would have been quick to clarify.
Life then had been structured around their haunts. Every hour and day had its own specific texture and rhythm. Gathering at noon at Mamu’s canteen, which was housed in a small tile-roofed shop beyond the men’s loo at St Joseph’s, and crunching on mutton samosas. Afternoons in Ayah Park at Rest House Crescent, dubbed as Ganja Park. Sitting in a giant cement pipe that was part of the park’s play space for kids and smoking grass.
Heading to Rex Theatre on Brigade Road to the slot machine games parlour between its two gates. Catching an English movie at Blue Diamond. And then ambling to Bascos, which had cabaret shows. Gaping at the black-and-white photographs of the dancers in the glass case – Ruby, Suzy, Lily…
‘Remember the one time we took Urmila to Bascos?’ Michael grinned.
Gowda’s face smoothened into an expressionless mask.
Urmila had demanded that she be taken along. And she had hated that Gowda gaped as much as the other boys. Her snide remarks had only made them laugh harder.
Michael frowned. ‘She said she tried calling you a few times. But you didn’t take the call.’
Gowda shrugged. ‘Did she? Sometimes I ignore numbers I don’t recognize. It is usually some bank or credit card company asking if I want a loan.’
Michael gulped down his beer and poured himself a glass from the pitcher. ‘Well, here’s her number,’ he said, pulling out a paper from his wallet.
Gowda took the scrap of paper and let it lie on the table.
‘Call her, Mudde. C’mon, call her. We were all friendsonce, remember! What happened between the two of you is so far back…’
Gowda punched in the number with great reluctance. Something leaden sat in the pit of his stomach.
The phone at the other end rang six times before a woman’s voice murmured a ‘hello’.
Gowda’s heart stilled. She sounded the same after twenty-seven years.
‘Hello, who is this,’ she asked and then, ‘Borei, is that you? Do you know I have been trying to reach you for the last two days?’
‘Hello, Urmila,’ he said softly.
‘Ask her to join us,’ Michael mouthed from across the table.
‘Michael and I are at Pecos. Do you know the pub? It’s the one on Rest House Road…’
Gowda gestured to Michael. ‘She can’t come,’ he mouthed.
‘Sure, I understand. Tomorrow? I am not sure … Let me call you.’ Gowda clicked shut his phone. ‘There, satisfied?’ he asked Michael.
Michael peered into his beer mug gravely. ‘What’s the harm in meeting her? You were inseparable once.’
‘Once.’ Gowda’s face was grim. Once was the operative word.
It was almost half past one when Gowda rode into the two-storeyed family house on 7th Main, Jayanagar 5th Block.
As he parked his bike, he saw the two coconut trees were laden with coconuts ready for picking. He shrugged; it wasn’t his business any more. He had severed ties with this house and its demands. Now he could just be a guest here.
Gowda paused. Was this how Roshan felt when he was home? As if he no longer felt any ties to the place he had once called home? Gowda felt a physical jolt of pain at the thought.
When Roshan was a baby and even as a young toddler, Gowda would often cradle his sleeping son to his chest. And he would feel a fierce love, a great tenderness suffuse him. He would bend and nuzzle his son’s cheek and feel tears swell in his eyes at the milky sweet smell of his child’s skin. He would do anything to keep his son from harm’s way. Destroy anything that threatened his child. He would do everything he could for Roshan, he had sworn then. This was the child he had slapped. He flinched, thinking of how Roshan had reeled from the force of the slap.
‘What are you doing? Who are you frowning at?’ Nagendra asked from the doorway.
Gowda smiled at his brother. A thin watery smile as he sought to compose his emotions.
‘I thought I heard your bike,’ Nagendra said, looking at his brother carefully.
Life then had been structured around their haunts. Every hour and day had its own specific texture and rhythm. Gathering at noon at Mamu’s canteen, which was housed in a small tile-roofed shop beyond the men’s loo at St Joseph’s, and crunching on mutton samosas. Afternoons in Ayah Park at Rest House Crescent, dubbed as Ganja Park. Sitting in a giant cement pipe that was part of the park’s play space for kids and smoking grass.
Heading to Rex Theatre on Brigade Road to the slot machine games parlour between its two gates. Catching an English movie at Blue Diamond. And then ambling to Bascos, which had cabaret shows. Gaping at the black-and-white photographs of the dancers in the glass case – Ruby, Suzy, Lily…
‘Remember the one time we took Urmila to Bascos?’ Michael grinned.
Gowda’s face smoothened into an expressionless mask.
Urmila had demanded that she be taken along. And she had hated that Gowda gaped as much as the other boys. Her snide remarks had only made them laugh harder.
Michael frowned. ‘She said she tried calling you a few times. But you didn’t take the call.’
Gowda shrugged. ‘Did she? Sometimes I ignore numbers I don’t recognize. It is usually some bank or credit card company asking if I want a loan.’
Michael gulped down his beer and poured himself a glass from the pitcher. ‘Well, here’s her number,’ he said, pulling out a paper from his wallet.
Gowda took the scrap of paper and let it lie on the table.
‘Call her, Mudde. C’mon, call her. We were all friendsonce, remember! What happened between the two of you is so far back…’
Gowda punched in the number with great reluctance. Something leaden sat in the pit of his stomach.
The phone at the other end rang six times before a woman’s voice murmured a ‘hello’.
Gowda’s heart stilled. She sounded the same after twenty-seven years.
‘Hello, who is this,’ she asked and then, ‘Borei, is that you? Do you know I have been trying to reach you for the last two days?’
‘Hello, Urmila,’ he said softly.
‘Ask her to join us,’ Michael mouthed from across the table.
‘Michael and I are at Pecos. Do you know the pub? It’s the one on Rest House Road…’
Gowda gestured to Michael. ‘She can’t come,’ he mouthed.
‘Sure, I understand. Tomorrow? I am not sure … Let me call you.’ Gowda clicked shut his phone. ‘There, satisfied?’ he asked Michael.
Michael peered into his beer mug gravely. ‘What’s the harm in meeting her? You were inseparable once.’
‘Once.’ Gowda’s face was grim. Once was the operative word.
It was almost half past one when Gowda rode into the two-storeyed family house on 7th Main, Jayanagar 5th Block.
As he parked his bike, he saw the two coconut trees were laden with coconuts ready for picking. He shrugged; it wasn’t his business any more. He had severed ties with this house and its demands. Now he could just be a guest here.
Gowda paused. Was this how Roshan felt when he was home? As if he no longer felt any ties to the place he had once called home? Gowda felt a physical jolt of pain at the thought.
When Roshan was a baby and even as a young toddler, Gowda would often cradle his sleeping son to his chest. And he would feel a fierce love, a great tenderness suffuse him. He would bend and nuzzle his son’s cheek and feel tears swell in his eyes at the milky sweet smell of his child’s skin. He would do anything to keep his son from harm’s way. Destroy anything that threatened his child. He would do everything he could for Roshan, he had sworn then. This was the child he had slapped. He flinched, thinking of how Roshan had reeled from the force of the slap.
‘What are you doing? Who are you frowning at?’ Nagendra asked from the doorway.
Gowda smiled at his brother. A thin watery smile as he sought to compose his emotions.
‘I thought I heard your bike,’ Nagendra said, looking at his brother carefully.
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