by Anil Menon
‘Now can I know where we’re going?’
‘Hold your horses, mister. We’re going to the third floor.’ She adjusted his tie. ‘There. You look good. Ready to tear up the night, Anand?’
‘I have a bad feeling about this.’
He was right to be nervous. The curved hall on the third floor revealed the evening’s destiny—Harry’s Karaoke Bar. He put up a bit of a struggle but when she strode into the Bar, he could hardly leave her and flee. The place was packed.
‘I’m not singing,’ he said, glaring at her. ‘You can forget about that.’
‘Isn’t this place nice? I used to come here with my girlfriends. We had a blast. But I always wanted to come here with a classy guy like you.’
‘I’m not singing,’ he swore.
Anand had a nice voice. It was a little rusty, but then again, the room was full of rust. The decor’s burnt sienna, brickwork and diffused yellow lighting was designed to be forgiving.
It was Thursday, which meant it was Old Hindi Songs night. Anand started out with Mera Joota Hai Japani, she went next with Dum Maro Dum, along with deep tokes from imaginary ganja pipes. She told him she had all the Zeenat Aman songs down cold.
A few singers later, he set the room on fire with Mein Hoon Don, while she wiggled around him as his gun moll. Then they took a break.
‘You are very good.’ She smiled at Arthur, their waiter, and accepted the Lime Daiquiri. She gave the Don a taste.
‘I used to be able to switch my vowels,’ said Anand. ‘That’s why it sounded harsh.’
‘It didn’t sound harsh. It sounded awesome. Ooh, this LD is good.’
‘Alcohol dries the throat,’ he warned. ‘You think it worked? Really?’
‘Uh huh.’ She studied him, smiling to herself. He was twice as tall and brim to the rim with tiger juice. ‘Don’t think you’re done, sir-ji.’
‘Let’s give the others a chance.’ Anand leaned back, but the seats didn’t offer much affordance. Like most lounge seats, they weren’t designed with lounging in mind. But they were in a corner of the room and that made it easier to talk. She noticed him wincing and he said it wasn’t because of the moves. It was the lack of stress. His back was tense because everything was going very well at work.
‘Okay, that’s new.’
The Jadoo project, he explained, was his big to-do item and it was doing too well. He and Pillai had expected the government to put up hurdles, but it had been the exact opposite. The Lokshakti, which seemed to have a new sense of purpose, was being especially helpful. They too wanted universal digital access to happen. It was all smiles now and he was in control, but later, who could say? Anand asked if she’d heard the old fable about the scorpion who’d asked the frog for a ride across the river, and when Kannagi shook her head, he told her the story.
‘A scorpion remains a scorpion,’ concluded Anand, ‘even if its best interest is to be otherwise.’
‘Asa wai–is that so?’ But she didn’t have Sawai’s rustic elan to carry off the Marathi. She tried again, but in a deeper voice: ‘Asa wai?’
‘Yes, that is so. Who can fight destiny?’
What the fuck. She gazed at him, he gazed back at her. She torqued the base of the glass with her finger tips. Thousand one. Thousand two.
‘Why, you miserable?’ she groaned, throwing her head back.
He laughed. ‘Did you think I’m a fatalist?’
‘Well.’ She was surprised by how relieved she felt. ‘You gotta admit the attitude’s not exactly rare here. But you always focus on doing the next thing, and the next. I love that.’ Then embarrassed by the confession, she leaned forward, intending to give him a quick peck, but her sudden move must have startled him, because he turned his face, and she kissed him on the lips instead.
A solid smackaroo. Wet too. Har di har har.
Whoops, sorry, you threw my prediction, she said. That’s the kind of forecast I like, joked Anand; how about another prediction? Yeah right, she joked, in your dreams Anand Dixit. Okay then, joked Anand, that’s one reason to sleep early tonight. Har di har har. Just then, a couple who’d been eyeing them for a while, approached, all smiles, Hi, we’re Mr and Mrs Thakral, and the gentleman said their number from Don had been mindblowing, and that his wife and he had always loved the romantic Teri Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi number from Suhaag, starring Bachchan, Rekha, Parveen Babi and Shashi Kapoor, but it needed two couples to karaoke that song. Would Anand-ji and his wife be interested in a foursome?
‘I’ll be Rekha!’ squealed Kannagi, raising her hand.
Life was too good.
It was near midnight when they left the lounge bar. She realized there was a logistics problem. Akka’s mansion was nearby, whereas her apartment was way outside Delhi. It didn’t make sense for Anand to drive all the way to Mayur Vihar and then all the way back to his house. She offered to take the metro, but Anand wouldn’t hear of it. He had a suggestion—why not crash at the mansion? He’d have the driver drop her off in the morning.
It was a sensible offer and she accepted. Anand called the house and told someone called Desani to ‘get baby-ji’s room ready.’
‘What happened to Costas?’ she asked.
‘He had confused loyalties. I let him go. But never mind Costas. Let’s talk about your plans. I’ve been thinking about an opportunity for a while now, and attending the fab-jab solidified it. You obviously enjoy working with students. You have great ideas. What if—don’t laugh this off—what if you could run your own educational institution? Maybe a new kind of school. College. Maybe a research institute? I don’t know. Why rot in DU? Or IIT-K? Let’s think bigger. Much bigger. I bet I could get Pillai interested. My resources, his resources. Your passion. A dream team.’
Kannagi groaned. When it rained, it poured. The States. TIFR’s SCS. IIT-K. DU. Now this School for Superkids. She’d made up her mind to pursue IIT-K. Now what? Anand sat back, pleased.
‘I’ll take that as a tentative yes. You can still do IIT-K. But let’s plan to make this happen in five or six years.’
Tentative yes. She liked the fuzzy invertebrate sound of the word. Later, as Kannagi stood in the Scottish shower, head bowed, shoulders relaxed, gasping as the rejuvenating jets alternated between pulses of warm and cold water, she tried faking different levels of tentative enthusiasm. Darling, yes! yes! I love it. Yes! Clean, well-scrubbed. Joy. She was on the loveseat, removing a fleck from her big toe when there was a soft knock on the door. She lowered her legs. Come in, she said in Hindi, expecting one of Akka’s infinite minions. But it was Anand. He was carrying a tray with a glass and two bottles of water. And salt tablets. He was worried. All that lecturing, mediating, singing and shrieking. A salt-water gargle was a must. He was shocked she didn’t know how.
They stood side by side in the bathroom, gargling.
‘Happy?’ asked Kannagi, grinning, when they were done.
He was going to go, but she told him to stay awhile. She curled up on one end of the loveseat and he sat at the other. Her throat did feel much better and she told him that. He began to prattle with great enthu about the benefits of traditional Indian medicine, breathing exercises, blah blah. She watched him. Such a familiar face. So very dear. His voice trailed away. She watched him examine his fingers, knew Anand was gathering his will to leave, calling his stupid Chariot or donkey or whatever it was he whistled for when he wanted to set himself in motion.
She wanted to say: this house is so quiet without Akka, isn’t it? But it wasn’t true. Akka’s absence should have been everywhere. Her absence should have been sitting between them. But it wasn’t. It was simply an empty house.
‘Sometimes I don’t know what to do next,’ said Anand, quietly.
For a moment, Kannagi had the disorienting sense it was she who’d confessed, not verbally, but in her mind. Even when she registered his moving lips, it felt as though her senses had absorbed the confession without the need for any intermedium. Indeed, she was scarcely aware she’d heard anything at all. She heard he
rself breathing, the only truthful answer there was, she knew, to his quandary.
Kannagi reached for him then, moved into the void of her sister’s absent absence, took his hand, raised it to her lips, first, then brought it to her aroused breast, as if to marvel, look, my body moves of its own volition, follow me, nothing more needs to be said between us, least of all, that which is impossible to tell.
#
By five minutes past seven, Shabari had cajoled Sudhir out of bed and directed him towards the bathroom. As he washed his face, she readied his toothbrush. He seemed sleepier than usual, and worried he wouldn’t brush his teeth properly, she monitored the situation for a few seconds to make sure he was doing it right. As expected, her hovering irritated him, and he glared at her through a mouth full of toothpaste. She smiled, mildly pleased that her tactic had worked. He was now fully awake.
Then in a flicker of neural activity that scarcely stirred the calm surface of her consciousness, she remembered that her son, her darling boy, her beloved son, was dead.
With her hair still wrapped in a towel, she went over to the prayer cabinet, lit an incense stick, focused on the blue god and handed over the day’s requests. It would be yet another long day at the office, so please keep Sudhir safe. She was going to Hapur, so he would be all alone. Please make sure his blood glucose stayed within acceptable levels throughout the day. Please put good thoughts into his head. Please give him the self-control to resist temptation. Please keep the bitch Tanaz away from the office. Please make the software and hardware work properly. Please give me the strength to do what needed to be done. Please keep watch over Sudhir. The praying helped.
Prayers over, she hurried to the kitchen. The pressure cooker had just begun its whistle. She moved the pressure cooker off the stovetop, set some water to boil. On the other stovetop, she set a saucepan and got some tadka going. As the oil warmed, she removed the tiffin box from its shelf, wiped it, and began to prepare Sudhir’s lunch. Her breasts hurt; Dodda liked to squeeze. She divided the two bajri rotis into quarters, placed five pieces in the box. On the Diabetes Angels website, some mothers had shouted at her for giving rotis. But other mothers had said research had shown it was okay. She remembered Durga-ji telling her it was okay, but now she wasn’t sure if he’d really said it or she was only imagining his approval. It didn’t matter.
The rajma dal only took a few minutes to get ready. She ladled it into the side compartments. Two daubs of yogurt. One low-carb Nutrichoice biscuit; she knew it was an indulgence, but he was only a child. Some fun had to be there in life. She removed an apple, washed it thoroughly, set it next to the tiffin box. Done.
She paused, listened, cocking her head. Good, Sudhir was getting dressed. Now for breakfast. Upma with last night’s peas and carrots, chai with a couple of pinches of Splenda. She’d just about finished ladling the upma onto her plate and moved to the dining table, when Sudhir came out, holding his school tie. 7:35 AM.
‘Ma, the strap broke.’
Always breaking things; he should be more careful. She was going to tch-tch in irritation but somehow it turned into a smile. Just a normal boy, it was natural. ‘Bring it here. Have your breakfast.’
She reattached the two ends with a tight knot. It would have to do for now. She wiped the tears off her cheeks. So emotional this morning.
‘Good morning, beta.’ She placed the tie atop his school bag. She kissed him on the cheek. ‘BG?’
‘Good morning. One-hundred-ten.’
‘That’s okay.’ She checked the PDM. ‘How are you feeling? Don’t eat so fast. Eat slowly. Had a good sleep?’
‘Yeah.’ He tapped his Omnipod. The tubeless insulin pump device meant she no longer had to wake up at three in the morning to check his blood glucose. He even slept through the night. That single feature alone had made every depravity she’d had to endure at Gowda’s hands worthwhile. Sleep, sweet sleep. She’d even begun to dream again, the gorgeous multi-coloured dreams from her childhood. So far away, so long back. Such memories.
She checked the PDM. The pod would need to be replaced tomorrow, latest by seven in the morning. The pods were expensive, some six hundred rupees every two to three days, but with Gowda’s perversions, Social Weather’s not ungenerous salary, and the small loans she’d cadged, she had managed. She had to manage. All of Sudhir’s emergency care was covered—thank God there were fewer of them these days—so her cost really came down to the BG strips, which were practically free anyway. She refused to think about what the future held. The future was now closed to her. Once her heart would have raced, the wave of panic would have threatened to engulf, but she was beyond all that now. It didn’t matter.
‘Yeah yeah,’ she smiled, ‘every day you are becoming more and more angrez. Eat more slowly, beta.’
When Sudhir had finished, he was still hungry, so against her better judgment, she allowed another serving. It wouldn’t do any harm. Her own breakfast was a light one, as always. Oats cooked in hot milk, an apple. She liked bananas far more than apples, especially the small fat ones that looked like they would burst out of their golden skins. But as far as possible she tried to eat what Sudhir ate. Seven-forty. They had time.
‘Are you again going out tonight?’ asked Sudhir.
She sipped her chai. ‘Eat, then talk.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes, but I’ll be back early.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’
She got up, not because there was anything particular she needed to do, but because there was nothing that could be done. She picked up her handbag, rummaged through the crumpled napkins, coins, soiled notes.
‘It is only temporary,’ she said. ‘Once our money situation improves—’
‘I don’t care. I don’t want you to go! Last night I really needed you and you were busy.’
‘My cell must have been out of range. I’ll be more careful. Promise. Eat your breakfast. We’ll talk about it some other time.’
‘I don’t want you to dance for men.’
‘What nonsense are you talking about?’ she shouted. ‘Do you think you’re so grown up you can talk any way to your mother?’
Shabari continued to rummage through her handbag. Heart racing. So he knew. But she had taken every precaution. She dressed for the night at Gowda’s place. It amused him to watch her transform from housewife to slut. She hid her club clothes deep in the closet. She did her laundry in batches at Gowda’s place. But of course Sudhir knew. She had known this day would come. So be it. In the long run what did it matter? It didn’t matter.
Sudhir backed down, cowed by her anger.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t want you to go at night any more, Ma.’
‘It’s only temporary,’ she insisted, her voice high. Then she calmed herself with an effort. Sudhir was getting to the age where he didn’t like her coddling, but she rumpled his hair anyway. ‘Beta, you have to get ready. The car will be here any minute.’
‘I wish Durga-ji hadn’t died.’ Sudhir hoisted the bag onto his shoulders. ‘Then things could be back to the way they were. Right, Ma? We were so happy.’
What did he know of happiness? He was thirteen. Moods were a luxury of the rich. They could be happy, sad, go for therapy, lose themselves, find themselves. Not so for her and her son. With Durgaji, they had been relatively safe. Now they weren’t. If only the Dixit whore had kept her filthy hands to herself. Always touching, groping, insinuating with glances, such gasping unnatural lust, why did God make such creatures? Gowda was a man; that is, a bastard. One expected such behaviour from men. But women? It was truly the Kali-yug.
‘Admit it, you also like it, Shabari.’ Padma Dixit would say with sly delight. ‘Admit it. We are what we are.’
She shuddered. What a demoness. As if the body’s small betrayals made her mistress’s actions any less sinful. She was reminded of Surpanakha. Durga-sir had been right. When he’d narrated Ajaya, evening after entranced evening, she’d had no doubts. But later, u
nable to get the story out of her mind, the doubts had come. She had gone to Durga-ji. That part where Surpanakha’s face had been mutilated, had that been necessary? It was too unrealistic, too cruel. No woman deserved that treatment. Shouldn’t he change it, so that Lord Ram was seen in the proper light? And Durga-ji had simply said: but I’ve only told you half the story, Shabari.
Now she understood. Durga-ji had been right as usual. Yes, no woman deserved to be treated that way, but they were. What did the story say? It said: make me untrue. What did its God say? Oh how she ached for a Lord Ram to set things right in her lawless world, make it safe for women. And sons. Now there was no one, only demons posing like Lord Ram. Chalo. It didn’t matter.
8:10 AM. The cellphone’s ring let them know Social Weather’s Indica was waiting for them. It would drop Sudhir off at Mount Mary’s, pick up a female staffer from Lodhi Estate—an executive from IIM-Ahmedabad—and then turn towards Old Delhi Railway station. Hapur was two hours away by the Avadh Assam Express. She’d reach by ten and the day’s grind would begin. She wished the commute was longer. Nothing ever happened during the commute. Nothing began, nothing ended. The world was suspended, caught between beginning and end.
The female executive had been friendly the first day. But then she’d changed. She pretended to be busy with office documents. However, today she seemed to want to talk.
‘Shabari-ji, I heard,’ began the executive, in Hindi. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I am to hear about your loss.’
Shabari nodded, looked out the window. She could have said so many things. Oh she could. Fuck you, as the Angrez liked to say. Fuck you. But it didn’t matter.
She was grateful for the cellphone’s ring, it rescued her from the unwelcome sympathy. Even though the call was from Tanaz Chikliwala.
‘Tanaz-ji, I’m on my way.’
‘Shabari, if you need a few days off…’
Bitch, may your womb be forever barren.
‘No, I’m okay Tanaz-ji,’ she mumbled, hardly able to breathe. ‘I need to work.’
‘I understand, I understand,’ said Tanaz hastily. ‘Good. Okay, I have a meeting at ten, so won’t be available by phone. I will be in Hapur later in the day. You continue with installing the media pack. We have to issue the release by end of day. It’s a fairly simple procedure but if you need technical assistance, just ask Rajiv. The permissions problem was due to a new security layer; not your fault. He’s sorted it out. Sorry. Call me if there are any further difficulties but use your initiative. Thanks Shabari.’
