Vertigo

by Ashok Banker

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ For an explanation.’

  ‘An explanation?’

  Dave slashes two entire lines with yellow, pauses, then continues to the end of the paragraph. He examines the luminous patch of yellow and double-marks three separate words with magenta. The three double-marked words turn greenish-grey. He doesn’t speak.

  Jay: ‘Uh, about... my. . .’—why is his throat so dry? —’ . ..

  latecoming?’

  Dave caps the pens carefully and places them neatly by the file. He looks at Jay wordlessly.

  ‘Uh... well... actually... the thing is, I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a few days now, but—’

  ‘Are you happy working at Synergetics?’

  The question comes at him like a bouncer from a spin bowler. Uh, yes, sir, I mean Dave, of course I’m—’

  ‘And you want to stay here for a while? You’re not planning to go back to direct marketing or become a copywriter or something, are you?’

  ‘Uh, not at all, that was just something I’d once thought off’

  ‘Jayesh, this is not—what’s the name of that little shop you were working for before? DM? This is not DM. This is not an ad agency where copywriters walk in and out any time of the day as they please.

  We are a serious organization.We take the work we do seriously.We expect everyone working here to take it seriously. Do you know how many years Sunder has worked here?’ Sunder?’

  ‘His father was in charge of the canteen fifteen years ago. Ten years ago, when his father died, Sunder took over. He has a room on the premises, he gets all benefits, he enjoys the work he does and takes pride in it. He has a brother. The brother went back to the village to do farming,’ a sneer accompanies the word ‘farming’, ‘he came to Bombay last week, begging for a job here, sweeping the floor, cleaning the toilet, anything. Do you know how many MBAs would give their right arm for your job, young man? Take this research report,’ sliding it across the polished table, ‘read through it and give me your comments by noon. Sharp at noon. And if you’re late by even ten minutes tomorrow, I want your resignation on my desk.

  That’s all. Tell Yogesh I want to see him right away.’

  As he shuts the door of Dave’s cabin as gently as possible, Jay is struck by the thought: But he doesn’t have a desk.

  chapter thirty-two

  Tuli can't get the money, or even part of it, back from her brother.

  She can't even get the interest in advance. After the dressing-down Dave gives him, Jay dares not come late another day. He goes through the rest of the week in a zombie-eyed numbness that provokes a new wisecrack from that comedian of the corporate set, Conrad D'Silva.

  When Jay fails to laugh at thejoke, Conrad puts his arm around his shoulder and tries to find out what the matter is. Jay shrugs and says, the usual. Conrad looks him in the eye and detects some unknown clue. He invites him to join him,Yogesh and Milind that evening for a few drinks. Jay makes an excuse. Conrad persists. Jay tells him plainly that he hasn't any money, that he hasn't yet paid his rent and it's only the 6th of the month and he's so broke he’s going to crack in half any minute. Conrad doesn't laugh at this brave attempt at humour. He tells Jay to screw the money, just come along.

  That evening, when the secretarial pool finishes their march past and Jay has muttered the usual litany of see-you-tomorrows, Conrad reappears, with Milind,Yogesh and Sunil in tow, all armed with brown, grey and blue windcheaters, except Milind who carries an umbrella.

  Jay has nothing. He avoids getting wet in the rain by dodging under awnings and into doorways all the way from the station to the office in the mornings and vice versa in the evenings; sometimes he gets wet, and for this reason he keeps a change of clothes in the lower right-hand drawer of his desk. He already has three sets of office wear, but a new umbrella or raincoat would cost at least a hundred bucks, which he certainly doesn't have right now.

  The streets are slick with rain as they emerge from the building.

  Jay is disoriented by the daylight. He catches a glimpse of Conrad's Seiko: 6.40. He hasn't left office this early for months. He blinks at the fading light, wondering at a lifestyle that makes even the touch of natural daylight on one's face seem a blessing. He understands why sunlamps have become so popular among corporate executives.

  ‘It's not raining,’ Milind says. ‘Let's walk, guys.’

  Since they're one too many to fit into a cab and since their destination is that round-the-corner favourite haunt, Alps, they walk.

  Tired of sitting upright at desks all day, they keep a brisk pace, marching five abreast along the large wet street. Jay is careful not to flick water on the backs of his trousers. His leather shoes squelch and squeak on the glistening tar-top, and he glances enviously at the shiny new shoes on the other four pairs of feet. Sunil's are a bit worn, but miles ahead of his. The brisk walking speeds up his circulation, awakens an awareness of the glowing lavender twilight, the birds susurrating by the thousands in the giant tamarind trees outside the Bombay Natural History Society.

  He begins to enjoy the slap of the wet heavy air against his flushed neon-dulled skin, the rough voices and laughter of the other executives beside him, the feeling of solidarity in this march towards a beer bar, the absurd resemblance to five Hollywood stars in some old cowboy movie whose name Jay can't remember. They walk on across the road, unmindful of the bleating traffic, past the Metropolitan Police building, the crouching structure of the Cottage Industries building, a Chinese restaurant, another Chinese restaurant, and yet another Chinese restaurant as they cross another road, then down a narrow lane past a petrol pump reeking of gasoline and car fumes, a treacherous negotiation of a wooden plank over an abyss of dug-up street, then around two towering wooden bobbins of cable lying on the road like a giant child’s toys, back on terra firma again, around the corner, past pavement stalls down the lane where Gokul’s stands, landmark of young working men’s culture, the spot at which sooner or later you can meet any ad executive in Bombay on a Saturday night; turning left again, walking in the shadow of the Taj—remembering Alps’

  campy ad slogan ‘Next only to theTaj! ’ —and finally into the cramped, smoky, ill-lit barbecue-sauce redolent sizzler and beerjoint.

  Kingfisher!’ says Yogesh. ‘LP! ’ counters Milind, seconded by Sunil.

  And Conrad yelps: ‘ Haywards! ’All eyes turn to Jay to cast the deciding vote and he grins and ventures: ‘Cocktail.’They break up. The waiter waits dully. They settle on Kingfisher, specifying that it should have the Bangalore label not the Haryana label—’Different water,’Yogesh explains—and then gets into a cigarette-lighting contest. How many cigarettes can you light with a single match? Much lighting of cigarettes, stubbing out and re-lighting follows, accompanied by bellows of encouragement. Surprisingly, Sunil is the winner, his small steady hands flitting quickly from tip to tip, igniting all five and still having enough stick left to hold for another three or four seconds before dropping it into the water-logged ashtray choked with used sticks.

  ‘You should have become a surgeon, yaar,’ Conrad says, winking at the others, ‘or at least a gynaecologist!’

  Jay is amazed to learn that Sunil is a qualified doctor, a surgeon no less. After medical school, he decided to do his MBA and went into marketing. Which is why he’s a bit older than the others: thirty-four to their average age of twenty-nine—thirty. ‘But why?’ asks Jay, genuinely curious, ‘I mean, you must have wanted to become a doctor to have gone through four years of medical college, so why...’

  Sunil shrugs. He’s not one for speaking much. As Conrad says, ‘His shoulders speak louder than words! ’ He makes some incoherent remark about marketing having more opportunities, wave of the future, something like that; Jay can only catch snatches, the decibel level in the crowded restaurant raised to deafening limits by the blaring out of Michael Jackson's Thriller over the stereo. One of the many African students at the neighbouring table rises lumberingly, measuring every step wit
h huge yellow eyes. Jay counts the empty bottles the waiter clanks together and lifts: nine! He can't believe that anybody can drink that much beer and still be alive, let alone walk straight.

  The beer hits him quick and hard. All he had for lunch was a cheese sandwich on credit from Sunder.When someone mentions the magic word ‘snacks’ he swallows hopefully, not daring to say anything but longing for some chicken kebabs or the like. Meanwhile, he munches peanuts continually. Conrad notices his silence and understands. He orders chicken club sandwiches all around. Jay feels an immense surge of relief. As he bites into the hefty toasted wad, he feels an ecstasy comparable to an orgasm. Conrad watches him and winks affectionately. Jay smiles back gratefully. After the sandwich, Jay feels like a million dollars, the best he’s felt in months.Well, not quite; he felt great making love to Tuli. But this is different. He hasn't had many nights out with the boys and this is a pleasurable experience, sitting around a table, smoking, drinking cold beer, letting your hair down, talking any shit that comes to mind. It feels like a session in Dave’s cabin but without any tension. Lionel Richie finishes singing Hello, and Jay frowns at the intro of the next number. It’s that Hindi song with all the disco-pop synthesizer riffs. Then it comes back to him: Nazia Hassan's album Disco deewane. The song is one of his favourites; a sentimental lonely hearts melody. Milind does an impromptu translation, holding an empty beer bottle to his lips as a mike: ‘But my heart, my heart is crying. Oh woh oh!’

  Yogesh talks about a local band who are supposed to be recording their own album, he knows the lead guitarist and has heard a couple of their rehearsals as well as a demo tape. ‘They’re not bad, huh,’ he says. Conrad asks what their group is called. ‘Rock Machine,’ Yogesh says. Conrad talks about Remo, the Goan singer who releases his own tapes, and about the ‘planet of talent’ in India ‘waiting to be exploded like a nuke bomb’ over the world. Jay listens and feels warm and contented, lulled by the wet-eyed song, the beer and sandwich and comforting sound of talk and laughter. He half-shuts his eyes. He wishes Tuli were sitting here with him, just sitting cradled in his arms.

  He drinks more beer and smiles placidly at a long convoluted anecdote About Yogesh’s experience with a tough female boss in his previous job.

  Conrad’s finger pokes his ribs: ‘Hey, man, hey! Jay?Wake up, yaar.’ He jerks and opens his eyes. ‘Huh? Yeah?’

  ‘You were sleeping, man. Don’t tell me we’re that boring!’

  Everybody laughs. He shakes his head, goes to the toilet to let out some of the beer and to wash. The water feels cool and delicious on his hot face. He scrubs his face with soap; he has oily skin and it feels good to wash the grease off. He doesn’t have a handkerchief and the towel on the rack is unusable; he pulls his shirt-end out of his trousers and uses it to wipe his face. Staring at himself in the mirror, listening to Donna Summer’s Wanderer coming through the door, he remembers that Tuli will be coming over tomorrow and he should get a good night’s sleep before their ‘session’. Then he also remembers that Dave said they might have to come in early tomorrow to discuss something with the market research firm and the ad agency. Opening the bathroom door, the noise hits him like a blast of hot wind. He manoeuvres between the over-occupied tables and regains his seat.

  Yogesh,’ he says softly to his supervisor sitting to his left: ‘Did Dave say anything about tomorrow?’

  ‘Ah, no.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything?’

  ‘No, he said it’s cool.’

  ‘It’s cool what?’

  Relax, man, you can see your girlfriend tomorrow. What’s her name?’

  ‘What did he say exactly,Yogi?’

  ‘He said have a good weekend and fuck your girlfriend in the ass.’

  Yogesh sniggers, more than a little high.

  ‘Come on, man. Do we have to come tomorrow or not?’

  ‘No, man. How many times to tell you?’

  ‘Really? Not at all? Not on Saturday, not on Sunday? Two whole holidays? You’re not pulling my leg?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  Conrad joins in: ‘What’s up, yaar? Share thejoke.’

  ‘I was just asking Yogi if we have to come in tomorrow. We do, don’t we?’

  Milind jabs his shoulder with a greasy fork. ‘Don’t you know? ’To Sunil and Conrad he says with a banana grin: ‘He doesn’t know the greatest news of the year!’

  ‘What?’ Jay looks around at their faces, red-cheeked from beer and laughing. ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘Postponed,’ Sunil says. He’s drinking the most beer—five steins by Jay’s rough count—and talking the least. Everybody tells him their problems; he’s a good listener. ‘Bedside manner,’ Conrad calls it.

  ‘What’s postponed?’ Jay asks, then it hits him. ‘The launch? It’s postponed? Come on! You’re pulling my leg!’

  ‘There are better legs to pull,’ Conrad says, purposely raising his voice to be heard by his target, a small slim African girl in a miniskirt and black tee shirt. Good figure, but Jay doesn’t like the face; too crabby. But he agrees about the legs. ‘No, really, man,’ he says, unable to believe that something so momentous could have happened without him noticing. Come to think of it, he did notice a lot of interaction between Dave and the MD in the afternoon.And this morning, when he went back at noon with the research report to Dave's cabin, Dave had discussed the findings as if they were academic, of no immediate importance. Also, Jay had been wondering how the hell they could get all the consumer group discussions done and assimilate the results into the launch campaign so fast. ‘I knew it,’ he says happily, though not sure why he’s so happy, ‘there wasn't enough time, right?’

  ‘ Nahi, yaar,' Milind says, ‘ Sala elections came like a kabob mein haddi.’ Yes,Yogesh?' Sunil says quietly, ‘Was it the elections?’ How does he make himself heard over all this racket? Someone at another table drops an almost full bottle of beer. Foam spatters on Jay's cheek and forearm. Conrad goes into a rapture of giggles at the sight of flecks of froth on his nose. The place is really crowded and it’s getting difficult to tell the music from the conversation. Jay feels his head touch the ceiling. How many steins has he had? No puking today, please. But surprisingly he feels good, better than at previous times when he's boozed this much, only his face feels a little hot and the smoke is stifling him. ‘I can't believe it,’ he shouts. ‘That’s great, man!

  It's great news! Wow!’

  For the moment he forgets about the slashed pay cheque, the unpaid rent, the ticking-off from Dave, the fact that he hasn't been to see his mother in almost six weeks and has only given her six hundred rupees last month and hasn't given her anything this month. He forgets it all and immerses himself in a beer haze, staring in astonishment at a long red sausage that seems to have appeared magically on a fork clutched in his right hand.When did they order dinner? What the hell am I eating? What is this brown meaty lump over here, between the chicken leg and the bacon? Who cares, as long as it tastes good? And it does. Yum. He doesn't remember who pays the bill, but he remembers seeing a twenty-rupee tip left in the billfold, remembers wishing he could slip that pink note from the Rexine folder, replace it with the green five-rupee note in his pocket, the largest currency on his person.

  He vaguely recalls sitting five abreast in a cab—the driver puts his meter sideways to pretend he's on a private trip—driving through dark and empty roads, passing an ugly accident somewhere—a puddle of oily blood seeping out from under a smashed Fiat, getting on to a train at Churchgate, Milind's hand around his neck, Conrad making some stupid comment about how he could have made it with that African chick back atAlps. And all of a sudden, he's home and sitting on his mattress on the cold floor, trying to figure out how he got his shoelaces so knotted up, just before he sprawls back on the mattress on the floor and blacks out.

  chapter thirty-three

  The next morning he wakes to find a hot slab of sunlight lying across his face and outflung right hand. His left leg is folded under him, num
b as a piece of wood. It takes superhuman effort to get to his feet, and when he does get up, his head clenches and unclenches in a crushing grip. The room wheels around him. A pigeon on the window sill warbles and stares empty-eyed at his tortured efforts to stay upright.

  The dazzling glare blinds him, turning the yellow tiled floor into a sheet of bronze fire. He limps on the wooden leg to the bathroom, squats on the Indian-style toilet and purges himself of a voluminous quantity of loose motion. His bowels and anus feel scorched, wasted.

  Pouring cool water over his rear with the cracked plastic mug is a blissful experience. He struggles back to his feet but has hardly reached the washbasin when his stomach heaves and rumbles, boiling with gases and heat. He vomits viscous acidic fluids, clutching the sides of the little porcelain basin as his body shudders weakly. His forehead rests against the mirror, the smooth cool glass soothing to his feverish skin. The splattered basin reeks of meat and fried potatoes; he belches twice and smells beer. Crawling back to his mattress, he collapses limblessly and covers his face with his hand, too depleted to rig a sheet over the uncurtained window to keep the blinding sunlight out.

  When he wakes, the shadows in the room have grown. The sun no longer falls on his face; it casts a long pale finger up the corridor to the living room. He raises himself to his elbows and finds a thread of saliva linking his mouth to the pillow. His shirt and the bedsheet are soaked in sweat. His throat feels rough and raw. He goes to the kitchen, drinks a lot of water. Then he goes into the bathroom and turns the shower on. Standing under the pinpricks of water, he brushes his teeth and urinates at the same time. His urine is hot and bright yellow. Recurring belches bring up lingering tastes of beer and peanuts now. His rectal passage seethes with a burning sensation. He lifts his face to the shower and drinks greedily, picturing the water cleansing and cooling his insides.