JUMP CUT KRISHNA SHASTRI DEVULAPALLI is an illustrator, cartoonist, graphic designer and writer. He has been in advertising, designed greeting cards and written and illustrated books for children. His first novel, Ice Boys in Bell-bottoms, is a humorous chronicle of a 1970s Madras childhood. Jump Cut is his second novel. He lives in Chennai with his wife and two imaginary dogs.

Praise for Ice Boys in Bell-bottoms

‘A must read for those seeking recovery and escape from Indian writing in general’ – Business World ‘The descriptive yet simple writing tugs at one’s heart and leaves a deep impact’ – New Indian Express ‘A scrumptious piece of writing’ – Deccan Chronicle ‘One of the sharpest, funniest novels ever’ – Vamsee Juluri, author of The Mythologist and Bollywood Nation ‘A wonderful, humorous book … that will keep you laughing, that will touch you with its truth value and will leave you a little sad at the end’ – The Book Review ‘Good for much laughter’ – Expletive Deleted, Hindustan Times blog ‘A rambunctious, stylishly told tale whose appeal is universal’ – Madras Musings ‘A laugh riot. Finally, a genuinely funny, sweet, sensible Indian book about the angst of growing up. Two thumbs up!’ – lalipond.blogspot.com

JUMP CUT

Krishna Shastri Devulapalli

HarperCollins Publishers India

First published in India by HarperCollins Publishers in 2013 A-75, Sector 57, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India www.harpercollins.co.in 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Copyright © Krishna Shastri Devulapalli 2013 P-ISBN: 978-93-5116-038-0 P-ISBN: 978-93-5116-039-7 This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Google is a name owned by Google, Inc., USA. The name ‘Google Films’ is used in this novel for fictional purposes. Krishna Shastri Devulapalli asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Typeset in 10.5/14.5 Meridien LT Std Roman at SÜRYA

jump cut / jump’kut’ / noun film-editing term: an elliptical cut that appears to be an interruption of a single shot in which either the figures seem to change abruptly against a constant background, or the background changes abruptly while the figures remain constant.

Prologue Madras. 1992. The hall goes black without warning. No slow fadeout of lights like in Satyam or Devi. Instantly, the aimless murmur of the crowd takes on the unmistakable tone of anticipation. The boy turns around to look at the asymmetrically set glass squares high up on the wall behind him. The projector comes on with a katak-burr, triggering a beam of light that turns the screen at the other end white-hot. A million swaying specks come alive in its path. Random scribbles that look like they have been made with a giant marker flash across the screen for a couple of seconds before a waxbusting veena riff announces the banner of the film-makers: Shakti Ganapathi Films (P) Ltd. Behind the glitter-dusted thermocol logo, a golden Ganesha’s crooked trunk barely conceals his smile. Asymmetric tendrils of smoke rise from mirror-image incense sticks on either side. By the time the sloka that will clear all obstacles on the film’s path to the box-office comes on, the invisible projectionist has adjusted the volume to a bearable level.

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The music segues to a racy tune. The title cards come on. The hero’s name first. The spontaneous applause and the one long whistle are worthy of a first-day–first-show, not a fifty-strong preview for insiders. In a quick succession of dissolves, the other title cards follow, each one lasting just short of being able to be read fully. The boy takes his eyes off the screen to see where his father is. He is still there, standing by the main entrance door, the flickering images making his face dance between light and dark. The boy feels a tiny pinch. It’s his sister. ‘Concentrate, you monkey,’ she says, ‘or you’ll miss Appa’s name.’ The card they have been waiting for comes on. It says ‘Story, Screenplay & Dialogue by Vasant Raj’ in big letters that fill the screen, the drum-roll underlining their importance. At the bottom of the screen, in barely readable letters, is the legend: Associate: Raman Then it is gone.

1 He loved the god’s-eye view of Madras. He had last seen her this way five years ago from the window seat on his way back to San Jose. There was no denying the difference, though. While the high-rises and cell-phone towers had popped out from the carpet of green like sporadic obscene gestures then, they now had the makings of an angry mob. But, to him, the city still resembled what he had thought the first time he had seen it from the sky: an ironrich meal for a vegetarian giant. How long it would remain that way was the question. Though he had an aisle seat, the unfettered view of his home town was courtesy his neighbour who didn’t seem to mind his head trespassing into his airspace one bit. Twenty-four hours ago he wouldn’t have dreamt of doing something like that. In America, one respected space. People guarded their personal three feet with built-in electric fences you didn’t cross unless you wanted to be jolted by a lawsuit. ‘Back from holiday?’ said Window Seat, hitting him in the face with his unbrushed breath, equal parts airline food and cheap scotch.

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‘No,’ he said, jerking his head away from the firing zone. ‘Live in the US. Down for a visit.’ ‘Getting married?’ ‘No, no – it’s my father. He’s not well.’ He wondered about this compulsion of his to tell the truth no matter what. Even to complete strangers, about things that were of little or no consequence to them. ‘Oh, really. Anything serious?’ said Window Seat, warming up to the prospect of some grisly medical details. He had been happy that his companion had spent pretty much the entire journey drinking, eating or snoring. He had even forgiven him the one redolent and extended fart that had left him gasping for breath in the middle of the night. Why did he have to talk now, seconds away from touchdown? Before he could reply, the violent union of rubber and concrete powered by supersonic engines on high-octane fuel came to his rescue. His flight from San Jose to Chennai via Abu Dhabi had reached its destination with three minutes to spare. Ignoring the flight attendant’s plaintive call, threequarters of the plane rose as one in a well-worn Indian symphony of unbuckled seatbelts, clicked-open cabin lockers and feverishly resuscitated mobile phones. He remained seated, clenching his eyes shut to work off the fatigue. All it did was make his father pop into his head. ‘Excuse me,’ said Window Seat, standing in that awkward

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way unique to air passengers whose compatriots are still seated. He had no choice but to get up. ~ Ray found himself standing dead still in the lobby of Anna International Airport, his index finger crooked around the handle of his lone carry-on. The formalities had taken a little over half an hour. Overloaded trolleys helmed by madmen careened past him like dodgems that had come loose, the result of three flight loads of luggage coming to the carousels at the same time. A fat man, sweat pouring down his face, came at him like a fugitive on the run. He stood petrified. But, with a last-minute swerve, the man avoided a head-on collision while still managing to get Ray’s loafer-clad foot with one of his rear wheels. He bit back a curse and stood on one leg. ‘Dei, Ray-Ban, welcome to Chennai,’ said a voice. Still wincing, he turned around to walk straight into a hug. The lumberjack arms that had squeezed him to an inch of death in school fights years ago still had game. ‘Abie, you rascal,’ Ray said, returning the embrace. ‘Thanks for coming. And how the hell did you get in, isn’t this area restricted?’ ‘Don’t ask! Just tell me where the single malt is.’ Abie released him from the clinch. ‘One litre of Macallan, just like you asked,’ he said, pointing to his bag. On G.S.T. Road, as Abie negotiated his Civic through the early-morning traffic, showing little respect for the

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gearbox and even lesser for the sisters and mothers of his co-motorists, Ray looked at his friend. The stubborn brow of steel wool, his principal weapon in badgering people, was still there. The addition was a tiny paunch that popped out from under the seatbelt. ‘Straight to the hospital or do you want to stop over at my place and hit the loo?’ said Abie, trying to turn an offending auto to dust with his eyes. ‘Hospital, da. Must give Shobha a break. My cousin – remember her?’ ‘The one with the big bazookas?’ said Abie, cheering up. ‘They all are, da. They all are,’ Ray said, grinning. Some things never changed.

13. 8. 94 Ray off to Delhi today, to meet the President of the Republic, no less. He is one among a select group of students from all over India, would you believe it. How about that! First time on a plane. So excited at the airport. Playing it cool but didn’t fool me. Suchitra would’ve been proud. She must be. Somewhere. Three thousand bucks for it all. Atrocious! But this is important. Sometimes you shouldn’t think of money.

2 The lobby of Life-Smile Hospital (the best in the city, he had been told) was conspicuously empty of civilians. A few white-coats and admin types walked about as only they could. Word was the new hospital, which had managed to woo the best medical talent available, did things differently, with strict rules for everything. But not that differently, as it turned out, because Abie’s neighbour was a director in the hospital, and that had been enough to get them in at this odd hour. The security guy, a bargain-basement version of the Air India Maharaja, had asked for his name before letting them into the lift that led to the cardiology section. ‘Saab, please finish your business quickly. Visitors not allowed now. Only after four p.m.,’ said the maharaja on duty a tad apologetically. Ray mumbled his thanks while Abie gave the closing lift doors the finger. The elevator stopped on the third floor with a bing. An intricately carved wooden Ganesha greeted them from a niche in the wall on the other side. A clump of incense sticks let off fickle tendrils of sandal-scented smoke. The

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sign said CARDIOLOGY. Leaning next to it was a woman with a disposable coffee cup in her hand and bags under her eyes. ‘Ah, Ray. Here, at last,’ she said. He embraced her carefully, making sure not to spill the coffee. His cousin didn’t seem to care, and hugged him like he was five years old. ‘Hey, Shobhs. Thanks, pal,’ he said, squeezing her free hand, ‘don’t know what we would have done without you.’ ‘No big deal, da. It’s Mama, after all,’ she said, walking towards the room, her hand still in Ray’s. ‘How’s he doing?’ ‘Out of danger, don’t worry. But Doc Subbu says he should be under observation for twenty-four hours.’ ‘Doc Subbu?’ ‘Dr Badri Subramaniam. Head of cardio, big cheese. My classmate in PSBB. How do you think we managed to get Mama here double-quick?’ she said. ‘He’s a good guy, we used to call him “Bra Man” back then, but that’s another story.’ Ray couldn’t help thinking that that would have made an equally good name for his friend who was standing around in the background. ‘Hey, thanks again, Shobha,’ Ray said. ‘How am I going to repay you?’ ‘Don’t worry. Shwetha wants to go to Stanford. You can pay her tuition fee,’ she said.

450 Cover design krishna Shastri Devulapalli Cover photographs 123rf.com, fotolia.com www.harpercollins.co.in HarperCollinsIN