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 62: Lockdown Diaries – Lies And Underwear

Illustration by A. Peter

“So unmanly, I tell you!” Anjali seethed at Genie’s perfidy (Cooking The Goose). She glared in the direction of the Gonsalves’s flat. To us, Genie had suddenly shrunk a foot.

We heard the key turn in the door's lock and, in a flash, arranged ourselves around it.

I looked at handsome Genie and was at a loss for words. The sweltering Mumbai heat had done nothing to him except make his face a little red and sweat stain his tight white t-shirt in places. His handlebar moustache was still stiff and raring to go for a marchpast.

Beside me, Anjali spluttered like mustard in hot oil. “You told on us! So unmanly! So… ooof! It was a one-time thing… someone else would have forgiven and forgotten but you… you!”

Genie looked down his long pointy nose at us and one eyebrow rose haughtily. “What is it that I am supposed to have done?”

“Genie, yoohoo, Genie, sweetie!” Zeba Bobby, my luscious neighbour, cooed from her doorway, and began rushing towards mine. I tried to pull Genie away from the door, but he didn’t budge. I tried to close the door, but Zeba pushed it open angrily and glared at me.

“Where’s your mask, Zeba! Go and get it, don’t you even listen to the news!” Anjali burst out. Zeba shrank back, an uncertain look on her face and backed out quickly.

Genie turned his head around to look, but Zeba had now entered her home and shut her door firmly. “That was harsh, even by your standards, Anjali.”

“I don’t have standards, remember?”

“Tut, tut, save for rifling through my things, I believe you know the difference between right and wrong.”

“Don’t you think you’ve tormented us enough!”

Genie looked at the ground for several seconds, ostensibly thinking, and looked up. “No.” He pushed past us and put the bag he was carrying down in a corner of the kitchen. He noisily put a large stainless-steel vessel in the sink, squirted some dishwashing liquid into it and turned on the tap. The water gushed into it. We crowded into my small kitchen, moving close to Genie. He held up his arms, “Stand back. Don’t touch me until I’ve washed these things with detergent and have had a bath.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Anjali said.

“No. If you want to stay alive during a pandemic, these are things we have to do... like killing any viruses on these” he held up the bag of vegetables and emptied them into the soap water. He turned towards the sink, and I could see Anjali working herself into a rage. I pinched her arm and shook my head.

“Come on, Genie. We just opened a drawer,” I said. Genie had seen us open his bedside table drawer and not his cupboards. “You could have thrashed it out with us rather than snitching to Uncle John. What are he and Aunty going to do? Come here and spank us? Uncle is too weak to give us a mighty whack with a rolling pin. It was unnecessary. Childish!”

“Ahh. Why do I deserve any respect, is that it?” Genie turned around, his eyes coldly boring into mine. “This is your home, and I’m a guest, that kind of thing, right? If it hadn’t been for the pandemic, I’d have left you both to your own devices. But here I am, stuck.”

I bristled. “Please don’t stay on my account. I’m perfectly able to fend for myself.”

“Hah!”

This is a fictional series about the narrator and her parents’ former man Friday Genie. The narrator and Genie are home bound because of the Covid-19 pandemic. But tensions run deep.

I stared at Genie, wanting to scream at him and kick his ass, but he was now bent over the sink as though in pain… and trembling.

“Hey, are you okay. Genie?” I moved closer, my hand on his shoulder, craning my head to look into his face.

“YOU!” I grabbed his t-shirt and tried to shake him. “YOUUUUU!!!” He stood up and laughed, holding my hands and laughing into my face. “YOU TROUBLEMAKER!”

“What’s going on?” Anjali said, confused.

I tried to launch myself into Genie, but he had a vice hold of me and was laughing wildly. “The idiot’s fooling about with us, Anjali. You idiot! Let me go, LET ME GO, GENIE.”

“Sshhh! What will the neighbours think, darling,” Genie said, releasing me. I grabbed a dishcloth, trying to stop myself from hitting him with it. I wiped the soap water off my neck where he had grabbed me. He was back at the sink, gently soaping a fat red tomato and looking at it tenderly.

“So much love for a tomato. Is that what you do for Zeba?” I said. Anjali poked me to stop.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on what you mean by ‘do’.”

I opened my mouth but Anjali’s hand covered it. She shook her head at me, and I had a sudden epiphany that this was a war I could never hope to win.

“What exactly did you tell Uncle John?” I said.

“About what?”

“About us!”

“Oh. This and that.”

“Care to elaborate?” 

“I may have told Uncle that two young ladies were caught with their hands in my underwear drawer… examining things.”

“Whattttt!” Anjali spluttered.

I felt my face turn hot. “WE DIDN’T TOUCH YOUR UNDIES!”

“I know you didn’t. But Uncle doesn’t know that.”

“Why-Why would you say something so horrid!” Anjali said, embarrassed.

“It’s called something… something. Ahh, can’t recall the word…”

“What?” I said.

“What’s the word?” Anjali said.

“Ah. Got it. It’s called tit for tat.” He grinned and gently rotated another large shiny tomato at us. If looks could kill, ours would have done someone in. But really, what was there to say. I’d never be able to show my face outside now. I’d be known as that woman who had nothing better to do than root through a man’s delicates. Terrible!

I moved away from that evil man. Anjali glared at Genie, but he was now examining a cauliflower with more interest than he did the tomato.

I slid into the sitting room, took the binoculars from the coffee table, it hadn’t gone back into the cupboard as Anjali and I had started watching the Bollywood actor (Arushmaan Verma, Love Thy Neighbour) in the opposite building. I stood behind the curtain, and trained it through a gap in the curtains.

I felt frustration and rage. Uncle John and Aunty Glory were in their bedroom, using their binoculars and watching Genie in the kitchen with Anjali. They had just witnessed the whole drama. And we had now become their ‘lockdown’ entertainment.

                                                       ******

Fishy Chronicles 55: Uncle's Man

Photo: A. Peter

“Where are we going?” Danny asked. 

I had met Danny at Joy Uncle’s place. Apparently, my uncle had seen it fit to arrange a meeting with a man without my knowledge. To get my prying relatives off my back I had got Danny into my car and driven off before my cousin Roma could follow.

“To the beach,” I said, looking into the rearview mirror. There wasn’t a chance Roma would give chase. I had moved fast. I turned to look at Danny, Beasty Aunty’s great nephew, and felt a jolt. He was watching me and smiling.

“You told me that already. Which beach?” he said.

“You said you weren’t familiar with Mumbai.” 

“I’m familiar with the Chowpatty and Juhu beaches.”

“You’ve been to both?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Just read about them,” a wide grin. I narrowly avoided hitting a car. Maybe he was fingering me for incessant questions. Tit for tat.

My phone rang. Roma! Now I would have to face a shitload of consequences.

“Aren’t you going to take that call? It’s from your cousin… unless you have a friend called Roma,” Danny said.

“Nah. She’ll give up in a bit.”

“Won’t that make things worse?”

“Probably. But why sweat the small things.”

“Why, indeed.”

I turned to look at Danny but he was looking straight ahead, calmness personified. I was beginning to regret this exercise of running away.

“You know,” Danny said, “your cousins could think we are eloping.”

I braked hard at a red light and we were thrown forward, but held back by the seatbelts. I rubbed my collarbone where the seatbelt had bitten me. I saw Danny inhale slowly.

“S-sorry about that, Danny. We can turn back if you want.”

“What do you think will happen when we go back?”

“Nothing will happen to you. You’re the innocent one here.”

“I meant, what would happen to you?”

“Er… I-I thought I’d drop you off and go home.”

Danny’s eyes bored into mine, “What about the man and woman who came with you?”

“Them… yes... I’ll figure out something.” I waited for an answer, but Danny did not reply, so I asked, “Do you want me to turn back?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Why was I trying to rub him the wrong way. I wanted to talk to this man some more.

“I’d like to see one of those beaches. You still didn’t say.”

“Say what, Danny?”

“Say which beach we were visiting.”

“Juhu Beach.”

“Why this beach particularly?”

“It’s posh.”

“Oh, really. How?”

“All the Bollywood stars live in Juhu and they come to the beach to do their morning deeds, swim in the sea for exercise and take their baths at the same time,” I said to see how he’d react.

He smiled slowly. “So… why is it posh if it’s mucked up.”

“Star-quality shit.”

Danny laughed. And I felt a frisson of excitement – something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

My phone rang again. 

“Are you going to take the call?” Danny pointed at my phone. It vibrated with the urgency of Uncle’s irritation. The rats had already tattled and we hadn’t been gone 30 minutes.

Danny took the phone and I watched, my mouth dry with horror, as he swiped the screen, put the phone to his ear and said hello. I heard Uncle bark and I wanted to cringe.

“Hi, Uncle. Yes, she’s beside me... driving... Sure, I’ll ask her to come back. But, we’re nearly at the beach... Why are we going to the beach?” Danny winked at me, “Because I asked her to take me there, Uncle. ... Juhu Beach… I thought I could catch a glimpse of a Bollywood star. Yes... I’m a big fan of Amitabh Bachchan. She’s taking me to Amitabhji’s favourite dosa joint, right opposite his house.”

I couldn’t bear this any longer. I eased out of traffic and parked on the side of the road. By now, Uncle seemed to be tiring of Danny’s positivity. I heard a silence and then a sharp order. “Okay, Uncle. Just as soon as we’ve had dosas and walked on the beach, I’ll ask her to return home.” There was an impatient click.

Danny handed me the phone. “Right. You owe me a dosa and a walk on the beach.”

“Er, you don’t want to watch Amitabh Bachchan’s house?”

“Not really. Are you a fan?”

“No.”

“Are you?”

“No. But for Uncle’s peace of mind, and to make sure your neck is not on the line, I’ll be Amitabhji’s fan.”

“It wasn’t necessary, you know. Joy Uncle would have just chewed me out and forgotten about it by dinnertime.”

“Yes, but you’ve forgotten Aunty Betsy and the audience. I don't want to give them something to remember. Plus, I don’t like the idea of you being chewed out.”

I couldn’t make out what was going on, but I felt good. I could feel the blush all the way between my toes, but, what the heck, Danny and I were going to eat dosas and spy on the Big B.

For now.

                                        ******
This is a fictional series about the narrator, who lives with her former manservant and pet fish deep in Mumbai’s suburbs. Her uncle has set up a meeting with a potential groom without her knowledge. To avoid her spying relatives, she takes the man on a drive. All goes well until they reach Bollywood star Amitabh Bachchan’s bungalow.

                                        ******

“You know, I met him once,” Danny told me.

“Really? When, how?”

We were standing under a large, shady tree in Juhu. We had stretched two elastic dosas over an unbearable hour. Finally, the owner of the South Indian restaurant asked us to leave. We had got a seat diagonally opposite Jalsa – the Bachchan family’s home. I was glad to give up on my half-eaten dosa.

“At a launch. I was one of a group of people assigned to take care of him. I was starting out at the company then. Mr Bachchan was good fun.”

I nodded. Here I was a die-hard Mumbaikar always looking to meet a Bollywooder, and Danny, an outsider, had met the Great B easy peasy.

“What are you thinking?” Danny asked.

“How unfair it is that you get to meet him and I couldn’t… haven’t so far.” I looked at Jalsa’s tall wall with a jaded look. Was the Big B really worth it? Could I scale that wall? Maybe Genie could help.

I gasped. I’d left Genie and Anjali at Joy Uncle’s place. Who knew what my idiot family would say and do to them.

“What happened?” Danny grabbed my arm.

“Sorry, Danny, I just realised I left my friends at Uncle’s place. At their mercy. Might be a harrowing experience.”

“Aren’t you overreacting?”

I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I doubt Uncle would be rude to your friends – they had nothing to do with you whisking me away.”

“I don’t want them to be easy targets.”

“I don’t think Uncle would be unreasonable.”

“I’ve known the family longer... all my life. I don’t want to take that risk.”

“Besides, they look capable of looking after themselves. I say we walk on the beach a bit and then turn back. Shall we say half an hour around the beach and then we head back?”

“Sure.” I looked at Jalsa and thought I saw something move in a window. I felt a hand on my arm and a pull. I moved reluctantly towards my car.

“Do you want to ask me anything?” Danny asked at the beach.

“What do you mean?”

He looked taken aback but then smiled kindly. “Before we go back, would you like to ask me anything?”

“Why?” I said. The sun was shimmering distantly on the sea. The heat of the day was receding and it would be sundown in a couple of hours. I looked up at Danny. He was red from the heat and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and slowly slid downwards. A couple of his blue shirt's buttons were undone, revealing chest hair trapped under a white vest.

“You really don’t want to get married, do you?” he said, his eyes boring into mine.

I stopped in the sand. Shit. We were having the talk. “I’m sorry, I was caught unawares. I don’t know why Uncle invited my friends too.”

“Who’s the man?”

“Er, they’re friends of mine.” How was I to explain Genie.

“Are they married?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay. The lady looks very interesting. What does she do?”

I felt my fizz evaporate. “She’s a writer. Lives in Uttaranchal Pradesh.”

“Do they have children?”

“Who?”

“Your friends.”

“Er, er, no.”

“What does the man do?”

“He runs a business.”

“Ok.”

“What do you do?”

“I... don’t have a job... right now.”

“Why not?” Danny shifted, so that his back was to the sun. I couldn’t see his face clearly.

“I quit working a few months ago.”

“Why?”

“I wanted a break… to do... and see... things.”

“Are you?”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed. “The money I saved was in a bank that collapsed recently (FC 43, 44). You may have seen the news…” Danny nodded. He knew. “Well, I lost most of my money. So, I can’t do as I planned.”

“Which is?”

“Which is what?”

“What exactly did you plan?”

“Mostly travelling, some freelance.”

“You didn’t really think things through,” Danny said. I felt discomfort creep up, more because it was closer to the truth. “What happened? A bad boss? A love affair gone wrong?”

My mouth turned down. “No love affair. I just wanted to get away from the office.”

“You could have got another job and then quit.”

“True.”

“Why quit with nothing in hand?”

“I did have something in hand. My savings. Travel money…”

“No.”

“Yes, dammit!”

“Okay… where did you plan to go?”

“Er, the US… backpack around Europe…” 

“Why lie?’

I felt deflated and anger rise slowly. I opened and closed my mouth but couldn’t find the words to fight back.

I turned away and walked into the sea. I felt Danny walk behind me.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Anjali, “Good idea taking that hunk for a ride with you. But did you know he was going to be at Uncle’s? Looks like Uncle knew what he was doing.”

“What do you mean?” I wrote back.

“Genie’s gone.”

I struggled to find something to write but couldn’t. The phone vibrated again.

“Take your time at the beach. I don’t think Genie is coming back. Not today, in any case. And it looks like that’s what Joy Uncle wanted.”

                                        ******

Fishy Chronicles 51: A Nasty Encounter

I pressed the button at my elbow and the car window slid down quickly. Ice-cold air hit us and I hurriedly raised the window until a thin slit allowed the air to blow across the tops of our heads and ease the suffocation I felt in the closed space. The Sikh driver’s eyes met mine in his rearview mirror. I looked at Anjali beside me in the car, but she seemed unconcerned. She was probably used to the cold in the hills. I had spent time with her twice, but hadn’t cared for the lack of amenities. Now we were on our way to Amritsar’s international airport at 5am.

“How did you find out I was going to Amritsar?” I asked Anjali.

“Roma.”

“What would you have done if I had cancelled the trip?”

“Gone by myself,” she grinned.

“So easy, is it?”

“Yes. But I wanted to spend time with you, so I’d have told you eventually… that is if Roma and Genie hadn’t been able to convince you to carry on with the trip.”

That seemed how it would have panned out. “Do you want to do anything specific in Mumbai?”

“I’ve got some meetings. But I thought we could go to the beach and do some time pass with Roma, Georgy permitting, of course.”

“You think he’ll permit?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Do you think he’s becoming more possessive of Roma?”

“Not really.”

“He’s more demanding now.”

“Why do you say that, Anjali?”

“When Roma asked if she could join us at Amritsar, he nearly blew a gasket. Then he told his parents, who had a thing or two to say.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Roma wouldn’t tell me what they said, but she said she didn’t speak to Georgy for two days.”

“Why didn’t she say something to me?” I asked, feeling bad for my cousin.

“You have your own problems,” Anjali said.

“Still... she could always take a break with me. I’m not judgy, especially where her in laws are concerned.”

“True. But I think you were the reason they had a fight.”

“She told you?”

“No. She wouldn’t say and you know Georgy and his parents – they have a thing for you… and ‘your ways’.”

I couldn’t disagree because it was true. As far as my cousin’s in laws, the Kurians, were concerned, and even though I was younger and Roma was too difficult to sway, I was a bad influence in every sense – divorced, their grandchildren adored me and I was painting the town red just by being single. And, now, I was apparently being waited on hand and foot by my parents' handsome former man Friday, Genie, and, in all probability, was indulging in immoral activities. Clandestinely. I was debauched and pulling the wool over the eyes of every God-fearing Christiani relative I had.

I felt a sharp poke in my side. “I do not know how Roma married Georgy… but if she had taken a good look at her in laws I’m sure she’d have run. Fast,” Anjali said, forgetting that she had told me this several hundred times.

I couldn’t understand what Roma saw in Georgy either. Or his family. But now it was too late. And unlike me, she was not a quitter. And unlike me, her in laws were scared of her, which was worth chicken shit.

“Like they say, get your head out of the gutter and live your life,” Anjali mumbled absently.

I felt riled. “Who are they?”

“The universe. My guru.”

“You don’t have a guru.”

“Right. But we give too much importance to society and the people around us.”

“You have to if you want to live among them. There’s a hierarchy and codes and rules.”

Anjali still looked out of her side of the window, but she took a deep breath and her mouth tightened. She turned her head sharply, “Do you want to marry again?”

Yes! No. She glared at me – angry at my indecision – her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flaring. She was angry with me, because of me, for me. Many years ago I had sought her out in Almora, in Uttarakhand, spending two weeks hiding from people, hoping and praying that I would disappear off the face of the earth... unable to deal with the mess my life had become. She had spoken to me, put her work on hold, walked about with me endlessly, understanding of my nervous, tortured energy, and then sat in the train with me on my journey home. And all through she had told me to “leave him". 

I hadn’t.  

And I had paid for it dearly.

                                                          ******

This a fictional series about the 30-something narrator. She is making her way back to Mumbai with her best friend Anjali when a person from her past reappears. She seems predestined to cross swords with him again. 

                                                          ****** 

“Can you believe it. The connecting flight’s been delayed again!” Anjali stomped off to speak to an airport official. She looked at peace when she returned. “The guy at the counter said we’d have to wait two hours. He wouldn’t say why. But I’m guessing it’s that,” she said tilting her head at the tall windows. Outside, the tarmac was barely visible under a thick haze. Probably smog. I was glad we were in the airport and not venturing out because the air was very bad. 

We walked about Indira Gandhi International Airport and had a leisurely meal at one of the restaurants and then settled into a couple of seats near our boarding gate. My attention drifted to a small boy who was spread-eagled on the floor. He was screaming and refusing to be picked up by the elderly woman, dressed in a sari and bulky sweater, accompanying him. Something about the woman seemed familiar, the fat bun, the gait, the perfect teeth bared in a snarl. And it struck me just as Anjali sat up straight and grabbed my arm. A tall, well-built man immediately went up to the child, yanked him off the ground by one arm and shook him angrily. Anjali’s grip tightened. I felt sick, and sorry for the child. 

A young woman, holding a baby, stood up and tried to pull the child away from her husband. People watched silently as the man bent and spoke menacingly into the child’s face all the while shaking him. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, reluctant to get up and do something. The elderly woman looked around casually and exclaimed, pointing in our direction. Her husband stood to have a better look at us. The young lady holding the child looked distressed and I felt intense pity for her.

Anjali and I stared back at them. We sat still. I felt numb and then anger slowly invaded my being. Relieved too that he wasn’t my husband any more. He stared at me, giving me a dirty look and then I heard and saw the people near us titter and smile. 

I couldn’t believe what Anjali had just done. She had formed her mouth slowly into an exaggerated pout and a loud kissy sound emerged. She grinned mischievously at my former family some way off. Disbelief spread over my ex's face and those of his parents. I couldn’t help it, I grinned too. 

The next thing I knew Anjali had balled her right hand into a fist, raised it up and with her other arm supporting it, jerked her fist upwards twice. I grabbed her arm and pulled it down before she could repeat the rude gesture a third time. But it was too late, the ex was in a rage and charging towards us. People turned around to watch, wondering what was going on.

I stood up in fright, but Anjali stayed seated, one leg over the other, staring calmly at the bull-headed pig. “Come on, Anjali, get up. UP! GET UP!” I screamed in fright, memories of this man’s evil temper rushing back. I tried to pull her out of her seat, but she was unmoved and pushed my hand away.

I stood still. I could not run away from my friend. My ex was by our side now, but Anjali’s calmness had thrown him and though he was livid he stood a respectful distance away.

“You bit… you! How dare you!” And he tore his gaze away from Anjali and glared at me furiously.

“You-you married again?” I stuttered, trying to deflect his attention from Anjali.

“What does it look like, you moron!” he snarled, spittle trying to escape his mouth.

“Just thought it’d have been a good idea if you’d got a vasectomy first.”

There was a stunned silence, and then someone laughed and he roared abuse and lunged at me. I screamed and jumped out of the way and in a couple of seconds he had tripped and fallen hard on his face. I realised soon that it was Anjali’s foot that had tripped him. He flailed in the small space between the chairs, trying to disentangle himself from the straps of various bags. Anjali threw my knapsack at me, grabbed her bag, stepped on his back and we ran as fast as we could. 

But we needn’t have worried.

Some men had now surrounded him and I could hear raised voices and someone shouting for security. We stood and watched from a distance. When a policeman started walking towards the crowd, Anjali pulled me away and we moved into a toilet and stayed hidden. About 15 minutes later, I held out my compact to see what was happening. There was still a group standing, though things had quietened considerably. I could see an airport security official giving my ex and his family a stern lecture and some male passengers standing close by and listening. 

When the ground staff called out our flight number, we watched people walk into the gate in single file. I could see the ex looking around him, trying to catch sight of us. His mother pushed her daughter in law and grandchildren ahead of her, her husband followed and then, reluctantly, her son. But the crowd around my ex husband looked at him coldly, and I could see the wariness in his body. A rare emotion.

A hand slapped my bottom and Anjali grabbed my arm and pulled me along with her. We smiled and nodded at the lady scanning the holograms on our tickets. 

I felt tense. “We’re on the same flight.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not scared, Anjali?”

“No. Why should I be?”

I stopped and glared at her. Anjali threw her head back and laughed. “What’s he going to do to us? Hit us? Shout at us? Scream? He’ll get arrested. How will he show his face to his neighbours and in church if he does, huh?”

Brilliant girl! “But what if he does come to our seats and…” Anjali’s index finger pressed my lips shut and she was smiling.

“Try to stop thinking, darling. If he wants to let off steam, he can. It would be fun to hear him. Do I think he’d do it in a crowded plane and court chances of an arrest. Absolutely not. So, if he comes around give him a spiel on a double vasectomy – as softly as you can, with a smile on your face. If you can. Okay?”

I nodded. That I could do. I had a repertoire I had perfected over years, always hoping I’d meet him one day and share it with him. Today seemed to be the day.

                                                        ******