dahanu ditty
vaitarna flashing by, grassy hillocks and little ponds. sheroy playing a strange game, on shantanu’s cell phone, involving sexual positions. me telling sheroy how to play, considering he hasn’t had any real practice for a year. me being asked to shut up by the rest, who remind me that i haven’t exactly scored for a while either. mallu, being mallu, imagining pretty women and then imagining himself talking to them. chris, too busy eating or reading to care about what the rest of us are doing.
a neat, compact, pretty bungalow, staring up at the sky on a road built by sheroy’s grandfather. all kinds of dogs barking. butter churned, freshly. cigarettes and alcohol. chris, shantanu and mallu sleep. i spend more time with the old monk.
later, alone on the beach, sheroy stoops to gather seashells. four silent sentinels, the rest of us stare. behind us, in a small car, a couple make out. each of us feel the need to be the man in that relationship. sand, like a memory from another time, invites us to play. we do. sliding, yelling, burying. sand everywhere, underwear and all. and then, quiet, quiet moments of sobriety.
night falls. hot coals cackle. the crackle and hiss of barbecued chicken. for me, the vegetarian, jacket potatoes and paneer. more alcohol. more cigarettes. outside the warm circle of chicken and potato, dahanu winds that gather and dance. ghost stories. sudden taps on unwitting shoulders. footsteps, with no discernible feet. sheroy lights a bonfire. like children in a fairytale, we huddle.
hangovers all around. none for chris, who has long mastered the alien art form of waking up at 7. i shriek abuse at everyone who comes close, but am dragged out anyway. in sadness at the loss of sleep, i try breakfast, then head for vodka. sheroy’s farm awaits.
14 acres. 400 trees. 12,56,789 chickoos a year. a huge, open well with huge toads standing guard at the rim. shantanu likes the toads. the rest of us light cigarettes, listening to sheroy’s chickoo tales. fertilizer that costs a lakh and a half every six months. adivasi thieves every fortnight. red fire ants. a trade cartel. we nod, sagely, sipping coconut water. above us, the chickoos glare.
sohrab’s farm. 52 rabbits. 16 geese. 6 dogs. 1 russell’s viper. an aloe vera press in the distance. what a film we could make here.
and then, lunch, more vodka, and the journey home. no cacti. no rabbits. no chickoo trees. no yawning skies. no mud-thatched homes. just one billion people, up close and personal. fuck this.
