(Partial extract of first Chapter)
Chapter One - When One Door Opens
Tuesday July 2'nd, 2013
"And never darken my door again!!"
I was inordinately confused. Mr Rangarajan's rage was unmistakable. His skin colour had reddened so significantly, his face radiated an autumnal glow. On any other occasion I would have been tempted to compliment the aforementioned Funeral Director on this interesting complexion, or even captured the moment on my phone; but this is evidently not the right moment to do so. He is, without doubt, furious. What had me perplexed, however, was the root cause of his umbrage. Mr Rangarajan and I share a long relationship. He is a close and long-standing friend of my Granddad and as a result I've had the honour of performing odd jobs for him and his family for the past five years. The pay is generous and my family receive a twenty percent discount at 'Balti Towers' (a restaurant that he part-owns in Hemel Hempstead). In all that time I have rarely seen Rajeev Rangarajan reach the dizzy heights of 'slightly vexed', let alone ferocious. There was the time that Channel Four announced they were no longer covering Kabaddi (you'll have to read the rules of this sport for yourselves, because if I wrote them here, you wouldn't believe me). A second occasion I recall followed victory for Mary Kom (I realise you may not have heard of this courageous lady but please read on). 'Magnificent Mary' created history by becoming the first Indian woman to win a medal at the first ever Olympic women's boxing event. Unfortunately Mr Rangarajan's views on sexual equality lag behind those of Fred Flintstone and I believe the statement that left his lips that day was, "If Shiva had meant Women to box he would have given them a bloody cock, isn't it". But, never before have I seen this calm Indian gentleman exert so much fury and blush with such a ruddy luminosity. Confusion and an ever growing fear prevailed. I often rely on my good friend Mr. Logic to assist in moments of inner storm and like Sherlock Holmes (Benedict Cumbarbatch version this time me thinks) I started to work through the evidence and dismantle the clues. Could Mr Rangarajan be referring to the paint job I had just completed? If so then yes, I had indeed darkened his door; front door to be precise. However, unless I'm mistaken, Rajeev and his good lady wife had specifically requested Dulux hard-waring outdoor glossy black. How could that not darken a door that was previously a nasty shade of Custard Puff? I dug deep and, in amongst several old refresher chew wrappers, fetched the post-it note from my pocket, upon which my employer had noted the desired paint, colour, type and brand (Wow, I really am starting to sound like Sherlock Holmes, bordering now on the Robert Downey Jr interpretation; smug). It therefore seems likely that the reference to a 'darkened door' is symbolic. I've done a cracking job on that door anyway, even if I do say so myself. You can see your face in it, I wanted to insist, but thankfully decided against it on the basis that Mr Rangarajan probably can't see his face in it and he might perceive the comment as some kind of subtle racial slur. Option two then? Perhaps my tee shirt has caused offence? I'm not certain which religious persuasion Ghandi belonged to but surely they could see the funny side of depicting him with Yoda ears? It's a compliment in many ways. I bet if the shoe or sandal were placed on the other foot (ie, Yoda with Ghandi ears), George Lucas wouldn't get all high and mighty. He would probably recognise the commercial viability of such a combination. The internet would be inundated with talking Yoda dolls with tiny brown ears and small round spectacles. With one press on the tummy a half-Indian and half-Jedi Master voice would say, 'Hmmm, Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes'. I remember that Ghandi quote because Grandad used it when I accidentally killed his tomato plants by watering them with lawn mower fuel. I was seven at the time and had no sense of smell. Anyway, I would like to point out that Mr Rangarajan was somewhat guilty of double standards, by virtue of wearing a flat cap. Hardly the traditional headwear of an Asian gentleman, I think you will agree. Gandhi with Yoda ears, Asian Funeral Director with a flat cap. I don't think either inappropriate combination is going to affect world harmony, is it? No, it can't be the tee-shirt. At this point I paused, pondered, considered, almost pretended to smoke an invisible pipe, realised and finally panicked. Option three may well provide the answer. Had Mr Rangarajan somehow discovered that I, Felix Malholly, had answered a call of mercy from his wife earlier that very morning? You see, Mrs Rangarajan is, and these are her words not mine, sexually deprived. Or was it depraved? Maybe both, I'll Google them later. The lady of the house is both significantly younger than her husband and incomparably more attractive. A bit like Sunita from Coronation Street but with a reasonably sized nose. I have heard about these arranged marriages and whoever arranged this one for Rajeev was certainly on his team. Even to a sixteen year old boy, who is light years behind the rest of his school mates in terms of sexual experience, Mrs Rangarajan was clearly a MILF (Mother I Lustily Fancy, apparently. My best friend Justin Timmons had translated the term for me quite recently during a particularly dull RE lesson while we were discussing the merits of the subject teacher Miss Askwith. You'll hear more from Justin later). So when this maiden, locked in a terrible tower (symbolic tower, representing a lack of sexual activity), pleaded for assistance to break free from her erotic shackles, it seemed like the only thing to do was to storm the barricade, ascend the tower and become her knight in shining armour (or tee shirt depicting Ghandi with Yoda ears). Only this rescue didn't involve slaying dragons or slaughtering evil witches (actually having intercourse with Mrs Rangarajan). I should cocoa. No! Basically the erotic lady of the house requested that I merely fondle her breasts, while she pleasured herself downstairs (literally and metaphorically). She performed this masturbatory exercise on the sofa while watching Rang De Besanti, a Bollywood film about some trendy and overly attractive students. During proceedings, I researched the film on my phone using only my left hand, which takes some doing. A reviewer on The Internet Movie Database described it as “the best screenplay I have seen thus far in Indian media”, but it was no Good Will Hunting I can tell you. Mrs. Rangarajan assured me that there was no way her husband could ever find out and this activity did not constitute infidelity on her part, as long as I didn't visit the downstairs area as well. I was merely a facilitator, creating an ambience. I was the soundtrack in a sort of porn movie. "What about the cameras?" I pointed out. Mr Rangarajan, despite his advanced years, is a guru in all things of a technical nature. I'm sure he considers himself Delhi's answer to Q. He's converted his garage into a workshop, where I suspect all of the research and development is done. The secret lair has one door and no windows. I often hear the whirring of machines and the odd expletive emanating from within. The workshop is strictly off-limits and even has a fingerprint reader on the door. A few months ago, during one of my regular window cleaning visits, I made the mistake of wiping it with my shammy leather. His voice appeared from nowhere instructing me to 'Move away from the entrance'. I don't know what he does in there but Justin reckons he's building a twenty first century chastity belt for his daughter (you'll hear more about her shortly). His entire mansion (five bedroomed detached house in one of Aylesbury's premium streets), is guarded by an elaborate array of alarms and cameras. Dad always says that there's good money in death and this Indian funeral director spends most of it on James Bond inspired gadgets. That's his other passion by the way. James Bond. Well, movies in general actually. Throughout Rangarajan Towers the walls are decorated with film posters, memorabilia and signed photos. He's obsessed. Mrs Rangarajan assured me that the sofa area was a lens-free zone (she'd insisted on it apparently) and if the subject of my presence in the house was raised, she would inform her husband that she had prepared lunch for me. This was a plan she had obviously considered in advance and it all seemed entirely plausible. Now the nearest I'd been to anything even remotely considered sexual at this stage of my life was ironically performing a similar massage role on Lara Crofts breasts during an extra long Xbox session last month. The television static made my hair stand up, while the sexy Miss Croft had the same affect on my private area. So, adopting my usual selfless and charitable nature, I complied. Mrs Rangarajan pleasured herself for around fifteen minutes. During this time I was forced to change position on multiple occasions, mostly to maintain a normal blood-flow through my arm, but I have to guiltily confess that I also used the opportunity to obtain an improved view of activities in the servant's quarters. It was a surreal experience. My eyes dotted around the room nervously, like a meerkat having a panic attack. The climactic end to proceedings coincided perfectly with a scene in the film showing a particularly handsome young man diving into a swimming pool, through a rubber-ring, which some may describe as representational art but I would suggest is nothing more than an amusing coincidence. Either way, the lady of the house was satisfied and exhausted. Collapsing back on the sofa, she shut her eyes and let out the most delicious sigh. I asked myself an important question at this point. Should I stop the breast fondling? She obviously hadn't even noticed that I was still going strong. And I was very much enjoying myself. I did consider whether she would object if I were to perform similar self-gratification on my own wine cellar region but I decided to leave that for later on, during Eastenders probably. So I stopped. For some strange reason I smelt my fingers. I don't know what I was expecting really but all I got was a whiff of cotton freshness. I left her there, sleeping. She looked so relaxed and contented and I, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.
Anyway, back to the matter in hand (no pun intended), namely Mr Rangarajan's ever-reddening face. He had now started to use words like "bloody" and "blimey" and even managed to squeeze them consecutively into the same sentence at one point (that takes some doing I can tell you). He was acting like a human thesaurus, quoting several synonyms for a dislikable adolescent boy. Wretched, deplorable, despicable, shameful, sordid. How many more could he come up with? I was particularly concerned by the use of the word 'sordid' by the way. But then she appeared. Like a harbour in a storm or the hand-rail at an ice-rink. The most beautiful girl in the Universe (purely a personal opinion and not an official title. And I fully recognise that I've not travelled beyond Carlisle, so to make a judgement across the expanse of the cosmos is a little ambitious). Dark silk-like hair flowing in the light summer breeze, simply crying out for a voice over describing nutrients, moisture and Ph levels. This portrait of beauty was screaming frantically and waving her hands in a wild yet graceful splendour, like a ballet dancer who's dropped her I-Phone. "Daddy!" She was shouting. "Don't hurt the boy I love". I pressed the pause button on the remote control that runs my life and examined the immediate area, fully expecting to see the school rugby captain or Head Boy, who had quietly entered the scene. But no, it was just me. So, either I had inadvertently entered the twighlight zone or I had been miss-reading the signs for months. Perhaps all those moments on the way to school, when it looked like she was completely oblivious to my existence, she was really hiding her true feelings? The girl in question by the way is Harsha Rangarajan, beloved and beautiful daughter of the man whose door I had painted black and who's mother's breasts I had been fondling in between coats. Harsha is, in the words of modern Shakespeare, babelicious, finer than frog hair, makedicios and massively fit. This was the girl of every adolescent boy's dreams; well certainly the ones recently polled in our educational facility. The results were briefly displayed on the school's Facebook page, so I'm quoting facts not subjective meanderings. However, this whole wonderful scene is just not sitting right with me. Imagine, if you would, that the two of us were cast in one of those dreadful American teen comedies about sexual misadventure, such as 'Ernie gets his knob stuck' or 'Brad does Paris Texas Hilton'. Harsha would be the star attraction. The girl that the quarterback is quarterbacking. The cheerleader that every father of every student would fantasise about during dull school presentation evenings. I, on the other hand, would be the hapless freak who makes everyone laugh by wetting himself in the school library or getting his penis stuck in tube of polo mints, on his birthday, in the middle of assembly. So why, I hear you all ask, is Harsha describing me as the boy she loves? Good question my attentive readership, good question. Looking more attractive than ever, the girl of my dreams raced past her father and threw her arms around me protectively. I was showered in a rainforest of affection. As expected things started to grow, as they do in the rainforest. This, of course, angered Mr Rangarajan more.
"You lose your blimey virginity to this ....' He is temporarily lost for words, but I know it won't last forever and he'll find a suitable insult sooner rather than later. 'Weed'. Told you. Unfortunately, the description is entirely accurate. I wouldn't class myself as a muscle man. More a man of muscly words, pumped full of satire and whit rather than testosterone and beta blockers. I hold an ambition to be the funniest man in the world but this was obviously not the right time to practice that art. Hang on a minute! Rewind. Did he say that she lost her virginity.....to me? I press the reliable pause button again and confirm to myself that he did utter those words. I gulped and became very aware that an audience was gathering. Two of the local scallywags had arrived on the scene and were showing a keen interest in proceedings. Declan Barrows and Anthony Johnson, the local Ant and Dec (broken home version) are living proof that Aylesbury has little talent. Going out of my way to achieve eye-contact, I gave them a proud nod and thoroughly enjoyed the image of their jaws dropping to the floor. Oh yes. I am da man, Mr. Bollocks, King of the Castle, Dirty Blimey Rascal. What a terrible shame that I have absolutely no recollection of this sexual rendezvous at all.
"You can't help who you fall in love with Daddy". Harsha looked me in the eyes and performed the subtlest of winks, which I initially interpreted as seduction. She did it again but this time a little more insistently. Nervous twitch? Fly in the eye? She did it again. Now if I were a car, I would be a Vauxhall Meriva. I've considered this many times. Reliable but as slow a tortoise pulling a snail through a treacle field in the rain.... on Sunday. However, as if released by an astronaut from a space station orbiting the earth, eventually the penny dropped, landed smack bang on the crown of my head and I finally discovered my role in this entertaining drama. Harsha obviously wanted me to continue some sort of illusion and I was very happy to comply. What have I got to lose? Why be the key grip when you've got the lead man's script and he's off in his trailer having a difficult shit?
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