei, all those years ago, you…’ Urmila began and then suddenly there was someone else standing by their side.
‘Quit kitchi-cooing to each other,’ Michael burst in. ‘Do you realize that you have only talked to each other all evening?’
Gowda and Urmila looked at each other. What had she been about to say? He would never know now.
‘So, how is Lady Deviah liking Bangalore now?’ Michael asked, a teasing lilt entering his tone.
‘Lady?’ Gowda’s eyebrows rose.
Urmila flushed. ‘My husband was knighted some years ago. Since we are not legally divorced, I am still Lady Deviah.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Gowda said quietly. His heart sat in the pit of his belly. Lady Deviah.
Urmila gazed at him. A silent yearning crept into her eyes; her fingers fumbled as she played with her rings. There is so much you don’t know. But would you even want to listen if I were to tell you?
Michael looked at the play of emotions on their faces. He cleared his throat noisily. Had he made a mistake by bringing these two together again? Uff men, such a meddling bugger you are, Becky used to say. All the time doing one damn thing you shouldn’t and look no, where it has led to!
Michael felt overwhelmed by the weight of emotion. His and theirs. For a past that seemed to have been spent with no means of making amends now.
‘I have to go,’ Gowda said suddenly. ‘It’s a weekday…’
‘But you just got here.’ Urmila touched his sleeve. I can only presume so much, the gesture said. I cannot ask more even if I want to. For you are a married man. And I am Lady Deviah.
‘Another ten minutes, that’s all I ask,’ she said.
Gowda nodded and was rewarded by a smile that snarled his gut. What am I doing? he asked himself. My career is going nowhere, my wife is a stranger, my son is probably a drug addict, and here I am falling in love again. Do I really need this in my life now?
‘No, you don’t,’ Michael said.
‘What?’ Gowda growled.
‘I said you don’t have to rush. You can stay another ten minutes.’
THURSDAY, 11 AUGUST
Gowda stared at the screen of his mobile. He had just selected ‘Create message’, and the blankness of the space was a taunt.
He put the phone on the table and leaned forward, clenching the edge of the table. The phone beeped. He picked it up and saw one new message. Urmila. She had written: Thank you for attending my do last night. Do you think that one day it may be possible for us to finish a conversation?
Gowda’s heart raced. A smile hung at the corner of his lips. He felt like he was nineteen years old. His fingers felt all thumbs as he pressed ‘Reply’. Roshan had said that was the way to text. With thumbs, and not as he did, meticulously and methodically pressing the keys with his index finger. Yes, he texted. You choose the day, time and place and I promise not to run away this time.
He imagined the message flying through the air and across the city into her lap. He imagined the expression in her eyes. Something in him quickened.
His phone lit up. ‘This evening at my house. 8 p.m. ’
‘Will be there,’ he texted back.
‘Can’t wait,’ she wrote.
‘Likewise,’ he texted and felt a foolish grin settle on his face. Fuck! What had he gone and done?
Santosh walked in and almost convulsed in shock at the sight of the taciturn Gowda staring at his phone with a soppy smile. Must be one of those vulgar jokes. He couldn’t think of anything else that would induce laughter in Gowda.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Santosh saluted.
Gowda raised his eyes and in that split second Santosh saw Gowda settle into his habitual demeanour of ‘what now?’.
‘The photographer is here, sir.’
Gowda frowned. ‘Which photographer is this?’
‘Samuel, sir. The witness in the Liaquat case.’
‘What does he want? Can’t you deal with it?’
‘No, sir, he wants to see you. There are two others with him. Ladies, sir.’
Gowda nodded. ‘Send them in,’ he said and opened a file. He heard them troop in but kept his eyes resolutely on the pages in the file. Suddenly, it struck him that he was doing exactly what the ACP did to him when he was summoned to his room. Pretend to be engrossed in a file. Subtext 1: Look, I don’t have the time for whatever it is you have come for. Subtext 2: Duty comes first. Only then, you and your problems.
Gowda slapped shut the file and gestured for them to sit. Again, he saw the ACP possess him. Why couldn’t he smile and be pleasant? Say, do sit down, make yourselves comfortable, whatever. Instead, it had to be that lordly wave of sweeping condescension: You may sit, but that doesn’t mean a thing.
Gowda willed his face into a smile. ‘Yes, how can I help you?’
‘Sir, this is Prabha,’ the photographer said, gesturing to the grey-haired woman on his left. She had the face of someone who had survived much and wore her battle scars as a pennant that proclaimed: don’t mess with me.
‘And this is Ananya.’ Samuel smiled, indicating the young woman.
Pretty, but she was too tall and her face too angular for Gowda’s taste. And there was something else about her that Gowda couldn’t put his finger upon. He had seen Santosh’s eyes linger on her as he had ushered them in.
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Samuel said.
Gowda reached beneath the table and pressed a buzzer. A constable came in. ‘Some coffee? Or juice?’
The photographer smiled. ‘Thank you, sir, but we just had breakfast.’
‘No, no, you must have something.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Juice. And some of that cake.’
Gowda leaned back in his chair. He really should get rid of the towel he draped the back of his chair with.
‘Sir, we are having a photography exhibition at Ananda, the artists’ retreat near Gubbi. The proceeds of any sale we make will go to fund our NGO that was set up to help transgenders.’
Gowda chewed his lip. ‘Do they need help?’ He moved a paperweight this way and that. ‘Have you seen the menace they are at traffic lights? We receive so many complaints!’
The photographer looked at Ananya.
‘Ours isn’t an easy life, sir,’ Ananya said.
The paperweight fell to the floor with a crash. Gowda stared at the girl; no she wasn’t a girl, but she wasn’t a boy either. But you wouldn’t know. Who would have thought that she was a eunuch?
‘You…’ Gowda began hesitantly.
‘Yes, I am a transgender. I was fortunate that an indulgent grandmother brought me up, educated me and let me be. I was teased, but mostly it wasn’t unbearable. But so many of us know only ridicule. And then, because there is no other option, we become sex workers; eventually we die of disease or degradation. We don’t have the solace of clutching to a dream called the happily-ever-after that even the poorest of Indians may dream about. Governments can change, wars will be fought, our GDP ma
y grow, our scientists can conquer space, our lives alone remain untouched. Nobody wants us. Nobody even considers us. Like our sexuality, we are there and not there.’ Ananya’s earnestness caught at Gowda’s throat, even though he knew that it was the practiced speech of someone who had said this many times before.
‘So, sir,’ Samuel piped up, ‘we would be very grateful if you could inaugurate the exhibition.’
Gowda flushed. ‘Why me? I am just an inspector. You should call an artist, or a social worker, or some celebrity.’
‘What we want is acceptance. Not to be showcased for a week. Someone like you would bring that first stamp of acceptance. Your coming to the show and inaugurating it will send a message to the common man. We are not dangerous. We are human too,’ Ananya spoke up before Samuel butted in.
Gowda nodded. She, er … Ananya had a point. On a whim, he said, ‘I’d like to bring along a friend, Lady Deviah.’
Ananya smiled. ‘Actually it was Urmila who suggested that we invite you.’
Gowda wondered if his mouth had fallen open again. ‘You know her…’ he offered weakly.
‘She is one of the trustees,’ Samuel said.
‘In which case…’ Gowda smiled. ‘I’ll be happy to. When is the inauguration?’
‘Tomorrow at 6.30 p.m. Shall we send a car to pick you up?’
‘No, no, I’ll drive myself,’ Gowda said.
When they left, Santosh bustled in. ‘What did they want?’
‘They came to invite me for a photo exhibition. It’s tomorrow at 6.30 p.m. You should come too,’ Gowda said carefully.
The young man’s eyes lit up. ‘Certainly, sir. I have always been interested in photography,’ he gushed.
Gowda felt his mouth curl. The fool had fallen for Ananya. What would he do when he discovered who she really was?
Gowda rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. It was almost half past six.
Roshan walked out of his room and stopped in his tracks, surprised to see his father. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, nonplussed.
‘I do happen to live here…’ Gowda raised his eyes to his son.
‘You are never home this early,’ the boy mumbled.
Gowda sighed. There, he was doing it again. In a gentler voice, he explained, ‘I know, but I had some work to do and the station was bustling with petty cases and the incessant ringing of the station phone and mobiles.’
Roshan nodded.
Then he peered at his father slyly. ‘Are you going out this evening?’
Gowda stared. ‘Why?’
‘I have to go out … I am meeting some of my school friends and I didn’t want you to think I would be at home.’
Gowda tried not to show the relief flare in his eyes. ‘No, that’s fine. I have some things to do as well.’
‘Will you be late?’
‘Will you, Roshan?’ Gowda answered with a question.
‘By eleven…’ Roshan shrugged.
‘I should be home by then too. Don’t latch the main door. You have your key, don’t you?’ Gowda said, placing the files back on the table and rising.
He had come home early with the post-mortem reports of all three deaths. Stanley had ensured that a copy of Roopesh’s post-mortem had reached the station by lunchtime. Gowda had needed to be on his own to find what he knew would be that one vital link that would take this case forward.
Only Kothandaraman’s body had been available for them to draw clear conclusions of a violent strangulation. In Liaquat’s case, the strangler hadn’t completed the job and so Liaquat had survived only to die of burns rather than strangulation. And Roopesh’s body had already entered a state of decomposition when it had been found. Was he, as the ACP said, clutching at straws?
But what of that one fact staring him in the face – the glass encrusted ligature? The MO linked the murders. What else? Think, think, Gowda. The words swam in front of his eyes.
Had anyone thought of doing a DNA match? He groaned. That should have been the first thing to do. No doubt Stanley would get there eventually. But why wait until then?
He drew his phone out and called Stanley.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Urmila asked as he sipped his drink wordlessly.
‘Oh, what?’ Gowda said, startled out of his reverie. He looked at her as though he didn’t recognize her.
‘Have you talked to Roshan?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘No.’
‘You must, Borei. You have to deal with it. It won’t go away because you don’t talk about it.’
How could he tell her about the slap? The very thought of it filled him with a deep sense of shame. Gowda clinked the ice in his glass. Pale cubes of melting ice.
‘Shall I fix you another and will you then tell me what’s wrong?’ Urmila leaned forward and took the glass from his hand.
He watched her go towards the bar counter in a corner of her living room and unscrew a bottle. ‘The same, right?’ she called out.
He rose and walked towards her. ‘I’m sorry I am not a great companion this evening … the case has me all twisted up inside.’
She poured herself a small whisky and took both glasses to the veranda. ‘Let’s sit here,’ she said. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’
Something within Gowda froze. What next? She would put on ghazals now, he thought. As he stood there, she glided past him, suffusing him in a wave of expensive perfume. Melon and mandarin oranges, jasmine, lily of the valley, sandalwood and incense. All of it in one scent that rode up his nostrils and left him feeling that he had walked into a dream.
The music preceded her. She put off the stronger overhead lamps, leaving only the table lamps on. ‘This is better. Less like an interrogation room!’ She cocked her head and stood there, looking at him. Then she reached out and took his hand in hers. ‘Borei, you still are such a pussycat.’ She laughed and led him into the veranda.
She dropped into a cane chair without letting go of his hand and so he had no option but to lower himself into a cane pouffe placed at her side.
‘You haven’t asked me about my husband,’ she said quietly.
Gowda’s mouth went dry. He had studiously avoided the subject.
‘He…’ Gowda began, not knowing what he should say next. ‘I … I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ he said finally.
‘He turned our marriage into an embarrassment with his serial philandering. But when he took up with a woman in the neighbourhood, I felt … I couldn’t bear to see the pity in the eyes of our friends.’ Her smile was bitter.
Gowda took a sip of his drink. In the silence, the whisky slipping down his throat made a distinct sound.
‘Will you go back?’ he wanted to ask. ‘Do you want to go back?’ In a day they had assembled the basis of a relationship. Text messages and calls that punctuated the day. Random meetings which were not allowed to have even the slightest whiff of an assignation. But through it all, there had been an undercurrent of ‘this has to go somewhere’.
And it seemed that the moment had come.
‘Borei,’ she said, her voice dropping, ‘do you ever think of what our lives would have been like if we hadn’t broken up?’
He looked at her, wondering if he should be honest or say what she wanted to hear. All his life, the dilemma had burdened him. His inability to speak the right words instead of the biting truth. But it seemed that Urmila wanted no answers from him tonight. She was content to merely speak her thoughts.
‘Sometimes I think it’s best that we went our ways when we did. We are two different people now and the people we have become – mature, calmer – will allow us to enjoy each other better.’ Her voice acquired a dreaminess that strangled his every thought.
‘I…’ he began. Whatever it was she was suggesting, how could it be? He was married; he had a son; he had his responsibilities. Unlike her, he was not a free being.
‘Ssh … Borei.’ She put a finger on his lips. ‘Hear me out, please. I don’t want to take anything from you
r life. I don’t want Borei the husband or father.’
She took her finger away and said, ‘I don’t want what you have given Mamtha or Roshan. I want us to live in a parallel universe. You and I, no strings attached. No fangs, no claws, no blood, no tears, no hurt. But I want a long-term relationship. One that’s all about laughter, stars, dreams, life … You there for me, and I there for you. But without hurting anyone else in the picture. I think we can, my Borei, I think we can.’
Gowda felt his breath snag in his throat. For once you can have your cake and eat it too, a little voice whispered. A voice that resembled the ACP’s in that it bore the timbre of corruption. But then young Santosh’s incredulous tone overrode it with a ‘Sir, but it still is adultery…’
Gowda squirmed. His eyes that never ceased searching any room he sat in, fell on a coffee-table book on the table. A big glossy book, and on its cover was the painting of a woman juggler. But what caught his eye was the earring she wore.
Urmila whispered, ‘Am I asking too much of you?’
Gowda stood up. ‘No, you are not. But you need to give me some time to allow this to grow…’ He paused, and then unable to help himself, he asked, ‘May I borrow this book? I promise to return it in a day or two.’
She looked at him wordlessly as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
‘We are meeting tomorrow, aren’t we?’ he asked, stricken by the expression on her face.
‘Do you really want to? I am not so sure.’
‘You know I do.’
She looked away.
He saw her trying to feign a nonchalance she didn’t feel. She didn’t see the complexity of the situation. All she knew was she had been rejected again.
He reached for her, unable to help himself. ‘I can’t bear to leave you looking like this.’
FRIDAY, 12 AUGUST
Chikka smoothed the page down with the tip of his index finger. Again and again, as if the glossy photo plate in the book had been irrevocably crumpled.