Bhrigu Mahesh, Phd Read online

  ‘I asked you a question.’ I asked again, after my plate happily sported a generous amount of food. But the first taste of the curry and my tongue was on fire. I regretted competing with my friend for food. I should have known that in rural India, you don’t get tenderly seasoned, Al Dante vegetables but a deadly concoction of spices and chilies. ‘S…Savita looked sad.’ I added with difficulty, after drowning my tongue in water.

  ‘Wasn’t that obvious, Sutte?’ he asked, with a touch of irritation.

  ‘Yes, everything that I say is obvious, isn’t it?’ I asked with a temper of my own. ‘So tell me, what wasn’t obvious. Tell me what you saw.’

  He had finished his chapattis and was now moving on to the curd. I quickly picked up a fresh bowl and took what was rightfully mine. He chuckled.

  ‘Savita is sad, true, but her sadness has a certain mystery to it that I cannot quite put my finger on.’ he said ‘Her condition is intriguing.’

  ‘Intriguing? I asked, intrigued myself. The spoonful of lentil soup that was about to go into my mouth, halted midway. ‘How so?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ he said looking genuinely perplexed. ‘She looks sad but…’

  ‘But what?’

  He stared blankly at the curry for a few seconds, as if groping for the right words in the darkness of confusion. ‘But she is at peace here! How can one explain that?’

  I stared at him point-blank. ‘You are gibbering.’ I said. How could he ever come to the conclusion that she was peaceful here? ‘Is peace and happiness not interlinked? She is sad so naturally she is not peaceful here. Not right now, at least.’

  ‘You are again seeing things through a thick lens’ he retorted. ‘Peace and happiness are correlated, I agree. As is happiness and sadness because they are interdependent on each other. One can’t truly experience the former without the latter and vice-versa. Hence, sadness is also a vital factor that determines peace. A person can be sad and peaceful if he is moving towards a happier state and a person can be happy and chaotic if he is moving towards a sad state.’

  I was thoroughly confused by his reasoning. At the first hear, it sounded to me like a complex theorem. I told him to repeat what he had said and it was only after his third repetition that I could see a faint light through the darkness. The point he was trying to make in so many bewildering words was that happiness and sadness weren’t fixed emotions and where constantly changing, one making way for the other, and that peace was determined somewhere in between. Phew! I had done it!

  ‘So are you trying to say that Savita was sad but she was peaceful because she was moving towards a happy state?’

  ‘Precisely.’ he said, smiling broadly at me.

  ‘So what is the source of happiness she is moving towards?’

  ‘That, my friend, is the question.’

  CHAPTER 11

  A Case In Point

  After our breakfast, we went outside our room to take in the floor we were stationed on. There were two more rooms parallel to ours with old wooden doors sporting a million small pores; a sign that they were slowly being devoured by termites. The hinges were rusty and loose and they were holding the doors most precariously. The condition of the rooms was in keeping with that of the doors. They looked uninhabited for centuries and a thick layer of dust had covered every bit of visible surface. The window panes were totally missing and the one odd furniture that the rooms occasionally sported was now in the last leg of its physical and functional life and required only one brave person to sit on them to bring them a ticket to the after life.

  There was a balcony in the middle where the staircase emerged, and standing there one could clearly see the courtyard below. On the opposite side of the balcony, there were three other rooms; all in the same wretched condition, I am sure, and the one directly before us was currently being used by Savita.

  ‘I just hope that the roof doesn’t give in any second and the floor we are standing on does not crack right under our feet any moment.’ I remarked.

  Bhrigu heard my comment but reserved his opinion on the matter.

  ‘This house is spooky all by itself’ I said ‘Once the sun sets, anyone could jump at their own shadow. Any movement, any sound and any voice that could not be connected to a person living here at once, would result in much panic. I am afraid Nataraj Bhakti is suffering from such paranoia. He is a clerk, true, but living in this house is enough to drive any sane person under the sun, out of their mind.’

  ‘Hmm’ was his reply.

  ‘Shall we go to the floors below?’ I asked after reaching the balcony and gazing below it. No one was there at this time of the hour.

  ‘We should and we must.’ he replied. I could see that he was again going through the routine of seeing stuff that was obviously not obvious to me.

  Slowly and cautiously, we descended the stairs to reach the first floor of the house. I don’t know why I felt like a thief prowling about someone’s private property. The fact that the owner had made several earnest and polite entreaties for us to come to his residence had somehow slipped from my mind and also, by the looks of it, that of my friend. The inhabitants of the house were enjoying there afternoon siesta and everything was as silent as a graveyard. God bless the soul of a house sparrow that sat on a big ventilator that looked out to the backyard and chirped happily. If it was not for her sweet nothings, the trepidation I felt at moving about a dead and decaying house, reeking of lethargy and depression, must have caused me to slip a step or two and suffer a terrible fall.

  The first floor was exactly like the one above. There was no difference whatsoever but for a room directly beneath the one we were occupying. The door to this room, for a change, was securely connected to its hinges and not just that; it was firmly shut too. A big, grotesque looking lock stared at us from where it sat.

  ‘A case in point here is that…’ I said, shaking the lock to see if it really lived up to its billing and it did. ‘This room is currently in use. Who do you think lives here?’

  ‘Not Nataraj Bhakti’ he replied, staring at the lock as if hoping it would melt under his gaze. ‘Savita also lives on the room opposite us.’

  ‘That leaves us with Chiranjeev, his wife Premkala and their children.’ I said, mentally ticking them off too. ‘It must belong to Nataraj Bhakti. Who else?’

  ‘Nataraj Bhakti does not live in this room. He lives on the ground floor somewhere.’ he replied in an irritated fashion ‘Did you forget what he told us?’

  ‘Y…yes,’ I replied, a trifle embarrassed, ‘but I did not have much choice! He was the only one left.’

  ‘I think I can hazard a guess.’

  I waited for his answer.

  ‘It’s Damyanti’s’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘Yes.’ he replied calmly. ‘She was the only person who lived here till recently. It must be her room. There’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘But,’ I said, thoroughly confused, ‘Damyanti’s room must be the same as that of her husband. Why would she live in a separate room?’

  ‘Nataraj Bhakti’ He muttered under his breath.

  Just then we heard lugubrious footsteps ascending the staircase from the ground floor below. It was as if taking our host’s name had summoned him or something. We saw Nataraj Bhakti closing in on us with what amounted to a harassed face and a bearing which proved that he had aged a thousand years in quite a small space of time.

  ‘What are you doing, sir, standing here?’ he asked us in a heavy voice. ‘I saw you when I came to the courtyard to get some cold water from the surahi.’

  ‘This room’ I volunteered, ignoring my friend’s eye ‘Whose room is this?’

  Nataraj Bhakti looked uncomfortable at this question and played with his fingers in the same way as he had done before, while relating to us his tale of woe for the very first time.

  ‘This…this room was my wif
e’s’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, feigning surprise.

  ‘Y…yes’ he said stammering. ‘You…you see sir, when we first came here, we had a difference of opinion regarding which room we should put up in. I liked the one on the ground floor. It was way cooler than the rest. But…but my wife said that there were mice in the room and she could not get a good day’s rest with them to keep her company so…so she relocated to this room.’

  ‘And you remained at the ground floor?’

  He swallowed a bit. ‘Y…yes.’

  ‘I see’ I remarked.

  Bhrigu was looking at the man with an expression that was not at all amicable. For some reason, he was annoyed with him.

  ‘Bhaktiji,’ he said after an uncomfortable silence of a few seconds, ‘do you still remember how your wife looked like?’

  The man jumped at the question and stared at my friend with disbelief. He had become red round his ears and the sweat that flowed freely from his face had now little to do with the unbearable heat.

  ‘What are you s…saying, sir?’ he said, wiping his face with the end of his gamcha. ‘H…how can I not remember my wife? It is a cruel thing to ask of a man who has been recently widowed.’

  ‘Is it?’ my friend asked, his every syllable knee deep in the water of anger.

  ‘Y…yes’ Nataraj Bhakti replied, unsure of his own answer.

  We were in the middle of this awkward conversation when a sixteen year old, lanky youth came running to us; climbing two steps at a time and proclaimed ‘Chacha, Manju Chacha is banging the gate. I was out in the motorcycle shed when I heard him shouting at the top of his voice’ he added after panting a while, ‘Why don’t you strip down the useless gate? My friends have to scale the wall to reach us. No one but you and Manju Chacha have sworn allegiance to the god forsaken thing. I tell you, if you don’t do something fast, he will surely lose his life, shouting like that.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Nataraj Bhakti barked at him. ‘Get lost now!’

  ‘Who wants to get found?’ The youth replied sourly. ‘I came here because I don’t want an old man to be found dead outside the gate of our house. It’s very inauspicious.’

  ‘You little…!’ Nataraj Bhakti cried but the young lad had already taken the fast lane.

  ‘This brat will be the end of me.’ he said and swore rather badly. ‘Tell me sir,’ he said now addressing us, ‘how can I tell my friend to climb the wall and come to my house? Isn’t it ridiculous?’

  He took our leave to attend to his friend and we stood there staring at the man who I thought was holding a mountain of troubles over his head.

  ‘Birds of a feather…’ Bhrigu said under his breath and all I could do was to stare at him and think without success what the meaning of his cryptic line could be.

  CHAPTER 12

  A Friendly Visit

  It turned out that Manjunath had come to invite us to his house. Bhrigu tried to politely decline his invitation but the man was adamant. He kept on repeating like a parrot that he should get the chance of entertaining as distinguished a people as us. Bhrigu tried to reason with him that we were ordinary folks from the city and there was nothing even remotely remarkable about us. I tried to say that ‘Speak for yourself’ but his one eye was enough to keep my mouth firmly shut. My friend’s pleas fell on deaf ears and even before we knew it, Gupta was herding us towards his house. Nataraj Bhakti accompanied us too.

  Manjunath’s house was situated at the end of a narrow pathway that almost reduced to a thin line due to the encroachment of mud houses from both the sides. We could barely manage to squeeze ourselves through the alley that smelled a combination of garbage, cesspool and a mountain of cow dung. Our efforts were paid as the alley opened up to reveal a broad stretch of land that sported a few well-to-do houses. The green one with a dark red border was Manjunath’s.

  The gate to his compound was wide open and I could see a couple of buffaloes chewing their cud peacefully in a corner. He led us to his house that was hidden under a thick growth of creepers of a local vegetable.

  ‘Please, do come in’ he said, ushering us into his living room.

  The room was small but warm and comfortable. Unlike the lifeless ones of Bhakti Niwas, Manjunath’s house was well-maintained and spoke of a quality living. It was a pleasant surprise to find a house in the village that could give competition to its city counterparts.

  The walls were decently plastered and a plasma television was perched high up on the wall. The floor was done in marble and a beautiful carpet was spread underneath the table. We sat on a comfortable sofa that sunk under our weight; Nataraj Bhakti on a relaxing reclining chair and Manjunath went inside the house to order for some refreshments.

  ‘This house is such a heaven.’ remarked Nataraj Bhakti ‘I have spent most of my childhood here. Manju’s parents were the richest in the village. Although the last decade has seen a mushrooming of similar small shops around their business and as a result of the competition, profits have somewhat decreased, the reputation and legacy of Manju’s sweet shop insures a steady stream of loyal customers.’

  ‘The prosperity is evident’ said Bhrigu, taking in every nook and corner of the room.

  Just then, there was the faintest of murmur at the portal which separated the living room from the inner part of the house. The curtain hung across the portal rippled ever so slightly and within a moment Manjunath had emerged from it, followed by a woman carrying a tray laden with snacks and cold drinks.

  ‘This is my wife, Neelu’ said Manjunath with a broad smile, as he sat on a sofa chair, opposite his friend, Nataraj Bhakti.

  The woman laid the tray on the table before us. The first thing that I noticed about her was her sari. It was a brilliant red; the kind women usually wear during a wedding ceremony. Running through the drape was a shining, golden border. The sari caught a thin ray of sunlight coming through one of the window panes and broke into several points of brilliance of its own and for a moment I thought that the woman had stepped into the red of the setting sun.

  As she straightened to greet us, I noticed with even greater surprise that her face was as made up as that of a concubine. There was not a cosmetic in the world that she had not applied to her thin face. The effect was almost startling as I could see that although she had her own cache of make up, she totally lacked the expertise that went into the art of refinement and concealment. Her lips were smudged with a deep red and she was having trouble opening her eyes as the thick, cheap mascara had almost glued her eyelashes together. The blush was ridiculous still as she had missed her cheekbones and landed them very close to the corners of her eyes. All in all, she looked like an advertisement for what a person may look like if they applied cosmetics from the rival company.

  ‘Please stay for dinner.’ she said in a voice that was a little too high pitched even for a woman.

  ‘Yes, yes’ replied Manjunath, beaming ‘Neelu, here, is a wonderful cook.’

  At the compliment, she smiled at her husband and I could see that there was much love between the two.

  ‘Some other time’ said my friend. I glanced at him and saw that he was looking at Neelu with a strange twinkle in his eyes. Yes, he was seeing something that I had definitely missed.

  ‘My wife has other talents too.’ said Manjunath proudly. ‘She makes Laung Latta better than anyone else I know. I sometimes joke that our shop will receive a big boost in sales if she were to become our cook.’

  ‘Oh please!’ Neelu said coyly. She put the edge of her sari’s palloo over her mouth and simpered like a girl. ‘I am not that good. He has a habit of bragging about me.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort. I have just stated the truth.’

  Still smiling, Neelu collected the empty tray and went inside the house.

  ‘A humble soul, my wife’ said Manjunath. ‘She is so talented but prefers to keep quite about it. I am
lucky to have her.’

  ‘Indeed you are’ I said ‘She is a sweet person.’

  ‘Very’ he said with a face beaming with pride.

  ‘You are a lucky man, Gupta ji, aren’t you?’ my friend asked. Although it sounded like a simple question, I knew my friend well enough to detect a dull hint of mockery in his voice.

  Manjunath looked at him and replied in a booming voice. ‘The luckiest man, I should say.’

  ‘Our Manjunath takes very good care of Neelu Bhabhi too.’ said Nataraj Bhakti, who had hitherto been a silent spectator. ‘Every year he takes her on a vacation. Where did you go last time, Manju?’

  ‘Last time, eh?’ said the lucky man, putting pressure on his bean. ‘Last time we went to Dehradun.’

  ‘Cool place’ I said.

  ‘It is better still when you have great company.’ he replied happily.

  ‘Very true, very true’ Nataraj Bhakti and I chorused in unison.

  At this point there was a lull in the conversation where I could hear Neelu’s voice coming from the depths of the house, admonishing her domestic help for something or the other. Our host broke the silence.

  ‘Nataraj ji has told me all about who you are, sir.’

  Bhrigu raised an eyebrow towards Nataraj Bhakti. He had given the man strict instructions that our identities should be kept a secret at any cost.

  ‘Y…yes’ said Nataraj Bhakti quickly. ‘I have told him that you are my very good reporter friends from the city who have come to research about the recent prosperity of the village of Krishna Dwar.’

  ‘True, true’ Bhrigu said. ‘Our rival papers have already covered Krishna Dwar. It is only natural that we should too.’

  ‘Yes sir, it is.’ replied Manjunath ‘The ruins of our temples go back to the Gupta Dynasty but it was not until a decade ago that the tourism industry thought of promoting it as a heritage site. The village of Krishna Dwar owes its prosperity to the jobs that were created in its wake.’