by Vaseem Khan
‘We must all eat,’ nodded the driver philosophically.
Kondvilkar shuffled and reached into his back pocket to dig out a battered tin tray. He plucked a pinch of snuff from the tray and inserted it violently into his nose. Then he snorted deeply, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. ‘Ahhh!’
The driver glanced at his boss, then turned his eyes back to the road.
They had moved out of the crowded Sahar area and were now passing through Mahakali Caves. This was a poor enclave – the slums of the suburbs were only a little way down the road.
The driver, whose name was Namdev, knew the way to the quicklime pit. He had been there many times. It was located in a half-finished building in an area of abandoned construction. There were many such ruins blighting the city, the sad remnants of the dreams of avaricious developers who had overreached themselves or failed to placate the planning authorities with the requisite bribes.
A garland of sweet lime and chilli swung from the mirror, a good luck charm. Namdev’s fingers tapped out a tune from the latest Bollywood blockbuster on the steering wheel.
Behind the humming driver a coiled grey shape snaked between the iron bars sectioning off the rear cabin. With a sudden dart Ganesha wrapped his trunk around the driver’s scrawny throat and yanked back as hard as he could.
The effect was electrifying.
Namdev yelped in alarm, his hands flying from the steering wheel to his throat, his legs flailing wildly. His foot caught the accelerator and the truck bucked forward, swerving across the road. Pedestrians and animals dived for cover. A limbless beggar on a wheeled tray suddenly sprouted legs and ran for his life. A pair of tethered goats bleated in terror, snapped their ropes, and hurdled a handcart loaded with rolls of cotton. A macaque gnawing on a rotten mango by the side of the road threw the bruised fruit at the onrushing vehicle and shot up a lime tree, howling with rage.
The truck hurtled through a pyramid of straw baskets and a waist-high mound of rotting vegetation, then ploughed headlong over a concrete drainage pipe, careening into a series of rolls until it struck a solitary brick wall, the only remnant of an ancient dwelling.
Finally, it skidded to a drawn-out halt, upside down, sparks flying, its undercarriage covered in bricks from the demolished wall.
For a long instant there was only a creaking silence, then a crow, rudely dislodged from the rubbish mound, fluttered onto the truck’s exhaust pipe and began to peck furiously at the rear right tyre.
A few moments later the rear doors of the truck, now hanging loose from their moorings, swung open and the tip of a trunk emerged.
Ganesha stood for a moment, trembling on unsteady legs and blinking in the glow of the evening streetlamps. Then he shook his head violently from side to side as if to clear it.
Finally, somewhat recovered from his ordeal, he proceeded to move down the road at a brisk trot.
Behind him a chorus of groans emanated from the driver’s cabin of the upturned truck where Kondvilkar and Namdev were gracelessly arranged in a tangle of bruised and battered limbs.
THE KING’S RANSOM
The pigeon waddled cautiously closer, its beady eyes glittering at the crumbs of bhel puri, scattered by tourists swarming around the plaza.
‘Gerroutofit!’
Bomberton’s shoe struck the pigeon and it flapped awkwardly away, squawking in indignation.
Chopra turned from where he had been leaning against the seawall.
Twenty metres below, an undulating expanse of turgid water lapped against the moss-covered bricks of the wall. Carelessly discarded junk rode up on a succession of shallow wavelets sweeping in from the deep harbour where, on the far horizon, a line of oil refineries were anchored. Beyond the refineries lay the Arabian Sea, dark and unbearably exotic, stretching all the way to the coast of Africa.
On the other side of the road, beneath a line of plane trees, late-night tourists wandered along the promenade. A caparisoned tonga jangled past, a foreign couple in the back craning their necks up at the magnificent Taj Palace Hotel.
Chopra stuffed his binoculars into the pocket of his waistcoat.
They had been monitoring the harbour for almost an hour. The silhouette of The King’s Ransom bobbed gently on the water.
‘I have been watching the jetties,’ Chopra announced. ‘A number of private boats have sailed out to the yacht.’
‘Well, do you have a private boat?’ asked Bomberton gruffly, eyeing the pigeon, who had settled on the seawall and was glaring back at him defiantly.
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the point of telling me?’ he said crossly.
‘I have a plan,’ responded Chopra calmly.
‘I’ll bet you do,’ muttered the Englishman.
DCI Bomberton was feeling distinctly ill at ease. He was a direct man, a man of action. All this cloak-and-dagger business was, to his way of thinking, simply a form of convoluted prevarication.
Bomberton came from a long line of military men. Indeed, his ancestor, the redoubtable Sir Mallory Bomberton, had distinguished the family crest at the Battle of Balaclava back in 1854, charging – together with the rest of the doomed protagonists of the Light Brigade – directly into the Russian guns with only a cavalry sword to cover his modesty.
That was the way to do things. Up and at ’em and hang the consequences! What was the point of all this skulking about?
Chopra walked through the arch of the Gateway of India, the eighty-five-foot-tall monument built to commemorate the visit of King George V a century earlier, his first visit to India as King-Emperor of the subcontinent. In the years since it had come to symbolise the city itself and was besieged day and night by locals and tourists alike.
On the far side of the Gateway he stopped and looked out over the harbour. During the day, the harbour was a bustling panorama of yachts, rowing boats, dhows, fishing vessels, tankers, cargo barges and tourist cruisers. At this time of night the ragtag armada had been berthed, and bobbed gently on the black water waiting to be called to arms once again the following morning.
A full moon shone down from the clear night sky above, its reflection smeared wide over the water.
He walked down a flight of concrete steps onto one of the five jetties that radiated out below the Gateway. From his vantage point he could see a trio of tourist boats moored close by. The nearest of the vessels was painted a gaudy sky blue, with a ring of tyres strung around the hull, and the name Elephanta Adventurer painted in white just below the port gunwale.
‘Hello!’ Chopra shouted. ‘Elephanta Adventurer! Is there anyone aboard?’
He continued to hail the vessel until, eventually, a pot-bellied man in a string vest and dhoti emerged from the wheelhouse, blearily wiping sleep from his eyes. ‘Why are you making such a racket?’ groused the man. ‘Can’t you see I am trying to sleep?’
‘We require the services of your boat,’ declared Chopra.
The man stopped scratching his belly and stared at him incredulously. ‘You want to go to the Elephanta Caves? Do you know what time it is? Are you drunk, friend?’
‘We do not wish to go to the caves,’ clarified Chopra. ‘We wish to be taken out into the harbour.’
‘What for?’ asked the man suspiciously.
‘I will tell you on the way.’
The man folded his arms. ‘Are you smugglers? I run a clean ship, friend.’
‘Smugglers!’ spluttered Bomberton. ‘Why you—’
‘We wish to be taken out to The King’s Ransom,’ interrupted Chopra.
The man turned and squinted at the dark silhouette of the big yacht, then looked back at Chopra with an evaluating expression. ‘Five hundred rupees,’ he said eventually.
‘Your signboard says one hundred,’ growled Bomberton, pointing at a wooden placard on the boat’s mainmast upon which was painted ‘AMAZING BEST ELEPHANTA TOURS ONLY RS 100/-’.
‘Yes. And your face says you are up to no good,’ scowled the man. ‘Five hundred.’
> ‘Now listen here—’ began Bomberton.
‘It is a deal,’ said Chopra.
The King’s Ransom was berthed deep in the harbour, well away from any other vessels.
Earlier in the day Chopra had spent some time revisiting the research dossier that his journalist friend Kishore Dubey had prepared for him. He had learned a great deal.
The yacht was one of the largest and most luxurious private boats in the world, inaugurated a year ago by billionaire Mohan Kartik at a gala ceremony attended by a clutch of celebrities including the state’s Chief Minister. Almost four hundred feet in length, the opulent vessel boasted five decks, twenty cabins, a private gym, garage and helipad, as well as capacity for one hundred guests and a crew of forty.
By anyone’s standards The King’s Ransom was a veritable ocean-going palace.
As the enormous vessel hove into view he noted the dazzling array of lights that lit up the yacht’s superstructure. Music drifted across the water.
A party was going on.
The Elephanta Adventurer chugged to a standstill at the yacht’s stern, where a ship-wide staircase of shallow steps fell to a landing apron.
A number of white-liveried crew milling on the apron stared in disbelief at the tourist boat as it clanked gently alongside.
‘We are coming aboard!’ yelled Chopra.
The crew exchanged glances. He did not wait for them to protest. Instead, he threw the gangplank over the side of the boat and scrambled across onto the yacht, Bomberton close behind.
Chopra turned and waved at the captain of the Elephanta Adventurer, who was staring open-mouthed at the magnificent vessel dwarfing his own. ‘You may go.’
The captain scowled, then returned to the wheelhouse.
Chopra and Bomberton watched as the little boat chugged away, a cloud of diesel fumes drifting in its wake.
‘Excuse me, sirs, but this is a private party. You cannot stay.’
The two men turned. A prim-faced steward in a starched white uniform and a peaked cap was staring at them. He seemed visibly upset.
‘Of course it is a private party, you buffoon,’ growled Bomberton. ‘Do you think I would be here if the whole world were invited?’
The steward stood his ground, weathering Bomberton’s glare. ‘Sir, I must request to see an invitation.’
Bomberton reached into his tuxedo and took out the card Chopra had discovered at Bulbul Kanodia’s home. ‘By God, man, you are an even bigger fool than you look.’ He thrust the card at the harried steward. ‘Now get out of my way.’
‘But, sir, this is only one card. What about your colleague?’
‘Colleague?’ Bomberton looked around, mystified. Then his face folded into another scowl. ‘This isn’t my colleague, you imbecile. This is my manservant.’
‘Manservant?’
‘Yes. Manservant. Are you deaf?’
‘But, sir, we cannot allow servants inside.’
Bomberton drew himself up to his full height and loomed over the stricken steward. ‘Have you any idea who I am? Cornwallis is the name. Descendant of the Cornwallis, former Governor-General of India. Name ring a bell? I am an Englishman, sir, and an Englishman does not go anywhere without his manservant. Do I make myself clear?’
The steward quailed beneath Bomberton’s wrath. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled, conceding defeat.
‘Good. Now kindly desist from making a nuisance of yourself and make way.’
‘One more thing, sir,’ squeaked the steward. ‘Your masks.’
‘Masks?’
‘Yes, sir. This is a masked event. You were not told?’
Bomberton’s mouth flapped open. ‘Of course I was told. I simply couldn’t be bothered to bring one along.’
‘Not to worry, sir,’ gasped the steward desperately. ‘We have made provision.’
He turned to a table behind him and extracted two black velvet eye-masks from a box.
Grumbling, Bomberton snatched one from the steward’s hand, almost yanking the man over.
As Chopra pulled on his mask, he thought: of course – for something like this, masks would be both fitting and necessary.
‘How do I look?’ said Bomberton.
‘Sir is looking most dashing!’ declared the steward, eager to preserve the remaining shreds of his tattered dignity.
‘Splendid!’ said Bomberton, walloping the man on the shoulder. ‘We will make a manservant of you yet, my good man.’
THE SLUM AT THE END OF THE WORLD
There are few cities in the world where an elephant can move along a busy thoroughfare and attract little or no attention.
Mumbai is one of them.
As Ganesha trotted down the narrow street, shopkeepers sitting cross-legged behind the counters of their hole-in-the-wall shops barely glanced up from their wares, old men smoking beedis did not look around from their games of shatranj and carrom, chattering housewives carrying earthenware jugs under their arms did not miss a beat in their bellicose conversations as they swayed past.
Occasionally, children, inherently more curious than the adults with whom they share the world, would jog beside the little elephant. The more intrepid ones attempted to scale Ganesha’s flanks.
Gently, but determinedly, Ganesha discouraged his would-be mahouts.
It is a well-known fact that many animals possess senses that humans have yet to fully understand. For instance, salmon somehow find their way back through thousands of miles of ocean to the exact pond in which they were born in order to breed and die. Silverback grizzly bears can smell a carcass from almost twenty miles away. Millions of monarch butterflies fly to the same grove of trees in Mexico each year, in spite of the fact that each generation only lives for a few months. The mechanics of how this information is passed down is still not clear.
Elephants, too, have their share of unusual abilities.
It has recently been discovered that elephants are able to sense infrasounds – sounds below the level of human hearing – through their feet. This is why elephants are usually the first to sense impending earthquakes or storms, which send silent tremors through the ground. By virtue of their amazing trunks, elephants also possess a truly extraordinary sense of smell.
Had the residents of the Sunder Nagar slum been paying attention they would have noticed that the young elephant passing through their midst occasionally stopped to lift its trunk and sniff at the night air before continuing on its journey.
Ganesha was on a mission. Having escaped the clutches of the nefarious Kondvilkar he now found himself loose in the city. It had been a long time since he had been outside his courtyard at the restaurant without Chopra by his side. At first he had been afraid, but gradually his panic had subsided.
Then he had started to think about what he should do next.
He had just survived a traumatic experience. He wanted nothing more than the company of the people he trusted most in the world, Chopra and Poppy. But his beloved guardians had been very busy of late, and he did not know when they would return to the restaurant.
Ganesha was feeling confused and upset. He was in sore need of his friend, a friend who had recently vanished with no word of explanation. Chopra did not seem to have the answer to this mystery.
Which meant that Ganesha had to solve it himself.
He raised his trunk and sniffed the air again.
The great river of smells parted into individual scents; it was like a magnificent symphony splitting into its constituent notes, each one a sparkling mote twisting in the air.
Ganesha sought the note that was unique to Irfan. It was incredibly faint, but he could sense it.
He lowered his trunk and walked on.
Eventually, the slum began to peter out. Ganesha walked until he began to hear the noise of passing traffic. He had reached the Jogeshwari-Vikhroli Link Road, the JVLR. For a moment he paused, watching the wall of honking, clanking, hooting vehicles roaring by in glorious Technicolor. A truck shuddered past, belching a cloud of fumes from
its exhaust. A hurled beer bottle shattered next to Ganesha’s foot, startling him and eliciting a soft bugle of fright.
The little elephant flapped his ears determinedly, put his head down, and bundled across the road and into the darkness beyond, an area known as Ganesh Nagar, a barren wilderness dotted with the occasional cluster of slum dwellings or a low-end industrial complex. There were rumours that wild leopards roamed the area; that snakes and scorpions were a constant threat; and that outlaws patrolled in gangs robbing with impunity those who ventured in. Only the most foolhardy and desperate would actually try to live here.
But in a city as crowded as Mumbai there would always be some who were just desperate enough.
Ganesha eventually entered a slum that had recently sprung up within the concrete remains of an abandoned industrial complex. Free-standing structures devoid of windows and doors and without running water or electricity served as homes to the truly forsaken. This was not a functioning slum of poor families such as the shanty city known as Dharavi. This was the sort of slum to which the dregs of Mumbai society gravitated, the gutter into which the very worst and most unfortunate were eventually swept. Here were the drunks, the drug addicts, the mentally impaired, the thieves and murderers who had escaped the not-so-long arm of the law. Just as the bright face of the moon has a side permanently shadowed in darkness, so did places like this slum exist in a city that shone brighter than any other on the subcontinent.
Ganesha walked through the strangely quiescent streets, his trunk wrinkling at the unfamiliar scents of opium and hashish, his ears flapping as groans of pain and disillusionment were carried to him on the breeze, his frightened gaze alighting on human beings collapsed into vacant doorways and around open fires, suffering in mute agony, eyes hollowed out with confusion as if they had landed in some nether hell with no rhyme or reason for their presence there.
Beyond the furthest reaches of the slum Ganesha stared up at a looming concrete superstructure set apart like an architectural leper.
