A black beam divided the bar; four tables on this side, four on that. Someone was sitting right behind the beam.
That was the spot Radha always chose, because whoever sat behind the black beam had an interrupted view of the small television fixed into a corner of the ceiling. Radha said he did not want cricket to poison even his drink.
Leaning around the black beam to smile at his brother, Radha held up a glass of rum: ‘You’re on TV. Turn around.’ And though Manju knew this was just mischief — almost malice, on this of all days — he turned, in real hope, to the TV screen.
Of course he wasn’t on TV. It was Ashvin Trivedi batting in a one-day match. Maybe from the recent India versus Namibia series? No: it was a replay of an older series against Puerto Rico. ‘Legendary Encounters in Indian Cricket.’ So Ashvin Trivedi, who had joined the Mumbai team after Manju had been dropped from it, was already a modern legend.
When the waiter came, Manju ordered a Coca-Cola.
‘It’s your birthday,’ said his brother. ‘Experiment.’
Radha had the fastidious good looks of the perennially unemployed rake: his long black hair was gelled and brushed back until it curled up around his neck, he wore a silver ring in his left ear, and looked like a prince out of Sanskrit Romance. His beautiful irises, those ‘film-star eyes’, were now battered in by drink, but Manju could still see their colour.
‘Alright, stick to your Coke. But happy birthday.’
Manju raised a glass of water to his brother’s rum.
Still noticeably shorter than Radha, though better built, his hirsute forearms striped with veins, Manju’s close-cropped hair was already turning grey, and he was starting to look the older of the two.
In the manner of such little bars, a door opened, three men came in, and then three more, and now the place was packed.
Mafia Bar was one of what Manju referred to as the Quarter Bars that filled the eastern side of the Santa Cruz station: as a stencilled logo on the wall indicated (‘Quater System Available Here’), patrons were served liquor in nothing smaller than 180 ml ‘quarters’ (although 60 ml refills were permitted) while they gazed blankly at a TV screen showing cricket, either Indian or international, classic or instant, live or canned: quarter men, quarter sport.
They had started coming here three years ago, on Sofia’s suggestion. (‘Why don’t you two meet on your birthdays like normal people?’)
Behind the manager’s desk stood a grandfather clock, with a dully moving pendulum. A lampshade hanging from a long cord glowed down on the bespectacled manager, who was hard at his accounts, like a Victorian allegory of Diligence in a den of vice. He had a silver pen in his shirt pocket.
‘Look, Papa just walked in.’
‘Papa’ was an old man who visited the bar every night. Along with his whisky he ordered a plate of French fries which he ate one at a time. He had been doing this for nine years at this bar, according to Radha, and before that for eighteen years at the bar that had previously stood here.
‘The waiters say he came in for a drink even during the Babri Masjid riots, Manju. But I see you’re looking at your people again, aren’t you?’
His people. Five middle-aged gay men, whom Manju remembered from the previous year, sat at a table in a corner, discussing the new Shah Rukh Khan film. First all five delivered their verdict together, ‘Fantastic!’ ‘Amazing!’ and then, after clearing his throat, and pronouncing his individual verdict to be ‘very different’, each man at the table analysed the film in turn, concluding that it was in fact either ‘Fantastic’, or ‘Amazing’.
Now one of them said:
‘Enough about films. This is my topic of discussion for today. Have you noticed how every young boy in Mumbai is now called Aryan?’
‘So what’s your worry?’
‘My worry is, these boys called Aryan will go abroad to study, and the Americans will think all Indians are now Nazis.’
Laughter.
‘Aren’t we all Nazis now?’
Much more laughter.
The lights went out in the bar: at once, total silence. Radha and Manju felt themselves caught out — five dark silhouettes, turning in tandem, looked over at the brothers.
The lights returned, and everyone was happy and heterosexual again. The TV came back to life on a different channeclass="underline" a chameleon was unrolling its tongue in slow motion. ‘Papa’, who had been eating French fries and gazing at the TV all through the blackout, did not seem to mind.
Radha ordered another quarter bottle of rum.
‘Javed was in the papers today,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Why not?’ Radha asked.
Manju said: ‘I haven’t seen Javed in eleven years. I don’t want to know.’
But Radha insisted on telling him why Javed had been in the papers, and Manju looked at the floor of the bar and bit his lip.
‘You need to find a job, brother. A steady pay cheque. My contract was terminated today,’ Manju said, abruptly, to get even with Radha. ‘They said it was nothing personal. My form hasn’t been bad. They just have too many other dropouts from the IPL who want a job in the Celebrity League.’
His brother reached over and took the white envelope out of Manju’s pocket.
‘How many months did you get?’
‘Two.’
‘Congratulations,’ Radha said, as he patted the white envelope, which was now in his pocket. ‘So it really is your birthday. No more cricket. You should have left years ago, before they kicked you out.’
He nudged his glass towards Manju, who said: ‘No.’
With a grin, Radha whispered: ‘You don’t drink, you don’t fuck. You’re a monster, you know that? Go to that table and introduce yourself to those men. Show them your forearms, little brother.’
‘Give me back the envelope,’ Manju said.
But it was only to take out the newspaper clipping about the scientist. Reading it along with sips of rum, Radha burst out laughing, spraying Manju with liquor.
‘V.V. Cherrinathan: what a name — what a fraud. Telling women he’s the prime minister’s scientist, asking them for cash. A bit like you, Manju, eh? I have a gift for you, too,’ Radha said, reaching into his trouser pocket. ‘Birthday gift. A man gave it to me in Versova two nights ago.’
Manju looked at an actor’s résumé, which featured a black-and-white snapshot of a brooding chubby-faced man with 1990s hair:
ASIF K. JAMAL
Cintaa (Life member)
Actor by Birth: Thespien by Nature: International by Choice
D.O.B: 23-10-1982
Age of: 28 Yrs
Height of: 5’2
Languages: Hindi, English, Bhojpuri, Urdu, Marathi (plus all known Southern and also Sri Lanka)
Most recent role: Eunch character in latest Shah Rukh Khan film Dance Baby Dance!
Notices and Mentions: Times of India, Mumbai Times,
Mumbai Sun, Hollywood Reporter of US
KINDLY NOTE: I have done 18 very challaging roles including
Female
Mentally Challenged
Epileptic Patient
Gay
Eununch
Zombie
Blind Man
Blind and Handicapped Man
Dumb-Deaf-Blind-Handicap (All in one Character)
Hunchback Notre Dame Type whose body is deformed in
nine unique parts (first time in India)
Fustratred Impotant Man
‘Why the fuck did he give this to you?’
‘He asked me to “push” his career along.’