Of Course, It's Butterfingers Again

by Khyrunnisa A

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Uncle.’ Amar looked contrite.

  ‘Don’t feel sorry, Amar. Actually, I came to thank you. Of course, the whole locality was awake too, but only you succeeded in sending them away. I’m so happy, Amar.’

  The next day at the assembly, a subdued Mr Jagmohan made another announcement. ‘Students,’ he began abruptly, ‘I have some bad news for you. Due to an emergency, the musical troupe had to leave town.’

  Everyone, the teachers included, struggled to hide their delight.

  ‘Amar, looks like the neighbours you drove away were our cultural programme artistes!’ whispered Kiran with a soft laugh.

  The principal continued. ‘Since we have already invited the parents, I’m wondering what we can arrange at such short notice . . .’

  At this moment a strange guitar-wielding figure approached the stage from the side. The assembled students noticed this and yelled, ‘Heebee Jeebees!’

  Timothy gave a lazy wave and swaying his way to Mr Jagmohan, whispered something to him. The principal nodded his head several times, and then, his face breaking into a rare smile, announced, ‘Listen, everybody! Mr Timothy heard my words and says he’s very grateful to a boy from this school who lent him a guitar. The boy is VIII A’s Amar. In return, he says he and his friends wouldn’t mind playing here in the evening. And I guess pop culture is also culture!’

  ‘On rare occasions, our dear Princi does talk sense,’ remarked Eric as the students went wild with joy. The grounds rang with shouts of ‘Three cheers for Amar!’, ‘Long live the Heebee Jeebees!’, ‘Three cheers for pop culture!’

  The evening was a huge success. Eric’s cousin, the owner of the guitar, managed to make it to the programme, and the Heebee Jeebees dedicated a special song to him. The Heebee Jeebees made it a request show and the students decided to give first choice to the parents, who let their hair down and had a wonderful time demanding their favourite songs. Only one request was turned down, and that too by the audience—Timothy Jay’s tongue-in-cheek call for Amar to play the electric guitar. Amar’s father’s ‘No!’ was the loudest.

  The Booby Trap

  Amar and his parents were at dinner when the doorbell rang. It wasn’t a polite ring but a continuous and ear-splitting peal, as if the prime aim of the person with his finger on the bell was to startle the entire neighbourhood to its feet and get it ready for an emergency fire drill.

  ‘What the . . .!’ Mr Kishen dropped his spoon and jumped up. ‘Ask the rascal to stop!’ Amar had already reached the door and opened it, eager to see the artiste. Mr Kishen’s words rang with embarrassing clarity as he did so, and the man who entered tweaked Amar’s hair playfully and swept into the dining room, saying, ‘Don’t worry, the rascal has stopped, haha!’

  ‘Who is it? Is it . . . Sanjay? Sanjay! How wonderful to see you! My goodness, it must be thirty years since we last met! How did you find my house? Come right in!’ Mr Kishen exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Sanjay in an expansive gesture of welcome, quite oblivious to the fact that his friend was already right inside the house with only the kitchen standing between him and the back door.

  ‘Had dinner? No? Good! Sit down and eat. My wife is a great cook. And you must stay with us. This, by the way,’ he said, turning to his wife to make a late introduction, ‘is Sanjay, my closest friend from school. Sanjay, my wife, Shreya.’

  Mrs Kishen, pleased at the compliment but annoyed with her husband at the same time for inviting someone to dinner before checking with her, smiled. ‘Hello. Yes, I’ve heard the name very often. So happy to meet you.’

  ‘And this is my son, Amar,’ Mr Kishen introduced Amar, who was standing with a frown since his chair had been usurped by the newcomer.

  ‘Hello, Amar!’ Sanjay gave a broad smile. ‘We were about your age when we became friends in school. Oh, I’m sorry, is this your chair that your father pushed me on to?’

  ‘It is, but that’s all right.’ Amar looked virtuous. ‘I’ll take the chair next to Ma’s. But don’t eat from that plate. I’d already started my dinner.’

  ‘Amar!’ admonished his father, shocked at his son’s manners.

  His friend laughed. ‘Haha, Amar, you’re just like your father!’

  The embarrassed Mr Kishen changed the subject. ‘Where were you all these years, Sanjay?’ he asked. ‘When I . . .’ Mrs Kishen went into the kitchen to make some quick additions to the items on the table, a little nervous since she also had to live up to her newly conferred status as a ‘great cook.’

  The meal was much appreciated and, after complimenting his hostess, Sanjay settled down with his friend on the drawing room sofa to catch up on the lost years. The two carried on a lively conversation that was punctuated by many guffaws, chuckles, hand-clapping and backslapping. Amar was amazed. He had never seen his father behave like this before.

  He went to his mother, who was washing up at the kitchen sink, and after making an impulsive offer to help, which was, to his relief, just as hastily turned down, he seated himself on the kitchen counter and commented, ‘Ma, did you notice? Dad and Sanjay Uncle are like two excited schoolboys! I always found it hard to believe that Dad had ever been a child, but now I know he was.’

  ‘Every man is at heart a schoolboy,’ said his mother with an indulgent smile as an explosive roar of laughter resounded in the drawing room followed by what actually sounded like giggles. Amar looked at his mother and both of them giggled too. He took a banana from the fruit basket and was beginning to peel it when his father hollered, ‘Amar! Come here!’

  Amar ran to the drawing room, still holding the banana. ‘Sanjay has something for you. And give this to me.’ He plucked the banana from his son’s hand with the deftness of an accomplished monkey and ate it. Amar threw his father an indignant look before accepting the envelope Sanjay held out to him. A gift of money! he told himself, elated. What a kind, generous man Sanjay Uncle is, unlike most grown-ups! Warmed by these thoughts, he opened the envelope with a smile and unfolded the paper it contained.

  ‘Eek! Help!’ With a whirring sound, a small stone had shot out of the paper and caught Amar neatly on the nose.

  ‘Hahaha! Hohoho!’ The men-turned-naughty-schoolboys cracked up and his mother, who had followed him from the kitchen, gave a merry laugh too.

  ‘What is it?’ Amar asked, annoyed, rubbing his nose. Everything had happened at lightning-quick speed. He examined the contents of the paper in his hand and his irritation was instantly replaced by interest.

  ‘It’s a booby trap,’ Sanjay explained. ‘So you smart modern boys don’t know about this one! It’s a very simple, effective trick and we played it all the time.’

  ‘Haha, I’d completely forgotten about it, Sanjay!’ Mr Kishen chortled. ‘Remember the time our maths sir opened what he thought was a birthday card? “So thoughtful of you to remember my birthday, boys,” he said, haha!’

  ‘How mean!’ Amar’s mother sounded reproachful.

  ‘Exactly!’ Amar exclaimed. ‘So cruel! We never play such tricks,’ he added virtuously.

  ‘Oh, we did have a proper birthday card, which we handed him afterwards, and a book too, so we weren’t mean or cruel,’ Sanjay explained, swiftly trying to repair the cracks in the reputation of the respected older generation.

  ‘But what is this, exactly? How does it work?’ asked Amar, looking at the rubber band and a pliable piece of stick that were in the paper.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Sanjay. ‘Take this piece of stick and bend it into a U-shape. Next, connect the ends with a rubber band. Now take a small, flat stone . . . where is it?’ Amar went hunting on all fours and finally found his father standing on it. ‘Set it at the centre, between the two stretches of the rubber band, and twirl it tightly till it can’t be twirled any more. Then place it carefully on a piece of paper and fold the paper in such a way that it looks like a flat packet. Put the packet in an envelope and give it to whomever you wish to fool. When the unsuspecting person unfolds the paper, as yo
u did, the stone will get released from the rubber band and fly out. Simple physics.’

  ‘Excellent! Wonderful! And so easy too.’ Amar’s eyes shone, and the two men looked pleased to hear the words of approval from a twenty-first-century boy. Amar’s mother sighed and returned to the kitchen. Amar spent the rest of the night in his room, perfecting the booby trap, while his father and Sanjay remained in the drawing room, exchanging news and reminiscing—‘Do you remember when . . .’, ‘Do you recall that . . .’—late into the night.

  Early the next morning, Sanjay left and after breakfast, Amar’s mother wanted to go to the bank.

  ‘Why don’t you get money from the ATM? It’s so easy and is right round the corner. What’s your problem with the ATM?’ asked Mr Kishen, who couldn’t understand why his wife was so squeamish about using debit cards.

  ‘I must go to the bank,’ Amar’s mother said, looking stubborn. ‘I need to withdraw money urgently. The ATM doesn’t have cash when I need it and never in the right denomination. I bank on banks. I’ll go on my two-wheeler.’

  ‘Then take Amar with you. I have some urgent work to complete.’

  ‘But why? There’s no need for Amar to tag along. I can manage very well on my own.’

  ‘I know that. But of late there have been reports of thieves who come on bikes or scooters and wrench chains from the necks of women. They also hang around banks and snatch away bags or money.’

  ‘And you think Amar will protect me?!’ Amar’s mother laughed.

  ‘At least you won’t be alone.’

  ‘His presence will only be a hindrance. I can’t understand why he should come.’

  Amar was preparing to protest when the idea was first mooted, for he had other plans for Saturday morning. But his mother’s dismissive laugh at the idea of him being her protector hurt his pride and he changed his mind. ‘Of course I’ll protect you, Ma. Ha, you don’t know . . .’

  ‘Oh, all right, come!’ his mother said resignedly.

  The bank was crowded, as it usually was on a Saturday. Amar took possession of the sofa there and occupied himself with his latest obsession—making a booby trap—while Mrs Kishen waited with increasing impatience for her token number to be called. Just when her turn came, Amar caught sight of Eric entering the bank and making his way to the sofa. He quickly addressed the booby trap to Eric and, noticing his mother return, placed the envelope on the low table near the sofa and got up. He hoped Eric would notice the envelope and open it. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be present to enjoy the sight of the stone hitting Eric’s nose. But there would be other occasions . . .

  Mrs Kishen seated herself on the sofa and was stuffing her money into an envelope when the clerk called her name to return her passbook. She absently placed the envelope on the table and rose to get the passbook. She dropped it into her bag and was walking out of the bank when she remembered the money. She rushed in like the wind and snatched the first envelope she saw on the table.

  Suddenly, she heard someone yell out the number of her scooter. Startled, she went outside to find a man gesticulating angrily to her to shift her scooter, which was blocking the path of his car. She always adopted a cavalier attitude towards parking, much to the exasperation of her husband. She thrust the envelope into Amar’s hands and rushed to rescue her vehicle out of the maze, pretending she had not heard the man say ‘Women!’ in a tone that conveyed exactly what he thought of women drivers. Amar hopped on the pillion and they started off.

  Now things livened up. Someone appeared to be shouting from the bank, ‘Hey, stop!’ That was Eric. A motorcycle came roaring at that moment and expert fingers plucked the envelope from Amar’s hands.

  ‘Hey, thief!’ shouted Amar as the scooter wobbled like a jellyfish, but Mrs Kishen didn’t stop. Instead, she bravely tailed the rogue bike. Further up the road there was a commotion. A crowd was gathering around a bike that seemed to have skidded and fallen. The pillion rider, rising from the road, was rubbing his swelling eye while the rider seemed to have his helmet stuck on his head.

  ‘These are the thieves who took our money!’ Amar pointed to the men when his mother braked.

  ‘What do you mean, money? How dare you trick us!’ snarled the swollen-eyed thief. ‘The packet contained a booby trap!’

  By this time, a couple of policemen who were at the traffic intersection reached there and took the thieves away. One was still trying to yank the helmet off, making choking noises, while the other, his puffed-up eye now invisible, was shaking his fist and muttering, ‘Meanies! Cheats! What’s the world coming to? Tricking us . . .’

  Now Eric arrived, Mrs Kishen’s envelope in his hand. ‘Aunty, you left the money behind and took the wrong envelope. Luckily, I saw it there.’

  ‘Yeah, luckier than you know,’ said Amar with a smile. ‘The thieves took the booby trap meant for you.’

  Seeing Eric’s bewildered look, Amar said, ‘Well, it’s a long and complicated story . . .’

  The incident was in the evening news and, basking in the glory of being a hero, Amar asked his father, ‘Dad, can you teach me more of this stuff from your schooldays?’

  In a Spot of Bother

  Amar was going on a five-day trip with his class, and his father came to the railway station to see him off. After the train left, Mr Kishen whistled like an out-of-practice thrush all the way to office. He had many plans for the five-day period of potential peace, calm and quiet. But something happened in his office that took away the sunshine from his life. He returned home that evening, morose and grouchy.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ his wife asked when he’d found fault with the tea, the snacks, the flowers in the vase, the colour of the stray cat and the headlines in the newspaper. When he’d got personal and said she was putting on weight and eating more sweets than were good for her waistline, she’d decided enough was enough. With a wife’s instinct for sensing such things, she knew she was merely the punching bag; the real cause lay elsewhere.

  ‘Everything!’ he fumed. ‘I suspect Mr Srivastava came to my office just to let off steam.’ Mr Srivastava was his boss and headed the main office but often paid surprise visits to the other branches. ‘What am I to do if his father-in-law is coming to stay with him for a couple of weeks?’ He seethed. ‘I believe his mother-in-law is visiting a close friend of hers in Delhi and her husband didn’t want to accompany her. He’s arriving tomorrow. Mr Srivastava says he’s a hypochondriac who will want to do a round of every specialist in town. He’s doubly annoyed because he’s bringing his precious Dalmatian with him. Mr Srivastava can’t stand dogs.’

  ‘Dalmatian?’ exclaimed Mrs Kishen. ‘Amar would have loved this. You know how he was nagging us to get one for him after seeing that movie on television?’

  ‘Oh, the one with a million Dalmatians? Yes, he would. Foolish idea! I still haven’t got their yelping out of my system.’

  ‘A hundred and one,’ Mrs Kishen corrected him. ‘Amar gets his habit of exaggerating from you.’

  ‘Yes, now you, too, start blaming me for everything,’ Mr Kishen barked at her. ‘I had enough of that from Mr Srivastava. He kept picking on me. And you know what? He hinted that the promotion he’s been talking about for some time now might not happen. I mean, just tell me, what does his father-in-law’s visit have to do with my promotion? This is just too much. Just when I thought I’ll enjoy some peace and quiet with Amar away, all this nonsense begins.’

  ‘I hope Amar’s all right.’ Mrs Kishen looked anxious. Amar had managed to contract a bad cold and mild fever a few days ago, to his great alarm and to the dismay of his parents, who had been looking forward to a tranquil week. Medicines were poured into him with great eagerness and ingested by the patient with minimum fuss. When he had left, he seemed better.

  ‘He’d better be. It’d be the last straw if he comes back now.’

  Mrs Kishen’s mobile rang at these prophetic words. It was Amar. ‘Ma, I saw a spot. No, more than one.’ There was no excitement in his vo
ice; on the contrary, he sounded worried, a rare feeling for Amar.

  ‘Spot? What spot?’ His mother was puzzled. ‘Picnic spot? Already? You must have just reached.’

  ‘No, Ma. On me. I saw some spots on my body. I don’t feel too good.’

  ‘Oh no! Do you think you have chicken pox?’ Mrs Kishen made an astute guess.

  ‘But hasn’t it been eradicated?’ Amar asked.

  ‘My poor ill-informed child, that’s small pox. Do you feel very sick?’

  ‘I’ve a headache and my cold’s returned. Feel feverish too.’

  ‘That sounds bad. I think you’d better come back, Amar, before you get too sick. Besides, you shouldn’t spread the infection among your classmates.’

  Mr Kishen was listening to his wife’s side of the conversation with growing dismay. ‘Come back?’ he mouthed in desperation. ‘No!’ He waved his hand frantically from side to side to make his meaning clear.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Kishen said firmly, ignoring her husband’s mute pleas. ‘I think you’re in a spot of bother. I’d like to speak to your teacher.’

  Mrs Kishen arranged to have Amar sent home by the night train. He was arriving the next morning. ‘Excellent,’ Mr Kishen recovered his sarcasm. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Good thing we’ve both had chicken pox, if that’s what Amar has,’ said Mrs Kishen. ‘Otherwise we’d have to isolate him and so on. I’ll meet him at the station and take him directly to the doctor from there.’

  Mr Kishen looked pleased. ‘That’d be good. I have some work to complete in the morning before I go to the office. The slave driver who goes by the name of Srivastava has piled more work on to my plate.’

  Mrs Kishen went to the station well on time the next morning, and Amar alighted, wearing a full-sleeved shirt, with the collar raised. He gave a wan smile. ‘Hi, Ma. There are more spots on me now.’

  She looked at her spotted dear with concern. ‘Did any of the passengers spot the spots?’