Blowfish Read online

  She could because it was her. I think she knew it.

  ‘I’d love to know how it ends. But I do have feedback’ she added, ‘I’ve made notes and stuff. I’ll give it you when I leave.’

  We talked for a while and then it was time for her to leave. I walked her to the visitors parking lot.

  ‘What’s that? Have you started stuffing dead bodies in your backseat?’ I pointed to a big brown parcel in her car.

  ‘Shut up!’ she said affectionately, ‘that’s a gift for you. Don’t open it till I leave, okay?’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘And here’s your manuscript,’ she gave me a prinout of my unfinished draft. She had made notes with a red pencil.

  ‘You might find my feedback amateurish but then you asked for it,’ she said.

  I thanked her. She bestowed upon me her trademark good-natured grin and then she was gone.

  The parcel was heavy. I lugged it back to my room and opened it. It was a brand new acoustic guitar with a note from her:

  Dear Mukund,

  We are in this together, you and me.

  Thank you for being there.

  love

  Suman

  P.S: I have bought one too. I’m relying on you to teach me.

  Blowfish

  I had a late-night train to catch. Shankar ji would receive me at the Dhanbad station next morning.

  Rangoo called, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, just writing,’ I said.

  ‘Good, can you meet my boss today afternoon at 3 pm?’

  ‘Today at 3? Yes, I can, yes of course.’

  ‘They might offer you something if you behave, okay?’ Rangoo said, ‘I’ve put in a good word for you. But there’s a hitch, Prashant is not very gung-ho about people who are temperamental, you know, your kind of people. I suggest you invent an acceptable reason for why you quit. I haven’t told him that yet.’

  ‘Haven’t you told him that I’m currently unemployed?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but I didn’t tell him the reason.’

  ‘Hmm … I will think of a reason.’

  ‘Just make up something they can sympathise with—something like a terribly sick father, don’t say you quit to write or something crazy like that. This is 2010, no one wants to hire crazy people anymore.’

  ‘Yep, got it.’

  ‘And once you make up something, message it to me so that our stories are similar. Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do that before you meet Prashant. I know he’ll call me immediately after he meets you.’

  ‘Yes, ok, I will.’

  ‘It’ll be good to meet you man. It’s been a long time. Call me after your interview. I’m on the fifth floor,’ Rangoo gave me his office address. ‘And yes, do laugh when he tells you his Japani fish story. The whole thing is cooked up though, I don’t think he’s ever been to Japan.’

  ‘Ok, I’ll laugh like a hyena,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t.’

  At two, I got a message from Rangoo: What’s your reason for quitting?

  I replied: ailing father, only son.

  I finished lunch and put on my grey suit and my beet-red tie. I got into my Wagon R and drove past Paras Hospital. The mule wasn’t there.

  Rangoo was right about Prashant. He seemed to be a better person than Joshi. I was on my best behaviour. This was my only chance. He told me his fish story. He was on a project in Japan and he’d gone to an exotic fine dining restaurant that specialised in serving tiger blowfish. ‘They call it fugu there. It’s more poisonous than cyanide,’ he said.

  ‘Wow! They eat that there?’

  ‘Yep, it’s considered a delicacy in Japan. They’ve got licensed chefs who are trained for at least three years to dice and prepare that fish. They are issued a licence to prepare fugu … imagine that! One wrong cut and your customer is dead.’

  ‘So, did you order it?’

  ‘Yes sir, we did. We thought what the hell, this is like skydiving.’

  I thought of Sampu when he said that. I laughed, ‘Yes, it’s a bit like that.’

  ‘There were four of us: two Japanese, a German and me. The Japanese folks we were with, even they hadn’t eaten it before. We were drinking a lot that day. We were acting cheerful and loud but we were scared, I could see it on their faces and I know I was shitting in my pants. In Japan, every year, about a hundred people still die of fugu poisoning! Strange place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s super weird,’ I said, ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘So we all wanted to bail but we were waiting for someone else to do it first, you know drunken ego … and then the bloody dish came. The waiter solemnly put it in the centre and left. We sipped our drinks and waited. The German didn’t have our “Asian patience”; he waved down the waiter and asked him to serve the dish. We all smiled and said yeah, bring it on! There were thin dull white slivers of meat and some odd-smelling sauce. The German dipped it in sauce, chewed on it, smiled at us and said, “I’m not dead yet”. We had it on our chopsticks but we waited for him to take another bite. He did and he said we should try it, he said it was nice. Then the two Japanese started eating. I was the last one to try it. It tingled, made my lips numb. I felt a little dizzy but I was all right. We ordered another fugu dish. We had a great time. The German kept saying, “If the chef is old, ask for his license, if he has one then eat his fugu” he made a song out of it. I remember singing it. It was a good song. Anway, we got back to the hotel and everyone seemed fine. I fell asleep the moment I hit the bed. Next day morning, we get to the breakfast restaurant and the German isn’t there. He’s disappeared. We knock on his door, there’s no reply. We check at the reception, he hasn’t checked out. We get worried. We tell the hotel staff, they open the door with the master. There’s no one in his room. On his bed, there is this note: Sagen Sie Marsha, ich werde Angeln.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘’It means: Tell Marsha, I’m going fishing. This idiot had some sort of epiphany and he disappeared! He was all over the news. Anyway, there was a police case, we were questioned, the hotel cameras showed he left late at night wearing an orange t-shirt and shorts. Why would a middle-aged man with a great career, a nice house, a wife and three kids disappear?’

  ‘To eat more blowfish?’ I said. Faux pas.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing, just kidding,’ I stuttered nervously to cover up.

  ‘It’s a mystery, isn’t it? But yes, I got the opportunity to be questioned by the Osaka police, that was nice,’ he laughed.

  ‘Did you go to that restaurant again?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t want to disappear like Otto,’ he laughed,

  I laughed, ‘That’s one hell of a story.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ he grinned, ‘anyway, let’s get back to this. I’m sorry, I have a meeting in five minutes.’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ I said.

  ‘You are on a break. Why did you leave Gibbons Moore? What happened?’

  ‘Yes, I … umm … my father … my book … you know,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Yes,’ he looked at me questioningly, ‘what happened to your father, and a book did you say?’

  My mind drifted. I saw Papa holding my hand to board the train; I saw the printout of a novel lying on my crumpled bed; I saw Suman on a drafting table sporting her affectionate grin; I saw Harpal smiling, fishing out a crushed cigarette from his pocket; I saw Sampu and his daughter running around my grandfather’s mulberry tree; I saw Chaddha hitting a ping-pong ball with all his might and screaming, ‘I won! I won! Yes! Yes!’ I snapped out of it.

  I saw a man sitting across the table with an impatient look on his face. To hell with it, I thought. Why should I be afraid to talk about something that I am so immensely proud of? I blurted out, ‘I wanted to do something, I mean, I wanted to create something I could call my own.’

  bsp;