A Cut-Like Wound (15 page)

Her eyes widened. Her lips twitched.

‘What?’ he growled. ‘Did I say something funny?’

‘I see you after, what is it, twenty-seven years, and this is what you want to know? Do I still wipe the leaves of my plants? I do, Borei, I do…’ Urmila laughed.

‘You haven’t changed one bit, Borei.’ Urmila shook her head in wry resignation.

‘Would you have preferred it if I had changed? Become another person entirely?’ Gowda asked quietly.

She looked at him carefully. ‘Still so defensive, Borei … why would you think I want you changed? When Michael called me and said he had met you, do you know what I asked him?’

Gowda examined his fingernails. He knew she wanted him to ask ‘what?’ Something stilled his tongue. That damn cussedness of yours is going to slam every door in your face, his father had repeatedly warned him.

‘I asked him if I would recognize you if I saw you now. I asked him if you had changed. Especially given your profession. But somewhere in me I wanted to believe that you would be the same. You would be the Borei I once knew. And fell in love with.’

Gowda felt his heart hammer in his chest. How easily she spoke the L-word. When had he used it last? He felt all of nineteen again. He raised his eyes to hers.

‘I was so young then; so spineless and so wanting everyone’s approval. Do you still hold it against me? The shoddy manner in which I treated you, the carelessness with which I broke up with you … it has haunted me every day. Through my marriage and later, when my husband and I … I thought my sins were catching up with me.’

‘Enough,’ Gowda said. ‘I survived. I am all right. You don’t have to put yourself through any of this guilt thinking you ruined my life. You didn’t.’

I did it on my own: Gowda suppressed that last thought.

‘Are you happy with how your life has turned out?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘I have no complaints.’

‘No regrets either?’

Gowda took a deep breath. ‘What is it you want to know, Urmila?’

He saw her lip tremble. Her fingers tore at the napkin.

‘If you are asking whether I missed you these last many years, I didn’t.’

‘Borei, I…’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Let me finish. Suddenly, out of nothing, a pang would seize me. It would clutch at me with iron fingers and I would wonder where you were, how you were, and if our lives would have been different if we were together.’

She continued to tear the napkin to shreds.

‘Are you disappointed?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘A little. I had imagined you nursing this eternal flame of longing for me. But I am relieved too. That your life didn’t pause because of me.’

Gowda smiled. A mirthless smile that didn’t even hint at
how often the iron fist squeezed his being. Seeing her had only exacerbated that pang of: If only…

‘Your family?’ she asked.

‘My wife is a doctor. She’s in Hassan. I have a son, Roshan. He is a medical student. And you? Do you have any children?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘We didn’t. My husband didn’t want any. He was very insistent.’

Gowda saw the lines of defeat that striated her face. He ached to reach forward and smoothen them away.

‘I’m glad I picked up the phone and called you this morning,’ she said candidly. ‘Would you have?’

Gowda spread his hands out. ‘I’m glad you did too. I wouldn’t have. I would have been too afraid to. We are not who we once were. What if you were standoffish … what if you were dismissive?’ His eyes bored into hers.

She reached out and took his hand in hers. ‘Dismissive? I have thought of you every single day after we…’

Suddenly Gowda, SI Santosh saw, pulled his giant paw out of the woman’s clasp and ran out of the room with a speed that belied his size, leaving SI Santosh surprised and Urmila aghast.

His heart, it seemed, had lodged in his mouth, threatening to fall out with every step he took. His breath heaved, pumping his chest out farther and farther. In his head a swarm of bees buzzed, banging against the wall of his eyes, clouding his vision, seeking to escape his ears in a whoosh of heat. But Gowda continued to run, trying to gauge which way his son and the African man had fled.

He hadn’t known where to look when Urmila took his
hand in hers. Perhaps that was why his gaze had flitted around the café nervously; was anyone watching them? Two middle-aged fools holding hands in broad daylight while somewhere in the background Dire Straits sang ‘
So far away
’.

Perhaps it was an occupational hazard. The police eye. A cold clinical eye turning everything in its path and around it for a hint of suspicious behaviour. An eye of doubt forever.

Perhaps it was just the male gaze. The congenital habit of the male species. Darting this way and that, checking out two in the bush despite having one in hand.

Or perhaps it was that thing called happenstance.

That his eyes should land on what seemed a familiar profile. Roshan. At first, he felt a surge of panic. Had Roshan seen him with Urmila? Then he saw that his son was engrossed in whatever he was doing with the African man. His son appeared to be pleading, while the other man looked unmoved despite the desperation, the fervour, the abject need. The man licked his lips, leaned back and crossed his arms, distancing himself, and as he did so, his eyes locked with Gowda’s. A flicker. A recognition. Criminals and policemen have that. An innate ability to spot each other in a crowd.

He stood up hastily. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed Roshan’s arm and almost dragged him away. And the silly fool, Roshan, went without even protesting. And as Urmila continued to speak about god knows what, Gowda had pulled his hand from hers. There was no time for polite niceties and excuse-mes. He went after them. Only to see them breaking into a sprint the moment they were out of the glass doors.

Gowda followed them to the end of the street. But they
had had a head start; they were young and racing to get away. They disappeared into a by-lane, leaving Gowda breathless and furious at his own lack of form. And an overwhelming sense of dread: what was Roshan up to?

Gowda stood bent over in the middle of the road, clutching his knees and sucking in large mouthfuls of air. As the blood slowly retreated to his veins and arteries instead of threatening to erupt from the top of his head in a spray, he realized that Santosh was at his side, asking, ‘Sir, sir, what happened? Are you all right? Why were you chasing the boys?’

Gowda straightened slowly. ‘What are you doing here?’

Had the fool seen him with Urmila? Had he recognized Roshan? Panic buttons beeped at the back of Gowda’s still buzzing head. Then from somewhere he dredged up the voice of authority and barked, ‘I’ll tell you in a bit. Wait here.’

But Urmila had already left and paid for her coffee so he would know that she was furious. Gowda sighed. Nothing had changed, it seemed. This had been customary behaviour back when they were together too. He paid for his coffee, ignoring the curious glances, and went out to where Santosh waited, eager and expectant.

He should call Urmila, he knew. He should explain. And then what? They would have to go back to whatever it was she had been trying to tell him. It had felt good to see her again, hear her, feel the warmth and softness of her skin against his. A part of him yearned to revive all that they had had. Another part, the greater part, balked at the very thought. He had slept around, yes, he had done that. There had been a college lecturer for a while and a hotel receptionist. Affairs that had involved sex and some chit-chat but nothing of
consequence had ever been shared. It had meant little more than an appeasement of a physical need. And he never had to deal with either guilt or remorse. But this? Urmila would never be a random fuck. She would need more. Did he have it in him to give her what she expected? And even as Gowda was wondering what to do about Urmila, his phone burst into ‘
Kabhi kabhi
’. Damn. The first thing he would do was change the bloody ringtone that had landed him here.

‘Yes,’ he said into the phone. An alertness, a pulling in of gut, a reining of emotion … the furious rhythm of a ticking mind.

As Santosh watched, he saw the muddled, flustered-looking Gowda of a moment ago metamorphose into something else. Gowda snapped the phone shut and looked at Santosh. ‘There’s been yet another murder. A young man. They fished him out of Yellamma Lake. His throat has been slit too.’

It was almost midnight when Gowda reached home.

Santosh and he had driven to the mortuary first. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll go to Yellamma Lake. I haven’t been there in years. I just need to see the place again,’ Gowda explained to Santosh who, he could see, was itching to go to the crime scene. ‘But first I need to see the body. I need to make sure the MO is the same as the previous ones. One quick look and then I need to get back. I have something to attend to,’ Gowda said, eyes narrowing.

In the end, the evening had dwindled to nothing as various tiers of procedure were dealt with. Apparently, the boy was a Haryana joint secretary’s son and the father had received a call two nights ago that his son was dead. The father had dismissed it as a prank call. He had spoken to his
son only that evening. But when his son hadn’t called for two days, the man began to worry. A missing person’s case was registered. The boy had been identified by the driving licence in his wallet.

Suddenly, the bureaucracy of two states had swung into action. Gowda watched helplessly, unable to hurry things up.

Roshan was pretending to be asleep. But Gowda, tired, hungry and furious, wasn’t going to let that stop him. Nor the thought that the peace he had negotiated last night with an apology had lasted a mere twenty-fours. He opened the door and clicked the light on. The boy’s eyes were shut tight. Too tight.

‘I know you are awake,’ Gowda said, walking to the side of the bed. ‘Get up.’

Roshan sat up, blinking furiously.

‘Who was he? And what were you doing with him?’

‘What are you talking about?’ the boy demanded, matching his father’s belligerence with wounded indignation.

‘Stop pretending, Roshan. I saw you. I saw you at Gamal with an African man.’

‘Osagie,’ Roshan mumbled.

‘What?’

‘That’s his name. It means God Sent in Nigerian.’

Gowda picked up Roshan’s wallet from the bedside table and opened it. ‘What are you doing, Appa?’ Roshan asked.

‘Looking for drugs … what do you think?’ Gowda ground out between clenched teeth.

‘In which case, why don’t you frisk me as well,’ Roshan said, standing up with his arms aloft.

Gowda stared at him. Roshan met his gaze evenly. The boy was as tall as he was, if not taller.

Gowda threw the wallet down on the bed with a sigh. ‘So, what were you doing with God Sent?’

‘Nothing, Appa. He is a friend’s friend and we were talking … you know, things,’ the boy said defensively.

‘In which case, why did he run when he saw me?’

The boy bit his lip. ‘There’s some trouble with his visa. There was no time to reason with him. He just grabbed my arm and I ran with him, not knowing why. Later, I did tell him that I would have introduced him to you. But he is scared, Appa. They put all of their savings … everything … to come here and study and to be deported means the end.’ Roshan’s voice faded out.

Gowda sat heavily on the bed. ‘You are either a practised liar or an incredibly naive idiot. I am going to give you the benefit of doubt and accept what you say. The café’s been under surveillance as a place where drugs are bought and sold. You don’t want to get involved in that. If you are sensible, you will understand that it is your life you are toying with.’

Gowda rose and walked to the door.

‘Appa,’ the boy asked carefully, ‘who was that woman with you?’

Gowda halted. Trading time. You don’t tell Amma about this and I won’t tell her about what I saw. That settled it. The boy was up to something.

‘Urmila. We were in college together. She’s visiting Bangalore,’ Gowda said quietly.

TUESDAY, 9 AUGUST

ACP Vidyaprasad frowned. SI Santosh looked at his watch haplessly. The other officers shifted in their seats, each creak voicing their impatience. ‘Where is Gowda?’ the ACP growled. ‘Didn’t you come in together?’ He turned his ire on Santosh.