He got out and looked at the trees of Karpagam Avenue, Chennai’s last time tunnel to Madras. He had been seeing them for nearly thirty years. It looked like most of them had made it. The trees had obviously done something good in their last birth.
Middle of nowhere, with nothing to do. The perfect setting for a ciggy. Pity he wasn’t a smoker. A car slowed down and came to a halt next to him. It throbbed with the contained power of a stereo meant for a club. Before he knew it, the tinted glasses came down, allowing the frenzied thump of the music to jump free into the night. Along with it a bunch of heads popped out of the windows like synchronized jack-in-the-boxes. Boys and girls, all young and drunk. And every one of them sporting the unmistakable ‘L’ sign, made of the thumb and forefinger set at a right angle, against their foreheads. Before he could respond, they disappeared in a whirligig of laughter and dust.
‘Loser!’
9
Lawyers and books. Why did lawyers look naked without their backdrop of bursting bookshelves? What made them different from, say, doctors or engineers, who seemed perfectly functional without a book in sight?
‘Tell me, sir.’
Ray’s thoughts were cut short by the man behind the desk in the office of the senior-most Chari of the ‘Legal’ Charis of Madras – not to be confused with the ‘Medical’ Charis, their equally illustrious cousins. Padmini had said that the rambling monster of a house on Poonamallee High Road had been the final destination of seekers of justice for more than sixty years.
The vintage Carrier air-conditioner in the teak and glass room hummed like it was 1960. A phone call to Padmini, one that he had actually managed to complete, had brought Ray to her former professor from Law College.
‘I think he has basically told you all there is to tell,’ said Padmini. ‘His father’s work has been stolen. He needs justice. Simple.’
The man behind the desk laughed. The blood-red vertical line curved around the wrinkles on his forehead like a snake crawling over rumblers. Padmini’s professor, the now-retired legend, wasn’t at all what Ray had expected. He had expected someone older. Plus his good humour, not the most advertised trait among lawyers, was there for all to see.
‘For my esteemed student Padmini Balan, everything is simple. You do the crime, you do the time.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Padmini, trying to look angry. ‘I bring you to Thiruvalliyur S. Rangachari, supposedly the best bloody intellectual property rights lawyer in south India, and—’
‘I would prefer to think India,’ cut in the man behind the desk.
‘Okay, India,’ she said, ‘and instead of legal advice I get lines from cheesy American legal shows – that, too, ones made in the eighties? What were you going to say next: “Go ahead, make my day”?’
The man behind the desk laughed and gave Padmini a pat.
‘See, Ray, if I may call you that, here’s the thing. For you to understand what you’re dealing with, I’ll break this down into two points. Firstly, the film industry. You need to know how things work in that sector in our country. Film fellows are, without fear of contradiction, the biggest and most brazen violators of copyright law in this country. Copyaavadhu, rightaavadhu – it doesn’t exist for them. They don’t understand it or pretend not to. Pretty nearly all of them break it every day in every way possible. Their very existence depends on it.’
‘Does that mean—’ Ray said.
‘Hear me out,’ said the lawyer. ‘Do you know how many films, how many tunes, poster designs, costumes, titles and god-knows-what-else are ripped off every year by these guys? From books, other people’s ideas, Hollywood, German, French, Italian, Iranian … Timbuktuan films?’
Ray shook his head.
‘Neither do I, but I can tell you it’s a whole heap. The point I’m trying to make is, several of these guys being ripped off are, you know, international giants like Miramax and Virgin Records, Columbia Tristar. All shrewd fellows who know their intellectual property rights like the back of their hands, with high-powered lawyers on their payroll. If these chaps are unable to, if you pardon my French, do jackshit, what chances do you – young man on leave from a cushy job in America?’
‘In essence, you are telling me that I can’t sue this … this guy?’ Ray said.
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ said the lawyer. ‘Which brings me to Point Two: our friend Rajarajan. I know this fellow. In fact, I fought a case against him, well, almost, anyway. He stole a tune from an aspiring music director, a poor fellow from Tindivanam or some such place, and gave it to his regular fellow who palmed it off as his own. We had a pretty good case.’
‘And?’ said Ray.
‘And nothing. My client withdrew his case.’
‘Why?’
‘He met with an “accident”, if you get my drift. Broken ribs, three teeth lost and he said, “Saar, forget it, I’m going back to Tindivanam.”’
‘Are you telling me that Rajarajan had him roughed up?’ said Ray.
‘What do you think?’ said the lawyer.
Ray looked at Padmini. She looked like she was gritting her teeth.
‘This fellow plays dirty,’ the lawyer said, ‘you sue him, he’ll foist a case on you. He’ll say you raped his sister, mother, even. Sorry for the crudity, but I’m trying to make a point here.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Son,’ said the lawyer. Ray could see the lawyer’s age on him for the first time. ‘This fellow’s not just a thief, he’s a thug. He’s got people in his pocket. Go back to the US. Forget about all this. Your father is no more. Do something in his name. It’s not worth it. Tempus fugit.’
~
‘I’m just a spectator,’ said Ray, ‘that’s all I’ve been the last couple of days. First, I sit in a room with a guy I wouldn’t be caught dead with under normal circumstances. The guy then proceeds to tell me, basically, he can do anything he wants and I can’t do, well, you know, fuckall. Then, then, this, this great legal mind, whatsisname Chari, tells me the same thing, except instead of fuckall he uses the more legal term of jackshit.’
Abie covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head.
‘What, you think this is funny?’
‘A bit, actually, don’t you think, Padmini?’ said Abie.
Padmini shrugged.
‘Satyajit Ray Raman, teacher’s pet, scholarship boy, Everybody loves Ray, getting bambooed. Doesn’t happen often. Allow me to savour the moment.’
Ray did, for a second, then said, ‘What do you think, Padmini?’
‘What do I think you should do or what would I do?’ she said.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘There is one. If it was me, I’d fight. I’d prepare a case, which, by the way, we’ve got, get all the evidence together as thoroughly as I could, and sue the ass off that guy.’
‘But what about Chari? Said it would take years.’
‘So?’
‘What if, you know, you got assaulted or something? This guy’s got a rep for that kind of thing.’
‘Ray, you’re forgetting I’m a consumer rights lawyer. Who do you think we sue? Hospitals, corporations, big boys who know how to play rough. Maybe not as brazen as your Rajarajan, but not exactly Mary Poppins either.’
‘So, basically, what you’re saying is, you want me to sue?’
‘No, that’s not what I said. I said that’s what I would do.’
‘And me? What should I do?’
‘I don’t know. Go back, maybe? Put all this behind you? You’ve got your life, Ray.’
‘There you go again about my life!’ He found it difficult to keep his voice down. ‘It is in the US, Padmini. What do you want me to do? Give it all up? Then I’d be the good guy?’
‘Hey, get off her back,’ said Abie.
Ray looked at the trees. They had it easy. All they had to do was sway every time there was a breeze and hang around till someone chopped them off.
‘Machchan, be realistic,’ Ab
ie said, ‘what’s wrong with what she said? You’ve got three options. Option One: sue and face the consequences. Personally, I don’t think the asshole will harm you physically. He won’t take that kind of a risk with an educated city guy. But it’ll take time. You’ll have to put in a lot of effort and time. Can you?’
Ray continued looking at the trees. Padmini got up and went into the kitchen.
‘Option Two: what Mini suggested. Go home, buddy, and forget about it.’
‘Option Three?’ Ray said.
‘Bump the fucker off,’ said Abie.
Ray stared at him.
‘I’m serious,’ said Abie.
‘What, actually whack him? Mafia style? Seriously? That’s your Option Three?’
‘Hey, look, I’m no angel. I’ve had to talk tough on more than one occasion. I’m a businessman, for chrissake. What do you expect? But I’ll tell you this, I haven’t harmed anybody physically. As yet.’
‘As yet?’
‘Yeah, but if I was doing it for anyone, I’d do it for Uncle, da. Seriously. Say the word.’
Ray shook his head again. That’s all he had been doing of late. Staring in disbelief, shaking his head.
‘It’s not like I’ll do it myself. I know guys who know guys. And bumping off isn’t the only option. We can have his kneecaps broken, a finger chopped off. There’s rates for everything.’
‘You know, after all these years, this isn’t how I expected things to pan out,’ Ray said.
‘Meaning?’ said Abie.
‘That my life would be a bad film and I would be a secondary character in it.’
10
The air-conditioner died with an epileptic shudder. Ray didn’t care, he was awake anyway. He wondered where Dog Raj was. The Labrador was pretty clear about his spot at night. It was at the bottom of his bed, occupying a third of it, as hard to dislodge as a splinter under a fingernail. Most nights, he had been there ahead of Ray, telling him who was boss.
It had been a helluva couple of days. Rajarajan, Rangachari, with the very real possibility of dealing with contract killers, if Abie had his way. Plus, there was the phone call from home. That is, the US.
‘Ray, hope you’re coming back soon. Next week’s a very important one for us,’ Clive had said, nothing but understanding. But he had a company to run.
Next week? He would have left now, if he could. But he couldn’t. Why, he didn’t know. What was he going to do, hanging around? Prepare for a lawsuit or meet up with the Madras Mafia?
The phone rang. It had to be Clive having his post-lunch jitters.
Ray looked at the phone. It said ‘Appa’.
Dead man calling?
Dead people didn’t call. At least, not on their mobiles. Ray stared at his father glow in the night. He couldn’t bring himself to take the call.
This had to be a joke. Or maybe it was the finder of the phone. It had been missing from the time of Appa’s death. But why would anyone call so late? And why now, after so many days?
Though he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, he had seen his father that night at the hospital. Live as a cricket telecast, walking in his usual unobtrusive way. That hadn’t hurt. Maybe he had forgotten something. How could this hurt? Ray took the call.
‘Hello,’ he said.
There was no sound from the other side, wherever that was.
‘Hello,’ he said again.
Ray wasn’t sure, but at the other end it sounded like the phone was being scratched. Then the sound of quick, heavy breathing. Then the phone went dead.
‘Pervert,’ Ray said out loud.
This was ridiculous. Someone was trying to jerk him around. Maybe it was Rajarajan trying to scare him off. Maybe he had had his father’s phone stolen. Maybe he had arranged for it to look like his dead father was walking. Special effects of some type.
What was he thinking? How could Rajarajan have known what was going to happen in the next few days? Was he nuts? Special effects, 3D holograms? This wasn’t the Matrix. This was Satyajit Ray Raman, scientific thinker, insister of empirical evidence for all theories, on the verge of wetting his pants at night.
The phone rang. It was ‘Appa’ again.
Ray walked out of his room and put on the light in the living room. He took a deep breath and answered the phone.
‘Listen, you shit. It’ll take me a minute to track you down. So my suggestion is that you return the phone—’
Ray stopped. With the violent scratching at the other end, he could barely hear himself.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Silence.
‘Hello, who is it? Speak up.’
There was what sounded like a whimper at the other end. Then the phone died.
‘What the fuck!’
He realized he had shouted.
‘What the fuck,’ he said, but this time under his breath.
The familiar clickety-click of canine nails on mosaic announced the arrival of Dog Raj. Human voices meant attention, with the possibility of goodies. The mutt wasn’t going to let that go. He ambled up to Ray, his tail wagging in slow motion, and stared at him. He was holding something in his mouth. It was his father’s mobile phone.
Five minutes later, Ray had a theory. Not a perfect one but one workable enough to prove he wasn’t insane, because it didn’t involve CGI and extraterrestrials.
Appa’s mobile phone must have been left behind when he had been rushed to the hospital. It would have been switched off. Dog Raj had found it and hidden it among his collection of slippers, socks and random articles. Which was why no one could get through to that line. In his gnawing, scratching and messing around, Dog Raj had somehow switched on the phone, believe it or not, and called his number.
That had to be it.
Ray sat on his father’s favourite chair and scratched Dog Raj under the chin.
‘Lucky bugger. No bedtime for you. Can play all night if you want to, right?’
Dog Raj looked like he agreed.
‘Ennada, missing Appa? Is that why you took the phone?’
The Labrador whined.
‘Listen, fella. Don’t get all gooey on me, okay. I’m not going to be here long.’
The dog turned around and clickety-clicked into his father’s study. It used to be Lakshmi’s room when they were young. A second later he was back with something in his mouth, which he dropped at Ray’s feet. It looked like the remains of a black leather shoe. Ray picked it up.
‘What am I supposed to do with this? Want me to play now?’ he said, examining the ruined shoe.
‘Hey, this is mine. My school shoes. Where did you get them from?’
Dog Raj wagged his tail.
What was he going to do with the mutt? Who would take care of him? Maybe Velu, the ironwallah. It would be good if he agreed. He would pay, of course.
If footwear from twenty years ago was any indication of what his father had accumulated, clearing up was going to be a heck of a job. He was awake and had nothing to do. Maybe now was as good a time to begin as any. Ray got up and pushed Dog Raj who had settled down with his tummy across Ray’s feet. The dog slid a few inches across the mosaic floor without changing position. It continued to maul the shoe.
‘Lazy fellow,’ Ray said.
He decided to start with the study. In the corner, by the window overlooking the old gulmohar, was Lakshmi’s old study table, which had become Appa’s. The Dell laptop, with its bulky external mouse, was on it. Ray had got it for him five-six years ago when his Remington had fallen to bits. His father had somehow never quite got the hang of the track pad. He had gone to Ritchie Street, that Mecca of ersatz electronics, and got himself a patently fake Logitech mouse.
He ran a finger along its powder-grey body and left a trail on the fine film of dust. His father would have thrown a fit. Ray knew that if he measured the computer’s position vis-à-vis the table’s edges, it would be sitting dead centre. That’s how he had been, precise to a neurosis. Maybe it accounted for his own sense of order
liness. Only Lakshmi had rebelled, kicking off her school shoes in the middle of the living room and hammer-throwing her schoolbag into the first available space.
Funny that a man who loved order had chosen a field that thrived on chaos. Then there was Dog Raj, of course. He was allowed to be as messy as he wanted. It was a simple case of rules for the children being bent for the grandchildren.
A neat tower of books sat next to the laptop. The biggest at the bottom and the smallest on top. It was typical of Appa. Ray pulled out the book at the bottom and toppled the pile, doing a Lakshmi.
It was A Biographical Dictionary of Film by David Thomson with several Post-its sticking out of it. Ray opened one of the flagged-off pages. An essay on Satyajit Ray. The real one – not him.
Ray read the section underlined in pencil: ‘But what was an Indian film? Was Ray the West’s notion of the worthy Indian artist? How did he relate to the vast, seething, naïve but censorious cinema for the Indian masses? How far did Ray seem to be working within one of the most agonized and contradictory countries in the world?’
What had possessed his dad to name him after a film-maker? It had been a millstone in his school years. Schoolboys as a rule were cruel. One’s name, size, features, colour – in school anything is fodder for mockery. But the Tam-Brahm lot that inhabited Vidya Vihar were especially vicious. When the real Ray had won an Oscar, his seniors had made a ‘Bhaskar’, and thought it hilarious to present it to him at the assembly. When the film-maker died soon after, the same bunch put up an obit on the notice board. The only thing was that it had his picture instead of the original’s. It was supposed to have been fun but, as a ten-year-old, that wasn’t how he had seen it.
Before Ray went to the US, he had had his name changed officially. From Satyajit Ray Raman to just plain Ray Raman. The millstone became a godsend. Ray was a name the lazy American tongue found easy to wrap itself around. In a workplace that had a healthy fear of lawsuits, the comic possibilities of the similarity between Ray Raman and Ray Romano were mostly ignored, to his relief.
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