Wardrobe - Fiction

My friend is getting married in two weeks. It’s over a long weekend, two events a day for three days. It is important for me to be present for most of it since the groom is a close friend and former roommate. I do not possess enough decent clothes for such a drawn out affair. And apparently it’s not right to be not dressed to the nines.

Take W, for example. A man without a care in the world. He has always been successful and supremely confident. His disdain for social mores is legendary. He showed up for the graduation dinner in shorts. The lawns at college were lit up, and the rest of us were awkwardly moving about in oversized blazers, trying to match up to gorgeous women in sari’s and little black dresses. But not him. He came down in what he always did. There was no swagger to him, no point he was trying to prove. He felt no discomfort in being out of place. Anyway, he bought a designer suit. Everyone has.

I would like to. But I cant. I am out of work and such indulgences are beyond me for the moment. The despondency at being unemployed has given way to the desperation of being unemployable. To keep the misery at bay, I give myself a little project everyday. The last week has been spent fighting a cold. I get up every morning at 6:30 and have a glass of hot water with lemon and honey. Then I empty my bowels and gargle with salt water. Then I go into the living room and remove the hideous rug and turn on the television. It’s usually the second quarter of an NBA game. I curse the curtains (they have little birds on them) and the rug. I take 10 minutes for myself before my mother wakes up. This flurry of activity is meant to delay my first cigarette for as long as possible. Then I take two Septilin. If this itch at the back of my throat turns into a full-blown infection, I will have to take antibiotics. This is something that must be avoided, except at the utmost hour of need. I don’t know why this is the case. It just is.

The last twenty-four hours have been strange. I drank a lot of whiskey last night. Usually, I handle whiskey fairly well. Blenders Pride is the staple at my bar. It is a good whiskey, comfortable, like a formerly prickly sweater gone soft with age. Yesterday I drank Teachers, which is supposed to be a better drink. It certainly costs more. The experience was not a pleasant one. Three out of the five people that were supposed to show up got stuck at work. The other two were my ex-girlfriend and her current boyfriend. At one point, the evening became a subtle game of one-upmanship.

Waiters hover around me constantly, filling my drink. Their manner is endearing, the right combination of familiarity and obsequiousness. The manager makes his special beef fry for me. It’s not on the menu. Two other regulars stop by for a few minutes. One of them thinks we are still a couple and neither of us bothers to correct him. The bar itself is fairly empty, unusually so for a Friday night. The lights seem brighter than usual. The music seems softer. The boyfriend wears a look of disdain on his face. He surveys everything with a critical air and smirks ever so slightly once his inspection is complete. Each table has a rexine sofa on one side and chairs upholstered (a tiger print) with the same material on the other. The loo is on the first floor and it’s always filthy by 9 o clock. I hold my breath as I take a piss. Memories of my brother waft in as I go to wash my hands. He would always relieve himself in the washbasin at bars.

Less chance of infection he said.

Even as I am saying the words, I realise how much I will regret them the next day. The formulaic nature of the conversation/altercation is as nauseating as the shitty whiskey. It begins with the mention of my freelancer status. The euphemism is lost on no one.

I am jealous dude, said he.

Of what, said I, the unemployment or the puerile put downs of successful sautans?

And it went from there, to bitchy little insinuations all night long.

At home, I am obsessed. The wardrobe is sorted out for day 1 and day 3. Day 2 has the wedding and a big party at night. Part of me is eager to circumvent the problems of fashion and money by wearing a dhoti. Most of me wants to vomit. The master bedroom is a mess. The mattress lies on the floor, still wrapped in the sheets. I have managed to break the bedside lamp as well. Bags of moth eaten woollens smell of disintegrating neem leaves. I find the uniforms of the dead wrapped in a plastic sheet. They are well preserved and look better than last year’s woollens. The room is spinning and blurring at the same time. A blackout seems imminent. I sing loudly to myself in an effort to stay awake.
Ekta banae ja kadam kadam badhae ja

Ekta mein Shakti hai, ekta mahaan hai

Eeektaaa mein bal sada eeektaaa mein praan hai.

That’s all I remember of the school song. It goes on loudly in a loop till I pass out in the mess.

The drawing room is exactly like it used to be before 2002. Broken lampshades and a jute dari. Everyone is there – Baba, Ma, Dada and even Pomo and Jumbo. People smoke indoors and no one cares about my twelve year old lungs. I am running around with a dhoti in one hand and a bandgala in the other. Dada is masturbating into a big brass jug. It is disgusting and I am about to say something but I am hiding from my mother and looking for something to wear. Only the downstairs is available to me, Jumbo is having an epileptic fit at the foot of the staircase. His tiny dachshund body seizes, both rigid and quivering. He moves across the floor like a cellphone vibrating on a wood table, banging his head on the stair, a concoction of blood and froth oozing out of his mouth. Baba hovers over him with that smile of his. It was a loud smile, like a laugh. Ray men are never in the background. His stillness is just getting wound up to grab the room again like a spoilt three year old between tantrums. I ask him what to wear.

Did you get your unit test results?

Baba, should I wear dhoti-panjabi or your bandgala?

Don’t lie it was two weeks ago.

I don’t want to go.

Why? Is that girl going to be there, whatshername? Who keeps looking at you at the matches?

This morning I see Shiv. I am taking a short cut through the park between the temple and Japanese School. The gas pipeline people have dug a big hole right in the middle. My jacket is too warm. I shouldn’t have worn it out, but it’s December and the winter wardrobe must see the light of day, whether the weather permits it or not. The sun is just warm enough and my armpits begin to moisten. The smell of stale alcohol begins to encase me. The same smell comes up from behind. It’s Shiv. He is Nepali. His skin isn’t porcelain. It is tough and leathery, like the coolies with the jute slings you see at hill stations. His eyebrows are thick and long, almost to his cheekbones. He has the bun on top of his head. His locks are filthy, but not matted and are divided by his ears on either side. He is wearing a stained, soiled t-shirt. It says Being Human. His trousers are of an indeterminate colour. They look thick – probably started out as canvas or denim. He is short and wiry. His heels are hard and cracked. His toenails are just smidge too long. I am next to the hole when he begins walking across the park. He has wide gait and a grumpy look. For the first few seconds I marvel at the vibe this person puts out. His otherworldliness comes from the bottom.

From shit and sweat and sex and smoke,

From Booze and drugs and dirty jokes.

Perhaps it’s the weird night I had, I am still drunk at noon the next day. Sakshat Shiv. It sounds like the title of a bad TV serial. He stops for a second as he walks past me and matches my stare. I hear music as he walks away. It could be violin or cello. I know nothing of western classical music. I don’t know where it comes from. Perhaps from the black and yellow taxi on the street. It doesn’t seem so far away. Or as though from speakers. I don’t know why I assume its Chopin. It just sounds good doesn’t it? I saw Shiv today, and Chopin was playing.