Vertigo

by Ashok Banker

  Tuli's brother, bored by the discussion of a subject he has not the slightest interest in, switches on the television. Jay's father turns to him and suggests that he go over and watch TV too, so he rises reluctantly and joins Siddharth on the divan. The colour level on the television is excessive. Skin-tones are a garish orange, clothes gaudy and fruity, backgrounds screaming for attention. The effect is of some souped-up MTV music video. Only this is a Doordarshan announcer, relating the programmes to be shown today. Jay looks at Siddharth, intending to ask him to adjust the colour, but the only son of the family spits bright-red betel juice into a brass spittoon and Jay turns his eyes quickly back to theTV. The announcer smiles in farewell and an inordinately long gap follows—Jay estimates that the blank screen lingers for about twenty-five seconds—after which it comes on. A transmission disturbance violently disrupts a thirty-second spot for a new soft drink and Jay calculates the loss to the advertiser. At Rs 70,000 per ten seconds for a prime time insertion, that poor soft drink manufacturer has just lost rupees two lakh and ten thousand.

  Being closely involved with advertising agencies in his line ofwork, Jay knows that Doordarshan will claim ‘technical fault’ and bureaucratically refuse to make good that loss. He thinks about the impressive sixty-second launch commercial for Chamatkar which goes into production tomorrow morning (postponed from last week due to unavailability of studio booking dates) and estimates the loss to Synergetics if one of these frequent ‘technical faults’ takes place on Launch Day: Rupees four lakh twenty thousand. No wonder Dave regards Doordarshan as ‘a dinosaur fiddling with a computer.’

  A programme comes on. Jay sits up; he has heard about this and has wanted to see it for some time now. It’s a women’s programme produced and hosted by Simi Garewal : It’s a Woman’s World. Tuli’s brother emits a deep-chested deprecatory growl when the title of the show comes on. He says something in Gujarati so loudly that Jay assumes he is calling out to his father.

  ‘You talk not Gujarati?’ he says to Jay.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Were you speaking to me? No. I’m afraid I don’t speak much Gujarati. Sorry.’

  Another grunt. Then, aiming a stubby forefinger at the face of the hostess on the little screen: ‘Rundi, no?’

  Jay isn’t sure he heard him right, but it isn’t easy to mistake any other word in Hindi for the slang term for whore.

  ‘How you say in English? Englishma su buleche? Bitch? She is big bitch, I think.’

  ‘Uh-hmm.’ Jay doesn’t quite know how to deal with this. He glances at the chattering group of fathers and grandmothers, but nobody seems to have heard any of this exchange. In fact, even he can barely catch any of the programme hostess’s words.

  Tuli’s brother leans over and says: ‘Woman good for only two things. Cooking and bedroom. Should stay there and keep mouth shut.’A tiny shower of tobacco juice explodes from his lips with each sentence. Jay draws back a little.

  Poof. The remote control, disdainfully wielded, wipes out the offending hostess’s image. He grins red-toothed at jay. ‘IfI knew about this, would never have happened.’

  Jay has no idea what he’s talking about. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He tries to understand how this last remark could possibly relate to the TV programme. But Siddharth emits a short cynical chuckle and shakes his head in disgust. ‘If I knew you were trying to line-maro my sister, I would have broken your face first only,’ he says, smiling amicably at Jay. For want of an appropriate reaction, Jay nods politely.

  But on the whole, the lunch goes off quite well. Jay endures another ghee-laden jaggery-rich Gujarati meal. The elders chatter through lunch and through a painful post-lunch session during which Jay is stonewalled by Tuli’s grandmother who speaks only Gujarati and refuses to believe that a nice smart and handsome Gujarati boy like he doesn’t speak a word of the language. He nods a lot, smiles a lot, eats a lot and seethes a lot. He doesn’t get to speak a single word to Tuli. Once, when she and her mother are serving the men their lunch—the women always eat afterwards naturally—he tries to whisper to her: ‘How’s it going?’ butTuli drops two immense bhaturas on his thali and turns away without saying a word.

  Famous Studio, Mahalaxmi. Jay stands dwarfed by a fifty-foot-high blue plastic bucket, and a thirty-foot-high pile of white clothes and linen. To his right, a cameraman's assistant with a light meter around his neck leans against a giant clothes brush. A bar of soap casts a shadow across the vast backdrop painted to resemble a white-tiled bathroom wall. Jay feels like he's the boy in ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’

  stuck in the bathroom of the giant who lives above the clouds. He's just seen the episode on Fairy Tale Theatre which he thinks is the only thing worth watching on Doordarshan, although he doesn't own a television so isn't really qualified to make such a sweeping judgement; but, on the other hand, maybe that's precisely why he doesn't own a television.

  Sawdust tickles his nostrils. He sneezes several times. He should have slept early last night, knowing he had to come here at 7 for this film shoot, but he had borrowed a copy of Stephen King's latest, The Stand, when he was at Warden Road yesterday—after the lunch at Tuli's housefand he kept telling himself—he'd stop after another ten pages, until it was past 1 a.m. Now he's afraid he might be coming down with one of his monster colds, the ones that don't go away for months once they sink their claws into his lungs and sinus. He wishes he could get the hell out of here, go out in the sunshine: better still, go home, take a couple of days off. What the hell, he has nearly ninety thousand in the bank, and no time to go buy Tuli the gift he’d promised her. But Pinch is hot again, and Dave has warned them that anyone taking leave—even sick leave—without permission, will be taken off the brand. That's unthinkable for Jay. He knows how close he is to clinching his position in Synergetics, and this Pinch launch is the perfect opportunity to prove himself once and for all. And things are going so well for him. Just last week, during a discussion in the MD’s cabin, Dave specifically mentioned his name favourably; not exactly praised him, but coming from a pucca sahib like Dave, being mentioned alone was enough to raise eyebrows in the team. ‘Blue-eyed boy,' was what Conrad leaned over to whisper in his ear, and there was more than a little touch of envy in the comment.

  After Jay's pulling out of Enforge—he has given instructions for the rest of the shares to be sold off too—Conrad's attitude to him has changed. He still ribs him about a dozen things, but his stubborn decision to sell the shares evoked a reluctant reappraisal from the office bully—that's what Jay secretly classifies him as. Conrad treats Jay with a little more respect. He has decided to sell off part of his clutch of Enforge shares too, in view of the continuing fall in the stock's prices. Chagganbhai, the broker, is the only one who maintains that they're foolish to do so, but then, brokers make money even when you lose; that is, they get their commission whether you're selling high or low, and anyway, Jay hates middlemen as a rule.

  The director of the commercial, a thin clean-shaven man in a kurta and blue jeans with a little eyepiece around his neck for checking framing—Jay doesn't know what it's called and means to find out—

  walks briskly across the cavernous studio floor to the bald cameraman seated on a stool behind the Arriflex camera set up a surprising distance from the set. Actually, Jay realizes, the distance isn't surprising when one considers the outsized dimensions of the props; it's probably the only decent distance from which the cameraman can get the damn bucket into his frame. As if confirming this hypothesis, Barua, the wry cameraman, answers Sachin, the director's question with a loud

  ‘But what the fuck can I do if you give me those giant fucking things? Give me a table-top, I'll light it up in an hour, but how the fuck do you expect me to light up that fucking thing in ten minutes, yaar?'

  Conrad and Dave, standing nearby, drinking chai, hear this too and grin. Sachinda, as everybody on the unit calls him, says something in return. Barua's booming laugh lingers in the huge studio. Jay finds the shooting process a terrible let-down afte
r all his expectations of dazzling efficiency, mind-boggling coordination and glamorous sights. Then again, they are shooting a detergent commercial, not a fashion ad.

  Still, he has never been one of those who can watch fascinated while thick-lidded technicians spend endless hours adjusting light levels and checking light readings; all for the sake of a shot which is recorded in perhaps ten seconds, with no other exciting accompaniments except the whirring of the Arriflex and the gaff-boy panning it across the set-up. He fingers the visiting card marking the page in the paperback he’s holding. He feels tempted to sneak behind that pile ofscenery there, settle himself on a stool with a glass of tea, and read what happens next to Stu Redman. He isn’t really doing anything; he’s here because Dave insisted that they work ‘skin to skin’ with the advertising people at every stage. As far as Jay can see, the only time he’ll be working skin to skin with anybody here is when he shakes their hands and says goodnight. But as long as Dave is around, he can’t do anything about it. So he stands around, talks occasionally to Dave or Conrad or the account director from the ad agency or the copywriter and art director on the account. He asks the copywriter how many times he’s revised the script prior to shooting and the writer makes a lewd comment on multinationals spending a hundred times as much money, effort and time to decide what anybody with a little common sense can decide in a few days. Jay gets into an argument with the guy over this point. Halfway through a long monologue extolling the virtues of brand planning, research and the careful gathering of ‘genuine’

  consumer insights—as against ‘instinct’ and ‘ commonsense’—he sees a look of pure wretchedness appear on the copywriter’s face for an instant, then give away to a blank expression of polite indifference. It occurs to him that a few years ago, he would have been arguing against, not for, the very things he’s holding forth on so pompously now. But then Dave gives him a nod of approval and his momentary confusion is pushed back into some dusty pigeon-hole to be sifted through and analysed at some more appropriate time; perhaps never.

  The cheque for the remaining 562 shares arrives two days later: Rs 54,260. Jay shakes his head in wonder. Is this really happening? He can't believe he'll be allowed to get away with this, that he could receive so much money for doing nothing. He begins to think about the money he earns at Synergetics and compares it to this windfall.

  There is some essential difference between the two, but he can't seem to put a finger on it. A thought bobs up on the surface of his murky thoughts, but each time he reaches out to grasp it, it slips away.

  He tries several times, then gives up.What does it matter after all; money is money.

  He decides not to tell Tuli about the sale of the remaining shares.

  He isn't sure why he feels this is the right thing to do, but excuses himself with the thought that after all he still has the money, and it is an impressive return on his original investment of Rs 25,000. He feels wonderful, having sold off the shares. Now his gain is tangible, he can hold it in his hands and feel its weight. Listings and statistics make him uneasy. Only hard cash is real, the perfectly aligned neatness of mint-fresh notes in stacks, or at the very least, the stiff comforting feel of a cheque or a bank draft.

  He deposits the cheque, but doesn't find time to buy Tuli's gift that day. The next afternoon, he decides he must do it now or never, so he skips lunch and scours the stores for the object he has in mind—a nice imported watch. He finds one he likes for Rs 1,400. He has never paid so much for a watch before, and his fingers retain their grip on the notes so the store cashier has to almost tug them away from his sweating fist. He walks down Phirozeshah Mehta Road, his pocket still bulging with close to three thousand rupees, and stops outside Strand Bookstall. A large display of one-volume encyclopaedias fills the window and he stares at it for ten whole minutes without reading a single word of the promotional copy. Finally, he creeps towards the door and enters the bookstore.

  Inside, he is frozen by the sight of so many books. It isn't that he hasn't been to a book store before. Of course he has, hundreds of times, but this is the first time he can actually afford to buy virtually any book in the place, and this is what scares him. He feels like a millionaire in one of Tuli's best-seller novels, come to buy the shop.

  He fantasizes walking up to the man behind the desk over there, whom he presumes to be the owner, and asking him how much he would want for the shop. Jay smiles to himself, and a fat Parsi woman in a saree stares suspiciously at him as she tries to get past him to the exit.

  He starts with the Fiction shelves, picking out paperback copies of authors he has only read about until now: Henry Fielding, Thackeray, George Eliot, Henry James, Herman Melville, Andre Gide, Nietzche, Goethe, John Updike, EudoraWelty, D.M. Thomas, Penelope Lively...

  for years he has been reading these names in book review columns which he devours with jealous passion every Sunday, but this is the first time he is holding them in his hands, feeling the smooth slick covers, the soft buffed paper, the thickness of these volumes of words, millions of words, great words, words he wishes he could have written, words he feels he has been waiting all his life to read, and in this remarkable moment, standing in the air-conditioned book store on PM Road, arms filled with a growing pile of books, pocket taut with the bulk of hundred-rupee notes, he knows that someday somehow he will write a book too, if only to be stacked in a book store with these great names, if only to be bought by some word-hungry executive like himself, someone who also appreciates the beauty of a well-turned phrase, the splendour of a fine image, the marvel of wholly credible yet magically incredible creations, the fabulous fabric of fiction, someone like—

  (Meera, yes, like Meera)

  —who will read his words and purse his lips and nod and say, not bad, not bad at all, this Jayesh Mehta is somebody to watch out for, and he grins, a face-splitting ear to ear stupid-eyed grin, and forgets that he hasn't had lunch, that he doesn't know what Tuli's parents have decided about their marriage yet, and that he is already ten minutes late for a Chamatkar meeting in Dave's cabin.

  chapter forty-three

  That Friday, he attends the shooting of the last few shots of the Chamatkar launch commercial at Famous. Today they are exploding the giant bar of soap. The camera is placed behind a sheet of toughened glass. A remote-controlled explosive device is attached to the soap bar which has been cut at certain points to ensure that the explosion takes place as visualized. Sachinda's assistant Mukesh presses the button and Jay winces instinctively as the oversized acrylic bar shatters with a muffled boof! sound followed a second later by the plinking of acrylic fragments falling on the floor of the studio. Barua and Sachinda discuss the shot and Barua says finally, ‘Better safe than sorry.’ He points at Jay, who happens to be the only Synergetics man around at the moment. Since they've paid for three let's give them their money's worth!’

  Jay smiles back. Sachin calls out to him casually: ‘What say? Retake?’

  Jay laughs at this question; Sachinda has made his animosity to having clients present during shootings crystal clear at several times over the last week. After one particular argument, Dave himself said to Yogesh in Jay's presence: ‘Never make the mistake of working with this person again. Totally uncooperative. 'This is why Jay is laughing.

  ‘Whatever you say, Sachinda. You're the boss,’ he says. Sachinda insists:

  ‘You tell us, sir. You're the client, no?’ He makes a gesture of obeisance, a sort of half-salute. Jay shrugs and says, ‘Well, it did look a bit, er, messy, didn’t it?’ Sachinda performs an exaggerated bow: ‘Right you are, sir. Retake.’ Barua laughs heartily. Sachinda turns away and says to the cameraman: ‘Executive assholes.’ Jay hears the muttered comment. He stands around for a while watching them set up another giant bar for the second take.When the tea comes around, nobody offers him any and he feels left out and unwanted. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, beginning to hate the studio, film shots, his job, the clothes he wears, everything. In the last week,
he has read only another ten pages of The Stand. Of the fourteen books he bought from Strand Bookstall that day, he has read none. He hasn’t even had time to write his name on the flyleaves.

  Around noon, a tall bony man comes into the studio. They have just finished the second take of the soap bar exploding and Sachinda has asked for the next shot to be set up.

  The tall man works for the studio. Jay remembers hearing him talk to Sachin about their plans for renovation. He stops in the middle of the room, looks around and says, to nobody in particular: ‘Arrey, have you heard?’

  Nobody is quite sure who he’s speaking to so nobody replies at first. Jay is standing a few feet away, but isn’t sure whether he should speak. He’s still burning from that last comment. But when the man looks at him, he says, ‘What?’

  The man looks around to make sure he’s being heard by everybody: Indira Gandhi was shot.’

  Sachinda calls out sarcastically: ‘That’s all we need, another model! ’

  The man looks at Sachinda and gestures with his hand: ‘ Nahi, Sachinda, seriously. Very terrible thing. She was shot at this morning.

  She’s in hospital.Very serious, they say.’

  Some lightmen are talking on a catwalk overhead. Barua calls out to them in Hindi. They stop talking. The Famous studio manager repeats his news in Hindi. Nobody says anything for a moment, then several people from the unit, mostly production assistants, crowd around him and start plying him with questions. Jay moves closer to listen but learns nothing further than what the man has already said, which seems to be all that the All India Radio newsreader had to say.