The boat remained dormant for a few weeks
until a wild-looking man appeared at the house. If India had an adult film
industry in the 70’s, this man could well have been a relic of that scene:
skanky polyester tracksuit bottoms, bouffant mullet, strong moustache, and a
wifebeater vest which had stretched until the straps were thin as vermicelli,
tracing a line several inches shy of his nipples.
‘Car painter’ Sandeep announced. ‘Not many
many here, Agonda, Parvem, Chaudi.Hard to find one.’
Odd, I thought, since Sandeep doesn’t own a
car.
This marked the beginning of a ten day
period of unprecedented household tension. In order to build the rest of the
smelly boat, the untamed car-penter had insisted on a day rate. This was a
decisive factor in the resultant glacial work rate and the consequent stress on
Sandeep’s part. Every day the carpenter would be loafing in the yard next to
the incomplete boat, in various stages of repose (reclining, burping, farting,
scratching his belly, fully sleeping), whilst Sandeep and his friends would
labour away with planes and drills.
The man’s ample quiff seemed to act as a
deflector shield, rendering him impervious to every insult, persuasion,
imploration and threat. At the rare times when the carpenter would be actively
involved, it would require Sandeep to be poised over him, staring at the back
of his skull.
Through the whole process, the carpenter
remained blithely stoic, whereas Sandeep, by contrast, was visibly falling
apart. Having to keep a constant vigil over a man who remained resolutely
indolent had driven Sandeep to pre-noon drinking. Even a passing ‘How’s it
going?’ would be enough to trigger a red-eyed deluge of scathing recrimination
about the man’s constant skiving.
Any available means were employed to coax
the carpenter to work. A belly as proud and fulsome as his is seldom unearned, and
so it was that all day he would devour whole plates of fish, quaff warm beers in
seconds and virtually eat cigarettes whole. As anyone would pass innocently by,
the carpenter would flag them down with hand-to-mouth or swigging gestures,
whilst making Chewbacka sounds. The ground around the half-boat was littered equally
with woodchippings, Kingfisher bottles, fag butts and tali plates.
The entire boat and boat-making process
betrayed not a single traceof modernity. Planks of wood were heated over a
coconut fire and bowed, then sewn onto the dugout hull with string. Nothing
more hi-tech than an adze was used. A crude outrigger was lashed to the bow
with more string. It would be hard to imagine that the technology has changed
in the last couple of millennia.
On day seven, Sandeep looked up and saw me
watching him watching the carpenter. The carpenter immediately asked for a
beer. Sandeep winced, and stared gloomily at the unfinished sidings of the
boat. For something to say, I asked where the carpenter came from. Sandeep
gestured dismissively into the bushes with his chin. The jungle? It seemed likely enough.
“No, Salari. Village name: Salari.” Perhaps the perfect hometown for a man so
focused on his own payscale.
Days dragged on and the determined inertia
of the Salari man had, if anything, hardened. Sandeep wore a haunted look, but,
to our communal surprise, suddenly announced the blessing of the boat. The boat
puja, it seemed, did not require a finished boat, but would benefit
greatly from an audience and an aged guest of honour.
Luckily for everyone involved, my father,
notoriously, will dress up in ethnic garb at the drop of a Nehru hat. Off he
went to get ready to play the role of Brahmin, coming back shortly after, announcing
that his chalwar chemise was in the wash. Before anyone’s disappointment could
take hold, Sandeep emerged from his house with a bright orange synthetic two-piece
outfit as a replacement. A sense of general glee pervaded the scene.
A plastic garden chair was arranged for the
high-caste, Tango-themed VIP, whilst the rest of us clustered around the
incomplete craft. A few Konkani words of blessing were uttered by Sandeep, as
he smeared red and yellow powder on the boat and everyone’s forheads. My dad was
enjoying the sartorial absurdity of his position almost as much as the rest of
us.
“Hang on. Why am I dressed up like this,
when Sandeep’s stood here in a grubby towel?”
The carpenter looked on with the pride of a
new father, smoking a pilfered cigarette. Some sugary prasad was passed round. Sandeep announced that the boat would be
named jointly after his daughter and Max. There was a pause, into which my
father gamely leapt with a shimmer of polyester.
“May we hereby confer onto this fine vessel
all the good fortune in the world, and may it henceforth bring the utmost
prosperity to all who set foot upon her!”
“Good words, Daddy. Superb.” Murmured
Sandeep in appreciation.
My dad, adjusting his costume, ventured,
“Sandeep, in England
“Not my boat.”
In this celebratory atmosphere, it was easy
to forget that the boat wasn’t actually yet ready to sail. We disperse, and the
working/loafing/supervision routine resumed in earnest.
Days later, just when we expect to find
Sandeep dancing over the adze-hacked body of the carpenter, there he is, paddling
the boat, pootling about proudly in the river, beckoning one and all to come
for an inaugural cruise. Sandeep’s smile covered three quarters of his whole
face, free at last of the slothful carpainter, captain of his brand new vessel.
