✽✽✽
Throbbing music and young laughter hung in the air as the lift passed the second floor. Sri turned to face the mirror inside.
✽✽✽
A new marketing campaign was devised: lounging in bars and nightclubs pretending not to want what he was dying for.
It was at a bar called The Minefield that first contact was made under the new banner. This was running up to his thirty-first birthday.
Brinda Manchanda. Oooph! Her arrogance, perfume and emotionless eyes. This was the real thing.
He offered her a light. Standard procedure. One thing led to another. Still, standard procedure.
‘Though my family owns—’
The cell phone rang at the moment Sri’s bottom reached the edge of his seat. Bosom heaving, he picked up.
‘Listen, there’s this chick called Tejasvini. She’s the head of some TV outfit. I don’t know exactly. She’s willing to meet you. Might even have a job for you. Get your arse over to Juhu. Take the address down.’
‘But I’m—’
‘Screw whatever you’re doing. This chick is it. Go. Fast.'
Still staying with standard procedure, Arjuna listened to the lord. Not before getting Brinda’s number, though. There was still the incomplete business of what her family owned.
✽✽✽
His eyes were black and sincere. The grey circles around both irises were something else. If one were to ignore the spreading grey, his hair was an honest black too. Man was blurring to dog.
✽✽✽
The meeting with Tejasvini was the opening night to a set of performances, staged behind the curtains.
Over a pitcher of beer, Sri explained he’d run a sound studio for three years but was really keen on turning creative.
‘What exactly do you have in mind?’
And he was back to doing the 360. Exactly like at the Liberty Gardens Hotel.
Of all the effing things, why didn’t I prepare for this trick question?
‘My idea is a mother-child show.’ He stopped to check her reaction.
The mother and child who’d provided that burst of inspiration were crossing the road across from where Tejasvini and Sri sat.
‘A mother-child show, you said.’
And their battle with the oncoming vehicles was approaching the heroic.
‘Yup, you know’—a red Maruti screeched and swerved around the pair—‘a show that makes them compete against other pairs.’
The peanuts and matchsticks on the table were brought into the weaving of the spell. Using paired peanuts as contestants and matchsticks as stages, a seven-tiered competition engaging the intellect and physical strength of mom plus kid was outlined. Some peanut pairs travelled along the matchstick grid. Others fell by the wayside.
Feeling an eerie attraction for these competing peanuts, Tejasvini found herself asking, ‘Should we get some more beers and talk where it’s quieter? By the way, I don’t know if anyone’s told you but you’ve got a great voice.’
‘I stay in Opera House. Do you want to come over?’
Please. No. The goddess of all things fishy won’t take kindly to matchsticks and peanuts on the chrome-plated trolley. Throw in a woman and beer and this meeting of media moguls would become a blood bath.
‘And…thanks. About the voice.’
‘Opera House! That’s too far. Why don’t we head over to mine? It’s much closer.’
They hurried home to her home. Hari Om[79]. Once the seven stages of the show were sufficiently explored, they moved onto a pilot show of another kind, with two contestants.
In the morning, promptly at 9, Anirudh called on his cell phone. On the status of the interview, Ani was informed it was still underway.
‘Still? But that place shuts at 1. Where can she…?'
‘At her place.’
‘Ehn? You mean?’
‘Exactly.’
✽✽✽
The nose was friendly. Not long enough to be intimidating nor so small as to be reticent. Yes, it was a friendly nose. It worked well with his feminine lips. Taken together, they did their best to hide all the stuff he'd taken on his chin.
✽✽✽
The upshot of that interview was a series of meetings with people in television. One woman connected Sri to somebody senior in advertising. Nothing ever came of the TV show for mother and child. It didn’t need to.
He’d been thrust through the front door of the advertising world. All that was needed was he stay in without being pushed out the window.
Sleep and reap. This is the way to play it.
Soon after, he was the voice of a rapidly rising executive in search of a home loan.
Unable to get her out of his head, a call to Brinda followed. She suggested they meet for lunch at The Ambassador. After agreeing most vociferously, Sri called Anirudh and put in a request for bucks. This time he offered to return the money.
Before that day, if he had been informed that some women were capable of mercilessly droning on about themselves regardless of whether such droning had been requested, said informer would have been asked to shut it.
During that fateful lunch, Sri was forced to reconsider his former political stance. After hearing of her family’s and personal business interests in cotton and other natural fibres, he had then been stuck, shoulder deep, in philanthropic acts across the remotest possible locations in India.
In her eyes, it was only her family and self that stood between the have-nots and firefights in the streets. In his eyes, a malicious cloud raining self-propaganda had broken over his head. He sat there plucking at iceberg lettuce, getting wet.
It was only when the Italian chef came to enquire whether everything was buono[80] that traffic was directed along another route. Sri was then yanked out from the commendable deeds of the Brinda and family enclosure and flung headfirst into the understated ecstasy of roasted potatoes in rosemary and garlic.
Done the way only Italians can!
Brinda’s hands made their way to Giuseppe’s waist. From there, they voyaged upward to the neckline of his apron. Watching Brinda fawning over the Italian chef raised a simple question.
Why am I bowing my head?
A little figurative but there it was. She had made him bow his head. No getting around that. The same question would return later and pose tantalisingly for him.
Brinda prefers Italian potatoes to me. Loser!
So when Brinda followed Giuseppe into the kitchen for an itsy-bitsy peek at Magic Central, Sri settled the bill and left with head held reasonably high.
Brinda called that evening as if nothing had happened and asked him over for dinner. He said he was busy and crossed out her name from the updated sleep and reap list; then he added it back with extravagant question marks.
It’s the bloody heat. The good chicks have crept back into their caves leaving the potato fanciers to roam the earth. Wait for the rains and they’ll come out to dance. Until then, whatever’s served will have to be worked with. Without bowing my head.
He lit a cigarette and watched the glowing tip. Red.
Something, yet shapeless, was forming in the smoke. He thought he could hear his name. And red! The vetaal leapt once again onto Raja Vikrama’s back.
✽✽✽
The lift stopped at the fifth floor. No one entered. His phone rang. A hurried female voice offered him a personal loan. His voice was inviting even as he refused. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he blinked. Long and slow.
✽✽✽
On the chrome-plated trolley in the living room lay a wedding invitation. He had opened it. Minette Fernandes weds Warren Pineiro. He didn’t read any further. Warren couldn’t be the name of the Set Animal. Minette, the receptionist, had found herself a Warren.
Oh, Phurck! Lesbians don’t go in for Warrens.
His handling of the Set Animal affair had been nothing short of a mega cock-up. He’d kicked in a door that wasn’t even there.
If those bloody inv
estments hadn’t broken even, I’d have been like a bonded labourer. Like?
The period of respectful distance had come to an end and the magic with elastic had commenced once more. Observing her second pup was yipping happily and would not be found dangling from a fan; the performance had been scaled back up to the standards of yore. He was omega and the tomatoes red, ripe and all.
‘Is this how any grown man behaves? Are you a man at all? Coming home whenever you want? At least if you had a proper job, I could understand. 1 o’clock, 2 o’clock, 4 o’clock. What do you think you’re up to? This is my house, Sri. Not yours. Don’t treat it like some bloody hotel. Because if you do, I promise, I too, will do something.’
The above monologue was from the mildest of late-night discourses on time. The level of profanity in the others was enough to make a fisherman giddy. Still, her closing promise was from the grey zone. Dreadful things happened there.
Besides, penguins are essentially flightless birds. Even if granted the power of flight, this one knew nowhere to fly to. Faced with hostile climatic change, it was already doing all it could which was… blink.
After all these years, he was still no closer to understanding her obsession with time or why his being a man was so linked to it. But this formed the fundamental premise of many a lecture. The ice under his feet was wearing thin. Beneath, in the freezing water, were things that ate penguins.
✽✽✽
Pooja, the girl on the sixth floor, shouted she wasn’t going to be in for the night. Sri heard her heels as they clattered on the stairs. The lift climbed higher.
✽✽✽
Any experimentation, whatsoever, with the time line yielded horrible results. Dad would be woken up by Mom and shouted at for drinking and ogling at naked girls, emphasising for the nth time, this wonderful lady’s ability to connect anything to anything. Thereafter, management-led enumerations of Sri’s shortcomings would commence, recreating the magic of times best left forgotten.
Unlike the standard variety, with the passage of time, this elastic only kept getting tighter. The curious nature of his system for personal advancement wasn’t one designed for explanation, especially to a masala manufacturer. How was one to tell her staying out meant getting in? A clarification such as this would only result in a flight of household goods. Into the gutter.
As a concept, this lounging in bars might not be the prescribed route to glory for the working classes. But it worked for Sri. He hadn’t had to shuffle into some office and beg. Over a glass of vodka or beer, he chatted. Friendly like. Intelligent like. If the recipient of his attention commented on his voice even obliquely, matters had been taken to the next level. Plus, these efforts had been targeted. He didn’t hit any old bar. Only the right ones had been nailed.
It ran its own time but he managed some movement. There was an advertisement on radio followed by one on TV that came about in The Minefield. Hard on their heels were two wildlife documentaries. Women in air-conditioned offices and equally cool bedrooms had started to talk about him. But the leash was short. He had to get back home. On time!
Now or hadn’t he learnt anything at all, felt his mother, Sri should know the value of time. Hadn’t he wasted enough of it on that singer girlfriend of his? Didn't his mother dedicate every minute to the welfare of this family?
Intriguingly, his troubles didn't end at wasting time. His mother had added one more to the list of crimes against the city of Thebes. Sri was also guilty of not returning home at the promised time. He was shaming the family on two whole counts. Wasting time as well as not living up to his word. Ergo, Sri was not a man.
Upon being shorn of his masculinity, the irreverent intellectual’s stance was consistent. He hitched up his panties, held back all ripostes, and expressed profuse gratitude for the roof above his head.
She's given me the door key. How can I ever forget her munificence?
However, it came with a price. Get back before 9 pm during the week and midnight on weekends!
For a man in his early thirties, eager to make up for lost time, the introduction of this law came as a bit of a setback. Not completely unexpected but nonetheless chilling.
No doubt, healthy sleep being what it is, this reform did have its merits. It presented a few concerns, though. Conversations had to be terminated midstream or planned in a manner that they ended in sync with the hour hand. Then came the no small matter of legging it to a cab and breasting the tape before things were flung. The diabolical hot water was back. Rising up to soak his panties.
Returning on time from his career-advancing trips was beginning to, disastrously, assume greater significance than actually staying on. If he had to sleep around to drum up business, wasn’t it implicit that he be around to sleep with? Not at home, tucked up in bed.
His problem was horizontal, the solution vertical. On the x-axis was a glowing complexion from a good night’s sleep. Remaining broke lay further along in the same direction. Coming in with the morning milk was on the y-axis. This was where the bucks were.
✽✽✽
One floor away from where the spoils of the night are transferred as if by conveyor belt from front door to bedroom.
✽✽✽
It was a much-rehearsed scene. Based on the hour hand, Sri stayed on or promised to spend the whole night, next time around. On this occasion, it was a well-known ad film director and it was nearing midnight. On his way back to 101, Ganga Sagar, he sang.
‘I’ll be selling insurance when she comes, (when she comes)
I’ll be selling insurance when she comes, (when she comes)
I’ll be selling it in on TV; I’ll be selling it in on TV
I’ll be on TV before that night comes, (if it comes).’
From cab to compound to the steps leading to 101, Ganga Sagar, the song went on. He even sang under his breath while at the door.
Weird. We-bloody-ird! I’ve put the key in. It’s opened the lock. Why isn’t the bloody door opening?
He stopped singing.
Through the door, like the ticking of a bomb, could be heard the clicking of knitting needles. His mother had bolted the latch from inside. She'd fulfilled her promise.
Stretching himself out on the landing, he watched the thin line of light under the door and wondered.
How many men in this big wide world find themselves locked out even as they hold the key in their hands?
A night spent on the hexagonal, blue tiles of the landing was enough to make the indoors irresistible. This, in turn, led to a few sessions on the black plastic bathing stool. After assessing the situation objectively, Sri concluded that looking piteously into the bathroom mirror was no solution. The winged dragon was too powerful. This matter would have to be referred to a higher power.
Anirudh brought out the short stuff. ‘There is another option—‘
‘What exactly would that be?’
‘Stop whining! Come stay with me.’
‘For how long? You have a wife and daughter. I’m truly fucked.’
‘Buy yourself a pad then. You’re making enough money now, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t think I can foot the entire EMI.’
‘Can you go halves on the EMI?’
‘What if things fall apart?’
‘No wonder you like playing pool.’
‘What? Oh, I see.’
The reference wasn’t lost. Balls and all.
‘Think about it, Sri. Tell me if you want to buy a flat. I’m there for you but I’m not going to grow a pair for you.’
Thus 801, Shradhanjali, off Juhu Tara Road, came to be. Eight floors up. Accessible by lift, stairs and a ladder put in place by Anirudh. Paid for by the word of a mechanic. And the voice of a cartoon.
✽✽✽
Slipping off his jacket, Sri opened the door to his apartment. Girls sometimes commented on the absence of ceiling fans. They were informed things would never be that bad. Accepting that fans or the lack of them was not what they’d dropped in for, they wai
ted to be shown other sites of interest. Like the cruise ship in the bedroom: Sri’s bed. It was into this that he leapt. Alone. Sleep had been rather interrupted in Lonavala.
10. heads are not meant to be bowed
The divorce papers would read mutually irreconcilable differences. My rebound marriage was over. That September, Aahaana and I returned to my father’s house.
There was a package from Sri, waiting for me. It was the purple and green card I’d made for him. Inside was written—this is too good to be wasted on someone like me.
It was piteous and grasping. Horribly stagey! I couldn’t bring myself to respond.
Unlike its predecessor the farewell card, Sri’s parcel of hope achieved nothing.
She’s Mrs. Kapoor with daughter and all. What did I think I’d achieve by sending a parcel to her father’s house? Why do I keep lining up award after award for best-in-class idiot?
Thank heavens, he didn’t know I was divorced. Who knows what else he’d have done.
He had been dead certain, riding on the success of the first card he’d sent her. His second effort, however, had fallen ridiculously short. The reward was silence of the pin drop variety.
It was late at night. The hour hand hovered around the 12 o’clock mark. He had been putting together a business plan and…
Mohina at Colaba cross-faded into Mohina at Nepean Sea Road; the cards she sent him fanned out: abstract art, sketches, watercolours, oils and charcoal; the fragrance of jasmine and lilies wafted in; older Mohina walked out of Real Sound and entered his room. In his bed, she pulled a sheet around herself, turned over and smiled sleepily.
He blinked.
Returning to his worktable, he took a breath and jerked his head back. The night was back to normal.
She’s not there. She was never there. Insanity postponed. Hari Om!
The business plan was for an institute to train youngsters in speaking for radio and television. It wasn’t a new idea. Radha had come up with it during the days at Real Sound. Unfortunately, her business partner at the time had got sidetracked into writing haikus.
A Ladder of Panties Page 17
