A Sense of Murakami

She spread the evenly cut cauliflower florets on the cheesecloth. The sun on the patio was strong, and the florets would shrink by evening. “Bring it indoors with the four o’clock sun. It’s important, the four o’clock sun,” recalled Bela. Had not Dolly Ji been that specific?

She was like that. All her rural wisdom of making pickles, herbal cures, bawdy Punjabi jokes, and even singing tappe without shyness was narrated precisely, then brushed off with a giggling “Let it be.”

Bela missed Dolly Ji and wondered what had happened in her life after their friendship ended abruptly a year ago. She had to end it; there was no other way to prevent Dolly Ji from getting hurt.

How had they even become friends? They were so different — “walnuts and pine nuts,” Dolly Ji would have said. Fourteen years apart in age, yet something sisterly, even maternal, had formed during their walks over the Ooty hills.

Initially, Bela had been reluctant to let Dolly Ji into her life. She valued her solitude and privacy. It had been difficult to agree to Dolly Ji’s request to be her walking companion, but soon they began their morning walks.

They met at 7 a.m. sharp at Finger Post, walking past the Golf Course towards Mettupalayam Road, then parting ways — Dolly Ji to her cottage near Fox Hole, Bela to her bungalow, Auchidoon. Both women were outsiders in Ootacamund. Bela had come after marriage, stayed on after it frayed, found work in a local newspaper, and risen through sheer effort.

She smiled now, covering the florets with netting and noting the time — 2 p.m. She would return with the four o’clock sun. Why was Dolly Ji flooding her mind today?

In the first week of their walks, Bela had learned that “garrulous” could be Dolly Ji’s nickname. She could talk endlessly — about food, neighbours, her husband’s moods, her children scattered across the world. She had spoken only Punjabi when she married, and her husband, Soni Sahib, had been embarrassed by her rustic ways. She had learned English slowly. “I don’t mind when they make fun of my English. I always beat them at cards. I also play Mahjong,” she had laughed.

Amidst the chatter came confessions — Soni Sahib’s constant censure, his public belittling, his lack of appreciation. Even at seventy, she yearned for his approval. Bela wondered if her own singlehood wasn’t freer than such dependence.

Each walk became a little learning. Dolly Ji shared recipes, gossip, and laughter. Bela began to enjoy them.

Once, Dolly Ji said, “I have told Soni Sahib I’m bringing you home. You must meet him. He’s like you — brainy, reads so many books.”

When Bela met him, she wasn’t surprised — refined, polite, in tweed and corduroy. He poured her a glass of wine while Dolly Ji bustled in the kitchen, yelling, “Have you ever had turnip fry, Bela?”

“She’s such a villager,” he said wryly.

Later, he joined Bela’s library, run from her outhouse. He borrowed books, called to discuss them, and began inviting her for tea, wine, or club events. Slowly, the Sonis became part of Bela’s life.

Then one morning, Dolly Ji was teary-eyed. She confided she wrote daily in Gurmukhi “to lighten her heart.” “Soni Sahib is cruel. He never appreciates me. I cooked his favourite food; it got cold. He shouted and tore up my diary.” Her voice broke.

That evening, Soni Sahib appeared at Bela’s door. “I was passing by and thought I could drop in to discuss Murakami.”

“Murakami, the Japanese author?” she asked, letting him in.

He looked around approvingly at her warm parlour. “You know his treatment of intimacy,” he began. “He writes so plainly about sex. I think it should be expressed like that, not with prudishness.”

Bela felt a chill. He seemed to sense her discomfort and stood up. “Come home. We can chat there.”

The next morning, Dolly Ji said cheerfully, “Last evening Soni Sahib had an important meeting and went straight to bed. I had made his favourite beet soup and gourd sabzi.”

A small “Oh” escaped Bela.

Soon after, Dolly Ji left for her ailing brother. “Don’t stop your walks,” she said over the phone. “I don’t know how Soni Sahib will manage without me.”

The very day she left, the calls began. “Come over,” Soni ji’s voice drawled. “We’ll have a drink, go to the club, talk. Don’t be difficult. I’m lonely.”

Bela stopped answering. She locked the library and left for Coonoor.

When Dolly Ji returned, she was subdued. “Poor Soni Sahib. He must not have eaten properly while I was away.” She sighed. Then brightened. “Bela, I want to visit the temple you go to on Saturdays. Will you take me there?”

Bela looked at her silently. “Oh, don’t look so serious,” Dolly Ji laughed, slipping back into her giggling self.

On Saturday, Bela waited in her car. Dolly Ji came hurrying down the slope, cheeks flushed.

“Easy, easy! What happened? You look radiant,” Bela said.

“Oh God, how can I tell?” Dolly Ji panted, giggling.

“What happened? You look so red.”

“I cannot tell. I’m seventy years old!”

“Don’t speak in riddles. Tell me.”

“I feel shy,” Dolly Ji said, laughing harder.

“Give a hint,” urged Bela.

“So this happened. I took out my jewellery box, went for a bath, and left the keys there. When I returned, Soni Sahib was in the shower. I knocked to ask for the keys.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Come in and take it.’ I went in, eyes down, but he asked something that made me look up. I was seeing him like that after so many years. You know… like that.”

Murakami washed over Bela.

A weather-beaten Adonis stood in the bathtub — emaciated, naked, limp. Water dripped from sagging flesh, the drops turning blood red as they fell on the white tub. The blood rose as flesh-eating crawlies climbed up his stick-like legs. His eyes were glassy, his smile repulsive.

“Pathetic,” Bela muttered.

“What?” asked Dolly Ji, still glowing.

“I’m so happy today,” Dolly Ji went on. “I feel young once again. Something wonderful transpired in the bath.”

They reached the temple. “I’ll pray for you, Bela. Your marriage will cement.”

“Yes, Dolly Ji,” Bela said quietly.

 A wave of sadness washed over her — the lie her happy friend lived with. She knew she had to end the friendship before Dolly Ji got hurt.

That was the last day they walked together.

Soni Sahib’s calls went unanswered and finally stopped. Dolly Ji never came again.

Bela began making the recipes she had learned from her friend — each a small remembrance.

At four o’clock, with the setting sun, she returned from her walk in time to take the cauliflower florets indoors.