by Braham Singh
Hanson sat wearing a Scally cap today, instead of his twelve-gallon, holding his wife’s hand in a bear paw. Her blonde hair was stiff with spray—like they prefer in their southern states. Capri slacks and high heels completed the picture. Doris she was, Doris Hanson. A nice, quiet woman with a troubled inner core. Ernst was good by now at reading the bad stuff. He felt he should go up and thank Hanson for rushing the dead Arjun to hospital. Also, for making a dent in Salim Ali’s worldview, although impossible to say for sure.
On the other hand, he felt tired and so hell with it. The Hansons made it easier by signing their chits and getting ready to leave. Bearers stood to attention out of respect at the American-size tips left behind.
~
The verandah’s decibel levels were up and Ernst felt unwell. It should concern him, how normal this back and forth had become—well, unwell, not ill, but not well. Someone touched his elbow. He found Sassoon by his side balancing a whiskey with superior, British, upper class and he started feeling better. It was good to be in the great man’s inner circle once again. Brothers-in-arms. Shit happened between friends all the time. So what if he’d fired Ernst. He was at least trying to make up twenty-six years later by pushing business his way. It’s really large, the order, Major Punjabi had warned on the phone. Three truckloads of stainless steel pipes. When you want to make up, do it like a Sassoon.
‘All good?’
‘Yes, Adam. You?’
‘The Muslim bugger,’ Sassoon said, ‘He needs to step up. Return what his friend stole. Enough is enough. Seriously. It’s impacting you.’
Funnily enough, Gomes had felt the same. We want it back, he had said, reaching into the one-eyed Fiat.
‘Why?’ Ernst asked, and a voice clambered up on his shoulder to whisper, careful now.
‘Why? He works for you, that’s why. What’s he got you hang on to him like that? Tell me. Maybe, I can learn something.’
‘Integrity,’ Ernst replied. ‘He has integrity. It can’t be learnt.’
Only thing left now was to watch the train careen out of control. Sassoon’s smile was reassuring though. ‘I didn’t hear that, old chap,’ he said, allowing Ernst to breathe again. ‘And anyway, why complicate matters now that both Iyer and Punjabi are on board with helping you? Talk to you later.’
Walking back to his entourage, Sassoon turned around to say, ‘Need you on board too. So let’s get the darkie to behave. Return whatever’s been taken. Punjabi’s waiting to sign off on your advance. God knows you can use the money.’
True, but how to get that darkie to behave? He felt a sudden heat pricking through his trousers, reminding him of the other matter. It was the cheque drawn in favour of the Seth, burning a hole in his pocket. He was here to give it to the Seth; the Seth’s Lala would then give one back to him as promised, with a little extra for Salary Day, and his world would continue to revolve. Catching him look their way, the Seth waved from across the Great Divide, friend to friend, to assure Ernst venal commerce was the last thing on his mind; and the first thing he expected Ernst to bring up. The Seth was smiling, and over here Sassoon was smiling too. They didn’t know each other and either one could swat him like a fly and no one would care. And just like that, Ernst’s stomach started to cramp up and the cork up his arse clamped down, causing the cheque in his pocket to heat up further. Strange, because it should have remained stone cold, given there was no money in the bank.
Ernst allowed himself to be distracted by a flutter some sofas away in a bouquet of floral prints. There was a time Bombay Ingrid would sit in there, skirt swirling around her; a long stemmed rose coexisting with the bouquet, yet not part of it. Today, Daisy Lansdowne was present instead, articulating past the alcohol while chatting away with Cathy Sassoon. Cathy saw him and waved excitedly. He waved back. If Cathy Sassoon had any real passion beneath all the giggly, put-on charm, Ernst hadn’t seen it in all these years. Rumour was, neither had Sassoon. Edging down the colour-scale and to Cathy Sassoon’s left, Beatrice Taylor sat behind her horn-rimmed glasses. Pinker than Cathy she was, but so what. She was half-baked, an Anglo-Indian, which meant that in a gathering of white people she was tolerated at best. They made sure to be seen being kind to her.
‘You saw Gone With the Wind ?’ Beatrice asked Ernst once. ‘Can you make out Vivien Leigh’s half-Indian? No? See? We Anglo-Indians don’t look like bloody darkies one bit, so why treat us like them? Bloody racists, all of you.’
She had gone on and on. Her stunning breasts went well with the inferiority complex. They looked spectacular today, even from a distance. Right next to them and at the bottom of the colour-scale, sat Bhairavi. Ernst couldn’t remember the last time he saw an Indian woman at the Golf Club. She was in that white sari of hers—the one with the maroon border—and her mouth was clamped tight. It caused her upper lip to bulge. Memsahibs everywhere, she kept close to Beatrice Taylor while hugging a red bound ledger for protection.
An alcoholic mist hung over the bouquet and Beatrice was getting loud. ‘She won’t disappoint,’ Ernst heard her say, Cathy Sassoon nodding. ‘Make sure Mr. Sassoon doesn’t hand her any money. She’ll simply spend it. You know how these people are. Best I keep it for her.’
20
Sethji’s Gift
Thine to me is the swastika.
—Vedic chant
He tried catching the girl’s eye and once again she ignored him, the cork up his arse clamping tight in protest. Beatrice Taylor threw a smoky smile his way as a consolation prize.
When Adam Sassoon walked over to the ladies, it was with that charm dialled up. He appeared to smile directly at the girl though, as if at Goddess Bhairavi instead of a buck-toothed darkie from Sindhi Camp. As if she was the most beautiful woman in the world and not an emaciated refugee girl. Given the Goddess legend (if she looks ugly, you live, if beautiful, you die), were Sassoon Indian and the way Bhairavi smiled back at him, it could mean ta-ta, bye-bye. Ernst tried picturing Sassoon an Indian and failed. The great man bent down to speak and Bhairavi canted to listen to him and so did Beatrice, her face reflecting a golden glow from the scotch someone else was paying for. Cathy Sassoon smiled relentlessly from the far end of the colour scale. Ernst felt he should go say hello. Daisy Lansdowne, however, peered like a riled bird-horse and with Bhairavi pretending he didn’t exist while Sassoon established hegemony, today’s bouquet appeared toxic. Ernst mulled doing a bishop and scurry diagonally across the chessboard without attracting any further attention, but it would still be touch and go. Then Mohan Driver signalled from the entrance and Ernst weaved toward him like the knight he knew he wasn’t.
It was a phone call. Parvatibai had called the reception. Dr. Waller had called home. Ernst felt sick. His pulse rate went up; he felt feverish and broke into a sweat. He was a textbook hypochondriac learning the doctor just called, and to hell with Sindhi Camp Bhairavi and whatever she was doing here. Going into a tizzy, he tried to calm himself. I’m a hypochondriac, he said. That’s all there is to it. Acknowledging his condition initiated a bout of relief and the cork loosened, pulse steadied, clamminess eased, and she could still go to hell. He became almost euphoric seeing how he had reacted to Waller’s phone call. There was no cancer. How could a hypochondriac be ill? That would be a contradiction in terms.
Looking out at Sindhi Camp from the Golf Club reception area, he came down the club steps for some air, and stretched. It felt good. He was surprised seeing Tsering Tufan walk past the gate towards the police chowki. It wasn’t often his two worlds collided. The man did not look professorial today, more like a sickly Chinese babu holding tight to a yellow file. He appeared to be deteriorating on a daily basis with a real illness, not from bullshit head games hypochondriacs play. It was surreal seeing him, though not half as much as seeing the little black man with the fuck-you look. Lip curled, Salim Ali ventured into the club courtyard without a qualm.
‘You knew it was that ape, Gomes! Why didn’t you tell us?’ A dozing Murli Chowkidar jumped sky high
, and Ernst reached to tease at his mole, feeling the plaster instead. When it came to Salim Ali though, he felt up to it.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were accessory to a crime? Bad enough stealing something. No telling what else you’d do if you knew about Gomes. Yes, I was worried about you.’
Salim Ali was categorical. ‘Bullshit. You were worried about your business. So, who approached you? Sassoon or the Yank? Or both? What was the deal? You keep shut and they give you the pipes and tubes order? All the orders you want? Was that the deal? Don’t lie!’
‘How can I lie when I don’t know the fuck you’re talking about? All they want is you return what Arjun took. They asked me to ask you, and I did. ’
‘They killed Arjun for it. So who’s next? Me?’
‘You just said Gomes killed Arjun. What have Sassoon and that American got to do with Gomes? Make up your bloody mind.’
‘At least try and sound convincing.’ Then, to Tufan. ‘See how white people come together? That’s why I don’t tell him anything. Fuckers! All of them!’
‘Look at you,’ Ernst said. ‘This is why I didn’t tell you.’
Hands clasped behind, Salim Ali assumed the posture he had taken addressing the working class at Fertilisers. Lenin was back. ‘I resign,’ he proclaimed. ‘I cannot work for a lackey’. It was all very grand.
Ernst looked towards Tufan in appeal. Tufan was apologetic. He had to get to the police chowki. Have them do something about Arjun. He looked regretful about Salim Ali. There was nothing one could do about him.
Salim Ali snatched the file from Tufan and waved it at the chowki. ‘Dr. Waller’s autopsy report. Let’s see what they say now.’
Ernst watched them walk over to the chowki. Rubbished by both the Sassoon and Salim Ali blocs the same afternoon. A record, even for him. He felt cold in the afternoon heat. It was the facial mole, he concluded, rubbing the plaster again. It was sapping his judgement. The Seth waved at him from the desi half of the verandah. Walking over, Ernst put a hand in his pocket and took out the folded cheque. He held on to it because if it dropped, the cheque would bounce.
~
Bearers threw down everything at a snap of the Seth’s fingers. They rushed to lower the bamboo chattais and shade their Sethji from the afternoon sun coming in sideways. Bania seths of the trader caste ruled Socialist India. And Seth Jamunadas Kejriwal, industrialist, gold smuggler, loan shark, patron of politicians, publisher of the nation’s textbooks, as well as builder of temples across the land, ruled the seths.
The Seth’s Lala placed his cloth-bound, single-entry ledger on the table but didn’t reach out to squeeze Ernst’s hand this time. He didn’t pout either, or make googly eyes. Hindu swastikas danced all over the ledger’s red-cloth binding, radiating good luck. They smiled at Ernst along with the Seth in one big welcome. The Lala did not. In the background, the club’s Grundig was crying over the dead Prime Minister.
‘Namaste, Sethji,’ Ernst said, ‘Very sad, about the PM.’
‘Why sad, Mr. Ernestji?’ the Seth asked. ‘Not to worry. Nehru’s back already.’
Ernst leaned forward. If there was one thing he had fine-tuned over the years, it was this posture. Indians opened up like faucets when he did that.
‘Yes ji, the Prime Minister is back,’ the Seth repeated. ‘Reincarnated as a dog in Sweden within a few seconds of his death.’
Ernst was glad he’d stopped by.
‘All very scientific,’ the Seth assured. ‘I was informed by His Divine Grace, Swami Prabhupada himself.’ Those around the Seth nodded, and while his Divine Grace could well be full of shit, how hardcore Hindus felt about Nehru was no secret. The Seth was humming to himself when Ernst slid his dud cheque across the table towards the bania.
‘Sethji, the loan amount due I discussed with Lalaji.’
The Seth recoiled, throwing his swinging foot out of kilter. The Lala hefted the offending item away and into his pocket. The leg fired up again, increasing its swing until oscillating optimally. Though getting a cheque in return would breathe life into this one, Ernst was tempted to let the matter go than fuck with the clockwork again.
‘Sethji, Lalaji and I discussed another loan. Same interest, of course.’
The Seth sighed and looked at the Lala, who looked relieved seeing the pendulum swinging away.
‘Difficult times, Mr. Ernestji,’ the Seth said. ‘Credit crunch.’ Time for the Lala to wink at Ernst and remind him this was just chitchat, nothing more than a lead-up to the cheque with Sethji’s signature. Lala Prem, however, was busy adjusting his turban and missed his cue. The Seth looked pensive as he spoke.
‘These are tough times, Mr. Ernestji. But I would like for all of us to be happy.’
Ernst and the Lala took turns looking happy. The Seth reached into his pocket and brought out a circular, dark blue box made of the cheapest plastic money could buy .
‘By the way,’ he said, opening it with his fat fingers. Resting inside on red pincushion cloth was an electro-plated, gold swastika coin, the size of a rupee. ‘For good luck.’ He placed it on the table in front of Ernst. Pointing at the swastika on the medallion, he then said, ‘I know Hitler.’ One hell of a way, Ernst admitted, to get a Jew’s undivided attention.
‘He took our swastika and made it his. Did you know in one speech, he said nothing for the full first minute? Just stood there, hypnotising you people. I learned that trick from him. Fair exchange, one can say. After all, our swastika. Like you Germans, we Indians are also Aryavartas.’
True. Like Germans, North Indian Hindus claimed an Aryan heritage. Unlike Germans, they still believed the horseshit. Ernst didn’t have the heart to break up the party and inform Sethji he was talking to a Yehudi, not an Aryavarta. The rest, all true. Sethji was spot-on about Nazis co-opting the Vedic swastika.
If he knew all that in the beginning, Bombay Ingrid had demanded toward the end, why did he bring her here in the first place? Should have warned her in Berlin itself, India was no place to avoid the swastika. Add to that, the weather, the people, the smells, and everywhere you looked, the shit. All in all, too much for Berlin’s Jewish princess. She would take those white, German Aryans any day over these brown ones, thank you very much.
Their perfect sex was the first casualty after such showdowns, then the perfect love and finally, perfect Ingrid. When she walked up the roped gangplank towards the ship’s smiling, First Officer in white—he might as well have worn a Gestapo uniform—Ernst had done nothing to stop her. He let her walk the plank.
‘I love you,’ he had called out, and recalled the idiot in white uniform grinning down at him. She had pretended not to hear, taking the Officer’s practised hand as he gently heaved her over. The pregnancy had barely showed.
~
Sethji’s imitation gold coin eyeballed him from its red pincushion. Unlike the swastikas on the Lala’s ledger, this one didn’t smile. A cheap gold-plated swastika, gifted to a Jew. He wondered if that constituted insult to injury and thanked the Seth profusely. He hoped a cheque would follow.
‘The swastika will for sure change your fortune,’ Sethji said. ‘Have faith in it, Mr. Ernestji. After all, you are one of us.’
‘Sethji, about that cheque from you for the new loan.’
The Seth’s demeanour was encouraging and he looked toward his Lala.
‘We should discuss collateral first,’ the Lala suggested. ‘The cold rolling mill wasn’t yours to sell, Mr. Ernestji. But you did. Now we have a problem.’
‘I thought we sorted that out.’
‘Did we? You had some requests. I had some suggestions. At the end of day, we are not here for charity. We must have collateral.’
The Seth clearly disagreed, the way he glared.
Ernst tried to visualise ten thousand dollars of collateral. Her father’s Packard Clipper came to mind. The one left behind in Mauripur. Her father lost his ten thousand dollar-Packard Clipper to a mob that day and the mother lost something to them too, but at least
the two of them escaped and Bhairavi was born. Escape was a wonderful thing.
‘I need the money, Sethji. Or my cheque will bounce.’
The Seth understood, and turned once more to his accountant. ‘Lalaji,’ he appealed.
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘It’s not possible.’
‘I beg you, man to man.’
‘Our hands are tied.’
‘Why? Why is it absolutely impossible to help our brother?’
Ernst sat and watched it play out, the Seth acting miserable at his inability to help a fellow sentient being.
‘Lalaji, you waived the collateral that day, and asked me to come for the cheque. I’m here because you asked.’
‘Things change. The Seth was happy then.’
The Seth rushed to intervene. ‘I’m still happy, Mr. Ernestji. Just not with Muslims. ’
‘And communists,’ the Lala reminded.
‘And communists.’
‘And thieves.’
‘Yes. Muslims and communist thieves.’
Ernst didn’t know where all this was coming from, did not wish to know, and wished he did not know Salim Ali.
‘The cheque I just gave you. What about it?’
The Lala appeared to be confused. ‘What about it? You gave us cheque, so we deposit it. Do note there is no collateral anymore. So cheque absolutely must not bounce. Too much exposure already, Mr. Ernestji.’
The afternoon rays wriggled through the bamboo chattais to create a chequered tablecloth pattern on the Seth’s face. Resting eyes on Ernst, he wagged a stubby, bejewelled finger. A sapphire flashed and light slanted towards it on cue, filtering past the chattais to highlight the cut. The Seth was emphatic.
