Fishy Chronicles 68: Lockdown Diaries – Pinning Down An Insecurity

Cattle egrets. View from our window. 
Photo: A. Peter

After tailing Genie and finding out what he was up to (Stalkers Ahoy) each morning, things went back to normal. More or less. What could be normal in a pandemic-induced lockdown? There was no doubt that Genie knew we had set out to follow him that day. We discovered there hadn’t been a woman, or a secret gym. 

Despite our interfering behaviour and the run-in with the fat cop Motu (Fatty), Genie stayed cordial. When we tried to follow him out the next morning, he put a decisive stop to it. “Mhatre walks along these lanes in the morning.”

“Who’s Mhatre?” Anjali said.

“The policeman you threw the stone at yesterday… you call him Motu. His name is Mhatre. And, in all probability, he will be hanging about Sea View Society waiting for you.”

Anjali’s tea went up her nose and I slapped her back several times. I pulled up a corner of her t-shirt for her to blow her nose in, but she slapped away my hand and looked at me fiercely. I rushed away and got her a tissue.

“I did not throw a stone at Motu!”

“Hmm. That’s what the watchman said you did. Made Mhatre furious. I’ve never seen him run as fast as he did after you!”

Anjali and I stared at Genie silently. We were cornered. Genie knew we were barefaced stalkers and he stood in front of us, his face stretched into a broad smile and pink from the effort of holding in his laugh. Fish were laughing like hyenas in their tanks. I wondered sometimes if Fish had filled in the gaps for Genie or whether we were so naturally transparent that our every thought showed along with our gutless guts.

Anyway, we let that argument go. And hung back.

But every morning we were up early, sipping our teas, mostly to wish Genie a cheery good morning and then watch him through the peephole. Zeba’s door opened at the same time Genie stepped out. She tottered out in a long sleeveless caftan and high heels and canoodled. Genie’s deep voice sounded full of warmth and honey, but was low enough for us not to hear. Did he know we were watching him? Was this the way the rest of my life was going to pass… as an artless voyeur? On the other hand, Anjali was a writer, with many interests. But I wondered if she regressed when she was with me.

After our surveillance efforts at the door, we’d move to the sitting room window and watch who was watching Genie leave the society. Quite a few women, we found. And men. We realised many of the men were out to watch the women.

All this had become a morning ritual and Anjali gnashed her teeth watching Zeba with Genie. Everyday! But, we just couldn’t figure out what was going on with everyone else.

The paying guest (PG) boys, two sets in flats in adjoining wings, would wake up very early and squeeze into the windows in their sitting rooms. Both sets watched the PG girls on the sixth floor opposite my building, who wore thin night dresses or shorts and tank tops leaning out to catch a glimpse of Genie. It couldn’t have been anyone else.

And yet our Genie would walk leisurely towards the gate, nodding at Mrs Duggal and her friends. Some women would lean out of their windows and shout good morning. Their husbands would watch grumpily from another courtyard-facing room, or from their kitchens. Apparently, an annoyed spouse didn’t faze Genie.

“Do you think Mrs Duggal is happy when Genie looks her way?” I asked Anjali, who was keenly watching other spectators with the binoculars. I wondered when Peaceful Society would send us a notice for our “disruptive behaviour”. That was what Uncle John had called it, smiling sweetly.

“Any woman would choose Genie over Duggal!” Anjali said trying to squeeze through the bars of the window. If we held the binoculars outside the bars, we could see a little better.

I clucked my tongue in irritation. That was not what I was wondering. Mrs Duggal must love her odious husband in some way – she still got upset when he looked at other women!

“Do you think he loves Mrs Duggal?” I persisted.

“I don’t think Genie loves Mrs Duggal.”

“I meant does Mr Duggal love Mrs Duggal!”

“He goes back to her every day, na? So, most likely, yes. She’s probably grown on him. She’s the rajma chawal of his life. He’d go hungry and waste away without her,” Anjali chuckled at her own humour.

“Where else could he go?”

“To his mummy.” I glared at her and Anjali laughed some more. She removed the binoculars from her eyes, moved her body back into the flat and turned the binoculars on the boys upstairs. They waved and whistled at her. We saw the PG girls look at the boys. Though there seemed to be some interest between the two groups, I didn’t see them mingle in the building complex.

“They’ve all got girlfriends and boyfriends,” Anjali said reading my mind.

“How do you know?”

“They bring them to their apartments. Then there’s either a huge party, where there are lots of guys and girls, or things are unnaturally quiet. That’s when you know they’re up to something. Did you know the couple in B-606 are not married?”

“No. But how can you tell?”

“I saw an elderly guy going about with her for several days and asked the watchman. He said the old man was 606’s father. Then I asked about the guy who was in her apartment – I called him her husband. The watchman corrected me instantly. Said it was her boyfriend, who had to move out so her old man didn’t know the guy was living there. Though when he said it, it sounded positively… full of masala.”

“Would you live with someone?” I don’t know why that question shot out of my mouth.

“Maybe. If I liked someone. But only as a precursor to marriage. For now. You?”  

“I keep thinking someone would have their fun and leave me. It’s like how we Surianis have marriages quick on the heels of an engagement – we’re afraid the marriage may not materialise if the two get to know each other during the engagement period.”

“I’m confused. Was that a Yes or a No?”

“I’m confused too. I doubt it. Besides, with my luck, even if I moved to the Himalayas, or another city, I’m sure someone would make a connection eventually and report me.”

“Even if someone does, you’re an adult. Everyone’s doing it. So can you.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember it… if I ever take such an extreme step.”

“See that word is all wrong – negative. Extreme. Drastic. Just sounds like a Never or Impossible. Do you know that many people get engaged and live together and then marry? Many Indians in the US and UK do that.”

“They don’t have their relatives in their faces.”

“They probably do, and care about what their families think, but it happens anyway.”

“Okay.”

“Well?”

“No.”

“That’s my girl. Prudery is embedded in your DNA. No wonder Joy Uncle and Saroj Aunty love getting their claws into you. After working their magic on their own kids, they are training their guns on you. The ‘action’ in their retired lives,” Anjali snorted derisively.

I’d always been their target anyway. “Why do you say that?”

“I thought you being divorced would keep you out of their line of vision. But frankly Danny’s appearance (FC 54) surprised me. Didn’t it?” Anjali said.

“Yes.” The only people who’d suggested remarriage were old friends of my parents. After meeting several divorcés, I had begged my parents to stop setting up the meetings. I had been a little confident then of finding someone on my own, but now it looked like I’d stay single forever. I turned around and saw Fish watching me quietly. I’d be an old maid, with old fish and maybe an aging parakeet. I wasn’t sure if Anjali or Genie would keep me company. I felt an uncomfortable weight in my stomach and my heart tightened painfully.

Anjali turned to look at me and put the binoculars down. “Let’s decide that by the time we’re 65 or 70, we’ll make serious plans to move nearer each other. Either you near me or me near you.”

I nodded. We had thought of this occasionally over the years. We were too young to think this far – being in our early 30s – but neither of us had parents or support of any sort.  

“What if you marry?” I asked.

“What if you marry?”

“We’ll keep the plan at the back of our minds. You and me, if all else fails.”

Anjali crawled out of the window box and sat on the window seat next to me. The boys upstairs continued to wave at us and finally we waved back and moved backwards and out of their view.

                                                              ******

This is a fictional series about the Mumbai-based narrator and her floating coterie.

Fishy Chronicles 67: Lockdown Diaries: Stalkers Ahoy

I lay in bed, unwilling to get up. I had slept fitfully and now my body felt leaden. I waited for more sunlight to seep into my bedroom.

Lying next to me, Anjali’s eyes were closed and her breathing even. I had changed into a t-shirt and jeans in the middle of the night.

Being awake at night is no fun. You think of things you shouldn’t. Of people who aren’t good for you. Of things that twist you. When you lie awake, lucid sane thoughts drift out into the night like vapours through windows with gaps around their edges.

I watched the shadows on the walls. Sometimes when I woke at night they looked like burglars trying to enter through my bedroom window. Sleep would desert me instantly and, after I had screamed senselessly and silently in my mind and my heart beat had steadied and one eye had opened, I would realise that the shadows were the shivering leaves of the tree outside, a night breeze rustling them and the light from the tubelight outside magnifying the leaves shapelessly. It did not help that the watchmen outside banged their sticks on the ground at intervals. To scare ghosts away or stay awake. Who knew.

And then, later, not too often, when I would lay back and take deep breaths, and try to calm my mind and body enough for sleep to claim me, I would remember that my windows had bars on them and a burglar would have to be a human stick insect to squeeze through.

I tiptoed into the sitting room, stopped and backed away quickly. WTF!

I was mesmerised by the sight in front of me.

Genie was naked except for a pair of clinging short white shorts… and was horizontally balanced on his hands, the muscles in his torso, stomach and arms straining – clearly rippled for the onlooker’s benefit. He deserved to be on the Irish Beefcake Calendar. He deserved to be a pin-up! On the cover of the male equivalent of Playboy! The cream-coloured shorts looked as though it was part of his fair skin and thus he looked naked. It was strange but though I had sometimes drooled over this handsome man, I had never pictured Genie without clothes. This was close enough. Have mercy!

I heard a whistle in my ear and nearly jumped a foot. Arms grabbed me tightly and I turned to swear, my heart running like it wanted to escape my throat through my mouth.

“Shhh! He’ll guess we’re staring. It won’t be good if we get caught!” Anjali said in a whisper that I could barely hear and dragged me back behind the hallway curtain. “Why didn’t you tell me! What the eff! Look at him – like a fat scoop of creamy icecream on a short toothpick. Lick fast!”

I glared at Anjali. Any moment now Genie would catch us ogling at him and my game would be up. “Shhh, Anjali. Please stop!”

“What are you up to? I saw you change your clothes in the middle of the night. How could you leave me out of things… shit! He’s coming!”

Indeed. Genie had started to lower his body to the ground and his forehead puckered into a frown. I stayed near the curtain. He folded his body and started doing another asana – a deep-breathing one.

I could feel Anjali press into me. She had worn a pair of jeans and the t-shirt she slept in. Its colour had leeched away long ago and now it was shapeless and grayish white. She had once assured me that we had bought it together and didn’t I remember that day. The t-shirt still fit and the cloth was comfortable and she slept well in it and so it was multipurpose.

Suddenly Genie was untangling himself. He smiled at Fish and his deep gravelly voice asked if they had slept well. I pushed back and felt sudden panic. Anjali moved into the kitchen. I ran into the bedroom. Shit! Genie’s room. I hurried out and debated whether to go into my room… but I saw Genie through a small gap in the curtain, he was moving towards this corridor. I sprinted into the kitchen and looked around. Bugger! No place. Then I saw the gray t-shirt squeezed into the narrow space between the window and the fridge. Genie moved the curtain and I pushed my body into Anjali's and pressed back.

“Ow, you’re suffocating me!”

“Shh!” I shrank back as far as I could and luckily Anjali held her breath and stayed still. Genie had stopped near the kitchen to listen, holding the hallway curtain away from his face with his rolled-up yoga mat sticking out of his armpit. After what seemed like several minutes of his gaze piercing the dim light of early sunrise, he went to his room.

I moved away from Anjali and whispered. “He’s gone to his room. Let’s go back to ours.”

“No. Let’s wait here.”

“What if he comes back to make tea?”

“Good point. Does he?”

“Yes. Has a cup and disappears.”

“You’ve been watching him,” Anjali grinned.

“No. That’s been his habit for years. Nothing changed even after he returned,” I said, feeling defensive but trying to keep my tone neutral and hoping Anjali would believe me.

“Only his body has become more muscled. What do you think he did out there?” Anjali said, referring to the period Genie chose to travel.

“I don’t know. What would build muscle like that? Rock climbing?”

Anjali shrugged. I thought it was intense body building. I couldn’t remember if the Genie that lived with us earlier had worked out. Anjali pushed me away from her and fanned her face with her hands. I moved quickly to my bedroom, with Anjali in tow. Just in time.

                                                                ******

This is a fictional series surrounding the Mumbai-based narrator and her parents’ former man Friday Genie.

                                                                ******

We heard Genie moving about the kitchen, lighting the stove and making tea. I had studied his habits leading up to today and knew that he would pour tea into a flask and then drink his mug of tea and eat two biscuits near the fish tank. He’d sit on the ground and look out of the window at the sunrise that was blocked by the buildings opposite the window.

When the sun rose some more, Genie would move back into the kitchen and then quickly leave home. I had checked the kitchen cupboards, except those on top. I couldn’t because that meant using the ladder and exciting questions from Anjali and Genie. But from the noise, I knew Genie opened those cupboards every morning.

I heard the door close. I moved to the door and felt Anjali follow me. “No need to come with me, Anjali. I’ll be back soon. Just open the door for me.”

“No way, José.”

“Please don’t. I just need to see where Genie’s going!”

“Me too! If you don’t hurry, we’ll lose him!”

Bloody good point! I closed the door with my key, so that Genie didn’t hear us and we tiptoed down the stairs. We watched him from a safe distance and once he was out of the gate, we began to run. We stayed behind the trees on the narrow footpath and every now and then hugged a gate post, some of which were very dirty.

Near the end of our road, near the public garden, Genie bent to hand out small packets to some people sitting on the side of the road. I felt embarrassed at spying on him. I looked at Anjali across the road. She was staring at Genie. We had agreed to split and to run in different directions any time we felt we would be caught. About 20 minutes later, Genie was sitting on his haunches, watching some stray dogs eat. There were a couple of cats rubbing against him.

I turned to go back and slammed into a policeman. “You’re not wearing a mask! It is curfew, you’re supposed to be at home.” He glared at me. I backed away and tripped and fell. He leaned over me and gave me an angry lecture in Marathi. I turned my head to see if Genie had heard the commotion. I could see him get up. I turned to look at Anjali. She ran into the middle of the road and threw a stone at the street lamp next to me.

It hit the wall of a nearby building and exploded into small bits, spraying the policeman, the watchman and me with sharp pebbles and sand. The policeman swore loudly and began to chase after Anjali. She turned and ran into the housing society behind her. It was a big one with much foliage and several buildings. I scrambled to my feet and followed the policeman. I could see Anjali disappear behind a building on the left. To the right, Anjali, to the right! That was where the second exit was.

The policeman ran to the building on the left. I began running after him, frightened of what he might do to her if he caught her. He had his lathi in his hand. I was sure he was breaking the law, or maybe not. It was 6.47am on my watch.

Suddenly Anjali reappeared from behind another building and waved with both hands to get my attention. She pointed to the exit nearest her and waved her arm in a circle, and then made tea-drinking motions. I jabbed the air with my thumb to show affirmation. She was going to run out the other exit and meet me at the chaiwalla. We would avoid Genie as well.

I saw the policeman run out from behind the building on the left and look at all the other buildings bewildered. He looked like he knew his quarry had escaped but still had a hunt on his hands. He saw me and shouted for me to come towards him. I moved backwards towards the gate and heard the policeman swear in rage, but then I heard running footsteps behind me. Before he could see me, I saw him. Genie!

I ran behind a building on my right. I heard two sets of footsteps. I stopped listening and ran as soundlessly as I could, weaving in and out of the buildings through the stilt parking. I knew this place well because I had church friends here and sometimes they liked to chat in the dark in the parking area.

I had no choice but to get to the other exit and try and catch up with Anjali at the chaiwalla. I had thought of waiting out the policeman, but what if he brought reinforcements. But when I thought of it logically what was he going to do? Arrest me for not wearing a mask? Or for violating curfew during lockdown? Or maybe for not obeying an officer of the law. What if he beat me?

I ran until I reached the chaiwalla and fleetingly thought of the Prime Minister, Narendra Modi. Our chaiwalla was clean shaven and skinny in comparison. Like he didn’t eat often.

I saw Anjali, leaning against the teashop's wall, red in the face and gasping for breath. “Thank… God, you’re… safe. I… thought… Motu… would… run… after… you… next!” Anjali said in between deep breaths.

“He… did."

“If… we… are… struggling to… breathe… after… a short… run like… that… we need… more exercise!”

“Ye… ah!” My lungs were on fire and seemingly unwilling to expand in a hurry. I didn’t want Motu to catch me. I’d heard Uncle John say that his neighbour had gone for a morning walk and had turned around hurriedly when he saw a group of policemen rounding up several migrants, clutching their meagre belongings, and a couple of our neighbours. He had watched them do Indian sit-ups, which meant sitting and standing when ordered – all the while holding their earlobes. It seemed an exercise in stripping the soul of dignity. We were punished this way as school children – useless empty vessels with no rights or feelings.

“So sad the chaiwalla isn’t here,” Anjali said looking at the grimy, tin-roofed shanty on the main road that passed off for a tea house. On good days it had a small clientele sitting inside, feeding on bad samosas and oily batata vadas. But the pandemic and its consequent lockdown had likely killed small businesses like these.

Anjali pulled out a tiny packet of Parle-G biscuits and I ate one whole, starving from our recent exercise.

She looked around, smiling. It was rare to see Mumbai at a standstill, when the only things sharing space with you were joyfully noisy birds and hungry-looking strays. We saw people shop for essentials, but they disappeared quickly. She put a biscuit in her mouth and offered me another.

But Anjali’s eyes widened suddenly and the biscuit fell out of her mouth. I turned to look and felt shock course through me.

“I left chai in the flask for you,” Genie said, his brown shoulder-length hair moving gently in the breeze, standing some feet away with his thumbs hooked into his pockets and his eyes hooded. A couple of stray dogs stood at his feet, wagging their tails and smiling at us.

“Oh, we wanted to go for a walk. On an empty stomach. Thought we’d go back and have the tea. But…” I shrugged and gestured at Anjali and the fallen biscuit, “we couldn’t wait that long.”

“I see,” he said and set off briskly towards our building. Anjali and I eyed each other and chewed our biscuits slowly. It was like being in a raging cyclone that barely blew up a skirt.

Maybe there was more to come.

                                                                ****** 

Parle-G biscuits sold just outside Madame Tussauds, London. (Photo: A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 66: Lockdown Diaries: Of Just Desserts

The Covid-19 lockdown stretched our days and one day melded into the other, much like waves in the sea. There was no start and no end – just an indeterminate expanse.

Enforced confinement is an unusual state for all three of us. Anjali and I bickered often. Sometimes Genie would be irritated and disappear for long periods, which was a dampener.

A normal day involved housework, cooking, eating, some shouting, on a lucky day some swearing, on a good day lots of jokes and then the TV would come alive to drown out the noise. Most days it started with the news and then veered to the Fox Life channel and then we'd subside into our secret food hell. Genie and Anjali would often turn to me and say, "You've  got to cook that." 

Anjali had taken to joining me at the Gonsalves home, then we’d walk around our housing complex several times until Mr Duggal, the secretary of our housing society, alerted by the annoyed security guards, would ask us to get off the grounds and go home. As soon as we heard the loudspeaker being switched on and Mr Duggal clearing his throat for his big announcement cum name-shame business, we disappeared. So when he did make his announcement, we were looking out of our sitting room window. Neighbours would come to their windows and see other walkers on the ground and, I assumed, wonder why Mr Duggal was making it personal by naming just us.

As in most apathetic Mumbai societies, no one stood up for us. But after the fourth time, Anjali suggested we write a formal letter of complaint to Peaceful Society committee, alleging harassment.

“What do you say, Genie?”

“Hmm.”

“Why is he targetting us when the garden is littered with walkers!” Anjali had a way with words. Littered was apt. Even if lockdown was in place, it meant nothing to Mumbaikars – especially in Peaceful Society. Apparently social distancing was for other people. When neighbours stopped to talk, they invaded our private space and, all too often, we found ourselves stepping back. Surely the deadly virus would overpower a weak mask and conquer all within droplet-catching distance.

Everything was due to the lockdown. We nagged Genie and our every waking moment was devoted to annoying him. He was our mouse and we were two cats arranged on either side of him. Genie ignored us totally, but still made us tea in the mornings and evenings and snacks.

“Do you have to let that awful thing drink out of your cup every day?” Anjali spluttered one morning when she saw my darling mosquito friend Norbert take the first sip of my morning tea, flavoured with lemon grass. I heard Nobby’s satisfied sigh. Yes, I nodded.

“Tell her the universe will not spin if I don’t,” Norbert said.

“The universe will not spin if he doesn’t drink from my cup,” I told Anjali absently, watching my friend fly off and sit on the fish tank.

“Bullshit. Plus, imagine all the disease in his proboscis.”

I imagined it. And let it go. Life was too short. It hadn’t killed me so far. Though I did not know what disease, if any, lurked in me. Norbert buzzed around me and settled on my ear. I shivered from the tickle. “Don’t listen to that silly girl.”

“Norbert is welcome to drink from my cup any time,” Genie gave us a killer grin. And suddenly Norbert was off and flying towards Genie. I saw him sit on Genie’s ear, whispering animatedly.

“Same thing. Disease,” Anjali grumbled. “Where is your electric fly swatter?”

Norbert jumped off and flew towards Anjali. “Nobby, no!” I shouted. He held still in midair and then flew back to Genie and hid in his hair.

“Tell your friend that was a close shave,” Nobby said. How easy it was to rile yoga-loving Nobby – wasn’t meditation supposed to calm the soul?

“Er, we don’t have a fly swatter,” I told Anjali.

                                                      **

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator, based in Mumbai. Her former pet fish and parents’ former man Friday have returned to stay indefinitely.

Lockdown Dairies revolve around the Covid-19 confinement. Time hangs heavy for the narrator... with many irritations.  

                                                     **                                                                             

"Why not?"

“We don’t have a mosquito problem,” I said waving my hands at the room. We had never had one after my acquaintance with Nobby and we were off limits to his friends.

“Bullshit.”

“Have you been bitten while you’ve been here? Ever?”

“Er, not that I can think of. But I’ve seen swarms of mosquitos outside. It won’t hurt to keep an electric bat handy. What if those guys get in?”

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure.”

“Have they bitten you while we’ve walked about… even at night?” Anjali was silent. “That’s Nobby’s doing.”

“Bullshit. I wear Odomos.”

“I don’t and I’ve never been bitten… at least in this society.”

“Sorry, my darling, I can only manage the guys in my territory. Can’t do a thing when you go outside Peaceful Society, you know that,” Nobby said, sounding upset.

“Of course I know that, my sweet yoga-boy,” I said to Genie’s ear. I suddenly knew what I was going to cook for breakfast. I looked at Genie. He had had a bath, and his hair was wet. He still wouldn’t say where he went every morning. I looked out of the window and took a deep breath to quell my irritation. Some ladies in the building opposite ours were watching. I went to the window and closed the thin curtains.

“You're shutting out the light. Leave the curtains alone,” Genie ordered.  

“Er, there are some girls in Wing E watching us.”

“Some guys too. Open the curtains.”

I pushed the curtains apart slowly, looking out curiously. One topless married guy looked away. But Mrs Bakshi and her daughter from the eighth floor and the paying guest girls on the sixth looked on unabashedly.

“Some would say it is tit-for-tat,” Genie said coming up behind me, amusement in his voice and nodding vigourously at the overjoyed women.

“Why tit-for-tat?”

“Ask your binoculars.”

I felt chastened. Embarrassed by my activities of the past few weeks. “Karma is probably the word to use,” I mumbled.

“Just desserts. Tit-for-tat. Karma. Same thing.”

                                                          **