by Bipin Aurora
His face was hot. Sometimes he felt it getting hotter. But as long as you were eating, you did not have to talk so much. And was that so bad?
Was that really so bad?
***
The meal went on, Raghavendran survived the meal. The food was there—it kept you busy. Vinay was a dashing boy, he told good jokes, good stories. Perhaps if he were fair-skinned—just a little more fair-skinned—he could be in the James Bond movies himself.
The meal kept them busy, there was no time for dessert. It was almost eight-thirty, the movie began at nine.
They left the restaurant and they hurried to the movie theater. Vinay drove and told jokes; he drove and told jokes. He told a joke about a man who went to the market to get some rice. The joke had something to do with pronunciation: “nice” and “mice,” “nice” and “mice.” He told a joke about a farmer who raised sheep. What a talented boy he was. He could do so many things at the same time. If Raghavendran had one-tenth his talent, one-hundredth …
Raghavendran felt something on his knee. Did it happen? Did he imagine it? Raghavendran was sitting in the back, the same place on the left side, his hands resting beside him. A hand had reached over—what hand? It had rested on his knee.
They say that dark men cannot get darker. Do they really know? They say that dark men do not blush. Do they really know? The hand rested there for two seconds, for three. Vinay swerved the car to make a sharp right turn; the hand was removed.
Raghavendran sat there in the darkness. He sat immobile. Was the hand really there? Why? Was it removed? Why? Perhaps he was expected to do something in return. What was he expected to do? Vinay had not told him. He should have told him. He was a talented boy, so talented. And yet. And yet …
***
They arrived at the movie theater, they made it just in time. They had just eaten, no one was in the mood for popcorn. They sat four rows from the back: boy, girl, girl, boy. Vinay and Raghavendran were each at the end, the girls in the middle. Raghavendran felt lost. Vinay was his friend, his lifeboat, his savior. Why was he so far away? What would he do with him so far away?
But thank God they were at a movie, an event. Something was in front of them. They were not expected to speak—or were they? It would be rude to speak.
The trailers came on. Every so often Vinay whispered something to Cheryl, Cheryl to Anne. Raghavendran sat in the darkness, immobile.
The trailers were over, the movie came on. It was a police story. Al Pacino—a handsome man. As the movie went on, he grew a beard and looked even more handsome. Raghavendran had never grown a beard. Should he grow a beard? But it would be black, pitch black, not like the brown beard of Al Pacino. Would the girls like it? Of course they would not. They were pretty girls, white girls. Why should they?
Al Pacino was a policeman. There was corruption, there were bad policemen. In one scene a woman was being raped and they briefly showed her breasts. Raghavendran blushed. In another scene the hero and his girlfriend were taking a bath together. Again Raghavendran blushed. He was glad that it was dark in the theater. No one could see him blushing.
But his breathing became hard. Could they hear his breathing? Were they laughing at him? Was she?
The bad scenes were over, thank God. There were other, better scenes. Scenes in the police building, scenes on the streets. Al Pacino spoke—he spoke with such a nice, confident accent. Were there really people like this in the world?
The movie went on, went on. They sat in the darkness and it went on for over two hours. There was a girl next to him. A beautiful girl. In the car she had put her hand on his knee—or had she? Was he supposed to do something? To hold her hand—the tips of the fingers, just the tips. Or to press her hand against his cheek. Would it begin to burn? Was it burning even now?
He heard whispers to his left, soft and delicate. They had something to whisper about. They knew how to do it.
He sat there by himself. He was from Madras, the famous college there—Presidency College. Third in his class, near the top, the very top. But how far away Madras was. How small he sometimes felt. How small.
The movie ended, the credits began to come on the screen. Some of the lights, but not all, turned on.
“Did you like it?” said Anne.
“Yes yes, a good movie,” said Raghavendran. “Very good.”
Anne asked the two people on her left. They liked the movie as well.
They all liked the movie but now it was time to leave. They made their way to the exit.
***
Vinay and Cheryl walked ahead, Raghavendran and Anne followed. The confident ones were holding hands now. Had they been holding hands in the darkness as well?
Raghavendran watched Vinay and Cheryl in awe. How effortless they were, how natural. Perhaps it was an art. One must study it for years and years. Or perhaps it came naturally. It came only to a handful—the chosen few. And the others, the others …
They arrived at the car, they returned to their seats. Raghavendran thought that he would sit in his usual place but Anne had already sat there, on the left side. Why did she do it—was there a reason? Things happened so fast. Sometimes they happened so fast your head was spinning. But perhaps this was America—or perhaps even the world. Nothing stayed the same. Nothing ever stayed the same.
They talked about going out for coffee. At first the girls said yes, but then Anne said that she was tired. It was almost midnight, they would do it another night.
Raghavendran was not stupid, he knew. It was because of him. Of him.
They drove up to the girls’ house. The girls got out, Vinay got out as well. Raghavendran was lost, he did not know what to do. He began to get out but Vinay and Cheryl were now standing outside, kissing; Anne was standing outside his side of the door—he could not open the door without hitting her. He stared straight ahead at the windshield. Then he thought he should at least lower his window, say a polite goodbye to Anne. He lowered the window a little, it made a squeaking sound. It was not much but it was there. Vinay and Cheryl were startled, awakened from their embrace. They looked at Raghavendran. At last he rolled down the window a little more.
“Thank you, Anne,” he said. “Thank you for a nice evening.”
Anne held out her hand. “Thank you, Ragu.”
Raghavendran was sitting, the window was just partly open. He could just get part of his hand atop the window glass. The hands did touch this time. But just the tips of the fingers, no more.
“Goodnight, goodnight,” everyone said again and the girls walked up to their house. Vinay walked them to the door. Raghavendran stayed in the back seat. He thought again of getting up, of saying a more proper goodbye. But it was too late.
***
When Vinay returned to the car, Raghavendran was still in the back seat.
“Time to go,” said Vinay, his voice cheerful.
“Should I come to the front?” said Raghavendran.
“Yes yes, of course, of course.”
They drove for a short time. “The girls are nice,” said Vinay.
“Yes,” said Raghavendran.
“They live in a nice neighborhood—don’t they live in a nice neighborhood?”
“Yes,” said Raghavendran.
They drove for another few minutes. “I am an idiot,” Raghavendran said at last.
There was no answer.
“I am an idiot,” he said again.
“Oh cheer up,” said Vinay. “You were fine, just fine. It takes practice. Just practice.”
What a confident boy Vinay was. How nice. How reassuring.
They made their way home.
When Raghavendran arrived, the roommates were asleep. Thank God they were asleep. He went to his room, he changed. He went to the bathroom, he threw water on his face. He washed his face with soap and water, he rubbed and rubbed. He threw water on his face, more water.
“I am an idiot,” he said again.
He walked back to his room. “But the knee,” he suddenly r
emembered. “Was it my imagination? No no, it wasn’t. But what was I supposed to do? What?”
America was a confusing place. No no, the world was confusing, the whole world. He was getting his PhD in Chemistry. Chemistry, ha! He knew so little about the world, the real world.
Raghavendran lay in bed that night, awake for hours. He thought about Madras—how far away it was. He thought about America—what a difficult place it was. He thought about Anne. She was sweet, she was kind. He was an idiot, but she was not. She was sweet, she was kind.
There were so many things he did not know. So many.
“I will go out tomorrow,” he suddenly said out loud. “I will go by myself, I will order spaghetti. I will practice and practice. Is that not what Vinay says?” And then, more softly: “Eating spaghetti isn’t hard. I will learn. I will learn.”
The next night Raghavendran Ramachandran did indeed go out by himself. He walked to a restaurant almost two miles away. He went to eat spaghetti. He had so much to learn.
He sat at the table, he rolled the spaghetti around in his fork. Again and again he did it. “And the knife,” he reminded himself. “Don’t forget to use the knife.”
He was short, he was dark. But what did that matter? He was not James Bond, he was not Al Pacino. But what did that matter? He would practice, he would practice. And he would get better. He would, he would!
D.K. Choudhary
He went to the State Bank of India (or was it the Indian Bank?). It was in Defence Colony—across from the Minar Hotel.
He climbed the narrow, and winding, steps. He went to see Mister D.K. Choudhary. He worked in the Pension Department.
But Mister Choudhary was not there.
“Where is he?”
“Out to lunch.”
“When will he be back?”
“He did not say.”
“There is a chair here, the cane bottom sagging. Can I sit in the chair, can I wait?”
The other did not say anything. He took that for assent. He lowered himself carefully, he sat down.
The other seemed even, and perhaps suddenly, to have grown sullen. He lowered his head to the work in front of him, he returned to this work.
Work—what work did he do? There was a ledger open in front of him. It was a wide ledger, not so long but wide. There was a left side: a green page with crisscrossing lines. There was a right side: a blue page with crisscrossing lines. There was a wide column to the left, with some words written in the column. Perhaps these were the names of people, of accounts. Next to the wide column there were narrow columns—three or four—with numbers in them. Perhaps these were the amounts—or “entries.”
The visitor looked at the man with the ledger, he looked at him with interest. Who was the man, where did he come from? Was he educated, was he not? Was he married, was he not? Was he happy with his life (he did not seem to be), was he unhappy?
The visitor sat on the cane chair, he looked at the man. He sat there for a long time. But where was Mister Choudhary? Where was he—would he ever return?
***
The visitor had arrived at the bank at a few minutes before one o’clock. The clock struck one-thirty, then two. Two-thirty, and then two-forty. At last a man—a middle-aged man with a sallow complexion—began walking towards the desk.
“Mister Choudhary?” he whispered, looking at the man hunched over the ledger.
The other looked up, screwed his face—pushing out his right cheek. But he did not say anything.
The newcomer approached the desk, turned sideways, and, somehow, squeezed his way through to the chair.
“Mister Choudhary?”
The newcomer looked up quizzically (was it with disdain?), as if to say, “Who wants to know? Who could possibly be asking?”
“I am Kumar,” said the other, “V.V. Kumar.” And having said these words, he seemed to have a lump in his throat, he seemed to have exhausted himself—he suddenly stopped.
The newcomer, it turned out, was indeed the awaited—the esteemed—Mister Choudhary. He was a man of medium height. He had a small and slightly round face. But what stood out was not the size of the face or the roundness but the stubble—the white hair—on his face.
He had not shaved, it seemed, in days.
He wore green or greenish-brown pants. They were in the old style, cut very narrowly at the bottom. He wore a striped shirt, with vertical blue and yellow lines. The shirt hardly went with his pants—or with his complexion or his face.
But this is the kind of man he was—he seemed to be.
He worked in the Pension Department. It was not an exciting position; he hardly seemed to be excited—or was it even alive?—himself.
“I am Kumar,” said the other, “V.V. Kumar. I have come to see you about a matter.”
“A matter”: this is just how he phrased it. It was quaint English, old-fashioned English. But the manner of the English—or the very fact that he spoke English to begin with—all this told a great deal perhaps about the visitor.
***
So he was there, at the Pension Department. He had waited for Mister Choudhary—waited for a long time. Mister Choudhary had arrived—arrived at last.
And what now? What next?
The visitor had brought a bag, four shirts in the bag. They were new shirts—shirts from America, imported shirts. Could they help him—help him at all in the matter at hand?
He took the bag from the floor (where he had rested it quietly), he offered it to the other.
“A small token,” he said.
The other looked at him.
“Shirts. There are four of them, new, imported shirts.” He emphasized the next-to-last word but only slightly, discreetly.
The other opened the bag a crack, looked at it for an instant. His face, the tight muscles, seemed to slacken. He opened the bottom drawer, on the right—but quietly, only a little—he put the bag in the drawer. Discreetly, just as discreetly, he closed the drawer.
There was a moment of silence. An awkwardness seemed to follow.
“Pension,” said Mister Choudhary—he said at last. “So it is a matter …”—and he suddenly stopped short, in mid-sentence.
Another moment of silence—of awkwardness—followed.
Mister Kumar was at a loss, was hesitant. But he was the one who had come, he had to say something. Was it not expected—his duty?
And his tongue loosened, he began to speak. He explained the details—all the details of the case. The case (the papers) had been filed: such and such papers. The person had retired: such-and-such a date. Everything was legal (in duplicate, even in triplicate): “We have an STD and cyclostyling shop nearby—it is very reliable; everything is legal, it has been properly attested.”
“So what is the problem?”
Mister Kumar seemed to be taken aback. He hesitated, he stammered. At last he blurted out: “The money.”
“The money?”
“No money, no sums”—the very word he used—“no sums have been received. And it has been six months now.” His voice seemed to trail off. “Six months,” he added, as if to emphasize the time. But the words came out weakly—he was hardly audible.
Mister Choudhary looked at his visitor, his petitioner. He was struck by his discomfort but perhaps he was impressed—emboldened—by it as well. After all, was it not a compliment to him? The petitioner had come to see him. He was the man of authority, of power. It was to him that the petitioner turned; so much depended on him, on him.
***
That evening Mister Kumar came home, he told his family what had happened.
They were happy, they were hopeful. The children jumped up and down, the wife allowed herself a smile. Perhaps now the pension would come.
And did it?
That evening Mister Choudhary went home as well.
The children came running out, they asked for toffee. He reached into his pocket, he took out one.
His wife stood in the back, at the stove in the kitchen, her he
ad covered with her sari.
He called her to the room and showed her the bag. He pulled out the shirts.
“Four,” he said. “Imported,” he said.
She did not know where the shirts were from. But she could guess.
She was pleased.
***
This was the beginning then, the early days. And what happened then, what happened next?
Mister Kumar waited for the pension check; every day he waited.
And did the check come?
He waited, he waited.
And did the check come?
Mister Kumar dressed, he put on his jacket and tie. (Should he not look respectable?)
He put on his respectable clothes and he went to Defence Colony. He went to the bank. He went to see Mister Choudhary.
“He is not here.”
“Not here?”
“He is out of station.”
“Out of station?”
And then the simple, the common: “He is not available.”
Not available, not available. They say that Mister Choudhary was not available, he was never available.
They say that Mister Choudhary was not a bad man (not really). But he was not the most thoughtful, or most sensitive, man either. And when you are not thoughtful, you can become thoughtless. You can hurt others.
Mister Choudhary hurt—he hurt the life of Mister Kumar, of Mister Kumar’s wife, of his children.
Was he aware of this?
Did he care—did he even care?
***
The days passed. Mister Kumar became sad. Mister Kumar became despondent. There was the sum, the matter of the “sums”—but these sums, where were they? These sums, would they ever arrive?
He had worked for the office, worked there for thirty-five years. He was entitled to the sums. He had earned them. It was not as if they were doing him a favor.
But these sums, where were they? These sums, would they ever come?
Many days passed. A relative—a relative of a relative—said that Mister Kumar was being too weak. He was, as the relative put it, “playing into the hands” of the others. He was being meek, playing the petitioner, playing well—“too well”—the role of the petitioner.
