The Hindu Business Line : There are times when one faces fears and tears

STORY so far: Tarun drops a hint about his plans to hire a mercenary and I presume it should be one more part of his takeover dream, something I brush aside as being too childish. But my greater puzzle as to how Vikky could keep track of my movements gets resolved when I discover that I had foolishly left my mobile in the taxi. And the countdown has started for me to leave for Jakarta.

Episode 17

With minutes ticking by, I realised that it was tough to do shopping under stress. Normally, people go shopping to pass time but end up relieving themselves of too much cash and credit, in exchange for stress that results from too many forgone options and being left with too little disposable income. First things first, I told myself, and picked up a good travel bag and a suitcase and began packing in it items of clothing to last me for at least two days. My assignment may not last as long as that of the space shuttle Columbia that spent 16 days out there, but there was that lurking fear — after seeing those visuals in the big TVs at the shop's corners — that the end may not be too palatable. But soon the professional in me took charge and I remembered the German proverb: "Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is". And the Japanese saying that fear is only as deep as the mind allows.

In the next about 30 minutes, I had the ticket and other necessary papers that the travel agent was so helpful to provide, along with a page of useful phrases for the first-time traveller to Jakarta.

"You still have 90 minutes to check-in, Swatiji," Vikky told me when I was back in the car. "And the drive will take about 20 minutes."

"So I can still sandwich something in between," I said. "Go to Triplicane."

"That'll be deviating from our path," he said. "Are you sure?"

"That sounds like a Windows message," I said shrugging. "Don't waste time, Vikky."

Then I called the telephone help-line and read out a number and asked, "Give me the address, please, quickly."

"New No 5, Old No 61, Janus Street... " the directory assistance was quick, for all that talk about our BSNL being so monolithically big, and soon the car was heading towards Wallajah Road, that many hear only during cricket commentaries of matches in Chepauk. Vikky lost valuable minutes, however, in trying to coax a few lazy buffaloes off the road, not without smearing his shoes with you-know-what and I remembered how the first thing any foreigner complains of on our roads is the presence of bovine in plentiful measure.

"Your rishtedar, madam?" asked Vikky softly, without being too curious-sounding.

"No," I replied. "This is Chandru's residence. I wanted to meet his family people before leaving. Won't take more than 15 minutes, but if I am getting delayed, don't hesitate to come in and remind."

Chandru's wife looked at me through a side window and opened the door with caution. I said, "I'm Swati. I work with your husband and you would have got the news already."

I had treaded on a sore spot and she began weeping inconsolably, and it required some pacifying to get her say a few words, after I told her about my immediate task.

"Why did they send him in the first place!" she shrieked, rather than asked. "Your boss could have gone himself."

"The company is big," I told her, "and we all end up doing small, small jobs that fit in the big picture. Likewise, Chandru was sent on a routine job. Nobody knew it would turn out the way it did."

"Do you think he would have done something wrong there?" she asked. "I am sure he wouldn't have, but his nature is such that people misunderstand him too often."

"From what I understand," I clarified, "the bank where your husband went owes us money. They have tried to arm-twist their law-enforcers into putting an Indian behind bars for no good reason. This is not the way commercial deals are handled. From the company's side, my boss is not leaving anything to chance and he spoke to the Ministry of External Affairs. I am going there to coordinate from that end."

"Please do me a favour," she pleaded. "Can you give him a small cover?"

"That's why I stopped by," I said, even as a boy and girl came out of the inside room, with sorrow in their faces. But they were quick to know why I was there, shrewd as kids these days are, and were milling around me, pleading, "Didi, when will our daddy come home?"

"Soon," I promised, without any evidence to support the statement. "As good children, you should stop crying and obey your mother."

"That's okay," the boy countered, "but who will play with me cricket?" Chandru's daughter whined, "And who will tell me the bedtime story?"

"Oh, oh," I comforted them. "What do you want to tell your dad when I meet him tomorrow?" But I was not sure whether the cops would allow me to see him in the jail.

Then there were the aged parents of Chandru who were anguished by the news. "Take care," they told me. Wise words, I thought. And Vikky was at the door, "Memsaheb."

A quick bye-bye, and soon I got into the car with a new packet that I added to my baggage. On our way, Vikky said, "It was quite thoughtful of you. I wanted to suggest but was hesitating."

"I don't know whether I made their lives better," I thought. But the little I could do in the few minutes was to carry their image with me when I go over to the other side. Plus the picture of god that Chandru's wife wanted to give ("For his protection"), and a small slip of paper that his son gave me with his marks in maths and science ("Tell him I topped the class") and the tiny paper rose his daughter put in my hands ("I made it myself in today's activity period!"). Perhaps it was a speck of dust in my eye, and I was wiping a tear off, and I didn't mind that Vikky could watch me in the rear-view.

(To be continued)

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