Doing Wrong (Inspector Ghote)

by Keating, H. R. F.

  He glanced at his watch.

  At least it was almost the time Mishra, patrolling further along the busy road, had agreed to rendezvous with him. They were not going to have any luck here.

  If they had, surely it would have been when they had first arrived, sweaty and a little puffed after climbing the steep hill from the Ganges. Mishra had led him straight to the imposing State Bank of India building, with its two rifle-armed guards outside, one so fat his jacket gaped wide under his bandolier, the other comically so lean that his neck protruded from his jacket like a tortoise’s. With all the tourists going in and out changing traveller’s cheques it ought to have been the very place for Rick. But though they had waited for almost half an hour there had been no sign of the boy. Perhaps the big police station there with its looming ancient-looking walls and its massive gate and lounging constables kept him away.

  Mishra had gone in and had had a word with the duty inspector. But, emerging at last – How much idle talking had gone on, Ghote asked himself – he said nothing had been seen of Rick in the area for some days.

  It was then, optimism leaking away, that they had decided to split up. They would give the boy thirty minutes more, just in case, before moving on to—

  And then Ghote saw him.

  Just as he had feared, the boy was on the far side of the traffic-thick road. It had been the merest piece of luck that a cow, a ribbon of marigold garland hanging from its munching jaw, had decided to wander into the roadway. It created a break in the endless line of rickshaws. In it Rick had been for a moment clear to see.

  Ghote looked wildly round in case Mishra was within sight.

  He was. He was walking along quite slowly on the same side of the road as Rick, with a look – Ghote felt a jet of acrid fury – of altogether happy indolence.

  ‘Mishra,’ he yelled. ‘Mishra.’

  He had hardly hoped to be heard above the clashing of the traffic and the clatter of high-pitched talk and shouts everywhere. But he was. He saw Mishra come out of his softly contented daze with a jerk.

  And he actually looked across the road in his direction.

  ‘There. There.’

  He shouted with all the force of his lungs, pointing ferociously.

  Mishra caught on. He looked in the right direction. And suddenly became galvanized.

  Ghote set off on his side of the road. Alternately he glanced at the distant sight of Rick’s greasy blond head, mercifully bobbing above the sea of black and sari-covered ones all around and at the jostling vehicles beside him, hoping for enough of a gap to dart across.

  It came.

  On the far side he pushed and shoved until he caught up with Mishra.

  ‘We have got him,’ he shouted. ‘Got him.’

  Mishra, turning, gave him one of his lazy, spreadingly benign smiles.

  ‘Not yet, altogether. But we will. If not now, tomorrow. Or soon.’

  With difficulty Ghote suppressed the rebuke that had come, a ready-made little block of fury, into his mind. This was not the right way to chase a wrong-doer.

  He attempted to shorten the distance between them and the blond, bobbing head, leaving Mishra to come on or not as he would. Without much success. For all that he was able to go much faster on the steeply downward hill, ahead Rick had precisely the same advantage.

  And, irritatingly, it was Mishra who spotted some six or seven minutes later, that the boy ahead had abruptly taken a turn to the left.

  ‘Bans Phatak,’ he called out cheerfully. ‘He has gone down there.’

  Strugglingly they made their way onwards, turned the same corner, saw the dirty blond head as much in advance as before.

  ‘Come on.’

  The words escaped Ghote in a squawk of frustration.

  But still the blond head was as far off as ever. There was a crossroads at the end of the downwards-sloping lane with a temple – yet another – at one corner.

  ‘Yes, look,’ Mishra said, ‘he has turned into Vishwanath Lane. Very many interesting sights for you, if we are unable to catch him.’

  Ghote succeeded in saying nothing.

  But here there were – it hardly seemed possible – even more people. The whole narrow lane appeared to be devoted to shops selling every possible sort of religious object. ‘It is for all these worshippers coming towards,’ Mishra said. ‘They are going to our very-very famed Vishwanath Temple.’

  Pushing onwards, Ghote did his best to ignore the piled-high sweetmeats designed for offerings, the careful stacks of upjutting miniature lingams stamped out in a dozen different materials, the swathes of long dangling beads, the sealed vessels of Ganges water, the heaps of different incenses – each sweet odour from the burning samples catching at his nostrils as he forced his way forwards.

  And ahead that tousled blond hair seemed never to get any nearer.

  With sudden recklessness, he plunged onwards yet more furiously. And his foot just tipped one of the little miniatures of God Ganesha in the front rank of a crowded display. Sending the whole row skittering over, row after row behind tumbling in turn.

  For a moment he thought of stopping, attempting to put things right, or even simply thrusting a little money at the solemn boy vendor sitting with out-thrust legs beside his bright-painted wares,

  But no time for niceties. And in any case the solemn urchin was spattering out a great stream of abuse. ‘May the vultures eat your eyes. Donkey from anywhere. Offspring of an owl.’

  Damn city. Was no one in it a decent, ordinary person, wanting to live a decent life? Not even the children?

  ‘Yes,’ said Mishra, catching up, ‘first words a Banarasi child learns are curses.’

  His round face wore an expression of pride.

  ‘Where has he gone?’ Ghote shouted. ‘Where has that Rick gone?’

  ‘There. There. You can see him ahead. Next to that tall fellow in the orange Rajasthani turban.’

  True enough, Rick was not out of sight. But they had still hardly gained on him, for all Ghote’s shoving and pushing. Nor had Mishra been cured of his determination to show off his city, however hot the chase.

  ‘Look, Inspector. Dandapani, an altogether Banarasi idol. In that niche in the wall there. Police officer, you may say, of Kashi, as our city is called in its holy aspect. With his two assistant officers, Udbhrama, who is Doubt, and Sambhrama, Confusion, he is making sure the really great sinner is never dying inside the city. Somehow he is externing them. On some visit to family, or for business only. You should have made a namaskar to him.’

  Ghote, pressing onwards, thought with inner savagery that he was glad his palms had remained unjoined.

  He attempted to run. Was halted once more after just three or four strides by the people surging up towards him.

  They reached a wide, intersecting road. Rick had turned to the left again, downhill.

  ‘He must be making for Dasawamedh Ghat,’ Mishra said, panting now. ‘Where most pilgrims go. Shrine of Sitala, goddess of smallpox also.’

  But they still were far from being able to grab the American when at last they reached the great sweep of steps at the ghat and the wide Ganges at their foot.

  At first Ghote thought that they had utterly lost him. Here he was by no means the only white face or blond head to be seen. As the heat of the afternoon had begun to lessen, from big tourist bus after big tourist bus flocks of Westerners were descending, cameras at the ready, faces avid with curiosity and soon blinking in bewilderment. Some already were climbing wearily back, discussing, flipping the pages of guide-books. Loud voices mangled horribly the names of gods, goddesses and benefactors from ages past.

  ‘I will go along towards the Man Mandir Ghat,’ Mishra said. ‘Best to split up again. If I see him I will come back for you.’

  ‘Very good, Inspector.’

  Almost at once he saw the blond head of the junky. The boy was down by the edge of the river. He was talking, as animatedly as any of the hectoring pandas, to a tall Western tourist in a dull-colou
red safari suit, fat guide book open in his hands.

  Was he trying to persuade the scholarly-looking fellow to buy brown sugar or bhang? Perhaps he was simply telling him things about Banares, whether true or false, to induce him in gratitude to hand over some money.

  But – troubles never over – it would be almost impossible to approach without being seen. Down at the river’s edge the American boy was far too isolated.

  Fetch Mishra? Make a two-pronged attack?

  No, by the time he had found him Rick could have moved on anywhere. Taken this tourist to see something else. Or abandoned him as unprofitable.

  So, circle round. Take what cover I can. Get as near as possible. Keep my eyes on the fellow every instant. And then . . . A dash for it. Never mind the foreigner. Grab hard, keep hold, march the fellow away.

  And then get out of him that name.

  He set off down the wide steps, making himself walk idly, head lowered to avoid attention.

  And, a piece of luck. As he neared the water he realized he could put between himself and Rick a panda under his rattan umbrella with a plump woman in a silk sari intently listening to his discourse.

  The panda looked a good deal less impressive than most of them with their white dhotis tucked round their waists as they sat pronouncing instructions, bare-chested all but for their sacred threads. ‘Put a flower in the pot’, ‘No, not that way’, ‘Rub in a circle’, ‘Sprinkle Ganga water’. This fellow wore a stained singlet and a pair of check shorts and was badly in need of a shave. Nevertheless he must have some special power because the woman sitting cross-legged in front of him was deep in concentration.

  Which was just what he wanted. He could get quite close behind the panda’s back and wait till Rick, some twenty yards away, turned for long enough in the opposite direction. Then, up on the feet, the swift dash, the grab.

  Soon he realized what the plump woman was consulting the panda about. She had failed to conceive, and it seemed she had heard that this holyman among all the others had some secret that would bring her what she wanted.

  ‘You understand,’ the panda had said, ‘that nothing any doctor whatsoever can do will cure sterility.’

  ‘Ji, maharaj,’ had come the respectful answer.

  ‘It is your karma. That is all.’

  ‘Yes, maharaj. God has blessed my husband with all he could want, except only a son.’

  ‘Ah, your husband? What is he?’

  ‘He is Purchasing Officer for a big corporation in Calcutta. He was trying to get leave to come here just now, maharaj, but they would not let him have.’

  ‘Yes. So what is he pulling down?’

  ‘His per annum is five lakhs, maharaj.’

  The panda sat in deep thoughtful silence.

  ‘Maharaj,’ there came at last the timid suggested inquiry, ‘is it possible to counteract the effects of bad karma?’

  ‘Sometimes. Yes, sometimes that is possible. There is a yojana in the scriptures that can bring such a miracle.’

  ‘Maharaj, what must I do?’

  ‘It is I who must do everything, with God’s help.’

  The merest flick of a gesture towards the mat he was sitting on indicated that more help than God’s was also necessary.

  The woman drew a fat cloth purse from under her sari, tugged its cords open. Banknotes landed in a soft pile on the mat. When they had mounted to a certain point the panda began to chant.

  After a little he looked across at his client.

  ‘Tomorrow you must fast,’ he said. ‘From dawn to sunset. Then two hours after sunset you must come to this ghat once more. My hut is just here. I will chant some other secret mantras there.’

  So that is the sterility cure. I might have known. Banares, city of light, city of the right way, city of the wrong way. Beware of holymen.

  He looked over to where wrong-way Rick was working his way into the good graces of the innocent Western tourist with the big guide book.

  There was no sign of either of them.

  Cursing, he ran all the way along the ghat, turned, ran back in the other direction, forced himself to take the steps to the top at a run, dodging pandas’ umbrellas, knocking into descending pilgrims intent on reaching the holy river, pushing aside bemused tourists.

  Nowhere.

  Not Rick. Not his tall Western acquaintance.

  Feeling all the good drained out of him, he let himself at last descend the steps again and made his way to where Mishra had left him. He spotted him soon enough, standing looking meditatively out at the Ganges, its slowly moving boats, its waters darkening now as the sun at last dipped towards the horizon.

  He told him what had happened. A full confession.

  It made him feel no better.

  ‘What a pity, Inspector. What a pity. When you were so near. But tomorrow I am sure we would find the chap. Or the next day. Or later.’

  ‘Inspector, if I do not make any progress I will be called back to Bombay.’

  ‘Oh, but, no. No, you must not go. You have yet to see one tenth, one hundredth, of all there is in Banares.’

  ‘I dare say, Inspector. But I am not here for seeing.’

  ‘But while you are investigating you could also see. And learn. Banares has much to teach.’

  Mishra looked out at the river, up to the tall temples behind.

  ‘However, Inspector, it would be dark in just only some minutes. So nothing to be done tonight.’

  His round face took on a look of redoubled cheerfulness.

  ‘So perhaps you would like to come with me to Ramnagar where the Ram Lila plays are taking place. Very very instructive, the life of Rama. And very good spectacle also.’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘No? Then do you like films? We have some very fine cinemas in Banares. They are showing latest Bombay films.’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  Ghote thought of the latest Bombay film his son had been rattling on and on about just before the Popatkar case had broken. Ved had conceived a tremendous admiration for Gulshan Gover’s portrayal of the villain. ‘Pitaji, that man was so good. He was stopping at nothing to get his way. I think in true life he would have won every time against the hero they had.’

  But outside the ridiculous world of film surely no one was quite like that. Surely no one could overcome his natural instincts and take the evil path on every occasion.

  Or could they?

  ‘Good night, Mishra,’ he said. ‘I will perhaps call at your home tomorrow.’

  Utterly weary he climbed back up towards the Hotel Relax, a bath, something to eat and an early bed.

  And, just as he came into sight of the hotel, a shrill whistle from somewhere just above his head caused him to turn, startled. And there was Rick.

  9

  ‘At last.’ Ghote found he was being made to feel as if he had arrived late at a long-agreed rendezvous with the American junky. Rick was perched on the high, lime-washed, slogan-daubed compound wall of the UP Road Transport Corporation. The pale glow from a distant security light-post just lit up his taut, pinched face.

  But, expected or not, would it be possible now to get out of the boy what he knew? Or did he in fact know anything? Had that business at the Cantonment Station been no more than a half-hearted attempt to extract information about an expected raid on the Dom Raja’s house? A clever lie based on his overheard talk with Mishra?

  Could he grab hold of the fellow? Slap what he wanted out of him? At least now he knew what a twisting monkey he was.

  But, up on the wall, a good two feet above his own head, legs dangling not on this side but the other, he was almost impossible to get at. No doubt why he had chosen just this spot.

  ‘What it is you are wanting?’ he growled at him, hoping to conceal the thoughts passing through his mind. ‘You were very-very ready to run off when I was last seeing.’

  ‘Yeah. Thought you’d give me a hard time. Know you Indian fuzz. Bastards. No exceptions.’

  Not the moment
to challenge that.

  ‘I am asking what it is you are wanting.’

  ‘Same as before, man. You tell me when your pals here are going to raid my boss’s place, I’ll tell you what somebody did the day your Mrs Pop-whatever was killed.’

  ‘But I am not at all knowing police plans here in Banares. I hail from Bombay itself. As you were hearing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Okay, okay. You don’t know now, but don’t tell me you can’t find out. Tell the guys here it’s your opinion they never get anywhere, then one of them’ll spill all right.’

  Probably true. Have a Bombay officer saying and stating the local fellows are no good, they will at once boast of their each and every success and plan. But if he is believing I would do a thing like that, he is hundred per cent in error.

  ‘And what if I am doing just only that? How should I be knowing you had anything whatsoever to give in exchange? I do not even know if you are truly belonging to the Dom Raja. An American boy itself.’

  Can I, if I shift round a little, get to where I can reach up and grab?

  ‘Oh, I belong to the Dom Raja all right,’ Rick answered. ‘I’m all his now.’

  His face twisted in what looked in the pale light like a wry smile.

  ‘You know I came here to Banares to study Hindu religion? Wanted to get my life right, all that crap. Thought the answer must be here, Banares Hindu University. And I worked there all right. Read the Vedas. Knew the whole Bhagavad Geeta by heart. Then I thought maybe I’d better try bhang. And other stuff.’

  He fell silent, looking back it seemed on the life he had led.

  The moment to try for him? While he is thinking of how once he was altogether set on right-doing?

  But, at just the instant he was going to launch himself, the boy began again.

  ‘So who did I have to go to to get the stuff? The Doms, who else? And after a while I just became one of them. Learnt to bargain over wood for the pyres, over the price of a bundle of dry grass to touch to the sacred fire. Yeah, and now I take the hot ashes to cook on, and damn it, I’ve had my share, come night, of meat from those fires.’

  Ghote could not check an expression of instant profound disgust.