The Thunderbread Conspiracy ****

The radio crackled to life. Udayappan grabbed it urgently and flipped the switch. You have five minutes. Six at most. Start action now. “Ok, got it.” Udayappan sighed, as he flipped off the radio. He gestured urgently to Gobal, his assistant. They worked feverishly, moving everything inside, and pulling the shutters down. They stood behind the closed shutters, waiting for the signal. Gobal stood, his face pressed against the steel shutter. He looked through the tiny hole at the scene outside. For a while he saw nothing. Cars whooshing by. An occasional pedestrian sauntering along the corridor. Then he saw them. The car with four people in it. The car slowed. Four pairs of eyes watched the shop. Gobal had an eerie feeling that they could see him through the tiny hole. He quickly moved back. “They are here,” he whispered to Udayappan, as if worried that they could hear him. They stood silently, sweating and breathing softly. The urgent peal of the radio startled them. Udayappan picked it up. “OK, boss.” He put down the radio, and looked at Gobal. “OK, we can move.” They pulled open the shutters and moved the things back to the front.

As they were doing this, Karmegam was listening to the urgent radio call. The scene was repeated as Karmegam single handedly moved everything behind a wooden screen, and squatted out of sight. The car with the four people passed by without incident. Within minutes he had an all clear signal.

Seenivasan was idly watching the traffic go by when a shrill whistle went off behind him. He turned around and peered at the gadget. “You have 10 minutes,” the faint green display said. He sighed. It always happened just when he was feeling most complacent. He worked frantically. Until there was not a single tell-tale sign. He went over to the adjacent shop and slipped into the kitchen. He watched from the gap in the glass louvres. Soon the car cruised by, four people inside looking in his direction. Soon they were gone. But Seenivasan waited in his position for a while longer. Until the shrill whistle sounded again, with the all clear message.

Dharan watched in horror. The car had stopped near the corner. They had gotten to Kelappan before he could be warned.

***

Idi Aman sat immobile in his chair, leaning back to an almost horizontal position. Suddenly he sprung back to a sitting posture. “We failed again.” he thundered. They all sat on plastic stools, cowering in terror, seeing Idi Aman in this foul mood. But they all knew what had gone wrong. The intelligence had not been quick enough.

***

Everyone was famished. And everyone was surprisingly in a unanimous Idiappam mood. “Let’s go get idiappam.” We all bundled into the car, heading for Jelutong. As we neared the junction, it dawned on everyone almost at the same moment. The shop was closed. They stared at the desolate rusty shutter for a few moments of despair. “Let’s try Dato Keramat. That shop is usually open.” Everyone brightened again. We gunned the car to Dato Keramat, maneuvering though the throngs of the evening market at Perak Road. As we turned the corner, everyone was craning his/her neck anxiously. Disappointment and despair. Closed again. An inaudible sigh filled the car. “How about Kuantan Road?” A ray of hope flickered. Some mouths watered at the thought of the idiappam and thengapoo and brown sugar. An agonising drive back. After a sapping journey, we turn into the side road to see every other shop open. Except the One shop. The white plastic sign dangled and swayed in the wind. “PUTTUMAYAM” it said simply. By this time everyone was resigned to going back home for moru sadam. There were no more ideas. But as we turned back to the main road, a delightful sight ! An Idiappam vendor on his bicycle. Brown basket strapped to the carrier at the back. He was parked there, at the corner, the jovial uncle Kelappan, busy packing the delectable fare for a customer.