3 3. Upside Down

The publisher, Karl, felt his head heavy- extremely heavy. Heavy? Why heavy? But his body was feeling very lose – especially the waist part and hands. He tried to open his eyes, but it was an ordeal. His eyelids were glued by some thick liquid. When he was struggling to open his eyes he felt a sharp tinge in his forehead – if he were on his bed he would have searched for an aspirin on his bedside table. When he slithered his hands they swam in midair. Certainly he was not on his bed. The shock made his eyes open. He saw the very familiar wall on which modern paintings were dangling proudly looked very oddly unfamiliar, because he was seeing it upside down. Then his brain got the bigger picture. He had been dangled upside down – his legs were tied to a hook on the ceiling by a strong rope. His hands were free. And the thick liquid all over his eyelids was nothing other than his blood – thick blood droplets. "What the hell," he cried.

After few seconds the beautiful girl with flowy hair and in velvet frock appeared before him. Now he was watching her features from a different angle- a different set of paradigms.

"Finally my uncle is waking up," she said slapping his stomach.

"How do you do, sir," asked a male voice. The publisher tilted his head a bit left to look at the source of the voice. There was a middle aged man – almost of his age. A little bald in the middle of the head – smiling sharply. He was now sitting on the sofa. Beside him were standing two men. But there was something fishy about these three men – something outlandish about them. But what was that he could not explain right now. Well speaking about fishy and outlandish, Veronica no more looked normal. The shyness she had worn a few minutes ago seemed to him a fake mask which she had got rid of. She was walking around him. Her strides were long and almost mannish. Her attitude damn care. He tried to look at her. Is she wearing a wig? Whatever her attitude or behavior is, if she has no flowy hair that will break my heart: thought the publisher. He observed them keenly. Thank goodness. Those are real things. Not wigs: he consoled himself. She is a bitch, but a beautiful bitch. But why she is doing all this? For money? No, I do not think so. He laughed at his own private joke – he laughed out loud in his own mind – not outwardly. If he would laugh outwardly or loudly then the condition could turn dire. His instinct told him and he listened to his instinct at that time.

Again the lean man sitting on his sofa to his left asked, "How do you do, sir?"

"Can I be unhanged? I did not do any harm to you as per my conscious knowledge goes. If I have hurt you anyway unknowingly then please do forgive me and just unhang me. I am ready to do anything you ask. You just say it. If you want money, I am ready to give you as much as you like. If, if, you are a guardian of this girl and you want her novel published, consider it is done, I will take charge to make it a best seller. Sorry, Veronica is so brilliant and her plot is so fantastic that I just need to publish it and it will soar high like an eagle in the market of books."

Veronica asked, "Like you are soaring now?"

He remained silent for a moment. Construing things and constructing answers in his mind. He said at last, "Sorry miss. If I have hurt you in anyway. Leave me please. Please spare me. You do not like the idea of eagle? I do not like birds either. I am more of an animal person – a beast person – more of a cat person, to be very particular. I love cats. I love them from my early childhood. I had four cats as my pet back then. I can give you a beautiful cat if you leave me unharmed. I promise I will give you a hundred cats if you like, if you like to possess."

"Shut up you scared cat," demanded Veronica in a strangely stern voice.

The publisher shot his mouth up obediently.

"Now that is a good cat," said she patting his thigh. She then kneeled before him and said, "I hate your lecherous touches. So I lost temper, I usually do. I do not want to be touched by a lecher like you."

The publisher again started, "I am very sorry for it. Very very sorry. I am not going to lie that I was touching you as a guardian. I was not patronizing you. I acted like a lecher. I am a lecher. What the newspapers tell of me is hundred percent correct. I will change my attitude if you leave me. I promise. I keep my words. If you say I will not even touch my wife until my last breath."

"Why torture your wife sir for your own fault," interjected the bald lean man- whose eyes and nose match with that of Veronica's. He must be a relative of Veronica: the publisher thought. Even the two men standing behind him look similar with the bald man. Are the trio brothers? And one of them is Veronica's father? May be.

Now his thought took another turn: Were the trio hiding in this house before I could come here or Veronica after bludgeoning me with the brass bust on the table called and informed her guardian? Did she inform them that I was sexually harassing her? Are they taking me as a hostage to lay hands upon my property? Whatever I can allow them to take my property and let me go. I can make double with the money I have now within two years. I just need to live, survive. Will they hurt my wife and children also? Thousand of questions were bombarding inside his head which was aching to such a degree that he was thinking that his head would split open.

Veronica smiled a bossy smile and said, "Now you will answer my question with appropriate answers."

He nodded his head in a positive manner.

She asked, "How do you know Andrew Long?"

He thought: So this whole interview is fake. It was all a set up. If I had not touched her she would have asked me about Andrew and would have gone away perhaps without hurting me.

"What are you thinking? Answer me," She said.

The publisher thought: She is up to something. Something related to my dear friend Andrew. He remembered how Andrew invited only him to his house in their college days; how they dined together; how they went movies; how Andrew would cook his favourite dishes; etc. etc.

"Why are you grinning Karl? Answer me. How do you know Andrew?" a little irritated by his silence asked Veronica.

"Sorry miss. I remembered some funny childhood incidents we shared. How he stole our teacher's inner wears and sprinkled some skin irritant leaves on them and returned those inner wears to our teacher. The Mathematics teacher. It was a funny moment. The funniest, the most hilarious moment in my life. I must admit."

"So you were friends," she concluded. Then she added, "Tell us something more about him. What is his address?"

It was 20th September, 1999 he recalled. He could recall each detail of the day. Andrew had invited him to his house. The dining room was filled with sweet aromas of food, such as chicken, curd and cream. The atmosphere was somewhat gloomy. After dinner Andrew and he drank up together on the terrace of their flat. Whiskey with roasted peanuts and cashews as usual. Andrew was very silent all through the day. As if it was their last supper. After a week the publisher was going to lunch Andrew's thesis on matriarchy in the subcontinent. Perhaps he was tensed about his book, thought the publisher. The next day he called Andrew, but there was no reply. He was busy that day. The next day he went to Andrew's house. A grandpa lock was hanging on their door. The neighbors informed him that they had gone out on a vacation. Vacation: he was shocked. At this time! When his thesis is going to be released. And many scholars and critics were waiting for that auspicious moment. But he has gone for a vacation. A long vacation it was.

Andrew never returned. Weeks passed. Months passed. Almost a year passed. People, readers, were asking for the book release. But how could he do it without his friend.  His father was alive then. He had given him the responsibility to publish and sell Andrew's thesis. But Andrew was missing. Some said over Adamt, some said he was ran over by some truck while driving his car, others said it was a plane crash. Some even concocted that Andrew was into some kind of drugs business; some intellectuals presumed that some matriarchal society did not want its secrets shared or revealed by the release of this book, so they must have finished him off. The publisher tried to search and retrieve Andrew. But he was nowhere to be found. Then he filed a lost case against Andrew and his family. But it had no effect. He hired several able private detectives. But they also failed. Then after few years his father married him to a puritan beautiful girl. He got busy with his family and business. Almost forgot about his best chum. Years passed, he had pondered many times to release the book. But no this book was an ominous book. It ate his friend. But as his assistants insisted he agreed very recently to release the thesis book. So now he was in vogue, in the newspaper headlines. Reading it Veronica had come to him. He was thankful for this beautiful little girl, for her he remembered all the sweet times spent with his best friend. Remembering those sweet days his eyes got wet. He told everything to Veronica.

She asked, "Tell us something about his family."

"He, his wife and his ex-Army father is his family," he replied.

"Children?"

"No they were childless."

She eyed at Papa. He nodded his head and said, "As I have told you."

She then asked the publisher, "Ok, what has he told you about his official visits to Novantes?"

The publisher now remembered. He was requesting Andrew for not to go to Novantes. But Andrew told him that it was he himself with the help of some tough notch friend in the ministry got a membership in a government committee going to Novantes on a special purpose. It was rumored that there was a place in Novantes where a female Chief sacrificed men in auspicious occasions. He was told it was very crucial for his research. And he went there with other officials to examine and see whether this rumor – this claim was true or just a false ring. He went and came back after few days. He seemed delighted. The publisher knew that only one thing could delight a dedicated scholar like Andrew and that was some findings for his thesis. He asked but Andrew did not say anything. Nothing at all. He remained silent. For whatever Andrew might have found it would be published in book form by his publishing house very soon. But those days Andrew's wife also seemed as happy as her husband. He had guessed perhaps she was a loyal wife, that was why she was becoming happy seeing her husband happy. At that time he understood the value of getting married – the value of having a loyal and beautiful wife – it's by her a man's life becomes a heaven. Yes he himself was not loyal. He was suddenly feeling sorry for his own wife. He started regretting – repenting. He felt like he would confess at anytime. And Veronica seemed him a cruel punisher.

"Why was he interested in matriarchy in particular?" asked she, shocking him back to reality.

"I do not know why. I particularly do not know anything about it. It started from his college days. He was good at history. And hated slave systems. Then perhaps he thought matriarchy was one of the most ancient form of societies we- human beings, must have experienced. That is why I guess. I never asked him. He would have told me."

"Do you have any idea that they could have adopted a child if they were childless, as you have told us? Have they ever discussed with you anything regarding adopting a kid?" asked she.