Vertigo

by Ashok Banker

  Jay notes a paan stain on a wall.

  Israni shows them a two-bedroom hall flat on the second floor. It's spacious, almost as large as his mother's flat, with a window in every room, and a good layout. Tuli whispers in his ear, caught up in the spell which has overtaken him too: the feeling that they are a young married couple searching for their first home. But the illusion is impossible. A flat like this—two bedrooms, a hall, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a balcony, total super-built-up area 850 square feet—would cost nothing less than Rs 8,50,000, plus a 2 per cent broker's commission, transfer charges, taxes: a wallop of almost Rs 10 lakh. One million rupees. All Jay has to his name is Rs 32.30 in his Hong Kong Bank account, less than the minimum required balance for a savings account. He can't even afford a flat like this on rent, let alone outright purchase. The dream wilts. He reminds the agent jokingly that they're looking to rent a flat, not buy one. The man shrugs without smiling; no harm in showing you around, he says, you never know.

  The second flat is also much too big; another two-bedroom hall, smaller than the first but still way beyond their budget.What budget?

  Hell knows how he's going to be able to afford the rent, or to conjure up the deposit. He's only doing this to humourTuli, right? So why is she talking to the agent like she's looking to buy the biggest and best apartment he has on the spot? Jay takes her aside and tells her to watch what she says to Israni. It's obvious that the man is under the illusion that they might consider buying if they find the right place.

  Tuli repeats what the man said: There's no harm in looking. He is irritated. She doesn't feel the slightest bit of deceit in making the agent run around like he's got a ten-lakh client. In reality, he doesn't even have a two-thousand-a-month client for certain. She shrugs.

  Goes eagerly to look at the view Israni is praising from the balcony.

  Jay is left with a growing sense of frustration. He catches sight of himself in a bathroom mirror, brushes off patches of plaster-dust from his face and hair; Tuli has not even cared to point them out to him; it irritates him further.

  He joins the agent and Tuli on the balcony, tells the man sharply that they can only afford to rent a one-bedroom hall flat, so could he please show them the most affordable ones. Israni doesn't like the baldness of this announcement. He starts shutting the windows and doors, closing taps, without replying. He takes them to a less sophisticated block, across the main street, a locality called Apna Bazar colony. The building is clearly of inferior construction. On the fourth floor, he unlocks a door painted a garish blue. Inside, the flat itself is painted in cheap gaudy distemper: a parrot-green bedroom, a dirty-yellow hall, a pink kitchen with a soot-blackened ceiling. Nails protrude from the walls, marking spots where shelves or fixed furniture once hung, the bathroom tiles are lichenous, slimy, the toilet bowl lacks a seat, the view from the bedroom windows is of the adjoining building, barely twenty feet away. The agent informs them that this flat will cost them twenty-five hundred a month rent plus twenty-five thousand deposit. Three months’ rent payable in advance, and the equivalent of two months’ rent payable as brokerage. Jay asks if the owner would whitewash the walls and clean up the place? Israni returns a faint smile, shakes his head. Jay's first impulse is to tell the man he's an asshole and to get the hell out of here. Tuli shoots sullen looks at Jay on the way back to the agent’s office. The man goes inside and begins talking on the phone non-stop, deliberately ignoring them. Humiliated, Jay gets up and walks out. Tuli follows after a moment, a moment in which she has collected the agent’s card after insisting he takes down Jay's office number. Jay is too angry to feel any worse; he asks her coldly if she wants him to drop her back home.

  She shrugs. If he likes he can go on alone, she's going to take a look around with another estate agent.

  Jay grins in frustration. Sure. And what do we do when we find a place? Where do we get the money from?

  She announces that she's going to go across the street: Paradise Estate Agency. If Jay still wants to do something constructive to make their marriage possible, he can accompany her.

  And she starts across the street alone.

  He watches her cross the crowded hawker-choked lane alone and doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

  (Is this love?)

  As he calls out her name across the traffic, and sees her turn back and peer at him angrily, he feels a peculiar mixture of hate and lust boiling in his groin; hate and lust, and maybe desperation.

  (Is this love?)

  (Why Tuli?)

  The second agent is a relief to talk to: he listens quietly for a minute, asks his partner if so-and-so flat is still available, then tells them he has a one-bedroom hall 500 square feet first floor, without lift, old but decent building, two thousand rent, twenty thousand deposit—both negotiable, are they interested? Tuli touches Jay's arm, says yes. He nods.

  They like the flat. The building is old, neighbours middle-class families, mostly employees of quasi-government organizations, mostly south Indian. The construction is good and the premises are clean; the flat is smartly planned, without an inch of space wasted and good cross-ventilation; the walls are newly whitewashed—the best colour of all; the landlord, the agent tells them, is a college professor who lives on the campus of a nearby engineering college; his only concern is that the occupants should be decent. The agent suggests that since they seem to fit the bill so perfectly, Mr Nagaraj, the owner, might even be willing to reduce the rent to fifteen hundred and the deposit to about eighteen thousand. Jay talks him into convincing the owner to accept a deposit of fifteen thousand. The agent thinks that's possible, but they should pay and move in right away, since a plum deal like this won't be available long.

  Jay and Tuli discuss the pros and cons, mostly the matter of having zilch cash (which act they ingeniously cover up by pretending that the money is in another rental flat, receivable only when Jay vacates that one). Jay also informs the agent, Mr. Thadani, that they aren't married yet. The agent shrugs and says that since Jay has a good job and is willing to give his firm as a reference, it should be good enough for the owner.

  Nagaraj is a sweet mild man, a professor of English, and he takes an immediate liking to Jay and Tuli. He serves them filter coffee in small china cups and saucers, very sweet but marvellously brewed. Nagaraj even goes so far as to give them a week's time to pay the deposit, and is willing to count rent from the 1st of the following month, which is days away. The only hitch is, the agent—worried about his commission, naturally finsists that the deal be sealed right now with some sure money. At which point,Tuli shoots Jay a secret smile and pulls out a brown paper envelope from her handbag: five thousand rupees in hundreds, fifties and twenties. She hands it over to the agent who counts it with practised ease, rearranging the upside-down notes, separating the denominations. He nods and passes it on to Nagaraj for rechecking. Their counts tally; the agent requests that his account be settled in full, which decision Nagaraj puts to Jay. Jay suggests that the agent take half his brokerage now, the balance on payment of the rest; Thadani agrees; Nagaraj gives Jay a handwritten receipt for Rs 3,500 to be adjusted against the deposit; Thadani writes a receipt for Rs 1,500 as 50 per cent payment of his brokerage fee, they shake hands all around, and the deal is closed.

  As Jay and Tuli are walking through the campus ground, Jay asks the broker if they can borrow the key for an hour or two. Thadani looks pained; it would be disrespectful to his client, he says quietly. Jay says it's okay, it's okay, but feels like an asshole. They emerge from the campus gates, the broker hails a passing auto, asks them if they are heading back to Lokhandwala; Jay says no, thank you anyway. They part, agreeing to see each other the following Saturday, the deadline set for the payment of the balance money, and the broker leaves.

  Tuli giggles and pokes Jay in the ribs: ‘What did you want the key for? Did you forget something in the flat?’

  ‘You know what I wanted it for,’ he says sullenly, staring at the top Of her jumpers—the top button ha
s come loose and he can glimpse a millimetre of lacy bra. She winks at him and whispers wetly into his ear that if he canjust have a little patience, he'll soon be able to get what he's suffering so much for want of, in the privacy of their own flat well, their own rented flat at least.

  Jay can't under stand what to do about the balance money. He knows he will have to manage it somehow; he will also have to repay Tuli's five thousand somehow she ‘borrowed’ part of her mother's emergency cache. He doesn't know how this will be possible. Has no idea how he will get it in a week's time. He doesn't know what comes after that. When he stood in the hall of the empty flat, their footsteps echoing around him, he was filled with an unbelievable sense of release.

  Freedom from Mama at last. Freedom from her incessant nagging.

  Freedom from the constant tension ofnot knowing what she would do next. From the responsibility of taking care of her. But can it really be possible? How will she manage without him? How will he be able to afford to support her, himself, and pay the rent of the Lokhandwala flat? A cold trickle of sweat worms down his neck, dampens his hair.

  He has rushed into this too quickly. He should have stood up to Tuli.

  Made her understand his predicament. This is impossible. Totally out of the question. Madness.What the fuck was he thinking of, agreeing to pay those guys Rs 17,500 by next Saturday? What the fuck is he going to do now? Even if he backs out, how would he get backTuli's five grand? They'll never refund it, that has been made crystal clear in the phrasing of the receipts themselves :‘Non-refundable advance. . .'

  And even 5K is no joke. By next Saturday? With the present state of his finances, he won't be able to collect that much by next April (Tuli's birthday), let alone next week! Shit! What has he let himself in for?

  Tuli asks him again whether he is hungry because she definitely is. He says yes numbly, allowing her to lead him to a restaurant across the street: Garden Court. The doorman, a Nepali, inclines his head and salutes as he opens the door for them. Entering, Jay's first thought is: This looks expensive, do I have enough money to pay for lunch?

  chapter eleven

  It eats away at him all Sunday and Monday.

  Chris he doesn’t dare ask. Since the conversation about the increment, he’s stopped going over to Chris’s house and hitching a lift to work with him.

  Mittal, the executive who moved into Lokhandwala recently, the guy who told him about rental rates there, has just managed to pay off his own deposit money, and can’t help Jay out.

  ‘Five grands at least, or three, or whatever you can spare,’ Jay says, his arm around Mittal’s broad fleshy shoulders. Mittal pumps iron at a local Talwalker’s.

  ‘Sorry, man. I’ve taken out all my LTA just to complete the deposit.

  I’m wondering what I’m going to do for Christmas Eve and New Year’s. My new chick loves to disco.Wish I could help you, man, but sorry. You’ll manage, don’t worry. Why don’t you ask Chris for an advance?’

  He does. On Tuesday afternoon, when he decides that he has nothing to lose anyway. Chris smiles and shakes his head. ‘Jay, Jay, Jay.

  Didn’t you see what happened to Foss & Bardot?’

  ‘You mean the takeover bid?’

  ‘I mean the debt-equity ratio. Such a profitable little company, beautiful running, orders piled up to the roof, and they made the mistake of taking that Rs 200-crore loan for modernization.’

  ‘I thought that was the right thing, I mean, they needed to modernize, they were going to become obsolete if they didn’t.’

  ‘See? That’s the problem with you hotshots. You’re looking at the wrong place all the time. Don’t you get it? By borrowing that much from the market through private placement, they opened themselves up to the raiders.Wham!’ palm smacks palm,‘ Chabbria moves in for the kill.’

  ‘But, Chris, they had to raise the modernization money anyway, didn’t they?’

  ‘They could have gone public. Diluted up to 49 per cent, retained control.’

  ‘But even then—’

  ‘Have you finished the Fortham’s brief? Meera was saying something about you getting a bit slack lately.’

  ‘Chris, I gave it to her yesterday. I did it on the weekend.’

  ‘I didn’t see you here on Saturday.’

  ‘I came in on Sunday. I was here till 8. Ask Daulat Singh.’The old watchman who listens to his transistor-radio and sings along with the old Hindi film songs in his quasi-Hindi hill dialect.

  ‘Hmm. Are you having some problem with Meera? I haven’t seen you two talking. I hope you’re not going to behave immaturely on this?’

  ‘No, Chris, there’s no problem. It’s just that our schedules have been so different, I’ve not had much time to actually rap with her, but I’ve been giving in all my work on the dot. On all my clients.’

  ‘Hmm. Going to the printer this evening?’

  ‘You want me to?’ He has plans to meet Tuli, and maybe get to bed early for a change-by midnight-if he’s lucky. The printer Chris is referring to is way out in Parel.

  ‘I think we should be keeping an eye on him.We told Foss we’ll make sure the brochures are ready by the 20th, right?’

  ‘I just called him. Just now. Before speaking to you. He said it’s on the machine.’

  ‘I know these bastards.When they say it’s on the press, that means it’s still in processing. I think you should go down there. Saldanha will have my ass if the brochures aren’t delivered by the 20th.’

  ‘Keep an eye on them: that means he’ll be at the presses all night tonight, and probably every night until the 20th, which is three days away. Which puts paid to his idea of meeting Tuli for a while. Damn.

  Chris, about that advance...’

  Chris smiles and slaps his cheek lightly.‘Come on, kid. Grow up.

  Debt-equity ratio, remember?’

  Sometimes, he wishes he could just tell the man to go fuck his own hole.

  Tuesday evening, he almost has a fight getting off the train at Lower Parel. He hopped on to a Virar fast at Churchgate, and now the entrance is crammed with long-haul blue-collar types. They stolidly refuse to let him out. A penalty for riding this local: If he wanted to go a short distance, he should have caught any of the other locals, why did he make the mistake of boarding this one, they say. He has heard about this fierce possessiveness the distant suburbanites have about

  ‘their’ trains, but this is the first time he is facing the brunt of their unwritten law. He pleads, then argues all the way from Bombay Central to Lower Parel. The irony is that he has been standing just six feet from the entrance, suspended on one toe, a dozen limbs digging into parts of his anatomy. But the sheer determination—and impenetrably thick crowd in the bogie—make it impossible for him to force his way through those six feet of human flesh and bone.

  Therefore the argument. Jay appeals to a well-dressed spectacled man standing next to him: ‘But I have to get down at Lower Parel.’

  The man smiles apologetically, shakes his head.

  Jay tries again, desperate. ‘Please, can’t you understand my situation? Is this a crime or something?’

  The man turns his face away and begins rattling off something in Marathi to another man. Jay watches them laughing, looking at him; the others in the compartment, three to a square foot, sweating, playing cards standing up, glance at him with amusement, cracking jokes in Marathi and Gujarati at his expense. Jay remembers a line somebody told him a while back: ‘India’s the only country where the poor oppress the poor.’ He realizes, as the train slows down at Lower Parel, that these guys really don’t give a damn if he’s forced to ride all the way to Andheri. As it is, he’s lucky this is a mill-worker special; it stops at Lower Parel. Most Virar fast trains jump from Bombay Central to Bandra to Andheri. Some consolation. A grimy-necked clerk with a Hindi semi-pornographic paperback novel clutched in one hand, the other straining to cling on to a rail, mutters something to jay in Gujarati.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You want
to get down, no? Lower Parel? Get down this side, baba.

  Why you wasting time?’

  Jay claws his way around the two or three men who stand between him and the nearest door, the one that isn’t on the platform side. The train pulls up at the station. Someone’s briefcase slams his groin, he ignores the pain in his testicles and sticks his head out of the door.

  Looks left and right. No approaching trains. The train lurches; Jay hesitates. Someone laughs, curses; someone kicks him in the back of the leg. His knee buckles. He falls, gasping, almost dropping his briefcase. Free fall, a moment of panic, visions of himself lying on the tracks, hip broken, blood trickling from the mouth, fast train approaching, people laughing on the platform.

  (Should have caught that Andheri slow, should have should have. . .) He lands with one foot on a rail, the other between the rails.

  Something splatters on the ground beside him, a rat scurries into the dark; he realizes it’s tobacco juice—one of his excellent co-travellers has spat him a farewell.

  Who needs racial discrimination, the Ku Klux Klan, gang bangers, dotbusters, skinheads, neo-Nazis, all those creeps and punks? We've got our own brand of neighbourly love and brotherhood, down here in the land of Mahatma Gandhi and Nathuram Godse. Have a nice day.