A Ladder of Panties

by Sandeep Jayaram

  ‘He’s cute. I love the way his hair falls over his eyes. Like one of those guys from Duran Duran.’

  ‘Duran Duran? That girl band? You think Shrey looks like one of those guys?’

  ‘He does. And even if he doesn’t, he’s cute. Is he interested in someone?’ The determination in her voice hung like a blade.

  Unlike that Greek guy Damocles, Sri continued unmindful. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You guys from Merciful Saviour all hang out together. I’m sure you’d know if he’s seeing someone.’

  ‘You like Shrey? I never thought. You spend…’

  The blade descended an entire foot.

  ‘What? I spend? What?’

  The blade only just entered Sri’s field of vision.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t give me that nothing stuff. What did you want to say?’

  In times to come Sri would realise that once you’ve said ‘nothing’, you’ve got to stick by it. That huge whacking blade wasn’t around for laughs. In fact, it was out of abject fear that all his self-preservation had coiled itself up into one tight worm of nothingness. ‘Nothing’ cannot be followed by full disclosure. But those times were still to come. As was the huge whacking blade.

  ‘Somehow I felt…’ He lit a cigarette to buy time and attitude. But Yashika wasn’t about to turn purple, waiting. She walked briskly towards her car.

  In a spell of self-destructive genius matching Anirudh’s air biking, Sri ploughed on. ‘Somehow I got the impression you liked me. You spend so much time with me I thought it was…’

  The blade lowered itself. Inches above. Positioned perfectly.

  ‘You’re weird, Sri. Just because I hang out with you doesn’t mean I like you in that way.’

  ‘Weird? How can you call me weird? Because I thought you liked me? That’s really low.’

  And it fell.

  ‘I didn’t call you weird for liking me. You’re weird looking. Why would I fall for you?’

  Clouds hurried across the moon. Sri spun sharply and walked towards the railway tracks. Yashika got into her car.

  A few seconds later, she pulled up alongside and asked if he wanted a lift. He kept his face turned away. The car kept pace with him for a few feet then sped off.

  He continued looking away, eyes blinking as the railway wagons rolled by. Two wet tracks connected his eyes to his chin. The walk to Opera House took a while considering the weather conditions.

  Over the next four weeks, Yashika tried a couple of times to strike up conversation but the dialogue was far from productive.

  It was 5 pm on New Year’s Eve. Sri was sucking on some imli[37] while returning from the laundry with Dad’s trousers.

  It was then that Jehangir, last spoken of driving a car full of beer-addled boys, appeared. This sighting could hardly be considered significant except… when last seen, Jehangir had been in the company of that bitch, Yashika.

  Jehangir called Sri a kid for sucking on imli. In return, Jehangir was told not to be sour.

  From nowhere at all, Yashika joined this debate on the flavours of life. She had sneaked up on them while Jehangir distracted Sri with tact and trickery of the sort infrequently associated with tamarind. In retaliation, Sri hurled the imli to the footpath and strode off. Jehangir caught up with him and told him to stop acting like a kid.

  Supporting this most aggressively, Yashika moved in closer. This made Sri even angrier. Not wanting to lose self-control, he took a few deep breaths, inhaled Yashika’s perfume and had his brains scrambled like eggs were they ever to be dropped in a temple stampede.

  Weirder and weirder, how reality had stacked up. Now they were on the dance floor, close up against each other. Was it her fragrance? Was it this fairy tale ending? Sri did something he’d done only once before in his entire life. He fell in love.

  Yashika was five feet in all, making the height differential a solid foot. This had required, while close dancing, that she be picked up. He told himself this was the best way to drink deeply of the woman he loved. A more cynical part of him applauded the effort to prevent early Spondylitis.

  These medical concerns, however, lasted only a few moments before rapture returned to rule. He was with a girl who had her own wheels. This was the step up he’d been dreaming of.

  In the coming year, a dude named Billy Ocean would write a song about getting a girl out of his dreams and into his car. Sri was an entire lap ahead. Billy still had to get the girl out of his dreams whereas Sri was already sitting next to her and that too in her car.

  Delight, however, was short, much like Yashika.

  This was because Sri hadn’t attended an afternoon college party as yet. Having a girlfriend changed all that. Suddenly, he was being called in as visiting faculty.

  In the murk of the dance floor (created by taping black chart paper to the windows) he was introduced to a new worldview. One might say Yashika’s height or lack of it was to blame. From over her shoulder, he saw the sinuous bodies of other girls writhing to the music. And so, with Srinivas Ramachandran’s introduction to the dance floor, change was imminent.

  When a classmate called and said Shruti Mehta, a chick with green eyes, thought he was cute, the phone literally fell from Sri’s hands. While the guy extolled her virtues as well as vital stats, Sri’s mind raced ahead.

  After the call ended, he dashed to his wardrobe and gazed at the ‘Grace Under Pressure’ poster. Soon, he smiled a satisfied smile.

  Within seconds, another call was made.

  ‘Good evening, Aunty. May I speak to Yashika?’

  ‘Wait.’

  Aunty obviously had better things to do like organising an origami exhibition showcasing the work of teenagers from the slums. The few times he’d spoken with her, Aunty had indicated she’d rather be elsewhere. After all, Sri lived in the lap of luxury. His was a home with a ceiling. And a fan.

  Yashika came on. ‘Hi, Sri. My mad boy.’

  ‘Mad?’

  ‘My adorable darling, you dumbo.’

  ‘Why did you call me dumbo? Yashika, you can be quite insulting.’

  It was a short rope but even a humble beginning…

  ‘You know I didn’t mean it. I love you, silly.’

  ‘Silly? See? You don’t really care, do you? You know what you are? You’re a steamroller.’

  Onwards with a hiss and a huff.

  ‘Sri, what’s wrong with you? I’m not trying to steamroll you. I love you. Why would I do that?’

  ‘Wrong with me? You call me dumbo. You call me silly. Then you ask what’s wrong with me? Tell me, how does that work? Am I supposed to lie down and wag my tail? I don’t need this... emasculation!’

  Big word. It just floated up from the depths. And it would be instrumental in abandoning ship.

  ‘Emasculation? What does that mean? How can I do something I don’t know the meaning of, you moron.’

  ‘I’m not a moron. You’re like a poultry farmer—’

  ‘What shit!’

  ‘—and... and... I’m your capon. And before you ask what a capon is, it’s a male chicken castrated to improve the quality of its flesh.’

  Sri was astride a missile, legs stretched out on either side, wind blowing through his hair. This missile was going to fly him to the houris[38] of the dance floor.

  ‘Sri, stop it. You’re talking crap.’

  ‘I’m a weird-looking chicken? Isn’t that it? I’m just so weird-looking.’

  ‘Don’t dig up the past, Sri. That’s shitty. I don’t think I can listen to this crap.’

  ‘This isn’t crap. This is a mirror to your real nature. You’re an insensitive chick and it’s time you deal with that.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice. I will. On my own time. Bye.’ She slammed the phone down.

  A slow smile spread at the other end. Freedom to explore the bounteous dance floor was his.

  Yashika wasn’t one to leave it at that. She came up to him, the very next day, at yet another afternoon party.
They needed to be grown-up about this, she said. Unfortunately, this was not to be. ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’ came on and Sri sang it to his advantage. ‘You can leave your capon’ was sure to burn. Squealing car tyres were heard soon after.

  The Yashika episode struck a match in the darkness. Doggy had a sniff of a chance.

  The bottle of perfume was put away. The passage of time had changed everything. Now that little fairy in the bottle gave him a headache.

  The threat of Malaika still loomed like a tropical storm. Buxom cloud formation, still... fingers dug around in the bag. He stopped. A cigarette pack was flipped open.

  This is despo. Looking in this stupid bag because of a chick problem? But, that’s where my past is. That’s where the answers lie. The white plastic bag will deliver where the ‘Grace Under Pressure’ poster didn’t.

  A hoop of blue smoke shivered as it passed the poster of the egg and C-clamp. She did have NICOTEEN across her T-shirt.

  Monday: Nayomi.

  Shanghai calling!

  Sri was fourteen years old. The effects of that lunch break at the Merciful Saviour School for Boys followed up by the Liberty Gardens Hotel party were still to wear off. He was ripe for the picking. Or at least that’s the way cosmic conspiracy saw it.

  The shop was on Breach Candy and had a big 14 on the outside. It stocked the coolest T-shirts ever. Inside, arranged in photo albums, were decals of every rock band, waiting to be selected by the teen rocker.

  Sri was minding his business, next to the latest arrivals. The decision lay between Iron Maiden, The Number Of The Beast and Black Sabbath, Neon Knights.

  She walked in just then. On first impressions, she looked like she was from the Northeast. Assam, maybe? Oddly, they were called Chinese in those days.

  But how can I mind my own business when the sales guy is trying to rip off the tourist? Just because she’s Chinese! He’s charging her a whole 50 bucks extra. Not with a boys’ school boy around.

  Sri moved in closer. As she laid out the notes on the counter, he pushed a 50-rupee note back towards her.

  ‘The T-shirt costs only 125.’

  ‘But he said 175.’ The girl pointed at the sales guy.

  ‘He probably misunderstood you. You weren’t speaking Hindi, right?’

  Talking to the sales guy in Hindi, Sri said, ‘I know it costs 125 so that’s what you’re going to get.’

  Seeing a face he’d pulled many a T-shirt over, the sales guy knew where to draw the line. He pushed the 50-rupee note closer to her.

  The tourist was stunned. ‘You saved me 50 bucks. That’s huge.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Nagaland.’

  ‘What are you doing in Bombay?’

  ‘Holidaying. I’m going back next week.’

  Was there enough time to fall in love? Wasn’t love the first stop? Before you hit other recreational spots.

  Putting an arm around the sales guy and giving him a squeeze, The Number Of The Beast T-shirt was picked up and Sri took on Mumbai’s streets with NICOTEEN from Nagaland.

  ‘You’re just the third guy I’ve had a convo with since I came here. Bombay guys aren’t friendly. Which college do you go to?’

  College?

  The upgrade caught him by surprise but his recovery was powerful. ‘Nav Bharat.’

  ‘Oh! Heard it’s really good.’

  The awe in her voice was unmistakable. So was the tingling she’d set off across his skin.

  Events had progressed much like a kid slipping into a bathtub with his toy only to find the water opened out into the Indian Ocean and both (boy plus rubber duck) were being sucked out into the deep. Only ducky was no more. Ducky had become an octopus, devoted to tossing him from arm to arm. Underwater.

  Sri was battling breathlessness as they walked past Kemps Corner.

  Closing in on Opera House, the Chinese chick asked, ‘Do you know where I can try on this T-shirt?’

  ‘Your place?’

  ‘Duh! I can’t go there now. I’ve forgotten the house keys inside and my uncle’s going to come back only at 8 so I’ve—’

  ‘Got nowhere to go? You can come over to mine if you like.’

  Then it struck him. It wasn’t going to be like those porno films. Those guys knew what to do with the girl. They also had the available bed space. Sri was illai[39] on both counts.

  ‘The only problem is I can’t take you inside. My brother will wonder what’s going on. You can change on the steps. Nobody ever comes there. I don’t want to sound too forward but you can. Only if you want—’

  ‘That’s cool. Thanks.’

  Bruce Lee must have felt the same in Enter the Dragon. In that chamber of mirrors. Dead nervous! Bruce Lee had been alone, though. He hadn’t dropped in with a Chinese chick itching to take her top off. Here was Sri, with a tourist desirous of disrobing, striding into the lair of the dragon.

  What if the dragon descends on the innocent maiden? Too late. I’ve given her my word.

  On the landing between the ground and first floor, Nayomi pulled out the T-shirt she’d bought. Frightened, Sri dashed off. It was only when he reached down that he realised what he was scared of was exactly what he wanted to see.

  Can’t hang about her like a maidservant. Where’s the cool?

  ‘Hey, Siree. Can you help me?’

  Oh, Phurck!

  She was muffled but loud. She could be heard below.

  He hissed from where he was. ‘Stop shouting. I don’t want anyone finding you on the stairs.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sri rounded the corner to see her, arms over head, pink bra in full view.

  A few letters from NICOTEEN could be seen inside out.

  ‘I’m stuck.’

  His instinctive reaction was to make a coolly exasperated sound. He did.

  Through the T-shirt, she said, ‘I can’t see anything. Have you got a dog with you?’

  ‘No. No dog. Juh... juh... judge me.’

  ‘Pardon? Is it friendly? I’m stuck. Will you please help?’

  He did. Gently. Stumped for words, he mumbled, ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘What are you sorry about? It’s not your fault. Come here.’

  She pulled him to her. And Sri did something that would, over the fullness of time, be done ‘n’ times. He fell in love for the first time in his life.

  Nagaland. NICOTEEN. 14. Number Of The Beast. Nude. Well, almost. Oh, Phurck! N is the fourteenth letter in the alphabet. I’m fourteen.

  The light of his life left the following week. Over the next two months, he wrote to her like clockwork. The first of his letters bounced back in a month. A steady flow of unopened mail followed. The postman, looking a little impatient, said it was impossible to locate Nayomi Rong of Nainital, Nagaland. Because Nainital was not in Nagaland!

  I’ve been shanghaied!

  Puppy’s geography might not have been top drawer but surely the way out was clear to the much-older seer of stuff.

  Finding a returned postcard of Juhu Beach, he meditatively ran his finger over it.

  NICOTEEN. It had been smoke and mirrors all along. I’ve got to fake something. What? Where do I blow the smoke?

  He’d forsaken the ladder for the wonders of the female form. Understandably, this was in the aftermath of roaming the flatlands with Mohina. Still, if Malaika’s most resplendent rack were kept aside for a second, what remained was most definitely not as per plan.

  Her knocks had blocked the bloody ladder. Better get back on. And fast!

  A tendril of smoke curled over the C-clamp in the ‘Grace Under Pressure’ poster. Much as the egg had poise, it was still exactly where the iron vice wanted it.

  Over the next seventy-two hours, he extended his mastery over ignoring telephone calls.

  A ruffled Malaika arrived at 101, Ganga Sagar.

  ‘Don’t you think you should be taking my calls?’

  Though understandable in the present situation, he’d had enough of this tone.


  A better world must lie beyond her boobs! I’ve pulled out chairs behind her. Flagged down cabs for her. Carried a water bottle for whenever her highness feels thirsty. Allowed her to dictate what time I enter and leave parties. Even the bloody buddies I have left are those she’s handpicked. I’m not her boyfriend. I’m her bloody secretary.

  ‘Not if you’ve been where I’ve been.’ He smoothed his white pyjama and kurta[40]. An actor’s best tool is belief.

  ‘Oh, is it? And where have you been?’

  ‘Here!’

  Shifts from the figurative to the factual meant nothing to Malaika. The present occasion was no different.

  ‘Why couldn’t you pick up the phone then?’

  ‘Because I’ve quit smoking.’

  This one came right off the centre of the bat. Malaika was stunned. A heartbeat later, she gave chase.

  ‘Quit smoking? Why?’

  ‘Because my uncle just died of cancer.’

  A dead uncle! This was a game-changer.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you were wearing white.’

  ‘Listen, I don’t want to talk about it. Right now, I can’t bear to watch anyone smoke.’

  ‘But... I smoke... What? You want me to give up?’

  The increased shrillness wasn’t lost on him.

  ‘I’ve never been the kind of guy to tell anyone anything.’

  She fumbled around in her bag. ‘I can try. I don’t promise but I can try. Can I please have one now? This is shocking news.’

  ‘I can see his funeral pyre blazing.’

  The use of dramatic imagery was also something he’d added to his armoury. Her lighter clicked into flame.

  ‘Please don’t smoke right now.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t the kind of guy to tell anyone anything.’

  ‘Maybe I am then. What can I say? I want to live. Unlike some other people.’

  She stubbed the cigarette on the window ledge and flicked it into the gutter. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I want to live healthy. I don’t want to smoke like you. Maybe we should take a break.’

  ‘Take a break? Because I smoke? Are you mad? You only told me it looks cool.’

  Seeing his blank eyes, all nine yards of Malaika’s whine wrapped around. ‘How can you dooooonnnnnhhhhh this to me?’