by Vani Viswanathan
Mr. Rangarajan sat on the steel bed. It creaked. He frowned. The mattress was emanating a foul smell. He pulled the sterile white covers, covers that reminded him of a hospital. The bed had musty spots on it. A sudden moment of weakness, and his eyes flooded with tears of rage. He had been used to better living conditions all his life, even during his days with a meagre salary as a bank teller! He was a pensioner, damn it – not dependent on his children’s money! How dare they think this was the best place to put him in? How dare they take decisions on his behalf? He was managing perfectly well by himself – deciding he couldn’t do so anymore after the fracture was unreasonable.
Mr. Rangarajan shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be weak, not now. He had a new place to get used to, food prepared by someone else (heaven knows about how healthy it will be!) and worst of all, follow a routine that wasn’t made by him.
At 4pm, it was time for tea. They rang a bell. They rang a bell, to summon people. Mr. Rangarajan was enraged – were they dogs? He went to the dining area. He could make out two couples, but the old folks home was mostly filled with single men and women, all now joined together in some sense of camaraderie at their fate that landed them here. Sitting alone and sipping his tea, which he immediately dismissed as too bland – just because they were old, was it fair to assume none of them can have an iota of sugar? – Mr. Rangarajan watched his neighbours. They mostly seemed to be an undisciplined bunch of people. They were loud, some sipped their tea noisily, and one was making fun of everyone present, including Mr. Rangarajan, for he was often looking at the solitary old man, sitting with a straight back, drinking tea by himself. The women were also laughing. Most men looked unkempt, hair overgrown and with a two-day stubble. Only one of them, politely smiling through the ruckus, seemingly paid some attention to his appearance – he was in a starched khadi white shirt, and his bushy silver moustache was smartly trimmed. Maybe this was the only person he could befriend. And just then, the man with the bushy moustache let out a loud guffaw at something that funny man seemed to have said. Mr. Rangarajan was disgusted at moustache man’s booming laughter and the way his whole body shook. He finished his tea and left to the lounge, wishing to get away from this commotion. These were to be his friends, the people he would likely have to live with until his wretched life left his body. Weakness and tears threatening him again, he picked up a newspaper for distraction.
Ah, the Indian Premier League again! A nonsensical fest taking cricket to new lows. Players being auctioned off like cattle. What kind of loyalty do you expect from players who could be in different teams each year?! The dancing, the singing, the rubbish that Navjot Singh Sidhu spews at periodic intervals, and my goodness, the cheerleaders! Where are the days of discipline in cricket gone? Mr. Rangarajan couldn’t be bothered. Even if not an IPL fan, he used to watch it for the plain fact that it was cricket. Not this season, though, for the last few days before his move to the old folks’ home had been terrible. Not here, though, where he was sure to not be able to watch the match in peace, like he’d been able to at his home. Here, there’d be a bunch of hooligans cracking jokes at the drop of a hat.
But no matter how hard he tried, the noises from the lounge distracted him as he was on his way back to the room around 8, after dinner. Animated discussion. The toss must have happened and the bowling team must be in the field, waiting for the batsmen from the other team. He peeped into the lounge. The same group from teatime was sitting there, joined by one wiry woman he hadn’t seen earlier.
The first ball was bowled. Four! They all cheered.
Mr. Rangarajan coaxed himself to go in. He moved as far from the group as he could, and found a chair in the leftmost corner of the room.
The third ball, the batsman was out.
There was cheering irrespective of whether the batsman scored well or got out, Mr. Rangarajan realised. The old men didn’t care to support any team. They seemed to be generally enjoying the game. Even if he was a supporter of the team in yellow, Mr. Rangarajan realised he liked this approach. It made them purer admirers of the game, going beyond hysterical borders within the country. Heck, he would applaud Waugh or Cronje or Ul-haq if they played well, it didn’t matter if they were battering the Indian side!
A group of foreign women came on screen, shaking about in celebration of the wicket. Mr. Rangarajan snorted in annoyance. What they were dancing to (some “Lungi dance…!”) had no connection with their steps. He wondered if the women knew anything about the game.
As the match wore on, Mr. Rangarajan realised another pattern about his fellow viewers – they seemed to like the cheerleaders. His opinion of their love for the game dropping steadily, he found himself watching them whenever the cheerleaders came on screen. The old men unabashedly enjoyed the dance, with one especially old, toothless man clapping to the beat. Funny man had a grin plastered on his face every time there was a slow-motion view of their dance. Even bushy moustache man seemed to sit up straight and watch without blinking his eyes when the dancers came. Another topless man either rubbed his belly or arms, or scratched his back with his poonal, or revolting scratched his armpits whenever the young women in brightly-coloured clothes danced in sync. Mr. Rangarajan was revolted, to say the least.
When another wicket fell and the dancers shook their balls of coloured paper, Mr. Rangarajan saw the group laugh loudly. “Dei Parameshwara!” said one diminutive old man in the group that Mr. Rangarajan hadn’t bothered to observe. He gathered that Parameshwara was the funny man. ‘Our women, like this! That would be the day!’
Mr. Rangarajan shook his head silently. The immaturity of these men! Well into their 60s and 70s, and thinking like this! Are we teenagers? We’ve been married, had children, seen grandchildren. And this kind of talk?
But the strangest thing happened, the next time the camera focused on a grinning cheerleader wave her balls of coloured paper at the TV. Mr. Rangarajan had a flash of Rajam’s face doing the same. Rajam, with her two gleaming nose studs, one from her father, the other from him. Rajam who served him the perfect coffee every morning, unfailingly through the 63 years they spent together. Rajam of her black-and-grey, curly hair. The lady who never had one strand of hair astray. Who occupied a miniscule amount of space, huddled and quiet, always. And that was his Rajam, now smiling – she never showed her teeth – and flashing those coloured paper at the TV.
It was simply the most outrageous thing ever. Forgetting himself for a minute, he closed his eyes, freezing the image, and chuckled loudly. He immediately realised what he’d done, and opened his eyes. The group was staring at him with open disbelief. Only Parameshwara had a knowing grin etched on his face. Abashed, Mr. Rangarajan looked at the TV, aware of the people staring at him.
The next morning, as Mr. Rangarajan brought his plate of idlis and sambar from the counter and looked around for a place to sit, he noticed Parameshwara sitting there, by himself. He paused for a few seconds. Should he…?
Parameshwara looked up from his plate and saw Mr. Rangarajan standing there, uncertain. He grinned and pushed the chair opposite to his, inviting Mr. Rangarajan to sit there. Mr. Rangarajan walked through the tables, and sat there with Parameshwara.
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. She is now a CSR communications consultant, and has been blogging at http://chennaigalwrites.blogspot.com since 2005.
Pic: https://www.flickr.com/
