Blowfish Read online

  ‘Yes, please, please, please. Can you please do that?’

  ‘Yes, I will. Give me her number.’

  I called her. Vanya Nene was very sweet about it. I told her that Chaddha was going through a rough patch and he loses it when he’s feeling down and out. She said she understands, she said she didn’t mind. Her voice was a low monotone; it was as if she still cried recalling what he had said to her. She said she hadn’t expected that he’ll be treated inappropriately at the interview. She told me this was her first job and Chaddha happened to be one of the first people she had reached out to.

  I imagined a starry-eyed sweet kid who looked forward to Mondays and Chaddha had gone ahead and fucked all that—he had given her a taste of the real world. I was defending a child molester! I felt terrible. I start mumbling all sorts of bullshit—I explained to her that Chaddha was a maniac with deep set Indo-Pak partition related angst, that it runs in his veins courtesy his forefathers.

  She went quiet after I said this. I think she realised that she was talking to a lunatic who also happens to be Chaddha’s friend (which is quite logical if you think about it). I continued mumbling some polite, senseless shit. There was nothing I could say to this girl that could soothe her; nothing I could say that could make it better—Chaddha’s verbal rat-a-tat had killed all possibility of a third-party intervention. When I got off the phone, I felt like strangling Chaddha. The bastard had poured a tonne of his own angst-ridden sludge on an innocent kid.

  So I told Chaddha to make it up to her or I would bludgeon him with his filthy red suitcase. I showed him how to order flowers online and I forced him to send an apology note along with twelve yellow roses.

  Hard-hitting Expose

  The second and third weeks of December were busy. I forced myself to sit with Chaddha’s spare laptop and typed for hours. I believed if I kept at it I’d get somewhere. My eyes were always weary, my headaches got more frequent, my fingers ached but I persisted—the pointless determination of a mule standing in the middle of a busy road oblivious to honking cars.

  At night, I would smoke a joint, watch a film and make notes for what I would write the next day. I also bought a laser printer—it was quite an investment considering my limited means. I printed the first 70 pages of my book and read it.

  I had planned to write a hard-hitting expose of life in an MNC with deep insights into the rotten system. I wanted the world to know about crony capitalists; psychopathic squint-eyed bosses; ass-licking employees in prim half-sweaters; meaningless, rainbow-coloured PowerPoint presentations; whiteboard markers that could gouge out your eyes, blazing projectors that could cause a sunburn; oppressive rubber lined cubicles that caved in on you; and annual appraisals modelled on a Spanish inquisition—I wanted to decimate the system and all its actors.

  I read what I’d written and I realised that Sampu was right—it had been done to death. I wasn’t adding anything new to it; I was just rehashing a rehash. Millions before me had agonised about the unfairness of it all, popped pills to get through it; stuck Dilbert strips on their colour-coordinated cubicles and eventually written a book about it. I wasn’t going to make improvements to Scott Adams’ fucking empire. I was back to square one. I felt low, so I did what everyone does—I found a sly distraction.

  I joined the society gym—it promised eternal life and boundless vigour. It was cheap. Chaddha had been going there for months. He had stopped recently to focus on an exercise routine called ‘feeling down and out’. Chaddha’s new regimen included reinvigorating activities like abusing telesales cold-callers during the day and stamping his feet in anger at Lehman Brothers every evening while talking to his brother on the phone. Late at night, I could hear his drunken slow jive in his white thermals to get a beer from the fridge—he preferred drinking cooped up in his room and then calling his mother to let her know how happy he was. He hadn’t told his parents yet. That didn’t mean he was morose all the time. There were times when Chaddha would emerge from his room and knock happily on my door to ask, ‘Sir, how many pages?’ After a while I stopped responding to him. I found the question very depressing.

  I was determined to get a toned, six pack body. The instructor looked at my thin frame and said, ‘I don’t see you doing this for long.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ I said.

  ‘Ok, let’s see’ he said. He wrote down a workout routine. The first few days went by in a rush of excitement and high expectations. I found the words cardio and bench press captivating, I thought pouring water over one’s face after a 10-minute cardio was what real men did.

  A week later, I saw through the conspiracy, I was sure they were trying to kill me. I mean it was way too punishing for a fragile chap like me. I fell off a treadmill once. There was this other time when the instructor asked me to push myself and do another set of push-ups. He went for a loo break. When he came back he found my head resting on a dumbbell. He nudged me awake, shook his head and said, ‘Our policy doesn’t allow us to refund the advance.’ A week later, I quit the gym. I began walking instead.

  I walked every day. Four rounds of the society. Chaddha suggested I should get a pair of sneakers. I thought it was a sham. Why does one need an expensive pair of shoes when one can walk in Hawaii chappals? This is just another ploy to make people consume. I’m walking for God’s sake, I’m not running or kicking a football, am I? So why do all the uncle ji’s and aunty ji’s need to wear space technology Nike before they step out? Anyway, after losing the gym advance, I couldn’t possibly have bought running shoes.

  In a few days I had a nice little schedule going. I would wake up and attempt to write a few pages. An hour later, I would walk out the door and make my customary four rounds. Then I’d return home, have breakfast and sleep for an hour or so. This went on in clockwork precision every morning. Sometimes I did feel I was getting somewhere with my writing but the truth was I was just going round and round much like my walk.

  Night Gowns and

  Nighties

  Walking did help. It cleared my head. The weather was crisp and cold, a few birds still chirped for me even though it was late in the day. I sometimes thought I was close to an epiphany. I often smiled to myself thinking about Dhingra’s prediction. What could possibly harm me in the confines of these society walls? I could hide in my blanket and hibernate forever. No one would know that I exist. Dhingra had said I was fucked no matter what I did, but what if I didn’t do much? What if I did a little of everything—take short walks, write a bit, drink one peg a day, smoke a teeny joint, take small sips of water—that way I wasn’t doing anything substantial. I had got the answer. Nothing could unfaze me now. I was even planning to jog a little. I was at peace. Then one day true enlightenment came to me in the form of a limping crusader.

  I had circled the curb and was about to begin my third round when someone called from behind. ‘Hey you, yes sir sir, you,’ the voice sounded familiar. I turned.

  ‘Yes, Colonel Harpal,’ I said politely. My tone was respectful, like the one I employed with traffic policemen when caught talking on the phone.

  He limped towards me. ‘Sorry, do we know each other?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we do.’

  ‘When did we meet? I’m not able to recall.’

  He wanted me to tell him.

  ‘Nothing important,’ I said, ‘We have met before.’

  He said, ‘Ah, now I remember, you’re the one whose servant … yes, yes … I remember now … your father still lives alone in that place … what’s it called?’

  ‘Sindri,’ I said.

  ‘You should ask him to come here. This society has lots of old retirees. Great community! He’ll like it here.’

  ‘He is on an extension Colone Harpal, he still teaches so it’s not possible for him to come.’

  ‘Arre, he can come during summer holidays.’

  ‘Yes, he can,’ I said.

  He inspected me. I think it was a good thirty seconds before he spoke again, ‘I see you every day here
.’

  ‘Yes sir, I take walks.’

  ‘You’re a young man.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Why wear shorts? Isn’t it cold?’

  ‘I don’t feel cold,’ I said.

  ‘Hmmm … it seems you haven’t read the society notice board recently. I suggest you wear pyjamas, they comply to society regulations and are good for winters. Try the ones with a fleece inner lining. They are warm and do a good job of covering what should be covered.’

  I felt like a dissenter during Stalin’s purge. I looked down at my shorts, they seemed all right, ‘What’s wrong with these?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, ‘I’m assuming you never read the society noticeboard, you should, you’ll come to know all about how we live here. Encourage your flatmate to read it too,’ his right hand darted about searching for his shirt pocket, he found it and took out a cigarette. It was bent and wrinkled. He straightened it, tapped it on the back of his hand and said, ‘I don’t want you getting into more trouble, I hope you understand.’

  This was petty personal vendetta. What was next? Will he accuse me of walking on the cracks in the pavement or for looking funny in fleece pyjamas?

  I told him I’ll take care of it and took leave.

  I went to the notice board before getting into the lift. He was right. I should have seen this board. There were several interesting notices including a politely xenophobic one on renting to “western and Chinese expats”, a sort of death warrant for the graffiti artist who had “mutilated the lifts” and another one that listed the flats and owners whose power has been disconnected for non-payment of bills. The one he specifically wanted me to read was this:

  Notice

  We request the society members to desist from roaming around the premises in provocative attire. Shorts too short, skirts too mini, deep cut and/or transparent night suits are all a strict ‘NO’. Also, for the ladies, kindly note that night gowns and shorts are not suitable even for the drawing room, far less for the society premises.

  (Undersigned)

  Retd. Col. Harpal Sigh (Society Secretary)

  From then on, I wore pyjamas for my daily walk. I began noticing Harpal more often than I used to: Harpal helping kids slide down and pushing swings in the play area, Harpal standing beside the society office eating an orange and spitting seeds on the jogging track, Harpal canoodling with a marigold tree with a cigarette dangling in his thin blue mottled fingers, Harpal limping about aimlessly with Puran in tow, Harpal addressing the guards—they stood like soldiers and he used such fiery platitudes that one got the feeling they were going to war.

  I could feel his eye on me each time I passed by. Harpal was watching me, he was waiting for me to commit one misstep. I would say hello to him, he would ignore me or just nod a little. I felt guilty just being around him.

  My walk around the society was turning out to be a chore. I was afraid I might offend Harpal without even realizing it. Also, the comings and goings of the residents, maids, housekeepers and the home delivery people didn’t reveal any significant sub-text that would interest the writer or the voyeur in me. I had lost interest in people and now I ambled about like a dead man, my earphones plugged into my ears, waiting for my rounds to finish.

  Then one day Harpal made a re-appearance, this time it had nothing to do with me.

  I was just about to head back home when I saw a crowd under Tower C. I couldn’t get myself to ask anyone what had happened but I could make out that a woman had got stuck in her balcony. It was the 8th floor. She was there to dry clothes and the balcony door had locked her out. A chap told me that her husband was on a work trip and would be back the next day. There was no way to get into the flat without breaking the front door lock. It was cold and she was unfortunately not dressed for the outdoors. Someone lowered a jacket to her and someone else called a locksmith. It was all taken care of and then Harpal appeared on the scene.

  ‘Why didn’t anyone call for me?’ he asked the crowd. ‘Don’t worry Madam, we will save you’. His yelling made the whole thing worse than it was. People told him, ‘Colonel sahib, we have called the locksmith, it’ll be sorted soon.’

  ‘What? Don’t call the locksmith. They’ll damage the door. This is our society, isn’t it? We’ll manage this.’

  ‘There’s nothing else we can do,’ someone said.

  ‘Who says that?’ he turned around. Puran was right behind him, ‘Call Narender,’ he told him.

  Narender, the guard, appeared on the scene.

  ‘Sir ji?’ Narender asked Harpal. He had his tennis ball clutched tightly in his hand.

  Harpal pointed to the lady in her balcony, ‘We need to get her out.’

  ‘It will be done in two minutes sir ji,’ he said.

  They entered the building and reappeared on the 7th floor balcony, right below where the woman was trapped. Narender assured the woman, ‘Don’t worry madam, we’re here.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ said the woman. ‘The locksmith is coming, he’ll break the front door and let me out.’

  ‘No ma’am, locksmiths won’t be allowed in this society for this purpose,’ Harpal declared.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Society rules.’

  ‘What society rules? Who are you?’ she looked perturbed.

  ‘I’m the society secretary ma’am. I will take care of this,’ he said.

  Narender added, ‘No worry madam. I can be Spiderman,’ and before someone could stop him, he had climbed on to the handrail and grabbed the bottom ledge of the overhead balcony. For a few nerve-racking moments, he hung there, his feet swaying in the air. He then slowly hauled himself up to the balcony beside the one where she was. This balcony door was unlocked. He got into the house and opened the locked door from inside. She went in. He stood there for a while looking down at us “cowards”.

  Harpal and the guard flashed a triumphant smile on their way out of the elevator. Unfortunately, the show was over and the crowd had dispersed. There was no one to do a victory lap except an old man and me. I should’ve left too. The old man was shaking his head in disbelief, ‘Narender, you could have died there,’ he pointed out the obvious.

  ‘No sir, I do this all the time,’ Narender was still grinning.

  ‘You climb balconies every day?’ the old man asked, incredulously.

  ‘No, he doesn’t mean that,’ said Harpal. ‘We did what needed to be done Mr Kalra.’

  ‘I think it was not needed,’ Mr. Kalra shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ Harpal asked.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ he walked away.

  Harpal turned to me, ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear,’ I said.

  ‘I bet you did,’ he said. He looked sad.

  ‘I honestly didn’t.’

  ‘How’s your father Mukundan?’ he asked.

  I think Harpal was more concerned about my father than I ever would be. Maybe they could adopt each other.

  ‘He’s all right,’ I said.

  ‘Send him my regards, will you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So what do you think? What should have been done in this situation?’ he asked.

  ‘The guard could have got hurt, even worse, he could have died,’ I said politely.

  ‘He has mountaineering experience. He has learned arboreal locomotion. I know my staff. I knew what I was doing.’

  What was arboreal locomotion? I must Google this, I thought to myself. I wanted to leave. I said, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘This is the problem,’ he continued. ‘One does everything for the good of others and still there is no appreciation. People go about their business gallivanting in tight shorts and see-through nighties, no one cares about what we do. Do you think it’s easy? It takes a lot to run things well here. Tower D water tank is stinking. I’m sure it is a drowned rat. Who will take it out? Mr Kalra? He will drown himself and cause more nuisance. There are three cars in the
ground level parking near tower A that had to be clamped and locked because their owners didn’t pay parking fees. Who will decide what needs to be done with those vehicles? In Tower B, there is someone who paints the lift with vulgar shit every second day. Is that you? Do you do that?’ I shook my head vigorously in denial. He continued, ‘Got to catch that behnchod. We work without any expectation Mr Mukundan, we work for the betterment of this society but we do look forward to a simple “Thank you” occasionally. One can’t be that selfless.’

  Puran shook his head. He looked super selfless in his safari suit.

  ‘Sir ji, would you like to check the water tank problem in Tower D?’ he asked.

  ‘No Puran, I would like to have some tea,’ Harpal didn’t wait for a response. He was already making his way to his office, this time his limp was more pronounced.

  Acid Phos 30

  A few days went by. My walks became infrequent. I caught a bad cold. I ignored it hoping it would pass. It got worse. I had fever and red eyes. I called my mother.

  ‘My baccha, how are you? Have you booked your ticket? Are you coming home?’

  ‘No Amma, I can’t come.’

  ‘You sound unwell. What happened? Do you have cold? Fever? Which nose is blocked? The right one or the left one?’ My mother can sense leukaemia in a sneeze, just give her half a chance and she’ll diagnose you with lymphosarcoma of the intestine.

  She prescribed some homeopathic medicine, and told me to eat jaggery and drink ginger tea. She had done her bit. I thought I may as well let my father finish me off.

  ‘Mukund, how are you?’

  ‘I’m ok Papa, how are you?’

  ‘I called you so many times. So many times I called you,’ he said. In my father’s dictionary so many times was once or twice.

  ‘Yes, Papa, I’m sorry I was busy. I called you back but your phone was off.’