Fishy Chronicles 54: Trouble At Uncle’s Place

“Did Aunty ask you to cook?” Anjali asked, her body pressing into mine in the kitchen. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck. Despite the discomfort I ignored her and concentrated on the curry bubbling in front of me. I was acutely aware of Genie, leaning against a wall and watching me. At least he wasn’t increasing my feeling of suffocation.

I had been feeling low and disturbed about the impending weekend with my cousins. The jokes of the past few days made me feel worse and Anjali and Genie stopped eventually. Yesterday, I disappeared. I took the car and did not answer my phone. I drove to the beach and walked about. I sat in the sand, watching amorous couples and then wet my feet in the sea. When the sunlight and heat got brutal, I drove to the market and bought vegetables and groceries, having written out most of my list while sitting at the beach. Nearer home, I bought the meat.

Elsa Aunty was in a state of tension when there were guests at home. I was merely continuing my mother’s tradition of cooking in bulk so that there would be lots of food left over for the guests for days. Aunty always looked relieved at the sight of the food. Roma often told me they ate the meat leftovers sparingly to make sure they lasted as long as they could without spoiling. Now Roma and her kids usually wiped out the dish with a piece of bread, which is what we cousins did when we were little and spent the holidays at my home. The gravy that had dried out and stuck to the sides of the pan tasted the best.

The aroma of the cooking meat made me feel better. At our ancestral home in Kerala, my paternal grandmother had made me cut the meat. She had sat on a chair, made me sit in the light near a window and, perched on a tiny stool with a very sharp knife wedged between my toes with the sharp side facing upwards, I had trimmed away fat and parts unwanted and done as she said. My mother, cooking in the kitchen, would look my way often but didn’t interfere.

Grandmother was old school and made me stand near her when she used up every part of the animal. She explained things, made me fetch vessels, masalas and herbs and made me wash all of them. And wash them again if I hadn’t done it right the first time. She used hooves, tails, tongues and body parts that I have never seen Syrian Christians use since. The family had many farm animals then. My cousins gagged at the sight of raw meat and blood, but I lingered, enthralled by the sights, smells and processes. I was amenable, and my grandmother loved it.

I grabbed two handfuls of purple Madras onions from a tray, a big bunch of cilantro, ginger and garlic and pushed them into Anjali’s hands. “Peel and clean these and come back,” I indicated at the sitting room. But Anjali didn’t move. She began to peel the ginger standing near me. Genie took the cilantro, removed the decaying leaves and washed them thoroughly.

“You didn’t say,” Anjali muttered.

“What?”

“If Aunty asked you to cook for them.”

“She doesn’t have to. I will cook for them whether they want me to or not.”

“That’s impolite. That might annoy your cousins. Smacks of interference.”

“Not with a large group involved. Plus, Rajiv’s wife doesn’t help in the kitchen. Does nothing at all, which annoys Roma big time. And Elsa Aunty doesn’t move as fast as she used to. Gets tired quickly, and you know how Upappen* shouts. The whole business makes her very nervous.”

“Hasn’t Roma gone over to help?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She nearly bit my head off when I called her to ask her something.”

“Oh! What about Rita?” Rita was Roma’s younger sister.

“Doesn’t pitch in for anything and makes fleeting visits.”

“Oh, then maybe it wasn’t a good idea agreeing to stay.”

“Oh, no. Aunty has never had a problem with you or me. You know that! If she had to choose from the guests, she would choose to keep us. Aunty is genteel.”

“Say it.”

“What?”

“She’s too good for Uncle.”

“Never. What makes you think he’s not good for her.”

That silenced Anjali. Uncle was short tempered, but still charmed us. He was generous to a fault and when we were kids we had often hung around him and badgered him for treats – out of sight of our fathers.

I looked at Genie from the corner of my eye. He had listened to our conversation quietly. Despite the undercurrents and their misconceived notions about him, my uncle and aunt liked Genie very much. 

                                  ******

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator, who has been invited to stay at her uncle's home for the weekend. Genie, her parents' former manservant, and Anjali, the narrator's best friend, have been invited too. 

She finds unexpected visitors. Things become unpleasant. 

                                   ******
I filled my three largest Tupperware containers with the beef olathea. The kids helped us carry it into Uncle’s flat. I had made a salad and a couple of vegetable dishes too. Elsa Aunty hugged me in relief and smiled. Going by the surly faces around me, it was probably for the first time today.

I hugged Rajiv’s children Ira and Samir and Roma’s son Aditya. I kissed 11-year old Aarav’s head against his will and grinned.

I turned and got my biggest shock of the day. I tried to back out of the door, but I could feel Genie’s hard, muscled body stall my escape. 

An old woman glared at me from the other end of the hall, while her tiny husband's eyes twinkled. Why hadn't Joy Uncle told me his first cousin was going to be there?

The memory of an early thrashing returned. It had coloured my opinion of her forever, even though the memory had faded over time. The cause of that thrashing, my cousin Rajiv, was tucked comfortably into her capacious armpit. His wife Beauty stood up and moved to hug me. I felt someone shove me into the room and I fell into Beauty's arms.

When we had first got wind of Beauty, we had joked that it was a good thing that she was pretty and, hence, could live up to her name. She also had a second name she never used publicly – the old-fashioned Mariamma, or Beautymol Mariamma Chandy. Roma and I decided that she was called Beautymol because she was an only child and her parents had gone overboard as first-time parents.

Elsa Aunty pushed me forward and I walked unwillingly towards my aunt. I shook hands with her husband and then her, silently. Rajiv smirked at me and I stepped on his toe. He howled in pain.

"Ayaaah, I'm so sorry, Rajiv. I didn't see your foot there." I heard a laugh behind me and sharp intakes of breath. I had already started annoying people. 

“You careless girl, so absent minded. Can’t do anything right!” Betsy Aunty said, looking down at Rajiv’s foot and trying to bend over her enormous girth to touch it, and failing. Her husband’s expression became serious, but I thought he winked at me. How they had lived together for over 50 years was unfathomable. He was probably deaf. Or the sex was great. Some of my like-minded cousins, the ones she disliked and who disliked her back, called her Beasty. It rhymed well with Betsy and even if anyone heard we were unlikely to get into trouble.

“Massage his foot, you!” she hollered at the floor.

“Aiyyo, no. Chee! Him and his dirty feet,” I backed away into a hard chest and turned around to glare. I saw Genie’s face without expression, but his mouth turned down and his moustache quivered a little. Anjali was smiling broadly. No one in the world scared her. Including Beasty. 

I felt hands dig into my arm and pull me away – a very pissed-off Roma. She wasn’t pissed at me. Just at everyone else.

She dragged me into the kitchen and I hissed at her, “Why didn’t you warn me Beasty was going to be here!”

“Daddy knew you wouldn’t turn up and told us not to tell you.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I couldn’t stand the idea of being alone with all these crackpots.”

“But why drag Genie and Anjali here?”

“That was Daddy’s idea. Frankly I don’t know why. You know how Anjali goes out of her way to say the wrong thing and rub Beasty and Rajiv the wrong way.”

“Is Uncle becoming a masochist?”

“Hey, that’s my dad you’re talking about!”

“True… maybe I’ll ask him later.”

“He’ll bite your head off.”

“So what’s new. Who’s the new banda* in the hall?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I turned to look at Roma. Liar! “You don’t know who’s in your house? Rajiv and Beauty are talking to him and Beasty is being the very essence of sunshine.”

I turned back to the hallway to look at the lean, handsome man, who seemed to be staring at Anjali. She was seated on a sofa with Genie. Plus, it looked like the man’s parents were with him. I felt a sense of déjà vu.

Genie tilted his head at the seat next to him, where Aditya was sitting now.

He nodded his head and gestured too many times for my relatives not to be annoyed and I quickly went over and sat on the sofa, stalling Aditya’s protests by picking him up and putting him on my lap. I looked up to see the man’s gaze on me and I smiled involuntarily. He smiled back.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Uncle?” I said, when the room had been silent for too long and it looked unlikely no one would make the introductions.

“About time,” Anjali mumbled.

There were a couple of guilty looks exchanged and Beasty Aunty looked away embarrassed. Baby Uncle, her husband, looked at her in irritation and then smiled at me. “Mol, this is my nephew Aby, his wife Mercy and their son Danny. Also, Beautymol’s mother is Mercy’s cousin and we wanted you to meet Danny and talk to him.”

I stared in shock at Danny, who looked uncomfortable at being sprung on me. I opened my mouth to protest. But nothing came out. I had been hijacked, ambushed, bamboozled! I looked for Roma but she had disappeared and I felt rage bubble up.

There had to be a catch. I couldn’t remember my last marriage proposal. All of them had been divorced.

“Are you d-d-divorced?” I said.

Danny nodded.

“Maybe you should go down to the garden and have a private chat,” Joy Uncle suggested, trying to smile but failing. I felt my spirits plummet. This was not how I hoped to find love a second time. 

“Brilliant idea, Uncle! I’ll chaperone. Come on, darling. Let’s go.” Anjali grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. I hung on tightly to Aditya, my head fuzzy. Genie’s face was steely. He stood up too. I set Aditya on his feet gently.

“No need for your servant to go too. Why did he come along anyway?” Beasty found her voice.

I whirled around. “First, he was never our servant. Second, Uncle invited Genie and Anjali, so ask him why privately. If you know how to?”

There was a commotion and furious faces. “Don’t talk to your aunt like that!” Joy Uncle said angrily.

“Mol, none of that. Don’t be rude. She’s an elder. Listen and don’t react,” Elsa Aunty had her arm around me and was whispering in my ear above the angry noises. I turned to look at Beasty. She had heaved her overly healthy frame out of the sofa and it had sprung back up into its former shape.

I felt bad immediately. “Sorry, for being rude, Betsy Aunty. But there’s no need to insult my friends. They wouldn’t have turned up if Upappen hadn’t invited them.” I looked at Danny, who was standing now. “Come on, Danny. Let’s take a walk.”

I pushed my way out of the door, with Genie, Anjali, the kids and Roma following. I knew the others would spy on us from the sitting room window which overlooked the garden. I walked ahead to the garden and waited for Danny. He smiled, “We certainly ambushed you.”

I pointed at the gate and said, “Let’s go out.”

“What… and not let them spy on us?” 

This man surprised me. “Yes. They shouldn’t have all the fun. In fact, let’s take a drive.” I fished about my purse and found my keys. I led him quickly to my car and unlocked the doors. I could see Anjali doubled up and laughing, an unfathomable expression on Genie’s face and Roma and Beauty running towards us. 

“Hurry, Danny, get in!”

I jumped behind the wheel and locked the doors as soon as Danny shut his. Roma banged the windows of the car, startling him. I drove further into the building complex.

“I think the gate is behind us.”

“I know! I need to turn the car, and at the rate Roma is chasing us I won’t be able to turn around without running her over. What to do, she’s my cousin! Plus, when she’s not pissing the shit out of me, I love her madly.”

I stopped the car, reversed sharply and sped towards the gate. This time everyone jumped out of the way, including the kids. I pressed the horn wildly for double effect and sailed smoothly out of the building’s gate. I turned onto the highway and took a deep breath to relax.

I forgot the potential serial rapist/murderer sitting next to me until he spoke. “Is this like an everyday thing for you?”

My heart almost jumped out of my mouth. I glanced at Danny, “My life is boring. But the cast back there can guarantee fireworks every time they get together. Where would you like to go?”

“I’m not from Mumbai, so maybe you should decide.”

“How about the beach?”

“Sounds good.”

At a traffic signal, I tried to take a better a look at the man beside me.

I was surprised at my childish behaviour too. There would be hell to pay when I returned. A sudden thought occurred. “Will your parents be angry that we took off this way?”

“Maybe. It will be new for them. I’ve never been kidnapped by a prospective bride.” My mouth turned downwards. This was all going south. Danny kept talking, and smiling, “But, to be honest, they do not have expectations where Betsy Aunty is concerned. So, let’s just chat and enjoy the sea breeze and go back when it is time.”

“The beach is about 15 kilometres away... a-and there’s traffic.”

“All the better.”

                                   ******

* Banda is Mumbai slang for man
* Upappen is father’s brother in Malayalam

Fishy Chronicles 53: The Invitation

There was a faint tapping sound coming from the window.

I couldn’t see a thing – it was dark outside, save for the weak light coming from the courtyard below. The BMC had had someone over during the monsoon and chopped off random branches of the lovely old Gulmohar tree in front of my building. Some months on, there was a hint of fluorescent green shoots at the mangled nubs. 

Not only did the BMC make off with the green cover, my poor squirrel friends could not come over to my window for nuts and seeds. My sparrow friends were disturbed and chirped from a distance.

“What if they leave?” I asked Genie glumly one wet day. I had waved and left seeds out for the sparrows, but they, drenched and stiff, had watched me silently and stayed put on a faraway branch.

“Maybe they’ll go on to someone nicer.”

I was too sad to be riled. “I hope so.”

I felt a poke. I didn’t move from where my nose and forehead were pressed into the cold window pane and I heard Genie sigh and move away. 

I brought my thoughts back to the noises at the window. I still couldn’t see anything.

Fish heaved open the fish tank lid. “Hey! Open the window a crack. Nobby’s trying to enter.”

I threw my book on to the sofa and hurried to the window. I had forgotten all about my darling mosquito friend. One of the perks of having friends of other species is that at dusk – the time to draw blood – mosquitos don’t turn up at my flat. I can leave my windows open, though Nobby once mentioned that I needed to think of a netted screen across my window.

“I can’t keep that lot away from you forever, you know,” Nobby mumbled, suitably loosened by a drop of rum and a crumb of carrot cake. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if someone I don’t know comes in and sucks your blood. I won’t be able to protect you.”

“Ah, ok.” Yet, I hadn’t done it. Now, considering my penniless state, that would have to wait.

                                                              ******

This is a fictional series about the narrator, a Mumbai-based woman in her 30s. Her former manservant Genie, her best friend Anjali, Nobby, a friendly mosquito, and her former pet fish are visiting. She has just informed them that her uncle has invited her to stay for the weekend. Genie advises her to do everything to fortify her nerves as he predicts she will be in for a very unhappy time with her relatives.

                                                              ******

Nobby flew in and shivered. “Cold out there.” Mumbai’s evenings were turning chilly. He sat on the rim of my tea mug and warmed himself. 

I waited. Nobby must have wanted something. Something Fish knew about for sure, because there hadn’t been the usual barrage of questions. 

Finally, Nobby turned around and smiled. “What’s cooking for Christmas?”

“Cake. A five-course meal, beef olathea, so far. Got guests. Anjali, Roma, and some more.”

“Rum cake?”

“Of course. Great granny’s special.”

“Have you deciphered that recipe you were looking at?” 

“No. But I thought I’d take the book to Uncle’s place and see if Elsa Aunty can help me translate it.” Many of the recipes in my great grandmother’s books had English titles, though they were elaborated in Malayalam. It was frustrating because I couldn’t read the language. 

“Okay. Can’t anyone in the building help?”

“Probably. But Joy Uncle called me a few days ago and gave me a lecture about being a stranger. He ordered me to stay the weekend. Told me there would be a surprise guest.”

“Have you figured out who?” Genie drawled from the divan. I was startled. I thought he was asleep under the newspaper covering his face. The Financial Times, no less. I had to thank him for being able to read that expensive newspaper. Despite my artful questions, Genie had not said why he subscribed to it when India’s answer to The FT, the Economic Times, could have done the job.

“Maybe he’s got international investments. Stocks, you think?” I asked Fish when Genie went out for a walk. He didn’t smoke, drink or flirt with anyone in Peaceful Society, so what could possibly interest Genie in a walk.

“Don’t you think you’re overthinking things?” Anjali asked me. She was reading back issues of The Financial Times. I knew for sure she didn’t have international stocks, though we had often discussed buying a share each of Amazon and Microsoft. It was like our marry-George-Clooney dream. Our pipe dream. His nightmare probably.

“No. But I’d like tips to become richer.”

“Save and invest. And don’t throw your money about buying useless stuff.”

“Is this your advice, Anjali?”

“No. There’s a column by some financial planner that says you should think through all your purchases. Save your money at the start of the month and leave enough only to eat. At least that’s what I think it says.”

“Saving 90% of your salary isn’t going to beat inflation, Anjali. We’d still be poor nearer retirement.”

“You said it, my dear. The planner suggests investing in the stock market.”

“We may not have the clothes on our backs either.”

“Hmph.” Anjali threw the paper on the coffee table just as Genie came in. We smiled at Adonis in a black t-shirt. He smiled back and went into the kitchen.

“Do you realise that I won’t fit into my clothes when I go back?” Anjali whispered to me when Genie was in the kitchen.

“Why not?”

“Between Genie’s endless cups of tea and snacks and your cooking, that’s what happens when I’m with you even for a week.”

“Nonsense. In any case you need fattening up. You’re skinny when you come down from the mountains.”

“You were waiting to say that.”

“Yeah,” I grinned.

“I don’t get how you don’t put on weight.”

“Something wrong with your eyesight? Look here and here,” I stood up and pointed at my oversized bum and my thighs. 

“Rubbish. You’re sexy as hell. You fit into all your old clothes…”

“Barely.”

Anjali ignored my answer, “What do you do? Don’t eat?”

“Er, no.”

“What?”

Just then Genie came in with a large plate and tea. The oily snacks and sugary tea were a sumo wrestler’s delight. On the other hand, Genie’s cup held green tea. He would eat later, a bare-basics meal with vegetables, pulses and a piece of fish.

We had come to a difficult understanding. His snacks- and sugary tea-making had stopped. He would whip them up for visitors… only if he wanted to. And he only did so for his favourites – Roma, Anjali, Aunty Glory and Uncle John. And now, Zeba, my voluptuously built, madly-in-love-with-Genie neighbour. She had become a frequent visitor and, I was happy to see, expanding from Genie’s hospitality.

I felt a little prick. I couldn’t believe Nobby had sunk his proboscis into my hand. I glared at him, and he looked up sheepishly. “Sorry, darling. You weren’t listening.”

“That’s okay. What were you saying, honey?”

“Is it okay if I tag along to Joy Uncle’s place?”

“You’d be bored,” I said, knowing Nobby wanted to watch the tamasha from close range. There was usually a fight, tears and drama every time I visited. I tried to go as rarely as I could because there would be lots of personal questions and disapproving looks. Though I loved my father’s older brother dearly, and he loved me too, I couldn’t make anyone in his household happy.

“No. I miss them. Besides, I want to know who the surprise guest is,” Nobby said, easily overcoming my objection.

“Are you sure you don’t know?” Genie asked me.

“Uncle wouldn’t say. Roma doesn’t know either.”

“You mean Roma didn’t want to tell you,” Anjali said dryly.

That was a distinct possibility. I looked at them – Genie, Anjali, Nobby and Fish. They had various degrees of amusement on their faces. Genie and Anjali were grinning broadly, Nobby tried to look innocent and Fish were chattering among themselves.

Nobby asked, “Have Genie and Anjali been invited?”

“Yes,” that was more intriguing. Uncle’s attitude towards his brother’s former manservant had changed after our trip to Lonavala (Fishy Chronicles episodes 26 to 35). And he had always liked Anjali. He was surprised to hear she could make a decent living writing. We didn’t have the heart to tell him how decent.

“Who else?” Nobby persevered.

I coughed and took a long sip of my tea, smiled brightly and shrugged. Genie was still smiling. He knew more than he let on. Nobby, asked again, “Who else?”

I tried not to sigh.

“Who else?” Anjali asked, very curious now.

“Come on, you can tell them,’ Genie said, goading me.

I paused, and then cleared my throat nervously, “Rajiv.” Rajiv was Roma’s older brother, and Uncle’s favourite offspring.

There was a stunned silence and then sudden commotion. Fish zipped about their tank, agitated, and water spilled out of the tank even though the lid was closed. Genie laughed, disgustingly rolling about his armchair, and Nobby and Anjali looked agitated.

“He’s back from Timbuktu!” Anjali said angrily.

“Chennai, actually.”

“And you’re going to stay the weekend?” Nobby said, his eyes like saucers.

Yes, a whole frigging weekend trying avoid my childhood nemesis and his wife in a tiny Mumbai apartment.

“We’re coming with you!” Fish threw the lid of the tank open. It hit the wall behind and slammed back into its original position. They tried again, gently heaving the lid open and propping it up with books and comics.

“I’ll look like an idiot taking you there,” I grouched.

“What’s new. Everyone thinks you’re batty anyway,” they countered.

I shook my head, already done with the argument and still worrying about the weekend. I looked at Anjali, who was commiserating. She would be around. If she wasn’t beating the shit out of Rajiv, she’d be at her sarcastic best. 

Genie was still smiling. I couldn’t understand why Uncle invited him. “Anything I should be worried about, Genie? I ask because these days you seem to know more than I do.”

“Oh, you should definitely fortify your nerves.” Anjali and I looked at each other. What could be worse than Rajiv? “Shit is going to hit the fan.”

                                                              ******

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Fishy Chronicles 52: Un-Peaceful Society

Mumbai in December is not great. After the biting cold of Amritsar, I could feel the sweat trickle down my forehead and past my ears and the uncomfortable wetness in my armpits. Anjali looked unconcerned. She was in a light pink t-shirt that had seen better days, but the only inkling I had that she felt the heat was her curly long hair bunched up on her head – she looked Rastafarian.

Worse, the Uber/Ola and pre-paid taxis were quoting outrageous fares and so we stood in a long line for an autorickshaw. Our auto guy seemed unhappy that he had to take us into the innards of Mumbai suburbia. He rode slowly in certain areas and struck up conversations with other rickshaw drivers, who were unwilling to chat but grunted monosyllables until they were able to move their rickshaws ahead. Our straggly bearded, white-uniformed, paan-chewing driver even sought change off another driver while we waited at a traffic signal. I couldn’t make out if he was friends with the next driver or that was the way they all spoke to each other – more than acquaintances in passing.

Ten minutes later, our autorickshaw driver informed us he was hungry and was going to help us get another rickshaw. I felt instant rage at being so casually offloaded. First the ex at Delhi airport (see FC51) and now this, this, this… thug. We stared at him uncomprehendingly at first and then I began to argue. But I felt Anjali hold my arm, and press it gently.

“Let’s get off. He may have pressing engagements,” Anjali said.

“Pressing engagements my ass.”

“Please let’s. The more he argues, the more his paan spittle jumps out of his mouth. Plus, he’s super unexcited about his passengers, not that I was hoping to exchange small talk. Dodging him in this confined space would be difficult.”

“They all chew paan.”

“Not all of them. Come on, let’s get out.”

We stepped out and he tossed unnecessary instructions to the group of auto rickshaw drivers massed at the side of the Western Express Highway and sped off. Our next driver was a spitter too, but he drove at top speed, avoided the bumps and potholes and didn’t feel it necessary to chat.

                                                ******

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator who lives deep in a Mumbai suburb with her parents’ former manservant Genie and a tank of opinionated fish.

At the gate of her apartment building she is accosted by the secretary of the housing society committee, who insists she send Genie away to his hometown. The narrator gets to know that while she was away there was high drama in Peaceful Society.

                                                 ******

We groaned the moment we got off the rickshaw. We came face to face with Mr Duggal, Peaceful Society’s Committee Secretary (FC18). I forced myself to smile and say, "Namaste, Duggalji. How are you? Anyone being bad in the society?”

“There you are. Why you leave that man alone in your house. When you go, you should send him away.”

“Who?” I said, despite knowing he was referring to Genie, who at this moment was standing at the window of my flat and looking down, a huge grin on his face.

“The man in your flat!” he said trying to sound agitated but only looking lascivious. His dirty mind was in overdrive, likely doing gymnastics.

“Er, Genie?” I said.

“Eh, how can you forget his name? You’re always chatting him up, pressing him for information on her!” Anjali said annoyed, jabbing her index finger into my breast.

Mr Duggal looked nervously at Anjali. She was another unknown quantity that surrounded me. She was pretty and he stared at her openly, but she knew him well.

He turned to me and opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “Where do you want me to send Genie, Mr Duggal?”

“Send him to his hometown like everyone else sends their serva…er er.”

“Servants? Are you calling Genie a servant?” Anjali pushed herself into Duggal’s face. I looked up at my window nervously. Even when he worked for my parents, I was respectful of Genie. No one, in any way, could mistake him for a servant.

“No. No. Please calm yourself, Madam. But you must not have a man staying alone in your flat. People will talk.”

“If he’s alone, what is there to talk about!”

Duggal turned his face and body towards me, “Please, dearie, you must ask him to go to his hometown when you go on holiday.”

“Not feasible considering how often she travels,” Anjali crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes and glared at Duggal. He moved back a step.

“I don’t know, Duggalji,” I pulled Anjali back next to me, “I don’t know where his hometown is. He might get offended if you keep calling him a servant. Besides, I think he had work here.”

“Arrey, people talk. How come you don’t know where his home town is?”

“I never asked,” I lied. I was tired of asking.

Anjali’s mouth opened to give Duggal and I a tongue lashing, but Genie was now at the building’s entrance and smiling at us. Mr Duggal turned, and gave a nervous start. Genie came up to us slowly, his eyes moving quickly over our angry faces and over the nervous secretary.

“Saying nice things about me, Duggalji?” Genie gave the secretary a winsome smile.

“Er, I was asking her about her holiday. Where did you go, my dear?” Duggal turned to me.

“Jaisalmer. We rode camels all day,” Anjali said.

“Accha…” Duggal opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Genie had pulled Anjali’s knapsack off her shoulders and grabbed my strolley and marched off. We smiled at Duggal and hurried behind Genie and giggled in the lift.

“It’s surprising how tongue-tied Duggal is around you,” Anjali said.

“He wanted me to send you away while I’m out of town,” I said.

“Surely he doesn’t mean that,” Genie murmured, smiling.

“What happened while I was away?”

“I brought lots of women to the apartment and had a party every day.” The lift door opened and he stepped out, unimpeded by our luggage. I stared at his back, wondering why Duggal was agitated and nervous.

“Seriously. What set him off?”

“HEY!!! What did you get us!!” Fish screamed as I entered. They screamed other things as well, and I went to them and pressed my face to the outside of the tank for their noisy kisses. I rushed into the kitchen, washed my hands at the tap, opened the fish tank’s lid and slid my hands in. I had missed my babies. They brushed my hands, snuggled into my palms and we chatted and murmured and cooed. When I realised things were quiet behind me I turned to see where the other two were. Anjali’s hands were holding her mouth and she was laughing silently and Genie was grinning. I glared at them and straightened.

I dried my hands and fed Fish a little of the snacks I brought them. When a smelly bubble popped, I stopped. I couldn’t make out who had farted. I put away the eats and turned to Genie.

“Are you going to tell us what happened?”

He placed three mugs of tea and some puffs on the coffee table and sat, fidgeting until he found his comfortable spot. “You remember the security guards that Duggal always had issue with?”

“Yes. We discussed all this at the last AGM, Duggal wanted them out and won a feeble majority when the Society voted.”

“Well, the society got rid of the security guards and hired new ones.”

“Yes, yes. We got a circular to that effect.”

“The new guards didn’t turn up.”

“What!”

“Yup. And the Singh home got robbed.”

“What! Which ones?”

“The ones in C-606.”

“They have the German Shepherd and Labrador?”

“Yes. That family. The home was cleaned out. Mr Mendonca saw the open door and called the chairman and the police.”

“Shit!”

“That’s not all. Duggal couldn’t get replacements, and the old guards asked for 50% pay hikes and to be reinstated. He refused.”

“They were giving the new guards 50% hikes, but Peaceful Society didn’t give the old ones a hike for more than five years…” Anjali poked me and glared. “Er, and then?”

“And then another house was robbed – that young tech guy who’s usually never about.”

“Go on, for goodness sake!” Anjali said, now totally hooked.

“We had to form groups and guard the building in turns,” Genie said. “After three days we had to rehire the old security guards, because the new ones still hadn’t turned up. Apparently, Duggal had massive fights with a few local security agencies because they couldn’t send people quickly enough, so some agencies aren’t responding to his calls.”

“And did the old guards get a raise?”

“No raise.”

“What?”

“Sadly, no. Some of the society members tried to get the committee to give the old guys a pay hike, but the Secretary and the Chairman were adamant. Once the guards realized they were still going to get their old salaries, they took off en masse. So now, Mr Duggal is in hiding and the men are taking turns to guard the building.”

“So why does Duggal have his panties in a knot over you?” I asked. “He wanted me to send you to your hometown. Besides, the cops will find out who it was soon, unless the goons were covered and the footage is no good.”

“There is no footage.”

“What? Why not?”

“Some of the cameras don’t work. And some were damaged before the robberies – facts we came to know later. And no one expected another robbery to occur right under the cops’ noses immediately after the first.”

We were silent. Genie nudged our cups of tea towards us. Sometimes he acted like a butler, and at others oozed charm like Agent 007.

“What has all this got to do with you, Genie?” I asked.

“I suggested some of the able men in the society help me guard the society till reinforcements were available. But Duggal and the Chairman refused.”

“But why?!”

“I have no idea,” Genie shrugged. “But Mrs Duggal, Zeba and a number of members agreed and the society asked for volunteers. And you know women outnumber men in the new society committee… right?”

“Right.”

“And the women out-voted the men…” Anjali said.

“Right… there are only three men in the committee now – Shah, Duggal and D’Souza.”

“And five women in the committee,” I said. “And with Mrs Duggal glaring at Mr Duggal all the time, that resolution must have been passed in record time.”

“Indeed. A near full majority.”

“How long will you have to do guard duty, Genie?” Anjali asked.

“Not for much longer. A friend who has an agency is sending us six guards by Saturday.”

“That’s good. I feel sorry for the old guys though.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I tipped my friend that the old guards were being laid off and he hired all of them. Who knew Duggal would burn all his bridges with the other agencies. I gave my friend Duggal’s number and asked him to keep my name out of it. All the old guards are coming back – after some training, new uniforms, etc, on higher wages.”

Anjali and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Does Duggal know?” I asked.

“No. But he’ll know for sure when they start at 8am on Saturday.”

                                                ******