The Dubai Return - II
Read Part-one first
The tenement went into a tizzy of excitement, bitching, and gossip. 'Mari is bringing gold biscuits in cartons.' 'Mari is going to buy the tenement and build a palace.' 'Mari was fired. He is coming back for good.' 'The Dubai police caught Mari with a lord Ganesha picture. They threatened to chop his limbs if he did not leave the country. Mari chose his limbs.' And so on.
Mari's family became the cynosure of all attention. Dozens of pairs of eyes scrutinized each move that Mari's folks made.
Even the deaf storyteller who regaled us with his stories during those long summer nights—when we all slept on the road (the tenement was located at the end of a dead-end lane, so it was safe to sleep on the road)—talked about Mari.
I used to watch the huge Mango tree on the other side of the dead-end wall, waiting for it to sway, for that was sign of breeze: a reprieve from the maddening heat of Chennai. While I was at that, I used to dedicate my ears to what the deaf man was saying. He had an intriguing style of telling a story. It was rhythmic; he'd whisper, shout, and slip into drone-mode... He never bothered what we were saying. He'd just go on with his bottom-less story. At some ungodly hour- when the only sounds were that of the crickets, wailing dogs on a loveless night, and the pitter-patter of the streetlight engaged in an eternal struggle to come to life-the deaf man would finally give in and sleep. And start another type of sonic assault: snoring.
Around nine in the night, the day before Mari was supposed to arrive, I took my mat, pillow (made of old clothes; my grand ma can make a king-size bed out of old clothes.) and made my bed on the road. I lay down, pleading the mango tree to sway. The deaf man started his medley of disconnected stories, anecdotes, and rants. 'Bond theriyumaa baaandu? Pallu ley thangam kadathuvaan! KD payyan (do you know Bond? he smuggles gold using his teeth, sonofagun), deaf man started. He went on about the ghosts in his village, about Mohini, the seductress ghost; about how he shook hands with MGR. Suddenly, he dove right into the favourite topic of the season: Mari. 'Mari, kepmaari. Fraud payyan. Nambaadhey, avanai nambaadhey' (Mari is a fraud. Do not trust him). Clouds of sleep that were gleefully getting ready to rain on me ran for cover. 'What?' I screamed at deaf man. He was oblivious to my words. I really had to raise my voice to make him hear me, but I did not risk it. I did not want the house owner to give me one of his reprimands, which included questioning your birth, questioning the integrity of your mother, aunties, grand mother, great grand mother; your dad's virility and so on. Therefore, I did not bother asking deaf man why he thought Mari was a fraud. However, what he said made me wonder about Mari's job. Was he really a manager? Or, was he an office boy or something? Was he really in Dubai? I buried my face into the coarse softness of my homemade pillow and dreamt of Mari, clad like a Bedouin, serving Chai in one of Teynampet's innumerable snack joints.
The next day I woke up early, hired a bicycle, and fetched water for my grand ma. During my last fetch, I noticed the house owner sitting in Mari's house. My grand ma was offering the buttermilk and the house owner refused to accept it. Bereft by her god's insensitivity, my grand ma launched into a long raving about how her life would be if one of her sons went to Dubai. Mami, as my grand ma was known in the tenement, almost aged ten years that day. Some where in the night, as I was watching Oliyum, Oliyum (Light and sound!) on DD, at one of our neighbor's home, I heard a commotion outside. My instinct said it was Mari. Within a couple of minutes, I was the only one watching TV. I ran out.
There was a mob outside Mari's house. I stood behind the mob and through the gaps, I noticed that the house owner, clad all formal, complete with a tie, talking to Mari. My grand ma was at the door of her house, waiting with a buttermilk glass. I went up to her and asked her 'for the house owner?' She shook her head and said, 'Mari.' I sighed, and got back to the mob. Mari got a tape recorder for the house owners; goggles for the house owner's sons. Mrs. House owner got a sari. The cynics jeered, 'that sari must have been exported from Tirupur ha!'
Mari's newly acquired laconicity and rich man attitude did not surprise us. He spoke only to people at his level. He sprayed his perfumes in the loo before he used it. He slipped in English words when he spoke. He wore a watch that had a calculator. 'What's the use? The moron can't add two and four to save his life' said one of the intellectuals. Mari's brother smuggled us chocolates, Dunhill cigarettes for the elders among boys, and promised to give us a 'foreign Lux soap'.
My grand ma some how got an audience with Mari, despite his busy schedule (of eating, watching TV, and learning how to add two and four). She requested him to 'pull one of her younger sons to Dubai'. Mari promised her that he'd talk to his general manager and see what he could do.
A few days later, I was sitting outside our tenement when the postman walked in. He was replacing the old man that normally delivered mail. He walked up to me and asked, 'Where is Mari's house?'
I got curious. ''What is it? I will deliver it.' I said. 'No, I have to get his signature. It is a registered post. I think he got his passport.' the postman said.
[To be concluded in the next post. Please adjust.]
The tenement went into a tizzy of excitement, bitching, and gossip. 'Mari is bringing gold biscuits in cartons.' 'Mari is going to buy the tenement and build a palace.' 'Mari was fired. He is coming back for good.' 'The Dubai police caught Mari with a lord Ganesha picture. They threatened to chop his limbs if he did not leave the country. Mari chose his limbs.' And so on.
Mari's family became the cynosure of all attention. Dozens of pairs of eyes scrutinized each move that Mari's folks made.
Even the deaf storyteller who regaled us with his stories during those long summer nights—when we all slept on the road (the tenement was located at the end of a dead-end lane, so it was safe to sleep on the road)—talked about Mari.
I used to watch the huge Mango tree on the other side of the dead-end wall, waiting for it to sway, for that was sign of breeze: a reprieve from the maddening heat of Chennai. While I was at that, I used to dedicate my ears to what the deaf man was saying. He had an intriguing style of telling a story. It was rhythmic; he'd whisper, shout, and slip into drone-mode... He never bothered what we were saying. He'd just go on with his bottom-less story. At some ungodly hour- when the only sounds were that of the crickets, wailing dogs on a loveless night, and the pitter-patter of the streetlight engaged in an eternal struggle to come to life-the deaf man would finally give in and sleep. And start another type of sonic assault: snoring.
Around nine in the night, the day before Mari was supposed to arrive, I took my mat, pillow (made of old clothes; my grand ma can make a king-size bed out of old clothes.) and made my bed on the road. I lay down, pleading the mango tree to sway. The deaf man started his medley of disconnected stories, anecdotes, and rants. 'Bond theriyumaa baaandu? Pallu ley thangam kadathuvaan! KD payyan (do you know Bond? he smuggles gold using his teeth, sonofagun), deaf man started. He went on about the ghosts in his village, about Mohini, the seductress ghost; about how he shook hands with MGR. Suddenly, he dove right into the favourite topic of the season: Mari. 'Mari, kepmaari. Fraud payyan. Nambaadhey, avanai nambaadhey' (Mari is a fraud. Do not trust him). Clouds of sleep that were gleefully getting ready to rain on me ran for cover. 'What?' I screamed at deaf man. He was oblivious to my words. I really had to raise my voice to make him hear me, but I did not risk it. I did not want the house owner to give me one of his reprimands, which included questioning your birth, questioning the integrity of your mother, aunties, grand mother, great grand mother; your dad's virility and so on. Therefore, I did not bother asking deaf man why he thought Mari was a fraud. However, what he said made me wonder about Mari's job. Was he really a manager? Or, was he an office boy or something? Was he really in Dubai? I buried my face into the coarse softness of my homemade pillow and dreamt of Mari, clad like a Bedouin, serving Chai in one of Teynampet's innumerable snack joints.
The next day I woke up early, hired a bicycle, and fetched water for my grand ma. During my last fetch, I noticed the house owner sitting in Mari's house. My grand ma was offering the buttermilk and the house owner refused to accept it. Bereft by her god's insensitivity, my grand ma launched into a long raving about how her life would be if one of her sons went to Dubai. Mami, as my grand ma was known in the tenement, almost aged ten years that day. Some where in the night, as I was watching Oliyum, Oliyum (Light and sound!) on DD, at one of our neighbor's home, I heard a commotion outside. My instinct said it was Mari. Within a couple of minutes, I was the only one watching TV. I ran out.
There was a mob outside Mari's house. I stood behind the mob and through the gaps, I noticed that the house owner, clad all formal, complete with a tie, talking to Mari. My grand ma was at the door of her house, waiting with a buttermilk glass. I went up to her and asked her 'for the house owner?' She shook her head and said, 'Mari.' I sighed, and got back to the mob. Mari got a tape recorder for the house owners; goggles for the house owner's sons. Mrs. House owner got a sari. The cynics jeered, 'that sari must have been exported from Tirupur ha!'
Mari's newly acquired laconicity and rich man attitude did not surprise us. He spoke only to people at his level. He sprayed his perfumes in the loo before he used it. He slipped in English words when he spoke. He wore a watch that had a calculator. 'What's the use? The moron can't add two and four to save his life' said one of the intellectuals. Mari's brother smuggled us chocolates, Dunhill cigarettes for the elders among boys, and promised to give us a 'foreign Lux soap'.
My grand ma some how got an audience with Mari, despite his busy schedule (of eating, watching TV, and learning how to add two and four). She requested him to 'pull one of her younger sons to Dubai'. Mari promised her that he'd talk to his general manager and see what he could do.
A few days later, I was sitting outside our tenement when the postman walked in. He was replacing the old man that normally delivered mail. He walked up to me and asked, 'Where is Mari's house?'
I got curious. ''What is it? I will deliver it.' I said. 'No, I have to get his signature. It is a registered post. I think he got his passport.' the postman said.
[To be concluded in the next post. Please adjust.]
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