Read Online Banquet on the Dead by Sharath Komarraju - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharath Komarraju
Tags: thriller
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him. For a while the numbers kept him from drifting away into his thoughts; but only for a while...
I could go to Mumbai, he thought, now that Grandmother is no more—and even as he thought that, he felt a tug on his heart—that he had come to wish death upon her in some of his wilder moments, that he had been so unkind to her—to her who had been nothing but the most loving of maternal beings, to him and to the entire family. He looked down at the curling dark hair on his forearms and thought: Yes, I could go to Bombay now. I am not that old. I could still find something there—if not in the movies, maybe on the stage—but even that thought was not comforting to him. There had been a time when the thought of being an actor) had his blood racing; when a mere mention of Mumbai or of the Film Institute in Pune would make him grin stupidly and float him along into a land of fantasy and colours; but now, after a mere two years of what Grandmother had termed ‘earning his keep’, he had seemingly lost interest.
No, he thought, and at that one word he felt rebellion rise within him. He had not lost all interest. Maybe the day-to-day drudgery of coming here to this office every day and peering over sections and torts and loopholes had somewhat dulled his sensitivity to the arts; but he would not—never!—lose his love completely. Yes, maybe he could go to Mumbai and try his luck; maybe after the dust had settled on Grandmother—and again he felt a rage within him—why did he always think of her in such bad terms? Had he really hated her so much?
He heard steps on the stairs and signalled his boy to open the door. Praveen had heard it said that there were too many lawyers and too few clients in Warangal. Apparently, the ratio was better in Hyderabad. Maybe he could go to Hyderabad and set up an office there, earn some money, and then maybe he could go to the Institute and try his luck. Now that Grandmother wasn’t there... he stopped that thought.
The boy had gone out and was looking down the flight of stairs. He smiled and saluted the visitor. Someone he knew, then. He raised his eyebrows at him.
‘Lakshman babu,’ the boy said to him.
The next minute Lakshman walked in through the door and wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief. Blotches of sweat showed through his shirt. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, but it didn’t have to be for Lakshman to sweat. He looked up, sighing, at the fan, as he walked to the table and sat himself down. Praveen saw that his beard was also glistening. It would be a while yet before he dried completely.
‘Cold drink?’
‘No, no, just turn the fan up.’
Praveen gestured to the boy. Then he turned to his brother and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘There are people at the house,’ said Lakshman, and wiped his face again. ‘People who are apparently asking questions.’
‘Questions—about what?’
‘About Grandmother.’
Praveen closed the book in front of him and frowned. ‘What about her?’
‘Well, they are asking why a woman so old had to go to the well in the first place. Especially if she was so afraid of water.’
Praveen said, ‘That is something all of us are asking, isn’t it?’
Lakshman turned to the boy and said, ‘Babu, go and get us two goli-sodas.’ And after he had gone, he leant in closer and said, ‘I came here so I could talk to you in private. Too many people about the damned house.’
‘Yes?’
‘If there is anything that you would like to tell me—anything at all, that you would like to—confess—to me—’
‘What would I confess to you?’
Lakshman said, ‘I am your brother. You can tell me anything.’
Praveen closed his eyes and said in a deliberately calm voice, ‘Brother, will you please tell me what you are getting at?’
‘Well, do you happen to know why Ammamma went to the well?’
‘I do not!’
‘So you had nothing to do with—er, her falling over?’
Praveen stared incredulously at his
I could go to Mumbai, he thought, now that Grandmother is no more—and even as he thought that, he felt a tug on his heart—that he had come to wish death upon her in some of his wilder moments, that he had been so unkind to her—to her who had been nothing but the most loving of maternal beings, to him and to the entire family. He looked down at the curling dark hair on his forearms and thought: Yes, I could go to Bombay now. I am not that old. I could still find something there—if not in the movies, maybe on the stage—but even that thought was not comforting to him. There had been a time when the thought of being an actor) had his blood racing; when a mere mention of Mumbai or of the Film Institute in Pune would make him grin stupidly and float him along into a land of fantasy and colours; but now, after a mere two years of what Grandmother had termed ‘earning his keep’, he had seemingly lost interest.
No, he thought, and at that one word he felt rebellion rise within him. He had not lost all interest. Maybe the day-to-day drudgery of coming here to this office every day and peering over sections and torts and loopholes had somewhat dulled his sensitivity to the arts; but he would not—never!—lose his love completely. Yes, maybe he could go to Mumbai and try his luck; maybe after the dust had settled on Grandmother—and again he felt a rage within him—why did he always think of her in such bad terms? Had he really hated her so much?
He heard steps on the stairs and signalled his boy to open the door. Praveen had heard it said that there were too many lawyers and too few clients in Warangal. Apparently, the ratio was better in Hyderabad. Maybe he could go to Hyderabad and set up an office there, earn some money, and then maybe he could go to the Institute and try his luck. Now that Grandmother wasn’t there... he stopped that thought.
The boy had gone out and was looking down the flight of stairs. He smiled and saluted the visitor. Someone he knew, then. He raised his eyebrows at him.
‘Lakshman babu,’ the boy said to him.
The next minute Lakshman walked in through the door and wiped his face and neck with his handkerchief. Blotches of sweat showed through his shirt. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, but it didn’t have to be for Lakshman to sweat. He looked up, sighing, at the fan, as he walked to the table and sat himself down. Praveen saw that his beard was also glistening. It would be a while yet before he dried completely.
‘Cold drink?’
‘No, no, just turn the fan up.’
Praveen gestured to the boy. Then he turned to his brother and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘There are people at the house,’ said Lakshman, and wiped his face again. ‘People who are apparently asking questions.’
‘Questions—about what?’
‘About Grandmother.’
Praveen closed the book in front of him and frowned. ‘What about her?’
‘Well, they are asking why a woman so old had to go to the well in the first place. Especially if she was so afraid of water.’
Praveen said, ‘That is something all of us are asking, isn’t it?’
Lakshman turned to the boy and said, ‘Babu, go and get us two goli-sodas.’ And after he had gone, he leant in closer and said, ‘I came here so I could talk to you in private. Too many people about the damned house.’
‘Yes?’
‘If there is anything that you would like to tell me—anything at all, that you would like to—confess—to me—’
‘What would I confess to you?’
Lakshman said, ‘I am your brother. You can tell me anything.’
Praveen closed his eyes and said in a deliberately calm voice, ‘Brother, will you please tell me what you are getting at?’
‘Well, do you happen to know why Ammamma went to the well?’
‘I do not!’
‘So you had nothing to do with—er, her falling over?’
Praveen stared incredulously at his
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