Blowfish Page 8

  ‘Country pistol?’

  ‘I don’t know ma’am. It was a black gun.’

  ‘Black car, black gun, too black to see! Were you wearing black glasses? You two must have been drunk.’

  ‘We were three ma’am,’ Chaddha corrected.

  ‘Three drunks?’

  ‘No ma’am, we weren’t drunk.’

  ‘You were driving drunk, weren’t you?’

  ‘No ma’am.’

  ‘Where is the third?’

  ‘He is in office.’

  ‘So you two took leave today?’

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  ‘Why did they stop you?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’ Chaddha said. ‘I think we were going too slow for their liking.’

  ‘So they stopped you to make you go fast? Then they thought they might as well steal your laptop, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  ‘Do you think a person driving an expensive car would steal from you?’ she asked.

  ‘It was a Q7 model ma’am,’ said the constable, ‘I think it costs 70 lac in the market, Automatic is 80.’

  ‘Dagar shut up,’ she said to the constable. ‘So there it is then, persons driving an 80 lac car would bother with your cheap laptop?’

  ‘It wasn’t cheap ma’am,’ I said. ‘It was a Mac. It was very expensive.’

  ‘How much was it for?’

  Chaddha kicked my feet and gestured me to stop talking. He said, ‘It was new ma’am and he had bought it after borrowing money from us. It was very costly, about 60,000 rupees.’

  ‘How many were they?’

  ‘Four people.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘Yes ma’am, we can.’

  ‘I’m still wondering ma’am, why would they steal it?’ Constable Dagar said.

  Chaddha turned to Dagar and said, ‘Why wouldn’t they steal it?’

  ‘They are rich.’

  ‘And rich people don’t steal?’

  ‘Yes, they do steal but why would they steal your laptop?’

  ‘Because they know people like you won’t do anything about it; because their daddy had this big green field and he sold it to DLF for a few crores in cash and three-four flats in kind and now they have nothing to do but to collect rent, play hooligan-hooligan and drive fancy cars. Stealing from middle class idiots like us is a hobby for these bastards!’ Chaddha was fuming. It had taken five minutes for him to lose his cool.

  Inspector Devi leaned back on her chair ‘Shut up! Dagar, write down the FIR. And you, what’s your name?’

  ‘Rohit Chaddha.’ He said.

  ‘Noted. You’re very close to being whacked and thrown out of this station. Would you like that? Or do you want to leave on your own.’

  ‘Nothing will come off this shit,’ Chaddha said as he started the car. I had got Dagar to write the FIR. Chaddha had been waiting in the car.

  ‘Yes, especially now that you’ve made sure they dislike us,’ I glared at him. Sometimes you just can’t stand your best friends. We drove back home in silence.

  Blam! Blam!

  I had lost most of my savings because of a stupid, drunken adventure. This wouldn’t have happened if not for credit cards. I took out my two cards and cut them with scissors. I threw the pieces in the dustbin.

  I was poor but I had spirit. I will write, yes I will, I told myself. I will finish my book in a month, I banged my fist on the bed. I picked up a pen and began jotting down the first few lines of what would be a great novel. Here’s what I wrote:

  “Man is a social animal. Fire hydrant cabinet. Netaji’s files must be declassified. Is there an album as good as Lloyd Cole’s Rattlesnakes? I love The Clash. Do I love the Clash? Or do I love The Clash because everyone who’s somebody in my list loves them?”

  I spent another half hour on it. Nothing. This was super depressing. I didn’t know where to begin. I had hit a new low. I rushed to Chaddha’s room. He was sitting on his bed with his water pipe (it was a bong but he didn’t like calling it that).

  ‘Aao Thakur, aao,’ he said and offered the bong to me.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me? I need this,’ I said.

  ‘You were upset with me, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but does that matter? Fuck Chaddha! What’s happening man?’

  ‘I don’t know. Fuck it! Let’s get high,’ he said.

  A few minutes later, Chaddha had slipped into his usual melancholic stupor: he stared at the floor, smiled sadly and shook his head at times. Feeling bad about himself was Chaddha’s hobby.

  I was sad too. I put on some music and shut my eyes.

  After a while Chaddha said, ‘Sir, do you have Simon and Garfunkel?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Oh, I would have loved to listen to one song.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘That one, it’s called I’m a rock.’

  ‘Ah, that one … hmmm … let me download it for you.’

  I played it. He sang along, his eyes closed. I asked him if this reminded him of something.

  ‘Sir, there was a time when I was in love. First love sir, first love.’

  ‘Tell me more sir, tell me more,’ I said.

  ‘I could drive Papa’s scooter with my hands in the air. Hands-free Chaddha, my friends used to call me,’ he saw my big grin, ‘I was fifteen yaar, what do you expect? I used to drive around her house every evening hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Sometimes she would be on the terrace. She never gave me a sign, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I kept at it. I still remember my eyes squinting in the summer sun, my sticky hand revving the accelerator. One day it happened. She looked at me and smiled. I was thrilled! I felt I had made it. That night I wrote a long love letter. I got a kid in her family to give it to her.’

  ‘Wow Chaddha … that’s ingenious.’

  ‘No, I was an idiot. Her father got hold of it.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Yeah. He was a good man. I was circling her house the next day. He stopped me, slapped me twice and took my address. He came in later in the evening and told my father. Papa slapped me too. I think he was more upset about all the petrol I had wasted in circling her house. That night I put I’m a rock on repeat and cried myself to sleep.’

  ‘So are they still in touch?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Papa and her father?’

  ‘Yes, they became friends after that. She got married a few years ago.’

  We were quiet for a while. I could hear pigeons settling to roost in the balcony.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Chaddha asked.

  ‘Bloody pigeons.’ I said.

  Chaddha stood up and handed me the bong; he picked a dusty old bag from his cupboard and rushed out. It was quiet for a while and then I heard a bang. I heard it again … and I heard wings flapping and Chaddha’s angry scream. I stumbled into the balcony and saw Chaddha pointing an air-gun at the railing.

  ‘You motherfucking sons of pigs, you drainpipe rats, you ISBT toilet ki potty, you, you … ,’ Chaddha loaded another pellet and fired at another pigeon. The bird took off lazily and flew back in after a while. Chaddha fired another shot. Same result.

  ‘I didn’t know you had bullets,’ I said.

  ‘They are called pellets,’ he pointed at a box that lay on the floor.

  ‘What are you doing Chaddha?’ I said.

  ‘Look at them Bhandari, just look at them! They have the bloody gall to hop up to where I am standing, they have no fear! Sometimes they are a millimetre away from my elbow on the railing and they look at me as if I am an intruder. “Who the fuck are you?” they seem to ask. Fucking ugly birds, this oh-ooo-or, oh-oooo-or is the most irritating sound in the world, and they bloody shit through the day. You open the door and the first thing you see is their shit. I fucking hate them. I will kill them. Blam! BLAM!’ Chaddha was pacing the room.

  I said, ‘Calm down man. Calm down.’

  ‘Point-blank, point-blank, I need to shoot them
in their gut, point-blank,’ muttered Chaddha.

  ‘Sit down Chaddha, sit down man. Take a deep breath.’ I said.

  ‘How could they let me go like that? Motherfucking motherfuckers!’

  ‘I know man.’ I said.

  ‘I worked so hard Bhandari. I worked day and night.’

  ‘I know.’

  He sat down. He put the gun on his lap, scanned the floor for a while and then said, ‘You know Bhandari I’m becoming everything that I detested in my father. I’m becoming everything that I detested in other people. I can’t control my anger. I can’t control this bitterness.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t think you know.’

  ‘I know man. I know how it feels not to be wanted. I was made to feel that way in Gibbons Moore more often than you know. Don’t worry, you’ll get a job and all will be well again.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

  ‘Ok, let’s get another hit,’ he said. ‘Where’s my water pipe? Have you seen my water pipe?’

  Colour My Hair

  I woke up feeling down. It was late in the afternoon. The house was dark and empty. I had to get out. I went down to the barbershop.

  The barber was giving a crew cut to a sad looking kid. I sat on a wooden stool and waited for him to finish. The kid’s father sat beside me. He was reading a newspaper. I flipped through an old Stardust. The machine’s dull whirr was replaced by a busy snip-snip—the barber was adding final touches to his artwork. It was done. He ceremoniously slapped the seat. It was clean now. I sank into it.

  ‘Should I crop it short?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, as short as possible.’

  ‘Your hair is turning white. I have a new wavy brown colour that will suit you.’

  ‘No, it’s ok. I don’t want to colour my hair.’ I said.

  He nodded.

  ‘I won’t ever colour my hair,’ I said and smiled. He smiled back.

  He put on the bib, wet my hair, combed it down and started snipping. I closed my eyes and dreamt of a bakery near my college that had the best egg puffs I’d ever had.

  ‘Hello sirji, getting a haircut?’ The voice was familiar. I saw him in the mirror, he was at the door clenching and unclenching his tennis ball. I nodded and closed my eyes.

  Ten minutes later, the barber was done. I looked new. I liked it. Narender was sitting on the bench behind me. He was reading a newspaper. He looked up, smiled and said, ‘Sir ji, I came to say sorry. It was a spur of the moment thing. I know Fulki’s husband. He was a car cleaner. I feel responsible for her, you know. She’s pretty and young and there’s no one to look after her.’

  ‘Does Fulki know you?’ I asked.

  He smiled, ‘No sir ji, she doesn’t but her husband had told me to look after her while he’s away.’

  I turned to him. ‘If she needs to be looked after, she can go to her employers and her friends. You don’t need to play Shaktimaan Narender. Bumbum didn’t do anything wrong, you were wrong in slapping him.’

  ‘I did it for the good of this society sir ji. I hope one day you’ll understand. And yes, I advise you not to pick fights with Colonel sahib,’ he dug his index finger into his temple, ‘he is a bit mental, it will be bad for you if he gets mad.’

  I didn’t say anything. I paid the barber and left.

  When I got back, Chaddha was gone. There was a dead pigeon in his balcony. A pigeon was sitting beside the dead bird.

  ‘Chaddha bhaiyya killed him. He shot him in the stomach. They were a pair. This other bird is mourning,’ Bumbum said.

  ‘How do you know they were a pair?’

  ‘I always saw them together bhaiyya.’

  ‘You can identify them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bumbum said. ‘I had named them too.’

  ‘What were they called?’

  ‘Mili and Juli.’

  ‘So which one is dead?’

  ‘Mili is dead.’

  ‘Juli is alive and grieving, hmmm …’ I said. This was good stuff; I could use it on Chaddha.

  Doctor Dang

  Chaddha had a stereo cassette player. ‘It’s a Made in Japan Sony,’ he had told me often. He also had two shoeboxes of Bollywood cassettes. These were kept in a cupboard in the third unoccupied room in the flat. He didn’t keep it in his room. I assumed it was because Chaddha wanted to impress if a member of the opposite sex happened to visit. The probability of such a visit was zero but Chaddha kept the player and cassettes exiled just in case.

  The third room was empty except for the cupboard with the cassettes and the player and a broken TT table that stood in the middle. The defunct TT table had led us to invent Anti-TT. Anti-TT was squash played with TT bats and a ping-pong ball. The table was the only ‘out’ zone in the room. Everything else was ‘in’ and any number of bounces was allowed till the ball went dead. The point system was simple, you lost a point if the ball went dead on you or it hit the TT table. Each set started at 10-10 and ended when one of the players got to zero. We usually played three or five sets in a game. It could be played with three people as well in which case it turned into a combination of rugby, squash and TT.

  The game made quite a ruckus, I doubt if there is anything quite as irritating as the sound of a continuously bouncing ping pong ball. If our neighbours or the people living below us thought it unbearable, they would have complained to Harpal and that would have given him an opportunity to issue a notice and enquire about my father. They hadn’t done so till now. We loved anti-TT because we invented it. Chaddha loved it a bit more because he won most of the time.

  We had just finished a gruelling five-setter. Chaddha had won 3-2. I had given him a tough time though. We were sitting on the floor, our backs resting against the wall.

  ‘We need to make a few more changes to the game,’ I said. I could hardly breathe.

  ‘Yeah, like what?’

  ‘Like, we need to do something to make moving around harder than it is.’

  ‘That’s a plus in the game, there’s a lot of running,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but still.’

  ‘You don’t like losing? You want to change the game so that you can win, eh?’ he winked, ‘Forget this shit, lets listen to some hardcore music baby,’ he said. Chaddha picked Saajan from his shoebox. He showed me the cover and grinned, ‘this is some really good shit,’ he said and pressed play.

  ‘Yeah, I heard this quite a number of times when I was 10.’

  ‘Who’s your favourite movie villain?’ he asked me.

  ‘The butcher,’ I said

  ‘Nah, Bollywood bata.’

  ‘I think Shakaal in Shaan or maybe Mogambo.’

  ‘Your choice sucks.’

  I felt offended, I considered myself a bit of a film buff, ‘Well, Bollywood is not really my forte.’

  ‘Why does everything become an opportunity for you to show off your superior knowledge? I mean, I ask a simple question and there you are responding to it as if you are Pauline Kael.’

  ‘Sorry, you are right. I said Shakaal because I remember I was four when the film was shown in my Papa’s college auditorium. I was terrified by that scene where Shakaal presses the button and the chap gets eaten by sharks. I began crying and I cried and cried till my Papa and Mommy had to step out of the hall.’

  ‘Hmmmm … you’re a sissy and your choice still sucks.’

  ‘Ok, who’s your favourite villain?’

  ‘Dr Dang.’

  ‘Dr Dang?’

  ‘Yes, Karma’s Dr Dang. Anupam Kher?’ Chaddha rose up, ‘Rana Vishwapratap Singh, Dr Dang creates war, Dr Dang ko aaj pehli baar kisi ne thappad maara hai, first time, iss thappad ki goonj suni tumne, ab is goonj ki goonj tumhe sunai degi, sunai degi, jab tak zinda rahoge tab tak sunai degi. Rana, mujhe tumhara ye thappad bhoolega nahin.’

  I clapped, ‘Wah Chaddha wah.’ He grinned.

  ‘Are you planning to kill more pigeons?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know
.’

  ‘Have you noticed the other bird?’

  ‘Which other bird?’ Chaddha looked out and saw the bird in mourning, ‘What about it?’

  ‘He’s mourning. They were lovers,’ I told him.

  ‘You must be kidding.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ and I told Chaddha what Bumbum had told me earlier.

  Alka Yagnik sang Mera Dil Bhi Kitna Paagal Hai. Chaddha got up, took three quick, pensive rounds of the room and sat back. He then nodded to himself a few times.

  ‘I don’t know yaar. Something comes over me and I’m not able to control myself. I don’t know why I do it, but I will try not to. Promise.’ he said.

  I nodded. I wasn’t a stranger to uncontrollable urges. I went to my room, shut the door and wrote a letter to Nisha.

  Dear Nisha,

  How are you? I’ve quit my job. You would have expected it. I’m on a break now trying to figure things out.

  Khalil Gibran wrote in The Prophet:

  “When you are joyous, look deep into

  your heart and you shall find it is only

  that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

  When you are sorrowful look again in

  your heart, and you shall see that in truth

  you are weeping for that which has been

  your delight.”

  That’s why you left me. What made you love me in college was exactly the thing that drove you mad later. Now I’m going where I wouldn’t have gone if you were with me. I know this would have made you mad.

  Love,

  Mukund

  An Ashtray on

  my Lap

  Pappaji on receiving Harpal’s notice called Chaddha and asked him to vacate the house. Chaddha pleaded. Pappaji increased the rent by 10 per cent, saying it was the going market rate.

  Nothing came out of the FIR. Constable Dagar told me on the phone that the licence numbers I had mentioned were non-existent. ‘Bloody Police,’ Chaddha said when I told him, ‘they must have taken money from them.’

  A few eventless weeks passed. Chaddha had grown aloof. I think he even stopped checking Shaadi.com. I tried to cheer him up. I would drop in and say hello but Chaddha made it amply clear that he didn’t want company. He spent most of his time browsing job sites and editing his resume. I helped him with the editing. He went for one interview, but they didn’t get back.