‘Hawai hamle se hifazat,’ said Buddhoo in high glee. ‘Fantastic, what? Babuji was a First Aid scout.’
‘Funny,’ mused Sravan. ‘All these years, he’s never once mentioned this little detail to me. I just can’t see him rendering first aid to anyone. It’s out of character. If there ever was a determined candidate for first aid, it was Babuji himself. And he saw to it that he got it—from the entire world.’
Buddhoo looked intently at Sravan, not missing the bitterness in his voice. Self-conscious, Sravan pulled himself together and changed the subject.
‘What I want us to do—right away—is drop in and speak to Arora.’
‘Who?’
‘The chartered accountant.’
Buddhoo regarded him in stubborn silence.
‘We must negotiate with him about rent and salary. Why don’t you change your clothes?’
‘I’m okay as I am.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re totally unkempt. Put on something presentable. If you haven’t got it, I’ll lend you something.’
‘Fuck-all,’ scoffed Buddhoo. ‘How respectable we’ve become! What’re the lot of you ashamed of?’
‘You,’ retorted Sravan, not to be outdone, ‘are an elderly flower child. Still practising an extinct hippiehood. Stuck in the sixties. Are you coming?’
The snap in Sravan’s voice made Buddhoo rise in immediate compliance, murmuring, ‘Okay, boss.’
In a few minutes Sravan was ringing Arora’s doorbell, and in a few minutes more they were back in the tree-lined lane, Sravan in deep gloom and Buddhoo in high spirits.
‘Sorry,’ said Sravan. ‘He’s found someone already.’
‘Sorry yourself,’ crowed Buddhoo.
They were dangerously close to a quarrel. Sravan shuddered to remember their old altercations, and struggled to master his face. ‘I thought you wanted me to help you find a job.’
‘It happens, Ravan, that you’re far more anxious than I am. What’s it? Want me to pack up and leave? I’ll do it right away.’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Sravan. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘The day I want you out I’ll throw you out on your backside. I’ve never stood on ceremony with you.’
‘Then what?’
‘You can’t go on like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a saala junkie. Swadeshi brand. Doing nothing.’
‘Nothing? I do much more than most guys. The things I’ve done in my life would fill a volume.’
‘Look, I’m sure you’ll give us the story of your life in large doses over the next few days but you’re making a bloody mess of your life.’
‘It’s a good sight better than most people’s lives. I see what you’re driving at, and I’m leaving first thing tomorrow!’
Sravan stopped. He cursed in a low voice. ‘Ulloo ke patthe! Do you think I’ll let you? I spent months in your village home when I was dead broke, and you have the nerve to imagine …’
Buddhoo studied Sravan’s flushed face a long moment before his own broke into a sheepish grin. ‘So you’re prepared to wait— till I find the right thing? Or don’t find it?’
‘Have it your own way.’
‘No typing, accounts or computers?’
‘No.’
‘The moon with attached bath for me, right?’
‘Designer junkie,’ jibed Sravan. ‘You can slum it in your own way. I’ll explain it to Pragya. Our very own domestic philosopher. For some reason best known to you, you’ve got a job phobia. You’re a full-time addabaaz. Yarn-spinner, tea-stall raconteur, professional sponger.’
‘Just for a few months, Ravan, yaar,’ said Buddhoo in a small voice. ‘I’ll pay for my keep.’
Sravan stopped and considered Buddhoo seriously. An idea had just offered itself, promising and entire. One of those swift instants of inspiration had come, fully finished and perfect.
‘You just spoke of paying me, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You can do it in kind, not cash. You can take my father off my back.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Take his mind off his peevish pranks. Entertain him, don’t you see? It’s perfectly clear. The man’s bored stiff and naturally mischievous. I can’t devote any time to him, and anyway I don’t seem to have anything to say to him. There’s all my editorial work at Swadeshi and my classes at the Centre for Literary Arts, plus my own writing. And Pragya’s tied up with her design company and the kids. Neither of us can open up with him. We’ve tried—she’s better at it than I am—but he used to be such a supremo that all of us go mute, and it’s too late to change the pattern now. But come to think of it, yaar, you’re made for the job. A natural entertainer, and you seem to click with him, too. Just the other day Pragya was talking of finding a full-time nurse …’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Not in the least. There won’t be much nursing to do. All you have to do is be a companion.’
‘Durbar jester.’
‘You’ll be doing me a great favour. D’you know how much nurses charge?’
‘Babysit him round the clock, huh? Running a crèche for the senile.’
‘All you have to do is keep him occupied, give him his medicines, help him to the bathroom, help with his exercises and his massages and chat him up.’
‘On-site geriatric psychologist,’ mused Buddhoo, letting the idea sink in.
‘Something like that. And tell him your cock-and-bull tales. I guess he’s lonely in his way. Stories, gossip, anything. Let him snarl at you. It has a tonic effect on him. You’ve got to keep your stories simple, preferably rural and stupid. Won’t be difficult.’
‘You’re very persuasive,’ snorted Buddhoo.
‘Oh, come on, yaar. This is the first time you’re actually going to be paid for telling cranky stories. The right job for you. Full board and lodging.’
Buddhoo threw back his head and laughed loudly. ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘I might have done worse. It might suit me for a while. But if I get restless, I’ll tender my resignation and walk out on you.’
‘Good, that’s done,’ said Sravan. They walked on. He’d have to do some careful explaining to Pragya. She’d have to understand their old history of reciprocal support. A great idea, he exulted. He badly needed to talk to someone at times, and this was a guy who understood.
As they turned the corner of Block P, Sravan’s eyes followed an irresistible upward path along the vertical glass-and-concrete building and came to lodge in their usual place: the window on the extreme left on the sixth floor. The curtains were drawn, but he could visualize behind them the bowl of light that burned at the tip of the slender brass column behind the blue velvet armchair. He tried to pluck his gaze away, sort out his walk. With a voice well practised in guile, he stopped and nudged Buddhoo.
‘Listen, I’ve an important message to send through someone who lives in this building. D’you mind coming up with me—just for a few minutes?’
‘Fine,’ assented Buddhoo.
Sravan strode briskly into the lobby and made for the lift. He always marvelled at the way his feet devoured the distance across this lobby. He was restless in the lift, fumbling with the buttons. With a bump the lift stopped, the door slid open and Sravan sped on to the landing. They stood before the polished door, number 614, and all Sravan’s misery and tension gathered as he pressed the bell and heard it ring within, a pale tinkle of coin against the large ringing walls of the flat.
Malini herself opened the door. Her face lit up in a welcome so rehearsed in its exuberance that all his suspicions returned.
‘What luck!’ she cried. ‘I was just thinking of you. Come on in—there’s something fantastic I’ve managed to acquire today, after two weeks of haggling.’
She led the way, speaking fast. ‘Cost me a fortune but I’d set my heart on it. Love at first sight. Luckily, Mridul’s out on tour— I’ll have to bre
ak the bad news to him gently. The poor fellow’s going to have a heart attack when he learns how much I’ve spent. Wait till you see it.’
She was wearing a cunningly designed outfit, an artful affair made up of tiny oblique pleats round a simple yoke that enhanced a provocative fullness, contained at the waist by a stern affectation of sash. Looking at her, his nerves all on edge, he felt sure she had not been alone, and the old rage rose in his heart. He crushed it with difficulty, putting on his cynical act.
‘Sit,’ she commanded. Then she looked at Buddhoo curiously.
‘This is Prabuddha. Old friend. He’s staying with us for a while. Buddhoo, this is Malini, Pragya’s friend.’
‘Oh, hullo,’ piped Malini, turning on Buddhoo the torchlight of a brilliant smile. ‘What do you do?’
Buddhoo had a problem answering that one. Sravan came to his rescue.
‘Prabuddha is a pop philosopher,’ he said facetiously. ‘He used to be in the sixties, anyway.’
‘Oh, I’m impressed,’ breathed Malini, mock-serious, eyes very wide. ‘D’you write songs on I’m Blue and Make Love, Not War and Say No to Nukes and things like that?’
Buddhoo snorted in amusement and Sravan answered for him. ‘He doesn’t write. He’s a wandering preacher. Come and hear him at it someday.’
They were sitting in an opulent, marble-floored room where the brass gleamed and the china sparkled. Onyx sat on the cabinets like blobs of veined butter. Thick carpets cradled the feet, and ivory lights seeped gently out of silken lampshades and flowed softly along the creamy pallor of the walls and floor. In the green light of an aquarium, brilliant fish wove around tiny rockeries. Mughal queens with liquid eyes and jewelled coronets reclined in rich frames, delicate blossoms poised in their tapering fingers. There were painted screens, filigreed bowls, small rugs, velvet cushions, palm fronds and an outsized portrait of Malini herself on the extreme wall. Somehow this house repelled him—everything in it was expensive and true to type. A house of pretension, clutter and kitsch, with a vague, self-conscious vaingloriousness.
Malini rose to her feet. ‘Let me show you what I bought today. I’m terribly excited about it.’
She fetched a small stone head from the marble ledge on which it stood, shells clustered around it.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Such a sublime expression. It looks like the Buddha but it isn’t the Buddha. It’s a warrior. The headgear is different—see? But there’s this little trace of Greek influence. Notice the eyes and the bridge of the nose. The dealer told me it’s a Gandhara piece. If it hadn’t been a secret deal, I’d have got it dated at the museum.’
Sravan took the stone head and held it appraisingly in his hands. ‘Where did your dealer get this thing?’
‘It’s a piece of the famous Viratgaon frieze. After that earthquake a lot of these bits fell off and …’
‘How much did you pay for it?’ he asked, non-committal.
Her eyebrows leapt up her smooth forehead. The glinting earrings did a little pirouette against the dark curls.
‘Don’t even ask!’ she breathed, mock-threatening.
One of the ways in which his infatuation uttered itself was the savagery with which he loved to disappoint her. In some strange way he earned her respect by proving her wrong, and thereby matched his power against hers.
‘This is a Bulunda piece, make no mistake,’ said Sravan decisively.
‘A what?’
Sravan put the head down on a small table beside his chair. ‘It’s useless telling you that you’ve been taken for a ride. You won’t believe me.’
‘What d’you mean?’ she cried, agitated.
Sravan warmed to his act. ‘There’s a place called Bulunda in Rajasthan where the Aravalli Hills start. Great stonemasons there. And great fakers.’
‘Isn’t it genuine, then?’ she cried anxiously.
He shook his head, saying nothing, enjoying her suspense.
She was aggressive, stubborn. Her savvy discernment was being questioned, and she bristled. ‘But Chaudhury said it’s authentic, and he ought to know. He even showed me some papers.’
‘If it was real, as he claims, it wouldn’t be in Chaudhury’s showroom. He’d hide it in the basement. Viratgaon!’ he murmured in scorn. ‘D’you imagine it’s that easy making off with nationalheritage bric-a-brac? My dear girl, you shop for antiques as though you were choosing a pedigreed pup, complete with papers from the Kennel Club of India! When was this Gandhara influence, by the way?’
‘The … fourth century, I think.’ She faltered, embarrassed.
‘AD or BC?’ he asked ironically, and loved the way she winced. Having administered that affront, he was now ready to soothe, indulge, and apply the emollient of his fervour again.
‘By the way,’ he changed the subject quickly. ‘I have some great news for you.’
His words were cut short by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Annoyed, he reached out and picked it up, hulloed, and met complete silence. A charged, waiting sort of silence, like the vacancy of a room in which an unknown assailant lurks. He hulloed again. The line clicked dead. Instant suspicion flooded his mind. He felt sure that if she, Malini, had received the call, the person would have spoken.
Then he remembered what he had come to tell her. ‘You’re the only one to know so far,’ he said in a shabby appeal. The honour he bestowed on her did not go unnoticed. Her face flushed with pleasure and she turned eagerly to him, the affront forgotten. From his chair Buddhoo watched the little tableau with interest.
Sravan lowered his voice. ‘I finally heard from Srinivasan last week.’
She gave a tiny gasp. ‘The Golden Lotus!’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed.
‘This is wonderful!’ she cried. ‘Oh, we’re proud of you!’
‘It’s not what you’d call a mega-success.’ He brushed aside her outpourings with a fine show of modesty. ‘But you could call it a moderate achievement in its way.’
‘We must celebrate this. Now. A big bash!’ she cried. ‘I’ll phone Shahani’s. What would you like for lunch?’
‘No, not right away,’ he said, guarded. ‘Let’s leave it for later.’ The look that he shied across at her and that she deftly caught and held was intercepted by Buddhoo, on whom no significance was ever lost. Sravan turned to find Buddhoo surveying him with an expression of cool assessment. A small downcurl of mouth or a minor trick of eyebrow was enough to establish the certainty that Buddhoo had grasped all.
‘But what a record!’ Malini was gushing. ‘Three awards in ten years! And you’re the youngest ever to win the Kala Vihar Patra, too! And all your reading tours. Sessions with translators. Interviews! Ph.D.s on your work! It’s breathtaking!’
He regarded her smooth, ecstatic face with some misgiving. Her words were gently tinted with laughter. With Malini he could never be sure when she was ridiculing him.
‘I’ll never be able to take you seriously,’ he remarked lightly.
‘No? You should know better, then. I’m really most enormously impressed,’ she protested.
‘As an author I’m not out to impress; I’m out to improve,’ he pronounced sententiously.
‘Great! That’s one of your most quotable ones. I must jot it down. And now how about a tiny drink? I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.’
‘No, coffee’d suit us fine.’
‘Okay. Give me two minutes.’
And while she chatted up Buddhoo over the coffee, Sravan sat and looked at her. Basically, he liked her because she confirmed his admiration for himself. Or did she? He’d chosen her for reasons he had only partially explained to himself. She belonged to a different class. He was comfortable with her.
He liked that confectionery mouth over that sensitive cleft chin. And her eyes, with their heavy-lidded, thick-lashed lassitude. Malini had a trick of seeming to switch them on and off, dimming them to the right degree of translucence, achieving the right temperature for each moment. Sravan was often aware that he f
elt a bristling contempt for her pretensions, her compulsive glitter, but this did not diminish the power she had over him. His mind was never so fluent as when it busily transferred the fantastications of his desire into images—the squeeze-beckoning resilience of her shapely arms, the liquid suction of her mouth, the sumptuous resistance of her breasts. And she was articulate. Headstrong. She even had Buddhoo quelled. It was hard to dissent, for Malini had a cultivated voice, a plentiful vocabulary, great presence of mind and inexhaustible malice and was fortified by a streak of native arrogance. Even he, Sravan, who had seen arrogance in many forms—artistic sneers, bureaucratic hauteur, corporate condescension, yuppie patronizing—had to allow Malini her due. Give her time, say ten or fifteen years, and she’d turn into a staccato, overbearing, omnicompetent authority on everything. In the meantime there was no denying her appeal. And to think it had all begun as a calculated move to punish Pragya for what she had done a dozen years back.
There was the telephone again. He reached out before she could and was sucked into an immense conduit of space, a dark tunnel of silence. He clicked in impatience, hulloed again. The line went dead.
‘Must be Mridul,’ she remarked. ‘These long-distance calls …’
‘Or one of your other admirers,’ he said wryly.
She twinkled into laughter. ‘Thanks for that word “other”. It assumes your eminent self in the first place, then?’
‘On principle I never disturb a beautiful woman’s illusions,’ he retorted. ‘So how’s the book coming along?’ Since she had gotten to know him, Malini had begun fancying herself a potential author, and he knew that any talk of her book would smooth her ruffled feathers.
‘I’ve written a bit more. Shall I read it to you?’
‘Do.’
She fetched it, moved a chair close to his, cleared her throat in a pre-recitation cough and began: ‘Now, in this stretch Shipra’s musing: “By some peculiar chance time seems to have slid off its groove. All mornings are the same. My brainful of the sky’s blue with a froth of sun spinning in wisps in its centre. I dislodge the sleep from my mind as I come down the stairs from the terrace. The day awaits me, like a stagnant pool creeping up my ankles as I step into it. The street looks like a long unreeled grey ribbon. But I am ill at ease. A disease infecting my own self chronically. The same words, thoughts, feeling drone in my head, and they are always uttered by the same unaccented inner voice, pausing at the same pauses, rushing in the same spurts. Each morning the disc begins rotating under the clock’s needle. Like an obsolete, wound-up antique gramophone. My words on paper cast a shadow, a crawling shadow across a pool of wintry lamplight. My words come like milestones marking my lamplit path. Black rocks of compressed sound …” ’
Virtual Realities Page 4