by Ashok Banker
He's mad as hell. Everyone has a breaking point. He has passed his.
Going up the Lower Parel overcross bridge, someone jostles him; he stumbles into a trio of government clerk-type Marathi women. They chastise him in street Marathi, shove him away with surprising strength. He finds his footing, looks around furiously. There, that bastard chewing paan, with his shirt unbuttoned halfway to his waist, hairy chest bared filmi-style. Jay grabs hold of the man's collar from behind. The man stops.
‘Bastard, can't you see where you're walking?’ Jay shouts.
The man frees his collar from Jay's grasp, swings around, mouth working. ‘ Abey, chutiya,’ he says in Bombay Hindi, ‘Tu kaun hai, re?
Sala bhenchod!’
Jay shoves the man hard. He trips over someone's shoe and slams into a pair of labourers bearing crates on their heads. The crates crash to the ground. A crowd begins to collect. The labourers squat down on the ground, holding their heads, staring miserably at the smashed crates.
The hero climbs back to his feet and lunges for Jay’s throat.
Someone—two pairs of hands—grabs him from behind and holds him. He yells at Jay, kicking and struggling furiously, flecks of paan and tobacco juice spurting out his blood-red mouth: ‘Madarachod! Sale, bade baap ki aulad! Apne aap ko kya samajhta hai? Tere gote kaat kar haath mein de doonga, samja! Aaja! Aaja’
Jay is raging, a bull in search of a flank to sink his horns into, draw rich red blood. But one of the men holding on to his opponent barks at him: ‘Go! Get out! Go home, boy!’
He clenches and unclenches his fists, staring at the pinned-back hero.‘Go, you idiot! Get out!’
He goes.
Stumbling, half-blind with anger, he lurches towards the exit.
Someone shoulders him roughly, deliberately. He staggers out into the path of a BEST bus, is sure that this is it, he's going to be a bloody smear on the tarred road in a second, shuts his eyes...
(COME ON THEN)
...remembers that he's been carrying the electricity bill in his briefcase for two weeks now, that it was one of those bills with the warning ‘Pay in one week’ and it’s dead cert they'll cut off the power any day, and the bill's for Rs 142 , but all he's got in his pocket is a fifty and three or four tens, less than ninety bucks, so there goes the power and...
(COME ON THEN, WHO NEEDS THIS FUCKING SHIT
ANYWAY)
...yes, today’s pay day, but accounts had a virus in their computer so salary will be tomorrow, but he'll be able to withdraw only on Saturday, maybe even Monday, by which time the electricity will be off sure as hell—and that's not even taking into account the money he has to dig up for the flat...
(SMASH ME TO PULP COME ON FUCK ME FUCK ME FUCK)
‘Ay! Andhey!’
He opens his eyes. The chrome-red and white front of the bus shudders to ahalt less than a foot before his face, steam puffs out of the radiator, the glare of the headlights blinding, dazzling, the driver leaning out of his window, yelling obscenities, someone whistling on the sidewalk, aroma of ammonia from some chemical factory nearby, sweat streaming down the back of his scalp, neck, spine. He swallows, crossing the road, stepping over a pothole, thigh muscles aching, wetness on his cheeks—
sweat?—not sweat, tears. Am I crying? Why the fuck am I crying? An approaching truck honking without slowing down.
(COME ON COME ON,WHAT'RE YOU WAITING FOR?)
He reaches the far side of the road, leans on a lamp post, thinks maybe he's going to vomit, tastes the vegetable sandwich he ate off the sidewalk vendor who sits outside Churchgate station, doesn't vomit. Look at that leper lying on the sidewalk—no limbs, just ahead and a torso, and still somehow he survives, eats, drinks, shits, sleeps, lives. Survives. You can do it too. Put one foot before the other.
Come on then.
He takes the first note that comes to hand from his pocket and drops it into the grotesque leper's begging bowl. The man wails a blessing, deftly plucks out the fifty-rupee note, transfers it somehow to his filthy vest. Jay walks on without looking back.
chapter twelve
Wednesday. 9.03 a.m. The lobby, Hotel Oberoi Towers.
A vision in blue silk, she rises from the sofa, beams a smile, leather satchel somehow perfectly coordinated with her saree.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
The smile gives way to a frown.’something the matter?’
‘Nothing. Shall we?’
She looks at Jay closely. ‘You look hassled.What’s the problem?’
‘I said, nothing. Let’s go.We’ll be late.’
She doesn’t move. ‘I buzzed him five minutes ago. His PA apologized, said his flight was delayed, he got in after 4. He requested—’
‘Shit. Cancelled.’
‘Hey, listen.Where are you going?’
‘Office.’
She click-clacks smartly after him across the polished floor, grabs hold of his arm. ‘Jay, what in the world is wrong with you?’
‘Look, Shenoy cancelled the meet, I’ve got another client I can take care of, I’m going back to office to pick up some papers, then I’m going across to Foss.’
‘Will you listen? Just listen?’
He sighs, irritated. ‘What? What?’
She shoots him a sharp look. ‘Shenoy didn’t cancel. He just requested us to give him an hour to shower and change. I said fine.
He's only in Bombay for a day, flying to Singapore tonight. He'll be away for a fortnight.We've got to meet him today.'
Jay stops tapping his foot, stares at her.‘Oh.'
‘Yes, oh.A big giant OH!What the fuck is wrong with you, mister?'
‘Look, Meera, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that—'
She takes command, quietly, firmly—angrily? Steering him out Of the foyer as she talks, down the entrance-ramp to the coffee shop, Samarkand. ‘We've got till 10. I haven't had breakfast. And please keep your voice down.'
He swallows a lump of indignation, reminds himself that he has been abrupt and needlessly impolite, knows that it's because this is the first time they've stood face to face outside the office, on their own, just the two of them, since that night at the gallery. Also notes that beside the general angst, free floating anxiety and other assorted shit that's rolling around inside him, he's also filled with another ingredient: Guilt.
The slow purring of coffee being poured into a cup, reverberating ping of spoon against porcelain, tinkling of sugar being stirred.
‘First I want to know why you've been avoiding me for the last three weeks. Mmm, good coffee.'
‘Avoiding you?'
‘Don't play games, Jay. Since we went out that evening. Sea Lounge.
Are you embarrassed because of what happened at the art gallery?'
‘Uh, well, not really.'
‘Of course you are. I would be. I'd want to wear a burkha the next day. But I wouldn't totally avoid you for three weeks!What's up, frankly?'
‘Nothing, Meera. I've just been a bit busy these last few days.
Haven't been able to—you know.'
‘I don't know. Tell me.'
‘There's nothing to tell. Really.'
‘Gently, touching his hand, stopping him toying with the sugar bowl. Did your girlfriend get mad because we went out together?'
He looks up, startled, drops the spoon; it clatters on the table, bounces off the sofa, disappears under the table: how he’d love to follow, escape from that embarrassing question, those piercing brown eyes, a woman so breathtakingly attractive and intelligent, he doesn’t know what he wants to do with her: fuck, or discuss D.H. Lawrence.
Her turquoise-blue silk saree whispers as she raises her arm to sip coffee, revealing a fawn-toned neck and the curves of two perfectly proportioned breasts, a glimpse below that of a bare midriff tight and curved, the lower ribs bare and crying out to be touched, their contours changing as they rise and fall with every breath she takes.
‘She did actually,’ he says, shocked at
himself.
(Why the fuck did I go and tell her that?)
‘She can’t stand me going out with anybody—even for lunch.’
Meera nods, looking down at the coffee swirling in her cup. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘But that’s not the real reason.’
‘She looks up. He looks away for a moment, unable to bring himself to look straight into those clear unblinking eyes, stares out at the foggy skyline of Walkeshwar, across the bay. ‘It was because you were going out with Chris.’
He continues looking out at the view, waiting for her to say something, give him his cue. She doesn’t. Finally, he turns.
She’s looking down at her hands, her coffee pushed away, chewing her lower lip.
‘Meera?’
No reply.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
She makes a movement that could be a shake or a nod, take your pick. He’s confused.
He starts to say something, stops, swallows several times, watches her pick up her spoon and tap it lightly against the side of her cup.
The waiter appears, bearing the carafe of steaming Kona coffee, questioning. Jay nods. Coffee purring into cups; the waiter retreats.
Meera looks up at Jay; he is shocked to see that her eyes are wet. She looks down again immediately. He sits quietly, unsure of what to say, doing the best thing possible, waiting. Suddenly, she rises in a swirl of hissing silk, vanishes. He sees the giant Queen of Hearts card on the door at the far end of the restaurant swinging shut behind her, a corner of blue saree flicking out of sight. He waits, drinking coffee.
More coffee. 9.20. 9.30. 9.37. The Queen of Hearts stares blankly back at him.
Finally, when he’s started to worry about how he’s going to pay the bill, she returns. Her make-up is perfect, more perfect than when she went in. More blue eye shadow, a touch more lipstick; her eyes stay away from his. The waiter pours coffee; she drains the cup.
She orders a croissant with butter.
‘You were crying,’ he says, not looking at her.
‘Yes,’ she says, not looking at him.
‘Sometimes it’s good to cry.’
He thinks about that. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you cry?’
‘All the time.’
‘In movies? At the sad parts?’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She butters the croissant, takes a bite. He has declined already. Coffee is all his bilious stomach can tolerate. Real food would kill him.
He looks up straight at her. She glances up instinctively, is trapped, can’t break the deadlock.
‘Why were you crying?’ he asks.
A lump appears in her throat, disappears.
‘Meera?’
‘Forget it.’ Softer, placing her hand on his, ‘Let it sleep.’
An image of Mount Fujiyama flashes before his eyes, a sleeping volcano. She looks away, at her watch. ‘Ten minutes.’
They sit in silence for five of those precious subdivisions of an hour. What is time anyway? What is an hour, really? A day? A year? A lifetime? How long is a lifetime? Whose lifetime? Five minutes? Six?
‘Meera,’ he begins at last, fighting against some powerful force, struggling with each word, wrestling syllables. ‘Can I see you sometime?’ He adds belatedly, ‘I have to talk to you about something.’
She nods. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Today?’
‘After work. Seven.’
‘Seven? Really?’
She nods. He nods. She touches his hand again, sealing the decision.
Then rises suddenly, satchel by her side, business as usual.
Walking together to the elevator, their reflections escorting them over the polished floor, she says, ‘You’ve got the estimates?’
‘Yes. And the projections he asked for. Everything’s ready. I just hope he signs today. It’ll be a real coup, won’t it?’
‘Yes.’
The lift arrives. He invites her to enter. She shakes her head. He goes in. She releases the Hold button, steps in, punches 18. Standing behind her, her backless blouse scant centimetres away, he glances in the elevator mirror and experiences the illusion that he’s holding her.
So the mirror suggests. She looks up just then, stares at his reflection; he knows that she sees the same illusion.
They ride up in silence to the meeting.
chapter thirteen
7 p.m.Waiting for the lift; Mittal comes out of the office on his way to the canteen and sees them together; rolls his eyes, raises his eyebrows. Jay can't help an embarrassed shrug which comes naturally.
Meera has her back to Mittal, so all she sees is the shrug: she frowns at Jay. He feels she is as apprehensive as he.Why, he can't say. You'd think they were going to sleep together or something, the way his palms are sweating, heart drumming, face twitching. He smiles for no particular reason at her; she smiles, looks down, shifting her satchel from one hand to the other, adjusting her saree. Silk slips constantly, a liquid fibre, flowing mercurial.
He starts to say something, then notices the indicator: the lift is approaching. The doors part, he invites her in—where? The car is packed, secretaries giggling at Jay’s outstretched hand; he lowers it, embarrassed. The lift clatters shut. Old Daulat Singh emerges from the toilet, shambling across the foyer, bent over his transistor, searching forVividh Bharati. He peers at them, recognizes Jay, salaams in slow motion. Jay nods. Another lift, the large red arrow pointing up: empty.
‘Quick,' she says, stepping in. He follows. They ride to the top, start down. It stops at almost every floor, although most are deserted.
Most offices close by 6. Only executives work late. At the fifteenth floor, several Lintas people crowd in, talking and laughing loudly. He supposes they're commercial artists; they're discussing some ‘layouts'
they've just finished—'airbrushed', ‘vignette', ‘R-90 print', and
‘thumbnail’ are terms he’s heard before during his own encounters with art directors on DM’s designjobs. They notice Meera and can’t keep their eyes off her. One of them nudges another artist who has his back to her, and he twists eagerly. Meera pushes her hair back off her face, purses her lips, turns away partly. Jay shifts to the left, shielding her protectively. The contorting artist stares at him. Jay stares back. He whispers something to his companions; they turn and look at Jay, nod and snigger. Jay stares coldly at each of them in turn.
One of them raises his left eyebrow enquiringly: What? What? Jay raises both eyebrows, wiggles them. The others laugh. Jay’s jaw is tight, teeth clenched. The lift touches down on an invisible cushion, the artists exit laughing and whistling. Jay blocks Meera’s way for a moment, widening the distance between them and him. She has to tap his spine before he moves.
Walking across the driveway of Express Towers, Jay feels like he always does—like he’s walking across the tarmac of an airport to a waiting plane. The wind is cold, he likes the bite. A cruising taxi drifts past the gate; he barks, ‘Taxi.’
Holding the door open for her, she smiles indulgently, shakes her head and gets in. He slides in after her, has to shut the door four times before it stays shut.
The cab driver waits. Jay and Meera look at each other.
‘Where are we going?’ she asks.
‘Anywhere you like.’
‘Tell him.’
‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Anywhere s fine.’
‘Sea Lounge?’ Although he has less than twenty-five rupees in his pocket.
‘I told you, anywhere s fine for me. You decide.’
The driver sighs and leans forward slowly, switches the ignition off, plucks a beedi off the dashboard and lights it patiently.
Jay hesitates. ‘Actually...’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m broke.’
‘Oh. You should have said that in the first place!’
‘I mean, I’m not trying to say—’
‘It’s okay, I have money.’
’—that you should pay.’
‘It’s cool, Jay.’
‘We don’t have to have dinner or something. Maybe we can just sit somewhere and talk. Or walk.’
‘I feel like a drink. You?’
‘Uh, I guess if you’re having...’
‘And in any case, I eat dinner out.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘So why don’t we do this...hmm...Where do you stay?’
‘Bandra. Khar, actually.’
‘Hey! That’s great. I stay at Khar too.’
‘You do? Where?’
‘Look, let’s go to Bandra and sit someplace around there.’
‘By cab?’
‘We can decide which place on the way.’
The driver sighs mournfully and asks them if they want to go somewhere or just sit and talk. Meera tells him. He exhales a cloud of foul beedi smoke. Meera screws up her face, waves the fumes away.
Jay leans forward and asks the driver to stop smoking please. The driver informs him that it’s his taxi and he’ll do what he pleases in it.
Jay has a flash of anger; he hasn’t really cooled off completely since yesterday’s encounter at Parel station. Meera watches him trade a few angry words with the drawling nonchalant driver. She puts a hand on his shoulder.
‘Relax, Jay.We’ll catch another cab.’
‘These bastards, they think they’re too good to bother with politeness. I’ll—’
‘Jay, forget it.’ Meera gets out. The driver mutters something about having turned the meter.
‘ Kya? Kya bola? ’ Jay is one step away from losing his balls. Meera clicks her tongue impatiently, pulls out a five-rupee note from her purse, drops it on the front seat, walks away. Jay swallows his anger and goes after her.
‘Meera? I’m sorry, but I just can’t stand these guys.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘There’s one.’ He shoots out a hand, flags down a passing cab. But the guy doesn’t want to go to Bandra. Jay chokes down an impulse to mouth an obscene retort; Meera crosses the road and asks a parked cab. She turns and calls Jay over.
Marine Drive soothes Jay a little. He has always loved this part of Bombay, especially by night. He likes the new orange street lamps: