Blowfish Read online

  ‘Yes, Pramod, yes … I agree … that’s the ideal way out. Yeah … hee hee hee he he he ha ha hee hee hee.’

  That rusty grinding concrete mixer of a laugh was made to ring through the cardboard valleys of a B-grade dacoit film set. Anandi had quite a reputation—she was a ruthless, conceited bitch and a stupid git rolled into one.

  She hung up and looked at me. I was sitting straight, waiting in anticipation.

  She said, ‘Mukund, we are currently in the process of re-evaluating our manpower requirements. To do so …’

  ‘Are you firing me?’

  ‘No, no,’ she laughed again. ‘What makes you think so? No … not at all. Nah! Nah!’ she paused, and then said in a cool, measured tone, ‘we think you have … umm … potential—it just needs to be channeled, if you know what I mean.’

  I nodded and looked up. She was checking something on her laptop. She said, ‘Ok, where was I?’ she was still staring at her screen, ‘Should we do paintball this Freaky Friday? Or should we stick to bowling?’

  I was stumped. Paintball?

  She continued, ‘They have paintball at 32nd Milestone. Josh said he’s keen.’

  I said, ‘I haven’t done paintball.’

  ‘Yes, in these trying times we need to do something for employee morale.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.

  ‘There are so many rumours doing the rounds nowadays. Half of them untrue—we are so often misunderstood,’ she sighed.

  I nodded. I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Anyway, forget it! Where were we?’ Her eyes were cold and vacant.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know. You were talking about my potential.’

  ‘Ah yes, sorry, sorry Mukund, I’ve been working so late every day, I’ve got everything mixed up, paintball-potential.’

  I nodded. ‘Ok, so what was I telling you?’

  ‘You were talking about channeling my potential.’

  ‘Ah yes, we are evaluating the achievements of our employees to understand what makes our organization successful—you know we want to understand our DNA so that it can be replicated as we grow in this highly combative environment. And for that I need your help.’

  I had no clue what she was saying but words like “DNA”, “replicate” and “combative” made me want to nail my resignation letter right on her forehead.

  ‘How can I help?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the kind of enthusiasm that makes us tick,’ she beamed, ‘We want you to be part of a special task force that’ll undertake a mission critical internal assignment for us. It will be led by Ranganath and overseen by Vikram. Are you keen on working on this?’

  Vikram was Joshi’s first name.

  ‘Yes, ok,’ I heard myself say. I felt nauseous. There was a sickeningly sweet smell in the room. It was coming from a bowl of fruit salad that lay on her desk.

  ‘See it’s a hush-hush thing—so don’t tell anyone. We plan to establish a robust knowledge management system in the next three months. Ranganath and you need to help us put it together. We have decided to pull you off all active client work so that you can focus your energy on this—you know like a two-month internal project.’

  ‘Sounds exciting,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, this is mission critical. Remember, we are counting on you. You can get the details from Ranganath.’

  Dhingra was right, as usual.

  I went to Rangoo’s desk. There he was, staring sadly at his monitor.

  ‘You were with Anandi?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She said its mission critical, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmmm …’ Rangoo heaved a deep sigh. ‘Mukund, sit down. Get that chair.’

  ‘We are doomed,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Yes. They are taking us off client work. They are assigning us to an internal project. Do you remember the last time this happened? It was Keshav’s head that time—he was asked to identify weaknesses in the audit system and then he was audited out.’

  He nodded. ‘This is like a two-month notice period. Find a job and get out, that’s what they mean.’

  ‘I’m quitting’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, I was anyway planning to.’

  ‘Quit and do what?’

  ‘Boss, you know there’s a theory that we come into this world with a purpose. I want to find mine and pursue it.’

  ‘Mukund, this is insane man. I like you man … you’re useless but you’re a good guy … and I know you’re very intelligent. Use it man, use your intelligence and get out of here … I’ll recommend you to a few friends of mine.’

  ‘Don’t bother boss. I’m done with this shit.’

  ‘You sound crazy,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not crazy, this is crazy,’ I pointed to the office, ‘I wish you good luck man. You’ve been a good boss. Resignation on your desk tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why? Why not today, you fool!’ he said.

  I grinned, ‘I need to write it.’ I said.

  ‘I have 20 resignations lying in my inbox. I’ve been saving them up for the day when I resign. I’ll send you one. Just copy it’. he said.

  It is My Humble

  Submission

  I told Sampu about my meeting with Anandi, the “mission critical” project and my heroic decision to quit. I was expecting enthusiastic support, instead he responded with thinly disguised cynicism. He said things like:

  ‘So be it. Every man goes temporarily insane at least once in his lifetime.’ and ‘We got to pursue our dream even if they get us fucked.’

  Ignore the naysayers, I told myself. ‘I’ll need your help to write my resignation letter.’ I said to him.

  ‘Ah, that’s easy. I’m an expert,’ he said. He promptly jotted something on a newspaper.

  Dear Sir,

  It is my humble submission to your kind consideration. I would like to seek permanent leave from my current employment. Believe you me I am a modest person who has for always passionately loved and loyally served this astounding organization.

  Yours ever so sincerely

  ‘Bastard, there are 10 mistakes in every word! It reeks of servitude. You can’t expect an email like that from a published author,’ I said.

  ‘You’re a published author?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘I used to write quite a bit when I was in college, my stories regularly appeared in the college mag, my poem once appeared in The Telegraph,’ I did not mention a minor detail—it had appeared in the kids’ section. They mistook me for a seven-year-old.

  ‘Wow! And I thought you were dog poop.’

  ‘You can laugh all you want, but one day, I intend to write one hell of a novel. It’ll be about how modern society sucks the life force out of us, how we’re no longer individual thinkers—we are nobodies marching up a giant hill with nothing at the top. It’ll be a cult classic!’

  ‘That’s all been written about, it doesn’t change anything… but wait! Hold on! Here’s a thought,’ and then Sampu finally said something that made sense, ‘can’t that be your purpose: to write that book?’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t it occur to me?’ I said. The thought excited me.

  ‘Who knows, it can be a super book that goes unnoticed, sells five copies, you go nuts and hang yourself from a tree or ... it’s a mediocre piece of shit with dung beetles crawling all over it and people just lap it up like it’s a new kind of mutton samosa. It all depends. Write something immensely mediocre and likeable, people like mediocrity. How about this: a doctor struggling with a heroin addiction tries to save a comatose accident victim who happens to be a young attractive girl?’

  ‘How does it end?’

  ‘The girl dies. Isn’t that obvious? Don’t make me write the story for you.’

  ‘Thanks Sampu, this is the momentum I was looking for,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Now let’s roll a quick joint. I got
to go home man. Got to feed the wife iron and protein, got to bake a cake.’

  Ashwatthama

  Of all the sample resignation emails that Rangoo reluctantly shared with me, this one was the shortest:

  Dear Ranganath,

  Please consider this as my formal resignation. I would appreciate an early release.

  I would like to thank Gibbons Moore for the opportunities given to me in the last six years.

  Warm Regards,

  Mukund

  It happened quickly. No one was sad except Rangoo. I was his trusted lieutenant. Joshi took it like I was inviting him for my wedding. He smiled and was about to congratulate me for saving him the unpleasantness of firing an old employee, but he stopped midway—his hands reached out to shake mine and then in a last minute manoeuvre that would put any gymnast to shame, he switched his move and patted me on my shoulders. Nothing emanated from that pat; it was the absent-minded tap by a man who had just remembered that his inbox needed a refresh.

  ‘So you want to take a break?’ he asked as he turned around to resume work.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  ‘That’s good, that’s good. Always helps. Wish we could, you know, give you a sabbatical but things are tough nowadays. Slowdown and stuff … the firm is struggling to meet numbers you know.’

  ‘Yes sir, I know.’

  ‘The market is in a bit of a mess you know.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Do you plan to travel?’

  ‘Maybe sir, I might. No plans yet.’

  ‘Ah, why don’t you consider Latin America? Peru? I went there a couple of years ago. I had accumulated a lot of flying miles you know,’ he laughed, ‘there was this barber in Lima; it’s one of the craziest stories …’

  I had heard this one before. ‘We all know that barbers cut hair’ is the titillating first line of the story. Joshi waited. He wanted me to ask him to carry on. I nodded and smiled. Joshi had three stories that he repeated ad infinitum: the barber of Lima was about a barber who sang a sad song while trimming Joshi’s nasal hair; the Nigeria story was about how Joshi sat in an armoured truck to visit a client’s office and the third— he was particularly proud of this one—was about a time when he borrowed a lighter from Katrina Kaif at the airport.

  I didn’t need to listen to his stories anymore. The barber of Lima was dead and buried.

  The phone rang. He picked up. He put a hand on the mouthpiece and said to me, ‘Well then, all the best. I’ll talk to Anandi and make sure your notice period is not more than a week. Keep in touch.’

  Joshi never looked at me after that. The one week that I stayed in office, he walked by me as if I was a piece of furniture. Ah! The joy of being a cheap office chair: no expectations, no obligations, no conversation, no meetings, no discussions—my last week was pure bliss.

  Rangoo took it upon himself to make me as comfortable as possible. It was the other way round—I realized that I owed it to him to be around till I could. I spent most of my time with him in the smoking area, listening to his utopian dreams—a photography exhibition at the India Habitat Centre, a trip around the world, a three-year break to pursue a PhD in criminology, a hill cottage with a spa and a TT table in the garage. Rangoo was like Ashwatthama—cursed to roam this corporate jungle knowing there was no death, no end.

  My last day at work was nice. I had always been a bit of a loner but it was good to know that people in office found me tolerable. They got me my favourite cake. They even said a few good things about me. At 5 pm, I smoked a cigarette with Rangoo. We crushed the butt with our heels, we shook hands, we hugged. ‘I’ll call you,’ Rangoo said. I nodded. He came to the parking lot to say goodbye.

  It was a pleasant sunny evening. I called Chaddha to ask if he wanted beer. He said yes. I bought Budweiser pints and headed home.

  PART TWO

  Albert Camus’

  bastard son

  Like the Pope

  Next morning, when I stepped out to the balcony … man! I can’t describe the feeling. The Sun seemed like a spotlight trained on me. I felt like the Pope. I stretched and yawned; I stood still like a giant tortoise sunning itself on an undiscovered island. I could hear the birds chirping, I could see sleepy kids with leaky water bottles and stuffed school bags trudging to the bus stop, I could see trees laden with dark green wet leaves—it was wonderful—I could see more than I had ever seen. I was free! Free!

  I went in. Bumbum had put the tea cup on the bed. I lit a cigarette, leisurely opened the newspaper and read every single page including the classifieds and the obituaries. I went out to check on Chaddha. The bastard had left for office. I ambled back into the living room. Bumbum wasn’t singing today. That was strange.

  Bumbum had turned 18 last month. He was our full-time butler. Bumbum sent his salary to his parents and four sisters who lived in a small village in West Bengal; he watched TV when he wasn’t working and sometimes smoked a beedi, huddled in a corner of the kitchen balcony. Bumbum was always singing, always happy. In the morning, when we emerged from our smoky cocoons, bleary eyed and cursing the day, we could not help but feel a little better hearing Bumbum crooning the latest Bollywood hits in the kitchen. He would emerge, smiling, with hot tea and ahappy ‘Goor Manning bhaiyya’. Bumbum and his happiness—as if he had the most exciting, challenging, lucrative job in the world—as if he had more going on in his life than we had with our iPhones, micro-breweries, personal loans and hatchbacks.

  I found Bumbum in the kitchen. He was making breakfast.

  ‘Good morning Bumbum ji,’ I said. He smiled. The bread was in the toaster. The whiff of white bread—there’s nothing quite like it. I asked him to put extra butter on my toast and to make two eggs sunny side up. ‘Take your time, no hurry,’ I said.

  ‘Ok bhaiyya,’ he said.

  ‘Why are you not singing today?’ I asked.

  ‘Just like that bhaiyya, nothing really,’ he said. He cracked the eggs into the pan. He looked sad.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  He didn’t reply. I leaned against the kitchen slab and waited. We watched the eggs simmer.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked again.

  ‘Nothing bhaiyya,’ he said. He sprinkled salt and pepper on the eggs and flipped them, ‘You wanted both side fried bhaiyya?’ he asked.

  ‘Sunny side up but it’s ok. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  I brushed and washed my face and went back to my room. I lit a cigarette and picked up a book. Bumbum came in with breakfast. He spread a newspaper on my bed and put the plate on it.

  ‘Bhaiyya, have you taken leave today?’

  ‘Yes Bumbum ji, I’ve sort of taken a long leave.’

  ‘Chaddha bhaiyya was telling me you have left your job?’

  ‘That’s what I meant by long leave,’ Chaddha must’ve made fun of me. I asked, ‘And what else did Chaddha say about me?’

  Bumbum smiled and looked away. ‘Nothing bhaiyya,’ he said.

  ‘Come on Bumbum, you have to tell me what that bastard Chaddha said about me, come on, tell me.’

  ‘Nothing bhaiyya.’

  ‘Ok … now you must tell me. Tell me!’

  Bumbum, who till now was standing at the door, slipped out of the room and hid his frame by the side wall. I could see his fingers playing with the door fringe.

  ‘What? Why are you not telling me?’ I said.

  He blurted out, ‘Chaddha bhaiyya said that you have gone mad.’

  ‘That bastard! He said that … I’ll break his fucking nose! The fucker has gone nuts trying to get married. Do you know why Chaddha is not getting married?’ I asked, trying to make the show as entertaining as possible for Bumbum. I didn’t mind what Chaddha had said—he had always been blunt about me behind my back. But, I liked it when Bumbum laughed at this backbiting. I think he had figured out long ago that we did it in jest and that we were good friends. It was the only topic on which Bumbum could have a conversation wi
th us.

  ‘No bhaiyya, I don’t know why he’s not getting married. Why bhaiyya?’ he said, eagerly waiting for an answer.

  I took a long, contemplative puff and replied, ‘Because no girl with big boobs likes him and Chaddha only likes girls with big boobs!’

  Bumbum laughed but said nothing. Then he came into the room and stood there awkwardly. That sad look was back on his face.

  ‘What’s wrong Bumbum?’

  ‘The society guard slapped me bhaiyya.’

  ‘What! When?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You have to tell me Bumbum. You’re our responsibility here and no one can mistreat you.’

  Bumbum started sobbing. I stood up, put a hand on his shoulder, ‘Now, now, stop crying Bumbum, tell me everything, come on …’

  ‘Bhaiyya there is a girl …’ his voice trailed off. There it was, in the end there is always a girl—there’s a reason Nikolai Tesla and Albert Einstein were never seen around a woman. I sighed, ‘Ok, there is a girl. Tell me more.’ I was a good listener unlike my mother who, in the last three years, has listened to no one.

  So Bumbum bared his heart: Bumbum was in love with a maid in the neighbouring society. Her husband had left her for another woman. She works for a Bengali family—takes care of an infant. She has a four-year-old kid back in the village. Bumbum met her at the Mother Dairy kiosk. Her village is close to Bumbum’s village. They talked. They met every day at the same place. After a few weeks, her employer started getting milk home delivered and she couldn’t come anymore.

  Fulki walked the family dog early morning. It was a good time to meet. They met every day at 5:30 am at the boundary wall that separated the two societies—Bumbum on one side, she on the other and the dog tied to a see-saw. She was 23. They loved each other.

  Wait. Let me say it again. She was married, five years older to him, had a four-year-old kid. Bumbum and Fulki were in love. There, now it looks better—all relevant data neatly arranged to form a sweet little pattern headed for doom.