A Ladder of Panties Read online

  A Ladder Of Panties

  Warning by Suguna Sundaram, ex-editor of Stardust and Cine Blitz

  Sandeep Jayaram

  Copyright © 2020 Sandeep Jayaram

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  To my sister and charioteer, Deepa

  and

  my dogfathers: Ra, Genghis, Brutus One and Two.

  Ex-editor of Stardust and Cine Blitz,

  Suguna Sundaram warns

  Perspicacious.

  Not a word I would have used for Sandeep Jayaram, the creator of this story, when we first met around 18 years ago at a common friend’s glamorous and happening photo studio. Basking in the sunshine of youth and skipping over the shadows of folly, ladders had not taken root in our then ‘un-perspicacious’ minds.

  A humungous quantity of beers, malts and malaises, and many conversations later, two decades were done—flown by, without even the realization on my part that we had missed seven years when the demons in Sandeep’s mind unfriended me on Facebook. He will never be allowed to live that down; it is now penned into posterity. In any case, Sandeep is never going to make it as the poster boy for lasting Facebook relationships.

  But as time and that tantalizing experience called life trundled on, a healthy respect (grudgingly, if ever) was admitted for the mind-boggling realms this man’s mind and words traversed. The beer sessions still hopped when we managed to catch up periodically. The salt and pepper on his pate hadn’t been achieved by basking in the sun, as they say. I had become a journalist and gone on to become the Editor for two leading Indian film publications, Stardust and CineBlitz, poles away from Sandeep’s own colourful journey as a teacher of drama, and then the English language itself—he has his own academy.

  Asked by Sandeep to pen the foreword for this book, I was both flummoxed and flattered. Given the current social climate, this story is to be read with an open mind, beginning with the title itself. It is in no way dismissive or misogynistic. Truthfully, it is deep irreverence that marks this tale as also his attitude to life… Sandeep loves women. Devotedly. As you will discover from rung one of the ladder, all the way to the last, no matter the direction you are moving in—upwards or downwards.

  Sandeep is able to create a subtle something that knits itself into a pattern the reader would never guess was forming. In fact, you might find an idea incomplete in its first appearance only to realize it is profoundly linked to another thought or sentence later in the book. His analogies are unbelievably original and outré in the visuals they create. In fact, the entire tale is vividly shocking with implied or imagined visuals. Sandeep’s descriptive slays! His language would endear him to the most vicious grammar Nazi and then some. As someone who has proofread and corrected copy for over three decades—damn near made me forget English— ‘A Ladder Of Panties’ is ‘the shit’.

  Outrageously hilarious, it is also dark, convoluted and eternally mind-boggling. It delves into the mess we make of our lives, but does so deeeyaaaam neatly. Unbridled in its expression—here’s that warning again—Sandeep’s tale of love and ladders is not for the weak-spirited.

  Sandeep Jayaram is perspicacious!

  the first steps

  1. before pulling anything on

  All stories seek to address six rather simple questions: why? where? who? when? what? how? So I’m going to keep this really simple. In the pages to follow, you will have serious opportunity to drop your jaw, shake your head in disbelief, and ask yourself—how the ffff? This is my promise. Now for the answers to those six questions.

  Why her?

  My nineteen-year-old daughter, Aahaana, has just had an abortion. This… This is the real story. A story I know nothing of. No clue about the beginning. No clue about the middle. Just absolutely clear about the end—a nineteen-year-old who refuses to talk about what happened. She says she’ll tell me everything when she’s ready. For the moment, all she wants is my help. My presence. My patience.

  This silence is killing me.

  Where are we?

  We’re in Munnar. In the garden outside our hotel room is a fir tree, lit up against the night sky. Sometimes, I wonder how triangular and neat the tree looks. Like a girl in a skirt. Twenty years ago. Me: Mohina Sethi from Bombay.

  In the same garden, some distance away, is a palm tree.

  Around its trunk is a rusted metal band that holds it in place, away from the hotel wall. My first impression was the tree was wearing panties. That afternoon itself, after twenty years…

  Who is this I see?

  This is the other story. His hair has turned grey. Suits him. Now the outside matches the inside. Believe what you will. Grey is not a colour! It’s a force that blows wickedly over the lines we draw—until everything blurs—making man look like dog and tale wag like tail.

  Most of the girls I knew as a teenager would talk about guys and how similar they were to dogs. Their stories made me sick. I swore never to make mistakes like those, ever.

  Then I met Sri. And the concrete of my resolve suddenly upped and left. It just walked off, leaving my inner strength looking quite silly. The girl brand of concrete can be like that. Sri, the doggy with the wiggly tail! Always finding more than two sides to a coin. Flipping reality, over and over, until it comes to rest standing on its head.

  Of course, he had plans for me: I was to be walked on a short leash. Done with quickly!

  And it’s happened again, like it always does when he’s around. Things turn back on themselves and chase their own tails.

  He’s the doggy. Not me! I’m… Mohina Sethi was merely a rung. Something you stepped on. There was this ladder, you see. But that tale is still to...

  When did all this happen?

  Listen, na[1]? And Sri began. Purging himself of himself. Within minutes of meeting, he launched into how his life had played out since he left me, all those years ago. Time stood still, then not so still and eventually ran circles around me.

  What am I going to do?

  It’s not like I didn’t ask myself. Why does he insist on my recording his life’s story? What’s in it for him? After coming up with motives galore, I decided the simplest answer was the best—he loves the sound of his voice. This doggy loves his bark.

  He said there was no one better than me. Come on; record my story on your phone. Imagine playing it back, years later, and having a laugh. Together? I shook. Sensibly enough, time took me in hand, back to the present.

  Why doesn’t Aahaana say something? But then she’s always been contemplative and composed. A sensible girl. On the other hand, hell hath no fury than a mother, especially on discovering that the sensible have the least sense.

  Hell hath no fury… Sri thought the line was Shakespearean. I’ll never forget controlling my giggles the first time I met him that morning in Colaba. It was when a twenty-year-old had her hand firmly on the collar. Doggy, she thought, would do precisely as told.

  Yes, his story is what I need, so I write it out night after night, near the fir tree.

  Just so Aahaana isn’t disturbed. Just so her mother can get distracted. While concentrating completely on what’s to…

  How much more to go?

  Show time! A tale awaits—the same one that allows me to look at my daughter without wanting to strangle the words out of her. In any case, strangling is for the other. The one who hides in her silence. Many a time, I
’ve made a noose out of my dupatta[2] and… Breathe!

  With that, you know where I’m coming from. What remains is to see where Sri’s voice takes us. Yes, my pretties, let’s have a bit of a laugh. Shall we? And while we’re at it, you might find crossing your legs to your advantage.

  Until Aahaana breaks her silence. Until I get that name…

  2. commando

  With one word, the stage is set. Doesn’t it mean leaving undies out of the equation? Curious! Considering panties are what it’s all about.

  We’re in Standard VIII and it’s 1983 in this classroom at the Merciful Saviour School for Boys. The Marathi[3] period has just come to an end.

  A ripple of incoherent noise ran through the room.

  Taha Nalwala, the Bohra[4] guy whose dad sold taps and other bathroom fittings inside Crawford Market, was the first to introduce some meaning into the resonating wave.

  ‘Why the fuck would you call your mom Aai[5]? Sounds like someone’s pinched your arse.’

  The ‘fuck’ in Taha’s question sounded more like ‘phurck’ but that was because he liked taking things long and slow.

  ‘I’ll pinch your mom’s arse if you say that again,’ Nitin Sardesai retaliated like a true full-blooded Maharashtrian[6]. He was a big guy for Standard VIII, close to six feet with forearms like a silverback gorilla.

  But then again, Taha’s mom had always been a sensitive topic. Barely two years had passed since she’d divorced her first husband and remarried. For any kid, in the 80s, divorce was like playing catch-up on the dance floor. The moves and music belonged to someone else. You could only pretend you knew what was going on. And that your mom wasn't a you-know-what.

  Taha’s approach had been pretty Gandhian. When the whispers stung—Monkey One. When the looks burnt— Monkey Two. And when what was inside threatened to spill out—Monkey Three.

  It was just a case of getting the monkeys off your back and putting them to work. Long. Slow. With the monkeys in your team, you knew you could deal with this phase of life, temporarily titled—Really Now, My Mom Isn’t A Whore!

  But, and that’s a big but, a butt if you will. It wasn’t just about getting Taha’s goat. Nitin had upped the game. He was suggesting nasty things would be done to it, too. This was an out-and-out fucking threat to grab Mom’s arse. That’s not on. No one can touch Mom. Except Dad. His real dad.

  Taha’s goat was in the mouth of a leopard. Soon it would be dragged up a tree, and everyone knows what goes on there. The monkeys were welcome to haul their arses elsewhere. While they were at it, they were also welcome to the services of M/s Long & Slow.

  Right now, nobody was going to touch Sameena Nalwala, previously Matcheswala, or part thereof.

  All five feet of Taha leapt over a desk and punched Nitin under the chin. Time turned to ice. When it thawed, it was clear Nitin was about to twist Taha into an anatomical miracle.

  A clear, clipped voice interrupted the proposed artistic venture. ‘If you chootiyas[7] hit each other, you’re going to fuck up your ugly faces even more and no chick from P D Panthaki will even spit in your direction.’

  No chick from P D Panthaki! The words of power had been spoken. The spell was cast.

  Each boy stopped where he was as if handed a princess-sized poisoned spindle. Like in that fairy tale, everyone and everything became still. On all faces was that special look that could only mean teen hormones coming home after a hard day’s toil.

  Sanjay Kewalramani knew the score. After all, his family owned the Liberty Gardens Hotel, the venue for the proposed party where there would be booze and cigarettes. And panties.

  Far above these unrefined goings-on, in a meditative state, was Sri or Srinivas Ramachandran as the school roster had him pegged. He was in charge of inviting girls from P D Panthaki, his elevation to this designation resting on the fact he took a Karate class with one fabulous specimen from said school.

  His single-mindedness too separated him from the rest. He had this rare ability of shifting focus from confusing ideological constructs like the Taha’s mothers of the world to offering his full gaze to their daughters.

  These virtues aside, he was up to his ears in what the bigger press button on flushes is for. Priti Patel, his only key to the trove of delights at P D Panthaki, wasn’t displaying the riotous enthusiasm expected of her.

  The other day, he intentionally stayed back after karate class and praised her lavishly on her Jiyu Kumite[8].

  One can’t just leap in, you know. A base has to be built so that hordes of giggling girls swarm the party for boys to meet girls for the first time in their lives.

  Having landed badly during sparring, Priti was rubbing Iodex into her right ankle. Sri’s focus trotted from base-building to her ankle to something way more important.

  ‘That party I told you about…’

  Twisting her brown belt around her fingers, Priti replied, ‘Sri, I’ve told you before I’ll ask my friends but I really don’t know how many of them will come.’ Looking down at her ankle, she added, ‘I’m not even sure I’m going to come. Let’s leave it at that.’

  He would like to have twisted her neck. And left it at that. Except she was most capable of doing innumerable excruciating things to him before his hands even left his side.

  His mouth however felt otherwise. Freedom of speech and all.

  ‘But do you think they’ll come? I mean, what do you feel? Chances?’

  ‘How do I know? You’re sounding deeeyaaam despo.’

  Deeeyaaam Despo. Oh! The numbing pain of a double D.

  The earth was gnawing at his feet. One slip now and he’d have all the romantic appeal of a dog with a worried look, squatting over a wet spot, in the middle of traffic. He was Sri. He corrected himself.

  I am Sri. I might have stepped into it but I’m going to withdraw squeaky-clean. Only two ways to do that: the double E or emergency exit. I can introduce a fatal medical condition. The Liberty Gardens party could become my last goodbye to this world. No. That's rubbish. A double E was mostly for the brainless. This calls for the double C or cold cut.

  That second, for all this was happening within the elbowroom of four seconds, he almost smiled.

  Imagine slapping a slice of salami on her palm.

  Four seconds up.

  ‘Deeeyaaam despo! I should have known you’d mistake desire for desperation. It’s what girls your age do fastest.’ The recently DD’ed Sri was nothing if not equal to the task. ‘But what’s fast got to do with intelligence? How many languages does a cheetah speak?’

  Fluffed it! You can’t come in from behind a ‘your age’ with some cheetah crap. She’s sure to leave me, inhaling exhaust smoke, like some vagrant at the traffic lights.

  But the rhythm had taken over. The needle was on the record. And what had to spin round would spin right round.

  ‘And before you create some dirty picture in your head, what I was talking about was the desire to have one evening of totally kicking fun. I mean the kind you’ve never seen before. Playing the latest Top of the Pops videotapes and projecting them on a massive screen. We’ve got the Hillway guys to organise all that. Don’t blame me for getting excited about organising the scene of the year, so if you and your little girly pals can’t come, that’s your thing. I asked.’ He paused to catch his breath as also to gauge the effect of the tune he was blowing out.

  It was meant to be a cold cut. Instead, I’ve given her a bloody lecture.

  ‘Okay. This party sounds cool, Sri. I’ll call you later tonight once I’ve called Prerna.’

  No change in her expression. Bloody karate training!

  ‘Cool. Call around 9.30. Can’t take calls after that. My parents watch flicks then. The phone’s in the living room and if it rings when they’re watching, they’ll freak out.’

  With that he turned on his heels, certain there was no squelching sound. Priti returned to her Iodex.

  She didn’t call at 9.30. She didn’t call by 11.30. In fact, to cut a long tale short,
she didn’t call at all. Whether or not Prerna was called was also a question mark. What remained without doubt was a clutching sensation in his chest followed by breathlessness all through the night.

  Here he was, staring out of the classroom window, at the end of the Marathi period. The girls were supposed to have been thronging to Liberty Gardens.

  Looks like there’s going to be no riot of crazed chicks. They’re going to bloody stay in and work on their bloody Jiyu Kumite. Got to get out! Need a side dish. Now!

  Mr. Pimenta, the English teacher walked in. Around Sri, the fracas died out. Pimenta sat down, pretended to light a cigarette and kicked off with something about someone called Launcelot Gobbo.

  Gobbo... gobble... gobbling side dish.

  Sri couldn’t stop thinking of the steak with boiled vegetables the school canteen served the teachers. Though the origins of its name remained obscure, the side dish itself was like a mermaid shimmering from between the sundry rocks that were normally served up.

  The only way a student could lay hands on this lunchtime beaut was if a teacher was absent or on a diet. Even so, you’d have to clock in your request really early. Else, some other Gobbo would be munching on what you’d been fantasising about.

  ‘So you see there’s this rather humorous battle Launcelot Gobbo is fighting within himself.’ Pimenta stubbed his mock cigarette. ‘His conscience tells him to remain in the house of Shylock whereas the fiend or devil within urges him to run. Let’s make this real. Have any of you been in a situation where you’ve been torn between two opposing forces? Could be anything! Come on, boys. Let me see what’s inside your heads.’