A Cut-Like Wound (42 page)

The veranda was hung with bamboo blinds. Amidst several potted plants, some almost as big as trees, were a chair and a table. ‘This is where I spend most of my time
when I am home,’ the old man said. ‘And so this is where my squirrel hides.’

The little boy’s eyes darted around. Where was it? ‘Does it have a name?’ he whispered.

‘You can call it what you want. It’ll answer to anything you call it.’

He licked his lips and whispered, ‘Juicy … Juicy!’

The old man cocked his head at an angle and smiled. ‘What a lovely name! Juicy. I like it. I think he’ll like it. But Juicy won’t come if you call him like that. Come here, I’ll show you what to do.’

He went to the old man and let himself be picked up and perched on the old man’s knee. He let the old man take his hands in his gnarled and stiff fingers. ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting the boy’s hand into the folds of his dhoti. ‘Stroke it, slowly … yes, slowly and soon it will wake up.’

He let his fingers glide over the squirrel. How small it was! So small and defenceless. ‘Juicy,’ he said softly, ‘Juicy … Juicy.’

He felt it rouse itself and looked up in excitement. ‘Uncle,’ he cried.

But the old man seemed to have turned deaf. His face was clenched and there was a drop of spittle at the corner of his open mouth. He let go of the squirrel in fear. The old man grabbed his hand and fastened it back on the squirrel. ‘Hold him, boy … don’t lose him. Hold Juicy!’

And so he fondled it again and again and felt within him a warmth that gathered and gathered … and so over the next two months till school began, he sought Ranganathan with the same fervour with which the old man waited for him to arrive.

He had just turned nine when he made the acquaintance
of Juicy who lived in Ranganathan’s lap. Juicy who came to life with his touch, and juicy whose nose he kissed. And then a few months later Juicy crawled into his mouth and spat his heart into it. He was ten years old when he discovered the truth about himself. Ranganathan became his benefactor. And so the family’s.

School fees, books and everything he needed. A job for his drunk of a father in Ranganathan’s garment factory. Occasional loans for his mother. ‘He reminds me of my little brother when we were boys,’ Ranganathan said, stroking his cheek absently as he handed over the boy’s school fees to his mother.

After a while, no one thought about it. Like his father’s drunkenness on Saturdays. Everyone knew that he went to visit the old man twice a week.

When he turned twelve, Ranganathan decided to take him to Madras. He was going to meet with a few buyers in Madras. He was driving down, Ranganathan told his mother. ‘I want him to see the beach,’ Ranganathan said. ‘And it will be good to have someone in the car with me.’

His spirit soared at the sight of the sea. The blue expanse that went on and on. Nothing in life until then had prepared him for this. And later, when Ranganathan took him into his bed, he felt as if he was riding the waves.

When they returned from Madras, Ranganathan decided the apartment was too much of a risk. His daughter lived in the adjacent apartment and had a key. What if she walked in on them?

So he moved their trysts to the garment unit. It was all perfectly legitimate. He would come in Ranganathan’s car just as the workers were leaving. Mr Ranganathan would help him with some lessons and, on the way to the club,
would drop him off at the corner of the street on which he lived.

Only they knew, Ranganathan and he. How, when the motorized treads ground to a halt and the sound of the sewing machines settled into silence, there, in the factory surrounded by the mute machinery, Ranganathan stirred in him countless variations of pleasure.

Perhaps Ranganathan grew careless. Or was it he who grew greedy, but on an evening he shouldn’t have been there, he went to see the old man. ‘What a surprise, dear boy,’ Ranganathan said, looking up from a file.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he put his school satchel down and walked to the glass wall of the cubicle and pulled the blinds down. The old man watched him. And then putting down his file, he stood up, murmuring, ‘You are turning into a little slut, aren’t you?’

Ranganathan undressed him carefully and laid him on the maroon Rexine sofa. He trailed his tongue down his spine, then caressed his buttocks and slapped the flesh suddenly. A hot tight slap that sent a wave of desire coursing through him. His nerve ends tingled and he giggled; a high girlish giggle of glee.

And then suddenly someone flung open the door of the room. His head turned of its own volition to look at the intruder. He felt a bucket of cold shock wash over him. What was he going to do?

‘You missed lunch. Why haven’t you eaten all day?’ The voice came from the doorway.

‘I am not hungry,’ she said, not bothering to hide the petulance striating her tone.

‘Why?’ Akka asked, heedless. ‘What’s with you? You
look a sight … I go away for three days and everything is awry here.’

‘Leave me alone.’ A muffled sob emerged from the pillow she had sunk her face into.

Akka went towards the bed. ‘Tell me. Akka will make it better. You know Akka can!’

A tear-stained face turned to Akka. ‘But even you, Akka, can’t breathe life into what is dead.’

Akka frowned. ‘What died?’

‘All I had with Sanjay…’

‘Sanjay? What do you mean?’ Akka asked slowly. She reached out and took the woebegone creature on the bed in her arms. ‘Oh … him! What can I say? I told you, darling, didn’t I? That it would end in grief. Men like him are not for us…’

The front yard of the corporator’s mansion had been converted into a festival ground. Serial lights ran up and down the length of the street and all over the building. Gaily patterned shamianas were strung up and festooned with flowers. The poles were covered with floral garlands and at one end was a raised platform on which sat a painted six-foot-tall Ganesha. A priest stood before the idol, chanting prayers, and for once the gates were flung wide open, so anyone who wished to could be part of the celebrations. Several plastic chairs had been placed and vats of food were kept, so all who came were offered a paper plate laden with sweets and savouries. The loudspeaker blared out devotional songs and in the evening a live orchestra had been arranged to play music.

‘Make sure it’s only melodies,’ King Kong had warned the orchestra manager.

Anna stood in his balcony, watching the hustle and bustle at the pandal. Chikka stood listlessly at his side. After a while, he said, ‘I don’t know why we need to do this year after year … it’s all so pointless.’

Anna frowned at Chikka. ‘We do it because it is expected of us…’

‘I am tired of doing only what is expected of me … what about me? Don’t I have any dreams and desires of my own? Am I not allowed to have them? Why do we have to do everything your way?’ Chikka’s voice turned shrill with emotion before he stopped abruptly. He turned on his heel and went back inside.

Akka came to the door. ‘Anna … I heard voices. What’s wrong?’

He turned. ‘Did you want something?’

‘They want you at the pandal. It’s time to start the puja.’

The corporator sighed.

‘Is there something on your mind?’

He shrugged. Then he turned and asked, ‘Is Chikka involved with someone?’

‘Why? Did you hear or see something?’

‘No.’ The corporator’s fingers tightened around the balustrade to suppress his irritation. ‘I just had a feeling and wondered if you had sensed anything?’

‘Who knows, Anna … a young man of his age. It’s quite natural,’ Akka said.

‘I don’t like it. I have other plans for him. And all this nonsense is just adding to my stress levels. Don’t I do everything for each one of you? What need is there to go seeking someone else? She may not be right for our family. As if I don’t have enough troubles to deal with. Do you know that the police are breathing down my neck, trying
to sniff out my activities. God knows what he has been saying to her. He kept prattling on about his dreams and desires. If I had thought the same, would we have had any of this?’

‘Maybe you should take him away for a few days. Put some distance between him and whatever is on his mind.’

The corporator looked at the eunuch and smiled. ‘Now, why didn’t I think of that … I’ll take Chikka with me. We’ll go visit our sisters. I haven’t seen them for some time now. Akka, I would suggest you too stay away while we are gone. I don’t want them troubling you when I am not around. We’ll leave this afternoon. Will you tell him to get everything ready?’

Akka smiled thinly, wondering what Chikka would say.

TUESDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER

It was almost half past nine at night when they reached home. They had stayed away longer than they had intended to. There were so many relatives to visit, so many things that needed to be done. ‘You hardly come here and so when you do, we have to make the most of it,’ a second cousin said, heaping food on a banana-leaf plate for them. ‘Have you visited Govindaswamy yet? He’s been ailing for the last six months…’ a brother-in-law said. ‘He’ll be comforted that you called on him.’

He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. At a little past eleven, he got up and went to the terrace. From the
storeroom there, he pulled out a cardboard carton in which he kept the things he needed.

First the cord. A strong white cord that was about half an inch thick. He used a razor blade to cut the length he required. About 30 inches long. Then he knotted both ends and hitched one end to the window grille. He was humming as he worked.

Next, he rolled out the inner tube of a bicycle tyre and cut a narrow strip. He placed it on the inner end of the cord and swiftly and firmly wound the rubber tubing on the cord for about six inches from the knot. Then he looped the end of the tube strip and snipped the end. He unhitched the cord and replicated the same at the other end.

He held the cord by its rubber grips and tugged at it. The cord tautened with tension. He smiled, satisfied.

On a newspaper, he laid out tiny shards of glass. He wound cloth around his hands and, with a rolling pin, he ground the glass into fine particles. He opened a jar of glue and smeared it all over the open cord. He laid the cord over the glass dust and rolled it this way and that, until the surface was coated with a layer of fine glass. The cord shimmered and sparkled.

While he waited for it to dry, he put away the remaining cord, tubing, glue and glass. This was all he needed to construct his ligature.

He liked to use a fresh one each time. The thought of using a ligature into which someone had bled nauseated him. And it didn’t work as effectively as the first time it was used. He had realized that with the frooter Liaquat in the alley. The ligature hadn’t done the job it was expected to. Which is why he had been alive when they burnt him. Motherfucker. It was all his fault that things had got so messy.

He ran his finger along the glass-encrusted cord. To his immense satisfaction, a thin line of red appeared on his skin almost instantly.

He sucked on his bleeding finger as he switched off the light and went back to his room, dangling the cord from the other hand. It had taken him less than forty-five minutes to create his weapon.

THURSDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER

4.21 p.m.

Gowda stood near the police point at the Basilica. Santosh had posted himself at the end of the Gujri Gunta. He said he had a perfect view from there.