Mendakram saw his master, Mishra, standing by the window and shaving a pencil with an intense look on his face. Mishra was tall and lean, his dusky complexion accentuated by his greying hair. Mendakram admired his softspoken master, the small town man who had made it big in the buzzling city. What an intelligent man saaheb was, and oh-so-royally-stoic! That Mishra had little ability to differentiate right from wrong was hardly a cause of concern when all of Rash Behari Society was under his control. Mendakram felt so proud to carry out the smallest of tasks for his master.
The 80-year-old maalkin walked in with a glass of tea for her son, gently combing his hair with her fingers. How much she loved her son, pious and obedient as always.
The yellow from the streetlight fell on Mishra’s brown eyes, reflecting little emotion and life. A passing train reminded him of Saloni, the pretty Kshatriya woman who had stood waiting for him at Platform 12 at the Dadar Station, as his father dragged him away from a marriage that could have spelt disaster to his Baniya pride. Years later, he had found Kumkum, but his mother had found the city-bred woman too free-spirited for her son. Strangely, Mishra felt no remorse in leaving both women, his general sense of apathy coming to his rescue like always.
His phone rang. Sharmila wanted to go out for lunch. “What’s in a lunch!” he thought, before agreeing. The wealthy and shrewd Manjula held the key to his heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on. She could take him to places he could never dream of going to. Until then, Sharmila could keep his afternoons.
The Ink Spear 