Tangled Web ISBN 978-81-906981-0-8 Pages 350   Cost INR 169

 

First few chapters for your reading pleasure. (C) by Dr L.Prakash. For permission to copy as excerpts please send email to drlprakash@gmail.com

The Train Journey from the national capital New Delhi to Chennai stretches to almost thirty six hours in the Grand Trunk express, and the crowded train dropped me at the busy Chennai central railway station exactly at 6.30 pm. I did not have too much of luggage. For one I did not carry too many things when I traveled. And then my presence in Chennai would be purely temporary and I would not be expected to stay in this city for more than six months to a year. Being a man of modest needs and unaccustomed to luxuries in life, the VIP suitcase and an Aristocrat briefcase were adequate to carry the possessions needed to see me through the next six months.

Six thirty in the evening is a time when the Chennai central railway station is crowded to its peak and is bursting to its seams with humanity and more humanity. Most of the disembarking passengers had people who had come to receive them, but I knew that no one was coming to pick me up, because I was certain that no one knew that I was arriving by this train at this time. I was a total stranger to this city. As expected, I did not see any known face in the sea of humanity that thronged the platforms. A lot of red shirted coolies had got into the compartment and a burly man with a big moustache, blood shot eyes and stale booze on his breath offered to pick up my luggage and carry it out. But my big suitcase was light enough and the briefcase practically weightless and I told him with a smile that I would carry them myself. He glowered at me and walked into the compartment.

I got down on the busy platform number one and wheeled my big suitcase as I carried the briefcase in my right hand. Some how all the big stations in India look similar and Chennai Central was no different from Hazrat Nizamuddin in Delhi where I had boarded the train. The same crowds, the same miasma of cacophonic sounds, the same vendors, similar coolies, and the same stench of humanity.

I walked briskly; zigzagging through the crowds till I exited platform one and came to the main console of the station and here the crowds only grew thicker. My suitcase made a screechy noise with a rhythmic thump as I dragged it behind me. One of its wheels had become loose and would occasionally move out of alignment, producing a curious noise as it did now. But because I was dragging it, I heard it. People around me were overwhelmed with millions of other sounds and would have hardly noticed a squeaky plastic wheel at the bottom of a suitcase.

The main hall had two exit gates through which a surge of humanity exited and it appeared that people need not make conscious efforts to walk out. All you had to do was to stand silently at one place and the crowd would physically carry you out of the gate.

However I did not immediately walk towards the exit. I was dying for a hot tea and a cigarette. The last tea I had in the train was about two hours ago and was a luke warm insipid affair that had left a bitter taste in my mouth. I spotted a tea vendor to one side and as I started dragging my suitcase to him, I saw a big glass showcase with some leather purses and jackets on display. It was supposed to be illuminated from the inside displaying its contents but the lights seemed to have not been switched on as yet. The out side platform lights were bright enough to impart a mirror like effect to the showcase.

I stood for a minute and looked at myself in the mirror. Narcissist, I was not, but this did not stop me from pausing for a moment and admiring my form, face and features. I was pleased by what I saw. I do not know about other people but me! I really like and love my face. To me, my own face is the uniquest amongst the hundreds I see everyday.

I have a squarish face which is long and angular. My nose is sharp and so is my lower jaw. I have a good bushy moustache and a good stock of hair that is stiff but just short of being plastic or curly. My black hair contrasts well with my fair complexion. By fair I don’t mean a European fair of a Persian fair. By fair, I mean Indian standards. I was medium fair by Delhi standards and really fair by Chennai standards.

At six feet one inch, I stood taller than most people milling about and because of my face, complexion and height, looked distinctly dissimilar to the thousands of Madrasi faces around me. I was wearing a loose bush shirt and a brown corduroy jeans. But I had worn a floral tie over the casual dress.

The tough corduroy trousers and thick shirt was good for Delhi climate but Chennai was a lot more hot stuffy and sweaty. I looked at myself in the mirror and found that my manner and bearing was erect, the body was well toned and the general demeanor announcing out aloud that I was a gentleman.

I looked at my eyes and smiled. My eyes are black as the darkest ink and when I smile, my eyes seem to join my lips in a mischievous twinkle which was one of my asset which greatly impressed my girlfriends.

Oh! I have had plenty of girl friends in the twenty nine years of my life but more about that later. I gave a searching look at myself and saw that apart from the flushed face and sweaty looks, I looked smart enough. I wiped my face with my hand kerchief and walked towards the tea shop dragging my suitcase after me.

This tea was hot and as I lit up a cigarette and let the nicotine rush hit me, I realized that I was feeling on top of the world. Today was a new day and the first day of the rest of my life. I was in Chennai for a new beginning and I was sure and confident that I was well prepared to face my new job with vim, vitality, zest and energy. But then I had to report for work only tomorrow morning. I had to find a place to stay first.

2.

CRYSTAL BAR

I had to go to Egmore tomorrow to present my joining letter and was expected at my office at 9.30 am or thereabout. I thus decided to check into a lodge in Egmore itself. My job does come with an accommodation, but it would take a few days for me to get there and in the meanwhile, I decided to stay in a lodge. The autos in the station auto stand seemed to form a coterie and were unanimous in their demand for a hundred rupees to cover a three kilometer distance.

I saw a bored cop smoking his beedie and gazing disinterestedly to one side and was tempted to approach him and tell him about the exploitive mafia of the auto rickshaw drivers who were attempting to set a world record by charging over thirty rupees for a kilometers ride, but then decided that I was not actually in a mood to pick up a fight with either the auto fellows or the cop. I shrugged my shoulders and walked out to the main road.

I caught a passing auto and the driver was happy to take me to Egmore for twenty rupees. Pleased at an eighty percent discount, I boarded the three wheeler which gradually eased into the busy traffic on Poonamalee high road. I was new to Chennai and was unfamiliar with its land marks. But the crowd and bustle around was so familiar to any other metropolis, that I was soon immersed in looking at the people.

“Where do you want to go in Egmore?” The sudden question by the auto driver startled me and I was brought back to the present. I looked at him and found him grinning with his head turned towards me. The auto had come to stop at a signal. I was not sure as to where exactly I had wanted to go in Egmore. I wanted to go to a middle class hotel or a lodge.

“How long do you want to stay?”

This seemingly innocuous and conversational question caused a tingle in my antenna and I burst out almost spontaneously

“Why? Are you calculating the commission that the hotel fellow would give you when you take in a new customer?”

The sudden thief-caught expression on his face gave me an idea that I had scored a bull’s eye. He blushed, though it is a little difficult for a chap as dark complexioned as my auto driver to blush. It was as if his coal black face had been tinged a shade of mild purple as he stammered

“No! Why should I want a commission? I am not a lodge broker. You can ask me to drive you to any lodge of your choice”.

I smiled and said “Ok. Let us get to Egmore first and then decide where we would stop”

The signal turned green and the auto sped ahead, soon it had taken a left over the MMDA over bridge and descended to Egmore. The auto took a right to Chindadripet signal and I could see the Police Commissioner’s Office to my left and a row of shops to my right. I could see a road just adjacent to the shops and a tin board on the road was painted in yellow letters on a blue background.

“Hotel Chandrakala A/c”

An arrow pointed into the narrow street to the right.

On an impulse, I asked the auto fellow to take a right into the lane and in a minute the three wheeler had got into the compound of a decent middle class three storied unit. The slight disappointment on my auto driver’s face told me that this was not the type as a hotel that gave out commissions. Nevertheless, I gave him a five rupee tip and he helped me to unload my boxes from his auto. A room boy who saw us rushed to pick up the luggage. The reception was tiny, but clean. The rooms were reasonably tidy and I knew that I would not have to stay here beyond a week because I was certain that my official accommodation would be ready by then. The rent was reasonable and the single room I was allotted faced the back of Albert Theatre. From the third floor I could see the other roof tops and the wavy coconut trees dotting the horizon around me.

The open window got in a gust of breeze but it was tinged with dust, diesel fumes, the rot of Cooum river and the salty tinge of the Bay of Bengal. My dress was wet with sweat and was almost sticking to my body. A quick shower would not be out of place and I proceeded to take just that.

The bathroom shower did not work and I had to wash myself from a bucket full water with a plastic mug. The water was slightly salty and body warm and despite the bath, the hot and sticky feeling did not go. I reckoned that the Chennai sultriness would need a bit of getting used to. A knock on the door announced the waiter who had got a cup of tea and an envelope.

I sipped the tea and flipped open the envelope to pull out a receipt for five hundred rupees as a room advance made out to Vinod Kapoor. And this Vinod Kapoor is none else but me! I told you that I look a little different from these Madrasis. This is because I come from the land of five rivers Punjab. Ravi – Jehlum – Chenab – Sutlej and Beas. The five glorious rivers of my state, a part of which is now in Pakistan.

Kapoors are Punjabis and not Sardars. But later during my stay in Chennai, I would realize that all fair non Tamil speaking north Indians were called Seth’s just as we call the locals as Madrasis – Well Mr. Vinod Kapoor – welcome to Chennai. Now that you have finally arrived you have to do something! I told myself.

It did not take too long for me to decide what I had to do! From tomorrow I would be getting down to work, the schedule of which I was a little unsure about. And thus I decided that it would be a good idea to paint the town red at least for today evening. For a young man of twenty nine, painting the town red would mean getting drunk and getting laid. For the former, I would choose any bar in town. But for the latter, I was too new and tyro to be able to get a female homo-sapiens at a short notice.

Of course, if it had been a novel, movie or a T.V. serial, the hero would automatically be able to pick up a detectable dish and a buxom babe within ten minutes of his arrival in a new town. But in real life things did not happen this way. Though the year was 2008, and the place was an advanced metropolis like Chennai, yet if handsome and dashing Vinod Kapoor wanted to get laid at a short notice, it would mean a whore or a prostitute.

However, that would come later. I wanted to have a stiff whiskey so that my body would get energized and I could think and plan clearly for my next step. I dashed some talcum powder over my body and foosh of deodorant under my armpits. I wore a lemon yellow knit cotton crocodile T-shirt and a bottle green canvas trouser. Once again indulging in Narcissism in front of the bathroom mirror, I assured myself that I looked really smart and should not be too surprised if I was able to get a girl by my looks and efforts alone!

Then I chided myself. Wishes were not horses and in India you don’t bed a girl within a couple of hours of meeting her unless she happened to be a prostitute. Any way, let me have a whiskey - I told myself and got out of the hotel in a brisk walk. At the gate the friendly door man gave me a big grin and a bigger salute. This was the same guy who had picked up my luggage as I had checked in. He looked like a man of the world and I decided to take his advice at least in matters of booze if not babes.

I was a little surprised by his advice. He told me that, all the alcohol distribution in the state was controlled by the government co-operative stores. Some of these shops had bars attached to them, but the atmosphere was too seedy for a gentleman like me.

The top class bars in five star hotels would have an ambivalent and salubrious atmosphere, but the drinks would be watered and a peg would cost almost as much as a whole bottle in a co-operative store. My best bet was to choose a middle range bar in a two or a three-starred hotel where I could get the precise balance between atmosphere and economy.

I asked him to recommend a few and was certain that he would not be motivated by the greed of commission. He told me to take an auto to Nungambakkam high road to go to a decent hotel called ‘Opal’. The door man added that this place not only had a decent bar, the prices were economical too. He also told me that it would not cost me more than twenty rupees for an auto. But my auto ended up showing forty one rupees and I added four rupees as a tip. Only after a stay of a few months in the city would I realize that most auto meters are doctored and colloquially called ‘Chooduspeedu'. A literal translation would mean hot and fast. Thus it was not surprising that the three wheeler that transported me to the crystal bar had displayed two times the fare to my destination. It was eight pm when I reached the bar which was on the first floor.

I pushed the door open and entered a smoke filled room some thirty feet square. It had about two dozen tables and almost all of them were occupied. If I had expected to pick up any girls from this place, I was in for a serious disappointment because of the assembled fifty odd people, ninety eight percent were males. The only female, was a plump over dressed middle aged lady, in a sleeveless blouse, smoking a filter cigarette, in the company of two middle aged or even older men. She was too old and too ugly for my tastes and thus I occupied a corner table as far away from her as possible. I sat on a chair so that my back was to her.

A white shirted waiter, a bowl of salted peanuts, an ashtray and a rexine bound menu card made their appearance by my elbow almost the instant I had taken seat, and spoke clearly about the waiters on their toes and the efficiency of their service. The menu card told me that my hotel doorman was also right about the prices. Moreover, ninety rupees for a large of Bag piper whiskey was actually a little lesser than it would cost me in a respectable bar in Delhi.

The whiskey was mellow, soda was chill and ice aplenty and two drinks later, I had felt a mellow warmth spreading over me. The world appeared to be a better place and the atmosphere a lot less stuffy than it had been half an hour earlier. I was sipping my second glass feeling the soda bubbles touch my tongue and crushing the tiny ice cubes with my molars when I saw her.

3.

A SMILE AND A WINK

It was a brilliant flash of yellow that first caught the corner of my eye. The bar was decored in grey and black. The pall of grey smoke seemed to be photophobic and the dim lights which were supposed to add to the atmosphere of coziness, actually came out as dark and gloomy. But I think it did not matter too much to the customers because most of them like me had come to have a drink and decor be dammed.

And out of this gloomy, dark, dull and depressive miasma, the yellow jumped out like a single yellow butterfly flitting over a grass that has nothing but green. Even then, I doubt if the contrast provided by a yellow butterfly on an uninterrupted greenery of a lush lawn would have competed with that of the yellow dress which the ravishingly sexy girl had worn. She was with three other people. All the three boys and all the three young. The group took a table about five feet from me and the girl sat with her side to my back.

It was the clear high pitched laughter that had drawn my attention to her and I had slowly turned around to look at her. She was laughing at a joke and my heart almost stopped a couple of beats. Lub–dub – Lub–dub – pause – still paused – I can’t hold it any more – Lub–dub. I hope you get the general drift.

It was besides the point that the two whiskies had provided me with the special glasses that tinted the world around me a shade of gay and a shade of cheer which made everything look a little prettier. As I turned around, I had even caught the eye of the old lady whom I had seen earlier and she too appeared to be a little prettier by now. But even if you discount the fortification and exaggeration produced by high blood ethanol levels, there was no doubt that this was a detectable dish indeed.

A small impulse from my trapezius and sterno-cledo-mastoid muscles to the brain, signalled that my neck hurt, if I continued to keep it at this odd angle, and thus being the intelligent chap that I am, I got up, finished a quick stint to the loo and on my return occupied the other seat so that I would be facing this passionate primo donna permeating the atmosphere with a porn star aura and miasma.

My new accommodation also made me give an occasional stare at the plump vixen who was trying seriously to wipe her lipstick with the filter tip of her cigarette but I realized that it was a small price to pay to be allowed a uninterrupted view to the girl in yellow. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness and smoke haze, I could look at her more carefully and perceive her features a little more clearly. The first thing that scored an impression was her complexion. It was as smooth, as glossy, as rich and as appealing as chocolate.

The brown of the skin would be a shade milder than the Swiss chocolates but it was a golden brown black which was delectable. The loads and loads of bleached and plump Punjabi bimbos that my mother had tried to thrust on me, each time I visited my village in Bhatinda had sort of put me off white and pale skins.

This chocolate brown Madrasan was just the thing which would press the appropriate buttons in my physiology and produce a sudden surge of masculine hormones and excite me. The brown skin that exited out of the almost skin hugging yellow dress provided a contrast which Picassos brush might not. She was a medium breasted girl but the dress left no doubt about the shapeliness and perfection of her mammaries.

If you could split a coconut into two carefully with a hack saw, polish the two cups and paste them under the yellow dress, you would not have provided a more geometric, more shapely or more gravity desisting pair of globules. A big ‘C’ cut in the front of the dress displayed a gorgeous cleavage, which drew my eyes towards them like a magnet.

When I could actually tear my eyes away from her modest but mellow mammeries, my gaze shifted to the face. There are faces and there are faces. Some are vague and nondescript. Some are average and nondescript. And some are even pretty but still bear the distinct impression of being a rubber stamp or a clone of thousands of other pretty faces around us. But this was not such a face. This one could launch a thousand space ships. She oozed a traffic stopping red light effect as an aura.

It is a well-known fact that it is not easy to describe a face. After all is not each face identical to another, with two eyes, two ears and a single nose? Of course poets and writers would use similes, some times rational and some times fanciful. Thus it is not unusual to have lips like rose petals, eyes like a fish, and nose like a tulip.

But anyone who actually tries to imagine a rose petal, a tulip and two fish on a face would undoubtedly realize that the face would look more like a fruit salad than a pretty girl’s face. And thus I would not use such absurd similes or comparisons to describe her face which at this moment looked to me to be far too sensuous and sexy to be describable in mere words.

To give a rough idea we have to go to more direct comparisons. There was an actress of yesteryears named Smitha Patil. She was a Bollywood bomb and is in no way to be mistaken for a sad south Indian Kollywood counter part Silk Smitha. In her hey-days, this Smitha Patil was the sexy dark nymphet of the Bollywood screens.

If you could take a digital picture of Smitha Patil at her peak, and graphically reduce her age by about ten years, make her face a little oval, make the nose a little more pointed and make the cheeks a wee bit angular, then you could approach this girls face. The one piece hosiery yellow dress was cut at her armpits into big ovals and her ebony smooth arms exited out mercurially. The hollows were big enough to give an occasional glimpse into her pink bra as she lifted her hand in an animated gesture as she talked to her colleagues.

The group was involved in an intense discussion and a lot of head shaking, arm lifting and laugh was punctuating the conversation. The girl and her three companions sipped beer and two of the boys had cigarettes dangling to their lips. I was so engrossed looking at them that I almost forgot that I had finished my drink.

I heard a discreet cough to one side and saw that the waiter was hovering silently beside me. I nodded, pointed to my glass; and he was quickly back with a refill. He also replaced the ice in the bucket and the empty soda bottles with full ones. I mechanically took my glass to my lips and than realized with a shock that the girl was looking at me. It was almost as if she had caught me staring at her.

Different people react differently when they are caught staring at a pretty girl but in my case I am really different. Some would blush. Others would hastily avert their eyes. Still others would continue staring as if being caught by the girl did not affect them at all. Yet others would have a hand in the cookie jar expression!

But as I told you, I am different. I just gave her a big innocent wide mouthed charming smile which displayed my glossy white bright and perfect teeth which would be a dentist’s pride and eminently suitable for a tooth paste advertisement. My facial language was fairly clear. Baby you look good enough to eat. It is a real pity that there are three guys ahead of me in a queue. I could catch the surprise in her looks as she realized that I had behaved a lot differently from the others she would have caught staring and given an eye lashing. And then she did something that took my breath away.

I have indeed missed something. In describing her like a scaled down version of Smitha Patil, I have presumed that all the readers would have had a chance to see this Bollywood legend. But those of you who have been unfortunate not to have seen her, let me tell you that she has big eyes. Only that this yellow dressed chocolate beauty had larger eyes.

The eyes were not exophthalmic or anything but the largest they could be, while still retaining the adjective of being magnetically hypnotic and magically mesmerizing. And then she did it again as my heart paused for a painfully long period.

Her left upper eye lid had cleanly closed once and then once again. Two winks in less than ten seconds. And I would have attributed to a dust in her lids if it had not been accompanied by the naughty smile playing on her lips.

4.

THE STD BOOTH

I quickly gulped my whiskey and handed my glass to the waiter. What had taken me by total incredulity and surprise was their ages. I trained my gaze on her three companions, and the they looked her age or younger. I could put her age at about twenty-two and the boys between eighteen and twenty.

The one in the middle was short, fair, plump, mousy haired and spectacled. He was a chain smoker who lit his next cigarette with the butt of the previous one. The one to the left was almost bald. Actually his hair had been cut in a military fashion. He was lean, tall and dark. He had a thick gold chain around his neck and a chunky gold bracelet on his wrist.

Each time he shook his head or hand, the gold glinted in the lights. The third fellow to the extreme left was skinny and cadaveric. He was almost as fair as me but his complexion was sallow with an unhealthy pallor to it.

From my seat I could see the three curious guys shamelessly ogling at the girl in yellow and it looked that each was undressing her with his eyes. It appeared that the girl in yellow was declining the offer for another drink but the boys were forcing another one on her. The boys seemed to win in the end as she tossed the last of her beer just as the tall dark fellow signaled the waiter for refills.

I looked at my glass, and stared at its empty bottom exactly for six seconds before I saw my next drink on the table. Mr. Vinod Kapoor! Please go slow and make it your last drink. We don’t want you to have a splitting head ache and a terrible hangover on the first day of your work! I told myself as I gestured to the waiter to get my bill. It was getting apparent that whatever feminine company I would get from that bar, that evening would not extend beyond the two winks that the caramel queen had just then dispensed.

The way the youth were swaying and swaggering produced a distinct impression that they were guzzling their beer with such rapidity that it was making them quickly drunk. I know as you too probably do, that alcohol levels in the human blood are inversely proportional to our manners and etiquette and soon it was a little more than apparent that the boys were getting a little more rowdy while the girl was getting a little more irritated.

I had an impression that may be the girl was regretting having come to the bar. The plump boy with a mousy hair lit another cigarette which he dragged and held on the smoke for such a long time that I wondered if he had discovered a technique of swallowing the smoke and discreetly exhausting it at a later stage. After a good minute, he exhaled slowly and passed on the cigarette to the tall dark fellow.

By now I suspected that it was not an ordinary cigarette but fortified with something which got absorbed through pulmonary alveolai and wondered as to how they could be smoking cannabis so openly. I had read some where that Ganja or cannabis was a prohibited substance and its use was a punishable offence.

The cigarette now had traveled to the girl who was initially reluctant but later agreed albeit a little hesitantly. From the manner in which she smoked, it was clear that she was an absolute novice in so far as this intoxicant was concerned because she broke out into a loud paroxysm of cough as her face reddened and tears came out of her large beautiful eyes. Not having the courage to take the next puff, she passed it to the next person.

I looked at my wrist and it was just 10.10 pm. My glass still had about half of whiskey in it. I added a few more cubes and swished them around. I then came to a decision that I had started with a two point agenda Booze and Babe. The former was achieved and I was just about ready both mentally and biologically for the latter. And in all likelihood, the crystal bar would not be a place to achieve the latter because with over fifty guys and only two females, the statistical odds were not profound.

I checked on my bill, tossed the whiskey into the back of my throat, counted three hundred rupees on the table, which would cover not only the bill but also a thirty rupee tip and walked out. I am used to holding my whiskey and the three large drinks had not produced too much change in me except for a mild euphoria. I was absolutely steady on my limbs and walked effortlessly with a jaunt and gave a big smile to the baby black forest as I passed them and again I was greeted by a wink and a smile.

It was either too dusty or the girl had a tick to her eye lid or she was really suggestively winking at me. At another time and another place, I would have stayed glued to my table and continued on till the bar closed and would have tried to make eye contacts with her.

But on that Sunday night, I was in a real hurry and simply could not afford to play the prolonged waiting game or indulge in the mating dance and ritual which would at best act as a preliminary introduction and had absolutely no chance of weaning the princess from her three anxious suitors who were mentally undressing her. I had more important things to do! I had to get laid. But then India is a conservative country. Of the four metropolitan cities, Chennai is the most conservative. Despite being the south Indian capital of glamour and films (though Hyderabad is fast trying to usurp this position) the social life is conservative and the city has no red light areas. Well! I have committed an error of omission if my narration so far has given an impression that this was my first visit to Chennai or Madras.

Actually I had come here about nine years earlier as a part of a college trip. And I well remember the frustrating late night trip which I and four of my college mates had made, roaming the streets of the city, well past midnight desperately looking for a field to sow our oats. And it was then that the auto driver had told us that there was no red light area in Chennai. He had laughingly added that the city might have as many whores as traffic red lights but most were private practitioners.

During that visit we had been short of both money and time and faced a curious situation, when what we could afford was disgustingly unattractive, and what was attractive was obscenely expensive. And in trying to strike a balance between quality and affordability we had wasted the whole night and before we could realize, it was time to board the 5.10 am Janatha express. No oats were sown at that time and we had realized that our mistake had been to start late, way beyond midnight. All the decent material gets booked earlier. This time I was not too keen to repeat the mistake and thus had started early. A lesson had been learnt and this time; getting into a random auto and vaguely roaming the roads of the city was not my plan. I had a colleague during training who had given me an address and location in Chennai. Actually the slip given by my friend had also contained a mobile number but exactly as foretold by him, the mobile was not working.

“These whores keep changing their mobile numbers but the address is rather fixed. You would find a blind lady managing the STD booth and you have to just tell her that Boxer Reddy sent you”.

I had smiled and told him that I don’t screw whores. I was tall, fair, handsome and not so poor. It is a normal male ego thing that even if you patronize a prostitute, you don’t discuss it with your colleagues and friends unless they are close enough to paint the town together. And with a hidden enthusiasm but apparent disinterest I had folded the slip and kept it in my pocket. As I pulled out my wallet to pay the booze bill, I had extracted this folded paper and was unfolding it as I got down to the road.

It read

Rama STD and Xerox Services

NO – 641 Arcot Road

Valsaravakkam, Chennai.

It was strange that despite being an STD phone booth, my colleague had not given me a land line number to call. I took an auto outside ‘Opel’ hotel and asked him to drive to Valsaravakkam. My mother tongue was Punjabi and I spoke a good Hindi and a smattering of north Indian dialects. But once you cross the Vindhya mountains and enter the Dravidian territory, you would find me on a distinctly unfamiliar ground as far as the local Lingua-Franqua was concerned. However as I have already mentioned, I am considered to be a fairly intelligent chap by my colleagues and compatriots and thus had purchased a Rapidex English to Tamil course and had memorized a hundred useful phrases.

Thus when I got into the auto and said “Valasaravakkam pohalama”, I thought that the three wheeler driver would have absolutely no idea that this was my first day in this city. Nevertheless something in my demeanor and body language might have signaled to him that I was Zulu in a Zambezi territory and he drove me to Valasaravakkam via the Chennai airport, a drive which not only took an hour and a half but also showed a meter reading of a hundred and eighty six rupees. But the three whiskey spectacle which I had just feasted my eyes on, made me forgive him because he too had to make a living. I instructed him to find out 641 Arcot road and drop me at the STD booth. The driver had a sinister smile on his face when he saw me read the address out of the unfolded slip, but at that moment I was so preoccupied that I did not even notice the ease with which the auto chap located my destination without enquiry. I was about to settle the meter bill when he said

“No problems saar! I will wait for saar to finish his work so that I can drop saar at his house”

I was a little surprised that he spoke in Hindi. The accent was not perfect but the speech was grammatical and precise. I did not know how long I would take. Nevertheless, I was not too sure if the address given by my friend would contain what I wanted. And in case I did not get a buxom babe that I desired, I would need a transport to get back.

I nodded and walked across the road to Rama STD and Xerox services. I could read the board across the street and murmured to myself – well Mr. Vinod Kapoor! STD not only means a subscriber trunk dialing but also means sexually transmitted diseases. Use a condom. Nay! Use two. You can’t afford to catch something.

Exactly as advised by my friend, the booth was manned by a blind old lady. A young boy of about ten sat on a stool boredly. I had expected the lady to be alone and was a little embarrassed at seeing the young lad because as it is, it would be a little awkward to discuss my intimate needs with a woman. The presence of the boy made the situation worse and in my usual quick witted manner I solved it by making a statement that I wanted to make an STD call.

I called my village in Bhatinda and Bitoo, the girl from next door, picked the phone. I knew that Bitoo was trying to butter my mother up and was seriously attempting to change her own status from a neighbor’s-daughter, to that of my mother’s-daughter-in-law and hence it was not unusual for her to sleep in my mother’s room and give her company. She was really excited to hear my voice and refused to get unglued from the phone till she had blabbered for six minutes.

My mother eventually came on line and was happy to hear my voice. Yes Amma! The journey was comfortable. Yes Amma! It was a first class and obviously it has to be comfortable. And Yes Amma. I have checked into a lodge. Yes! I am joining duties tomorrow. What do you mean by what am I doing at this time in the night? I am calling you and talking to you Amma. Yes Yes. I am already on my bed. Yes Amma! I know that it would be cheaper to call from an STD booth than my room. No Amma! I have not yet got a phone number. I will buy a mobile tomorrow. And I will give you my office number the moment I join duties. Yes Amma. I know Bitoo is a good girl and looks after you well Amma. You take care and good night. Bye!

The red digital read out showed thirty two rupees.

I disconnected the phone and told myself that the way the boy smiled when I was telling my Ammi that I was on a hotel bed and not in an STD booth, it seemed as if he knew Punjabi better than I knew Tamil. I was sure that I would have talked for a considerable time and the low bill for such a call told me that not only had communication technology caught up in our country and reduced STD rates, but also that the meter in the phone center was neither equipped with Choodu or Speedu.

I walked to the lady and took out a hundred rupee note. I built up my courage and decided to speak up, young or lad no young lad and was about to open my mouth when my brilliant mind came up with an equally brilliant idea. I tossed a fifty rupee note to the boy and asked him to get me a packet of gold flake kings cigarette from the betel nut shop across the street.

It was as if the boy had been used to doing this all the time for all customers and quick as a flash he had sprinted out of the door across the road. Now was my opportunity and my time started ……. Now!

I decided not to fumble with my excellent and idiomatic Tamil in which I had still not been able to distinguish whether aval was male or avan was female. I switched over abruptly to Hindi and blurted out that I was a friend as Boxer Reddy. This was exactly what my friend had asked me to say. To my good fortune, the lady not only understood my Hindi but also replied back in a fluent Hyderabadi Hindi.

When did I meet Boxer Reddy? She asked. Well! Day before yesterday. Her smile widened displaying her paan stained teeth. That was lovely and what was Boxer Reddy doing the day before yesterday?

I answered that we had shared a whiskey in crystal bar and he had asked me to come here if I wanted some stuff. He had also told me that it did not matter if he was available or not. The old lady manning the booth would do what I wanted.

I was a little surprised by her next question as she asked me as to how the escort party was. I could not understand what an escort party was. The old hag bellowed out into a belly splitting laughter and told me that though she was sure that I did not know Boxer Reddy from Prime Minister Man Mohan Singh, she was definite that I was not a cop.

One doesn’t tell the truth when one is looking for a whore house to get laid and thus I nodded and said that I was a business man from Delhi. I was also curious to know how she was sure of the two things. Viz I did not know Boxer Reddy and that I was not a cop. She said that Boxer Reddy could not have met me the previous day or the day before for the simple reason that he was in Vellore jail. By escorts she meant the armed police chaps who accompany a prisoner when he went out.

And as far as being a police man was concerned, I spoke such pathetic Tamil that it was almost certain that I could not be a cop. From her talks it was clearly apparent that she was definite that Tamil Nadu police force had no non Tamil speaking guys in its command.

But then Mr. Vinod Kapoor was not in that STD booth to discuss the linguistic or cultural profile of the Tamil Nadu police force. I could see the young lad picking up the cigarettes and waiting for the change. Soon he would be crossing the road and coming here and I would loose whatever opportunity that I had for a concise comprehendible crisp communications on confidential matters with the croon.

Obviously, I could not tell her that I wanted to get laid. I was too much of a gentleman for that. Instead, I told her that I was looking for some company. She asked where I was staying and when I told her about my hotel in Egmore, she clucked her tongue in a disappointing way and told me that I had not chosen my hotel correctly because they would not allow a guest to accompany me in the place that I was booked.

Just then I caught a shadow from the corner of my eye. I was alert and thought that it was the young boy who had started back with my fags, but when I turned towards the door, my eyes widened with surprise because the incumbent was none other than my brown uniformed, plump, bald and loquacious auto rickshaw driver.

My first thought was that he would just peep at me from outside and having reassured himself that his customer had not disappeared without paying his fare, would walk back to his auto and wait for me.

I was however a little disappointed because instead of doing this, he looked at me, gave a smile, opened the glass door and walked inside. Almost following him was the young lad who gave me the cigarette packet minus the change. I knew that the pack cost less than thirty rupees but the urchin seemed to think that a twenty rupee tip for a thirty rupee cigarette packet was a fair exchange and made absolutely no attempts to return the change.

But at that time, a twenty rupee tip was the least of my botherations. My primary concern was to resume my interrupted confidential communication with the blind lady. It was 11.40 pm and I was getting a little desperate. But unconcerned with my discomfort, the two men, one young and one older stood to my either side gazing at my face expectantly.

5.

THE WHORE HOUSE

Before I could open my mouth and ask the auto driver and urchin to wait outside, so that I could spend a couple of minutes alone with the lady, the auto chap butted in and started conversing rapidly with her. And obviously it was neither English nor Hindi that they spoke. My knowledge of pidgin Tamil was wholly inadequate to allow me to understand the fast paced conversation which seemed to happen in a language more complex than Mandarin or Swahili.

For a non Indian, it would sound a little strange that a chap from New Delhi could not understand a language spoken in Chennai though he is expecting to work there from the next day. But then India has more languages than all Europe and both Americas combined with ten times as many dialects. And obviously Tamil is as different from Hindi as Swahili is from Eskimo language. But my short course on Tamil helped me in identifying certain key words.

In addition the conversation included some English words too like item, payment, company, girl, commission, condom, and police. By the body language and the expression I seemed to understand that the old lady and the auto fellow were not only old acquaintances but also shared the common thought that I was a north Indian customer and new to town.

There was some discussion about splitting the commission because the auto fellow seemed to claim that it was he who had brought me to the booth while the blind lady insisted that I had come recommended by Boxer Reddy the day before in crystal bar. Her face would have lost a little bit of her confident smile if she knew that I had understood her and was amazed at the speed with which she changed this Boxer Reddy fellow from a jail prisoner to a free bird. Finally the two seemed to reach a conclusion. The old lady said that it would cost me two thousand rupees for a short time. The girls were all young and adjusting. They will give an excellent company! Her commission would be five hundred. The auto fellow would have to be paid two hundred over his meter fare and Babu would have to be paid a hundred.

Babu was none else but the little guy standing to my left and chewing his nails. When his name was mentioned, he spat out a half chewed nail bit and gave out a big smile that revealed a square gap in his teeth because of a missing front upper incisor. The way the young lad and the auto driver were fighting for a commission, made me completely forget my embarrassment about their presence.

I tossed the demanded money and got out accompanied by Babu and the driver. Babu sat in the rear of the three wheeler besides me. The auto had a leak in its silencer and was making a frightful racket. My watch told me that it was close to midnight but the outside traffic was still bustling and heavy. The road had a couple of movie theatres and one of them had just ended a second show disgorging a throng of gaily chatting pedestrians.

I was totally new to the area and did not have the foggiest idea as to where I was being driven. Finally the auto stopped outside a big gate manned by two security guards with a baton each wearing a dirty brown uniform. The auto fellow was about to say something when the young boy Babu beat him to it and showed his face by peeping out.

He seemed to be well recognized at the gate and the watchman hurriedly swung the gate inwards. The auto drove in and I saw that we had entered a complex with a lot of flats. I could count at least eight blocks each six stories high. Even if each floor contained a dozen flats, this unit would have close to five hundred flats or more.

The auto stopped in front of the ‘D’ block and Babu got down first. The auto fellow elected to wait while Babu led me to the lift which was an ancient structure with a collapsible grill gate. At first the lift did not start and the young boy had to savagely kick the grill gate till it made the connection and with a sickening groan and lurch, it slowly started ascending up.

At the sixth floor, the boy pushed the double grills to one side and motioned me to follow him. The blood whiskey levels were still good and I was expectant with the soon to come excitements.

I had been correct in my initial assessment. Each floor had a dozen flats six to the left and six to the right. We had to go to flat 48 D which was to the extreme end. As it was approaching mid night, the corridor outside the elevator was deserted and I meekly followed the boy.

He rang the bell and a small window opened in the middle of the door. The face on the other side belonged to another older lady who seemed to be the STD booth operator’s elder sister, only that this one had a totally unimpaired binocular vision. It was with these piercing and questioning eyes that she peered at Babu and me. Another rapid fire exchange in machine gun Tamil followed and the queen Victoria on the opposite side widened her mouth in a big smile.

Her broken betel stained irregular dirty teeth seemed to be a Xerox copy of the woman in Rama Xerox. I could hear four latches being slid and the flat door open silently inwards on its well oiled hinges. The door opened into a decent sized well furnished drawing room with a couple of big sofas and a glass topped teapot.

The lady asked me if I wanted some rum or whiskey but Babu assumed the role of my spokesman and secretary. He said that Saar was in a hurry and wanted to look at the item first before deciding about the drink. The old hag nodded and motioned us to the sofa while she shuffled or rather hobbled on her arthritis crippled lower limbs to a corridor that led her inside the flat.

The moment the croon had got out of ear shot, the young boy told me in a conspirational whisper that I better stay away from both the whiskey and rum because not only would the booze be diluted but I might end up paying more for it than I would pay in an eight star hotel. Till five stars I was aware of, and if prices were an indication, Babu was trying to tell me that the booze in this whore house would be four to eight times costlier than what it would be if purchased from a co-operative IMFL shop.

I had now lost all my shyness with the boy and asked him in an equally low whisper as to what would be the next step. With a smile he told me that about half a dozen ‘items’ would be paraded in and I had to choose one. I was almost oracular in my statement when I asked him what happened if I did not like anyone! He nonchalantly shrugged his shoulder and said that I would have to pay the old lady some tips for her trouble and then I could get going.

The boy was wrong on both of his assertions while my thoughts had proved to be absolutely correct. Sunday nights seemed to be a busy time for call girls and I was later told that I was lucky to have been even shown the two who walked in diffidently. If I wanted to see the whole Harem, then I should have come in the afternoon.

The two girls were absolutely pathetic specimens. Only much later, when I got familiar with the sub races and subcultures of southern India did I realize that the two girls were from the neighboring state of Andhra Pradesh, They spoke absolutely no English and a poor Hindi. One looked to be less than fifteen years of age and was scrawny and dark. The other was close to thirty and was plump to the proximity of obesity. Her face was heavily made up and the garish lipstick made her distinctly unappealing.

Well Mr. Vinod Kapoor! I told myself. What do you expect in a place like this? Did you want a mini parade with Bipasha Basu, Rani Mukharjee, Kajol, Preety Zienta and Aishwarya Rai? Or you want Manisha Koirala and Urmila Matodkar thrown in as a bonus? This is all you would get for your two thousand buck short time.

You are an absolutely crazy fellow. You are young – yes. You are handsome and dynamic – yes. You are good looking, charming and intelligent! Yes – Yes! And Yes!! So rather than going to bed and getting up fresh for your work tomorrow, what are you doing in a flat with two women one old enough to be your mother and one young enough to be your daughter and both of them not fit even to wash clothes in your house?

Have you gone so desperate that you actually want to screw a girl like this? Pay whatever commission the old lady asks and get back to your hotel. Well, Vinod Kapoor Jee! You are not that desperate. At least not as yet!

The boy was proved wrong for a second time when the old lady turned out to be worse then a leach and did not leave me until I gave her a green five hundred rupee note, in addition to her standard time waste tip of thousand rupees. It was indeed a frustrated Mr. Vinod Kapoor, badly in need of an extra whiskey that entered the ratty lift followed by the young lad Babu.

The blood alcohol levels had dipped down a little and all the hormonal tides had ebbed leaving me in an irritated mood and the moment I got into the auto, the surprised look on the driver’s face only increased my irritation. I got in and Babu squeezed beside me. Without a word the auto driver drove out. The STD Booth was still open and I could see the old lady through the glass door. Babu got down but did not walk away. He stood with his open palm facing the sky with a sly smile on his face. I did not comprehend for a minute as to what the boy Babu wanted.

Obviously I was not a palmist to be able to read the lines on his palm and tell him all about his past – present – and future. And in case my oracular talents did extend to this level of predictive abilities, it would still not be of too much use because the light was too dim for me to see any lines on his palm. It was the auto driver who said that the young boy had only one single question and that too was about his future. Babu was wondering if he would get an additional tip for all the trouble he had taken. I was too frustrated and pulled out a fifty rupee note from my wallet.

I did not display my anger on the urchin but instead directed it on the currency note that I tossed out towards him. He was not fast enough to catch it and had to scamper after it as it flew in the breeze. My auto driver gave a cruel smile and started his three wheeler. In five minutes we were on the Arcot Road.

A little later the auto chap asked “Where to Sir? Where are you staying? Do you want to head back straight home or do you want to try another place in T. Nagar that I know?” I had become sick and tired of this getting laid business. The whore house visit was too disappointing. I also realized that at twenty nine, I was no longer a horny teenager with a preponderance of hormones to be desperate to plunge into any cesspool in sight. If I wanted anything it would be a whiskey. Just one stiff extra large treble whiskey and then to bed. I asked softly

“Any place to get a drink at this time in the night?”

I had also looked at my watch, which showed the time, at forty minutes past mid night. The auto fellow was a man of infinite knowledge and told me that the crystal bar which I had left earlier would be as good a place as any. Though officially the last drink was served at the gong of midnight, as I had been a customer there a little earlier, it would not be too difficult to get an additional drink.

For a moment I shrugged my shoulders in indecision and hesitated. Part of me told me that I had enough adventures for the night and it would be a good idea to get tucked under the cover before wee wily winky started on his rounds. But in the end, the urge for soma rasa won out and I nodded my head, instructing my three wheeled auto driver to drive straight to crystal bar. If I had known at that time about the quagmire that I would be falling into, I would have given the bar a wide berth. But it was not to happen. Like a fly drawn to flypaper, I anxiously proceeded towards booze, babe and disaster.

 

6.

A MATTER OF HONOR

It was almost one in the morning when the auto stopped outside the bar which I had left a couple of hours ago. This time I did not attempt to pay the auto fellow. A lot of tips had already been paid and the meter was running long enough to want to approach the third zero after which I would not have to pay him anything! Nice! I had promised an additional hundred at my final destination.

I thus told him that this was not my final destination and also that I would not take more than ten minutes. He agreed to wait for me and then take me to Egmore when I was finished. I took two steps at a time to get to the first floor. The bell hop at the gate at first blocked me and said in Tamil that the bar was closed. He then seemed to recognize me and gave a sheepish grin as he pulled out his hand on which I placed a fifty rupee note. I was spending a lot on tips today for services not rendered.

Pushing the door inside, I entered the bar once again. The pall of smoke had settled a bit and the crowd had thinned. More than three quarters of the customers had disappeared. I could see that of the three boys with the chocolate nymphet, one had left. The plump spectacled boy and the tall dark youth remained at the table.

As I took my previous chair, I looked carefully at her and realized that she was a little drunk. Her eyes were a little glassy and out of focus. It appeared that she was not able to keep her eyes open for long periods. Her hands were on the table and she was bent down at an angle displaying her anatomically perfect modest mammaries through the cut in her yellow gown.

The waiter who had recognized me had walked to me with two glasses each with a large shot of whiskey. He whispered that last orders were long over and that he was doing this to me as a special favor because I was a regular customer. If I was surprised at being called a regular customer on my second visit itself, I did not express it. I gave a smile and started adding the ice cubes. The waiter left and I fixed up my drink. I turned my gaze around and saw that apart from us; only two more tables were occupied. And in one of them, the customers were in the process of settling their bills and getting up.

The general noise levels had come down by a few decibels and over the fog of silence, I could hear her voice clearly. While I pretended to sip my whiskey. I cocked my ear to the conversation. Though I was sure that my chances of picking up this babe were very remote, yet my heart was a little gladdened that one of the three bridegrooms had disappeared before the start of the ceremonies, improving my odds considerably. I kept my ears craned and allowed the voices to travel to my ear.

It took me about a minute to get a general drift of the conversation. It was apparent that it was a “please please – no please” match that was being played between the two teams. Team A consisted of the two boys one dark one sallow, one lean one plump, one tall and one short who were the yes please team who were pestering the girl to accompany them to their pad.

The goalie, valiantly defending the goal post of team B was miss chocolate lasavicity who was firm in her no. No Viwek! No Anand! Not today. For one I am blown. I have this terrible head ache. And I have a busy day tomorrow. Not that I don’t like you guys. But then please try to understand. I am not the “ménage a troi’s” type of girl. And even if I was, this is not the time and please. Don’t be kids, please grow up Viwek. And tell Anand too. And it was a big mistake combining grass with beer.

The two players of team A started dribbling the ball and then it become apparent that the high blood ethanol levels had impaired not only their etiquette and decency but also the language, for things soon descended to crudity and direct suggestivity. I could hear a mention about being a tease. I could also hear about taking down the garden path and giving a KLPD.

My Tamil vocabulary would have been lacking but KLPD was something that I could understand because it was a Hindi acronym. Fully expanded, it would read ‘khade-l–pe–dhoka’. The closest that you could come to it in English would be ‘coitus interruptus’. My ears pricked because I could clearly perceive that the conversation had just about crossed the confines of decency and had entered into the realms of date harassment.

But things still seemed to progress at a decent, non physical verbal level and had not got to the actual harassment level. I decided to finish my last drink slowly because a small hope was building in my heart. I have not mentioned it earlier, but Mr. Vinod Kapoor is an incurable optimist. Good things would not happen to you unless you wish that good things should happen to you. And damsels would not fall for sir Lancelot’s charms if he did not save them from dragons in the first place.

I polished my whiskey glass as sir Lancelot would shine his armor, as I watched the damsel being harassed by the two dragons one lean and the other plump. The conversation was progressing exactly as it was before with the two boys alternatively hissing at the yellow goddess that she had not only led them up the garden path but was also behaving like a proper cock tease.

The dark guy then said something obscene and vulgar which had to do something about the mathematical dimensions of his body organ. The plump guy joined in the conversation and his sentence too was crude as it mentioned something about multitasking in which the girl was supposed to be an expert on not only doing more than one thing at a time, but also enjoying both immensely. I could see a faint flush tinge the girl’s face and because of her dark complexion, this blush of embarrassment only caused her skin to glow a little more as she fidgeted anxiously in her seat.

The Sir Lancelot Mr. Vinod Kapoor was about to get up from his seat to play his role when he saw that Miss Black forest had beat him to it and had stood up a little angrily, clutching her tiny purse that lay on the table beside her beer mug. At that instant things moved from verbal to physical and like a dammed stupid moron, I interfered.

Life is made up of strange coincidences. If Newton had not seen an apple fall down, we would all probably be living in zero gravity and walking on walls and ceilings. If Galileo had not gazed through the telescope, the earth might still be the centre of the universe with the sun revolving around it. If water from Archimedes’ bathtub had not flown out, the whole of Athens would not have come to know about his hydrocele. And the side effect would be that the equations of flotation would not have been invented. If Benjamin Franklin had not been a kite flier as well as a person seriously concerned about the safety of his house, he would not have had an iron key with him and we would not have known that lightening was electricity.

This would have denied Edison the knowledge that would make light bulbs and this book might have been written in candle light instead. If Wright brothers had not been talented enough to build an aeroplane, we would still be traveling by trains and a journey from Chennai to New York would take six months. And if Mr. Vinod Kapoor had not donned the shiny amour, he would not have fallen neck deep into a cesspool of shit.

But then the knight virus was dormant in my blood and needed just a small tiny catalyst to allow it to activate. And this catalytic trigger turned out to be a cube of ice! The plump guy plucked a cube of ice and playfully tossed it into the air towards the now standing up chocolate porn queen and I am sure that what happened next was an accident or a coincidence that triggered my fall into a sticky mess of a jam.

It was not that the boy had a good aim. And even if he did, his hand was shaky and quivery with booze and grass. Thus if the cube of frozen water found it’s mark, it was a coincidence. The one inch cube of almost transparent ice flew in the air, spinning and catching the light and fell straight into the net scoring a clean goal. It found the C of her dress, touched the cleavage and slid gracefully between the clefts as smoothly as only a cube of ice could. Her face was suddenly clouded by features of fury. And her body gave an involuntary shudder as the cold ice touched her warm skin..

Even at this stage, I had just stood up and waited undecidedly at the edge of my table. I would not have done anything if the boys had not done anything and the girl had walked out, as she had intended to do not so long ago. But no. The catalyst of my viral mutations got another push by what the tall dark guy did. He abruptly got up and thrust his hand into the cleavage in an attempt to pull out the ice cube. The girl was shocked by this sudden and unexpected move and Mr. Vinod Kapoor – Sunny Deol – could not help himself and I started towards their table.

Now let us get one thing clear beyond all doubts. If I was in USA or Canada, my cultural and social background would have ensured that I stayed at my seat and did not budge an inch. This would be because in a place like USA, the knight who rushed in to save the girl’s honor could well be sued by the girl.

But I belong to the glorious Indian tradition. For Vinod Kapoor a woman’s honor is more sanctimonious than life itself. It was for a woman’s honor that the war of Mahabharata was fought. It was for a woman’s honor that kingdoms and empires had been lost. Leave alone men, even Jatayu the vulture sacrificed his life to save the honor of a woman.

Thus there was absolutely no way that I could stay where I was and be a silent spectator to this dishonoring of a woman. By the time I had got to the trio, a couple of things had already happened. The fat boy too had got up. The girl had not screamed but had reacted spontaneously and quickly. She had slapped the dark chap’s wrist and swung her bag at his face almost the same time as I had got my hand on the back of his shoulder and pulled him back.

The bag missed his cheek, swung the arc and hit the face of the plump boy with a considerable force. The impact produced three things. A loud ouch, a small gash over the left eye brow and a flying spinning spectacle which hit the wall and broke into two. The tall chap staggered a little as I pulled him back and then lurched around like a drunken dinosaur to see who had dared to touch his shoulder and pull him back.

The spectacles seemed to be a necessary pre requisite for the fat boy’s vision and he ran towards the wall to fumble for the broken pieces so that at least he could see what was happening. The girl by now seemed to have recognized that it would be futile for her to stay back even for a single minute. She pushed the stumbling plump boy and briskly walked out leaving me facing the drunken dark guy with a gold chain and a gold bracelet.

Again I would have to curse my gods of fates because even at this time, things could have taken a different turn and I could be extracted from the quicksand that I was about to fall into, but things did not happen that way. By “that way” I would mean if the boys had not been “Darpok Madrasis” who were a little awed at the sight of a muscular boy from the land of five rivers and suddenly decided to not pursue the matter any further. If they had found courage to pick up an argument or quarrel, then I would have been delayed by a few minutes if not more.

This delay would have allowed Neelambari to get a cruising auto and disappear for ever from my life and allow my life to go ahead on its own unexciting and peaceful course. But you can not clap with one hand. You can not fight if you don’t have enemies. You can’t ask an already apologetic face to say sorry to a girl who was no longer there. You could not hit a man on the back of his head if he suddenly got scared of you and took an about turn!

I had already kept the bill and tips on my table and there was nothing to stop me or delay me from leaving the pub and getting out, which would allow me a close proximity, and an opportunity to get to know Neelambari which would be the switch that would trigger the fissioning and chain reaction to explode the neutron bomb of my life.

I found her standing vaguely by the kerb, just outside the hotel compound looking for a cruising auto. The time was late and the roads deserted. Finally, just about the time I got on to the road, she spotted the parked auto by the roadside and started walking towards it. I could not suppress my smile because this was my auto. In a dozen quick steps, I was close to her. Flashing my thirty two carat Colgate – Pepsodent smile I said, “Hello! I am Vinod Kapoor!”

7.

COGNAC AND PIZZA

There are a dozen different ways in which a young woman would respond to a young man when he introduces himself and says Hello. And most of these dozen ways would depend on the situation and circumstances at that particular moment. If a guy smiles like a toothpaste advertisement to a young lady a little after mid night especially when she was quarter stoned, half drunk and fully boiling with anger, it was only natural that she pounced at you like a jaguar.

Not physically pounced on you but proceeded to pounce on you with a verbal lashing. And it would not matter much if this same woman had smiled and winked suggestively at you, not too long ago. At that time she was not stoned, not drunk, not angry and yes naughty. Now the tables had been turned, I could watch her body language. I could almost see the words starting to form at the corner of her mouth. It was like a couched jaguar almost ready to pounce on its victim, in this case Mr. Dashing Hero Vinod Kapoor. But the auto fellow spoke first and the magic was spoilt. I would say magic because she looked a lot prettier when angry and blazing with fury, notwithstanding the fact that her rage and fury had been directed towards me. I was rather looking forward to her outburst after which I would be in a position to offer appropriate explanations and ingrain myself with her.

But the auto fellow had already spoken. He said, “But I am so terribly sorry madam, Sir has hired me for the whole day and I have to take him back. I am sorry that you will have to find another auto. At this time I doubt if you would find a vacant cruising auto here but if you walk to the Gemini flyover, you would be sure to get one at Mount Road!”

The Jaguar paused in mid couch. The expected verbal punch had its wind knocked from its sails. Her mouth which seemed to have just then opened to either bark a sarcastic reply or chide me could not find appropriate words. She took a sudden change of stance that silence was golden and darted her eyes towards the main road from where a right turn would take her to Gemini.

I consider myself to be a reasonable expert on human psychology and was quick to assess that if I did not make the first move, her embarrassment would make her walk away briskly, denying me the opportunity of getting friendly with her. And that would have been a good thing too! I would have been saved of all that trouble, But no! I was destined to perform a rectal examination on the Gods of fate who retaliated in the only manner they knew. They did the same to me but used a blow forth instead of a gloved finger. In the most disarming manner that I could summon, I said,

“If you had not been in such a disagreeable mood, I would have offered to drop you at your house in this auto, but for now I would stop with asking the auto fellow to drop you at Gemini and then come back for me!”

I told you before! I don’t lack in the brains department at all. I knew that if I had got inside the auto and then asked her to hop in, I had as much chance of a success as a candle in a blizzard. I thus did the best psychological act by proving to her that this Sir. Lancelot was really different from the two dragons she had just damaged. Making absolutely no mention about the fact that I had challenged her oppressors added a couple of more stars to my character and now Neelambari became a little more mellow. She said, “Sorry!”

I replied with another smile, “I know!”

‘What?”

“Oh! You know that I wont throw ice cubes down your dress. You know that I wont tease or bite you. You also know that my name is Vinod Kapoor!”

“Neelambari!” There was now a small smile in her otherwise tired lips.

“Blue as the skies. Neela- Blue, Ambar- Aasman, Aakash-Sky!”

“What?”

“Yes! That is what your name means just as mine means jolly!”

“Are you a specialist in the meanings for names?”

“Not really, but I know a bit of Sanskrit!”

“Oh, really! You mean to say that I have been named in Sanskrit?”

“Yes! Anyway I think that you have had enough for one day. I will wait here and finish a cigarette while the auto fellow drops you at Gemini!”

I would pause our conversation a wee bit to tell you the reason why I spoke my previous sentence. I could have well said – well Neelambari! Glad to have met you. Why don’t I ask the auto fellow to first drop you at your house and then get me to my place? I could have said that and there was a seventy five percent chance that she would have smiled and got in and I would have got in beside her. But it was the remaining twenty five percent that had been bothering me. Because she could have got in and said, don’t bother. I will get dropped at Gemini and find an auto.

But by not even suggesting about the possibility that the two of us could travel in the same auto, put the ball fairly and squarely in her court. And all the books on female psychology tell me the same thing. Pull them close and they scamper away. Boomerang them and they would come back.

It was besides the point that these psychology textbook ploys do not work all the time. If they did work, the two whores whom I had thrown away should have chased me all the way to my auto. But somehow in Neelambari’s case it stuck to me that such a technique could actually work. And it did work far better than I had expected.

She gave a dazzling smile proving to me that her oro-dental hygienic standards exceeded mine and the bell like laughter that exited her soft lips reminded me of a silver spoon clinking inside a wine goblet of the thinnest Belgian glass.

“You are a real tease aren’t you?”

She pouted with so much of innocence that I almost blushed. I now had a “caught with paw in a cookie jar” expression on my face and said

“If you want me to be really honest with you, nothing would give me a greater pleasure than dropping you home. And in addition, the pleasure would be doubled if I could tempt you with a detour on the way so that we can grab a quick bite to eat. And it would be quadrupled if you smilingly gave me your mobile number at your door so that this does not remain our last meeting!”

I must confess that it was a pretty long winded sentence but then a look at her eyes from close up had told me that she was not only wise beyond her years but had also read all the books on female psychology that I had read.

How else would I have explained her reply which was,

“Well Mr. Vinod! I have a much better idea. We will not have a quick bite but have a leisurely pizza. We would not have it in a restaurant because you won’t find many that are open at this time, but would have it in my place. And you would get not only my phone number but also a glass of the finest cognac that I stock in my house.”

The auto driver was listening to this conversation and broke out into a smile. I was dammed sure that he was jealous of my success with an instant pick up and this made my chest swell by a few inches more. Neelambari pulled out a sleek blue mobile phone from her wallet and dialed a number. I could hear her side of the conversation that went on like this

“Hello! Yes Daniel there? Ok. I will hold”

“I am Neelambari! Yes the girl next door. Your oven’s still hot? I have time. It would take me another twenty minutes or so!”

“Not really no! I leave the choice of the toppings to you. Well! I think anything would do! Absolutely no problems. Ham and mushroom would be divine. And pack up a dozen chicken wings too”.

“Cool! But I don’t want your coke! Naa. Leave that. Just make it the large deep dish pizza with the wings. Okay! I will pick it up”

“No compliments Daniel. I am a big girl now and can pay for my pizza. And when I come there to pick up the pizza, please act decently with me. Absolutely no hanky panky. You see, I would be having my boyfriend with me!”

“Of course Daniel! Soon! Quite soon. Just be a little patient. You know that I love to love you and hate to hate you! Wait for me! Bye”

Switching off the phone she replaced it into her purse and pointed me to the auto. With her characteristic “silver spoon in a wafer thin Belgian wine glass” laughter she said

“After you Vinod!”

With a dry tongue and a thumping heart I got into the three wheeler and Neelambari got in beside me. The rear seats of the Bajaj auto are about three and a half feet across and thus it was apparent that she would end up sitting close to me. The whiff of her pheromones, perfume, sweat and metabolized alcohol added to my excitement and thrill.

The auto fellow turned around and asked “Where to sir?”

Obviously I was not a clairvoyant or a mind reader and thus did not know the location of either the pizza place or her place and thus looked enquiringly at her. Neelambari seemed to be a little dazed and preoccupied. She caught my eye suddenly. I asked “Where to?”

She was brought back to the present and said “Oh! I am sorry. Please go to Anna Nagar”

The auto fellow gave a leery smile and started his vehicle. At 1.30 in the night, the Chennai roads are not too crowded and in less than twenty minutes, we were at Anna Nagar roundtana. She directed the auto straight on the second avenue and instructed the driver to take a ‘U’ turn beyond ‘High Style’ to stop outside Domino’s pizza.

She peered out of the auto and standing outside the shop on the pavement was a young man in a white shirt and blue trousers holding a carry bag. Fumbling into her purse, she extracted a five hundred rupee note. The boy seemed to be a little reluctant to collect the money but she whispered something into his ear and he broke out into a smile. He then took the money from her and pocketed it. She gave him a pat on his back and a peck on his cheek, but to my greatest surprise, my heart was suddenly filled with an inexplicable feeling of jealousy.

I then chided myself. Mr. Vinod Kapoor! Please please act your age. You have not even met this girl and known her for a couple of hours. And you get possessive enough to feel insanely jealous if she playfully pecks someone on his cheek. It is absolutely pathetic. You are no longer a hormone enriched teenager. You are a twenty nine year old man, who is going to take up a responsible job from tomorrow.

She had by then started walking back to the auto. I could see her total geometry as the bright sodium vapor lamp bleached her yellow – lemon, and the quicksilver curves graciously snaked over one another. It was at this moment that I had a good and proper look at her legs. The one piece dress ended about mid thigh and the thigh, knees, calves and legs were so dainty and delectable that it produced an aching desire in my heart. But I knew that this one was not a “three thousand rupees for a short time plus two hundred rupees tip for Babu” kind of a girl and again mentally tapped myself on my head.

She snaked in and her bare thigh touched my trouser leg. Despite the Chennai warmth I gave a shiver. And then something warm touched the top of my thigh. I smiled because it was the carry bag which rested half on her lap and half on mine and the heat was coming out of the freshly baked pizzas. The interior of the auto filled with the aroma of delicious pizza.

Neelambari asked the auto to drive straight and take a left to a wide street. She then led the auto through a couple of lefts and rights and finally asked him to park outside a gate. She got out and I followed her. I saw that beyond the compound wall was a double storied house and a garage to the left. I was a little surprised to see such a big and independent house. She looked at me and spoke in a soft voice. “Looks like your lucky day today!”

Her eyes were an ocean full of promises and my heart paused for a painfully long period, the third time this evening. If it continued like this, I would surely become a heart patient by the time the night was over. I asked “Why am I lucky?”

She giggled “It is only when he is out of town that I can entertain late night visitors!” I was shocked. Did she really mean what she appeared to mean? Was it going to be, that I would sow my oats that night after all? Hold on Mr. Vinod Kapoor. Don’t be in this much of a hurry. She has talked about visitors. A visitor visits and departs. And in all likelihood it would be just a cognac and a pizza between the arrival and departure. No . Don’t build castles in the air as yet!

I turned to the auto fellow and said

“You wait here for about an hour. I would then like to go back to my lodge in Egmore!”

And then Neelambari said some thing that took my breath away.

“No! Don’t make him wait. I will ring for a call taxi for you. Nine eight, eight one, eight one, eight one, one. A catchy number for a taxi service isn’t it? I just tell them Neelambari’s house and the vehicle comes in ten minutes!”

My heart again paused. Any more such “long beat” gaps and I would soon be in a position to know if heavens are cold and hell is hot. At least one if not the other. I calculated that the bill would have come to about three hundred and odd. I was feeling so hyper and cheerful, that I gave a green five hundred and asked him to keep the change. He gave a wide cheery smile and drove out.

Neelambari walked to the gate and we could hear a dog barking in the rear. She unlatched the gate and switched a button on.

A bright light came in the porch. She asked me to wait for a moment as she walked via the garden to the back yard to untie the dog which came bounding and yelping to the front. It looked like a white ball of wool and the next instant it was sniffing and licking my polished brown leather boots.

The purse had the main door key and in two minutes I was in her drawing room. It was a decent drawing room with a soft cushiony designer sofa, marble flooring and original paintings by unknown artists on the walls. I took out my shoe and socks at the entrance just as she had peeled out her dainty high heeled crème colored shoes. She asked me to take a seat and get comfortable. She walked to the dining table on the other end of the room and placed the pizza packet. She said that she would come back in a moment.

I sank myself on the sofa, tilted my head back and took a deep breath. Things were moving so fast that I could not simply believe as to what was happening to me. Less than an hour ago I was in a seedy brothel looking at two swepresses and cleaning woman. And here I was not only with a delectable dish, but also in her drawing room. And from a drawing room to bedroom were just a dozen quick steps. I wriggled my toes and suddenly felt self conscious. My feet stank.

I had been wearing a nylon socks and the Chennai weather had made me sweat. The smell would have been bottled inside the laced shoe and now that, I had taken them off, they stank. Well Vinod Kapoor Jee, you don’t try to sow your oats with filthy feet or stinky soles. It would be a number one turn off for her. She would take a little while to freshen up. In the meanwhile wash your feet. You smell awful! I could see a small door next to the right corner of the room.

On an impulse, I walked across and pushed the door open. My guess had not been incorrect. It was a bathroom. I quickly walked to one side, lifted my trousers up and washed my feet. When I come to the wash basin, I saw a Gillette shaving set and a can of foam standing beside a bottle of Old Spice after shave lotion.

So this Neelambari had at least one male guest who could or would stay over night and shave the next day before he left. Hmm. Neelambari was not a sidhi sadhi girl. Oh you stupid idiot! What had you taken her for? A vestal virgin? Or a Bahu for you Ammi? If your amma sees this slim dark Madrasi vixen, she would surely have apoplexy. And imagine her as a Punjabi bride in the bridal red! It was not just imaginable. Come back to earth Mr. Vinod Kapoor. Wash your feet, wash your face, comb your hair and wait for her to fetch the cognac. And that is exactly what I did.

Her five minutes took a little longer than twenty and this gave me adequate time to have a quick look in the drawing room and get back to the sofa where I was leafing a copy of India Today when she came back. If she was looking ravishing before, she looked like rape-bait now.

She had worn a gents formal full shirt and just that. The shirt ended just a little below her buttock and the upward flare of her dark silky thighs as they disappeared into the back of her shirt did not leave a lot to imagination. The shirt was light blue with faint stripes in darker blue and set off brilliantly against her “rum soaked black forest cake” complexion. It was apparent that she was proud of her breasts and the two undone top buttons, more then enough displayed her anatomical perfection.

She had a gold Napoleon Brandy with its characteristic long neck in green glass bottle. Her other hand contained two wine glasses held by the stems. I knew a little about wine glasses. I thus knew that these were standard wine glasses and not brandy goblets but still having a cognac in a wine glass was a lot better than sipping it from a stainless steel tumbler as I have done so many times in the past. Her lovely black silky, hair that had been loosely bunched up in a yellow wool band earlier had now been let loose and could best the advertisements of both Sun Silk and Head and Shoulders. Instead of walking towards the sofa and me, she walked to the dining table and gently placed the bottle and glasses beside each other. She then turned to a glass lined shelf and pulled out two big ceramic dinner plates. From the carry bag, she pulled out the octagonal pizza box and the square box of wings.

Her back was turned to me while she arranged the food and through the thin polyester fabric of her clothes, I could see an outline of her body, its dark hour glass curvaceousness capable of teaching a glass blower how to blow an hour glass out of molten silicates. The flare of her buttocks and her triangular Bhutan stamp shaped light panties were as clearly visible as if the T-shirt had been transparent and caused the next pause in my Lub-Dub-Lub-Dub rhythm. Once she seemed to be satisfied with the arrangement of the plates, bottle, wine glasses and the take away containers, She turned around and gave me a bewitching smile which jump started my cardiac biorhythm once again, albeit a little sluggishly because all blood seemed to have been drained from me.

“Come we will sit on the table. We can eat while we talk!”

I gave a smile and said,

“Thanks for trebling my pleasure. I had only expected a cognac but you have offered two more heavenly pleasures – eat and talk”

“Do you write movie scripts?” She asked in a naughty tone. I ran back on my previous sentence and found nothing lyrical or cinematic about it. I decided to let her question rest and asked mine. “Do you work in the movies?”

This time she really flushed. She said, “Shit! Am I so transparent? You are absolutely right. Not that I have acted in too many movies.”

I was getting curious and asked the obvious, “Well Neelambari! How many movies have you actually acted in?”

She said “Oh! I have acted only in one movie. It would be released this Friday”

Mr. Vinod Kapoor was zapped. He was sitting across a dining table with a real live cinema heroine opposite him! I gave a big smile and told her exactly that. She replied,

“Well not actually the heroine. A side heroine would be more apt, or a vamp rather. I play the girlfriend who seduces the hero”

I nodded in understanding. Bollywood was going through the adultery phase. Every other movie was made on the theme of the other woman. It would only be natural for the Tamil film industry to ape its Bombay counterpart.

“And Neelambari is my real name. My screen name is Rosy. I am still not used to the new name. It is as if my name would be Rosy only from the coming Friday when the movie is released”

“Neelambari is a better name any day. Rosy is so cheap!” I could not help commenting. But she had become a little philosophical as she said

“Well! cheap or costly doesn’t matter now. I have decided to enter the tinsel world and have to pay whatever price I have to, to get to the top! In a way Neelambari would die on Friday while Rosy would be born!”

At that time, I was as much unaware about the gods of fortunes priming up the petromax blow torches as I was about how prophetic and oracular her statements were. The unfortunate fact was that the last part of the statement was not correct because Rosy died before she was born. But that would come later at a more appropriate time. At that moment I asked the appropriate question

“And how is your role? Do you think that you have chosen the correct launching pad for your career?”

This excited the young actress because her eyes lit up. She had by now poured a generous dose of the cognac into the two wine glasses and opened out the boxes and served a few helpings on both our plates. I sipped my drink after we clicked our glasses and she answered me.

“Each girl wants the first movie to be a memorable one and most don’t realize that it would end up memorable in more than one way. But hearing the claps and cat calls during the preview today, I can say that at least my tits and arse were well appreciated!”

Hearing the two synonyms for breasts and bottoms mentioned so casually produced another pause in the heart beat and I quickly took the glass to my mouth. I did not want her to see the expressions on my face.

8.

DRAWING ROOM TO BEDROOM

Neelambari seemed to get a little loquacious once the pizza and brandy entered her belly and told her story. I was not only a good listener but also made the appropriate responses at appropriate places to ensure that the flow of the story remained uninterrupted. It was a standard story and she told it without either hesitation or embarrassment.

She had come to India from Srilanka. She was a Tamil, but a refugee who had undertaken an illegal migration to India when she had been a child. As she grew up, her raw and sensual huskiness made people around her comment that she had a face, eyes and a body fit to be a top star. Her mother too decided that movies was a good idea and brought her to Chennai. Exactly a year after their arrival, Neelambari’s mother died in an automotive accident.

Sixteen year old Neelambari was left helpless and all alone in the world. She had only one currency to pay for her security, career, comforts and progress. That was her body. She was liberal in dispensing anatomical favors but yet it was not an easy climb to where she eventually got.

Only four years later, on her twentieth birthday she had a chance to meet KSR sir. KSR or K. Sri Ravichandran was one of the leading producer directors of the Kollywood industry and saw her in a film party in which extraps and aspirant models, displayed themselves in skimpy clothes hoping to catch an eye of the star maker who would shoot them into the skies.

Neelambari had not been too hopeful of her first encounter with KSR. She used a term ‘Friendly Felatio’ in such a casual and matter of fact way, that it took me a few seconds to actually understand what she had meant by that. I displayed my understanding in an obvious manner by choking on the brandy and coughing and spluttering. Quick as a flash, she was behind me and thumping me on my back. Once I stabilized she said

“Oh sorry! I never realized that my kind of talk would sound profane to you. You bein g a Sanskrit scholar and all that. Hey Hey! That reminds me! I have been such a blabber mouth, talking all about myself. Have not even bothered to ask you what you do! How many times Lalli akka has told me that in the presence of men, allow them to talk. Nay! Make them talk. You keep quiet and listen. Men like to talk about themselves. It makes them happy! And here I am, not allowing you to get in even one word edge ways! Please tell me what you do!”

Movie heroine or not, there was no way in which I was going to tell her about my profession, in our first meeting itself. That would come much later if at all. I said

“Oh! I am new to town. I have to join my new job tomorrow. But before I forget and start talking non stop about me, please tell me who is Lalli akka”.

She told me that Lalli akka was Lalitha Jayaram. The great Tamil heroine Miss Lalitha Jayaram who had been a heartthrob of millions, about a decade ago. She was now Lalitha Ravichandran, wife of famous movie director KSR, K.S. Ravichandran who had made Neelambari’s movie.

Again I marveled at the psychologist who had said that “there is no voice sweeter than thy own!” Once I had started the sky blue shirted nymphet, there was no stopping at all.

She was frank to the extent of being shameless but I suppose that it was not a single factor that caused this. Of the many I could identify, cannabis, beer, cognac and a pleasant honest innocent confidence inspiring Punjabi face, looking at her as if listening to her story was the most important mission of his life at that time; would decidedly have contributed in equal measures.

The friendly felatio paid off and KSR had become a close friend. Close enough to give her a good role in his latest movie. Close enough to set her in this house which she sarcastically called micro nest. She explained the meaning of the composite word. The word nest came from the English love nest. And micro was for smaller than small. Tamil men who set up a mistress called the other house as a Chinna Veedu or a small house. But according to Neelambari, even a small – house – or Chinna Veedu had a ring of permanence to it as a house. This was a lot less permanent and thus the micro.

And then it hit me. It was in the micro nest that she and I were sipping cognac and eating pizzas. There goes the mystery of shaving crème and after shave lotion. They obviously belonged to KSR! I ran my hand over my cheek as I smelt the faint aroma of after shave which I had pinched from the toilet and daubed on my cheeks.

“Aren’t you worried that he would come in suddenly and find me here? Not that I am afraid or anything. But it would be surely embarrassing for you. Wont it?”

“Oh No! No way. The directors really get passionate and manly on the night of their movie previews. The claps and cheers seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect on them. Lalli akka would surely get suspicious if he doesn’t accompany her home straight after the preview. And only because of this, I was forced to go out with Viwek, Anand and Sriram”.

Too many characters had appeared in the drama but I made absolutely no efforts to match the three names with the faces of the three dragons in the crystal bar because they were tiny insignificant characters in this drama. And tiny and insignificant did they turn out. One was an assistant director. One was the second unit cameraman. And the chap whose spectacles had done a spinning and breaking act was a script writer.

She said that the preview left her elated and high. She wanted to have a celebratory drink. Obviously coming back to the pad and drink alone was not a good idea. She thus agreed to accompany the three clowns to the bar. The assistant director had got some marijuana cigarettes.

The beer and grass had hit the boys badly and they had misbehaved with her. And the rest I knew. I could now understand it a little more clearly as to what sort of multitasking the two guys were talking to her when she had lost her cool. The actual dialogue had been “KSR’s double bed in your Anna Nagar love nest would be as good a place as any” No wonder a girl would get offended.

“It is not that I am a virgin or anything. But then there is a limit to who all I would sleep with. Those boys were sick and pathetic”.

I couldn’t agree more. The three previous prospective non bride grooms desiring a honeymoon prior to exchanging the vows were definitely pathetic. Not like me at all.

And look at me! I am sitting in the girl’s drawing room nibbling pizza purchased by the girl with her own money and drinking her cognac. I wonder how long it would take me to get to the bedroom from the drawing room.

I mentally started rehearsing my dialogues. Obviously I could not say I am an expert in springs and cushions. Can I look at your bedroom mattress? The other not so good way would be – I am a little heady and tired. Can I lie down for a minute? In all probability she would point towards the sofa which was big enough.

Nor could I say “I love to watch the cob webs in the ceilings. I wonder how many cob webs your bedroom ceiling has! Can I go in and look at it? Wont it be devilishly interesting?” If I said some such thing she could ask me to have a look myself while she continued to finish her drink and pizza.

And despite all this camaraderie and friendship, I was not drunk enough or pally enough with Neelambari to ask for a friendly felatio. All in all, the million dollar question as to how to get from the drawing room to the bedroom was turning out to be a ten million dollar question.

But then she said something which actually caused my heart to stop for such a long time that I almost felt that I was an ethereal spirit floating close to the ceiling looking down on a couple gazing into each other’s eyes when the fair and handsome young man is telling the fantastic chocolate babe that he could simply not believe his ears. Well! What Neelambari had just said was something like that.

“Do you want to see my stamp collection? I have two albums of exotica in postage stamps. I am so passionate about them that I always keep them under my pillow in my bedroom!”

Mr. Vinod Kapoor alias yours truly was really zapped at such an ingenious excuse to invite a boy to the bedroom. When I finally found the words, my voice appeared to be husky and sexy not because of any special effort, but because my throat was so parched and dry that its texture would beat that of a coarse number six sand paper.

“Of course delighted! Marvelous! I have been a great fan of philately since I was a tiny tot. Come let us go!”

The pizzas were almost finished, but Neelambari turned out to be a neat and precise girl. She dumped the uneaten and half eaten pieces into an empty box. The untouched stuff went into another box and then into the fridge. The left over went out for the dog. A spray of liquid clearer and a wipe by a towel got the dining table to its original sheen. The plates were washed, wiped and replaced into the glass lined wall cupboard.

I carried my wine glass while she carried a bottle in one hand and the wine glass in the other. She led the way and a slight swagger in her walk told me that she was at least a little heady if not a little drunk. The sway of her butt was almost mesmeric and I wondered how nature could design something which would compete with what was given in geometry text books. And the bedroom was only eight steps. Eight bloody fucking god-dammed steps to doom and disaster.

9.

OUT OF THIS WORLD

The bedroom was cozy and medium sized. About twelve feet by eighteen. It had a lovely double bed in the middle. The windows had floral curtains. The floor was lush carpet. The air conditioning was already on, in all probability she would have switched it on earlier when she had gone to change her yellow dress.

I followed her like a zombie and saw her sit down on the bed with a bounce. The bounce made the front of her shirt catch a gust of the AC wind and the sky blue fabric fluttered up for a second before settling down on her thighs. The sight was so incredible that if I had a mirror in front of me, it would have confirmed that I did look like a moron who was seeing Qutab Minar for the first time and had been told that it was a part of divine anatomy.

She patted, the bed beside her and said playfully

“Come sit. Let me show you my stamp albums”

She patted her hand so close to her thigh, that had I sat that close, my anatomical variations would suddenly make themselves well known. She bent to the pillow lifting her shirt to show the buttock and Bhutan’s triangular postage stamp as she plucked out two albums which she handed to me.

I was zapped. She was not lying. Not only did she collect stamps but kept them under her bed too. Flipping through the first album my eyes widened. It was thematic collection with no regard to country or value. The theme of the collection was entertainment. Anything to do with music, cinema, arts, drama, or show business and fashion found place in the album. It was indeed a fascinating collection.

“You know! The stamps tell us the history of our civilization as it developed. And my albums tell about the development of the history of the world of entertainment through postage stamps!”

And then her phone rang. She walked to the corner of her bed stand and picked up the mobile which rested on the charger. Each step of her walk was so sensuous that she looked like a ballerina with hatha-yogic powers walking an inch above water. One more truth that I learnt that day was that alcohol was the greatest cosmetic surgeon in the world. When I saw her first I was sober and she was pretty. When I returned to the bar again, I was high and she was prettier. And now that I was drunk, she was the prettiest. She sat on a tiny stool right across me and crossed her legs. The corner of the shirt rode dangerously high and by now my heart had decided that it could no longer afford to stop because the next stop could end up being a full stop.

The room was silent and I listened to her without actually listening. If I had the faintest idea of what I had in store for me later that evening, I would have paid a lot more attention to not only her conversation, but to many other things in the bedroom.

But blissfully unaware of the impending doom and totally unprepared to face the calamity that loomed in the horizon I carelessly sipped the cognac while she spoke with a careless abandon crossing and uncrossing her legs. I was sure that like all pretty girls, she was totally aware of the effect that she was causing on me and my biology.

“Oh hi! It is such a pleasant surprise! Oh! You are too kind. I know! I know! But KSR sir had told me that a bit of cleavage is essential for B and C centers. Naa! It was not all that bad I guess. In the initial stages I was a bit shy but once I forgot that I was facing the cameras the steamy scenes were all right I guess!”

“Yes! Yes! You see! I had to be topless in the bath tub scene. Once the shot was finished, they refused to bring the towel and I had to stay in the tub for half an hour before someone told KSR about the prank being played and he rushed to my rescue. He is like a father to me you know!” My mind had gone into an imagination over drive where I was picturing a topless Neelambari in a foam filled bath tub.

She gave out another of her characteristic laugh and said

“Of course darling! I got it this evening; the uniformed chauffer delivered it just before I was leaving for the preview. No! I have not opened it. What is in it? Don’t be a tease. Please tell me! Oh ok, Hmm! That is a secret yaar! Na! No one you know. Of course it is a guy! What do you think I am to have a girl with me at this time in the night? Ha! Ha! Ha! No! You are really naughty. Of course if it is something worth sharing with him I would surely share it. Oh no! Not at all. He is not my beau or anything. Four hours that’s right! Just four hours! No! Not kidding. I have positively not known him beyond four hours. What do you mean? In my bedroom of course! And he is looking at my stamp collection!”

‘Beau’ I knew as an archaic expression for a boy friend or a fiancée and I had no idea that I – Vinod Kapoor was a subject of discussion till the “looking at my stamp collection bit” came up in the conversation. I drained my glass and tried to take deep breaths so that I could control my ears which had turned hot and red.

I picked up the brandy bottle from the floor and looked to her glass which had also reached it to its bottom. I quickly refilled both the glasses, one more than the other and picked up the glass with more cognac and started sipping it. Neelambari had just completed her call. Her last words on the mobile were

“Oh! I promise. I would do it right away. And are you sure you would be awake an hour later? I would surely call you and tell you how it was. Yes I have had it once but long ago. Okay. Bye”

She put the phone back on the charger and walked back to the bed. She saw that her glass had been refilled but did not make any move to either pick it up or sip from it. She walked around the bed and as she crossed me, my eyes got glued to the back of her thighs and knees.

They call it popleteal fossae. The area bang behind the knee. The valley into which the contours of the thigh and calf blend. And Neelambari had the best popleteal fossae that I had ever seen in my life. She got to a wall mounted cup board, pushed a door to a side and pulled out a rectangular box wrapped in a gift wrapping and tied with a silver ribbon. She tossed the box towards the bed and I caught it mid air. It was a little heavy. She crossed me to walk to the dresser.

I understood that this girl was a neat and orderly person because she pulled out a small pair of scissors and walked back to the bed. She cut the ribbon and carefully folded the gift-wrapping and the string which she kept in one of the drawers along with the scissors. The wrapping had contained another box, which bore the inscription

“Baileys Irish crème”

I had tasted this liqueur in the past and it was a lovely after dinner drink. But it was a sealed bottle and a gift. I did not think that Neelambari would want to switch over from what we were having. But she surprised me once again by opening the bottle of Napoleon and pouring back the contents of the wineglasses without a spilt drop. She then extracted the Baileys and opened the lid. A generous tot of the creamy and rich liquor was poured into the two glasses.

Handing me a goblet, she sat a little closer and said

“Cheers! Mud in your eyes!”

I looked into her large eyes as I put the glass to my lip and sipped as a Bailey’s should be. She would have only had a single film experience but she was not a novice in so for as Baileys was concerned, because I saw her approvingly sniff the glass and take a sip as a lady should. I was feeling a little self-conscious. The scene had suddenly turned a little too intimate and cozy. And I was becoming aware that the café crème Irish was really a mellow drink that was producing uncontrollably passionate feelings in me. I paused and my mind went on a high alert. I was missing something.

And that was a condom. Yes! I did not have a condom on me! It was really a stupid thing. I had left home not expecting it to rain and hence had not taken my umbrella with me. And here it was about to rain as if a South American rainmaker had just completed his rain dance or the meteorological department had just seeded the clouds.

Having known all about the media campaign about AIDS, I had told myself that however drunk I might be, I would not be stupid to do it without a condom. And now that I lacked a condom, it was turning out that I might end up going to the field but coming back without actually doing the oat sowing business.

But then Neelambari conveyed something to me which was so devastating that my heart was totally unwilling to take another chance at pausing. It had paused enough not only for an evening but probably for a life time too! The other part of me detached itself and became an invisible wisp of a fog, which hung overhead close to the ceiling, and it was as if there were two Vinod Kapoors. One Vinod was sitting close to Neelambari his right leg touching Neelambari’s bare left thigh, only the fabric of his trouser separating their skin.

The real Vinod Kapoor was an ethereal invisible miasma floating overhead looking at the fair smart boy gazing into the eyes of the dark sensuous girl. The girl filted her chin a little, gently half opened her lips and fluttered the lashes. And this was a universal non verbal communications which means the same in all languages from Arabic to Zulu. Kiss me!

I kissed her. This is not a of book romance, targeted to mushy teenage girls and thus it would be totally inappropriate to describe the kiss in any great detail because though it was the tastiest kiss that I had tasted in my life, a small corner in my brain was urging caution against not venturing outdoors in such a weather because I did not have an umbrella.

Once our tongues touched each other and I tasted a touch of brandy, a dash of Irish crème, and some tooth paste mint, her hands came behind my neck and crushed me into such a tight embrace that my broad chest squeezed against her breasts and this sensation has to be described in adjectives. It was pleasurable, satiate, agreeable, enjoyable, pleasing, inviting and yet teasing as her hands moved down to my broad back and the palms pressed me close to her body. My hands which where on her shoulders moved to her back.

As our tongues continued to explore each other’s, my palms too started running over her back. I could locate the bra clasp through her shirt and before I knew what I was doing, my fingers were fumbling with it. The fabric of the shirt was not thick at all, and before I realized what I was doing, I could feel a snap and a release as the buckles fell to both sides and slipped under the fabric of her dress.

The sudden release of her body organs from captivity introduced a soft moan from her lips and she got a little more passionate in her kisses. For the spirituous Vinod Kapoor who had detached himself from the body on the double bed, it appeared as if the two pairs of lips had been cynoacralated together and the hands playing rambas on each other’s backs. All good things have to end at some time or the other and when our kiss finished and we disengaged, I was so painfully excited that I had finally decided that rain or no rain, umbrella or rain coat, I was going ahead and if I was going to catch the HIV virus and die of Aids, then be it so! She was still worth it. And the passion that she had exhibited was something that you could learn in no acting school.

My fingers trembled. I felt a little too high. May be the Bailey’s crème had a little more kick than I had expected. May be the whiskey and cognacs and the Irish had all blended together and pumped my blood so high that I was becoming reckless enough to totally disregard the fact that I was handicapped as a condom deficient warrior in a battle field strewn with virus land mines. My trembling figures got to the next button of the shirt and gently undid it. She closed her eyes and gave a soft moan.

Once I had started, there was absolutely no stopping. I undid the next button and the next and the next till I had got to the end where she had tied the two corners into a loose knot. I gave a tug and the knot came free too. The fabric of the shirt flapped to both sides displaying the streak of chocolate in the form of a four-inch linear strip through which the swell of the breasts above and the shapely umbilicus below produced such a mesmerizing spectacle that I became painfully excited.

Then very casually like opening a book in the milddle or like opening of the velvet screens on both side of the stage or like unwrapping a gift hamper, I spread the cloth to both sides bringing to view what had been tempting and tantalizingly teasing me all evening. And then I got the greatest shock in my life.

No! It was not that the breasts were any way less anatomically perfect or shapely than I had expected them to be. Nor was it that they were servile and bowed to the effects of gravity. They were proud and erect no doubt. But what had taken the breath away from my sails was the third breast in the middle of the two!

My mind floated as if in a haze. What was happening? A lady with three shapely breasts! Was this real or was it happening in a movie! Was it a Science fiction movie like Total recall or the Sixth element where girls from an alien planet would be more attractive than our girls but have three tits?

I suddenly realized that Neelambari was swaying, my hands holding her shoulders felt a little heavier as if she would fall back on the bed if I did not keep a hold on her shoulders. Her hand which was on my neck pushed my head down towards her mammaries.

Three of them. All the same size, all similarly shaped and all cute. But a human body not acclimatized to even the slightest deviation from the normal is bound to get repelled by a sight like this and I moved my head a little back but now my shock had doubled.

The three breasts had multiplied to four! Oops! What was this? A freak show? What had I got myself into? And I had to join work tomorrow! I looked up as my ears had picked up a soft moan that had exited Neelambari’s lips and as I gazed into her face, realized that my day of surprises had only just began. Exactly as in a science fiction movie I saw the lovely face in front of me split and dissolve into two faces which slowly started moving away from each other.

I could now see two Neelambaris almost super imposing each other, one real and one more real, opaque yet transparent, present and yet double present with two noses, two mouths, two faces and two necks, each trunk attached to a lithe and sensuous body with two breasts.

I shook my head a little and in the process my hands shook too. The shoulders of the girl being held by my hands shook too. And the silky hair flowed and shook too. And then the four breasts became two, two faces became one and two Neelambaris became a single Rosy.

I realized that I had become drunk and was having double visions. My hands did not seem to be in my control. I could feel her shoulder dissolving in my grip and me loosing my hold, I watched spell bound as she fell down on the bed, the mattress bouncing due to her fall.

It was a trick played by the drink. I was sozzled. It was only one of her and she had only a single pair. A single, perfect, impeccable incomparable pair! As another soft moan excited her half-open lips. I put forth my hand towards her body but suddenly found myself getting out of balance and plummeting onwards.

My fall produced a soft moan from her. My hand caught something ribbony and white and as I flung it away, saw that it was a white lacy and frilly bra! My nose touched the softness of her skin and smelt the perfume of her underarm deodorant. And the next minute I was out of this world.

 

10.

THE NIGHTMARE

I am a sound sleeper and though I dream a lot, it is seldom that I remember my dreams in detail. But today I was in a strange dream world. It was an Arena in Greece. Hundreds of thousands of Greek spectators cheered from the steps of the coliseum. In the middle was a pillar and tied to it with her hands behind her was Neelambari.

She wore a skimpy triangular pink while frilly panties and nothing else. I was a miasma floating above the crowd watching the victim tied helplessly to a pole with spectators thirsty for blood. And then a gong sounded. A cage was opened and a huge African lion bounded towards the poor helpless Neelambari who screamed out in terror. Her screams pierced my ears as I floated above the arena as an invisible wisp.

The screams became louder as a low-pitched growl exited my throat. And then I saw the wisp of smoke transform Vinod Kapoor into a lion. Yes! It was a sleek muscular and dangerous lion, but it had my face. The face of Mr. Vinod Kapoor!

I suddenly became the lion as I entered its body and pounced on her. Neelambari let out a heart rending scream as I lashed out my right paw which caused a big gash to appear on the front of her chest as her right breast clearly tore in the middle and started gushing blood. Sticky sweet sour blood which drenched the front of the chest of me who was the lion. And the blood made the lion crazy.

Once the lion, that is me had tasted the blood, it/I became crazy and started lashing both its/my paws on the girl slashing her again and again, each slash followed by a heart rending scream, each subsequent scream lesser in intensity than the previous one. The lion gave a roar and the crowd broke out into a pandemonium of applause.

I would have tossed and turned a lot but eventually fell into a drunken sort of a stupor. Eventually I stopped dreaming but did not actually remember when. I could have slept for a few moments. I could have slept for a few days, weeks, months or years, or even decades centuries, millennia or eons. And then I woke up with a severe discomfort due to a full bladder. A tight full bladder which was painfully distended.

The pain progressed to a bursting point and then I got up rubbing my eyes. My bladder was full and I had to go to the toilet. I found that the visibility in the room was a bit too low. The surroundings appeared to me to be a lot unfamiliar. The hotel room which I had checked into had suddenly become bigger and larger.

The bed had somehow expanded to become a king sized bed and it was bouncy like a luxury bed. As I got down, my feet touched a soft carpet. I had a vague feeling that something was not right because my mind was telling me that when I had checked into the lodge or hotel or whatever it was; it had a hard mosaic floor and not a soft carpeting into which my bare feet sunk.

Like a needle to a magnet, I went straight to the toilet. I think that my super sensitive nose had smelt the smell of toilet freshener and bleach that came from a small door to my right and like a desert traveler stumbling to an oasis, I staggered towards that door. I pushed the door and walked in. It was lucky that the bathroom light had been left on.

Again I was a little perplexed. The bathroom in my hotel had plain white ceramic tiles but this one had been delightfully decorated in pink marble. I remembered taking bath a little earlier bailing out water from a bucket with a blue plastic mug, but there was absolutely nothing blue in the room. The complete and total décor was in pink. A bath tub with golden taps had made its appearance and so had a large pink wash basin. And to one side was a pink European closet with a bidet beside it also in pink.

Drunkenly I staggered to the commode in the corner and lifted its pink lid. And then I enjoyed and savored the intense relief which only a man with a full bladder can experience. I was a little surprised that my yellow urine smelt of raw alcohol.

Well Mr. Vinod Kapoor! What else do you expect your piss to smell like? Eau de cologne? You drink more than a camel and then worry that your piss stank of booze. Finish fast and then look at your watch. You have to report to duty at 9.00 am sharp. It would not do to be late on your first day at work. Wash your face, have a quick shave and then decide what has to be done. You better call the reception and order for your morning tea.

I zipped my trousers and realized that I was sniffing something rancid and sour. I did not know what stench it was that over powered the stench of alcohol permeated human urine. I pressed the flush lever and bowl started gushing out blue colored perfumed water.

I was still feeling dazed and loose-jointed as I walked back to the wash basin. I saw something in the mirror and was suddenly hit by a dizzy spell. I had to hold the edge of the wash basin to steady myself and take a deep breath. I then opened my eyes once again and stared into the mirror. It was almost as if I was staring into the eyes of a stranger. Blood shot, tired, manovalant, like that of an African lion that had just torn its breakfast to shreds and given out a loud roar. And that was how my loud yawn looked displaying my thick, white, furry and coated tongue.

And to understand the ‘why’ of my comparison with an African lion staring straight across the bath room mirror, it was the front of my shirt which was soaked in something red which in all possibility was dried tomato ketchup, but in my confused and hung over state looked strangely like blood.

No wonder I looked like a freshly breakfasted lion with blood dripping from his canines all over to his front! And there was absolutely no mistaking in it at all. The face staring at me from the mirror, despite his red eyes, hollow sunken cheeks, coated tongue, ruffled hair and tomato ketchup shirt, was none else but yours truly Mr. Vinod Kapoor. Something was not right some where.

I looked at my hands and let out a low scream. Dried tomato ketchup on my palms. But looking more realistic than dried blood. I opened the tap and washed my hands. The red of the washing sauce swirled into the basin as I soaped my hands. It was a nice imported feminine soap.

I remembered unpacking my toilet kit and this was not the Hamam soap that I normally used. May be the hotel or lodge had provided a complementary soap. I decided to mention this at the reception and thank them later because for the modest rent that they charged, the services offered were more than a five star.

I washed my hands and then my face. I found a towel and wiped my face and hands. The pink towel had now become stained with brownish streaks of dried tomato sauce. It was all becoming too perplexing. I scratched my head and riffled my hair. The wash had made my face look a little better but I still looked pathetic all the same.

I decided to get back into my hotel room to investigate the tomato ketchup matter. I was having strange dreams. A part of my night seemed to be a little blank. Oh! I remembered going to a bar for a couple of drinks. I then went to a whorehouse and did not like the cheap stuff on display. I had finally taken an auto back to my lodge in Egmore and gone to bed. I had remembered to take off my shoes as my bare feet bore testimony to the fact.

Some how some sour and sickly smelling tomato sauce had smeared all over the front of my shirt and little efforts on my part would quickly solve the mystery. The explanation would really be simple. I would have ordered from the room service and being drunk poured the sauce all over my shirt instead of over the bread.

And I had by then totally forgotten about the sudden appearance of pink marble and a bath tub in the toilet and a double bed in the bedroom which had apparently become double its size in one night. I pushed the door open and entered into the bedroom which seemed to be a lot darker compared to the brightness of the bath room. I saw a big new design piano switch just outside the toilet door, pressing which flooded the bedroom into bright light.

I looked at my wrist watch at the time was 5.40 a.m. I had still a lot of time to get dressed, have a breakfast and go for work, of course I would have to shave and shower first. I had indeed crazy dreams last night. It was as if I had gone to the same bar once again and picked up the yellow dressed girl.

I had dreamt that she had taken me to a micro nest that had transformed itself to a gigantic Greek coliseum where a lion tore her to shreds. It was such a silly dream that I had even felt and perceived that I was the lion who was doing the shredding and mauling. It was such a stupid dream. And then I saw at the floor besides the bed. I stood petrified in horror because I suddenly realized that the dream was not over. And the stupidity I was dreaming was in front of me. The obscene horror. The repugnant spectacle which I wanted to go away. Disappear! Fade away. I closed my eyes shut and counted five. I walked two steps closer to where I had perceived to have seen the horror.

I then slowly opened my eyes, looked straight down and took a deep breath. The stench of the horror hit me on the nose as the sour sweet sticky non-vegetarian meat shop smell of blood hit my olfactory centers. My stomach rebelled and I could feel a heave. The next minute I retched and vomited out a pizza, chicken wings, brandy Bailey’s, whiskey, soda, mucous, bile and stench all over the front of my shirt and all over the dead body. Yes it was Neelambari. And she looked as if she had been mauled by a lion. I could not count the number of slashes in front of her body. They were at least a dozen or more. Violent stabs and maniacal slashes. She had been ripped to shreds.

Her left breast lay half spliced. Her belly lay open with swelling coils of white intestines protrading out as they had started swelling up with bacterial gases. The chest was splayed open and lung tissue was visible. All the horror was below the neck and above the umbilicus. The rest of Neelambari was unmarked and her face looked smiling innocent and peaceful even in death.

And then gradually things came back. My meeting the young starlet Neelambari was no dream. I was not in my hotel but in Neelambari’s love nest in her bedroom. She had playfully told me last night that Neelambari would be dying on the Friday and Rosy would be born. But poor Neelambari had been incorrect. She had died five days ahead of her schedule.

And Rosy was a still birth. The movie to be released on Friday would be not only her first movie but her last too. My vomiting had filled the air conditioned room with a repugnant stench. I took a deep breath and walked to the phone. The maniac who had done this dastardly act should hang to death. A savage animal like this should not be allowed to roam free on the streets of civilization.

I was about to dial the police when I paused. It was all getting a wee bit complex. The police was the only logical choice but on second thoughts was not such a good idea. I was supposed to join my new job at 9.00 am and there was absolutely no way I could do that if I got involved in police business.

My own position seemed to be so precarious. Blood on my hands. Blood on my clothes. By now enough sobriety had returned to totally demolish the tomato ketchup theory. It was a total and fucking disaster. But even then I have to admit that I am a law abiding citizen. Especially with the job I was supposed to join in a couple of hours where absolutely no law breaking would be tolerated.

My rational mind was trying to convince my irrational mind that I should do the only right thing. And that was to call police control room on 100, give them this address and stay put till the cops arrived. But then you don’t know this address – My irrational mind argued. Oh! That is easy. Control rooms have a caller ID facility. Use the land line and ask them to trace this address. Just tell them that it is some where in Anna Nagar close to Domino’s pizza. My rational mind said in a serious tone. But then the irrational mind put forth one argument for which I had no answer. Dreams. Vinod – what about your dreams? It was you as a lion that had mauled her. May be it is you who have done it in real life too. May be you had been too drunk or even doped. Yes doped! I had been doped.

The Baileys Irish crème was laced with dope! I could feel a slightly bitter and chalky after taste of a sleeping pill yes! That was it – said the rational mind. This was the opportunity that the irrational was awaiting for desperately.

Yes Yes! That is what I am telling you Vinod. Yaar! Listen to me. You don’t know what sort of a narcotic or psychotropic dope you have been fed upon. You don’t know how dazed or delusional you became after a cocktail of various drinks and drugs. Is it not just possible that you could have gone berserk and slashed the girl? And is it not just possible that you might have forgotten all about it? Your mind would have blocked it out of your psyche.

Had I not read a Sydney Sheldon Novel? Had I not seen it in a Hollywood movie? The guy being a murder maniac and not even knowing about it? You could be one such person, and waiting here while the police came would be the surest way to put a noose around your neck. Go away. Run away. Pretend that all this never happened. Think that this was a bad dream. Go back to the hotel and forget this – screamed my irrational mind.

The logic was too convincing to be ignored. I quickly looked around and spotted a cupboard. Inside I found a rack full of male clothes. Presumably the wardrobe belonged to KSR. I hoped that KSR would not be too different in size from me. I pulled out a shirt and saw that it would fit me a little loosely. It was then that I realized that it was one such shirt that Neelambari had worn last night.

My irrational mind asked me to take out my shirt and quickly don this yellow Arrow full shirt. But my rational mind took over and I donned the shirt over my shirt. It was loose enough and once I buttoned up, rushed towards the toilet. Then my rational mind told me that there was a mirror and a dresser in the bedroom itself.

I quickly looked at myself. The long shirt looked like a new Madrasi fashion and apart from haggard looks and blood shot eyes, I looked fairly normal I guess. I stank of vomit because parts of it were still stuck to my shirt but I had no time to clean up. I looked down at the horror once again and found that its obnoxity had increased due to my vomit and a squishy pizza topping had fallen over her belly.

The umbilicus which had looked better than belly dancer’s was bloated up due to the swelling intestines and I was surprised that this could happen so soon after death. I did not have the stomach to tolerate this any longer and slowly walked out. I had to carefully walk around the other side of the bed because I did not want to dirty my foot and leave any clues.

But at that time I was totally under the control of my irrational mind and had overlooked the fact that I had left more than a dozen clues. I patted my pocket and found that my wallet was intact. Just then the mobile phone still attached to the charger started ringing. I walked to it and looked at the incoming digital read out 988181811. Nine eight eight one, eight one and one. Where had I heard this number earlier? Why did it ring a bell in my mind? I waited for it to ring twelve times and then stop.

In a short while, the landline phone started ringing. I silently tiptoed into the drawing room and saw that the parallel extension was ringing too. I could hear the dog yelping outside. I did not hesitate or waste even an instant. I walked to the main door and pushed it open.

It was still twilight outside and brightness was improving. The barks and yelps became joyous and I saw the white ball of fur busily sniffing at my toes. I shooed the dog away and located my shoe. To my consternation, my socks were missing. I searched frantically for a minute or two but it turned out to be futile. I decided that I could not wait any longer or waste any time and slipped my bare feet into my brown shoes and tied the lace.

It was only when I had bent down to tie my shoe lace that I saw a small chewed up area near the heel that told me that not only had the dog messed up with my shoe but also in all likelihood was the culprit responsible for snatching away my socks. My irrational mind commanded me to forget about my socks and I left yet another clue.

I briskly walked up to the gate when I heard the ringing of a bicycle bell. It was a middle aged man who was the daily news paper vendor. His bicycle was ancient but he was pedaling it briskly. He looked at me, gave a smile and tossed the newspaper towards me. The rolled up bundle sailed up in the air and unfurled as it fell down. But I had been a good cricket player in college and caught it easily. The newspaper guy was too busy looking at my face as he threw the newspaper and totally missed the other bicycle carrying the milk vendor coming from the opposite side.

The loud bang and an equally loud crash told me that the two bicyclists had collided. The milk vendor had a rectangular plastic box tied to the rear of his bicycle, which was full of polythene sachets of milk all of which fell out on the road. The impact of the fall had split a couple and the road was becoming a white milky mess.

Both the vendors did not seem to be seriously hurt and dazedly got up leaving their prostrate bicycles on the road. But even if they were seriously injured or even dead, I would not have been allowed by my irrational brain to play the Good Samaritan and offer assistance. It was urging desperation and hurry. It was advising me to get away.

My rational mind wanted me to appear calm and composed but the panic trigger repeatedly pressed by my other half made me open the gate briskly and walk out fast carrying a rolled up newspaper in my hand not giving a second look to the accident site or its victims.

After a few steps I paused and turned around. The two accident victims had got up and were gazing towards me. The fact that I could make out their facial features clearly and look at them perfectly well, also meant that the light was now adequate enough for them to do the same with my face. But being identified as a suspect fleeing away from the scene of crime was definitely not on my mind at that time because I was being seized with blind panic which urged me to rush out as fast as I could.

However as suggested by my irrational mind, I did not jog or run. I just did a bit of brisk walking till it got me to Anna Nagar Second Avenue. I found three autos parked below a tree and approached them.

“Egmore!” I said. My throat was so cracked and parched that the voice sounded like a stranger’s. The auto fellow closest to me wrinkled his nose in disgust and said

“One hundred rupees payable in advance. I have to clean the auto of your booze and vomit smell after I drop you at Egmore”

I opened my purse and found that I had only five hundred rupee notes. I pushed one towards him and he said

“Thank god you told me here itself that you don’t have any change.” Leaving me standing beside his auto, he rushed across to the other side of the road and took ten full minutes to come back. All this while I stood like a dammed fool in an oversized shirt as the three other auto fellows stared at me. And later these would be witness to a man in a loose shirt and a rolled up newspaper with him.

My auto fellow came back and returned me four hundred rupees. I got in as he wrinkled his nose in distaste once again and finally drove ahead. In half an hour we were in my lodge. I walked quickly and kept a distance from the front desk so that my vomit smells would not get to the chap in there.

In two minutes I was stripped to my shorts. My white jockeys too had a daub of blood on its front and I took this out as well. I admired my own powerful and muscular legs. I got my scissors and very patiently slit all my clothes so that it lay as a pile of split cotton bits on the newspaper that I had carried along with me. I quickly made a parcel out of it and used the cello tape from my stationery kit to secure it.

I opened the window and looked out to the narrow street that faced the back of Albert theatre. It was vacant at this time, its only occupants being one cow and two dogs foraging the corporation dust bin. I gauged the distance between the bin and my window. I had made the bundle a little tight and tossed it. I think that I have told you earlier that I was a good cricketer. And thus it was not surprising that the packet netted the waste basket!

Unlike Neelambari’s toilet, this one was not equipped with hot and cold water. I had to do with cold water but Chennai weather was hot enough not to necessitate hot water. I scrubbed myself clean as if I was washing off my guilt along with all the dirt and grime.

Only after my initial wash did I shave. I then repeated my bath once again. I sniffed under my armpits and realized that apart from Hamam soap, my body was also oozing the odor of death. My rational mind took over and told me that I was imagining things. I called the room service and ordered for breakfast which arrived at 8.00 sharp. After a filling breakfast, which was unusual after the horror I had witnessed this morning, I dressed up.

My job had a particular dress code. No Bill Gates like faded jeans work culture for us. Though I need not have dressed up for the first day of the work, I decided to wear a proper dress. I would be meeting my boss for the first time and we all know that the first impressions are the best impressions. I wanted my first impression to be the best.

The waiter was a little surprised to see my attire and his eyes widened with a special respect. Mr. Vinod Kapoor! You have your mother to thank. Though your father was wheat brown, Ammi is like a European. And that is why you are so smart and handsome. Enough of Narcissism. Get going young man!

I opened the briefcase and took out the brown envelope that contained my appointment and joining instructions. I picked up the cover and was suddenly seized by a complex series of emotions. I was assailed with doubts about my conduct. What I had just done was bad. It was true that I did not have a single clue that could lead the cops to the actual killer, but the fact remained that I had acted badly by running away like a thief.

It took me some time to reach to a decision. But once I made it, I felt a lot better. I folded the letter and placed it in my pocket. By the time I left the lodge it was 8.15. I found an auto outside. I got in and the auto chap looked at me. In a soft voice I said “Police commissioner’s office please”

The auto chap nodded and as he drove out and said “It is close enough sir! I am glad that sir has chosen my auto!”

I was gladdened by the respect that I was being given. The police commissioner’s office was close indeed and by 8.30 I was inside the gate.

I pulled out the wallet but the auto fellow said

“Sir! It is too short a distance. And I did not down the meter”

I just nodded, replaced the purse in my pocket and walked out. The office is situated in a big complex with a lot of single and double storey buildings scattered around the campus. An arrow pointed to the actual office of the city police commissioner and my shoe crunched the gravel and got me to a porch through which I got to a big door which had a wooden board

P.N. Swaminathan IPS

Commissioner

Above this was a polished teak wood board with a list of the previous commissioners in the city with a from-year and a to-year. As I looked at it and smiled at Swaminathan’s blank ‘to-year’, I saw that his predecessors had occupied the post, for a duration varying between three months to three years. Some years saw up to three commissioners.

I knew that a city police commissioner was a very sensitive and a very powerful post which was at the mercy of the local chief minister. It was obvious that the duration of each commissioner spoke about his ability to toe the line with the local politicians and administrators. The desk was manned by a head constable who got up and I told him what I wanted. He asked me to take a seat and told me that the big boss came to work only by about 10.00. He conversationally asked me if I would like to meet one of the joint commissioners.

I shook my head from side to side and said that I wanted to meet the commissioner and him alone. What of an hour, even if this meeting necessitated waiting till the evening, I would wait. I had told you earlier that just before I left the lodge, I had made a decision and I reaffirmed to myself that irrespective of what either my rational or irrational mind told me, I had made my decision which was inviolate.

Exactly at 9.55 the commissioner came. His white Ambassador with a red dome light screeched into the porch. An SLR carrying black cat commando PSO jumped out of the front seat and quickly opened the rear passenger seat. Swaminathan was a slim and smart officer whose body language exuded power and his gait was brisk, efficient and absolutely no nonsense.

The moment he caught my eye, I stood up and saluted him briskly. He answered me with a nod and smile and walked in. He made me wait for another half an hour and then the intercom beside the head constable rang. He picked it up and spoke softly into it. He then got up and nodded to me. I got up and followed him in. The door led into an ante room with a dozen chairs and beyond this was another door bearing the commissioners name in brass letters.

The constable pointed towards the door, gave me a small salute and walked back to his seat. I touched my pocket to ensure that my brown cover was intact and briskly tapped the door. There was a soft answer of ‘come in’. I pushed the door and walked in. It was a big room and chilled with air conditioning. I gave a brisk salute, and pulled out of the brown cover and slid it across the glass topped green bieze table beyond which the commissioner sat.

He said softly

“Vinod Kapoor IPS – Assistant Commissioner of police, probationary officer posted in my department. Good. I was expecting you. Come have a seat!”

“Yes sir!” I said in my cop voice exactly as I had been trained. He opened the envelope and spread out the sheet on the table. He nodded in satisfaction and said

“Well! Normally you would be posted in some district as an assistant superintendent of police before being given your own new district, but our DG has a new policy where by he wants probationers to undergo six months city posting first!”

I did not know anything about local politics and thus said the standard “Yes sir!”

He looked at me with piercing eyes and said “I have not decided as to what to do with you. As it is, I am overstaffed at the upper echelons. Give me a dozen inspectors any day instead of a probationary officer. We don’t have enough place at the top”

“Yes sir!” That was all I could say. Obviously I could not resign my commission just because my current boss felt that Indian police was too top heavy.

“Districts! District my boy! That is the training ground for a young officer. That is where a young probationary officer should be. Not in a city which is already clogged by a dozen DIG’s none of whom has got a promotion and each is anxious as a school kid!” Continued the commissioner in the very same vein

“Yes sir” again. Obviously I could not tell him – In that case why don’t you resign sir and make way for some young officers like me.

“Hmm! And what would I do with you?” He asked in a pensive voice. And this was not a trick question that could be answered as I had been doing till now. Nor could I tell him – Well sir! I suggest that you take a six-month holiday and enjoy yourself. And don’t worry. I would look after your work well in your absence!

I waited for my Boss to find an answer to his own questions. He then said

“Deepavali is approaching. Our department would issue licenses for the crackers. In addition the annual renewal of arms licenses would be due in December. Normally I pull out a station inspector for these three months, but all my stations are really tight now a days. Now that you have come, you can look after that. There is at least three months work for you!”

This was something that could be answered by a brisk “Yes sir!” and I did just that.

“I don’t think that we have any quarters for you. And six months is too short any way. You claim HRA and get your own lodging. Meet my head constable and he would explain you all the details”

“Yes sir!”

“Deputy Commissioner Jehangir Ali is the secretary of our officers club. Fill the form and your dues would be deducted from your salary”

“Yes sir”

“And you would need an orderly. Ask Ganapathy on your way out and he would allot you one. That guy would even help you to find an accommodation. I expect that your place of work will be around my office and so you can get an accommodation close by!

“Yes sir!”

“Okkay! That would be all!”

“Yes sir!” I said briskly as I stood up and gave him my standard shoe clicking Punjabi Jawan Fauji salute which seemed to awe my Madrasi boss who gave me a return salute which was a lot more formal then the earlier ones given by him.

Ganapathy turned out to be the head constable with sacred ash stripes across his forehead. He was the one who had shown me in. It was apparent that the commissioner had already discussed the matter with Ganapathy who told me that the fire arms licenses section was on the first floor.

He said that he could not leave his bosses’ desk unattended but assured me that it was an easy place to find. He told me that the room was occupied by the inspector who came for three months. He then said he that he had already chosen Alty for me.

Looking at the incomprehension at my face he clarified

“Sir! In Tamil Nadu, we call on orderly or a bat-man as an Alty”.

I gave a smile and asked

“And who is this fortunate person that you have chosen for me?”

“Paneerselvam the poet sir” He said. He added

“He is waiting for you upstairs in your room. I sent him up straight. Take the stairs and turn to the right. Ask anyone and they would tell you”.

I nodded and walked out. A single flight of steps got me to my office, which was beyond a hall populated by, at least two dozen tables with clerks on them. I pushed the door and entered a small dusty office some twelve feet square. A plump black mustached head constable who was exactly opposite of me in every way was dusting the swivel chair behind the table.

The chair was unstable and was wobbling a little as he wiped. The sound of my arrival alerted him and he abruptly turned around. His face broke out into a smile and he gave a brisk salute. He then dropped the dusting cloth and started fumbling into his pockets. I wondered what he was searching for.

In a minute he had produced a big yellow lemon from each pocket. He walked to me and gave me the lemons. I looked at him with a little surprise and told him that at that time, I would prefer hot tea to lime juice. And even if he wanted to give me lime juice, as an orderly, it was his job to squeeze it, add ice, water and sugar and present it to me in a glass.

Paneer smiled and explained that it was not for lime juice. It was a custom of Tamil Nadu police that when a senior officer joined duties, the juniors offered him respect by giving him the lime. I broke out into a smile and told him that the present commissioner did not seem to need my services.

I further told him that this would be like a six-month holiday for me.

He looked at me, smiled and said

“Excuse me sir! It reminds me of a poem”

Welcome Welcome to this office

I hope you would get enough joy

Let them not mar your happiness

By using any stupid ploy

You are new, you are nice and welcome

Excellent officer you will become”

He completed his poem and gave a stiff bow. For a minute I did not know what to do. He had recited his poem in the rhymes. And from his bow it appeared that he expected some sort of an appreciation and applause.

And then I did the most stupid thing in my life

“Poet Paneer!” I said “You are indeed a good poet. And that was a good poem. Who wrote it?”

With a chest expanded like a peacock and a thousand watt smile beaming on his face, he confessed that the author of the masterpiece was none else but himself and he had produced the creation in an impromptu fashion the moment he had seen his new boss.

“You are handsome you are proud

My heart is glad and I shout out loud!”

He produced another instant poem. And then I realized that if I don’t nip this habit in the bud, I would end up being a poet critic during the remainder of my stay in town. Though there was nothing much to do on the first day of work, Paneer and I got my room tided up, arranged our files, went out to lunch together and decided to disperse at 5.00 pm.

Paneer promised to spend the evening hours trying to locate a good dwelling for me. He told me that he would get back with some good news; by the next day. He asked me to fill a requisition to OS in MT for the issue of a jeep. I asked him if I was entitled to a jeep with my status as a probationary officer.

“It is a very well known fact

Each inspector has his jeep quota intact

But in your case it is a lot easy

You re a god-dammed AC!”

On hearing the poetic reply, I informed my Alty that I had made a decision not to hear more than three poems a day and that he had exceeded his quota for the Monday. His face did cloud with features of disappointment but then he was not only my subordinate but also my orderly.

I got to my hotel at 6.00 pm and the boy at the desk gave me a brisk salute. My uniform had that effect. And once I had my bath and poured myself a whiskey from the bottle which I had asked Paneer to buy, I pondered over my previous twenty four hours and realized that they were hectic twenty four hours indeed!

 

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