Oh My Goddess

PART ONE

~ 1 ~

This is how we live

If nervousness arises when you are on stage, imagine your audience in their underwear. But in a real-life situation, take ten deep breaths and exhale furiously. Jackie recalled what his mentors had taught him.

He took those ten deep breaths, and exhaled like he was spitting fire.

If that’s not helpful, students, let the creative side of your mind take over reality; look at the world, the instances, the objects, and the people from a poetic perspective. Don’t think. Hallucinate!

So Jackie imagined himself to be a puny fish, standing at the bottom of the murky ocean, watching a giant, bulging belly of a white whale glide, fins wholly extended, overhead. It lasted for a split second.

Vroooooooooooom!

A Boeing-737 had just emerged from the enormous, glass-aluminum edifice and passed. That was the closest Jackie had seen a flying machine, and now that he was to sit in one, soon, in an hour’s time, he grew curious about how it would feel to be swallowed by a gigantic, metallic monster; sucked in inside Delhi only to be puked out into his city in one and a half hour flat. Way, way faster than the dreadful fourteen-hour train he had traveled by five days earlier.

Confidently, yet with the right bit of caution, Jackie passed through the guarded motion-sensor doors, and into the capacious area where cubicles of rival airline companies were aligned, each with trails of anxious passengers, like armies of ants. The whole expanse bustled with activity. The western food joints displayed exorbitant prices on their counter-tops, and Jackie was glad he had eaten a while ago at a cheap canteen in Janakpuri. Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Terminus was the finest, shiniest and classiest airport he had seen, mainly because he had seen no other. But no matter what it looked like, Jackie was focused on only one thing.

Jackie had come prepared.

Part of the preparation lay in his handlebar mustache. He had watered it regularly, mowed down the extras and shampooed it with Magic-Grow, an herbal potion bought off a footpath outside the Jama Masjid.  Now it had sprouted just fine – the right thickness at the required curves and sharp points at either end achieved from weeks of pinching. Jackie thought it went well with his long, wavy hair and his chiseled features. How he appeared was a crucial matter in his mission.

Part two of the arrangement was the weight that hung from his right shoulder, in his duffle-bag – solid round boulders that were hard enough to dismantle a spine.

An end to the misery of the human race – their stresses, their arguments, their obsessions, their trivial conflicts – that was what Jackie believed he was born for. Temporary solutions though they might be, Jackie believed it was his duty towards mankind to do what he could. And yes, he was not completely selfless, either – there was a promise of money; little sums, here and there. And fame, hopefully.

You’re cool as a cucumber, and you’re going to pull it off fine, Jackie reaffirmed to his reflection in the mirror as he leveled his round sunglasses – a pair which was indeed a style statement among the Hollywood greats in the 1940s. He smeared a vermillion tilak on his wheat-colored forehead, and ensured it resembled a fat drop – the kind they illustrate at blood-donation camps.  He gritted his teeth and posed like a Krav Maga pupil.

Turning to the man blow-drying his hands at the neighboring basin, Jackie asked, "Can we take paan, tambakhu and choona inside the plane?"

I guess not. The man shook his head.

Okay, Jackie said cheekily. I empty my stock here.

He drew the contents from the right pocket of his crisp grey safari jacket, carefully poured pinches of differently coloured ingredients in the contour of his left palm, not recalling the proportions mixed by the last paanwalla he had observed, and used his thumb to pat them.  In a couple of seconds, he had shoved the mixture into his mouth. His lips turned crimson, and his mouth was unable to contain the slush. Red fluid dripped on the deliberately mismatched pants of his safari jacket.

Perfect, he exclaimed with an overflowing mouth and walked out of the washroom, punching upwards with his free hand as the other entrants made faces.

Jackie strutted to the check-in cubicle with an extra bounce in his walk, his expressions numbed, yet confident – a mood he could disguise comfortably, thanks to three years spent at the Academy of Theatre & Dramatics, Mumbai University. He smiled creepily at the lady behind the check-in counter and handed her the printout of his e-ticket.

ID please, she demanded, not looking at his face.

Jackie searched his small suitcase, and fished out a faded, crumpled card. He ironed it with his palms and presented it to the hostess. The lady examined the ID and the ticket carefully, wrinkled her eyebrows, and stared at Jackie. Sir, this ID card says Moustafa Al Habibi bin Baghdadi.

Oh, Jackie said, and instantly reached out for his jacket’s side-pocket. He pulled out his driver’s license and flashed it like a police badge. This said Jaikrishna Gehlot.

Two different ID cards? the lady asked as she examined the new card.

"Behanji, that one was before the Ghar Waapsi."

The lady made a face and signaled that he place his luggage on the conveyor belt.

You ever try to change your name? Jackie asked, resting his elbows on the counter and observing her brooch. He read out loud, Sheela Agarwal.

The woman’s eyes didn’t move from her computer screen even at the mention of her name. Her fingers continued flying on the letters of the keyboard.

Actually, Sheela is an interesting name. So interesting, you can make a Bollywood song out of it, and turn it into a smash-hit number, Jackie continued, combing his hair with his fingers.

The woman handed over his possessions and said Thank you, sir in a manner that sounded like Get out of my face, you unsophisticated, rural dimwit.

Jackie pouted and said, Sheelaji, please keep my bag above the rest of the luggage. He then reached for his wallet, pulled a crisp fifty-rupee note out, and slid it towards her.

Sir, your luggage will be taken care of. You don’t have to pay anything extra for that, the woman replied.

Accept it, Sheelaji. It’s for you. Jackie winked.

Sir, there are people waiting.

Jackie whispered, Don’t worry, they aren’t looking. He winked again, this time more forcefully.

Sir, please proceed for the security-check, she said irately, and asked the next man in queue to step forward.

Jackie was being observed by someone fiddling with a mobile phone. Not that Jackie wasn’t aware that he’d be followed right into the plane, all the way to Mumbai, and that the hawk would be recording his every move.  Jackie did a 180, made eye contact with a few passengers, and walked away.

As Jackie walked over the carpeted area, hesitatingly stamping on the exquisite art-work it carried, he glanced at the shiny shops displaying sets of wooden elephants, peacocks carved with meenakari, tigers stuffed with coir, lotuses stitched in velvet and a variety of metallic, clayish and woody artifacts and paintings. The lights were soothing; none of the bulbs flashed in his eyes, and every square inch of this huge, translucent-roofed structure carried the fragrance of daisies and lavender though no such flora was visible.

From a distance, Jackie observed that the security checking was more stringent and daunting than he had been told. A few khakhi-clad ladies stood about, hands folded, next to what looked like a makeshift changing room from an itinerant garment sale. Military officials wearing camouflage pants, all with large, intimidating rifles strapped to their backs, stood guard along with a dozen policemen with pistols resting in their belt-pouches. Some were checking bags, some stamping baggage-tags, others observing the X-ray screens, and still others leaning against the columns and murmuring suspiciously, suggesting that they knew more than they ought to.

Jackie was not in the mood to play rugby.

If all this weren’t intimidating enough to call off the idea, Jackie noticed one particular policeman resembling his father.  The same body language, the wheatish skin tone, a similar bulge in the belly, the exact bloody uniform, and that tyrannical gleam in his eyes. He wondered if the grumpy-looking policeman had that same impolite, authoritative tone. Jackie, what are you doing with your life? Jackie, this is not the time to come home. Jackie, be careful of the company you keep. Jackie, don’t walk out when I am talking to you.

Piss off, Daddy!

All the ass-searching scrutiny and then listening to this Daddy-lookalike’s lectures - not worth it, Jackie thought. He returned to the bathroom. He dropped his duffle-bag in the dustbin when nobody was looking, and turned on his heel towards the mirror, grooming his long hair, dampening it to boost the hair-gel. He spat into the wash-basin and hoped his burning glands would produce more saliva. Never ignore the detailing.

Jackie’s Jodhpuri shoes squeaked all the way to the yellow barrier on the polished marble where he queued for security check. He transferred his suitcase to a red plastic tray, and pushed it through a small scanning machine. The policemen ran the customary metal detector over his body while he stood like Jesus Christ on the cross. Chattering among themselves, the policemen permitted him to proceed.  The guys in military uniform eyed him for a few seconds, but then ignored him. He was just another village boy with his nose in the air.

Once through, Jackie played with the escalators, descending from the one which went up, and ascending the one which came down, attempting to beat the flow and speed, in turn entertaining the travelers. After his energy was drained, he sat on one of those interconnected, die-cast aluminum chairs near the terminal gates, his eyes unnaturally glued to the digital information board, awaiting the announcement that the Jet Airways flight to Mumbai was ready for boarding.

When the ground staff announced that the boarding gates had opened, courtesy didn’t mean shit to Jackie. For him, the queue was just a set of random people lined up by accident. He simply pushed ahead of everyone else and waved his boarding pass. Nobody objected, all probably assuming that it would take a lifetime to civilize this man, and that yelling for a minute was a waste of time.

A uniformed girl with tomato-red lipstick greeted Jackie at the counter, checked his boarding pass and signaled for him to proceed through the gates, ending the interaction with another emotionless ‘Thank you.’ Jackie placed his brown suitcase on the floor and lay face down to rub his nose on Mother Earth. Loudly, he prayed Jai Shri Chamundeshwari Mata. Oh, goddess, we are leaving your planet. Keep us safe as we fly higher than the Himalayas. Shankar Bhagwan, keep an eye on us– but not your third eye, and got up with a jerk. A smartly dressed young man in the queue grabbed the smartphone from his blazer pocket and began to record the scene, sharing a condescending smile with his fellow passengers.

The crew nodded with disbelief as Jackie straightened his six feet frame and started walking out the gate. The other passengers laughed and muttered and sighed, momentarily forgiving that the uncouth man had raced ahead of them.

Within five minutes, Jackie, chewing his paan, returned to the airline counter through the boarding gate he had entered, moving against the flow of eager passengers. A pint-size man in a Jet Airways uniform stopped him. Sir, you are supposed to be boarding the flight.

I want to have a word with the manager, Jackie insisted and gently pushed the airline boy aside, dropping a paan stain on the carpet. He ensured that his accent was as Bhojpuri as possible, thanks to two weeks of practice.

Sir, what’s the problem? The boy asked, but Jackie had already approached the counter where the lady with the tomato-red lipstick continued to check boarding passes.

Madam, what is this nonsense? Jackie asked with angry eyes.

Sir, why are you back? The pretty lady fluttered her eyelashes.

I demand an explanation. I can’t allow you Jet Airways people to swindle me like this. In Benaras, if they come to know you have cheated Jackiebhai, they will stone your airline when it’s passing above, Jackie scolded and dropped his suitcase on the floor.

Excuse me? The confused lady paused and turned to Jackie.

The man in the blazer pulled out from the queue, biting his lips, and pointed his smartphone camera at Jackie, glancing at the airplane taxi-ing on the airstrip.

Don’t play innocent, young lady. I will expose your fraud right now. I know the head-clerk at the consumer’s court. I will write blogs about this in five languages and tell all of India how Jet Airways tried to cheat me, Jackie continued, unpretentious rage adorning his Bhojpuri accent.

The lady activated her walkie-talkie and called for backup. A second lady, presumably senior, arrived on the scene holding a card that said ‘Customer Relations.’ She approached Jackie with a broad smile and said in a melodious voice, "Sir, my name is Kavitha. I apologize for the inconvenience caused to you. Pray tell us what inconvenience was caused to you."

Kavitha Madam, You’re mocking me. You think I am illiterate and don’t understand how things work. I may be at the airport for the first time, but I bloody well know what I am here for. Jackie frowned.

Kavitha called to another member of the crew. Help this gentleman with whatever his problem is. Would you? She had more important things to attend to, like calling out to stray passengers.

The airline boy came up and informed Kavitha that he was equally clueless regarding the strange man’s demand. Ma’am, you talk to him. Find out and let us know, he said.

Sir, I request you to leave the gate and prepare for boarding. Look, everyone else is moving and nobody is complaining, Kavitha said.

I have paid for a flight from Delhi to Mumbai. And I will not settle for anything below that. I am warning you, Jackie waved a pointed index finger at the ground crew. All of you.

The handsome man in the blazer allowed passengers to jump ahead of him: he didn’t want the live shoot of this humorous event to be disrupted. He pressed his lips hard to make sure that the camera wouldn’t record his own giggles. Some teenagers stayed back, too, to relish the remaining drama – you never knew how ridiculously interesting this could get.

Kavitha stepped ahead. Sir, do you want me to accompany you to your flight? I need to see what has held you back.

Jackie shouted back at her, Pretend like nothing has happened. Huh? These guys must be fools. I am not. I am from Benaras. He said, pointing at the grinning passengers walking past him.

Meanwhile, the lady at the boarding counter called on the speaker, Final call for Mr. Kalpesh Soman. The Jet Airways Flight for Mumbai, 9W 426, is waiting for you to board.

The handsome man who was recording on his smartphone said, Yes ma’am. Right here. He sped up to her and presented his boarding pass, still directing his camera towards Jackie and the small, befuddled Jet Airways crew that had gathered.

Look here, sir, we are trying to solve your problem. We are trying to cooperate as much as possible, but you are just beating around the bush. Now if you don’t board the flight, we will call security and you can argue with them while the flight takes off, Kavitha warned.

So you’d rather hear it from my mouth, huh? Fine. That way, better. Jackie licked some of the red stuff that gushed down his chin and said, I have paid 5000 rupees for a flight from Delhi to Mumbai. Correct?

Maybe you did. So what’s the problem? There are many last minute passengers who have paid much higher, Kavitha retorted.

Jackie slammed his fists on the desk and said, It’s not about the money.  You can charge me 10,000; but I want what I paid for. Your commitment is to transport me from Delhi to Mumbai by an airplane – that winged, motorized whale that swims in the skies.

Yeah, so why don’t you board the flight?

You are cheating me. Jackie put both his hands on his hips. That guy in the radium life-jacket down there is asking to take the bus.

Kavitha stared at Jackie with a puzzled expression, Mother of God, are you serious?

"Yeah, I am serious. Come, have a look for yourself. There’s a rickety, red bus down there with just ten seats, and the guy is insisting I take the bus. This also means that the lady who handed me my boarding pass wants to keep my luggage for herself. She wanted that silver shivlinga in the front pocket; I knew it when they were ogling my bag in the X-ray machine," Jackie scoffed.

Kavitha just turned on her subordinates, moved her hands through her hair, and sighed, Is it legal to abuse a guest? Is it okay for a crew member to assault a passenger?

Meanwhile Jackie squatted on the floor and demanded that his 5000 rupees be returned to him with interest. "That, and the luggage that cheeky girl stole. Or I am going to start a dharna right on the tarmac. And I will make sure Anna Hazare hears of this too."

Kavitha turned to Jackie and said, Sir, you are unnecessarily creating a scene. The bus will take you to your flight which is waiting around 400 meters from here. You don’t take the bus to Mumbai. I can’t believe I have to explain this to a passenger. Next she turned to Kalpesh Soman. I am glad that you are shooting this. Let this event be recorded as a memorable one in airline history.

Jackie picked his briefcase up and hauled himself up, Oh, I don’t go to Mumbai by bus? The bus will take me to the airplane? Is that how it works? Couldn’t you explain earlier? Couldn’t you have saved my time?

Kavitha hurried away, not uttering a further word of explanation or information. Jackie bleated about the callousness of the airline company as he walked down the ramp, and joined his co-passengers in the bus, ignoring their grumbles. Kalpesh followed him, his smartphone camera still glued on the subject, all the way down the tarmac and into the plane.

Jackie claimed his aisle seat at the tail-end of the plane. He neatly placed his suitcase in the overhead compartment, and prepared himself for take-off. He watched the tall air-hostess attentively as she narrated the safety precautions. The seat-belt made him uncomfortable and cramped up; he waited eagerly for the seat-belt signal to go off so that he could slouch and release his long legs from the misery of standard-size seats.

Once the seat-belt sign went off, Kalpesh Soman, six rows ahead of Jackie, sprang up. He shifted to the aisle, took off his blazer and rammed it in the overhead compartment. What could be seen, earlier covered by the blazer, was a torn, frayed, grimy blue shirt which had patches of different materials and colors over it. Next, he retrieved a disk-jar of baby kajal, and smeared black soot on his face. He messed his hair up so it assumed an out-of-bed look, and then took off his cargo-pants. Beneath his pants was a pair of shabby trousers – muddy, smelly and tattered in the wrong places. From the seat pocket, he swiped a plastic bowl, equally filthy. The passengers who could see Kalpesh stared at him awestruck. What? Was this guy retarded?

"Allah ke naam se de de Baba! (Please offer me something in the name of God)," Kalpesh walked up to the row ahead of his, and thrust the plastic bowl in the passengers’ faces.

Kalpesh inched from row to row, and the passengers laughed ferociously as he approached them.  Some even donated a few coins to the plastic bowl. As the laughter escalated, the passengers in front turned to look at what was causing it. The chaos grew intense, with passengers cheering at Kalpesh, whistling, clapping and shouting out witty, encouraging one-liners. Kalpesh’s face didn’t carry the expression of an entertainer; he just continued walking ahead with a countenance so pitiful and wasted that it would invoke real sympathy in a beggar-zone such as a temple exterior. "Allah ke naam se de de Baba!" Kalpesh’s volume increased, a shrill tone arising in his words.

Airhostesses appeared from both ends of the plane, pushing carts that carried sandwiches, cola and coffee. They wondered how a scruffy man like this had arrived on the plane unnoticed. Sir, one of them called out to Kalpesh.

Kalpesh limped to her, and placed his bowl on her cart with trembling hands, "Madamjee, do din se khaayaa nahin. Bahoot bhookh lagi hai."

The airhostess had certainly not experienced such a person or situation in the plane, ever. She might have been prepared to react in a crisis like an air-pressure drop, or an emergency evacuation or even a hijack. But this she had not been trained to handle this sort of behavior, especially on a flight that didn’t serve alcohol. Sir, may I request you to go back to your seat? That was the most she could do.

Kalpesh twisted his face like he was going to cry, and repeated, "Do din se khaayaa nahin, madam."

Sir, your seat, the other airhostess commanded in a stern voice. She deserted her food-cart and marched towards Kalpesh to take control of the ludicrous situation.

Have pity on me, Madam, look at my clothes, Kalpesh wept real tears, further confusing the first airhostess.

The second one tapped Kalpesh’s back and said, Sir, back to your seat. Now.

Okay, I will take my seat. But at least allow me to go into the Business class section and take a handsome collection there. These economy class cheapskates didn’t spare much. Kalpesh pointed out at the few coins in his bowl. The passengers roared with laughter like they would slide down their chairs if not for their seat-belts.

You think this flight is a joke? While you are trying to be funny, do you realize that you’re disturbing all of the passengers?

Speak for yourself. The passengers were enjoying this until you barged in, killjoy, Kalpesh said with a smirk. Anyway, the food in your carts tastes like rubber. Even if I were really a beggar and had been starving for two days, you’d still have to force-feed me that crap.

The airhostess wouldn’t have been so embarrassed had the passengers not supported Kalpesh’s last statement with a round of applause. You continue this, and we will report you to the police once we land. We know exactly how to deal with people who misbehave on the flight, so don’t believe that you’ll be spared.

Hmmpphh, this is like cancer, said Kalpesh, and trudged to his seat. Being reported to the police was the last thing he would let happen to him. He might have loved taking his mischief to extreme levels, but only so long as nobody was taking him to task. He dressed himself again, under the airhostesses’ supervision, and fell asleep.

As soon as Jackie had grabbed his bag from the conveyer belt, he rushed outside the Arrivals gate of Mumbai airport. He hailed a taxi, and dumped his luggage in its boot. Wait next to the last pillar. A friend is joining me, he told the taxi driver as he got inside. The urbane accent was now back and the primitive sunglasses were secured in his suitcase.

In five minutes, the man in the blazer, Kalpesh, walked out and headed straight for the taxi in which Jackie sat. Kalpesh was five feet ten, and had a chocolate-boy face – dimples, light brown eyes, aquiline nose, longish lips and an angular jawline. If not for his good looks, the airhostesses might have reported his arrogance to the authorities.

Dude, you were crazy hilarious. Kalpesh high-fived Jackie as he sat down.

And you, Kalpesh, I never expected a beggar act.  You are a fucking natural, man.

As the taxi veered from the crowd, Kalpesh and Jackie swapped phones to check how they had performed. Both had mastered the art of holding their hands still while shooting from their smartphones. Their arms were trained to capture videos without trembling, shaking or losing sight of the target. The timings of the zoom-in and zoom-out, the shift of focus on the right objects and people, the composition and angle of view –it was all movie-quality perfect.

I am sure we’re going to have at least 10,000 hits this week. Originality rules, Kalpesh assured.

Ten thousand? My target is over a lakh subscribers, dude. DesiPrankBoat is going to be in the top ten preferred prank channels by the end of this year. Wait and watch, Jackie said.

Thanks to your hottie girlfriend – she promotes our videos like crazy, Kalpesh said.

I broke up with Radhika last night. She was nagging me about my career, Jackie said.

Over the phone?

Yep, Talaq, Talaq, Talaq. It’s legal. Jackie winked.

Seriously? I thought she was our biggest fan.

She says we are overdoing this video thingy. Says I need to do something which pays...well.

Okay, so she dumped you because you are a worthless piece of shit?

Hello, I dumped her, Jackie exclaimed, pinching his mustache.

No, she chucked you out.  Because your career prospects are not promising enough.

I dumped her. Because she was interfering with my life and my choices.

Well, well, if believing so makes you happy, Kalpesh said. I think Radhika and Vikram should totally get married. They are very similar people.

Oh, please. Vikram is much nicer. At least he doesn’t interfere with your career choices. His whining is only fair. If he were a financial burden on you, you’d whine too, Jackie said in a tone of self-pity.

I hope so. Vikram has already started giving me cancer. Kalpesh sighed.

Vikram is a sweetheart if you compare him to my brother, Jackie said.

Hey, tell me, why did you skip your ‘sentimental-value-rocks-from-the-Qutub-Minar’ act?

With so many strange-looking policemen at the check-point, are you kidding me? I didn’t want to squat over flies at the ATS lockup, Jackie replied.

Yeah, in a way, it would have crossed the line. Rocks are weapons, you see, if used with the right momentum, Kalpesh agreed.

The taxi stopped at Madhuban Apartments, Malad, and both passengers got out. Being neighbors in the same building had benefits when it came to splitting the taxi fare. Kalpesh’s place was a humble 2BHK apartment, where he lived with his elder brother, Vikram. That was the last of the possessions their parents had left them with before leaving for their heavenly abode, four years earlier. While Vikram slogged and had climbed up the corporate ladder efficiently enough to be promoted to ‘Regional Manager’ of an ICCI branch, Kalpesh was still struggling, trying to build a career out of pranks.

Most of the editing and brainstorming over their videos happened in Kalpesh’s bedroom. Two young bachelors – Kalpesh and Vikram -  living together, with Vikram being away at office for a large portion of the day, made for a comfortable zone for the DesiPrankBoat partners: there was no one to keep tabs on what they did, no one to teach them morality, no one to counsel them on the futility of expecting a career to emerge from frolicking with random strangers, no one to warn them about the trouble it could lead them into. While Vikram did hint occasionally, his reasons arose from financial obligations. To avoid those jarring taunts, Jackie and Kalpesh moved outdoors when Vikram returned from his hectic office day. And that’s when they executed the pranks that were planned all day.

How was your flight? Vikram asked the two friends when they came to the door. He was propped against the frame dressed in striped boxer shorts, one end of the cord swinging loose. He pointed at a paan stain on Jackie’s safari suit and said, "And you, Jackie? Since when did you start eating paan? Remember, no paan in our apartment."

Vikram was Kalpesh’s height. He had Kalpesh’s eyes, nose and lips. However, Kalpesh’s good looks and charm were missing. Vikram had a