Blowfish Read online

  ‘You know Bhandari, sometimes I look at the mirror and I wonder what has become of me. There are two little islands of hair on my temples and a tiny wisp in the middle like a frail bridge over a bald, glimmering sea. I should get a wig. I want a wig with superpowers. I want to be Wig-man, a superhero who ejects his wig like a chakra against diabolical villains. But there is no superhuman wig and there is no solution for baldness. I feel bad about that and I feel bad about everything around me.’

  ‘I like Wig-man! You ought to pursue that.’ I said.

  ‘Noted sir, noted,’ he smiled but turned morose again. ‘Yaar, I try and I try and I try but she still feels that I don’t want the baby. She thinks I’m not involved enough. She connects everything to how I looked when I got the baby-news. I love the baby a lot and I’m crazy about her. She is not willing to see it. She throws tantrums every day. When I can’t take it anymore, I answer back. When I do, she begins to cry. Then she says crying affects the baby!’

  ‘Sorry man,’ I put my hand on his shoulder sympathetically. Sampu did not want the baby in the beginning. He told me they had always used protection but the 3 per cent probability of condom failure had worked against him. He had expressed his dismay a few days after he found out: ‘Bhandari, I didn’t see it coming man. I was stunned when she told me the test was positive. She hasn’t forgiven me for my reaction; she says it was like a train had hit me.’

  ‘I didn’t want this yaar; not even a month had passed since Papa’s death when she told me. He was still in my thoughts every day in the morning, at work, in the car. I wasn’t over it and I didn’t want anything in my life at this point and here I am buying wool jumpers for 0-6 months. I’m confused man, I want the baby, I love the baby but I resent the situation you know. It’s complicated.’

  ‘Isn’t it good the baby is coming? It will take your mind off your Papa’s death?’

  ‘Yes, but I needed time to mourn. Shweta is at the fag end of her first trimester. I should just focus on her and the baby. I do try but it’s not always possible yaar.’

  ‘Hmmm … I know,’ I nodded. ‘Should I ask Bumbum to make some tea?’

  ‘Let’s smoke some dope yaar!’ he said.

  ‘Have you called her?’

  ‘What do you think I’ve been doing since morning? She hasn’t picked up. I went home. I knocked and rang the bell. She refused to open. I could hear her phone ringing. After a long wait, she comes to the door and tells me she doesn’t want to see me.’

  ‘She seems to be having a bad day.’

  ‘And I feel like a serial killer on the loose. I feel like I’m roaming the streets with a bloodied knife in my hand,’ Sampu sighed and lit another cigarette.

  That was Sampoorna Nand Pandey aka Sampu’s favourite pastime—come up with film noir analogies, discuss, rationalize, pontificate, spit and growl, gobble joints and guzzle beer. He was the oldest amongst us. He was our flatmate, two years ago he got married and shifted to another society close by. Sampu aspired for simple pleasures of life—a good woofer and shelf speakers, single grain alcohol, a clean whiskey tumbler and freshly dried country weed. I doubt if there were different sections in Sampu’s mind for his wife and for weed—if Shweta wasn’t willing to forgive him, Sampu could find solace in weed. Maybe I’m being too harsh but sometimes it did seem that way. Sampu often declared that he wanted to be a prosperous nobody, he described it as a cold-blooded, logical step towards a happy, contented life. I feared becoming like him. I was headed that way if I didn’t change something.

  ‘Ok, let’s smoke then,’ I said.

  ‘Where’s the masala?’ he asked.

  I threw my weed pouch and cigarette paper at him. ‘This stuff is damn good. This Token guy is getting better by the day,’ I said. Token was this paraplegic chap on a government-sponsored tricycle who sold us weed. Great man. God bless him.

  A few joints later, I felt silly. I was smiling, slumped on my bed. I was back to a small town in Jharkhand where my father used to teach, where I lived as a kid.

  Poshampa Bhai

  Poshampa

  I was four-and-a-half and Chhoti Jaiswal was five. She was my best friend. We were explorers. When papa-mummy-uncle-aunty went for a post-lunch siesta—a couple of hours later the garden chairs would be brought out and tea would be served in the verandah—Chhoti and I would creep out of our homes and roam the vastness of a hot summer afternoon. We carried our walking sticks, our pockets weighing down with lucky marbles. We knew several hiding places amongst dense thickets and thorny shrubs and we had an army of stray dogs who played an important part in our adventures. Sometimes we had money and we would buy ice-lollies. My favourite was mango flavour; she liked lemon and orange—the lollies melted and dripped on the dusty road, leaving a sticky trail that people could follow if we ever got lost.

  One such day, Chhoti and I came across a strange sight. We were following a seemingly endless string of lantana shrub—we trudged along the shrub’s path—our eyes squinting in the sun’s glare. We were eager to know where the trail would end. The lantana led us through knolls and damp shades under big trees, through vast fields and dry, dull ditches. We had almost reached the end at an abandoned railway crossing. That’s where we saw a kid tied to a tree. It was Ajaiyya, the hunchback. They had tied him up with a tattered old rope. His arms and feet were wrapped around the tree stump. He was kneeling as far as he could. His back must have been hurting.

  He must have been 13 or 14. He worked as a help—that’s all I would ever know about him. I had seen him doing odd jobs at our home. Once he had removed all the cobwebs from our house—he did a good job, Amma told me later. I remembered his face: a broad, happy smile hidden behind layers of soot. He was nice. Amma gave him five rupees and some tea and biscuits.

  Ajaiyya smiled, ‘Where are you going babu bhaiyya?’ he asked.

  He was bleeding through his nose. ‘What happened to you Ajaiyya?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing babu bhaiyya.’

  ‘He stole a watch,’ Chhoti said. She was hiding behind a tree.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Ajaiyya shook his head.

  ‘Papa told me he stole the contractor’s watch,’ Chhoti added.

  ‘I didn’t steal his watch.’

  ‘Papa told me it was an expensive watch, an HMT.’

  ‘I didn’t steal his watch,’ repeated Ajaiyya.

  I looked down at his feet. His toenails were crushed and blood caked.

  ‘I tried to run babu bhaiyya. They broke my leg and stomped on my feet,’ he said.

  ‘I will untie you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t bhaiyya, they have gone to get the Constable. My mother is also coming.’

  ‘Yes, uncle will beat you up if you let him go,’ Chhoti said. She was referring to my father.

  ‘No, he won’t,’ I said.

  ‘See, they’re coming,’ she pointed at two bicycles and a scooter in the distance. A man sitting at the back of the scooter was wearing khaki.

  ‘There they come babu bhaiyya,’ he said. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’

  ‘She must be coming. She must be walking down. Our home is far away.’ He turned to the other side and looked into the distance. We followed his gaze—Lantana shrubs, we couldn’t see anything else.

  Vinod Mehra

  Ajaiyya was still in my head in the shower the next day. He dragged himself up the 20-step hill that led to my father’s yellow house. He stopped and banged at the gate.

  I got into the car. Took a deep breath and dialed Papa’s number.

  ‘Hello Mukund.’

  ‘Hello Papa.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m all right Papa. How are you?’

  ‘I’m alive. Not too well, but alive. I don’t know how long I’ll live.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I can feel it. My body aches all the time. I can’t even walk properly.’

  ‘Arre, you remember when you retired you said you want
ed to become a yogi and explore the Himalayas. What happened to that plan?’

  ‘If my body would allow, I would stand on one leg on the tip of Mount Everest. I would stay put till Lord Shiva himself came down and granted me eternal life.’

  ‘You can still do that. I know you can.’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it raining there? It’s raining here. Yesterday I met Professor Chand. You remember him?’

  ‘Yes, how is he?’

  ‘He was asking about you. He was asking about your salary.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmmm.’

  ‘I didn’t know so I said I don’t know. How much do you earn Mukund?’

  ‘I earn ok, Papa.’

  ‘But how much is ok? Many people ask me. Nowadays kids earn so much. Professor Chand’s son is earning millions in America. Remember, he went to the same engineering college as you. I want to tell people how well you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m not doing that well,’ He once predicted that I wouldn’t get through school, that he would have to give me money to open a grocery store. I think I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to prove him wrong.

  ‘Yes, of course you are doing well. I’m sure you are earning a lot. You have a car. Which car do you have?’

  ‘A Wagon R’

  ‘Hmmm … that’s a car. So, what should I tell Dr Chand?’

  ‘Tell Professor Chand that I’m a farmhand and I earn Rs 12 a day.’

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  ‘Papa, what was the name of that shrub that used to grow everywhere on campus?’

  ‘I don’t know. What did it look like?’

  ‘It had small yellow, white and orange flowers, the one that used to smell like black currants?’

  ‘Ah yes, that one, don’t remember the name. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Chhoti Jaiswal and I used to follow that shrub when we were small. It was a game. Do you remember Ajaiyya?’

  ‘Ajaiyya?’

  ‘Yes, he used to do small jobs, remember him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The hunchback?’

  ‘Ah yes, Ajaiyya. I remember him. He’s here.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He is married now, has five children.’

  ‘Hmmm. Does he walk properly?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His feet, does he walk?’

  ‘Limps I think. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just … I was curious to know how he was doing.’

  We were silent for a while, and then he said, ‘Mukund, I’m not well. I’m going to die soon. Your Papa isn’t going to live for long’.

  ‘Why do you keep saying that? Why don’t you come here Papa? We’ll consult a good doctor here. There are many hospitals very close to where I live,’ I said. I took out my cigarette pack. I lit a cigarette and put the phone on speaker. I was familiar with this conversation. I knew what he would say.

  ‘How will I come? I can’t come alone. What if I black out? Trains are so bad nowadays, I’m dead sure if I black out, no one will even notice.’

  ‘Why do you think like that? Has it ever happened before?’

  ‘No, it hasn’t but it might. I have a feeling it can happen. I sometimes sit down just to avoid fainting.’

  ‘I’m sure a good doctor can set that right. Why don’t you take a flight Papa? That’s faster and they take good care of you. They can arrange for a wheelchair at the airport. I can book your flight. You can take a cab to Ranchi and from there it’s a direct flight to Delhi. I’ll receive you at the airport.’

  ‘You’ll receive me at the airport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you send me your address just in case you don’t turn up at the airport?’

  ‘Yes, Papa, I will send you my address but I promise I will be there at the airport. I’ll wait for you in the car and when you come out I’ll be there right in front of Gate 2.’

  ‘Gate 2. Ok,’ he paused and said, ‘I can’t come in a plane.’

  ‘Papa, everyone is flying nowadays, flight tickets are cheap and I can book,’ I said. He was a stingy man, he had always been like that.

  ‘Ok, yes, maybe I can come but I will come in April next year.’

  ‘Why not in November? I promise you, you will feel much better once you consult a good doctor.’

  ‘Hmmm … planes are dangerous and it’s getting colder. Can you imagine your poor Papa hurtling through the icy air in a tin-box? It is very dangerous, na baba, I can’t do it.’

  ‘Papa, how did you go to the US—in an oil tanker?’

  ‘I was young then. I took a risk. I can’t do it anymore. Have you heard of the Kanishka bombing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Three hundred dead. Planes are killing machines; there was a mid-air collision sometime in the 90s, again everyone dead. Somewhere in the Middle East the plane caught fire while on the runway, it had not even flown, and all the people inside died of asphyxiation. A plane will find a way to kill you, I’m dead sure a plane is planning to kill me .’

  ‘Come on, it’s not like that,’ I said. His talk was depressing. I wanted to hang up.

  ‘I’m going to die. Elvis died when he was 40.’

  ‘You are 64, Papa.’

  ‘And John Lennon was 45?’

  ‘40 … he was 40. He was shot dead Papa.’

  ‘Vinod Mehra.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The film star. He was very good looking. Sad, sad. Got cancer. Dead. Dropped dead of cancer. And Guru Dutt, he died at 32 …’

  ‘He had a drinking problem, Papa!’

  ‘He died, didn’t he?’

  ‘You don’t drink Papa.’

  ‘I used to. And I can die, can’t I?’

  Check. I had nothing to say to that.

  ‘And I will die alone. In a plane, I would die with others but here I will die alone. I will. I can see it.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It won’t happen. Nothing will happen to you.’

  ‘You haven’t come to visit. How many years has it been? 11? No, I think 12. Who knows if we’ll even meet before I die?’

  Checkmate.

  The Thousand-Yard

  Stare

  I found Rangoo standing beside the coffee machine. He had the symptoms of a man suffering from combat fatigue—his eyes were sad and vacuous, his shirt was untucked, his fly half-open and his index finger fidgeted with the coffee mug. I patted him on the back. He whirled around, the coffee spilled on the mini-refrigerator. The pantry boy shook his head and looked away.

  ‘How did the meeting go?’ I asked him after he got over the shock. He must have thought I was Josh. I had heard that the elder Bhujani had chuckled at the presentation Josh and Rangoo had made. That only meant one thing: Josh had his dick out for Rangoo.

  Rangoo was quiet for a while, lost in thought. After a while, he smiled feebly and muttered, ‘Not good. We need to step up our game. We need to … before it’s too late.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. He shook his head and walked away.

  I had done a lot of thinking the previous night. I had even arrived at a conclusion. I needed to see my numerologist.

  I made an appointment. He had no time till Friday. I opted for Saturday afternoon—I planned to have some prawn curry with rice and for dessert Manish Dhingra could give me some advice.

  Dhingra lived in a plush apartment complex off Golf Course road. The place was like a fortress; the entrance had more guards, CCTVs and boom barriers than the bloody Pentagon. I’d heard this place had a Spa and Jacuzzi, three restaurants, squash courts, bowling alley and a half football field. It was meant to inspire common folk like me to work harder so that we could live there someday.

  So there I was, on a satin orange sofa in Dhingra’s “prediction chamber”. Dhingra sat on his swivel chair in his usual attire: a canary yellow Fabindia kurta, orange and black Gucci glasses, and big ruby, coral and moonstone rings on his fingers. His big hands played with a crystal paperweight, ‘So Mukund, before we begin, I have to ask you:
have you changed your name to Muklund? I had told you to, last time we met, didn’t I?’ asked Dhingra. The man was omnipotent; I was sure he knew I hadn’t changed my name.

  ‘Sorry Manish, I haven’t done it yet. It’s just too complicated. I have too much work and running around the passport office is an ordeal.’

  Bullshit excuses but the apology was genuine. Isn’t it strange? A man had given me a doable idea that according to him is the panacea for all my ills and I won’t do it—it’s as if I don’t want my problems to vanish—as if there’s a puss-filled boil on my head and I’ve fallen in love with it.

  ‘I knew it! You people …’ he rolled his eyes and shook his head, ‘I guess you don’t trust me when I tell you that one single L in your name can change your destiny forever. Forever … do you understand what that means?’ he said. Dhingra had quit his job as the Senior VP of an IT multinational eight years ago. Now he was a full-time numerologist and was raking in the moolah.

  ‘I do believe you; it’s just that I’ve been tied up,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Come on … change it to Muklund and you’ll reap the rewards.’

  ‘Manish, there’s a problem with that name.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘I’m sure you know’. I said. How could he not? Dhingra seemed like a man of the world.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You don’t mind if I tell you?’

  ‘Not at all, tell me.’

  ‘If I change my name I will become Muk … Lund. Muk and Lund; Lund in Hindi slang means penis and Muk sounds like muck, that would mean I would be called Dirty Dick. Muk also sounds like Mukh which is mouth in Hindi …’

  ‘Well, well, well … hadn’t thought of that,’ he smiled mischievously.

  ‘See, you’re smiling, aren’t you?’

  ‘Ok … but how does it matter? If you’re super rich and you’re called Dirty Dick, does it matter?’

  ‘I guess not … but I know my friends, they won’t hesitate in coming up with nicknames. I can become a Lund (Penis) or Lundoora (Penis Man) or Lund-fakeer (Penis Saint)!’