A Ladder of Panties Read online

  Opposing forces. Opposing directions. From amongst the rocks of the school canteen, the side dish called like siren song.

  ‘Sir, I’ve got badminton practice. The interschool tournament is next month. Mr. Selvamani wants me downstairs.’

  ‘Surely Mr. Selvamani is aware that playing badminton during the English period is akin to courting disaster.’ Pimenta smiled sadly. The stress on ‘court’ was lost on the thugs in front of him.

  Sri went on. ‘Of course he does, sir. It’s just that if I go a few minutes early, I’ll get to use the court before the other kids come. We have only one court, sir.’

  ‘Okay, Srinivas. Permission granted.’

  Sri got up, grateful. Pimenta had missed a rather glaring point: how did Sri plan to improve his game, alone, on the baddie court?

  ‘But considering I’ve walked in only a few minutes ago, early should ideally be some time from now.’ Pimenta’s eyes gleamed with hidden knowledge.

  Sri sat down.

  ‘Now boys, if I were to shine a light into your heads, what would I see?’

  Blank eyes stared back.

  Fifteen minutes before the lunch bell rang, Sri made his move. With some pomp, he slung his badminton racket around his shoulders and excused himself. Pimenta stared after, eyes still gleaming.

  The fiend within took a deft step out, ran ahead, and beckoned with crooked finger from behind the canteen counter. A greasy guy, serving spoon in hand, grunted out there were two extra side dishes. Sri swiftly coughed up the cash to buy both. Every bite that followed was exactly like the fiend had intended.

  Pity, Priti wasn’t. Oh, Priti Patel. That guy Atlas might have had the world on his shoulders, but he had timed his act better. He hadn’t tried to dead lift it while doing Jiyu Kumite.

  Before the friction burns cooled on Plate One, Sri swerved into Plate Two. The weighty feeling remained. It had shifted, however, from being a general sort of pressure across both shoulders to one showing a marked fondness for the left.

  ‘You were saying the interschool competition for devouring steak begins when exactly?’

  The voice was from the recent past.

  ‘Sir... sir... sir...’ Phurck. Phurck. Phurck. It’s that bloody Gobbo from class—Pimenta.

  ‘Say no more. Your actions speak louder than words.’

  The quantity of steak in Sri’s mouth made it impossible to argue with that.

  Pimenta walked away dejectedly.

  Could have pulled a double E. Damn it. Chlamydia! A disease that sounded like the heroine of a Greek tragedy would have nailed it.

  From that point on, the side dish lost its glamour. When the lunch bell rang out, he could be seen sprinting towards the badminton court. It was opposite the canteen, at the far end of the playground.

  Flying up ten stone steps, Sri kicked the huge, wooden door that opened onto the court. And what looked, a mere moment ago, solid enough to guard a fortress, parted. His leg went right through.

  Swinging into the badminton court, left leg bursting from the middle of the door, he was greeted by the shocked gasps of kids who shouldn’t have been there.

  Confusion was reciprocal as both parties to the event struggled to come to grips with reality. How mega was this cock-up became the question of the moment. Colossal was the unanimous verdict.

  Any student with a leg through a door was destined to become a legend at the M S S for B. But what had just ridden in astride the wooden horse was special.

  Father Vincent, vice-principal and overall sports-in-charge, loathed Sri. Sri’s repeated protests that playing cricket with white hockey balls wasn’t safe—where they practised had white tiles and was illuminated by white tube lights—hadn’t gone down well.

  White ball. Red ball. As if that mattered? The lion, reflected Father Vincent, must take down a cub for the welfare of the pride. And like all takedowns, this would be brutal.

  Thus, it was in the public domain that Sri was just a hop and/or skip away from a future grim. With this great big leap for mankind right through the badminton court door even those who might have been optimistic dropped their shoulders.

  Hijacking this school’s cost cutting was one thing. Adding more financial grief by walking the wood, quite the other.

  As was routine with such happenings, there was a sea of public outcry. The offender found himself carried high on a wave that crashed into the door of the principal’s office. Not in. The wave looked briefly confused then made to beach elsewhere.

  The crab was, without much ado, deposited outside the vice-principal and overall sports-in-charge’s office. Such is life at sea.

  Sri’s cautious opening of the cabin door was met by Father Vincent’s belch. Like the spirit of a murdered victim returning to the scene of crime, the side dish manifested itself.

  Out of the malevolent vapours came.

  ‘Aaah! Srinivas Ramachandran. To what do I owe this honour? Is the colour of the sky unsafe?’

  ‘No, sir! I broke the badminton court door by mistake.’

  ‘Broke the badminton court door by mistake? Come. Come. You have my full attention now. You seem to be casting your dark shadow everywhere. Do tell how you managed thus.’

  ‘I kicked it and broke it.’

  Kicking myself might have been better. Bloody sleepless night!

  ‘Kicked it and broke it?’ Father Vincent repeated, turning every honest confession lurid. ‘If I'm correct in assuming there was no bodily threat to self or family, why then this outbreak of violence against school fixtures?’

  ‘Sir, I have no explanation, sir. I normally push the door open. This time I kicked it open. It was just one of those things. It’s normally such a good solid door, sir. I was shocked when it split.’

  ‘I can well imagine. It is rather unbecoming that an old door should splinter upon being kicked by a hefty sportsman like yourself. Appalling, actually. And not wanting to blight this rich vein of shocking revelations, I’d like to award you something that has had your name on it for a while. Would you believe it's shocking pink?’

  Panties? Surely Vincent isn’t going to pop out a pair.

  ‘Sir, you can’t give me a pink card.’

  The pink card would have to be signed by Sri’s mom and dad. This meant the badminton court door debacle would have to be laid out before them. Where one door had been kicked open, several more would slam shut. The pink would set in motion events tumultuous.

  ‘Can’t I? Why can’t I? Sure I can.’ Father Vincent smirked as he unveiled the dreaded pink. ‘See I just did. It’s yours. All yours. Take it home to your parents. Mount it on the wall with pride. Call in your neighbours. Call in your relatives. Call in all people, far and near.’

  This confrontation was hurtling past the point of rescue. Christian forbearance had been passed two stations ago. Father Vincent’s smirk was now a manic twitch. He reached across his desk to hand Sri the seven-day suspension.

  With nothing but the insistent tug of self-preservation, Sri spoke. ‘Sir, the interschool badminton tournament is coming up next month. I’m seeded Number Two in Bombay.’

  ‘So what? Like every year, you’ll lose to Pramod Sawardekar.’

  ‘Then you aren’t aware of a most appalling development, given that today is a day for shocking stuff, of course. Pramod is down with diphtheria. His school has withdrawn his entry...’

  Father Vincent ignored Sri’s feeble return. ‘Which means you...?

  ‘Without a—’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Totally, sir! If you don't suspend me, I promise to bring the cup to M S S.’

  ‘Which cup?’ Quite obviously, he didn’t want to be palmed off some family crockery.

  ‘Sir! The junior interschool badminton cup! Sir!’

  ‘Don’t ever forget that. You’ve given your word. That pink card will wait for you right here. In my desk drawer. Sooner or later, I’m sure you’ll claim what is yours by right and deed.’

  ‘I hope I don’t, sir. With
your kind permission, may I leave, sir? I’d like to practise, sir.’

  Father Vincent reached into the lower recesses of his desk and the cabin door swung open.

  What if Vincent decided not to press what was some kind of button? How much could be seen through the ribbed glass of the cabin? Why the button? How many kids have tried to run out?

  Through the now open door, Sri could see weak sunshine on the school walls.

  Not too bright to ask questions right now. Let Vincent have all the bloody buttons in the world just as long as he doesn’t press mine.

  With a quick three-step, Sri was out of the cabin. His relief was equally fleet-footed and made its escape, leaving him feeling helpless. Past the first floor, helplessness skipped along, replaced by realisation. His button had been pressed. He’d only been pardoned because of the promise to win the interschool badminton tournament.

  I am Vincent’s button boy.

  On the ground floor, realisation stepped aside to reveal rage. And Sri walked straight into a pillar. Blinking in agony, he recoiled onto the playground.

  Hope I don't fucking knock down some kid. All I need now is someone screaming pink bloody murder.

  Vincent’s voice joined the humming in his head—by right and deed.

  Furious, he muttered, ‘I’ll show you, bastard.’

  Ten feet away, Dhruv Singhania intended to do pretty much the same to Gaurav Kochar of 7 B. This was because Gaurav had, for reasons known only to him, loudly proclaimed that Dhruv loved Dolcey. Dolcey was the dark, moustached lady who taught them Geography. Dark being the colour of her skin not her moustache, which was bleached a burnished gold.

  In a school like this, the use of a four-letter word like love was tied in closely with five letters of another—fists. They swung.

  Since both guys came for cricket practice, Sri stepped in. ‘Guys, stop it! You’ll hurt each other.’

  Fists continued to swing back and forth. Sri forcefully separated the two.

  After regaining possession of his collar, Dhruv asked, ‘Who are you to interfere?’

  This seemingly straight question was accompanied by a kick that would, were it to hit its intended target, exempt Sri from the entire parenting process.

  ‘Listen, Dhruv. Stop cracking Kochar!’

  Gaurav Kochar decided his own silence wasn’t doing much for his cred. ‘You listen, you big dick! I don’t need you to save me from Dhruv.’

  Two quick little punches followed this outburst. The response was what any straight-thinking, able-bodied sportsman would do.

  Ungrateful bloody cockroach!

  Sri let fly. The punch caught Kochar on the left temple.

  He went down like gravity’s ready and randy bride. Nonplussed by the crumpled shape in the mud, all adjacent activity stopped.

  In a replay of the badminton court routine, the air was rife with opinion.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Sri’s killed Kochar.’

  ‘He just broke the badminton court door. He’s gone bonkers. He’s going to kill all of us.’

  Insane!

  Happenings have left the mortal realm, pole-vaulted over divine intervention and gone totally intergalactic. All I wanted was to organise a smashing party and get in some screaming chicks. Instead, I’ve fucking killed Gaurav Kochar.

  ‘Do they send kids to jail?’

  ‘Don’t think so. They’re sent to a demand home.’

  ‘What’s a demand home?’

  ‘Think it’s a home for kids who hit other kids. There’s one close by. The government demands that kids who crack other kids should be sent there.’

  ‘And they’ll send Sri there? It’s close by?’

  ‘It is. But if there’s traffic on the highway, it might take them half an hour.’

  ‘They better demand him there fast... before he kills any more of us.’

  The bit after the contemplative pause was whimpered.

  ‘Don’t know whether they will. He’s a murderer. And he broke a door. Maybe they’ll send him to an asylum first. Check his head out.’

  ‘But that’s in Thana, isn’t—?’

  ‘You stupid dick! Stop dripping your icelolly on Kochar’s face. Don’t you have any respect for the dead? Go suck it somewhere else, you idiot.’

  ‘He’s moving. Look. Look at his eyes.’

  The smattering of seven drops of melted orange lolly on Kochar’s face had raised the dead. His eyelids fluttered and the cockroach shape sighed.

  Nearby, temple bells rang out. There was whistling and cheering. And at least two cases of determined hugging. Brotherhood prevailed and Dhruv raised Kochar to his feet.

  Kochar shook his head slowly and visions of reincarnation grudgingly backed off. ‘Come with me to Vincent. I’m taking you to Vincent.’

  And M/s Long & Slow lovingly threw their arms open to the young apprentice, Phurck. By right and deed.

  ‘Listen Kochar, it isn’t like that. I didn’t want to hit you, but you hit me first, man.’

  The kids moved in a little closer, sensing like crows that something was about to drop. About now, Sri couldn’t possibly look any riper.

  ‘You almost killed me, you fucker. It wasn’t even your fight.’ Kochar’s lower lip wobbled.

  ‘I know that, man. But I was just trying to stop you guys from hurting each other—’

  ‘By killing me?’

  The sea of righteous motion was lapping at Sri’s feet. Within seconds, he would be crowned king of the waves, two times running. And deposited outside Father Vincent’s office. This time nothing would come between him and the pink. Actually, given attempted murder, chances were an upgrade would be in order. Father Vincent was sure to skid around corners, skates under cassock, and pull out a grey card.

  A grey card. Oh, Phurck!

  The situation called for superior cunning. Sri turned the problem around all 360. And out fizzed the answer—200. 200ml of a cold cold drink!

  Requiring special mention was that the cold drink needed to be cold. Those were days when cold drink merely meant a bottled one.

  ‘Okay. I’ll come with you. Let’s stop at the canteen for a sec. Want a cold Campa Cola?’ A brotherly arm snaked its way around Kochar.

  ‘Why should I come? I’m going straight to Vincent.’ Few temptations could sway the seeker of justice. On deeper reflection, though, ‘A Campa Orange?’

  ‘Sure, man. Want a bun chop?’

  Kochar rubbed his ears in delight. His lunch box had two jam sandwiches, a khari[9] biscuit and a chakli[10]. Mrs. Kochar’s ideas (no doubt interesting) on balancing the sweet, the salty and the spicy had, over time, brought about a conspicuous droop in Kochar’s antennae. The bun chop: a spicy, mince and potato patty inside a pav[11], guffawed villainously at his mother’s mealtime innocence. Kochar was about to go down for the second time.

  ‘A bun chop and a Campa Orange?’

  ‘Sure, man. I’m not a bania[12]. It’s not this or that, man. I’ll buy you both.’

  ‘And I’m not a dumb prick. You think I won’t take you to Vincent, right? The Campa and bun chop is to keep me quiet, right?’

  ‘Listen, Kochar, I just want you to let me explain. There’s nothing personal between you and me. It’s not like I hate you or anything. Let’s go sit on the stones, man.’

  ‘You’re not going to hit me while I’m eating, right?’

  ‘No way,’ Sri dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘I just want to say how sorry I am, away from all these guys.’

  Sorry? For a Standard VII cockroach to hear that from a Standard VIII toughie was a miracle in the Merciful Saviour School for Boys, but then again, this was a day of miracle and resurrection. For hadn’t the dead walked? And talked? And wasn’t one of their tribe currently dithering over a Campa Orange and bun chop?

  The spectators drew back as the crab and the cockroach made their way to the canteen. From there, the unlikely pair drifted over to the four large stones that marked the end of the playground.
/>   When the bell rang at the end of the long break, Sri rose, knowing that the fatal diversion to Father Vincent’s cabin had been averted. The stones went on to get their act together, each of the four having wept copiously listening to his speech.

  Sri was in it and that too against time. He’d been kicked into a race and waiting at the finish was the party for boys to meet girls for the first time in their lives. In his head, commentary began…

  As the field settles, it's Wednesday at the front of the pack. It’s Wednesday from Thursday and Friday followed by Saturday. There's a blur from out back. Unbelievable!It's a move up. It's Saturday. It’s Saturday, jockeyed by Disaster, steaming forward.

  Things are getting seriously hot for Wednesday. Right this second, Saturday’s setting the pace. Wednesday with Desperation astride is coming under fire. Looks like Thursday and Friday will be passed without a fight.

  The telephone handset hovered.

  ‘Hello, is that Padmini?’

  Hesitancy. Wariness. ‘Yes? Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Hi, Padmini. Srinivas Ramachandran here.’

  ‘Do I know you? Or is this some crank call?’

  ‘No. No. Don’t you remember me? We met during last year’s interschool badminton tournament. I bought you a packet of Simba chips. I can’t remember the flavour but I know you liked it.’

  Silence.

  ‘Oh, that guy. Yaah, I remember you. How did you get my number?’

  Rider almost down! Desperation is struggling to stay in the saddle. Wednesday might lose its jockey.

  ‘A magician never reveals his tricks.’

  Dangling between pounding hooves now, inches from the ground.

  ‘Do your parents allow you out at night?’

  ‘Depends. Why?’

  ‘I’m throwing a party. I thought I’d invite you and your friends.’

  ‘But you don’t even know my friends—’

  ‘But what’s that... amongst friends?’ Srinivas countered.

  ‘I guess. Where’s the party?’

  From out of the blue, there’s a new challenger. Seize the Moment ridden hard by Hope is in the mix.

  ‘It’s on the top floor of the Liberty Gardens Hotel on Saturday night. We’ve got the latest Top of the Pops videos and we’re going to project them on a wall. We’ve got ice cream, cold cold drinks and Simba chips. You name it.’