PALASH KRISHNA MEHROTRA WRITES ABOUT PROSTITUTES, CROSS DRESSERS, MURDERERS, DRUG ADDICTS, STUDENTS AND STALKERS, PORTRAYING THEIR PERVERSIONS AND VULNERABILITIES WITH EQUAL INSIGHT, TAKING US DEEP INTO THE DARK AND SEAMY SOUL OF INDIA.

SET IN THE MURKY UNDERBELLY OF BIG CITIES AND SMALL TOWNS, SLUMS AND DOTCOMS, COLLEGE HOSTELS AND RENTED ROOMS, EUNUCH PARK: FIFTEEN STORIES OF LOVE AND DESTRUCTION IS A COLLECTION LIKE NO OTHER. GRITTY, GRIM AND DEPRAVED, THESE ARE CANDID VIGNETTES OF AN INDIA MOST OF US ARE AFRAID TO ACKNOWLEDGE.

PALASH KRISHNA MEHROTRA WAS BORN IN MUMBAI IN 1975 AND WAS EDUCATED AT ST STEPHEN’S COLLEGE, DELHI, THE DELHI SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS AND BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD. THE EDITOR OF RECESS: THE PENGUIN BOOK OF SCHOOLDAYS, HE IS ALSO A CONTRIBUTING EDITOR AT ROLLING STONE AND WRITES A REGULAR COLUMN FOR MAIL TODAY. PALASH LIVES IN DEHRA DUN WITH HIS GRANDMOTHER. HE IS CURRENTLY WORKING ON A NON-FICTION BOOK ON YOUNG INDIA, THE BUTTERFLY GENERATION.

EUNUCH PARK IS HIS FIRST SHORT-STORY COLLECTION.

Cover photograph by Ann Giordano/CORBIS Cover design by Bhavi Mehta

‘PALASH KRISHNA MEHROTRA TAKES US FOR A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE TO DARK PLACES THAT FEW OF US WOULD DARE TO EXPLORE ALONE. IN TURNS AUDACIOUS, GROTESQUE, AND UNEXPECTEDLY TENDER, HE ACHIEVES, IN HIS TAUTLY STRUCTURED FICTIONS, WHAT ACCLAIMED NOVELISTS OFTEN FAIL TO MASTER. THE MOST EXCITING SOUTH ASIAN DEBUT IN YEARS’

–Aamer Hussein

‘PALASH MEHROTRA IS A SHORT STORY WRITER OF GREAT NATURAL GIFTS, NEVER DEVOID OF VERVE AND ENERGY AND DELIGHT HOWEVER BLEAK OR UNHAPPY HIS SUBJECT MATTER. TRAUMATIC THOUGH HIS TERRAIN OFTEN IS, MEHROTRA’S REAL THEME IS THE INDEFATIGABLE IMPULSE TOWARDS LIFE AND TRANSFORMATION. THIS MAKES HIS BEST STORIES—AMONG THE BEST I’VE READ IN A LONG TIME—AT ONCE CAUTERIZING AND CURIOUSLY UPLIFTING’

—Amit Chaudhuri

Copyright

PENGUIN BOOKS

UK | Canada | Ireland | Australia
New Zealand | India | South Africa

Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

This collection published 2009

Copyright © Palash Krishna Mehrotra 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted

ISBN: 978-0-143-09992-5

This digital edition published in 2016.

e-ISBN: 978-8-184-75057-7

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

For Amma and Inu

Dancing with Men

Flair Bartender Robin is rinsing beer glasses when I walk in and take my place at the bar. Robin, or FBR as he calls himself, has spiky hair tinged with red dye, and is of stocky build. He suffers from mood swings—cheerful and helpful one minute, brooding the next. I like to think I am responsible for his cheerfulness at least part of the time. He hands me a bottle of Sandpiper across the counter—wants me to check if it is chilled. I touch it and say I will speak the truth and nothing but the truth. FBR grins and opens the bottle. This is our little joke. It has remained so for the last six months, ever since I first made the wisecrack and he responded.

The three men sitting on the other side of the bar have a problem with the cocktails menu. Their uniforms announce that they are from the coffee shop next door; their body language suggests they have just finished a long shift, that they are probably not going to work another one today. It’s not so much that they don’t like what’s on the list or that some drink is missing. They are confused and want FBR to help. FBR, in his turn, patiently explains the concoctions to them: Long Island Ice Tea, Bloody Mary, Tom Collins, Piña Colada, Flaming Ferrari. After much deliberation they decide on orders. FBR pours vodka into three greenish-looking glasses, then pulls out a lighter and ignites the drinks one by one. The three men sit on their stools, swallowing fire, their backs ramrod straight, their bodies rigid, their eyes bulging with fear.

At three in the afternoon, The Blue Hawaii is full. The regulars are already there: the four politicians in white kurtas, the chubby girl with short hair who walks like a man and is supposed to fuck for money. A stately Tibetan girl sits in front of a painted background of rising blue waves, drinking what looks like a gin and tonic, smoking a cigarette. The elbow of her cigarette hand rests on the table and she tilts her head slightly each time she blows out smoke. I notice the empty aquariums and ask FBR where all the goldfish went. He says there was something wrong with the power supply the other day—all the fish got electrocuted.

A portly middle-aged woman presides over a table of young girls aged thirteen to sixteen. Every once in a while when the DJ puts on a Bollywood remix of their choice the girls break from the table, two at a time, and hit the floor, their long black hair flailing in the multicoloured light. There is an incredible quantity of food on their table, the sight of which makes me hungry.

By five everyone is gone. The match is over, the stadium empty. The few men who remain pull their chairs closer together as if consoling each other.

Somebody walks up to me and extends his left hand.

‘Hey man, I think I know you.’

‘How do you know me?’

‘I have seen you around, everywhere: Meedo’s, Polo Bar, Great Value, Quest, here. Where are you headed after this?’

I say I don’t have a clue.

He says, ‘Hop on then, we’re off to Quest.’

‘No girls,’ I complain; ‘No girls . . .’ he replies, ‘Yes, no girls . . . so what?’

I turn to Robin and ask for the bill.

‘Sure,’ says Robin. ‘Quest is getting to be dangerous,’ he warns me. ‘Too many guys, no? They are going to have a fight one of these days. No crowd,’ he tells me, ‘no crowd.’

I hop on.

It’s a black Honda scooter. I sit in the middle. The man in front, the one in the driver’s seat, smells of sweat. The one behind me, the one riding pillion, has got his penis adjusted along the upper crack of my backside. I’m going dancing with men.

The sun plays tricks with the sky. The sky is anything but blue.

The men I’m with are men to whom I would ordinarily have nothing to say. They come from business families. Their fathers own motor spare parts shops and television showrooms, deal in wholesale goods.

It’s dark inside Quest. It’s full of men in their twenties. Everyone is smoking.

There is a lone girl on the floor. She has long silky black hair. Another girl soon joins her.

There is a third girl. She’s with her reticent boyfriend. When the DJ plays her request, she tugs at his sleeve, tries to drag him to the fluorescent edge of the floor. He refuses. She takes the lead each time but succumbs to his hesitance. She does this again and again until she finally succeeds. The men sitting at the bar turn around and watch the couple dance. The boyfriend dances jerkily. He doesn’t look happy. His partner sways her hips, thrusts her breasts out, throws her hands up in the air. She seems to be enjoying the attention.

Another couple walks into the bar. They are probably not a day older than fourteen. The boy wears an undersized T-shirt and cargo pants. He seems familiar with the place. They sit at a table close to the DJ’s booth, order vodkas and light up. On the table next to them, a man in dark glasses sits nursing a beer. He wears a flowery shirt; his hair is cut short in front, is long at the back. He sits absolutely still. His legs do not shake, his hands do not fidget. The strongest wind will not ruffle his hair. He could be cast in stone.

I see Angelo walk into the bar. Angelo is a tall slim man with long curly hair and opaque eyes. He is a man of many talents. He works as a shop assistant at a music store around the corner from Quest. That’s where I met him first.

He would always let me step behind the counter so I could have a better look at the tapes. Angelo is also a dog walker. Often, in the evenings, I see him in Gandhi Park, walking two or three dogs at a time, their leashes wrapped around his wrists. One Valentine’s Day, I see Angelo in Paltan Bazaar, a girl on each arm.

Angelo teaches choreography at three local schools. He likes Beyoncé and Justin Timberlake. And it is precisely because he is a choreo teacher that Angelo never dances in discos. He thinks it below the dignity of his craft to dance with lumpen drunk men who wiggle their untrained bodies in completely random fashion in small-town discotheques.

Angelo walks over to my table, his slender fingers wrapped around a rum and coke. He knows about my wife but Angelo is the kind of person who expresses empathy by skirting the issue at hand. He is full of news. He has just bought a new Honda scooter. He shows me the keys, invites me to take it for a ride. I try and feel excited for him, politely refuse his offer. ‘I don’t drive,’ I say, but Angelo refuses to give up. ‘Just give me half an hour and I’ll teach you how to.’

The place is filling up by now. The awkward couple is long gone. The only two girls there have got lost in the crowd. Angelo and I are talking about the weather when something happens. The music stops. People stop talking to each other. In the dim blue light one can make out two girls holding hands. I can hear screaming: ‘They don’t know who we are. These bastards. They really don’t know anything, Sonalika.’ Initially, the girls seem to be targeting their fury at specific people. By the time they leave, they are shouting at the world at large, accusing everyone inside Quest of being monsters and rapists. The men stand in groups, mildly stunned, drinking, smoking, sniggering. The girls leave without a backward glance. The party resumes.

Angelo sees some friends come in. He sticks his right arm up in the air trying to catch their attention. Annie, a diminutive but stocky man of about twenty-five, joins us. Annie is the president of the local degree college. ‘You must have seen my name plastered on the boundary wall of almost every house in Dehra Dun,’ he says, introducing himself. He has a confident, proprietorial air about him, like this is his chunk of the planet and everyone who enters, enters at his own risk. If you know him and happen to be sitting next to him, like I am tonight, you cannot help but feel safe. We are soon joined at our table by Annie’s sidekicks, two Indian Military Academy cadets and two exchange teachers called Tui and Richard. They all seem to know Angelo, who continues to sit facing the entrance, not wanting to miss anybody.

I am not in the mood to talk and am slightly irritated by the crowd Angelo has managed to collect around our table. I came here because I wanted to slink in a corner till the stroke of twelve, the hour when the management turn on the bright fuck-off lights. Except that now, seven garrulous men surround me. They are determined to have a good time, get things off their chest. Every once in a while the strobe light falls on a face in our group. I notice how ugly everyone looks. On the floor, men dance in pairs, their teeth shining like diamonds in the oppressive night.

A sailor joins our table. He’s got a girl with him. A dark-skinned girl who wears a big pendant and expensive platinum jewellery. The IMA guys are talking about where they are going to be sent next, may be to an African country on a peace-keeping mission.

Richard and Tui, the exchange teachers, are a trifle shocked at the fact that teachers in their school can beat up kids as and when they want. And, what’s more shocking, the kids don’t seem to mind, in fact, they seem to expect it. If you don’t whip their asses they think you are a fucking wimp.

The place is smoky. The floor is dirty: the floor is all cigarette packets, crushed cigarette ends and burnt out matches.

I go and sit at the bar. I light a cigarette. Two Sikh men to the right of me turn around and raise a protest. I am drunk, so I say, ‘You guys look too white to be Sikh.’

‘We are Canadian,’ they say, ‘but we are Sikh. Smoking is not allowed in our religion. Do not smoke here.’

I want to say: Please stuff your religion up your Royal Canadian ass and yes, might as well give it a good shove while you are at it.

I refuse to budge. There is a situation building.

Fortunately this situation is defused by another situation. There is something going on outside the club door. Everyone seems to be trooping out, then trooping back in. It’s some kind of fight. The Sikhs are interested. They leave their drinks on the bar and troop out as well. Everyone is fucking trooping except me.

Everyone is now outside checking out the fight. The sailor and his girlfriend are the only ones who have chosen to stay in. I go and join them. ‘Typical,’ I say, referring to the fight. ‘What’s typical?’ they respond, with identical quizzical expressions.

Something has fallen into the girl’s drink. She complains to the waiter. He gets her a new one. The sailor and his girlfriend decide to tell me how they met. Sailor says, ‘This time when I got off the ship, I just had one thing on my mind—marriage.’ Sailor girl says in a nasal voice, ‘Even I was desperate to get married.’ Sailor boy says, ‘Thank god I met a girl, this girl—I was so desperate to be married I would have married a goat.’

‘Same here,’ says the girl.

By now people are coming back into the bar. They resume their conversations. The DJ continues to play Bollywood remixes, Eminem remixes, all kinds of remixes.

The floor is packed. Men arch their backs and throw their hands in the air. The men dance as couples.

I hit the floor and start dancing on my own. I move around trying to penetrate the privacy of these male couples. One of them moves a step back, allowing me to join in. Now there are three of us. The man spreads his legs, throws his head back. I go down on my knees, slide and land under his crotch. My gaping mouth almost kisses the man’s bulge. I can smell the smell. I can hear myself singing ‘Kajra re, kajra re, tere kale, kale naina.’ We reverse roles. The man twirls around like a girl while I thrust my pelvis at him.

The dance floor is absolutely packed. More and more men crowd the floor, clutching cigarettes, drinks, their best mate’s hands. A couple enters. They don’t look like they are from around here. Everybody turns around and stares. They leave. We get back to dancing. Occasionally, an overenthusiastic dancer loses balance and takes a spill.

Somebody’s hand lands on my face, dislodging my spectacles. They go flying through the smoky air. I don’t even try to find them. I cannot see anything now. ‘Where am I?’ I ask my dancing partner, a scrawny guy wearing a blue T-shirt that bears some brand name. ‘Tum kahan se aa gaye bhai sahib?’ he replies. There is affection in his voice. I break away from the guy and begin to work the dance floor. I whirl around in circles, stumble and trip. Someone proffers a hand, picks me up. I go to every dancing couple, I walk over to the DJ’s cabin. I can hear myself saying: C’mon guys, let’s do it. One last time. I am the foreign coach encouraging his boys to go for the kill. We have to win tonight.

And so the night continues—men dancing in perfect harmony. There is some pushing and some shoving, a bit of aggro but not real, more like role-playing. With no girls around, the men have nothing to fight over. We make the best of whatever we have been given: a floor, a DJ, each other.

I don’t know where Angelo is. The sailor and his companion have already left. I feel tired and decide to leave. I pay the bill and walk out into the night. What do I see? An autorickshaw, a smiling mongrel, a desiccated jacaranda tree, sewage water flowing in a straight line, squashed Pepsi bottles, cinema hoardings.

I walk up Rajpur Road. After a ten-minute walk I see a sign that says The Blue Hawaii. I walk right in. FBR is still there. The chairs are upside down on the tables. They are about to close. FBR is practising juggling. Cocktail shakers fly around his head in rainbow formation. Occasionally, a hyperactive shaker breaks out of the semi-circular arc and smashes to the floor.

FBR fixes me a gin and tonic with lots of lemon. He thinks this is a good idea. I ask him to put on Guns N’ Roses. He says, ‘Can’t you hear it? It’s playing man!’ One of the waiters stands on a stool in front of an aquarium. He holds a grimy fishbowl. Slowly, carefully, he puts new, wriggling goldfish back into the colourful but empty tank.

Fit of Rage

I sit on a blue plastic stool outside the Mother Dairy booth in Def Col Market and do nothing. It’s the end of another grey and cloudy August day. The monsoon has yielded little rain. Even though it’s evening, I’m sweating. The humidity makes me feel like a squeezed sponge.

I should be at home. I really don’t know what makes me leave my room. These days I am pushed along by forces not in my control. One day slips into another. Every night is a silent dark space that swallows me whole. I squat inside her belly until she spits me out at dawn, covered in phlegm and bile.

Something happened a year ago. Arpita and I were living in Bombay then. We were locked in the missionary position when, suddenly, she pushed me off. She said, ‘Manik, I feel hemmed in. Every day it is the same damn thing. We’ve been together for five whole years and every night it’s the same old shit. No new positions. No nothing. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this. I feel my youth slipping away from me, Manik.’ She sat on the floor and glared at her toes. I smoked a cigarette. I felt deeply humiliated.

Then I did something terrible.

It’s not very clear to me what exactly happened. I did what I did in a fit of rage. I remember a kitchen knife, I remember being seized by an uncontrollable urge and doing what had to be done. I recall a pair of dangling headphones playing tinny music.

Defence Colony isn’t a completely new place for me. I lived here many years ago, when I was a techie with a dotcom. It was my first job.

In Bombay, I thought to myself: it’s all over now, let me return to where I started my adult life. From twenty to thirty has been one long journey. I suppose you could say my life never really took off. Many strange things happened in those ten years. I try not to remember them but very often memories force themselves on my consciousness; they are like stubborn relatives who invite themselves over even when you’ve made it clear that they are unwelcome.

I have a room on the first floor, directly above the garage. The house faces a school. In the mornings I can hear the bell go off every forty minutes, signalling the end of one period and the start of another. Mid-morning, at around eleven, a drum starts its heavy pounding, most probably a PT class. From my window I can see only a small part of the playground. The ground is dusty and shorn of grass. During the break the girls play a game where they run around holding each other’s hands, forming a chain. When the girls stray into the corner of the field visible from my window, I back away or hide behind the curtain. I wouldn’t want them to see me.

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