‘It’s not like that. I need this from all the Joshis.’
‘What information do you need?’
‘What are your initials?’
‘What do you think?’
I was taken aback at that innocuous question. I was flustered. Knowing his nature, the others were waiting to see how the conversation progressed. I said, my tone a shade firmer,
‘Joshi saheb, it doesn’t matter what I think.’
‘There are twenty-six letters in the English alphabet. It has to be two of them, isn’t it?’
‘So shall I write it down as Z.Z. Joshi?’
‘Won’t that mean repeating a letter?’
‘Mr Joshi. Your initials, please!’
‘What are the initials of the other Joshis?’
I was about to answer when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Keki Jhapwala, the Parsi gentleman in our office. He said, looking at Joshi,
‘Hey, saala Joshi. You come with me, okay? I’ll give you all the names, initials, birthdays, native places and whatever else you want. Come on!’
The four other Joshis gathered around his table along with Keki. People had bet on my failure to get the initials from J.P. Joshi. The winner would get tickets to the cinema.
They all had experienced Joshi earlier. It was the first time for me.
One day, we placed bets on getting a simple, straightforward answer from JP. The prize was a cup of tea. I went to his table confidently and asked,
‘Will you have a cup of tea with me, Joshi saheb?’
The only answers could be a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. I was dreaming of winning my first bet. But then I heard,
‘Why?’
I was at a loss for words. I stared at him for a while and then asked,
‘Joshi saheb, why does one have tea?’
‘What do you think?’
‘The question is not what I think. The question is, do you want to have tea?’
‘If there is a question, why have it?’
‘Joshi saheb, do you give such strange answers deliberately?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think, yes.’
‘Then why do you ask?’
I lost the bet.
But my curiosity about JP increased.
His uncanny ability to respond to questions with questions made him a puzzle I wanted to solve.
He was a decent-looking man, around five-feet-seven in height, fair, with delicate pink lips, and a thick crop of hair gelled in the modern fashion. He could have passed himself off as the company owner’s cousin had he worn a bandgala with a Marwari topi. I was keen to befriend him, to know him better. I’d recently come to know of his hand in stopping the road-widening project near a building on Dadasaheb Phalke Marg. When the boss asked, ‘Who stays close to JP’s house?’ I was sure I’d be given the task of meeting him at home.
JP had taken the day off, leaving an important file locked in his cabinet. I took on the onerous task of getting the key to the cabinet, or getting him to the office to retrieve the file. The task that lay ahead was to steer my ship through the storm of questions I was sure to encounter.
The building stood out like a sore thumb, narrowing down the otherwise broad road. It was a two-storey house, with a wooden flight of stairs leading to the first floor. It reminded me of the havelis from the times of the Peshwas, and I could imagine hearing a guard shout a warning as I climbed the steps leading to the main door.
Joshi was not at home, and his mother wasn’t sure where her ‘child’ was. She seemed a little anxious and I asked her, hoping for a direct reply,
‘When will he be back, do you know?’
‘Sir, does he ever give anyone a straight reply?’
This was a golden opportunity to find out more about JP. I wasn’t going to let it go.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Please.’
‘Has he always been like this?’
‘Why? Does he act like this at work too?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wasn’t like this earlier. Circumstances have changed him.’
Further conversation made everything clear.
Not just the house but the entire lane in which Joshi stayed, up to the railway line, had once belonged to his father. But unable to argue his case in court, his father lost most of his properties and had to hand them over to his siblings and cousins. He died brokenhearted.
On his deathbed, he advised his son,
‘Arguing doesn’t take much effort. All it needs is a little bit of oratory and the ability to present the right facts at the right time. One can learn this art. Make it your lifelong pursuit.’
‘My Janu took that advice to heart. He’s always on the alert and never allows anyone to catch him on the wrong foot.’
‘Have you consulted a psychiatrist?’
‘I’ve tried everything, but to no avail.’
‘Try to get him to take up a hobby.’
‘He has only one hobby.’
‘What is it?’
‘To prepare counter-arguments for all possible kinds of fights, disputes and arguments.’
I wanted to laugh but didn’t. I asked,
‘What exactly do you mean by preparation?’
‘Come to the first floor. I’ll show you.’
I went up a flight of stairs that led into a big room. It felt like stepping into an era frozen in time. Nothing there could be called modern. Fine teakwood cupboards, a writing table, cornices in the wall – the entire ambience was that of a time gone by. An iron shelf next to the writing table was the only piece of furniture out of keeping with the rest. Imagine sitting down for a traditional meal served on a banana leaf and finding an omelette in place of a jalebi! Certain things are associated with certain others, and can’t be interchanged at will. One can’t eat a puranpoli with a fork and knife, can one?
‘Take a look at these notebooks. This is Janu’s hobby.’
That shook me out of my reverie. I stepped forward to see her pointing towards the shelf. It was full of forty-page notebooks. I picked one up at random. It was titled, ‘Fights and arguments during travel’.
I turned the pages to find topics like ‘How to argue when someone occupies your berth’, ‘How to argue when, having booked your seat in advance, someone requests you to make
