Chapter 3

Mani's Assertion

Manikanandan Sivan had truly reached his limit. It had been nearly three weeks since his new neighbour had taken residence downstairs. Three weeks of Mani waking up every morning to the sound of loud Carnatic music jarring his ears, forcing him to abandon all ambitions of a soulful slumber. It would start at five in the morning and continue, relentlessly, until noon. It didn’t help matters that Mani had been on call at the hospital during the last fortnight, meaning that the music coincided nearly perfectly with what few hours he could muster to recharge both body and mind. Staring helplessly into his bathroom mirror as the music wailed on all around him, he watched his hand drift downwards, steadily erasing his stubble with a sharp shaving blade. He stopped and scrutinised the blade’s vicious edge, conjuring dark thoughts about the power he could wield with it. He had seen the old man, the singer. He was frail and only had his young daughter to take care of him. It would be easy to get an entry into their home. He would say he was there to welcome them to the neighbourhood. Maybe he would take a gift basket to play the part with sincerity. Then he would go at them with the blade once the door was closed behind him. He would use all his knowledge of surgery to finish them off swiftly and with minimal mess.

“What about the girl?” Mani thought, “she’s a pretty thing and I’ve no quarrel with her. Maybe I will wait for her to leave the house and then make my move. And I’ll make it a point to tell him why I’m doing it.

‘Why?’, he will ask in his annoying, classically trained, sing-song manner, and I will reply ‘for the singing! For the God awful singing. Don’t you know I can’t stand Carnatic music’”

Mani threw the razor blade into the basin and shook his head vigorously as if to dissolve the terrible thought before it acquired any more shape. He was a kind man, he reminded himself. These were simply the cruel ramblings of an exhausted mind. If only he could get some sleep, such horrendous visions could be kept at bay.

Not for the first time in his life, he wished he was more assertive. A simple chat with the old man may be all that was needed to resolve the issue, but Mani avoided confrontation in any shape or form. Maybe if he could speak his mind, Mridula would not have married someone else, he thought. It had been over two months since her wedding and he began every day with the same feeling of listless regret.

He cursed his passive aggressive nature. Even now, at his nadir, when every sinew in his skinny frame wanted to punch something hard, an overbearing voice in his head reminded him of the futility of such an action. It forced him to reflect on the impeding pain that such an ill-advised burst of violence would bring, causing him to back down. He swore loudly at himself and started to get dressed. It was only seven in the morning and his shift would not start for another five hours. Nevertheless, he needed to run away from the music.

He stopped buttoning his shirt, lost in thought. Running away was certainly his style. Even as a child, it was what he did best. Running and hiding until Raghav turned up to rescue him. Raghav was not a coward. How Mani wished he could have been more like his elder brother; taking on the bullies, watching out for the weaker kids. It was said in the locality where they grew up that the only way to stay safe was to go stand near Raghav. He wouldn’t put up with any older kids prying on the younger ones. Raghav the protector, Mani thought. Raghav the model son. Raghav who died a hero, shielding a member of his infantry from a sudden ambush. There was a small statue of his brother erected not far from the hospital. It was made to commemorate Raghav’s valour in the face of certain death. It showed Raghav, standing over a wounded soldier, defending him from danger. Mani avoided it, not because it made him miss his brother - which it most certainly did - but more because the beleaguered soldier bore such a shocking likeness to Mani. No one else seemed to think so, but Mani could only see his own scrawny frame, drooping eyes, wispy hair and thin sallow face moulded in the effigy. That the bronze Mani cowered in eternal pain under Raghav’s immortal heroism only made the analogy that much more apt.

He quickly checked his small flat for signs of something he may have forgotten and made his exit into the cold Nalanoor morning.

Mani ran his hands through his well-oiled hair and buried his face in his palms. They were warm against his flat and rather icy nose. It was still chilly outside and the small, cozy restaurant had quickly reached its capacity. He had finished his breakfast and was leisurely sipping on a tumbler of filter coffee. Two men came and stood next to him and he glanced up. They were seeking a place to sit and he was evidently the closest to finishing up. The restaurant only had eight tables, clumsily arranged in a small room. It was within spitting distance from the hospital and was where he usually ate all his meals. The waiter was a young boy that Mani did not recognise as the regular.

“Where is Muthu?” he asked the boy; the boy shrugged and resumed his chores. Through a cut out in the wall, food was being passed into the restaurant and the boy was doing his best to stay abreast of the influx. One of the men standing near Mani’s table made an impatient noise and Mani stared up at him.

“Why don’t you go search for Muthu?” the man suggested with a smirk, kissing the air and gesturing with a tilt of his head that Mani vacate the premises. The man’s friend chuckled behind him and Mani considered them for a few seconds, his heart beating fast at the thought of confrontation. He had just about had enough of being pushed around and was feeling the weight of his collective failures in assertion pressing on him to break loose. This was his watering hole and they had no right to insult him. The men were not large; if he acted first, the element of surprise would buy him enough of an advantage to take them on. It had to be done, it needed to be done. Mani would no longer succumb to his own spinelessness and everyone would know that from this day on.

He steeled himself, took a deep breath, gulped his coffee down in one go and stood up. He faced the man squarely, the fires of resolve now an inferno within his meagre frame. Their eyes met and Mani knew the moment had arrived.

The moment of action; of redemption. The moment that would soon define him.

The voice in his head suggested: “Maybe not today”, and then he excused himself, leaving the restaurant quietly, to the sound of their jibing sniggers.