by Braham Singh
The air-conditioning hummed and gurgled and they relaxed in the face of Iyer’s empty, executive chair staring them down—the Godrej to its left, a bank of phones to the right: black, green and red in an ascending order of importance. Sassoon reached to jiggle the black one. Beatrice Taylor floated through.
‘Sir?’ she enquired, her voice filling the room with the golden glow of smoky, single malt.
‘A favour, Beatrice dear.’
‘Absolutely, Mr. Sassoon,’ she said, and waited. No rush, her silence assured.
‘You see that Jehangir around, haul him in here.’
‘Right away, Mr. Sassoon.’
‘Special woman, our Beatrice,’ Sassoon said, putting the handset down.
Ernst asked, ‘Jehangir Merchant?’
Sassoon said, ‘Yup.’
‘Jehangir the bagman?’
‘Is that what they call him? My bagman?’
‘Okay. Then, Jehangir the ass?’
‘The same. Am surrounded by them you may’ve noticed,’ and he pointed at Venky Iyer’s chair. ‘But neither here nor there. You got your PO and that’s what matters. Iyer’s not happy though.’ The great man kept looking at the empty chair. ‘Your darkie’s quite the provocateur. How do you tolerate him?’
‘Not easy. By the way, did you hear? A worker died today. ’
Quite something, Sassoon agreed and went on to commiserate. ‘Two deaths, Iyer was telling me, in a little over a week. Truck driver gets burnt to death by gypsies, now this accident thing. The hell’s happening?’
‘About that truck driver. It wasn’t gypsies, and today wasn’t an accident.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Couldn’t be gypsies. Man was shot. Then burnt. Headless Sardar’s what they’re calling him. Has a bullet hole between the eyes the police refused to acknowledge. And then that kid today, he was stabbed in the femoral artery. No accident. There’s a worker walking around with the weapon that was used. The police know this man. So whom do I point him out to?’
‘Preposition,’ Sassoon said, and it was Ernst’s turn to ask, what’s that? ‘You ended your sentence with a preposition,’ Sassoon went, and Ernst went, Oh. It brought back memories, now that the bullshit was starting again. A small price to pay, some would say, for such a big friendship.
‘About this bullet hole in the head. You said the body was headless.’
‘The head was found next to it.’
‘Really? Sounds like one of your bad dreams.’
‘Head was charred and skin gone, but you couldn’t miss the small calibre hole. I saw it. Probably, a revolver. The police have it now. The head, along with the body. They’ll confirm.’
Johnny Walker came to mind and one had to ask, why would they?
‘Once again, old chap, going all German over something that doesn’t matter. Brings back memories, what? We’re in India. We burn people here, sure, but we don’t shoot them first. Gypsies carrying revolvers? And this “weaponised” worker of yours. Most can’t spell their names right, but this one goes locates the femoral artery? Why not leave guesswork to the police? They’re good at it.’
The two deaths, Ernst suggested, could be related, is all. ‘That man with the hole in the head, they say he stole something. May have handed it to the kid with the hole in his leg. Now both are dead.’
Sassoon wasn’t listening and left Ernst feeling he was off-script again. One of your strengths, Sassoon had once assured him, and fired him the next day .
‘The worker with the weapon, he thinks Salim Ali now has whatever the fuck was stolen. The police think so too. So maybe my man’s next.’
‘Who? Your darkie? May not be a bad thing. Anyway, moving on. Cathy was asking about you.’
To the best of Ernst’s knowledge, Cathy Sassoon couldn’t stand his guts.
‘You’re wondering,’ Sassoon said.
‘About what?’
‘This, you and I.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Of course you are. Let’s not forget, we were close once. I’m reaching out because we’re getting old. You wake up one day, and there aren’t too many friends left.’
There was this surreal feeling, listening to the great man. It would take some getting used to, but he was enjoying it already and didn’t want it to stop. Salim Ali however, was on the loose. And so was the gorilla.
‘Shall we go join Iyer?’
The great man was sanguine. ‘Let him sort it out. He knows what to do.’
Be that as it may, Venky Iyer wouldn’t know what to do if he bumped into Salim Ali. Left to his own devices, there was nothing to temper Salim Ali’s singular reality regarding dialectical materialism. Made worse by today’s events. Sassoon seemed to agree Salim Ali was an issue.
‘That darkie of yours. Maybe the police are right. Maybe he has what his dead friend stole.’
‘What did he steal?’
‘Why not ask him? Man is clearly up to no good. You saw how Iyer reacted. I don’t get it. Why keep him around? Do something.’
‘I will,’ Ernst said with such sincerity, his testicles shrank at the betrayal.
~
Outside, a Parsi-bawa scurried towards Venky Iyer’s office, juggling long rolls of blueprint. It was Jehangir Merchant with that determined look of his. Suited and booted like that, he looked a shining success. Whereas, he lived in free housing provided by the Parsi Punchayet and lived off a stipend provided by Sassoon to be his bagman. Pay off Ministers, officers, clerks. The sort our great man wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. The sort needed to get the barge started. Jehangir would get them aligned. Have them do the great man’s bidding. It was a full-time job.
Asked why Jehangir of all people, Sassoon said because of the man’s uncanny resemblance to his old friend, Pakistan’s Quaid-e-Azam, Mohammed Ali Jinnah: the suave, erudite, hugely rich, enormously brave, scotch swigging, pork-loving, Parsi-marrying, Nehru-baiting, Gandhi-hating, now-dead founder of India’s current Enemy #2: The Islamic Republic of Pakistan. Jinnah after all, talked and bribed his way into creating a whole new nation. Thereafter, Jehangir carefully adopted mannerisms to ensure he remained the Quaid’s doppelganger. Ernst learnt never to underestimate the effect Sassoon’s words had on people.
Seeing Jehangir try balance the rolls of paper while moving at high speed, things began making sense. About what the great man was doing here at Fertilisers today. As far as Sassoon was concerned, Fertilisers’ pipes & tubing tender was a pimple on a gnat’s arse. Those important-looking blueprints all over Jehangir, were probably why the great man was here. And being here, he had simply stepped up seeing old friend Ernst in a bind. After ignoring old friend Ernst for twenty-six years.
In a rush to meet Sassoon, Jehangir careened towards Venky Iyer’s office in his buttoned-down jacket soaking in sweat. The babu-type bureaucrat hurrying alongside him came with a pince-nez from the Thirties that airlifted Ernst back to Berlin. Clocking their separate ways, both sides nodded at each other and Jehangir dropped a blueprint to the floor.
‘Pipes?’ Ernst asked, picking up the unravelled chart. ‘What man, this is for a building full of pipes. We make them you know. Pipes and tubes. All German-made. Anything I can do for you? ’
‘Give it back! Hand it over, you fellow!’
Ernst rolled the unravelled drawings in slow motion, before giving them back to the wide-eyed Parsi-bawa gone nuts. He didn’t think too much of it then. He knew Jehangir from the Golf Club. This was normal.
Jehangir snatched at the roll and the babu with the pince-nez was the one who said, ‘Thank you, Sir.’
Ernst bowed with a heel-click, Prussian style.
‘Come on, Paranjpe, come on!’ Then, not caring whether Ernst heard or not, ‘Phuddu this man is. Don’t you know?’
One thing Jehangir never learnt, was how to behave like Jinnah.
~
Salim Ali was outside astride his abused Vespa; eyes still communist red, though the palms had gone rusty.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘So we got the order.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Know what? About white people coming together inside? The word spreads. What did I tell you? When push comes to shove, you guys will stick together. Goes to show.’
‘Thought you’d be pleased.’ Ernst remained curious. ‘Still. How did you learn we are in play? It only just happened.’
‘Why do you care?’
‘Why should I care about anything you do? Which reminds me, they think you may have whatever it is your dead friend stole.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘They. They’re wrong of course. Yes?’
‘You tell me. When were they ever right?’
‘Any news from the hospital?’
‘I sent Comrade Tufan home to rest. But the Yank insisted on remaining at the hospital. Did you see how he handled that bleddy sub-inspector?’ Salim Ali would get this same surprised look when rifling through Life magazine.
‘And yet, you think the Americans are responsible.’
‘I don’t think. I know. ’
‘Sure you do. What does the hospital say is the cause of death?’
‘We’re waiting on the coroner. You know, even if he certifies Arjun was intentionally stabbed, what are the police going to do? I’ll tell you. They’ll do fuck-all. They appeared more disinterested than usual, if that is possible.’
Ernst remembered Johnny Walker exchanging looks with the gorilla. The gorilla identifying Arjun as the Chinee. ‘It’s possible,’ he said.
Beatrice Taylor walked by bearing two box files. A Fertilisers jeep had drawn up. Beatrice looked daggers at Salim Ali before turning to Ernst.
‘Your PO,’ she mouthed, pointing at the good box file holding the successful applicants, on top of the bad one holding those deceased. She made the A-Okay sign with a plump thumb and forefinger. Done making sure she wasn’t seen blaming a European for anything, she threw something on the ground at Salim Ali’s feet. It was a 45rpm record in a plain, brown paper sleeve with a stencilled, red hammer and sickle. Salim Ali picked it up and dusted it off.
‘I’m going to find out who played that communist music for you rowdies,’ Beatrice said to him. ‘Then, we’ll see.’
The Sindhi Refugee Camp girl—Bhairavi —came up from behind her, more files in hand and eyes red like Salim Ali’s.
‘Got everything?’ Beatrice asked her.
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘Are you sure? You’re not yourself today.’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘Not too smart, our Bhairavi,’ Beatrice said, the girl within comfortable hearing distance. ‘Needs guidance. They all do. We should help the good ones like her, not that useless, communist, Muslim fellow of yours. Between you and me, both Iyer and Adam want him gone. He’s a thief, you know. They all are.’
The girl Bhairavi adjusted her sari and the tulip blossomed into view again, threatening to burst through its wrapping any minute. She appeared distracted and straightening up, didn’t make any effort to recognise him. Ernst found himself taking it personally. She wasn’t smiling, not even looking. Forget how she had smiled at Chhote Bhai. At least smile the way you should at Europeans. He was shocked to feel this way, because he wasn’t racist. Anyone would tell you that. He loved Indians. Same as Churchill, who then goes kills three million of them in one shot during the Bengal Famine by denying them their own rice. But only because Gandhi pissed him off.
Ernst waited for Beatrice to walk back from the jeep.
‘Send her over,’ he said. Beatrice looked confused, and he had to point at the girl. ‘You said we should help her. I could use someone for filing and accounts. Part-time. So send her over. Anything to help.’
Beatrice mulled, her body parts stopped jiggling and the tableau around them took a pause from staring at her tits and arse. ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘If we don’t help them, who will? Thursday then. She’ll come over. I’ll tell you how much to pay, but don’t give her the money. They simply spend it. You know how they are. Best I keep it for her.’ She sighed. ‘Only hope she’s grateful.’
If Bhairavi was grateful, it didn’t show. Like Salim Ali earlier, she appeared to be in shock. Tell me why you’ve been crying, Ernst wanted to ask.
There was this smudged, gold pendant around her neck, a swastika—India’s eternal good luck symbol. Staring back at him, it spoke up instead. No luck for you it said, but he had drifted already and was caught up with the rest of her. Her backside swayed on its own as she walked off behind Beatrice. A boy was just killed, and all he could think of was bending her over. ‘Stop it,’ Salim Ali had complained on the balcony catching Ernst stare at Bhairavi bending over her powder mandala. ‘She’s known to me since school days.’
‘She’s the one,’ Ernst said to Salim Ali, just about to kick-start his Vespa. ‘She told you. That girl, Bhairavi. She’s your bloody childhood friend. That’s how you knew we got the order. And she played that Soviet music for you over the bloody intercom.’
‘If she played it,’ Salim Ali replied, ‘it wasn’t for me.’
10
The Great Divide
Without gold, there is no dowry. Without dowry, there is no marriage.
—Seth Jamunadas Kejriwal
The invisible partition cutting through the Golf Club’s dumbstruck piano was referred to as The Great Divide. The only ones comfortable crossing back and forth were the club staff. Also Ernst, who was neither here, nor there.
The Europeans at the Bombay Presidency Golf Club stuck to their side of The Great Divide like their lives depended on it. No moving those chess pieces unless over to the greens. Or to the permit room over on the Indian side where they served alcohol to anyone not Indian. An invisible Berlin Corridor connected the permit room to the Western side of The Great Divide.
Compared to single-minded Europeans, the Indians were more ambivalent and behaved like prisoners choosing sides at Arthur Road Jail. Jehangir Merchant and his suited-up wogs for one, could be seen curled up at Adam Sassoon’s feet for protection.
‘It means Westernised Oriental Gentleman,’ Sassoon had explained to clear the air once and for all. ‘Who says it’s a slur? If anything, it’s a compliment. Very respectful, I may add. Not racist at all.’ Who could say whether they understood? Half the time the wogs had no idea what he was saying. But they listened carefully anyway, just in case the great man’s thoughts came useful in the future .
On their part, desi Indians sought safety in numbers around Seth Jamunadas Kejriwal, perched on his divan in waistcoat and dhoti on the Indian side. You addressed him as Sethji. You referred to him as the Seth, and you did not take his name in vain. What Adam Sassoon was these days to a shrinking Westernised coterie, the Seth was to the rest of India that doubled in size every time he farted.
The Seth’s divan dominated the Indian side, lodged in its own alcove next to the permit room. Sethji’s one leg was tucked under an arse-cheek and the other swinging to hypnotise his audience. His spectacular non-compliance with the club’s dress code refused to come up at any of the management committee meetings. The bearers were seen trying to keep up with demand as Westerners yelled, ‘Chhokra!’ from their side of The Great Divide. They served the Seth first regardless, before scurrying over to the hollering goras. Otherwise in full regalia, they wore rubber slippers that slapped against their heels as they then rushed across the border. The poor tend to be practical.
The Seth, not poor, was barefoot, his leather chappals tossed on the floor. His feet were sleek and fat like his baby face, and they dared anyone in the club to bring up the dress code.
He leaned his bulk against the gaddi-style divan put there just for him—the nation’s most beloved of businessmen and patron to politicians, Krishna devotee and builder of temples, king of the banias and India’s largest publisher of textbooks (the man spoke pidgin), besides being the only patriotic, Hindu gold smuggler in an otherwise Muslim-dominated business. Without him, there would
be no gold for the average Hindu family. Without gold, their daughters would never get married to bear sons. The Seth was integral to the cycle of life.
The Seth was also bit of a loan shark. The goodwill from lending to a European was incalculable and he never missed an opportunity to show Ernst his appreciation. That was, of course, before the Cold Pilger incident. Ernst wondered, what happens now. Under their arrangement, Ernst could use the Cold Pilger the Seth had financed. Didn’t mean it was his to sell until the loan was paid off. You didn’t think of that before you sold it? Salim Ali had asked. Ernst had to admit it was a very good question.
Not a word about getting fucked over, and instead the Seth patted away to his right where his accountant would sit .
‘Come, Mr. Ernestji,’ he said.
Ernst came, placing his Bloody Mary on the table and being a foreigner, was allowed that trespass. Didn’t mean he could sip. The Seth patted Ernst’s thigh possessively. The powerful bania made him uneasy and today was no better, and a lot worse. Keep away from shiny objects, his father would say. The Seth was India’s shiniest. Why heed a father who slashed his own wrists in a bathtub was a great question, but the advice took hold.
He looked around for the Seth’s accountant. You couldn’t have one without the other. He found Lala Prem tottering on the verandah edge. Lala Prem, with his lingering handshake. The sly wink every time his Seth complained about credit crunch. As always, he was in Frontier garb and looking more Muslim Pathan than Hindu Lala. His green, plumed turban fluttered in the breeze as he stood on the verandah edge, a heavy hand on some caddie-boy’s shoulder. Turns out it’s Kirti, the Sikh caddie-boy with creamy skin and a Hindu name. His unshorn hair was knotted on the top of the head in what they call a guth.
Caddies weren’t allowed on the verandah and the boy remained on the lawn. Standing on the verandah’s edge, the Lala reached out to massage the boy’s shoulder. Ernst liked Kirti too, but the Lala’s fondness was clearly special. Kirti the Poet, is what they called the boy. Always ready with gentle counsel on the greens—which iron, how to putt against the wind, do a quick cheat. When bullied enough, he would recite Urdu verse with a blush to the cheeks. Irresistible, those cheeks must have been because the Lala now reached out to pinch one.
