The Grudges of Gajanan Godbole

by Salil Desai

Genres: Thrillers; Ghost; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

After years of being married to an overbearing wife and wading through life pretending to be half-dead, Gajanan Godbole has finally found himself alone and, most importantly, free. Courtesy COVID.

Lucky to have survived the pandemic by the skin of his teeth, Gajanan now discovers a side of his personality he never knew existed. Like a snake shedding its skin, Gajanan casts aside his meek old self and embraces his new homicidal avatar.

To satiate his grudgeful urges, he compiles a list - of people he feels deserve to be punished for having wronged him.

Apologize or die is his simple motto! For murder, he believes, is the perfect cure for nastiness...

Release date: November 18, 2024

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

Near Death



COVID got my wife, Sumitra. In the second wave. I didn’t get to see her dead. COVID protocols and all. So, Sumitra got a state-sponsored cremation, and I didn’t have to do a thing. Not that I was in any position to, for COVID almost got me too.

But I survived. No one thought I would – not the doctors, not the nurses and ward boys, or even the young patient next to me in the ICU. But then that’s the thing about me. I’ve often pulled through in life pretending to be half-dead.

My name is Gajanan Godbole, and I am sixty-eight. As they say in the Bible or one of those holy books: ‘The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong, but time and chance happen to all.’

I don’t remember much of my epic life-and-death struggle against COVID. It’s all a blur, and I think half the time I wasn’t even in my body. My soul however got the uncanny feeling that I wasn’t much wanted in heaven either, probably because in life, I wasn’t much of the pious God-believing types.

Also, as eerie as it might sound, I seem to remember hearing this whispered conversation, while comatose:

‘Do we take him?’

‘No,’ replied a gruff other voice, ‘the one next to him.’

‘But isn’t he too young?’

‘When has that ever stopped us? His purpose is over…’ the gruff one remarked.

‘And this old man’s isn’t?’

‘You ask too many questions,’ the gruff one snapped. ‘He’s an asset…to be activated soon.’

I can’t say for certain whether I was hallucinating or if I really was privy to this purported chat between Yamraj, the god of death, and his assistant Chitragupt. But when I finally recovered, I learnt that the smart aleck next to me had copped it the previous night.

So it set me thinking. I could’ve died, but I hadn’t. That kind of made me feel lucky, even immortal, something I had never ever felt before. In fact, all my life, I had felt much too mortal, as if the slightest cockiness from me would invite divine comeuppance. That is the reason I had remained steadfastly meek, embracing the path of least resistance, since I first started going to school. It made total sense, given my physical size and the size of my heart – avoiding all confrontations whatsoever and waving the white flag, long before even the dim prospect of any battle with anyone could arise.

But COVID did something to me. Something strange. I felt reborn – a different avatar of me, sans my trademark meekness. It was inexplicable, indescribable – that feeling of waking up as an altered Gajanan Godbole – as if my meekness had just been a tight-laced corset which I had worn all my life, conned into believing that the shortness of my breath and the squeezing in my chest were the natural states of my being. And now that it had come undone, I had discovered that my chest could heave freely, and my breathing was no longer constricted.

‘Papa,’ shrieked my daughter Trupti, as soon as I picked up my ringing mobile.

I frowned. A call from Trupti was always a strain on my nerves. Mercifully, doctors didn’t allow patients to receive calls in the ICU, even from kin who were calling from foreign lands, or my recovery would have promptly reversed, if obliged to speak to Trupti. But now that I was home, there was no way of avoiding a conversation.

‘Yes, dear…’

‘Papa, I was so scared I’d never hear your voice again,’ Trupti continued shrilly. ‘Thank God you beat COVID!’

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied, ‘it was a narrow escape…’

‘But Mum, poor Mum…She wasn’t so lucky,’ Trupti cut me short, ‘Did she suffer a lot, Papa?’

‘Ah well, I don’t know, dear…I hope not,’ I said. I had not really given a thought to whether my wife, Sumitra, had suffered. Normally, anyone or anything that came into contact with Sumitra suffered. But maybe COVID was an exception and had turned the tables on her.

‘Didn’t the doctors tell you anything?’ Trupti asked, dissatisfied with my reply.

‘No, no…They thought it better not to tell me the details.’

‘But why didn’t you ask them?’ Trupti demanded indignantly.

‘Well…I…I was kind of dying myself…so…’

‘Oh Papa, I’m so sorry! I hate myself for not being there when Mum breathed her last.’

I cleared my throat, but stopped myself from comforting her that she wouldn’t have been able to be anywhere close to Sumitra, because of COVID protocols. Besides it was a moot point whether anyone would have been comforted by Trupti’s presence especially when they were breathing their last. So, I restricted myself to saying, ‘There, there child, don’t beat yourself up about it.’

‘Was she given a proper funeral, Papa?’ Trupti asked.

‘I am sure they did, dear.’

‘I mean, we have been watching all these horror stories about mass cremations and bodies being disposed in the Ganges,’ Trupti said melodramatically. ‘I’ve been having nightmares imagining Mum’s fate – visualizing her body floating down the Ganga.’

I could feel the irritation gnawing at my vitals, but I tried not to snap. ‘We live in Maharashtra, dear. No Ganga here…the situation isn’t all that bad.’

‘Thank God, Papa, thank God,’ Trupti wailed, ‘will you ever forgive me for not being there for you?’

Wasn’t she a drama queen, just like her mother! For a moment I wrestled with the idea of hanging up – feigning a call drop or bleating ‘hello, hello’ as if I couldn’t hear her, then ending the call and switching off the mobile. But I just made some appropriate noises that sounded long-sufferingly affectionate. It was a mistake.

Trupti was immediately consoled and encouraged to pile on more suffering. ‘Just a minute, Papa, Swanand wants to talk to you.’

I winced and again thought of hanging up. Swanand was my son-in-law, Trupti’s husband – a pompous ass and a bore – an IT coolie who acted as if having settled in the USA, he was entitled to be patronizing with every acquaintance back in India. Actually, I ought to have been grateful to him for having taken Trupti off my hands and making her his own problem but there are limits to how grateful one can humanly feel towards an overbearing prick named Swanand, meaning someone who finds happiness within their self.

The ridiculous name only served to disgustingly remind me of masturbation – Swanand. With Trupti as his wife, that might any way have been his only route to happiness, if living with her mother had been any indicator.

‘Hi, Baba,’ Swanand’s voice boomed into my ear from 10,000 miles away. I hated him calling me ‘Baba’ just because he called his old man the same. I had suggested once or twice that he call me ‘Papa’ like Trupti did. But no, Swanand stuck to ‘Baba’.

‘Hello, Swanand,’ I replied tolerantly.

‘Never thought you would make it when we learnt you had COVID,’ Swanand said, as if lamenting my survival. ‘You see, of all the people I knew who got hospitalized due to COVID, only three survived, including you! Congratulations!’

It was totally in keeping with his vacuous, insensitive character, and the congratulations sounded more grudging than complimentary. ‘Ah thanks,’ I replied.

‘God’s grace, God’s grace,’ the idiot continued. ‘We prayed for you continuously.’

If I hated him, I hated his yuppy spiritualism even more. So he was going to take credit for my survival too.

‘Of course, too bad Aai couldn’t make it’, he said, as if covering up for why their prayers and God’s grace could not save Sumitra.

‘Hmm…’ I responded with malice, calculated to embarrass him. ‘Perhaps Sumitra should have been spared and the Almighty could have taken me instead…’

There was a baffled, awkward silence for a second, at the other end. ‘No, no,’ Swanand finally spluttered, ‘God…God…does what’s good for each soul.’

Deep, I thought with a silent chuckle and decided to have some fun at his expense. ‘If you say so, but I think Sumitra would disagree that dying would do her soul any good,’ I said.

‘Of course, of course,’ Swanand hastened to reply. ‘She lived life with so much…er…gusto…but…but…’

By gusto he was probably referring to Sumitra’s unmitigated meanness and spite, which he too had gotten a taste of.

‘But like you say, God knows what’s best for someone’s soul,’ I said, completing his sentence for him.

‘Yes, yes, Baba! We must seek comfort in that thought,’ Swanand said pithily.

‘Hmm,’ I replied, not done with my fun yet, ‘in some cultures I think they celebrate death instead of mourning. Tell me, Swanand, since your spirituality quotient is so high, should we also celebrate Sumitra rather than mourn her?’

Either I really heard or imagined his sharp, vexed intake of breath. ‘Er, Baba, well…’ he trailed off.

I could almost visualize his pathetic mental calisthenics to answer that question, with Trupti no doubt beside him listening sternly, while making faces.

‘Er, I mean mourning and…er…celebrating…are in a way two sides of the same coin, Baba.’

‘How?’

Swanand snorted, as if trying hard not to be exasperated. ‘Well, we mourn because we miss the person we lost, but that person’s soul has attained salvation, which is something to celebrate, right?…Moksha…?’ he ended lamely.

‘Hmm,’ I said, suddenly tired of Swanand and his convoluted pretensions. ‘Profound and illuminating perspective, Swanand! You should be the Chief Spirituality Officer of your company, not just the CTO,’ I added in my most grating, mocking Puneri timbre.

There was a perplexed, offended silence at the other end so probably the shot had hit home, for my son-in-law, after having been sacked from a giant corporation, had begun working for a 7-people company with the pompous designation of ‘CTO’.

‘Papa,’ Trupti’s voice took charge again, ‘I’ll come as soon as it’s safe to travel, okay? Maybe in about three to four months, once we’ve had our second shot. Till then you take care. Don’t get infected again.’

‘That’s virtually impossible, dear. I’ve got antibodies now,’ I said saucily. ‘Of course, I might still die of post-COVID complications or just about anything else. But either way, your travel plans needn’t change.’

‘What are you saying, Papa,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t be morbid. You’ll be fine. Ravi and Hema said they’ll check on you every alternate day and Sushilabai is coming to cook and clean daily, right?’

‘If nothing else kills me, Sushilabai’s cooking certainly will,’ I remarked.

‘Oh, come on, Papa, Sushilabai’s not all that bad. What’s the alternative? Would you rather order a daily tiffin service?’

‘Not a bad idea, but I have a better one,’ I said impishly.

‘What?’

It was delightfully tempting to shock and awe my daughter by saying that I might consider remarrying, but I decided to save it for a future conversation. ‘Never mind,’ I replied.

‘What, Papa? Tell me.’

I chuckled to myself. It was time to run out of battery. I hollered a frail ‘hello, hello’, disconnected the call and then switched off the phone, for I knew Trupti would try calling a few times. The BSNL landline was out of order, as usual, so there was no danger of her calling me on it.

It felt so good to hang up on someone. I couldn’t recall doing it to anyone in my entire life hitherto. I mean, I had done it a few times but I always hastened to call back again or had taken their call, if they rang back.

This was a new me, who had not only hung up on Trupti, his own daughter – a person who intimidated me as much as her mother had – but had also switched off the mobile phone so that she could not bother me for some time at least. If she wanted to panic, that was her problem not mine.

I hummed a tune I hadn’t hummed in over forty-five years. I would’ve even performed a little jig, if I knew how to. What was happening to me?

2

New, Awesome Me



I sat back for some time, taking in the feeling that was sweeping over me – the realization that I was, at long last, alone and free from the petty tyranny of Sumitra. More importantly perhaps, from the meekness that had yoked me for life, to accepting my lot and the many injustices fellow human beings had heaped on me, without me ever having the nerve to sock them back.

Why did I suddenly feel all that was about to change? What made me think that my system had purged me of fear and inhibition, the two bugbears of my life that had always held me back? It was a delightfully reckless sensation, as if I could dare to do anything. But could I really, or was it just an illusion?

I decided to check it out. I got up and opened the door of my flat and rang the bell of the apartment adjacent to mine. As usual, loud music was blaring from inside, which had frequently bothered me in the past. It grew louder as the door opened and one of the young men, Mobin, I think his name was, stood there and regarded me with a questioning look.

‘Arre, Uncle, aap? How are you? Fully recovered now?’

‘I’m okay, thank you,’ I said evenly.

‘Sorry to hear about Aunty…We were shocked. My condolences…’ the boy continued.

‘Very kind of you,’ I replied. ‘Can you please turn down the music?’

There, I had done it. And not just done it, but done it calmly; unruffled without being apologetic or obsequious. Something that would have made me a nervous, gibbering wreck earlier, to even ring the bell.

Mobin wasn’t exactly taken aback, but I think he was definitely surprised. After the constant badgering by Sumitra, I had in fact, once or twice in the past, made such a request. But it was more like a senior citizen abjectly requesting a favour. This tone was new to the boy.

‘Music? But it’s not loud, Uncle,’ he said.

‘It is. I can hear everything, and it disturbs me. That’s why I have come.’ The words were out of my mouth, with a natural, cool assertiveness that was most unnatural to the ‘old’ me.

Mobin stared and his shoulders stiffened defensively as he hesitated. On the one hand, I was a frail, old, recently bereaved widower, who had just recovered from a life-threatening illness; on the other, here I was, telling him something that was no less than an affront to people of his ilk and age.

‘But, Uncle, some sound is bound to come. Me and my friends are just chilling…’

‘By all means, enjoy yourselves but turn down the music,’ I replied nonchalantly. ‘You are chilling. I am recuperating, and I can’t do that with the music blaring.’

He was a little riled now. ‘But, Uncle, you can shut your windows.’

‘Have you shut yours?’ I asked, feeling not even the slightest flutter. Whereas earlier, I would have collapsed by now.

Mobin’s eyebrows squished together into a busy frown. ‘But no one else is complaining,’ he said, falling back on the oldest tactic, by putting the complainant on the defensive. I gave him a steady stare. What I said next, and the way I said it, was so out of character that I felt I had been possessed by someone else. ‘Turn down the damn music, or I’ll call the police.’

His eyes popped out with anger and bafflement at my demeanour. ‘Police?’

I nodded, looking him straight in the eye. Suddenly there were other voices from within the house, and two heads made themselves visible – another young thug and a cute yet pugnacious-looking girl.

‘Kya hua, Mobin?’ the guy asked, giving me an appraising, cocky look. ‘Any problem?’

Rallied by these reinforcements, Mobin said, snarkily, ‘Uncle is saying lower the volume or he’ll call the cops…’

‘Cops?’ said the cute girl and gave a little giggle. The other thug joined in with a derisive chuckle of his own. ‘Cops won’t do anything, Uncle…’

‘You stay here?’ I asked the two newcomers flanking Mobin. ‘No, they are my guests,’ Mobin replied.

‘Then ask your guests to stay out of this discussion,’ I snapped rather curtly. ‘And if you also feel that the cops won’t do anything, then I’ll dial 100 right in front of you and call the beat marshals.’

Mobin’s face turned ugly, as if he was about to grab my collar or mouth some abuse, but miraculously I didn’t flinch a bit. I just regarded him coolly, as if I were James Bond.

The two guests had also quit mocking and were looking at me anxiously now. The girl put her pretty hand on the boy’s arm and whispered, ‘Chal jaane de! Let’s not spoil the mood…’

I could make out that they were all a little drunk.

‘All right,’ Mobin said suddenly, then wagging a finger at me, he added, ‘I’m doing it only because you’ve been ill, and because of Aunty’s demise…But next time, I won’t listen…Okay, Uncle?’

It was his face-saving gambit, but I too, was not done yet. ‘There shouldn’t be a next time, Son, or I’ll directly call the cops.’

He seethed again, his youthful ego egging him on to do something rash. But the girl pulled at him again, ‘Let’s get back to the party, Mobin…chhod na…’ she said in her husky, Usha Uthup–like voice. The shoulder strap of her tank top slipped down to her arm as she tugged at Mobin, and I rather liked what I momentarily saw, for she quickly yanked it back over her shoulder again.

Mobin let himself be dragged in, staring at me with all the hate he could muster. I didn’t move an inch till the door shut behind them. The music volume continued to remain defiantly high for a few more minutes before it was turned down abruptly.

A frisson of excitement ran all over me. Wow, I couldn’t believe what had just happened! Who the hell had I turned into? I leisurely walked back to my flat and lay down on my bed. Is that what victory felt like? Winning against other mortals – an argument, a fight, a battle of nerves, a confrontation, a combat, the duels of life against bullies; against anyone you needed to stare down or had done you wrong.

Sweet! Mind-blowingly sweet! I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt this good. And perhaps, the reason I didn’t remember was because I had never felt this good in my life before.

I exhaled.

Somehow, I suddenly wished I’d had a cigarette with me right now and blown smoke rings. I had stopped smoking forty years ago, after Sumitra refused coitus until I did. It wasn’t much of a coitus, but it was all I had. That ended my dalliance with cigarettes, although the coitus too ceased a few years later and became a once in two months kind of thing. But my smoking didn’t resume, as I couldn’t quite gather the nerve to defy Sumitra, although she could no longer dangle coitus denial at me.

But honestly, it wasn’t as if the urge to smoke had ever been strong for me. Today, however, I was seized by a sudden celebratory yearning for it. Momentarily, I had the audacious and mischievous urge to go ring Mobin’s bell again and ask for a cigarette. How hilarious would it be to see their faces again? I chuckled. The mood I was in, I was sure I could pull it off with sangfroid but then I decided to delay gratification. I had already had enough fun with my new self today.

I was also tired and a little sleepy, so I decided to call it a day. After all, the COVID had been for real. I was about to turn over and sleep, when I heard the doorbell ring. For a minute my old self seemed to spring out suddenly from within. My heart started beating fast. Could it be that after downing a few more pegs, Mobin and his gang had decided to have it out with me? Was I about to get thrashed by a bunch of young louts, if I dared open the door?

But almost immediately, my new self was back in charge. Nothing of the sort was going to happen and even if it did, I could handle it. I was astounded by this self-belief that was sloshing inside me.

I got out of bed, switched on the light in the drawing room, shuffled to the door and peeped out of the eye-hole. Ah well, it wasn’t my neighbour at all. It was a hassled-looking Ravi, my nephew. I realized what must’ve happened and opened the lock wryly.

‘Kaka, thank God, you are all right,’ Ravi blurted out.

‘Let me guess. Trupti called you because my phone wasn’t reachable?’ I asked.

‘Yes, she asked me to come around and check, since she said you got disconnected abruptly and were unreachable thereafter. She thought you collapsed or something…’ Ravi said, looking vexed and relieved in equal measure.

‘Well, sorry to disappoint you and Trupti, there’s no emergency here. I’m hale and hearty, but my mobile ran out of battery and the landline’s dead.’

Ravi frowned. ‘Haven’t you put your mobile for charging? She said it was almost an hour ago.’

‘I couldn’t find my charger,’ I lied brazenly. ‘I’ll look for it tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh, okay,’ he said, eyeing me doubtfully. I could read his mind. Ravi had always known me to be neat and fastidious, incapable of such carelessness. ‘I’ll just call Trupti and tell her you are fine. She may want to hear your voice.’

‘Go ahead…call her, but I am going to bed. I’m exhausted, Ravi. Just shut the door behind you,’ I said, turning away, playing the convalescing old man, which I really was, but not as much as I made out to be.

‘Sure, I’ll do that. You want anything else, Kaka?’ Ravi asked, looking concerned.

For some reason, this nephew of mine had always had a soft corner for me. At forty-two, Ravi wasn’t the least like me or even his own father – my late elder brother, a brain-dead bank employee – who’d promptly kicked the bucket a few days after he’d retired. Ravi had turned out to be more enterprising, and he and his wife, Hema, ran a franchise for a popular sweetmeat brand. His business was badly hit during the first lockdo. . .