Marginal Man
Page 15
The publisher accompanied me to the next hearing. The management of the magazine had arranged for a different legal representative. It wasn’t easy because none of the competent lawyers in Hyderabad wanted to accept our brief. My editor friend picked up that Jymka had paid off most of them.
Our new lawyer seemed efficient and honest. He took complete charge of the situation. A year passed in adjournments and court vacations, without there being any tangible progress. I felt that Jymka was using this case just to intimidate and harass us with no serious intent of receiving closure. Just when I had begun to lie back, I got a call from Hyderabad on a Friday morning. The caller, with a heavy Telugu accent, informed me that he was a cop. Apparently, the godman had filed a new case against me and the magazine and the Hyderabad police wanted to serve us the summons for which my address was needed. The thought that I could probably be spending the remainder of my life in a dark cell resurfaced. Could it happen tomorrow? Life in jail would be dreadful for two reasons: one, the absence of an air-conditioner and two, a shared toilet. But more immediately, what about my weekend plans?
The bail application could be moved only on Monday. So I decided to perform a vanishing act before the police showed up with tasers and lathis at my doorstep. I called up Krishna who was an industrialist of repute in Chennai with an impressive Rolodex that featured influential politicians and high-ranking policemen.
There was a time when Krishna, Balu and I were thick friends and party animals. When I dropped off the radar, Krishna and Balu remained friends for frolic. Krishna said he’d meet me at 10 Downing, a pub every other college girl in Chennai had on her places-to-go-before-I-die list. It is the only pub that uses books as props. They shared space with the expensive china on the racks that lined its inner walls. Fuck you writers...your books are mere ornaments here!
The name 10 Downing brought with it a flood of memories. Three years ago, Krishna, Balu and I were drinking there. We saw a young, handsome couple a few tables away. After downing a couple of mojitos, I made a quick trip to the men’s room. When I’d returned, it stunned me to see that the earlier mentioned couple had shifted base to our table. Krishna and Balu were speaking to them like they were long lost friends. “The vodka belongs to Shruti and the beer to Bhaskar,” Balu said by way of introduction. I was eager to know how my friends had pulled this off. Of course, it wouldn’t be proper for me to ask in the presence of our Shruti and Bhaskar. Balu seemed to hear my thoughts and launched into an explanation. “Anney, when you went to take a piss no, I decided to spread some cheer because today is my birthday, no? So I approached our friends and requested the pleasure of their company on this happy occasion. And coincidentally, it is Shruti’s birthday too, so we’re all happily toasting to long life here.” After four pegs, Krishna and Balu excused themselves to go have a smoke. Keen to cull out fact from Balu’s fiction, I joined them. This was what had actually happened: Balu bet with Krishna that he would get the couple to our table in two minutes flat. At this juncture, I must tell you a few things about Balu. His skin is dark and glowing; he has a penchant for head-turning clothes and shoes; he’s forty but looks thirty. He had the manner of a millionaire. He knew nary a word of English, but had turned that into an asset. The three of us were once on a train to Coimbatore. Till about eleven at night, we were covertly enjoying cocktails in a corner of the compartment close to the exit. When the ticket inspector sniffed out our little secret, we poured him a couple of drinks as well. Does any man in India, rich or poor, handsome or ugly, single or married, ever say no to Johnnie Walker? In his drunken state, Balu couldn’t quite remember his berth number. He randomly woke up a man and asked, “What is your date of birth?” The unfortunate target who had been fast asleep could scarcely come to grips with this midnight attack. He mumbled something unintelligible when I decided to rescue the situation. “My friend here would like to know your berth number. Sorry to disturb,” I said. Not a day of ’s life passes without such antics. Now, let us return to 10 Downing.
“All that is fine Balu, but what if the girl didn’t fall for your birthday bluff and called the bouncers instead at your invasion of her privacy?”
“Well, in that case I would have said, ‘I’m sorry sister,’ and come back to my table,” he said, enacting his folded-handed apology for us. “How will life go on if we allow such trivial things to bother us, Anney?”
I told Krishna about the summons from the Hyderabad police.
“Escape to Goa for a few days,” he suggested. He made all my travel arrangements that instant. He broke my SIM card in two and threw the unequal halves away so that the cops couldn’t trace my whereabouts. He lent me a spare phone he had. The prospect of a life in hiding seemed kind of thrilling, but what the fuck had I done to run and hide? I’ve criticized several powerful people throughout my writing career but I realized then that taking on a godman was a different ballgame altogether.
In the meantime, Perundevi called to inform me that the Hyderabad cops swung by the house to deliver the summons. Since I wasn’t around, they left word that if I failed to show my mug in court at the appointed date and time, they’d swing by again – with an arrest warrant. In panic-mode, I spoke to my lawyer who assured me he’d appear on my behalf. My life in exile was thus postponed until their next visit.
2 – The Pichavaram Carnival
The first time we met was in 2007 in a five-star hotel in Bangalore. We were twenty mouths and stomachs and all our food and drinks were paid for by an ordinary middle-class young man called Guru. I think around five zeros followed the one on the bill. Like any group of male friends meeting after a month or after a year, we discussed music, literature, films, drinks, sex, women and politics.
The following year we met again in Pichavaram.
Now, like a good reader, I’d like you to read this entire list:
LIST OF NECESSITIES
Shamiana (30 x 15) – 1
Chairs – 30
Blankets – 3
Tables – 8
Kerosene – 10 l
Loudspeaker – 1
Generator – 1(as there is no electricity on the island)
CD player – 1
Tube lights – 6
Microphone – 1
Bridegroom’s chair – 1(This was struck out at the last moment as I said none of us really needed it. After all, no one was marrying or remarrying there.)
Water for washing hands, mouth, backside – 15 cans
Drinking water – 15 cans
Buckets – 2
Bathroom mugs – 2
Plastic mugs for drinking – 300
Plastic plates – 100
Meat knife – 1
Vegetable knife – 1
Paper napkins – 6 packets
Candles – 50
Tender coconuts – 100
Banana leaves – 100
Curd – 10 l
Soda – 24 bottles (0.5 l each)
7Up – 4 (2 l each)
Mirinda – 1 (2 l)
Pepsi – 1 (2 l)
Murrel fish – 4 kg
Goat – 1
Chicken – 6
Prawns – 8 kg (I thought this was a ridiculous quantity. Who would have the patience to skin 8 kg of prawns? Was it even possible? Kokkarakko’s friend Mani showed us it was. He and his relatives handled the job – while one woman ground the masala for the curry, two others deftly skinned the prawns. Of these two women, one was Mani’s sister-in-law, a new bride and a Ph.D. holder.)
Groundnuts – 1 kg
Namkeen – 1 kg
Tapioca chips – 2kg
Moong dal – 2 kg
Orbit chewing gum – 100
Halls mint candies – 100
Tablecloths – 12 m
Adhesive tape – 2
Plastic spoons – 100
Chilies �
�� 2 kg
Coriander – 5 kg
Rice – 25 kg
Idli batter – 5kg
Urad dal – 2 kg
Pepper – 2.5 kg
Cumin – 2.5 kg
Garlic – 2 kg
Oil – 5 l
Mustard oil – 0.5 l
Custard – 10 packets
Cardamom powder – 2 boxes
Appalam – 100
Tandoori appalam – 100
Mustard – 100 g
Fenugreek – 250 g
Turmeric powder – 100 g
Bengal gram– 1 kg
Toor dal – 2 kg
Cashewnuts – 250 g
Cinthol soaps – 4
Dabur Meswak toothpaste – 2
Imported coconut milk – 10 packets (This was needed to make a little-known item called a tender coconut pudding. Since my passion for literature and my passion for cooking are commensurate, I will give you the recipe later.)
Cumin powder – 200 g
Asafetida – 100 g
Tamarind – 1 kg
Salt – 1 kg
Garam masala – 1 packet
Ginger – 2 kg
Small onions – 5 kg
Large onions – 5 kg
Local tomatoes – 5 kg
Bangalore tomatoes – 1kg
Potatoes – 4 kg
Beans – 1 kg
Green chilies – 500 g
Radish – 1 kg
Cucumber – 5 kg
Lemon – 150
Eggplant – 3 kg
Cluster beans – 2 kg
Coriander leaves – 1 bunch
Mango – 2 kg
Coconuts – 10
Curry leaves – 1 bunch
Mint – 2 bunches
Carrot – 4 kg
Coal – 4 kg
Tin – 4
Firewood
King’s cigarettes – 10 packets
Gold Flake cigarettes – 5 packets
Ganesh beedis – 4 bunches
Pickles – 2 bottles
Matchboxes – 3 packs (10 boxes each)
Boats – 2
Smirnoff – 5
Bacardi – 4
Mansion House – 5
VSOP – 8
Warehouse – 4
McDowell’s No. 1 – 2
Old Cask – 2
Royal Challenge – 2
Royal Stag – 2
Rivera – 2
Caesar – 4
Rémy Martin – 2
Tequila – 1
There were some other liquors too, but we drank so much that I can’t remember all their names. Forgive me, Kokkarakko.
Now for that recipe I promised you…
TENDER COCONUT PUDDING
Ingredients:
Tender coconut water – 1 cup
China grass – 2 tsp
Nestlé Milkmaid – 1 tin
Milk, boiled and cooled – 0.75 l
Tender coconut slices – 1 cup
Grated coconut – ¼ cup
Sugar – ½ cup
Directions:
Mix the china grass with a cup of water and heat it over a moderate flame.
Once the grass has fully melted, add tender coconut water.
In a thick-bottomed vessel, mix milk, Nestlé Milkmaid and sugar. Heat this over a moderate flame. Stir continuously.
Once the sugar dissolves, add the china grass and tender coconut water mixture and stir well.
Remove the vessel from the flame and add slices of tender coconut to it.
Pour the mixture into a wide glass bowl and allow it to cool before transferring it to the fridge.
Before serving, mix some sugar and grated coconut in a wok and sprinkle it over the pudding.
(Serves 4)
Of all the things that were mentioned, the only thing we lacked in Pichavaram was a fridge. But the pudding turned out exceptionally well. Its taste lingered even after we’d downed five rounds of liquor.
There is an uninhabited island in Pichavaram. It is surrounded by the ocean on one side and the backwaters on the other. A good part of the island is covered by a marshy forest.
My favorite writer is Nikos Kazantzakis. In his book, Zorba the Greek, there’s this writer who spends a night with the titular character, drinking wine and roasting mutton, the moonlit Mediterranean around them. I often expressed my desire to spend such a night to Kokkarakko, so he chalked out an action plan to fulfill my wish and executed it to perfection. We even planned to roast the mutton barbecue style.
It was for this carnival that the items on that extensive list had to be collected. Kokkarakko had taken a week off work and set up camp in Pichavaram. He and Mani began to collect the provisions from Chidambaram. The liquor was also arranged for. Spoilable items like fish had to be bought on the day of the carnival.
Usually, a literary meeting is an event where ten to fifteen writers congregate in a dirty room in a bookshop and tear into each other until it’s time to leave. From experience, I know that people who participate in such meetings suffer from depression and frustration for a week. But Pichavaram meet was a celebration. Fifty of my readers had shown up there for the event, all ignorant of what constitutes and what follows a literary meeting. They were also ignorant of the purpose of the wine and the barbecue, and the whole concept of a carnival, were clueless as to why we were on an island, and were curious to know who the organizer of the whole affair was.
If Kokkarakko declared that he was the organizer, the next question would inevitably be: “Are you related to Udhaya?” to which Kokkarakko would reply, “He is my uncle.” One reader asked him, “Will hot water be available on the island? I’ll need it for my bath in the morning.” Kokkarakko said, “Once, there were roughly 150 fishermen who lived with their families on this island. The tsunami of 2004 took them all. Today, there are probably just a couple of ghosts on that island and a lot of coconut trees under whose shade they can hang around. The island doesn’t even afford drinking water which we have to take with us.” The reader had no more questions. He didn’t turn up for the carnival either.
Some other readers kept asking, “Has Udhaya come yet?” It meant that they would come only after my arrival was confirmed. I reached the island two days before the carnival. Kannan had said he’d be coming from Hyderabad with his girlfriend. As none of the others were bringing girlfriends or wives, expectations were high. I cautioned Kokkarakko. “We are fifty men and Kannan’s girlfriend is only one woman. We’ll need to be careful.”
The carnival was on a Saturday night. Kannan arrived at noon that day but he hadn’t brought his girlfriend with him. That was forgivable, but what irritated us was the fact that he’d brought another male friend, Kalaiselvan, “in her place.” Talk of anticlimaxes!
Meanwhile, a reader from Madurai asked, “Why didn’t you organize this carnival in Madurai?” Immediately, a reader from Tiruppur demanded to know why we didn’t organize it in Tiruppur.
“I have spent a six-figure sum to hold it in Pichavaram,” an incensed Kokkarakko said, “and I’m not a rich man. Do you think I’m running a circus to organize shows in different places? If you want to hold it in your town, you make a list of all the things you’ll need, spend a fortune getting them and every last ounce of your energy making arrangements and answering stupid questions.”
The discussions died and suggestions immediately stopped coming in.
Because many people were not familiar with the island and how to get there, Kokkarakko put up a huge flex board at Chidambaram Bus Stand and posted a couple of volunteers at the spot in case the sign didn’t do its job. But most of the readers saw neither the signboard nor the smiling volunteers and kept bombarding us with calls to find
out how to get to the island. Telling them where the volunteers were was a herculean task that drained us of our energy. Imagine directing them to the island!
A friend called Prabhu who was working as a chef on a cruise liner had agreed to take charge of the barbecue. We’d readied the goat, the coal, the drum and everything else he’d need.
The island was three kilometers away from Pichavaram. We had to use a motorboat to navigate the backwaters. The water was only three feet deep. We decided to split the group into halves. Kokkarakko, Prabhu and I were in the first group. The second group’s boat ran aground due to the low depth and the muddiness of the backwaters. If anyone got into the water to try and push the boat, the blade-like oysters would rip his soles. The motor growled but the boat didn’t budge. Their boat had to be tied to ours and pulled out of the mud. It was an hour before all was well again.
Several times, I had told Kokkarakko, and he in turn told Mani, that every single item on the list had to be taken to the island without fail. Forgetting even one item would jeopardize the entire celebration. The second group reached the island late. As soon as they landed, Prabhu ran to them and requested a matchbox. This they had forgotten to bring. There were no matchboxes on our boat either. Instead of another taxing journey back, we luckily managed to borrow some matches from the helpers.
The barbecued goat was so delicious that most of us forgot we were part of a civilized society. Gnanam was gnawing away at an entire goat-shank like a carnivorous beast. The next morning, when he started whining about the meager amount he ate, we showed him a priceless picture of himself battling it out with the goat’s leg.