The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  15

  1990—The Death of the Heart

  The young man held the ketchup bottle away from his body, its plugged nozzle pointing at the omelette. He slapped the base repeatedly with his palm but to no effect. In anger, he repositioned the upturned bottle and started to knife the space above the omelette over and over again. A river of glossy red pulp gushed out all at once, bloodying the plate. The young man put down the emptied bottle and spread the ketchup evenly on the omelette with a few caressing strokes of his butter knife. Satisfied, he shrouded the murdered egg with a slice of white bread and commenced the sawing, pinning it with a fork first. Scarcely able to wait any longer, he put down his knife and picked the quarter portions up with his fingers and inserted them, one after another, into his wide-open mouth. With closed eyes and buffalo-like jaw grindings, the young man embarked on his evening tea at St Stephen’s cafeteria.

  As Akhil, seated with Api on the adjoining table, watched the young man devour his omelette, he was reminded of that culture-colliding anecdote involving one of his college friends, Vishwas Bhatia.

  ‘Saali, French bitch,’ had fumed Bhatia all those years ago.

  ‘Who?’ had pushed the attentive circle of friends hoping to hear something nauseating. ‘Arey my French girlfriend, yaar.’

  ‘What about her, ban-cho?’

  ‘Bloody she broke up with me, man.’

  ‘No, seriously?’ had commiserated the circle cheerfully.

  ‘Yes. And you know why?’

  ‘Bata jaldi, saaley.’

  ‘She couldn’t stand my soaking the omelette with ketchup. Ban-cho, I never got angry when she ate all those beef momos. Saali hypocrite.’

  ‘What a bitch. Anyway, to hell with her and that Alan Frenchie.’

  ‘Alliance Français, bhosdi ke.’

  ‘Whatever. Forget her, bastard. Hop on to Bagga’s Lumraytta and start going to Max Mueller Bhavan for German lessons.’

  ‘What are you talking about, ban-cho?’ Bhatia had enquired, half-interested already.

  ‘Serious, man,’ had counselled his friends. ‘Bagga’s hajaar positive he’ll be pillion riding a German pataka within a month. Look, here he comes—Guten morgen, Bagga.’

  Akhil broke away from this joyous recollection and paid attention to the worried look on Api’s face.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘No, nothing,’ said Api, not looking up from her scrambled eggs.

  It didn’t overly worry Akhil to see Api in this state. D-day nerves, he thought, that’s all. In fact, nothing had overly worried Akhil ever since the start of his week-long trip to India. Everything had been planned beforehand in Cambridge—even this meeting with Api today at the college café.

  Akhil was staying on the campus with Dr Rajendran, his old chemistry teacher. It was high summer and the college was closed. But the café was open, to serve those small number of unfortunate honours students who’d stayed over to repeat their subsis.

  The café was almost empty, and when the young man paid up and retreated down the steps licking his fingers, Akhil and Api were the only customers left.

  Akhil was not of this world today, meeting Api as he was after three interminably long years. He was into the second year of his PhD at Cambridge, having fared exceptionally well in the Natural Sciences Tripos. Only when he was well settled into his PhD had he decided to test the waters as far as marriage with Api was concerned. He had written her long, convincing letters, telling her he could now say he had done well in life, was on his way to becoming someone she would be happy with. He told her how, after his PhD, he wanted to come back to India and start a lab, how life was one smooth, upward curve from now on. He told her all this, and of course, Api was happy and delighted and agreed to Akhil’s proposal. They decided after a few months that the time had come for Api to tell her parents about him. Api did so eventually and a date was set when Akhil would come and meet Api’s parents. Today was that day.

  ‘You haven’t said a thing for the past twenty minutes, yaar,’ said Akhil.

  ‘Hmm? Sorry, what, Aks…’ mumbled Api, forcing back a smile. She looked drained and feverish.

  ‘I should be the one all worried and trembling. I am the one meeting your parents, remember. They are expecting me, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And you have told them everything?’

  ‘Hmm? Haan, yes…’

  ‘Hey, wake up, sleeping beauty. When do you think we should move?’

  ‘In a few minutes; we are expected at six.’

  Akhil swivelled round and waved. ‘Arey, Bhaiyan?’

  The cheerful and pencil-moustachioed Bhaiyan came toddling over. ‘Haan Akhil, bolo.’

  ‘How much, boss?’

  ‘That’s two scrambled eggs—twelve rupees…six toasts—ten…one pot tea—that’s twenty-five total.’

  ‘Here, that’s two hundred—for you and Harimohan and Jagdish.’

  ‘Thanks, Akhil. Where’s AB?’

  ‘In Calcutta preparing for his UPSC. I am flying there on Thursday before I finally fly back. Had to come to Delhi, as you know. Well, we better be going now…’

  ‘See you around, Akhil. Come back and file a report on how things go.’

  ‘Will do. Come, Aps.’

  The two made their way out and walked slowly towards the Allnutt South exit gates. Api remembered something. ‘Aks, what was all that about filing a report? They know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great. So now everyone knows.’

  Akhil smiled. ‘Arey relax, yaar. It’s not that I am going around distributing marriage cards, is it?’

  ‘But before it has even happened!’

  ‘Why. You think something might go wrong?’

  ‘Shut up, na.’

  ‘You aren’t in two minds now, are you?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Akhil! This isn’t funny.’

  ‘What? Hey, is something the matter? You okay? You aren’t hiding anything from me now, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. Just...just, let me be, for a few minutes.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Akhil and hailed an auto.

  The autowallah heard the call and pulled over.

  Akhil nodded at the driver. ‘Cornwallis Road.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cornwa...Sujan Singh Park.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Suj...Arey yaar, near Khan Market. You know? Never mind, I’ll give direc–’

  ‘No, I know. That’ll be fifty.’

  Akhil patted the meter.

  ‘Isn’t working.’

  ‘Achha yaar, take fifty…Api, get in.’

  ‘But, Aks, fifty? That’s double the…’

  ‘Arey leave it, na. It’s a special day. Haan, chalo boss. And listen, take the Outer Ring Road—not through Filmistan, okay?’

  ‘Add five more, then.’

  ‘Arey, you take ten more, yaar. Can we move now?’

  The man swung the handlebar and took a sudden U-turn, disregarding the oncoming traffic. Cars and taxis swerved and screeched, and those on motorbikes and two-wheelers banked severely and weaved around the auto, shouting the usual rich pickings from the ma-behen word list. The autowallah waved these off as harmless sledging and propelled his machine to speeds not meant for three undersized wheels.

  Akhil hadn’t noticed a thing. He tickled Api on her back. ‘Hey…’

  Api shrugged it off.

  ‘Hey, Api.’

  Api pushed the adventurous hand away.

  ‘Hey, Aps, I love you.’

  ‘Yes yes.’

  ‘What yes yes? Hey, Api, I love…’

  ‘Oh, be quiet.’

  Meanwhile, the autowallah, who had seen the goings-on at the back through his wing mirror—and approved of them. He decided to give the lovers the kind of thrill and adventure he thought lovers craved. He revved the handle to its maximum limit and made his apparatus behave as though it was on two wheels, not three.

&nbs
p; Within five minutes, they had reached the ISBT traffic light, which the autowallah ignored ruthlessly. It took them another five to pass all the final resting places of the great Indian men and women, with some heaths reserved already for the future crop. Seeing Rajghat come into view, the autowallah bowed his head and closed his eyes momentarily.

  For Akhil, they might as well have been travelling in a bullock cart. ‘Hey, Api, my love…’

  Api showed her irritation. ‘What?’

  ‘I am thinking, if all goes well, you could come with me to England for a few weeks now itself, haan. Don’t worry, I have saved enough. What say you? A little pre-honeymoon. Hey, Api…’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Akhil, please.’

  ‘What shut-up wut-up, yaar? Don’t know what’s gotten into your bheja. Arey where else will they get such a handsome and dashing son-in-law, hain?’

  ‘Oh, please, Shh.’

  ‘Dashing, charming—arey BA tripos, that too a Geoffrey.’

  ‘Geoffrey?’

  ‘Yes, Geoffrey. Geoffrey Hurst—First.’

  ‘You are mad.’

  ‘Not a Desmond.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Desmond Tutu—a two-two.’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘What more could any loving parent ask for? No?’

  ‘Quiet.’

  With his good eye on the wing mirror and the glass one on the road, the autowallah rocketed past India Gate. Their speed seemed to stretch and warp the ten or so ice-cream handcarts to about a hundred.

  Akhil came to life. ‘Boss, take a right from here and then a U for Himayun Road.’

  A qualified U-turn specialist, the autowallah raised no objections.

  ‘Now take a right at the petrol pump…Now second left—haan. Haan, bas bas bas. Stop right here.’

  The auto screeched to a stop, leaving behind three skid marks on the road, like the familiar lines on Iyer foreheads.

  Akhil rummaged through his wallet. ‘Fifty-five?’

  ‘You said sixty.’

  ‘Arey, yaar, here—take seventy. Happy?’

  If the autowallah was happy he didn’t show it.

  Akhil struggled out from the auto. ‘Come, Api—you go in first.’

  ‘Oh God oh God oh God oh God…’

  ‘What? What? Hey, just relax.’

  ‘You go first, Akhil.’

  ‘Hey…’

  ‘Don’t argue. Just go.’

  ‘Alright, alright.’

  Akhil stood at the main door, ran a cursory hand over his hair, and pressed the bell. The door opened, revealing a man with three lines on his forehead, wearing a half-sleeve shirt and a zari-work veshti.

  ‘Hello sir, good evening.’

  ‘Oh, welcome, Sukumaran, welcome. I am Appu’s father. Come, come. I hope you had no trouble with the traffic. Come in, come in…’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Come, Aparajita…Sukumaran? Hey, Aps, what’s this Sukumaran—or has he just muddled it up.’

  Api pushed Akhil in. ‘No, he hasn’t. You are Sukumaran, not Sukumar. Remember that, please—for my sake.’

  ‘What. But why…’

  ‘Please make yourself comfortable, Sukumaran,’ said Api’s father, trying to gather his veshti and walk at the same time. ‘I am sorry the wretched desert cooler broke down this afternoon. This heat must be a terrible change from Cambridge, no? Come, sit. No, sit there. That’s at least by the window. I’ll call Rukmini. Appu, please see where your mother is.’

  ‘Yes, Appa.’

  Appa sat down on the sofa with a thump and waited for the ‘fissing’ sound to subside. ‘And tell her to bring all the goodies. I tell you, Sukumaran, er…’

  ‘Akhil, sir. Akhil Suku…’

  ‘Yes, I tell you, Sukumaran, Appu’s mother makes the bes-t vadas. You like vadas?’

  Akhil grinned. ‘My record is thirteen—without the chutney and the sambar, of course.’

  ‘Hah. That’s very good, very good. We must arrange for a vada competition one of these days—old man’s still got some fire in his belly, you know.’

  ‘We must, sir.’

  ‘I can understand your eagerness, hah, after years of baked beans and fish and chips.’

  Akhil couldn’t agree more. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Appu has told us all about you. Had we any inkling, we would have arranged for this meeting much earlier.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And how is work, Sukumaran?’

  ‘Guess it’s alright, sir. I am into my second year of PhD. Things haven’t really started rolling yet but I hope they pick up soon.’

  ‘That they will, that they will. The important thing is to enjoy yourself. Maybe Appu hasn’t mentioned, but there was a time in my life when I could have gone to England to study.’

  ‘She did mention it once, in passing.’

  Appa threw his arms up in the air. ‘But my father put his foot down, said where is the need? Stay put and join IAS. Hunh, join IAS—like it is some military service. I had to break my back to pass. It was like smashing a hundred coconuts daily with your forehead.’

  ‘It is really tough, isn’t it, sir. I mean the exam…’

  ‘I missed the foreign service by two spots, two tiny spots. We could have been eating vadas in London. Ah, but it’s alright, can’t complain. There have been plenty of opportunities for tours. I was in Paris last summer.’

  ‘Haven’t been there yet, sir.’

  ‘But nothing like home, Sukumaran. Ah, here come the vadas.’

  Appa caught hold of Api’s arm. ‘Come Appu, sit.’

  ‘Appa, you talk whatever you have to, I’ll be upstairs…’

  ‘Arey, come, come. What is there to talk? We have seen the boy and we couldn’t be happier. Come, sit.’

  Api took a seat well away from Akhil.

  ‘So, Sukumaran, you have plans to come back? Finally, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Maybe after a post-doctoral stint. That way, it’d be easier to find an academic job here.’

  ‘Arey, boys like you will have no problem, no problem at all. The jobs are for the taking—so well qualified and everything.’

  Akhil reached for a vada. ‘Let’s see, sir.’

  ‘Here, some filter coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You know, that reminds me. Don’t mind, Sukumaran, but you Iyengars…’

  Akhil thought he had misheard. ‘Er…what, sir?’

  ‘When Appu told me of your Sukumaran surname, I got thinking—the fellow must be an Iyengar only.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I laughed. What strange luck for an Iyer to marry off his daughter to an Iyengar. Strange and eccentric ways Lord Ayappa works, I tell you.’

  Akhil couldn’t comprehend the beseeching, pleading, desperate stares of Api. ‘Er, sir, maybe, there is some mis…’

  ‘Yes yes, where was I? Oh, the filter coffee—yes Sukumaran, don’t mind, but you Iyengar fellows have a habit of serving your coffee in cups that have a false bottom. It’s true. You people are famous for it. Once, at a friend’s place—he’s an Iyengar—I took a few gulps of the coffee and I thought, what fantastic coffee. And then when I went for my third gulp—there, that was all the coffee there was.’

  Akhil was beginning to get worried. ‘Er…’

  ‘But splendid fellows, you Iyengars. I have no complaints. I mean, after all, it’s only us Iyers and you fellows that are second in position to those Nambudris, no?’

  ‘Sir, let me…’

  ‘So what, I say. Still top-notch one hundred percent brahmins. And what can one say about those Nambudris—their damn noses up in the sky. And I don’t believe in all this first position-second position business, all this caste-waast—it is taking this country down. Iyers and Iyengars at the same level, tied second, is what I say. No? Arey, I am boring you will all this nonsense. But I thought it was important to reassure you at the very beginning that we think very highly of Iyengars, most highly.’

 
; ‘Sir, if I may…Api, will you please…’

  ‘Appu—I mean, we—we are of Srivatsa gothram. And her star is Rohini. Is that alright?’

  ‘Sir, what?’

  ‘Srivatsa. Our first ancestor. You can say our Adam. And let me see—your gothram might be...you have any clue? You fellows are Vaishnavites so it must be…Oh, the name’s on the tip of my tongue. What is it, what is it? Sadamarshana? Koudiniya? Arey you youngsters wouldn’t even have had a proper horoscope made. Anyway, when setting the date of marriage, we will enquire from our Panditji.’

  ‘Sir, can I pl…’

  ‘Appu told me about your having lost your parents in a car accident. I am very sorry. But I would like to tell you, Sukumaran, that in us, you have found your new parents.’

  Akhil’s thoughts were a muddled mess, what with Appa’s ramblings and Api’s stares.

  Appa, meanwhile, had no such worries. He rambled on. ‘When do you think we can set the date for marriage? If possible, we’d like to get it done and over with by this year-end. I know you are in the middle of your PhD, but my grandmother is ninety-eight and there’s nothing she would like better than to see her great-granddaughter married off before the she takes on her journey to the heavens. Anyway, we are not conservative. We leave it to you. I have told you our preference, that’s all. And don’t worry about having to take Appu to Cambridge after marriage—no problem at all. Let her complete her studies here and then we’ll see what happens.

  ‘Sir, about the Iye…’

  ‘And of course, Appu being our only child, did you ever wonder—I don’t suppose you gave it a thought—but didn’t you think it was odd why a pucca Iyer girl was called Aparajita?’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t.’

  ‘See, it’s a Bengali name. It means, the one who cannot be vanquished, and it’s a long story, but maybe now is the time to tell you. You see, we had Appu only after twelve years of our marriage. Something wrong with her mother, they said. We had lost all hope. Even Lord Ayappa had turned his back on us. We are only human. Who is to know how the lines of our hands may twist and turn and go some other way? Rukmini proposed the idea of us adopting a baby but I must tell you, Sukumaran, I was apprehensive. I mean blood is blood after all and the outer world is a nasty place. Who is to say the baby you adopt, even though guaranteed by the agency of being a brahmin, turns out not to be so. Ooh—the very thought!’