The Benefit Season Page 2

  ‘Show him his room’! She gently rebukes.

  Lele slaps his forehead in guilt and leads me to a backroom that provides an unenviable view of the mainland with its haphazard glassy towers dug like stakes in a graveyard of shanties with blue plasticky or rusty tinny roofs. I quickly freshen up, change gratefully into a light cotton suit and walk into the terrace to view the crescent beachfront and take in the smells of the sea. The monsoons have arrived and I can feel the rain in the winds that carry in from the Arabian Sea. Lele is fixing Scotches for himself and Lily, and wondering if I would have one as well. I refuse and opt for a lime and soda.

  ‘It’s not that Lily cooks always; she is liberated! When she doesn’t feel like cooking I order the home deliveries or bring home the takeaways on my way from office. And I get to fix the drinks’, he says, carrying Lily’s drink to her in the kitchen.

  ‘Hi, are you hungry’, Lily asks, wiping her hands on her apron and flicking away the sweat on her brow, before taking a swill from her Scotch. ‘ Just give me a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Why don’t you take him to the terrace and enjoy the breeze, before you spill something in my kitchen’. She pushes Lele out with a carrot and turns her back on us, settling the argument once and for all regarding the ownership rights to the hallowed fireside.

  Lele walks to the fridge and lets out a howl. ’What happened to my soda?’

  ‘It’s in my drink’, Lily shouts out from the kitchen, laughing.

  ‘You mean, in that short interval- between making up my mind to have that soda and walking to that cabinet over there to fetch the opener- my soda has been filched? It gives me déjà vu- a similar thing happened to my solitary pastry when I opened the fridge this afternoon’!

  ‘Stop crying over spilled soda…and pastry’, she says.

  Lele and I go out to sit in the terrace. We sling our legs over the chic sandstone balustrade- interpreted in pink once, now greyish and cloudy with all the coastal showers and animal footprints.

  ‘I played cricket in the Ranji’s. Lily was in Hockey- nationals. You were in the track and field I believe’, Lele asks.

  ‘Ahem’. I nod.

  ‘Who’s the lucky girl’, he pops the question suddenly.

  ‘She is a shooter- someone I grew up with. Same background: army kids, simple, grounded, sporty, self-made; nothing remarkable. And her dad thinks I am beneath her.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘For one- my dad didn’t rise as high as him, and two- for joining this company!’

  ‘How’s that’?

  ‘ He thinks cricket is a game played by 1.3 billion people; only 13 of them have to be on the field at one time. The rest do the talking.’

  ‘No no! We are like Brahmins; guarding over the deities the masses revere. Our offices are the temples to their enduring edicts, and our souls- pledged in lifelong consecration’!

  Lele pauses for a long breath and a lingering sip. ‘We are in the business of religion here- don’t let the old man fool you into believing anything else.’

  ‘That sounds like a sermon from the pulpit’!

  ‘Yes, cricketers are gods, we- the keepers of faith, and the public- the faithful! They believe in the perpetuity of their fame, and we perpetuate that belief. You can’t last in our business unless you believe you are blessed in their aura’.

  ‘Do you have any gods of a denomination other than cricket?’

  ‘Yes… some. From boxing to badminton to tennis… the list goes on. But see, on the one hand you have potboiler fiction, and on the other, dull parliament news. Them non-cricketing folks need a lot of spit and polish before they’re ready to be put out on the shop window, and even then there are few takers. It’s nothing personal- it’s business- mate. And it’s not my view, it’s the exit polls man!’

  ‘He giving that holy crap again?’ Lily, who had meanwhile pulled up a chair and lit up, says. She smiles and leans forward towards me. ‘Do you drink or do you not?’

  ‘Only when someone forces it at gunpoint’.

  ‘So tell us something about yourself’, she says. ‘ Do you do no wrong?’

  ‘He’s simple and grounded and on autopilot. And so is his girlfriend. Her dad thinks he’s a loser though’. Lele butts in, volunteering the info.

  ‘Shut up,’ Lily says, booting his shin.’ Who’s the girl? Is she pretty? Have you proposed her yet?’

  ‘ I plan to- when I’m face to face with her’.

  ‘And so far- were you not face to face?’

  ‘ I was- but love was slow to dawn upon me- and when it did, I was facing the naked butt-end of the Indian public out in full force upon the railway tracks. I was hoping for a softer setting…music, silver candelabras on white muslin…and roses; that sort of thing for going down on the old knee and bunging the bad news to the poor girl. She’s very traditional- that girl- she won’t settle for anything less than two pure, solitary carats of a girl’s best friend, and that takes some loving in the heart and some cash in the bank ‘!

  ‘Well, wish you luck with that!’ She says and scoots off as the cooker toot-toots and calls out to her.

  ‘So, tell me something about your Mrs. Monal Nagrath’, I ask.

  Lele was supposed to bring news to his mistress, not the other way round. He unfurls the sails of his mind and lets the air fill them up; wondering what trivial lifebelt of her sojourn on the high seas of life could safely be tossed my way; without he drowning himself with it. He looks over his shoulder and on seeing no witnesses, says, ‘ she’s the best, she really is’, and clams up.

  ‘And she’s a slave driver’, adds Lily, who has joined us again after attending to the business of the toot-tooting cooker. ‘She was a javelin thrower and now finds practice in hurling men out her door. Only one person matches her skill at hurting people- her husband’.

  ‘Does he also…?’

  ‘He sure does- he’s our Veep. He works from the corporate offices at Cuffe Parade, but comes around often for debriefings, to smite us with his sharp words and to cut down our groves. Of late, he has shown no mercy to his wife either, berating her in full view’.

  ‘It’s just work, and it’s not so bad’, Lele, the keeper of the faith, protests weakly, wanting no more to be witness to the office bitching.

  ‘Work- my foot! That’s no way to talk to a lady- your wife- in front of the subordinates’. Lily says.

  ‘Alright I get the point’, I say, rising, to avoid the discussion taking an unpleasant turn. ‘Guys, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a long day. Can we see what you’ve been at in that kitchen of yours, Lily?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind Gujarati veggies?’

  ‘When dished up by the teammate- not at all! I love all things Guajarati and all things vegetarian.’

  ‘Learn something’, Lily laughs and tweaks Lele’s ear as we sit us on the dining table to pay obeisance to sweetish Gujarati fare on offer: Biranj (sweet rice), Bataka nu Shaak (sweet potato curry) and Khaman (of sweet gram flour).

  I taste the stuff and realize Lily really does enjoy cooking- cooking for Lele that is! I; innocent of the skill at arms of the kitchen, who am going to slip on the nosebag at the same table by default, stand to gain a lot from that.

  “Mother you needn’t have worried”, is the first thought that comes to mind, as I lie back in bed and send her the usual mail before I curl up for day.

  ϖ

  Chapter 3

  Man at Work

  Rain lashes against the building and somewhere an open window bangs incessantly, which wakes me up the next morning. The streets are like murky little streams running between buildings, and traffic crawls through them slowly till it halts at non-functional traffic lights. Waves pound the crescent seashore and tired palms bend till their crests touch the ground. Darkness shrouds the ocean and the city and it seems like late evening even though it is just an early morning. As long as it rains the humidity disappears, but as I learn later, it comes back doubly reinforced after.

 
It is Lele’s turn to conjure up the morning refreshments, and he is accordingly occupied in tossing in the sizzling pan the sunny-side-ups, which Lily and I begin to tuck in without any remorse. Lily works the toaster, and I take my position at the table- liberally lathering the hot golden toasts with yellowy salty butter faster than what that remarkable kitchen apparatus can pop out. Luckily all of us are blessed with remarkable appetites and equally efficient metabolisms to waste the nutrients that get bunged in without any respect for the edicts of the neighborhood dietician.

  ‘Are eggs ok for Gujaratis,’ I ask Lily, making idle conversation during a brief lull in battle, in the calm before the storm, while additional reinforcements of the bread are summoned from the second line in the fridge.

  ‘Who do you think we are- we even make babies’!

  ‘Sorry, I am a little confused about the concept of vegetarianism; never having experienced any, first hand’, I reply.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you around… the concept’, she says. She lights up like a galaxy as Lele comes out, having finished his chore of feeding us. She gets up and fixes coffee for all of us, after which we proceed to the office to square off with the vampire couple.

  ϖ

  Office is the usual glass and steel affair: impassive and cold to the multitude that passes in or passes out. We work on the fifth floor, and out of habit we ignore the lift and bound up the stairs, taking two at a time. After Lily has adjusted her blouse, tied her hair in a bun and checked herself in the vanity mirror, we are ready to head out to Mrs. Monal’s office for my primer. Lily knocks gingerly and we all enter.

  Lily gestures towards me and opens her mouth to mention me but is cut short by the tall lady in the dark blue suit, standing with her back toward us, looking out the window at the rain-lashed city.

  ‘ I know’, she says without turning, ‘leave us, Lily’. And that was that.

  Lily raises her middle finger and turns to exit.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the lady says, staring coolly at Lily’s reflection in the dark windowpane.

  Lily’s face drains of all color and she opens her mouth yet again to say something but the lady curtly says, ‘that’ll be all’. Lily turns and slinks out.

  When the lady finally turns to face me, I am swept off my feet.

  For all the things they’d said about her, they’d never mentioned that she was such a traffic-stopper. Exquisitely crafted, she is god’s gift to man. Hers is the chill blight that hurls manly souls untimely to the shades. In heels she is a shade taller than me; she comprises a fiery temper, long and shapely legs, an olive complexion, auburn hair, and lastly two firm breasts that my eyeballs get strangely glued to, and won’t come unstuck, however hard I try.

  ‘You may sit when you’re done staring’, she says, tapping with a long slim finger my CV that is laid exposed on her desk.

  I sit down sheepishly, and open and shut my mouth, thinking I could only make it worse.

  ‘Tell me about yourself- that which is not written here’, she says, caressing my photo with a dainty hand.

  I would really have liked to tell her all that- only if my eyes would stop following those pouty lips as they parted to show pearly teeth and a pink cavity that I had the sudden unchaste urge to explore! My best efforts to conjure Aarti’s image to my defense seemed to pale beside the attraction the vision held before me. All I could murmur was a silly; ‘ what does it not say there ma’am?’

  She laughs lightly, raising a pointy chin to reveal a long flute-glass neck. ‘I believe you wrote it’?

  ‘ Of course- but that was some while ago. Given a choice- I would rather be your client than your employee!’

  That didn’t sound so good did it? But my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth and my wits had gone a ‘grazing. And I was in the woods, searching for words that wouldn’t tumble out like tardy pebbles. If she was the one to go for the “first impressions” - mine had just been tossed out the window.

  ‘Oh really, how do you mean’; she parks her chin on her wrist and leans across at me till I can smell the peaches on her breath.

  ‘ I mean’, I manage to mutter, ‘sports has always been my first love! And had not our family circumstances dictated otherwise, I would no doubt have been worthy of your interest in me… as a sportsman… professional interest I mean’.

  ‘Oh- you are worthy, Mr. Pasricha, of our interest; of that I assure you’, she smiles. ‘You still keep in touch- with your skills- I suppose’, she asks, scanning the breadth of my shoulders.

  ‘Nothing like the good old days, but yes, I like to stay in shape; for that rainy day’.

  ‘It is that rainy day today, Mr. Pasricha; let’s see if you’re in the shape that we like’.

  ‘I will do my best, ma’am’.

  ‘Call me Monal, Mr. Pasricha’, she says.

  ‘Yes ma’am- Monal’.

  ‘All right, let’s follow through to the conference hall and see what the others have for us. You can listen in and give us any ideas you may have. Learn those ropes, Mr. Pasricha, for you’re soon going to be swinging from that trapeze like a monkey! I’m told you’ve been briefed on what we do; and soon I’ll be assigning you your client list. Okay?’

  ‘Sure Monal’.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? See you then- ta da’, she swivels back to the windows and shoos me out.

  ϖ

  I nod and walk out; feeling like an errant schoolboy just assigned the stairs to be washed by the principal. I slap the back of my head- cursing myself for having behaved like an awestruck little boy, and totally having lost it out there. It hadn’t been a day away from Aarti and there I was, already caught ogling at my married boss’s bosom: I need better discipline than that.

  I find my way to the conference room where ten or twelve people were already sitting, poring over their notes. Lily does the intros and I take a chair at the end of the table. The tension in the air is palpable and I could see the couple has made quite an impact on my future colleagues. After the initial formalities are done with no one has the time to look up and ask after me. I had never stopped wondering why I’d been hired, even during the placements at the college. My CV never matched their JD even then, but Monal had ticked my shortlisted profile over several, better-qualified students. Perhaps my sports background helped me score over the others. Even now, the company seems sufficiently manned for the task at hand, without my amateurish intervention.

  Soon Monal walks in and the people briefly rise from their chairs. One of the seniors, Ninkush Agarwal, walks to the podium for his presentation.

  ‘I know you have something very important to say, but have I asked you to start? Can we wait for the VP?’ Monal says, before he can begin.’ Mr. Tom Beranger, Asia Head is in town. He’ll be coming here to get a feel of what we do and meet every one of us. So guys, stick your best foot forward today.’

  Ninkush goes back to his seat, his head bowed, and the rest of us tap nervously on the table with the eraser end of our pencils; and those that aren’t equipped with the said tool, twiddle thumbs in anticipation of the grand spectacle.

  The grand spectacle arrives a few minutes later, in a grey striped business suit, followed by a strikingly handsome man who I guess correctly to be Monal’s other half in marriage. Both seem people of fine taste.

  Tom jovially shakes hands all around, while Vishal, on noticing a new face, comes over and warmly takes my hand. He is very suave, and asks after me with impeccable manners. As everyone settles down, Monal explains that the team is going to introduce its business and clients to Tom.

  Ninkush takes the stand again and showcases his clients, mostly cricketers. After he’d flashed a couple of pictures, Tom stops him.

  ‘Err…this begs the question’, he says, after Ninkush had shown a couple of ageing, balding, greying, bespectacled and pot bellied persons in the manner of the gods of the sport; ‘are these people even athletes?’

  ‘They are the gods, sir!’ Ninkush protests, wounded by
the blasphemy.

  ‘It’s hard to believe’, Tom continues, irreverently, turning to Vishal.

  ‘They make us a ton of money, Tom. Cricket is what works in this country. True, its not a contact sport; there isn’t much of speed or action compared to- let’s say football- but there’s plenty of technique involved, and strategy: the batting order- deciding to bat or bowl- placing the fielders- choosing a spinner over a pacer- reading the pitch- the list goes on. Yes, and you do run once in a while, and you dive too, though most of the skill is in reading each other’s mind- the bowler the batsman’s and vice versa- the captain the other captain’s- the wicket keeper the bowler’s- and so on.’

  ‘So it’s a sport of mind reading’, Tom says, irrationally now.

  ‘There’s a lot of skill in hand-eye coordination, footwork, wristwork, turning the ball, pitching the right line and length etc.’, Ninkush, a sworn addict, adds spiritedly.

  ‘Like ballet with a bat’, Tom asks.

  ‘Exactly sir!’

  ‘I was only joking’, Tom says.

  ‘Numbers don’t joke sir. Or lie. This one man, called the Malabar Mallet, has earned 3 million top US dollar in match fees and 20 million US dollar in endorsements, last financial year alone. That’s equal to what Christiane Ronaldo, highest earning footballer, earned through endorsements in the same period. You can work the math- we take 30% of endorsement fees as commission’.

  ‘ Haven’t I seen his picture somewhere; crying like a baby- after someone slapped him I believe’?

  ‘He’s emotional… sensitive… an artist! He’s put it all behind him. And the guy who slapped him is nowhere now. Last seen, he was advertising soda while our boy was swinging a leg for the single malts.’

  ‘The argument rests then. If you Indians dig cricket, who am I to argue? 30% is fine by me- let the numbers rule’, Tom says finally.

  The others came on and present the stars in their portfolios; the earnings dipping considerably as players of badminton, tennis, boxing, wrestling, and lastly shooting enter the B-lists. They even had a chess grandmaster; after all there were hungry mouths to be fed.