Corporate Carnival (11 page)

‘But… but can’t you do it? You’ve known her for twenty-four years!’

In the end it was Mina who talked to Kitty and soon the six of us – along with a motley bunch of twenty-odd tourists – were clutching the sides of the boat for dear life as we sped through the waves. Twenty minutes later, we were well into the ocean, right in the middle of humpback whale territory. What a sight it was! There is nothing more remarkable than seeing this mammal, almost six times the size of an elephant, hurl itself out of the water – doing a breach, it is called – and dive back into the ocean. It was magnificent. And what’s more, they did it repeatedly, almost like they were putting on a show for us. For variety, they did a flip, turned sideways and slashed their fins at the others. The captain told us this was a group of males on their way to a meeting place in warmer water, which they would turn into a mating place. During that long haul from Antarctic to African waters, the males seek to establish supremacy and eliminate rival males. At one point, there were about a dozen whales all around us, moving at breakneck speed, diving and slapping and slashing at one another. How a fifty-thousand pounder could move at that pace, heaving itself in and out of the water like that, beats me. It was heady stuff.

‘I don’t see any hump on the whale,’ Mina gasped, clinging to the side of the boat.

I spat out the salty water that kept getting into my mouth as I was doused by the ocean spray. ‘Maybe it’s called that,’ I said, raising my voice to be heard above the din of the engine and the shrieks of the twenty-strong group, ‘because it goes to Madagascar to get humped before coming back.’

‘Shut up, Jai,’ Mina hissed fiercely in my ear. ‘There are children around.’

Things were now getting fast and furious. Shree’s camera almost slid off his shoulder and Kitty almost slid off the boat. My aunt alternately bawled, screamed, puked and raged against her husband for bringing her along. She didn’t take to the waters one bit. I too was beginning to a feel a little queasy by the time they decided to turn back. ‘Everyone still there?’ the captain joked. ‘Those who aren’t, please put your hands up.’

On the way back, I overheard Shree admonishing Kitty. Shree, when he whispered, was more audible than when he spoke normally. ‘Look at the female humpback whale,’ he croaked in a loud, hoarse whisper. ‘It travels thousands of miles to mate, going without food for months, delivers the baby and then returns with the baby to the Antarctic, keeping sharks at bay the entire time. And look at you! Making a big fuss about your underwear!’

I would have thought she would be suitably chastened. But Kitty was in a sulky mood. She hadn’t enjoyed the trip. She had got wet, she had nearly fallen off the boat, and she screamed every time a whale came too close. I think she’s a bit like Kapoor. Wildlife doesn’t really tickle her. She would rather learn a new dance, watch a movie or play a round of Pictionary. Through a gap in between the seats, I saw her glare at Shree mutinously and show him the finger. Girls will be girls, I suppose.

Back on the beach, the captain told my aunt to drink some orange juice. ‘It will help you feel better,’ he told her. My aunt was a completely different person now, with the land firmly beneath her feet. She hugged the captain, hugged everyone in sight and giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘Is there anything I could have taken before the trip?’ she asked, the green and yellow colour on her face rapidly morphing into her regular brown. ‘Hmm… maybe strawberry jam.’ ‘Oh! Does that help?’ she asked, surprised. ‘No,’ the captain replied. ‘But at least it would have tasted good on its way out.’

11

In Madiba Land

I
t was the day before the final.

Netherlands was pitted against Spain. Out in London, the great big mancom jamboree was over and done with. The Brits had given up. Sir Sidney would remain chairman but a significantly weakened one. The group CEO would quit and be replaced by a Dutchman. In Dubai, Fergs had already submitted his resignation, miffed by the changes in London.

Wayne Rooney and the English team’s lacklustre show at the World Cup were having repercussions on us too. All over AbAd, Dutchmen and their supporters were circulating one-liners on email putting down English football. ‘What will the English football team do after winning the FIFA 2010? They will put down their play stations.’ Or ‘Maybe the FIFA should replace the English football team with Indians. They won’t play any better, but at least the game will attract more eyeballs.’

Out here, there was going to be a do of some sort at Jozi, as Johannesburg is locally known. Kaushik uncle had asked me to make sure we all went. He said he had a surprise for me. The sense of expectation was palpable and the energy all around was beginning to have an effect on me. There was so much pride among the South Africans at having hosted the World Cup, it was touching. Class distinctions seemed to have been cast aside. Apartheid, reverse apartheid and all other forms of racism had been – for a month at least – discarded. Football was the one common religion and you practised it either by kicking a ball, watching the game or blowing the vuvuzela. Even a guy who wasn’t a football fan could not help being swept up in the euphoria of the World Cup tidal wave.

As we neared the Soccer City stadium, the city’s latest prized possession, we could see quite a crowd. The fun and games had started a good twenty-four hours before the big final.

We walked from the car towards what appeared to be the hub of excitement. We saw a striking girl, clad in jeans and an off-shoulder shirt, being ushered into the stadium. For some reason, she seemed to have caused quite a stir.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked a blue-uniformed chap – probably a cop – standing just next to me.

‘Shakira,’ he said, sending Kitty into raptures.

‘Oh, I want to see her!’ she squealed.

‘You just did,’ said Shree, who tended to get irritated if anyone’s attention veered away from the main theme of football. He was still a little peeved about having to miss a couple of matches while he accompanied us to Hluhluwe.

‘I want to see her knowing that she is Shakira,’ Kitty reasoned. ‘Do you think that was really Shakira, Jai?’

‘I think so,’ I told her. ‘She was looking the other way when I saw her but I noticed her hips, and hips don’t lie.’

Grabbing Mina by the hand, Kitty dragged her optimistically in the direction in which the Latino singer had disappeared. Meanwhile, the chap in blue seemed to have lost something. He was patting his various pockets and looking all over in the hope of spotting it.

The two girls resurfaced a few minutes later. They had managed to spot Shakira on the ground posing for pictures with a football (no doubt a Jabulani) but in the melee, someone had grabbed Kitty’s rather ornate and favourite stole. It was cold too – July is winter in South Africa – and the stole was the only warm thing she was wearing.

‘I’m going to complain to the police,’ she said. ‘They can’t do this to their guests.’

She stormed off to the cop who was still wearing a rather hunted look. ‘Hi, I’m Kitty,’ she said loudly, trying to make herself heard above the noise. ‘Can you help me, someone took my stole.’

The cop, in addition to looking disturbed, now looked puzzled. ‘Someone stole your kitten?’ he asked.

‘No! They stole my stole.’

‘A cat stole it?’ the cop asked cautiously.

‘What cat?’

‘Where is the kitty?’

‘I’m Kitty.’

The cop lost his cool. A third emotion got added to his repertoire. He was a multi-faceted cop – if he even was a cop, that is. He might have been a security guard.

‘
Yini lombhedo owenzayo!
’ he snapped, stamping his foot. ‘I’m in no mood for jokes! How can anybody steal a steal? What is this nonsense? But someone has stolen my wallet.
My
wallet!’ he growled, breathing fire. ‘And when I find out who it is, I will… I will steal his
ass
!’

Mina pulled a slightly bewildered Kitty away from him and we moved towards a makeshift stage where some activity was taking place. There was a group of people dancing a well-choreographed series of steps, many of which involved football moves including kicks and headers. This, I was told, was South Africa’s indigenous
diski
dance, the word being local slang for football. This was followed by a little boy singing ‘Wavin’ Flag’ which had been composed by a Somali-born Canadian artiste called K’naan. I had never heard this song before, but in my short stay in the country, I had already heard it several times. There was a brief pause before the next item and most of the attention shifted to a group of elderly women wearing identical t-shirts with ‘Vakhegula Vakhegula’ printed on them. I wondered what it meant. Hobnobbing with them was a large, suited figure with a face that looked familiar. It was Pedro! The Don himself.

He was in animated conversation with my uncle. Then I remembered. That picture in the Don’s den. It must have been the same group of elderly women. I mused on them for a bit even as I got jostled from all sides. Suddenly I was yanked out of my thoughts as the whole place got electrified with the inspiring voice of Shakira singing the ‘Waka Waka’. I looked around for her and then realized they were only playing the recorded song. The elderly women broke into dance and were joined by a few others. Mina and Kitty, always ready to dance, rushed to the middle and plunged into a Bollywood-style hiphop. A few men – such naturals, these Africans – followed Kitty’s steps with so much ease and grace, it was a pleasure watching them. Some Western bystanders began to shake a leg or two as well. Mina shouted out to me to join the group. I had actually been dying to, but the sight of Pedro had put me off. But the enthusiasm of the participants and the mood were such that I could bear it no longer.

A sudden rebelliousness surged over me. To hell with Pedro, I thought. I’d show him I didn’t care. Much to Mina’s and Kitty’s surprise, I did a ‘Dada’. Like former Indian cricket captain Saurav Ganguly at that historic moment at Lords, I ripped off my t-shirt and swung it around forcefully over my head. Then I hurled it in the direction of Pedro in an attitude of defiance and stormed to centrestage, accompanied by cheers from the multitude. We did the song first in English followed by Spanish, dancing with increasing gusto.

My effort found support from some of the other women. A well-endowed young lady was dancing next to me wearing a t-shirt that read ‘Check Out My Assets’. Inspired by me, she removed her t-shirt and threw it on the floor as she continued dancing. A few others followed suit and soon there were half a dozen of us in various stages of undress, with me, the only bare-torsoed male, as the centre of attraction. Mina, taken aback by this unexpected development and wary of what else might follow, was giving me dirty looks, but you know how it is when you get caught up on a high. It’s difficult to climb down. So, with a whoop and a holler, I gave it all I had. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a banner going up behind the stage. It read: ‘Sponsored by UniFoods Margarine’. Below this was printed: ‘Live, Laugh, Play! The Vakhegula Vakhegula Way!’

Uncle K beckoned to me. ‘Pedro has been behind the team, encouraging them and spending his own money. He has been asking me to sponsor them for a long time now. I have now agreed. It’s a quid pro quo arrangement. He will give you his account.’

‘What team? You don’t mean these old ladies?’

‘Yes. They are the
Vakhegula Vakhegula
or The Grannies. They are aged between 50 and 85 and are quite a force, very popular in South Africa. They are seeking sponsorship to travel all over Africa and to Europe. Now that might become possible. It also helps my company because we are promoting margarine as a way to a healthier heart. What better way than sponsoring a team of active elderly women football players? It’s a great fit. We are talking to an American company to sponsor them for a US tour for the Veteran’s Cup.’

Soon my uncle and Pedro were both on stage making generous remarks about each other over the microphone. A couple of reporters asked a few questions and both of them responded in turn. I heard my uncle telling a reporter that he had been considering the sponsorship at Pedro’s behest for a long time, but that his nephew, who had come all the way from Dubai, was the one who pushed him into it. He was going to great lengths to promote my case in all this and I was grateful to him. I just wish he could have avoided calling me onstage. But call me he did, and buoyed by all the dancing, the semi-dressed women and the electric atmosphere, I rushed up without hesitating. Show business really does go to your head.

Uncle K looked at me in surprise. ‘Put your shirt on, idiot,’ he said. ‘They’ll be taking pictures. Why are you still wandering around half naked?’

Suddenly I felt extremely silly. I had no idea where my t-shirt was. The initial high had worn off and my fellow dancers seemed to have either disappeared or put their shirts back on. I was beginning to realize the acute discomfort of being shirtless. I lied that it had fallen somewhere on the dance floor.

He beckoned to one of his guys and asked them to try and find my shirt.

‘What colour?’ they asked.

‘Black,’ I told them.

It took them less than a minute to throw it to me. The press had already started clicking, even as I was just about struggling to get inside the t-shirt. It seemed rather small. It also had some words printed on the front.

‘This isn’t mine!’ I wailed to my uncle.

‘Just wear it!’ he snapped impatiently. ‘It’s only for the picture.’

So I did. When he saw the shirt with the words ‘Check Out My Assets’ neatly printed on it, he nearly fell off the stage.

‘You moron!’ he hissed. ‘At least wear it the other way!’

Smart idea, I thought. In one swift motion, I peeled it off me, quickly turned it around, pulled it through my neck and down, trying hard not to leave a gap between the shirt and my jeans. A fresh wave of laughter emanated from the crowd and following the source of their laughter, I found that it was me. To my horror, I discovered that the back of the t-shirt had something written on it too, and it now adorned my chest. Hastily, I rushed off the stage, filled with shame. But the damage had been done.

The next day was a big day for South Africa, the day of the World Cup final. It was a big day for me too. I woke up bright and early. And almost immediately broke into cold sweat when I realized what was in store for me. Of course, not all the local newspapers had my picture on the front page. A few were considerate enough to put it only on their sports page. A glutton for punishment, I went through the agony of looking up my photograph in three of the newspapers. In all of them, the supremely well-built and flamboyantly suited Pedro shared the dais with my uncle, the director of UniFoods, almost as tall and elegantly dressed in grey chinos, a white shirt and a blue jacket. Standing between them, in the first photograph, was a sweaty and obviously inebriated young man of medium height, both of whose armpits were on display as he struggled to remove a tight black t-shirt. With his face half covered by the t-shirt and somewhat contorted by the effort, he presented a rather comical picture. In the second, the chap wore on his face a distinct sulk, and on his body the same tight t-shirt with an inscription in front that read ‘Check Out My Assets’. In the third – this was on the front page – the same fellow, this time with a silly simper on his face, was, once again, wearing a black t-shirt that was several sizes too small for him. This one read ‘I Have Two!’

It wasn’t without its funny side, but it would have been a lot funnier if it had happened to someone else. But boy, was I glad this had happened to me in a foreign country. I briefly contemplated – my blood curdling as I did so – how I would have felt if this had happened to me back in Dubai or in Chennai. I would never have heard the last of it.

My thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from Kamal Lalwani.

‘Jai! You know that zuluva?’ he started, with no thought about anything in the nature of a greeting, let alone pleasantries.

‘Zuluva?’ The word was new to me.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he barked impatiently. ‘You’re in South Africa, no?’

‘Yes. Are you referring to the Zulu tribe?’

‘Zulu tribe? What nonsense,’ he said sharply. ‘No, man. What I want to do with Zulu tribe? I mean that thing, what they’re all blowing there in South Africa. Pah pah pah all day long.’

‘You mean the vuvuzela?’

‘That is what I am saying. Vuzula! When you come, you bring one, okay? Don’t forget. I am thinking to manufacture in India. I think it will get too popular, here, there, everywhere. In India, there is very good scope for this lazuva.’

‘Vuvuzela.’

‘Yes, yes, yes! That is what I said. I tell you it will catch on like wildfire. I want to tap the market. Very important for me, Jai. Don’t forget, okay? I think very big margin in this vuzulala. Too big, too big. Okay, okay. Now bye’.

Once more I read the article and looked at my pictures in the papers. Then I folded them, tore them up and threw them away. It might be an interesting, even entertaining story to tell one’s grandchildren. But one hoped that when the time came, there would be a stock of other stories, refined, dignified and more likely to instil in them appropriate values and a sense of pride in their grandfather.

That evening the Soccer City stadium looked like a brilliantly lit, giant UFO. There we were – Shree and Kitty, Mina and I, Kaushik uncle with family, Pedro with a team of red-clad supporters and tens of thousands of football fans. Munna and Dolly wore on their cheeks the colours of the Dutch flag which eager hands had painted outside the stadium in exchange for a hundred rand.

If you were at the stadium that day with your eyes closed, you would have been forgiven for thinking that you were in a land of a million monster mosquitoes, such was the effect of the myriad vuvuzelas being blown at the stadium, a loud, persistent and insanely nagging buzz. Two giant video screens flashed the countdown, and the ceremony, a kalaeidoscope of colour, began to a cacophonous roar. Thousands waved their flags, raised their hands, clapped and screamed. This was a night that carried with it the hopes and aspirations of millions of people in a young country with a chequered past.