Falling back on old strategy, there was little percentage in remembering the names of individuals engaged in coupling.
Like bread, names get stale.
First impressions being what they were, it was not of insignificance that Precious was plump.
Was that why this mouthful was held back?
Goldie grasped Sri by the hand. ‘This is the gentleman I was telling you about. He doesn’t call me by my name also. That’s why he called me Goldie now. I was the golden boy of his class.’
‘Oh. I di... didn’t know what was going on.’
‘So, Precious, how long have you guys been going around?’
Precious’s face lit up. ‘Since junior college, sir.’
With all the sangfroid of a sir with love, Sri tilted his head towards Goldie. ‘Why is she calling me sir? Move the letters around. You’re allowed, you know.’
‘Come on, sir. We can’t call you Sri.’ Goldie was all earnestness. Cheeks trembling.
A recent occurrence came to mind. It was ignored out of deference to Goldie’s rather unique collection of memories.
‘Of course, you can. This isn’t a classroom. Anyways I insist. If you don’t’—a finger was wiggled in Goldie’s face—‘I’ll be forced to take the matter up with your parents.’
There was a sharp rush of breath and Precious grabbed Sri’s finger.
‘Please, sir. Don’t, sir. Sorry, sir. Sorry, Sri. Our parents don’t know.’
Riiiiight! The masala of this curry called love. If only things could stay the way they were. If only they didn’t lead to others.
‘Precious, I may require that finger back. It’s part of a set.’
Self-conscious apology followed and talks moved on to college life. With this familiarity of territory came raging against the establishment and soon enough…
‘Sir, you don’t think like an old person. My parents would never talk like that.’
A mocking eye turned upon Goldie. ‘Old? Shall we go for a run? I’ll show you exactly how old who is.’
Precious was quick to respond. ‘Run? Don’t think he’ll be able to.’
Goldie returned serve. ‘What about you, haan? You think you can run or what?’
Not entirely comfortable with this spur-of-the-moment athleticism, Sri cut in. ‘Hey. Stay cool. You guys are just getting too… whatever. Just stay cool.’
But Goldie was switched on. ‘What do we do to lose weight, sir? You look in good shape. Do you have a six-pack?’
Is that what these two think? Bloody hell! This is my dream audience.
‘Simply put, there are no shortcuts. You have to exercise. Play sports. Run. And no, I don’t have a six-pack.’
‘Will you help us become fit?’
‘Sure. Let’s start in January. New year. New beginning.’
I can’t remember their names, but I’m offering to get them into shape? January is some time away. Hopefully, they’ll back out.
Sleep didn’t come that night. Pretty much like Priti Patel and affiliated panties at that party, donkey’s years ago. Repeated adjustment and strategic relocation of his six feet of real estate too met with negative results. Being a thinking man, he tried to get to the bottom of this unease. It took no more than a second. The answer stared him in the face. It’s just that he didn’t have the guts to say it out.
Precious looks so much like Mohina. A plumper version but Mohina all right. Oh, Phurck!
His eyes exploded in panic. Gawping into the darkness, he saw the whirl within spin itself into a singular thought. He was mad.
Hadn’t Yashika called me that? But that was romantic slush. This is the real thing. Totally and irreversibly insane. This is flipped nose over toes—that’s how it goes—for all shows.
Not one to go four legs up without a fight, he brought in the 360. An explanation would be found. There had to be one. It descended slowly and revealingly, a series of reverse silhouettes on a curtain of darkness. Project Pregnant Tiger being just the latest in a long line. Nothing is as it appears. Not with Srinivas Ramachandran.
Precious' face slipped off Mohina's. Mohina’s face moved off Project Tiger’s.
13. grace and greys
He was brushing his teeth when his eyes welled up. He blamed this on lack of sleep. It was only when the tears reappeared that he realised he was crying. So began his thirty-seventh birthday.
Not sure why he had tears in his eyes, he entered the living room. Flipping open a magazine that lay on the bar counter, he gave his eyes something else to do.
The article was on bra sizes. Using Thirty-Seven as an example, it said odd sizes weren’t made.
Thirty-Six? Thirty-Eight? Step back? Move on? There’s no present for the kid astride a missile. That Mukherjee hasn’t had the shame to call. Bastard must have backed out. My dharma can go take a walk. Like a penguin on the tip of an iceberg.
It was only after the Goldie and Precious fitness programme began that the pink shone out of the grey.
This is teaching, too. In its own special way, dharma has found sir.
Using tips from Ani and what he could remember from school, a workout for the couple was put together. Two developments followed. After three weeks, a fatigued Precious dropped out. Three months later, a dedicated Goldie looked alarmingly different.
Conventional wisdom is clear about things happening. It stresses their reproductive qualities. When things happen, they lead to other things. Sometimes even fourteen of them!
One, Goldie became the kind of guy who insisted on checking out his reflection on any surface. Two, recognising rising talent, girls lost no opportunity in checking him out. Three, this checking out and being checked out led to the formation of a society of mutual admiration. Four, having none of the above benefits of exercise, the plump Precious found herself minus a boyfriend, more often than not. Five, uninspired by the mental picture of a lioness licking her wounds, Precious made a few calls to find out what her fit boy was up to.
Six, as the investigative noose tightened, Goldie confessed he kept his phone on silent while exercising. Seven, a new direction in interpersonal connectivity came about as Precious targeted the mastermind behind this crime wave—the coach and trainer, Srinivas Ramachandran. Eight, many a time, calls made to Sri found him not in the company of Goldie. Nine, Goldie and the Game became the new spiral. As the frequency of a missing Goldie coupled with ignored telephone calls rose, Goldie and the Game achieved critical mass. Ten, by virtue of being the man on the spot (or call), Sri became the sounding board for Precious’s hurt outbursts.
Eleven, the Knight Accountant decided to have a word with Goldie and during a jog along Carter Road mentioned his hopes, centred as they were on Goldie’s not playing around with other fillies. Twelve, Goldie’s reaction to Sri’s hopes went unrecorded as he stopped abruptly, having just remembered dropping his face towel. Thirteen, given the rigorous demands of the fitness programme and the essential nature of the coach and trainer, Sri did not bring up this topic again. Fourteen, many an evening passed with Sri making soothing sounds to Precious while she remained certain that Goldie was cooing elsewhere.
Sri was torn. Ripped in half, like a bill at 101, Ganga Sagar.
But who am I to talk? Goldie is only twenty. Not some bleeding uncle. And come on! At about the same age, did I not author that most sensational farewell card?
Shattering the senselessness of her repeated mention, the phone rang. It was one of the two numbers that had, of late, become familiar.
‘Got a minute to spare? Need to tell you something.’
‘What’s up?’
Goldie clicked his tongue. ‘I couldn’t take it anymore. I broke up.’
‘Take what? Oh, Phurck! How did she take it?’
‘You know how chicks are. She cried. She said I was doing something really stupid. You know man, all that you’ll never get anyone better than me stuff. I stuck to my plan.’
A man with a plan! Years ago, another man had come up with a plan.
<
br /> Goldie’s tone turned brighter. ‘Now I can check out the real scene like you. You know? Other chicks and all.’
‘Right.’
Absolute poetry! These fabulous men and their plans. Mohina too flat. Precious too plump. Dumpity-dump. Dumpity-dump.
Almost grumpily, Goldie said, ‘You don’t sound happy.’
‘I know both of you. Precious doesn’t have many friends. She keeps a lot of stuff inside. Chicks like that do stupid things.’
‘Like what? Suicide?’
‘I don’t know. Forget I said anything. Stay cool.’
A pleading nasality entered Goldie’s voice. ‘Will you call her and check, please?’
‘Of course. Straight away. Bye.’
Sri did. She didn’t pick up.
He poured himself a glass of wine and waited. Another half hour passed. Another call. Still nothing. Another glass of wine. The phone rang. It was the perpetrator of the crime asking if the victim had recovered.
The fourth glass of the evening was raised. The Doves were singing about being broken gently. When the phone rang this time, it was the other number.
‘Hi, Sri. You called?’ Her voice was measured.
‘Yes, I did. You okay?’
‘I’m standing in front of a mirror.’
‘And…?’
‘Tell me. How ugly am I?’
Not half as ugly as the heavyweight who walked out lighter by twenty grand; not half as ugly as the blinking idiot who repeatedly confuses his face with his arse.
‘Listen, Precious. You aren’t ugly.’
‘Don’t lie. You’re trying to be a teacher. I told you I’m standing in front of a mirror. Say it… Ugly enough to be dumped?’
‘Don’t talk like that. You’re a beautiful person.’
‘Beautiful person? What a joke! You don’t even remember my name.’
‘Precious. That’s what you are to me, you silly girl. That’s what you’ll always be. Now please. Tell me—’
‘Tell you what? That I’m fine? That I’m fat but fine. My boyfriend’s left me but hey, that’s just a fat slice of a fat girl’s life.’
He welcomed her explosion. His own lines were sounding too played out.
Does she think I’m a phoney? Because I’m not! Really, it’s this stupid phone. Stop it, dude. The time for rubbish puns has long since left the hotel. But it’s not a pun. Surely, phoney comes from the fact that a voice on the phone sounds fake when compared to one in reality. Have you gone fucking mad?
‘That’s no way to think. You’ve got so much ahead of you…’
Stop lying!
He left his prophecy dangling.
‘Wrong. I’ve got so much on me.’
‘Stop that. Self-pity helps no one.’
‘I’m not a fool. I think I know the difference between self-pity and the truth.’
‘Would you like to meet and talk? I’d like to.’
‘No, I don’t. Thanks, but I don’t.’
With that, the relationship counsellor gracefully withdrew his head from the brick wall it was currently embedded in.
‘Call me if you want anything. I’m here for you.’
There was just no escaping how phoney it all sounded.
‘Thanks, Sri. Good night.’
She called again at 11. And cried. And cried. He listened without saying a word. Doing nothing. Concerned in a snowballing kind of way.
Then, he called Goldie.
By the sound of it, my call has interrupted dancing in the streets. How can I ask him to get back with her?
‘Don’t worry. All’s cool,’ Sri told Goldie.
Goldie replied, ‘Fuck. I’m good-looking.’
Sri said, ‘Cheers.’
Freed from the prison of adolescent love, Goldie was like an elephant in musth[107]. In the twelve weeks after canning Precious, Goldie had been sighted with at least five different girls and always under lighting conditions that promoted anatomical curiosity.
August came around. So did Precious. Her conversations with Sri had steadily broadened, covering topics other than the one. Though he hadn’t seen her in months, he felt she was moving on if not actually skipping along.
‘I’ve hidden something from you.’ Precious smiled into the phone.
Sri laughed into his. ‘Really, now? I thought I knew you inside out.’
‘When can we meet?’
‘Meet? Oh-ho no. I thought I was a leper.’
‘You know you aren’t. You’ve always been there for me.’
‘Funny, I’ve been there. And you’ve been here. And we ain’t had no time to drink that beer…’
‘Which beer?’ Precious was nonplussed.
‘Nothing. Just a song about running.’
Still puzzled, she continued. ‘You’re running from something?’
‘Running and me? No way. You’re the one who’s been hiding stuff.’
She ended all confusion. ‘Meet me.’
‘Smooth.’
He was across from Granth on Juhu Tara Road, drinking coconut water, when a taxi pulled up. She smiled from the backseat.
Shy? Why?
The backdoor opened as if all would be revealed, slowly. To the experienced stagehand, it was right here that audiences clutched at their armrests.
The black pump stepping out of the cab moved as if through reality-coloured jelly.
Too much tension! Something’s going to happen.
Sri shielded his eyes from the sun as he crossed over. It was lowering itself slowly into the sea.
Precious stepped out.
‘Ta-ra! What do you think?’
‘Nice. Haven’t seen you in so long. Nice.’
‘Nice? Is that all?’
‘For the moment. I’m not at my smoothest while on the roadside. I generally work with atmo. You’ll agree one beggar and a traffic cop about to pounce aren’t exactly…’
‘Okay. I’m here. And we have time to drink that beer. Did I get that right?’
Sri nodded and lowered his eyes.
Even as it explains the general lack of speed and mobility, the fit of her jeans worries. This feeling is so familiar. I’m missing something. And it’s bound to be right where it normally is. Right fucking in front of me!
They walked alongside the setting sun in the direction of the Sea View cafe. Slowly. The atmo went about its business. Monsoon sky, sun going down, Kingfisher beer and…
The beer arrived.
‘Cheers. Simply lovely to see you, Precious.’
Why does everything I say sound so played out?
From over the fizz of her glass, Precious replied, ‘You, too. Cheers.’
The sun went down. Both of them took long pulls.
‘What do you think?’ Her legs stretched out alongside the table. ‘Oh come on, Sri. Say something.’
Clueless, he hobbled along. Like a rat in front of the 6 o’clock Virar Fast.
‘Two of them… Lovely. One on either side. Wow.’
‘So lame! Couldn’t you come up with anything better? With all the fitness training you’ve been giving, I thought you’d bid me run that I may…’ Precious left the rest unsaid. The challenge was implicit.
‘Strive with things impossible? Et tu, Brute[108]? You’ve been doing some reading. Shakespeare and all.’
The Roman forces stand poised, ready to conquer Juhu Beach in the name of classical literature. This strip of land too will be annexed in your name, empress of the white plastic bag and bloody Shakespeare!
If this is how much you think of me, why did you run away? Why, you idiot?
‘Started with Julius Caesar. It’s the shortest of his plays. I had so much time on my hands.’ Precious attacked her beer with a vengeance. ‘You’re not the only one who knows stuff about running. Brutus was there before you.’
Sri laughed sadly.
Of course, I’m not the only one. That idiotic farewell card might have understandably led to another interpretation. The long-spun tale though was somethin
g else. I hadn’t run away from you. No, you most magical creature! It had as much to do with your flat chest as pillows and debt. You were everything I wanted to sound like. You were everything I wanted. Dreamt of. But being with you also showed me how far away I still was. I had to be the voice, Mohina. I hadn’t run away, woman. I had crept away. Scared as shit of becoming an echo. Howling away near the gutter. Pull back, idiot. Precious is trying to make a point.
‘So what is this thing you’ve kept from me?’ He asked.
The sea rolled in, crashing and thrashing.
Two questions came right back. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see?’
‘No. I can’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
The beer was trifling with his patience.
Better stick with ‘Grace Under Pressure’.
‘Really, Precious. I’m all at sea.’
‘I’ve been exercising. Can’t you make out?’
‘Oh.’
‘I would have never got into these...’
‘Right.’
‘You still haven’t said what you think.’ Her eyes widened. Expectant.
‘I was wondering why everything looked so tight.’
‘Tight? Is that what you think? Fuck! You don’t think I’ve lost weight. That’s it, right? I’m still fat. Aren’t I? Still fat.’
Oh, Phurck!
A tear rolled down her right cheek. He stared dumbstruck, rendered speechless. And that beloved vetaal climbed all over Raja Vikrama.
This is like what happened with Yashika, that night by the railway tracks. Once again, some poor kid got it in the neck.
Sri’s lower lip quivered. ‘Are you nuts? Crying and all. You were so happy a few seconds ago. Now you’re throwing all that away because of some silly misunderstanding.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You said exactly what you wanted to.’
The fiend within beckoned to greys under pressure. Opening with white lies.
‘Oh, please. I’ve always seen you in loose clothes. How was I to know you’ve gone in for a new look? You can’t blame me for that.’
Light lies.
‘In the first place, I’m seeing you after so long. That too, without my glasses…’
‘Seriously? You mean that? There is a difference?’
Right lies.
A Ladder of Panties Page 23
