Of Venereal Utsavs

By Mihir Sinha

I can’t believe old Percy would keep that piano. As we stood there, exchanging needless pleasantries, and awaiting an invitation to seat ourselves, I looked past his wife Maria’s hem and saw that old piano, now cleaned and clothed in a conspicuous white cover. Looked like something they would rather keep in the Mojave Desert.

My father seemed to think the same thing but wasn’t half as judicious as we moved towards our rightful places on the couch. “So Percy, still got that piano?” There was the elephant in the room, and oh God.

The elephant came into being a couple of months back, at Percy’s curious Diwali bash. He’s Catholic, but he’s made Diwali parties his chosen annual tradition – or at least it used to be. I always wished he would invite us for Christmas too, for his wife’s good, rummy bebinca, but it never came through. On those occasions, the D’Sa household was a deluge of Konkani diaspora-come-home-for-Christmas.

The Diwali bash was when Percy broke out the single malt for the gents, rum and vodka for the ladies, and his rambunctious laughter. Maria remained jovial through hours of putting together a decent vegetarian meal. As decent as it could be, anyway. I cursed her for hosting a party she couldn’t serve sorpotel at.

This was the first year I could lay claim to my share of the Scotch, and what a fun coincidence that turned out to be. Because when Percy gets drunk, he would play old Bollywood tunes my old man and his friends love on his piano. He would hammer the keys and sing loud, while the fat, older gentry swayed gently.

He sat down at the piano, all fouled up and glazed. He announced he was going to play a song from Madhumati, and I don’t remember the details anymore. Percy repeatedly hit the second note on his August Forster, but the hammer wouldn’t strike. All that came out was a muffled latex groan, which seems an apt description now in hindsight.

Percy got agitated at his own drunken clumsiness, till he realized it wasn’t him causing the problem. The guests were intrigued and gathered around to see what was up. Nobody knew anything, but somebody chimed in. “Check inside, Percy.”

Drunken people do what drunken people say. So Percy did, fishing at the strings, hitting the jammed key, trying to focus on what he was looking for. “I’ve finally got it”, he said, when he finally got it.

He extracted the culprit jamming the keys. And held up a saggy, used condom – “This is the fucker”. A silent gasp filled the space left by Percy’s terribly late realization, as he turned around from shutting the case to look with disgust at what he was holding.

He couldn’t fling it; he couldn’t keep it down; he definitely couldn’t smell it. He laughs – but he doesn’t get to saying “Ah condom! I’ve been looking for this” – and there is no drum roll to follow. “Not Maria and me, man” he shrugs defiantly, addressing his oblivious wife on the periphery of the action, on her way back to the kitchen. “Percy, throw it away! And don’t be drunk”, she yells.

The crowd of about twenty people there was already having collective epiphanies, as we speculated upon the origins of this awkward discovery.

Then Percy did another wrong thing – he put his kids in it. “Must be either Leena or Abraham.” Abraham is a 12-year-old with nascent man boobs and had been looking gape mouthed at the condom. I would have bet it was the kid’s first time ever at that.

Percy’s face crunched as the options narrowed. I was already trying to fathom how Leena might’ve considered doing it propped up on a piano.

In the meantime, in walked Leena, lugging a big pot of aloo mutter from the kitchen – as homely as they come. But we inebriated souls saw her for the 23-year-old acrobat she really was. “Leena!”, Percy shouted. But as she looked up at her father across an expectant and tense room, Percy gathered himself enough to mumble, “That looks good.”

It was almost the end of the party, even before the dinner had been served. Percy was visibly agitated when someone at the table began “Talking about piano performances..”, and he glared at the guy, who regretted his words immediately. “No I mean…There was one tonight. Not here, of course. In Bandra”

Needless to say people didn’t really stay for dessert. I saw Leena as we left. “Good job, you freak-o!”

“What? You’re such an asshole. Who gave you booze?”

“Oh your daddy. By the way, who is your daddy?”

It was long and fun, and a shame we couldn’t stay back to see what went down. I felt sad for Leena; not because she got caught, but because she is so stupid and so was the guy she hooked up with. And that’s never a fun way to go.

Insensitivity, though, can sometimes be exquisite. Which is why I loved my Dad for bringing up the piano. Except there was bebinca for dessert this time, but we decided to pass that up.

By Mihir Sinha