Boomerang

“January 7^th, 2005: Mumbai - Mrs. Pallavi Mehta, wife of a businessman, Mr. Vinay Mehta, from western suburbs, Mumbai is found dead. The matter was reported by the maid of the house early morning, yesterday. She also informed the police that Mr. Mehta was off to Delhi on some business trip for around two weeks now,” reported the Hindustan Samachar, a Hindi daily, on its second page.

Sandeep read the news and laughed. He stared for long at the photograph of Mrs. Mehta, the paper had published. It was a party photograph of Mehta’s. He said in an indecently loud voice, “You are beautiful.”

He felt happy; but he told himself that this was such news which was not meant to generate happiness, except in the minds of sadists. And was he a sadist? He shrugged the thought and folded the paper to put it on the table where all other papers were lying.

Sandeep was a graduate in Science. He tried hard to get a descent job in his city, Gorakhpur, but when he could not, came to Mumbai. After his parents demise, probably in short of responsibilities, he started settling down with his current job, minimizing the ambitions of increasing the numbers of zeros in his pay check. And why not? After all it was a nice business of fixing the bathroom issues of some high society homes during the hours the men of the family worked in offices and women- mostly, not always though- stayed back home. Beautiful, ugly, miss-India-types, spinsters, fat aunties, College girls. All kind of women. In a way he loved his job and was famous as the best plumber with the Homecare, the housekeeping company. He led a complete carefree life, enjoying every moment of his freedom in this city.

The only thing he used to get pissed off at was when somebody used “Bhaiya” to associate his origin to Uttar Pradesh, a northern state of India. In his homeland, this word held a respect, a dignity with it and was used for elder brothers. But here, in Mumbai, it was a derogatory remark.

* * *

Mrs. Mehta was a baby faced, ever smiling woman. She had recently celebrated her second marriage anniversary. Mehta’s did not have children. Mr. Mehta believed that his income wasn’t sufficient to support a new life. So they had to wait.

Mr. Mehta had gone to Delhi for some business engagement for two weeks. One evening, he got a call from Mumbai Police telling that his wife was found dead in his house and he was needed back in town as soon as possible. He took the next flight back home.

The postmortem report informed that Mrs. Mehta had been poisoned. It posed an equal possibility of this being a murder or a suicide case. For the next two months, the police tried hard to probe into the case. The maid and Mr. Mehta were the only two suspects, if it was to be a murder. Mr. Mehta found lesser support as he was reported not to be on good terms with his wife by the neighbors and Mrs. Mehta’s parents.

* * *

“March 3^rd, 2005: Mumbai – Mrs. Pallavi Mehta Death case. The Mumbai Police has declared this to be a case of suicide, the cause of which remains unidentified. The news of Mrs. Mehta’s death was first reported by Hindustan Samachar,” reported the paper.

Sandeep read it. But this time, neither he could laugh, nor feel happy. Rather he felt a pang in his heart. He had been in a different world for last two months.

Mr. Mehta was happily acquitted. For the entire period of the trial, the case appeared seven times in the news paper; three times in the first week, rest three in the following three weeks and the last on the day of the police declaration. On all days, to everybody’s ignorance at the Homecare, the reports were articulately removed from the newspaper.

The Manager at Home care called for Sandeep. He was supposed to go to a high rise building in Andheri (E) to fix up their water pipe problem. He then left for the day’s job.

“To travel by road in Mumbai is hell in peak hours, that too in an area like Sakinaka,” Sandeep said to himself, sitting in the BEST bus. He was looking outside the window particularly at nothing, generally at everything that passed his sight. A thought crossed his mind and he smiled to himself.

“There are times when your own nakedness doesn’t appear absurd to you. Rather it appears perfect. Perfect to the need of the moment. And that was such a moment.” He thought of the last afternoon he had made love with her.

They were standing, facing each other - his hands on her waist, looking into each others eyes. She allowed the masculinity of his palms to challenge the femininity of her hips. He, then, moved his rough, worker’s hands along her line of spine up to her nape, caressing in a way that she felt tickled and scratched at the same time. He lifted her face, kissed her gently and moved his left hand to hold the web of her ribs on the left. Then, with a sudden reflex he turned her, lifted up and put her, with a great care, onto the bed. He whispered into her ears, “You are beautiful,” to which she replied with a smile. Oh, what a divine smile that was!

The bus was caught in a traffic jam. So was Sandeep. On the memory lanes of the life he had just lived.

She had once told Sandeep, lying naked by his side on her bed, “A man should be a man. And when he is, he becomes a god to a woman whose bodily desires remain unsatisfied. Then the face, the status, the caste, creed, color, etc, etc doesn’t matter. What matters is his Manliness.”

He wasn’t the best looking guy around. His face was like any other walker on the street but the faultlessness of his body could make any woman desirous. He was never a professional gigolo. Neither had he cared to seduce any woman. Just a few smiles to make his plumbing job easier, rest he remained carefree. To some woman this carefree attitude of a man impresses. At least it did to her.

Sandeep remembered his first meeting with her.

That day, he had arrived to fix a tap in the bathroom at Mehta’s. He was wearing blue denim jeans, a leather sandals and a half sleeves shirt, with the top two buttons open, which clearly said the fact that he wasn’t wearing any under vest and had a hairless chest.

She stood by the door, in her night gown, while he was fixing the tap.

Of whole of his body, the only parts she was aware were the solid, hairless forearms, a part of the biceps which got into shape when ever he moved his arms and a slight of his chest. But then she never needed anything else, at least in that moment of time. She noticed some drops of sweat on his forehead which started dripping down by the side of his ears and finally dropped on his hands, realizing which he tried to wipe them off. She took a deep sigh and said to herself, “Oh, My god! How can a drop of sweat make a man so handsome?”

He was called again a day after to fix the same tap. And since then, he was called day after day to display the dexterity of plumbing wherever he could, in the whole apartment. And then one day he found himself on the bed of Mehta’s.

Many such afternoons passed. One afternoon when they were done with their act of love making and he was about to leave, the call bell rang. When Mrs. Mehta opened the door, she found her husband standing next. Horror and shock combined can make the most beautiful woman look the ugliest of the species; she was just an average looking housewife.

Mr. Mehta answered the question which was suppose to be asked by Mrs. Mehta but was displaced by a horrific silence, “I wasn’t feeling well. Thought will have some rest.” He walked in. He found Sandeep at the door of his bedroom. Mrs. Mehta hurriedly followed Mr. Mehta, who then asked, “Who is he?”

“He… He is a plumber. I called up to get the bathroom leakage fixed. They sent this bhaiya.” The introduction was given in a manner which appeared good enough to the speaker but was the ugliest to the person being introduced.

Mr. Mehta asked Sandeep, “Where are you from?”

“UP.”

“I didn’t ask that mister. That I already got to know. A bhaiya is always from UP. I meant which company?”

“Homecare.”

“Get me the bill. Will pay you.”

Bill? He could not give a bill. He wasn’t called from office. He was here on a personal service. And what service? What should Mr. Mehta be charged for? And for how many afternoons?

“I forgot the bill book. Will send you from office. You can pay later.”

During all his conversation, Sandeep never looked at Mrs. Mehta. But when he left, he smiled without giving any particular look. That was their last afternoon together.

Mr. Mehta did understand what was being fixed and where, when he looked at his bed. But he said nothing. Never, till the day had Mrs. Mehta died.

* * *

What could be the intensity of the insult received post a love making session by an enforced realization to the person of his status in the society? By making some one feel that he is a ‘bhaiya’ who was momentarily allowed to enter into a high society life and hence it was supposed to be taken as an honor?

The size of the insult? Large, Medium, small? This can be decided only by the person on whom the insult is imposed. The world’s limits end at the act of the imposition; after that it’s only the receiver’s prerogative to decide how badly he feels insulted and what kind of settlement he is going to have for it, forgiveness or revenge? Whatever.

Sandeep chose the later option. He took revenge.

Mrs. Mehta could not look up in her husband’s eyes. She tried hard to let days pass. She thought, “Time is a great healer. Things will settle down.” But things didn’t. She could not stand the silence of her husband. Neither could she stand the noise of her physical desires.

She called Sandeep on many days after that day. He mostly avoided the calls; if ever received, he declined her persuasions, her offerings, her apologies and what ever she offered to have him back. He knew that if he meets her she will have a chance to forget the otherwise unforgettable guilt she was living in, at least for those moments that they would be together. He did not wish to give her such chance.

So what could be the intensity of the affront confronted by the rejection of a sexual advancement made by a high class socialite, by some one of his status? All right, she wasn’t from that high a society, but a rejection coming from… say… A Bhaiya!!!

Was it an insult or a murder of the desire? The guilt or the fear? These all are quite dangerous instruments, good enough to kill, or at least nearly kill a person.

But he used all of them, together. He created a weapon of massive destruction.

He forced her to live a life of a woman who lived with a continuous guilt of infidelity towards her husband, a permanent fear of shamed to the society where she was respected for none of her own virtue, a ruthless murder of her physical desire and an insult of her ego - which was based on the emptiness of her social and economical status, by the same desire. He forced her into a continuous battle of her existence versus numerous emotions. Emotions that held strong contrast against each other. Emotions, that pulled her apart in different directions. Who could survive such contradictions? Who could stop the rupturing of the psyche in such a state? Which was more dangerous – The destruction of the body or that of the mind? For her, the first would have been easier to take, probably.

When Mr. Mehta informed her that he was leaving for Delhi for two weeks, the first thought that crossed her mind was of Sandeep. She called him in afternoon. After missing several calls, he finally received one.

“Please come. I just can’t live like this. I need you.”

“For?”

“You know that I love you, don’t you?”

“You don’t, Pallavi.”

Sandeep disconnected the call. Next to next day, he read in the newspaper that she was dead.

Even though she killed herself, he planned her death. But no one would ever get to know this. No law could prove this. No court could punish him.

The bus had arrived at the stop he had to get down. He walked up the housing society he was to report. He tried finishing his job faster. There was certain uneasiness in his mood today. He declined further assignments for the day and went home.

Reaching home, he undressed himself and fell on the bed, naked. He thought of her. At this moment he found his nudity absurd and vulgar. Her thought made him uncomfortable about his own body. He felt as if his existence was maimed by her absence. What was stronger – guilt of the murder or the acknowledgement of his physical needs, pain of the lost love or the void created by a lost relationship? He did not understand. He pulled up a sheet, up to his face. He found himself crying under the sheet.

A week later, on a bright sunny day, Sandeep was found dead in his house. When people entered inside his room, they found his naked body wrapped under a clean sheet. The room looked clean, as if was prepared for a guest. Only some newspaper cuttings were lying around the bed.

His own weapons had boomeranged upon him.

Songs of loneliness...

“Can you write a song about loneliness?” asked the producer.

“What kind of loneliness?” The poet asked back, enforcing absurdness in the environment. The producer had a big question mark on his face as if he wished to ask – What the hell do you mean by kind of loneliness? But he didn’t ask and said, simply, “Loneliness is loneliness. Simple. Plain.”

“A hopeful or a hopeless one? A happy or a sad one? A desired or an imposed one? A bored one or a creative one? Loneliness caused when the world leaves you? Or the loneliness caused when you part with your soul?” The poet elaborated his question ignoring the answer as if it was never offered.

Now the puzzled look on the producer’s face was turning into annoyance which he successful hid.

The poet went on, “When the world leaves me, I can hope that someday it will return; it will revoke its imposition. I can be happy if I try to be, if I realize that no one’s but my own company is all I need to lead a happy life. That’s hopeful loneliness – An optimistic idea. When I sell my soul, I buy lifetime loneliness. And how long can I sustain without my own soul, my own spirit? How can I kill the permanent sadness it breeds? That’s hopeless loneliness – A pessimistic reality.” He paused to study the listener’s mind, and continued, “If one parts with the world to be with his soul, that’s fantastic. If he part with his soul to be with the world, he is the loneliest person in the crowd… So what you want?”


By now, the producer was totally irritated. He said. “Look Mister… What ever your name is! I don’t understand what all shit you are talking about. I am producing an album with all genres of emotions and thought if we could have a song on loneliness - A simple, sweet song. But it seems, for you, loneliness is a fairly complex emotional state than it appears to me. And in such case, I would not like to use any of your rubbish philosophical poetry. You can please leave.”

“Thank you, sir. You saved me.”

The poet left. The producer did not understand why he was thanked, but he was feeling better. He called in the manager.

“What kind of people you invite these days for the interview?”

“Why? What happened, sir?”

“Damn!! This guy is a bastard who makes every thing complex and thinks he is a genius.”

“I am sorry, sir. But he was recommended by a friend of mine who is a culture critic in The Indian magazine, the best Indian daily. Besides, I read his poems. I did not understand much, but they appeared to be good. Also, this guy needed a job so…”

“We are here, not for charity, my dear manager. We are doing business with a sole reason of making profit, and that can’t be achieved with something that just appears to be good. Please keep this in mind before you call for the next guy. Ok?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can leave.”

The producer released his album after two months. It could only become an average album, generating too little profit. It did have a song on loneliness.



A year passed since then. It was a sunny Sunday morning. While going through the various segments of The Indian magazine, the producer found one man omnipresent. His name was Aftab Khan.

“The nation goes crazy over Mr. Aftab Khan,” reported the front page.

“Aftab Khan – A real gem in the world of Indian poetry,” said the culture column.

“A good product always generates good business. This has been proved, once again, by Mr. Aftab Khan,” informed the business page.

“I felt like committing suicide while listening to the first song but the second song made me the happiest person on earth. Thank you, Aftab,” a bachelor, in his early thirties, said in the city column.

And the page three was full of the functions organized to felicitate Aftab for his first album. The album was named ‘Loneliness’. It had just two songs, first – The Pessimist, second – The Optimist.

The producer phoned the manager.

“Why I never heard of this guy, named Aftab, before?”

“You did, sir. Some twelve months ago.”

“And?”

“And you said, ‘This guy is a bastard who makes every thing complex and thinks he is a genius.’”

“Ok.”

The producer hung up the call.


In one of those countless page three parties, the producer happened to meet Aftab, who looked quite bored and a bit uncomfortable. The producer approached him, “Hello, Mr. Aftab. I am very sorry for that day. I tell you I was in a real bad mood. You know how hectic the job of a producer is. Please accept my apologies.” And he grinned like a kid who has committed a silly mistake and waiting to be forgiven by his mother.

“Which day?”
“Oh! The day we had a chat over the matters of loneliness.”

“Have we met? Oh, please excuse me. I have a really bad memory. Yesterday I forgot to put on my socks and came like that to the party. I was so embarrassed that I made a point to take care of it today.” Aftab pulled up his pants to show the socks with a feeling of achievement over his forgetfulness. He had black in left and brown in right feet. The producer wished to laugh but avoided.

Aftab was embarrassed again. To change the topic, he asked, “By the way, what were we talking about?”

“We were talking about the day we first met, sir. You narrated your concept of loneliness a year ago. What a wonderful concept it is. Unfortunately we could not do the album together, then, for some technical reasons. But I would love to work with you the next time you are ready with your concept. I give an absolute freedom to an artist’s creativity.”

“I think, I can recall that day, sir.” Aftab smiled, letting the producer feel ashamed of the fact that he tried to use one’s forgetfulness to his own profit, and continued, “To detail is not to increase the complexity of a concept. It is to make things clearer, more accurate, more absolute. Good that you said no that day. Its better not to create something whose use you don’t understand, to produce something whose meaning remains a vague concept to you.”

“But we are the best in this business. I suggest you should take up our offer.”

“For?”

“We will make you richer.”

“And that is what your business is - to make money. I am sorry; I am not motivated by money. My only motivation is my work. You may be great in the business of selling poetry but you are a handicap when it comes to producing a right creation. And what is the purpose of a good seller if there is no good object to sell?” he said, in such a toneless manner that the producer could not feel offended how hard he wished to.

Aftab smiled and turned to the party. He looked around to find a person who was least hypocrite in the whole gathering and he saw a kid sitting on a bench near the fountain, lost in falls of water. He walked up to him, smiled and said, “Hello”. The kid smiled back.

The blue Umbrella

One Saturday evening we had nothing much to do; hence we decided to go for a movie. When we tried we could only get the tickets for this movie called The Blue Umbrella.

On first thoughts it looks like a children’s movie but if seen with a thought, it tells a deep story - a story of generic human behaviors, of desires to own something we like, something which symbolize our status in the society we live in. It beautifully depicts how something which is a simple appreciation of beauty for someone can be a fanatical greed for the other.

While watching the movie some questions popped up in my mind -
Did I ever feel like owning something which is of no great use to me but brings in certain pride associated with it? I did.
Were I ever so compelled by the desire that I even didn’t shrug off a negative emotion (theft… murder… cheating), if I perceived that as the only way to get it? Sometimes, that happened too.

What I realize is, in the whole process of collecting things through out our life, we forget the reason. We randomly buy things that we rarely need in life. If ever questioned, we counter question to justify our unreasonable acquisitions. (When Khatri was asked by his subject, why he wants the umbrella so desperately, he uses some very random questions as his points for justification.) At last our life is recognized more by our possessions than the soul within. Most of the time, this soul is killed, murdered, sold or lost. But can someone ever live truly happily without a soul? When happiness is a derivative of social recognition and that too for something that we did not create but just possess by the virtue of all the money we hold, it has to be short lived.

One’s desire to own should be driven by the need for a beautiful life and not for the purpose of vanity. When ever we feel like having something, if we ask ourselves - why do you want it, we will realize that there are thousand such things that we want for sheer display than use. There will be things which are useful but we don’t want it for the use but the status it carries along for us. That’s where the error lies.

The way story progresses is the most beautiful part of it - From the unreasonable desire of possession to jealousy, and from jealousy to crime (theft), from crime to the punishment for the crime, from the punishment to realization of guilt, and from guilt, it end into forgiveness and restoration of self-pride.

The movie scores a hit on almost every account of film making; be it cinematography, casting, characterization, sound, script, dialogues and acting.

In these rains, I must say, Blue Umbrella is for everyone.

Confessions of a sad mind

“Look, darling, my new ring. Sweet, isn’t it?” she said and pretended a childish enthusiasm.

He stared at the ring for some time and said, “You are not sweet. You are a slut.”

He appeared as calm and composed as he was on the day he declared that he loved her. They were silent for a long time for their own reasons. Then she almost shouted, “Why the hell it’s like when a man sleeps around, he is called a Dude; but when a woman does, she is called a Slut?”

She was looking at him, waiting for an answer. He didn’t say anything but gave a meek smile. Then she explained herself, “Because, it’s a man’s world. Because a man’s ego is always bigger than a woman’s feeling. Because you, men, feel insulted with the thought of a woman playing on you. And that’s what makes me happy – the insult imposed upon the man in you.”

She felt relaxed a bit after all the reasoning but still wanted to hear from him. He was still staring into her eyes. Her eyes were looking for an answer into his and then they turned weaker.

He got up; moved towards the door. He was ready to leave but returned a few steps. His one hand was in his trouser pocket and the other above the shoulders, holding a leather jacket. He was standing in his usual relaxed posture.

“May be, because man pays for the nights in one or the other way when he plays around but when you play, the payee is still the man.”

He stared for longer than required and, then, left her to the wilderness of the statement he just made. She wanted to reach out to him, hold him and give him a tight slap.
But she could not.
She could not move.
She could not move away from the wilderness of the statement he just made.

It was her fourth break up; his first and last. He never fell in love again because he could never come out of it.



A year had passed since then. One day, Prashant saw Radhika, sitting in the same café as he did, with some guy who looked quite older than her. He smiled. After a while, the guy left; Radhika was still there, all immersed in her thoughts. She had an unusual smile on her face.

Prashant walked up to her. When she saw him, she pretended neither surprise nor shock. It felt as if she was waiting for him. He said, “You remember the count?”
“Oh! Yes, I do. He was the seventh.”
“Was?”
“Yeah! We just broke up.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you. And I mean it as I take your wish in a real sense.” She paused, and then said, “I am happy.”
“I know you are. Once again you have insulted the Man, isn’t it?” he smirked.
“You are correct. But only partly.”

There was a long silence. She played with the wine glass for sometime. He sat. Just that, and did nothing else. She looked up, up into his eyes. The gaze was direct like a sharpshooter’s. She said, “Whenever my father sleeps with another woman, I break up with my boyfriend. I feel that’s the only way I can take my revenge against my dad; that’s the only way I can look into my mom’s eyes. And whenever I see her, I see pain smiling and dancing and celebrating its existence. You know why?”

Prashant was not here, at least, mentally. He was thinking about the night they separated.

Radhika, in her usual way, replied her own question, “Because men can only pay but suffering is mostly credited to women’s account. And if ever men suffer, they make it hysterical and then historical. But women’s suffering is coated with a beautiful silence and wrapped into umpteen numbers of fake smiles and empty laughter. To understand that, you’ll have to meet my mom.” She was looking for an expression; He did not react. She thought, “Men will always be men.” She said, “I shall leave now. It’s late already.”

“Do you mind if I accompany you to the bus stop?”

She shrugged with indifference. They walked all the way in silence. The bus stop was almost empty if the thin, old man can be ignored. They stood resting their back on the side bar of the stand.

After an unusually long silence, Prashant asked, “Are you really happy?”

“Why? Of course!! I love it when my ex-boyfriends plead me to return, when they say they can’t live without me. Some did, some still do; except you. But that doesn’t matter much. By the way what makes you ask such a question?”

The question was followed by a pause; and then an abrupt out-of-no-where statement.

“Please come back, Radhika. I can’t live without you.”

Radhika displayed an utter melancholic solemnity.

She asked, “Why…..? Why you say this now, after almost a year?”

He questioned back in his reply, “That makes you happy, right?”

She burst into tears.

Prashant thought: If a person is physically sick one can force him/her to get cured. But for her, it’s her psychological state that is diseased. How can one medicate the psyche without the consent of the patient? And what kind of logic can a diseased psyche formulate to give its consent for a right cause?

He felt something similar to the doctor who helplessly sees a patient dying in front of him in short of an invention of a proper medication for some ridiculous disease.

“Radhika, I remember what you said that night. I wanted to tell you too many things but…” He paused and then continued with the same spirit, “It’s not a men’s world, Radhika. Men don’t rule. They are offered the rule, if at all they rule; like the poor does to rich, the weak to powerful, and the minority to majority. Because they think they cannot fight. They fear they are too small, too weak against the opponent. When one surrenders before the battle begins, it’s not the power of the other party, not their cunningness, not their strategies, nothing in their virtue which makes them a winner, but the loser’s own fear.”

“I don’t fear that bastard. I just hate him. I hate him with the same intensity with which I love my mom.”

“It was fear. Then it graduated to become hatred. Now the subject you are mastering in is Revenge. You are on a revenge spree against your father, the man; but you do not realize that in all this, the loser is still you. Your father is still doing what he wants. Your self-torture has no effect on him. It will never have –for we are born with a free spirit. Now it’s up us to direct it to a right or wrong direction. You can force your will on someone’s choice of direction momentarily, if at all you can, but not for a long time.”

Radhika was looking at him like a kid does to her teacher in a class where she does not understand a single word taught but wants to learn desperately.

Prashant continued, “What you think, your mother will be happy to hear about your self-destruction in the name of her sufferings? Will she not be happier to hear a life for you that she never had– A life full of love? Give yourself a chance, Radhika. Whatever happened with your mother is not your fault. And you are doing no good by making her a reason for your destruction. Come back, dear. Things will be fine.”

“I feel incapable of loving a man, Prashant.”

“You can take your time to come out of it. I shall wait. We will be friends till then.”

“It may take my whole life. I feel you are the most genuine man I have ever met and I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”

“Now, this is not suffering; it’s pure, simple love. If you allow it to be… or even if you don’t.”

They smiled to each other.


Radhika and Prashant married after thirteen years from that evening.