Eventually, however, the butterfly did peek out of this chrysalis. That’s just the way it rolls. In this case, however, what came out defied evolution. No creased wings exploded into many-coloured splendour. Quite the opposite, the butterfly had crawled back a few stages in evolution. It was this low-life that addressed the students at the Vidya Mandir College.
Sri asked the students—there were thirteen in all—to write out what they thought dubbing and voice-overs were about. The first of the proposed lectures had begun…
The cell phone fell off the speaker, a combination of being in vibrate mode and Black Sabbath thumping out ‘Trashed’, and landed on his stomach. He was spread out on the floor, an unfinished bottle of wine resting against his side. No glasses in Club Humiliation.
Groping around for his spectacles, he saw a forgotten name and answered, ‘Good afternoon, Anu.’
‘Hiya, Sri.’
‘Now that the formalities are out of the way, let’s chat like friends, like lovers, like collaborators in an orgy.’
‘You’re sounding strange. Something wrong?’
He laughed. In the manner a stallion reserves for an ass.
Not one to be bothered by nuances of animal etiquette, Anu replied, ‘Don’t know why you’re laughing. I’m sorry. I’ve been caught up with stuff. If it wasn’t for Mr. Mukherjee…’
‘Do Mukherjee’s Reminder Services handle airport pickups because—?’
‘Sri! Mr. Mukherjee is an influential guy. Talk with a little more respect.’
‘Sorry. Does the Most Exalted—?’
‘Stop it. He asked me about the lectures you have to take.’
‘Have to take? Here I am, lying on the floor.’ He swigged vindictively from the bottle. ‘And you’re telling me about lectures I have to take. I have to take nothing. Absolutely nothing! If anything, I’ve given. And been taken.’
‘You’re not making sense. Are you drunk?’
‘As a skunk. As an Old Monk. As a…’
Anu interjected but in a patient voice. ‘Listen to me, please. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. Don’t throw it away. If it works out, you’ll get what you’ve dreamt of. Your own voice-training academy.’
‘Let me call you back later. Evening, latest. I’m not feeling too sensible right now.’
As if synchronised with the cutting of the call, the floor and ceiling took their first steps towards reconciliation. The perennial presence of a whiter fuel had led to a switching of their original positions. One call changed that. Things were staggering back to pink. Cheers…
He was yanked out of his memories, back into the classroom, by the goldfish at the door. A shiny-faced boy stood, anxiously opening and shutting his mouth. He gestured using his podgy hands but beyond that matters were obscure. Professor Srinivas Ramachandran peered curiously.
‘Sir. Sir. He wants to enter,’ announced a girl from the front row.
The mystery of the gesticulating goldfish solved, it appeared the scene had sound.
‘Sorry for coming late, sir. My car got stuck in traffic. I wouldn’t ever miss a lecture like this. I love acting.’
‘Am I to condone tardiness because of your played-out juxtaposing of theatrical ardour with vehicular congestion?’
Sri’s words arrested the plump boy’s progress causing him to hover at the threshold of the classroom. The goldfish reverted to his earlier routine of reliving the silent era.
Not wanting to plummet further in his own eyes, Sri said, ‘Come in, my friend. You need to upgrade your scriptwriting. This traffic business is no longer fashionable. Just to clear the air, I can teach you how to say things but heaven help me if I have to teach you what to say.’
‘Sir, I’m not lying. I really wanted to be here—’
‘On time!’ Sri smiled in a manner he thought was encouraging. ‘Of course, you did. Now, can we move on? I sense restlessness in the ranks. Listen up. This is not an acting class. Well, not completely. It lacks the glory of frontage. This is straight forward UVW. You. Voice. Words. No six-packs, sharp jawlines or Botox.’
‘Whatever it is, sir. Thank you, sir.’
So pronounced was the gratitude on the plump goldfish’s face, Sri half-feared the class would erupt into ‘To Sir With Love’.
With the presentation of his feedback sheet, Sri became aware of his fourteenth student’s name. As in times gone by, this was promptly forgotten.
The lectures will be over before I can remember all their names.
After a short break, the students were introduced to a warm-up game where they were made to stand facing the back of the class. A student was then tapped on the shoulder. The selected student moved some distance away from the rest. The task was to imitate the voice of a character known to the class. The others had to recognise who the voice was mimicking as well as who it really was.
After ten shots at Mrs. Lata Singh the economics teacher, three at Amitabh Bachchan and one at today’s teacher, Srinivas Ramachandran, the class was called to its close.
Squaring up the balance sheet for the day, the Knight Accountant found himself more in the plus than expected. Propelled, he went for a run on the beach.
Hopefully, the road to recovery will be a little easier on my knees.
Slowing down to a brisk walk, he saw small crabs hide in their shells as he passed. He returned home, walking thoughtfully up eight floors.
Project Tiger has effed up the circuitry. I’ve been rewired. There’s no running away from that.
All fourteen students returned for the class on improvisation. After they presented their version of an ATM robbery gone wrong, plump Goldfish said, ‘Sir, I’ve attended speech and drama classes before but I’ve never had so much fun.’
‘Thank you, Goldie.’
‘Sir, my name is—’
‘You are Goldie to me. I have my reasons. Aren’t you the golden boy of this class? Your talent is obvious.’ Sri made no mention of his resemblance to a goldfish.
‘Thank you so much.’ Flushed with emotion, Goldie looked the part more than ever. ‘What are we going to do next, sir?’
‘The next session will be in a studio.’
‘Then?’
‘I really don’t know, Goldie. This is an experiment. If it works maybe your college will let me set up a voice-training academy. Let’s see how things go.’
‘I’ll join it, sir. First only.’
‘First only. Let me open it.’
The cologne was behind a pack of sanitary pads: one kept on standby as part of the services offered at 801. Halston Z-14 was strictly for mega occasions. Tonight was right up there. Courtesy Goldie. His first only interested student. Sri sprayed some on and slept like baby.
And this interested student was found the following week, seriously interested in getting into Styx. Unfortunately for Goldie, the guy at the door had fought such legal battles before and used the ‘Couples Only’ sign as ‘Exhibit A’. Faced by the demolition of his case, Goldie stood shamefaced.
From behind, came a deeb and resonund voice. Goldie’s fortunes changed. The bouncer saluted Sri and stepped aside.
‘Thank you so much. He wasn’t allowing me.’
‘I have eyes. That’s why I told him you’re with me. Anyways, have fun now.’
‘I’m alone, sir. Can I hang out with you? You’re alone, right?’
‘Alone?’
Goldie looked at Sri’s fingers. ‘You don’t look married. You’re alone, no?’
‘Single, I am. Alone, I rarely am. Pool?’
The first rack ended in four minutes with Sri slamming in the Eight ball with the back-end of his cue.
‘Sir, those two girls are looking at us. I think they want to play.’
‘You’ve started thinking, have you?’
‘Should I ask them to join us?’
‘You will do nothing of the sort. How do you know they’re looking at us?’
‘The short chick looked over her shoulder really fast. But I caught her.’ Goldie
pointed shrewdly to his right eye.
‘Right, Speedy. Stay still. If they want to join us, they’ll come. It’s bloody pool. Not an invitation to start a family.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just stay in your shoes.’
‘I get it. Cool. Right?’
‘Totally.’
Keeping an eye on the girls, Sri rattled off the next rack leaving Goldie gaping at the table, vacantly chalking his cue.
Sri was playing a few imaginary guitar chords on his cue when one of the girls asked if she could join.
One thing led to another—nothing radical there—and the four of them ended up playing mixed doubles.
Worry marked the occasion. In an effort to score big, Goldie was attempting absurd shots. Ones that rejected the laws of incidence and reflection, possibly even gravity. On top of that, he was encouraging his partner to do the same. There was also a sly smile on his face. Such cunning could be devastating to the baize. Luckily, he missed an easy 3 ball and Sri returned to the table.
The sly smile on Goldie’s face became a silent plea.
Aaah! Boys’ school! On the playground, we stand shoulder to shoulder.
Sri dropped his game. Goldie and girl won. The cunning smile returned.
After ‘well-played’s, the four players entered the adjoining smoking room. In better light, it could be seen the girls were in their late twenties. A visibly delighted Goldie flipped open a packet of Benson & Hedges and punched Sri on the arm.
‘Sri, man. How the years have passed. Remember when we were in college?’
Sri’s comeback was a look of polite enquiry.
‘College, man. Remember college?’ Goldie’s shoe pressed down informatively on Sri’s.
‘Right.’
‘Remember how we used to play pool in those days?’
A size eleven shoe was smoothly shifted out from under the weight of a heavier one. ‘Right.’
‘You haven’t improved since then, still the same. Really!’ Goldie shook his head regretfully.
‘But you’ve become really good, dude.’ Sri turned to Goldie’s partner. ‘Plays well, doesn’t he?’
Both girls agreed in a distracted way and left with three guys who’d just poked their heads in.
Dumped! Goldie’s cunning had no recourse but to leave with them.
‘You didn’t mind, na? Right, sir?’
‘No, I didn’t. But you might want to grow up a little slower. Twenty years over a cigarette is a little too much.’
Goldie’s cheeks trembled. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
The same fourteen came to the third session at a Goregaon sound studio. First up, they were introduced to Vishwas, the sound recordist. Alone and in pairs, they were given small snips of dialogue. Vishwas joined in and offered pointers. Every word spoken by the students was recorded for playback. Feedback followed.
The guest speakers, Priya and Gayatri, were next. After Sri praised their contribution to the television industry, P&G performed samples of their most popular material.
As if sharing a state secret, Sri spoke. ‘Be grateful for these priceless words from P&G. Most times, we’re lucky if we get more than a… whisper.’
Faced with a sanitary pad pun of the lowest order, P&G smiled tiredly and left just before Sri promised to drop off CD copies at college.
‘I’m feeling sad, sir. We hardly had any time.’
‘Hey, Goldie. Relax. All things going well, I’m sure we’ll work together soon.’
‘Sir, can I have your mobile number? We could go drinking or something. Like that night.’
‘Sure.’ This time, unlike outside Yasmin’s door, ten digits were shot out without preamble.
From the studio, Sri headed for Havana Hut in Versova. He had got used to their eager faces looking up to him. Now, unless he heard from Mukherjee, they were lost to him. He felt hollow, explaining the lack of quality when a girl asked him that question.
‘You see during Dussehra[104] the Indian Army needs garlands for their missiles.’
‘Okay?’
‘My company is the only weapons-grade flower supplier in India.’
‘Oh.’
That’s where it ended. The cat was running out of lives. Long Island Ice Tea in hand, she returned to her friends.
Standing at the crowded bar with one knee up on the stool, he pretended to answer work messages. And the past rolled around and became one with the present.
Across from where he stood like a flamingo, was Theresa Braganza. With her, leaning on the wooden logs that made up the U-shaped counter, was an uninterested-looking chap. Over the sound system, Human League inserted ‘Don’t You Want Me, Baby?’ into the atmo. The signs and portents were all in attendance. The Dog Star rose.
‘Hi, Theresa. Srinivas Ramachandran.’
‘Would have never recognised you. All that grey. Meet my husband, Vikrant.’
Sri packed in his song-inspired offer.
Unaware of the damage her husband had caused, Theresa addressed Vikrant. ‘I used to work for his mother.’
No mention of the exorcism in Matharpacardy!
Encouraged by this implicit swearing-in to secrecy, Sri settled in with the couple.
‘So Srinivas, what do you do? Have you joined your mother’s shop?’ Even as she spoke, there was an almost imperceptible ripple under Theresa’s skin. She fidgeted nervously with her phone and, in doing so, provided the precise direction he needed.
‘Couldn’t. Wouldn’t, Theresa. I’ve become spiritual.’
‘You and spiritual? Unbelievable.’
Che! Vikrant went from disinterested to smug.
Thinks he’s got one over me. I’ll show him.
Sri raised the ante. ‘I’ve patented a new form of yoga.’
‘Wow. That’s where the money is today,’ said Theresa, ever vigilant to the needs of the marketplace. ‘What is it, Sri?’
‘Well, it’s a form of Pranayama[105]. I call it Cellular Pranayama.’
‘Cellular Pranayama? Sounds pretty advanced. How does one do it?’
‘Give me your cell number, Theresa. I’ll call you and breathe deeply.’
Five seconds and two raised eyebrows later, Vikrant grudgingly agreed. ‘Not bad. Not bad. You almost got her. But I knew you were bullshitting.’
And with Vikrant dropping back into his original bored state, a new direction in interpersonal connectivity proved impossible.
The sensitive Theresa made amends. ‘Vikrant. They play Hindi music upstairs. Let’s go. Bye, Sri.’ She pulled her husband behind with her.
The back of the woman leaving wasn’t Theresa’s. It was the other, being led away by another man. Chanting began in his ears, announcing the departure of the empress of all three kingdoms—the past, the present and the future.
But the white plastic bag has gone into the gutter. So has… Mohina. Oh pihleeze. The truth, Srinivas Ramachandran! You wrote that revolting card. Sure. But did you snap ties because of breast size? Never mind the rhyme. For a guy so in love with his own voice, wasn’t there something effing else? If you’d just thought about it instead of becoming a poet, wouldn’t you have run back to her, tail between your legs? Like any good dog would. Screw all that! I skipped along. Didn’t I? Now I’m left turning all and sundry into Mohina.
Another bottle was called for. This time it was a Sauvignon Blanc.
It’s drier. It won’t talk back. It won’t go around spreading rumours about you, inside of you.
After the Diwali holidays, Goldie called to ask if there were any developments on the academy. The normally grandiloquent one had no answer.
Yet again, Mukherjee and Anu were moving in mysterious ways.
Sagely, Goldie reassured him. ‘In life, good things happen to good people.’
The teacher held back from counseling his student on foolish optimism and instead, fixed to meet him for a drink.
That night at The Minefield, soused up to his earlobes, Goldie confessed there was much he
could learn from the guy he was drinking with. About life. About things, you know. Sri blinked.
Given his recent batting form, one would have thought those days were past.
He blinked again.
Are they? Is it this boy who must be guided? Now that Ani has become a babymaker and right ripping genius.
Goldie’s internship began with an examination of life’s many colours, special emphasis shown to grey. Speed-learning being of essence, tutorials were conducted through the bottom of a glass. The guru relearnt stuff too, especially when it came to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs[106].
The physiological and safety shit is done with. On Tier Three, there’s love, belonging and Mohina. Tier Four has got stuff like esteem, the voice-training academy and Mohina. This bloody booze won’t let me remember what’s on Tier Five. But I’m defo it’s about self-actualisation and no shit, effing Mohina.
It’s hard not to interrupt this story with my comments. Maybe you’ve noticed, maybe you haven’t, but I’ve resisted on more than one occasion. That being said, please don’t think all this obsessive romanticising about effing Mohina is a cheap trick for me to make my presence felt. I’m only writing it the way I’m being told. I’m only distracting myself.
Goldie turned out to be an earnest guy. His only problem was his weight. The perspicacious one, however, knew there was more underneath. A little morsel Goldie was keeping aside for later. A suspicion. That’s all.
Nonetheless, the guru recognised another who wanted to climb. And extended his hand.
Towards the end of November, Goldie repeated his questions about the academy and received the same answers. In the course of the conversation, he added, ‘Sir, I’d like you to meet someone. Do you have the time?’
‘I’ll make the time. This academy is what I’ve dreamt of for years.’
‘This is not connected to that, sir. I want you to meet my girlfriend.’
‘Shit. I took another flight altogether. When do you want me to meet her?’
‘You must be Precious.’
The girl with Goldie looked up, openly confused.
Sri sat down at their table inside Café Coffee Day. ‘Why else would Goldie hang around with you?’
A Ladder of Panties Page 22
