by Braham Singh
‘Oye Lala,’ he said. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
The Lala’s eyes widened as he disengaged to stare at Ernst, but retained his clasp-hold on Ernst’s hand. Ernst shook it free.
‘You people left Kirti no choice. Why cry now?’
But the Lala wouldn’t let up. How he cried .
‘Your Sethji was at the Protection Home along with his police dogs,’ Ernst said. ‘Kirti would be dead by now if I hadn’t reached on time and got him out of there.’
‘They wouldn’t have hurt him. I know. They just wanted to ask questions. They wouldn’t have hurt him.’
‘They could kill a gora. What’s a chhakka?’
‘Please don’t call him that.’
‘You’re right. Now he’s a hijra, because you lot had Willie killed.’
‘No, please.’
‘Is it true? What Kirti told Willie about Sethji and American food aid?’
‘What will happen now? They will kill the poor boy.’
‘He’s not a boy anymore.’
Seeing the Lala’s state, Ernst silently thanked Goddess Bhairavi for giving him cancer instead of putting him through anything like this.
‘I know about your PL 480 money laundering,’ Ernst said, and saw newfound respect in the Lala’s eyes. The Lala reached out to clasp hands, but Ernst declined.
‘Smuggling gold wasn’t enough, you people had to go sell your country?’ Ernst asked the Lala.
The Lala refused to confuse issues. He buried his head in his hands like Mohan Driver, and mourned the loss of what was the mightiest clitoris in Bombay.
‘I have to take Kirti away,’ he said. ‘Someplace safe. The Seth will have him killed.’
Ernst recalled how Komal Guruji had wielded that sickle.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he said.
~
‘Drive,’ Ernst said. So Mohan Driver drove Ernst to Atomic Energy, grinding gears in-between sobs, openly protesting the injustice Kirti had visited upon him.
Tsering Tufan was asleep in his flat up in AEET’s Alaknanda apartment building. He remained in bed after his sister woke him. He didn’t look good but then, who did? He appeared confused why Ernst would want to see Dr. Homi J. Bhabha as soon as possible, preferably right away.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Besides, it may not be easy to arrange.’
‘Those were our pipes being installed in the reprocessing plant,’ Ernst said.
The Smiling Buddha continued looking confused. Ernst gave it another shot.
‘That lot we saw Paranjpe unload at the Phoenix Building. They are the same ones you let Salim Ali draw illegally in your workshop. Salim Ali shipped them out from Atomic Energy to Sassoon’s Punjabi, and Punjabi shipped them back to Paranjpe.’
‘You said that before, but cannot be.’ Tufan was emphatic. ‘Your pipes are the wrong grade for a reprocessing plant. There can be a serious accident.’
‘Precisely.’
Ernst laid out what Sindhi Camp’s Bhairavi had said to him, without mentioning what Goddess Bhairavi did to him.
‘Sassoon is supplying our fucked-grade, stainless steel pipes to your reprocessing plant. Phoenix is a nuclear disaster waiting to happen.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Why intentionally supply pipes with the wrong specs?’
Ernst then told Tufan what he had learned from Princess Kirti. About Phoenix. About the Seth. About the murders, and how the Law of Unintended Consequences worked. About PL 480 food aid. And how India works.
After letting it all sink in, the Smiling Buddha stared past the bellowing white curtains and said, ‘No one is born Marxist, Ernestji. But you can see why I became one.’
‘Yes,’ Ernst said.
47
Atomic Ganesh
They’re already slain by me,
They have already died,
Just be my instrument,
The archer by my side.
—Lord Krishna to Prince Arjun
Major Punjabi had urged Ernst to deliver the pipes at his earliest convenience. He wanted them thin, not thick.
Thin! Making it easier for radioactive nitric acid to eat through. The dimensions were, therefore, crucial enough for even an Adam Sassoon to remember; ‘Thirty-one millimetre, I believe?’
Intentionally thin, fucked-grade, stainless steel pipes to sabotage a nuclear reprocessing plant; making sure the pipes corrode at their earliest convenience. The nitric acid eats through and spills dissolved plutonium into the open, along with the rest of Bhabha’s salad oil. On the bright side, Ernst would be long gone before Bombay lit up like Jhama Sweetmeats’ neon—bright enough for all to see, not just the blind. He was going back to Berlin after thirty years. Maybe the Jüdische Krankenhaus would put him up in his father’s room. It made him want to curl up on the back seat of the one-eyed Fiat.
~
Tufan of course failed to pull off a meeting with Bhabha. Even playing the illness card got nowhere. Gods have other things on their minds. Ernst would have picked up the phone, but knew with Bhabha the European thing wouldn’t fly either. So he tore up that card too, and wrote a letter instead. Tufan promised to sneak it into Bhabha’s In-tray. He would do that, he assured, and one thing more.
‘The Phoenix Reprocessing Plant inauguration is this Sunday. You need to get invited as VIP. Bhabha will be there. See? Resolved. Why didn’t I think of it earlier?’ The old Tufan was back.
Be that as it may, Ernst didn’t have the heart to tell him, it didn’t matter. He was leaving for West Berlin that same Sunday. The ticket was in his pocket.
‘Let’s focus on the letter.’
The letter laid out what Sassoon did. Having spelt it out at length, in detail, Ernst had no more regrets about having turned a blind eye. Letting things slide. Regrets by and large were a waste of time anyway, and did nothing to save one from rebirth as a sow. Besides, any and all regrets over defective pipes and upcoming nuclear events were subservient to more immediate sorrows. That over the dying Tufan, his dead nephew, and over that dead fool, Willie. In turn, subservient to sorrow over Kirti. He should have rejoiced for Kirti, but because he was a man, he couldn’t. Because he was a needy man, his sorrow over Kirti was subservient to that over Kirti’s sister. Only Salim Ali could top that sorrow; he even managed to wriggle into nightmares past Ernst’s father, Schwester Ingrid and the Cold Pilger.
And because Ernst was a little man, his sorrow over Salim Ali was subservient to that over cancer. It was a part of life, yes, but the kind of life he refused to accept—the fever, the blood he coughed up on his handkerchief, the plugged arsehole. So he planned to fight, and do it on his own turf.
Come Sunday, he would leave and take the fight to the Jüdische Krankenhaus in Wedding, West Berlin; it still felt strange, calling it West Berlin. The aeroplane ticket was in his pocket, paid for from Sassoon’s zeroes and through Salim Ali’s free and illegal use of Tufan’s shop floor. What would happen if they found out? Nothing. He was gone one way or the other, and he couldn’t wait to go. Salim Ali’s crew was welcome to the Goregaon workshop. They could go ahead turn it into a worker’s cooperative. He’d love to see that play out.
Mohan Driver did some hard math. If Ernst wanted to catch his 3 a.m. Air India out, he had to be at the Santa Cruz Airport around midnight. Meaning, leave Colaba no later than 8 p.m. Why? Well, because it was Bombay on a weekday. Furthermore, this was Ganesh Immersion Week. When Bombaywallahs took to the streets with their earthen Ganesh statues and cast them out to sea in a not-so-ancient ritual, less than a century old. This particular week, Lord Ganesh rode the city like his bitch. With Bhabha not yet having responded to his letter, a plane to catch that evening, and the Elephant God running amok in Bombay—best remain in bed, then straight to Santa Cruz Airport and the hell out of here.
So on Sunday morning when he instructed Mohan Driver to first drive all the way to AEET instead, a look of martyrdom crept into the driver’s eyes. Seated at the back, t
he heat closed around Ernst. His jacket felt like one of the jute gunny bags they saw strewn by the roadside when they had passed Masjid Bandar’s wholesale spice market.
~
Seeing him in a jacket, Mohan Driver had done a double take. Understandable. Yes, the man was going to Europe, but why couldn’t he have worn the damn thing after boarding the bleddy plane? Struggling out from it, Ernst placed the jacket on his lap. It felt like climbing out from a heated pool. By now, the suburbs were in complete thrall to Lord Ganesh. Heavy-duty crowds billowed on either side of Trombay Road bringing the world to a standstill.
The crawl allowed Mohan Driver to fart at will and wax eloquent—the martyr gone and the Hindu back in charge. ‘Only God knows how old this festival is,’ he said, shifting his weight from left to right cheek. Ernst worked the crank to try lower his window in time, but it was stuck. ‘Easily thousands of years, and celebrated globally. They say the Atomic Ganesh is the size of an atom bomb. ’
‘It’s barely a hundred years old. And, celebrated globally? Since when?’
Mohan Driver tried to stare Ernst down through the rear-view mirror and Ernst was glad things were back to normal. He had been worried leaving behind the wreck Mohan Driver became after Princess Kirti surrendered her clitoris to Bahuchara Ma.
He owed Princess Kirti. There were too many variables around Arjun’s death. The equation remained unsolved even after applying the Law of Unintended Consequences, until Princess Kirti provided the constant—PL 480. It helped solve the equation; just that Ernst didn’t care so much anymore. The only thing that mattered was the fire burning him from the inside, and his getting to West Berlin in time to put it out. Going anywhere for anything else, would go nowhere.
Then there was the gunny bag at his feet. He reached into it to touch the box-like thingy with its jumble of wires Komal Guruji had surrendered. When holding it for the first time, the box-like thingy in the gunny bag had screamed, Phoren !
Salim Ali looked down from Ernst’s shoulder at the technological marvel. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘From Arjun.’
‘Still think all Westerners are the same?’
‘Yes, but you aren’t one,’ Salim Ali said before disappearing, not contrite at all.
~
They could see assorted festivities underway on the cricket field just before the North Gate—a Ferris wheel, food stalls, games and a stage for Atomic Ganesh. Mohan Driver looked distracted. ‘Unnecessary delay, coming here. Salim Mian was supposed to organise entourage for your airport departure. Now I have to do it, but when? Aarti arrangements, garlands, sweets, whatnot. Where’s the time?’
‘Are you out of your mind? You will do none of that. Just drive me to the airport in the evening.’
‘You have a problem with proper procedure, Sa’ab,’ Mohan Driver said, ‘take it up with Parvatibai.’ Seeing someone off at the International airport and doing the aarti ceremony at the departure gate in full public view, was a prestigious ritual that gave a superior status to the one leaving for overseas, and those seeing him off. Only a white man would be selfish enough to deny that to friends, family, and employees.
Mohan Driver approached a formation of grey Atomic Energy buses lined along the cricket grounds’ perimeter. The first two had a VIP placard stuck to the front, side window. He stopped and parked right in front of the VIP buses as if daring someone.
The cricket grounds were a raging carnival with festivities built around the covered pitch. Mohan Driver was right. The Atomic Ganesh statue was gigantic—an enormous, pink baby with an elephant head, taking up the entire stage, seated cross-legged in his cute, little dhoti. After the festivities, it would be taken to the sea for immersion. Looking at its size, one wondered how. While Atomic Ganesh waited for its devotees, the inaugurated nuclear reprocessing plant waited for a VIP tour the other side of North Gate.
Both events made possible, thanks to India’s Oppenheimer, Dr. Homi J. Bhabha—father of Atomic India with the film star looks. The man could take on anything. Ernst glanced at the gunny bag at his feet. Almost anything.
~
Important people were coming out of Mercedes and Impalas to congregate around the VIP buses. Paranjpe, Atomic Energy’s shy Purchase Manager, was attending to the august gathering. The absent Bhabha’s presence though was everywhere, and it ignored Ernst completely. No question, the man hadn’t looked at his In-Tray. If he had, he hadn’t read Ernst’s letter. If he did, he had dismissed it.
Ernst wriggled to put his jacket on and he was back in a sauna, fully clothed. He did not feel well. Mohan Driver was right that first time. They shouldn’t have come here. He was melting. Seeing Ernst’s sweat-sodden jacket, Sassoon raised an august eyebrow from amidst the circle of VIPs, Major Punjabi to his right. Maybe, it was the jacket or could be Ernst’s face gone grey—allowing Sassoon an inside glimpse. Or maybe it was seeing Ernst on the right side of the VIP cordon with the wrong credentials.
The Seth too was present, and Ernst waved at him out of habit. Sethji returned a cold stare; far cry from the days they would sit thigh-to-thigh on the velveteen divan on the Golf Club verandah. It surprised Ernst to find he didn’t shrivel. He felt buoyed instead. It was like he finally accomplished something.
Venky Iyer showed up, and stood to Sassoon’s left. Deputy Commissioner Jahagirdar took his position next to Sethji. While Jahagirdar’s role as the Seth’s police dog was only natural, his presence amongst VIPs was the real reflection of his status. Moral of the story: get your hands dirty, keep your shoes clean, and important people will bring you along like a pet dog. Following his master’s lead, the police dog locked eyes with Ernst.
How exhilarating was it, Goddess Bhairavi had asked, to know, now that he had cancer, no one could harm him anymore? To no longer be afraid of anyone. He wanted to tell her he didn’t feel all that exhilarated. Just tired. It was overwhelming, this drop in energy and it made him buckle inside. The way Sethji and the Deputy Commissioner smiled, Ernst suspected they could see him crumble and they approved.
Like Sassoon, Mohan Driver too gave Ernst’s jacket a long, lingering look. One couldn’t get much past him. ‘Sa’ab,’ he said, ‘do you remember the last time you wore that jacket? I was there to take you home.’
Yes. It was the day Sassoon had fired him. They both looked over to the great man, holding court by the VIP bus.
‘You are wearing this jacket for the first time since then,’ Mohan Driver said. ‘Means, today you are unstoppable. Now, I understand.’
Mohan Driver came across to Ernst’s side with the packet of red powder he had brought for his Atomic Ganesh darshan.
‘They are already slain by me, they have already died,’ he recited in Sanskrit from the Bhagavad Gita , dotting an auspicious red tilak on Ernst’s forehead.
‘Follow after me in the car,’ Ernst said, escaping into the bus before the man pulled a full-blown Krishna on him.
‘They won’t let me through the gates, Sa’ab! Army, after all.’
‘They let China in, didn’t they? Find a way.’
48
The Pimp
As Shiva twisted and turned, leapt and whirled, the age of Kalki came to its predicted end.
—Gore Vidal ’s Kalki
Ernst noticed the small tent outside the Phoenix Nuclear Reprocessing Plant as the bus came in. More for show than any real protection from the sun. It was stacked high with refreshments to give the VIP tour a proper feel.
There was upturned soil around the tent pegs, but also around the edges along the verge, piled into knee-high dirt pyramids. A scatter of leaves lay collected at their base—swept there by some cleaning crew. Tobi Basar had railed against the contamination of soil around the CIRUS nuclear reactor. There was a lot of digging evident in the circular gardens around the reactor, and around the artificial ponds. Non-union, Lambadi tribals would have done the digging—Bhabha’s canaries. His Brahmin engineers could use the women to assess pipe corrosion without damaging themselves. The gypsies weren
’t around today, but their children ran on the grass, playing barefoot. A slow burn baked through Ernst’s plimsoles. He reminded himself not to pack them for the trip to West Berlin.
Instead of going into the reprocessing plant, the VIPs were first ushered inside the insufficient tent. Marinating in the heat, they sized up the enclosure. Paranjpe came by. He looked miserable in the spotlight and had an announcement to make. ‘While inside is not allowed, I am very glad to explain the completely indigenous reprocessing process to you, right here, in person. We have chalkboard for your benefit.’
‘What do you mean, inside is not allowed?’ someone asked. ‘This is supposed to be a tour of the inside.’
‘Minor repair work underway to replace some defective pipes, that’s all. Nothing serious.’
‘In that case, show us around.’
‘Not necessary, Sir. Let’s kindly begin.’
Damn. Bhabha had read his letter, after all. Ernst began breathing easier. He would have read it sometime over the past few hours; too late to cancel the VIP event. So they just cancelled the tour.
‘What will you do with the defective pipes?’ Ernst asked.
Paranjpe must have sensed danger. There were stories doing the rounds that discarded pipes from nuclear reactors were being sold in Bombay’s second hand markets.
‘Stored in deep underground concrete facilities in accordance with IAEA guidelines. We brook no deviation.’
As the world knew, they also didn’t brook the IAEA.
‘But this nuclear facility is not open to international inspection.’
Paranjpe, however, was in too much agony for Ernst to try persist. Besides, Ernst felt sickly from the torpid humidity; a taste of real illness making him giddy. He needed to sit down and only looking every now and then towards Adam Sassoon kept him going. He was sick from too many people around him, ill from what was within him and wanted out so badly it flashed like neon on his forehead; probably just fever.
