A Cut-Like Wound (20 page)

Silence stretched between them as Gowda turned into the main road. An airport cab whizzed by. Gowda swerved, muttering ‘motherfucker’ under his breath. From the corner of his eye he saw a grin of pure delight splice the boy’s face.

‘These arseholes ought to be hauled up and fined,’ Gowda said, feeling the boy’s smile some more.

Gowda’s phone beeped. His fingers itched to draw it out from his pocket and read the text. He knew it must be her, asking where he was.

‘Don’t you want to read the message?’ Roshan asked.

‘Not when I am driving,’ Gowda mumbled. He hadn’t had the time to warn her that Roshan would be with him.

‘When are you going back?’ Gowda asked.

He saw the boy’s face fall. Gowda touched his elbow. ‘I was wondering if you will be here long enough for me to give you some driving lessons.’

Gowda hadn’t realized that there was such a place located in his station precincts. Twenty acres of trees with paths that beckoned you to stop and explore. As he parked, Samuel came to the car, his face beaming. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said, his gaze shifting to Roshan as he stepped out of the car.

‘This is my son Roshan,’ Gowda said, putting his arm around him. ‘He’s a medical student.’

Samuel led the way to the building where the exhibition was being held.

‘This is a really lovely place, but will you get people to come here to view the photographs? It’s a little out of the way,’ Gowda said as his eyes took in all that was around him. ‘Maybe the Alliance Francaise or the Chitrakala Parishat?’

‘Lady Deviah said the same thing,’ Samuel said with a smile. ‘In fact, she’s speaking to a couple of galleries. But sir, I am a page-three photographer. I’ve seen what these art events are like. And I fear that what we want to say will be lost. Everyone is so busy sipping their wine, posing for pictures and networking.’

Urmila appeared before them. Gowda felt his heart skip a beat. Gathering himself, he put his hand out and said, ‘Good evening, Urmila.’

She stared at his palm for a split second, took it in hers and murmured, ‘Good evening, Borei.’

Gowda turned to include Roshan. ‘This is my son Roshan. And Roshan, this is Urmila. We were classmates at Joseph’s.’

Roshan smiled. ‘I saw you the other day at the café.’

Gowda swallowed. Urmila flushed. As if sensing the tension, Samuel moved towards him. ‘Roshan, let me introduce you to the others.’

Gowda and Urmila stood there, looking at each other,
but the guests were beginning to trickle in and it was time for Gowda to be chief guest, light the lamp and speak a few words.

What did he say? Gowda couldn’t remember. He had written down a little speech and memorized it. Had he parroted the words? Or had he said something else? Urmila had seemed moved and so did the others.

It had been easy enough to find the words, to sound as if he meant it, especially after he had seen the group of transgenders cowering at the back of the room. So afraid to come forward and be among the rest of the invitees. So certain that ridicule would be meted out to them if they did. So wanting to belong, but so definite that they would not be allowed to. Gowda had felt outraged to see the trepidation in their eyes and how they shrunk within themselves.

After an initial viewing, Gowda walked about, lingering before each photograph. He felt Urmila come to stand at his side. ‘Borei, you haven’t changed at all. You don’t know how ridiculously pleased I am about that,’ she murmured.

Gowda continued to stare at a photograph. ‘Why would I have changed?’

‘You are a police officer now.’

‘So…’ Gowda turned, amazed that she could be so affected by stereotypes.

‘You don’t expect much sensitivity from a policeman!’ She smiled.

‘Or is that you don’t expect sensitivity from me?’ Gowda asked quietly.

He saw her stiffen. ‘Don’t twist my words, Borei, please.’

Gowda took a deep breath and moved to the next photograph.

‘So which one do you like the most?’ he asked, trying to slash the tension that had crept between them.

He saw her clench her jaw as if to still her words. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘It’s an amazing shot; Ravi says he shot it in Shivaji Nagar market some days ago in available light. It’s stunning.’

It was a photograph that defied all rules of light, focus and framing in the conventional sense. It was a photograph of a group of eunuchs at a bangle seller, each one of them only partially visible. But what drew the eye and made it linger was the untainted joy that emanated from them. For a moment they were free of the demons of their own making and the world’s and so they stood there, radiating girlish delight at choosing glass bangles; the pleasure of seeing them slide onto their wrists, the clink of glass against glass as one of them held up her wrists. The light caught the glee and the nakedness of their dreams in their eyes.

And the light caught some more. A curve of a cheek as it leaned forward to touch a roll of bangles. And an earring that dangled into the frame. A beautiful pearl-drop earring.

Gowda’s breath snagged in his throat.

S
he told herself she had to stop. She told herself she had already crossed the threshold of danger and would arouse suspicion. She needed to get a grip on herself. But how could she? She couldn’t help it, like she couldn’t resist the caress of the pearl against her skin. She swung her face a little so the jhumkas bobbed gently against her cheek, jhumkas with little shimmery pearls until her pearl earrings were ready.

A week after the earring had been misplaced, she had found a jeweller who had promised to replicate the earring for her.

Akka had made a face when she asked her to take the earring to the jeweller. ‘Take King Kong with you so the jeweller doesn’t mess around,’ she had told Akka. ‘And tell him I need it in ten days’ time.’

‘Do you think I can’t handle the jeweller? I don’t need anyone to go with me … anyway, what’s so special about that earring?’ Akka had grumbled.

The elderly eunuch disliked King Kong and he, Akka. Each felt the other had usurped the other’s place.

‘Just do as I ask, Akka,’ she said, allowing a trace of steel to enter her voice. How could anyone understand what those earrings did for her?

They were standing at a crossroad near Infantry Road. Akka sidled up to her and said again, ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like you being here … it is dangerous.’

She sniffed. A little girlish sniff. ‘Don’t you get tired of saying this to me, Akka? I am tired of hearing it!’

‘You don’t realize … we have nothing to lose! But you are not like us,’ Akka murmured.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s true! I am not like you or the rest of them.’

‘Since you have such contempt for us,’ Akka began.

She touched Akka’s elbow. ‘That was uncalled for. I’m sorry. But why do they have to flaunt themselves? It only makes them a joke, a sick repulsive joke. You are not like that!’

Akka looked away. ‘I was once like them … we cannot help ourselves. We do not know who we are. And so we
exaggerate in the only way we can. But you … you are not like us. You don’t have to be like us.’

She stared into a pool of darkness beyond Akka. ‘I cannot help it any more than they can. Why won’t you allow me that?’

They stood there side by side, watching the flurry of traffic. It was a few minutes past nine. The beat police weren’t out on the prowl yet. Anyway, the policemen wouldn’t trouble them unless they solicited blatantly. They had been dealt with. It was all part of a process and if you knew how to, you could survive working the street. That was lesson number 1 of the street – every man has a price.

A young man stepped out of one of the small restaurants. He stood at the entrance, hands on his hips, looking speculatively at the street. She saw how his T-shirt clung to his chest. She saw the corded muscles of his throat and the swell of his biceps. She saw how his jeans hinted at the tightness of his haunches and the bulge of his groin. She thought of how his breath would reek of garlic, onion and the spice of the biriyani he must have just eaten.

She watched him walk to the paan shop and buy a paan. She saw how his hand reached into the back pocket of his jeans to pull out a wallet. The slow thumbing of notes, the return of wallet into pocket, and the stuffing of paan into his mouth. His lips parting, the gleam of his teeth, his tongue receiving the betel-leaf pouch … she could taste it now. The sweetness of his saliva honeyed by the gulkhand in the paan, flavoured by the betel-leaf juice. His jaws moved as he chewed. That strong jaw chiselled almost out of sandstone. Firm, but soft. In the pit of her belly, there was a leap of longing. She swallowed. She adjusted her sari, ignored Akka’s imploring gaze and walked towards him.

The young man had walked a little further down. There was a row of shops housed in an old building with colonnades and arches. He stood by a pillar, waiting. What was he waiting for, she wondered. A friend? A whore? I can be both, she told him in her head.

She went to stand on the other side of the pillar. A smile tugged at the corner of her heart, the curve of her mouth. How had it come about that once again she found herself located within one of the paintings she loved? She saw him lean forward to look at her. She touched the pearl strings around her neck and draped the edge of her pallu over her right shoulder so it flowed into the crook of her right elbow. She leaned against the pillar so her jhumkas were visible.

She folded her hanky into four and let it unfurl, a pale pink flower that she toyed with as she felt him assess her. It felt so right, this moment, almost as if it were destined. This old-fashioned shop front, the man by the pillar, and she on the other side.
The Stolen Interview
. That was what Ravi Varma had called the painting. Why stolen, she had always wondered. But now she knew. She was there to steal his time, his soul. She smiled, lifted her gaze and let her eyes sneak a look at him.

Their eyes met. She dropped her gaze and played with her hanky flower.

‘Are you waiting for someone?’ he asked.

‘My brother,’ she said, allowing a trace of shyness to touch her voice.

‘It’s not safe for a girl to stand here by herself,’ he said. ‘Rather irresponsible of your brother!’

‘He’s not really my brother. He’s a distant cousin and I am new to Bangalore, so when he offered to pick me up and
drop me at my hostel, I…’ The words flowed. She liked this little story about herself.

‘You stay at a hostel?’ His voice quickened.

She smiled secretly. All men were the same. All they needed was a thread to latch on to. All they needed was a crack in the door to wedge their foot into.

‘Yes, it is a hostel for working women. Near Banaswadi,’ she murmured softly.

‘You know what, I’m going that side. Would you like me to drop you?’

She looked at him with her eyes wide open. More shock than surprise, she told herself. Oh, how she enjoyed this! Playing them like an instrument. And how easily they allowed her to play them. ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll wait for my brother,’ she said softly, moving away ever so slightly from the pillar, as though she wanted to distance herself from his preposterous suggestion.

‘It’s really not safe for you to stand here. This is Bangalore. Not … where do you come from?’

‘Haveri,’ she said, mouthing the first name that came to her.

‘That explains it! Bangalore girls wouldn’t be this naive. And this isn’t a safe part of the city.’ He paused. ‘And someone as attractive as you…’

She felt him look sidelong at her to see if his compliment had registered. A small smile. That was all he would need to pursue his suit. That was all she should allow him. Or he’d think she was easy … and that she wasn’t.

‘My name is Sanjay. I came to Bangalore about six months ago from Tumkur. There’s only fifty kilometres between here and there but it could very well be another planet. That’s why I am concerned…’ he said carefully. ‘So
listen to me and let me drop you. I live near Ramamurthy Nagar, so it’s not all that far from you. In fact, it’s on my way,’ he lied.

He came to the other side of the pillar, to where she stood.

He was even more perfect up close, she thought, and then remembered to say, ‘But my brother!’

‘Call him on his mobile and tell him that you found your own way to the hostel,’ he said. ‘Come, my bike’s parked there!’