“I tried haritaki too. It was useless.”
“You must have taken it for a week and stopped. You’re supposed to take it daily for three months, except on the days you drink. It’s not like Viagra – pop it into your mouth and your dick springs to life like a jack-in-the-box.”
“Is Caverta widely available? Will it be given to me if I ask for it?”
“Yes and yes.”
Cursing him for reducing me to a sleazy side-street sexologist, I exited the park.
I didn’t see Ranga for a few days. When he did turn up in the park, he buttonholed me the moment Santhanam was out of earshot.
“I tried in a lot of places, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I got strange looks from some of the pharmacists that made me feel embarrassed. Would you mind getting it for me?”
I agreed.
That evening, I went to the drugstore near my place and asked for Caverta.
“How many milligrams?” the pharmacist asked me.
I immediately grew suspicious. If such a small drugstore had it, then how could the other bigger ones not? It seemed impossible. I went around enquiring in several drugstores and it was available in every single one of them. I realized that I’d been foxed. Ranga was a daisy who couldn’t go to a chemist’s and ask for Caverta like a man, so he conned me into doing it for him.
For the thousandth time, I promised to never associate with such “common men.”
When Ranga asked me whether I’d bought the drug the next day, I gave him a piece of my mind.
“You made a bloody ass of me! I deserve to be flogged for listening to you, let alone trying to help you.”
From then on, I stopped helloing Ranga.
I had a similar experience with yet another “common man.”
Santhanam is a voracious reader, but not anywhere in the neighborhood of Professor Subramanian of IIT. An admirer of Abraham Lincoln, Subramanian once lent Santhanam a book on the American president when the latter visited his house with a friend who never sniffed a single book. This pathetic friend was called Padmanabhan. Now Padmanabhan worked for a firm and his demanding job never allowed him such indulgences, but he also wanted a book from the professor and was therefore given one. The professor was restless when he lent his books and kept dropping broad hints about people who failed to return books they’d borrowed from him.
One day, Santhanam and Padmanabhan were walking in the park, each carrying a book the size of a pillow to return it to the professor.
Amused, I suggested they deposit the books on the park bench and retrieve them once they’d finished their walk, but they refused, saying that the professor would have their heads on a platter.
Curious to see Padmanabhan’s book, I took it from him. It was Gurcharan Das’ retelling of the Mahabharata.
My interest did not go unnoticed, and Padmanabhan said, “I’ve not opened the book yet. I’ll lend it to you once I buy my own copy.”
“Asshole, you are beyond redemption!” I said to myself.
Nowadays I don’t hit the beach for my daily walks because the heat of the sun might burn me like a fifteenth-century heretic. I go to the park instead, which is shady as a forest till nine.
But, there are also some inconveniences to be endured during a walk in the park, such as dealing with the “common man” which is simply beyond me. One of the common man’s lunatic ilk once asked me, “Is Da Vinci dead, sir?”
“Yes, he died several centuries ago.”
“No, I meant Krishna da Vinci, a Tamil writer.”
“Oh, he died a couple of years ago.”
“What happened to him? He was quite young, wasn’t he?”
“I have no idea.”
“I thought you’d know because you were all comrades.”
It was obvious that the bloke had never used the word “comrade” in speech before. He sounded as awkward as a drunk trying to sound sober in front of a cop. Speaking of cops, I have never seen anyone talk to them with the unaffected ease of Kokkarakko. Kokkarakko treats a cop like his homie. Once, while driving he put his hand out the window and tapped his cigarette ash. A cop on a motorbike pulled him over. Kokkarakko was cucumber-cool when he answered the cop who was soon on his way, shouting and ranting like he’d just emerged from a drunken brawl.
I was quite alarmed by the whole incident, but Kokkarakko merely shrugged his shoulders and said nonchalantly, “I think a cigarette must’ve blistered his fat ass once which is why he has a problem with cigarettes.”
Unlike Kokkarakko, the “common man” becomes very flustered in the presence of a writer and starts blurting out insensible guff.
One of my brothers-in-law – and it is my opinion that there can be no one as dumb as or dumber than a brother-in-law – started speaking to me in high Tamil one day.
“May I enquire after your health and your welfare and your missus?’
It is well known that a Tamil writer lives like a stray dog or a social outcast. While even mediocre Indian writers who write in English land lucrative book contracts and become rich overnight with money to wipe their backsides and blow their noses in, the Tamil writer languishes in the wilderness, unknown and unread.
I was looking for a French translator for one of my novels and found one in Paris. His translated titles were published by Gallimard, but his fee was rather steep. Twenty-five rupees a word. In that case, a thousand-word essay would fetch him a jaw-dropping twenty-five thousand rupees! But in Tamil a word is worth only half a rupee and some magazines just send you a free copy. With all this in mind, should you snicker or laugh out loud at a Tamil writer?
I asked my brother-in-law, “What’s wrong? Why are you talking like someone who got half his brain eaten by a crow?”
“I spoke to you that way because you are a writer – a Tamil writer!”
“You imbecile! I am not a Tamil writer. Here, take a look at this ArtReview Asia article I’ve written in English. So there! I’m an English writer and you shall talk to me in English.”
Now do you see how the “common man” loses his marbles in the presence of a writer?
I would usually leave for the park by six in the morning, but one day, after I was delayed, I spent some time meditating and having a chat with Santhanam. It was nine when I decided to return home.
Suddenly, a “common man” speared before me and said, “I hardly see you here these days.”
“I come every day.”
“But I never see you.”
“What time do you come?”
“Around this time.”
“I come at six. I was delayed today.”
“I see. What are you writing about now?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh,” he looked at me like I’d just told him I have terminal cancer of the balls. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Must be writer’s block.”
He began guffawing at his own statement like it was the joke of the century.
I felt like asking him: “On the days you don’t fuck your wife, do you consider yourself to be suffering from fucker’s block?” But not everyone has the liberty of speaking his mind. Such privileges belong exclusively to the “common man.”
Another “common man” I know is the brother of a female friend. Brothers of female friends are fools too, like brothers-in-law.
One day, he asked me, “How do you write?”
At that moment, I deeply regretted being a writer. You jelly-brained dunce! In all my life I’ve never been asked such a ludicrous question, I thought.
“I type on a computer,” said I, following the biblical prescription of giving a stupid answer to a stupid question.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, twiddling his fingers and moving his mouth like a fish. “I want to know how you write.”
Formerly, I was a
ble to answer questions of this base variety with a straight face, but my temperament has changed now as my face has.
Cocking an eyebrow, I asked him, “Do you read books?”
“I used to back in college, but I don’t have the time now.”
“What kind of books did you use to read?”
“Cine Blitz, Time Pass…”
“Who’s your favorite writer?”
“No one in particular. I’m content to just flip through the pages.”
Such encounters have forced me to withdraw from my fellow human beings and this I do not regret for a split-second. There is more pleasure to be found in engaging with trees, squirrels, crows, monkeys, cats and dogs. I do not expect anyone who has not experienced this pleasure to sympathize with me.
One of Perundevi’s friends paid us a visit with her husband. I knew the friend, but I’d never met the husband before. He never helloed me or shook my hand. When the two women whisked upstairs to sit and gaze at the aquarium, the friend’s husband spoke his first words to me.
“How much rent do you pay for this house?”
Unprepared for such a question, I sheepishly said I had no idea. I honestly didn’t know what the rent was, so I had to explain stuff to him: “Five years ago, when we moved into this house, the rent was twenty grand. It’s been hiked a couple of times over the past two years. I don’t know what it is now. You should probably ask Perundevi.”
There was something else that rankled me. How on earth did he figure out that the house was rented?
This incident left a marked impression on me. How can a person who is unacquainted with another person be so audacious as to ask the person what the person pays for his house?
Hang on. The interrogation, I mean the “conversation,” didn’t end there.
“What was your advance payment?”
What the fuck, man? What’re you gonna ask me next? How many times a week I have sex with my wife?
“Again, I don’t know. Perundevi’s the one you should ask.”
The inquisitive man mercifully fell silent when he realized he wouldn’t get a straight or proper answer out of me.
But the worst was yet to come.
When I grumbled to Perundevi about our visitor’s insolent curiosity, she, in his defense, accused me of thinking “perversely.”
“He’s a very nice man. Not everyone can be as intellectual as you are, Udhaya.”
I once found myself in a bizarre situation involving a saree-seller who set himself up as the “Judge” to the “Accused” – me.
I’m talking about the time we were in Chinmaya Nagar. The man had been selling sarees to Perundevi’s family for years as his father and his father’s father had before him. His coming was a ritual in itself. He would spread a mat on the floor, sit like the Buddha on one end of it, and with a magician’s flourish, pull out more sarees than I imagined his bundle had. I’m not sure if we were paying for the quality of the saree or for what rolled of his silver tongue. Women from all the houses in the vicinity would flock to our place at his arrival, but I don’t think it was to stare open-mouthed at him.
His coming to our house was a monthly affair. I asked Perundevi, “Why do you keep buying so many sarees?”
“Look, Udhaya,” she said, “I’m not a social butterfly. I don’t like to go out and I don’t nag you to take me to the beach, to the movies or to fancy restaurants. I don’t even like to go to the temple because the crowds make me uncomfortable. A saree or two a month is my only indulgence.”
“Alright, but tell that fellow to change his timings. He always barges in when I’m lunching.”
And like his unwelcome intrusion during my lunch hour wasn’t bad enough, he wouldn’t let me enjoy my food in peace either. He kept talking to me and I was expected to answer him the whole time he was there. That got under my skin.
One day, there was fish curry for lunch. The following conversation ensued:
“You’re eating fish, saar?”
“Yes.”
“But today is Saturday, saar.”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t eat fish on Saturdays, saar.”
“I see.”
“Moreover, today is Karthikai. You must not eat meat on this auspicious day, saar.”
“I see.”
“Hereafter, take care to avoid meat on Saturdays and Karthikai days, saar.”
“Oh, please! Don’t come here talking to me like I’ve seduced another man’s wife. Keep your nose where it belongs.”
That very day, the saree-seller went to Perundevi’s parental home and complained that I had harshly scolded him.
If this is the common man’s understanding of me, then what about my readers and those who are familiar with my body of work?
The first thing I do on returning from my morning walk at nine is remove the shark from the freezer as Baba and Blackie have to be fed at ten and a half-minute delay would not sit well with them. At the gate sits Whitey, my next customer, patiently waiting. I give him four biscuits after which I walk Baba and then Blackie. Blackie is a dog who looks like a horse and he absolutely terrifies the weak of heart who lay eyes on him. The dog senses their fear and, like a four-legged demon, creates mayhem. Then, he stands back and watches the panorama unfold before striding back into the house. (And just so you know, he gets more looks from college girls than skinny dudes on muscled bikes.)
Once the walk is over, I cook the fish and put it under the fan to cool. I add some Pedigree to it and feed the dogs – first Blackie and then Baba. The feeding takes half an hour. Blackie is fed first because he’s a fussy eater. If he refuses to eat, I offer his food to Baba. Baba and I are alike in that we can never refuse food. He and I can eat like we’ve been starving since the day of our births.
My stomach groans in hunger when the task of feeding my four-legged children is complete.
I like to think of my kitchen as a factory in which I am a manual laborer. For breakfast, I finely chop or slice, capsicums, carrots, zucchini, olives, onions and tomatoes. I halve the salad and season my half with a squeeze of lemon, pepper it and have it either for breakfast or for dinner. But I can’t live on salads my whole life, can I? For the sake of variety, I have couscous or pasta for lunch. On Saturdays, I have idlis with my friends at the Sai Mess. Post breakfast, I dice five carrots, three beetroots and an apple for my ABC juice. I toss in some pomegranates and gooseberries. The fruits go into the juicer one by one. The preparation takes three-quarters of an hour. Perundevi and I drink it in installments, emptying our glasses at four in the evening.
It was after all this that the actual “labor” began.
I would skin and chop ginger, garlic and onions, and assemble the rest of the ingredients required for the gravy. The greens came next, and there was a new variety on the menu every day. They had to be washed till the water ran clear, and then chopped. If the greens in question were drumstick leaves, even with Perundevi’s assistance, the work would stretch itself out till one in the afternoon.
Our menu would feature paruppu usili at least twice a week. Show me a man who has peeled the banana flower in its entirety and I will prostrate before him. It takes at least forty-five minutes to peel a single banana flower. One has to remove the matchstick-like stem and the gauzy petal that resembles a dragonfly’s wing. I do all this without complaint. If you are not a connoisseur of food like I am, you can save yourself all this trouble and survive on rasam and rice. I cannot subsist on said dish, being an aficionado of world cuisine – European, Asian, Islamic, Brahmin.
I’m dogged once the cooking is done. And if it’s Sunday, it’s mandatory-trip-to-the-fish-market-day. Fish is available in abundance on Sundays – especially shark and murrel. The less fastidious clean these fish in ten minutes. I clean then for an hour.
But wait, there’s a problem.
I’ve hear
d several Brahmins living in apartments complaining that they couldn’t bear the odour that emanates from their neighbour’s place when they cook meat. But those comments irked me and I always retorted back. But it was a wake-up call for me when I couldn’t tolerate the gut-wrenching smell of meat that was cooked by one of my neighbours of the Mandaveli flat where I was residing five years back and that was when I realised the problem of the Brahmin households. Nevertheless I can vouch that the meat was prepared by Perundevi or me, invariably sends out an aroma and not a stink.
A decade ago, I was overcome with a desire to eat duck. Although I was told that it would stink, I was bent on trying it. I asked Krishna for a recipe. Though he is a Brahmin, he knows his meats. He gave me the contact number of a female friend who was a cordon bleu in a five-star restaurant. When she shared her recipe with me, she too mentioned that duck meat has a strong smell. I shared this bit of information with Perundevi, whose duck yielded a delicate aroma instead of a stench. She told me it was the turmeric that did the trick.
It is not only “common men” who torment me. If I were to make a list of all my tormentors, my own friends’ names would figure at the top. I had a student-friend called Arasu, twenty-one. He called me appa as I was something of a father-figure to him. I happened to be cooking when he called. I texted him, saying that I would call back when my hands were free. I never did get around to calling him back. From that day on, he messaged me compulsively, asking why I didn’t return his call.
“I take calls only till nine a.m.,” I explained. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
But the next day, I was laden with work and hence couldn’t call him.
He began sending me e-mail after e-mail.
Bizarrely, by that time, I was starting to obsess over him.
Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu Arasu
Marginal Man Page 7