Streaks of Dawn

By Anirban Chatterjee

Marriages are made in heavens
Eight years into his marriage, Ayan found that his intimacy with his wife Hiya had somehow sundered and he was scarcely involved with her romantically anymore. His distance with his wife was on ever increasing yawning graph. Divisive politics at work left him miserable, until he reconnected with his childhood love, Jahnavi, through text messages, after fifteen long years. Their friendship withstood pillars of time and she had filled a definite void in his life. He did not even realize when he had began a steamy affair with another woman, Snehal, the wife of his old friend Rajeev. Snehal was willing to fight the orthodox hypocrites of Indian society to leave her husband for a life with Ayan. What would Ayan do? Would he leave Hiya and marry Snehal or would seek solace in Jahnavi or he would return back to Hiya and begin life anew?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jan 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781482887952

Anirban Chatterjee

Anirban Chatterjee holds a chemistry degree from Kolkata University and presently works as an executive director for a private organization in Kolkata. He is an avid bird watcher and sports lover. This is his first novel. He currently lives with his wife and son in Saltlake, Kolkata. You can contact him at –[e-mail] and twitter handle is -@anchatster.

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Copyright © 2017 by Anirban Chatterjee.

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Contents

Section One   A Day In April

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Section Two   A Week Later (April)

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Section Three   A Month Later   (May)

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Section Four   Two Months Later (July)

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

SECTION ONE

A DAY IN APRIL

CHAPTER ONE

A yan looked in desperate awe at the spectacular sight slowly unfolding in front of him. He tried to run back, but he could not move his feet as if it was drilled to the ground by an unseen force. The people around him were running frantically backwards clinging to their loved ones, screaming at the top of their lungs. He painfully realised he was living the final few seconds of his life and this time, there was no escape. He looked admiringly at this spectre of advancing death: tall wall of white frothing column of unforgiving waves moving towards him in alarming speed with all valour. In a flash, his whole life passed before his eyes, his parents, then Hiya and Arush. His heart ached for them in these last few moments of his life. Then certainly he had heard Hiya screaming at him. He tried to hear intently. No doubt, it was Hiya. But from where did she come? He was alone, stranded in this God-forsaken beach of Phuket awaiting death in a few seconds from this gigantic tsunami. Again, he heard the shrilly voice of Hiya and instantly the whole spectacle of frothing humongous waves vanished. He woke with a start, still shivering in fear and trepidation, and opened his eyes painfully to the semidarkness of his own room. Motes of dust hung on yellow rays of first morning sun, which managed to pilfer its way through window slits. Even in the chill air conditioning of his room, he found sweat of fear trickling down his temples.

Another devilish nightmare, and now it was kind of recurring with him, and it came back to haunt him in frequent nights. Ayan realised it was his wife Hiya trying to get his son Arush ready for school in the adjacent room and hence the din. He tried in vain to remember again that horrendous dream, but it slipped like unruly smoke through his fingers.

Ayan needed a few moments of desperate sleep badly in these early morning hours. He searched for his pillow and pressed it hard against his ear to somewhat lessen the din, which was filtering thick and fast from the adjacent rooms failing the curtains. He knew this cacophony would continue for at least another fifteen minutes, at least before he would hear the loud horn of a pool car from the road and his 7-year-old son would scamper downstairs and would leave for his school. Ayan had told his wife Hiya a number of times that their son Arush had grown up considerably and she should not press herself too much on him, but all his pleadings would invariably fall in her deaf ear. So the deadly ruckus between mother and son would continue every day and Ayan would patiently wait in bed for the final thirty minutes before Hiya would finally arrive with his first cup of tea around seven thirty, and this had been his routine for almost nine years.

Ayan had learnt a hard lesson from life that his relation and warmth with Hiya was somewhat directly proportional to the amount of time she would spend with him while delivering his first morning tea. Ayan fondly remembered those pink days, especially right after his marriage when he invariably would make love to Hiya when she would come to deliver bed tea to him in the stroke of dawn. Hiya would then encounter angry face of his mother once she went out of his room as they used to live in a small two-bedroom flat with his parents.

He fidgeted lazily for a few more minutes before getting up and reached for his first cup of tea for the day. Hiya had left all morning newspapers on the side table. He heaved himself up and felt acute numbness and opened his eyes with great difficulty. Ayan thought it was the sign of age catching up with you when you could not open your eyes freely in the morning. He took a long satisfying sip from the cup of steaming hot tea and began his daily pouring over newspaper. He could dwell on the current state of his life and of the nation and arrived at nothing satisfactory in the way of answer. The news continued to be banal and depressing, and he wondered why the basic integrity of nation was on downslide. He was confused and eager to know the reason for living in this nation. He mused he was giving this opinion when his own integrity was under serious question in his workplace and he himself was facing departmental inquiry. He sighed out depressingly before going through the newspaper for which Hiya worked as journalist though he did not find any feature by her on that day. He was her severest critic, and Hiya usually appreciated his criticism on her work very sportingly. At exactly fifteen minutes to eight, he found his cup meticulously replaced by the maid. He really admired the precision with which Hiya ran this household. He stole a glance at his ornate wall clock and then hurried on his tea and he could now give himself maximum thirty minutes to get ready for the day. He was still having a serious hangover from last night and needed a warm shower to get rid of it.

Ayan was aghast at himself as he gazed at his own impression in the mirror mocking back at him. He never considered himself fair and handsome; nevertheless, he knew he had the personality and charisma to carry himself out and he was quite popular with opposite sex. He had a fine strong nose, square jaw, with white teeth and dark caressing sensuous eyes. But nowadays, he could see a dark shade beneath his eyes, visibly showing up tensions, and his face was smeared with rugged lines and he could see, even streak of white in his unshaven beard and a tinge of yellow on his teeth which may be the result of consuming innumerable cups of coffee in tension hours. At the verge of 32, Ayan was still physically very strong and fit and immensely powerful, short of an ounce of surplus flesh. His shoulders were sprawling slabs of muscles; his chest was wide and deep, heavily cleaved; his belly was hard and every muscle was defined, but again he could see an unhealthy pouch developing because of excessive drinking. He hated himself for having stopped growing at least two inches shorter of what would have clubbed him as tall Indian men.

Ayan was born lazy, never been to gym for the last five years but still managed to maintain his body tone naturally and he knew he still looked younger than most of his contemporaries. Only a streak of whites in his temples reminded him of his true age. He made a mental note that he would join gym as soon as he could avert this professional crisis preferably during winter.

Ayan took his time to dress immaculately for the day and nodded in silent approval for precise choice of Hiya on the same. Over the years, he had left his choice of wardrobe with Hiya completely and never really meddled with it. He looked at himself in the large Belgian Mirror and found himself to be quite a different man to the one which had frightened him few minutes before. He wondered when this patchy turmoil that was ruining his professional as well as personal life would end so he could again breathe freely like a common man. He decided not to start the day with negative vibes at his heart, which would ruin his day further.

Hiya was already there on the breakfast table, alert and ready for the day. The pure energy and vitality with which she carried herself amazed Ayan for years. She had a full round face, big sensuous, expressive eyes, long black hair, and carried an indomitable spirit that belied her 32-year-old age. She had tuft of hairs that constantly fell on her face and she plucked those tendrils back periodically in impulse. She could still be heartthrobs of many and Ayan wondered sometimes whether Hiya was having any affair but decided on negatives like every time. Ayan himself had numerous flings in these nine years and had sexual dalliances been worth of losing a wife. But for a few years now, his intimacy with Hiya had been sundered and he was scarcely involved romantically with her anymore. Hiya had almost dried up physically for him but still Ayan knew he loved her and that was the most important thing for him. He knew that he no more felt any carnal attraction towards his wife, and Ayan, had numeral flings which was well within the confined boundaries of his marriage. Still at the end of the day, it was she whom he would come back to, and that only added to solidarity in their relationship, and Ayan still could not envisage of a life without her.

Hiya was glowing admirably in early morning light and, as usual, ready with her daily complaints of Arush and his numerous mischiefs and about various household necessities, fully oblivious of the great mess Ayan had put himself into. Ayan kept nodding at her while finishing his plate routinely and filling her in gaps, and Hiya also knew from her experience that Ayan was hearing superficially only and she would have to decide alone what was needed to be done and onus lied on her only.

Ayan quickly checked with his ailing mother of 72 in her room. The old woman seemed to be happy with her son well established in his life and was content with her books and television. The sky was steel blue outside and the sun was blazing with all its might as Ayan stepped out of his two-storeyed house to fetch his car. The air was humid and heat was sapping. It was only eight fifty in the morning but the sun seemed to char him and he could sense the prickly heat on his skin. As he unlocked his garage, a shiver ran through his spine, if he could not turn around the mess by this month, his EMI of both the car and the house would get dishonour as he was running out of his cash reserve and would have no option other than to surrender to Hiya. He eased his Toyota Altis through the grovelled road out in the front and Hiya hopped in the front seat. She seemed to be in jovial mood and discussing the brutal rape of an elderly nun which was very much in news for the last ten days, which even brought international media glare back to Kolkata. Ayan was making small talks with her, meanwhile keeping a careful eye on jostling seamy Kolkata roads, all the time making a mental note of what would confront him once he would reach his office. He swayed his car into sideways of the media house in which Hiya worked. As Hiya descended, there were a couple of her female colleagues standing nearby and Ayan gave them his romantic boyish look, which he had mastered carefully over the years, and he could see a hint of admiration in their eyes. He eased his car to his final destination—his workplace.

So this could be normal routine for Ayan Banerjee, a few months short of his thirty-second birthday, who was facing the worst professional crisis of his life in a hot sultry April morning in Kolkata. But it was not to be.

His smartphone vibrated to indicate that there was a WhatsApp message waiting for him. He unlocked his code with his left hand while driving and found a ping from an unknown number, maybe international. Curiously, he veered into it while driving. A very common message: ‘Hi! How are you?’ But for the picture on the profile, there was no mistake. It dumbfounded him. He found his breathing hardened, as if he had received the greatest shock of his life.

CHAPTER TWO

J ahnavi listened with all intent. There was no mistake. It was Siberian accentor. Its call was tranquil and sorrowful, patterned fine ti-ti-ti. Unmistakable. She slowly slipped out her tape recorder and switched it on. Jungle on these parts were quite dense and she had to scale a steep hillock to follow this call. There was a distinct scent of rain in the wind. Sunrise was still due in another fifteen minutes. There were numerous calls from other morning birds as well which had effectively camouflaged their original calls. She leaped over a dry stream. Making steady progress, Jahnavi very well knew that if she could take a snap, this would be the first sighting of this elusive visitor from deep north of Siberia.

Her body ached from constant labour of pushing the undergrowth and scaling a small hillock on the way. These parts of Bhutan were more elevated than any other part of the country, so there was a permanent envelope of cold and dampness throughout the year. Still, perspiration poured down her temples due to extensive excursion. Suddenly, woods cleared in front of her, giving her an excellent panoramic view of snow-capped peaks against crimson red sky. Like a feline on prowl, she unpacked her backpack and took out her Nikon Digital SLR. She knelt down and positioned herself between two branches and took ten to fifteen good snaps without any hindrance with the help of right soft light. There were a flock of birds, probably thirteen, hopping on the ground, still unaware of her presence, scanning the slope on other sides for insects. She checked the pattern carefully. It had a streaked reddish-brown back, but some adults had a brownish-black crown. The entire underside was yellowish rusty-buff. Like other accentors, this species had an insectivore’s fine-pointed bill too. She was satisfied that her pain and perseverance for days had paid its sweet dividend. She felt excited like a child that she could upload these pictures in an appropriate site, claiming first sighting this summer of these elusive birds in the Indian subcontinent in these very mountains. Fully satisfied, her lissome frame began the long journey back home, a cup of steaming green tea calling.

Jahnavi shivered from morning chill. She turned away and walked slowly and breathed deeply, savouring the heavy-scented air of Himalayan dawn. She veered left till she found the serpentine streams and crossed it without difficulty. It was indeed a picturesque spectacle in early dawn in Bhutan valley. To her left, there were wild wastes of dry grassland and a group of weaver birds were frequent there calling continuously for their mates. There was a big waste pool to her right, frequented by migratory birds, and now she could see mallards and other types of water fowls there. She stole a glance at the sky; she could see patches of dark clouds with shades of grey. A flake of sunshine through a chink of cloud lighted up the distant hills, indicating that at least the day would be bright and sunny.

It was almost six now and dawn was breaking over horizons. Jahnavi descended few hundred metres when suddenly she found someone tagging her pull over from behind. She squirmed with fear but to her dismay found young Tuskin smiling at her like a newly blossomed rhododendron flower. She was a young Bhutanese girl around 5, as cute as you could get. With barely inaudible voice, she was gesturing her towards their small cottage where her parents were standing and were all smiles with hand folded in traditional ‘Namaste’. These people may be poor, but they were simple folks and always gave so much love and respect to her. She had resided in these hills for almost three years and she was quite popular and known as ‘Mem Didi’ amongst the villagers.

Thrice a week, out of her own necessities of getting engaged and to fight her alienation, she taught English to the kids in nearby villages, in which their mother also attended. She did not feel lonely among them, and very much felt wanted. At this moment, she could not resist the idea of having a warm tea made up of milk of yak. She was a bit exhausted too and it would