Anirudh grinned lopsidedly. He could see himself as a saviour.
‘Okay, so I keep telling everyone I’ve cracked the Audit paper. Then I say I’ll kill myself if I fail. How does that help? I’m not going to really kill myself, am I?’
‘Of course not, you dick! Who kills oneself for plugging a paper? I’m hoping you’ll create so much momentum that when they hear you’ve actually failed, their only concern will be to prevent you looking yearningly at the fan.’
‘You think it’ll work?’
‘Of course it will. We’re needed... like earthworms. We keep the mud mixed up. No one steps on earthworms.’
These pearls of wisdom planted deep, over the next three weeks, Anirudh left no stone unturned. Several visitors to the flat including Gomti, the fisherwoman, Yadav, the dhobi[26], Ganpath, the car cleaner and Shantaram, who did the dishes, found their hearts gladdened by this triumph of the spirit, privately wishing their own children could be just as intelligent. They were also unreserved in feeling that the boy was obsessed with suicidal thoughts. Such is genius they said and let it go at that.
The day of reckoning arrived. Dad’s mind was made. He was going to Nav Bharat College. Sri tagged along.
Ani told Dad he’d failed and didn’t know what to do with his life. Sri noticed Ani had worn the right expression for the occasion—despair at this existence juxtaposed with hope of improved reincarnation.
Dad patted Ani’s arm. ‘Come home and sleep. Everything will be okay.’
It was exactly as Dad said.
When he woke, Anirudh was given a plate heaped with his favourite food: Maggi Masala[27] noodles and baked beans. He was informed that all he needed was private tuition. All talk of life and death was deferred.
That night Anirudh told his brother how much he loved him. This love was sealed with an arm around Sri.
Sri mumbled in his sleep. ‘Use only half your towel in case she throws mine out again.’
‘She threw yours out after you’d used it. Why should I leave a half for you?’
‘With her, you never never know.’ He shrugged Anirudh’s arm off and fell into troubled sleep.
In the months that followed, Sri found himself reflecting on the members of this household and the planetary system they found themselves in—three orbital bodies around a central sun.
Things cook slowly because of this sun. Things dry up fast. But burn we all will.
He was on the aluminium rocking chair in the balcony. A slow rhythmic scraping accompanied his contemplative rocking. It was September.
He was three months short of eighteen. Picking up the Mid-Day, he tried solving the word puzzles in it. Not getting far, he embarked on making one of his own.
Like the carriage return key on a typewriter, he arrived back at his favourite line of thought: the family and pack. As if hypnotised, he drew three boxes horizontally on the back of an insert in the paper. From the first of the three boxes, two more boxes were drawn downwards. Next, he moved to the third horizontal box and added two more boxes similarly.
At the bottom of the page, he wrote out his first clue—male head of this family. In brackets, he added, must be spelt with a D for drunk. Then came the second clue—a possible name for the wife of above male. Single-handedly does everything from making the sun rise to innovatively regulating debt. Is never thanked enough for her munificence of effort and concern.
His heart skipped a beat.
Munificence? Where did that word come from? Okay, should I add—done in by Number 1?
He did. The third clue read—elder son of Number 1 and 2. Great guy but destined to succeed only at failure.
He entered in the answers. Number 1 became DAD, Number 2 DID and Number 3 DUD.
The word puzzle looked like an ‘n’. A letter that would in times to come represent his encounters with other wearers of that fabled garment. Me included.
As an afterthought, he added another line. Number 2 has saved the entire family from drowning in the overflow of the bucket. Not one to remain clueless about himself, he turned upon...
‘Fack! My panch!’
The loud exclamation came from the landing outside the apartment. It was 5.30 in the evening.
Dad? Sounds like he’s smashed.
The doorbell jangled. On and on.
He’s lost control of his fingers!
Another thing about 101, Ganga Sagar was that no one, except Did, was allowed a key to the flat. Ever since some fool robber stole all the woollens and a radio in 1976, Mrs. Ramachandran lived under continuous fear of burglary, theft and pillage. The impression one got was the distribution of keys could only culminate in missing woollens and radios.
Sri opened the door to the accompaniment of a sliding sound. The smell of liquor made him step back. He couldn’t see anyone. It was as if his father had vaporised into fumes of alcohol.
‘Fack! My pancha tawn.’
Sri lowered his sights.
Dad was, on all fours, pitifully muttering what he had shouted a moment ago. ‘My pancha tawn.’
Sri was confounded for Dad was crawling around in an alcoholic mist speaking in some foreign language. Things had been desirably quiet, so this progression in plot was more than a little disturbing.
Like any good Hindu girl, 101, Ganga Sagar had pulled a dupatta of obedience around her head. Now this master of exotic tongues was going to rip off that dupatta and ask probing questions. There was no saying where all this would end.
Helped by Sri, Dad entered the living room.
Within seconds of sitting and burping, he pulled down his trousers. ‘I tawn my panch. She’ll fack me if she finds ow. Gey me a neel and threy.’
So began a rescue mission unparalleled in its daring. Dad sat in his undies in the living room, in full view of Pascal D’Cunha, stitching the seat of his pants.
He must have torn it while crawling up the steps!
Marvelling at how a man incapable of standing upright could embark on a suicide mission armed with just a needle and thread, Sri left to set camp in the bathroom.
She’s due back soon. Need some distance from the scene of crime. Shrapnel will fall far afield.
Opening the door was always an occasion of great pride for Did. In her mind’s eye, she was a princess opening the lid of a treasure casket. Under the lid was everything she owned. Everything she’d worked for. And if first impressions were to be believed, they included a potbellied man in his undies. He was snoring loudly from her sofa.
In the gloom of the unlit living room, the very same mind’s eye that made her a princess worked its magic on the rude apparition. It was he, the mastermind behind the woollen garments and radio heist of 1976. Muttering a hasty prayer, she headed for the nearest weapon.
Within seconds, Dad woke up. ‘Wha’? Oh, ho-ho-ho!’
His red undies were being prodded with the same pointy bamboo stick that was integral to the wet towel ritual.
In the opposite balcony, Pascal, who had been waiting all evening for this, lined up his wife, Molly and their three children: Maurice, Agnes and Iris.
It was only after Dad staggered to his feet that Did recognised him. Rushing to the balcony, she pulled down the venetian blinds. ‘Drunkard. Sleeping naked in the living room? Have you gone mad?’
‘Naw naked. Wearing undies. I tawn my panch. Was trying to stinch my panch.’
‘Can’t you even speak clearly? How much have you drunk? Tell me! How much?’
‘Mussa had one aah two drinks. No mo than that.’
‘Two drinks. Bloody liar! You’re stinking. You smell like a brewery.’
‘Two drinks max. I shwear.’
Seeing the hammered Mr. Ramachandran unshakeable in his version of the truth, she strode into the next room, screaming, ‘Sri. Ani. Where are you? Why did you let this drunkard enter the house?’
In the bathroom, Sri winced.
The powerful wings beating towards him could not be stopped by anything less than the power of the Gayatri[28] ma
ntra. He had already chanted it a hundred and five times. The magic number was one hundred and eight. He had to get there. Somehow.
‘I said why did you let this drunkard inside the house? Answer me. Who’s in the bathroom? Is that you Ani? Or Sri?’
One hundred and six… He was close. One last burst of speed.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you boys do with that magazine inside. Come out right now.’
He raced through the mantra as she banged on the door.
One hundred and seven…
‘I said now! Are you deaf? Can’t you hear me?’
Mumble. Mutter.
Done. One hundred and eight!
Fortified, Sri stepped out of the bathroom.
‘What magazine are you talking about, Mom?’
Brahman[29] flowed through him. On his face was the pain of watching the foibles of mankind.
‘What’s the use of leaving the house to you? Is this how you guard it? There’s a naked man in the living room—’
‘It’s not my fault.’ Panic gripped him. ‘Daddy was there. He must have let him in.’
‘You nincompoop! Your father is the naked man. He said he was stitching something.’
Sri cursed the moment he’d left the guy alone.
Naked man? Had dad gone and torn his undies also? Surely, he hadn’t been trying to darn those. Bloody hell! Dad was turning the living room into a tailoring institute.
‘Mom, I couldn’t leave him outside. He couldn’t even stand straight. He was crawling on the landing.’
‘He was... What? Crawling? You said crawling? This house is going to the dogs. After putting all the clothes and dishes for washing, I leave for work. Wait! That’s not all. I fold the bed sheets too. You boys can’t even do that much. Do you think it’s easy for a woman to run a food business? Do you even know what competition we face?’
Somehow, Sri had never come around to thinking of Madhavi Coastal Masalas as a business. Let alone that it had competition. It was just a shop in Dadar that sold masalas and achaar[30], stuff like that. Who’d want to compete with it? Luckily, his thoughts remained exactly as originally designed. Panty elastic prevailed.
‘I know your work is tough, mom. Selling fish food—’
‘Selling fish food? You ignorant wretch! I don’t sell fish food. We make ingredients essential for authentic coastal food. Masalas, spices, pickles, and chutneys! Do you even know we’ve added Maharashtrian masalas just to widen our market? And you say your mother is selling pet supplies.’
‘No. No. It came out all wrong. When I said fish food, I meant food made with fish like curries and stuff. Not something you feed a goldfish. Oh leave it, Mom. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Become a fish like no other. Fly out of these troubled waters.
‘I don’t think any of my friends’ mothers could ever work as hard as you. They’re mostly just playing cards. No one can imagine what you go through.’ On his face was a righteous contempt for his friends’ mothers.
Like an opera singer in the middle of an aria, his mother went da capo[31]. ‘If you know how much I struggle, if you know all this, why this drunk man?’
The question took Sri on the chin. He spun for a couple of seconds. He knew the man was smashed. Anyone could see that. But as to why had not yet come up for review.
Unable to mask his bewilderment, he piteously asked, ‘Mom, I really don’t know why he’s drunk. How will—?’
‘Where’s Anirudh? This is all because of him. He failed. After screaming from the hilltops that he’d... What’s that word he used? Cracked, yaah, cracked the paper! He goes and gets 18 out of 100. Shameless! Your father can’t take it. That’s why he’s drinking so much.’
Nothing will ever be at rest while the goddess of trifling matters watches over us. Just when you think the matter is dead and buried, it will be yanked out by its pant loops.
Poor Dud!
Much thought revolved around the fate that awaited Ani when he got back. Except Anirudh’s returning had been indefinitely postponed. Maurice D’Cunha, son of Pascal D’Cunha and able-bodied spy, had brought recent developments to the ear of his master.
As he leaned against the bonnet of a black Ambassador, smoking a Marlboro Light, Anirudh Ramachandran tried to understand the situation.
‘Morerayas,’—for that was the way Maurice assured everybody his name was pronounced—‘you could hear every word? That loud?’
‘She was screaming. Your father was drunk and had taken off his clothes. She blamed you for it. After she pulled the blinds down, we couldn’t see, but we could hear. Oh sahiba[32], she was really screaming.’
Maurice’s words chilled Anirudh. Why has Dad turned to nudism now? I might have failed in Audit, but all that happened months ago. Are these things connected in some strange way? Like pillows and debt?
Pulling deeply on the Marlboro Light, Ani made the cleverest decision of his life thus far. Borrowing the Yezdi that Maurice had come on, he took off for Pune.
Maurice walked back home, happy to be of use to his idol. And made a beeline for his evening bath. In passing, he blamed Anirudh’s crazy mood for the missing bike.
From across the gutter, Molly shouted out to Madhavi. The vacant space cordoned on all sides by old buildings echoed with what she said. Visions of a wild-eyed and wild-haired Anirudh tearing down the highway filled all female minds.
The most affected of these spoke in a low, lethal voice to Sri. ‘This is the limit. I’m going to kill that boy if he comes back.’
Déjà vu. Sri was blessed with a rare perspicacity, after all.
Hasn’t stuff like this happened before? Is this night going the same way as that night at Liberty Gardens? Is my life to be perforated by nights of torment?
These were just a few questions that popped up before... Dad did in the living room. Sensing he was no longer the pride of this house, Dad strode, with an air about him, to where mother and son were.
Seeing him in undies made Sri want to correct his mother’s accusations of rampant nudity. Again, that special brand of elastic held him back.
Dad’s words upon reintroduction were of a man who despite having the odds stacked against him has come through. ‘Stop the liburry. This is what happens when you send these boys to the liburry. They’re just wasting money and time. Now, Anirudh’s zappeared to Pune on a Yezdi.’
In that instant, Dad rose from the lowly ranks of cavalier nudity to the pinnacle of visionary parenting. Simply shocking, how much the both hated the library.
However, Dad couldn’t maintain his good form and violence soon erupted over whether it was too early for a small rum. This time, vaatis[33] were flung at the wall above the dining table. The sound was almost musical. An image from a music video flashed in Sri’s mind. It was from ‘Distant Early Warning’ and a kid had his legs on either side of a missile.
He wished them both a good night and backed out of the war zone.
Sleep was elusive as the walls reverberated with accusations of drunken misbehaviour and adulterous liaisons with domestic staff. Sri closed his eyes. She had hit a purple patch.
This was going to be a hard night under unfriendly skies.
He crossed his hands across his chest in the manner he believed Akhneton, the heretic pharaoh, would have. Of late, he’d found sleep came a whole lot easier with a little roleplaying. Akhneton must have slept like a baby. Of course! He had Nefertiti singing him lullabies. He drifted off only to be interrupted by a mummy, his own, brandishing a papyrus scroll of his crimes against the city of Thebes. Illuminated by the flickering streetlight outside, the Mid-Day could be seen clearly.
Oh, Phurck! She’s found the word puzzle.
From this rude awakening up till Ra, the sun god, prepared to sail across the bosom of Nut, the sky goddess, every second was devoted to spelling out Sri’s mistakes (trifling, significant and sundry). The process achieved even more depth and colour when Dad joined the action.
The management con
tinued, hour upon hour, in rich vein. When the time came to sum-up, Mrs. Ramachandran was first.
‘Sri, you think you’re clever but you’re nothing but a sarcastic fool. Writing rubbish about people doesn’t bring them down. It shows how low you’ve fallen.’ She drew her pallu[34] across her perspiring face and brought her piece to a rousing climax. ‘Try bringing up a family with no help from anyone.’
Mr. Ramachandran, though equally angry, took another slant on the matter.
‘Using big words like munnifunni will get you nowhere. Listen carefully now. I’ve never had to tell you this before.’ He suddenly dropped onto Sri’s bed and called him closer. ‘Find the fucking needle, you nampoonnay.’
At 4 in the morning, they left the bedroom but not before Sri heard his mother ask what he’d just said to Sri.
‘Told him never to have more than two drinks,’ said Sri’s honourable father.
Body and soul, Sri launched himself into the hunt for the needle. If—for this flat was constructed on the 14th parallel of perversity—the needle poked her, the resulting conflagration would make the end of days look like fun with soap bubbles.
Finding the needle in the dark of the living room wasn’t easy. The night lamp offered little assistance but switching on anything stronger would be fatal.
He ran his fingers over the sofa systematically for he was a methodical boy. On the third sweep, he found it sticking out of the mattress. Carefully returning it to the box containing all the sewing stuff, he allowed himself a tight smile.
The next step should have been to slip back into bed. Instead, he made his way to the pile of old newspapers in the kitchen. September slipped into October and, far away, weak sunlight spread across the sky. The work of the irreverent intellectual was never done. He adjusted his panties.
The Mid-Day that had just been brandished in his face was extracted from the pile. With the backs of his hands.
No point having fingers pointed my way.
He headed straight for the bathroom and locked himself in. Sitting on the black plastic bathing stool, Sri stared at the insert.
A Ladder of Panties Page 5