‘That’s terrible,’ Dhruv said, looking at Avantika.
‘Yeah,’ Avantika said, not meeting his gaze. She wondered if Radha knew about all this. Was this the real reason she didn’t go to the police sooner?
‘She’s safe here, though,’ Nalini said. ‘Should we go on to the biogas plant now?’
It turned out to be a huge, cylindrical structure with an inverted-funnel-like top that had pipes running out of it. As Nalini went through its workings for their benefit, Avantika looked around. More women were working around the plant. A few shot curious looks in their direction, but carried on working.
‘This model can process up to 500 kilos of waste per day,’ Nalini said, ‘but we’ll get a bigger one if the BMC contract happens. We’ll have to.’
‘It doesn’t … well, smell as much as I thought it would,’ Avantika said, looking at the women. None of them wore face masks or handkerchiefs around their faces.
Nalini began explaining how biogas actually smells less than manure, unless the waste isn’t treated properly. Avantika, walking by her side, bent her head to jot down what she was saying and a moment later, felt her left foot trip. The next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the ground, her notepad and pen lying a few feet away, her handbag open and empty, having spewed its contents everywhere. Dhruv, an amused smile on his face, reached out a hand and hauled her to her feet.
For a fraction of a second, she was almost flush against him, their faces just inches apart. She felt her breath catch. Then she pulled back, let out a breath and dusted herself. She bent down to gather her things, carefully ignoring the knowing look on Nalini’s face.
‘You got everything?’ Nalini asked her a moment later.
‘I think so,’ Avantika said, zipping up her handbag. Why had she left it open in the first place? ‘I guess we better take off now,’ she said. ‘Enough excitement for one day.’
Nalini led them to the entrance of the farm.
‘Did you get everything you wanted?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Avantika replied. ‘Much more than I expected, actually.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well …’ Avantika hesitated for a moment, ‘to tell you the truth, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to covering the farm. I’m more interested in crime—reporting it, not committing it, ha ha—and this just felt … it wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, but my editor insisted, so …’ She saw Nalini’s eyebrows rise and added hurriedly, ‘I’m really glad I came, though. This is a wonderful place and you’re doing such good work. I’m happy I can write about it, so more people know.’
They shook hands and Avantika followed Dhruv back to the car.
She helped him find the way out to the main Deonar traffic signal and then returned to the mystery messages on her phone. Whoever had sent it knew her name and her mobile number. This wasn’t just spam. It had been sent specifically to her. Over a phone network no less; not Whatsapp, which seemed to be the norm these days, and which would’ve given her a chance to see the picture of the sender. And despite her having ignored the first message, she’d been sent a second one. Help Avantika madm do something. Do what? About what? But no, there were no details. Only help required, and oh, just to make things interesting, here’s a bunch of numbers to confuse you. Now let’s play Da-Vinci-Code–Da-Vinci-Code with each other. She made an impatient sound.
‘Something bothering you?’ Dhruv asked. ‘Boyfriend trouble, I hope.’
She sighed and shook her head.
‘OK, when are you going to stop?’ she asked.
‘Stop what?’
‘This. All the flirting.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the road, ‘I didn’t know it was bothering you.’
‘It’s not … Look, I’m sure you … like, this is normal … but I’m not used to all of this … stuff … so …’
‘What?’
She waved her hands, trying to find the right words.
‘The flirting, the charming banter,’ she said, nodding meaningfully. ‘Pretending to be interested in me. You know?’
‘You think I’m … pretending?’ He sounded confused.
‘Well, yeah, obviously.’
‘I am so confused right now. Why is it obvious?’
‘Dhruv, come on,’ she said, in the tones of someone explaining the Palestinian conflict to a penguin, ‘guys like you aren’t interested in girls like me.’
‘Guys like … what?’
‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘Look at you. Tall, good-looking, charming. Not to mention loaded. You guys date … models. Actresses. Heiresses. And when you date, it makes the society gossip columns. When I date, my mother barely knows about it. In fact, she doesn’t know about it. I make sure of that.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand.
‘I’m just asking you to stop, because … See, everyone else, they flirt, they go home and they forget. They do it day in and day out, just a little harmless fun, not to be taken seriously. But … I’m a bit of an idiot.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘If I have a good conversation, if someone compliments me and flirts with me, I think about that shit. I start thinking, hey, this guy is interesting. He likes me. And the more we flirt, the more I start thinking about him and the things he said and … then I get feelings for him and then when the guy is bored of flirting with me or finds someone else to flirt with, it bothers me, OK? And I hate that, because I know … I know—I’m acting irrational and nobody promised anyone anything and this is not normal behaviour, it’s weird and …’
She saw the look on Dhruv’s face and stopped. She looked at her feet instead, trying to smile.
‘Look, you’re … attractive and very charming, and the last few months have been fun and great for my ego. But I know it’s not real, so I think you should stop before I make a fool of myself.’
She exhaled slowly. It was done. She had done it. A hot guy had flirted with her and made her feel good about herself and she had asked him to cut it out. Niiiice, she told herself. What next, refusing doughnuts you really, really want? But it had to be done. Better now than later. She did not want a repeat of the whole Rishi scenario. It wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth that. This had to be done. Right. Right? And as the car sped down the Bandra Kurla Link Road, she almost believed it, too.
ASHOK KADAM
1972–2019
Ashok Kadam scratched his groin with the carefree joy of a man whose wife and children aren’t at home. They wouldn’t be back anytime soon either, gone as they were to his in-laws’ home in faraway Satara. He could do anything he wanted. He could walk around naked if he felt like it. And walking around as he was in his loose cotton vest and striped boxers, he may as well have been naked. But he had bigger plans tonight. He took a sip of the cheap whiskey he’d poured out for himself earlier. He grabbed a fistful of chana jor garam from the steel bowl next to his glass and hit play on the remote control.
On the TV screen before him, a busty, dusky woman in her late thirties began undoing the buttons of her blouse. She was wearing just the blouse and a petticoat and her long, unruly black hair tossed from side to side as she moved completely out of sync with the tinny music in the background. Ashok leaned back on the couch and, with a sigh, eased his left hand inside his boxers.
He watched as the now topless woman was joined by a well-built man. He pushed her on to a rickety bed and soon the tinny music was overshadowed by the rhythmic tra-tra-tra-tra from the bed. Ashok gulped down his whiskey and poured himself another glass. He leaned forward, his heart thudding in his chest. Prabhu had told him this was wild stuff, but was that man going to … oh God, he was, he had, and look how the bitch was enjoying it! He took another gulp of the whiskey. She was moaning now. His wife never moaned like that. She just bit her lip to stop herself from screaming and when he was done, she’d turn away and face the wall. Why she had to do so much drama?
Forget that nonsense now, you fool, he chided himself.
Look at this woman on the screen! Bet she liked it rough. He could tell these things. Ashok nearly moaned as the man grabbed the woman’s hair and pushed her head between his thighs. The man on screen seemed to be moaning too, but the TV volume was low, thank God. From the paper-thin walls of his one-BHK, he could hear the TV next door blaring some kind of Marathi comedy show with a deafening laughter track. He ignored it and took another gulp of the whiskey, this time draining the glass. He reached for the bottle for a top-up, but to his surprise it was empty. Should’ve bought another khamba.5 Tomorrow, he promised himself. Lalita and the kids were gone at least another week. He hit pause on the remote control. His stomach was rumbling, clearly not satisfied with the chakna. He staggered into the kitchen and clumsily opened the three-tiered steel tiffin. Lalita had arranged for a dabba service to deliver dinner every night, while she was gone. It’s homemade, she’d claimed, you won’t have a problem. He’d had it for two days now and if that was what homemade food tasted like … He should’ve just had dosas at that stall on the road, next to the open drain.
Still, there was no refund on orders and since he planned to be drunk out of his skull every night, what the food tasted like was immaterial. There was some kind of greenish bhaji in there, with some kind of greasy yellow dal, some rice and a few chapattis that had the general texture of cardboard.
He carried the tiffin out and set it on the coffee table, next to the empty glass. He hit play and began shovelling the food into his mouth, partly to escape the taste. A moment later, he coughed. Something must’ve gone down the wrong way, he thought. He got up and took a moment to steady himself. The whiskey had begun to work, clearly. He lurched to the kitchen and opened the small refrigerator. Grabbing a plastic bottle of water, he fumbled with the lid a bit before getting it open and pouring the cold water down his throat. The coughing reduced to a tickling in his throat. He made his way back to the living room, the bottle still in his hand, holding on to the walls for support. The man on the screen now had the woman spread-eagled in an impossible position. It made his head swim, just looking at it. He collapsed on the couch and rubbed his eyes furiously. Food, he thought, I need some food otherwise all that drink is going to come up from my stomach.
He grasped the tiffin box and began to eat. A couple of minutes passed. The dizziness seemed to have faded. He coughed a little again. Then again. Then great wracking coughs emerged from his lips as he clutched his throat desperately. What was happening? He began gasping for breath, wild-eyed with panic. More water, he thought. He grabbed the bottle of water and tried drinking, but it was useless. He couldn’t swallow. It felt like his throat was closing up. No air. He needed air … to breathe … he needed help. He tried screaming, but no sound would come. A cold sweat was breaking out over his body. The neighbours! He’d get the neighbours!
He took a hurried step towards the door, but stubbed his toe against the plywood teapoy. It threw him off balance, and he stumbled and fell on the tiled floor. Breathing was becoming difficult. There was no time to go to the door. He crawled across the floor and hammered at the walls. Loud canned laughter in the next house. They were still glued to that stupid show! Ashok hit the wall again and again. And again. His wheezing breaths came slower now. His eyes began to close. And as the darkness descended before his eyes, the last incongruous words that danced across his dying mind were simply, motherfucking peanuts.
Three
Pretending to sleep is an art form. Any idiot can sleep if he or she actually means to, but it takes years of practice to convey the impression that you’re fast asleep, when you’re anything but. You can’t just close your eyes and wing it. You have to lie still, occasionally turn over, mumble or mutter at appropriate intervals and if you’re really committed to it, then snore intermittently. Avantika had decided to skip the snoring today. For one, she was feeling really lazy, as one does while lying in bed late on a Sunday morning. The other reason was she wanted to hear what her father was saying in the next room.
Keshav Pandit had retired from the warm familiarity of the civil service last year and discovered that he had an unmarried daughter on his hands. Worse, nobody was doing anything about it. Even worse, she seemed more interested in her job than finding a nice boy. Like other retired men take up gardening or morning walks in the fresh air or repairing things around the house that don’t need any repairs, he took up the mantle of finding his daughter a suitable suitor. His wife didn’t protest, because it gave him something to do and got him out of her hair. His daughter protested violently, but it didn’t matter. Now, she lay in bed, trying to eavesdrop on him, as he gave his wife his daily report over the morning cup of tea.
‘…no use, I tell you, Alka. Half of them want someone who’s willing to settle in the US with them. The other half want a glorified maid. This is what we’ve raised our daughter for, or what? Spent so much on her education and all? So that she can quit her job and do dishes for someone? Nonsense!’
Avantika tried not to smile as she heard her mother say something inaudible.
‘I’m not saying that! If she wanted to be a housewife, that would be different. But she’s a journalist, ga. She likes working. I can’t believe in this day and age these fools expect a woman to quit her job after marriage. Do they know what home-loan rates are? It’s so much better if both partners are working. How can they afford EMIs otherwise?’
Avantika turned over to face the wall, just so she could facepalm without being seen. She was utterly thankful to the powers above that Baba knew nothing about Dhruv. Particularly that she had turned down a good catch from a well-to-do family instead of dragging him kicking and screaming to a wedding pandal and marrying the hell out of him. Which was insane, because he wasn’t really into her or anything, so she had obviously done the right thing by asking him to back off. The right thing. Obviously.
‘I’m not giving up, Alka,’ her father continued, ‘but doesn’t she … have someone? It would be so much easier. What about that Uday boy? He seems normal. I could act like I disapprove of him, if it helps.’
This time her mother’s voice was clearer.
‘She’s not a teenager anymore,’ she laughed.
‘Yes, that’s the problem. It’s like reaching a clearance sale on the last day. Try finding a good boy for a girl who’s crossed thirty and all you get are the samples nobody else wants.’
‘Ssshh, she’ll hear you.’
‘No, no, how can she? After all, she’s still asleep, no? You can’t hear things when you’re asleep.’
And here, the sarcasm levels in her father’s voice topped the charts, broke all records and won a Grammy.
Avantika pulled a pillow over her head. As the kids on the internet put it, shit was getting real.
Half an hour later, she walked into the kitchen, yawning dramatically. Her mother took about a second to observe the yawn, give her a look that said ‘you’re not fooling anyone, my girl’ and point to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink.
‘Oh, come on!’ Avantika said with a grimace. ‘Again?’
‘Well, her daughter is still missing, Avanti.’
Avantika avoided her mother’s eyes as she made herself a cup of coffee. The maid, Radha, had worked for their family for years. Since finding a decent maid in Mumbai was rarer than finding a good house that fits your budget, her mom had kept her on, despite the several inventive excuses Radha came up with to explain her many last-minute absences over time. This time, though, Avantika knew she was absent with good reason. She had met that reason at Dharini Farm.
‘Still no luck, huh?’ she asked, trying to sip her coffee nonchalantly.
‘She said on the phone6 that the police said they’re on it, but it’s a big city, so she should have patience.’
‘Hmm. Shouldn’t we get someone else …’ she saw her mother frown and hastily added, ‘temporarily? It’s a lot of work to do every day, even if Baba decides to help with the cooking.’
Mother and daughter exchanged a look and laughed derisiv
ely. Like a lot of men of his generation, there was a greater chance of Keshav Pandit wandering into East Timor than into the kitchen of his own house.
‘I’ve put out the word,’ her mother said, pressing the lid of the pressure cooker so it fit tightly, ‘but till then, it’s you and the dishes. So, finish your coffee and start.’
‘Yes, bai-saheb,’ Avantika said, with a mock salute.
Her father was sitting at the dining table outside, reading a Marathi newspaper. An empty teacup and a packet of maska khaari lay before him. No breakfast today, clearly. Aai had obviously decided that her retirement meant she got to take a break now and then, too. Avantika flopped down on the chair opposite him, pulling out a biscuit as she did so. Dunking the wafer-thin khaari into her coffee, she took the first bite. Six biscuits later, she pulled back her hair in what fashion magazines call a messy topknot and stretched. Her father turned a page of the newspaper. She stirred the remains of the coffee, now sludgy with biscuit slivers, and was about to gulp it down, when her father cleared his throat from behind the newspaper.
‘Your friend … whatshisname, Uday?’
Avantika froze. A sudden cessation of sound from the kitchen meant Aai was listening. And Baba, he’d looked so preoccupied behind that copy of Loksatta. See this here? she told herself, this is what walking into an ambush feels like.
‘Mmm?’ she said.
‘Why don’t you call him over for dinner sometime?’
‘He doesn’t … um … eat …,’ she flailed desperately, ‘dinner.’
She kicked herself mentally. He doesn’t eat dinner? What was he, a monk? On the Dixit diet?7 In the midst of a famine? But dinner didn’t just mean dinner, did it? Dinner meant asking unsuspecting young men about their annual pay package, and if they had their own house or if they rented, and if they had any siblings, and what their parents did for a living. Besides, after the way he had yelled at her after the whole Nathan fiasco, it made sense to stay as far away from Uday as possible. They hadn’t even talked since that day and like hell she was going to be the one to break the ice. With an invitation to dinner of all things! It hadn’t been her fault—well not entirely—he had gone along with it, hadn’t he, and then he had just turned on her as if she had bloody hypnotized him into doing it or …
Fatal Mistakes Page 4