It was an accident that took Aman’s life. On an unusually warm day in August.

Aman and his friends had formed a small band, and the boys would often come home to practice together. It was a noisy business, but Ganeshan and Naseema didn’t mind the racket. It felt good to have young people at home. That particular day there was no singing, they were only talking. The boys who would sing at the top of their voices were so quiet while talking that you could not even tell they were upstairs. Soon after, they all left with their backpacks and guitars. Ganeshan saw them come down the stairs as he was getting ready to leave for work himself. They waved to him as they filed out.

Naseema was still home, she must have left later. She was volunteering at a women’s organisation called Saathi, for half a day, three times a week. The rest of the time she worked as a consultant for a small journal called Water. That way, she kept things flexible and retained her freedom. Naseema would be completely immersed in whatever she did. Her training was in history and political science, but her interests had driven her to learn a fair bit of hydrology, environmental sciences and even engineering. Once, when Ganeshan happened to meet the editor of Water at a function, he had remarked how he would assign Naseema editing jobs because of her command over a wide range of subjects. Saathi was very different. They provided support and legal aid to women in distress. The men and women who volunteered at Saathi were all employed elsewhere and had worked out a fluid work schedule there. Most of them also invested considerable personal finances to keep the organisation running.

The accident occurred while Aman and his friends were walking by the road. According to the exhaustive investigations that followed the accident, the boys were on the footpath when they were hit by a bus. The driver had lost control. The bus swerved onto the footpath and finally came to a halt after ramming into the wall of the bus stop nearby. Aman was killed instantly. Another boy lost a leg. Others escaped with minor injuries.

One of the boys had called Ganeshan at the office and given him the news. His office, a skyscraper by the city’s standards, was known for its architectural beauty. But inside, it was a decrepit admission of the ineffectuality of the giant government machinery. Corridors littered with rubbish, walls stained with paan spittle, toilets broken and reeking of ammonia, broken furniture and creaking fans. Ganeshan had just returned from a site inspection and was sitting quietly in his office, a small island of calm and neatness, when the phone rang. The news had caused him to involuntarily spring up from his chair, glass of water in hand. He put the receiver back and sank back into his chair and drained the glass. He sat there unmoving a few more moments before picking up the phone again to call Naseema. Naseema received the news silently, then dropped the receiver back as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

When Ganeshan reached the hospital, Naseema was already there. She had been waiting for him, eyes swollen but silent. Together they entered the mortuary and identified the body. They held each other and stared at Aman. He appeared to be sleeping. The body was badly mangled but somehow the face had been spared.

They took the body straight to the electric crematorium. There didn’t seem any point in taking him home. A friend drove them; Naseema sat in the front and Ganeshan with Aman at the back. The friend drove them home once the formalities were done. It was dark by the time they got home, drenched in sweat. The neighbours were waiting in the veranda. Naseema went straight to her room and lay down.

Ganeshan decided to take a bath. Someone offered him a glass of lime juice when he came out. People were sitting around talking in muted tones. Eventually, they must have left. He, too, must have dozed off. In the morning, when he awoke, the door was ajar, and he could see the newspaper lying on the veranda through the gap.

Two months after Aman’s death, Ganeshan left his job. There was no particular reason to cite. The accident had occurred on a Thursday. Monday onwards he was back in office. The job was, in fact, a great succour to him. The unending problems and tension at work did not leave him any time to think. He often thought that it was his work that had helped him carry on through those six years between the disappearance of the 14-year-old Aman and his return. But this time he wanted to leave the job. He was certainly aware of the void it would create. Perhaps he was just too weary. Even if recurrence of tragedies was not of one’s own making, it would be foolish to repeat the same remedies. Besides, he was not sure it would work this time. He had no idea what was going to be his new remedy. He was tired of the practice of thinking, planning and executing, which he had followed throughout his life. In any case, once he decided, he didn’t wait. He just put in his papers.

Naseema, however, didn’t give up her work at Saathi. She held on to her routine. She didn’t show any particular enthusiasm perhaps. To keep going was her way, at least for a time. Something else would cause her to leave the organisation later. Ganeshan did not try to find out what it was. Like the other changes in her.

Ganeshan was not even sure Naseema had left Saathi. He assumed it since she’d stopped mentioning it in their conversations. But she went out almost every day, and it was usually late when she returned. The work in the journal was usually not so demanding that it required her presence in office every day and for that long.

They never interfered in each other’s affairs. If one talked about oneself, the other welcomed it and listened attentively, that was all. Sometimes, Naseema took the car out and Ganeshan the scooter. Sometimes, it was the other way round. If they didn’t see each other when leaving, they would leave a note on the coffee table with a number to contact for emergencies. Even if the place was mentioned, the other might not read it, leaving it for when the need arose.

The coffee table in the drawing room was a small square, slightly taller than the dining table, with two chairs on either side. There would be hot water in a flask, coffee powder, tea bags and sugar in small pots, a few spoons on a plate, paper cups, a slip pad and a pen. It was a place to sit and savour the brew, either together or alone, as the case may be.

The notes would be kept below the plate. They exchanged whatever they wanted to convey to each other through those notes. Telephone messages, if any, urgent tasks to be done… things like that. Everything was done neatly and tidily. They had trained themselves to tag their tastes and interests to the necessities and requirements of life, as a habit. Almost subconsciouslya, especially in those months.

Excerpted with permission from Stolen Gods, Anand, translated from the Malayalam by Chetana Sachidanandan, Niyogi Books.

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