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 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.”

                                                          **

Fishy Chronicles 61: Cooking The Goose

Photo credit: A. Peter

Genie got out of his room. We stood transfixed and then we smiled, but he ignored us and walked quickly to the front door and left.

I had tried to offer him breakfast, but hadn’t been able to get the words out. Anjali and I rushed to the door and looked through the peephole.

We saw my voluptuous neighbor Zeba, who was madly in love with Genie, intercept him. Now Genie was smiling and looked like he had never been a sourpuss in his life. Zeba moved closer to him. She was wearing another low-necked caftan – yellow with small blue flowers.

“Seriously, what has Zeba got that we don’t?” Anjali said, trying to get a better view.

“Mountainous boobs and oodles of charm,” I said. It bothered me that a minute ago Genie had been cold to us and here he was cultivating the enemy in the corridor… barely two feet away from my door.

“How does Zeba always know when Genie’s going to step out of the flat?”

“Sixth sense… spying from her peephole.” The same way Anjali and I had spied on our early teen crush Tony Mascarenhas. The strapping stud had been three years older than us in school, and we had watched and stalked him for years, even after he had had a string of girlfriends. Now he was married to a beautiful homemaker, had three pretty children and was a VP at a tech company. Sometimes we pulled out the school photo, that I had flicked from my cousin Rajiv’s school album, and we’d wonder what we saw in the then hairy teenaged Tony. We had moved on, but we still envied Tony his perfect life.

“You don’t say,” Anjali said with a trace of sarcasm. “She’s not even wearing a face mask. Neither is he. What do they think, their love will fob off the virus?”

“Can you do a revenge character in your next book... with Zeba as the villain, please.”

“What will that get you?”

“Salvation.” I pushed Anjali aside to look again. Genie had turned and was moving down the stairs.

“I doubt it. It’s a rare sort who can recognize salvation when it hits. You, my darling, are not that person. Come on, let’s see where he’s going,” Anjali moved quickly to the sitting room windows.

We watched Genie walk out of the building. A woman from the opposite building waved a dishcloth at him, smiling shyly. He nodded her way. A couple of women stepped out from ground floor apartments and chatted with him, he stopped to talk and then looked up. We were caught unawares. But not for long. We waved at him and blew kisses, but he looked away and the women with him glared at us. We continued to send noisy kisses and waved a small table cloth at them.

I looked up and caught Aunty Glory watching us from behind her potted plants and through the haze of cigarette smoke. I waved at her and she slowly raised an arm.

I moved back into the room, embarrassed at being caught trying to bully Genie.

“Are you mad? Do you think anyone can bully Genie… you of all people? But yes, we can piss off a saint if we want to.”

“Aunty Glory hates me bothering Genie… such a soft corner for him,” I muttered, peeping at her through a gap in the curtains. She stubbed out the cigarette and went into her sitting room. 

“Every woman in this housing society has a soft corner for Genie,” Anjali grumbled. She rushed into the bedroom, opened my cupboard and pulled out my father’s binoculars. He’d bought it on a trip abroad and we had spent many happy hours watching flamingoes in Mumbai. 

Anjali trained the pair of binoculars first on Aunty’s flat and then quickly moved out of sight behind the curtains. “Shit! Aunty and Uncle are watching us with binoculars from their sitting room.”

“Well, don’t be shy. Wave and smile.” I grabbed the binoculars and trained them across the courtyard into Aunty’s home. I felt shock jolt me seeing them beaming at me and I waved. Then I turned the binoculars onto the road outside our housing society. Genie was nowhere. I handed Anjali the binoculars.

                                                          ****** 

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator and her household, comprising a former man Friday and pet fish – both back from travelling the world.

                                                          ******
In the last month the spread of the corona virus was termed a pandemic and looking at the way it had decimated populations worldwide the Indian government announced a lockdown. We had been prepared and despite challenges, fresh milk, vegetables and fruits were available. 

I had also begun calling Aunty Glory and Uncle John every day. I needn’t have worried. Peaceful Society’s committee had swung into action and many of the buildingwallas had adopted an elder. I dropped off meals at the Gonsalves's door everyday and chatted for a bit standing at a safe distance.

But we were now stuck at home with Genie, who refused to respond to notes slipped under his door and awesome mutton curry. I had never known Genie to be so angry. And I felt like a real jerk. We heard music come from his room, sometimes some banging, and every now and then he stepped out to grab a book or the broom and dustpan. Often, when we came face to face, he’d flick the untidy living room or bedroom behind us with a disdainful look that screamed “PIG!” and would then turn and disappear into his room.

“How long can he stay cooped up in there?” Anjali asked me several times. His anger was unsettling and unfathomable. She had written him messages, stood at his door and apologized profusely. She stopped when the music’s volume was turned up. Plus, Fish were annoyed with us. They did not talk to me for a day, angry at our nosey behavior (A Step Too Far).

Anjali put the binoculars on the coffee table, pushed it to the side of the room and spread herself on the cool floor. I sighed. “Do you have a deadline, Anjali? Will this lockdown affect it?”

“No. I mean, I do have a deadline, but it isn’t immediate. And I don’t know how I will go for my meetings, or pay the ladies who clean my house.”

“I meant the writing…”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

I dialled Aunty Glory's number. “Yes, my dear,” Uncle John picked up.

“See anything interesting through your binoculars, Uncle?”

“Plenty. Don’t you have enough of Genie at home to continue spying on him when he leaves?”

“Can’t have enough of him.”

“I’m sure. Why did you call, my dear?”

“Do you need any groceries, detergent, etc, etc, etc? I’m making my list.”

“Right. Anyone would be irritated with you for going through their personal belongings,” I froze. “You’ve got to let Genie be for some time.”

“Er, he told you?” I felt mortified.

“I think you’re taking him for granted. He’s not your man Friday anymore, doesn’t work for your parents or anyone. He’s his own person… always was.”

“Er.”

“I’ll write the list. But I’m surprised at you two, my dear. Especially at you.” The phone went dead.

In all my 30-something years, this was the first time Uncle John had scolded me – a kind, non-shouty scolding. My face and ears burned at the idea of Genie confiding about our evil deed to the Gonsalveses. 

But what did I expect, they were good friends.

                                                         ******

Fishy Chronicles 58: Fishy Business

“Psst. Stop pfaffing around and leave immediately,” Penaaz hissed at me from the fish tank in the corner of Joy Uncle’s sitting room.

I was seated near the tank now, trying to figure out a way to leave. I was damned if I was going to cook dinner for this lot. Everything was ready except for the pulao, which Roma was supposed to cook but now was insisting her sister Rita make. That meant there was a high probability we could be eating a traditional Malayali meal with bread, instead of rice, and the presence of too many rogue elements at the dinner table meant the meal would be anything but satisfying.
                                      ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the narrator, Fish and Genie.

Fish have a point of view about the state of affairs and insist on action.   

                                       ******

“You’ll have to get going before Aunty begs you to make the pulao,” Gregory said. He swished along the front of the tank, trying to find a better vantage point. 

Fish had watched the proceedings of the previous few hours with great interest. It had proved to be better than a Bruce Lee movie – my sweet-sour tryst with Danny, a potential suitor, a fractious lunch with assorted family, some mosquito bites and more infighting at tea time. I felt sorry for my aunt. Elsa Aunty looked worn out, and she had a bunch of beasts as house guests.

“You should have left as soon as you realised Genie was gone,” Pervez said. He was in a corner, his back to me, beset by abandonment anxiety. He said accusingly to the glass wall in front of him, “But your family is more important to you than Genie.”

“Especially when they are no good for you,” Penaaz, the more outspoken of Fish, groused.

“You’re being harsh,” I said.

“Not what I heard,” she gestured with a fin at the family massed in front of us.

“Please stop.”

“Genie hasn’t responded to our calls. By the time Nobby flies back to the house, it might take a few years – he can only fly so much. Why didn’t you just latch on to Genie’s ear and stay with him, Nobby? You could have kept track of him for us,” Portas said annoyed. Nobby, our mosquito friend, was sitting on my collar. He had been quiet and thoughtful for the last few hours, except while biting those of my relatives he despised.

I turned my head to look at Dimitri. He was my favourite fish, but right now he looked sad. “Dimitri?”

“You need to go back. Find an excuse, like a neighbour called to say there’s the smell of gas at your place. Got to leave in a nice way.”

“Even after the way they’ve been treating her?” Portas said indignantly.

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to find better family, sweetie,” Penaaz said.

I eyed her. What an easy thing to say. How did one find a more convenient family? The ones I had set me on my head and wrung me out, hurt my feelings over and over. My eyes rested on my cousin Roma and best friend Anjali. They were sitting next to each other but angry and not talking. And it was all because of me. Or rather Uncle’s machinations. But I was the easy target, so today I’d have to take the blame.

“Leave your luggage here, so that it looks like you’re coming back,” Dimitri continued. “You can come back for them when things settle down.”

“Shit will hit the fan,” I muttered. People were watching me. They knew I was talking to Fish.

“After all that’s happened, are you still thinking of staying the weekend?” Penaaz was aghast.

Her lover Pervez shot up to the top, “Get out of here fast, sweetie. They’re not good for you. And that man is making googly eyes at everyone but you! That should ring alarm bells.”

Not alarm bells, but I had noticed Danny chatting up Anjali and now Rita. I was now nowhere in the picture. Not that I minded. I did, but there wasn’t much I could do.

Nobby hovered over my collar, murmuring, “Dimitri’s right. Message Genie to stay put and you’ll be right over.”

“What makes you think he’s still there?”

There was silence in the tank and Nobby tucked himself into the back of my right ear. We continued to listen to Aunty beg her daughters to make a pulao.

I went into the kitchen and looked at my messages. Glory Aunty, our elderly friend in Peaceful Society, had messaged back. Genie hadn’t yet returned home. He had left hours ago and now I felt tense. 

I measured out the ingredients and started peeling vegetables.

Elsa Aunty came in, looked at me in surprise and then put her arms around me in a hug. She kissed my cheek, “Thank you, mol.”

She started opening the cupboards and pulling out spice containers.

I sighed. Things would have to wait. I couldn’t leave Aunty alone with these idiots.

But, a plan was forming.
                                                                  ******

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.”

                                                ******

Fishy Chronicles 44: Bust-up At The Bank

I could feel Genie raise himself to look at the chaos unfolding. There were people screaming and crying and running about for cover.

I pushed his elbow off the back of my head and raised myself to stare in disbelief.

Some moron had half-heartedly driven his car into the bank's shutters.

I say half-heartedly because the bank's shutter over its main entrance had caved, but not given way. People were picking themselves off the ground and a mob was now trying to open the door of the car.

When it didn't open they started kicking and banging the car. I looked for Kuriakose Uncle. He was in a distant corner – Aunty and he staring at the scene with some distress. Near them a group of churchwallas were trying to lift them off the ground. I saw people running.

When we were able to compose ourselves, we got up from the ground and stared at the scene unfolding. The crowd rocked the car and people screamed and shouted.

Genie strode into the crowd and I ran after him. I knew he was going to try and save the bugger in the car. 

This is a fictional series surrounding, Genie, Fish and the narrator. The narrator has lost most of her money in a bank scam and is at the bank waiting for RBI* officials to turn up and explain the next course of action (Fishy Chronicles 43). However, an upset depositor drives his car into the bank's entrance and is set upon by an angry mob.

I grabbed Genie's arm and was dragged someway ahead until he shook me off. He plunged in and was pushed about by the angry crowd when he managed to get close to the man whom some of the crowd had managed to pull out of the car. They had smacked him about. There was blood on his face and he looked disoriented. I jumped into the crowd and felt terror immediately. I was pummelled and pushed violently and someone squeezed my right breast. In a rage, I poked a man in the eyes and everyone else within my flailing reach. I felt strong arms pull me towards the car. People rained blows on us and the motorist who started it all crawled into the car and sat dazed in the driver's seat. 

Genie pushed me into the car and I fell on the man's lap and his hands held me down involuntarily, instantly making me anxious again. I wriggled out, looking for a weapon in the idiot's car. I saw a magazine on the dashboard, rolled it and threw myself into the crowd again, hitting whoever I could reach with the makeshift stick.

Only, now, there were policemen beating everyone with sticks. We were pushed into the car's sides by people trying to escape the lathi charge. I felt the unbearable press of the bodies and screamed in pain feeling the door handle of the car press into my lower back. I punched, scratched and tore wildly at the people in front of me and I felt them move backwards slightly. But the police had them sorted. They thrashed everyone within reach and soon the crowd pushing us started thinning. 

I was pulled roughly and thrown to the side. Everyone was babbling at the same time, but the police were oblivious. They lunged for the man in the car and pulled him out. One policeman waved his lathi and hit a few more people before the space in front of us widened. I was pulled off the ground roughly and pushed in front. I tried to protest, as did the others, but we were thrashed some more and a while later we grew silent. 

It is amazing how quickly the sight of men in khaki can disperse a crowd. Even the chaiwalla had grabbed his kerosene stove, vessels and stand and disappeared. I couldn’t see any of the churchwallas or the Kuriakoses. Trouble had turned everyone's feet in to wings and they had miraculously transported themselves elsewhere. 

I heard a sharp barking in Marathi and I was let go immediately. Genie grabbed my arm, tucked it in his, nodded, smiled and shook hands with the Sub Inspector. I could hear the man say that Genie would be called in for questioning, but the SI smiled all through that threat and Genie started moving away.

“But, but...” I turned and saw people being herded into a large blue police van with strong grills on the windows. I couldn't see the car's driver.

“Shhh. Hurry up!”

“But...”

Once out on the road, Genie walked fast towards our car, opened the passenger side door, pushed me into the seat and shut the door. He immediately got into the driver's side, started the engine and took off.

“But... we're going the wrong way!” I said.

“Okay.” 

“Genie!”

“Didn't you notice the police vans and barricades blocking the road back there?”

“Er.” I waited a few minutes to ask a vexing question. “Arief?”

“Yes?”

“Where did he go?”

“No idea.”

Genie's white t-shirt was ripped, it was dirty and his hair was messed up. He had a bruise forming on his left cheek and blood from his split lip had dripped onto his shirt.

He saw me staring at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Stop somewhere and I'll look at that cut on your lip.”

“Mouth to mouth?” Genie's mood suddenly lightened.

I boxed his arm and he groaned. I felt bad immediately. “Sorry!”

“That's okay.” He parked near a building and turned to look at me. He turned my face towards him and gently touched my jaw. I winced. “We'd better go to a doctor.” 

“Yes. Best,” I said glumly. My left eye was shut, swollen and painful. My body was sore and my right side hurt. Besides, someone had pulled a handful of my hair and I felt blood on my sore scalp. 

Genie started the engine and slowly moved out on to the street.

“How is it you were able to get the SI to let us go?” I prodded Genie.

“I told him what happened. That we weren't involved.”

“Huh.” From the corner of my eye I saw Genie look at me and turn away his head immediately. “But... the let-off seemed inordinately quick,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps if I was alone I'd have been on that van.”

“You were lucky today,” I saw the corners of Genie's mouth turn up.

“How do you know that policeman?”

“We've had chai together.”

“Interesting. How come?”

“Wouldn't you have wanted to be a fly on the wall then.”

“Indeed.” I waited for Genie to elaborate, but the silence stretched. “Well?”

“What can I say,” Genie shrugged his shoulder slightly. “It was a happy coincidence... for us... that Jeevan was there. Once he understood that we were protecting the driver, he let us go... with the proviso we'll present ourselves at the police station whenever we are asked to.”

“He didn't ask for our details.”

“He knows our address.”

“Convenient!”

“Yes,” Genie grinned.

“You're pulling a fast one on me, Genie!”

“Tchah, tchah, tchah! So distrustful even after knowing me so many years.”

“Bullshit! Don't make it about me!”

“What's there to say. I know him. We go back a long way. He knows where to find us and it was our lucky day,” Genie was grinning, his eyes firmly on the road ahead.

I glared at him. I was going to get to the bottom of this. Hopefully. Someday.

Genie stopped the car and pushed up his dark glasses. I was surprised it hadn't got crushed in the melee. Or perhaps he had never taken it out of the car. I couldn't remember. He leaned towards me, forcing me to press backwards into my seat, and opened my door. He turned his head, too close for comfort, and murmured, “Go in. I'll be right there.” 

I was annoyed and didn’t respond. I got out shakily and turned towards the clinic. I held back, groaning silently. There were women standing up in the open area of the waiting room. Some of them started to smile. I saw some Peaceful Society ladies staring after the car and not taking their eyes off Genie.

Suddenly the day seemed endless. Luckily, no one was interested in me. As soon as the sexy Genie stepped into the waiting room, a seat became vacant, he was pushed into it and women began to fawn over him. 

“... oh dear...”

“... are you hurting?”

“... the wound looks painful...”

“... which idiot would dare lay a hand on you!”

“... you poor, poor, poor thing...”

I wanted to vomit. I closed my eyes tightly to block out the sight and sounds. Ugh!

I felt a body sit next to me. I opened my eyes and Genie grinned. He answered all their questions patiently. Soon, the other patients graciously waved us into the doctor's chambers.

“Oh my God! What happened to you!” Dr Sharma said. He immediately started looking at my eye, while Genie gave him a swift, sanitised version of today's events – minus our brush with Sub Inspector Jeevan X. 

“Well,” the doctor said, after working swiftly on us, “going by your injuries today and what I've just heard, both of you were very lucky. I'm giving you painkillers. Get these x-rays done and show them to me today. Off you go. Next!”

We said goodbye to the other patients and set off towards the car. Hopefully, the day would seem better after a painkiller. We gulped our respective doses and went off to the hospital. 

*RBI = Reserve Bank of India