The Iron Man
by Amit
Parmessur
I must explain
this strong head, but I have only rumours to
quench your burning curiosity. Some say his
father was a blacksmith. Others say his mother
was excessively stubborn. But these are too cheap
explanations. Too cheap.
Some state that
he’d gone to jail and been beaten so much
that his head is invincible now. That sounds
better because he had gone to jail 11.5 times.
The last time he went he went halfway and ran
away. This explains his presence in the bar that
chilly Thursday.
Everyone’s
attitude changed as he entered. But there was a
silly tourist who didn’t know much about the
Iron Man. He talked to his old but new friend.
“How’s the silence old man?”
The old man
remained quiet.
“This man is
the King of Kings. He can drive a nail completely
into the wall with his head. He’s from
Rodrigues, the Indian Ocean solitaire bird island,”
he then revealed. “You know’bout the
island?”
With the Spanish
tourist seeming like a hen who knows how to bark,
the old man decided to go for a bet. Some easy
money. He called the barman and asked for a nail.
“I’ll put it in the bill,” said
the barman handing a 20cm-long nail hesitantly.
After much discussion, everything was settled.
500 rupees from the tourist and the old man each.
If the latter was to win 275 would go to the iron
man.
And the barman had
to be persuaded that the nail would help him hang
another calendar in his saloon. He was yet to
understand how to hang calendars on nails fully
driven into the wall though.
Many stopped
drinking.
Some seized the
opportunity to drink the drink of their entranced
neighbours. The Iron Man was ready. He put the
nail into position and headed it: 5 centimetres
into the wall.
Fabulous.
Good.
Fantastic business,
thought the old man.
He was convinced
the totally baffled tourist would sponsor his
grogs for the weekend. He wore a smile. And there
we go. A second header and the calendar had got
its perch. The old man’s smile got wider,
his hands closer to the money.
The iron man
braced himself and buried the nail up to 15 cm
soon. A last shot left; the notes were almost the
old man’s.
Last header.
“Dios es grande!” exclaimed the tourist,
kneeling. The nail was going nowhere further. The
iron man tried and tried with his bleeding head.
The old man’s smile withered and collapsed.
Everyone was shocked. The iron man hit. Hit. And
hit.
Can you say why
the nail was going nowhere further? There was
nothing wrong with the wall certainly.
It was just about
another man from the solitaire bird island,
leaning at full leisure against the wall on the
other side, drinking his Pepsi peacefully. The
nail had just come to rest against the back of
his head. This man’s ancestors were all
stubborn blacksmiths.
The search for a
sexy calendar was on.
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