Chapter 1
Mrunalini leaned her head back; the roof was vacant, tapping the cigarette with her forefinger, awash in a moment of brief contemplation, stared smilingly at a crack that zigzagged across the ceiling. With her long, slender legs rested on the arm of a pale brown wooden chair, she reached for her coffee mug by the glass topped table beside her. Mopping her forehead off the morning mist that clung to her, how blissful and divine, she thought, to begin her day with an insouciant walk to the flower shop at the end of the street.
Nithin, the man in the shop was besotted with her; with high cheek bones, blunt nose, dark curly hair, thick eye brows and eyes that peep out of deep sockets, he was no match for her. With his uncouth mannerisms, unkempt hair, ill shaven beard, brazen and earthy looks, smitten as he was; fell for Mrunalini’s urbane nature, charming grace and sublime beauty. Freckled skin, milky white complexion, pointed nose, long eye brows, violet eyes, sharp eye lashes-her features, members of the family noted, were the result of the happy communion between Indian father and British mother.
Nithin cast furtive glances at her; the other day, she was collecting roses, after carefully examining them- she would bring each rose to her nose, smell and drop it in her basket. With parched lips, he uttered something about the roses being fresh. With eye brows arched and forehead puckered, she glanced enquiringly at him; her countenance that of disbelief, those were the first words he ever spoke to her.
Presently, his voice interrupted her train of thought. Apparently, he was closing shop for the day and would sell the flowers at a discounted price. From the first floor balcony, with her elbows rested on the parapet, she lowered her basket, and in the process knocked off a white sock and a pink ribbon that she clipped to the black coated iron grills for drying them up. With the feeling of a fisherman who had been fishing for days and only now felt life pulling hard at the hook, he at once left the basket and caught his bounty in mid air. Mrunalini sank her face into the cusp of her palms; with her lovely orange face firmly lodged in the embrace of her palms clasped together, rapping her temples melodically with her long apricot fingers, she sympathised with him. He was brandishing valiantly her white sock in one hand, pink ribbon in another; but the flower basket was upside down; its contents lay beside it, on the ground. The Romeo in dishevelled clothes, picked roses and realising that the rope was torn, took the stairs to meet Juliet upstairs. Mrunalini, with a faint smile, thanked Nithin, who was drawing circles with his curled toes on the ground.
She methodically replaced the dry roses in the flower vase perched on the glass top table with the fresh ones.
Chapter 2
It was Sunday, Mrunalini woke up late. Her dog Marian was pawing at the front door, there was a bang; an object whirled at the front door followed by a soft thud. This excited Marian, she was restless; Mrunalini, with a tooth brush in her mouth opened the door to let Marian out. She was named after Marian Evans, one of the greatest English writers of the Victorian era, better known by her pen name George Eliot. Mrunalini’s library was filled with all sorts of books; most of them she bequeathed from her mother.
‘The Hindu’ was lying on the door mat, Mrunalini went inside with the newspaper in her hand, and quickly rolled her eyes over the headlines- ‘Sachin scores 200 in ODIs’, a certain gloom invaded her sleepy eyes, her dark pupils retreated and tears formed circles over the pale blue iris of her eyes. Her long eye lashes drooped forcing the burden of her heart inside, cheeks were flushed with red, grief left her stiff as timber, tears welled and her eyes swelled. ‘How can I ever get over this bereavement’ she thought- caught up in bad weather, plane in which both her parents were returning to India after visiting her maternal grandparents, crashed into The Atlantic. Dad was an ardent fan of Sachin, glued to the television; he would sit his daughter and say ‘that man has been a legend since the day he was born’.
White frock, silver running all along the hem; Mrunalini was eight years old in that picture. Her mother Vivian took her to a garden, seated Mrunalini among yellow lilac flowers embroidered atop thin stalks with flirtatiously long leaves that covered the ground-she reminded one of Alice form the wonderland. Leaves on the ground, lying on their curved backs, looking pale and dead, made her sad.
Marian was barking outside. It was Nithin; he was leaving to Charminar, would she need anything? Marian was pawing a moth vigorously, she would smell the moth from a distance, very hesitantly, then withdraw sharply and beat the moth with his right paw. The moth lay motionless on its back with its legs curled up inside; Marian resorted to smelling, she sneezed on it, pushed it with her nose, but the moth lay frigid. After thorough examination, Marian put an end to her notoriety, sat vigilantly for a while to make sure that the moth won’t entertain her any more; turned to her master finally, as if to seek an expert opinion on moth’s status. To Mrunalini’s surprise, the moth spread its legs behind Marian’s back. Oh! But what a pity, the moth was sweating it out; its back was curved and unable to get on its feet. Marian was still not aware of the moth’s subterfuge, he was calmly watching, entranced, at Nithin’s sack that smelled of marigolds. Meanwhile, the moth got back on its feet, pulled its wings open and flew; perhaps it was injured, for it crashed headlong into the elevator’s door. Marian was quick on her feet, and she gulped the bugger down. ‘No, she did not want anything, but thanks for asking anyways’. Nithin left, a little disappointed.
Her current project, Mrunalini thought, was the most important of all the projects she worked on hitherto. As a freelance writer, her travel writings on India, humorous articles on Indian politics and cookery found place in notable magazines and websites. The present piece on influence of parents on their children for ‘India Today’, she held it in great respect.
Chapter 3
The office walls were pale brown in colour; roof was leaking at the intersection and damping the walls on which it lay; a mud pot with ornamental work on its narrow head was lying on its side in the dark attic; beside it was a room full of broken furniture, a wooden chair with one leg intact and another hanging limp, over it a table legless. Nithin stuck his neck into the dark room, it smelt of damp wood, there were roaches and rats, overhead clinging from the ceiling were bats. There was a window to one side of the room; overlooking the window was a guava tree, leaves of which were rapping at the broken glass panes of the window. Rusted grills were dripping slimy yellow grease from the cleaning cloth resting on the sill; there was a man outside holding a screw driver in his hand. Overlooking the window were a line of jeeps and an old ambassador. Two of the jeeps were practically useless even to sell for scraps of metal, ones in the sun had no roofs to cover them, no seats inside, and springs were staring outside with no cushions to guide them into sockets. The office compound was dilapidated to say the least; tall trees with trunks huge enough to crack the compound walls shaded the ambassador and a couple of jeeps.
‘Surendra’ shouted a voice from the room behind Nithin, and was duly attended by a surly old man with weak spine, lean limbs, grey shirt and torn trousers. A lady walked outside holding her handbag with great care, tucked in her armpit, she covered it with her sari’s loose end. She was greeted by the doorman and the lady produced two ten rupee notes for him from the top of her yellow blouse. Nithin stepped into the room from which the woman left, a man in his forties was sifting between heaps of files on his desk; a green metallic cabinet to his side had more files in it; a plastic pen holder, a steel glass and a red sketch pen lay on his writing pad; a calendar pinned to the wall behind him had a date circled in red- 2nd March 2010.
The man had a round face, plump cheeks, neatly trimmed moustache, eyes brimming with life, sleek eyebrows; his dark thick hair was parted midway. He combed his hair with a small comb that he pulled out of his shirt pocket; heavy spectacles with brown frame burdened the pocket, a Reynolds pen handsomely hung to the short pocket. Flower boke for the Deputy Director’s retirement, the officer referred to his calendar; the date with red circle on it, week from now. Nithin indicated that he would charge a reasonable amount. The bespectacled man adjusted his frame in agreement.
‘Chari Saab’ yelled the man with screw driver, but the old Bajaj Chetak’s engine roar muffled his voice. Nithin waved at the tall man on the scooter, pointed in the direction of the heavy paunchy man who walked unobtrusively through the ankle deep dry twigs just as a giant ship in shallow waters would move heavily through the coral reefs. His hands were greasy, big face, short red hair, thick eyebrows and long nose with narrow nostrils; his shoulders were heavy, he leaned to his right most of the time, hairy hands, wide chest, big mouth with wide lips; yellow teeth with red drivel that he spat every now and then; fat legs like the tree trunks, thin bathroom slippers that if alive would have shouted to let go of them, for such was the man, a beast.
No, his salary has been handed to his wife who left an hour ago. The beast was disconcerted, but Chari Saab reasoned with him. His drunken wisdom won’t help his family, DD’s (Deputy Director) orders to hand over the salary to his wife. ‘Abhi Kitna din’ (how long?) the beast twirled its tongue and left, it was the DD’s last week apparently.
Chapter 4
Mrunalini was lost in her thoughts. There were squirrels in the office compound, they would peep out of the holes on the surrounding wall, climb atop a tree, jump into the abandoned vehicles. ‘Your uncle needs you there’ Ah! Surendra’s voice troubled her, she thought of him as a person with no emotions, it bothered her. Mrunalini’s uncle, DD, promised to work with her on some of the upcoming projects, ‘a generous and benevolent person’ she thought.
Guests were pouring in; DD was greeted by one and all. He was a man of drunken eyes, slightly hunchbacked; wore pleated trousers, neatly ironed shirt; thick moustache and dark complexion. His shirt sleeves, he rolled them up; unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, sported a thick gold chain around the plump neck that lay hidden under his double chin.
Marian was also there at the party, kids thought she was cute and playfully tickled her ears, petted and combed her. Nithin arrived with flower bokes; his eyes surveyed the surroundings for either Surendra or the beast man. To his left were the guests seated in plastic chairs under the tree shade, to his right were the abandoned cars and jeeps. Mrunalini was seated in a corner, alone and pensive; going through some of the material that her uncle gave to her, for she was a writer and he thought they would be of some use to her-they were flags, pieces of cotton cloths with slogans of revolution written in red.
Inside, office rooms were decorated with colour papers, overhanging balloons, shiny ribbons ran along the length of door frames and drawn blinds of windows. Some one tied a colour ribbon around Marian’s neck; she pranced and danced teasingly before the guests. Ladies huddled together and spoke in hush-hush tones while the men stood by the entrance and were laughing merrily. Sun was hidden behind the clouds; slight drizzle wetted the leaves on trees and moistened stalks of grass sloped against each other seeking support; slight breeze encircled the compound jauntily. Surendra lifted a door mat and swept the dry twigs and yellow leaves off the floor, beast man and Nithin were chatting up animatedly.
Next morning, Surendra and the beast man in blue topless jeep brought home DD’s stuff, everything from his blue table cloth to the radio set. Mrunalini decided to stay at DD’s place for a while, so she moved to his home. Marian was limping awkwardly. During the stay at her Uncle’s place, Mrunalini missed the morning walks to Nithin’s place.
She returned to her home earlier than she had planned for. The morning after, she woke up to find Nithin’s place deserted, the shutter was dented to one side, it was half open and the baskets were thrown helter-skelter inside. Glass windows were broken, cupboards showed signs of force, most of them were broken and the contents damaged. Two wide sticks with narrow handles were by the table, hidden behind the counter, reachable only for the man sitting by the counter, but there were no signs of anyone having used them. Where Nithin usually sat; there were no signs of resistance, only that of resignation. Behind the raised wooden table were stains of blood, on the floor were hand held white flags with slogans of revolution written in red ink.
Chapter 5
‘Communal riots in Hyderabad’ read the news papers, all of them, there could be a curfew. The day was bright, Nithin hoped to begin it with selling strong scented lovely roses to sleepy faced Mrunalini, but she did not turn up. A little sad but hopeful of finding her at DD’s party, he methodically put the flowers together into baskets, made bokes for the delivery, put on his bata sandals and bicycled to the party.
Guests had already arrived; women buried themselves in engrossing stories, about their neighbourhood perhaps; men were smoking by the entrance; surendra and the beast man were no where to be seen. Then he found her, Marian, all dressed like a clown, she was frolicking in the sand, tearing up coconut cords, every now and then, she would turn around to get a hold of her tail but never did. Oh! Marian was hurt, someone pelted stones at her, she was bleeding profusely. Nithin looked around for a piece of cloth, found one by the old ambassador, he held it against the wound, calmed her down, tied the cloth into a tight grip and after petting her adorably, handed her over to Mrunalini. She thanked him enormously and kissed Marian on her forehead. Nithin was fidgeting, looking about for a piece of cloth to clean his hands. Mrunalini pulled two flags out of the bundle, offered to wipe his hands off Marian’s blood. Nithin was flushed with shyness, stepped away and looked pale. Mrunalini all blushes herself, handed the flags over to Nithin without troubling him any further with her earnest entreaties. He wiped the blood himself, folded the flags together, and shoved them into his jeans back pockets.
‘Ah! There he is’ Nithin thought, Surendra was drying a door mat or perhaps sweeping it. Nithin went over, handed the roses and was returning when the beast man confronted him with an offer. Could he knit a garland and bring it over in the next hour? ‘No’, but he could go to Charminar, make the purchase and get paid for, after the delivery.
So, Nithin rushed to Charminar, little did he know about the pandemonium or the possibility of curfew. On his way back, he stopped by his shop to collect some more roses, a token of appreciation for the old man from his side. But then it happened, a drifter, who managed to escape from the mob barged into his shop seeking refuge for the time being. It was too late; the mob followed him into the shop, and hit the drifter with cricket bats and hockey sticks. With job finished, they were about to leave until one of the assaulters noticed the flags with revolutionary slogans beside the garland.
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