by Braham Singh
‘Chhokra!’ a European called out to Kirti from the other side of The Great Divide. The voice boomed like a cannon.
‘Who’s that Englishman?’ the Seth asked.
Ernst wanted to know where to begin.
‘Someone I know, Sethji.’ He didn’t mention he also knew the man’s wife, Daisy.
The Englishman was Willie Lansdowne, Ex-Club Secretary from when Indians were still not allowed in. You know, before enough was enough. After rounds of Government prodding and very little fanfare, an Indian replaced Willie as the club’s secretary, as if Willie didn’t dislike them enough already .
‘Chhokra!’ Willie yelled again, the pitch higher. Kirti jumped, the Lala stiffened, and a cloud of methane-tinged ammonia floated over unseen to smack the club in the face. Fertilisers wasn’t visible from the greens but everyone knew who farted. The ammonia was sharp and tore into eyes.
‘Useless buggers,’ Willie said, using the back of a hairy hand like a towel. ‘Bloody chimps at the controls.’
Meanwhile, the caddie-boy was finding it hard to disengage, the Lala refusing to let go his shoulder. This was death by embarrassment for Kirti the Poet—much in demand by the Indian golfers who jostled over him. He of course preferred caddying for Europeans, though one would think Willie would be the exception.
That’s because Willie made it loud and clear he didn’t suffer Indians easily. Frankly, he expected them to know their place. Adam Sassoon once declared he knew exactly how Willie would die. At a traffic signal, he predicted, with Willie in the middle of the road, a mottled red hand outstretched as he taught careening Indian truck drivers to obey traffic lights. Willie didn’t take offense. Sassoon, after all. If Sassoon were to suggest a quick shag behind the bushes, Willie would consider it.
The Lala’s hand on his shoulder over here, and Willie hollering for him from over there, young Kirti flushed from too much attention. Seeing Ernst sitting with the Seth, there was sudden hope in his eyes. Do something, they appealed.
‘Chhokra!’ Willie called out, pointing to his watch. Kirti struggled to escape and Ernst waited for the Lala to lose it. Kirti managed to free himself and panting delicately, he tore off. The Lala watched in dismay. Willie appeared satisfied, clueless what he had wrought in the Lala’s bosom and pleased having his way; or from not allowing a darkie to have his.
The Seth sat next to Ernst like a Buddha and impervious through all this nonsense. That is, if you missed the shadow track across the buttery face. If the change to his disposition slipped by you. It didn’t, and a chill blew down Ernst’s spine. He so preferred open anger. Together they watched Willie strut off. Willie the little boy, somewhat a bully, and a little dense. Little Willie, playing with fire .
Ernst did his namastes and got up. The further from the Seth, the warmer he would feel.
~
Watching the action from across The Great Divide, Adam Sassoon sipped his scotch and smiled. He looked rested with Jehangir Merchant by his side. Then Sassoon’s one eyebrow rose. Ernst saw the Lala making long strides his way, turban fluttering in the breeze. To those on Sassoon’s side of The Great Divide, Lala Prem was from another planet.
‘Mr. Ernestji,’ the Lala said, looking towards Willie and Kirti disappearing on the greens. ‘Your friend…’
‘Let it go, Lala. The man’s an ass.’
‘If you say so, Mr. Ernestji. Only for you.’ The Lala surveyed Ernst the way he’d looked at Kirti moments ago. You’ll do instead, he seemed to say. Lala Prem was a friendly chap, always trying to get friendlier. They chatted. Ernst said this. The Lala spoke of that. It went on. Indians dislike straight talk. It insults a very complicated culture. After a while they appeared ready to converge.
‘What happened?’ the Lala asked. ‘Sethji was surprised when he learnt you sold off his Cold Pilger. It was collateral, you know. Now Sethji has nothing. He is not happy.’
Over there though, the Seth looked happy enough. And over here if the Lala got any happier, it would involve sex. He squeezed Ernst’s hand. ‘Not to worry, Mr. Ernestji. You’re one of us. What’s collateral between friends?’
That settled, the Lala broached the lack of collateral. Painful, he would be first to admit, for Ernst to now pay principal and interest for a Cold Pilger not there anymore. He made googly eyes. Ernst looked vulnerable. The Lala squeezed Ernst’s hands. Ernst let him. The Lala mulled. Ernst waited. The Lala brightened.
‘Fuck the collateral. Just pay off the instalments as agreed. Monthly ten thousand. Happy? See? No more misunderstanding.’ Ernst continued looking misunderstood. The Lala rose to the occasion. ‘Tell you what. I will also help you pay back your own loan. This one time.’ Ernst looked hopeful. The Lala looked encouraged. ‘We will send our cheque to you. You then send your cheque to me.’ It was time-honoured. The lender making out a new loan—usury deducted in advance—for the borrower to pay off the earlier loan. It kept things current and the Earth continued to rotate. Granted very Indian, and therefore sounding more complicated than it was. Ernst continued to look confused. The Lala capitulated. ‘I know you have mouths to feed. How about if we include something extra for your payroll in the new loan?’ Ernst smiled in gratitude. The Lala acknowledged it by squeezing Ernst’s hand once more. Possession re-established, he continued to hold hands with Ernst; their fingers intertwined Indian style, while the Western half of the verandah watched.
With Sassoon and the Seth smiling back from their respective sides of The Great Divide, it was like discovering he could leave Germany before shit hit the fan and marry Berlin Ingrid at the same time. He remembered being euphoric then; nothing like what he felt now, smiling and going through the motions while carrying an ache God knows from what—all those memories Sassoon raked up, too much Seth, too much Lala, too much good news, or the cork up his arse.
Ernst wanted to ask the Lala what had changed since he sold the Cold Pilger without permission—meaning, why happy all of a sudden—when he saw Jack Hanson of Chemerica slumped alone on a rattan sofa behind Sassoon. With all heads up Sassoon’s ass over here, and burrowing up the Seth’s backside over there, no one noticed Hanson back from Sion Hospital. Hanson’s shirt was soiled and there was a half-empty Coca Cola bottle in his hand. It looked like he had spilt the Coke on his chest. If you checked carefully though, it was the same shirt he wore that morning cradling Arjun, and that was blood caked on it, not Coca Cola.
Seeing Hanson’s bloodied shirt, Ernst realised the unease he harboured, that ache within him, was from having to see the blood drain from a kid with almond eyes and porcelain skin. Arjun, the easily influenced Marxist who died a thief and no idea what he stole. Except maybe, Salim Ali knew. But he wasn’t saying. Leaving Ernst aching to know why the kid would have to die such a miserable death. That ache inside him was just that, and had nothing to do with anything else.
11
The Gorilla
The English screwed us, so we screwed English.
—Khushwant Singh
Stepping into the club courtyard where members parked their vehicles, Ernst saw Murli Chowkidar freeze in salute.
Murli Chowkidar had been watchman since before the British. Ernst returned the greeting and only then it dawned that wasn’t his arse being kissed. The terrified watchman was salaaming a trespassing Indian couple coming out of the greens and walking past a big, black Impala, renowned across Bombay streets as Sethji’s ride. The man too was big and black like the Impala. He had a red handkerchief around his neck and it appeared to have left an indelible mark on the frozen chowkidar. Chhote Bhai on the other hand, looked bored as ever. He also looked through Ernst, who felt he might as well get used to this.
It was dark and no street lighting to help out after the abrupt sunset. Just Jhama Sweetmeats’ blazing neon shining from across the road. It splashed the club courtyard to strike a parked Enfield Bullet on its handlebars.
A beauty of sorts crept into the night and a feeble moon looked down at India waiting outside the Golf Club�
�s white picket fence. Chhote Bhai stopped, and stared at the parked Enfield. The gorilla from Fertilisers hovered next to the motorcycle. He peered at Chhote Bhai. He was in civvies instead of the blue overalls from Fertilisers and trying hard to read Chhote Bhai’s face carved from granite. The scene could be straight out of the Ramayana—Hanuman, the Monkey God cowering before Rama. Except for one thing. Rama cannot be black—a dark-skinned God impossible for this nation of dark-skinned people. Even Krishna, the original coal-black deity, was acceptable only when painted in blue.
When the gorilla spoke, the trademark rumble was a bleat. ‘Nothing yet,’ he replied, to whatever it was Chhote Bhai hadn’t asked. In response, Chhote Bhai walked right past, causing some confusion. Then electricity sparked between his close-set eyes. He backed off to go sit on Murli Chowkidar’s stool, leaving the Enfield bereft without his bulk. The motorcycle looked incomplete. Ignoring the gorilla to once again look past Ernst and through Murli Chowkidar, Chhote Bhai left the woman accompanying him to cover her face with one corner of the sari and turn away—how they do in the presence of strangers.
The Sindhi Refugee Camp girl had been in maroon earlier but this sari was emerald green, so maybe it wasn’t her. On the other hand, though the face may be covered, there was no mistaking that backside. He almost felt its heft. Tufts of grass clinging to it, as she shimmied past to catch up with Chhote Bhai, leaving a trail of jasmine and sweat. Ernst felt his heart sink at how he could turn invisible just like that. If he couldn’t evoke anything even in a refugee girl from Sindhi Refugee Camp, then who was left? The fat Beatrice Taylor? The sagging Daisy Lansdowne?
Jhama Sweetmeat’s neon caught the fear on Murli Chowkidar’s face as he rushed past the couple to go struggle with the big rusted hasp and open the gates. Not to be outdone, Mohan Driver held the one-eyed Fiat’s rear door open for Ernst, who felt suicidal this beautiful evening, and so he strolled over instead to admire the gorilla’s Enfield Bullet basking in neon light.
~
‘Nineteen Fifty-Six make,’ Ernst said, running his hand over the chrome finish.
The gorilla remained in the shadows, seated on Murli Chowkidar’s stool by the Golf Club’s brooding banyan .
‘Cent per cent British import,’ he said from over there.
‘You’ve put a lot of work into this.’
The gorilla straightened and flexed, before strolling up to his bike. Seeing him coming up, Ernst remembered him offering to break Salim Ali’s leg, then clawing at the throat and struggling for air after Ernst’s tentative karate chop. He felt pretty confident he couldn’t pull that off again.
The gorilla however was offering his hand. ‘Hello,’ he said. See? No hard feelings.
‘My name is Henry Gomes.’ Not just no hard feeling, but also personable.
‘Goan?’ Ernst asked.
‘Yes, Sir. My grandfather was hundred per cent Portuguese blood.’
Ernst didn’t know why Goans even bothered. Any Brit or German racially inimical towards Indians would feel no different towards the Portuguese.
‘I’m Ernst Steiger. Sorry about this morning. But you were going after my friend.’
‘That’s okay. But Sethji’s also your friend.’ His expression suggested that meant something. He went on to ask, ‘So why do you like Muslims?’
‘Not all of them.’ Not all Hindus and Goans either, or Christians and Jews, but this wasn’t the time. ‘By the way, very unfortunate, that boy Arjun’s death. How do you think it happened?’
‘What did you expect? Your friend’s a communist. And a Muslim? Come on! You know wherever such people go, there’s bound to be trouble. Take it from me. Guaranteed. Ask anyone. When China attacks us, they applaud. When America helps us, they protest. Besides, they stole something.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘These communists. Who else?’
‘What did they steal?’
‘What does it matter? They stole. Just return it. Tell your Muslim. He probably has it.’
Ernst decided to probe further. He could always run hide behind Sethji.
‘Is that why the boy was killed? ’
‘No need to tangent like that. He was pure accident.’
‘He was stabbed. So can’t be an accident, what?’
‘Maybe. But if someone wanted to kill him, why stab his leg? You see what I mean?’
‘I see what you mean,’ Ernst said, walking towards the Fiat.
He waved getting in, and saw blood crusted underneath his fingernails. He didn’t recall touching Arjun. Having said that, it was amazing how much blood a human body held and how easily it leaked and spread. Arjun’s had spurted like a fountain from his thigh. Watching him die, Ernst thought he saw fear creeping into the kid’s almond eyes from behind those soda glasses, but when he looked again, it was gone and there was nothing. ‘Say something!’ Salim Ali had screamed, snatching his friend from the Texan’s lap and trying to shake him alive. There had been this look on Salim Ali’s face of a person dealing with irrevocable change. He kept yelling, ‘Say something! Can you hear me? Nod your head!’
Looking back, Arjun was already gone by then. Gomes, on the other hand, was vigorously polishing the handlebar with a yellow cloth when Mohan Driver crawled past towards the gates—held open with imperial panache by Murli Chowkidar. Ernst touched Mohan Driver’s shoulder and rolled down his window. Gomes kept polishing the handlebars, focused on an invisible spot that refused to go. He spat on it and went back to work with loving care. It was interesting, how he could spit and polish and shake his head; do this and that and all the other things that Arjun couldn’t anymore.
‘Take same good care of yourself,’ Ernst advised. ‘Someone may have seen you with those curved scissors.’
Gomes stopped with the circular motion and looked up. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Those beady, gorilla eyes went into a prolonged stare.
‘By the way, that was Chhote Bhai,’ Ernst said. ‘Just now with the girl? How do you know him?’
Gomes was back to polishing the handlebar. ‘You are Sethji’s friend,’ he said, and could be reminding himself. Possibly why Ernst was still in one piece.
‘You had those pointy scissors when the accident happened,’ Ernst said, going for broke Salim Ali style. ‘Where are they now? ’
Gomes got a dreamy look as if trying to remember. Then the invisible spot must have moved to Ernst’s face the way he peered at him, scrunching his eyes and trying to find it.
‘Good to have medical knowledge’ Ernst said. ‘You know where his femoral artery was. Very impressive.’
Gomes’ lengthy stare continued to hold ground before he pulled his smile back out of nowhere. It was a nice smile with even teeth. Looking at them, Ernst regretted he didn’t offer a dental plan. Salim Ali’s mouth could use some work. His breath was murder. Then, Gomes lunged and thrust an arm through the window. Ernst flinched, expecting him to finally, at long last, go for his neck.
Instead, Gomes grinned and shook Ernst’s hand once again. ‘Tell your mian,’ he said, squeezing Ernst’s hand with gorilla strength. ‘We want it back.’
12
Chai for Two
Women have half the brains of a man. It’s a fact.
—A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, founder of ISKON
If Parvatibai took Bhairavi to be a working girl, she had cause.
‘You are away all day,’ she said. ‘Any idea how many times people going up there, ring our bell by mistake?’
‘The girls too? Or just customers?’ Ernst asked.
‘What do you mean? Really! If you must know, yes. What a question. Ever so often some new whore forgets her floor and shows up here. Why not move to a more respectable building?’
Ernst was on the fourth floor at the mildewed Karim Court, with a whorehouse one floor up at penthouse level—traditionally the landlord’s residence. Given that most of his tenants were protected under rent control, only the whorehouse made Karim Court worth his while. The landlord wa
s Khoja Muslim, a community with close ties to Gujaratis, Hindus, Parsis, and money. Aga Khan, the world’s grandest bon viviant, was the Khoja’s spiritual leader. Islam therefore took a back seat to commerce and a very liberal social intercourse. The Khoja Muslims couldn’t decide what they were, and that was just as well.
‘Who is she?’ Parvatibai wanted to know.
‘Oh her. No one. Works over at Fertilisers,’ Ernst said. ‘I had her come to help with the books and filing. Part-time. Our Munshiji is useless, I tell you. Doesn’t know what’s inside his own ledgers. ’
Parvatibai looked him up and down, making it clear she knew him inside out.
‘Also, she can help me with my Hindi.’
‘Your Hindi’s good enough for a gora.’
‘She needs the extra income. We should help her. If we don’t, who will?’
Parvatibai pointed upwards to suggest where the girl could go for extra income. ‘At least she’ll be paid hard cash.’ She sounded envious.
It got tiring, standing at the door like that. Parvatibai however, would barricade the dark mahogany doorway as a matter of course. Even Ernst didn’t warrant a free pass. A minor inquisition was mandatory before permitted inside. Today though, he felt decidedly unwelcome.
‘I don’t like all this.’ Parvatibai was emphatic. When upset, she lapsed into Marathi from the pidgin the two had fallen into over the decades. Parvatibai knew her place when Ernst brought home Willie’s wife those couple of times. Shameless sex between white people; there was nothing one could do about that. This though, this was unacceptable. Nevertheless, Ernst managed to squeeze past the hostile frame, trying his best to avoid those breasts. They were everywhere. He squirmed internally. It was like accidentally feeling up one’s sister.