Fishy Chronicles 97 – The Webs We Weave (29)

Joys of school
(Photo credit: A. Peter)

At lunch I managed to sit in the chair next to Jimmy (FC96) just as Mobby lowered himself into it. The breath squeezed out of me, I became lightheaded and things blackened as Mobby’s butt pressed my chest and stomach.

“Hey!” Jimmy pushed Mobby with both hands. Mobby jumped off – too shocked to be his usual rude self. Jimmy shook me, and I took in a deep quavering breath and the room stopped looking grey. Unfortunately, the incident only excited more looks of annoyance among some of the elders, notably my mother, grandmother and father’s sisters. I ignored them. A little body pressed into my side, and I groaned. Rita and Eva, Sarojmama’s daughter – a pestilential 11-year-old, sat beside me. But in the next instant, Roma hauled Rita off her chair and flopped into it. Rita protested and tried to pull Roma off, but it looked like she was trying to budge a massive bull. In the end, Eva scooted to the next chair and Rita sat next to her sister. This was awful, like a silent inquisition, a surveillance in progress – I felt like a fly knowing a swatter was over its head.

I couldn’t ask my questions. Despite Roma disliking Jimmy she wanted to know all that we were doing. Anjali had once suggested that Jimmy might be interested in Roma and so never looked at her because he felt shy. But he talked and joked with other girls – so bashfulness wasn’t the reason for his disinterest.

Then Anjali suggested that Roma might be interested in Jimmy and was miffed by his inattention. That was an interesting point of view, so I watched the two at Sunday School, until I felt cock-eyed and decided to stop. Stopping had to do with the realization that I was overanalysing everything and clearly barking up the wrong tree.

“Masticate your food,” Jimmy muttered.

“Eh?”

“Eat! You’re attracting attention.”

I wanted to tell Jimmy that cows masticated their food, not humans, but he was probably learning a new word with all the livestock at his grandparents’ home. I could see what he meant when I looked up, so I mixed the sambar into the rice, my mouth watering with the aroma, and waited till his mouth was full. “Who’s C?” I whispered in his ear.

I acted innocent until Ashok stopped slapping Jimmy’s back. He had choked on a piece of fish and was red in the face. He blew his nose into his brother’s handkerchief, because of course he hadn’t carried one or had lost his, and gave me a filthy look. That day in the church courtyard (FC95), when Nidhi whacked me on the head, I knew who had written the love letter that dear ‘love pigeon’ Nidhi ferried about the church and school courtyards. I just could not figure out who ‘C’ was or why Jimmy was calling himself a humongous lover T and writing such rot. Anjali’s theory was that Jimmy was fronting for someone else.

I didn’t think so. Could it be the impossible had happened and Jimmy had fallen in love with someone in school?

He was grim all through his meal, though it did not affect his appetite. But I was forced to keep quiet because all the adults’ radars were trained on me now.

I used the ensuing quiet to work on my strategy. Jimmy was going to fob off every question I had. I had lost the advantage of surprise by asking him at lunch – where there was no privacy. Now he would build his defenses in anticipation of my next set of questions.

Whenever I glanced at him, he was eating stiffly, and his brother Paul’s eyes darted from Jimmy to me, forcing me to stay quiet.

Maybe I could use the telephone tonight. I had finally discovered the code – Appachan had been making a call and I was standing nearby. I had spent the rest of that day memorising it and celebrating the discovery. 

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Anjali and I couldn’t figure out why Jimmy was using the initial ‘T’.  Was he using an alphabet from his surname. Was he writing the notes to throw off anyone who’d intercept them? It was all farfetched. Why would someone make Jimmy write a note that his girlfriend might not be able to read? Jimmy’s handwriting was worse than a doctor’s.

Plus, it was too elaborate for Jimmy, who liked to charge ahead first and then think. He wasn’t middle-man material.

And then the letter explained Paul’s interest in it. Did he think his baby brother had a love interest? Paul should never know. Jimmy would tell me. In his own time. Maybe. Maybe later. Maybe never.

At the gate, while bidding them goodbye, I told Jimmy, “So you’re going to act as if there are no C and T and that you don’t know what the note is about?”

“Shhhh!”

“Why? I have nothing to hide!”

“Shhh!”

“Don’t shhh me! Anyway, Paul’s been asking me about the note.”

Before he could reply, his father grabbed his arm and hustled him into a rickshaw. As the yellow and black rickshaw hurtled down the uneven road, he looked dismayed and did not wave goodbye.

“What did you say to Jimmy?” Roma said softly, her breath tickling my neck.

I turned and walked back to the house. A few steps from the doorway, a sharp pain shot through my shoulder – Roma’s fingers were digging into my flesh. She pulled me away from the door and slammed me against the wall, her arm jamming my throat.

“You idiot. You dare fool around with me!” Roma thundered in my face, her breath smelling of sambar and pickle. There was a bit of curry leaf stuck between her bared teeth.

There was nothing for it… I pinched her breast hard. She screamed and let me go, grabbing her chest but feeling embarrassed to rub it. I darted into the house, and looked for a hiding place. None was available, so I sat near Pilipochyan, and pretended to be interested in a Malayalam magazine. Roma rushed in and stopped. I looked up nervously. She gave me a dirty look, but seemed intimidated by Pilipochyan’s presence, especially when I held out the magazine and pointed at an article. Roma marched off. She would be waiting for me, sometime and somewhere, probably with her minions.

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“I tell you, Anjali, he’s hiding something! He’s probably T!”

“No way! There’s no girl in school who could make him interested in her.”

“What rubbish. There are hundreds of pretty girls in school. It’s a paradise for boys.”

“But you know Jimmy, na. He doesn’t like ordinary girls.”

“Kuch bhi. He talks only to ordinary girls.”

“Why are you whispering? And why are you calling me so late at night?”

“Everyone’s sleeping and I’m not supposed to be using the telephone here. They’d skin me if they knew I was making a long-distance call. Why haven’t you been replying to my letters?” My cries of desperation in longhand, I wanted to add.

“Er, I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You know Trevor?”

“Trevor Mascarenhas, your brother’s friend?” And Anjali’s latest crush.

“Yes. He’s got a new girlfriend.”

“What! Who’s your source?”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is.” It was the difference between reliable and unreliable gossip.

There was silence on the other side, so I asked, “How is Anita taking it?” Anita was Trevor’s erstwhile girlfriend. She was a year our senior in school and only became our focus because she and Trevor had become close walking up and down the shady corners of the school during recess. Their break-up had been a hot topic for days in our class, because many girls had a crush on Trevor. And, unfortunately for Anita, she was in our school bus. Not that she spoke about Trevor, although when she did speak to her friends about him it was in whispers. We tried to catch every word despite the sounds of whooshing air and Mumbai traffic coming in through the bus’s open windows. We closed the window next to us, and suffocated in the heat while listening to the whispered conversations going on in the seat in front of us. We heard snatches, mostly cuss words and expressions of sympathy from Anita’s friends.

For this privilege, we had to dislodge the kids that were already in the seat behind Anita, which led to a one-sided scuffle. One sided because we were bigger than the younger kids, although we had to get through some loud wailing and the occasional well-aimed kicks to our ankles. Things settled down soon, when the children couldn’t get a rise out of us – our efforts at eavesdropping meant we stayed hunched unresponsively in our seats for most of the long ride home.

“I think Anita has taken the breakup very well. She’s hooked up with Benny Wong.”

“What!”

“And Trevor took Sarita Kumar to Juhu Beach.”

There were too many things going on. Suddenly Jimmy was unimportant. Trevor-Sarita, Benny-Anita – the mind boggled. All the girls wanted to be friends with Benny, because he was clearly a foreigner, though his family – originally from China – had been in Mumbai for over 60 years. He was very cute and a flirt. A charmer, a girl’s boy. Anita was the unattainable hottie, and Trevor’s ex.

“So where are we on ‘T’…?” I spotted the bunch of keys dangling from Appachan’s drawer. He rarely forgot them at his desk. At night he dropped the keys into the top drawer of the chest of drawers in his bedroom. But tonight they were innocently stuck in a keyhole. I pulled the drawer’s handle – it was open. I moved the lamp closer to the edge of the desk – papers, envelopes, official-looking letters, printed pamphlets.

“You’ll have to try harder with Jimmy,” Anjali said, startling me. This was easier said than done. Anyway, I had probably run up a large telephone bill for Appachan. Would he ask the telephone exchange for a bill with all the telephone numbers listed, like the cops did in American TV serials? Or maybe he’d call all the telephone numbers and verify them for himself. “Will ring you another day, Anjali.” I hung up before she could reply.

Anjali would be annoyed, but there was Appachan’s desk to be explored. I listened for a sound around the house, then used the keys to open the other drawers – files, bundles of cash – 100s and 500s and smaller ones of lower-denomination notes, a little filigreed silver bowl containing small change, a pair of spectacles. In the lowest one, I found some dried flowers sticking out of a dictionary, big fat books that seemed to be encyclopedias but were ancient telephone books, some smooth white stones that I suspected were the ones that were found in the flower pot in Sarayumama’s room and had likely been in my jhola the day I damaged Bobby (FC72, FC73), and irrevocably spoilt relations with my eldest aunt at the start of my vacation here. In the lowest drawer, there were some albums, yellowing documents and leaves of loose paper, and… I gasped, feeling the adrenaline rush through me faster, the photographs from the loft – the ones of the handsome Sardar and Sarojmama (FC69, FC70). How had Appachan been able get up into the loft and retrieve them?

I pulled out the envelop and looked at the photos. They were a handsome couple. The colours in the photos were fading. There were some photos taken in a garden against a large flower bush. Sarojmama had a large red rose behind one ear and her long plaited hair rested on one shoulder. There was a photo of them holding hands with the Taj Mahal in the background, just one photo – a polaroid snap. I had a strange sad feeling looking at the pictures. I looked at them over and over, wondering what had happened to their romance, why they hadn’t stayed together. I put the pictures back into their cover reluctantly and then saw the letters addressed to Sarojmama, tied in a bundle, right at the bottom. I tugged one out from the side, but it was likely to tear. I knelt on the ground and reached in. My heart jerked at the sound of a door opening.

I shoved the envelop and its photos back on top of the bundle of letters and moved the rest of Appachan’s papers over them and locked the drawer as quietly as I could. I stayed under the table, switched off the lamplight hurriedly, and gently slipped the key back into the top right-hand drawer of Appachan’s desk. I wanted to come back and read the letters, but I didn’t want to risk taking Appachan’s keys – he would raise hell if he couldn't find them. But it was unlikely this opportunity would come again. I wondered if I should have kept one of the photographs, if I needed them. For purposes of blackmail or to put my aunt in her place in an argument.

The door to the bathroom in the corridor opened, and closed noisily. I keyed the locking code back into the telephone and ran back to my bedroom.

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The narrator makes a long distance call to her best friend and is apprised of new developments. 

This is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series. You can read the earlier ones here   FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96)

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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.

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