The Best Thing

The Best Thing

As a baby in pink or blue, or red-faced

when dress tangled with curls or pudgy limbs;

Gurgling, shitting, smiling, spitting, suckling,

they called my wily charm sheer innocence.

As a precocious nymph at Iyengar bakery,

bread, butter, I pirouetted, cake too, I pointed;

The young men glanced, the old men drooled,

they locked me in dirty dungeons, dreams of desire.

As a pioneer late or a wordy poet, at Loharu Junction,

at desert’s edge, with the photogenic, the heat,

A lorry driver, a loud woman enter exit a shady shed,

they walked past me, a mirage biting dust, unseen.

As a lover, a partner in strange beds, homes

with half-lies, faked orgasms, true charades,

The barter for old times’ sake, to be safe, secure, I gave,

they looked at me with pleasure, that as love, I took.

As an old hag with tattered hopes, shattered defense,

easy to be cynical, bitter, wise, stoic, bloody fool,

The truth is easier – while I find, lose, misplace,

they keep their best thing in their world, not me.

School Reunion

Today, I attended my school reunion. It is a pleasure to see those faces and to remember one of the best phases of my life.

Usually, it is held in the last week of December when those abroad come to these shores. This time, for some reason, they requested for the first Sunday of February. I try to get there early, around 10 am, along with the organizers. I like to grab my seat and watch my old mates enter. People start trickling in at around 11 am. There is ample time to mingle till lunch is served at 1 pm. 

Till a few years back, the party used to be held at a friend’s farm. Then, the venue shifted to the new Taj in town. The cost of attendance has shot up but it is really worth saving for. I have attended every party since inception. And, to make it memorable, something always happens.

Till five years back, alcohol used to be served. That year, one of the oldies groped a mate’s wife and the scene got ugly. That wife was sporting a rather indecent décolletage and her sari kept slipping all the time. She made such a big fuss. That popular guy was always like that, even during our school days. Anyway, he let bygones be bygones and never misses these reunions. The other one (he is a bit weak in the spine, everyone knows) and his wife have not attended since then; really, quite unfortunate and unforgiving.

A year or two after that, two kids created a bit of a flutter. Around lunch-time, the respective parents realized that their wards were missing. It was fun actually, searching and shouting for them. The two were found on the terrace, discussing Physics they said but nobody believed that. Some advised the parents to take it cool. But they left immediately. The guy and the girl, they belong to two churches. Anyway, since then, even kids are not allowed. Most find it easier now to let their hair down. Till date, none of the adults have gone missing. That would have been interesting.

I love to watch them enter, with their casual wear and the careful carelessness. It is so different from my usual life. The new Alumni secretary Mathew received everyone at the door. This time, Zach was the last to come. Poor chap, his wife is an invalid and it is beginning to show on him.

Mathew greeted him at the door, ‘Hey Zach, great to see you here.’

‘Hi.’ I could make out that Zach was trying to fit the face with a name.

Unperturbed, Mathew introduced himself, ‘I am Mathew. We were together in XI A. I went to ‘C’ division in XII.’

‘Ah!’ Zach responded and the two joined the others.

I got up from my seat ready to flit from one group to the next. Most of them have aged so gracefully and done quite well.

I went to the large lot in the middle. It is not like the early days when the ones from abroad used to stand apart. Nearly everyone from everywhere get together these days: comparing notes about kids’ education in Portland, Sydney and Bangalore; the latest in Kochi, Dubai and London; life in Singapore, Mumbai and Vancouver; opportunities in Shanghai, Technopark and Frankfurt. It is amazing to hear how they adapted, the nasal twang, the tough life when they come to India, the recession, the uncertainty and how they had to settle for a vacation at Aspen or Cyprus.

I left that lot and joined Shekhar and Deepthi who were standing a little away. We watched as Gopi made his way through the crowd towards us.

Shekhar whispered to Deepthi, ‘There he comes…Go-pee…your love. What was that song he used to sing for you?’

Deepthi hushed him, ‘Shhh…poor chap…he is in a miserable state now…a widower, divorced too.’

‘Which order?’

‘How does it matter?’

‘If divorced and then a widower, still rich; otherwise, bloody poor…’

‘Shekhar, shut up!’ Deepthi hissed. Gopi reached us.

Shekhar greeted him, ‘Ah! Gopi! We were just talking about you…how are you, old man? Look, let me leave you two love-birds alone…’ Laughing, Shekhar moved quickly without acknowledging Deepthi’s stare.

I followed him to Shajeeb (I.A.S.), Suresh Namboothiri (doctor) and Rajeev (professor). Those three are always together. Till 2008, they were into stocks. They claim that they exited when the index touched 21k. Now, they are into real-estate.

Shajeeb was asking Rajeev, ‘I am trying to get that hill near Technopark…and develop it, man…only one more acre to get. It is your brother-in-law’s land, man...any chance of getting it, man?’

Rajeev confided, ‘He is in a tough position now…up to his neck in debt…his latest venture has also flopped…prawns, he managed to flop with…prawns! Only my brother-in-law can manage that. I can introduce you…good time to approach him to sell that land…’

Shajeeb replied, ‘Wonderful, man…’

‘Don’t forget the brokerage for me…’ Rajeev joked rather seriously.

‘Of course, man, of course…’ Shajeeb smiled widely, indicated that he has to go to the loo and left.

‘Bloody Muslim…they are grabbing everything…’ Rajeev told the others.

Shekhar, the Cupid, entered the fray and needled Suresh, ‘Oye Suresh! Your daughter married recently, right? You didn’t call us…’

Suresh reluctantly nodded but refused to comment.

Rajeev joined in, ‘Come on, Suresh…her guy is from my caste…it is not too low, you know…chin up…you look as if she married a mongrel!’

Suresh also indicated that he has to go to the loo and left the scene.

‘Bloody Brahmin…’ Rajeev remarked.

Shekhar moved to another group and stood behind Anna. In school, he used to sit behind Anna. She is a dentist and he has got a perfect set of teeth.

I moved away to join a gang of ‘girls’. The professionals compared their trips abroad. The homemakers talked about their social welfare groups. They talked collectively about an absent gang-member,

‘Oh, she has become so girlie these days…can you imagine…she was so tomboyish…now, she is all sari, gold and lehenga…Lehenga at this age…can you imagine…’

They discussed the old days, the tricks they played in boarding school, the old teachers (dead and alive). They took stock of the gang-members. With regard to another absentee, Sheetal, they came to the conclusion

‘She was definitely not in our gang…’ Sheetal is the daughter of a Party leader. ‘She got a job in that co-operative bank, you know…courtesy the Party.’ The gang was definitely against that Party.

It was close to lunch-time when I heard a commotion. I knew it…something always happens.

The whole lot crowded near the entrance. I could hear a few remarks from the front,

‘Shit, man…is she dead?’ That must have been Shajeeb back from the loo.

‘Yeah, not long though…hey Mathew, was she in our class?’ Was it Suresh or another doctor in the group?

‘Hmm…I think she was in ‘B’…don’t you remember her? She was just like this even then…’ Mathew’s voice came clear.

‘What? Dead even then…?’ Shekhar had to quip. Someone mentioned that we should call for an ambulance or something.

‘Damn! Right before lunch…’ Some of the girls grumbled.

I looked at myself, that slumped figure that used to be me. I felt like announcing, ‘Well…for once…I am the soul of the party…’

That sounded cheap and used. How about, ‘Add spirit to your group…’ or…

I felt sad for spoiling their party, my last reunion.

I should not have tried to be one of them…

My Funny Valentine

I got to know my husband on my first St. Valentine’s Day, incidentally the first time away from home.

I was 19 that lovely February. Intermittent drizzle gave the fading winter a chilly touch; the grey clouds parting and meeting like new or old couples unsure whether they should be mating or irritating; the sun showed its fickle face just to make one sweat to feel the cold rather than remember its heat. Two of my batch-mates were down with pneumonia. The hostel mess and bogs resonated with rasping coughs, blowing noses and heaving chests clearing phlegm. On that lovely February day, I held with loving care his latest telegram with the sweet succinct misaligned message, ‘me et me’.

After the first-semester break, we were on the same train back to Campus. Manoj had got in at Salem without reservation. During the day, he sat between me and a newly-wed couple from Jhansi. That single night, he slept on the floor right next to my berth. The 40-hour long journey and that cold January made us enjoy each other’s company. I had heard of him. He was great in studies, sports and dramatics. He told me that his family hails from Mehboobnagar and that he was brought up in Arcot. Six-feet, broad-shouldered, handsome in a rugged way, deep-set brown expressive eyes, well-read and passionate; I gauged all that. He is the kind of guy represented in the popular ad where the sales-girl says ‘Sorry, no change’ and she compensates him with a packet of condom. (These things do happen. Yesterday, at the supermarket, the cute sales-man told the lady in front of me, ‘Sorry, no change’. She waited for the prophylactic or the mouth-freshener. She didn’t get anything. I carry change, always.)

That January, on Campus, he gave me a Valentine card every week. He started sending Valentine messages via telegram too, the first one being ‘i u ok’. I guess punctuation marks and a few letters got lost in Morse code but I got the meaning. I responded seriously. Between classes, we shared chai and samosa in the Campus canteen. We went together for the weekly screened movies (English and to express my affection, Hindi too). I was offering nothing more or less than promised allegiance. Then, that Valentine telegram arrived. To me, it announced the intention to cement our relationship forever on that day.

That evening, Manoj escorted me from the ladies’ hostel to Pappu’s, the joint on Campus for milk-shakes and paneer Maggi. We sat on rattan seats outside the makeshift stall. The Valentine setting got more rustic when I realized that Manoj had also invited three other acquaintances.

The first one, Raju, sat opposite to me and to the right of Manoj. I watched Raju slurp his shake loudly and masticate the mushy Maggi with equal vigour. His body shook like a dysfunctional wet grinder when he laughed with a full mouth and even without a joke.

The second, Preethi, sat to the left of Manoj. She is a dancer, an intellectual and she works with NGOs during vacation to help the poor and the downtrodden. She is also sexy and a serious poet. So serious, I nearly yawned when she recited a few lines of her poetry; so sexy, I was the only one who nearly yawned.  

A guy named Shekhar sat next to me, one of those non-descript guys trying to impersonate Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. I looked at him once. He gave me a bored one-raised-eyebrow look. After that, he remained on my blind spot.

Manoj entertained them with campus Valentine stories. He started with the comic; then, promised much with the sentimental and the passionate; the ribald soon followed and he continued in that vein.  Midway through his fifth story, he finished his shake with a long noisy gulp, leaving a trace of milk on his upper lips. Preethi leaned towards him and wiped his lips with her finger. He looked at Preethi with his deep-set brown expressive eyes and much later, turned them towards me. My time was up long before that day, I realized. If I was younger or older, I would have felt angry; I would have campaigned against imperialist, consumerist, non-Indian ideas; I would have joined a group of neo-Nazi nitwits if they had a sense of humour. All I felt then was relief.

After the Valentine party, I returned to the hostel, alone. I thrashed my pillow for a while and then, decided to study. At nine pm, two hours before curfew, I received the message that I had a guest waiting for me at the hostel gate. I rushed to the gate still hoping for the right climax.

Raju was waiting for me there. He told me about how he loved me dearly. He said that he was sorry for being opportunistic but he wanted to realize his dream. I did not tell him that I could see his future. After the 4-year course, he would reach the shores of USA (with or without an ankle tag); a big fat dowry before 25; a wife and few kids before 30, all uncouth gluttons like him; a successful professional before 35 and death not before 75. I did not tell him all that.

I told him that I still had to recover from the shock and that I needed time. He seemed happy to hear that. With drooping shoulders and a forlorn look, which I feigned rather well, I bade him good night. I watched him walk away, with a spring in his step, towards that friend of his called Shekhar. That voyeur had watched the whole scene, again. He gave me his bored one-raised-eyebrow look and shrugged, at me or my predicament. They left me standing there on that St. Valentine’s Day, alone.

Decades have gone by without another Valentine note or card or celebration. My husband Shekhar reminds me of that night once in a while, when I am in a good mood.

 References:

·         My Funny Valentine

Lyrics: http://www.lorenzhart.org/valentinesng.htm

Miles Davis: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HS2BUr83O-8

Ella Fitzgerald: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqjKOalcI10&feature=related

Sting: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2uVpo2m1jU

Every Dog Has Its Day

History has a problem with start dates. There are always precursors. At times, we have to enter the story in the middle and move on.

What do you remember about May 1991 – the assassination of the Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi, right? Do you remember a story which fought for print space for a day or two, the case of Roy? Try to jog your memory.

Roy was a district-level government employee, age around 40, a sincere chap in charge of giving licenses to small-scale enterprises and monitoring their activities. From a FIR of May 1991, we learn about Roy’s problems with a businessman called Das. The latter owns a chain of budget hotels with a dubious reputation. There are various allegations against him – illicit liquor, sex racket, money laundering, real estate and sand mining mafia, income tax evasion, extortion, murder and blackmail are some of the charges. Roy alleges that, following a few confrontations between the two, Das abducted him, his wife (age 35) and two daughters (ages 15 and 13). Roy recounts the following details:

‘…He (Das) told his men to ‘remove wife and daughters after using’. To me, he said ‘Spoils of war, huh?’ He and his assistant then thrashed me but kept me alive. ‘If you die, who will tell the story?’ he gloated…’

The police searched for Roy’s wife and daughters but they could not find them, dead or alive. There was no evidence to support Roy’s complaint. Roy tried to pursue the various charges against Das via the judicial system. For 17 years, he followed postponed and prolonged cases in front of bored judges. The files got thicker with irrelevant details year after year while the relevant sheets and evidence got misplaced or expunged. The lower court ordered psychological evaluation of Roy and he was found to be ‘mentally fragile’.

Before the end of 2008, Roy decided to take matters into his own hands. Through a black-market dealer who had once been his informant, he managed to procure a long-range rifle with telescopic sight and a silencer. He had learned shooting in school as a part of NCC. After joining government service, he had continued to practice. He could have competed at a high level but an early marriage and kids prompted him to relegate this passion to a mere hobby. In 2008-2009, though rusty, he was still a very good shot. In the months that followed, he practiced with great discipline.

During that time, for nearly two years, he also tracked and followed Das. In January 2011, he had finalized his plans. He decided to target his victim from an empty flat opposite Das’s office.

On last Friday, he waited for the arrival of Das. At 8 am, he saw Das enter his office. He smiled while he centered the crosshairs on his victim’s skull. He hardly felt the touch of cold steel against the base of his own skull. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Roy’s world went black or blank.

Das received a call on his cell-phone from his assistant.

‘Done?’

‘Yes.’

‘These idiots – from where do they get such ideas? It must be the senseless violence in today’s movies.’

Das then realized that his assistant had ended the call after the ‘Yes’. The assistant, a sincere professional, had kept track of Roy’s activities and he was cleaning up the killing area of any evidence.

Roy’s photo is in the ‘Deaths & Other Engagements’ page of today’s paper. Poor chap. Well, he is not the first to think that every dog has its day.