The Missing Lady

When I couldn't find Mrs. Basu in the queue of pensioners for the third consecutive month, I sighed in disappointment. The youthful sixty-five-year-old brightened the sombre atmosphere of the bank every time she entered. She spoke to everyone, including Nikhil, the branch manager, asking us about our families, the Kolkata traffic, or the mundane weather in a manner that seldom lacked enthusiasm.

But I was her favorite. She called me her son and frequently brought homemade food for me. Often, she pulled up a chair beside me, sometimes discussing petty issues or sometimes silently observing me work.

For the last three months, her son Samar collected her pension. He brought the relevant documents with Mrs. Basu's thumbprints. Unlike his gregarious mother, Samar never spoke more than what was necessary. He responded in monosyllables. If a lengthier conversation became inevitable, he preferred telling Nikhil. In fact, Nikhil only conveyed that Mrs. Basu had fallen ill, and the doctor had advised her bed rest. I winced. She had finally succumbed to old age.

One evening, while tallying bank data, I found that a fixed deposit belonging to her was to mature in a few days. I thought of calling her to remind her of it and to enquire about her health.

After a few rings, Samar answered.

“Good evening. Can I talk to Mrs. Basu?” I tried to sound as courteous as possible.

“Who's this?” He asked.

“This is Abir. Abir Sen from Bank of Kolkata-.”

“She's sleeping.” The line went dead.

It was six in the evening. I imagined the once ebullient old lady lying on the bed and suffering. I made a mental note to call her the next day.

The next morning when I woke up, it was past nine. I leaped out of bed. Even though it was a Sunday, we had plenty of household chores to attend. Nikhil and I had to buy fresh vegetables and fish as our refrigerator was filled with only stale leftovers. An ever growing pile of laundry lay on the sofa. Nikhil planned to purchase a new pair of jeans in the evening. He was still sleeping, though, curled up like a baby. The ripples on his arms shone in the sunlight streaming in from the window. His chest bore marks of our love making. At office, he was a tough boss, a sagacious branch head. At home, he was a tender lover. I kissed his dark lips. They smelled of tobacco.

Nikhil and I first met at office when he joined as the new branch head. Within a few months, we realized we had similar tastes, similar likes. One evening, when we were alone at work, we realized we had similar desires.

We never made our relationship public. This was not due to the society's outlook towards homosexuality but because of the professional relationship between us. There was an unwritten protocol prohibiting office romance.

I prepared our usual omelette and coffee for breakfast. Nikhil loved coffee. Mrs. Basu had once gifted him a coffee mug. Mrs. Basu. I remembered I had to give her a call. She must be up by now. I took out my phone from my pyjama pocket.

Nobody answered. Undeterred, I tried again.

This time, Samar's voice came over. “Yes.” He sounded irritated.

“Hello. This is Abir from Bank of Kolkata. Mrs. Basu's term deposit is maturing and-”

“Let’s discuss that in the branch, shall we?” He snapped.

“Sure. Um-”

“What?” He shouted.

A lump formed in my throat. “Can I speak to her?” I still asked.

Samar took a deep breath. “No, she's sleeping.” He disconnected the call.

I stared at the phone until the screen darkened.

“Whom are you calling?” Nikhil woke up rubbing his eyes. He stretched his arms. His toned abs created a flutter in my stomach, and I forgot Samar and his mother momentarily. He winked.

“Mrs. Basu.” I expected a diatribe on maintaining a professional distance from customers.

“Who's she? Ah, your favourite aunty. So what did she say?”

“She’s sleeping. At least, that's what her son said.”

“I hope you didn't tell him to wake her.” He said with a grin as he gulped down the cup of coffee that I had kept for him on the side table.

“Too much sugar, lover boy. Cut down on it.” He punched my ever protruding tummy.

I ignored his jibe. “She wakes up early.”

“You know her sleep schedules as well? Impressive. Should I be jealous?”

I grimaced. I wasn't in any mood for silly arguments. My mind remained glued to Mrs. Basu. Was Samar deliberately avoiding me? But why?

I paced around the house. I drank three cups of coffee. I switched on the television and changed the channels one after the other.

At around ten, I called Mrs. Basu once more having decided not to budge without speaking to her. But her phone was turned off.

“Don't you think we should check on her?” I asked Nikhil, his eyes focused on a set of files lying on the table in front of him.

“Whom?” He asked without raising his head from his files.

“Mrs. Basu.” I made the exasperation evident in my voice.

Nikhil slammed the file in front of him. “What's wrong with you? Her son is there to look after her. Why are you bothered?”

I had never seen Nikhil so angry. My face reddened. I glared at him and marched out of the house.

It was drizzling. The meteorological department had predicted heavy rains for the next few days.

“Nothing like pakoras and tea on a rainy day,” Mrs. Basu said as she handed me a stainless steel box full of fritters.

“You will fatten me up,” I said as I greedily took a bite of the crispy fritters.

“Huh. You are young. You should eat without worrying.”

I still had the box. And five more of her boxes. I always forgot to return them. She never asked me to get them.

I had to pay a visit to Mrs. Basu.

I had been to Mrs. Basu’s house a year back on the occasion of the Bengali new year. The five-storey building had worsened in its condition ever since. The pale green paint was peeling off at several places revealing patches of grey cement. Rainwater had accumulated in a pothole in front of the entrance. I closed my umbrella and jumped over the water to enter the dimly lit lobby. A suffocating damp odour was omnipresent. I searched for Mrs. Basu's name on the wooden letter boxes attached on the left wall of the lobby. 201. I smiled and took an elevator to the second floor.

A young woman in a white uniform answered the door. I assumed her to be the senior Mr. Basu's nurse. When I asked about Mrs. Basu after introducing myself, she told me to wait in a small living room.

The living room had a cane sofa set and an old fashioned television. A photograph of a young Mrs. Basu along with her husband and a child was hung on the wall.

The house had two more rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The rooms were shut. Mrs. Basu must be in one of these. I sat on the sofa and stared at the ceiling fan that continuously made a loud rattling sound as I waited for the nurse to return with Samar.

The minutes passed. My stomach was rumbling with hunger. Nikhil had planned to order pizzas for lunch. I messaged him I shall be late.

The sky had turned into a deep shade of grey. I didn't want to get stuck in the rains and the resulting traffic jam. Impatiently, I got up and knocked the door of one room.

“Mrs. Basu?”

No reply. I knocked again. Still no reply. I slowly turned the doorknob. The door opened with a creaking sound that reverberated across the room.

I tiptoed into the dark room. The curtains were drawn tightly. Someone was sleeping. It must be Mrs. Basu.

I thought of leaving without disturbing her. But I was overpowered by the desire to talk to her once.

I inched closer to the bed and called out her name. She didn't reply. I touched the blanket covering her.

Each and every follicle of hair rose on my body. I pulled the blanket forcefully.

The rain hammered against the window panes. A flash of lightning illuminated the room as I stared at the bed. There was no Mrs. Basu. Only a line of pillows.

I shuddered. It increasingly dawned upon me that something very wrong was happening in the house.

Samar and the nurse had not yet returned. I moved towards the other room.

As I walked closer to that room, I heard a persistent buzzing sound. Curiosity got the better of me and I pushed open the door.

To my amazement, two massive refrigerators stood next to each other. They continuously made the buzzing sound in the otherwise quiet house. I couldn't recall having seen those refrigerators earlier. But where was Mrs. Basu? And what are these fridges for?

I went to the first fridge and held its large metal handle. I shivered at its icy cold touch.

My heart thumped loudly. I checked behind me. Still nobody. I pulled the door open.

I gasped. It was empty.

I felt like a burglar but I couldn't resist the urge to check the other fridge. Praying to God, I opened it. Cold air hit my face.

A loud thunder covered my shriek as I fell back on the floor.

The naked and yellow body of Mrs. Basu stared at me from inside the fridge.

She looked grotesque. Someone seemed to have forced her body into the fridge making it bend. Her curly hair covered her breasts. Her eyes were wide open.

My head was spinning. I covered my mouth to stop myself from vomiting. I somehow pulled myself and shut the fridge.

I ran out through the door. But something stopped me. Something was weird about the body. Something different.

I came back and opened the fridge again. I raised her lifeless and stiff arm. Her thumb had a blue ink stain.

Footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. I hurried for the door.

The elevator was on the fourth floor. I banged my hands over the elevator button. Four...the footsteps became louder...Three...I saw the shadow of the person...Two...

I dived into the elevator and pulled close its grill doors rapidly. I slouched on the floor. My shirt was soaked in sweat.

It was raining heavily when I came out of the building. I frantically waved at taxis. After ten minutes, I got one after agreeing to an exorbitantly high fare.

As I got in, I saw the senior Mr. Basu enter the building. The image of the empty refrigerator flashed on my mind. I trembled. I had to warn him. But I was terrified of going back alone. I must involve Nikhil.

I was groggy when I got out of the taxi and almost collapsed while ringing the doorbell. Nikhil dragged me inside our house.

“Nikhil, Mrs. Basu, she's dead. I went to her house and-.”

“Relax,” he said putting his arms around me. I sighed. I was relieved to be at home beside him. “Have some water,” he said. He brought me a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator.

I drank the water. I never realised I was so thirsty. “Thanks,” I said as I slumped over.

He shrugged his shoulders. “You would be afraid to open fridges now.”

He sat facing me. I stared at him through the glass bottle.

“You would be afraid to open fridges now.”

I never told him where I found Mrs. Basu's body.

“I hope you are feeling better,” Nikhil said.

The bottle shook in my hand.

He smiled.