Blowfish Page 10

  ‘What’s the point? You’ll shoot them before they can get them to her,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes, I would strangle them and then shoot them … well, so now what?’

  ‘I don’t have her number but I want to see her again.’

  ‘But you know where her car is parked.’

  ‘Yes, I could go back and put a note on her car with my number and maybe she’ll call back. But, a note on the car seems so desperate. She would think I’m a creep.’

  ‘You could do better than that. Wear a white t-shirt, white pant, white shoes and a black cap with “Friend” written on it and don’t forget your tennis racquet.’

  ‘How will this bloody help Chaddha?’

  Chaddha was in the groove now, he was clearing his table for some unknown reason.

  ‘It will help’ he said, ‘without this attire, you can’t possibly do what I’m about to suggest.’

  ‘Tell me, what should I do?’

  ‘Hide behind a tree and when she comes to get her car you could jump out and sing,’ Chaddha tapped on the table he had just cleared and sang:

  ‘Tum Ladki Ho,

  Main Ladka Hoon

  (Move racquet from left to right)

  Tum Aayi To

  Sach Kehta Hoon

  (Put the cap on her head)

  Aaya Mausam Dosti Ka

  Ki Aaya Mausam Dosti Ka’

  (Pout your lips and pounce on her)

  ‘Shut up Chaddha.’

  ‘Why? This isn’t deep enough for you, eh?’

  ‘You’re trivialising it man.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Should I call this guitar teacher and ask him for her number?’

  ‘On what pretext?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How do you know she doesn’t have a boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I mean if she’s pretty and in her mid-20s than she must be taken. It’s impossible to imagine otherwise.’

  ‘It is possible. Look at you, you are so pretty, your buttocks are local celebrities in their own right, and you are in your late 20s,’ I smiled.

  That stung. He said, ‘I had my chances. I didn’t take them.’

  ‘Sorry man, just kidding,’ I said.

  Bumbum has a Plan

  I stayed cooped up in my room and kept listening to The Cars. Suman was right. They were great. I read books on creative writing, I re-read some of my favorite authors in the hope that it would inspire me to begin writing again. I did make some notes but somehow I couldn’t get myself to turn it into a story.

  It had been three weeks since I had met Suman. I thought of her often but I didn’t try to find her.

  It was the last day of November. Bumbum came to my room to pick up the laundry. He said, ‘Bhaiyya, can I talk to you?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I looked up from the book I was reading.

  ‘Bhaiyya, I would like to quit by January-end.’

  ‘You’re quitting?’

  ‘Yes bhaiyya.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I will learn driving and get a license. My uncle is a taxi driver. He has promised to get me a job. Once I get it, I will take Fulki away.’

  ‘You’ll marry her?’

  ‘No bhaiyya, her husband is still alive so I can’t but we …’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘We … umm … we have decided to live together,’ he said and hid behind the door.

  Live in! Here I was desperate for a modest cuddle and this bastard was going for a full-fledged live-in under our fucking noses! How did he get this idea? I used to think Bumbum didn’t know shit.

  ‘How? Where? I mean, won’t your parents have a problem with that?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I don’t need to tell them. Fulki can work as a day maid. I will earn more as a driver than I do here so I’ll keep sending money back home.’

  ‘Yaar Bumbum, you have so many of your village friends here, one of them will tell someone, your parents will come to know.’

  ‘You are right bhaiyya, but what can I do? I have to be with her,’ desperate lover boy was still behind the door.

  ‘And how about her husband? What if he comes back?’

  ‘With what face will he come back now? He left her and his child for another woman.’

  There was no point in asking more questions. He had made up his mind.

  I asked, ‘OK … so how do you plan to learn driving?’

  ‘Driving school. I’ve been saving up for it,’ he emerged finally like a gently swaying banana leaf—I could see half of his frame and then it was gone, replaced by just a finger that played with splintered wood.

  ‘How much does it cost?’ I asked.

  ‘I have saved for it. It’s two thousand for 14 classes bhaiyya and then some bribe to get the paperwork done. There’s lot of money in driving—I have heard people earn as much as 10,000 rupees a month.’

  We paid Bumbum a little more than half of that. I said, ‘What if we increased your salary to 10,000, will you stay back then?’

  ‘No bhaiyya, why should I take what is not the rate? That is not right. I will get you a replacement before I leave.’

  ‘OK … can we pay for the driving course if you don’t mind. You’ll need a lot of things when you start living on your own so you better save as much as you can.’

  ‘No bhaiyya, please, you and Chaddha bhaiyya have always been very nice to me and I feel bad about leaving like this,’ his voice shook a little.

  ‘Arre! What are you saying? Look at me … come on, look up …’

  He didn’t look up. He was wearing the red checked shirt Chaddha had gifted him last Diwali; I remembered how happy he had been when he had worn it first.

  I said, ‘It’s all right. You have given us enough time to find a replacement. Don’t worry and yes, don’t forget, Chaddha and I will pay for the driving lessons, OK?’

  SkyBalcony (TM)

  ‘See it’s like with the kid coming, I’m no longer a child,’ Sampu said. He had come in with a pint in his hand but hadn’t yet taken a sip from it.

  It was the 7th of December, Bumbum had gone for his first driving class, Chaddha had gone for his second interview.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. Sampu’s not being a child any more intrigued me—to me he had had always been a puberty-stricken, hedonistic teenager stuck in the bald, stocky frame of a confused 34-year-old married man—that’s what was wonderful about Sampu.

  ‘I mean I can’t break things anymore; I can’t complain about her cooking anymore. She doesn’t take my bullshit anymore. It’s like I need to grow up now that the kid is on the way, you know. I’m a paramedic on “standby”: no fidgeting, no talking, watch your wife perform the trimesters!’

  ‘Hmmm …’ I took a sip from my pint.

  ‘I liked being a kid around her. I could be moody and naughty and I could be careless, I could make mistakes, could just sit there and read the paper while she cooked—and when she served piping hot food, I could complain about it and she would still smile, you know like a naughty kid says something and the elders don’t mind’

  ‘Hmmm … so you don’t feel that anymore.’

  ‘Yeah, yesterday she told me not to drink Coke! Can you beat that? You know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Guess?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You won’t be able to. Let me help you. If I drink Coke, I might catch cold, if I catch cold, I might get her infected, if she gets infected then the baby gets affected! See the connection?’

  ‘I see. Why don’t you share the way you feel about this with her? See how she reacts.’

  ‘I can’t man. How can I be this sappy? There are bigger things afoot. I’m the dad remember? And anyway, she snaps at everything nowadays.’

  He looked up to see the time. It must have been the hundredth time he had done that.

  He said, ‘OK, I’m going then. Tata.’

  ‘Ok, take care man.’

&nb
sp; ‘I’m leaving,’ He lit another cigarette.

  ‘Sampu, you got to take your bye byes seriously yaar. Go home. Shweta must be waiting.’

  ‘Right ho! How’s the writing thing going?’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘You should try pranayama. It’ll help you focus.’

  ‘I’ve tried. I tend to do it for a few days but then I stop and then I’m not able to start again.’

  ‘You got to do it right. Once you do it right, you’ll be disciplined about it. You need to breathe in-out, in-out like this’, his face contorted in pain, he had the expression of an “extra” stuck by an arrow in Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana.

  ‘Ok, I’ll try again,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question: how’s the writing going?’

  ‘It’s not working out the way I thought it would. I mean I do keep writing but I’m not writing a book, I mean sort of but not really. It’s like I’m practising writing but not writing-writing.’

  ‘Hmmm … I’m getting tired of my job. I have an idea for a start-up. Would you be interested?’

  ‘Haven’t thought in that direction.’

  ‘What’s there to think about? You can carry on with this writing thing and do this too.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  ‘First you promise you won’t tell anyone. I should have brought a non-disclosure agreement.’

  ‘I promise. Tell me.’

  ‘Adventure sports for the not-so-adventurous.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘99% of us are big time phattus, we are pathetic cowards.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We might talk about jumping off a plane or a bridge … but we won’t do it, will we?’

  ‘Yes, I won’t. It’s very expensive.’

  ‘You won’t because you’re a phattu.’

  ‘Okay, yes, I am.’

  ‘So, we have a huge segment who can’t do the adventurous stuff—scuba diving, bungee jumping, sky diving—all of this shit is out.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right.’

  ‘So we introduce adventures that are more up their alley.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘In sky diving they take you up in a plane and then they open the door and ask you to jump.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We open the door but we don’t ask them to jump, we let them be strapped in their seats and open the door for 3—4 minutes and that’s it.’

  ‘What’s the thrill?’

  ‘We’ll call it SkyBalcony(TM).’

  ‘What’s the thrill?’ I asked again.

  ‘What do you mean “what’s the thrill?” 30,000 feet up in the air, you are feeling the air rush at you like a storm and you feel alive. It’s like your balcony in the sky. We can have a structure jutting out where people can stand. We can have special packages for couples where they get champagne and glasses and they cheer clink clink and we take photos.’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘What do you think?’

  I thought for a minute and said, ‘It’s a fucked-up idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the 1% who are adventure sports enthusiasts will consider it lame and then it won’t have any bragging value and that’s what adventure sports is all about—bragging.’

  ‘You’re missing the point.’

  ‘No Sampu, there’s a humongous black hole in this idea that you have missed.’

  ‘Hmm … let me think about that,’ he said. He was disappointed.

  ‘OK, you think about it. I’m going to watch something now. You want to?’

  ‘No, got to go home. By the way, have you seen DD Sports late at night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must. Smoke a joint, go to channel 68 and watch—it’s super relaxing’

  ‘Why? What do they show?’

  ‘Just watch. You can thank me later, OK?’ he was grinning.

  ‘OK, I will.’

  That night I lit a joint and sat in front of the only cable-connected TV we had. It was in the hall. Bumbum was asleep. I reduced the volume and switched to DD Sports. A man was skiing with classical music in the background. It went on and on—there was no end to it, not a single ad break! It was incredible. They could still show this stuff on TV. They could still get away with it. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  The phone rang. It was Sampu.

  ‘Awesome, isn’t it? This is true psychedelia, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said, smiling.

  The Consensual,

  Unpaid Sex Game

  Chaddha was skeptical about Bumbum’s notice and live-in plans.

  ‘What’s he doing? The kid should focus on his career.’

  ‘Chaddha, if there’s one person in this house who’s focusing on his career, its Bumbum,’ I said.

  ‘I mean he shouldn’t get into this live-in shit.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? What’s the point of this discussion? You’ve decided on our behalf to bless him, no matter what he does. You are funding his driving class and you expect me to be happy about it, don’t you? Don’t I have enough in my life to feel bad about? You know what else is happening in my fucked-up life? Or should I be the nice chap who should ask you how the writing is going and get over with it?’

  I said, ‘I’m sorry. I should have asked you …’

  ‘It’s all right. And I’m ok sharing that driving class fee, so don’t worry about that. I’m concerned about bloody Bumbum—hope he uses contraceptives.’

  Bloody Bumbum. Chaddha has a way with words. I think he too was taken aback by the live-in thing—even Bumbum had gotten ahead of Chaddha in the consensual, unpaid sex game.

  I said, ‘I’m sure he will use condoms. Now tell me, what’s bothering you?’

  Chaddha proceeded to perform a tedious but passionate soliloquy. There is this expression ‘hopping mad’—well, you had to see Chaddha that day to understand what it meant—he stamped on the floor, he gesticulated wildly with his hands, his hips, his groin, his feet, his fingers; he screamed and yelled and yelped and fumed; his vocabulary ranged from the utterly crass to the deeply poignant but now I don’t remember most of it—what I do remember are three main points: a vague and oft-repeated observation on how disgusting the job market had become and how mindless greedy American motherfuckers in sharp suits ruined the world; two, some disparaging remarks about how mind-fucked I must be to have quit the job I had and how mind-fucked I’m going to get trying to find a new job whenever I do start looking for one which I definitely will; and point three about how he vented his frustration at a recruiter and how he felt really sorry about it.

  Now the first two points were not news. They put gangsters and gluttons in places where there should have been wise old men and the irony is, even after this pathetic debacle, they are still trying to bail out the same firms, run by the same set of hoodlums.

  The second one about me being a moron was true but I didn’t want to face the truth. So I chose to ignore it. I grinned like a senile old man and that made Chaddha move on to the third thing. This seemed interesting.

  Chaddha was contacted by a recruiter a few days back for a high paying position in a Japanese firm—they were setting up their offices in India and if selected, Chaddha would become one of their first employees there. Now here’s the story.

  ‘Bhandari man, it was a fucking A job man! A fucking A job! And this Vanya female called and she said my chances are very good, she called me “Sir”. You know, generally these recruiters would call me Rohit or Mr Chaddha but she called me Sir, she sounded young and sweet … the way someone sounds when they are new at their jobs—fresh and sincere, enthusiastic and chirpy—that’s how she sounded. I sent her my resume to get the ball rolling and she came back the next day saying they want to meet me and I said, ‘Yeah!’ and she congratulated me as if I already had the job. I was super excited. I ironed my best shirt and borrowed your red tie. The bald chap who met me did
n’t share my enthusiasm. He sniggered a few times while reading my resume. He said they were looking for “grey hair” and “at the end of the day” he was not sure if I was “there” yet. He mentioned my retrenchment and said he could consider me for a junior role given I didn’t have a job. He didn’t ask me a single question. Can you believe it? I was still in shock when she called, her voice dripping honey and ice-cream. She asked, ‘How was your meeting with DK?’ I exploded like a bomb! I gave it to her man!’

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘I told her she fucked up. I told her she is dumb and the company she works for is dumber, I told her she is useless and DK is a motherfucker. In summary, I said fuck you!’

  ‘You said that?’

  ‘Yes … and I’m feeling fucking miserable about it.’

  ‘Fuck man! How can you talk like that to anyone?’ That was a lame question, after all, this was Chaddha, so I qualified it, ‘How the fuck could you talk to a girl like that?’

  ‘I know, I know. I checked her FB profile. She’s pretty.’

  ‘Hmmm … that’s why you’re feeling so bad about it. Did she say anything when you screamed at her?’

  ‘She said nothing. When I was done, she apologised. She said sorry, that it was her mistake; that she was new to this job and sometimes she made silly mistakes. Before I could say sorry she said she was getting another call and she hung up. Then I kept trying to call her but she didn’t take my call. I think she must’ve been crying.’

  ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘So did you apologise?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. I tried calling her again but she doesn’t take my call, I think she knows my number.’

  ‘So call her from my phone.’

  ‘I’m scared man—she might think I’m harassing her, you know, and she might complain and I’ll be booked.’

  ‘You don’t have her mobile number?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘How many days has it been since this happened?’

  ‘About a week.’

  ‘OK, give me her phone number. I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘You will?’ Chaddha lit up, ‘What will you say?’

  ‘Let me talk to her man. I’ll tell her that you’re insane, that you’re going through a tough time and you didn’t mean any of that stuff.’