Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  Bunk! I was just kidding. Social Weather is not Zulmi central. I believe one hundred percent Hapur will be much better off with digital access. We have done several studies to prove it. It’s India’s urban class who gets all senti about these villages. They’ll have to give up their illusion of a simple, pure, untouched mahaan Bharat. The villagers are pretty sick of mahaan Bharat. And like the song says, ek kahani khatam to dooji shuru ho gayi mamu. Life is change.

  I wonder if that’s the problem with Vyas and me. Well, I wouldn’t call it a problem. But we aren’t exactly like we were because I have changed. I’m not the scared woman who made this huge emotional hatyachar scene at the airport when he left. That all seems so long ago. Vyas doesn’t seem to have changed at all. It’s like he never left. I guess I’m trying to say that in a way it’s like he hasn’t returned at all.

  12

  THE OLD BOYS WERE SHOCKED, SIMPLY SHOCKED, THAT ANAND HAD never donated a paisa to Mater, not once, not even for the Renaissance Project that’d been launched after Keshav the Infernal Arsonist set fire to the main building in ’97. As Anand waited for lunch ‘to be drawn’ at the Brigands Alum club—the ‘Lair’—on Janpath road in Connaught Place, he could tell the Old Boys were preparing to light a fire under his ass. First step: libations. Phirozshah gestured to the waiter, and Joshi poured them all a round of Imperial.

  ‘Joshi!’ ordered Phirozshah. ‘I don’t want these glasses to be empty. Do you follow? And get some munchies. How are the spiced prawns today?’

  ‘Fresh, sir. The chicken satay is also excellent.’

  ‘Good man. Dora-bai, two plates?’

  ‘Two should keep us going,’ agreed Dorabjee. ‘And get us some photas. Two bowls.’

  ‘I’m buggered, simply buggered.’ Dorabjee clinked his glass with Anand’s. ‘You know you have a lot of making up to do. Mater needs you, you cheap bastard.’

  ‘Sure, a few thousand rupees shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Dorabjee and Phirozshah had a good laugh.

  ‘Always was a comic, he was. Remember his dirty comics? Filthy, but funny too. Remember, Anand?’

  Of course he remembered. He’d drawn the bloody things after all. It was only yesterday that he’d been an eleven-year-old and standing in Biggie’s room, cap in sweaty hands, ears twitching, bladder begging for relief, waiting for the Senior Boy to finish reading the latest installment. One dirty comic for a fortnight of protection. Eleven pages, heavy on images, light on chatter. It was a brutal, killing schedule. But that was Biggie’s deal.

  Biggie’s real name was Gaurav, but it was traditional at ‘Brigands’ to go by a nickname. This ancient tradition was called ‘scarring’ and the yearbooks often included the ‘scars.’

  Grotty stuff, Annie.

  Anand took a sip. ‘I’m surprised you guys remember the comics.’

  ‘Oh, they kept us company. And what else was there in bloody Orissa?’ said Phirozshah. ‘Do you still draw, Annie?’

  ‘Every day in the bathroom, Fuckshaw.’

  Guffaws. Chortles. Joshi arrived with a cart bearing plates of prawns, satay, assorted munchies, and another bottle of Imperial.

  ‘What happened to the photas?’ said Dorabjee.

  ‘Sorry sir, the chef threw it all out yesterday. He said it smelled bad.’

  ‘Joshi, this is not good,’ roared Dorabjee. He was genuinely upset. ‘This is not good.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Very sorry. How about a plate of masala nachos?’

  ‘Damn it. I suppose that’ll have to do.’ Dorabjee gave in with ill grace. ‘And what is this, there’s three of us here, Joshi. Another plate of prawns.’

  ‘And get some pickles,’ said Phirozshah. ‘I didn’t think I’d have to tell you, Joshi.’

  ‘You don’t, sir. I hid these from the chef.’ Joshi smiled, removed three pickle jars from the lower shelf of the cart. ‘Please enjoy.’

  ‘Jai Bholenath! Good man Joshi, good man!’’

  ‘Pickles,’ snorted Dorabjee, amused. ‘You and your bloody pickles.’

  As Joshi left to get canapés, they dug in.

  ‘No, I don’t draw anymore.’ Anand took another sip. ‘Lost the knack, I suppose. And I didn’t really enjoy it. It was forced labour. Biggie was on my case, and I’m sure you all remember Biggie’s facefarts?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Damn the bastard.’

  ‘Scoundrel.’

  ‘Had me frig him, every Saturday.’

  ‘Heard he hung himself.’

  ‘No, no. Met him the other day in Indore.’ Dorabjee downed his drink. Runs marketing for some local software outfit. Quite grey and sober now. Even tried to apologize, the scumbag. Gentlemen, I propose we order lunch later.’

  ‘Seconded,’ said Phirozshah. ‘The Lair has a new chef. Stolen from Lahore’s Chez Nur, I heard. He’s rethinking the entire menu.’

  ‘What was wrong with the Bihari fellow?’ asked Anand, irritated.

  ‘Doesn’t the question answer itself, Annie?’

  As Dorabjee laughed, Anand resigned himself to salad. A French chef. Great, just great. Squishy, mushy food doing laps in duck fat and served in pretentious, palm-sized portions. He glanced at Ratnakar, seated at the far end of the room in a comfy duvet, legs crossed, fruit juice in hand, perusing a copy of the Coffin, the Lair’s quarterly. He had helped himself to fries and what appeared to be a cheese sandwich from the buffet. Ratnakar raised his head, one eyebrow raised, then seeing he wasn’t needed, returned to his magazine.

  ‘Wish I’d kept some of your comics,’ said Phiroz. ‘Grotty stuff, Annie.’

  Grotty! It had been the aim of his life at Brigands to secure that adjective.

  ‘Grotty stuff, Annie.’ Biggie would say, licking his lips.

  ‘Grotty’ meant Biggie liked what he’d drawn. It had taken a while for Anand to get the hang of the heavily anglicized slang at Brigands, but why the Seniors referred to porn as ‘grot’ remained a mystery. Kishore claimed it was because pornography was garbage and rot. Grot. Maybe. On the other hand, Kishore’s nickname was ‘Bampot’, meaning ‘headcase’, so he wasn’t exactly reliable.

  Some terms were clearer than others. For example, there was no doubt about what ‘plowed’ meant.

  If Biggie didn’t like his work, Anand was ‘plowed’. However, if Biggie liked his work, he’d be plowed with even more plowing. Anand had tried to complain to Biggie.

  ‘Sir-ji, I like doing the drawings, but it’s just that—’

  ‘Just what, asswipe?’

  ‘The drawings take a lot of time, sir-ji. And—’

  ‘Think I give a faggot’s tish? Manage.’

  ‘Yes, sir-ji.’

  ‘What’s for next week?’

  ‘Well, something with Appam, sir.’

  Biggie’s eye had gleamed. Appam was Aparna Nair, the popular chemistry teacher Unni-sir’s curly-haired, bra-liberated and far more popular wife. He ordered a deluxe special issue.

  Plowed: n. see Annie Dixit.

  ‘You seem a bit distracted, Annie,’ said Dorabjee. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘I was just remembering. I’m amazed any of us turned out okay. It was such a crazy place. Remember the time Bampot came to class wearing a frock?’

  They all laughed.

  ‘What you see is what you get.’ Dorabjee made a face. ‘Bampot always seemed a pansy.’

  ‘Who wasn’t?’ said Phirozshah.

  More laughter.

  ‘I know what you mean, Annie,’ said Phirozshah. ‘But let me tell you something. Everyone’s a little crazy. People may seem normal enough but it’s all a front. Take self, for example. Vice Chancellor of Delhi University! Pillar of society! Right. I used to sit for hours outside the windows of the Nursing hostel hoping to hear women getting off.

  ‘Or you, Annie. Business stalwart! Social Weather has its fingers on the nation’s pulse. But you were our Larry Flynt. I mean, those drawings. Jesus!

  ‘Or you, Dora-bai. Director-General Victor Dorabje
e. Spit and polish, what. Keeping us all safe from corruption. Right. There wasn’t a single exam paper you didn’t get a day in advance. Rank holder, my hairy ass.’

  Dorabjee slapped his thigh, roared with laughter.

  ‘Normal is just a person you don’t know well enough.’ Phirozshah tried to pour more Imperial into Anand’s glass, discovered it still full. ‘And let’s not forget our teachers. Stark raving mad, every sod one of them—’

  ‘I thought Durga-sir,’ began Anand, but before he could finish the other two broke out into jeers.

  ‘Please! Chap was crazier than the Mad Hatter.’

  ‘I’ll second that. Never understood a word of what he said.’

  ‘Oh, you had to listen,’ said Anand, unable to prevent the flood of nostalgia as he recalled how he’d first heard of Durga Dhasal’s arrival from Bampot. He’d been in the seventh standard, just five weeks into classes, finished a session with Biggie, relieved himself noisily in the ‘pots’, then headed for the Gothic dining hall for lunch. He crammed his plate with food: rotis, a wati of dahi, a wati of sambhar, soggy vegetables and a shivering white disaster that was either spite or pudding or both. Legend had it that the Maharaj peed into one dish every day, and it was customary to spend some time guessing which item on the menu had been so blessed.

  ‘Sambhar!’ Bampot smacked his lips knowingly. ‘By the by, we have a substitute Robotics instructor. From TIFR.’

  ‘What happened to Immoral-sir?’ asked Anand. Robert Morales taught Robotics.

  ‘Suicide. Jumped in front of a moving truck.’ Bampot smashed a fist into his palm. ‘Messy. Not a job for the Roomba is all I can say.’

  Anand hadn’t bothered to inquire any further. To hell with Bampot and his cheer. The only thing worth thinking about in a prison was escape. So think about escape.

  He was doing poorly in almost all the classes. English: B+, Hindi: A, Sanskrit: A+, History: A, Geography: B, Science: B, Mathematics: B+, Moral Science: A+. Terrible, terrible grades. Father wouldn’t accept anything less than an A in all subjects. But what to do? The graphic novels were taking up far too much of his time. Worse, he was running out of ideas. His clients wanted increasingly explicit grot but he simply didn’t have the experience. Who, or what, for example, was ‘the Sade’? That was what Biggie wanted him to do with Appam.

  ‘Give me a bit of the Sade, Annie.’

  Easy for Biggie to say, but he didn’t have to face Mrs Flora, the school librarian.

  Bampot had been partially right. Next morning, before closing with the Oath of Fealty, the Principal had informed the assembly that Professor Morales had met with a car accident and would be recuperating for the remainder of the term. Fortunately, Professor Morales’ friend, Doctor Durga Dhasal, a famed Computer Scientist from TIFR, had agreed to spend a portion of his sabbatical at Brigands. They were lucky to have secured so distinguished an instructor. When the Good Lord closed a door, et cetera.

  ‘I never realized I’d be tangling with Dhasal for most of my professional career.’ Phirozshah made a face. ‘He was a born troublemaker. He radicalized students, that was his hobby.’

  ‘Why did you invite him for the convocation address?’ asked Anand.

  ‘Politics, old chap. We hoped to neutralize a section of the faculty. Bloody bunch of ineffectual griefmonkeys. They won’t do anything and won’t let others do anything. I didn’t become Vice Chancellor to only cut ribbons. I intend to leave DU a better university than I found it. If it means breaking a few hearts and heads, so be it. But I still hoped we could find common ground. Dora-bai’s Cultural Affairs guy—forget his name—Vyas? Right, Vyas. He suggested we co-opt the radicals. Include them. It was a last-ditch effort, frankly.’

  ‘I did warn Dhasal, school spirit and all that.’ Dorabjee downed the last spiced prawn. ‘Join us. Stop poking the beast. But no. Poke, poke. Bloody idiot. Fancied himself a Messiah. Well, guess who got crucified?’

  ‘We all failed,’ said Anand, fiercely. ‘He was our Guru. Our Vasisht. We had a duty. It’s no use raising funds for Mater, if we forget to respect teaching or teachers.’

  Silence.

  Then Phirozshah and Dorabjee burst into laughter.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Dorabjee to Phirozshah, gesturing with his satay at Anand. ‘Our lad here is a closet Vedic.’

  ‘Up yours, Dora-bai,’ said Anand. ‘Durga-sir took Biggie off my back. I never properly thanked him for that.’

  Durga-sir had indeed been kind. He had detected something in Anand’s face, called him to his office for a talk. Anand resisted the interrogation, but when Durga-sir placed the porno comics on the desk, he’d cracked. Durga-sir seemed not to notice the tears. He asked whether Anand had told his parents about the bullying.

  No use telling Father. Father hated whiners. If he whined, Father would hate him as well. Not a criticism, just an observation.

  Father had thrived at Brigands. This is what he had written in the last email: Life is a challenge! ATTACK! Remember what Marshall Foch said!

  Yes, Anand remembered. Couldn’t forget what Marshall Foch had said since Father rarely missed a chance to Foch him: ‘My centre gives way, my right’s in retreat; situation excellent. I shall attack!’

  Durga-sir had put an end to Biggie’s bullying. Anand had never discovered how but perhaps it had been nothing more complicated than simple blackmail.

  ‘Relax Annie, get off your high horse,’ said Dorabjee. ‘We didn’t like what happened either. And you did thank the old man: you never got your comics back, did you?’

  Anand laughed. Good lord, what must have Durga-sir thought!

  ‘Yes, you can’t accuse us of not caring,’ said Phirozshah. ‘Unni-sir suffered a stroke about a year ago. A minor one, fortunately. The Old Boys stepped in, took care of him. Totally gratis of course. I went to see him. Bugger was still sharp as a tack. Quizzed me on organic chemistry. Gave me a C.’

  ‘Appam?’ said Anand and Dorabjee simultaneously.

  ‘Ah yes, Appam.’ Phirozshah smiled sadly. ‘So I’m chatting with Unni-sir and in walks this grey-haired wreck looking like she’s been on her knees scrubbing floors at Nizamuddin station. I was totally LBW’d. It’s been what, thirty years? Maybe we grew up, or she really grew old. Heard her son died in an accident. Anyway, I didn’t ask. She was a wreck as it is, you know, just exhausted—’

  ‘Tragic, tragic.’ Dorabjee sighed. ‘So how were the knockers?’

  Phirozshah joined in the laughter. ‘As liberated as ever!’

  ‘To Appam!’ They raised their glasses.

  Dorabjee shrugged. ‘We survived. We made it.’

  ‘Not all of us,’ said Anand. ‘Bampot didn’t.’

  Bampot had committed suicide in the pool. The boy had been found naked as the day he’d been born, except for the pair of ankle weights he’d stolen from the gym. Not long after Bampot’s death, Robert Morales returned to an emotional welcome from the Principal. The Princie’s joy wasn’t that Professor Morales had returned but that Durga Dhasal would now leave. His refusal to ‘let the Brigands family heal’ over Bampot’s death, the complaints from parents about his subversive mentoring, his growing influence over the faculty, his rapport with the students, his anti-bullying rants in the school’s newspaper, and his bizarre commitment to ‘decolonizing our children’s minds’ had leeched all sunlight from the Principal’s life. Durga Dhasal hadn’t gone quietly. There had been an emotional letter in the school newspaper. He had insisted on seeing all his students one last time. Anand had wept.

  ‘Now, now, none of that, Junior Dixit.’ Durga Dhasal held out a pad. ‘This is for you. It’s made from recycled paper. Each white page was made from something thrown away by someone who didn’t know what else to do with it. Fill it with a better idea. Fill it with joy. Fill it with sixty-one seconds of distance run.’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘It gets better. You hear me? Growing up is a joy. Things will get better.’

  ‘Yessir!’ Anand took the
notebook, wiped his eyes. ‘Any final gyaan, sir?’

  Durga Dhasal laughed, long and hard. ‘Come here, lad. Give me a hug.’

  ‘To Bampot!’ Anand raised his glass.

  ‘The media exaggerated,’ said Phirozshah, echoing the cheer. ‘I know there was a brouhaha, but honestly, it’s only the weaklings who couldn’t cut it. Survival of the fittest is an unfashionable concept these days but damn it, it’s high time this country had some of the Brigands spirit shoved down its throat.’

  ‘Hear, hear.’ Dorabjee thumped the table. ‘The British set the basic template, and whatever you think of those bastards, they knew how to build a nation. They studied us, broke us, and then they remade us. Screw the postcolonial twaddle. I, for one, am grateful.’

  ‘Heard the world’s best postcolonial joke?’ asked Phirozshah.

  ‘Do tell.’ Dorabjee leaned back in his chair.

  ‘An Englishman walks into a bar. The Indian bartender says, sorry, we don’t serve your kind in here. The Englishman loses his cool. You bastard, he says, we fucked your motherland for two hundred years. The Indian says bhenchod, you may have phucked our motherland for two hundred years, but we will phuck your mother tongue forever!’

  ‘Good old Brigands,’ sighed Dorabjee. ‘Good times and bad, Mater made us who we are, didn’t she?’

  ‘True dat.’ Anand raised his glass, and took their ribbing with good humour.

  ‘Anyways,’ said Phirozshah. ‘It’s up to us now to take care of the old cow.’

  ‘So this is where I get spatchcocked, I’m guessing,’ said Anand.

  More guffaws.

  ‘Spatchcocked!’

  ‘Haven’t heard that one in a while.’

  ‘Yes Annie, this is where we spatchcock you. Considering you’ve managed to keep your legs crossed all this time, it’s going to be bloody. Look, even Fuckshaw here gave ten lakhs. And he’s practically living on the streets.’

  ‘I say,’ bleated Phirozshah. ‘Ten lakhs is nothing to sneeze at.’

  ‘Annie probably spends more on toilet paper. First of all, we want you on the board.’

  ‘Done. Time’s really tight because of some new projects, but when Mater calls who can say no. Dora-bai, sign me up. And Fuckshaw, send me the fundraising targets and where things are yet. I won’t let Mater down.’