by Anil Menon
‘Oh fuck. You talked with the wife?’
‘No, it’s not her fault. I’ve changed my mind. This is not right for me.’
‘Course it is all right. It’s harmless fun.’
‘Yes and no. It’s okay for you, you’re a bachelor. But my Father, I remember Aayi waiting for him, gents’ night after gents’ night. Just a memory, not a criticism or anything. Plus I have forty-eight thousand ladies working for me. Wives, daughters, sisters. You understand?’
‘Fuck.’
‘Sorry to upset your plans.’
‘Hey, Anand, c’mon. It’s all right. I admire your principles. Really. Plus I asked for it with all the wife talk. I knew it, I knew it.’ Eshwar Pillai sucked his knuckles. ‘Do you need your man Ratna? I’ll make sure he’s dropped back in time, safe and sound, ready to serve the moment you get up. I hate going alone.’
‘Sure, sure. That’s okay. I’ll need him in the morning though. Ratnakar?’
As if Ratnakar’s decision were a simple matter of yes or no. Then there was the money angle to be settled. Eshwar wouldn’t hear of Ratnakar spending his own money. Anand wouldn’t countenance the idea of his man under an obligation to anyone other than himself.
The ride back to the hotel was quiet. At the Leela, as Anand got out of the Lexus, Eshwar got out as well. He had a very intent expression. ‘Listen brother Anand, before I forget, about that friend of yours. I was flippant. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh please,’ said Anand, with a little laugh. ‘I was hoping to help, that’s all. Not your problem.’
‘Tell him we’re all only approximately male and female. I estimate I’m about ten-percent woman. Yes. I’m proud of it. Also, cock and pussy and nipples, it’s all made from the same damn erogenous tissue. Just shaped in different ways, that’s all. Your friend and his wife can still pleasure each other—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Anand could feel the blood rushing to his face. Horribly embarrassing. He coughed. ‘Kama Sutra and all that. Good night, Eshwar.’
Ratnakar was getting out of the Lexus. Eshwar waved him back in. Let’s roll, Hanuman. Good night, Anand.
20
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you, dear Saya.
Happy birthday to you.
Everybody and their uncle knew it was her birthday. A day for gifts. Bindu had given her the first gift of the day, an Isabel Marant mini-skirt supposedly inspired by Banjara patterns. Multi-coloured nested squares and circles, embedded mirrors. Very nice. Sexy too. The skirt let the atmosphere in nicely. She couldn’t wait to wear it with her Dicker boots.
Mir Alam Mir had gifted her a coffee-table volume by an Indian professor in America who’d earned his tenure analyzing Hindi cinema. Fat fucker of a tome, some six hundred pages crammed with footnotes. She was the subject of pages 432 through 437. Madhubala had ten pages, which was reassuring. The fellow had standards. However, Professor-saab had felt it necessary to include a photograph of her aroused nipple from that notorious scene in Patni.
Bilkis confessed she had wanted to give a gift but simply hadn’t been able to think of anything suitable. What could she possibly give that Saya didn’t already have? Bilkis was very ashamed. Dear Bilkis, honest Bilkis. I only need the gift of your friendship, beloved donkey. She would be a comfort during the day. At nine in the morning, Karan Johar called to say Love Ka Magic had obtained censor clearance, in a surprising reversal of their earlier decision. He thanked her without specifying what exactly he was thanking her for. She’d been expecting the call. The good news had been the first of Dorabjee’s birthday gifts. He had promised her three.
By ten, the crowds had begun to gather. Everyone and their uncle knew where she lived. Every hour or so, she had to make a trip to the verandah, smile, wave at the adoring fans. Nuisance. Three phone interviews, two TV interviews, one face-to-face with an India Today reporter, female, college girl, who asked questions like: do you think actresses today have less mystique than the actresses in the 50s and 60s? It was just eleven and she was already exhausted. Nobody had asked her age, which wasn’t a good sign. She was thirty-three years old. In other words, twenty-six.
It wasn’t really her birthday. She didn’t know her date of birth. She’d made up the date in a Stardust interview when she’d just started her ascent to the top. October 5th, she’d lied. I was born on October 5th.
‘That makes you a Libra. Perfect!’ Dorabjee patted her thigh, gave it a strong friendly squeeze. ‘I’m a Leo, of course.’
What was ‘of course’ about it? A hyena was a hyena no matter what his sun sign. Did he really believe the astrology rubbish? Hindus could be forgiven for believing in destiny—their minds were clogged with superstitions—but Parsis were expected to set a better example.
‘Wasn’t Julius Caesar also a Leo?’ She removed his hand, gave him a stern look. He looked smitten. It was her mini-skirt. He’d been ogling and sighing ever since his cavalcade had come to pick her up. The darting glances of his guards and other riff-raff also indicated the skirt was a box-office hit.
‘He could be whatever he wanted. The month was named in his honour.’ Then Dorabjee sighed. ‘Those were the days. History could just be made up.’
She smiled. What, a moment of subtlety? Dorabjee wasn’t unappealing when he allowed his lust for power to show. At those times he transformed into a little boy, wooden sword and cardboard crown, and she would feel an indulgence that was surely inherited from generations of doting mothers bred to place unreasonable hope in their selfish sons.
Dorabjee grabbed her hand. Perhaps he had been emboldened by her smile. She squeezed his fingers, extricated her hand. Nuisance.
She placed the rose bouquet between her thigh and his. The delicate pink of the petals was no match for the vibrant Rajasthani pattern on her skirt. The small mirror embeds stitched into the skirt brushed against her hand. An unpleasant feeling; it was as if her skirt had teeth. She quickly withdrew her hand, then placed it back in her lap. Dorabjee was pouting. How to distract him?
‘What is the surprise, Dodo? You know I hate surprises.’
‘But this is a pleasant surprise.’ He withdrew a cigar but didn’t light it. For some reason the General had given up smoking after the assassination attempt, but not cigars.
‘All surprises are friends-on-the-bridge,’ she said, quoting something Mir liked to say. I have been unborn forever and shall be dead forever, but my soul has many friends-on-the-bridge.
She missed Mir. She always missed him the most just after a fight. She had expected Mir to be happy that the Love Ka Logic project was done. She had expected a thank you. After all, she’d saved the plot, got the no-objection certificate released. She had made sure the film stayed on script, not a small achievement for an Indian film. She had expected Mir to remember her birthday and express some happiness— not much, just a weak murmur of pleasure would have sufficed—that she existed in the world.
‘But it is not your birthday,’ he’d said, in that logical tone she hated.
‘That is for me to tell you. Yours is just to be happy.’
‘But you know I am happy. Why do you need me to tell me your existence makes me happy?’
So they had fought. Mir promised to call her after she calmed down. Happy birthday, he’d concluded, sounding quite baffled. A few hours later, the hastily gift-wrapped volume had arrived. Loathsome insect.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dorabjee removed his cigar, ‘what was the last word again?’
‘Sar-e pul. It’s an Urdu word meaning on-the-bridge. Never mind. It’s just something from an old Urdu poem.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Really, it’s not important.’
He glowered. ‘Indulge me, my dear.’
‘Taqi in one of his couplets talks about how age is like a traveller crossing a bridge. Jaise umr ek rahrav-e sar-e pul tha. By bridge, Taqi is referring to our bent backs. Our bent back is like a bridge over which age makes a quick crossing. We stroll
to a bridge at leisure. We depart from the bridge, also in no particular hurry. But the crossing of the bridge itself, that is a thing in passing.’
‘I still don’t follow.’
She shrugged helplessly. What to do with this English-medium? He was as thoroughly deracinated as white rice. The on-the-bridge metaphor was quite common in Urdu poetry. A yaar is a friend but a yaran-e sar-e pul is only a friend on-the-bridge, a casual companion. A vadah is a promise but a vadah-e sar-e pul is a vow made on-the-bridge and therefore unbinding.
‘I think the poet is saying that we become old suddenly. Unnoticed.’
‘Christ. What bunk.’ Dorabjee thrust the cigar back into his mouth. ‘If you have proper posture, why should your back get bent?’
He’d spoken in English. She didn’t understand the question. Saya gazed out the window.
Dorabjee grunted. ‘What’s the chap’s name again?’
‘Mir Taqi Mir,’ said Saya. Then she added, immediately: ‘Muhammad Taqi.’
‘Mir?’ said Dorabjee, scowling. ‘We’re not talking about your pet hijra, are we?’
‘No, no,’ she said, feigning boredom. ‘Taqi turned to dust long ago. Mir was just his pen-name.’
‘What about your commie hijra? Does he have a pen-name?’
‘I know what you’re up to, Dodo. You’re trying to avoid telling me the surprise. That’s it, isn’t it? What is the gift, Dodo? I just have to know. Pleeeease? What did you get for me?’
‘All in good time my dear, all in good time.’ Dorabjee’s good humour seemed to be restored. ‘Give me a kiss.’
‘No. Never. Tell me what the gift is.’
‘Come closer and I’ll whisper it in your ear.’
‘Dodo! Be a gentleman.’ She snapped her legs shut. Where was Bilkis when she needed her?
The limo had left NH B and taken a left onto Mehrauli-Gurgaon road. Dorabjee took visible pleasure in the cluster of tall apartment complexes and glass-covered office buildings. Then she realized his pleasure was in the construction, not the buildings themselves. He growled something in English about how the middle class was built one apartment floor at a time. She peered through the shaded windows. It was distressing not to have her entourage within reach. She had lots of questions, lots of things she wanted to know, but the men inside the vehicle were like strange new electronic devices she had no interest in learning. She had managed to bring Bindu and Bilkis along but they were in one of the other cars, along with the dummy. Dorabjee had been emphatic.
‘Not anybody gets to ride with me, cuddly cakes. Your gaggle can follow. Pick two.’
The car slowed, turned onto a concrete driveway. Was this a school? It looked like a prison, so it had to be a school. The ugly red block letters confirmed her fear: Guru Dronacharya Mahila Kalyan High School. A large committee stood waiting with flower garlands and terrified smiles. A contingent of guards were already at the school. Doors were opened. She poked her head out. A variety of male crotches, uniformed, khaki—Bilkis! Bilkis!
And Bilkis was there. The wall of male bodies opened up and Saya was gently pushed into a large auditorium, smiling, namaste, namasthe, enjoying, despite herself, the dazed, star-struck faces of the hundreds of students and teachers before her. There were at least two camera crews. The crowd of students rose to their feet as one and began to bellow: Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday–
Hai Allah, was she in a nightmare? What was this insanity? But she laughed, clutched the General’s shoulder, simulated joy.
‘Happy?’ shouted the General, his fair face mottled with delight. ‘I thought you’d like to know what you mean to your fans? You like the surprise, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes of course.’ She went forward to the first row, patted cheeks, kissed a shy little girl who looked like she’d faint. Smiled and smiled. It was like returning to her madrasa. She half-expected to see it the way Bilkis had described it. Where was the alim with his never-ending exposition of the Qu’ran? Where was the tree by which they’d sat and had their lunch? What sort of futures lay around the corner? Oh how she envied these students. What a life! No responsibilities in life except for a few exams. The biggest problem was a bad teacher, a strict parent, a fight with a friend. Truly, childhood was the happiest part of life.
There was a bouquet. A speech to introduce the person who would introduce her. She was introduced. The General gave a speech. He had flair, he made the crowd sit up, laugh. He talked about the importance of following one’s dreams. This was a vernacular school, and they deeply appreciated his speaking in Hindi. They seemed to like the fact that his Hindi was so chi-chi, that he sounded like a British colonial in a Hindi movie. He spoke of long days filled with work relating to the nation. The innumerable worries, the many enemies pressing from every side, the constant envy of other nations at India’s progress. Then in the days of steel and fire, the feel of a soft cool wind, the fragile brush of rose petals against his war-hardened cheeks.
I saw my dream made real, said the General, his voice booming over the crowd. His dream was now sitting on the podium. Her name was Saya. Say Saya, he joked, shifting to English, and all is said. As the General resumed his struggle with Hindi, she felt a small glow of pride. He didn’t seem such a fool now. Whatever his faults, there was a vitality, a vigour, a sheer lust for power that was stimulating. Perhaps she had been too harsh with him. The first rule of love in the survivor’s book: love those who love you. She could do a lot worse.
She needed to pee. She glanced at Bindu, standing at the corner of the stage, beaming. Attend to your phone, worthless retard! Ah, good. Bindu nodded.
There was wild applause when he finished. Her turn to give a speech. It didn’t matter what she had to say, it never had. Wild applause. A cake appeared. The icing was a bit gooey, smudged. A wave of nausea washed over her. How many hands must have touched the icing. Was it even cake? She cut the cake. The General seemed to expect he’d be hand-fed and she indulged him. Wild applause.
The festivities weren’t over yet. The students had prepared a skit in her honour. The people on the stage moved off the stage to the plush leather sofas at the very front. Just before sitting down, she smiled at the students seated well behind the teachers, and then on an impulse, she pushed past her handlers, went up to the front row of students, squeezed hands, asked their names, worked the moment. The sudden move disrupted the careful array of students, scores of hands stretched towards her, pushing through the guards, and it looked as if the carefully planned sequence of events would unravel.
Bilkis appeared out of nowhere, the needy hands fell like scythed wheat, and she steered Saya back towards the sofas. Dorabjee took control of her hand; beaming. He was happiest when others desired her. He took out a cigar, its ends soggy with spittle, stuck it into his mouth. Ah, a moment. She slapped his hand sternly, gestured to the students. He tucked the cigar back into his pocket, shrugged expressively, rolled his eyes at the crowd: see, even a General is helpless in front of her. The students went wild. How strange to think this event might be the most memorable anecdote in their lives. Her hand felt hot and sweaty inside his massive paw, and the steady squeeze reminded her of the desire to pee.
The students had decided to give a performance of the Giving Tree. She wasn’t familiar with the story. It took some time to understand that the arrangement of ladders of different sizes and the children on them with their arms arranged in weird poses represented a tree. The play had a sutradhar, a skinny riflecase of a teacher whose doleful narration left no doubt things weren’t going to end well for the tree. Something about the self-conscious performance of the children, their solemn earnestness, sucked her into the story.
Which was quite simple. The Giving Tree gave and gave, the boy it loved took and took, until ultimately, a stump to sit on was all the Giving Tree had to offer the boy, now a very old and very tired man. The end.
I really need to pee, thought Saya.
Wild applause. The General rose to his
feet, hands raised, clapping. How the audience applauded. Saya got up too; it seemed to be expected of her. But it was fine. She didn’t have to fake it. The children had indeed done a brilliant job. Her hands began to hurt from applauding.
‘Encore!’ roared the General. ‘Encore!’
When he sat down, she was astonished to see the tears sparkling like diamonds in his puffy eyes. There were other sub-events and sub-sub-events. Now that it had them in its grasp, the school seemed determined not to let go. But eventually, the principal delivered the closing speech. The vice principal led the vote of thanks. The fucking thing was finally over.
‘How the hell could you not know about this farce?’ hissed Saya, squatting over the teacher’s toilet. The toilet looked clean enough but she couldn’t bring herself to sit down. There was no toilet paper. There was a water jet but she had no intention of touching it. ‘Give me your scarf. Don’t look at me, you idiot, keep watch on the door.’
‘No one’s coming!’ Bindu passed her the scarf. ‘Today’s program is not in my control. The General just took over, what can I do?’
‘What can I do, what can I do? If you can’t do anything then why are you my assistant?’ She knew it wasn’t Bindu’s fault, but it was such a relief to vent. She wiped herself with the scarf. ‘Watch the door!’
‘The play wasn’t half-bad, was it?’ asked Bindu, in her soothing let’s-calm-the-bitch-down voice. ‘Some of your movies have the same theme.’
‘I have no time to chit-chat with you about movies. I just want the day to be over. Birthdays are such hell. How do I look?’
Back in the car, once more on NH B, she found the General charged up and engorged from the reception at the school. He dropped some heavy fundas. Women were the future of civilization. It was ten times more cost-effective to invest in a girl than a boy. He called his Director of Cultural Affairs on the video-phone, ordered him to put together a campaign to put an end to sex-testing. Dorabjee wanted to build schools, hundreds of thousands of schools. One school for every village. It could be done and by God, he intended to see it done. And trade schools. Hundreds of thousands of high quality, two-year trade schools.
