A Mess of Silence

1

Dead.

The word said with its vicious meaning understood, had a grim alliteration echo to it; an echo followed by a stunned silence. It was a numb word. A word used too often with its meaning all too simple; but it was a nasty one sided business. And suicide was two levels above. It was past the new-year's eve when Deepak Chaddha realised these crepuscular philosophies. His hand shaking out of control lost it's grip on the phone as his Uber drive to Faridabad was confirmed, and the phone fell with a muffled thump on the carpeted floor. Dumb-luck he got a drive at this hour at all. He sat blank; shocked on the springy couch of a 3-star hotel—Vintage Watson—he'd come to one day past, for official purposes. He was supposed to attend the new-year party going on in the basement of the hotel, but he preferred sleeping over partying. In a daze, he took out a cigarette, lit it and wasn't surprised when his fingers shook like innumerable legs of overturned black, terrified insects. It was the middle of the night and he thought he could hear jammed muscles creaking in his body when he got up and made a few official calls, taking deep drags from the cigarette all the while. Before leaving the room he washed his face, gave his night-clothes a change and picked up two napkins.

Deepak Chaddha hopped down the carpeted wooden stairs two at a time; his footfalls echoing loud and louder. Two in the morning, a silence persisted in the hotel corridors, broken only by his footsteps. The basement where the new-year's party was going on was not properly sound proved; Deepak herd rather loud muffled noises of disco music and bellowing crowds still escaping through the floor when he got to the ground level. He couldn't help noticing the glassy reception decorated with cheerful graffiti and colourful balloons. His Uber was out front, and he had a dead son to hurry for. The cold air hit him as he went outdoors. A dog howled somewhere far in the night, and two others replied in grave coordination. In a sprint he went into the ancient Swift waiting to cab him. The inside of the car smelled harsh; some musk fragrant freshener and abundant tobacco. He sneezed.

"OTP, sir?" the cabbie had an old, croaky voice. Deepak gave him the OTP.

"Happy new-year sir!" the cabbie said smiling cheerfully, revealing tobacco stained teeth.

"Hmm," Deepak replied distantly getting into the car.

The cabbie was as ancient as his car. His fox-like face was round and comely. He was packed, with at least four (or maybe forty) layers of clothing insulating him from the stingy cold. A black and white muffler was tied in a snake like knot around his throat and on his head was a checked suede golf cap. On top of everything was a heavy, brown moth eaten blazer. His jaw worked constantly on chewing the tobacco his stained mouth held.

The cabbie turned the ignition but the car didn't start. Impatient and in cold sweat, Deepak settled in uncomfortably and blew warm air into his hands. The cabbie tried the ignition again, then again. It was finally on the fourth time that the car nodded it's agreements and moved.

"Music?" asked the cabbie in a croaky whisper. Deepak shook his head without turning around and ignored the cabbie's dissatisfied grumblings.

Staring out at the dark sleeping street, Deepak rolled down the window (he had nasty words saved should the cabbie object). The freezing cold wind from outside came creeping in, in frigid slaps. He cherished the feeling as the cold air filled his lean cheeks with numbness and evaporated the cold sweat droplets from his face. His son had died. Akshar. Akki, for him and Damini.

It was suicide, Damini had said in a tear-sodden, quivering voice. She'd said Akshar's reason was too distressing, too twisted and vexing, to be talked about over the phone. All she'd said was that it had something to do with his school teachers. With tears forming in his eyes he took out a pen and one of the two napkins he had picked up just before leaving. Using his leg for a base, on the napkin he wrote three names: Tripti, Ravikul, Bhati. He encircled each name twice. The nib of the pen pierced through the napkin and poked into his leg. It was pure co-incidence; or maybe one of the examples of weirdest ways destiny weaves itself and plays around mortal lives, that two of the three people whose names Deepak wrote on the fragile piece of napkin, were down there in the new-year party going on in the posh basement of Vintage Watson.