P.K.Koshy’s Daily Routine

As I, P.K. Koshy, sip my morning tea I look out to see if Waghmare is anywhere around. Question is: Do I want to even see his face on the way to my morning walk? No. He has a car and he has a dog, and I dislike both. And I loathe him. Problem with the dog is it shits everyday before my door and I suspect Waghmare (In Marathi – the killer of tigers) has taught him to do that, I am sure. The sly bastard, I know he is a cunning and crafty man. He works for some life science company and is home most of the time pottering around in his chuddies. His sole aim is to give me a lot of headaches, which I can feel digging its monstrous fangs in my head right now. I know he is around, I can hear him shuffling in the row-house next door. I time his morning walk, which may be over by now. Then he takes his dog out, which too has been completed now that it’s 8 a.m.

The car is another possession of his that I detest, indeed hate. It’s a Maruti Swift, his proud possession, a symbol of his prosperity. I don’t have a car; neither do I have a dog. He parks it right outside my door as if it’s his father’s road, just to make me jealous as I don’t have one. I shouted at him many times. The bastard, he won’t listen to all my ranting, and continues to park it at the entrance of my row-house. I had complained to Oondirmare (literally: the killer of mice) who is our row-house association’s secretary, but he is too much in awe of Waghmare, the killer of tigers. It so turns out that the killer of mice is afraid of the killer of tigers because of reasons I needn’t mention, but then why he is the association’s secretary? Killing rats is not such a big deal, nor tigers, for that matter. His grandfather’s grandfather might have shot at a tiger and missed, and now he carries the name of Waghmare. Doesn’t “mare” mean “act of killing” and not “marnara” meaning “man who kills.” Next time I speak to him I will say this, only to embarrass him a little.

I read the newspaper that has just arrived. A few months back I used to subscribe to two newspapers, but Marykutty told me to cut down on expenses. Now I only get the Hindustan Times to read as I sip tea. Marykutty asks me if I need more tea. I say, “Why you want my tummy to protrude even more like a chakka, a jackfruit?”

My tummy, like all Malayalis’ tummies protrude a bit, no, in fact, more than a bit. It has grown in size since I had retired, last month. They say, the Malayalis I mean, that it’s a sign of prosperity. I think the eating of a lot of carbohydrate-enriched rice – the Malayalis’ staple diet. And, what if my tummy protrudes, whose father’s goes? Like they say in Hindi, “Kiska baap ka kya jata hai.” Waghmare’s tummy also juts out. But he is a pathetic sight in his striped chuddies, jackfruit tummy hanging out, and the exposed thread that holds it to his waist. “Chee, no shame, this man has,” Marykutty would say watching him walking his dog and scratching his arse. And he called me a “besharam” when we had a fight over the dog shit.

That’s why I avoid him during my morning walks. We have fought many times. Over dog poo, over car parking, over overflowing gutters, over hundreds of silly trivial things which he doesn’t have the civility to acknowledge, the illiterate. He has connections and is all the time glued to his phone, talking in the entreatingly cloying voice of his, the moron.

x-x-x

At last, I finish tea, throw away the paper to be read later, and peering carefully through the window to make sure Waghmare wasn’t around, step out. His dog is sitting on his steps panting, and wagging its tail, glad to see me, the abominable creature. But my quarrel is with his master, the chuddy-wallah. I have nothing against you koochi-koo, may you and your master rot! I never wear chuddies like your master does, what an insult, can’t you do something to stop him showing his hirsute legs?

I am dressed in polyester trousers, my checked shirt, and my branded walking shoes. Today I have to visit the office from where I retired after 27 years of service. They are giving me a send-off party, they said, sort of after thought. I am an employee of Bard, no, nowhere related to the poet, but BARD as they call the country’s nuclear research program – Baroodwala Atomic Research Department. I don’t believe in parties, but I think I will go and meet my colleagues, though it might make me teary eyed to see my desk being occupied by a new chokra boy who succeeded me.

I walk along the road that connects to a nature park in Belapur, a road that cut into what they say is a tropical rain forest. The road is full of puddles from last night’s rain, and I avoid dog shit, cow shit, and little puddles that are everywhere. There is garbage lying around thrown by lazy people in the night when no one’s watching. I think this country needs strict laws. They will break laws when no one’s watching. So opportunistic are they! My friend Joseph, the only person I speak with on my walks, says Singapore fines 500 dollars for littering. We should do the same. I meet some of my usual friends, the old man who tutors students, the retired man who is always humming a carefree tune, the yoga freak who does breathing exercises, and the Old Geezer’s Gang (OGG), as I call them.

The OGG consists of retired chootiyas, too far gone to redeem their failing bodies. They spend their morning time gossiping about other walkers, laughing, huffing and puffing their tottering bodies. They don’t get any exercise at all, the way they talk excitedly, badmouthing their former employers, this minister or that, or even the haggard women who come for a walk to escape the drudgery of cooking, washing and cleaning.

I dismiss their jollity as frivolity and only exchange a few polite “Good mornings” with them. They walk so slowly that I feel their bodies would disintegrate and die in a few days. If I become one of them then I would be discussing cardiac arrest, arrhythmia, blood clots and a host of other diseases with them, and would lose my teeth and my confidence. I walk fast and leave them behind. The OGGs are there in practically every part of New Bombay, indeed the world, old men without any meaning in their lives, their minds having been eaten by the moths of mediocrity.

x-x-x

Leaving the OGGs behind I walk to the top of a hill that overlooks the highway to Bombay. There’s the constant roar of traffic and the rainforest is alive with the sound of birds, the echoes of which reverberate in the trees. I shut my eyes, relax my body and sit down to my meditation session. The OGGs have caught up and are teasing me now.

“Kya Koshy-saab, ithna medition math karo. Kuch duniya ke barre mein bi socho.”

(What Koshy, stop meditating and start thinking about the world.)

I tremble with anger, but I hide it. It’s said: do not pick a fight with people who have nothing to lose. Besides I have to come here tomorrow too.

“You booddhas, you with your gossip and bitterness, you will die fast.”

They laugh.

I didn’t say it in jest, but seriously. It was a curse. I leave them, the old farts, feeling a throb of pain in my temple. I then begin my descent down the hill and the songs of birds grow thicker and louder, a symphony of sounds, which soothes me. I like bird songs. They are so natural and beautiful, their every note so pure. I am more relaxed now. What do those old geezer’s think?

x-x-x

As I near home I see Waghmare looking at me from the terrace of his row house, a sarcastic sort of look. I don’t greet him, the dog. If I greet him, I am sure he will come wagging his tail like his cur. I used to be friendly with him when we had come to live in Belapur, twenty or so years ago. But then there came the fights and I stopped talking to him.

“Who will talk to such a fellow, no manners, keeping dogs that have no sanitary sense?” I ask Marykutty. She has grown fat over the past few years. I tell her to come for a walk in the morning but she won’t listen. Even since Benny, our son, went away to the USA she has been like this. Not talking much, only doing what is necessary. Her hair is white and unkempt, her ways slovenly. I can’t help it. I go for a long walk in the morning and evening to escape from the ruin that is my wife.

x-x-x

I take the 9 a.m. morning train from Belapur. It is crowded and though it originates in Belapur I don’t get a seat as the commuters from Nerul have travelled back to Belapur so that they are assured of a seat. So I stand in the cramped space between two seats. This is the most coveted place to be in the first class compartment, because whenever anyone in those two seats gets up, by the fact of being first in queue, I get to sit down. I know these things. I have travelled on this route for 30 years. It is my routine, rather, was.

But my turn doesn’t come though we have crossed the Thane Creek Bridge at Vashi. There’s too much rush of people, perspiring, their wet bodies sticking to me in the heat. I can make out the regulars, the Sardarji in his usual seat by the window, the bald man who is a nodding acquaintance who works for a cigarette company, the company secretary with a shock of black hair which he claims he doesn’t dye, the bank manager with his usual bunch of newspapers.

When Kurla comes, a lot of young fellows get down. I get a seat vacated by a young chap with a heavy knapsack which almost knocks me down as he swings it on his shoulder. Wonder why they all carry knapsacks these days like menial labourers. They are the people working in the new economies – software, hardware, the outsourcing units – coolies all of them. They dress nattily; listen to pirated music on their iPods, or imitation music players, talk incessantly on the phone – probably to their girlfriends. What’s there so much to talk about, I don’t know. I and Marykutty hardly talk a few words everyday – sometimes, nothing at all. All we have to say have been gone over and exhausted. Now, silence speaks. One such executive type is saying on his cell phone.

“Total weirdo, men, my boss, men. So much like that only, no? Like that mad old uncle deLima, exactly. I feel like giving him two tight slaps, phat, phat. Har, har, har. He tho, I don’t know what to say, [listens] tell me what you did this morning? Had a head bath? What the f*** for? Tell you no, men, you will get a cold and be paying for medicines and stuff. [Listens] That’s cool, men, so, so, nice I feel, whaddappen, no, it’s, sort of, sort of, aaah, heee, hummm....”

What sort of talk is that? This teeny-weeny impudent fellow is talking of slapping his boss. What’s the world coming to? I am glad to be out of their rat race.

x-x-x

At the office everyone gathers around me. As expected, a chokra is sitting on the assistant’s seat that I had vacated. My boss, the director of the nuclear research program, has gone to a meeting with his boss, so I wait in the reception. Everyone is extra nice, which they weren’t when I was working here.

The new assistant apologies profusely. The sort of words I used to employ only a month ago.

“So sorry sir, he will be back soon, sir, will you have some coffee, sir, I am told you like coffee, sir,” then to a shabby individual in a khaki uniform “saab ke liye coffee lana.”

x-x-x

In the conference room they have put a fresh bouquet of flowers, they make me sit beside the boss, Mr. Rao, the man I tolerated with all my patience the last so many years. He is all jolly good manners now. The young assistant – yes, I remember, his name is Krishnakant Sharma – keeps a wrapped rectangular thing before his boss. On it is a card with messages from all my previous colleagues in vivid colours. Krishnakant has brought his cheap digital camera and is clicking pictures of me – of me! I can’t believe it. They are taking pictures of me!

Then everyone troops in and the boss gives a speech in Indian English praising all the qualities I never knew I possessed. Too late! He says I always had a smile on my face, even when he was rude. What to do? So bad no? He couldn’t help it, part of his job. The hypocrite! He doesn’t know what Herculean effort I had to put up, just to listen to his insults, because I had a family to feed, and a job to keep.

Then he takes the rectangular gift and gives it to me. He smiles and asks me to turn towards the camera held by his assistant. Resourceful chap, he is, this Krishnakant Sharma, smart dresser, too. “Smile” he says, and I smile. Only a few front teeth show in the picture, which Sharma comes and shows me on his camera. It’s the age of instant photography; you can see the results in seconds.

Then there’s a round of handshakes and some refreshments are brought in – sodden samosas from the canteen, tea in plastic cups, and a few potato chips.

Is it all I am worth? Have I worked all these years, sacrificing my freedom, my self respect, my joy for this? My colleagues want me to open the gift. I open it and they watch my face. It’s a picture of a waterfall with a wire attached and they say if the wire is plugged in, the waterfall will come alive with the sounds of birds in the background.

“How did you know I like the sound of birds?”

“You told us, didn’t you? Don’t you remember?” A friend, Mr. Muthuraman, who will be retiring next year said, “You said it brings out the poet in you.”

“Oh, so you write poetry, Mr. Koshy, I never knew. What a talented person we have had in our midst. It will be a complete loss, will miss you, really,” Mr. Rao said. The hypocrite!

I felt like telling him, none of my poems are published, all of them were rejected by a world, which is no longer in need of poetry or poets.

A murmur, a titter goes around. “Ah, I never knew he wrote poetry, in Malayalam, it seems, he is from a tradition of poetry, ah, murmur, murmur, titter, titter....”

I eat the soggy samosas, drink the tepid tea.

x-x-x

It’s 1 p.m. I have begun my journey back having had lunch in Swagat Restaurant in what was once the fort area of Bombay. I stumble several times as I walk with the rectangular picture under one arm. Several people jostle me as they pass me in a hurry. Bad mannered, all of them, no respect for elders. To think that this would be what I will be up against for the rest of my life, makes me nervous and jittery. I step over puddles, I side step gobs of spit on the street.

With difficulty I make it to Victoria Terminus train station and choose the train to Belapur. Trains are less crowded at this time. There are a lot of women, children, and petty traders in dhotis, kurtas, lehengas, some of them carry big loads on their heads and under their arms.

I, too, am carrying this load, this picture, this burden of my past, the thing that had divested me of my life, my writing, sucked the blood out of me with its dreary routine chores that needed to be done for my boss, which had in turn developed into a habit. Now I had to consciously get out of the habit every day. It sits in my hand, unwieldy, incongruous, obstructing the flow of people. They dash against it, turn and stare, even curse. It nauseates me how they couldn’t think of a better gift. All they could find was an artificial waterfall with artificial bird sounds whereas I like natural bird sounds. How dumb!

The 1.45 p.m. local to Panvel is empty. It passes through Belapur. I climb inside the deserted compartment and sit holding the packet in my lap. I am not sure what to do with it. I hate what it represents, the repression I felt, sacrificing everything for a government job, the dreariness of the function in the morning in which people were so cloyingly sweet. But I could sense their impatience. It was as if they wanted to get rid of me and go back to their work and get on with it. Mr. Rao had looked impatiently at his watch several times, the man who had said, “Mr. Koshy you are too slow with letters, you need to learn to manage your time, speed up, you know. I have no patience for your slowness.” He had the sarcastic look Waghmare sometimes has when he speaks to me. I hate them both – one my former boss, the other still my neighbour. Two unpleasant people who dominated my life these years.

The picture grew heavier as the train progresses on the Harbour Line. Masjid, Sandhurst Road, Dockyard Road, Reay Road, Cotton Green, Sewri, Wadala, Koliwada, Chuna Bhatti, Kurla, Tilak Nagar, Chembur, Govandi, Mankhurd, all pass in a sudden flurry and clatter of metal. It seems as if I have passed these stations a million times, but in the haze of the monsoon afternoon, when drops of moisture on my shirt seemed like swords stabbing me, I feel a strange oddness, as if I have never seen these stations. My daily routine has become alien to me.

I was sweating profusely. Is a stroke coming? Why am I feeling so funny, prickly all over? As the train passes over the Thane Creek Bridge I go and stand near the entrance to get some fresh air. The sea breeze calms me, I breathe in deeply, then tears streaming down my face, my face contorted into a hideous sob, I fling the picture over the railing into the sea. I have got rid of Mr. Rao for ever.

I look back. It lies there floating for a few seconds, then it slowly sinks into the brackish water and mud. I feel light, as if a burden has been lifted, I smile. I will take care of Waghmare when I reach home.

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The Queue-jumper

I had gone to my village of Kidangannoor on holiday (where my parents [now deceased] lived in retirement) and went to the Chengannur railway station to buy tickets for my journey back. It was summer vacation season and tickets for the return journey to Bombay were scarce. So I had to leave home early hoping to get ahead in the queue to book tickets. After reaching the station, I had stood in a long queue for about an hour and was at the head of the queue when a youth appeared from nowhere, stood beside me and began pushing towards the ticket vendor. When I objected he started complaining loudly to the people present that I was trying to push him and that I was (you won't believe this!) the queue breaker!

Imagine! A Hindi saying goes, “Ulta Chor Kotwal ko dathe,” a case of the thief scolding the policeman.

Me, a queue jumper? I am not sympathetic to such boors and fought back and got my position at the head of the queue and bought a ticket. Then I saw something that upset me further. The man was buying a ticket after me! I said with all the animus I could muster, “People, people, my dear kind and law-abiding saars (they say “saar” instead of “sir” in Kerala), can’t you see, that man is a queue jumper and he is buying a ticket.”

“He said the same of you, remember,” one man said.

“But I am saying he pushed ahead of me, he is a reactionary, an usurper, a hooligan, an anti-social element, a..., a..., a..., blot on civilised society,” I blabbered on.

They stared blankly at me, you know, the way you would look at a dimwit.

By this time the man who had barged in front of me had bought his ticket and was coming menacingly towards me.

“Enthado thante problem? What is your problem? Podo ividunnu, haaaaahn, kanichu tharam! Go away from here, or I will show you.”

“Are you threatening me after jumping the queue, in front of all these people?”

“What people? Ask them. Did I jump the queue, people?”

“No, no, no, no....”

I couldn’t believe my auditory senses, or my visual senses, for that matter.

“Pinne... then?” the queue-jumper was moving menacingly towards me.

“Oh, dear and esteemed and highly-regarded saars, can’t you see he is turning the public opinion against me, against propriety, against the laws of civilised society, against every tenet that you, decent, mundu wearing, respectable people believe in?”

“Hey, who are you to give big lectures, haaaahn,” this is a member of the public whose rights, decency and civility I was trying to protect.

“I am no one. In fact, I don’t even live here. But if this man barges in, buys a ticket while you have been standing in queue over an hour today, mark my words, he will be raping your mothers and sisters, stealing from the government’s public coffers, thumbing a nose at law and order next.”

“Heey manushya, watch your words,” with this the queue-jumper came towards me, folding and tying his mundu in a tight double fold over his waist (the Malayali’s preparation for a fight). I could see his striped underpants and the loose-hanging string he used to tie it to his waist. It was a threatening gesture, alright; the sort used by superstars Mohanlal and Mammooty to scare the shit out of villains in Malayalam movies.

Hell, no! I am no coward when it comes to a fight. I have well-toned and exercised biceps and triceps that I flex everyday for around thirty minutes, even on holidays. I also know a few Karate tricks thanks to a lightning course in Karate I took when I was working with a former employer. The teacher didn’t think much of my moves then, but if I could scare him with a few grunts and shouts, maybe, just maybe, he will hightail it.

So I got into Shotokan Kata position, or some such, I don’t remember, and shouted really menacingly at him, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.”

“What are you doing man; can’t you see the man has grey hair? At least respect his age,” this is from an esteemed member of the public, whose honour I was getting ready to protect.

I stopped in Karate-mid-stance and gaped at him open mouthed.

He untied and dropped his mundu and said, “Since this kind and nice saar says so, I am leaving you, or you know I would have broken that knee of yours.” (In Kerala they always aim at the knees, so that a man will limp for the rest of his life.)

I stare at him, at the people whose rights and privileges I was trying so hard to champion, and then walk away. At least my knees have been saved the bother, and I got my tickets!

Mr. Bandookwala, MBA, Harvard

I recoiled at the sight of him. Was it the same person? Was it the man who, when he strode into Pinnacle Construction Ltd., used to make the receptionist and telephone operator quiver in their seats? Was it the same man who was known as the blue-eyed boy of the chairman, the MBA show boy from the US, who dazzled everyone with his brilliance and his personal charm?

Surprising how people can change when their positions are taken away from them. Fate had played a cruel game with Mr. Bandookwala. No, he neither had a bandook, a gun, nor was he in the business of guns, not that I know of. But he had all the making of an Automatic Kalashnikov 47 about the way he strode, the way he spoke, and the way the peons and the employees of his department scattered and hid from his gaze in those days.

Now I couldn’t believe the man sitting opposite me was the same powerful Dinshaw Bandookwala. The fire seemed to have died in his eyes, eyes which now looked sunk and haunted. His nervous tics and obsessions were more apparent, his fingers worrying a few polyps on his face. He carried a crumpled leather bag and didn’t wear his natty shirts and equally elegant ties.

Times were when I used to admire the clothes he wore, two-toned shirts straight out of the Arrow executive collection, something I wished I had. They were too expensive for me. I admired the deodorants he wore, and everything about him spelled class and panache. But the man who was sitting opposite me seemed to have shrunk, his eyes had lost its glitter, his well-cut hair was in disarray, and his shirt was soiled as if it hadn’t been washed for days. The way he sat opposite my executive chair, he seemed like a supplicant, the sort who came to me for advertisements and sponsorships.

********

Those were the days I had to queue outside his cabin to get his attention. He had left strict instructions that I had to have permission from him through the secretaries to meet him. Then when he gave permission, he kept me waiting outside his cabin till, at last, he had the inclination to meet me. All this for his own work, work for which he would take credit. I would hang around his cabin this way for hours, afraid of even knocking for fear that I would disturb his concentration. When I, a blubbering mass by now, finally entered the cabin to get approval on some proofs, he would look at me rather distractedly and shoot me something like, “Why is the article “the” not before “company”? And, I would come out of my dither with difficulty, think of what to say, and before I could say anything, he would dismissively fling what I had written at me and say “Rajesh, first read and edit carefully before bringing me such crap.” His lips would curl as he said this.

I would be so traumatized that I would stare at the sheet not knowing what had gone wrong with my writing, my words, and wonder whether I would ever make it as a writer, or, for that matter a “corporate communication executive.”

******

But things had changed. I had resigned from the job at Pinnacle Constructions Ltd. and moved ahead. I am now General Manager (Corporate Communications) of a leading construction company and Mr. Dinshaw Bandookwala wants my account. After leaving Pinnacle, Dinshaw hadn’t done well in his business and obviously he was now clutching at straws. I could see from his drooping expression that he was either lazing around in front of the television doing nothing or was into something addictive. He smelled bad and looked as if he hadn’t had a bath for a long time. Unbelievable! He smelled so good in those days, the best of deodorants for him, brands I wouldn’t even recognize. He drew the best salary in the company, he was given the company’s best car, a huge cabin with a view of the city, a driver, and a peon as a, sort of, personal valet. This peon carried his lunch bag and brief case from car to his cabin and back, shined his shoes, brought him tea, handed him papers, delivered his paper to other executives and stood outside to run errands and serve him lunch. He had mandated that the peon should wash his hands with soap every time he handled his food and also shouldn’t eat his food unless he had eaten.

With me he had similar rules. I was to be very attentive when I spoke to him as if he was some celestial deity, whom I had to worship for giving me darshan, or divine sighting! I would tremble when the peon rushed to me to whisper that he had called me. And then what I have described above would repeat and rarely was there a day when he wouldn’t throw proofs and drafts I had carefully written and taken to show him. “You call this writing, there’s no flow, no thought, no ideas, you are all over the place,” he would say shaking his head. I believed I was bad, and I would exit his cabin as would a man condemned to death by hanging.

Everyone in the organisation was subjected to such treatment. His secretaries, he had two of them, were insulted every hour for this or that. Sometimes he wanted his secretaries to call someone and make them hold on the phone before he spoke to them; sometimes he wanted them to connect them immediately. He never told who was to wait and who was to be connected, and this led to endless rows with his secretaries. Everything had to be done in seconds or the big man would become mad and angry. And when he became angry everyone would get mauled. He wouldn’t think before making personal remarks, “you are wasting the company’s time, you shouldn’t move from your seat unless I tell you to,” he told his secretary one day. A high-ranking executive working under him was told to fan him when a few flies settled on his face one rainy day. The peons called him yeda, mad, behind his back.

*************

What a change? Can a man change so much? I mean, how much can a man change when he is relieved of his position? Was he justified in misusing such a position with impunity as Dinshaw did? These questions buzzed around in my mind like bees. I was enjoying every moment that Dinshaw sat cringing before me, his facial tics making his discomfiture apparent. He used to be so glib in those days, articulating marketing concepts and spouting jargon as if he was an encyclopaedia of management concepts.

That he was the chairman’s blue-eyed boy was understood by everybody. They hastened to get out of the way of this fast-talking master of business administration (MBA) from Harvard when he approached. He was supremely confident then and flaunted his knowledge, poise, and charm. I couldn’t believe how such an individual could fall, and fall so fast in a few months. But that the cantankerous chairman could change his geriatric mind and dictatorial ways was not unknown to the staff. So when the staff kow-towed to Dinshaw they did it with the full knowledge that the powerful show boy could be a penniless pauper if he wasn’t too careful. But Dinshaw went cheerfully ahead, enlivening staid annual general meetings with presentations, socialising with industry leaders at dinner and cocktail parties, mingling with fickle minded media sales executives and advertising agency regulars.

Now when Dinshaw speaks he doesn’t have the twang of his American accent, proving that the drawling accent had been put on to establish that he was a foreign-returned MBA. Words didn’t issue from his mouth with hardly a thought about what harm it could do and he no longer had his collegiate charm. Oh God! I groaned. He hadn’t even shaved himself properly, stubble stood on his chin, and the hair around the temples had a few grey strands. Those days he went to a famous hairdresser who only served clients by appointment. No, no, this can’t be the Dinshaw Bandookwala I had worked with, no, this is another apparition of him, ruined, derelict. I couldn’t believe it. Was he depressed, or, ill with some incurable disease? I was feeling sorry for him.

************

He misused the system. There are certain people who take advantage of the trust that is bestowed on them. Those days he used to come at around lunch time everyday and leave around six in the evening. Most of his work was done from his posh flat in Peddar Road, also a company-owned one. Should he have been so totally dependent on the company’s perquisites? He should have known that the chairman “bestoweth” as well as “taketh away” as the good Lord often does. Did an MBA from Harvard not give him even mundane wisdom such as this? Or, was the MBA any good at all, considering it didn’t even teach everyday commonsensical truths? How can young people like Dinshaw not know the pitfalls of being totally dependent on his employer?

Now as he droned some spiel about synergistic convergence in the marketing space, which I knew was drivel, I interrupted him:

“What happened, Mr. Bandookwala? What went wrong?”

He looked up, a bit shaken at this question. He looked hurt. His eyes misted, a haunted look came over his face, and he bit his lips to stop it from quivering.

For a few moments he was silent and sat there looking at his fingernails, slowly shifting his gaze from one hand to the other, a sign of being depressed. I hadn’t got an answer; I was waiting for him to speak. His head slanted to his right, his mouth opened to speak but closed again and no words came out.

What went wrong? I was still wondering.

*******************

Mr. Bandookwala had a way with women. I could deduce from the day I saw him that he was something of a ladies man. The tell-tale signs were there: the confident smile, the small inoffensive jokes, the gallant manners, the opening of doors, and the saying of pleasant things like, “you look nice” and “I like your pendant” which women like a lot. He knew how to give a compliment without sounding like he needed something in return for it. Most of all, he could make women laugh with jokes that didn’t make him look like a male chauvinistic pig. And this made me admire him even more because I didn’t have those qualities. When I cracked jokes women stared at me as if something was wrong, but when he made them, women hung to his every word.

There was a steady stream of desirable women dropping in to visit him in those days. They were stunning-looking girls who had had been models for obscure clothes and jewellery lines, and the novelty of their faces having worn down, now were working as ad space sellers for magazines and newspapers. I had to admit that they must have got their jobs because they were good looking and the newspapers were desperately looking to gain entry into busy executives’ cabins if they wanted to sell any space. Beauty sells, especially of the feminine kind. So one newspaper had decided that they would hire only “pretty girls” and on any given day there was a queue of “Pretty Girls” from the newspaper waiting to meet charming and successful Mr. Bandookwala, the bestow-er of the company’s advertisements.

I used to be jealous when he would sit for hours flirting with the “Pretty Girls.” One day I was slinking outside his cabin trying to catch his attention through a tiny peep hole. He was flirting with a comely space seller inside. I had to send the proof of the company’s private circulation magazine for printing and needed his final approval, a squiggly signature he would write with a circle around it on the proof. He had taken one look at the proof and had flung it on me in front of the desirable specimen of feminineness, “Why is there a common before ‘and,’ I told you I don’t want serial commas in my magazine.”

But those days I had detected nervousness, an obsessive streak in him, his inability to let things go before passing on to the next project, his inability to accept the inevitability of things others see as stumbling blocks that should, at all costs, be avoided. It seemed these compulsions were eating into his family life as the staff often found that the ritual of hand washing was going a bit too far. “Have you washed your hand?” he would ask his peon obsessively. Was he alright? Was his marriage going okay? What’s obsessing him so much as to insist that his peon wash his hands before he handled anything he ate or drank? He also confronted people instead of finding ways mitigating common human foibles. He was intolerant of mistakes. Maybe, being ambitious, he wanted to be seen as a dynamic man, a faultless man, but there’s a limit to such an obsession.

************

“What happened, Mr. Bandookwala?”

I knew I was being blunt, but if I was to entrust him with the marketing and corporate relations of the company I am working for, I needed to know. Or, else? Or, else, I could be out of a job and could demolish whatever career I had painstakingly built after I left Pinnacle Construction Ltd.

“Is everything okay on the home front?” I knew I was being inquisitive but I had to know if I was to consider his proposal at all. You never know about such high-profile people, what with families breaking up, people wanting more space and all?

“No nothing, they are fine. Why do you ask?”

Still I wasn’t convinced. He was lying. Something had happened of which I wasn’t aware. A man who was considered a mover and shaker in the realty industry, a man who was considered the spokesman of Pinnacle Construction Ltd., was now a depressingly remote person without the charisma I had once associated with him. It shamed me to think that I had thought of him as my role model.

And then I ended the appointment as too many things were queuing up to be done. I wanted to help him, but I felt I couldn’t trust him with the company’s business as too much was at risk. In corporate portals your reputation depended on the people with whom you were associated, and I didn’t want my company to be associated in any way with someone who had botched up his life, real bad.

Then from the corporate grapevine I knew the truth, the naked, shocking truth. There were rumours of a few affairs he had had on the sly. His wife had left him and he was living alone in Bombay.

Deafness

DEAFNESS

Dear Diary,

Sachin sits there in the Café Coffee Day outlet and drinks cold coffee from a plastic bottle. He is a Ryzer. He wears glasses. He has two ear pieces dangling on his neck; obviously, he listens to a lot of music. Is this what online relationships are all about, I wonder? Meeting a total stranger, another Ryzer, in the neutral territory of a Café, over cold coffee?

“What do you do, Menka?” He asks.

“I work for an outsourcing unit, a part of the GPN network.”

“What?”

The music is loud, the speaker beside me is blaring some techno music. A pack of dogs and bitches create a mad howling outside. I am frazzled. A pandal opposite is playing a loud Aarti.

“I said I work in o-u-t-s-o-u-r-c-i-n-g.” I raise my voice.

“You are doing some course?” He shouts back. The dogs start howling again. One was even trying to mount a bitch. Oh, God! How embarrassing!

I know this would not be a meeting conducive to getting to know each other. His Ryze profile says he is a broker of some petroleum products, or something. He looks prosperous enough, wearing an Adidas tee-shirt and Woodlands shoes. But it is as if he is from another planet, sitting and sipping his cold coffee. We are worlds apart.

“How’s the petroleum business, Sachin?” I ask.

“Oh, petrol, oh, yeah, prices have shot up so much, no?”

“I meant the petroleum products business….” I shout at him.

Why does this man who seemed so nice and charming online look such an awkward oaf in real life? Just then the dogs start howling again, this time they are yowling with pleasure as they see a man bringing their dinner.

“Yeah, he does that every day; no wonder the dogs congregate here outside the Café. So crude, no?”

“To each their own. Some people consider dogs as gods,” that’s the first intelligible repartee from him. I laugh.

How can I connect with this man, talk to him, understand him, when the speakers are dinning into my ears, and the people at the next table are making such a racket? They are talking in what they think is an American accent and are wearing what they think are modern clothes. I can see them pausing a split second to make up their mind, because they have to act out a careless shrug and put on the psueo-accent. It irritates me.

“Don’t you think it’s noisy in here?”

The loudspeaker starts playing “Churaliya Hai” and the boys and girls start singing and clapping.

“Yes, nice song. From the film Yadon Ki Barat, no? I love it.”

I exhaust all my patience. I feel like running out in the street and screaming, but I control myself. The dogs are busy eating their dinner and the howling is now whines of contentment. How lucky they are, barking, whining, fucking, fighting whenever they feel like it, without the rituals of meeting online, carrying on a dialogue for months, and then, at last, meeting at a café which sounds like a Govinda movie.

“Are you deaf?” I ask, twisting my index finger in my ear elaborately.

“Yes I am fifty per cent deaf in both ears. Doctors say it’s caused by loud pub music and talking continuously on the cell phone.”

At last, he understood my miming. Poor chap, I feel sorry for him.

“Let’s get out of here,” I mime to him and take his hand.

More than anything he is in need of sympathy, and a bit more of silence and quiet. I don’t know why he wanted to meet me in a noisy café. We sit on a bench in a nearby park and talk for hours. When parting we agree to meet tomorrow. I just can’t wait. Dear diary: today I met the most interesting man I have ever met.

A SIMPLE UNCORRUPTED LIFE

He looks old to me, his eyes are rheumy, and his hands are stiff on the steering wheel, which he holds the way I was taught to hold it – with both hands planted on either side. I put the taxi’s meter flag down for him, got in in the front seat alongside him, the old geezer seemed okay, driving smoothly, without jerks. Then I am in two minds: should I; shouldn’t I? I mean, I like to talk to taxi drivers, but not this one, suppose he kept silent and asked me to mind my own business.

But being the impulsive guy I am, I spoke.

“How long have you been driving a taxi?”

“Fifty years.” He warms up instinctively to conversation.

“Fifty years!” I say incredulously.

He nods.

“And how old are you now?”

“Seventy-six.”

My God! Brijpal Singh Yadav, that’s his name, is a marvel of modern medical technology. I am sure he is being kept alive with tablets and such like. At his age father wasn’t very alert, he was eating a lot of medicines at this age: blood pressure, diabetes, heart blockages.

“What do you eat? You must be having a lot of pills to be so healthy.”

“I have only vegetarian food, lot of milk, don’t drink, no cigarettes, an occasional Paan is all I have. I have never been to a doctor in twelve years.”

I calculate mentally. Fifty years meant it is the golden jubilee year of his taxi business. He must have been a cabby right from 1948, a year after independence, and nine years before I was born. Seventy-six years old meant he was born in 1932. My God! This man has been around even before Indian independence.

“How was it then?”

“Petrol was Rs 5 a gallon (a gallon is 4 litres), a new taxi (Fiat, Hillman, Morris Minor) was only Rs 10,000, and for just one anna (six paise) you could have a full meal. Taxi far started at a minimum of half a rupee. For five rupees you could eat in a hotel for a month. I used to earn around Rs 15 a day, on a good day, that is.”

Old man sure has seen better days, I think. Petrol is now something like 60 rupees a litre (I don’t know the latest, but close), today a new taxi costs around two hundred thousand, and a meal costs nothing less than Rs 50, five days’ earnings of the rheumy-eyed man driving me so steadily to my office. The minimum taxi fare is Rs 13 today. He has kept his taxi well maintained, its interiors are upholstered, there aren’t the usual wires sticking out of the panels.

“What you are talking!?” I am amazed by his sharp memory. It seems this man doesn’t forget, he is a storehouse of information.

“Yes, I know you are incredulous, things have changed so much. It’s a dog’s life now in this heat. Yet I have educated my three sons, one is in Life Insurance, one is in a bank, and another is in the stock trading business.”

“What was it like in those days?” I am excited. I want to probe deeper. Here is the rare man, I felt, who is willing to talk openly about his past. Most people, especially cabbies are too cynical to talk, their minds are like closed books that will never be opened. So was my father, he never spoke about his old days.

“All these roads and buildings you see didn’t exist in those days. New Marine Lines and what you call Nariman Point weren’t born, the sea came up to the Oval Maidan and Churchgate station.”

“You mean all these roads we are passing through were empty, er, was actually the sea?”

“No, there were a few buildings here; I don’t remember all of them. There was Malabar Hill, Colaba Causeway and Worli. Bombay was a small place then, not many people around.”

He must have been through the periodic riots that are a trade mark of the city that leave many dead in its wake, been through the bombs that blasted crazily through trains, the floods that rendered cars immobile for a whole night, killing many, many people. Yet he seems so complacent and untouched by life. If only I could live a life like him, a simple uncorrupted life, I am in the wishing mode. Yet there is hope: my father too lived a simple uncorrupted life like him and died at eighty-four.

“And what is your wish for the future?” I reach my office and couldn’t stretch our conversation any further. My world beckons me.

He thinks for a moment, his hands working to put the taxi’s gear into neutral.

“I want Bhagwan to grant me this simple wish: lift me up while I am still doing my job. I ask nothing else.”

I pay him a generous tip, turn the taxi’s meter flag twice so that it was again in the upright position and he wouldn’t have to exert himself to do it himself. I, too, want to live a simple uncorrupted life. I walk away.

Seema and Preet

It rained continuously on July 27, 2005. Seema left the office at 4 p.m. as her friends warned her that trains wouldn’t be running on the harbour railway line alongside which her flat was situated. She lived in Sanpada, New Bombay. At 4 p.m. she finished her work at the telephones office where she worked and descended the stairs to MG Road, near VT station.

As she walked, sari hitched up, to VT station, she could see buses and cars piled up, clogging MG Road into an immovable glacier of metal. It was still raining heavily. Her mind was on Preet, her two-year old son, given to the care of Himanshu’s mother, Aai. She phoned Himanshu and told him she would be late. May be he could leave office early as he worked in New Bombay where Sanpada is situated. “Go early, so that Preet and Aai would have somebody with them. Aai can’t manage on her own” Himanshu went home early and reached around 6.30 p.m., when it was still raining.

When Seema reached VT she saw to her horror that the station was full of people, standing restlessly, worry written all over their faces. So she decided to board a bus, which was crawling outside in the evening traffic. It was still pouring. It was a 1 limited bus to Dadar. At least, it would reach her to Dadar and from there she could board a bus to New Bombay. She already started missing Preet. How couldn’t she?

Preet… my Preet… what are you doing, son? Don’t worry, mummy will come home soon.

The bus hardly moved. She could have overtaken it had she decided to walk. She decided to sit in it and read a magazine. Time flew. She didn’t know when she had crossed Crawford Market, Masjid and Byculla. Soon it was in Dadar, and the bus wouldn’t move any further. It was 8 p.m. and the roads were full of people, drenched, walking in the cascading rain.

At Dadar she boarded a 504 Limited bus to New Bombay. It came to Sion circle and lay there for around half an hour. The rain poured in buckets. She looked at the watch. 12 p.m. She and a woman she had befriended on the bus decided to get down and walk. They walked on the Eastern Express Highway bridge to Chembur. Her feet were aching, but she kept thinking of Preet, now firmly ensconced in the lap of Himanshu. How can it rain so much? Was there so much water in the clouds?

Preet, my preet, mera beta, mera raja… my king!

They crossed the Thane Creek bridge in the rain coming down in torrents. The watch showed 5 a.m. in the morning. She had been walking most of the night. Her feet were swollen, her hands holding her handbag felt tired and numb. There was a long line of people with her, all wet, cracking jokes and trying to forget their ordeal. She kept thinking of Preet. She called Himanshu on the cellphone.

Himanshu said, Preet was okay, don’t worry.

Preet, my son, my king, hope you aren’t crying and missing your mummy. How I miss cuddling you to me.

Preet was crying, Mummy, mummy, mummy…

Nothing Himanshu or Aai did would shut him up.

At Vashi Seema’s friend said goodbye and told her to take care of the potholes and manholes. She would be safe if she stuck towards the centre of the road. She carried on the highway full of people walking. A car offered a ride till Sanpada. At the station she crossed over to the East of Sanpada, under the railway bridge. From the distance she could see the tower of Sai Deep Society her apartment complex. She called Himanshu on the cellphone and told him that she will be home in fifteen minutes.

She quickened her steps, breathing heavily, her eyes misted with tears as she thought of Preet, Himanshu and Aaai.

Himanshu, thanks, re, for coming early… Aai thank you for being so nice and looking after Preet, my son.

She was closer to the building now. She was walking rapidly, almost running. Breath was issuing from her mouth like steam from a locomotive engine. She was also crying. Tears and snot streamed down her face. She closed the door of the lift and pressed the button to the fifth floor. The door of the flat was open as she opened the lift’s gate on the fifth floor. She could dimly see Himanushu, Aai and Preet at the door.

“Preet my son. Did you miss me? Come here, re, baba….”

And then her world blanked out.

--------------

(Probably apocryphal, this story is one of the several tragedies that are still being narrated as having happened during the deluge of July 27, 2005 in Bombay.)

Doesn't Accidents Happen to Others?

10.30 a.m. I lie there in the spreading blot of red, no, blood is dark red, almost black. It is slippery, as jelly. The mangled metal, twisted and sharp, in my flesh here, a big splotch near my stomach, a thousand wounds smarting at the same time, it is as if I am being poked all over. I am tired and aching. Oh God, did this happen when I am on my way to Shirdi to visit and pay respect to you, my God?

It all happened with a deafening screech. I had only taken my eyes off the road briefly. Then my world kept turning, turning, turning, upside down. Then this eerie silence…. Accidents don’t happen to me. It happens to other people, I think. It happens in newspapers, movies, and television channels.

It’s sunny and hot outside. Cars, trailers, trucks whiz past in a mad rush. Why isn’t anybody stopping? They look, but they don’t care. Perhaps they are scared. Scared of this happening to them.

I look towards the back of the car; my mother is slumped on the rear seat. The car on her side is like a crumpled pappadam. A piece of metal has pierced right through her and the blood has drained from her body. The truck in the back was carrying steel rods; one of them has smashed through the rear window. Her skin is an unhealthy pallor and… a breath leaves her… the last breath.

Then she slumps, slowly, in slow movement, the slowness of death. Then her eyes dilate, and she looks upwards. She is dead.

The car is at an angle to the road. My wife, Suman is moaning beside me. But she is breathing regularly. I guess she will live. My son Vasu, is in her lap, and is sleeping. He hasn’t even woken up. She is at the bottom of the inclined car. So she is safe. Vasu’s breathing is regular except for a smooth snoring sound.

I look to the right of me. “Appa! Appa!” Appa is slumped in a sleeping position, against the side of the car that is not mangled. His mouth is open as if he was going to say something.

My sister, Janaki, in between Appa and Amma is bent forward. Oh, my God, I forgot about her. How could I?

“Janaki, Janaki,” I call. I crane my neck; she is slumped forward… I can’t see her. Is she dead?

No, she isn’t.

“Anna, Anna,” she says feebly, “My shoulder is splitting. Help me.”

I try to move. But my body is stiff with pain. I am at an angle, the upward angle. I guess if I move much the car will topple on its roof. I better wait for the welding torches, and metal cutter.

Why aren’t the police here?

******

My mind wanders… I am inside my glass cabin in my office. I can see my agents making calls… only the hum of so many voices. The office is flood lit at night. The idea is to keep people awake. I haven’t slept properly for many days. Sleep is a waste of time, I think.

Why are things so hazy? Hazy or bright? My agents go to sleep if there is a little corner with a bit of dusky shade. They have to work, make calls the whole night. I am with them twenty-four hours, seven days of the week. I need that promotion, that raise. That’s why I don’t sleep. Only then will I be able to pay back the entire loan of my flat in Seawood Estate, and the loan on the Maruti 800 car I bought. I want to pay them off, those vultures. Once when I had missed an installment they had come every day to harass Suman, till she became all upset. I will pay them at once, and then be a free man, free for life.

After that I can enjoy all the holidays in the world. Maybe, go on a world tour on a luxury liner, the advertisements of which keep appearing in the papers. Aaah… to bask in the sun on the deck of a luxury liner. Wasn’t that in that movie, Titanic? Well, that’s my dream. But that’s too far into the future, isn’t it?

I must not dream too much. Right now my agents are clamoring and are full of silly doubts. I have empowered my assistants to deal with them firmly but in a friendly way. I must gain their respect, at the same time their trust. Or they would leave. Most business process employees are fickle minded. If they don’t like something they leave. Turnover is very high, I must avoid a big turnover in my company. Yes, I call it my company, and my bosses are happy with me, my “proprietorial sense,” as they call it. I call them “guys” female, male, all of them.

“Guys, guys, work hard and achieve something in life. Your behavior is your responsibility, remember that. If you achieve your target, you have the satisfaction of a job well done. Otherwise you go back to some low-paid clerical job,” my voice is a bit bullying, but I can’t help it.

I sleep in the office. I eat in the canteen. I brush my teeth in the office toilet. I call home once a day and tell Suman it is all for them that I am doing this. After all, following my last promotion, I brought Appa, Amma and Janaki from Chennai to stay with us. The flat is a three-bedroom flat. I gave one bedroom to my parents. Another bedroom is for Janaki, and the remaining is our bedroom.

So Suman is not alone. She has Appa, Amma and Janaki to care about her. They like each other. Well, except mother’s bitching about Suman’s cooking. But that’s usual in any family. Besides, Vasu also loves his grandparents.

I have around a hundred agents working under me in three shifts. I am the operations manager and have a small glass cabin. From there I can see everyone who work under me. I give each batch of agents a pep talk as they begin work and then I am free. Then the floor supervisors take over. They are smart people and know what to do.

But I am a bit worried about the targets. This month’s sales show a downward trend on the graphs. I tell my agents I want results.

Why don’t results come?

Why doesn’t the police come?

***********

My flat in Seawood Estates weaves into my field of vision, as a hallucinatory dream. A dream in this heat?

My memory is a hazy… though oddly clear. The winter morning sun seeps in so gloriously. I want to take a day off. I lay on the sofa reading the paper. The project was finished. Well, the target wasn’t achieved. My boss agreed that best efforts were put in and that the results were acceptable. The general manager however is grumpy. Mean old man. He says I could have tried harder. There will always be criticism; however well one do ones job.

It was time I took a break from work. No, not for that world cruise. At least, a short vacation to a near destination. Appa suggested that we go to Shirdi as he believes in Shirdi Sai Baba.

“I have always wanted to visit Shirdi Sai Baba temple. I have always been an admirer of his.”

“Why Appa?”

“He is an icon of what India should be. Not divided but free and united.”

Well, Appa has been an idealist all his life. I don’t stand in the way of his idealism, or his happiness. He has done so much for me.

“Okay I will make arrangements, but have you asked Amma?”

He asks Amma.

“No,” Amma says, “my reading of the charts say we shouldn’t travel now.”

“Charts, charts, charts, all the time,” Appa teases her, “when will you give up your superstitions?”

And today, exactly a week later, she is in the back of the car, dead.

I had checked the tires of the car, I had it thoroughly overhauled, I filled it with petrol, I wanted to be cautious, as my entire family, my universe, was squeezed into that small vehicle. Then I studied the road maps and chose the best time to make the journey and back.

Two days later we were on the road. We took enough food for the journey. Amma and Appa both dislike hotel food. We took a lot of lemon rice, pickles, and sambhar in a bottle, which we ate in the car during a break at 9.30 a.m. Amma said she wanted to pray for a good boy for Janaki and offer some money to the temple. Appa said this was bribing God. Amma wouldn’t listen. Appa gave her the money.

Now in this eerie silence I see her lifeless form through the broken shards of glass, and disfigured metal. Appa seems to be in a comma. Does he know she is dead? Why, oh, why did this happen?

I am a good driver. We set off early in the morning for the seven-hour journey from Bombay to Shirdi through Manmad. I drive carefully. I let traffic pass. I am in no hurry. But I worry a lot about my job. Are my agents working? What is happening back in the office? Will I meet targets and deadlines?

When we reached Manmad, I felt a little sleepy. My eyes kept shutting though it was only ten in the morning. At one stage I caught myself veering away from the road. I shook my head, took a deep breath. Suman was too absorbed in Vasu to notice. But Amma noticed. She was a little nervous and fidgety.

“Suresh if you are tired we should stop and rest somewhere,” she said.

“What? When we are already there?”

“Tell him to stop, no?” She pleads with Appa.

“He is a grown up. Let him concentrate. You don’t disturb him,” is all Appa said. He always defends me. After all, I am his only son, his only hope.

I take a deep breath and squint at the road ahead. It is hot. It is unusually hot for this winter morning. Again I feel a numbness creep through me. No, it isn’t sleep. Is it an attack? I am passing through rough country. There wouldn’t be a doctor or a hospital within hours of drive in this place.

Again that feeling is creeping, crawling, this numbness in the limbs. Numbness in the hot afternoon. I shake my head. I sit forward, lean on the steering wheel.

Then I break into sweat, cold and congealing in the hot afternoon!

There’s a big hole in the road ahead. Damn! I hadn’t noticed it as I was negotiating a turn. I slammed the brakes hard.

Screeeeeeecccchhhh!

We all screamed as the truck from behind smashed the car and sent us spinning like a top. Swirling, toppling, a series of loud thumps and thuds, and now I am in this sideways position. I wriggle, I contort, I can’t move. I am trapped in metal.

Then this eerie silence, like I am having a nightmare. I pinch myself. No, this is reality. I must hold still. But, how, why does it happen to me? Me of all the people in the world.

Some of those passing cars must have informed the police. They will come. They will come with welding torches and metal cutting equipment as I have seen in the movies. But accidents happen to others don’t it? Amma was right. Now, Amma is dead.

I can hear the police sirens.