You won’t get caught

Sigh! Another bad day.

Things never seem to go right for me. I was probably born at an inauspicious moment. Only if my mother had tried a little harder to keep me inside her for a few minutes. Maybe a few seconds would have helped too. Timing, it’s all about the timing. The right timing can change a person’s life; wrong timing can ruin it forever.

I sit at a table for two, alone with my usual order of chicken cheese sandwich and a Regular black coffee. I flip through the newspaper, trying to calm my nerves. I feel awful; the sinking feeling inside my chest just won’t go. It is a feeling of worthlessness I have become familiar with since some time now. Strangely enough, even though I experience the feeling frequently, it never seems to decrease in its intensity. Constant struggle is supposed to make you tougher. I reason that maybe I can’t get any tougher. Will always remain daddy’s fragile little girl who did everything right and rarely went “overboard” with anything. Stick to the rules, he said, it would bring you success and happiness. Bullsh#t! Living in a small town had made him naive. He didn’t understand the ways of the world outside. So he sent his daughter, unprepared. I tried to let go of the principled way I used to live my life. But it’s true when people say that old habits die hard. So I live every day, struggling with the ……

He breaks my thought. I glare at the clumsy man who just spilled something icy cold on me. My left hand feels sticky.  My white blouse is drenched in blue liquid.

‘Sorry!’ he apologizes.

‘Sorry? Really? You think your sorry is going to fix my shirt? I have to be at my office in 15 minutes. I don’t even have a spare pair of clothes in my car. Thank you very much for making my day even worse than I thought it could go!’ I scream at him; my frustration reaching the saturation point for today.

Two people from the next table stare at me. He is surprisingly calm though. He waits for me to calm down and then speaks with deep concern, ‘Somebody seems to have had a bad day. Let me get you a Mojito to cool you down. It’s on me.’

Before I can respond, he rushes to the counter to get a Mojito. He returns with two glasses, one with the Mojito and another with the blue liquid he spilled on me a while ago.

‘Here you go!’ he exclaims after placing the Mojito glass in front of me and taking the seat opposite mine. ‘I am really sorry for your shirt. I will buy you a new one from the store across. You don’t have to go to office like that.’ He offers

‘No. It’s fine. I’ll manage on my own.’ I say, ‘Thanks for the Mojito though.’

He nods and we both focus on our drinks.

‘So why are you so grumpy?’ he asks.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You seem upset. What happened?’

‘Why are you asking like you’re my friend?’

‘Friends often start of as strangers. And strangers can be quite helpful sometimes. Some of the best advice I’ve ever received have come from complete strangers. Why do you think self help books sell so much?’

He has a point. I weigh my options. Maybe talking to him would make me feel lighter, I reason.

‘It’s about an assignment at work.’ I start, ‘I really wanted it. It involved a major client and if I did it well, I would have had a high chance of getting promoted. I was prepared, working in and out on the background for days.’ I pause. ‘But I missed it because I was a few minutes late in claiming it. My maid fell sick today and I had to do all the house work, so I was a little late to work and well, a colleague of mine got the benefit of it.’

‘That must feel really bad. I am sorry to hear that.’ He says.

‘That’s it? That’s your advice? It seems like consolation to me.’

He studies me with his dark eyes. He seemed to be around my age, 30 – 31 years old. Maybe a year or two younger.

‘Look at your watch. What time does it say?’ he asks me.

It is an odd question, but I oblige. ‘1:35 pm.’ I answer, after looking at my wrist watch.

He smiles. ‘Look again’, he tells me.

I humour him by looking at my watch again. This time, a look at my wrist watch takes me by surprise. I stare at it for several seconds, trying to convince myself that my brain is fooling me.

‘What does it say?’ he nudges.

‘It says..Niine…nine thirty’, I blurt out, looking straight at his face in disbelief.

The smile doesn’t leave his face.

I look around the cafe. The three college students on the table opposite ours, a few seconds ago, have been replaced by a young couple. The bearded man from the next table is gone.

‘How?’ I ask.

He looks at me wide-eyed. There is something unsettling about them now.  For a moment I am filled with a familiar dread. Of an approaching storm.

‘When does your office start?’ he asks.

‘Ten.’ I answer mechanically, mentally trying to figure out what is happening.

‘Leave now. Get the assignment you wanted.’

‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

‘You’ll tell me if you liked the punch line when we meet tomorrow here at the same time’ he pauses, and smiles again, as if reading my mind. ‘I mean, at 1.35 pm not 9.30 am.’

Though sceptical, I move out of the cafe and rush to the office. As much as I try not to acknowledge it, I feel a glimmer of hope.

---

The next day, I wait for him at the cafe. He comes, exactly at 1.35 pm.

‘Hi!’ he greets, ‘You look happier today.’

‘I got the assignment.’ I say, trying to deliver the line with calm confidence but the girly, excited shrill in my voice is fairly evident.

‘Congratulations! Mojito on you today then?’

‘Yes. Sure. But before that I need to know how you did it.’

‘Did what?’

I raise an eyebrow. He laughs.

‘I wonder how people do that! I can never do that.’ He comically tries to raise an eyebrow, failing miserably.

‘Please be serious. How did you turn back time?’ I insist again.

‘A magician never reveals his secret.’ He mock whispers.

‘This isn’t some magic trick. It’s something…. something… supernatural.’

‘I have been told that.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I am a scientist.’

‘A scientist? Now that’s what I call an irony!’

‘Hey! Just because I have, what you call supernatural powers, doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the sciences. Science can perform wonders where occult can’t.’

His thoughts are distinct. Unconventional, but definitely not a maniac’s. However there is something in his eyes, something unsettling, something dark.

‘How did you get your powers? Did you get into an accident? Or did you get struck by lightning?’ I ask, not giving up till I found the answer to my initial question.

‘Neither. I got bitten by a radioactive time machine.’

‘You’re not funny.’

‘And how I got my powers,’ an extra emphasis on powers ‘is none of your concern.’

He catches my eyes with his cold, hard stare. I give up trying to get an answer from him. I sit there silently.

‘You know, I can tell people about your powers.’ I threaten him as a last resort to force out an answer.

‘You can try. But no one will believe you.’

He is right.

‘Do you want to grab lunch somewhere quiet?’ he asks, softening towards me.

I look at my watch and answer, ‘I can’t. I have to be at my office in 10 minutes.’

He gets up from his seat. ‘No. Not for another 40 minutes.’

I look at my wrist watch. It is 1 p.m.

---

He takes me to a Chinese restaurant across the street. I notice he has slightly oriental features. Where is he from?

‘Are you from here?’ I ask directly.

He looks around the restaurant and asks, ‘A Chinese restaurant? Do I look like noodles to you?’

‘Your sense of humour is awful.’ I say, ‘I meant, this city. Are you from this city?’

‘No.’

I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t. He calls the waiter and orders for something I can’t quite fathom.

‘Why did you bring me here?’ I ask.

‘I was hungry and it’s not always fun having lunch alone.’ He answers matter-of-factly.

Our soups come and he digs into his immediately. He definitely is hungry.

‘How far can you turn back time?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. A lot far maybe. But I can’t go back in time alone. I have to take someone with me. I have taken very few people back in time and I try not to go back more than a day. It’ll disrupt everything because I can’t…ummm…. fast forward time.’

‘Oh!’

‘Why? How far do you want to go back?’

‘I don’t know! Maybe far enough to have never met my husband in the first place.’

‘That’s a terrible wish. What did he do? Left dirty dishes on the table again?’

‘Yes. Every time he comes home for dinner after screwing his mistress.’

It is his turn to say, ‘Oh!’ now.

‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

‘Ya. I followed him one day. Saw something….’ I choke, ‘I did not want to see.’

My attempt at stopping my tears from flowing turn futile. I cry, for the first time in front of a stranger. He doesn’t say anything for a while. The waiter comes, serves us our lunch and leaves discreetly, like only a waiter can.

‘Have you spoken to anyone about this?’ he asks, after I calm down a bit.

‘Speak to whom? My parents who I opposed to get married to him or friends who’d pity me for being naive and stupid? I am not naive and stupid! We have been married for 3 years. How was I supposed to know?’ I scream, ‘He is probably going to divorce me now. He gets verbally abusive a lot these days. That cheating scumbag! I wish I could just kill him and avoid all the humiliation.’

‘Then why don’t you?’

‘I don’t want to go to jail.’ I joke.

‘You don’t have to.’

I look at him, unable to quite understand what to make of his words.

‘You won’t go to jail.’ he explains. Calm as a breeze.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘If you do as I say, you won’t get caught.’

I am intrigued. I want to hear what he has to say, more out of curiosity than anything else.

‘What do you have in mind?’ I nudge him.

‘First, tell me if you are up for it.’

‘Up for killing my husband?’

‘Yes.’

I look at him to identify any sign of deception. I wait for him to burst out laughing, or for his lips to quiver, any sign to give him away. Nothing. He just looks at me with a dead-pan expression.

‘You can’t be serious!’ I say.

‘I am. But, it’s for you to decide if you want to go ahead with it. You choose – do you want sympathy for being a naive, stupid divorcee or sympathy for being an unfortunate widow?’

‘I am not a killer.’

‘Everybody is a killer. One just needs the trigger.’

‘No. Some people adhere to their morality.’

‘Morality does not exist in isolation. It’s a social construct. A ‘moral’ person does not commit a crime not because he has empathy towards the person he refuses to kill. It’s only because he is scared he’ll get caught. And if he gets caught he goes to jail. Which means he gets shunned by his society, he is kept away from his family, all the things he enjoyed in the society – respect, admiration, a job –  all his benefits are gone! Just like that!’ he snaps his fingers, ‘That’s too big a gamble. That’s why most criminals are people who have nothing much to lose. The poor, the orphan, the neglected.’

I stare at him silently. I have no retort.

‘I can’t kill someone.’ I say, trying to salvage the situation. He is making me uncomfortable.

‘Even when you know you won’t get caught.’

‘I don’t KNOW I won’t get caught.’

‘Oh! So that is the problem! You don’t trust me.’

‘You won’t tell me how you got your powers, where you are from; if you don’t trust me, how do you expect me to trust you?’

That takes him by surprise. He looks at me for some time, weighing his options.

‘If I tell you how I got my powers will you trust me?’ he asks.

‘It would definitely help.’ I assure him.

‘My mother belonged to a tribe that practiced occult. They say I was born out of a human sacrifice to their God.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Did you believe a person could actually turn back time before you met me?’

‘No..but..’

‘So keep an open mind.’

A few seconds pass before I ask,‘Why do you want to….. help me?’

‘Maybe, I am just a nice guy!’

I look at him sceptically.

‘Just trust me.’ He says.

‘I trusted my husband.’ I reply.

‘I’ll teach you how to trust again. I won’t let you down.’

I say nothing.

‘I won’t push you. If you think you can trust me, meet me at the bakery near the children’s park on Sunday. At 11 am.’

He pays the bill and leaves.

As I sit alone in the restaurant, I feel a strange sense of relief. A rare feeling of finally being in control of my life.

I know my answer to his question.

 ——————————————————-

There are a lot of school kids in the bakery at 11 am on Sunday. He sees me enter and waves at me. He is near the counter buying pastries and gestures me not to come in. After he is done, he comes out and walks me to the car.

‘I am impressed that you have chosen to take such a gusty step.’ He says.

‘What do I have to do?’ I ask.

‘When does your husband meet her?’

‘He has lunch with her, I know. Even on weekends.’

‘So he is going to meet her today.’

‘Likely.’

‘Okay then. Go to the department store where you always get your groceries from and mark the time when you enter. Shop for groceries, engage the shopkeepers in small talks and then immediately return home. Mark the time when you reach home. Keep your car in the garage and leave your house from the back door. I’ll meet you on the road.’

I make a mental note of everything he says and drive to the department store. I enter it at 11.32 am, my cell phone displays. I have been shopping here for the past three years, almost once every week, so the shopkeepers are familiar with me. I pick up the everyday grocery items – cereals, biscuits, tea. I ask some of them about their day and one of them to show me to the soup aisle that seemed to have changed places since I last came here. For extra caution, I look at my watch and exclaim at the billing counter, ‘It’s 12 already? I have so much left to do! Can you hurry up, please?’

I leave the store at 12.06 pm. I drive back home and put my car in the garage. On my way into the house, I wave at my neighbour who is taking her dog for a walk.

I lock the doors from inside and sneak out of the back door to the road. Not too long after, a silver Ford Ikon stops near me. He rolls down the window and asks me to get in.

‘Now what?’ I ask, after getting inside the car.

‘When did you leave the department store?’

‘12.06 pm.’

‘So you must have reached home by 12.15?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay.’

I sit silently and wait for him to instruct me on the next step. When he doesn’t, I ask him, ‘Where are we going?’

‘We are going to her place.’

‘How do you know where she lives? Have you been tailing my husband?’ I ask, shocked. Then another realization strikes me, ‘How did you know where I live? Have you been stalking me too?’

‘Calm down. I like to come prepared. I haven’t been ‘stalking’ you. I just tailed both of you once.’

I am supposed to be disturbed by this but, strangely, I am not. When I have decided to trust him with my life, the fact that he tailed me and my husband did not deter my resolve to go through with the plan.

He then hands me a metal tool box. I open it and find a pair of gloves and a revolver.

‘Wear the gloves before holding the gun. Have you ever used a gun before?’ he asks.

‘No.’ I reply.

The gun is heavy. It is supposed to be a dangerous weapon, but it gave me a sense of security.

‘The silencer on the gun is on. It won’t make a sound when you fire. So fire from a close range.’ He instructs.

I point it at him. ‘What if I shoot you now? Will you come back from the dead, sacrifice-born child?’

He laughs. ‘If I do, it would be amazing. It’ll be even better than time travelling!’

I put it down. He is not afraid of anything.

He stops the car in an isolated alley near her apartment. He gets down from the car and takes out a hoodie and a shoe from the back seat.

‘Wear them.’ he commands.

The shoe is a size 10 men’s shoe and the hoodie is few sizes too large. I wear them without asking any questions.

‘Now listen to me. Its 12.16 now. You’ll enter the gate and tell the guard you are going to flat no. 36 on the 3^rd floor. I’ll turn back time by a few minutes so that he doesn’t remember you. You’ll go to flat no. 36. She isn’t home now, so your husband will open the door. You’ll shoot him and come out as soon as possible. Understood?’

I nod.

I move towards the flat. The first thing I see is my husband’s black Honda City parked near the gate.  I feel flustered with rage. A part of me had hoped that I would not find him here.

I tell the guard I am going to Flat no. 36 on the third floor. He doesn’t suspect anything. The time is 12.18 pm. I knock on the door of flat no. 36 and a few seconds later, he comes out. Dressed in a casual t-shirt and shorts. That is not what he left home wearing. Does he keep clothes here too?

He is surprised to see me, I can see it on his face. There is fear. Do I see a sign of guilt?

Before he could say anything, I take the gun out and point it at his chest. My hand is shaking. This is the man I loved. This is the man I fought with my parents to be with. This is the man I built my life around. We shared a life. A house.

But this isn’t our house. This is where the woman he chose over me lives. This is where he gives another woman something I deserve. This is where he proves I am a naïve, deceivable idiot.

I shoot him, right through his heart. At 12.18 pm.

It happens too quick for him to react. He dies immediately. Eyes open wide, he falls with a heavy thud. Lifeless.

What have I done? I killed a man. I killed him. Fear engulfs me. I let myself cry, more out of fear than remorse.

I don’t realise when he comes and whispers in my ear, ‘Get up! Don’t stay here. Come with me.’

I mechanically obey him and follow him to the car, saying nothing on the way. I am shaken, still unsure if I did the right thing.

On the way back to my house, he tells me to remain calm when the police comes. I had to maintain my composure, he says, and answer honestly what I am asked. He stops near a dump, asks me to take off my hoodie, gloves and shoes, and hand him the gun. He burns the flammable items in front of me and throws the gun, after unloading the bullets, in a sewer.

‘No prints. No evidence.’ He says in a reassuring manner. I say nothing.

He drops me at home. Only when I get down, do I notice that it is not the same car we left in. He doesn’t wait for a second more. Without a proper goodbye, or exchange of names, he disappears from my life.

The police come in the evening. I see the van. There are four of them, one of them leading the way.

‘Mrs. Sharma?’ the one who’s name tag reads ‘Superintendent of Police’, asks when I open the door.

‘Yes?’ I ask, sounding as cordial as possible.

He seems at loss for words for a few seconds. He gives me a sorry look, but he probably has been giving bad news all his professional life, so he doesn’t lose much time before saying ‘I am sorry to inform you that your husband is no more.’

‘What?’ I ask, a little too loudly.

‘He has been murdered.’

I gasp.

‘You can’t be serious.’ I say, sounding hopeful, tearing up slowly.

‘I am afraid, I am.’ He sounds uncomfortable.

My knees give away and I cry. Not fake tears. I cry, as a sense of loss dawns upon me.

The police wait for me to calm down. A lady constable tries to console me by placing her hand on my shoulder.

I gather my composure and call them in.

‘Did you know where your husband went when he left home today?’ the SP asks.

‘He told me had some office work.’ I answer, just like he had told me. Not an ounce of lie.

‘On a Sunday? Didn’t that make you suspicious?’

‘He goes out for work on Sundays quite often.’

The SP looks at the constables, searching for the appropriate phrasing to tell me about of my husband’s affair, I am sure.

‘Where was he murdered?’ I ask the Chief.

‘At his mistress’ house.’ He answers.

‘His… what?’ I give my best shocked expression.

‘Did you know that your husband was having an affair?’

‘An affair! What rubbish!’

‘I am afraid he was seeing someone outside marriage.’

Let me mourn my dead husband without having anyone tarnishing his name. Have some respect!’

The SP takes a step back. He probably expected me to react this way, so he maintains his calm demeanour.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Sharma, but we are just informing you about the circumstances of his death.’ He says, apologetically.

‘Can you leave? I need some time alone.’ I assert.

‘We will. But before that, we need to ask you some preliminary questions.’

‘Can we do that later?’

‘No.’

His tone was commanding.

‘What do you want to know?’ I ask.

‘Where were you around 11.30 am to 12.30 pm?’

‘I don’t know. I think I went to get groceries around that time.’

‘From where?’

‘The department store nearby.’

He calls one of his subordinates and instructs him discreetly about something, out of my earshot. The subordinate leaves.

‘Did your husband have any enemies?’ the SP turns to me, again.

‘None that I know of.’

‘Do you mind if I search the house?’

I let them in, not bothering about a search warrant. The earlier they leave me alone, the better.

By the look on their faces, I assume they find nothing suspicious. The subordinate hawaldar who left a while ago returns and talks to the Chief. I eavesdrop.

‘She was at the department store from around 11.30 to 12.07, sir.’ The hawaldar tells him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. The shopkeepers remember seeing her. I also cross-checked with the CCTV footage.’

‘Did you get a copy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How far is the scene of crime from the Department store?’

‘Around 50 minutes, sir. Without traffic.’

‘And from this house?’

‘An hour.’

‘So there is no possibility of her being at the scene of crime during the time of murder?’

‘It seems unlikely, sir.’

‘Hmm.’

The Chief comes towards me and apologizes, ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Sharma. I guess you need some time alone. We’ll leave you alone now.’ He looks at me one last time, ‘Sorry for your loss.’

They leave. I close the door and heave a sigh of relief.

It’s over. I am only an unfortunate widow now.

---

Two months have passed. The police have not been able to come up with any leads. They haven’t been able to identify the killer or the motive. The watchman saw no one coming in or going out. The police are baffled. I created a ruckus for a few days, demanding justice for my husband. They have assumed now that I am exhausted and have given up on the system. They sound apologetic whenever I demand answers. They have thought best to avoid me and I couldn’t be more relieved.

I thought life without my husband would be difficult. But I was wrong. I was already in misery when I discovered about his affair and he stopped giving me the attention he used to. I realised I was more in misery because I held on to the hope that he would come back to me; change back into the loving, caring man again, even though I knew it was all in vain. I wasn’t able to move on then; wasn’t able to gather the courage to move away. Now I can. It feels much better. I feel much better. I am happier.

Another thing I was wrong about was that I would not meet the time traveller again. He is there right now, in front of me. Buying popcorn from the snacks counter – a mundane task. Mundanity is something I find hard to associate with him. Is he at the movie theatre alone?

Like a divine answer, his date appears.

It’s her!

I have only seen her twice, once at her flat when I saw her with my husband and a second time at the police station. What is he doing with her?

I excuse myself from my group of friends, who I came to the movies with, and walked towards him.

‘Hey!’ I greet him.

He is surprised to see me. He clearly doesn’t want me here.

She is equally surprised and at the same time confused.

‘Do you know her?’ she asks him.

‘Yes.’ He replies, ‘Can you please excuse me?’

He moves away from her and gestures me to follow him. He stops near the washrooms, away from the crowd.

‘Do not contact me ever.’ He tells me.

‘I won’t. I understand that I am equally at danger if I am seen with you.’

‘Then why did you greet me?’

‘Did she and you plan it together? Did she want him dead?’ I ask, agitated.

‘No. She knows nothing.’

‘How do you know her?’

‘I met her at a friend’s place.’

‘When?’

‘Four months ago.’

‘That’s before my husband was….. died.’

‘Yes.’

I stay quiet, processing what he just told me.

‘I fell in love with her, but she loved your husband. I wanted to get him out of the picture.’ He breaks the silence.

‘So you manipulated me into killing him?’

‘I didn’t manipulate you into doing anything. I just gave you a choice. It was completely your call.’

‘I wouldn’t have killed him if it hadn’t been for you.’

‘Do you regret it?’

I don’t want to answer him. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of enriching my life by making me kill my husband. I don’t want to be grateful to him.

‘Don’t think so much. You deserve to be happy too.’ he says gently, like he truly cared about me. ‘I have to get back. She shouldn’t know we know each other.’

He leaves. I look at my watch. Time had engulfed our 10 minute conversation.

I go to my life again – the life where I am happier, stronger.

–END–