Chapter Three

The talented Arabian mosquitoes were practicing the sixth symphony. That was my signal to wake up. I looked at the watch: seven past. I had to prepare the project report which must be on the collector’s table by nine in the morning, if I honestly expected the funds to be released on time. Crossing to the table, I pulled the attaché towards me while lighting a cigarette.

The St. Peter’s country liquor shop is in downtown Kochi, between the old railway over-bridge and the ESI Dispensary road, where the distance between the two is the narrowest. Looking around, I nodded smilingly at the familiar faces. Most of them, like me were regulars at the pub. After completing the report and finishing a cold shower, attired in a new pair of clothes, I had gone to the printer at Kacheripady to return the proof of the monthly journal. Coming out of there I had crossed to MG Road and walked past Shenoy’s theater to reach the auditor. After thirty minutes with him, I was here for the customary dose.

 Gulping down the seventh dose of the night, I beckoned the maître d'hôtel, who was outfitted in a 1970 model lungi and a stomach-churning banyan. He hurried over with the eighth and poured it into the glass. Staring into the glass I asked, a little surprised, “When did you hang my photo in this?” Shaking the head sadly, he was about to take off when I caught his hand, “Why would Hitler gift a Mercedes Benz to a small time king, far away from Berlin?”

The maître d'hôtel looked at me in a pensive mood before saying philosophically, “I think the king was his wife’s boy-friend.”

I nodded. That could be a possibility, but then recalled that Eva Braun was Hitler’s wife only for a few hours. For sixteen years she had performed her noble duties as his mistress, the wedlock coming merely a few hours before the cyanide. I shook the head: the motive was something else.

After the tenth dose, the decision was easy to make: I’d go to Kathmandu and find out the mystery behind the car. Besides Hitler and the car, there was also the fact that I hadn’t had a vacation in ages. I decided to take advantage of the mystery.

Taking out the ATM slip from the wallet, I pored over it painstakingly: eighty four thousand, five hundred and seven- my entire savings! I looked towards the ceiling. The maître d’hôtel looked at me with concern. I waved a few notes at his face and that brightened him up.

Coming out of the collectorate, I rushed to Indian Coffee House at Jose junction for the routine vadai sambar. Parking the scooter, I glanced at the mobile. Twelve.

While waiting for the vadai, I recalled the meeting with the collector. According to him, it would take at least thirty days for the funds to be released. It meant that I was free for thirty days.    Even though the night decision was taken under the influence of booze, I had to admit that there was some merit to it. Surely, I needed a break. The big problem was money. Out of the eighty thousand or so, I would need twelve for the house loan, office rent and Raju’s salary. That would leave me with a little over seventy. I must also make a trip to Gwalior to settle some accounts there. I did some mental computation and arrived at the handsome sum of fifty thousand for the ticket and ten days stay. I added another ten for unexpected and unknown expenses. The total figure stood at sixty thousand.

It was at thirty six thousand feet above Bihar level, aboard the Air India Airbus, I realized that the car and the break were not the only reasons I was at this height. There was the Nalini factor too. Some mysterious force was pulling me towards her. At that time I was not to know that I would soon come face to face with this Mysterious Force. Then a second thought struck me; I had no information about her whereabouts; no contact number, no contact person, nothing. I looked towards the exit door but hastily shook the head: leaping out from such a height was no solution. Closing the eyes and leaning back, I recalled our last meeting.

It was the annual closing day. After submitting the answer sheets I came out to an almost deserted hallway. Most of the students had left to celebrate the dying moments of student life. The yelling and the roars of the recess times were replaced with grim silence.

She was sitting on the floor, opposite the English department, the head resting against the grubby pillar. Collecting my books from the rack, I sat beside her.

“How was the paper?” she asked.

“So, so; ‘activities of the West Wind under the water’ though was an unexpected question. How did you fare?”

“It was okay,” the tune betrayed her lack of interest.

We sat silently, watching the gardener moving around in the botanical garden.

“Did you see Srestha sir?” she asked.

“No; I will, before I go,” I said.

“Come, he will be in the department now,” she got up and I followed.

As we crossed the lawn towards the English department, she looked at the bundle of books in my hand and took it from me.

The meeting with the HOD lasted less than five minutes. He was warm and pleasant, and wished all the best for our future. I watched as she touched his feet to stay bent for a few seconds.

Coming out, I followed her to the end of the passage where we climbed the wooden stairs and walked towards the Chemistry lab. The first floor was uninhabited except for the lab assistant who was putting a key to the door to seal it for the next two months. He looked at us as we approached. She gave him the regal stare to force his eyes down, and we passed him towards the other end of the passage where there was another set of wooden stairs going down. We sat on the third step, her left shoulder touching my right shoulder.

Opening the shoulder bag, she took out a small box, wrapped in aluminum folio. As she opened it on her lap, I saw four samosas and some jelebi. She broke a piece of samosa, added some jelebi and put it in my mouth.

“The taste may not be great; I made it,” she said while breaking another piece.

I was about to take a piece to feed her, when it came to my mind that it was a Monday. Mondays were fasting days for her.

As she pushed the third samosa into my mouth, I appealed for mercy.

With a poignant smile, she kept the box between her feet. Then, turning to me, she raised the hem of the top, exposing the creamy stomach and wiped my lips.

“When are you going?” she asked, resting the head on my shoulder.

“Thursday.”

“Alone?”

I nodded.

“Flying?”

I shook the head, “To Rexaul by bus; passenger to Samastipur, then Toofan Express    to Howrah ; from there, the Coromandel Express to Madras and finally Trivandrum Mail to Cochin,” I said.

“How many days will it take to reach Cochin?” she asked.

 “A week,” I said.

“It is great to be a man, isn’t it?” it was a wishful voice.

The strands of her soft hair were beating against my face. I had this irresistible urge to hold her in the hands. With the right hand, I drew her to me. Words were redundant as we sat that way for several minutes.

“You know, when you come next, you won’t be allowed to hold me like this,” there were hints of resentment in her voice.

I didn’t let the emotions come up, for I knew that they would serve no purpose other than hurting her further.

“You will return, won’t you?” she asked uneasily.

I nodded.

“You must come to see me; wherever I am,” she said, the voice quivering slightly.

I squeezed her shoulder.

Taking the bundle of books she said, “I will keep this.”

I took out the pen and passed it to her.

As we descended the stairs, she asked, “What time is your bus?”

“Six in the morning.”

She sighed faintly before saying, “You know, I won’t be there to see you off. Papa doesn’t leave house till eight.”

Silently, we walked out of the C wing.

Her father’s black Toyota Lexus was parked outside the Vice- Chancellor’s secretariat. For a brief second, she stood alarmed, holding on to my shoulder. I could feel her slight tremour running through me. Then, gathering courage she released me before walking towards the car.

As I stood watching, he came out of the VC’s office and marched briskly towards the sedan, reaching it in a few strides. I could see her talking intently to him. She gestured me to come near.

“Papa, Alexei is going,” she said looking towards me.

I saw his lips twitching as he disappeared inside, without even a glance at me.

We gazed into each other’s eyes for a brief second before she got in. The pain in those eyes was to haunt me for many years.

It was Thursday and I was at the Kathmandu Bus Terminal. Father was giving last minute instructions as I took my seat in the luxury bus. Taking out the leather purse from the back pocket, he thrust a few more Indian currencies into my hand. Something stirred in my heart as I watched the creased and pokerfaced face.

Across the road was parked the yellow, turtle shaped Volkswagen, its dark glasses rolled up. I read the bold and crimson letters on the glass, probably written with lipstick: ‘IT HURTS.’ As the bus moved forward, I waved towards it, the hot tears blurring everything.

As Indians don’t need a visa or a passport to enter Kathmandu, there wasn’t any mention-worthy delay at the airport. Coming out of the Tribhuvan International, I inhaled the cool Himalayan air before heading towards the taxi stand.

As the taxi sped past the Army Officer’s Golf Course I looked around and wondered what had happened to the city of my university days. Earlier the place was known for its calm and serenity but now it was a bustling city with people jostling for space and approach.  The flashy assortments of modernity were everywhere to be seen. The innumerable trees and flowery plants that had once adored the roadsides had given way to bigger roads and huge commercial buildings. As the car raced forward, it was getting clear that the city that was once hailed for its healthy climate, green cover and laidback attitude had been overtaken by traffic snarls, increasing pollution and garbage crisis. 

I asked the driver to drop me at the old King’s Way, an avenue behind the American Embassy where I knew I could find some cost-effective accommodation.

I checked into a bearable hotel, and after being dormant for about an hour, came out. I wandered aimlessly towards the British Council Library before taking a U-turn to walk straight towards Dilli Bazaar. Ambling leisurely to the end of the crowded street, I took the right turn to enter Putali Sadak.

Opening the gate, I entered the compound. I looked at the new and sprawling annexes before raising the eyes towards the concrete cross above the church. There wasn’t anybody around, so thought of going for the calling bell before stopping abruptly. Shaking the head, I retraced my steps and walked away after closing the iron-gate.

Though it was only seven, the night was getting chilly. I had been walking for about sixty minutes and now was at New Street, near Nasal Chowk. Once thought to be the enchanted and inaccessible Shangri-La of Kathmandu, the Nasal Chowk was the proud owner of unparalleled beauty and keeper of ancient secrets and mysteries.

I tugged the leather jacket closer and looked at the neon boards declaring drinks and food. I nodded to the nearest one.

This time, the decision was made after the second dose of Nepalese booze: I would go to the mansion at Patan, confront the colonel and ask him politely if he would be kind enough to lead me to his daughter. I knew that he was nearing seventy and toothless to harm me, especially in the changed set-up where royals were not as awesome as they were in the past. I got a pat on the back for the brilliant inspiration, and as a mark of celebration tossed down three more doses.