‘Ten rupees,’ I said optimistically.
‘Bees,’ he replied, doubling the price.
Just as we were about to settle on a deal, a dark green Fiat swung around the corner and entered the driveway opposite. The gatekeeper looked at me nervously.
‘Sahib coming soon. You come tomorrow night, same time.’
‘Okay,’ I said, reluctantly.
All the next day, as I visited companies and sat in staff meetings, my mind was focused on our pending rendezvous that night. Having it off with a gatekeeper late at night behind the high walls of a wealthy estate would be another first. Fantasies of E M Forster’s Maurice started playing themselves out in my imagination. The uniqueness of it tantalized me, although my rational mind told me I’d be wiser to avoid it.
As evening approached, I lingered around the house longer than usual to fill in time. At about 9.30 pm I headed out and had little trouble finding the place. It was only about a 15-minute walk from our residence and I had kept a mental note of the connecting streets. When I came to the corner, I could hardly contain my rising sense of anticipation. But I also began to feel apprehensive. Unlike my usual hit-or-miss escapades, this felt too programmed. The odd Ambassador taxi idled up and down the main road and an occasional pedestrian passed by. I slowed down and walked along the opposite side of the street and back again. There was no sign of the gatekeeper. I felt nervous but was not about to quit. I went up the block and back again, before taking up a position opposite the gate under the streetlight where I had stood the night before.
Out of nowhere, a brown jeep loaded with half a dozen men screeched to a halt at the curb about a meter away from me. The person in the front passenger seat shone a blinding flashlight in my eyes.
‘Who are you?’ he snapped.
Who were they?
‘I’m a visitor to Calcutta.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I’m from Australia but I live in Bombay.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I went for a walk and got lost.’
‘Why were you walking up and down in the same place?’
‘I was trying to figure out how to get home.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Beck Bagan, I think it’s called.’
The one holding the flashlight turned to his driver and spoke a few sentences in Bengali. Foreigners didn’t stay in Beck Bagan, known for its squalid bustees and nearby public market. My answer only raised more questions. I tried to say as little as I could while not lying, in case my answers should rebound on me later. It would be easy for them to verify my address. I decided to go on the offensive.
‘Can you tell me how to get to Beck Bagan?’
My interrogator paused, as if caught off guard. Another rapid discussion ensued. I kept peering towards the gate, expecting to see the young gatekeeper, but he never showed. What was his role in all this? Had he set me up? Was it pure chance the jeep came along at this time? Questions outnumbered answers. Then it dawned on me; I was in the middle of my first encounter with the Calcutta police—the jeep, the flashlight, and the lathis that two men in the back of the vehicle were carrying. My stomach contracted. Bribery might be my only weapon, but I had no money. If I tried this tactic, they would no doubt accompany me to my residence, where I would have to suffer the embarrassment of explaining to my colleagues what had happened, and hope that payment of money would bring closure to this nightmare. Just as I was imagining spending the night in a police lockup, a brusque voice shook me back to the present.
‘Get out of here before I change my mind,’ he ordered me.
‘Which way did you say to Beck Bagan?’
‘Two streets up and left. Now go!’
My hands were shaking as I took off up the street at a brisk trot. It wasn’t until I heard the jeep spin around and speed off down the street that my breathing returned to normal. Why had he decided to let me go? Did I actually convince him I was a stupid tourist? Was my naiveté so transparent that I wasn’t worth troubling with? Whatever the reason, I’d been let off the hook, like I was that night at Bombay Central station. It was time to do another puja to Lord Ganesh. I was pleased I had managed to keep cool under pressure, but one thing kept eating away at me—I was willing to override my intuitions to play it safe for the sake of one more conquest.
* * *
I worked on the principle that trying to express oneself in the local language, regardless of ability, was better than not trying at all. Living and working in Maharashtra’s villages, I had acquired a rudimentary level of Marathi but when I began moving around the country this was of little use. In offices and boardrooms, English was taken for granted, but on the road and in rural areas, it wasn’t. I would try to get by with a smattering of Hindi scoured from magazines, films, taxi-drivers, beggars and interminable village planning consultations. In Calcutta, the challenge of mastering Bengali was one language too many, so I usually fell back on the high level of English spoken there. If I had just stuck to this rule, I probably would not have found myself one night fearing for my life.
My growing craving for instant sexual satisfaction had led me to expect that I could find it whenever and wherever I wanted. This week I wanted it more than most. Work had been trying. Visits to companies for financial support had yielded only hollow promises. My third meeting with a leading tea exporter had produced two kilos of premium Darjeeling second flush tea, but not a single rupee. A top-ranking Tata executive, who had promised me he would ask one of India’s leading artists to auction one of his paintings in support of our work, failed to deliver once again. Frustration had set in and I was feeling unusually depressed. By Saturday night, I was ready to break loose.
Our foreign staff had grown used to my evening absences and mostly left me to my own devices. Occasionally, they would ask if I would like to join them for a few beers at a local bar, but I was not much for small talk and forfeiting a night of cruising came as a major sacrifice these days. On this particular evening I slipped on my olive pants and matching striped cotton shirt and headed out the front door. This outfit was my standard evening garb, tailor-made to fit my slim frame. When I changed into it, I felt like a whole new person. My night binges were my way of trying on a new self and these clothes were a key part of that. They didn’t go unnoticed by others either.
‘Hey Burbs, wearing your green battle fatigues again!’ Sean said with a smirk. I couldn’t help think how apt a description this was.
Instead of taking a tram to the heart of town, I decided to walk. I wanted to immerse myself in the evening’s sensory extravaganza. Bells twanged as rickshaw-wallahs forced their way through oncoming traffic; horns tooted as overloaded trucks rumbled along tramlined roads; loudspeakers shrieked popular film songs. None of this bothered me anymore. I almost welcomed its grating dissonance.
Stepping outside, I looked up and down the street and set off for the maidan at a brisk pace. In the heart of this urban jungle, the spacious maidan seemed an anomaly, but a welcome one at that. On one side of this vast park, the bustling Chowringhee Road with its crumbling buildings and snarling traffic was like a retaining wall struggling to hold back the roaring floodwaters of the city’s burgeoning masses. On the other hand, its utter emptiness threatened to swallow you whole. When I reached the maidan, I did a quick survey of my usual haunts and spotted one or two prospects, but none too interesting. The night was still young so I could afford to pass up those who didn’t strike my fancy, and keep pursuing my quest for the perfect young man.
This night was a write-off. Where were all the young men? It wasn’t Diwali or Durga Puja. Were they sick, consumed with family matters, or what? Maybe I should have gone out with my colleagues after all. Before calling it quits, I decided to take one last stroll along Chowringhee Road. When I came to the Grand Hotel, I hesitated a moment before entering its spacious lobby. Once Calcutta’s finest, this imposing building was a local landmark. Boxwallahs and politicians, maharajas an
d film stars had all graced its stately rooms, not to mention thousands of servicemen during World War II. But five-star hotels were not my scene. Although foreigners formed a large part of their clientele, I always felt strangely conspicuous, expecting any minute that a security person might ask me what I was doing there. Based on my experiences in other Indian luxury hotels, this would not have been out of the question. I sat down for several minutes, surveying the comings and goings of Indians and foreigners alike. Nothing registered on my gaydar.
Disappointed, I made for the door. As soon as I was outside, the clammy night air enveloped me like a damp shroud. It had a raw edge to it that ratcheted up my senses several levels. Air conditioning was something I was neither used to, nor welcomed. Now I was back in the real world of most Calcuttans, with its discordant sounds and foul smells. I pretended to be interested in window displays and tried to ignore the hawkers who had settled down on the pavement for the night under the verandah’s wide overhang. It was probably about 9 pm. Just as I was about to turn into a side street, a rickshaw-wallah called out to me.
‘Oh sahib, you want ride?’
‘No thanks.’
‘You want hashish? Very good hashish. Very cheaply.’
‘No.’
‘You like young girl? I know beautiful young girl, bahut…’
His theatrical gestures made it amply clear which part of the female anatomy he had in mind. I don’t know why, but at that moment I decided to change languages and practice my limited Hindi. I also made another switch.
‘Ladki nahi. Ladka?’
My sexual preference never raised his greying eyebrows. His eyes lit up. Persistence had paid off. ‘I know good boy. Very clean. No problem.’
‘Kitna paise?’
‘Ek sau rupaye.’
I laughed at his attempt to extort 100 rupees from me. I had 60 rupees on me at the time, 40 in my money pocket and 20 in my shoe, for emergencies.
‘Pachas,’ was his next offer.
‘Tees,’ I countered.
He glowered and I began to walk away.
‘Sahib, idhar ao,’ he called, motioning me to him.
I stood for a moment, unsure what to do. Should I trust this guy? Where was he taking me? Would he demand more money once he delivered me? Should I back down while I have a chance? But other voices were shouting to be heard over and above these. Go on, just do it. You’ll never know if you don’t give it a try. Be a devil. Don’t hold back. You might never do such a thing again.
Trembling inside, I walked timidly towards the rickshaw and sat down. He whirled the cart around and gave it a hearty pull. As we set off, the first few streets were familiar but after 10 minutes I couldn’t recognize any landmarks. We turned from one street to another, each narrower than the last. I could only tell that we were in a bazaar district because shops and food stalls were open. He turned right into a dark lane and pulled up outside a towering concrete wall, facing a giant wooden gate that looked like it would take a tank to break down. He dropped the handles of the rickshaw on the ground and pointed with his nose at the gate.
‘Ladka andar hai.’
As I stepped off the rickshaw, the driver rubbed two fingers against the thumb of his right hand. I was confused. Was he asking for the 30 rupees I’d agreed to pay for the services of a young man?
‘Kitna?’ I asked
‘Das rupaye.’
I handed him the money. He pocketed it and made for the gate, giving it a sharp rap with his fist. I heard the scraping sound of an iron bolt being rolled along. The gate protested as it was pushed open and the face of an old man filled the narrow gap. The rickshaw-wallah and chowkidar exchanged a few words. I began to have second thoughts about what I was getting myself into. The building looked more like a Moghul fort than a bordello. How would I get out of here if I needed to? The walls were too high and too smooth to scale. The gate was impenetrable. The chowkidar disappeared for a couple of minutes. Then the gate opened again and he motioned me to enter. I hesitated, turned around, and stared at the rickshaw-wallah. He looked at me blankly, as if to say, ‘Well, go on. What are you waiting for? This is what you came for, isn’t it?’
Inside the compound, the otherwise bright street lights dimmed to an eerie gloom. Stone steps led from the middle of a gravel pathway to rooms on either side of a narrow corridor. So this is a Calcutta brothel, I thought. Nothing like the grilled cages of the cheek-by-jowl hovels in Bombay’s Kamathipura Lane. An overweight, middle-aged man dressed in a dirty white kurta came bustling towards me. As he opened his mouth to speak, I noticed the familiar red stains of betel nut smudged across his lips. His breath reeked of cheap Indian whisky.
‘Upar!’ he barked, gesturing me to go upstairs.
I ascended the staircase and walked down the corridor. He pointed to the second room on the right. As I entered, I noticed there was a key lock on the outside and a bolted lock on the inside. The room was about six meters by three, with a rope charpoy covered with a thin stained sheet in one corner and a rickety wooden chair in the other. There were no windows. A lone bulb suspended from the ceiling cast a yellowy light over the room. The place stank of sour milk and urine. Above a rusted spittoon, red splotches flecked the wall. I felt I was in a prison cell, not a bedroom. My stomach churned. Alarm bells started ringing in my brain. The idea of having sex evaporated. A voice from within bellowed, ‘Get out of here now!’
I was about to act on my impulse when the door burst open and three men walked in. The man who had ushered me from the gate was flanked by two others, younger and in better shape. They glanced at me, then at each other. One had a sneer that caused my heart to beat faster.
‘You want boy?’ asked the older man.
Before I could say ‘no thank you, there must be some horrible mistake,’ he continued.
‘Two hundred rupees.’
‘Two hundred rupees! The rickshaw-wallah said 30 rupees,’ I protested. ‘I don’t have 200 rupees. I only have 30. Look.’
He glanced at his two flunkies, who took a step closer. I fumbled in my pocket and produced three 10-rupee notes. Before I knew what was happening, they were ripped from me. At that moment, my left cheek stung as a hand walloped my face. I nearly lost my balance. I was sweating like the Ganges in flood. Words failed me, but I managed to get one out.
‘Badmash!’
Where that word came from I’ll never know. Maybe one of the larger-than-life cinema billboards from which the villain leers with burning eyes and clenched fists. That was enough to produce another blow to my right cheek that sent my head whirling. My fear level shot up. No one except the rickshaw-wallah knew where I was. I could end up like so many other unidentified corpses in the lower reaches of the Hooghly and no one would be any the wiser. I panicked.
The older man turned to his offsiders and shot off a few phrases in Bengali. The two younger men approached me. I instinctively prepared to protect myself, but as I did so, one grabbed my arms and the other rifled through my pockets. Not finding any cash, they turned to their boss, who spat out a mouthful of words.
‘Sala jhutha kahin ka! Mujhe banata ha?’
Translation escaped me but the intent of his words did not. Another flurry of Bengali followed. One of the men went out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. The other threw me a menacing stare and started pacing up and down. Fear grabbed hold of me, a more terrifying, more total fear than I had ever known.
Then, to my utter surprise, the man who had exited the room returned with a boy in tow. He would have been no more than 11 or 12, barefoot and dressed in striped pajamas. I was stunned. Then it struck me. While negotiating with the rickshaw-wallah I had used the Hindi word ‘ladka,’ which means ‘boy.’ My mind raced to look for a way out. While the three men were absorbed with the new arrival, I took a deep breath and made a dash for the door. I flung it open, tore along the corridor and leaped down the steps two at a time. Behind me I could hear voices yelling ‘pagal’ and ‘sanki.’ Speed was my only self-defe
nse. I always had an inkling that my short-lived career as a high-school sprinter might come in handy one day. That day had arrived. Calling on all my reserves, I raced to the gate, my last but formidable hurdle to rid myself of this vile place.
The chowkidar stared in disbelief as I tore across the yard in his direction. He rose from his seat, then looked up to the top of the stairs. The two younger men stood there yelling at him. My adrenaline shot up. The old man looked confused by this extraordinary scene he found himself caught up in. As I neared him, I screamed, ‘Open the gate!’
He began to do so, then pulled back. The two men were at the bottom of the stairs and closing in fast. I knew I couldn’t handle both of them. In desperation, I pushed aside the old man, who went tottering to the ground. I slammed back the metal bolt, thrust open the gate, and hurled myself through the gap. One of my pursuers went to the aid of the old man while the other lunged towards the open gate. Just then, I slammed it so hard it nearly came off its hinges. A piercing scream soared above the hubbub of the street as the gate smashed into his fingers. I lurched forward and rolled onto the ground. Several passersby ran to my assistance. I stood up, shaking, speechless. My head spun; I felt as though my bowels were about to let loose. Without looking back, I headed down the lane to the corner, turned into the main street, and fled into the night.
BETRAYED
Unlike my earlier visits to Calcutta, this time I left with a heavy heart and a quickening sense of vulnerability. Until now, I had reveled in taking risks with an adolescent naiveté that had fooled me into believing I was somehow protected from the vagaries of life. The abortive visit to a brothel and my run-in with the plain-clothes police had smashed that illusion. My willingness to keep pushing the limits for the sake of another fleeting thrill had exposed me to dangers I had ignored in my callow pursuit of excitement. If my time in India was a rite of passage to adulthood—albeit rather belated—I had just taken a major step towards maturity.
That step, however, came at a price. It shattered my self-image and called into question my story about myself. My sexual dalliances notwithstanding, I believed I was fundamentally a decent human being, driven more by others’ demands than my own desires. I was a team player and always ready to go the extra mile. Regardless of the task, I put my heart and soul into it. If anything, I was a bit too obsessive about most things. I was also a slow starter but, as if to compensate for that, a strong finisher. Once I overcame my initial apprehension and tentativeness to take on a task, I was in it for the long haul and pursued it with relentless zeal. It had never occurred to me that this might also be true of my newfound quest for sexual gratification, and perhaps to my detriment. The ‘making up for lost time’ story had been a shot in the arm to get me out the door, but now I was up and running it was wearing a little thin. Maybe it was time to take stock, pull back, and reassess where I was going. At least, that’s what my rational, left brain advocated. But it proved little match for my more powerful right brain that kept on harking, ‘You’re on a roll, don’t stop now!’
The Boatman Page 17
