Experiences

Retired Bank officer Ramasubramaniam sat at his table near the window overlooking the courtyard of his building complex, rolling the shells in his hand thoughtfully. He looked outside with unseeing eyes, his brows furrowed. The unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon caused sweat to bead on his forehead, but he seemed oblivious to it. His lips moved silently in a chant. The air hung heavily around him, oppressive. He thought that he could feel a menace in it. He was worried. Not in the familiar, prosaic, petty way that a middle class man with a bank job and two kids worried, but in an inexplicably bigger, deeper way. He looked back at the shells in his hand and reluctantly arranged them for another reading. He came from a family of astrologers, experts who mixed the science with an ancient knowledge. As an educated man and rationalist, Ramasubramaniam had tried to deny his lineage, his unfortunate gift of natural intuition, but its force had been too strong. He usually did his re

“Madam, you are not eating?” Bhuvana looked up from her book. It was the man sitting across. He was big—barrel-chested, heavy shouldered, and strong. His dark pitted and scarred face sported a bushy mustache. His hair was closely cropped. He was wearing a white shirt whose first two buttons were undone to reveal a bushy chest. There was gold all over him—thick gold chain with a tiger-claw pendent, a thick rope-like gold bracelet and an enormous ring on his left ring finger. Bhuvana smiled slightly. “No,” she answered shortly and tried getting back to her book. “You will get nothing past Chenagalpet,” he continued. The train rattled on through what appeared to be pitch dark and desolate landscape, endorsing his words. “It’s ok, I’m not hungry,” she replied. “Thank you,” she added as an after thought. The man and his wife exchanged glances. She was a thickset woman in an orange saree. Faint yellow of the turmeric she must’ve applied in the morning still clung to her ebony chee

I don’t remember when it got dark that evening. The coconut palms lining the beach were silhouetted against a pink sky first and then pitch darkness, punctuated by dim lights flickering here and there. Our Beach Villa was definitely not on the beach. It was in a narrow lane up a hill away from the beach. We drove past the deceptively cheerful white picket gate down an all-too-short drive in front of a squat two-storied bungalow. We were greeted by a man in a T-shirt and shorts, who turned out to be our ethically-challenged caretaker for the next two days with a curious staccato way of speaking. We deciphered two things eventually from him--we were the only guests at the villa for the weekend and there was no dinner. While spreading ourselves all over the villa presented no problem, food was a definite problem. We intrepid city slickers set out to find food. To our chagrin, there was no food in Kashid and no food in Nandgaon, the next village. We found a kitschy bar complete wit