The Henchman

‘Looks like there is no other option’, I declared somberly. 

The words had a magical effect on my audience. Some of them started to sway in delight, while others giggled in nervous anticipation.

Sound of silent laughter rang through the house. Laughter that only I could hear.

***

I was alone in the living room, surrounded by my collection of indoor plants – palms, crotons, cactus and ferns. Everyone except the cactus seemed terribly unhappy. The palms were the unhappiest of the lot. The one near the sofa, once beautifully framing the stand lamp and the madhubani painting on the adjacent wall, was wailing aloud.

‘Just look at this’, she extended her frayed branches ‘Look what that tormentor has done to me’. Once lush green branches now hung drooping – the leaves shriveled and dried up. The wailing stirred up the croton sitting on top of a terracotta planter, which rustled its tattered maroon leaves incomprehensibly. 

Then the big fern started sobbing from the mezzanine floor overlooking the living room, it’s dried up leaves raining down on the floor that was already strewn with collection of fresh leaves and branches from other plants across the house. It was mayhem!

Just then, a pair of shining eyes appeared across the hallway. The eyes cautiously examined the surroundings – the feline gray form of the owner crouched close to the floor lay camouflaged over the gray grains of the light green granite floor. Then there was a streak of stripes across the hallway as the scream of my indoor ficus was drowned in the collective wailing of all the other plants. 

The kitten jumped up and ripped off a perfectly healthy branch from the plant and before I could blink my eyes, it had dashed back across the hallway and into the kid’s room with its kill

.

 ***

The trouble started two weeks ago. My son had come back from his science tutor who lives in the same gated community as us, with a four week old kitten. ‘Her mother does not like her’, he had said taking the kitten out of his back pack ‘So I brought her with me’, he was trying to match the cute expression of the kitten he was holding. My daughter shrieked in delight as she wrestled with my son to hold the kitten. Both me and my wife shrieked in alarm.

We later found out from Mrs. Arora, the science tutor, that the mother cat would visit her house every year to lay her litters. She would host the cat in a corner of her backyard until the kittens were grown enough and the new tabby family dispersed. This year, surprisingly, there was one kitten that had apparently fallen from favor of the mother. The kitten was getting weaker – unfed and unattended. So when my son volunteered to look after the kitten, she gladly took up the offer.

I remained apprehensive as I saw the kitten winning over my family. They named her Cookie. My wife, a confirmed zoo phobic who would jump at the sight of any un caged animals (and sometimes even caged ones – to the amusement of onlookers in several zoos), would now sit working on her laptop with Cookie sprawled comfortably across her lap. The kids would return from school, rushing to feed the already overfed kitten who would be cuddled the rest of the day by the doting siblings.

And then it started. A nip on a leaf here. A tug on a branch there. And within a week it was complete mayhem! The feline was killing plants at a rate that would put any man-eating tiger of the yester years to shame.

‘Why don’t you move the plants to the backyard’, my wife had suggested. I had given her a scornful look.

Today my wife had taken the kids out for a birthday party so I was alone in the house. ‘Looks like there is no other option’, I declared somberly. The words had a magical effect on my audience. Some of them started to sway in delight, while others giggled in nervous anticipation. The sound of silent laughter rang through the house. Laughter that only I could hear.

The image of my kids flashed in my mind. ‘I will tell them that that the kitten ran away’, I assured myself. But I would need someone to catch the kitten as she would always dash away as soon as she saw me approaching. I needed a henchman to carry out the task.

Just than the doorbell rang.

****

Manjunath was a dark lanky man around thirty year old. He always wore impeccably washed and ironed dazzling white shirt and white pants that gave eyes a shock from the sheer contrast from his dark face. A crisp mustache cut across his face.  

He was my driver, and among his many talents, I would say his driving skills would stand as one of the lowest. His favorite hobby was to bump my car into moving and stationary objects. Bumps and dents would appear around the car at remarkably predictive intervals. ‘I pay to fix, Saar’, he would say apologetically and in the three months he had been employed, he had already raked up a tab that was close to his salary for that period.

But ask him to run an errand – he would complete it at a speed that would put speedy Gonzalvez to shame. Even as one would finish articulating the request, Manjunath’s eyes would squint menacingly. It took me a while to realize that the squinting was his way to assimilate information.

The task could be as simple as catching a six feet viper that had wandered into our compound from the nearby lake-marsh. Or as complex as catching hold of a five and a half feet lineman of the state run telephone company to get our broadband connection fixed.  “Done Saar”, he would say and disappear – only to reappear shortly – task completed. Errand done. “Done Saar” , he would say one again to seal the confirmation of a job well done.

Today I articulated my request, silently endorsed by the maimed indoor plants. His eyes squinted menacingly. “Done Saar”

Manjunath was running around the house in hot pursuit of the kitten when a draft of wind opened the front door and the kitten and his pursuer dashed out of the house. I could hear kitty hisses and meows from outside. After giving enough time for things to settle I peeped out of the front door.

****

Manjunath lay sprawled beside our car parked in the driveway, prodding under the car with a stick. The kitten had disappeared under the car comfortably, hidden in a secure nook behind the muffler. The henchman prodded, cajoled, screamed, meowed, purred for one full hour. The kitten would drop down from her nook every five minutes, wave her tail mockingly and climb back again. The henchman was finally tired. He stood up and took out the car keys out of his pocket. There was a wicked grin on his face as he opened the door and put the key in the ignition. I looked at him in horror.

‘Stop’, the words came out involuntarily as I yanked the keys from the ignition. There was a sudden rustle around my legs. The evasive kitty was rubbing herself on my feet looking at me with a cautiously alert gaze. I reached out and picked her up. She was surprisingly light. And small. And kind of cute.

‘How Cute!’, my thoughts were interrupted by the familiar voice of my son’s science tutor Mrs. Arora. ‘And look how much has she grown – the cute Kukkie!’. She was passing by our house, walking her todder son’s stroller. I pasted a grin on my face , my man Friday was standing behind me smiling even more innocently, his white teeth giving his not-anymore-white shirt run for its money.

‘She has become quite n-n-naughty’, I fumbled for words, ’How is the mother cat? I am sure she misses the kitten …’

‘Don’t you know!’, Mrs. Arora’s expression changed from bright and sunny to downright gloomy.

’Two stray dogs entered the colony yesterday – jumping over the fence near the lake’, she mumbled. They then jumped into my backyard’. I stared at her shocked as she described the mother cat’s futile attempt to defend her kittens … and herself.

We stood silently as Cookie lay cuddled in my arms purring softly unaware of the cruel fate she escaped. Twice.

 ‘We need to get the dogs out of the colony before they do any further damage … I spoke with the association members but they don’t think it is urgent … and the security men don’t know how to catch dogs it seems … ’, Mrs. Arora’s cold  voice cut through the silence.

‘Manjunath’, I looked at my henchman.

His eyes squinted menacingly. ‘Done Saar’

*****

Epilogue: 

 ‘Who moved all the indoor plants out into the backyard!!’, my wife rushed into the study, ‘and where is Cookie?’, she asked suspiciously.

I typed in the final line of the story, looked up at her and smiled. Cookie gave a lazy gaze from my lap. Then she got up, stretched, yawned and jumped onto the key boarddddsqtdyaq`5qo zlk

Notes from India: Man-Eating Tigers

Author’s note: Can any visit to India be complete without paying a tribute to the magnificent Tigers?

‘You mean to say … man-eaters still exist!’, I mumbled, as a chill shot up my spine. I could not believe my ears!  But then, there were a lot of unbelievable things going on tonight.

‘Yes, you heard it right, they do exist’, came the reply in a deep baritone voice. Just across from where we were, the silvery outline of Nanda Devi and Panchchuli peaks towered over the landscape in the cold moonlit night.

 ***

'The deadliest man eating tiger in India prowled around in this region’

We sat around the campfire that lit up the entrances of small wooden cottages lined up along a ledge overlooking the Himalayas.  The ledge sloped steeply behind the cottages giving way to several ranges of small Kumaoni hills, framing the majestic snow-clad peaks perfectly.

'The man-eater of Champawat. She killed 436 people', The resort manager lowered his voice, as the crackling fire lit up is face, casting an eerie shadow over the small stretch of lawn behind him. We sat glued to our chairs as we listen with rapt attention.

'She was killed by Jim Corbett - the very first man-eater he shot. My great grandfather was with Corbett Saab during the hunt', Anil's serious face betrayed him by flickering a slight smile before it was dead serious again. A distant clap of thunder rang across, illuminating the valley spread out under us.

'It is not a good sign', he continued in an ominous tone as we all stared at the dark clouds in the horizon that had now hid the silvery Himalayan ranges.

****

We had reached our resort just after dusk, braving a tiring eight hour journey across the mountains of Uttrakhand. The resort was tucked in a village perched on the top of a hill overlooking the majestic Nanda Devi.  Our Innova was stopped at a forest check post just outside the village as the forest guard shone his torch inside the car illuminating its occupants - four adults and three kids. ‘Tourists?’, he had asked curtly. I had nodded my head. The check post gate was raised to let us through.

My twelve year old son was thrilled with the rustic setting of the cottage.' It's too bad that they have iron grills on the windows ...", he had complained.

A serious looking man, who checked us into the resort, had approached us as we sat around the bonfire lit in front of the cottage. 'What will you have for dinner, sir?', he asked with politeness frozen in sombre seriousness.

' What do you have ready?'I had asked. 'We make everything fresh', he had replied maintaining an expression as if he was giving us some seriously bad news.

' Can you get us something real fast - the kids are hungry,' the wife chipped in.

'It will take one hour to cook the dinner, madam', again the serious expression.

'Can't you do something? please request the cook ...'

'I am the cook' , he had replied, a slight smile flashed across his face before he became dead serious again, 'And also the resort manager’, he had hastily added.

****

'My great grand father was a very brave man. He was one of the folks who hauled the dead tiger back into the village after Corbett Saab killed it. It was a very khatnaak tiger sir.. she used to come inside the village in broad daylight and run off with a kill’

'Are there any man eating tigers alive?' , my twelve year old son asked hesitantly, trying his best to sound fearless.

' No, no more man eaters in these hills anymore', Anil finally smiled. The rain clouds that were building up in horizon had almost reached our cottages. A sprinkle of rain dissipated the bonfire party as we all scuttled towards our respective cottages.

' Do man eaters still exist?' , my eight year old daughter asked as we ran into our cottage.

 I thought about my daughter’s question as I dozed off for the night.

****

It must be just before dawn when I heard a faint sound on the door. It sounded as if someone was scratching the door. The scratching sound got louder and louder as I got up from the bed and made my way to the cottage door.

‘Open the door, please’, the voice had a warm baritone ring to it. 

It had stopped raining. The rain clouds gave way to a bright full moon.  I cautiously opened the door and my jaws dropped when I saw the visitor.  

It was Sher Khan! The animated cartoon version from the Disney movie Jungle Book that I had first seen when I was a kid. The animated tiger had given me a quite a few sleepless nights in those days.

Here he was - standing in front of me, complete with stripes, mean eyes and the extended claws of his front left paw which he had used to scratch the door.

‘We need to talk’, Sher Khan purred softly, ’It will be better if you come out – I don’t want to wake up the kids ..’

For some reason, the cartoon tiger did not look as threatening and mean as it used to when I was a kid. I guess my perception of meanness had changed over the years -in fact Sher Khan looked kind of cute. I grabbed my slippers and followed him around a thicket. Sher Khan sprawled out on a rocky ledge. ‘Sit’ he said pointing at stone boulder.

‘So … you have some questions regarding man eating tigers?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tigers have their own sources ...’, he said shrugging his striped shoulders ‘ Just because these days we run around the national parks, posing for wild life photographers does not mean we do not keep a track of what is going on in this world’, he said tilting his huge head and looking at me with slightly squinted eyes.

‘So your question was whether or not man eaters still exist?’ He stared at me. I nodded my head briskly.

‘Well, they do exist’, Sher Khan’s eyes became cold and distant. ‘But these man eaters are not tigers anymore. They are of your species’

‘And even the most ferocious tigers appear as harmless cartoon characters in comparison’, his lips curled into a smile, ‘When in reality - we are not …’, That is when Sher Khan gave out a deafening roar, flung open his sharp claws, and pounced at me.

I woke up with a start.  

Or did I?

THE END

Author's Note  : Flipping through any news channel one could get the gruesome update of the new person eating species that we have become. Blasts in Boston. Blasts in Bangalore, Girls being molested ... the fierce man eating tigers indeed look like cartoon characters in comparison !

Notes from India: An Authentic Experience

‘How would you like them cut?’ , my hairdresser had asked politely when  I had gone for my first  haircut  in US many years ago.

I had stared at her uncomfortably because I had never been asked that question by my hairdressers in India.  

“Short” , I had mumbled, not knowing what else to say., My wife had squealed in horror after I had come back to our apartment with my commando cut.

“Please don’t make it too short”, I had answered the same question imploringly when I went for my next haircut several months later. Over the years the instructions got more and more refined ‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please.  Scissors on the top. Not too short  - just take an inch off.  Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’, I would rattle out without having to think and get (almost) the same results whether I was in LA ,Washington DC  or Boston.

‘Have you considered trying gray blending’ , I heard this suggestion a few years ago.  Gray blending. The word had a nice mature ring to it. It did not have the urgency of hair dying. Or the pretentiousness of hair coloring.  My hair had started to gray with a vengeance in the past few years. Especially, after I had started my own business.  My mother had just a few strands of gray hair at near sixty. My grandfather had a good crop of black hair at eighty. I had more gray hair than both of them combined. I had somehow let my gene pool down. ‘ It is perhaps the stress’ , I would explain half apologetically.

‘We have a special going on ...’, she continued, blinking her false eyelashes ‘ Tea Tree Treatment  - Free shampoo & head massage  ..’ . The deal was made. Several degrees of ‘blending’ were tried. The color combination of the one that suited me best was then recorded in the database. I could now go to any Supercuts in US and just tell them my name – they would then pull up my record and blend my grays like nobody ‘s business.

And then we moved to Bangalore.

                                                         ***

“New Paradise Men's Saloon”, the barber shop is located on the main road, about  half a kilometer from our house in Bangalore.  

‘Are you sure you don’t want to look for a bit more upscale place?’ , my wife had suggested looking at the crowd of the patrons sitting on wooden benches inside the shop.  But what did she know about the pleasure one would get from an authentic experience of getting a haircut from a roadside barber shop.

‘You and your authentic experiences’, she did not like my response apparently as I expertly maneuvered my scooter around a huge pothole. I had bought the scooter despite warnings and threats from my close friends. ‘Authentic experience my foot’ , one had said ‘ You know it takes  much longer to heal a broken bone once you are past forty ..’.  But I prevailed.  My Honda Activa was not only an authentic  experience; it was also my companion in looking for other authentic experiences.  Like a haircut from a roadside Barber shop.

I parked my scooter outside the shop, glad that I did not get the car which would have perhaps overwhelmed the patrons and owner of the shop. The proprietor – a man with neatly combed hair and smartly trimmed moustache serviced the customers diligently, as I waited for my turn. A television played a Kannada movie dubbed in Hindi – the out of sync dialogs were punctuated by the clicking of scissors. The shop was well furnished with hair products. On one side were different type of hair oils – Himgangay, Jabakusim, Parachute, Navratan . Hair colors were also displayed prominently – Godrej, Revlon, Garnier.

‘Your turn, Sir’ , the hairdresser addressed me politely.

I took a deep breath as I settled down in the wooded chair and got draped by a clean white cotton sheet that was neatly tucked along my neck. Authentic experience.

‘Do you have clippers’, I asked. The man stared at me puzzled. ‘ ..to cut the hair ...’  Still no response. I took my right arm out and showed him how the clipper worked. His eyes shone.”Machine”, he pulled a manual clipper out of the drawer.

‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please.  Scissors on the top. Not too short  - just take an inch off.  Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’ .. I rattled out. The man stared at me, puzzled.

‘You want haircut? ’, he asked after a long pause. I nodded.  

‘Please sit, sir – I do haircut ‘

                                                            ***

I looked at my hair admiringly. The man knew his job.  This was perhaps the best haircut I had got in many years – and he did it without any instructions!  I was so pleased that I wanted to try out all the services he had to offer.

Gray blending ?  I looked at the hair color products in the shelf in front of me and decided to give it a shot.  My man Friday looked extremely pleased that his patron was interested in the most expensive service offered in the saloon.  Even the customers waiting on the benches seemed interested. Everyone in the shop watched as our hairdresser got a stepping stool, reached out and retrieved a box of Garnier hair color from the shelf in front of us, mixed it in a dirty plastic bowl and started to furiously applying it on my head with a brush.

I soaked the authentic experience as ceiling fan cooled my wet colored hair. The man worked expertly, wiping the dripping color from my face. I had never got my hair colored facing a mirror. I realized that it was messy. I had been spared of reviewing this mess in the past since there were no mirrors in the coloring booths in Supercuts. You would actually see the results after everything was done. The color washed, hair shampooed and patted dry and the hairdresser giving you well rehearsed compliment as she took you back to your chair. “You look like a new person !’

Today, I was looking at all the mess that I used to miss out in the past. Head smeared with color. Authentic experience.  And that is when my communication with my new hairdresser stopped abruptly. I was waiting for him to say or do something to get me cleaned up from the messy hair color. He was also waiting for me to say or do something – what? I was not sure of.

I then realized that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. There was not a single wash basin in the shop. Not a single faucet. No washing station. No towels. No shampoo.

‘Please go home and shampoo’, the guy’s voice boomed across the room. The movie in television echoed an extended gunfire.

                                                                      ***

That day I learnt several things.

That never wear light colored T shirt when you go for a haircut. You never know when you could be subjected to an authentic experience. 

That wife gets pretty mad if you ruin a polo T shirt with hair dye.

That people do notice when you drive a scooter with your head smeared with color. Sometimes enough to actually turn back and stare at you.  Or giggle.

That the stern security guards of our gated community do laugh once in a while.  When they see a new resident riding a scooter with color dripping from his sideburns.

And that authentic experiences come with authentic learnings !

                                                                   END

Notes from India : The New School

‘We have an awesome adventure lined up !'

Mom's eyebrows were going higher and higher as my seven year old sister jumped with excitement. I am a twelve year old boy - old enough to be apprehensive about revelations like this one.

“What is it?’, I asked reluctantly, as  Mom’s eyebrows were about to vanish under her hairline.

‘We are going to India for a year !’, she said . The eyebrows were heading back to where they belonged.

My sister had disappeared – that girl could sense trouble faster than I could.

‘Imagine – one whole year!  Think of the things we could do!!’, Her eyebrows were going higher and higher again. ‘You will go to a new school. Make new friends. See new places...‘, my Mom’s eyebrow’s had vanished under her hairline.

                                                                      ****

“Where did you live in the US?”, my new friend sitting next to me in the bus asked.

’Boston’

‘Cool’

We were sitting in the second last row of the huge School Bus on its way back home from our new school.‘It is one of the best International schools in Bangalore’, Mom had said, ‘It is a BIG school with BIG playgrounds and a BIG swimming pool’ 

I was not sure about the school, but the school buses was indeed BIG. Much bigger than ones in the US. But this one swayed a lot. And it stopped a lot more – not just to pick up kids for school, I mean it stopped a million times. It was already more than an hour since we had left school and we were not home yet.

I noticed that Ram (my new friend) was trying to duck behind the seat trying to avoid the girl sitting in front of us across the aisle.

‘What is the matter?’, I asked.

‘I will tell you in a bit  ... when she is not looking this way’

Ram had saved my skin in the class today. I mean, in a BIG way. 

He was in my section in seventh grade and was supposedly a good student or ‘topper’, as other boys teased him. Ram would dismiss these boys casually – ‘Shutup Chakkay !’, He later explained me what Chakkay meant but I am still not very sure I understood him completely - the anatomical description did not make sense. The word was currently the most popular derogatory term for boys in the seventh grade - loosely translated as 'Girly Boy'.

So coming back to the incident in the classroom. It was my first day in the school and  the teacher asked me to introduce myself.

‘We have a new student  in the class’, She said pointing at me ‘ Why don’t you stand up and introduce yourself’ , I  had an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach as the entire class stared at me. Ram gave me an encouraging smile.

And then it happened !  

The teacher continued , ‘And after SHE has introduced HERSELF – I want you all to give HER a warm welcome ..’ , her voice echoed across as the class burst out into peals of laughter.

I have shoulder length hair. Something that my mom  had insisted to get cut for the last year or so – but I had refused to. Ram looked at me sympathetically as the laughter continued to ring through the classroom.

‘He is a BOY, Mam !’, Ram had stood up and shouted over the noise, ‘ He even has a mustache …’ , he added emphatically. This was the first time in my life I was proud of the thin wisp of hair on my upper lip that I had worn since I was two years old.

The laughter died down. Mam put on her glasses and peered through them. ‘ Hmmm .. how can I tell – half of the girls in this class have mustaches as well …’

This time only the boys burst our laughing. I felt bad or the girls – but was relieved to escape from being framed a girly boy. I joined the boys in their laughter and formally claimed my place in the cohort.

All this happened today morning. Now in the bus I had decided to help out Ram with whatever it was that was bothering him.

                                                                         ****

‘That girl is crazy’, Ram was uncharacteristically nervous.’ She flings her boogers at me !! ’, he whispered as I stared at him with wide eyes.’ … and she does it so discretely that no one would believe if I complained.’ Suddenly Ram's eyes froze in horror. The girl was looking back at him with an evil smile on her face. Then she put her finger inside her nose, pulled it out, and flicked it towards us !

‘Stop it!’ , I said , standing up in the Bus Aisle.

‘No standing in the Bus !’ shouted the teacher who was ‘in charge’ of the bus.  

The girl extended her finger to touch me, even as I dodged and ran past her to the teacher.

‘Stop the ruckus, I say  ...’ , The teacher shouted.

‘That girl is trying to put her booger on us’, I panted – relieved that I could finally get my new friend some justice, ’ Mam, She does it all the time - ask my friend'. ' He is right Mam - she always does that ...' Ram nodded his head emphatically.

‘Don’t lie’, came the unexpected response ‘Girls don’t do things like that  ...’

‘But she JUST DID IT’, I exclaimed.

‘Get back to your seat ...’

‘I can prove it – just look at her fingers …’ I tried to explain.

‘That is the problem with you American Kids ... always arguing … go back and sit quietly otherwise I will send you to the Principal' My American accent had given me away ! 

I noticed that my little sister was sitting just next to the teacher, looking up at me timidly. 

‘Girls cannot do things like that … my foot’, I thought of all the booger fights that my sister had started as I walked back to my seat.

                                                                   ****

“Dadu !!”, I  hugged my grandfather who had come to pick us up from the bus stand that was inside the gated community we lived in.

‘How was the day?’, He asked.

‘I wrote seven pages !!’ , my sister chirped in. She seemed to be excited’ I wrote it ALL down from the blackboard !’ she exclaimed.

‘That is my smart girl‘; Dadu smiled ‘What subject was it?’

‘I don’t know .., but the teacher was writing in cursive ! ’

Dadu laughed. ‘How was your day’, He asked me. I did not know where to start.

‘I made a very good friend  ...’

‘.. and I need a haircut.’

Authors Note : The Protagonist insists that all the incidences in the story are true. His sister later offered to get him re-introduced to the bus 'in charge' teacher. ‘She likes me – thinks I am cute’, she had said. ‘ I will tell her that you were telling the truth’.

Pratagonist’s dad and mom spent a lot of time analyzing and dissecting the situation and whether or not it deemed a visit to the Principal office to lodge a protest and fight for the rights of the argumentative American kids.

‘Lets not do it this time’, the protagonist suggested , 'After all it was just a booger fight !’