Buddha's Nest

God must have been in a terrible mood when he created Inspector Roy because he was ugliness personified. His broad, pockmarked face, hefty frame, crew cut hair and deep set eyes scared the hell out of even the most hardened criminals. Kids in his neighbourhood bolted out of fright while mothers avoided bumping into him because their babies turned hysterical after seeing him. Untamed ruthlessness oozed from this giant of a man. Inspector Roy was aware of his vicious and almost animal like looks and therefore from the very young age he’d developed hatred for fellow human beings, especially the fairer sex.

But then God realised the injustice meted out to his creation. He showered Inspector Roy with unmatched intelligence—offered him an IQ of 170.

Inspector Roy was quick to notice the awe and the fear that his new personality exuded. It offered him a kind of shield, a protection from searing comments and roughnecks. Since then he sat alone, ate alone and travelled alone to his alma mater. He’d resigned to the fact that he was born alone and he would die alone. At times he wondered if he had any virtue, a unique qualification which he could exploit and make himself useful. It was this complete apathy for humanity which forced him to join the police force. It was the only place where his ugliness turned into an advantage and not a handicap.

His services were quickly recognized and rewarded with frequent career enhancements and very soon he became a senior police inspector, stationed in one of the posh and affluent suburbs of Mumbai, Juhu. He considered himself a master at unravelling even the most complex crimes. An Agatha Christie and Erle Stanley Gardner fanatic, he followed the footsteps of Hercule Poirot and Perry Mason religiously. They were his inspiration, his muse and guide. Whenever he found himself cornered or unable to crack a lead he would dip into one of their books, extracting wisdom and stimulation. Even at forty his brain functioned like a sixth generation computer chip which had been overclocked for extra performance.

Play Pause

The one quality of this woman which Shayan mentally admired was her impeccable timing. She appeared magically as the clock in the foyer read 10:00. He’d also given her a title; Ms. Nameless. That he himself was punctual didn’t cross his mind, and therefore he failed to compliment himself.

He narrowed down her favorite book genres, and her reading habits. One of them which really touched him was when she turned the page and then immediately pushed back her flicks in one sweeping action. Shayan realized that every time she moved, her tresses slipped and draped over her eyes, blocking her vision. He wondered if she was aware of the quality of her hair which according to him could give silkworms a run for their money.

Then there were these highly reactive ripples on her forehead which tickled his emotions. They intensified or flattened depending on the story arc. He could actually figure out the type of emotion she was encountering. Some of the authors she read turned him envious. He memorized them and as soon as he finished his business tasks he’d search them online and order the books blindly, a deviation from his normal practice as he always read the blurb and reviews before clicking the buy button.

Occasionally, he cajoled his thoughts to offer something related to her. His subconscious obliged him every time. Even now, an incident was being played for him. It happened a few days ago. As usual Ms. Nameless was riding up with him. She was so engrossed in the book that she stepped out with Shayan; one floor too early. It was only when she bumped into a courier boy did she realize her mistake.

Shayan adored her comic expression which was a mixture of predicament, embarrassment and confusion.

Parallel Life

The musical ringtone snaps me into the present. I offer a brief look over to my current business abode, a small tea and snacks bar, located in an obscure area of Pune city before picking up my mobile phone. I read the name, clear my throat, and then gently hit the receive button.

“When are you coming back?” Maya, my wife says, sounding worried as usual.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you visit Moitreyee?”
“For God’s sake I don’t need a shrink.”
“Really … in spite of what you have done?”
“What have I done?”
“Oh, c’mon Adi … which normal person gives up the post of CEO and become a chaiwala.”
“I am not a chaiwala ... I manage a tea and snacks bar.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Maya says with a generous pinch of sarcasm sprinkled over it, “How can you be so naïve?”
“Did you know this domain is now hogged by IITians and IIM kids?”
“What they create is a billion dollar retail chain … not long ago you did the same.”
“I might do it again. In fact my KulharϮ tea is so popular I might open a string of outlets very soon.”
“Stop fooling yourself.”
“Maya ...”
“Damn it … you are an MBA gold medalist with a hotel management degree.”
“Those are just pieces of paper … to impress the less fortunate ones.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Few more years ... I promise to return to main stream life.”
“We don’t have time.”
“I am just 43.”
“And I am 44.”
“I didn't know you were elder to me.”
“Please stop playing with our lives … your life.”
“I need some time, seriously.”
“Meanwhile, what do I tell your daughter?”
“She is your daughter too.”
“Adi …”
“Tell her I am happy.”
“But she is not.”
“Explain her.”
“Explain? She wants to know why her father turned into a chaiwala, gossiping with college kids, the self-proclaimed, bearded philosophers and unknown newspaper reporters instead of running 5-star hotels.”
“Did you tell her that I also help the underprivileged children and support a couple of blind schools?”
“We are proud of your social activities, but what about your commitment towards your own family, your daughter ...”