A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  Still, the food was bound to be good, spicy curries galore, if he could avoid getting ill with ‘Mumbai belly’ or ‘Delhi belly’ or ‘whichever part of India you happened to be’ belly. He would avoid her relatives in the same way he’d always done – by sitting irascibly in a corner and allowing their waves of curiosity to wash over him.

  The sound of the flaps caused Singh to clutch his seat in sudden terror. He peered out of the window, trying to gauge the distance to the ground, and was astonished and momentarily distracted by what he saw. In every direction, punctuated randomly with crumbling concrete structures, spread a vast shanty town, the predominant colours of which were rust and festive patches of blue. He suddenly realised that the blue was industrial tarpaulin, used like Scotch tape to plug holes, drape gaps and cover leaking roofs. In another world, like Singapore, the flashes of blue would have been the swimming pools of rich men.

  As they descended, Singh spotted piles of empty bottles on roofs and clothes flapping on lines. Were they actually going to land on these shacks? Just as he considered adopting the brace position of his own free will, he saw the boundary fence of the airport. The slum reached right up to the perimeter. In fact, the policeman saw clothes drying on the fence itself, flapping in the wind and the engine blowback.

  Singh was distracted by a strong and unpleasant smell that suddenly pervaded the airplane. He sniffed cautiously, protruding nostril hairs quivering. It didn’t smell like burning fuel or melting plastic or any of those olfactory sensations that would have caused him to make a dash for the exits.

  He turned to Mrs. Singh who was reading the in-flight magazine with the disdain of one who preferred to Google her subjects rather than have them pre-selected by an editor.

  “What’s that stink?” he whispered.

  “India,” she answered succinctly and then turned her attention back to a gleaming picture of the Taj Mahal resplendent in its manicured gardens, its reflection shimmering in a lake, not a blue tarp in sight.

  Two

  “Sardarji, porter?”

  “Taxi?”

  “Cheap, fast? We go now!”

  “I am taking your bags, Sardarji.”

  “Aapka shubh naam kya hai? What is your good name? Can I be of extreme help to you?”

  “I can recommend very good hotel.”

  “Special price for you, Sardarji. Not tourist price!”

  Singh gripped the trolley on which his small bag and Mrs. Singh’s ample suitcase were perched with both hands and tried to look like a native of India. After all, he had the props for the part – the turban, the beard, the gut – except that the genuine article seemed able to peg him for a foreigner immediately. Perhaps it was the fear in his eyes that was visible to the observant. How else to explain the various solicitations being shouted at him as he used his trolley as a barricade? He would soon have to use it as a weapon. Maybe if he ran one of these fellows over the rest would give up trying to attract his attention with loud shouts and shirt tugs.

  The inspector took a deep breath – and regretted it immediately. The stench rested on the intense humidity as if it was a pedestal. Singh, waiting outside the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport – he didn’t think the name had much hope of becoming common parlance – decided that it was noxious enough to kill. He looked around and noticed that the residents of Mumbai seemed indifferent, or at least accustomed, to the odour. Foreign tourists were holding their hands over their mouths and noses. Most looked shell-shocked although that might have been the aggressive attentions of porters and taxi drivers all jostling for custom; poking, prodding, negotiating, discounting and generally harassing visitors. Singh noticed an intrepid fellow make off with a selection of bags over the protests of the owner, one under each arm, a third on one shoulder and two perched on his head. As he went, he was still able to waggle his fingers in a beckoning gesture. His would-be customer, faced with the prospect of losing his luggage completely, gave it up as a bad job and hurried after his self-appointed porter.

  Singh looked around and spotted a poster that read, “Do not spit. Spiting person will be fined.” Well, he could refrain from gobbing saliva all over the place but he was filled with spiteful feelings towards his wife who had left him to fend for himself in this alien land. Mrs. Singh had decided, much to her husband’s irritation, to visit the toilet – “What were you doing on the plane for seven hours?”

  Singh wiped his brow with the large handkerchief he kept for that purpose and felt the familiar sensation of sweat trickling from under the rim of his turban and down to his chin. His beard would soon reach saturation point and then the perspiration would drip like a leaky faucet.

  Mrs. Singh finally hove into view.

  “About bloody time,” he muttered. “These fellows have been trying to take our passports, our bags, our trolley – they’d have walked off with me balanced on their heads if you’d taken any longer.”

  “Strong but not that strong,” remarked Mrs. Singh, leading the way to the taxi rank.

  The inspector looked down at the pavement and stumbled backwards in fright.

  “What are you doing?” demanded his wife. He’d stepped on her toes with a heavy foot.

  “Bloodstains,” he whispered. “Everywhere. Must have been a massacre!”

  “Don’t be silly,” said his wife.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Paan.”

  “What?”

  “Paan – betel nut juice. Indians always chewing and spitting.”

  Singh stepped forward gingerly and peered myopically at the rusty stains. He supposed she was right. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed that the jaws of the people around him were moving with the measured rhythm of masticating cows.

  “Cool car?”

  “What?”

  “Cool car or non-AC?” demanded the gentleman at the booth for pre-paid taxis.

  “Err – cool car,” said Mrs. Singh, her usual sangfroid shaken by this choice between two incomprehensible options.

  Singh glowered at her but followed meekly in her footsteps. She was the old India hand, not him, prone to making a visit every few years to see her relatives and stock up on salwar kameez. Their driver was a swarthy, pock-marked fellow. He wore a formerly white shirt stained with unidentifiable fluids. The henna red hair dye didn’t improve matters either in the policeman’s considered opinion. He hoped at least that their taxi would be the famous Ambassador that had plied Indian streets for decades. That would cheer him up. Black and yellow with the rounded curves of a beautiful woman. He was keen to meet that old stalwart of Indian transport. He was to be disappointed.

  The ‘cool car’ turned out to be a pint-sized brand new blue and white Maruti Suzuki.

  “I’m not sure I’m going to fit,” he complained. “And what about the luggage?”

  “Must just be squeezing a little. Tata Nano is even smaller, Sardarji!”

  “No Ambassador?” he asked plaintively.

  “Phased out, saar.”

  Singh grunted his disappointment. All this industrialisation and development that his wife kept harping on about apparently meant that the famous old vehicle had been consigned to the scrapheap. What else had India lost in its desire to impress Mrs. Singh?

  “What sort of car is that?” he asked, pointing at the masses of black and yellow taxis plying the same route. They were ramshackle but at least had a bit of character.

  “Fiat Padmini. But not AC cab.” He continued proudly, “This is AC cab, saar” – which his wife whispered, although he’d worked it out, meant that it had air conditioning so the scent of Mumbai was excluded for the most part.

  To distract himself from the driver and the drive – they were now weaving between cars, trucks and auto rickshaws – he said, “So, tell me again – whose wedding are we attending?”

  He had to repeat the question, a few decibels louder. The driver was leaning on his horn with the intensity of a musician in the trumpet section of an orchestra. Singh
noted that many of the trucks had the words ‘horn, please, horn’ painted on the rear. And Indian drivers, unwilling to spurn such a polite request, were indeed horning and tooting with gusto.

  “I told you, my cousin’s daughter. Very smart girl. A scientist working for some big company here in Mumbai. And now they’ve found her a good boy.”

  A smart girl and a good boy. A match made in heaven. It was a curious element of Indian culture than men and women were still ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ until they had achieved the state of matrimony. So much for driving licences, the right to buy cigarettes or vote. None of these were sufficient indication of a graduation into adulthood. Only holy matrimony would do.

  “Who is he?” asked Singh, determined to keep his eyes on his wife and not the road which had narrowed from highway to backstreet. Stray dogs darted across at random intervals and the driver weaved cheerfully between piles of construction debris like a slalom skier. And to think, thought Singh bitterly, that he complained about the erratic habits of Singapore taxi drivers. The truth of the matter was that he was spoilt.

  “Whoa, man,” he yelled as the taxi swerved to avoid a placid but skinny cow and missed an auto, laden with an entire family, by a whisker.

  “Must not hit cow in Mumbai,” explained the driver, grinning and exposing red-stained teeth sprouting like weeds in his mouth.

  “Because the cow is sacred?” demanded Singh. He was concerned about the man’s priorities.

  “Yes, yes – you’re right, Sardarji – cow is sacred to Hindus. But also if we hit cow then riot will be starting and crowd will certainly kill us all.”

  Singh pinched the bridge of his nose and hoped fervently that the driver was exaggerating. He didn’t want to think that they had been millimetres away, not just from the cow, but from a lynch mob.

  They were suddenly transported from the carnage of the airport surrounds onto a twenty-first century bridge. Singh felt as if he’d slipped through an extra-large rabbit hole.

  “Worli Sea Bridge,” explained the driver.

  “You see how modern India is?” demanded his wife proudly.

  Hadn’t she noticed the first half-hour of their drive? The policeman kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to provoke an argument in the narrow confines of their ‘cool car’.

  Singh’s eye was drawn to a beautiful white dome and minaret that appeared to be floating in the sea.

  He tapped the driver on the shoulder and then regretted the physical contact. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Haji Ali mosque,” explained the driver. “Can only go there when is low tide, saar.”

  That didn’t sound very convenient to Singh. What happened if one got it wrong? Was death by drowning the largest killer amongst unsuspecting pilgrims?

  Mrs. Singh, who had been ignoring this interchange, now said, “An MBA.”

  “What?”

  “The boy is an MBA.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “You asked me about the boy my niece is marrying. Well, he’s an MBA – from a US university.”

  Singh could feel a headache coming on from the combination of the stress, smell and now his wife’s ability to define a prospective groom by his educational qualifications. It could be worse, he supposed. The girl would probably have been described by her skin colour, ‘fairness’ being an Indian obsession.

  “I meant what sort of person is he?”

  “How would I know that?” asked Mrs. Singh, sounding astonished. “I’ve never met him before.”

  “The girl then – what about her?”

  “My niece – Ashu Kaur.” She paused for a moment. “Very fair girl.”

  ♦

  “If I get caught, my relatives will have me flayed alive.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “A few days before the wedding, the bride’s not allowed to leave the house. I snuck out.”

  The girl with the long hair, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, looked profoundly disgusted. She shook her arm and the bangles, hidden by her sleeves, jangled noisily. “The choora ceremony is over, you see. They gave me the bangles.” She snorted. “Might as well be handcuffs, you know?”

  “I’m glad you came,” whispered the young man.

  “I just hope none of the servants saw me.” Ashu’s mind was still on her escape.

  “I’ve been waiting here, walking up and down…I had to see you,” he continued urgently.

  Sameer was a tall young man with swept-back dark hair and a slightly dissipated air, the consequence of a failure to shave and the dark shadows under his eyes. Ashu sat down next to him on the low wall that ran the length of Marine Drive. She reached out a hand and touched his cheek. The profoundly affectionate gesture was interrupted by the sound of her bangles rattling.

  “I wore a long-sleeved blouse just to cover these damned things – otherwise every Sikh busybody on the street will know that I’m betrothed. But now I sound like a street vendor. Kids will be asking me for ice cream next.”

  The man flung himself down on the rampart and stared moodily out to a sea which was choppy and almost grey, reflecting the turbulent winds and steel-coloured, rain-laden sky. Ashu followed his gaze and picked out a few fishing boats almost hidden in the mist and spray. The fishermen were desperate to haul in a catch for the avaricious buyers at Sassoon Docks regardless of the weather. Across the water, at an angle, she could see the fishing village with its upturned, gaily painted boats and reams of nets spread out across every available surface. It looked picturesque from a distance but she knew that up close it was almost indistinguishable from a slum.

  Sameer turned to the girl and seized her hand. “You can’t do this to us – to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Sameer – I have no choice.”

  “We have our whole future ahead of us and you’re destroying it.”

  Ashu smiled a little. It was Sameer’s passion for life – he was not a man for half-measures – that had first attracted her to him. That and, if she was honest, his astonishing good looks. But it hadn’t taken long, working side by side with him in the lab, for a friendship to blossom. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, a love so strong that it had the contrary effect of making her feel weak-kneed in his presence.

  She wondered whether she should tell Sameer that she’d sought help from Tanvir and decided against it. There was no point. He was already so resentful of the family that was keeping them apart – it would just make things worse. Nothing she could say would reconcile him to her decision to go through with the arranged marriage because she owed it to her mother and grandfather. How could she have anticipated that she would meet a colleague and fall in love with him?

  The memory of their work together in the lab reminded her of her other worry, forgotten in those first few minutes of seeing her love again.

  “Did you find out anything at the factory?” she asked.

  He sighed and ran thin long fingers through his hair. “Nothing yet. I’m still not convinced that you’re right.”

  She nodded. “I know – it seems impossible. I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “I’ll keep looking. I promised you that and I’m not one to break my word.” There was a wealth of bitterness in his voice.

  She added quickly, knowing he would be annoyed, “Before I came here, I went in to the office and spoke to Tyler.”

  “What? I asked you not to do that!”

  She didn’t respond, waiting for the flash of temper to subside. She knew him so well, knew exactly how long it would take for him to calm down again.

  “What was the reaction?” asked Sameer, a few moments later.

  “Not that happy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said he would stop me talking at all costs – wouldn’t let me destroy his reputation on a whim.”

  “A bunch of sick people is not a whim.”

  She smiled. “That’s what I said.”

  “Do you think he meant it?”
/>
  She raised two shoulders in a careless shrug. “What can he really do to stop me?” Far more of a concern was the other allegation Tyler had made – but that was something she was definitely not going to share with Sameer.

  “I want you to be careful,” he warned, his eyes darting about as if trying to spot unseen dangers.

  “I will.” She didn’t really think there was anything to worry about. It was a gesture to reassure Sameer. The gusts of wind tugged at her hair like a young child. Marine Drive was a common lovers’ rendezvous, in the public eye but with a sense of privacy. Hemmed in by the Arabian Sea – and the cement culverts that kept the water at bay – on one side and the fast-moving traffic on the other. It was late afternoon and uncomfortably warm so the ‘queen’s necklace’, as the Drive was sometimes called, was almost deserted. There were still a few men in long shorts, white shoes and black socks panting along the path, trying to lose their enormous overhanging stomachs. Ashu shook her head ruefully. Mumbai was one of the few places in India where sections of the population had weight problems.

  “Are you really going through with the wedding?” Sameer demanded, refusing to let the matter drop.

  “I don’t have any choice now.” She had meant to be distant, even cruel – to help this man that she loved forget about her. She’d told herself that she was coming to say goodbye – nothing more. But looking at him, drawn in by the intensity of his gaze, Ashu knew that she had been lying to herself. She dashed away teardrops with the back of an angry hand. She’d come out to see him because she couldn’t bear to do anything else. There was no way she could let go so easily, consign their relationship to the past. Would she be able to do so after she was married to another man? She felt a moment of pity for her unsuspecting groom. Still, there was no question in her mind that it was her grandfather’s wealth and status that had been uppermost in Kirpal’s mind when he’d agreed to marry her. After all, she thought bitterly, she was quite a catch.

  “You can’t marry him,” insisted her boyfriend.