Dogs of India

by Polly McGee

  ‘Sir was giving it to her barbar, in the classroom actually, on the very desk he sits behind.’ Geet would give the audience a pause for effect before resuming the tale. ‘He nearly saw me peering in the window, akkan just missed!’

  There would be groans of horror from the assembled boys, as they imagined themselves in a similar achaar. Typically, one of Geet’s acolytes would finish an assignment for him before the afternoon classes beckoned, while trying to listen to the denouement of his stories. As they returned to the rigours of class, Geet would always leave them with further ammunition for the mind and their own nocturnal imaginations.

  ‘By the way, don’t use sir’s pen if he offers it to you – you don’t even want to know why.’ Geet would then wink and grab the ghost-authored homework, giving the undersized boy who had written it a friendly slap on the shoulder, almost knocking him over.

  Geet had gleaned his sex education through diligently applied learning. He had devised a lucrative sideline long before he became a student of Delhi University, using the densely wooded nooks of Kamla Nehru Ridge to transact with a variety of grateful and generous men. He accepted gifts of thanks for his zealous attentions and resold the non-cash spoils of his after-school ‘jobs’ in a lucrative black market. Supplying daaru for parties and dispensing paan and porn to the teachers who relied on his deliveries and discretion kept his grades at an acceptable level to pass out of school. His entrance into engineering was a sordid affair, but the papers for his admission were signed, much to the surprise of all who knew him. University marks were slightly more difficult to scam, but Geet worked on the premise that P’s got degrees, and where he couldn’t trade for grades, he did the minimum needed to pass.

  His sexual preferences were neither a source of shame nor regret. It was easy to maintain identity neutrality simply by being a combination of clever, funny, handsome and discreet – his marriage had seemed to be a non-issue for his parents, their relentless pursuit of his status mobility taking precedent. That is, Geet discovered to his horror, until they decided to ship him off to Australia with a bride. How and why Malina had concocted his deportation, Geet wasn’t sure. It seemed one of her contacts in the market had a friend of a cousin who had set it up after she confided her desperate concerns over his future job prospects.

  Geet had considered their proposal. Australia was a long way from his mother and father, which was a good thing. By all accounts, it was also a rainbow copia of delights for a gay man. Something inside him was both proud and parochial, however, and marriage to a woman, no matter what visa it came with, was repellent to him. Geet had liked being gay in India so far. He just preferred it without his mother’s nagging and deferred ambition getting in the way of his fun. He considered his limited options once the wedding and emigration plans had been announced, and decided on a tried-and-true response – running away.

  There was limited time to plan for the escape. Geet undertook a bout of intense revenue raising and trading in Kamla Nehru Ridge. He conveniently left Delhi University before he was asked to leave, telling his year master that he was transferring to Australia to study, effective immediately. He concocted the story about the maths Olympics to buy himself some time and space with the family. Malina and Gajrup never questioned his motives, pleased with his new attention to his studies. A long train ride later, and he was free to disappear into his new life – whatever that was going to be.

  The lights seemed to brighten as the present moment intersected with Geet’s reminiscing. Overlooking the city, he felt the euphoria of the transition. Here he was, new city, new life, new love. He had met Akash the night he arrived. It was a chance encounter at a local gay pick-up bar, the Handsome Parlour, where Geet was washing the dust of the train from his throat. The supposedly anonymous hook-up at the end of a row of tequila shots had continued past the morning after, into night after night. Eventually, his suitcase had stayed unpacked.

  Geet jumped slightly when Akash slid an arm around his waist, quietly entering the apartment while Geet was lost in reminiscing.

  ‘Party for one, “Tu hi toh meri dost hai”,’ Akash camped up the popular Bollywood hit.

  ***

  Akash took in the scene: the smashed phone on the floor, the empty bottle of champagne. Geet had obviously done the necessary. It was a significant moment, and Akash’s heart pained a little with the memory of his own choices. His passage to freedom wasn’t delivered with the luxury of a distant text to his parents. He had endured a devastating face-to-face encounter. He could still hear the huffing noises of his mother as she’d struggled for breath between wretched sobs. He could see the face of his father: furious Sikh warrior shimmering beneath the steely surface. The door of Akash’s former home slammed as he was marched outside, shutting out all contact with his family, his inheritance and his past.

  Akash was philosophical about it. He knew the views his parents held. Rejection was the likely outcome, and one he had factored into his decision to come out of the closet when he returned home after completing his MBA. He had watched the men he’d covertly slept with get married one by one. Watched them and their wives live a lie sweetened with gold jewellery to forgive and ignore their second-life transgressions. It was not the life he wanted, no matter how difficult the decision was to tell the truth.

  He looked into Geet’s eyes, wanting him to have the right answer to a question that only time would deliver.

  ‘Jaan hai to jahan hai,’ Geet said in a camp impersonation of Malina.

  Akash laughed and popped the cork of the unopened bottle of champagne with a Formula One winning flourish. ‘Welcome to the world.’

  ***

  Geet turned so he was facing Akash and observed the man who had so quickly changed his life. He was very sexy in a suit and shirt, no tie. The partners at Akash’s firm dressed a bit less formally on a Saturday. Akash was a deceptive cocktail of Hyderabad via a British tertiary and postgraduate education. He was one of the increasing numbers of Indian expats coursing like blood back into India’s middle-class heart. The headwaters of the Ganges now flowed to where rivers of foreign interest met the new wave of ambitious local entrepreneurs. Akash was riding the crest of that wave with determination and pride.

  ‘Come here, chakka,’ Geet said lovingly. He loosened Akash’s belt and undid the button on his trousers. It was time to celebrate his coming out and moving in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Pashmina and Dash

  Lola shifted numb buttocks on the concrete garden bench and slapped at a mosquito on her arm. Whatever was going down in the kitchen of Hastinapuri House, the dark of the garden and the ravages of insects were preferable. Malina and Gajrup had been screaming at each other for more than an hour. Well, Malina had been screeching; Gajrup had been doing his best to calm her down. Situation normal for those two, but the intensity and amplification sounded cranked up to Lola. Just like her childhood home, she thought.

  Something heavy collided with the floor and more ragged words broadcast into the evening. Poona and Chatura were on a famile in Varanasi and not expected back until later. Lola wished they were here to tone things down.

  It was lucky there were no guests staying tonight – this was definitely not the peace and tranquillity Hastinapuri Estate brochures promoted. Malina’s shrill abuse escalated. Lola was beginning to be concerned about whether she would ever be able to turn in for the night.

  Lola knew the commotion was about Geet. Gajrup had come back from the train station earlier that afternoon with an empty car and worry deep in his brow. The tension had continued to build with harried, unanswered voice messages and a one-way traffic of texts by both Gajrup and Malina. They hadn’t discussed Geet’s no-show with her, despite this being their critical first meeting. In fact, Lola had become even more invisible than usual, with Malina walking brutally through rather than around her, until she had eventually left the kitchen before she became collateral damage.

  In the night garden, Lola was trying to stay
calm, but the consequences of Geet’s absence being more permanent were flickering in and out of her mind like the moths around the pathway lighting. If the wedding was cancelled, they would kick her out of Hastinapuri with scant resources. The shouting and the uncertainty were crushing. Lola just wanted to lie down in the familiar, unfriendly silence and sleep until it was over. She closed her eyes, breathing in the night scents of delicate blooms. She would meditate to try to calm the anxiety, or at least have a crack at it. When in India … she crossed her legs and let her arms go loose, willing her body to relax. She inhaled deeply through her nose, self-consciously releasing the breath like Poona’s yoga teacher had shown her with a throaty ‘Ommmmmmmmmmm.’

  She breathed in and out again.

  ‘Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmm.’

  Sharp teeth bit into her relaxed hand. Lola screamed with fright and opened her eyes.

  Baj was clutching an ever-growing Rama, who wriggled joyfully at the prospect of escaping his arms.

  ‘Lola-ji, oh, madam, please, we are so apologising to you; well Rama is actually, it was a night-time visit to do the business.’

  ‘Naughty Rama, your dad should teach you to become a better businessman,’ she scolded.

  Baj’s ears darkened in a beetroot pall of mortification.

  Lola laughed, reaching out for the perpetrator. Baj handed her the puppy and stood awkwardly. She gave the dog a hug and some puppy-talk before releasing him. He pounced on a large fallen leaf and proceeded to dismember it, then did his business, looking up, expectant of praise. The argument in the kitchen flared again, and Baj turned towards the voices.

  Lola watched Rama chase one of the feral kittens that had taken up residence among the pots of palms.

  ‘They’ve been at it for hours,’ said Lola. ‘I need someone to run defence so I can slip past and hit the sack.’

  ‘Okay, okay, Lola-ji, please to wait here with Rama. I will make it right for you to enter only.’

  Lola was relieved that Baj had arrived, confident that with his reputation as a fixer, she would soon be in bed and the stress of this awful day of waiting would be over.

  ***

  Baj strode off, looking a lot more heroic than he was feeling, as it was apparent that Malina and Gajrup were bhasar actually. Baj was worried by the tone of the angry voices, and what snatches he could make out of the conversation. Baj peered into the kitchen. Gajrup gave him a slightly terrified, long double-eyed blink and tried to subtly shake his head in warning. Noticing Gajrup’s line of vision shift, Malina turned. She was still waiting for Geet to walk through the door. Anyone else was doomed. Her eyes narrowed. Tendrils of hair had escaped from her bun. They were soaked with sweat from her shouting exertions and wetly snaking round her face, neck and shoulder.

  ‘Banderchooooooood!’

  The demonic roar preceded the toss of a well-worn rolling pin. It glanced off the top of the doorframe, narrowly missing Baj’s head. Malina let out a string of expletives, cataloguing the range and species of Baj’s sexual partners: dogs, monkeys, sisters, fathers and mothers in differing combinations. Tonight was not the night for mediation or meditation. Baj hastily retreated. This was scene pe kerosene if ever he had walked into one. Lola and Rama were playing tug with a stick. Baj’s shocked face needed no explanation.

  ‘No worries, mate; you did your best.’ Lola smiled, and returned to the game. Lola let Rama win, then grabbed the stick from him as he relaxed in victory.

  Baj wished he could have returned and escorted Lola back to her room like a conquering hero, maybe picking a flower for her just as she arrived at her destination. She would have looked at him with barely controlled emotion and visible desire. Lola visibly shivered in her thin cotton shirt. From her outfit, obviously nobody had told her that Delhi got cold in November.

  ‘Can I hang out at your place, Baj, just until they stop yelling?’

  Baj panicked. He was not in the habit of hanging out with ladies in his flat. Especially ones he secretly loved.

  ‘Maybe another night would be better …’

  ‘Please, Baj,’ Lola said, widening her eyes and rubbing her stomach with one hand held out like the children from the market. ‘Cup of tea, sir; blanket, sir.’

  Baj nodded and shook his head. ‘My place is not ready for lady visitors, Lola-ji. It’s not fancy.’

  ‘I’m not fancy, Baj. Let’s go.’

  Lola took off in the direction of the villa. Rama ran ahead with puppy glee, Baj hot on his paws.

  Baj and Vipin’s life in the apartment was simple and industrious. The khota-esque interiors of the Pushpant Godboley era were gone, replaced by some carpets Chatura had donated, a couple of worn cushions, and a lovingly put-together shrine. On the walls were film posters of old and new Bollywood movies and their stars.

  Pushpant’s oversized television had a box of DVDs next to it. On the screen was a colourful dance scene on mute. Piles of pashminas ready to be packed up with scented oil sachets covered every spare inch of the floor. In an incongruously domestic touch, empty ghee tins growing succulent cuttings from the garden were dotted around the place. The apartment smelled of jhoop incense, curry and a little bit of puppy. The door was open, Baj only anticipating a short trip to the garden before his own bedtime. Rama streaked past Lola and Baj, flopping on a bed made out of layers of the New Delhi Times and promptly fell asleep.

  Baj looked at him lovingly. ‘Rama is very much up with the news actually,’ he said.

  Baj gave Lola a glass of warm milk flavoured with turmeric and ginger. She leaned against the wall, her legs folded under her. Rama slept, his perpetually moving puppy legs still. Baj folded pashminas, his legs tucked up in a squat. Baj folded, Rama slept and Lola rested with her milk in companionable silence. He shot discreet glances at Lola’s sleepy eyes. He had to keep her awake. Sleeping was not an option; he and Vipin had bedrolls on the floor of the only room, so there was no place for a solo girl – fancy or otherwise.

  Baj had to devise a conversation. One that could keep Lola awake so that he would not be faced with having to sleep outdoors to protect her reputation. The drive to avoid this situation was quickly overriding his shyness and the limits to his English. He cleared his throat and began.

  ‘Lola-ji, your good friend Geet has not arriving today only?’

  Lola tried to rouse her sleepy, warm-milk brain for a conversation. ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘That is most unfortunate. How is it you are knowing him?’

  ‘I worked with his friend.’

  ‘In the Australia’s actually?’ Baj was warming up.

  ‘Yes, in the Sydney, I mean in Sydney.’

  Baj nodded wisely, as if he were personally very familiar with working in Sydney. ‘Sydney. It is one of the stars in one of my own favourite films, Dil Chahta Hai, na.’ Baj gestured at one of the posters on the wall and back at Lola. She looked at it and shook her head.

  ‘You must be knowing this. I will borrow you mine.’ He nodded decisively. ‘You have seen a Bollywood film, right?’ Baj asked, like a missionary with an unexpected conversion opportunity.

  ‘A few.’

  Baj smiled at her, relieved. She would have definitely slipped down a level on his fantasy-woman pedestal if she didn’t share his passion for cinema.

  He folded another pashmina and slipped the oil sachet inside, formulating a new tack for what was so far, in his mind, a very successful chat.

  ‘You are knowing the shouting aunty and uncle of your Hastinapuri staying then, too, Lola-ji?’

  Lola shook her head. ‘Nope – just the friend. They invited me to stay till Geet arrived back from Mumbai.’

  The idea of Malina extending the hand of hospitality to a stranger was somewhat outside of Baj’s experience of her friendliness. To anyone. He was just about to ask Lola another question about her life when she suddenly pushed herself off the wall, putting the empty milk glass up high away from Rama. He was delighted that she was no longer a sleep risk. She sat down next to the pashmi
na pile.

  ‘Let me help. You fold, I’ll scent and seal.’

  ***

  The pashmina pile grew in companionable productivity. Lola switched the conversation, asking Baj to tell her his story. Lola seemed very curious as to how he had ended up living in the apartment after the occupant had so recently fallen to his death. It was a shocking accident, one of several aftershocks that had coincided with her arrival into the intricate world of Hastinapuri Estate and its occupants, and the widening of Baj’s heart to include a puppy and a pretty Australian girl.

  Baj told Lola the epic of his life so far. He had started in Delhi as a teen, dispensing cups of tea to the hardworking men of the transport networks. Drivers of all forms of vehicle for hire would stop for a chai in between the honking and hustling of the streets. As time passed, he had evolved up the chain, befriending taxi drivers and eventually starting to drive himself, filling in for them when they needed to sneak away for personal errands.

  Pushpant Godboley had stumbled across Baj behind the wheel of a taxi in one such fortuitous evening of driver substitution. After a long council meeting, he was looking for a club that specialised in a certain type of lady companion to help him unwind. As Baj drove, Pushpant drank from a bottle of Johnny Walker Red with great thirst, big-noting himself from the back seat in increasing volumes of both sound and fiction. Baj knew the G.B. Road area his passenger had requested well. He dropped his whisky-soaked passenger off at a kotha that appreciated his referrals and waited outside in the car for Pushpant, anticipating a decent return fare home to Civil Lines. In Baj’s experience, after that much Johnny Red, the visit wouldn’t last long.

  He had nearly smoked a beedi down to its end and was considering taking a sip or two from the whisky bottle left in the back seat of the cab when the kotha door nearly flew off its hinges. Through it came Pushpant, dressed only in an inadequately sized towel, being forcefully expelled by two large bodyguards. They were threatening to continue their umbrage with fists and feet, a threat that appeared to be far from idle. From their curse-laced commentary, it transpired that Pushpant had demanded items from the lady menu that he hadn’t paid for. The put-upon kothewalis had referred him to their managers. Not wanting to see his fare beaten to a pulp in front of him, Baj talked down the goondas and diffused the situation.