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.

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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.

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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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