GALLEY BEGGAR PRESS SHORT STORY PRIZE 2021/22

PRAGATI K.B.
‘Appa and I’

OUR BUS TRUDGES through an idle ECR, past a lone tender-coconut seller on an empty pavement, beside a board that reads Delhi Dhaba. 

Do tender coconut vendors ever drink their tender coconuts? And the dhabawale? Do they eat their aloo parathas and rajma chawal every day? What about the college-mess annas? Do they complain about the monotonous menu? 

The bus stops. Two bulging plastic bags burst in and onto the second step. Flowers. Red, yellow, pink, white roses in one; yellow sevantige in the other. Their bearer clambers in behind them. Beside me, appa has dozed off. I find him sleeping a lot these days. When he is not working, he is sleeping. I try to do that. Like right now on this bus ride. Sleep eludes me. But my mind copes. It goes into overdrive, absorbing surroundings, conversations, hoardings. Despite the distractions, thoughts I’m trying to block out meander into sight. The dormant elephant overtakes, baring menacing ivory fangs, eclipsing all else. Maybe that’s why appa sleeps. I want to crook my arms in his and put my head on his lap and sleep, just like on those bus rides we took to ajji’s house, when I was much smaller. I can’t will myself to. Not yet. Not ever, perhaps. 

Ajfan Dates and Nuts. Ajfan. Afjan. Ajfan. Afjan sounds better. Afjan Dates and Nuts. Another tender-coconut seller, other boards – Universal Kingdom, Aradhana Dts. 

We have to get off at Adyar. We are en route to Mana Andhra for a fine Nizami biryani lunch. We could have eaten anything, like we did at breakfast. But appa insisted on biryani. He knows I like biryani and that it is hard to come by in a college hostel. I nervously scan addresses on billboards to make sure we don’t miss the stop. Most billboards are in Tamil. I switch on Google Maps. Adyar Depot. One straight blue vein with a kink in the fag end. “20 min (8 km)” till destination. Another 20 minutes by auto to the restaurant from the depot, an hour at the restaurant, 15 minutes to reach college from the restaurant, 10 minutes in college, 10 minutes more to walk to the main road from college wherefrom appa can take an auto to Koyambedu bus stand – around 3 hours in toto. Just enough time for him to make the 16.10 AC sleeper bus back, I calculate, for the tenth time that day. It wasn’t so much his missing the bus that nagged me, but the extra activity and conversation I would have to engage in if we finished early. I was counting hours before I could crawl back into the safety of my solitude. We were already ahead of schedule and that was making me uneasy.

Appa hadn’t insisted on visiting me in Jodhpur after my third year. Amma had come over thrice in the five years I was there studying. But he has been very insistent on visiting me here in Chennai. Is he making up for lost time? I have been dreading this day, planning and re-planning it, playing it all out in a loop. Nothing had worked according to plan so far. 

The bus is not moving, its engine idling. Red light. Two stretchers outside The Madras Pain Clinic. One is occupied. A violent rev of a motor. Green light. A moped ahead is not starting. Its rider gets off it, pushing it by the handlebar to the side of the road. We pass him. Green TVS 50. 

During my primary-school years, amma went to office on a TVS moped too. TVS XL Super. Black colour. Appa had a Bajaj Chetak. We hadn’t owned a car then. Wherever our family went, these two vehicles went with us. Amma on her moped and appa with me on the scooter. Amma never approved of riding triples on a two-wheeler for as long as I can remember. So, any outing we made as a family, we would follow this arrangement. Amma is bad with directions. The only ones she can navigate without getting lost are home-office and office-home. The tiniest deviation in-between and she would be adrift at sea. We tackled this problem of the routes this way – appa rode in front and amma trailed him. It was a practical solution, one would say. A highly inefficient one, I say. Appa and amma did not operate at the same speeds. Amma was always trying to catch up. The arrangement, for me, translated into this – look over shoulder from behind appa on the Chetak, squint and trace the black moped in the burgeoning traffic, relax, repeat after one minute; look over shoulder, squint, stiffen, ask appa to slow down, trace black moped, relax, repeat. All through the ride, my gut would house a pit that untangled and dissipated only on reaching 3rd cross, 8th main. Home. My fear was not that amma would lose her way. I was certain we would go looking and find her, if she did lose her way. I was afraid if I weren’t alert, I couldn’t foretell my parents’ fights, much less stop it. I persisted, jumpy and on my toes, for one could never be too careful. I could neither predict nor stop them, of course. 

Appa has woken up. He is peering into the map on my phone. 4 minutes to destination. I remark about the blazing weather. “We must always take public transport when we can, when we have the time and energy. We are travelling in 50 rupees, what would have otherwise cost us 350 rupees by cab”, he says, for the third time that day. I nod. Appa never indulges in excesses. Amma and I are more liberal with our wants, more materialistic. We take cabs, enjoy an occasional donut outing and buy ridiculously expensive branded clothing. With appa, I’ve eaten plain food at nondescript joints, slurped kaal soup at cheap military hotels, drank a lot of tender coconut and generally ambled a lot. As a family, though, we have always enjoyed watching plays, no matter how expensive the tickets. After school, many an evening was spent in my uniform, applauding to curtain calls, in auditoriums that appa, amma and I reached by the twin-transport arrangement. 

This morning, appa took a city bus from Koyambedu to Taramani, where my college is located, after an all-night journey on a Bangalore–Chennai bus. Amma and I don’t have it in us to endure this much physical strain. Appa is mule, always has been. 

We get off at the Adyar depot. Mana Andhra is 6 km away. Appa is hailing an auto. I suggest we take another bus instead. In the bus, appa notices my phone battery is at 36 per cent. He tells me to keep my phone charged at all times. I tell him about my faulty charger. It has been charging my battery at 1 per cent every half hour. He takes out his charger from his bag and asks me to keep it. I protest and tell him I will buy another one soon. He won’t listen and thrusts it in my jhola. 

The road. The pavement. Another tender-coconut cart. 

In 75 rupees and two hours, we have reached Nungambakkam from Dakshinchitra. 32 km. We saved 395 rupees I beam and show appa the Uber app on my phone. We have earned our lunch, he says. I’m apprehensive, apologetic about Mana Andhra’s prices. Appa dismisses it, “what else did we save up on the journey for?” 

As we wait for our food, appa asks me for the charger and plugs in his phone. It has 13 per cent battery left. He hasn’t gotten a chance to charge it since last evening. By the time we have finished our after-mint, it is at 36 per cent. The time is 15.00. He is not going to make the 16.10 AC sleeper. This means he will reach Bangalore after midnight. Public transport will have stopped plying. He will have to book a cab to get home from the bus station. For which, he will need his phone. His 36 per cent won’t last the seven-hour journey. I ask him to keep the charger with him. He refuses. “I will give you my faulty charger, it will at least keep your phone alive,” I say. He agrees. He asks me to book a cab back to college. I oblige. 

Appa unwraps paan from its clear plastic. He asks if I want it. “No.” I ate mine at the restaurant. He tells me to treat myself to biriyani once a week. I nod. We don’t talk the rest of the way.

The guard at the college gate does not allow appa to enter the premises without prior written permission. It is the same guard from the morning. My face is flushed. I know I should have taken permission. It hadn’t slipped my mind, I had let it slip. I had viewed my dad’s visit as an inconvenience. I try to reason with the guard. “Appa has a bus to catch in an hour, we won’t spend more than 5 minutes on campus. I just have to go to my room, pick up the duffel bag with the stuff I’m sending back home with him. And while I do that, appa will stay on the lawn. It will take all of 5 minutes. He can’t be a threat to the students in those 5 minutes, surely!” My pleading eyes betray my firm voice of reason. The guard doesn’t budge. Appa intervenes and says he will wait at the gate. I walk away from appa on the cobbled pathway. I make a mental note to pick up the bag and the phone charger and to fill a bottle with water for his journey. Dakshinchitra was a good idea. Bag, charger, water. I had a good time. Bag, charger, water. Is that a good thing or a bad thing that I had a good time with appa? 

I don’t see tender coconuts. 

Bag, charger, water. Bag, charger, water. I walk up the stairs to my room. I’m grateful for my roommate’s absence when I enter. I pull out the charger from its socket, roll it up and keep it on the bed. I keep the duffel bag beside the charger. As I am walking out to fill the bottle from the common water cooler, I grab the smokes pack from the table and put it in my jhola, intending to light up after appa leaves. I think of the cigarette, the first one for the day, as I fill the bottle. I walk back into the room and pick up the duffle bag. I don’t put the charger in my jhola, worrying I will forget to take it out. If I carry it in my hand instead, I will remember and surely give it to him. 

Appa is reading the banner from a previous event when I walk back to the gate. We start walking towards the main road. He says I should stay back on campus, for it will be a long walk back for me, alone. I insist on walking him to the main road. He relents. The road reminds me again of the cigarette. He is telling me to eat meals on time, to sleep eight hours daily and to maintain a daily diary. I speak of my hectic schedule and the various assignments – the same ones I have already told him about. “Is it so humid every day?” “My roommate and I take a walk here after dinner on most days.” We speak of more banal things. We try to mask the simmering tension. On the main road, appa asks a hawker what bus would take him to Koyambedu station. He has to either walk till the next junction and take a 51 C or take a bus to the next junction and then take a 51 C. We reach the bus shelter and stand wiping our wet brows. An auto slows down, a woman is already inside. Appa asks, “Madhya–Kailas junction?” The driver says 10 rupees. Appa nods, turns and says, “okay ma, bye” and hobbles inside, bags first, body next. The auto starts moving. Appa has reached forward for my hand. Our outstretched hands linger in mid-air, until the auto gains speed. Appa’s face is peering out of the auto. He is waving at me. He waves until I can see the auto no more. 

I start walking back towards hostel. I blink and a big drop escapes my eye. It lands on my foot. I miss my dad. I push away these thoughts and singularly concentrate on reaching the hostel road and lighting up. I light a cigarette, take a drag, I well up. I resist. I take a few more drags. A tear slips. My phone is ringing. Appa. My cheeks are now wet. I answer, he says he has caught a 51 C. He chokes. I think he chokes. He again tells me not to skip breakfast and dinner. His voice is feeble. We hurriedly finish the call. I don’t want to smoke any more, I abandon the cigarette. I feel the water bottle I had filled for him in my jhola, my heart sinks a little more. How could I forget! I should remind him to buy a bottle before boarding. At least I gave him the charger. 

Misty-eyed, I pass through the hostel gates. Where will I live when I go home next holidays? With appa or amma? How many days will I stay with appa and how many with amma? I had asked amma who will keep the printer. I had not meant to ask about the printer. I did not care who kept the printer. Was I being a bad daughter to amma by having a good time with appa? He has been a good dad. Will I ever be able to allay this guilt? I have reached my room. I open the door and walk in. The charger is lying on the bed. Bag, charger, water.