If you haven't already, first read The Lift Man - Part 1
The intense crush of the Mumbai local train is something I never got used to. A sea of bodies squashed together. Limbs upon limbs, knees upon knees. A cocktail stench of perspiration and body odor.
I stood with one hand clutching an overhead railing, and one hand covering my face with a handkerchief. The mass of bodies careened forward and backward in tune with the stops and starts of the train, like one single unibody organism.
It made me remember how I first came to this city.
After I abandoned all hope of ever seeing the outside world again, they decided to let me out of jail. Some judge said there was ‘insufficient evidence’. Such a master of the obvious he was.
So I could breathe the free air once more, but nobody came to receive me when I got out. Everyone I knew was dead or forgotten. I owned nothing. I wandered from place to place, searching for a job.
I ended up in Mumbai, a city where there is no green grass, only people. They’re everywhere, in every gully, at every corner, on every patch of ground. There are a thousand humans here for every blade of grass in my village.
When I first landed here, I thought it was temporary. I’d get a job, earn some money, then go back to the village. But as I’ve already learnt in life: there’s nothing more permanent than a temporary situation.
The train lurched to a halt at Churchgate station, and I made my way to Asha Bhavan building. As I reached the lift, a pleasant thought struck me. Soon, there’d be one less person in this overflowing city.
The glossy luster of his shirt, the glimmer of his gold watch, they appeared unbidden before my mind’s eye. Then I saw blood, dark-red and viscous, gushing out of his chest and spilling onto his shirt; his sunglasses clattering to the ground, his head arching backwards, his eyes wide and vacant…
My smile grew broader and broader. Why was I enjoying this so much??
Hours later, I wandered outside. Pankaj, Chawla’s driver, was missing from the communal lunch group. I strolled to the parking lot and saw that Chawla’s Toyota was absent from its reserved spot. I felt a surge of excitement.
“What happened Motu Bhai?”
I turned to see Shankar at his valet post, jingling a bunch of keys.
“Looking for someone?” He asked.
“No, no.”
“Chawla’s out of town, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Chawla?” I spread my arms. “Why would I want to know?”
“You’re standing in his parking spot,” Shankar said. “And who doesn’t want to know about Chawla these days?”
The valet came towards me, leaned in, and whispered. “You know that Chotu who used to deliver newspapers here?”
I nodded vaguely.
“Apparently, he plotted to steal from Chawla…and Narayan Seth.”
“What? What you talking?” I was struggling to keep grasp.
“Narayan Seth is that big builder. Half the new buildings in Parel are built by his company. There was some money laundering scheme that Chawla was running for Narayan Seth using his shop. But Chotu figured it out and he stole something from them worth a crore.”
Shankar shrugged with an exaggerated lift of his shoulders. “Who knows what happened exactly? But Chotu is gone like that,” He snapped his fingers in the air. “No one knows where he went. Narayan Seth lost one crore and he’s maha furious. So Chawla is shitting his pants. He’s hiding somewhere in Pune.”
“Pune,” I murmured.
“Haan, Pankaj has driven him there.”
I furrowed my brow and tried to digest all this.
Shankar took my shoulder and pulled me aside. “It’s not just about what Chotu stole. Even Chawla was skimming money from Narayan Seth. They say he has a secret stash up there.”
He tilted his head, and I followed his look to Chawla’s balcony on the 3rd floor. That rascal baniya. There was more to him than I thought.
“Anyways,” Shankar straightened. “Back to work.”
He returned to his valet post, and I returned to my steel cage.
*****
One month later, there was still no sign of Chawla. The Russian ubitsy and their twin black boots had not appeared again in my lift.
I wondered if they had ferreted out the baniya from his hiding hole. I hadn’t see any visible weapons on them that day. Did they have a knife in their pockets? A subtle revolver? Or would they do the job with their bare hands? Theirs was such a fascinating trade.
Meanwhile, life at Asha Bhavan returned to its mundane routine. The same crappy train rides. The same boring lunch every day, just me and the flies. My lift rumbling up and down the floors, carrying residents oblivious of my presence as if I were an infinitesimal insect.
Though one day, there was quite a commotion when I arrived at the building. A chubby 6-year-old boy in a red Nike t-shirt was screeching in the middle of the compound, his face red.
“He snatched my biscuits,” He pointed at another boy, about his age, who was in a filthy white banyan and brown shorts. His nose was shriveled and flattened. He stood near Jadhav the watchman, holding a packet of chocolate oreo biscuits behind his back.
Jadhav raised his palm above his shoulder and slapped the banyan-clad boy hard across his face. “Why you did that ha?”
The boy clutched his cheeks and said nothing.
“I want him in jail, I want him in jail,” The chubby boy said, tugging his mother’s kurta.
His mother, Neelam Madam, squared her hips and surveyed the scene.
“It won’t happen again memsaab,” The watchman assured her. “I’ll teach this brat a lesson.” He clenched his palm for another whack.
“Bas, bas,” Neelam Madam said. “Stop that.”
“He took my biscuit,” Her son said. “My biscuit.”
Neelam Madam addressed the watchman. “Let him keep it.”
“It won’t happen again memsaab,” Jadhav repeated and retreated immediately.
“What’s the meaning of this, Mumma?” The chubby boy demanded. ”He stole my…”
“Yes, yes, I know he took your biscuits,” Neelam Madam said. “But did you stop to think why he did that? Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he’s never eaten biscuits like that.”
“But…but…” Her son looked flustered for a second. Then he found his voice again. “But it was my biscuit.”
“We’ll get you another,” Neelam Madam grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.
After they left, Jadhav gave the banyan-clad boy a savage thump on his back, and the boy scampered away.
The whole episode reminded me of my mother. Whenever I fought with my sister, she would take me aside and tell me: Try to think from her point-of-view. There must be a reason why she acted the way she did. Try to understand what she’s feeling.
I assume she said the same things to my sister too. My mother was such a sweet lady. God bless her soul.
*****
The next day, I saw the baniya himself, back at Asha Bhavan.
Chawla wore a rumpled white shirt dotted with brownish stains. His face was full of fresh wrinkles. Dark circles clouded his eyes. His breathing was a bit labored. Throughout the lift ride, he kept blinking and muttering to himself. Then he stumbled off towards his flat.
During my lunch break that day, I did something I hadn’t done since my qaidi days. I went for a smoke. I bought a matchbox and a cigarette pack from the paan-beedi shop down the lane. I went to a quiet alley a few buildings away where a rare patchwork of trees provided some respite from the burning midday sun.
I sucked on a cigarette and exhaled puffs of smoke. I thought about Chawla. He was obviously mired in some deep shit. Builders like Narayan Seth are not people you mess with.
I recalled overhearing a conversation between watchmen about how Chawla’s son was in jail. I’d also heard that his wife had some serious illness. Maybe cancer? Or was it M.S.?
Either ways, he clearly had his troubles. Why was I so keen to wish him dead? Because he yelled at me and forced me to stand on my feet? Was I really such a vindictive psychopath?
I took another puff and reflected further.
Perhaps my sadistic glee at the prospect of Chawla’s imminent demise had nothing to do with the baniya. An anger has long simmered under my subconscious. I have many things to be angry about.
That bastard Inspector who branded me a murderer. Me, a man of science, who never harmed a soul. That Municipal Corporator who created such a stink and pressurized everyone. A judicial system that was rigged against me and never gave me a fair chance. Even that stupid girl for dying outside my house. Why couldn’t she have died somewhere else??
I dropped the cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it with my heel. Then I lit up another and unfurled more black fumes.
When I looked up, my face turned ashen.
The two xerox copies stood smoking away. Tall and sandy-haired, with their chiseled features and muscular physiques.
For a moment, I froze. My palms became clammy. A wave of panic submerged me. This was not some Bollywood film. These were killers. Real killers.
The wave passed over, and I found myself taking a step towards them. I can’t explain what got into me. I looked away, pretending to be immersed in my smoke, but I cocked my ears to decipher the heavy Russian accents.
“….the snake is finally out of the grass,” Mr. Mole was saying.
“We’ll get him on Sunday, when his wife and daughter are away visiting his in-laws.”
“Why can’t we do him today?”
“It’ll be cleaner with the family gone.”
Mr. Mole tossed his cigarette aside and brushed his hand dismissively. “Let’s just get this over with and move on.”
“We will. Soon.”
Mr. Mole shook his head.
“Sergei,” Mr. Spotless said. “20 years in the game, and we’ve never failed to execute a contract. And we won’t start now.”
Mr. Mole grinned and nodded. “Sunday it is then.”
I got the feeling that if I lingered any longer, I would attract their attention. Although I doubt they had any inkling that a haggard old fogey like me could understand their language.
In any case, I stomped out my cigarette and walked down the lane. I sneaked a glance behind me. No one there, but I quickened my pace all the same.
My brisk walk turned into a jog. By the time, Asha Bhavan came into view, I was running and panting for breath.
I had to tell him. Chawla was an obnoxious haraami but he didn’t deserve to die. I’d tell him everything I heard about the Russians and their plans.
I dashed through the building compound, into the corridor where a sweeper with a tall mop and a bucket of water passed me on his way out. My lungs cried for air, but I raced onwards.
Suddenly, my legs skidded on the slick surface, my body wobbled, my arms flailed. I plummeted down face-first on the floor. My forehead erupted and blood sprayed, dark-red and viscous, just as I had pictured it in my head. Only it was on my shirt, not Chawla’s like in my visions.
I turned over and pressed both palms against my temple. But the red liquid flowed unrelenting, dripping down my nose and cheeks and slipping into my mouth. It tasted so warm.
“Help,” I croaked, and tried to lift my neck.
I didn’t see anyone there. My eyelids fluttered. My vision blurred. This was it. This was how it ends. Right there outside my daily cage is where I would breathe my last. It almost made me chuckle.
“Motu Bhai?” A voice called, sounding like a distant echo.
Shankar’s bearded face appeared. He gaped at me, then turned to holler. “Jadhav Bhai. Call someone fast. We have to take Vishwanath to the hospital…”
It felt nice to hear my first name after ages. I wanted to smile but my face hurt too much. My forehead burned like a scorching volcano, spewing red lava.
More footsteps, heavy on the granite tiles.
“What’s this?” It was Chawla’s jarring voice.
“He had a fall…” Shankar began.
“Must be drunk on the job,” Chawla said. “Useless bhadwa.”
The baniya stepped over me like I was a pile of garbage. His bulky shoes plodded down the corridor. That was the last thing I saw, before I succumbed to the darkness…
*****
For three days, I lay flat on my bed, studying the cracks and damp patches on the ceiling of my shack. The doctor at the municipal hospital had fixed up my wounds, but I had lost lot of blood and needed time to heal.
On the fourth day, I emerged from my cave. I went back to Asha Bhavan, back to the lift, back to the daily grind. The chunky white bandages that encircled my head drew sympathetic looks.
“How you doing?” Jadhav asked.
“Hmm.”
“Does it still hurt?” Shankar asked.
“Hmm.”
That’s all I had to say to them. Nothing more.
I spent the day in stoic silence. Then I collected my things and left for Churchgate station. While waiting for my train, I saw a man sprawled on the platform like a crumpled plastic bag that someone had casually discarded.
He had no shirt, only tattered grey pants. He had a scruffy beard and barely any flesh on his body. Bony ribs stuck out awkwardly from his chest. His arms were extended outwards with gnarled fingers and mutilated palms full of scratches and scars. Dark green veins ran down the length of his pencil-thin forearms. His right knee was bent at a grotesque angle.
The train commuters bustled around, paying him no heed. Office-going men and college students with backpacks. Saree-clad women and young couples. They all stepped around him or over him. No one stopped to see what had happened to him. No one even gave him a second glance.
I went to him and squatted down. I saw that his lips had peeled off and many of his teeth were half chipped. He was moaning softly and muttering something.
“Platform number teen pe aane wale local…” The announcements blared on the loudspeaker, as a train hurtled towards the platform.
I leaned forward to hear the man’s words.
“How long will I wait?” His voice was raspy as though his throat was full of sand. “How much longer will I wait?”
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“How long?” He repeated. “How long will I have to wait?”
I took out my water bottle and brought it to his mouth. He lifted his head and guzzled a few sips.
“Should I get a doctor?” I asked.
He shook his head, though it took him some effort.
“Any family I can contact? Mother, father? Brother? Sister?”
He turned his face away from me.
My train was soon to depart, so I stood to go. The man rolled over and whimpered. Something made me bend down again.
“How long will I wait?” He asked the wind. “How long?”
“What you waiting for bhai?” I said.
His lips parted but only a gurgle came out. I went closer and he inclined his head towards me.
“For death.”
The words struck me like a punch in the gut. The man let his head sink back onto the hard concrete platform and turned on his side.
My train came and went but I made no move towards it. My body had become inert. I remained there, in my squatting position, for god knows how long.
For death.
That’s what this man’s life had come to. A long, agonizing interlude until the sweet release of death.
I eventually made myself walk away. I took the next train and went home in a daze. The sprawled man’s words kept reverberating inside me.
How long will I wait?
My future flashed before my eyes. Endless days spent in the lonely lift and the squalor of my home. Nothing to do, no one to care. I would end up just like him. A decayed human heap, waiting to die alone.
How long will I wait?
They say every seven years, each cell of your body dies and is replaced. But my replacements were wearing thin. The light inside me was fading. There was hardly a flicker left. Before long, my flame would be extinguished in a wisp of smoke.
Unless I did something about it…
*****
I marched into work next day with purposeful strides. Jadhav bobbed up from his watchman’s chair when he saw me.
“Motu…” He began.
I blazed past him.
“They’re going to remove you from your job,” He called after me.
I turned and glared.
“That’s what I heard,” The watchman nodded gravely. “Many complaints have gone to the Society Chairman about you being asleep in the afternoons. And when you were recovering from your fall, they hired a temporary guy, who was much younger….the residents seemed to like him…”
“They won’t do it today, will they?” I said. “Today’s Sunday.”
“Haan, maybe tomorrow. I just wanted to warn you…”
I was gone before he could say more. I reached my lift and sat down with a forceful clench of my jaw. I looked around those steel walls, those rusted black bars. For once, it didn’t feel like a cage. Today it felt like a passport to another life.
The morning was a blur. I didn’t notice when I had my lunch. Afterwards, I splashed water on my face to stay awake. And I waited.
I didn’t sit down for a single moment that afternoon. I took one step outside the lift, then a step back inside. Out and in, in and out, again and again. My eyes remained riveted to the corridor. I fidgeted with my shirt button till it nearly came off. The hours, minutes, and seconds passed so achingly slow.
Finally, they came.
The two xerox copies, shirted and booted. I dared a look before averting my gaze. I saw something, the tiniest of bulges at their waists. Could’ve been a gun, or something else.
Mr. Mole, who I now knew as Sergei, raised three fingers, and I obeyed. This time, they didn’t exchange a single word of conversation during the ride up. When I dropped them off, a tremor ran through my body from head to toe.
The game was afoot. The current in the air was palpable.
I went back down, kept the lift door closed, and waited.
Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes. Fifty minutes.
How much time does it take to finish a fat baniya??
They must be searching too, I realized. And suddenly my hopes dimmed.
Just then, the lift buzzed and pulsated, and rose upwards. To the 3rd floor. The two ubitsy entered with taut muscles and erect postures. Their faces gave nothing away.
After they got off, I inched outside to the corridor. I watched them walk away, wondering if I would ever see those two again.
I quickly dismissed the thought and went back to the lift. I closed the door and pressed ‘3’.
When the lift halted, I drew in an extended breath to fill my belly, and let it out gradually. Then, I went to Chawla’s flat. The door was locked but not latched. I had planned for this. It was a wooden door with the locking mechanism on one side.
During my student days, I was a glutton for random knowledge. I once took a locksmith course on the side, just for fun. Never thought I’d use that.
I squinted at the keyhole. The fundamentals of locks had mercifully remained the same. First, I took a hefty ladies’ hair pin and inserted it into the lower part of the lock to apply the appropriate pressure. Next, I put in a bent paperclip and wiggled it till I heard a series of satisfying clicks for alignment. All the while, I kept one eye behind me and my ears perked.
I silenced my breath. I looked left and right to ensure no nosy neighbors were around. I turned the pin and eased myself into the flat.
First thing I saw was Chawla lying spread-eagled on the floor. His eyes were tightly shut. His arms were limp by his side. But there was no wound whatsoever, no sign of any blood. I marveled at the craft of the Russian ubitsy. So clean and pristine. Real artists they were.
As it happens, I’d seen a dead body before. That bloody girl who haunted my dreams. So I knew the signs. The floppiness of the muscles, the paleness of the skin. And the smell. Death has a particular smell.
That same odor emanated from the baniya’s stationary frame. There was a strange serenity about him too, as though he had found peace within.
I sidestepped the motionless body and walked to the drawing room. My eyes widened and my jaw hung open.
The sofa cushions were torn from the inside out. Tables and chairs were upturned. Cabinet drawers were removed and their contents scattered. Identical scenes were replicated in the kitchen and bedrooms. Cupboards had been cleaned out. Bartans and clothes were strewn all over.
I hunted for a spot that was still untouched. A futile effort. Every square centimeter had been ransacked with immaculate thoroughness. If there was a secret stash of money that Chawla kept, the Russians would have found it.
My face deflated like a punctured balloon and the remnants of optimism leaked out. I plonked down on the cushion-less sofa, defeated.
I sat there for a while, when my stomach stirred, demanding to be fed. I idly walked over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The shelves were sparsely populated. A half-eaten cabbage, a stray apple.
I shook my head and headed towards the front door. The fridge swung shut behind me with a pronounced thud that made me pause mid-stride.
That didn’t sound normal.
I went back to the fridge and examined the door shelves. Nothing but a half-empty milk carton. Yet it felt heavier than it should have.
I put a ear to the outside of the door and tapped it with my fingers. I heard a muffled sort of echo. Weirder and weirder.
I shook the fridge door vigorously. Something shifted inside. It was subtle but unmistakable. I put both hands on the rubber gasket, and mustering all the force I could, I wrenched it off.
I fell backwards to the floor. Before I could blink, it was raining money. Bundles and bundles of crisp 500 rupee notes tumbled on top of me. Each bundle was securely tied with double rubber-bands. I picked one up and flipped through the ends of the notes. I closed my eyes and inhaled the intoxicating aroma. My face suffused with a warm glow.
Chawla, you magnificent bastard!!
The tricksy baniya fooled us all. Almost. He had hidden his stash so perfectly that the Russians gave up looking. God bless his soul.
*****
Six months have passed since that day…
I won’t tell you where I am now. Someplace far away and quiet. No, I didn’t go back to my village. I’m not that stupid. That’s the first place they’d go looking for me.
The money, my money, is buried in four different locations. I’ve memorized the exact coordinates, and I know how to work a compass.
I had been imprisoned for 25 years, but only now, for the first time, I’ve broken the law. That feels good. Like a sort of twisted version of justice. I’d done the time, so might as well commit some crime.
The days pass in a leisurely manner. I do my morning yoga. I walk to buy veggies and chit-chat with the vendor. I cook for myself. After lunch, I laze around and fall asleep with a newspaper in my lap.
Still, there are days when fear wraps its tentacles around me. I stop in front of store display windows, looking for lurkers in the reflection of the glass. If I see black boots and hear their clacking on the ground, my heart palpitates and my innards turn to soup. My mind conjures up images of the Russians with their compact, concealed pistols.
They must be still hunting for me. They could find me anytime, and that would be the end for me. Sometimes I can’t fathom the danger I’ve put myself in.
Yet I don’t mind it. The restive fear, the omnipresent tension, they make me feel vibrantly alive. I haven’t felt this way in a long, long time. A second innings of life has begun. I can do anything I want to, I can become anyone I choose to. New adventures beckon…
