Bullet looked like a prune when he came off the train in the morning. The train stopped briefly before the platform at Muzafarbad giving the passengers false hopes, but giving enough time for the ticket-less urchins to jump off the trains and scoot away to safe horizons. Bullet hesitantly alighted at the station from his air-conditioned sleeper couch and looked hesitantly across the horizon for some one from the office to fetch him. There wasn’t anyone on the platform. At least anyone that looked as if he could be from the office. Old men in moth-colored pajamas skulked away to the door and women, with their heads covered appropriately as the religions dictated ambled about behind their husbands or other men practicing suffucnt husbandry skills and disappeared as well. There was a station master bloke who stood around waving the flag, part out of boredom and part out of practice, in his oddly fashioned uniform; he had traded his white trousers for a loose fitting white pajama to fit with the locals.
Dejected, Bullet headed for the door and almost bumped into the ever worried Parashuram Singh who had come with the express purpose of affording him a warm welcome befitting is circumstances but was late much to his own chagrin. Having observed that Bullet is unlikely to yell at him, he assumed a more relaxed posture and guided the overlord from the city on to the sufficiently fitted Ambassador car with red lights and other accouterments.
Slinking back into the cold comfort of its back seat with parashuram Singh, part orderly part confidante, two parts slime sitting beside him, Bullet had one thought, this too shall pass.
The well aerated yet genuinely impoverished surroundings where he was deposited without much apologies told Bullet that in spite of all the ceremony, he was generally looking at a time resembling of hell that he has read of, and the hell was going to be delivered to him in hand basket which was going to be carried by none other than Parashuram Singh, part orderly and so on. He sat on his rock hard bed and contemplated his armpits, which were of the texture of lime meringue pie and the color of crushed raspberries. His felt that his slinky puppet between his legs hurt as well, from sitting and lying in very tight underwear all night. There was nothing good that could come of anything except a hot shower. But in Muzafrbad, such luxuries as hot showers often came only attached with two or more pair of servant hands that did the necessary chores in a manually satisfying way.
The pair of hands in question belonged to Shaddo, the village bell-esque middle-aged woman, too young to be old and too old to be innocent. If that is confusing, just contemplate her breasts, quite oddly pear shaped and lovely peeking out as an outline from the flimsy duppatta and the worrylines on the forehead that he only saw when she occasionally lifted her head in his direction.
He viewed this with satisfaction. After all, there was something he could look forward to. Shaddo came in the morning, (he was later told) cleaned the house, did odd bits around the house and made his bath. And if he was so inclined, I mean not the type that shivered at the thought of a Muslim making his meals, Parashuram said, she could also make him his meals. If he was, on the other hand, caste-minded and so on, there could be a Brahmin maharaj whose services could be availed even though he was not sure what sort of availability he had.
Shaddo will so, Bullet immediately retorted, with the sort of over enthusiasm he was immediately ashamed of. Unlike with Coco, he was in his element, and Shaddo’s kajol-filled eyes and her expansive yet flat stomach made his slinky puppet raise its head a little bit.
Saab, Parashuram Singh warned in the sort of way slippery eels tend to warm urban cowboys in these parts, just so you know, her father is a butcher. Not the kinda girl you want any trouble with. If you are interested, we can arrange for others. He then flashed a yellowing smile.
Bullet stretched himself on the bed and thought of the vast vanishing skyscape of Washington DC. Then standing up, he carefully opened up the suitcase and changed into a lungi, freeing the tightened external organs in the process. Then settling back onto his rock hard bed, he smiled an officious half smile and said, arre Parashuram ji, what are you saying? I am a respectable Brahmin man. I am perfectly happy without such things.
Then having dismissed the slime with a nod and a half smile, Bullet got ready for the ablution.
Shaddo was quite a helper to Bullet. She cleaned and cooked, cooked and cleaned. And then every now and then glanced at Bullet as he sat about doing his business.
And he found the attention wandering as he read through papers on RDC and RCC.
RDC and RCC on the other hand held no such charms. As the ministerji correctly predicted, he found himself in the middle of the eyebrows of ferocious caste-warriors who sized him up and tried to kill him with sticky-sugary kindness and oily-shoily chicanery. Over mouthful of dal, which chewed with rice with an open mouth, hence dripping down back into the plates causing much revulsion to Bullet, the MD of RCC, lets call him MD 1 shall we, in order not to give so much importance that his caste equation with the Ministry already has given him, straightened up and muttered many a convincing arguments in his favor. Bullet tried to scoop out dal with his roti and solidified his hand with some thickly-sauced curried vegetables and then swallowed the whole concoction in silence. Between them sat a bottle of Indian-made foreign liquor that kept company for the whole spectacle as it has for ages.
