Bombay Swastika

by Braham Singh

  Johnny Walker started to get pushy, what with the Deputy Commissioner providing non-verbal encouragement—a bob of the head, the flick of an eyebrow. Sethji watched the shoving and pushing from the entrance.

  ‘Where will they bury those pipes?’ Ernst asked a Paranjpe trying to be invisible in plain view. The Seth must have heard, because he looked at Ernst as if at a complete moron. It dawned that yes, for all the enlightenment from Andhi Ma and the education imparted by Goddess Bhairavi, he was still a moron. Just as, for all his wealth, the Seth remained a cheap fuck.

  ‘You are not burying them at all, are you?’ Ernst asked.

  Paranjpe squirmed and managed to go invisible, leaving the floor to his overlord.

  ‘Do they look defective to you, Mr. Ernestji?’ the Seth asked. ‘They may not be for use here, but for elsewhere, they are first class. You should know. They are yours, after all. Besides, too many to just throw away. Such wastage would be unforgivable. This is not Europe or America where you use once, then recklessly discard.’

  ‘They’re radioactive. They have been carrying a plutonium-uranium solution. Does Atomic Energy know you plan to resell them?’

  ‘The correct question, Mr. Ernestji, is do they care?’

  ‘Do those men know what they’re handling?’

  ‘Once again, what do they care? ’

  He had a point. It was an established fact what you couldn’t see, wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘You should go inside,’ the Seth suggested.

  Johnny Walker crowded Ernst, his sweaty body pressing the Seth’s invitation. From behind them, Mohan Driver tapped at his watch. Searching around for Hanson, Ernst found the Texan staring at the desi Viet Minh carrying radioactive pipes. He waited for Hanson to say something. Do something.

  Hanson stared for a bit more, just making sure what he thought he was witnessing, was what he was actually witnessing. Then his eyes glazed. He backed off from the radioactive pipes, from the Indians lugging them with bare hands, and from India. He did not stop until safe in an American frame of mind. Just then, Adam Sassoon’s silver Mercedes rolled up and parked behind the truck. Sassoon’s face lit up like a full moon.

  ~

  If Adam Sassoon looked distracted all of a sudden, that’s because the world stopped for him when Goddess Bhairavi stepped out from his Mercedes Benz. Ernst knew how that must feel.

  Looking at her, Sassoon appeared stoked after what must have been a terrible day. She seemed to have an effect on Johnny Walker too, who froze, allowing Ernst to wriggle free. Ernst saw Hanson walk rapidly to where the Krypton-85 gas detector lay. He seemed to have recovered from the shock seeing actual human beings handle radioactive pipes with their bare hands.

  Ernst beat him to it. Approaching the gas detector, he aimed and kicked. He kicked it again like a football, his eyes on the Texan, who flinched on cue.

  ‘You need the readings, don’t you?’ Ernst asked him. ‘As justification for sabotaging a nuclear facility? Or someone could pull a Nichols on you. Is that why you wanted it back so badly?’

  Nothing Hanson said would have made any difference so Ernst kicked again, harder. He kept kicking and even in his enfeebled state those were serious kicks. He kept at it—kicking away at the Krypton-85 gas detector—and maybe he remembered Chhote Bhai slapping the young Arjun demanding: you bleddy well hand it over. Or, it could be the gorilla with those sharp scissors and orders to kill. Maybe, it was on behalf of Salim Ali that he kicked so hard, or could be for the country that had taken him in, no questions asked, but he kept kicking and wouldn’t stop.

  No one stepped up to end what could easily be stopped by shoving aside an ill, old Jew gone mad, whose loose shirt billowed in the non-existent breeze as he kicked away at an inanimate object. Johnny Walker grabbed at him only after he was done with the dead machinery. The exhausted Ernst saw Hanson beckon the policeman as if he was running the show. He pointed to Ernst and then at the Phoenix building.

  ‘Are you very worried, Mr. Ernest,’ asked Johnny Walker, reading his mind, ‘that if you go inside, you may not come out?’

  Very worried? He wouldn’t go that far, but he did see himself all lit up and settling in a stainless steel vessel brimming with Bhabha’s radioactive, Italian salad dressing. Cancer eating away his insides and he had problems with a quick ending? For the second time in a few days, Johnny Walker looked more saviour than villain. He should place his arms around the policeman’s shoulders and stroll in to be reprocessed.

  But there was that oily smell again, and this time he noticed it coming from the dirt pyramids, lining the verge as they came closer to the elongated building. It again triggered images from Waller’s surgery. It was the same musky smell of snakes. Noon heat, earth piled into pyramids, and upturned mud everywhere. Leaves too, collected into piles and perfect for hiding from the sun. Ernst stepped to the edge of a pile like Waller would, and heard a rustle. Waller would have poked in there to bring out a garden-variety snake and pin it down with his stick. Instead, Ernst used his foot to scatter the leaves.

  Johnny Walker didn’t notice the danger, too busy shouting in Marathi. Ernst made out a demand for fucking instructions on what to do with this old coot once inside the Phoenix building. Did that fucking Paranjpe take him—Johnny Walker—to be a nuclear scientist? How to dispose off the bhenchod ?

  Paranjpe turned visible to address the issue, and it was with a look of deep regret. The look made it clear he would never have been party to any of this, if not for the money.

  He signalled for Johnny Walker to follow him and the policeman shoved again at Ernst who stumbled against the leaves, scattering them some more. When Johnny Walker stepped on the leaves behind him, the snake that slithered out was just under four foot, enough to strike terror. Ernst recognised the beautifully ornamented, olive-brown back from Waller’s glass vitrines. Ill and tired and weak and feverish, he took it to be a Bandied Racer, or that’s what Waller called Sion Hospital’s harmless rat snakes.

  Resting peacefully moments ago, camouflaged within dead leaves, the snake looked pissed. And what with the desi Ho Chi Minh Trail confusing it further with shuffling feet, its triangular head swelled and one could easily mistake the large nostrils for eyes. Forming an S, it raised itself to almost half its length, hissing. Ernst didn’t know a snake could hiss this loud, but did know rat snakes were harmless. So he remained calm even after it lifted itself and flew at Johnny Walker, who squealed like a pig seeing it go straight for his leg. Ernst remembered how Waller once pinned a startled rat snake in the hospital compound, pinched it from just behind its neck and held the whipping reptile with panache. Nothing to it, he had said, and people ran. For once, Ernst wished the old bastard were around.

  The snake went for Johnny Walker’s leg with jaws wide open to 180 degrees. Without thinking, Ernst grabbed its tail as it flew and yanked at it hard, but not before the two-inch fangs sank into Johnny Walker’s calf. Tail in hand, Ernst twirled it for want of a better resolution, ripping the snake off the trouser leg. He could hear the terrified reptile hiss, its pinkish-green tongue smelling the air.

  Everything came to a standstill and he saw the Seth freeze. Hanson too, and Sassoon seemed to forget he was keeping a Goddess waiting. As for the Deputy Commissioner, he could be watching a movie. And whether he meant to or not, whether accidental or after all those years, whether without thinking or to make a long overdue point like with the jacket, Ernst aimed for Adam Sassoon before letting go .

  Sassoon’s forearm rose to deflect the wriggly arrow, snagging it instead, the fangs burying deep into royal, Baghdadi skin. The four feet of plump, eel-like, brown muscle flailed as the triangular head chomped down. Like so many others that day, the snake too must have decided this was the last straw, because it didn’t let go even with Sassoon tugging hard while keeping his royal head together, refusing to yell or behave in any way like that darkie screaming from behind Ernst.

  Turns out, Johnny Walker decided he was going to die. Dr. Waller had o
nce explained how people bitten by harmless snakes develop psychosomatic symptoms even when no venom had been injected. Johnny Walker being case in point—hyperventilating, with his hands and feet in spasms. By now, he had also developed the clammy hue one associated with a slowing heart rate. When the Deputy Commissioner ripped off Johnny Walker’s trouser leg a vital few minutes later, the area around the snakebite was discoloured and swollen. There was blistering around the bite—like little flowers they were, those blisters, and already beginning to go up his leg in a straight line. The Deputy Commissioner was yelling—all Indian now, the strict discipline over ‘V’s and ‘W’s shot to hell, and being German, Ernst could empathise.

  ‘Vere’s the bhenchod jeep?’

  Staring at the little red flowers creep up Johnny Walker’s leg it dawned on Ernst that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t psychosomatic and that wasn’t a rat snake. He may have chucked a Russell’s Viper at Adam Sassoon.

  ~

  Mohan Driver called out from behind the stalled human conveyor belt of radioactive pipes. He pointed at a Tempo pulling up next to the ticking Tata. It carried a full load of Mallus.

  The Malayalee Ocean poured on the pavement. Ernst recognised his Goregaon workshop staff, and they appeared all prepared for a Santa Cruz send-off for their boss; ready with the garlands, the packet of red powder for dotting his forehead, the Rolleiflex camera. He wanted to tell them he wasn’t even packed .

  The Malayalee Ocean also served a more immediate purpose. It started roaring in testosterone-laden Malayalam, confusing the Deputy Commissioner who took cover behind the police jeep that showed up to rush Johnny Walker to the Haffkine Institute for polyvalent antivenom. It was the one thing that did the trick when it came to Russell’s Vipers and there was only one place in Bombay you could get it. Haffkine was a good ten to fifteen minutes south from Sion without traffic.

  All this time, Ernst’s stumbling around, holding himself up like a wilted flower. He barely managed to walk up to Jack Hanson. Squinting at the giant American, and on behalf of Salim Ali and every other Indian, he said, ‘You fucking bhenchod.’ Then, he went slumped against Mohan Driver.

  Sassoon on his part, was laid out on the lawn and dead still. The Russell’s Viper had detached itself to make loud hissing noises and scare the shit out of everyone, before slithering away into the grass. The great man needed immediate medical attention and Goddess Bhairavi was seen hurrying towards the supine King of the Jews, even as the Deputy Commissioner’s task force came up to remove him to the jeep leaving for Haffkine right away. Bitten on the arm, Sassoon had even less time than Johnny Walker if he were to make it.

  Mohan Driver took the stumbling Ernst to the one-eyed Fiat and tried shoving him in. Not easy, because Ernst kept shoving back, waiting for Goddess Bhairavi to pass by. She did, ignoring him once again; those big, Indian eyes just for Sassoon. She did, however, put her arse up on display, swaying her hips the way women with that special something do. Understandable then, if Ernst did not at first notice the Golog sword held flat against the back of her wrist.

  50

  Krishna’s Muslim Hordes

  You say Allah, I say Krishna,

  Only one can be right,

  Although both may be wrong.

  —The sufi who lost his way

  It was a clear getaway past AEET’s North Gate, and up the four-lane Central Avenue until they hit Atomic Ganesh heading out for his confirmed appointment with Thana Creek. Mohan Driver was certain about one other thing. ‘Touch and go,’ he said. ‘Touch and go.’ He had nothing else left to offer, except that, ‘The traffic at Chembur Naka will fuck us like a Sikh.’

  Mohan Driver tried a manoeuvre, the crowd snarled. The one-eyed Fiat buckled like a spooked bronco. Ernst didn’t have the energy to protest. They inched on at Ganesh’s pace. He anyway decided everything for you. With that thought, Ernst slumped back. Goddess Bhairavi had left him drained. Ahead, the float with Atomic Ganesh raised its huge arse to one side, like Mohan Driver about to fart, and the one-eyed Fiat lunged past. The crowd swore but held its peace, and they were on Trombay Road in no time, starting to inch forward once again behind another Ganesh statue. Following Ganesh into Thana Creek and to never surface again, appeared just the thing to do.

  When Ernst rolled down his window for air, Mohan Driver said to the rear-view mirror, ‘Don’t worry, Sa’ab. Just sit back. We’ll make it. I am there for you. ’

  When he coughed up blood, Mohan Driver said, ‘Good, you’re going to Europe. They will fix you up over there in no time. Not like here.’

  When Mohan Driver averted his eyes, Ernst silently begged, ‘Please don’t cry. For my sake.’ The famous RK Studios arose on the right, a mildewed block of grey concrete. To the left, a tract of forest stood cleared; another Government colony had decided to come up while he was busy dying of cancer.

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘Forget all that now. Focus on getting well. Pray to Bhairavi.’

  That brought him back to Bhairavi standing above Adam Sassoon with that other Golog sword—the one DCP Jahagirdar wanted so badly after Gomes got killed. Sassoon’s eyes were glazed going into shock from lack of blood flow. Ernst remembered Waller’s lesson on Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation and the thrashing Russell’s Viper he used to make the case. Left to Dr. Dicky Waller, Sassoon’s death certificate would probably say, ‘Buggered by DIC.’ Sion Medical students should thank their de facto Dean for an unforgettable acronym.

  Ernst had watched little red flowers blossom on Sassoon’s arm around the bite, just like the ones that had taken over Johnny Walker’s leg. The next time Ernst looked, the flowers had crept up the great man’s arm.

  Then the great man vomited.

  Then his face had swelled.

  Then blood trickled from his eyes, nose, then gums. His face was Middle Eastern now, Semitic features to the fore. As if all the British in him was being bled away.

  Soon, the body would be one big sepsis if Goddess Bhairavi didn’t let help approach; so she didn’t. She had hovered over him with sword held up as a warning to any and all inclined to assist the dying man. Only when Sassoon was over and done with, did she stand down to go approach the Deputy Commissioner. He was alone now, his jeep having given up on Sassoon and rushed off with the uniformed Johnny Walker and his sidearm.

  ‘Uncle!’ she called out .

  The Deputy Commissioner couldn’t tear his eyes off the Golog he’d been trying to find ever since someone gutted Gomes. Seeing her approach, sword in hand, he must have regretted Deputy Commissioners don’t come standard with a holstered Webley. Rather than panic, he wagged his finger at a naughty girl.

  ‘I can have you arrested, you know.’

  ‘Why Uncle?’ Goddess Bhairavi asked. ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

  He didn’t know what to do with that and whether she intended to keep it that way. One could see him doing Indian math, the way Ernst had calculated feverishly to try save Salim Ali that day in the DCP’s office, and failed.

  When DCP Jahagirdar’s time came, there was no fuss or tamasha. Drawing up close, all she said was, ‘For my Arjun,’ and drove the Golog through his uniform and up to the hilt. No sword dance, no nothing and just pulling away after that, waiting for the Deputy Commissioner to sort out what had just happened. He had looked nonplussed in the face of someone other than the police committing a murder. Eventually, he sank to his knees with a whoosh of expelled air, and she removed this Deputy Commissioner’s cap with its Ashoka Chakra and one star, chucking it to the ground.

  ‘Salim Ali!’ Goddess Bhairavi shouted while beheading DCP Jahagirdar with a single, practised stroke, making the name sounded like a Hindu war cry. Then she turned to the Seth. Seeing the Goddess approach, sword in one hand, and the Deputy Commissioner’s head dripping from the other, Sethji took off. No fat man could run as fast as he did that day, but eventually she had caught up.

  ~

  Ernst felt his spine jar as the one-eyed
Fiat lurched forward and for a while there was nothing. Then, Sindhi Camp came in the way. Blocked and tackled by Ganesh’s vanguard, for once Mohan Driver refrained from doing his ‘I-told-you’ routine in the rear-view mirror. Loudspeakers blared, neon blasted them with Technicolour, and jhopadpatti kids danced around one Ganesh statue after another, while Sindhi refugee kids just watched. They didn’t have the moves, and wouldn’t risk a display. He would miss this place—the colour, the kids, the heat, the people, the rampant radioactivity.

  ‘We can still make it, Sa’ab. If I know Parvatibai, she must have had everything packed and ready by now.’ That being the first time in thirty years Mohan Driver had anything positive to say about Parvatibai. Must be because I look like shit. He felt like shit. Going past Jhama Sweetmeats, Ernst saw a somewhat recovered Lala Prem buying sweetmeats, and he had his first glimpse of heaven in the Lala’s eyes as they ate up dancing jhopadpatti boys.

  The Golf Club crawled by to their right. He felt he should shout out to all the goras he was leaving behind; remind them not to inhale while teeing off—the ammonia guaranteed to make you slice. Then there was the leaking radiation only those blind could see—keep an eye out for it, but don’t go overboard. This is India and one carries on. So what if your surroundings glow in the dark? Ignore it like Indians do, and all will be fine. Which left some other minor dos and don’ts like: don’t glaze your eyes while passing a beggar, and do try to love this country you live in. He realised they weren’t moving. Someone had aspirated all the oxygen and things were a blur.

  The slow crawl was heating up the one-eyed Fiat. He would have to leave behind something extra for imminent repairs. The Mian Building was ahead and Mohan Driver primed to turn right. Salim Ali’s blind mother was on the balcony looking down instead of looking vacant. Vashigaon Road though, looked clear all the way to Chembur Naka with no Ganesh, no singing and dancing, no crowds. Not even cars. Mohan Driver whooped, unaware he was up against blind fate.