Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

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  GAMDEVI POLICE STATION, 11:30 A.M. I take my seat on the visitors’ bench opposite Inspector Damle, the duty officer in charge of complaints. He is a robust-faced officer in his thirties, with smooth muscular arms, flickering eyes, and a mustache twirled like an army man’s.

  The visitors’ bench is long and hard. There is no backrest; it is propped against the wall. To rest my back I would need to lean against the wall, which I don’t do, because the paint on the wall is peeling; it would stain my shirt. Although I am first on the bench, I have to await my turn. The inspector is busy noting the complaint of an African man seated in front of him. The African has his back toward me. I can see his face only partly.

  The African is stout, with a head like a bull, close-cropped hair, and layers of fat in the neck region. He appears uncomfortable with English. He keeps saying, “I beg your pardon,” to the inspector, who, I notice, is patient with him.

  Next to the African, on a chair, is an Indian, a weasel of a man with an air of self-importance. I realize he is some kind of aide because he acts as an interpreter for the African, repeating the inspector’s questions slowly back to the African.

  The African is some sort of a dignitary. I could tell that from his letterhead, which he handed to the inspector as a way of introducing himself. The inspector studied it, rubbed his jaw pensively, and passed it back.

  The inspector asked the African whether he was a colonel, whether at some stage he had fought for his country. The African howled with laughter; he shook like a schoolboy possessed with mirth. Wiping his eyes, he replied that was his father’s ruse; he had named him with great expectations. The inspector smiled and proceeded to ask him more questions.

  Just then I was distracted by a video monitor on the wall, which showed what the prisoners in their cells were up to. The video shifted from cell to cell, jerking like a handheld camera. The camera would zoom in on the prisoners—from a long shot to a mid-close-up to a tight close-up—then to the next cell, and so on and so forth.

  I saw some of the prisoners were eating moodily, others were playing cards, and two of them—bearded rogues—had struck up a yogic pose. I could swear they knew they were being watched. The picture changed to show a prisoner alone in his cell. He was asleep, in fetal position, fists clenched and held to his chest. I wondered if he had been beaten or tortured.

  The African finished his complaint. He suspected he’d been robbed by some of his house staff. Some artifacts, curios, and medallions were missing. Also an African mask, a family heirloom he was attached to.

  Inspector Damle assured him they’d get to the bottom of it. There was a heavy sentence for those who stole from foreign dignitaries. He’d use that to threaten the staff. The African shook his head. He said he just wanted his possessions back; he didn’t want anyone punished. He was used to having things stolen. It happened all the time in his country. People there were so poor they took easily to a life of crime. They’d walk into homes and steal in the presence of owners who’d be watching television, eating dinner, or making love in their bedrooms. The idea was to pretend it wasn’t happening. Let the thieves do their thing and leave. Make a fuss, and you could get shot. Seeing the inspector’s shocked expression, the African chuckled. He said he was used to living with danger. Over time, he had begun to take a compassionate view of it, thought of it as charity: someone needed things more than you did, someone just forgot to ask or didn’t know how to ask.

  The inspector looked at him with warm, curious eyes and said, “You are a good man, Colonel.” The African laughed. His whole belly shook. His aide wore a grim, disapproving face. He protested, saying this was not correct; the thieves should be punished severely—they’d set a bad example for the country.

  The inspector turned to the aide and said the police would arrive at the house that afternoon. They’d line up the staff, threaten them, and give them time to return the valuables. If they didn’t confess in twenty minutes, some rough handling might be necessary: a few slaps or two to loosen tongues. Two havaldars came and stood by the inspector’s side. They stood with their hands behind their backs, listening intently. I could tell they’d be in charge of the investigation.

  The inspector briefed the havaldars in Marathi. He had a plan in mind according to which they’d operate. As he spoke, every once in a while he would turn to the African and ask, “Correct?” and the African would nod enthusiastically, like a schoolboy called upon to partake in a secret venture. Before departing, the African held out his palms and made the inspector give him a five, then a ten. He caught the inspector’s hands in a grip and swung them genially, left to right and to the left again. Other cops looked up from their work and smiled.

  It was my turn next. Inspector Damle gestured to the empty steel chair, which made a grating sound as I sat. There was something wrong with the chair. I had to shuffle my weight and lean forward to steady it. Behind the inspector was a blackboard. Someone had scribbled on it that no officer of the law could ask for a bribe or a favor and, if anyone did, he should be reported to the Anti-Corruption Bureau. The numbers of the bureau were written down.

  I began my complaint. It was not worth jotting down, I said, not worth official time, but if he—the inspector—could help me, I’d be obliged, for I had been cheated and knew not where to go.

  Placing my elbows on the table, I began my story. My flat leaked every monsoon. The rain poured from the terrace into my apartment, trickling like one of those waterfalls on the Khandala ghat. It was a nuisance. Buckets everywhere, and me having to rush from room to room to see where a leak had sprung and where it had increased. To prevent this I had engaged the services of a damarwalla, who’d tar the terrace and make it waterproof. I chose a fellow by the name of Raju Gondva. He was short, plump, in khaki knee-length shorts, and stayed near the fire brigade, which was close to the police station. He looked honest, I thought. He had a big, brown face and a friendly disposition. His children—one girl, one boy, between the ages of six and eight—didn’t look like urchins; instead they were clean and well dressed, which I thought spoke well of their father. Besides, I didn’t smell any alcohol off him, which for a damarwalla was rare.

  One sunny morning before the rain clouds appeared, Raju Gondva brought bricks, kerosene, and sawdust and began a slow fire on my terrace. On this he heated chunks of damar in an old vessel. He stirred the damar through the morning, until it turned thick and sticky, and all afternoon he applied it over cracks in the terrace floor and over my window shelters. He used a long pole wrapped with a cloth at one end for the application. He worked alone, he worked hard, and he smiled a smile of lazy contentment, the kind only labor can smile.

  Once he finished, I inspected the work. The damar gleamed under the afternoon sun. He’d gotten the leaks covered. The splashes of tar—dark and severe—promised me a dry monsoon.

  I paid Raju Gondva half the money due to him. The rest, I said, I would give him later, should the damar hold out against the first thundering Bombay showers. If it proved its mettle, there’d be baksheesh, a tip, no question about it.

  “Please, sir,” he said. “I know this is not the normal practice, but as an exception can you pay me the full amount? You see, I have to pay my children’s school fees. I have to buy their books and uniforms. A new tuition year is starting, and I have no money left.”

  I looked at his face—the face of an expectant father bracing himself for rejection, for defeat—and something like pity came over me. I thought no father should cringe while there were men of conscience around. Besides, I knew where he stayed. I knew he had a family and kids. The money changed hands. Raju Gondva saluted me. His shoulders dropped and a boyish gratitude flitted across his face. Clutching the notes, he said, “Don’t worry, sir. Any problem and I will be there.” Then he went away, swinging his arms happily.

  Three showers later, no sign of Raju Gondva. The flat leaked from all sides. The wood near the windows took on a dark, sagging texture. Plaster beg
an to crumble from the ceiling and lay at my feet in clumps of white. My A/C panel began to peel. Running trails indicated where the leaks were heavy. I found myself placing buckets in every room and aluminum vessels on windowsills to collect the dripping rainwater. At night, the sound of the rain going pitter-patter, pitter-patter in the vessels drove me mad. I cursed Raju Gondva. I cursed myself. I still hadn’t learned how to gauge my street brothers, to wise up to their smooth street-corner opportunism. A fool and his money invite partition. There was no running away from that.

  Five times I went to call on Raju Gondva; five times I came away unsuccessful. I met his family: his wife washing clothes, his children studying, a big-bellied woman, in a sari, with thick, red lips and dark glasses, lying on a mattress. She said she was Raju Gondva’s sister. She’d been operated on for a cataract two days ago. If Raju came, she’d tell him. Not to bother them otherwise.

  On my sixth visit, the sister waved her hands and screamed at me, “Can’t you see? He is not here. He has gone away. We don’t know when he will be back. We don’t know anything about him. Why do you bother us? Why do you harass us still?”

  She had a coarse voice that broke from the center of the earth, and I found it embarrassing to be at its receiving end. The embarrassment was greater because they lived out in the open, in a compound off the main road, and there were people passing by every minute.

  I turned to Raju Gondva’s wife. She was young, in her early twenties. She was wringing out washed garments, pulling them from a bucket, and hanging them on a clothesline. I watched her work, silently, assiduously. She knew I was watching but pretended to be engrossed in her work. At the side, the children were doing their homework; they looked at me resentfully, as though I was intruding. The sister looked up and began to whistle, suggesting I should leave. I did so right away.

  “So will you help?” I asked Inspector Damle. “I know I trouble you. I know it is a small thing, more like a favor, but who can I turn to for help, if not the police?”

  The inspector reclined in his chair and rocked away, his knees pressing against the table. His khaki belly with the shining buckle loomed into sight. He swayed and stared at me. “What do you expect from us?” he asked guardedly, drumming with his fingernails on the buckle of his belt.

  “Well, it’s not that I wish to write a complaint—to put you through any such bother—but if you can send a havaldar with me, seeing him they will get frightened, and besides, it’s right here—at the fire brigade—just around the corner.”

  “What do you do?” he asked suddenly. “What is your job, your line of work?” As though that might have some bearing on the cooperation he’d extend.

  Now this was the tricky part, for I considered myself slightly worse off than Raju Gondva. I was not even seasonally employed. I was in the most uncertain profession of all times, that journey to the center of the earth where there might be treasure or plain rocks, where there might be pleasure or pain.

  “I write!” I replied. “I am a writer.”

  “And your name?” he asked. He’d straightened up and was looking at me with interest.

  I answered him, and after that he had no further questions. He called a constable, a tall, bland-faced havaldar with a lathi in one hand, and told him to accompany me and bring the damarwalla to the station; bring his wife and sister if necessary.

  “Don’t worry,” the inspector said, leaning across, his palms locked together. “We will teach them not to mess with the press.”

  I groaned inwardly and nodded. He’d gotten me wrong, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  We walked to where Raju Gondva stayed. The constable appeared moody and listless, as if his duty had been trivialized; this was not why he’d joined the force. We climbed the steps to the compound, eyes following us: a coconutwalla, a kelawalla, a mochi, a paanwalla, all so curious.

  The sister wasn’t there, nor Raju, nor his children. His wife saw us and came up anxiously.

  “See,” I said to her, “I have come here many times, and I don’t like doing this, but you people leave me no choice. I need to know where Raju Gondva is. When he is expected.”

  She looked at me, then at the constable, then back at me with slow, widening disbelief.

  “How dare you?” she said, drawing herself up. “How dare you bring the police to our door? How dare you treat us like common criminals? What do you think—we will cheat you for a few thousand rupees?”

  The constable pushed forward. He was frowning. Pointing his lathi, he towered above her.

  “Look here,” he said gruffly. “You’d better come along. The inspector wants you at the station.”

  “Wants me for what? First tell me my offense,” she said. Her eyes were blazing. The end of her sari was tucked firmly around her waist, and she leaned forward, both hands on her hips.

  She turned to me and said, “Arrey, sahib, what do you know about other people’s problems? What do you know what my husband is doing? He is unable to come because he is holding two jobs. Yes, he works day and night to pay for his sister’s operation. You know how much the cost was? Five thousand rupees! And we don’t need any more bad luck than what we already have. So please leave. I beg you to go away and not insult us this way. Raju Gondva will come and do your damaring when he has the time. It’s only a matter of an extra coat or two, so please be patient. Please wait.”

  The speech had tired her out. It was fatigue borne of outrage, a lioness spent defending her mate against people who’d come to trap them with unfair advantages of birth, class, and money.

  “When do you think he can come?” I asked softly.

  The constable tried to interrupt, but I stopped him.

  “Sunday! He will have time on Sunday,” she said. “First thing in the morning, he will come.”

  I nodded. A quiet understanding passed between us. She was grateful I had listened to her; I felt I craved her admiration in some way.

  “Your zabaan, your word?” I asked, and she muttered, “Yes, yes,” softly and clearly.

  The constable frowned and said to me, “You come to the station and tell the inspector this. He will shout at me otherwise.”

  He was right. The inspector was annoyed. “You should have brought her,” he said. “I’d have threatened her, given her a little dhamki. Then that husband of hers would have turned up at your doorstep. Now you don’t know whether he will come and whether he will finish the job at all.”

  I said I did not wish to humiliate the woman, did not want to hurt her feelings any more than I already had. The inspector shook his head and muttered that that was the problem. The police were keen to attend to every complaint, but people took back their complaints, not realizing how much time was wasted. As I was leaving the room, I could feel his disappointment. I could feel his eyes bore into me sullenly. I had kept him out of the news, denied him an opportunity to impress the press. People like me were the problem.

  SUNDAY ARRIVED: a calm, breezy day, no rain. I waited at my window. Below my building a bazaar was setting up. Taxis cruised in, their carriers heaped with crates of fruits and vegetables. The vendors called to one another and hurried forward to unload their wares. Old beach umbrellas clicked open, and under these the crates were emptied out, their contents displayed in baskets. The sun shone and withdrew. After a while it reemerged and shone brightly. It was a truant sun, the kind that would disappear and emerge and threaten to disappear altogether. When it was there, it pierced the skins of red-cheeked tomatoes, long, velvet brinjals, white, flowery cauliflowers, and leaves of coriander and lettuce, all washed and sparkling wet.

  In loud voices, the vendors shouted out their prices. Women with small purses and big plastic bags stopped and bargained fiercely. The vendors held their prices. The women pretended to walk away. The vendors called them back. They returned. They were used to these daily charades, which helped them stay within their monthly budgets.

  Sprightly urchin boys would run up and pester the women—should they carry
their bags, take some load off? Five rupees per bag was not too much to ask.

  On the opposite side of the road was a Shiva temple. At its entrance, devotees stopped to feed cows grass, which the cows ate lazily, pausing to swipe their tails at bothersome flies. Inside the temple, Nandi the bull stared at his Lord in stony wide-eyed devotion. His Lord looked on calmly, as was his habit, his universal stance in the order of things. Outside the temple, in a small shop, a bespectacled old woman sold flowers and bili patta out of a basket. “Come,” she said. “Take some offerings for our Lord, who does not ask much, who delights in so little!” The devotees crowded around her and bought small baskets of flowers. Sometimes the women-devotees ordered gajras, soft, white garlands that they tied around their hair. Beggars with long, matted hair and dark, sullen faces paced at the gates of the temple. They looked expectantly at the male devotees, who, in white robes, tiptoed past, ignoring them. The beggars grumbled. This was no good, no good really. People were too busy praying for themselves these days. They just didn’t have the eyes to see or the ears to listen.

  I was watching this from my window when the doorbell rang. I opened the door, expecting to see Raju Gondva. But, no, it was his wife. Just her. With a sack.

  “Where is Raju?” I asked.

  “Sorry, sahib,” she said. “He can’t come. He was called to work suddenly. What to do? It is a matter of our stomachs, no? But don’t worry, sir,” she said, her face brightening, “I will do your damaring. I will finish the job Raju Gondva has begun. You won’t need to complain again.”

  I saw a spark in her eyes, a jaunty challenge that made her look sweet and fetching, sexy and beguiling. At that moment, I pictured her in a different light—a lioness ready to give all for her mate, a woman in a man’s world, with the potential to start a fire.

  “Well,” I said, letting my eyes sweep over what I hadn’t seen but could easily imagine. “Will you be able to do it? It’s a man’s job—you know?”

  “What a man can do I can as well,” she said, and seeing my expression added hastily, “I have been with Raju many times.”