Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  ‘Damn it Vyas, hurry up. I need you to do the job the populi hired you for. By the by, you know what the old girl was wearing?’

  ‘Something I couldn’t afford for sure.’

  ‘I’d say! Not on your salary, no.’ Another hearty laugh. ‘She had this absolutely gorgeous sari, one of those sheer numbers, practically glass, draped over a red lehenga. With sequins. Couldn’t take my peepers off her curves. And with short sleeves, so imagine my torture.’

  I tried hard not to.

  ‘What a night.’ Dorabjee sighed with happiness. ‘Anyway, thought I’d share. You’ve seen her, up close and personal, so you can understand.’ His manner abruptly shifted, became much more formal. ‘Mum’s the word, of course. Not even Tanaz.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘By the by, how’s your partridge? Hanging in there?’

  I assured him my bird was fine. And that we were hanging.

  ‘Good. Good! We really have to get together sometime. Family is important, what? Give me a date.’

  ‘Tanaz will be very glad to hear that. Next Friday?’

  ‘Can’t. In France.’

  Okay. ‘The Friday after that, then?’

  I heard him consult with someone. ‘No, I’m having dinner with a couple of old school chums at the Lair. How about the Sunday three weeks from now? My bloody cook has a wedding to attend or some such damn nuisance. I don’t trust the replacement.’

  ‘Sunday works for me. I’ll check with Tanaz and confirm, sir.’

  ‘Jolly good. How’s the apartment? I’ve promised Saya a complete redo, no expense spared. The mob had about twenty minutes before Kalki’s crew moved in. I heard his goons did a thorough job. Take my advice, lad. Stop needling him. Cultivate him. He’s one of those useful idiots, a true believer. How’s the place?’

  I surveyed the apartment, feeling a great sadness. Colonel Kal Kishore Shastri, or Kalki as he was known to his fans, was the head of the Lokveer, the cowboys who did Dorabjee’s dirty work. His mob had restored the universe’s true preference: disorder. Windows smashed, the furniture ripped to shreds or seared with huge burn marks, the floor littered with glass, the dining table upended, and everything worth destroying destroyed. The Apple computer, smashed; the world map, ripped; the leather club chairs, disembowelled. Books lay strewn all over the room. The clean-up crew would be busy for a month. Dhasal had barricaded himself in the bedroom before the door had been kicked down and he’d been dragged out by his feet. The crowd had been kept busy, ergo the guest bedroom had survived with relatively little damage. I closed my eyes, once more preferring to see the apartment the way Dhasal’s life had been, must have been.

  I imagined him receiving my letter, his vast and noble mind parsing my thoughts, empathizing with my feelings, seeing Tanaz with my eyes, loving her and perhaps even appreciating me, just for the duration, as something more than a bureaucratic jerk. What would he have done with my confession after all I knew of the Lokshakti’s misdeeds?

  What does one expect from a great antagonist? What one expects from a lover. The comfort of knowing there are things one cannot control. That there is a rock to embrace. That I am not the world, entire, and the possibility of change remains. Durga Dhasal was dead. Durga Dhasal was dead.

  #

  Kannagi had lowered the gavel twice on the fifteenth session of the Mr Natwarlal fab-jab Club but nobody seemed willing to disband. The kids stood in small tight clusters, laptops turned into armtops, giving advice, taking advice, discussing next steps, exchanging stuff on their phones, and proudly re-demoing what their hacked-together fabrications and software could do. Mr Das and Mrs Chadda were seated at the back of the room, waiting for grandson Binoy and daughter Radha, respectively.

  ‘Listen up,’ hollered Kannagi, throwing some weight into the gavel, ‘I’ve got to roll. I have tons of grading to do. Timekeeper, Timekeeper, when’s our next fab-jab, Timekeeper?’

  Tara the Timekeeper had the date ready. Groans. Too far away. Once in three weeks, the Mr Natwarlal fab-jab Club met in one of the medium-sized committee rooms in DU’s Conference center, opposite the Department of Botany. The kids had wanted to meet every week but trial and error had shown it took at least three weeks to put together something worthwhile. Everyone gathered around.

  Radha Chadda, Totem-mata of the Tube, went to the easel board, unclipped the Mr Natwarlal film poster, a 70s original, rolled it up, and eased it very carefully into its cardboard tube.

  ‘Humko maano,’ roared the class. It was a line from one of the many climactic scenes in the great movie.

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ roared Kannagi.

  The fifteenth session of the Mr Natwarlal fab-jab Club was formally adjourned.

  Kannagi hung around for another fifteen minutes. They all wanted closure. Radha and her mom finished their usual post-session squabble, then came over with pasted-on smiles to bid goodbye. Jignesh wanted a selfie with her; okay, done. Ravi, you’re overthinking your game design. Get a prototype going, and then think. She promised Kalairasan she’d read his paper. Kalai, don’t bust my ass, I’ll read it. Kannagi smiled as Mr Das slowly approached, accompanied by Binoy. The old gentleman always had some comment about her opening seven-minute talk. ‘How was the talk, Das-ji?’

  ‘Kannagi-ji, you speak very fast. But very enjoyable, very enjoyable.

  How I wish I was sixty years younger and you were my guru.’

  ‘Mr Das! If we can’t date, just say so.’

  Har di har har. Too much, Kannagi-ji, too much. Har di har har. Kannagi gathered her things, dealt with the last of the stragglers, hit the restroom before she left, pretended not to notice Tara and Radha going at it. Ha ha, yes, yes, the toilets suck, Delhi is getting cold, good night, ma’am. Poor bitches; jeez. She hoisted her knapsack laden with samples, USB drives, snapshots and draft papers, set off for the Vishwa Vidyalaya metro station.

  Whew. Fifteen sessions and counting. Awesome. The idea was catching on. There were six such fab-jab groups; two in Delhi and one each in Mumbai, Bangalore, Coimbatore, and Imphal. She’d started the first fab-jab Club as a place for geeks to think by doing. The first session had just been Kalai and her yakking in front of a blackboard. No film posters, no rituals, no hubba-jabba. Now they were running out of space. Something had changed; there was an electric excitement in the meetings. The apps were getting commercial-grade, the hardware projects kicked ass, the interface designs were sexier. There was even some new theory beginning to emerge. Kalai had found lovely new applications for the Grassmann Algebra in database normalization.

  She missed Durga. He was dead and there was no point in missing him, but she did. After a noisy evening like this one, she didn’t need silence, she needed a drink and more conversation. Durga had always provided both. She missed his deep fundas, missed his laugh, missed her teacher’s great expectations. She didn’t feel this loss after the tough days. When she’d failed with Mitrajit, she hadn’t missed the old man. It was the loneliness of really good days that was hard to handle.

  Kannagi extracted the cell from her jeans, called her sister.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Padma, her tone a question-mark of dread. Tamil was terrific at conveying dread.

  ‘Is that the only reason I call you?’ She reached for a reason. ‘Akka, how’s Shabari working out?’

  ‘Nicely. So far. A bit weak in English. And she goes on and on about her brat. It’s depressing. I told her to move in—we have loads of room. But she’s proud; poor but proud. Anyway, I’m doing what little I can. We moved her kid to a new school. Better hours. She’s right here. Want to speak?’

  ‘Akka, don’t treat her like a servant. If Shabari’s standing there—’

  ‘She won’t mind. Incidentally, why don’t you notify people when you move? I got mail from the People’s Studio saying that since you didn’t renew the membership, you’ll have to remove all your artwork by the end of this month. Have you found another place to work?’

  ‘Not really but it doesn’t mat
ter.’ Kannagi ran up the few steps of the metro station, headed for the platform. Noisy. ‘Hold on.’

  She had joined the People’s Studio not from any interest in art but because she’d needed a place to write her thesis on artificial personas. The library was too noisy, the computer room too cold, Durga’s apartment too crowded, and Akka’s mansion, where she’d stayed, too comfortable. Durga had suggested the People’s Art Studio, set up by Jawaharlal Nehru in 1956 to encourage young artists. For eligible artists, the Studio offered nothing. For eligible and well-connected artists, the Studio offered a home away from home: landscaped grounds, a spartan room, and subsidized vegetarian meals cooked by an ex-Naxalite.

  Eligibility was easy. Kannagi had filled out the seven-page application form, attached two cool-looking multidimensional data visualizations as samples, plus a mealy-mouthed Statement of Purpose. More importantly, Durga had provided the influence.

  However, once in, there had been the problem of maintaining the deception. She couldn’t paint or sculpt or draw. For a couple of weeks she’d hand-drawn kolams, or rangolis as the Northies called it. Messy and quite tricky. But also kind of fun. It had been even more fun to develop programs to automate the drawing. Initially, they’d just been simple line-drawing programs, but later versions had been AI-enhanced, allowing them to produce figures far beyond the human hand’s capacity. Behold! The Boorzua art movement had been born. Who would have thunk it?

  Maybe Durga, she thought. Perhaps he’d been trying to broaden her horizons. But all good things came to an end. She had a nice office now. Why hog resources others needed or could use? The train had left, the platform was once again relatively quiet.

  ‘I’m done with the People’s Studio, Akka.’

  ‘Why! You can’t use your office as a studio. Is it because of money? I can lend you the money.’

  ‘Thanks Santa, but I only need a favour. I have some pieces at the Studio. Six, maybe seven. Can you stash them at your place for a while? My apartment’s a little tight.’

  ‘Sure. We have lots of room. I’ll send someone to pick it all up. In fact I’ll supervise it myself, so there’s no need to worry. Why don’t you let me get you a nice new apartment as a birthday present? Something airy, plenty of light, safe, not too far from here?’

  ‘Christ. Why not throw in a Rolls Royce? Thanks Akka, I love you, but no thanks.’

  ‘Okay, kondai. If you’re not coming this evening, I’ll make other plans. You sure?’

  Yes, she was sure. Akka would smother her with love and cuddly cakes and it’d be tempting to just take and take. Best to keep Piggy Kannagi on a leash. She’d controlled herself with Sawai and she was so much the happier for it.

  She was slipping the phone into her pocket when it began to ring. Sawai. At first she was struck by the synchronicity, then she figured the odds of it happening were actually quite high. ‘Bol, Sawai.’

  ‘Kanno, yaar, where are you? Still at the University?’ Sawai Gawai’s cheerful voice was as refreshing as caffeine. She could almost see the pig-ass, relaxing in some grungy dhaba, holding forth to his groupies, one hand twirling some slut’s hair, the other around a sticky glass of masala chai.

  ‘I’m at the metro. Going home.’

  ‘Listen Kanno, forget home and get here. This party needs your sparkplug. The whole pultan has landed and everyone’s asking, where’s Kannagi, where’s Kannagi?’

  ‘Kannagi’s dead. I’m so tired—’

  ‘Nothing doing. You come here, I’ll wake you up. Okay, you’re coming, I’ve decided.’ Sawai shifted to Hindi. ‘Look, there’s someone I want you to meet. He’s interesting. Guaranteed.’

  ‘Who, your dick?’

  ‘Kanno, you know I don’t like that kind of crude talk. Women should have some maan maryaada. This Abdullah I want you to meet—just trust me, you’ll like him. Our type, I’m telling you.’

  Kannagi discounted the ‘our.’ It was Sawai’s way of saying ‘my.’ Sawai existed as a group; he was most himself when he was with someone else. Still, she could never say no when he made an effort to make her a part of his life.

  ‘So this party of yours—it’s all students then?’

  ‘Students, faculty, Lady Gaga Naga, what do you care? We’ll have a good time. Rum, pizza-wizza, beer, coke, whatever. It’s going to be fun. I’ll send you a car. No problem. Anything for my queen.’

  ‘It’s over between us, Sawai. I want that to be clear.’

  ‘Of course, of course. If you speak to me in English, then you must be speaking the truth.’

  ‘I’m serious!’

  He laughed. ‘Just get here.’

  Kannagi shook her head and disconnected, not displeased. What a fucker. It wouldn’t be over for Sawai until it was over for Sawai.

  The train curved down the track. Kannagi hesitated. Ah, what the hell. Grading could wait. She could just take the yellow line all the way to Hauz Khas. Pushed, shoved, carried into the ladies’ compartment, she found a corner just wide enough for her feet, braced her back against a partition, and relaxed.

  Enjoying the gentle rocking of the train, she used the time to catch up on her emails. The one from Dharmaraj, the head of the department, was typical official correspondence. Stiff stubs like SUB: and ATTN:, bristling with words like ‘herewith’, and ending ominously with legal disclaimers and warnings. The email’s gist was that he and other panjandrums had met with the Vice Chancellor, Phirozshah Mistry.

  The VC had offered the new government’s assurances that the administration would henceforth work with the faculty. A pay raise was in the works. In return, professors were expected to immediately cease radical activity, including all support for student radicals. At the very end of the mail, Dharmaraj had added a private postscript: Kannagi, they mean business! So what if they do, thought Kannagi.

  At Hauz Khas, she stopped in the women’s restroom. She fixed her hair, then took the small bottle of Vétiver from her purse, inspected it. Not much left. She’d flicked the Fragonard perfume from Akka’s house. Akka wouldn’t miss it; she thought the fragrance was too masculine. Squirt, squirt. Neck, crotch, armpits—what was with Sawai and his pit fetish? Nothing got Sawai more turned on than a pair of bare arms, ever so casually raised. He also couldn’t get enough of her dark skin. Which was seriously kinky for an Indian man. Whatever worked. She checked her teeth in front of the mirror. Okay, all set.

  It was only a short walk to Sawai’s apartment. Crowds, noises, the usual. Nothing seemed different yet she couldn’t help feeling an important feature had been deleted from the neighbourhood. The Brain kept obsessing about it, and to throw it off the scent she began to think about Sawai’s call and synchronicity, which led to thoughts about the difference between coincidence and chance, which raised doubts about how surprise was measured in mathematics, and that led to thoughts on how programming was about solving problems by leeching all surprise from them. Basically, a well-designed program never met a situation it couldn’t recognize.

  As expected, Sawai Gawai’s party was a happy clusterfuck of people. Mostly students. But Sawai had been a student politician forever, so there were political types too. Someone pressed a beer into her hand. There were friends to hug, friends of friends to meet, small talk to be made. Later, she found a quiet minute with Sawai in the stairwell, two floors below. She let him kiss her, he tried to do more, she pushed him away. He lit a beedi, leaned back with a crooked smile. In the stairwell’s harsh tubelight, the tiger tooth around his neck seemed particularly yellow.

  ‘Someone else?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then what?’

  Kannagi didn’t see any need to justify a preference. Sawai had probably moved on as well. This play of his was just evolution at work. ‘I really miss you,’ said Sawai, still in that same reasonable voice.

  ‘I didn’t think I would, you’re such a cunt when all is said and done. But I do.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s not going to happen babe, so use that charm on some
one else. We might as well discuss the upcoming protest—hello, what’s with the eye sex?’

  Perhaps it was the light but he reminded her of aging Bollywood actors intent on playing college students. When he ogled her in this manner, with such tender lust, she felt she could grant the pig-ass anything. ‘I’ve missed you.’ Sawai shoved his hand between her thighs, squeezed her crotch. ‘I didn’t ask you here to discuss the protest. I wanted you to meet Mir Alam Mir. He works in Hindi movies. Bigshot scriptwriter. You heard about Love Ka Logic? All that controversy? His script.’ Squeeze, squeeze. ‘You heard about Saya? The actress? He’s fucking her.’ Squeeze, squeeze. ‘You’ll like him. He’s political. He’s been active in the CPI for decades, hundred percent with students.’

  ‘Stop it, Sawai!’ She had to pause half-way, breathless.

  He pushed her against the landing. ‘Why you fight yourself, darling?’

  ‘Because darling will feel lousy tomorrow.’ Sawai’s attempt at English was touching but she hardened her heart. ‘I’m not disposable.’

  ‘I never thought you were.’ He let her go, obviously hurt. Shrugged, managed a smile. ‘Sex is not the only thing on my mind. Mir was like a brother to Durga-ji. I accidentally told him—my girlfriend, she was Durga-ji’s last PhD student. He asks student of what, where student, this, that, and then I mentioned the notes. Bas! He got excited like I’d just offered to give him a blowjob. He’s bisexual gay, you know that? Anyway, if you want to give, give. Otherwise, no problem.’

  ‘What notes?’

  ‘Remember, you told me, Durga’s files?’

  Oh, that. She hesitated. Durga probably hadn’t intended the material for distribution. She had been at his apartment, working on her thesis, she’d asked for a spare USB stick, and he’d given her a stick containing a number of folders: Ajaya01, Ajaya02, she didn’t remember exactly how many. She’d asked Durga, and he’d given the go-ahead to delete the lot if she needed space. She’d deleted a folder, left the rest. Her thesis hardly took up a few megabytes. Let Mir have it, what did it matter? Durga was dead.