Short Story: The Spell

“Viren, not another party… please.” she implored knowing only too well that it was going to be in vain. It had become a ritual and her first reaction to any invitation came out almost spontaneously.

“The CM is invited to this one and Mehra has reminded me about it three times since morning. He categorically mentioned that Bhabhiji should come, preferably dressed up in a muted color saree. It would do a world of good for the first impression the CM has of me. I mean, of us.” he corrected himself instantly.

Her silence spoke on her behalf.

“C’mon… we will be back in an hour, I promise. You can be assured I won’t take more than two drinks with CM Sahib around.” Viren put his arms around his wife and hugged her tight. Another set of words died an untimely death in her throat. After all these years, she knew he hugged her whenever he wanted to abort a conversation. And she usually complied.

A gentle scent of his cologne lingered in the air after Viren walked out of the room in his usual fast stride - a scent she had lived with for the last seven years and yet it had always felt foreign.

She had known Viren since their college days. He had always been ambitious and an idealist. Coming from similar middle-class households, in those days all they had were dreams. They would sit on the beach for hours and talk about them. He loved the fact that unlike other girls in college who were hardcore feminists and fiercely career-oriented, Neeti did not feel ashamed about wanting to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. He loved the confidence in those hazel eyes and the pride with which she carried herself amongst girls who had written her off from the “in” crowd for her choice of career – a career they likened to the role of a doormat. She loved him for his love for nature and wild-life and the passion with which he spoke of reversing the environmental damages caused by technology. And it was during one of those long conversations in which Viren poured himself out before her, that she realized she had fallen hopelessly in love with him and his dreams of changing the world.

Today many of those dreams had materialized. Viren had risen fast, turning almost everything he touched, to gold. Now he wanted to venture into politics and contest an election from their constituency. He was getting more and more restless as he inched closer to his dream of spearheading the environment ministry. And Mehra Ji, a shrewd and intelligent man of forty was his backbone, the man who had made Viren’s dream, his own mission.

She ran her fingers through the sarees in her closet, trying to mentally match each one with the light grey suit Viren had selected for himself. As usual, she wanted the best match. Her fingers came to a stop and rested lovingly on a pale blue faux silk saree. It was old and slightly worn out at the borders. She held it closer to her nose. It seemed to still carry within itself, some traces of their yesteryears – particularly one hot September afternoon almost a decade back. She could smell, in the folds of the saree, remnants of havan-samagri mixed with the scent of marigold and sandalwood agarbattis. She remembered the sticky feel of this proud new saree on her sweaty waist. That was the day she had unveiled the foundation stone for their twenty-worker watch manufacturing unit – a firm Viren had worked day in and day out to setup. How proud he had been! And that was the day he had hugged her; perhaps the last of those genuine, heartfelt hugs brimming with emotion and the sweet smell of his sweat.

Now the cologne had replaced the sweat.

“Neeti, see you outside in ten. Daisy, ask the driver to get the Merc out.”

Viren’s voice brought her back to reality. She rejected the pale blue saree for it was faux silk and clearly not appropriate for the setting. She pulled out a blue Satya Paul in chiffon with subtle hints of silver and rushed to the bathroom.

*

The air was thick with smoke and distant echoes of loud music playing on the dance floor. She ran the stirrer in her glass of orange juice for the eleventh time. She had clear instructions to stay away from her usual glass of whiskey because of the presence of the Chief Minister and the press. On the table to her right was a wannabe socialite seeking feedback about a certain posh pet-grooming store from a self-appointed Page-3 personality. Seated on the table to her left were a handful of heavy mascara and hot pink lipsticks having a sexy pout contest under the guise of discussing their favorite charity.

She was not much of a drinker, except a few occasional drinks at home; but she liked to create the impression of an alcoholic. It kept the butterflies away. With experience she had learnt to carry a glass of neat whiskey in her hands from the beginning to the end of the evening. Being seen like this for hours at a stretch was enough to get the mouths talking. And she firmly believed that if you gave them enough fodder to talk about you, they wouldn’t talk to you. It also gave her something to smile about on days when she would walk out of a party having discreetly left her unused glass of whiskey on one of the side-tables.

However, being the solitary reaper at such events often came with the risk of running into a handsome, young, aspiring model. One who would be only too happy to gaze dreamily in her eyes and tell her how no one really understood her and how he could read the loneliness and void in her beautiful brown eyes.

Having attended more than a thousand parties by now, she knew there were at least half a dozen such specimens in every gathering of hundred. He would be around late-twenties or early thirties; chivalrous and good looking in a boyish sort of way and an extremely good listener; the latter usually making up for any lack of the former traits. He would be on the lookout for a rich, bored house-wife who was waiting to hear how lonely her life was without a true love that could heal her spiritually and emotionally. He usually never offered himself physically until he had made a thorough check on his target’s purse and credit history.

She knew how to handle that type. Sometimes in her gloomiest moments, she even played along for a while amusing herself with the meaningless banter and frivolous male attention.
Her eyes fixed their gaze for the umpteenth time on the sleek diamond studded watch on her wrist. It had been three hours since she had been introduced to CM Sahib and Viren had vanished with the other men. She loosened and then tightened the grip of her fingers around her cell-phone. Calling up Viren was pointless. It sometimes made him uncontrollably angry and abusive - something she couldn’t risk today since he was in VIP surroundings.

She stared at the huge ornate clock on the wall as the minute and second hands became one with each other, their perpetual love-making reaching a pre-destined climax. At that stroke of midnight she thought of Cinderella, the princess whose magic wore off as she rushed back to her simple life, away from her prince, leaving behind a glass slipper on the steps of a palace. They were indeed fairy tales –tales of love and togetherness; tales of happily-ever-after marriages… tales that never came true in real life.

Perhaps that is why the central characters in most of the stories she wrote anonymously, under the pen name of her parents, were animals; who she believed were higher in EQ despite having brain volumes lower than 1400 cc – one of the characteristics that distinguish humans from the other members of fauna. The MD of the publishing firm had often expressed a desire to meet her in person. Perhaps he wanted to come face to face with Sulakshna Arvind who had, by God’s grace, grown to become an immensely illustrious contributor to childhood and teenage fiction. She had read one of his interviews in the papers where he had credited Sulakshna Arvind for helping him revive his failing business. She had worn a mysterious smile all of that day. Even Viren had noticed it, but hadn’t bothered to probe any further. He no longer had the time.

It had been a challenge to weave real stories around animals that would strike a chord with the extremely difficult to please reader-base – the early teenagers. But through her writing, she had managed to relate with their pains and heartbreaks, their raging hormones and turbulent tempers and subtly pass on little life lessons under the guise of animal stories. Connecting with children in this way also helped heal, to some extent, her own wound of unfructified motherhood - a wound she had carried the burden of for many years.

Today she felt a little like Cinderella, and a lot unlike her. Like her, today she was where she had never imagined she could be when she was seven years old. Unlike her, she was waiting for a magic wand that could break the spell.

She wondered if her life was indefinitely stained with magic.

*

Viren was too drunk to realize that the Mercedes had come to an abrupt halt at a gas station on the highway. It was 1:45 in the morning. Apparently for reasons of safety, but in reality because she no longer felt comfortable in adornments of any kind, Neeti took off her chandelier diamond earrings and placed them in her purse. These days even putting on makeup felt like telling a lie.
Hoping to catch a whiff of the petrol fumes, she pulled down the car window and peeped outside.

It had always been a pleasant olfactory experience that connected her to her childhood. Her father worked as a car-mechanic and a handyman at a gas-station when she was around six years of age. Every night when he returned from work, with his clothes smeared with grease and dirt and reeking of petrol, he would hug her and tell her about his day, despite her mother’s many protests. Working at a gas-station, on one of the most frequented highways, her father dealt with people from all walks of life. His everyday stories carried within them a wealth of knowledge – a wealth she had applied throughout her life. Perhaps that is why, she was usually able to understand why people did the things they did.

Mother however, always grumbled about the grease stains on her dress. It took her a while to understand that mothers in general, are more intelligent than they appear. They know that in order for their children to be able to think big and see beyond stained clothes and dust-mites, they themselves have to limit their thought process to the seemingly trivial and petty domestic tasks. Being successful in life becomes easier if there is someone to take care of one's daily nutrition and basic housekeeping needs. But even today, she thought, in most households this someone is ironically considered the least cerebral of all.

Ramesh, their driver was talking to a bearded guy in dirty blue overalls, enquiring about the quality of petrol. He had been very apologetic to her about not having anticipated this out-of-fuel situation. This was the first slip in his four year long service. Looking at his eyes, she could tell how dear this job was for him. Thankfully Viren was fast asleep and Ramesh was spared the reprimand.

She decided to step out and take a walk, hoping to get tired enough to catch some sleep by the time they reached home. In the high-rise penthouse they had lived in before they moved to their villa, there had at least been a ceiling fan to give her company through the night - something she could talk to while the soporific worked. Now they had a false ceiling with discreet air conditioning and mood lighting... and false slumber underneath.

Her eyes travelled from the Pepsi hoardings to a dhaba right across the highway. Strange, she thought that it was still buzzing with activity at such an unearthly hour. A tourist bus for Jaipur had come to a stop and an assortment of men and women and sleepy children were assembling around cheap plastic tables. Platefuls of sliced onions and green-chillies were being placed on the tables while orders for black dal and butter paneer were being taken down. How she would have loved to knock her heels off and sit cross legged in one of those rickety chairs, digging her fingers into a pile of rajma-chaawal!

And then it suddenly struck her. She checked the time on her watch. It was 2 AM. She turned back towards the car. A gentle humming of Viren’s snores filled the air around the car. Ramesh was busy talking to the bearded man, all the while keeping a good eye on the car – an attribute of a good driver. All she needed was a shawl to cover her designer blouse and ten minutes of anonymity. She took off her bangles and placed them in her purse. She clutched her money pouch from the purse and after making sure that she had a few denominations lower than 500 rupee notes, she walked towards the dhaba looking forward to a simple but divinely satisfying meal.

*

“Among the many casualties in the sudden fire that took place at a gas station on NH-8 early this morning was prominent business tycoon Virendra Singh of the Singh Group of Industries. It is apparent from the charred remains of the white Mercedes that the explosion was so severe that bodies of Mr. Singh and his wife Mrs. Neeti Singh cannot possibly be in a recognizable condition. As you can see on the left panel of your television screen, full efforts are on at the place of accident to identify the victims from the remains of the bodies. Apparently there were around eight to ten people at the gas station early this morning when suddenly a fire erupted in the back office. Before the fire could be controlled, it spread to the fuel filling stations where there were two cars parked, one of them being Mr. Singh’s Mercedes…
…The question remains, who will be the heir to the enormous fortune of Singh Group of Industries as both Mr. and Mrs. Singh had no siblings and no children of their own. Speculations are on that all the big names in retail are eyeing for…
…This is Minal Ruparel reporting live from the spot with cameraman Joseph…”

It was 5 AM by the clock on the wall to his right. Mr. Trilok Mehra switched off the LCD television set in the living room of his mansion. His phone was ringing incessantly.

"Damn! I need to rework my strategy now..." he threw the remote at the TV set in agitation.

"This just had to happen when I had everything planned out just right for me... it seemed too good to be true... the man had been so trusting... damn.. if only I could get my hands on the will..."

*

She was standing at the entrance of the dhaba when she heard the explosion. She turned around and gave out a loud scream. An enormous orange flame had swallowed the entire gas station. She was shaking with shock, giving out loud shrieks every second, until she felt a hand on her shoulder and that is when she collapsed.

When she opened her eyes, she saw two men, staring at her intently. They looked like they worked at the dhaba.

“Madam Ji has woken up. She looks better now. Here drink this Madam Ji…” the younger of the two slipped a glass of water into her shivering hand.

“It was a big explosion… perhaps a fire broke. Thank God Ji, rab da shukar hai, it didn’t spread outside the gas station otherwise we all would have been tandoori chicken by now.” said the other, senior looking guy. He seemed more interested in the cameraman and reporter walking down towards the dhaba from across the street and ran his oily fingers through his hair. In a couple of minutes he was going to be on television.

The gas station or whatever little was left of it was swarming with media, police, fire men and their crew.

“I think you got a shock Madam Ji. Your bus left in a hurry. All passengers were getting restless because of this fire. But you can take the next bus to Jaipur in an hour. Here, you dropped your purse when you fell. Please check the amount. And come inside in the deluxe eating room and sit on the sofa ji please.” The younger and clearly kinder fellow helped her go inside and seat herself on the sofa while he went to fetch a cup of kadak chai for her.

She sat there, on the red and green upholstered sofa that showed way too many signs of wear and tear; going through the events of a few hours back, over and over in her mind. Viren’s face, as she last saw him, sleeping like a baby in the car, swam before her eyes. She loved him. In spite of his indifference and preoccupation with his ambition, she always knew he needed her. And that to her was enough to feel loved. With every ounce of her patience and more, she had been waiting for him to come back to her. They had been together all these years, through thick and thin. They were meant to be together.

Now it was all over. He would never come back to her. The reason why she lived the life she hated, the reason why she never got tired of matching her clothes with his, the reason why she wore silence as a sacred garment about the house and drowned her emotions into fiction was that one day, when the summit was reached, he would find himself very lonely; he would find himself all alone with no one of his own out there at the top. That is when, his eyes that looked through her today as if she didn’t exist, would search for her.

A few hours back she had seen that reason go up in flames. She sat there for almost an hour, lost in her thoughts. Her face bore the usual lifeless expression – a mask beneath which it was difficult to tell what was going on, had it not been for the continuously flowing tears. The tea in front of her went cold.

A bus destined for Jaipur had just parked itself near the dhaba. She wiped her tears and checked her money-pouch. There was enough to last a few days after which Sulakshna Arvind would be able to take care of herself.

The magic had finally worn off and the spell broken.