The Benefit Season Read online

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  Monal has rented them a decent sea facing, fully furnished apartment in Imperial Towers at Tardeo, South Mumbai. It’s not a tony address but it’s respectable, and will do for the moment. The company has paid upfront for a lease for eleven months. The turnover of an IPL team being more than the GDP of an average African country, I guess once Mukut becomes a star, and the money starts rolling in, and he has a perfume named after him, he can upgrade to a better address.

  I leave the Chands marveling over the sliding French windows, the shiny stainless steel kitchen gadgets, and the cushy mattresses, and I crash on the sofa to steal a few winks before the girls dress up and we leave for the stadium where the team will be at the nets. Before long a girl wakes me up, asking how to take a bath. Thinking there is no water; not unusual in our financial capital commanding the highest rentals in the world, I trudge along sleepily to the bathroom. Her problem is not the water.

  ‘Where is the bucket and mug?’ she says. ‘ How do I take a bath without them?’

  I turn the shower on and stand under it and motion with my hands as if I am rubbing soap, faking a grin to show that its going to be an enjoyable experience. I grab a towel off the stand and step out, while the girl laughs on seeing me dripping. She runs away to explain to the other girls similarly trapped in the other bathrooms how it’s to be done.

  I go back to the much-needed sleep on the couch till a girl wakes me up again. The sun has already climbed above the rooftops and is now sending its harsh glare inside the apartment. There is a delicious smell pervading the house, and the smiling girl is holding up a plate with a stack of golden paranthas with dollops of yellow salted butter skidding merrily on the top row. The girls couldn’t figure out the bathroom contraptions but with innate matronly instincts needed no help with the cooking range; machinery that so baffles me even today. I take the plate to the dining table and ask the two youngest born, who are eating on the floor, to join me. The kitchen is become a joyful area of crackling spices, fried onions and rolls of stuffed dough being slapped into a sizzling pan. And plenty of greasy smoke. I push my chair and show Mrs. Chand how to flick the exhaust on. She is delighted when the grease and smoke is sucked out in seconds. After tucking away dozens of the golden crispies downed with jarfuls of full-cream milk, we haul ourselves down to the waiting cab and away to the fields.

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  My twin shades are waiting at the gates as we arrive, and after garlanding all of us with some form of imaginary IDs, they lead the thrilled procession into the press galleries, which, save a few punters busy taking orders from the Bhai in Dubai, are empty. The shades have picked up the complimentary passes from an ex-manager for 3 G’s each.

  The shady escort on my left whispers as I dig an elbow in his ample side to draw his attention to the loud punter in front of us; ‘We fix games to avoid unnecessary stress to the viewers. Indians get overly emotional about the game. It’s so much easier for everyone once the results are already known’.

  Cricket is not my thing- I’m not much of a gambler. It’s like baseball on sedatives and I never know if they’ve begun or are still discussing the weather, or the toss or the pitch. But Mukut is different. He plays cricket like football- nimble on his feet and always on the attack. He is a born belter, charging at the balls, converting full-lengths into half volleys, and smiting every ruddy abomination into the nets, leaving the spinners, the seamers, and the swingers at sea without a rudder. Leg breakers, off breakers, leg cutters, Yorkers- all are just so many words to him, and his bat connects with a sweet smack with each one of them without prejudice or a care in the world. The wicket keeper is picking his teeth since not a single ball is allowed his way. I don’t know much about the game but it seems nothing bad can happen to the team on whose side our man is playing. Even his leg glances will find boundaries where there are none, and I’m sure the man wouldn’t notice if you slipped a TT racket into his hand and asked him to bat. Monal has chosen wisely; once again I bow to her knack of spotting a winner.

  Soon it’s drinks time and the players return to the stands. The Chand belles rise and go hysteric welcoming their men home. Uncle Chand looks up in surprise at the ruckus in the galleries. As he draws closer he recognizes his lost brood and halts frozen at the spot. Then, as fast as his chubby legs can carry his portly frame he gallops across the greens, and is reunited in a tearful embrace with the family that he had given up to vicious bondage merely to keep a word of honor. After they have quieted down, the Chands recount the events that have unfolded over the last few hours. Uncle Chand looks across at me sitting in the galleries, and I nod. He nods back and clinging to his family walks into the enclosure. He folds his hands and grasps me in a tight embrace, patting my back several times; his body racked by sobs. He cannot speak but I know what he wants to say. Words are a burden at this moment. Mukut waits for his uncle to break his hold and then comes and hugs me warmly. He holds my hands and says a simple, ‘thank you’. It is enough.

  ‘Take your time. We will talk later. Right now, you can take your family home. A cab is waiting outside for you. And lastly, here are your property papers- every last scrap of them’. I dig their documents out of my satchel and hand them over; texts- simple, brief and handwritten, yet precious proofs of the reclamation of their lands, their family honor and name, and their liberty.

  I fold my hands and extricate myself gently along with the shades from the touching scene. Freedom is indeed an irony; those that know not bondage, will care little for the sweet sense of liberation.

  Later, when uncle, profuse with gratitude, invites me to his new home, we sign the contracts Monal would have given her right arm for.

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  Chapter 6

  The Benefits

  My phone gives a buzz and a nerdy voice full of self-doubt on the other end informs me that the boss is remembering me; and it’s not Monal, by the way, it’s her husband.

  I’d nearly forgotten that Monal did own one. Not a boss, a husband.

  I skid sideways on the shiny floor avoiding the tall girl with the sheaf of papers and knock and enter. Monal is sharpening her nails on a grindstone while her husband is cutting a hole in the floor with a thin jet of thunderbolts streaming from his eyes. He smokes and seems listless, for his leg shakes uncontrollably. I notice a slight tremor as he jabs the cigarette in an ashtray and rises to briefly take my hand.

  He taps me playfully on the shoulder and says, ‘you are the man’. He avoids my eyes and lights up again, motioning me to a sofa next to him.

  ‘I like what I heard about what happened back in the village’, he says.

  Monal smiles at him and shrugs a, “I told you so.”

  ‘You’ll get a handsome bonus for this.’ She tells me; ’and a car and a new apartment all to yourself; like I’d promised’.

  ‘This is all too sudden for me’, I say.

  I don’t want to leave my roommates; I’ve grown fond of them. And I can’t cook! And I’m pretty happy with what I’m getting. They give me a 3% commission on the earnings brought in by my existing clients, and that’s way more than enough for me. I’m a simple man with simple needs and I can stretch a couple of thousands a long way. And I hate driving through the Mumbai traffic- I prefer the office cab, or my feet if the air is cool and the clouds dark.

  I nearly say no, but then think of what Aarti or my mom will have to say about it. I will have to hear lectures on ambition and fire in the belly for days to come. And Mr. Khosla will chase his daughter, shaking a knotty finger and repeating; ‘see I told you so- the boy just doesn’t have it in him. You have fallen in love with a Mahatma Gandhi’.

  ‘Are you saying a no to me? What’s too sudden? You can’t handle a raise?’ Monal is flustered.

  ‘No ma’am…err, I meant this is beyond my expectations- I don’t know how to thank you enough’, I mutter.

  ‘You just did’, she says, relieved.

  So now I get to do my own housekeeping, drive my own car, lose my cherishe
d friendships, and live all by myself in a strange apartment in a city that doesn’t care. And I’m supposed to be grateful for all that. Well, that’s promotion for you- all lonely. I abhor the thought of staying alone. I am a social animal, and I need as many animals as possible to smother me with their society. This day itself I intend asking Aarti about planning the wedding.

  A thought crosses the mind of asking mom to stay with me. But that would be too selfish- asking mama to mother you at this age- robbing her of her comfort zone in which she has a cozy circle of friends, relatives, kitty parties and gardening. Plucking her out of her full life and dumping her in this unfriendly city with nothing to do except stare at the sea and wait for the son to get home from work would be cruelty to a senior citizen- a very dear senior citizen. She would come away without a murmur but would be miserable here: I dismiss the thought. She’s happy with my calling her and reporting to her of my status every hour- that would do for the moment. Let the happy status quo be maintained. It’s for the good of all parties concerned.

  ‘So the kid will do as we say?’ Vishal repeats edgily while I am lost in thought; bringing me back to the chilled room.

  ‘All he does is whack the ball. He can pretty much do that and you won’t have to ask him to do that’, I tell him.

  ‘No, no: other than that. On and off the field I mean’.

  ‘We have a contract that says so. The legal team drew it up. I can’t say if they left out anything. I have submitted it to ma’am already’.

  ‘This is India. Anyone who thinks a contract will save him is fooling only himself. To enforce a contract here you need a court and about 20 years and a hungry team of lawyers that will bleed you dry. No, I am not talking of contracts here.’

  I don’t understand and give him a blank look.

  ‘He’s so naïve; is he’, he turns to Monal and asks. ‘You haven’t trained our boy yet’.

  ‘Does he swing? Will he swing?’ he asks me.

  ‘ I think he’s known for his strikes. Can’t say for his bowling’.

  They both laugh.

  ‘ Don’t rush him yet’, Monal says.

  ‘Alright’, he says and rises. We all rise after him. ‘How is he for money?’

  ‘Has more than what he needs right now. And now that we’ve freed his lands and relieved him of his debts, he doesn’t have a care in the world’.

  ‘That’s not good for us; greed is good for us. We need hungry people who’ll go the extra mile to get to the next level of coveting and possessing. That’s what fills our coffers boy, and that’s what keeps us slaving through life; ignoring our families, our health and the voices inside.’

  I lie, ‘I get it sir’; not at all getting what he’s at. Those said things are the most important. And if I’ve read the Chands well, they’re anything but unlike me.

  ‘He has daughters, plenty of them’, Monal says.

  ‘There you are. They’ll need to get married one day. A cause; all we need is a cause. Work on him boy, sow in him the seeds of want and need. Learn unto him the merry tinkle of silver and the happy rustle of cash. ‘

  ‘ I will sir, I will’, I say emphatically, trying to convince myself more than anyone else.

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  Why do I get the feeling that I am getting special treatment? A wide-bodied Assistant-Manager pops his head into my cabin- now I have one- and asks if I would like to see my new apartment now. He has a narrow head, a thick neck and is built like a wrestler from waist-up. His small hips, spindly legs indicate he is yet to work his way below his waist.

  ‘Monal’s orders’, he explains.

  ‘That really leaves us with no choice’. I drop the portfolio I am about to begin work on and leave with him.

  It’s just another apartment really, from the multitudes in the concrete tapestry of a steamy, moldy, and wheezy city: an apartment lonelier than the rest perhaps. It is a functional place, without any remarkable trappings of success, for a bachelor to pass the bleak, long days. Neither an item that doesn’t carry a meaning is in the house, nor is one without. It’s cold and unwelcoming. It’s empty and meaningless. It’s stark and naked.

  Clothing warm from fresh ironing, a newly watered potted plant by the misty window, children yelling on their way down the stairs with bats and pads hung over their elbows, and the warm embrace of kitchen smells as you unlock the door would add some life and color to the flat.

  ‘It’s beautiful- I love it’, I tell the half-cocked Rocky.

  His ironed face crinkles into a grin.

  He says, ‘wow man! What you did back there in UP – you are a hero’.

  ‘You’d be surprised at who pulled me through- a couple of emaciated, shrunken women; but what spirit- what a rarity these days’.

  Tossing the keys into my outstretched hand he bundles down the stairs- three at a time- as fast as his spindly legs can carry their massive super-frame.

  ‘Monal doesn’t think so’, he shouts back before slamming the door. ‘She thinks you are the one with it- the spirit’!

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  I haul my “spirit” over to the house to nurse it with a carton of cold milk while I sit in the balcony watching over the Arabian Sea churning up in the monsoons. The skies seem to have crashed down and the black clouds hover directly above the waves as the sea heaves up to embrace them. The wind works up a whistling fury, lashing the mainland with a thick, moving blanket of showers.

  A tempest is upon us.

  Today is Lily’s birthday.

  Having been smothered during my growing years in the warm bosoms of the single mother and a bevy of her sisters and cousins of varying degrees of separation, I am very vigilant in the application of protocol during such cataclysmic events. Just to take no chances; that of Lele remembering his part in ordering the bouquets of her favorite color pink, I have ordered them myself, for I know that she is precocious and sensitive and needs to be touched and loved and Lele is not going to come forward and give her all that and this day she is going to feel hurt- very badly. I don’t know why, when two people as special as my two friends who are so obviously in love, don’t reach out and grab one another with both hands and never let go. She hesitates because she’s afraid of rejection and he because he’s afraid of commitment. So to ease matters for the dillydallies I, as the well-meaning matchmaker have ordered for bouquets of hot pink gerberas, light pink alstroemerias and green hypericums in clear fluted vases with pink ribbons- about a dozen of them. Our small apartment is awash in a riot of pinks, whites and greens, and all is well. I am sure Lele will also not bother to take her out to dinner to a decent place and make her feel special, so that part too I shall have to cater to. I have reservations this evening at The Zodiac Grill for four- Aarti included of course- after which I intend to show off to her my new apartment where later, when we are united in holy matrimony: she may seek wool and flax, work with willing hands, submit unto me, give me authority over her body, keep the fires roaring in my hearth and loins, raise my children, and keep my house.

  I have kept the apartment dark as I wait in the balcony for the two mates to return from office. Lily enters after Lele and flicks on the switch. She lets out a howl as she sees the profusion of flowers; flits from vase to vase in joy while Lele stands gaping; his arms hanging limply by his sides.

  Her eyes brimful of tears, she turns to him; running her palms down the front of his shirt, she says; ‘ you cruel, cruel man; you kept me waiting so’. Grabbing his collars she pulls his face close and plants her lips on his, and rising on her toes curls a shapely leg around him, making small whining sounds; as her future master and provider stands transfixed to the spot, his breath sucked out of him by her roving tongue. Then she breaks loose, regards him at an arm’s length and still holding on to his collars, walks backwards to lead him unto her verdant bower. Realizing where he’s headed, the man in Lele stirs and awakens, and bending down slightly, he lifts gentle Lily in his strong embrace, and walks to her bed where he throws her, to lie beside her, and to rav
ish her till she’s spent.

  I tiptoe into the house and chance upon the open card on one of the bouquets, that carelessly says, “Best Wishes of the Day- Love, Arjun”. Clumsy me had forgotten to tell the florist to put Lele’s name on it. Luckily Lily hasn’t seen it- I hastily remove it and slip it out of sight under the bundle of papers on my desk. I take a bath and change into something Khosla would find little blunder in, and tiptoe back to the balcony. Silly me though- I needn’t have bothered about making a sound- so quiet otherwise, they are a real noisy couple in bed. No one would hearken a tall man striding comfortably across the hall in rubber-soled boots in the racket they’re making right now. I grab a carton of full-fat blackberry yoghurt and sling it over to the balcony for comfort while the two lovers run each other’s floods dry. Lele comes out to the balcony presently, looking very pleased.

  ‘Ever been with a girl’, he asks, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Been there, done that, still there… doing it…’ I tell him, pausing between the scoops.

  ‘Flowers have a…’ he struggles for the words.