#MaybeAllMen

 

 

"Do you remember the year we sang 'Coward of the County'?" Ajay asked.

"Oh yes, 8th standard Youth Festival. Why?" Jimmy replied.

"One of my patients reminded me of that," Ajay said.

Ajay is a psychologist. He is not the type that divulges patients' stories, even under the cover of anonymity. He must have grabbed our attention because of that. And, not because we (Ajay, Jimmy, Shekhar and I) had run out of topics to discuss after the first peg. We would have found something to talk about, eventually. After all, we were best friends. Various pairs at various times, we had been best friends to each other. Not in the last twenty years. Long back. But we still meet.

"This chap talked about an incident that's haunted him all his life," Ajay said. "He too could have been in the 8th standard, quite young. He went abroad that summer holidays, Singapore. He went to the famous Sentosa island by cable car. That wasn't long after the cable car tragedy there. Do you remember reading about that in the Reader's Digest?"

Ajay sipped his drink, allowing the rhetorical question to bounce around in our empty insides. "Four older girls took him for that outing. A family friend's daughter and her three friends. Nice friendly girls." He paused again.

“Lucky bastard,” Jimmy muttered.

"They were playing on a beach, in the water,” Ajay continued. “He in his shorts. The girls in T-shirts and shorts. The beach was surprisingly empty. Just them. And three men in their twenties or early thirties, one with a pot belly, the usual uncouth lot. The men too entered the water, stood close to the younger group. The men first stared and sniggered. Then came the obnoxious comments. In Malayalam. My chap and his family friend could understand. The other girls, Tamilians, too got the gist. One of the girls opened her mouth to protest or give back but the others warned her not to. They didn't stay in the water for long."

"They moved from the beach to a place where they could change and rest. There, the oldest girl told the boy, "In such times, you should be more than a good boy." He smiled and nodded. He had liked it when the girls had earlier said that he looked mature for his age. He tried to be mature and remained silent."

"That vacation, and in the days and months...the years that followed, that haunted him," Ajay said.

"Pussy should think at least," Jimmy said. "I would have gutted those men."

"Come on, he would have made the situation worse," Shekhar said. "He would have put those girls at more risk. That type of men would have retaliated, badly."

"Not in Singapore, here maybe, not there," I said. "I am quite sure this boy must have thought what the men thought. Wet T-shirt and all that. Hence, the guilt-trip later."

"So, what happened to him?" Shekhar asked.

"Let me call him Bejoy,” Ajay said. “Bejoy remained the quiet calm goody-goody boy, externally. But there were slow changes.”

Ajay paused again and looked at each one of us before continuing.

"His best friend then was a guy known for his switchblade. Do you remember the year the Krishnan brothers bashed up a guy?"

"Which Krishnan brothers?" Shekhar asked.

"Those gusti (wrestling) brothers, I remember them," I said. "Some idiot talked to their sister. What an idiot! Which guy will talk to a girl with such brothers? Anyway, he got it...was in a hospital for a month."

"What's that got to do with your B Joy?" Jimmy snarled. He seemed riled up for no reason.

"Bejoy’s best friend used the switchblade on a guy…for the same reason…the guy talked to his sister," Ajay said. "Just threatened, maybe nicked the guy a little, Chinatown Roman Polanski style. Our man and his switchblade got kicked out of school for that. But Bejoy and him remained best friends. Till…"

"Till the day that best friend phoned Bejoy’s girlfriend, anonymously of course, and talked about her breasts and bra size.”

I laughed. “That used to be a craze then.”

Ajay ignored me. “Funny part is that Bejoy was standing outside the public phone booth then. He didn't know it was his girlfriend at the other end.”

I hooted with laughter.

"Did he get to know?" Shekhar asked.

“Yes, when his girlfriend mentioned the call. That was the end of his friendship with switchblade. That was the end of his friendship with the girl too. He told her what had happened.”

“What an idiot,” I said.

“He apologized. She kicked him out,” Ajay said.

“Serves him right,” Jimmy muttered. “For sneaking on his best buddy.”

“Is that so?” Ajay asked.

There seemed to be some tension between those two. Ajay poured another peg for himself.

“His next best friend was a different sort altogether, a goody-goody chap like him who was a heartthrob with the girls. A good looker, a gentleman, a singer too,” Ajay said. “Bejoy and this best friend were a pair like Cyrano de Bergerac and Christian.”

Shekhar poured a double and downed it in one go.

“Oye, easy man,” I said.

“My chap Cyrano has a cousin. And, our Christian was crazy about her,” Ajay said. “Bejoy knew what his cousin liked, and he wrote a poem for her about her, just like Cyrano. His best friend used that poem, as his own, to capture her affection.”

“That’s twisted…” I remarked. “Didn’t we have a rule: no going after sisters or relatives of friends?”

“Even womanizers have ethics,” Jimmy growled. He had been silent for a while.

“She was a few years older, already in college,” Ajay continued. “One summer break, she returned from the college hostel a bit changed. No more the traditional girl in long skirt, blouse, underskirt, petticoat, what not. She had frizzed her hair, I think that’s what it’s called, wore modern clothes. The day she met our Christian, she was wearing a dress exposing ample cleavage. Our gentleman Christian kept the meeting brief. He later told his Cyrano she looked “sluttish”.”

“But she used to look so good before…” Shekhar said.

“Well, that was the end of that friendship,” Ajay interrupted. “Bejoy got an earful from his cousin sister.”

“What? Did he tell her that his best friend described her as a slut?” I exclaimed.

“Of course,” Ajay replied.

 “He is a sucker for punishment,” I said.

“Oh yes, he is,” Ajay said. “Wait till you hear about his next best friend who turned out to be the best. Or worst.”

Ajay looked punch drunk. No pun intended. Slouching, face twisted, mangled.

“Do you remember Professor Groper in school?” Ajay asked.

Jimmy laughed. “Haha…two or three years our senior, right? What was his name…GK or PK…?”

“BK…Balakrishnan,” Ajay said.

“We were nothing compared to that creep,” Jimmy seemed to have recovered from his slump. “That guy used to hold classes in the school bus. Groping 101. How to stand near a girl, how to jack-y…that guy was a piece! I still remember his three-touch rule. Touch a female once, she might move away. Touch her again, she might still move away. Touch her a third time, the good ones will come near and ask for more. I wonder how many times he got into trouble before getting that good one. Worth it, he used to say. What’s Prof. BK got to do with your chap?”

“His new best friend forever turned out to be this BK’s best student,” Ajay said. “Even Bejoy joined in…at concerts, college auditorium, any public gathering, those two and their groping hands, I wonder what they got out of it,” Ajay grimaced. “Great fun…till the best friend groped Bejoy’s wife…on their wedding day. What could Bejoy do? They were after all comrades-in-arms.”

“Bloody hell!” Jimmy hooted with laughter.

I stared at Ajay. Ajay stared back. I was of course the last to figure out Ajay’s tale. Probably because of the drinks.

“Bejoy…always the good boy who does nothing, just like in Sentosa many years before…he did not do anything,” Ajay said. “Yes, he got more than he deserved with such best friends. One nightmare has haunted him all these years. Bejoy, our Cyrano, captured the nightmare with these lines:

 

My best friends and I,

4 matchstick men on a beach,

Together separate and alone.

Protector, abuser,

Prey, predator,

Those are the names we hear.

A black shroud we see,

Racing fast towards us,

Swallowing the sun and us.

 

Do you know what Bejoy’s best friend forever did recently?” Ajay asked.

“Groped Bejoy’s wife again?” Jimmy grinned.

“No, the best friend went for Bejoy’s twelve-year-old daughter,” Ajay said.

“The bastard should be castrated?” Jimmy snarled.

“Geez…” Shekhar said.

“What do you say?” Ajay looked at me and asked. “Should you be castrated?”

 

 #MaybeAllMen

#fiction

When They Met

 

I was at Inorbit Mall (Malad West), trying out the free cookies at the shop on the ground floor. My wife was trying to drag me away.

"Pree..." I heard someone say softly.

I turned to see my wife say softly, "Sree..."

I bit into the chocolate nut cookie. I saw a lady behind Sree. She was eyeing my cookie. I turned to the counter, yet again, and said, "One more." The girl scowled first and then produced the plastic smile and gave me one more. I gave it to the lady behind Sree. She moved towards me.

Meanwhile, Pree and Sree hugged and started to reminisce about the past.

"I Shake," I said.

"Myself Nutty," she said between large bites.

"Nutty, shall we give them some space?"

"Should we?"

"There's a free coffee counter near Crossword," I said. 

"You Shake, indeed!"

We told Sree and Pree our destination. They did not even hear us.

Seated, coffee in hand, trapped in a serious bubble of self-doubt, we thought about the situation.

"No problem, no?" she asked. 

"Yes, problem, yes?" I asked.

"You know about them?" she asked.

I nodded. She too nodded.

"Look, let's evaluate the situation. What do they have to think about?" I said.

"Love, maybe."

"Exactly, that's all."

"That's all?" She did not sound convinced.

"No house, no bed, no food, no family, just love."

She smiled. Then, she scowled.

"No love for us?" she said.

"No love for us?" I repeated.

We scowled together, the best comrades-in-arms.

"Oh, don't worry, there's love for us too," I said wistfully.

"You think so?" she replied with similar spirit.

Pree and Sree turned up just then. They got for themselves free coffee.

"Flashback over?" we asked them.

"Oh yes, back to the present," they replied.

No future for Nutty Shake, we thought. 

And laughed.

Pree and Sree seemed bemused.

They too laughed.

The Idiot

 I have been a model--- 

twice.

First,

in University:

in a pseudo-advert for a lamp

I played chess;

a copy 

of

Shatranj ke Khilari;

I looked good

With my hand 

covering my face.

Second, 

in Research Institute:

a photo-op

for equal opportunity;

a brown guy

discussing research

with a white lady;

I looked good

With my back

To the camera.

The idiot as role model---

nice.

Revenge 2.0

 

 

I realized I was in love when I signed her name instead of mine at a bank. The bank clerk kept a straight face when she returned the check. Jaya, by my side, saw what I had done and burst out laughing. I glared at her.

That was not the first such instance. Once I dialled her home number, reflex action presumably, and blurted out some message to my mother. Her mother was patient. At the end of my monologue, she said, “Monay (son), this is Jaya’s amma (mother).”

We were mere acquaintances in school, she three years my junior. After I left school, we communicated by letters. And by phone when I was back home for semester breaks. After my Masters, I surprised everyone by not pursuing my dream of a PhD and a career in Academia. I joined an IT firm in Bangalore. Jaya made day-trips from her college in Mysore and spent the day with me in my apartment. Our friends knew we were a couple. Our parents knew too. Jaya used to say her parents trusted me. They must have known we were old-fashioned in many ways.

She was twenty-two years old when she told me that her parents had started talking about marriage. I talked to my parents and told them to meet her parents.

Jaya and I were not there at that meeting. She was sent to a cousin’s house. I remained at home. When my parents returned, I pestered them for information.

“Do you really want this?” my father asked.

I blew my top. I cursed their primitive attitude. I asked them why they treated me like a bastard.

They remained silent then. The next day, when my father went to the temple, my mother told me about the meeting.

Nothing much had happened. They were served tea and biscuits. Spoke little, about the weather and the general state of the roads. They sat on the veranda of Jaya’s house. My parents were not invited inside.

I ignored Jaya’s calls that day. Next day, I told her that I will be at her house later that day.

We stood on that veranda. She said, “Let’s go to my room.” I shook my head and said, “No, Jaya, this is over.” She stared for a while. Then, she slapped my face. I walked out of her house.

Out of that veranda.

Till that day, I had never thought about my caste or Jaya’s. That was textbook stuff, only theory, no ‘practicals’. Till then.

That must have been my Count of Monte Cristo moment. I decided to be a slave to Revenge, burying dreams and principles. Every move on the chess board of Life a step closer to self-annihilation. I wanted it to be a slow, long game waiting for the right, and not just any, kill.

I shifted career yet again. I joined the Civil Services. I wanted to be somebody in society.

I married couple of years later. When our daughter was two, we divorced. Rather amicably, apart from her repeating, “You just can’t love anyone.” I insisted on keeping my daughter. She was fine with that.

From then on, it was just me, my mother and my daughter at home. My father had died a year after my wedding. When I did the last rites, I remembered the pain in his eyes when he asked me, “Do you really want this?”

As a kid, my daughter was a pleasant girl with a lovely smile. The smile remained in her teens but it became more difficult to see her out of her bedroom. We still did lots of things together. I insisted on eating, shopping and doing other chores together. We played when we could. Badminton at first, a bit of tennis later and finally she settled for squash. We were both lousy losers. At the parent-teacher meetings, there were no complaints. Only one teacher said, “She is not a people’s person.”

I had noticed that. It is not that my daughter did not try to make friends. I thought she had a few close ones only to realize a little later that those were already in the past. I thought it was just teenage blues. The mood swings, the irritability, the constant introvert. It worsened when she entered her twenties. I got worried. I asked my mother if I should take her to a psychologist. My mother laughed and said, “Then, we should have taken you. She is just you.” That was not at all comforting.

At twenty-two, my daughter went abroad. She did a MS in an Ivy League college, joined a bulge bracket firm on Wall Street. Her visits back home were brief. Instead, she took my mother and me to her place in New Jersey. I searched for some clues about her personal life. No pets, no photos, a few cactus plants, a well-stocked kitchen and basement and a clean house. She was clearly earning lots.

A year or two after I retired, she left the Wall Street career. My mother and I were there then.

“I am writing books, with two writing selves,” she said. “One for serious fiction (no one reads that but that’s what I want to write) and the other a lucrative series (it’s a crazy genre---psycho-sexual-romance).”

Not surprisingly, I loved the latter and ignored the heavy stuff. She used to translate and read that intimate better stuff to my mother. I pretended not to listen.

We were back there a year later. She had changed in many ways. One change, in particular, affected me. I protested loudly about her conversion to vegetarianism.

“Am I not cooking non-veg for you?” she asked.

“That’s not the point,” I replied.

There were other changes, unconnected to her dietary revolution. I hardly recognized my daughter. She was lost in thoughts, excited, expectant and constantly waiting for something. Irritable too. That was gratefully kept to a minimum by the cause of all that.

We met him. He was a few years younger than her. He seemed to be as smitten with her.

I tried to use him in my fight against vegetarianism.

“Acha (father), I am also planning to become one,” he replied. I groaned. I thought of being petty and telling him not to call me Acha, what my daughter calls me.

That was before I found out he is Jaya’s youngest son.

I got to know that during a dinner together. My mother looked at me. I stared at my plate for a while before continuing as if that did not matter at all.

The next day, when my daughter was not at home, I asked my mother if my daughter knew about Jaya and me. She nodded.

“Why did you tell her?” I asked.

“She found out,” my mother replied.

“How?”

“Probably from all the old stuff in your study room. Your diaries…”

I wondered what my daughter was up to. Was she plotting revenge like me, for me? I knew I could not talk to her about it, after keeping it under wraps all her life.

The kids came back with us to India. They wanted to get married. I agreed to meet his parents.

They arranged the meeting and promised not to be there.

“We really need the blessings from both sides,” they said. I thought there was an implicit threat in that statement of them going ahead even with one side’s blessings or without either.

I knew the way to Jaya’s house. The old house had been renovated. It looked rich and grand. Only the imposing veranda remained as it was.

Jaya and her husband welcomed me warmly, “Come in, come in.”

I suggested sitting on the veranda. Jaya winced, I thought.

I wondered if Jaya had told her husband about us. Her son had not given any indication of that being a family joke. But then, my own daughter had concealed her knowledge of the same.

Jaya’s husband, a successful and very rich businessman, settled those worries with a light-hearted jibe, “Always wanted to meet you, a fellow-sufferer of Jaya’s famous right hand.”

I do not know if my left cheek turned pink. Jaya came to the rescue, “And not because you have been in the papers regularly.”

“I don’t know whether you remember,” Jaya’s husband said, “We met couple of times when the government was laying the groundwork for our industry. I used to tell Jaya that you were the reason we survived.”

I nodded. I wondered if he was being condescending or patronizing, two words I have never really understood. Talk shifted to matters closer to the issue of the day.

Jaya brought tea and biscuits. I wondered if it was the same my parents had had when they visited.

In the background, I could hear them talk of the inter-religious and inter-caste marriages in their family.

“…niece…married a Punjabi…a Kulkarni…that is a Brahmin, is it not…we even have a Polish girl in our extended family now…”

I must have acted well. They continued.

“We have allowed our kids total freedom in choosing their partner. They can bring anyone. Times have changed,” Jaya said.

“Oh yes, anyone…” Jaya’s husband agreed. After a brief pause, “Just not them, though…”

I continued to stare at the last inch of tea in my cup.

“That we have made it clear,” Jaya’s husband said. “They can marry that lot but that would be the end of their relationship with us. Not a penny from us if they go against us on that. That lot…they are just different, aren’t they?”

How much ever I tried then, I could not keep the image of my father’s pained look out of my mind.

There was another image too, my daughter.

My father had taken as much as he could. I just had to take a little bit more. The long, slow kill I had waited for, the check mate, was a move away. I could have justified my actions to my daughter. All for her best, I could say. Trust me, I could plead. I have seen the world more than you, my last argument.

I looked up from the tea-cup, smiled at them and nodded.

For my daughter.