Crafted from sheer hardworking, genuine Italian leather. Hundred per cent imported. Onyx black. With a meticulously designed, clean square buckle of the purest nickel. I am one of the five limited edition Vivendi belts that grace the showrooms of Vivendi Fashions’ only retail outlet in Delhi. And that, I thought, was reason enough to be proud, until the day Mr. Khanna walked into the store with his secretary. At first glance itself, he came across as a man of class and taste. I could tell that because of the way he wore his navy-blue pinstripe suit, paying attention to the way the creases aligned with his body and the sharp, angular fold of his white pocket square peeped out of his breast pocket. A plain, light blue silk tie almost completed the pretty picture.

The only thing missing in his near-perfect attire was a smart belt, the likes of which Vivendi has always been known for. And, I looked straight into his eyes, hoping for recognition that I was the missing jigsaw piece he was looking for.

I hadn’t tried telepathy before, but, I really wanted to grace the man’s waist and be admired from near and far. So, I hoped and hoped with all my might that he could hear all that I was silently saying to him, or at least in his general direction.

Turned out, there was a god. He listened to me that day. As he caressed me longingly with those smooth, manicured fingers, I felt I had found the ultimate salvation. The store dealer packed me up in a nice, double-layered box, cushioning me with the softest foam to protect me from damage, and perhaps, to justify the exorbitant price tag of six thousand rupees. No, it’s not that I wasn’t worth it, you see. It was simply that I was amazed that here were people who valued the real stuff even in times when cheap counterfeit trash was flying off the flea markets at dizzying speeds.

I wish I never had found out why.

Mr. Khanna was a cardiac surgeon at the zenith of his career at the city’s largest private hospital. He had a beautiful and obedient wife in Mrs. Khanna and a super cute daughter in little Ashi who was five when I first found my place inside his wardrobe’s locker, where he kept his most cherished possessions. I was glad to have found a home and even gladder to receive unparalleled care and affection from both Mrs. and Mr. Khanna. Mrs. Khanna took great pains in ensuring that I maintained my natural luster and durability. She often questioned her husband’s extravagance, whenever she took me out of the drawer to clean. Having belonged to a middle-class family and seen tough times as a child, she couldn’t justify spending so much money on something as ordinary and common as a belt. So, she tried to keep me in best shape by regularly conditioning me. She thought if she could make me last longer, she would somehow be able to reason out my price.

Humans are strange folks.

Nonetheless, I was happy to have found a doting caretaker in her. She would spray me with non-abrasive cleaners and lightly rinse me from back and forth, giving a gentle scrub. After these ablutions, she would take out her hair dryer, set it on low and dry me thoroughly, till I glistened and gleamed in the sunshine. Leather oil, leather conditioner, banister brush and non-abrasive cleaning soaps had found a permanent place in their home, and she insisted that I share my locker room with them. Over time, we became friends too.

Mr. Khanna did his share of doting too. He would wear me only on special occasions like client lunches and dinners and for important meetings and that made me feel special too. I liked to add to his dashing persona and would beam my nickel buckle shining proudly when I heard his colleagues complimenting him on his choice of belts.

But, mostly, when I stayed indoors, I would take in the scenes of family life and discuss them with my roommates. Mr. Khanna often came home late, at irregular hours and was always on call. The demanding nature of his job often caused skirmishes between him and his wife,  who would sulk for hours over yet another cancelled dinner or movie. But, mostly, they were happy together.

I was happy to be a part of their happy family.

But, I had heard somewhere that happiness was the mother of misery. I was about to find out why.

One evening before Mr. Khanna came home, Mrs. Khanna rushed out of the bathroom beaming. She called up Mr. Khanna and told him that she had news to share and he should come home early. Then, she set out to prepare a lavish dinner, complete with steamed vegetable rice, Mr. Khanna’s favourite pickled okra, boondi raita and round, hot chapattis. For dessert, she had prepared kheer and moong dal halwa. Such an elaborate arrangement for just the three of them! I was dying to hear what had been the reason for her exuberant enthusiasm and jubilation.

My wait ended as the doorbell rang and Mr. Khanna entered the house. He looked as suave as ever, a half smile on his shaved face, his black eyes taking in the festive aura. Running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, he asked his wife, “Ahem! What’s so special?”

“You won’t believe it! I am so happy, Vivek!”

“I am sure I would believe it, unless it is about doctors having discovered how to bring back dead people to life, finally! The speed at which medical science is progressing, anything could happen, actually!”

“Ah! It isn’t about dead people coming back to life. It is simply about two cells creating a new life. From scratch,” she smiled.

“Umm?” he looked confused.

She smiled some more and hugged him.

“I am pregnant, Vivek! Our second child!”

He did not react for a second. Then, he lifted her up in his rams and cried out in joy.

“That is so awesome, Neha! You were right, I can’t believe it. I am going to be a father again and Ashi will have a brother to play with! This is so incredible!”

“What tells you it will be a brother for her and not a sister?”

“Well! It has to be,” his face turned serious as he put her down, “or we abort it.”

The house was stunned into silence.

“You are joking, right?” Mrs. Khanna’s face had gone white, all of a sudden.

“No, Neha! I am dead serious. We go to the hospital tomorrow and find it out. You know how it has been. I hope I am clear!”

The meal cooked with so much love was left untouched as Mr. Khanna walked into their room and proceeded to sleep. Mrs. Khanna wiped away a solitary tear that had rolled down her cheek and cleared the dinner table.

As she lay next to him on the bed that they had shared for seven years, now, she sought to discuss things gently.

But, he was in no mood to listen.

I felt cheated, all of a sudden. So, this was the man who I had adored. Delhi’s top cardiac surgeon and this was the nature of his values, the standard of his thinking and the limits of his mentality. He wanted a successor and he wasn’t willing to trade it for anything in the world.

I wondered how a man, who saved lives on a daily basis, could conspire to murder a human being that was yet to be born.

“Sex determination is illegal. I will report you!” Mrs. Khanna fumed the next morning as he tried to force her into the car. She freed her wrist from his clutching grasp and ran into the house.

“Fine! So, you won’t come like this?” he glared at her.

“I won’t come, come whatever may. This is my body. My child. I have every right to decide whether I want to bring him or her into this world. And I am keeping my baby. I am not a murderer like you,” she shouted at him as her tearful eyes seethed with defiance.

There was an untrammeled fury in Mr. Khanna’s eyes as he moved towards his wardrobe and opened the drawer where Mrs. Khanna had kept me. He dismantled all the cushioning and coverings that enveloped me with such brute force that it scared the daylights out of me.

And, then, he whipped her.

She cried out in pain as the impact of my leather stung her bare midriff. The folds of her saree couldn’t rescue the skin that they had left unsafe. A long, red gash scarred her and she started to bleed.

He kept on beating her till she passed out.

It was the worst day of my life and if it were in my power, I would have hit him back, there and then! But, alas, the perils of being a non-living thing.

When she woke up, Mr. Khanna had already left. She got up and started packing her bags, desperate to leave and protect the life that was growing inside her. She was sad that it was his child she was mothering, and even sadder at how the man she had thought she loved, had turned out to be a beast.

I had hurt her. My pain was greater than hers. Nobody had ever treated me the way she had, not even the workers who had put in long hours of their toil, of their sweat and labour into crafting me. If I had to choose someone to worship, I would have chosen her and she, what had she got from me? Pain and scars and trauma.

I hoped she would leave soon and be safe.

But, it was not to be.

Mr. Khanna came home and as soon as he saw her ready to take flight, the murderous rage was back in his eyes.

“So, you have decided to flee? Coward!”

“You are the coward, here, who doesn’t have the strength to accept his own child, regardless of his or her gender!”

“How dare you?” I was back in his hands. I hated the smoothness of his touch.

A short pause and he hit her again, this time on her belly which nursed the growing child.

Suddenly, a demon took over her. Perhaps the agony of getting her child hurt had filled her with super human strength. She stood up, despite the crushing pain and in one swift motion extracted me from him.

She pushed him onto the floor with all her might and whipped him, back and forth, back and forth, till his shirt was soaked in blood. I was with her in her crusade. I wanted to hurt the man who had hurt her. But, even my sympathy had not prepared me for what she did next.

She wrapped me around her husband’s neck and looping one end through the buckle, pulled hard. I choked Mr. Khanna to his death. It was as sudden as it could be.

What happened after that, I would tell you with pride. Mrs. Sharma was acquitted for having acted in self defence. And, I…I was her weapon of choice. I had thought there could be no greater honour than being a limited edition Vivendi, no greater joy than gracing Mr. Khanna‘s waist.

I was wrong.

I had saved a life. Or to be fair, two. There could surely be no greater salvation! What do you think?