by Pawan Mishra
The rumor said that his passion for coins dated back to the time when he was at the crawling age, when one newly discovers the mouth as a testing lab for everything that can fit in it.
Wallets were still in an evolving stage around that time, and most fathers instead used their breast pockets to carry money, bundled between other important paper chits. One day, home from the office, Daulat was struggling hard to take off his shirt after opening only the top two buttons, by stooping his head down to take the shirt off like a high-necked sweater—something that won him a lecture every time Kasturi saw it. As a result of his tussle with the shirt, despite his utmost care in putting his hand like a lid over his shirt pocket, its contents slipped to the ground. Coinman, a one-year-old child, who was crawling by his side, was completely captivated by the alluring sight of coins rolling to all sides. It was an instant crush, a love at first sight. Laughing ecstatically, he scrambled to acquire the coins. But before he could reach them, Daulat collected all the coins—except for one that evaded Daulat’s nimble eyes by rolling into a corner. The clever coin couldn’t escape Coinman’s admiring eyes, however. He pretended to be completely absorbed in trivial games until Daulat was out of sight. Then he crawled with lightning speed to the corner, ignoring the winter-cold marble floor. Within seconds the coin was in his mouth, where it voluntarily slipped farther down to salute his Adam’s apple. Sensing the endeavor turning into a nightmare, the child howled as loud as he could.
Daulat ran back to him and, per the usual practice, rolled a finger in his mouth forcefully. He tried to drag the coin up, but the finger was not able to grab it well despite a bend at the tip. So he brought his second finger into play to form a pincer, not to the increased convenience of the child. This had an adverse outcome: the coin slipped much farther down and couldn’t be reached with a finger. The father at once panicked and called the mother, the grandmother, and, above them all, the great-grandmother. The ladies of the house experimented with various remedies—a number of things that they had witnessed work in such cases. They made the child swallow melted clarified butter, turmeric paste, and, most importantly, the cow urine shake with crushed basil leaves. When the homemade therapeutic efforts of old and very old women in the house failed, Coinman was rushed to an emergency room.
A doctor examined Coinman and found that everything was just fine; the coin seemed to have made it all the way down. But the doctor was shocked when the family told him that Coinman hadn’t had a bowel movement after swallowing the coin, because the X-ray and the ultrasound couldn’t find any traces of a coin in his body.
“The best explanation science can provide,” the doctor said, “is that the child’s digestive system is exceptionally strong. I have never seen one that even comes close to this. In short, his system has already dissolved the coin into waste.”
But the most authoritative rumor at his office didn’t agree with the doctor’s finding. It instead said that the coin had actually gone straight to the child’s brain and had instated itself there permanently. The coin had assumed the driver’s seat in his mind to conceive and direct all his actions thereafter.
Being in a unique position to explain Coinman’s absorbing addiction, the rumor quickly became, in most people’s minds, fact.
4. The Gossipmongers
On the first floor, the first rule of a rumor was humor.
The first-floor junta had this rule deeply inscribed in their minds through their own welcome program for new employees.
Thus Coinman was the best topic, one of the very few to easily prompt a rumor with humor.
The gossips around Coinman went on to speculate about him at almost ridiculously detailed levels. They wondered if he used the same set of coins all the time, or if he replaced them every day. They also speculated that his father had some sort of a derangement that was slowly spreading to Coinman’s brain as well; that Coinman lacked courage to speak a argumentative word to his wife and agreed to everything she said; that he was having a secret love affair with a close relative, which was devastating his family life; that he’d had an abusive childhood; and that a local hooligan had once beaten him badly right in front of his house when he raised an objection to the former’s ingenious attempts to target Kasturi, his mother, with intimately suggestive remarks—a verbal rape.
Daya, one of the top suppliers of such speculations, and who looked for opportunities to flatter members of his gang by publicly glorifying them, once claimed that Coinman had an exclusive inside pocket in the main pocket of his trousers to safely carry the coins. Everyone knew Daya hadn’t done any investigation—it was just one of those fabricated stories shared in gossip sessions with the sincerity of one providing a verifiable truth.
The cafeteria on the first floor adjacent to the main hall, originally intended to serve tea and light snacks, was now used as a boulevard for brewing gossip sourced from every possible corner of the office, with a special affinity for matters related to Coinman. As soon as someone witnessed a marvelous act from Coinman, he got everyone to rush to the cafeteria at once to babble about it over a tea. The only exception was Tulsi, the only woman on the first floor. She did not join these gossip sessions because she had apparently been taught right from her early childhood, as Daya had once revealed to everyone, that when a number of grown-up men get together in an informal environment, it is next to impossible for them to remain honorable enough for a woman’s presence.
Coinman also skipped these sessions, unaware that he was their common theme. He had been to a session only once, when, under the influence of a momentary tide of curiosity, he fell in behind the folks rushing to the cafeteria. On seeing him enter, everyone had sunk into a deep silence. That had magnified the sounds of the sipping of tea and of the coins jangling in his pocket. He held on as long as he could, knowing very well that once outside, he wasn’t going to try this again. He wanted only to stay till the end this time, to quench his mind once and for all about what really went on in these sessions that excited everyone to such a degree. Instead, to his disappointment, people started leaving, one by one. He left after everyone else and resolved that unless it was a matter of life and death, he wasn’t going to join these sessions ever again.
It was hard to tell if the interesting proceedings on the first floor, including these gossip sessions, were secretly encouraged by the management because they built deeper bonds among the employees, or if they still had no clue about it all; they hardly came down to the first floor. When they wanted to have a meeting with someone, they typically called the person to their offices on the second floor.
Although most of the gossip sessions transpired quite spontaneously, a few participants attended more frequently than others. Hukum, Daya, Sevak, Panna, and Ratiram were just about always present. In fact, the associates on the first floor believed that nothing at the office happened without being on Ratiram’s radar. Some of them facetiously said that God’s calendar of events was provided to Ratiram before the events happened. They were not to be blamed because even when Ratiram did not attend a particular session, he somehow knew everything that was discussed.
Saarang, too, joined most of these sessions, but rarely spoke at any of them, as he suffered from a massive and incurable lack of self-confidence. On top of that, he was very lazy and self-centered, especially in matters related to romantic possibilities. During his college days, he wouldn’t think twice before ditching an activity planned in advance with his best male buddies for the smallest prospect of a girl’s company.
The other associates were also a regular in these gossip sessions, if they could altogether be considered as a single entity. Despite a few individuals missing now and then, the strength was generally consistent, governed by some sort of law of averages that Hukum was the first one to point out to the group.
The folks who missed a particular session would follow up with the ones who had attended. The ones who had attended seemed to feel handcuffed by social obligation, a byproduct of the evolution of coopera
tive venom against Coinman, to apprise the rest of the latest.
So when someone witnessed a “marvelous” act from Coinman, he quickly gathered the others and rushed to the cafeteria. This usually started a chain of stories. The overstated stories about Coinman were then tossed back and forth from mouth to mouth. Everyone was equal in these gossip sessions when it came to scoffing at Coinman.
The gossipmongers took this opportunity to show off their ability to generate good humor, ideas, and imaginary tales. The ability to speak well in these gossip sessions had long been a means of obtaining recognition and respect in first-floor society. Those who had it were listened to with respect, and their initiatives were better entertained in general, even outside the cafeteria’s confines.
A few could never get ideas; their type, seen in abundance in mass employment, tried hard to throw something out just for the sake of active participation in these discussions, often putting the most emphasis on things of low relevance. Out of discretion and the wish to avoid fruitless conflict, none of the accomplished critics commented candidly on these sorts of ideas. They, however, took mental note of the donors of such ideas and adjusted their personal rating grid with the donors’ new standing. This rating grid, maintained in their minds, was deemed very useful for them for possible future dealings with such individuals.
Close colleagues even exchanged notes on particular people’s standing on their respective mental grids. In fact, doing this strengthened the bond of friendship between them. After all, nothing nurtures a friendship bond more than the ability to consistently bitch about someone else.
Ratiram was the most trusted source of information for certifying the veracity of a rumor. If someone inaugurated a new rumor that couldn’t naturally convince others, Ratiram was requested to verify it. That provided Ratiram with yet another opportunity to demonstrate his scholastic stature. To steer clear of accidentally displaying a sense of pride, he would first start on a low agreeable note, and then slowly increase the rational touches before delving into profound analysis of the matter.
This was not entirely the same strategy he’d employed a few years before. His intellectual prowess hadn’t been fully revealed yet then and, being a low-ranking employee, he knew such methods might hurt others’ pride unintentionally. So he had adopted a jovially dramatic method: he’d pretend to be Sherlock Holmes putting his audience in a good humor, free of rank pride, while he conveyed his findings in the most refined manner; he’d even contemplate the matter visibly by repeatedly putting his palm below his chin and fingers over the right temple. This way he washed away any possibility of bitterness emerging from his being able to discuss important matters more intellectually than others.
Through such thoughtful conduct, Ratiram climbed on the personal rating grids until he was openly declared the most gifted member by the first-floor society. No one could gauge the actual depth of his thoughts, yet everyone was a great aficionado of the captivating spells he managed to cast over them by way of disentangling complex matters and crisply articulating at the same time.
“Coinman lets out another legendary explosive from his hindquarters!” Panna, whose fabric of language often had vulgarity woven very artfully into it, called out to Daya at the top of his voice as he entered the office one day, throwing his bag to his table from a distance. Daya rushed behind him to enter the cafeteria. It was only a minute before many others joined them, too.
“This is really kick-ass, guys,” Panna told them, settling on a chair. “Our Coinman is a rare gem. I heard this story from a clerk in my bank.”
“I can’t wait.” Sevak dragged a chair right next to Panna.
“I needed to get some humdrum stuff done at the bank yesterday, and noticed the clerk was paying odd attention to our firm’s name,” Panna continued. “He even mumbled the name a few times. You all know me, how good I am in smelling the bizarre shit! So I yanked his sack a bit—by asking him if he was trying to make up his mind to buy our firm.”
Hukum could not help laughing aloud and smacked his right palm against Panna’s in a high five.
“He laughed at my joke, then asked me reluctantly if I happened to know someone called Coinman.”
“This is getting freaky.” Daya said.
“Yes, indeed; and a real trip, too,” Panna said. “I was so damn excited on hearing this that I could not allow him to dillydally any further. But if I asked the details then, in Dullsville, the chances were high that the cheese hog wouldn’t be able to tell me details properly.”
“Get back to the story,” Hukum said impatiently. “I don’t care about the fatso. I want to hear about our own superman.”
“Do you really have to blow this popsicle stand to catch a cotton-candy train?” Panna countered heatedly. “What’s the damn hurry? The meat in the story remains uncooked until we slowly build it up. Why do you want to jump to the end so soon?”
“OK, all right. Carry on, I will filter the irrelevant part at the very entrance of my ear,” said Hukum with a smile.
Panna clearly wanted to retort, but set his emotions aside to continue.
“All right. So I invited the fat-ass to my home on Sunday for a few drinks. The bastard did not open up until he finished half my stock of Scotch, but once he opened up, he seemed overly obliged to go out of his way to provide any information on Coinman that would please me. The butt-head even tried to guess things about Coinman.”
“I wonder if they were aware of the power of complimentary alcohol during World War I.” Ratiram commented.
“I am sorry,” said Sevak, who had been twisting the top button on his shirt while listening. “But if we continue at this speed, it’s going to take years to finish. That wouldn’t be bad, though…we can have our grandchildren join in as well.”
“This is not horseshit. It’s a real story—I can’t cut it short.” Panna got up as though ready to leave.
“Hey, don’t take it to heart, buddy,” Saarang said. “We are just trying to have some fun here.”
Hukum held both his ears in an apologizing gesture and motioned with his hand to request Panna go back to his chair.
Panna sighed and went back to his chair to continue. “Anyway, it turned out that Coinman had been to the bank to invest some money, the details of which are not significant to the story. Don’t look so smug, Sevak—I am not cutting it short for fear of you.”
Everyone laughed.
“So,” Panna went on, “they gave Coinman a typical bank form with a huge number of terms and conditions. The representative who served Coinman told him that it was all regular stuff, and he only had to sign each page.”
“Hold on here,” said Hukum. “Do you mean to say that the fatso did not actually serve Coinman?”
“That’s a very smart catch. You are right. The fat-ass heard the story from his colleagues—it’s a big topic of discussion, it seems,” Panna answered.
“We are becoming famous,” Saarang said.
“Coinman insisted on reading the terms and conditions word for word, on all twenty-odd pages.” Panna continued. “Coinman told them that without reading it fully, how was he to know that there was nothing objectionable in it? He asked the representative to imagine she was a crook in a masquerade who had curried favor with many of the bank officers to rob gullible people like him. He concluded that she would see his point, how a swindler could easily receive one’s signature deceivingly on manipulated text. On hearing this from Coinman, she could not see any hope in arguing further.”
“Wait a minute. Some honest advice,” Daya put in. “Let’s place an order for both lunch and dinner now. I am sure this story will go on till dinnertime.”
Panna glared at Daya without verbally responding, and continued.
“The scumbags asked Coinman to take the form to his house, read the conditions, and give it back, but Coinman started arguing with them, saying that they did not like his presence in the bank. He then wanted to meet the manager of customer relations to complain that his prese
nce seemed to offend the bank executives. And when the manager came to meet him, Coinman turned around and laughed. He told the manager that there was no issue after all—he only wanted to meet the manager to find out if everything was going fine with the bank, as some concerns were expressed in the morning newspaper about the institution’s financial health. The manager dismissed any awareness of such news and inquired about the newspaper. Coinman shrugged and said he could not recall the newspaper. He offered to call the manager later, if he would share his phone number. The manager didn’t seem to like this and left without a word.”
Everyone was laughing by now. “Brilliant,” Hukum said. “It’s been a while since I last heard of something that hilarious.”
“I really commiserate with the bank manager!” Sevak said. “The poor soul must have had a tough time sleeping that night. His laugh is the most unbearable thing—well, only after his coins. I have not had a chance to hear a devil’s newborn’s laugh yet, but I am quite sure it’s very like Coinman’s.”
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” said Ratiram, putting his cup on the table after the last sip, “and the best explanation I can think of behind such a laugh is not being able to form a good style of laughing because of a serious lack of opportunities to laugh. Each time he encounters a situation that prompts his laughing glands, he works hard to manufacture a better laughing sound than he did the last time, but, on the contrary, ends up with a coarser sound. If he just tried to build on his previous laughter, laughing more frequently, he might have developed a normal laughing style by now.”
“That seems like good logic,” replied Daya, “but has he not been observing others and seen how they laugh? Can’t he see that his way of laughing is clearly singled out?”
“Goddamn it, that’s why you are not Coinman!” said Panna with a chuckle.
“Hmmm…Coinman. Hee…hee…hee…Coinman!” All eyes rolled to Sevak as he blurted while trying to rub clean a spot on the table with his fingers, seemingly in his own trip somewhere at the moment.