Razor-Sharp: 13 Short Stories

by Abhinav Kumar

  RAZOR-SHARP

  -13 Short Stories-

  Abhinav Kumar

  CONTENTS

  Razor-Sharp

  Prejudice

  A Special Occasion

  Memory

  A Breath of Fresh Air

  Kabargah

  Zenana

  Half Century

  Lust

  ONE PLAY DAY

  13(1)(vii)

  Bon Appétit

  Gone

  Glossary

  About the Author

  RAZOR-SHARP

  We had been in love for years, but it simply wasn’t working out anymore, I mused, as my taxi pulled into the hotel entry. Stepping out, I nodded at the porter who had rushed forward to unload my luggage, dragging a gleaming golden trolley along with him. I blinked blearily in the sapping summer heat that was to be my only companion for the next few days. Dusty, sultry Delhi: it hadn’t changed at all. I smiled despite myself. This would be a good trip.

  As I lay soaking in the bath an hour later, I reflected further on my marriage. We had been the perfect lovers, Jennifer and I. We’d dated throughout college, got great jobs in London, moved in soon after, and married before long. 7 years just a few weeks back, mind you. But marital bliss had been short lived. We’d run out of steam around 3 years in. First, our jobs had taken over. Intensely ambitious, both of us had spent an increasing number of hours at the office. Initially, we’d worked hard to find time for each other despite the hours; however, the corporate burnout had affected our drive to be together, too. We’d slowly begun to carve out our own private space, with a tacit agreement that it was not to be violated by the other. And secondly, and more debilitating, were the arguments. They’d started a couple of years back, and had just never stopped since. We argued about everything, from what to buy for the house, to where to go out (on the rare occasions that we did), and god forbid if either of us made the tiniest of mistakes. The other never heard the end of it. There were no lovers’ spats, no making up. Just shouting matches and the cold silences that inevitably followed, sometimes lasting for days on end.

  It had been like this for as long as I could remember. And so, when I’d been offered the chance to go to Delhi on business, I had jumped at the opportunity. I’d been to India a few times, and was particularly fond of the charming capital. Knowing that I would not be missed, I left without ceremony, only pausing to leave a short note on the table. If Jennifer had read it, she had made no acknowledgement yet, I noted, as I checked my phone again. I sighed, and chided myself for not knowing better. She (and I, to some extent) had been such different people in college – passionate, jovial, always looking for a good laugh. When had we become so hard-hearted?

  I need a drink, and some fresh perspective, I decided, and stepped out of the tub. I dressed while pacing around my lavish hotel room, careful to avoid the ample furniture. Pacing is an old habit of mine. It clears my head and helps me think, or so I like to believe. In college, people used to find it odd, often chancing upon me pacing the corridor, holding lengthy conversations with myself. Well, I didn’t care then. Now, however, it’s a different story: I have been careful to present my best self at the office; and so, have restricted my pacing and muttering to moments of absolute solitude.

  I cracked open the mini bar – a rare extravagance on my part, since I am not very fond of alcohol – and poured myself a generous measure of the most expensive whiskey. If being extravagant is the idea, might as well go all the way, I explained to the unknown judges of my unwitnessed mood. Glass in hand, I began my pacing once more. Between large swigs, I tried to shake off my despondency. Face the facts, Mark, a stern voice began. This marriage business is not working out. Neither of you enjoys it – any of it – anymore. You aren’t even trying. There’s nothing left. Or is there, piped up another, timid voice. Have you tried hard enough? When was the last time you bought her a present, or planned an outing for her? It wouldn’t matter, said the first voice, firmly. She doesn’t appreciate you anymore. Look, it’s been nearly 20 hours since you left home and not even one message. Face it. It’s time to end this. You can’t waste away your life like this. Surely there will be someone else. Or even if there isn’t, you’d even be happier alone. But, it’s Jennifer, the second voice protested. She’s been the only one –

  My cell phone shattered the silence and interrupted the absorbing contest. It was my boss. I had a couple of meetings the next day – my only work in Delhi – and they promised to be short work, leaving me plenty of free time. John, however, is the anxious type, so I listened patiently as he went over the itinerary and objectives twice, asking repeatedly if I had everything under control. As I hung up, the fatigue of the journey finally caught up with me, and I sat down heavily on the bed. I’ve never been much of an airplane sleeper, so I was positively somnolent. I was, however, also starving. I looked out of the balcony again – daylight was just beginning to fade. It was too early to turn in. Just a few moments, then, I promised myself, as I put away my glasses and stretched out. Just a few moments, and then I’ll wake up and make myself another drink and order room service…

  I awoke suddenly, to a loud honk from below. It was still dark outside. Hunting for my glasses groggily, I held my phone up close to my eyes to check the time. 5.13 am, the digital clock read. I’d slept for nearly 11 hours. John would be happy at the early start though, I thought, and smiled slightly to myself. Rolling out of bed, I yawned and stretched, and then started suddenly. My phone had showed an email and a text message, I realized, and grabbed it, my heart beating faster. Maybe…

  The email was an advertisement, so I deleted it impatiently, and opened my text messages. Jennifer. Smiling wider now, I opened the message.

  “Ok”

  Not even a full stop, I noticed, suddenly weary despite my long sleep. Suddenly everything seemed heavy and uninteresting and tiresome. The meetings would be long and boring and unsuccessful. The walk I’d planned through Old Delhi would be hot and tiring and bothersome. Perhaps I would skip it, and drink myself to sleep in the hotel. I rose with some effort, carelessly putting on my glasses, and walked towards the bathroom. It was going to be a long day.

  A quick shower and shave later, I made my way down to the restaurant, suddenly very aware of my rumbling stomach. I was ravenous. The lavish spread cheered me up slightly. Bacon tends to have that effect on most people. The pancakes that followed did the trick, and soon I was thinking of things and people apart from Jennifer. The first person I was to meet – a Mr. Singh – was a potential client, and I was under strict (and rather panicky) instructions to “knock his socks off”, and had full access to my company’s coffers to achieve the same. Hoping that he was not a teetotaler, I asked the waiter who came to pour my coffee for a taxi, and the way to the nearest wine shop en route Connaught Place. I knew enough about India to venture a guess that Mr. Singh was Punjabi, and that Punjabis loved their alcohol. A solid Jack Daniels should do the trick, I mused, as I gathered my bag, smiled at the waiter as he gestured towards my waiting taxi, and left the hotel.

  Mr. Singh – as I’d guessed – turned out to be a jolly Sikh, and he loved my gift. The meeting was short, and rather successful, even if I do say so myself. After all, I thought wryly, my job (and hers, mind you) had cost me my marriage. The least I could do was be good at it.

  My next meeting was only a couple of blocks away, so I decided to walk it. Delhi – and India – is just full of people. Its frenzy of noise and colour is nothing short of anathema to the cold, grey and sedately London that I am used to, and perhaps that is why I am so attracted to it. In a short walk of ten minutes, I was offered everything from spicy potatoes to roasted corn and dumplings, and assailed b
y no less than 4 hawkers and 5 beggars. It was sheer madness, and I couldn’t get enough of it. Jennifer and meeting forgotten for the moment, I just stood at an intersection and watched and felt the pulse of the city throb madly for a couple of minutes. It was then that I noticed the barber.

  He’d set up one of those portable stalls that are so common in India – nothing more than a chair and a mirror held up by god knows what under the shade of a tree. A big trunk set down on the ground no doubt contained his many instruments – combs, blades, scissors, creams, unguents, oils, the works. I watched, fascinated, as he called out mildly to passersby (which was in itself surprising, given that every other person’s USP was a lusty yell), appearing to no more than politely suggest that they stop and utilize his services. Fixated, I watched as a well-dressed gentleman stopped and, after a brief discussion with the barber, sat down on the chair. The barber then got to work, carefully draping a coverlet around him and proceeding to demonstrate the cleanest and shortest shave and the most extraordinary bladesmanship I have ever witnessed. In not more than five minutes, the gentleman was on his way again, his face clean as a whistle. By this time, I had unconsciously taken a few steps in that general direction, and the barber suddenly caught my eye. Grinning, he gestured towards the chair, looking at me expectantly. Embarrassed, I smiled and shook my head politely, pointing to my watch. He gave me a look that seemed to say very clearly, “ah, what a pity!” and bowed slightly as I walked past him.

  What an enchanting little man, I thought wistfully. Massages are my weakness, I admit freely, and I would’ve given anything to have set my bag down and become his next patron. His attaché case of goodies would have surely revealed some fragrant oil that would’ve done my slightly dry hair a world of good. And those hands! He seemed to be an artist with the blade, and would surely be as good at a massage, if not better. But I couldn’t very well show up to a meeting with my hair dripping with oil, so I had to let it go. Suddenly remembering my next engagement, I checked my watch and sped up, realizing that I was running slightly late.

  An hour later, I emerged from the meeting, exhausted. It had not gone as planned. The man had been irascible and unreasonable, and I had had a tough time explaining to him my company’s plans and objectives for his business. He’d wanted too much at once, and when I gave him my more cautious – and realistic – assessment, he had shot it down irritably. After around 45 minutes of hopeless back and forth, he had swept out rudely, saying he had another engagement. His secretary had shown me out. John would not be pleased, I thought ruefully; but then, John was a reasonable man, and would understand once I explained. The failed meeting and a general drop in energy levels brought me back to Jennifer. There had been no word from her, of course, and I was really feeling rather defeated and hopeless about the whole thing. We just couldn’t go on like this. Pondering the matter, I retraced my steps. I was also famished, having been offered no refreshment by the idiot man. Lost in my thoughts and thinking that I’d step into the next inviting Indian restaurant I came across, I soon found myself at a familiar junction. As I waited patiently to cross the road, I checked my watch. It was 3 o’ clock, but no longer swelteringly hot – the weather, surprisingly, had turned windy and pleasant.

  Suddenly thirsty, I turned towards a stall to buy a bottle of water, and realized, with a slight start, that the barber was still there. He was squatting on his haunches (a typical Indian pose) and idly sipping tea from a small plastic glass. Apparently conscious of being watched, he looked up suddenly and, recognizing me as the customer that got away, smiled broadly. I smiled back sheepishly, upon which he comically tapped his empty wrist as if to say, “do you have time now?” Frozen in my act of buying water, I continued to smile helplessly, not knowing how to communicate my reply. Rather, I didn’t even know my reply – I was free for the day, of course, but didn’t really know if I wanted to enlist the services of a barber in the middle of the afternoon. Moreover, no matter how inviting he looked, he was, after all, a roadside barber. Horror stories of clever Indian conmen who duped (or worse, murdered) unsuspecting foreigners came flooding to me, colouring the bright afternoon a gory red for the moment. Unaware of my dramatic musings, the barber decided to seize the moment. He drained his glass hurriedly and, slapping his palms on his thighs, stood up beside his stall and bowed in my general direction, then waved a hand towards the chair and mirror. His meaning couldn’t be clearer. Still undecided, I wondered what I should do. Insistent, he gave me an earnest thumbs up, grinning all the while. Oh, what the hell, I thought. It’s broad daylight, and he seems nice. I could do with a massage.

  I walked to the chair and placed my briefcase beside it. He gestured towards the chair, smiling, and already reaching for the coverlet. He had assumed I wanted a haircut, I realized, also realizing with the same thought that the man probably spoke only Hindi. I stopped him by waving my hands, and he stood by for a moment, bemused. We stared at each other, each wondering what to do next. Then, with a sudden bust of inspiration, I raised my hands to my head and made a rubbing gesture with my fingers. His face cleared instantly, and, all smiles again, he gave me another thumbs up and guided me to the seat, reaching for a towel instead. Pausing to remove my jacket and then rolling up my sleeves, I sat down, feeling rather silly – here I was, in a sharp business suit, sitting at the roadside for a midday massage. However, I began to relax and shed my inhibitions as he set about his business. First, he spread the towel about my head, so that it covered my shoulders and chest. Next, he produced an unmarked blue bottle from his attaché, which I assumed contained the oil. Not bothering to try and find out what kind of oil it would be, I sat back comfortably, waiting for him to begin. Evidently satisfied that everything was in order, the man began his work. Pouring an extremely generous measure of oil onto my head, he began to work his magic. His confident, practiced fingers began to rub the oil into my hair and scalp rhythmically. Leisurely, he spread the oil first towards my forehead, then towards my sideburns, and finally, near the back of my neck. At first, I kept my eyes open, my eyes darting around warily, alert for any tricks. But as the massage progressed, I couldn’t help but shut them.

  It was heavenly. Breathing in deeply, I determined that the oil was coconut, its mild scent tremendously soothing and pleasing to the senses. As I had suspected after watching him with the blade, the man was an artist. His fingers seemed to detect and attack every knot of tension I was carrying. I settled back in my seat as he patiently rubbed my temples, then suddenly darted to the back of my neck, and then as quickly back to my forehead. As the massage progressed, I was lulled into a pleasant stupor, and, unwittingly, my thoughts turned right back to my wife. Even as the rhythmic, soothing massage seemed to militate against it, the two voices piped up again, right from where they’d left off. This is Jennifer, the milder voice persisted. She’s the only one you’ve ever truly loved, and this is meant to be. Not anymore, the harder voice cut in sternly. It’s nobody’s fault. But it’s not working. And no amount of attempts at reconciliation is going to rekindle a relationship well past its expiry date. Stop running away from the truth. So what will you do then, the other voice protested. Are you considering…divorce? The barber was now kneading my shoulders and arms, sending pleasant little stabs of pain into my travel-weary muscles. Divorce? The voice sneered now. Do you have that in you? I don’t think so. You must try harder. You must talk to her, rediscover your lost passion. How hard could it possibly be? It’s simply not possible, you fool, the other voice persisted. This is not the time to be a hopeless romantic. Be practical. You have tried hard. But you can’t even stay in the same room for longer than a few minutes. It’s time to get out. And if that means separation, or divorce, then so be it. He was adding more oil now, resting his elbows on my shoulders and going at my head with renewed vigour. Divorce? How can you consider divorce? This wasn’t part of the plan. You’re supposed to have the perfect marriage, the perfect life. What will you do after a divorce? How will you pick up the pieces? The
barber was pressing my arms now, systematically going up and down. Divorce won’t be the end of the road. It’ll be a new beginning. You mustn’t be held hostage by abstract ideas of the perfect marriage. Face it. If it’s not working out, it’s not working out. Be a man and go through with it, and face the consequences with equanimity. You know, deep down, that it will make you both much happier. And perhaps…she’s in the same position, hesitating to take the extreme step. He had now interlocked the fingers of his right hand with mine, but before I had a chance to open my eyes and express any discomfort, he jerked his elbow suddenly, cracking each of my fingers with a pleasing crick. He then walked around me, and repeated the action with my left hand. Then he turned his attention back to my head, and massaged more vigorously than ever before. The voices matched his vigour, becoming louder and shriller with every passing moment. Get out, get out, get out. No, stay, try, try harder. Divorce, divorce, divorce. Reconcile, reconcile. The barber had worked up a frenzy by now, rubbing harder and pulling at my hair to spread the oil evenly. Divorce, Jennifer, reconcile, 7 years…he was practically attacking my head now, it was becoming painful…divorce, Jennifer, reconcile…shoulder, neck, head, divorce, Jennifer, reconcile…

  With a couple of sharp, final strokes, the barber stopped suddenly, and began patting my hair into place. I opened my eyes with a start. Divorce. It would have to be divorce, I thought with finality. I couldn’t run away from it any longer. I sat still for a few moments, and then sat up straight. The barber grinned at me in the mirror, and gave me another thumbs up. I felt light, happy, happier than I had been in years, having finally ended my inner torment. It had to be this, I thought again, my resolve growing stronger by the second. It would be right by both of us. I grinned back at him, and raised my throbbing arm to return his thumbs up.