“Indeed it is,“ he grinned, motioning me to the balcony.
His amiable manner definitely served to put me at ease. Although I was yet to find out how he had fared in life, he had evidently done well enough and that made me happy in a paternalistic kind of way. As if to explain exactly why I felt like that, he said, “I always looked up to you in school, did you know?“
“Well, you’ve certainly gotten along very well!“ I gestured at the spacious apartment.
Paras laughed his dolphin laugh. “Yes, I suppose so.“
The chauffeur brought more peanuts and we talked about our lives since we’d last known each other. I learnt that he had shifted first to another city and eventually to the UK and had gone on to specialize in corporate law. After working at an international law firm for ten years and making ample amount of money, he had quit and returned to Delhi take care of some family business – making some investments, disposing of some property and the like. Like me, he had been tied to his work, which left no time for family, friends or marriage. Having taken a break, however, he hoped to change that now, while I did not expect the same, not having dared to quit.
We spoke about our school, and the teachers we had had at that time. By this time, I’d had a couple of drinks and all this conversation and reminiscence had loosened me up quite a bit. I would not describe myself as reserved. I had been quite popular in school and college; yet I suppose I had become a little … reclusive over the last few years. It was an unhealthy lifestyle, I admitted to myself, and this was a welcome break from it. But there was something bothering me at the back of my mind – a nagging thought or memory – much like Paras’s name had done earlier.
After a break in the conversation I asked, “What happened to your friend from school, that tall boy that you used to spend your recesses with?“
Before he could answer, the chauffeur appeared at the balcony entrance. “Dinner is ready, sir,“ he said.
I was quite ravenous by now, and if the whiskey was anything to go by, I was sure that dinner would be nothing short of sumptuous.
As I approached my plate of steak, mashed potatoes and chips, I was not disappointed. The steak in particular looked like the tenderest piece of meat I had ever had the privilege to eat. As we settled down to our meal, the conversation picked up again.
“Rajan, you mean?“ he asked.
“That’s right!“ I exclaimed loudly. “What did he get up to?“
Paras’s face acquired a serious look. “I don’t quite know,“ he said. “You know how it used to be – when people shifted away back then, there was hardly any way to keep in touch. I don’t know what became of him, but I hope he did well for himself. We’d become quite good companions by the time I left.“
Yes, I thought, companions might be the best word to describe the two misfits. Still, at least they had found each other. The school yard was quite cruel that way – sometimes if you didn’t find a friend instantly, you could end up being terribly lonely for a long time. I was fairly certain that if Rahul, Joseph and I hadn’t clicked instantly, I might have been one such person.
As if he had read my mind, my host asked, “What about your friends – Rahul and Joseph? Are you still as close as you used to be?“
It was my turn to grow serious, or to put it more accurately in my case, despondent. Paras seemed to sense it, for he asked with some concern, “Did you fall out?“
If only, I thought sadly. That would have been so much easier. I finished my last bit of steak and took a large swig of wine before answering. “I’m afraid it is something much more disturbing.“ I paused and he waited in silence. “They’ve …vanished.“
“How do you mean?“ he said, perplexed. I suppose it was a queer explanation, but then there was nothing much to explain.
“Yes, just that. They’ve simply vanished off the face of this earth.“
“But how?“
“Your guess is as good as mine,“ I said morosely. “All I know is that they went to work one day and simply disappeared.“
“What? But surely the police would’ve uncovered something?“
“No. They were equally dumbfounded. Couldn’t make head or tail of it.“
“But …where was this?“
“Bombay.“
He remained silent for a minute.
“That’s frightening,“ he said at last. “And peculiar. There has to be a rational explanation for it.“
I said nothing, having had the same thought a million times. But there wasn’t, was there? There wasn’t any rational explanation. The sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach told me I would never see my friends again.
“Tell you what,“ he said. “I might be able to help.“
“How?“
“The Bombay police commissioner is a family friend. I’ll ask him to order a comprehensive re-investigation. And to put his best men on it.“
“Oh, that would be very welcome!“ I said gratefully. “I hate to think something awful could’ve happened to them, but I can’t wait for something, anything to come to light, you know? Knowing nothing is driving us all crazy. Could you help, really?“
“Definitely. I’ll speak to him tomorrow morning, because I’ll be returning to the UK tomorrow night. Anything to help my old friends.“
Something stirred in my memory again, setting off that nagging unease. But I still couldn’t figure it out and chose to pay attention to what Paras had said.
“Thank you so much. That will be so helpful. Their wives will be happy to know that something could yet be discovered.“
He waved off my thanks and glanced at his watch. That made me look at the time too; it was nearly ten o’ clock. “Damn, I ought to get going! I didn’t realize the time.“
He insisted I stay for more wine and dessert, but I had just realized that I had work the next day. I excused myself and visited the bathroom to wash my face and lose some of the pleasant alcohol-induced buzzing in my brain. As I splashed cold water on my face, the elusive memory prodded at my brain again, but despite my best efforts, I couldn’t remember it. I’ll figure it out later, I thought and stepped out of the bathroom with a clearer head.
Then I returned to the sitting room where Paras was waiting next to the door.
“Thank you for coming, it was so great to meet and catch up,“ he said in his jovial manner.
“It was my pleasure,“ I said truthfully. “And, I say, Paras, before I leave, I just wanted to say … On behalf of my friends and myself…“
He looked at me questioningly. Poor chap, what a wonderful and successful person he had turned out to be. I was by now feeling repentant for the way we had treated him, and with Rahul and Joseph having disappeared, I felt like I could do with all the friends who came my way.
“…that we’re sorry for the way we treated you in school … We were quite mean to you, but you know how it is amongst teenagers.… Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.“ I hoped I sounded sincere.
He was silent for a few moments and stared at me with his eyes narrowed.
“I hope you can forgive us…“
Suddenly, he burst out laughing, startling me into taking a step back.
“Of course I forgive you, what are you talking about?“ he guffawed. “It’s been so many years, how does it matter any more? I’m just glad to have got back in touch with you,“ he smiled.
“So, no hard feelings?“ I asked, stretching out a hand.
“No hard feelings,“ he repeated earnestly, clasping my hand with both of his warmly.
“Well, I must say I’m relieved. Thank you for a great evening. Hopefully we’ll remain in touch now.“
Paras shot me his odd half-smile. “Yes, yes … I hope we do.“
We exchanged numbers and promised to meet again. I stepped out after bidding him goodnight. As I neared the elevator, someone tapped me on my shoulder.
“Sir, you forgot this,“ the chauffeur said, holding out my wallet.
“Oh, thank you, I suppose it fell
out of my pocket.“
“I suppose it did,“ he said, peering at me.
“Er, well, goodnight then. And thank you.“
He looked at me intently for a moment and said, “You’re welcome, sir. Do take care.“
“Yes, thank you…“ I felt slightly unnerved. I saw the elevator arrive and turned towards it. As the chauffeur walked away, I looked back to Paras’s door where he stood staring down at something and waved. He returned my wave and promptly went back to what he was doing – fiddling with his watch, from the look of it. I stepped into the elevator, and shuddered as the cold air whipped through. Suddenly, I wanted to reach home quickly and turn in.
-IV-
I didn’t trust myself to walk all the way back quite as briskly as I had walked over, so I took a taxi. Through my stupor I felt a mixture of melancholy for Rahul and Joseph, warmth at meeting Paras and guilt for the way we had spurned him. It was an unpleasant mixture and I wished I’d reach quickly so that I could sleep it off and get back to life as usual from tomorrow.
Once I reached home, I went straight to bed. As I changed my clothes, I thought of how easily Paras had offered to help and wondered whether I would ever be quite as magnanimous. Well, at any rate, I ought to start being now, I thought, as a note fluttered out of my trouser pocket. I sat heavily on my bed and groped for it on the floor. When I found it, I switched on my night lamp and brought it close to my eyes. Printed boldly on it were the words:
No hard feelings.
Perplexed, I stared at the three words, wondering where it had come from.
My wallet. It must have been my wallet. Maybe the chauffeur had slid it in. As his sallow face flashed in my eyes, I froze. The chauffeur -- that slightly mocking look, those broody eyes, that shock of black hair -- It couldn’t be –
“Rajan,” I whispered. I began to perspire and shiver uncontrollably. “No!” I shouted in a daze. The memory that had evaded me all night fell crashing into place. Paras … Paras … wasn’t it Paras Chowdhury on whom we had played that awful prank in school? It was during Annual Day play practice. I had wanted no part in it, but Rahul and Joseph were convinced it would be a hoot. They had always been particularly caustic with Paras. And it had ended with Paras standing on the stage with his pants down before the entire school, baring his genitals. He had run off, of course, tripping on his way, which had made it even more hilarious. I suppose he had never lived it down. In fact, hadn’t it been just a few weeks before the term ended and Paras left the school for good?
I began to convulse. My fevered brain put the final piece of the puzzle into place. I recalled the small report in some corner of the newspaper from a couple of days back. The police had recovered two unidentified cadavers from some sewers in Bombay within days of each other. What had it said? A nearby landlord had been detained. His tenant and manservant had disappeared under mysterious circumstances after paying three months’ rent in advance…
And then, the first spurt of blood poured out of my mouth, staining the white paper scarlet. I doubled over and fell to the floor, clutching my stomach. I continued to vomit blood and tried to crawl to the bathroom, the phone, anywhere. But as the poison struck its target and my heartbeat ebbed, I gave up.
“Mercy,“ I whispered; the muscles in my body slackening. “Mercy,“ I repeated softly. And everything went black.
***
Author's Note: This story originally appeared in Earthen Lamp Journal.
A BREATH OF FRESH AIR
They lay by each other’s side, enjoying the moment. It was not their first time, and it would certainly not be the last. He was different from the others she had been with: mild, kind, and not demanding at all. He was a breath of fresh air in her otherwise hectic day. She stroked his cheek, then ran her fingers through his hair. He enjoyed the sensation lazily, eyes closed, shivering with pleasure at her touch. She had begun to mean everything to him. She was patient, beautiful, charming. Way out of his league. But he had her now. The precious little time that they had with each other was not nearly enough for him. He hated her busy days; he always wanted her all to himself. Sighing, he turned on his side to look at her, marveling at how lovely she was. He ran a finger down the curve of her cheek, and she smiled indulgently.
“Tell me you love me,” he said slowly.
“I love you,” she replied, closing her eyes.
“Again”, he said, tracing her cheekbones now.
“I love you,” she said, also turning on her side, and locking eyes with him.
“I’ll never tire of hearing that,” he said, wanting her to know that he meant it.
“And I’ll never tire of saying it for you,” she said softly.
An alarm tinkled, and he sighed heavily. She sat up, fully clothed as usual.
“That’ll be 2000.”
***
Author's Note: This is my only attempt at flash fiction and has been widely rejected.
KABARGAH
We did not expect to be let in. Although all of us have respectable jobs, we looked like teenagers, dishevelled and bedraggled. As our car approached the gate, I attempted to hide the turmeric stains on my T-shirt.
“All yours, Manan,” I whispered as the security guard darted towards the driver’s seat, an air of importance about him.
Manan is a Kashmiri. Not a very good one, for he barely speaks the language, and we all knew that he’s never been to Kashmir. Yet, the only thing we desired at the moment was to somehow make our way to the canteen at Jammu and Kashmir House. Manan had promised that no Kashmiri place worth the name could go without serving kabargah, or lamb ribs. And so, on a dusty Delhi evening, Atishay came over to my house and together we went to Manan’s, and made our way to the corridors of power in Lutyens’ Delhi, not to conduct important business or even to soak in the beauty and symmetry of that part of the city, but for a far more noble pursuit – kabargah.
“Where to?” the guard said, looking at us one by one.
“Dining hall,” Manan said in Hindi. “We want to eat,” he added in broken Kashmiri. It sounded more like a plea than a statement of intent, but the guard seemed uninterested.
“Name?” he asked nobody in particular, sticking to Hindi.
“Manan.”
“At least say Bhan to strike a Kashmiri chord!” said Atishay. It wouldn’t have made a difference, for the guard scribbled in his notebook and opened the gate to let us through.
“I can’t believe that did the trick,” Manan said as we parked.
“Me neither,” said Atishay. “The last time I had to pretend that I was a journalist covering a cricket match at Willingdon Camp.”
“It’s because I spoke in Kashmiri,” Manan said, sticking his chest out. Manan is a scrawny fellow, so this made for a more of a comical than impressive sight.
“Pah,” I said. “The guard wasn’t even Kashmiri.”
“Of course he was,” Manan protested. “Did you see that nose?”
“Since when have you been an expert on Kashmiri noses?”
***
It is a common misconception amongst Delhiites that State bhavans are seedy and decrepit, a view no doubt fed by the familiar vision of crumbling walls splattered with paan stains that any discussion on government buildings evokes. A stroll through Chanakyapuri, however, disabuses the beholder of any such notion. Most State bhavans are imposing, palatial buildings, radiating the majesty of the embassies that line Shanti Path.
“It’s like they made it larger and more impressive than the rest to compensate for the dismal state of affairs,” said Manan with a faraway look as we entered J&K House, his heart going out to his suffering brethren.
“Oh, be quiet. You’re a pseudo Kashmiri at best,” Atishay said. “Snug in your Pamposh Enclave mansion while they suffer in the gutters.”
I thought it was a bit rich of us to engage in convivial political discourse when all we really wanted from the Kashmiris was their food, so I remained silent.
Nobody questioned us as we
sauntered through the ornate hallways.
“This is what I love about these places,” Manan said, as we passed one sleepy room after another, each with a grander name than the last. “The way they’ve built them up, you’d think that the most important business of Government is conducted in these very corridors. As if 370 was drafted right here in…Chinar Hall.”
“A terrible mistake if there ever was one,” said Atishay. I wondered what was making him so contrarian about things today, particularly since I’ve never known him to have sharp political views. It’s a lovely feeling, though, to know that you can test someone’s patience, risk-free, the way we can test each other’s.
Manan ignored him, and we meandered on, unimpeded..
“Are you sure we’ll get kabargah here?” I asked, moving on to more savoury topics, my voice thick with doubt. Ornate or not, there wasn’t a soul in sight, let alone some expert Kashmiri khansama. We hadn’t even managed to locate the dining hall.
“Yes yes, don’t worry about it. It’s not possible for a Kashmiri kitchen not to make it,” Manan said for the umpteenth time.
“I hope you’re sure,” said Atishay as we turned a corner into a large lobby. “When I came last, there wasn’t much on offer. We had the most excellent seekh kebabs though. This trip won’t be a waste even if we get those.”
We finally encountered a few bored looking officials in the lobby, who were able to direct us to the dining room. More than at our scruffy mien, their countenance gave away a mild surprise that anyone should seek a meal at J&K House.
***
The dining hall had clearly been built as an afterthought, for, in an ugly contrast to the otherwise elegant building, it was tiny and insipid. Uncomfortable looking flat chairs were set around tables that hadn’t had a thorough cleaning in weeks. If it was the kind of place that dished out meaty delicacies like kabargah, it was surely one of Delhi’s best kept secrets.
“If you had just invited us over for kabargah once in all the seventeen years we’ve known you,” I grumbled as we approached the only free table, “it wouldn’t have to come to this.”
Razor-Sharp: 13 Short Stories Page 4