The Art of Escaping
He had perfected it. Until he didn’t.
“Are you ready?” Nick said on the phone. “The bus leaves in two hours.”
I checked my watch. 3:00 p.m.
Two hours to freedom. Or disaster.
“I’m almost ready,” I whispered. “Just need to confirm that my parents are still asleep.”
I muted the call and opened my bedroom door two inches — the official angle of criminals.
The house was too quiet. I could hear the ticking clock, the slow breathing of the cat, even the faint rustle of something near the dining table.
But no human noise.
No dragging footsteps. No television. No devotional music. Not even the cough my father used whenever he wanted to remind the house he existed.
The cat, though — the cat could ruin everything. My mother’s ancient, suspicious cat had a sixth sense for wrongdoing. If it meowed at the wrong moment, the entire operation would collapse.
I unmuted the phone.
“Looks clear. I’ll leave in five minutes. See you at the station.”
“Okay,” Nick said.
“Wait,” I whispered. “What about her?”
“She’s ready. I’m picking her up. Relax.”
Relax?
People who say relax have never tried escaping their own house.
I slung the brown bag over my shoulder and stepped into the hallway, moving slowly — trying to imitate the very cat I despised.
For a brief, shameful second, I wished my parents would disappear for ten minutes. Not permanently. Just long enough for me to leave without explanation.
Guilt followed immediately.
What kind of son imagines such things?
But what choice did I have? Last Sunday my mother had said, with terrifying calm, “We need to visit the Sharma family to see their daughter,” in the same tone she used when selecting curtains.
I had nodded then. I always nodded.
I crossed the dining area, eyes scanning left and right like a low-budget spy.
And then—
“Meow.”
I froze.
The cat stared at me from under the sofa, unimpressed.
I stared back, hoping intimidation worked across species.
It blinked. I took that as permission.
I reached the main door. Turned the lock. Opened it. Slipped outside.
Closed it. Exhaled.
Freedom was five steps away.
I turned.
And my heart dropped.
Because even unconscious parents would have been easier to explain than what stood in front of me.
***
“Hi, Ken,” Mr. Anand said, stepping slightly forward. He was the kind of middle-aged man whose hair had begun filing resignation letters years ago.
I knew him well. A common friend of the Sharma family and ours. Which meant this was not an accident.
I forced a smile and kept walking, as if I were merely stepping out for fresh air and not abandoning my own future.
“Where are you going?” another man asked. I didn’t look at him, but the hoarse authority in his voice suggested senior citizenship and entitlement.
“We are here to see you.”
See me?
I cursed myself for responding. “I am not a sofa, Uncle.”
Laughter scattered across the verandah. Not loud. Just enough.
I reached for the gate, hoping speed would solve what conversation couldn’t.
“Ken.”
My mother’s voice.
Polite. Controlled. Dangerous.
“The Sharmas are here on our invitation. Neha is also here.”
She smiled — the kind of smile that reassures guests and warns sons.
Beside her stood a girl in a soft pastel suit, bending to touch my mother’s feet.
When she stood up and looked at me, my carefully rehearsed escape plan developed a crack.
She was… not a biodata sheet.
Not a horoscope alignment.
Not a negotiation.
Just a person.
And annoyingly, a very pretty one.
For a second, the word “prison” felt dramatic. But only for a second. Because somewhere across town, Nick was waiting at the station.
With her.
My father appeared at the doorway and gestured inside.
Not a request.
I tightened my grip on the bag.
I had prepared for emergencies.
I was very good at preparation.
Just not confrontation.
Plan B waited quietly in my pocket.
And I stepped inside.
***
“Are you going somewhere?” Mr. Anand asked, adjusting his spectacles as if inspecting a product.
My parents’ eyes shifted to the bag on my shoulder.
“No,” I said too quickly. “It’s for my friend, Nick. He’s going on a safari. Needed my bag.”
I smiled. The kind of smile that collapses under its own dishonesty.
“Ah,” the older man nodded, pleased with nothing in particular.
“Okay. Have a good time,” I said, standing again.
“Where do you think you are going?” my father’s voice cut through the room.
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
I stopped.
“To give this bag to Nick. He’s going on a safari. Remember?”
“Nick isn’t here,” my father said, glancing outside the main door as if expecting him to materialise on command. Then he looked at me.
“Sit.”
One word.
No argument. No explanation.
Just history.
I opened my mouth. For a second, the sentence formed.
I am not ready.
I don’t want this.
But it dissolved before reaching air.
I had said it before. Months ago. Casually. Carefully.
It had floated in the room for a while and then quietly died.
Saying it again now — in front of guests — would not be rebellion. It would be disrespect.
And I had been raised to avoid disrespect more than unhappiness.
So I sat.
I checked my watch. 3:30 p.m.
The bus would leave at 4:45.
If I didn’t leave by four, traffic would make the decision for me.
The bag on my shoulder felt heavier now — not with clothes, but with the illusion that escape was easier than conversation.
***
I glanced sideways to see what my mother was doing. Mrs. Sharma motioned Neha toward the kitchen. Neha hesitated for half a second, then followed.
If I followed her, everyone would interpret it as enthusiasm. And enthusiasm, in this room, was more dangerous than being sentenced to death.
I sat there smiling politely while holding a small bottle in my palm — the one the pharmacist had given me with unnecessary enthusiasm. Yes, that was my backup plan.
Drug the water.
Make everyone sleepy.
Escape.
Immature? Desperate? Sure, but I cared for instant results now. And escaping had always worked.
“Excellent company, we heard?” Mr. Sharma said, attempting small talk.
“No,” I replied calmly. “We’re almost bankrupt. Should be on the streets soon.”
Mr. Anand looked at him. When Mr. Sharma didn’t react, Mr. Anand burst out laughing. “Such humour! I like him.”
Apparently, I was now entertaining.
My father straightened slightly.
“In this economy, he still earns well,” he added, as if I were a stock investment he personally managed.
“Benefits of a good company,” Mr. Sharma replied, not to be outdone.
And just like that, the conversation turned into a silent wrestling match between two fathers armed with children’s salaries.
I watched, wondering if either chest might actually burst from pride.
“Have some sweets,” my mother interrupted, signalling the end of masculine negotiations.
That was my cue.
I rose casually and headed toward the kitchen.
And walked straight into Neha.
***
“Hi,” Neha said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Hi,” I replied, lifting my hand in a wave that felt unnecessary given the distance between us. “Why don’t you… have some sweets? With your parents?” I gestured vaguely toward the hall, stating the obvious.
She smiled.
“I don’t eat sweets.”
“Oh.” I nodded intelligently. “I can tell. By your… I mean… you look… disciplined.”
She laughed softly. “You’re a funny guy.”
And walked back toward the hall.
For a second, I stood there replaying the last ten seconds of my existence.
Then I remembered the bottle in my pocket.
Right.
The plan.
I took out the small vial, hesitated — just briefly — and poured the liquid into the water jug.
I was thirty-two years old.
And drugging water.
***
“What are you doing here?”
My mother’s voice cut through the kitchen.
The cat, loyal witness to all crimes, leapt off the counter. My heart followed.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, lifting the tray. “Just helping. Let me carry it.”
“No need.” She took the tray from my hands. “At least behave properly while the guests are here. Don’t you want Neha to respect you all your life?”
All my life?
The words hung heavier than the tray.
“How will I lose respect by offering water?” I asked.
My mother gave me a look — the kind that required no subtitles — and nudged me toward the hall.
As if gently redirecting furniture.
***
I sat at my place, waiting for everyone to finish the sweets and finally move to the water.
I had never thought of water as being this important in my life. But suddenly, water felt revolutionary.
“Water is such an important aspect of humans,” I began, nodding at my own statement.
Everyone, not knowing what to do, nodded back.
“Our human body is seventy percent water,” I added confidently. “Such an important thing water is.”
I looked at Mr. Anand. His brows had risen in curiosity.
I gestured toward the glass of water in front of him.
He picked it up and drank it.
Good.
But the others were still talking.
“You know, we don’t have enough water in our bodies. So I make it a point to drink it wherever and whenever I can. Even in the washroom, sometimes I have it.” I looked at the glass of water, hoping they would get the hint.
Mr. Anand choked mid-sip.
I just hoped he had swallowed enough.
“What is the matter with you?” my mother leaned toward me and gripped my arm. “I know what you are doing. You cannot get out of this. Both your father and I like Neha.”
For the last few years, my parents had wanted me to get married. I had dodged it by not attending weddings, coming home late, and avoiding weekends. Whenever they cornered me, I escaped the conversation. And somehow, it worked.
Until today.
I looked at Neha.
She looked back.
For a moment, I felt she was forced into this too. If I stormed out, her parents would blame her. For girls, not getting married becomes a bigger burden.
I closed my eyes for a second, as I always did when things felt too tight.
I didn’t hate marriage.
I hated compulsion.
“Do you want to ask questions?” my father said, looking at me and Neha.
I shook my head.
Neha followed.
Glasses were lifted.
Water was swallowed.
In a few minutes, they would doze off.
And I would escape.
I checked my watch. 4:15 p.m.
***
A message from Nick flashed.
We have reached the station. Not sure how long I can keep the girl convinced.
I stared at the screen.
This was insane.
I was thirty-two.
Should I try talking again? I knew what they would say. I always knew.
Tell her it’s just for two days. Come pick me up quickly, I typed.
And watched Mr. Sharma struggle to keep his eyes open.
***
“Is everything all right?” Anand asked Mr. Sharma. “Are you having some kind of heart attack?”
Neha stood up, her eyes widening in fear. Mrs. Sharma, who was also trying to doze off, attempted to get up, but her heavy body gave up to the liquid. She leaned back, yawned and said, “Maybe he needs rest because of the night party.”
“Party?” Neha furrowed her brows, trying to make sense as her mother dozed off like her father. Mr. Anand was already in dreamland, probably planning my marriage with someone.
I stood up and whispered, “There are a lot of medicines for oldies nowadays so they can party all night.” I winked.
She just stared at me, then at her parents. Her face went from fear to disgust.
I looked at my parents, who were now smiling and sleeping on their sofa seats. Surely they must also be attending my marriage with Mr. Anand in their dreams.
“I think you should drink some water and rest,” I said, picking up a glass of water and offering it to Neha.
She took it, looked at me as she brought the glass close to her mouth, and then chuckled. “I know there’s something in the water. I saw you putting the liquid in it.”
“What liquid?” I stuttered and shrugged. “The only liquid in this glass is water.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell your parents. Go wherever you are planning to go.” Neha picked up a bowl of sweets sitting on the chair next to her parents.
“I thought you didn’t eat sweets.”
Neha shrugged and put another sweet in her mouth. “And I thought you liked me?”
That hit me. Had I given her hints unintentionally? No, it must be my parents who go gaga over my average looks, mediocre education and frustrating job just to get me married.
“Look, I am sorry. You are beautiful, but…”
“But?” Neha looked at me.
“I don’t want to marry anyone right now.” I almost gasped as the words came out of my mouth instead of being replayed in my mind repeatedly.
She furrowed her brow. “Why didn’t you say it before?”
“I told my parents, but…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“They didn’t agree? Right?” Neha said.
I shook my head.
She paused, looking at the bag over my shoulder. “So you wanted to run away?”
The way she said it made me feel guilty. “Look… it’s complicated. You won’t understand. It’s not that easy.”
Neha smiled, shook her head, and then chuckled. “Sure. You think it’s easier for girls.”
Before I could say anything, she raised her hand to stop me. “Please go before everyone wakes up. I will pretend to be asleep too.”
I checked the watch. It was 4:45 PM. Outside, I heard a horn. I checked — it was Nick.
“Thanks a lot. I will return the favour sometime.”
Neha looked at me and smiled. “Do yourself the favour by standing up to what you believe in.”
I looked at her. Then turned.
As I stepped out, Nick gestured for me to hurry. “Man, that girl is so greedy. I gave her another 10k. And she just has to pretend to be your wife for what, three hours?”
Nick kept talking. I heard him, but couldn’t register the words. My mind was stuck on Neha’s sentence. I wanted to tell her what it’s like to live meeting everyone’s expectations, how difficult it is to go against family and do what you believe in. But something kept bothering me.
There was truth in what she had said.
Nick started the bike. I tapped his shoulder and got off.
“What’s the matter, Ken?” Nick asked, watching me remove the bag from my shoulder.
“ This has to end,” I said, nodding to myself.
“ What?” he looked confused.
“Escaping life,” I smiled. “Not for my parents. Not for anyone else. For myself.”
“ What about the girl?” Nick said.
“Ask her to go back to her place. I will meet you in the evening.”
And I walked back toward the house.
As I entered, I found Neha looking at me. My parents were almost awake, and so was everyone else.
“Ken, where have you been until now? Did you escape the house when we were asleep?” my mother asked as I stood at the door.
I looked at my parents, then at Neha.
“I need to talk,” I said.
My voice wasn’t steady.
But I didn’t move.
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