Ode to Broken Things by Dipika Mukherjee Page B

Ampang.
    Clearly, he had been summoned.
    The taxi driver seemed to have circled the periphery of Kuala Lumpur, trying to find the address on the piece of paper. Jay’s watch indicated it was six twenty in the evening, but his body was running on Boston time. The driver wound down the window as they asked yet another pedestrian for directions, and slowly circled the greenery dotted with random dwellings. This was an undeveloped part of Kuala Lumpur, deep in the heart of Ampang, where the residents were able to maintain their isolation.
    The taxi driver was a young Indian Muslim who wavered between annoyance and apology. “ Aiyo Boss, all this new, lah ! See new flyover here, big hospital there, where got last time?”
    Jay resigned himself to a fruitless evening, and sank into his seat as the sun disappeared as if doused. He took a deep breath, and focused on the writing on the crumpled piece of paper while the driver veered into a small lane, squeezing through the muddy path between ramshackle huts, and shouted the address again. He couldn’t believe his ears when the answer was affirmative.
    Colonel S did not enjoy the sight of blood. He grimaced at the blood seeping through the wrinkles on his hands and down his wrist. Then, still holding the warm carcass, he looked into the darkening sky with relief. It had been a very hot day.
    It was the eve of a national holiday, and the spirit of Deepavali festivity had crept into this little hut by the river, settling into the crevices of his careful life. He knew this city intimately and moved amongst the crowd like a fish in water, slipping silently and swiftly between people, stalls, carts; threading deftly between moving cars. With age had come fatigue, and now, with the media stories linking him to the dead model, he rarely moved out of his prescribed route of home-airport-home.
    He had picked up the chicken from the many that clucked around the yard, pointlessly pirouetting in circles. He chose one both alive and uninjured, then, severed both arteries and trachea using a very sharp knife, chanting while allowing the blood to drain from the body. The animal had to be fully conscious until it bled to death, and he eyed the last twitches dispassionately, counting silently. It took eight seconds for the blood to drain out completely.
    He squatted on his haunches. He gathered the chicken pieces into a battered aluminium bowl and turned on the tap, letting the blood run in rivulets into the drain. Blood dissolving into water. Even now, when he touched blood, his skin crawled like this. He squeezed the muscles of his forearm and shook off the droplets.
    His body convulsed in a sharp spasm of coughing, and he felt the sudden wetness between his thighs. His body was getting old, beyond what he could control. He felt tired. He hoped Jay would come soon. He hoped Jay would not stay for too long.
    “Yes?” A man peered out from the dark recesses of a room thick with inky fumes.
    Jay briefly peered at the scrawl in his hand. “I’m looking for Colonel S.”
    The man appraised Jay silently. “Yes?”
    “Is he here?”
    “Yes.”
    It was hot in the dark courtyard. Jay felt he was being watched by more eyes than those of the taciturn man in front of him. He felt his ears getting warm as even the hibiscus plant seemed to shimmer with suppressed laughter.
    He flashed his most genial smile. “My name is Jay Ghosh… I work with the Colonel.”
    The taxi horn sounded an impatient pop , reminding him he still hadn’t paid. Jay reached for the wallet as the man turned to the foggy doorway and pointed, “There,” and walked away.
    He turned to pay the amount on the taxi metre, and added a generous tip. Behind him he heard a familiar voice, the English words clearly enunciated with a slight trace of a British accent. “Ah, Jay, finally! I was beginning to think you were lost!”
    Colonel S stood framed in the doorway, his features unmistakable despite the gloom surrounding him. Jay strode