No Presents Please

by Jayant Kaikini

  ‘Don’t be scared, raja. I’ll come to dinner. And after that you must take me down to the river in your bus.’

  Right in front of him, she quickly wrapped a shiny sari around herself. Pandu felt happy walking alongside her, seeing that she was dressed grandly for a Ganesh puja and dinner. He was also enthused by Kuwalekar whispering to him that the actress was coming to his house even though many others had invited her.

  At Pandu’s house, the bhajan was nearly over and the aarti was beginning. Pandu avidly watched the actress clapping her hands and singing an aarti song. The curl on her forehead, the small wrinkle next to her lips, the stain of sweat under her armpits, and her arousing perfume that was wafting through the house – Pandu seemed lost in these, and his wife did not fail to notice. But she couldn’t do anything because she was busy bringing the plates filled with the offering from the kitchen to the puja.

  As soon as the aarti was over, Pandu said to the boy playing the harmonium, ‘Black two,’ to get the right pitch, and began to sing ‘Paravashatha paasha daivi’. Watching the middle-aged Pandu sweating like a kabaddi player as he sang his heart out to gain her attention, Jueebai melted. She went and sat next to him, shaking her head from side to side in appreciation. All the women of the house, who were inside arranging banana leaves in a row for dinner, came out to watch. Pandu sang all the verses twice over, and finally when Jueebai joined in, Pandu reached such a height of happiness that he just clutched her hand and fell silent. Feeling that something was going on that shouldn’t be allowed, Pandu’s elder brother called out to all the guests to take their places for dinner. Pandu’s wife, who had witnessed the climax of his duet with the actress, felt as though her domestic bliss and her wifehood had gone up in flames. She began to hit the plates with her ladle as she served everyone. ‘Eat your rice, eat your rice,’ she said loudly to Pandu.

  After dinner, when Jueebai got up to leave, Pandu introduced her to everyone in his family. He was glad to see that she had kissed his daughter Soni on the cheek. Pandu’s sister-in-law was looking carefully at how the actress had draped her sari, how her hair was tied and what jewellery she wore. Even though he called her many times, Pandu’s wife did not come out. His elder brother, whose moustache Jueebai had praised, had now a change of heart and said, ‘Please come to dinner tomorrow also,’ and wagged his tail all the way to the door.

  ‘I’ll drive you home in the bus,’ said Pandu, and immediately several people climbed on too.

  ‘I’ll go on to the upper deck,’ said Jueebai. ‘Soni, come sit with me.’ Saying this, she boarded the bus as though it were an airplane.

  The bus went round the maidan a couple of times and then set out for the temple, swaying a little on the dirt road. Pandu’s wife had been sulking in the bathroom, hoping someone would persuade her to eat dinner, but since no one had come, she eventually came out, and saw that the bus had gone. She felt unburdened, as though a demon had vanished. But she couldn’t forget her husband holding the actress’s hand in surrender. ‘Let him come back – I’ll sing a theatre song for him all right,’ she said, gnashing her teeth.

  When the bus emptied out at the temple, Pandu did not feel like taking it back home just yet. He sent Soni back with Kuwalekar and stayed behind to rehearse. He couldn’t focus on the dialogues he was supposed to learn. And as though things weren’t bad enough, Jueebai glowed like a sixty-watt bulb. Every now and then she looked affectionately at Pandu. When she called out, ‘Pasha, Pasha,’ a bearded man came up to offer her betel nut, or paan, or her towel. When the rehearsal got over around midnight, everyone was yawning – except Jueebai, who looked as fresh as she had that morning. Not once had Pandu seen her yawn. She seemed to sit there as though she was the source of the boundless energy and spirit he was looking for. He felt like sitting in front of her and singing once more. As the others were leaving, Jueebai stood in front of Pandu and said, ‘Come, let’s go for a ride in your bus. You don’t drive, Pasha will. You sit with me.’

  The big bus came out of the tiny street and began to move slowly in the dark. Jueebai sat in the first seat on the top deck. Pandu sat in the seat next to her. Below, Pasha drove in solitude. Above were rushing clouds and a cool breeze. ‘Don’t look at the sky. You may see the crescent moon and be accused of being a thief tomorrow,’ laughed Jueebai.

  Pandu smiled and looked at the sky. There was no sign of the moon in the heap of clouds. The enormous, empty bus was shaking from side to side. The seats were rattling. In the fading light, Jueebai glowed like a candle. Pandu felt like touching her. Just then Jueebai stood up as though she had glimpsed her destination and pulled the bell. The bus came to a halt.

  Both of them climbed down. Nearby, the river flowed like a shadow. The sound of water, heard through the buzzing of jewel bugs, was refreshing. The breeze carried the fragrance of the forest. They stood by the water for a long time. Pasha had gone to sleep with his head resting on his arms on the steering wheel. In the unpeopled tranquillity, the lit windows of the bus looked out of place. A sob arose from within Pandu and he gripped Jueebai’s hand. She stroked his back gently. At that, Pandu took both her hands and held them to his head as he wept loudly. ‘Shh,’ she said, glancing at the bus.

  A strange little creature of the forest – squirrel or mongoose – had entered the bus and was looking out at them, blinking. It looked at the sleeping Pasha and then ran away. Jueebai seemed to have melted into the perfume from the forest. Pandu was dumbstruck by how she appeared to understand all his woes and console him silently. As he began to stammer, ‘This bus…’ she put a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Leave it to me.’

  In the dark, a breeze came as if to take away the trees, and they shook their heads violently as if to say they did not want to go.

  Slowly Jueebai went to the driver’s door and tapped on it to awaken Pasha, and said something. In the small cabin, Pasha raised his hands and punched the skies as though he had found a treasure, and turned the key in the ignition. Jueebai stepped back. Filled with light, the double-decker bus started to move. Feeling like he had received a new lease of life, Pandu went and stood close to Jueebai. They stood and watched the bus until it became a dot of light in the distance. Then, in the cool breeze, they started walking towards the village. After they had walked for a long time, Pandu said suddenly, ‘My daughter Soni is really bright. But she says she doesn’t want to go to school. All she wants to do is watch TV at the neighbour’s. You must have a word with her.’

  ‘Chauthi Chandra’,1995

  TOOFAN MAIL

  ‘Maa used to wake me up while it was still dark. She would make me wash my face without making any noise. Then, locking the door of the kholi without switching on a light, she would hold our plastic slippers in her hand and we would walk silently till the end of Teli Galli. When we reached the main road, we would put on our slippers and run all the way to Andheri Station. There we would buy tickets, jump into the first local that came by, and get off at Dahisar. I would feel a strange and helpless joy at the thought of seeing my father. Maa would keep saying “shhh” to me even though I hadn’t spoken. As though responding to her “shhh”, the entire world seemed to have fallen silent, and in that silence the “shhh” sounded even louder than it actually was. When it was about to turn 4.45 a.m., both of us would feel a little tense. The Toofan Mail coming from the north would approach at a thunderous speed. It would pass through this deserted station, creating a whirlwind of straw and dust, and disappear in less than a minute.

  ‘The train didn’t stop here. But my father would jump from it, a packet tied to his stomach. Rolling onto the platform in a hideous contortion, he stood up before the dust had cleared, threw his bag towards us, and walked away limping, towards the two men waiting at the end of the platform. When he fell onto the platform, we were not to go near him. Until the Toofan Mail’s red tail lights had vanished in the distance, until after he had scrambled up, thrown the bag at us, waved sketchily, and disappeared, we stood like carved statue
s. Then Maa would run and pick up the bag. If I opened my mouth, she would start shushing me again. When we got back to Teli Galli, it would be just waking up. Closing the door behind us, Maa would quickly pull out things from the bag: new clothes, food, metal toys and money wrapped in plastic and tied with string. This, Maa would immediately put into our trunk. I don’t know when she counted the money. Even if she felt happy, she would pretend not to be. It was as though she was always hiding something from our neighbours.

  ‘Why didn’t my father come home? What was in the packet tied to his stomach? Who were those people he went away with? Why didn’t he get off like the other passengers at Dadar Station where the train stops, instead of jumping off so dangerously at this deserted station? The only response I got from Maa to these questions was once again a “shhh”. My father’s face remained clearly etched in my mind for many days, even though I had seen him only in that half minute as he waved to us and limped away. It frightened me to think there was never a smile on that face. I saw my father six or seven times in this fashion. He never came home. Maa used to go once a week to the station on the designated day. She started going alone and always returned empty-handed. The enormous iron train still thundered by, creating its whirlwind. But no shape now jumped from it. Finally, Maa used to search the platform to see if a bag had been thrown out. After years of waiting, she too passed away. The Toofan Mail kept on tearing through the night. One day I changed my name, which was Munna, to Toofan. This made me feel that my father the brave adventurer and the mother who raised me fearlessly were both with me.’

  At this point, the stunt artiste Toofan stopped speaking. On the ship that was some feet away from the shore, a large glass set was being assembled by the unit boys. Madhuvanti, who had been listening avidly to Toofan’s story, now gazed at the set.

  The fight scene was being shot in an abandoned mill in Colaba. In yet another part of the mill compound, a dance scene was being rehearsed. Madhuvanti, one of the dancers in the group, had heard that Toofan was doing a bike-jump and glass-break scene, and came running to watch. Six years ago when she had entered into a love marriage with Fighter Baldev, Toofan had been their primary supporter. So whenever Madhuvanti found herself on location shooting with Toofan, she would come to him to relate all her minor domestic sorrows and triumphs. Today she had come to tell him something important, but in the face of the glass-break set she had felt a little scared to talk to Toofan. Usually a glass-break meant that the artiste drove his motorbike through a big sheet of glass. Toofan was considered of late to be a glass-break expert. In today’s shot, he was to drive on the deck of the ship, then ride right through the glass set and shatter it with his bike leaping over the water and onto the shore ten feet away.

  The water looked rough, and everyone was anxious about the shot. Madhuvanti had kept silent, but Toofan said, ‘Hey Madhu, you keep asking me how I came to be named Toofan, so let me tell you my story.’ As if he would not get a chance to speak to her again, and as though uncovering a hidden wound, Toofan told her about his father and the train. Looking at Toofan, who sat wearing his armour – his chest, arms, shoulders and pelvis covered – looking like a robot, Madhuvanti did not know how to respond. Toofan laughed and patted her on the back, saying, ‘Go now, the dance mistress is blowing her whistle. Until your heroine comes, you have to go one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. Go on now, do your drill.’

  ‘Your friend Baldev is eating my life,’ said Madhuvanti. ‘Tell you later. Do you know that all of Sunil Shetty’s films are flopping? People only want love stories now. Not much demand for fighting. Even the little work he can get, Baldev won’t take up because there’s no insurance, no medical bills paid. Why should I risk my life for nothing, he says. So he’s just sitting around at home. I’ll tell you everything later. Don’t forget to take the non-veg lunch. I know you don’t eat meat, but I can pack it for home. My little Soni loves the unit’s non-veg.’

  When she stood up, her stomach looked swollen in the ghaghra choli she was wearing, and Toofan asked, ‘So production number two is on the way, is it? Baldev is now doing bedroom scenes, is he?’

  Madhu dug him in the ribs. ‘Don’t you think I’ve anything better to do? Just to bring up the one kid I have to shake my bottom a hundred times a day wearing this dreadful costume in the heat,’ she said laughing. ‘I guess I’ll work as long as I can. I’m ready to go to Ooty or wherever for outdoor shooting too. Let Baldev look after the house. We need to put Soni into an English-medium school…’

  As Madhu ran to the dance field, her forced sprightliness seemed an attempt to reduce her real age as she tried to stay in work as a dancer. Toofan felt sorry for her as he saw her joining the line of fifty dancers swaying to the dance mistress’s whistle.

  Toofan was in the habit of drinking a nimbu soda before a shot. When the unit boy asked whether he should open the bottle, Toofan told him to wait. Mahale the make-up man whispered in Toofan’s ear: ‘How much have you asked them for this shot? Just twenty thousand like always? Remember this isn’t simply a glass-break. You’re also jumping over the waves. You must ask for double. Most probably you’ll have to spend the entire twenty thousand on hospital charges. And then you’ll be eating hospital bread for weeks, with bandages and plaster around you. It’s not yet too late. Ask for double. They won’t be able to get anyone else to do the glass-break. At least ask for thirty. Go on…’

  Toofan flew into a rage. ‘Chup re. Quiet! Do you think I’m a Kennedy Bridge girl who increases her rate when she’s touched? A deal is a deal. I’ve already agreed to do it.’ He moved his arms around in a circular motion to loosen his shoulder muscles.

  Mahale was not exaggerating. After each glass-break, there was always a hospital period where he recuperated from his wounds. When he had broken a bone as the double for Shah Rukh Khan in Badshah, the star himself came incognito one night to see him in his kholi in Teli Galli. No one else from the industry had bothered to ask after him. This was how this line was. One astonishing glass-break, followed by a stretch away from the industry. Toofan had asked himself again and again. Where was the real asli fun of this bike business? In the strange emptiness that filled his mind before a shot? Or the lightness of the aftermath? Or the thoughtless vulnerable moment of the stunt itself? Madhuvanti’s husband Baldev was of the opinion that surviving a stunt was the real fun, that before the mind knows you’ve survived it’s the body that knows, and that’s the asli fun. Whenever Baldev said that, Toofan felt the Toofan Mail passing through his body. He saw his father again, getting slowly to his feet, limping off in a dignified way, in the full knowledge that he had carried out his duty to perfection.

  As Toofan stared at the distance between the ship and the shore, he heard a huge noise in the distance. He turned to see Madhuvanti shouting as she ran towards him. Chasing her, and also shouting loudly, was her husband Baldev. It seemed like a monitor rehearsal of a scene. People on the sets began to run after them to see the tamasha. Toofan observed that this drama was moving towards him and soon enough the two, followed by a crowd of spectators, stood gasping in front of him.

  ‘Go on, go on. You’re always threatening to tell Toofan. Go on, tell him in front of me,’ said Baldev, pushing his wife.

  Toofan in his mechanical-man outfit waved his hands, asking them to lower their voices: ‘Arre, arre, shhh, shhh, speak softly. What’s all this in front of everyone?’ He raised his eyebrows as if to indicate to everyone that he would deal with this.

  Without even waiting for the crowd to disperse, Baldev shook his wife, saying ‘Go on, go on.’

  ‘Toofan, he’s been getting at me in the house every single day, and now he’s on the sets chasing me. Besharam, shameless hussy is what he keeps on calling me. Last night my five-year-old Soni asks: “Mummy, what is sharam? Why don’t you have sharam?” What should I tell her?’ Madhuvanti started sobbing.

  ‘This is what I meant. Look at her, crying shamelessly in front of everyone,’ whined Baldev, clenching his te
eth.

  When Toofan said, ‘Bus, stop it,’ both her weeping and his abuse quietened down.

  ‘Sorry, Toofan,’ said Madhuvanti. ‘You have your life-and-death jump now, we shouldn’t be distracting you like this. But this idiot was hiding there, looking at my rehearsal. Tell me – am I doing chori and stealing something here that he should be keeping an eye on me? Please, Baldev, let’s talk later, let him finish the glass-break,’ she added as she turned to go.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Baldev. ‘Toofan, you don’t know … every day she acts a role in front of me. If I pull her close, she pretends to be shy. Just like the scene of the heroine on her first night, closing her eyes when the hero is slipping off the pallu from her head. She thinks I don’t understand. All false. False lajja. It’s some dream of becoming a heroine. Every night she enacts this scene. She’s a three-paisa extra – that’s what she is, not a heroine. Throwing dust in her own husband’s eyes.’ Madhuvanti sat with her hands covering her face.

  Not knowing where to look, Toofan stared at the ships in the far distance. Then he started tightening the nuts and bolts of his metal footwear for want of anything better to do. The silence seemed to calm down Baldev in his attempt to make his private sorrows public and thereby make them legitimate. He opened his mouth again: ‘I’ve been watching you all this time. When that fat woman blows her whistle, you start heaving your chest without a dupatta. You stop when she tells you to. And when she blows the whistle again you go one-two-three-four again. When she says faster, you shake even more.’

  Not able to listen to this anymore, Madhuvanti glared at him and said, ‘That’s my job. My job, do you hear?’

  ‘Then why are you so shy at home? Is that fake or is it real?’ Suddenly Baldev felt he wasn’t able to express what he felt. He waved his hands about but still couldn’t speak. Then the tears came.