The phrase did stir a memory, but I cast it aside. I’ve never been able to treat the institution of marriage with the kind of reverence some of my friends have. Even so, I hesitated to speak. Looking at him stare outside, no doubt contemplating what he’d ostensibly set out to do, I felt like I was intruding on something deeply personal.
I reached for the HMA and flicked through it to give him a few minutes. Yet, I couldn’t help but observe him out of the corner of my eye. Little smiles turned into brooding sighs as the many-layered tussle played out within him.
“The law is on your side, Rahul,” I said, once the silence had stretched long enough, trying to be as gentle as possible. “And I’d be happy to present the di – the petition on your behalf.”
“If that’s what you’d like,” I added, when he said nothing.
After a moment’s hesitation, Rahul took a deep breath and rose, looking me in the eye. “Harish, I want a divorce from my wife, Padma Rahul Rai. Could you represent me?”
***
I insisted on dropping him home. He protested, saying that he’d call a cab, but it was nearly 2 a.m., so I wouldn’t hear of it. I was surprised to learn that he lived barely half an hour from my house. Short as it was, the ride to his house was uneventful, just like the ride to mine. He was quiet and calm, exuding the air of a man who’d had a huge weight lifted off his chest.
“A right from here,” he said as we entered a residential area. “It’s the house at the end of the lane.”
“I’ll prepare the paperwork and bring it to your house on the 25th. We can’t file before that anyway. Does that work?”
“Of course,” he said, as I pulled over next to a large independent house. “Thank you so much, Harish. I’m sorry if I was a bit of an imposition…”
“Oh, not at all,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m glad to have gotten back in touch with you. And equally glad to be able to help.”
“No, really, thank you,” he repeated, shaking my hand once more. “I asked for a lawyer and a friend today, and you were much more than both.”
I waved as he got out of the car and walked towards the door. As I pulled away, I saw, in the rear view mirror, the silhouette of a woman running out to greet him. Soon-to-be newlyweds, I thought to myself, smiling. It was a poignant image that stayed with me the entire ride home.
***
On Sunday the 25th, I drove down the same road, a briefcase full of papers by my side. I’d drafted a skeletal divorce petition with the assistance of a couple of family law practitioners I knew. Seasoned lawyers as they all were, none had handled a case of this nature. Nevertheless, we put together a template petition, with the blanks to be filled in by Rahul. In the tumult of the other day, we’d forgotten to exchange phone numbers, so I was going unannounced. I’d picked a Sunday for the meeting in the hope that he’d be home.
A few minutes later, I walked up to his door, casting an eye on the neatly manicured lawns. I suppose it helps, having two people around the house, I thought, picturing my own unkempt garden.
I rang the bell and waited. An attractive woman in her mid-40s opened the door after a few moments.
“You must be Parvati,” I said with a broad smile. I felt like I’d known her for seven years, too. “I’m Harish. Rahul might have mentioned me. I’ve brought the divorce paperwork.”
“Pleased to meet you, Harish,” Parvati replied, and I noticed the bags under her eyes. “But I’m afraid that won’t be necessary anymore. Rahul passed away in his sleep last night.”
They say Hindu marriage is a sacrament…
***
Author's Note: This is my only story that draws from the noble profession that I count myself a part of. Regardless (though possibly, for this very reason), it has gone through a few rounds of rejection and remains unpublished.
BON APPÉTIT
I rose stiffly as he entered the dining room – noisily, laboriously – and plodded towards the table where I was seated. I had been dreading this lunch, but once invited, could have hardly refused. I’d driven down, having taken the rest of the day off, for I knew that work would be the last thing on my mind after this meeting. Though it had taken me all of 20 minutes to reach, it had seemed like an eternity.
He smiled once he’d reached the table and said, “Ah, Thomas, it has been far too long.”
“Yes,” I said uncomfortably, not knowing how to reply. He sat down, grimacing slightly, taking his time to shift into a comfortable position. I followed suit, and was soon perched in my chair, waiting for the meal to begin.
“How are you, how is the missus?” he asked courteously. Circumstances had never dictated his reactions to them; his manners had always remained beyond reproach, almost to a fault.
“Just fine…thank you,” I said, my disquietude evident in sharp contrast to his comfort.
“Government service treating you well?”
I winced slightly.
“I wish you hadn’t left,” I said with some feeling.
“But you understand why I had to,” he replied in a measured tone.
“Yes, I suppose I must…”
He remained silent for a few moments and gazed out of the window. I stared at him unabashedly, noticing how much he had changed. I could still remember him as a rotund child, waving around his cricket bat, shouting, “Run, Thomas!” and laughing shamelessly when I was run out because of his misjudgement. No more than a ghostly hint of that merry child remained in the thin, sunken-eyed man seated across me today.
“Perhaps we should have picked another place, the ambience here is a bit sombre, don’t you think?” he asked, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
I smiled despite myself. He had always been a bit of a charmer.
“Yes, perhaps,” I replied with a little more warmth. “I suppose we could put that one in the suggestion box.”
He grinned broadly, and his gaunt features filled out for a moment, revealing a careless, rugged handsomeness, now fast fading. I grinned back, forgetting myself for a moment, and then sobered up again as a turbaned bearer appeared, carrying a tray laden with two steaming bowls of soup. My companion studied it carefully.
“Lentil and coriander with just a hint of chicken,” he said appreciatively after a moment. “Just the way I like it.”
He began to eat, slurping noisily. I, too, picked up my spoon, although the delicacy of the broth was lost on me. I’ve never understood these thin, peppery soups – I prefer mine rich and creamy. But then, in any case, I can’t say I’d worked up much of an appetite for this particular meal.
“So, how is your work going? Anything exciting?” he asked conversationally as he tucked in.
I could talk about anything but this, I thought to myself quietly.
“No. Business as usual,” I replied at last, attempting to keep my answers as short and uninteresting as possible in the hope that he move away from this line of questioning. He nodded, but said nothing, and continued to eat with relish. I toyed with my soup, swirling it around in the bowl, trying to avoid his eye. A few minutes passed, pregnant with conversation that I could not bring myself to initiate. I settled for scrutinizing him out of the corner of my eye instead; if he knew that he was being watched, he did not acknowledge it, and concentrated on the dish before him. Watching him eat with such gay abandon made me feel slightly queasy.
A few moments later, the bearer coughed delicately, and, catching his eye, I nodded. Presently, the soup bowls were cleared: mine hardly disturbed; his almost empty.
“Do you remember,” he asked suddenly, “how we used to play cricket for hours and hours at your parents’ house?”
If I were a crying man, I suppose I would have teared up at this juncture. Nevertheless, the composure that I had resolved to maintain throughout the lunch began to falter, and I struggled to maintain a stiff upper lip. He watched me, mildly amused, wearing a pleasant expression as if he’d asked about something as mundane as the weather.
“I do, Ram,” I replied s
oftly, unable to manage any more than that.
“What happened to that house in the end?” he asked with a hint of concern.
This I could handle.
“Oh, it reverted to the government upon my father’s retirement a couple of years back. My parents left soon after that anyway; they didn’t bother to look for another place here.”
“I hope they’re well?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” I replied tonelessly.
The bearer reappeared, carrying plates and cutlery for two.
“Excuse me,” I said, and the bearer looked up, surprised at being addressed. “But one set will do.”
“You’re not eating?” Ram asked.
“No, I’ve lost my appetite,” I mumbled in response.
“Well, don’t mind if I do,” he said brightly, as the bearer placed a plate, spoon and fork in front of him. “I have a long journey ahead.”
I winced again, but made no comment. We both watched the bearer return with a tureen of mutton curry and a bread basket.
“Mutton curry!” Ram exclaimed happily. “I’d resolved not to eat too much, but I don’t suppose I’ll be able to restrain myself now.”
Have you ever been in a situation from which you desperately want to escape, but at the same time, you also find that you can’t tear yourself away?
“Are you sure you won’t have some?” Ram asked as he served himself.
I nodded quietly. I had begun to perspire heavily by now; my shirt had turned damp and clung wetly to my back, and my feet had grown clammy within my socks. Ram, on the other hand, was a picture of serenity in his spotless white clothes, not a hair out of place as he ate slowly and methodically, closing his eyes as he savoured each bite. A memory stirred in my brain; of Ram and I – two ravenous 15 year olds – eating our way through an entire karahi of mutton that was actually meant for his whole family, and incurring his mother’s wrath in the process. I had been contrite, looking down in shame as she had raged, but Ram had failed in his apology: a hearty belch had intervened, after which he’d begun to laugh helplessly. Shocked, I had anticipated further punishment, but fortunately for us, his mother had seen the humour and had forgiven us in the end, even handing us some sweetmeats to top off the illicit meal.
“So, what do you think of the new government?” Ram asked seriously, interrupting my reverie.
“There’s hope,” I replied noncommittally.
“Is there, now?” he asked keenly. “Are these your words alone, or your colleagues’ as well?”
I eyed him warily, sensing the first hint of hostility.
“There is,” I said firmly. “The man knows what he’s doing, and he knows what constitutes the common good.”
“Yes. But whose common good?” he asked sharply.
I sighed. “Look, Ram, you must understand…”
He waved me into silence, and the only sound for the next couple of minutes was the faint chink and scrape of cutlery. I checked my watch as he finished the meal and set his plate aside: there were still a few minutes to go. Precious few, I thought, as the bearer returned to clear the table.
“Well, that was excellent,” Ram said contentedly. “You really should have had some,” he remarked, and belched richly in a manner reminiscent of that notorious emission before his mother. He remained quiet after that, humming tunelessly and looking around with a mild curiosity. His ceaseless calm; joviality almost, made me want to cry out in anger and despair. What was he made of?
“Why did you call me here?” I burst out finally, unable to bear it any longer. “Why me? You quit so many years ago and right near disappeared. All the news I’ve had about you since then has come from the bloody newspapers. And now, today, of all days, you think of me? Why, Ram, why?” I spat out the last word, concentrating the anguish, despair and sense of betrayal accumulated over the past six years into that one syllable.
He surveyed me for a moment as my chest heaved with every breath, the agony of the moment writ large on my face.
“Because you are still my best friend, and I still love you,” he replied simply. “And I had to see you once before I left.” His voice quavered almost imperceptibly. “Even though…we find ourselves at odds now,” he finished quietly with a wry smile.
My wavering composure finally deserted me, and I buried my face in my hands. A few moments later, someone touched my shoulder, and I looked around.
“It is time, sahib,” said the bearer expressionlessly, as if he had done this several times before.
Ram stood up heavily, refused the bearer’s offer of assistance, and began to walk towards the door – slowly, laboriously, the shackles impeding his movement. I, too, rose, shocked at the abruptness of his departure, but stood rooted to my spot. Unwittingly, I began to count the steps between him and the dreaded portal, for I knew that once he crossed, there was no turning back. I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven...” I stopped counting as the door opened with a creak, the sound echoing through the room with a chilling finality.
He paused at the open door and turned around. The afternoon sunlight streamed in, casting incongruous shadows that danced on the bare stone walls.
“Long live the King, Collector sahib,” he called out mockingly, as the tears began to stream down my face. “And inquilab zindabad!”
Outside, His Majesty’s gallows awaited their latest victim.
***
Author's Note: This story originally appeared in The Nilgiri Wagon.
GONE
It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And soon, this bedroom in the eastern corner of the house, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarled old hibiscus and the half-grown mango tree they had planted together – all those would be gone as well. It was the strangest feeling ever.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan. She knew she ought to get up and be about, but she wasn’t up to it just yet. The sun’s rays caressed her face, shifting ever so slightly as the minutes passed as if to underscore the fact that the world had taken no notice of the throbbing emptiness within her.
She turned on her side with a sigh. The imprint of his body deep in the mattress, a testament to the years they had spent sleeping and waking up together. Despite herself, she felt her hand reaching out to trace its outline. The gesture, repeated with love so often over the years, now brought her nothing but pain. He would never come back.
“He’s gone,” she said out loud, telling the furniture around her: the desk and dressing table that they’d bought when they’d moved in; the little stool in the corner that had followed soon after; the rocking chair that he’d surprised her with a couple of years back, joking that it was for them to grow old in. Each piece glimmered with traces of their collective being, and now they appeared to be staring back at her with reproach, mourning the loss of a future that might have been.
She’d finally made her peace with it the previous night. They’d sat in the loveseat in the living room, fingers intertwined, a posture that evoked memories of countless afternoons whiled away reading, talking, or sharing comfortable silences. There had been no talking this time, though. Even her tears had dried up. She had sensed in his fingers a firmness that she knew her own did not possess.
She’d pleaded with him to make love one last time, her voice cracking, eyes hot with humiliation at her naked, desperate need.
“I can’t,” he’d protested, clasping her hand tighter, ring cutting into her palm.
“The other one suits you better,” she’d said, letting her words sink in. He’d withdrawn sharply. She’d felt a vicious pleasure when he had covered the ring with his other hand, colour rushing to his cheeks. Her satisfaction was short-lived; her desire betraying her ego. She’d continued to plead with him, alternating between despair and anger, but he’d refused to budge.
“I can’t, Shahana. I’ve told you. I just can’t,” he’d said in the end, with a finality that she could not argue with.
“At least stay with me then,” she’d said. “Just tonight. Just this once.”
He’d given in then. She’d seen the reluctance in his eyes, but could not find it within herself to pay heed.
She’d known for a while now that their last night together would come sooner rather than later, yet she was completely unprepared for it. Any dreams of a special night had dissipated in his clumsy embrace, his evident unease. She’d promised herself that she would contain her tears, but how could she, when the person she held closest in the world felt so foreign?
Their conversations had been stilted, the silences, heavy and dull. She’d clung to him, breathing in his musk for the last time, running her hands all over the body she’d thought she knew so well. Despite herself, she’d lingered over the faint marks on his wrists and reached up to feel the punctures on his ears, cringing with shame when she felt him wince. How could a lover’s touch become so unwanted? She’d fallen into a fitful sleep in the end, still holding on to him. And in the morning, he was gone.
She rose, and walked over to the window overlooking the garden. What would become of it when she left, she wondered, surveying the neatly manicured patch of grass. They’d always taken turns – she did Mondays and Wednesdays, and he, Thursdays and Saturdays. The next owners, would they be so meticulous? Or would they let it deteriorate, showing scant regard for their – her – memories?
“You should stay,” he’d said to her a few days ago as they sat in the garden, watching the sun sink into the horizon in a bloody riot.
“For what?”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then stay.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“I’m only trying to – ”
Razor-Sharp: 13 Short Stories Page 10