by Paul Jordan
‘Okay. I will bring them tomorrow,’ Ujwal said as he wobbled his head and handed me a plastic bag with three bottles of water and two packets of biscuits.
‘Okay. Thanks, mate. Bye fellas.’
Three heads wobbled and they were gone.
Back in the cage I immediately started reading the novel Craig gave me. I wondered whether this wasn’t some perverted humour on Craig’s part. The novel was called Primal Fear and was the story of a nutcase in gaol for murder. But it was a good, thick novel and was a great relief from the Sudoku puzzles. The fan wasn’t working due to a power outage, so it was hot and the flies were torturous. It occurred to me that the fan never died at night. They obviously had a generator to keep the lights on all night, but it didn’t matter during the day. When the fan was on it was enough to blow the flies off me and give me some respite from their torment.
The old man walked in and was followed by Sanjay Pandi. For some reason that I couldn’t determine, Sanjay was also in the sick cell next door. Sanjay was about 6 feet 2 inches (188 centimetres) and built like a toothpick. He spoke a little English and insisted on calling me ‘Sir’ despite my pleas for him to call me ‘Paul’. Sanjay was a nice guy, but beyond annoying. You know the type of bloke? He would give you the shirt off his back, but had no social skills or comprehension of personal boundaries, and it could be painful to be around him, but I could never say he did anything wrong. I’m sure Sanjay wished he had been selected on the first day to sweep the floor of the cage and then he might have been my helper, but thankfully he wasn’t.
Sanjay spent a lot of time telling me about his crime. He’d been found guilty of murdering his wife, but insisted she had committed suicide. Having only known Sanjay for a short period of time, I thought he didn’t seem to have it in him to murder someone, but I could see why his dear wife might have considered taking her life. After five minutes with him I considered the idea myself. Sanjay was a former policeman who was arrested by his colleagues for the murder. Apparently the local police commander told him he would drop the charges if Sanjay paid him US$1000. Of course Sanjay didn’t have that sort of money so he went to prison and then his five sons lived on the streets begging for money. We were in the poorest state in India so I don’t know who they begged from. Sanjay annoyed the shit out of me by walking into my cage at times when I just wanted to be alone. Both Sanjay and the old man sat against the wall and just hung out. I decided to pull out the bar of chocolate and broke it onto three and we all munched on Cadbury’s chocolate. They were both ecstatic. I was certain they hadn’t had chocolate for a very long time. In fact, the look of surprise mixed with delight on the old man’s face made me think he’d probably never tasted it before. When we were done the old man got up to leave and told Sanjay to leave as well. I was starting to like the old man. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but he seemed to have taken over caring for me.
Sanjay walked back to his cell and I called the old man back. I dug out 200 rupees and pressed them into his old, wrinkled hand. The old man’s face lit up and he thanked me over and over. I felt guilty because 200 rupees was about $3, but we were in gaol and the old man was beyond poor. I settled into the hessian-covered concrete and read some more.
About an hour later, a guard walked into the cage and threw something at me. I started, wondering if I was about to get the beating I’d been expecting all along. The object landed at the entrance to the cage and the guard walked away. I hadn’t seen that guard before, but he didn’t look too happy. I retrieved the bundle and realised it was the mosquito net promised by Sub-District Magistrate Bala. A few minutes later, the same prisoner who put the nails in the concrete walls so I could hang my clothes walked in with four nails and a hammer. He belted the nails into each corner of the cage so I could tie the mosquito net up every night. I thanked him and he was gone.
At around 5.00 pm I was again summoned to the Warden’s office. When I walked in, Mr Sing pointed to the phone and told me, ‘Your wife is on the phone. She is not allowed to call on the phone. It is not allowed.’
‘Okay, Mr Sing, thank you.’
Mr Sing acknowledged my thanks with a wobble of his head.
It was nice to hear from Sallie and I wondered how I’d go tomorrow not hearing from her, although I was convinced I’d be out of here tomorrow anyway. Sallie told me everything at home was fine. Trevor had told my son, Sam, who was handling things well. Sallie was upset that she couldn’t call me any more and said she would keep pushing it with the gaol. I asked her not to as I didn’t want to piss the Warden off. She told me the company had agreed to send her over if I wasn’t released in the next few days but, like me, she believed I’d be out of here very soon.
The old man was waiting when I walked back to my cage and put pressure on me to have my freezing bucket bath. Then Satya, the politician, came by and we went for walk around the yard.
I now looked forward to the nightly lock-in as it was the only time I had any peace and quiet. As I now had the book, I decided to read for as long as possible into the night. I thought I’d start staying awake at night and sleeping as much as possible during the day. My rationale was that the nights seemed to go faster while the days just dragged on forever. I spent the first 30 minutes setting up the mosquito net ensuring the correct tension on the strings so the net touched the floor and the sides were tight enough not to pull out the nails. The fan blew the net all over the place so I put full bottles of water at each corner to hold the net down. Finally I was set for a night without the threat of being carried away by the usual mosquito squadron.
11.
NIGHTMARE DAY FIVE
Thursday 29 May
At 3.00 am the singing started followed by a beating about 20 minutes later. I didn’t mind the early wake-up as I wanted to sleep during the day and had only been asleep for three hours. The singing was awful and, to be frank, I felt like digging a hole through the wall and giving the singer a decent beating as well. The screaming and crying stopped at around 4.00 am and, by then, I already had the light out of the Calvin Kleins and into the socket and had read about 10 pages of the book. The caveman walked past and, despite the light being on, decided to shine his torch in my face and deliver his usual greeting, ‘arrrggghh’.
‘Hi there, mate, how are you doing today? You’re looking good as always, you grumpy old shit,’ I said to him with a smile on my face. He stopped and came back to the bars and for a moment I thought he had understood what I said. Then he shook his head, grunted some more and spat something chunky on the ground.
‘All righty then, see you after, me old mate.’ Damn I was bored, but in a jovial mood, as I was leaving this toilet today.
Primal Fear kept me entertained for another hour until the caveman returned to unlock the cage with another ‘arrgghh’. I got up and emptied my water bottle, then walked to the drain dodging the spitters on the way; it was like a bloody obstacle course or running the gauntlet. I didn’t want to get hit with one of those flying combinations of phlegm and rotten lung, or even receive some splash. Back in the cage I lowered and folded the mosquito net then slowly started to pace in front of the cage under the watchful eye of Ugly. Satya arrived and said, ‘Come, we walk.’
‘Yeh, okay.’
Satya was an interesting guy who would ask me questions that bounced from one diverse subject to another.
‘Paul, do you know William Wordsworth?’
‘Well, not personally, but I’ve heard of him,’ I said, thinking that he was a classical novelist, but not sure.
‘I do like William Wordsworth. I like his words. What is your favorite William Wordsworth novel? This is what I’d want to know,’ said Satya, chewing on a twig.
‘Well, to be honest, mate …’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘I haven’t actually read any William Wordsworth novels.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Satya said, and I wondered if he even knew what I was saying. ‘Also, I want to know about babies and how they are born in Austra
lia.’ Bloody hell; does he want me to explain the birds and the bees to him? ‘Well, a lady goes to the hospital and the baby comes from her vagina.’ ‘Yes, yes. In India many babies and mothers die during childbirth. Does this happen in Australia? This I want to know.’
‘Child mortality rate is low in the cities, but still too high in the remote Aboriginal communities.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘But it is now mostly controlled, because expectant mothers have monthly check-ups with their doctor to ensure both are healthy, and most mothers have their babies in hospitals, so if something goes wrong there is a surgery and specialists close by. So that helps,’ I explained.
‘Yes, yes.’
By this time we had done three laps of the yard and Satya deposited me back at the cage where the old man was waiting.
Following the ice cold bucket bath, which I was certain was my last, I returned to the cage and tried to get into Primal Fear, but could only think about getting out of this disgusting place. I lay down on the hessian to get comfortable and, with the fan keeping the flies at bay, I dozed off for a while. At 11.30 Manish came in and woke me and told me to go to the office. This time I put my Calvins on and my boots with no socks and wandered to the office. I was more than excited at the prospect of leaving and had even considered the information I’d receive about the whole mess being sorted and the call I would make to Sallie. She’d be excited and I could get on that plane tomorrow and go home and Sallie and I could take that holiday to Fiji. As I entered the Warden’s office I could see Craig and the other High Commission guy waiting for me. I greeted them, the Warden and Ujwal, who was also there. When I sat at the table next to them I turned and saw something I hadn’t considered and my heart sank — a plastic bag with bottles of water. They wouldn’t have brought water for someone about to leave prison. I tried to stay positive as the guys told me the Magistrate had the report, but that it had no conclusion and the conclusion needed to say that I had made a mistake. At this stage it didn’t, so the Magistrate couldn’t do anything but leave me here. Ujwal said the police would not write this as their conclusion because then they’d look stupid for arresting me in the first place. But it got worse. Craig had spoken to SP Siddiqui. Siddiqui told Craig I’d be lucky if I got six months.
‘How can this be happening? How can I get six months in gaol for mistakenly crossing an open border? I barely got to the immigration office!’ ‘I know,’ said Craig.
‘No you fucking don’t. You go back there and sleep in that shithouse for one day and then you can say you know how it feels. What is the government doing to sort out this scam?’
‘As you know, the Australian Government will not do anything to interfere with this country’s laws — laws which you’re accused of breaking,’ said Craig a little timidly.
‘I think I’ve done a fair bit for my country and I’m not asking for much in return, but you’re telling me you can’t do anything,’ I replied, totally exasperated. ‘You must know that this is all ridiculous and a waste of everyone’s time and effort.’
But the look on Craig’s face made me realise that maybe they didn’t believe my story and I suddenly felt like Schapelle Corby pleading her innocence on TV. Guilt seemed to have nothing to do with it; it was what people believed.
‘All right,’ I said, looking for another angle, ‘am I supposed to bribe someone? Is someone waiting for a payment?’
‘We have heard mention of this.’
‘Right, how do I do it and to whom?’
‘We can’t advise you on this, and if that’s the way you want to go, then we’ll have to step away from it all.’
‘Fuck me, I’m just asking for some cultural guidance here.’
I turned and looked at the local bloke assisting Craig and said, ‘You’re local, what do you think I need to do?’
‘I also cannot advise you on this as I too work for the Australian High Commission.’
To change the subject, Craig asked if I was happy with my lawyer.
‘I don’t know, I’ve only meet him once for about two minutes,’ I replied, more than a little annoyed.
‘Okay, well this is a list of lawyers who seem to have good reputations from this area,’ replied Craig as he handed me a list with names, addresses and telephone numbers of local lawyers.
I scanned the list and asked, ‘Which one do I pick?’
‘We can’t advise you on that, it’s up to you.’
For fuck’s sake, this was becoming too much. ‘Are any of them in Araria?’ I asked, seeking some direction.
‘No, but this one is the closest and he is about four hours away. We’ve tried to call him, but haven’t received a reply yet.’
‘This is hopeless, I might as well just stick with the court-appointed advocate.’ ‘Yes, that’s probably a good idea.’
Are these guys for real? I thought. Why did we just have that conversation?
Craig handed me a letter from Sallie that she’d e-mailed to him and he had rewritten as there was no printer in his crap hotel. I put the letter in my pocket to read later. Craig and the local guy decided it was time to leave and I sensed a coldness in their manner, as if they wanted to distance themselves from the condemned man. As they prepared to leave, I extended my hand to Craig and it seemed to take him by surprise, as though he just wanted to get out of the place as quickly as possible.
Ujwal remained behind and he and I discussed the issue of bribing the SP. Ujwal said he would look into it, but thought the SP wouldn’t accept the bribe at this point, but that he would try. Ujwal also mentioned the hearing tomorrow and was optimistic about the result. He said the journalists from Biratnagar were preparing a welcome-back party for me. Ujwal left me with a sense of hope, but this feeling was clouded by the sense of hopelessness left by Craig. I guess he was doing what he had to do, but when your life is placed in everyone else’s hands you tend to cling to hope and, at the moment, I was left with none. People who have committed genuine crimes — like those arrested at an airport with heroin strapped to their bodies — prepare themselves to spend time in prison. But even these people look for some light at the end of the tunnel, some glimmer of hope that they will get 10 years rather than the death penalty. Would you say to these guys during their first days in custody, ‘You’ll be lucky not to get the death penalty?’ Everyone needs hope and Ujwal knew how to provide this.
Back in the cage I fell into the depths of depression. This was just dragging on and there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. I should have been in a nice hotel in Katmandu having a cold beer while preparing for my flight back to Australia the next day, but no, not me. I was stuck in a cage on the cold floor with the mosquitoes, ants and rats waiting for the Hari Krishnas to start their nightly chant.
I reflected on the morning’s events and felt grateful to the Australian government for sending Craig and his assistant all this way to help me get out of a hole that I’d foolishly dug. I knew their hands were tied and that they were doing all they could. Just their presence and interest in this matter had to help.
Ugly locked the cage at 7.00 pm after I closed the gate myself. I was on my own and appreciated the solitude, but certainly didn’t want to start thinking again, although it was a battle not to. That night Manish brought a sumptuous meal of three cold rotis and a small bowl of watery dhal that resembled and smelt like the results of a night of cheap wine and pizza. Manish also thought I looked depressed. He said he would do me a big favour if I promised to eat the food. ‘Okay, I will,’ I said. Manish then handed me his cell phone. I couldn’t believe he had a phone in this joint, but I suppose that sort of stuff goes on in gaols. Manish told me to call my family and give them this number to call back immediately. Manish stood outside the cage as I tried to think of a number to call. I didn’t have any numbers committed to memory except my father’s and stepmother’s, but I really wanted to chat to my brother Trevor. I decided to call my father’s number and get Trevor’s number from him. My stepmother a
nswered the phone, as expected, as my father was too ill to talk on the phone and would be sleeping deeply with the aid of a sleeping pill. In Australia it was almost midnight so my stepmother was obviously sleeping and the phone rang five times before she answered.
‘Hello,’ said a sleepy voice.
‘Carole, it’s me,’ I whispered.
‘Hello love, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing much, but I need Trevor’s phone number quickly, do you have it?’
Yes, love, hang on. Now where is that number?’
‘Please Carole, you have to be quick.’
‘Okay love, here it is, are you ready?’
‘Yes, send.’
Carole read out Trevor’s number and I wrote it on my Sudoku paper.
‘Is everything okay, love?’ Carole asked with an edge of concern. I decided to tell her.
‘No, I’m fucked. I’m in gaol in India, but I’m working hard on getting out.’ ‘Oh, God.’
‘I have to go because I’m using someone else’s phone and calling illegally.’
‘Okay, love.’
‘Don’t be concerned, I’ll sort it out,’ I said, regretting telling her of my situation.
I rang Trevor and got the answering machine. I left a garbled message including Manish’s cell phone number. Manish was getting anxious so I hoped Trevor would get my message and call me back — and soon.
He did, and just in the nick of time, as Manish was approaching and I’m sure he was going to tell me to try again tomorrow.
‘Hello mate,’ I whispered.
‘Hey, how’s it goin?’ Trevor said in his heavy, jovial, Australia accent.
‘Bloody excellent, mate. Listen, I only have a few more seconds. Sorry for waking you both so late.’
‘No worries, mate. Are you okay?’
‘I’m surviving, mate, and thanks for helping Sallie and keeping an eye on things.’
Then I heard Trevor’s wife, Carissa, on the other phone telling Trevor that my ex-wife was on the other phone. That’s when I learnt that my ex-wife was staying with my stepmother and father for the night and had woken to hear my conversation with Carole. Carole had no choice but to tell her that I was in gaol and she was calling Trevor to learn more. Carissa did the right thing and didn’t say much. My ex-wife meant well, but had a habit of turning everything into a major drama and making it about poor old her rather than anyone else. I knew that once she realised my predicament everyone would know and I was trying to avoid that.
