Hari Rao had spent between 10 and 20 minutes in each house, addressing their problems, which were basically the drought and its impact. He listened to their woes and came up with easy, inexpensive solutions.
Like every politician, he finished with the promise that he would take care of them if he came to power. Unlike most of his ilk, though, he appeared to mean what he said. Either that or he was a bloody good actor. There have been a fair few of those, too.
His hair was thin, his kurta was thick and the lines on his face were readable.
I wondered why Ravi hadn’t joined him, just to support him. Maybe he was scared that his presence would endorse what Hari Rao wanted – that he’d eventually get into politics.
Some six months from an election verdict, I could see that there was no happy resolution here. The old man was trying to get his party rolling one more time for the grandson, who didn’t want the stage. Still, I thought, Ravi should’ve been here for his grandfather. There were a lot of people around Hari Rao, but they were not family.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at the once-capital city of the kingdom of Mysore. I love Mysuru because it’s the picture of what Bengaluru once was. The air is fair, the temperament soft and the surroundings clean.
We had lunch close to the state guest house, where Hari Rao and his team had halted. I settled in my seat quickly, dropping my handbag on the floor so that I could dig into my dosa freely. I had taken the first bite of my ghee-soaked Mysuru masala dosa when Andrew’s phone rang. Hari Rao was unwell; he was returning to Bengaluru immediately.
I sat in my seat for a whole minute wondering if I should pack the dosa. No shit!
Hari Rao had looked fine, and I was famished.
Andrew was at the cash counter already.
It was early evening by the time we were back in Bengaluru. We decided to go to office, but we both wanted coffee before that. Andrew met me at Perky Grace after he parked his car.
He had been quiet for most of the drive back. I was annoyed at having to leave my dosa uneaten.Mostlyuneaten. I had shovelled two giant bites into my mouth.
I had ordered coffee and a couple of sandwiches by the time Andrew joined me.
‘There’s something I need to say to you,’ he said just as he was sitting down.
About?I wondered.
Our food and coffee arrived as soon as he was seated.
‘You remember Nana, Noelene,’ he said. It wasn’t a question; it was a nervous introduction to a subject dear to him. ‘Do you remember her watch?’
I nodded. I didn’t really remember; no, I did. It wasn’t exceptional. ‘It was steel.’
‘She always wore it.’
I took a deep breath. Something was wrong.
The only piece of jewellery Noelene owned was a stainless-steel HMT watch. Broad strap, thick white dial. Noelene returned it to a black plastic case at the end of eachday. The box had long come apart and was held together by a rubber band. Andrew had taken the watch and the box with him to the United States.
‘You’ve lost it!’
Andrew’s eyes were misty.
‘Two days ago, when was I tidying stuff around my house,’ Andrew paused, ‘I opened the box. I wanted to check the watch. It had obviously stopped ticking. I pulled it out and rubbed it. That’s when I noticed a notepaper at the base of the case.’
Andrew fished out a thick, rectangular box from the side pockets of his cargoes and placed it on the table. He rolled off the rubber band. The notepaper was laid out like a carpet in a dollhouse.
‘Okay!’ I said.
Andrew picked out the paper. It contained a signature. Four letters.
‘Who gave it to Noelene?’
Andrew passed me the slip. ‘Hari’ was scrawled across it.
‘That’s not Nana’s handwriting.’
