Why Do You Read Gita?

"Why are you always reading this?"

He stared at me, eyes blazing at my question. He closed the Bhagavad Gita, chanted one more mantra, and stood up right in front of me. I waited for him to answer, but he disappeared into his room and came out in our all-time favourite bell-bottoms and a checked shirt, white circles on black. He quietly locked the door of his single-room house, which I always thought would fall off its hinges any moment. He walked with me in silence to our bicycles, and we pedalled our way to college.

This wasn't the first time I had asked, and he had never cared to explain the reason behind his devotion to that book. I had tried reading it once or twice, but I could hardly read the Vedic language; even when I managed a few words, I couldn't understand them. His attachment to that holy book was beyond my belief. My mother held him up as an example to me. We pedalled in silence through the small streets, vendors sprinkling water on their vegetables to make them look fresh, the florist yelling out the price of jasmine braids to draw the young girls. The clamour of this small town named Bapatla could be unpleasant at times, but this was my town. My home.

"You still didn't answer me." I set the rear wheel of my bicycle on its stand.

"You won't understand," he replied plainly, and pulled out his human anatomy and chemistry books from under the holding rod of his carrier.

"That's why I'm asking." I was more curious that day than ever before. He read it every day. On many occasions he would let himself run late for class, but he would finish his reading first. It was becoming more and more of an enigma. Maybe it had something to do with his father's death. I couldn't relate. What was so special about it? Was it so relishing? "Will you tell me or not?"

"You won't understand," he said again. The infuriation of his repeated answer was worse than his refusal to reveal anything. I let the topic slide as we entered class five minutes after the bell. No professor ever chided him for being late, but if I was spotted alone in the corridor admiring the architecture of my college, even the principal's cane wouldn't hesitate to land a harsh lash. Being with him always saved me from these troubles. We listened in silence to the lecture on organic pharmacology. The symbols and formulas were uncanny to me. But he, he could get everything in the textbook. I always wondered why he was so gifted. Maybe this Gita was the root of everything brilliant in him.

"Want a smoke?" We walked to the kiosk opposite the college main gate for a cigarette and a tea. The best combination ever.

"No," he replied plainly, books in hand.

"Okay. Tell me one thing."

"Ask." He took out his wallet and got two cutting chais for us. I puffed the smoke away in the opposite direction, but the wind was against me, and the cloud blurred over his nostrils, making him cough and spill a few drops of tea on his pants. I apologised.

"Do you understand what you read?" I enquired. He just nodded. His indifference was intolerable. I gave my questions a rest, and we parted ways for the night.

Day by day, the time he spent on the Vedic mantras grew. I slowly understood my own aspect of god: I am an agnostic, and I couldn't be more sincere about it. He always reminded me to be god-fearing, which I knew was never going to happen. When I expressed my views, he couldn't have shown more displeasure. He was disappointed that the only friend he had was not a believer. But he never attempted to pluck any spiritual string in me — a string which, I felt over time, was simply not there.

"What happened?" he asked the watchman amid the clamour of the studious kind hanging their heads at missing their classes. The college gates were closed. I couldn't stop a sigh of relief from slipping out of me. I could stay at the tea kiosk and puff away all day till my lungs ached. I took my cycle to the kiosk and locked it. I got a cigarette and two cutting chais.

"Why is the college closed today?"

"Nirupama is missing." He took his tea and lifted off the layer of cream on top. He looked concerned but refused to acknowledge it. The indifference could not be missed.

"What?"

"That's what the watchman told me." He took a sip. How could he be so calm? Even the Kauravas would panic if the Pandavas went missing. I dropped my tea on the table and stubbed out my one-third-lit cigarette.

"Let's go to her home," I said. He set his glass aside too, and we pedalled as fast as we could. Within ten minutes we reached her house. A man stood talking to someone in a khaki uniform; the stars on his shoulder said inspector. The man took his eyes off the inspector and placed them on us.

"Namaste sir. We are Nirupama's seniors from college," I said, folding my palms. He broke into tears. The inspector looked at us.

"What happened?"

"Yesterday she didn't return from college," the father said.

"Did you ask her friends?" I asked, hoping to hear something positive, but nothing in the father's words suggested any good.

"Sir, we will search for her. Please don't worry." I tried to ease a father's suffering — a father I was fooling. The inspector thanked us for the extra hands. We spanned half the town asking if anyone had seen her, but no one had anything useful to say about Nirupama.

The next day, the word in every class and corridor was that Nirupama had eloped with Ramakrishna, her classmate — that they had gone to Vijayawada. None of us knew if it was true or just rumour. The police began by questioning the conductor of the bus they were thought to have taken, but the two had never been on it. Maybe the couple was too shrewd, taking some other transport to avoid detection. Nirupama's and Ramakrishna's families became enemies over their children's doing.

"This is bad." I puffed my smoke and sipped my tea.

"What is bad?"

"They should never have eloped. They should have convinced their parents," I declared. He didn't say a word, only eyed me while sipping his tea.

The next day we were all assembled near the main podium. Every face carried the tumult of the gathering. A sudden silence fell when the principal took hold of the microphone.

"Please be quiet," he shouted, but there was no energy in it. His tone had never been so thin. We waited for him to reveal the reason for the assembly.

"With great sorrow, I am here to inform you—" He stumbled on his words. Thoughts flooded my head.

"Nirupama is no more." His voice choked. I wasn't sure I had heard right. I couldn't believe my ears. I turned towards him — my friend — his eyes wide open, a tear of horror following.

"This assembly is to mourn a girl who lived her life with dignity," the principal said, and we closed our eyes for the departing prayer for our junior.

"I will go." He turned around. He was more disturbed than I had ever seen him, and I didn't blame him. He started pacing away and would not stop at my calls. I had to catch him by the shoulder. He turned to reveal a flood of tears, his eyes red.

"Will you tell me what happened?" I asked. The tears stopped. I took him by the shoulder and led him to the kiosk. A cigarette for me, a tea for him. He refused it; I insisted; he finally took it in his hands.

"I understand," I said, looking into his red eyes. They held the burning sun. Not anger. Dolour.

"I... I..." He choked on every word. I let him gather his thoughts.

"I love her."

The biggest revelation. I didn't believe his words, but I had to believe his eyes, and they spoke the truth. A posthumous confession of love is a painful thing. He had faced it twice now — first his father, then her. I cursed Krishna that day for what he had done to him. He had put his faith in the lord, and what had he got in return? Nothing.

I didn't want to leave him alone in that state. I offered him company, but he insisted on being left alone to gather his composure, and I obliged.

The police went searching for the boyfriend, the prime suspect. From the local edition of the newspaper we learnt she had been strangled with her own stole. Ramakrishna's father was taken into custody for questioning — the old man held for his son's supposed doing.

He didn't show up at college for days after that, and it worried me. His absence made me restless. My friends at college asked after him too. I decided to pay him a visit in the evening, once I finished the chores my mother had set me.

"Come back soon, son." My mother looked at me, her eyes telling me not to go.

"What happened, Amma? Why do you sound like that?"

"I don't know, son. Today my heart is not letting me send you. The town isn't safe anymore."

"Amma, I'm only going to his place. I'll be back in an hour." I reassured my unwilling mother and waved her goodbye.

His house was locked when I reached. I peeped through the window, not even registering that the lock was on the outside. Stupid me. A tap on my shoulder startled me. It was him.

"Where are you coming from?" I had never seen him go anywhere but college.

"Nowhere." He stood at the door.

"Okay. Why didn't you come to college?"

"Come in." He invited me into his room. I took the chair; he sat on the bed.

"Brother, don't be depressed," I said, trying to soothe him.

"I want to tell you something." His eyes were still red.

"Yes. I'm always here for you. We are brothers, remember?"

"Have some water." He walked to the far corner of the room and fetched me a glass.

"Drink." He smiled for the first time in the conversation.

"Thank you." I turned my head — and saw him holding a rod high, the smile transforming into a cruel countenance. The steel glass dropped from my hand. Before I could react, the blow landed on my head.

I fell to the floor. I felt a wave of blood ooze from my skull. My eyes went blank; my head swung. When my sight cleared, he was sitting in front of me, covering his eyes, crying furiously. My mouth was stuffed with cloth to the throat; I choked and vomited into it. I wanted to shout. Everything was hazy. My hands were tied to the armrests, my legs bound together.

"I want to tell you," he began, still sobbing, still holding the rod. I shook my head to make it stop. I couldn't cry anymore. I pleaded for my life with my eyes.

"I killed her... I loved her, but she didn't... she loved that bastard Ramakrishna." He wiped his tears with the arm that held the rod.

"See, I couldn't let go of her... I had to do something. Right?" he asked. My head hung, blood dripping from my hair.

"I had to talk to someone... you are my brother, right?" I nodded.

"But how can I tell you all this... how can I?" He knelt and came close to me.

"Is it paining?" He touched the wound on my head and cried. I writhed and begged him to stop. He wouldn't.

"I'm sorry. I had to tell someone." He kissed my forehead.

"I won't let you die in pain, brother."

"You always ask me, no? Why do I read Gita?" He held my chin and looked into my eyes. His own resembled a child's satisfied twinkle, and still he cried.

"To give me courage." He wept, and took the dissection knife from his surgical kit. He brought it towards me. I shook myself against his hold. He held my head softly, the way one holds a baby, and looked into my eyes as a tear trickled down his cheek.

"Om shanthi... shanthi... shanthi-hi..."

Those were the last words I heard.