Old Bungalow Road

I wish I’d been there earlier. It might have made all the difference. So, all I can tell you is why he was murdered.

I met her at a hardware store – a hardware store, of all the places on earth. Hardware stores are as good as graveyards in this conservative Indian city called Trichy. A chance of finding something remotely female in either place is close to nil. The pretty girl had come there to buy a mirror and some nails to fit it. A lady's bicycle was standing outside the store, with some grocery and books in the basket. How did she manage to pedal in a half-saree? Everything seemed out of place – the girl, the bike, the store… my heart. She was arguing with the store assistant in broken Tamil. I walked up to the duo, to understand what was happening.

Was there no male family member in her house, who could run such errands? What language did she speak? How was she going to take this mirror home? I had an overwhelming urge to help her. Until that moment, I prided myself to be a metrosexual man. My ‘type’ of woman was a leather jacket wearing, adventurous, rock music fan with whom I could go globetrotting. Gender stereotypes were a strict no, no. Ever since my graduation days, I looked forward to be spotted as a pillion rider, with my girlfriend riding a bullet, in this sleepy and orthodox city. At 25, I was actively seeking a partner to match these specifications, but I had my own doubts on finding such a woman in this part of the country. So why was I crushing over this small town girl? What strange protective instincts was she eliciting in me? Was everything I thought about myself wrong? Was she THE ONE? Was I getting carried away by the moment?

She introduced herself as Urmila. She was doing her post-graduation in the city’s famous B-School and was from the nearby state of Andhra Pradesh. That explained the broken Tamil. I told her I was a professor in the Regional Engineering college. The girl wanted to fit the mirror on a cupboard and not a wall. She was afraid that the large nails that the store was offering would damage the delicate wooden doors. The store assistant held on to his argument that the mirror may fall off, if it was not secured well. He finally agreed to give her an extra set of smaller nails, at her own risk. “Mirror break, no coming!” he warned her, in the little English that he knew. The assistant and I then secured the mirror in rolls of newspaper, and tied it to the carriage of the bicycle.

As I was leaving, after purchasing the garden hose I had come for, I saw Urmila pushing her bicycle and turning towards the Old Bungalow Road. There was a young man walking along with her and the two were laughing. Why did he not come to the store with her? More importantly, why was I feeling jealous? For the next few days, I made frequent detours to the Old Bungalow Road. This was one of the most upscale localities of Trichy. Most of the residents employed more than one help to run their household. Is this where she lived? Why did she come by herself to buy the mirror? Or did the young man live here? If not, where were they taking the mirror? Will I get to see her again?

A fortnight later, I completed my weekly routine of updating my online journal and then headed to the library. I did not expect to meet Urmila there. Another pretty half-saree, her well-oiled tresses tied up in a bun, she was kneeling down and browsing the engineering section. I tried to strike a conversation with
her, and asked her if she managed to fix the mirror. Why was I desperate to speak to her? Why did a management student need books on engineering?For a roommate, perhaps? Boyfriend? No, I brushed that thought away. She paid for the books, but was short of ten rupees. I offered to pay the shortfall and tried to build a conversation with her. She seemed to be in a hurry to leave. I was still a stranger, isn’t it?

I could not take my mind off Urmila all that week. That lovely smile, broken Tamil ... I could hardly sleep now. The next Friday, I saw her at the ATM near my home. Her card was stuck in the machine and the guard in charge was being of no help. She had no option other than to wait until Monday, when the attached bank opened for business. She returned the ten rupees I had given for the books at the library. “Urmila, do you need the money urgently?” I asked her. “Yes, professor. I need ten thousand rupees. There is a medical emergency at home,” she said. I withdrew the amount using my card and gave it to her. Urmila was in tears, her hands were trembling with gratitude, as she took the money and hurried towards Old Bungalow Road.

I walked towards Old Bungalow Road the next day, in order to find out if all was well with Urmila and her family. As I walked down the well canopied avenue, some fallen leaves crackled under my shoes. But why were my footsteps echoing? I heard someone was calling out ‘Sir’. But there were other pedestrians on the road. So I didn’t bother turning back. In a few minutes, the assistant from the hardware store caught up with me. “Soukyama, sir?” (How are you doing, sir?) And then, out of the blue, he asked me if I could make a partial payment for the paint supplies I had purchased. “Month end, sir”, he said. I told him he was mistaken. But he persisted. “Your wife told me you will pay the remaining amount in a week’s time! You know we don’t give goods on credit. We only did so because you are our regular customer," he was now yelling. I told him I wasn’t married and this only made him hysterical. “If you can deny getting married for a mere 10,000 rupees, you will do anything. I am going to the police," he yelled. Clearly, this was a case of mistaken identity. 

I realised we were attracting unwanted audience. This was a very wrong place to have this conversation. What if Urmila heard us? I had to prove I was very much single. Ten thousand was a lot of money. Was this guy speaking the truth?

I abandoned my mission of looking for Urmila and both of us headed towards my home. I decided that this shopkeeper had to meet my parents and my grandparents. Only then would he believe me. The man was not convinced even after meeting my family members. As we came out of the house, he asked me the whereabouts of my bike. He wanted to know if I had married without the consent of my family. “Your family does not know, sir? Is there a caste problem? You could have told me before. You can pay next month, sir. I will not tell anyone about this." The shopkeeper went away, dejected. In addition to being in debt, I was a liar according to him. How could he be so cocksure about something that never happened?

The next Sunday, I visited the library as usual. All my thoughts were around Urmila and her family. I picked up some books and paid an overdue of Rs 150. As I was leaving, I spotted Urmila. She was pedaling down the road in great hurry. I ran after her, but she disappeared. Was she worried? I was hoping everything was fine. Why was I asked to pay an overdue? As I was walking home from the library, I saw the storekeeper again. He was walking towards the Old Bungalow Road. This time, I was the one behind him. He was walking towards the park. Urmila’s bicycle was parked on the pavement, right across the road. My heart skipped a beat. What was this man doing? I sensed Urmila was in danger. So I quickened my pace. There was a rustle of leaves and some hurried movement as I neared the park. The shopkeeper was sitting in the park bench. “How are you, sir?” he grinned, and then left. Urmila was nowhere to be seen. I was hoping to see Urmila emerge from one of the row houses on the opposite side of the road. I left after an hour.

The shopkeeper seemed to be keeping an eye on everyone who visited the store. Was something wrong with him? Or was this the trademark curiosity of a small town dweller? But thanks to him, I now had a vague idea of where Urmila lived. I decided to visit Urmila at her home on Saturday. I was also planning to visit the hardware store and speak to the owner about his employee’s strange behavior. But I had to make a short, unplanned trip to Delhi. I decided to meet Urmila on Sunday. As I was returning from the airport, I noticed that the hardware store was closed. Old Bungalow Road was completely blocked by the police. A young man of about 22 had been found dead on the pavement, opposite the park. The shop assistant had visited my home on Saturday, in order to remind me of the pending payment. My parents were now questioning me about my secret wedding and my wife, who lives on Old Bungalow Road. I never saw Urmila again.