Aryan reached across the table and took Kavya’s hand, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as they both unconsciously began to trace each other’s wedding rings, an old habit. They talked softly as they waited to be served. Presently, the restaurant host walked up to their table, beaming at his favourite patrons. Unlike most of the nouveau-riche clientele of the hotel, this couple had a genuinely refined taste, and, to his delight, took profound pleasure in that rare wine, or that perfect cut of meat that he served up for them.
“And what will it be today, Mustafa?” Kavya asked, eagerly awaiting the delicate description of their meal that would no doubt follow, serving as a veritable aperitif.
“Ah, Ma’am, I was only just informed that it is your last evening with us,” Mustafa replied, looking slightly crestfallen. “But,” he continued, brightly, “They also informed me, just in time, that it is a special day.”
Kavya exchanged a look with Aryan, who feigned ignorance, adding a shrug for good measure.
“And so,” Mustafa went on, snapping his fingers to catch the attention of a server nearby, “Tonight we have prepared a special menu, just for you.”
The server wheeled over a trolley, on which rested a bucket containing champagne on ice.
“To celebrate the occasion, we begin with a sparkling Veuve Clicquot, served just at the right temperature, seamlessly complemented by imported caviar on the most subtly salted crackers,” Mustafa began as the server popped open the bottle, careful not to waste the precious liquid, and poured generous measures into the two delicate champagne glasses that Mustafa was holding out. Holding the glasses carefully by their stems, he went on: “We will then serve up an impeccably grilled salmon in a light lemon and butter sauce, accompanied by roasted asparagus and aioli, seasoned to perfection. We will conclude with decadent chocolate cake, exquisitely finished with raspberry coulis.” With this, Mustafa placed a glass before each of them, and stepped back, bowing slightly.
“That sounds like heaven!” exclaimed Kavya, her eyes sparkling.
“My pleasure, Ma’am, and Sir,” he replied, cocking his head slightly in Aryan’s direction. “I will ensure that your courses are evenly spaced out, and that you are not disturbed. And lastly, may I say, it has been a pleasure to serve you this past week. Enjoy your meal, and,” he paused, his smile broadening, “allow me to wish you a very happy anniversary,” he said, bowing again.
“Thank you, Mustafa,” Kavya said fervently, looking across at Aryan with a smile.
“Thank you,” Aryan repeated, grinning at him conspiratorially.
After Mustafa had stepped back and the server had supplied them with the caviar, Kavya glanced at Aryan. “This was all you?” she said with mock surprise.
“Happy anniversary, my darling,” he replied, reaching over to clink her glass.
The meal was every bit as heavenly as promised. They savoured the moment as they ate, relishing the ambience, their privacy, their togetherness, pausing to relive cherished moments from the bygone week.
Just as they were finishing up their dessert, Aryan’s phone buzzed.
“Text from the kids?” Kavya asked, looking up with concern.
“Yes,” he answered, typing out a reply quickly.
“Oh no,” she said worriedly, “I think I left my phone upstairs.”
“Never mind, we’re nearly done,” he said, reaching across for her hand again.
She relaxed and smiled her dazzling smile again. “Thank you for a magical evening.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Kav,” he said, clasping her hand tightly. “But it’s far from over,” he added, winking. Their meal soon concluded, they walked out of the restaurant, pausing only to wave their thanks to Mustafa, who bowed in response. Then they went upstairs to make more magic.
***
They checked out early the next morning, with an eye on the clock. After settling the bill at the reception, they walked across the lobby, holding hands. A few other guests were checking out, but they barely noticed the bell-boys rushing to and from the cars that were pulling up all around them. They held back a step, not wanting to resume the humdrum of ordinary life, having spent the most romantic week together in the lap of luxury. When they could delay no longer, he sighed and stepped forward and opened the door of a waiting taxi.
Settling in, she looked up at him.
“Goodbye, Mr. Kumar,” she said lightly.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Kapoor,” he replied evenly. Then, slamming the door shut, he walked briskly to the next taxi in line. Perhaps they would go to Pondicherry next year, he thought idly, as their cars sped away in opposite directions.
Two floors above, Mrs. Kumar peered out of a window, sipping her morning coffee.
“You know, I could bet that I just saw my husband leave the hotel,” she said, turning around.
“Nonsense, love,” came the reply from across the room. “Now come back to bed.”
***
Author's Note: This story originally appeared in Reading Hour.
MEMORY
-I-
If there was one way to describe me that Sunday evening, perturbed was it. A string of strange occurrences had unnerved me, leaving behind a metallic taste in the mouth. As I sat staring distractedly at a magazine, I pondered the recent happenings. Two of my best friends of yore – Rahul and Joseph – had disappeared. Vanished. It had now been over a month and nobody knew what happened to them. We were inseparable in school, but as it happens so often, grew apart after taking our places in the real world. Eventually, I stayed on in Delhi and Rahul and Joseph started a company that saw them shift base to Bombay. Our jobs kept us busy. Mine in particular was terribly hectic and was probably the explanation for my bachelorhood and dormant social life. Rahul and Joseph, on the other hand, had married; their families were perhaps another reason for our drifting apart even further. We talked sometimes, met perhaps once in a couple of years, but it was never the same. Still, we retained our places as best friends from school, which is a very special bond indeed.
It was quite a shock to me, then, when I heard a month ago that they were untraceable. I visited their wives and shared their distress, listened sympathetically as they wept copious tears and wailed about their absconding spouses. I answered all the questions posed by the investigating policemen as they probed the case. The only information that came to light was that the men had gone to work as usual and never returned. Two fully grown, stout men, had disappeared in broad daylight! It was a strange business, an uneasy business, and when the police finally threw up their hands in despair, I thought it best to return to routine in Delhi. Life, as they say, had to go on. But try as I might, I could not shed the disquiet surrounding the entire affair, which has become my daily companion ever since. Silly as it might seem, I have caught myself looking over my shoulder on more than one occasion. And on one of these occasions, I ran into the second reason for my consternation. It was a man, a most peculiar and intriguing man.
It was yesterday afternoon, as I was just about to cross the road near my office at Connaught Place. I had stepped out for a break and to buy a couple of things. Looking around before walking across, I was wondering whether Rahul and Joseph had crossed a similar road before … whatever ghastly fate they had suffered. Realizing what I was doing, I chided myself for being paranoid and proceeded to cross confidently. The police will surely figure out what happened to them, I thought. The sight of a policeman making his daily round reassured me. We common people are scum that way – we will denounce the police in the most vilifying ways in our everyday lives, but when anything sinister occurs, it is to these familiar forces – the police and government – that we flock, to reassure ourselves that we shall be taken care of. And so, even though the paunchy policeman would hardly be any match for the pettiest criminal, his presence put me at ease, for I have no shame in admitting that I am one of the aforementioned scum. Yes, the police would surely come up with a rational explanation for this sooner or later.
; Feeling much better, I decided to smoke a cigarette. It had been months since I had last smoked, but a smoker never really quits and I suppose I exemplify that too. As I took my first puff and felt the smoke fill my lungs – another of those sensations that has so often dispelled niggling tension – I noticed the man. As I mentioned, he was quite peculiar. He was short and round, with a large nose and wore an extra-large coat with pinstriped trousers. There was an air of careless affluence about him that, despite his poor taste in clothes, was given away by the expensive gold watch on his wrist and the numerous rings that adorned his fingers. Why had he caught my eye, I wondered as I riffled through a magazine. Was it those glinting eyes, which appeared to bore into me? Or was it the fact that he looked thoroughly out of place as smart men in perfectly cut suits hurried past? Or was it the strange little half-smile that did not quite meet his eyes, which seemed to mock me?
I was losing it, I decided as I turned away and stubbed my cigarette, crushing it underfoot with particular vigour. He was just a man minding his own business, as I’d better begin to mind mine if I didn’t want to get fired. As I turned back to settle my bill, I noticed that the man had begun to walk briskly in my direction. For some reason, I grew impatient and snapped for my change, wanting to remove myself from the vicinity as quickly as possible. As the idiot in front of me dropped the coins on the floor, I realized that the man had covered the distance and was standing next to me.
“Keep the change,“ I said to the tobacconist and turned away in a hurry. But sure enough, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and managed a feeble nod, before attempting to escape again.
“Don’t you remember me, old friend? “ he called out. His voice was thin and went rather nicely with his corpulent figure. I turned back sheepishly and smiled again, this time in confusion. I didn’t remember him at all.
“Have we met before?“ I asked, as the tobacconist took a break to watch the exchange.
The man laughed, a squeaky laugh that reminded me of a dolphin’s call. On second thoughts, he did look slightly familiar. As I stared hard at him, I realized that he stirred something in my distant memory, one of those maddeningly evasive flashes.
“You always did have a good sense of humour,“ he remarked, motioning for a cigarette.
“I’m afraid I’m genuinely confused,“ I said. “You do seem terribly familiar, but I cannot place you.“
“Familiar!“ he exclaimed. The word seemed to amuse him no end. “I thought you’d do better than that, Arjun,“ he reproached me. Even as I registered the fact that a stranger had called me by name, I simply didn’t know what to say. So I just stared as he lit up.
“Well, no matter. Even better. We have some catching up to do,“ he said, in the business-like tone that my boss used sometimes when we hadn’t had a meeting for a while. “Meet me tomorrow for dinner at seven o’clock at this address.“ He slipped a card between my fingers. “I won’t take no for an answer,“ he continued, as a gleaming black car pulled up next to us.
“See you tomorrow, Arjun!“ he called out cheerily, sliding into its plush interior, only just visible before the chauffeur shut the door.
“Y-yes,“ I said, as the car pulled away, its powerful engine purring quietly in a way that only the most luxurious cars do.
“Did you know him, Sir?“ the tobacconist enquired.
“I honestly don’t know,“ I replied and felt the gold letters embossed on the smooth paper.
602, Elphinstone Towers, King’s Court, GK-II, it read.
“I honestly don’t know,“ I repeated to myself as I noticed the cigarette on the pavement and realized that the man had not smoked it at all. I began walking in the direction of my office, dazed. As I reached the front door, I realized I had completely forgotten why I had stepped out in the first place.
-II-
Who was this man? How did he know who I was? Why had the encounter made me so uncomfortable? The same set of questions made my head throb when I sipped my evening coffee. Together with Rahul and Joseph, it was almost too much to take. I recalled his face and mannerisms; he was frustratingly familiar, but I simply couldn’t put my finger on where I had seen him before. I paced my flat, my anxiety making my feet sweat. My slippers dragged on the smooth tiles of the floor. I glanced at the clock, noting that it was just after six, which meant there were barely fifty minutes to the appointed hour. The address that he had given was fairly close to my house and I knew I could find it if I wished to go. No, I thought. There was no need. Even if it was someone perfectly harmless, someone I indeed knew, I had spent a day fretting about it, so I wanted to have nothing to do with him.
But then, I reasoned, perhaps this was paranoid behaviour. Perhaps it was a genuine acquaintance from the past, who was in a hurry when we met but wanted to catch up over dinner. In any case, the potential meeting made me extremely curious. And when it came to satisfying my curiosity, I was like a child, and had to have the answer or suffer as it bothered me for months. Driven by the same curiosity, I found myself putting on a crisp shirt and black trousers and walking out onto the pavement. I might have taken a taxi, but King’s Court was fairly close to my house and I thought a walk in the November air might help to clear my mind. I was just being silly, I decided. This recent unpleasant business had rattled me. Perhaps a drink with an old friend, somebody I used to know, was just what I needed to unburden my mind and regain my composure.
-III-
I reached the address and noticed it was an apartment in one of the high rise buildings that had recently come up in the area. Together, they formed an exclusive apartment complex, boasting the most modern facilities one could desire. I wanted to trade my own apartment for a bigger one and had been trying recently, so I made a mental note to make some enquiries about renting or buying one of the flats. Once at the gate of Elphinstone Towers, the doorman directed me to the sixth floor and soon I was at the man’s front door.
Was I crazy, I wondered for a moment, before ringing the bell. A man I recognized as the chauffeur from yesterday opened the door and directed me to a sofa that was so soft that it seemed to swallow me up. Offering no explanation, he disappeared into the kitchen and left me to twiddle my thumbs. The apartment was large and airy, with a stunning view of the city from the balcony. It was, however, quite barely furnished. I was about to put it down to my host’s poor taste, but noticed that the little furniture and few curios that adorned the place were quite classy, and appeared to have been carefully chosen. As if they had come with the apartment, I mused. I made another mental note to ask him about living in this area. My host swept in from an inner room. He was dressed exactly as yesterday, in his ill-fitting suit and ornaments. The man would have stood out in any kind of crowd.
“Good evening,“ he said brightly. “I’m glad you could make it.“
“Hello,“ I said, smiling, and shook his hand. Yesterday’s encounter suddenly seemed less awkward. I put the last meeting down to my overactive imagination and looked forward to unravelling the little mystery.
“I’m sure you’ll have a drink,“ he said loudly, settling down across from me in an armchair. As if on cue, the chauffeur appeared with two glasses, each with a generous measure of whiskey and ice. I accepted my glass and sat back.
“I’m afraid I still can’t remember where we’ve met before,“ I admitted. The man’s eyes seemed to scrutinize me for a second, before he smiled that same mocking half-smile that I remembered so vividly from yesterday. Then he looked away.
“I hope you aren’t offended,“ I added quickly. “We are getting old … after all,“ I sipped my drink to avoid making conversation for a couple of minutes. It was a perfect blend, and I allowed myself to ignore the bizarre situation for a moment to enjoy the warmth spreading down my throat. I was quite well off, but I lived rather frugally and definitely wouldn’t buy such whiskey for myself.
“Not offended,“ he said, at last. “Just … surprised.“
I said nothing, now chewing on some pean
uts from a bowl near my elbow. I guessed I was about to be put out of my misery presently.
“Well, I suppose I should introduce myself, Arjun,“ his tone appeared to mock me again, but I now chose to see it as a sign of a past familiarity that had been wiped clean from my mind.
He leaned forward. “We were in school together.“ Then he sat back again, waiting for me to process what he had just said.
At first, I drew a blank, clueless as ever. The chauffeur refilled my glass silently and melted back into the kitchen. Suddenly, something began to stir in my memory. It slowly began to fall into place. The little eyes, the fat hands, the rotund figure.
“Are you …“ I trailed off, incredulous.
He cocked his head and waited for me to finish.
“Paras?“ I said, though I knew already I was right.
He grinned.
“Yes, “ he was jovial once more. “After yesterday, I didn’t expect you to guess quite so quickly.“
“Well, I’m glad I was able to. It’s so good to meet someone from that far back out of the blue!“ I said. He poured himself his second drink, making sure it was just right.
Paras Chowdhury, I thought, a real blast from the past. He had studied with me for two years in middle school – nearly twenty years ago – after which he had left suddenly for some other school. Much as his present self, he had been an odd little child, standing out in an undesirable way in the petty world of teenagers. Going back in time, I recalled that nearly everyone had bullied him on some or the other occasion. He had initially latched on to Rahul, Joseph and I, but we were too tight to admit another person into our fold and had rebuffed him rather bluntly. But then, since when have teenagers been known for their sensitivity? After that he had faded into the background and, as far as I could remember, was always tagging along with this other broody chap in our class, whose name I couldn’t remember. No-one really knew what had happened to Paras after he had left.
‘It’s incredible to have run into you after all these years,’ I said warmly, as if to compensate for our collective idiocy back then.
Razor-Sharp: 13 Short Stories Page 3