Kiran Gandhi
The entropy of the classroom fell sharply like the stock exchange Sensex on a bear day. The air became dense with a collective sense of betrayal. The PVC pipe on the bottom end of the world map knocked on the wall on which it was hung. The assignment was to write about an interesting family member in 500 words. Write. Not read out loud in front of the whole class. But Sasha did not mind. She felt the story of her uncle deserved to be heard out loud. So, when the teacher asked who wanted to go first, hers was the only hand raised in earnest. The recently whitewashed wall littered fine fairy dust onto Sasha’s head as she stood in front of the blackboard. An affectionate coldness crept up on her feet. Even though she had seen it a million times, she still took a moment to read the words scribbled in persistent ink on the wall at the other end of the classroom. It was an Emily Dickinson quote: “That it will never come again is what makes life sweet.” She adjusted the paper in her hand and took a deep breath.
The interesting member of my family I am writing about is my maman Ambu who is my mother’s brother, or he was; not sure what happens to relations after we die. I don’t think it is fair to talk about him in 500 words, so I have stopped counting. I haven’t seen much of him. He was never around. I have another uncle who is always around. He is not that interesting. Whatever I learned of Ambu maman, I heard from others.
Ambu was a fussy baby. He realised the bargaining powers of a shrill cry very early on, using it recklessly to be cosseted. There was this ad of an Atlas jewellery on TV those days. The owner would say the tagline in a peculiar fashion and Ambu would chortle. It was often the last resort to calm the baby and his grandma christened him “Atlas Ambu”. The baby grew up and made a name for himself under the fashionable moniker “Atlas A”.
Mothers are unreliable narrators when it comes to their sons. I did not have many other options though. So, grandma was my primary source. There are two newspaper cuttings about Ambu maman, twenty-five years apart, in safe custody in our home. Grandma has the first one and my mother has the second.
***
The car twitched about a bit before grinding to a halt, mimicking the workings of government machinery. The minister in the back seat was rudely awakened from his slumber. Before he got the chance to snap at the driver, the radiator billowed white smoke so thick it could come in handy if they were electing a new Pope. The pilot vehicle was a tad more enthusiastic and was ahead of them by a few laps. The driver opened the bonnet with the face of someone who knew what he was doing. The minister got out and assessing that this could take a while, ambled across to the college compound from where the laughter and applause were coming.
The audience usually rationed their applause, that too after the performance was over. But chest number 25 of the Mimicry event made them make an exception. Applause like a constant drizzle accompanied him as he went through his repertoire. As Ambu was nearing the end of his act, he saw the minister walk in. The crowd was still engrossed in the act. The minister felt déjà vu standing amongst people. Ambu had never tried the minister’s voice, but the serendipity demanded that he do. So he did, and when the crowd saw the minister laughing, the applause reached a deafening pitch. Ambu revelled in the adulation. The organisers didn’t have to persuade the minister much to do the prize distribution. The minister handed over the first prize in the Mimicry event of the intercollegiate youth festival to Ambu. A journalist was on hand to record the event. That week’s Mathrubhumi Sunday supplement would carry the story. It was the first and last time Ambu was in the news for the right reasons. The minister left, and the crowd dispersed to recognise talent from other events. Ambu took his belongings from the backstage area and was about to leave when he was met by a man who introduced himself as Guruji. He was wearing a saffron kurta, had grey flowing beard, and could easily pass for a guruji. He was the owner of a mimicry troupe, at least that’s what he told Ambu.
Grandma showed it to me once. The paper is all yellow and crinkly now. You could still see the picture though. Ambu maman receiving a prize from some politician. Grandma keeps it safe in a transparent file in the almary along with her clothes. It was a really good day, she says. We were all so proud of him. But something else happened that day. Ambu met someone that day, I am sure; he dropped out of college a week after that. I sat with grandma as she cried.
Ambu’s life was really hard on his father. When other kids wanted a dog or a cat as pets, Ambu asked for a horse. When he tried to get him interested in cricket, Ambu wanted to play hockey. He disowned Ambu when he dropped out of college. When he heard he had joined college again, he decided to forget his son’s earlier misdemeanour. Ambu didn’t stick with it and his father had no option other than to disown him. Then claimed him when Ambu came back and played the role of the prodigal son for a while. This going back and forth took a toll on him. It would have been kinder if Ambu went down a spiral and kept on going down. Ambu kept throwing silver linings at the father’s heart. He never asked Ambu where his money came from, not because he didn’t care but because he was afraid of the answer. During Ambu’s school days, he never showed the answer papers he didn’t do well in to his father. He got those signed by his mother. His father was happy thinking he was doing well. Ambu would lend his tempo travellers whenever his father catered to events. He could see Ambu taking over his restaurant business one day. That day never came.
It’s really hard to talk to grandpa about Ambu maman or anything else. He gets agitated easily these days. He mumbles stuff to himself sometimes and then gets angry at us for not responding. That boy was always trouble, he says. Never trust a man who has many tempo travellers and doesn’t say what he does for a living, he mumbles. We have a tempo traveller in our backyard, the ghost of one at least. It was my favourite place to hide while playing hide and seek. No one came looking for me there. I used to scratch at the design on the traveller’s belly. A picture of the globe wrapped around by a big “A”. Once upon a time that logo was a permit to go anywhere, grandpa says. No one stopped it to have a look inside. And look where it got its owner. Grandpa got back to the conversation with himself.
***
The teacher’s back was turned to the class. Ambu walked out of the fluid mechanics class without disturbing him. He didn’t have any friends that cared enough to stop him. He kept on walking till he met the man who introduced himself as Guruji a week before. That day Guruji laid out his business idea before Ambu. He had identified that there was a niche market in the logistics business. Someone who could get things from point A to point B. Someone who didn’t care what those things were. We could be that someone. Ambu was not convinced.
“I am not going to drop out of college to be some delivery boy.”
“Trust me! There is a lot of money in it. I already have a fleet of vehicles. I bought them cheap through the police auction. We could travel under the guise of a mimicry troupe I have set up.”
“Let me guess. You have no mimicry artists.”
“You are right. They say it was bad luck to have a mimicry troupe without a single artist.”
They entered into a gentleman’s agreement to go into business over a pint of beer at the Swargam bar. Guruji was right about the business model, time would prove. There really was a niche. Guruji had some connections too. Guruji had made some blink-and-you-miss-it appearances in many Malayalam movies of the 80s. He had contested as an independent candidate in three elections. Guruji knew lots of people and lots of people knew Guruji. It took a few years but the purple patch did indeed come. For two straight financial years their turnover before tax was more than that of the postal department’s parcel service. They had another thing in their favour too. It was the 90s, a time where you could get away with things. And boy, did they need that. The 90s gave way to the aughts which was a less forgiving decade. Guruji was at that age where he could not afford anymore do-overs. Ambu on the other hand was young and could start over if things went sideways. This contrast between caution and recklessness created a rift between them. Ambu began to break Guruji’s cardinal rule. He began to care what things they were transporting. It was curiosity at first. Then he thought this could be leverage. It was only a matter of time before greed took over. Guruji had spent all his life in search of that one idea that would define him. Not only did he have that idea, he also witnessed the idea bear fruit. That knowledge alone was enough for him. So, it was easy for him to walk away. They shared a pint of beer at the Swargam bar and came to a gentleman’s disagreement. Guruji still felt some responsibility for how Ambu’s life would turn out. Even without Guruji’s influence, Ambu would have still got to his fate. All Guruji could do now was to tell him not to be in such a hurry to get there.
“The key to surviving in our business is to never make a splash. A few ripples now and then is fine. It shall go unnoticed. Those are some powerful people we are dealing with. If a politician misuses public money, there is no accountability. But if the public dips their hand into the politician’s money, there will be consequences.”
“Don’t worry Guruji. I have lot of leverage against these people.”
“Sometimes too much leverage is no leverage, son.” They then sat in silence and drank till the bar closed. In that dim yellowy light of the bar, Ambu looked to Guruji like the shadow of a man he once knew. That was the last time Guruji saw Ambu. Next day, the logo of a globe wrapped around by an “A” appeared on all their vehicles.
Today, I woke up to my mom and grandma fighting. I have never seen them fight. They shared a sort of camaraderie, even though they were mother and daughter, that was only possible between women. They could cook up a feast without saying a word to each other. They knew what they were supposed to do even without any official delegation of duties. Be it cutting the vegetables, sauteing the onions, or adding the spices; they moved around the kitchen without ever getting in each other’s way. If synchronised cooking was an Olympics sport, they would have got us a medal. But now they were fighting. Grandpa peeked, and realising what the fight was about, retired to his room like a tortoise retracting its head into its shell. Grandma kept saying that was not him and cursed my mother for keeping that newspaper cutting. Grandma reserved the bulk of her filial affection for Ambu maman, it was clear. My mother didn’t resent her for that. It’s hard to compete with an absent son. Grandma had so much love for Ambu and so little time to express it all. He would take her out to dinner. He never came in. Maybe he didn’t want to see grandpa. I used to peek at him through the curtain. He would stand with his back to the side of the car and wait for grandma to come out. If Amma saw me peeking, I would get an earful. I wished he would come inside one day. Amma was still seething when I went near her. She had in her palm the newspaper. A single column news with the headline, “Man found dead inside local school classroom,” was the bone of contention between them. Do you guys know why we got a holiday the other day for no reason? It was because of my Ambu maman.
***
Atlas A rested his back against the wall. He felt cold. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the coldness of the wall or the heat leaving his body. A few hours ago, he was having dinner with his mom. He went to his house as usual to pick her up. He sensed some motion behind the living room curtain. He figured it was his dad. One of these days he would go in, he thought. His mother talked while he cooked the dinner at his place. A place so organised as if to make up for the disorder of the occupant’s life. The conversation skirted around the usual unresolved topics. Patch things up with dad, get married, stop running around—mom’s demands were more than what he could fulfil in one night. Mom sensed there was something wrong with Ambu. As much as Ambu tried to hide it, his cooking told on him. The secret ingredient in his cooking tonight was fear. A slight inconvenience—that’s what Ambu told her was bothering him. Inconvenience that grew limbs and fangs and was now crushing Atlas A under its weight. The classroom had windows without any railing. A few stray dogs were the only security at night. Atlas A found it a perfect place for incognito meetings. He also liked to sit there alone, listening to the sound of the world map beating against the wall or the wooden desks and benches creaking. It was the closest Atlas A came to Ambu. Tonight was going to be one such lonely night. But he was not alone. The silhouette of the man came closer to Atlas A whose back was scratching against the wall as he slumped down slowly.
“You have about forty-five minutes left,” the shadow said. Atlas A had no reason to disbelieve him. If you can’t trust someone who inflicts a fatal wound on you, who can you trust in this world. Atlas A did not recognise that voice. He was thankful for that. It would have been a cliché if it was someone he knew. “You have about forty-five minutes left,” Ambu talked back to the figure in his voice. The shadow stood perplexed for a bit and then disappeared out the window. Ambu remembered the day his horoscope was written and how excited his mother was. He would live a long life, it said. Amma should get refund from that astrologer, the thought brought a smile to Ambu’s parched lips. When he was a kid, Ambu’s grandma used to tell him stories from the Mahabharata. He wanted to be Karnan. Grandma would correct him. “No, you’re Ashwathama. You are immortal.” She would then kiss his forehead as he lay in her lap. But Ambu held the fascination towards Karnan. It was the ultimate male fantasy of bleeding out in the battlefield. He looked at the wall at the far end of the classroom. He knew there were words written on it. The light was too scant to read it. He didn’t need any light. He knew the words to be That it will never come again is what makes life sweet, for he had written it in another lifetime with persistent ink. His eyes began to droop. He could hear a faint applause. Then it became louder. Ambu was on stage imitating someone who doesn’t have a mortal wound. A convincing performance. The crowd cheers.
Grandma says Ambu maman is hiding, biding his time to come back. He will live till 81, she says. Sometimes I believe her.
Sasha got an A on her assignment.
Kiran Gandhi is a writer from Kerala who is still trying to come to terms with a world where Roger Federer does not play tennis professionally anymore. He likes writing about the quotidian life with a dash of humour. He tweets @Kirangandhi.
