A Cut-Like Wound (22 page)

H
e called early that morning. But she didn’t take the call. He texted her. But she didn’t respond. She wasn’t Bhuvana then. But at night, she sat in her room and laid out a skin to crawl into. She became Bhuvana, the name she had given him; she became the woman the two of them so wanted her to be.

She pressed the key ever so gently. He picked up on the third ring.

‘Bhuvana?’ his voice asked urgently.

‘Yes, it’s me, Sanjay.’ She said his name as if it were an endearment.

‘I tried calling you this morning. I texted you. You didn’t respond to either. I really was worried. I was going to turn up at your hostel tomorrow.’

A conflagration of feelings. Her fingers gripped the phone tightly.

‘Bhuvana, you’ve gone silent,’ he asked.

‘I can’t talk or text when I am at work,’ she said. ‘They don’t like any of us using our mobile phones. And I’m new there. So…’

‘I understand.’ His voice softened. ‘But you can text a word or two in the lunch break. You have one, don’t you?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I will try,’ she said. ‘This is the best time though.’

‘Shall I come tomorrow to your hostel? It’s a Sunday. You won’t be working, will you? We could go for a coffee and tiffin. Do you like masala dosas? I know some really nice places…’

‘No, no,’ she cut in. ‘My brother, I mean, my cousin was really annoyed when I left last evening without waiting for him. He’s going to pick me up every evening, he said. And I have to go to their home tomorrow. I am to spend the night there. Monday is a holiday…’

‘Oh yes, Independence Day. I forgot,’ he muttered. Then, after a pause, ‘Is this cousin married?’

She smiled at herself in the mirror. ‘No, and…’

‘And he sees you as his would-be.’ Sanjay’s voice was harsh with resentment.

She nodded. In the mirror she saw the girl she had become. Tremulous creature, but so needing to let him know that he was all she wanted. ‘He’s behaving as if I am … But,’ she paused, knowing he would seize on that pause.

‘But you don’t like him?’

‘I don’t,’ she said in a small voice. ‘He’s a short man. You know how short men are! But it’s not that he is short or has
curly hair and sometimes a squint. What I don’t like is the way he is. So full of himself. So full of pride.’

He sniggered. ‘Most short men are. As if to make up for the lack of inches.’

‘So you see…’ she murmured.

‘Shall I come to your hostel on Tuesday then?’

She caught her breath in a little gasp. In the mirror, she was the girl flustered. Eyes wide, lips parted, her fingers fluttering to her mouth.

‘No, no, you mustn’t … He has spies everywhere. They’ll tell him. And he’s dangerous!’

‘What, that little peanut?’ He laughed aloud. ‘You really think I would be afraid.’

She could imagine him flexing his muscles. She felt a wave of tenderness. He was a little boy after all.

‘Please, you mustn’t underestimate him. He has connections. He knows all kinds of people. I won’t talk to you again if you take silly risks.’ The woman in the mirror pouted.

‘Fine. But how am I to see you?’

She put her hand on her hip. Decisive girl. ‘I’ll call you. Maybe on Friday evening next week. He said he is busy most Friday evenings. Which is why he was late yesterday.’

‘Does peanut have a name? I don’t like you referring to him as though he is your bloody husband.’

She giggled. ‘Chikka,’ she said.

‘Perfect for a peanut. Chikka!’

He told her of his day. She told him of her imagined day. They progressed to endearments and jokes. Then he sang her a song. She held the phone to her ear and forgot about all that life tormented her with.

She was still smiling when she put down the phone.

‘Who were you talking to?’ Akka demanded from the door.

Shutters came down in her eyes.

‘No one,’ he said, reverting to being who he was.

Akka stood there looking at him. ‘You will get hurt,’ the elderly eunuch said. ‘You know you will. Then why?’

‘How can I help myself?’ he asked. He placed the phone down on the dressing table and leaned towards the mirror. In there was the girl Sanjay had fallen in love with. In there was Bhuvana, who had tossed caution to the winds and made a gift of her heart.

SUNDAY, 14 AUGUST

Roshan watched his father chew his breakfast thoughtfully. ‘What’s wrong, Appa?’ he asked.

Gowda looked up from his plate of idli-sambar and said nothing.

Roshan’s face fell. ‘Is it me, Appa? Have I done something wrong?’

‘No, no…’ Gowda shook himself out of his reverie to answer his son. ‘Nothing to do with you, Roshan. Just troubled by a case I am working on.’

And the fact that this thing with Urmila was getting a little too hot to handle. It was like holding a hot potato. He didn’t want to let go, but it would burn his fingers if he didn’t.

Gowda saw Roshan’s face clear and felt something akin
to guilt wash over him. At what he had done to turn his son into this fragile creature so afraid of his censure and so needy of his approval.

‘Appa, the driving lessons,’ Roshan said. ‘Can we postpone it for the next time? I have to go back later today.’

Gowda had forgotten all about the offer he had made Roshan. He closed his eyes in an attempt to pull himself together. What am I? If I were to draw up a chart about myself, what would it say? Lousy cop. Lousy father. Lousy husband. Lousy lover…

‘Appa, you are not upset, are you? But my classes start on Tuesday and I need a day to organize things,’ Roshan added, seeing his father’s face cloud.

Gowda reached across and patted his son’s hand. ‘When you come back next time, we’ll start. You just need a couple of hours behind the wheel and you’ll be fine. It’s simple. Any fool can do it. It’s no rocket science.’

His reward: the light in the boy’s eyes.

‘Appa, I’m sure you will be able to crack the case,’ Roshan said, clasping his father’s fingers.

Gowda looked away. How easy it was to be loved if only one could learn to show love. Was that where he went wrong? Keeping it all locked within?

He had been right to not confront Roshan. Perhaps when their relationship was on a stronger plane, he would. But until then, he would pretend he didn’t know that Roshan smoked up.

‘I used to smoke grass in college,’ Gowda said suddenly. ‘My friends and I did an occasional joint.’

Roshan frowned.

‘But I knew when to stop. I didn’t want it to take over my life.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Roshan asked carefully.

Gowda shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just felt like I should.’

When his mobile rang, Gowda reached for it gratefully. When his mind churned, and the debris from his past and dilemmas of his present turned into a whirling frothing mass, the call of work was an escape from making sense of his life. From needing to address the mistakes and perhaps mend them. Gowda knew it was cowardice, but he didn’t want to go down that path. One day he would. For now, he barked into the phone. ‘Yes Santosh, tell me…’

Roshan watched his father’s expression change from his habitual blandness to incredulous horror.

‘Yes, of course,’ Gowda murmured. ‘I’ll come right away.’

Roshan spooned a dollop of chutney onto his plate. ‘So you have to go?’ he asked, as his father put down his mobile phone.

Gowda nodded. ‘What time is your bus?’

‘I’ll find one at the KSRTC bus stand. I think there is a bus every hour to Hassan. So don’t worry. I’ll find my way home.’

Gowda flinched. Home. The boy saw Hassan as home. And not this house where his father was. ‘Oh,’ he said quietly.

Probably realizing what he had said, Roshan smiled and added, ‘I’ll come back home when I have a three-day weekend. Will you give me driving lessons then?’

Gowda stood up. He walked towards the boy and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I will. Now you take care. And study … and come back soon.’

Roshan stood up and hugged his father. Gowda was startled by the unexpected hug. He didn’t speak but hugged him back.

Gowda’s phone beeped. He sensed it was Urmila. She had taken to texting him early.

‘Do you need any money?’ Gowda asked. Then, opening his wallet, he pulled out a 500-rupee note and gave it to the boy. ‘Buy a book or some music…’ he said. Please not any dope. Please. Please.

Gowda stepped outside the house and checked his message.
GM darling, r we meeting 2da?
she had asked.

GM U, will let you know
, he texted furiously. His text language wasn’t as adept as hers. Until Urmila, he had used texts rarely. He watched the text float away and looked up. Roshan was watching from the door. He swallowed and swung his leg over his Bullet. He turned on the ignition and the dthuk dthuk sound filled the silence that stretched between father and son.

Santosh had called to say that the control room had reported a murder at Dodda Banaswadi. A young man with a slit throat. ‘I thought you should know. Maybe it has some connection to our case,’ Santosh had said, unable to hide his excitement.

At the station, Santosh was waiting.

‘We’ll go on my bike,’ Gowda said. ‘There’s a spare helmet in the station. Ask Byrappa. He’ll know where it is.’

Santosh pulled the helmet on and perched on the Bullet. After his 150cc bike, this felt like sitting on a horse. A sound, sturdy horse that wouldn’t miss a step. No matter how bad the roads were or how the traffic pressed upon them.

There was a crowd gathered outside the house. Two police vehicles and a posse of policemen were keeping it under control. The wireless in one of the Boleros crackled.
Gowda parked the bike and the two men walked towards the group. One of the policemen saw the three stars and the red-and-blue ribbon on the outer edge of Gowda’s shoulder straps and nudged the others. They sprang to attention, saluting. Santosh felt a flush of pride. No matter what he may think of Gowda, the man had a certain presence.

‘Sir, Inspector Lakshman’s there,’ the constable said. ‘Upstairs. At the crime scene.’

Gowda nodded at the constable and unlatched the gate. It opened with a long drawn out creak. A bike was parked to the side of the house and a flight of stairs led up to the first floor. Gowda climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he turned to Santosh and gestured for him to follow.

‘The upstairs portion was designated for tenants. For a small family,’ the landlord was explaining as Gowda arrived. He was sitting on a chair, ashen-faced, still unable to believe that a murder had been committed even as he and his family had eaten their dinner, watched TV and gone to sleep downstairs. ‘And Kiran was a good boy. His uncle’s a friend of mine and so I didn’t worry too much that he was a bachelor. He was well-mannered, god-fearing, and no habits … if you know what I mean,’ he added. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand who could have done this to him. And why?’

Gowda looked around. The first floor was a large terrace on which two rooms had been built with a provision to build further. A few potted plants stood on the side of the terrace that faced the road. To the rear was a clothesline from which hung three T-shirts, a shirt, a pair of trousers, two undies and a towel. There was a tap, beneath which was placed a plastic bucket.

A coir doormat sat outside the door. WELCOME, it said. As Gowda watched, Santosh walked towards the door.

‘Don’t,’ Gowda called out.

‘Sir?’ Santosh stared.

‘Don’t wipe your feet on the mat,’ Gowda muttered.

‘I wouldn’t have, sir,’ Santosh said slowly. ‘I know you think I am an idiot, but even I am not that much of an idiot.’

Gowda didn’t speak, but had the grace to look ashamed when Santosh stepped back and waited for him to walk into the crime scene first.

The room showed no signs of struggle. Books on the table. A helmet on a rack. A pile of ironed clothes with an electric iron still plugged in. The small kitchenette had a few vessels and a row of jars with some essentials. The gas stove had been wiped clean and a kitchen cloth had been draped over the counter to dry out.

There was a small built-in wardrobe. Gowda used a handkerchief to hold the handle as he opened the door. He examined each shelf methodically. A stack of shirts and trousers in one, and on another a couple of sweaters. The third shelf held sheets, pillow cases and towels. Placed on the bottom shelf was a pair of black shoes. The other section of the wardrobe had a hanging rail and a small shelf above it. The rail had a few hangers from which hung a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans. There was a camera on the rack above and a shirt box. Gowda pulled out the shirt box. A small pile of porn magazines sat in it.