THE DIARY OF AN UNREASONABLE MAN

by MADHAV MATHUR

  Meanwhile, the other investigation was heating up too. Guru was out asking local paan-shop owners if some strange men had come to place a one-time order of paan leaves and raw materials, or perhaps just a huge order of paans. He was pointed to many big shots that had placed large orders for weddings and functions.

  ‘Which bloody street shop makes receipts? This is a wild goose chase. Akram is out of his mind,’ thought the disgruntled policeman.

  They learnt that the articles for the newspapers to print with cash payments were dropped off and not posted. A call came in the same day, ensuring that the job would be done.

  Another tired officer was tasked with tailing Shahnaz, watching her every move and tracking people that she met. Akram felt that she had more to do with the case than she claimed. So the poor chap made trips all over town, from her office to her hairstylist, from her home to her uncle’s place, to the various restaurants she would frequent with friends. He also shadowed her while she haggled with vegetable vendors and shopped for groceries.

  Shahnaz being Shahnaz realized that she was under surveillance and confronted the fellow outside a restroom in a pub once. He mumbled something about it being for her protection and sped off.

  The big man himself was questioning people at the ad agency associated with SHB’s ill-fated XS3000 launch. He had a nice long chat with Mr Khanna, the good old boss with the ‘Vinci’ wall.

  Mukherjee on the other hand was busy at the Royal Bharat Chemical Company looking for leads and other dubious-sounding things that policemen are often tasked with searching for. He enjoyed his work despite the dead ends and powered on.

  They kept in touch and had a daily meeting to report on their findings. They all went about diligently searching for something, anything, that would give them even an idea about where to look for the famous perpetrators.

  Calls came in frequently: ministers, corporate lords, pimps, everybody who was somebody was enquiring about the Anarchists, pushing the cops harder.

  Amit Chopra finally went on camera confessing his deeds, how he and the BEIRC chairman were working together. They had been at it for a long time and had many such ‘understandings’ in different parts of Maharashtra. He begged for forgiveness and a chance to redeem himself.

  The police declared a reward for any information leading to the capture of the ‘Mumbai Anarchists’.

  22. DOUBT

  I sat in my chair looking out through the same drawing room window where I had had my epiphany about my purpose in life not long ago. I felt I had come a long way from there.

  A few days ago some university students in Kolkata had painted on the glass windows of an imported automobile showroom the word ‘Need?’

  I wondered what Mr Robin Kapoor, the SHB man, was doing. I thought about what my old boss Mr Khanna would be up to. I thought about Shahnaz and about Dhwani.

  I thought about where it would all end, about what we would all become in a few years. Where would we be and what would we be doing? We had enacted some of our Bugs Bunny piano scenes and the banana-plastering exercise was well under way. But was it sustainable?

  I called up Shahnaz.

  ‘How are things?’ she asked cheerfully.

  ‘I’m okay. I can’t decide what to do next.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m a little lost. How do I tie it all up? Where does it end?’

  ‘Okay, that sounds like fodder for a longer conversation, one which I unfortunately don’t have time for right now. Tell you what, I’ll come and see you after my afternoon taping and we’ll …’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ I cut her short.

  ‘I’ll speak to you sometime soon.’ She sounded apologetic.

  ‘Bye.’

  Everything till now had passed in a haze. We had done what we had to when the time was right. Years of anger had taken form. Years of frustration had come to a fruition that few would term ordinary. Unfortunately, in spite of being extraordinary I felt small. I felt like all the actions we had taken were blurring with the passage of time. I stared out of the window looking for some sense of permanence, trying to re-experience the simple joy that we had got from sticking it to the fuckers who had ruined us.

  She surprised me when she came by later.

  ‘It’ll never die,’ she said, quietly.

  I looked at her disbelievingly.

  ‘It can’t. You’re a fool to think that what we have done will die.’

  ‘I know what we’ve done, but do people understand it?’

  ‘I think they do!’

  ‘Do they know? Do they see what we’re all about?’

  ‘I think there’s a good number of people out there who have been moved by your thoughts and are beginning to understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘We’ve got quite a name, man! We’re celebrities. If people knew who we were, we’d get mobbed every time we stepped out of this place!’ Abhay’s wisdom sparked forth.

  ‘Here’s the thing. I have little money left. I have a lot more that I want to say. Firstly I’m not sure of what to do and secondly …’

  ‘I’ll chip in, man. Chill.’ Abhay offered breezily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know a lot of people who would be more than happy to chip in to keep the project afloat,’ Shahnaz added.

  ‘How would we ever do that? We’re already vigilantes, we’re already on the run, how exactly will we canvass for funds?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ she said.

  Abhay and I looked at each other disapprovingly.

  ‘It would be the stupidest thing in the world if we got caught trying to raise capital for this.’

  ‘Then what would you like to do? Die without a whimper? Forget the movement?’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Mr Kumar? Open up. This is the police. We have some questions for you.’

  My heart sank. It was quite apparent that we all had the same terrible feeling in the pits of our stomachs.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Advani, from the police. Please, open the door, sir.’

  ‘It isn’t over yet. I have a lot more to say. This is just three-fifths of my …’ I blurted out in a hushed voice to the only two people who probably completely understood how I felt at that time.

  ‘It isn’t over. Relax. I’ll go in and clear the designs and your papers. Shahnaz, you open the taps in the kitchen to fill the buckets there. I’ve been meaning to wash them,’ said a calm Abhay.

  ‘What’s in them? Can’t that sort of thing wait?’ Shahnaz was confused.

  ‘Sure it can, there are just some remnants of the toxic waste in them.’

  ‘I’ll get right to it.’ Shahnaz was convinced.

  ‘Are you coming?’ the policeman asked again.

  I glared at Abhay and then urged them both to run along and attend to the clearing up operations.

  ‘I’ll get the door.’

  The sound of my own lock coming undone had never been so meaningful to me. I swung it open with my bravest, most innocent face to greet the man of the law. It was similar to my fake smiles and expression of glee from the days I had spent working on things like the infamous Pegasus shorts. It all came back to me now. The façade, the need to lie …

  ‘Sir! We thought you were not going to come to the door.’

  ‘How may I help you?’ I asked.

  ‘We were just asking people in the building about some untoward activity.’

  This doesn’t sound so bad. There’s doubt in his voice!

  ‘Did you see two men get out of a van in front of your building, a few nights ago, they were in plain clothes … but they had buckets and torches with them?’

  ‘No … why?’

  ‘Sir, we believe they might have been involved in some criminal activities. You’re certain you saw no one?’

  ‘I’m quite sure. But let me ask my flatmate,’ I said facetiously as I turned around to yell into the flat.

  ‘Hey Abhay, you heard the gentleman, we
re there a couple of guys running around with buckets a few nights ago? In front of our building?’

  ‘No, no. You know I go to bed really early,’ Abhay said as he emerged from my bedroom.

  ‘Yeah, that’s true. Our man Abhay goes to bed really early.’

  ‘Okay. How long have you been living here?’

  ‘Just about a year now.’

  ‘I see. Where do you work?’

  ‘I’m currently looking for a job, my flatmate, that’s Abhay, works for a chemical company.’

  ‘Is it the Royal Bharat Chemical Company?’ he asked with a glint of hope in his eyes.

  ‘No, not that one.’

  ‘All right, thanks for your help.’ Advani was noticeably disappointed.

  ‘We’re keeping an eye on this area. There are a few people who claim to have seen some suspicious activities taking place here. If you see or hear anything unusual, please give me a call on my number,’ he handed me his card and started to walk over to the next flat. He had a smile on his face, as though he was trying to comfort us.

  ‘What exactly do you suspect is happening around here?’ I asked, stopping him in his tracks.

  ‘Something grave, something awful. Just keep a lookout. Your vigilance could help avert disasters, we need responsible citizens like you to help us.’

  I shut the door and stepped back into the apartment. I could hardly contain my laughter. Abhay seemed to be smiling through his distress. Despite his watery smile, his tone was accusatory.

  ‘Well, I think it’s safe to say that we fucked up somewhere along the way.’

  ‘What could possibly have led them here?’ Shahnaz enquired, raising her voice over the noise of the buckets filling with water.

  ‘They have a hotline up and running for informants. It could have been anyone.’

  She walked out of the kitchen and sat down with us. ‘You have to be more careful.’ I saw a deep concern in her eyes as she turned to me and spoke. ‘We have to get everything out there. Don’t worry about things like money.’ She reassured me. She was a source of strength and inspiration.

  Abhay just nodded and walked towards the window.

  ‘I told you we should’ve dumped the buckets,’ he said menacingly.

  ‘There was no other option,’ I argued.

  ‘We should not have gone to her place, man. We should have just lain low. There are a lot of different ways to do things.’

  ‘Shhh … I know this guy,’ Shahnaz interrupted.

  She had picked up the television remote to raise the volume.

  Abhay didn’t heed her.

  ‘All I’m saying is that you need to listen to others while planning this. It isn’t a one-man show. It’s not something only one person can pull off. It’s not like you have training or experience in the art of hijacking and mutilating a car!’ His eyebrows were raised far beyond I had ever seen them go.

  ‘I realize that … we’ll plan things better from now on, okay?’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘And thank you both for shutting up.’ It was Shahnaz’s turn to be agitated.

  The three of us sat there in the drawing room, looking at the television. They were announcing and presenting ‘The Greatest Fashion Show on Earth: Postmodern Style by Wahid Farookh’.

  ‘I know him. He’s quite an asshole in real life,’ Shahnaz remarked.

  ‘I read his interview in the paper the other day. When is the show?’

  ‘This coming Friday, see they’re setting it up at the Oyster Ballroom.’

  ‘Everybody is going to be there. It’ll be an extravaganza not to be missed and impossible to forget, when the new WF line makes its way down the ramp behind me.’ The adolescent reporter girl could barely contain her excitement.

  ‘To add to the glory of the long anticipated WF creations there will be a host of other attractions to entertain the fortunate swish set that will be here in the Oyster Ballroom of the JW Marriott just a few days from now. Top models are being flown in especially for the show. Earlier today we had a chance to catch up with a few of them, here are the highlights.’

  Here come the models.

  ‘I’m standing here with Josh Segal by the pool of the JW Marriott in Mumbai; it is a great feeling to finally meet you Josh!’

  ‘Great to finally meet you too, of course. I only heard of you this morning, from my agent.’

  Josh was built like a Greek god who had a gym in his house and lived on steroids. His famous jawline had sold many a watch and pushed many a perfume. He fixed his hair and pulled up his trunks as the giggling reporter girl beside him continued her coy interview.

  ‘Tell us Josh, how does it feel to be in India?’

  ‘It’s been a fantastic experience so far. The weather is a little humid, but the girls are very nice.’

  ‘She’s gushing, she’s going pink for god’s sake!’ Shahnaz couldn’t believe it.

  ‘See this is what we have to compete with to ride the fucking airwaves. I can’t watch this shit.’ Abhay got up and went to his room.

  ‘There are too many of us who get sucked into this shit. Too many value this.’

  Shahnaz looked at me. ‘Big wheels are turning?’

  I pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Sinking back into my chair I told her to look at the folder that lay on the table in front of her.

  ‘I’ve decided that I need to get a day job. To keep the war alive, I need to fund it. To fund it, I need a job. I won’t go back to work in an ad agency though.’

  ‘How about a bank?’ she laughed loudly as I looked back at her in mock anger. It took a while for her to settle down after that; more often than not we were reminded that Shahnaz’s favourite comedienne happened to be Shahnaz herself.

  ‘In any case, what does this folder have to do with that?’

  ‘Nothing, my lady. Page three of the folder, quite aptly, contains my answer to Mr Wahid Farookh.’

  She flipped to the correct page. She smiled as she read.

  ‘You’re a sick, evil man!’

  ‘That’s only what my friends say!’

  ‘I love you!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I love you too Shahnaz.’ I was chuffed and a wee bit embarrased at my own candour.

  I looked at her caress the page and read it over and over again.

  ‘This will be magnificent, if you pull it off properly …’

  ‘We will. Hey Abhay …’

  He looked away from the television.

  ‘What’s with all the racket?’

  ‘Nothing, man. Just get your suit ready. We have a party to gatecrash.’

  At first he didn’t quite understand. His familiar look of bewilderment changed to a knowing smile when he saw Shahnaz and me waiting for him to catch on. She tossed the folder up to him.

  He pulled it open with excitement and read out the heading: ‘A model solution.’

  23. A MODEL SOLUTION

  My Caulfieldesque questioning of what was defined as joy had often been the cause for annoyance and anguish to those who happened to associate with me. I had ruined countless get-togethers and birthday parties with my unwillingness to accept happiness passed around in ‘stylish’ martini glasses.

  I had mocked the giggling cousins for their expression of glee upon receiving Gucci shoes and Prada bags. I had even been forced to play the game. I had bought gifts for those who mattered to me, keeping in mind that they would value a certain brand. It used to eat me up, this pandering to what was considered ‘fashionable’ and cool.

  The answer was clear. In a society where certain standards for looks, appearances and even accents for talking are so markedly defined in categories of acceptable and deplorable, it is difficult for children to grow up without wanting certain things or wanting to be a particular way. Seeking John Ab’s abs, Katrina’s butt, Zayed Khan’s jacket … shopping at Tommy-Go-Figure and Scabtree and Evelyn.

  Why should anyone tell you what to wear? Who to look like or what to be?

  It saddened me to see p
eople waste their lives away. If I asked them what they had achieved, their response would be a list of brand names or designers, in alphabetical order. There are no fat models in this town.

  Self-improvement magazines and books sell out the moment they hit the stands.

  There’s nothing wrong with improving yourself. However, the parameters that you work on and the aspects that you attempt to improve ought to be your own. After all, it is your body. It is your choice to change and modify. The standards and the source of the standards by which we end up judging ourselves need questioning and analysis. Why the fuck should it be 36-24-36?

  So the giggling cousins pack the sweaty gyms while friends of fashion hit the salons. People are discriminated against on the basis of the shoes they buy and the pens they use. There are haves and have-nots. Everyone has their own complex. Everyone is screaming inside.

  And for what? The scam of an era, concocted by the scum of the earth, strings and beads put together for people to walk about in, in the name of high fashion.

  Not on our watch. No.

  Thanks to Shahnaz we were able to get in a few days early, to check out the preparations for the show and decide our course of action. And then, in accordance with our very detailed plans we all reported at battle stations on the night of the event. We were on the esteemed guest list as representatives of a famous blog run by ‘LA-based plastic surgeons’. I was a ‘contributing editor’ on ScalpelGorgeous.com. Our IDs were works of art. Shahnaz, of course, went as Shahnaz. It was a magnificent ballroom and the security was really tight. A lot of Page Three regulars were expected to land up and support Farookh. Unlike the other occasions, this time we would have to be in the ballroom through the evening. Which meant we would have to blend in.

  Wahid Farookh was in his element. He sprung about the room like a praying mantis. Wahid worked the crowd, spending the obligatory two minutes with each group. He was brimming with confidence and oozing charm. We stood by the bar watching the madness as it grew into an uncontrollable frenzy of laughter and merriment. Inane tales and anecdotes that began and ended nowhere were celebrated out of compulsion and ignorance. One couldn’t help but overhear some of the gems from the evening.