The Cork General” a short story from “Rainbows in Braille” – A collection of short stories – By Elmo Jayawardena
They were the gentle sixties. TIME magazine and the Newsweek didn’t have that many horror stories. John and Paul were giving the musical world “Father Mackenzie” and “Eleanor Rigby”, and Kakoyannis brought Zorba to the silver screen where Anthony Quinn danced the Chasapiko. Back in Colombo, the Daphnies and the Melanies were doing their last jives at the Little Hut to the horn music of ‘Sam the Man’ before migrating in their micro-minis to be part of their Australian diaspora.
That was the time Packy got sacked for writing rhythmic graffiti on the factory wall about his ‘pain in the rectum’ boss.
“Somebody did a Judas on me,” he laughed and explained.
“No thirty pieces of silver here,” Packy laughed again. “This was cheap and had something to do with un undeserving bastard expecting a promotion,” he spelled out the root cause.
“It is simply a matter of looking to climb the ladder by sending your tongue into that little aperture between the Big Boss’s buttocks.”
Packy got the marching orders from his factory job. The creative words he ‘Picasoed’ on the wall were the type that had been omitted from the dictionary. It was more in fun than in abuse. But who would believe? Out went Packy, technically knocked out; end of round one of his “no moss” rolling career plan.
No problem. He’d been there before, waking up with no job – and not much hope.
“There is a bright side too,” Packy exclaimed. “Not much to lose either.” And Packy was a bright-side man, always looking for the silver lining. He called himself a Cork Brigade soldier. Just like an ordinary cork, no matter how deep it sank, the cork always popped up, most times with no direction, yet happily floating and being content just to be buoyant.
The next round was not easy. Jobs were hard to come by, especially for exiled graffiti poets. The record stank and artists of that calibre were always a bad investment for anyone who had even an idea of employing them. Packy decided to go solo. A loan here, a loan there, and a loan-cum-share to a sister who had a soft corner and the Cork Soldier got his finances sorted out to buy a three-wheeler to start his own business.
“Hire me and I will take you to the moon, if such be your ambition,” Packy told his friends, that was going to be his motto which he would paint at the back of his vehicle
“Handata Unath Geniyannan”
In sequined silver glitter the words would say it all, his clarion-call.
The waiting list for the purchase of a three-wheeler was a mile long and a bit of line jumping was needed to come to the forefront. That was managed. Someone knew someone who was a cousin of someone in the higher management of the Bajaj factory. The path was cleared and Packy got his new three-wheeler; the much-in-demand “tuk-tuk” limousine of the minions.
A few practice runs in the neighbourhood and a couple of joy rides for friends and kin to get his act together and the graffiti bard was ready for the road in his red and gold three-wheeled beauty that had in bold glittering letters at the back “Handata Unath Geniyannan”
Beret covering the head and a permanent grin decorating his face, Packy rode them all: housewives for marketing; office girls on short leave going to forbidden places, children to school, children back from school, a drunk here, a grumbler there or an occasional priest hurrying for extreme unction lest he be late and the faithful die and take residence in limbo.
He loved every moment, especially when the southwest monsoon triggered the April rains. That’s when Packy became the flavour of the day. The skies didn’t shower cats and dogs, more like bulls and buffalo, torrential and constant. The rains were wonderful for business. After all, who likes to get wet and who could afford taxis? They were only for tourists. Everybody needed Packy and his cheap three-wheeler on rainy days and he revelled to oblige.
“The best are the lovers who hire me to ride,” he said to his friends while sharing an evening drink.
“They just want me to keep going and going, round and round and bring them to the same place they boarded an hour later,” that was the deal.
These were the ones who were too poor for the ‘one day love rooms’. They had their fun cuddling in the backseat of a “tuk-tuk” just after dark where the canvas covers hid them from prying eyes and another canvass separated them from the driver. The entire concert went undetected, concealed by the cloak of night and canvass covers. What happened in the back seat was pure Sodom and Gomorra.
“Test matches are for the rich, my friend,” Packy voiced his theory. “Nice cars, nice places, nice meals, nice rooms and an entire day that sometimes includes the night too.”
“My clients cannot afford that,” he explained in support. “For them everything is limited; time, money, space, that’s why they go for one day cricket, play hard and play fast and finish everything in one hour.”
The days were great. Packy was a born scooter-taxi-man. His customers loved him and his red and gold “take you to the moon” three-wheeler. He was dependable and never missed a booking. Business was good. Loans were repaid, and the sister’s share was settled. Packy was even contemplating a second “tuk-tuk” to co-run with a downtrodden friend.
“It is a thought, a bit of a plan, he needs help and I know the business and maybe we put the two together and go for a second tuk-tuk.”
That was Packy, anytime to stretch his hand to the utmost limit. But it didn’t work. His friend got re-invited by the Navy for leaving them without saying good-bye. The Navy men took such things seriously, especially when one dropped from the fold without informing and shed the uniform in an incorrect way. They came looking for him to take him back to Navy land. That was it: Packy’s friend had to forget the tuk-tuk and run away to play hide and hide from the sailor boys.
Packy settled down well as a successful three-wheeler man. Things were going better, just like what Coca-Cola said. One year passed and it was now coming to the three quarter mark of the second year. He had them all, permanent bookings, temporary bookings, long ones and short ones, paying ones and non-paying ones. The entire gamut of the three-wheeler clientele was connected to Packy through his Dialog mobile which rang constantly and spilled sms messages like a one-arm-bandit coin machine.
All that was on center stage till he took a wrong turn at a roundabout. Too keen to catch a fare, he changed direction too fast, went out of control, and ran slap bang into a parked vegetable cart that spun like a ballerina, spraying carrots and beetroots over the pavement whilst the potatoes rolled like tennis balls. Packy got thrown, and that was lucky. A lorry laden with mahogany logs pancaked his beloved red and gold “tuk-tuk”. No insurance, all his fault: end of the three-wheeler round and back to square one. Packy got promoted to the rank of Major in the Cork Brigade.
He dropped out of sight for a while. Someone said he went to the Middle East; got a job as a driver in Kuwait. He was seen on his “once a year” home leave. This time, he was Sheik Packy, doling his roll to whoever narrated a sob story.
The grin was permanent, so was the beret. Friends aplenty, and Packy was still in the cork syndrome, happily floating through the days with no worry or direction.
By then, he’d at least made it to Lieutenant Colonel.
“Five years in the furnace is enough,” said Packy.
“No drinking, no gambling, no nothing,” he told his friends about the Kuwaiti paradise.
“If you steal, they cut your hand off: if you lie, they cut your tongue off and if you look at a woman, well it is definitely good-bye to your little ramatiya: they will cut it off from the root itself, leaving only a stub to piss, and only, mind you, just enough to piss.”
He did exaggerate, but paying the piper gave him the stage to call the tunes, tall tales and long tales, it was Packy’s version of the Arabian Nights, which he relentlessly related to friends who gathered around him to spend his middle-eastern fortune.
“I had enough, missed the fun Machang, that’s why I came back.”
Packy finished with Kuwait. The money had been good, and he had some saved. The investment fever was running high in Colombo and everyone was going for fixed deposits that paid the moon I interest. Two years of blocked lump sums earned thirty percent interest.
“How to say no”?
Packy joined the gold rush and reaped a bumper harvest along with his fellow investors travelling the gravy train. Institutions were dime-a-dozen, all clamouring to catch the newly rich army of Packy-types arriving by the planeload from the dust ridden emirates of the Middle East.
However, as in all things that are good and gleaming, the rainbow disappeared and the gravy train eventually de-railed. Markets cracked and crashed and the finance houses went bust and dragged the whole lot, the battalion of small-time investors, down with them. The worker, the maid, the driver, the clerk, in fact everyone who shared the pipe-dream was swallowed, along with their life-giving fixed deposits and were subsequently vomited on the shores of hopeless poverty. Plans were cauterised and dreams were fried or microwaved, till there was nothing left but valueless little notes; worthless receipts given by finance institutions in return for their hard earned deposits.
People quarrelled, fought and abused; they cursed the lenders in impotent anger and pleaded with all the gods in creation, inventing a few new ones for additional mercy. Some went to the judiciary for justice and witnessed cascading crocodile tears. Nothing happened. That was not unusual, just another case of suffering for the ordinary; the ever expendable.
Packy lost everything. Every penny he had. The crash dashed and drilled him into pauper-hood overnight, but not for long. The grin was still there, along with the beret. No mumbles and no grumbles (he didn’t know how); just picked up what was left and made a go for it. Times were hard, no doubt, but there was life, which had to be lived. What really mattered was that. He surfaced yet again.
Back in the States “Old Blue Eyes” ‘took the blows”, maybe. That’s the MGM-Technicolor-Hollywood ‘My Way’ version. Packy’s was the real world. Back-against-the-wall-stuff where he defended sledgehammers, bobbed and weaved, rolled and rode them all, this time getting promoted to Major General in the Cork Brigade.
The last I heard, he was chauffeuring a Lexus for some Taiwanese businessman. The beret had changed to a peak cap; must be part of the chauffeur uniform. Same old Packy, the grin still permanent, no changes whatsoever, always taking life by the throat and dictating his own terms to his simple way he believed in living, not much direction, merely floating, yet happy to be buoyant. Not many castles either, in sand or in air, just enjoying the day-to-day intervals between sunrise and sunset.
‘Enjoying’, that is the word, getting on with life, no matter what. Grinning and accepting his lifetime experiences, serving his time in the Cork Brigade, and getting catapulted into no less status than a well-seasoned Cork General himself.
Mini glossary
Handata Unath Geniyannan – I will even take you to the moon.
Ramatiya – penis
Macahng – Friend
