‘A
re you in pain, baby?’ Jak asks quietly. He sits at the bedside and looks at his daughter. Her eyes are open and staring. Smriti continues to stare. Then her jaws unclench and from the gaping hole that is her mouth, a scream emerges.
An animal howl layered with terror and pain, grief and anger, horror and disgust. An animal howl that goes on and on, snaring his soul and jerking him up from where he sits, pushing him out in blind panic.
You thought you had arrived at the stage of letting go. That tracing Smriti’s days before the accident was a pointless exercise in pain. An indulgence that did more harm than good. An anxious tongue probing again and again the empty arc of a pulled out tooth. All it did was redefine the loss. The actual loss and the sense of it.
The hours with Mathew caused in you a deep weariness. The story of your daughter had unravelled to be nothing more than a teenage girl’s reckless impetuosity. You abandoned all your theories of it being more than an accident. You thought Rishi, who Mathew had said would know what really happened, would only add to what you knew. That Smriti, your child, your pretty daughter, had a flair for instigating chaos. And accidents spring out of chaos.
So you decided to let it rest. You wouldn’t look for Rishi. You wouldn’t pursue it any more.
Then you saw him with Meera at an art event. You wondered who the boy was, at first. No, not boy. Young man. None of them,
neither Shivu nor Mathew, had told him that. That the third angle to the triangle that enclosed Smriti was much older than all of them. And had the swagger of the handsome man who knows he is handsome.
Rishi Soman. Only, what was he doing with Meera?
Meera’s voice had risen and struck a note of querulous fear. ‘Soman. No, he’s not Nayantara’s friend. He is someone I know…’
You kept your expression as controlled as you could. You didn’t allow even a flicker of excitement to show at the name. At the confirmation of your suspicion. You saw Meera search your face. ‘Why? Why are you asking about Soman?’
You shrugged. ‘I was just curious. He reminded me of someone…’
‘Oh,’ Meera said, the relief palpable in the relaxed set of her body. ‘He is an actor. He has modelled for a few things. You’ve probably seen him on TV.’
‘Probably!’ You were cryptic in your dismissal of Rishi Soman.
You wondered what she was seeking to hide. Could they…? You paused. When it came to Meera, you found you couldn’t use terms of fornication – fuck, screw, bonk… Meera wasn’t that sort of a woman. Besides, he was way too young. And yet, you sensed an unease in Meera. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like it one bit.
It takes Jak two days to make up his mind. Two days of endlessly looking at the computer screen, trying to make sure the third boy – no, man – is Rishi Soman. Smriti’s boyfriend, if what Shivu and Mathew had suggested is the truth.
Two days of sitting at Smriti’s bedside and trying to see beyond the grimace that was her habitual expression. Smriti, Smriti, tell me, is he the one you were in love with? Is he the one who went with you? Was he there when it happened? Why then did he abandon you? Shall I go looking for him? Shall I demand of him the truth? Shall I, Smriti?
She lies there without moving a limb, her face contorted into a
mask. She lies there looking beyond him. Seeing what? Countless versions of those last minutes? It is this replaying of what could have happened that settles it. Jak would call Rishi Soman and ask to meet him.
In the morning, Jak knows there is no point in putting it off any longer. Besides, if he doesn’t do something to take his mind off what he has to deal with, his sanity will unravel. As long as he is busy, he can find respite. A semblance of normalcy, even.
The first thing to do is get Rishi Soman’s number. Jak doesn’t want to ask Meera, so he calls Sheela. ‘What do you need his number for?’ Sheela asks. ‘He is a small-time actor. A charming creature, so he is on everyone’s list. And he is rather pretty. Photographs well, too!’
Jak mumbles an excuse about a friend of a friend wanting to use him for something… It sounds lame to his own ears. But Sheela doesn’t probe and instead, begins haranguing him for not calling her except when he needs a favour. ‘When is that long promised dinner date going to happen? Or is there some hottie in your life?’
He tries calling Rishi Soman. ‘I am Smriti’s father,’ he begins, thinking open confrontation to be the best tactic.
There is silence.
‘Hello, hello,’ Jak urges.
‘Yes, I am here,’ a low voice says.
‘We need to meet,’ Jak says. ‘I need to talk to you.’ But Rishi will not speak to him. He hedges in a most polite voice. I am busy this week, he says.
‘Sure, I understand. How about next week then?’ Jak offers in his most placatory voice. ‘I won’t take too much of your time.’
‘I’ll have to see. I am not sure. Let me call you…’ Rishi hangs up.
Jak waits the whole week for Rishi to call. But he doesn’t. And when Jak tries to reach him, he sends him a busy tone in response.
Jak sinks his forehead into the palm of his hand. He is weary. How is he going to get the boy to talk to him?
‘What is wrong?’ Kala Chithi asks quietly.
Jak looks at her blankly. She touches his shoulder. ‘Tell me, maybe I can help.’
She listens patiently to his words of frustration. Rage, even. ‘Why won’t he talk to me? He must know something. That’s why he’s avoiding me.’
‘Didn’t you say that you saw him with Meera?’
Jak nods.
‘Then all you have to do is ask Meera to engineer a meeting,’ Kala Chithi says.
‘But will she?’
‘Tell her. Explain to her the connection. She will then. How can she say no? She knows Smriti’s condition, she’ll understand why you cannot rest till you know.’
Kala Chithi pauses for a moment. Then she says in a voice soft as lace, ‘Besides, don’t you realize that she is fond of you…’
Jak is startled by this revelation, but he doesn’t pursue it. Instead, he goes to Meera’s room. He will tell her what he has discovered. And then it is up to her.
Jak waits in his car in Cockburn Road. He looks around him with interest. He didn’t even know such a place could exist in the heart of the city. But here it is. A tiny bar in a row of broken down buildings and dilapidated shops curving into Bamboo Bazaar and leading on to Cantonment Station.
He looks at his watch again. Twenty past eleven. Meera should be here any moment now. He searches the entrance of Dewar’s, the faded doors flung wide open, men in office clothes sitting alongside autorickshaw drivers. As he watches, a girl parks her scooter and walks in. And he knows again the thrill of discovery. Could such a place exist? And for Meera to know about it and suggest it…
Jak sees a bike come towards Dewar’s. A man and a woman. The woman holds the man’s waist in an almost intimate clasp. When the bike screeches to a halt, he feels the impact of the woman’s breasts against his back. He grins. He has done it too, like all his friends have. That abrupt braking. The squashing of her breasts, the tightening of her grip, the smile that splashes across the face on knowing he has made it happen. The leer of knowledge – the girl wanted it as much as he did.
Jak feels a queer sense of regret. He has had those days too. A bike, a chick and endless carefree hours of youthful animation. It isn’t that he longs for them any more; he doesn’t. Is this what growing old means? A certain reconciliation with one’s subdued spirits and not-so-youthful self?
The woman is laughing as she dismounts from the bike. She slaps the man’s shoulder playfully. Jak snaps out of his reverie when he sees the woman is Meera. A Meera he doesn’t recognize. He sees the casual case with which she wears the unfamiliar clothes, and her manner. Jak’s mouth tightens. So this is Rishi Soman, Smriti’s friend who is Meera’s friend too. More than a friend.
Jak looks at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes, Meera had said. Wait for ten minutes and then call me. I’m going to ask you to join us. You wait another five minutes before you come in. I don’t want him to think I set it up. And it’s going to be about this key that you have tracked me into Dewar’s for.
What key? Jak’s eyes questioned.
‘Does it matter?’ Meera sighed. ‘Filing cupboard key, if you need a name for it.’
‘All this subterfuge…’ Jak mused.
‘Indeed! How do you think it makes me feel? But it is Smriti I am thinking of,’ Meera said gently.
She picks up on the sixth ring. He imagines her making a moue of her lips. ‘My boss. I have to answer this!’ she would say, perhaps smiling apologetically. Rishi Soman would lean back in his chair and smile back at her lazily, languorously. I would if it were me,
Jak thinks unhappily as he speaks the words he is expected to and hears her planned response. ‘Yes, the key is with me in my bag. I am at Dewar’s. Do you know the place? You do. Can you pick it up from me?’
She sits in one of the faded cane chairs facing the door. Rishi Soman is seated with his back to the entrance. Jak sees him reach over to pop a peanut into her mouth and Meera part her lips willingly enough. Jak’s jaws clench. Then he sees her catch sight of him and the flash of relief on her face. Jak smiles. Rishi Soman turns his head to look at the recipient of Meera’s beaming smile.
And soon Meera is saying, ‘Did you have trouble finding the place?’ She fumbles in her bag for the key and holding it out to Jak, she feigns confusion. ‘Oh, how I forget my manners. Rishi, this is Jak. And Jak, this is Rishi Soman.’
Jak looks at the young man and with the consummate voice of the thespian queries, ‘The actor?’
Rishi Soman’s features relax into the wide gratuitous smile of one who aches to be recognized in public and seldom is. The little shit, Jak thinks. He really thinks that I would know him from one of those mannequins who populate the afternoon soaps on TV. What an idiot, with his wet-hair look and one size too small T-shirt and the compulsive need to show off the profile that someone must have told him is his best angle.
‘Oh, do join us,’ Meera says.
‘Yes, do,’ Rishi Soman says after a moment, not entirely pleased, but not willing to relinquish a moment with someone who actually recognized him.
Jak pulls up a chair and settles down. What now?
Meera is a practised hostess. She knows how to expand the conversation to include both Jak and Rishi Soman. So in the manner of the experienced corporate wife who knows timing is all, Meera says, ‘Jak’s daughter was a student at Mounts.’
‘Was she?’ Rishi Soman queries politely. Jak can sense his restlessness.
‘I think you knew her,’ he says suddenly. ‘She mentioned you…’ Rishi Soman wears an abashed look but his smile is smug. He shrugs. ‘College girls. Without them the actor is nothing. They are the ones who bolster our egos even if the critics pan us… For instance, would this gorgeous lady here ever ask me for a photograph and then hide it between the pages of her diary?’ He throws Meera a boyish grin.
Jak thinks he would like to slap that silly, smug look away. But he can also see what it is that lured Smriti and seems to enchant even someone as sensible as Meera. She is wearing a strange expression, he sees to his consternation. The foolish smile of the besotted.
‘No, she wasn’t one of your anonymous fans.’ Jak’s voice cracks. ‘I think you knew each other very well. Smriti. Smriti Krishnamurthy.’
A silence creeps into the room then. A mangy silence on the four legs of a hyena who waits for someone else to make the kill.
‘You set this up,’ Rishi Soman hisses. ‘You planned this between the two of you. And I thought you wanted to see me, Meera,’ he continues, oblivious to Jak’s presence. ‘I thought we had a connection. You were just using me.’
Meera flushes. Jak leans back in his chair. ‘Meera did as I asked her to.’
He holds Soman’s gaze steadily. ‘You forced my hand when you refused to take my calls.’
‘What is it you want to know? I told you I had nothing to do with it.’ Rishi Soman’s face contorts into a mask of misery. ‘How can you hold me responsible?’
Meera reaches across and takes his hand in hers. ‘Rishi, no one is holding you responsible. But don’t you think the Professor has a right to know what happened? You were the only person there… Look at him. Put yourself in his place. Wouldn’t you want to know?’
Jak feels Rishi’s eyes settle on him.
‘Tell me,’ Jak says in his quietest voice.
At first, Smriti was a game. The queen of the chessboard pursued by the bishop, the rook and himself, the knight. At first, Smriti was a piece he wanted to prise away from the rest, whistling under his breath. Then one day he paused, sized her up and murmured: Checkmate?
The other two watched helplessly as he made his move. The rook toppled over and removed himself, the bishop fumed, but it was the knight who with the powers vested in him could move two paces to the front, one to the side, and stake his claim.