I was boiling the milk for tea on a tepid Tuesday when the knock sounded at the door. My ears heard it and my brain said ‘this is it’ but my sleepless-for-four-straight-days body said ‘it’s only that tiresome child’ and I continued leaning on the counter waiting for the familiar bubble of boiled milk. So when the soft knocks persisted for maybe two minutes or hours, my sluggish body finally registered the frantic synapses running across my reason. Hurling curses at myself in the seven languages that I know, I hurried softly over and peeked through the hole on the wall, fitted with a miniature lens. What or rather who, I saw made me sag against the wall for a moment.
It was Prasad. But really the name is not important. You may recognize him. Or not. You may have seen him and even known him but never as Prasad. Such are the transient identities in our line of work. Prasad, however, doesn’t know philosophical.
The moment the door was pulled open, he burst in and closed the door firmly. Then he held me by my shoulders and ran a good look over me. He might have seen what he sought, for he gave a sharp nod and let go of me. He walked into the kitchen with a “Why do you always get the devil’s shift?” I shrugged as I followed him and said, “I was going to make tea”. Prasad halted near the door of the kitchen and turned back at me. “Go on and sit down. I will get some tea for us.” When I would have demurred, he gave me a slight push. As I was too tired to resist, I obeyed him. I moved to sit on the edge of the bed leaving the lone plastic chair in the room to Prasad. Next, I was only aware of a mild shaking: Indeed I had dozed off. Prasad had pulled up the little stool and was setting down two full steaming mugs. As I got up from the bed and saw the big mugs in place of my usual cups, my face creased into a severe frown. And I got a “You wont need the milk for a while. It will only go bad” for my trouble.
Now that it was in the open, we were restless. The pretense was over.
“It is Manikyam. He is exposed. The police know him.”
The sleep deprivation was not helping. “Why should…”
Prasad interrupted “The wrong kind re.”
Ah. I still wanted to sleep badly. But now there was a feeling rising up back my spine. “You want?”
Prasad seemed reticent. A faint alarm was starting to toll in my mind. What was worrying him? It was just one person. I knew Manikyam was too important a cargo. But we have men trained just for such an exigency. Men who know the right places to hide the right people from the wrong people. So what…
“I am sorry. But I do not have time.”
More light there. And the tingles grew.
“This will be yours, Shekhar. All yours. I did not ask for this. But I do not have anyone else to give you.” He downed the hot tea in one go (I do not understand how some people never get scalded) and sat beside me on the bed, our legs touching. No hand on my shoulders this time.
And a heavy load settled in my stomach.
I got up from the bed and walked into the kitchen with my mug. “I need more sugar.” I didn’t need sugar. I needed to walk, to let the blood flow into my brain, to think. Walking back I stop beside the wall opposite. “What should I know?”
Prasad sighs. He tears a sheet from a notebook lying on the nearby wooden shelf and writes swiftly but softly. “And get some sleep. Its 8:12 now. You have till midday.”
Hands the note to me and says, “You know the rest.” No more eye contact either, it seems. I take it and carefully look through it. Any questions I have must be asked here and now. After this, I must look for answers on my own.
I closely follow Prasad the few paces to the door. He stops and turns back to me. Takes my hands in his own large hands. I never noticed that before. And his fingers are comfortably knotty. Reminds me of the jackfruit tree back in my village. But he is speaking.
“Keep him safe. For all our sakes.”
I understand this.
"Kill him, if you are going down."
I understand this too.
“This will not last one night.” I am beginning to realise that too.
He whispers, “If you live, you will know where to find me. I will see you then. At the end of this.”
He is out the door and gone in moments.
I close and bolt the door. I pick up the mug and take an experimental sip. The tea is cold and syrupy. I gulp it down. Could be the last tea I get in a while. I wash the mug and put it on the counter. I then clean the milk pan and the tea saucepan and place them on the kitchen shelf.
After drying my hands, I look at the note again. Yes I know all the details. I burn it in the fire of my stove and flush the ashes down the toilet.
The instructions were clear.
I nod.
I can deliver.
This is what I do best, after all.
