Crime & punishment
By Biswas
- As the morning sun streaks in through the dingy window and glows his face red, Dinesh stirs in his bed, throws a quick glance at the table clock with his red eyes, reluctantly pulls himself to feet, walks across the room, and digs in the pocket of the trouser hanging at the back of the door.
It is Thursday.
Having relieved a stick of Marlboro Lights out of his trouser pocket, Dinesh presently sits on the edge of his single bed, and lights the cigarette. As the smoke twirls into a shapeless existence overhead, he heaves a deep sigh.
Shama! Once he had loved her so much. He still does. Not much has changed.
How beautiful she looked yesterday--her dark brown beady eyes glowing, as always, with infallible certitude. The greeting card was as lovely, ending with "lots of love" and her characteristic signature, underlined abruptly and with a little star at the end. The t-shirt presented to him on his last birthday, maroon, a huge white star patched at the back; the mauve shirt, she had bought at New Road with twinkling stars dotting the night sky: Yes, she loved stars.
"Think optimistic, Dinesh. It shouldn?t be that hard," she would prod him. Forever encouraging, she would always come up with the right words at the wrong times, and make him feel better instantly. He was morose and prone to depression, she always calm and cheerful.
When he failed the B.Sc. second year exam last year, it was Shama who helped him get over the disappointment. "Look Dinesh, though you didn?t pass, you?ve secured 27. Twenty-seven! The two stands for you and I, and seven, why! It?s the lucky number. You?re sure to pass the next time." Often, even these uninspiring comments placated his turbulent thoughts.
And she could be devilish too, when needed. That loafer, no-good Sanjay, always bullying him around, got exactly what he deserved--a dollop of chewing gum stretching thin as he got up from his seat in the chemistry class. Sanjay had been at his wit?s end. Nobody suspected Shama.Or the time she came trundling down the stairs of the practical building on spotting his name in the byline.
"This is you, yes? Too good, yaar! Too good!" She made sure the article was pasted on the message board the next day. Most of his classmates had read it: Insomnia and my health.
These were unforgettable events, holding together their tenuous relationship.
Presently, he finishes his cigarette, and throws the stub out of the window, into the rose bed in the garden, well manicured by the finicky landlord, always particular about his flowers and vegetables. He loves red roses?such beautiful flowers!He wipes his forehead clean as he paces around the shabby room. Not even the end of Falgun in Kathmandu, and it is already so hot. If only there was a fan in the room! He had not been aware of its absence until yesterday. How curious!
Yesterday, Dinesh cleaned up his room after a month, wiped every nook and cranny spick and span. Never realizing his room could be so dirty, he could hardly believe his eyes when out of every corner materialized heaps after heaps of dirt.
At dusk on Wednesday, the festivities started: Two quarters of Royal Stag--the stupid shopkeeper didn?t have a half-liter bottle--the now addictive Marlboro Lights, two full packs for the special day, and a full chicken tandoori from his favorite restaurant called The Livewire. To his surprise, he had washed down the full Livewire tandoori with half-liter of Royal Stag--funny, how it sounded like Royal Stab!--and fagged out a pack-and-a-half of Lights.
That was then. Yesterday. Or was it today? The days had merged, the boundaries blurred. Staring at the ceiling the whole night--cursing the shopkeeper, that bastard!--he had been thinking...
A new day, his eyes pierce past the haze of smoke, riveted at the same ceiling, the absent fan, and the present tether, in place to garrote an animal today!
Dinesh gets up on the table, conveniently placed in the middle of the room yesterday; noose in hand, he can just see the red roses--and hear the gates open.He abruptly unties the knots, jumps off the table and swings open the door to find Shama, newspaper in hand, bustling with excitement: "Too good yaar, too good! Crime and Punishment. Ahem! As the morning sun streaks in...
The End
( Originally published in The Kathmandu Post)
