Haunting Bombay

by Shilpa Agarwal

  Jaginder set the newspaper down and sighed, brooding on his own misfortunes. How had things deteriorated so far? He thought about Savita, her pained voice ordering him to leave her alone. His own son had humiliated him. Unbelievably, his mother had thrown him out of his own home. Jaginder gritted his teeth. He couldn’t begin to fathom how to regain Savita’s affections or his son’s respect or his mother’s good graces. The family business, however, was something that was still within his reach. He just required the proper legal documents to ensure that his mother could no longer interfere.

  Jaginder recalled that his father, Omanandlal, was a respected elder of their community until the day he died. Men used to come from far and wide to seek his advice on business matters, and sometimes ladies accompanied them to discreetly inquire of Maji about a domestic matter. Jaginder had inherited this vast empire, the money and connections, the respect and awe. And he had carefully cultivated it so that he could pass it on to his own sons. Everything had gone according to plan. And then his daughter had died.

  Rustom arrived with Jaginder’s order: tea with a dash of cream made in a copper samovar and a hard, buttered bun.

  “Caught in the rain?” he inquired, his friendly tone belying the vacant look on his face. Gone were his best days, when he and his fellow countrymen would gather over tea to reminisce about life in their old town of Fars. Now every bloody Irani owned his own tea shop. Gone also were the days when he served tea in pink cups for Christians and fellow Zoroastrians, flower-patterned ones for Hindus, and white ones for Muslims. Mahatma Gandhi had seen to that. Now Rustom was simply marking time; all his former friends seemed to be more innovative than himself. One sold four-tiered wedding cakes, another had managed to get his shop used as the backdrop for a popular Hindi film.

  “Car stalled nearby,” Jaginder replied.

  “Ah,” Rustom clucked sympathetically. His pajama bottoms had rolled under his plump belly, creasing at the crotch so that they lifted above his ankles, revealing hairy feet clad in chappals. “Bad time to drive, better to walk.”

  “I live too far to walk.” Jaginder replied, fingering the bun.

  “Ah,” Rustom clucked again. “I’ll on the fan—dry you up in no time.”

  As he walked away, he pointed upwards to the ceiling where a fan, a relic of the British days, with large ventilated armatures and extra long blades hung from a long, metal tube. The fan began to spin making a craak-craak-craak sound. Slowly it gathered speed until it sounded more like a helicopter, the loud whup-whup-whup threatening to blow away the newspapers with every rotation.

  Jaginder began to shiver and waved his hand to get Rustom’s attention. Behind the owner’s head was a framed picture illuminated by a red bulb of a bearded Zoroaster, head wrapped in a white turban, gaze lifted heavenward in a striking resemblance to Jesus Christ. Above this was a picture of Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, the Shah of Iran, regal in his uniform decorated with an array of shiny medals, red ribbon across his chest, adorned by a sheath and sword, and cummerbund. His silver and black hair was neatly oiled behind his ears, his face occupied by tight, hard eyes and bushy eyebrows.

  Rustom caught Jaginder’s wave and gave him a large smile, his thin moustache briefly disappearing under his bulbous nose. “Dry already?” he called out to Jaginder, shutting off the switch.

  “Yes, thank you,” Jaginder answered back, pulling his coat tightly around his chest.

  He brought the tea to his lips. Tomorrow bloody morning, he thought, I will take control. Even as he thought this, he knew that doing so was unforgivable, an irrevocable treachery. It was the worst sin, to betray one’s mother. Yet, he couldn’t simply acquiesce to Maji’s wishes, step down from the helm of his company, let his position be usurped by a teenage son. He was trapped, like a wild animal in a hunter’s merciless grip.

  As the hot liquid seared his throat, he knew that he had no choice but to fight.

  Earlier that evening back at the bungalow in chaos, Pinky had noiselessly made her way out to the green gates in search of the ghost. Unexpectedly, a young woman had stepped forward into the faint pool of light cast from the front verandah.

  “Lovely didi?” Pinky edged back towards the bungalow, a chill working its way up her spine. “What’s wrong?”

  “Come!” Lovely beckoned, almost frantically.

  Pinky stared at Lovely. She was dressed not in a cotton sleeping salvar kameez as she should have been at this time of the night but in a chiffon one, now soaked and badly ripped. Her silk dupatta clung tightly to her chest, accentuating the outline of her full breasts, the golden bird nestled invitingly in between them. Her thick tresses, usually tied back, cascaded down her back like a torn shawl; her normally bare lips were smudged with gloss, the color smeared across her chin like a lesion. A canvas satchel hung heavily at her hips. But something else struck Pinky as strange. Her voice was gritty and strained.

  “Are you unwell didi?” Pinky asked. “Is everything okay with Auntie?”

  “Please come!” Lovely urged, stepping toward Pinky, her eyes staring yet eerily unfocused.

  A stray street dog sniffing the gutters for garbage backed away from her, growling with teeth bared.

  “Come inside,” Pinky said, starting to turn back to the bungalow.

  “No,” Lovely said as she took Pinky’s arm and pulled her onto a red motorbike that was idling in the nearby darkness. “There’s no turning back now.”

  Pinky’s pink gum boots pitched into the air as Lovely gunned the throttle, landing in a puddle by the green gates. Lovely plunged the bike down the steep hill, away from the verandah’s light glowing forlornly in a fog of flying insects, and towards the ocean.

  “Didi! ” Pinky shouted, clutching at Lovely’s waist. “Where are we going?”

  “To freedom,” Lovely replied, as their homes on Malabar Hill dissolved into a glittering canopy reaching out as if to touch the stormy sky.

  The door at the Asiatica flew open and a skinny fellow skidded in looking like a Spanish pirate.

  “Inesh!” came a roar from the table of students, glad for the distraction from their tedious discussion of Russian authors.

  “It’s gone! She’s gone!” the fellow called out to them, glancing at the door behind him as if he were being chased. Long hair tied into a ponytail, gold hoops dangling from both ears, flowing white shirt sailing on his thin chest, and low-waisted drainpipe trousers clinging to his legs, Inesh gripped one of the rickety chairs and spun it around before taking his seat. Placing his feet clad in pointed black shoes with Cuban heels on the edges of the chair, he leaned into the table and unsteadily lit a cigarette.

  “What now Inesh?” joked one of his friends who sported an American-style crew cut. “Trying to patao another girl?”

  “Hope he had better luck this time,” said a fat-looking boy, cheeks stippled with pastry crust. “The last time you had to jump out the second-story window or risk being caught.”

  “That’s nothing unusual,” teased the crew-cut boy. “Inesh’s always diving out the canteen window whenever Dean Patel comes to see who’s bunking class!”

  The table roared with laughter.

  “Fools.” Inesh blew a cloud of smoke directly at the fat boy. “I’ve been had.”

  “Again?” inquired Crew Cut. “Who’s it this time?”

  Inesh hesitated.

  “Come on, yaar,” Crew Cut teased him, “is it that Lovely girl?”

  Inesh hung his head.

  At the next table over, Jaginder ears perked up.

  “Isn’t she the beauty you brought here after she saved your life?” asked a third fellow, tight shirt unbuttoned halfway, revealing the barest of chests and a gold chain.

  “Yes,” Inesh said, thinking of his pride and joy, his ruby red Triumph 500cc that powered past the Rajdoot, Jawa, and Royal Enfield motorbikes phut-phutting in his wake. He had acquired his bike by a stroke of fortune, buying it for 6,400 rupees off an airline pilot from England.

  Only a week ea
rlier Inesh, driving his Triumph through the rains, screeched to a halt when a frantic voice called for him to stop. And that is when he saw it, a downed electrical wire just inches from his throat. He turned to the voice that had saved his life, found it belonged to a goddess in gold, and could think of nothing to say but Can I buy you tea?

  Lovely had refused, walking towards to SNDT Women’s University campus without making eye contact, but he persisted.

  Come, he had cajoled, I’ll take you on my motorbike, the only one of its kind in all of Bombay. I’ll even teach you how to ride it!

  He saw her gaze fall upon his shiny bike. Tentatively, she reached out to stroke it. And then, eyes shining with possibility, she climbed up behind him, legs to one side, chastely holding onto his waist with one arm. He had driven to the Asiatica, his heart swelling with pride, while she laughed the whole way, lost in the exhilaration of that moment.

  “I went to Malabar Hill tonight but—”

  “Lost her to another suitor already, huh?” taunted the fat boy.

  Crew Cut stood up and gyrated his hips, belting out the lyrics to the city’s first rock-and-roll movie, Dil Deke Dekho—Surrender Your Heart and See, oblivious to the Irani owner’s glares.

  “Yo, Keki!” Rustom finally shouted at a scrawny waiter, and pointing to his inventory of restrictions above the mirror said, “add NO DANCING to my list!”

  “What Rustom bhai?” Crew Cut flashed him a look of innocence before sitting down and turning his attention back to his friends.

  “No, not another suitor,” Inesh said, his voice odd. “At least I don’t think so.”

  “What happened, yaar?”

  “I was waiting for her outside her bungalow,” Inesh answered. “So I began practicing a poem, one of those in the Gentleman’s Guide to Wooing a Lady. All very romantic, you know.”

  “Maybe she didn’t like your poem,” commented Fat Boy.

  “She came outside all wild and crazy looking,” continued Inesh, stubbing his cigarette out on Fat Boy’s plate. “And the next thing I knew I woke up on the ground, both my motorcycle and Lovely gone!”

  His friends broke out in resounding rolls of laughter. Fat Boy nearly choked on his hard bun.

  Sitting on his stool behind the counter, Rustom felt he had been neglected for long enough. He abruptly shut off the fan above the students’ table giving them the message to either order something immediately or leave.

  “Rustom bhai, why are you offing the fan?” Inesh asked. Jaginder followed his eye to the nearby display of pastries, cakes, biscuits, potato wafers, buns, and salli—thin deep fried potato sticks—neatly arranged next to a bowl of Polson’s butter.

  “Some tea, coffee, ice cream?” Rustom asked, gesturing to the white and blue icebox with Kwality scrawled across the top and a grinning Arctic seal lounging just below.

  “One strawberry and cashew biscuit,” Inesh said forcing a wide smile, “and some chai.”

  “Chai all around.” Crew Cut winked.

  The ceiling fan wheezed back to life.

  “She took your motorbike?” exclaimed the bare-chested boy.

  “Yeah, right,” chuckled Fat Boy. “As if a girl would know how to drive it!”

  “I think somebody hit me,” Inesh said, feeling his face for evidence of a blow. “I don’t remember what happened. I looked all around, even climbed inside the gate, but she was gone. And my Triumph, too!”

  “Don’t worry, no one can hide a motorbike like yours for long.” Crew Cut shook his head sympathetically, thumping Inesh on his back. “Best not to go after girls who already have suitors, yaar. Nothing but trouble.”

  “Instead of running away with me, she ran away with my bike!” Inesh cried out.

  “Girls these days are too fickle,” concluded Fat Boy before emptying an entire tin of Parry’s toffees into his mouth.

  “Excuse me,” Jaginder said, walking over to their table. “By chance do you mean Lovely from Malabar Hill?”

  “Yes,” Inesh nodded, eying Jaginder with curiosity and suspicion.

  “Lovely Lawate?” he asked by way of clarification. He could not possibly imagine his respectable neighbor’s daughter riding a motorbike. Girls simply did not do that.

  Inesh nodded again.

  “He could have snared any girl because of his bike,” Crew Cut added. “It was his bad luck.”

  “You are lying,” Jaginder said threateningly. “I know my neighbor’s daughter. I knew her father when he was alive. Have you no shame?”

  With that, he stormed out, forcing down the panic rising in his chest. He’s lying. Nothing but a bloody boy trying to impress his friends. His neighbors, after all, had raised their daughter with the strict protectiveness that he would have imposed upon his own daughter had she lived.

  His own daughter.

  In Jaginder’s mind, his little moon-bird had become an embodiment of virtue. If only certain things had been preventable, his life would have unfurled in front of him as intended, like a lush Oriental carpet. No surprises, no detours. Just a thick tapestry of days and nights that at the end of his time on earth, he could roll up and proudly claim as his own.

  To everyone’s surprise and relief, Police Inspector Pascal knocked on the bungalow’s front door merely fifteen minutes after an urgent phone call was placed to the police station.

  Inside, the occupants sat stiffly, fearfully. They had searched the bungalow inside and out. Yet, even as they searched, they knew that Pinky’s abandoned boots signaled something sinister.

  Pascal shuffled in wearing a long trench coat. He nodded curtly in Maji’s direction, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

  Kuntal took his black rubber coat and cap as Pascal slipped off his black gum boots and padded towards the couch in turmeric yellow socks. Cook Kanj appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “No, no I’m fine,” the inspector said waving away the cook with one hand while helping himself to tea with the other. “So, kya hua?”

  “My granddaughter’s missing.” Maji’s face was drawn and pale, her hands trembled.

  “Accha.” Pascal fished in his shirt for a pen, pulling out candy wrappers, cigarettes, and a paan which he unceremoniously unwrapped and popped into his mouth. “Name? Age? Occupation?”

  “Pinky Mittal. She’s only thirteen.”

  “Have you called your neighbors?” the inspector asked. “Perhaps she wandered next door?”

  “In the middle of the night, Inspector?” Savita asked shrilly, thoroughly unimpressed by the burly man who sat in front of her.

  “Make the calls,” Pascal ordered. “I have a feeling in my gut.”

  And a few too many free lunches, too, Savita thought cynically.

  “I’ll call Vimla Auntie,” Nimish piped up, departing for the dining area.

  “So.” Pascal scribbled some notes on his pad. “What were the circumstances of her unfortunate disappearance?”

  “Our driver slipped in the rain and cut his finger on the gate,” Maji began, her bosom beginning to heave with emotion. “While we were tending to him, Pinky went outside. We didn’t notice until . . . until it was too late.”

  Savita let out a dramatic sob.

  “Was there anyone else by the gate?” Pascal asked.

  “No,” answered Parvati. “I went out when Gulu fell and saw no one.”

  “And where’s this Gulu chap?”

  Maji pointed to her driver, eyes closed, slumped against the sofa with his bandaged hand cradled to his chest.

  Pascal raised a bristly eyebrow. “And why was he by the gate so late in the night?”

  “He was expecting my son to come home,” Maji answered.

  “Accha. Your son. And where might he be?”

  “At the office.”

  “So late at night?”

  “Yes.”

  After a second cup of tea and more questioning, Pascal tucked his pad into his shirt pocket and sighed. “This is all most curious.”

  ‘“Curious?”’ S
avita cried. “That’s all you can say?”

  Nimish walked back into the room, ashen faced.

  “Doesn’t look like good news,” Pascal inclined his head towards him.

  “Lovely,” Nimish managed to stammer.

  “What is it, beta?” Savita turned in her seat to get a better look at her son.

  “Did you talk . . . to . . . Vimla Auntie?” Maji asked, distress slicing her question into sharp fragments.

  Nimish nodded forlornly. “Auntie is coming over just now with, with Harshal bhaiya and Himani bhabhi.”

  “And Lovely?”

  “She’s missing!” Nimish cried as his hand involuntarily flew to his chest. This is all my fault! he told himself, remembering how Lovely had run from him, from his kiss.

  “Lovely’s like a sister to him,” Savita explained to the inspector.

  Vimla stumbled into the bungalow and fell into Maji’s arms, wailing. Harshal looked shocked. He hobbled in and painfully lowered himself onto a sofa. A curious, blistering mark had sprouted upon his left cheek.

  “Come, come,” Maji comforted Vimla. “This is Inspector Pascal, one of Bombay’s best.”

  “Mr. Lawate,” Pascal began, looking at Harshal. “What happened?”

  “Well,” Harshal began, recalling Himani’s hot body underneath him, the juicy flesh of her breasts and inner thighs. The night had begun in its usual manner with Harshal delicately rolling the sleeping Himani onto her back and parting her pliant legs. And then, with full erection, he had jolted her awake as he plunged into her body, taking intense pleasure at her startled little gasp. Afterward, while his wife was busy in the bathroom where she always vanished postcoitally for extended periods of time, Harshal had tossed in bed, unable to fall back into a satiated sleep as usual. The air around him felt thick, sticky with desire.

  Heaving himself out of bed, he had wandered to his window and saw something that shocked and enraged him.