Karthik caressed the fabric as if it were the cheek of a loved one. He used the back of his palm, allowing the cloth to shift and slide against his fingers, pulling his hand away guiltily when he noticed the grime beneath his fingernails. Sheathed in plastic, the outfit hung at the back of an olive-green Godrej cupboard, tucked to the right and out of sight. He should have washed his hands.
He hoped it still glimmered the way it had when he had set eyes on it a little over a decade ago at Chagganlal Dresswallah’s store in Juhu. It had felt like a summoning, his eyes settling on a corner of its sleeve as it peeked out from a waving mass of hot pink and turquoise. It had cost more than his monthly salary at the time, and he remembered the salesman stifling a bored smile as he handed over the clothes and pointed to a cashier at the front of the store. What could a dark-skinned boy want an Elvis Presley costume for? He could have his answer today, Karthik thought grimly, if they were to meet.
Pushing the outfit aside as he reached for a plaid shirt, he recalled the first time he had heard the voice of the King. It was “Love Me Tender”, requested in all probability by some teenager on Saturday Date, the radio show he used to tune into religiously, the way their Christian neighbours went to church on Sundays. He remembered how surprisingly crisp it had sounded in his one-room apartment, pouring out of a new Murphy set that glowed dimly in their poorly lit room. That was when his father was still around, months before he disappeared into the dusty sands of Bahrain, lost either to an industrial accident or the arms of another woman. Karthik would never know because his mother never mentioned her husband again. All that remained of him were two sweaters – his other clothing exchanged for steel utensils – and a faded wedding photograph placed within the folds of a fancy sari she would never wear. His father must have purchased the radio as one of those final displays of largesse – overcompensation for an inability to connect with his wife and son.
Other memories rose gently to the surface as Karthik buttoned up his shirt: talent competitions at school, Diwali parties at the office, his arm swirling in imaginary circles as he went down on one knee while miming Presley’s hits. The lyrics to “Hound Dog” came to mind and the more obscure “Promised Land”. Then, the reactions to his impressions, silent astonishment giving way to laughter and derision. He stopped dressing and breathed heavily. Elvis Presley had died in 1977, and no one would stand the idea of him being resurrected by a South Indian impersonator. That wouldn’t stop him, though, no matter how much they laughed. It was all he had left.
The sounds of Kalina rushed in from the outside as if a window was suddenly flung open. He would be late if he didn’t leave quickly. To think of the past was an exercise in frustration, he reminded himself, shutting the cupboard and getting on with the business of living.
Walking into his office at KC & Sons Bathroom Fittings in Lower Parel an hour later, he felt his shoulders droop in a familiar fashion. They fell in step with how time always appeared to slow down within these premises, taking on the texture of molasses. The company had moved to the area decades before large malls and fine dining restaurants appeared, at a time when everyone would drive past that dismal corner of Bombay without stopping. Now, KC & Sons owned the building.
Moving into his cubicle, Karthik turned on his computer and double-clicked the day’s first Excel sheet. Voices rose and fell around him, conversations broken by a loud remark or an inappropriate joke. He didn’t look up. He had no illusions of how dispensable his role in the accounts department was, but it was all he had known. This was where he had worked for almost three decades now, the first company he had applied to after graduating with a degree in commerce. It allowed his mother to finally stop running a tiffin service to pay for his education. He had spent years with his eyes fixed on columns and rows. Colleagues, who had long moved to better jobs, would ask him about girlfriends or an arranged marriage, then stopped joking about his sexuality when it became apparent that he was happy to share a room with just his mother and a music collection.
The day wore on, like a thousand others before it, where nothing happened. Ten minutes before 5 pm, Karthik walked into the manager’s office to announce his resignation. There was a surprise because he had offered no warning signs. He was as reliable as the furniture, a blind spot meant to stay until retirement before fading away with an engraved watch and a framed certificate of appreciation. He gave no reasons and politely refused to reconsider. A notice period of a month would have to be served, and he acquiesced, smiling half-heartedly as he walked out.
None of the sights or sounds on the ride home registered as he thought about the rest of his evening. It had been three months since his mother passed, snatched away along with millions of others by a virus that had laughed in the faces of those it left behind. Their corner of the world had always been joyless, but the gloom seemed to deepen after her absence. He lay awake on most nights in the weeks that followed, staring at the ceiling as shadows cast by passing cars flitted across the paint. Where there should have been loneliness or a hint of abandonment, there was only emptiness, like a stomach grown accustomed to the lack of food. The only bright thing lay in his cupboard, waiting to be set free.
Unlocking the door, Karthik stepped inside and began undoing his shirt. He thought about rumours from the 1980s of Elvis being alive and appearing at fast-food restaurants across America. The sightings had died down in the years since. There had never been a resurrection reported from Asia. Stepping out of his trousers, he placed them on the back of a chair and waited as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. He then walked in his socks and underwear, his upper lip curling slowly upwards. “Wise men say,” he hummed, “only fools rush in …”
Opening the cupboard, he reached for the outfit and removed its covering sheet. The shirt and trousers were white, with gold sequins stitched onto every inch. They didn’t shine as brightly as he remembered them but still twinkled in the reflected streetlight, distracting him into silence. Shutting the steel door, he put them on slowly and stood before the mirror, squinting as he tied the cape. The dark glasses would go on later, with mascara and whitening cream purchased a week ago.
Turning to his stereo system that stood in a corner, Karthik reached for a cassette from the top of a pile. He knew what it was from where it had been placed the night before. Sliding it in, he pressed play and turned up the volume before walking back to the mirror. Outside, the late evening had begun its slow shuffle into another restless night, the streets thinning out and emptying like water from a cracked plastic bottle as neighbours and stragglers walked home.
Karthik closed his eyes and shut it all out, creating a bubble of silence in which he alone lay cocooned. He imagined thousands of lights going down and a spotlight waiting for him at the centre of his room. Stepping into it lightly, he threw up one hand. He could die. But Elvis would live.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Butterfly’ in Songs Our Bodies Sing, Lindsay Pereira, Penguin India.
