Vidya Madabushi - Bystanders

Hari

Every year since the old man in apartment 3C died of pneumonia, someone I have known has died in December. I am not a superstitious man, yet I have become wary of December days even if they come dressed in Marchs clothes.

It was three in the afternoon and I was sitting on a stool at Sais tea stall across the road from my office, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette while listening to Sunil, my boss, repeat the joke about the barber and his monkey. Half the moon had shown up early. There was a breeze running through the jacaranda trees, breaking off only the yellow leaves and sending them hopping across the pavement. I watched as Madhavi, our office receptionist, came running towards me in a flimsy yellow kurta that I adored and which the sun, had it been brighter, would have loved.

Where have you been? she said. I have been trying and trying your mobile. She placed a hand over my hand. I glanced down at her knuckles. They were dry and coated white like powdered sugar on doughnuts. December does that to skin.

I have bad news, Hari, she said in her husky receptionists voice. She let her gaze taper to the ground. Her real voice is a few octaves higher and more endearing. Your mother called to say that your uncle Vasan is in a critical condition. I am sorry. I looked everywhere for you.

The word uncle struck me as an odd choice; that all-inclusive Indian term denoting any man older than you, and with whom you have a relationship that isnt easily qualified. I imagined that the word had come with some hesitation from my mothers mouth. Quite likely, Madhavi, in her usual manner, had wanted all the details and questioned her, and my mother had been put on the spot and forced to pick a word.

Sai, who was fishing out vadas from a frying pan, cocked his head to listen. With a quick shake of his hand, he allowed the oil to drain through the strainer before turning off the stove to join us.

Madhavi handed me a yellow office while you were out note. Shed ticked the urgent box. To: Hari Vasan Sharma, From: Parvati Sharma, At: 2.33 p.m. Message: Uncle Vasan is critical. Call immediately. An electronic copy would be waiting in my inbox. She was clean and efficient, just like her small, neat handwriting. My eyes began to defocus, causing the curly black letters to change shape and blur until the writing had become illegible. I jerked my head away from the note and stared into my teacup instead. A delicate skin formed and crinkled on top of my milky tea. I peeled it off and hung it over the ledge of the cup. My ribs were tightening under my shirt. Sunil and Madhavi looked at me with collective big eyes. There was a complicity in their gaze which unsettled me.

Can you please leave me alone? I said as politely as I could.

They exchanged glances. Suddenly they had become conspiring parents and I had turned into their eight-year-old child.

You are in shock, Sunil said, squeezing my shoulder. We are here for you, man.

There was something about his manner as he spoke to me then, how his chin was raised and his words came out like a tag line in an advertisement, which made me think that he had been a better friend when he was telling me the monkey joke. When they left, I glanced at Sai.

I am not leaving, Sai said. This is my stall!

I held out my cup for a refill. This tea is cold.

I wouldnt be sitting here drinking tea if my uncle was lying in a critical condition in a hospital somewhere, he said without looking at me.

I didnt feel like talking. I lit another cigarette. Sai waved away a customer and drew a stool next to mine. He smelt of talcum powder, smoke and frying oil. It made me queasy. Without thinking, he handed me the plate of vadas he was holding. I shook my head and fished around in my pocket for my wallet.

Now you want to pay me? he said. Three months Ive been chasing you to pay your tab and today of all days you find the time to pay up? He offered me his cell phone. It was a better model than mine. Come on, son, he said, jabbing my elbow with the phone. You are simply wasting time.

I didnt take the phone. Sai looked at me with a mixture of disgust and concern. His expression caused his cheeks to slide downwards alongside two deep creases on either side of his face. His mouth was partially open, revealing two large front teeth which were stained brown. The heat and the smoke from the cooking had made his face red and shiny. He picked up a vada and bit into it. I had never before seen Sai eat any of the food he had cooked himself. He was showing signs of stress.

Five minutes, he said finally. Thats all my conscience will allow me. You want more tea, you go somewhere else. Five minutes and then I am throwing you out.

I felt better as soon as I left Sais tea stall. I avoided eye contact as I ran up the stairs to my desk to retrieve my phone. I put it in my pocket without looking at the screen, knowing that that there would be missed calls or messages from my mother. Sunil hovered about me. Dont forget your lunch box, he said.

I have always enjoyed walking. I like to walk slowly and watch the college women, so often dressed like twins, strolling in pairs, or look into a shop window and catch someone in the midst of a haircut, or peek into the deserted ice cream store to see if the bored sales girl is resting her head on the counter. Sometimes we smile at each other awkwardly and smile to ourselves at the awkwardness later.

As I entered 80 Feet Road, I collided with a man holding the hand of a very pregnant woman. She was so pretty that I knew she would have dimples even before she smiled. Look where you are going, brother, the man said. He did not sound irritated at all, which surprised me. The woman smiled at me. Dimples.

I made my way back to my apartment. I live in a small one-bedroom apartment in the southern end of the city. It isnt one of the many new apartments that are cropping up everywhere with giant billboards promising more amenities than one could possibly need. This is a house-conversion and designed haphazardly, with stairs running from both the back and front, and walls where one might expect doors and vice versa. All in all, there are four floors and nine apartments. I like it because it is unabashedly ugly. Its garish and multi-coloured, and my apartment itself is larger than one might expect for the rent I pay. Its close to a Sagar where I eat my idli-vada-sambhar on my way to the office, a general store where I buy my provisions, and theres an auto-rickshaw stand right round the corner where theres always a driver sleeping in an auto who doesnt mind being woken up, so long as the price is right.