Gadadhar

Paltan came to whisper in Vishnu’s ear. Ari had come. Worry oozing from Paltan’s furrowed brows, Vishnu could see, would drip anytime into his malt whiskey. Yikes! He pushed the glass away and kept it covered with his bloated palm. Paltan was an inferior man, an old bar manager, a wall fly, not worthy of any response, definitely not worthy of making Vishnu’s drink go salty with his scumbag sweat.

Vishnu remembered then; a long time ago, Pratima, Arihant’s wife, had pushed her four-year-old son aside from him like this, with her palm sheltering the boy’s tiny head. Like a funny cap. Like her palm would shield a .44mm Magnum fire. Like anyone - with a dose of good intention - could. She had been, Vishnu thought with a sneer, a funny woman.

Now, Ari - Arihant - with a penchant for drama and bloody ambush had appeared at the doorstep of this godforsaken, ugly bar at three in the morning. For what?

‘To have an ass fucking drink! Oh, yeah, yeah. The son of a bitch has finally realized. After seven fucking years. That bastard, that motherfucker, that dickhead, has finally realized that he’s got no one in this world. Completely alone. He has come here to make new friends. Behen-chod!’

“Ha-ha-ha!” Vishnu gave out a belly laugh and slapped the table in a sudden splat that scared Paltan a little. Paltan twitched his thumb, but kept his head bowed as if he was in humble supplication, before a regal lord. Then he craned stealthily on his left to have a glimpse of the famed Colt Anaconda, usually tucked proudly behind Vishnu’s back. For reassurance. He couldn’t find any.

“Bhai, what do we do, Bhai? Tell me, Bhai?” Paltan crooned. The wall fly seemed to be on Vishnu’s side. Actually, he was on the bar owner’s side. But who gave a hoot about integrity in his line of business?

“How many men are out there?” Vishnu asked. Nonchalantly.

“Don’t know, Bhai. Bahadur came inside and said, ‘Ari-Bhai is waiting outside for Vishnu-Bhai. Please send him out quickly.’”

“It’s dark outside. Let it be morning first. We will see then.”

“He has given the time of only one minute, Bhai.”

“Who?”

“Ari-Bhai.” Paltan’s face reddened at this faux pas. He dearly hoped Vishnu would be a lesser man without his pet Anaconda.

Vishnu bored into him an icy stare and felt the violence pent up in his belly, in his breast, just below his throat. “Let it be morning first. We will see then.”

Ratta-tat-tat …

A volley of bullets came splitting the glass windows, piercing the dirty draperies, spattering the glass, the table wood and plastics utensils. Making the entire room unruly and noisy - completely out of control - liquor and water splattering against the roof, iron splinters scattering across the room in search of soft flesh.

“I will count to three, Vishnu,’ a hoarse voice shouted from outside, ‘get out, else, you will be responsible for the death of everyone.”

Then, almost without a pause, the voice called, “One!”

“Harami, saala, brought an automatic rifle to a baraat.” Vishnu muttered under his breath. He was on the floor, lying beside Paltan who was red in the head: could be a gunshot, or an impact wound.

“Two!”

To think about it: Vishnu and Arihant had been in a fickle business. The channel of communication between them had always been fraught with suspicion, and often broken. Backstabbing and betrayal occurs as frequently in their trade as strangers becoming friends over liquors and cheap dancing girls. It had not been Arihant’s fault to become Vishnu’s partner … in crime. It had surely not been Vishnu’s fault to suspect Arihant had betrayed him to the Meenar gang.

When Vishnu had decided to take care of Arihant, he had not been happy about the situation. Things would turn messy; he would lose a partner, most probably his place in the gang. But then, this stupid broad, Pratima, would pretend she could stop a .44 Magnum bullet. Yedi thi, saali, yedi.

Vishnu had not forgotten, it had been seven years ago. Arihant had disappeared. Vishnu had to draw him out. He camped himself with three more guys at Arihant’s two-room house with his pet Anaconda, hoping someday or sometime, Ari would appear. What a shame that coward had not. Ari’s four-year-old boy, to whom Vishnu had always been affectionate, couldn’t understand the sudden aggressive bearing Vishnu-uncle had brought to the house. Arihant’s wife, Pratima, had been the most uncooperative. Enough to test Vishnu’s well worn patience.

“Uska namak khaya hai, tu, Vishnu. Sharam nahi aati, namak haraam!” the woman had shrieked.

“Uska khaya, uske beta ka to nahi?” Vishnu had rubbed the gun’s cold muzzle against the puffed cheek of the boy, greening. What was he supposed to do? Explain the futility of gratitude to that fucking broad?

The mother had pushed the boy aside while keeping her two palms on his head in a way that it looked like the boy had been wearing a silly paper crown.

“Goli kya haat se rukayegi tu?”

“Uske diye banduk se uske beta ko hi marega tu? Haan? Vishnu?”

Vishnu. Vishnu. Vishnu. The pathetic high pitched voice of Pratima repeating his name had amused him. He had realized, quite shrewdly, that it had been the helpless woman’s appeal to his goodness. Her way of begging. It had been futile.

He had pinched her cheek and said, “Bol, bol, aur ek baar bol, naam kya hai mera?” 

The boy had jumped and clapped his hand in the air and said, “Vishnu!”

“Nahi,’ Vishnu had laid his Anaconda carefully on the kitchen table and taken out a hammer from an open overhead cabinet.

‘Gadadhar. Gadadhar naam hai mera.”

He had cracked open the boy’s skull.

“Vishnu ka hi aur ek naam samjho.”

Now, seven years later, Vishnu couldn’t remember how many nights he played out exactly this moment in his head, when finally Ari and he would meet, for the faceoff, for their final ‘faisala’. “Darpuk, saala, brings an automatic to a baraat.”

Look at Vishnu now. He had pawned his Colt revolver months ago for two lakhs rupees. Why not? Even the most virginal bride wouldn’t wait for her absent groom for seven years. Moreover, Vishnu needed the damn money.

He stood up slowly and kicked the still body of Paltan, just to stir him up. Then he staggered across the floor, stepping on the debris, following the barely visible path on the red cement floor to the kitchen; in the light of a lucky unbroken green bulb. Two more guys were lying on the floor. Three men were crouching in the corner.

Vishnu reached the kitchen to find the cook, and the waiters hiding there. He walked all the way up to the coal pile that was heaped beside the tandoor oven. He found his weapon there.

“Three!” the hoarse voice called up from outside.

A waiter who was hiding in the kitchen came running to stop Vishnu. “Mat jao, Vishnu-Bhai. Woh log aap ko maar da-lenge.” Vishnu laughed hoarsely and pushed the man aside so hard that he fell, crashing down on the floor.

Was it the first time that someone had tried to kill Vishnu? Was it? Was not he, Vishnu, still alive? And was it not everyone whom he had decided to kill who had died?

He bent his head to accommodate himself against the meagre height of the bar door, crossed the bar’s cranky threshold and stood erect just outside the door, in cool air, looking at the unknown darkness, a cold coal hammer shining in his hand.

Gadadhar.