I first met Dr. Raman Shetty at a family gathering in Bombay in 1975. My cousin introduced him as “the mushroom man,” a botanist who had left a university job to start a mushroom farm in Mysore. He spoke quietly, with an intensity that made even the dullest subject sound valid. His restless fingers moved as he spoke about spores, humidity, and the fragile beauty of fungi.

When he learned that I was the Art Director of an advertising agency in Bangalore, he smiled.

“Maybe you can help me,” he said. “I want to give my little venture an attractive face.”

I agreed to design the logo for his brand of button mushroom: Agaricus Bisporus. What began as a small favor soon grew into a steady collaboration — brochures, packaging, and stall designs for organic farm fairs. Raman was meticulous but fair. He always paid on time and had an eye for good design.

For months, our communication was friendly and professional. But that changed soon.

My mother wasn’t well, and I had to leave Bangalore for Kochi suddenly. One of Raman’s promotional campaigns was halfway through, so I handed the project to Arun, my associate at the ad agency. Arun was competent, though a bit careless with deadlines. I briefed him thoroughly, shared the concept files, and trusted him to finish the job.

A week later, while I was still in Kerala, Raman called.

“Who made these posters?” he demanded.

“Arun,” I said. “I had to travel—”

“They look lifeless. Like something printed by a grocery shop!”

“It’s temporary, Dr. Shetty. I’ll fix it when I’m back.”

“No,” he snapped. “You’ve already screwed it up.”

And then he hung up.

I tried calling back; but he never responded. Eventually, I stopped contacting him and moved on to new clients. But a strange unease lingered whenever I thought of him.

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Months passed, and I heard from my cousin that Raman’s business was in trouble. The farm had lost contracts with distributors, hotels and supermarkets; and production issues got out of control. His mushroom brand Agaricus — once a family favorite — vanished from store shelves.

But what startled me was what came next: Raman apparently blamed me for his downfall. He told mutual contacts that my “half-done” work and “unreliable designs” had ruined his company’s image. His words carried a bitterness that bordered on retribution.

“He’s not himself anymore,” my cousin warned. “He keeps talking about you: as if you’re the reason why his dream collapsed.”

I brushed it off as frustration. Everyone needs a scapegoat, I thought. As I’d later learn, Raman’s resentment was far deeper than I imagined. But the real problem behind his ruin was his bad temper and haughty lifestyle.

One Year Later

It was a bright Monday morning in Bangalore — the kind that tricks you into thinking nothing bad can happen. I was riding my scooter to the office along MG Road, humming an old Hindi song to myself.

While waiting at the traffic light on Brigade Road junction, I noticed a white sedan that was following me for some time pull up behind me. Nothing unusual, yet when the light turned green, the car stayed behind. And too close. I switched lanes but it did the same and kept its pursuit. I thought about turning into the nearby Shrungar Shopping Complex.

Just then, without warning, the sedan swerved forward and slammed into my scooter. The car sped away without stopping.

I lost control of the scooter and hit the road hard, scraping my arm badly. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the pavement, surrounded by strangers. The scooter was a crumpled mess a few meters away.

“Don’t move,” someone said. “You’re bleeding. You need to go to the hospital.”

Someone alerted a traffic cop and he helped me with going to the Bowring and Lady Curzon Hospital at Shivajinagar. Later, at the police station, an officer told me they have details of the car including the number plate and they would trace the owner. I filed a complaint. Though bruised, I was certain justice would follow.

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In the Court

A month later, I was summoned to testify. My arm was still hurting when I entered the courtroom. The air inside was thick with dust and bureaucracy.

When the clerk read the defendant’s name, I couldn’t believe my ears.

“Dr. Raman Shetty: resident of Mysore.”

He was sitting in a chair calmly. Our eyes met for a second. There was no recognition in his gaze, only indifference.

The proceedings were quick. His lawyer argued that it was a case of mistaken identity and there was “no conclusive evidence” tying Dr. Raman to the incident. The judge nodded as if he had already decided on the verdict.

Fifteen minutes later, the case was dismissed. Dr. Shetty walked away smiling.

I followed him, still dazed.
He was waiting outside near his white sedan; and looked at me nonchalantly.

“You shouldn’t have left things half-done,” he said softly. “Some people don’t like being ignored.”

Then he smiled — the same old scholarly smile from our first meeting — and drove away.