A Ladder of Panties

by Sandeep Jayaram

The smile returned. Too late! Repeated satisfied smiles contravened all manner of protocol in this household.

  ‘Get out. Just leave.’

  This was the moment. The princess was dreaming sweetly in her bed. The ancient goddess who never sleeps was at the peak of her powers. The superhero smiled from high on the ladder. All he had to do was invoke the forsaken talisman and he would be saved.

  Call upon the powers of panty elastic!

  He did.

  ‘Where will I go? Please, Mom. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll follow the rules. Let me stay, please. It’s 5 in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t care. You need to be taught a lesson.’

  No doubt, the game was being played at another level. She opened the door and indicated with her head.

  ‘You want to stay out all night, right? Go ahead now. Go play.’

  He walked out that door yet again, head bowed, knowing he’d return. He had to. The elastic would snap him back to that place and into place.

  It didn’t with Ani! Should I go there?

  A shriek pierced the dark. ‘Come back only when you realise the value of time.’

  8. short stuff versus the long-spun

  Keeping an eye on his watch, he walked towards the bus stop.

  Radha beats Anirudh. Hands-down.

  A poignant tale about the value of time and its impact on his residential privileges was constructed en route.

  Radha opened the door.

  Hugging her, he cautiously asked, ‘How long have you been awake?’

  ‘Just woke up. Barely opened my eyes and the doorbell rang. Where did you go?’

  And the carefully crafted tale flew clean out the window.

  She’s only just woken up. Why spin a long tale when short stuff easily makes the grade?

  ‘Wanted to bring my birthday in. Nice and early. Went for a walk.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For taking a walk?’

  ‘No, you idiot. For last night.’

  With Yashika, this affectionate name-calling would have been turned into something despicable. Now, he glowed with pride.

  Strange, how time affects stuff. Madhavi of like-named masala shop is welcome to her opinion; Srinivas Ramachandran does know the value of time.

  He replied, ‘The pressure is all mine.’

  ‘You really are an idiot. But you’re my idiot.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ The actor was shocked by his finality of tone.

  ‘So what’s your plan for today?’

  ‘Nothing. What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve got to go to the studio. We’re working on a major animation serial.’

  ‘Can I come along? You know I’ve acted in a film.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Sure.’

  He lied yet again. ‘I guess I’ll go home and change then. I’ll meet you there.’

  After writing down where Real Sound was, he left for the State Bank of India branch at Opera House. Grateful to Anirudh for his contribution to the Welfare Fund Of Sri, he withdrew enough to buy new clothes. His princess waited.

  The door was flung open.

  Are they doing the Ramayana[72]? With all the rakshasas[73], bears and monkeys.

  A small chap stumbled out. Almost head-butting Sri in the chest, he announced in a thundering voice, ‘Fuck ’is shit!’

  Stepping aside to let him and the pong of booze pass, Sri observed the guy hug a telephone junction box on the pavement to steady himself. In response, it did exactly what it shouldn’t have. It opened. Staggering against it, the guy snagged his hands on some wires and cables. Applying the same reasoning behind his earlier exclamation, he yanked out whatever his fingers passed over. Before he could pull out sections of the footpath, however, his knees buckled. He crumpled and fell asleep by the side of the road. Sri blinked.

  Inside Real Sound, Radha came to grips with developments. The voice-over artist who was to play a major character was crocked. But surely things hadn’t got charred beyond recognition. A replacement could always be found. Minette was told to make calls.

  That was when the latest visitor entered.

  ‘Srinivas!’

  Sri’s eyes didn’t stray from the girl at the switchboard. As usual, he’d seen what the others couldn’t.

  ‘Srinivas! We do say hello even while working you know.’ Radha’s fingers squeezed cordiality from his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, Radha. I don’t think your girl is going to get through. Unless there’s a miracle.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That guy has ripped out the wires from the box.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Sensing this conversation could go on indeterminately, Sri led Radha outside. When they returned, Minette confirmed the lines were dead.

  ‘What do I do? We’re supposed to finish a new block of dialogues today. And I don’t have a dacoit crocodile.’

  Sri blinked.

  ‘That drunk guy plays Mangal the dacoit crocodile in this animation serial.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ An actor’s best tool is belief.

  He did, and it worked. The sound recordist, Radha and the client who strolled in mid-afternoon all said so.

  Upon reaching home after the assignment, the welcome suggested he’d been sorely missed.

  ‘Where were you all day, haan? Who do you think you are?’

  ‘I’ll tell you who I am. I’m a cartoon.’

  This was much too much for Madhavi Ramachandran.

  ‘Oh Sri,’—she leaned against the door frame to prevent entry—‘why have you come back? To tell me this! Do you think this is what any mother slaves for? How am I supposed to react to my son calling himself a cartoon? And you’re saying it so proudly. Announcing it! Have you no shame at all?’

  An argument in favour of the long-spun tale over the short stuff, he gave it to her. It was only then that she let him enter.

  What took place by night at Worli Sea Face and by day at Real Sound was not merely a suggestive clearing of the throat. It was the voice of things to come. But things still had to get way more complicated before all that.

  A pot simmering with fourteen ingredients, added one after the other, would lead to the making of Sri’s immediate future. One, the two lovers finished with their management education. Two, Sri’s prospects of employment at Madhavi Coastal Masalas became real once again now that he was doubly qualified in business management. Three, this panic was shared with Radha. Four, on an unrelated note, Radha’s parents separated. Five, her dad moved from Abu Dhabi to the UK to do business with the big boys and found himself a big girl there.

  Six, Radha’s mother moved into the Worli Sea Face apartment to find Sri there. Seven, Radha spoke to her mother of Sri’s regular duels with the winged fisherwoman. Eight, Radha's mother hen took Sri under her wing on account of his regularly falling out of the nest. Nine, she asked him what he wanted to do, jobwise, and Sri’s sheepish expressions were rewarded with a managerial position at Real Sound. Ten, Sri’s skip from 101, Ganga Sagar gathered steam as Anirudh spoke with many adjectives of the civil liberties of staying away.

  Eleven, Sri landed the huge job of playing the voice of Arjuna[74] in an animated version of the Mahabharata. Twelve, this coincided with Dad’s decision to take up growing coconuts in his ancestral village. At thirteen, lucky for some but not for Sri, his mother’s fetish for timekeeping meant the only resident left behind became the face of that clock. Finally, at number fourteen, was the no-claim bonus on the motor insurance policy.

  The above list runs the entire spectrum, from the obvious to the obscure. Number 14, understandably, occupies the far end.

  During the rains, Sri borrowed his mother’s car on a night out with Radha. The idea was to be cool. Sure enough, on the Western Express Highway, that very same cool was given a right working over.

  A lady learner drove right into the back of the car. Radha and Sri got out to find the trunk looking very much like a crumpled bill at 101, Ganga Sagar. The lady learner trembled in fear, in
capable of speech. To an equally stunned Sri, her male instructor offered comfort in that insurance would easily cover the repairs.

  Later that night, this pearl of wisdom was placed at the feet of the goddess of trifling matters. She was wide-awake and waiting by the compound gate.

  Upon being suggested something as absurd as claiming damages from the insurance company, his mother gritted her teeth. ‘Don’t you know I receive a no-claim bonus every year?’

  Sri blinked.

  ‘The no-claim bonus is something to be very proud of. My insurance agent praises me every time we meet. If I file a claim now, it’ll be like stabbing Mr. Kamble in the back.’

  Finally getting it, Sri forwarded his case. ‘Listen, Mom, even you must know that this gold star from teacher means much less than what I’ll actually have to shell out for repairs.’

  ‘You really have no shame, haan? First, you bang my car and now you’re being sarcastic?’

  ‘I’m just trying to tell you what any sensible person would do.’

  ‘Sensible person would do? Is it? Any sensible person wouldn’t have to borrow his mother’s car. So sensibly reserve your sarcasm for your singer girlfriend.’

  All hope winked out. The money earned by Arjuna would go into the repair of Karna[75]’s chariot. Number 14 became the idiomatic straw and did exactly what it did to the poor camel. Freshly impacted by the heroism in the Mahabharata, Sri was sickened by the irony. He was funding the enemy cavalry.

  Only a cartoon would allow this to happen.

  Excusing himself from this lecture on best practices in insurance, he stepped into the kitchen. He pulled a knife out from a drawer. Holding it out in front like those Japanese guys, he prepared for honourable discharge.

  After I die, my blood will dry on the kitchen floor. Not on the nylon cords above.

  It wasn’t a very sensible thought. As if calling curtains on such woolly-headedness, a substantial portion dislodged itself from the darkness above.

  A wet fragrance enveloped his head.

  Oh, Phurck! A bloody towel!

  No epic warrior can end it all, turbaned in what smells of Sunsilk Egg shampoo.

  His mother entered the kitchen. ‘Took a shower? So fast? Put the towel up then!’

  Over the next few days, the wound festered. There was no coming to terms with it. The elastic refused to stretch. Upon receiving the bucks for playing Arjuna, he left the repair money on the chrome trolley in the living room. He got into a cab. Unlike on a hundred occasions before, he knew he wouldn’t be coming back.

  The early part of the night was spent walking along Worli Sea Face, thinking.

  Enough!

  Radha’s mother opened the door. Over two cups of tea, he updated her on his situation. Nothing was held back. She asked him to sleep in the living room. He smiled, in gratitude. If asked to skip along, the journey to Ani’s would have finished him off.

  Over the next twenty-four hours, other decisions were arrived at. The mother, who had much faith in her daughter, saw no wrong in Sri moving in with them. Radha, who rarely disagreed with her mother, welcomed this landmark judgment. Sri continued to smile sheepishly.

  Jehangir was appointed as the retriever of belongings including in their number a certain white plastic bag. That night, Radha made a suggestion. And Sri skipped into her bedroom.

  Thus 101, Ganga Sagar came to be completely rid of men, each and every one of the bloody swine. In time, it would look outward and become the benchmark in good neighbourly relations. For the moment, Mrs. Ramachandran flitted about ferociously, making long overdue changes.

  First to be laid claim to were the cupboards. These were emptied of their masculine remains and filled with sarees. Next, the now-unnecessary toothbrushes and shaving equipment were sent flying. Into the gutter. Then, the extra blankets and pillows were shoved above the cupboards and below the beds. Despite the rains, the light of a new sun shone.

  The weather conditions were not very different at Worli Sea Face. In the sunshine of Radha’s love, the ladder rose dizzyingly. With her thoughtful, understanding mother supplanting the marinator of all life, Sri saw that restraint was but a distant memory. Nothing could hold him back.

  At a few months short of twenty-five, Srinivas Ramachandran was up to his shirtsleeves in the workings of Real Sound. This, his first job, allowed him the added delight of waltzing back to 1603, Kohinoor Apartments, Worli Sea Face.

  The tide was sweeping in unprecedented good fortune. Radha with an I was his. The other chick whose name he could barely remember had finally been sent packing.

  Oh Sri! You really can’t see, can you?

  As fantasies went, this was delectable. Radha built business for Real Sound while Sri handled finance and operations. Love, life and lingerie were all his.

  But listen! Is that hesitancy in the applause? Look. Look at the fan whirring above his head. It’s waiting for something to hit it and when that something does, everyone’s going to blink. And wish they’d ducked instead.

  ‘Smoking hot investment themes. That’s the way I describe them, my friend.’

  When Sanjay Kewalramani, that astute Sindhi brain from back at school, spoke, the acronym SHIT didn’t readily come to mind.

  ‘Are you sure, man? I mean, I know nothing of the share market.’

  In his neat clipped voice, Sanjay developed the theme.

  ‘What do you think I’ve been doing since school? Sure, I’ve blown stuff up. Who hasn’t? But bad experiences, my friend, are invaluable. We’ve identified, after extensive research, sectors in the economy that have shown rapid growth over the last three years. We’ve mapped them on a grid. Within each of these sectors, we’ve identified the top performers in terms of turnover. Applying stringent parameters, we’ve analysed these top performers’ domestic and export performances. Checked to see if we could spot grey areas. Too much detail?’

  ‘No. No. Go ahead.’

  ‘Once we were satisfied with what we had, we brought in predictive tools... far too complex to explain to a guy like you. What I’m saying is the chances of going wrong are mini-fucking-mal. And we can make this even safer.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Of all the names we’ve got, we’ll put your money in only the top two.’

  When the shit looks this inviting what can any dog do?

  Sri dived in. This plunge spurred by the slowing down of the hourly bookings at Real Sound.

  It was Sri’s twenty-seventh birthday. It was also...

  ‘This is my anniversary gift to you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Investments I made, Radha.’

  ‘With whose money?’

  ‘Took it from our money. Work money.’

  ‘Did you ask Mom? Does she know?’

  ‘No. Was I supposed to? I mean, she doesn’t even come to work.’

  ‘Don’t talk about my mother—’

  ‘Sorry. You know I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘How much have you invested?’

  ‘Four lakh seventy-five thousand.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t worry. My friend’s guaranteed it. He’s been investing since school.’

  ‘You know nothing about shares, Sri. And why are they in your name?’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘By taking my money and investing it in your name?’

  ‘They’re in my name because if I took your signature, it wouldn’t be a surprise. They’re for you, Radha. Here. Keep them with you.’

  ‘Why did you do this? I should have known…’

  On processing this rather rapid dialogue, a possible summary would read like this. The dog has dropped the bone in front of his mistress and is wagging his tail. Confusingly, the lady is stressed about the mess he’s made on the carpet.

  She should have been patting me on the head, saying well done.

  The perspicacity he’d been blessed with raised its head.

  Tail wagging isn’t about happy. Take wha
t’s happening now. I’m wagging my tail. Sure I am. But I’m confused as shit.

  ‘Known what, Radha? Business is down. I know you sleep that way when you’re stressed. I thought—’

  ‘You thought you’d take my money without asking, pump it into something you know nothing about and the stress will go away?’

  Put this way, the short stuff made the long-spun tale look a little dippy.

  In the coming summer, when Radha’s dad withdrew financial support having left the sound studio and apartment to wife and daughter, it was safe to say things had become deeply dippy. All eyes turned to the money invested in shit.

  Sanjay Kewalramani had said the shit was good. If so, probed a livid Radha, why was the value stuck between Oh God and Oh Fuck?

  In this, the twenty-seventh summer of his reasonably fascinating life, Srinivas Ramachandran was facing serious heat. Turned up and all. Real Sound continued to languish as a business and Radha regularly slept on her arms and knees.

  All conversation between the three in residence revolved around the fate of the smoking hot stuff. Looking sheepish no longer had the charisma it once had and that familiar feeling returned, tightening as it did around his waist.

  This dance floor is bloody murder. One bad step and they’ve shut the music. Why are they looking at their watches? Does this mean I have to leave? Oh, Phurck! This lingering dancer has nowhere to go to. He’s got to hang around. He’d ditched the party at 101, Ganga Sagar, for the one at 1603, Kohinoor Apartments.

  Time to duck? Not as yet. But what was simmering had begun to bubble over, ominously. All thanks to Mrs. Kapoor.

  Sri walked into Real Sound to find fifteen schoolgirls cackling away outside Studio Two. Minette reported that a Mrs. Kapoor had made the booking. Within seconds of his entering, Radha hurried over. Abhijeet, the client in Studio One, was complaining about the racket.

  Sri listened dutifully.

  She’s become so stiff these days. Her fingers always hover around her neck. It’s like she’s trying to free herself of the albatross she’s been lugging around, all these years.

  Before financial misappropriation could enter the conversation, Sri tried to locate Mrs. Kapoor in the four-foot-high hedge of girls. The loudest section of the hedge told him Aunty had gone to get something from the car. He waited obediently.