By Thursday afternoon the flat had already stopped pretending to be his.
Two boxes were taped shut and stacked by the door. One lay open on the rug with books in it, spines down because he had run out of patience before he ran out of shelf. The dining table held a mug, his passport, a charger and the printout of an Aadhaar card he had not looked at in years. The landlord had agreed to take the bed if Kiran left the mattress.
From the building opposite came the scrape and bump of furniture being moved. Every few minutes something struck the stair rail hard enough for the sound to cross the street and reach him on the third floor.
The India office had sent three reminders.
Please complete onboarding compliance by Friday close of business. Payroll, tax registration and salary account setup cannot proceed until KYC is successful.
He had clicked the link between wrapping plates in newspaper and deciding whether to keep a lamp that had never suited the flat in the first place. Then the red box appeared.
We could not verify your identity. The name on your documents does not match.
Passport: Kiran Kasargod Kamath
Aadhaar: Kiran Kamath
He enlarged the Aadhaar PDF and looked at it again, as if the missing word might return if watched long enough. It did not.
He picked up the phone and called Bengaluru.
His father answered on the sixth ring.
“Yes.”
No greeting. Good. That meant he was not in the car.
“Appa, why is Kasargod in my passport name?”
There was a short pause. Then a bolt slid somewhere or a balcony door opened. Madhav always moved while talking. Even his phone calls sounded as if they had put on slippers first.
“What happened.”
“KYC failed.”
“For what.”
“Name mismatch. India office.”
His father made a sound that was almost a snort.
“They know you since birth. What more is required.”
“It is for payroll and account opening.”
“So India does not know you now either.”
In the background his mother said something too far from the phone to make out. A steel vessel knocked against a counter. A tap ran. The sounds came from a kitchen he could picture exactly. He had left for London at twenty-two and had not stood in that kitchen since the following summer.
“It says my documents do not match,” Kiran said. “Passport has Kasargod. Aadhaar does not. Why is Kasargod there at all.”
Again that pause.
“What does Aadhaar say.”
“Kiran Kamath.”
Nothing.
Not a dropped call. Not thinking exactly. Just nothing said.
Then Madhav asked, “Where will you stay when you land.”
Kiran frowned.
“What.”
“In Bengaluru. Company flat or hotel.”
“It is arranged. Serviced apartment first. In Indiranagar. One month maybe, until I find a place.”
“How much.”
“I do not know yet. Company is covering the first month.”
“When are you landing.”
“Sunday morning.”
“How much luggage.”
“Two suitcases.”
“Fifteen years and two suitcases.”
“The rest is going into storage.”
“In London.”
“Yes.”
“So you are moving to India and leaving your things in England.”
“It is temporary.”
“Which part.”
Kiran looked at the open boxes.
“The storage,” he said.
“Hmm.”
Outside the window two men came backwards down the opposite stairs carrying a rolled rug between them. One was laughing and the other was not.
“Why are you asking me that now,” Kiran said.
“Because you are coming,” Madhav said. “When was Aadhaar done.”
“That summer after I moved. Fifteen years ago.”
“Where.”
“At a camp in Jayanagar. Near the school.”
“With whom.”
“Alone.”
“Why alone.”
“You had office. You gave me the blue file and said I could manage.”
His mother’s voice came nearer.
“Ask him if he wants the small cupboard kept.”
Madhav said something away from the phone. A hand covered the mouthpiece, then moved.
“What cupboard.”
“The one in the second bedroom,” Kiran said. “Why.”
“Your mother is asking.”
“I do not know. Keep it if it is useful.”
“Hm.”
“At the Aadhaar place,” Madhav said, “what name did you give.”
“Kiran Kamath.”
“Just like that.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“The queue was long.”
“Very strong reason.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“Excellent. Government of India thanks you for saving time.”
Kiran smiled despite himself.
“It did not matter,” he said. “I thought it did not matter.”
No reply.
“Appa.”
“I heard.”
“Then say something.”
“You were in a hurry,” Madhav said.
From the kitchen his mother spoke again, this time not even pretending she was not listening.
“Ask him if he is taking the mixer.”
“I am not taking the mixer,” Kiran said.
Madhav said at the same time, “He is not taking the mixer.”
Then to Kiran, “One mixer in London also must exist.”
“I have one.”
“Then why will you take this one.”
“Exactly.”
On the street below the two men had come back for a chair. It would not fit through the van door feet first and they discovered this three times before adjusting their grip.
“When I came to Bangalore,” Madhav said, “there were too many Madhavs. In the college register five. One from Mandya, one from Mysore, one using his father’s name, one using house name and one from somewhere near Shimoga who also thought he was the original. If you wrote only Madhav Kamath they kept asking which Kamath.”
“So you became Kasargod.”
“Not immediately.”
“What then.”
There was a small delay before the answer. Not heavy. Measured.
“Before that there was another word.”
Kiran waited.
The pressure cooker released steam in a long hard breath at the far end of the call.
“What word.”
“Shankar,” Madhav said.
It took Kiran a second. Then another.
“Ajja.”
“My father,” Madhav said.
“So you were Madhav Shankar Kamath.”
“For some years.”
“And then.”
“And then I was twenty and in the city and tired of explaining my father to men at desks. A clerk asked district. I told him. He put it after Madhav.”
“And you left it.”
“I needed the certificate that day.”
Kiran almost laughed. “You were in a hurry.”
“I was twenty. At twenty everything is urgent.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
“If I put Shankar there was always one more question,” Madhav said. “Which Shankar. What business. Which street. Then they had your grandfather in their mouth and my whole village behind him. Kasargod was easier. A place cannot arrive at the counter drunk or borrow money or fight with neighbours. A place sits quietly where you keep it.”
The pressure cooker settled.
Across the street the chair finally went into the van on its side.
“Then why is it not in your name now.”
“What happens to everything. One new form. One clerk who says initials only. One office that prints from the previous office. Then one day you are simply Madhav Kamath and nobody remembers there was anything before.”
“And in mine.”
“You had it at school first.”
“Why.”
“Because at that time I was still using it sometimes. Because forms copy forms. Because one clerk believes the last clerk. Because your mother was holding you and the office was closing and I signed where they showed.”
His mother came back into range of the phone.
“Tell him if he does not want the cupboard I am giving it to Savita.”
“Give it,” Kiran said.
“To Savita?”
“To whoever wants it.”
“Good,” his mother said from somewhere off. “It is taking space.”
Madhav said nothing to that. Kiran could hear newspaper being folded smaller, perhaps into quarters, perhaps along some old line of habit.
“You should have told me,” Kiran said.
“Told you what.”
“That it was there.”
“It was there.”
“I mean properly.”
“What is properly. You never asked.”
“I did not know there was anything to ask.”
“Hm.”
Kiran remembered a school building, plastic chairs, token numbers shouted badly, a cheap webcam and someone telling him to sit straight. Afterwards he had gone for lunch, though he could not remember with whom.
“When did you last go to Kasargod,” Madhav asked.
“I do not know. Properly?”
“There is no improperly.”
“As a child then. Three times maybe. Four.”
“Hm.”
Kiran remembered heat. A bus stand. Relatives who all seemed to know his height before he did. A room where the fan moved so slowly it became part of the weather rather than relief from it. Jackfruit in the yard and well water that smelt faintly of metal. A blue board with white letters he could not then read fast enough.
“You do not remember much,” Madhav said.
“No.”
“Good. Why should you.”
“What do I do now,” Kiran said.
“Upload passport and PAN.”
“And Aadhaar.”
“If they ask, say Aadhaar is wrong.”
“I made it wrong.”
“Yes,” Madhav said. “Very efficiently.”
“I can get it corrected.”
“You can do many things. First complete this one.”
The line crackled once and settled.
“Send me the passport page and PAN,” Madhav said. “I will see.”
“What will you see.”
“If there is any other foolishness.”
“Appa.”
“Hm.”
“If I had kept it.”
“Kept what.”
“Kasargod.”
“Yes.”
“Would that have pleased you.”
Madhav shifted position. Fabric moved against cane or a chair against tile.
“Pleased is a big word,” he said. “It would have amused me. For one day. After that I would have told you to shorten it.”
Kiran laughed, more quietly now.
His mother came back, nearer the phone than before.
“Ask him his bed size.”
“Single,” Kiran said.
Madhav said, “He has become tall. Queen maybe.”
“Single is enough.”
“I know your size,” Madhav said.
At the far end the doorbell rang.
“Milk,” his mother said.
There was the scrape of slippers and the bolt being drawn. Someone put the phone down without ending the call. Kiran heard a man at the door, his mother asking about change and Madhav saying something he could not make out.
“Queen,” Kiran said.
Ajayy Pattanshetty writes fiction rooted in coastal Karnataka and its diaspora. His story ‘Time Ravels’ appeared in Fiction on the Web, where it was Pick of the Month and has been nominated for the 2027 PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers. He was shortlisted for the Bath Short Story Award 2026. He lives in Hertfordshire.