Chapter 29

Merlyn spent Sunday morning spring-cleaning her apartment. Usually, she did it around Diwali time each year. Because at home in Bangalore, her mother had always spring-cleaned around Diwali time. But this time, she did it not because the house was really that messed-up, but because ... well, because she needed to scrub out all traces of The Unnamed.

That was how she thought of him now: The Nameless One. Anamika. Mr No-Name. Anonymous Ditcher. Woh Kaun Tha? Hemant Who?

As she worked the vaccuum cleaner, pressing it hard into the dhurrie on the living room floor, she took a perverse pleasure in pausing to grab a book here, an audio tape there, a holistic health magazine, and any other item that was a link to Him. Grabbed it and dumped it into an oversize black polythene garbage bag.

The bag was already a third full.

A telephone diary? Bag it. (It had his handwriting in it, and she already had all the numbers in her laptop anyway).

A pack of cigarettes? Hate the damn cancer sticks. Bag it.

A polaroid of the two of them standing before the Gateway of India like two cheesy tourists -- they had gone for a boat ride that day? Bag it.

A pile of print-outs of files he had downloaded from some website on Aromatherapy? Bag it.

A set of Singapore Airlines swizzle sticks he had brought back when he'd gone for that job interview? Bag it. No, snap them into bits and then bag them. Never mind if you scratch your palm in the process. Destroy! Wipe out! Nuke'em!

A brand new copy of Bridges of Madison County which he'd been trying to get her to read for months -- she told him she would puke before she read "that sentimental tripe"? Hold it in two hands, rip it fiercely down the middle -- How's that for a critical opinion, Robert James Waller? -- then rip it up some more, randomly, then shove the debris into the bag.

She went on in this way, destroying, tearing, smashing, breaking, cutting up, snapping, ripping apart ... until finally the bag was full and she found herself sitting on the passage floor, the vaccuum still whining away in the living room behind her, holding her head in her hands and feeling sick to the core.

What am I doing? I'm not falling apart, am I? No way, not me. I'm chilled. I can deal with this. He was an SOB anyway, I'm better off without him, I deserve better. It would never have lasted. It was not meant to be. We were fundamentally incompatible. Our chakras were not in harmony. He was Red-aura and I was Green. We just happened to travel together for a while on the Path of Life, and then we came to a crossroad.

She found that she had something stuck to her forearm. She raised the arm, and saw that it was a page from Bridges.

She glanced at it idly. And began reading.

Reaching the end of the torn-off page, she found she wanted to finish the sentence. So she got up and went back into the hall. Rummaged through the overflowing garbage bag. Found several torn pages. Searched desperately for the half that matched the half-page she had read.

As she searched, she grew more impatient, more desperate.

She began to lift handfuls of stuff from the bag and tossed it over her shoulders. Intent on finding that page. If she could only finish that sentence, she would be all right. She just needed to finish that sentence. It became a frenetic frenzied dance, the search for that One Page, like the Holy Grail of literature. Find, find, find. Read, read, read. Rummage, rummage, rummage. Jesus. Where the fuck is it? She tore a nail, cut a finger on the sharp edge of a broken swizzle stick, scratched the back of her wrist. Hair fell across her face, got in her eyes, her mouth, damp with sweat and ... no, not tears. No more tears, Donna fucking Summers used to say. Where is that Page?

It was the doorbell that saved her.

The prosaic melody of 3 Blind Mice played in solemn Big Ben-type chimes brought her back to reality with a jolt.

And she realized that she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

My God, she thought, reeling from the sight of the living room dotted with assorted trash from her furious page-quest, I'm cracking up totally!

The doorbell rang again.

She thought of avoiding it, but then decided to check it out. She was suddenly scared of what she would do if she ignored it, if she stayed alone here with her own morbid thoughts.

It was Bobby. The tall, imposing Sikh driver whom AP Singh had deputed to drop her home last night.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," he smiled. Handing her a small golden envelope.

She nodded to him, afraid to speak for fear that it might come out as a scream.

The envelope had a small black card inside it. On this, in beautifully calligraphed penmanship, was written a brief legend in gold ink:

Do join me for lunch. AP.