The Vertical Truth

By Diwakar Methil

Rani: Lean, fair, tall and aristocratic, she was like someone straight out of a Parisienne catwalk. She made the mistake of giving herself completely to the wrong guy, and had to pay the inevitable penalty.
Lila: Beautiful and sexy, she thought she knew it all. One day she learned different. But by then it was too late.
Das: What he did to Rani was evil enough, but what he did to Lila, his own cousin, was unpardonable.
Bidouges: Plutocrat, philanthropist, and environmental activist, he was ready for any eventuality. He taught Das a lesson: Evil doesnt always win, sometimes Good can prevail too. But the poor feller couldnt profit from it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jan 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482844214

Diwakar Methil

Diwakar Methil is a freelance writer, blogger, poet and author. He teaches English Literature and Interactive English. He has conducted considerable research on man-woman relationships, particularly post marital relations.

Book preview

The

Vertical

Truth

DIWAKAR METHIL

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Copyright © 2015 by Diwakar Methil.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Acknowledgements

A Long Time Ago…

P A R T O N E

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

P A R T T W O

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Themes

1. Women are vulnerable at the best of times.

2. One man destroys two women, another man comes along, marries one and saves the other.

Man-woman relationships always fascinate me. How is it that one man hates a particular woman and another just adores her? What makes one fall in and out of love? Why does a man snare a woman with fi ne words of love and when his pleasure is over fl ings her to the dogs? What processes are at play when the very same woman is rescued from the dogs and given a life of love and care?

Some of us have similar experiences. Some have known about them or have at least heard of such things happening in the lives of others.

Gift him what makes you woman, the scent of

Long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts,

The warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your

Endless female hungers…

—Kamala Das, The Looking Glass.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply indebted to those friends, colleagues and students, too numerous to mention, without whose constant support and encouragement this work would not have seen the light of day.

I wish to particularly thank Mary Jo Prado of Essex, Md, USA, the children’s writer and Jayesh San, of Palghat, Kerala, the Malayalam poet for rendering certain services in connection with the publication of this work.

To

A.M.T

A LONG TIME AGO…

Route No-1 came to a slow halt with a hiss of compressed air. Pushing, jostling and elbowing, humanity oozed out of its pores, sweating, cursing, dark-bodied and very proletarian. He flicked his wrist casually to glance at his wafer-thin, gold plated watch, knowing all the time that there was enough time. So he waited patiently for the others to get off and only when the last of them had alighted at last, did he make an attempt to make an exit from the bus. The conductor, ensconced on his seat and busily counting the cash proceeds of the trip, looked up from what he was doing to greet him effusively, addressing him as dorai, meaning a white man.

He was wearing cowboy jeans and a shirt with loud black and red checks in the accepted Wild West mode. On his feet there shone a pair of shining tan boots with silver buckles, custom made by a much harassed and bewildered cobbler who had never even suspected the existence of such exotic footgear. The only items missing on his person were a ten-gallon hat and a red bandana, articles he had tried in vain to obtain. A pair of six shooters in low-slung holsters ready for a quick draw, spurs on his boots and riding a hosse as depicted in a Max Brand western would have completed the picture perfectly. He even wished he were born at Dog Leg Bend, Gun Hill or some such place in Arizona or Montana or….

A guy could only sigh.

He wore his hair high on his forehead in the then accepted Hollywood fashion. It took some doing and to get it right, he had to spend hours standing before a full-length mirror. His college mates called him ‘serpent head’, as they felt that his hairstyle looked like the raised head of a cobra poised to strike.

He was very fat and very fair, qualities much appreciated in those parts. His skin was soft and silky like a girl’s. The darkening down on his upper lip sent shivers of desire down the middle of the local girls.

The General Hospital bus stop was crowded as usual. A group of Eurasian girls stood around, waiting for their buses. As he passed them, they eyed him appraisingly. Of all people, it was they who understood and appreciated the significance of his attire. One among them called Olga de Rosario, a fair skinny beauty with a pageboy haircut, always had a ready smile for him. Normally, he would have responded with a friendly ‘hi’ as he hoped to win her favor, go around holding hands, and lip kissing in dark corners like he had seen Anglo-Indian boys do.

He liked western ways and considered them superior to his own in every way. The yearning for an ‘Anglo’ girl was part of this attitude because they cut their hair short, wore frocks, talked English differently, listened to western pop and could follow the dialogues of Hollywood movies. He also wanted to be a Christian to complete this western make up. However, when he approached that alien faith, he was clearly confused by the rather large array of denominations of which he could make neither head nor tail out of and was at a loss to join which. For some time he hopped from one church to another, trying to force a decision. But it was only a futile effort. It was easier to put off the decision to a future date.

As he turned into College Road, these factors were not at the forefront of his thoughts, for he had found a girl to surpass any Eurasian girl that he had ever known including the inimitable Miss. de Rosario. Now he had eyes for this new girl only.

He had come across her quite accidentally. As usual, he had walked past his college gates, on his way to The Lucky Cafe, his favorite haunt where he called the waiters by their first names. As he crossed the circus and approached the bus stop that faced the Office of the Superintendent of Police, he saw her. It made him stand still on his tracks.

She was lean, tall and so fair that she looked like something out of a Parisian catwalk. Her thick wavy hair was neatly plaited into two, reminding him of bunny tails. It was so short that they barely grazed her shoulders. As he approached, she was facing the other way. He longed to snuggle up to her and run his nose along the back of her slender white neck, framed by the twin brown plaits.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned and gazed at him, a smile edging its way around the corners of her mouth. He was struck by her big brown eyes, narrow pinched nose, thin lips and a funny chinless chin. She had small breasts below which the narrow strip of her midriff, between the blouse and the sari, seemed almost translucent.

Her elegance floored him. She was not much of a beauty, but then he did not set much store for beauty. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen was a beggar chit asking for alms in a squeaky voice in front of the temple that he used to pass every day on his way home.

He saw her eyeing him, surprised obviously by his expression, his outlandish apparel and his very noticeable obesity in stark contrast to her own slim self.

Feeling her glance scanning him all over, he blinked, gulped twice and got nearly choked as a result. For some moments, his heart stood still and just as suddenly began to race like mad. He groped about, turned on his heels, bolted down the road and did not stop until he had gained the campus and slipped stealthily into his classroom. Fortunately, none of his classmates noticed his predicament because the class was already under way, the professor brilliant but stern, and the subject very interesting: Romantic Poets of England.

He began to make discreet enquiries about the girl. He found out that her name was Rani, hailed from a small town called Ponanie, worked for the Department of Electricity, stayed in a women’s hostel near Chid Park, and took the No-7 bus to work and back.

At first, he watched her from afar, and then gathered enough courage to move closer. He began to haunt the environs of the hostel where she was put up. The fact that there was this park right across the hostel helped things along considerably. There he could mix with the crowds that were milling about at all times of the day, and some hours into the night, in the hope of getting at least a glimpse of her.

The hostel was sandwiched between the main boulevard and a side street. He walked around it, his eyes riveted to her window which somehow always remained closed, to his utter consternation. The moment she emerged from the premises, on her way to work, for shopping or for just a casual stroll with a couple of friends always in tow, he would follow her. Later, he took to following her, wherever she went.

Although he longed for it with all his heart, he could never gather the courage to accost her, to address her and to declare just how much he loved her.

This state of things continued for some months. One fine morning, he found to his chagrin that he had completed his course in English Literature and the college days ended. Sadly, he had to vacate his digs too.

With a heavy heart, he left for his native village. He mooned about her for some time, not eating or sleeping much, much to the consternation of his grandmother who had in fact brought him up in the first place. When the examination results were out at last, he found out that he had passed summa cum laude. He was surprised at this because his infatuation for the fair and slender girl had made him neglect his studies to a large extent. But his deep and abiding love for the language and its literature, the innate feeling that he was a ‘native’ to the tongue, had done the trick.

A month later, he was aboard the Howrah Mail bound for Calcutta, in search of a job. At first, the kind of jobs he got was not worth writing home to. However, soon things began to change for the better for him, as he became a well-paid executive in a British company. His boss, a soft-spoken Englishman from Kent took him under his wing, fascinated by his command of English and the ability to follow English English, perfectly. Before long, he had left behind his country moorings and had become a sophisticated cosmopolite.

One day, while happily strolling down the Chowringhee, he lost his mental innocence somewhere along the famous boulevard. He had become a big city boy.

He was very happy in Satyajit Ray’s Mohonogor. Wasn’t the great metropolis steeped in culture, once even the capital of the British Raj? Even the streets had names right out of the pages of British Indian History like Dalhousie Square, Bentinck Street and Clive Row. There was even a Strand along the Hooghly and a bridge to boot, and what the hell if it is not the Tower Bridge!

Years passed…

P A R T O N E

CHAPTER 1

Cruising down the mountain highway was a Mercedes saloon, certainly as big as a bar, as the name suggests. Slowly leaving the hairpin bends behind, the road straightened itself out and the car sped onward. It streaked down the countryside at a fast clip. The man at the wheel sat erect, his eyes on the road ahead. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel. From the CD system speakers, there escaped forth a classical raga, being played on a sarod.

His fingers absently kept rhythm with the accompanying tabla. Outside, the city slowly took shape from under the glare and heat of the tropical sun. The tinted windscreen and the air conditioner that hummed faintly to itself from under the dashboard protected him from both. Having approached the outskirts of the city, the vehicle slowed down and proceeded at a more sedate pace.

While coasting down the main boulevard after entering the city proper, people paused to stare, as it crawled by. At the downtown intersection, the red rear lights flashed and the car came to a slow halt. As it did so, the orange of the traffic light turned red. The traffic cop on duty saluted him smartly. He smiled imperceptibly and waved back.

The red became green. Right indicators blinking, the car turned right smoothly. It slowly gathered momentum and after a block or so, the rear lights flashed again and it began to slow down. Then it was the turn of the left indicator to blink, as it was steered into the drive of a gasoline station.

A boy in a gray uniform ran up to the car. The man got out and stretched. He wore a pair of dungarees, a denim sports jacket over a yellow T-shirt. The sound that his tan boots made echoed dully off the glass-walled cabin of the filling station.

The boy moved towards him, flashing his teeth.

‘A good morning to you, sir,’ he said touching his cap.

‘Hi, Raman! Fill her up,’ he said to the boy, handing him a key and the boy went about to do what he was told.

‘Yes sir. Shall I check everything else as well?’

‘Yes, as usual my boy,’ the man said, smiling.

‘The car looks right dusty, sir. May I dust it and give it a shampoo?’ The boy flashed his teeth again.

‘A beauty parlor for cars, Raman?’

‘Sir?’

‘A beauty treatment for dear old Mercedes! Why not feller, why not? Go right ahead, if you feel like it.’

‘Oh, I do feel like it, sir. It’s not often that I see a car like his.’

‘Okay kid, you win,’ he remarked looking around. ‘It seems rather quiet in here.’

‘The rush hour’s passed now, sir. Things’ll pick up as it nears the lunch hour.’

‘Oh! You’re not busy now, eh, Raman?’ He said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘Is that why you volunteered to clean the car? If I’d come at the rush hour, you wouldn’t have even glanced at it.’

The boy stood aghast, an expression of hurt slowly registering on his face. ‘Oh, no sir!’ He said recovering. ‘I’d have done it at any time even at my busiest.’

‘Okay, kid. Don’t look so hangdog. It’s just a joke between pals.’

‘Me a pal?’

‘Why not feller, why not?’ He patted him on the shoulder and the boy flushed with pleasure.

The car was topped with gas. Tires and oil were checked. The boy disappeared into the cabin and came out with a piece of cloth and a can of car shampoo. As he finished, the car gleamed in a metallic sheen. The man nodded approval.

‘How old are you, Raman?’

‘Past sixteen sir.’

‘Can you drive a car?’

‘Just about sir. In a few months, I’ll learn it nice and good.’

‘Are you a mechanic too?’

‘Oh, I tinker around a bit sir, but given a bit of time, I’ll be one too, soon enough, sir.’

The man smiled, impressed. ‘You’re a smart one, ain’t you? Well, you learn all that stuff and gain some experience too,’ the man said, looking appreciatively at the boy, ‘by then, I’ll be too old to drive and you can take over as my chauffeur.’

‘Oh! I would like that very much sir; I’d love to drive a car like this, and that too for a person like you. But you won’t be all that old for a long time to come, sir.’

‘My, you’re a little flatterer ain’t you? Well, I think we could get along, in spite of the flattery.’

The boy grinned happily, his cheeks flushed. He ran into the cabin and returned with the bill.

‘Your sign, sir.’

The man scrawled his initials and tipped him.

‘’Bye Raman, be seeing you. And don’t forget what I said, I meant it.’

‘Oh, no sir. And thank you, thank you very much,’ he said looking down at the handsome tip that he held in his palm.

‘A good day to you sir.’

The man waved idly at him from the moving car.

‘All this driving gives me a thirst! Guess I could do with a drink. Maybe I’ll have a beer or even better a whisky on the rocks. Now, where’d I go? It must be somewhere nice and quiet. I’m not in the mood for company now. Hmmm… Well! Guess I could make it to The Kismet. It’ll be deserted at this time of the day. ‘Besides, it’s very comfy,’ he mused.

He piloted the car towards the seafront, switched off the air conditioner, and hit a button that made the front door windows slide open. The fabled Arabian Sea stretched along to his right. The salty sea breeze wafted into the car, fresh and crisp. He cruised along until the restaurant appeared on his left. He swerved the Mercedes into the parking lot, which was deserted, as he had hoped it would.

‘It’s as it should be.’ He smiled. ‘I’m so damn thirsty that soon my throat’ll be tapping my jugular, if I don’t do something about it.’

He came to a slow stop, before The Kismet with its imitation Saracen facade. It was covered entirely with marble, with pointed arches, and muted columns like minarets.

As he got down, the heat enveloped him, at first warmly and then with full force. He took off his jacket and draped it over his shoulder, then ambled towards the marble steps. The doorman came alive, as he ascended the steps. He wore a mogul costume. He looked imposing with his huge frame and a sweeping, handle bar moustache. As the man approached, he stood up with a snap and saluted him respectfully.

‘A beautiful day, saab,’ he said opening the ornate door.

‘Most beautiful,’ the man agreed rather expansively. ‘With all those birds singing, one could really be happy’

‘Birds?’ The doorman said, looking around with his mouth agape. ‘But, I can’t find any, saab. Actually I meant the sunshine saab.’

The man agreed gravely. ‘Come to think of it Singh, you sure did.’

‘Oh, thank you, saab.’ He replied, beaming.

The man entered the lounge and walked over the red carpet that guided him to the main dining hall. The glass and brushed aluminum door slid open on its rollers with a gentle hum, as he stood before it.

He paused at the threshold, his hands hooked on to his waist-belt. Soft piped music came flowing down, as he entered the semi-dark hall.

His glance swept around the high-ceilinged room. A huge, antique chandelier hung plumb down from the middle of the ceiling. It was quite unlit. The hall looked cozy and intimate, with an exclusive air to it, although a bit gaudy for his taste.

There seemed to be no one around. He smiled. He had the whole place to himself.

He made towards the alcove where he usually sat. From there, he could watch the idly swaying fronds of the coconut palms, with the sea beyond and the blue sky as a backdrop. From there, he could also watch the road and keep an eye on the parking lot.

A thick curtain covered the large bay window of the alcove. It struck him as unusual, as the curtain was fully open. Frowning deeply, he walked towards it. Suddenly, he was aware of the presence of someone else in the room. He felt rather than saw that the alcove-table was occupied. He stopped short. It irked him to think that his favorite seat had, what seemed to him, and alien occupant. He cursed himself under the breath.

Why hadn’t he thought of ringing up in advance to reserve the table? But few haunted it during the day.

He wondered just who the person was. Anyway, he could not do anything about it, even if he knew. So he just shrugged off the thought and directed himself to the next table. In the gloom, he could just about make out the vague outlines of a person.

He sat up straight, as he caught sight of what looked like a sari. As his eyes slowly adjusted themselves to the semidarkness, he saw, much to his chagrin, a woman sitting on the very chair that it was his wont to sit upon. Even in that light, she looked very pale. A pair of large eyes glimmered softly in the semi-gloom. Sitting there, he cursed under his breath. The woman looked up at him for a brief moment and resumed the perusal of the bill-of-fare.

He looked about for the solitary waiter who was in charge, at this time of the day. Oddly, there was no sign of him. His glance once again strayed to the alcove.

Now, he could see the woman more clearly. A four-letter word streaked through his mind.

The woman was intent on the menu-folder.

‘The bitch!’ He swore to himself. ‘There are scores of good restaurants in this lousy burg and of all places, and she’d to go and choose this particular one which women hardly patronize.’ Anger surged within him hotly. ‘To top it all, she’d to use my favorite seat, when there are dozens of others for her to place her bloody ass upon.’

He looked up again and at her. As he held her in his angry gaze, he felt something stir at the back of his mind. But, he could not place and let it go. After a few moments, he felt the remote stirrings once again. He struggled uneasily with it for some time, but try as he might, could not put his finger to it.

His glance strayed to her yet again. Now, he could see her more clearly and felt his mind heave once again. She seemed a bit more familiar. He shook his head slowly, muttering under his breath.

Curiosity got the better of him. He cleared his throat almost apologetically, softly. He turned to her once again, firmly this time, his mind obviously made up.

‘Excuse me lady.’

The woman looked up and looked around.

‘Pardon me lady, but I have a feeling that I know you from somewhere.’ He spoke in a calm voice so as not to startle her, she looked that gossamer.

She looked up at him with a trace of irritation. Her lips twitched for a moment and she returned to the menu.

He cursed under his breath again.

Her body seemed to shiver a bit, but she did not look up again.

Her silence put him off, but not for long. With every passing moment, he was more than ever certain that he had met her somewhere before. He looked up at her.

‘Pardon the intrusion lady, but I’m sure that I’ve seen you before.’

At this she shivered again. There was no other response, but he could not simply let it go.

‘Hmmm… Just where did I see you?’

The woman looked up suddenly, with wide angry eyes.

‘Sir! I do not know you, so kindly