Vertigo

by Ashok Banker

  An hour later, several people come in and speak to Sachinda. He talks to them quietly, then discusses something with Barua. They both look at Jay several times. He braces himself for another retort.

  Finally Sachinda’s assistant comes up to him and says, ‘Sachinda says there might be trouble. He wants to pack up. Okay with you?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Riots or something. Never know.’

  ‘But why ? You mean... the prime minister?’

  ‘They’re saying she’s dead. They’re saying she was shot by her own bodyguards.’ The production assistant is a heavy girl with coarse pimpled skin and hair tied up in a severe bun that accentuates her hard features. She lowers her voice: ‘Sikh bodyguards.’

  ‘But... what do you want me to say?’

  ‘Basically, like, is it okay with you? If we pack up? You’re from Syngergetics, right? So?’

  ‘I can’t take that decision. I’ll have to call my superior, ask him.’

  The assistant groans, rolls her eyes, and walks back to Sachinda. The director looks at Jay, grins sardonically, and calls out to the room,

  ‘Pack up! Chalo, chalo. Pack up!’

  Jay stands still while the unit breaks up into groups of twos and threes talking about the shooting. Finally, he goes outside to the pay phone and calls up the office. Dave is out, so he asks forYogesh.

  ‘Yogi, this guy wants to pack up. I mean, he’s already packed up.

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘The assassination?’

  ‘You mean. . . she’s dead?’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying. Somebody said they heard that she was shot by some foreigners.’

  ‘I heard Sikhs. Anyway, look, what do I do?’

  ‘I don’t know, yaar. I think office might close early. They say there are riots in Delhi and there might be trouble here.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask the producer to call Dave and ask him?’

  ‘Dave’s not in. Suchi says he’s gone somewhere with the MD.’

  ‘Oh yeah, they’re having lunch with those firangs.’ So what do I do? This guy has already told everybody to pack up.’

  ‘Look, it’s not your decision, so don’t worry. As soon as Dave comes in, I’ll speak to him. As long as Sachinda is able to deliver the film by the 15th, what he does is his problem. How was the boom shot?’

  ‘Cool. They did a retake.’ Jay doesn’t tell Yogesh about the ‘assholes’

  comment. He doesn’t think Yogesh will care much.

  ‘So just go home and relax.’

  ‘You mean... I shouldn’t come to office? But what if we don’t close early?’

  ‘No way. There’s sure to be trouble. You know those lal-jhandawallahs. They’ll use anything as an excuse to call a bandh.’

  ‘If she’s really dead...

  ‘Nah. That female is made of lokhand, yaar. Iron lady. Woh nahi maregi.’

  Jay goes back to the studio and finds Sachinda and Barua gone.

  Only the production assistants are still around, supervising the cleansing of the fragments of acrylic and the shifting of the remaining props behind a large cyclorama—the entire commercial, script to prop, is as confidential as an ad can possibly get. After all, the company is spending forty lakhs on the first month of the launch alone. Jay goes over to the girl who spoke to him earlier, he thinks her name is Angie or Aggie.

  ‘Er, Aggie,’ he says, slurring the name a bit so it can pass for either,

  ‘Where’s Sachinda?’

  She looks at him with exasperation. ‘Maggie, man. Maggie.’

  ‘Uh, sorry. Where’s—’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Jay looks around uncertainly.

  ‘Is there a problem? Any message?’ she snaps.

  ‘Uh, yeah. Just tell him to call Dave Rai at Synergetics.’

  ‘The brown sahib? Okay.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell him.’ Maggie looks at another female production assistant and makes a face that Jay isn’t meant to see but does. The other assistant stifles a giggle and carries on putting camera lenses into long cylindrical boxes.

  Jay walks around the studio, unable to orient himself to this sudden freedom. He tries to decide what to do and reaches the conclusion that he can’t avoid going back to office. Unless. . . what if he just goes home and calls up to say that he couldn’t get transport? No, they would know if the buses and trains are off the roads. And there are always taxis. He sighs. He wishes he’d brought his copy of The Stand today. He could have sat outside and read it for awhile. After all, it’s almost lunchtime anyway, he doesn’t have to hurry back to office. But after carrying it around for two days, he began to feel like a fool; and when somebody asked him if he was a big Stephen King fan or what, he left the book at home.

  He goes outside into the sunshine. Only, it’s not really bright and sunny. The October heat is still on, but today the skies are cloudy and the sun seems duller. He walks out of the studio and starts off towards Mahalaxmi station, intending to take a train to Churchgate. Then he stops halfway and remembers that he’s entitled to cab fare back to office. He has a little difficulty finding a cab; two parked outside the studio say they don't want to go in that direction and several whizzing by have their meters on the side and simply don't stop. Finally, one stops. En route, he asks the driver if he has any news about the shooting, but the old Nepali doesn't know what he's talking about. He hasn't heard anything. When Jay tells him the prime minister has been assassinated, he shrugs and says in hill-accented Hindi: ‘ Humko nahi maloom,baba. Sab jhoot hai. 'This remark amuses and enfuriates Jay. He tries to argue with the driver but the man shakes his head and refuses to reply.

  He enters office to find everything as normal. The clock on the reception wall shows 2.38. Suchitra smiles briefly. He goes to his cubicle and checks his desk. Nothing new. He goes to Dave’s cabin and knocks softly. Dave's voice calls him in. He goes in and finds the group already seated, talking about the assassination attempt or assassination, nobody is sure which is correct.

  ‘Bullshit, man,’ Conrad is saying, ‘If they had to take revenge for Operation Blue Star why did they wait so long?’

  Jay sits down. Sunil smiles at him. The others are totally absorbed in the discussion. Sunder comes in a moment later with tea. Jay realizes he hasn't had lunch and asks Sunder to get him an omelette sandwich, toasted. Dave says something about the shooting, and Yogesh tells him about Jay's phone call.

  He didn't really ask me,’ Jay explains to Dave, ‘He just told everybody to pack up.‘

  Dave nods and asks a few more questions about the shots taken that morning and those not yet taken. Then, Queenie, the secretary Dave shares with Sreenivasan, comes in with a circular from the MD.

  Dave reads it, signs it, and then says: ‘Okay, boys, I think we can pack up too.’

  Everybody’s mood changes. Conrad and Yogesh start talking about going somewhere for a beer. Dave gets up and says, ‘Look now, boys.

  I don’t think this is the time to go gallivanting around. I suggest you all head home directly.’

  The party breaks up. Sitting at his desk, several executives and secretaries pass by Jay on their way out, carrying bags, satchels, briefcases. An air of nervous urgency runs through the company. Jay feels excited, like he should do something. His stomach churns, empty except for the lemon tea. Sunder comes and grins sheepishly, announcing that the cheese is over, will a plain omelette sandwich do?

  Jay can’t remember whether he ordered a cheese omelette sandwich or a plain omelette sandwich in the first place, but changes his mind and cancels the order. He sits at his desk a moment longer, then picks up the phone and calls Tuli.

  ‘Where are you?’ Her voice is excited, high-pitched.

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Jay, you should go home. It’s dangerous!’

  ‘Come on. I just came from Mahalaxmi. It was absolutely normal.’

  ‘Don�
��t be silly, Jay. Go home.’

  ‘What about your father? Any decision yet?’

  ‘I told you, he’s in Ahmedabad.’

  ‘I thought he was coming back yesterday. Last night.’

  ‘Flight got cancelled. Now god knows when he’ll be able to come.

  ‘Listen, we’re expecting a call from him any minute. Go home. And if you can, call me when you reach to tell me you’re okay.And Jay, don’t do anything silly, okay?’

  ‘What am I going to do? Join in a riot?’

  ‘You know all those funny ideas you have. About standing up for what you believe in and all that rubbish.’

  ‘If we all stood up for what we think is right, maybe something like this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.’

  ‘Okay, baba. I’m not in the mood for politics, now, okay?’

  But this isn’t about politics, it’s—’

  ‘Bye, love. Call me when you reach home.’

  The streets are swarming with office-goers heading for the station.

  A mood of apocalyptic disaster is in the air. He remembers a book he read as a child: H.G.Wells' War of the Worlds. For some strange reason, this mass exodus towards Churchgate station reminds him of the evacuation of London before the juggernauts of the approaching death-dealing Martians. He glances back fearfully, looking up above the telecommunications building for signs of wavering tentacles or bug-eyed aliens. The sky is cloudy and windless.

  The trains are more crowded than usual, if such a thing is possible to imagine . The hordes waiting on the platform leap like rabid monkeys on to the train much before it stops, their elbows and feet pounding the hollow metal with a thud-thudding chorus only partly drowned by their hysterical shouts and yells of triumph as they race for seats.

  Jay misses several trains before he finally grows disgusted at the crowd which seems to increase rather than decrease, and finally gets on to an Andheri local. The train is late leaving the station and people keep cramming in until there's no place for any more to even put a single foot on the running board. The compartment is buzzing with agitated discussion about the assassination. Jay hears four different versions from as many quarters. He tires of the topic and wishes everybody would just shut up about whether it was a Sikh or a Hindu and whether if she dies Rajiv Gandhi will be the next PM or what will happen. He hears several people talk scathingly about Sikhs, about how they 've been getting too big for their boots, about how all minorities should be shot/extradited/locked up, and remembers a Sikh classmate he had in the tenth standard at school. He went back to Delhi after they passed out, Jay knows.Where is he right now, at this moment? What would he think if he heard all this? Then he notices, at a window seat, a middle-aged Sikh, his brown turban dusty and worn, sitting reading a Midday. Nobody seems to be paying special attention to him, nor vice versa. Sitting there in the corner, he looks either fenced-in or well-protected, depending on how you look at it. Jay wonders if things are this amicable in Delhi. The air is thick with tension; with an excitement shot through with stale sweat and trite prejudices, but the frail old Sikh just sits there and does the crossword puzzle in the Midday and nobody seems to notice that he wears a turban. Such is Bombay. Then again, nobody would notice if the Sardarji was being hacked to bits too. Such is also Bombay.

  At Andheri station he tries to catch an autorickshaw home but none of them are willing to go to Lokhandwala. ‘ Kyon?’ he asks one driver furiously. The man mutters something about trouble that side and drives away without a passenger, his meter on the side. The line for the bus stretches to eternity. He stands anyway, but when the first bus comes in and is filled with barely one-third of the line, he turns away in disgust and starts walking. A knot of rebellion stirs in his gut and he decides to walk all the way—a distance of over 7 kilometres.

  He starts trudging furiously along the chaotic traffic-maddened road.

  It seems strange to see hordes of office-goers streaming out of the station at 4.45 in the evening. A tremendous excitement fills the air, a nervous electricity crackling through the streets, a feeling of anticipation, of impending violence uncoiling like a gigantic serpent in the belly of the city. Jay walks behind a group of typist-types in flower-patterned skirts and blouses for a while and the girls glance behind at him, scanning the street for any sign of trouble. He feels compelled to look back too and one of the girls notices this and laughs at him . She whispers to the others and they all turn back and look at him, giggling openly. He grins back at them; this shuts them up. They walk on faster, keeping close together, shouting frantically to each other when separated by traffic walking six abreast, they take up half the road. A bus roars past a bus stop, people hanging from the windows. The crowd waiting at the stop yell and scream their frustration; two young schoolboys sprint after the speeding bus and keep after it with dogged determination, actually managing to catch up with it at the signal. They jump straight on the rear bumper with the practised confidence of veterans and stand on the three-inch strip of metal, clinging precariously to the sides of the bus. The crowd at the bus stop raises a small cheer. Jay is disappointed to see the group of girls turn off down another street. He walks on towards D.N.

  Nagar.

  The streets are still bursting with hordes of people hurrying home.

  An Irani restaurant has a blackboard placed outside the entrance; a crowd has gathered around it. Taller than most of the throng, Jay raises himself on his toes and can see part of the sign. It is in Hindi. It announces that Smt. Indira Gandhi was shot this morning by unknown assailants. Jay pushes past the crowd and goes into the restaurant. It is decorated in the typical style of Irani restaurants: black carved chairs, wooden tables with glass-tops, mirrors on the walls, rows of shelves displaying canned foods, toothpastes, toiletries, a heavy florid-faced old Iranian Indian at a counter with a glass-top under which cigarettes and chocolates are arrayed, non-uniformed waiters standing around casually, a hairy-armed cook in a dirty banian leaning at the kitchen serving counter, waiting for orders. Jay sits down and looks at the menus placed under the glass-top of the wooden table; there are four menus, each arranged to face one of the four seats; long lists of egg dishes, chicken dishes, mutton dishes, ‘snacks’ and ‘bovarages'. He orders a double omelette with bun maska. The waiter calls out the egg order to the bored cook who grunts and sets about the job slowly but efficiently. The waiter goes over to a glass sideboard inside which dozens of buns, brun paos, sliced bread are kept, along with a dish of butter. He takes out a sweet bun, slices it in half horizontally, applies two precise licks of butter to each half, sticks both halves back together, then cuts the bun into strips. He sweeps the buttered sliced bun off the marble-top on to a stainless steel plate and brings it over to Jay's table. From his pocket he extracts a knife and a teaspoon, wipes them with the cloth hanging over his arm, and sets them down on the table.

  The sizzling of oil from the kitchen ceases and the burly cook reappears with a steel plate which he sets on the counter. The waiter brings the omelette over to Jay. It's large, greasy, a strange yellow-brown which Jay has only seen in Irani restaurants, and crisped around the edges which is how he likes it.With the maska pao—this crumbles in his hand and melts in his mouth with a unique salty sweetness—it makes a delicious meal. He goes through two more bun maskas to finish the egg using the strips of soft crumbly bread to scoop up pieces of the omelette. Then he orders a pani kum chai and another bun maska. He dips the buttered sweet bun in the concentrated tea, absorbing the entire cupful in this way by the time the bread is over. Only then does he feel the lightness in his head reduced, his bilious stomach settling.

  The crowd outside the restaurant has increased. People are standing outside and staring at the blackboard for much longer than it takes to read the brief message. Jay realizes with a little shock that most of them probably can't even read and are simply staring at the meaningless chalked squiggles. At the counter, the florid old Iranian Indian talks in a loud voice to a younger Iranian who must be his
son. The son is fiddling with a cricket ball, rubbing it with his fingers, holding it to his ears. As a crackling static-distorted voice emerges from it, Jay realizes the ‘ball’ is a transistor-radio. The son is trying to find the news. ‘Hah,'

  he says in triumph as a droning Hindi monotone comes on:Vividh Bharati. The four waiters sidle over slowly to the counter, hands leaning on the backs of empty chairs, listening casually. Jay and two men drinking tea at another table are the only customers in the place.

  The two men stop talking and listen to the broadcast. Jay tries hard to follow it but the tiny speaker of the little radio and the‘ shudh' Hindi of the newsreader makes it all but unintelligible to him.

  He asks the waiter for the bill and pays it, feeling good about the one hundred and forty thousand sitting in his bank account. He likes having all that money and coming into a little cafe like this and paying a bill of Rs 17.75. He leaves the change from the twenty as a tip and chews a handful of saunf. The restauranteur's transistor crackles and spits a long hissing interruption as he walks to the door, settles abruptly into an ominous silence as a familiar nasal bass voice begins to speak.

  Jay stops. He has heard that voice before. It belongs to President Zail Singh. He remembers someone mentioning that Zail Singh was abroad on a diplomatic mission and had been recalled urgently after the assault on the prime minister. He was now back in the country. Jay listens carefully to the maddeningly soft transistor, trying to follow the President's words. Outside, the world seems to have stopped to listen. Traffic sounds have ceased; although that’s probably a coincidence. The tension that has been building since noon winds to a peak. A fly hums around the ear of the old Irani restauranteur. He slaps it away impatiently. The waiters are clustered around the counter.

  Some of the crowd staring at the blackboard come up the steps of the entrance and stand around listening to the broadcast. Jay sits down again, not at the same table, but at the nearest one.

  He watches the faces turned towards the transistor. Eight, nine, ten... the cook comes out of the kitchen, brusquely ordering his assistants to get back... twelve, thirteen, fourteen... fourteen faces listening to the little transistor-radio, their eyes staring blankly at diverse points like actors in an ensemble piece. Jay looks at each face in turn. He remembers, of all the crazy things, the scene at the beginning of theWestern movie Once Upon aTime in the West when the three gunmen are waiting for Charles Bronson to arrive on the train.