by HM Naqvi
The query is so disarming that I do not even think to inquire about the burglary. Instead, I find myself saying, “Thank you for asking, Nargis Bibi. All is well with me. Lot of rain this year.”
“Alhumdulillah. It’s such a relief—it’s been so hot. But the streets are in a mess: it took two hours for Babu to return home.”
“Oh my!”
“And more rain is expected tonight.”
“Winds must be blowing north from the Arabian Sea.”
But before I can make further meteorological small talk—“We should have a bumper crop this year” or “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain”—Nargis proclaims, “Ninni time, bachon!” and leads the Childoos out. Oh, the cruel regime of Wee Willie Winkie, the bane of children and their uncles everywhere!
The terror of solitude is such that I consider inviting Nargis and Babu for a cup of tea and some Danish Butter Biscuits. We could all sit on the balcony like a family and watch the storm clouds—Cumulonimbus or Nicocolombus—sweeping across the sky. It would be grand!
To my surprise, Nargis returns at that instant as if she has read my mind. “I forgot to mention Bakaullah Bhai phoned earlier,” she says. “He’s expecting you for dinner tonight.”
“Dinner with destiny!” I cry, as Nargis skips away. Then it begins raining in sheets.
Cursing the rain, stars, my brothers, sister-in-law, I pace up and down the balcony like a spider in a bottle until I am breathless and flush and feeble in the knees. Flopping on the cane chair on the balcony, I watch the trees trembling in the dramatic downpour, then ring the dinner bell to summon Barbarossa to make preparations for my journey: mackintosh, Wellingtons, a boat, a lifebuoy. When I apprise him of the situation, he asks, “What man allows his land to be taken from under his feet?”
“The Lodge belongs to the family.”
“Am I not family?” he asks, lucid as light.
“Go back to your village.”
“I will die here with my cock.”
“I might die tonight.”
Then there is a flash of lightning, and in the instant brilliance, I espy movement at the gate: Bosco in knickerbockers, wet and out of breath, and Jugnu, my Jugnu, glancing over her shoulder, a mangy alley cat tucked under her arm. Slamming the gate shut behind her, she bounds across the driveway. I must ask her to marry me. I must ask her to marry me now. But before I can get a word in, Jugnu pants, “I think we were followed.”
“What?”
Soaked to the toes, Jugnu whispers, “I think I recognized them, Langra’s men.”
Langra might be on his way out but I can attest to the fact that desperate men do desperate things. “Did you lose them?”
“I do not know.”
There is a crack then a hiss—the power line or circuit breaker. What if they’re here? I wonder, and what of the Childoos—those poor, innocent, defenseless Childoos! “This is my house,” I mutter in the dark, “and they are my responsibility.” But as I roll up my sleeves to venture downstairs, something wet grazes against my leg and I squeal like the Proverbial Stuck Pig. “What, Uncle Cossack, what?” Bosco cries.
Squinting, surveying the lay of the shadowlands, I realize it’s the cat—what, what, indeed. “Nothing,” I say, gaffling a rolling pin from the kitchen drawer. “Nothing to be worried about.”
“Where are you going?”
“I just need to check on the generator.”
“I want to go home.”
“I’m coming,” Jugnu says.
“No,” I snap.
“You don’t know them,” she whispers.
Pecking Jugnu on the cheek, I charge her to keep vigil—there is no doubt she can rule the roost—but on the way out, I pull Barbarossa aside, bidding him to follow if I do not return in ten minutes, and Barbarossa, foot-in-the-grave pensioner, grimaces and grunts like a plunderer raring to sack Delhi on horseback. There is no doubt in my mind that he will rescue me—if I do not kill myself first: it’s pitch dark outside and raining sideways. I descend the spiral stairwell around the back tentatively, measuring each step with my toes.
Since the kitchen door does not budge—wood becomes swollen during the monsoon—I shove the rolling pin in the waist of the sarong and put my shoulder into the effort. “Babu?” I call out, “Nargis?” But it’s as quiet as a graveyard. What if Langra’s men are already here? What if they have bound and gagged my brother, his wife? Although I know my way around better than anybody else—I have negotiated the house blindfolded playing hide-and-seek with Tony—I bang my knee against a chair and yell Bloody Murder.
“Who’s there?” demands a voice.
“Me.”
A torch light shines in my eyes. “Abdullah Bhai?”
“Everything all right, partner?”
Clad in a vest & knickers, Babu stands bowlegged, gaping at me. “Is that a rolling pin in your sarong?”
“What? This? Yes. I was making chapattis when the lights went off. It’s time you fixed the generator.”
“We’ve discussed it before, Abdullah Bhai: I bought it, so you should contribute to the repairs—”
“How are the Childoos?”
“They were startled by the storm but Nargis is with them.”
“So everything is fine?”
“Yes, yes. Why do you ask?”
“I want you to lock all the doors and check all the windows.”
“What’s going on?”
“I, uh, hear there’s trouble in the city.”
“I didn’t hear anything about it on the news.”
“Trust me—”
All of a sudden, Babu yells, “Behind you!”
Squeezing the hilt of the rolling pin, I prepare for the Moment of Truth—I’ll die with my boots on, a hero, a martyr—but as I turn around in slow motion, a familiar silhouette materializes before me. “Jugnu?”
Babu takes a step back, covering his crotch, more ashamed than scared. “You know each other?”
“I don’t believe you have formally been introduced,” I begin in a convivial tenor. “Let me take this opportunity to introduce you: this is Jugnu, a dear friend and kindred soul who, I must add, is acquainted with the grand mysteries of life. And this is Babu,” I turn to say, “my youngest brother, a renowned computer technician and expert table tennis player.”
“I am happy to meet you,” Babu squeaks, “but is that a knife in her hand?”
“I told you, partner,” I ejaculate, “we were preparing dinner.”
Folding the meat cleaver against her forearm, Jugnu plays along: “I just cut up the chicken and wanted to ask what you want me to do with the head and feet.”
“The head, the feet,” I repeat, scratching my temple. “We could use the feet bones for the stock—good collagen. In this weather, it’s prudent to have stock on hand. Don’t you agree?”
“But,” Babu interjects, “I thought you had been invited to dinner by Bakaullah Bhai.”
“Oh, that reminds me: please tell Nargis to tell Bakaullah Bhai that I won’t be able to make it in this downpour.”
“But I can arrange a Radio Cab. They’re very professional. They could be here in ten—”
“In fact, I also want Nargis to tell Bakaullah that if he wants to meet me he can drop by the Lodge tomorrow, day after, or next week for that matter. As you know, I’m ordinarily free.” Offering an arm to Jugnu, I say, “Don’t we have a chicken to stuff?”
Slamming the kitchen door shut behind me, I grab Jugnu by the waist and spin her around in the rain. We remain locked in embrace—the flat of Jugnu’s knife pressed against my flesh, my rolling pin wedged in my sarong—as the tempest rages about us. “You need to get me out of these clothes,” Jugnu finally whispers. “I’m wet.”
As I start to say Marry me, marry me now! I hear the gate creak open like a premonition and watch Jugnu dart into the gloom. Although the route is treacherous—ankle-deep water, invisible branches, the whiff of petroleum in the air—I follow, slashing invisible gangsters on the
way like a Ninja Warrior. Rounding the corner, I spot her beyond the vegetable patch. I look at Jugnu, Jugnu looks at me. “Did you shut the gate when you came in?” I whisper.
“I always shut it behind me.”
“Perhaps it is the wind?” I muse. Perhaps it’s Bua, her husband—he is a locksmith, after all—but I suspect that it might be Langra’s thugs.
This is no way to live, I think, no way to die.
150. I must admit that I have not waded much into philosophical waters in the passing years with the exception of Harry Frankfurt’s “On Bullshit,” a critical volume in turn-of-the-century enquiry, which begins: “One of the most salient features of our culture is that there is so much bullshit … but we have no clear understanding of what bullshit is, why there is so much of it.” Frankfurt proposes developing “tentative and exploratory philosophical analysis” concerning the matter. It’s high on the Cossack’s Must Read List.
151. For three quarters of a century, I’ve wondered on and off what kept Johnny. Did he find another girl or was it something sinister: could he have been kidnapped or died of sepsis, organ failure? It’s not one of the enduring Mysteries of Our Times but it is a matter informed by certain pathos.
ON CONFRONTING THE OTHER
(or TIT FOR TAT)
Central Jail is down the road from Garden, on the periphery of Hyderabad Colony—the shabby residential canton renowned for fair, feisty dames and pickled goods. Standing outside the compound of the turn-of-the-century sandstone structure, I sweat like a choice pickle. It’s not just that the sun is criminal at midday; no, the storied prison has hosted independence fighters from the days of the Raj, Communists (including Comrade Bakaullah), venal parliamentarians, and since the theatrically inept Yankee operation in Afghanistan, terrorists weeded out by Tony’s childhood pal Hur, a.k.a. Hawkeye. And now it will host me. A pair of knavish guards frisks me at the metal detector, muttering to themselves—I distinctly hear the words khatay peetay—but they have me all wrong; they do not know that I am a desperate man, and a desperate man is an impulsive man. I had been in bed a couple of hours earlier. I should have slept in but had woken with a start.
The night was steamy, the roof dripped relentlessly, and I dreamt that I was an exiled head of state, compelled by circumstance to take employment as a maître d’hôtel at a restaurant in a faraway city. A small man with big teeth followed by four hooligans demanded a table. They ordered very dirty martinis, then roared, “Now we want your head.” It left a bad taste in my mouth when I woke. “This is no way to live,” I repeated to myself, “no way to die.”
I called Tony, raspy-voiced. “I need to talk to your policeman friend,” I said. “Who?” he asked. “Hur,” I replied. “Why?” he inquired. “Why do you care?” After obtaining the number, I dialed again: “Hello? Hur? This is Tony’s brother, Abdullah. I need to meet this Langra Dacoit. I need to meet him today.”
Jugnu sat up like a marionette when I put the receiver down. “What was that?” she asked. Stumbling to the lavatory, straddling the commode, I tugged my numb member. “I need to sort things out with your lover,” I replied. “He’s not my lover!” she cried, storming off. It was a wicked thing to say but I was in a state: I had never visited the jail before, and if things did not go as planned, I would find myself on the bed of the Lyari River by dusk, rotting in a stew of raw sewage and industrial waste. When Hur called to inform me that I was expected within the hour, I vomited my breakfast: marmalade toast and tea.
A short, clean-shaven, cleft-chinned, barrel-chested, uniformed man with a shock of white hair and a twinkle in his eye welcomes me inside the superintendent’s office with a soft handshake. DIG Hur, the man known as Supercop in the papers, has not only put a lion’s share of the inmate population behind bars but has also negotiated decades of service with a reputation for integrity, a palmary achievement. Of course, I first met him when he wore knickers and licked candy floss. “You’ve become famous since I knew you,” I say.
“Zindagi kay din pooray karnay hain,” he laughs, viz., I’m biding my time until it’s time to go.
“So am I but the city needs people like you.”
Offering me a seat and a cup of tepid tea, he says, “The city can be sorted in six months—the per capita homicide ratio here was lower than Boston’s a few years back—but they don’t let us do our job. We operate under colonial laws instituted when the role of the police was to suppress the natives. The Police Reform Act was amended almost immediately after it was passed.152 But I’m sure you haven’t come here to discuss our problems.”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, Hur—I know you have more important things to do.”
“You’re like an elder brother, sir. And your request was a good excuse to stop by the jail. I had some work here I’ve been neglecting.”
“An interrogation perhaps?”
“You know I can’t discuss such matters, but a word of advice since you are here: avoid public places in the near future. Our sources tell us miscreants are planning attacks in the city.”
“This is a savage age.”
“With all due respect, sir, why are you mixed up with the likes of Langra?”
“I’m not,” I reply, and feign bravado: “I’m here to get mixed up with him—”
Just then a peon sheepishly enters the office and passes a chit to Hur. Scanning the note, he looks up and says, “It was wonderful to see you. I’d press about your meeting but I have to get back to work.” Standing up, he adds. “Let me know if I can be of any assistance. A car will escort you home.”
“There’s no need—”
Fixing me with a look, he says, “There probably will be.”
I am led through a series of gated corridors manned by wardens, through an enclosed open-air compound bordered by barbed wire, before being consigned to a windowless chamber with tawny peeling walls—undoubtedly the central interrogation cell of Central Jail. Settling on a steel chair, I am hot and bothered by a pair of hefty clegs, horseflies—a blur of green & red, intent on exploring my orifices. The logic that has led me to the dank womb of the prison seems foggy, foolhardy. I remind myself that both gangsters and the authorities are searching for Jugnu. Without witnesses, the police won’t have a watertight case. And since Hawkeye is approaching superannuation, even if he were to look the other way for old time’s sake, when it comes to said “person of interest,” there could come a time when I would not only have to bear the wrath of Langra, but of the entire police force. “You have to go it alone,” I tell myself.
As I work things through in my head, the iron door swings open and four men enter, ushering in a shackled character clad in purple exercise pants and a black kurta open to the navel. I would stand up, I should stand up, but am struck: although half my age, the fair, burly, chocolate-eyed, chinless fellow appears to be an earlier incarnation of myself. “What is this?” Langra snarls, “a joke?” Turning to me, teeth bared, he demands, “How dare you disturb me?”
“I’m sorry—”
“You know who I am?”
Summoning every mote of courage in my being, I say, “You, sir, are Langra Sardar, one of the most powerful men in this city, a legend. I am grateful that you have agreed to see me.”
“I have not agreed to anything!”
“Please allow me to introduce myself,” I continue. “I am Abdullah of Garden East, the former proprietor of the Hotel Olympus. I am here to discuss Jugnu, I mean, Juggan.”
Sitting down like an emperor, elbows resting on the flimsy table that separates us, Langra commands, “Dafa ho, ulloo kay pathon!” or Leave us, bastards! As the guards shuffle out like children, the gangster scratches his chin with the back of his hand, leans forward and says, “Go on, fat man.”
Clearing my throat, I begin, “After your incarceration, Langra Sahab, your, ah, friend Juggan had been wandering the streets around the police station in the hope of your release. As you know she’s devoted and dutiful but she’s not God’s goat—”
“God’s cow—”
“It so happens she saved me from a group of Afghans in the Cloth Market, and since I owe her my life, I have been taking care of her in your absence.”
“You mean she’s taking care of you.”
“Well—”
“Have you fucked her yet?”
“Sorry?”
“You haven’t, have you—”
“I’m here to tell you that she’s safe—from the streets, from the police.”
“Is that right?”
“I would like you to call off your men.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you offer?”
“My word, sir.”
“And why should I trust you, fat man?”
“Because I like to think that like me, you are an honourable man.”
“An honourable man!”
“I understand you have to do what you have to do to survive.”
Banging his wrists on the table, Langra exclaims, “I learnt to survive the instant I tumbled out from my mother’s cunt! You think she raised me? She had four other mouths to feed, and my father, that son of a dog, came by once a year, high on hooch. He would beat her, fuck her, then leave. So when I was twelve, I smashed his face with a hammer when he was high, then distributed sweets in the neighbourhood. Do you think I would have turned out differently had my father loved me?”
“You made decisions.”
“I did what was required.”
“You were more decisive as a child than I am as an old man.”
“That’s right, fat man!”
“I would like to bring to your attention that we are almost the same size.”
Langra grins, then grimaces, cocks his head to one side, then lunges at me. Toppling from my chair, I fall on my back like a sea turtle. “Yes,” the gangster whoops, unfolding his strangler’s hands to reveal a dead horsefly, “but I am faster.”