Breach Of Trust

On a cold damp morning in February, Mrs. Ashalata Karve breathed her last. Other breaths were also released simultaneously, some furtively, some openly, each breath differing from the other, on the basis of the extent of grief or secretly suppressed relief. Once it was finally determined that no more breaths would be exhaled from her tired, disease encircled body, a wailing contest erupted among the grief stricken and the not so stricken as well, the latter ones contributing more to the general cacophony. The Karves were a closely knit, upper echelon family, knit from the propah upper crust social fabric, so the outpouring of grief was a necessary ingredient to be kept on display. Optics, my dahlings, optics, of course. And it began in right earnest in the finest tradition of the Karves. The close knitting of the said family was also the reason that when telephone calls were made to the various loving relatives, giving them a heads up, that the hour of Mrs. Karve‟s tragic departure was near at hand, important kitty party and similar plans had been cancelled, new plans had been made and a posse of loving, caring and adoring relatives of various shapes, sizes and regal bearings, had descended upon the grief-expectant abode, right in the thick of the action. Strength in numbers; somebody had said. A family united in times of grief, said somebody else caustically, biting back the sudden unbidden sarcastic smile. The teenager Karves started a blog, it had gained a lot of likes and now the death of their mother would increase the followers some more. Her disease wasn’t viral, but the news of her death would be. Profound irony. Mrs. Karve got a Facebook account at her hour of death – sadly, she died without receiving or sending any friend requests, the ones that came afterwards wouldn’t count, of course. Her lavish, grand funeral would now occupy her status, advertising that a Prayer meeting was being scheduled and then the Karve teens who started that account would receive a bunch of friend requests, followed by Life affirming quotes and captions and stories culled probably from Readers’ Digest. All very touching, of course.

Mrs. Karve had often referred to her husband as a pillar of strength, indeed he was, when she was battling her illness. He had two favorite pillars of his own, to calm him down, they rested expectantly in his cabinet; one was a Black Label and the other was a Russian favorite. But it was also becoming increasingly clear, as her hour of reckoning was drawing near, that several new potential pillars of human shape, were appearing on the scene, by the minute. With so many pillars of strength gathered in the house, it was perceived that Mrs. Karve must have died with a smile on her face and peace in her heart, the ideal death for an ideal lady, regal till the end. Anything else would only be improbable and most deplorable, with so much love being spread around. The family doctor, a doddering old gentleman who had rushed to the scene when he received the “awful awful news” praised Mrs. Karve’s amazing courage in her long, bravely fought, painful battle against cancer, omitting her rantings and ravings and bouts of depression, mostly centered around his often callous attitude. He was also wondering how to bring up the topic of his balance pending fees and he realized with a sinking heart that this source of income had irretrievably dried up. Somebody praised the doctor’s fortitude and expertise and the way he had made Mrs. Karve’s suffering bearable and though he knew that this was a load of crap, he lapped up that praise laconically and soldiered on. Groups of grave people were formed; grim and solemn elders recollected and recounted similar tales of courage and sacrifice and the various pillars of strength that had come into being in those respective times. Fertile imaginations ran wild and people nodded and smiled and nodded and smiled and then reminded themselves that this was not a party, but then what did it matter. All they did was nod and smile, anyways. Self appointed experts on lifestyle habits and lifestyle changes and it’s impact on cancer, emerged. Mrs. Karve’s doctor cast a casual glance around the room for potential targets, but cancer being his specialized field, a cursory glance would not reveal results. But this was upper crust and except for the Keto inclined, there were many that were partial to cheese and wine and much much more, actually, and so he sent up a silent prayer upwards to his Maker, that his account in this wonderful family would not get suspended. And so he continued moving about the room, with a fixed, insincere smile on his face. He was, after all, one of the most famous doctors, just like Mr. Karve was one of the most famous industrialists in Mumbai and he liked listetning to the just cropped up self appointed experts discuss nuances of cancer with him. Made for good entertainment. 

Mr. Karve. The biggest pillar of strength, an epitome of courage and sacrifice, now a grieving, lost soul, looking for solace and comfort, in his hour of loss. Akash Karve, “Akki‟ to his close friends, many of whom laid their claim especially now, was forty nine this year; his wife would miss his fiftieth birthday. He felt a profound sense of loss and tragedy, as he realized that he was now, finally, alone. The thought arose unbidden in his mind, “Finally!” it was a troubling thought, he pushed it away. Their children would also be devastated, but youth would swamp their memories and Instagram reels would help them channel this energy and Red Bull would give them wings and in a year or so, they too would move on. Moving on was the in thing, these days, the hip thing. Your mother had cancer? Cool! Ya Man, Like, it was so tough, dude! But now I‟ve moved on, yaar! I’m a man / mature woman. A mature person, y’see? The children were already beginning to feel mature and special; made to feel special. Akash’s family and friends would console him, be there for him, and look over the house closely, scrutinizing it for every possible indication of hidden wealth, taking care, of course, that their eyes were carefully averted every now and then and showcased only sorrow and sympathy. The Tax officers had come a-visiting a couple of years ago, but that had to do more with certain Twitter statements riling the establishment, than anything else and so a well placed apology and other well placed stuff, had smoothened ruffled feathers. But the rumor mills were active and so all were wondering whether there were any false ceilings or cracks. But their scrutiny revealed nothing and in some time, their condolences dried up and the imaginative words of sympathy became repetitive, and so they too would move on, in a month or so. A couple of months later, everybody would move on and it would be like Mrs. Ashalata Karve had never existed. Such is the nature of Time, the only faceless entity, that never moves on.

And at such gatherings, you would always have people who knew some spinster lady in their relation, who could take care of the children, so sweet innocent lambs, they were, cute babies; who would take care of them now? Maternal instincts rose to the fore and they would be shared and verbalized around the table, while mouths would sip lemon juice and green tea; “I’m on a diet, darling, this new intermittent fasting and veganism thing’s simply mah-velous”. Suddenly, everyone would focus on the children. They were so helpless, so vulnerable, so young! Ah! They would need someone to take care of them, hmm? And My God! Did you look at Akash? In his fifties, but he looks so young! And so fit! The poor darling! It‟s been devastating for him! Sighhhhh!

For Akash, however, the loss would be permanent. But that was his problem! Too emotional! He needed to move on. He needed mothering. Just look at him! All alone! So sad! Cluck cluck!

As the body of his wife was brought into their house at Santacruz, for the last rites, Akash looked at the congregation gathered to pay their respects and his heart swelled with pride. Akash was a whiz kid, a numbers man; numbers were his meat and wine; the more the number, the more the love, that was his credo. His family, his in-laws, his wife’s friends, they were all there. Sorrow and tragedy, to the extent appropriate, hung in the air. Everybody murmured their condolences, each one having googled the best words to say, the night before. Really, internet was so wonderful; warm up the laptop before you left for the occasion, type up the right search and bingo! You could say the words which would tug at the hearts of others. There was a lot of heart tugging, that night. Everybody spoke about how wonderful, lovely and caring Mrs. Karve had been. Akash remembered how three years back, when there was a huge fight in the family, his wife and her sisters in law had a huge sleaze-fest, with the choicest of expletives and the juiciest of invectives hurled back and forth, with each, trying to outdo the other, dishing out profane stuff like veteran brawlers at a WWF match, stuff that would make a sailor blush. But now their hearts were bleeding; the aorta pumping in full force and everyone was dazzled by the love and affection that was clearly the hallmark of this oh so wonderful family. Wow! Blood was thicker than water and how! Akash was impressed beyond words. Grief and love – a heady, lethal combination. He would need that Black Label later. In spades.

They cremated her at Dadar. There is a famous crematorium there where all unequals are brought to become equal. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; the sum total of a physical existence. The crematorium process over; they left. A duty was done, a presence recorded, a reverse obligation created; everyone could now go about their routine mundane activities in peace. Everybody had something to say about the crematorium and in the absence of customer feedback forms, like they have at some of the better class hotels in the city, word of mouth was the only way approvals or disapprovals could be expressed. Comparisons were made with other crematoriums they had visited. Within Akash’s earshot, the Dadar crematorium was certainly the best. The elders nodded their approval at the arrangements, silently praying that they wouldn’t be the next. Nodding had become a part of their daily routine and the freedom to nod; that was their triumph. The youngsters were told by their parents not to play their heavy metal music inside the crematorium, out of respect for the dead. Another way of showing respect for Mrs. Karve. It was all so touching. So traditional, so Indian. The youngsters were getting the right sort of upbringing and learning and the elders were satisfied. Another vigorous nodding session ensued. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Akash brought the dust home. End of a life. Moving on, the beginning of another. A new life.

Akash was a practical man and practicality asserted itself on the 14th day and thereafter. Now there were only three persons left in the family, Akash and his two children, Ravish and Isha, not counting the servants, of course. Servants, in the course of their life, do form a permanent bond with the family, female servants with the female members of the family, while the male members look on and then look hastily away. But at the end of the day, or, as in this case, at the end of a life, servants were servants and they could certainly not be regarded as “near and dear”, what will everybody say? Both the children were in college, Ravish in his fourth year and Isha, in her first. They were both brilliant students, top of their class, with wonderful careers in front of them. All their life, the kids had lived under this burden – a wonderful promising career and an immense brain in the head which would light up the road to that career. The weight of that brain was weighing them down; the road was unlighted and the wonderful career was certainly not in sight; at least not at the moment. In a fortnight or so, after their mother‟s death, one of them discovered that sorrows could be drowned in a bottle of the finest, that any three star hotel could provide. He had discovered his father’s pillars and thought that as the upcoming man of the house, he needed to emulate the other man of the house. The other started listening to bhajans and discovering God, to heal the pain. When God did not do the needful, the other also shared the bottle. Feminism to the core. Bro and Sis. Tragedy brought them close. Inspearable. And their boyfriends and girlfriends, closer. And the powder on that envelope, surely that was face powder.

After a few bottles, who cared?

Heal the pain; said a famous singer. So Akash took some time off, from his office. He needed time to get over the tragedy. People at his office nodded sagely at him and at each other and after he left, someone remarked that a lot of work could now get done. Everybody snickered at this, till some senior guy admonished him, while also grinning “Hush! That’s the boss, you’re talking about!” A bunch of the lady staff speculated about Akash and giggled, one could only wonder about the topic. Some of the ladies were close to their favorite boss and now… well… you never knew. Money was money after all and if it didn’t buy you happiness, at least you’d cry in a Mercedes instead of a Kaali Peeli. Everybody waited for Akash to move on and join the office. There were lines to be crossed. Oh well.

The maidservant, Shobha, came that morning at the Santacruz house. She was dressed in a not so demure fashion this morning, grief for her dead mistress obviously having made her wear a sari that left little to the imagination. She was young and her master was alone. Her master was pushing fifty but that did not mean that he could not push other things. The boy was handsome too, but Shobha had washed his backside and cleaned his diapers and that, sort of, killed any urge she might have had. But Akash was another thing. And she had certainly not been involved in the aftermath of any of Akash’s ablutions or diapers, so the possibilities were endless…

Akash asked her to do some cleaning. She started methodically cleaning the apartment, all the time regaling him enthusiastically, with stories of all the people she knew, who had died of cancer and paralysis and gout and TB and cholera. The ghoulish excitement with which she narrated these tales with glee, was a sight to see. Her sari wasn’t co-operating with her, though and so Akash nodded and smiled and agreed with her and kept eye contact at all times. Finally she realized that nothing was happening. With a resentful huff, she started mopping everything vigorously. She cleaned first the bedroom, then the hall, then the kitchen sink and finally she came back into the bedroom and walked across to the cupboards. One of them had belonged to Akash’s wife.

She turned and said, “Sir! Can I open and clean these also?”

She was brimming with curiosity. She hoped it was not noticeable, but it was. Akash noticed it and said, “Let it be. I shall look at those cupboards, later. You just do the rest of the house.”

Shobha was disappointed. Giving him a barely disguised look of hostility, she walked away in a huff. Akash shook his head and walked across to his wife‟s cupboard and opened it.

It was a big steel cupboard. It came with a lifetime guarantee, along with Mrs. Karve, during their marriage. The cupboard had outlived her and stood there, beckoning to Akash.

Akash never opened his wife’s cupboard. All the so called important documents, money, papers were lodged in his cupboard; in his safe. How could they be safe with his wife, he had reasoned. He imagined his wife’s cupboard would be a mess of female clothing, perfumes and other exotica, arranged haphazardly. Now that she was dead, he wanted to look at those clothes, smell those perfumes, wonder at the other paraphernalia and smile with, what he hoped, would be tears in his eyes. He needed to desperately assure himself also, thet he had loved her, loved her to the last and he would feel the empty, tight feeling in his chest, when he came in contact with her things. This perception of his love for her was the one thing which he felt he could be completely sure of and with that feeling of confidence and reassurance, he opened the cupboard.

When he opened the cupboard, however, he was surprised. Everything was neatly arranged – a place for everything and everything in its place. Evidently, his wife practiced her life’s mantra for the cupboard also. So surprising, an entire lifetime had gone by and he had not known this quality about her. But that was not what had occasioned the surprise. The surprise was in the fact that how little of her stuff was here! Never before had he realized that his wife hadn’t worn that many saris, didn’t apply that many perfumes and never even considered dolling herself up, with the fashion of the moment. How little had he known of his wife’s hopes and desires! And that was all part of the wind, now; he would never know.

He glanced through her lovingly worn dresses, her saris and bangles, the gifts that he had earlier bought for her, several years ago – she still kept them! He gazed at them wonderingly; the gifts she had bought for him, he had thrown away, years ago. He made a habit to throw everything away, she made a habit to keep everything. What a contrast! All those years and he never knew. Where were those years now? He couldn’t even remember the odd scraps of memories. He threw everything away, he didn’t like keeping stuff around. Avoid clutter – that was his mantra. He had been busy building the business, to give her a happy life, of course. In the end, all she had needed was that earthen pot, in which her ashes rested, he would be taking them to the holy Ganges and then even that remnant of her would be erased…

He opened the chest of drawers. There was a lot of stuff inside there – diaries, envelopes. She actually wrote stuff! Imagine! There was a short red diary at the end, dusty with age and unused. He opened it. A page fluttered out.

Puzzled, he bent down and picked it up. It was a short letter addressed to some “darling sweetheart‟ and………

Darling Sweetheart?

Akash stiffened. His senses stopped, his chest tightened, he felt as if he was suspended in time, like he had received a sledgehammer blow in the middle of his stomach. What he was holding in his hand was something very personal, something very intimate, something very ghastly, evidently something, which should not have been there. Evidently, Mrs. Karve knew her husband well; she knew he would not open her cupboard, so she had kept it brazenly in her chest of drawers, concealed in full view. Who looks at things kept in open view, anyway? A secret, well, well. So his pious, Godfearing, well trimmed wife, after all, did have a secret. The godfearing Sati Savitri, who fasted on Tuesdays, attended bhajans and satsangs and conducted pujas during the religious festivals, had a secret of her own!

Knees shaking, Akash closed the cupboard. He now wished he had never opened it – ignorance was bliss, at the best and worst of times. But the thing once done could not be undone and he had to carry it through, till the end. He had to know.

Akash walked across the room and shut the bedroom door. Then he sat down to read. His wife’s secret.

The letter was written on an old piece of notepaper. He recognized the small spidery handwriting; his breath caught in his throat. He read on –

 

My Darling Sweetheart, 

 

This is one of the saddest hours of my life. Tomorrow, I am getting married against my wishes, and only to fulfill Daddy’s wishes. I do not know how I shall be able to manage without you, to live a life without you, a life full of emptiness and despair. But I shall cope. The months that I spent with you were the happiest months of my life. I have and always shall love you. 

I know you told me that we should keep seeing each other even after marriage, even if it is for one day, every month. I told you to move on, to let go. But you wouldn’t move on. And you wouldn’t let go. And tonight of all nights, when I’m standing at the crossroads, about to begin my new life, I realize what an unbearable loss this is. The prospect of spending an entire life without you is unbearable. I couldn’t do it. Not in a million years. And I do not want to be one of those people who will pine for lost love all their life, because we live only once.

 

So my darling, my love, we shall continue to see each other. Let us meet once a month. Let us meet on the second Thursday of every month. I shall say that I have to meet my friends. You can also say the same thing. If we cannot meet on any Thursday, we shall meet the next Thursday. 

His breath skipped at that. He remembered all the Thursdays that they had never spent together. Not even once. They had once joked that it was like a “Tuesdays with Morrie” kind of stuff, except that it wasn’t. Never had been.

He continued reading.

Let us meet at Khyber Hotel in Fort. It is a nice secluded place and since I’m marrying a vegetarian, there’s no risk of a chance meeting. We shall meet there in the evening at 7 o’clock, every Thursday. You remember the table just below the picture of that lady holding the earthern pot? We’ll book that table every time, for every Thursday. It’s quiet, cosy and private, just the way we both like it. I’m sure you will love it, darling. 

You know why I’ve selected Thursday, don’t you? We met on a Thursday. We fell in love on a Thursday. And we had our first magical night, also on a Thursday. What a night that was. So Thursday it shall be, that we continue our journey of love. No, I don’t think we are being unfaithful. I just hate unrequited love. We shall love them, but we shall also love each other. Love, after all, is meant to be shared, isn’t it? 

I am leaving now. I am sad that I am marrying someone else, but I am happy that I shall continue seeing you and loving you. 

So long, my sweet. Until the next Thursday. 

 

Lovingly yours, 

 

Pumpkin Peach 

Pumpkin peach. Wow. And double wow. 

Akash folded the letter and put it back inside the book. He felt in need of a smoke and a drink – this was a very big shock; it had hit him like a physical blow. Coming on top of her death, it was just too much to bear. He looked at the book, looked at the letter again, looked accusingly at the cupboard as if it had taken some part in the conspiracy against him. He shook his eyes and pinched himself. He hoped he was dreaming. He hoped he would wake up.

Nope – it wasn’t a dream.

He opened the book and took out the letter and read it again. The words burned in his brain, forming an indelible impression of something, his unconscious being had begun to fathom, but his conscious being was not yet ready to accept. It was not possible; it could not be possible. Why had he not opened that cupboard door when she was alive? Why now? Ashalata was dead and buried; what good would it do, to know about these things now, that would have been better had they remained secrets?

Akash was angry. Life was not fair. Life was certainly not treating him fairly.

With a sudden savage feeling, he took the letter, crumpled it up and tore it into little pieces.

His face was a mask of bitterness; he had never felt so bitter before.

Unfaithfulness. Breach of trust.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth. After everything that had happened, if the truth was ensconced in that letter and that was all it was, what did everything mean? Was his entire marriage a farce? A sham? A drama? A magnificent ruins, which had no value to its owner, while only evoking morbid interest from the others? What did it all mean?

And more importantly – what was he to do? And what would come of doing anything now?

No – he had to do something.

He looked at the time, then at the calendar. At the day of the week. It was a Thursday.

He knew what he had to do. There was no option left. If the life in front of him needed to have a meaning, he had to go to that rendezvous.

He had never felt so miserable in his life. He felt like crying – there was an unbearable, uncontrollable ache in the pit of his stomach. But there was no time, now. This was not the time to sit around and mope.

This was the time for action.

………………………

The traffic on a Thursday evening at Fort is a mixture of lethargy and pace. Lethargy created by the day’s work and pace created by the anxiety of people, all intent on beating the traffic and being the first persons to reach home. Amidst loud honking and blaring, the traffic slowly meanders and finally eases itself from this still elegant business district to the suburbs, through traffic snarls and radio blasts and music. There are very few people coming to Fort, on a Thursday evening, that is. Next day was Friday and Friday evening was the start of the weekend. And there were several hot spots emerging in the suburbs so that the travel time was cut and people could reach wherever they wanted to reach, faster, to work off their antagonisms.

Akash had no difficulty steering his car from the intersection at Churchgate station into the Fort area, which housed the old structures, dating back to the British era. He had always felt a sense of calm and peace when he came to south Mumbai – lots of open spaces and two open grounds made for greenery on either side of the mushrooming concrete jungle, which, thankfully, did not pervade the natural aura of this place. So far. He weaved into the lane that led to Kalaghoda and the University of Mumbai and slowly eased into the side lane beside the Khyber Hotel.

The Khyber Hotel is situated at Kalaghoda, placed between the Flora Fountain area on the one end and the Gateway of India on the other. With an old world charm oozing out of its exteriors, old oil lanterns and doors decorated with Urdu couplets, the hotel serves authentic Indian cuisine and classic Mughlai treats. The hotel has many rooms inside and as one goes inside, one wonders when the restaurant ends, but then one ceases to wonder soon enough once the spirit of the restaurant overtakes one.

Anyways, for those whose tastes were not exactly exotic and for those whose interests lay beyond mere appreciation, the hotel served a good purpose; people could come here and meet in quiet and converse in quiet and conclude their business in quiet and go about their quiet ways. It was the perfect setting for a meeting, a small family get-together or a rendezvous. A perfect place where a couple could meet every Thursday and no one would be the wiser, except, perhaps the hotel waiters and manager, who, anyway, would have no reason to suspect that the couple coming to the hotel every Thursday, for a candlelit dinner, was anything other than man and wife. And it was none of their business anyways, as long as the cash registers were ringing. Digital registers, now.

It was just perfect.

Akash parked his car and got out. He was apprehensive and uneasy. It was not easy for him to dwell upon the significance of what had taken place – he had to suspend his mind and force his concentration on the task ahead.

It was 6.45 pm.

The servile doorman opened the door and gave Akash a wide, broad smile. Another turban clad bush coat who had a serious and slightly gloomy air, welcomed Akash and bowed low. Akash walked past him and past two passages, each containing a row of tables and chairs filled with early diners and sumptuous smells of the hotel‟s non-vegetarian specialty. He traversed the third room and paused by the last table, placed directly beneath a painting of a serene looking woman, holding an earthern pot.

The same table which had been mentioned in the letter.

The person at the table looked up. Looked at him. And smiled. And got up to embrace him. Then she saw his set face and said, “What happened? Is something wrong? C‟mon, tell me. You can tell your pumpkin peach, can’t you?”

Akash looked at her and in a voice filled with tears and sorrow, he said, “She knew all about us!”……….