Of Course, It's Butterfingers Again

by Khyrunnisa A

  That evening Ravi and Amar set off to the beach that was rather far away. It seemed as if half the population of the town had had the same bright idea and the place was teeming with people. But the lovely cool breeze that fanned their faces was compensation enough for having to share the beach with a multitude. As they stood there, Ravi sighted an old friend in the distance and hailed him.

  Very soon, Ravi, his friend and Amar settled down on the sand. Ravi and his friend were absorbed in their conversation and after a little while, Amar got bored. He stretched out his hand stealthily behind his uncle’s back and began scooping out the sand, taking great care to see that his hand did not touch his uncle. Just as he felt the hole was big enough for his uncle to fall in if he leant back a little, Amar felt himself sink into the sand.

  ‘OOOH!’ he shouted, feet in the air, as he tried desperately to recover his balance. Hands flailing, he eventually gave up and fell backwards into the shallow pit like an out-of-practice pole-vaulter.

  ‘Haha!’ laughed Ravi, helping his sheepish nephew up. ‘That’s a trick I taught you, Amar, and you seem to have tutored your friends expertly.’

  ‘Hahaha!’ Ravi’s laughter appeared to echo from behind Amar, who turned to find Eric and Kiran there, wide grins on their faces.

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed this sight for anything,’ Eric hollered.

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ Amar lunged towards him. Eric took to his heels and Amar gave chase, caught up with him and tugged. Eric fell, pulling Amar on him. Kiran joined in this horseplay and after a wild skirmish, they finally rose, shaking the sand from their persons. Kiran had brought his Frisbee along, and Amar yelled to his uncle that he’d join him after playing for a while.

  A little later, when the three boys returned to where Amar’s uncle had been seated, they found the place empty except for a pair of sandals. In the distance they saw Ravi paddling in the waves breaking on the shore.

  ‘I’ve got an idea!’ said Amar, eying the sandals.

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed the seasoned victims of Amar’s bright ideas.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Amar responded, eyes shining with mischief. ‘I’m going to bury Ravi Uncle’s sandals. We’ll let him look for them for some time. See, the holes we’d dug are still here.’

  ‘Must you?’ asked Kiran, looking doubtful.

  But Amar had already matched his deed to his words and was deftly filling the holes.

  ‘Hey,’ protested Kiran. ‘How will you know where you’ve buried them?’

  ‘Easy!’ said Amar. ‘I just have to mark the place. See, I’ll push this stick in here.’

  At that moment a piece of dirty pink-coloured paper came waltzing in the breeze, towards them. Amar caught it and tied it in a butterfly knot around the stick.

  ‘Perfect for identification.’ He smiled, looking pleased. ‘Now let’s continue with the game.’

  After some time they saw Ravi walking towards them and, exchanging knowing smiles, the three boys ran to meet him. But the smiles faded and were replaced by expressions of shock when they found he was wearing his sandals.

  ‘What’s wrong, boys? Why are you admiring my feet?’ he asked. ‘Clean, aren’t they?’

  ‘Uncle, your sandals . . .’

  ‘I didn’t take them off. The buckles were stubborn, so I wore them when I went down to the sea. Wrong decision, though! The wetting hasn’t done my leather chappals any good. But it’s so sweet of you to worry about them.’ He glanced down ruefully at his sodden footwear.

  Amar ignored his uncle’s misplaced appreciation of their concern and turned to his friends, worried. ‘Then whose sandals did we bury?’

  The question was answered right away. A quiet man and a hand-waggling, vociferous lady came close. ‘I’m sure I left them here,’ the quiet man was heard to insist.

  ‘Where on earth . . . or where on sand are they? You know how expensive they are. My sister brought them especially for you from the States. Goodness knows what state they are in now. Why she continues to bring you presents when you couldn’t care less for them beats me! I’m sure the waves have carried them to the sea. First I lose my gold earring and now this happens.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with your earring,’ the man objected, mustering up some spirit when he was able to get a word in. ‘And the waves never reach this far.’

  ‘So what are you telling me? That they vanished just like that? Did some shoeless ghost spirit them away?’ Voice dripping with sarcasm, she continued her tirade. ‘Just where are they? Don’t tell me somebody’s buried them.’

  Hearts sinking, the boys exchanged glances while Ravi looked on curiously. ‘What’s up, boys?’ he asked. ‘You look pretty shaken. It’s not just the lady’s personality, is it? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think our Amar here has landed you in some scrape.’

  While Amar explained in an undertone what had happened, he suddenly recollected something. ‘Hey, Kiran, Eric, we’ve forgotten something. All we need to do is look for the stick.’

  But there was no stick visible anywhere in the vicinity.

  ‘Look!’ Kiran pointed into the distance. Far away they could see a little child running, holding up a stick with a pink paper on it fluttering like a flag.

  ‘Butterfingers, you’ve done it again!’ Eric muttered, looking downcast. He could foresee trouble. The sand stretched in every direction and they could not locate the spot where they had buried the sandals.

  ‘Come on, Sherlock Holmes,’ said Ravi to Amar. ‘Get down on all fours and start looking.’

  The three boys fell on the sand and began digging like dogs for a coveted bone, spraying sand all around, desperation lending force and speed to their digging. It attracted the attention of the couple, who came closer and asked Ravi what the boys were doing. Ravi decided to tell the truth and explained what had happened. That was enough to set the lady off again, this time at the boys.

  ‘How dare you boys do this! Burying chappals! And that too a stranger’s. Never heard of such a thing in my life! What’s this generation coming to? Is this your idea of fun? Dig, dig, boys, dig up the whole beach! I’m not letting you go home till you’ve found the sandals.’

  ‘Calm down, Rima,’ said the man, looking apologetically at the children. ‘The boys didn’t mean to hide my chappals. It was a mistake.’

  Without warning, the lady’s face crumpled. ‘If we can’t find huge sandals in the sand, how can I even think of finding my earring? What a day this has turned out to be! I never wanted to come here in the first place. Now all I need is a tsunami to complete my misery.’

  Just as she said this, a monster wave crept upon them from the side and broke, wetting all of them and sweeping Amar off his feet. When the water rolled back to the sea, Amar tried to stand up, his hands pressing down on the sand. He felt something hard under his left palm. ‘What’s this?’ he exclaimed, examining the spot. Now he yelled, ‘Look! Hey, look! I’ve found something here.’

  He held up what looked like . . .

  ‘An earring! My gold earring! My lost earring! You found it, my dear, dear boy!’ The lady beamed with joy and gave an embarrassed Amar a big wet hug. Ravi and the others tried to hide their smiles as Amar struggled to escape.

  ‘I’m so sorry, but I just don’t know where your sandals are,’ said Amar, turning to the man.

  ‘That’s all right, boy,’ said the man, looking relieved. ‘Don’t worry. And what’s your name?’

  ‘Amar,’ said Amar.

  ‘Butterfingers,’ said Eric and Kiran in one voice.

  ‘Eh?’ The man looked puzzled.

  ‘His name’s Amar. Butterfingers is his nickname,’ explained Ravi. The man smiled.

  ‘Yes, Amar, that doesn’t matter,’ said the lady for whom Amar had changed in a split second from villain to hero. ‘Those are only sandals. But my expensive gold earring! I had no idea when and where it dropped from my ear. It’s a miracle how you found it! How can I thank you?’ She beamed again and held out her arms, ready to gi
ve him another hug. Flustered, Amar moved back.

  ‘Let’s treat them all to ice cream,’ said the man, coming to Amar’s rescue.

  ‘Sir, let’s look some more for your sandals. Maybe, like the earring, we’ll find them.’ Amar’s conscience was troubling him.

  ‘No, no, don’t,’ said the man, looking worried. ‘It’s getting late, and I can always get a new pair. Come, let’s go for ice cream.’

  As they walked towards the ice-cream stall, the man fell behind, forcing Amar and Ravi, who were walking beside him, to slow down. ‘Thank you very much, dear boy,’ he said in a low voice, ‘for losing my sandals for me. They were most uncomfortable and ill-fitting. I hated them. Now I can get a pair of my choice. So I’m buying you all ice creams—and an extra-large one for you!’

  The Music Makers

  At the end of the mandatory Monday morning assembly, the principal, Mr Jagmohan, cleared his throat, looked over his glasses and gave a forced smile. One thousand two hundred and twenty-three hearts sank, for this was the signal for one of the so-called ‘treats’ to be announced.

  ‘What third-degree torture has Princi planned for us?’ whispered Amar to Kiran.

  ‘Listen, everybody. I’ve a special announcement to make,’ he said. ‘As part of the cultural fest, the staff and I have decided to have a classical music night for the high school students on Friday. We’re inviting well-known artistes for it’s my firm belief . . .’

  Murmurs of dismay and protest from the section singled out for this honour greeted this news, but, unfazed, Mr Jagmohan went on. He was not being completely honest when he said ‘the staff and I’ for when he had broached the subject at the staff meeting, most of the teachers had been vociferously against it. As usual, he had managed to override all opposition.

  ‘. . . that you children should learn to appreciate classical music, both vocal and instrumental. This is what culture is all about . . .’

  The students groaned as he rambled on about the importance of culture and their pathetic lack of it. He ended the harangue with an invitation: ‘And I’m inviting your parents too. It’s a family musical night.’

  ‘Why can’t we have a rock concert instead?’ grumbled Kiran as VIII A walked back to their class. ‘And did you know the Heebee Jeebees are coming to our town to play at Belaire Hotel?’

  ‘Ah, don’t tell me!’ groaned Ajay, thumping his chest in a mock show of agony.

  ‘Rock concert and culture?’ said Eric in a deep voice, clearing his throat and peering over his glasses like Mr Jagmohan. ‘Don’t be foolish, boy!’

  The others giggled. ‘I can imagine my father’s horror when I tell him about the music night,’ said Amar with a grin, quickly spotting the silver lining in the cloud of compulsory cultural education. He looked quite pleased at the prospect of carrying this news to him. ‘I bet he’ll arrange some Houdini-style escape.’

  That evening Amar returned from school to find a van parked before his neighbour’s gate. Two men were unloading furniture.

  ‘What’s happening, Ma?’ he asked, flinging his bag on a chair. ‘I’m hungry! What’s for tea? And what’s the lorry doing there?’

  ‘Go wash your hands, Amar,’ Mrs Kishen responded with the mandatory injunction as she placed some plates on the table. ‘Our neighbours have rented out part of their house and the tenants are moving in. Just for a month, I heard. I saw some musical instruments being carried in, so I guess it must be a music troupe.’

  ‘My life is full of song and music, tra-la-la!’ Amar sang and settled down to tell his mother about the music event as he tucked in. His father returned late from work, so he had to wait till morning to give him the news.

  Mr Kishen came to breakfast red-eyed and grouchy. ‘What’s happening in our neighbourhood?’ he growled. ‘I wasn’t able to sleep a wink with all those weird noises and wails in the night.’

  ‘What noises?’ asked Amar, who was famous for being dead to the outside world the moment his head hit the pillow.

  ‘Must be our new neighbours,’ Mrs Kishen speculated. ‘Mr Govind has rented out a section of his house to some musicians, and I think they were practising. They kept me up too.’

  ‘Music, you call it? Banshee wails! I thought Govind was my friend. Another night of this, and I’ll go mad!’

  Amar decided the time was just right to tell his father about Mr Jagmohan’s plans and was gratified by the reaction.

  ‘Classical music night?’ Mr Kishen spluttered. ‘Your mad Princi must be straitjacketed and put away! Why is this happening to me?’ Drowning in self-pity, he struck his forehead repeatedly in mock punishment. Amar watched, fascinated. He loved these moments. His father continued. ‘Hounded by noise that is charitably called music! I can’t bear all those quavering voices and that weepy music! If you must have music, why not tuneful pop music?’

  ‘It’s to do with culture,’ said Amar, looking mischievously at his mother. ‘Princi said appreciation of classical music is a sign of culture, of being civilized.’

  His father calmed down. ‘Er, yes, of course. And I do like it when it’s well rendered. That’s exactly it! There are very few genuine classical artistes.’ Having cleverly managed to salvage his reputation as a man of culture, he warmed to his theme. ‘And there’s nothing as painful as classical music being murdered.’

  At that moment his mobile rang. Saved by the bell, he eagerly took the call while Amar listened with great interest to his father’s side of the conversation. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Certainly. I’ll be there. Tickets shouldn’t be a problem. Right!’ He ended the call and turned a miraculously revived face to his family. ‘Rescued! Haha, I do have a white knight! It was my boss and he wants me to go to Delhi this evening. I’ll be there for two days and will return on Friday morning.’

  ‘Then you can attend the music programme on Friday night, Dad!’ Amar giggled.

  ‘Oh, no! I forgot about that!’ Looking a little sober, Mr Kishen sat down for breakfast.

  The next day at school, Eric was waiting for Amar. ‘Hey, Butter,’ he began, sounding worried. ‘I need your help. My cousin’s left his electric guitar with me and will come for it this weekend. You know my father, he can’t stand music. He threw a fit when he saw the guitar. “Either me or the guitar,” he said.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you chose the guitar!’ Amar guffawed.

  Eric chuckled. ‘Be serious, Butter. Can you keep it in your house? Will your parents mind?’

  ‘Ma won’t and Dad’s going to be away till Friday, so I guess it’s okay. Yippee, it’s more than okay! Thanks, Eric, I’ve always wanted to play an electric guitar. And all that talk of the Heebee Jeebees has made my fingers itch for guitar strings.’

  Eric looked alarmed. He began to doubt his decision to entrust the guitar with his friend of the itching fingers. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Butter. It’s a top-class guitar and my cousin will kill me if there’s even a scratch on it.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Eric,’ Amar reassured him.

  That evening, when Eric came to Amar’s house to give him the guitar, he noticed a sad-looking couple at the gate, deep in conversation with Amar’s mother.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Our neighbours. Poor things, they came to pour out their woes to Ma. They foolishly rented out a part of their house to some musicians and now can’t sleep. They are certain they’ll soon go deaf and mad.’

  That night Amar began practising on the electric guitar. He tuned it and, after downloading lessons from the Internet, began to play. He got so deeply engrossed in it, he lost track of time and continued to play late into the night.

  ‘Amar!’ his mother shouted, ordered, threatened, cajoled and pleaded at regular intervals, putting pressure on her vocal chords as she struggled to make herself heard over the cacophony. ‘Stop that horrible, grating noise! Amar, can you hear me? Someone will call the police if you don’t stop. Please, Amar, stop.’

  When nothing worked, she plugged her ears with cot
ton and went to bed. The next day Amar woke up early and practised, went to school and took up the guitar again on his return. Seated on the veranda’s steps, he was engrossed in his music when someone looked over the gate.

  ‘Hey!’ the someone waved.

  Amar looked up, jumped and reached the gate in three huge leaps. ‘Timothy Jay, the Heebee Jeebees’ guitarist! Are you for real?’ he gushed, thrilled. Timothy Jay’s real name was Trimoorthy Jaishankar, a name ill-suited to a rock star, and he had adopted this cool moniker.

  ‘Yep, maan.’ The tall man gave a lopsided smile. He looked weird in an orange-and-purple T-shirt, which had only one sleeve, and skintight distressed jeans, with one leg only reaching the knee. The other leg had two wide tears, one exposing most of his knee. His left eyebrow, chin and lower lip were pierced, but Amar gazed at him as if he were a lovely picture postcard.

  ‘That’s a great guitar, dude!’ Timothy drawled. ‘Mind lending it for a day? Mine has broken and I was all troubled, maan, wondering what to do, and then I heard ya play. I’ve a programme this evening.’

  ‘Yep, we heard about it, maan,’ Amar imitated his idol. ‘This isn’t ma guitar, but I’m sure ma buddy won’t mind. I’ll ask him. Please come in.’

  Amar called up Eric, who was equally thrilled and said he was sure his cousin would be honoured if Timothy Jay played his guitar. ‘Besides, Butter,’ he added, ‘the guitar would be much safer in a Heebee Jeebee’s hands, haha!’ Amar ignored the slur and handed over the guitar to Timothy as if it were an offering to the gods.

  After Timothy left with the assurance that he would bring the guitar to Amar’s school the next day, Amar saw a lorry roar away from the gate of the neighbours.

  ‘What’s happened, Ma?’ asked Amar. ‘Have the neighbours left?’

  ‘Yes, they have,’ said a voice behind him. He turned on his heels to find Mr Govind there. ‘Your guitar-playing was too much for their sensitive souls and they said they won’t remain here another second if they could help it. They left in the morning itself and now their things have gone too.’