Smashed!: A Novel

By Sirpy

A simple plan.

Three jilted boys.

A tennis tournament.

A tea shop.

And a crow.

All these come together to weave a story, that is set in the lurid, colorful background of Chennai. A story that is spread over four intense days. A story that has more references to South Indian cuisine than a Saravana Bhavan menu card. A story that tries to explore the often-grey areas of love, values, family, hope and deceit.

A story that does not have Batman.

As John, Kumar and Ganesh plot to take revenge, as Vikas plots to win the tournament, as Karthik plots to become richer, as Subod plots against Ram – with so much plotting it is bound to have real estate consultants go into frenzies. As the stories evolve, the low-brow college tennis tournament in the city reaches Godzilla proportions, playing the stage to a big coup.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Jul 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9789384381561

Book preview

Smashed!

A Novel

Sirpy

Notion Press

5 Muthu Kalathy Street, Triplicane,

Chennai - 600 005

First Published by Notion Press 2014

Copyright © Sirpy 2014

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-93-84381-56-1

This book has been published in good faith that the work of the author is original. All efforts have been taken to make the material error-free. However, the author and the publisher disclaim the responsibility.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

To V, J, K and R My Pillars

The depressing thing about Tennis is that no matter how good you get, you are not going

to get better than a wall.

Mitch Hedberg

Prologue

The sun blistered down on the clay, the rays painting faint cracks on the surface. Shadows infinitesimally lengthened and a silence engulfed the place. It was not a deathly silence, but more like the silence of anticipation; one of chewed nails, gripped hand-rests, inconsequential trepidation and darkly ominous.

It started from the six entrances, rode over the seats, vaulted the fences and came to rest at the threaded barricade in the centre of it all, weaving in and out the square holes and stood poised above the white border. It rose up around the arena, and descended once again like a blanket. A misdirected crow flew around. Empty seats peered out onto an empty court.

Into this silence, three guys walked in; puncturing it with their soft footsteps. All three were in identical overalls, eyes covered by dark shades and wore low caps. The tallest of them was holding a thick black bag and going by the inveterate swinging it was subjected to, did not seem to contain anything heavy. They strode to the barricade and examined it. Not a word was spoken. For some reason.

The tallest one dumped the bag on the ground. A small swirl of dust rose and settled around. He bent over, opened the bag and started rummaging. As he fished around, the second tallest one brought out a scale from his pocket and started measuring the barricade from the ground. He stopped around 2 feet from the ground and grunted an approval.

The shortest of them stood a little way off; toeing the second white line. He walked to one corner and measured 10 steps parallel to the barricade. He then sat down on his haunches and looked straight ahead.

The tallest one took out a thin metal box with wires trailing. Very delicately; he affixed it to the barricade at the point measured, ensuring the crisscross threads hid the wires well. He taped it all around in transparent cellophane. There was a nagging feeling, that he had missed something, but he shirked it off. Once done, he gave a thumbs-up sign to the one at the white line.

The man on his haunches felt a cramp developing and squinted at the thumbs-up, wondering which finger it was. After a few seconds of wild, pointless gesticulation, he lightly moved his shades down, looked again and returned the thumbs-up. Meanwhile, the man with the scale was running around the court trying to chase off the crow that had manifested itself and was head-over-heels in love with all three of them. After a good round of pirouetting, the crow gave up and settled on one end of the barricade casting a nervous eye on the trio.

The three were done in ten minutes and they surveyed their handiwork. It looked beautiful and prompted the shortest one to flick an imaginary tear. Then all three adjusted their Bay-Ran shades and packed up everything, ensuring that there was no indication of their having been there. They walked back to the entrance and vanished into its dark interiors, slamming the door behind them.

The silence descended once again, more enraged this time. And the sun continued to blister, more stoked this time. Empty seats peered out onto an empty court; which was now riddled with shoe marks all over the red clay. So much for being discreet.

Five hours to go.

Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1 Love All

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

Part 2 Tie-Breakers

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

Part 3 Game, Set and Match

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A BUFFET OF UNKNOWN TERMS

Part 1

Love All

Chapter 1

Horace John Ignatius lay sprawled on his bed, his eyes bloodshot and tousled hair pointing in all possible directions. He had a sleepless night clouded with nightmares of episodes that had not yet happened, permutations of different scenarios played out in his dreams; everything and nothing to do with his current state of mind. Visions of his mother, Krithika’s parents, his sister, Krithika’s brother and several of his relatives had invaded his sub-conscious and allowed him to toss and turn. At one particular point, he had tossed and turned so much, he almost throttled himself with his own lungi; which seemed to be an infinitely better option considering his present situation.

His situation was not exactly unique; it was one that almost 80% of the country’s populace found themselves in, at that age. A situation so commonplace, its rarity is uncommon in the common man.

He was in love.

Or he thought he was.

But he made it unique. Simply because it was not his style or principle or economic standing to fall in love. And that too, fall in love with somebody who was several notches above him on the socio-economic scale. And that too, fall in love with somebody who belonged to a different religion altogether. And that too, fall in love with a girl so beautiful and stately. And that too, above all, fall in love.

His principles were simple and straightforward, borne out of repeated, abject failure. He had always been a failure, since the time he exited his mother’s womb the wrong side. The doctor who oversaw his birth, quit his medical profession and retired to the Himalayas for the rest of his life.

The real reason was that during crowning, all that they could see was a cake, half-sliced down the middle. A very distasteful cake. He was eventually pried out with the help of forceps that clutched his bottom and pulled him out. That resulted in a quirky set of permanent scars which looked like he had eyes on his bottom.

His schooling was simply pointless, as his parents found out after some time. He failed in every possible subject, barring English. He insisted that he failed on purpose; which seemingly brought about an aura of awe among his friends’ circle. He prided on taking the system down, by failing. One subject at a time. As he grew into his teens, his voice broke; hair thickened and a stud found its way into one of his ears, he still remained the rebel that he swore to be.

But in his heart of hearts, he knew it was all an excuse, a show, a pantomime to cover his inability to do anything that was even remotely related to using his bean. He never showed it.

His father had been an army veteran. The Indian Government decorated him with a single medal, which was the equivalent of a participation certificate and retired him. He had drawn a meagre pension that was just enough to make sure there was a plate of food before him and his family, for every meal. With the arrival of the second baby, he was forced to take up a full-time job and the best that he was able to manage was head of security at the nearby stadium.

His wife was a smart woman. She knew everything about everybody everywhere. Richard had married a rather short, plain, shy girl who came into the house with a sizeable dowry that soon vanished. Contrast to her husband’s portly tall frame, she was almost a midget. But her stature went beyond just plain size. She was well known for her fierce eyes, gossip-hungry ear and a sharp tongue. And the family desperately needed somebody like her.

That left Anitha, John’s sister. She was a photocopy of his mother, in all aspects. And unlike a number of younger siblings whose sole aim in life is to let the elder ones take the blame always, she adored her brother. She wanted him to succeed in life, even though that usually looked bleak whenever she found him hanging out with his vagabond friends. She raced past him in school, leaving him several grades behind. By the time, she obtained an engineering college seat, he was still stuck in school.

And then one fine day, Richard died.

After that, everything changed for John. He had to find a job. His mother went and talked to the stadium authorities, explaining their plight. The Chairman acquiesced and they gave him a position in the stadium security as a final consolation prize to his dead father.

A slew of potential suitors for Anitha, along with their families started parading into the house, almost every other day. If not for his strong-willed mother, who wanted the daughter to complete her education, Anitha would have been cooking Pongal and serving coffee to an unknown being in some other part of Tamil Nadu, by now.

Life became clockwork; the ear-stud vanished, his friends vanished, the schoolbooks vanished (he actually sold them off to buy beer) and the hair trimmed down. Every day, he reported for work sharp at nine in the morning; spent the whole day walking around the stadium; occasionally taking a nap on one of the seats. In the evening, he was relieved at six; came back home, washed, watched television for a couple of hours and hit the sack.

And then one fine day, he met Krithika.

And before that happened, one fine day, Anitha met Ram.

‘AAARRRGGGGHHHH!’ John yelled as he toppled out of his reverie. As always, whenever he slept the bed sheet replaced his lungi and neither was near him. His sister stood by, grinning and shielding her eyes from the eighth wonder of the world, as she laid down the empty pail.

‘You bloody…!’ he started to get up, dripping away with water and promptly stepped into the pail.

Anitha, ran out of the room telling mother, ‘He is up, Amma. And he is angry’.

His mother peeped out into the room to see John, tying his lungi and blearily mumbling obscenities. She sighed and went back to check on her cooking. This was an everyday affair and she sort of secretly adored the way the squabbles between John and Anitha broke out. They never went overboard, almost as if they knew when to stop. If only John was a bit more responsible… wishful thinking, maybe?

Chapter 2

Enraged albeit only slightly, John walked to the bathroom sink, gargled loudly and stared into the mirror. He must be in his element today; the peak of his game. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain. He brushed his teeth and went to have a bath.

His mother was meanwhile laying out hot idlis and sambhar, the smoke curling into punctuation marks. They had no dining table, or for that matter no dining room. The house was one among six flats that formed a part of the government housing colony which the Indian Government had very graciously allocated to war veterans. There was barely enough room with all the army trunks, which for some reason mother held on to. John called her an emotional fool.

There were just three rooms - a sparsely furnished hall, a smoky kitchen and a bedroom lined with posters and floor-to-ceiling cupboards. John always slept in the bedroom alone.

He came out of the bath, spraying the musty air with droplets of water as he towelled his hair. The smell of hot idlis drew him to the kitchen. He pulled out a steel plate from the stand, helped himself to a few idlis and sat on an overturned pot to start eating.

‘Amma, can you lend me 40 rupees?’ he asked, the words travelling through chewed idlis.

‘What for? I don’t have change,’ she replied in a half-question.

He sat sulking and slurping the sambhar. ‘Ok, give me what you have. I’ll return the remaining.’

She sighed once again, reached for her hip purse and drew out a brand new 500 rupee note and gave it to him.

‘All the best,’ she said smiling.

He looked at her in bewilderment, taking the 500 rupee note with his other hand. He silently finished the rest of the idlis and washed the plate. He then dried his hands and leaned against the wall, looking at his mother hunched over the stove, the radio gently screeching its presence through the unnecessarily over-enthusiastic jockey’s voice.

He moved forward, hugged her from behind and planted a kiss on the back of her head. He could not see... nay, did not want to see, her face. He was positive it will be teared up. She was an emotional fool and he loved her.

He went out the door into the daylight, brimming with energy and positivity. I will do it, I have to he told resolutely to himself and strode purposefully in the direction of the bus stand with his eyes glued to the road.

And walked right into a guy standing against a bike.

Anitha was already late. She hurriedly braided her hair, peeped out of the window and felt her heart grow full. She picked up her books, stuffed them in the bag and swung it over on one side. She checked her mobile phone - 4 missed calls. She went to the faded photo of Jesus on the ledge, murmured a short prayer, put the sign of the cross and walked to the door.

‘I am leaving, Amma. Bye!’ she said to the back of her mother. Her mother showed up her hand, in a mute farewell. She climbed down the stairs, wondering if John had once again said anything disappointing or depressing to her mother. She looked at the watch and sped up; he had been waiting for 20 minutes.

As she stepped onto the road, she suddenly stopped in her tracks.

Two men were fighting on the road. One man was fully dressed in formals, blue shirt and black pants, with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder; and he looked quite scared. The other man was her brother. Her brother was holding the other man by his collar and was periodically shoving him against his bike like a drunk pendulum. The bike was leaning precariously to one side.

‘You audacious scum, is this how you stand in the middle of the road? What are you doing beneath my house? Have you come to steal something? What do you think of yourself? Some Romeo?’ John hollered.

‘No sir, sorry sir. I was just waiting for somebody. I am sorry, sir. I will leave immediately. Sorry sir, please let me go. People are looking,’ he cried.

As happens in any city in India, a crowd of onlookers had gathered around. John smirked and let go of his collar.

‘Run now. If I see you anywhere in this vicinity, I’ll… I’ll…’ he sputtered, searching for an apt dialogue that would curdle fear; ‘…I’ll kick you!’ he ended lamely.

Ram shook free, scrambled on to the bike and promptly left the place in a cloud of smoke.

Anitha watched the entire episode in silence; fuming slowly. When she could bear it no more, she strode up to John and administered him one tight slap.

John looked like a truck had hit him in his gonads. He had seen his sister angry several times before, but now she was almost breathing fire. Her ears had gone red; and her palm was crimson, probably smarting. He watched in slow motion as the palm came once more towards him. The second slap resounded even more than the previous one.

The third time, he managed to stop her. Just in time.

‘Whaaattt…’ he mumbled.

‘You are such a… such a… such an idiot,’ she sputtered in anger as a vein throbbed in her head.

She shook herself free from his grasp and walked away, dialling a number on her mobile.

John stood there wondering what just happened. His shirt was crumpled and there was, what looked like cow dung, stuck to his trousers. He was going to get late and he was sure of that. But he cannot go meet her looking like this. Time raced against him as he raced back home to change into something that did not make him look like a security guard; even though he was one.

It did not strike him at all.

Chapter 3

Time rang.

An alarm that was loud enough to bring about multiple organ failure in a hippo, broke through the silence. He leaned over, flinging his wiry frame over to check the time, swore and scrambled out of the bed, groggily. Kumar was hung over. He was thoroughly hung over.

Kumar was, what you would call, the perfect slice of specimen from a perfect middle-class upbringing. He formed the youth brigade of the country that was hurled towards IT, without their knowledge, need or aspiration. But he was not at all apologetic about it nor scandalized by it. In fact he enjoyed the situation, in spite of being besmirched as one among many. At an age, where all evils touch their peaks, he was earning enough money to buy those evils.

He hailed from a town called Madurai in south-western Tamil Nadu, born into a well-educated and decently opulent family with little qualms about societal issues. From small, he had a goal going, thanks to the numerous television serials that pervaded his childhood recollections and general peer pressure; of going to America. He studied, mugged, learned, digested, lived and existed with that single goal in mind. At least, until college.

He joined an engineering college in Chennai, one of the leading colleges in the state. He left his family to study from the hostel, promising them and himself that his dedication towards his goal has far from wavered. But it did waver. Rather precariously.

College life was strictly standard study-or-else-you-won’t-get-placed type of drill. He passed, but barely, because of one major reason. It was that reason, which deviated him from his main goal; a love that tried to surpass his other love.

Eventually, he got placed in an IT company where his dream seemed to have finally reset and reaffirmed on its rightful course. But there was that small hiccup that was not elaborated earlier. He had fallen in love. Several eons ago, four years to be pedantic about, it began in college. She was his classmate. It was tough for him, to concentrate, to focus on his primary goal. But there she was - in a churidhar on Monday, in a sari during the symposium, in a t-shirt during the dancing practice sessions; it was really, really tough. But he tried to turn a deaf eye and a blind ear to them all, to some degree. He did write some objectionable literature, in the form of a love letter, which lay atop his desk for 4 years which was by now crumpled, stained and looked closer to something like used toilet paper. But the words still carried weight. The weight of his heart.

Today, he had accomplished what he had started out to accomplish. Almost. He had been waiting for this day, more than anything else in his life. There was just one problem.

He was hung over.

He was smelling of whisky and he had his friends to blame for that. Kumar was not a drunkard by a long shot. Thanks to his friends who forced a treat out of him; things went out of control and he ended up getting sloshed.

As he lolled around his bachelor room, in search of the toothbrush, he tried to think of what to say to her. The heat in his room sent rivulets of sweat crashing down his wide forehead from a sparse growth of hair, as the fan lazily rotated away. His head ached like it was being pummelled by bears. He finally found the brush stuck behind a book called ‘UNIX for Dummies’. But now the toothpaste was missing. He just dipped the brush in a