Dogs of India

by Polly McGee

  Lola packed her bag, bailed on her dysfunctional share house and told her friends and family that she was going travelling to ‘find herself’. Niz and Amit promised to deliver the relevant documentation and bribes for the Indian government, and provisioned her with a tourist visa, fifty thousand rupees and a copy of Eat, Pray, Love.

  India had turned out to be far more difficult than she had imagined. She had so far survived Malina’s savage silence and the awkward shyness of Gajrup; waited for a love at first sight that still hadn’t been seen; lived among a menagerie of reptiles and insects; and today removed the ear of a living dog. And here she was, feeling like an extra in a film without a script, making small talk over dinner with the kindly owners of Hastinapuri Estate, who had no idea that she was a liar and a fraud. Lola finished the wine in her glass, suddenly exhausted from the pretence and constant challenges.

  Lola wondered if Poona had noticed she had sidestepped her question, but no further queries were made and the remainder of dinner was spent planning the next day’s search-and-rescue mission for Rocky. As soon as the plates were empty, Lola made polite noises and retreated into the familiar alienation that was her nook off the kitchen. She lay in bed, head buzzing from wine, congratulating herself for navigating the staff squat toilet without mishap.

  Lola was tall, and her feet tipped over the edge of the narrow bed. She wriggled for a hollow of comfort in the mattress, felt for her pashmina, and with a wrench remembered poor Rocky, now one-eared and dragging a peach-coloured lead behind him made of the throat hair of a baby sheep. She wished she had bought the second half-price pashmina she had been repeatedly offered the day she’d arrived. A lizard lost its footing above her and plopped onto the floor. She looked at it from the corner of her eye and realised that for the first time she hadn’t jumped with fright.

  Chapter Ten

  The Last Act

  Pushpant Godboley slapped aftershave on his face, wincing with the burn. Pomade held his unnaturally rusty, hennaed hair in place, adding to the intense smell. He brushed his thick moustache with purpose-bought black mascara, covering the grey hairs that threatened to reveal his age. He consulted the mirror. Not unlike a young Dilip Kumar, he thought. He took a big mouthful of whisky. It burned his throat like aftershave.

  The acting director had a gourd-shaped body. Narrow, powerless shoulders gave way to a full stomach built on long lunches and even longer dinners. Underneath the impressive verandah of his stomach lurked an unimpressive member, resting flaccidly on low-slung testicles. He gave his penis a quick stretch to see if it could be enhanced; apparently not. Undeterred, he popped one of the generic viagra tablets that the pharmacist sold him under the counter. That would do the trick, na.

  With the aid of a hand mirror, he navigated his stomach and gave his pubic hair a touch-up with the mascara wand – a few grey hairs were starting to creep in down there, too. From the back of a drawer, he pulled out a tub of ladies’ skin-whitening cream, and vigorously applied it to the visible parts of his gourd. His pre-date grooming was complete.

  ‘Changa paaji, you lady killah,’ he addressed the man in the mirror.

  The aging, flabby public servant staring back at him nodded in agreement.

  Pushpant dressed himself in a crisp khaki kurta with some elaborate embroidery down the front. His skinny legs poked out underneath the tunic, no pants required. He was ready. He turned the lights down to sexy; the dimmer had been installed by the New Delhi Municipal Council under a special budget line Pushpant had created for miscellaneous electrical work. A miasma of cheap sandalwood-scented incense contributed to the seedy feel. Pushpant added to the general haze by exhaling a plume of smoke from a Cuban cigar, a gift from one of his very best contractors.

  He inhaled again and held the thick cigar up in the dim light, admiring its girth. The acting director rolled the cigar between his fingers, imagining that his pudgy digits were the thighs of a Cuban maiden. As he thought harder, the front of his kurta became more tent-like. He threw open the doors of his balcony and took in his domain. He felt fine; marvellous, in fact. Another big swig of whisky added to his mood.

  Pushpant put down the cigar and picked up a small tin next to a large marble ashtray. He screwed off the lid and dipped in his little fingernail, using it to spoon up a hit of the highest-quality cocaine he could get this side of Gurgaon. He thrust his fingernail up his nose, inhaling violently. He repeated the process in his other nostril.

  Shaandar!

  He went for another hit, but as the supply was getting low he decided to ration it, making a mental note to send Baj for additional provisions later.

  The intercom crackled with static. Pushpant pushed the button. A husky voice on the other end identified herself as Krystal, his consort for the evening. Pushpant smiled widely as he released the lock of the front door. He propped himself at the entrance of the apartment, affecting a nonchalant charm.

  To Pushpant’s chemically enhanced eyes, Krystal was a technicolour vision of feminine perfection. Artfully constructed curls fell over her shoulders, bottle blonde perfectly complementing a heavily powdered and bleached complexion. Just beneath the golden cascade of hair was a very short and very tight pink dress.

  ‘Good evening, my dear,’ said Pushpant in his best impersonation of a public school British accent. ‘May I offer you a glass of champagne?’

  ***

  Krystal nodded, dropping her eyes like Lady Di and remembering what the boss had told her about high-class girls not speaking too much. The advice he’d given her about her voice was partly because it was the distant last stage of a gender-reassignment process that wasn’t progressing as fast as s/he liked. Far too many lakhs were still needed to book in at Sant Parmanand for her permanent transition from mister to madam. She was hoping that her new client would be lucrative repeat business.

  Krystal drank down the glass of proffered champagne in one deep mouthful. It was actually cheap sparkling wine re-labelled as Moet and passed onto the acting director as payment for a small council-based favour, but neither client nor lady friend had noticed the substitution.

  ‘Thirsty work coming up, sexy; I’d better get you another drink, na.’ Pushpant winked lewdly.

  Krystal nodded, lashes fluttering, making short work of the refreshed glass.

  Pushpant led Krystal out onto the balcony. He gestured across the compound, intimating with his usual relationship to truth that he owned the whole estate. Krystal was impressed – this fatty boombalatty could definitely afford to fund her surgery.

  The acting director took another hit of whisky and pulled down Krystal’s gown to reveal her last major investment: a perfect pair of well-healed DD-size breasts. He dusted her nipples in some of the remaining cocaine and licked it off, reminding Krystal of a scene from one of the many pornographic videos she had watched to learn the art of being a lady. Krystal had grabbed the champagne on the way outside and discreetly chugged sparkling wine straight from the bottle over Pushpant’s head, feigning pleasure intermittently with a soft glug, glug.

  When Pushpant’s kurta tent had become fully erected, Krystal knew it was time to get to work. She bobbed down and lifted up the edge of the garment, making a show of shock and awe at what lurked beneath. Pushpant clutched Krystal’s head with his moist pen-wielding hands. He pushed her down rhythmically while she sucked with Bollywood enthusiasm. From time to time, she would come up for air from under the kurta and smile at him with her best Priyanka Chopra smile, unaware of the dark moustache of black mascara that had begun to cake around her mouth, adding to her already theatrical makeup.

  Krystal decided it was time to move things along. Her neck and jaw were hurting and the hard tiles were making her knees ache. The sounds coming from somewhere above the wedge of stomach thumping on her forehead signalled that her work would soon be done. Krystal was an expert in her field. Sensing victory about to be hers, she concentrated her efforts in the hope of getting him off early and having time for a quick plate of pan
ipuri before the next job. Krystal handled Pushpant’s testicles clinically, imagining them fried crisp and full of tangy tamarind sauce. She moaned in pleasure at the thought of crunching into the savoury sweetness. Pushpant clawed her brassy locks, desperately trying to hold on as the inevitable conclusion drew near.

  Sensing victory, Krystal gave her most impressive suck. Pushpant gave up and opened his mouth, roaring with the violence of his ejaculation.

  ***

  Paksheet, who had been sitting on an overhanging branch above the acting director’s villa at Hastinapuri Estate, watching him through the window with interest, alighted quietly on the roofline, looking down on the greasy, henna-dyed top of the acting director’s head, and the coal-black roots of the blonde pumping in and out at his stomach. The man’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and his eyes rolled back in his head, a bloodshot strip of eyeball flicking into view every so often.

  Taking the man’s roar as an invitation to combat, Paksheet jumped from the roof and landed on the acting director’s face. Wrapping his hairy arms around Pushpant’s sweaty neck, he pulled his face towards him like a monkey version of Krystal giving head. Somewhat confused by these new sensations, Pushpant opened his eyes to the manic stare of Paksheet at eye level, and the feeling of sharp teeth sinking deep into his forehead. Warm blood began to stream down his forehead, thinned by the combination of alcohol, cocaine and the fake viagra that was made largely of aspirin.

  Paksheet jumped over the blonde’s head and scampered out of sight. Blood from Pushpant’s head wound dripped onto her face. Pushpant looked at his lady friend with shocked confusion. The sight of Krystal with a heavy-mascara moustache and a face splattered with his blood made him shriek in terror before he reeled back in horror, grabbing the balcony rail for support.

  In the hasty construction of the Hastinapuri Estate accommodation for the Commonwealth Games, the balcony railing to Pushpant Godboley’s villa had only been temporarily fixed. He had personally signed off on the approvals for occupation for the building without inspection after the contractor had left a very full briefcase beside his desk. The rail gave way under the acting director’s weight, and he did an impressive reverse untucked half-somersault to the concrete several metres below, resulting in nearly instant death. He did have approximately a minute to review his life, which in keeping with his uncapped self-esteem, appeared to be duly changa paaji.

  Paksheet licked the remnants of the open tin of powder abandoned on the table. It tasted bittersweet, like mandarin peels. Walking to the edge of the rail-less balcony, he leapt across to the nearest tree branch, and swung around it like a deranged gymnast, screeching each time he hit the top of his 360-degree arc.

  ***

  Krystal wasn’t a virgin to difficult situations involving the untimely death of her clients. She chugged the deceased acting director’s bottle of whisky as she pulled up her dress and considered her options.

  Grabbing her handbag, she headed for the bathroom and rifled through the drawers, looking for something to clean the blood and mascara from her face. She found the late acting director’s cosmetics next to some neatly packed bundles of currency hidden from prying taxmen and party officials. She stuffed her bag with rupees, grabbed the skin whitener and the mascara and ran as fast as she could in towering high heels.

  ***

  Sita had seen the man fall from the balcony as she was let into the Hastinapuri Estate compound. She ran towards the body, almost colliding with a very unusual-looking woman who passed her at breakneck speed, heading towards the gate. Blonde hair, big breasts and a moustache? Sita knew some critical evidence had just sped out of the estate. She reached the body sprawled on top of the balcony rail and crouched down to check for vital signs, realising who it was immediately.

  Shit.

  And damn.

  Sita would have much preferred to witness Godboley’s fall from grace less literally. For the second time that week, the editor of the New Delhi Times received a call from his newest senior political reporter asking him to hold the front page. Sita hung up the phone. She called Poona to give her the heads-up about the balcony rail before the police were called. Girls had to look after each other, na.

  Sirens blared from a distance. It was going to be a long night. The monkey doing crazy acrobatics above her dropped suddenly to the ground. He glared at her ferociously. Sita felt a chill as she recognised him from the dog massacre in the park. How could it be? She took a photo of the monkey as he touched his genitals and thrust his pelvis with glee, like a young Michael Jackson, then screeched and ran off on two legs. She shook her head in disbelief. Surely coincidences like this only happened in the movies.

  ***

  Baj drove through the gates of Hastinapuri Estate with a sense of intense foreboding. He had been idling at a street stall, sipping chai, waiting for Pushpant’s special friend to be done and give him a call to be dropped back to the brothel. This arrangement was one of the many glamorous roles he had as the drunkle’s driver. Instead, he received a text that simply said come quickly gone. It didn’t make much sense, but neither did many of these girls, and perhaps that was a new way of expressing that the unsavoury duties had been duly carried out.

  Rama sat quietly on the floor in the passenger side of the car, cleaning his face with wet paws. He was exhausted after a furious game with an almost empty chai cup. Rama’s fur was in sticky chai-soaked clumps, fanning out from his forehead in haphazard stripes.

  ‘Little puppy is a chai tiger now, na?’ Baj said.

  So far he had been able to keep the existence of Rama under the radar of the acting director. He was fairly certain that owning a puppy was not one of the requirements of the job. No matter, he would cross that half-completed bridge when he came to it. A quick-witted combination of coordinating sleeping times and utilising the deep boot of the car for short trips with the boss or his hookers had worked so far. Rama was indeed a blessing for Baj, transforming the way he saw his life and future. He now had a responsibility that was bigger than himself, as well as a companion to do things with. Seeing that joyful golden face was a reason to get up in the morning. He had never even realised that he needed a reason.

  Pushpant assumed that Baj saw his job as a vocation and kept him on constant call. Baj often slept in the car at night, eating and showering opportunistically. He kept a simple wardrobe of spare pants and a shirt in the boot. It was a stable transience with a sporadic paycheque. The acting director didn’t think to pay him on time and often needed to be reminded to do the needful. Depending on his mood when Baj asked Godboley for his salary, the result could be an enraged diatribe about greed and a handful of notes thrown at him, or a tipsy outpouring of praise for being the best manservant a future politician could have and a wad of notes. It was a job and Baj had known worse.

  Now that he had Rama, he was thinking about a more permanent situation. More like dreaming about it – New Delhi real estate prices made living anywhere but in the car a fantasy.

  He checked the phone again as he pulled into the parking bay. No sign of a lady in waiting. Definitely strange … He could smell the stink of cigars and cheap scent as he reached the wide-open front door. He walked in, noting the usual signals of a sleazy night in with Godboley. Unusually, he noticed that not only was the balcony screen door open, but there appeared to be no railing.

  He walked to the edge and peered down: the body of Godboley lay where he had fallen, positioned remarkably like he was a cartoon character about to run somewhere. Kneeling next to him inexplicably was the young reporter from the metro yesterday. The sound of sirens wailed amidst the honking, still some distance away. New Delhi was not the place to have a medical emergency. The irony of Sant Parmanand being next door was not lost on Baj. It would have been easier to walk over with a stretcher than try to dispatch an ambulance around the block.

  Baj took in the scene and considered the consequences: his boss was dead. Baj contemplated the next steps as he methodically sanitised the flat
and balcony of drug paraphernalia. The New Delhi Municipal Council did not as a matter of course give luxury cars and drivers to their mid-level civil servants. Godboley had simply purchased his own car with some of his ‘special’ budget and put it in Baj’s name to hide the paper trail. No one but Baj knew this, so he reasoned that the car was his. Surely it was another boon from God. He was an owner/driver now.

  Baj checked the bathroom drawer for the stash of notes he knew were hidden there – businessmen needed cash flow. It was empty. Godboley’s lady guest no doubt had found herself a bonus on the way out. Luckily, Baj was privy to the other places where the acting director had kept his loot. On more than one occasion he had needed to access cash quickly to rescue the boss from one embarrassing disaster or another. There was a pleasing amount of rupees still stuffed inside a large tasteless statue in the lounge room. Baj returned to the balcony to make sure that the acting director was actually dead. His venture would be short-lived otherwise.

  On the ground, Chatura and Poona had joined Sita at the scene. Chatura looked up and saw Baj peering over the balcony.

  ‘Driver-ji, come here and help us, man!’ Chatura shouted.

  Baj ran down the stairs and around to the front of the building, hiding his stash in the glove box of his new car en route. He and Chatura carried the railing upstairs and quickly affixed it back into place.

  ***

  A simple open-and-shut tragedy, the police commissioner said after a cup of tea and some of Poona’s special gold-leaf burfi. It appeared to be a tragic and shocking death, with no witnesses. Judging by the bite on his forehead, it would seem the acting director was taking a nightcap in the cool of the evening when a monkey attacked, causing him to fall over the balcony rail to his death. They all agreed that this was the likeliest explanation for the body found lying on the ground.