Bhrigu Mahesh, Phd

by Nisha Singh

  ‘Y…yes.’ I said, trying to remember the episode. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You won’t believe me but this Pundit had many under his influence and Manjunath was one of them.’

  ‘What?’ I almost had a heart attack with shock. ‘Manjunath too?’

  ‘Yes.’ replied Bhrigu. ‘You see, Neelu was desperate for her husband’s love and attention. Manjunath, on the other hand, yearned for the love and respect of the one woman he loved to distraction, Savita.’

  I could not reply anything as my brain had almost crashed, processing so much.

  ‘He too was helping Parichay Mishra solve a riddle and gain another interesting insight into the nature of women. Listen to this.’ He cleared his throat and began.

  ‘A maiden so lovely was blessed upon this earth,

  The envy of every woman she became and of their evil mirth.

  Every man sought her attention; whether he be cupid’s god or a man of no mention.

  In that lot was one so after her heart, he could nor help but outpour the cravings of his heart.

  She looked at him once and held up her face in silent reproach,

  The man could hear, oh! so clear, the last sigh of his dying hope.

  Now tell me, O enlightened one, for your wisdom is supreme,

  If the chance to make her his own should ever arise again,

  How would the luckless hunter now approach his game?’

  ‘So Manjunath is the luckless hunter, isn’t he?’ I asked, deeply disturbed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Savita…’ I swallowed and the pain was terrible. ‘Is the…is the…’

  ‘Game.’ he completed the painful sentence for me. ‘I am afraid, yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know that a practical minded man like Manjunath would be into such thugs. He is a business man and business men are known for their pragmatic nature, is it not?’

  ‘It is not always true.’ said my friend. ‘There can be many shades to a person; and my studies have shown that the more practical a man, the more he is vulnerable to a passing passion at one point in his life but this, of course, does not apply to Manjunath.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he is a business man by accident and not by choice. His father was an entrepreneur and the business that he established was inherited by his son without question.’

  ‘So what kind of a man is he?’ I asked. ‘I remember you telling me that you thought his character to be quite interesting.’

  ‘Do you want to hear what Parichay Mishra has to say about him?’ he said with an uncomfortable smile. ‘His opinion on Manjunath is the same that I felt when I first met him. The difference is that I changed mine but he stuck to his. Here is how his connection with Manjunath began.’

  ‘Today.’ said my friend quoting the Pundit. ‘A man came to me when it was almost dark. He said his name was Manjunath Gupta and that he was a sweet shop owner. He told me that he had got my reference from one of his friends, Kailash, whom I was helping and the good results that he was enjoying in his love life. He too, wanted the same good results. I looked at him from head to foot and saw nothing even remotely interesting in his mundane personality. All women, no matter how different they are from each other or what their vocation is, are inherently interesting. They have something or the other to offer every time they open their mouths, even if they, themselves don’t know it. That’s why they make a fascinating study. My wife for instance. She is the very picture of ignorance and I can’t exchange an intelligent word with her. As my wife and companion, she offers nothing but when she becomes my study, she automatically becomes interesting because even when her mind is in a primitive state, her unconscious brain is polished and has reserves of valuable data only because she is a woman. Men, on the other hand, have no such reserve as they are far less evolved than women. Even the most interesting of men are of no significance as a study but its there company that I enjoy. That’s the irony of it all. This man, on the other hand, is as dull as a door nail and hence I thought of spurning him but he looked so miserable at the thought that I would turn him away that I was amused. I started getting interested in the problem which had so troubled him. If he, in some way, becomes a tool to understand women, I will have him and if not he will be turned away at once.’

  ‘This man is something else all together.’ I said. ‘His ideas…they…they are stranger than even yours!’

  ‘But then again.’ said my friend. ‘There is that ring of truth which is so hard to ignore. Now listen to this addition.’

  ‘Manjunath Gupta’s condition has fitted well into this riddle and hence I am thankful that he came to my doorstep. He is suffering from a common grief which is unrequited love. The woman he desires does not desire him back and hence he is in a pathetic condition. The interesting thing is that he is married and he would not disclose the name of his wife but one thing is for sure that he does not desire his wife in anyway; the one woman he is legally approved to desire. He says that his wife is a good woman and a good mother and they have a comfortable relationship but she can never occupy the place he has given to this other woman. This line he repeats like a parrot. He says that he has loved this woman, again her name he would rather keep a secret, right from his teenage days and that he has thought of no other but her since. He talks about her with stars in his eyes and on the slightest notice, prepares to give me an account of her innumerable qualities. I had to chide him many a time to stop his obnoxious habit at once but he is not coming to terms with my protest. He is a fool; that’s what he is and if a fool romances he will be terrible at it. No doubt the good woman has stayed away from his advances. Any woman with a modicum of sense would do just that. I have become thoroughly bored with this man and would not like anything better than to kick him out but for one thing. This woman he loves, I find her quite fascinating. I have picked up one or two of her qualities from this insufferable man and I find her very stimulating. She has a mind of her own and reminds me very much of Pratigya, my favorite Shishya. She can make decisions and also bring a change around her. She knows her value and would do nothing to disrespect herself. That is why the fool is so smitten by her. She is way out of his league and what we cannot have becomes no less than oxygen to us. We feel as if our survival depends on it. This man worships this woman for that very reason. If, by any mocking chance, he had got the chance to marry her, he would have shied away from it because then there was this danger of his insignificance becoming apparent. He knows he has no shot in reality and his sub-conscious mind has given the same evidence and so safely he lets loose his desire, well protected under this assurance. But the fool has told me that this good woman is suffering; that she is hurt. Now I know that the weak women tend to look for a manly shoulder to cry on as they do not have enough substance to support themselves but the strong? What do they do? I have got a golden opportunity to understand another kind of woman. Strong, assertive and independent. If a meek woman like Neelu can display unstable aggression by a little help then strong ones like the fool’s queen could display a fleeting meekness; a behavior displaying lack of confidence, as it were, when they are weak. And if that’s possible then it will only go on to prove that a strong woman is a woman after all. I will give the fool the most potent weapon with which he has the chance to come closest to this woman’s heart than he had ever done before. If it works then the riddle will be solved and the answer- Sympathy. It will also prove that the fundamental nature of women was the same throughout. They are strong and independent only as long as the conditions are favorable. A profound conclusion. But for now, I will wait.’

  CHAPTER 45

  A Vanity Trap

  ‘He is treating women like a scientist treats chimpanzees.’ I cried with horror. ‘Look how he writes about them!’

  ‘He is trying to know them inside out and thinks that these riddles were designed by ancients so that someone who is intelligent
enough, will understand the purpose of their creation, which is to unlock our understanding of the fairer sex.’ said my friend looking ill. ‘But why? What will he stand to gain?’

  ‘Publicity, fame, what else?’ I said with indignation.

  ‘But what is fame without money? His discussions are free for all and there is no money to be made out of it then why…’

  ‘Because he is a lunatic who needs treatment.’ I said. ‘What rot has he written next?’

  My friend scrolled the screen and then said. ‘His “profound conclusion” is never made. Savita does not take the hand of Manjunath. She only makes him, her friend. Shall I read what he has written?’

  ‘Spare me.’ I said with disgust.

  ‘I don’t want to read anymore too.’ he said. ‘Only listen to this line. He writes that “The woman has grown close to the fool but she accepts him as a friend. All the signs that the fool said she was displaying says clearly that she now considers him a good friend and nothing more. So, strong women, even under unfavorable circumstances remain strong. Thank god for this answer. My little faith in women is still standing, albeit on shaking legs. The answer to the riddle stands corrected though. It is now- ‘Does not apply.’ May be it would have been different if the woman in question was someone like Neelu or Lakshmi or even Chaaya for that matter.” So you see.’

  ‘Savita was a special woman.’ I said, proudly. ‘Even a madman agrees to that.’

  ‘Yes but’ said my friend. ‘Even though Savita did not come near Manjunath, she was moving towards another, Prem Malik. She was looking to undo her mistakes of the past by choosing a man with different qualities than her husband but that, in no way means that she wasn’t strong. The Pundit is observing women through his thick, binary lens. He is ignoring all the other possibilities that come in between and that only goes to prove how desperate he is to become an authority on women quickly. Well, he has got many people under his influence and if we do not stop him soon, several stable lives will be rocked to their foundations. Like Lakshmi’s.’

  ‘Lakshmi, Savita’s friend, right?’ I said. ‘She is the same woman he writes here?’

  ‘Yes. He is playing her insecurities to his benefit too.’

  ‘So that’s why she was behaving so strangely towards her husband. The anger, the remarkable change, this explains everything.’

  ‘And more. You remember we had overheard Bulla Ram Prakash, the village pradhan that domestic disputes had increased in the village as never before? That people had refused to listen to even him? It’s all the doing or rather, undoing of this one man people trust because he is a learned man of faith. Before he does any more damage, we will have to stop him.’

  ‘So what should we do?’ I asked. ‘I want to stop him as much as you do.’

  ‘Pundit Parichay Mishra is feeling powerful, playing with the minds of his victims. Its now time that we defeat him at his own game.’

  ‘So what do you plan we do?’

  ‘Very Simple.’ he said with a determined smile. ‘We are going to set him a vanity trap.’

  That whole day, my friend was busy with himself. He sat brooding on the chair and nothing I said made the remotest impression on him. Sometimes, I thought he had just dozed off in his seat but then he would open his eyes and they would be as sharp as that of a man who was engrossed in some work he found very exciting. I tried to talk to him when he was in such a state but it went right past him! I knew then and there that he was in one of those moods of his where he was physically present with me but his mind was someplace else. I got myself busy surfing my social media account and noticed that many of my acquaintances had recently changed there profile pictures. They were all selfies and the people who had taken them looked beyond gratified now that they had uploaded a good one. Their bright, toothy smile told me that. I thought if taking selfies was such a source of happiness, I should try my hand at one two; who knew my mood would elevate that kept being spoilt by my friend. I took the camera of my smart phone in my hand and gave as broad a smile as my lips could allow and then clicked the button. Instantly, the picture was saved in my camera but I did not quite like it. Frankly, I was repulsed by it. My smile looked way too artificial than I had cared for. Undeterred, I positioned the camera again by holding it at a distance from me, which was the standard selfie taking protocol and I was about to hit it when my friend shouted-

  ‘What are you doing, Sutte? You look like you are suffering from tetanus.’

  ‘Thank you that you noticed.’ I said, acidly. ‘I thought you would not care even if I actually got tetanus.’

  He laughed simply.

  ‘Premkala came into the room a half hour ago.’ I said, feeling a hand to my stomach. ‘She said that lunch was ready. Let’s go and eat or else it will get cold. She is not a terrific cook but one does have to eat, you know.’

  ‘You go.’ he said, getting into a cream-colored Kurta. ‘I am off to see Pundit Parichay Mishra.’

  ‘But…but…let’s eat first.’ I implored. ‘I want to come too.’

  ‘You can’t if you have to eat.’ he said, now getting into his pajamas. ‘I have no time to waste.’

  ‘Eating is not a waste of time.’ I said, irritated. ‘But if you are in such a hurry, I will come with you. I will take a packet of biscuits and eat in the way.’

  He shrugged non-chalantly and after I had gotten into a respectable attire, we were on our way.

  ‘Let’s stand there under that tree.’ said my friend as we were half way through and happened to come upon a Gold Mohur tree from where we had to take a turn.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to take care of a couple of things.’ he said and we reached the spot which he had indicated. He then got his hand into the right pocket of his Kurta and took out a black something.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Show me!’

  He said nothing and applied the something over his upper lip and pushed it there for a couple of seconds. When he withdrew his hand, I saw that it was a thin, pencil like moustache. It looked very real and I could barely control my urge to tug at it and test its strength. Next, he took a crumpled cloth out of the yellow plastic bag he was carrying and made it into a simple but dirty turban over his head. He then took a few betel nuts out of his left pocket and pushed it into his mouth. He worked it mechanically until his lips and tongue were marked with red. Next, he took the dirt and mud lying about the ground and smeared it generously all over his cream Kurta until it looked as if it was made out of dust. He did the same with his pajamas and then stood staring at me with a mischievous smile on his face.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I cried. ‘You look like a privileged laborer.’

  ‘Privileged laborer?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes.’ I said. ‘Do you thing just putting those superficial things would change your appearance? You look dirty and with a limp moustache but very much like yourself, I’m afraid.’

  ‘As I told you on our trip to Senduwar, I have one last thing to wear.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said, as I remembered. ‘Go on then and complete the picture.’

  As I said this, his eyes dropped almost as if he was suffering from some kind of malaise. He got in them the dull, unintelligent look so different from his own. His shoulders drooped with his eyes and one of his hands grotesquely twisted in the other direction. His lips smacked the way a bum does when he has got something to chew and the noise that he made almost compelled me to kick him.

  ‘Sahib.’ the laborer said to me in a pained voice, between his pangs of chewing the betel nut. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Oh my god!’ I said, shocked. ‘You…you look like you have been possessed by the soul of a laborer!’

  ‘The power of expressions.’ he said with a smile, exorcised of the laborer.

  ‘How do you do that?

  ‘You know what I was doing on that chai
r back at the room?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was going through an art movie ‘Shankar’ that I saw as a teenager. Shankar was the name of the protagonist and he was a tea-plantation laborer. I was just noticing his expressions. That’s all. I memorized them and then applied them on my face.’

  Again the strange answer he had given to me before. He treated acting as if it was just the addition and subtraction of expressions. This impossible man never failed to amaze me.

  ‘So you will meet the Pundit in this disguise, huh?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ he replied. ‘My plan will never succeed if I don’t look like a sycophantic fool.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ I said. ‘But how would you explain my presence? Because do as you like I will be there when you “trap” him. I cannot skip the climax of the story that I will have to write now, can I?’

  ‘Climax.’ he said. ‘Interesting word. Don’t worry, Sutte. I will take you along. I have my reinforcements for you too.’ Before I could question further, he crumpled my hair and generously clapped some dust on top of it; took off my fine, rimless glasses and substituted it with a thick pair of rustic, myopic ones which he retrieved from his magical box type plastic and then instructed me to carelessly fold my trousers to my knees and to take off my shirt completely. When I had done as he had instructed, I looked like a vegetable monger; a healthy vegetable monger for that matter.

  ‘You should walk like you are dawdling.’ he advised. ‘And keep your pot belly prominent. Walk as if it is giving your feet a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I don’t have a pot belly!’ I cried.

  ‘Okay now.’ he said with a smile. ‘Your paunch, all right?’

  ‘I don’t…’ I started but stopped. Arguing with him was futile, especially when he was bursting with energy. ‘From where did you get these old spectacles? Everything looks thrice there size in them.’

  ‘Borrowed it from Nataraj Bhakti.’ he replied. ‘Before he corrected his eyes through a laser surgery, he used to wear these.’