‘Every generation carries that impression,’ said Buddhoo. ‘Midlife nostalgia. Pure chemistry. Most of you guys were only writing love poems. Some of your pals pronounced it “law”. I remember one solemn discussion on “law”—such tales of passion and heartbreak. It’s best to law twenty-five at a time, said one. That’s treacherous, said another. Lawing one is a full-time job, frequently overtime. But Lord Krishna managed pretty well, mused the first. Come to think of it, Lord Krishna was a slight, dark sort of a guy. Not particularly smart. Didn’t even wear a tie. How come the girls were all over him?’
‘Maybe he held a diploma from a personality-development institute,’ quipped Pragya.
Buddhoo threw back his head and laughed. ‘Your literary success began painfully, I must say. Even if it wasn’t the way you saw it.’
Sravan’s train of thought led him to ask, ‘Do you remember Amrit? Hell of a chap, Pragya. Also dead now, poor bloke.’
‘Good chap,’ said Buddhoo soberly. ‘I think of him quite often.’
‘He was one maskhara. You know, once in the lodge he put up a big poster on the wall beside his bed. Ava Gardner in Mocambo or some such thing. He pointed at it and told me very solemnly in his rackety English, “Yaar, I have fallen into love with this female.” “Like falling into a ditch, what?” I mocked. “My love is pure and holy,” declared Amrit piously. “I see all her fillums. But tell me one thing, Sravan-bhai. I’ve developed a great liking for these Hollywood fillums, only I never manage to understand exactly what’s going on. Even rickshaw-pullers seem to understand this language, but not I. I don’t know when to laugh or clap or wolf-whistle, when to toss coins at the screen as others do.” I tried to sort it out. “Why don’t you just watch how laughter in the movie hall starts at one end and sweeps down the rows until everyone is convulsed? I bet no one else there knows when to laugh, either.” ’
‘D’you remember how Amrit used to try to explain you to me and me to you? When we had one of our flaming rows, he always intervened.’
‘Doubtless with noble pacific intent.’
‘Yes, he tried to clarify us to one another, saying: “One minute, please. What Ravan means is …” And he always managed to convey exactly the opposite of what I meant, until I was tearing my hair and yelling, “That isn’t what I mean, you fucker! You’ve got it all wrong!” But he’d hold up a patient hand and say: “One more minute, please. I’m just coming to what you had in mind.” ’
‘He managed to bungle and blunder and bosh up the whole issue until he had us totally confounded about what we were originally clamouring about.’
‘Instead, our energies went in telling the bugger to shut his trap and lay off trying to restore peace.’
‘He wasn’t as daft as he pretended, though.’
‘And that time the three of us dressed as beggars and sat outside the Sarojgarh temple to raise funds for beer.’
‘You financed yourselves in all sorts of adventurous ways,’ said Pragya.
‘We had to.’
‘And how much did you raise?’
‘Not the two of us; we weren’t authentic enough. It was Amrit who stole the show.’
‘Blind singing leper boy. Paws bandaged in grimy rags, eyes rolled back. The fellow had such an ache in his voice, it’d break your heart.’
‘Don’t forget he’d trained as a classical singer.’
‘He certainly put it to good use. The fellow amassed heaps of coins while the two of us got a niggardly ten paise or so. Guys hurrying across the yard took one look at us and their faces hardened. You could see them thinking—Lazy bastards. Able-bodied parasites! Why don’t they work for a living? But Amrit’s whining trills twisted the hearts of the toughest.’
‘He earned enough to foot our beer bills.’
When they’d finished laughing over that one, they fell silent and looked past one another in shared disquiet. Sravan said, ‘How come none of us knew he had a heart condition?’
‘He didn’t know it himself.’
‘How did he die?’ asked Pragya quietly.
‘In his usual cranky way. He used to oversleep every morning, and we had to splash him with cold water to get him to wake up. It used to make us late. When we cribbed about it he’d say, ‘Abe, you benighted sons of the owl, I’ll tell you a sure-fire way of waking me up. If I’m lying here stoned or sleeping, just whisper in my ear: “News! You’ve become the Chief Justice of India!”’
‘That’s how it happened, believe it or not. We shook him and shook him but he didn’t respond. We put our lips to his ear and shouted, ‘Wake up, abe haramzade, there’s great news! You’ve become the Chief Justice of India!’
‘We shook him and shook him …’
Sravan’s voice trailed away in perplexity. They sat, faces closed, and did not speak. Years after his death, Amrit had reaped his two minutes’ worth of silence as his posthumous revenue of regard from his friends.
‘Some people seriously believed it was the avenging manes. His death, I mean.’
‘How?’
‘On the day Pitrapaksha ended, all the busti-wallahs used to cook piles of goodies: puris, kachoris, karhi, dahi baras. Mutton and sweets, too. They’d leave it all for the spirits of ancestors at the river ghat.’
‘Booze, too. And bidis, if the departed had been fond of his drink and smoke.’
‘Grub for the deceased seniors, see? Well, that Pitrapaksha, Amrit went and made a sumptuous feast of it all, along with some friendly pariah dogs.’
‘He was like that. Bohemian.’
‘The busti-wallahs were outraged. It just wasn’t done—poaching on the spirits’ annual treat! When Amrit suddenly conked off, some folks said, “Ah, there it is. What did we tell you?” ’
‘Spooky.’
‘Yes.’
‘That old crone cursed him. What was her name?’
‘Malti.’
‘Ah, yes. Aunt Malti to you, if I remember right.’
‘Who was she?’ Pragya asked.
‘A servant. She washed our clothes.’
‘Remember how she drooled over the memories of her dead husband?’
‘He used to be an alcoholic. They were famous for their squabbles; you could hear them down the lane. He beat her up black and blue, yet after his death she was full of him. On the last day of Pitrapaksha she cooked all his favourite food and fondly arranged it on a platter and put it on the riverbank.’
‘That was some of the stuff Amrit polished off.’
‘D’you know, Buddhoo, she made it into one of my books.’
‘That old crone in The Temple of Sarojgarh?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Is she alive?’
‘I really don’t know. I don’t think so. I last met her in ’85 or so. I was visiting the city and thought of taking a walk through the old area, since I’d used it extensively in my book. And there she was, pottering about. Her house had shrunk to a hovel. She was very old, almost blind, and she had trouble remembering me. She was ill-fed and sort of bitter and spiteful. Now, The Temple of Sarojgarh was a commercial success. Netted a tidy sum for the publishers and a nice bit of royalty for me, and was made into an award-winning film in the mid-’80s with Mrigank Sengupta directing and celebrities like Shalini Swaroop and Pritam Puri in the cast.’
‘Yes, I missed seeing it.’
‘I have the video; show it to you one of these days. The grandmother’s role was done by Manorama Mankad. You probably haven’t heard of her but she was a big-time art-film personality. I was more than satisfied with the adaptation: Manorama made old Malti come alive. Every quaver and scowl and toothy smile. She really studied the part. So seeing poor Malti in the flesh after many years was a shock. Even I had somehow come to associate the video image with her, until Manorama was more like the Malti I remembered than Malti herself. Now she was bent, ragged, senile, shockingly ill. I looked at her, and I was ashamed—you know what I mean? I thought of all that the movie buffs had said and the tabloids, t
he film festivals and the best-actress awards, the parties, the reviews of the Mankad retrospective, the money that had flowed. I felt like a thief. I’d used the content of an old woman’s self, over which she could assert no copyright, for which she couldn’t claim a percentage. And now she had belied the book, as it were, gone beyond the range of camera focus towards her own separate doom—which was different from the fate my book or the film had assigned her. Like a tragic revolt …’
Sravan stared at the ceiling, leaning back in his chair. His voice pursued a tortuous point of conscience. Soul-surfing.
‘For a writer it’s something of a blow to realize how life constantly defies the expectations of literature. It is always less merciful and more inventive, carrying on with unexpected patterns long after the imaginative function stops.’
‘All this sounds great, but what did you do for her?’ asked Buddhoo with a crooked grin.
‘I wondered what to give her. Like an idiot I gave her a copy of my book. I had dedicated it to all my anonymous sources of inspiration, and I told her she was in it. She looked at it in confusion. It didn’t make sense. What I told her was entirely outside her range of understanding, and of course she couldn’t read anyway. She threw my book a look of complete contempt. It was utterly useless to her. Quite deflating—to measure your work against a different scale. I came back and sent her a thick cotton sari. Good for the cold weather, Pragya said. But again, too small. I searched my memory for something, some wish she might have expressed in the old days, and after strenuous recollection I recovered a stray remark that gave me a clue: she had desperately wanted to go on pilgrimage to Badrinath and Kedarnath. So I made all the arrangements, sent the cash and sent my secretary at the academy, Srivastava, to accompany her.’
Sravan changed the subject. ‘Ever hear from Nandita?’
‘Got a letter from her after a year of her marriage. I guess that’s the only favourable written testimonial I’ve ever been given. Kind of a review of my agreeable self.’
‘You fucked up your law exam because of that miserable business.’
‘Maybe.’
Pragya ventured hesitantly, ‘Who was Nandita? Your girlfriend?’
Buddhoo smiled a twisted smile. ‘Yes. Shall I tell her the whole disgusting history?’
Sravan grimaced. ‘Go ahead. Makes no difference now. It’s all too far in the past.’
‘Started as a psychological experiment. Two sisters. Sravan and I were trying to write a book each. Back in the Morrisgunj days.’
‘Along with the two sisters?’
‘No. This was about “law” again: romance, passion, sex. We needed concrete experiences, real characters, authentic material.’
‘The girls suspected nothing.’
‘Ravan got all the material he wanted. And more than the experience he strictly needed.’
‘More than I’d bargained for or was capable of handling. Hell, she was a furnace!’ He’d always enjoyed parading his past affairs for Pragya’s benefit.
‘You led her on, yaar.’
‘She stuck to me like a leech. For months.’
‘She had a breakdown afterwards, don’t forget.’ There was a murk of resentment in Buddhoo’s voice. ‘We despised you. Your book was fantastically written, though.’
‘I wonder what became of her?’
Buddhoo shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Mine was the other one. Nandita.’
‘Did you get a book out of her, too?’ asked Pragya in a strange voice.
Buddhoo sparked up. ‘Me? I forgot the fucking book. Forgot everything. Filled out a thick pad with letters. All the while Ravan was scientifically studying each mood and desire, getting a great book out of it, carving out his sentences, there was I, scribbling letters to her. She gave them back afterwards. She was scared to keep them. Oh, we were a mess. It ended, of course.’
‘How?’
‘She got engaged. The old story. I was going to burn all that trash I scribbled, but Ravan here said, ‘Here, let’s take a look, Devdas.’ I passed them on and they passed into literature.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, Sravan, wrote them in—his second draft was much more concentrated than the first.’
‘That book got great reviews.’
‘Must have. As for me, she wrote me that one letter a year later, saying something like, “All my life I’ll care for this man I’ve married but I’ll be measuring him against you and finding him less”—that sort of thing. The only review my letters got.’
There was silence. Sravan heaved a sigh and said, ‘Oh, that first book. Every unpractised sentence a discovery, every insight dearly bought.’
‘Only the price wasn’t yours to pay,’ said Buddhoo softly.
‘Still sore? Anyway, yaar, to each his own. At least I got a book out of it; you didn’t even manage a girl. Jo jeeta woh Sikandar.’
‘Yes. And jo haara woh mast kalandar.’
Buddhoo’s eyes had a fluid shine, and his nose was oddly full. He cleared his throat and Sravan said reflectively, ‘That’s why I often feel that all this art stuff has been just artifice. Counterfeit. Others might swallow it. I can’t.’
‘Nice speech,’ said Buddhoo. ‘Especially on a fattened ego.’ He turned to Pragya with a knavish smile. ‘Is this what you called Ravan’s overdose of high seriousness?’
‘D’you know the time?’ said Pragya. ‘It’s past two.’
3
‘Each time I realize how close I’ve come to making my million and how dumbly I’ve let the chance go, I could beat my breast and howl like a banshee,’ said Buddhoo. ‘Now this news item in the Statesman—three enterprising young college boys kidnapped their pal and got the guy’s pa to cough up a fortune. Why couldn’t Amrit and I have thought of that?’
‘Who would you have kidnapped?’
‘You, why not?’
‘No go—my father wouldn’t have coughed up. Besides, you’d have had to maintain me, and I have finicky tastes in food and drink. I never repeat a shirt. I smoke expensive fags …’
‘Why wouldn’t your father have coughed up?’
‘He’s never thought me a worthwhile proposition. At the best of times my credit with him’s low. Right now it’s touching rock bottom.’
While Buddhoo digested this, Sravan plucked up the courage to propose an employment-hunting expedition.
‘Time for business. There’s a guy—Arora, chartered accountant—in the colony. Needs an office assistant for his private set-up …’
Buddhoo waved a dismissive hand. ‘Sorry, I’ve other plans,’ he said loftily.
‘Arora’ll train you in accounts and computers.’
‘My tastes incline to the rustic arts.’
‘There’s a small room with attached bath on his terrace. He’ll let you have it on a nominal rent.’
‘What I’m looking for is the moon with attached bath. Leased or freehold.’
‘You’ve got to plan right.’
‘I’ve joined a correspondence course in homeopathy and alternative healing.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘As serious as damnit. I want to set up as an alternative-healing vet. I tried it once but things went wrong. I mean, how does one manage acupressure with a dog? There was this cur with a limp. I tried a spot of acupressure, but the cur proved a greater master of the art: buried his fangs in my calf. I stand forever cured of an old toothache, I grant, but I’m reluctant to pursue my mission, knowing animals as I do and fully sharing their mistrust of human motives … So let me complete the course and take the exams and frame my diploma. In the meantime I might turn critic. I propose to write monographs on your future works, and you can accordingly tailor your books to fit my criticism. The next step in post–postmodern criticism. Let the criticism precede the work.’
‘Stop kidding around.’
‘No, think what a breakthrough it will be. Standing the cause-and-effect formula on its head. Temporal concurrence …’
‘Quite a conference
intellectual, Buddhoo,’ observed Pragya. ‘I’m disappointed. Where did you pick all this up?’
‘Oh, Buddhoo’s full of surprises. Don’t be taken in by his act,’ said Sravan.
‘Or else,’ continued Buddhoo, ‘I’ve thought of applying for a place in a home for the aged. A permanent residency. Full board, lodging, medical facilities, leave-travel subsidy, cultural and recreational benefits, income-tax exemption, free rail and air travel as a senior citizen. If my friends would only subsidize and sponsor me.’
‘Perish the thought. You won’t be a senior citizen for three decades at least.’
‘I can entertain the senior citizens.’
‘That you can, seeing what a hit you are with Babuji,’ remarked Sravan wryly. ‘What was he telling you last night? I heard the two of you getting pretty riotous.’
‘That? Oh, that was all about his contribution to Britain’s War Effort. 1942.’
‘What did he ever have to do with it?’
‘Didn’t you know? He was a respected member of a dedicated group called Ha Ha Hi.’
‘What?’
‘Ha Ha Hi, my dear Ravan, wasn’t any laughing matter, as its name tempts you to think. It used to be a committed cell of the Hindustan Scout Association to assist wounded victims during the blitz. Dramatic, what? The Germans on the rampage, the Japs baring their fangs on our eastern front, the French fallen …’
‘There was no blitz here. No blitz could ever hope to submerge Babuji. He’s always been the prince of all blitzes. Besides, the only place where a blitz was expected—and that only by rabid pessimists—was Calcutta, and to the best of my knowledge, information and belief, Babuji’s never set foot there.’
‘Ah, but fellows in the United Provinces weren’t going to miss the fun. What d’you think? Most were on the side of the Germans. All except the toadies, who seized their chance to demonstrate solidarity. And your father actually enlisted as a scout in this Ha Ha Hi.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ cried Sravan, exasperated.
Virtual Realities Page 3