Jump Cut

by Krishna Shastri

  He walked in as nonchalantly as any man from Vallivanam, Madurai District, could into a store that exclusively sold women’s underwear. This was a first for him but he wasn’t going to let on if he could help it. Like an actor doing on screen what he had never done in real life – murder, charity – Selva delved into the image bank in his head for a reference. What did people who went into stores do? They sampled the wares.

  Selva felt the bra hanging nearest to him with his thumb and forefinger. Its cardboard-filled cups were formidable, and the only person he could think of who would fill them was the lady whose name he didn’t know – ‘Karuvadu’ Kanaka. The thought of her made a bolt of pain surge through his chin.

  Having examined the bra minutely, Selva moved to a bunch of panties that had been thrown into a box marked ‘30% Off!!!’ He picked one out. It had green-and-white stripes. The elastic on it seemed flimsy, barely thicker than a rubber band. His own undrawyer, Poomex, a brand he had been faithful to from his teenage years, had a two-inch-wide elastic that could be cut out to make a slingshot that could kill a squirrel at twenty paces if the need arose. Selva stretched the panties. The elastic went from his right ear to as far as his left hand would go. He did this a few times. In the mirror, he looked like Arjuna wielding the Gandiva.

  ‘May I help you?’

  The voice startled him into letting go of the elastic. Like Cupid’s arrow, the stretched-to-the-max panties shot out of his hands and vanished behind the counter.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you have jattis?’

  The black pant-suited sales girl looked at him with as much feeling as the mannequin. She pointed with her eyes to the box from which Selva had mutilated one item and used it as a missile.

  ‘No, not like this.’ Selva made a face like he had swallowed a spoonful of Kutajarishtam. ‘High-class jattis.’

  ‘You mean lingerie?’ said the girl, making the word rhyme with Sringeri.

  If it was a word he didn’t understand, it had to be high class. Selva nodded.

  ‘Your size?’ said the girl.

  Selva couldn’t figure out if she was being cheeky or serious. He was happy he was the only customer in the shop. There was no point in anyone, even complete strangers, doubting his orientation, even for a second. For a Poomex man, death was preferable.

  Selva remembered the printout Ray had given him. It had two pictures. One was a close shot of a woman with a triangle no bigger than a folded toffee wrapper covering her intimate parts and the other was of her bum, magically free of any cloth, a pointless band of elastic around her waist with a tiny thread disappearing between the cheeks. Below it was written the word ‘THONG’. It was pretty much an international version of what the old men in his village wore: a homemade contraption called the komanam that gave him bad dreams to this day.

  Selva handed it to the shop-girl.

  The girl looked at the pictures and back at Selva and made like she was about to cough. She then went into the storage area but not before gesturing to her identically dressed colleague.

  He was alone in the shop.

  What the hell did Ray want half-made women’s jattis for? Had the death of his father, the love failure and the jetlag done him in, finally?

  The girls seemed to be having a coughing fit in the storeroom.

  ‘Something like this?’ The girl held in her hand what was evidently a replica of what was in the photos. As yet unfilled, the limp garment added up to all of two rubber bands and one-fourth of a hankie.

  He nodded.

  ‘Size?’ said the girl. Her colleague seemed doubled over in pain.

  ‘Free size,’ he said.

  The second girl ran away into the storeroom.

  As he drove back, Selva figured that the most profitable business in the world had to be making high-class ladies’ jattis. While his industrial strength Poomex with its genuine workmanship cost forty rupees a piece, he had paid two grand for a couple of rubber bands and a triangle of cloth. He made a mental note to consider getting into the business of making high-class women’s undrawyers in case his moviemaking plans failed.

  31

  ‘So that’s your plan? Really?’ Sumi said.

  Ray looked at what would be described as the scene of the crime in the not-too-distant future when the law eventually caught up with them: Abie’s house. Sprawled at irregular intervals in the living room were Abie, Sumi and Selva. He was reminded of the three monkeys made of coconut shell, the birthday present from a moralscientific uncle that had been at his study desk at home for years till Dog Raj had co-opted it, mauled it, and added it to his stash. In a manner of speaking, he had done the same, too. Clamped his teeth around three people who had seen, heard or spoken no evil, and shaken the ethics (or whatever prevented people from doing crazy stuff) right out of them.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘So tell me, saar,’ said Selva. ‘You want Sumi madam to conduct an interview tomorrow. A regular interview like how these TV channels do it where the celebrity talks about his life, his work, his struggles. And, in between, you want her to ask him leading questions about some random guys? That’s it?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said. ‘Except that the six-seven names I’ve given Sumi are not random guys. They are handpicked for a reason. At least four of them are. The others are to throw him off. A guy called Debdutta De, whose judgement I trust implicitly on this subject, helped me.’

  Only two of them looked convinced: Dog Raj and Kriti. The ones who would escape prosecution. When had they come in?

  Sumi looked at the list of names in her hand.

  ‘So what you are saying is, just ask Rajarajan about the really sleazy, smelly gup on these guys, and he’ll just tell me … with the cameras running,’ she said.

  Ray nodded.

  ‘Why would a suspicious, conniving lowlife like this talk just like that, Ray?’ said Abie.

  ‘What have I been doing the last few years?’

  ‘Jerking off in the US, why?’

  Sumi gave Abie the look wives in TV commercials gave husbands who hadn’t bought the product being advertised.

  ‘So, it’s okay for Kriti to be present when we are planning the Crime of the Century but not okay for me to say “jerk off”?’

  ‘You are a software fellow, saar.’ Selva tried moving the plot along.

  ‘Correct. I’m a predictive scientist. Analytics, that’s what I do. I’m good at figuring out how things might go, or am supposed to be, at least,’ he said. ‘So, to answer your question, Abie, the suspicious, calculating so-and-so will talk. Just like that.’

  ‘Why? Educate me,’ said Abie, not overly perturbed by Kriti sitting on his lap and staring up his flaring nostrils.

  ‘Other than all the things you said about Rajarajan, he also thinks no end of himself. And like all people who think they are great, he will be more than eager to trash his peers. Bringing down someone automatically ups his greatness.’

  ‘But won’t he suspect that his comments are being filmed and could be used against him?’ said Sumi.

  ‘He won’t care. He’s off to Hollywood, remember? The desis are of no use to him any more. He’ll be doing what has been his modus for years. Stepping on collaborators and friends to get to the next level. I’m counting on his blinding arrogance.’

  ‘Call me stupid but what’s the point of this?’ said Abie. ‘We embarked on this insanity to – can’t believe I’m actually saying this – to avenge your dad, right? How does this bring back his honour or whatever it is?’

  ‘There’s this story in the Panchatantra…’ he said, paused, and burst out laughing, remembering Padmini’s expression when he had told her about the mouse king. ‘I don’t know who the bigger idiot is. Me – IIT slash Stanford guy who makes life-threatening decisions based on folktales about mice and monkeys – or you, a bunch of ninnies who listen to my crap?’

  ‘Us. We win hands down. Get on with it,’ Abie said.

  ‘Yes. I am doing this to help my father�
�s soul rest in peace or something terribly hokey like that. That’s how it began. But now it’s become something … more. It’s not just about my father any more. This guy has to be stopped. Comprehensively. And I’m doing it, or at least attempting to do it, by taking away his treasure.’

  ‘The film industry,’ said Selva.

  ‘You get it, my friend, you always do.’

  Selva grinned.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit naïve of you to think it’ll stop him?’ said Sumi. ‘How often have we heard of stories, especially about the film industry, where two big guys have a public spat, call each other names, get into fisticuffs – like SRK and Farah Khan for instance – and a month later pose for photos hugging each other.’

  Kriti perked up.

  ‘Amma, in our class,’ she said, ‘you know we have two groups. Shahrukh group and Salman group. I belong to Shahrukh group. We are “ka” with the Salman group. We’ll never talk to them. Never, ever, ever.’

  Abie looked skywards and pulled his daughter’s ear. She ignored him.

  ‘That’s because you’re seven, darling,’ her mother said. ‘You have ideals. Wait till you’re older, you’ll probably marry the guy who heads the Salman group.’

  Ray laughed.

  ‘Chhee!’ Kriti closed her nose. ‘It’s that stinky Aditya Bhatia!’

  ‘You’ve got a point, Sumi,’ Ray said. ‘That’s why I’ve got four guys, not one. When a guy pisses off one powerful guy, reconciliations are possible. But if it is four guys, that, too, powerful ones, they see him as a squealer. I’m also hoping that the other guys who’ve been victimized by Rajarajan will make use of this opportunity.’

  ‘Sorry to go back to the original question – I’m after all risking going to jail or an asylum here so I’m entitled to ask – but what if Rajarajan doesn’t bite? Doesn’t talk at all,’ said Abie.

  ‘Kriti, go get me a glass of water, ma?’ said Ray.

  ‘Okay, you want me out of the room. I get it. C’mon, Dog Raj,’ said the girl to the Lab that was only too happy to follow her. ‘It was boring anyway.’

  ‘He’ll bite. First reason: Mona Mathai’s bazookas. Sorry, Sumi, your husband’s lingo. What I mean is, he’s interested in bedding you, my dear. So he’ll say anything. If that fails, here’s Reason Two.’ He held out the envelope in his hand.

  Selva opened it, pulled out a cheque, looked at it and did an imitation of a ’60s heroine who has found out her husband is dead.

  Abie took the cheque from Selva’s limp hands. ‘Five million dollars. Google Films. Made out to Rajarajan. Excellent,’ he said.

  ‘And that’s only an advance,’ Ray said, unable to help the smile.

  ‘Eppidi, saar?’ said Selva. His hands weren’t folded but the expression on his face reminded Ray of the frontline devotees of a popular godman.

  ‘Fake, pa. A little Photoshop, some high-end giclée printing. Don’t worry, I could give you one for ten million,’ Ray said.

  ‘And it’s my job to give it to Rajarajan, I suppose,’ said Sumi.

  ‘Of course. Bend low when you give it and please tell him it is only symbolic. Tell him we’ll make an electronic transfer to a country of his choice in a week.’

  ‘Any other carrots?’ Abie said.

  ‘Yes, one more,’ he said. ‘This one will seal the deal.’

  ‘Enna, saar, is Tom Cruise dropping by to convince him?’ Selva said.

  ‘No. But J-Lo is.’

  ~

  Rajarajan looked at the parcel on his table.

  ‘When did this come?’ he said.

  The watchman knew his boss well enough to know that his answer would be the wrong one, no matter what he said.

  ‘This morning…’

  The watchman braced himself for the explosion of expletives. It didn’t come.

  ‘Okay,’ Rajarajan said.

  When he realized that he had been let off, the watchman turned and left, trying to figure out what or who he had seen first thing that morning. Whatever it was, it was worth replicating every day.

  Rajarajan tore the brown paper wrapper off the parcel. Inside was a beautifully finished box with a floral pattern on it. He wasn’t sure what it was but a vaguely familiar fragrance escaped from it. Books that sabotaged films, abandoned projects and rigid producers – for the moment, those were all things of the past. He had a good feeling.

  In the velvet inlaid box was a greeting card. It had a picture of JLo on it. Bare backed, with her head turned towards the camera, it was cropped tantalizingly short of her most celebrated asset. He opened it.

  Dear RR (it said, in a rounded convent-educated hand that could have never come out of the US had RR known any better),

  Hear through the grapevine that you’ve signed up with Google Films. As you probably know, I’ve signed a three-picture deal with them with executive production options on them. You may be surprised by this but I am familiar with your work. Loved Arali. Shooting a music video in Saint Martin right now. We need to talk as soon as I get back to LA next week … without our agents, LOL!! There might be a couple of things we could work on :-) Hope you like my little gift.

  Until then,

  Jen

  XOXO.

  Rajarajan looked in the box and figured why he had missed the gift. The red satin of the garment was almost the same red as the inlay. He quickly pulled out of the drawer the glasses he never wore in public. There was no doubt.

  What he was holding in his hand were panties that had been in contact with the most famous Latina rear in history. How had he got here? Fifteen years ago, the only panties he had access to were the ones he would steal off a clothesline near his room in Saligramam.

  RR did the only thing any self-respecting, red-blooded man would do in such a situation. He buried his nose into the undergarment and took a snort so deep that the elastic went up his nostril making him sneeze.

  No wonder the fragrance had been familiar.

  He knew it.

  Still.

  By JLo.

  What he didn’t know: it had been sprayed on by Selva, last minute, under Ray’s direction, with Sumi shuddering in the background at the manner in which her perfume was being employed, and Abie locked up in the bathroom so no one would hear his scream.

  32

  In his thankless career as RR’s driver, of all the unpredictable, perverted things he had been part of, the one ‘duty’ Selva hated the most was picking up or dropping off one of his sluts.

  Just one more day, that’s all, and he would be free.

  Selva wondered why there wasn’t an iota of doubt in his mind. About Ray or his plan or its grand success and how they would all live happily ever after. With the exception of RR, of course.

  Then, again, did one doubt the outcome of a Rajini movie? Thalaivar would be tested, he would lose everything, he would even be jailed on occasion but didn’t he rebuild it all in the course of a rousing song and beat the villain and his million henchmen in the climax?

  ‘Go to her house and bring her here,’ RR had said, ‘she hasn’t been taking my calls.’

  ‘How can I…?’ he had said.

  ‘Tell her I said so. And where the hell have you been the last couple of weeks? Daily, one-hour permission here, half-hour permission there. And taking days off on one pretext or the other?’

  The bastard was sharp. With all the shit going on in his life, the slave-driver still had an eye on the comings and goings of the driver.

  Much like his schooldays, Selva had had to dig into the million unused plots in his head for an excuse.

  ‘Illay, saar,’ he had said, ‘back in my colony, there’s a proposal to start a fan club for you. I’ve been a little busy with that. Wanted it to be a surprise…’

  The furrow on RR’s brow dissolved into an arch at the prospect of a fresh bunch of idiotic men queuing up for his movies. He had always believed that cut-outs and palabhishekams weren’t the prerogative of film heroes alone.

  ‘You know I don’t like all thi
s fans-geens nonsense.’

  ‘If you don’t want me to, I can stop them, saar.’

  ‘Not like that, Selva,’ he had said. RR had had to pull out every directorial cue in his head to make the actor in him produce an expression that conveyed both nonchalance and concern. If it had been up to Selva, he would have asked for a re-take.

  ‘If the makkal want it, we shouldn’t come in their way. That’s what we are here for, aren’t we – the love of the people.’

  No, you sonofabitch. We are here for the money, the fame and the sadistic thrill of exploiting anyone who is in our power. The voice-over was meant for the millions of people watching the movie in Selva’s head.

  ‘Absolutely right, saar,’ he had said instead.

  Ananth Sundaresan’s bungalow reeked of old-world money. That the family home of three generations of lawyers had remained an independent house with a sprawling tree-filled yard in T. Nagar’s ugly apartment-complex-filled topography was evidence enough of this.

  The normally pissy security guard opened the gates to the advocate’s office-cum-residence and ushered in RR’s Mercedes like it was Arjuna’s chariot. Selva swung the sixty-six-lakh car into the compound like it was a tempo carrying manure and screeched to a halt a millimetre short of a row of flowerpots.

  The instructions to the liveried watchman were clear: all the big clients park inside, the small fry are on their own. And RR was the biggest. Selva knew for a fact that his boss paid his lawyer/buddy in cold, hard cash and got him some action on the side as well.

  What Selva couldn’t figure was how a man of Sundaresan’s obvious intelligence hadn’t figured out what his friend was up to with his daughter.

  ‘So late … and where’s the big man?’ the watchman said. He followed it with a mocking hand and exaggerated hip shake meant for the absent Rajarajan.

  Selva looked at his watch. He hadn’t realized how late it was.