‘You’re allowed to cry when someone actually dies. There are people around to console you. There is some sort of support system. But I never got any such support. I was tortured by my own imagination and fear. Who could console me? Kumar made me cry so much that I had no tears left when he actually died. And, sir, death comes quietly, doesn’t it? It has a lot of patience – it’s everyone else who’s in a hurry. Kumar’s death was not as dramatic as I had imagined. I was unable to cry. In a way, I felt relieved and free. There was no stress. I’ve understood the meaning of a stress-free life. But it has come at a very high cost. This, perhaps, was my penance.
‘But now I feel relaxed. Totally relaxed.’
The boss had no words. He was silent.
Karkhanis said, with some sadness in his voice, ‘There is one thing which troubles me, though.’
‘What is it?’
‘Thanks to my fears, I didn’t allow him to live life the way he wanted to. Neither in his childhood, nor in his youth. I didn’t allow him to fly kites, worried that he may fall off the terrace. He used to love a million things. He would get involved in so many things. But I would be on the lookout at all times. The worst thing was that I never loved him unconditionally. I couldn’t share my happiness freely. I didn’t touch him, or hug him without a care. Each time I kissed his cheeks, the thought that this might be the last time would spoil the moment. But the anxieties are gone now. There’s nothing to fear. Everything is quiet.’
A few moments passed. The boss sat silently in his chair. He wasn’t sure whether Karkhanis really was all right as he claimed, or whether he was in shock.
Karkhanis asked, the way he always did, ‘Sir, there’s a meeting today. It is eleven-fifteen. Shall I get the Nanavati file?’
The boss was startled and looked at his watch. He had completely forgotten about the meeting.
VANDANA SAMANT
My name is Vasant Purushottam Kale.
You may say, ‘We know.’
You may also know that I’m a writer. That I work in your office. But as they say, there’s no market for what grows locally. I, too, have no value as a writer in this office. I am aware of it.
I’ve written more than two hundred stories so far, but that has not helped improve my position here.
You may not be aware of this. Nor does it bother you.
It doesn’t bother me either.
It’s not your indifference towards me that makes me feel bad.
What makes me feel bad is something else.
God has given you eyes so that you may see the suffering of others. But unfortunately, you don’t make use of god’s gift.
You don’t use kind words to soothe a hurt soul. You don’t hear the screams of the tortured and the suffering.
You have given your brains away.
There’s no difference between you and me. Nothing stops you from becoming a writer.
Then why don’t you?
The search for the answer makes me sad. I’m searching all the time. Not that I’ve lost anything. But I haven’t found anything remarkable enough to make me stop searching either. What is this search all about, then?
I am searching for people.
I’ve written more than two hundred stories so far. The moment I see a new character, I sit down to write.
You read the stories.
‘What a remarkable character,’ you say. It doesn’t make me proud to hear such comments. Because the moment I finish writing the story, I realize that the character I was searching for has still not been captured on paper.
The search begins once again.
I feel bad that you don’t feel the need to search for people. I can’t accuse you of being self-centred because I see you gossiping and enquiring about each and every one all the time. On the other hand, if I were to accuse you of poking your nose into all kinds of matters, that too would be incorrect because you find ways to escape from any difficult situation to save your own skin. I can’t put a finger on your character. The quest to find the answer continues.
But I don’t feel bad about that.
I write a story. It’s based on one of you. You ask casually, offering me a cup of tea,
‘On whom did you base the story you wrote the other day?’
Your question hurts me.
I find it difficult to answer your question. Because the person on whom the story is based is close by. Close enough, in fact, to hear me answer your question. Often, the person in question is the person who has asked the question! You may not believe me.
‘Wouldn’t I recognize myself if the story were based on me?’ you ask.
In my experience the honest answer is, ‘No.’
For you have the lost the capacity to even look around your own self. If you don’t believe me, I’ll ask you a few questions to test you.
Why was typist Chikhalikar transferred at such short notice?
Why was Vandana Samant allotted an independent cabin?
Do you know? I suppose not. Quite obviously, I know the answers. The only other person who knows the answers is our
