by Juggi Bhasin
Suhel woke up with a start, bathed in sweat. He looked around wildly and connected with his surroundings. He had thought the nightmare was behind him. But it resurfaced on his day of triumph.
The past, he knew, would never set him free.
CHAPTER 29
Rahul kept his dinner date with Dubey. His wife, Janki, met him outside their modest apartment, her head covered with the pallu of her saree. There was an aarti tray in her hands decorated with marigolds, a tiny pot of vermilion and the flickering light of an earthen lamp. She applied some vermilion on his forehead and invited him to step in. He was quite taken aback with the traditional welcome. He made a move to take off his shoes before stepping in. She moved quickly and went down on her knees to take off his shoes.
‘No, no, no, please don’t do that . . . this is very embarrassing,’ he told her. She brushed aside his objections and took off his shoes and socks and kept them outside the apartment. She looked up and spoke innocently.
‘I can bring a mug of water and wash your feet. It will be quite cooling. Don’t feel embarrassed. We traditionally welcome all our important guests this way.’
He looked at her face, at the seam of her low-cut blouse and the room behind her. Dubey stood at the far end in a frayed silk kurta. A snapshot clicked in his mind. The shagging wife at his feet in a low-cut blouse, simple cotton saree, inviting brown skin, trembling lips, pleading eyes and a mangalsutra around her neck disappearing into the deep folds of her firm, small breasts. Dubey stood fussing over glasses, rearranging chips and peanuts in glass bowls, placing a bottle of an Indian malt whisky called Peter Scot on the centre table.
The wall in front of him was adorned with pictures of various god and goddesses, some garlanded, others not. From the back of the apartment, the whistle of a pressure cooker sounded, disturbing the freeze shot. As Rahul stepped in, he had a sense that Janki would be more than a handful. Something was not quite right in this low, middle-income freeze frame.
Janki rushed to the kitchen. Dubey, with an exaggerated show of warmth, met Rahul. He shook hands with him and embraced him. ‘So glad you made it to our place, Mr . . . strange . . . I don’t even know your name.’
‘Eh. Arvind . . . it’s Arvind. You are right. I, too, forgot to mention it the last time.’
Dubey invited Rahul to sit on a sofa whose coils were coming out at one end. To the right of the sofa was an old desktop computer on a table. It was covered with a relatively expensive cloth cover, signifying its importance. Rahul could not help but look at it, Dubey caught his eye and both men laughed. Dubey placed a finger on his lips and Rahul smiled and nodded. At that moment, Janki appeared with a plate of hot pakoras.
‘Dubeyji, you haven’t yet said cheers to welcome our esteemed guest. This is not what you and I had planned.’
With a ‘so sorry’, Dubey hastily moved to open the Peter Scot bottle. Rahul watched the husband–wife team move up and down, arranging the glasses, opening the soda and fixing a glass of whisky for him. The glass reached his lips courtesy Dubey around the same time the pakoras came up for tasting thanks to the wife. Janki sweetly murmured, ‘Take a sip, Arvindji, and also do justice to the pakoras. I prepared them with my own hands. It’s a special recipe passed on by my mother.’
Rahul looked at the door, wondering how to get away from this nightmare. He reminded himself of the larger purpose behind the visit and turned to face the Dubeys. ‘Your hospitality is out of this world. But I don’t really drink. This good Scotch will be wasted on me.’
Janki came and sat next to Rahul, and put a hand on his thigh.
‘Nonsense, Arvindji. All grown-up men enjoy Scotch. Or is it that you are reluctant to drink or eat anything at our humble abode?’
Rahul knew immediately that she had trapped him. He was forced to say the right thing. ‘Not at all. Please don’t misunderstand me. You are hardworking, good, honest people and I respect such people. So, I . . . well, perhaps a little Scotch won’t hurt. Here we go. Cheers!’
Rahul drank the Scotch and took a bite of the pakora. Dubey, in double quick time, downed a full glass and fixed himself another one. Janki beamed and made a move to replenish Rahul’s glass. Rahul covered his glass with the palm of his hand.
‘No, no. I would like to nurse the drink. I will go easy with this. Eh, you are not having anything . . .’
She beamed at him and answered, ‘My pleasure is watching grown-up men like both of you drink and enjoy yourself.’
‘Of course. But surely some Scotch will not hurt . . .’
She smiled coyly at him. ‘Let it be. It’s such a man’s drink, you know.’
Rahul looked at his glass in the light. ‘Really?’ he muttered under his breath.
Dubey quickly moved on to his third drink. As his drinking capacity increased, his ability to articulate his business needs, or for that matter anything else, diminished considerably. Very soon, he finished half the bottle on his own while Janki and Rahul continued to talk inanities. Suddenly, he got up and lurched towards the dining table, his eyes bloodshot, fingers desperately holding on to his whisky glass.
‘Woman,’ he commanded his wife. ‘You have been boring our privileged guest through the evening. If you have forgotten, we invited him for dinner . . . where is it?’
Janki’s face appeared clouded as she looked at Dubey. She muttered under her breath. ‘You want to hog, don’t you, you sodden drunk . . . spoiling such a good time . . .’
She soon recovered and flashed a smile at Rahul. ‘He’s right, of course. You must be hungry. I will set the table soon.’
Dubey sat on a chair and smiled at Rahul. Janki disappeared into the kitchen again. Rahul thought it was a good time to pick Dubey’s brains and find leads to his investigation. He carried the bottle of Scotch to the dining table and poured another stiff drink for Dubey, who gratefully accepted it and burst into a sixties Bollywood song Hum bekhudi mae tumko pukare chale gaye . . .
Rahul coughed and drew Dubey’s attention towards him. ‘So, Dubey, to continue the discussion we had in the taxi . . . I have a business plan.’
Dubey sang even more loudly and started an impromptu tabla recital on the table. He suddenly stopped and spoke, his voice slurred. ‘No business talk today. Today is a day for fun and enjoyment.’ He finished his glass of whisky and looked at Rahul with challenging eyes. ‘She’s hot, isn’t she? My wife. What do you feel about her? Does she excite you?’
He laughed at his own joke and carried on. ‘Remember I had told you that she is fond of shagging. Well, here’s the thing. I have never seen her do it. I think she does it. I have always wondered how? With men, it’s a given. How do women do it? Do they . . .’
Rahul was saved from this mortifying conversation by Janki, who wheeled in a tray laden with piping hot food.
‘Shudh vegetarian,’ she declared. ‘Hope you like it. I have prepared the dishes with my own hands.’
She mopped her face with her pallu to convey the effort that she had put in. In the process of doing so, she exposed her midriff for the private viewing of Rahul. He jumped out of the chair, removing himself from the range of the visual threat. He came up to help her put the dishes on the table. Dubey reached for the bottle again and poured the last of the Scotch into his glass. He began his own private commentary.
‘She cooks really well. You will end up licking . . . fingers . . . of course, after you have tasted her goods. You need to try all her preparations. Only then can you do justice to what she has to offer. And it’s quite a mouthful. Not to forget the dessert. Well, that’s a secret even for me. What will it be? One thing I do know. Whether it’s fried, or baked or chilled, you will end up asking for more. She does that to people. They always ask for more. Now, if I could suggest, try the baingan aloo first . . .’
‘Oh, shut up, Dubeyji!’ Janki interrupted Dubey. ‘You continue drinking. I will take care of our special guest. I will serve him with my own hands.’
Janki arranged a thali for Rahul and piled
it with food. She touched him briefly as she put a hot roti on his plate. ‘Fresh off the tawa,’ she added for his benefit.
Rahul chewed on the roti, and before he knew it, she had come close to him again with another roti. He looked at her.
‘Please. Take a seat and fill up your plate. I can’t eat like this. I mean, with someone standing on my head . . .’
She apologized profusely and withdrew to sit opposite him. She smiled, but left her thali untouched.
‘You are not eating?’ he asked.
She continued to look at him steadfastly. ‘I like to watch strong, grown-up men like you enjoy my preparations. I can eat later.’
He looked at both of them, neither of them touching the food, one drinking and rambling and the other watching him with eyes that made him feel naked. He could not help but wonder about the connection between them. They seemed to be bound by the extent of how weird their behaviour could be and not much else. But was he too quick to judge them? There was something here that stared him in the face, which he should have seen but had completely missed. Could it be because he was getting pulled into the ordinariness of their lower-middle class existence? It was like falling down a dry, greased well. There was nothing to hold on to in his fall to the sticky bottom. And who knew what deep secrets lay under the muck?
Like the one he had uncovered seconds ago.
As Janki continued to look at him, her foot came up and was now resting on his thigh, all under the table. He knew it was pointless to look shocked. He was down in the chute, sliding all the way down. Strangely, he wanted the deep, dark, exhilarating ride to nowhere to continue. He was getting an erection, and slowly her foot moved to massage his member.
‘How’s the food?’ she asked him with a straight face, stepping up the stroking.
Dubey remarked from the other end of the table, ‘Hope you are enjoying it.’
He felt choked, but he was not prepared to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he was scandalized, yet excited, by her behaviour. The unreal episode came to an unexpected end when Dubey persuaded a last few drops from the bottle and then unexpectedly gave up. He pushed his chair back and let go of his glass, his head lolling back as he passed out.
She calmly got up and spoke to Rahul.
‘Help me carry him to the bedroom. I knew this would happen. He can’t resist the bottle when it’s in front of him. He will wake up in the morning now.’
Rahul left the food on his plate and walked over to her side. If she had a plan, if Dubey had a plan, if both of them had a plan, then they had succeeded. He was neck-deep in the pakora, Scotch, midriff, grab-your-penis, taste-my-food-and-then-my-tits seduction drama that had been unfolding. Janki, in a certain sense, transported him back to his childhood. It was all there: the want and deprivation in their lives, the fascination with individuals who led lives different from their own or offered a way out, the cloying sexuality that was barely hidden behind all the transactions taking place in their lower-middle class milieu. And the contempt each member of the family had for the others. It was an ecosystem where no one took pride in his or her accomplishments. There was only a hunger and expectation of better days. He came up to Janki, and he knew what he badly wanted to do. He wanted to tear the clothes off her. He refused to let the Oedipal suggestions of his attraction dilute his lust.
‘She has no resemblance to my mother,’ he comforted himself. He parked his guilt in some remote corner, came up to her and held her arm. He was breathing heavily, but she was icily calm, surveying his face, never taking off her gaze from his face.
If he was shocked to hear what he said next, he did not show it. ‘Leave your husband at the table. Take off your saree for me.’
She slowly nodded and disrobed. The blood was rushing to his head. He lifted her and took her to the sofa with its coils springing out. He part-tore and part-took her blouse off and entered her in various possible ways. He saw the mangalsutra caught between her breasts, and it excited him even more. The tumult of the last few weeks, his hunt for the unknown, his discovery of what he had become . . . all of it exploded in his head. He felt the need to keep driving himself more and more to reach the unknown. She became a vessel for him to collect the rage, doubt, fear and lust that drove him insane. He collapsed in her arms and fell asleep in a bed prepared by his mother before the age of seven.
She woke him up close to three in the night. He got up without a fuss and put on his clothes. Dubey was snoring heavily on the dining table chair. She was dressed in her night clothes. He could see the bluish light of the computer that showed she had been playing Patience on the desktop.
‘Help me get him into bed,’ she told him quietly.
He helped her carry Dubey to the bedroom and both of them came back to sit at the dining table. She brushed back a strand of her hair from her forehead and asked him calmly, ‘What is the business deal you are offering us?’
He was completely alert now. He chose his words carefully. ‘Are you aware of the term venture capitalist?’
‘Some type of a kind person who raises money?’
‘Correct. This is a person who raises funds and invests them in ventures that can bring in big returns.’
‘So you are . . .’
‘An underground venture capitalist. My business is not above the board. I am sitting on a big pile of cash. I dabble in ponzi schemes. I fund illicit ventures.’
‘Ponzi . . . what’s that?’
‘Too complicated to explain. Let me explain to you what I have in mind for Dubey. Everyone uses a cellphone nowadays, which is part of a mobile network. These networks are huge companies that deal with equally massive databases. These networks have outsourced centres that deal with these databases. They help in day-to-day billing, customer complaints, transfer of phone numbers and hundreds of other issues. My game plan is very simple. I steal databases from these networks and create parallel networks that mimic the original. So for a few months, my fake network will carry out all the functions of the real network. We steal the money off the database, and then after a short period of time, we ditch the database and move on. In short, the customer ends up paying a fake network, while the original network bleeds. I want Dubey to manage what will be one of the many such networks.’
Janki stared at Rahul with new-found respect. She told him. ‘You are so young and innocent-looking. I could never imagine . . .’
‘The devil always visits bearing gifts and wearing a sweet face.’
She laughed loudly and puckered up her face. ‘The devil humps pretty well too . . .’
He kept quiet, veering the discussion to the serious again. ‘So, game for it?’
Her eyes narrowed and she voiced her scepticism. ‘Look, let me tell you about Dubey. I love him despite what you might think. He has his faults. He is a sodden drunk. I know you know that he takes photos of women passengers on the sly in his cab. It’s okay with me. He gets his kicks that way. I get my kicks with someone like you. This does not take away from the fact that he has a razor-sharp mind. Somehow luck has not been on his side. He’s dabbled with chit funds, scam loans, but he has always come a cropper. His latest Zuber scam was the worst for us. It ended with him being beaten up. There was only one scam earlier that had begun to work somewhat, but that also fizzled out . . .’
Rahul’s antennae went up.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘It does not matter. As I said, water under the bridge. He ran out of luck there too.’
‘No, tell me about this scam. Who did it involve? I need to know more about the way you two work. I can only put my money here if I feel confident about Dubey.’
She thought about it and then spoke to him.
‘Sometime ago, he manipulated customer calls on Zuber to pick up a woman passenger practically every day from her residence. She was a big shot in some company. Initially, he had focused on her to get his kinky shots of boobs and bum. He soon realized that she worked for a big office and could help him. As he became more
familiar with her, he told her a sob story and how he wanted a break to try out his entrepreneurial skills and move up in life. This woman was an instinctive go-getter. She bought his story. She promised to help him. Dubey moved fast, and he somehow got me into the picture. One day, we both landed at her office to make a . . . what is that word? Yes, a presentation.’
Rahul had a hard time disguising the incredulous look on his face.
‘Both of you . . . in a large office? What could you possibly have to offer?’
‘Well, we offered to set up a late-night drop service for the girls working there. It is an old idea, but this senior manager accepted our proposal because she felt that as a woman I would take extra care in running the project. She sweetened the deal for us by offering us a practically interest-free loan to buy the cabs. We set up the network within a month, and it actually worked for us. It was a lot of hard work and we made decent money, but then that is the thing with scamsters. Our DNA compels us to take recourse to deviancy after some time. We found that after paying off the loans and the salaries, we were left with some profit but not a huge one. So, we started scamming from our own venture. Dubey fudged figures to show exaggerated night runs of the cabs. We fudged the petrol bills too. We got away for some time, but later we found out that the strength of the company was its expertise in financial matters. They discovered our scam and closed down our venture. I had no face to show this senior manager. Dubey met her, and apparently there was some kind of a showdown. We were lucky to escape a jail term.’
