“What do you think is going to happen to this Jeff Bezos fellow?” said Vishwam Babai, our neighbour, bursting in.
“With regard to what?” I said.
Vishwam Babai, his back to me, opened the door a crack and peeped out. “Just checking for Kanakam,” he whispered. “With regard to what? You don’t read the papers? This whole National Enquirer fiasco.”
I didn’t even read my own pathetic column. I shook my head.
“Well,” he said. “He sent midnight masala pictures to some woman, babu. And that Pecker is blackmailing him.”
“Babai, language!” I said. I hadn’t even gone to the bathroom yet.
“Abbah!” he said. “Pecker is his name.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “Why do you care?”
Vishwam Babai came close. I could smell the Axe Deo spray guaranteed to make nubile women swoon at his feet.
“You remember Philomena Auntie?” he said.
“You mean old Mrs Briggs? Our erstwhile neighbour?” I said.
“Yes, same Philo,” he said. I wondered if I detected a blush.
“Isn’t she in Ireland now?” I said.
“She is,” he said. “And she may be in possession of... er... similar pics, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t.
“Why on earth would Grandma Philo have... er... intimate pics of Jeff Bezos?” I said. “Is she a hacker or something?”
“How dense you are! Not Bezos’ pics,” hissed Babai coming really close. “Mine.”
“Why in... (cough, splutter) ... would she have such pictures of yours? More importantly, why would you have such pics of yours?” I said.
“It’s not what you think,” said Babai. “Philo and I have been in WhatsApp touch for a while. Kanakavalli doesn’t know, okay, so let’s keep it that way...”
“And you thought it fit to send her... er... pics of your... er... more delicate areas?” I said.
“No, babu, god promise,” he said. I believed him. “I wanted to send her photos of my granddaughter’s birthday party. I sent these by accident. You think I’ll get arrested? Will I lose half my apartment to Kanakam?”
“No, no,” I said. “Grandma Briggs is a good sport. She’ll probably be laughing her guts out. As will the Irish constabulary. Tell her it was a mistake.”
“You think so?” he said. “That’s a relief. Thanks, babu.”
Vishwam Babai turned to leave.
“But tell me, Babai,” I said. “Why would you take pics like that? That, too, of yourself.”
“Super camera, boy,” he said. “30x zoom, bokeh effect, snazzy filters, I was testing it in various lights. You want to see the results?”
I shook my head vigorously.
“Plus,” he said. “As you know, music season is over, Sankranti movies also have come and gone... We need to keep ourselves busy, no?””
“Who?” I said.
“Your Kanakavalli Pinni and I ...” he said, eyes lowered, “we send such... er... romantic things to each other from time to time. She has a very good eye, by the way.”
My phone pinged. It was our Apartment Residents’ WhatsApp Group.
“She does,” I said looking at my phone.
“Who does?” said Vishwam Babai.
“Pinni,” I said, showing him the phone. “Very good eye.”
It was a selfie of Pinni in a tasteful sarong, umbrella drink in her hand. A well-oiled surfer dude stood behind her sporting bikini briefs, a wide grin and nothing else. The location looked like Bali.
The accompanying text was brief: Tell Babai it’s bye-bye.
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli is a satirist. He has written four books and edited an anthology.