Under the Ring Road by Harshita Mishra
Mr. Ranjan is employed as a chaffeur for Vishwas and Malti Gupta, and tries to keep a professional distance, until Malti confides in him.
When Malti slid into the back seat, Mr. Ranjan was fiddling with the knob of the heat regulator. The panel outlet blasted warm air into the expanse of the car, long enough for the windows to begin fogging up against the unceremonious arrival of a somber October evening.
"I am afraid the heater's broken," Mr. Ranjan stated, rotating the dial back to zero as he put the black Honda in reverse and maneuvered out of the tight patch of gravel between two pickup trucks.
"Let Vishwas know," Malti said and shifted in her seat - upholstery squeaking under her salwar-covered thighs - leaning into the window and peering out at the neighbourhood she had grown up in.
"I will, Madam ji. Will Sir take the metro tonight?" Mr. Ranjan turned his head to look at Malti expectantly as he grasped the steering wheel with his palms, waiting for the signal to turn green. When the traffic lights settled, and vehicles swarmed by them, Malti gazed at Mr. Ranjan. He cautiously lowered his eyes and observed the shadow of a bluish redness around her wrist. Malti picked up the handbag sitting beside her and put it on her lap, her hands placed neatly behind it.
"I don't think so. He is working past the last boarding call. The pink line shuts down sooner than the others, so you might have to wait by his office."
"It shouldn't be a problem. I will head over there as soon as I drop you, Madam ji." Malti nodded and flexed her fingers absent-mindedly, limp from inactivity.
Vishwas hired Mr. Ranjan a month ago, too busy running for a managerial position, having struck a deal on a textile project worth lakhs. Malti tutored high school students online, going through subjects like ancient history and the sciences. Her batch strength dwindled after the pandemic, and her general disposition, which some parents considered an unfavorable environment for the kids, contributed to the loss. She always looked like she would rather be elsewhere, one parent had said with sterile clarity. The rest who let their children stick around weren't entirely unkind, even rebutting that Malti was, after all, good at her job, and it was nobody's business but her own how she chose to live her life.
She couldn't cook, so Vishwas called in a maid - unassuming and docile - to work through the weekdays. Often enough, the frail old woman with the loose end of her saree tucked distractedly into the band of her petticoat, scrambled to get Vishwas's lunchbox together in time for the errand guy to collect. The maid complained - hoping for an occasional helping hand - how Malti would be sitting idle on a cushioned chair in the dining hall while she slogged away. One of these days, Malti spent an hour slicing a pomegranate in half with a knife. When the rind did not give under the pressure, she used her fingers, peeling the hard velvety cover back until the kernels inside pebbled into each other and seeped out through her knuckles down her elbows in jagged red lines, dripping to the floor, adding to the poor maid's chores. The maid assumed Malti had nothing better to do since she stayed home almost all the time, except for the days her mother would call and she'd hurriedly exit the apartment.
As Mr. Ranjan wheeled the car in and entered the sparsely crowded parking lot, the last wash of fairness in the sky had ebbed. A dull shadow of the moon lurked behind tall semal trees as their crimson petals fluttered in the wind. Malti pulled her dark hair into a loose bun with the help of an elastic band, shuffled out of the car, nodding faintly at Mr. Ranjan, and walked towards the gated barricade of the complex. The guard sitting in his booth scrambled to his feet and buzzed her in. Mr Ranjan's phone buzzed somewhere inside the dashboard, and he hastily pulled it out to see his employer's name flashing across the caller ID.
"Did you drop Malti off?"
"Yes, Sir! About to take the route to your office. I should be there in about twenty minutes," Mr. Ranjan said, words slipping out fast and lispy.
"Actually, don't worry about it, Mr. Ranjan. A colleague offered to drive me home." A polyphony of muffled voices rang through the speaker, followed by Vishwas's heaving snicker, possibly at an undulating remark.
"I could wait a while if you want me to, Sir." Mr. Ranjan tucked his socked feet into the brown loafers he'd picked up at Gaffar years ago, slightly smaller in size with the polish peeling off at the front.
"No, please head on home. The days are shorter now; your kids must be waiting," Vishwas said distractedly.
Mr. Ranjan slid out of the Honda, locked it, and walked towards the exit, right leg catching against a speed bumper, making him sway sideways till he steadied himself.
"Sure. Thank you, Sir."
"Not an issue. By the way, Mr. Ranjan, I transferred the advance to your account and rang your brother to confirm since you were unavailable." Mr. Ranjan dropped the car keys into the guard's palm, nodded at him, and entered a soft stroll past the premises.
"Thank you, Sir. I would have avoided this situation so early into the job if it weren't such an urgent matter."
"Is the roof coming down completely?"
"We have held it together with bricks and iron blocks for now. Some strong woodwork will help salvage the situation, I am sure."
"That is good to know. Hopefully, this won't be a recurring concern," Vishwas laughed, dismissive. Mr. Ranjan continued walking after having waited under the awning of a flower shop at the intersection for a minute.
"Never. I am indebted to you, Sir." Vishwas did not respond; people were still chattering in the background, a hackneyed slur to the voices now.
"The car might need servicing," Mr. Ranjan added. Evening prayers from the gurdwara echoed through the speakers at dull volumes, people congregating and taking off their chappals before turning in as he rounded a corner, nearing the ring road.
"I will look into it. Thank you for the reminder," Vishwas hung up and took with him the faint clamour Mr. Ranjan had only started getting used to.
Soon after Malti and Vishwas got married, Malti's father passed away, leaving behind a widow, two daughters, and a house with a crumbling courtyard. His administrative clerical work for the government provided her mother with a monthly pension that she saved up to have the aangan restored. Malti's in-laws had initially wished for Meena, Malti's younger sister, to be engaged to Vishwas because she was prettier, more educated, had a softer gait, and an almost reverent discipline that they felt, when channeled adequately, would help their son flourish. However, not even a week into the affairs of possible matrimony, the pandit declared that their kundlis weren't compatible and had less than eighteen qualities - the minimum requirement for an auspicious match - coinciding with each other.
Two days later, Meena rushed inside the house from a brisk afternoon walk and complained of seeing reptilian creatures, particularly snakes, across the boundary of the establishment. When probed, she said that they were dark green, slithering and flailing around, and that there were too many of them, those snakes. Her fingers twitched, and her mouth drooled, eyes scrambling to land on an object that would appease the panic settling in her ribs. Malti and her mother ran out to make sense of the spectacle and found nothing but a constant row of mango saplings mapping the boundary, plants that Malti had herself sown into the soft soil. The news of the strange disarray reached Vishwas's parents, and coupled with the failure of an ostensible marital pairing, any association with Malti's family ended.
On a Saturday morning, almost a month later, the landline in the Gupta household went off. Vishwas's mother was occupied with wringing clothes dry and draping them over a cord line, so Vishwas went to the living room and picked up the handset of the PNT, muttering a hello into the speaker. Malti spoke from the other end, asking if he could drive her to the post office without any preamble. Vishwas had been taken aback but not surprised. The brief interactions he had had with Meena's older sister during his infrequent visits to their house, arranged conspicuously by the astrologer, were laced with similar impatience.
"To the post office?"
"Yes, if it is not an issue. There is a delivery that I need to receive."
"Do you not have anyone else to take you?"
"Pitaji sent a few letters from the hospital. Amma is with him. I cannot seem to reach my cousin since he moved back to Meerut with his family. The post office is a bit further in town; otherwise, I would have walked there." Malti said weakly.
"Can you wait at the bus stop, the one next to the kirana store?"
"I will be there."
Vishwas met Malti at the bus stop, almost a hundred meters from her house, riding his father's beat-up Yamaha motorcycle. Malti's hair was shorter, and she wore a light blue frock that went down to her calves with a thin brown cotton belt wrapped around the waist. Vishwas carefully noted with faux disinterest that she resembled Meena in a striking way, just leaner and less composed. No sooner had Vishwas parked his vehicle in a sparsely crowded alley behind the daftar's open cafeteria, adjacent to the post office entrance, than Malti walked out, head bent low, hands fiddling with a pale yellow envelope.
"Pandey chacha offered tea and asked me to usher you in, but I didn't want to keep you any longer," Malti mentioned as she came to a halt by the bike, looking at Vishwas with a small frown. Up close, he could see the mole next to her left eyebrow, the red stone earrings she wore that flickered against the wind delicately, the soft bow of her mouth, and her slightly crooked lower teeth.
That day, Vishwas had asked Malti about her father's condition, her ongoing undergraduate degree in History, the relationship she shared with Meena, Pandey chacha, and how his family had migrated to Chandigarh from Lahore after the partition. The claustrophobic air that anchored Malti to the ground had seemed to dissipate a little and gave way to something more perceptible and acquiescent.
As she warmed up to him, conversations between them began to swivel, often through their respective landlines tucked away into unattended corners of the house. One of those days in the heaving mugginess of June, Vishwas took Malti out on a ride, having sneaked the Yamaha out of the garage as the corroding iron gate came down with a crisp bang behind him. They sat in wobbly metal chairs on a roof facing Hanuman Road and shared a plate of dosa filled with a spicy potato mixture tinted pink from beetroot, served with tempered coconut chutney and fried curry leaves swimming in a pool of ghee. The waiter, clad in all white with the only hint of colour in the red stripes across his turban - a coveted uniform of the Indian Coffee House - put their strawberry milkshakes down on the table with a soft clunk and departed with a smile.
The envelope she had received was delivered by her ailing father, including a postcard picture of him with her mother on his arm - standing on the Coromandel Coast against the lapping waves of the Indian Ocean - and a letter directed to Malti describing his acknowledgment of the disease and his body's inadequate response to rounds of dialysis. He wrote about her mother's limp dexterity to keep a firm grasp on her faith, and provided a brief rundown of his insurance policies, fixed deposits, investments, and intermittent withdrawal of his savings from the bank were grievances in order.
Before Vishwas dropped her home, he held her against his chest with her head tucked delicately into the curve of his neck. An inexplicable rush of warmth seeped into her stomach then, something Malti had failed to experience before.
Mr. Ranjan grew accustomed to mapping out the days around his working hours at the Guptas. Within the first month, he developed a sense of what their routine looked like: picking and dropping Vishwas to the office and vice versa, driving Malti to her mother's house at least thrice a week, infrequently to her tuitions, and only recently to a wholesale farmer's market almost halfway across the city every other day. Mr. Ranjan prided himself on his ability to steer clear of business that had but nothing to do with him. Nevertheless, it was as if the stolid presence of the woman in the rear seat burnt into the leather and curled around the sinewy flesh of his back, growing tighter the more she occasioned the vendors.
Mr. Ranjan parked the Honda under what was perhaps a mulberry tree at half past six on a Friday evening, he wasn't sure, and watched Malti stride across the crosswalk, reaching the other end where multiple carts stacked with seasonal vegetables and fruits were sprawled out. She came to a stop before a sparsely crowded stall and fished into a heap of leafy spring onions, radishes, and bottleguards. Adjacent to the hum of the market was a retail shop, and behind it stood a beauty parlour partially hidden under winding climbers and orange bougainvillea flowers.
The location of the cart Malti shopped from provided a direct view of the side window wedged into the cemented panel of the parlour complex. Customers sat in chairs under gnawing bright lights while others moved around as the hairdressers and the makeup artists worked their way through. Mr. Ranjan stared at Malti standing there, for the fourth time that week, head stuck in the direction of the building, witnessing life unraveling behind the glass pane, or so he told himself.
As they drove back, Malti looked ahead, clad in a long pink kurta with a designer slit through the bottom. He noted how her coal-black hair fell to her waist, how the strong set of her jaw supported the soft curve of her mouth, tinted a light cinnamon shade. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, eyes distant, and her hands - right forefinger taped to the middle with a bandage - stayed curled in her lap. Mr. Ranjan swallowed an inaudible cough and headed east.
"Can we stop by the stall?" Malti asked, tracking the sun gradually sinking behind low-rise DDA flats from her window.
"Sure, where do you want to go?"
"You know, that tea stall," Malti said impassively. Mr. Ranjan thought about the money he had borrowed from her husband.
"Madam ji, not that I mind, but the area isn't cut out for ladies," he replied, suddenly fighting the urge to scratch his stubble.
"I didn't realise it was a problem the last time we went there," she said and peered at him sideways. His grip on the steering wheel fastened, and sweat collected between his eyebrows.
"I cannot deny that, but it was, you see, an emergency. If things had transpired differently, I would not have -"
"Does your brother have an issue?" Malti interrupted him, voice laced with apathetic curiosity.
"I highly doubt that, Madam ji. I apologise from his end if you felt like he did, but there is absolutely nothing to worry about," Mr. Ranjan responded quickly, the buckle of the seatbelt digging into his hipbone.
The day before Malti began her grocery trips to Geeta Colony, he had driven her to her mother's house. Nothing was out of the ordinary except when she stalked out two hours later, her hair looked as if it was clawed out of the scalp, and her right palm had a visible contusion forming. He had heard screams and episodes of commotion from inside the quarters, but didn't inquire. She had then hurled and emptied her stomach in the gully parallel to the property.
Mr. Ranjan had taken her to a pharmacy located at the first bend before the ring road leading to her apartment complex. Across the street was his brother's shop, a tea stall with a patchwork roof that he had covered with red and blue tarpaulin sheets, tied and held up through flimsy wooden poles. Mr. Ranjan had purchased a pack of bandages, a tube of soframycin and a leaf of antacids, hurrying back to the vehicle. He had found Malti crouched in one corner of the backseat, sobbing. An unexplainable sense of bereavement took over him and his throat went dry, but then, she looked straight up at him through the panel of the car window - eyes glistening with flowing tears - and whispered:
"Don't tell Vishwas."
He had promptly nodded and handed her the items. Meanwhile, down the street, Rakesh was setting up plastic chairs and tables, the lack of a front to his shop making it practically spill onto the road. Somehow, Malti had ended up inside the stall, chin tucked to chest, with an earthen cup of bubbling jaggery tea and a small bottle of Bisleri sitting before her. Outside, Rakesh had interrogated Mr. Ranjan about the fragility of the situation, to which he had no response.
"Is it because I am your employer's wife?" Mr. Ranjan laughed, pulling the third gear and overtaking a heavy wheeler LPG truck. "I am responsible for your safety, Madam ji, so is the nature of my job. All sorts of wandering low lifes stroll in at this hour."
"I saw a woman working there that day," Malti contested.
"Oh, Neelam is Rakesh's wife. They opened the shop together. She handles the cleaning business," Mr. Ranjan said, struggling to gauge her reaction.
"It couldn't be riskier for her than it is for me, don't you think?" He thought it was ideal not to reply. Malti settled against the seat, eyes half-lidded and out of focus.
"I just wish to stay out a little longer," she contemplated, as if talking to herself.
When the Honda rounded the neighbourhood, and the first dip before the ring road appeared, Malti stirred in her sleep. Mr. Ranjan took a left, driving past a canopy of neem trees, and pulled the brakes by the temporary establishment: his brother's tea shack.
"Let me go get you something to eat, Madam ji," he said, but Malti had already whipped open the car door and scuttled past a scattered queue of inebriated men. As soon as Rakesh saw the approaching forms of the two people, a frown plastered across his face, but slid away just as reflexively when Malti asked for a seating place. Neelam cleared up a table in a corner hidden by a loose end of the blue tarpaulin cover and planted a handmade bamboo mudda stool before it.
"Madam ji, please sit down. I will go start the chai," Neelam said in a distinct high-pitched voice, and rushed to the back of the shop where they had put together a cooking alcove. She wore red and yellow glass bangles and a blue saree with a bold black border. Rakesh ushered out two men squatting on their haunches before the counter and observing Malti closely.
Malti sipped hot tea from a chipped glass, a plate of puffed rice and peanuts placed before her, wrapped in an old magazine cutout, a wrinkly image of Madhuri Dixit peeking through the kernels and Neelam's signature masala mixture. She looked oddly in place as she stared at the hissing kettle on the dented tin counter. The moment he stepped in, her posture shifted, and an oddly mirthful smile broke out across her face. Mr. Ranjan felt his skin heat up.
"Is the chai good enough for your liking? Neelam bhabhi made a separate batch specially for you with aromatics and all."
"Oh, she didn't have to. It is delicious, I could taste hints of cinnamon and clove right away," Malti replied.
"She would be happy to hear that."
"Perhaps you should get them hooked up with a delivery app. Not that they don't have enough business coming in as it is."
Mr. Ranjan was taken aback by her yielding to the atmosphere of the stall. "Weekends tend to get busy. I am sure they have more than enough on their plates."
Malti nodded, fingers absently picking on the peanut skins. The faint sound of highway traffic hummed in the distance.
"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Ranjan?" she suggested and flicked her hand across the table, beckoning him to follow. Mr. Ranjan pulled out a grey plastic chair from behind the counter, dragged it up to her table, and sat down.
"I see a lot of students, too. It reminded me of my own university days."
"Most of the kids, I think, are civil service aspirants. The coaching centre is not a mile from here," Mr. Ranjan said.
"I see. I guess I need to get out more," Malti smiled and sipped her tea.
"You will be surprised to know how quickly everything changes in this city."
Malti looked at him. "Believe me, Mr. Ranjan, some things never do," she said. He shrugged and swiped his palms across the seam of his trousers. She was confident in a way that made him uneasy.
"I am surprised the shop isn't packed with hammered fellows today. It is usually nothing less than an ordeal telling them off," Mr. Ranjan felt the need to talk. Malti didn't seem bothered.
"I am not surprised. There is a liquor store nearby, spotted it the last time you drove us here."
Mr. Ranjan recalled the car ride, how out of it she had seemed. "Yes, that is the case. Rakesh has ended up at the police station more times than I can count, trying to stop fights. These men don't even remember the thing they got into an altercation over the next morning."
Malti laughed.
Mr. Ranjan had a habit of rambling when perturbed. "The municipality is setting up temporary night shelters, something like a rain basera right under the ring road. November is expected to be chillier than last year, they are reporting. Anyhow, some of these men have migrated from neighboring cities looking for daily labour and started holing up there with their wives and children. It is like, because they have food and lodging now, entertainment comes by riling each other up."
"It must really be a spectacle to manage," said Malti. "And you are right, nights are getting cooler. I tried to donate blankets and hand gloves once; the payment went through, but I never found out what became of that transaction, if the necessities found the right bodies. Unfortunately, in such cases, you never really know."
"I believe that is how it is, after all," Mr. Ranjan checked the dial of his watch, knee bouncing under the grip of his right palm. He hoped she didn't notice. She didn't.
"Why did you leave your last job if you don't mind me asking, Mr. Ranjan?" Malti stared at him, absently coiling a thin lock of hair around her finger.
"I got injured, Madam ji."
"Can I ask how?"
"Accidents aren't uncommon in the construction business. An iron rod came down really hard on my left ankle, shattering the bone. I walked with a cane for months. Tried driving rental cabs for a while after, but the company took so much commission I was practically paying them from my own pocket. My wife was pregnant then, so I had to find something reliable soon enough."
"I am so sorry to hear that. You are in good hands now. How many kids did you say you have?"
"Ah, Kiran, she miscarried. It would have been our first," The amicable warmth in Malti's form paled immediately. Her bandaged hand came forward on the table, inching subconsciously toward his own curled one, but never made contact.
"That is horrible. I am so sorry, Mr. Ranjan."
"It is nothing, Madam ji. Thank you."
"Vishwas and I had been trying too, but I think it's just not in the cards for us."
Mr. Ranjan felt something sour get stuck in his throat and wheezed. "I am, uh, I am sure it will happen. You are still young," he said, and Malti looked off into the distance. She didn't speak for a while, and he dared not interrupt the steady flow of sudden silence.
"He doesn't care, you know," Malti said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"He knows how and why I come back with bruises every other week. He knows, and he doesn't care." Mr. Ranjan pulled at the collar of his shirt, undoing the top button.
"I am sure that is not true, Madam ji."
"You are right, he once cared. At least in the beginning, with the first few arguments. Went over to my house and smacked Meena right across the face. She barely flinched, that girl. Amma had shrivelled up in a corner and wouldn't stop crying."
Mr. Ranjan's right knee shook persistently.
"But, you see, nothing changed, and ultimately, he stopped caring. He was one of the first few people who were ever good to me. Now I do not know how many acts of kindness it takes for somebody to be considered kind."
Malti continued talking, still in control. "To think of it, my sister wasn't always so evil, you know. She had a way better grip on life than I ever did. Everybody loved her; Pitaji would never stop singing her praises. Then she started seeing all sorts of things, things that aren't real. They make her lash out," Malti said weakly.
"Madam ji, I -
"She is Amma's daughter, her very flesh and blood. Do you know the extent people go to protect their own kind?" Malti looked at Mr. Ranjan, an unrecognisable shadow crossing her face.
"Madam ji, I am afraid it is not my place to make any comments," Mr. Ranjan carefully replied, but Malti continued.
"When Vishwas stopped visiting, Meena started making fun of me, of our marriage. She would get in my face and laugh till her voice turned hoarse. The less of Vishwas she saw, the happier she got."
"There must be a way to put an end to it," Mr. Ranjan added cautiously.
"We have tried everything. Do you really think I haven't? Sometimes I feel so weak I can't seem to find my footing. Do you know what she said to me that day? She said that she wakes up every morning hoping I was dead," Malti whispered. Mr. Ranjan sucked in a shaky breath and thought about the night Kiran had slipped, the pool of blood he had found her in, when he made his way back home from the building site, a flash of nausea curdling his body from within.
"Why are you telling me this, Madam ji?"
"Why not?"
"I am merely a driver your husband hired."
"Don't you see, though, Mr. Ranjan? I am comfortable with you. I feel like I can tell you things and you won't judge me. I like your lack of curiosity, your capacity to look the other way, no matter the situation, almost like an impenetrable wall. I feel like I can say anything to you."
Mr. Ranjan felt a sharp pain in his back, enough to knock his breath out. His skin prickled with heat, and the urge to itch superseded his need to make sense of his current predicament.
"I am not sure I understand."
Malti smiled. "I know Vishwas takes the night metro home. I know he tells you to drive to the office, but doesn't get on, and when he does, he is not alone."
Mr. Ranjan felt his chest deflate and sweat trickle down his neck into the seam of his shirt. "Madam ji, I am certain you have got the wrong idea."
Malti giggled and downed the rest of her tea. "She has a kid, that woman. I remember how long and brown her hair was the last time he had his colleagues over, always blow-dried to perfection. Her nails are always pedicured, always pristine. She wears this specific brand of stiletto heels that click against the ground but never make noise. But I think you already know that," she said and glared at him, but not without a beat of hesitation and perhaps an inkling of hope that he, after all, did not know.
Mr. Ranjan's body slumped forward, and he braced himself against the flat surface of the table, head pushed low, and eyes downcast. He stopped making the effort to keep his knee still.
The ride back to the apartment was brief and silent. Mr. Ranjan parked the car, dropped the keys in the night guard's hand, and watched Malti walk back to the lift. The last thing he saw before the doors slid shut was her distant eyes, the exact same pair he had seen the first day he came to work. His full October salary got credited to his account the next day, sixteen days in advance. The wind was heavy that morning, so Mr. Ranjan went and pulled the windows shut, effectively putting a lid on his time with the Guptas.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
"I am afraid the heater's broken," Mr. Ranjan stated, rotating the dial back to zero as he put the black Honda in reverse and maneuvered out of the tight patch of gravel between two pickup trucks.
"Let Vishwas know," Malti said and shifted in her seat - upholstery squeaking under her salwar-covered thighs - leaning into the window and peering out at the neighbourhood she had grown up in.
"I will, Madam ji. Will Sir take the metro tonight?" Mr. Ranjan turned his head to look at Malti expectantly as he grasped the steering wheel with his palms, waiting for the signal to turn green. When the traffic lights settled, and vehicles swarmed by them, Malti gazed at Mr. Ranjan. He cautiously lowered his eyes and observed the shadow of a bluish redness around her wrist. Malti picked up the handbag sitting beside her and put it on her lap, her hands placed neatly behind it.
"I don't think so. He is working past the last boarding call. The pink line shuts down sooner than the others, so you might have to wait by his office."
"It shouldn't be a problem. I will head over there as soon as I drop you, Madam ji." Malti nodded and flexed her fingers absent-mindedly, limp from inactivity.
Vishwas hired Mr. Ranjan a month ago, too busy running for a managerial position, having struck a deal on a textile project worth lakhs. Malti tutored high school students online, going through subjects like ancient history and the sciences. Her batch strength dwindled after the pandemic, and her general disposition, which some parents considered an unfavorable environment for the kids, contributed to the loss. She always looked like she would rather be elsewhere, one parent had said with sterile clarity. The rest who let their children stick around weren't entirely unkind, even rebutting that Malti was, after all, good at her job, and it was nobody's business but her own how she chose to live her life.
She couldn't cook, so Vishwas called in a maid - unassuming and docile - to work through the weekdays. Often enough, the frail old woman with the loose end of her saree tucked distractedly into the band of her petticoat, scrambled to get Vishwas's lunchbox together in time for the errand guy to collect. The maid complained - hoping for an occasional helping hand - how Malti would be sitting idle on a cushioned chair in the dining hall while she slogged away. One of these days, Malti spent an hour slicing a pomegranate in half with a knife. When the rind did not give under the pressure, she used her fingers, peeling the hard velvety cover back until the kernels inside pebbled into each other and seeped out through her knuckles down her elbows in jagged red lines, dripping to the floor, adding to the poor maid's chores. The maid assumed Malti had nothing better to do since she stayed home almost all the time, except for the days her mother would call and she'd hurriedly exit the apartment.
As Mr. Ranjan wheeled the car in and entered the sparsely crowded parking lot, the last wash of fairness in the sky had ebbed. A dull shadow of the moon lurked behind tall semal trees as their crimson petals fluttered in the wind. Malti pulled her dark hair into a loose bun with the help of an elastic band, shuffled out of the car, nodding faintly at Mr. Ranjan, and walked towards the gated barricade of the complex. The guard sitting in his booth scrambled to his feet and buzzed her in. Mr Ranjan's phone buzzed somewhere inside the dashboard, and he hastily pulled it out to see his employer's name flashing across the caller ID.
"Did you drop Malti off?"
"Yes, Sir! About to take the route to your office. I should be there in about twenty minutes," Mr. Ranjan said, words slipping out fast and lispy.
"Actually, don't worry about it, Mr. Ranjan. A colleague offered to drive me home." A polyphony of muffled voices rang through the speaker, followed by Vishwas's heaving snicker, possibly at an undulating remark.
"I could wait a while if you want me to, Sir." Mr. Ranjan tucked his socked feet into the brown loafers he'd picked up at Gaffar years ago, slightly smaller in size with the polish peeling off at the front.
"No, please head on home. The days are shorter now; your kids must be waiting," Vishwas said distractedly.
Mr. Ranjan slid out of the Honda, locked it, and walked towards the exit, right leg catching against a speed bumper, making him sway sideways till he steadied himself.
"Sure. Thank you, Sir."
"Not an issue. By the way, Mr. Ranjan, I transferred the advance to your account and rang your brother to confirm since you were unavailable." Mr. Ranjan dropped the car keys into the guard's palm, nodded at him, and entered a soft stroll past the premises.
"Thank you, Sir. I would have avoided this situation so early into the job if it weren't such an urgent matter."
"Is the roof coming down completely?"
"We have held it together with bricks and iron blocks for now. Some strong woodwork will help salvage the situation, I am sure."
"That is good to know. Hopefully, this won't be a recurring concern," Vishwas laughed, dismissive. Mr. Ranjan continued walking after having waited under the awning of a flower shop at the intersection for a minute.
"Never. I am indebted to you, Sir." Vishwas did not respond; people were still chattering in the background, a hackneyed slur to the voices now.
"The car might need servicing," Mr. Ranjan added. Evening prayers from the gurdwara echoed through the speakers at dull volumes, people congregating and taking off their chappals before turning in as he rounded a corner, nearing the ring road.
"I will look into it. Thank you for the reminder," Vishwas hung up and took with him the faint clamour Mr. Ranjan had only started getting used to.
Soon after Malti and Vishwas got married, Malti's father passed away, leaving behind a widow, two daughters, and a house with a crumbling courtyard. His administrative clerical work for the government provided her mother with a monthly pension that she saved up to have the aangan restored. Malti's in-laws had initially wished for Meena, Malti's younger sister, to be engaged to Vishwas because she was prettier, more educated, had a softer gait, and an almost reverent discipline that they felt, when channeled adequately, would help their son flourish. However, not even a week into the affairs of possible matrimony, the pandit declared that their kundlis weren't compatible and had less than eighteen qualities - the minimum requirement for an auspicious match - coinciding with each other.
Two days later, Meena rushed inside the house from a brisk afternoon walk and complained of seeing reptilian creatures, particularly snakes, across the boundary of the establishment. When probed, she said that they were dark green, slithering and flailing around, and that there were too many of them, those snakes. Her fingers twitched, and her mouth drooled, eyes scrambling to land on an object that would appease the panic settling in her ribs. Malti and her mother ran out to make sense of the spectacle and found nothing but a constant row of mango saplings mapping the boundary, plants that Malti had herself sown into the soft soil. The news of the strange disarray reached Vishwas's parents, and coupled with the failure of an ostensible marital pairing, any association with Malti's family ended.
On a Saturday morning, almost a month later, the landline in the Gupta household went off. Vishwas's mother was occupied with wringing clothes dry and draping them over a cord line, so Vishwas went to the living room and picked up the handset of the PNT, muttering a hello into the speaker. Malti spoke from the other end, asking if he could drive her to the post office without any preamble. Vishwas had been taken aback but not surprised. The brief interactions he had had with Meena's older sister during his infrequent visits to their house, arranged conspicuously by the astrologer, were laced with similar impatience.
"To the post office?"
"Yes, if it is not an issue. There is a delivery that I need to receive."
"Do you not have anyone else to take you?"
"Pitaji sent a few letters from the hospital. Amma is with him. I cannot seem to reach my cousin since he moved back to Meerut with his family. The post office is a bit further in town; otherwise, I would have walked there." Malti said weakly.
"Can you wait at the bus stop, the one next to the kirana store?"
"I will be there."
Vishwas met Malti at the bus stop, almost a hundred meters from her house, riding his father's beat-up Yamaha motorcycle. Malti's hair was shorter, and she wore a light blue frock that went down to her calves with a thin brown cotton belt wrapped around the waist. Vishwas carefully noted with faux disinterest that she resembled Meena in a striking way, just leaner and less composed. No sooner had Vishwas parked his vehicle in a sparsely crowded alley behind the daftar's open cafeteria, adjacent to the post office entrance, than Malti walked out, head bent low, hands fiddling with a pale yellow envelope.
"Pandey chacha offered tea and asked me to usher you in, but I didn't want to keep you any longer," Malti mentioned as she came to a halt by the bike, looking at Vishwas with a small frown. Up close, he could see the mole next to her left eyebrow, the red stone earrings she wore that flickered against the wind delicately, the soft bow of her mouth, and her slightly crooked lower teeth.
That day, Vishwas had asked Malti about her father's condition, her ongoing undergraduate degree in History, the relationship she shared with Meena, Pandey chacha, and how his family had migrated to Chandigarh from Lahore after the partition. The claustrophobic air that anchored Malti to the ground had seemed to dissipate a little and gave way to something more perceptible and acquiescent.
As she warmed up to him, conversations between them began to swivel, often through their respective landlines tucked away into unattended corners of the house. One of those days in the heaving mugginess of June, Vishwas took Malti out on a ride, having sneaked the Yamaha out of the garage as the corroding iron gate came down with a crisp bang behind him. They sat in wobbly metal chairs on a roof facing Hanuman Road and shared a plate of dosa filled with a spicy potato mixture tinted pink from beetroot, served with tempered coconut chutney and fried curry leaves swimming in a pool of ghee. The waiter, clad in all white with the only hint of colour in the red stripes across his turban - a coveted uniform of the Indian Coffee House - put their strawberry milkshakes down on the table with a soft clunk and departed with a smile.
The envelope she had received was delivered by her ailing father, including a postcard picture of him with her mother on his arm - standing on the Coromandel Coast against the lapping waves of the Indian Ocean - and a letter directed to Malti describing his acknowledgment of the disease and his body's inadequate response to rounds of dialysis. He wrote about her mother's limp dexterity to keep a firm grasp on her faith, and provided a brief rundown of his insurance policies, fixed deposits, investments, and intermittent withdrawal of his savings from the bank were grievances in order.
Before Vishwas dropped her home, he held her against his chest with her head tucked delicately into the curve of his neck. An inexplicable rush of warmth seeped into her stomach then, something Malti had failed to experience before.
Mr. Ranjan grew accustomed to mapping out the days around his working hours at the Guptas. Within the first month, he developed a sense of what their routine looked like: picking and dropping Vishwas to the office and vice versa, driving Malti to her mother's house at least thrice a week, infrequently to her tuitions, and only recently to a wholesale farmer's market almost halfway across the city every other day. Mr. Ranjan prided himself on his ability to steer clear of business that had but nothing to do with him. Nevertheless, it was as if the stolid presence of the woman in the rear seat burnt into the leather and curled around the sinewy flesh of his back, growing tighter the more she occasioned the vendors.
Mr. Ranjan parked the Honda under what was perhaps a mulberry tree at half past six on a Friday evening, he wasn't sure, and watched Malti stride across the crosswalk, reaching the other end where multiple carts stacked with seasonal vegetables and fruits were sprawled out. She came to a stop before a sparsely crowded stall and fished into a heap of leafy spring onions, radishes, and bottleguards. Adjacent to the hum of the market was a retail shop, and behind it stood a beauty parlour partially hidden under winding climbers and orange bougainvillea flowers.
The location of the cart Malti shopped from provided a direct view of the side window wedged into the cemented panel of the parlour complex. Customers sat in chairs under gnawing bright lights while others moved around as the hairdressers and the makeup artists worked their way through. Mr. Ranjan stared at Malti standing there, for the fourth time that week, head stuck in the direction of the building, witnessing life unraveling behind the glass pane, or so he told himself.
As they drove back, Malti looked ahead, clad in a long pink kurta with a designer slit through the bottom. He noted how her coal-black hair fell to her waist, how the strong set of her jaw supported the soft curve of her mouth, tinted a light cinnamon shade. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, eyes distant, and her hands - right forefinger taped to the middle with a bandage - stayed curled in her lap. Mr. Ranjan swallowed an inaudible cough and headed east.
"Can we stop by the stall?" Malti asked, tracking the sun gradually sinking behind low-rise DDA flats from her window.
"Sure, where do you want to go?"
"You know, that tea stall," Malti said impassively. Mr. Ranjan thought about the money he had borrowed from her husband.
"Madam ji, not that I mind, but the area isn't cut out for ladies," he replied, suddenly fighting the urge to scratch his stubble.
"I didn't realise it was a problem the last time we went there," she said and peered at him sideways. His grip on the steering wheel fastened, and sweat collected between his eyebrows.
"I cannot deny that, but it was, you see, an emergency. If things had transpired differently, I would not have -"
"Does your brother have an issue?" Malti interrupted him, voice laced with apathetic curiosity.
"I highly doubt that, Madam ji. I apologise from his end if you felt like he did, but there is absolutely nothing to worry about," Mr. Ranjan responded quickly, the buckle of the seatbelt digging into his hipbone.
The day before Malti began her grocery trips to Geeta Colony, he had driven her to her mother's house. Nothing was out of the ordinary except when she stalked out two hours later, her hair looked as if it was clawed out of the scalp, and her right palm had a visible contusion forming. He had heard screams and episodes of commotion from inside the quarters, but didn't inquire. She had then hurled and emptied her stomach in the gully parallel to the property.
Mr. Ranjan had taken her to a pharmacy located at the first bend before the ring road leading to her apartment complex. Across the street was his brother's shop, a tea stall with a patchwork roof that he had covered with red and blue tarpaulin sheets, tied and held up through flimsy wooden poles. Mr. Ranjan had purchased a pack of bandages, a tube of soframycin and a leaf of antacids, hurrying back to the vehicle. He had found Malti crouched in one corner of the backseat, sobbing. An unexplainable sense of bereavement took over him and his throat went dry, but then, she looked straight up at him through the panel of the car window - eyes glistening with flowing tears - and whispered:
"Don't tell Vishwas."
He had promptly nodded and handed her the items. Meanwhile, down the street, Rakesh was setting up plastic chairs and tables, the lack of a front to his shop making it practically spill onto the road. Somehow, Malti had ended up inside the stall, chin tucked to chest, with an earthen cup of bubbling jaggery tea and a small bottle of Bisleri sitting before her. Outside, Rakesh had interrogated Mr. Ranjan about the fragility of the situation, to which he had no response.
"Is it because I am your employer's wife?" Mr. Ranjan laughed, pulling the third gear and overtaking a heavy wheeler LPG truck. "I am responsible for your safety, Madam ji, so is the nature of my job. All sorts of wandering low lifes stroll in at this hour."
"I saw a woman working there that day," Malti contested.
"Oh, Neelam is Rakesh's wife. They opened the shop together. She handles the cleaning business," Mr. Ranjan said, struggling to gauge her reaction.
"It couldn't be riskier for her than it is for me, don't you think?" He thought it was ideal not to reply. Malti settled against the seat, eyes half-lidded and out of focus.
"I just wish to stay out a little longer," she contemplated, as if talking to herself.
When the Honda rounded the neighbourhood, and the first dip before the ring road appeared, Malti stirred in her sleep. Mr. Ranjan took a left, driving past a canopy of neem trees, and pulled the brakes by the temporary establishment: his brother's tea shack.
"Let me go get you something to eat, Madam ji," he said, but Malti had already whipped open the car door and scuttled past a scattered queue of inebriated men. As soon as Rakesh saw the approaching forms of the two people, a frown plastered across his face, but slid away just as reflexively when Malti asked for a seating place. Neelam cleared up a table in a corner hidden by a loose end of the blue tarpaulin cover and planted a handmade bamboo mudda stool before it.
"Madam ji, please sit down. I will go start the chai," Neelam said in a distinct high-pitched voice, and rushed to the back of the shop where they had put together a cooking alcove. She wore red and yellow glass bangles and a blue saree with a bold black border. Rakesh ushered out two men squatting on their haunches before the counter and observing Malti closely.
Malti sipped hot tea from a chipped glass, a plate of puffed rice and peanuts placed before her, wrapped in an old magazine cutout, a wrinkly image of Madhuri Dixit peeking through the kernels and Neelam's signature masala mixture. She looked oddly in place as she stared at the hissing kettle on the dented tin counter. The moment he stepped in, her posture shifted, and an oddly mirthful smile broke out across her face. Mr. Ranjan felt his skin heat up.
"Is the chai good enough for your liking? Neelam bhabhi made a separate batch specially for you with aromatics and all."
"Oh, she didn't have to. It is delicious, I could taste hints of cinnamon and clove right away," Malti replied.
"She would be happy to hear that."
"Perhaps you should get them hooked up with a delivery app. Not that they don't have enough business coming in as it is."
Mr. Ranjan was taken aback by her yielding to the atmosphere of the stall. "Weekends tend to get busy. I am sure they have more than enough on their plates."
Malti nodded, fingers absently picking on the peanut skins. The faint sound of highway traffic hummed in the distance.
"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Ranjan?" she suggested and flicked her hand across the table, beckoning him to follow. Mr. Ranjan pulled out a grey plastic chair from behind the counter, dragged it up to her table, and sat down.
"I see a lot of students, too. It reminded me of my own university days."
"Most of the kids, I think, are civil service aspirants. The coaching centre is not a mile from here," Mr. Ranjan said.
"I see. I guess I need to get out more," Malti smiled and sipped her tea.
"You will be surprised to know how quickly everything changes in this city."
Malti looked at him. "Believe me, Mr. Ranjan, some things never do," she said. He shrugged and swiped his palms across the seam of his trousers. She was confident in a way that made him uneasy.
"I am surprised the shop isn't packed with hammered fellows today. It is usually nothing less than an ordeal telling them off," Mr. Ranjan felt the need to talk. Malti didn't seem bothered.
"I am not surprised. There is a liquor store nearby, spotted it the last time you drove us here."
Mr. Ranjan recalled the car ride, how out of it she had seemed. "Yes, that is the case. Rakesh has ended up at the police station more times than I can count, trying to stop fights. These men don't even remember the thing they got into an altercation over the next morning."
Malti laughed.
Mr. Ranjan had a habit of rambling when perturbed. "The municipality is setting up temporary night shelters, something like a rain basera right under the ring road. November is expected to be chillier than last year, they are reporting. Anyhow, some of these men have migrated from neighboring cities looking for daily labour and started holing up there with their wives and children. It is like, because they have food and lodging now, entertainment comes by riling each other up."
"It must really be a spectacle to manage," said Malti. "And you are right, nights are getting cooler. I tried to donate blankets and hand gloves once; the payment went through, but I never found out what became of that transaction, if the necessities found the right bodies. Unfortunately, in such cases, you never really know."
"I believe that is how it is, after all," Mr. Ranjan checked the dial of his watch, knee bouncing under the grip of his right palm. He hoped she didn't notice. She didn't.
"Why did you leave your last job if you don't mind me asking, Mr. Ranjan?" Malti stared at him, absently coiling a thin lock of hair around her finger.
"I got injured, Madam ji."
"Can I ask how?"
"Accidents aren't uncommon in the construction business. An iron rod came down really hard on my left ankle, shattering the bone. I walked with a cane for months. Tried driving rental cabs for a while after, but the company took so much commission I was practically paying them from my own pocket. My wife was pregnant then, so I had to find something reliable soon enough."
"I am so sorry to hear that. You are in good hands now. How many kids did you say you have?"
"Ah, Kiran, she miscarried. It would have been our first," The amicable warmth in Malti's form paled immediately. Her bandaged hand came forward on the table, inching subconsciously toward his own curled one, but never made contact.
"That is horrible. I am so sorry, Mr. Ranjan."
"It is nothing, Madam ji. Thank you."
"Vishwas and I had been trying too, but I think it's just not in the cards for us."
Mr. Ranjan felt something sour get stuck in his throat and wheezed. "I am, uh, I am sure it will happen. You are still young," he said, and Malti looked off into the distance. She didn't speak for a while, and he dared not interrupt the steady flow of sudden silence.
"He doesn't care, you know," Malti said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"He knows how and why I come back with bruises every other week. He knows, and he doesn't care." Mr. Ranjan pulled at the collar of his shirt, undoing the top button.
"I am sure that is not true, Madam ji."
"You are right, he once cared. At least in the beginning, with the first few arguments. Went over to my house and smacked Meena right across the face. She barely flinched, that girl. Amma had shrivelled up in a corner and wouldn't stop crying."
Mr. Ranjan's right knee shook persistently.
"But, you see, nothing changed, and ultimately, he stopped caring. He was one of the first few people who were ever good to me. Now I do not know how many acts of kindness it takes for somebody to be considered kind."
Malti continued talking, still in control. "To think of it, my sister wasn't always so evil, you know. She had a way better grip on life than I ever did. Everybody loved her; Pitaji would never stop singing her praises. Then she started seeing all sorts of things, things that aren't real. They make her lash out," Malti said weakly.
"Madam ji, I -
"She is Amma's daughter, her very flesh and blood. Do you know the extent people go to protect their own kind?" Malti looked at Mr. Ranjan, an unrecognisable shadow crossing her face.
"Madam ji, I am afraid it is not my place to make any comments," Mr. Ranjan carefully replied, but Malti continued.
"When Vishwas stopped visiting, Meena started making fun of me, of our marriage. She would get in my face and laugh till her voice turned hoarse. The less of Vishwas she saw, the happier she got."
"There must be a way to put an end to it," Mr. Ranjan added cautiously.
"We have tried everything. Do you really think I haven't? Sometimes I feel so weak I can't seem to find my footing. Do you know what she said to me that day? She said that she wakes up every morning hoping I was dead," Malti whispered. Mr. Ranjan sucked in a shaky breath and thought about the night Kiran had slipped, the pool of blood he had found her in, when he made his way back home from the building site, a flash of nausea curdling his body from within.
"Why are you telling me this, Madam ji?"
"Why not?"
"I am merely a driver your husband hired."
"Don't you see, though, Mr. Ranjan? I am comfortable with you. I feel like I can tell you things and you won't judge me. I like your lack of curiosity, your capacity to look the other way, no matter the situation, almost like an impenetrable wall. I feel like I can say anything to you."
Mr. Ranjan felt a sharp pain in his back, enough to knock his breath out. His skin prickled with heat, and the urge to itch superseded his need to make sense of his current predicament.
"I am not sure I understand."
Malti smiled. "I know Vishwas takes the night metro home. I know he tells you to drive to the office, but doesn't get on, and when he does, he is not alone."
Mr. Ranjan felt his chest deflate and sweat trickle down his neck into the seam of his shirt. "Madam ji, I am certain you have got the wrong idea."
Malti giggled and downed the rest of her tea. "She has a kid, that woman. I remember how long and brown her hair was the last time he had his colleagues over, always blow-dried to perfection. Her nails are always pedicured, always pristine. She wears this specific brand of stiletto heels that click against the ground but never make noise. But I think you already know that," she said and glared at him, but not without a beat of hesitation and perhaps an inkling of hope that he, after all, did not know.
Mr. Ranjan's body slumped forward, and he braced himself against the flat surface of the table, head pushed low, and eyes downcast. He stopped making the effort to keep his knee still.
The ride back to the apartment was brief and silent. Mr. Ranjan parked the car, dropped the keys in the night guard's hand, and watched Malti walk back to the lift. The last thing he saw before the doors slid shut was her distant eyes, the exact same pair he had seen the first day he came to work. His full October salary got credited to his account the next day, sixteen days in advance. The wind was heavy that morning, so Mr. Ranjan went and pulled the windows shut, effectively putting a lid on his time with the Guptas.
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