As they walked to her building, Sri assured her the Chancellor of the Exchequer would be dealt with fittingly.
Not entirely sure who this character was, Radha changed the topic. ‘I’ve got a two bedroom apartment.’
‘Same here. Only one bathroom though.’
‘I have one bathroom, too,’ Radha said.
‘My place has a balcony. Yours?’
A change of topic had resulted in the sharing of floor plans. Radha resignedly sighed, ‘One balcony, too.’
Heartily, Sri summed it all up. ‘Wow! Our apartments must have been twins separated at birth.’
Unable to get a handle on his fascination for layouts, Radha returned to the task on hand and opened the main door.
‘Bitch! I’ve been waiting for you!’
Bitch? This mongrel must be silenced. And right fucking now!
Sri stormed in to make an instant discovery. Their apartments were not twins. Radha’s main door did not open into the living room like at 101, Ganga Sagar. Instead, in the darkness ahead was a wall.
Once again, he’d walked right into it. Into an African wooden mask hanging on the wall! The resulting dull clatter accompanied by Sri’s loud fuck brought Javed out of the kitchen. It also brought a dotted curve of blood to Sri’s forehead.
Radha flicked on the passage light to find Javed advancing down the passageway. In his hands was a tava[70].
‘Oh ho! It’s the bloody accountant and his latest client.’
The sight of the Grand Vizier, weapon in hand, was daunting but not to the Knight Accountant.
Nonchalantly wiping the African mask, Sri fixed it back on the wall. He looked Javed in the eye.
‘Now that you’ve hit me on the head, how do you think you’re going to escape? Radha, call the police.’
‘What? I didn’t hit you. How could I? I haven’t even reached you.’
‘Explain that to the police. I’ve got a wound on my forehead. Your fingerprints are all over the handle of the tava. You were asked to leave. You hit me. I’m sure Radha will agree with everything I’ve said so far.’
The blow to the head had brought astounding clarity. With the exception of walls, Sri was back to seeing stuff.
Javed nippily dropped the tava. ‘Radha won’t call the police. Her parents will find out.’
‘If Radha won’t, I will.’
Radha’s eyebrows almost hit the mini fan above. The dog she’d brought in to save her had bitten her.
‘But, before I do, let me show you what your balance sheet looks like. I give it to you, on the assets side, you’ve got big value in Radha being scared of her folks. But as far as liabilities go, you’ve got a hot night waiting for you at the cop station. Of course, at this point, it would only be fair to draw your mind to accounting subtleties. Items in the balance sheet can be notional as well as real. Given this, Radha’s parents bursting into flame when they find out can be considered within the realms of possibility but what the cops are going to do to you should be treated as imminent.’
Javed was in as much grief as those in class, the other day.
Sri rolled on. ‘Maybe you think Radha has too much invested to fix you good and proper, but there again you’re a Muslim. Things aren’t looking good for you guys right now. Bomb blasts and all. So you might not need her to fix you. See?’
Javed couldn’t. He was still wrapping his head around Accountancy. This preoccupation with the appearance of his balance sheet presented the opening. Getting his hands on the tava had been the idea ever since Sri first laid eyes on it.
It had all been done before in that English guy’s poem ‘The Highwayman’. If Bess, the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, could do it, how far behind could the Knight Accountant be? And now. Cold on the stroke of midnight his hands, like Bess, were around the tava. To be clear, his were. Hers had managed to fix on a musket. His face shone. So had hers. She pressed her finger to the trigger. He gripped the sides of the tava. The musket shot shattered her breast, killing her. The tava made a horrid thunk against his forehead.
In a flash, Sri wiped his fingerprints off and placed the tava neatly on the floor.
‘It’s even got my blood on it.’
The shock from Radha’s face hopped on over to Javed’s. He reeled. ‘Will you tell a lie, Radha? Will you lie to the police?’
‘I asked you to leave some time back. I don’t know why you’re still here. Take your things and go.’
Javed walked off into the next room.
When he returned, the tava had been put away safely. Integrity of evidence and all.
‘You don’t have to do this, Radha. I told you I’m sorry. You said we were meant to be together. Why are you doing this?’ Javed spoke pitifully. A puppy-like creature stood in place of a pincher of rare potential.
‘I said, leave.’
The puppy put his tail between his legs and left.
Radha indicated to her eyes. ‘I think I’m going to—‘
‘Itch? Scratch?’
‘—cry, so if you don’t mind, can you leave? I’m really grateful for everything but I think I’m going to... please.’
The princess had been rescued from the clutches of Pinch, the wicked Grand Vizier. By the Knight Accountant. The missing Is too were back. There was only one thing before gallant withdrawal.
She bruises easily. The debt of blood deserves a little applause.
‘What did you think of marking the tava with my blood? It totally finished him.’
‘It almost killed you, too. Couldn’t you have pressed it gently? Your head was bleeding in any case.’
Oh, Phurck! There was a painless solution.
And I thought I was sharper than the chicks at Red Rock University, USA.
Clutching a pulsing forehead, he took a cab home. Another mother of a headache awaited his arrival.
From under the main door, a thin line of light could be seen. He stared as it magically looped up, wrapped itself around his waist and tightened. He was still under its thrall when the door opened.
‘So this is what my son looks like at 1 at night. After helping a girl. What kind of help was it she wanted?’
He’d stood at the edge of this cliff before. An honest answer to her question would only speed up the breeze behind him.
‘I’m sorry for coming back late, Mom.’
‘Your sorry doesn’t mean a thing. You’re not a man, Sri. You give your word but it means nothing.’ And she launched into a catalogue of his late-comings hence shortcomings.
By the time she reached Number Six, his headache had ballooned and was pulling towards the front of his head and upwards towards the ceiling.
It’s going to take the top of my head off!
‘Who were you fooling with that library rubbish? You think I don’t know who brought all those dirty books into this house…’
The headache clicked its heels in delight. The ceiling fell all around him.
When he woke, it was late morning. There was no one around. The headache had gone but like the day after a tidal wave, devastation could be found in the city. On the fridge pinned by two fruit magnets was a note.
Coming home drunk and passing out is not becoming of a man who will soon be twenty-four. Walking in your father’s footsteps will get you nowhere. Precisely where your father is.
Praying Dad hadn’t seen it, the swooning superhero pulled off the note. After all, it was Dad who had carried him to bed.
Radha. What kind of impression did I...
His head hurt too much for any real analysis. He climbed back into bed. When he next woke, it was evening. He poked gingerly at the swelling on his forehead.
If the actor had been a wee bit brighter, he might have dodged this tomato.
He got on the phone.
‘Zahra? Hi. Sri here.’
‘Hi.’
‘Ani around?’
‘Why would he be at home?’
‘Don’t know what I was thinking. Of course, he’d be at the showroom. G
ive me the number there, please.’
She laughed, throaty and full, and gave him the number.
‘Thanks, Zahra. I’ll call him. Get ready for my birthday party.’
Unlike the party for boys to meet girls, the party on December 3rd, ten years later, had females. There was Zahra, for one. There was an actress type called Sheetal with Jehangir and Maurice had brought along a girl called Falguni. Balancing out the books was Radha.
Booze flowed, but Anirudh didn’t look too happy when people lit up.
It’s all this baby-making. Ani is definitely changing.
Fortunately, Zahra had turned the open balcony into the smokers’ section. A haven that would prove invaluable, for the Uprising of Maurice had begun.
As might be recalled, from that evening at Govardhan’s Bar and Permit Room, an inebriated Maurice was capable of injecting a large dose of unpredictability into proceedings. Falguni got a thumb in her ear. She ignored it.
Clearly, she had more than a fleeting acquaintance with Maurice’s ways. Conversation carried on, but when Radha got an index finger in her mouth, she looked nervously at Sri. The Knight Accountant rose yet again to the challenge and assisted in her escape to the smokers’ section.
Mission accomplished; he stared at his hands. Not to be shown in lesser light, Radha concentrated on her pointed heels. He took her hand in his. Radha looked at him, curiously.
Why am I grabbing this chick’s hand? Out of fear? In case the pomegranate chick gets in before me? This is totally unlike me. Even during the negotiations with Priti Patel of P D Panthaki, I’d shown serious control over my hands. Bail out! With style.
‘Tall, dark and rather hand... some,’ he said.
No spinal injuries but hanging from a branch over a cliff.
Radha continued to stare. Purposefully and slowly, he extracted his fingers from hers.
Maybe it’s all for the best, re.
And Zahra launched into ‘Happy Birthday’. It was midnight, December 4th. Sri was twenty-four.
Anirudh hugged him followed by Maurice and Jehangir. The girls showed their delight at the birth of the messiah in a more sedate manner. Falguni grinned. Sheetal shook his hand.
Radha said, ‘Oh! That’s what this party is for!’
Zahra brought out Sri’s favourite strawberry and fresh cream cake. Radha’s eyes, he noticed while blowing out the candles, were showing a steadfast interest in his hands.
After the invitees had a slice of cake each, Anirudh mentioned the heavy day ahead at work. His wife remarked he was as subtle as a burst tyre. Caught out, Anirudh looked to Maurice, who got up once again.
His hands moved slowly outwards like some beatific Christian saint.
‘I wish everybody leaves their home.’
For the first time ever, the Uprising could be understood. Holding Ani tight, the saint repeated, ‘I wish everybody leaves their home.’
People started saying good night soon after.
Sunday: Radha.
Doggy finds a new kennel.
The lift journey to Radha’s apartment took place in the presence of a sleepy liftman. No looks were stolen inside the lift. At least, not by the liftman.
‘Do you want to come in?’
Several answers occurred but all of them were feebly funny. The time to be jolly had long since passed. The door ahead opened onto the ladder. Higher and further.
‘Yes.’
‘Then come.’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t stand there nodding your head. Come in.’
‘Yes.’
‘Really, Srinivas! Please come in. It’s simple. And turn to the right, please.’
She pulled him in and he entered... in a daze. For the second time.
They sat lightly on a sofa in her living room as if ready to make a dash for it should the need arise. He plucked at the leaves of a fortune bamboo plant. Radha eased the plant out of his reach. He addressed the statuettes on the coffee table. Radha returned them to their original positions. Over the next few seconds, fidgeting resolved the larger problem of being alone with each other.
But before it could become the one true religion, Sri spoke. ‘I can’t explain why I held your hand. It’s not my style.’
‘Correct. It did seem unlike you.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You looked all puffy. Like a pigeon. I thought you were going to flap around and peck me.’
‘I’m not a touchy-feely kind of guy. My skin crawls when I see guys put their arms around chicks they barely know. Especially after drinking. Boozy friendliness is deeeyaaam despo. All of a sudden, the chick next to you becomes so vital to your life that you have to clutch at parts of her. I hate that.’
‘Gosh! I hate that too.’
‘Did you think I was one of those touchy-feely guys?’
‘No. You looked like a pigeon.’
For a guy who’d put himself in the firing line, under threat from a whirling tava, comparison to a pigeon wasn’t quite the medal he expected.
Is this the moment she’ll tell me I’m a lovely guy? The kind of solid friend every girl needs. Throw in the option of becoming bro? Maybe a quick lesson on the depreciation of assets? If the ladder plans on...
Radha took his hands in hers. Given their abhorrence of touchy-feely behaviour, post drinking, what followed was confounding.
Sri lost all sense of time, so when he woke it was in blind panic. It was 4 am. His deadline was two hours earlier. The goddess of trifling matters would grind his bones to make her bread. He turned to Radha. She’d drawn her legs under herself and was sleeping face down, resting her entire weight on her knees and arms. Looking like a tortoise.
He’d find out more about that later. There was something fizzing inside. Even his mother would struggle to gutter this one. The exile was over. Out of the forest and onto Worli Sea Face.
There was a tug. He was being pulled up. The ladder reached upwards into the early morning. Gleaming ethereally was pair Number Seven. The mediocrity that had dogged him all his life was panting and shaking its head. It would have to give up chase.
The lights were on at 101, Ganga Sagar. The door was open.
She was sitting on a chair. He had been suckered by all that panting and head-shaking. Mediocrity sat in front of him, at the finish line, knitting what looked like a biscuit-coloured shawl. He took a deep breath.
Her wings stirred threateningly. ‘No one in this house is supposed to sleep, right?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s my birthday.’
‘It’s your birthday? It’s Friday. It’s Saturday. Just like your father, any excuse.’
‘Not making excuses. Why are you running this place like a military camp? Aren’t we supposed to have any fun at all?’
The goddess screeched in rage. ‘Fun? Is that what this is about? I slave from morning to evening so you can have... fun?’
And in the middle of the dragon attack, it struck him. He was down. He was up. This had happened only six times before. Sri fell in love.
But, this time was different from the established pattern. All the previous fallings/risings had been in the presence of his loved one.
Like a time-release capsule, the coating had just dissolved. Love flooded his body. Bang in the middle of hostile fire.
‘Why are you smiling like an idiot, haan? You think this is funny? Sing a song about this then!’
An electricity bill was thrust into his chest.
‘Here! Why not dance with this?’
A visiting card was flung at him. Picking it up, he saw it was from the Shops and Establishments division of the municipality.
‘That inspector wants me to pay a fine for not renewing the licence on time.’
Sri rose high above the deadly astras[71] hurled at him. His mortal coil belonged to the love divine. Handsome Radha. All five feet ten inches of her. Radha spelt with an I.
The score is 4-3. The game is being played at another level. Mohina is out.
He put his foot down. ‘Instead of shouting every night, why can’t you just give me the door key?’
The walls imploded.
‘Do you think this bloody house is yours? Get this clear. It’s not yours, not even your brother’s or your bloody father’s. It belonged to my aunt. Your father might have paid for it but it’s in my name. My name! Not your Dad’s. Not Anirudh’s. Not yours. My aunt didn’t want it to leave our family.’
‘But we are your family.’
She sidestepped his fairly accurate rejoinder. ‘She knew your father would drink it away. She knew Anirudh would bring Muslims in and you would just—’
‘How could she? We hardly even knew her.’
‘For that you can thank your father. Who wants to know an alcoholic? I told her to sell it to him only if he agreed to put in my name. That way it would never leave our family.’
‘But we are your family.’
‘Sri, stop going on and on. Do you know I am an orphan? I... had to fight for every single thing. Now you, an unemployed waster who’s never even earned a paisa, want what I fought for? You?’
‘I don’t want what you fought for. I just want a bloody key.’ Sri dazzled through the circling insult and abuse.
‘Watch your language, you drunkard. Don’t tell me at 5 in the morning what you want. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of this life.’
The advice given to Anirudh, years ago, upon plugging in Audit commended itself. Bearing in mind the present milieu, he held back. Suicide might not be considered constructive.
‘Listen, Mom. I’ve met a girl I love. That too, on my birthday. The best gift anyone could ask for. Why can’t you let me enjoy this feeling?’
Given the drift of dialogue, on this early December morning, it could be seen that no ring of panty elastic protected him. The talisman had been shunned. In 101, Ganga Sagar, suchlike was suicidal.
‘Love? Ha. Who’s going to pay these bills? Your Muslim girlfriend?’
‘Who told you she’s Muslim?’
‘Catholic, then! Parsi!’
‘She’s Hindu.’
‘No Hindu girl would stay out with a boy till 5 in the morning.’
In that instant, he almost cleared the air on their geographical coordinates.
We were in bed. Who’d have thought?
A Ladder of Panties Page 13