He took another shot at the cruise ship; Mohina was back. From behind increasingly uneasy eyes, he cursed his newly repaired glasses for making him see things.
It was bar night at Bombay Gym. Sri stood on the balcony looking out at the cricket pitch and the maidan[81] beyond. To his left, Jehangir and his current girl, Delna were talking about the latest developments in the film industry.
‘You know, it makes much more sense to dub Hollywood films in Hindi, even Telugu[82] and Tamil[83],’ said Jehangir meaningfully, looking at Sri.
‘Already playing that game. The big bucks are in regional languages.’
Inexplicably, Sri could see himself padded up, ready to bat.
Delna said, ‘I don’t really care for Hindi films. They lack something. Take an Indian actress running around a tree and then Judy Garland singing ‘Over the Rainbow’.’
And Sri was in.
‘Just to prove a point, I’ll sing ‘Over the Rainbow’ for you in Hindi.’
But before Indradhanush ke us paar[84] could be crooned out, a hand slid around his waist.
‘If it isn’t the disappearing Sri, what natural disaster’s brought you to the surface?’
Brinda, the potato fancier? She’s risen out of the ground like a bloody potato. Leaving her behind in the company of rosemary and garlic hadn’t been good enough.
Being a man of impeccable social graces, he should have driven her away with a twisting of the ears. Instead, Brinda Manchanda launched into what she called The Snowball of Concern. This was what she’d planned for the coming winter.
Pretentious twaddle! Anyone who thinks Mumbai has a winter should be hauled through choppy waters and flogged on dry land with a rubber tube.
But there she was. And there they were.
‘You know, people need an outlet. Some place to blow off steam. There’s just so much happening in all our lives. Ups. Downs. Sideways. Imagine how free you’d feel if you could share your troubles, knowing you’re part of a community that listens and cares. We’re all human. This concern will only grow. My website will become a place where strangers actually connect and care for each other.’
Delna asked, ‘So people can send in money, become lovers and adopt children?’
‘Plant more trees, shut factories, have early elections,’ added Jehangir.
D and J were clearly short on time and big on précis.
‘I find that a bit crude, said Brinda. ‘This isn’t one of those communities that commit suicide together.’
Jehangir came around the bend. ‘Who said anything about committing suicide? If you want to help someone, shouldn’t you do something? What’s the point just reading stuff?’
‘To my mind, it’s a community of sensitised people who want to get rid the cold within,’ Brinda droned on.
‘Aren’t you doing just the opposite?’ Delna picked up the baton. ‘I mean if you’re cold within, the last thing you need is a snowball.’
‘The snowball is a symbol of momentum. Not the weather.’
Jehangir took over. ‘Fine. What happens once this sharing and caring takes place? What happens once you’ve got all the concern in the world? Doesn’t someone need to do something?’
‘Sensitivity is what the world needs. Without it, we’re lost.’ Brinda was running on a parallel track. In her own race. Sponsored by herself.
‘Come on. How the fuck does it help anyone? If people just ramble on about their shit, in what way is that going to improve the world? I mean, this could be completely sensitised shit and all.’ This was a race Jehangir wanted to win. A fight to the finish.
‘Action can be so unrefined. This is the Snowball of Concern. We’re not digging up roads, you know.’
And Delna guided Jehangir away without a word. The only race they were going to win was the one to the bar. Over the rainbow was where they needed to be.
Not even glancing in their direction, Brinda addressed the silently watching Sri. ‘So then, have you created waves with your voice? I remember you were doing voice-overs the last time.’
A not-insignificant part of him had been admiring her. Nothing could faze her. She just steamed on.
‘Tonnes of work. Thinking of diversifying now. I guess that explains my tear-stained pillow. Maybe I’ll join your online community and bleat about my voice-training academy.’
‘You and tears? No way. You’re always kidding.’
‘I’m not. Not now.’
He brought out something he’d been working on: a softening of his eyes accompanied by a pregnant pause. Thoughtfully, he brushed his fingers against his lips.
Good time to talk about my academy? She might be able to pull a few strings. The silence has been long enough. This is Brinda. Say something quick or she’ll burst into potatoes.
‘It’s always been my dream to teach. Help others make money using their voice. I need capital. I need investors who believe in me.’
‘You make me so horny when you look like that.’
‘I said, I need to raise capital.’
‘Come home with me.’
‘Really? You really want me to come over now?’
Momentum needed checking. Given past experience, he didn’t want to get offloaded the minute she saw some chef or steward. There was also the additional burden of having to listen to her. What was needed was an avalanche of clear intent. Else, chances were he’d be sent packing with a bloody snowball. And no action.
‘You really make me so horny.’ The avalanche roared.
En route, she made this announcement two more times. Embarrassed, Sri pulled out his glasses and started fidgeting with them. Drawing attention to them was something he avoided, but there was no other prop for the actor to work with.
She repeated herself once more. Watching the driver’s eyes in the rear-view, Sri had to, flattered though he was, change the course of the river.
‘See? My new glasses.’
He was hit. She had bridged the gap between them like a sidewinder, crushing his lips with hers. His glasses broke right down the middle upon impact with her forehead. Ignoring all else, the river ran true. Onwards to the sea.
‘You make me so horny.’
Over breakfast the next morning, Brinda declared she was going to get him the money. What she wanted was a business plan. Nothing elaborate. She had relatives overseas who were looking for investment options in India.
While waiting for the lift, he sang ‘Over the Rainbow’. Somehow he managed to insert the words—sleep and reap.
So, at close to the witching hour on this particular night, notwithstanding staring at the cruise ship and seeing mermaids, he went about putting together a proposal for the academy. He listed out the projects he’d worked on.
Not bad!
In neat boxes, the curriculum and fee structure were mentioned. Marketing plans were next. In short, in hand was a business plan Theresa Braganza would happily affix her seal to. This as requested was emailed to Brinda Manchanda.
Like with Mohina, all he got was silence.
Stop sending chicks stuff!
On the fourth day after his email, Brinda called. In a perilously cheerful manner, she asked, ‘What you doing this weekend?’
‘No breathtaking plans. Something should materialise.’
‘Come with me to a party.’
Not a squeak about the email. Where’s all the bloody concern she keeps force-feeding the world? Probably saving it for the potato growing guilds of Italy.
He held his tongue.
‘I don’t want you disappearing again, Sri. Please come, pretty please?’
‘Let me think about it. Where is this party?’
‘In Chembur. Friends of mine have a bungalow next to the golf course.’
‘No way. That’s too far.’
‘I’ve got some good news for you.’
‘You’re going to have me airlifted to Chembur?’
‘I would, really. But my father’s in this major legal battle with the aviation—’
‘I’ve got a cheque waiting for you.’
With that, Sri got airlifted to the party in Chembur. Before heading there, a call was made to his Chartered Accountant. The first investor was already kicking in the door.
Kirit Shah said serious investors didn’t hand out cheques at parties. Kiritbhai[85] was informed that business was done differently when you knew people on the inside track. Kiritbhai replied there wasn’t much he didn’t know about business. This time, he was chided for being a frog in the well. The Chartered Accountant didn’t dignify this with a comment.
Considering his admirable skill at seeing what most didn’t, Sri was certain his life was turning into a classic.
Take that Italian guy in the Divina Commedia[86]. Dante was thirty-five years old. I am one week away. He arrived in Inferno first. I am heading to Chembur. That dude had Virgil as his guide. I would have taken Kiritbhai along if he’d been a little supportive. Dante’s last port of call was Paradiso. I’m going to be sailing into Brinda’s. Literally, Siamese bloody twins!
The only variance the perspicacious mind could conceive of was that Sri’s life was longer a comedy.
People have started taking me seriously. I say I require investment and within five days a cheque is ready.
Sri knew nobody at the party. Within the hour, it was clear nobody wanted to know him. So pitchforking in Inferno having lost its allure, Sri asked Brinda if they could leave. Her prohibitively high heels combined with an always full glass of vodka weren’t reassuring. Venture capitalism having its own set of challenges, it was essential that the concerned parties stayed erect, at least until cheques were handed over. Fortunately, their exit was without calamity.
With a meaningful twang of her bra strap, Sri was shoved headfirst into one of those nights of profound anguish. He egged himself to focus on the cheque waiting at the end of the rainbow. Some way through the callisthenic routine preceding the award ceremony, he even tried his hand at homophones.
‘Check, na? Check your cell phone. Wasn’t it just ringing?’
‘Who cares! You make me so horny,’ Brinda responded.
Vengefully, she was kissed, full on the mouth. There was no other way to shut her up. When needing to come up for air, he tenderly placed his hand over her mouth.
Thus unfolded the ballet of hand and mouth, the sole aim being to prevent anything further from being said and ending when there was nothing else to be done.
While he was pulling on his jeans, she got up from the bed and entered a walk-in closet. She returned with an officious expression, a chequebook and a pen.
The first offside flag went up.
She had said a cheque was ready, but now she’s writing out one.
With every step she took, flags kept going up.
This means she is the investor. Then do the big boys abroad really exist? How much of the curriculum will be dedicated to potatoes? Damn it! At the rate these flags are going up, there are going to be twenty-two players cuddled up at the far end with no one to play against.
‘Sri, here’s your cheque.’
‘I won’t even look at it.’ Gallant as ever. ‘I’m just so grateful. Thank you for having faith in me.’
‘You know me. Anything to help people.’ Magnanimous as ever.
On the ride back home, gallantry was asked to get on its bike and the cabbie was told to switch on the reading light.
It was then, aided by his newly repaired glasses, Sri saw how his life still ran parallel to that Italian guy’s. He erupted in laughter.
The cabbie asked in all earnestness, ‘Joke kya, saab[87]?’
‘Haan bhaiyya. Abhi pad-ha[88].’
The cheque was for Rs 2000. His dharma[89] had been flung into the gutter. Sleep and reap had morphed into a rhyming word that at its complimentary best meant inexpensive.
Oh, Phurck! I’m a 2000-buck hooker.
Still, even as cheap hookers go, a thirty-fifth birthday was something to celebrate.
A shapely woman, made of acrylic, stood with a pool cue by the door of the bar called Styx. Inside, graffiti covered the walls from floor to ceiling. But if you tore yourself away from who was sleeping with whom, Jim Morrison and his unbelievably firm set of tits, why casual text inevitably led to a pun in the oven and allowed the ultraviolet light to play with your mind, things were bound to happen.
It was a Friday night. The joint was seething. The four pool tables at the back had four rectangles of bystanders around them. As the tall stand-alone speaker pounded out the opening melody of ‘Acres Wild’, Sri watched his empty glass vibrate to the bass.
‘Arre[90], Sri saab. Your glass makes you look old.’
Sri raised his head to see the bartender. ‘It’s empty, na?’ Unsure of the connection but being a bottle down, he ran with it. ‘That’s why.’
‘Not that! That one.’ The bartender pointed to Sri’s glasses. ‘Sir, if you wear it your luck might not be so good.’
Not wanting to make a big deal of singular and plural nouns, Sri asked, ‘Really? That bad?’
The guy with the pencil moustache at the cash register made an abrupt noise stanching the possibility of more beauty tips. As a matter of pride, the bartender transferred his understanding of aesthetics to the pineapple slices stored under the bar counter.
But the hit had registered. Sri took his glasses off and within seconds saw a reason to celebrate. Way, way bigger than a hooker’s birthday! In the purple murk was his surprise gift, Mohina.
Okay, not Mrs. Kapoor. The girl who’s entered is much younger. Mohina at Twenty! What a bloody gift!
He got up, nay, rose. He pulled up short.
Is my mind playing tricks again? She was in the cruise ship, turning lazily in the tide. Now bathed in purple light, my morning bride.
With every look at her, the years backed off. Like shadows receding. Another bottle of wine was ordered.
Should I send it over to her? That’s just plain old! Sway invitingly to the Jethro Tull playing? Bloody lame! Wo-ho-kay! The graffiti! Write some totally kicking stuff on the wall near her.
The pumps in his head pounded furiously.
Don’t rush stuff and end up looking like a pear. A sign, please?
There, by an iron pillar, she stood, all by herself. There he was, by the bar, all by himself. And the voices in his head.
A waiter approached her. She said something. The waiter scribbled with his left hand on a small pad.
What was that about left and right hand? One of them is inauspicious. Why can’t I remember which? She’s wearing white. The same colour I’d worn while mourning the dear departed Gopi mama. Is that a sign? Can’t be the right one.
And inspiration—like a flying fish—knifed out of the deep blue.
This is Mohina at Twenty. Nothing less than the grand design will work. There’s only one way this fish will bite. Got to separate the men from the boys. Now, to time it right. Another sign, please.
Another glass. He shut his eyes to stop Mohina becoming one with the pillar. When he opened them, he saw the waiter carrying a small Bacardi and a bottle of Thums Up. For a couple of seconds all he saw was the odd spelling, then his perspicacious eyes gleefully swooped in on the big picture.
It’s here. It’s the go-ahead. Thumbs Up. Happy birthday.
His eyes followed the raised thumb on the Thums Up bottle right up to Mohina at Twenty. She glowed in the UV light.
Draupadi[91] awaits Arjuna. No, not Draupadi. This is Uloopi[92], the daughter of the underwater Naga[93] king. I’m under wine. Thumbs Up.
Another glass was flung down the hatch. Paper napkin and pen in hand, the actor walked onstage hoping all dialogue here onwards would be between people.
‘Good evening. Pr’aps you could?’ Sri pointed to the pen and paper. ‘Iz my birthday affa all.’
‘Sorry?’ The uncertainty on her face was eerie in the ultraviolet light.
Need to explain the grand design
or she’ll think I’m a weirdo.
‘You look zactly like my girl when I was in college. She was really good at drawing, you know. Somethin’ tells me you muz be too.’
With that, he descended on the maiden bathed in purple light. Like the emperor of all pears.
‘You actually try to pick up girls by making them draw for you? This is… uhh. This is bizarre.’
He spoke slowly, stressing each word.
‘Naw trying to pick you up. Juz being friendly. She was really very good at drawing. Even painting.’
‘I’m sure she was. But I’d like to be by myself so if you don’t mind… Thank you very much.’
He rocked on his feet. The grand design wasn’t going to plan.
‘Just a sma’ figure. Anything. Iz my birthday affa all.’
The resemblance to Mohina was killing. So was her refusal to understand him.
‘Don’t think I’m being insensitive but I’m just a kid and can’t say this any better. Happy birthday, Uncle! Now, please take your tissue with you.’
Uncle? Oh, Phurck! Uncled even with the glasses off! Mohina at Twenty has asked me to skip along. This version of reality is hideous. Hope had superimposed itself. Hope had stamped out sense. Screwed if I’d worn the glasses. Totally screwed because I didn’t! The grey isn’t just in my head. There’s enough on it. Why am I so old? Why am I so drunk? Why Mohina? Why effing Mohina?
Uncle moved back to the bar counter in the manner of a rejected pear. A glass of wine materialised. The cell phone was switched to vibrate and a cigarette lit.
Red! Once again, something’s calling out to me. But, there’s no one!
For more than an hour, Uncle distanced himself from the surroundings. The needle was on the record. Sri spun right round, round, round.
Why do I keep bowing my head? Is it really my dharma to turn random kids into long-lost lovers?
Uncle stared at his glass.
I wasn’t trying to seduce the kid. What were you trying to do, then? You don’t walk up to kids and make them Mohina on the strength of a convenient cold drink. But then, neither do you send back an old ca… Stop!
A Ladder of Panties Page 18
