A Ladder of Panties

by Sandeep Jayaram

  Summoning hidden reserves of coordination, he walked to the toilet. Inside, he washed up, intentionally getting soap in his eyes. The burning silenced the voices and there was quiet. Finally. When he looked up at the wall mirror, his reflection had cracks running through. It flickered. Hand against the wall, the intermittent telecast was waited out. He returned to the bar counter.

  When the phone vibrated, he put on his glasses. It was Karuna from Electra Entertainment: a girl who promoted Sri without ever hopping on to his conveyor belt.

  The call was picked up.

  ‘Sri?’ Her voice was heavy with something not readily identifiable.

  ‘Za same and no other.’ His voice was heavy too. The reason needs no further repetition.

  ‘Where are you?’

  He concentrated on the line of bottles above the bartender. Words came easier. ‘How is my current location any of your business?’

  ‘For once, stop being evasive. Are you anywhere near my place?’

  ‘I’m inside Styx.’

  ‘You’re going to be long?’

  The line of bottles bent and swerved.

  ‘I’m so confused, Karuna. I’m seeing things.’

  ‘That’s obvious. Only you can spin grey out of white.’

  ‘How did you know she was wearing white?’

  ‘What? You think I keep track of what you’re up to or down on? Listen, can you come over?’

  ‘I’m engaged otherwise. I’m busy roping in kids to celebrate with me. If I cut out right now, I’ll just end up breaking their poor little hearts.’

  ‘Stop being an ass. Come fast. Before they call their bloody dads.’

  After giving the acrylic woman outside the bar a venomous look, birthday boy made his way to a flat in Bandra.

  It was 2.45 in the morning when Karuna smiled weakly at the guy with a bottle of Semillon Chardonnay at the door. Silently, she motioned to the sofa in the living room. Unprepared for this hushed welcome, Sri asked about work, her family in Jaipur, the new painting in the living room and her married boyfriend.

  Karuna broke into soft sobs. Nothing dramatic. She cried in near silence, her tiny shoulders hunched over and shaking.

  Should I put on my glasses to confirm? No need. One way or the other, they’re useless!

  ‘He’s not going to leave his wife.’

  Wo-ho-kay! That’s the event I’m in.

  ‘Don’t waste your time on that clown. He’s not worth someone as beautiful as you.’

  ‘I love him.’

  ‘For someone as intelligent as you this is sick’—the slip of the tongue was dismissed with a wave of the hand—‘meant thick. Falling in love with a married guy in this day and age? I don’t know what…’

  ‘Sri, haven’t you ever loved anyone?’

  The cards were on the chrome-plated trolley. Seven of Hearts was the joker.

  ‘All that’s history.’ He lowered his head.

  Red. It’s started again. Something’s threatening to reveal itself.

  Karuna, eyes closed, said, ‘Everything I touch turns out so… so…’

  ‘Self-pity is the last thing you need.’

  Sri’s head came up in time to see Karuna’s lips tighten.

  ‘You might want to fling me out but face it, it’s better you chuck the self-pity.’

  ‘You’re damn judgmental, you know.’

  ‘Since you wish to indulge yourself, it behoves me to—’

  ‘Stop being so bloody wordy! Shut up and have a drink. Give me the bottle you’ve brought. You can have the one I got you later.’

  She poured him a glass. He was tempted to ask about the bottle she’d got for him.

  Don’t tempt her. The door isn’t all that far way.

  ‘Cheers. Happy birthday.’ Karuna raised her glass of water.

  ‘Same to you. I meant the cheers bit. Not the birthday.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, you know.’

  ‘Evidence suggests otherwise.’

  Her mouth opened, but she walked silently to the window and stared out at the sea.

  Sri sipped the wine warily. There was a glut within. That normally led to a bite in his speech.

  Too late. Been there. Done that.

  After gazing over the sea like the statue of Dona Paula[94], Karuna looked back at him. ‘Will you suspend your judgment?’

  ‘Sure. If you like, I could even suspend myself from the fan. You tell me what’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘Gosh. You’re really no help at all.’ She left the living room.

  When she returned, it was with a vial. On the glass centre table, she divided the white powder into neat lines with the help of a credit card. Eyes riveted to her back, Sri tried lighting up. The matchstick kept going out, forcing him to hunch even more out of the draft. About the time she rolled up a 100-rupee note and bent over, a question presented itself.

  Why is an intelligent girl like Karuna bowing her head?

  Two bottles down, the question appeared loaded.

  Dust to dust. A girl powders her nose. Solah Shringar.

  His eyes moved from the back of her head to her back. And back. The cigarette remained unlit.

  Ashes to ashes.

  Everything turned red. Sri could hear the colour.

  It’s the bloody whispering. Oh, Phurck! It’s the voice from the shadows. And every word is clear as shit. Don’t you bow your head when you light a cigarette? Look at your reflection in the glass bookcase. The owl and the pussycat are in it together.

  He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth.

  The Mohina at Twenty episode, the 2000-buck fuck, the purple and green card… For a guy who hates bowing his head, I’m a fine one to talk.

  Karuna finished rolling in the snow and went into the bedroom. After a while, Sri followed.

  Won’t Karuna understand heads aren’t for bowing? See where it’s got me.

  Listening to her snore softly, he took all his thoughts and as deep thinkers are wont to do—stuffed them. It was 4.30 in the morning when he got up from the bed. The last hour had been spent watching over her, doing nothing, snowballing away.

  On New Year’s Day, Anirudh invited everybody over for lunch. The guest list consisted of Ani, Zahra, Sri, Jehangir, Delna, Maurice and his wife Falguni.

  Maurice pronounced Morerayas recounted the details of his wedding as if those present weren’t there. There was an inclination to inform Maurice that he was only recapturing mood and sentiment already in the public domain. A quick glance in Anirudh’s direction indicated otherwise.

  Over a tall glass of beer, Maurice explained they’d had a court marriage. Both her folks as well as his were baying for blood. But he’d seen Ani do his stuff. No parents. No religion. No fiasco. Falguni gazed with pride at her husband as he delivered his sermon. No Uprising.

  Sri was back to his twenty-fourth birthday when Radha had come over. How they’d taken refuge in the smokers’ corner. Today, there was no Radha.

  No cigarettes either. Thou shalt not bow your head.

  That night, he had a dream. He was a child, running through the rooms of the huge bungalow near Ganga Sagar. In the air was the fragrance of an exotic fruit. It drew him. He ran. Room after room. Like the heroine in a vampire flick.

  He arrived at a wooden door with horizontal brass bands and opened it. Piled high inside were crimson fruit. Of a kind he didn’t recognise. This is where the fragrance is coming from. He took a bite. And tasted the fruit in his dreams. Actually tasted it.

  Oh, Phurck! It’s a metaphor. This is, if I allow myself, what my present tastes like. I’m free. The past can go eff itself.

  11. dharma

  Kick it to the kerb! Get rid of the bloody past. It’s all about the now. Mmmmm! Fruity!

  Brinda had played Sri. To think she would actually do something was naive. Her idea of help was a worried look and a patient ear backed by sitting still and not lifting a finger.

  I’ll push my own snowball!

  The voice-train
ing academy was presented to prospective investors as a blessing from above. People in advertising, television, film, radio, animation and the music industry were met with, but the impatient clouds of cigarette smoke separating him from his investors said it all.

  You’ve got to act like you don’t need it. Otherwise, they’ll never let you have it.

  The past was shed, dead, out of the head. The future too, given responses to his latest business plan, would take time to get its footwork lively. But, this was a new hero with a new mask. In a new adventure involving fruit and metaphor.

  On his debut as an MC at a book launch, he clasped his hands together in sincerity as he drew the attention of strangers to an even stranger book, building up both writer and novel with the humorous gravitas of a skydiving instructor.

  When called upon to share his thoughts, the writer thanked his mother and wife for their support and asked them to join him on stage. Both ladies found Sri by their side, escorting them.

  After the panel of an actor, a publishing executive and a book critic spoke of the numerous layers of consciousness the author had fascinatingly conjured, completely missing the most important one—its patent absurdity, Sri informed the gathering the author would be happy to autograph purchased copies.

  Anu, whose company had organised this event, told him there was someone he should meet. Holding him by the arm, she guided him to the coffee shop.

  Sri recoiled internally; Anu hadn’t mentioned it was a guy. He gave the man a look of warm appreciation, mastered recently on stage.

  Over the next few minutes, Mr. Mukherjee, head of the K S Educational Trust, went on about creating new value additions. He spoke of foreign collaborators, scalable models, content innovation and development. Sri chewed on his lower lip.

  The book was about a romance between a day labourer and a Korean executive set against the backdrop of ship breaking in Alang. What the fuck is going on? As if that story wasn’t bizarre enough, I’ve been pitched onto a scalable model.

  Longing gazes reached out to the writer and his work. Given how things stood, way more sense lay in that direction.

  Sensing his present audience might feel they were in the company of a mute, he asked, ‘What does K S stand for?’

  ‘Kanya Seva[95].’

  ‘Your trust is just for girls?’ Sri asked, hoping it would increase his comprehension of the present.

  ‘Well, that’s the way it was. Now after forty years, our colleges have boys as well as girls.’

  Praise the dude. Can’t go wrong with that.

  ‘Oh, super.’

  ‘So what do you think? Can we do something together?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Not to be put off by obvious connectivity issues, Mr. Mukherjee pressed on. He worked into his words the potential of things, if approached correctly.

  This was met with agreement.

  In the fullness of time, I’ll figure what the fuck is going on. For now, no earthly disaster can come from nodding my head, in approval.

  This was not absolutely correct.

  ‘Wouldn’t taking a few lectures be a good way to evaluate your proposal?’

  Anu brought the safety net around.

  ‘Mr. Mukherjee is offering you an opportunity to teach.’

  And Sri fell into it.

  ‘Oh! You’d like me to take classes in your college? I was on another wavelength.’

  ‘I understand completely. Maybe Anu could have informed you in advance of what I had in mind.’

  Sri mulled over what had just transpired.

  What had I been thinking? If you want to train people, you’ve got to know how to teach. What do I know? It’s one thing to thrash about in a bloody pond, something else to become the captain of a cruise liner.

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry. Take a few lectures and see the response. Maybe a voice-training academy might not be too far away.’ Mr. Mukherjee beamed promisingly.

  ‘Sounds really exciting but I’d like to give it a good think before I commit. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Anu led him back. Out of the risen tide.

  Over the month of May, much time was devoted to research. Guides and manuals were bought, websites visited, old teachers at M S S for B spoken with.

  The past is out. Perspicacity is in. Dharma and all. I was born to teach. It’s not for nothing the letters in Sri spell sir.

  After the first three lectures were planned out, a call was made to Anu.

  ‘Okay. I’m on.’

  ‘I knew you’d do it.’

  ‘We are in May. I did have my doubts.’ Observing no acknowledgement of his wit, Sri asked, ‘Want to dance in the streets?’

  ‘Perhaps celebration can be kept for later.’

  The lecture plan worried him.

  Am I unnecessarily dragging it out? Would it be better if I rope in other people from the industry? Yup! Got to have variety.

  Sri took off his glasses. There was an online date waiting. In the toss-up, Anu in person had beaten Steph0479 of the virtual world. But what with Anu unenthusiastic about public revelry, his hand had been guided yet again from beyond.

  The evening was spent chatting with Steph0479 of Stuttgart about this, that and the neighbour’s cat. Steph0479 was in the middle of a crisis involving cat poo. The beast from next door had developed a fondness for letting loose in her garden.

  ‘I tink I need dog.’

  ‘Don’t make that mistake. Cats beat dogs every time. My friend Maurice’s dog got clawed by a cat.’

  ‘But dis smell is so bad.’

  ‘Wait until it gets catastrophic.’

  No applause here too. A change in programme was called for. The ladder popped up. An invitation to Germany in springtime would hit the spot, just right. Setting the foundations for which, Sri concocted a wholly fictional tale of his father’s visit to Germany in 1979. The needle was on the record.

  From a turbulent flight to an emergency landing in Stuttgart, the story came to rest on the fairy tale fascination a Lufthansa airhostess had for the handsome Mr. Ramachandran.

  Come the time Dad refused to leave wife, children and country for the airhostess, Steph0479 wrinkled her nose. ‘Dat bitch is back.’

  But the airhostess isn’t real!

  ‘Minute, please.’ She turned and a fusillade of German erupted in the background.

  When the Internet connection failed, Steph0479 could be seen flailing her mop. A cat hissed from above her. Its owner yelled back.

  With that, the international arm of Sri Trading Co. closed for the day. Something valuable had been learnt. One could blame Sri for slowing down mentally. Sure. Wasn’t that when the past kept coming back, though? Now that it had been asked to go eff itself, perspicacity had… Right!

  Branches from the crazy mop lady's tree dangle over her neighbour’s garden. The cat uses these branches to climb into her garden and poop. There’s something here. The cat is an instrument of retribution. Steph0479 can’t keep poking her branches into other people’s business.

  Of late and quite contrary to form, Sri had become irritable. This happened especially when meeting women for the first time. Ehn? All these women, spare none, appeared to have a dark craving to know what he did for a living. Whether in a bar, restaurant, party or cremation ground, it was as if these girls’ very lives depended on the question—So Sri, what do you do?

  It’s not like I’ve walked into her office. I’m just doing what I do in a bar, restaurant, party or cremation ground. How is it your business, woman? Could it be you want to know how much fuel’s in the tank before hitching your sidecar to my bike?

  Oh, Phurck! It’s like a branch from Steph0479’s tree, poking its nose in my business. In Stuttgart, cats routinely pop by to handle matters. In Mumbai? Got to be catlike! Payback time, baby! I don’t have to take a dump in someone’s garden, do I? No, you idiot! Make the cat your role model, but do something else. What the ffff?

  It’s how you respond. Don�
��t get irritated. Go ahead, answer that question, but in an intriguing way. Be a cool cat. Separate the cats from the boys.

  The short stuff as opposed to the long-spun was Sri planned to come up with a profession that was completely off-radar when asked what he did for a living. This, he felt, was sure to lead to an inquiring tilt of the head.

  The tilt is merely the start to many a wondrous thing. Making the waves run for me. Making the mermaids sing for me.

  The monsoon evening in question was loaded, fully stocked, house full. So was Sri’s head. There were so many possibilities. He’d never seen such a crowd of women, ever. The reasons hung from the walls of the art gallery. Sri spent a generous amount of time admiring the works of art as they in turn appreciated the paintings.

  The newspapers said artist, Manoviraj Singh’s Ardhanarishvara[96] was sublimity through divinity. Though largely unsure of the meaning, he guessed the papers didn’t lie.

  Savio, the ex-brown sugar fiend, was also there. Both Manoviraj and Savio had spent many a night in that Colaba flat. In the presence of pulsating leaves, throbbing walls and, on occasion, flaming bed sheets.

  With Savio was a European chick. The two sat next to Manoviraj. From across, prospective buyers enquired excitedly about the paintings and artist.

  Sri took his time with what was on display.

  Manoviraj has nailed it. Shiva and Parvati as one! No wonder the fillies are screaming in the aisles. This is what we should have had all those years ago instead of music videos and bloody Simba chips.

  Savio called Sri over and introduced him to Manoviraj and Kaavya a.k.a. Katrine from Denmark. The plan was to head over to Manoviraj’s after closing time.

  What’s Kaavya’s story? Is this Danish bhakta[97] running away from a drug? Or is she just a misunderstood heroin?

  Before he could take further delight in his wordplay, a voice went, ‘Mr. Singh, I’ve been following your work for a while.’

  This came from a work of art Sri would’ve happily followed. Nodding from side to side like a baby elephant.

  ‘But with this collection you’ve transcended all previous efforts.’

  ‘Thank you so much, I have tried to do something different,’ Manoviraj replied.