Ironed shirts

A sniff of smoky dust powdered over his face, as he gazed at the office buildings pushing away, through the tobacco stained window of the state transport bus. It was the last week of May and the dry summers were peaking, adding to the unease Ghassi felt at the thought of returning back to his parents’ house.
Ghanshyam Sundar Shashtri, was his full name though throughout his life span of 25 years only his late grandfather addressed him with that name in its entirety. Ghanshyam’s mother wanted his son to be named Sanjay for reasons she never revealed but this disagreement between the mother of the child and his grandfather lead to a kind of domestic passive aggression where families temporarily become so formal that suddenly one feels self-conscious of his movements at his own house so it might not offend the delicacy of the home situation. Neither of the two parties seemed to soften their stand and suddenly the whole neighborhood got pulled into this named affair too. That’s a just how small town functions, gossip like this can be expected to sustain itself over evening tea and biscuit conferences as housewives huddle up to complain and sympathize. It also garners interest amongst the gathering at the children’s park as all the over sixties men, unaware of their grandchildren who they walked till here and who would mysteriously return right when the custodian gets up around to look for them to return home, talk about households but with a little more restrained revelation of details as compared to the women folk.
And thus, the talk about Ghanshyam Sundar made it’s way to the dining tables of families, each of whom bought their morning bread from Bholu Kiryana store and Samosa chaat from Amritji Sweets and confectionaries. It would be the same screenplay in every re-narration of the home situation at Shastri Kunj- the housewife would mention how Bhagatji is being unreasonable at naming Sarita’s son after probably some old friend of his and that he really must have no say as it should be up to the mother to decide whatever name she wants her son to bear; this proposition would be instantly met with a chuckle and a grunt suggesting a hint of both condescension and disagreement with the wife who had prepared spinach for the third time this week now. What follows is an anxious expectation for the husband to reflect upon the issue, who in an expected anxious tone tries to test the waters by reasoning from both sides; of his parent’s and wife’s; and carefully judged who seemed to be more inflamed about the issue. But, it seemed everyone had strong opinions about Ghanshyam Sundar, faithfully aligned with their own evening gatherings.
After weeks of disagreement, the thirty three year old Junior engineer with the municipal water supply board and the father of the alleged Ghanshayam found himself right at the centre of the crossfire. His wife wasn’t talking to him at all and for the past two nights he even had to sleep on the couch without a blanket, which gave him a terrible cold, adding to his already haggard state, as he showed up at office in an un-ironed shirt which his wife refused to crease as she always did.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tired, this early in the morning.” Said Kilwar Prasad, a sub-district engineer with the sewage board.
Although, Rakesh and Kilwar worked in different blocks in the municipal office area, the habit of having a paan after the lunch break had them both become the kind of friends who like to talk to each other but still not know too much of their friends, they can go on for decades meeting at the same place and sharing a cup of tea, share a smoke out of the same bundle of bidi but they won’t even know of each other’s first names. Shastri-ji and Prasad shared this intimate yet disjointed relationship with each other, and that is why Rakesh felt almost insulted by Prasad’s remark about his appearance replacing the general scorn at the weather. Prasad hated every kind of weather, and that’s how he always introduced himself at the beginning of conversation.
“It’s March and still you have to wear two sweaters. How do they expect us to play Holi in one week? Oh! Shastri-ji did you get the pipeline tender passed?”
“Look at the Sun, at night one just can’t expect to sleep without the cooler at all. Oh! Shastri-ji! Did yo- “ Prasad would smile through his decaying teeth, now all red with paan.
“Haan! Got the tender passed finally, today deserves a Special paan!”
These were normal conversations for Shastri-ji and Prasad. Nothing less, nothing more. Talk about the weather, tell about the status of monthly tenders and then head back to respective offices after checking if their Bajaj Chetak scooters are still parked safely at place or not.
Rakesh Sundar Shastri, toppled by this undesired upheaval couldn’t enjoy his paan at all that day and wanted normalcy to return. He won’t be a passive observer to all this. Infact, he is the bread-earner of his family. He must be respected, and he deserved ironed shirts to wear for office. Rakesh felt empowered as he paced with a soldier’s confidence overlooking everyone and everything as he made his way through the cramped municipal office, and his toe hit the sturdy iron foot of the reception desk. He lost balance and fell over his left shoulder on the dirty cement floor. The guard initially ignored him but burdened by the fact that maybe it was his occupation to help this man; he helped Rakesh stand back up.
“Saab! Are you ok? Ohho saab! All your shirt got crushed and dirty.” The guard grinned at Rakesh’s face.
He had clearly had enough. Prasad and now the building guard, his whole reputation was at stake. He dusted his shirt with two swift movements of his hand and rushed out of the wretched office complex. He felt a considerable amount of discomfort inside the shoe of his left foot but he kept on walking hurriedly till he reached his scooter. Upon untying the shoe laces, he found his old white socks spotted with a blood stained blot around his toe. There was a pandit right opposite the paan shop, just 200 metres from the parking complex , who also did bandages for local wrestlers who fought at the akhadas. Rakesh held his shoe in his hand and walked barefoot in his socks, trying to reach for the pandit’s shack before anyone from the office saw him.
The shop was really just a rudimentary arrangement of tin sheets tied together with each other using sticks and electricity wires, yet once inside it seemed quite spacious with a carpet and old idols of Lord hanuman placed at one corner of it and the pandit-ji sitting next to them with an old FM radio set playing a catchy Bollywood number. The smell of incense sticks and Dettol filled the shack to present a very strange atmosphere as Rakesh knocked at the tin roof, almost dismantling the whole structure.
“Easy, easy. And don’t carry your shoes inside like this? You’d dirty the whole carpet!” Panditji put the radio off and got up in sudden agitation, the visitor had disrupted his meditation but he was a costumer probably, religion really doesn’t create bread and wine out of nothing after all.
“My toe is bleeding. Just need some bandaging done. Do you have Savlon? I really don’t like Dettol. It pierces, wherever applied.”
Panditji instantly disliked all this sass about Dettol and Savlon, as he made his way through the visitor to scrape through an old wooden box to find the Savlon, without saying anything. In the meanwhile, Rakesh placed himself on a wooden platform and stretched his legs, getting rid of the socks, which looked very dirty now.
“You work in the mun-ceepal office na?” Panditji asked him and thus abruptly breaking the silence.
“Yes, in the water works, supply department. How did you know?’’ Rakesh felt at ease somehow, he felt dignity return at being recognized as a respectable government employee, an important part of the system. Yes, that’s what he was- an important part.
“I see you at the paan shop quite often, that’s my son who prepares you the paan everyday sirji.” Panditji announced proudly.
Rakesh tried to remember the paan shop owner’s name, he bought his paan from the same shop for 5 years now but never even bothered to know his name. Somehow, he felt perfectly at ease not know things. He lived passively, it suddenly occurred to him and he stood up with determination, stepping on panditji’s index finger as he cursed in a shrill voice right in front of the holy idols.
“Aieeeyaa! What are you doing? Have you had too much to drink already? What is the problem with you?” Panditji was burning with anger as he pressed his finger between his legs.
“I’m sorry Panditji. But there is a problem with me. I didn’t mean to startle you like this.” Rakesh wasn’t looking at Panditji but spoke out with respect and sounded sincere, which made Panditji cool down a bit.
“But what is the problem? I’m fixing up the toe, ain’t I?”
“It’s not that Panditji, it’s something else. I don’t think you can fix that up.’’ Rakesh lowered his head and then turned to look at Panditji who now seemed very offended.
“Arre! What do you mean I can’t fix that up? I can fix anything up! I’ve made wrestlers win bouts every Tuesday at Bajrangi Akhada with my oil massages, right here in this temple. Just try me. Tell me what it is! Speak up! I’ve the ancient secret of Lord Hanuman, I know the remedy to every cancer, all doctors are shams, crooks and thieves. Why don’t you speak up, huh?” Panditji now stood up too and created commotion with his hand while barking at Rakesh.
Rakesh lost his restrain and with twitched brows took a deep breath, expanding his chests he looked at Panditji and announced:
“My wife won’t cook anything other than Spinach, my scooter takes a dozen kickstarts for the engine to start ignition, Kumar will probably get a bonus and I won’t even though I did more pipeline repairs than him, I had just two drinks because it was Rajan’s birthday and everyone was drinking and I hadn’t had even a drop of alcohol for one whole month and for just those two drinks Sarita gives me that face and threatens to go her father’s home with my son; the summer is about to come and I need to get a new cooler which means I won’t have any money left to buy a new Hi-Fi system, two days ago I met Sumit Ghaliyan who always used to copy my answer throughout school and today he owns a bunglow in Tilak Nagar and was driving a new Ambassador car like he was some diplomat! A property dealer, that guy didn’t even finish college and he’s having a better life than me but most of all, the worst of all, Prasad thinks my shirt is all wrinkled! And all of this is because my wife won’t just let her son be named Ghanshyam! Tell me can you help with any of this! Can you! Speak now?” Rakesh was breathing heavily over panditji’s face, pouncing over him with his eyes for a reply.
“Why…Yes! Yes! I do these ceremonies, everyone in the town calls me for their son’s christening. No child can be named without a pandit christening him, no child will be free from the ghosts of past if that doesn’t happen. Every child in the town is named by me: Dhanush, Suneel, Ghallu, Gajendra, Sampat…”
Panditji was counted all the names on his finger tips as it suddenly struck Rakesh. All this business can be put to rest. Rakesh really didn’t care what his son should be called as long as it’s not Sumit Ghaliyan maybe. Rakesh suddenly started laughing and grabbed panditji firmly.
“Yes! That’s it.” He hugged Panditji and laughed again.
The following week, on Tuesday Samosas, Aloo Puri and Jalebi were ordered from Lakkhan caterers, and the neighborhood that was used to the Aloo chaat from Amritji Sweets and confectionaries gathered in a tent, which was rented for just one hour because it had to be taken to a wedding reception, three streets away. There were excited chatters and gossips as elders and housewives came along with their kids, found the much talked about domestic issue seeking religion to settle itself.
Panditji had dressed up ceremonially, in his white kurta and saffron loincloth.
He looked important, as he sat next to the ceremonial prayer fire and enunciated all his Sanskrit mantras with utmost sincerity.
“What is the day when the child was born?” Panditji asked and addressed Rakesh but Sarita answer him. The grandfather gave a chuckle and grind his teeth.
Panditji took a tiny booklet from his cloth bag and seemed to be searching through it. Everyone had gathered around the family in question and there was an atmosphere of suspense created in that moment that made Panditji feel very important and he might have deliberately extended his ceremony to savour it.
“The child is a Gemini and there is a lot of Jupiter in his accounts, he might even have ghosts of the past he carries from his past life. I suggest the only thing that can make him have God’s blessings is if we name him, as God has proclaimed. His name must start from Ghaa-“
Grandfather gave a chuckle and grind his teeth. He silently got up and had his fourth samosa.
Since that day, Sarita had called her son Ghassi and even introduced him to her relatives or whoever visited them with that name. However, she might not like that name she certainly didn’t want his child to grow up with ghosts of his past life. As for Rakesh, he was just happy that he got to wear ironed shirts to office; although he never went back to the paan shop after that day. He just couldn’t bear the face of Panditji waving at him across the street, reminding him of how he paid five hundred rupees to make sure normalcy returned in 55/C, Hazrat Ganj.
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