Blowfish Read online

  Sampu was allowed back in the house. He hadn’t dropped by since that night. He was focussing on being a good husband.

  Bumbum looked a little broken for a week or so after the slapping episode. Then he became his old cheerful self again—I assumed he must have found an alternate way to see his girl.

  I was serious about writing. I had bought a red Moleskine notebook, I had seven ball pens and eight colour pencils; I borrowed Chaddha’s old laptop. I bought a stockpile of A4 paper. I made notes, I played around with plots; I created characters and events and tried hard to remember stuff that I could use from my own mundane life. I read a lot hoping that would inspire me. I made several false starts—I would write a page, tear it and throw it away with astounding accuracy into the dustbin by the door. I instructed Bumbum not to clear my bin, maybe there was an idea that would make sense later.

  I resolved to write five pages a day no matter how crappy they were. I had read somewhere that writing was all about persistence.

  It started out well. I wrote down a rough plot, I thought of the key characters, I enjoyed playing with dialogue. Then I tried writing detailed chapter outlines which was tedious. However, the breaking point came when I tried to explore the protagonist’s stream of consciousness and realised that I didn’t like my lead protagonist.

  Fuck Virginia Woolf, I thought, as I deleted the 40 odd pages I had managed to write in three weeks—it was crap. Was writing a book my purpose? Had I been deluding myself? I was like Rangoo with his Canon DSLR. Was Rangoo’s burnout a mirror to my misery and disillusionment?

  It was the first week of November. I sat on the bed with an ashtray on my lap. I pulled out a bottle of cheap booze from under the bed and took a big gulp. My mind raced like a headless chicken.

  This is the time I have. I could write letters to Nisha’s trash folder; I could make popcorn and watch Chaddha embark upon a mass carnage; I could roam around the society and indulge in meaningless tête-à-têtes with the likes of Narender; or I could choose to do something constructive. Maybe I should do more than just writing. I could learn French—Je suis jeune est je suis mange un pomme, L’homme a la baguette. I had always enjoyed rock music—how about mastering an instrument, something simple to begin with, like bongos? I could be a novelist, a poet, a cook, a coin collector, a multi-lingual bongo playing stargazer. Yeah!

  I wanted to write, but trying out new things would also be good. I could go for trial classes, see if I liked it, and if I did I could cough up the fee. A pair of bongos doesn’t cost much. I was sure Chaddha could lend me some money.

  PART THREE

  A Corona is like a

  Bloody Coke

  The Hit and Run Girl

  No one taught bongos in Gurgaon. I could have gone on endlessly on the artistic black hole that this city is, but I didn’t. I chose to go with the flow, I chose a sexy thing called the guitar. Predictably, I found many teachers. I went for a trial class that was closer home. I looked like a true wannabe that day. I had on a black Ramones sweatshirt, an unkempt beard and faded jeans. I had sad, jaundiced eyes.

  It was a fine day. The sun was out, swan-like clouds floated in the sky and trees had shed some of their dust to reveal a fresh green foliage. You can like Gurgaon if you set your mind to it, I told myself.

  There were four of us in the class: two teenage boys, me and a girl in her mid-20s. The teacher wore a thick sweater that resembled a bearskin splattered with bird droppings. He had the patience and kindness of a man who wanted each one of us to become a paying student and buy a beginner’s guitar from him.

  There was one acoustic guitar and we all had to take turns. I was third in line and after me was the girl. The teacher quickly spotted the innate talent in the teenagers and told them they were Lesle Lewis in the making (Lesle’s photo with a younger version of the master was hung on the wall). He suggested they should buy a solid top Yamaha; it would be a bit more expensive but more suited for their prodigious talent. I shook my head in disgust and looked at the girl hoping she would roll her eyes at this obvious swindle. She didn’t. Her large eyes were custom made for rolling around in disappointment at all that was wrong with the world but somehow she seemed too composed to get affected by idiots.

  I was a disaster. Our beloved master found it hard to spot anything redeeming in my performance. He told me to play “jingle bells, jingle bells”; this entailed plucking the E-string several times. I failed at that too. I kept hitting the wrong string. I apologised. I said I had chubby fingers. The girl tried to stifle a grin when she saw me looking at her.

  I headed straight for my car after the session. This chap isn’t going to work for me. Maybe I should take a French trial class. At least my pudgy fingers won’t come in the way. I was about to get into the car when I heard a ‘hello’. It was the girl. She walked up to me. She was wearing a plain white sweatshirt and jeans. She was tall and pretty.

  ‘Hi, I’m Suman.’ she said.

  ‘Hi Suman, I’m Mukund.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said. We stood there for a while, then she said, ‘Mukund, I need a favour from you’

  ‘Sure, tell me.’

  ‘Which way are you headed?’

  ‘That way,’ I pointed in the general direction of where my home was.

  ‘Ok, all right, then maybe you can help me. Can you drop me to the auto stand?’

  ‘Sure, where is it?’

  ‘It’s just ahead of that crossing.’

  ‘Ok, please get in,’ I said.

  I started the car. I didn’t know how to make further conversation. I wasn’t much of a talker. In office parties you would hear me vociferously demanding a fresh naan from the waiter but when it came to talking to tall, attractive females, I was an established failure, a complete dud.

  We reached the crossing without a word. When we stopped at the red light, I turned to look at her and maybe find something to say. The girl had disappeared.

  I found her ducking and hiding her head between her knees. I looked out to see a traffic policeman scanning the cars carefully.

  Her head popped up a minute after the car started moving. She looked at me, I tried to do my version of a comforting nod-smile but it came out wrong. It looked like the sad grin of a poor loser who smoked a lot of dope and hated office parties.

  ‘I dropped something, I found it,’ she said, sounding a little defensive.

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said and looked straight ahead.

  ‘Are you planning to join this class?’ I asked.

  She shook her head, ‘No, not this one … he seems like a crook, I will see if I can find someone else. Although, I’m not even sure if this is what I want to learn.’

  ‘Hmmm …’

  ‘Yeah, my thing is to keep hitting my head against new stuff till I find something I’d like to do.’ I turned to look at her. She was inspecting her fingers; her hands were close to her face. She flipped them and carefully studied the back of her hands.

  ‘I think I should tell you this. I hadn’t dropped anything. I was hiding from that cop at the crossing,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think my car hit him.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘Yes, I was at that crossing on my way to the class. I didn’t see a sign that said U-turn not allowed. I took the U-turn. He was waving at me to stop. I didn’t see him till it was too late. He leaped at my car. I didn’t know what to do. I … I panicked. I accelerated. Not too hard, I guess, but I think the side of the car did hit his leg. I saw him in the rear-view mirror. He was screaming. He seemed upset.’

  ‘Upset?’ I could imagine a fat pockmarked man tottering about the signal, baying for blood.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded.

  ‘So you ran over a policeman?’

  ‘Yes, it sounds bad, doesn’t it?’

  ’Not necessarily.’

  ‘I don’t have a Gurgaon number plate. I have a TN number. I think they’ll find it harder to trace this, won’t they
?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Where’s your car?’ I asked.

  ‘It was parked just beside your car. There was no way I could’ve gotten past that crossing in my car. I’ll go back and get it late at night.’

  I remembered her car. It was a yellow Getz. That thing could have been spotted from the moon.

  ‘You could circumvent that signal,’ I advised.

  ‘I don’t know how else to get home. Besides, they would have put a high alert for me. I’m sure all the cops at the traffic signals are looking for me’

  ‘So you think Gurgaon traffic police is desperately looking for you?’

  ‘Yes, I mean, shouldn’t they?’

  ‘Probably, I can’t say for sure,’ I couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘What’s that? Why are you smiling?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Well, first, you thought the city police is after you but you coolly park your car and attend a guitar demo class. That’s fascinating.’

  ‘Well, I mean, I was hiding.’

  ‘And I’m harbouring a dangerous fugitive!’

  ‘I hit a cop for God’s sake!’

  ‘I think the guy would’ve cursed you a few times and gone back to doing his job. I don’t think anyone is looking for you.’

  ‘So, you think I’m paranoid?’

  ‘No, no … not at all.’ I said.

  A broad grin. She knew she’d got me.

  ‘Isn’t this exciting? Isn’t this the first time you are harbouring a psycho fugitive?’

  ‘Yes, it is my first time, and yes, it is very exciting,’ I said.

  I told her I had seen the traffic cop. ‘He seemed all right,’ I said.

  ‘How can you be so sure? They must have got another one as backup.’

  ‘No, I’m sure, I saw him at the crossing, in an ambulance covered in bandage, but he was smiling.’

  ‘Stop kidding.’

  ‘He’s all right. He’s in coma but still minding the traffic.’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘No, seriously, he seemed all right. I don’t think you’ll figure in India’s most wanted anytime soon.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘I live in Phase 2, it’s close to Galleria.’

  ‘Let me drop you there. It’s not very far from where I stay.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, absolutely,’ I nodded. I lowered the music. I wanted to talk to this girl.

  ‘Bob Dylan?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘I used to like him a lot, but now I’m not so sure. Now, I sometimes think …’ she stopped and placed her hands back on her lap.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Are you a big fan?’

  ‘No, not really, I’m not. Tell me, what do you think?’

  ‘I think he’s good, but he’s also full of shit.’

  ‘Yeah … maybe,’ I smiled and nodded. There was something in that.

  ‘But that’s just me, you know, lately I’ve been confused about nearly everything, I can’t even read traffic signs right, I don’t know anything for sure.’

  ‘Was there a time when you used to be sure?’

  ‘Yes, there was a time when I used to be sure, there was a time when I knew exactly where I was going and how to get there.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, I’m not.’

  ‘That can be good,’ I said.

  ‘You think so?’ she looked at me sceptically.

  ‘Yes, I do. I really do.’ I said.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing much, I quit my job a few months back. Now, I don’t do anything. I mean, I do something but it doesn’t pay.’

  ‘What is it that you do?’

  ‘You mean the job I used to do?’

  ‘No, I mean what do you do now that doesn’t pay?’

  ‘I’m trying to write a book, a novel. I began this adventure thinking I’ll write a cult novel, a bestseller.’ I laughed. ‘But, now I’m at a point where I don’t know if I’ll write anything at all. I miscalculated. Like an idiot, I thought I would begin writing from day one, what’s the big deal? I used to think. Then I read what I’d written, it was all trash. I realised I had to learn how to write.’

  ‘So you’re learning to write?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve made a beginning. How about you? What do you do?’

  ‘I don’t have the courage to do something like that so I do other stuff.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I do confused-with-really-low-self-esteem … I do it really well. And I do panic attacks, and at times I do my Sunday special: panic attacks with palpitations.’

  I laughed, ‘I’m also very good at confused-with-real-low-self-esteem. But I also have an ace up my sleeve, I’m a doctorate in being an unemployed penniless pretentious prick; my flatmate can vouch for that.’

  ‘Knowing that you’re a pretentious prick means you’re not one. It’s like saying, “Let me drive, I’m not drunk.”’

  ‘You may be right but I do sometimes tend to believe that I am an ignorant, pretentious prick.’

  ‘Nah, can’t be. Take it from me. I didn’t talk much in school, and people thought I was a snob. Even I started believing that I was one. I wasn’t, I was just a little dumb and extremely shy. People are quick at putting you in a box.’

  ‘Yes, they are. What makes you so confused nowadays?’

  ‘I haven’t yet figured out what would make me happy. I thought something would make me happy but I realised it won’t,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Everyone around me seems to be fairly sorted. They seem to know what they’re doing. I’ve become the black sheep of the family, but at least I’m not living a lie.’

  I nodded, ‘I feel exactly that way. I think being able to face the man in the mirror every night is what matters.’

  ‘Yeah, exactly! We should form a club. Eligibility criteria: confused, muddled, and screwed-in-the-head people.’

  ‘All right, let’s do that,’ I smiled. ‘I hereby appoint you President.’

  ‘Yeah, but you see, now I’m confused. Is this club thing a good idea? Let me think it over,’ she said.

  ‘Ok,’ I smiled.

  ‘Don’t give up on writing, keep working on it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  ‘Write your book, I’m sure it’ll be good.’

  ‘Yes, I hope so,’ I said. I switched off the music.

  ‘I don’t hate Dylan; you can play it,’ she smiled.

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. So, what do you like listening to?’

  ‘I like Billy Joel and nowadays I really like The Cars,’ she said.

  ‘Hmmm … I like Billy Joel too. I haven’t heard too much of The Cars.’

  ‘You must,’ she said.

  We got to her place. She thanked me. We shook hands. She had soft, fine fingers that slipped right out of my fat hand.

  I wanted to tell her that I didn’t like “We didn’t start the fire”. I wanted to tell her I would like her to maybe read some of the stuff I was planning to write. I wanted to ask her for her number. But I didn’t.

  She said, ‘Let me know if you find a good teacher.’

  ‘Yes, sure, I will let you know,’ I nodded.

  I said good bye and drove off with a hurried smile. She smiled back. There was a tenderness in her smile. It felt strange, I didn’t want to go but I couldn’t wait to get away.

  I rounded the curb and then it hit me. She was trying to give me her number. And I didn’t take it. Bloody nincompoop! An unparalleled twit! I cursed myself. How would I get to know her if I didn’t have her number?

  I circled the driveway and came back to where I had dropped her. She was gone.

  Kabootar Ja Ja Ja

  I rushed into Chaddha’s room to tell him about the girl and to seek his counsel.

  ‘Get the fuck out!’ he screamed. ‘I’m trying to meditate.’

  Chaddha was sitting on his bed, cross-l
egged in a vest that looked like a small rag placed on a deciduous forest. He was a giant hairball seething anger and resentment.

  I ignored his desperate plea. I sat beside him on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You’ve started meditating?’ I asked.

  ‘If you let me, yes, I’m trying. Nowadays I feel angry all the time. Need to control it. This helps. Breathe-in, breathe-out, repeat.’

  ‘Like pranayama?’

  ‘No, that’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is. I’m trying to sit still,’ he pointed to a quote he had stuck on the wall above his study table. It said: All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone ~ Blaise Pascal.

  ‘Who is this guy?’

  ‘Some French philosopher.’

  ‘Hmmm. So you now aim to solve all of humanity’s problems?’

  Chaddha smiled serenely like a Guru responding to a wayward disciple, ‘I heard somewhere that it will help control anger, it’ll make me calm.’

  ‘Ok, so how do you know what’s the right way to meditate?’

  ‘I have a book.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  He pointed to his pillow. Under it was a tiny blue and white book. Some chap called Thich Nhat Hanh had written it.

  ‘Ok, carry on. Don’t let me disturb you. Just walk into my room anytime you feel like because that’s fine with me,’ I smiled.

  ‘I don’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘You’re right. I do. Tell me, what is it?’

  I told him all.

  ‘Suman. Hmm …’ he said, ‘do you know that was Bhagyashree’s name in Maine Pyaar Kiya.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I like Bhagyashree.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ he nodded.

  He thought a bit before saying, ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this Bhandari. Here’s what you need to do: change your name to Prem, get rid of the paunch, take off your shirt, tie love letters to those bastard pigeons and sing kabootar ja ja ja kabootar ja.’