The Benefit Season Page 15

  The girl shrugs and simply puts the finger in her mouth again, lingering in its feel. ‘Not bad’, she says finally. Vishal seems pleased; he spreads his arms and beckons to Monal who, after slipping out of her thong and tossing it in the Moroccans face goes and straddles him on the sofa.

  I can’t wait to see any more. I turn on my heels and walk out, promising myself never to have nothing anything to do with these sick people again.

  Or at least that’s what I think.

  ϖ

  Diu, our last port of call, with the sweet scent and false promise of heavy rain, is a minor fair-weather port off the coast of Saurashtra in the Arabian Sea. We dock off the southern part of this small island topped with fluffy clouds, and small tenders tow us in to the shore that is lined by limestone cliffs, rocky coves and surf-kissed sandy beaches. The grey ramparts of the Diu fort, etched throughout the coastline glower above us, while large canons protrude menacingly from its bastions.

  Just a mile off the shore is a dark, foreboding structure in stone rising from the heaving seas. It is the Fortim-do-mar, or the Panikotha- the bleak prison on the sea, once meant for nasty pirates and robbers. The prison is at the mouth of the tidal creek that separates the island of Diu from the mainland of Saurashtra in the North. A small bridge at Ghoghla, on the highway from Una connects the mainland with the island. Towards the north of the island there are flies buzzing in the tidal marshes, and rare Wild Asses gamboling on expansive saltpans that stretch out as far as the eye can see.

  The ship-shaped structure of the prison fort also houses a small chapel for our Lady of The Sea. They say there is a secret under-sea tunnel connecting the prison to the mainland. Later one of my cab drivers, a Koli Patel, proudly told me a great many of his great-grand relatives had perished behind the prison’s sinister walls and rusty bars. ‘Koli’ is a name derived from the English ‘Coolie’ or the Gujarati ‘Kori’ (robbers). Kolis doubled as porters on the docks and as stout seamen and pirates on the seas, before the Portuguese finally managed to subdue their buccaneer ways. For the trivia aficionados, the prison also served as a setting for the movie Quyamat, though personally I have not seen it, or for that matter a good many other movies either, that were not set in this prison.

  We set foot on land at Agoa Beach on the eastern flank of the island and are quickly driven to the Radhika Beach Resort by swarthy looking tribesmen who would have felt happier holding bows and arrows in their hands than pieces of passengers’ Luis Vuitton baggage. The streets of Diu are a delight: neat, quiet, clear of maddening traffic, lined with well-manicured hedges that spill into vast open rolling hills carpeted with velvety green fur. The winding road runs parallel to the crescent coast and you get marvelous views of the beach, the raging waves, and the looming cliffs in the distance. The snow-white churches, the pastel-colored houses, the shops; all are infused with unmistakable Portuguese history and culture. Beautiful Hoka trees dot the charming landscape. Hokas are branching palms that the Africa-sick Portuguese brought from Africa and planted here. In India it’s only here that one can find Hoka trees.

  Do nothing in Diu but gambol and loll on the beaches and if you are a woman, and of fair color, try, and avoid pissed up Gujarati men who sneak in on long weekends from a dry and virtuous state to soak in the sights and the booze.

  ϖ

  And if you were I, you would flick the laptop open and book the first flight out to Mumbai. Alas, nothing flies out of Diu on the weekend except white Pelicans that dive from high above with their wings folded and their large beaks open to pick up fish churned up by the choppy waters. Fine then, I’ll fly out by Monday. I draft and redraft a mail to Tom showing him my reasons for quitting, adding a wish to work with him again. I still can’t get it to sound exactly the way I would want, but I send it anyway.

  I decide to go for a swim in the sea. The waves are tall and the waters choppy, but I am a strong swimmer. An hour later I barely manage to make it back to shore- the tide is in and the current so fast. Tired, I lie back on the sand and before I know, doze off. When I awaken some hours later with the hot sun scorching my face, I feel much refreshed, and have forgotten about the boat journey already- the exercise has done me good. I dust off the sand and decide to head for a chilled drink at the bar.

  The swarthy barman is probably another Koli; the look of swashbuckling ancestry is all o'er him. He is a little surprised at my wish for a non-alcoholic beverage, but serves up nevertheless something oversweet in blue with a tiny umbrella; a sliced lemon and an exotic name coined, I have a feeling, by him only. I would have preferred unsweetened milk, but on my last outing it had invited unfair criticism. Next time, remind me to can the mammarian juices and bung them in with the shaving kit and the reading material when setting out on a jamboree. The bar is noisy because of a gag of Gujaratis who have been drinking beer since breakfast. I had wanted to swim in the hotel pool but didn’t because of them. They are a very loud and irritating bunch, out to make a statement that they are having a good time. I wonder if it’s worthwhile wrecking the beautiful knickknacks in this quaint place by picking a fight with them and breaking an arm or two. I mean, who wades around in a public pool in capris and socks? Worse, they are openly ogling at an elegantly turned out woman sitting in a dark corner of the cavernous bar.

  She is wearing a Hermes scarf and oversize glasses and is slightly turned away from me so I cannot see her clearly. But what I can see; it is good. Her coffee colored slender arms and overripe melons remind me of something. Now wait a minute, where have I seen these? They can’t be Aarti’s because hers are athletically poised, tiny, no-nonsense chesticles with nipples as hard as diamonds that do not get in the way when swinging a javelin over 50 meters. They serve milk but are closed for maintenance right now. These ones here; now one could nuzzle with the cheeks all day and yet not discover every delight on offer. These ones probably wiggle at touch, and for long afterwards. Though not much of a bust-man myself, I do not carry a prejudice towards a fair and well-weighted pair, as long as it’s not hairy; for sucking at a hairy breast is like licking the milk off a cat’s whiskers. Not my thang. But over time, even the fairest of breasts will sprout hair. It is a society woman’s nightmare. It is god’s will. More likely, it is a beautician’s vengeance against a poor paymaster. They are likely to leave a deliberate blemish on an otherwise perfectly constructed, textured, scented, powdered, and creamed boob. In their keen enterprise to rid the body of all unwanted hair, ladies are often apt to overlook an odd hair lurking in the shade of the nipples. A tongue interrupted is a tongue that does not return to such bundles of joy, and next time one is more careful. It’s like finding hair in one’s soup. And suddenly I know whom the soup belongs to.

  Polite gentlemen do not stare. But a tear that lingered at the edge of the lady’s glasses, and sloshed into her gin and tonic, brought the furtive glance back to her. The lady in the scarf is none other than Monal, hiding herself in a dark corner with her back to the admiring world, crying quietly. Monal, the iron lady who chews rusty buckshots for jaw exercise, is crying? I should have minded my own business, after her husband had accused me rightly of violating her, after having decided to leave the company, after having promised my mother to behave myself, after having sworn to not cause hurt to my beloved Aarti. But true gentlemen, though the guilty party, do not always mind their own business; they dump caution in the winds and rush to the aid of the damsel in distress, especially when they feel they are the cause. And rush I did, the seven or so steps that I took before I bounded on the empty barstool next to her- I would live to regret.

  She looks over at me and bursts into tears. Her scarf slips and I see her lips are swollen and cut. There are blue-black marks on her cheeks too, and as I gently slip off her glasses, I see a black eye.

  ‘Who did this to you…the coward!’

  ‘Drop it’.

  ‘Is this because of…?’

  She nods, hastily covering herself with the scarf and glasses again. I slip my arm gentl
y around hers. She pulls her arm away- ‘go away! Please.’

  I should have. But I didn’t. Stubbornly I linger, feeling sorry for her, wondering what to do.

  ‘If he sees you here with me- I had it’.

  ‘I’ll leave, just tell me you’ll be safe’.

  She nods and shakes her head. ‘I don’t know’.

  ‘I’m flying out Monday- for good- I’m not coming back’.

  She doesn’t say anything but just sits sobbing quietly, caressing her drink.

  ‘Are you hurt bad? You want that thing looked at?’

  ‘Please don’t go. Don’t leave me alone’.

  ‘Let me take a look at that’, I softly grip her elbow. ‘We can talk things over. Let’s go to my room-it’s towards the back’. She holds for a while and then climbs down and follows me out of the bar, leaving the Gujaratis gaping.

  I carefully lock the door behind me, and we cross the lounge to my bedroom in the large suite. I dig out my first aid kit from my suitcase and return to her. She’s standing exactly at the same place where I had left her- unmoving, disoriented and lost. I gently take off her scarf and glasses. I can see that she has bruises even on her neck and shoulders, when her off-shoulder blouse shifts slightly. I gently sit her on the edge of the bed. She turns away and lies down on her side, an arm stretched out under her head. I unzip her blouse from the back and drop its sides beside her slim back. There are red and blue loop shaped marks on her back, from a belt. She has bite marks on her arms, her buttocks are lacerated and there are rope burns on her ankles and wrists. Someone has done a thorough job of punishing her. She winces and shudders when I softly run my fingers down her back, trying to reassure her.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ I lie down beside her, wrapping an arm gently over her back, careful not to hurt her, and nestle my face in her long locks.

  ‘Should I send for a doctor now?’

  ‘Later’, she whispers. It must have been just under a couple of minutes when the door is kicked open and some men rush in. As I heave myself up and turn around a tall man head-butts me in the face, cracking my nose and lips up, sending a gush of blood that covers the front of my shirt. In a blur of motion I can see the man tearing out his belt and whipping Monal who runs away screaming. The other men manage to restrain the man who is screaming and head butting and raining blows around as if he’s gone crazy.

  It’s Vishal. The others are hotel staff and the floor manager standing with a duplicate key in his hand, with which I guess they must have opened the door while we were inside.

  ‘Call the police…I need a lawyer… she is a bitch screwing around right under my nose…fuck her…I’ll kill her!!’ He has gone berserk and is probably trippin’ on some substance.

  ‘Sir please behave yourself, or we’ll hit you back’, the thickset bell boy- minus the hook, the eye patch, and the wooden leg, but with plenty of attitude of the buccaneering ancestors warns him, which finally seems to settle the man.

  ‘You are dead meat’, Vishal points menacingly at me.

  ‘You better become vegetarian then punk; hitting people when they aren’t looking! Come on let’s settle this like men. Used to hitting women aren’t you’?

  Wiping the blood off with the front of my shirt, I charge into the complete lot, pirate or no pirate, taking all of us crashing out the window into the pool, two stories below. In the pool I’m first off the mark, and gripping Vishal, who is trying to swim away, I bury my fists into his face. It takes the complete hotel staff on duty and the three bodyguards to pull me away from the now crying and blubbering Vishal, and by then the pool is red.

  After the intervention of the shocked company management, who are trying to hush things up, the hotel agrees not to call the police.

  ‘I caught them red handed in his room’, Vishal is screaming to the company seniors, ‘ ask the staff here’.

  ‘He’s lying! He’s a monster- he needs to be put away! He has bashed her up so badly- any lady can check her out! She was crying in the bar when I took her out to get help. I was going to call the front desk for a doctor.’

  ‘You are fired!’ he screams at me.

  ‘I already quit- check with Tom. I don’t want to work with you sickos’!

  ‘No one is doing anything rash here again. It’s a very bad show- a sorry blot on our company. I won’t have personal troubles hijacking the company agenda. Now everyone get back to your rooms. We’ll talk this over when people are calmer’; a distinguished looking gentleman, probably a senior partner, speaking in an authoritative tone, shoos everyone out.

  ‘Now Vishal, and Monal, I would like to have a word with you in private, as soon as both of you get looked at by a good doctor. And you, Mr. Arjun, you are to see me whenever you are sent for’.

  ‘I already quit- I’m flying out Monday’, I tell the old man with the white fudge on his chin, which even in that bad situation, I couldn’t help absurdly observing looked like a peppered vanilla scoop.

  ‘You fly when I tell you to’, he barks sharply.

  ‘I’m flying for my engagement! I have already been granted leave!’

  ‘In that case then,’ he says, sensing my hostility,’ we can wait’, wisely deciding not to have a showdown in my state. Then he turns and leaves.

  The hotel changes my room since my window is smashed.

  Other than the morning swim in the ocean, I remain indoors and on Monday, after writing an apology note to everyone I can think of, including Tom and Vishal and Monal, I check out and fly out to Delhi: guilt-ridden, worried for Monal, worried for Aarti, worried for mom and Khosla, nearly penniless, with no job, no car, and no flat. But with my freedom, and hope in Aarti’s unconditional love and support to make a fresh start.

  Or at least so I think.

  ϖ

  Part 2

  January 2014

  (In the Writer’s Voice)

  Chapter 9

  The Vanishings

  03 January 2014

  The venue for the ring ceremony chosen by the elders was the Chameli Mahal at ITC Maurya- a frightfully expensive place. A plate cost 4000 bucks!

  Being of a progressive and middle-class bent, both families agreed that they would split the complete wedding costs, every event included. Luckily Khosla had pruned down the invite list to only close family and few friends. Otherwise ma had wanted to invite the entire neighborhood and her kitty party crowd to show off what a success her son had become.

  Arjun operated a joint account with his mom. She’d with a gay abandon already spent most of his salary on the flower décor, and the jewelry and clothes for Aarti.

  ‘I’ll be roaming the streets in striped pajamas after this’, Arjun claimed with dismay to his mom, after checking the passbook that showed a near zero balance.

  ‘You only get married once in a lifetime, silly. When will I get a chance to spend money again?’ She scolded him.

  Arjun sighed at all the beauty surrounding him. Beauty that had been purchased so extravagantly, and so ill afforded at this juncture. A man, who scorned at the word “budget” a week ago, now saw how important every penny was. The hall had been converted into a virtual rainforest, but lit up like a grand stadium. The flower décor in the vast hall had been done up in a pink and saffron basket theme. Lit arches with long, drapes of green Plumosa and shimmera cloths formed the engagement dais backdrop. Tall palm plants in largish urns covered doorways and screens. Floral cages with large muslin bows were tied to pillars to create virtual wreaths of greenery. Soft background music played in sync with magical mood lights. The tables were embellished with premium tulle and the chairs had large silky bows draped on their backs. Crystal glassware and silvery cutlery laid out on the tables sparkled in the brilliant glow cast by the ornate chandeliers above. Flowing wedding gazebos with cream arches dotted the lawns outside, where the drinks had been laid out. Valet parking for the guests, luckily, was on the house.

  Arjun walked into the large annexe where the womenfolk were getting primed with last-min
ute touchups- since the past several hours. A couple of Mehendi artists were still adding the finishing strokes on the henna tattoos of ladies who just wouldn’t be satisfied. A female was never really done in front of the mirror, he mused.

  Aarti, sitting in a corner in front of a massive mirror looked angelic in an orange and silver ghagra choli. She was surrounded by a bevy of girls and aunts who were fussing over her, correcting blemishes where there were none, and dabbing with powder at imaginary spots on her flawless skin.

  She saw him in the mirror walking up behind her and smiled shyly- it was so unlike her to put on paint and powder, and dress in anything that was not lassos, jeans and body hugging tops.

  The girls around her squealed on seeing him, ‘this is strictly a no-man’s room! Can’t you wait?’ They tried to playfully jostle him out of the room.

  ‘I just want to have a last word with her’, he joked, without budging.’ Before I get to hold forever my peace’.

  ‘It’s all right. He comes in peace. Let the man speak’, Aarti said.

  The girls made a show of protest but left giggling.

  ‘You look ethereal darling; pure, unadulterated bliss’, he told her, looking into her eyes in the mirror, softly kneading her shoulders.

  She squeezed his hand and smiled happily.

  ‘I have got something to tell you’, he said.

  ‘Now?’ her grip on his hand tightened.

  ‘Now or never’.

  ‘Okay’.

  ‘I quit the job,’ he sent as gently as he could. ‘Sent off the mail to Tom’.

  ‘But why?’ She looked up at him aghast.

  ‘Harassment… mostly, and that guy, Vishal, he seems to be a trippin’ junkie mixed up in some kind of betting. He keeps throwing hints asking me to swing my clients for fixing matches and bringing him inside info’.

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘So here I am, nearly broke- much of what you see around you is where mom has spent my money. I have nothing right now- no job, no recommendation, no house and no car’.