Smitten

What started off on a lark, has taken over a decade to see the light of day! No Milton’s Paradise Lost this, smitten was conceived very differently when I first started writing it, and as I went about it languidly over the years it began to acquire its own trajectory.

A Chennai based publishing start up commissioned me to work on a female centric, romantic caper that would entertain and wouldn’t be a formidable read. Accordingly, I sought a vulnerable heroine with gumption-a woman who seemingly had it all but secretly struggled with her own little quotidian demons. In other words, an everyday woman. Jayanti Rao was thus born, a late twenty-something woman who is engaged to an Air Force pilot but has lately begun to have doubts about the relationship, who hates her job and generally wishes her life were different. Other characters just magically got culled from life and experience. I wager that the book will amuse and entertain the young-at-heart woman who seeks out love, adventure, and the exhilaration of living. It celebrates the grey areas that most women find themselves in, caught between independence and sensitivity, courage and vulnerability, intelligence and foolishness-the path to self-discovery that is often riddled with paradoxes.

To me a story is never as much about the plot as it is about its characters and the place they occupy. Hyderabad has been a big part of my life, and its indelible character, a quaint mix of the old and the new, its deccani flavour, an innately cosmopolitan fabric, all of it somehow trickle down to my writings and smitten is no exception. On the other hand, Gokarna’s dominant Shiva cult and its accompanying recreational culture have endowed this beautiful town with a curious character that is at once masculine but also a little metaphysical. It lends my story a dash of the exotic.

Since the Chennai publishing house’s contract was a non-starter, the book sat for many years in the back folders of my C drive gathering digital dust when I was prodded into resuscitating it, as though the characters in my book popped up in my head begging for closure! And so it has come to pass that this book has finally found its way to the outer world of sunlight and oxygen and the promise of a slot in a book shelf someday.

-Pujita Krishna

CHAPTER ONE

Russo got off. The train was still inching its way to a halt. He noted that the platform was busy as usual with people. It was a moving crowd, a sea of preoccupied faces. Russo was watchful nevertheless. He preferred traveling by train to do his business. It was economical, and an easy way to cover his tracks when necessary. His backpack, carrying his stock-in-trade, was secure. People turned to look at him, tall and imposing as he was. He made his way purposefully through the travel-weary, baggage-saddled crowds, loped past the gates and quickly found himself on the streets. He liked visiting Hyderabad, so when Jimmy asked him to see a couple of clients in the city he agreed immediately. Besides, the curator of the art gallery in Hyderabad had been asking him to exhibit his paintings there. Jimmy was stalling on the land issue and he wasn’t doing much in Gokarna anyway.

He knew his way to Dhan’s like the back of his hand. It was a safe location, hidden away in the chaotic cluster of bylanes close to the railway station. It was evening rush hour, people were returning home from work, women stopped at the push cart vendors to buy groceries for next day’s cooking. Before long, he was in the narrow lane to Dhan’s house. Russo walked languidly, stopping at every turn, admiring some of the old structures that seemed to be falling to pieces, a little slowed down by the weight of his backpack. It was a good thing he had had his paintings shipped directly to the gallery earlier in the week. It saved him the bother of carrying them in person. He looked around as he walked. Most shop owners had their living quarters either on the upper storeys of their establishments or in the back of their shops. One could catch glimpses of a family going about its mundane tasks behind the bustle of the shop front. He turned left at the Ambedkar statue missing its famous forefinger. Squat, irregular houses appeared on either side. He opened the gate of one of the houses and made his way upstairs. The two men, who were idling about next to a parked motorbike, hadn’t escaped his notice. He could tell that one of them had been eyeing him shiftily ever since he had turned into the lane. This man was not very tall but had the body of a wrestler; he was walking about with the pride of a man who had been in one too many fights.

Dhananjay Francis had been leaning against the parapet of the balcony, smoking. He had noticed the two men too. They had been hovering about in the squalid street for a while now. Dhananjay was quite sure that this had something to do with Russo. He sucked in deeply on the joint, grateful for the leafy fragrant smoke, as he watched Russo turn the corner. He waved at him. Russo merely lifted his hand in response. Instinctively, Dhananjay felt a mixture of unbidden emotions: fear, respect, awe, envy. Mostly fear and envy. At nearly 6’2" Russo was uncommonly tall for most Indians and his talent for fisticuffs was legendary. He fought with the litheness of a boxer and the might of a wrestler. It was a delight to watch him fight but Dhananjay wouldn’t trade places with the opponent for all the money in the world. He knew though that what he lacked in physical gumption was more than made up for by his equal lack of scruples. He was a rat, and slime was his playground. The only way around Russo was slime. It smoothened and lubricated his moves. He decided to have the talk with Russo. Nah, beg Russo! That’s it, fall at his feet and beg! That way the slime wouldn’t show, he chuckled silently in his head.

‘This stuff is really good. I had some left over from your last visit.’ Dhananjay let the smoke out through his nose. He was not a very tall man but he was stockily built and his recent foray into the gym had brought about the requisite bulges. Dark as chocolate, very handsome, he had eyes that beguilingly charmed you into believing his affected naiveté. He had rolled himself a joint and offered one to Russo as a welcoming gesture but the latter had declined.

‘Your friends?’ Russo jerked his thumb in the general direction of the two men he had seen on his way up. He dropped his backpack to the floor and glanced around the room – a defence mechanism that had now become a habit. His eyes would ferret out the tiniest detail of every location that he entered. There wasn’t much to look at in the room though. It was a sparsely furnished, ill kept establishment. The large plastic cut out of Jesus Christ was still there, covering up an entire wall, home to a family of lizards. The lone single cot still retained its pride of place in the centre of the room, covered with the same soiled bed sheet from last time. The only other significant piece of furniture in the room was a Godrej almirah which remained locked. There were a few plastic chairs, stacked up one top of the other in a corner of the room. The bathroom was a dingy affair with unpainted walls and a ventilator; pigeons used the toilet more frequently than the inmates of the house.

‘What are they doing there?’ Russo asked Dhan, rolling up his sleeves.

Dhan shrugged his shoulders in response. ‘I don’t know them. I wasn’t paying attention.’

‘Really?’ Russo looked at him sceptically. He knew that Dhan was nothing if not curious as hell about everything.

‘Well, I was preoccupied Russo. Thinking of things… The NGO really needs more funds you know.’

‘Ya, ya…it’s always in need of funds. I wonder what your board of directors will have to say about your dark deeds!’ He walked to the window and looked out. The car was still there.

‘I am doing my best to run the place as best as I can. I have about a hundred kids in my care Russo. It’s not easy.’

‘Right! I just hope you are not siphoning off all the money you get from those stupid American missionaries into your own personal coffers.’

Dhananjay sensed an opening and made a beeline for Russo’s booted feet. The train smell of pee and rusted iron was still sharp and invaded his nose as he lay on the floor grabbing Russo’s ankles. ‘You have to help me, Russo. Please take me to Jimmy. I want to learn all about the business from big guys like you. I’ll do anything and everything. Just let me in.’

Russo kicked Dhan good humouredly. ‘Don’t be silly, Dhan. Your area is marked and you get your commission, right? And what are you complaining about? You have your NGO. Happy Americans reward you for every orphan you convert. There is a limit to greed, you know.’

Dhan got up and looked at Russo tensely. He was always on tenterhooks whenever Russo was around. He had to be very careful not to slip up and not to reveal anything about the new flat he had bought in Banjara Hills. It was a matter of time till he would find out anyway, but Dhan rightly figured that discretion was the better part of valour.

‘I am like your younger brother. I have no one but you. Please just introduce me to Jimmy once. I have plans you know. There is a huge market in Andhra, small towns, villages… I can really help the business grow...,’ he continued his spiel regardless. He was nothing if not persistent.

Russo caught Dhan by the collar. ‘What have I always told you?’

‘I know, I know! You only service existing clients and you will never lure clean people into this nasty habit. That’s exactly why I am saying, let me do it. Believe me, I don’t have a conscience.’

Russo laughed, ‘Oh, I know that! You don’t have a conscience but do you have a heart?’

Dhan puckered up his mouth as though he was hurt. ‘I have a heart Russo. Will you believe me if I told you I was in love?’

‘Who’s the girl?’ Russo asked casually lighting a cigarette. He waited by the window as if expecting for something to happen. ‘Someone you will screw over no doubt.’

Dhan let slip a wily smile, ‘no harm in using her help. Young girls are so impressionable and make good mules. They usually do as they are told. Older women are a pain.’

‘How old is she, Dhan?’ Russo asked alarmed. He couldn’t put anything past this man. He could very well be stringing along a poor young orphan from his seedy NGO.

‘Relax, she is not that young. She is turning eighteen in a couple of months.’

‘So she is a minor!’ Russo threw his cigarette out of the window and made as if to move towards Dhan but just then they heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

‘Are you expecting anyone?’

Dhan shrugged and stared at the door.

‘Looks like we have a visitor,’ Russo looked at Dhan and motioned to him to be silent. ‘Get a knife from the kitchen,’ he hissed at his friend.

Dhananjay looked back at him, eyes widened.

There was loud pounding on the door. ‘Open up!’

Dhananjay began looking for an exit route. His eyes darted this way and that. He could perhaps open the window, break the glass and attempt to jump over to the neighbouring balcony. Oh, but the window had iron bars….damn! Russo had already opened the door. At the doorway stood the burly man Russo had seen on his way up. Dhananjay scooted to the kitchen and stood there tensely, unwilling to reach for the knife. Knife suggested too much blood. He could hear sudden movements in the room and a low cry and a curse, the bed seemed to have moved and a loud crash followed.

Dhananjay peeped out from behind the kitchen door.

The heavy set wrestler lay on the floor and Russo was astride him, keeping him down. The bed had moved several inches and the sleeping bag was crushed under the wrestler. He was grunting and cursing liberally. Russo had a knife in his hand. It was a pocket knife but even from where he was standing, Dhananjay could tell that the thing was as sharp as any piece of metal could be.

‘Were you going to use this on me?’ Russo asked, knowing fully well that the man’s intentions were not cordial. He threw the knife aside.

‘What’s your name?’ Russo got up and helped the wrestler to his feet.

‘Shafiq.’ The man responded quietly, even as he felt his face for cuts. ‘I don’t know anything. I was just asked to take care of you.’

Russo looked at the man for a moment and burst out laughing. ‘Take care of me?’

Shafiq shrugged, his bulky shoulders going up and down. ‘My friend Wajid. He is down there, waiting for me. I was supposed to finish the job and he said the man who gave him the supari would pay us a lot of money.’

Shafiq pulled his phone out of his pocket and called his friend. ‘Come up.’ The pithy message was delivered without much emotion.

They waited a couple of minutes in silence for Wajid to show up. Meanwhile, Dhananjay having sensed that matters had resolved to a degree of reasonable safety, stepped out of the bathroom tentatively.

‘What’s