After having driven a Maruti 800 for over ten years, since he became old enough to have a licence to kill, Sachin decided to graduate to a Mahindra Scorpio. At 28, he was priming to get married, and he “preferred to stay with his parents after marriage” if his wife played ball. When Sadanand, a cloth merchant at Kapda Bazaar met him at Hot Plate, a eatery frequented by mostly students, in suburban Mumbai, Sachin was full of beans. Talking about the high prospects of property sector, home loans, cement and steel prices and the PE ratio of real estate stocks, he convinced Sadanand that he was a sub-broker out to find his next kill.

All through his conversation on that Saturday afternoon when orange juice and tea flowed incessantly, Sadanand stayed distant for long enough to make Sachin uncomfortable. Finally, Sachin sensing Sadanand's discomfiture, told him impishly, “I am not here to sell you anything. Though I am a sales man given to making a pitch every moment of my life, I am a humble HDFC home loan salesman”. His humility was revealed when Sadanand later asked him his monthly earnings. Embarrassingly for Sadanand, Sachin earned more than he did, and that also convinced Sadanand that his words about the industry would turn out to be prophetic. When the waiter in brown and white uniform turned up with the bill Sachin did not make any attempt to pick it up. Sadanand got a lesson in parsimoniousness that day.

_________________________________________

June 7, 2009

The restaurant was dingy, dirty and dark. The smell was obnoxious. The far end of the restaurant had a single chair which meant there never was more than one customer at a time. Rahul disembarked from the bus, after all the passengers did, carrying his backpack in his hand. He saw Sumesh standing near the bookstall with his phone stuck between his head and shoulder and lugging two bags in each hand. Rahul presumed it must be Shailaja on the other end of the phone. This trip to Mysore was a salvage operation planned by Rahul. When Shailaja sent Sumesh the last SMS breaking up their three-year long relationship, Sumesh appeared badly shaken. For days he walked around like a zombie in his office at HSR Layout. At Rx Labs where he worked he had no interest in his latest Hathway project. Then his boss told him to take a vacation for a month. Rahul was equally stunned by Sumesh’s behaviour. Mysore trip was impulsively planned, and worse, inordinately delayed. Yet, the fun was good.
 
When a bus turned in to enter the depot it raised a cloud of dust, and a collection of thin polyethylene bags also went up in the air. Rahul gestured to Sumesh about eating something at the restaurant. Sumesh first raised his eyebrows to express shock at Rahul’s suggestion, then shook his head to refuse the offer. Rahul could not help stop laughing at his idiocy, as Sumesh’s phone fell and went rolling down the hillock. Sumesh dropped the four bags and went scurrying after the phone. Rahul could see his head bob for a while before he disappeared behind the hillock.
 
The restaurant had a gathering of six people, mostly farm workers who had come for their mid-morning cup ofchai. It looked as if they had just stepped out of a puddle of mud, their feet had weed stuck on all sides. The restaurant named after some god of the hills, told a story of age, insouciance and failure of a business model. The decrepit old man who managed the hotel, showed a lot of enterprise running errands to serving piping hot tea in crumbled cups which had frayed rim.
 
Rahul sat down on the only chair in the restaurant, while the farm workers carried on with their conversation in Orriya. They were vacuous, swinging their hands in gestures sometimes obscene and creating a racket. Rahul pretended to be equally indifferent. Minutes later Rahul saw Sumesh come up walking with both feet soiled, holding his shoes in his hands and the phone and the hands-free dangling from his shoulders.
 
“Was it Shailaja?” Rahul asked him without looking up from the Telugu newspaper spread on his table.
 
“Why do you pretend to know everything from Shailaja to Telugu?” Sumesh retorted without much mirth. Sumesh looked hurt, but Rahul did not delve further. Rahul closed the paper even as he sighed. Sumesh had bloodshot eyes, and he tried hard to look cheerful.
 
Second later, the bus driver, after his morning ablutions, also walked into the restaurant bare feet. Rahul and Sumesh listened intently when the driver started to speak in Orriya. They heard him tell the restaurant owner which could have only meant that he was feeling ill. The driver ordered for chai. A moment later he got up after the first sip, and almost on cue Rahul and Sumesh got up to rush to the bus. All the passengers boarded the bus in a single file, and in about more two minutes the rickety old bus was cruising at 60-kmph.
 
“Do you have any whisky left?” Sumesh asked Rahul and even before Rahul could react he continued, “I want some now”. When Rahul sat staring at him, Sumesh pressed his hands into Rahul’s pocket and drew out the small bottle of Director’s Special. He took a long swig. Rahul still looked bewildered. After a long moment, Sumesh finally spoke in low voice:, "my bank is confiscating my flat in Bangalore tomorrow for non-payment of the last five EMIs”. 
 
Three days later when Rahul picked up the Hindustan Times at the Bangalore airport the picture on the front page was very familiar and the story was even more known to him. Sumesh hung himself in his room minutes before the bank impounders came.
_________________________________________

June 13, 2009

The bell rang without respite, and Sanket woke up with a start. He looked at himself bleary eyed, he was naked. He pulled the thin bed sheet away and wound it up around his waist. His looked at his phone to check the time – 7.43 am. He looked around but Shailaja had left. The bell rang again before he reached the door. He left it ajar, turned around, went into his bedroom and sat on the edge of bed. The maid servant ambled into the room holding a plastic can and a broom. She glanced at the bottles of beer kept near the door for the scavenger to take away. She twitched her nose impulsively, which was strange as drinking binge was commonplace in Bangalore. Sanket tried to collect his thoughts. His eyelids were drooping.. When the night is eventful, the morning after tends to be benumbing. The maid took over ten minutes to clean up the place, swept the floor with a broom and then swabbed it with a wet cloth, which according to Sanket wasn’t much as he was minimalist in furniture these days – no dining table, no television set – no nothing left.
 
Exactly twelve hours later when Sanket stuck his online ticket under the guard’s nose, he impulsively looked over his shoulders. Sanket entered the concourse and went straight ahead to the Jet Airways counter. The clock behind the counter showed 7.36 pm.
 
“Your flight is on time, sir. Don’t have any check-in baggage?” the woman behind the counter asked impulsively.
“No check-in baggage. Can I know when will I reach London? It seems to be a crowded flight”, Sanket said giving his most reserved smile.
“ Oh, you should be there in London by 5 am local time”.
Sanket thought the girl did not bite the bait as she barely looked up.
 
At twenty minutes past midnight the police broke open Sanket’s room. The flat owner was amongst the policemen who trooped in to check if Sanket was around. There was only a Post It message on the wall facing the main door. It said, “Sorry, can’t pay the rent now. Will try paying on my next visit. Cherios!!!”
 
[This is a true story, but embellished to build narrative interest. Names have been changed for my convenience than anyone else’s]