by Anil Menon
Ratnakar seemed to be getting into it though. Safari suit creased to the nines, he was jerking his head to the naughty but catchy music, smiling at various nymphs, and chowing down on a second helping of the grub.
‘I like him,’ said Pillai, pointing with his beer bottle.
‘He seems to like Lord Tanamo, that’s for sure,’ said Anand, and was gratified to see he’d startled Pillai. ‘I listened to a lot of ska and calypso at Columbia. I like songs I can sing. Americans stopped making that kind of music a long time ago. So these days, it’s back to Hindi songs for me.’
Pillai laughed in delight. ‘Anand, I think we’re going to have great fun getting ruined together.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Just joking, you know that? I’m a little flippant at times. You mustn’t worry about it. Here, let me introduce you to my nutritionist. She’s got great ideas on edible computing.’
Later, in his room, as he hummed Lord Tanamo’s Shame & Scandal, Anand thought about the exchange. Pillai wasn’t the type who explained himself. Why was he anxious now? He hadn’t been the least bit anxious during the negotiation; anything could have gone wrong. Perhaps success made him uneasy. Some people needed failure the way firemen needed fire.
For all his entrepreneurial talent, Pillai had no real understanding of people. No, that was incorrect. He understood people the way Quixote had understood windmills. He was able to see things that didn’t need to be seen. But those very eyes made it difficult for Eshwar to see what could not be ignored. He didn’t understand management. For instance, it had been hard to make him see that the main hurdle to the project would come from sources who had everything to gain, not lose, from the project’s success.
‘That makes no sense Anand,’ Pillai had said, with the discomfited scowl of a gourmand who’d learned of a taste he can’t detect. As if existence had to make sense. Some lifeforms even fed on arsenic. He recalled Kannagi holding forth to Padma on the subject, as she plaited her elder-sister’s hair. Watching through the slightly ajar door, he’d been amused by the fact of the younger instructing the elder—‘Really, kondai? I don’t believe it!’ ‘It gets crazier, Akka’—but also moved to heartache by an attachment so deep it had no name. When he’d entered the room, Padma had instantly changed, become his wife, while Kannagi acquired that teasing smile which always forced him to become gruffly solicitous.
His whole body hurt. The neck, the shoulders, his ankles. It would be a relief to return home tomorrow. He would take a few days off.
Just chill with Padma, spoil her, spoil Kannagi. Enjoy life a little. Father had always found time to enjoy life. If bloody Pillai with all his financial worries could enjoy life, then so could he.
He called Padma but got her new assistant. Shabari, Shari, something like that. The woman didn’t speak English well and didn’t recognize his voice at first. Madam was at the Zoomba fashion show; she’d asked not to be disturbed unless it was important. If Anand-ji wanted—no, no. Just inform Madam he’d called to say he’d be back by noon tomorrow.
He disconnected. Why the hell did he have to go through servants to speak with his wife?
It was always like this, that slightly deflated feeling just after a new project had been launched. He sat quietly, focusing on bringing his mind to heel. How it liked to rush from desire to desire. A knock on the door.
‘Yes, come in.’ Then he remembered he’d locked it. He buttoned his pajama shirt, opened the door. Amelie.
‘Hi Anand-ji!’ A batik sarong was wrapped low around Amelie’s waist. Her polka-dotted two-piece didn’t do much of a job covering her. The undersides of her fair breasts were visible, healthy quarter moons, and on the left corner of her waist, a stylized Om tattoo peeked just above the rim of her sarong. She had a bottle of oil in her hand.
‘Yes? Oh. Hello!’ He almost hadn’t recognized Amelie minus her uniform and her hair let down. ‘Sorry, didn’t recognize you at first. You look different.’
‘You like?’ She wiggled to show off her curves. ‘100 percent made in India.’
‘Like? Sure, sure. Very nice. How come you’re here?’
‘Oh, we all hang out. You know Eshwar. You look tired, sweetie. Had a long day, huh? Would you like a massage? I give great massages.’
‘Did Eshwar send you?’
‘He asked me.’ A friendly smile.
‘I didn’t tell him.’
‘He’s psychic.’ She pouted. ‘Anand, I’m stranded on Lonely Island here. You want to ask me in? Why don’t I give you a nice back rub and we can, like, talk and stuff.’
Anand knew he shouldn’t be so surprised. He had mentioned to Pillai his back was hurting. Pillai liked to solve problems.
‘Amelie, I have to call my wife in a few minutes. So thanks, but no thanks.’
‘Aw… reeally? I can wait?’
‘Sorry. But maybe you can do me a favour? My man Ratnakar’s down the hall. He couldn’t stop talking about you. You would make his day if you said hello. Would you?’
Her smile disappeared. ‘The guy in the safari suit? Is he your friend? Executive?’
‘Much more than that. You won’t be sorry, you have my word.’
‘Your word’s good enough for me.’ The smile was back. She was a smart girl. ‘Is Ratnakar his first name?’
Anand did not remember. What the heck was Ratnakar’s other name? Kishore? Jaywant? He suggested she stick with something suitably ferocious, but cuddly. Maybe ‘Wagh’? It meant tiger.
She smiled, waved goodbye. He closed the door with regret. And irritation. He was a happily married man. How dare Pillai disrespect that sacred fact? Either the man was degenerate or stupid. Anand decided it had to have been an act of friendship. Yes, that was probably it. He would’ve shown Pillai his antiques or invited him over for dinner with the wife, whereas Pillai handed out timepass girls like bhajias.
Well, to each his own.
He really liked Eshwar but the fellow needed to be watched. Eshwar was clever. His nuts were the size of coconuts. However, Eshwar’s judgment was in doubt. If an executive had judgment, it didn’t matter if he had nothing else. But if an executive didn’t have judgment, it didn’t matter what else he had.
How could so much talent be combined with such low morality! Just like Father. Which by no means was a criticism; just an observation.
Anand resolved to gift a copy of the Bhagavad Gita to his friend.
7
BALBIR WAS DEAD. BALBIR WAS DEAD, AND HE HAD DIED IN PAIN. Balbir was dead, and when he had died, he had called for mothermothermother and mother again. But he died anyway.
The men with the maps and little flags said he had died well. A desh premee and a veer jawan, they called him. Out came their medals of honour, and out came their little notes to next of kin. Out came their regret-to-inform-you and out came their nation’sprayers-are-with-you. Even in his death, wrote the men with the maps and little flags, he would remain an inspiration. Then they had the secretary edit the letter to replace the last ‘he’ with Balbir. Now it felt right. However, Balbir stubbornly remained dead.
‘Bilbo, don’t mind, okay,’ said Bilkis, as she plied the jeep towards the People’s Studio, ‘but you are a bigger pain dead than when you were alive.’
Balbir Singh had the decency to look embarrassed. ‘I didn’t want all this fuss. Another dead soldier, so what?’
‘Because mian, death comes to a soldier’s life the way marriage comes to a virgin. Once. So what was your hurry? Still, look at you, all smart and bling-bling.’
Balbir did look magnificent. He was decked out in full regalia. Spotless dark-green uniform, shiny black shoes, clinking medals, Patiala-style turban, sardar-beard neatly oiled and wrapped in a net; even the air molecules around him goose-stepped in formation.
‘I’m glad you’re the one going to tell Kannagi the news,’ said Balbir, smoothing his moustache. ‘I always wanted you to be the messenger when my time came.’
‘Well, here I am. But a messenger has to know where to take the message to
. Thankfully, Vyas—you remember my friend, that fellow who was always hunting other people’s books?—he’s a bigshot now, he has contacts, he put me in touch with someone who knew someone et cetera. Otherwise, your time or not, you would still be a pain.’
‘I always thought you and Vyas—’ Balbir stopped in time, wisely.
‘Vyas and me, what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Bhenchod, if you want to say something, say it.’
‘Listen, you don’t think I know that? You remember that girl in your unit, Manickam?’
‘The Madrasi? Yes. A capable officer. You were interested in her?’
‘Yes.’
Bilkis considered the odds. ‘Yes, there was a small chance. She mentioned she had a weakness for sardars.’
‘I’m a sardar! And I have a weakness for Madrasis!’ Balbir groaned. ‘See? That’s my fate. All I had to do was to ask, and my entire life would have been different.’
‘I don’t see how. People become more clumsy, not less, when they are in love. I have observed this many times.’
‘No, you’re wrong, Bilkis. Once your life string gets entangled with someone else, your fate changes. It vibrates differently you see. Modern science has proven that. If I’d asked Manickam, then maybe at this very minute I could have been in bed with her and not with you on this highly unsettling mission. Chalo, never mind the past, have you decided what you are going to tell Kannagi?’
‘How can I decide, mian? I don’t know anything about your friend. I’ll have to see. You know everybody reacts differently to the news. What I’m wondering is, should I say you died a hero in battle or tell her the truth?’
‘I don’t mind being a hero. Tell her a true Sikh is married to death.’
‘Yes, but she might object to being lied to, that’s what I’m wondering. I’ve never done this before and I wish I didn’t have to do it.’
‘Well, I would’ve died a hero if I had the chance.’
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ grunted Bilkis, and turned right as per the directions. They had entered a posh area. ‘Not me, baba. I was cured of heroism with the first bullet that missed me. But you always did get an erection at the sight of the Tiranga. You were born to be cannon-fodder.’
‘Bilkis, stop! Stop right there! I will not have you badmouth the Army. You should be proud to wear the uniform, be proud of the flag you’re carrying, be proud you got the chance to serve Mother India. This is the land of Veer Shivaji and Rana Pratap Singh. Of Bhagat Singh, Azad, and Ashfaqullah Khan. Attack us with one fist and we shall reply with three hundred. We shall defend our Mother to our last breath, we the inheritors, we the warriors of Punjab Light Infantry—’
‘That’s from the movie Pukar, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ asked Balbir, unabashed. He smoothed his beard. ‘Greatest movie of all time. You know what your problem is? Vyas. Ever since you met him, you’ve become cynical. He’s a bigshot, he can afford to be cynical. You’re nobody, you need to be optimistic in life.’
‘No, it’s not Vyas. The Lokshakti is being mismanaged, there are many signs. I’ve got eyes, I see things. I’ve got a mind. I think things.’
‘Well, just keep that pouty mouth closed. Or use it to do what Rabba really put women here to do.’
Bilkis laughed. ‘Bilbo, if you weren’t dead, you’d be dead now—So tell me, did you at least tell this Kannagi woman you were hot for her?’
‘No. I was brotherly-type for her, so what to do? If I asked, she would tell me the truth. She always tells the truth. So I didn’t ask. You have to be careful what you ask her.’
‘Sounds like a bitch.’ Bilkis turned into a long narrow road. At the end of the road, like a large full stop, was a big haveli.
‘Yes and no. When Kannagi first arrived at the People’s Studio, when we first met, in those first few seconds when anything is possible between a man and a woman, I approached her as a servant. You see, I had been hired as a security guard, but they—these artists—had through kindness and consideration achieved in a year what you fucker Muslims failed to achieve in four hundred years. They turned a lion of Punjab into a worm. Don’t mind okay.’
‘Why blame others for your problems, bhenchod?’
‘I’m explaining, not blaming. If the ground is wet and you say it is wet because of the rain, you’re not blaming the rain, you’re explaining why the ground is wet. Similarly. They were very friendly, these artists. I ate with them, sampled their wines, flattered the girls, took their photos, ran errands, looked the other way when they brought non-members to stay. I liked being hugged by the girls. I was proud when they trained me not to look at their jiggling boobs, their long smooth legs. I like being backslapped by the boys. I took their baksheesh, smoked their ganja. I liked their phatta-phut English, their smiles, the way they told me: Paape, can you get me a chai, bring my clothes, what do you think of this piece, go to the market, I told you to get me paint yesterday man, what Balbir man, you’re so lazy man. Go fetch, they’d say, and I run, barking happily. It’s not the fault of the rain, you see. I did not know the nature of the ground. I did not know I had a servant’s soul.’
‘What rubbish you speak,’ said Bilkis, tiredly. ‘I’m sick of your memories. Bilbo, I think this is the building. It looks very nice. You lived here rent-free? Lucky bastard, if I could live in a place like this, I’d lick boots too.’
The People’s Studio was a large old Delhi haveli that had been converted into a space where young artists could socialize, work and have their art securely stored. The haveli’s transformation from a private family space into a semi-public one gave it the bewildered air of an object that had anticipated one kind of life and been assigned another. The building itself existed in several different time-frames. The middle and right sections were made of brick and colonial enthusiasm; the left section was made of concrete and appeared to be a recent addition. The compound’s wall was a mess of posters, notices, paper campaigns.
The guard at the gate made no attempt to stop Bilkis; he rose uncertainly, register in hand, and then sank back as she swept past.
Inside, there was a distinct drop in the temperature. She sighed with relief. The entrance led to a corridor rather than a hall but an attempt had been made to make the corridor a room. It had an information desk, a floor map, a matka without a cup. The desk was unattended and Bilkis stood uncertainly, twirling her cap. All havelis spoke the language of doors and this one was no exception. Every line of sight either ended in a door or met a corridor leading to more doors. There was an official quality to the silence, as if it had been produced through discipline and not because the children had gone to school, or a family, for the time being, had nothing to say. It looked all very clean and tip-top. On her right, the wall carried a gigantic mural showing a disembodied hand grasping a barbed wire fence; the hand looked arthritic. The other walls were painted in sober earth tones, accentuating the haveli’s cool interior. Just like her madrasa, except it lacked the associated sounds. She headed down a corridor, relying on the bird sounds to lead her somewhere. Much to her surprise, the corridor opened into a lovely garden. Dark-green grass, flowers she was unable to identify except that they were pretty, a gorgeous overgrowth of purple-red vines along a wall just behind a set of crumbling marble benches. Bilkis paused to admire the view.
‘Why so surprised?’ said Balbir, sounding sad. ‘A haveli usually has a courtyard. Are we here to admire the grass? I think you’re postponing meeting Kannagi.’
‘I’m doing nothing of the kind. You carry a bloody corpse around for three months, then we’ll see who postpones what.’
‘Yes? How may I help?’
Bilkis turned and saw a skinny woman, her sharp Bengali features accentuated by her quick jittery movements. It was as if she stood on a shuddering plank of timber.
‘Miz Kannagi?’
‘No. I’m Kiki. I’m the general manager.’ Kiki’s frame continued its struggle against invisible restraints. ‘Is there a problem?’
Kiki ducked her head twice. ‘She is supposed to remove all her items from the studio today. Please wait, I’ll go see if she’s around.’ Then perhaps habit reminded her not to waste guests. Kiki pointed to a large wooden door. ‘That’s our gallery. It has work by member artists. Kannagi’s pieces also. Please feel free to look around while you wait. What is you name, please?’
‘Myself Lieutenant Bilkis Ansari.’
Kiki bobbed her head and with a sharp turn disappeared down the corridor, shaking and writhing.
‘Kannagi is leaving the Studio?’ mused Balbir. ‘I went away for a few hours and the whole world has changed on me. No consideration for other people’s feelings, that is her. Come, maybe the gallery still has some of her work.’
The main gallery room was longer than it was wide, an impression strengthened by the high ceiling. In the past, it might have served as the living room where the patriarch opined on matters that were none of his concern. He certainly wouldn’t have approved of what had happened to his house. Open doors, on each of the long-sided walls, revealed two smaller rooms also containing exhibits.
‘This is high-class, Bilbo!’ Even though she’d spoken in a whisper, her voice seemed to boom in this tightly controlled space.
She walked around the gallery, examining one piece after another. She liked the set that showed a series of women’s faces. It was by an artist named Saumya Mukherjee. She stared at the women, wondering if they were people the artist had known.
‘No,’ said Bilbo, sounding rather authoritative. ‘Saumya-didi told me she sees these people in her dreams. She’s never met them before.’ ‘What rubbish.’ But Bilkis was privately impressed. ‘Oh, look at this!’
‘Yes, yes. That’s called surrealism. Pranoy Chakraborty told me it took him two years to make it. I hope he’s learned to control his iron oxides.’