Kaala Jaadu

6th March 2014; 08:45 Hours

‘Om aim hreem kleem chamundaaye vichhe:’ a voice reverberated, filling every room with its eeriness, penetrating through its very clay bricks. The chanting, which lasted for about forty-three minutes, came to its routine closure by the characteristic ‘Dugga Dugga’. Opening his eyes, Neel took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the scent of lavender incense; his forehead bright with three parallel lines of vermilion.

Folding the ash colored aasana, he tucked it away in the brown mahogany drawer. The next moment, he was flipping through the pages of his leather planner. Casting a glance at the wall clock, he chuckled to himself, heading towards the shower. ‘I can afford a leisurely bath’, he groaned in pleasure.

Getting into a pair of black denims, he oiled his bald scalp, with an air of aloofness, whistling a tune to himself; a haunting melody which grew onto one’s senses. His whistling was interrupted by a beep over his handheld device, a blue light glowing, softly at its edges. Pursing his lips, he spoke in a deep voice, ‘Of course, I would be looking into that personally!’

By eleven-thirty, he stood at the reception, exchanging notes with a woman in her early twenties. It was Ishita, the ever smiling face of his salon. ‘Ish, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Patodia shall be coming in about half an hour. Ensure he’s looked after … and sound me off when he arrives!’ He instructed as he turned, walking back in the direction from where he had arrived. Once inside the cocoon of his cabin, he sat on his plush recliner and sighed as he revealed a photograph from his drawer. Staring hard at it, he ran his fingers over it, as if trying to caress the very person. Placing it on the table, in front of him, he looked at it again, his thoughts clouded.

A soft knock at his door caught him off guard. Caging the photograph in the top-most drawer, he cleared his throat as he replied to the knock, almost mechanically, ‘Coming!’ As he got up, he checked his reflection in the mirror. A man in his mid thirties peered back at him, his eyes sunken, resembling a bottomless pit. Adjusting his beige linen shirt, he sauntered out. ‘Sir, this is Mr. Patodia,’ Ish smiled, her braces showing. ‘Ahan! Thanks Ishita. I will take charge from here,’ Neel shot back, as he diverted his attention onto the gentleman.

‘Hello! I’m Neel … and I shall be tending to your requirement!’ He sounded amicable as he spoke, navigating him through the salon and deciding upon a corner. ‘Thank you! I’m Naitik … we spoke over the line today!’ said the gentleman as he perched himself onto the corner seat, overlooking a wide mirror. ‘Yeah! I was looking forward to seeing you Naitik. I can almost assure you … you shall never forget this haircut … and me, of course!’ Neel said, while draping him in a translucent plastic sheet, his eyes scanning Naitik from the mirror.

‘Ah! I guess, you should opt for a crew cut … it will suit your persona!’ Neel scrutinized his features. ‘Well, you are the boss here … I will go by your verdict,’ Naitik appeared rather pleased with the suggestion. Picking up a pair of scissors, Neel snipped with rehearsed ease. After an elapse of about an hour, Naitik stood up, flexing his muscles. As he took a closer look at his life-size reflection, he looked content.

‘Care for some tea?’ Neel asked, his tone indifferent yet warm. ‘Well, I’m in a hurry! It’s my anniversary …’ Naitik replied with a brief smile. ‘Ahan! Then I won’t hold you back …’ winked Neel, ere he continued, ‘But our herbal tea is a must and won’t take more than a minute to get dispensed!’ Making some mental calculations as he checked his wrist watch, Naitik agreed. He was wearing a Rolex, an ostentatious piece in gold.

‘It’s quite cold in here,’ Naitik voiced his observation, sniffing suddenly. ‘Ah! I’ll adjust that. The herbal tea will settle the sniffing!’ Neel replied, while punching a button on the wall dispenser. Advancing a white paper cup towards him, Neel smiled. The silent room came alive with animated conversations about Naitik’s life, marriage and his wife. Akin to a passive listener, Neel harped onto every word that Naitik spoke.

As Naitik’s iPhone vibrated on the glass tabletop, Neel squinted at the name which flashed. ‘Pooja’. Answering the call almost immediately, Naitik cooed, ‘Yeah baby! I’m done … Yeah, yeah … I’m just starting for home. Love you too!’ Neel stood up at once, his face devoid of any visible expression.

‘Gosh! Look at the time … I’m so late!’ Naitik murmured to himself, his forehead lined. As he got up with a start, he smiled, ‘Thank you so much for your hospitality … why! I guzzled down three cups of tea!’ Opening the door, Neel replied, ‘Oh don’t bother! Take care and happy anniversary!’

‘Well, before I leave, I would like to congratulate your marketing and branding team. Had it not been for their incessant calls … I would not have even known this salon existed. Good job dude! I’m so glad I came!’ Naitik sounded warm in his praises.

‘Destiny … destiny we met!’ Neel arched his thin eyebrows, sporting a wry smile.

Tearing down the length of the salon, Naitik rushed to the reception, only to find an empty chair. Flustered, he looked around, spotting the approaching silhouette. It was that of Neel. Waving out at the shadow, he enquired, ‘Where do I pay dude?’ Neel replied in a relaxed tone, ‘Don’t bother! It’s your anniversary gift … now run along! We will catch up soon … super soon!’ Taken aback at the generosity, Naitik shrugged his shoulder as he saw the outline disappearing.

Neel’s hands shivered for a moment as he approached the corner seat, catching sight of the plastic sheet. Salt and pepper hair-locks adorned it. With a furious pace, he punched all the buttons onto the switch board. The salon now stood illuminated; bathed in blinding white light. Sitting on his haunches, Neel carefully peeled off the plastic sheet, folding it neatly. A stickler for cleanliness, he would spend hours lecturing his employees about the importance of personal hygiene.

Once at the wheels, Naitik scrolled to the ‘favorite’ list of his iPhone. ‘I’m crossing Hazra almost! Won’t take me more than twelve minutes!’ Licking his dry lips in excitement, he accelerated. As he reached his swanky bungalow, nestled in the heart of Alipore, he almost ran to the doorway. His head whirled for a moment; his reflex mechanisms prodding his brain to hold onto the wooden framed door. Almost gasping for breath, he sat on the doormat. Unbuttoning his shirt, he clutched onto his chest as he curled into a foetal position. Minutes later, his khakhi uniformed, gurkha security came racing towards him. Inside the plush bungalow, the intercom rang incessantly.

15:23 Hours

‘Bhabhiji, Sahib bahar gir gaye hai. Aaiye! Jaldi aaiye!’ Renu’s chest heaved as she recounted the version of the security. Her eyes wide in horror, Pooja tore down the staircase of the duplex bungalow. The family physician; Mr. Roy was summoned, who promptly appeared before a distraught Pooja. Upon seeing him, she yowled, ‘What took you so long doctor? It’s been more than forty minutes that Naitik is unconscious!’ An experienced general physician, Roy wasn’t the ones who fancied melodrama. Turning a blind eye towards her reactions, he checked Naitik’s pulse, followed by his heartbeat. Then turning towards Pooja, he said, loud and clear; ‘It’s plausible that he suffered a stroke … I mean, a heat stroke! Considering that he’s been unconscious for an hour or so … he should come in his senses in the next ten or fifteen minutes’.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Pooja began babbling to herself, like a hysterical ninny. ‘Heat stroke! We don’t come from Metiabruz … do we? Heat stroke in his dual air-conditioned Pajero?’ Making himself comfortable with an iced tea, Doctor Roy placed his fingers beneath Naitik’s nostrils. He was breathing alright, his breath though was warm. Enquiring about his stress levels and other health conditions, he diverted his attention onto Pooja. She sat on the bedside, by Naitik’s feet, rubbing them vigorously. 

Back in the salon, Neel unwrapped the plastic sheet. Using a pair of forceps, he began lifting the strands and putting them in an earthen pot. The worn-out blackened pot, chipped at its left corner, smoldered. Angry fumes lashed at once, its dense gray smoke spiraling towards the thick turquoise curtains. The cabin was glowing with an eerie energy pattern. A sweaty Neel, peeled off his linen shirt and flung in on the table. Bare chest, he held his janeu with his ring finger, engrossed in mouthing various shlokas.

16:44 Hours

Naitik stirred to the plane of consciousness. ‘Hey bhagwaan! Naitik … are you alright? What happened?’ A teary faced Pooja squealed in delight. ‘Calm down, Mrs. Patodia! Please calm down. Such excitement is not healthy!’ Dr. Roy expressed his disapproval, as he checked Naitik’s pulse again. ‘What happened? What time is it?’ Naitik got up, pressing his temples. Upon learning that he had fainted at the doorstep, he sighed, ‘Thank god I wasn’t driving then! Low blood pressure it is … I haven’t been taking my medicines for over a week!’

Once in his bedroom, he sipped on a cup of hot coffee, while Pooja sat by his side, her fingers tracing contours over his left thigh. He kept persuading, she kept nodding her head in disagreement – their movie date stood cancelled by the time the clock struck 6:00 pm. Naitik, flushed with the transpirings, drew the quilt nearer to his neck and propped his frame against two large cushions. Planting a kiss onto his forehead, Pooja switched off the bedside lights and removed his iPhone. ‘Just sleep! Nothing’s more important!’ She sent out a mental wave as she shut the door quietly behind her.

As Renu applied bhringraj oil onto her scalp, Pooja double tapped the music player on her phone. ‘Kabhi yuin bhi toh ho … Dariya ka saahil ho, Poore chaand ki raat ho, Aur tum aao!’ Jagjit Singh’s evergreen voice soothed her frayed nerves. Closing her eyes, she signaled to the maid to apply more pressure. The iPhone beside her hummed, vibrating simultaneously. Squinting at it with her half-opened eyes, she looked at the caller name. Some bizarre numbers stared back at her. Sliding her fingers deftly onto the touch screen, she answered the call. An unknown voice spoke from the other side, ‘Hi sweetie, it’s me! I’m in Lahore for a summit.’ Unable to place the owner of the voice, Pooja answered back, ‘Hi! I’m Pooja! Who is this?’ After an awkward silence, the phone went blank. Pooja spoke into the mouthpiece again, ‘Hello! Hello!’ but to no avail. Sitting up on the couch, she dialed the number back. ‘The number you are calling does not exist’. Pursing her lips in irritation, she copied the digits and ran it through the true-caller application.

23:50 Hours

The wooden staircase that connected both the levels creaked ominously. Pooja lay asleep on the couch as Naitik approached her frame. No sooner had he scooped her in his arms that she got up with a start. ‘Kaun hai?’ She screamed while flinging her legs in the air, trying to hit the assailant. ‘Shhh … it’s me! Naitik! Let’s go to our room!’ The familiar voice coupled with his body smell made her smile. She pressed her petite frame closer to his chest. Then suddenly, in a fraction of a second, her tone changed drastically. ‘Put me down!’

Storming back towards the couch, she lunged at the switch board. ‘Wow! You are a pianist Pooh!’ Naitik grinned. ‘Oh shutup! I can’t handle jazz right now!’ She bawled. The Cinderella hour saw them tearing the insides out of each other, as the un-lit red candle mocked at them, trying to add a tinge of beauty to the otherwise ugly scenario. Kneeling before Pooja, Naitik pleaded, tears streaming down his face. She sat on the couch, rigidly looking at the wall in front of her. His iPhone lay on the wooden tiled floor, its screen smashed.

7th March 2014; 03:51 Hours

In the wee hours of the morning, life was in high spirits on the terrace of ‘Shastri Niket’. A fancy glass was pressed against Neel’s lips. A nearly empty bottle of ‘The Glenlevit’ sat vainly on a chauki. Guzzling down the smooth single malt was rather easy. Using his right hand, he shifted the paraphernalia which surrounded him, while still sipping onto the whiskey. Donning a loin cloth and his off-white janeu, he wore nothing which could warm him or even shield him from the frighteningly cold gusts of wind. His face was crimson; his cheeks puffed, baring traces of alcoholism. Steadying his feet, he bent over the terrace parapet and looked at the Kali temple, cloaked in absolute darkness, under the scantily star-lit sky.

Placing the glass on the chauki, beside the bottle, he folded his hands in reverence. His mind conjured up images of Maa Kali; the embodiment of Shakti. As he trotted back to the terrace gate, he passed the make-shift brick pyre. The fire within, was still alive and all-consuming. The hair locks, once a voluminous black, were now wiry and burnt. The paper cups, once white, were now charred beyond recognition. And, some papers; both, plain and photo print, crackling and hissing, called out to Neel Kanth Shastri!

10:05 Hours

‘May we talk?’ Naitik’s faint voice was still pleading. ‘And why! Go and talk to your mistress … she’s in Lahore! In fact, ask her if she’s safe!’ Pooja smirked. She stood at the iron board, steam ironing one garment after the other, in close succession.

He explained and re-explained, taking her through all probable explanations, but she was unrelenting. He rose to his defence every other minute – ‘Did she even take my name?’ ‘It must have been a mistaken identity!’ ‘There ain’t any way of even tracking a four digit computer generated number!’ ‘It must have been a hoax … a scam call!’ Every line fell onto deaf ears. Overnight, he had begun resembling a specter of himself.

12:36 Hours

Neel marched into his plush cabin, closing the heavy glass door behind him. Once at his work desk, he revealed his leather planner and picked up the land-phone. ‘Ishita, connect me to Mr. Patodia … the one who came yesterday.’ A minute or two later, he learnt that Mr. Patodia’s phone was switched off.

Curiosity is a disease. It gets the better of people. Breathing heavily, his thoughts in disarray, he punched Mr. Patodia’s number over his handheld device. ‘The number you are calling is currently switched off’ was the automated response he got. Splashing water on his face, he sauntered out of his cabin. It was a rather busy day at ‘WTP’. The pedicurist was clipping a client’s nails. The hair-dresser was deep conditioning someone’s mane. Another was busy holding a wide mirror for a client, waiting for his approval of the hair cut which had just been rendered. Darting a fleeting glance at every form – animate and inanimate, he walked out and stood against his black Honda City. As he pressed the re-dial button, the same automated response greeted him. Thoroughly irked, he lit a cigarette and puffed deeply. The nicotine however, did not provide him any respite. By the time, he squished the butt under his sole; he had called Mr. Patodia over sixty-three times!

 He opened his wallet, a rather worn out one, with tan brown edges. Through the flimsy plastic-sheet compartment beside the coin holder, he saw a passport size photograph. A young girl of around sixteen years piercingly looked back at him. She sported two neat plaits and wore no make-up. She looked unsure of herself, her eyes dilated and lips tense. As he tapped the redial button, he looked at the photograph, yet again. A storm of memories hit him, making his eyes smart. His phone rang, displaying ‘WTP’. Answering the call with a ‘hmm’, he replied rather quickly, ‘Cancel it! I’m not feeling too well today.’

14:17 Hours

Anxious to know about Naitik, he kept circling around Majerhat bridge. Bereft of any means to curb his restlessness, he banged his head slowly, yet repeatedly, against the metal door of his Honda City. Revealing a bottle of ‘Blenders Pride’, he took six mouthfuls; neat! As he felt light-headed and giddy, he punched the redial button, beginning the futile exercise all over again. As he tossed the empty bottle out of the window, his eyes caught sight of the kabuli-chaat wallah. Binging on his third pattal, he felt sick. He could hear a squishing noise inside of his belly and the sound of its churning. The reflux had hit him again. A shooting pain in his abdomen left him unnerved; almost frozen in time and space. As he threw up on the road, he could see the onlookers – their disgusted expressions, covering their nose, some even their eyes. As fatigue took over, he had no stamina to walk back to his car. So he sat by the foot-path, clutching onto the freshly painted hand railing. Some blue paint got transferred onto his palm, as he tugged at it. His chest heaved unable to contain the weight on it. His mouth felt oily, his teeth covered in some foul smelling liquid; solidifying rather fast.

17:30 Hours

Clutching on to his abdomen, he drove back home with much ado. As he slithered in his bed, he looked like a snake shedding its skin. We woke up, soon after. His pillow covered in his waste; soiled. It was the reflux again. ‘Damn it!’ He screamed. As exhaustion triumphed, he passed out in his fluid waste, his nose pressed against the very pillow.

19:52 Hours

The ambulance hooted on the busy road. Opening his eyes with great difficulty, he managed to say, ‘Bondho koro! I think I’m dying! Baba … Maa! Stop this blaring … weee, weee, weee, weee!’ Tears swelled up in his eyes; his voice choked. A murse sat by his side, holding onto a disposal bag and advancing it towards him, the moment he stirred. Beside the murse, sat his mother, looking at him occasionally. One hand inside a threadbare thailee, she firmly held onto her faith and a rudaraksha maala. As she kept an eye on her son and on the road, she chanted zealously –

Aum Sai Namo: Namaah:

Sri Sai Namo: Namaah:

21:18 Hours

‘Your son is diagnosed with Trichotillomania maaji,’ Dr. Nandi sighed, looking at the plump, dark and aged woman who sat facing him.

‘What? Ki bol-len aapni’ She enquired in a brusque manner.

‘Trik-o-til-o-may-nee-uh’, He stretched his lips to pronounce the term. ‘Neel Kanth is suffering from this disorder! How long has he been ill now?’ Waiting to write his notes, he put the pen nib onto the brown khaata.

‘The reports have come maaji … his emisis reports! I mean … sampling of his vomit! You see, we have found hair samples in his waste. Hence, he’s been ingesting hair … you know! Eating hair! That’s quite apparent. You see, it’s quite fatal … our body is not equipped to digest hair. It’s likewise for cats and rabbits too! Good that he puked … and you got him here. Had it gone undetected, it would have been his death …’ He paused abruptly.

Unable to fathom the disease, she gawked at the doctor. The question was repeated a couple of times before she muttered, ‘Since childhood … he used to tear at his hair. It began with chewing on his hair dada babu. When he used to sit with his father and learn about tantra. Arey! we thought … he was concentrating!’ She smiled as the gypsy memory crossed her mind and headed towards oblivion.

Dr. Nandi paused between his notes and scrutinized the emotional layers which constituted her very being. She looked composed as she spoke, detailing her son’s behavior, ‘Then, you know doctor sahib … he began pulling his hair … from his scalp! But then you know … the mental pressures these schools exert? Bah!’

Looking at a wind-chime suspended from the window sill, she spoke again, ‘And at times, for months at a stretch … he used to have these irresistible urges to pull out hair from his hand and even arm pits! But doctor sahib … you know how humid Kolkata gets during the summers! It’s so itchy!’

Perplexed by the justifications, he looked at her in awe! She was the epitome of a typical Bengali mother, whose blind spot was her sole, dutiful son. As he doodled over his notepad, he prodded her to continue.

‘Taar por … taar por ki holo’

‘Arey, thaamo, thaamo bhai! Bolicho toh! He began getting bald … I mean, he got these bald patches. And we even took him to a doctor … a skin doctor! Arey, that famous skin doctor nah … beside Girish Park metro station. Yes he! He said, Neel had stress. You see, this baidmaash mey … she dumped my son. Aar ki bolbo! These days, these girls … you know they are so frivolous! He started closing clumps of hair.’ She sighed; pain visible on her visage; her sinews pulsating in anger. ‘I told him to order a wig … but he said he would be “bold and beautiful!”’ She laughed, her eyes defining its crow lines.

‘Anything else … that you would like to share?’ His voice was deep and guided, akin to a past life regression expert.

‘Nah! Aar kichhu nei. But, is all well with my son? Why are you asking so many nonsense questions? Her tone was gruff.

‘It’s an Impulsive Compulsive Disorder … related to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,’ He exhaled deeply as he looked about, feeling tired for no obvious reason. ‘May I get to speak to his father … or any sibling?’

The question left her dumb founded. She looked at the floor, trying to avert his gaze and began twirling her saree at its edges. Sensing her body language amiss, he repeated his question, albeit in a different manner.

‘Do you have any past history … family history of such OCD?’

She looked fixedly at the wind-chime, not wanting to speak. Then slowly, she spoke, all at once, spewing venom. ‘My husband was a bastard. A suspicious bastard. Every morning left him enervated. By evening, he would suddenly acquire a life of his own … drinking like a fish. A smelly, stinky fish. Then he would come looking for me … sometimes with a laathi … at other times, with his hawai chappals. But he came, nevertheless. He would beat me, calling me names, using swear words! It was as if he was mentally deranged! Every day was a new challenge for survival. Neel used to hide in corners … you know! Sometimes behind the almirah … at times behind the bedding stack’. Breaking down, she continued, though in a firm voice. ‘I feel so sorry for him doctor sahib! I could not offer him a secure childhood. He’s so scarred … I’m afraid, he’s scarred for a lifetime!’

‘His father … is he alive?’ He probed cautiously.

‘Long dead.’ Her eyes shone as she replied, almost like a sadist.

‘I see! What was his profession? You did mention about his lethargic mornings … and even that Neel was learning tantra from him!’

‘He was a tantrik. A much sought after tantrik. I was a victim … or an experiment of his! The term doesn’t matter anymore. I used to live in Gray street back then. He used to practice his kaala-jaadu in the narrow lanes of Bow-bazaar. Over time, I realized that I was an object of fancy for him. A trophy wife … A living proof that he was a master of Vashikaran!’

‘Now the pieces are falling into place maaji,’ He spoke tenderly. An authority on the subject of human mind and behavior, empathy came naturally to him. Taking her through the subject and causes of the fatal disease, he often stopped to notice her reactions.

‘Trichotillomania might be a reflection … a manifestation of a mental health problem. Psychological theories suggest that a person may pull his hair as a way of relieving stress or anxiety. Such people, they deliberately injure themselves to seek some kind of a temporary relief … you know! From their emotional distress! It might run in the family and be a biological factor. Or it might be an acquired characteristic … fashioned by the immediate environ. In either case, it’s a chemical imbalance … which causes this repetitive behavior!’ Explaining her the importance of taking off her blinkers, he said, ‘We human beings are very complex. Wrong and right are relative terms and do not exist in the tangible world. Your son is fatally ill … to save him you need to first accept that he’s ill.’

The wind-chime twirled, emitting high-strung cacophonous notes.

‘You mentioned his girl-friend jilted him. Would you want to share …?’ His question was open ended.

Sobbing, she lifted her chin and said, ‘Oh! She got tired of him! It’s a conjecture … but I believe it’s true. They had met in their teens and grew up together … only to grow apart. Their longings from life were different! She wanted to settle down, assume the surname of the man she loved so much. He wanted to hold back … like someone from the romanticism era! Never wanting to cross the bridge! But all those phuchka dates, Horticulture Garden walks, lazy tram rides … they all end sooner or later! Don’t they?’ She spoke in rhetoric, not seeking a validation or a reply.

22:39 Hours

As the evening progressed, she had recounted how Neel’s mental preoccupation had become a hindrance in his love life, causing a sharp divide. ‘Standing at the end of the road, the girl had decided to tie the knot with Naitik; a Marwari boy chosen by her bhua. Neel however, took an atrocious amount of time trying to disentangle himself from her memories. Her thoughts stuck to his mind like cobwebs. He began living in delusion … finding solace in tantra. I tried warning him doctor sahib … that he would pay a price! But … but he was incorrigible.’

The night-shift ward boy came looking for Dr. Nandi. Taking a sheet of paper from him, he read to himself. His eyes scanning the lines quickly. Neel’s mother looked on, trying to decipher the varying shades and tints of emotions that he was undergoing.

‘Well, our fears are true maaji. Neel has a trichobezoar in his digestive tract. Let me explain … a trichobezoar is a sizeable ball of matted hair. That’s causing the refluxes. The intestinal obstructions are causing him to throw up … inducing unhealthy weight loss! I will have a word with Dr. Verma and understand the finer points for the surgery!’ Bidding her a hasty nomoshkaar, he walked out of the chamber.

23:48 Hours

After an interminable delay, she too lifted her plump body and ambled out.

8th March 2014; 03:20 Hours

Sitting in the verandah, she poured a bucket of water onto herself. Her wet frame with her tousled hair, she looked quite a sight. Picking up her husband’s laathi she raced towards the terrace and struck a blow at the skull. A few drops of the single-malt whiskey fell from it. But the skull lay unharmed, smirking on the floor. It’s jaw seemed to bare itself, making a hollow sound. Seeing its wide grin, she broke into an uncontrollable laughter. She laughed hard … aloud! Then lifting a conch shell, she blew it with all her might, channelizing her energy to reach the deity of Maa Kali. Exhausted, she lay onto the cold floor, a pitiable sight … sobbing to herself, for a life so wasted!

05:00 Hours

Back in Alipore, Manohar pandit was sprinkling Ganga-jal over Naitik and Pooja. They sat in the padmasana: mudra, their eyes closed. Naitik had organized for a shaanti paath, to which Pooja had agreed after much coaxing by her parents. Aa-ooo-mmm! Manohar Pandit’s voice resounded through the bungalow, filling every room with its quietude, penetrating through its very clay bricks

 

Epilogue : Pooja and Naitik were recently seen in Shimoga, exchanging romantic notes by a waterfall. The vacation photographs have been neatly displayed onto their walls, in varying sizes of ornate frames. Neel makes a conscious effort to meet his psychiatrist regularly and work upon the ‘Rapunzel Syndrome’. He is often seen playing the tabla on his terrace, as Girdhar kaka; the gardener, plants Football Lilies. Girdhar kaka was deployed to get rid of the voodoo dolls, nails, skulls, vibhooti amongst other peculiar items. Call it fatal attraction that he decided to stay back in ‘Shastri Niket’.

Neel’s mother was overheard, discussing about substantial improvement in his health, post his successful surgery, to the neighborhood chai-wallah. Ishita is done with her orthodontic treatment and my my, she does look beautiful! She was last seen in the cafeteria of St. Xavier’s College. After the closure of ‘WTP’; abbreviation for ‘Winnie The Pooh’, she took up the job of being a receptionist in the college. Probably, the closing down of ‘WTP’ also marks the symbolic end of Neel’s quest for Pooja or Pooh … as he called her! Pooh; the sixteen year old girl, who still breathes through the flimsy plastic jacket of his worn-out wallet!