The Voice That Called Him Back

The doorbell rang thrice. Krishnaswamy reluctantly rose from his usual spot by the window. He had been sipping his coffee and surveying the street below. His taste buds had begun to accept the thin, sugarless coffee he made with instant chicory mix every morning. Outside, the July sun was beginning to warm the lanes of Madras, its light mingling with the earthy scent from the night’s rain. People were returning from their morning walks. The tender coconut seller was setting up his cart. Women were tracing kolams at the portico of their houses. Stray dogs were asleep on the footpath after a restless, rainy night.

“Yes, yes, coming!” Swamy shouted, hobbling towards the door. His calves throbbed as though they had carried him across miles.

It was Murugesan, the owner of the house, a man who was almost the same age as Swamy, but looked a decade younger. Money did wonders to people, Swamy thought. 

Every year, Murugesan and his missus spent the summer months in their estate bungalow at Coonoor, a luxury that Swamy could not dream about. Swamy had worked for the Electricity Board all his life, and the EB officers’ quarters had been his sanctuary until retirement.

Mangala Vilas, the house that Murugesan’s father had built five decades ago stood at the intersection of two busy streets. Its two storeys rose above an elaborate garden, with an open terrace crowning the structure. Murugesan’s family lived on the ground floor; above them were two modest units—Swamy’s one-bedroom portion and a larger two-bedroom unit, whose tenant had vacated recently. A “To Let” board hung on the main gate and the house was being treated to a fresh coat of paint. A few paint buckets and a mound of concrete rubble lay as an eyesore by the gate.

“When did you come?” Swamy inquired.

Murugesan brushed it aside with a wave.

“There has been a theft in the house.”

“Ada Kadavule!”

“The main gate was ajar when we came. Did you not lock it?”

“I did, like I do every night.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes.” The lines on his forehead deepened.

“Did you hear anything in the night, at least? Try to remember, no.”

“Illai, Murugesa. I am sure.”

“There are foot prints all over the garden.”

“Oh. Who could have done it? We have never had thieves in this area, no?”

“That is what. Someone has got a clue that we were not around.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I have telephoned Sivanesan.”

“Oh, DGP saar? Your relative.”

“Yes, yes. He will be here anytime. Come down soon, we need to talk.”

His gaze lingered disapprovingly on Swamy’s worn-out baniyan. “Wear a shirt and come.”

“OK. Two minutes.”

Swamy retreated to his bedroom and pulled out a shirt from the cupboard. Lakshmi’s cotton saris were arranged in a neat pile alongside his shirts. He had made it a practice to wash and press her saris every Sunday. 

The solitary bed next to the cupboard was in a disarray. The bed sheet was twisted into a knot at the foot of the bed and the pillow lay aslant near the window. Swamy’s veshti was on the floor, wet and muddled. There were streaks of blue paint on it. 

Swamy bent down and scratched the paint with his fingertip, trying to recall if he had brushed against something during the day. A thin blue crescent coated the edge of his nail. Lakshmi would have noticed instantly. She always enquired where he had been, what he had done, when he returned home in the evenings. It had been a daily ritual for forty-two years. He rubbed his thumb against the stain again, harder this time, as if the answer might rise to the surface if he insisted.

Murugesan’s voice floated from below. Swamy dropped the veshti over the back of a chair. He slipped on the shirt, fumbling with the buttons, and then with a short, weary exhale, made his way downstairs.

“A hundred sovereigns, all gone!” Mrs.Murugesan was shouting when Swamy entered their house. “My necklaces, bangles, the gold I had been saving for our Shalu, everything gone!” she lamented, passing a sweeping glance over her daughter.

Mrs.Murugesan was a short, well-built woman in her early sixties. She had a shrill voice that could reach the last house on the street – and it did, on the nights they fought, the daughter’s screams competing with the mother’s. Shalini was standing behind Mrs.Murugesan, peering at him with her big, round eyes.

“The scoundrels have removed the exhaust fan in the kitchen and entered through that opening!” Swamy realized she was addressing him. He followed her to the kitchen. There was a gaping hole high on the wall. Things were scattered all across the kitchen counter. There were some used glasses lying in the sink. “They’ve had the guts to drink juice from my fridge!” Mrs.Murugesan threw her hands up.

“Ada Kadavule!” Swamy nodded in disbelief.

“But we don’t know who opened the main gate for them!” She looked at Swamy through the corner of her eyes.

His stomach let out a deep groan. When will the police officer come? Swamy toyed with the ink pen tucked into his shirt pocket. A thick blot of ink had formed at its edge.

“Mmkmm”

Swamy turned around.

“This is Mr.Krishnaswamy, our tenant,” Murugesan said to a tall man at the door. Upright chin, square shoulders, neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair, frameless spectacles, freshly pressed white linen shirt, and khaki pants. DGP Sivanesan, just the way he appeared on TV.

“Vanakkam, saar,” Swamy said.

The DGP nodded, his eyes measuring Swamy. “So where do you stay, Mr.Krishnaswamy?”

“Here only, on the first floor.”

“And what do you do?”

“I am a retired government servant, saar. EB.”

“I see. When did you retire?”

“Nine – ten years ago, saar.”

“I see. Who all are there in your family?”

“Only me, saar. Wife passed away last year.”

“Ay no! Two years ago,” Murugesan chipped in. “Accident,” he added. The DGP gave him a reproachful look.

“Oh, I am sorry. You manage alone?”

Swamy nodded. His fingers reached for the pen in his shirt pocket. Lakshmi had never liked such questions from strangers. She would have answered tactfully, sparing him the effort of elaboration.

“Children?”

“One son, he lives in Calcutta.”

“Okay. Did you notice anything unusual yesterday?”

“Illai saar, nothing.”

“Can you tell us about the incidents from last evening? Leave no detail.”

Swamy told the officer that, it being a Friday, he had gone to the temple around four or so when the milk seller was delivering his usual quota of milk at the neighbor’s. He had chatted with a few friends on the way back and attended a concert at Narada Gana Sabha.

He carefully omitted details of his visit to the pub. Policemen could never be trusted. 

Even Lakshmi would have been furious. “Drink like a fish, drink all you want, but don’t you dare come near me!” she had warned in the early years of their marriage. He had not touched alcohol in years while she was alive. There had been no need.

“I see. What time did you come home?”

“Hmm, I think it was eight o’clock. It was news time on Doordarshan.”

Lakshmi would have remembered the exact time of his return. She always did. Even when she had been away at their son’s place in Calcutta, she called Swamy in the evenings to ensure he was back home.

“Anything unusual around the house?”

“No, it was all still and quiet. The garden lights were on, I always turn them on before stepping out.” Swamy looked at Murugesan intently.

“Okay. Then?”

“Then I went upstairs, turned on the radio and listened to some music. I must have dozed off like that.”

“There was a power cut in this area last night. Didn’t you wake up then?”

Traces of the night flashed past him – darkness pressing against his eyelids, the hazy moonlight, the rain on the terrace, Lakshmi standing on the balustrade, a baby in her arms sobbing rhythmically. He remembered twisting and turning, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. He remembered running towards her. He remembered waking up soaked in sweat.

On nights like these, Lakshmi would keep her arm draped across his chest, as though anchoring a drifting boat.

“Mr.Krishnaswamy?”

He blinked. “I asked if you woke up at night.”

“Illai, saar.”

“Hmm. So, when did you come to know that Murugesan & family had returned?”

“This morning, saar. When he came up and called me.”

“I see.”

Swamy stepped out onto the portico, the interrogation being over.

“Uncle!” a voice called out softly and with a tone of caution.

Swamy turned around. It was Shalini. Her left hand was folded behind her, as if hiding something.

“What ma?” Swamy asked.

“Uncle…”

“Yes?”

“I… I found this near the gate. This is yours, no?” She produced a torchlight from behind.

“Yes, yes! I was looking for this everywhere.” Swamy took the torch from her eagerly. His fingers closed around it with a faint familiarity.

“Where did you get this from?”

“It was lying beside the paint bucket, over there.” She pointed towards the gate.

“Oh,” Swamy touched his forehead. “How come it got there?”

“Uncle…”

“I always keep the torch under my pillow. How…”

“Did you happen to see the thieves, uncle? Did you…”

Swamy stared at her.

“Uncle… please try to remember, maybe you went near the gate last night?”

“Ennama idhu? What are you trying to say?”

“I mean… did you wake up and go out… like… like last time?”

Swamy raised an eyebrow.

Lakshmi had asked the same question on some days, pointing at the unlocked door, or his slippers lying askew at the entrance.

“Uncle, I promise! I have not told anything to Amma and Appa. I know how difficult it is for you…”

“…”

“I just hope you are okay. Shall I call Abhi Anna and ask him to come?”

Swamy shook his head and let out a sigh. “I must leave now. I have to make breakfast.” He alighted the stairs, not waiting for a response.

Swamy stood in the kitchen, ladle in hand, gazing at the empty vessel on the stove. The surface was filmed with grease, some of it streaked across his shirt. In the sink, steel vessels—some rinsed, others waiting—lay in a haphazard pile. He tried to recall what he had intended to cook.

He opened a tin from the shelf below. Rice. He opened another. Tamarind, hardened into a dark lump. The spice box in the corner had powders merged into indistinguishable shades.

He set the ladle down. The silence in the kitchen pressed in on him, thick and unbroken.

Tring… Tring…

The sound of the landline tore through the stillness. Swamy flinched, as though pulled abruptly from somewhere far away. He wiped his hands on his veshti and walked toward the hall, in slow, reluctant steps.

Tring… Tring…

“Hello? Hello? Abhi…”

“Appa! Did you go to the terrace last night?”

“What are you saying?”

“Appa… please. I know what is happening there.”

“What?”

“The ground floor girl had called. Good that at least she is there to inform me.”

Swamy closed his eyes.

“Oh! that girl and her crazy thoughts!”

“She is not the crazy one, Appa. And you know that. Still, you are adamant!”

“Aa… how’s your work? Are you coming for puja leave?” 

“Appa, don’t change the topic! You need a nurse. And I am going to find one now!”

“Abhi, I am perfectly fine. What illness do I have to need a nurse?”

“Appa, stop being so stubborn! Either you come here or let me find a nurse in Madras.”

“Abhi, you won’t understand… this house… I… I am a lone man…”

“Yes, that is why you need help!”

“…”

“Appa, please… don’t keep thinking of it. Fate has taken Amma from us…”

“Noooo. Don’t blame fate!” His voice cracked, rising suddenly.

“Appa, how long…”

“Ellaam my mistake.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I shouldn’t have let Lakshmi go to Calcutta.”

“It’s not like that, Appa.”

“She was the Rani of this house! I left her to die in a foreign land… miles away…”

His fingers tightened around the receiver.

“Appa, please! Don’t start again.”

“Then you don’t call me again.”

“Appa… I just want you to be okay.”

“What is left in my life now?” His voice fell into the hollowness of the room. He placed the receiver down. “What is left …” he murmured staring at the wall.

All through the day, Swamy sat glued to the easy chair in front of the TV, switching channels. Faces appeared and vanished on the screen. He ate a light meal of curd rice and mango pickle and napped an hour longer. When he woke, his neck ached, and the television was still speaking to no one. 

It was almost six in the evening when he stepped out. The police jeep was gone. The paint buckets had been pushed closer to the wall. The lane looked as it always did at that hour. Swamy walked aimlessly. His body found the familiar route toward the temple, past the petty shop that still displayed last month’s cinema posters. He nodded at a man he half-recognized. The man nodded back, uncertain. 

At the end of the street, Swamy paused. For a fleeting second, he considered turning back, climbing the narrow staircase to his portion, and examining the veshti again. He had rinsed it in the afternoon, scrubbing at the streak of blue until his fingers wrinkled. The paint had thinned, spread, and become a pale bruise on the white fabric.

The temple bells began their evening clang. He resumed walking. Inside the temple, the air was thick with camphor and jasmine. As he closed his eyes, he saw Lakshmi standing on the balustrade. The baby in her arms had no face. Only weight. He stood before the deity longer than usual, his lips moving without sound. The prayers would not come. Words had deserted him. His hands trembled as he took the prasadam from the priest. He sat in the hall outside the sanctum and stared at the holy ash and flowers in his palms. Around him, people moved with purpose – lighting lamps, whispering prayers, gathering children, adjusting bags. Their lives flowed forward in small, certain motions.

When he returned to Mangala Vilas, the front gate was ajar. Mrs.Murugesan’s voice floated from inside. There was a mention of insurance, of locksmiths, of changing all the bolts.

Swamy mounted the stairs with heavy steps. He stepped into his portion and shut the door.

The room had begun to absorb the evening’s dimness. Swamy did not switch on the light. He sat on the edge of the bed and listened – the whir of the ceiling fan, the ticking clock, the hum of vehicles on the street below, a pressure cooker’s whistle, a distant blare of television.

He tried to recall the night before. The concert at Narada Gana Sabha. The burn of Old Monk at the pub. The walk back under trees dripping with rain. The warmth of the rum coursing through his veins. The news on Doordarshan. A voice on the radio. Then the power cut.

Had there been one?

Swamy stood up abruptly and crossed to the cupboard. Lakshmi’s saris lay in their neat stacks. He pulled one out — a deep brown with a thin gold border – and pressed it to his face. The scent had faded.

He pictured Lakshmi by the window, her favourite Sujatha novel in hand, spectacles low on her nose, her dull black hair neatly combed and plaited, her crisp cotton sari stirring in the evening breeze. The scent of freshly made filter coffee permeated the house.

“Lakshmi,” he called out. His sound echoed across the room.

The street below had resumed its nightly rhythm. A scooter sputtered to life. Someone laughed. A cart rattled away. 

Swamy thought of the terrace above him, washed clean by rain.

He folded the sari and returned it to the cupboard. He slid the bolt across the door and lay down carefully, aligning himself with the edge of the mattress.

Sometime past midnight, when the neighbourhood had sunk into a deeper quiet, his hand moved beneath the pillow. The torch. 

He rose. His feet found the floor, then the doorway. They began to walk.

There was once a voice that called his name before he reached the door.