Vishal K Bharadwaj

Streams of white vapour rose from the hole like angry demons set free; they disappeared in the purifying turmeric-yellow heat of the lamp. A narrow spiral staircase, frosted over like the lock, descended into pitch darkness. Namdev recalled a trip years ago, to an ice-cream factory, and particularly its freezers.

“Any ice-lollies down there?” he muttered with a wry smile.

~Icewalla Part 03~
© Copyright 2004, Vishal K. Bharadwaj, All Rights Reserved

Excerpt from Barfeeli Maya (The Icy Illusion), by C.C. Kulkarni, 1952, published by Athena Shakti Publications (English translation by S.R. Savant, 1954):

Namdev crouched by the trapdoor and touched the splash of frost around it. The lock was frozen with a thin coat of particulate ice, that shone in the light of the kerosense lantern like a fiery dust of suns. He rapped the lock with the knob of his cane and the lock shattered like badly-made chikki. Retrieving his blade from the top-pocket of his safari suit, he thrust it through the seal of ice and flung the trapdoor open.

Streams of white vapour rose from the hole like angry demons set free; they disappeared in the purifying turmeric-yellow heat of the lamp. A narrow spiral staircase, frosted over like the lock, descended into pitch darkness. Namdev recalled a trip years ago, to an ice-cream factory, and particularly its freezers.

“Any ice-lollies down there?” he muttered with a wry smile.

With one last lungful of the stale — but warm — air of the house, Namdev carefully entered the narrow stairwell, hoping that a cotton safari-suit, a fedora, a kerosense lamp and the embrace of unseen gods would be enough to keep him from freezing.

When he had descended some ten steps, he leaned against the frozen spine of the stairwell and shone the lamp around, but though it sometimes seemed to catch the facets of some structure, it was too far away to see now.

“Is this a basement or a marriage hall?” Namdev said, loud enough that the returning echo only confirmed the latter.

The staircase seemed to descend forever; the passage of time was magnified by the cold. Namdev counted a hundred and eight steps.

Auspicious, he thought, and then heard a wet crunching sound at his feet. “Snow,” he whispered, shining the lamp there. It was an inch deep, and when he shone the lamp ahead a set of tracks led away and into the darkness. He followed the large impressions, that, Namdev deduced, belonged to a being around nine feet tall.

Now columns of clear ice rose up around him and disappeared beyond the reach of the lamplight; jagged trunks and smooth spikes, and then, around them, little boulders and pebbles. Snow began to fall, and in the distance the sound of water could be heard.

Quite suddenly, as if it hadn’t been there before, Namdev happened upon a stream. A stream of glowing blue water with a bed of smooth ice pebbles, and around it little shrubs of ice and nothing else. Namdev whirled the lamp around and saw that the footsteps he had followed — and indeed, his own — had been snowed over.

He walked along the crystalline bank, upstream. It seemed like hours; first the snow stopped, and then the stream widened, then narrowed, and just when it widened again the lamp died.

Odd, Namdev thought, this lamp should have lasted for another hour at least. He pulled his pocket-watch out of his coat pocket and consulted it in the glow of the stream. The watch had stopped; the hands read a quarter past three, which was about twenty minutes after he descened down the stairs.

He continued to make his way down the stream; the boulders got bigger, the ice shrubs thinned, and as he was now adapted to the low light he could see farther, and in the distance he could see that the stream disappeared some two hundred metres away behind an enclosure of boulders, from which a significant amount of light emenated. This, it would seem, was the source of the stream.

Reaching them he realised that the hole the stream poured from was too small for him (not that he wanted to risk entering the glowing water), and so Namdev unscrewed the top of his cane and folded open the grappling hook. The clap of the firing mechanism echoed far less than Namdev would have thought. There was an eerie muffled sound to everything here, including his footsteps over the glassy pebbles and the little snow. He tugged at the rope, then pulled himself up the slippery side of a boulder.

At the top of the boulder he looked inside the enclosure and gaped. In the centre the stream poured out like a slowly overflowing tea-pot and formed the river, but a little beyond it, at the edge of the small pond that the water’s source formed, was a tree.

A tree, like the rest of this place, constructed entirely of ice; and it glowed far more than anything else. At the base of the tree was the nine foot tall being, a humanoid, not glowing but caught sometimes in the tree and stream light.

And the humanoid turned to regard Namdev. Its face was that of a skull.

“Namasté,” Namdev said, still standing at the top of the rocks. He became keenly aware of how quiet it was here; the only sound was the distant whisper of the stream’s source.

“Good Afternoon,” the humanoid said, unmoving. Its voice was distorted and somewhat masculine, gentle, and seemingly came from inside Namdev’s own head.

“This is your domain, I take it.”

“Yes,” the creature said. “Please forgive the mess.”

Namdev chuckled and began to pull himself down the other side of the boulder. “You should see my house. This is like the Taj hotel by comparison.”

“Thank you,” the creature replied. “I try.” It sat down by the base of the tree, its ice body making little cracking noises as it did. The humanoid let out an exhausted sigh, which rose and disappeared in the crystal leaves above.

Namdev approached steadily, not wishing to appear either too apprehensive — which he was — or too confident. Now, with the burbling mouth of the stream between him and the resting humanoid, he stopped.

“I suppose you’ll want to kill me,” the creature said.

Namdev nodded.

“Very well,” the creature said plainly, and suddenly it bounded to its feet and in half a stride was upon Namdev. A massive fist descened upon him like a sledgehammer, and Namdev escaped it by a hair’s breadth. The icy pebbles shattered under the creature’s fist, and it strode forward to swing at it again. This time the man leaped to the side and rolled to safety.

Namdev held his cane forward and chanted a spell. The silver knob burst into light and the creature recoiled. “Melt in hell!” Namdev cursed, and let fly a green ether fireball from the knob of the cane.

The creature struck at the ball with its massive fists and with a terrific crack its left hand was consumed by the flame. Water dripped from the stump that was left, and for a long moment both Namdev and the creature looked at it. Then the creature barked a cold laugh and thrust its severed forearm into the glowing water of the stream. When it removed it a second later the hand was fully reformed. The creature ran for Namdev with its new hand’s palm outstretched. Namdev dodged its first attempt but the creature caught hold of his ankle and pulled him up, dangling him upside down.

Namdev aimed his cane for the creature’s head. The fireball struck but this time the nothing happened; the creature only had a few rivulets of water streaming down its cruelly laughing face.

“It appears you have lost,” the creature said.

Namdev then spotted the glowing ice tree between the creature’s legs. He was always one to follow a gut instinct.

“Funny,” he replied, “I was just going to say the same thing.” He pointed the cane at the tree and shot a fireball.

The tree shattered into countelss shards of ice; even in the deafening roar of the explosion he could hear the creature’s horrible screams. He opened his eyes long enough to see the creature itself melting, and the water of the stream losing its glow. Indeed all the ice around him was turning to water, now flowing into the hole from which the stream had emenated.

As Namdev stood the last of the creature’s head was melting into the water.

“I shall return,” the creature said.

“That’s what they all say,” Namdev replied.

To Be Continued…

The waiter arrived with their order and set it down, then beat a hasty but polite retreat. Chanakya stared slack-jaw at the mountainous sundae. “Ooh,” he said, “ice cream and. chocolate.” He dug in with two spoons.

~Icewalla Part 02~
© Vishal K. Bharadwaj, 2003, All Rights Reserved

Chaitanya was still out cold, resting on the little sofa in the hall where Meera has flung her bag the night before. Chanakya, Chandrika and the Inspector Raané stood near him and crowded the rest of the room.

“So what do I write in my report?” the Inspector, a short man in his mid thirties, asked Chandrika. He cocked his head towards Chaitanya. “Or do I open a case for him too?”

“No, no. We’ll know more when he gets out of it, but suffice to say this doesn’t look like a simple rape and murder.”

“Simple…” Inspector Raané sighed, watching the coroners carry the body bag out of the apartment. “You know, at first I didn’t even think of calling the Panchaayat. Murderers often put ice in the tub in order to throw off the time of death, shore up their alibis. But then I realised that the water was frozen in the tub — when we found that piece of ice shaped like a hand I knew there was some gochigiri going on.”

“First time we’re doing something like this,” Chandrika said. “We usually just don’t get involved with–“

“Outsiders?”

“Police.”

Inspector Raané nodded. “My father was a Panchaayat employee. Worked in the back-office at Taraporewala’s — finances and stuff. This was when the Panchaayat was more closed, no interference with the Outside. That’s why he wanted me to be a policewalla, so I could actually do some good in the world… even if I didn’t know any magic or things like that.”

“You’re taking a big risk by getting us here,” Chandrika said. “If anybody finds out…”

“My superiors won’t know a thing.”

“I was worried about the press. They’re downstairs — had to use a few distractions just to get us in unnoticed.” Chandrika bit her lip. “Going to be even more trouble getting out…”

“Sorry,” Raané said.

“It’s alright,” she replied with her disarming smile; the first time she had smiled since coming here. “I just don’t like to waste my spells on presswallas, you know?”

The Inspector smiled quickly, then turned towards the bathroom. “‘Accidental death by drowning,’ then?”

“Rape and murder,” came a groggy voice from the couch. Chaitanya had awakened.

“Who was it?” Chandrika asked.

“You mean, ‘What was it?’ And I don’t know, frankly. But I’m going to find it.” He staggered to his feet and headed for the door. “Inspector Raané,” he said, stopping at the threshold, “we’ll take over this investigation from now, and I can promise you we’ll find the killer and stop him… it. Write what you need to in your report, but don’t even bother getting involved yourself, the police can’t handle this. Come on kids, we’ve got some work to do.”

The trio were silent in the elevator ride down. When they reached the ground floor Chandrika heard the clamor of reporters around the corner and winced. She began to hunt through her satchel for something, when Chaitanya stopped her.

“Don’t bother,” he said, and then walked out, absently waving his hand a couple of times. The din abruptly stopped. When they reached the compound they had to negotiate through a few dozen people — police, press, passersby — sleeping awkwardly on the ground, photographers clutching their equipment like teddy-bears, policemen rolling about in dreams of glory and action.

~~

“Chilled water?” the waiter asked Chaitanya, presenting a bottle.

Chaitanya goggled at him. “No,” he replied curtly. “Warm, if you have it — warm. Do you have any jeera-paani? You know, cumin seeds steeped in hot water?”

The waiter’s reply came in a practiced blank stare.

“Doesn’t matter. Room temperature, then. And then get me the hottest soup you have. I don’t care what kind, just hot, okay?”

“Very good, sir — hot. And what will Madam have to eat?”

“Do you have missal?” Chandrika asked.

Blank Stare.

“Never mind. I’ll… um…” she quickly riffled through the menu. “Caesar’s salad — my god, look at the price — I mean, Caesar’s salad and… and french fries!”

“French Fries?” the waiter asked.

“Yes. You do have French Fries, don’t you?” She asked authoritatively.

The waiter nodded and turned to Chanakya. “And your Sir?”

“Ice cream!” beamed Chanakya.

“Very Good, Sir. What kind?”

Chanakya goggled and turned to Chandrika. “There are kinds…?”

“Oh, just give him something fancy,” Chandrika told the waiter. “A sundae. Chocolate.”

The waiter quickly jotted it down and almost ran for the kitchen.

Chaitanya looked up at the expensively lit ceiling and sunk further into his plush chair. “I wish this place had some sunlight coming in.”

“I know,” Chandrika groaned, feeling the leaves of one of the nearby forest of potted plants that surrounded the table. “Artificial. This is… this is a joke. A five-star joke, but a joke nonetheless.”

“Whose idea was this, anyway?”

“Well you said you were hungry, so technically it was your idea, Chaitanya.”

“I only said I was hungry — the kid is the one who rushed into the first restaurant he saw! I tell you, if I wasn’t so tired I’d head for the Udupi down the street. At least there the waiters don’t wear bow-ties that cost more than my entire outfit.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Chandrika shrugged, “we can afford it. Panchaayat pays for all on-duty stuff.”

“I hope the ice cream is good,” Chanakya said.

“You and me both,” Chandrika replied. “Chaitanya… want to fill us in?”

“Yeah, sure. Better get it done with on an empty stomach.”

Chaitanya told it as clearly as he could, which was hard since what he experienced was always so overwhelming: sight, sound, smell, touch, memory, emotion, all crammed into one and shoved down the throat at the speed of light. He had many synaesthetic reactions too, which he had to translate — the demon’s eyes, for instance, had smelled like Pakistani rock music. Meera’s perfume was the colour of sunlight, the texture of baesan laddus.

“Algernon in Liverpool?”

“That’s what it said,” Chaitanya shrugged.

“What’s an Algernon?” Chanakya asked, licking some ice-cream from his upper lip. “And what’s a Liverpool? It sounds hideous.”

“I’m sure it is,” Chandrika replied. “Well, it’s been some time since I heard anyone call us darkies…”

“Could be dealing with a pre-independence person. He was English. Propah accent and everything.”

“Colonial English demons,” Chandrika mulled, “Uditaa’s going to be tearing her hair out over this one.”

“I don’t like Uditaa auntie,” Chanakya said.

“Uditaa auntie doesn’t like you either, kid,” Chaitanya replied. “Chandrika, how often do these, um, firang types show up, anyway?”

“Not as much as they used to,” Chandrika said. “There were a lot in the 50s. That was the last time the Panchaayat was very active. My Aazobaa made his career hunting leftovers from the British Raaj. Remind me to show you some of the pulp novelizations.”

Chaitanya smiled with surprise. “Your Grandfather was that C.C. Kulkarni? The man who wrote the Kadam Namdév novels?!”

“You’ve read them?”

“My had had the whole set! There were… what, twenty-five–“

“Twenty-seven. And those are just the published ones.” Chandrika grinned.

“So they’re actually based–“

“On his own experiences, yes.”

“I though the Panchaayat had a strict secrecy policy.”

“He changed things enough to avoid any suspicion — the real cases are much more intense. Many of our people grew up reading those books, that’s what fuelled their interest in the field — that’s what got them to sign up. Besides, a cut of the profits went directly into the Panchaayat treasury.”

“Ah. So that’s what’s paying for lunch.” Chaitanya looked ceiling-wards. “Thank you, Kulkarni-ji.”

“Now, coming back to more pressing matters–“

“Ice cream!” Chanakya pipped.

“Huh?”

The waiter arrived with their order and set it down, then beat a hasty but polite retreat. Chanakya stared slack-jaw at the mountainous sundae. “Ooh,” he said, “ice cream and chocolate.” He dug in with two spoons.

Chandrika picked at her Caesar’s salad with a fork, while Chaitanya simply stared into the mercurial depths of his sweetcorn soup as if divining the future. He looked up at Chandrika at the same moment she looked at him.

“Did your Grandpa ever go up against…”

“Could be,” Chandrika said. “Could be. He kept very detailed journals at Taraporewala’s.”

“Let’s go,” Chaitanya said, and pushed his chair back.

Chandrika stopped him halfway and cocked her head towards Chanakya. “Chaitanya… it’s the kid’s first sundae.”

Chaitanya nodded and sat down again. “Okay.”

To Be Continued
© Copyright 2003, Vishal K. Bharadwaj, All Rights Reserved

The pavement was so warm, even now. The dust that layered it was as fine as dust could ever be, ground down by the daily milling of a million peoples and cows, dogs, gods and double-decker buses. The dust that covered all the streets and roads and lanes, the dust that she had kissed an hour ago, sandwiched in non-animal tested, artificial peach flavouring. The dust that silted the bays post-monsoon, the dust that washed away yet still remained in the cracks of the road, like relatives you barely know. The dust was her shoe, the palanquin-bearers of her Temple. Later, at home, she would almost regret washing it away.

~~Icewalla~~
Part 01

“I’m ready,” Chaitanya said, and knelt down beside the bathtub. “Here we go.”

Oh.

home down now 85 bus maybe 83 didn’t see and all the lights so yellow they don’t look it when the crowds are there Doordarshan tower is so tall I want to fly from there and oh my stop my stop I hate heels stick in the grooves of the bus bus lurches at corners sends me reeling head spins am I drunk no no didn’t drink Gautam had funny smelling cigarette though and maybe of my stop my stop stop bus stop and don’t move until I get down.

Ah.

Down the street and to the right, in the narrow gaze of the streetlights, Meera walked home. The lane was deserted; indeed, even the main road where she alighted from the bus was empty save for the usual sandwich vendor with his sun-like kerosene lamp, the sleeping rag-forms of vagrants, the litter of cats come out to hunt and quarrel. The last buses had free reign of the roads that were usually choked with cars and people, and little hatchbacks packed with adrenaline crazed college students used the emptiness to scream their high-pitched anthems of remixed Hindi songs, whoops, hoots; all under the whine of a Maruti 800 that, for a moment, imagined it was a Porsche. This was the Prabhadevi neighbourhood that greeted Meera each night for the past three weeks.

She was used to the late hours by now. Fashion Week was coming to a close, thank goodness, and after that there would be the three to four week lull as designers and columnists and society folk took stock, compared bills (rarely dresses), complained about others stealing their work, their ideas, their models, their dreams. Simultaneously, they would trumpet the arrival of Indian Fashion at the Global Gates while also declaring it dead without heir. It happened every year, and Meera was sick of it every year, but it was a good job, being a model. The parties were fun, the pay was just about as much as a desk job for a 22 year old B.Sc Microbiology grad, and she was halfway famous.

Yes, famous. A man asked her for her autograph today, after the show, backstage. Not a very attractive man, but he asked — and did so politely — so she gave him one and sealed it with a peach-lipstick kiss on the paper. The man walked away still trying to discern the scribble on the paper. He bumped into a supermodel — someone really famous — and, realising his luck, dropped Meera’s autograph without a thought and hunted in his pocket for blank paper.

After the two parted Meera retrieved her autograph, marked now with the cigarette-grey of four boot-prints. Meera kissed her own peach impression, tasting the spent end of an Adidas and the sweat-perfume of herself, the noxious blue of ballpoint ink. She pocketed the paper and went home alone, again.

Halfway Famous Meera staggered sideways as one of her shoe heels snapped; she caught hold of a lamp-post and propped herself up next to it. In the jaundiced light of the lamp she looked down at the offending footwear. It was lost in the shadow of her hair, all moussed up to a mushroom-shaped cone and highlighted with streaks of yellow, red and silver. Meera was glad the bus wasn’t too crowded; fashion show audiences she could handle — ordinary people on a bus staring at her, she could not. She dangled her left foot out into the gaze of the lamplight; the heel still hung to the rest of the gaudy plastic and gold stilletto by a single glob of snot-coloured adhesive.

“‘Oh Meera,’” she muttered as she reached down for it, “‘do take the shoes with you, darling. They’re yours! My gift, pretty-poo…’”

“Really Gautam? You mean it?” Meera bent down for the other shoe and yanked the strap off with one angry tug. “But your shoes are so expensive! I’ve been to your boutique…”

“‘No, doll, I insist. Keep it. Now you take it or I’ll have it delivered to your house! Now go, darling!’” Meera held both shoes up.

“Delivered,” said Meera, and flung the shoes straight up at the sky, barely missing the streetlight. “Right. Very good, Gautam.” She waited for the shoes to fall back down to earth. She waited a full minute. Tip-toeing barefoot out of the circle of light, she looked around, and saw nothing. “Stuck in a tree,” Meera mused, and walked on, smiling about the possibility of some bird coming across it and shitting repeatedly in it — finally a good use for one of Gautam’s creations.

The pavement was so warm, even now. The dust that layered it was as fine as dust could ever be, ground down by the daily milling of a million peoples and cows, dogs, gods and double-decker buses. The dust that covered all the streets and roads and lanes, the dust that she had kissed an hour ago, sandwiched in non-animal tested, artificial peach flavouring. The dust that silted the bays post-monsoon, the dust that washed away yet still remained in the cracks of the road, like relatives you barely know. The dust was her shoe, the palanquin-bearers of her Temple. Later, at home, she would almost regret washing it away.

The first of the dust dislodged itself on the coir welcome mat of her tiny, single bedroom apartment; Meera trudged wearily in to the house that was her home, but surely a home was more than a place you never felt welcome, which she often did. Her Abode, then, for the word seemed to have a legal finality and chicness that afforded it the luxury of being used for something dry and unemotional.

Meera headed straight for the bathroom after flinging her bag on the sofa. Much of the dust mixed with a little water that often collected near the bathroom door, and perfect print of Meera’s left foot formed there, right down to the delicate striations. This print would be there even the next day, and after that too; there were no prints leading out.

She bent down to plug up the bathtub, the one thing in the apartment she truly enjoyed. A month ago she had invested in a small heater, and so thankfully even at this hour she could indulge herself in a hot, relaxing bath. Meera usually dozed off in there. The prospect of warm, liquid dreams crept on her; she opened the taps fully and let the steam rise in the tiny bathroom.

By now her daily allowance for civil conduct had exhausted, so with a quick ‘Fuck it’ she literally tore open her navy-blue shirt, little white buttons scattering everywhere, and savagely tossed it in the corner, quickly followed by the rest of her clothes. Arms stretched wide in the steam-soaked bathroom she stood, tired and triumphant, aching from head to toe and in the lower back of her soul, Venus come home from the war to sex the private treasures of her bath house.

She washed her feet with unconscious reluctance in the bidet, and the moussed-hair woman carefully lowered herself into the sultry embrace of the water.

Too hot, or not hot enough? By now she didn’t care, but only knew that her bones were aching for the water’s numbing touch, and soon they were answered. Meera sighed and sighed, and before long was asleep.

It was the cold that woke her.

Cold water. Not just lukewarm, but fridge cold. Ice cold. And getting colder? The thought drifted on the corner of her mind, and when she realised she wasn’t dreaming, Meera sat up in the bath with a start.

“C-Cold,” she chattered. This never happend before. The air around her was warm, and yet the bath was icy. She was so shocked she didn’t move. When she did try to move a glassy, cracking sound broke the silence of the room. The surface of the bath was icing over!

Before she could say another word, before she get out of the bath, before she could even gasp, the water itself pulled her in and pinned her down. Meera’s head dipped under the stinging cold water; her legs flailed wildly and struck against the tiled bathroom walls. Her left foot fractured on impact. The pain shot through her body and she was screaming even before her face broke the water’s surface.

And then she saw it. At the end of the bath, between her legs, someone — some thing — was rising out of the water–no! The water was rising, crystallizing into lazuline blue facets, the facets into a spiked dome, the dome when risen crowning a–my god! A head. A hideous, spindly head made entirely of ice. Water still tricked down its masculine features; the eyes, like beady mint candies, its teeth like rows of diamonds — both were visible through its clear ice-skin. The ice-man had by now manifested himself fully, squatting at the end of the tub, towering over Meera who just stared.

“My darling,” the ice-thing said. “I have come at last.” It lunged forward, smothering her, its icy, coarse hands cupping her face, its slush-like tongue licking her cheek. Meera screamed and struggled, but the creature just held her down in the tub. “So happy to see me,” it breathed in its glassy voice, “I am so touched. I wrote a poem for you, you know. I sent it to Algernon, in Liverpool — I sent it as soon as I wrote it. He’s going to publish it, my poem… Do you know what it was about? It was about you, my darkie love. Come, my queen, my raani — let us make love like the good days.”

Meera could barely feel the frigid penetration. Her mind had gone into shock, and it was detaching itself from all conscious thought.

Halfway Famous Meera, nude, warm, triumphant, peach in her lips and dust bearing her Temple, skipped away down a warm road that led to a place not far, not close.

Chaitanya watched her go, but though she passed right by him she didn’t notice him. The young man looked down at the tub, where the ice demon thrust away at the lifeless, pale body, her head lolling from side to side, her eyes fixed on nothingness. Chaitanya looked, and felt the shoe heel snap, the dust on his feet, the itch of where the bra had dug in and how it felt to throw it in the corner, and he shuddered as he felt the ice phallus tear away at him. The demon came with an inhuman yell, and every inch of it shattered. The rain of ice fell on Meera’s dead, violated corpse like earth on a tomb.

But earth is warm.

Chaitanya knelt down beside the bathtub. This time all he heard was silence. The vision faded, and he was back there the next afternoon, his companions standing nervously beside him.

Exhausted, he rolled back and lay against the lavatory, gasping for breath. These invasive trips took a lot out of him usually, but this time was the worst. Chandrika quickly knelt bedise him and helped him stay straight; without her support Chaitanya had neither the energy nor the balance to stay upright.

“Bhuza…smm…aah…” he said, shivering.

“It’s not usually this bad,” Chandrika said to Chanakya, who was standing at the door to the bathroom. “Help me,” she scolded him.

The man raced to her side, propping Chaitanya up. “What do you think is wrong with him, Auntie?” Chanakya asked innocently.

“Don’t call me Auntie,” Chandrika said, “you’re older than me, you know. In body, at least. And I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“Sorry,” Chanakya whispered.

“Chaitanya!” the young woman shouted at him, and then slapped him.

“Wha…?”

Chandrika slapped him again. No effect.

“Let me try,” said Chanakya, and with all too much enthusiasm he socked Chaitanya square on the jaw, which sent him to the floor in a heap.

“What the hell did you do that for?!” The two of them stood and looked at Chaitanya, sprawled awkwardly on the bathroom floor.

“Well, at least he stopped shivering,” Chanakya said. Chandrika didn’t answer.

To Be Continued
© Copyright 2003, Vishal K. Bharadwaj, All Rights Reserved