Part 1 - Kalimpong
Dalapchand
The Lizard walked in with his rock-star swagger. He seemed shorter than usual in his black leather jacket and skintight jeans. His imitation Dr. Martens were patched up in several places by what looked like the handiwork of an incompetent cobbler. Sudhin could not help thinking that had the Lizard been a real international star, even this could have passed off as a style statement—something local rockers might have imitated.
He sat down on the sofa as Lou Reed’s Lisa Says played in the background. The Lizard squirmed and asked,
“Why do you listen to this sissy music?”
“Shall I turn it off then?” Sudhin asked.
“No. Let’s listen to some real rock,” he said, handing over a CD. It was a Sony disc on which someone had scrawled Hard Rock in marker. The first track that blared from Sudhin’s boom box was Breaking the Law. The Lizard swayed his head so that his long hair fell across his face. Sudhin left him to enjoy it and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
This was the first time the Lizard had visited his house. Their earlier meetings had been at Narayan Das, where the Lizard smoked through a packet of cigarettes and downed six cups of watery coffee while talking. Sudhin, all the while, had taken intuitive notes in his diary. Today he had his Dictaphone ready but hesitated to use it. He knew he did not have a journalist’s ear. What he was good at was internalizing the experience and later piecing together the disjointed strands of the Lizard’s musings. What he hoped for was to capture not just the rock star but the man behind the Lizard.
He prepared a pot of black coffee and returned to the room. Unusually, the Lizard had turned the CD off and was leafing through a copy of India Today. He looked strangely out of place doing something so mundane, though his many rings—sometimes three on one finger—still proclaimed his flamboyance.
“Thanks,” said the Lizard, taking the coffee.
“They slaughtered a pig this morning. Want to stay for lunch?” Sudhin asked, half in jest.
“Didn’t you know I’m a pure vegetarian? We are Kabir sadhus from Dalapchand. We haven’t eaten meat for generations.” The Lizard sounded almost offended by his host’s insensitivity. Sudhin found it incongruous that a rocker with such a reputation could be so harmless at the table—but secretly he was pleased. It was great material for the book.
“Do you mean you’ve never tasted meat? But then how can you sing about all that blood and gore when you’re so fastidious about even food?” He instantly regretted the formal, journalistic phrasing of the question.
The Lizard didn’t mind. “There are lots of Hindu vegetarian Gorkhas in the army who wouldn’t hesitate to lop off heads if needed. All I do is sing dark songs. So what’s the big deal in that?”
Sudhin began another “But even then…” before realizing the Lizard had closed that door. He quickly diverted to safer ground and asked about his family.
“I’m not married yet, but I hope to in the near future.”
“Anyone in particular?” Sudhin asked, not really wanting to head into predictable territory.
“No one at all. I’ll marry the girl my parents choose,” replied the Lizard, suddenly sounding unlike the man Sudhin had encountered before.
“But don’t rockers have strings of girlfriends and one-night stands?” he asked incredulously.
“Come on, that’s only in magazines. I’m into rock for the music, the rhythm, the experience. Long live Rock! Rock rocks!” He seemed eager to slip back into his rock-star skin.
As the meeting drew to a close, the Lizard pulled an envelope from his pocket. Inside was a complimentary ticket to a concert his band was performing at the Mela Ground during Diwali. The show was ostensibly in aid of a Buddhist charity. Sudhin, however, knew why all such events in Kalimpong were given an altruistic edge: it was a way to avoid the government’s entertainment tax.
Complimentary tickets, of course, were dreaded. They were never truly free. Clubs and associations would identify “worthy” individuals—contractors, businessmen, and now even teachers with good tuition incomes—to burden with such tickets. A register was kept with three columns: serial number, benefactor’s name, and amount paid. The trick was to inflate the first entry by a zero or two, so the rest, taking that as the going rate, ended up paying far more than they otherwise would.
Sudhin reached for his wallet, but the Lizard waved him off. “It’s really complimentary. You can even come on stage if you want to feel the ambience of a rock show.”
Sudhin thanked him. As the Lizard rose to leave, Sudhin couldn’t resist asking, “By the way, why haven’t you smoked a single cigarette while you’ve been here?”
“Because it’s Tuesday,” replied the man, and walked out the door without looking back.