If pressed hard, Sri even had a working name for the departed uncle: Gopinath.
Actor. Belief. End of.
‘What do you want me to say? I was very close to him.’
Malaika put her arm around him.
It was one of those moments that could go either way. She could begin with his uncle being a wonderful guy. She could say that unlike the dear departed uncle, she’d always be there for him. She’d be the woman he needed: up to date on philosophy and literature. She’d stand by, up for and behind him. Fortunately, and like in that song, words didn’t come easy. What came easiest was to stick a cigarette between her deliberating lips.
Forced conversion! Take a leaf out of Mohammed of Ghazni[41]’s fanaticism. Tear down the temple of the tobacco god! Malaika will give in like most chicks. Initially! But base nature must rise. The old god must return. She’s bound to crack. And light up. That’s when I’ll pounce on her.
The afternoon ended abruptly with Malaika remembering an urgent chore. As she shut the door behind her, Sri reached into his desk drawer. And lit a Gold Flake. Clearly unappeased with the meagre Gopinath, the actor’s god demanded a meatier sacrifice.
As foreseen, Malaika agreed to give up. But a week later, it was more than perturbing to find that she hadn’t caved in. The irreverent intellectual reeled from the backfire.
How long will I last without smoking in front of her?
Still, it wasn’t like hope had upped and left for an undisclosed location.
All their recent meetings had ended abruptly with Malaika remembering some chore or the other. To his perspicacious mind, therein lay the nub.
She’s smoking on the run.
Should I follow her? Where’s the style, dude? If one has to climb higher, it won’t be by sneaking up on panties.
Two weeks passed without smoking in front of each other. The sun, too, hid itself behind a bank of clouds from the south.
Terrified of another monsoon with Malaika, he inflicted upon himself advice offered to Anirudh, years ago. The urgent carriage of requisite action: set the stage today!
The goddess of trifling matters was in Dadar doing fishy things. Anirudh was blowing into a choked carburetor. The right honourable Mr. Ramachandran was snoring in his room. Malaika was in Sri’s arms. In her hair was a suspicion of cigarette smoke.
‘Shall we go to Manori?’ Sri asked, nibbling at her ear.
‘Really?’
The tragic heroine had sensed the cooling off. The mention of a sudden holiday took her by surprise.
‘Ever since Gopi mama[42] died, I’ve found it really hard. I need to get away from it all.’
Gopi mama! Now there’s an uncle and three quarter. Try resisting that.
‘I wish I’d met your Gopi mama.’
‘He was a real man. He brought up my orphaned mother. He slaved night and day in a printing press to pay for her education.’
An orphaned mother. Printer’s ink. It’s out of Dickens!
‘Really?’ Again, just one word, but hushed with respect.
‘It’s because of what happened to him that I was able to quit smoking. If there’s one thing I know, I’ll never touch a smoke again.’
Malaika’s eyes glazed over. The hushed respect of not so long ago thinned by a couple of coats. She stood up, said bye and left to buy her father a ballpoint pen.
The setting of the stage had been given the full 360. Every possible step would be taken to play up the special relationship smokers share with the rain. First, he plied Malaika with two cups of masala tea while waxing eloquent on the beauty of the gathering rain clouds. He even lifted her chin up so there was no doubt.
She won’t be able to resist. It’s only a matter of time. She’s going to make some excuse to scoot. But when she returns, I’ll smell the ciggy smoke, shake my head bitterly and wing in to end this bloody relationship in the name of Gopi mama.
Come evening, she hadn’t left his side.
Not one to give up, Sri persisted with presenting opportunities. ‘Don’t you want to go to the loo?’
‘Don’t need to.’
‘Water?’
‘No, I’ve drunk enough...’
That throws the loo out of the window then.
‘... I don’t want anything.’
Dad lights up the minute he gets up. Got to be worth a try.
‘Let’s sleep? Want to?’
‘Sleep? Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ Malaika’s grin verged on the horrific.
Sri cringed. ‘Not like that at all! Sleep as in sleep. Like when you sleep and dream and all.’
If anything, the clarification spurred her on. She began to undress, confirming this was going to be one of those nights.
He reached for the intercom and called room service. ‘Hi. I’m speaking from Room 5. Do you serve batata wadas[43]? Superb. Can you please send two plates? Thanks.’
‘Why have you called for batata wadas? I thought we were going to sleep.’
The distance between Malaika and her T-shirt was approximately twelve feet. If blown up to scale, her idea of sleep was about as far away from snoozing as Nainital is from Nagaland.
‘Just felt hungry. Why don’t you eat too?’
The clutching at straws had begun. Much hope was riding on Malaika eating batata wadas and craving a smoke. There was something called the post-meal smoke.
The wadas arrived. She ate one, dipping it in coriander chutney.
No quickening of the breath. No sign of weakening. Nothing.
She wiped her hand on a tissue and slid back into bed. ‘So Sri, do you have any appetite left for something else?’
Oh, Phurck!
‘You know what. I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we get high and then... then make love. I read somewhere it’s super groovy.’
Not too many straws left. But she’s thrown off the covers. Good enough. Hope is back in the house. Everyone knows booze and smokes go together.
‘Bottoms up!’
Vodka Two followed swiftly.
Sri lifted her empty glass and asked, ‘One more?’
‘So fast? What are you trying to do to me? Get me drunk? Sri, you nnaawhty, nnaawhty boy.’
‘Just drink, Malaika. Please.’
After the sixth vodka, at 2 at night, Sri surrendered. Malaika had been rock solid. Equally solid was her desire to rip his clothes off. Booze before sex worked exactly as the mags said. By 3 am, a breathless Sri quit trying to make her smoke.
‘Good night, Malaika.’
Operation Gopi mama declared null and void.
‘Good night, Sri. Crash now.’
He fell asleep to the rhythm of a branch tapping against the window and woke when the wind dropped and stopped poking its nose in his life. It was close to 4 am.
He switched on the lights to explore the possibility of Round Two. And made an instant discovery.
Malaika isn’t here. Her bag is gone. Bloody hell! That wasn’t enthusiasm. She was doing what chicks call faking. Just being polite. The way she said crash now. My breath! Alcohol screws the breath.
He blew into his hand.
I delayed stuff too long, drank too much, was too insensitive. Should have at least bought some chewing gum. But what if it got stuck while... I’m such a dick. She’s left. Slow down! All said and done, mission accomplished.
He sprang into the toilet to confirm.
Right. Malaika is out. But does this count? She’s left because of my breath.
Not because of the 360!
Outside, the sea pounded away.
Some things never change. Unlike the bloody population stats of my bed!
A maudlin reversal began. Now that he’d been left behind, he wanted Malaika. She was the only one for him. He’d been wrong all the while.
The woman wasn’t demanding. Just assertive. Where would I be without her sense of purpose?
In anguish, he thrashed about.
This bloody room is suffocating me!
Much along the line
s of the great Buddha, he made his way towards a clump of trees.
I’ll sit calmly under one and figure out my next move.
The darkness was unwelcoming but before he could switch on his torch, he saw a glow-worm.
Alone. Like me.
It flew a short distance then back again. Returning to the same spot like some lover unable to forget. A fallen palm frond rustled from underfoot. The insect disappeared.
Instinctively, he put on the torch. And like the egg in the ‘Grace Under Pressure’ poster, Malaika was right where he wanted her. With a fag cupped in her palm!
The light from the torch became the third eye of Lord Shiva. Sri summoned righteous rage to match the Destroyer of Worlds and reduced the lustful Malaika to a provocatively shaped heap of ashes. Snap Tie.
The sun rose on two cabs moving in different directions. Sure, one can resist all kinds of smokes. But the post-sex smoke? Aaah!
With Malaika left behind smoking, Sri parked himself on the black plastic bathing stool. Increasingly, he had come to treat the bathroom as his office and much strategising was done there. First things first, an evening of uninhibited smoking and drinking was called for. Invitees to the event would be Anirudh and Maurice pronounced Morerayas.
The venue was Govardhan’s Bar and Permit Room in Colaba. Around 9 pm, Jehangir, renowned for tact and trickery especially in the realm of imli, joined them. And an evening of revelry kicked off in the most crowded bar in Colaba. The warlord marshalled his clan around him. Over laden cups, a clean breast was made of his last military campaign.
Anirudh was first. ‘You know, Sri. You’re a damn fucking cunning bastard. You come across so sincere and all. But underneath you’re something else.’
‘Come on, Ani. That chick was deeeyaaam demanding. I had to, man. She was suffocating me.’
‘Why couldn’t you have told her the truth? Why invent an entire fucking fairy tale?’
Sri gawped at Anirudh.
Tell a chick the truth? After all these years with the goddess of trifling matters? After what happened with Mohina and the farewell card? Come on!
Obviously, he’d heard wrong but his eyes were playing tricks too.
Four guys dressed up as chicks?
The quartet slid into their seats, two tables away. Maurice smiled an angelic smile at them. A guy in black tights blew a kiss back. Sri turned to his glass for help. Govardhan’s was the boozer’s equivalent of the Merciful Saviour School for Boys.
What are these guys up to? This is suicide.
He brought his hand up to his mouth. It was most advisable not to say something stupid.
‘Takes guts.’ Jehangir said.
‘Are you saying I don’t have guts?’ Sri replied.
‘We’ve moved on from your deeds in boobcity.’ With a quick flick of his head, Jehangir showed him what he meant.
Maurice stood up. A common occurrence the boys called the Uprising of Maurice. It generally happened when Maurice was pissed. What he did was point and gesticulate. Making matters even more fascinating was the low voice Maurice used. This is central to our existence; Maurice appeared to say. But to date, no one could figure what this was.
That night, the Uprising was impassioned and three of his fingers ended in a raised glass at the next table. A moustached guy sitting there grimaced nastily. Most of the cheap whisky in it landed on Maurice’s face. The man’s right hand curled into a fist. This Uprising was about to be thrashed witless. But before Anirudh could get his motor running, a tiny knife appeared at the moustached guy’s throat.
‘Now. Now. Shall we end this right here? We girls can’t bear violence.’ The guy in the black tights spoke in Hindi.
The man sat down as quickly as he’d got up. Black Tights wiped Maurice’s shirt and face with a paper napkin.
‘I always carry Rita with me. Saves us from boy trouble.’
With Sri, after hearing and seeing something surreal, the fear of saying something stupid was paramount. Not so with Anirudh.
After Black Tights returned to his table, Anirudh asked, ‘You think these guys wear panties?’
‘Softer, Ani!’ That was Jehangir. If not trickery, tact at the very least.
‘What’s underneath? Undies or panties?’ Anirudh lisped out his questions.
Remembering those guys had a Rita, Sri said, ‘These guys might be on to something. Reinvention, you know. Chicks get bored fast.’
Jehangir spoke under breath. ‘The chicks I know would prefer I kept away from their threads.’
‘Point. Maybe not to this extent but... but...’ Sri’s voice trailed.
‘But what? Undies or panties?’
Sri ignored Ani. ‘That’s just the thing with reinvention. You take yourself and become someone else. Day becomes night. One becomes the other—’
His elder brother cut in. ‘Shut it, Sri. Can’t you drink without giving a lecture?’
‘—but you still remain true to yourself. The coin remains the same. The side changes. Shirts. Skirts. Panties—’
‘Pinties. On tap.’ Maurice raised his glass to the three at his table and Black Tights.
Anirudh looked at him, gratefully. Sri’s nostrils flared but his thoughts stayed unspoken.
Later, four men in undies walked out behind four in panties. Maurice thanked Black Tights while Sri looked on pensively.
The night pulled a blanket around its ears.
The next morning Anirudh, cradling a throbbing head, confided in Sri. ‘I think the booze was jaali[44]. I dreamt all of us were wearing panties.’
‘Who’s left that half-empty bottle of water outside? How many times do you boys have to be told? Water is life. The bottles should always be full otherwise you’re tempting death. Do you want us all to suffer and die? Haan[45]? Is that what you want for your mother, after all she’s doing for this house?’
She whirled about the bedroom, her four hands lifting the two hangovers higher than even the drying towels.
Oh, Miss Marple, what will become of you? You’re spread out across my pillow. Now you’re going to find out the price of laughing in the face of eternal debt.
‘What is this dirty smell? This room stinks like a country liquor bar. Why haven’t you had a bath? Complete lack of hygiene. These clothes! What are they doing on the chair? What if someone sits on them? Do you think the dhobi irons them for free?’
She flung the pile of clothes across the room. They spread out across the bed and floor.
Through the open door, the housebroken Mr. Ramachandran could be seen concentrating hard. His towel had fallen to the kitchen floor, thrice. Sri’s eyes returned to the open book on his pillow and then at Anirudh holding his head. Ani’s dream about guys in panties didn’t seem all that fanciful.
Sri scooped Miss Marple up and stuck her between Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Lolita.
That’ll teach her to meddle with our finances!
the middle rungs
5. lasoon chutney
Even if the booze at Govardhan’s led to dreams of a debatable tone, little dispute surrounded Madhavi Coastal Masalas’ rise to the top. It was ripping through the high-tension world of masalas and chutneys: their lasoon[46] chutney being more in demand than a male first-born.
But this was precisely what had Madhavi Ramachandran, the goddess of trifling matters, in a tizz. The skinning of garlic was taking forever. This was delaying actual production.
Being the captain of this ship, she was quite adept at cursing her ill-fated crew to damnation, but as to finding a solution, she was all at sea.
Treading warily, the three masala-makers Savitri, Shailaja and Sugandha along with Dhillon, the shop boy suggested an advertisement in the Mid-Day. This was initially met with suspicion. Finally, however, female candidates who were good to and good with garlic were invited to assemble in large numbers at the shop.
Theresa Braganza of Matharpacardy, Mazgaon was Applicant Four. Post interview, it was clear the rest stood all the chances of a hobbling rat in
front of the 6 o’clock Virar Fast.
Although she would never know it, Theresa was the brain this outfit needed. Under the stewardship of Mrs. Ramachandran, it was possible the existing staff would achieve moderate acclaim but it was unlikely members of the public would take to wearing lockets with their pictures inside. Applicant Four had the wherewithal to change all that.
Where others had shown indecision and ungainliness, Theresa was all for crisp moves. Deftly separating cloves from the garlic pods, she made an incision in the middle of each clove. And flipped open the skin.
In the aftermath, Mrs. Ramachandran could see—God guide us all—that most of the dry skin was off. There was no need to painstakingly peel the damn things. The transfer of technology took place over the next twenty-four hours. And even Dhillon, hopeful of stepping up, leapt into a heap of garlic pods and let fly. Madhavi Coastal Masalas was on a roll.
While Theresa Braganza’s star was on the up and up, Sri was ploughing through the back end of a diploma in business management: his only way of slipping out of employment on the goddess’s ship of fools.
There’s no bloody way I’m going to work for her. Whatever little self-respect I have will get ground into masala.
The day Theresa brought up concepts like consumer preferences and promotional activities was of singular importance. Not having a clue what these meant, the goddess of trifling matters gave her a foul look. But unlike the three kings of 101, Ganga Sagar, Theresa continued unhindered by her innerwear and took it upon her simple soul to better educate her employer.
The failure of the look meant Mrs. Ramachandran had to listen patiently. Unready to back down completely, she threw back her head and screeched at Dhillon to clean the fan blades.
Theresa had done the inconceivable at least by prevalent standards at the store. She had drawn a schematic showing how consumers behave. Specific detailing on the consumption patterns of masalas had also been sketched in. What other companies were doing to pull in consumers, too!
These three sheets of paper filled Mrs. Ramachandran with a deep dread.
No employee had ever handed her papers. Besides the wrapping kind. How much would this add to her already overflowing bowl of woes? One drunken husband, two errant sons and now... three sheets of paper.
A Ladder of Panties Page 8
