At fifty two I fell in love again. It started out as a challenge. A pitting of wits, and ended with us being devastatingly, terribly, foolishly in love. Of course, neither of us had planned for it to happen, and that is what made it so surprising. Isn’t fifty two when you get ready to hang up your boots and smoke that pipe? And here I was, lusting after a woman who was married. Perhaps her very unavailability made her so attractive. Or the fact that I, for once, had come across someone who filled that void in me.

Anyhow, this story is not about a lost love. It is about a lost child. And lost opportunities.


“Kalyan, this is Soda”, our hostess introduced me to the languid eyed woman at a ridiculous Delhi ‘do’ I had been compelled to attend.

“Soda? What kind of a name is that?”, I sneered at her, immediately taking in the cupid’s bow lips, the backless choli, held together by a single knot, the waist length hair that swung in a plait.

“It’s short for Saudamini”, she responded huskily, refusing to rise to the bait. “I read your column. It’s very interesting. I asked Mita for an introduction. I am a writer too. Oh, nothing major….just a few poems…”

I cringed inwardly, as this was definitely a prelude to getting me to read her stuff.

“No, no”, she laughed, “I have no intention of displaying my rather amateurish writing to you. But I did want to question you about a point you made in your column the other day…”

And so it started. A friendship, I would tell myself, denying my physical response to her. I refused to touch her. Never once did I let my hand graze hers. Never did I lean close enough to smell her perfume. Not at the beginning anyhow. Then there was the husband. A nice fellow. The devoted sort. I had a grudging admiration for him. To have found, and held a woman like that, required gumption.

She had a child. A son with learning disabilities. She was slightly embarrassed by him. As though it was her fault. As though her womb had refused to cooperate, and produced a faulty product, and therefore she must be to blame, for it was her womb. I was embarrassed for her. I saw it as regressive, and pointless. Yet, our friendship grew.

Over coffees, and sneaked cigarettes, we discussed politics and books. Over dinners that turned cold, we had heated arguments over religion. She believed in god, karma, prayer. I didn’t. Ramesh, the husband, took note of the sparks, but he was used to indulging her. He was also used to her sudden obsessions, and their quick souring.

“How can an educated, obviously intelligent woman like you believe that some entity whose existence hasn’t been proven, control our destiny?”

“Because I have faith. Incidents in my life have steered me to believe.”

“What sorts of incidents? Examples?”

She refused to be drawn, turning away in a huff towards the kitchen. I watched her go, exasperated and aroused in equal measure. After each of our arguments, I wished to make love to her. To grind into her and watch her face contort in ecstasy. Instead I made do with another cigarette.

Ramesh joined me outside. He didn’t smoke, but brought out his beer. We sat in companionable silence, enjoying the balmy evening. The sunset had unleashed a myriad hues in the sky, and the bougainvillaea bush seemed to be on fire, the crimson bouncing off the magenta flowers seeking to envelop each one of the surrounding plants in its reflected glory.

“I worry about Akash, K.”

“Why? He seems to be doing fine. Have there been any problems lately?”

“Well, the school called. He’s been getting into fights with the other boys. He attacked one with a pair of scissors the other day.”

“What?! That’s so unlike Akash. He seems such a gentle boy…”

“He was provoked. The other child had been calling him names, picking on him. I guess he just lost the plot.”

“That can happen with anyone. I mean, surely the school recognises that? Of course, he needs disciplining but Akash, of all kids, needs to be handled with care. Have you spoken to anyone in authority?”

“Yes, we have. We’re trying to organise a counsellor. But there’s more….he’s been soiling himself, and the bed wetting has started again. For a fourteen year old, that’s not good news.”

I agreed. I also wondered at this sudden unburdening. I was used to Ramesh being in the background. Soda was always the focal point of these meetings. Yet, she studiously avoided all mention of Akash’s issues. As though glossing over the obvious would somehow make it go away.

Akash himself was an interesting study. He was taller than his mother. Overweight and extremely acne prone. A slightly foul smell followed him around, and he had no friends to speak of. Our very brief interactions consisted of me greeting him with an overly hearty “Hello my boy, how goes it?”, and him responding with a grunt. Now and again, when our eyes accidentally met, I would get a glimpse of a very small, frightened child, unable to cope with the horrors of the world around him.

“How is the counselling going?”, I asked Soda a few weeks later over our rum and cokes.

“What counselling?”, she spluttered, wide eyed.

“Akash’s of course. Ramesh had mentioned….”

She turned apoplectic.

“There is NOTHING wrong with Akash!! Boys will be boys. I wish people would stop judging us!”

I knew then to leave well enough alone.

As the Delhi Summer turned into a golden Autumn, I found my visits to their house increasing in frequency. I had only an empty apartment with an old, deaf ayah for company. The food she cooked was unpalatable, and her cleaning was cursory at best. Where my books had been my constant companions, I searched for a human connection now. Soda, with all her faults, was an alluring woman. She could sense I was drawn to her, and felt flattered. Yet, I was only the nth man responding to her beauty and her warmth.

“K, why have you never married?”

“Are you going to set me up Soda? Please don’t! I find these things agonising…”

“Don’t answer my question with a question!”

“Well”, I leaned back on the sofa, and looked at Akash who sat in front of the Television, utterly engrossed, his hand moving into the packet of crisps, and back to his mouth with an automaton like regularity. “I just never met the right person”.

She looked at me from under her lashes, a coy look that she had perfected. “What kind of person?”

I knew she wanted me to say someone like her.

“Someone who agrees with me about religion being a pile of nonsense”.

Ramesh guffawed from the kitchen. He returned with his drink, and we raised our glasses to each other in a surreptitious complicity.

“Sunil is coming next week”, Soda intercepted our silent communication. “He’ll stay a few days with us.”

I had heard about her brother and his hell raising ways. A politician’s lackey, he was accustomed to throwing his weight about, and very few people crossed him.

“Sunil mamu is coming??”, Akash asked excitedly. It was the first time I had seen him excited about anything other than his computer games. “Do you think he’ll let me play with his guns again?”

Soda smiled at him indulgently. “I think he might let you touch them. But really Akash, you are too young to play with them.”

“Guns? Am I hearing this right?”, I looked at Ramesh, appalled.

“Oh, he has a license and everything. Besides, it’s a bit of a hobby with him. He’s part of Lokesh Sharma’s entourage, and you know how it is, with these politicians and their followers.”

I felt a sudden unease to be in the midst of people who treated weapons that could maim and slaughter, so casually. I was a man of letters. Words were my weaponry and my armour.

“….oh, but you must come K! I’ll do a nice dinner. Sunil is great company. ”

I doubted that we would have much in common. I nearly concocted a prior appointment. Yet one look at Soda’s expectant face, made all my arguments melt away. What was it about this woman that I could not resist?

It was the Sunday that changed everything. The party was already in full swing when I arrived. Ramesh was playing bartender, and Soda the consummate hostess. But all eyes were on the tall, beefy man who sat holding court in their living room. Sunil gave off an air of importance. A ‘don’t mess with me or you’ll disappear’ aura. I guess, in the power hungry circles of Delhi, that was an undeniable part of his attraction.

I nursed my single malt, as I tried to stay inconspicuous. I simply could not get into it with this man. Our ideologies were so far removed from one another, it was as though we belonged to two different planets. So, I let him wax eloquent on the subject of politics and power play, as he saw it. Mentally I bracketed him a fool and an ignoramus.

“What do you think K?”, asked Ramesh pointedly of another badass throwaway comment of his brother in law’s.

“I don’t”, I replied obliquely.

“Are you too high and mighty to get involved in the discussion Mr Bhushan?”, a mightily sozzled Sunil raised himself up, and staggered towards me. “The mountain is coming to Mohammad….tell me, doesn’t that column of yours talk about the sectarian violence the last political party instigated?”

“Yes”, I answered calmly.

“Then don’t you agree with what our party wants? Parity for all? Justice for all?”

“I agree with the principles, yes.”

“Good man! I knew we would see eye to eye. Get him another drink!” He enveloped me in a bear hug, reeking of alcohol, staleness and some expensive aftershave. “I need to go pee.”

I silently congratulated myself for ducking that one. I went outside for a smoke. Soda followed shortly after.

“You don’t like him.”

I smiled, and inhaled the smoke deeply.

“I don’t like most people. Don’t take it personally.”

“Hmmm”, she paused for a moment, looking at me intently, “I’ve written something I’d like you to see. If you don’t mind.”

“Soda, I don’t do poetry. I’ve told you before. I couldn’t critique it, if my life depended on it.”

“But it doesn’t! All I’m asking for is a bit of feedback.”

“Couldn’t you just post it on Facebook or something? Isn’t there an audience for that sort of thing?”

“K, why must you always be so unyielding?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but a shriek from the living room cut me short.

The AK-47 lay on the coffee table, as incongruous as a swan in a battlefield.

People milled around it, as though a celebrity had just been spotted. Some leaned forward to touch it reverently. Others admired it from a distance. The smug owner did little to disguise his delight.

“That’s my Kalashnikov…my pride and joy”, Sunil stood back, swaying slightly.

“Can I touch it Mamu?”, Akash asked trepidatiously.

“Of cours….”

“NO!”, I grabbed Akash by his arm, and dragged him towards his room.

“K! What are you doing?”, cried Soda.

Sunil looked at me and started laughing. “Scared of guns, big guy?”

I ignored him, and looked over at Ramesh. He swirled the ice in his glass, refusing to meet my eyes.

Akash struggled against my grip. I refused to relent. His gaze was vicious as I sat him on his bed and tried to explain fruitlessly.

“Akash…guns…they are bad things…they injure…they kill….You are so young…this is not for you to see….”

“Akash, go to bed!”, Soda’s voice was like a whiplash. “K, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

The party was dispersing as I made my way out. I was nearly at my car, when she caught up with me.

“I know you think I’m an irresponsible mother, a callous one even. But you don’t understand. Anything that brings a bit of joy into my son’s life, I cannot, I will not deny him that.”

Her lips quivered as she looked up at me, and in that mad moment, I leaned forward and kissed her hard. She resisted at first, and then, with a desperate hunger kissed me back. Her tongue probing, seeking, finding. She pulled away just as suddenly. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. She turned and ran back home, leaving me hungry and dissatisfied.

Hungry and dissatisfied. That was my lot.

I didn’t hear from them for the next few weeks. I guessed then that the tenuous friendship had come to its natural end. A part of me was relieved. Another part missed her fiercely. I buried myself in work. Looming deadlines and long forgotten books once again became my raison d’être. I reasoned this was the best way. The only way.

Her appearance at my door was a shock. She wore a pale pink shirt, and a floaty skirt of some description.

“Is Asha here?”

Asha, my maid, was having her afternoon siesta. I nodded dumbly.

She took my hand and led me into the bedroom.

There was never any doubt in my mind that I did what I did out of love. My worship of her body was just an extension of that love. As we lay together; entwined, spent; I refused to ask why. Her being there was enough.

Asha’s siestas and our rendezvous’ became synonymous. While my maid slept, I awoke to pleasure, and to pain. There was a time, when just holding her would have been a dream come true. How soon I forgot that. I wanted so much more now. I wanted her – all of her. These snatched moments whetted my appetite for a life together.

“Leave him.”

“I can’t”, she sighed. “I have no reason to. He’s a good husband, and a good father. I love him too K. Can’t we just be content with this?”

No! I wanted to shout. But I lay there, quietly, letting her nestle into me. Her hair tickling my chest.Her foot running up and down my leg absently.

“Has Ramesh asked where you go every afternoon?”

“He thinks I’m at a book club with some friends. Besides, work is busy. He is too preoccupied to care. But he does ask about you. He misses you K. You’re one of the few men whose company he likes.”

I laughed at the irony.

“What a cosy threesome we are!”

“Come over. In fact, come tonight! Why don’t you? It could be like the old times…”

I looked at her wonderingly.

“Soda, are you naive or are you deliberately ignoring the fact that it will never be like the old times? I wasn’t fucking you in the old times!”

“Oh stop it K! You don’t have to be so crude.”

I let myself get persuaded to go. More because I couldn’t bear to be apart from her. If that meant swallowing my pride, and watching her play haus frau, I was willing to do that too.

I was astounded at the change in Akash. He seemed bigger in size, but somehow diminished. He skulked around the house, throwing me venomous looks.

“There have been more problems, K “, Ramesh confided. “Group of class bullies have been picking on him incessantly. Trouble is, one of them is Lokesh Sharma’s son. The school is treading very carefully.”

“Why not just move him? There must be other schools?”

“Mid term? With his Board exams coming up? Where K? We are stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

“Can’t Sunil do something? I mean, he’s in the inner circle, isn’t he? Surely he could have a word with the father?”

Ramesh looked at me quizzically. “These people don’t talk K. You should know that. This is some jumped up hoodlum with too much power, and too little sense. Sunil has already washed his hands off the matter.”

Dinner was a tense affair. The old familiarity had disappeared for a variety of reasons. Yet every time I looked over at Soda, desire coursed through my veins. I could scarcely disguise it, and excused myself as quickly as I could.

Akash came to the door to see me off.

“Uncle, I want to say something to you.”

“Yes son?”

“Please don’t call me son. I am not your son. And leave my mother alone.”

I stood there aghast. He lumbered off, leaving a toxic whiff in his wake.

“Akash knows”, I let her in quietly.

“What?? How? When..?”

“I don’t know. But he’s warned me off.”

“Don’t be silly K. How could he know? He’s at school, and I cover my tracks……Unless……”

“Unless what?”

“He was rifling through my diary the other day. Some poems I’d written….There’s one about you…” She sat on the bed, her face pale. “He must have put two and two together. Oh K! What are we going to do?”

I took her hand in mine.

“Perhaps it’s time to come clean? Maybe it’s happened for a reason?”

“How can you say that?”, she said, alarmed, “You want me to wreck the entire fabric of my life? Over an affair?”

“Is that all this is Soda? An affair?”

She was mute. The tears fell of their own accord.

“No”, she whispered. “But I can’t…It’s too much to ask…”

I held her in my arms as she wept. I kissed her hair, impotent in my frustration.

She left soon after.

When I saw her next, she looked through me. She never looked at me again.


He creeps into the room. It is early morning, and the household is asleep. His uncle lies on the bed, arms akimbo, snoring loudly, the alcohol still working its soporific alchemy. The gun has been carelessly shoved under the bed. He slides it out silently, stroking the smooth metal as he does. He feels a rush; a quickening.

He wraps it quietly in layers of towels, and hides it in his rucksack, cleverly camouflaged by books and assorted sundries. He takes his father’s photograph from the frame, and inserts it in his History book. He takes her diary, and puts it alongside. The whore, the bitch. She’ll never write again.

He showers and shovels his breakfast in. All the while, hiding his strange and delicious secret.

No one sits with him on the school bus. He barely notices. It is how it’s always been. But not for long.

Assembly is dull and monotonous. They shuffle in. Listen to the teachers, sing the anthem, shuffle out. There is a spring in his step. He waits for his moment. It will be perfect.

Classes rush by. Maths merges into Biology into English. Finally there is a break. He carries his rucksack out, along with his tiffin. He sits in his usual spot under the tree, and waits.

“Hey Fatso! What’s sexy Mummy made for you today, huh?”

“Look, look…egg paratha….Mmmmm….tasty….wanna bite? Hey? What did you say? You’re on a diet! Bloody right you are, Lardy bottom.”

“Rohit, look, snotty face is pulling out a towel to cry into…Haha!”

When they see the gun, their mouths fall open. At last, at long last, they see him. Him and the gun. The Gun and him.

He fires in rapid succession. Bullets spray them chop-chop chop-chop, and their blood and gore and screams rent the air. The recoil is powerful, and he loses his balance, but doesn’t let go of the gun. It keeps firing into the air, automatically discharging its barrel magazine like he is discharging his rage. At some point he stops and looks at the carnage around him with a savage satisfaction.

There are people running towards him. Teachers, security staff,other students. He sees them coming and smiles. Then he turns the gun upon himself.


It was the first of its kind in India. Our very own Columbine. And somewhere within me a cascade of guilt began its journey. I would recall that haunted little boy, and feel my stomach turn upon itself. Why didn’t I do more? Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I care?

My love withered and died the same day as those children. It was replaced by a self loathing so strong that nothing would ever take away its bilious taste.

So many lives lay decimated. So many souls scarred. Those that died on that horrific day were the first casualties. Those that survived were the collateral damage.

This was the price of hate. This was the price of love. This was the price of ignorance and arrogance. We would pay for it the rest of our lives.


©PoornimaManco 2015


5 thoughts on “Damage

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s