The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  The flirting, the bonhomie. Sweetheart. Apsara. It was obvious to Api that both she and Akhil were trying desperately to overcome their unease. She plodded on. ‘Dream car? Ekdum mad.’

  ‘Leave it, yaar. Come, get in. Or would you like to sit in the back? Whatever suits you, memsaab.’

  ‘No no, I don’t want to be leered at through the rearview mirror. So, did you buy this or was it excavated?’

  Akhil pulled the door open for Api, then made his way back to the boot. Placing the suitcases by the stepney, he flicked the supporting hook loose, and after a couple of mock drops, let go of the lid. ‘Forty thousand, I paid, for my wife.’

  ‘Your wife.’

  ‘Padmini.’

  Akhil turned the ignition, and then again, this time narrowing his eyes as though saying a silent prayer. Padmini grunted to life with reluctance. In celebration, he revved the engine.

  Api gave out a chuckle. ‘Namaste, Padminiji.’

  Akhil noticed Api fanning herself with the end of her pallu and reached over to his left to twist the rhino horn of the vent window; it swung out half-heartedly.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Api. ‘Ab chaliye, Padminiji. Your hubby is all set to be led by you.’

  ‘I am her second husband. But the first one only had good things to say about her.’

  ‘Oh. Passed on, is she?’

  ‘Respect a man’s choice, will you? I mean, thankfully—I was about to land up with Premier Aparajita, or was Aparajita the first name? I can’t remember. Well anyway, some get Padminis, some have to make do with Aparajitas.’

  Akhil was looking straight ahead but he knew already that the joke had misfired. This was to be expected. It was too much for the brain to manage—anxiety, nervousness, anger, irritation, happiness, joy, pretence. Some steam was inevitable.

  ‘Really, Akhil.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No really yaar, this is not done.’

  Akhil pulled over to the side. He looked at Api. ‘Arey, a joke yaar.’

  Api, knowing Akhil’s condition, didn’t really mind the joke but pretended otherwise. ‘Not done means not done.’

  ‘Come on! What happened to your famous sense of humour? Oh, hang on, sorry, that was me.’

  ‘Now, can we please make a move? Or should I do an aarti of your dear wife first?’

  Akhil smiled and turned away, relieved. He honked to scare away a few stray dogs that had come sniffing, and continued onwards on their journey.

  Api was relieved, too. This jumpiness from both of them was palpable. Perhaps, she thought, it was to be expected—seeing each other as they were after fifteen long years. She tried to lighten up. ‘You are mad. And judging by the present condition of dear Padmini, probably a wife beater, too.’

  ‘That’s slanderous—I could never. It’s just that every now and then my Padmini thinks she has had enough of me, drifts and veers towards other men...’

  ‘By other men you mean Qualises, Santros, Ambassadors…’

  Akhil nodded his head. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘She’s a swinger then, is dear Padmini.’

  ‘Well, at least one of us is.’

  ‘I don’t blame her.’

  ‘Well anyway, so that’s the explanation for her nicks, chips, dents…’

  ‘Broken backside—sorry, bumper.’

  ‘Dark spots.’

  ‘Twisted axle.’

  ‘Busted taillights.’

  ‘Ruptured exhaust.’

  ‘Cracked windshield.’

  ‘Smelly glove box.’

  ‘Defective tachometer…smelly glove box? Oh come on, that’s too harsh. She doesn’t smell.’

  ‘This foul smell must be your doing, then. Sorry, Padmini, sorry. I thought the wife was to blame.’

  Akhil laughed. ‘So often the misunderstanding.’

  ‘So, met anyone from Padmini’s family?’

  ‘That’s the great thing about her—no obnoxious in-laws.’

  He had done it again. ‘Shit, sorry, listen, I didn’t mean…sorry yaar, really, Api. Got carried away with all this stupid nonsense, you know. Really, I am sorry, okay?’

  Api looked out the window. She knew she had to be ready to drink all the poison. She closed her eyes and then opened them again, ready to take it all.

  ‘I said sorry na. Please, Api, now forget it. You want a Gold Flake?’

  Akhil plopped the packet and the lighter in Api’s lap and snatched open the ashtray from the dashboard. Api lit two cigarettes and jammed one in Akhil’s mouth. Only a second later did it dawn on her that she had acted absentmindedly, a reflex coerced by memories, of years long past. Akhil realised it, too, but pretended to overlook it. He nursed a hearty drag, then let the smoke seep out slowly from the nose. ‘Thanks…’

  No one spoke for the next few minutes. The silence was unbearable. It got to Akhil first.

  ‘Hey, Api yaar, I said sorry na.’

  ‘Haan? No no, nothing…’

  ‘Come on yaar, we are meeting after fifteen years. Put it down to the, down to the…insufferable excitement of seeing you again.’

  Api smiled. ‘Achha yaar, forget it. Forgiven.’

  ‘That’s like a good friend. We are friends now, no Api?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘So…’

  ‘Listening…’

  ‘Does your Padmini...’

  Akhil smacked the steering. ‘Not again yaar, Aps, please—enough of Padmini for a day I think.’

  ‘I was about to say, does your Padmini sing, too.’

  ‘Like a koyal.’

  ‘What’s stopping her, then?’

  Akhil stole his eyes away from the road for a moment and rummaged through the glove box. ‘Why not. What would you—is there a song you have in mind you want my Padmini to sing?’

  ‘No, we’ll go by her husband’s choice.’

  ‘As you please…’

  Akhil got hold of a cassette and used his teeth to flick open the cover. He pushed the cassette into the music system.

  ‘...Aa jaao tadapte hain armaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’

  ‘Good God. I didn’t even know this was available on tape.’

  ‘...main row-oon yahaan, tum chup ho wahaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’

  Akhil adjusted the volume. ‘Course it is.’

  ‘...chaand kee rangat udane lagee…wo taaron ke dil ab doob gaye...doob gaye...’

  ‘What has become of you? The world has moved on you know, Mr Devdas.’

  Akhil contorted his face to bring out the Devdas look, and broke into the translation, placing a hand on his heart for added effect. ‘Yes, but I still ache for my beloved…when the night is passing by…’

  Lata, unconcerned, continued with her mesmerising. ‘...hain dard bharaa bechain samaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’

  ‘…and I still cry here…while you are silent there…’

  Api raised her eyebrows together with a reproachful smile. ‘Who, me? I think your love for Padmini has affected you irreparably. Sorry Pads, but I think it is time to look for a two-legged wife for my Akhil—not a four-wheeled one.’

  ‘…is chaand ke dolay mein aaee nazar...ye raat kee dulhan chal dee kidhar…chal dee kidhar...’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘In the little time I have spent with you today, I know so.’

  ‘…aawaaz toh do, khoye ho kahaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’

  ‘Then can I please have one with a spacious boot?’

  ‘Akhil!’

  ‘…With those large, wondrous, calf-like eyes that my Padmini has.’

  ‘Padmini has calf-like eyes? Oh, stop it now.’

  ‘…ghabaraake nazar bhee haar gayee, takadeer ko bhee neend aane lagee…neend aane lagee...’

  Akhil threw his head back and laughed. ‘Just one last thing while we are on
the topic. So, you are going to be on the lookout for me, I take it?’

  ‘You leave me with no choice. It’s either this or watching my Akhil descend into complete and utter madness.’

  ‘...tum aate nahee, main jaaoon kahaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’

  ‘My Akhil?’

  ‘…’

  Just a minor misfire this time, thought Akhil cheerfully. ‘Good. So I can stop my own search then.’

  ‘You mean you had put in your application at Rishtey hi Rishtey, twenty-eight Raugarhpura? I knew it!’

  ‘Not yet. But I’ll take a pass now.’

  ‘…Aa jaao tadapte hain aramaan...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...ab raat guzarane waalee hain...’

  ‘So. What kind of woman would you want as your wife? Turn that prehistoric gramophone off, will you?’

  ‘...ab raat guza...’

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I asked, what kind of wife...’

  ‘One not like you; sorry, like you; sorry, not like you.’

  ‘Decide, man.’

  ‘Seriously? You want to know? Or rather, you don’t know?’

  ‘How would I, Akhil?’

  ‘Indeed, how would you.’

  ‘…’

  Akhil tried to think of something witty, but in the end, could only muster a meek ‘So…’

  Api replied in equal measure. ‘So…’

  ‘Shit, listen yaar Api, this is getting a bit sil...’

  Api saved the day. ‘Arey Akhil, are you in touch with any of the buggers from college?’

  ‘Off and on. Most of them married now, with kids. Some divorced…’

  ‘Ya? Like who?’

  ‘Remember Gaurav Batra? Drinks man at Stephen’s–Hindu basketball matches? Presently teaches at American University.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘No, American University, as in Delhi University.’

  ‘Oh…and Anupam?’

  ‘Was trying to communicate with some Nicobar tribes last I heard.’

  ‘Fat Bugga?’

  ‘Runs a start-up in San Fran; calls it 3.1417—for pi. Typical.’

  ‘Any sweetie pie for him yet?’

  ‘No, but apple pies, lots, judging by his love handles.’

  ‘And what of the ladies?’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘Anyone you are in touch with?’

  ‘Rupali joined the UN as a translator, and Piya pitched her tent on the banks of Narmada along with Medha. And of course, there was this one woman who sought secure pastures and married an IPS officer. Now who was that, I wonder.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Careful now, Akhil warned himself. ‘…Busy travelling with her entourage of maalis and dhobis and aayaahs to all sorts of hill stations.’

  ‘What absolute rot.’

  ‘Hob-nobbing at IHC, IIC, Gymkhana, even shady circuit houses.’

  ‘Nonsense. We got admitted to Gymkhana only last year.’

  ‘Admitted. Sounds like a hospital. Hope your vaccinations are up to date.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha, very funny.’

  ‘But tell me, seriously. How do you guys spend your time?’

  ‘Well, my dear husband keeps himself busy in matters of the state.’

  ‘Nabbing pocket-maars, twiddling the ears of roadside bhelpoori-waalaas, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Stop it. And yours truly...’

  ‘You were once.’

  Can’t help it, can you, you smart little twat, moaned Akhil, and hung around, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, for the outcome of this current stupidity.

  Thankfully for him, Api carried on. ‘…and yours truly supervises PhD students on a foreign language—and writes some treatise occasionally.’

  ‘Ya? What was the last one?’

  ‘An exploration of the possibility of the presence of elements of stream of consciousness in the poetry of T.S. Eliot.’

  ‘What in God’s name?’

  Api rushed her hand to steady the steering wheel. ‘Watch it—with that scooter.’

  ‘Sorry. What was it—stream, something, something…’

  ‘Consciousness.’

  ‘And people think we scientists are the crazy ones.’

  ‘Count them—you’d find twice as many psychotic writers as scientists.’

  ‘So you keep away from IPS-memsaab kitty parties then, I take it.’

  ‘If you are interested, there are some very pretty IPS-memsaabs floating around—recently single.’

  ‘I am alright with my Padmini, thank you.’

  ‘No, really. Nice bumpers, too.’

  ‘Leave it na. So…given any demonstration of your anarchist tendencies lately?’

  ‘Protested over stuff, you mean? Nothing much. But did lead a morcha to the Crime Against Women Cell recently—was tear-gassed.’

  ‘Nasty.’

  ‘All this while, haven’t really asked you about your life.’

  ‘So ask.’

  ‘Well, how’s life?’

  ‘Good.’

  Api gave a pleading look. ‘Akhil. Tell na.’

  ‘What’s there to tell yaar? Research and teaching keeps me busy…’

  ‘Just busy? Or very busy?’

  ‘There are days…but you know, being in this profession—if you can call it that—it gives you room to think about a lot of things…what people in other jobs don’t bother straining their brains on; a different perspective on things, the way the world works…science is a bit of a back-room thing, it slips in quietly.’

  ‘Tell me—is it frustrating?’

  ‘Sure it is. But then again, it’s a little different from you guys—the arts, I mean.’

  ‘Like how?’

  ‘Okay. For example, you read a great book or admire a great painting—what do you feel immediately afterwards? You say to yourself: Wow. Fantastic. How could this person write so well, paint so well?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘But you know, when I see a great work of science, when it comes out in the open, you know what I think? I think: Shit. Bastard. Why the hell didn’t I think of it.’

  Api asked in all seriousness. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, and there’s the difference. A part of me feels gutted. I go into self-ridicule. I start analysing my frailties. I am sad for days. I shouldn’t be but somehow I manage to…I am telling you the reality. Of course, in public...’

  ‘So you get envious, resentful, jealous, self-obsessed…’

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s not in a bad sense at all. I feel…I lost out—but in a good clean sense. When Mullis came up with PCR—you know, the guy who got the Nobel. Polymerase chain reaction.’

  ‘Used in DNA fingerprinting, right?’

  ‘Yes…well, when I first heard of it I felt gutted. All the reagents, the DNA, the polymerase, the primers, they were at hand. And such a simple idea. Why couldn’t I think of it, too? And guess where the bugger was when he got the idea? Stuck in a traffic jam in California, with his girlfriend.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So that’s the beauty of it. Science is a wholly individual exercise. And it works in small steps. I mean, you never see a writer with a brilliant idea writing a book that’s one page, do you. But here, it is that one page, one line idea—that spark—is what matters. And when you see someone get that brilliant idea, you feel good for the dog but bad for yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

  ‘With you guys, it never happens that a writer curses himself for not writing the exact masterpiece he just read, cursing that the whole English language was at his disposal, too.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘You guys admire it—the masterpiece, but you don’t feel bad about yourself.’

  Api couldn’t agree more. ‘Yes…’

  ‘And this can be disconcerting. You see, at the core is the...’

  Api looked out the window, at the millions of small shops claiming to sell everything f
rom a screwdriver down to a screw. Everyone left to fend for themselves, everyone fending for themselves.

  ‘I am boring you.’

  ‘No no. So you must feel lonely…’

  ‘It can get mundane at times. I would have preferred being a theoretical scientist. All you need is a little paper and pencil—no equipment, no reagents, you know, not dependent on grant agencies, the bureaucracy. But what’s the point of doing science here anyway, haan? Look at the state of our country. I mean, how can I hide myself in my lab and forget all this…damn thing gets to me at times. Anyway, I am quite philosophical about it.’

  ‘Are you now. Akhil the philosopher. So, philosopher saab, tell me about your social life.’

  ‘First you. What’s your story?’

  Api stayed silent for a long time. Then, slowly, measuring her words, she said, ‘Do naphthalene balls have a story?’

  Instinctively, Akhil wanted to ask what she meant, but held back. They drove in slience for the next ten minutes.

  Akhil said, ‘That made me think, Api.’

  ‘Sometimes a single sentence is enough.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Imprisoned in a cupboard, slowly, without telling anyone, without showing it, the naphthalene ball gets smaller and smaller. And then it disappears, even the odour, the scent, all traces.’

  Akhil stole a glance at Api.

  ‘That’s my story.’

  ‘Not very different from mine, then.’

  Api tried to cheer up. ‘Don’t be silly. Your turn. And please, for my sake, something more than just one sentence.’

  ‘There’s nothing really to tell.’

  ‘Come on, that can’t be.’

  ‘It is either the lab or the flat.’

  Api poked one more time. ‘No friends, et cetera?’

  ‘I keep myself busy, though. I do my little bits here and there, you know.’

  ‘So…all in all, after hearing the defence of Muzrim Akhil Sukumar, I have come to the conclusion the muzrim must urgently be fixed up with a beautiful, understanding...’

  ‘Leave it, Api. I am okay as I am. Why ruin someone else’s life?’

  ‘What makes you think you will ruin her life?’

  ‘What makes you think I won’t?’

  ‘I detect some bitterness...’

  Akhil exploded. ‘Bitterness? Bitterness. Look at my best friend. The bugger hasn’t even bothered to see me for fifteen years. He’s been in some other Brahmaand all this while.’