Bombay Swastika

by Braham Singh

  He is drenched, but the cold stems from something clutching at his insides. Could be the cancer, or could be because in the police chowki compound, a cross-dressed Kirti in sari—imperious as ever—is doing sit-ups in the pouring rain. At least now we know where the cross-dressing brother’s been sequestered, to allow his sister to get engaged without shit hitting that ceiling fan in the living room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen with the Bushane cylinder on full display for the future in-laws.

  Kirti is in full transvestite regalia, though far from picture perfect today—crumpled red sari, mascara trailing down that creamy-white face, red sindoor smudging the hair and forehead. Looking at the kid, Ernst decides there and then if the boy wants to be a girl, who is he to quibble? Hands crossed across her flat chest, Kirti does her sit-ups—up and down and up and down and holding her ears in penance. If she has her sister’s thighs, this can go on forever.

  At the doorstep and safe from the rain, the sub-inspector version of Johnny Walker, India’s famous film comedian, keeps count. The resemblance is uncanny. Also noteworthy that his sidearm is in place today—the polished, buttoned-down, brown holster with its Indian Ordinance, .38/200 Webley. Somewhat peculiarly, it had gone missing from his side just that one day. The day Ernst pointed out the bullet-hole in the Sikh’s severed head. ‘What bullet hole?’ the sub-inspector had asked, and his posse had shrugged. No one would see the perfectly bored aperture staring them in the face.

  Ernst sees Salim Ali standing behind Johnny Walker looking atypically at ease. Even though, knowing Bombay Police, he is on next, once Princess Kirti is done. The thought of Salim Ali doing sit-ups in the rain to amuse the local constabulary gets Ernst’s heart pumping. He wants this drama to end. The little bugger’s had a huge personality makeover; he still won’t accommodate the police. Over that, there can be no argument. Not because Salim Ali can’t do sit-ups like Princess Kirti (he can’t), but because he won’t. In all fairness, neither would Lenin. Nor would the Buddha. So now what? Panic starts to build. He worries for Salim Ali. He also worries about himself. He knows he cannot be without the surly, little fuck.

  Over there on centre stage, the way she’s going at it, Princess Kirti should meet her quota of sit-ups anytime now. The Bombay Police will then reasonably expect Salim Ali on next—to limber up and begin. They like to be kept amused. They don’t like being kept waiting.

  When Ernst pushes past the crowd to break into the police chowki compound as if all robust and cancer-free, no on stops him. When he grabs the Princess and drags her from the rain back inside the chowki, no one stops him either. Instead, Johnny Walker makes way. Once inside, Princess Kirti shrugs him off, ignores Salim Ali, and walks on ahead into the police chowki. She does look at Tufan with respect but other than the police, who doesn’t ?

  The whole sit-up tamasha-in-the-rain for police pleasure fizzles off in the face of Ernst’s bluster. It leaves the lot looking at each other. In the face of nothing else to do, Salim Ali invites Tufan and Ernst back to his cell like he owns the place. And while Johnny Walker asks the gentle Tufan to go fuck off, when it comes to Ernst, he simpers. ‘Actually not allowed, but please do come in,’ he says. ‘Go,’ Tufan says, ‘go.’

  Making way for Ernst, Johnny Walker offers, ‘Chai, Sirji?’

  Inside the police chowki, box files, yellow files, and bundles of files bound in red cloth pile up like supporting pillars. They buttress weakened load-bearing walls, support wobbly Government-issue tables from beneath, and overflow into hallways. There wouldn’t be a police force without them.

  Salim Ali’s twenty square metres of a cell however wears a barren look, furniture wise. Not just no supporting files, but no mattresses, bedding, or charpoys either—not even a stool. It makes up though, with more than a roomful of squatting and standing detainees pressed against each other on the stone floor. And while there’s also no light bulb, no ceiling fan and no running water, there is a tap. Unmindful of all that, the two dozen or so pre-trial detainees squeezed together all nice and tight, are busy feeling up nine transvestites drowning in their midst. The room also has an overflowing Indian-style toilet. The smell is overwhelming. One cannot imagine Princess Kirti squatting in public with sari raised, should nature call. At some point however, nature may insist.

  ‘A bit cramped, so we sleep in shifts,’ Salim Ali says, smiling at how crime and punishment come together in the lockup. He demonstrates the equanimity of a Buddha. This avatar isn’t anyone Ernst knows. Salim Ali takes off his bush shirt and manages to look that much more elegant.

  ‘Much better,’ he says, ‘It’s too hot, even for me.’

  It’s too hot for anyone. There’s no window. No ventilation. However, up by the roof, there are two rectangular vents for some iterant whiff of the outside world. Also, the cell’s rusted grill-door is kept wide open for cross-ventilation, as if the detainees can leave should they so wish. They don’t. The Princess is still soaking wet from the rain and the object of incarcerated, male eyes. She rakes the male-dogs with her disdain .

  Cross-legged on the dirty stone floor, Salim Ali invites Ernst to join him. The other male-dogs squeeze up some more against the shemales to allow the European his space. All these years, and Ernst still cannot hold the lotus position for more than a few minutes without squirming.

  ‘I know what she whispered in your ear,’ he tells Salim Ali. ‘But to go kill Chhote Bhai for that?’

  ‘That’s my burden to bear. Even Comrade Tufan doesn’t fully understand why I did it. Let’s keep it that way.’

  ‘Man’s not a fool. Besides, Arjun’s mother knows. After all, she made you do it.’

  ‘A mother always knows. And please don’t blame her. She has suffered enough.’

  Ernst can’t recall Salim Ali ever saying, please. Definitely, a first. This personality makeover thing begins to worry him.

  ‘You have to get away from here.’

  ‘Where would I go?’

  ‘Anywhere. Cross over to Tibet. To China. From there, to Russia if you want. I know how much you love that place. Just get away from here.’ He doesn’t want it to sound like he is pleading, but he is.

  ‘I am Indian,’ Salim Ali says. ‘What will I do over there?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Ernst asks. Fear grows inside him for Salim Ali, for Tufan, for himself. A fear of all this shit that keeps piling. ‘Ask anyone whether you’re Indian. You’re a low-caste, Muslim convert. A communist mian, a China lover, and a murderer. I’d get the fuck out of here.’

  He pulls money from Sassoon’s zeroes like a rabbit out of a hat and for a moment there, the detainees forget all that shemale flesh they’ve been feeling up. It’s true then. About white people and money.

  ‘I will get you out. But you must do as I say.’

  ‘That’s your ticket money,’ says Salim Ali. ‘Stick to the plan.’

  ‘Besides, I prefer my own country,’ says the man who only recently broadcast the Soviet National Anthem over a public address system. Bare, upper torso erect while seated in the lotus position, he asks about Tsering Tufan. Ernst stares at the emaciated, little Marxist with his legs crossed in a Perfect Lotus. This is how the Buddha must have looked towards the end, under the Bodhi tree .

  ‘He is suffering,’ Salim Ali said. ‘Please take care of Comrade Tufan.’ ‘Your mother is suffering too. Think of her.’

  ‘She’ll be looked after,’ the Marxist Buddha says, eschewing family ties in favour of Universal Compassion. Probably, Ernst admits, given Comrade Salim Ali’s standing in the Party. Besides, Chhote Bhai isn’t going to come knocking for rent any time soon. Salim Ali surprises Ernst further by asking him to take care of the girl, Bhairavi. ‘Her brother too,’ he asks, looking towards Princess Kirti like the Buddha would. ‘Some people need more help than others.’

  There’s a rumble down the corridor, as if Johnny Walker and sundry police are rushing over for an audience with this Buddha in lockup.

  However, it’s only Willie Lansdowne storming the barri
cades.

  ~

  Figuratively, because while Willie does rush in like a big, fat, steam engine with mayhem on its mind, the policemen are careful to not step in harm’s way, or to try stop him by any means possible. They remain safely in his wake and congregate around the wide-open grill. From there, the police watch in awe as the gora turns red like Hanuman, the Monkey God, looking this way and that, searching for Sita. Ernst can see something’s wrong—the drawn face, week-old stubble, or maybe it’s the way Willie looks at Kirti the Princess, as if nothing else matters.

  Willie is clearly surprised seeing Ernst in there, but he has other things on his mind.

  ‘I’m in love, you bugger,’ he says.

  Ernst remains cautious. ‘Why not start at the beginning?’

  Willie doesn’t reply. He is busy looking at the Princess and you should see how she looks back at him. The Ramayana analogy gets tossed for a six.

  ‘Kirti the caddie-boy? You’re fucking with me. Say you’re fucking with me.’

  Willie remains stubborn. One of his strengths.

  ‘She loves me too.’

  ‘Kirti, the male prostitute, loves you too? Anyway, where have you been? ’

  ‘Ask your Seth. He got me thrown out of the club. Next, I get fired. Then, I lose my bungalow. Have to vacate in a month. Now the income tax buggers are after me.’ Willie looks flummoxed. ‘A wog can do all that to a white man?’ Looking at Kirti, he admits only she kept him sane.

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, apparently unable to tear away from the Princess. ‘And it isn’t because of what you’re thinking. Wish it was that simple.’

  Willie proceeds to explain his way past the indestructible edifice of his racism to reach across to Princess Kirti. Indian men may be useless, bloody wogs, but the women are different. ‘And she’s a woman,’ he says out loud, to establish the fact once and for all. ‘Get that straight.’ If there’s a Princess left in this godforsaken country, it’s Kirti. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

  ‘What about Daisy?’

  ‘What about her? Think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?’

  Ernst freezes. He can try telling Willie that fucking his wife was the most miserable thing he ever did; see if that works.

  ‘Don’t take this personally, but Daisy doesn’t feel the same towards you,’ Willie said, smiling with wisdom beyond his IQ level. ‘Told me so herself. Simply not interested, old chap.’

  Ernst may be awash in relief, but it’s impossible not to feel protective towards the fool.

  Willie doesn’t feel he needs protection, or anyone’s permission to scoop his Princess up. She is weightless in his thick, hairy arms. Carried out of the lockup like that, this can only be straight out of a movie. The police remain in a trance and part to give way. They press themselves against the walls to allow the couple down the corridor, and out the entrance. There is huge all around disappointment because of no mouth-to-mouth kissing.

  All that enormous love in Willie’s eyes; for once, he leaves everyone else looking the fool. Ernst feels that if simple, racist Englishmen are also allowed a go by Lord Krishna, then William Lansdowne is well on his way to the Place of the Hidden Moon, with his Perfect Woman. Perfect, because she isn’t one.

  ~

  It dawns on the Indians that the British just invaded them again. It brings back painful memories and even the detainees look patriotically unhappy. Johnny Walker looms over the open cell door. He appears energised now that the invader has departed.

  ‘Deputy Commissioner Sa’ab will see you,’ he says.

  Ernst doesn’t want to leave Salim Ali behind with two-dozen or so men, nine transvestites, no running water and a running toilet, but try telling that to Johnny Walker.

  Supplicants are lined up outside the Deputy Commissioner’s office, and even though Johnny Walker is being an arsehole after this second British invasion, Ernst is still white, and therefore first in line to meet the Deputy Commissioner. He totals five plainclothesmen lounging around. They sit, stand, chew paan, spit it out on the stone floor, and gossip. Bolstered by the company he keeps, Johnny Walker spits a red stream while staring at Ernst. Ernst decides to take that personally, and reminds himself to decline the chai Johnny Walker offered earlier.

  The door reads, “Vijay Jahagirdar, Deputy Commissioner of Police.” The same Jahagirdar from outside Sion Hospital. The one persuading Tufan to accept his nephew’s body; accept the death as accidental. Tufan hadn’t, for all the good that did. He should have done as asked—taken the body, cremated it, moved on. If people would only learn to move on. To those who don’t because right is on their side, listen up: it means bugger-all. And those taking a stand against injustice should remember: you will lose.

  The Deputy Commissioner’s room has a leaky roof, and yellow Government files buttress the walls against gale-strength monsoon winds howling outside. The desk is cocooned in an outcrop of box files encroaching from both sides. The window behind it remains shut tight to ensure Deputy Commissioner Jahagirdar remains dry. The sealed window can’t keep out the damp chill, and Ernst remembers feeling his nipples perk up in his dream.

  ‘That boy Kirti,’ the Deputy Commissioner begins. ‘Today was his sister’s engagement. An auspicious day, and the idiot decides to go wear a sari. The family couldn’t afford that kind of embarrassment and the father approached us to do something. So we brought the boy in. The poor father was beside himself—son dressed up in a sari like that. Just not right.’

  Having said that, it also wasn’t right, the Deputy Commissioner openly admits, making the chhakka do sit-ups in the rain. He pauses before going Western with his upmarket, St. Stephen’s accent. ‘This job can make animals out of us. By and large though, the Bombay Police are known for their restraint.’

  The way Jahagirdar talks, reminds Ernst of someone he knows—someone who says one thing and does something else. He can’t put his finger to it though. It’s tantalising, trying to guess. Like her jasmine-laced sweat. Sitting in his igloo, the Deputy Commissioner is in plainclothes this wet evening—white linen shirt and khakis. A David Niven in mufti. His imported watch, shining sterling silver, must be the ballpark, combined yearly salary of all the havaldars and plainclothesmen lounging outside his office, and way above anything a Deputy Commissioner can technically afford.

  ‘More than the Indian Constitution, or any specific law, it’s our self-restraint that allows India to function.’

  The Deputy Commissioner settles back to allow Ernst time to digest that preamble.

  ‘Far easier to be cowboys, you know,’ he says, ‘and take out undesirables expeditiously. Be done with them.’ He became wistful at the thought of going cowboy, and while his forefinger is raised and ready, the Deputy Commissioner exercises restraint. Ernst remembers him going bang, bang, bang outside Sion Hospital. He feels he isn’t up to clutching at his heart and doing the whole dying thing all over again.

  The Deputy Commissioner comes out of his reverie. ‘Anyway, what may I do for you?’

  He appears confident Ernst doesn’t have the balls to reopen the past, do a Tufan, ask why Arjun’s murder wasn’t investigated even after Dr. Waller’s autopsy, or dare suggest should the police have done their job, Salim Ali wouldn’t be here today. Not misplaced at all, the Deputy Commissioner’s confidence, because all that matters to Ernst is Salim Ali, and how to whisk him away. Thankfully, there’s enough money in his pocket to do just that; the one-eyed Fiat waiting outside, with Mohan Driver inside gunning the engine.

  ‘Just between you and me, your English friend made fools of us with his angry white-man act. Coming into my police station and walking away with the chhakka like that. Any idea how I look? What do I tell the boy’s father?’

  Having got that off his chest, the Deputy Commissioner appears ready to let bygones be bygones. ‘By the way,’ he asks, ‘the communist mian in lockup, he’s your friend too?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted to talk t
o you about him.’

  The Deputy Commissioner reaches under his desk. The door opens to present Johnny Walker. His brown belt gleams with its shiny, buttoned down holster.

  Deputy Commissioner Jahagirdar asks Johnny Walker in Marathi about Salim Ali. About his paperwork being in order, things like that. Ernst pulls out the money. It’s a thick wad. And to think not too long ago, he couldn’t meet payroll. Look at you now, bribing Deputy Commissioners.

  ‘No,’ Deputy Commissioner Jahagirdar says. ‘No need. Please put the money away. He is after all, your friend.’

  He then instructs a disappointed Johnny Walker to ensure Salim Ali is removed from the general riff-raff. That he has no complaints. ‘In fact, let’s make sure he never has any complaints going forward,’ Jahagirdar instructs. Johnny Walker’s face lights up.

  The Deputy Commissioner leaves his chair to tell Ernst, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of him. In fact, if you kindly wait here, I’ll go attend to it personally.’

  Jahagirdar’s not a bania but he smiles like one, and Ernst realises whom he resembles. He recalls the Seth assuring Willie not to worry, that everything would be resolved. Look what happened to Willie. With Johnny Walker masticating paan like cud while leading the Deputy Commissioner out of his office, it became clear to Ernst that no amount of zeros can add up to a positive conclusion. A Bombay Police officer had declined money for the first time in living memory. That can only mean one thing for Salim Ali, and one thing alone. Because the British just humiliated India for a second time, nothing can be done to save him. Money can’t buy everything, even in a police station. Johnny Walker’s satisfied look moments ago, means the die is cast. Barging in like that, Willie went kicked off Ernst’s Law of Unintended Consequences. And so, just because the Deputy Commissioner is attending to Salim Ali personally, doesn’t mean nothing will happen.

  ~

  Something did happen. Ernst realised that as soon as he woke up to his own yells. Parvatibai was at his bedside in no time at all, clutching a glass of milk and that wet cloth of hers for his forehead.