The Incident

Indians love discussing death, politics and cricket. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the difference.

“How old was she? Thirty, thirty-five maybe?”

“Around thirty. Just had a baby, you know.”

“Hung herself in the bedroom, didn’t she? The maid discovered her, lifeless, neck at an impossible angle…”

“The father-in-law is a Member of Parliament, you said?”

“Sharmaji just told me the police has arrived. Two, no, three cops upstairs right now.”

“Is someone being arrested? I told you…it was all very suspicious.”

Indians love discussing deaths, politics and cricket. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

The lane is packed with cars. High-profile suicide, high-profile cars. Dog-walkers take their time idling beside the great chil tree outside the house, ignoring the tugs of their impatient mutts. Society auntyjis have suddenly changed their walking circuits, throwing a would-be casual glance at the stairway as they cross the house again, and again, and again. Conspiratorial whispers and speculative murmurs all around.

Outside the house, important-looking people are deep in discussion with important-looking associates. A harried man emerging from the doctor’s clinic across from the house looks for someone to scold for blocking his car’s passage, then seems to think better of it. The children aren’t impressed. Their gully has been taken over by expensive SUVs and funny-looking white cars with red lights above them. They retaliate by being as indiscrete as possible:

“Koi marr gaya hai kya? Acha, usne apne aap ko hi maar diya? Kyun?” (Somebody died? Oh, she killed herself? Why?)

The nannies rush in to whisk them away before they lose their jobs.

A boy returning home from work isn’t too pleased either " he’ll have to park his bike elsewhere today.