Blowfish

By Siddharth Tripathi

Mukund and Chaddha spend their days comfortably ensconced in their cushy jobs, wallowing in regrets that make for good conversation. Mukund, in a fit of bravado. resigns to pursue his “calling”; the only hitch is that he doesn't know what it is yet! Chaddha is fired and seeks solace in shooting pigeons at point-blank range.
Mukund's life spirals out of control when Colonel Harpal Singh, the housing society secretary, finds in him a reflection of his estranged son. Harpal places Mukund under “house arrest”, puts him on trial in a kangaroo court and coerces him to fight a ludicrous duel.
Constantly under threat, and running out of time and money, Mukund is about to go back to being a man with bad dandruff, a small car and even smaller dreams, when he meets Suman, a girl who, like him, is trying to figure out what life is all about.

Blowfish is a fast, funny and irreverent take on the overhyped pursuit of passion in a country where flashy cars and posh bungalows remain the only lasting symbols of success and happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9789386643339

Book preview

Blowfish

PART ONE

The hunchback’s escape

Iwoke up with a headache. I did kapalbhati. I aimed at 15 minutes every Monday. The breathing exercise, I believed, kept me alive till Friday evening. Inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale. In-out-in-out. Stop. Repeat.

I wore my wrinkled grey suit and a beet red tie that Nisha had got for me. I got into my carribbean blue WagonR. My office was just a 10-minute drive from where I lived. Gurgaon was all about convenience. Everything was close by: multiplexes, offices, liquor stores and that goon in a black Scorpio who’ll kill you without thinking twice.

I noticed a mule perched on the road divider near Paras Hospital. It stood still, chewing cud happily with its eyes half-shut, oblivious of the chaotic world around him—a stoic rebel amongst the honking cars and garish billboards.

The divider was like the edge of the world and the mule seemed to be standing outside looking in, aware but detached, not thinking of anything, not trying to get somewhere. I felt a strong urge to get out of my car; I wanted to graze free, to stand atop a pile of garbage and chew cud.

There was a time when I wanted to be rich and famous; six years on I aspired to be an abandoned mule, I wanted to be an amoeba, a worm in the mud, a quiet bat in a dark cave, a pebble on the filthy banks of the Ganga. Someone was honking impatiently. I sighed and drove on.

Rangoo caught hold of me the instant I reached my cubicle.

‘Bhandari, why can’t you ever be on time?’ he said shaking his head in dismay. ‘Josh wants to review the Bhujani client presentation. He seems to be in a bad mood.’

‘Hmmm …,’ I said sadly. I was still thinking of the mule. ‘Can we grab a coffee before we go in?’

‘No,’ he caught me by my shoulder and dragged me towards Joshi’s office. ‘What do you think? Will he be fine with our presentation?’

‘I don’t know. You reviewed it. You think it’s fine, don’t you?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I do. I mean maybe not. I don’t know,’ he said. He straightened his tie and knocked on Joshi’s door. Rangoo had been my boss for three glorious uneventful years during which both of us had under-performed in tandem. Rangoo and I had the same aspiration: to be invisible, to be a nobody.

‘Come in,’ Joshi took a serious, loud slurp from his company logo embossed coffee mug.

‘Gooooood morning, sir! How are you?’ Rangoo sang. The high-pitched greeting was followed by a cuckoo-like enquiry about Joshi’s well-being. I could bet he had rehearsed it in front of the mirror.

Rangoo believed his fake enthusiasm would somehow exonerate him of his incompetence. I smiled and nodded shyly. Reticence, I believed, would somehow make me seem like an eccentric genius.

Joshi didn’t share Rangoo’s sunny disposition. ‘What is it Ranganath?’ he asked.

‘Sir, Bhujani brothers, sir.’

‘Ah, sorry, I forgot about it. Mind fuck ho gaya hai. I just got off my fourth straight con call with those fuckers in the region! They just don’t get India. They think this firm can do business here with their stupid American approach, I just told them to screw themselves. What do you think, eh? What does it take to do business in India?’

‘Sir, I think what you’ve done here is right,’ said Rangoo.

It was good that Joshi didn’t ask Rangoo what he thought he had ‘done here’ because I could swear Rangoo was clueless.

Joshi nodded. He was nicknamed ‘Josh’ for his enthusiasm for the ‘firm’ and the ‘business’—two words that he used often, words that made me feel like my head was shoved inside a toilet. And his office gave me the heebie-jeebies. The walls were dotted with star performer trophies and framed photographs: Josh in a flashy overcoat and green moccasins standing amongst firangs in the company’s ‘Nurturing Great Leaders’ training; Josh receiving this award and that recognition; Josh with the global CEO at a ‘Coffee with the CEO’ tête-à-tête; Joshi with his big, black dog—both wearing yellow bow ties; Joshi on the beach with his skimpily clad wife and teenage daughter; Josh with Sri Sri Ravi Shankar at a mountain retreat. That room encapsulated everything that I didn’t want to become.

‘Ok, let’s get back to this Bhujani brothers presentation. Do you have a copy?’

‘Yes sir, here it is,’ Rangoo gave him a printout.

Joshi put on his thin-rimmed specs and started reading. He sniggered. It sounded like a neigh, ‘It’ll have to do. We hardly have any time left. Can you show me the financial projections please?’

Rangoo got confused, his face turned red. ‘Bhandari, where are the financial projections?’ he said turning around.

‘I didn’t put it in. We didn’t have any reliable data to do that analysis.’ I said.

Joshi wasn’t happy with the truth. He ignored me, ‘I asked you Ranganath, can you answer instead of looking at your deputy,’ he said.

‘Sir, we can’t present financial projections. We don’t have the data for that,’ Rangoo’s apologetic rephrase of my statement sounded even worse.

‘Ah,’ Joshi emitted a dry, cruel laugh, ‘Ranganath, do you remember our meeting with Manoj Taparia?’

‘Yes sir,’ Rangoo said.

‘Let me tell you Bhandari. It’s always good to learn from others’ mistakes. We are sitting in a swanky conference room at The Oberois, I am painting this picture for Manoj bhai—how working with us is like travelling on a Gulfstream Five with strippers and champagne and caviar. The man laps it up. He doesn’t show it yet but I know what he likes. I’m about to close the deal when this thing here,’ he said wagging his finger at Rangoo, ‘decided to butt in and spat out a minute-long discourse on how restructuring would be difficult to manage.’

‘I was advising the client, sir.’

‘That was the fucking problem. That idiot was not our client yet. First you sell, then you advise Ranganath.’

‘But sir …’

‘Here’s how I see it Ranganath, I was showcasing a fairytale and you were shoving him into a local train with a beedi in his mouth and piss-stink up his nose. I had warned you then not to ever, ever fuck up like that again.’

I didn’t want to but I was grinning. Rangoo looked at me beseechingly. I took a deep breath and said, ‘But sir, we really don’t have sufficient data. It’s a five-year project; it won’t have an immediate impact.’

Rangoo added quickly, ‘We have done exhaustive arithmetic, sir.’

Let me summarize what you’re telling me Ranganath,’ Joshi said quietly, ‘we are meeting one of our biggest clients and you don’t have impact projections for the money they’re spending on us! Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘Yes sir, no sir, we’ll churn out something soon sir,’ Rangoo stood up—a last ditch attempt to flee. I was half out of my chair. I could see us in my head. We were pathetic, Rangoo and I.

‘Churn out something! I shouldn’t have trusted you with this,’ Joshi lost it, ‘where are you going to churn it out from?’

‘I’m not sure sir. Do you have any ideas?’ asked Rangoo.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do,’ replied Joshi.

‘What is it sir? Tell me, I’ll work on it quickly,’ said Rangoo.

‘Ok, here it is,’ Josh took a pen and promptly drew a table on a piece of paper. He paused for a while before filling in some numbers. He pushed the paper towards Rangoo, ‘This should do it. I have put a few pointers, just add one more footnote that says the projections are based on Gibbons Moore’s proprietary research and our extensive experience of working with business conglomerates in the US, Europe, Middle East and APAC.’

Joshi’s handwriting was precise and clean, the numbers seemed well thought of, the footnotes had been scribbled with a flourish—that table was the work of a master con-man.

Rangoo’s face lit up, ‘This is pure genius sir! How did you arrive at it?’

‘I always say, there are two ways to get something Ranganath. One way is to simply work hard and learn fast …’

‘What is the other way sir?’ Rangoo knew the first way hadn’t worked for him.

‘That’s even simpler Ranganath! Do you really want to know?’ Joshi said, his tone clearly telling Rangoo to back off.

‘Yes sir, very keen sir.’

‘I don’t think you’d want to know,’ he said, this time with a dissuading glare.

Rangoo still didn’t get it, ‘I do sir. Try me,’ he said.

‘Okay!’ Joshi gave in. ‘Try sucking my dick!’ he roared, ‘its better than staring at your screen like an imbecile the whole day long.’

‘Sorry sir, sorry,’ muttered Rangoo. That was the moment—I saw a momentary flicker in Rangoo’s eyes, a micro-second dip of the eyeballs; Rangoo was looking at Joshi’s crotch—the bastard was considering it!

I left the office sharp at 5 pm that day, Rangoo was too shaken, he had spent the rest of the day staring at his screen. His laptop’s wallpaper hadn’t changed since I met him—it was a photo of Rangoo standing with his arms crossed in front of his VX4, his Canon SLR slung over his shoulder. Rangoo’s melancholic face cast a shadow on the otherwise cheerful picture that summarized all the good things in his life. I was vicariously witnessing my burnout. It was terrifying.

Icame back home with a Blenders Pride quart. I needed to do some serious thinking.

I had struggled long and hard to convince myself that this life was right for me. I got my MBA thinking I would someday be the cover boy of Businessworld. And why not? I was a college topper with a pre-placement offer from a high-paying consulting firm. I had bought my first Hush Puppies, I had bought a nice dark blue Marks & Spencer’s suit, a few months later, I got a WagonR on a five-year EMI. I worked hard, I tried to network as much as I could. I did manage good ratings in the beginning, but soon I began to slip: what I thought was important was not, what I thought was my job was not my job. I realized I was forcing myself to become someone I wasn’t. I was trying to impress people I didn’t even like. I was living a lie. I saw good people suffer, I saw cunning and mediocrity thrive—soon my cynicism and boredom metamorphosed into indifference. I turned into an old, weary machine creaking and clanking my way to the weekend. My lack of initiative became legendary. Six years on I was a nobody at Gibbons Moore.

I didn’t even feel like changing my job. It’s all the same. Another company, another exciting role, another challenging assignment—doesn’t it all eventually fade into a black hole of low self-esteem and disappointment?

I guess we all find out at some point or the other that we were not meant for this. Some amongst us accept our limitations and move on to seek happiness in kids or strap a camera like Rangoo and go shoot pictures on weekends; a few do something random like becoming a primary school teacher in a boarding school in the hills. The rest of us, unable to find distractions or an escape, drown in the never-ending cesspool of people running to get a job with more pay. I thought I was made for bigger things. I needed to find my purpose. I needed to know what I had come here for.

I took a large gulp of the whiskey and lit a cigarette. I was sure if I gave it enough time it would come to me. I was just about to pose a Zen Koan to my dead TV set when Sampu landed with a thud on my bed. He was carrying a big black poly-bag.

‘What’s in that bag?’ I asked irritated. This was unwanted intrusion at a crucial juncture in my evolution.

‘Clothes, a toothbrush and my fake Ray-Ban,’ he sighed. His shoes made large dusty imprints on my recently-washed sky blue pillow.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘I’m going to live here for a day or two,’ he said.

This was bad news. How could I do any thinking with his bloated face chomping off chunks of my precious time?

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Shweta kicked me out,’ he said.

‘Again?’

‘Yeah’.

‘What did you do this time?’

‘I was smoking weed in the loo. It was late at night. I thought she was sleeping. Preggo women have a sharp sense of smell, I’m telling you … note it down.’

‘But, you have smoked in the loo before, haven’t you? ‘

‘Yes, I have, but times have changed. She says smoke harms the baby and how could I be so insensitive not to have thought of that. I’m screwed man! You know how it is. She still thinks I don’t want the baby so it’s easy for her to typecast me as an irresponsible father.’

‘Is that baby getting affected by pot thing possible?’ I asked, curious. This baby stuff was all new to me.

‘Maybe … I’m not sure. I googled it—Jamaican women smoke pot regularly during pregnancy to relax. It also says cannabis is good for babies.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah … that’s what it says. It says babies born to cannabis-smoking mothers are better adjusted to the real world than babies with moms who had ample paneer and desi ghee.’

‘It says that?’

‘Yep.’

‘Paneer and desi ghee?’

‘No, not that … you know what I mean.’

‘Hope you didn’t say this to her?’

Sampu smiled sadly, ‘Guess why I was chucked out? She handed over this bag in the morning and told me to get out. I went to office thinking she’ll be ok by evening. No, nothing doing, she won’t give in,’ He lit a cigarette, he looked worried,

‘You know Bhandari, sometimes I look at the mirror and I wonder what has become of me. There are two little islands of hair on my temples and a tiny wisp in the middle like a frail bridge over a bald, glimmering sea. I should get a wig. I want a wig with superpowers. I want to be Wig-man, a superhero who ejects his wig like a chakra against diabolical villains. But there is no superhuman wig and there is no solution for baldness. I feel bad about that and I feel bad about everything around me.’

‘I like Wig-man! You ought to pursue that.’ I said.

‘Noted sir, noted,’ he smiled but turned morose again. ‘Yaar, I try and I try and I try but she still feels that I don’t want the baby. She thinks I’m not involved enough. She connects everything to how I looked when I got the baby-news. I love the baby a lot and I’m crazy about her. She is not willing to see it. She throws tantrums every day. When I can’t take it anymore, I answer back. When I do, she begins to cry. Then she says crying affects the baby!’

‘Sorry man,’ I put my hand on his shoulder sympathetically. Sampu did not want the baby in the beginning. He told me they had always used protection but the 3 per cent probability of condom failure had worked against him. He had expressed his dismay a few days after he found out: ‘Bhandari, I didn’t see it coming man. I was stunned when she told me the test was positive. She hasn’t forgiven me for my reaction; she says it was like a train had hit me.’

‘I didn’t want this yaar; not even a month had passed since Papa’s death when she told me. He was still in my thoughts every day in the morning, at work, in the car. I wasn’t over it and I didn’t want anything in my life at this point and here I am buying wool jumpers for 0-6 months. I’m confused man, I want the baby, I love the baby but I resent the situation you know. It’s complicated.’

‘Isn’t it good the baby is coming? It will take your mind off your Papa’s death?’

‘Yes, but I needed time to mourn. Shweta is at the fag end of her first trimester. I should just focus on her and the baby. I do try but it’s not always possible yaar.’

‘Hmmm … I know,’ I nodded. ‘Should I ask Bumbum to make some tea?’

‘Let’s smoke some dope yaar!’ he said.

‘Have you called her?’

‘What do you think I’ve been doing since morning? She hasn’t picked up. I went home. I knocked and rang the bell. She refused to open. I could hear her phone ringing. After a long wait, she comes to the door and tells me she doesn’t want to see me.’

‘She seems to be having a bad day.’

‘And I feel like a serial killer on the loose. I feel like I’m roaming the streets with a bloodied knife in my hand,’ Sampu sighed and lit another cigarette.

That was Sampoorna Nand Pandey aka Sampu’s favourite pastime—come up with film noir analogies, discuss, rationalize, pontificate, spit and growl, gobble joints and guzzle beer. He was the oldest amongst us. He was our flatmate, two years ago he got married and shifted to another society close by. Sampu aspired for simple pleasures of life—a good woofer and shelf speakers, single grain alcohol, a clean whiskey tumbler and freshly dried country weed. I doubt if there were different sections in Sampu’s mind for his wife and for weed—if Shweta wasn’t willing to forgive him, Sampu could find solace in weed. Maybe I’m being too harsh but sometimes it did seem that way. Sampu often declared that he wanted to be a prosperous nobody, he described it as a cold-blooded, logical step towards a happy, contented life. I feared becoming like him. I was headed that way if I didn’t change something.

‘Ok, let’s smoke then,’ I said.

‘Where’s the masala?’ he asked.

I threw my weed pouch and cigarette paper at him. ‘This stuff is damn good. This Token guy is getting better by the day,’ I said. Token was this paraplegic chap on a government-sponsored tricycle who sold us weed. Great man. God bless him.

A few joints later, I felt silly. I was smiling, slumped on my bed. I was back to a small town in Jharkhand where my father used to teach, where I lived as a kid.

Iwas four-and-a-half and Chhoti Jaiswal was five. She was my best friend. We were explorers. When papa-mummy-uncle-aunty went for a post-lunch siesta—a couple of hours later the garden chairs would be brought out and tea would be served in the verandah—Chhoti and I would creep out of our homes and roam the vastness of a hot summer afternoon. We carried our walking sticks, our pockets weighing down with lucky marbles. We knew several hiding places amongst dense thickets and thorny shrubs and we had an army of stray dogs who played an important part in our adventures. Sometimes we had money and we would buy ice-lollies. My favourite was mango flavour; she liked lemon and orange—the lollies melted and dripped on the dusty road, leaving a sticky trail that people could follow if we ever got lost.

One such day, Chhoti and I came across a strange sight. We were following a seemingly endless string of lantana shrub—we trudged along the shrub’s path—our eyes squinting in the sun’s glare. We were eager to know where the trail would end. The lantana led us through knolls and damp shades under big trees, through vast fields and dry, dull ditches. We had almost reached the end at an abandoned railway crossing. That’s where we saw a kid tied to a tree. It was Ajaiyya, the hunchback. They had tied him up with a tattered old rope. His arms and feet were wrapped around the tree stump. He was kneeling as far as he could. His back must have been hurting.

He must have been 13 or 14. He worked as a help—that’s all I would ever know about him. I had seen him doing odd jobs at our home. Once he had removed all the cobwebs from our house—he did a good job, Amma told me later. I remembered his face: a broad, happy smile hidden behind layers of soot. He was nice. Amma gave him five rupees and some tea and biscuits.

Ajaiyya smiled, ‘Where are you going babu bhaiyya?’ he asked.

He was bleeding through his nose. ‘What happened to you Ajaiyya?’ I asked.

‘Nothing babu bhaiyya.’

‘He stole a watch,’ Chhoti said. She was hiding behind a tree.

‘I didn’t,’ Ajaiyya shook his head.

‘Papa told me he stole the contractor’s watch,’ Chhoti added.

‘I didn’t steal his watch.’

‘Papa told me it was an expensive watch, an HMT.’

‘I didn’t steal his watch,’ repeated Ajaiyya.

I looked down at his feet. His toenails were crushed and blood caked.

‘I tried to run babu bhaiyya. They broke my leg and stomped on my feet,’ he said.