Story // Mr Kanetkar's Office at Tribhuvan Rd
The entanglement of an office worker in Mumbai, his new colleague, and a teenager in Philadelphia.
~1700 words // 6 min read (preview)
~6700 words // 31 min read (full)
3rd February 2003, Mumbai
Mr Vishwas Kanetkar took over the seat vacated by his new colleague, Mr Singh. The computer screen in front of the seat displayed the small, blinking dash of a command prompt. Just above the prompt, a line of grey text read “Sometimes you just gotta light up, man. You won’t get it till you get it.”
Mr Singh lifted his backpack off the cracked-tile floor and slung it over his shoulder. “We have to have chai sometime and talk about work, Mr Kanetkar,” he said. “I’m sure there’s a lot you could teach me.”
Mr Kanetkar cracked his knuckles over the keyboard and grinned at his colleague. “You have a lot of catching up to do, Mr Singh. You know, before you, I worked with Surve Madam. We were a better partnership than Tendulkar and Ganguly.”
The young, turbaned Mr Singh made a thumbs-up gesture showing that he was impressed. He disappeared through the rotting doorframe and into the corridor outside, into a passage that lay dark under the barely-powered light bulb.
Back in the office, a new word emerged on the screen, conjured out of Mr Kanetkar’s steady typing.
Moments later, a response spooled out like cut-up lace.
“Party at Cransway, at Lia’s place. Smells of grass and alcohol. Bathroom smells of vomit. Hanging out in a dark corner, pretending to enjoy the music. Music is not great, but maybe it’ll grow on me. I think one of Lia’s friends is checking me out.”
Mr Kanetkar smacked his lips and grimaced in disappointment. He typed out another message on the screen, which went to a teenage boy’s mind on the other side of the world.
“Trevor, what is this? You were going to study for the Physics test due in 2 days. Why are you at a party?”
It was morning in Mr Kanetkar’s office, but the tubelight was still on from last night’s shift. The ceiling fan’s rotating shadows swung all across the office. Mr Kanetkar pressed the seventh switch in a mess of wires and switches, which turned the tubelight off, and he rummaged through one of the file cabinets in the room.
By the time he returned to his wood-framed, plastic-mesh chair, more thoughts from Trevor unspooled on his yellowed CRT monitor.
“The party seemed like a nice place. A little scary, but I made up my mind to not be scared. I wanted to go, so I went.”
Mr Kanetkar had retrieved a file (‘Say no to drugs’) from the cabinet, but he put it away and typed, “Nonsense. They are doing drugs and beer at that party. Your parents raised you better than this.”
“My parents are not going to find out,” the reply read.
“Get out right now and go straight home,” Mr Kanetkar typed in. He followed up his command with more text, which wasn’t meant for Trevor’s conscious mind. “--no-repeat --importance:500”.
In Philadelphia, on the other side of the world, 15-year-old Trevor put down the almost-empty red cup. He slid through the rhythm-soaked crowd and got out to be hit by the chill of a winter’s night. Hands in his pockets, he walked home with Avril Lavigne playing in his head.
In Mumbai, Mr Kanetkar entered a fresh command into the computer, which brought up Trevor’s actions for that day. He read message after message, all of which built up a sequence of events for him. That day, Trevor went to school, got home, got his homework done, did the dishes, was called by Lia to come to the party, and then, he said yes to the invitation.
Mr Kanetkar grumbled. “What did you do, Mr Singh?” He pressed the ‘n’ key to go to the next page of the on-screen report.
While at the party, Trevor had been approached by a girl named Beth. She had said that she hoped Trevor didn’t mind her checking him out. Trevor had replied that he didn’t.
Then, they had talked about music, agreeing that neither of them liked the band playing at the party. Trevor preferred music that most people didn’t - music from the 1980s that he got on old hand-me-down cassettes from his older cousin Darren.
Two songs later, Trevor and Beth had agreed to a movie date. They were going to watch a horror movie called Final Destination 2. With the plan confirmed, Beth had floated away to another group, and that was where Mr Kanetkar had taken over his shift.
Presently in Philadelphia, Trevor crashed on the bed with his boots still on. Darkness had taken over from twilight, and Trevor felt an urge to dial Beth’s telephone number.
Mr Kanetkar jabbed his fingers into the keyboard, spelling out his next instruction. “Tell Beth that you have to cancel the movie date.”
Trevor told Beth that he had to cancel the movie date. He sounded vaguely drunk and tired, and he told Beth that he hadn’t been thinking straight earlier.
On the other side of the call, Beth sounded disappointed. She asked him if something was wrong. Trevor replied that he had other plans. They navigated their way to goodbyes and hung up the call.
Mr Kanetkar typed into the computer while referring to the yellow file that he balanced on his lap.
“You’d make a mess of it, wouldn’t you? Remember when you spilt your Pepsi all over the lobby? Back when you went to Jurassic Park 2 with your parents?”
Trevor lay on his back and stared pointedly at the ceiling fan, letting his mind wander.
Mr Kanetkar sighed. “Exam in two days, and this boy wants to go watch movies.”
He consulted diagnostics on the screen to go over Trevor’s hydration, bladder, and fatigue levels. It was now safe for Trevor to fall asleep, but Mr Kanetkar made sure to fetch a trio of files from Cabinet CA-5, which he would feed into Trevor’s half-conscious mind.
It was only after Trevor was satisfactorily asleep that Mr Kanetkar put all the files aside and pulled out his tiffin box.
The four containers of the tiffin box shared space on the table with the dusty keyboard, three differently-coloured pens, and a small notepad he’d bought for a handful of rupees down the street.
One of the tiffin box containers held chapatis, another had spiced eggplant, the third had steamed rice, and the fourth had dal. Mr Kanetkar ate slowly and made sure to wipe the inner surface of each container clean.
After lunch, Mr Kanetkar stretched, made sure that Trevor was asleep, and then went out of the room to greet Mr Parmar, the owner of the sewing machine repair shop down the corridor.
He had met Mr Parmar a decade ago, and the two shared a camaraderie now. Dozens of firms and employees had come and gone in that decrepit building on Tribhuvan Road, but Mr Kanetkar and Mr Parmar had persisted. They joked that they had a survivors’ bond.
Later, Mr Kanetkar went to the balcony at the end of the first floor corridor. He lit up a cigarette and watched the cloudless skies. He reflected on the sun-baked dust and the missing off-season showers. No rain until the monsoon now.
He waited for the sun to turn a cooler ochre and then retreated into the dark of the corridor. He slid open the deadbolt on his office door and took his seat after a bout of stretching.
In Philadelphia, Trevor lay asleep and dreamt of being flung across an endless corn field. Falling sideways was exhilarating, and every time he alighted on the ground, he had only a couple of moments to think before he was flung again.
Mr Kanetkar sipped on his chai, which was brought to him in a small glass by a pre-teen boy employed by the local chaiwallah. Shortly after six, a curt knock on the door signalled Mr Singh, who entered with the same grin on his face as when he had left the office that morning. His armpits were lined with sweat and his cologne was deadenned by the metal lick of the local train.
They exchanged pleasantries, and Mr Kanetkar made way for Mr Singh to take over.
On the other side of the world, Trevor neared the end of his sleep. He was going to wake up, and once he did, Mr Singh would guide him through the rest of the day.
It was time for Mr Kanetkar to go home.
When Mr Kanetkar got home, he found his wife putting on a sari, ready to go out. Mr Kanetkar did not want to know why, but she told him anyway - it was Shashank’s birthday.
He replied that he did not know who Shashank was. She clarified that Shashank is the boy who lives one floor downstairs, and that Shashank had personally asked her to come to his birthday party with ‘uncle’.
Mr Kanetkar clicked his tongue. “His parents probably made him go around the building inviting everyone. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Still, we have to go,” Mrs Kanetkar said.
So Mr Kanetkar went to the boisterous birthday party, where he wished Shashank a happy birthday, gave him a ₹500 note, ruffled his hair, and then went into the back to talk to the other ‘uncles’ of the building.
“Will you have some with us, Mr Kanetkar?” Shashank’s father asked him, leaving out any words that might mean liquor.
“No, no, thank you. Maybe next time.”
“What next time? Next time will be next year!”
Minutes after taking over his shift, Mr Kanetkar ran to the first floor balcony and searched for Mr Singh in the street below. He caught sight of Mr Singh’s maroon turban, but only as it disappeared down Tribhuvan Road in the direction of Lamington Road. It was too late to call after him now, so Mr Kanetkar groaned and returned to his office.
According to the logs on the computer, Trevor had called Beth and told her that he’d had a change in plans. They then went to an afternoon showing of Final Destination 2. In the dark cinema hall, Beth had touched Trevor several times on the arm, and even on the thigh. Later in the film, the two had even kissed each other.
All of this had happened under Mr Singh’s supervision, and now Mr Kanetkar believed that he had been left to clean up the mess.