Crash Room

By Poonam Ganglani

Aramugam carefully arranged the yellow plates on the wooden table, stacking them one on top of the other. He bent down and adjusted them, ever so slightly, so that they were in perfect alignment.

Next to the stack of plates sat a row of eight glasses. They were all from a single set, beautifully engraved in gold at the rims. He ran his hands along the sides of the glasses, to ensure they were in a perfectly straight line.

Aramugam stood aside to survey everything in the tiny room, and took a few seconds to admire the symmetry of it all. Then he took his helmet and fastened it tightly over his head.

Aramugam charged at the table in front of him, took the stack of plates in his hands, and violently flung them against the wall one by one. With each loud ‘CRASH!’ Aramugam felt an exhilarating sense of relief. He bunched up the glasses between his fingers and hurled them all at once to the floor. He jumped aside, almost gleefully, to dodge the pieces of glass that came flying back up.

He stood with his hands on his hips for a few seconds after that, breathing heavily with excitement. He removed his helmet and surveyed the room. Then he smiled, satisfied with the damage.

This was the best he’d felt in months.

Since the global pandemic had struck earlier that year and a severe lockdown had been imposed in his city, everything Aramugam had built in his life — much like the objects in the room — had gone to bits. First, he’d had to shut down his small crockery shop, his family’s sole source of revenue, and spend endless days at home twiddling his thumbs, with zero indication of when normalcy would be restored. In less than a month, their savings had dried up; and when that happened, his wife Meenakshi swiftly announced that she was returning to her parents’ home in the village, taking their three children with her. There, at least, they would be able to eat two meals a day, she’d said.

Now they were three months into the godforsaken lockdown and there was still no sign of things letting up. A few days ago came the final blow — the landlord of his shop had called him up and had given him notice to vacate. Times were tough, and Aramugam was broke, miserable and lonely. He’d tried selling his crockery on his own, cycling stealthily from door to door, but was promptly caught (and fined) by the police for flouting lockdown measures. Aramugam now survived on just one meal a day, having discovered a nearby canteen distributing food for free — god bless them.

With nothing worthwhile left in his life and nothing left to lose, Aramugam had decided to put his leftover stocks of crockery to what he thought was the best use. All the pent-up anger over his losses, all the months of frustration at not knowing, all the spite over the government’s last-minute declarations of ‘lockdown extensions’ crushing his hopes like a cockroach time and time again — had finally found an appropriate receptacle. If the plates and bowls and glasses could no longer be his means of survival, they could at least be his means of sanity.

As Aramugam started to sweep away the pieces of broken glass, there was a furtive knock at his door. A small group of his neighbours huddled outside. They looked up at him with a mixture of hesitation and anticipation. Then, one of them said: ‘Aramugam, we want to try this too.’

Aramugam grinned and stood aside, welcoming them in. This time, he took out a stack of blue bowls. He handed the helmet to a woman in front and ordered everyone else to stand back. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Break them. Think of that bickering mother-in-law of yours that you’ve been stuck with for all these months, no escape. Let it all out.’ The woman looked up at him hopefully. She looked back at her husband, whose moustache twitched. Then she flung a bowl against the wall. CRASH! Everyone gasped. She picked up the rest of the bowls and flung them against the wall, one by one, until the sounds of crashing and the sounds of the cheers drowned each other out.

Within a week, Aramugam became a famous name in his area. Early in the mornings and late into the nights when police radars were low, surreptitious queues formed outside his house. Everyone waited for their turn to break plates and glasses and bowls. They even came bearing gifts — old bowls, vases, cups, chairs and tables — to help replenish Aramugam’s supplies. They were allowed in one at a time, strictly wearing a mask and a helmet.

In the Crash Room, as they broke all these things to shards, they forgot all about their uncertain futures, their squabbling families, their insufficient rations, and their forever despairing spiral of thoughts. In here, their troubles were suspended for five whole minutes. It was intensely liberating. They always cleared their mess before leaving and as they stepped out the door to let the next person in, they would pay Aramugam a fee of 50 rupees. That was a small price to pay for peace of mind. Some people even booked a daily slot.

A month had passed before the Crash Room caught the attention of the press. Soon after that, Aramugam was paid a visit by the town’s newly appointed Minister of Happiness, a special post that had been created exclusively to help deal with lockdown distress.

The Minister of Happiness was surprised to see that Aramugam’s Crash Room actually existed. He was even more surprised to see the number of people jostling through the queue, despite all of the lockdown restrictions. Surely, this nonsense couldn’t be good for his PR. People so miserable, they had to throw around plates and glasses and bowls around all day? Why couldn’t they simply take to yoga or some such?

‘Mr Aramugam,’ he said, after introducing himself, ‘it has come to my notice that you have been breaking lockdown restrictions and that moreover, you have been engaging in activities that go against the values of our state.’ But before the minister could continue, the crowd promptly cut him off. ‘Leave us alone, you’ve done nothing to help us!’ they cried. ‘The Crash Room has been our only means of solace!’ They chanted in unison: ‘Go away, let the Crash Room stay!’

The minister scratched his bald, sweaty head and rubbed his hands together nervously. ‘Calm down, calm down!’ he commanded. ‘This is not good for the town, especially in these times. What does this mean, all of this anger?’ A bundle of answers were hurled back at him. ‘How else should we deal with unending lockdowns, and shut-down shops and no alcohol to soothe us and going utterly mad at home!?’ The crowd was roused to passion now, nearly pushing the minister out the door. ‘Go away, let the Crash Room stay! Go away, let the Crash Room stay.’

The minister knew he’d been defeated. He held his hands up in surrender.

‘Mr Aramugam,’ he said, ‘It seems I have no choice. You may keep this silly Crash Room, but on the condition that you follow strict regulations. No mask, no entry, and absolutely no visitors allowed on Sundays.’ Aramugam nodded in agreement. The Crash Room had become a saviour of sorts — a much-needed source of income, and in some strange way, a source of hope for everybody around him. He was relieved he’d be able to keep it.

‘Oh, and one last thing,’ said the minister.

He strode back into the room and took a stack of plates in his hands. He lifted them above his head and flung them against the wall, one by one, with all his might. CRASH! CRASH!! CRASH!!!

It was the loudest series of crashes the room had ever heard.

The Minister of Happiness smoothed his suit, readjusted his tie, and strode past Aramugam and the crowd. ‘Good day, citizens!’

Poonam Ganglani is an independent publishing consultant, books editor, and arts and culture writer, based in Chennai. More about her work on poonamganglani.com.