that witch has put you under her spell.'
'Look, Shanti.' He raises his index finger. 'We have had this
argument many times. You will get nothing by agonizing over it.
Has Gopi put ice and soda in my bedroom?'
'Yes,' she sighs in resigned acceptance of an imperfect
marriage. 'If you are determined to finish your liver, what can we
do? Go and drink as much as you want.'
'I will,' he says and begins climbing the stairs to the first
floor.
Nearly three weeks pass. The incident in the auditorium becomes
a distant memory for Mohan Kumar. He immerses himself in his
former routine, attending board meetings, examining projects,
advising clients. He accepts the offer of yet another consultancy
on behalf of a corporate house; puts in a round of golf on Sundays
at the Delhi Golf Club and spends two afternoons a week at his
mistress's house. He wills himself to believe that everything is
normal, but cannot shake off a nagging doubt at the back of his
mind. It is like a hazy picture trying to acquire definite shape, a
finger of memory attempting to push its way into his consciousness.
He tosses and turns at night, finding it difficult to sleep. He
wakes up on the floor one morning, in the bathroom on another,
without any recollection of how he got there. He pauses in
mid-sentence during board meetings, sensing words and phrases
fluttering at the tip of his tongue but remaining maddeningly inarticulate.
Lying in bed with Rita, he suddenly feels like an old,
large animal and loses all desire. He knows something is wrong,
but cannot pinpoint what.
He goes to his doctor for a check-up, but Dr Soni, his family
physician, is unable to find anything wrong. 'All your vital signs are
good, Mohan. The MRI scan is perfectly normal. I believe it is
simply a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.'
'What's that?'
'When someone suffers a traumatic event, like seeing a murder
in front of his eyes, the brain tries to cope with the psychological
stress. This can lead to symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks
and insomnia. I am going to prescribe some sleeping pills. You
should be fine in a week's time.'
Four days later, while Mohan is having his breakfast, Brijlal enters
the kitchen where Shanti is busy whipping yoghurt. He touches
her feet. 'Bibiji, I need your blessings. A boy came to see my
daughter yesterday.'
'Oh, so Ranno is getting married?' Shanti asks in pleasant
surprise.
'Yes, Bibiji. The boy is also from Delhi, belongs to our caste
and, most importantly, is a class four government employee, working
as a peon in the Railway Department. His father is also a peon.
I only hope they don't demand too much dowry. I have made
them my best offer. Let's see if they accept.'
'I am sure things will work out all right,' says Shanti. Taking a
quick peek to see if Mohan is still sitting at the dining table, she
whispers to Brijlal, 'Today your Sahib will be visiting that witch
Rita, won't he?'
'Yes, Bibiji,' Brijlal replies with a nervous grimace, feeling half
guilty himself.
'Just keep a watchful eye on Sahib. See that he eats and drinks
properly. I am worried about his health. He has not been himself
lately.'
'Yes, Bibiji.' Brijlal nods in agreement. 'Even I find his
behaviour rather strange at times.'
'If only he had not met Rita,' Shanti says bitterly. 'Sometimes
I feel like going to her house and asking her why is she so intent
on destroying my family.'
'Don't demean yourself by talking to her, Bibiji,' Brijlal
counsels. 'In God's kingdom, justice may be delayed, but is never
denied. You will see, she will be punished eventually.'
'I hope you are right, Brijlal.' Shanti looks briefly towards the
ceiling and resumes her whisking.
Mohan's office is a depressingly grey building in Bhikaji Cama
Place, a chaotic warren of offices and shops. Finding an empty
parking slot is a daily headache for Brijlal. Today he is forced
to park in the narrow alley behind the Passport Office. After
securing the car, he loiters, chatting with the other
'Look, Shanti.' He raises his index finger. 'We have had this
argument many times. You will get nothing by agonizing over it.
Has Gopi put ice and soda in my bedroom?'
'Yes,' she sighs in resigned acceptance of an imperfect
marriage. 'If you are determined to finish your liver, what can we
do? Go and drink as much as you want.'
'I will,' he says and begins climbing the stairs to the first
floor.
Nearly three weeks pass. The incident in the auditorium becomes
a distant memory for Mohan Kumar. He immerses himself in his
former routine, attending board meetings, examining projects,
advising clients. He accepts the offer of yet another consultancy
on behalf of a corporate house; puts in a round of golf on Sundays
at the Delhi Golf Club and spends two afternoons a week at his
mistress's house. He wills himself to believe that everything is
normal, but cannot shake off a nagging doubt at the back of his
mind. It is like a hazy picture trying to acquire definite shape, a
finger of memory attempting to push its way into his consciousness.
He tosses and turns at night, finding it difficult to sleep. He
wakes up on the floor one morning, in the bathroom on another,
without any recollection of how he got there. He pauses in
mid-sentence during board meetings, sensing words and phrases
fluttering at the tip of his tongue but remaining maddeningly inarticulate.
Lying in bed with Rita, he suddenly feels like an old,
large animal and loses all desire. He knows something is wrong,
but cannot pinpoint what.
He goes to his doctor for a check-up, but Dr Soni, his family
physician, is unable to find anything wrong. 'All your vital signs are
good, Mohan. The MRI scan is perfectly normal. I believe it is
simply a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.'
'What's that?'
'When someone suffers a traumatic event, like seeing a murder
in front of his eyes, the brain tries to cope with the psychological
stress. This can lead to symptoms such as nightmares, flashbacks
and insomnia. I am going to prescribe some sleeping pills. You
should be fine in a week's time.'
Four days later, while Mohan is having his breakfast, Brijlal enters
the kitchen where Shanti is busy whipping yoghurt. He touches
her feet. 'Bibiji, I need your blessings. A boy came to see my
daughter yesterday.'
'Oh, so Ranno is getting married?' Shanti asks in pleasant
surprise.
'Yes, Bibiji. The boy is also from Delhi, belongs to our caste
and, most importantly, is a class four government employee, working
as a peon in the Railway Department. His father is also a peon.
I only hope they don't demand too much dowry. I have made
them my best offer. Let's see if they accept.'
'I am sure things will work out all right,' says Shanti. Taking a
quick peek to see if Mohan is still sitting at the dining table, she
whispers to Brijlal, 'Today your Sahib will be visiting that witch
Rita, won't he?'
'Yes, Bibiji,' Brijlal replies with a nervous grimace, feeling half
guilty himself.
'Just keep a watchful eye on Sahib. See that he eats and drinks
properly. I am worried about his health. He has not been himself
lately.'
'Yes, Bibiji.' Brijlal nods in agreement. 'Even I find his
behaviour rather strange at times.'
'If only he had not met Rita,' Shanti says bitterly. 'Sometimes
I feel like going to her house and asking her why is she so intent
on destroying my family.'
'Don't demean yourself by talking to her, Bibiji,' Brijlal
counsels. 'In God's kingdom, justice may be delayed, but is never
denied. You will see, she will be punished eventually.'
'I hope you are right, Brijlal.' Shanti looks briefly towards the
ceiling and resumes her whisking.
Mohan's office is a depressingly grey building in Bhikaji Cama
Place, a chaotic warren of offices and shops. Finding an empty
parking slot is a daily headache for Brijlal. Today he is forced
to park in the narrow alley behind the Passport Office. After
securing the car, he loiters, chatting with the other
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