Sense of a Quiet

By Deepak Kripal

Milind and Diya, a doctor couple settled in Haridwar are struggling with career and relationship issues. Rohan, their common friend from medical college, visits Haridwar to stay with his best friend Milind for a few days. Diya doesn't like Rohan; she sees him as an impractical and impulsive person who lacks motive in life.

Facing an impending divorce, Rohan wants to rejig his life, to work out the missing pieces and figure out what he really wants from life. In Haridwar, Rohan makes new acquaintances and friends – a rickshaw-wala, a maid and a rude elderly retired army man. Meanwhile, Milind gets trapped in a corruption scam, and Diya finds herself in a situation that she does not want to share with Milind and ends up in a further conflict with Rohan. Rohan gets into an altercation with an MLA’s aide; his stay in Haridwar seems to have set off a chain of events that will turn the relationship between Diya, Rohan and Milind into a quagmire spiraling completely out of control before they know it.

Where will the cycle of life take them to? As they sit on the bank of Ganges for redemption, what does destiny have in store for them - Scars or Deliverance?

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9789355590220

Deepak Kripal

Deepak Kripal is a practicing doctor who authored his debut novel, 'The Devil’s Gate: An Impossible Journey', under Leadstart Publishing in 2013 which was critically acclaimed and received good reviews. He has deeply studied subjects like Psychology, Philosophy and Sociology that have hugely influenced the stories and thoughts he chooses to tell. He likes to experiment yet stay true to real life issues that concern human existence in varied aspects of life. He credits his love for stories to the bedtime stories told to the imaginative child in him by his late grandfather.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jai Bhole Nath. She murmured between her lips.

Folding her hands close to her chest, she dropped her eyelids briefly as she bowed her head. Diya had just seen a Shiva temple from the windshield of her moving cab. Like her father, she was a devotee of the great God who was fondly called Mahayogi and Mahakaal in the same breath by his huge legion of followers. Diya remembered her father every time she saw anything related to Lord Shiva. A decorated colonel in the army and a passionate outgoing yet god-fearing man, he was a devout believer of Lord Shiva. Opening her eyes when the temple was left behind, she could almost picture her father telling her stories about snake Vasuki around Shiva’s head, telling her that the three coils of the legendary snake depicted past, present and future. Mahadev controls everything, he would tell little Diya who wouldn’t blink an eye listening to the mythological stories told fervently by her zealous father. She would reserve the best smile for the time when she would recall his father dancing on one leg after drinking bhang on Maha Shivratri, laughing and chanting with his friends, holding hands and getting along with people like a house on fire.

But those stories and anecdotes were not the only reason why she missed him. A doting father, he was mostly away in remote field postings, serving his country with pride and honour, visiting his family once or twice a year. Back in childhood, when she learned of his homecoming in advance, Diya would sit near the window all day, she would feel bugs in her stomach and she wouldn’t eat anything while at it, looking at the street outside her house in anticipation, following every vehicle that would pass with jittery eyes in the hope that her father would emerge from one of them and shout her name, her heart racing at the mere thought of catching the first glimpse of her father. And she would set off the blocks the moment she would spot him, her eyes lit up like icy new marbles unfrosted by the first soothing ray of the rising sun. Beaming with the brightest smile on her face, she would run towards him, almost jumping at him as he would get hold of her by the arms, and he would toss her up in the air, and she would laugh and giggle with joy, and he would laugh and call her a gundi, a naughty girl, and plant a kiss on her cheeks, and she would scream and giggle again. And then he would tell her that she was beautiful, that he had brought fancy frocks and car toys, Tibetan handcrafted dolls and imported chocolates, scarves and shoes, making her stretch her lips from cheek to cheek, gushing and blooming like a dewy red rose of early spring.

The times she had spent with her father were some of the happiest memories of her life. She, especially, loved to wash the ambassador car that once belonged to her grandfather. Her grandfather was a British era zamindar, wealthy and flamboyant, she was told. Diya’s father had bought a new car but she would always get swayed by the beauty of her grandfather’s vintage car and her feet wouldn’t stop until she would touch its meticulously designed round contours, watching her reflection in the still shining white of the car. Smiles. Blushes.

Stop the car, Diya said to the cab driver. A transgender was gesturing to the cab driver, probably asking him to stop the car, even trying to knock the windshield of the back seat where Diya was sitting. The cab driver did not pay heed to the gestures, until Diya interfered and made him stop the vehicle. The transgender who was left behind quickly came rushing back as Diya opened the windshield.

Keep this, Diya took out a twenty rupee note from her purse and requested the transgender to accept it.

What is this madam, said the transgender, looking miffed. He was slightly overweight, and had a manly voice. He argued about inflation and raised prices, petrol and gas, onions and tomatoes. You look rich, you are travelling in cars, and twenty rupees, he showed the twenty rupee note to Diya, almost ridiculing her for the miserliness. Diya shook her head slowly as she smiled briefly, opening her purse and taking out another fifty rupee note. Diya’s mother had taught her that helping transgender people brings you good luck and wealth.

You happy now? Diya asked the transgender as he accepted the note. He nodded and left happily, but not before wishing her well, and blessing her with good career and a dozen beautiful children.

Pushpalata, Diya’s mother, never wanted to let her immerse in the lavish surroundings of her father’s rich heritage. Diya would listen to her most times, but the times when her father was around, which wasn’t a lot, she wouldn’t pay heed to her mother, making Pushpalata worry if her child would stand her ground when grown-up, if she would become the self-made independent person she wanted her to become. A well-known gynaecologist in Dehradun, Pushpalata came from a lower middle-class family and crawled her way up through long hard continuous struggles, battling failures and poverty, toughing out missed meals and found debts, watching her mother taking a mouthful from angry debt collectors, going through the daily grinds for years without ever giving up. Pushpalata told stories to Diya about the struggles she had to face after her father, who was a small-time trader, died when she was only twelve. She told Diya stories about how her family struggled to make ends meet on the meagre savings of her departed father, how her mother stitched petticoats and falls on sarees to raise money for the books and school fees of three children, Pushpalata being the eldest of the three. Later she learnt to stitch blouses and salwar-kurta as well, she told Diya. Nothing came easy to me; maybe that is why I am as successful as I am. Don’t get lost in the maze of inherited glitz and gloss, you may never find your feet if you do that. Diya, the obedient child she was, would silently listen to her mother’s grim stories of incessant struggles, and she would nod her head dutifully in between, only to pick a rag and running to wash her grandfather’s white ambassador car again.

Diya’s father died five years ago. He had cancer of the gall bladder that was caught in late stages. There was metastasis and complications. He had lost a lot of weight during his final days. He smiled less, ate less, but she never saw him dropping a tear. He couldn’t witness the marriage of his beloved child which he desperately wanted to. On his last night, he had had a drink and that was the happiest he had looked in months, and he had told Diya that night that she looked beautiful in red, and that she should wear it more often than she does. She had smiled and nodded. He died in sleep later that night. He was a hero, she would remind herself on days she missed him, and she would let out some quiet smiles thinking about him, and at times, some tears too.

Intubate the patient, and put her on a ventilator, Diya closed the entrance door behind her back, talking to the junior resident on her cell phone, a black leather purse just beginning to slip from her right shoulder. She had reached her house. And listen, she blurted, juggling with the handle of her purse, pushing it back where it belonged. Give her a shot of hydrocort, she raised her right hand, just about the level of shoulders, perhaps without even being aware of it, with her hand moving rhythmically to-and-fro, pointed index finger apparently giving directions to the doctor on call. The resident doctor might not have seen her guiding hand, but he did seem to understand her instructions.

She had just arrived home after her shift. Being a paediatrician had brought her some accountability, not to mention a short-tempered restless boss, a terribly cramped schedule and rampant duty stress, things that did not even find the status of a passing note in her set of duty responsibilities. Sick children were plenty in the hospital. The drive of wanting to learn more, a heart that sought pleasures in the cure, and ambitions that defied scales made her work well beyond her duty rosters. This was the life she had always wanted. How could she ever complain!

Start bolus of normal saline, and a dopamine infusion as well, she gingerly meandered around on the floor of the living room, slowly walking across towards the bedroom door. Call me if there is any issue, her guiding hand finally coming down. Dr Pathak will be there any minute to take over, and she hung up the phone, firmly pushing the bedroom door with her right palm.

The switchboard was on the left side of the door. She pressed the second button from the left to light up the room. She could not help but let out a big sigh as soon as the room lit up. The creases on the bedsheet ran long and deep, taking the vast expanses of the bed in its viral clutch. Floral print on the sheet was hard to appreciate, looking more like an ill-conceived spider web than anything else. Keys of the wardrobe lay on the bed itself, so did a white towel that looked far from dry. Milind had left after her this morning, much later than he routinely used to go. How she wished he hadn’t!

Carrying a resigned look on her face, she rushed back to the living room and dropped her frame on the beige coloured sofa placed on one side of the living room, closer to the entrance. She threw her bag on the coffee table, taking a quick glance around the room. The lounge chairs were placed symmetrically at both the ends of the sofa, magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table, and the room was spick and span, just the way she liked it. The curtains leaned solemnly on the windows. The touch was silken. The colour was beige. Diya had always taken pride in her stately choice. The splendid white marble floor wedded with the soft orange painted walls only seemed reading a testimony to that fact.

The only thing missing was lent by a king-sized wall painting - perspective - as she called it. The painting was placed on the wall opposite the sofa. It was a grave, sombre and strikingly stark image of a wild stallion. It was painted in different shades of grey. The stallion had an unkempt and grungy look and was facing straight out of the frame. It seemed distressed. Something mystic was buried beneath those deep and moist eyes. They appeared to have a hundred stories to tell, or maybe, it was something else. Hunger.

God! Diya blurted out as she breathed in. She was tired. The big corporate hospital she worked in was situated in the heart of Haridwar, a little more than half an hour drive from her rented flat in a small but plush residential area where she was living with her husband, Milind.

She looked at her watch eagerly, gulping some water from the bottle she had just taken out from her bag. It was quarter past three. She had arrived an hour early today. Rohan was coming from Delhi to stay with them for a few days. She put the bottle on the table, got up casually, and lazily strolled toward her bedroom again to freshen up. An attached toilet was there in her bedroom, apart from a common washroom that made way from a narrow corridor at the rear end of the living room.

She was patting her face with a towel when she heard the sound of Milind’s car arriving at the gate. She rushed towards the main door. While moving across swiftly, she spotted the handbag and bottle that she had carelessly left on the coffee table moments ago. She sighed, before picking and stashing the bottle hurriedly on the kitchen shelf.

She ran towards the entrance this time, arranging the neckline of her embroidered green Kurti, manoeuvring her tresses with a feather touch, moistening her lips along the way. And she opened the door to welcome the guest.

See, who is here? Diya said with childlike enthusiasm as she grinned, looking mirthfully at Rohan. Rohan was standing beside the car, facing Milind, who was taking Rohan’s trolley bag out from the car’s trunk. There was no garage in the house. Milind parked his car on the roadside, as did most people in the colony, except a few who had the luxury of a parking space.

Hey, there is the gorgeous lady, Rohan said gleefully, turning his gaze towards Diya, flashing his warm, clean-shaven, levelled cheek smile.

You look the same, dashing as ever, Diya smiled again, complimenting. Milind and Diya’s batchmate from college, Rohan had well-built body to go with a long frame. He was easily the most handsome man in the college during their MBBS days, and more importantly, he was Milind’s best friend.

Well, you need glasses lady. Rohan answered teasingly.

I think we would be better off talking inside the house, Milind intervened as he ambled across the door with the trolley bag, casually walking past Diya, his weight slightly on the other side of the trolley bag as he lifted it inside the door.

Oh yes! Come on, get inside. Diya gestured to Rohan, before following him inside the house. The picture of her bedroom that Milind had made a mess of was still playing inside her mind. She had always reminded Milind to keep the objects at their rightful place after use. Milind would listen to her at one instance, only to falter at others.

Milind and Rohan sunk in the lounge chairs facing each other. Diya brought a glass of cold drinking water for Rohan from the kitchen. It was an open kitchen, with its open side towards the middle of the living room. On either side of the kitchen, were the two rooms of the flat.

Rohan had always preferred chilled water. He would have it even in the chilling cold of January; it was August anyway. And Diya knew about it all too well. Freezing cold, just the way you like it, she gleefully said, setting the glass tray on the table.

You bet, smiled Rohan, extending his arm as he grabbed the glass from the tray.

So, how is Shefali? Diya asked about Rohan’s wife, beginning to sit on the sofa facing Rohan.

She is good, said Rohan, taking a quick sip of water. You are looking weary? Everything okay?

Yes, yes, Diya insisted with a hesitant giggle. All is good. Actually, I just came back from the hospital, she casually arranged her dangling tresses, depositing them meticulously behind her left ear. You want some more water? she quickly asked as Rohan put his glass back on the tray.

Oh, stop being so formal, Diya, replied Rohan. This is my house more than anybody else’s. Isn’t it?

Yeah right, that’s why you are coming to this house for the first time, Diya shot back, a tinge of sarcasm evident in her voice.

Really, said Rohan. New wife and new job can get hard on you, he smirked. I got busy, kind of stuck, in the last two years, he said, more poise and depth in his voice this time. Happy to be back home again, he flicked a smile again as he reclined back.

Where is Sapna? Milind, who was candidly listening to their conversation, asked Diya. I think we would love some tea. Milind was 5’7 tall, slightly chubby with a broad forehead.

Who is Sapna? Rohan intervened. He straightened his back, looking towards Milind. Don’t tell me you got married yet again?

I am happy with what I’ve got, Milind said with a smug face.

Sapna is our maid, Diya said, drifting the subject of discussion immediately. She stays with us, does all the household work, she grasped the tray from the table. I think she has gone to the first floor to do our landlord’s work. I’ll make some tea for you guys. She started walking towards the kitchen.

There is no urgency, dear, insisted Rohan. I am fine. Let’s talk till your beloved Sapna comes back.

I don’t want to become the proverbial bone in flesh between you two, Diya announced, stopping midway. I know you both are itching to slip into your private conversation, and she strolled towards the kitchen, placing the glasses into the sink.

You got an intelligent wife, jeered Rohan, looking at Milind.

It would be hard to argue against that, said Milind as they both burst into laughter. Since the kitchen was open into the living room, Diya could hear them cracking as she poured sugar into the tea. She didn’t resist a smile.

Both of them got submerged into a quiet chatter which would frequently break into spurts of loud laughter. Rohan had the tendency to laugh out loud, something he had never even cared to cage. And Milind, though quiet at other times, loved to join his best mate in his harmless volcanic eruptions. They kept on talking as Diya went to the bedroom after serving them tea. She desperately wanted some sleep. Three sick gasping children had arrived today during her shift, enough to make her stand in one leg at the bedside all the time. Though she revived two out of the three, it made a recipe for a tiring day, despite the joy she drew out of it.

What is it with the magazines? Rohan picked three magazines from the stack, swiftly flipping the pages of all the three together. Two of them were about home decor, another about fitness. Rohan did not even attempt to see what was inside. Everybody keeps them. Nobody reads them, he did look at the cover of the magazine at the top. Hexagonal wooden boxes painted with acrylic paint of different shades were glued to the wall. "Classy yet chic, he read the tagline on the cover about hexagonal wall art. Doctors are pathetic readers," he said as much to himself as he did to Milind, shaking his head alongside, the curve of his lips slowly taking a downward bend.

You can’t say the same about female doctors, argued Milind.

Well, they were women first I guess, Rohan said with a snickering smile. Milind reciprocated with a subdued yet affirmative smile.

Milind came from a conservative family in Garhwal. His father, an assistant clerk in State government school, was a disciplinarian who talked less and reprimanded more. Milind feared him while growing up. He would leave his ludo and comics borrowed from school friends to pick up some random textbook every time he spotted his father approaching the home. He would gag his mouth with his hands when his father shouted at him for coughing too much at midnight. Once, when he was in the sixth standard, he had accidentally dropped his toothbrush inside the latrine pot, totally dipped in what looked like brown murky water. So terrified was Milind of his father’s ill-temper that he instinctively picked it up and used it again after washing it, and continued to use that toothbrush until his father brought a new one by himself. But for all the scolding and rebuke he received from his father, some of which still stung him, he had a doting mother who brushed his hair and stroked his cheeks every time he got a chiding from his father. She was illiterate and didn’t have much say in the affairs of the family, but she did have a red plastic box where she put all the important documents and bills she couldn’t read, spreading all of them over the bed every time her husband asked for any document.

You are starting to get old, boy. I see some tyres in your belly, Rohan quipped, taking a dig at Milind, who had accumulated few pounds in the last few years. The bond that both Rohan and Milind have come to share had its moorings rooted in their college days, where Rohan was Milind’s constant pillar of strength. Milind, who was a bit uncertain and insecure during his early college days, gradually went on to evolve into a more assured person, and Rohan had played a huge yet understated role in that transformation. He would often go out of his way to speak for Milind. He would quietly stand behind him all the time, and even before him, when contingencies arose. Rohan had come to like Milind’s simplicity, and he did not like it when somebody tried to exploit it.

I can still make do for the pictures by sucking my stomach in, Milind was quick to respond, both the men breaking into a burst of quick laughter.

In many ways, Rohan was the polar opposite of Milind. In his college, he was as much a popular figure as he was unpopular. He was liked by many for his good looks, not so much for his tendency to speak his heart out. He would not care to choose or even filter his words in a flow of speech, rather, a flow of heart in his case, some said. He had a penchant to help others, often in the face of his own loss. And due to his free-spirited and sometimes inexplicable ways, many saw him as an impractical, unrealistic, impulsive and confused person, one who did not know his own good. Some called him a lost stargazer who did not belong here. For reasons best known to him, he didn’t give a damn.

* * *

Stars here are so much brighter than in Delhi, beautiful sky, so much clearer, so much larger. It’s great to get out of the big city, it was beginning to drain me, feels so much better here, said Rohan, staring at the sky like