Ticking time bomb

A woman stood facing the wall; not an odd sight for the times we lived in. Except that she hadn’t moved in about — I checked the huge clock that hung above the constable’s desk — one hour and twenty three minutes. My luck had really outdone itself this time. I could have been in the cell with the funky prostitutes, becoming best friends while braiding each others hair, exchanging notes on the best blouse tailors in Sowcarpet and swapping stories about dick and petty theft, but no. I had to be in the cell with this woman, who had not moved in one hour and twenty — four, minutes.

Well. I was going to be here for a while so I may as well get imaginative. I scrunched up my face and scrutinised her broad back. Short, curly jet-black hair which would have been enviable if it wasn’t so unkempt…was that…a twig?!
I shuddered, running my fingers through my own shoulder-length wavy hair that I had just shampooed this morning. Anyway, back to her.

She was wearing a faded red threadbare jacket from which string and bits of fluff were lazily unravelling, and dark blue denim jeans that were desperately frayed at the edges. It was a rather dusty and weather-worn pair with a few rips and holes along the calves. Odd place to try and pass off an artistic rip, I thought wryly.

She had a nervous tick. Her pinky finger kept twitching in tune to a rhythmic beat, almost like a heartbeat. She wore a thin band on her ring finger. Married?
Her head was bowed, forehead leaning against the dingy wall where Ram had shabbily scratched his undying love for — wait for it — Mythili.
Well. I couldn’t imagine that was very comfortable, and it certainly wasn’t very smart. She was going to peel away with a huge black welt shining on her forehead.

I snorted.

She jerked at the sound. I don’t blame her, I sounded like a gassy hippo, but she still didn’t turn around.

“We’re going to be here for a while you know, we might as well get to know each other.” I waited. No luck.

I shrugged and turned back to look across into the opposite cell with my could-have-been-best-friends, the whores.

The one in the chintzy pink saree with the chamki-dotted blouse I would call Rosy. I’m pretty original that way. The experimental fashion trail blazer with the copper-sulphate blouse and the neon green saree, I would call Alisha. And the third one wearing what looked like a badly stuffed bra under an orange blouse with a shimmery black saree, I would call…Baby.

I grinned, satisfied with my choices, and began to create their stories in my head. Rosy had a turbulent childhood with an absentee father and an alcoholic mother but love found Rosy pretty early and consistently. When she was 13…

*****

I woke up unbelievably aware of the time. And I woke as abruptly and forcefully as if someone had yelled into my ear. It was pitch-dark. A lone bulb creaked wearily outside, casting faint shadows into our cell. All was eerily quiet.

“Aaah!!” I started and clutched my chest in fear. “Fuck….” I rubbed my chest trying to steady my racing heart. “Finally decided to turn around eh..”

I glared at the woman who was sitting with her knees drawn to her chest. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could just make out her eyes staring beadily back at me. She had discarded her red jacket, if you could call that ragged excuse of clothing a jacket, and I could just about make out a pale white shirt behind her crossed arms.

We looked steadily at each other, unblinking.

“You look nicer than the other woman” she sniffled.

I smiled, despite myself. Maybe this night wouldn’t be so bad after all, and I could still get a friend out of it.

“Well I’m a nice person too, but I’m going to be bailed out by the morning, so you may want to use this time wisely.”

She slowly lifted her head up and smiled at me. Her face was kind. Young, with vestiges of hope still lining the corners of her eyes. She could not have been more than 27.

“Well. I’ll be here another week, till my court hearing. Maybe you could come visit after you leave?”

I grinned. “Go on then” I said. “Tell me your story first.”

****

I loved him about four minutes after I met him. He was my brother’s mechanic. My beat-up old Scooty Pep had had one too many rides and resolutely sputtered to a stop that day. My brother took us straight to Jerry. Covered in grease and with a spring in his step that made his curly hair quiver, Jerry reeked charm and confidence. He was humming to himself as he assessed my Rani, and assured us he would have her ready by the end of the day.

I could wait a day to tell him I loved him.

I was never one for love stories or romantic notions but there I was, all of 24, coming over in giggles for this grease monkey of a 27-year-old man. I went to pick up my Rani and rode out sitting behind her for the first time in my life with Jerry at the wheels.

For two people with no money, we certainly went on many dates. Beaches, empty parks, long walks, long rides on his weathered Pulsar. Oh and we ate. Whatever money we had, we spent on eating new food. There were sundaes, burgers, cheap chowmein. And there was pizza. Except there was no pineapple on it. I had expected pineapple, for some reason, maybe to make it more exotic. But we went with plain cheese and I was perfectly satisfied with that. I was perfectly satisfied with my life.

It was smooth sailing for nearly two years.

Not a day went by when I didn’t think of him. And not a day went by when he didn’t show up at the end of my street at 7pm on his Pulsar, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Except when one day, he didn’t.

I waited for over an hour before going back home. Maybe something had come up, he would call. I stayed up all night waiting for a call or a text. All of mine went unanswered till finally at around 2am… “the number you are trying to reach, is currently, switched off.”

One day became two, two days became a week. I was frantic with worry, nobody at the mechanic shop had seen him. My brother got in touch with the police — see, Jerome was an orphan. He had grown up working as a delivery boy for some of these small time drug dealers until one day he saw bloodshed and decided to never go back. He didn’t tell me much about those days, said there wasn’t much to tell. And I never pushed him. But now, chest constricted with worry, I wondered if I should have.

I stopped eating. I broke out in fevers and cold sweats every night, fearing the worst.

Two weeks into his disappearance I got a phone call from an unlisted number. All the croaky voice asked was — “did you check the car?”

I was already out the door before the line beeped.

That damn car…Someone had dropped it off for servicing nearly a month ago and vanished without a trace not bothering to come back for it. We had discussed that car multiple times…we had made out in that car…slept in that car…talked endlessly...planned our future…

I quickened my pace.

The car was standing there, rusty and innocent. Nobody was around, it was already dusk.

I walked towards the car and peered inside, nervous beads of sweat dotting my face. But nothing was out of place. I walked around, peered under it, but there was nothing there. Panting, tears stinging my eyes, I turned to go when the trunk caught my eye. It was slightly ajar. We had tried to open the trunk but abandoned our attempts when it wouldn’t budge. Trepidation mounting, I walked slowly towards the car.

I opened the hood of the trunk, expecting the worst.

****

Three sharp raps brought us back to the cell. Soft sunlight was streaming in through the bars. I looked around and saw my father standing at the constables desk, looking as though he had lockjaw. He didn’t seem to want to look at me.

“You can leave.”

The door swung open and I stared at my father, but I couldn’t budge. I was dazed, hovering; stuck between my reality and hers.

I turned towards her urgently. “What happened, what was in the trunk?”

She had turned back to the wall, head bent against it. Pinky finger nervously ticking in a rhythm, like a heartbeat. Like a ticking time bomb.

_________

Sanjana and Vaishnavi started a writers group during the coronavirus pandemic lockdown where we are given a prompt, and 24 hours to write using it.

Today’s prompts have been used in the story, in bold.

Please note that I have written the conversation in english but the setting is vernacular.