The railway station was packed. The trains were running an hour late, thanks to some unscheduled power cuts.
I had first met Khambete precisely under such circumstances. I didn’t wait, but stepped out of the station and flagged down a cab instead.
The nursing home was overflowing with people who had come in after hearing the news. It spoke for the number of people whose lives he’d touched in the five or six years since he’d started his practice. There were many people from the legal community waiting at the stairs. Bhatkhande, a common friend, stepped forward when he saw me.
‘Bhatkhande, how did this happen?’
‘To tell you frankly, it was very sudden. He was chatting and had asked for a cup of coffee. But before he could take a sip, he screamed in pain. He was gone almost before we could react.’
I was stunned.
I asked him what most people ask when they hear someone has died,
‘Did he have any last words?’
‘He suggested the name of the lawyer who should handle the case after him.’
‘That means he knew he wasn’t going to survive.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘He bid goodbye to his wife and children. He acknowledged the fact that she had managed to keep her calm despite his idiosyncrasies.’
Bhatkhande could not continue. A sob escaped his lips. I too choked on my tears. Bhatkhande held my hand tight. He said,
‘He apologized to all his friends.’
‘What for?’ I asked, surprised.
‘For his behaviour.’
I couldn’t stand there any more. I wanted to rush into his room to see him for one last time.
Bhatkhande held my hand.
‘Wait,’ he pleaded.
‘Let me go and see him.’
‘Wait!’ he repeated.
‘Why?’
‘He also said, “Don’t allow Tambe to come in here.”’
‘Bhatkhande!’
‘It was his last desire.’
‘But what did I do to deserve this?’
Bhatkhande didn’t reply. I felt someone’s hand on my shoulder and turned. I heard the words,
‘And what did I do to deserve this, Mr Tambe?’
He must have been Sushma vahini’s brother. In fact, he was. There could be no doubt. The resemblance was striking…
SRIDHAR
The intermittent clacking of typewriters filled the room. The fans overhead swirled monotonously with an irritating low screech. Occasionally, a car went by, honking loudly in spite of the sign saying ‘Silent Zone’. To add to the noise, the bell rang in the boss’s cabin, summoning the peon sitting outside. Pandu, the peon, wore loose chappals that dragged when he walked. They created an unbearable rustling sound that increased my annoyance. Sule, sitting one desk behind me, had the irritating habit of chewing on betelnuts. So the sound of a nutcracker was heard every hour, on the dot. And if this wasn’t enough, there was the regular noise of chairs being pushed back, phones ringing and drawers being opened and shut.
It was hard to tolerate this on any day. That day especially so. Something had happened to make me restless. I could ignore minor irritants. I’d done it before. But that day, I heard everything with a heightened awareness, adding to my woes. The irony was that our company made soundproofing material. The noise in our office could hardly inspire confidence in our product. The irony felt exaggerated that day, for Sridhar, my ever-smiling colleague, sat with a long face. He didn’t show any interest in his work. His eyes were open but he didn’t seem to see anything. He spoke once in a while but his words sounded incoherent. He walked across the office, from one table to another, but it seemed more like a purposeless stroll. Sridhar, who would only have tea if it was served piping hot, gulped it down cold that day, without complaint. He probably didn’t even notice what he was drinking. His body might have been present, but he wasn’t in the office.
This was a different Sridhar from the one we knew. And quite unexpected, too. It was something new, but the newness didn’t create any curiosity in the minds of the observers. I watched silently for a couple of hours. I didn’t let on that I was aware of his strange behaviour. I was sure that he’d snap out of it and return to his normal self. I was equally sure that he’d eventually confide his problems to me. He had always done so. He’d told me about the confrontations he’d had with his parents, and he hadn’t blushed even when telling me all about his first night after marriage. He would tell me how he would tease his wife, and report the way his landlord had insulted him verbatim, including the choicest of epithets used. He had confided in me things which one normally wouldn’t share with anyone, let alone a friend.
And this had been without us ever visiting each other’s homes. We had spoken either in the office, or while talking an occasional walk on Chowpatty beach. I had heard of his family, never seen them. But I felt like I knew them from the way he had described each one of them to me. I tried to ignore his behaviour, assuming that he must have had a tiff with his wife.
The dabba-wallah arrived at quarter to one. Sridhar refused the lunch box, but before he could ask the dabba-wallah to take the tiffin back, I intervened.
‘You may be in the lousiest of moods, but you should not refuse the food being served to you. You should eat.’
‘Food isn’t just for filling one’s stomach, I hope you understand that. One should eat only if one feels like it.’
‘Do you think you’re the only one who’s affected? I’m sure your wife back home is distraught as well. But hasn’t she taken the time to prepare lunch for you?’
‘What has my wife got to do with this?’
‘Then who does?’
‘There is someone. It’s a problem I’ve created for myself. And I have to find the solution on my own. There’s no other way,’ he said firmly.
‘If you’re so confident, why don’t you smile and be your usual self?’
Sridhar answered with the same quiet confidence,
‘It is a sticky problem. The illness has
