Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  “When’s the next train to Bombay?” I called out in Urdu.

  A rumpled guard opened half a shutter and squinted out at me.

  “Janab, all trains stopped,” he said, as if repeating himself.

  All trains stopped? I was stranded in Lahore, goddammit. “Why?”

  Having had enough of my questions, the guard closed his shutter.

  I’d have to wait until the trains resumed. But perhaps I could further my inquiries. A doctor was surely a rarity in these parts. I called to the railway guard. “Do you know Doctor Aziz? Where is he?”

  The shutter opened a few more inches. “Doctor Aziz? He’s not here. He left years ago!”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Who knows? He went with the army.”

  An army doctor! I was on sound footing here. Why not cable McIntyre to find out where the good doctor was posted? I would also telegram Adi as promised.

  “Where’s the telegraph office?”

  “Here in the station. Closed.”

  I argued with him, demanding to send a cable, but he was adamant. It was no use, he said. The lines were down.

  Thinking, I retraced my steps to the crossroad. If the trains had shut down, the Afghan soldiers must be near. A shiver brushed my skin like a column of ants.

  Without telegraph, I could not cable news of my delay to the Framjis. Not for anything would I alarm them, but now lacked means to reassure. That reminded me of the introduction in my pocket to Burjor’s tax collector friend. He might own a telephone. After a few failed attempts, I gained directions. For the rest of the day I walked through deserted streets and lonely scrub to a suburb of Lahore where the tax collector resided.

  Lahore is a maze of streets that curve around so that one might start out east and soon find oneself headed north. I persisted, finding my landmark, a well in a dusty clearing. As I approached, thinking to pull a cool bucket and drink, I noticed flies swarming and a foul odor. Dark smears of blood pooled around the wellhead. Were there bodies down there? What had happened here last night?

  Worried, I headed down a wide street bordered by blackened trees. In what was once a fashionable part of town, white fluted pillars and gateposts now protruded like bones from the blackened corpses of once-splendid houses. The mansion I sought looked intact, until I noticed the roof had caved in. The tax collector’s home was charred and smoldering.

  As I crouched by a stone gatepost to catch my breath, a familiar sound echoed in the hills. Gunfire. The crack of rifles sounded close. Panic swelled, threatening to swamp me.

  Breathe. Colonel Sutton’s voice growled in my head, low and comforting. I waited, clenched and undecided. Minutes passed before I collected myself. Afghan soldiers were close by. But who were they fighting? The answer brought enormous relief. For I realized the British army was near as well.

  Rising to my feet, I moved along the wall toward the gunfire. The hills echoed with it, each nearby crack repeated in bursts of menace. Was the company pinned down? Where were they shooting from? They were close.

  Then I remembered—I was dressed as a Pathan. A Sepoy would ask no questions before lifting his musket to shoot. If I were still in the army and a Pathan approached me, speaking English, what would I have done? I’d have no time for his story. At best I’d arrest him and take him back to barracks to sort it out later. No, it would not do. If I wasn’t shot on sight, I’d be stuck explaining myself for weeks.

  Bombay and safety had never felt so far away.

  * * *

  For the next two days I joined a river of refugees along the Grand Trunk Road retreating from the stench and smoke of Lahore. At each crossroad a few branched off toward neighboring villages. Others spoke of towns nearby, Amritsar and Jalandhar.

  “Where are they going?” I asked a young man beside me.

  He shrugged. “Back to their village. When it is safe, they will return.”

  I applauded this resilience, but was unsurprised. Indians tend to adapt without complaint. And to whom could they protest? The pull and push of factions vying for ascendance was no more startling than the crash of waves in the ebb and flow of tides.

  Spotting a railway track, I left the Grand Trunk Road and joined those who climbed over a fence to follow it eastward. At a village station, a map on the wall informed me that Simla was a hundred and fifty miles to the east. Simla! Diana and the Framjis had probably just arrived. I could get there in a day by coach, but no trains chugged up the line. Instead a straggling line of pedestrians tapered into the horizon.

  Despite my military boots, my feet ached when at last I reached a little town along the track and shuffled down to the cluster of stalls that formed a market. The deluge of refugees had already stripped produce from carts and shops and what remained was priced outrageously. I supped that night on thin roti bread and an ear of broiled corn that had never tasted sweeter.

  I asked the way among a cluster of people buying apples. This set off an excited discussion, as young and old volunteered what they knew of roads, rivers and trails. Their talk continued as I retreated, newcomers inquiring about farther destinations.

  The afternoon sun beat down. I wound a rag about my head and chin, to trudge, head down, with other refugees. Walkers struck up conversations on that road, but I could afford no such luxury. For questions invariably turned to “where are you from?” or “where are you going?” and I wanted neither. When conversation threatened, I left my curious companions and hunkered down beside the road to rest. In this way, I traveled alone.

  CHAPTER 31

  THE PURCHASE

  As dusk fell, most groups settled into small camps around cooking fires. Seeing the glow of a settlement ahead, I clumped toward a small railway station house. At a nearby well I drank and washed, then lay down on the cool cement platform for the night.

  All day I’d followed the train track, passing fields and thatched huts. Now I slumped in the shadow of the quiet station house, amid the sound of crickets and distant voices from the town. An owl hooted. Lamplight touched leaves in the tall trees, yellowing them.

  Footsteps approached from behind me. I tensed. What now?

  As I sat up on the station platform, a curious sight approached in the twilight. A thickset man held a rope tied to a shapeless, bundled figure.

  “Brother, only two rupees,” he said, offering me an ingratiating smirk.

  What was it? He tugged the shape out from behind him: a small burkha-clad woman, bound at the wrist.

  “Two rupees. For a half hour,” said the man, pumping his hips.

  Was he offering this woman for my pleasure? I stared, aghast, as he went to his haunches to haggle the price.

  Then I heard a sob. Goddammit. Alone in this countryside, I could ill afford to be embroiled in a fracas, but what choice was there?

  “How old?” I demanded, outrage swelling in my throat.

  “Only twelve!” the fellow grinned, showing crooked teeth.

  “Are you her father?”

  He drew back, affronted. “What’s it to you? No, I bought her.”

  “What did you pay for her?” I wanted to plant a fist in his well-rounded middle.

  His betel-red lips cracked in a wide smile. The fiend knew he had me. For the next few minutes he extolled the virtues of his wares: young, strong, works hard, can bear many children, while I cursed him for a thief and a crook.

  “Two hundred,” he wheedled. “A wife for only two hundred rupees!”

  The belt around my waist held that and a bit more. Yet if I purchased this poor wretch, I must still feed us both until she could be safely sent to relatives, or gain employment.

  I suppose from the moment I heard that sob, my decision was made. Perhaps the stream of refugees was in my mind, men and women trudging along, families in little groups. This child belonged with some such companions, not tethered like a dog.

  If I could not buy the poor creature I resolved to follow in the gloom and take her from the brute who peddled her. That was ass
ault—it did not worry me overmuch. Here in the wilderness, civilized law seemed prim and distant.

  “One hundred,” I said, looking away as though done with him.

  We went back and forth, until he said, “Hundred and thirty rupees, Janab.”

  I counted it out. A rope was pressed into my hand and I had bought a human being.

  I called her Chutki, which means little one. Once her chuckling master withdrew, I loosed her wrists. Her face was hidden in the dusk, so I handed her an apple, my last, picked up my sack and stepped onto the railway track.

  “Come,” I said, walking away.

  After a moment, she followed.

  Not for anything would I remain at the station house. That brigand might return with reinforcements, or knife me while I slept, to regain the girl. Instead, I followed the track east toward Simla. Chutki followed in silence, lagging far behind.

  The night deepened into darkness. Impatient with her slow pace, I doubled back and beckoned. When that had no effect, I hoisted her into my arms. She weighed far less than Diana had, when I’d carried her at the ball.

  The child did not struggle. After a single gasp, she ducked her head, limp and uncomplaining. Twice we stopped on the moonlit road and hid in shadows. The first time a horse went by, its rider passing in careful search. When the moon rose above the trees, the rider returned at a swift trot. I waited, one hand across Chutki’s mouth, my other gripping the revolver, motionless until the sound of hooves faded into distance.

  When the horizon glowed purple with distant dawn, a wall beside a stream afforded a secluded place to sleep. I put the child down on the sack that contained little more than a few clothes and settled on the grass, weary and aching. I cursed inwardly, expecting I’d wake to find that she’d robbed me and run off. Well, so be it.

  * * *

  When daylight broke, the girl was still there. She’d curled up in her black garb where I placed her. Now she sat and glanced about, peeking at me from time to time.

  Our track ran along a rivulet. I waded in, still wearing baggy trousers, and scooped up sparkling water. That morning, the cool, clear stream quenched more than my thirst, it restored me. Bathing away the smell of yesterday’s fish and grime, my shoulder swung freely. Despite the long trek, my knee held steady as I hauled myself up the pebbled bank to retrieve fresh clothing.

  Chutki watched these proceedings from what I later learned was her habitual pose, knees pulled up, hands clasped before her face.

  Last night I’d given her my breakfast, and a rummage through the sack produced nothing edible. I turned to the girl.

  “Do you speak Pashto?” I asked in that tongue.

  She gasped at being addressed directly and hid her face. “Yes.”

  “Go.” I pointed toward the stream. “Get clean.”

  She stood, looked at me for a long moment, then hobbled toward the water. I finished dressing, counted out my remaining money, placing it in suitable pockets so as to have the required denominations at hand, then checked and reloaded Adi’s revolver. We had evaded Chutki’s captor last night, but he might yet find us.

  She returned, still wearing the burkha, and stopped, staring wide-eyed at my weapon. Pocketing it, I searched the sack for something she might wear. Finding a kurta-shirt that might serve as a floor-length dress, I tossed it to her.

  She took it, lifting the hem of her burkha, uncertain.

  “Throw that thing away,” I said. My disgust at her captor was tied, somehow, to that burkha. Indeed, without it, we’d be harder to find.

  “Bao-di” (father), said a small voice, when she was done. Wearing my kurta bunched up and tied about the waist, a young girl with large eyes peeked at me through wet, matted hair.

  I patted the stone wall and asked, “How many times did he sell you?”

  She perched beside me, ducking her head. “Many times.” Her voice was a thin thread, too young to be so weary. Wringing out the wet burkha, she draped it over her shoulders to dry.

  How on earth would I explain her to Adi and Diana? Adi’s father might understand my predicament. Perhaps the boy Kasim had been just such an orphan when Burjor came to Lahore to rescue Miss Pilloo.

  When we started down the path between the rail line and the river, Chutki would not walk beside me, but followed six feet behind. I asked questions, and she called out answers.

  Although I did not understand some words, I gathered that her parents had died, and her uncle gave her to be married. But the wedding did not happen. Instead she was sold to the “Arkati.” Her voice was barely audible, so I said no more about it.

  “Do you have relatives? A brother, or sister?” I ventured.

  “Yes, Bao-di,” she said, “but they would not want me now. It’s too late.”

  “An uncle or aunt, then, who would keep you safe?”

  No answer. After a moment, “Are you my husband now?”

  I sat cross-legged on the grass until she caught up. As before, she crouched beside me, pensive, overlooking the road.

  “Chutki, you are my little sister, all right?” As soon as I spoke, it felt right.

  Just days before, Diana had demanded a lie, and I’d supplied one, saying I had a younger sister, married to a civil service bloke in Delhi. Strange that fate should now drop one into my life.

  Chutki pressed her face into her knees, skinny arms wrapped around them. She was crying. Since I could think of no way to console her, I listened to the stream’s quiet murmur.

  Moments later, I noticed Chutki’s feet and stiffened. Something oozed and caked between her little toes.

  “What’s this?” I asked, reaching for a foot.

  She pulled away with a whimper and tucked it under her skirt.

  “Chutki.”

  She would not answer.

  “Show me!”

  My rough tone succeeded where kindness had not. Chutki stuck out her feet toward me. I cupped a small heel to reveal her sole smeared with blood. Brushing off dirt revealed a cut across the ball of her foot. Although not deep, the wound had reopened as she walked. Blood seeped afresh, drops forming in a line that slowly thickened. Her other foot was injured too.

  That long trek last night, the path strewn with pebbles. Eager to get the child away from her captor, I’d not questioned why she’d lagged behind. Twice I’d waited for her, then gone back in my impatience, to hurry her along. What had she stepped on, and with both feet?

  When understanding dawned, I could not believe it. Her owner’s smirk now took on a malevolence I’d not understood at the time. He knew.

  He knew she could not walk. Because he’d made it so.

  * * *

  With Chutki riding upon my back, we crossed ten miles of dirt road and grassy paths, reaching the green fields of Ludhiana at midday. Although bound with strips of cloth torn from the burkha, her feet would take days, even weeks to heal. In the army I’d have whiskey on hand to douse such injuries. Here I had none, and places that sold spirits were unfit for a child.

  In the distance, a cluster of brick houses beckoned. Villagers carrying baskets passed us, stopping only when I sought to buy food off them. What little they had, they would not sell. We’d eaten nothing, so my feet quickened toward the bazaar. After a meal, I would buy salt to cleanse Chutki’s injured feet.

  “Stay here,” I said, setting her on a wall by the market.

  “Bao-di!” came a piteous cry. Frantic, her little hands flapped in distress. “Let me come with you,” she sobbed, “I eat very little, kasam-seh (I promise).”

  I huffed at her, but it was no use. She only cried harder, fearing I meant to abandon her.

  “Come then,” I grumbled, and she limped over. No, she would not be carried, but hobbled behind me.

  Pain is a frequent visitor to a soldier. I knew the signs: tight, pale lips, perspiration on a face rigid with concentration. Chutki bore it stoically as we trudged toward the market.

  As I bought provisions, I nodded her to a box or stone to sit upon. My sack gai
ned a comfortable weight with the addition of apples, cooked meats wrapped in newspaper and tomatoes, these because Chutki’s eyes would not leave their red ripeness.

  We ate, then went to a mochi-stall, where a cobbler sat cross-legged by a wall hung with leather footwear.

  “Do you have something for the girl?” I asked.

  The cobbler frowned at Chutki’s bandaged feet. Without looking up, he unhooked a pair of sandals and dropped them before us.

  “Three rupees,” he said, returning to his repairs.

  Chutki made a sound of protest, entreating me—must she unwrap her bandages to wear the slippers? I cursed under my breath, fitted her feet, still wrapped, into the sandals, and paid.

  Next, I haggled for a pair of blankets. High up in the hills, Simla is cooler. A small hand touched my back.

  “Bao-di,” Chutki whispered, and begged me for five rupees.

  I handed it over. My transaction completed, I found her still by my side, standing on one foot to halve her pain. “What did you buy?” I asked.

  She shook her head and pointed. I must go with her. At a blacksmith’s she chose an enormous iron pan with metal feet. I groaned to think of the added weight, and shook my head.

  Chutki giggled, a tiny precious sound, muffled by her hand, like Diana chuckling over something Adi had said. Those breakfasts with the Framjis, light filtered by deep green fronds outside, seemed months ago. The sun bore down on me now, grim and dusty.

  The small girl beside me tugged my hand, returning me to the present, and the iron-merchant’s stare. I had not answered his question. What did we want to buy?

  Relenting, Chutki chose a skillet about the size of my hand. After adding a sack of flour, some salt, and three boxes of matches, I scowled at her extravagance and paid. Thus laden, we made poor time that day.

  When the railway line turned south, we followed a dusty road eastward. Encumbered with my sack and little Chutki, I kept a careful pace. Goats and bullocks ambled past us.

  At sundown we camped out of sight of the road. Chutki lit a fire and the aroma of fresh baked rotis filled the air. My stomach rumbled, recalling Mrs. Framji’s rice pilaf and fish curries.