| Published on 14-12-2007 In General | | Viewed 1914 times | | Written by
T. S. V. Hari | 
I am going to call it the Swedish Press Club because that would be simpler.
The Nordic equivalent Klubben wouldn't make sense to people outside Sweden.
Harsh Uniyal was getting drunk at here. The SPC is situated in Vasagatan just a stone's throw away from the Central Station of Stockholm. It has a beautiful bar and more sensuous women dressed in blue overalls serving liquor and even more females easier on the eye drinking there.
Having lived in Stockholm for over a year, Uniyal was a regular at the club. Liquor sells here at subsidized rates and served only to members and their guests. I noticed that Harsh was drinking the best bourbon in the world – Jack Daniel's. I managed to get myself a simple old-fashioned double Scotch – my favourite Cutty Sark on the rocks and accosted him.
It was a cold winter, temperature exactly nineteen degrees below zero. To know how cold that is, let me give a simple example. If you spit on the road (Swedes don't) in that temperature, it would become a blob of ice before it hits the street.
"Suresh Nair," I said and extended my hand.
Harsh Uniyal looked at me as if I had escaped from a zoo.
"Don't worry. It is only a human hand and not that of a gorilla. See, I am wearing a Savile Row suit as well. And shoes purchased here in Stockholm at the mother of all stores – Enkay! Are you still scared?"
While Harsh shook my hand and considered his reply, I mentally pictured the mammoth Enkay department store. It is a single outlet with 14 floors in central Stockholm. In its vegetable section there were about 12 varieties of potatoes alone. Though the phonetic pronunciation is given, the correct way of writing it is NK. The company also owns the biggest private bank in Sweden. You can guess the rest.
"What do you want?" Harsh asked finally.
"We seem to be the only ones from the subcontinent in this club. Why not be friends?" I ventured carefully and quaffed off my Scotch.
To disarm Harsh, I picked up his glass, went through the elaborate charade of sniffing his drink and said, "It is Jack Daniel's! Gimme a minute please! I will get you another drink."
Harsh didn't react.
Into his third round of the evening with me, Harsh seemed to come off his high horse.
I was waiting for it.
"What do you do in Stockholm? Haven't seen you here," Harsh said in a voice that lacked confidence.
"Oh! I am not from these parts. I am the Brussels Bureau Chief of Straits Times, Singapore. I came here to attend a conference. They gave me a pass to this club. As the liquor is cheap, it won't burn a hole in my purse. You stay in Stockholm?"
"Yes."
"You don't seem like a Sri Lankan Tamil. You are too tall and fair to be one. And your accent is north Indian. Sounds like Delhi. Correct?"
"Yes. I used to live in Naraina."
"Ho-ho-ho! I only remember that there were a lot of those cabaret joints in that neck of the woods with naked girls accosting you all the time."
Harsh opened up a little more.
"I have heard about those, but, never visited one. Did you?"
"Oh I do that all the time. I have the permission of my wife for doing those things. Her only fiat is that I should be careful. Don't, for heaven's sake come back with AIDS, she always says."
Though it was not a good enough joke, Harsh laughed. I liked it.
"From what I know of Stockholm, you are not from my trade – journalism. You are not from the Indian Embassy – because I met all of them during the conference. You are not some rich businessman on a visit, because you seem to know about Stockholm and said that I am not from these parts. These days Sweden has tightened up on the refugee business. So you are not one. Therefore, obviously you are a resident. By any chance you have a Swedish wife?"
"Why should it be by chance? Of course I have a Swedish wife. Her name is Katherine."
"Oh!"
I added a bit sympathetically.
"What does this 'oh' mean? I shouldn't have a Swedish wife or something?"
"I didn't mean it that way at all! I am frankly worried that on a Friday evening you are sitting at the Press Club without your wife. It just doesn't seem normal. Knowing the Scandinavian women, they are famous for their affairs within and without marriage. I only hope your wife isn't having one right now."
Harsh uttered an expletive that cannot be printed.
"Alright," I said. "Have it your way. I make too much chin music shooting off my mouth, saying all the wrong things! Allow me to apologize. Let me do it my way. I will get you another Jack Daniel's."
A little while later, with sizzled to the gills and exhaling enough whiskey fumes that I was afraid to light my cigarette, I led Harsh outside and hailed a taxi.
We reached Friedsgatan, where there is a Pakistani family which runs a restaurant called The Taj and calls it Indian and sat down in a corner. I let Harsh order because he knew the local language and could understand what was on the menu card. We ate chapattis, Dal and Baingan Bartha (mashed aubergines with a dash of spices cooked the Punjabi way) besides polishing off two further rounds of liquor.
When I began going through the motions of paying the bill, Harsh protested. But I overcame those. As he was in no state to move much, I hired another cab and took him to The Grand Hotel in Blasieholmshamnen. Once we reached the room, Harsh flopped on the bed and began snoring.
I began doing what I wanted to do.
I woke him up two hours later. He groggily came to and wanted to know the time and where he was.
I told him, and said I wanted him to take a short trip with me.
"Where to," he asked.
"You will know shortly," I said enigmatically looking away at the fjord outside the 19 th century structure that was converted into a hotel.
It was close to midnight when we reached Uppsala by cab. It took another fifteen minutes to reach the bungalow. I asked the cabbie to wait and told him that we would be back shortly.
I rang the bell and was virtually dragging Harsh. When the door opened we heard loud music, there was a big party going on and Harsh spotted Katherine being kissed sloppily by somebody who later identified himself as Per Bjorn.
I can never translate the rapid fire Swedish that was spoken after Harsh hit Katherine, but understood enough to quietly take him away to the car. On the way back, Harsh was crying like a baby.
"I deserted my wife Saraswati and two children Varun and Vignesh in India for this bitch!"
We spent the night at my hotel and shifted to Harsh's flat in Sätra the next day.
I didn't expect Katherine to turn up after what happened last night.
She didn't.
Precisely by my design, Harsh spent a listless Sunday cleaning and clearing his flat. On Monday, he quit his job at Volvo and immediately applied for an Indian visa which was granted. He had already packed his attire and personal effects in three large Samsonite luggage cases during the weekend. The rest of the week's first working day was spent purchasing a lot of costly dolls and other knick-knacks for his children and some fancy winter wear for Saraswati.
We reached Arlanda airport that evening after locking up the flat in Sätra and leaving the keys in the box.
It was snowing – and therefore the temperature was close to 0 degrees. After checking in his bags, we sat down in the smoking section. I lit a Benson and gave Harsh one. He blew the smoke like the amateur smoker he was.
"How will I face Saraswati?" He muttered under his breath.
"With your own, I suppose. SAS doesn't have a plastic surgeon operating between here and New Delhi," I said.
"So you are going back, Harsh," the voice said.
We saw Katherine standing there. Her face was still blue where Harsh had hit her.
I didn't expect Katherine to speak in English to her husband.
But she did.
"You wouldn't believe it, Harsh, but what happened on Friday night was an accident. Per Bjorn was trying to be fresh with me. But I know what must be going on in your mind. You must be thinking that I was being unfaithful to you."
"What else do you like me to think?"
"Go away since you have decided to, Harsh. But just remember. I loved you, and will always love you."
Katherine was close to tears. She turned and walked away swiftly towards the exit.
Twenty-three minutes later Harsh's flight took off.
An explanation would be in order.
First, I am not a journalist and definitely not from Singapore and further my name isn't Suresh Nair. I work for the Research and Analysis Wing – the spying agency for the Government of India and am on deputation to Interpol. My real name isn't needed here.
I happen to be the classmate of Harsh's brother-in-law Sunil. I had promised him that I would get Harsh back to his family. It was me who arranged Per Bjorn to quietly court Katherine and the timing was just too good because Harsh saw his Swedish wife being kissed by another man. The rest was simple.
I know I have done a disservice to Katherine. But, it is possible for her to find another husband or lover – because that is part of the Scandinavian culture. In India a woman like the simple housewife called Saraswati with her devotion to her husband wouldn't be able to find another man.
Sorry to cut it short. I have to make two long-distance calls to Sunil and Saraswati to prepare them for receiving Harsh. |
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