After my traumatic experience with Shantaram, I thought I would never be able to tolerate a drunk. But Jimmy's was the only establishment that offered me a job. I console myself with the thought that the smell of whisky is less pungent than the stench from the communal latrine near my shack, and that listening to a drunkard is less painful than listening to the heartrending stories of rape, molestation, illness and death that emanate daily from the huts of Dharavi. So I have now learnt to fake an interest and say 'Ummmm' and 'Yes' and 'Really?' and 'Wow!' to the tales of cheating wives and miserly bosses that are aired every night at Jimmy's Bar and Restaurant, while simultaneously encouraging customers to order another plate of Chicken Fry and another bowl of salted cashew nuts to go with their drinks. And every day I wait for a letter to arrive from the W3B people, to tell me if I have been selected to participate in the show. But the postman delivers nothing.
A sense of defeat has begun to cloud my mind. I feel that the specific purpose for which I came to Mumbai is beyond me. That I am swimming against the tide. That powerful currents are at work which I cannot overcome. But then I hear my beloved Nita's cries and Neelima Kumari's sobs and my willpower returns. I have to get on to that show. And till that happens, I will continue to listen to the stories of the drunkards in this city. Some good. Some bad. Some funny.
Some sad. And one downright bizarre.
* * *
It is past midnight, but the lone customer at the bar refuses to budge. He has come by chauffeur-driven Mercedes, which is parked outside. He has been drinking steadily since ten pm and is now on his fifth peg. His uniformed driver is snoring in the car. Perhaps he knows that his employer will not come out in a hurry. The man is in his early thirties and is dressed in a smart dark suit with a silk tie and shiny leather shoes.
'My dear brother, my dear brother,' he keeps repeating every two minutes, in between sips of Black Label whisky and bites from the plate of shammi kebabs.
The manager snaps his fingers at me. 'Thomas, go and sit with him and ask him about his brother. Can't you see the poor fellow is distraught?'
'But . . . Manager Sahib, it is past midnight. We should tell him to leave or I'll miss the twelve-thirty local.'
'Don't you dare argue with me or I'll break your jaw,' he snarls at me. 'Now go, engage the customer in conversation. Get him to order the Scottish single malt which came in yesterday. He has come in a Mercedes.'
I glare at the manager like a schoolboy at a bully. Reluctantly, I return to the bar and slide closer to the customer.
'Oh, my dear brother, I hope you will forgive me,' he moans, and nibbles at the shammi kebab.
He is behaving like an ass, but at least he is in the lucid phase, with a couple of pegs in his system and words bubbling out of his mouth.
'What happened to your brother, Sir?' I ask.
The man raises his head to peer at me with half-closed eyes. 'Why do you ask? You will only increase the pain,' he says.
'Tell me about your brother, Sir. Perhaps it will lessen your pain.' 'No. Nothing can lessen the pain. Not even your whisky.' 'Fine, Sir. If you do not want to talk about your brother, I will not ask. But what about you?'
'Don't you know who I am?'
'No, Sir.'
'I am Prakash Rao. Managing Director of Surya Industries. The biggest manufacturer of buttons in India.'
'Buttons?'
'Yes. You know, buttons on shirts, pants, coats, skirts, blouses. We make them. We make all kinds of buttons from all kinds of materials. We use mostly polyester resins, but we have also made buttons of cloth, plastic, leather and even camel bone, horn-shell and wood. Haven't you seen our ad in the newspapers? "For the widest range of buttons – from fastening garments to pulling drawers – come to Surya. Buttons R Us." I am quite sure that the shirt you are wearing has buttons manufactured by my company.'
'And your brother, what is his name?'
'My brother? Arvind Rao. Oh, my poor brother. Oh, Arvind,' he starts moaning again.
'What happened to Arvind? What did he do?'
'He used to be the owner of Surya Industries. Till I replaced him.'
'Why did you replace him? Here, let me pour you a peg from this single malt which we got direct from Scotland.'
'Thank you. It smells good. I remember going to Mauritius for my honeymoon, to Port Louis, and there I had my first taste of single malt whisky.'
'You were mentioning replacing your brother.'
'Ah yes. My brother was a very good man. But he had to be replaced as MD of Surya Industries because he went mad.'
'Mad? How? Here's a fresh bowl of cashew nuts.'
'It is a long story.'
I use one of Rosie's lines. 'The night is young. The bottle is full. So why don't you begin?' 'Are you my friend?' he says, looking at me with glassy eyes. 'Of course I am your friend,' I reply with a toothy grin.
'Then I will tell you my story, friend. I am drunk, you know. And a drunken man always speaks the truth. Right, friend?'
'Right.'
