A Cut-Like Wound by Anita Nair Page A

each time Gowda talked about his dreams for himself as an IPS officer.
    Gowda enrolled for his postgraduate degree and prepared for the Civil Services exam. He failed his first attempt. He got as far as the interview in his second attempt but failed again.
    In the end, Gowda succumbed to his father’s expectations for him. After his post-graduation, he never touched a basketball again. He wrote the bank test and passed.
    Three years later, bank clerk Gowda had a rude awakening. A college mate walked into the bank and was surprised to see Gowda in the teller’s cage. ‘So they finally put you behind bars, Gowda.’ The girl giggled, running her fingers along themesh of the cage. ‘And I always thought you would be the one putting people behind bars!’
    Gowda flushed. He counted out her money carefully, daubing his finger on the wet sponge.
    That evening, Gowda went looking for a place to start basketball practice again. He didn’t tell anyone about his plans but when the next Karnataka state recruitment notifications were published, Gowda wrote the test.
    Gowda announced his new avatar in life only after everything was in place. ‘I have joined the Karnataka police,’ he announced in the middle of dinner, tearing a piece of akki roti and dipping it into a small bowl of koli saaru. He was prepared to battle this through. It was his life, after all.
    His father looked up from the spinach mossoppu he insisted on every night as an accompaniment to rice, roti or mudde and murmured, ‘You always wanted to be a policeman, didn’t you? But why did you leave it so late? You have lost out on so many years of service now.’
    ‘When do you start?’ his mother asked, placing an akki roti on his plate and ladling some more of the chicken curry into his bowl.
    Gowda was baffled. He had expected fireworks and recrimination from his father; much hand wringing and crying from his mother. And here they were, calm as a firmly set pot of curd and as unruffled by his change of career.
    ‘You don’t mind?’ he asked, trying to make sense of his father’s quiet acceptance.
    ‘Why should I?’ His father’s eyebrows rose. ‘This is a government job too, with an assured pension. And you will have the kind of power no bank employee can even dream of. Besides, Nagendra is already in the SBI, so we can be sure of bank loans if we need any.’
    His mother smiled. ‘You must take a photograph of yourself in full uniform … I want to send it to your aunt in Pune.’
    Gowda shook his head. Three fucking years of his life wasted in a bloody bank and he had thought he had done it to make them happy. And they seemed just as pleased at the thought of a police officer son.
    There was no knowing what parents really expected of you. He had told himself he wouldn’t be that sort of a father. One you had to make allowances for, be patient with, even forgive.
    Gowda grimaced and drank deeply.
    Michael smiled. ‘I hardly see my sons, you know, Borei. So enjoy your boy’s presence while he is at home. Once he leaves, he is gone…’
    ‘Your boys?’ Gowda asked.
    Michael’s mouth tightened into a line. ‘One is in New Zealand. The other’s in Melbourne where I am. But he may as well be in New Zealand. I saw them last when Becky died.’
    Gowda nodded. He searched his mind for something they could talk about without it touching a nerve, a still healing wound. This catching-up business wasn’t so easy. Too much time had lapsed. They were two different men whose lives had taken different trajectories.
    ‘Do you remember that place, Variety, on Residency road, where we used to go?’ Gowda asked suddenly, seizing on a subject that was guaranteed to trigger reminiscence and merriment.
    Michael smiled. The cheapest beer in town. And rum that burnt a trail as it went down your throat and was guaranteed to get you drunk very quickly. It was the greatest lure for any student. Gowda, Michael and a few others had beenregulars. Weekend regulars, they