A LOSER’S REVENGE

by Rudy Otter

PANIPUR’S dapper stationmaster, Vernon Harding, saw what happened during the carrom presentation ceremony and he didn’t like it.

That skinny, rotten-toothed fireman, Ben Guttermole, the local Anglo-Indian community’s trouble-maker, was again up to his dirty tricks, aimed at causing maximum agitation.

As club chairman, Mr.. Harding was probably the only one to notice the familiar sly grin that spread across Guttermole’s big mouth when Matthew Furtado’s name was called out in the railway institute hall and everyone except that son-of-a-gun applauded.

The stationmaster, sporting a smart crew cut, gave Furtado a warm handshake, followed by two congratulatory pats on the back and presented him with a certificate. Harding did another handshake, beaming for the row of raised cameras while the shy Furtado offered an uncertain smile.

“Young man,” Mr.. Harding said to Furtado in his deep voice, “you are Panipur’s carrom champion for the third month running, ever since our club was formed. We are all very proud of you.” He paused, waiting for the applause to die down. “There is no one – I repeat, no one – to touch you ...”

That barb was aimed at Guttermole, who’d suffered 25 consecutive defeats each time he played Furtado in the knockout tournament. It was obviously a humiliation Guttermole could no longer handle, and Mr.. Harding knew he planned an imminent retaliation.

Mr.. Harding praised Furtado’s “outstanding skill” as a carrom player, his “unerring forefinger teeing off against his thumb to send the striker across the powdered board on its deadly accurate mission, shot after shot”.

The stationmaster knew his colourful speeches impressed Daisy Saldanha, the slim widow whose shapely legs and pretty sandaled feet adorned the front row at the monthly presentations.

A carrom fan, she liked to sit there, focusing on bachelor Harding, her long black hair done up in a bun and a wistful smile lighting up her homespun features.

After the presentation, Mr.. Harding walked over to Daisy to say “Hullo” while snatching surreptitious glances at her legs.

“ You ought to join the club,” he said, pretending to admire her manicured hands but really looking further down.

“Oh no, Mr.. Harding, actually I just like to watch. By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you ...” she began but was interrupted on some pressing matter by the married sister she was living with, which resulted in her abrupt departure.

A despondent Mr.. Harding wondered, What had Daisy wanted to tell him?

He knew she liked to meander among the fruit-and-vegetable piles of Panipur’s Sunday bazaar and resolved to go there on the off-chance of bumping into her.

On the Tuesday, on his railway quarters’ verandah, Mr.. Harding was savouring a slice of sweet ripe papaya when he saw the short, hunched figure of Ben Guttermole sauntering through the front gate, smiling to himself.

Mr.. Harding stepped out into the compound, in the shade of a banyan tree, positioning himself just out of range of Guttermole’s notorious halitosis.

“Sir,” Guttermole began, “I, ah, have an idea. Why don’t you, er, put Furtado up against a really good player?” He widened his large brown eyes and rolled his head in that irritating way of his. “Then, sir, we’ll see who can play carrom and who can’t play carrom.”

Mr.. Harding glared at him. “Furtado’s beaten everyone in Panipur, including you. He’s the champion. Now look, I’m busy...”

Guttermole grinned. “There’s a certain, ah, carrom player in Nullagaon, sir...”

Nullagaon was one of their G.I.P. division’s most desolate outposts, its tiny dilapidated railway institute used only by birds nesting in the ceiling rafters. The handful of people who were posted to Nullagaon regarded it as the equivalent of Siberia, a punishment for real or imagined misdeeds. Harding often wished Guttermole could be sent there.

“We don’t play people outside Panipur” he told Guttermole. “You should know that.”

Guttermole nodded. “But the, ah, player concerned is coming to Panipur, sir, to spend a short holiday here. I was thinking about maybe a friendly game between Furtado and...”

“We don’t play friendly games,” Mr. Harding asserted. “Just take a look at our rules, will you? And stop wasting my time. Rules are rules.”

In any case, Mr. Harding did not like the idea of exposing Furtado to an even greater talent and risk destroying credibility in Panipur’s carrom tournaments, possibly resulting in Daisy Saldanha losing interest in attending the monthly competitions and presentations, and depriving him of the sight of those gorgeous legs.

“Array, what rules, sir!” Guttermole persisted. “Ah, even if Furtado loses, as I’m sure he will, he’d still be Panipur champion, wouldn’t he?”

Yes, but a discredited champion, Mr. Harding thought.

“No,” he declared with an authoritative headshake. “There’s no way I’ll break the rules to sanction a friendly game. Now I have to go.” He half-turned away but Guttermole just stood there grinning, making him feel uncomfortable.

“Sir,” he ventured, “the carrom player from Nullagaon who’s coming here next week to spend a few days with her mother is a former school champion. She’s very good, no two ways about it. Ah, name of Tara Montez, Daisy Saldanha’s daughter.”

Mr. Harding’s jaw sagged. Was this what Daisy had tried to tell him after the carrom presentation ceremony, when she was interrupted by her sister?

Guttermole stood there grinning. “Just think about it, sir. Oh, and one more thing...”

“What’s that?” Mr. Harding spat out.

“Daisy Saldanha,” Guttermole said. “Ah, she’s got nice legs, hasn’t she, sir?” He gave Mr. Harding a long conspiratorial wink followed by a high-pitched cackle that filled the compound as he wandered away.

A stunned Mr. Harding returned to his verandah easy chair and half-eaten papaya. So Guttermole had somehow spotted him admiring Daisy’s legs.

Blast! Damn and blast! Oh hell!

That low-minded, good-for-nothing, slimy troublemaker! Soon this piece of gossip would be raging through Panipur’s Anglo-Indian community, embellished no doubt by Guttermole’s vivid imagination. He’d spread so many vicious rumours about people over the years that every Panipurian lived in fear of him, wondering whom he would pick on next.

How very embarrassing for Daisy! For him and Daisy! Above all Harding didn’t want this to upset her and spoil his hopes of, well, who could tell?

That Sunday, in the crowded bazaar, Mr. Harding saw Daisy Saldanha bargaining with a villager whose carrots, tomatoes and potatoes were heaped on flattened gunny sacks. “Burrabur bolo,” Daisy was urging the sari-clad woman in her best bargaining Hindi. “Say good price.”

Mr. Harding managed to study Daisy’s legs for several seconds, then greeted her, half-expecting an angry confrontation.

“Oh, how nice to see you, Mr. Harding.”

Her black eyes were dancing, so he assumed Guttermole’s gossip could not have reached her yet, thank goodness. She said she’d wanted to mention the other day that her daughter, Tara, was coming to stay with her and her sister for three days, and how the young woman, a former undefeated school carrom champion, yearned to test her skills.

“You see, Tara has no one to play carrom with in Nullagaon. She actually competes against herself, would you believe? Moving from one chair to the other. Practising all day. While her husband Jack, he’s a fireman, is on line.”

Daisy went on: “Actually Jack told that fellow Guttermole all about Tara’s obsession with carrom. When they met in a running room. Guttermole was very interested. He suggested she should play Matthew Furtado when she comes here on Wednesday for three days.”

Mr. Harding looked down, stroking his jaw. Those beautiful legs…

“Well,” he said. “Friendly matches are against the club rules, but ? Oh, what the heck! Rules are made to be broken, aren’t they?”

They both chuckled.

“I’ll arrange a friendly between your daughter and Guttermole, okay?”

Daisy smiled, her black eyes flashing. “Actually I think Furtado would be a better opponent. Guttermole suggested that to Jack. I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

Harding relapsed into another chin-stroking reverie while appearing to study the ground. Then inspiration struck.

“Okay. I’ll fix it, a best-of-16 boards friendly” he told a delighted Daisy. “Matthew Furtado vs. Tara Montez (nee Saldanha), Thursday, 1st November, 7.3O p.m., in the railway institute, okay?”

“Okay,” she confirmed, beaming. “That would be tremendous. Tara will be so thrilled I can’t tell you.”

The carrom club, Harding reasoned, needed more money to buy additional tables, chairs, powder and pieces. So, for the first time, he would charge spectators 50 rupees each. He’d arrange for the board to be set up by institute cleaners in the middle of the hall, surrounded by circles of chairs, with plenty of standing room.

He was putting up a notice headed “CLASH OF THE SUPER STRIKERS! A friendly match” on the institute board when he realized he was being watched by a smirking Guttermole.

Mr. Harding stepped back, leaning away from the fireman.

“Sir, nice to see you have decided to, ah, overlook the rules about friendly matches. Er, what made you change your mind, I wonder?”

Mr. Harding was aware that Guttermole knew very well why, but the odious little man was just taunting him, squeezing all the malicious pleasure he could from the situation he’d created.

Mr. Harding waved a dismissive hand at Guttermole. “Look, I’m busy.” He snapped and strode away, fuming. If only, he thought, that rattlesnake could be transferred to Nullagaon, out of the way, the entire Panipur community would feel relieved.

Later Mr. Harding, on the railway bridge, met a ticket collector who’d read the carrom announcement. The man shook his head.

“That Tara, you must be mad to put Furtado up against her. She can’t half play, men! She was unbeaten school champion of St. Mary’s, Kandawadi, where my daughter was a boarder. Array, Tara will slaughter Furtado, I’m telling you!”

Harding cringed. His worst fear looked set to happen: the impending “slaughter” of their highly regarded champion Furtado; the end of Panipur’s monthly carrom tournaments; goodbye to the close-up views of Daisy’s legs; all due to that despicable, low-down Guttermole.

Later Mr. Harding found an angry hand-delivered note on his office desk. It was from Ivor, one of the carrom committee’s six members. Ivor was a stickler for the rules because he’d formulated all of them himself.

“Vernon,” the note said. “What do you think you’re doing, arranging a friendly match with an outsider when you know this breaches our rules? What on earth made you do it without consulting the committee, another rule you have contravened? Furthermore, you are charging spectators an entrance fee, yet another breached rule. I am extremely concerned and shall be bringing this up at our next committee meeting.”

The note added: “Club member Ben Guttermole kindly brought this matter to my attention. He was furious about this unauthorized match taking place and I don’t blame him. Sincerely, Ivor.”

Mr. Harding jumped up, screaming, and aimed a savage kick at his wastepaper basket, scattering its contents across the office floor. Guttermole! Of all people! That slimy scumbag who’d gone all out to instigate the friendly match, was now objecting to it, just to stir things up for Harding, land him in trouble with the committee. The cheeky, pathetic, abominable swine!

On the day of the carrom match, more than four hundred spectators lined up to pay their entrance fee to a harassed-looking Mr. Harding at the door. Committee members, incensed by his unilateral decision to hold a friendly, told him they were boycotting the event. Guttermole must have noticed their absence.

There he was, in the queue, his sly grin in place. He handed over the 50-rupee fee to Harding, who leaned away. “What, no committee members helping you?” Guttermole remarked, feigning surprise, cackling in front of everyone. “Surely you, as, er, club chairman, should not be doing this humble task? What a come-down for you, sir!”

Mr. Harding felt like ramming his fist right down Guttermole’s big foul-smelling mouth, but he decided to ignore the bait. He fixed the fireman with a baleful stare before dealing with the next person, but it was not enough to stop Guttermole standing there cackling, revelling in Harding’s predicament.

Daisy settled down in a front seat, and after Mr. Harding had shut the entrance he chose to keep well away from her, demonstrating (if anyone needed proof) that he could not possibly admire her legs from where he was sitting. Guttermole sat close to the board.

After Mr. Harding delivered a short speech, the finger-flicking action began, refereed by a middle-aged player.

Tara Montez, an intense, bespectacled young woman with thin legs, won the toss and struck at the assembled circle of carrom pieces, sending two whites simultaneously into opposite corner pockets. The audience gasped and Mr. Harding motioned at everyone to keep quiet.

Her sloping forefinger triggered the index finger to send another white into the far left pocket, making two other well-concealed whites line up at the bottom right pocket. She got rid of both pieces, in a single shot off the cushion, provoking more gasps.

Matthew Furtado was feeling uncomfortable and squirmed in his chair. He had not encountered this level of opposition before. Harding saw Guttermole grinning and rolling his head appreciatively, no doubt imagining he was in Tara’s chair, humiliating Furtado with every shot.

Tara continued to impress, especially with her bizarre off-the-cushion shots, not allowing Furtado a single look-in, and she won the first board to loud applause. Guttermole clapped more vigorously than anyone else. Things were going just the way he’d hoped.

Furtado’s forefinger swung into action for the second board. The striker hit the assembled pieces and sent a white into the top left pocket. He took shot after shot, going for direct or chipping hits. He missed a long shot, making the audience sigh, and Tara took over, but she too bungled an awkward chip-shot and the play returned to Furtado, who eventually won the board.

Harding glanced at Guttermole. Everyone except the evil fireman was applauding.

The third board, which Tara won, had some people biting their nails. Guttermole joined the ovation, shouting: “Come on, Tara! Give him good! Make the fellow sweat!”

A couple of annoyed spectators told him to keep quiet.

Each successive board, evenly matched, was played with a skill that mesmerized spectators. They phewed, threw disbelieving glances at one another and shook their heads in jaw-dropping astonishment.

After an epic struggle, the match ended 9-7 in Furtado’s favour, to sustained applause and finger-mouth whistling. Tara was the first to congratulate him with a handshake across the board.

They were asked to hold that position and smile again at the forest of raised cameras.

Mr. Harding glanced over at Guttermole. He was talking earnestly to a surprised-looking guard, seated next to him, who was leaning away. Meanwhile, Daisy went over to Mr. Harding and thanked him for staging the match.

“My pleasure,” he said, appearing to look at the floor. “What a turnout! Even better than I expected.”

He patted the leather bag stuffed with rupee notes, ticket counterfoils and membership forms. He told Daisy that 35 people he hadn’t known to be carrom players signed up at the door, an astonishing membership surge in one go. Moreover he was convinced word would get around and many more Panipur Anglo-Indians would become members.

How, he reflected, could the committee possibly censure him for contravening club rules when his decision to break them brought in badly needed cash and many more members? He surely had nothing to worry about? He hoped.

Afterwards, when Mr. Harding was returning to his quarters, the guard he had spotted sitting next to Guttermole caught up with him. He gave the stationmaster a knowing look.

“What’s this I hear, Mr. Harding, about you and Daisy Saldanha?”

Mr. Harding gritted his teeth. “Oh? What do you mean?”

“You were apparently seen snogging Daisy behind the institute’s outside toilet, and your hand…”

“Listen,” Harding barked, interrupting him. “That’s complete balderdash!. A downright lie! If this nonsense…”

The guard looked shaken. “S-sorry, Mr. Harding, but I-I just heard…”

“Well, you’d better forget you ever heard anything, okay? It’s an outrageous invention and I happen to know who’s behind this.”

The next day, Daisy Saldanha swayed into Mr. Harding’s office.

“Guttermole,” she began. “Apparently he’s been spreading rumours. About us actually. Would you believe, he’s telling everyone he saw us groping each other. Behind the institute toilet of all places?”

Mr. Harding, his face contorted with anger, raised a fist. “How dare he! You and I know it’s not true! Next time I see that vermin, that turd, I’m going to…”

Daisy, however, burst out laughing. This was not the reaction Harding had expected. It went on for five long seconds, making him feel uneasy. She stopped and changed the subject.

“You see, Mr. Harding, Tara’s husband Jack has put in a transfer request. For Panipur. Actually Tara’s desperate to join your carrom club. To play people of Furtado’s calibre.”

Harding was delighted to hear that. “Best of luck! Tara would be very good for the Panipur carrom club, but let’s see if the transfer goes through.”

“Well, we can only live in hope, Mr. Harding. It’s up to the railway authorities. Anyway, lovely talking to you. I must be off now.”

They shook hands. Her delicate touch gave him a nice tingly feeling. He studied her legs as she swayed out of his office.

A fortnight later, Daisy called at his railway bungalow, her face alight with happiness. “You’ll never guess what, Mr. Harding,” she told him. “Jack’s got his transfer to Panipur! He and Tara will be moving here at the end of the month! And Jack says, to replace him, they’re sending Guttermole to Nullagaon.”

“Guttermole to Nullagaon!” Harding shrieked. “And Tara coming here with Jack! Fantastic news! Two great reasons to celebrate!”

They hugged each other and swirled around the verandah’s stone floor, laughing. Round and round they went, not realizing they’d drifted into the bedroom. Their feet became entangled and they fell on to the bed, he on top of her.

Mr. Harding, flustered, apologized and was about to spring upright when Daisy’s arms reached out and drew him down towards her…

The following week, Mr. Harding saw Guttermole heading disconsolately to the railway shed, and greeted him in a way that took the fireman by surprise.

“Hullo there!” Harding bellowed from the bridge.” Thanks a lot for everything you have done!” he said gleefully. “After all it was your idea to match Furtado with Tara Montez, and now the club will be stronger than ever as she’ll be moving here, to Panipur, playing in our tournaments, attracting even more members. If it wasn’t for you, all this would never have.”

A dejected Guttermole could take no more. He slouched away, muttering to himself, obviously dreading his bleak future in Nullagaon.

Mr. Harding, too, thought about the future. His own future.

And he couldn’t stop smiling.

* Rudy Otter is a retired Anglo-Indian journalist. His email address is: otterrp@yahoo.co.uk