Wardrobe Malfunction !

Wardrobe Malfunction...Ah. Those words ! Man or woman, those words jumps out into the consciousness. Images of women clutching at falling dresses assails the voyeur in most all of us. But ah, gentle reader, this one, this blog is about malfunctions of a different kind. One only Indians are afflicted with. Bemused ? Don't be. I refer to the Indian dhoti. As worn by Indian men.

All of sixteen, I was. Travelling with an old highly possessive aunt, who glared at every male who happened to even look our way.  We had just landed at Ahmedabad station with only about fifteen minutes to catch our connecting train to Mumbai. Off we raced behind our spritely coolie, or raced as fast as her old legs and panting heart could carry us. Holding my hand firmly in hers, we trotted along, when suddenly she realised that a man was calling after us. Aunt looked back, consternation giving way to indignation as he waved at her. Clutching my hand tighter still, she forbade me from looking back and tried running faster still.

So off we sailed , trotting as fast as we could behind the coolie, with aunt darting killer looks at the now desperately running after us man.  In spite of myself I looked back. What I saw made me stop in my tracks . Skidding to a halt, dragging aunt also to a stop, I pointed behind us. Pulling at me,  her ranting stopped midway. The poor man's dhoti was caught in aunt's trailing purse. Clutching at his rapidly opening dhoti, the man gave a hard tug, dislodging the errant edge of cloth caught in the hook of  her purse. Glaring at her he whirled away, muttering expletives under his breath. A sheepish aunt tugged at my hand as we carried on towards our train. This time I trailed behind her. You see I was trying to run even as I clutched at my stomach, I was laughing so hard.

The rest of the people travelling with us thought us to be quite mad. Aunt and I. Every few minutes we kept bursting into giggles, aunt wiping tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks now that we were safely ensconced in our train.

Fast forward to 2014. My daughter had just joined college.  The admirable thing about this college was that many differently abled students were given seats.  In her first year, she was highly excited about a guest professor from abroad who would be giving them a lecture that day. He was an Indian and proclaimed himself thus, by his attire. A dhoti and kurta.

Anxious to meet him, she and a friend waited at the gates to catch a glimpse of him as he entered.  Expecting a venerable old man, to their consternation, in strode a youngish man in his thirties. However for some reason he seemed to be rushing in behind a student. Looking at their watches, they wondered why he was hurrying so much when there was still a good fifteen minutes to the lecture.

Their wonder  turned into peals of  quickly stifled laughter as they realised the reason for his haste.
Ahead of him walked a blind student in whose cane was caught that time bomb of a garment, his dhoti.  Fortunately, they reached the foyer where the student halted with the  harried professor in his wake. Catching hold of his shoulder, he made polite conversation with him while surreptiously  pulling his errant garment together.

So gentle reader, now you know why the Indian male abandoned this garment altogether. The imagination boggles at the plight of a local train jam packed with males wearing dhotis and trying to emerge from it with both dhoti and dignity intact !

Yours.. Mine.. Who's...???

The station, Mumbai Central, was its usual chaotic self. Locals,(as in trains) thundering in with throngs of people hanging on for dear life. The masses on the platform desperate to get in, surging ahead. Like grains of sand being brushed off, the train shed its passengers, amongst who was me. Heaving a sigh of relief, straightening my clothes and patting my hair in place i took a second to catch my breath.

Ahead of me people raced towards the exit. Joining them, i wondered why they were veering off into two branches, left and right, much like a  fast flowing river dividing into two before converging to  spew its waters or humans , into the ocean of people outside. Moving involuntarily to the right, thoughts racing faster than my legs, some part of my brain registered shock, horror. The obstacle that was dividing the river was a body. The body of a young man, lying inert on the platform. Withdrawing into myself, more emotionally than physically, i too prepared to race past. Curiosity , inherant in every human being, that which makes us look even while we withdraw  from a situation, a kind of latent guilt at not involving oneself, made almost every person going past, look at the man before rushing past. I, too, found myself looking down as i reached the man. A stranger, a drunk, a victim of violence an almost everyday occurence in our city. I expected to  witness all of this. What i saw, stopped me short. Jostled from behind, yelled at even, for stopping , i dropped down in front of the man. 

The child playing in the mohalla, was a boy of about six. A beautiful child. Gold brown glistening hair. Eyes of the same color. He played quietly, all by himself, running a small car around in circles. His mother, of whom he was a splitting image, sat across keeping a close eye on him. From my perch on my gran's home across, i too sat, reading a book. Compulsively my eyes would be drawn to him now and then. He was that pretty a child.  

After a few days of familiarising ourselves thus, i  exchanged smiles with the mother. I could see that her life revolved around him mostly. She never tired of sitting outside while he played, she fed him with the single minded devotion of a single parent. They would emerge together from the home whenever she went out, and return together. The house they lived in belonged to her mother, who was now too old to do much, except heave great sighs at the misfortune of having  her daughter return after a divorce. The daughter who ran her home for her, who had lived with her for most of her life, except the past eight years or so, was perceived  a burden. In those days, divorces were frowned upon, spoken of in hushed tones. Destiny was cursed, tho, and a home offered reluctantly to the woman, who was divorced and whose husband had abandoned both mother and child to marry again for love. Or lust.

I built up a rapport with both the mother and child. At seventeen, and  vacationing in the back of beyond town of Palanpur, i was studying and in total sympathy for her. The child was delightful. We played hide and seek, catch and cook and marbles. I would buy him biscuits or share a baraf gola with him. He would sit in my lap happily slurping away at the gola, while i hugged him and held him close. Why and how do we develop an affinity for some ? A latent maternal need ? Whatever. He was so easy to love, such a delight to talk to. Such a happy, good, little boy, who, if you loved him, would love you right back.

After the summer holidays were over for me, i left Palanpur. The next time, i returned was a good decade hence. As soon as i stepped into Gran's mohalla, my eyes sought out the lady across. How was the little chap. Surely a handsome teen. Truth be told, he was the one i had thought of often. How was life treating the mother and child ? How were  the two ? To my  great disappointment, the house was locked and barred. Looked uninhabited and ramshackle.

As soon as i could, i tackled Gran. She told me that the mother had remarried. The child she had loved, with all her heart and soul, she had left with her old mother. As time passed I continued to glean information about him. That he had set up shop in Madras. That he had married. Then disturbingly, that he was extorting money from his dad. That he was into drink. He see sawed between ups and downs. At some point he had cleaned up his act. Got married and had kids. I continued to get snippets of news. For a while he was stable. The wife and kids gave new meaning to his tortured life. This didn't last for long however, as he lapsed into drink and even worse.. drugs.

Absorbed in my own life, i relegated him to memory. Having come into some kind of contact with his dad, now married to a distant relative of mine ( his third wife) I knew he was a sober, responsible man. Guilty about his child,( he now had another son ) he bailed him out as often as he could. Sent him to rehab.
The wife, tiring of his misdeeds, left with the kids. Divorce meant he was foot loose and floundering once again.

It was his eyes, that stared at me now. His eyes from his lifeless face. I accompanied the police to the hospital. From there i contacted his father. Unable to come himself, (or was it unwilling to come?)  he asked a distant relative to complete the formalities. The timing was a kind of revenge he had taken on his dad. His half brother was getting married on that day. Dad. And Dead. Ever notice how only a small vow..el.. separates the two.

Two of us. The distant and the not so distant, for had i not always cared..., we took him to the masjid, from where they buried him. I wept then. Wept for a life not wanted, wasted, abandoned. Even by those who had given birth to him.

A Distant Past

 The view from the wimdows was panoramic. The sea, with its vistas of waves.. Ebbing and flowing, horizontally, stretching out endlessly, lay on one side. On the other, there were the skyscrapers. Stretching vertically, again endlessly up..Naina stood at the window, staring  out with unseeing eyes. An eagle soared in the skies, majestically, master of both land and sky. It swept over her head, as she stood. Its wing span, a huge brown blur, broke her reverie. With a start, she came back to the present. Ravi, lay on the bed. Slight snores indicated that he was fast asleep. Nearing the bed, she sat down beside him. Her face softened as she looked at him. In repose, at least, the frown lines were erased, giving his face a boyish look, belying his forty odd years. Tenderly, she touched his soft, black hair, sweeping it gently away from his face. If only, she thought to herself, life had been as idyllic as she had envisaged it. She loved him. Always had, since she had been a little girl and they  had lived and studied in the same neighborhood. When he married Divya, her whole world had come crashing down. Calling upon strengths of reserve she didnt even know she had, she attended his marriage. Died a thousand deaths seeing the elegant but shy bridegroom, so in love with his wife to be.  But even then she had known, somehow, that if she waited long enough, he would be hers.

In her heart she knew. Destiny would not be denied.

The years passed. Was she still in love with him ? She didnt know. All she knew was that she couldnt have stayed in the same city as him. So Mumbai became her new home. Time blurred her images. Of him. Of herself as she had been. Young, heart broken, with zero self confidence. Mumbai, that detached jungle, had been the saving of her. She got absorbed, its tentacles wrapped itself around her and the highs and lows of the stock market, the skills she learnt there put her back on her feet. No affairs for her. Her passion now was her work. As the years passed, she grew. Older, wiser, wealthier

No time for love. Parental pressures not withstanding she was not willing to give up her working life for marriage. At thirty five, everyone including herself, had given up on her getting married.

The day had been a very busy one. The markets had been on an upswing. She looked up as she heard her name being called. Then slowly rose to her feet. He stood there. Much the same, only more handsome with age. The callowness of youth replaced with a casual insouciance. Eyes riveted she could'nt tear them away from him, as he wended his way to her office. They stood smiling at each other, before he drew her into a hug, impulsively.

She dressed carefully that night.  It was her first date ever. With him. She got her reward when on opening the door, she heard him draw in his breath sharply. "You are still the most beautiful woman i know.." he said softly. "Liar." she reproached him.  "But I will admit its good to hear that from you.
You never saw me that way before."



Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. There we were, sitting across each other over a candlelight dinner. Friends from decades.. Yet strangers. Youth then and a mad passion, albeit one sided. A culmination of sorts, after two decades. The conversation flowed easily, like it always had between us. The difference now was the palpable undercurrents, the shaking of my knees, the slight tremor in his hand when he touched mine accidentally. Oh yes , a hitherto absent chemistry was in the
 air.

Reluctantly I asked about his wife. Then stopped him from answering. This evening was mine.. Ours. I was indulging a fantasy.

The night ended with him in my bed. But not quite as imagined. In the bathroom along with nature's call I  attended a  longish call from one of my investors. Emerging in my room I found
him fast asleep. All I had to do was to get in beside him. So why was I whiling time. Why was I not making the vital move.

He moved so that his back was now turned to me. I stared at him, the whole concept of having a naked man in my bed was so alien to me. Did I really want him there ?

The next day we sat across each other , yet again. Unfinished business I lied glibly. I'm really sorry. Maybe we could have dinner again sometime ? When he was next in town ? His eyes bore into mine.. My steady gaze must have convinced him for he left. I switched on the computer. Good gosh! The market was also cartwheeling towards the magic 25000 mark. I pulled my chair closer to the console. Im my heart was a strange kind of surge. Of pure happiness. I was the master of my ship.. The sole custodian of my destiny.

Sacrifice

Vulnerable. Why was I so vulnerable. I stood in front of the mirror, staring bitterly at my reflection. Forty going on twenty eight. Or so people told me, envy writ large on their faces.  If only they knew. Envy was something that ruled my life. That and frustration. Resentment. Guilt. These were my companions. day in and day out.

The mirror showed a petite fair woman. Long straight silken hair pulled back tightly across the nape. The figure was immaculate,  unspoilt by child birth. For I have no children. Married since I was twenty eight. But living the life of a spinster.

When did I lose control of my life ? How insidous is the passage of time.

"Mehwash !" The voice was low, imperious nevertheless. Reverie broken, I was up instantly. Conditioned by years of subjugation. " You are a terrible person, " I told my reflection." That there, is your mum. The lady who after years of suffering endless medical treatments, bore you and your sister. Treatments that savaged her body and left her a chronic asthmatic, a severely overweight diabetic confined to a wheel chair. It wasn't her fault ! None of my wasted life could be her fault. For I, as a responsible adult had made my choices. Now I was living them.

Entering the dark room, I snapped on the lights. "Ma ! " I said, a trifle rebukingly," At least leave one light on. " Her voice, initially cold, snapped, " You have to remember and switch them on, right ?" Then, " You will have to call the servant, my pamper has to be changed. I tried ringing the bell, but she never hears it, does she ?"

Contrite, I bent by her bed. "Turn over Ma," I said gently. "I'll do it. "

"What do you pay her for, why cant she stay by my bed ? You know I hate for you to do these things." Her voice was angry, the frustration evident, as was the helplessness.

"I don't mind ma, you know that. " As I finished and rose, I could see the tears in her eyes. Bending over and hugging her close, I allowed a few of my own tears to fall unseen, before I composed myself. " Shh. Don't cry ma. I know you love me, I do too. We don't need anyone else, when we have each other, right ? Hey, you know what happened today ? Aisha mausi fell down while chasing the pigeons ! " Ma was aghast. "What ! Sit here and tell me all about it." So began our evening gossip session. Soon, she was laughing animatedly, while I sat beside her,  assembling her nebuliser. It was easy to distract ma. After all I had a decade of experience handling her.

 After she was asleep, I retreated to my room. Book in hand, I tried to read, but found myself drowning in reverie. It hadn't always been like this.  Growing up, with my sister for company, mum had been sickly. Multiple miscarriages, and infertility treatments left her bloated and overweight. But she managed to lavish all her care and attention on us. Our childhood had been near idyllic. Holidays abroad, a wonderful holiday home near the sea, where we holidayed almost every week end. Dad, who is a doctor himself, made sure we studied well. Shaheen was now a qualified orthodontist, I had a degree in chartered accountancy. Earned after dedicated backbreaking study. A colossal waste. Of studies, time, finance. For all I ever did with it .

Then came the proposal. He was a young chartered accountant. He had seen a photograph of me from a cousins marriage and he was taken by me. So was I when he came home with his mum to meet us. The marriage happened a year later. On my wedding night, I sat on the marital bed, a shy , coy, bride. For that night I had forgotten my sick mother. She had cried, had been crying from  many days. More at the thought that now she would be at the mercy of the servants, I sometimes thought cynically, immediatly feeling guilty and torn. For I was worrying about her too.

A year after, Akram dropped the bombshell. He had been offered a job in Dubai. A fantastic salary and all the perks of a job working for one of the biggest realtor in Dubai. He looked at my face as he announced his decision to take it up. My face lighted up. Away from the confines of family, I still spent a good part of the day at my mother's home. I would finally be able to set up my own home. Maybe even take up a job and have a fulfilling career ! Oh, I was happy, as we lay awake that night discussing our future. Both he and i loved travel. We would explore Europe, the world, before we had children. I slept that night blissed out with my dreams. The only cloud on my horizon was the thought of my mother.

Entering her room, I paused. Was she asleep ? I was just about to retreat quietly, when she spoke, "Come in, beta.  you are late today." I sat beside her, took her hand in mine. "Ma, I have great news ! Akram has got a job in Dubai ! " Full of my happiness, I lay down beside her, airing my dreams. So full of myself  was I that I didn't notice her lack of response. Suddenly I realised that she was still. Too still. Leaning over to see her face, I saw that it was ashen, The eyes closed. Yelling for the nurse, I cannoned out of the room, grabbed my cell phone, calling the emergency numbers. Soon the ambulance wailed into the lane, mother was taken to hospital. "The heart attack was  almost fatal. We managed to save her this time. Good you were with her, Mehwash. " The doctors voice was grim. The recovery was not easy. Ma turned even more fatalistic and cranky. I had to stay with her almost continuously, as she would not tolerate anyone else caring for her.

Akram was understanding. At first. We decided he would go alone. After he settled in, I would follow. As soon as Ma improved.  The day he left was the bleakest day of my life. Never had I been so torn. Ahead was a life full of promise. Behind was my sick mother.

The months turned into years. Each time I approached my dad or my sister, they would beg me to stay just that much longer. Busy with their flourishing careers, they balked at the thought that they would have to handle ma.

Akram meanwhile, grew more distant. The once a day phone calls turned into once a week, then once a month. Then came the letter seeking my consent. For him to take a second wife. I cried for weeks. My agitated family now decided that I should join him as soon as I could. Shock sank in when he refused to have me join him. He was in love and was willing to divorce me. Fearing the shock would be too great for my mother, the family decided to let things stay as they were.

Here I was then. "Main aur meri tanhaai, aksar ye baatein kartey hain...." Amitabh Bachhan's deep tenor resonated from the television. What would he know about this gut wrenching loneliness I carried in my heart..
   

Capsule of a Life..

She stood towering over me. When i dared to look up, i could see only her thick dark legs with the prominent varicose veins, before i lowered my gaze again. All of five, it was my first day at school. Twenty odd students, of which i was one. That day i discovered that drawing was not going to one of my skills. She was the drawing teacher and she had commanded us to draw a... a Chilly ! Which for the life of me i couldn't.. my hand was shaking so much. Thankfully the bell rang before my turn came to display the sorry squiggle that i had drawn, which i would have had to display to the class ! We were herded out to the water taps, where in this room milk was served to all the children. Big mugs which we had to down before we were allowed to file back to class.

Lunch hour. Nobody told me that it was that, and that school was not over. There i sat, weeping silent tears, on the bench, before i heard her sweet voice. My sister. whom i had presumed had left without me, and gone home. She sat down beside me, held my hand in hers and opened my tiffin box, assuring me all the while that she would never leave without me. Smiling broadly thru the tears, i made short work of the biscuits before happily bounding off to class when the bell rang.

The rickshaw ride back home was fun. Both of us climbed into the first available one and off we went. After having paid him the princely sum of fifteen paise, we embarked and rushed up to the home and mum.

Welland Gould Smith. My first school. Where the fees were something in the region of thirty odd rupees.

And so we studied. I until class seven, ben until ten. For some such paltry sum. Then first sis shifted then i did to Calcutta Girls High School. Nearer home and walking distance. Our Principal there was an American. A fine lady always accompanied by her fierce dog, Mesca. Not that she needed one, because all us girls were already in awe of and highly intimidated by her. A tall lady, sparkling eyes glinting behind her spectacles, who mwas queen of her domain, indeed of all that she surveyed. You never knew when you would meet her, around which corner of school. When first i went for admission with my dad, i was a shoo in.. "Oh, Tasneem's sister."  And admission was that easy. In those days. I was bad at maths, scraped thru with a woeful 45% in the boards, ICSE in class ten. Topped in English with 90, though. But then, we studied in candlelight most days, because of six and seven hour power cuts that lasted entire nights sometimes. I remember working on problems at twelve at night, with two candles on either side of my desk. I, who was normally in bed by eight p.m. No Television, and the government made sure our night vision was honed !
Taking tuitions was a big NO. An insult, because only very poor students took them, and that too was hushed and never spoken of publicly !

In spite of the pathetic marks, i ended up in class eleven, with maths and science as my subjects, the aim being to give the medical entrance exams, which dad had decided we both would give. My pathetic math scores put paid to those plans. But i greatly enjoyed my years at CGHS. I was one of about eighteen students! We were thick pals. Our group consisting of a punjabi, two sindhis, one bengali, a south indian, a christian, a marwari, and a muslim, myself ! Talk of national integration. We ate greedily from each others tiffins, organised parties and raffles, even a junk sale, and sold drinks, rasna, at break times, thanx to our enterprising President, and my best chum.

Winter was in the air when i casually strolled into school, wearing my black cardigan, as we called sweaters in those days. Early October. Until January. Climate change ? Whoever heard of it. The P word had not been sighted as yet. The ozone layer was very much intact and the world rotated along peacefully, as did ours. We were nor scared to walk the roads, and as children played happily and safely together, while our parents went about their work. Books were our sole companions. Pods meant peas, and pads meant periods! For music we tuned radios and fine tuned them to 'catch' our favorite stations. Hippies were the rebels, and only the beatles really made us go weak in the knees. Junk food ? Was ice creams on sundays, and if dad was feeling relly indulgent a coke, to which i always preferred a pineapple drink. Then we went home, dad climbing the stairs, with his two girls giggling atop his shoulders !  

The Intrigue

He lay on the floor. His body arranged neatly. His shirt straightened as if by a loving hand. His brown locks falling on his forehead, covering up the wound inflicted by the gun. He must have been a handsome man when alive, in his early forties. His eyes looked unseeingly at the ceiling, his face frozen in an expression of surprise. A woman knelt beside him, weeping uncontrollably.

"Cut ! " The director's voice restored the normal chaos to the sets as everyone started to prepare for the next shot. The actress got up, dusted her knees, looking at the director enquiringly, " Mr. Suresh, was the shot good ? " Then, after noting his absent minded nod, she turned to her co star. " C'mon, Vij, get up." As she extended a helping hand, something stopped her in her tracks. The hole that covered his hair, was not visible, but a small dark red trickle, still oozing ominously, was spreading on the floor. As she bent to peer closely, she looked at his face, ashen now, then screamed and scrambled to her feet. Within seconds, the entire disbelieving set was crowded around the actor. For he was not play acting anymore. Never would. He was dead.

 Inside his dressing room, the wife sat, staring blankly at the walls. Simone appeared bewildered, in shock. Having been married just three months ago to the man of her dreams, she was the object of great sympathy. Her face though swollen with tears, was still unbelievably pretty. Black curls framed a small heart shaped face. Great luminous eyes, sparkled like champagne, her small upturned nose crinkled when she smiled. Love at first sight. He had been the handsome hero. She, the famed, powerful, directors daughter. A match made in heaven.

Hysteria having finally subsided, Richa, the main female lead sat in her dressing room. Her face was streaked with mascara, sweat and tears having wreaked their havoc on her face.
"The shot required me to race into his room after i hear a gunshot. When i run onto the stage, i see him lying on the ground dead," (here she paused and broke into sobs ). Recovering again, after a sip of water, she continued. "I sink to my knees in disbelief, then weep long and loud in shock. I did just that. I heard the sound of a shot and after counting fifty, I was supposed to run up to the bedroom from the hall below,  i ran onto the stage. Seeing him lying on the floor, i was concentrating on my part, and rushed forward to complete the scene as i had been told to do. I.. I did not realise that he.. he was actually dead. It was only after the director cut the scene, that i realised that there was something very still, unnatural in the way that he lay on the floor... That he was not getting up, or moving.." With this she dissolved into tears again. Patting her shoulder consolingly, the detective moved away from the room, into the corridor, where the wife sat. Towering over her stood her father, a giant of a man, belligerantly barking orders into his cell phone...

Dear readers,
 Here i leave you. Tantalised i hope. Enough to complete the story ? Just give me the killer and the motive. Or else i will . But only after i receive a few solutions to this christiesque mystery. Go on. The cleverer the answer, the more votes you get.. Clue ? It has to be one of the characters already introduced.


And now for the solution.

The detective, Binod, sat back with a sigh. Why couldn't the murder be as simple as my dear reader suggests, simple . Straight out of CID. For the simple reason that there was no proof of the motive.

Recreating the events of those crucial hours had been difficult. The man had seemingly been absolutely alone when he had shot himself. Then the obvious conclusion was to be a clear cut case of suicide. If only the hole where the bullet had entered had been on the right sight. It wasn't. The man was right handed, as vouched by hundreds of ardent fans who had his autographs. So the hole should have been to the right . How would a right handed man put a gun to the left temple to take his life ? So maybe it was not as clear cut as the murderer wanted it to be. The problem lay in unearthing the witnesses. For the present suffice it that  all everyone knew was that he had committed suicide.


"Can I come in sir," the quiet voice belonged to the man who was responsible for the stage lights. "Ah yes, " Binod looked up to see a small neat looking man, fortyish, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, standing at the door. "Sit down, Satish. " He sat looking a trifle nervously at the detective. "According to your statement here, you were sitting on a small platform above the stage, from where you had a birds' eye view of the stage." Leaning forward, Binod looked into his eyes. Was it his imagination or did he see a slightly alarmed look in them, before he looked quickly away. "Tell me what you saw."

"Sir, I...I already told your detective, I was taking a toilet break, after I had finished my end of the work. It was only a rehearsal after all. I... I left soon after Vijay entered the stage. I.. I am diabetic you see. I need to er.. go often."

"What did he look like, any signs of nervousness, desperation ? "

The technician shifted uneasily on his chair. "No, sir. Not that  I saw. He was concentrating on the script that he held in his hand. Absorbed in reading it.

"What about the pistol ? "

"I thought I saw it in his hands. He seemed to be twirling it around in his hand."

The detective sat back in his chair, making a few notes. "Anything else that you might have noticed ? Who else was on the stage apart from him ? "
"I didn't see anyone else, sir."

"That's it then. You may go. " This time the relief on his face was palpable. He rose hurriedly to leave.

"Just a moment. You said you saw nothing. Perhaps you heard something ?" The tension on his face was back. He sank down onto the chair. " N... Nothing , sir. Nothing !"

"Then why are you so nervous ? Why did you sit down again ? " The detective's voice grew stern. Loud.

"Tell me what it was that you heard. A conversation, a noise ? Tell me !"

"I...It..It was maybe my imagination.." Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. " as I was leaving the stage, I heard someone  climbing the stairs to the stage.  It's made of wood and there are loose boards from years of wear and tear. I remember being surprised, only Vij was supposed to be on the stage. Then I heard a small thud, and a soft curse. As if someone had dropped something. Unfortunately I was in too much of a hurry to think too much of it. I left." He looked down embarrassedly.
   
"Who do you think it was, did you hear the voice ?"

He paused at the door, turned and replied slowly, " It sounded like a female voice. I thought it was probably Richa since she was due on stage next. " Having said that, he realised the enormity of the implication and swabbing at the copious amounts of sweat on his face, he stammered," i...i.. don't mean it THAT way, of course, just just a guess sir. No, no it cant have been her, just my imagination." Still shaking his head, he quickly retreated thru the half open door.

Binod sighed. Getting up from his chair, he paced the room, brow furrowed in concentration as he reflected on what he had heard. A knock on the door had him sink back into his chair.

The Authority Figure

Crash !

The noise reverberated in the stillness of the afternoon. Awoken from her siesta, she bounded towards the kitchen, from where the noise had come. As she burst thru the door, her eyes widened in disbelief, no! shock! The chicken curry she had laboured over all morning lay strewn over the floor. As she swung around to berate the maid, she saw instead Ammaji, her mother in law, eyes dilated in horror, palm held over mouth as if to stifle a scream, cowering in the corner. Taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart and boiling mind, she took a wash cloth, bent over the mess and started mopping up. Once there was space enough to walk out, and her urge to shout had subsided a little, she stood up. "Koi nahi, maaji. Chaliye aap kamre main under." As she took the old ladies hand, she could feel her it trembling within hers. She herself was feeling angry, then sorry in turns for both of them. "What happened, Maji.?" she couldn't resist asking, keeping her voice low, her initial fury abating at the old lady's distress. "I...I thought..I ought to help you.. You.. you have guests for dinner, and all that cooking to do.. I make those curries.. always.. so.." she trailed off apologetically. "I'll manage, ma. You relax. Just lie down for a while. " so saying she helped the old lady to her bed, helped her lie down. As she turned to leave, maji caught her hand, the look in her eyes made her cringe with sorrow, sympathy, hell.. pity. "I'm of no use now no, beta. What will you do now that i spilled all of it. I so wanted to help, you know.." she tailed off, a tiny tear spilling from her eyes, and trickling down the wrinkled cheek.....

The marriage rituals had just gotten over. The young bride, looked a trifle warily, at the imposing figure standing at the threshold, surveying her almost critically, waiting to welcome her into her new home. Tall and statusque, she stood. Clad in a blood red saree, Durgaesque, huge bindi over big kohl lined eyes, she was easily the most authoritative figure in the room. The most striking too. The archtypal Mother-in -law. As the young bride met her mother in laws eyes, she swallowed. How on earth would she fit in. But as the mother in law helped her cross the threshold, she saw her eyes mist, and somehow she was reasssured.

Life had not been easy. Easily the authority figure, nothing happened in the home, that was not approved by her. From the everyday menu, and the household accounts, to the naming of her grandchildren, and the welcoming of guests, she was second in command. Always the 'bahu raani ', she thought bitterly. Young and educated she strained at the leash. Many a conflict arose because her husband would not hear of separating from his parents. After one such row, she was summoned into the presence of her father-in-law. A mild, gentle man, she never heard him raise his voice with anybody. He had long ago relenquished the house to his efficient wife, acting as mediator or judge only in rare circumstances.

"Beti, are you happy here ?" was his first question. She looked up, shocked. "Yes, baba, why wouldn't I be?" "Are you sure you wouldn't like to live in a separate household," The question came from the shadows. The voice was that of Maaji. She looked up stricken. "No ma. It's just that.." She paused. "No one ever asks my opinion or lets me make even small decisions. I feel i am of no use, I exist in name alone...She stopped, thinking she had gone too far, her outburst would be misconstrued as rebellion. "I see. Would you like to come to work at the office ?" The question took her by surprise. "Yes, oh yes baba ! " Her face lighted up as she looked at them. "From tomorrow. Would you like to work in liasion ? Or some other department of your choice ? So it was agreed and so life took a new turn for the 'bahurani '...

Life became easier. She easily took over her role as business woman, earning the respect of the men folk in the house. Her mother inn law however remained just that. Home was her territory plainly, as she continued to be the ultimate authority consulted for all things big and small.. Sometimes there was a stand off between them, subtle, simmering differences. For the sake of peace, the younger always retreated, by doing so relinquishing whatever little authority she did have.

The death of babuji, came as a great shock. Having come to know him well over the years, she had grown to love him for the gentle, understanding, father who always sought her opinion and consent on all business matters that she dealt with. Greater than her shock was that of her mother in law's. She went into a deep mourning from which she emerged after the mandatory four months. Having come to terms with her loss, she was now determined to transfer her affections to her son. Hawk like she oversaw his meals, his clothes, even berating the children if they ate what had been left for him.. This led to friction between the two women, the younger resenting the older still more, now that she was encroaching on her territory.. At the slightest hint of a dispute, the older woman's eyes glimmered with unshed tears, hurriedly causing the younger to retreat. Emotional blackmail was not something she could handle.

The heart attack when it came was sudden. The hospitalisation and the ensuing rest period affected the house drastically. She had to leave the office, and take over household duties, which caused her great anguish, for by now, her office was her refuge, her second home. Mundane duties of the home had her frustrated. The dowager, even though sick, tried to enforce her own opinions and methods of working, which irked the bahu even more. Each was frustrated and cried great tears, alone in their rooms. The former at having to leave her bastion, her home. The latter at having to juggle home and mother in laws tantrums and dictates. Even the servants, kept reverting to the elder lady not wanting to get into her bad books.

Slowly, the wheels of time rolled along. The old lady got back onto her feet. Admit it or not, her authority helped greatly to restore some semblance of normalcy. She took over the supervising of the kitchen, which freed the younger woman to work from the home, for which she was grateful, but still unwilling to let go of all authority. There was a compromise of sorts, a slow reversal of roles. Perceiving her as as the paymaster, the household now looked upon the younger as the ultimate authority. Slowly the older lady backed off, retreating into her prayers, only sometimes battling the winds of change. Her relationship with her bahu was cordial but distant. The finely etched line of formality always keeping her at arms length..

With a sigh, she bent over the stove. Having restored the old lady to her room and wiping her tears, for the first time in her life she had hugged her. They cried together, then having reassured her she could substitute the curry with a daal, she had hurried back to the kitchen. As she worked feverishly to restore order, she couldn't help but reflect.. Hadn't she always sub consciously battled to win the old lady's affections, her respect. To be regarded and treated as an equal. Maybe she had never truly appreciated her. Maybe the spilt curry was a small price to pay..