the sofa had sucked him in so he was trapped with his chin almost touching his knees. He tried to hoist himself up but the sofa held him fast. A line of sweat broke out on his brow. Inspector Gowdawould think nothing of laughing aloud at the sight of him. Like a turtle on its back trying to right itself.
That was all he needed now. First the white man speaking Kannada. And now this. Then he heard laughter and saw the most amazing sight of his boss and the foreigner clasp each other like long-lost friends. Did they know each other from their youth? Were they friends, perhaps? Only, Santosh couldn’t imagine Gowda ever having had a youth or a friend.
Gowda seemed to have been born with an expression that hovered between weary, tetchy and surly on the odometer of expressions. For that matter, he hadn’t in the course of the last twenty-six hours seen Gowda smile once. Pleasantly. As if he meant it.
And such was Santosh’s shock at seeing Gowda smile that he found himself on his feet again, escaping the clutch of the malevolent sofa that had been so determined to make him look foolish and ineffectual.
‘Look at you, Bob,’ Michael said, holding his friend at arm’s length.
‘Look at you, Macha,’ Gowda retorted, a boyish grin erasing the years from his face.
Bob. Macha. Boy speak. From those years in college when every boy, mate or acquaintance was a Bob or a Macha. When had Gowda used it last? It was all yaar and dude these days. His son couldn’t seem to speak a sentence to his friends without placing a dude in it somewhere.
‘We are two middle-aged men now. You have a paunch and I have lost most of my hair.’ Michael smiled. ‘Did you ever think this is how we would be in our forties?’
‘Almost fifty. I’ll be fifty in November.’ Gowda smiled back at him.
‘And to think that we should meet like this. Bloody destiny, Bob.’ Michael found his carefully cultivated accent dropping in a moment.
Gowda straightened. ‘Destiny! Is that what you call it? You know why we are here, don’t you?’
Michael nodded. ‘Mudde,’ he began.
Gowda winced and then smiled. He’d been called Mudde Gowda at college. For a while he had been the star of the basketball court, his lean, lanky frame cutting through the defenders and slicing the air as he leapt. Shooting baskets with an ease that forever after would be his early morning dream. The lift, the heave, that amazing grace.
‘It’s all that bloody ragi mudde he’s been fed as a child,’ someone had overheard the visiting college captain muttering. And the name had stuck. Mudde Gowda. Ball Gowda. Gowda with the balls to grab the ball.
‘It was the most horrible thing I ever saw, Bob, and I thought I had seen it all in my years of service in the fire brigade in Melbourne.’ Michael’s voice drifted away as he stepped back in time to the roadside near the grove.
‘We have to do this formally. I think I should ask my colleague to take your statement,’ Gowda said softly.
‘When do we meet?’
‘Anytime you want. Just give me a shout,’ Gowda replied.
Gowda’s phone rang. Michael’s eyebrows rose at the ring tone. ‘ Kabhi kabhi …’ a song that Gowda had made an anthem in those college years when his world had revolved around two things: the basketball court and Urmila.
Every day after college, Gowda and his gang, including Michael, would walk down to Breeze on Brigade Road. The jukebox there was a point to congregate around and each of them had his own favourite. Michael had Neil Diamond’s‘ Cracklin Rosie ’ and ‘ Song sung blue ’, Satish ABBA’s ‘ Dancing queen ’, Imitiaz Boney M’s ‘ Rasputin ’. And every day Gowda would complain about jukeboxes that pandered to colonial tastes and forgot that Indians may want to listen to Indian music.
‘Like what,’ Satish asked one evening.
‘“ Kabhi kabhi ”, what else,’ Imitiaz laughed.
‘Don’t you tire of hearing that song, Mudde,’ Michael asked
That was all he needed now. First the white man speaking Kannada. And now this. Then he heard laughter and saw the most amazing sight of his boss and the foreigner clasp each other like long-lost friends. Did they know each other from their youth? Were they friends, perhaps? Only, Santosh couldn’t imagine Gowda ever having had a youth or a friend.
Gowda seemed to have been born with an expression that hovered between weary, tetchy and surly on the odometer of expressions. For that matter, he hadn’t in the course of the last twenty-six hours seen Gowda smile once. Pleasantly. As if he meant it.
And such was Santosh’s shock at seeing Gowda smile that he found himself on his feet again, escaping the clutch of the malevolent sofa that had been so determined to make him look foolish and ineffectual.
‘Look at you, Bob,’ Michael said, holding his friend at arm’s length.
‘Look at you, Macha,’ Gowda retorted, a boyish grin erasing the years from his face.
Bob. Macha. Boy speak. From those years in college when every boy, mate or acquaintance was a Bob or a Macha. When had Gowda used it last? It was all yaar and dude these days. His son couldn’t seem to speak a sentence to his friends without placing a dude in it somewhere.
‘We are two middle-aged men now. You have a paunch and I have lost most of my hair.’ Michael smiled. ‘Did you ever think this is how we would be in our forties?’
‘Almost fifty. I’ll be fifty in November.’ Gowda smiled back at him.
‘And to think that we should meet like this. Bloody destiny, Bob.’ Michael found his carefully cultivated accent dropping in a moment.
Gowda straightened. ‘Destiny! Is that what you call it? You know why we are here, don’t you?’
Michael nodded. ‘Mudde,’ he began.
Gowda winced and then smiled. He’d been called Mudde Gowda at college. For a while he had been the star of the basketball court, his lean, lanky frame cutting through the defenders and slicing the air as he leapt. Shooting baskets with an ease that forever after would be his early morning dream. The lift, the heave, that amazing grace.
‘It’s all that bloody ragi mudde he’s been fed as a child,’ someone had overheard the visiting college captain muttering. And the name had stuck. Mudde Gowda. Ball Gowda. Gowda with the balls to grab the ball.
‘It was the most horrible thing I ever saw, Bob, and I thought I had seen it all in my years of service in the fire brigade in Melbourne.’ Michael’s voice drifted away as he stepped back in time to the roadside near the grove.
‘We have to do this formally. I think I should ask my colleague to take your statement,’ Gowda said softly.
‘When do we meet?’
‘Anytime you want. Just give me a shout,’ Gowda replied.
Gowda’s phone rang. Michael’s eyebrows rose at the ring tone. ‘ Kabhi kabhi …’ a song that Gowda had made an anthem in those college years when his world had revolved around two things: the basketball court and Urmila.
Every day after college, Gowda and his gang, including Michael, would walk down to Breeze on Brigade Road. The jukebox there was a point to congregate around and each of them had his own favourite. Michael had Neil Diamond’s‘ Cracklin Rosie ’ and ‘ Song sung blue ’, Satish ABBA’s ‘ Dancing queen ’, Imitiaz Boney M’s ‘ Rasputin ’. And every day Gowda would complain about jukeboxes that pandered to colonial tastes and forgot that Indians may want to listen to Indian music.
‘Like what,’ Satish asked one evening.
‘“ Kabhi kabhi ”, what else,’ Imitiaz laughed.
‘Don’t you tire of hearing that song, Mudde,’ Michael asked
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