Chapter 3

Temperature is a form of texture. In the way we feel it. In the way it makes meaning to us. Temperature, like texture is recognised when we feel it. My index finger, with a mind of its own, moved up and down my fourth glass. It was half-empty. I smiled. I am supposed to say it is half-full. The temperature at the top of the glass was different than that at the bottom of the glass. My index, as if asking the glass to either empty itself completely or get a refill and top the glass with ice. I smiled a bit wider. That’s me, looking for stability and consistency; my index finger is so much like me.

I left the glass and laid back on the sofa. The ceiling had concealed lighting. They could give as much light as they wanted; they were barred from being on stage.

Your’s is to give, not to seek

Had I read that phrase somewhere? I didn’t remember. It did sound very biblical. If I made that up, it was nice; I should write it down somewhere. I should remember that the phrase is all about love. The bar was empty, save for the weary and dreary penguin-dressed waiters, waiting for me to attain rum nirvana. They could not ask me to leave, there was too much commerce was at stake. I leaned forward to my glass again. I let my index finger do its own thing again. I looked at the clear liquid in the glass. Long way, I said to myself. From cheap dark rum to a sophisticated white. From cheap smoky bars to this well-ventilated and well-stocked bar manned by penguins, who themselves go to cheap smoky bars for their nirvana. One of the penguins replaced the chips that I had not eaten at all. You always get more of what you don’t want in life. I thought about Koutuk, five years had gone by. I haven’t have had a friend like him, since he gave up on the one thing that I know he wanted. Komal and I didn’t talk about him. He was confined to my memory dungeons, from where I often heard shrieks that tortured me.

The same chip-replacing penguin interrupted my thoughts. He gave me a threatening smile – fill up or pay up. It’s all about money, honey, I knew all about that. I told him I’d pay. I went back to the hotel room and raided the mini-bar to help me continue my thoughts.

###

We met five years after school. I was lazily hanging out of the door of a Churchgate bound local, while it had stopped for a few seconds at Mahim to collect more burden than it could handle. A train pulled up on the other platform. He stood straight at the door looking purposefully ahead, his thoughts probably not far away from him. He shouted out for me. Just then, my train had collected enough sardines – it moved.

I shouted back, “Bandra, platform 1, below the indicator!”

He acknowledged; we smiled, waved to each other.

Those were probably the longest twelve minutes in my life. I changed at Matunga and took a train back to Bandra. He was waiting for me. We shook hands, hugging was not yet the norm. We decided there was a lot that we had to catch up so we went to Mahim, call it providence – that is where we were supposed to meet. Mahim had this dingy beer bar – for the uninitiated, a beer bar serves only beer – that was run by an Iranian. Any place that that had the look of an Irani place was assumed to be run by an Iranian. Even if it was run by a Parsi or a Muslim, or for that matter anybody. I had read somewhere that the Parsis came from Persia, which is Iran, really. Fars is a province in southern Iran, where the Parsis apparently hail from. Somehow it all made sense and just added up. Irani was more convenient.

Going there made even more sense because this place served beer at just two rupees premium for chilling the beer to a good temperature. The chilled beer helped Koutuk and me warm up. There was so much unsaid when we left school and went our ways to do our own thing. We talked of friends who were in touch with, which did strike me as ironical, because, we, the best of the friends were not in touch. We talked of fathers and mothers being the same – just getting older. Koutuk had done his engineering; I told him I was a physics graduate – the second tier future citizen of the country. I see things changing now, but in those days you were worthwhile only if you studied after school for four or more years. They were so many graduates in the country, it was not funny. Or maybe it was.

The formal conversation started reaching its natural death. We went quiet for a minute that seemed to stretch for an hour. Koutuk broke the awkwardness with a subject that I wouldn’t have broached,

‘Are you in touch with Anita?’

‘No,’ I said, quicker than I wanted to. The funniest emotion I have ever felt is guilt. It doesn’t matter if you have done anything wrong. Even if there is a possibility of guilt, we get shrouded by this monster.

‘She got married year before last, she’s expecting now.’

‘You are in touch!’

‘No, I met Jason a few days ago, he told me’, he was staring at me, I was not sure if he was ready to break into a smile.

‘That’s news, who is the guy doing all the mischief?’

‘Jason,’ he said as if it was obvious; I looked at the peanuts that were fast disappearing. He wanted me to ask who it was.

I wished I hadn’t asked. Jason was the only rival Koutuk had as far as getting good scores in school was concerned. Jason and Koutuk were fierce rivals. I just made a face back to him, as if I didn’t approve and looked away.

A man in his forties was sitting alone at the table next to us. He seemed to have a permanent glum expression. He was looking towards the door, into space. I shivered when I saw such people. They indicated to me, what life would be for me if I did not do something about it, fast. I felt a pang of guilt again. My father had mortgaged a part of his pension and all of my mother’s jewellery to get me admitted to a private course that taught you how to assemble computers. His supervisor’s son was doing the same thing. My father was assured that assembled computers were the future. Here I was, skipping the class and having beer. I didn’t want that guilt. My father had done all that he could. He could have just let me go, lived the rest of his life with his wife in comfort in the measly pension that he got. I don’t recall my mother ever spending any money. I would have taken care of myself. If I had studied sociology, it would have helped me understand why families in my country are like this. But in 1987 sociology had no known future in my world unless you wanted to walk the great slums of the city and talk about vasectomy, condoms, and three-year distancing of the two children that the government mandated.

‘You have a girlfriend?’ Koutuk brought my idealistic thinking back to reality.

‘Nope,’ if I was with anybody else, I would have tried to look ashamed. Not having a girlfriend was de mode.

‘I don’t either,’ he said, an unquestioned answer.

Brothers in arms, band of brothers, whatever, we were bonded again. The beer bottles emptied faster with animated talks about good times. Of good teachers and bad; of girls that could have been more than classmates in school photographs. It was a good evening. It was sunshine at its best.

We talked a lot more. More intimate than we were ever before.

###

It was three in the morning. I was looking out of the window. Taxis were still looking for long distance fares; the odd late worker was hailing a hopeful taxi for a long distance fare. How marriages happen! The city of life; the city that never sleeps. I wondered if room service would restock the mini-bar at that time. It still had enough stock in it for me to go on for an hour or two. It’s better that I call them at four in the morning, I smiled wickedly.

There was a hard knock on the door with the natural assumption that the person in the room is asleep. Another penguin greeted me with a good morning.

‘Sir, there is a lady at the reception who insists on seeing you at this time. Will you please come down?’

I asked him to send her up.

‘Sorry sir, our rules do not permit entertaining lady guests in the room.’

‘She is my wife; I have been waiting for her. Please get her to the room and please help her with her luggage.’

‘But sir, this room is booked only in your name,’ a last ditch effort. Protocol and SOP seemed to be giving way to fear of a bad decision and taking undue responsibility.

‘Yes, I was not sure whether she will come, but I have booked a double room.’ I offered.

‘Yes sir,’ he succumbed to the fear of backlash. I smiled back, thanked him and passed gracious currency in his hands. His late night shift made sense to him, bowed slightly, and went down to get Komal and her bags to the room.

‘Your Mom is not very happy with you’, she said as she surveyed the room.

I nodded

‘She hoped that you would call at least to tell her that you are fine, if not that then at least to check if she is fine.’

I nodded once again.

‘Don’t you want to know how I know of all this?’

‘I was about to ask, did you speak with her?’ I lied.

She flung a pillow at me. Of all the people I lied to, Komal was the only person who could see through. I still lied anyways. My guess was that, someday I would succeed. Only, there weren’t many times that required lying to her. She said things that would make me lie.

‘Call her! Is it that difficult?’ she nearly cried out.

I went to the mini bar and replenished my drink. ‘How was your flight?’

‘It was good, like a flight should be; nothing great.’

‘You tired?’

‘No Eddie, not at all!’ I was the Executive Director in the company I worked for. Komal had since chosen to call me Eddie. Eddie was her title for me. Thankfully, she kept it to herself.

‘I left by the early morning flight,’ she continued, kicking off her shoes, ‘I had a full day meeting in a stuffy room, came back by the evening flight, which was delayed by three hours, and it took me another hour to get a cab to this place because it is so close to the airport. Why on earth would I be tired?’

Sarcasm, a friend told me once, causes peptic ulcers – whatever they may be. I have never bothered to check if it is true. I didn’t want to tell her that, not now. We loved talking but, somehow it seemed to me that that was not the best subject this early morning. I could apologise, and ask her if she wanted food or a drink, I could let her continue the conversation to whatever she wanted to talk about, I could stop refilling my drink, because that action of mine could trigger another adverse conversation.

‘And that’s drink number?’

Boom!

If I could get paid for forecasting what this girl was going to say, I would have been a millionaire.

‘Three,’ I know I should have said seven.

‘Right’

‘Seven,’ I confessed.

‘I wish we were really married. I could become a nag.’

I smiled a defensive smile.