This is a bit of an
experiment. I thought I’d take a little break from writing the city encounters
and put some of my other writing up. In this case, it’s a little idea I had that I thought I
would try out. I have been reading a lot of P.G Wodehouse off late, and I’m
frankly enamoured by his incredible prose and warm humour. One evening, with
his words sloshing about in my head, I sat down and dashed out a quick
paragraph inspired by his style. I later expanded that into this story. Now as
I said, I’ve taken inspiration from Wodehouse’s writing, but I’m not really
trying to write like him, because that is impossible, and pointless. He is
inimitable, and a recognised master of the English language. I think it would
be a better tribute to him, to take inspiration from his style, and see where I
can go with it, rather than attempt to wholeheartedly copy. The story is mostly fictional,
but based on some real events. With that said, let’s dive into it!
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“He asked for it,” said Ryan flatly,
aiming for, and wildly missing a stray can on the street. “He asked for it, and
boy did he get it!” The comment seemed to incense Gopi, an earnest sort of
fellow who was too tall for his own good. “Shattap you nitwit! We nearly got
killed!” he bellowed from somewhere above us. Now honestly I feel he was exaggerating
a bit – Gopi is prone to hyperbole, which is ironic because it is only through
hyperbole that he can be adequately described. He resembles an oversized flag
post, and knows a thing or two about life threatening situations, having spent
much of his adult life dodging telephone wires and all manner of airborne
objects. Presently he sidestepped to give way to a flock of migratory birds,
before continuing, “Antagonized the audience, that’s what! What the hell were
you thinking?”
I sensed an imminent conflagration, and slyly pulled out from
between them – and just in time. “I don’t know if it’s the rarefied air you’re
forced to breathe up there that’s knocked you silly, or if you’re a genuine
hare-brain!” Ryan retorted, and followed it up with the most colourful sort of
invective. Shortly a scuffle broke out between these two otherwise placid
individuals. “Don’t pull his hair, Goptard,” admonished Kumar at some point,
but neither of us made any move to stop them, which indicated the dark mood we
were in.
I feel, at this juncture, that I should
perhaps bring the reader up to speed on the events that had occurred earlier
that evening, and some introductions are also in order. The company consisted
of Kumar the Slayer and myself, besides Ryan and Gopi – aspiring stand up
comedians all of us, though you wouldn’t have guessed it if you’d spotted our
little retinue on the street that evening. To be fair, we had suffered a
traumatic episode and needed nothing more than a stiff drink. But before we get
to that, let me sum up the incidents leading up to the unfortunate confrontation
between my two mates:
At round about 8:00 pm, a stand up Open Mic
Night kicked off in a dingy little establishment in Andheri. As you know, Open
Mic nights can hardly work without an audience, which is a bummer since Open Mic
nights also hardly work for the audience. As so often happens, the chums who’d
come to perform that evening far outnumbered the audience members, and it was
this desperate situation that drove our host to take an unprecedented step. He
proposed to marshal together an impromptu audience from the streets, with the
promise of complimentary drinks. “Just like they do in New York! It can’t
fail!” the host assured us sweatily. An injudicious proposal under any
circumstances, for a stand up show, it was bound to prove disastrous.
Anyhow, to cut the story short, a
redoubtable bunch of characters were whisked off the good streets of Mumbai,
quickly assembled into something resembling an audience, and proceedings were
inaugurated without delay. For a time, things went without incident, apart from
the fact that not many of the audience members seemed to have a clue about
stand up. The trouble really started during Ryan’s set. The event thus far had
been a low-key affair, not surprisingly, and Ryan the man was belting out some
of his more risqué stuff. The better-lubricated audience members cheered him on
lustily, but halfway through one of his jokes, an angry roar suddenly emanated
from somewhere, drowning out the hoots and catcalls.
I believe the joke in question was a rather off-colour one that
concerned a sex education teacher of Bengali origin that Ryan claimed to have
been taught by. This teacher, he had explained – frequently aroused laughter
amongst her pupils, with her peculiar pronunciation of a word relating to the
female reproductive organ. A fairly innocuous joke, you might think, and indeed
the joke was well received by all – with the exception of one Mr. Chatterjee,
in the third row.
The man hadn’t asked to be here, to be
fair, and he seemed chagrined at having to tolerate these base remarks made
against his people. One could tell from his manner and flushed cheeks that he
had taken due advantage of the host’s hospitality, and it seemed to be fuelling
his passions. Ryan wasn’t the type to be cowed down by such aggressive display
however. All he needed was a name, to then begin disparaging the good man on
ethnic terms, which, while entertaining, is wholly unacceptable behaviour for a
comic. To give the fellow credit, he could really string together a word or
two, and seemed to have much in-depth knowledge on the idiosyncrasies of Bengali
culture. Mr. Chatterjee, in response, was of the opinion that we could take our
views on Bengalis and their pronunciations, and stick it up our collective
nether regions. He then proceeded to make a nuisance of himself amongst the
front-row audience, ploughing through people with his hands in the air,
knocking some chairs over, and finishing with a stellar impression of King Kong
atop the tower. On the whole, it was a memorable performance, and looking back,
perhaps the only one that night worthy of hearty applause. Needless to say, the
evening’s festivities had to be tragically cut short. Mutiny had broken out in
the ranks, and the few of us with good sense made a dash for the exit –
dragging Ryan along with us.
One might have concluded from this episode
that stand-up comedy should be recognised as a life threatening occupation. The
business of evoking laughter is always one fraught with uncertainty, with the
result that members of the clan frequently take to the drink, in order to keep
the spirits up, even in the most dubious of circumstances. Undoubtedly, it was
this longing thirst that finally motivated Kumar and I to tear Ryan and Gopi
apart, and set forth towards our destination – The Neelam Lunch Home and Bar, a
fabled City institution and final roost of many a lonely comic who has been
afflicted by tragedy. Here, I was sure, we could soothe our sensitive souls and
forget our troubles. “Do they really say bhojina though?” asked Kumar somewhere
along the way, quite unnecessarily. “Honestly I thought it was a bit-” I didn’t
let him finish.
We shortly arrived at the ’Neelam’, as it
is affectionately called. While immensely popular, the place also bears the
unfortunate distinction of being the rattiest hole-in-the-wall about town. Now
I feel critics have been rather harsh in their reviews of this establishment.
It’s appearance can certainly described as ‘ratty’ – much of the upholstery and
crumbling wallpaper gives the appearance of having been nibbled at by the
rodents in question, and it is otherwise in an advanced state of decay – but
there are few other places that can claim to serve it’s customers with the same
enthusiasm and verve as ‘Neelam Lunch Home and Bar’. The bar staff here prides
itself in efficient, speedy, if somewhat risky, service.
You see, at the Neelam, when you, having
taken your seat and wiped the table, proceed to bark out your order, you will
shortly be confronted by a waiter who, uttering a terrible war cry, will hurl
the desired elixir toward you with great gusto. It is a cherished tradition
here, and the practice has been strictly adhered to through the ages. Of
course, it was my first time here, and my first impression was that a highly
choreographed bar fight was under way. “Watch your step man, and duck if you
need to,” Ryan told me helpfully. Sound advice. Gopi’s head scraped the ceiling
as he walked in, and he cursed quietly, but apart from that the strange
spectacle I was witnessing was hardly remarked upon. It was all perfectly
normal behaviour, it seemed – all this chucking bottles about (not to mention
some spectacular catching that would put our best fielders to shame).
At our table, I was clearly the only one
unfamiliar with this ritual, because I was the only one who unfailingly jumped
every time a war cry sounded in the vicinity. The beers that evening were being
merrily lobbed around, only to be gulped down with equal gusto by the loyal
custom that the place had built up over the years. “Feels like I’m in the
middle of a Frisbee match!” exclaimed Kumar, as he narrowly dodged a Kingfisher
Strong whizzing past his left ear. I agreed that to properly enjoy a drink
here, one required not only a marked tolerance for maroon velvet, but also a
keen awareness of one’s surroundings combined with a certain agility of frame –
not unlike a gazelle on the lookout for predators.
The more experienced patrons navigated
this environment with an airy nonchalance that belied their advanced state of
inebriation. “That large taxi driver type over there is an old-timer. Notice
how he barely even cocks his head – and out flashes a limb just in time to snag
a passing Bolt 10,000! That, my friend, is the mark of experience,” opined
Gopi, academic as usual, as he himself wet his throat with that robust beverage
so preferred by large taxi driver types.
“Goptard, you don’t catch like you used to, but you’re still the
master of the artful dodge, if I may say so,” said Kumar affably. Kumar’s
affability runs deep, and the epithet ‘Slayer’, is more a reference to his
joke-making abilities than his . Kumar couldn’t slay a mosquito if it sat on
his nose. “It needs to eat too,” he would say, and would wish the creature bon appetit.
“If you’re talking about artfully dodging common sense, then yes,
Gopi’s right up there with the greats,” declared Ryan. Gopi refused to take the
bait however, focussing instead on removing bits of crumbling plaster from his
hair where it had grazed the ceiling. “The place is falling apart,” was all he
had to say. There was no need to carry on with the incivilities – we had made it
to the fountain spring of good cheer after all, and all around us the life-restoring
waters flowed freely.
Or flew freely, I should say – because the
air was thick with beers, brandy quarters, and the occasional Old Monk large –
which, if you don’t know, is the solid, dependable workhorse of the Indian
liquor market, never failing in its duty to squeeze the last drops of sobriety
out of even the most steadfast heavy-weights. I had one in front of me right
now, with coke, and a spritz of lemon so I could pretend to be classy. But I
couldn’t give the legendary drink the attention it deserved, as it was diverted
at the moment by the sight of an oh-too-familiar figure that had just crawled
through the door and which, pirouetting expertly over a passing brandy and
soda, made its way toward a table diagonally opposite ours.
His expression was contorted in the manner
of one who had recently been subjected to medieval torture. The scowl did
nothing to soothe his already startling profile, and he looked, in short, perfectly
foul. Not without reason of course, for Mr. Chatterjee had had a rough evening.
Clearly the evening’s exertions had taken their toll, and it seemed like he
needed some refuelling. I kicked Gopi on the shins, and was suddenly covered in
a cloud of plaster dust. “What?” he asked, massaging his head, but stopped when
he caught sight of the danger, who had sat down and ordered his drink. Now, I
am a man of some compassion, and couldn’t ne more eager about extending the olive
branch of peace and letting the bygones be bygones and whatnot. The man had undoubtedly
been wronged by the rash and uncalled for words of the evening’s entertainer,
notwithstanding his belligerent behaviour. My sympathies were clear.
But I also am a realist, knowing danger
when I see it, and any prudent man would propose that under the circumstances
one would do well to tuck in the shoulders and look sharp. This is exactly what
I was endeavouring to do, when a graceless yowl emanated from Ryan by my side. The
chap is possessed of many sterling qualities, but tact isn’t one of them. It
seemed he had also spotted the large predator in our midst – and had decided
that the best course of action would be to approach the matter head on. You
see, in the time that I had taken three sips from my rum and coke, the old boy
had sat back and thrown in four large ones, and the potion had filled him with
a fighting spirit. He was already standing, glass raised. “Why, if isn’t good
Mr. Cha-Chatterjee!” The hound’s whipped in our direction, and on sighting Ryan
Mr. C’s severely strained nerves nearly snapped. His eyes, I promise you,
pulsated gently. “Fancy a bich of tatter…A bit of chatter, Mr. Chatterjee? Eh,
how ‘bout it? For old times s-sake! Chatter on Chatterjee! Ha ha heey-chk!” Ryan
stopped and swayed for a bit.
Mr. Chatterjee had been visibly aroused,
and as Ryan tottered round to the front of the table, he banged his table and
rose unsteadily to his feet. Ryan was oblivious to the imminent threat, and
carried on blithely. “I would like to propose a toast to the m-magnificent Mr.
Chatterjee! A m-man, in the loosest definition, but a-a man nonetheless, who
has so graciously --- uff…Let go, Slayer!” Kumar by this time had his alarm
bells go off. In an attempt to nip the situation in the bud, he had
wholeheartedly thrown himself on Ryan. Adrenaline had kicked me clean off my
chair, and swung me around like a hunted animal desperate to spy an escape
route. Gopi, somehow had barely flinched through the proceedings, and now he
calmly ordered another Bolt. I suppose he had accepted his fate, and was
bracing himself for his imminent demise. I admire this sort of stoic recklessness,
which I’ve been told springs from a deep well of pluck and purpose that I
oftentimes lack.
And I certainly lacked it at that moment. I
sorely wished to contribute positively to the situation, but all I managed to
do was cluck like a chicken. Mr. Chatterjee demonstrated now that his King Kong
act wasn’t a one off thing – he had a definite flair for simian imitation. Currently
he was portraying some species of rhesus macaque, and a very flustered one at
that, rapidly advancing in our direction – and that moment ladies and gentlemen,
is the first time I have contemplated such a senseless demise – Death by Ape,
if you will.
The events that followed, I should say,
are a bit fudgy in my mind. The salient facts are established, but the details
remain obscure. In my defence, the mental faculties were rather strained by the
ordeal – the minute I set my sighs on the big man, they threw in the towel and
called it a day. But I will try my best to recreate the scenario by piecing
together what I heard of the fiasco later. Mr.Chatterjee had reached our table,
stuck his hand into the flailing mass of limbs that thrashed about the floor,
and successfully extricated a struggling Ryan from the mess. He now held him in
front, surveying his catch gleefully, as Kumar squirmed at his feet. Ryan thrashed
like a wildcat, to no avail, and I sensed that the end was near. At this moment
of reckoning, several things happened at once. A loud war cry sounded behind me.
I remember bending back to see a Bolt 10,000 headed our way. Gopi’s order, I
suddenly realized. I had by this point, slid off my seat and was halfway under
the table. Looking up, I saw Gopi looked grimly at his passing beer, and at the
last possible moment, he ducked, which isn’t easy for him to do. Next I heard a
dull thud, followed by a crash, and that was that.
When I crawled out, 120 kilograms of man,
with strong ape undertones, lay sprawled out on the remains of our table. The waiter’s
aim had been unerring. The beer had caught old Chatterjee in the jaw, and the
blow had knocked him unconscious. Again the ensuing events are shrouded in a
bit of fog, but I recall some running – I think our objective was to settle the
accounts, and rid ourselves of the establishment before the large creature came
to. There was no further need for talking.
Today, what we are left with after the
incident is a chastised Ryan, and a shard of glass from the broken bottle that accomplished
the deed. It is a little token that for me represents the transience of life,
and the extraordinary uncertainties we live with everyday. As for the little
disagreement between my two mates, much has been resolved. Only Ryan balks at
having to call Gopi his saviour. He is not totally ungrateful to Gopi, of
course, but insists that credit must also be given to the Neelam staff’s
blatant disregard for customer safety, which in this case saved a life rather
than took one. I’m with Ryan on this one, and even Gopi can’t disagree to that.
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A bit about P.G Wodehouse:
Wodehouse’s style is
singular and inimitable. Those of you who are fans of his will know what I’m
talking about, but to the rest, who haven’t read him yet, let me tell you that
you’re missing out. P.G Wodehouse is considered to be one of the great comic
writers of the 20th century. He created many memorable characters,
such as Psmith, Mr Mulliner, and of course the incomparable Jeeves and Wooster
– who were immortalized in the 90s television series starring Hugh Laurie and
Stephen Fry. If you’re not much of a reader, I suggest that you at least check
out the series, which I think is available on Youtube. Here you’ll find some of
the finest examples of that dry, delightful humour that the British are known
for – in the zany plots, improbable situations and sparkling dialogue. But
nothing really beats reading the books on a lazy Saturday afternoon, and
letting your thoughts drift into the warm, wacky world that he created.
Well written short story
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