New Story

31 May

Sand Castle

Bela kept fidgeting in her bed. Unable to endure the anxiety anymore, she picked up the spectacles -- whose broad rim, despites being bandaged over a hundred times, had been in use since fifty years -- and placed them on the edge of her nose. He should have been back by now. I didn’t hear his footsteps as yet, she thought as she came out in the corridor and hurried towards Anand’s room. Looking at the opened door she concluded that he was back, but her trepidation wouldn’t have subdued until she saw him. She gently opened the door and went inside.

“Anand, are you there?”

No reply. I think he’s asleep. .

In the centre of the suffocating room two chairs were placed facing each other; to the right, a small wooden desk and a chair were kept askew. Placed on the desk were an opened notebook and a pen kept in between the pages.

She peeped into the notebook. Oh! It’s his personal diary! She turned her head in the all the directions. Then she looked at the door that that led to his bedroom. She calmly pulled the chair and sat down.

_ _ _

January 13, 2007

It was 2 O’clock in the afternoon and I was still sleeping, when Bela, my sweet landlady, came in. She drew the curtains aside, told me the breakfast -- considering the time you can call it lunch also -- is kept on the table, and went out.

The bright yellow light pierced through my pupil. Even when I shut my eyes, the light remained impregnated; but now it became yellow with a bright white centre. I drew the curtains back together.

I walked towards the mirror and opened my eyes. A figure of an ugly man was visible, who somehow resembled me. His jaws and cheeks looked like a hard loaf of bread with thick spots of mould on it. The beard had covered almost every patch of skin on the face. His teeth had changed their colour from dim yellow to light brown. His clothes were no more alive, they were patches of different fabrics forcefully sewn together.

After eating the sandwiches, I went over to my incomplete painting. I looked at the giant oak tree in the centre and thought, Ok this part seems done. The vast empty space on either sides of the tree pricked my eyes. At least four months. My eyes fell on a branch on the top-left side and I almost jumped up. Aw God… how can I do it! I thought as I brought my eyes closer to the branch. Disaster! I just killed the painting.

I picked it up and bumped it in the shelf, along with the other seven. I halted in front of the shelf which contained my completed paintings and looked at my painting, ‘The Eighth Note’, which was kept in front, and had occupied the most space. I caressed its dry paint with the tip of my fingers and smiled with satisfaction. The anger was gone.

At 5 O’clock, I went back to my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I thought about my life. In the shallow pond of my present life I found nothing interesting. Then I tried to peep into the well of my past. Abstract images flashed in front of me. My brain was caught in a trap. I wanted to end the dream, wake up, but an invisible force stuck me to the bed. When I regained control over my mind, I panted towards the toilet and looked into the mirror. I regained my breath and sprinkled water on my red face.

My mind sails freely in the sea of my present life. But when I steer it towards my past, I find the water replaced by infinite blankness. If I go near it, my mind gets trapped in a whirlpool of abstract images. The same thing happened today. My past is a blind-spot.

The only clear image of my past is of a seven-year-old boy sitting inside the cupboard, amidst stinky clothes, hearing three distinguishable sounds: the low-pitched shriek of his mother, the sound of a wooden club beating her hard flesh, and the hoarse shouts of his father.

When I opened the curtains, the blaring yellow light had turned dim red and the sun had begun its journey to plunge behind the mountains. On the road below, a stout man took out a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and looked at this watch. He repeated this process every five minutes. A beggar came dragging his paralysed legs against the dusty road and extended his brass plate in front of the man. The man walked away. The beggar dragged along. The man yelled curses at him and went away, sweating. The beggar wasn’t angry. He had got used to it. He crawled away, consoling himself with his faith in God. I felt pity. Poor Guy. What all people do to earn money. I am lucky to have been living without a job or money. I looked above and patiently waited for the dim red ball to be swallowed completely by the brown teeth at the horizon.

I looked down. It was dark now. People were still moving here and there; with their pockets jingling, some were walking towards the bars; some were looking down and slowly heading for their homes; and some were nervously looking left and right and sneaking towards the dimly lit, forbidden street. I patiently waited. When all the people had concluded their journeys, I put on my overcoat and began mine.

I crossed a barren field and a deserted house on my way. The house was the only human creation visible; alone, empty, futile; like a black dot on a white paper. He was deserted the very day his four walls were erected. He stands there the whole day and talks to himself. At times, he cries by shedding tears of dry paint. But he knows it is of no use. No one will consol him. But still he cries. I know all this because we talk to each other. Before moving ahead, I always pause for a moment to talk to him. He is very sad; just like me.

I don’t know much about the field; except that he is also lonely and barren. But he prefers more seclusion that the house; he looks away when I try to talk. He is ashamed to show the sores and cuts on its face that the farmer has created.

There is also a straight path, away from the house and the field, but I prefer this one. There is always a lot of commotion there. There the lights don’t go off until 12 O’clock.

I went over to a bench, and sat down. I looked around. It pleased me to see that I was the only soul around. I don’t like people around me. Their fake smiles and false concern irritates me. All of them are salt outside and pepper inside. I fixed my eyes on the ground. The dust particles were laid dead on the uneven surface. They like human interference. If someone stamps on them, they wake up and run here and there with enthusiasm. At times, they grow very fond of some people; they stick to his clothes and happily go home with him.

After sitting there until 1 O’clock, I came home. Darkness prevailed from the horizon to the zenith; but I was not afraid. You will always notice it – lonely people are never afraid of the dark. For them, darkness is what sand is for a camel.

.

August 10, 2007

A great deal of time has passed since last I wrote. There were many days when I sat down to write, but I couldn’t; unlike today, my days have been going exactly the same as the one mentioned above. Life seems more monotonous than the hands of the clock.

At 10 O’clock, when Bela was going upstairs to hang the clothes, she passed through my room. She was surprised when she saw the morning yellow light unceasingly entering the room. She knew I didn’t like the curtains open. She came in and drew the curtains back together.

“I opened them. Let them remain.” I said, lying on the bed.

“How come you’re awake so early!” she cried.

“Don’t know. ‘just woke up.”

“Strange.”

In fact, it was strange for me also.

She returned after five minutes with finger-chips in a plate. While keeping the plate on the table, she looked at me with puzzled eyes.

I said without turning my eyes from the water-stained window, “Aunt, come here, listen. You know, I saw a strange dream today.”

“What kind of dream?” she asked.

“I was a white angel. I was flying in the sky, singing and delivering letters to the different gods. It started raining and I hid beneath the moon to prevent letters from getting wet. And look at the lovely weather - it was really raining when I saw the dream! I have this—weird feeling, like my instinct is trying to tell me something about the rain . . . dunno what. Maybe this coincidence is a good omen. What d’you say?”

I expected her to be astonished at my abnormal behaviour, but with a mocking smile on her face, she patiently said, “It’s a sign.”

After she walked out, I went towards my table, and picked up an old book. There was a thick layer of dust on it. I cleaned it with my hands and started reading.

After an hour, the door opened.

“The garden looks so good today. The smell of wet grass, the chirping of birds. It’s all so lovely!” Bela said in frenzy.

“So what?”

She slowly said, “So, instead of here, why don’t you come down in the garden for the tea?”

She knew I was happy and wouldn’t have refused. She can do anything to get me to eat downstairs.

“Please? Today I’ve got toasts also.” she said.

“Um…ok.”

“That’s like my boy!”

She took a chair besides me and said, “So, did you find it out as yet?”

I saw the same mocking smile on her face.

“What?”

“So you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“What is so special about today.”

“Oh! It’s holi today!” I said judging by the fact that a long time has passed since last it came.

“God!” she said laughing, “I can’t believe it!”

“What happened?”

“My darling, it’s your birthday today,” she said. “I don’t believe you forgot it. Your intuition, this off-season rain” (it rains every year on my birthday) “you don’t need a bigger signs, do you?”

“Anyways,” she said, “I have a very good plan for today. You will come with me to the temple. I have made some rice, with which we will give to the poor people there. They will give you blessings - which you sorely need. Maybe then you will spend less time in this wretched room. After which, we will go and have lunch at Pizza Hut - I have been saving money for it since a week. I will be back in half-an-hour, and hope to find you ready.”

“You know that I don’t out. I can’t come,” I said looking at her.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. Why will you bend your rules for this for this poor old lady, huh?”

She waited for me to speak, when I didn’t, she said, “Come one now, don’t be such a lazy bun. Get ready and come down.”

For the first time in my life, I shouted at her: “I told you I am not coming. Do I have to repeat it again and again? You are not my mother; and don’t try to become one.”

She stepped back, and her head bumped with the iron hinge on door. I looked at her angrily. She stood motionless for a minute. She closed the door gently and went down.

I stood up and walked towards the mirror. The monster that was missing during the morning was back.

I would have agreed for the temple—considering the merry state I was in. But the word ‘birthday’ killed all the joy. There have been many harsh memories connected with my past birthdays. I don’t know what they are, but I know they are. My birthday is like my past – abstract pain. This day always haunts me. I looked at the roof; it might collapse any moment. The gently rain outside might turn into torrential storm any moment, and would wipe out my meagre existence.

I threw myself on the bed and covered my shivering body with a blanket. The darkness and the minimal space inside gave me a sense of protection. I felt the unholy calamities wouldn’t be able to touch me within the warm cosiness of the blanket. Sleep descended from the heavens, flew in through the wet window and took me in her comforting arms. Her soothing whispers drenched away my pain.

The door opened slightly, and in a soft low voice, Bela said, “Please come down, dinner is ready.”

My eyes were fixed on a drop of water that was alone sliding down the glass. When she had gone, I came back from the world of thoughts and realised that I had forgotten to refuse.

Around the oval shaped dining table, two chairs were kept facing each other. The food items, plates and a bottle of cold-drink were placed orderly on the table.

The dinner was delicious; but I was so occupied with the thought of my birthday that I forgot to praise Bela at her success, for which she was patiently waiting.

While I ate the delicacies, the way she talked and smiled, it seemed that she had forgotten that I had shouted at her some time back.

She didn’t mention about the temple again. She went alone. When she had gone, I saw a square, chocolate cake kept in the refrigerator. It was my birthday cake, but she didn’t ask me to cut it. She didn’t want me to get angry again.

The care and love which I see in her eyes frights me sometimes.

August 10, 2008

This year when Bela came into my room to keep the sandwiches, she had expected to find me standing besides by the window, praising the rains or narrating some weird dream of mine. But she was disappointed. She found me lying in the bed.

I could have stood by the window, but the lashing sound of the rain and ugly drops of water sliding down the glass pane would have slain the little courage I had gathered to face my birthday.

After eating the sandwiches, I went over to my table, took a sharp pencil in my hand and sketched what first came into my mind: a butterfly flying in a field of pearl-white jasmine flowers. After I had completed it, I got irritated and threw it away. It was the first time in four years of paintings and sketching that my hands had created a flower.

Today when I reached the bench, I saw a one-year old boy sitting there. There were a few traces of hair on his head, under the lamp, which gave it a bright yellow shine. I hated babies, and sat as far away as I could. The voice of his laughter irritated me. He held a rubber Donald Duck in his hands. He inspected it from every angle, like a goldsmith giving his finishing touches. Then he raised it high in the air and threw it on the bench. The toy made a squeak sound, following which, the baby burst out laughing, and fluttered his hands up-and-down like a butterfly. Besides his bald head, the other noteworthy feature was his two minute teeth that made their presence felt when he opened his mouth to laugh.

Unwillingly, I kept turning my head to look at him. Then he came and sat besides me. He grabbed my shirt with his little curly fingers and stood up with its support. He was unable to make a firm balance, and kept rocking like a cradle. I broadened my eyes and looked at him in anger. He looked into my eyes and laughed, showing his miniature teeth. I held his chest around my arms and tried to make him sit. My grip slipped and he fell over my chest; he tightened his arms around my stomach to prevent from slipping down. I wanted to grab him, fling him on the bench and go away.

He moved away from my chest and sat down besides me. His gaily laughter paused for a moment. I looked at him again. His big round eyes were fixed at me and his mouth was slightly open; as if he was asking, “Why did you try to hurt me?”

I felt ashamed. Deep in my heart, I wanted to play with him, take him in my hands and love him. But I couldn’t: lonely people don’t do such things.

A tall, dark man came towards the bench. He was wearing bright blue clothes, which were visible even in the dim light. He sat down on the bench, and took the baby in his lap. The baby became cheerful again and gave such a big laugh that his eyes had to shut in order to make space for the widely opened mouth. He pointed his tiny index finger towards me—which he later placed in his mouth.

“It seems that he likes you.” The man said, still looking into the eyes of the baby.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “He’s a cute boy.”

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Anand Kapoor.”

“I think I know you. Are you the one who lives with the landlady, Bela?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Rajesh told me.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“I met him at a tea stall near your house. Nice boy.”

“He’s a nice boy,” I said, “but he talks a lot. He didn’t bore you?”

“No, not at all. In fact, I felt he was a very interesting chap,” he said. “He also told me a lot about you.” He spoke the last sentence in a gloomy voice.

“What did he tell?”

“He told me how you spend all your days inside, never going out—doing painting and stuff.”

I looked away irritated.

He sunk his head in his jacket, and after a long pause he looked up and calmly spoke, “Listen buddy, life is fruit that cannot be eaten alone. Maybe you’ve seen only treachery, theft, and evil in the outside world; but it doesn’t mean that you spend the rest your life inside; all alone in a small room, painting, sketching or reading books.”

“Better rot inside than living outside—in that filthy world.” I replied.

“This world is not as bad as you think—”

“It is. It is worse than what I think. This world is a huge pile of trash; filthy, dirty, corrupted. People live for their own sake. They can kill their own mothers for money. There is no love, no friendship, only greed. There is only evil in it. ”

“You’re wrong, my friend. There are bad aspects, I agree. But there are equally good ones also.”

“I agree that there are equally good aspects. But only a handful of people get to face them—the rich ones, and the ones who cheat. Most of the others live in the dirt, and face the bad aspects. The cruel don’t have faith, and they live. The poor do, and they die.”

“It’s a wrong assumption, my friend. God is never biased”

“It seems that you are a firm believer in God.” I said mockingly.

“Yes.”

“There is no God.”

“That’s another wrong assumption.”

“Okay,” I said looking angrily into his eyes, “you believe that God is there, has made this world, and has the power to do anything, right?”

“Right”

“Then, tell me,” I said, “why did he make sadness? Or things like pain, tears, ugliness . . .? Wouldn’t life be better without these? Can’t he remove all this with his power? Or tell me, he hasn’t got the power?”

“Look at that flower,” he spoke after a long pause, pointing towards a rose. It was a red rose, whose petals were dispersed in a way, as if showing the insight of a person’s brain whose mind is a whirlpool of thoughts. Beneath the rose was a broad green belt, wrapped around with exquisite thorns pointing in all the directions, protection the virgin beauty and divine innocence of the rose from the evil. On the other plants around it, the flowers and other inferior creations of nature bend their heads in jealousy and shame.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he continued.

“It’s amazing.”

“Look at those thorns. Don’t you feel pity for the rose? It is so beautiful, and those thorns—so ugly.”

I looked at the long pointed thorns and gave a nod of approval.

He gave a soft laugh, and continued, “But the rose doesn’t think so; it understands the value of those thorns in its survival. If it wouldn’t have been for them, the rose would have been plucked up by someone, and would have been lying somewhere on the street. Don’t you think so?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The baby was looking at us with amusement. He kept twisting his head left-and-right in order to see the face and expression of the speaker.

“Always remember,” he said “every time when God created a bad thing, there was a firm reason behind it. The reason may be different for different cases. In this case, the ugliness was acts as a protector. He, who understands this, never loathes life. This world works because of the harmony between good and bad. It will collapse if we remove any of these.”

He waited for me to speak, but when I didn’t he continued, “Moreover, even if we do remove the latter, and somehow, let us say, this world doesn’t collapse. Then one day, people would start calling less happiness as sadness. Things would come back from where they started.”

He was so right, so truthful. His words struck me like magic.

We remained silent for some time. Then the man stood up and said, “Ok, now I gotta go. See you later, Anand.” Without waiting for me to say anything, he took the baby in his hand and walked away. The baby, resting on his shoulders, looked at me and smiled. I smiled back—this time without hesitation—and waved my hand. He turned back and said, “Give life another chance my boy.”

I looked at the faintly visible outline of their body, which soon got dissolved in the ubiquitous darkness.

Drops of water fell over the dusty road. The fallow-brown dust rebelled and arose in anger. Soon, the weak dust lost to the force of rain. It mixed with the droplets, lost its brown anger and settled down to form mud. The sepia landscape was washed clean. Everything looked new and fresh. The rain, sliding down the chalk-cement carving, produced an irresistible fragrance. Maybe he’s right, I thought. I walked slowly, enjoying my birthday rain pouring over me, washing away my sorrow, leaving behind a faint odour of joy. I wasn’t afraid of the rain anymore. A new sun was ascending at the horizon.

August 11, 2008

Today Bela didn’t come to wake me up.

When I went down, she was sitting on a rocking-chair looking out of the window. As soon as she looked me, she turned her head away. On the rim of her twenty-year-old, bandaged spectacles, I saw stains of water. I ran to the kitchen and asked Rajesh about it.

“Sir, she is very upset today.” he said.

“What happened?”

“You uncle Ranbir came to meet you from Delhi.”

“So?”

“He said that he is going to Sydney in a month; he got a job there. And he said that he wants to take you with him. He said that he will get you a good job there. The old lady is upset that you will go away with your uncle, leaving her alone.”

I moved out of the kitchen, towards the room where Bela was sitting. She knew that Rajesh had told me all, and was waiting for my reply. I went over and took a seat besides her.

“Aunt,” I said looking into her wet eyes, “do you trust your Anand? Do you thing he will leave you and go away?”

“Why should I care?” she said and looked away.

“Aunt, you don’t care, but I care. I won’t leave you. It’s a promise.”

She looked at me with her inquisitive eyes. Her looks told me that she wanted me to repeat the last sentence.

“When uncle comes next time, tell him that I won’t go with him.”

I went over to get water for her. I didn’t look at her face but I knew that she was crying. Consoling her gave me special warmth. Moreover, I am happy here; I may get a good job and a luxurious life over there, but I don’t want to go.

When I went back to her, she said, “I trust you my son, I trust you. I’m really sorry, I got too possessive.” she said wiping her tears.

During the dinner, Bela was in a very cheerful mood. She sat opposite to me and kept asking me abstract questions. It seemed that she wanted to talk, but was out of words. Then she asked me, “Anand, you look soooo happy today. You should always be like this. Any special reason, huh?”

I recalled the clatter of rain, the smile of the baby, and my meeting with the man.

“Oh, no, nothing. It’s just—a good day.”

“You should always be like this. I feel very sad when I see you sitting alone in your room. I have told you so many times, why don’t you go out? If you want you can come with me for a walk every morning.”

“No, thanks Aunt. I prefer my night walks.”

“Aunt,” I asked after a hiatus, “why didn’t you ever marry?”

God know from where the question sprung up!

“I’m already married,” she said without looking at me. “His name’s Prithvi. I saw him for the first time—twenty-seven years ago, on the day of our marriage. Father had said that he’s a good boy—I agreed. He was a tall, dark, handsome man, about two years my elder. He had those ambitious eyes; looking into them one feels so small. When we were left together to talk, he told me about his interest in astronomy. He said that he wanted to study at MIT, and then go to NASA. I sat besides him, wearing my heavy zari saree, and a golden necklace around my neck, looking at him timidly and listening to every word he said. He soon understood that I knew nothing about astronomy and science. He never talked to me nicely again. Throughout the ceremony he had a gloomy look on his face. I felt that he wasn’t happy with the marriage. After our marriage, he would bring heavy books from the library and would spend hours reading them. After five years of our marriage, one day, while I was watching TV, our little boy, Raj, came rushing towards me with a slip of paper in his hand. His father had gone away from our lives. He had only written in his note that he is going forever, and he hates me. He took away the money that my father gave us as dowry. I wanted to use that money for Raj’s education. Prithvi’s parents had died during the second year of our marriage; hence, I and Raj were left alone in this house. Raj had always been under the influence of his father; hence, he wasn’t very fond of me. But I was very fond of him. Anand, he looked just like you: the same small nose, round eyes; you smile always reminds me of him.”

“Where is Raj now?”

“He left me,” she said pricking her fork into the peas, “Twenty years after Prithvi left, I woke up one day and found him missing. Unlike his father, he didn’t even leave a note for his mother. You know, I sank into a depression after he left.”

Here she paused for a few seconds and then spoke, “And then, you came here in the search of a house. I was living all alone; hence, I thought I will get a good company. After this, I got engaged in cooking, washing, gardening, waking you up—and my depression went away. Time is the best medicine, they say.”

Even though she didn’t say it directly, I understood that she meant she was living because I came into her life. She finds her son in me. Maybe you mean nothing for this world, but for someone you mean the whole world. It feels so good when you realise this.

I hurriedly crossed the house and the bench. From a distance, two figures were visible sitting on the bench. I approached them with a rare smile.

“You come here often?” the man asked.

“Yes, daily.”

“Okay. I’m new in the city.”

“Where are you from?”

“I come from Ajmer,” the man said, “where I used to work as an insurance agent. I change my job and city almost every second year. Before that, I was at Baroda. There I worked as the General Manager of an electronics showroom.”

“What’s your name, by the way?” I asked.

“Oh! I didn’t tell you my name? My name is Mohan Biswas. And this is my son, Karan.”

Karan was looking at us with amusement. When he sees us talking, he smiles; and when we stop, he face acquires a stern expression.

“Anand, are you free tomorrow?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Tomorrow, we have a party at our house. Just a—small one. I have already talked to Bela, and she is ready to come. When I told her to bring you along, she said that it is impossible. So I thought why not I give it a try. So you’re coming?”

“I can’t come. I don’t—”

“Hey, come on buddy. Just a few hours?”

If I agreed, I’d be giving life a new chance. But it would be very hard; I don’t like even two or three people around me, and in the party there will be a whole bunch of them. If I would refuse, I wouldn’t get such an offer again and I’d surely spend the rest of my life in my room.

“Yes, I will come.” I said, looking forward for the first party of my life. It was dark, but light was visible at the horizon – a faint yellow light.

August 13, 2008

Five minutes after returning from the party, Bela and Rajesh found themselves standing next to the washbasin. Rajesh had clipped his nose tightly with his fingers, and Bela was patting my back. She told Rajesh to get ten drops mint mixed in a bowl of water. With great courage, I took my face away from the washbasin and drank the contents of the bowl. The strong mint revived my taste buds and brought an end to my vomiting.

Bela had heard the time wrong, because of which we reached Mohan’s house quite early; in fact, three hours before the next guest arrived. Mohan was in the highest of spirits, and instead of saying, “It’s all right.” he greeted us with, “That’s even better!”

After introducing me to his wife, Leela, he took me to his study. The room was brightly lit. A dazzling array of black and white smoke arose from the thick wick placed in a plate, and filled the room with its fragrance. On the blue wall, numerous paintings and portraits were hung. On the shelf, which covered an entire wall, books of all thickness were orderly placed. We sat down on a cosy sofa and discussed about his job and the various cities he had visited. Our talks took a sharp turn and we soon found ourselves plunging into the pools of life and philosophy. He was quite happy when I told him that I agreed with some his points. Unlike other men who are uncomfortable in discussing such serious matters in front of their family members, Mohan’s tone and facial expressions didn’t change when his daughter Tina entered to serve the snacks. I was lost in her enchanting beauty. Her hair were so black that even the black sky would have turned green with jealousy; her eyes lacked the skill to intoxicate a man or wound someone’s heart, instead, they had an aura which could bestow sanity to the insane, or heal even the most painful of wounds. The halogens, who found their brightness shadowed by her face, expressed their discomfort by blinking red and green; and Mona Lisa kept staring at her smile, and later hid her face behind the wall and cursed Da Vinci for his incompetence.

I tried not to look at her again and again; but when, for the fifth time, I looked up from my plate and gazed at her face, I felt it was impossible.

The reader might be thinking that I am in love. But this is false. I have never been in love, nor would I ever be. All I wanted was to befriend her. She went away without looking at me. I was disappointed.

Our discussion about life was followed by a discussion on ancient literature and renaissance paintings. I told him that I also paint. He showed a grave interest in my paintings. I promised I will show them soon.

By 7 O’clock, all the guests had arrived. They comprised entirely of people who were either his acquaintances—which were made in the narrow time line between his arrival in the city and this day—and the people who worked with him.

Throughout the party, I conversed with either Mohan or Bela. In case, any of these two dragged me in midst of a group, or tried to introduce me to someone, I stealthily moved away.

After some time, frustrated, I sat in a corner and looked at the happenings, just like a spectator in a circus. People stood here in groups, with more or less an empty glass of cold-drink in hand; and despites the loud music blaring in the background, the women folk conversed mindlessly about jewellery and sarees, and men folk shook some familiar but most unfamiliar hands and asked everybody, “How do you do?”—the reply to which is a universal constant but is asked nevertheless.

A group of boys went to Mohan’s room along with the CD-player in their hands. The women folk and I took a breath of satisfaction on getting rid of the devastating compositions. Mohan came to me, and told me go along with them so that I can make new friends. This time Mohan did not approve of my firm refusal and I was pushed into the prison with a bunch of drunken cavemen dancing to haunting tunes. After half an hour of sitting and listening to music that almost made me loose my sanity, we were called by someone to come out for the dinner; and because my mind was bereft of senses at that time, even the gender of that person escapes my memory.

After the last song, which contained lengthy curses of a witch who was probably getting buried alive—one of them told me that it’s alternatively called ‘heavy metal’—, I looked forward to something that would rejuvenate my senses, and expected food to do the job.

Happenings of the rest of the day do persist in my memory, but I, being a human, cannot recall them (except for the one about the washbasin); just like the memory of the day when your mother scolded you when she first found a puddle of pee in your bed does exist in some drawer of your memory, but cannot be recalled.

I have even forgotten how the food tasted. I judged it by the number of cockroaches who lost their lives in the floods of my vomit. Bela, who went for a walk early morning today, found their bodies lying overturned and unclaimed near the sewer outlet. I decided that I will refuse even the most forceful party invitations in future.

October 28, 2009

During these months, our acquaintance with Biswases turned into friendship. We often visit them now. We went to their house twice for dinner, and they came to out house one for lunch, and we also had a few tea parties.

I and Mohan have become very good friends. He is a man of exceptional charm and humour; and the effect of his latter quality has had a lasting effect on me. He showed a grave interest in my works. He’d spend a lot of time in my room, looking at my paintings. He told me that once he used to be a professional artist.

In his cosy study, we had long discussions on Renaissance, Da Vinci and Michelangelo. I came to know about Mohan’s interest in ancient literature and languages.

Sometimes, Karan would come toddling in the study. Mohan would give him a picture-book and he would sit and look at them with amazing seriousness. Mid-way, he would keep his head on the book and sleep.

There were a few more parties held at their house, but I refused. Mohan understood my problem and saved some cockroach lives.

Feburary 18, 2009

The other day, I had gone to their house for Tina’s birthday. I and Bela were the only guests. We were playing a game where each one of us had to act. Tina was to decide the role we had to play. When Mohan’s chance came, he was told to act like a person who just won a lottery of one crore rupees.

Mohan said, “huh? This is it?” and began by taking off his jacket which he waved in the air and threw in a random direction. It hit Karan in his face, and almost knocked him off the table. Then Mohan jumped around the carpet, yelling his plans of buying a car and a flat. As soon as Karan saw him coming near him, he hurriedly toddled towards his mother, but failed. Mohan grabbed Karan in his hand and waved him around in all the directions and told him that he would buy him new clothes and toys. Karan started crying. No one noticed it. A river of vomit came out from his mouth and covered Mohan’s face. It took him half-an-hour to clean himself, and till then, we laughed. It had been a long time since I had last laughed. A sudden rush of pain stopped my laughter. I went to the toilet and looked in the mirror. I touched my lips. They pained. Bereft of smiles and laughs, my lips had grown rusted all these years.

But I wasn’t sad. In fact, I was happy. It was a sign that told me my life is changing.

All these four months, my life has been blessed with a lot of other such changes, and the most prominent being the arrival of joy. Most of these took place because of Mohan. He gave full support to Bela in trying to drive away my loneliness.

Some days back, while I was sitting with Bela, enjoying tea in her new Chinese tea set, I heard a knock on the door. I saw Mohan, Tina, Leela and Karan standing outside, all neatly dressed, with their car parked in front. Mohan told me that they were going to McDonalds and wanted Bela and me to come with them.

“I can’t come.” I said.

“Oh, come on Anand!” said Mohan.

“No, I don’t feel like going. Please, I can’t.”

Mohan was disappointed. He looked around as if searching something. He looked at Karan and said, “Tina, look at Karan. It seems he wants to sleep.”

Karan, who was in Tina’s arms, leaned towards Mohan and gave a puzzling look.

“It’s a big problem: where will he sleep in the restaurant?” Mohan said, “I think it is better we don’t go.” Mohan said.

“Yes, you’re right.” Tina said, searching Karan’s face for signs of fatigue.

Mohan erupted, “I have an idea! Why don’t we order something here? Anand doesn’t want to come with us, fine, no problem, but at least he can eat with us here. What’d you say, Anand?”

“I—”

Before I could finish my sentence, all had gone inside with their faces lit up.

Love and care can melt the hardest of hearts. My refusals soon changed. I started going with Biswases to their picnics, movies and theatres. I became a regular customer of McDonalds and Pizza Hut. I managed to get a discount card also of the latter. I also met some of Biswases’ relatives.

Few days back, Mohan told me that he is busy and asked me to take Tina to meet her Aunt, in the countryside. Tina’s aunt was of the same age as Bela. She lived with her son, who was about the same age as me. Her house was not big, but a very comfortable one. Strong fragrance of sandalwood greeted us on the door. When I went inside, I saw that it was made up of rough wood; and wasn’t even painted. She had cooked native food for us. At first I was reluctant to eat it, but then Tina told me it tastes better than the city food. When we were going back, Tina’s aunt forced us to come next Sunday also. Our trips soon became a routine. One day she took us to her fields. I felt that life in the countryside is amazing: away from the noise, tension and pollution. One day we went for fishing also. When the basket would become full of jingling creatures, Tina would record the number and would throw them back in the lake. Then we would again sit down to fish. Most of the time, I won.

Tina became a very good friend of mine. The beauty of her heart exceeds the beauty of her figure by leaps and bounds. While I and Mohan would sit in the study, discussing, she would bring a strawberry cake for us (Tina always smiled when she handed me the plate. I soon realised that my pieces were bigger than Mohan’s). We would sit in the garden and talk endlessly. Hearing her laughter, many birds would come from the neighbouring gardens to join our conversation. She knows a lot about my tastes and sometimes she even fights for me. One day, I saw her arguing with Leela in the kitchen. Tina was saying that they should make Chocolate pudding for desert and not strawberry or banana pudding. I had told her the day before that I liked chocolate pudding.

Four days back, she gave me a present. It was a brown teddy bear with a red heart, made of silk, stuck to its belly. She said that she saw it in a shop and thought that I would like it. When I showed it to Bela, she giggled and said, “Today is 14^th February.”

Very soon, a bond of love was formed between me and Tina, whose presence was known by both, but was never exchanged in words.

At times, I would see her sitting in the garden: her hands were laid on the table overlapping each other, her chin lay resting on the fluffy pillows of her hands, her tightly closed mouth created wrinkles on her lips, which looked like the peel of a pink strawberry in the clean light. I would lean by the pillar and look at her mesmerising beauty, until Bela would come and shake me. I feel I have everything one expects from life.

Though I came to know Mohan and Tina very well, but Leela’s character confused me. She is very reserved. All I came to know of her was that she was a lady who had astray hair, wore shabby clothes, didn’t talk much and spent most of her time in the kitchen helping Bela or sitting on the sofa without a sound.

These days were a mixed bag of joy and sorrow for Bela.

When I would come home after spending long hours at Mohan’s house, I would find her waiting in the drawing room. She would frown, and in a broken voice she would tell me that she had been waiting for me since four hours, and even though I know that she always eats with me, I came late; and that I have forgotten her as I have got new friends, and that one day I will come home and find her lying dead on the sofa, and wouldn’t have enough time to attend her funeral also. I would hug her and say sorry. Then we would go and have dinner. For the sake of her happiness, I never told her that I had already eaten.

At times, while playing, Karan would urinate on Mohan’s face and I’d start laughing. Bela would peep in from the kitchen, and then tears would trickle down her cheeks. Later she’d tell me that those tears are of happiness, and she is very happy to see the new Anand and the only thing she ever wanted is my happiness and that now she has got it; and that even if she dies, she’d die happily. Then she would abruptly say, “Oh no, not at all! I take my words back! I won’t die happily until you children piss on me.”

Scattered among these happy days, were a few sad days also. But they didn’t bother me much; the happy days outnumbered the sad ones by far.

Few days back, I saw a doctor coming out of Mohan’s house. I ran inside and asked him what happened. All tried to avoid the topic. After much forcing, Mohan told me that he is Asthma patient. Before I could mourn, he told me that it’s very minor. He refused all sympathies from me and Bela. He said that sympathies make a man weak.

One day, while I was sitting by the window, looking at the squirrels playing hide-n-seek, the face of an old woman flashed through my mind. Her skin had lost its beauty to numerous black-spots, but was still bereft of wrinkles; it showed that she had aged before time: it was the result of long hours that she had spent working over-night to get her child admission in an English-medium school, and to fulfil her husband’s requests for beer. Her flesh had grown hard like a sand bag, owing to numerous clubs and hockey-sticks that were regularly struck on it. Her eye-sight had weakened, for the numerous nights that she spent looking out of the window, waiting for her son to come back. Every year on his birthday she would bring a cake, decorate the house with balloons and would wash the bed-sheets. Then she would place a chair in front of the door and would patiently look at it; in case it opened and her son came in. And when he didn’t, she would rush towards her room, lean out of the window and cry. She was my mother.

I laid my head on the window pane. I wanted to cry, but tears refused to come out. Pain without tears hurts more. Then, I felt better when I consoled myself by telling that I am blessed with so much happiness that I have forgotten how to cry.

Entangled in these commotion and changes, I didn’t realise when Biswases became such a vital part of my life. Today when I look back, I feel pity for what I was: I hated people, life, god and religion; but I didn’t know why. As if hating them gave me consolation. But things are different today. Sitting by the window, I see a rising sun every day.

June 13, 2009

My painting, ‘The Ninth Note’, consumed one whole year of my life. It is my most ambitious and secretive work till date. Near the bottom of the frame, citizens are running here and there, terrified by the flames shooting from the sky. Taansen, sitting on the right side, over a mat, wearing a gold-embroided robe, is so wonderstruck that he just forgot to fret over his defeat. He is looking at Baiju Bawra, who, sitting in the centre, over the floor, with his eyes shut, is lost in the notes of his Deepak Raag.

“Anand, you can fetch a very good price for it.” Mohan said looking at it.

“Eh…no, I don’t want to sell it. I paint for myself, not for money.”

“One can’t live his whole life without earning money. I insist you sell them; if not for money, then at least for giving this world a good piece of art.”

“That’s right but—well…I will think about it.”

His words inspired me; but were far from convincing.

I began painting to express my feelings. They contain abstract allusions and hints, which, when joined together, reveal every secret buried in my heart. So, my paintings are like my personal diary, and one does not sell his personal diary.

Mohan went over to my book shelf, and for a long time, passed his eyes from one column to another. At last he said, “Anand, there no Russian writer here. Strange.”

He advised me to read Gogol and Dostoevsky. Then he looked at his watch and said that he has to go somewhere.

Half-an-hour after he left, I went downstairs. Bela saw me passing.

“Sit sit,” she said hysterically, “It’s very important.”

I went and sat on the sofa. Before I could say anything, she hurriedly looked around and asked, “Anand, do you like Tina?”

“Yes I—I do like her. She’s a good girl—“

“Arre baba, not like that. I mean—do you love her? Would you like to marry her?”

Her eyes showed the fascination of a four-year-old who was waiting for me to tell whether the fairy and the prince happily lived after or not.

When I didn’t say anything for two seconds she repeated her words.

“W-Why are you asking this?” I asked.

“Yes or no? Fast!” She said, springing up and down on the chair.

Before I could comprehend the situation, I felt I had already uttered a word that somehow resembled ‘yes’. Before I could say something else, Bela had already taken the air out of me by her grand hug,

“O,” she said sobbing, “you are going to get married.”

“What?”

“Mohan came to me with a proposal. He wants you to marry Tina.”

“Did—they ask her about it?”

She laughed and said, “She was the one who asked Mohan.”

We went over to their house for dinner at 8 O’clock. Tina greeted me with a hug at the door (our first). Karan started giggling. After the dinner, when we all were sitting in the drawing room, Mohan came out of his study and told me come inside. He held my hands and made me sit. He expressed his heart’s elation, and said that Tina loved me a lot and she was afraid if I will say no, and that they could not have got a better husband if they had searched this world for a hundred years. I was out of words. We both remained silent.

After some time, his tone changed and he calmly spoke,

“Anand I—I want to talk to you”

I nodded.

“Anand,” he said, “I can’t force you to do anything. But, tell me, how will you feed your children? It’s all right if you don’t want to sell your paintings, at least you can do a job? If you want I can help, I can talk to—”

“No, I can’t work under anyone. It’s well and good if I sell my paintings. And, if they fetch a good amount, I will pursue my career in painting.”

“Excellent!”

“But the problem is—I don’t know where to sell them, can you help me?”

“’Course I will! You give me your paintings; I will be leaving off to Delhi soon, where I know quite a few people who might be interested in them. Anand, this is all what I wanted to hear from you.”

June 14, 2009

Tina, wearing a white dress, with blossoms engraved on it, is running around in our new house, with a plate in her hand, trying to catch hold of the seven-year-old boy who is far away from her, and is singing, “I won’ eat it! I won’ eat it!” The boy enters a big room. He sprints pass the enormous ceramic vase in the centre, imported from China, and without looking at the enormous gold trophies, or the paintings, which, like their predecessors are expected be sold for more than ten million rupees, he grabs me leg, and says, “Fath’r! Fath’r! ‘elp me.” I keep the brush down, and look at Tina, who is holding her knees, panting, and warning Om to come out from my back or face her wrath.

Before my dream could come to a conclusion, a voice told me to come downstairs. I woke up and went down.

With a brown shawl wrapped around his shoulders, Mohan sat in the centre. He was looking lean and pale. I sat down and waited for someone to speak. Tina, who was standing behind Mohan with her head bent down, muttered that Mohan fainted the day before, his test reports were appalling and they are leaving for Delhi the same day.

While eating, I raised my eyes and looked at Mohan. Despites his ill health, the smile on his face was not lost; it had the same pleasantness as I had seen on the day I met him. He didn’t have much time; yet he spent it under the roof of two people with whom he has no blood relation. All these days, he knew that he hadn’t got much time, but he still spent all of it on me: he wanted to reform me.

Things seemed to have changed so soon. All those days which I spend in his study, when I went with him to McDonalds, when I earnestly listened to his philosophies – all seemed so quaint.

When we were alone, he told me to get all my paintings. I told him that they are not important at this time. He tightly held my hand, and with tears in his eyes, he said, “Anand, please try to understand. I want to see your paintings fetch a good price before—before something happens to me—”

My philosophies, my hatred towards love, my agony towards god, my scepticism towards religion; all seemed so small in front of his love.

I gave him all my eight paintings. Never was the burden of Mohan’s gratitude more than at that time. I hugged him and cried, until he said that I am behaving like Karan by wetting his shirt. I have always loved him; but at that moment I felt like hitting him. Why is it that he cares for others and never for himself?

June 20, 2009

After waking up, the first thing I did all these days was to check if any of the letters had the word Biswas written on it.

In a fit of rage, I threw away the painting I had been working on, and took a vow not to work on anything until Mohan is back.

During the days Mohan was in my life, the house and the field didn’t talk; I searched their faces to see what they were hiding, but the place where their faces had one been was now covered by peeling paint and rocky soil. Form living creatures, they soon became inanimate objects: a hollow brick-structure, covered by corrugated iron, which stood by the road; and a piece of infertile land that brought misery and hardship to the owner. But today when I went pass them, I saw the life back again. They talked to me, consoled me, and said that life had played similar games with them. In the tears shed by the house and in the wounds & scars on the surface of field, I found my true self - alone and sad.

Life is what I had told Mohan: an unbalanced weighing-scale, a joke played by God to amuse his spouse, and bread that is thrown on earth to rot for seventy years.

June 27, 2009

I tried to recall the face of my mother. I could not. Instead, baffling images flashed through my mind. After I came back to senses, I rushed to the toilet and saw my face red in the mirror. My past had again become a series of painful of abstract images.

I realised one thing today: I am able to remember my sad past only when I am happy. Strange.

Bela is doing all she can to make me happy. She even took out money from the forbidden locker and forced me to come with her to McDonalds.

All these days, she has been spending her time either in the kitchen, trying her hand on the various recipes, hoping that one of them pleases me, or going through tons of jokes books and reciting the best ones aloud when I am nearby.

July 1, 2009

Bela rushed upstairs and gave me a folded piece of paper. In petite and confusing handwriting, Tina had written they had safely reached there, and were living with her Aunt. The operation would be carried out within a week, and they expect to come back within thirty days. In the meantime, she would not be able to write letters any more.

August 10, 2009

More than a month has passed. No more letters came. My worst fear has taken a firm shape.

Today, I opened the curtains. The dazzling yellow light pierced through my pupil and got engraved on my retina. I didn’t close my eyes until tears came and got evaporated, before they could fall down on the window pane. I looked up at the sky. Behind those white clouds, were a lot of dot-like stars. Some of them were new; some of them were older than the earth. Mohan is one of them now. He’s one of the recent stars, one of them which were formed within the past month.

I put on my overcoat and went out. It had been a long time since the yellow light had touched my skin. The sun seemed to have lost its glory. It didn’t shine the way it did when I used to go out with Mohan.

The cliff was not far away. It was nine hundred yards from the house. The jagged land ascended upwards, until it got higher than any other patch of land visible. Then, skilfully sliced by the God’s knife, it fell down perpendicularly and got drowned in the shallow lake beneath. I looked around to see the world for the last time. I took a step forward and recalled the days spend with Mohan, Tina, and Bela.

I stepped back, thinking about Bela. I can’t. I turned back and ran; only for the sake of that old woman who wakes up every morning to see my face.

Smells of baked brown-bread, rose-water, lime soaps and fresh baked cookies impregnated the street; but were still unable to conceal the familiar faint whiff that came from the crowd. I looked around. Amid the thousand heads, resting on a thousand indistinguishable bodies, there was one that seemed familiar.

“Tina!” I shouted.

Without looking back she ran away. I followed after her until she ran inside a narrow lane. With her back touching the brick wall, she unveiled her face and panted. I hugged her and asked, “How is Mohan? How is Mohan?”

She threw me on the opposite wall.

“I hate you.” She said.

She ran, took a sharp turn to the left, repeated her words and was soon out of sight. I leaned on the wall and allowed my back to slide down the brick wall. Every inch of slide blended a hundred questions in my life. I stood up and ran after her; unconscious of where I was, who I was, or if I was. A fifty yards in front of me, I saw her enter a white mansion. I sneaked in.

There was nobody in the drawing room. In the centre, under the bright halogens, a king-size sofa was laid. A round glass table was set in front of it. In the glass showcase to my right, a series of unrelated ceramic pottery were concealed. The dining table was wrapped in thick polythene. On the table a TV was kept packed in a box.

A string of large paintings, articles and photographs were hung on the wall. The smallest one was a framed magazine article. I went closer and looked at it. A big glass trophy was being exchanged by two hands. The picture was magnified, due to which the faces had become unrecognisable, and they looked like a combination of innumerable brown coloured squares. On the left, in large black letters it was written, ‘Mohan Biswas fetches 10 crore and wins annual paintings prize for his masterpiece, ‘The Ninth Note’’ For ten minutes I kept re-reading the words; hoping that my eyes had betrayed me the first time.

A man, dressed in an exotic black suite was descending the stairs. Walking along his sides were two men, dressed in tight-fitting blue shirts.

“Mohan!” I shouted.

He ran downstairs and the two men came along.

“What are you doing here!” Mohan yelled.

I looked into his eyes and muttered, “Why Mohan, why?”

He rubbed the tips of his fingers over his forehead, turned back and shouted, “Ali! Abbas! Come here!”

The two men came rushing down. Mohan went over to the sofa and seated himself. He drew a cigarette from a case that lay on the glass table and placed it between his lips. He pointed his index finger towards me and said, “Teach that baaastard a lesson. Break his bones.”

Time lost its faithfulness. Every passing second seemed longer than the predecessor. Ingratitude and shoes combined together and unleashed a spasm of weird feeling in body, which was akin to pain, but was much intense. During those rare instances, when the men stood erect and panted for a while, did time come back on its trail and pain gave a clearer account of its presence. Every thump on my skin pushed the previous sore deeper and deeper inside my flesh. An hour of time and a century of pain seemed to have passed when the men finally stepped back and allowed the light on hit my body. Like a worm, I lay curled on the floor. I raised my eyes from the floor and saw Mohan sitting on the sofa. How different he looked since last I saw him. The smile that once used to light up my face even in the moments of utter despair was replaced by a wicked grin of pride. His eyes, which once brimmed with infinite love, had arched and become thin, like a predator’s.

He bent towards me and said, “As far as the police are concerned—you can always approach them. I will make sure they help you. But then—I’ll have to tell my boys not to kill Bela. You know—they get very angry if someone goes against me.”

He took out a bundle of notes from his pocket and kept it on the table.

“Take it, and leave. It’ll help you to reduce some medicinal charge.” His eyes bulged out and became red. “And if I ever see you here again. I swear immortality won’t be able to prevent your death.”

I came out of his mansion. He is not Mohan. He is someone else. My Mohan was different. He was not like this. I had almost lost my senses. Were those years the reality, or was this the reality? All happened in an instant. My world betrayed me in an instant.

Hearing the eight alike notes of nature, in some part of the land, came out a vibrant peacock and danced her heart out, unaware, unconcerned, like a free spirit. A naked child came out of the shack to enjoy the off-season delight. Drops trickled down black his naked skin. He shivered with joy. His mother, concerned about the clothes that hung on the barbed wires, rushed out bare feet to take them.

The wind blew, the odour chased; umbrellas claimed their freedom, the iron roofs angrily clattered; the branches waved, the bark tried; the cows waved its head, the bell trailed—all danced to the song of rain.

It didn’t seem as if the earth was created a billion years ago. It looked fresh as dew. I looked up and smiled, rejoicing every drop of my birthday rain that slid down my chest and entered my mouth. Drops washed away the blood and stained the road. Mixed with the rain, were tears of my mother, who was sitting in heaven, crying.

I was not sad because he cheated me; I was sad because he killed my hope. I felt like a pilgrim who walked the whole world, bare feet, to meet his idol; and when he reached his destination, he found out that his idol never existed. His faith, his hope, his expectations – all was an illusion.

It was noon, but the sun was not overhead. It was beyond the horizon, where it was emitting its last warm rays. It had already begun to sink in the vast ocean. The yellow glare had become dim red. The tired sun would soon complete its long journey, crawl in its bed and sleep; leaving behind pristine shadows and reminiscences of warmth.

Jumping over the puddles, I went back to his house.

_ _ _

Bela closely examined the last page. The ink was fresh. The last words had been written just a few minutes back. She took out her spectacles and pressed her eyes to drain out the tears. The torrential rain clattering on corrugated iron roof didn’t let her sleep. The whole night, wetting her pillow, she thought of the injustice done to Anand.

As an act of sympathy, she had planned to make pepperoni pizza for her tormented child. She was baking the wheat base when Rajesh came inside the kitchen.

“You read the paper today?”

“Don’t disturb me,” said Bela.

“Listen, it’s very important. You remember Anand’s friend, Mohan? He died yesterday. At—” he searched the dismantled newspaper in his hand and said, “at 11 O’clock. He was stabbed. It says, the murderer ran into the kitchen, picked up a knife—”

“Oh my God!” She muttered as she threw the half-cooked base on the dirty floor. She ran upstairs, pushed open the door and ran into Anand’s bedroom.

Rajesh ran after her. A puddle of water was formed on the quaint carpet. All the paintings were teared and kept arranged on the table. Next to them was a scissor. The fan was bent because of a thick rope that was tied to it. Bela blankly stared at the familiar body that was hanging from the rope. Rajesh took out a dirty handkerchief to wipe his sweat and waited for Bela to respond.

He went downstairs to get water for her. Climbing the stairs, he fell down and had to go back again. When he came in the room he saw Bela sitting on the floor. Anand’s head was laid in her lap. She was passing her hand through his hair and was talking to him in whispers.

The glass fell off Rajesh’s hand.

She looked up and angrily said, “Shh….”

Rajesh was happy, but also puzzled, as things had became normal as soon as the funeral procession was over. Bela soon laughed and chattered like before. She went to market the next day and began preparations for Diwali: cleaning the outhouse, new paint for the house, replacing the furniture of her bedroom etc…. She called her friends for tea parties and sat in the garden for long hours. The house was filled with their loud laughs. The birds chirped again.

Rajesh felt Anand did the right thing by killing Mohan. He tried to discuss it with Bela, but she grew agitated and nervous whenever anybody talked about Anand. She also closed Anand’s room forever. No more was ever heard of Tina or Leela.

Exactly one year had passed since Anand’s death. Rajesh ran inside and shut the door. He closed his umbrella and placed it besides the sofa. As he took out his wet jacket, he heard a loud wailing from Bela’s room. The wailing persisted for two hours. When she came out, she was in a state of frenzy. She closed all the windows and doors. Then she sat on the table, tightly clasped her ears with her hands and started shouting, “Stop this rain. Please, stop this rain. Can’t bear it.” She remained like this for a long time. Afraid, Rajesh ran home. The next day when he came, he had expected to find the things returned to normal, but when he went inside, he found Bela missing. He went to her room and found that clothes and some money were missing. Even the suitcase was not in the closet. He considered that she had gone to her maternal house in Haridwar. She would often go there for months, leaving the house to him.

Ten months passed. Rajesh felt that she had gone forever. He was angry as he had been taking care of the house since ten months and was not yet paid for it. He got an idea to pay back his rising debts. He put up a big board in front of the house. It read, ‘TOLET’.

A small family moved in. He told them that they can live only for three months, paying three thousand rupees per month. Time passed, but Rajesh remained worried if Bela came back.

A long time passed; Bela didn’t come. One day, the children rushed to their mother and told her that a pungent smell was coming from the room upstairs. She ignored and told them not to disturb her. The smell soon filled the house. Rajesh was called to open Anand’s room.

“I told you I can’t open the room. It’s impossible.”

“We leave this house today.”

Rajesh brought the keys and opened the door. The children ran away as soon as the door was opened. The rain water entered through the window and had already covered half the floor and was constantly acquired new territories. The torn and dusty paintings were kept on the table, with a rusted scissor besides them. The pungent smell had driven away the spiders, leaving behind the thick white webs had made the corners round, as if they were part of a large sphere. Cockroaches were crawling on the rope whose one end was fastened around the fan and the other around the elongated neck of an old woman. Her hard hair had become a habitat of cockroaches and their slimy larvae. Just below the oscillating body lay spectacles whose glasses were cracked and coated with dust, and whose broad rim, despites being bandaged a hundred times, had been in use since fifty years.