“Beep, beep!” the alarm of his luminescent wrist watch went. He slept on soundly. On the other side of the bed, she woke up with a start. Tiredness rolled off her, but she knew it was time to get up.
She removed the blinds. The sunlight should start streaming in within an hour; that should wake him up, she thought. For a moment, she looked at the face she had fell in love with. She loved him still, and yet there was hate as well – she loved him for being him and hated him for what he had made her, a wife.
Of late, being the wife was becoming stifling. She got weekends off from work, but the wife never got an hour off. Despite the love and seven-year-old familiarity, she found it difficult to adapt to his easy way of life after two years of being married. His lack of enthusiasm, or passion as she would often term it, had begun to gnaw into her.
But this was not the time to dwell on it. A lot of work remained.
An hour later, she heard Nirbhay stir. “About time too; the food is nearly ready,” she thought as she waited for his inevitable call.
Sure enough it came in two minutes. “Namita! I can’t find my towel,” Nirbhay called. Resigned, she went to the bedroom and handed him the towel. She had long given up hope that Nirbhay would ever stop needing her for every little thing. “Thanks love!” he flashed his dimpled smile that she had loved at first sight.
But instead of smiling, she grimaced and he felt a twinge of annoyance.
Once in the shower, he wondered about her growing disquiet. Everything had been rosy in the beginning. Her desires appealed to him; her ambition fuelled him to excel. His success brought out the spark in her eyes that he so loved. After the marriage, the transition period had been smooth; the familiarity had helped here. But she had soon started appearing unhappy with everything he did.
Nirbhay was a man of simple needs. Food and company was enough for him, but Namita desired more. Good times, travel, music and knowledge, she wanted everything. It wasn’t as if Nirbhay did not want to give all this to her and more, but doing the best every day was a stretch for him. He hadn’t anticipated that the closeness of a marriage would take a toll on him this way. He started resisting the daily stretch; he needed days off the “demanding” schedule.
As he bathed and Namita gave final touches to the food, the doorbell rang. The masked man signaled her to keep her mouth shut the moment she answered the door. As he stepped inside forcibly, she noticed the car tattoo on his wrist.
“Are you alone?” Gypsy barked at her, for she had recognized him as the dreaded gangster on the run.
She shook her head in a no.
“Lead me to your husband,” he said once she had indicated where Nirbhay was.
The moment Nirbhay stepped out, he knocked him out with the gun handle.
“Give me something to eat right now,” he ordered her.
As he ate, she thought of ways to escape. Perhaps she could steal his gun. Too risky, she thought and dismissed it. What if she smuggled in a kitchen knife? But what good would it do; it’s just good enough to chop onions and tomatoes. Soon enough, Gypsy had eaten to his heart’s content.
In the other room, Nirbhay groaned and tried to get up. His eyes focused to a gun pointed into his face and soon enough found Gypsy.
“Get up,” Gypsy ordered. He had Namita’s neck in a vice-like grip.
“Leave her! I will do as you say,” Nirbhay told him.
As he got up, Gypsy relinquished Namita and hit him instead.
He then twisted Nirbhay’s arm and shouted at Namita: “Get me a rope woman or he’ll die. Now!”
Terrified, Namita blundered away.
As she rummaged in the chest of drawers, Gypsy shouted again: “What’s taking so long? Get me a rope now!”
When Namita returned, Gypsy was making a struggling Nirbhay sit in a chair. She summoned all her courage to attack Gypsy with a butcher’s knife she had found in the drawers.
Gypsy howled like an animal at the suddenness of the attack and lashed out at her.
But she was ready. Moving deftly out of his line of attack, she attacked him once again with the knife. As Gypsy tried to regain control of the situation, a bullet whizzed past and found a target.
As both men collapsed, Namita rushed to find Nirbhay bleeding from the stomach. Sobbing, she tried to revive him. As blood flew like a river in the room, she heard a rasping sound.
“I always knew your passion would kill me,” a stuttering Nirbhay told her as he breathed his last in her arms.
She removed the blinds. The sunlight should start streaming in within an hour; that should wake him up, she thought. For a moment, she looked at the face she had fell in love with. She loved him still, and yet there was hate as well – she loved him for being him and hated him for what he had made her, a wife.
Of late, being the wife was becoming stifling. She got weekends off from work, but the wife never got an hour off. Despite the love and seven-year-old familiarity, she found it difficult to adapt to his easy way of life after two years of being married. His lack of enthusiasm, or passion as she would often term it, had begun to gnaw into her.
But this was not the time to dwell on it. A lot of work remained.
An hour later, she heard Nirbhay stir. “About time too; the food is nearly ready,” she thought as she waited for his inevitable call.
Sure enough it came in two minutes. “Namita! I can’t find my towel,” Nirbhay called. Resigned, she went to the bedroom and handed him the towel. She had long given up hope that Nirbhay would ever stop needing her for every little thing. “Thanks love!” he flashed his dimpled smile that she had loved at first sight.
But instead of smiling, she grimaced and he felt a twinge of annoyance.
Once in the shower, he wondered about her growing disquiet. Everything had been rosy in the beginning. Her desires appealed to him; her ambition fuelled him to excel. His success brought out the spark in her eyes that he so loved. After the marriage, the transition period had been smooth; the familiarity had helped here. But she had soon started appearing unhappy with everything he did.
Nirbhay was a man of simple needs. Food and company was enough for him, but Namita desired more. Good times, travel, music and knowledge, she wanted everything. It wasn’t as if Nirbhay did not want to give all this to her and more, but doing the best every day was a stretch for him. He hadn’t anticipated that the closeness of a marriage would take a toll on him this way. He started resisting the daily stretch; he needed days off the “demanding” schedule.
As he bathed and Namita gave final touches to the food, the doorbell rang. The masked man signaled her to keep her mouth shut the moment she answered the door. As he stepped inside forcibly, she noticed the car tattoo on his wrist.
“Are you alone?” Gypsy barked at her, for she had recognized him as the dreaded gangster on the run.
She shook her head in a no.
“Lead me to your husband,” he said once she had indicated where Nirbhay was.
The moment Nirbhay stepped out, he knocked him out with the gun handle.
“Give me something to eat right now,” he ordered her.
As he ate, she thought of ways to escape. Perhaps she could steal his gun. Too risky, she thought and dismissed it. What if she smuggled in a kitchen knife? But what good would it do; it’s just good enough to chop onions and tomatoes. Soon enough, Gypsy had eaten to his heart’s content.
In the other room, Nirbhay groaned and tried to get up. His eyes focused to a gun pointed into his face and soon enough found Gypsy.
“Get up,” Gypsy ordered. He had Namita’s neck in a vice-like grip.
“Leave her! I will do as you say,” Nirbhay told him.
As he got up, Gypsy relinquished Namita and hit him instead.
He then twisted Nirbhay’s arm and shouted at Namita: “Get me a rope woman or he’ll die. Now!”
Terrified, Namita blundered away.
As she rummaged in the chest of drawers, Gypsy shouted again: “What’s taking so long? Get me a rope now!”
When Namita returned, Gypsy was making a struggling Nirbhay sit in a chair. She summoned all her courage to attack Gypsy with a butcher’s knife she had found in the drawers.
Gypsy howled like an animal at the suddenness of the attack and lashed out at her.
But she was ready. Moving deftly out of his line of attack, she attacked him once again with the knife. As Gypsy tried to regain control of the situation, a bullet whizzed past and found a target.
As both men collapsed, Namita rushed to find Nirbhay bleeding from the stomach. Sobbing, she tried to revive him. As blood flew like a river in the room, she heard a rasping sound.
“I always knew your passion would kill me,” a stuttering Nirbhay told her as he breathed his last in her arms.
