Ramya's Treasure

by Pratap Reddy

  For the next two weeks, they’re required to come three days a week. During those times, first they’d review their résumés, and provide tips to improve them. Right from the day Ramya landed in Canada years and years ago, she’s been writing and rewriting her résumé. If she’d directed all that effort and energy towards creative writing, she may well have written a book or two by now. Become a bestseller to boot, and would be in no bind to look for a measly job again. Ramya sighs — talk about wishful thinking! From what she’s heard, you could count on your fingers the number of authors in Canada who earn a living exclusively from writing.

  In the third week, the laid-off employees will be taught the powers of cold calling — the greatest strategy invented by man, the failsafe jimmy which would unlock all the doors of the hidden job market.

  To Ramya it all sounds like hogwash. Unbelievable really, like spiels for weight loss pills on TV shopping channels she finds herself watching involuntarily.

  At first Ramya wanted to tell her father about the date with Prahalad. It was nothing serious, just a harmless outing, so she thought better of it. But she didn’t like the unsavoury feeling she had of not taking her Daddy into confidence.

  On the day of their date, Ramya and Prahalad skipped their respective afternoon classes, and went to Kamat’s in Basheerbagh for a quick bite. Ramya ordered a masala dosa, a folded pancake stuffed with sautéed potatoes, while Prahalad asked for a thali, a platter which came with a full spread of a traditional south Indian meal. Ramya toyed with the food as a host of butterflies swarmed in her stomach.

  “Aren’t you liking the dosa?” Prahalad asked.

  “No, it’s good.” Ramya forced herself to peck at the dosa.

  In the middle of the lunch, Prahalad whisked out the Hero pen and gave it to Ramya. She didn’t understand why he’d do that. Did he want her autograph? The play was a good two weeks away from being staged. What guarantee was there that it would be a success and that she’d become a star overnight?

  But no typical autograph book, small and velourbound, emerged. Seeing the look of incomprehension on her face, Prahalad said: “It’s for you. A gift from me.” His voice sounded extremely gravelly, like two jostling boulders.

  “Oh,” Ramya said. Not that she was ungrateful, it was just at that instant that the gift of the used purple lipstick came to her mind. That exchange too had taken place in a restaurant.

  “You don’t look too happy.”

  “Oh, no! I’m quite pleased. It’s only that my stomach feels a bit queasy.”

  “Is the date making you nervous?”

  Before she could think of a reply, the waiter brought the bill on a small stainless-steel salver. Ramya began to fossick in her handbag for her wallet, when Prahalad said: “This is my treat.”

  He paid the bill, and tipped the waiter generously. He popped a handful of sugar-coated multicoloured fennel seeds, which came on the salver along with the receipt, into his mouth. Outside, he was able to start his Vespa only after six unsuccessful attempts, and not before tilting his scooter first this way and then that way to get the petrol flowing. They drove to Skyline cinema not too far from the restaurant. Prahalad bought tickets for the balcony, the most expensive but least crowded section of the cinema hall.

  When they entered, the hall was in darkness, with a series of advertisement slides being projected on the screen. An usher popped up like a spectre, with a torch in his hand. He peered at the seat numbers on the tickets and then led them to their row. Standing in the aisle like a lighthouse, he trained the beam of his torch on their allotted chairs. Prahalad and Ramya wended their way, rubbing their shins against the knees of the people already seated.

  After the slides came the commercials for detergent and cold remedies, their trademark jingles loudly bouncing off the theatre walls. This was followed by a mandatory government newsreel, a black and white short about a dam being constructed in some remote part of India. A sepulchral voice-over, sounding like a prophet of doom, described the notable and proud achievement. A good twenty minutes later the actual feature film started. Ramya, who can’t recall the title of the film, remembers that it featured the superstar Amitabh Bachchan, looking very angry all through.

  Ramya was watching the film with concentration when Prahalad suddenly took her hand. She was reminded of bangle sellers for some reason — they were the only men who routinely take a woman’s hand, and did so only to slide the fragile glass bangles over their knuckles. Ramya felt icky all over and tried to wriggle her hand out of Prahalad’s grip, even as she was steadfastly focusing her eyes on the screen. But he pulled at her hand roughly and put it on his crotch. She gave a gasp, and turned her head towards him. Somebody in the row behind them said: “Ssh!”

  Prahalad leaned forward and tried to plant a firm kiss on her lips — because of the darkness, he missed his mark slightly, and his lips fell heavily on the corner of her mouth, almost bruising her. Ramya felt as if she’d been boxed on her jaw.

  Prahalad’s breath smelled of cigarettes, spicy food, and the recently ingested fennel seeds. To add to it all in the background there was a strong whiff of halitosis. (Ramya was a doctor’s daughter and knew her diseases: A for Angina, B for Beriberi, C for Coryza …)

  Her hand, firmly in Prahalad’s grip, felt something like a tube of toothpaste on one side of his lap. Full-bodied, but still soft.

  As Prahalad leaned towards her she could feel his warm foetid breath on her cheeks. He whispered into her ear in Urdu: “Mereko garam hone ke liye zara time lagta. It takes time for me to get excited.”

  Ramya’s stomach retched and vomit rose to her mouth and then shot out. Prahalad recoiled as if stung. He got up and scrambled out of the hall, wiping his face with his palm. Ramya sat alone for some time unable to decide what to do. She rooted in her handbag for her handkerchief, and after wiping her mouth, she too got up and left the hall. She had to go to the ladies to wash her mouth. The washroom was smelly and the washbasin none too clean.

  Prahalad was waiting for her in the foyer. They walked out of the theatre without saying a word to each other. It took an age for the grumbling parking attendant to extricate Prahalad’s scooter from the tightly jammed row of two wheelers.

  “Where should I drop you?” Prahalad asked, when they were on the road.

  “At the bus-stop.”

  Arriving at her house seated behind a male classmate on a two-wheeler was an image neither of them could visualize.

  “What about the drama practice?” Prahalad said.

  “I’ll give it a miss today. Please tell Rajnish that I’m not feeling well.”

  That was the last time they spoke to each other. Though they ran into each other during drama practice, they kept a frigid distance.

  A meeting with someone described as a Job Developer has been scheduled by the consultants. Ramya is given a folder to review. It lists all the relevant courses which the jobless could take to make themselves competitive in the job market. She and the Job Developer are to go into a huddle to decide on what courses to apply for.

  On the night before the meeting, Ramya opens the file, and her eyes skim over the contents. A tsunami of ennui overcomes her. “I’ve no appetite for homework at my age,” she tells herself and tosses away the file. A single glance was enough for her to realize that it’s all poppycock — just another ruse for the consultants and the course providers to extract money out of the plight of people like her.

  Having nothing better to do, she takes the topmost from a pile of unread books. She may as well read something which she might enjoy rather than the folder on retraining. It’s a book she bought for a dollar in the local library from a stack of unread, discarded or donated books which the library hopes to sell to raise money. The book was written by a slew of eminent British detective storywriters of the Golden Age, each one writing a chapter. She’d read and enjoyed the works of many of these writers like Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers when she was a teenager. She’d bought their books at AA H
ussain on Abid’s, or borrowed them from the British Library on the Secretariat Road.

  The book promised to be most fascinating but all the fuss about time-tables and tide-tables left her a bit confounded. She turns to the page where she inserted the bookmark — an old Walmart receipt — and begins to read, and immediately starts to feel better. Reading these writers is like meeting old friends again, tide-tables or time-tables notwithstanding …

  Ramya’s amatory troubles did not end with Prahalad.

  It wasn’t just Rajnish’s eyes which had fiery passion. Apparently, his loins too had it in good measure. The director of the play couldn’t keep his paws off Ramya. She came to know later that he did so with all the leading ladies, or any female actor for that matter.

  “Turn your face to the left, let the footlights shine on you. You’re so beautiful, why hide your beauty?” he’d say, taking her by the shoulder and turning her. Then his hand would slide down her back, and rest briefly over her backside.

  Luckily, he had a steady named Alka. She was the previous year’s leading lady, playing the courtesan Vasantasena in the English adaptation of the ancient Sanskrit play called Mricchakatika, The Toy Clay Cart. Alka would often show up at the rehearsals for Streetcar though she’d graduated the previous year. Extremely jealous and very temperamental, she was apt to create scenes at the drop of a hat. She regarded Ramya as competition, and was cold and unfriendly towards her. Ramya didn’t care; as long as Alka was around, Rajnish was on good behaviour and kept his restless hands to himself.

  By the time the play was finally staged, Ramya was fed up. Though the play lacked the professional touch, the audience uninured to good theatre enjoyed it. Her acting was much appreciated, but it meant nothing to Ramya. She was glad to put her only foray into showbiz behind her, once and for all.

  She’s waiting in a long queue to take a left turn. Though the line-up is getting shorter, it’s only at snail’s pace. A smoky haze hangs over the city. The traffic lights look like jewels stuck in the gossamer fabric of the fog: rubies, emeralds and amber.

  There’s a silver Jaguar, just ahead. It’s crouched low, waiting for the cue to lunge forward. When she was young, Ramya had wondered what it would be like to own a Jaguar. One of Daddy’s close friends who lived in the Banjara Hills in Hyderabad owned a chocolate-brown one, the small figurine of the leaping animal on its hood.

  “It’s best if I give up such ambitions,” Ramya tells herself. “Jaguar’s not for the jobless.”

  Despite the best efforts of the consultant, Ramya is convinced that she won’t land a job anytime soon. Would all the training and retraining in the world make a potential employer hire her? She had nothing going for her — her age, her credentials, her skin colour, and her accent are all wrong.

  “Shit! I don’t want to be mired in negativity,” Ramya tells herself aloud. It’s bad enough that the day itself is so depressing in its overarching greyness. She doesn’t want to worsen her mood by dwelling on an uncertain future.

  Ramya makes a conscious attempt to think of something nice, something pleasant …

  If her favourite detective storywriters could be described in terms of car brands what would they be? There was absolutely no doubt about the Jaguar — it was Dame Ngaio Marsh, classy and stylish. Dorothy Sayers would be a Daimler, undeniably. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. Dame Agatha Christie, for sheer numbers, the bestselling Beetle, albeit a gold-plated one. Christiana Brand would be the nifty Mini Cooper. Margery Allingham — this was difficult, she couldn’t think of a suitable brand right now, something on the lines of an Aston Martin or an Alfa Romeo. Josephine Tey, the striking but short-lived gull-winged De Lorean, a car like no other. Gladys Mitchel, naturally (or supernaturally) a Triumph Spitfire. Georges Simenon, a Citroën for sure, classic and yet pathbreaking. As for the American writers of hardboiled fiction … Hammett a Thunderbird, painted black all over, and gem encrusted. Raymond Chandler a Dodge Charger, revving down his mean streets. Ross Macdonald? A zebra-striped hearse, most definitely, thinks Ramya, laughing at her own joke.

  It’s with a more positive frame of mind that she goes to the appointment. The cool and unbusy receptionist who is surreptitiously biting into her delayed breakfast asks Ramya to take a seat, and immediately picks up the telephone and mumbles into it. After setting down the receiver she tells Ramya, gulping down the remnants in her mouth: “Jack will be here in a moment.”

  Ramya finds herself involuntarily taking stock of the room — the heavy table lamp on an end table, the clutch of leather chairs, and the coffee table with a folded newspaper, and company brochures.

  A couple of minutes later, Jack strides into the reception with a smile and an extended hand. He is in his forties and has the bluest of blue eyes she’s ever seen. He looks — what was the word? — ripped, and doesn’t have a pot belly like most North American men. He gives Ramya’s limp hand an extra squeeze before releasing it. He leads Ramya to his box of a room, and once she enters it, shuts the door.

  “Keeping yourself busy?”

  An opening gambit to make her feel comfortable; but it only reminds Ramya of the idle hours ticking away unprofitably. He keeps taking sneaking glances at her file even as he’s talking to her.

  “What does your typical day look like?”

  Ramya paints a verbal picture of her daily activities in the days following her lay off: buying groceries, going for walks, visiting the library … but it peters away like a fading melody, seeing Jack’s apparent noninterest.

  “Go on, I’m listening,” he says looking up.

  “I like to read.”

  “That’s good …what kind of books do you read?”

  “Fiction, mostly. I wish I had an appetite for selfimproving books.”

  “They’re not for everybody. Any particular book you liked?”

  “I’m reading a book called The Floating Admiral. I find it very interesting.”

  “Is it about naval warfare? My grandfather was in the Royal Navy … He saw action in the Scapa Flow …”

  “How interesting!” But Ramya sighs inwardly. For a wannabe writer her vocabulary seems extremely limited. She could’ve at least said: “Amazing!” Or even: “Awesome!”

  “... I see you are a graduate with a post-graduate degree in management … oh, but that was in … Hide, hide …”

  “Hyderabad in India.”

  “And in Canada you’d been working for eight years as a clerk in procurement.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a very specialized field. While the job opportunities aren’t many, as you know the manufacturing industry has been on the decline in Ontario … What are your thoughts on relocating? There may be openings in Alberta.”

  “Certainly not!” Alberta, of all places! He may as well have asked her to return to Prakash!

  “That’s the most passionate refusal I’ve ever heard. I hope I’ve not touched a raw nerve.”

  “It’s too much of a hassle, selling my house and transplanting myself in a strange place. Not at my age.”

  “Come on, you’re not old at all, and there’s no mandatory retirement age in most of the provinces. However, I understand moving may not be an option for everyone … It’s my considered opinion that it would be useful if you could upgrade your computer skills.”

  “I’ve learned all there’s to learn in MS Word, Excel, Access … you name it.”

  “A refresher course will enhance your résumé, and make it attractive to your potential employers.”

  “I doubt it. Honestly, I don’t want to waste my time and my company’s … I mean my ex-company’s resources.” Too many exes in my life, Ramya says to herself.

  “I’m afraid we have very few options. But do you have anything in mind?”

  “In fact, I do. How about something like the creative writing program at Humber School for Writers?”

  Jack gives a small chuckle which sounds like a car’s starter on a cold day. “That’s quite out of the que
stion. At best we could consider a technical writing course or a report-writing course in a community college. But then we’ll have to assess the suitability to your particular situation — whether it would lead to better employability or not.”

  “Please do. My heart is set on a writing course.”

  “The one Humber offers must cost a packet.”

  “Only workers are cheap, everything else in Canada is expensive. Like the useless computer courses you want me to take …”

  “Well, I’ll look into your request, but no guarantees. I hope you don’t mind if I’m frank with you.”

  “Not in the least. If I may speak in the same vein — please don’t put me through some boring and useless personal development course. I’d rather stay unemployed.”

  “Being unemployed has its own charm, I guess,” he says.

  When the interview is over, he stands up and extends his hand.

  Ramya artfully avoids taking it by picking up her belongings — a pen and a black leather folder — from the table. But Jack is persistent; he still has his hand poised in mid-air. Like a servant’s hand in India seeking baksheesh.

  She takes his hand reluctantly. He gives it a squeeze, a telling squeeze, and says: “Let’s keep in touch.” He seems to have liked his baksheesh.

  “Aren’t we doing it right now?” Ramya almost says it aloud.

  When Ramya’s car glides up the ramp from the underground parking, it’s already dark. It’s beginning to snow, the flakes falling gently like jasmine petals.

  There were jasmine trailers strung around the cot, Ramya’s and Prakash’s connubial bed, and rose petals strewn on the lily-white sheets. The petals looked like big drops of virginal blood.

  The first night, how nervous she was. Her first kiss had been a disaster. And for the remaining years in college she’d carefully kept herself out of any romantic entanglements. She’d lost faith in the chivalry of men. They all wanted to have a good time — with no encumbrances, no responsibilities. They wanted a boundless world where there were no asterisks directing you to the rules and conditions in fine print.