Sins and Salvation of Man: A True Story

Prologue

It was just past 4 o’ clock in the winter afternoon. The breeze from the sea was pleasant on the face; the road was smooth and sparsely dotted with traffic. The four scooties were meandering along, cruising past trees and rocks on one side and the wide expanse of the Arabian Sea on the other. The Ghat road spiraled up and down the sides of the lowly hills of the Sahyadris. Sometimes the road stretched straight ahead for about 500 yards while crossing a valley, sometimes it traipsed right and left, up and down, following the trails of the hills, in sunshine and in shadows. Rishi was riding a small violet scooty. A young man of over 6 feet, riding that little joke of a ride is almost comical to imagine, and even more comical when he loses control, skids altogether and falls, along with his pillion, into a steep landing off the road on a bed of dead leaves and twigs. But it wasn’t so comical then, when it happened.

Chintu was riding ahead, smiling to himself at being able to maneuver, successfully, the fancy coloured scrambler for the first time in his life; that too with his friends riding along by his side. KD was sitting behind and was taking his instinctive photographic skills to newer heights. He was worried; sat tight clutching on to his camera for dear life. Chintu squeezed and released the accelerator as often as he wished and never turned a corner without honking the last sleeping potato-sack out of its slumber. On one such corner he heard the raspy groan of another scooty zooming nearer with disdain, almost on sheer will-power, defying the mechanics of its usual capacity. Chintu sneaked a peek and saw Rishi cramped between the handle and the seat, wearing his black fedora, complete with a month-long unshaven face and a wide sunglass. And no sooner did he focus his eyes back on the road than he heard a howl, a couple of loud gasps and a crash.

The Bachelors

Debu is supposed to get married at the fag-end of 2012, in December. And so they had planned a Bachelor’s Trip. There were a couple of days when the boys debated between Goa and Himachal. Almost everybody wanted to whoop around and party in the sands of Goa. And thus, Goa it was and the trip was planned. Everybody confirmed on the dates, except Debu. Everybody confirmed, except the First Bachelor. The First Bachelor… like, the First Citizen, the First Lady, a person of note, preponderance, effect. Somehow, Debu, in their minds, can never fit this specific bill. Debu has a little game. He thinks it to be a meaningful pursuit in life to keep irritating the living hairs out of his friends until they finally lose their marbles. And when they do, he pulls up a poker face and looks on without a word. Again, when the madness recedes, he would begin afresh. People would start abusing with added gusto. But, he is an example in extremes, a real bad boy who comes first in exams. One day, he might miss classes to play cards and another day he might pour over his books like a possessed John Nash. During college, he kept life simple. Wake up, masturbate, eat, study, play, study, eat, masturbate, sleep and wake up again. And, during the whole trip he had two obsessions. Firstly, he wanted to infuse everybody with enough excitement so as to keep him abused all throughout. And, secondly, he could not rest, feed and sleep without playing the second half of an abandoned football match. Unfortunately, the second-half never came to an end, no matter how much they tried. Now, this has a very serious meta-physical explanation. Debu always dreamt of playing for Arsenal FC alongside Dennis Bergkamp. Of course, Bergkamp had retired from professional football so he had to make do with Chintu. The sunny beaches of Goa were his closest shot at playing the Champions League finals. He could hear the gunners roar from the s(t)ands. He was serious. And nobody understood these emotions. He had to live them alone. And, standing there under the sun, with the sea breeze in his hairs, he couldn’t believe that he had even dared consider calling off this vacation.

When everybody was gearing up for the trip, Rishi called Chintu up one night. By gearing up I mean, planning to take Debu’s framed photograph along, in case Debu held true to his words and missed his own Bachelor’s Trip. Anyway, when Rishi called, Chintu was sleeping. It was in the wee hours of the morning around 3 o’clock. Rishi never calls during the normal earthly hours. It’s probably his ingenuous attempt to preserve whatever memories remain of his hostel-life. Or he secretly suffers from Temporal Dyslexia. Chintu received the call still very much in his sleep. Rishi knew well how to command his complete attention, so he blurted out without hesitation, ‘I’m getting married in April’. He sounded nervous, yet happy; clueless, yet hopeful. Chintu was wide awake for a good few seconds and then grumbled inaudibly, ‘Good for you. May the devil kiss your butt. Now let me sleep’; and prepared to doze off. But he couldn’t sleep. Thirty seconds later he was lighting a cigarette while listening to his friend drone on about how it was so unexpected and how remarkable it was that they found each other after so many years. Like how he, Chintu, had once found an amazing shampoo in the supermarket. It had solved all his dandruff problems.

Now, Rishi is a womanizer. May be I should say was a womanizer in good faith and spirit of his new life and wife. But I don’t like the idea.  It is because boys like Rishi are a gift to woman-kind. They are like a draft of warm spring air after the chill of cold; like little ounces of peace stolen out of the ugly quagmires of daily life. They are detested publicly and desired secretly. The world is still not a just place for women to live in and which Venetian lady in their right, as well as insane minds, had refused grains of passion from Giacomo Casanova? None. True Story. So, when Rishi told Chintu that he is getting married, he had to light that blessed cigarette. The story is pretty charming. Boy meets girl. Boy wants to dance. Girl is already dancing with somebody else. Five years later, girl wants to dance with boy. Boy is ready. And they dance happily ever after. Chintu is completely floored by the story. An hour later, when he went back to sleep, he was smiling to himself at the unexpected turn of events. Debu suddenly wasn’t the First Bachelor anymore. He became the Second.

The Train

On the first day of the New Year, the herd met at Thane railway station with their rucksacks, backpacks and strollers and in their unwashed under wears and smelly t-shirts. Recycling and bio-degradation is very healthy for our planet. But here is a surprise. Don came in a clean, formal, silky-grayish tailored shirt and a pair of blackish striped trousers which fit finely with his rotund and robust arse. I should mention here that, they all admire Don’s arse. Even Don admires it too. It is perfectly round, like the twin halves of a beach ball. It is a tight piece of meat, well, actually two separate pieces, which rise up and descend gracefully like the graphical wavelength of a long infra-red ray, like the bare flesh of your favorite porn star’s ample buttocks, except a lot bigger and blackened, sufficiently hairy and dotted evenly with red acne.

The train pulled up slowly along the platform well after the scheduled time. And as it was pulling up, Gyan, in his moment of psychic inspiration aimed his priceless camera towards it and clicked. He has these inspirations quite often. It’s God’s gift to him. Later asked, he solemnly replied that he wanted to keep a picture of the driver of the train. Fair enough. I mean, whoever remembers the man who forged the steel in that dazzling, red convertible Merc SRK drives through the lush green Swiss fields in DDLJ? Gyan does. By profession Gyan is a professor; as nature would have it. It does justice to his name and has earned him fame. And he lives his talent for all its worth. He smokes like a mystery novelist and drinks like a retired theatre actor. But the important thing is, he was the manager of the trip; a manager who astutely managed the scooty trips from the beach to the town. If you needed a pack of cigarettes in the dead of the night, he would hop on and ride away with a song in his heart. If you needed medicine, you only had to say the word; he was ready to hop on again. If you needed a birthday cake made, he would ride 10 miles to get the right cake. The rest of the matters he would leave for his minions to take care.

It was just about midnight when the herd found their coach and boarded the train that would take them to Madgaon. Debu had made it. Although, in symbolic acknowledgement to their unanimous shock, his train to Bombay was eleven hours late. They sat down with a whole cubicle to themselves. There were seven of them and KD, the lone one, was to join them at Madgaon. He was coming from Bangalore. Of the ones not yet mentioned here are Pench- the tormented lover and Chashi- the handsome kid. It was a contrasting sight, inside and outside the cubicle. The ones inside were smiling and smirking as if the world was about to end, and they were given a succulent virgin each, as reasonable surrogates of their karmic provident funds. The ones outside, looked like they are being made to watch with only their hands free for comfort. In the side berths, there were two elderly gentlemen trying to catch some sleep at night. But the herd made sure that they don’t. Oh, these young brats, they thought. Too bad, time travel is still a myth.

Although, the herd was in form and the revelry intense, the night was unusually long. The train had stopped dead in its tracks and refused to move for two hours. Everybody abused Gyan for it. Gyan, assumed responsibility and went off to smoke another cigarette. When it moved again, it moved at a snail’s pace and halted near every coconut tree on the way. They were supposed to reach Madgaon at seven. They reached at 10:30. KD was waiting, his last shred of patience sucked away by the heat inside the waiting room and his lonely journey from Bangalore the previous night. But when the herd stepped out of the train he was smiling from ear to ear like a delirious Jim Carey just about to wear his mask. Now, the railway platform of Madgaon had in store a potential drama which unfolded rather beautifully- the drama of two friends, KD and Don, who had fallen out with each other right from the pre-historic days of college and were meeting again after six long years. They both smiled awkwardly. Like ex-lovers who had crossed path unexpectedly, tension ripe in the air. But then, KD without breaking the flow of his motion of hugging the others, stepped forward and hugged Don too. The air rang up with ear-splitting cheers. Don smiled meekly. He is quite frugal with his emotions. He likes to save them as if they are his fixed-deposits and would give him double returns in ten years. KD contrastingly is quite the opposite. If Don is the yin, KD is the yang. He and Debu were the life and breath of the whole trip.

KD is a funny guy. He has a surreal sense of humor and his face looks exactly like his arse which- coming to think of it- is no mean feat. When he laughs, he sounds like Anil Kapoor on crack and is an intense supporter of East Bengal FC. He never used to study during his college days and was often seen to be reading novels the night before exams. People would look at him in amazement and alarm. Every now and then, somebody would even hazard asking him, what exactly did he think, he was doing. “Time-pass”, he would reply evenly, without looking up from the book. But once the book was over, and the brutal reality of the exam in the morning finally could sink in him, he would panic like those monkeys in Jurassic Park screaming their lungs to tatters when the dinosaurs came trotting along. He would run after Debu imploring him to save his skin that last time. Debu used to laugh out, a nasty laugh that gets under one’s skin, and say, “Bhaag Sala!” And then there was the fact that he was the lone, matchless guy in the entire hostel who used to wash his hands with Dettol hand-wash after using them to wipe shit off his arse. Most of us relied only on tap-water.

The Sea

Palolem is 45 kilometers from Madgaon and that’s where they were headed. South Goa is much more rustic than North Goa and cheaper too. And of course, naked firangs are to be found in opulence. Rare species. They had heard that ladies from the west come and sleep naked on the beach of Palolem. Everybody was excited by the prospect, as excited as a child gets when he is taken to visit the zoo on a Sunday. Although, somewhere deep inside where rationale resides in a gloomy corner, they knew it was too good to be true, yet everybody wondered silently, what if…? You see, starvation can be found even above the poverty line.

The two hired cars from the railway station sped on along the highway. The road was new and shiny. The hills toyed with them, shielding the sea from their sight. They knew it was on the other side. The hills only had to bow down for them. They turned a corner with hopeful eyes only to run into another sprawling wall of rocks. But they enjoyed it too. The turns, left and right, arrhythmic and precarious, made them smile and smoke.

They reached Palolem in about an hour. They saw the sand, they saw the coconut trees, and they saw the huts. And then they saw the sea. Blue. No, green. No, bluish-green. A wave was building up slowly, a horizontal mass of bluish-green water welled up, rolled on itself and then crashed down on the yellow sands scattering its froth awry. Their hotel was right on the beach. It wasn’t a conventional hotel, not the kind we are used to- ones with balding male receptionists and grouchy room attendants. It, rather, had small huts on the edge of the beach, made of bamboo streaks and thatched roofs. The room was small and cosy. There was an attached toilet with no bolts which, of course, had its advantages. It enabled them to compare. Freely. After all 6 years is a long time. A lot can happen in 6 years. Then, there was the fact that nobody could take a dump and hide it from the others. The aroma was lethal. It drove out all the mosquitoes. And along with the mosquitoes, it drove them out too.

They shacked in randomly. Debu, Don and Chashi in one hut, in the adjoining hut were Gyan and KD and in another hut, one across them, were Rishi, Pench and Chintu. The restaurant was 20 meters ahead. They dropped their baggage in a heap and headed for the restaurant. The restaurant opened out to the sea, the chairs were made of bamboo sticks, and the floor was sand. Music rumbled on from behind the bar. The food was deliciously continental. They washed it down with bottles of Tuborg. Beer was cheaper than water.

Chintu, with a self-assured swish of his arms, tore open his tee baring the arid landscape of his barren chest . He looked around carelessly from behind his dark shades. Chintu is an anglophile. And he is a compulsive dreamer. In the grand stage of life, he likes to consider himself a struggling writer. Since his youth he had wanted to bring about glorious revolution by the mere stoke of his pen. His friends have always wondered if he deliberately throws in a subtle hint towards a more earthly interpretation to it, something to do with the one attached to his groins. Nevertheless, he is the neo-gentry in the group, quite removed from the disenchanting multitude around him, a carpet of sophistication hanging down his cherubic face. He would propose White Russian when you said Vodka. He would suggest Chardonnay if you said port wine. One night sitting on the beach, generously drunk, he pulled up a serious face. Eyes swimming with Vat 69, he looked at his friends and declared in his disquieting imitation of the British accent, “I was born Scottish but I chose to live in Salkia.” They could not make any frigging sense out of it. But nobody dared ask him. At times, his Persian carpet of sophistication turned awkwardly into a perforated petticoat when he would get caught, unwittingly gawking at the white bikini clad Scandinavian firang shacking in another adjoining hut with her father and her younger brother. Whether the father was really her father he did not know for sure. Nor did he know whether she was Scandinavian. But Scandinavia is exotic. And the existence of a father simplifies his fictitious rodeo. You see, he needs the father to be the father because even the fictitious Chintu does not feel comfortable stealing girlfriends. The moral bottle-neck of the urban Indian youth locks horns with the endemic malnourishment of his primal needs. And from its sparks a righteous pervert is born. The righteous pervert categorically denies any desperate craving for a lover. Although when ladies show up in his life, he springs around like Scooby Doo dreaming about his bone cookies. Once, when a certain beautiful lady withered out of his life he had confided in his friend, Pal that he knew, he knew that there was something wrong, but he kept suspending his disbelief.
Pal had asked, “Name the first thing that comes to your mind when you think ‘suspension’.”
“My balls.”
“Now you know where your disbelief came from.”

Even in the beginning of January, when north Indians burrow deep inside their homes, in order to thaw their frosted stumps rendered numb by the cold waves, Goa remains starkly warm. Firangs were sprinkled all around the beach like olive ridley turtles, nesting and resting. The bluish-green water however was pleasantly cool. The boys ventured in. Chashi, Gyan, Rishi and Chintu ran in like mad bulldogs. KD followed jogging animatedly. Debu wanted to play football first. He was adamant so the others gave in. They climbed out of the water and started playing. Five minutes into the game they lost their breaths and started cursing all those innocent cigarettes they had smoked in their lives. They sat down at length and began taking stock of all that were around. Their fantasies had never before come this close to reality. The white ladies, in all their potent and ravishing bounties, had walked straight out of their computer screens onto the beach of Palolem. KD’s camera rose up involuntarily and started clicking away. Discretion joined the offshore winds. But then, it wasn’t just KD’s camera that rose up. Chashi was wearing a pair of tight and skimpy bathing shorts. He was seen to be adjusting the front of the blue fabric from time to time.

Never has a nomenclature been as misconstrued as that of Chashi. He is not at all your regular naïve Bollywood rustic. A handsome kid, he is two years junior to them. And is quite the urbane junkie who wears brands, eats brands, lives, breaths and farts brands, or may be, farts and then breaths, in that order. The guys at Slice of Italy know him by his first name and he wears his Adidas slippers to the Puma store to buy a fluorescent sando. But once in a godforsaken drama in college he had acted the part of an innocent farmer who fails to control his libidinous wife. He was so convincing in the part that everybody started calling him the farmer. Chashi. He likes to have an opinion on everything and feels powerful when he displays his wide range of practical knowledge, like the fashionable Bengali who can redeem the world between two consecutive sips of tea by a road-side stall, a worn out newspaper held loosely in his hand. But on occasions he would accidentally soil his own linen. Like once when he argued that North America like Australia is a single country- the US of A. Well, in his defense, Canadians, you know he is right. Thus a fiercely faithful employee to his American employers he can tell you anything you need to know about the 4th of July and Las Vegas. During the entire trip, he and Gyan consumed gallons of beer and whiskey. They would take a sip and then go down to take a dip, and come back to take a sip. His characteristic blue swimming shorts, although forming a persistent tent at the front, increased the oomph factor of the entire group by quite a few notches. When he walked out of the water after taking a dip in the fading lights of dusk, with his shades saddled casually in his hairs he would look like Bradley Cooper walking out of an enormous swimming pool, about to order his dirty martini and double olives. The ladies around could barely hang on to their skirts.

After the 5 odd minutes of football which they agreed was the first half, Debu’s team was trailing by a goal. Debu, Chintu, Rishi and Pench were seen deep in counsel. Debu was resolutely trying to explain to them his strategy- Kabir Khan asking his team to enjoy the most beautiful ‘sattar-minute’ of their lives. After the team meeting, when they finally entered the water, all of them, the sun was steadily plummeting into the blue expanse, straining to slant forth its remaining rays. The second half, which would later prove to be a slippery bitch, was scheduled for the next morning. Chashi, Rishi and Gyan went farther and farther and the others followed with measured steps. Debu never got to learn swimming. Actually, it requires tremendous self-assurance to be able to believe that it is possible for a staggering 95 kilos to float in water. Or may be its just too ambitious. Either way, Debu was feeling slightly nervous, with the waves towering over them in a maddening sequence of never ending pull and release, only to crash down with brute strength each time. He was looking around at the others timidly, yet searching for an opportunity to pull somebody’s pants down, when one such wave caught him and the others unaware and sent them rolling underwater bumping heads on knees. A warm welcome they received. And an unfamiliar trepidation gripped them there. Under the blue water, where sight and sound were impaired, and the air in their lungs was steadily shrinking, each one of them felt desperately alone. The fear was not perhaps of death, but of pain- the pain of suffering without the comfort of near ones by their side. Chintu emerged out of the water gasping for oxygen and realised that his shades were knocked out. It was not to be found again. KD lost his specks too but they were miraculously found by Gyan. Rishi, the tallest one, was guffawing at everybody else. The wave apparently could not get the better of him. Debu finally surfaced after the rest of them had found their feet once more on the ground. He huffed and puffed for sometime slobbering out mouthfuls. And then, looking at everybody in turns he blurted out in Bengali, “Which one of you crazy motherfuckers mixed salt in the water?”

The Legend of the Nude Beach

Chintu had volunteered for the responsibility of waking everybody up at 5:30 next morning for the dolphin trip. They were eager for a glimpse of these celebrities; last having seen them in Titanic. Swimming ahead of the ship, they kept performing their characteristic jumps every now and then, in the backdrop of a breathtaking sunset, just before the penniless boy kisses the high-bred beauty engaged to marry the dumb rich guy. Gyan, the manager, was busy riding his scooty with Chashi serving as his second in command. And so Don had taken over the arrangement. He understands money. A share-market protégée, investments are his forte. But before he could weigh the available options and settle for the best bargain, Chintu butted in and settled for a less profitable deal. Don was furious. But he is a quiet guy; digested his wrath like the Hulk would digest a nuclear missile and burp out traces of smoke. In the morning, Chintu woke up at 8 after everybody had finished their morning tea, and that too when Debu came and kicked him awake. He painfully allowed a minute crack from his closed eyelids and enquired if the rest of them were up. Debu kicked him again. Chintu slumped. “Good”, he said. “How could I have risen selfishly before everybody was up? It was my responsibility, no?”

The tide was still high when they scampered onto the motorboat. It started with a loud grunt and skimmed away from the coast. The waves became tamer and tamer as they sped on. They rode out for about half an hour when suddenly the boatman who was near the motor killed the engine and they stood up, taut with attention. The momentum of the boat tapered off and it came to a standstill. It was pendulating with a slow rhythm, in tune with the lilting pulse of the ripples around. Pench was staring expectantly into the water, jaws clenched and fingers wrapped tightly around his camera. He looked as if he was about to harpoon a deadly shark. Somehow, when one is suffering in love everything else seems war.

However, Pench, removed from his reveries, is the most docile member of the herd, so much so, that he is a vegetarian. He isn’t dark complexioned. He is pitch-black. And his skin seems to shine in direct sunlight. He probably keeps it regularly burnished. He tried keeping a mustache in college but soon realised the futility of it. It was thick, like a toothbrush, very manly, but nobody could notice except when one was searching for it. He carries a golden heart in his breast. And that is his burden because that makes him your yes-man. Chintu had exploited him shamelessly throughout college. Penchu, I’m running late, please bring me up some lunch. Pench would abuse him sweetly and leave for the dining hall. Somebody else might say, Pench, I’m going for a movie; please get me a photocopy of your notes. Pench could not say no. Pench, would you please eat shit. Pench would surely try to, at least. He believes strongly in forgiveness and the philosophy of presenting the other cheek. Now I don’t suppose it means, he would ask Miss Lewinsky to consider lifting up her blue dress once again and present the other cheek to Uncle Bill for another Cuban cigar.

The dolphins swam to the surface. They poked their snouts above the water, rolled over, and flourishing the twin petals of their tails aloft dived down gracefully- all in one fluid motion. At first there were two of them, and then they were joined by numerous others. It was a milieu. They kept at it for a long time, rolling over and over again. It was as if the boys were gazing in marvel, at how the crescendo of Mozart’s 9^th would look like if they were to give it a form. Everybody was quiet. Even Pench slackened his jaws. They smiled at each other, the happiness found in Beauty being too contagious to skate past them.

The boat turned around when they all had their fill and left for the Butterfly Island nearby with the dirty yellow banner of the motorboat fluttering briskly in the cool land breeze of the morning. The boatmen were quiet and impassive but they knew what was needed to spice up the ride and consequently spruce up their chances for a better tip. So they made a brief stopover near a smaller island called the Monkey Island which was guarded from vision by the comparatively bigger Butterfly Island. That, the boys realised with awe, was the elusive nude beach that everybody talks about. They felt like Christopher Columbus about to discover America. But, oddly, the beach was so bland and unassuming that it was disappointing. For one, there were no giggly Sunny Leones or Kim Kardashians with desire oozing out of their sweat pores, running the length of the beach. A nude beach without such bouncing delights is like Amsterdam without weed or Hugh Hefner with a paralysed penis. Nevertheless, the boat tried to sneak in unnoticed, but the motor was too loud for its own good. The beach was about a hundred yards away from where the boat lingered, past a hurdle of huge boulders. Debu’s eyes were wide with disbelief, as if he had just seen God. Chashi was trying to stare at an acute angle from behind his shades, his face towards the hill. He pulled up a straight face appearing to stare intently at the extraordinary pattern, the patches of moss made on the blackened granite. It was very difficult to continue straining his eyes like that, so he gave up all pretence after 30 seconds of struggle. A white man and his white woman were lying spread-eagle on their towels. The man had a chiseled torso like a Greek sculpture and the woman looked slightly tanned, her skin glowing as if smoothened by oil and paraffin wax. They were already alarmed by the loud snorts of the motorboat and were trying to cover up quickly. Fortunately for Columbus and his men, they could not find their clothes readily. The woman, however, extremely enterprising, sprang up to introduce her pulpy brinjals briefly to her attentive audience. But then, within a flash, she had hid behind her man. KD slapped Chintu for not bringing a pair of binoculars. Lying flat on her back in some sort of an upturned tortoise crouch, the woman was making frantic efforts to cover herself up by digging out fistfuls of sand and throwing them over her privates. One gets this distant impression that perhaps her privates were on fire. The couple, it seemed, were more afraid of the bunch of cameras pointed threateningly towards them, than of the ogling buffoons who were holding them, apparently dumbstruck. They were more concerned about the virtual world of the internet than of the real world where weirdoes like Columbus exist in flesh and blood. They stood there for a while. The man eventually settled down and started reading a book and the woman discovered a newfound pleasure of covering herself entirely with sand. When nothing more could be seen or achieved and having decided that they loved bikinists more than nudists, they ushered the boat forward.                                                         

The Accident

Kuku was a young Nepali who waited tables at the restaurant. He was handsome and hardworking. Most of the regular guests knew him and were very fond of him. He had long hair, which he used to tie in a knot over his head after a shower in the evening. Debu christened him Lalon, after the fakir of Bengal who had knotted long hair, knotted and matted, and also had Paoli Dam as an aide. The white ladies swooned over him and the more desperate ones invited him over for drink. That night a bunch of American ladies, loud and predictably stupid, went overboard. They ordered tequila and invited him. They had planned to get him drunk. After about half a dozen shots they became reckless and started kissing him. But Bruce Lee could hold his alcohol. And he was a tease. He kissed them back, one at a time, like a savage and just when they were about to wet themselves, he pulled back, excused himself and went off to wait at another table. He probably gets a lot of such action. But it was excruciating to watch the white ladies being played when their eyes were so blank with desire.

Debu and Chintu tracked Kuku down during one of his escapades and asked him to arrange for a bonfire because it would be Chashi’s birthday at midnight. Gyan had gone along with Don to get the right cake, and the others found some comfortable chairs and reclined in sweet lambent dullness and got philosophical about life. Tennyson would have been so proud. The bonfire could not be arranged because there was, but, little time in hand, although at midnight they laid out a table on the beach and lighted candles. The kid cut the cake and got smeared with it. With all the love around he got emotional and drank like one pensive Captain Haddock. In fact everybody drank and Gyan dedicated a round to Ani, Debu’s fiancée. KD asked, feigning ignorance, ‘Who the fuck is Ani’? Everybody chortled, and it became a ringing phrase throughout the night. It’s amazing how even the silliest quip can sound funny when one is high. Debu shrugged, and drank some more. He tried to laugh but it came out as a shrill cry and startled Pench who was trying to disappear into the chair he was sitting in. Debu tried to look cool but he wasn’t cool. He glanced at KD a couple of times inscrutably, like the lungi-clad, paan-spewing gentlemen who used to black tickets outside movie theatres in the 90’s- a glance loaded with message, his choicest set of abuses in this case.

The morning was sunny and they took the four rented scooties out for a drive down the hilly roads to the adjoining Agonda beach. They parked their scooties and walked towards the beach. The first consummate detail that greeted them was the enveloping silence of Agonda which in turn amplified the sound of the rushing waves. The sand was white and warm. The water was greener and the swell of the tides greater. They dived in; the swimmers swam and the strugglers swallowed. After about an hour, everybody was tired and ignored Debu’s exhortations of playing the second half. His Champions League dreams were to remain unfulfilled that season. They found an idyllic restaurant right on the beach and sat down among a motley cluster of champagne-sipping-folks who were whispering to one another in some unintelligible European tongue. Chintu was confident it was a coloniser’s tongue. The finesse was unmistakable. He kept stealing hopeful glances around. Rishi knew what he was thinking; he was probably thinking the same thing. Now this brings us face to face with an odd predicament. The problem with youth is things are either black or white. So colonisers are enemies. But what about their women? What about their long slender legs? Can't something be done? Yes of course. Something can definitely be worked out. History already has a provison in place. Let's argue, isn't it accepted universally that the honourable do not make women and children colaterals in a revolution? Yes, women are not to be made stooges in politics. You know why? Because, Love is blind. And Lust is blinder.

When they finally rolled the scooties out it was well after three in the afternoon. They rode back with smiles of contentment on their faces, a contentment that can only be touched by utter workless-ness. Half an hour later when Chintu screeched to a stop hearing the crash and the muffled yelps, everything seemed to be a distant past. Rishi and Pench had skidded down the edge of the road into a steep landing, where the slope of the mountain had broken its downward course in order to stretch out horizontally, owing to some sudden inexplicable fancy of its archaic orogeny. But all it meant in their lives at that moment is that, it saved Rishi and Pench from getting hurled headlong towards the bottomless depths of the mountain floor.

Rishi was lying awkwardly with his head pressed against a web of dead branches. The front of the scooty was hanging miraculously above him, the handle entangled in the same extensive web. He found out that he could not move his legs; closed his eyes to gather what had happened. Pench was lying on his back, his leg stuck under the engine, specks askew. He seemed to recover from the shock very quickly and started tugging at his leg with all his feeble might. It looked faintly like a Tom and Jerry show. In the meantime, the others had arrived and the scooty was pulled up, or to be fair, the remains of it were pulled up. Pench could climb. He was majorly unhurt, except for a stab on his arse, which later sounded rather metaphoric. Rishi needed a little help to climb. His shorts were torn at places and there were spots of blood on it. His hands and legs were heavily bruised. But nothing serious was noticeable till KD traced a thick stream of blood creeping down his right thigh. He raised the cloth cautiously and discovered the source. There was a huge chunk of flesh in the shape of a miniature rugby ball missing. KD gasped, Debu drew in a sharp breath, Don threw up by the side of the road. Rishi was shaking, not in pain but in sheer terror. He thought that his leg would have to be amputated. He could see his future unfold in front of his eyes. He could see the Sealdah station and his small handicap cart and his aluminum tumbler jingling with coins flash by. He debated between Sealdah and Sodepur for a second, since Sodepur would be closer to his home but then decided on Sealdah because Sealdah would pay better.

The locals directed them to a hospital about a kilometer ahead. They hired an auto-rickshaw and sent Chintu along with Rishi. The resident doctor was present and Rishi got operated. He heaved a sigh of relief when the doctor told him that it won’t be necessary to amputate his leg. They took about an hour to clean up the wound with some concentrated antiseptic which made the whitened flesh look like a wet slice of bread. And then the doctor stitched him up. It was the most painful one-hour of his life. Interestingly, he felt absolved of all his moral infractions in exchange for the pain he was suffering. And perhaps for each of the seven stitches he endured, he counted seven innocent women who had once laid down their hearts at his feet only to get squashed recklessly. He was already smiling, supposedly free of all his bad blood, when they carried him out of the operation theatre.

When Men Cry

The mood was considerably subdued after the accident. Chashi and Don went off to repair the scooty the next morning. It was the last day. They came back and dropped a figure which burnt huge craters in their pockets. Pench had a boss to please. He left in the afternoon. He couldn’t help, but, grab his punctured arse inadvertently whenever he thought of the 12 hours bus ride to Bombay. Rishi was restricted to his bed but he was pampered with phone calls. When he needed to take a leak, he would limp dangerously but would not allow any body inside the bathroom. Marriage triggers monopoly. The day went by uneventfully, and it was already dark before a plan for the night was in place. They suddenly realised that their joyride was almost over, and would thus drink well into the night like Irish coalminers; enough to try and carry the hangover back home, to try and drag the flitting scent of these last four days a little more.

Earlier in the evening, they went shopping. Rishi went too. He wanted to take back something for dear wife. Such is the power of love and the agony of it. He bundled inside an auto-rickshaw, cramped, the injured leg in one hand and his balls in the other, hustled around the shops looking for dresses and jewellery that might bring a smile on dear wife’s face and she might just shower her gratitude appropriately. A man’s needs are simple. In the meantime, KD and Gyan, away from prying eyes, had exchanged some emotional love bytes. Gyan had kicked Chintu for spraying water on the lens of his camera. But that was two days ago, in course of the dolphin trip. And KD had taken offense. Further, that evening, before they went shopping, Chintu wanted to spend some time alone and had asked Gyan for the keys of the scooty. Gyan was as persistent in saying no as a wicked school principal. Chintu was irked but it was KD who had taken offense again. Later that night, when KD and Gyan were sitting alone on the beach, KD had detonated, calling Gyan a self-centered asshole. Gyan returned to the hotel fuming. He sat alone for a long time brooding and smoking. Finally, when KD called him on his cell-phone, he couldn’t help but break down crying, like an impetuous street urchin who had just been slapped by a traffic police constable. Chintu heard of this much later. Such a staggering outrage, he thought, there must be something they were not telling him. Perhaps, Gyan had molested him in his sleep and had made him impotent.

Chintu is a pretty soft drinker. He had started late and couldn’t catch up. He was sloshed sufficiently before the others even got started. KD and Gyan were trying out shots and Don was oddly into Fenny, the Goan hooch, the entire day. It looks like a thin colourless acid and smells like a thick swab of sperms wiped on a tissue-paper and left to decay for a week. Debu and Chashi were experimenting in front of the bar. Suddenly, when everybody was gradually getting into the groove, Chintu, already high, started sobbing inconsolably. Don was sitting beside him mute with intoxication and the smell of sperms in his mouth. He was startled. Chintu was blabbering unintelligibly. Debu came and sat beside him on the other side. Chintu wailed, “Penchu is gone!” It seemed as if Pench had actually died of a drilled arse. Don reached out and hugged Chintu purposefully. He whispered into his ear, “Keep faith, duffer. Keep faith.” Chintu didn’t quite understand what he was trying to convey but he didn’t care much because Pench was gone. He hugged Don back and tears started rolling down Don’s cheeks too. KD arrived laughing. He can sniff fun from a distance. He rolled around on the floor laughing at Chintu’s misery and Chintu wailed some more. After about ten minutes he sobered. He was distracted by Gimli’s tantrums in ‘The Lord of the Rings’. The film was being screened by a projector on the wall. He smiled and started chuckling; apparently forgetting that Penchu was gone. But then, KD slapped him hard, “Sala, how can you laugh fucker! Isn’t Penchu gone?” Gyan brayed his approval. Chintu was confused. He stopped smiling; tried to think but it proved to be too taxing. He decided to sulk in the end, mainly because he didn’t want to get slapped again. Don in the meanwhile had slipped out. The reticent needed some time on his own. He went onto the beach and fell asleep with a fat wad of notes in his pocket-an entire forty thousand for the hotel expenses. Chashi, saturated with all his alcoholic experiments, went strolling into the night, talking to his woman on the phone and found Don lolled out on the dry sand like a dead hippo. He took out the money from Don’s pocket casually and began covering him with sand, breathing love over the phone all the while. Don slept, pulling at the grains of sand like a blanket.

Epilogue

It was past eight in the morning when the black SUV pulled out of the dusty driveway with their luggage roped on the roof. It was hot outside but the breeze was relaxing. KD still had some steam left in him. He was humming, “Uff, teri Aada. Uff, tera Roshun. Uff, teri Peyaj.” Chashi was sitting on Debu’s lap, deep in calculation of the expenses. Rishi was quiet, snuggled comfortably in the front seat all by himself. He would quip occasionally in general about having another Tuborg and Gyan would retort consistently with his one-lined wisdoms. All except KD and Don caught their train to Bombay from Madgaon. KD would return to Bangalore and Don would catch a bus to Hyderabad in order to visit his sister before heading back home. On the train, everybody was hungry and they ordered eggs and chicken. Debu said that he would have a Veg meal. But before anybody could sound concerned, he said, he would eat two plates. After eating like a gorilla, he slept like one, snoring louder than the damned engine.

………………

Four months later Rishi got married. It was a nice little reunion. The boys presented him with a large box full of condoms, different types of them- ribbed, flavoured, dotted, perforated. They threw in a ‘moov’ too, in case Rishi sprained a muscle here and there. Not even a week went by before he, Rishi, called Chintu up and admitted shamelessly that he had already exhausted his supply. Chintu calculated, dividing the total number by the number of days. It was stupendous.

Debu is waiting for his turn under the canopy. He keeps wondering silently, how he would balance sex and football without compromising either; because all his beloved football matches start after 12:30 at night. He hasn’t been able to figure it out yet. He probably won’t be able to in the end. And, may be, that’s a good thing.

The rest goes on.

------X------

The Boys:                                                                                            Credits:

Debu- Debajyoti Roy.                                                           External Memories:  Debu, Gyan, KD

Rishi- Saptarshi Chatterjee.

KD- Krishanu Deb Roy.

Gyan- Arka Sen.

Don- Subhranath Daw.

Pench- Amritangshu Nandi.

Chashi- Aurkodyuti Das.

Chintu- Subhro Mitra.