Escape Case

I’m in the middle of a world tour, no trouble to the neighbours – doors and windows tightly shut, when the calling bell shrieks. I hold my breath till the ringing notes pile on each other as if someone really angry wants me.

Can’t one sunbathe on a Hawaii beach in peace? I set the wine glass with white wine – plain water, actually – on a rock, and push the dark goggles over my forehead. My eyes squeeze shut to fight the afternoon light. I rise from the mat on the floor. I’d spread mud from a marigold pot last night to make the beach, and used the last of the blue crayon stubs to draw a sea and sky on the wall facing me. The ceiling fan whirring at full speed blows the sea breeze. The gravel in the mud digs into my bare feet. I wear my flip flops, and hope the caller will tire soon.

I drape a bedsheet like a cape over my two-piece bikini – just underwear, mind you. I leave the paper flowers in my hair, and remove the crepe paper garlands that are anyway terribly itchy. I almost fall down the internal staircase that leads downstairs. The screaming notes are now whirling around the empty house, searching and searching. Who is it? I stare at the main door willing it to become transparent. Neighbour? Salesperson? Beggar?

Someone has started banging the backdoor now.  The peep hole on the main door reveals a cloudy view of nothing in particular. It must be one of the neighbours. They always have something urgent to say: your garden is overgrown, I think I saw a snake; you left the lights on all night; we heard the tv all day; don’t stand at our gate and stare; your terrace needs sweeping; your coconut tree fronds fell on the car, or missed some precious head…

I open the main door a chink, and regret it immediately: stern looking men. They seem vaguely familiar. The one with his finger on the calling bell pulls away. He pushes the door open. He looks me up and down. He stands on the doormat, as if the Welcome on it was printed for him. I’m unsure whether to run back upstairs, or sprint past him to the open road. Too late. He’s joined by three more men. They confer in whispers.

The men look comical in their cream-coloured robes, white turbans, ash tracks on their foreheads, and bead necklaces. Another similarly attired man runs up to them from the side of the house. He’s the frailest of the lot, and I’m relieved to see him.

He catches his breath and looks at me with the familiar sky-will-fall-on-my-head expression. ‘Shree! Where on earth were you? I almost broke the back door open.’

I’m peeved. ‘In Hawaii. Why will the back door open if it’s shut from inside? You’ve told me a million times to keep every door and window shut.’

He shakes his head. I place my hand on his arm. ‘Vishu, I had to repeat Hawaii indoors because you said the neighbours had complained last week. Hawaii on the terrace is best, though. The coconut fronds, blue sky, wind and birds are all out there. Hola Hola!’ I twirl around and dance like I’ve seen the girls do on the Travel and Living Channel. I’ve not rehearsed the steps after the cable connection was cut last year.

Now Vishu looks as grim as the others. He hurriedly wraps the sheet [I am guessing it is the one she has made the cape from] around me, and guides me back to the foot of the stairs. ‘Go! Please, go upstairs, Shree. We need to get the downstairs ready for the first evening discourse. I did tell you I’d donated the house to the cause of God, right? And these are my brother monks.’ He looks around, but the men are already taking over corners of the house.

That’s when I notice a pickup truck parked inside the compound. Two workmen unload stuff: mics, plastic chairs, carpets, pamphlets…. I look at Vishu’s hands again, and the limp cotton bag that hangs down off his shoulder. He hasn’t brought me fruits or biscuits. It’s such a sunny day. I wish I could stroll down the street and buy something to eat – cream biscuits with jam centres, crisp coconut biscuits with sugar sprinkled on them, instant noodles, bananas.

‘Come back and live here, Vishu. Please, please. It’s nicer when you’re here.’

‘Shree, for heaven’s sake go upstairs!’ Vishu pushes me gently. ‘You know I can’t stay. I’ve explained that to you. We only stopped by to make the arrangements. This will become the ashram’s office soon. Don’t worry, nobody will trouble you upstairs. I’ll get a spare key made. We’ll let ourselves in the next time.’

I drag my feet up, and sit midway on the stairs to watch the bustle downstairs. I pull my arms out of the sheet. I’ve marked the calendar: it’s a year since Vishu left, and the last time too there’d been so many strangers in the house. Vishu gave everything away that day, down to the last matchbox. He watched with a smile as the maid, dhobi, watchman, gardener, and road sweepers carried away our things. I was terribly upset, and that made me talk a lot, and made the workers laugh. No matter how many times I repeated, ‘Less is more, less is more,’ like Vishu had told me to, I wasn’t convinced. But I begged to keep my large wardrobe of clothes and shoes, and magazines, and everything else that was mine in the two rooms upstairs. And I’d hidden the contents of my dressing table the minute Vishu began the madness.

‘You poor man. I see why you pleaded with Guruji to take you in. Being married to her must have been tough. But you waited thirty years to decide?’ One of the monks asks Vishu.

Vishu walks to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Shree, please go to your room. I’ll come upstairs in sometime. We need to talk.’

‘I’ll sit here quietly, I promise. I’m hungry.’

‘Sorry. I’ll buy you a packet of biscuits before I leave. But, didn’t the canteen deliver breakfast this morning?’ Vishu climbs a few steps to stand before me. He lowers his voice. ‘Can you wear a salwar kameez over this please?’

‘They send stale food, Vishu. They deliver late. The delivery boys are rude and tease me.’

‘Shree, don’t be fussy. I’ll speak to the canteen manager today.’

‘Can you buy cream biscuits with jam in the centre?’

Vishu has gone back to confer with the monks. I hear his kind voice, ‘Brothers, Shree is a good woman. She was always childlike.’

‘What’s wrong with her then? Madness?’

‘Oh, no! None of the specialists we met ever certified madness. Some people never grow up. Doctors prescribed lifelong kindness and patience, that’s all. Yet, this make-believe life she’s leading now is a bit extreme, I agree. This began only after I left. The doctor said she’s filling absences to escape loneliness. I’ve been trying to hire a companion maid, but haven’t been successful.’

‘Why don’t you send her to that place where I sent my mother?’ asks one of the monks. ‘They took good care of her. I never had to visit her. She passed away peacefully within a few months, though.’

‘I can’t do that! Shree is only fifty-eight. Let her stay here. She’s harmless.’

‘Guruji won’t tolerate women dressing like this. Who knows, Guruji may want to live here. After all, this is the heart of the city. We can get a decent crowd and good donations,’ says the monk who’d pressed the calling bell.

‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. I want her to stay here. She’ll be lost anywhere else,’ Vishu pleads like a child. ‘I promise to drop in here often and keep an eye on her.’

‘Look at you! You’ve given up worldly ties to join the order, but you still think you’re her husband?’

I lean forward to hear Vishu. ‘I’m doing my best. For the whole of last year, I carried out all the tasks that were assigned to me. Please let her stay.’

‘Here, call this number today. By the next discourse we want you to have really given up your ties to samsara. She’ll be fine at that place. It’s meant for people like her. She lives in a world of her own, doesn’t she? She’ll carry it along with her,’ says the calling bell presser, angrily.

*

We must make a strange trio: a monk, a crazy lady, and a young woman talking excitedly. I’m tired. We’ve walked a long way. Auto drivers decline after one look at Shree. Can’t blame them. She smells awful. My cream-coloured robes are dirt grey – a mockery of the purity they were meant to represent. I’ll never be a monk. I can’t. I wasn’t destined to be one.

Shree has this look in her eyes that begs little boys to throw stones at her. I’m surprised when stray dogs join the lads, snarling and barking at us. I think the scent of the underdog has strange allure, and it never fails to draw out the worst in both, people and animals. The young woman, Avi, struggles with a tote stuffed with files and books, but stops to yell and shoo the boys and dogs away. She finally halts in front of a house that’s squashed between two bigger houses.

‘This is me, come on,’ Avi declares.

I look at the sad building which seems to hold too much in its fluttering pockets of balconies. ‘We’ll not stay long, I promise. I’ll call my brother monks to see if I can take my house, or at least a portion of it back from the monastery.’

I hold Shree’s trembling hand and lead her up the narrow stairs behind Avi. A dog begins to bark like it’s a man-eater.

‘Hey! Wait, wait, wait. This is not a destitute home!’ It is clearly the landlady Avi had warned me about.

‘Auntyji, they’re not staying long. I invited them for a cup of tea.’ Avi moves forward, but the landlady doesn’t budge. ‘Please. It’s time for you to light lamps. You cannot turn away a needy soul at twilight.’ Avi says, and pushes the tote against the woman’s stomach.

‘You haven’t paid rent for three months. Your dad will help, you promised. Leo! Stop that barking. You’ll get a beating now.’

Shree clutches at my robes, her eyes ablaze with fear. ‘Dog bites five injections, dog bites five…’ she mumbles.

The woman lets us pass, follows us, and waits till Avi opens the door to the house on the terrace. Avi sweeps clothes and books off a narrow cot and a plastic chair, and spreads two sheets of newspaper on the floor. ‘Sit on this, Shree aunty, while I heat some water for a bath,’ she says kindly. Shree obeys, and draws all of herself into a tight knot of bones. She cowers, as if waiting for a beating.

The landlady sits on the plastic chair, settling and unsettling her bones. Her sighs, foot shuffles, thumps on the arm rest, Leo’s barking, the squeaks of the chair, all blend into a thrum of growing discontent. I’m the hamster in the wheel of samsara again. This time I’ll run forever.

Avi strides out of the kitchen, yelling, ‘Auntyji, please switch on the motor. Are you even human? The taps are dry. We must bathe now.’ She stands menacingly near the landlady. ‘This monk was once the head of a company. He has a huge bungalow, cars, money, everything. He gave it all up for God.  And here you are, refusing food and water, treating him like a piece of dirt.’

Surprisingly, the landlady goes out to yell to someone downstairs. And soon the sound of water gurgling up the pipes drums against the wall I’m next to. Avi fills two big steel vessels and sets them to boil on the stove.

The landlady offers to bring us tea, and leaves. I take in the small living space, the kitchen, and the bathroom. The policeman calls on my mobile again. He wants us to come to the station tomorrow. I agree, but don’t think it’s going to help put the people behind Sunset Homes in jail. They’ll buy themselves a way out like they’ve surely done before.

The landlady returns with hot tea and biscuits. She covers the cups for Shree and Avi with coasters. I realise how hungry I am when I reach out for my third biscuit to dunk into the sweet tea. She eyes me with disapproval. I don’t tell her my last meal was thin gruel, the day before yesterday just prior to Avi’s urgent call.

It had been difficult to explain to my guruji why I had to leave. It was my wife, I’d repeated over and over again. Wife? he’d asked every time. He looked disappointed, and offered silence instead of the usual blessings when I fell at his feet. He didn’t have any money, he said. I ran and walked all the way across the city to Sunset Homes. I couldn’t help but think of my two cars, bank balance and the house I’d owned before monkhood.

Shree’s squeals when the hot water stung the scabs, and Avi’s voice coaxing her, fill the room. The landlady sighs. When Shree returns dressed in Avi’s clothes, I see a little life in her eyes.

Avi stuffs Shree’s ragged clothes into a garbage bag and adds the newspapers from the floor into it before tying it close. She places it outside the door. ‘Take no chances with scabies, Swamiji. It’s the worst. I’ve seen it in our village.’ She asks me to reheat the tea for Shree before proceeding into the bathroom again. We hear a lot of splashing around and the sharp smell of disinfectant. She returns after her bath and ties her clothes too in another garbage bag. ‘You should bathe too, Swamiji,’ she says. ‘I’ll heat more water.’

The land lady says, ‘Avi beta, remember the water bill.’ She looks at me apologetically when Avi glares at her. ‘I’ll bring you my husband’s clothes. As you can well see, your kind God cannot help with rents, bills, and scabies.’

‘Aunty, water and electricity are included in the rent, if you remember.’

‘Then remember to pay rent on time.’ The landlady’s retort is swift, and finds its mark. Avi lowers her eyes. I feel sorry for her.

The land lady leaves after she heats up tea for Shree and Avi, and hands over all the biscuits to Shree who collects them in her shirt. Shree sips the tea with obvious delight. She licks all the biscuits as if to mark ownership, and arranges them in the hammock of her shirt.

‘We’ll find a way to get your house back. Don’t worry,’ Avi says. ‘Swamiji, why did you dump Aunty in that hell hole?’

I’m an ex-Swamiji, but I don’t correct her. I can’t answer without sorting through the whirlwind in my mind. Shree is stuffing the biscuits into her mouth. She’s lost a few teeth. What had I done? What was I chasing when all this was happening? When did all this yearning for monkhood start? My earliest memory is being dragged out of the monastery by my father and thrust into a gaggle of six-year-olds, and ordered to play. Be a child, I was admonished more than once. Be a son. Be a husband. After that? And after that, I thought it was okay to leave.

Avi calls out to me. ‘Swamiji, take a bath.’

The landlady has sent up a change of clothes. It’s a faded watchman’s uniform with a new set of underclothes. I return from the hot bath and bag my monk’s robes in another garbage bag and line it beside the other two outside the door. If only pasts could be bagged and left behind to be incinerated like this.

‘Swamiji, demand that they return your house. Shree aunty will not survive the streets or another home like Sunset Homes,’ says Avi.

It is strange how the change of clothes frees me; I have to watch over Shree for life. I shake my head. ‘I can only try. After all, I gave it up willingly.’

The landlady calls Avi on the mobile. She’ll bring us dinner. Avi tidies the house. She spreads fresh sheets on the divan and helps Shree lie down. We watch Shree sleep, curled up to take the least space.

‘Avi, I should have heeded your call last month. Somehow, checking in on Shree too often seemed like a breach of my monastic vows. Moreover, I was warned to be wary of honey traps.’

I’m ashamed. I haven’t ever admitted it, but my monastic life had been nothing like I’d imagined. The order claimed you couldn’t reach out to the world without worldliness. They wanted followers abroad, wanted acres to grow a big ashram, wanted AC cars and air tickets for senior monks etc., They constantly sought funds and ways to promote themselves. Some monks were harsh and impatient when there were delays. The ashram reminded me, every day, of the company I’d headed, only a more chaotic and greedier version. I stayed on for the teachings, prayers, and meditation, telling myself to be less critical and more spiritual. Or, maybe, I stayed there to escape Shree.

I stood up and began to rearrange the bookshelf. It had Psychology books. I helped Avi sweep and mop the floor with disinfectant. The tiny house felt like a fresh start. Avi sat on an upturned bucket and asked me to lie down beside Shree. I couldn’t. I sat on the plastic chair. We watched Shree sleep.

The land lady brought us dinner. We ate together quietly, grateful for the hot kichidi and raita with pickle. Shree woke up and ate with relish. She licked her fingers repeatedly, her grip on the plate tightening till the knuckles showed white.

Avi stepped out with a grocery bag. The landlady followed her. Shree went back to sleep. I stood on the terrace, and watched Avi cross the road.

Yesterday was a nightmare. Avi and I searched for Shree everywhere inside Sunset Homes.  We found her near the backyard garbage dump. Often, all it takes to make a fresh start is to create a breathing space. I’d held my breath as I shoved the clutter aside to create a moat. It was space enough for a man to step in and hold his wife. Her bones had felt unfamiliar, and knifed into me. Monks of any righteous order didn’t embrace women; mothers, sisters, daughters and wives became devotees or strangers.

I heard the azan from a mosque and then temple bells. The monks in the monastery would have gathered in the large hall to meditate before bedtime. Shree was going to need care for the rest of her life. I thought I could live without the stress of a ‘bigger purpose’ in life. Here and now and this, was all that mattered. I sat on the slope of the washing stone that was still warm from the setting sun, and watched the world go by.

*

Credit is a bad word. Shame on you, the grocer’s eyes say as he noisily rifles the pages in his notebook until he reaches mine, and underlines Avi Sharma with unnecessary emphasis. He snatches the list from my hand. Appa isn’t sending money. He’s holding his threat seriously, the threat that he won’t send any till I pass my course. I keep my eyes and voice lowered and wait for the grocer to fill my bag.

The bag is not heavy, but I’m weighed down. I have two weeks to submit my case study in college. If the department head approves, I get to sit for the final exams despite my low attendance and poor test scores. It’s true my internship at Sunset Homes and my interest in Shree aunty was motivated by a desperation to write a case study and pass my exams. But that’s least of my worries now, though money still is.

I’ve struggled with school and lessons all my life. I’d begged my farmer dad for a patch of land to grow flowers. That’s what I still want – to become a flower seller. He was aghast. He’s always been fascinated by the interviews of small-town kids cracking big exams. The new school counsellor suggested a course in Psychology

My teachers and parents think I don’t try hard enough. And I’m angry with how the world sticks us into tight corners, and barks our protests down. I interned a month in Sunset Homes and was shocked by the place. I recognised Shree aunty at once. I had seen her in a hospital about a year before that. She had caught my interest then. I sneaked a look into her file and noted Swamiji’s number. The next day all files were secured, and I was warned to stay out of them.

I’d introduced myself as a student of psychology when I called Swamiji a month ago asking him to remove Shree aunty from Sunset Homes. He’d ignored me. The second time I’d called was day before yesterday. The panic in my voice brought him running.

We’d stood anxiously outside the high walls of the Sunset Home. We could hear loud voices, arguments and wailing which continued all day, yesterday. By nightfall, the lights inside the building and on the grounds were ablaze. A posse of policemen moved in. Inside, a few inmates stood framed at windows – a gallery of terrified portraits. The management and three social workers were at war. The press had descended with cameras and a huge portion of the neighbourhood stood with us trying to make sense of what people repeated was a raid of some sort.

That afternoon, after police approval, people walked in and searched for relatives they’d once known.

‘No need. Who’ll kidnap these waste bodies, tell me?’ a policeman asked when we showed him our id cards. Two harried nurses, a cleaner, and a watchman helped relatives connect with their elders. They pleaded with us not to book cases against them. They’d done what they were ordered to. They used sugary tones that rang hollow to address the stunned inmates. I was as disoriented as the inmates. One didn’t need any imagination to understand what had happened here. There were no joyous reunions. Families and their vacant-eyed wards barely recognised each other.

I return to my place to find Shree aunty in the kitchen eating sugar. She backs up a little and hides the jar behind her. ‘Hi, Aunty. I’m sure there’s a lot out in the world that you’ve missed. See what I got for you.’ I hold up a cup-of-noodles box. Shree looks at it for a long time, and a tiny smile touches her lips. But she doesn’t reach for it, instead she looks at me warily.

‘Swamiji, take Shree aunty and wait in the hall.’

I give her the steaming cup of noodles. She drops the fork on the divan and tentatively holds up a strand and slurps it. Her eyes dart in our direction repeatedly. We pretend not to notice, and she settles down.

‘How did you know she loves this?’ Swamiji asks incredulously.

‘I saw her relishing this in the hospital waiting room last year.’

‘You mean when they took the inmates for a checkup? They used to send the reports to my email.’

‘I had taken my dad for dressing a leg wound to the hospital that day. Covid restrictions were still in place. I saw Shree aunty sitting in the row facing me just outside the consultant’s room. What struck me first was her strange attire – the hand me downs of a teenager: a flowery shirt with three fourth sleeves, and Bermuda shorts that reached a little below her knees.’

‘Last April? That was just a month after I’d entrusted her to the care of that wretched home. And why was she wearing hand me downs? I’d delivered four suitcases with saris, salwar suits, and under clothes. I had even sent across a carton of Shree’s footwear and toiletries.’ Swamiji sounds close to tears. I pity him.

‘My eyes were first drawn to Aunty’s legs. They were covered with ugly scars of what could only be mosquito bites or scabies. Her hair was unbound and fell a few inches below her shoulder, and was that curious shade of hair-dye-losing-colour. Her eyebrows were plucked arches, and her skin was smooth. She smiled often. Her crossed leg swung to the beat of an inner restlessness. Her moulded plastic slippers were badly worn down. Only a rag picker or a stray dog could chance upon a pair like those.’

Swamiji holds his head in his hands. ‘So soon? They knew we wouldn’t check on our wards. Oh! How careless of me!’

‘Aunty chatted with the nurse and doctor in perfect English. I wondered again how she’d come to be there. She walked towards the exit and stopped at the coffee shop wedged beside the stairs. She rested her elbows on the curved glass show case and chatted with the guy manning the shop.’

Swamiji sits on the bed beside Shree aunty, and I see he’s crying.

‘I saw Aunty choose a flavour of cup o noodles. When it was ready, she sat in the common waiting area. A young girl rushed past me. She was dressed in a grey nurse’s attire with the name Sunset Homes embroidered on the pocket. She argued with the shop guy, and he said he didn’t know Shree aunty was a mental patient.’

Swamiji sighed and asked me to continue.

‘The nurse and the shop owner got into a fight. He kept saying that Shree aunty’s English had him fooled, and the nurse had to pay for the noodles. She said she’d only been gone for a few moments and this ‘escape case’ had got her into trouble. The other patients from Sunset Homes hadn’t moved an inch from where she’d seated them. They looked like they’d forgotten how to smile, talk, or move. One skeletal woman in a wheelchair beside them was crying noiselessly.’

‘Why did the nurse call Shree an escape case?’ Swamiji was crying unabashedly now.

‘I decided to do a case study at Sunset Homes to earn more credits. The management at the home refused at first, but agreed after my professor called them. I was to run the final study by them. On the very first day, I searched for Aunty. I’ll spare you the details, but what I saw broke me. I think a few inmates had died of starvation. Most of them were so dopey, they couldn’t escape even if the gates were left open. And then, there were the big Alsatians roaming the grounds. Aunty tried to escape once, and it didn’t end well. Her file had the details and your number. That’s when I called you. And I decided to never go back. Day before yesterday a disgruntled nurse called me to inform me about the raid. That’s when I called you again.’

Swamiji is thanking me, and apologising to Shree in the same breath.

I walk to the terrace and sit down. All the desperation that took me to Sunset Homes, had only led me to a place fraught with more despair. Of course, I’ll try to write up Shree aunty’s story if Swamiji agrees. Somehow, I don’t care if I pass my course. Somewhere in the world a field of flowers waits for me.