No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away from the heap of rotten vegetables across the road. Cows greedily pulled out withered cabbages, and dogs poked around the pile. Her eyes always gravitated towards nauseating sights like this. Waste bins in public toilets. Worms wiggling out of a rotten potato. The cigarette-burn scars on her inner thighs.
Bile rose in her throat, and she looked about urgently, but there was barely space to stand on the narrow footpath, let alone to puke. Vendors of cheap goods had pitched their tents here and there, leaving hardly any room for pedestrians. Busy shoppers hustled past her, eager to grab bargain potatoes and tomatoes from the Sunday market. The overcast sky threatened rain at any moment.
Fighting down her nausea, she dialled his number again. Still switched off.
Why did you agree to meet him in this filthy market? You’re a fool. He isn’t going to show. It’ll rain soon, and you didn’t even bring your umbrella. You never learn.
She started counting the Swiggy guys in orange shirts. Counting always helped, be it the burn marks or the blood splatters on the bedroom wall.
One, two, three. So, you’re really going to start your life over? Five, six. You think that’s even possible? Eight, nine. No, that’s not a Swiggy guy, just a guy in an orange shirt. Ten, eleven. You have no friends here. Twelve, thirteen. He isn’t coming. You’re a fool.
‘Namaskara, Madam-avare.’
Started, she turned around. Her eyes settled on the source of that shrill voice. A lanky figure in a white shirt and pants stood behind her. He looked like a taxi driver or maybe a local politician.
‘Huh?’
‘Madam, myself Nagappa, rent broker,’ he said, flashing his tobacco-stained teeth.
Before she could wonder how he had recognised her, the deep furrows on his face arrested her attention. They reminded her of her mother’s raw mangoes in brine – wrinkled and lifeless.
‘Um … I’ve been calling you for so long,’ she mumbled, trying to look away from the one-rupee-sized red dot between his eyebrows.
‘Madam, my mobile was off. Today auspicious day, alva, I went to devastana … um … I mean temple. Full crowd, madam.’
‘Is it on now?’
‘What, madam?’
‘Your phone. Is it switched on now?’
‘Yes, madam. Why?’
She dialled his number, and a ringtone featuring a fast Kannada track started playing from the man’s shirt pocket.
So much for your resolution to trust people. You aren’t half as brave as you think.
Nagappa blinked at his phone for a few seconds, then cut the call.
‘Do you know of any good rooms for a single person?’ she asked, trying to force a smile.
‘Madam, Kannada barutha, you speak Kannada?’
She shook her head.
‘Um … Tamil, Telugu?’ Nagappa asked.
‘Malayalam and a bit of Hindi,’ she mumbled. Especially abuses in Hindi, she wanted to add. Her eyes suddenly filled up, and she looked away, blinking hard.
‘Oh, Malayalam difficult, madam. You people speak so fast. Hindi, no chance!’ Nagappa frowned, and his face contorted into a wrinkled blob.
‘So, do you know of any single rooms? Just a room with an attached bathroom. Anything below ten thousand will do. But I don’t have money for deposit,’ she said.
‘Single-aa? Not married, madam?’ Nagappa asked.
‘Do you know any place or not?’
‘Yes, yes, madam. But ten thousand too less. You IT people make so much money…’ Nagappa spat a stream of red liquid onto the footpath, narrowly avoiding a lady selling cauliflowers.
Yes, IT people make so much money, but what does he know about a frozen joint account or losing one’s job due to neglect of duty?
‘So, do you mean I won’t get a decent place to stay?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on the red spots on the cauliflower florets. Her cheeks burned, and a sharp pain began at the roof of her mouth. She gulped hard and prayed her eyes didn’t overflow. She had learnt to make herself a stone, but her body had been acting weird for a few weeks now.
‘Don’t take tension, madam. I will find a room. But too much work, you know. It is going to rain, and another party also waiting, madam.’ Nagappa looked at the sky and scratched his chin.
She opened her purse and pulled out a five-hundred rupee note.
‘No, no. Why all this? Not a matter of money, madam.’ Nagappa snatched the note and buried it deep into his vest.
‘Below ten thousand-aa? You will get in the colony only. You have car or Scooty?’
Hah! Car, indeed! Tell him you ran away in your pyjamas.
‘No, I don’t have a vehicle.’
‘Oh, so what we do now? Not walking distance, madam. Difficult to get taxi also.’
Her face paled. She pursed her lips and shook her head.
‘Um … I will get my moped, but give me something extra for the petrol, madam. What to do? This is my Bohni, my first customer today. Moped okay?’
Superb! So, you are going to ride on a scooter with a stranger. Tell him it’s not okay. This is not going to work out. It’s not easy to start over.
She nodded and handed Nagappa three hundred rupees more, and he quickly disappeared into an alley to her left. She looked at the sky, longing for her white umbrella with violet polka dots. Holding onto it would have given her some solace. But she had left it at the PG, where she shared a room with three other girls. PG was fine, even fun. But she couldn’t stay there for long. She needed a toilet all to herself. She couldn’t risk a urinary infection at this time.
Where is he? I think he has run off with your eight hundred rupees. Why did you give him money just like that? You’ve got just enough to pay the PG rent this month. What will you do until you get your first salary?
She started counting the Swiggy guys again, but before she had reached ten, Nagappa manifested in front of her on a red moped that looked much older than himself.
‘Two-and-half litre for three hundred. Petrol price is growing like my dodappa’s belly, madam. What this country has become, devare!’ His eyes turned skywards as if God himself were responsible for the petrol prices. ‘Let’s go, madam?’
She eyed the road full of potholes. Is it safe to travel on a two-wheeler on such a road? Didn’t the doctor tell you to be careful? How did you not think about this earlier?
‘Madam, please come fast. I am blocking the traffic,’ Nagappa called out as horns started blaring behind him. Avoiding a pile of cow dung, she stepped onto the road.
Nagappa wrenched the accelerator. The moped shuddered, then lurched forward, emitting a plume of black smoke. Holding her breath, she clung to the pillion, leaving a five-inch gap between herself and Nagappa. He navigated dangerously through the narrow streets, overtaking from the left, jumping a signal, taking a prohibited left turn, and driving on the wrong side for at least a kilometre.
What were you thinking when you agreed to ride with him? You should’ve booked a cab and followed him. Will you ever do anything right? And what was the hurry to run away to a strange city? Just see, you won’t find a room.
She looked up at the canopy of Gulmohar trees, but the red flowers made her dizzy. As a teenager, red was her favourite colour. But in the past couple of years, she had learned that red could also be a synonym of pain. She shut her eyes tight, trying to retreat into a dark alley in her mind.
There was a sudden lurch to the left, and the moped came to a halt. She opened her eyes and found herself in a narrow alley lined with multi-storey buildings hustling for space. It looked like a quaint, old neighbourhood that had started out with humble dwellings, which, over time, had grown additional floors like abnormal limbs.
‘Look, madam, that room is perfect. Seven thousand rent, no deposit.’ Nagappa pointed at a small shed jutting out from a terrace.
Her face was beaded with sweat by the time they climbed four stories and reached the terrace. Nagappa opened the terrace door. A sudden gust of wind gave her some solace.
‘Very cheap room, madam. Perfect for your budget,’ Nagappa said, shaking the flimsy plastic door of the shed open. She peeped inside – bare walls made of cement blocks, needles of light seeping through the gaps in the asbestos roof, and a tattered red-oxide floor.
Ha! Superb. This is smaller than the bathroom in your old home. Why couldn’t you hold on for a little longer? Why didn’t you try to make him happy? Why did you ask so many questions? That made him furious. You didn’t even try to mend him. You ran.
‘No. This won’t work. I need a room with a proper roof and a strong door. No, not this, for sure.’ She knew how easily doors gave in and what happened when they were kicked open.
‘See, madam, rents have gone up, you know. Everyone is coming back from their village after this Karona. And for bachelor people, it’s more tougher. You adjust little, madam.’
Nagappa ripped open a gutka packet and flicked the contents onto his left palm. He rubbed it with his right thumb, and the colourful threads around his wrist shook violently.
‘Throw it away, throw it, throw it,’ she yelled frantically.
Nagappa started and reflexively flung away the contents of his palm. She took a deep breath to calm herself. It wasn’t Nagappa’s fault. He didn’t know the beatings were always preceded by the smell of gutka. Luckily, he didn’t ask for an explanation.
‘My daughter tell me it’s bad. She show me scary photos of people with cancer. What to do? Old habit, madam. Started when I was fifteen, carrying load in Kalasipalya. My Poovi is a headstrong girl. She will not leave me alone.’ Nagappa’s eyes twinkled, and deep smile lines appeared around his small eyes.
Yeah, yeah, daughters, precious for their parents. But how long? Until they hand them off to a guy. ‘Try to adjust, don’t come back complaining, don’t embarrass us.’ Daughters, my foot!
‘Do you know any better places?’
Nagappa’s smile faded instantly. He pulled out a kerchief from behind his collar and wiped his forehead.
‘Hmm … one place is there, madam. Rent is little high only.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Yes, yes.’
This time Nagappa rode his moped carefully. They passed alleys that had become impromptu cricket pitches and turned garbage-filled corners. They passed numerous temples, and Nagappa bowed devoutly at every one of them. They passed tall apartments and parks where lovers snuggled together on cement benches partially covered by bushes.
‘This is the house, madam.’ Nagappa stopped in front of a formidable metal gate set in a six-foot wall. ‘Madam, please wait. I will see the landlord and come.’ he disappeared inside the gate.
‘Beware of Dogs,’ ‘No parking, tire will be punctured,’ ‘Stick no advertisements’ – the signs snarled at her from the gate. The sun came out from behind the clouds. She belched, and her mouth tasted like the bisibele bhath she had for breakfast.
‘Madam, good news. Room just vacated.’ Nagappa returned and led her to a posh lift lobby.
‘Look, madam, working lift-u, generator-u, Cauvery water-u, everything first-class.’
The delicate floral fragrance inside the lift placated her nausea. Not bad. You’ll need a lift anyway. I am sure your tummy is going to be huge. She counted the flowers etched on the elevator wall panel.
The room was small but cosy. It had a cot, wall-mounted cupboards, a table and a chair. It even had a decorative lamp by the bedside. The bathroom was sparkly clean and smelled like citrus Lizol.
‘Look, madam, two windows.’ Nagappa beamed as if he had spotted an exotic animal.
Just outside the window stood a pink trumpet tree, waiting to bloom. Across the road was a well-maintained park.
Well, this is a great place. I have to hand it to you.
‘Great view, madam. Landlord give you no problem,’ Nagappa said, looking expectantly at her.
‘Yes, I like it,’ she said, smiling at him for the first time.
*
‘Tenants are humans too. I have taken all care to make sure my property is in top condition always. What you say?’ the sixty-something, pot-bellied landlord asked.
She fidgeted on the white Italian sofa while Nagappa sat cross-legged on the floor, two feet away from the landlord’s feet.
She picked up that floral fragrance again and realised it came from a set of agarbattis smoking in the prayer room. She glanced around the vast living room, painted pure white, its walls adorned with framed gold-embellished paintings of gods. A heavy velvet curtain separated the living room from the rest of the house. The wine-red wooden panelling glistened in the ultra-bright light from the false ceiling.
Nice house, right? You could’ve lived in a nice house too. But you were too adamant.
‘So, where did you say you were working?’ The landlord’s voice reverberated in the room.
She repeated her new company’s name.
‘Oh! That’s great, ma. I am really happy that girls of your generation are self-sufficient. Even my daughter is doing her MBA. I won’t get her married before she has found a good job. Marriage can wait, right?’
She obliged him with a smile, struggling to prevent her eyes from welling up.
‘Kamala, get coffee,’ he hollered in the direction of the velvet curtain.
‘You know, unlike other landlords, I have no problem renting my house to single people, um … if they look responsible, like you. Also, if you want to bring friends, no problem, even male friends, it’s okay. We will not interfere in your life, and we hope you return the courtesy. What you say? Anyway, Nagappa here always brings me good tenants.’
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Nagappa revealed his teeth. She glanced at him from the sofa.
‘But, one thing, ma. I am strict about the fifty-thousand deposit. Please don’t think I am greedy or anything. But I need to protect my property, what you say?’
She opened her mouth to answer, but he spoke over her, ‘See, I won’t touch your deposit. And if you give me enough notice before moving out, I’ll give it back along with savings bank interest. I am not one of those greedy landlords. So, what you say?’ The landlord looked at her, and now he did expect an answer.
Nagappa was looking at her with imploring eyes. Maybe he was counting on his ten percent of the deposit.
Ask Uppa for a loan. He’ll be happy if you settle here and don’t go crying to him all the time. He’ll give it, if only to get rid of you.
‘Okay, I am fine with it,’ she said after a few minutes. Everything seemed to be coming together finally. She could live in that cosy room with a view of the pink trumpet flowers, at least for a few months, until she needed help.
‘That’s wonderful, ma. Just give me a copy of your identity card, and I will draw up a rental agreement. The room is vacant, and you can move in any time you want.’
The landlord’s voice was calming, but a pure gold molar sneaked out from the top of his mouth and snarled at her. She felt a knot in her stomach and a prickling sensation at the tip of her toes. That was what she had felt whenever she heard loud bangs on her locked door, moments before the door gave way and the smell of gutka wafted in.
Come on, he isn’t that bad. You’re too paranoid.
‘Your ID card, ma.’
She pulled out a photocopy of her PAN card from her purse. The landlord stood up and extended his palms as if accepting a sacred offering. He sat back, put on his spectacles, and glanced at her identity card. His eyebrows knitted together, and he sucked his lips in.
‘Um … okay, all good. All good. Um … I forgot to ask. Are you non-vegetarian?’
‘Yeah … I eat non-veg.’
‘Oh, that will be a problem. This is a vegetarian building,’ the landlord said, his eyes tracking a lizard moving stealthily across the wall.
‘I understand. I eat non-veg very rarely, and I won’t bring non-veg inside the building anyway,’ she said.
‘No, that’s not the point. I can’t rent the room to a non-vegetarian person. That’s my policy. If you don’t eat too much non-veg, good for you. These broiler chicken and all … too much hormones … especially not good for ladies….’ the landlord said, dismissing her plea.
She felt a lump forming in her throat. Her cheeks burned, and sweat ran down her lower back despite the air conditioning.
The aroma of her Umma’s mutton biriyani. A teenager gorging on the biriyani, blissfully unaware that her body would soon be a commodity in the match-making market. ‘Stop eating like a buffalo. Look at you. All that sagging fat makes me gag. How much did they pay to photoshop your matrimony site photo?’ Ridicule became a common accompaniment at meal times. She started eating less. Less biryani. Biryani without pieces. No biryani. Kale smoothies. But nothing worked. The taunts chased her all the way into the bathroom, where she retched till the last morsel was out of her body. After a while, her appetite vanished. Maybe that’s why she never complained about the bisibele bhath and chitranna they served at the PG. Maybe that’s why her recent cravings for biryani terrified her.
‘Swalpa adjust madi, Avare. Before you had non-veg tenants, alva?’ Nagappa’s pleading voice broke the silence in the living room.
‘That’s in the past. This time I’ve clearly written it on the advertisement itself. Didn’t you see it?’ The landlord growled at Nagappa.
‘Illa, Avare.’ Nagappa shook his head.
‘See, I’ve printed it right here on the advertisement. Look!’ The landlord held up the phone and pointed at the corner of the advertisement – a small green circle within a white rectangle. ‘It means pure vegetarian house. Okay?’
She had only seen that symbol on food packages. She couldn’t blame Nagappa for overlooking it.
‘Sir, you said I can move into the room. You said you respect your tenants’ choices. How does it matter if I eat some non-veg outside? Do you think it’s fair?’ Her voice rose, and Nagappa jumped up from the floor.
‘Madam, I have no interest in pursuing this discussion. Now, if you excuse me, I have an important meeting. Nagappa, you can go.’ The landlord got up from his chair.
At that moment, a middle-aged woman in a frayed cotton saree entered the living room. She carried a tray with a ceramic cup and a steel glass accompanied by plates of assorted snacks.
‘Kamala, they’re leaving. Take the coffee back,’ the landlord said before the lady had a chance to set the coffee on the table.
‘But, they…’ Kamala mumbled.
‘What but? Didn’t you hear me? Take it back, RIGHT NOW!’ the landlord roared. Kamala’s face paled.
‘Aunty, wait. I’ll have the coffee,’ she said and got up from the sofa, ignoring the landlord’s glaring eyes. Kamala stood frozen as she reached for the cup. Don’t make him mad, please. The older women’s eyes pleaded. It felt as if she were looking into a mirror.
‘Nagappa, let’s leave,’ she said after a few moments, and Kamala disappeared behind the curtain carrying untouched coffee and snacks. The landlord followed her like a hurricane.
On her way out, she figured the landlord didn’t have a dog. She need not have been beware of him.
*
Nagappa’s moped was parked under an African tulip tree in full bloom. She looked up at the flowers that resembled flames, and her body burned.
‘Is this your great landlord? Who the hell does he think he is? Why did you bring me here?’ she fumed.
‘My fault, Madam. When you told your name, I thought you were … um … I saw your full name on PAN card only.’
‘What my name has to do with this nonsense?’
‘Madam, you think non-veg is the problem? Your god is the problem!’ Nagappa declared.
‘God?’
‘Madam, people in this area are a bit ... um … what you say… .They give houses to people in the same community only,’
‘Community? You mean the same religion?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what I eat isn’t the problem. It never was.’
‘Sorry, Madam, My fault only. It was not like this. Only recent years it’s happening like this. Tomorrow, we go to different area, Madam. All are not like these mad people. I am not showing anyone this house.’ Nagappa dug into his vest and withdrew the five-hundred-rupee note. ‘Please take it back, Madam.’
‘That’s okay, Nagappa. I am sure you’ll find me a good room. We’ll look again tomorrow. But, can you do me a favour now?’ she said, pushing the note back into his hands.
‘Anything, Madam.’
‘Can you drop me somewhere you get good mutton biryani?’
*
Salini Vineeth is a Bengaluru-based fiction writer. She is an alumnus of BITS Pilani. She has self-published five books and has contributed to various short-story anthologies. Her stories have appeared in The Bangalore Review, Café Dissensus, Kitaab International, and The Bombay Review, among others. Her debut novel, Lost Edges, self-published, came out in May 2023.