Living Hell

by Vivaan Shah

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ sighed Nadeem. ‘The bottle hasn’t moved an inch from its original position in six days and yet it seems to have been consumed. When the kabaadiwaala saw it last four days ago, it was half-empty.’

  ‘What? How is that possible? He said it was bought six days ago. If he finished half a bottle of Phensedyl in two days, he’d be on the floor when the kabaadiwaala showed up.’

  ‘And if the person who used it was smart enough not to let his fingerprints show up on it, as he was with the glass on the balcony door, then . . .’

  ‘Then the only prints that’ll show up on the bottle are the kabaadiwaala’s!’

  Nadeem looked out of the window distraught and perplexed to the point of disorientation. He wasn’t able to think straight. His faculties of judgment weren’t in the best shape. He was feeling jittery and unwell.

  From the window he could see Inspector Nagpal and Srikant get into the police jeep, after having a few words with the watchman. He cleared the empty cups they had left and went into the kitchen to wash them. Srikant had spilt some of the tea on the kitchen slab while pouring it into the cups. Nadeem wiped it with the cloth that hung by the washbasin and washed the seven cups. He threw the remains of the tea leaves from the strainer into the dustbin and checked the packet of tea. He smelt it. It definitely smelt bad, but the two cops still enjoyed it enough to go through six cups.

  ‘They must have a cast-iron stomach,’ he thought, as his stomach began to grumble. He fished out a thermometer. He was pretty sure he had a fever. The reading said 101 degrees. His throat was drying up, he had a splitting headache, his sinuses were clogged and he hadn’t eaten anything all day. He looked frantically for the first-aid kit. The whole house was in disarray. Things were lying everywhere. Nagpal and Srikant hadn’t had the courtesy to put things back in their rightful place. Nadeem popped a Crocin, thinking it would do the job.

  ‘You better get some rest, Nadeem. You look sick.’

  ‘Is there anything to eat in the house?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Nadeem rushed out to the neighbourhood bania. It was shut. He checked every department store in the area, but could not come across even one that was open. Finally, he decided to take an auto up to DMart. That was his only chance.

  DMART

  Nadeem strolled aimlessly about DMart, looking for anything that would even half satisfy his growing starvation. He felt no need to pick up a shopping basket. He rarely visited DMart since the need for him to do so seldom arose. They purchased everything from detergent to naphthalene balls from the neighbourhood department store.

  He stumbled past the drinks trays, picking up a bottle of soya milk from the fridge. He then put it back on noticing a tetrapack of chocolate milk, which he settled for instead. He didn’t wait to pay for it, he just stuck the straw inside and began sipping away as he walked on, keeping an eye on anything reasonably affordable that caught his fancy.

  The section stocked with chips, biscuits and Maggi noodles occupied the corner shelves. All those fancy, new imported products had taken up the centre aisle. He browsed through them with no intention of laying a finger on any item. He just looked at them with an amused scorn, as if they were the real enemies.

  It was the kind of section Irshaad Batla would have probably felt at home in. He seldom drank anything out a bottle that hadn’t been flown in specially from Hong Kong. Just then, Nadeem remembered Irshaad’s indulgences. All those leather suitcases and imported belts and shoes, all that fancy cologne, and all those duty-free plastic bags that smelt of another candy-coated land! All those platinum and gold standard inextinguishable credit cards. They had all sort of acquired a foothold in Nadeem’s existence, although he was at a comfortable distance from them. They still provoked their lure towards him ever so often. He often thought of the so-called upgrading of one’s livelihood, but it never seemed to divert him enough to turn his stool around. He, every now and then, even resented this other life but observed it with glaring eyes, knowing that although deprived of its privileges, he did in some degree have access to it. He never thought of himself as one of them. Those robust young men from Bandra who paraded restaurants, arriving in souped-up fancy cars with rims and 1.8-turbo charge engines that could be heard all across the neighbourhood, nursing their whiskey sodas with a plastic stirrer at the smoker’s corner, talking shop with their hands in their pockets with that expression of seriousness and certainty giving gravity to their contentment, their overtly amplified laughter, which sometimes sounded like a war cry, a mating call, or an exclamation of understanding in their varied wandering concentration spans, their thoughts and ears all about the places they inhabited—looking over and ahead, replying to someone on their immediate left—greeting each other with militant affection and familiarity.

  The very thought of them made Nadeem feel even more ill. He let the thought linger as he looked about the place, hoping to chance upon a familiar face. He was beginning to feel weak and desperately needed to have a bite. The chocolate milk made his stomach feel even worse. He felt like he was about to heave, his guts were churning and he desperately needed to go to the bathroom. He grabbed a bottle of room-temperature Bisleri water and cracking the seal open, drained the entire bottle in one go. That made him regain his bearings. He walked on further to the chips section, which he avoided. He needed some real food and got his hands on a packet of cashew nuts. Just as he tore open the packet, he noticed a lady in front of him going through the shelves on his immediate left. She wheeled a trolley cart and was having a tough time reaching for something on one of the top shelves. Nadeem went over to help her, when he noticed that it was none other than Rohini. She was dressed in black and looked preoccupied, like she was there on an errand and not to take in the scenery.

  ‘A bit late for mourning, isn’t it?’ Nadeem joked, as he reached for a jar of Szechuan sauce for her.

  ‘Thank you. But I’m wearing the colour because I feel like it, not because I have to.’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a black mood myself. Nadeem Khatib, pleased to meet you,’ he shook her hand, introducing himself proudly. ‘And your good name?’

  ‘Call me whatever you like.’

  ‘It’s sad to see a woman with your redeeming characteristics so cynical about things. I’d say you have a lot to look forward to.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a good, strong man in the pipeline. Someone with strong shoulders and a heart of gold. Not some loser like Makhija. You can do better than him with your eyes closed.’

  ‘It’s too late in the day for flattery. Do I know you?’

  ‘I saw you at the police station. You see, I knew your husband.’

  ‘Oh!

  She started fidgeting in her purse, going through it like she was trying to unearth a buried treasure. Nadeem was mildly amused at her nervous manner and wondered if it was an act or whether she was genuinely neurotic. She seemed to put on a plain face in front of the police, but out there in the public sphere of DMart, she was a bumbling wreck. Nadeem smiled at her. She couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘Can I help you with that?’ asked Nadeem, gesturing towards the trolley cart she was wheeling.

  She shook her head, not paying attention, preoccupied with her purse. ‘What?’ she said, getting her nose out of the purse.

  ‘I asked if I can help you with your groceries?’

  ‘Look. Whatever the hell you want, just save it! Because right now, I really haven’t got the time. I’m trying to look for my wallet. I can’t seem to find it. It’s got all my cards, my driver’s licence, my PAN card, debit card, credit card.’

  ‘Let me help you with that.’ said Nadeem, grabbing hold of her purse. ‘Here, let me check for you.’

  She snatched the purse from him before he had the chance to go through it.

  ‘How dare you!’ she fumed.

  ‘I was just trying to be chivalrous.’

  ‘Chivalry is one thing and stupidity’s another.’


  ‘I’m sorry! I was just trying to help. I didn’t mean to go through your purse.’

  ‘But nonetheless you did.’

  She shuffled her belongings into the purse and, after zipping it up, dumped it into the trolley cart. She looked towards Nadeem with her face bearing the promise of a faint smile.

  ‘Did you see anything of interest?’ she asked.

  ‘I barely saw anything at all.’

  He followed her trolley cart past the racks of Huggies and Cerelac.

  ‘Do you have anything to hide?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t. The police have already gone through my purse.’

  ‘Look. I don’t mean to be impertinent or anything but would you like to go out for a cup of coffee with me?’

  ‘Are you out of your mind!’

  ‘I’m not making a play at you or anything. It’s just that there’s a couple of things I’d like to know about your late husband.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘There’s a Café Coffee Day next door. If you like, we could grab a bite. They do a pretty good chicken samosa or veg puff in case you’re not a carnivore like myself.’

  Rohini looked around and dumped her last item of grocery shopping into the trolley.

  ‘I don’t know. I barely know you.’

  ‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘we could change that in a heartbeat.’

  Rohini looked him over, studying him from head to toe.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Just let me pay first.’

  Café Coffee Day

  They managed to get a corner table at Café Coffee Day. There wasn’t a single waiter in sight. They wondered whether the place was open or not, but since the lights were on and the kitchen seemed active, they figured they had a chance of getting something. Thankfully, they didn’t have to share a table with the swarming crowds. The place was practically empty, save for a few couples and business conferences with laptops attached to the plug points. A bespectacled lone man, who wore a synthetic shirt and creased trousers, sat by the glass window looking out towards the neon-lit main road with hoardings hovering over the decrepit, crumbling renovated buildings. The road was being dug up from Malad all the way up to Goregaon. Cement rollers, road excavation bulldozers and JCBs stood in the middle of the road near the dividers, like the empty shops and showrooms, all shut down for the day, or like the drifting mongrels sleeping on the sidewalks. From the distance could be heard the blaring of some horn or the shrieking of the haggard madman picking up rubbish from the floors. The lone man, who sat by the window, sighed and looked down at his empty cup of coffee. He took the last sip before calling for the bill. After paying up, he put the receipt into his back pocket, picked up his motorcycle helmet from the table and went out into the neon-lit wilderness.

  Finally, a waiter did come up to the table where Nadeem and Rohini sat, almost as if he was doing them a favour. He had a nameplate on his chest which read ‘Mehul’. After Nadeem placed his order, he tried to ask Rohini about her deceased husband, but she still studied the menu as if that was more important.

  ‘Would you like anything to drink?’ he asked.

  She called for a pineapple milkshake but was disappointed on being told by the waiter that it was not available. She settled for a fresh lime soda.

  ‘They do a pretty good iced tea too,’ Nadeem remarked. ‘But I think I’ll settle for a good old frappuccino.’

  His stomach was beginning to grumble again. For a moment he pulled his guts together, trying not to let the turmoil show on his face. He cringed, squirming in agony, camouflaging it with an over-friendly smile.

  ‘How come I’ve never seen you around the building?’ he asked, trying to take his mind away from his worries.

  ‘Because I’ve never been around the building. We split after he was caught for embezzlement.’

  ‘Is that why he used to visit a psychiatrist?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘You ever felt the need to talk to one of those shrinks?’

  ‘I can’t say I have. What about you?’

  ‘Well, I have my moments of self-doubt. My flatmate tells me that I have a reduced concentration span as a result of excessive channel surfing. I guess he’d know because he suffers from a chronic condition of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Some people say he’s a vegetable, doesn’t possess the capability for abstract thought. His family members call him a zombie. But he used to be a smart aleck when he was young. The overconfident cocky type who got his brains squashed in by consistent defeat. Probably a bit like your husband in that regard.’

  ‘We all have our problems.’

  ‘I guess we do, but some less than others. And only when it reaches an extreme do people take extraordinary measures to stop their suffering. Your husband struck me as a very depressed man. He never got out of the house much. Never spent any money, never fraternized with any of the other building members. Kept to himself, was aloof. Did he have any family?’

  ‘Everyone’s got a family. They were notified by Senior Inspector Chetan Raane. I don’t think Inspector Nagpal has it in him to do anything that noble.’

  ‘They shown up yet?’

  ‘Apparently, his sister is on her way from Nagpur.’

  The fresh lime soda arrived later than they had expected. The waiter pointed towards the counter, implying that the grilled chicken sandwich and frappuccino Nadeem had ordered were light years away from being prepared.

  ‘What’s your interest in all of this?’ she asked Nadeem, taking a sip of her fresh lime soda.

  ‘I was the one who discovered your husband.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, draining the entire glass till it reached the bottom.

  ‘I also happen to live in the same building as him.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Broker.’

  ‘Could you find me a place?’

  ‘Sure. What’s your budget?’

  ‘About 25,000.’

  She kept making the irritating slurping sound that a straw makes at the end of a drink.

  ‘I’d have to look into it,’ said Nadeem, trying to ignore the sound. ‘Any particular preference with regard to areas?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘There’s a good offer on a one-BHK in Goregaon (East). If you’d like, I could show you the flat.’

  Rohini contemplated the proposition and wondered whether Nadeem looked like a trustworthy sort of fellow. Nadeem kept looking towards the counter in anticipation of his order arriving. He was famished. His stomach was beginning to make peculiar noises, which he tried to prevent Rohini from hearing by continuously talking as fast as he could. Finally, it reached a point where he could not take it any longer. He slammed the table in anger, almost falling off the side of his chair.

  ‘Waiter!’ he yelled.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Rohini asked, out of polite concern. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Nadeem was trying to be as courteous as was humanly possible under the circumstances, but when the waiter showed up asking if he was all right, he nearly grabbed him by the neck demanding his food. The waiter looked at him strangely as Nadeem got up and ran towards the washroom.

  The Café Coffee Day washroom was under maintenance and not functional. It had a yellow sign standing on the floor saying, ‘Caution, wet floor, slippery’, but Nadeem did not care and barged in, breaking the door open. He got inside and locked the door before the waiter had the chance to knock and say, ‘Excuse me, sir! Kindly vacate the bathroom. It is out of order.’

  Nadeem threw up all over the bathroom, practically tearing the place apart as he reeled and fell head first into the urinal.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the waiter knocked again. ‘Excuse me, sir, is everything alright?’

  By now, Rohini too had got up to see what the matter was. When there was no response from the bathroom, the waiter called his supervisor who had a skeleton key for the bathroom. When they opened it, they found Nadeem on the floor without the slightest
sign or indication of movement. He had evidently lost consciousness and fainted. The broken-down urinal lay next to him with bits of ceramic scattered all over the slippery floor.

  Rohini gasped in mortal terror as she beheld the sight before her. The two Café Coffee Day personnel picked Nadeem up and put him on a sofa, calling an ambulance.

  Hospital

  They immediately rushed him to the nearest hospital. Rohini had the good sense of checking his phone and calling the last dialled number, which happened to be Warren’s, and informed him of Nadeem’s condition. Warren, for the first time in his life, was propelled out of his lethargy on registering the gravity of the situation. He leapt out of the couch with fierce urgency and put on a pair of trackpants with much difficulty in order to rush to the hospital.

  Nadeem was lying on a stretcher when Warren arrived. The doctor was examining him thoroughly. He checked his pulse, respiration and blood pressure. He also took a blood sample.

  A couple of hours later, after having revived him with ammonia, they were able to get him back to his senses. He was still heavily disoriented though. Rohini and Warren sat in the waiting room while the doctor had a word with Nadeem.

  ‘How are you feeling now, son?’ he asked as Nadeem opened his eyes.

  ‘Weak. I’ve got a bit of a body ache and my stomach is still hurting.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. I would like you to answer a question, and I would like you to answer it honestly and truthfully. Needless to say, this is for your own good that I ask, not out of any morbid curiosity of your habits.’

  ‘Sure, doctor. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Do you take drugs? Any kind of injections from a syringe? Morphine, ketamine or heroin of any kind?’

  ‘Hell, no! What makes you think that, doctor?’

  ‘Well, I conducted a blood test while you were asleep. Now since you are awake, I would like to do a urine test if it is not too much of a problem.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Nadeem said, gallantly. ‘I’d be only too glad to provide you with my urine!’

  Nadeem suddenly got up but the doctor stopped him, reminding him to take his time and to get up slowly when he felt sufficiently recuperated. He called out to the nurse to help Nadeem.