DECAY

 As the days got colder, Ambika Prasad kept trying to become a different man. His time was spent undoing the things that had defined him through his life. He arrived late for work. Sometimes, he left early. He was not as strong as before and it increasingly suited him not to wake up at the crack of a chilly dawn.

On a whim, he took a day off, sending word through the peon who lived in the building. No one came to ask after him or send him any papers to copy or stamp. He lay huddled under the blanket. The afternoon sun dissolved before his eyes, making way for the languid sadness of a winter's evening. 

Ambika Prasad did not get up to turn on the light. Mosquitoes were surging through the open window. A few of them, in a circle right above his head, hummed an insistent note from some ancient rite. It could not have escaped notice that I was changing my ways, he began to reason. But nobody cared. The business of life going on as usual was such a big sham. 

He had been shy with townspeople he little understood. They thought he was selfish and were returning the favour.

****

Like every year, the final week of December brought a rush of picnics and outings in its wake. The families in his building had decided on some derelict temple in a forested area, about one hundred kilometres out of town. They had hired two mini trucks for the journey. 

Ambika Prasad felt faint even thinking of the effort. He refused to take part. He knew what to expect, dancing at the back of the truck like one possessed, the driver braking hard every now and then, those at the back falling on each other's body parts. 

Soumen's kids, along with some of their pimply cohorts, planned to cook a Sunday lunch on the rooftop. They came to ask him over, in high spirits and talking all at once. Ambika Prasad promised them he would drop by.

"The office picnic will be held a day after Christmas," Amiya-babu, the boss, announced at work. "No point locking horns with drunken hoodlums on Christmas Day, for a little space or shade."

Ambika Prasad nodded vigorously, he supported the sentiment. The children's park at the edge of town was the unanimous choice. 

On the day of the picnic, Ambika Prasad was the first to clamber up the minivan meant to ferry people. He found himself in the company of some oversized woks with soot-heavy bottoms, gigantic ladles and colanders and several jerry cans of drinking water. An overweight cook sat with his legs spread wide on the rear seat, dozing between some bundled up kindling on one side and a crate of live chicken on the other. Sacks of potatoes, onions and cauliflowers occupied the other seats. 

Ambika Prasad sat on the hump of the engine, next to the driver. It was only a short distance, he told the disapproving slab of pain in his stomach.