by M. J. Kelly
Banyan Brewery
Hampi 583227
PO Box 5089
It showed a postal box in the town of Hampi, which according to the internet, was eight hundred kilometres inland from Mumbai. After the fourteen-hour flight, he needed to find a bus to take him overland.
The cabin lights flickered and the engine changed pitch, adjusting into a descent. Dig bit his lip and replaced the paper into his pocket.
The plane touched down at Mumbai airport at 7:15 a.m. A bleary-eyed group of passengers queued through the visa counters and collected their luggage from the carousels. Two armed guards flanked the doors that separated the air conditioned airport lobby from the outside world. Dig threw his pack over his shoulder and nodded to the men as he passed through.
When he stepped outside, a haze of humidity overwhelmed him—infused with car exhaust and stagnant stormwater. His arms quickly lined with sweat.
A line of taxis with yellow roofs queued on a potholed road. On the kerb, men in dark pants and collared shirts held up signs: Mr Stoddart, Mr Andrade, and Mr Hangapasharang.
“Taxi sir?” A man stood at his shoulder in a faded blue uniform.
“I'm trying to get to Hampi,” Dig said. “Can you take me to the bus terminal?”
“Of course.”
Dig dropped into the rear seat. A vent in the dash blew a stream of warm air into his face. The vehicle pulled away from the kerb and jerked up through the gears. As they joined the freeway traffic, Dig pulled his pack to his chest and watched the scenery flash past the window: boys cycling rickety bikes down the pavement; men crouched on street corners selling newspapers; children sifting through piles of rubbish beside an active food stall; a man sleeping in a rickshaw with a mangy dog on his lap. Dig took in the images with his eyes wide and a flutter in his stomach.
A large advertising billboard stood high on the side of the road. It depicted a group of friends sitting around a table with drinks in their hands, laughing. An image of a green labelled beer bottle featured prominently beside the picture with the words Banyan Bitter emblazoned across it in yellow. A slogan ran across the base of the advertisement:
Banyan Bitter—Bringing Friends Together
Dig sat up straight, then leaned forward to the driver. “Excuse me,” he said, pointing up at the sign. “Is that beer popular? Banyan Bitter?”
The driver wobbled his head. “Yes, it’s sold right down the coast.”
Dig nodded and retrieved his phone from the front pocket of his backpack. He fired off a quick picture from the camera before returning it to the bag. The driver watched him from the rear view mirror.
The taxi turned off the freeway into a hazy concrete courtyard crowded with buses and people. The driver pointed to a dusty bus with faded panelling parked at the far end of the clearing. “Bus to Hampi.”
“Thanks.” Dig removed a note from his wallet. “Are you okay with a thousand rupee note? It’s all I could get from the airport machine.”
“Yes, I have change.” The driver took the money and counted some bills into his hand, then exited the cab to scoot around and open Dig's door. Dig stepped onto the pavement while shielding his eyes from the sun. The crowd jostled past his shoulder, heading into the terminal.
“Enjoy your trip,” the driver shouted.
“Thanks.” Dig joined the crowd.
Restaurants lined the perimeter of the courtyard, where men sat at low tables and ate lumpy yellow rice with their hands. A cow with a rack of protruding ribs walked casually past the diners and emptied its bowels. The men seemed unconcerned as the shop owner retrieved a broom and swept the deposit out into the pavement.
An elderly man appeared at Dig’s elbow, hobbling, and tugged at his shirt sleeve. His left eye was a sunken hole; the other eye was clouded in cataract. The man clutched fingers to his mouth, demonstrating his hunger.
Dig fished in his pockets and found a solitary ten rupee coin, which he handed over. But the man didn't leave. Instead he walked with extra vitality, tugging harder at his sleeve as Dig continued across the terminal. Dig increased his stride, but the man matched his speed in a looping, unbalanced gait.
At his other elbow, two children in faded clothes now kept pace and held their hands outstretched. Dig turned his pockets inside out, but they continued to tug at his shirt until he reached the bus.
Passengers crowded against the vehicle, their possessions wrapped in balls of fabric or stacked in cardboard boxes. Dig joined the moshpit, and hands in his back shoved him forward through the door opening.
Inside, the ceiling was low, and Dig ducked as he moved down the aisle. A stink of motor oil and body odour hung in the air. He was lucky to snag a berth on a flat steel bench at the rear of the bus.
An elderly woman wrapped in a brown sari pressed against his left shoulder. The baby on her lap watched him with large eyes. A middle aged man smelling of tobacco pressed against his right, a forest of grey hairs growing from his ear. The seat in front of Dig felt impossibly close, and he propped one leg up against it. As the bus pulled away from the kerb a numbing tingle started in his rear and worked its way up his hamstring.
The bus stopped often on the way out of town, and with each stop, more passengers squashed into the aisle. A young conductor sidled up to them and took notes from them in a silent understanding. When he reached Dig he looked him up and down. “Where you going?”
“Hampi. How much is that?”
“Fourteen hundred.”
Dig counted out the bills.
The boy examined a few of the notes and returned them to him. “Fake.”
Dig blinked. “Huh?”
“Fake notes.” He pulled a genuine bill from his pocket and held it out. The paper was softer and the ink sharper.
Dig thought back to the taxi driver and his cheeks flushed warm. “Right.” He handed over a larger note and the boy returned some change to him.
A nagging unease hung with him as the conductor moved further down the aisle. After a moment he pulled his bag to his lap and examined the front zipper. The pocket was open. His phone was gone. He remembered the driver helping him out of the taxi and clenched his teeth.
Great, he thought. I've only been here thirty minutes and I've been ripped off twice.
He already felt alone and defenseless in the new country, but now the emergency link to his family had been taken, he felt more isolated than ever.
It's just a phone, he told himself, but the unsettling churn in his stomach did not dissipate.
The bus pulled away from the kerb, and Mr Hairy Ears fell asleep beside him. With each bump in the road, his head lolled and bounced off Dig’s shoulder.
Dig took a deep breath and checked his watch. Another thirteen hours to travel through the night. He hugged his bag to his chest and willed the time to pass.
He drifted in and out of a nocturnal haze until the sunrise lifted over the horizon to reveal a series of rocky mountains. As the bus laboured over the crest of a hill it slowed, then pulled into the dirt shoulder with a flurry of gravel against the undercarriage, and stopped.
Outside the window, a cluster of police stood behind a set of timber barriers. A young policeman stepped through the door and barked an order in Hindi. The passengers retrieved their luggage and made their way forward off the bus.
Dig turned to Mr Hairy Ears. “Are we there? Hampi?”
The man shook his head. “Police check.”
Dig grabbed his pack and pulled himself to his feet. He tried to massage some life into his legs as he limped down the aisle, then squinted into the early morning sun as he stepped off the bus.
The passengers stood in a ragged line on the road shoulder with their possessions piled around their feet. A burly policeman in a black peaked cap moved down the line and sifted through the possessions, requesting bags and boxes to be opened for inspection.
Dig turned to Hairy Ears. “What are they looking for?”
“Anything illegal.” He shrugged. “You know...drugs
, alcohol, guns.”
“Alcohol’s illegal?”
He nodded, scratching at his jaw. “Hampi’s a holy city. Alcohol is banned.”
“Okay.”
The policeman lifted a bottle of wine from the pack of a guy with oily dreadlocks, and thrust it into his face, shouting. The guy stood stiffly with his hands clasped together, before a junior policeman grabbed the guy’s upper arm and dragged him away.
The head policeman sauntered down the line until he reached Dig. He chewed gum as he looked him up and down, then motioned at Dig’s pack. Dig held it open. The policeman sifted through the bag before giving a small nod. He pointed toward the bus, and Dig returned to his seat beside Hairy Ears.
“We escaped,” Dig said.
Hairy Ears smiled and nodded. The bus pulled back out to the road and continued its journey.
Shortly after, square concrete buildings began to crowd both sides of the road. The bus turned into a wide piece of dirt lined with shops and market stalls, and came to a lumbering halt at a crowded steel shelter. Inside the bus, the passengers stood and began pushing toward the door.
Hairy Ears stood beside Dig, holding a cardboard box to his chest. He turned to Dig. “Hampi,” he said.
Dig smiled. “Great, thanks.”
7
DIG STEPPED DOWN FROM THE BUS and pushed through the crowd, trying to shake out the remaining stiffness in his legs. Children dodged past him, chasing each other down the dusty road. A vendor tried to beckon him into a clothing stall. The tall spine of an ancient looking temple stood at the end of the street. In the distance, pointed hills lined up across the horizon, covered in boulders of orange stone.
On his left was a dusty shopfront with a crooked sign in the window stating Helpful Hari’s Tourist Information. Dig ducked through a curtain of amber beads hanging in the doorway.
A man with a crooked tie and bushy sideburns sat behind a counter. A girl with blonde hair and sunburnt arms stood in front of him, paging through a brochure. “I think I’ll go on the boat tour,” she said.
“Excellent,” the man said. “It leaves at 2 p.m. That’ll be six hundred rupees.” The girl handed over some cash and he wrote out a receipt. “See you at two.” She left the room.
The man turned to Dig. “Hello Sir! I’m Hari. Where are you from?”
“Australia.”
“Ah, Steve Smith and David Warner. Good Australian cricketers.”
“Yeah. They’re pretty good.”
“David Warner is playing for the Sunrisers tonight in the Indian Premier League. You watching?”
“I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t think I’ll have time. Has Dhoni retired yet?”
“Yes, unfortunately he has. India will miss him.” Hari brought his hands together in front of him. “So, how can I help?”
“Well,” Dig said. “I’m looking for a business in Hampi called the Banyan Brewery. Do you know where that is?”
Hari frowned and stroked the loose fold of skin under his chin.
A clattering interrupted them as a stocky, bearded man wearing a creased suit pushed through the wall of beads. Hari gave him a subtle nod then turned to Dig. “Please wait a moment.” He moved to the end of the counter and started a whispered conversation. Hari produced a well-worn notebook from beneath the table, scribbled on a slip and exchanged it for a bundle of notes. The stocky man ducked his head and turned back out into the street.
“I’m sorry about that,” Hari said. “Now, what was the business called again?”
“The Banyan Brewery.”
He shook his head. “No. I’ve never heard of that business.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Hampi is a small place. If you walk to the end of this street you’ll have seen the whole town for yourself, and there’s no business here of that name. And besides, alcohol is banned in Hampi, so we have no breweries. Maybe you can look up the road in Hospet.”
“What about a guy called Max? Have you heard of him?”
The man gave a blank look. “No. I know most of the people in this town, but I’ve never heard of him.”
Dig sighed. “Okay.”
The man smiled. “Maybe you need to bribe an official. That’s the Indian way of doing things!” He laughed. “Now, do you want to go on a tour of the ruins while you’re here?”
“No thanks. Maybe later.”
“A boat trip?”
“No.”
“Bike tour?”
Dig shook his head.
Hari leaned in close to Dig and whispered. “Do you want a bet on the cricket? I can give you three to one on the Sunrisers tonight. You can’t get a bet anywhere else in Hampi, as sports betting’s illegal in Karnartaka. I’m only offering this to you as you seem like a man who likes his sport.”
“No thanks. I need to hang on to all the cash I’ve got at the moment.”
“I can get you Karcha, special rice spirit, also banned.”
“Not right now.”
“Hostel?”
“No, not interested,” Dig said with a smile. “I tell you what though, because you’ve helped me, if I ever do need anything I’ll make sure that I buy it here, okay?” He stood and made his way to the door.
“Bus ticket? Train ticket?” Hari followed him out of the building and onto the street. “Okay sir! You make sure you come back to me when you buy your tickets. For anything!” Dig gave a thumbs up, then walked up the street with Hari’s voice trailing behind him.
The Hampi Bazaar was the town’s main road, and Dig walked the five-hundred-metre length of it from start to finish. On the journey, he stopped in two restaurants, three hostels and a fruit stall, asking the inhabitants similar questions about the Banyan Brewery or anyone called Max. All the responses were the same, blank looks, shaking heads, or shrugged shoulders.
His concentration was evaporating in the heat, so Dig sat on a stone wall outside the temple and took a gulp of water from his bottle.
Where is it? he thought. It can't be far away. Dad’s been paying into bank accounts here for years.
He narrowed his eyes, then removed the invoice from his pocket, this time focusing on a section at the bottom:
Preferred Payment Method: Direct Bank Transfer
Bank: Canara Bank, Hampi
Account: 0154563
IFSC Code: CNRB0001187
Back down the road, a battered fluorescent sign hung over the street. He could just make out the lettering as Canara Bank.
Dig pulled himself to his feet and headed toward it. A small restaurant stood opposite, so he took a seat, ordered a fruit juice, and had a closer look.
It was a formal building, with two large stone columns framing the door, and policemen in khaki uniforms flanking the entrance. One was at least six feet tall, while the other was shorter and wider. Both slung rifles over their shoulders. A steady stream of tourists and locals moved between them through the doors.
Hari’s words rung in his ears. Maybe you need to bribe an official. That’s the Indian way of doing things!
He checked his wallet and removed a thousand rupee note, folded it into a tight square and placed it in the top pocket of his shirt—his backup plan. He finished his drink, took a deep breath, and headed across the road.
The policemen were engrossed in conversation as he approached. The taller man leaned against the door jamb and gesticulated with his hands; the smaller man nodded, his fingers drumming the butt of his gun. Dig tried to enter with a relaxed, casual air about him—but instead felt like an underage kid trying to blag his way into a nightclub. Nonetheless, as he entered the taller policeman took a sideways glance and continued his conversation without breaking sentence.
Walls of stained wood panelling framed an open room with ceiling fans that spun slow revolutions. The buzz of ringing phones and murmured conversations filled the room, and the scent of toner was in the air.
Bank tellers stood behind glass on one side of the room, serving a line of customers cordoned off by guide
ropes. On the other side, a man sat behind a desk with a sign announcing that he was the Customer Enquiry section of the bank.
Dig made his way to a rack of forms by the wall and found one entitled Deposit Slip. He pulled the brewery invoice from his pocket and copied the bank account numbers into the appropriate boxes.
Dig checked the note was still inside his pocket. His stomach churned; he’d never attempted to bribe someone before. Did you just hand the money straight over? Leave it on the desk? Drop it on the floor? Put it in an envelope? Was he supposed to use some kind of code word?
He glanced across at Mr Customer Service. He looked to be in his fifties. Three pens were perched neatly on the front pocket of his shirt. He supported a thick beard, and broken blood vessels tracked across his nose. A faded plastic sign on the desk read Kumar Rangkot.
Dig took a deep breath, grabbed the deposit slip, and crossed the room.
“Hi.” Dig forced a smile. “How are you?”
Kumar gave a small nod.
“Hot out there today huh?”
Kumar raised an eyebrow. “How can I help?”
Dig took a seat. “Well, I’ve a small issue. I’ve just travelled over from Australia for a meeting with my business partner in Hampi. You see?” Dig placed the Banyan Brewery invoice on the desk between them. “And well, it looks like the jetlag’s taken its toll as I’ve managed to misplace the address of the company.” He rolled his eyes. “So I know the company’s got an account with your bank as I’ve been sending them money here for years, but I’d appreciate if you could remind me of their address so I can make the meeting today.” Dig smiled. “Here, I’ve filled out a slip with the account details, so if you could just write the address on here it’d be great.”
