Mastan in El Dorado
This story is a little bit about child abuse, but it is more about an ordinary human being living his useless life.
It’s not that people have to get over childhood traumas with hard work, or by becoming famous, or by finding a meaningful relationship or by going to the right therapist. Sometimes stuff happens unexpectedly and randomly and works as a panacea. The apparently sleazy stuff is thus an integral part of the story.
Is it autobiographical? Well, I was never a student of pharmacy or chemistry!!
(“Mastan” is a pejorative term that means a bully or a ruffian, but with a bit of sarcasm, it may also refer to an alpha-male )
A while ago, in the fifties or the sixties, life was different in Kolkata suburbs. Sure, glamorous Park Street was only about thirty-five minutes away, if you could hop on to one of those smoke-belching buses. But right in your neighborhood, you would find grazing water buffaloes beside dirt roads, huge ponds, fruit orchards and many empty fields for kids to play. There were also swarms of emaciated beggars, specially in early autumn, tons of garbage around open sewers, and hordes of mangy hungry dogs that would chase children after nightfall.
Every few hours, radios would start blaring from the local Paan shops, forcing you to listen to samachar (news) from Vividh Bharti followed by shrill Bollywood songs from their tortured speakers. Apart from the radio, entertainment options were limited for kids. On the high end, one could fight tooth and nail with the big boys for a cheap ticket in the brimming movie theaters. On the low end, one could listen to “jatra” – a unique Bengali open air melodramatic performance attended by the unwashed and the incredibly flatulent masses.
Overall though, it was not a bad place for kids. They played a lot everyday, sneaked into the orchards , bribed the caretakers to explore empty vacation homes, climbed trees and ate tropical fruits , swam in the ponds, terrorized birds with their slingshots and did not miss video games and internet chats even a single bit.
The Gods bullied Bishu right from the beginning. Among a group of lean, mean and swarthy Bengali boys, Bishu stood out like a sore thumb with his chubby cheeks and big fat lips.
Soon nicknamed Bhonda (which basically translates into a “fat retarded slob”), he was subject to friendly ribbing that soon escalated to vicious tormenting.
Gaadon, the chiseled athletic boy with a precocious moustache, was the local mastan. He arranged various fun activities for Bhonda –bashing. Under his supervision, five or six boys pelted him with rotten mangoes that littered the grounds in the orchards – this game was called target-practice. Bhonda had matching black and blue bruises after every trip to the mango garden.
Another more complicated game, called tagging, was developed by trial and error by Gaadon. Bishu liked to take a shortcut across the big field with the banyan tree in the middle. Two boys, from two sides of the field, would start running towards Bishu and smack him hard from the back, usually knocking him to the ground breathless. The winner was the first boy to get to him.
Bishu did not like tagging much.
Around the fifth time he was tagged, he got up and slapped Gaadon in the face. A cool Gaadon gripped Bishu’s testicles and kept on squeezing.
Bishu could feel his unkempt sharp nails ripping through his pants and cutting into his flesh. The exquisite pain froze him, speechless and motionless.
“Look!” Gaadon giggled as he released his grip and pointed Bishu’s condition to the other boy “the gundoo is frozen. Can’t even move!”
In a magnanimous gesture of forgiveness, Gaadon slapped Bishu lightly on the cheek,
“Don’t ever touch me again”, he smiled and walked away.
Later on, on the cricket field, Bishu was booed off as some of his privates were hanging through the hole in his shorts.
At night, his mom chided him for ripping his pants.
Gaadon later boasted about his “ freezing” game and wanted to demonstrate in front of his friends. Fortunately, Bishu was quick to retreat from his approach and Gaadon caught up with him only one other time. No one else was around then, so Bishu suffered in shame alone.
An old bicycle that his uncle gave him on his fourteenth birthday was Bishu’s ticket to freedom. He became a loner, stopped playing all sports (he sucked anyways) and left his friends alone. He rode miles after miles, first in his neighborhood, then all over Kolkata and all the way to the nearby villages. He didn’t build any social skills, but developed some formidable calf muscles over time.
Things became blurry in his late teenage years. The Naxalites terrorized everyone first, then the police terrorized the Naxals and the youth in all Kolkata suburbs. At the very end, the cops were rounding up young men at random and shooting them. Every young man in Kolkata suburbs kept a very low profile, trying to be invisible.
It was tough for educated young men back then. Bishu studied very hard and got a bachelor’s degree and an M.Sc. in chemistry, but missed getting a first class both times. That shut him off from all competitive exams for civil service and bank jobs. He taught High School and got paid six hundred fifty measly rupees every month.
His big break came when Arjunkaka, a distant relative, called from America.
“You have a degree in chemistry?” He asked Bishu
“Why, yes, an M.Sc. Are you offering me a job in America?” Bishu asked jokingly.
“Hell yeah” Arjunkaka was very interested. “Get a diploma in Pharmaceutical Science. As soon as possible. America is going through a serious shortage of pharmacists and nurses. You can get a work permit right from Kolkata if you can qualify. This window will close in a couple of years, so hurry up, OK?
For once in his life, things went smoothly. For a chemistry graduate, getting the pharmacy diploma was a piece of cake. He got his visa fast and Arjun uncle graciously gave him a loan for his one-way ticket to America.
On his maiden Pan Am flight to America, Bishu imbibed a substantial amount of alcohol, as opposed to the little Chhota pegs that he had a few times before. He was hoping to get a nice buzz and some nice dreams to tide him over the long journey. A flurry of Bollywood maidens appeared, soon to be replaced by a sneering Gaadon and his jeering friends.
“Let’s freeze the idiot!” Gaadon screamed!
“Dear Gods!” Bishu said to himself “Get him out of my dreams, please!”
“Bon Voyage,” giggled the Gods, as the plane soared through the skies.
El Dorado is a mythical place awash with gold and jewels and all a man can ask for.
Bishu, our tormented soul, is now alone in a foreign land.
What does he have to do with El Dorado?
Let’s find out!
Bishu, our spineless hero, escaped the post-Naxal slum of Calcutta and landed with a thud in USA in the early 1970’s. The United States of America and Bishu shocked each other repeatedly during their initial encounter.
After stunning several prospective employers with his utterly unintelligible Indian accent, Bishu realized that he cannot get a job as a pharmacist which involves active interaction with the customers, even though he had a valid license. Nobody in America appeared to understand his English, The best offer he received, and accepted, was that of a Pharmacy Assistant. It paid a little bit more than minimum wage and involved mainly stuffing pills in bottles and writing patients’ info on labels.
But this was still far better than the 650 rupees he made as a schoolteacher. He lived in his very own small apartment, ate very good food once he learned how to cook and even had an old car after a year.
His colleagues were mainly college students. His bosses, the pharmacists, were all younger than Bishu.
Bishu was too shy to socialize with his mostly young and female American colleagues, he would start shaking and stammering in their close proximity.
But he would talk to Neeta Patel, one of the Gujju pharmacy assistants who had grown up in in a very conservative, religious and strictly vegetarian family in America. Bishu was her boy toy and her secret rebellion.
On Saturday mornings, Neeta would show up in Bishu’s apartment, get rid of her oversize sweatshirt and loose jeans and change into one of Bishu’s T-shirts. They would lunch on some Barbeque pork ribs or hamburgers. Afterwards, putting up her naked hairy legs on the coffee table (her mom won’t let her shave!), she would open up a bottle of vodka or Jack Daniels. While sensuous Bollywood music played on the stereo, they would smoke Marlboros and get drunk together. After a while, Neeta would take her shirt off and unzip Bishu’s pants. They would finally fall asleep together on the couch.
Around eight in the evening, Neeta would wake up, shower, put on her street clothes, chew a lot of elaichi and head home like a good little girl to join the family supper of poori and saabji.
Yes, Bishu lost his virginity to a chubby and plain classic Gujju girl . She told him she has been spending weekends like this with different boys since she was sixteen!
“ At some point of time, my dad would give me away as a virgin to a fresh engineer from Gujarat” She once told Bishu, still locked in his embrace..
“How would you handle it?” He asked.
“With this, my dear.” She lifted up a packet of tomato Ketchup that came with their take-out ribs.
Bishu frowned, then his eyes widened in sudden comprehension.
“You don’t say!” He said, and they both burst out in laughter, Neeta cradling his head on her flabby and droopy oversize breasts.
Gaadon would come back like an express train in his dreams after every episode with Neeta.
“Even in America, you are riding a buffalo, you idiot!” He would taunt Bishu with his ever-present sneer!
After a few years, Bishu’s horrible Kolkata accent improved enough so he finally snagged a real pharmacist’s job. He continued staying in his small place, but started sending some money home, and saving a lot of it, dreaming for the first time about a wife and family.
Then he saw her. And her friend. Two young women, all dressed up, in a beat up battered car, and a very loud sound system. Right in his parking lot. They moved in to an apartment on the other end of the complex. One of them had a small child.
In the drugstore where Bishu worked, the prescription drugs and the pharmacists worked behind the counters. But the rest of the store had a lot of beauty and health products, baby stuff and some soft drinks and snacks and all , and people would shop there just like in a supermarket.
He saw the pretty one shopping there. She was always dressed up and made up to the hilt, every part of her body was driving Bishu crazy. Apparently she saw him too.
A few days later, she spoke to him in the parking lot. She was not shy, at all.
“Hi, I am Misty. Who are you? Are you a pharmacist? “ She asked him
Bishu told her his name and he said he was a pharmacist and he saw her shopping at the drugstore several times
“Yes I go there often, Hey, can you get me some Valium?” She had a seductive smile on her face. She did not waste time.
“No” Bishu laughed, “I will lose my job”
“How about those pain-pills?” Misty moved closer to Bishu, her taut breasts almost touching him.
“I will party with you if you get me some” she moved one leg closer to touch his thigh.
“Nope” Bishu was persistent
“You are no fun” she pouted, and smiled again “may be I can make you change your mind later”.
A few days later, he talked to both Laura and Misty. While Misty was slender and overbearingly cute, Laura had a very pretty face, big boobs and absolute thighs – Bishu used to call them babymakers! Still stammering, he managed to invite them for a drink. They came, made some small talk, and had iced tea. He found out that Misty is only nineteen, but her daughter is four years old. In America, if you are an underage mother, which she was , having the baby at fifteen, the State keeps the baby under supervision until a Judge rules that the mother can have unconditional custody. Laura was twenty years old. They both asked him for prescription drugs again.
He explained to them carefully that since he is a foreigner, if he gets caught stealing drugs, he will lose his job and his visa and then will get deported back to India. He was not sure the girls understood this or they even cared. They kept on being friendly , teased him several times when he met them later, flashing cleavage, showing legs, the usual stuff – but Bishu was not going to give them Valium or anything else!
Then one day, Bishu noticed that the beat up car is gone, and so were the chicks. He heard that they went to live with Laura’s mom in Topeka.
About six weeks later, Bishu’s phone rang during early afternoon.
“Bishu, come and get us! We are stuck in this goddamn town” It was Laura’s voice, frantic.
When the shrieks died down, Bishu finally figured out what the girls were up to. Apparently, they had run away from Topeka to Wichita, a bigger city about one hundred miles south of Topeka, because they were tired of working minimum wage jobs. In Wichita, they were both working in a bar, one as a cocktail waitress and another as a dancer.
They were doing good until yesterday, making and saving a lot of money, I guess doing a lot of cocaine too. Yesterday morning the police appeared and accused misty of child endangerment and took her daughter away. In the evening Laura found that all their savings that she hid in their luggage was stolen by another girl in the bar.
They started driving this morning to Topeka, but their car broke down half an hour out of Wichita. Their world had collapsed in three strokes of bad luck. They came back to Wichita and now needed a ride to go home. They were desperate, indeed.
Apparently, they called all their other friends, no one was gonna help them. Bishu left after work around 4 pm. Wichita was two and a half hours away. He found the girls crying and swearing and smoking cigarettes continuously. Their whole lifestyle had collapsed within the last two days. Bishu started with the girls towards Topeka around 10 pm at night.
As the highway turned sharply to the left, there was the sign “El Dorado, Kansas, 1 Mile. Population 4300”
“Take that exit, Bishu,” Laura said, “That’s where my car broke down yesterday. My car is in the impound garage there”.
Bishu was reluctant. “ your car is broken anyways. Why do we need to stop here in this town in the middle of nowhere”?
“No, please, all of our clothes and shoes are in the car, a lot of them. We will pick them up tomorrow morning” Laura insisted.
It was 10:30 at night. They checked into the only Super 8 Motel in town. Strung out and high on cocaine, the girls wanted more of it. But the coke was gone. And all their money was stolen, Misty also lost her daughter to the cops. The girls smoked marijuana joints and had access to the only other thing available that would please them. They wanted Bishu’s naked body. All night long. In fact, they told him again and again that Bishu was bigger and harder than many other men they had been with. Bishu did not know that! Now he did!
They went to the car impound next morning. Laura’s car was not drivable and was abandoned. Bishu transferred a carful of sexy outfits and high-heeled shoes to his car, loaded the bimbos up and dropped them at Laura’s mother’s home – she was not particularly pleased to see them.
After that night, the girls got kind of attached to Bishu. So was Bishu. He bought them another old beat-up car. Every week, each of them will show up at separate times in that old car in his apartment. Sometimes both would show up with a fat marijuana joint, and Bishu will get a lot of beer.
Bishu did not stammer any more in front of these girls. In fact he did not stammer in the proximity of any woman any more.
Bishu ended up buying a lot of clothes and jewelry. And spent lots of money on them for the next couple of years.
In their own banal way, the girls gave Bishu a lifetime of carnal memories.
When I met Bishu, about twelve years later, he had pretty much recovered from his “chick-damage”.
His savings were back on track, he was the head pharmacist in a large drugstore, and he just got married to a desi girl who grew up in America.
For some reason, he wanted to talk to me about his past. Over a period of two months, we met for dinner and a little booze several times. He told me his life story, starting from his childhood bullying.
His new wife did not know any of this.
“Well..” I said, “El Dorado appears to play a significant role in your life.”
“No Kidding” He laughed “ I grew spikes in El Dorado”
“ Gaadon went away after I came back from El Dorado , never to return.” He informed me
“Well, there are many ways to kill a cat, or a Gaadon, so to speak.” I said
Bishu giggled. He liked my remark.
“By the way, the girls have been gone for a while now, right, both of them?” I said.
He nodded
“But if any of them’d come back today, you would leave your wife, in a minute, right?”
Bishu did not answer that. I did not want him to, anyways.
