by Ashok Banker
He’ll pay 36 per cent interest. Compound.’ He stares at her. The manager at the desk flicks a switch: the terrace comes alive with fluorescent light. Her eyes reflect two pinpoints of white luminescence. ‘Thirty-six per cent, Jay!’
That’s impossible. Compound? That comes to, what? Even if he calculates interest half-yearly, that comes to almost 47 per cent a year! You can’t be serious,Tuli. You must have heard him wrong.’
She shakes her head, smiling with a glee he doesn’t entirely like.
‘He’s just starting out, he needs finance.’
‘Then why doesn’t your father finance him?’
‘Policy. He never invests his own money in a new venture.’
‘Tuli, any business that pays that rate of interest can’t possibly succeed.What’s his profit margin? One hundred per cent?’
But he’s intrigued. After all, he does have a normal healthy appetite for money, like any post-Independence Indian. Not chunky jewellery, but money. Especially money earned through ingenuity; by beating the system at its own game, pulling out cash through loopholes.
Tuli works on him.Walking downhill to Kemp s Corner, she primes him with the need to build up their capital for future. Marriage expenses is the item that catches his attention. He protests, argues, tries to take the side of logic, caution, but her arguments are spiced with the flavour of quick profits.
Coming to a dark curve between street lights, the neon carpet of the city visible between two almost-horizontally growing gulmohur trees dripping red flowers, she turns and presses her warm soft body to his. He swallows, aroused. She turns her face up to him, whispers: For our marriage,' and engages his lips in a lingering kiss that leaves him with an intolerable ache in his groin. She lets him walk with his arm around her waist, nudging her right breast, sliding smoothly over the cool fabric of her kurta. When they reach the orange brilliance of Kemp's Corner and are struck bodily by the blaring of car horns jammed bumper to bumper all the way up Pedder Road, she extracts his clutching fingers and walks at arm's length until they find a cab.
chapter twenty-eight
He speaks to Shiv casually, asking him how the advance-thing works.
He's surprised to find that it's much easier than he thought. Shiv hints to him that many Synergetics employees take advances to invest in the stock market. Of course, they don't give that as a reason, not officially; but it's done. Basically, it's like getting an interest-free loan, with the option of paying the money back in a maximum of thirty-six monthly instalments. Jay asks him what the maximum limit is. That depends on the person's need—the officially stated need, that is.
What about marriage expenses? Sure. No, I mean, how much could a person ask for to pay marriage expenses.Well, there’s no fixed rule, but generally the company allows advances up to a maximum of six times your gross. Jay figures it out in his head: 33,000 rupees! Say thirty grand, to make it a round sum, he thinks. Then he figures out how much thirty-six monthly instalments comes to per month: Rs 834. That's a big wedge, and he knows there’s no way he can cut it out of his salary. Then he figures out the interest on Shiv's calculator while Shiv tries to solve some glitch in the new computer: Almost a thousand a month, even if calculated on simple interest basis, but Tuli's already told him that the interest is payable half-yearly, so even if he forgoes the prospect of earning interest on interest by ploughing the first six months’ earning back with the capital, he'll still have to survive six months on Rs 1,300 less Rs 834. He pushes the calculator away in disgust.
‘It's impossible,’ he tells Tuli on the phone. ‘What do you expect me to do? Survive on four hundred and sixty-six bucks a month?
Forget it.’
Then Tuli whispers an evil thought in his ear. Just an idea, she says.
After all, it’s only for six months. He's repelled by the idea, more so because it seems so horribly attractive, like poking a dying snake with a pointed stick. He thinks about it all the way home on the train that evening, hanging between a fat man with coconut-oiled hair and a stocky short man who keeps falling asleep on his feet, his head thudding limply into Jay’s stomach. Jay gets so involved in calculations of compound interest over a period of ten years that he misses his station and has to wait for a train back from Borivali. He sleeps badly that night. The next morning, he fills up a form and asks Shiv to start processing the application.
The nextWednesday, he comes back from lunch to find an envelope on his desk. He opens it and finds a cheque for Rs 30,000 along with a receipt and a memo from Shiv: ‘ Sign this and put it in the despatch'.
He stares at the cheque for several minutes, then calls Tuli and tells her the news. She's excited about it, and he feels it's worth it to hear her react so overtly about something at least. She tells him to deposit it and withdraw the entire amount in cash when it clears. She comes over herself to collect it, to his office.
He has a twinge of guilt when he comes to the reception and finds Tuli talking to Suchitra. But they 're only discussing fashions. He nods at Suchi: ‘Going out for lunch, back by 2.’ She cocks an eyebrow at him and says: ‘Not dinner, no?’ But Tuli doesn't notice.
They go to Samovar for lunch. He wants to look at the paintings but she’s attracted to a handicrafts exhibition in the adjoining gallery, so they split up: he looks at mottled leaf-faces in greens and greys, while she admires pottery and furniture and folk jewellery. Samovar is packed as usual, but they find a table being vacated by two white-bearded artistic types in kurtas. They smile at each other over a bristling collection of empty beer bottles. The food is good, but the waiters are harried, and it's cramped. Still, it’s a lunch to remember because Jay has thirty thousand in cash on his person.
After dessert—mango kulfi for her, a Thums Up for him—they discuss how to transfer the money from his trouser pockets to her purse. Finally, he gets into a cab with her, slips the money to her, worried that the driver might see and get funny ideas, and then gets off at the corner.
He feels a sense of loss, walking back to office without the bulges in his pockets. It is the most money he has ever carried at one time.
That Friday, Dave calls the meeting about Pinch, and his life changes.
On Sunday, he finds himself sitting in the large conference room with the rest of the team, watching detergent commercials from the USA, UK ,Australia, South Africa, and a hundred other countries. He marvels at the ingenuity of some of the films, feels a little jealous of these invisible copywriters who have scripted these twenty and thirty-second gems. He looks forward to starting work on the advertising of Pinch, maybe even suggesting a few slogans or script ideas himself; though that's hardly likely since advertising agencies hate clients who poke their noses into ‘creative’ areas. For the moment, he contends himself with viewing a hundred different ways to communicate ‘new, improved, revolutionary’ in thirty seconds or less.
At 4, when they'd planned to close shop for the day—this is a Sunday after all—Dave announces that the MD is joining them for a short while. Jay's heart sinks. He usually visits Mama around 5.30 or 6 latest because she wakes from her afternoon nap at 4 and if he goes too late she gets hassled and drinks too much. So the earlier he goes, the more sober she is. After 7, there's no point. But the MD doesn't grace lesser mortals with his presence every day, so he just has to sit and hope that they’ll pack up by 5 . They finish watching the last tape of foreign commercials and Sunder brings in the tea trays. Jay eats three cashew biscuits and two cream crackers, washing them down with coffee which he usually avoids because it ruins his sleep at night, but which he desperately needs to keep his eyes open after this marathon video-watching session. Conrad and Yogesh are discussing the importance of words versus visuals. Jay listens, always interested in matters related to communication.
‘Look at subliminal advertising,’ Conrad’s saying. ‘Images hardly a fraction of a second on-screen, but they can make you desperate to drink a Coke now.’
‘No, but what do you finally take away, in the
long run? “Come to where the flavour is, come to Marlboro Country.” “Guinness is good for you.” “Whenever you see colour, think of us .” The pictures keep changing, but fifty years later, a good slogan still endures.’
Jay listens with amusement. He believes he’s more sophisticated in this area than any of the others. At one point he had started keeping a file of clippings on the ad campaigns he liked best, with a detailed analysis on why he liked them. He also got hold of a copy test from his art director friend during his DM days, and had enjoyed himself doing it. So this argument seems childish, naive. Finally, when Conrad and Yogesh start showing signs of irritation, he steps in and explains the importance of a creative ‘burr’, which could be a powerful image with an appropriate sound effect, or a distinctive sound/music effect with an appropriate visual: ‘In a good commercial,’ Jay says, ‘you can’t separate the visual from the audio. Both are indispensable. Even in print, the Marlboro slogan means nothing without the picture, and vice versa. The same goes for Guinness or J&N, or any other good campaign.’
When he finishes a good ten minutes later, not only Conrad and Yogesh, but almost everyone else in the room is listening to him hold forth so eloquently on various aspects of creative advertising. Among them, he is shocked to see, is Mr Dasgupta, the MD. Balram, as he insists on being called, is standing off to one side with Dave, both holding cups of tea; head cocked to one side, listening intently to Jay.
Jay apologizes for speaking too loudly, but Dave waves it away, grinning. Balram nods curtly to Jay, replaces his cup on the saucer:
‘Very interesting talk you were just giving, young man. Jayesh, isn’t it? Were you in advertising at any point?’
Nervous at being singled out by the MD, embarrassed that he may have been showing off a bit, Jay explains incoherently about his interest in advertising. Balram listens with such courtesy and interest that Jay even mentions his once-major ambition to become a copywriter.
Balram nods repeatedly at that. ‘Very interesting.’To Dave, he says: ‘I was a copywriter for a while, you know.’ Dave raises his eyebrows. ‘I used to be a lot like young Jayesh here, but somewhere along the line, I realized that I could be far more effective if I got into marketing.’ He grins politely at Jay: ‘My father breathed a giant sigh of relief when I told him I was taking up the offer Synergetics had made to me two years earlier—when I passed out of IIM.’
Jay is thrilled at this information. So the great Dasgupta was actually a copywriter for two years at the beginning of his career! He can’t resist asking, ‘But, sir, wasn’t copywriting much more interesting?’
Dave turns his raised eyebrows to Jay. Balram twists around, sets the cup and saucer on the buffet table and turns back: ‘Managing a hundred-crore company is much more challenging, wouldn’t you say?’ Dave nods, looking pointedly at Jay as if to say: ‘Get the message?’
But Jay goes on: ‘Yes, but doesn’t copywriting give you much more freedom? I mean, you just sit down with a pad and a pen and you can think of almost any idea in the world,You’re independent, free of the command chain or the feudal structure. It’s what you create that matters then, not who you are or how many years you’ve been around, or. . . or. . .’ He stops, realizing he’s getting into another speech.
Across the room, Conrad and Yogesh watch him; Conrad whispers something to Yogesh and they both double up with silent laughter.Jay steps away a bit from Dave and Balram, smiling apologetically.
‘No, no,’ Balram says. ‘You’re right, Jayesh. There are days when I wish I could go back to being a copywriter. It’s so much easier dealing with ideas and slogans than with a company of three thousand employees. But,’ and he holds up a finger, ‘the question is, Jay, do you just want to be a good foot soldier or would you rather be a general?
Hmm? Think about it and tell me your answer—no, no, not now—
after about, let’s see, ten years? Hmm?’ Interview ended. Dave raises his eyebrows one last time at Jay, purses his lips, and leaves the room with Balram. Conrad and Yogesh sidle up to Jay. Milind joins them en route. ‘ Kya, bhai?’ Yogesh says, ‘You’re trying to lecture the MD on advertising, are you? You won’t get extra increment for that, eh.’
‘Over and above the call of duty,’ Milind quips.
Conrad pats Jay’s shoulder, doing a surprisingly good spontaneous imitation of Balram: ‘ Interesting. Very interesting. Ask this young man to submit his resignation tomorrow.’ Ever since Conrad found Jay’s weak spot—his fear of being fired—he uses every chance he can get to joke about it.
After the tea break, the MD returns and talks to them about Pinch. He repeats Dave’s earlier cautions about secrecy, loyalty, and adds a few more platitudes about the importance of the work they do.
Helping build a self-sufficient nation,’ is one phrase Jay remembers from his last speech—made at the AGM last June. At that time, his slow rolling voice sounded impressive, his words significant, when Jay was just six months old in DM. Now, he’s not sure.
It’s 6.49 when Jay finally leaves the office with the others. Conrad and Milind try to coax him into joining them for beer and sizzlers at Alps, but Jay manages to get away by naming his mother as an excuse.
He endures a last comment on his perpetual ‘broke-ness' as he starts walking to the Churchgate station, leaving the group to decide whether to cab it or hoof it to Alps. The streets are strangely deserted and this baffles Jay for sometime until he realizes that it’s Sunday. The Fountain junction, impossible to negotiate in less than ten minutes on a weekday, lies bare and vast in the dusk. Jay stops to buy a cigarette and walks on, cupping the cigarette in the palm of his hand. He's in a desperate hurry, but slows down despite himself, fascinated by the empty streets.
He finds it difficult to believe that this same corner will be jammed with bleating vehicles and a relentless tramping army of office-goers in less than twelve hours. Now, it belongs to him and he strides past the black stone lions outside the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank building with a feeling of exhilaration caused largely by the memory of his brief encounter with the MD. Did he impress him? Irritate him? Will it make any difference to his future in the company? Pinch, Pinch, Pinch. The single most important word in his life now. After Tuli.
He is disgusted to find the trains full even today, but manages to find a fourth place on a seat meant for three. He sits sideways, jostled by people getting on and off, and dreams of making an acceptance speech on being elected chairman of the company.
At 7.40, when he reaches his mother's flat, the house is in darkness.
No light is visible under the door. Peeping in through the mail slot, he sees that the hall is empty. A bottle of country liquor lies on its side on the floor, next to a gob of phlegm and a half-smoked cigarette. He takes the envelope from his pocket, slips it in through the mail slot, and goes down the stairwell . There is only five hundred rupees in the envelope. He has had to adjust the monthly instalment on the salary advance by cutting his mother's allowance. For this reason, he is glad he didn't have to hand it to her personally. That night too, he has difficulty sleeping.
chapter twenty-nine
Sometimes he wonders what was the point in renting this flat when he hardly spends any time here; and since Tuli won't relent in her hands-off attitude to sex. She's more interested in furnishing and decorating the place—it's all she talks about on the rare occasions she visits. These visits occur maybe once a month, always on a Saturday, and are spent in a constant tussle with Jay trying every trick in the book to get her to take her clothes off, and Tuli talking non-stop about wood furniture versus cane, plastic paint versus oil enamel, and whether the bathroom needs re-tiling. Jay keeps reminding her that the flat doesn't belong to them and any money they invest in it will be lost once they shift out, but she counters this by saying that there’s no harm in planning, is there? Actually, he doesn't give a damn what colour she paints which room or whether they should have white curtains or pink, so long as she lets him go further than the full
y dressed petting and kissing which is her self-set limit.
Once when he unzips his jeans and puts her hand on his inflamed penis, she jerks back and stares at his erection with an expression of unwarranted repulsion. He can't understand this distaste for an act that he has never indulged in yet but which seems wholly natural and inevitable. At moments like these, he burns with an anger that leaves him incapable of normal speech for the rest of the day. After he drops her home, he walks the street, staring hungrily at the bodies of passing girls, often without even glancing at their faces. He fights the urge to masturbate, determined to eradicate this need for sex which always seems to result in shame and frustration and builds up dangerous levels of angst. At times like this, he walks through crowded streets with his shoulders stiffened, refusing to move an inch to allow approaching pedestrians to pass; deliberately allowing his shoulders to collide with theirs, provoking comment and even curses. What he's looking for is a fight, but luckily for him, he doesn't get it. After he cools off, he feels stupid about this irrational behaviour. Then he feels it’s better to go to a prostitute, or pick up a girl at a disco, satisfy his sexual urge, find relief, blessed relief. But he is cursed with this maddening sense of loyalty; this uncompromising conviction that he must be faithful to Tuli. After all, he tells himself, if he had to be unfaithful, he would have had sex with Meera; why go to a prostitute and get Aids? Come to think of it, maybe he was a fool not to have done it with Meera. She was more than willing, and after all, she was a girl, and he's a boy. But, then again, she was Meera, and he's Jay.
One day, sitting on the mattress in the bedroom of the Lokhandwala flat, listening to Tuli hold forth about some new brand of wonder flooring, he stops her and asks her why she’s so averse to sex. Point-blank. She tries to avoid the question and go on with her discussion of carpet flooring, but he demands an answer. If we're going to get married in a few months anyway, what's wrong with making love now, he asks.We can be very careful, use precautions. So why not?