MURALI KAMMA - SHORT - STORIES

Murali Kamma is the managing editor of Khabar, an Atlanta-based features magazine. He has interviewed Salman Rushdie, Anita Desai, William Dalrymple and Pico Iyer, among other authors. His fiction has appeared in the Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The Apple Valley Review, Rosebud, Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts, Asian Pacific American Journal, South Asian Review, Wising Up Press, AIM, The Missing Slate, Eastlit, The Wagon Magazine and elsewhere. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution has published his columns, and he received a Gamma Gold Award from the Magazine Association of the Southeast (MAGS). He earned degrees from SUNY and Loyola College.

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Interview Day
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​Stuck in a left lane of the expressway during rush hour, he misses his exit—but unlike last time, when he forgot his smartphone, Shankar isn’t late now for his job interview, reaching the two-story white building in a quiet cul-de-sac with just a minute or two to spare. Relieved, he turns off the ignition. If it hadn’t been for the GPS, which rerouted the trip without sending him back to the choked highway, he’d have been lost in this unfamiliar city—again.          
Entering the building hurriedly, he sees a front office where a gray-haired woman in glasses, sitting at a desk flanked by tall potted plants, is speaking on the phone. There’s a large map of the county on the wall behind her. Walking right up to the desk, Shankar hopes he’s not being rude. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind the interruption and her expression isn’t unfriendly. Putting the phone on hold, she asks if he needs some help.
            “I’m here for an interview,” he says, nervously finger-combing his hair.
            “Oh, he’s in there,” she says, pointing towards an adjacent room. “You can go in.”
            A middle-aged man in a dark blue suit is sitting at a desk, and when Shankar walks into the room, he raises his head from his cellphone. He looks surprised. Apart from a large black office phone and the man’s paper coffee cup, the cherry-colored desk is bare, and Shankar wonders if this apparently unused room will go to the person who gets the job. A framed picture on the wall depicts a sunrise in a riot of red and orange, with a flock of white birds in the foreground. “Every day shows us the way—if we don’t delay,” reads the caption, intriguing Shankar. Is this some corporate koan whose deeper meaning eludes him? He stops fidgeting.
            “Hello, you’re also early,” the man says in response to Shankar’s greeting. He is wearing a striped red tie over a cream-colored shirt, and his rimless glasses are perched above a trim salt-and-pepper beard. They shake hands, and the man gestures at the only other chair in the room.
            “Sorry, I thought the interview was at 8:30,” Shankar says.
            “I had it as 9, but never mind. Actually, I’m glad you came now. I was waiting because I got here early. We can get it done sooner.”
            Breathing more easily, Shankar pulls up the chair to sit closer to the desk, when he sees the man take out a book from the bag next to him and put it on the desk.
            “Here it is,” he says, smiling broadly. “You can start anytime. I’m ready.”
            Shankar is befuddled. Start what? Isn’t he going to ask questions? “Should I…should I talk about myself? My background?”
            “What?” The man frowns. “No, that’s not necessary. You can ask questions.” Tapping his fingers on the book, he smiles encouragingly and says again, “I’m ready.”  
            Shankar gulps. What the heck is this? He looks at the book. Its title, in bold white letters, is SMART Strategies for Success in Sales. The hardback’s cover, a hazy blue, shows silhouettes of workers walking purposefully near a tall office tower. How come he wasn’t told about this book before the interview? Strange!
            Shankar clears his throat and, trying to think of something to say, opens his folder, which has a yellow notepad and a copy of his resume, among other documents. Maybe he should confess that he has no clue about the book and walk out, preventing humiliation. He isn’t looking for a sales position, even if they think knowing about “strategies for success” is important.
            “Aha, glad to see that you have a notepad,” the man says. He chuckles. “Frankly, I thought you were going to whip out a digital recorder. Perhaps I can start talking? That will prompt some questions.”
            Shankar nods numbly.
            “In a nutshell,” the man continues, “you have to be SMART—in caps—to be effective, to make a difference. S stands for simplicity, M for measurability, A for approachability, R for reliability and T for tenacity. You need all these attributes to be successful.”
            Shankar is astonished. He feels like laughing. Although he doesn’t, that urge makes him relax a little. Exhaling, he wants to say, ‘GO stands for Get Out, which is what I want to do.’ But he just nods silently.
            “For good human interaction, we need low tech, not high tech,” the sales guru says. “I talk about it in my book. Modern technology provides benefits, but it can also be a barrier. By opting for a notepad instead of a recorder, you’re hitting all the letters in SMART.”
            Nodding sagely, Shankar picks up his pen, although he doesn’t know what to write—or ask. The sales expert seems unconcerned, but before he can speak again, they’re interrupted by the woman Shankar saw earlier. Standing in the doorway, she has a bewildered expression on her face, as if she’s trying to figure out what she inadvertently swallowed.
            “Are you from The Metro Business Chronicle?” she asks Shankar. Her cheeks are red.
            “The Metro Business Chronicle?” It’s Shankar’s turn to be puzzled. “No, I’m here for a job interview.”           
            “Job interview?” the sales maven says, looking shocked. “I thought you were here to interview me!”
            “What?”
            “There’s a woman here from The Metro Business Chronicle,” the woman says. “She’s here to do an interview.” Looking accusingly at Shankar, she adds, “I thought you were her.”
            Sounds a little illogical, Shankar thinks. But that’s irrelevant—he gets the point. “There’s been a mistake,” he says, standing up. “I’m sorry. Isn’t this suite 200?”
            The sales baron stares at him without speaking, open-mouthed.
            “No,” the woman says. “That’s upstairs. This is suite 100.”
            Oh, no, how embarrassing! Although there were two business names on the sign outside, Shankar had rushed in without bothering to make sure he was entering the correct suite. The short curving staircase outside, he realizes, takes people to the top floor, the right floor. Should he even go up there now? What would he say?
            Apologizing again, Shankar quickly gathers his stuff and walks out of the room, as the front office lady steps aside to let him pass—and the SMART sales author, picking up his book, glares at him speechlessly. The young woman waiting outside looks at Shankar curiously. Exiting the building, he can’t help noticing that, along with the light green bag slung over her left shoulder, she’s holding a black digital recorder in her right hand.
Standing in the parking lot, Shankar takes a deep breath. Before he can unlock his phone to check the time, it rings. He answers quickly.
            “Mr. Tardy? Am I speaking to Shankar Tardy?”
            Ouch! The mispronunciation sounds like a real word.
            “Yes, this is Shankar Thadi,” he says. “Who is calling?”
            A woman from another firm is responding to his job application. His resume is promising, she says, and they’d like to meet him for an interview the following day. Can he come at 9 a.m.?
            Can he? Of course he can! Pleased, Shankar is tempted to say he won’t be tardy.
            Instead, he says, “Thank you so much for your call…I’ll be there by 9.”
______
 
 

What Sid Knew
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​He avoided social media or even socializing offline—and his personal information, as far as he knew, wasn’t listed on any website. The name he used now, moreover, was different from what he’d been called in the old country. So when the phone rang that evening and he picked it up, unthinkingly, it was jarring to hear his former name. He took a deep breath. How stupid of him to answer the phone when the caller ID showed an unfamiliar number!
            “You have the wrong number,” he said, a little sharply.
            The mischievous, deep-throated laugh he heard was so distinctive that he immediately knew who it was, although they hadn’t spoken in ages.
            “Sorry, I used the wrong name, didn’t I? I should say Siddharth—or Sid. How are you? Do you know who this is?”
            “Mitra.”
            “Yes…I’m glad you haven’t forgotten me. You know, sometimes I introduce myself as Friend. When I get a quizzical look, I say that’s what my name means.” Mitra chuckled. “Do you want to know how your long-lost friend tracked you down?”
            Sid did, but he also wanted to end the conversation. He’d never been that close to Mitra, and was baffled by this unexpected call. He was annoyed as well. What was Mitra doing here—and why, after all these years, had he taken the trouble to find him?
            “I ran into your uncle at a wedding,” Mitra added, not waiting for a response. “When he found out I was coming here, he told me about you and gave me your phone number.”
            Incensed, Sid wondered why his uncle had blown his cover. Out of pettiness? Following the death of Sid’s parents, there had been little contact between Sid and the family, and the only reason his uncle knew where he lived was because the details of the assets bequeathed by Sid’s parents were still being worked out. While his uncle had a stake in the ancestral property, so did Sid and his siblings—and they didn’t agree on how it should be handled. Sid was indifferent, but he didn’t want to oppose the plans of his siblings. His uncle, being on the other side of the dispute, wasn’t happy. The stalemate didn’t bother Sid, as long as they left him alone. He’d be happy to sign the documents when the decision was made—and cut his ties to the family.
            Sid’s relatives had been stunned by his sudden decision to drop out—or, as one cousin put it, go into hiding. Have you become a monk? Are you a fugitive? Have you gone crazy? These were some of the queries (and taunts) Sid got from people he knew before he stopped using email. Giving up the phone, even one without “smart” features, was harder—and so the landline became, as he saw it, his tenuous link to the world he’d distanced himself from.
            “So, how come you’re such a recluse?” Mitra said, and then laughed as if to reassure him. “I don’t need an explanation, but if possible, I’d like to meet you. I have something to give you…it’s a small package from your uncle.”
            “Where are you calling from?”
            “Right here…in Shady Creek. I’m visiting my niece. I’ll be here a few more days.”
            Sid remembered why, all those years ago, he hadn’t felt close to Mitra, even though they’d come from the same town to attend college in the big city. At their hostel, Mitra hadn’t been shy about letting on that he came from a wealthy family, that going on foreign trips and dining at fine restaurants or buying expensive things wasn’t a big deal. Had Sid, who came from a family of modest means, been overly judgmental because of his insecurities? Perhaps. What Sid had found intimidating was not Mitra’s nice clothes, but his poise and polished accent.
            Sid knew Mitra was waiting for an invitation to what he probably thought of as a home in a suburb that, while not upscale like Shady Creek, was pleasantly middle-class, with manicured lawns and tidy double-story houses lining safe streets. How surprised he’d be to see Sid’s shoddy, modest dwelling—which he was renting—on a drab, potholed street in an unfashionable part of town. But Mitra, as he scoured the stained walls, would probably be too polite to say: What happened, Sid? After all these years in this country, how come you’re living like this?
            Sid didn’t invite him, and he didn’t ask what his uncle had sent. “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mitra,” he said. “I wish Uncle had contacted me before—”
            “No worries…it’s not a big item. I was happy to bring it.”
            Sid sensed that Mitra wasn’t telling him what it was because he really wanted to see him, and maybe learn—as his uncle might have said—what Sid was up to and why his life had taken such an unexpected turn. Sending a package was just a way to get more information. What did it contain, anyway? Old family photos, perhaps, or letters and mementos from decades past.
            “By the way,” Mitra continued, “my niece is having a little get-together tomorrow evening. She asked me to invite you. Can you come? I’d love to see you before I leave—and give you the package, of course.”
            “Sure,” Sid said, relieved that he didn’t have to invite him. “What time?”
            When Sid set out for Shady Creek the following day, with a sheet of written directions beside him, it began to rain, the globular drops crashing on his windshield before turning into twisting rivulets. Going past the wooded, fenced-in properties and McMansions visible from Shady Creek’s winding and wet streets, Sid reduced his speed so that he wouldn’t miss the turn. The rain intensified, blurring his vision. He braked, letting the car crawl, although there was little traffic. The wipers swished furiously and his small, ageing car shook, but Sid wasn’t worried, knowing that such downpours in the area usually didn’t last long.
* * *
            Sid experienced his first “death alert,” as he later named it, about two years ago. The feeling—and that’s all it was, if anybody wanted an explanation—had been so strong that it unnerved him. He could still recall, with the force of a gale, how shocked he’d been when his premonition turned out to be true.
Sid and his girlfriend at the time had gone to a restaurant to celebrate his promotion, and when he felt sick the next day, he attributed it to food poisoning, even though his girlfriend wasn’t affected. He went back to the office after a brief absence, still feeling disoriented, and greeted everybody. Jokingly, Sid’s boss asked if he saw the promotion as an excuse to goof off. Sid laughed, but as he looked at his boss—who was smiling and seemed to be in robust health—he felt a sudden chill. Sid couldn’t account for the presentiment, the alert that felt like an internal BREAKING NEWS flash informing him of the danger ahead. The only thing missing was a high-pitched alarm. Sid’s boss was in good spirits, with no knowledge of the fate awaiting him, making it harder for Sid to deliver the news. How could he say something so terrible, anyway? It would be bizarre, to say the least. But even though Sid kept it to himself, he couldn’t avoid the dread of knowing—in his bones—that his boss would be dead in a week. How did he know? He couldn’t say, but that didn’t make the sense of foreboding less real. His boss was a doomed man.
Taking on a new project that involved travel, Sid was grateful for the chance to get away from the office and not see his boss for the next few days. When he got back, his boss was out of town to see a client. It was a lucky break, allowing Sid to avoid him altogether and not think about what was coming. The long hours he put in kept his mind gainfully employed, but his fear and guilt—and sorrow—didn’t abate. Should he tell anybody about the boss’s impending death? That would be absurd, irrational—how could he or anybody else know when somebody was going to die? His confidant would laugh at him or, worse, think he’s crazy. Besides, if it was preordained, there wasn’t anything one could do to prevent it, was there?
Nine days after the alert, as Sid was checking his email late at night, there was a terse note to all the employees. Tragically, it said, Sid’s boss had suffered a fatal heart attack at home. The family was in shock and mourning privately, but details would follow soon. Sid was so shaken by the news that he couldn’t sleep that night. And the next morning, he had to force himself to get out of bed. It turned out to be the most painful, miserable day of his life.
The alerts didn’t stop. They would come suddenly, often when he was with that person. Invariably, it was somebody he’d known a long time. It was spooky, filling him with shame that he couldn’t do anything. In the case of his girlfriend, the date of death was years away. But that gave him little comfort. They’d talked about marrying and having children, but he now realized it would be a mistake. Dismaying though it was to know when she’d be leaving this world, imagine the horror of having the same information about his children. Much as he loved her, the only life possible for him was the single life.
Once when he tried to warn a friend, obliquely, about his impending death, he was so unsettled by Sid’s disclosure that he ended up overdosing on drugs. He did recover, but that didn’t prevent him from dying later in the year, around the designated date, which Sid had known months in advance. Cause: Unknown, since his family chose to skip the autopsy. After this incident, Sid decided to keep such ghoulish knowledge to himself. Telling people didn’t make a difference, in any case. It was better to shield them from such devastating news and let them enjoy—in peace and happiness, he hoped—the remaining time they had on the earth.
Sid didn’t reveal his dark secret when his girlfriend asked why he appeared so anxious, so withdrawn. Something seemed to be worrying him, even haunting him, she said. Was he feeling okay? Sid nodded. What galled him the most was that these doomed people had, as far as he knew, no way of extending their lives. Their departure dates were set in stone, as was his—although, in a quirk that bothered him, Sid’s date of death remained a mystery to him, adding to his sense of guilt and misery. Though relieved, in a way, Sid found it cruelly ironic.
The torment didn’t stop, forcing Sid to see a doctor—or rather, a few doctors. But they found nothing wrong with him even after several tests. “Physically, you’re okay, so that’s good news,” his primary physician said, reviewing the medical report. “Now I think you should see a psychiatrist. I’ll give you a referral.”
Sid thanked him and said he’d follow up—but he never did. Sid’s girlfriend had been pleased by his decision to seek medical help, although he didn’t tell her the real reason. When, without any explanation, he went back to living as before, her concern and alarm turned to anger. Finally, in what he later saw as a misguided—if inevitable—attempt to save their foundering relationship, he told her what was really going on with him.
She stared at him in stunned disbelief, as if he’d gone mad.        
“Do you mean to say you know when I’m going to die?” she said, sounding hoarse.
“Yes, sadly—but you have nothing to worry, dear. You’ll live a long time. I don’t want to tell you how long.”
She started crying. “Sid, you need help…I don’t know what’s happening…”
It didn’t take long afterwards for the relationship to end—and once it did, Sid lost interest in his job, where things hadn’t been the same since his boss’s untimely death. Sid quit his job and moved away. While he didn’t necessarily avoid people, he did avoid forming attachments. Any woman or man he got to know well enough would become, to him, a ticking time bomb. And he knew there was no way he could defuse it. He didn’t want that burden.
Seeking psychiatric help wouldn’t solve anything, Sid knew, because he wasn’t delusional. His predictions, if that was the right word, had come true without exceptions—and in a couple of cases, including his father’s death, he had known the exact date. It was uncanny. A week before his father died, Sid had flown into the country without informing anybody. Although his father was ailing, nobody had expected him to die so abruptly—except Sid.
* * *
Sid stepped on the accelerator, just as the rain eased off, and turned right onto a street lined with newer houses, standing a little closer together and fronted by well-tended yards that looked freshly cleansed.  Several cars were parked on the shoulder. Sid didn’t pull over—he saw no need for that and wondered why he had even bothered to come. What was Mitra going to give him? Anyway, as he knew, the real goal was to reestablish contact. But Sid had nothing to say, and he didn’t want to know when Mitra or anybody else was going to die. Coming here was a mistake. He should have given Mitra an excuse—but while it was too late for that, it wasn’t too late to avoid the visit. Pressing the accelerator, Sid went past the house and kept driving.
_____