Blowfish Page 16

‘I think it’s called stalking.’

  ‘He doesn’t know how to manage his feelings. He likes you.’

  ‘I have half a mind to report this to the police, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand, it is unnerving.’

  ‘Tell him to stop.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Tell him the next time I see him I’ll go to the police.’

  ‘What if he’s just passing by?’

  The receiver clicked again. She was gone.

  Right Intentions

  Sampu aspired to be Wigman, Chaddha was The Stalker (where there’s crime, there’s The Stalker: what a nice name for a superhero) and now all I needed was to identify my special powers. We would be like the Guardians of the Galaxy; we would be like Watchmen.

  I had to tell Chaddha to stop. He was not around. I called him.

  ‘Hey Chaddha.’

  ‘Hey dude,’ He was driving. I looked at the clock. It was 5:30 pm.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Some work.’

  ‘Near Vanya’s office?’

  There was a pause before he said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I spoke to her. She knows you’ve been stalking her and she is not too kicked about it.’

  ‘Why the fuck did you do that man? Why did you talk to her? Let me pull up. Wait, wait.’

  He sounded terrified. I had fucked up.

  ‘Chaddha, we had talked about this. I had offered to call her and I did.’

  ‘No, no, no, you shouldn’t have done that man, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘I’m sorry Chaddha. I’m sorry man. See, she asked me, she said, “Does your friend come to my office every day in the evening?” and I said, “But he means no harm” and she said, “I’m going to the police,” and I begged and begged. She said, “Tell him to stop or I’ll go to the police”, and I promised her I would convince you.’

  ‘Fuck you Bhandari. How did she address me? Did she call me Rohit or Mr Chadda?’

  ‘Rohit, once.’

  ‘I love it when she says my name.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Fuck you Bhandari! We’re done, no more fucking friends,’ and he disconnected. I tried calling him several times but he didn’t pick up.

  Frisking an Agitated

  Mind

  Too many people were hanging up on me and I had had enough of being cooped up in the house. I put on a pair of jeans and went out. The lift had a new graffiti—“Fuck everyone”. The chap was getting better at it. There was a hint of flair in the ‘fuck’ this time. Here was an artist to look out for.

  It was a pleasant evening. The sun was about to set but it wasn’t too cold. I pulled my wool cap over my ears, pushed my hands into my pockets and walked out of the society. The guards stared at me but didn’t stop me.

  I didn’t know where I was going. I began counting my steps from one to ten and then again. I walked on the side of the road looking at the row of houses, buildings, society gates. I began noticing flowers—small and big things peeking out through balconies and boundary walls. What a medley of colours—lavender and light orange and yellow and deep pink and blue with a hint of red. I reached a chai shop. I bought a chai and a beedi bundle. The beedi was bracing, the chai was sweet. I felt better. I sat there for an hour. It was time to walk back.

  I noticed a society guard on a bicycle watching me from a distance. I kept walking. I reached the road leading to Srijan Vihar. They had a reception party waiting for me at the society’s entrance. Narender was wielding a baton, Puran was in his trademark dull grey safari suit and Harpal was standing in attention in front of about five guards. He had a new walking stick. The thing gleamed in the distance.

  I walked in.

  ‘Mr Bhandari?’ said Harpal.

  ‘Yes?’ I said.

  ‘I am given to understand that you have been specifically instructed not to step out of the flat alone. Is that right?’

  ‘I’m not aware of any such restriction Mr Harpal,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure? Your flatmate Mr Chaddha has assured Brigadier Hoshiar that you won’t do anything to harm the society residents and its birds.’

  ‘Am I harming the society residents? Am I shooting birds?’

  ‘Ah, not now but you have in the past. I have a suspicion that you’re writing bad words on the wall of the elevator enclosure.’

  I felt like shoving the “elevator enclosure” up his arse. I took a deep breath and said, ‘Sir, like always, you are accusing me of things I haven’t done. I haven’t done any of these things and I’m not mad. I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,’ my voice was cracking, I was about to cry.

  ‘Ok, Narender check him please.’ Harpal instructed his deputy.

  Narender came forward to frisk me.

  ‘Don’t even think about it Narender!’ I told him, ‘I’ll chop off your head and hang it on this gate.’

  Narender grinned nervously and backed off. I said, ‘I’m going to my flat. Thank you for your kindness Mr Harpal and fuck you, fuck this place and fuck everyone.’

  Puran stepped forward. I think he was about to slap me but Harpal put up his hand and he stoped. ‘Ok Mr Bhandari, please go back to your flat,’ Harpal said.

  I walked to my block’s lift. They followed me, watching me as I got into the lift. They were looking up when I got off the elevator. I entered the flat and shut the door.

  Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. I thought it was Chaddha, but it was Harpal. He was alone.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes.’ I said. I left the door ajar.

  He sat on a chair. He dipped his hand in his shirt pocket and took out a cigarette.

  I said, ‘Yes, Mr Harpal.’

  ‘I know you’re not mad. Your flatmate might have convinced the Brigadier but I know he’s lying.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘Ah! So you accept that you’re not mad.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m a mad man who says he’s not mad. Please record my statement. I’m sure it’s compelling evidence.’

  He said, ‘I know your kind. This place doesn’t need your kind. I will make sure you are chucked out. I will make sure.’

  ‘What is my kind?’ I asked.

  ‘Liars, cheats, materialistic people, people who abandon their old mothers and fathers to lead this life of …’ he stopped.

  ‘Mr Harpal, why are you dragging my father into this? Why are you obsessed with my father?’

  ‘Well … I know his pain.’

  ‘You don’t know him Mr Hapal, and you don’t know his pain.’

  ‘You are an insensitive, hedonistic brute,’ he growled.

  I gave up, he was like Papa, there was no point arguing with him, ‘No, no, I’m just crazy.’

  ‘If only the Brigadier would listen to me, but he is apparently great friends with your flatmate. They drink together often, don’t they?’

  I didn’t reply. He continued, ‘You should ask your friend not to be too friendly with Hoshiar. I don’t think he knows but our Brigadier has a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘He likes young men,’ he smiled sardonically. ‘Why do you think he comes to visit your friend, eh? You can’t hide behind that poofter for long. I will make sure both of you are driven out in broad daylight. I will throw your stuff out and I will throw you out!’

  This was all I could take from him. I said, ‘Please do. I don’t care anymore.’

  He glared at me. I got up and went to the kitchen. I heard him rise from the chair. I called out while lighting the stove, ‘I’m making tea. Would you like some?’ He didn’t respond. I went back to check. He had left.

  This time I had not acted wishy-washy in Harpal’s presence. I had taken him on. Maybe this was a way to express my fear—the last desperate attempt at rebellion before the bloody end. I sat back on my bed and had my tea. I was about to call Chaddha when the phone beepe
d. It was an unknown number.

  Hi, the text read.

  I googled the ISD code. It was Hong Kong. My heart was racing.

  Hi, I replied.

  Hi, this is Suman. How are you?

  I’m good. How are you Suman?

  I’m good too.

  How’s your writing going?’ she asked.

  Still struggling, I wrote.

  And the guitar classes? I hope you’re still going?

  Had to ditch that. Feel bad about it but it couldn’t be helped. I did pick up two chords though.

  She didn’t message for a while. I waited and then I couldn’t wait any longer. I wrote another message: Hi Suman, I don’t think we should be talking.

  Why not? she replied.

  I thought a bit and then wrote, I don’t want live with the fear that you’ll abandon me again.

  But I won’t, she replied.

  You can never be sure. Maybe you won’t do it now but you will eventually. I’m a coward and I’m afraid of rejection. You take care and be good.

  I waited for a few minutes. She didn’t respond. I heaved a big sigh and tossed the phone on the table.

  Dance this Mess

  Around

  I kept calling Chaddha but he didn’t pick up. I called Sampu and told him of my conversation with Vanya.

  ‘Dude, this is your problem. You are a fucking no good do-gooder.’

  ‘Yaar, this is not the time to analyse my character,’ I said.

  ‘Ok, all right.’

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘It is week number thirty-five; it’s scary as hell. She keeps tossing and turning and I keep my car keys clenched in my fist. I’m the designated driver to the hospital. It’s a huge responsibility.’

  ‘Hmmm … anything I can do to help?’

  ‘No, but see, this is your fucking problem, you are a no good do-gooder. Let me call Chaddha. I’m sure he’ll take my call. The boy looks up to me.’

  ‘That boy looks down upon you but yes, please give it a shot.’

  ‘Nah, he dislikes me because he aspires to be like me. I’ll call him.’

  ‘Please do. Thank you Sampu.’

  I messaged Chaddha apologizing for the mess I’d made.

  He messaged back: Fyck u, fyck u, fycky fycky u

  Me: Where r u?

  Chaddha: Drnkng. Furk u!

  Me: Where?

  Chaddha: Swhere, fyck YOU two.

  Me: Yaar, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. Where r u?

  Chaddha: I m a rck n a rck knws no pain

  Me: Where are you?

  He didn’t reply.

  Sampu called me a few minutes later.

  ‘All well. I’m going to meet him. Told Shweta a friend was run over by a car, back me up if she asks you, ok?’

  ‘Yes, ok. Can I come along?’

  ‘He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t want me either but I think I know where he is and I think I can help.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you where he is?’

  ‘No, but I guessed. I heard the music in the background. They were playing patta patta boota boota. Only one theka plays Mehdi Hassan on Friday evenings. This place is like a wet dream for heartbroken losers—sad middle-aged waiters who won’t even nod while they take your order; old Ahuja speakers that play one heartbreaking ghazal after the other, stone cold masala peanuts that remind you of your miserable life—the atmosphere is dripping melancholia. This is a place to go to when you want to pass out and die. They even have a waiter who looks like Begum Akhtar.’

  ‘They have female waiters?’

  ‘No, it’s a man. He looks like … anyway, don’t worry, I’ll go get him.’

  ‘Ok, thank you Sampu. Please take care of him man. He thinks he’s heartbroken.’

  ‘He is heartbroken Bhandari. Spurned by his love, backstabbed by his friend, what else does it take for someone to be heartbroken?’

  ‘Spurned by a girl he mistreated and now stalks, stabbed by a friend who offered to help and did exactly that! Sampu, where is your perspective man?’

  ‘I’m a nowhere man. I don’t have any perspective. Anyway, I’m going. No time to waste. Bye.’

  Sampu was going there to drink. Chaddha had found a pretext for him to escape from his house that he hadn’t thought of himself. I hope he kept Chaddha safe.

  To the Hospital

  The phone was ringing. It was 2:20 am. Shweta was calling.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know Shweta. Why, what happened? Are you ok?’

  ‘I can feel the baby coming. His phone is off. Can you find him?’

  ‘Ok, ok, wait, let me try.’

  I called Sampu. His phone was off. I called Chaddha, his phone rang but he didn’t take my call. I called again and again and again. I left a message on his phone. I called her back.

  ‘Shweta, can’t seem to get through. Can I help?’

  ‘Can you drive me to the hospital?’

  ‘Yes, I can. Sure … sure. Give me five minutes and I’ll be at your place.’

  I put on a pair of jeans and rushed down with my car keys. I started the car and drove to the exit. The gate was shut. I honked. A guard in a thick blue jacket walked up to the car, saw me and ran back to the guard room. His senior emerged. A tall, dark man with a fat nose and a thick moustache.

  ‘Sir ji, you are not allowed to step out,’ he said.

  I had forgotten all about this house arrest nonsense. I said, ‘Let me talk to Harpal Singh.’

  ‘Please go back to your flat and I’ll ask him to call in the morning Sir ji.’

  Shweta was calling again.

  ‘See, I need to go, a friend’s wife is going to have a baby and there’s no one else to help her but me.’

  ‘Sorry Sir ji,’ he said.

  I knew he wouldn’t budge. I rolled up the car windows and called Shweta. I told her I would be there in 10 minutes. She said Ok. She said she was ready with her bag and she had called the hospital. They were also sending an ambulance and in case I couldn’t come she would be fine. I said, Ok. I didn’t want her to go alone.

  I told the guard I was going back. I circled the society and parked the car. A guard followed to check on me. I went up, took Chaddha’s air gun and came down again. I got back into the car. The engine growled as I put it into gear and accelerated to the exit. Two guards rushed out this time, I rolled down the window and pointed the gun at them, ‘Open the gate,’ I screamed, ‘open or I’ll shoot.’

  They obeyed. I reached Sampu’s home in five minutes. Shweta was at the society gate clutching a blue duffel bag.

  Braxton Hicks

  Shweta was admitted to the ICU. A weary-looking doctor went in to check on her. She came out after a while, ‘Shweta Pandey’s husband?’ she was looking at me.

  ‘Hi doctor, I’m her friend. Her husband is traveling. My name is Mukund.’

  ‘Ok, this is not labour,’ she said, ‘it’s called Braxton Hicks contractions, it feels like labour but it isn’t. We’ll keep her under observation for half an hour and if everything is fine she can go home. I have informed her doctor so you should be hearing from her sometime tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Thanks. Can I go see her now?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ Shweta asked. I was driving her back home.

  ‘He told me a friend has met with an accident and he’s going to the hospital. He didn’t tell me which hospital.’

  ‘I think he’s lying, maybe you’re lying too,’ she said. Her eyes welled up with tears.

  ‘I will tell you whatever I know Shweta. Please don’t cry,’ I said. I was all set to break another relationship. I had practised with Chaddha’s non-existent relationship with Vanya and now I had gotten to Sampu’s real marriage. I tried to calm down. I promised myself I’ll be careful, I’ll pick my words and I won’t say anything that would make Sampu look bad.

  She wiped her tears with a small kerchief that smelt of baby powd
er. She was quiet for a while then she asked, ‘What has he told you about our baby?’

  ‘That he loves his baby more than anything else in the world, after you of course, but more than anything else except you,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I know the lies he’s told you about our baby,’ she said.

  ‘What lies Shweta?’

  ‘The one about how it was a mistake, that we hadn’t planned it.’

  I didn’t reply. She was crying, she said, ‘We had planned it. Believe me, we had planned it, and when it happened he didn’t want it. I felt so alone. I felt so, so miserable. I’ve never felt like that ever in my life.’

  ‘Shweta, he’s an idiot, you know that. He has spent his life flitting from one thing to another, trying to avoid difficult situations, trying to escape from whatever he doesn’t want to face. Hasn’t he changed five jobs in four years? He just finds something unpleasant in a situation and wants to leave. The worst thing about it is that he’s fooling himself,’ I said. I replayed in my head what I had just said and it struck me that I was describing myself, that Sampu was just an older version of me.

  ‘Yes, you are right,’ she nodded, ‘I can see it happening. He’ll leave us very soon, he’ll just want to run away from us. I can see the symptoms; it will happen soon!’

  ‘That won’t ever happen Shweta. He’s a good man, he’d rather harm himself than let any harm come to you or the baby. I know you’re the only one he doesn’t want to run away from. I’m certain he’ll be a great father,’ I said.

  ‘He lies all the time Mukund. He lies about such idiotic things! He catches cold easily; you know his sinus allergy. I told him not to drink chilled Coke. I told him he’ll catch cold and it’ll spread to me and that’s not good for the baby. Did I say anything wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing wrong in that,’ I said.

  ‘He stashes Coke cans in the store room. He drinks a chilled can straight from the fridge late at night and replaces it with another from the store. I’ve seen him doing it.’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ I said, I was running out of something to say that would make it right, then it struck me, I knew of a bait anyone would fall for, ‘If you stop crying and give us a smile, I can tell you some really good things that Sampu says about you,’ I offered.