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|  | Of Ma Cherí and Cherries | | Rated:
13+ | | Prompt based story-line for a contest with alternate-day prompts over a fortnight. | | by: Dr.Taher is on hiatus! ![View drtaher's Portfolio. [Offline / Private]](http://imgs.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/costumicons/ps-icon-maple_leaf-40.gif "View drtaher's Portfolio. [Offline / Private]") ![Email User: drtaher [Offline / Private]](http://imgs.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/mail-off.gif "Email User: drtaher [Offline / Private]") | Avg Rating:   (2) |
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| Item Size: 7 Entries
Created: 1:04am on 05-14-2009
Modified: 2:20pm on 05-29-2009 | |
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Entry #651398, added on 05-24-09 @ 6:56 am EDT.
[Entry Access Restriction] None.
Title:
Romila Is In her Elements.
Romila was still curious to know why Ashok had added her name to the living will. At the same time, she wondered what his parents would say if they learned of this action by their son. She decided to ask him the relevant questions the next day. She wiped both his lips and hers with tissue papers, and then got up to say good-bye. It was not a moment too soon, as the nurse came to tell her that visiting hours were over and that she should leave.
Ashok blew her a kiss, and somehow, her resolve to stay away from him had almost completely melted by then, and she smiled back at him and returned the favour. Ashok grinned again, a painful grin that showed up more like a scowl on his countenance.
"When will you return?" he asked her, propping up his left elbow against the mattress.
"I will be back tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I will go to the police station and pass on the facts about that bag to the inspector. That way, your bag case will get solved."
Ashok thanked her again. She left the ICU and went out into the afternoon sunshine. It was May, and the street heat was like fire upon her bosom. She decided to go to the police station after having something to eat in the hospital cafeteria.
The cafeteria was crowded as it was still an extended lunch hour; besides various snacks, the cafeteria served a mini-lunch that had 2 cooked vegetables, dal | A gravy made from lentils and spices |
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, chapatis and rice with a papad , a thin round of flour that is sun-dried and roasted over slow fire{/popnote} and pickles. Romila ordered a mini-lunch and a bottle of mineral water. She ate her lunch rather quickly, and then went back out to hail a taxi. This time, the traffic was not as thick as earlier, and she reached the police station within ten minutes.
Inspector Baijal was out for lunch and Romila breezed her face with a folded newspaper to ward off the heat. She had to wait for nearly an hour before the inspector returned.
"Ms. Bhagat?" Inspector Baijal immediately noticed her and raised his eyebrows to ask her what she was doing there.
"I ... can I see you, sir??
"Of course, do come in." Baijal led her back to the duty desk where he sat down in his usual chair and mopped his forehead with a hand towel. "Say what you wish, Ms. Bhagat," he said. He looked up at the ceiling fan and sighed ... more like panted, Romila thought. Although the fan was turning at full speed and making the most of it by creating a horrendous noise, the wind from it was hardly sufficient to cool anyone sitting underneath it. Add to it the fact that it was a standard, government purchased second quality fan, and one can well imagine what it must be like to spend entire afternoons under it!
"Well ... good afternoon, sir," she began, but there was no discernible change in the inspector's demeanour. He sat impatiently while Romila smiled and declared that the bag's owner had been found.
"Bag? What bag?" It was clear that the inspector's brain was enjoying a siesta while the tandoori chicken inside his stomach was being digested and assimilated.
"Sir ... the bag that that cabbie and I handed over to you when we came to ..."
"Oh, yes, that bag! What? You know the owner?" Baijal was as shocked as he was curious.
"Yes, sir, that bag. It belongs to Mr. Ashok Mehta! The man you sent to Sir H.N. Hospital and because of whom I came to see you a few hours ago."
"Ashok Mehta? How? What are you saying?" The inspector was wide awake now and began to ask her questions. She stopped him with a raised palm, and told him the story in chronological order.
"Hmmm ..." the inspector muttered when she had finished telling whatever Ashok had told her. "Good. We will question him and the cabbie, and then also inform the Income Tax Department. Standard procedure, you know. After all," he said with an unnatural flourish, " the money better be legal, or Mr. Mehta will be in trouble!"
Romila hadn't thought of that. She got worried and squirmed uncomfortably on the seat. The inspector guessed correctly that his announcing that the money had to be accounted for must have led to her becoming distressed "instantly".
"We can always ... ahh ... settle this under the table ..."
Romila knew that this would have to be done eventually. The inspector would summon the cabbie, ask him to identify Ashok as the last passenger before she herself took the cab, and then demand a cut from the bag before returning the balance amount to Ashok. So would the cabbie, to stay quiet. And, in all probability, they would also have to grease the palms of the station in charge and the few constables on duty ... Ashok would be lucky if he got back just 600000 to 700000 rupees back out of the million or so in the bag.
"I will speak to Ashok tomorrow and let you know about what we can do ... sir, but please," Romila said, " keep the bag in your safekeeping till then, okay?"
"Sure, sure, I will do that. You can go now, Ms. Bhagat." The inspector leaned forward and whispered, " Don't tell this to anyone else, or you can kiss that bag and all the money in it goodbye." He smiled derisively, as he knew that he now had the upper hand, and continued, " it will cost you to tear the receipt of the bag that I issued you and to modify the input register, okay?"
"Yes, yes, I will be back tomorrow, sir." She picked up her purse and saying a terse goodbye, she left the station. A little distance from the Lamington police station was a small public park, and she went there to cool off. There was a golawala | A hawker who sells a cooling item called a gola, which is crushed ice rolled into a lollipop on a thin wooden stick and flavoured with different coloured syrups |
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making golas outside the park. His ice-crushing machine was a hand-operated rotary machine that pressed a block of ice onto a flat metal surface with blade-edged slots. The crushed ice went through the thin slots into the hands of the gola maker, who then rolled it up with his bare hands around a stick. Next, he picked up a red-syrup bottle and decorated the lower half of the oval lollipop. Finally, he did the same with a violet syrup, which he used to decorate the upper half of the lolly. He twirled it expertly and handed it to Romila, who parted with a Rs. 10/- note as payment for the gola. She walked up to one of the unoccupied park benches that was located below a large rain tree, and removed her sandals and softly placed her feet on the cool earth.
That feels heavenly! she thought to herself as she sucked hard on the gola to imbibe the flavours and the cold sensation of the crushed ice. After a while, the gola was down to a small bit that was melting all around and threatened to come away from the stick and fall down to the ground. Romila put the entire bit with the stick into her mouth and sucked it all in, and then got up to locate a waste bin to throw away the stick.
Ashok seems to be a sincere person, and it looks as if he really loves me. Why would he have added my name to the living will if he wasn't so sincere? This thought kept coming to the surface from her sub-conscious mind, and she came to believe in the truthfulness of Ashok's story. He definitely deserves some consideration, and I am not going to deny him that.
She walked out of the park and hailed a cab to go home. It was while she was doing so that she suddenly recalled the number on the billboard she had seen that morning. She took out her cell phone and searched through the diary for the number to call. She thanked God for remembering to store it in the morning.
She punched the numbers and waited for someone to pick up the phone at the other end.
"Yes?" The voice that answered the phone was one of an irritated man who must have fielded God knows how many calls since morning.
A cabbie stopped in front of her and she got in absent-mindedly.
"Where to, miss?" asked the cabbie and she said, "Please take me to Worli, in fact, to Hajiali."
"Okay, Madam, please relax." The cabbie eased his car off the kerb and moved ahead. Romila apologised to the man on the other hand of her cell phone. She asked him to email her the details of the competition as soon as possible and provided the man with her cell number. "Do call me back if there is any news. I will come over by tomorrow and pay you the entry fee. Please, sir."
"Okay, my name is Harish, and I will wait for you to come to our office before 4 o'clock in the afternoon. Please give me your name and contact details, so that I can add your name as a provisional participant."
Romila gave out her details, took down the address of the organiser's office, said thanks and cut the phone. She then reclined her head on the back of the seat to rest. In an instant or two, she was asleep.
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