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Will you kill my wife...please?

Mar 24 2008 | Views 1407 | Comments (95)

WILL YOU KILL MY WIFE … PLEASE? Anant trudged down the staircase from his seventh floo... Expand

WILL YOU KILL MY WIFE … PLEASE?

Anant trudged down the staircase from his seventh floor apartment. He always said that this gave him time to think. What he didn’t admit was that he wanted to avoid meeting pesky neighbours who sniggered on seeing him. They seldom said anything, just exchanged knowing glances behind his back. The stairs were safe. The denizens of urban India never believe in walking down if there is an elevator handy. It amused Anant to see them take the elevator down, hop into cars and go to a Gym just 500 meters away – ostensibly to exercise. However Anant wasn’t amused now. Avoiding overflowing dustbins kept outside each flat, he aimed a moody kick at a stray beer can and, predictably, missed. That, in short, was the story of his life. But you, O faithful reader, are not going to be fobbed off so casually. There is more.

Anant’s problem was that he was hen-pecked and the whole world knew about it thanks to the thin walls of their apartment and the carrying voice of his wife Sumati. Their marriage was seven years old. No issue had come out of it, but Anant’s issues could fill a novel. Sumati personified the term Virago. Nothing satisfied her. The cynic could say here that Anant was the closest thing to nothing, but we will let that pass. She had made life hell for our hero from day one. He couldn’t do anything to meet her unusually high levels of expectation. Somewhere in those seven years, Sumati had got addicted to griping, but Anant didn’t realise this. He went on making futile efforts to please her.

That is, till he reached the end of his tether. This happened on his way back that day. He wanted to smoke badly, but had avoided the Panwalla on his way out. If Sumati smelt cigarette smoke on his breath, she would raise hell. Then something snapped. Rebellious thoughts flooded his mind. “What the hell! Fuck it! I’m not taking this shit anymore!”

He went back to the Pan stall and thumped the counter.

“One Gold Flake cigarette!”

“Small or big sir?”

“Big, you fool! Do I look like someone who smokes a small?”

Actually he did, but the panwalla, unlike Anant’s wife, was a career diplomat. He knew when to talk and when to shut up. He quietly proffered a cigarette.

When Anant returned home, Sumati pounced.

“Where were you so long? And what’s this? Have you been smoking?”

“Yes, so what?” replied the newly awakened Anant, “What’s your hurry? I go to work, not you and these are my lungs, not yours. If anything happens, you will get the insurance money… that is, if I don’t change the nominee. Now get my bath water ready. What are you staring at, woman?”

Sumati reeled back in shock. What in God’s name was this? Deciding that discretion was indeed the better part of valour, she kept quiet till he left for work.

At the office too, Anant’s tormentors were taken aback when they saw that the usually timid fellow had sprouted claws. After a couple of salvos, they retreated, licking their wounds, puzzled more than hurt.

On the way back from work, daydreaming in the train, Anant was hit by a brainwave. It was so simple that he was wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. He had to get rid of his wife. That was it. Next question: How? Divorce wasn’t an option – it took too long; it was messy; the party of the second part would still be around – can’t get over that bit. It had to be the full Monty – MURDER.

Murder. He moved the tantalising word around his mouth and savoured the tangy taste of it. Yes, that was the thing. Take her out, snuff out her existence, switch off the light… aah… it felt so good to just think about it, imagine how it would be to actually do it.

His nimble brain then switched to the method he would use:

Gun: Naww… too noisy, difficult to do it quietly, near impossble to pass it off as an accidental death and the biggest reason of all – he didn’t own a gun.
Knife: Fuhget it… even in this new, improved version, Anant couldn’t see himself as a knife-man
Hanging: Hmm… there was a possibility here, but he wondered if the ceiling of his CIDCO-built flat would survive Sumati’s not inconsiderable dead weight. No, it wouldn’t work
Poison: A lifelong addict of Agatha Christie novels, Anant tried to picture himself going to the nearest chemist shop and asking for a little-known Asiatic poison or Arsenic. No, wouldn’t fly. What about those Rat poisons? He was sure that they would have no effect. She’d easily digest it… hmm… couldn’t quite see poison as an option.

As each one was shot down, Anant grew despondent, but not for too long. He hit upon the big idea. Yes, that was it! It had to be Bangalored.

So many times, thought Anant, the solution is right there – sitting up & staring at us. We refuse to see it. Living in India, the cradle of the outsourcing industry why didn’t he think of this earlier? By the time, the train reached his station, our hero was champing at the bit and pulling at the leash to get out and find the guy to take on the job. It had to be one of Mumbai’s famous contract killers.

Bouncing out of the station, he stopped dead in his tracks. Small problem – where was he to find a contract killer? These guys didn’t exactly advertise in the yellow pages. Two cigarettes later, he got the answer: Hindi movies. Brought up on a strict diet of escapist rubbish, Anant knew that if one had to find a contract killer, one went to a seedy bar. That’s where these chaps hang out.

He lost no time locating the seediest of the neighbourhood bars, imaginatively named “Chandni Bar”. Anant walked in and came face to face with a life that he never knew existed. It was dingy, crowded and there was a thick pall of cigarette smoke hanging over the place. Just standing and breathing for five minutes was enough to give him his monthly quota of nicotine. He stood still for five minutes till his pupils dilated enough to see in the dim light. What met his eyes wasn’t very encouraging. Every single chap in that bar, sitting and studiously getting drunk seemed to fit the picture of a contract killer.

Anant sank into an empty chair and absently ordered some whiskey. He was nonplussed. How does one go about this? One can’t just walk up to a chap and say, “Excuse me, if you don’t mind, will you kill my wife… err… please?” No, one can’t. Not even if one is desperate. There are things that a chap can do and things that he can’t. Most of the vim & vigour of the new, improved Anant dissipated in the fetid air of the bar. He wasn’t giving up though and chose to sit and soak in the atmosphere and play it by ear. Raucous music and a hundred conversations didn’t leave much room for that, but he stayed anyway. Three drinks later, he was considerably deafer, but none the wiser. He had however regained some of his courage – of the Dutch variety.

In the meanwhile, what of Sumati? We had left her puzzled and angry in the morning.

After Anant left, she leapt for the phone – the modern woman’s faithful companion and source of strength. She called Anahita, her close friend (yes, yes… she did have friends) Anahita, fresh from her third divorce, was all sympathy. After all, someone else’s misery can be so invigorating and this was Sumati, the haughty one who had all the answers. After patiently hearing Sumati out, she had only one piece of advice: Wait and watch. This could be a portent of more to come. This was so much like her second husband. He too had changed suddenly and the first sign was drinking. If Anant started drinking, Sumati could be sure that he was having an affair. What Anahita didn’t tell her was about her other two husbands. Both had fled due to her philandering ….and both drank like fishes.

Sumati kept the phone down with a trembling hand. How could this be? Anant? Drinking and having an affair? Hah! She’d like to know the girl or woman who would fall for this sorry piece of baggage. She worked herself up into a temper by the time the doorbell rang. When alcoholic fumes wafted in before Anant did, Sumati almost fainted. Then it was true. Anahita – damn and blast her promiscuous soul – had been right.

Anant strode in, flung his leather satchel in one corner, shoes in the other and plonked himself in front of the TV.

“Dinner!” yelled the new self-appointed master of the house.

Sumati scrambled to comply, her temper forgotten. Anant went on to enjoy the best evening of his married life as she fetched and carried like never before.

This sequence repeated itself for the rest of the week. While his domestic life assumed a new bliss, Anant didn’t make any progress in locating the hired killer. He switched bars, tried out the “Vishwanath” for a week and later settled on the quaintly named “Vin-Vina” bar. Here, he finally made a friend of sorts – a sorry-looking sub-human specimen called Hariya. After priming Hariya with half a bottle of third grade whiskey, he tried to pump him. The conversation didn’t follow any accepted lines, but it was something.

“Hariya,” started Anant tentatively, “Suppose you wanted to kill your wife, what would you do?”

“Wife, what wife? … I’m shtill unmarried… only shtupid people get married… you are calling me shtupid? I’ll…”

“No-No, you are not shtupid, I mean stupid. Just suppose that you are married and…”

“Why?”

“Hear me out. Suppose you were married and wanted to kill…”

“Why should I shuppose shuch things? I have enough crap in my life without a wife to add to it”

“Will you listen to me, you bloody jerk?” shouted Anant, but it was no use. His brilliant friend had collapsed into a plate of scrambled eggs. Disgusted, Anant downed his drink and left the bar.

As he stepped out, a hand tapped his shoulder. Turning, he found a menacing young man confronting him. The chap towered over Anant and his knees turned to jelly.

“Yes? How can I…”

“Were you serious in there?” asked the fellow, jerking a thumb towards the bar, “Do you want to have your wife killed?”

“I… I never said anything about my wife… I mean I was just…”

“Yes or no. Don’t waste my time”

“Err…Y-Yes…”

“We can’t talk here. Give me your mobile number. I will contact you later”

He meekly complied as he had been programmed to for the last thirty-six years of his life. It never occurred to him that he could have refused or given a fake number. A worried Anant trudged home that night.

As Sumati opened the door, she looked at him with trepidation. His temper was usually foul these days. When she saw that he wasn’t about to bite her head off, she helped him change and laid the dinner on the table. While she was busy, Anant looked around their little flat. It was gleaming. She had also taken pains to cook his favourite dishes. All that nagging was a thing of the past now. Taking that away, Sumati wasn’t such a bad sort. In any case, he too wasn’t exactly the type to get love letters written in blood from teenage girls. A niggling thought took shape in his mind. Should he call off the search for a killer? He could keep up the façade of drinking for a while, though. He hated the stuff, but it was for a noble cause.

Sumati glanced sideways at Anant from the open plan kitchen. That Anahita is an idiot, she thought. He is not seeing anybody else. She had confirmed this by following him for a couple of days. It was just the drinking and that could be due to her nagging. He wasn’t such a bad guy after all. Maybe she could turn things around by being nice to him. Plus, she really couldn’t afford to lose all this. She had no illusions of her ability to either make it on her own or snare another husband.

Anant’s phone rang and broke the spell. It was a strange number.

“Yes, Anant here, who is this?”

“It is I. We met outside the Vin-Vina bar” said a gravelly voice that sent shivers down his spine.

“Yes, yes,” said Anant quickly, conscious of Sumati being within earshot.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this? If yes, I will tell you what to do next”

“No - No. I don’t think I want it right now. Maybe you can call me in a couple of month’s time” said Anant hurriedly and disconnected the phone.

“These credit card companies… they just don’t leave a guy alone” he muttered aloud and turned on the TV.

A nascent murderous career had been successfully put on hold. A pity really, as it had all the potential of burgeoning into a cottage industry. Peace finally reigned in the little flat as they both settled down to watch unending sagas of other broken homes in the la-la land of TV serials.

Sulekha.com

B S Keshav

bskeshav.sulekha.com

Will you kill my wife...please?

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