by Polly McGee
He moved in, pouring the turmeric liquid over the torn ear. It trickled down Rocky’s face, the turmeric coating the white of his eyes, making him appear dramatically jaundiced. Rocky yelped piercingly as the antiseptic liquid covered his face. He wriggled and struggled to get away from Gajrup. Poona watched the collar slip from Gajrup’s wet hands as Rocky, for the second time that day, ran blindly.
Poona helplessly watched him disappear into the ferns. ‘Damn it, Rocky!’ she said.
Tomorrow she would bring real antibiotics and try to find him again. Tonight, however, he was a house dog in the park: alone, injured and scared. She shook her head; another creature to add to her nightly puja. God would be busy. She followed Gajrup to the car. Time to go and get her husband and return to the temple for Tuesday worship.
***
The ghee lamps of the temple were lit one by one. Daylight was stained by evening. Children, the elderly, mothers with babies, the poor and the infirm sat patiently outside the temple. They waited for the bags of syrup-soaked fried sweets to be handed out. This was the weekly prasad offering, purchased by those who could, and distributed to those who couldn’t. A vividly coloured fibreglass Hanuman, draped with hand-threaded garlands of fragrant jasmine and marigold flowers, towered over the worshippers from inside a mirrored vestibule, giving darshan to their householder laments.
The bare feet of the faithful shuffled in, stopping for a dab of sandalwood paste, a thread of hope, a prayer, an offering or a donation before going out again into the still temperate night. The priest gratefully took the envelopes and palms laden with money.
Poona handed over her usual generous offering to the priest and headed to the back of the temple. A row of statuesque deities stood against the wall. She lingered with each, praying about what had to be done, who needed to be cured and blessed. Chatura retreated back to their car once he was done to wait for Poona. She knew he’d be visiting his other place of worship through his iPhone – watching the National Stock Exchange rise and fall with regular breaths of wealth. The Sheenas were an impressive nod to the power of dynasty and cumulative wealth. Their lineage had, over a century or two, wielded influence in war, peace and commerce, held lofty positions in government, and inspired building and street names. Now in the hands of Chatura and Poona Sheena, the empire was built on shrewd economics as much as politics. The Sheenas were happily entrenched in a portfolio of high-performing global businesses, a portfolio that had evolved to include accommodating visitors to New Delhi.
***
Lola Wedd lay awake in her stretcher bed, crammed into a room off the side of the kitchen in the downstairs quarters at Hastinapuri Estate. The lean-to was dark and smelled like ghee. Crickets and roaches clacked and clattered their predatory night music, and lizards roamed on the ceiling, occasionally falling with a clammy splat. Lola was racked with fear and regret, the decision to come to New Delhi eclipsing her many other poor life choices to date. She reached out and in the dark felt for the pashmina, resting where she had dropped it on the top of her backpack. She pulled it up and around her shoulders, stroking the soft fabric between her fingers for comfort.
Gajrup and Malina had left earlier, Malina merely saying ‘temple’ fiercely as she pushed Gajrup in front of her towards the door. It was the first time Lola had been left alone in the house since she’d arrived two days ago. The lack of supervision made her want to grab her things and run out the door. But Lola literally had nowhere to run. New Delhi terrified her. What she had seen on her brief excursions with Malina into the heart of Connaught Place was no less consuming than the initial journey from the airport. More people, more traffic, crushes of bodies, constant voices wanting something from her, the cloaking humidity steeped in smells foreign and foul. She pulled the pashmina over her face, fighting off the temptation to sob and shout into the fabric about how unfair it was. Lola couldn’t escape the truth, though. It wasn’t unfair. It was exactly what she had been promised back in Sydney, and what she had willingly signed on for.
***
Baj finally arrived at the temple, late again and furious. Shri Greedy Godboley had made him wait in the car outside the Oberoi Maidens Hotel while he’d stuffed his never-empty stomach with their never-empty buffet, before demanding to be dropped at his apartment rather than taking the relatively short stroll home. Not marvellous.
Baj watched warily as some of the local pariah dogs milled around outside the temple. Their pale-brown eyes followed him, flaming his guilt and shame at killing the dog known as Shiva. Just as Baj arrived, the priest closed the doors to the temple. Hanuman’s fibreglass eyes, so full of love and compassion, appeared to look away from him. He was too late. A mental image of the twitching jacket flashed before his eyes as he was left standing outside. Even God didn’t want his business.
The priest opened the door suddenly to shoo out a sneaky puppy that had tucked itself in between Hanuman’s benevolent feet for the night. Roly-poly and half awake, it padded the short distance to Baj’s feet and resumed its position, replacing Hanuman’s illustrious shelter for an equally good human one.
Baj bent down and touched the puppy; its fur was warm and soft, patterned with blotchy patches of brown and yellow like a half-fried bhaji. He picked it up – delicate and sleepy-wriggly under his man paws. The newly made dog, not yet afraid of the world, fitted into the crook of Baj’s arm. It yawned and showed its needle-like baby teeth before returning to the place puppies go to in playful dreaming. Baj felt tears fill his eyes and looked up at Hanuman’s gaze, which seemed to be watching him now; he was a man who had just understood unconditional love.
Driver-ji surprised himself and slipped the puppy inside his shirt, its sleepy head peeking out from his collar. Once he realised the commitment he had unconsciously made, he adjusted his charge, making sure he was comfortable, and silently thanked Hanuman for giving him a second chance.
‘Namaste,’ he whispered to the puppy. ‘I will call you Rama and serve you like Hanuman. My name is Bajrang Chandrasekaran;you can call me Baj … or Papa.’
Chapter Five
Hastinapuri Estate
Poona was born to be hospitable, and raised to be entrepreneurial. The opportunity to transform Hastinapuri House from family home to grand tourist estate had captured her imagination instantly. Hastinapuri Estate was comprised of a number of newly built villas and boutique-hotel style accommodation. These dwellings surrounded the family mansion in an ironic colonisation of colonial architecture, with Hastinapuri House, the Sheena family residence, at the centre of the estate.
Poona and Chatura had elegantly ridden the wave of uncommonly fast-tracked building permits to capture a golden age in New Delhi tourism. In a moment of bureaucratic innovation by the New Delhi Municipal Council, a selection of New Delhi’s finest citizens had been prevailed upon to open up their land holdings for generous compensation to help India accommodate the world. Industrialists, slumlords and merchants had suddenly diversified into tourism, with accommodation springing from a magical army of relocated regional labour in a matter of weeks. Sharing an opportune boundary with Hastinapuri Estate, the sprawling medical precinct of Sant Parmanand Hospital almost reached the Civil Lines metro station. The hospital was a monument to the twin miracles of modern medicine and low-cost surgery. Participants in the booming industry of medical tourism were able to enjoy the boutique charms of Hastinapuri Estate pre- and post-op. The new economy of India was indeed a world of entrepreneurial opportunity for wakeful and vain tigers of all colours.
None of which would have worked without the alchemy of Poona’s genuine love of people, and her personal mission to make visitors to New Delhi experience her love of the city’s secret places, sweeping her guests along with her in a wave of enthusiasm.
What are your plans tomorrow? Poona would demand, enveloping her guests as they returned to their suite in Hastinapuri Estate from a day spent battling the traffic, smells and quirks of a world without straight lines. Failure to answer definitively wo
uld instantly lead to a planning frenzy.
I’ll call my friend, she would say.
An excited conversation in Hindi would follow and her visitors’ days were filled with plans for forts and monuments and markets and carpets and antiques and spices and chaat. Once their future needs had been met, the more immediate rituals of life were attended to: I’ll get you some tea, dinner is at seven pm – our chef is making you an Indian feast.
With a satisfied smile that her work was done, off she would glide down the marble staircase to fetch tea. Aged sixty-two, Poona looked only slightly older and wiser than the smiling photo of her as a young woman hanging in the curve of the stairwell. Masala chai would appear a little later – hot, sweet and cardamom-scented. She delivered on her customer-service promises, and it was on the strength of that charming quality alone that her venture ranked online as the number-one boutique hotel in New Delhi.
Today, however, Poona Sheena was not thinking about pleasing people or the ranking of her enterprise. Her mind was distracted by the fate of the mysterious Rocky. Her evening prayers from the night before had continued long past the temple visit; she had lain awake, fretting about his welfare and whereabouts. This afternoon, when they returned to the park, she was determined to find him – if Rocky had made it through the night, that is. Given the extent of his injuries, that was a big if. The moist heat and germs of the subtropics were the enemies of clean healing, not to mention the flies and other blood-loving parasites. Poona could only pray that the turmeric dressing from the priest would keep predators at bay.
Walking the few metres from the high guarded gate of Hastinapuri Estate to the small drugstore on the perimeter of the hospital, Poona made a mental note to include thanks for her proximity to medical supplies in tonight’s prayers. As she entered the pharmacy, she could see the assistant, Dristi’s shoulders tighten momentarily at the sight of her, before they slumped back into their usual angle of hostile submission. Poona intoned a quick mental mantra. Armed with a smile of Kali-like devastation, Poona marched up to the counter, handing him a shopping list of antibiotics.
‘Namaskar, Shri Dristi.’
‘Your prescriptions, Bhabi-ji?’ he inquired.
Poona rummaged in her handbag theatrically and shrugged her shoulders.
‘This is the thin end of the wedge!’ Dristi exclaimed.
‘But you sold me all those other pills at the thick end of the wedge, Chacha-ji,’ Poona pushed her neatly written list towards him again. After some sighs and snorts, Dristi filled a paper bag with her medical supplies.
‘Must be a very bloody dangerous hotel you run if the guests are constantly needing antibiotics, na,’ Shri Dristi muttered under his breath.
Poona held out her mobile phone and waved it at him threateningly. ‘Don’t forget what my name means, Uncle. If you want your pharmacy licence to be under scanner with the authorities, I’ll make a call.’
Dristi knew better than to argue with a Sheena, and one with the fearsome determination of Poona. He dumped the bag full of medicine onto the counter. Poona delicately placed a wad of rupees next to the bag. Dristi slowly counted the money, as if he wouldn’t put it past her to rip him off. A small and silent insult, the last he had in his arsenal. The cash register clanged as he slammed the drawer shut.
‘Many blessings to your family, Shri Dristi,’ said Poona benevolently.
Dristi forced his mouth into the shape of a smile – the tang of defeat making it look like a sneer. ‘Give my respects to Chatura-ji, madam.’
Poona tucked the pharmacy bag under her arm and set off up the marg towards Hastinapuri Estate. She turned for a final wave, and saw Dristi standing in the doorway of the shop watching her triumphant retreat. As she raised her hand in goodbye, their eyes met and he spat a jet of red paan liquid over the concrete in her direction, which splattered like freshly spilled blood.
***
At Hastinapuri Estate, Vipin, the security guard, dragged open the high metal gate for Poona’s arrival. As she strode in, Lola tentatively walked through and collided with her, knocking the bag from her hands. Lola, mortified, scrambled to the ground to pick up the shower of assorted antibiotics. Poona assured her there was no harm done. She underscored this by scolding guard-ji for not better coordinating their entry and exit. Lola watched Vipin deftly catch the blame as it slipped down the pecking order, and lower his eyes to his holey shoes, allowing himself a discreet eye roll.
Lola looked at the drugs in the torn pharmacy bag. ‘Is someone ill?’
‘Supplies for my park puppies,’ replied Poona.
‘Why so much?’
‘There is a badly hurt one this time,’ Poona said.
Lola examined one of the packets. ‘These are people drugs; aren’t there any vets in New Delhi?’
Poona looked at the pills. ‘Yes, but not enough,’ she said sadly.
‘Dirty kutta,’ Malina had growled at her when Lola had dared to inquire as to why dog food was on the estate’s menu. A loud clanging of griddles was followed by the silent rhythmic slapping of the evening chapatis being made – like most of the exchanges between Malina and Lola so far, the economy of words was compensated for by the glut of hostility.
Poona pushed the last of the antibiotics into her handbag, and she and Lola stood up in unison, ready to resume their pre-collision paths. Lola ritually rewrapped her pashmina and repositioned her bag, observing the pace of the world with trepidation as it passed the gate on Hastinapuri Marg. Lola had met Poona briefly on arrival, before Malina had hustled her away. She wondered what Poona and her husband thought of her, what they imagined she was doing tucked inside the kitchen of their hotel. Lola felt something between shame and the desperate need to explain that she wasn’t like that, that this was a mistake, that she was more than a romance mercenary.
Poona put her hand on Lola’s arm with inquisitive warmth. ‘What are you doing today, bachana?’
Lola hesitated. ‘Nothing, Shri Sheena—’
Poona interrupted her. ‘Poona or Aunty, Lola, you are our guest, no need to be so formal.’
‘Sorry, Poona, just visiting CP.’
‘CP, na, such good shopping.’ Poona dived for her phone. ‘I’ll call my driver. He will take you, much easier than the subway.’
‘No, thanks, no need.’ Lola’s voice had an edge of fear and finality. ‘I’ll get the metro. It’s an … invigorating experience.’
‘Okay, na.’ Poona, somewhat surprised, shook her head, nodding, politely agreeing to disagree.
Lola instantly regretted her tone, terrified that she had offended her – Poona was the last person she wanted to push away. The voice of Malina lay coiled in her ear, instructing her in no uncertain terms this morning to talk to no one at the estate, especially the Sheenas. As Poona walked back through the gate, Lola realised how desperately she yearned to spend some time with a friendly person.
‘Poona-ji, please, wait.’
Poona turned as Vipin closed the gate halfway. He stopped awkwardly.
‘Can I help you with the sick dog?’ Lola asked.
‘Of course, bachana, another pair of hands, particularly today, would be most welcome. Gajrup will take us to the park at three pm.’
Lola exhaled deeply; no damage done.
With that, the gate closed on Poona’s beaming smile and Lola watched through the metal bars as the guard stood back at his post, resuming forensic eye contact with his tattered shoes.
Lola turned towards the metro station, happy at the thought of an excursion to the park with Poona to help the park kutta that made Malina so furious. She would deal with that later. As the metro entrance came into view, Lola noticed the ground was splattered with blood. She looked around nervously for the perpetrators or victims. Behind the pharmacy counter, the man with the navy turban gave her an enthusiastic wave, rushing to the door.
‘Oh, madam, I have very beautiful drugs for your health and happiness, help me to pay for my wife’s extravagant lifestyle.’
‘Meri chuus maro!’
Lola stopped in her tracks, recognising a familiar phrase from her past, which made her both nostalgic, and suddenly enraged. She turned and stepped back towards the turbaned man. In a moment of defiant bravery, Lola flipped him the bird.
‘Ja apni bajaa, Uncle.’
Chapter Six
Flagstaff Tower
Paksheet was irritable with everything and everyone. He sat atop the Flagstaff Tower at the Delhi University entrance side of Kamla Nehru Ridge, discontentedly looking over what he claimed as his territory. Below him was his tribe of monkeys, cavorting frivolously while he laboured with his strategy and schemes.
The monkey gaggle was playing a game involving a fallen coconut. They were in a frenzy of fun: stealing, passing, shouting and chattering away, unaware of the consternation their joy was having on Paksheet. Yanki silently groomed his flank, hoping for some non-violent attention.
Yanki was an outsider to the general macaque population. Her isolation was principally due to Paksheet, whose use of her as an accessory had stopped her normal socialisation into the monkey family. She wasn’t invited to play with the others, and even if she had been, the force of the game would have been too brutal for her slight body. Starved of affection, mistrusted by the group and malnourished by being taken from her mother’s milk so early, Yanki remained tiny. This deprivation had served Paksheet well, as he didn’t have to replace her or dispose of her like he had his other decoy babies when they grew too big.
