‘Thirty! Thirty-one!’
‘Keep going!’
The kicking was making a tremendous pattern now, sum of the best possibilities in the world was centred in my groin. Each impact was lovely demonstration of the power of the almighty to reward toughest measures — I did not wish to stop. I started to hum along to the sound of each kick, counting each figure in my mind with joy of inner voice.
‘Thirty-six! Thirty-seven!’ called Gopal Dutta, his voice now distant like waves from the sea.
I knew I was already a record breaker, but still I kept on pushing to furthest edge of mind and bodily limits. Time was like a small bird perched on my hand, his wings brushing against my fingers but no desire to fly off, he was very comfortable there.
‘Forty! Forty-one!’
Then the world let out its breath. All the noises from outside rushed into my ears and the light of the day filled my eyes. The pain hit me like lightning, rendering me quite vulnerable from my groin into my stomach and down the complete span of my legs. I freely admit to you that I let out a cry, but it was cry of jubilation as well as agony.
‘Do not stop!’ I instructed my students. I accepted another kick from Nihal Prasad who was enthusiastic as ever before. The pain was tremendous by now. One final kick was all I could manage before I gave the nod to signal the end of my endurance.
‘Forty-three!’ Gopal Dutta shouted, and I collapsed on the ground in state of shock and wonder. ‘New record! Congratulations! Most kicks to the unprotected groin, World Record breaker, Bibhuti Bhushan Nayak of Navi Mumbai!’
There were loud cheers all round. I remained on my back with my eyes closed, absorbing the news of my achievement. When the pain had grown less I was able to stand and accept the hands of my friends, who were all noticeably proud.
‘Well done!’ came the felicitation from all corners.
‘Lovely, lovely!’ said Rajesh Battacharjee. ‘My friend BB Nayak, world record man!’
I looked beyond him, searching for my wife in vain hope that she had abandoned her anger and come to witness the pivotal moment. To my great delight I spied her behind the window, standing in Rajesh Battacharjee’s kitchen alongside his wife, my son in her arms. I stepped carefully to the house to greet her and the child, my heart bending with affection for them like the branch of a tree in heavy winds. I asked her if she had seen my success. She said she had. I asked was she happy for me and although she did not reply with words her eyes gave the required answer, because they were filled with tears.
There followed a moment of slight unrest while Amrit Battacharjee and Vijay Two reviewed their equipment to ensure the vital footage was captured. Then Rajesh Battacharjee gave a secret indication and before I could protest I was lifted into the air and carried on shoulders into the street. In the excitement I forgot my state of undress as they carried me up and down the road like a statue in Durga puja. The passing cars greeting me with honks from their horns. What a feeling!
It was tense time in the days ahead. My wife became worried when I witnessed bleeding in my urine, and she instructed me to hold off from such dangerous acts for the future. Luckily bleeding did not persist past the first night, and I sensed no further injury or danger.
I was more concerned that the record be correctly administrated, and was in state of high anxiety as I prepared the documentary evidence which Limca required. One requirement was a newspaper cutting of the event and I had to approach several media houses to get my attempt published. My advances received many rejections but finally I found a local newspaper that was willing to support me. I got my news published which helped me get registered in the Limca Book. I celebrated on my own with a day of quiet reflection and silent praises to the almighty for his assistance in bringing my success.
Destiny had come calling and I freely accepted its challenge. I had romped into the limelight from nowhere to announce myself as pathfinder and positive example to the world.
Thank you.
3
India smelt of diesel and ripe fruit and it was too hot for me to think straight. Its voice was shrill and unreserved, too many superstitions spilling from too many radios. I’m only telling it the way I remember it. Just to keep myself busy until Bibhuti wakes up. I’m telling you, God, because you seem to want to know. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to get the story in my own words. We haven’t really talked before. That would be because I never believed in you, but I suppose that’s all changed now. I’m not sure how I feel about that. But since you’re asking. There’s nothing to do but wait and remember.
I remember I crossed my fingers to make it through the airport. I wasn’t sure if the machine guns were just for show or if the skinny men holding them were chosen for some mystical gift they all had for sniffing out my secrets. I didn’t know how to walk without stopping every few steps to let Ellen catch up. In the blinding sunlight I was nobody’s husband. Every man had a moustache except me.
The taxi driver said I’d picked the wrong time to visit.
‘People are falling down dead with the heat and the monsoon is two weeks late this year. Everybody is suffering. You must buy a good hat and drink plenty of water. Only the bottled is safe.’
I had the feeling the weather would enjoy stripping me down to the vulnerable parts I could cover up with clothes back home. I thought it might expose a madness I’d been carefully hiding all these years.
‘You are here on business?’ the taxi driver asked me.
‘No, just a holiday. Just gonna have a look around and see what’s what.’
I didn’t tell him the truth. Not because the truth was shameful but because I knew he wouldn’t understand it and I didn’t want to have to explain.
Diesel and ripe fruit. Shit too, there’s no getting around it. I took a whiff of it to show that I was fearless and then I wound the window up again. The streets were dust and there were no signposts. The children had no need of modesty. Smudgy cheeks and bare arses and skin that ate the sun. We crossed a bridge over a slow river. At the side of the road a mother was bathing two little ones in a pothole the size of a meteor crater. There was a fruit truck parked up next to them and the driver was filling the pothole from his hose. The children were laughing and flapping around like little birds, their faces open wide and hungry. I envied them their lack of mystery and made them a promise to shed my own. Whatever mystery I had left.
Google said Bibhuti lived in Airoli so that’s where I went. The hotel was painted like Miami, a rhubarb-and-custard daydream pasted to the main strip between a plywood merchant’s and a mobile phone kiosk. An old man was sitting on the pavement outside. His beard was burnt orange and his bare feet were cracked and grained with years of dirt. His milky blue eyes looked like they’d drip out of his head if he didn’t hold his back straight.
He was selling little painted clay gods from a ratty scrap of tarpaulin. They all had the head of an elephant. He offered me one. It was playing a saxophone. When he looked up at me I saw sorrow in those milky eyes, the wise and unpitying kind that comes when a man gets struck by lightning. I turned him down without thinking of the pain it might cause him. I had my heart set on bigger fish.
The lobby was full of the smell of new paint. A girl was colouring in a snake on the wall, a big daft-looking cobra with fangs dripping blobs of venom. She looked to be in her early twenties and she was dressed in western clothes. There was an outline of a man standing over the snake with a sword raised above his head. I could tell it wouldn’t be very good when it was finished. The girl dabbed intently at the snake’s belly as if she were making a masterpiece.