Stinky Smelly Horseshit Lessons
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Too much philosophy? Let’s dump the gyan and get on with this week’s story, “Stinky Smelly Horseshit Lessons”(a non-crappy, non-pungent yarn, I assure you). I just realised that I have referred to a four-legged beast again. (!!) I’ll admit the story has a few horses but they only make one brief appearance. I promise.
If you missed reading last week’s story, please check out The Quack House (TQH) . Today, we continue Manju’s journey with TQH.
***
Sunil woke to find his wife standing at their bedroom window gazing at the moon. He squinted in the darkness to reaffirm what he was seeing. A dark form stood in the shadows by the open window. The deep maroon heavy floor-length drapes had been swept aside to reveal a layer of flimsy cream lace curtains. They blew every time the breeze picked up and brushed against Manju’s left cheek. The moonlight kissed Manju’s right cheek and gave her visible face a ghostly glow. Thanks to her navy blue nightgown, the rest of Manju’s torso blended into the drapery, accentuating the eerie glow of her whitened face.
Sunil stretched out his right hand and found the bedside table. Then taking his eyes off his wife, he groped around the tabletop for his mobile. His eyes, more accustomed to the soft glow of the distant moon, blinked when his fingers turned on the device. 12.30 am he noted. Frowning, he pushed aside the bed covers and slid his feet into his bedroom slippers. Once both feet found firm ground beneath them, he rubbed his eyes to push himself awake; a ritual he practised every morning when he woke.
He then strode to the window to join his wife and investigate what was keeping her up when she ought to be smiling in her sleep. Sunil adored this endearing quality of the two bosses in his life, his wife and their daughter. Both of them displayed the most quirky smile in deep sleep.
Manju had not budged from her position but she was aware that he had joined her, because she asked him, “What if I fail?’, before he could say, “Hey, beautiful.”
Sunil had always known that his wife had her heart invested in TQH but he had not imagined that she had defined the yardsticks for its success and failure. He had always imagined that she would get bored of listening to people’s problems and decide to wind up. He had been prepared for a bumpy ride but an outright breakdown, after one working day, was a disaster.
Manju’s earnest gaze rested upon his still droopy eyes. “You won’t fail.” He said simply. They had one rule in their relationship: No lies to each other. They had discovered the hard way that it was easier to be honest, to each other at least. Now, hearing his words, Manju looked accusingly at him. The bright moon accentuating her knitted brows and pursed lips. “You are saying so only to appease me.” She declared, turning away from him, making him flinch.
In a way, she was right. He had uttered the words to ease her tension. That was his job too. He had told her a million times before she jumped on to the launch pad, even when she unlocked the doors of TQH, one day before the inauguration, that time was with her and she could still change her mind. She had breezed past his anxiety with the usual wave of her left hand, which meant, “Don’t worry. I am good.” Now, twenty-four hours later, he couldn’t bring himself to dissuade her, even in jest.
[image error]“Why should I appease you?” Sunil said, trying to get her to understand. “Businesses don’t fail.” Manju snorted loudly. Sunil smiled. She was not all that depressed, it appeared. “It’s true. All kinds of businesses succeed. But every once in awhile, one that everyone expects to set new standards folds.”
“Ahaa..” she snapped. Sunil grinned.
“No no, I am not retracting my original statement. I said “fold”, not “fail”.” Another indignant snort from his wife, which meant, “You never accept your mistakes,” punctuated his statement. Ignoring her, he continued, “Businesspersons fail all the time, Manju. That’s why good companies shut shop.”
“So, I also said, I failed. I never said, TQH did.”
“You won’t fail if you don’t give up.” He replied.
“Everyone thinks I am a quack.”
“They will change their opinion.”
Another snort.
“Look, Manju. You are a businessperson now. If TQH means so much to you, if success means so much to you, then don’t quit. You won’t fail until you quit.” He didn’t know what came over him. He said the whole deal in a rush. What he had intended to say echoed in the words but the manner in which he delivered his response shocked him.
Her reaction stoked his guilt even more. She continued to stare at the trees in the garden, ignoring him. Having already created a mess, he didn’t wish to take things further by speaking any more words of wisdom. Heaving a sigh, he went downstairs to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. He predicted a long night ahead and they both loved hot chocolate. A heart to heart talk over steaming cups would be the best alternative, he reckoned.
When he returned, he found Manju, fast asleep, on the bed. The previously ajar window was now shut tight, the drapes were closed, and the air conditioner was blasting frigid waves into every corner of the room. Had she gone to bed angry? He couldn’t sleep as long as he didn’t know. Waking Manju was not an option. Sunil drank both the cups of the hot beverage, paced the room for an hour and ultimately retired to his study where he got some work done.
After a couple of hours of frantic emailing and catching up with a year’s worth of pending correspondence, he finally passed out, exhausted, on his desk. Manju woke him with a steaming mug of caffeine at 7.30 am. He felt a friendly shove on his back, followed by, “Wake up, lazy bones. It’s your turn to take Lara out. The poor thing’s been waiting for you to open your eyes since the milkman came, two hours ago.”
The strong smell of coffee hit his senses at about the same time he remembered his ‘fight’ with his wife. He shot up in a hurry, startling Lara, who had placed two paws on the table and rested her head between them, inches away from Sunil’s outstretched left arm, on which he had laid his head while sleeping. Lara barked and jumped off the char she was sitting on to run over to Sunil, eager for a pat. Sunil rubbed his eyes, trying to put everything in perspective.
Lara’s tongue found his right hand and her forepaws landed on his things, while her thumping tail almost dislodged the cup of coffee his wife had placed near the edge of the table. Manju had reached the door by then. Still, in her nightdress but in high spirits, she gave him a backhanded wave, which meant that he ought to get his butt off the chair without further delay. She wasn’t angry, he noted. Heaving a sigh of relief, he bundled Lara up and played with her for a few minutes.
When the poodle and master returned from their morning jog, they found Manju dressed for the day. She had opted for a cotton Salwar Kameez with batik print, matching brown flats and a roomy leather handbag. She waved good-bye at a surprised Sunil and set off to work, half an hour before nine.
Sunil’s words from the night before echoed in her ears as she drove to work. She couldn’t fail if she didn’t quit. Repeating her determination to stay on course, despite setbacks, she covered the twenty-minute drive in record fifteen minutes.
At TQH, a herd of horses were feasting on her newly planted shrubs while her most capable receptionist oversaw their feeding, from a safe distance. The property had compound walls on three sides, except in front. Here the mini courtyard merged into the pavement where it met the street. The former tenants had used the space to park and repair vehicles. Manju’s gardener had planted shrubs along the sides of the tiled driveway and a lawn in the rest of the space. He had also promised to tend to the garden twice a week.
Now, horses were stomping all over the grass, uprooting whatever came in the way.
Screeching to a halt, Manju pulled out an umbrella from the glove compartment, and [image error]stormed out of the car. Two of the horses ran away, frightened by her dramatic entry. A third, a filly, scampered up the front steps, trying to find a way through the front shutter of the building. Its mother took an attacking stance, facing Manju.
Onlookers gathered at a safe distance urging Manju to back off. Reminding herself, that she couldn’t fail if she didn’t quit, Manju held her ground. The mare called out to its baby to come to its side. The obedient pony complied. Without budging, umbrella raised and nostrils flaring, she shooed at them with vigorous fervour. The mare immediately raised its fore limbs, tossed its mane and heehawed a battle cry.
The sight of the horse on its hind legs, ready to thump its front hoofs on her chest, unnerved Manju. Without lowering the umbrella, she took two steps back and was horrified to feel her feet sink into warm gooey horseshit. Manju’s nose cringed and every cell in her body experienced a germ invasion. Manju had the strongest urge to abandon her fight and clean up, but she ignored her discomfort and glared at the horse’s raised upper body, trying to discern what to expect next.
When its feet touched the ground, it meekly trotted off with its child, and the audience heaved a collective sigh of relief. Somebody found a bucket of water and helped her clean her feet. The sandals, she dumped in the dustbin. Manju became the unlikely heroine, and all through the day, friendly neighbours dropped in to express their admiration. Manju took the opportunity to establish that she wasn’t a doctor. Everyone was surprised to learn that, but at least, they now believed her.
Manju chided herself for having backed down two steps, because of which her foot sunk in crap. If she had stayed focused, as Sunil had advised the night before, she could have avoided smelling like a stable and enjoyed a sweet smelling triumph as well. She filed the thought away for future application.
From that day onward, there was no backing down.
A month on, the money she had invested in the brunch and her faith in her friends was at last showing promising results. When she arrived at work on 26th February, Monday, at 09.05 am, thanks to a route diversion because of some neta’s visit, a ‘customer’ was waiting in the spotless reception area. Her receptionist was in attendance, offering the visitor the day’s newspapers to read.
Manju smiled and swept past leaving a soft fragrance of lavender in the air. She set up her laptop and signed in to see if any pressing emails were waiting for her immediate revert. The weekend had been a mess. A prominent movie star had passed away and Sunil was heartbroken beyond words. She had cooked his favourite Thai delicacies and yet he had remained inconsolable.
He had spent the entire Sunday moping, making both Lara and their daughter restless. Manju had to fend off a thousand questions from the child and the poodle kept tugging at the hem of her skirt to take her to Sunil, barking and asking her to fix his illness. If only things were that easy.
That morning, Manju had to skip her regular twenty-minute session of meditation because Sunil was useless and refused to get out of bed until eight. But Manju had expected him to be moody and had completed a number of her morning tasks the night before. Therefore, she ought to have arrived at work on time, but the neta had derailed her plans without any effort.
Manju hated waiting and that meant keeping somebody else waiting was a sin she strived hard to avoid. She had begun her week with her foot in the shit, she decided. That horsy experience continued to motivate her to stay the course, weeks after the incident.
Her receptionist informed her that the ‘visitor’ had refused to give any details, including his name. He didn’t want to be disturbed later with promotions, he had informed categorically. Manju smiled. Now she wanted to get his name and phone number, though she had no plans of using the data for any promotions. He was the stubborn mare, her second chance to win back her pride, she decided.
[image error]When the visitor walked in, she escorted him to the garden in the room. Mornings were pleasant by the window, she had discovered. She had also added a miniature artificial waterfall to the setting. Working to the music of water trickling down had a soothing effect on the senses. Therefore, most mornings were spent in the garden, as she called that part of her office.
Offering him, one of the two white garden chairs, she took the other. On the table, she had placed her open laptop and mobile phone.
Wearing a white safari suit, the gentleman sitting before her was around sixty, donned golden spectacles, had a round face, sported a white moustache and had a top of black hair on his head. When he smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes became more prominent. His right eyebrow was slightly crooked and it arched every time he spoke, like when he had said ‘thank you’ before sitting down.
He had a pleasant appearance, and Manju warmed up to him instantly.
She opened the software she had designed to record customer details; an uncomplicated application she had named ‘Iris’ which captured every session’s date, time, discussion details, future appointments etc. She didn’t want to find herself forgetting what someone had told her in session one when they returned for session two. Iris needed a name and mobile number to open a unique file. She began the session there.
Introducing herself, she explained to him that with his consent, she would take notes while he spoke. This didn’t bode well but when she promised to give him a copy of his file, he gave his ready consent. Coming to the sticky topic of name and mobile number, next, she told him they were needed to create the file.
“Do you also offer client information confidentiality?” He demanded. Manju had to explain that such laws applied to professions like doctors, lawyers etc and that she was neither, therefore, such an assurance was beyond her ability. The discussion went on for fifteen minutes, by when Manju revised her assessment of her visitor from “pleasant” to “stubborn”, to “arrogant”, to “pain-in-the-ass”, to “obnoxious”.
After fifteen minutes, all she wanted was for the man to leave. Neither would he vacate his seat, nor would he divulge his name. He insisted that since she could not offer his testimony confidentiality, she was better off not knowing his name and contact details. Exasperated, she opened a regular word file and told him to get on with whatever he wanted to say.
The security guard who worked in a hospital on the same street had referred her, she learnt. “Who were these high profile security personnel who claimed to know her well enough to give references?” Manju made a mental note to find out. The man was asking something and Manju concentrated. “I like coffee. All this mocha, cappuccino stuff is not for me though. A plain strong cup of coffee, with something to bite, would be nice.”
Manju kicked herself. She had thought the idea of offering a beverage to the guest would be in accordance with her role as a passive listener. Her receptionist had been instructed to record their preferences and serve refreshments accordingly. Manju had not imagined a situation where she wouldn’t want to prolong a person’s visit. Now she had to endure the goof up of her own making.
He poured his coffee into his saucer and blew the warm coffee cold before taking a sip. Manju was relieved that he didn’t slurp it up noisily. One disgusting habit less, was not enough, though. While he enjoyed his drink, Manju made small talk. She asked about his family etc. He gave her all those details readily.
He had two adult sons working out of town. His wife and he were living alone, and they had a comfortable life. He claimed that he had taken a few hours off from work to speak with her. Manju was almost sympathetic. But before the emotion could manifest, he informed her that the biscuits were soft from improper storage. Manju decided he didn’t deserve her sympathies.
Half an hour had passed since, the man had landed at her table but he had been digressing from the topic of discussion since arrival. Was he nervous? Manju wondered as he kept stalling the discussion. He had emptied his coffee cup twice and was now cleaning out the plate of ‘soft’ biscuits, as though he was at a restaurant and not sitting across from her. Manju bit her tongue and kept quiet.
He then wanted to use the washroom!
After returning, he talked about the décor and what all was wrong with it. Peach, he informed her was a feminine colour with which men like him could not associate. He liked the green she had chosen for the foyer and that he said would have been ideal for the room too. Manju fumed and listened.
Then out of the blue, he stood up, adjusted his pants, (he did that every time he stood, as though, they were likely to fall off his hip), inserted his hand into a bulging front pocket and pulled out a revolver. He then sat down again. He rubbed the revolver clean with the edge of his safari suit’s tucked out shirt. Manju watched in fascination. Her eyes were round in wonderment at seeing a gun at such close quarters. All her previous experiences had involved a digital medium intervening between the actual item and her hand.
Without thinking, “Is it real.” She asked. He picked it up, pointed it at her and clicked a [image error]lever, as she had watched actors do in several movies, to release the safety catch. “And loaded” he confirmed. The barrel’s tip was fifty centimetres from her nose and she could see the black hole through which the bullet would shoot out to splatter her face to smithereens. She stared unblinkingly, her eyes large round saucers. Perspiration dripped from her brow. Matters weren’t exciting anymore.
Without a word, he placed the handgun on the table, close to her laptop and mobile phone. The small table looked overcrowded to Manju as soon as the handgun landed atop. “I shot a man dead with this gun”, her visitor declared.
Continue reading the rest of the story here
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