SOFT CENTRE

She had taken infinite care, as usual.

The flatteringly golden slices of toast, cut diagonally with scientific precision, didn't have a single burnt speck to mar their appeal. The temperature of the milk in the milk jug was just right, the teapot ws steaming adequately like an animate, orhter-worldly being, and the eggs were sunny-side up, as ordered.

She added a paper napkin to the breakfast tray and, finally, the mandatory cup and saucer, which rattled alarmingly in her shaking hands. She cursed silently and pressed her palms together to control the tremor and contain the tension building up within - as it did whenever she had to enter the room where her septuagenarian father-in-law lay. She hated herself for her timidity, for her inability to overcome it. Her spirit had surrendered to the tyranny of servility and she wondered how much more of it she would take before something snapped inside her, with disastrous consequences.

It had all started when the old man missed a step while descending to the basement of the farmhouse. In the surreal half-light, hampered by foggy vision and an arthritic knee, he had lost his balance and taken a tumble, ending up on the cold flagstones of the basement with a broken hip.

She and her husband Oliver had hauled Colonel (Retd.) Alan McCarthy into their Gypsy and driven in madcap haste to the nearest hospital, a good eight miles away in the heart of Jabalpur. Throughout the half-hour cross-country drive they had had to suffer a stream of dark oaths (directed at no one in particular) from their passenger, and it had been with no small relief that they handed him over to the medical authorities.

Two weeks later they escorted the colonel back to their farmhouse in an ambulance, accompanied by two interns and a maid called Kanta whom the colonel had hired from the hospital. The administrative head had explained to Oliver and her that, before his discharge, the colonel had been adamant about hiring the maid - had in fact said that he much preferred "a no-nonsense professional" to "fawning family members". The hospital had bent the rules, partly in deference to the patient's rank and age, but mostly because he was able to pay handsomely for the privilege of having a personal assistant working around-the-clock at home.

Myra had been entrusted with a bag of prescribed pills and potions, while Oliver had taken charge of the case file. Contemplating her father-in-law as he lay on the stretcher between them, she had become aware that he had changed. He had always been an ornery sort, but on that homeward trip an ominous silence seemed to envelop him - as if he were some hallowed mummy whose tomb had been violated.

He had kept his head averted, deliberately ignoring them, and they had taken the hint, saying not a word as the ambulance rolled down sinuous country roads, past lime orchards and sentinel palms and forlorn huts and brown, weathered ryots who gaped as they went by on a cloud of dust.

The two white-smocked interns had helped them get the colonel out of the ambulance and into his room in the farmhouse after they arrived. She remembered now, how angry the old man had looked, how rigidly he had held himself as they lifted him off the aluminium stretcher and onto his bed, where Dr Gupta had ordered that he remain until further notice.

The good physician was an experienced orthopedic - and, like his patient, ex-army. He was squat and swarthy complexioned, with dark, chaotically bushy eyebrows whose shadow did nothing to diminish the intensity of his stare - and he was always staring for such was the aspect of his physiognomy.

Dr. Gupta had paid weekly visits to the colonel for a whole month after the latter's homecoming. He'd nod gravely to them on arriving at the farmhouse, then enter the old man's room and close the door after him. Neither she nor Oliver were aware of what transpired behind that formidable teak door and had had to be content with the doctor's assurances that everything would be fine. They had tried extracting information from Kanta, but her cryptic replies did little by way of offering any enlightenment.

It was last week, when Dr Gupta finally announced the colonel's complete recovery that her misery had begun.

The maid Kanta, having served her contractual obligations, had left hurriedly, mumbling into the folds of her sari about never again agreeing to accept such assignments. She had administered to the colonel throughout his convalescence, helped him in his physiotherapy, and served him his meals all through the time he had been confined to his room. With Kanta's departure, Myra had had to resume dealing with her father-in-law, and she had done so with much trepidation. The colonel had worn his resentment like a second skin ever since he had joined them in Jabalpur four months ago, and his disgust at being with them seemed to grow with each passing day. She had been quite sure that his irascibility would escalate after his accident - and she had been proved right.

On the very first night after Kanta's leaving, the colonel had yelled at her during dinner, shattering the tense silence that lay between them like a preternatural ether. Oliver was in town at the time, buying fertilizer for his plants, so it was just the two of them, facing each other across the round mahogany table like mismatched knights. He had spat venom over the beefsteaks, which he called tripe, and had pushed the soup away with such force that most of it spilled onto the freshly starched, immaculately clean tablecloth.

Just the other day, when she was serving him his breakfast in bed (as he had demanded since his recovery) he had spun the toast out of the bedroom window and had asked her to get out of his sight. On the afternoon of the same day, he had a major altercation with Oliver over a paperback that he couldn't locate - and had ranted on about the "devious ways of the young" long after it had been retrieved from under his mattress.

There had been numerous other confrontations - over triflings, mostly - which had left her in tears, wondering what dark star had eclipsed her own to bring upon her such unwarranted misery. In order to escape the oppressive atmosphere at home, she would spend hours under a benevolent peepul tree in a serene corner of Oliver's horticultural estate. There, a hundred scents and hues would play upon her senses until the pounding in her temples ceased and she felt right enough to return to the farmhouse.

Such confidence, however, was short-lived. It vanished as quickly as the sweat on her skin on a dry day each time she had to enter the "lair", as she privately referred to her father-in-law's bedroom. Fear would return with a quickening of her pulse and a frisson down her spine - as it did this morning.

Holding the breakfast tray as fiercely as was humanly possible so as not to drop it, she pushed open the door of the colonel's room with her foot and entered. Then she froze. The man was sitting on the edge of his bed facing away from her. He was still in his nightclothes and was turning the pages of some volume, but this wasn't what made her stare. The old man's shoulders were shaking and sounds of sobbing filled the room, and she just stood there, pillar-like, afraid to breathe. She felt the guilt of someone intruding upon another's privacy and wanted to retreat, but overwhelming curiosity compelled her to place the breakfast tray on the bedside table and peer over the colonel's stooped shoulders.

He was going through a photo-album, leather-backed, dog-earned, and battered beyond belief; a reservoir of memories in black and white and sepia.

As the colonel turned the pages, seemingly unaware of her presence, she time-traveled through the Century's early decades, experiencing a life quite alien to her. There were pictures of full-dress military parades, gun salutes, burials, awards ceremonies. There was a snapshot of the colonel - a young buck, then - being held aloft by his comrades. All Brits. All in fatigues. And yet another photograph of him as a gallant young groom, uniformed and beribboned, standing beside a fragile young thing draped in gossamer outside the entrance of a cathedral with wedding guests in attendance.

She left as quickly as she had entered, closed the bedroom door behind her and leaned against it as she collected herself. Over breakfast that morning, she was able to get Oliver to tell her more about an old man who, she realized, had become even more of a mystery to her.

"I've tried to talk to dad, to make him open up a bit, to get some sort of relationship going, but I've made no headway," Oliver said, slicing through the bacon. "There was a time when we communicated, but that was long ago - when I was a young and schooling in Allahabad. As you already know, that's where I came from."

A shadow seemed to pass over her husband's eyes; he paused as he recalled greener days, momentarily forgetting his meal.

"We were happy then; mom, dad, my bro Julian and I - all living together in that big rambling house, which was my mother's ancestral home," he continued. "But I stopped being dad's favourite almost as soon as I finished school."

"What happened?" Myra asked.

"Dad wanted my younger brother and me to join the military - army, navy, air force, whatever - as he had been a part of the British Indian Army. His father, grandfather and generations before them had all been fighting men. Many had won distinctions in South Africa, Afghanistan, and the Sudan, battling beside Victoria's legions. He wanted me to continue the bloody glorious tradition and join the armed forces here in India, but when I refused I earned his displeasure.

"He must have been extremely proud of Julian," she said. "He signed up with the air force, didn't he?"

"Yes. But Julian was not bold enough to go against dad's wishes. He once confided in me that he hated every minute of it, and would much rather do law."

"Surely, you took up cudgels with dad on Julian's behalf?"

"I did. And dad almost permanently altered my jaw. I lost my temper and boarded the southbound train to Jabalpur. Some years later, soon after he finished with school, Julian enlisted. After he earned his wings, he was given quarters in Lucknow. When mom passed on, dad sold the old place in Allahabad and began staying with Julian, by which time I was well settled here. I had already done quite a number of years with the Kanha National Park and was ready to strike out on my own."

"When we met at the parish get-together, you were already a self-made hotshot," she said, smiling in remembrance. "You and your budding horticultural farm really used to excite the old wags in the Parish Council. You certainly interested me!"

He wolfed down some more bacon, chased it with coffee, and smiled in secret remembrance.

Then his face darkened.

"When Julian died in that crash over the Thar during one of those exercises, dad decided to look for accommodation for himself. He apparently failed, or he wouldn't have accepted my invitation to stay here with us in Jabalpur."

Now that she had been given the whole story, she fully understood the old soldier's bitterness. His first-born had injured his pride with the arrogance of his independence. Julian, whom he had counted on to carry the family coat of arms, so to speak, had perished in an air accident. Not only had the old man been left with the burden of guilt, but he had also to accept being indebted to a son who, in his eyes, had betrayed him.

She knew that Colonel Alan McCarthy was really hurting inside, but, being the stiff upper lip sort of Brit, had refused to let the pain show. Instead, he had set up a façade of aggressiveness behind which he hid his vulnerabilities. He was a lamb emoting like a tiger, but that morning she had caught him with his guard down - had seen him as he really was: a sad old man facing his sunset years with only the ghosts of his past for company.

If she could find a way of getting through to him, they might all start living like a family once again. But she didn't know where to begin, or how. There wasn't an idea in her head - and not an iota of courage in her heart.

So she shut Alan out of her mind for a while and surrendered to the tedium of the domestic routine. That afternoon, she took an autoriksha to town to pick up supplies - and it was while she was at the grocer's that she encountered Ramnath. He was an enormous, barrel-chested 40-year old bachelor whose "business contacts" in Mumbai provided him with the stuff of middle-class dreams: dress watches from Cartier, perfumes and designer wear from Saint Laurent and the rest, even occasional antiques (some of dubious provenance), all of which he would sell to breathless, wide-eyed customers from the neighbourhood.

"How nice to see you, Mrs. McCarthy," he said effusively, spreading his arms wide as if he were about to give her a bear hug. "I was thinking of you just yesterday!"

Of course, he hadn't been. But Ramnath, self-programmed to perform as the ever-bubbly, obsequious salesman, just couldn't be normal.

"Come over to my place and check out the maal, as they say in Mumbai," he invited, bowing and gesturing theatrically towards his shop just across the street.

"Thanks, but I've got to rush," Myra replied. But she finally surrendered and, a minute later, was in Ramnath's retail outlet - a chrome-and-glass affair that looked like a shrine to modern indulgence. Here, there was more than enough to seduce the average man into spending beyond his means, and she looked around trying to appear unimpressed (it wouldn't pay to encourage Ramnath) until her eyes rested on a beautifully carved walnut pipe hanging on the wall in a far corner of the shop, above the rolled dhurries and ersatz Ming vases.

She remembered Oliver once telling her that the colonel was partial to pipes, but had stopped using them because he couldn't lay his hands on his favourite Capstan tobacco. She wondered whether Ramnath had any of the treasured stuff, whether it would be fresh, whether the old codger at home would appreciate her gift or consign it to the dustbin in disdain.

"Capstan tobacco, Mrs. McCarthy? The loose kind that comes in foil pouches? Of course, I have it. And other varieties as well should they interest you. I didn't know you rolled a cigarette!"

"I don't," she said, a trifle irritated. "Nor do I smoke a pipe. I just wish to purchase a gift for someone who does."

"Ah I see, I see." Ramnath dived under the counter and a minute later surfaced brandishing various pouches of branded tobacco, which he shuffled around until he found the one he was looking for.

"Ah, here it is. Capstan. Very good, I must tell you…"

"Never mind," she cut in. "Give me a couple of pouches - and hurry 'coz I'm terribly late."

That evening, while she was getting the dinner ready, she felt another presence in the kitchen. Pausing with the broad blade of the cutting knife halfway through a tomato, she turned around and noticed her father-in-law standing in the kitchen doorway observing her. They considered each other without saying a word, until the silence between them became unbearably awkward.

The colonel cleared his throat. "You saw me this morning…when you brought in the breakfast."

She nodded, knowing what he meant, and wondering where he was going. She waited for him to continue, but he hesitated, searching for words, then slowly turned around and left the kitchen.

After she had finished the cooking and tidying up, she took the pouch of Capstan tobacco she had bought from Ramnath and headed for her father-in-law's bedroom, wondering whether she was making a tactical mistake. She paused outside the closed oak door, thinking that it might be wiser to retreat, then knocked gently and entered to find the old man sitting on the rocking chair beside the bed. He was observing a couple of contentious mynahs on the window sill and she noticed the film over his eyes, the flushed face, the trembling hands lying folded over his lap.

"I've bought you something you might like," she said, trying to sound as casual as ever, and placed the pouch of tobacco on the bedside table.

His eyes lit up the minute he read the brand name. "Capstan! Good Lord, where did you get it from in a place like Jabalpur?"

"A friend sells the stuff," she said, "among other rarities."

The colonel picked up the pouch of tobacco and turned it around in his gnarled hands, sniffed it, lifted the flap, extracted the foil-wrapped tobacco.

"Well, it seems like I will have to get back to fiddling around with my old pipes again," he said. Then he looked squarely at her as if seeing her for the first time, and smiled - a tentative smile, but genuine nonetheless.

"Thank you, Myra," he said.

It had been eons since he had called her by her first name and she could feel a lump form in her throat. She nodded, managed a brief, reciprocal smile, and then made to leave the room.

Her hand was on the brass handle of the bedroom door when she heard the colonel clear his throat, as was his habit before he undertook to say something particularly difficult.

"Would you like to take a look at my photo album sometime?" she heard him say.

"I'd love to," she replied, turning around. "It might even inspire me to join the army!"

She heard him chuckle as she departed and closed the bedroom door after her. She knew then, with certainty, that she had broken through Alan McCarthy's armour, had touched the soft, emotional core deep inside, had finally found the man behind the monster she had come to fear.

Outside, the world seemed so preternaturally orange - much like Venus. Dusk came like it always did, with the cacophony of sparrows and crickets and cicadas and rooks singing their anthems to the encroaching night. As the sun slipped behind the distant tree line, it threw long, reptilian shadows across the land - sinewy purple-black fingers that seemed to point at her bungalow.

Another day had ended, but for her it meant a new beginning.

First appeared in New Woman, October 2002

Copyright © Pierre Francis.
The above written matter is protected under copyright law. It may not be redistributed, in part or in whole, without the author's explicit permission.

REFRESHER COURSE

Her decision to take up teaching had been guided by a sense of mission. There was something powerfully messianic about leading the unenlightened through the labyrinthine pathways of learning, towards the light. The idea brought a quickening of the pulse; filled the mind with grand visions of teachers grooming revolutionaries and revolutionaries orchestrating entire civilizations. And, as if this were not enough, there was the additional inspiration of Mr. Bannerjee who had been her teacher in her final school year.

A decade had passed since she had last seen him, but she remembered the man with absolute clarity and wondered how he looked now. Age - and his height - would bring about the inevitable stoop. The hair on his head would be white, or steel grey at the least; and those lines of wisdom across his forehead would be more accented. But he would be as slim and light of step as ever, assuming, of course, that he had kept to his routine postprandial strolls and early-morning calisthenics.

She had written to tell him that she would be visiting her hometown, and ask whether he would keep her as a guest for a couple of weeks. And he had replied in the positive, saying that he was glad to have her as they had a lot to exchange and he was curious to learn how his star student had fared in her career.

She felt for his letter in her coat pocket as the bus came to a grinding halt and the sounds of a township in mid-morning frenzy flooded in through her open window. She noticed that Kalimpong hadn't changed much. The same serpentine lanes connected by short flights of steps. The same crowds, jostling, shifting direction, rushing about like demented ants. The same pot-pourri of shops, groceries, hostelries, and bungalows. The same velvet wind rising from the valley, flirtingly caressing her skin, attempting to seduce with a thousand scents.

She hailed a taxi - a Landrover - and placed her luggage on the floorboard between the rear passenger seats. Then, with a porcine honk and a belch from the exhaust, the vehicle took off, navigating through the bedlam of the marketplace until it reached the outer edge of the town. Then it picked up speed and raced past desolate shanties and picture-postcard cottages, a spice plantation and a high-end hotel, silently inscrutable behind a stand of golden oaks.

Twenty minutes later the Landrover drew up outside a large two-storied bungalow surrounded by an open lawn. Constructed from timber and stone, it had a wide porch, arched windows, and a tiled roof with a single chimney, and although it wasn't a perfect paradigm of colonial architecture, it came close.

After paying off the taxi driver she took a short flight of steps up to the porch. The front door opened before she could ring, and there he was, just as she had imagined; tall, slightly stooped, the hair of his head almost as white as the distant Himalayas. He wore a wan smile - the welcome of a tired old man - but his arms were outstretched and she allowed him a brief embrace.

"Tanushuree, how you've changed!" he said, then turned and led her into a spacious living room. "I can see that you have matured into quite an attractive woman, if you don't mind my saying so!"

She placed her bags beside a sofa and sank into its springy comfort. Across from her was another sofa, and at the far end of the room was a table on which sat a television set. One wal housed an unused fireplace and another held a collection of frame photographs providing glimpses of Bannerjee's academic life.

Suddenly, an elderly man was beside her, lifting her bags to take them to her room. He was a ghorka - short, sinewy, weather beaten, with facial creases so deep, they could have been wounds. He smiled, bowed briefly, then turned on his heels and mounted a flight of stairs to the floor above with such alacrity that she wondered at his strength.

"Subash is tough as an ox," Bannerjee said, as if reading her mind. "He worked as a gardener at a hotel before they retired him. Just like our alma mater prematurely retired me."

"I'm shocked to hear that, sir," she said, "considering you did so much for the school…"

He smiled and made a dismissive gesture. "I was resentful, of course, but they needed a younger man so I had to relent. It doesn't matter, anyway, as I have found other matters to occupy my mind. Oh, but please forgive me! I must offer you something. A drink, perhaps? Tea? Or shall we open that bottle of Seagram's?" He nodded in the direction of a glass-fronted cabinet - a veritable cornucopia of liquors, liqueurs, wines and canned juices.

"Oh, I'm not that well heeled to indulge myself this way," he added quickly when he read amazement on her face. "Most of these are gifts from ex-students living in Kolkata. Whenever nostalgia overtakes them, they visit the school and often drop by to see me as well."

"I too have something for you, mastermoshai," she said. "It's just a handicraft from down south…and yes, I'll have a shot of your favourite poison."

Minutes later, as he poured their drinks, he asked: "Tanu, how's the academic life? Something tells me you are not very happy."

"I'm not," she confirmed, slightly unnerved by the man's perceptiveness. "I want to quit, and I'm here to do a little thinking - with your help, of course."

"How long have you been teaching?"

"Well, as you already know, my passing out of school coincided with my father's retirement from the postal service. He decided to sell his bungalow here and move to Cochin, my mother's hometown. I went along with them, but finished my graduation in Mumbai. After that, I did my teacher's training and took up a job in that city. It's been six years since I began."

"And now, you're disenchanted." He raised his glass towards her and she reciprocated, taking a sip of the well-matured whiskey and wincing as fire coursed down her gullet. "What happened?" he asked.

She briefly closed her eyes and Sameer's smiling face filled her mind; chubby cheeks, close-cropped hair, dimpled chin, delicate, calligraphic eyebrows. He had been her special student, and she had made him her personal mission, but the mission had failed and she had begun to feel inadequate, her confidence shaken. She began to wonder whether she really had it in her to be a teacher, a moral beacon to inspire and transform her students, and the more she thought about it, the more difficult it became for her to return to the classroom.

"I had this underprivileged student whose progress I had made my responsibility."

"All our students are our responsibility," Bannerjee said. "But I presume you had a place in your heart for this one. Again, what happened?"

"He came from a dysfuntional family. Alcoholic father. Overstressed mother. Too many siblings; too many people trading body llice in cramped servants' quarters in a railway colony in South Mumbai. But Sameer's intellligence shone like a gem and I wanted to help as best I could."

"And he failed, did he?"

"He didn't. He passed school with flying colours but didn't make it to college because he became a junkie."

"He is beyond rehabilitation?"

"He's dead," she said, then took a quick sip of the whiskey in an attempt to project insouciance. But Bannerjee was now staring at her and she felt uncomfortable, like a penitent induced to reveal an indiscretion at the confessional.

"I presume you're blaming yourself, Tanushree. That's good because it reveals your commitment to your vocation. I don't think many teachers would allow themselves to suffer the way you do, but you must move on. There are other challenges to overcome. Other students. And think about those who have benefited from your tutelage."

She gazed into the bowl of her glass, so that he could not see her face dissolve - and the tears. Her reflection in the molten gold of the whiskey warped, twisted and rippled and she wondered whether she should tell him that Sameer was more than just another student. That she had fallen so hopelessly in love with him that his mere presence would often make it difficult for her to maintain a professional stance - although she did manage to do so: guiding him through his studies, visiting his home to talk to his parents, and then later, when he was hooked on drugs, fruitlessly trying to convince him to kick the habit. She had often wanted to reach out and hold him close, to absorb his demons and free him, but the teacher in her held back. Instead, whenever she was alone, she would build fantastically romantic scenarios in her mind; imagined passion plays, mined from all those fairy tales of childhood. And when Sameer died unexpectedly, it felt like a slap in the face, a rebuke for not having given more of herself, where such giving might have made a difference. She felt as if her own life had come to a dead end, and that there was no way out except to go back to where she started. But the classroom seemed cold and uninviting, the students just numbers on a roster. She tried to push herself as much as she could during the days following Sameer's undistinguished quietus, until, finally, she decided to take a break and think things over; perhaps, draw on the strengths of a teacher named Bannerjee in order to acquire a fresh perspective.

"I think you are tired," the man said, rising. Pointing to the upper level of the bungalow he added, "Your room is the first to the right. Freshen up. Take a brief nap, if you like. Then come down around 2 for lunch. I have to visit the bazaar to pick up some spices and should be back by then."

He left and she took the stairs to her room. It was airy, with a wide window overlooking the lawn. There was a four-poster bed with a mosquito net piled atop its canopy and beside it stood a table with a reading lamp. On one wall, inexplicably, was a picture of King George V surrounded by blue-blooded kith and kin in full regalia. A half-open cupboard beckoned her, and another doorway led to the bathroom.

There was an old-fashioned charm about her accommodations. It brought to mind images of colonial sahibs and their indolent women, filling their days with occasional hunts and excursions into the native unknown, hosting quaint tea parties, and organising cricket matches with the locals.

She bathed leisurely, then hit the bed and allowed herself a brief nap before going downstairs again for lunch. It consisted of fowl curry, Bengali-style, accompanied by a potato and paneeer dish called Chhanar Dalna. Half-way through the meal, while masticating on a leg of chicken, Bannerjee said, "This evening, you can attend one of my sessions with the townsfolk. I think you should find the meeting both enlightening and entertaining."

When they were done Subash cleared the dishes with silent, no-nonsense efficiency and she gave Bannerjee his gift: a snake boat cast in bronze, complete with crew and oars, all mounted on a block of polished rosewood.

"Tanushree, this is beautiful!" he said, turning the handicraft over and examining its intricacies. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will take my beauty nap. I'll see you around 5."

After he left, she did a survey of her teacher's collection of framed pictures in the living room, immersing herself in other dimensions, other times, as she read the telegraphic captions written along every print's lower white border.

Here was a typical "official" snapshot: Bannerjee, looking uncannily like Humphrey Bogart, posing with a group of seniors, which she immediately recognized as her mind sliced through the ether of forgotten years. There was another picture of her teacher standing shoulder to shoulder with a visiting minister of state, and many others of awards ceremonies, picnics and so on; a cocktail of preserved moments, to be savoured one nostalgic sip at a time.

That evening, Subash set the stage for Bannerjee's "session" by placing a table on the porch and two chairs behind it. He gave her a newspaper, but she had barely begun reading the lead story about an incident of insurgency in Darjeeling when people began arriving. Then Bannerjee appeared, sat behind the desk, and opened the large, dog-eared notebook he had brought along to a marked page. After giving his handwritten notes a cursory glance, he surveyed the motley group of locals now squatting cross-legged on the grass lawn fronting the bungalow and smiled beningly.

A woman raised her arm and Bannerjee nodded, giving her permission to speak. She complained that her husband spent more time at the aviary where he was employed and she suspected it was more than bees that he was interested in.

"Mastermoshai, I have been to the aviary twice in the past week and did not find my husband there. He comes home late at night, stinking of liquor and smelling of a woman. I know. I can tell."

"Tell Debashish to meet me." Bannerjee said. The woman nodded, temporarily appeased, and another began speaking; a wizened septuagenarian who complained that his sons were not contributing enough to his welfare and often mistreated him at home.

Bannerjee nodded in commiseration, made notes, and assured the old man that he would visit his errant sons and give them a talking to.

Two sisters - identical twins - were next. They were equally besotted with the same man whose ardour was so abundant and equitably distributed as to leave them in doubt as to whom he really favoured.

"Sir, could you please talk to him and let us know?"

Bannerjee smiled at their naiveté and said, "Give the man a chance to make up his mind. It's obvious he likes you both - or perhaps can't tell the difference!"

A ripple of laughter swept through the lawn and wisecracks were exchanged, but the meeting continued and Tanushree listened as one after another the townsfolk spoke about their problems. Some were dilemmas that defied facile answers, but most were of the garden variety: unfaithful spouses, recidivist wife beaters, chronic alcoholics, ganja addicts.

What struck her was the absolute confidence that Bannerjee's audience had in him. While he magnanimously dispensed advice, he was treated with great deference and often addressed as mastermoshai - although it was improbable that he had taught any members of the assembled congregation.

After the meeting ended and all had left, she decided to chat up Subash.

"Saab has been more than a friend to me," he said. "My son Dhiraj began associating with members of the Gorkhaland National Liberation Front many years ago. He was young and full of fancy notions, carried away with all that talk of a separate homeland for the Gorkhas. He began playing an active role in the group - often going too far in the eyes of the law - but instead of achieving a homeland, he got a 5' by 5' cell in the local police headquarters. I didn't know what to do, until someone suggested I talk with Bannerjee saab and ask him to use his influence."

"Did he?"

"It wasn't very easy, but he kept trying - meeting with top police officials, pleading for clemency, pointing to the fact that Dhiraj was only twenty at the time and barely an adult. Bannerjee saab used his own stature as a teacher, arguing that he understood human nature and that Dhiraj would improve if given a chance to go straight. I felt ashamed for dragging saab into my mess, but he assured me that it was all right and thanked me for giving him a chance to do something meaningful."

Over dinner she brought up the matter with the venerable teacher.

"Yes, Dhiraj was finally released with a strong admonition to avoid breaking bread with rebels," Bannerjee said. "He took this advice to heart and is presently employed as a PT master at a local school. Subash was overjoyed, naturally."

Her teacher had underplayed his achievement, and as her respect for him swelled she decided to open up a little more.

"Remember that student I was talking about? The one who died from a drug overdose?" she said.

Bannerjee nodded but said nothing.

"I have a confession to make mastermoshai," Tanushree continued. "I actually fell in love with the boy, but never got around to telling him that. Sameer and I hadn't even started going out together when he passed away. Does this make me less committed as a teacher?"

"Would you have felt at least a little depressed if he had been just another student?" he replied.

"I certainly would."

"Then you're okay. And since we are being so candid, let me also make a confession," he said, turning to her with a sly look on his face. "I too fell in love …with you!"

"Mr. Bannerjee, sir!" she exclaimed, shocked and intrigued at the same time.

"Oh, it was purely paternal. I liked you a lot, for more reasons than I can remember, and I saw in you the daughter I didn't - couldn't have. Just an old, disenchanted man's indulgence, Tanu."

She instinctively touched his arm, but the words weren't there, and she remembered the rumours in school. Mrs. Bannerjee had died in childbirth, taking the baby with her and dashing all hopes of the academician extending his bloodline. In the months that followed those rumors, the man seemed fragile, disconnected, like someone who had just recovered from a serious illness. But he soon reverted to his former self, and even began taking more than an average interest in her.

"When you went, you went. I had to let you go." Bannerjee continued, interrupting her thoughts. "You have to let Sameer go, too - and get on with your life. You are a fine teacher, Tanu. Learn from your failures and you will be able to teach better. "

Two weeks later, when she was ready to leave, they were all there to see her off: Hamid, the frail tailor, happier now because Bannerjee had convinced his sons to change their attitude toward their father; Sulekha and Sujata, the twins who shared a beau; Debashish, the chap who worked at the aviary - a reformed man, convinced by Bannerjee to terminate his illicit affair; and many new faces as well.

As her taxi wound its way downhill, heading for Bagdodra, she considered Bannerjee and the message of his life. The school had retired him, but he was still mastermoshai to the locals; an ageing scholar, matured by time and tempered by personal loss, but full of empirical wisdom which he offered with grace and humility. There on the porch, he was something of a demigod to those who sought his advice, and she realized that teachers were owned by the world at large - the cynical old, the ingenuous young, and everybody in between.

She knew she would return to the blackboard.

Quitting would be an act of betrayal - and now, after her brief sojourn in the hills, she didn't have the heart to do it.

First appeared in New Woman, January 2008

Copyright © Pierre Francis.
The above written matter is protected under copyright law. It may not be redistributed, in part or in whole, without the author's explicit permission.

STRONG TEA

On the morning of the murder he checked in at the office before anybody else, except for the peon whose job it was to open the door. He had risen early, largely because the prospect of bumping off his nemesis Ashok Kale had created within him a feeling of feverish anticipation, which had denied him proper sleep.

Now, ensconced in a generously upholstered chair, in the still, almost palpable silence of his cubicle, he went through the plan once more. It flicked through his mind like a bizarre silent movie, and he smiled to himself.

Today he, Peter Wier, would bring to an end two years of misery. Moreover, with that tyrant Kale out of the way, a vacancy at the GM position would be created - and he, the second in command, would be chosen to fill it.

Who said that you had to burn the midnight oil to make it in the corporate world? Who said you needed to have a godfather in the higher echelons of power? Who said that honesty pays?

Obviously someone who hadn't an iota of horse sense and possessed an overdeveloped sense of morality and believed in it. Someone who hadn't met a certain hakim in Hyderabad who was not averse to concocting lethal, tasteless and absolutely untraceable potions for anyone who could deliver cash up-front.

He had made discreet enquiries during his last sales trip to that historic city and had finally made contact with the renowned doctor. Two days after that first meeting, he was a few hundred rupees poorer, but he had in his possession a vial of clear liquid that would guarantee a quick and painful death if ingested.

Peter tapped his shirt pocket. The poison was there - easy to reach when the time came.

He had just begun arranging the papers on his desk, when his cabin door opened and his assistant Pratap poked is head in.

"It's confirmed. The Sales Review has been fixed for 10 o'clock," he said. "The regional sales director will preside, but your old pal A.K. will be calling the shots. Are you ready with the feedback from that mela we organized at Indore?"

"Huh, yes…yes. I'll be ready."

"You'd better be, or your old pal will have you for lunch!"

"Oh! Shut-up!" Peter said, unable to control his irritation. "And stop referring to that schmuck as my old pal."

Pratap grinned, then popped out of sight, and Peter pushed himself deeper into the soft, reassuring embrace of his chair. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and went over the plan once again…

At about a quarter to ten, the tea boy usually made his rounds, leaving a cuppa on every eligible desk - whether or not anyone was sitting at it. Such was his arrogance.

He'd go to Kale's cubicle on the pretext of showing off his report. Then, when he had the chance, he'd empty the poison into his tea. Five minutes after he had taken the first sip, Kale would be history. Chaos would ensue. The cops would be called in. By the time foul play was suspected, no one would be able to recall the events of this particular day - the comings and goings of people in busy office.

Peter consulted his watch. It was 9.45 already! He picked up his sales report and left the cabin, pausing outside to survey the office. The tea boy was already on the move, looking like he was doing everyone a favour. The boss's secretary was slaving at her Facit, the very epitome of the middle-class struggle. The office was buzzing, with people walking about, exchanging greetings, giving order, making wisecracks.

He began walking towards Kale's cabin as soon as he saw the tea boy emerge from it, and he noticed that it was unoccupied. Kale hadn't as yet arrived, but he was a punctilious bastard and would definitely make an appearance any minute, considering that there was a sales meeting to attend, so it was better that he did what had to be done before his boss showed up.

He casually opened Kale's door and let himself in. The tea was there all right, steaming merrily in Kale's own bright yellow mug, waiting to be spiked with death.

Peter quickly placed his report on Kale's desk and extracted the vial from his pocket. Deftly, he uncorked it and emptied its contents into Kale's tea. Then he tucked the report under his arm and made a quick exit, walking briskly towards his cabin just as Kale and the regional sales director entered the office together.

Back in his place, Peter picked up the business magazine that was lying on his desk and began browsing through it, seeing the same blanc mug shots of the barons of business, looking like trussed turkeys in their stiff-as-starch formals.

He paused at the listings of the Stock Exchange, about to check on his investments, when Pratap burst into his cabin.

"Something terrible has happened!" he said. His eyes looked like marbles - glassy orbs exaggerated by the thick lenses of his spectacles. "You'd better come at one."

Peter jerked out his chair and gripped his assistant by the shoulders, trying not to overdo it.

"What's the matter?" he asked, injecting an appropriate dose of shock and concern into his voice.

"Just come along," Pratap said, and Peter thought he looked like an agitated chicken caught in heavy traffic.

He turned and rushed in the direction of Kale's cabin, and Peter followed close behind, noticing a large crowd outside the general manager's door. The office was abuzz with excitement. A person dashed past as somebody shouted a reminder to call a doctor. Some else yelled for the police, and Peter felt a surge of elation sweep through him.

He and Pratap had to elbow their way through the crush of humanity before they could get to the scene of the crime. His crime.

Then his eyes rested on the suited gent slumped over the desk and he froze.

He had killed all right. But he had brought down the wrong man. The corpse wasn't Kale's but Naik's. The regional sales director's head was lying on the mahogany desk at a grotesque angle and his arms were spread over its polished surface. One fist was clenched, while the other was frozen in the act of clawing a sheaf of papers.

The plan had been perfect, but things had nonetheless gone wrong - and he didn't have the faintest idea why.

Suddenly he realized Pratap was shaking him by the shoulders.

"Hey boss, we got to get organized! The doc will be here any minute, and so will the police. What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

But Peter wasn't listening to him. He had his eyes on Kale, his intended victim - very much alive and sounding as pompous as ever as he held forth in the midst of the crowd.

"I really can't understand what happened," he was saying. "Naik and I entered the office together. He seemed okay - cheerful, actually. He came to my cabin to check the agenda, when he noticed my tea and expressed a desire to have some. So I offered him mine as I'd decided to cut down. He had barely taken a sip when he bent over suddenly, clutching his chest and gasping. He started sweating and I thought, 'Hey man, this guy's having an attack!' So I rushed off to arrange for a doc and by the time I returned, I found him like this. It's unbelievable!"

Peter had heard enough. He turned away quickly and pushed himself through the crowd before he could betray the fury and frustration that consumed him.

As he walked back to his cabin, trying to keep his emotions in check, he saw the doctor enter the office and head towards the scene of the crime.

-- --

Two days later, while he was leafing through an Esquire, Pratap popped in again.

"Hey boss, I've got something to tell!"

Peter continued flipping through the magazine without looking up, but he couldn't contain that feeling of angst that suddenly overcame him. Had they realized that it was murder and not a heart attack? Was he under suspicion? Bravely, he brought himself to look Pratap straight in the eye.

"Well now that Naik is - well, no more, Kale is going to be promoted to fill the vacancy. I guess some guys have all the luck, what do you say?" Pratap said.

Peter cursed inwardly. Three months of meticulous planning, and someone else gets the benefit. Talk about irony! Anyway, by his promotion, Kale was one step further away - and that was a comfort of sorts. He had not managed to eliminate his tormentor, but he had put a significant distance between them.

"…and that's not all," Pratap continued. "You're getting a promo too. You're going to be Kale's assistant. Congrats!"

Peter continued leafing through the Esquire, but savagely, compulsively, almost ripping the pages from their bindings.

Everything was a haze. The cabin seemed to be doing cartwheels. And through the mists of his anger and frustration, he heard Pratap's laughter, a hideous, primal expression of malevolent glee.

First appeared in Citadel, as "Storm in a Tea Cup" in November 1998

Copyright © Pierre Francis.
The above written matter is protected under copyright law. It may not be redistributed, in part or in whole, without the author's explicit permission.

WINTER

Winter was just a week away - or so the forecasters said. But the weather was notoriously unpredictable. It defied expectation. Winter could very well happen tomorrow, and she would have to go diving into those sturdy trunks for woolens she had buried a year earlier.

In happier days, when Alan was alive, she used to look forward to the seasonal twist. They would pack their things into a large carryall and head northward where it was colder still and where they could exult in the brisk climate and each other's company. The cold months had an ironical effect: lovers got closer, but the lonely grew even lonelier.

And she was lonely now - had been this way ever since that morning when she had discovered Alan stone cold in bed. He had indulged himself a little too freely the night before. He should have known that with a weak heart and an overdose of Bagpiper, he was asking for trouble. She remembered she'd cried a lot and in a fit of rage had even pounded him on the chest for deserting her. She must have wept a bucketful before summoning the local parish priest. The rites were performed and the body was washed and perfumed and dressed and finally laid six feet under, amidst a large gathering of friends and relatives. Could Alan have been that popular? And when her time came, how many would come to attend? She shrank at the thought, all too aware of her solitude. So afraid of being alone. So afraid of staying alone.

She went through the daily routine, scrubbing the dishes industriously, dusting the furniture, redundantly arranging the books on the shelf, changing the flowers in the vase, beating the muck out of the dhurrie in the living room, then getting down to the task of cooking.

Nowadays, it was always a spare meal. When Alan was around, she excelled herself - her genius showing in succulent salads, aromatic pies, pulaos and delectable pastries. But now it was a simple meal because she didn't have to impress anyone. She sang Sinatra ballads as she went through the motions. And when she was through with everything she took a break in the garden behind the kitchen.

Spade in hand, she dug around the sunflowers and daisies, urging them to flourish - positively certain that her words would bring about a veritable explosion of colour. If things worked out well, she would make a bid for the first prize at the club's annual flower show. She'd get nothing but applause if she did win, but for a loner like herself, a few seconds of public adulation as reward enough.

She spent her evenings at The Olden Times. The club crouched under palms further down and just off the main suburban street. She'd go there to hob-nob with the town's senior citizens. There was her friend Lieutenant Colonel Mark McKinley, an octogenarian who wore a three-piece suit and a bowler hat even in mid-summer, and who had a cigar perpetually stuck in his mouth (except when he was drinking, which was often). Mark was a relic of the Raj and he made no attempt to hide his loyalties. He kept saying that the British were the best thing that ever happened to the country and that his greatest regret was that he had not taken off when they had. Strangely, he had a profound respect for Gandhi. "He may have been a fakir in khadi," he'd say, echoing Churchill, "but he sure had his way! That's what I call individuality…if only he were British!"

There was Ms Williams, another fading Anglo-Indian who didn't care a paisa who ruled the land so long as her son Fritz made it through college. Ms. Williams had this habit of cleaning her glasses during pauses, and it took the patience of a heron to hear her out.

There was Mr. Godse who introduced himself to the club at large as often as he entered it, in case there were any newcomers present. He made it a point to add that he wasn't related to Nathuram. There was Molly - just Molly. Those who liked her, said she was lovely; those who didn't said she was a high society tart and you had better be earning well and owning a flat if you want her to fall in love with you, buddy! There was Mr. Shivraj, the editor of the Country News who had a voice like a foghorn, which was okay with Mr. Rushdie because the latter was almost stone deaf.

These were the people she knew well. She sought their companionship because there was this irrepressible urge to feel wanted - though she tried not to let it show. The club members were amicable, and Mark McKinley literally doted on her.

"Want a drink, Alice?" he'd ask, and she'd refuse politely. McKinley knew she didn't go for the hard stuff, but that had always been his conversation-opener. He could make sure she had a chance at poker and would order snacks, which he would pay for with chivalrous flair. She thought he was a dear - old enough to be her father, he was. And he was paternal to a fault.

"You must marry again," he said to her one evening in the club. Taking her by the arm, he maneuvered her to an adjacent room, which no one entered because it was stacked ceiling-high with old newspapers, and smelled like a tomb. But it did offer privacy. Mark made her sit on the only chair in the room and, leaning against a table opposite, began to let fly with a speech on the vitality of married life - not that she needed any telling.

"You're still very young, Alice. I know Alan was a gem, but surely you can't carry on living like a hermit! I have a nephew…good future ahead of him, so he says. I'd like you to meet him. Really Alice, you must…"

"Mark, since when have you taken up matchmaking?" she asked.

He laughed and waved dismissively, but she knew he had been right. The crafty old kite had found a novel way to ward off the boredom of retirement! Mark insisted she meet his nephew who was staying with him, having come up to Lucknow from Bombay where he had been previously stationed as an assistant sales promoter.

"What's his name?" she asked.

Mark only raised his palm histrionically. "Later, later," he said. "There'll be time enough for introductions when the time comes."

On that note they left the mouldy room with its records of past events and reentered the world of the present: the smoky club hall with its emerald-green billiard tables and sounds of laughter and curses as someone missed a pocket or got a bad deal at poker.

Just before closing time she left, holding on to Mark's arm to guide him to where he had parked his car. He was too sizzled to remember and there was also the bother of having to locate the car keys. What with a suit and waistcoat and half a dozen pockets to rummage through and the street in total darkness because of the power failure, finding the keys proved to be quite an endeavour. Knowing Mark wasn't sober enough to drive, she volunteered, and he promptly agreed.

The Morris needed a lot of coaxing and it started with a jerk that almost threw her into the seat behind. "Careful girl, careful," Mark mumbled, his face lost somewhere between the folds of his coat, his head invisible under the bowler. "Damn the British," he growled suddenly, and for a moment she thought he was referring to her. She wondered what memory had emerged from that cellar of the subconscious to bring forth such an incongruous, uncharacteristic remark. She took the final turn into her lane, bringing the Morris to an axle-grinding halt in front of her cottage.

She helped Mark into the hallway and propped him up on the bed-sitter. "Tomorrow girl, I'll introduce you to the finest lad I know," he was saying. Then his eyelids dropped and his head rolled on his chest. She struggled to lay him out on the bed-sitter. Then she went through the house shutting the windows and checking the bolts on all the doors leading out. After that was done, she went to the record stack and flipped through her 80-album collection. Here was something she was really proud of. These clean, scratch-free records evoked memories. Here were the Brahms symphonies, which they had received as a wedding present. Alan loved Brahms with dinner. And here, a collection of Strauss waltzes. Just thinking of them made her feel nostalgic. They used to weave between the sofa and the pedestalled gold goldfish bowl in the living room to the lilting music from Vienna. No, she wouldn't put on a Strauss. Instead, she played the Henri Mancini she'd bought yesterday. She put the album on the turntable and within minutes the subtle strains of Moon River were drifting through the house, the gentle melody slipping between pots and utensils in the kitchen, between cabbages and celery, between the books on the bookshelf, between the curtains, weaving, snaking into Mark McKinley's dreams of the Raj, edging out of the skylight and into the street beyond and making Krishna, the beggar pause as he lifted a scrap of someone's charity to his mouth, momentarily forgetting his everlasting hunger.

When the music ended, she kissed old Mark on the forehead and repaired to bed. It was the end of another uneventful day…she had long got used to the unchanging pattern of her life.

She pushed the batwings open and entered the club.

"He's here," Mark said and caught her by the elbow as if expecting her to make a dash for the exit. His eyes glittered with unholy triumph.

"Who's here?"

"My nephew from Bombay. I'll introduce him to you. Really nice fellow…"

She didn't hear the rest because she had already seen him. He stood out in the crowd the way a high-rise condominium would amongst a cluster of hovels. He was dressed for summer: open neck T-shirt, impeccably pressed corduroys, suedes, et al. He was easily the youngest in the room. The tallest - the fairest. But then, her impression was influenced because he looked uncannily like Alan. Mark, gripping her elbow with a strength she found surprising, led her straight up to the young man who was obviously expecting them because he smiled and moved forward.

"Meet Lew," Mark said. "Lew, this is Alice."

They exchanged a few courtesies and then Mark led them to a table, which he must have bribed Gopal to reserve because it was unusually unoccupied.

She had taken an immediate liking to Lew. But the conversation ended too quickly!

They covered their jobs (she gave tuitions in the afternoons). They discussed the state of the nation in the manner of commoners and Mark got carried away as he went through his things-as-they-were-and-things-as-they-are-now speech. When they ran out of topics, they dissected the weather. When the conversation fizzled out, Mark buried himself in his newspaper and a glass of whiskey. She found herself looking at Lew, wondering what to say. She had to say something - anything - to keep up that magical flow of words - to strengthen the infantile relationship they had just established. She surprised herself. There had been times ever since Alan's death when she had been introduced to prospective grooms but she had not responded to them as strongly as she was responding now. Perhaps it was her protracted loneliness, which had brought about a subtle change in her. Perhaps it was Lew's startling resemblance to Alan. Perhaps it was that rare gin she was having. Or perhaps it was the convivial atmosphere of the club. Perhaps anything. But she was perfectly certain that Lew was right for her. She had felt this way when she had first met Alan, and they had been deliriously happy, hadn't they?

Then Lew abruptly stood up, excusing himself.

"Work tomorrow," he explained. "I've got to lecture a batch of trainees on the dynamics of sales promotion, and I don't want my head feeling as if it had been hit by a cannonball." (He had just knocked down a large whiskey).

She smiled and said something appropriate - she didn't know exactly what because she was confused and disappointed at his having to leave so soon. Lew waved in parting and slapped his uncle (barely conscious now) on the back and walked out of the club. She heard the sound of a motorcycle firing and its rumble gradually fading as it shot down the lane. Then the club reasserted itself with its inimitable babble and that familiar feeling of loneliness came creeping back.

Gopal fanned Mark with a grubby menu card shortly before closing time while she loosened the tie he was wearing. Between them, they bundled him into his Morris, and for the second night in succession she drove the whisky-doused octogenarian to her place. She deposited him on the bed-sitter and left him dreaming of halcyon days while she busied herself in the kitchen preparing dinner. While she ate, she kept thinking of Lew. Yes, she positively liked him. She wondered hopefully whether she would see him in the club the following evening.

But it wasn't to be. And when she questioned Mark on Lew's continued absence three days later, he told her that his nephew had left for Bombay on some urgent assignment. She knew Mark wasn't telling her the truth. He was just being kind.

She drove the Morris home that evening with Mark slumped on the seat beside her. They had made an arrangement months back. Whenever he was drunk, she was welcome to drive him - to her place, instead of his. That was the bonus for her trouble. She could get back quickly - without hiring a cab or having to walk. He'd spend the night at her place and then head back home in his Morris as soon as he was sober enough to drive.

As she drove through the streets, deserted almost because it was quite late, she tried to get Lew out of her mind by thinking of the chores that had to be completed the next day. But Lew kept cropping up. She realized how attached she had got to him, but she new she couldn't blame him at all. After all, she was a widow. When you're a widow, your value in the marriage market, at least as far as young, eligible bachelors are concerned, doesn't add up to much.

She felt the chill in the air. The Simla winds were licking old Lucknow already. When she got home, she took a look at the thermometer in the kitchen and observed that the mercury column had shrunk quite a bit. Yes, winter would be on time, this time. For once, the weather forecasters would be right.

It would be colder this year. Colder than any winter since Alan's passing, because warmth had been just a little effort away and she had let it slip by. She should have come on more strongly with Lew when she had met him. She should have hugged him spontaneously because, dash it, that was exactly how she'd felt!

No, she was being school girlish. She must forget the whole thing and hope for something better - like Shirley McClain in Sweet Charity. She had been over-expectant that was all there was to it. So much for building castles in the air! She dug viciously into the steak she was eating, bending the fork grotesquely.

Then she became aware of Mark McKinley's loud snoring emanating from the living room. It was a raspy rattle that sprang from his nostrils in short, spasmodic bursts. She laughed in spite if herself and felt a surge of affection for the ancient soul on the bed-sitter. That dear old geezer with his tales from the Raj and his humorous pronouncements on things political was all she'd need to brave the cold. Lieutenant Colonel Mark McKinley would rob the winter of its bite - in the evenings, at least.

First appeared in Femina, July 23 - August 7, 1989

Copyright © Pierre Francis.
The above written matter is protected under copyright law. It may not be redistributed, in part or in whole, without the author's explicit permission.