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Stories
I turned to him in disbelief. I saw snort flowing freely out of his Aryan nose and the high cheekbones were awash in a flood of tears. One hand clutched his hand in mine closer and with the other I dug into my bag for a handkerchief. I tried to wipe away the sorrow that made his face glisten like molten gold in the moonlight. The historian in me was appalled at what I had just heard him say but the wench went on to place his head with wavy, black locks on the shoulder and continued to plot with him to pluck the monument if we must, to put it on a platter and steal it away to any other place that would make him happier. His head had now slipped on to my bosom that heaved back and forth with excitement I had not experienced before. To further console him I promised to take him out for the best biryani and kebabs in the most mysterious back-lane in town, for breakfast. The following morning I reached the hotel well before my rendezvous with him. I was settling the bills at the front office and enquiring about the transport that would take us places that day when I was distracted by the appearance of an attractive, young woman who had obviously forgotten to groom herself. She had dragged all her overnight anxieties with her to weigh them down upon all those who dared to cross her path that moment. And it was probably her sleeplessness that made her snap at the staff attending to her. “I would like to know the room number of Syed Yusuf Hasan,” she almost barked, making heads turn. She did not care. She seemed obsessed with the way she was feeling. “Mr. Hasan is in the room Madam. I will just connect you to him,” the receptionist picked up the telephone receiver and was about to dial. “Stop! I don’t want you to phone the room. I want the number of the room,” she threatened to get physical. “Madam I can not do that.” “Get me the hotel manager. Now!” The flustered receptionist did dial a number and handed the receiver to the agitated visitor. After talking into the telephone the receiver was returned to the receptionist. “Please follow me Madam,” she said, having silently taken instructions over the wire and placed the receiver back to where it belonged. The two dissolved away into a door for a few minutes and later the manager himself appeared in the lobby followed by the visitor and the receptionist. He marched briskly around the reception counter to pluck one key off a board lined with multiple other keys dangling down polished brass hooks. The little army trooped towards the doors of the lift next. None in the confusion seemed to notice that I had included myself in the gang determined to crack the code of the day.
The key turned and the clicking open of door number 850 was
accompanied by a painful human screech louder than the lavatorial
language playing on television. He was sandwiched in between a naked body below and another mound of human flesh had just ceased to vibrate above him. The table in the center of the room was littered with half eaten bits of food on white porcelain plates that only a few hours ago must have been served by waiters in stiff clothing as several sizzling portions of tanduri chicken and bread baked in clay ovens. I also spotted serviettes with the drawing on them destroyed. Ash overflowed out of tiny trays and countless cigarette butts were strewn carelessly around a half full, and another empty bottle of Famous Grouse whisky, both exuding a little shame perhaps at being unable to retrieve their respective cap. I locked the terror in the Syed’s eyes with a titter in my own. I was beginning to totter into unimaginable laughter at my own giddiness, of course. Perhaps for having fallen for a book only for its cover, once again? January 15, 2006 Image by Chandrika Chowdhry
The Week of January 15, 2006
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“This was built by my ancestors. It is so beautiful. It does not
belong here…” he was whining as if to himself.
