‘You bet this is different. This is the shit, man.’ This came from a college kid in track pants.
‘No, it isn’t. This is sixteen months of hard work,’ said Manoviraj simply.
‘No way, man. I wasn’t dissing you. I mean, this is the shit,’ continued the kid in his effort to apply American Street to contemporary Indian art.
‘I’m not sure what you mean, but thank you.’
‘The balance, the symbolism, the togetherness is absolutely effortless.’ This came from another masterpiece.
An elderly lady quavered, ‘Manoviraj beta[98], you’ve made me proud.’
Manoviraj looked in the direction of the voice, got up and touched the lady’s feet.
‘The lion and the bull, nose to nose. Touching.’
Introductions followed. The elderly lady was his aunt. She’d been there for him through the drugs and rehab.
Effing ’ell!
Sri looked at the lady in wonder.
There are panties that stand up for you. There are women who do more than punch in what time you come home.
A stunning looking journalist gushed, ‘Oooph! That picture of them from behind with their hair entwined. I got goose bumps.’
These were women in the grips of strong emotion. Sri could sense that question was only a few brush strokes away.
And the Dog Star will rise. Catlike and all!
Kaavya a.k.a. Katrine, who’d been scribbling on a foolscap sheet, held it across her ample chest. Across it was a request for people to join in for Pictionary at Manoviraj’s.
That was quick! People from Denmark don’t waste time roaming from maidan to maidan, bat and ball in hand, searching for people to play with.
In a matter of five minutes, four people registered for the fixture.
Post-closing time, two cabs headed to Cuffe Parade.
During a cigarette break, Sri’s partner in Pictionary came up to him.
‘Sri, right?’
‘Yes, Sophie. It is I.’
‘Pompous! Are you normally like this?’
‘Only when playing. I find it intimidates my opponents.’
‘But I’m your partner.’
‘Are you now? Are you Shiva to my Parvati?’
Not shockingly, it was out before anyone could say Ardhanarishvara.
‘I think not! It’s in the details. You’re male and I’m… quite the opposite.’
Stupid! Why did I mix up the two? Reboot!
‘Gender is not permanent…’
‘Please. I don’t think I want to hear the rest of it.’
Sri’s eyes reflected a sense of deep loss. ‘And regret at length?’
‘Whatever.’
Sophie turned but there was no one within ten feet. ‘So Sri, what do you do?’
And the intrusive branch plunged right into his nose. In all fairness, she’d been left no room.
Nevertheless, it’s year of the cat. It has been decreed. So it shall be.
‘Give me a second. I just saw something in your eyes that reminded me so much of myself. So much of the person I used to be.’
The softening of his eyes with pregnant pause was brought out. But the desired result eluded. In his haste to engage and enthrall, his eyes gleamed.
‘What are you trying to say?’ The sparkle in his eyes had made her suspicious.
She isn’t going to clap and twirl. At least not as yet.
The gleam was toned down. Something beckoned with crooked finger. He purred, ‘I used to be like you… exactly like you before my sex change.’
Sophie's mouth became a tiny O. ‘Oh, that’s what you meant by gender not being permanent. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
Not one to leave saree-clad opportunity by the roadside, Sri opened the door to intrigue and associated developments. ‘There’s no need for all that. Manoviraj and me go back a long way. He knew me as a woman.’
‘So…? Was that…? I can’t believe…’
‘Yes. It was. If you’re thinking the same as me.’
‘This exhibition was for you?’
‘Not for me. It is me. I’m the model.’
‘Wow.’
‘My name was Parvati.’
The manner in which the foreign explorer had insistently leapt into the boiling pot makes it unfair to blame Sri. It was also the first time he’d done the cat. The cannibalistic gleam returned. A matching smile flickered on his lips.
All it took was one look. Bulbs came on.
‘You creep. I actually believed you.’
The swiftest possible capping of potential thus took place, making Sri think of what he’d ignored in all his optimism i.e. the person being catted at could get pissed off. He tried to make light of it, but Sophie was even lighter on her feet.
Her keenness to draw pictures had diminished substantially, so after going through the motions for a bit, she said she needed a good night’s sleep. Sri offered to drop her home but was informed he wasn’t man enough for the job.
The night took a different direction hereon. Savio and Kaavya happily declined and got on Savio’s bike when Manoviraj announced his decision to buy booze for everyone left standing in Cuffe Parade. With the raising of the first glass, Manoviraj celebrated the runaway success of Ardhanarishvara; across from him, Sri drank to the first of his nine lives.
Upon post mortem, comfort was found in that every political movement must face resistance. In time, the very same responses would become the true standard of jollity, turning grotesque enquiries into a new direction in interpersonal connectivity.
Mr. Mukherjee of the K S Educational Trust informed Sri the lectures in voice-training would have to be rescheduled to the coming year. The college he had in mind was undergoing structural repairs.
With target in mind, Sri dropped in at 101, Ganga Sagar. Ever since moving out, all drop-by requests had been ignored, including those made by Ani on behalf of the management.
This evening was different. Arjuna had his eye on the fish. He’d just had a cheque delivered to 1603, Kohinoor Apartments. The interest lost (notionally) on the money invested in shit was settled. And even though the past had been instructed to go eff itself, there was something long-forgotten lying at 101, Ganga Sagar.
A young girl opened the door and asked him to wait for madam. From within, the stirring of a powerful force could be heard and wings beat towards the front door.
‘Listen, Manuel. If you can’t come in the morning and service the AC, it is better you… Oh Sri, where’s Manuel?’
‘Who’s Manuel?’
‘The AC repair fellow.’
‘How would I know?’
‘Why did that silly girl say the AC repair fellow has come? I told Anirudh I didn’t need a servant but he sent this one last week. I think she’s’—the dragon beast released a puff of smoke in disgust—‘slow. Anyway, come in. How have you been?’
‘It’s probably better to call her a maid.’
‘What?’
‘More respectful.’
‘I don’t need to respect servants. How have you been? Ani tells me you’re doing well with your BO.’
‘I’m very well. It’s VO not BO. Voice-overs. How’s Dad?’
‘Hey, hey, Sri. How are you, baba?’ Dad entered the living room, cigarette in one hand, Cole Race Book in the other.
Before the latest from Sri could be repeated, there was the loud ringing of a Kishore Kumar song. The winged one raised a claw, calling for silence.
Come on! Surely the purpose of calling it a mobile phone has to be suggestive to even the most niggardly of intellects that it could be carried into the next room.
Dad, on the other hand, cared nought for such gestures.
‘Hey, Sribaba. I’ve been hearing you on TV. Big Air Fans. Iske biggair hawa kahaan[99]?’
That Mr. Ramachandran had rattled off an advertisement was open civil disobedience. He had overruled the raised talon and marched on. His head yet remained, lo and behold, in its intended place and not dangling a
round the goddess’s blood-streaked neck.
Every time Sri entered 101, Ganga Sagar, this pack performed brand-new material. Today, Dad, the faithful dog, wasn’t twitching his ears in recognition and respect at the gramophone. He was, in fact, singing his own selection of melodies.
Old habits die hard. The ex-Venezuelan cop tried to restore law and order.
‘Dad!’
Mom got off the call. ‘How’s the new apartment?’
‘Not so new, anymore. Time has passed. Paint has peeled.’
‘Still, it’s your apartment.’ She looked at Dad.
Ignoring her, Dad pulled on his ciggy and exhaled.
We-bloody-ird.
‘Yes. Ani’s and mine.’
‘But Ani doesn’t need it. He’s got his own 2 bedroom flat in Bandra.’
‘Yes. Yes. But I didn’t come here to discuss the real estate acquisitions of either sibling.’
‘What did you come for, then?’
‘Don’t talk to my son like that!’
This was Dad, the wonder canine, performing the toughest trick in the whole world—working the grenade pin with his teeth while exhaling a plume of blue smoke, all at the same bloody time. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d also put down three for Sunday’s treble pool. This is what people walk miles for.
Sri blinked.
‘I left a white plastic bag on top of the cupboards.’
‘God! You should have told us, Sri! Last year, wasn’t it?’ Dad turned to Mom who nodded gravely. ‘Mummy was cleaning up for Diwali and found it. The same one with those old cards and things, na?’
‘Yes.’
The gutter would swallow everything, eventually. Last year. I’m too late. They were just poor little days of the weak, stuck with each other in a white plastic body bag.
In a voice that scarcely disguised the underlying smile, the goddess explained. ‘You haven’t come in so long. I didn’t know you wanted me to keep it. How was I to know you were going to come and make claims?’
‘I’m not making claims. I just asked for the bag. That’s all.’
‘Have a drink.’ Dad pointed to the bar.
Mom’s face didn’t contort itself into a mask of infinite pain. Sri blinked again. Some genuinely serious changes had hit the management.
A dull cloudy mass started throbbing in Sri’s head. With every pulse, his stomach turned its contents over.
Knowing the bag was there… I had taken it for granted. Now it’s gone… Gone. Life without the white plastic bag… this means even the ‘Grace Under Pressure’ poster...
When the past had been instructed to go eff itself, this was not what he meant. Srinivas Ramachandran was now a man who had never loved or been loved. The scores had been reset. Love all. Play.
The goddess of trifling matters had thrown his everything into the gutter. Not trifling anymore.
Sri poured himself a peg of vodka.
While he was sipping it, Anirudh arrived. Shocked at finding a younger edition on site, the older one too sought refuge in booze.
Not only was there a difference in choice of spirit but also in level of service. Dad put the race book away and fixed a rum for Anirudh.
‘Cheers. Good to see you here, Sri.’
‘I could have said the same for you, a few years ago, Ani.’
‘Round and round the mulberry bush.’
‘What’s a mulberry, Ani?’
‘Ehn? No idea. Think it’s from a nursery rhyme or something.’
With the white plastic bag gone and enlightenment on mulberries beyond these horti-effin-cultural louts, conversation could go four legs up.
Sri hauled in an old crowd favourite.
‘So, how’s work, Mom?’
‘You don’t know, do you? She had to sell the shop.’ Dad looked in the direction of the kitchen ceiling. ‘She has all the time now to dry clothes.’
Ani had never mentioned any of this.
The white plastic bag’s no longer the main draw. Madhavi Coastal Masalas gone! Oh, Phurck! This joint rules the charts. The house is rocking. Don’t bother knocking.
‘How the hell did that happen?’
Dad slapped his thigh in good humour. ‘Playing cards while I was drying clothes.’
No one found the tear in his eye funny. Mrs. Ramachandran got up and left the room. Anirudh followed her. Sri’s mind tripped and fell over its own feet.
What kind of stakes had she been playing? She’d gone and bet the middle kingdom. Trifling matters be damned!
Shaking the tear off, Dad carried on. ‘She’d leave every day to go to the shop and then leave from there to play cards. During working hours, you know. She said your friends’ mothers did that.’
‘That was in school and those moms didn’t work—’
‘She told me it was to make up for the time she’d lost bringing you two up. Ridiculously small stakes, she said. In rupees and paise.’
‘How did she manage to hawk off the shop?’
The rationale behind cause and effect teetered.
Dad poured out a stiff rum.
‘Those bloody scoundrels. They did it.’
‘Who? My friends' mothers?’
‘Not them, Sri! Do stay with me on this.’ Dad cheerily proceeded to describe how Madhavi Coastal Masalas hit an iceberg and sank.
On account of this card-playing in the middle of the day, Madhavi Coastal Masalas had been left to its own devices, watched over by none other than the trio of dubious gender: Savitri, Shailaja and Sugandha and Dhillon the shop boy.
These wicked stepsiblings had, as recompense for baby-sitting, siphoned off funds by running up debts with suppliers; these debts being hidden from the Great Gambler by placing one man’s pillow under another’s head. Ehn? In its simplest form, this involved paying G by selling the stuff taken on credit from H and taking new stuff from I and selling that to settle H’s account.
Dad lighted a ciggy. Smoke was blown out with a sense of accomplishment. These weren’t letters normally used in case studies. He was also speaking in some foreign language, using words like recompense and siphoned.
It’s like kicking in the door to find the world standing neatly on its head.
Dad insisted his version—this business with pillows—was a watered-down one. The four at Madhavi Coastal Masalas were, without a doubt, Chanakya[100] reborn. Their schemes had involved multiple pillows under even more heads spread out across several beds. On the matter of timing, these pillows had been moved in perfect sync with the landing and taking off of pigeons at Kabootar Khaana[101], Dadar.
Dad also suspected these pillows had been sat on.
Viewing matters dispassionately, the Chartered Accountant had been stunned by the hitherto undiscovered geometric shapes made by the pillows in motion. In the face of such unnatural beauty, he muttered only selling the shop would save Mrs. Ramachandran from criminal proceedings.
Sri cut to the chase. ‘Bloody hell! How are you guys managing then?’
‘Ani gives me money every month. That plus the money I get from the coconuts is enough to run the house.’
‘No wonder.’
‘No wonder what?’
‘No wonder you’re speaking in a foreign language.’
‘Stop mumbling, Sri. Can’t hear you.’
‘Nothing. Ani’s a saviour.’
‘He is.’
When Sri left, Anirudh and the Goddess of Towering Feats were in the kitchen. For sticking his head in and waving, he got a half-hearted smile from Ani. The goddess looked upwards at the kitchen ceiling.
He walked through the old neighbourhood. Between one step and the next, his feet paused an extra second.
No white plastic bag. No ‘Grace Under Pressure’ poster. The past. Gone. All gone.
When a car pulled in close, he knew it wouldn’t be Yashika. The cards must have lain in the gutter. Stray dogs must have sniffed disinterestedly at how much he had been loved.
Sorry Mohina, you know I could never have done that.<
br />
With the return of that bloody name, his present tumbled over his past in a tearing hurry to go eff itself; quite the opposite of 101, Ganga Sagar, where Dad, the supreme commander, fully seized of the present and future, was heralding a change in inner wear. The glass would never be less than half-full.
Panty elastic having lost its age-old powers, the Ramachandran household glowed eerily. Drawn like an insect to a tube light, Sri flitted in and about. This was where it had all began.
At work too, there was much excitement. His ability to speak in the voices of famous actors and play the requisite role in recreational situations was in demand. Life was deeeyaaam smooth.
Barring that one name. Not just the one, actually. Another word had thrown in its hat.
What about my dharma? What about giving back? What’s happening with my academy?
His mind flipped back to Mr. Mukherjee and the proposed lectures in that thus far nameless college.
Wasn’t the coming year the shit? But, both Mukherjee and Anu have been as silent as my conscience on a rough night. Should I call? You’ve got to act like you don’t need it. Don’t ever forget that.
Despite claiming otherwise, Sri was as much at ease with himself as any bringer of chicks and beers into 101, Ganga Sagar would be after unleashing matchsticks and peanuts on the chrome trolley and sensing a dark shadow with glowing eyes. To this, one could add that brand of womankind that loved interrogating him. Bunched together and planted, this could only mean one thing if one were to be horticultural that is.
‘So, what do you do?’ She had streaked hair.
Her name was Tina, but to Sri she was already Project Tiger.
‘I export prosthetic earlobes.’
‘Prosthetic? What does that mean?’
‘We make substitute earlobes. You could call them replacements.’
‘But…?’
‘I know. You’re wondering why anyone would need an earlobe replaced.’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Project Tiger was obviously an animal that hunted meat on the bone, so any soya substitute was bound to make her push the plate right back.
‘Not in the Netherlands.’
‘Netherlands?’
‘They have a thriving sex industry.’
Her eyebrows took on the shape of troubled thought. ‘What does that have to do with…?’
A Ladder of Panties Page 20