Emotions are what make us human
and inherently irrational and of all the myriad emotions we are capable of
experiencing, the most illogical of all is happiness. Happiness is the
sneakiest phenomenon I know of. The next time you find yourself feeling bubbly for
no reason – make an attempt to pinpoint the exact moment when the feeling
descended on you. I guarantee you that you will have no success. That’s just
how happiness is. The end of it is as noticeable as a woman in a throng of men
but the beginning? That’s a mystery as old as the origin of time. And so on
that day after I told Shayan the story of Suvarna Ganguly, I found myself walking with a spring in my step and
smiling so often I woke up to the fact only when I glanced in the mirror. Yes,
it was a Sunday. But I’ve known so many Sundays when I woke up groggy and
frustrated at 12 in the afternoon, already depressed at the fact that the
weekend was coming to a close and I still had a long list of chores to complete.
But this Sunday, I was done with my chores before I knew it and curled up on my
verandah with a huge mug of coffee and utter contentment in my heart, I
couldn’t for the life of me understand
why I had ever felt otherwise! I glanced to my right and I saw him. Shayan. He
stood silent and morose, his hair blowing in the light breeze. For some reason,
my heart clenched. And simultaneously, that feeling of contentment dropped away
from me like a cloak that didn’t quite fit perfectly.
“Shayan?” I called and watched
him turn to my side. He attempted a smile but I could literally see the
thousand other thoughts in his head flutter around him like ungainly
companions. “Hey,” he said. He seemed to consider something and I thought I saw
one of his thoughts reach out for me with menacing claws. “I just drew a
portrait. You want to come and see?” he asked finally. I recalled how he
wouldn’t draw mine and I didn’t want to. But I nodded, smiled and rose from my
chair. I pulled on a shirt over my tank top and track pants and padded over to
Shayan’s place, still in my indoor chappals. His door was wide open and the
curtains in the hall shook lightly in the breeze. For an instant, the world
froze. The colours were sucked out of the scene and in stark black and white, I
recalled the day when I found out Suvarna was dead. The Ganguly’s door was wide
open just like today when I returned from work one Wednesday night. I couldn’t
hear a single sound from inside the house and my first thought was – burglars! I
dialled the cops and then arming myself with a Durga statuette from the
Ganguly’s mantelpiece, I tiptoed inside the house, my whole body prickling with
unease. What if the burglars were still there? But what if they had left the
Gangulys to die and I could save them if I found them right away? The thought
emboldened me and I pushed open Suvarna’s bedroom door. The unworldly sight
that met me is so deeply etched in my mind that I may even remember it in my
next life. There stood Mr. and Mrs. Ganguly, absolutely still, reminding me of
the statuette that hung limp from my arm. And in front of them Suvarna Ganguly
dangled like a rag doll, her head nearly distended from her body as the rope
around her neck seemed inclined to hang on, even when the last breath had left
her being. I understood the true meaning of the word ‘shock’ then. I never knew
when the Durga left my hand and fell to the ground, enlivening the air and our
three frozen forms with its stupendous thud. The Gangulys turned and in their
haunted eyes I saw disbelief, denial and horror. And then Mrs. Ganguly let out
a heart-rending sob and the spell was broken.
***
***
The clean, vacant flat reminded
me of the dozens of sample flats I’d seen when I was new in the city. “Not
unpacked yet?” I asked Shayan as he led the way to his ‘drawing studio’. I
tried imagining what the rooms would look like when Shayan had settled in
completely. Purple walls, I thought for some reason. Set off by a mix of coffee
and cream coloured furniture - heady yet calm and collected. “Well here we
are,” Shayan said and the vision vanished. What replaced it was the bare
remains of Suvarna’s room – the only decoration a hastily done portrait of her
standing on an easel next to the large French windows. I simply stared at those
huge, defenceless eyes and that long messy hair. “Is it that good?” Shayan
asked teasingly, though it didn’t come out quite right because I could tell he
was nervous. “She looks older,” I murmured. “This is what she’d look like at my
age,” it struck me. “What? I don’t understand,” Shayan said, sounding confused.
I snapped out of my daze and for the second time in my life, I confronted
shock.
--To be continued—
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