The parking lot, Basin valley-
Drops of rain trickled down her forehead. In her mind she knew that the drops were not helping her to purify contrary to what she was expecting them to do. She wondered in those anguished moments about the same scenic sequence that happened few hours ago and how it is presented in Bollywood movies. She wiped out her face with the tissue she held hard in her right fist. One last check of her appearance and she was ready to go. Go back to where she would live ever after and happily ever after. That was a promise she had made some hours ago.
Her apartment, 201, 12 Wilkinson way-
The shower was on and was pouring warm water at high speed on her head. She could see his face. Not clearly but enough to spit out the venom. Next day in the morning, she wore her favorite white shirt and matching brown skirt. She had a meeting at 2:00 pm with the client that she would postpone. After the checkup she went to her favorite restaurant – The Mexican Grill, near Lal Bahadur road. With a wholesome lunch in her tummy, she drove back to office.
Her office, Bhansali towers, Jay Kishan road.
On the way to her cabin, Sunanda signaled her. The signal was a way to communicate about a chit chat session in the women restroom.
‘Did you hear about Anil?’
Her heart skipped a beat. ‘What about him?’
‘He is dead. His body was found near Basin valley parking yesterday night.’
‘Oh!’ was all she could say.
‘Police suspects foul play and robbery. He wasn’t a good soul after all. Well, that being said the management will decide about the new manager in the coming weeks. Rakesh definitely stands a chance. What do you think? I think he will be a better option than ……………………………………………………………………..’
Images of last evening floated in front of her eyes. The offer for buying a coffee and discuss her candidacy for the Assistant manager post. Her thoughts that her hard work will pay off in the end. The decision to drop her back to her house. The secluded parking lot. The act of accidentally brushing her curves while putting on the seat belt.
The heap of clothes – the blood – the loss of respect – her wounds and scars – his smile and promise not to tell anyone and give her the much awaited promotion – his judgment that things work this way in the corporate society – his idea of not calling it a rape ‘It isn’t a rape – we benefit mutually. You would understand how life works Smita. You are just- too young.’ All this while she sobbed hard.
Her decision to not call it a murder. She did not wash her hands after sledging his son’s bat a hundred times on his head while he was busy buttoning his shirt. The rain washed off the blood and the remains of the bat were still lying in her fireplace.
She felt no pain. This is how it worked in her world.