Coinman: An Untold Conspiracy

by Pawan Mishra

  There was a reason Coinman considered Funda in this esteemed group. Funda had been considered the best in their college circle for his knowledge about almost anything on earth. His friends had nicknamed him Funda because they had believed he could get down to the most fundamental aspects of any topic. If he started explaining something, people became quiet and listened, spellbound, until he finished. The most significant thing, they said, that put Funda in a different league from his competition was his practical approach. Despite knowing theoretical aspects and ideal-world scenarios to perfection, he didn’t get bogged down by theory alone and invariably cut through complexities to deliver the most pragmatic blueprint.

  During their youthful days, they had never needed to ask before visiting each other’s houses. Their families did not have phones during the early years of their friendship, so they just used to pop in at will. And by the time their families got phones, the affectionate practice of uninvited and unannounced visits had firmly established itself.

  Coinman didn’t have Funda’s phone number—they hadn’t been in touch for years. Even if he had known it, he didn’t want to depreciate the amicability of the historic practice.

  He felt lucky that it was already Friday and he did not have to wait before visiting Funda’s house. Without wasting any time, he called home to inform Kasturi about his plans to stay overnight at Funda’s house. Kasturi reminded him that the family needed to attend an important wedding ceremony.

  “I need to miss it,” he replied. “Apologize to them on my behalf and tell them that I had an unavoidable business matter pop up at the last minute.”

  “Is everything OK, Son?”

  “Yes, nothing to worry about. It’s just that I need to speak with Funda on an urgent business matter.”

  “OK. Work is always first. I won’t delve any further.”

  “Will Father be OK alone? I assume Imli and Shimla are coming along with you?” Coinman asked.

  “Yes. We are going to lock the house from outside—he wouldn’t be able to leave.”

  “You have it well covered. We don’t want him to get lost.”

  “I have to say, though,” Kasturi added, “you may have noticed, too, he seems a bit happier lately and has even looked impatient. Maybe he is getting better? We should arrange a doctor visit this week to get a read on his current state. I am very hopeful this time.”

  “Sure, let me call the doctor tomorrow morning.”

  “Take care, then.”

  “You too. Also, keep an eye on Imli.” Coinman laughed as he said this. “I am glad that her play is over and she’s no more a stranger. But her transition into a doctor hasn’t been any less painful—I wasn’t too worried until yesterday, when she gave me a shot. I hope she remembers at all times that she is at a social event, not in her dispensary.”

  Kasturi couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t worry about her. She is in a very good spirits right now. Knock on wood, it seems good days have started to show up for us. You should be very happy to know that Imli did my hair today!”

  “That’s nice. Very well, then. Good night, Mother.”

  Coinman purposely didn’t pursue the line of conversation about Daulat much; he knew talking about his deteriorating condition depressed Kasturi. He also knew very well that Daulat’s condition was on a downward spiral—and could only become worse. He did not want to prematurely slay Kasturi’s hopes, which were destined to be short-lived.

  As he started driving to Funda’s house, Coinman tried to reassure himself that an unannounced visit wouldn’t be a problem with Funda’s family.

  It was an hour’s drive to Funda’s house, long enough to allow more memories from their childhood to surge into his mind. He remembered how they had met for the first time on a bus, traveling with their parents to attend a two-day wedding function. Once they discovered that they lived in the same community, they returned from the wedding as close friends. Thereafter their families also benefited from their friendship and spent considerable time at each other’s house.

  Coinman remembered how he’d loved the large collection of comic books at Funda’s house. Often he brought comic books home and hid them inside his schoolbooks while reading—typically inside the science books, with their large size—because his parents hated comic books and thought that they derailed kids’ minds from academics. A smile appeared on his face when he remembered how this had led his parents to surmise that he had a passion for science! And how they remained clueless, throughout most of his childhood, about his failure to do well in exams despite “studying” for long hours!

  Comics weren’t to blame, Coinman thought, it was the control. If I had been allowed to bring comic books home openly, like other kids my age, I am sure I wouldn’t have spent so much time on them. Easy accessibility gradually tapers engrossment.

  Still smiling, Coinman arrived at Funda’s bungalow. He noticed that the giant ashoka tree in the front yard had been replaced by a modest lemon tree. When he stepped inside the metal gate without knocking, exactly as he had years ago, he immediately noticed enthusiastic housecleaning going on. He caught sight of Funda’s elder brother, Raju, instructing the housemaids in a loud voice. The lawn was fully occupied with household items: utensils, beds, couches, dining table, table fans, bookshelves, and much more. The grass on the lawn was doing its best to survive the abuse from these items.

  Then he realized that Raju had been staring at him and had just seemed to recognize him.

  “Coinman?” Raju asked, his voice full of excitement. Even though it had been years since he last met the family, they had remembered him by his new name.

  “Yes, it’s me, brother.” Coinman reciprocated the excitement.

  “Wow! It’s so nice to see you after such a long time,” Raju said, hugging him. “Come this way to the drawing room.”

  “How have you been, brother?” Coinman asked.

  “Can’t complain,” Raju said, smiling. “Wait to see how happy Funda and Mother will be when they see you.”

  Funda was on the phone as they entered the drawing room. He cut short his conversation at once, ran to Coinman to hug him tight, and lifted him enthusiastically, just as he had several years ago.

  “You look great. Exactly the same,” Funda yelled in excitement.

  “And you’ve got some real meat on your bones now. Do you remember how we used to tease you by calling you ‘shirt on a hanger’?” Coinman said, laughing mischievously.

  “Ahem!” Funda cleared his throat. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the couch? Let me get you some water. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Coinman could hear overlapping human voices from other parts of the house, occasionally mixed with sounds of moving furniture, pouring water, sweeping, and hammering. It made him curious what it was all about.

  In the meantime Funda’s mother entered the drawing room and came straight to him.

  “Look who is here today!” she exclaimed with excitement, and then teased Coinman, “Maybe I am dreaming. Let me pinch myself.”

  She took Coinman’s hands in hers and kissed them with motherly affection.

  “It’s been a while since we saw you last,” Raju said, as Funda served Coinman a glass of water.

  “That’s right,” added Coinman, “we met last at Funda’s wedding.”

  “That was exactly two years after your marriage,” added Funda. “And that reminds me—how are Imli and everyone else doing?”

  “They are all doing very well,” Coinman said, and turned to Funda’s mother.

  “How has life been with you, Auntie?”

  “What life?” Mother complained in her signature melodramatic way. “A life without sweets is not much worth living.”

  “Mother, don’t get started on this again. He is visiting us after years—he certainly deserves a better topic.” Funda only provoked his mother by saying this.

  “You tell me, Son,” she said to Coinman. “I’m only fifty-three. Should I be subjected to these miserable
restrictions at such a young age when much older people, some even with one leg hanging in a coffin, feast on a ton of sweets every day?”

  “That surely is a senseless discrimination.” Coinman said, as the conversation started flowing just as in the olden days. “Who dared to sweep sweets from your life? This heinous injustice needs to be disputed at once.”

  “These cursed doctors declared me diabetic when I fell on the sidewalk in the market one day. And the worst part was, it turned every member of my family into a spy camera. I had to hide sweets in the bathroom at first, but then they started securing the sweets with a lock.”

  That made everyone burst into laughter.

  “What is this cleaning all about?” Coinman finally found an opportunity to kill the question that was troubling him.

  “We are having some guests tomorrow afternoon—a family that’s seeking an alliance with our daughter Kirti.”

  “That’s great news! Where is Kirti, by the way?” Coinman had completely forgotten about her.

  “She has a sleepover with her best friend tonight,” Funda’s mother replied.

  “But isn’t that an early marriage? She is like, what—maybe twenty years old?”

  “You know better, Son,” the mother responded. “This new generation is so keen to have a love match. We don’t want to take a chance. We want her to be married good and early. You’re very close—she just turned nineteen this year.”

  “I fully understand,” Coinman said. “Who is the lucky boy?”

  “His name is Neel. He’s studied computers in America and operates computers in a big company. Raju, what’s the name of the company? It’s just on tip of my tongue.”

  “Mother, I have told you at least thirty-seven times,” Raju grumbled. “Equanimity Technology Services.”

  “It’s not my fault, Mr. Smart! Who can remember such a name? Nevertheless, it’s a very big company; that’s all that matters.” She turned back to Coinman. “Take something, Son,” she said, pointing to the variety of sweet and salty snacks that were now available on the table in the middle. Then she went on.

  “So, as I was saying, the boy works for a big company in America and definitely, he would expect cleanliness in the house. We don’t want to take any chances.”

  “That sounds like very good preparation,” Coinman said.

  “That’s nothing. We have had a paid trainer to train her on Western formalities. Sadly, she couldn’t learn to cook because of her studies, and the boy is very particular about home-cooked Indian food. But we’ve got that covered, too—we have hired a very good cook for tomorrow. And once this is through, we are going to ensure that Kirti learns to cook well before her marriage.”

  “Ma—is it really needed? Like lying in a relationship before it has even been established?” Raju said.

  “Raju and Funda—these boys were definitely my moral science teachers in our previous birth.” She turned to Coinman. “Wouldn’t you agree that a lie for a good reason is better than a truth that destroys? I know you would.”

  “I can’t agree more. That’s a flawless plan.” With her appeased, Coinman changed the subject deliberately. “How is our Junior Brother?”

  Everything came to a rest for a moment.

  “Junior Brother,” as they affectionately called him, was Funda’s youngest brother, bedridden since early childhood because of a ‘rare wasting illness called Batten disease’, as Funda’s mother would refer to it. She would often say, “There is no God for sure, else how could one justify terminal diseases in small kids?”

  “He is no more,” Funda broke the silence.

  “When? How? Oh, my God! May his soul rest in peace! I am very sorry for the loss. And so sorry I asked.”

  “That’s all right.” Raju tapped Coinman’s right shoulder. “He has a very special place in our hearts.”

  “What happened to him?” Coinman asked hesitatingly.

  “You know he was deeply depressed about being confined to his room,” Funda explained. “And you also saw him having fits often. Well, his condition kept declining to a point where it was impossible to keep him happy at all. We all loved him, but the situation had taken such an awful turn that we started praying for freedom of his splendid soul from the rotten dungeon of his body. It was a tough prayer, yet necessary, for none of us could stand his agony and painful screams.

  “Junior was summoned by the Ultimate Soul on the very day he had turned eighteen. I remember clearly that he was singularly quiet on that day. There was a certain gaiety on his face, and his behavior had the confidence of someone who could see beyond the obvious. He eagerly wore the new shirt and trousers that Mother had bought for the birthday party. He cut the cake, set the party into full swing, and managed to slip into his room alone at some point. Later on, realizing his absence from the party, we looked for him and found him dead in his bed.”

  Reminiscences of Junior filled Coinman’s mind. He could clearly remember that the first thing he always did at Funda’s house was to go to Junior’s room to greet him in his bed. Junior was very fond of surreal fiction and was invariably reading a thick book.

  “Don’t feel bad,” said Funda, putting his left hand on Coinman’s right hand. “Mother even believes that he makes secret visits to her once in a while and asks her about all of us. She thinks that he has even become stronger.”

  “Yes, I am sure he is fine with God,” she said quietly.

  Noticing small tears forming in Funda’s mother’s eyes, Coinman hastened to switch topics again.

  “How’s your teaching going, Funda?”

  “Ask us about it.” Mother jumped in, wiping her tears. He is becoming a weirdo teacher of the kind students talk about all the time.”

  “Auntie, don’t worry. Funda couldn’t become a weirdo. I know him.” Coinman laughed, and winked at Funda.

  “I do not see how teachers are any more weirdos than people in other professions,” said Funda sincerely. “Are some of those tellers at the bank any lesser weirdos, when they keep sipping their tea, ignoring the queue in front? Do you think that street hawkers are any lesser weirdos, when they ring the doorbell a second time at your door only two seconds after the first? Or cab drivers, who start to drive fast to scare you if they don’t like a comment from you—even if you’re talking to someone else? Or do you think that those big honchos sitting at the top of the corporate ladder are lesser weirdos? No. Weirdos are in uniform circulation in society.”

  Funda paused to eat a sweet from the table, then spoke again.

  “It’s just my personal observation, of course, but I am pretty sure on that. It seems to me that around five percent of people are weirdos in one way or the other, and that doesn’t include situational or occasional weirdos. Everyone is a situational weirdo. So the point here is we have been overly critical of teachers, while other professions like doctors, engineers, post office employees, clerks, accountants, politicians, and whatnot, have just as many weirdos.”

  There was a silence of a few seconds—it seemed that Funda had stretched it too far.

  “How ridiculous I am!” Funda said with a laugh. “We get together after such a long time, and I’m boring you with all this nonsense! Come, Coinman, I want to show you something.”

  Funda got up and grabbed Coinman’s right hand, dragging him to another room. Alone in a quieter place, Funda turned to him with an all-business look and said, “You look distressed to me. Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know where to start. Things haven’t been quite hunky-dory for me lately. It seems God has been practicing shooting troubles at me. I have come here to seek some guidance from you.”

  “Coinman, before you tell me more, I would like to share my outlook on life,” Funda said thoughtfully. “People say we have thousands of options in life. I say we have only two: we can either be happy or be unhappy.”

  He paused to look deeper at Coinman’s face. “Every individual has the power to choose between the two. The world around has enough happ
iness if one chooses to happy, and it has only sadness if one chooses to be unhappy.”

  Saying this, Funda realized that Coinman’s attention was starting to scatter. So he said, laughing, “OK, enough of a lecture on happiness. This is an endless dialogue. Sometimes I do doubt myself and think my mother is actually right on my becoming a weirdo. Pardon my chattering habit and expand on what your trouble is.”

  “I am very depressed these days. That’s one of the selfish reasons I’ve come by your house today after such a long time. You are a winner in life—someone I feel is never out of control, and someone who could see black and white even when it’s all a colorful illusion. I am here to seek your guidance on my issues.”

  “Before you go further down that path,” Funda jumped in, “do you really think that intelligent people, or people who are winners in life, do not get depressed? As a matter of fact, they get just as depressed as you and I do. To tell you the truth, they are typically more depressed than an average person. And the reason is twofold. First, by being winners, they bring about great expectations from others, and living up to those expectations constantly isn’t easy. There is lurking fear of a failure. And when there is a failure, the people around, most of whom are good for nothing themselves, will not let any opportunity go by to debase them.”

  Funda paused to appraise Coinman’s engagement, and, noticing hints of impatience, summarized his thought. “The reason I am telling you this is to let you know that everyone gets depressed. So never think for a moment that winners are not depressed, and stop thinking negatively about it. Depression is a reality with everyone. What’s important is the ability to move on. Sorry for digressing again, let’s go back to your story.”

  “I actually want to discuss two issues. Both of them are very personal, so I request you keep them confidential even from your family.”