A graceful arc. Perhaps the most emotive way to describe a graceless fall. But then, not all falls are graceless and not all arcs are graceful. As Smita staggered backwards in shock and then into blissful oblivion these last words echoed from Shekhar’s timeless writing.
Twelve hours before this unexpected turn of events, Shekhar and Smita, one of Bangalore’s most popular ‘theatre couples’ were enjoying a rather well barbequed meal at a friend’s newly appointed living quarters. The banter was light and the mood matched the golden hues of the freshly brewed ale that seemed to flow unabated. There was a lot to be thankful for. The troupe was a motley crew comprising of die-hard optimists, semi-inebriated thespians and the occasional realist. Bangers and mash, thinly-veiled cocktails, the aforementioned ale and a remarkably good-natured chef added to the ribaldry.
It was past 1 AM when Shekhar decided to call it a night and after refusing his troupe’s well-intentioned, albeit slurred attempts to ‘crash’ at the host’s place, walked with his wife, still chatting amicably, to their car. As soon as he gunned the car, a radio channel intoned the suitability of a recently launched product. Shekhar changed stations and flipped through a weather report being delivered with unnecessary enthusiasm, a condom ad, a newsflash about some breakout at a Bangalore jail before settling on a rare channel that was playing the haunting tunes of Ilayaraja, Shekhar’s favorite composer. In a few minutes, the music began to play a suitable background score to a now-philosophical discussion that the couple had begun. Shekhar’s deep measured tones always provided the perfect foil for Smita’s wild leaps of faith while contemplating the unique effect that music had on humans. Shekhar loved these conversations- They provided much fodder for his theatrical writing and much amusement to his gentle soul. Smita’s tonal levity hid a deep reservoir of unspoken ideas that she often aired tentatively to Shekhar and then more confidently to the outside world. After all, she co-wrote half of Shekhar’s plays and had acted in almost all of them.
Emergency lights on. ‘Don’t flood the engine’. ‘I think I know what I am doing.’ ‘Why don’t you call for help?’ ‘Call whom exactly- It’s late.’ ‘Maybe we should leave the car behind and head home. We can deal with this in the morning.’ ‘ I’m going to walk to the nearby filling station and check if they can help in some way.’ ‘I’ll come with you.’ 'No- stay in the car. Windows up. I won't take more than 5 minutes. It’s beginning to drizzle.’

Life has a way of jolting you back to reality. The now-stationary car that had traded Ilayaraja for silence and joy for panic, blinked helplessly on the roadside as Shekhar made his way to a filling station about half a kilometer away.
Fifteen minutes went by. The drizzle had now turned to downpour and Smita cursed herself for falling in line with Shekhar’s wishes and sitting tight while he was out on his own. Not something she was comfortable with. The rain continued to drum on the roof of the car- creating a strangely haunting musical orchestra ably supported by the occasional hoot of an owl.
Thump! Something had fallen on the roof of their car. Fear gripped Smita for an instant before she rationalized the incident and pushed it to the back of her mind. Where was Shekhar? The heady mix of alcohol infused vigor and revelry had slowly given way to exhaustion and nature’s melody now lulled Smita into a stupor and eventually into an uneasy slumber.
“Ma’am- I need you to get out of the car slowly.” Sunlight blazed through the windows and a disoriented Smita stared into the barrel of a rifle. She sat bolt upright while her sluggish brain tried to get its bearings. What was happening? ‘Ma’am, please step out of the car.’ The voice was kind but insistent. Smita looked up at the inspector of the local police station and half a dozen uniformed men behind him, all of them standing in a tense, almost battle-like formation. Panic rose like bile from her insides and she unlocked the car and began to comply with the officer’s command. ‘Ma’am, kindly walk ahead to our vehicle and do not look back.’
Shock, revulsion and the inevitable. A graceful arc. Perhaps the most emotive way to describe a graceless fall. But then, not all falls are graceless and not all arcs are graceful. As Smita staggered backwards in shock and then into blissful oblivion these last words echoed from Shekhar’s timeless writing.
Seated on the roof of her car, sat a deranged man, recently escaped from Bangalore’s cell for the criminally insane- In one hand he held a bloodied machete and in the other the lifeless head of Skekhar cut clean at the neck. A constable’s phone began to ring- Ilayaraja’s haunting tune played as Smita fell to the ground, knocked senseless. In the distance a rainbow traced a graceless arc as storm-clouds fell away gracefully.