Elementary, My Dear Wasan

Where do you go to, my lovely?

She embarked on a journey to find herself. She was middle-aged but found herself lost. She lived an upper-middle-class life with children and a husband who was doing well at work. Yet the gnawing feeling day after day.

The thought gnawed her insides. Who was she, and where from she came? Why was she there? Such buzz continued to grow in her mind. Or was it? The thought of have been there. Done all that as a professional; as a daughter, mother, wife, she was searching for her real purpose in life; to explore the talents she possessed. Having learned music from the best of the teachers, of the respected Gharana, the fortune of having studied arts in Shantiniketan,

and metaphysics of Advaita philosophy imbibed from her Sanskrit pandit grandfather or was it a cohesive combination of all of these with the high moral values of middle-class upbringing with the current social milieu; and her own grown-up children with millennial values; not exactly in tune with her own and also the nagging stress of what sort of future will she handover to one of her child with special needs? The urge to break away from all that was mundane, see new places, meet new people, sent her senses tingling, and lit up her eyes.

It was with a certain amount of numbness after almost three weeks of mindful wanderlust that she walked into Barista. Quietly, she went to her favourite corner and sat down. Unknown to her, not very far, sat a handsome greying man, equally hungry

“The espresso or the café latte?” queried her ever confused mind as she flicked the pages of the menu. She could not make a simple decision without weighing its price and possibilities. A gravelly voice answered her question with a crisp, “caffe latte, please” addressed to the waiter. “Espresso!” she instantly decided, always wanting to be different from her peers, while she turned her head with curiosity to discreetly view Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Mr Holmes, as if he could read her mind, said like deciding espresso or latte life demands decision from us at each point in time. He continued, “I wonder if there was a default purpose we marching towards.” We need to find a purpose each moment to continue living life. What do you think? He asked her.

Sherlock Holmes was a well-known detective. Never known to approach women, but this one’s demeanour intrigued him. It took but a few moments to tell the waiter, ‘make that 2.’

A purpose for every moment of life, that sounded too hectic and confusing. Purposes lead to prospects and proposals, which meant a lot of work. There are times when I want to be still and watch life pass me by like the slow trail of a snail.” She uttered the words, wishing that she could take them back. Too late, for Mr Holmes had responded with a sly grin.

The twain has met, he thought to himself, before deliberately rising to his full height. She stared in awe as he towered over her, his grey beard suffusing his face with dignity while the overhang of his paunch above a gleaming Go-go belt belied it. Yet there was a pleasantness about him as he walked firmly to her table and sat down, with just the eight-foot span of maple tabletop protecting her.

“Two Caffe lattes,” said the waiter smacking the saucers and filled cups in front of them. “But I asked for an Espresso,” she said, her voice unable to rise above a squeak as she timidly took a sip of coffee.

 I am Wasan, Anila Wasan; she introduced herself, extending her hands. I am Holmes, Sherlock Holmes; he took her hands in a firm grip.

 "Mother of two, with one needing special attention, your husband a top executive, you are seeking answers," he deduced. Apart from being a singer, he continued.

“How do you know all this?” Her face riddled with both awe and curiosity. “Do you read palms?”

“No, I read the newspaper, for the most part,” he said. “You’re the paragon of society, but the paper napkin in your hand reveals another story.”

She looked at her hands, which had tightly fashioned the napkin into a cord which she was twisting and unravelling by turns.

“That shows your mind is conflicted, confused. You’re seeking answers and hitting barriers in your mind.”

You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I thought that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?

At this moment, there was a loud ring at the bell, and both heard Mrs Hudson, the owner of the Barrista, raising his voice in a wail of expostulation and dismay.

As Mrs Hudson spoke, there came a swift pattering of naked feet upon the stairs, a clatter of high voices, and in rushed a few dirty and ragged little street urchins. There was some show of discipline among them, despite their tumultuous entry, for they instantly drew up in line and stood facing Anila with expectant faces. One of their number, taller and older than the others, stood forward with an air of lounging superiority, which was very funny in such a disreputable little scarecrow.

“After me? Who? Why?” Anila rose from her seat, terrified.

Had the deeds of Dr. Sharad Wassan, her husband, come to haunt her? An eminent plastic surgeon and owner-President of “Body by Your Design,” she knew that Sharad’s clients had recently descended in quality to the underbelly of Mumbai society.

The tall one stood askance at Anil and said, "Maam, pl help me. I want to look like Hrithik Roshan; I will pay back once Bisht uncle and co decide on the story and cast me as the Hero no:1

Sherlock asked, “for the movie titled "mein eisa kyo hoon?"

She asked, "so you know Don uncle? How come?

The tall one, who called himself Shake, gracefully lifted Anila and placed her on his broad left shoulder and moved towards the door. She looked back at Sherlock from the door, and he had a last impression of that beautiful, haunted face, the startled eyes, and the drawn mouth. Then she was gone.

Shake placed Wasan in the front seat of a rickety old jeep. As Shake switched on the ignition, the Jeep also shook. Anila tried to open the door next to her, but the handle came loose in her hands. Could she fit her torso through the open window and jump out, she wondered.

 Sherlock Sir told me he was going to meet you and asked us, boys, to come to Batista. My life is now in your hands, Maam, so is yours as long you are in this jeep. I have a license to kill just like 007.

 He hummed the famous Bond tune.

“You’ve got the wrong Wassan,” said Anila. “I only use plastic; I don’t mold it!”

 “This is no laughing matter,” said Shake.

 “I’ll take you to my husband’s clinic, if you promise to let me go.” Anila pleaded, realizing that invoking the names of all the Hindu gods would have no effect on this troupe worshipping the gods of celluloid.

I will let you go after I look alike Hrithik, until then my boys will bond with you like Fevicol said Shake and his boys shook their head in agreement

 Wasan got fixed. She had no option. She too shook her head in agreement, although her legs were shaking with trepidation. “Please, I have a special child who needs me.” Anila was relieved that she had not brought Vikram with her. “Really,” Shake grinned.

“We won’t separate you from your child,” Shake shook a finger in front of Anila’s nose, refashioned two years ago by Dr. Sharad’s talented hands

 “He is waiting for you in our shack in Vashi, continued Wassan.

A little later, when Sharad looked at Shake, he said: "it is elementary, my dear." He ushered Shake into his theatre of mayajal and made some deep surgical strikes. When Shake walked out like Hero no: 1, Anila hugged her Wassan and crooned mission accomplished. Abhinandan or maybe not. The following week the Hero No. 1 spot was taken by Salman Khan. Shake shook his head violently and screamed,”Aaaaah!” “Mein aise kyon hoon?”

 Sherlock mused over such questions as asked by Shake, and earlier by Wassan are riddles even the greatest ever consulting detective has not been able to solve.

 His legend of readers like Hema have immortalized him, and like Hanumanji, he was roaming around India looking to solve the puzzles

 He has met the monks in Tibet, rubbed shoulders with the Naga Sadhus, took a dip in the Ganges besides the famous Meera ben, still his search continues

 He, too, has chosen to grow a beard like sadgurudev and Sri Sris but to no avail.

Enlightenment was not there yet.

 “I will be back,” said Sherlock taking a leaf from the dialogue of Arnold Schwarzenegger. “Thanks, Wasan,” said Sherlock as he lit his pipe.

Let’s do this again,” said Sharad, “you send me clients, and I’ll return them as celebrities. We have all the answers at ‘Body by Your Design’ for the eternal question of ‘Mein aisa kyon hoon?’ “

“Over my dead body,” thought Anila, still shaking from her initial fear that she got kidnapped for ransom.

 Unfortunately for Wasan, Don and co were ready with the script. They were believed to be approaching the hotshot financier who goes by names such as Mahadev, Neelkanth. Mahadev, it was thought had invested in a story portal. Hrithik look like he had become a celebrity on his own. He was the wanted man in the IPL circuit. His mein eisa kyo hoon dance had sent both Hrithik and the choreographer Prabhu dev into hiding.

 Sharad was planning to go public to expand capacity to meet the surge for surgery.

 Mumbai was slated to become the world's best surgical strike centre.

Anila did not know how she fit into any of Sharad’s or Sherlock’s plans. Nor did she care. She was getting ready to strike out on her own, opening her school for vocal music. The school got inaugurated with her soulful crooning of “Where do you go to, my lovely,” followed by the ritzy number of “Mein aisa kyon hoon.”

Shard's IPO was successful. Nowadays, he was wielding a lot of Pawar. “Mr Look alike” has become the ambassador for his company. Sherlock was still seeking and searching India. Anil Wasan has finally found her bearings. Mixing up Gharana and rap. Last heard at her school was "All is Well"