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  I soothed him, ‘Don’t worry beta. Tell me, why did the security guard slap you?’

  ‘Bhaiyya, he saw us today morning, we were talking and he called me and slapped me before I could say a word. He told me to keep away from Fulki and he told me he’ll bury me alive if he ever saw me with her. He also said he’ll report the case to Fulki’s society bhaiyya,’ he wasn’t crying anymore, he was angry.

  Bumbum and Fulki, Fulki and Bumbum—if this wasn’t a modern-day Romeo Juliet, then what was?

  ‘How dare he? The bastard! What’s his name?’ I was filled with self-righteous rage.

  ‘Narender.’

  ‘Narender! Hmmm … I’m going to burn his bloody balls. You wait here!’ and I rushed out.

  Wait till the society administration hears about this, they will fire the pants off that guard and poor Bumbum would have his revenge. First day of unemployment and I had already found a just cause. What a terrific beginning, eh!?

  Immigrant Types

  Srijan Vihar had six grey towers. Each tower had 18 floors, each floor had four flats, each flat had three rooms, each room has an attached balcony and each balcony had its own colony of grey roosting pigeons. Chaddha hated the pigeons. He had an air gun he planned to use on them someday.

  There was a new graffiti inside the elevator: a big dick with the words ‘You are fucked.’

  I had never been to the society’s admin office. It was housed in a two-floor building beside the society entrance. Apart from the admin office, the building had a one-room gym, a general store, a four-shelf children’s library and a barbershop.

  I peered inside—it was dark and warm, it smelt of Iodex. Two men were sitting across a white plastic table. A wrinkled, fat chap wearing a grey safari suit sat on a stool too small for his frame. A thin, clean-shaven man sat on a big, black chair. He seemed to be the chap I had come to meet. He was wearing a white shirt; a blue Reynolds pen was clipped on his chest pocket. His large, hairy ears stood out against his narrow face. A pack of Wills, a Wimco matchbox and a glass ashtray lay on the table. I remembered him from somewhere but couldn’t place him.

  I knocked. They signaled me to wait at the door. They were talking in hushed tones, but I could hear every word.

  Safari Suit with wrinkles as thick as his nose was telling Large Ears about his piles; Large Ears was absentmindedly nodding his head. He stopped the Safari Suit just when he was about to describe the colour of his shit, ‘Puran, I don’t want to know. I know you are in pain. So am I. I’m telling you, it can’t be described in words, it can only be felt and you can’t feel my pain and I can’t feel your piles, for that is human nature, isn’t it? But, I can tell you, last time there was a full moon, I felt like hacking my right leg. And you won’t believe it, I was about to get a knife when my grandson, you know the one who just turned four, he came in and sat on the leg that was paining and it got better. It was miraculous. No amount of massaging and oiling had ever made any difference. That’s what small children are Puran, they are our only hope.’

  Puran the safari suit said, ‘Yes sir ji, you are so right about that. When did your grandson come?’

  ‘He … he was here recently. They were here for a few days.’

  ‘My grandson, he is so small but he is always asking for a gift, he says, Daddu, daddu, give me gift. But where was I, I was telling you about piles …’

  Large Ears interjected again, ‘Hmmm … why don’t you tell me a little more about your grandchild?’

  I knocked again. They looked up, a bit annoyed, but this time the ear chap waved me in and pointed to a stool beside Puran. I sat down.

  ‘I’m Colonel Harpal Singh, may I help you?’ he said.

  I began, ‘Sir, I have come here to lodge a complaint.’

  ‘Which flat and tower?’ asked Safari Suit Puran.

  ‘Tower B, flat 704. My name is Mukund Bhandari.’

  ‘What is this about?’ asked Harpal.

  ‘I have a manservant; his name is Bumbum …’

  ‘Bumbum, eh? Bengali, must be, eh?’ asked Puran. I could hardly see his eyes, droopy small inlets in a sea of fat.

  ‘Yes, he is a Bengali.’

  ‘Immigrant types?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never checked.’

  ‘You must have got his police verification done?’ asked Puran, the detective.

  ‘I didn’t. My flatmate Chaddha did. So … well … I don’t know.’

  They exchanged glances—I got the feeling they were gauging if I could be trusted.

  ‘These Bangladeshis have been ruining this country since 1971. The less said about them the better,’ Harpal turned to me, ‘Ok ji … so what is the problem?’

  ‘Someone slapped him in the morning.’

  ‘Who? This man Chaddha?’ asked Puran confused—his thick brain refused to handle more than one name at a time. Chaddha slapped by a guard! That would be fun.

  ‘No, no, Bumbum, our manservant.’

  ‘OK ji … he was slapped. When? Where? How can we help you?’ asked Harpal Singh. He was bending forward now, his elbows resting on the table. He had a big smirk on his face.

  ‘He was talking to a friend from the neighbouring society and this guard Narender saw them, it must have been at about 6 am, and he slapped him for talking to this girl.’

  ‘Ah! He was talking to a girl! If you don’t mind me asking, was this girl also a Bengali?’ Harpal the grandkid lover stiffened in his seat as he said this.

  ‘Yes, but how does it matter?’ I replied.

  ‘Immigrant types eh?’ added Puran. This time he was smiling.

  ‘What’s that got to do with this?’ I was getting impatient.

  ‘See, look, Mr …?’ Harpal Singh said.

  ‘Mukund.’

  ‘Full name please?’ he said curtly.

  ‘Mukund Bhandari.’

  ‘OK … see … look, I have to tell you Mr Bhandari … or no, let me ask you this: what was your manservant doing talking to a girl from the neighbouring society at 6 am in the morning?’ Harpal posed the question and sat back triumphant, the spring of his swivel chair screeched.

  I was stumped … my self-righteous rage dissolved into a muted defence. ‘Sir, they belong to neighbouring villages. They were talking to each other, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Just talking eh? How old is your manservant? And how old is the girl you were mentioning?’ he asked, then turned to the Safari Suit, ‘Puran, call Narender guard please.’ Harpal’s elbows were back on the table. Puran gave me a long, hard stare. He hated me for making him get up.

  ‘He is 18. They are just friends,’ I said after Puran had left.

  ‘Just friends, eh? They were meeting early in the morning at the boundary separating the two societies, eh? A young man and a young woman! And you condone this incident?’

  I didn’t know what I could condone and couldn’t. ‘Condone’ was like ‘cognitive dissonance’—words I knew but never used.

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong with them meeting?’ I asked.

  ‘What’s wrong? You think there’s nothing wrong?’ Harpal Singh screamed.

  I didn’t know what to say. Later, while walking back to my block, I came up with several befitting responses to his angry scream—but at the time, sitting on that narrow stool, I felt like I was back in my school principal’s office telling him why I had bunked school to watch a Bond film. Some things are obvious but can’t be explained.

  Harpal Singh continued, he had calmed down, ‘See Mr Bhandari, this is an Army Welfare Housing Society, we have our rules. Tell me this: what would happen if this girl runs away with this man PumPum after they steal all your belongings? Will you not blame the guards?’

  ‘His name is Bumbum. I know him well, he’s not like that.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, I’m a bachelor.’

  ‘Ah!’ Harpal Singh’s smirk grew wider. He lit a cigarette. I said, my voice louder than usual, ‘What does that mean? Are you tryin
g to say something?’

  ‘Yes I am. I am. You irresponsible bachelors with your drinking and parties. You bring girls home and spend the night with them. You are a blot on this society. You shouldn’t be living here!’ his Adam’s apple spun around in his throat.

  I was baffled. This was going in an entirely different direction. I said, ‘I think you’re misunderstanding the issue.’

  He took a long puff and shook his head. ‘No, I’m not.’

  I was angry now, ‘You are supposed to help us and look what you’re doing … you’re misbehaving with someone who has come to seek help.’

  ‘You call me an oldie! You dare call me that?’

  ‘I didn’t call you an oldie. I didn’t say anything of that sort!’ This was baffling.

  ‘Yes, you did. You very much did. I’m going to make sure you get chucked out of this society, I’m going to …’

  Puran came in with Narender. Narender was a short, stubby chap with two broken teeth and a small moustache. He had an old tennis ball in his hand. He squeezed it repeatedly while talking.

  ‘Narender, what is it that I am hearing? Tell me what happened?’ asked Harpal.

  ‘Colonel sir ji, I was just doing my duty. This boy has been meeting this pretty woman from that society every day in the morning. That woman is married!’ Narender said. He seemed delighted to have made this revelation.

  ‘Married! Mr. Bunbun did you just hear what he said? She’s married and you’re telling us what is right and wrong!’

  I had calmed down by then. I said, ‘Sir, this boy is our servant. If anything was wrong with what he did, we should have been informed, we would have warned him. He is our responsibility. My problem is that this guard slapped him, he had no right to.’

  ‘No right! Sir ji, what is this man saying?’ Puran bellowed—he was brimming with new found vigour. Puran looked at Harpal for a sign. I think if Harpal had nodded, Puran would’ve slapped me immediately.

  ‘Puran ji, calm down. This man has been misbehaving but you don’t have to shout back. We are civilised people. We know his indecent behaviour won’t get him anywhere.’

  He turned to me and said, ‘Mr. Bhandari, I think this has gone too far. We will need to take appropriate action. I have heard your point of view and I will have a discussion with Narender to sort things out. Now you can leave.’

  I sat there stunned. My brain was still trying to register what I’d heard in the last few minutes. Lazy smoke rose from Harpal’s ash laden cigarette. Narender played catch-catch with the wall. They were waiting. I stood up and left.

  I didn’t know what had hit me. —The dark grey towers of Srijan Vihar loomed against the blue sky. I felt like an alien refugee on an inhospitable grey, white and black planet; a seething, fuming cratered dump—an enormous mass of black coal with a big white, ‘YOU DON’T BELONG HERE’ sign painted on its troubled knee.

  Lion with Magnets

  on its Paws

  I got home. I went to the balcony and lit a cigarette. I now remembered where I had seen Harpal before. It was on Independence Day. I had woken up to the blaring national anthem and a bad hangover. I had stepped out to the balcony for some fresh air. It must’ve been 6 am and I saw the national flag unfurled at the society entrance. He had stood at attention; there was no one else around except for two young guards who looked haggard and sleepy. I remembered Harpal’s sharp salute.

  I told Bumbum he couldn’t meet his girl anymore and he should try keeping a “low profile” for a few weeks. He looked crestfallen. What could I do?

  I had been happy and free just half an hour back and now I felt threatened and sapped of all my verve.

  I bolted my room and wrote a mail to Nisha. I sent her an email every month—at times even two or three. She never responded. Sometimes I felt I was stalking her. But I wasn’t. I was so far away and these words were flowing like drain water from my pudgy fingers down a cable line to warm, black humming machines and then into her neat trash folder.

  Dear Nisha,

  Do you remember your last birthday? I got you a lion with magnets on its paws—is it still on your fridge?

  How are you? I’m OK, I guess. I’m bungling up and screwing up as usual. I miss you sometimes.

  Love,

  Mukund

  I clicked on the send icon then I tried clicking on the back button but it was gone.

  I don’t know why I had the urge to call my mother. I knew it won’t help but even then … I felt very lonely and she was the only one I could talk to. My best friends must be sleeping somewhere in the States—East Coast, West Coast and some other shit like that—friends outgrow each other because of separate time zones. Chaddha would be toiling away in office—bothering him with my sob story didn’t seem the right thing to do, and Sampu would make fun of me and tell me to grow up.

  ‘Hello Amma, how are you?’

  ‘Mukund my baby, did you have breakfast?’

  Breakfast! Who was thinking of that? This is how my calls with my mother ended even before they started.

  ‘Yes, I did Amma. How are you doing?’

  ‘I’m good. Are you in office?’

  ‘Yes, Amma. I’m in office,’ I hadn’t told her that I had quit. She would have thrown a fit. She would have assumed I had gone into severe depression like I had about seven years ago. Those were bad days. I was on medication. The world seemed a nice place only when I popped a pill. She had come over and stayed with me for a month—without her I may have killed myself—but I didn’t. It was because she stood by me. My mother was no longer my best friend. We had grown apart. I was no longer her little boy … or maybe I still was and I resented it.

  ‘And what are you having for lunch?’

  ‘I don’t know … whatever they serve in the Cafeteria. Amma, I have decided to write. I have decided to take up writing,’ I said abruptly.

  ‘Oh you will be great at it my baby. You used to write so well when you were in school and your letters to me when you were in college, oh! so well-written. I still have them all. Maybe you can write something from that. Or maybe you can come to Benaras for a couple of days and roam around the ghats and the old city. I am sure you will find stories and inspiration. Why don’t you do that? Why don’t you take off and come over? I’ll make your favourite parwal sabzi and gud ki kheer. It’ll be fun. There are lots of mosquitoes here but I have a very good mosquito net. I won’t let them bite you. All your college clothes are here too so you don’t need to pack anything. I just kept all your books in a new cupboard I bought a month ago. Very nice collection of books you have, my baby. I promise, I won’t lend them to anyone. I think you should just put a pair of jeans in a bag and come over,’ she paused to breathe.

  What did I do to deserve this senseless monologue! This is why I don’t talk to her. She just took it all away from me, here I was talking about writing and she started packing my bag for a trip to Benaras. If there was a Wikipedia page for a bad listener—they should put her photo there.

  I did what I always do, ‘Amma, got to go now, my meeting is starting …’

  ‘Ok my baby, book your tickets soon. Eat pomegranates and apples and bottle gourd and sleep well …’ I hung up before she could tell me to exercise. It was comforting to hear her voice … just knowing that she was around was nice.

  Nisha was a good listener—patiently nodding at my endless tirades about my job, this city, the roads; my critique of this film and that album. She, too, had an opinion which was hers and did not necessarily subscribe to mine. She listened to my monologues; with her, I could declare my independence from it all without doing anything about it. With her gone, I had to do something to feel alive again. Maybe that was all there was to this job quitting thing.

  Punjabi Refugee

  Angst

  Sampu landed at seven in the evening. He was carrying a navy-blue duffel bag.

  ‘Fucking hash brownies man! It was your fucking idea! Fuck you!’ he said and collapsed on my bed. His shoes hung precariously by
the side, they were about to brush against my pillow. I picked the pillow just in time and threw it into the closet.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Just putting it away before you maul it with your shoes …’

  ‘So you don’t feel any guilt giving me that hash brownie idea?’

  ‘You made it at home, did you?’

  ‘I was sort of making it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Smoke’

  ‘Smoke?’

  ‘The house was filled with smoke.’

  ‘You must’ve done something wrong.’

  ‘I had taken all the precautions. I was making it late at night. I had closed the kitchen door, I had sprayed a deodorant in the hall, I had opened the windows and the balcony. I had done everything by the book and still!’

  ‘It got burnt?’

  ‘Yes, there was a lot of smoke coming out of the oven. It was everywhere. She stood in the balcony for hours to avoid taking it in. I was at her feet pleading but NO—the woman just wanted me to leave. “Leave me and my baby alone and never show your face again!” What could I do? I slept in the car, went to office in the morning and here I am.’

  ‘Shit! How long is it going to be this time?’

  ‘I don’t know man! I’m fucked. I feel like Satan.’

  ‘You are Satan, man! How could you botch this up—you have the sweetest wife in the world, you’re going to become a father to the sweetest kid in the world and all you want to do is to eat hash brownies.’

  ‘That’s the point! I was making them so that I don’t have to smoke it. You remember what happened last time. I thought I’ll make a big batch and hide it in the fridge. Then whenever I need to get high, I could simply stuff my mouth with one. No more smoke—that was the plan!’

  ‘Ok,’ I said. It sounded reasonable to me. Nothing is as simple as it seems.

  Chaddha arrived when we were finishing our second pint. He entered the room like a man who had just got his first endoscopy done: slow, cautious steps, a contemplative, sad demeanor—something was bothering him. We asked him if he was okay. He ignored us and poured himself a drink. He took a large gulp, ‘Carry on with your crap,’ he said.