Tapas kept the joke within the four walls of their apartment, between Moni and himself. He wanted the sale to go through without a hitch.
He had maintained the Honda City well. Even after they had been transferred to Sydney, and after that to Gurgaon. Tapas had arranged with a neighbour to get his chauffeur to drive it once a week and keep it clean. He wired the man his salary every month. When he returned, he got new tyres fixed. The seats were still good. The engine was in excellent condition. It didn’t look its age; far from it in fact. He had even renewed the toll-gate pass the previous month. The only problem was the audio system. It had stopped working, and couldn’t be repaired. Tapas hadn’t thought it worthwhile to get it replaced.
Two days after Tapas posted the car details and expected price in their gated community’s WhatsApp group, Santhosh, from D6, approached him at the car park. An elderly man was with him. Shabby singlet and a badly-in-need-of-a-wash veshti folded up to reveal a pair of pale legs. Crusty yellow toenails and cracked heels standing on a pair of wafer-thin, loose-strapped rubber flipflops.
‘My relative,’ said Santhosh. He turned to his companion, ‘Tapas Routray. Car owner.’
‘Myself Muruga,’ said the man, pressing his palms into a namaste. ‘Santhosh highly recommending saar.’
‘Hello Mr Murga,’ said Tapas, dipping his head slightly.
‘Moo roo ga,’ he said. ‘Yem, Yew, Yaar, Yew, Gee, Yay. Yenather name for lord Kartikeya or Subrahmanya, son of Lord Shiva, saar. My name.’
‘Oh sorry.’ Tapas scratched under his Longines where the sweat had formed an itchy layer.
Muruga turned towards Santhosh and moved his hands like a steering wheel. A question in the nod of his head. Tapas got the hint.
‘Sorry, got a call at twelve. Day after tomorrow, say five pm suit you?’
Muruga looked alarmed. ‘More customer, va?’ He looked at Santhosh for reassurance.
‘No, no. I meant my office call. Work from home doesn’t mean free hours. If anything, it’s more work.’
‘Oh yes. Welcome to WFH!’ said Santosh shaking his head with exasperation and empathy. ‘Twenty-four hours. Any time, office time.’ He turned to Muruga and spoke in rapid Tamil.
‘Yokkey, yokkey,’ said Muruga bobbling his head. ‘No problem saar. Day after, five pm.’
Tapas hurried back home. Work had piled up. He fielded back-to-back customer calls and attended zoom conferences all day. It left him drained. By the time he shut his laptop it was dark outside, and he was dying for a drink. The thought of alcohol reminded him of the good times. God! How he missed Gurgaon. But more than that he and Moni missed Sydney. He wished they could have bought a house in Gurgaon at least. People were always surprised when they said they had ‘settled’ in Chennai.
When Tapas was first transferred to Chennai from Kolkata, they had found a dainty little community with spacious lobbies and gardens and amenities that made it look more like a five-star resort than a residential complex. The price was good and the paperwork surprisingly quick and clean. No bribery or black money involved. It had been too good to resist. But who knew they would be moving to Sydney another two years down the line? And then four years later to Gurgaon? The money was tied up with the house now. The market was down. Tapas was glad he had been able to get a buyer for his old car.
Tapas groaned. He had yet to get his Mercedes registered in Tamil Nadu, and also get the number-plate changed from a Gurgaon one to that of Chennai. He didn’t look forward to running around the Regional Transport Office. He wondered if they would charge him more for not being able to speak in Tamil.
Moni found him inspecting the bar. It was a sleek and elegant piece of furniture that she had taken pains to design and custom-make, overcoming the language barrier patiently. ‘What happened to weekends only?’
‘Want some or not?’
‘Yeah, like I’ll only watch!’ Moni got out the ice. ‘Why does Santhosh want our Honda. He’s got an Audi, right?’
‘It’s for his relative. Odd fellow. Murga.’
Moni laughed. ‘He must be, to want a second-hand Honda City.’
‘It’s his name.’ Tapas swirled the Talisker in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. ‘And, you won’t get a better maintained second-hand City than mine.’
‘True,’ said Moni. ‘But aren’t they into luxury cars these days, apart from their traditional real estate and jewellery?’ She dropped the cubes into their glasses. ‘How old is he?’
Tapas looked down into his glass. ‘Looks as old as dad.’
‘Aah. He’s the same person,’ said Moni. ‘Rang the bell at ten am yesterday. I didn’t let him in. You were at your desk. I mean, have some sense. Who walks into other people’s homes without calling first? No mask, no nothing!’
‘He didn’t wear one today either. And Santhosh had his around his chin!’
‘Why is he so eager to buy an old car? Is he hard up?’
‘Why do I care? He’s buying. I need to get rid of it.’
‘Nobody else offered?’
‘There were two or three, from Quikr.’ Tapas finished his drink. ‘They call and the only thing they want to know is the price!’
‘You should have asked for four lakhs,’ said Moni, swirling her whisky.
Tapas shook his head. ‘Market value’s at two and a half. Max three. That’s what our Murga’s giving.’
They laughed. Murga indeed. Drop a vowel and a God’s name could easily be turned into the Hindi word for rooster, and also a fool who could be taken for a ride! Murga had corrected the error on the very first day though, with a betelnut stained smile.
‘That was fast.’
‘I’m exhausted. You want a refill?’
Moni downed hers, coughing a little as she handed over her glass. ‘I heard you yelling. Was it a buyer?’
‘Yes. And, the idiot doesn’t even want to know what’s on sale.’ Tapas poured two fingers each into their glasses. ‘Last price saar!’ He mimicked. ‘Anyway, now it’s just Murga. Seems keen. And, I don’t expect hanky-panky from a neighbour.’
Muruga was early. Tapas opened the door to find him standing six feet away, smiling as usual, mask clasping his chin like a fake beard. ‘Santhosh waiting downstairs saar.’
Tapas hurriedly put his mask on. He took the stairs instead of the lift. Muruga looked puzzled for a few seconds, but followed without a fuss. Tapas was in a jovial mood when he returned.
‘Not a bad chap, our Murga!’
Moni was applying the first coat of nail polish on her fingernails. She looked at her hands critically. The skin looked rough, and her cuticles had grown thick. She sighed. By the time the pandemic was over, she would look no better than a maid. ‘Why? What did he do?’ she said without looking up.
‘I didn’t have to explain anything. Murga understands cars. ‘Tiptop saar, tiptop,’ he kept saying as he drove. Wanted to hand over the cheque right away.’
‘You took it?’
‘No way! I want a bank transfer. Besides, we need to get the documents in order. His and mine. Chap drives pretty well, I must say.’
‘Everybody drives here. Everybody drives everywhere, except for me.’
Tapas ignored the complaint. ‘Let’s have beer today, shall we?’
‘Saving the good stuff?’
‘Yes, why not? This isn’t Gurgaon. And nobody’s travelling anywhere soon.’
‘All they eat here are idli-dosa and curd rice. You can’t get any decent alcohol. They only know to hoard gold and diamonds and buy property. And their kanjeevaram saris!’
‘You were pretty keen to get one,’ said Tapas.
‘Well, you can’t not own ONE, if you live in Chennai!’ retorted Moni. She took a sip of her beer and grimaced. ‘They don’t sell Bira here?’
Tapas snorted. Then he groaned. ‘I have to go to the RTO tomorrow.’ He licked the froth off his lips.
‘Taking the Honda or the Mercedes?’
‘Neither. Murga offered to take me. He’s got a two-wheeler.’
‘Good God, Tapu, you’ll be sticking to his back! How do you know where he’s been?!’
‘I don’t know the language for starters! What the heck am I supposed to do?’ said Tapas irritably. ‘It’s alright for you to sit at home and lecture. Someone has to get the job done. Damn it!’
Moni didn’t speak to him for the rest of the evening. But she didn’t turn away either when they went to bed.
‘Let’s go to Mahabalipuram this weekend,’ Tapas murmured into Moni’s hair. ‘The beach and back. Picnic.’
‘After we’ve settled this car business,’ she murmured back.
Muruga’s ‘missed call’ trilled sharp at nine am on Tapas’s cell phone, just as he’d promised. Tapas was ready and waiting. Muruga wore shorts and a t-shirt. He had exchanged his flipflops for a pair of worn-out leather slip-ons. He rolled a pink Scooty forward, and patted the seat. Tapas stared. He had expected, and now he felt confused, what exactly had he expected? Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been a pink Scooty! Muruga placed his left buttock on the seat. His right leg trailed the ground. He started the engine. Tapas gingerly climbed in from behind.
Getting the documentation done for the Honda City proved relatively easy. Or perhaps it was because Muruga seemed to know his way about. It took them the better part of the morning, but a satisfying one.
‘Next, your Delhi car transfer documents saar, no?’
‘Yes. Gurgaon. Mr. Murg … Er, Muruga. I appreciate your help. Today…’
‘Yenather day saar. Your choice day. One day full, maybe two. Better, you take leave.’
‘Yes, I guess I better do that.’
‘I yam retired man saar. You choose date,’ said Muruga grinning.
Tapas pillion rode again on the appointed day. He wore two masks, and kept a small bottle of hand sanitiser in his pocket. At the Regional Transport Office, people either stood in bunches or milled around, brushing against each other. Nobody followed the government’s social distancing protocols. Most wore their masks around their chins. Some even had them slung over an ear, the way one tucked the sacred thread before squatting to take a dump. A few coughed, and then wiped their hands on their shirts. Others sneezed without covering their mouths. One man borrowed his friend’s mask before entering the tiny cubicle where one of the petty officials sat.
‘How old are you Mr Muruga?’ said Tapas once they were outside again, and Muruga suggested they have some tender coconut water.
Muruga laughed. ‘Seventy-five years, six months.’
‘You’re not worried about Covid?’
‘Saar, no tension. All in Muruga’s hands!’ He raised his arms skywards. ‘In service life living in many places. Sometimes no civic yamenities. Also, Naxal district, two times. No problems.’
‘Naxal district? Where did you work?’
‘Civil servant saar. Tamil Nadu Government Civil Service.’
Tapas almost choked over his tender coconut water. ‘Wow!’
‘I was newly appointed district magistrate the year Rajiv Gandhi was yassassinated,’ said Muruga. He finished his drink. Tapas reached for his wallet. Muruga patted his arm. ‘No saar. My treat.’
‘Don’t call me sir, Muruga sir,’ said Tapas.
‘No problem saar. For me even auto rickshaw man saar. Yequal saar.’
Muruga’s eyes crinkled into a smile when Tapas met him at the carpark the following day. He was wearing a grubby looking mask, probably his wife’s going by its colour, which covered his mouth, but not his nose. Tapas smiled under his. ‘Today’s coconut water my treat, Muruga sir.’
‘Yokkey.’
With Muruga beside him, Tapas found he had a distinct advantage. He hadn’t failed to notice how respectful everyone was towards the older man. Three hours later, with the documentation almost done, they were at the green coconut vendor’s cart, taking a break. Tapas held the coconut with both hands and tipped it over his mouth, spilling some on his shirt in the process. He didn’t trust the vendor’s straws, unlike Muruga.
‘Saar, you from narth Yindia, no? Which part?’ said Muruga after a burp of satisfaction.
Tapas blinked. Here it was again. ‘Orissa, Cuttack.’
‘Yokkey, Calcutta. City of Joy, rossogolla.’
‘No Muruga sir, Cuttack. It’s in Orissa. I’m Oriya. Not Bengali. And, rossogolla is originally from Orissa.’
Muruga looked perplexed. ‘Rossogolla, Bengali sweet, no?’
Tapas laughed and shook his head. ‘Bengalis claim it’s theirs. Actually, it was invented in Orissa.’
‘Oh. Where saar? Near to Calcutta?’
‘Kolkata,’ corrected Tapas. ‘Kolkata is a city. Orissa is a state,’ His voice turned a little testy. The smile in Muruga’s eyes dimmed. ‘Tamil Nadu is a state, right? Orissa is also a state,’ continued Tapas, more gently. ‘Near West Bengal. Kolkata is an overnight train journey from Bhubaneswar.’
Muruga looked relieved. ‘Near to Calcutta.’
Tapas sighed. When would they learn that anyone from north of the Vindyas was not a north Indian? And, that Kolkata did not represent all of east India? To be fair, north Indians were no better.
His colleague, a burly man from Haryana, had sniggered when he heard Tapas was relocating to Chennai, ‘House in Chennai? Is that even in India?’
Tapas had merely smiled and shrugged in response. Their company’s work-from-home pandemic-policy was not just saving him house rent each month, a hefty amount in Gurgaon, it had also brought him geographically closer to many of their India-based customers. A fact his Gurgaon colleagues found hard to accept.
A few days later, Tapas took another day off. Muruga waited downstairs. This time they went in Tapas’s Mercedes. The RTO had asked for a picture of the car with him standing next to it. Tapas wanted to ask, why? Weren’t the relevant documents enough already? But he held his peace.
Muruga patted the seat before sitting down. He made a circle with his thumb and index finger to show his approval. Tapas almost expected him to ask the price, but he didn’t. He touched Tapas on the arm lightly.
‘Saar, you take yoffence, because I don’t know Cuttack? Very sorry saar. Don’t mistake me saar.’
Tapas was embarrassed. ‘No problem. No problem at all Muruga sir. Kolkata is famous because it was the capital during British times.’
‘India very big country saar. Right hand not knowing left hand. Left hand not knowing foot. Foot not knowing head, saar. Now wonly I am retired man, but never going to narth Yindia in whole life. US, I have yalready. Daughter is there, after marriage. My missus, daughter with son-yin-law along with me also did one Yorope trip.’
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out an old leather wallet. He extracted a photograph from it. Tapas glanced at it quickly before turning his gaze back to the road. A pretty young woman with a baby stood next to a tall man with a thick moustache, in front of what was probably their own car.
‘Now I want to visit Haridwar, Rishikesh, Banaras and all. Holy places I want to visit with my missus. After Covid. Have you been there?’
‘Where?’
‘Holy Yindian places?’
‘Um, not really. But Bhubaneshwar is the city of a thousand temples. You must visit.’
Muruga’s face lit up. ‘Yes, yes, I know. Sun temple, Konark!’
Tapas opened his mouth to correct him, but decided against it.
‘Why didn’t you go for a new car, Muruga sir?’
Muruga chortled. His mirth was as guileless as a baby’s. ‘Recycle saar. Re-use.’ He took out a mask from his breast pocket. ‘Missus making from wold cloth.’
What the…. What was wrong with the man?! A cut-up brassiere for a mask? Tapas braked hard. He had almost dashed into an auto-rickshaw. The driver glared at him and gestured, was he drunk or what?!
‘Slow, slow saar,’ cautioned Muruga affably. He fingered the mask. ‘Yinside yout-side,’ he explained as he turned the mask right side out, and put it on. The other side was printed cotton, and had darts in it like those found in sari blouses. The straps were bra straps. They were undoubtedly ingenious, noted Tapas. He would give them that.
Muruga called him two weeks after the money and the Honda City had exchanged owners. He sounded excited or frantic on the phone. Feeling alarmed, Tapas barely finished his four-o-clock tea and rushed towards the door. Moni had to remind him to wear his mask.
‘Look, look saar, new cover!’ said Muruga beaming. ‘See, da? I am fixing new music system yalready!’ He was wearing a clean, full-length veshti and an ironed half-sleeved shirt. His mask peeped out from his shirt pocket. He flung an arm towards a woman standing near the Honda. ‘Missus!’
Muruga’s wife smiled broadly. Her seven-stone diamond studs and the half-carat nose ring winked like stars on her chubby face. Thick gold chains of various lengths hung from her neck. Her mask was tucked into her sari at the waist. Her heavy silk sari was three inches above her ankles. Silver toe rings gleamed on her toes.
Tapas ducked his head and pressed his palms into a namaste. She responded likewise.
‘Seating cover, her choice,’ said Muruga proudly. ‘Dirt not showing yeasily.’
Tapas took in the earth brown seat covers inside the crimson Honda City, and supressed a smirk. Muruga got into the driver’s seat and started the car. He turned on the music system. A Tamil film song flowed out. Tapas took a step back, laughing.
‘Why are you spending so much on an old car, Muruga sir? That music system must have cost you a packet.’
‘Saar,’ said Muruga. ‘For you wold. For me new. Brand new. Come, I will give you ride in my brand-new car!’
Muruga and his wife smiled gleefully. They took a selfie, huddling close.
‘Come saar,’ said Muruga. His wife hurried out of the passenger seat in front. Muruga reached over to unlock the door behind, so she could get in.
‘No, no. Thank you Muruga sir. Another day. I have to take my missus out.’
‘Ohhoho,’ Muruga, laughed heartily. ‘Right you are. Right, you are saar!’
With his wife back in her seat again, Muruga took another selfie. They giggled. Like children in a Ferris wheel, thought Tapas. For a few brief moments, he felt sucked into their happy bubble. And then he was out of it. A rude self-ejection.
Tapas turned and walked rapidly away, the heels of his Birkenstocks slapping harshly against the ground. He involuntarily clenched and unclenched his fists. It made no sense, but there it was. Their joy, grating on him like a song from the long past, a song whose lyrics he could barely remember, and whose wordless tune spun around his head like a witless fly that was nonetheless clever enough to evade the rolled-up newspaper in his hand. Time and again. Tapas felt an acute desire to sob. Sob like a child. And, it infuriated him.
His breath had begun to come out in short bursts by the time he reached his door. His chest heaved visibly. So, he paused to inhale slowly and deliberately. He made a conscious effort to relax his facial muscles. He stood outside for many minutes, feeling like a stranger, and hesitant. When he finally entered, he realised he had taken off his Birkenstocks and left them outside, instead of placing them in the safe custody of their Indian rosewood shoe cupboard that was also part planter and part bench. Another one of Moni’s brilliant designs.
*
Shikhandin is the pen name of an Indian writer. Books include After Grief – Poems, Red River, Impetuous Women, Penguin-Random House, Immoderate Men, Speaking Tiger, and Vibhuti Cat, Duckbill-Penguin-Random House. Honours include, runner up George Floyd Short Story Contest 2020, Pushcart nominee by Aeolian Harp 2019, Pushcart nominee by Cha: An Asian Literary Journal 2011, Winner 2017 Children First Contest curated by Duckbill in association with Parag an initiative of Tata Trust, First Prize Brilliant Flash Fiction Contest 2019, Runner up Erbacce Poetry Prize, Winner 35th Moon Prize (Writing in a Woman's Voice), First Runner up the DNA-OoP Short Story Contest 2016, Second Prize India Currents Katha Short Story Contest 2016, First Prize Anam Cara Short Fiction Competition 2012, Long list Bridport Poetry Prize 2006, Finalist Aesthetica Poetry Contest 2010. Shikhandin’s prose and poetry have been widely published in India and abroad in online and print journals and anthologies.
Shikhandin’s short stories have appeared in Out of Print.