"Thank God, we are not
in the Swinging Suite!" She laughed and spilled the fresh lime she was
sipping.
"Be careful."
Removing his folding sunglasses, he watched with fascination as she carefully wiped the
juice off her well-tanned thighs. Her shorts were white and made out of thick cotton. She
looked good in them. He wanted to suggest something, but it was too early for that. It was
ten in the morning, and she was a proper lady: she wouldn't think it was the right time
for lovemaking.
The flashily dressed and
obviously newly married couple that had stepped out of the Swinging Suite cottage
walked up to the other side of the pool and stared at the clean, cool water. The man, who
was portly, looked up and stared at them across the pool. He seemed to be envious of the
state of partial undress they were in, the swim they had just had. His wife looked away,
hiding her face from the glare with the end of her sari.
"I think they are
Gujjus," Madhu said, staring back at the man who was looking at her stretched out,
bare feet. "They are so bloody rustic!"
Partha picked up the copy
of the Business Standard he had been trying to read, and pretended to read again.
He sympathised with the `rustic Gujju' man: had he himself been on the other side of the
pool, he too would have stared at Madhu's long, bare legs. "How much do they think
they are paying for it, the Swinging Suite?"
Partha put on the
sunglasses. The man's wife was tugging at his sleeve. The man gave in and turned around.
They walked away, a thoroughly odd couple: she was thin as bamboo; he plodded along like a
baby elephant.
"Must be around four
thousand," Partha said, removing the sunglasses and staring down at the newspaper.
"That much! What the hell do they get for
it?"
He played with the folding
sunglasses. "I don't know. Maybe a revolving bed! A Jacuzzi in the bathroom!"
She turned to him slowly
and her voice became high-pitched. "You want that?" He noticed then how the pull
of the neck muscles made her look very old.
"We're doing okay,
what," he said and nudged his toe against her thigh.
"Stop that! People
would be looking!"
He sprang up from the
poolside chair. "Looking! Who's looking?"
"Shut up, don't kid
me!"
"Who's looking? Who's
looking?"
Indeed, no one was. Each of
the balconies of the 72 rooms of the Hotel Paradiso that overlooked the pool was
unoccupied. On the lawn between the building and the pool, a liveried waiter was clearing
a sumptuous breakfast order. He was too engrossed in the work.
Stretching back, she asked,
"Where should we go today?"
"You want to go
somewhere today?"
"Well, we have come
here, haven't we, so we have to go somewhere, don't we?"
"Go where?"
"To the zoo?"
"The zoo! It must be a
lousy place!"
She arched forward sharply.
"That's not what the Lonely Planet says!"
"Those firangs!
They'll freak out even on a bloody elephant!"
"What do you intend to
do then anyway?"
"Do...?" He
looked into her eyes.
She leaned back. "Oh,
come on, we can't be making love all the time!"
He didn't say anything. He
was bloody angry. Unwrapping the towel around his waist, he strode up to the edge of the
pool and flat-dived into the water.
Then he swam away from her,
with noisy, splashy freestyle strokes.
Now she was angry too. She
stood up, slipped her feet into her sandals and walked away to their room, with swaying
hips. He read it as contempt, not provocation. He splashed the water even more, till he
felt quite hot, though the water was very cool.
He was already in the
restaurant, sipping Coke, when she walked in, with a fat copy of the Lonely Planet.
She stopped when she saw him. The restaurant staff too looked. Determinedly, she walked up
to the table.
"Where had you
been," Partha asked, staring at the staff, who went back to their work with a flurry.
Madhu stared at the menu
through her thin-framed specs. "In the room, I had a shower."
She looked up. "And
you?"
"I had a shower
too."
"Are you angry?"
"Nope, I am just
pissed off."
"Look..."
"Sorry." He
raised his right palm. "I understand!"
"What do you
understand?"
"What is there to
understand!"
"What?"
"That it's not
on!" He shrugged. "It's okay, I get it, it's not on, all the time, I mean. I get
it."
"No." She sighed
and turned to draw the attention of a waiter with a raised arm. "You don't get
it."
"What do you
mean?"
"Look, don't raise
your voice, please." Her arm was still raised.
"It's our fucking
fourth day of marriage!"
"Please!"
A waiter came hurrying to
their table. She ordered French Fries, Toast Butter and Jam and an Omelette.
"Is that what you are
fucking going to eat," he fumed.
"Look..."
"Is that what you are
going to do to piss me off?'
"Look, "she said
calmly, "please don't be abusive."
"Abusive?" He
raised his voice. "You are the one who is being abusive: pissing me off eating crap.
That's what you are eating: crap! And just to piss me off! Look at you, you think your
body is going to take any of that shit? You are bloody anaemic, so whom are you trying
kid?"
Tears welled up from her
eyes. She fidgeted with her napkin. Then she picked it up and blew her nose, noisily.
"Fucking shit,"
he muttered. She turned around and watched the swinging stainless steel doors of the
kitchen, behind the manager's counter. He gulped the Coke with angry slurps.
When the waiter brought her
lunch order, he got up and walked away. She stared at the food that she was not going to
eat. Then she ordered a Coke, paid the bill, and walked back slowly to their room, to
sleep.
After half an hour in the
zoo, Partha had to admit to himself that it was a rather nice place. It had large, leafy
trees and though it was just past noon, the heat was unnoticeable. It was quiet here too:
there were just one small group of highly curious and silent kids and a few couples
walking slowly past the cages, holding hands. The animals were untroubled: the kids didn't
shove sticks into their cages and the couples walked past them with little interest,
stopping only to feed the deer.
Intently, he watched a
tiger cleaning its claws. He had never seen such a thing before. Yawning, the animal
looked up and gazed at him. He had to smile.
He walked to the monkey
cages. One simian hanging on to one of the bars looked down at him dolefully. "Fraud
you are!" He laughed. There was a gentle pat on his shoulder. He turned around
irritatedly. It was the `rustic Gujju' man, with his wife. The man grinned.
"You have come to the
zoo?"
Partha nodded vigorously.
The woman pulled her husband back ineffectually by his sleeve.
"Your wife has not
come?"
"She was not feeling
well."
"Oh..." Still
grinning, the man threw a brief glance at his wife. "We are staying in the same
hotel."
"Yes," Partha
said, "that’s where we met." He looked at the man's wife; her eyes were
fixed in a frightened daze.
"But we haven't really
met." The man extended his right hand. "I am Champaklal. People call me
Champaklal Seth." His large torso bounced with his chuckle.
Partha found Champaklal's
palm soft and sweaty. He withdrew his hand quickly. "I am Partha..."
"Pleased to meet you,
Mr. Partha."
"Parthasarthy,
actually."
"Oh, from South?"
"No, Bombay
actually."
"But Parthasarthy is
from South!"
"Yes, but I have lived
all my life in Bombay."
Champaklal did not get the
faint exasperation in Partha's tone. "And Missis?" he continued. "She is
from Bombay too?"
"No, actually she is
from Delhi."
"Oh, how lovely."
Champaklal then turned to his wife and spoke in rapid-fire Gujarati; Partha caught the
words `Parthasarthy', `Bombay' and `Delhi'.
Champaklal turned to
Partha with a genial grin. "My wife, she is not understanding English, not even
Hindi!"
The wife spoke. Partha
caught `caves'.
Champaklal asked him,
"My wife wants to know, have you been to the caves?"
"Oh yes, they are
lovely. It was a Buddhist monastery, some third century AD."
Champaklal translated that
information for his wife's benefit. A small woman, perhaps not older than nineteen, she
looked up and asked Partha a question. He understood it as, `Was Buddha a Hindu God?'
Champaklal grinned. Partha
replied, "No, not actually, but many Buddhist shrines, they say, have Hindu Gods
too."
"My wife,"
Champaklal said decisively, "she is only interested in Hindu."
"You are in the
Swinging Suite," Partha asked unexpectedly.
"Oh yes, very lovely.
Bright Travels arranged for it--everything, from hotel room to to-and- fro journey. Swoot
is big cottage with lot of light and ventilation and backside is coconut trees. Very, very
lovely."
"How much do you pay
for it?"
"Pay for it? Same as
normal!"
"Fifteen
hundred?"
"Exactly!"
"Shit, and we are
paying the same amount for a lousy, small room with one tiny window, like a bathroom. We
got gypped."
"But Swinging Swoot
is only for newly married couples!" Champaklal smiled broadly.
"We are newly
married," Partha muttered.
"What do you say? Then
why you are not getting Swinging Swoot? It is bonus for all newly married
couples!"
"That so? They didn't
tell us about it."
"Bright Travels is
arranging for it! Everything, including travel in video coach from Rajkot and one week's
stay for only ten thousand!"
"Shit, and we are
going to be spending nearly twice that amount."
"Your travel agent is
not arranging?"
"No," he mumbled,
"we arranged everything."
"Ah! That is the
mistake you are making! You go to Travels, they are arranging for everything. Low-cost
too, they are having all contacts and they are making fine deals."
"We even came here in
a bloody plane, and that cost us six thousand."
Champaklal's eyes grew
large. "Six thousand!"
"And imagine what: the
plane was delayed for bloody twelve hours. Twelve hours! In twelve hours we could have
bloody walked to this place!"
"Very sad, and on
honeymoon!"
"Exactly." Partha
half-turned towards the monkey cages. "Anyway, things may get better."
Champaklal took in a deep
breath. "Mr. Partha," he said gravely, "what are you doing in the
evening?"
Partha turned bemusedly.
"Evening?"
"You are meeting me in
the hotel bar then at six-thirty?"
Partha shrugged. "It
should be okay, but I drink only beer."
"Beer is only for talking," Champaklal
said enigmatically. "Six thirty then?"
They shook hands again and
he watched the thin, young woman and her portly, husband in a dark red shirt with big
brown patches walk away.
Returning to the hotel, he
had a quick shower-his third in the day--in the health club, wolfed down an onion uttappa
in the restaurant and rushed to the badminton hall. Three to five p.m. was a good time to
play badminton. In fact, it was the only time: in the mornings, the court was taken over
by a brood of noisy mothers and their children and in the evenings, two very
serious-looking Germans, who were on a long business visit, played a long and intense
game, breaking the silence only with foul exclamations. The hotel staff played in the
afternoons. One man, a Malyali cook, was good. He was old, but he moved fast, barefoot,
crouching low. The trick to beat him, Partha thought, was to serve high and make him jump
up to reach the shuttle; that would break his rhythm: he was a close-to-the-ground player.
They had played once, two days ago, and the Malyali had beaten him easily in the first
game, placing brilliantly, leaving him stranded at the far ends of the court. In the
second game, Partha relied on force: he hit so hard that the Malyali had no time for
placements. The game progressed till nine-all, till it had to be called off, for the
Malyali had to get back to the kitchen to prepare the evening’s soup. They parted
with healthy respect for each other's skills. But they were also sure they would play
again, to settle the matter of superiority, once and for all. So, when he walked into the
badminton court, the three waiters who were fooling around--playing a mixture of tennis
and cricket with the shuttlecock--, moved out and the taciturn Malyali, who spoke only in
his mother tongue, rose from the spectator's benches, stubbing his beedi.
It was going to be a game
that would be closely watched.
He served high, sometimes
so high that the shuttlecock was lost in the darkness below the roof.
The trick angered the
Malyali. Once, he stood his ground, confident that the shuttlecock would fall beyond the
line.
They waited with bated
breaths. Magically, it fell just inside.
The Malyali threw his
racket on the floor and stomped out of the court. Partha laughed. The waiters scampered
behind the Malyali. Partha had been leading nine-six. It wasn't a hollow victory.
One of the waiters came back,
challenging Partha for another game. But he was not interested. The hotel had a mini golf
course. He would try his hand at golf.
He was feeling good. From the
reception, he called up his wife.
"I am meeting the
Gujju man--his name is Champaklal--in the bar."
"Whatever for?"
She had been waiting for his call; she hadn't been sleeping.
"To talk about this
and that. Guess what, they got the Swinging Suite for the same price as our lousy
room. It's some special deal for honeymooners, and it's a whole bloody cottage!"
"How come we didn't
come to know of it?"
"Well, we didn't ask.
But don't worry, I will swing a deal. I'll tell Champaklal to shift to our room for a few
days. He wouldn't mind; he would like it. He is the type who likes to do the world a
favour."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me, I
know."
"Why would he want to
suffer?"
"I told you: he likes
to do a world a favour."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely, I am a
marketing man."
"You know what,"
she said, "The Swinging Suite would really make a world of difference. It's so
much more space! And it's cute near the pool!"
"Exactly what I
thought."
"Well, I hope you have
some luck."
"Leave it to me. I
will do it."
"Hope to see you
soon."
"Hope too."
"I love you."
He grinned. "Love you
too."
He kept the phone down and
ran up the staircase to the first floor bar, three steps at a time. The Swinging Suite,
it was for honeymooners only. What difference did it make to a man from Rajkot who called
it the Swinging Swoot ?
