Pujari Lal has forgotten what it is like to have colleagues to banter with. He has spent thirty years in the same office. Most people he had started off with have either retired, or shifted cities, or died, though not always in this order. The younger ones, who join him now, leave in a year or two. In the office, he is introduced as ‘one man army’. If the phrase is patronizing, he doesn’t get it. He breathes deeply, chest swelling a little every time they do this. He takes pride in being one of the few who know how the company grew from a humble one floor affair manufacturing wheel-chairs and elbow crutches, to an eight hundred employee government subsidiary making state-of-the-art rehabilitation aids. Though all of it is on the company’s website, Pujari Lal doesn’t know this. He is what you’d call, technologically challenged. He has a vintage era Nokia phone. He listens to the news on the radio. He is the Head Peon. But this is mere designation. Over the years, the charter of his duties has expanded, become more nebulous. Arranging tea and snacks for the farewell party, grooming the newer office-boy recruits, maintaining the garden around the building – it’s never ending. Each new job adds a layer of solemnity to his demeanor, as though he is fulfilling an ever more critical function, without which the office would cease to be. He believes this, without being consciously aware of his beliefs. This, coupled with his reticence, spotted face, silver hair, and thick glasses, ensures no one talks over him, or shouts at him. Though this does not mean people are friendly. They are polite. They treat him like they’d treat a well-meaning delivery boy. Courteous in that moment of intense need: Pujari ji please serve tea to the Chief Guest. Pujari ji why are the water coolers empty? Then they forget he exists. He doesn’t mind the banal injustice of it. His station has conditioned in him a certain ease that comes from sweating in the shadows doing what he calls, background kaam.
Until one day, while serving the eleven-a.m. tea and samosas to employees, he meets Kriti, the tall, quiet woman whose long floral kurtas are always neatly ironed. She joined the Sales Department a week back. She is unassuming, the way someone who is wise seems unassuming. Not spiritually wise, just practically. In the previous week, he has passed her cubicle several times. They don’t exchange a word. She is mostly on the phone, and from her hushed, informal tone, he presumes she’s speaking to a friend or relative. Other times, she stares blankly into her computer screen. Today though, she is upbeat. Thank you, Pujari ji, she says with a flourish, squinting at his brass name-tally. Pujari ji nods, tepidly smiling back. She asks, aap kab se kaam kar rahein hai yahan, since when have you been working here? Thirty-one years, he says. Astonished, she raises her eyebrows. The pride in his voice carries fatigue. She can’t sense it, though witnessing her mother come out of depression has sharpened her intuition to pick on subtle things in people, she believes. She wants to prolong this exchange. Ghar pe kaun kaun hai? Who all are at home? She asks. He is not surprised she doesn’t know about his wife. Two daughters, eighteen and sixteen, he says, then his voice drops, my wife passed away two months ago, as though a confession of grief should be shameful. A peculiar frigidity curls between them. Startled, she says, kaise? How? Cancer, he says. A thin skin has formed on the surface of her tea. The oil from the samosa has soaked into the paper plate it was served on. Her eyes fixate on these, while she thinks of what to say next. When she looks up, he is at the next cubicle, pouring tea from the canter for Anil sir.
Kriti cringes every time she runs the scenario in her head. No platitudes of consolation, no acknowledgement of loss. She must have seemed nonchalant, even rude, she chides herself. Around eleven a.m., Kriti consciously absents herself from her cubicle. At 10:45, she pesters Anil and Pradhan for a smoke break. If there is nothing to preoccupy herself with, she goes to the washroom, thank god they are clean, plays two games of Solitaire on the pot, returns to the tea and samosa on the table, Pujari ji already two cubicles away. The drama of her low-grade guilt irritates her. She waits for it to abate. But every time she passes Pujari Lal, looking at his enlarged grey eyes through those thick glasses, something tugs at her. At dinner, she speaks about Pujari Lal with Mahesh. It is he who suggests, the guy has two daughters. Why don’t you ask him if you can help them in some way? She envies Mahesh his simple take on things, which, she notes, is not the same as being simplistic.
Next morning, she is sitting at her cubicle, forming the sentences she will speak. When he comes, she greets him, Pujari ji, kaise hain? How are you? He mumbles something. She continues, what are your girls doing? I was thinking, if they need any help with their studies or career, let me know. After she has spoken, she realizes her offer of help has been too brusque. She doesn’t even know they need it or not. She realizes her assumptions come from privilege – a tinge of shame prickles her heart. He stares at her momentarily. Maybe he will refuse. Then he says, almost inaudibly, aap Manisha se baat kijiye. Usko samajh nahi aa raha kya karegi. Please speak to Manisha, my elder one. She isn’t able to figure what to do. Something in her unknots, putting her at ease, even exciting her. Yeh mera number le lijiye, she says, here take my number. Tell her to call me. He is too preoccupied with opening his phone, feeding in the number, typing her name, to express gratitude. Quietly he says, main usko bolunga aapko call karey, I will tell her to call you.
Mahesh is amused how this excites Kriti. He overhears her telling the girl all about engineering, software, stats colleges she could apply to. Her voice carries palpable enthusiasm. She and Mahesh later make love, she initiating it with hungry conviction rarely found in an eight-year-old marriage. Manisha calls her every now and then. Seeking advice about a course, whether Kriti can help with the cost of an application, what questions to expect in the interview. One time, Manisha confesses she has a boyfriend. His name is Atul; he is preparing for the Civil Services. Kriti is excited for her, but cautiously drops the phrase she was all too familiar with during her own dating days – take it slow. Manisha absorbs everything. Mahesh and Kriti discuss what to gift Manisha once she gets admitted to a college. Mahesh suggests a Sheaffer pen. Kriti goes along with it, and adds a FabIndia stole, kurta, and a generous Body Shop hamper. Kriti says, she will need these things in college, her voice rich with youthful exuberance. To humor her, Mahesh retorts, it’s more like you wanted these things in college. When Manisha gets through an engineering course at a recognized college nearby, Pujari Lal distributes Kaju Katlis in office. It is an expensive sweet. He gets a separate box for Kriti. Something warms in her when he hands her the box. She tells him, this is just the beginning. He folds his hand and bows his head, a gesture which embarrasses and moves her.
Kriti and Mahesh start thinking of having a baby. The process of Kriti settling into her new job delays this decision. Mahesh does not pressurize her. He is not sure where he is headed in life. It has been a year since he quit the Army, two that he beat PTSD. He tells her, he is living his best life. He is busy working on a fitness app, which he claims will change the way people eat and exercise. He spends far too much time in the gym with Pragyaan, the software guy, and Cy, who is helping them with design. Initially, Kriti thinks Cy is a woman, and Cy and Mahesh have something going, but laughs at her naiveté when she sees Cy’s social media profile. He is hulked up in a way you see in magazines. Quotations from the Bhagvad Gita and Camus accompany his images of dropping weights, doing pull-ups. The one-line tattoo of a quote by a famous philosopher on his right pectoral intrigues her. She is mildly attracted to him, or maybe the idea of him, she corrects herself. She is amused at how middle-age is supposed to turn you wise, but it only turns you horny.
After Manisha joins college, her calls reduce to a few stray voice notes. Then, suddenly, she drops off the radar. She no longer needs advice on which articles to read, what blogs to follow, where to find expensive-looking clothes at cheap prices. They follow each other on social media. Kriti sees Manisha winning a Coding Tournament. Also, that she travelled to Nagaland as part of a Hackathon, enjoys going out for street food with Atul, loves Body Shop products. Not getting to know these things from Manisha, deflates Kriti in a way she never confesses to herself. Below the photograph of Manisha and her teammates holding the Computing Olympiad Trophy, Kriti writes, “good going, congratulations!”, expecting what, she doesn’t know.
Manisha ‘hearts’ her comment, but does not reply in words. Kriti continues to leave random comments below her photographs. Until one day, she stops, baulking at the indignity that comes with unreciprocated over-eagerness.
***
The morning after Diwali, cycling through last night’s remnants of smoke, firecrackers, and empty sweet boxes, Pujari Lal is filled with memories of a time when his daughters were living at home. They used to hang lights together, burst crackers till late, gorge on sweets before ambling to the Diwali mela. Manisha, is now a software developer in Bangalore, the younger, Resham, a Data Entry Operator in Bombay. Resham claims she is also an influencer. She tries explaining this to a confused Pujari Lal during one of their short, cryptic conversations. Pujari Lal gives the impression he understands, even though he doesn’t. The conversation ends with Pujari Lal saying, jo bhi karo acha karo. Whatever you do, do it well. What times they were, Pujari Lal sighs, leaving his bicycle in the parking lot behind the office building. He notices how the tendrils of the Banyan Tree have once again started growing along its west wall. From a distance, the wall seems bruised, or depending on whether you have children, scribbled on by a whimsical child. Last week, the General Manager, the burly, towering Dr Sasidharan, who only wears three-piece suits, saw this and lost his temper. This bloody tree will eat up the building, get it cut, he had bellowed at Mr Gupta, the Administrative Officer. Mr Gupta had signaled to Pujari, get it cut, running his thumb across his bulbous neck which conveniently flowed on into the mucky, blue collar of his shirt. Later, Pujari got a pruning saw, whispered a prayer of forgiveness, and cut the few reckless branches growing towards the building. He had felt an odd mix of guilt and relief at wriggling out of a weighty moral dilemma.
Now, looking at the tendrils again growing along similar paths distresses him. He stiffens his lips thinking how to break this to Mr Gupta. All day Pujari Lal runs office errands, taking files from one section to another, clearing waste bins of paper and empty pen cartridges. Somewhere the thing about the Banyan tree recedes to the back of his mind. In the evening, walking towards his cycle, he again spots the tendrils. They seem to have grown into the wall. Pujari Lal stands there, wincing, gently scratching the side of his neck. The evening sun glistens on his forehead. He spots Mr Gupta’s Blue Alto in the parking lot and ambles back, wondering how to tell Mr Gupta without pissing him off. The office at this hour is a strange, sleeping animal. The portraits of the company’s founders line the vast, wooded corridors. The blips on various anti-fire sensors punctuate silence like pinpricks. Through the round, semi-darkened staircase, Pujari Lal makes his way to Mr Gupta’s office. As he goes closer, he picks up hints of male and female voices. He peers from the little peephole in the door. He sees Mr Gupta sitting across a young woman. Though he can’t see her face, from her green floral kurta, he makes her out to be Ms Kriti. They hold hands across the table. Looking closely, Pujari Lal realizes that Mr Gupta is the one clutching both her hands tightly, forcefully. And then, without preamble, he stands, comes towards her. His loosened belt dangles from his waist. She stands up with a jerk. Pujari Lal gulps a ball of spit, his heartbeat racing. Her body is so tense, Pujari Lal can feel it shudder. Before she can move, he has embraced her. He tries to a kiss her. Pujari Lal’s cheeks are burning. He doesn’t see what happens next. He walks furiously to his cycle.
Early next morning, Pujari Lal spots the tendrils. They have moved in circles, slowly enmeshing themselves into the wall. He shudders, remembering Sasidharan’s remark about how the tree will eat the building. The corridors of the office are lit. He glances at Mr Gupta’s office, something tingling the pit of his stomach. All night he struggled to sleep. He chose not to think about the incident, the kaand, as he refers to it in his mind. Ms Ruby and Ms Ambily, marketing interns, are the first to arrive. Hello Pujari ji, they say. Even with his daughters, he has felt this unnamable dread of how to respond to the young. They always seem so sure of themselves. He nods at them, a stiff smile on his lips. He gets the water flasks filled in each of the offices. When he enters Mr Gupta’s office, he feels an ominous sensation overcome him. He looks at the light-brown table made of re-engineered wood, the office-chair on which Mr Gupta sits, the spot where Ms Kriti had stood when Mr Gupta had embraced her. Or tried to embrace her, he isn’t sure now. He arranges the pens in the holder, organizes loose sheets of office correspondence in the cheap, green plastic rack. On the table, beside the computer which Mr Gupta hardly ever switches on, stands a photograph of Mr and Mrs Gupta, and a younger woman, posing in front of the Taj Mahal. In the photograph, Mrs Gupta is pinching the monument. Pujari Lal remembers he and his wife posing in a similar photograph. He knows Mr Gupta has a daughter, college-going, brash, certainly young. While feeding the fish in the aquarium, he traces the path Mr Gupta had walked the previous evening. How it had ended, he had wondered, the night before, shifting uncomfortably on his folding cot. At two in the night, when he just could not sleep, he stepped outside in the damp, midnight air, and lit a beedi. Here is Pujari Lal cycling past a road accident on a Monday or a Tuesday. A black SUV had rammed into a motorcyclist, and together they had rammed into an electric pole. A crowd was trying to detangle the mess. Pujari Lal spots blood and shattered toughened glass on the road. His eyes graze past a cracked cell-phone, a sports-shoe, a watch with a broken dial. He quietly cycles on, not wanting to get late for work. Yes, it must have been a Monday. Later, he had wondered what had happened to the motorcyclist. Seeing the guppies gobble fish feed, he tries hard to pull himself to a place from where he can see Ms Kriti with similar detachment. The fish hide inside a make-do submarine. Mr Gupta’s thick voice startles Pujari Lal. You are still here, boss is looking for you, he wants his tea, Mr Gupta says. Pujari Lal turns around, doing a half-hearted salaam. Oh here, take this, Mr Gupta hands him a laddoo. He does this every Thursday. Thursdays are temple-days. For as long as Pujari Lal can remember, Mr Gupta hasn’t missed a Thursday. He takes the laddoo as an offering. It leaves a coat of greasy ghee on his palm. He does another tepid salaam before opening the door to leave. Oye, Mr Gupta shouts, where is my cell-phone stand? Mr Gupta watches a lot of Indian Premiere League re-runs during working hours. When he is not taking rounds of the building, inspecting crevices for dust, he also watches a fair bit of porn. Pujari Lal knows this because sometimes Mr Gupta forgets to connect his head-phones. Pujari Lal points to the left drawer. Mr Gupta opens it, pleased to find his black cell-phone holder. Chal ja ab, now buzz off, he dismisses Pujari Lal. Pujari Lal thinks about the Banyan’s tendrils which have started growing on the wall of the building. He mulls whether to tell Mr Gupta. Mr Gupta is inspecting the fish, dropping a few more pellets into the fish tank. Isko saaf kiya tha, did you clean it, he asks. Pujari Lal nods, haanji, pichle Saturday kiya tha, Yes sir, I had cleaned it last Saturday. If the fish die this time, I am going to feed them to you, Mr Gupta banters, not jovially, the edge of menace never far away. The image of eight dead goldfish flushed down the toilet flashes in Pujari Lal’s mind. Pujari Lal had flushed them. He closes the door behind him.
Only when he passes Ms Kriti in the main corridor does Pujari Lal realize what had happened. She looks drained, tired, distraught, like a person preparing to give or receive bad news. She is accompanied by a thin, serious-looking woman with short hair, Librarian spectacles hang from her neck. The woman is dressed in a suit. He looks down at his feet, hands fumbling the crease of his pockets, when the women pass by. He feels guilty, as if he knows something deeply personal about Ms Kriti that he shouldn’t have. He follows them along the corridor until they take the lift. They don’t wait for him to enter. The day meanders, punctuated by the countless odd jobs Pujari Lal does. Anil sir’s car had to be cleaned. Preeti ma’am’s child’s homework needs to be spiral-bounded. In the evening, when he is leaving office, he searches the parking lot for Mr Gupta’s blue Alto. He spots it near the Exit Gate. So he is still in office, he reflects. Part of him wants to storm Mr Gupta’s office, confront him for what had happened. He corrects himself, confront Mr Gupta for what he did. He realizes he should have done this in the morning. But Mr Gupta is the kind of man who loves to get into fights, prefers heated argument over reason. He remembers Bitto the office-boy’s last words before leaving, Gupta sahab se bahut stress ho raha hai. I am getting very stressed from Mr Gupta, his voice maudlin, his confidence broken. Then he finds himself wondering what had Ms Kriti done. Has she filed a complaint? Did she know she had a witness to back her? He should have spoken to her, he thinks, sucking his teeth. In the morning today, while serving her tea, he had tried very hard to form the words he wanted to say, Maine dekha kya hua kal, I saw what happened last evening. But all he could dredge from within was this ominous silence laced with shame. He had left the tea on her table and moved on. He decides now to walk towards Mr Gupta’s office. The light is still on, though there are no sounds of the laughter coming from inside. He tiptoes to the door, and looks inside through the peephole. Mr Gupta sits on his chair, staring into his phone. The India-Australia match is on, Pujari Lal thinks. He stands there for a long time, then walks back to his cycle, resolving to speak to Ms Kriti tomorrow morning. Mounting his cycle, he sees the Banyan’s tendrils wounding themselves around the vertical, black sewage pipe lining the building’s edge. That bloody thing is growing again, he winces. He resolves to do something about this tomorrow.
Evenings, Manisha calls to check up on him. Resham’s calls are more infrequent – varying between one or two a month, sometimes at odd hours, early morning, late night. Manisha and his conversations have a set arc – how his health has been, what did she eat, has his cataract started bothering him, should he start looking for a groom for her, when will he let her buy him a Scooty – unostentatious questions with no proper answers. Before she is to hang up, he abruptly says, I have something to tell you. She is caught off-guard from the unexpected discomfort in his voice. Ever since her mother died of undiagnosed ovarian cancer, untimely death has been Manisha’s singular fear. She assuages this fear through small talk, regular communication, and obsessively researching health insurance plans for Pujari Lal. I saw something in the office, he says. She lets out a sigh of relief. Taking this as cue, he says, I think I saw a man force himself on a woman, zabardasti ki. Manisha is mildly shocked, but not in a way she had expected to be. She wants to ask, kaun, kiske saath, who, with whom, but ends up saying, hummm, her breath sharper. He then digresses, describing Mr Gupta, his habits with the phone, how he brings laddoos to office each Thursday. She instinctively says, aapko sexual harassment committee ko complain karni chahiye. Now it is his turn to be caught off-guard, feel defensive. What’s the phrase she just said, sekshualharasmant! He was telling her all this to find a way to deal with it, he wants to say on the phone. He says defensively, which was not the same as forcefully, complain kisko karun, main bas bata raha tha, whom should I complain to, I was simply telling you. She is stunned. He quickly withdraws, making some excuse about switching on the water pump. He is not sure where either of them stands on this. He hangs up. Next morning, while parking his cycle, he sees the tendrils of the Banyan Tree have reached the first floor, creeping along the drain pipe. He immediately decides to inform Mr Gupta. Upon entering Mr Gupta’s office, and before he can open his mouth, Mr Gupta hands him copy of someone called Mr Snigdha Rawat’s documents. Chop chop, get her Temporary Entry Pass made, he says, continuing, she will be joining Sales in place of Ms Kriti. While he is absorbing this, Mr Gupta also hands him a vial carrying a metallic, silvery liquid. Isko Banyan tree mein daal dena, pour this in the roots of the Banyan tree.
Pujari Lal knows what that metallic liquid is, what it can do, and such knowledge horrifies him. He catches Snighda Rawat’s photograph on her ID. Her features have a striking resemblance with Resham’s. Ms Kriti’s haggard expression from the morning after flash in his mind. Mr Gupta is too preoccupied checking stock options on his phone to even spare a glance at Pujari Lal.
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash
