A Curious Indian Cadaver

by Shamini Flint

  Suddenly, she was angry. “Why are you making this my fault? You said that our marriage would break your mother’s heart. What choice did I have – do I have?”

  “We would have found a way,” he muttered uncertainly.

  She looked up and noticed the worn poster for an old movie on a curve of the rampart. It was not difficult to guess the subject matter of the tale – star-crossed lovers, family misunderstandings, a brother gone bad and finally, after a few exuberantly choreographed dance numbers with much hip-shaking and breast-bouncing, a happy ending.

  Her life had all the ingredients of a Bollywood movie except the happy ending.

  She took Sameer’s hands in hers and let the teardrops fall unchecked. “I cannot break my mother’s – or grandfather’s – heart. It is better that we both learn to accept that.” As she said it, she wondered whether the accusation that Tyler had levelled against her grandfather changed anything. The bride-to-be shook her head and strands of hair whipped her cheeks. It was all too much to bear. Ashu was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she did not hear a car slow down on Marine Drive.

  ♦

  The taxi drew up in front of a most imposing building. The last time Singh had seen it, on television, the façade had been marred by scorch marks, black smoke billowed angrily from windows and heavily armed military and police personnel surrounded the place.

  “The Taj hotel,” he breathed.

  “Taj Mahal Palace hotel,” she corrected.

  “What are we doing here?” He was suddenly irritable. “Unless you are overestimating a police inspector’s pay cheque?”

  “I could never do that,” retorted his wife. She smiled suddenly, a rare occurrence in their interactions. “This is a surprise for you. The girl’s grandfather has arranged for all the overseas relations to stay here.”

  Singh nodded thoughtfully. It was not an unheard-of custom, of course. His own wife’s parents had housed the relatives who had descended on Singapore for their wedding all those uncountable years ago. But that had been at the YMCA.

  The doors to the taxi were flung open by doormen in white gloves, silk shirts and turbans of immense size. Bellboys dressed like throwbacks to the Moghul era unloaded the boot. Singh eased himself out of the vehicle with relief and craned his neck to get a view of the hotel frontage. It had Moorish domes like the old railway stations in Kuala Lumpur, massive bay windows which reminded him of the Raffles in Singapore, and a hundred other exquisite details from balconies to spires that were all its own. The doorman ushered them into the foyer with a flourish. Singh looked up at the vaulted alabaster ceilings littered with crystal chandeliers. Underfoot, far too grand a base for his grubby sneakers, were plush carpets that shimmered and changed shade as he walked towards reception. How did one keep carpets clean in Mumbai?

  An exquisite young lady in a silk printed turquoise sari did her best to slip a garland of jasmine flowers around his neck but he fought her off with vigour. Inspector Singh of the Singapore police did not wear flowers, however sweet-smelling. Mrs. Singh subjected herself to the floral welcome with more grace.

  The inspector turned to his wife who was prosaically rifling in her handbag for their passports. “So what does this grandfather do? I never knew you were from a wealthy family.” He made it sound like an accusation.

  “Would I be married to you if my father had this money? No, her other grandfather is the rich one. He is the industrialist – Tara Singh.”

  Singh looked blank so she continued accusingly, “His name is always in the newspapers. He gives away a lot of money to charity and supports Sikh causes.”

  “Maybe we could persuade him that I’m a Sikh cause.”

  His wife ignored this interjection as not meriting a response and said, “Ashu’s father died when she was young so she was dependent on her grandfather for everything. They say he treats her like his own daughter.”

  Their passports were discreetly examined, rooms assigned and they were magicked away by a bellhop who spent fifteen minutes showing them where the light switches, Internet connection and bathroom accessories were located. The inspector’s eyes lit up when he was finally directed to the well-stocked mini-bar.

  Singh felt in his pocket, found a few torn and stained rupees, handed them over and was thanked in a tone which carried so much disdain that he suspected that he’d failed to meet the minimum tipping threshold. Still, he wasn’t a wealthy American tourist or even a successful Sikh entrepreneur like this Tara Singh. Singh kicked off his trainers, peeled off his socks and sauntered to the windows, curling his toes into the thick carpet as he went.

  “Come and look at this,” he insisted to his wife who was unpacking the clothes and carefully arranging them in the immense wardrobe.

  They both looked out at the churning sea, the harbour littered with small boats and large ferries. In the foreground, right on the waterfront, was a massive pastel yellow arch – the Gateway of India.

  “It was built to welcome King George V when he visited India,” explained his well-briefed, Google-friendly wife.

  “They didn’t think a bunch of flowers would do?” asked Singh.

  “Anyway, it was only completed twelve years after the visit.”

  Singh grinned. That was the sort of managerial incompetence that he found amusing. He abandoned the view, picked up the newspapers and looked at the various headlines. A minister had been accused of corruption in a newspaper sting. There had been encroachments by Pakistani troops over the line of control in Kashmir. Editorials solemnly urged the government to adopt a firm stance. Right, thought Singh. Two nuclear powers adopting a ‘firm’ stance was definitely the right way forward.

  Farmers had been committing suicide in large numbers as their crops failed because of a severe drought in the northern states. Global warming was to blame according to scientists and the government had promised tough climate goals. Next to the article was another one, lauding the Tata Nano, the ‘one lakh’ car. No one seemed inclined to point out the contradiction between reducing global warming and sticking a bunch of cheap cars on the road. Humanity was doomed, decided Singh, which made his job of hunting down individual murderers particularly pointless. He needed an arrest warrant for car manufacturers and government officials. Perhaps he would put in a request to Superintendent Chen when he got back.

  Singh read on, oblivious to the newsprint ink on his fingers. The army had confessed that a shipment of C4 had gone missing from a munitions depot but they were optimistic about recovering the explosives before the goods ‘fell into the wrong hands’. Singh sighed. There was something to be said for the ‘no news is good news’ approach of the Singapore dailies. Certainly, an ordinary day’s worth of news in the Straits Times, tucked in between the advertisements for supermarket chains, cheap holidays and miraculous slimming treatments, didn’t look quite like this.

  “Half the articles assume I know all the background already. And what’s wrong with prepositions?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Listen to this – ‘Title judgment expected in second land dispute between mosque officials and temple priests in Maharashtra next week. Police urge all parties to be calm and respect judgment of court as in Babri Masjid case.’ What are they talking about?”

  “Babri Masjid case is very famous.”

  Singh ignored the implied criticism and nodded at his wife to carry on the tale.

  “Mosque was built on a holy Hindu site during the Moghul period. Birthplace of Lord Ram.”

  “Birthplace of a god? You’re joking, right?”

  “Many riots after Babri mosque was destroyed by Hindu activists in 1992. Thousands killed, especially in Gujarat. But now Allahabad high court has ordered that the land be shared between Hindu and Moslem parties.”

  “Solomon’s choice,” said Singh brightly.

  His wife ignored him. “In the end there was no violence when verdict came out.”

  Singh looked at the newspapers. “Well, that must have
made a change.”

  His wife didn’t like the implied criticism of her beloved India. “Lots of tensions in India between Hindus and Moslems,” she said, but whether by way of explanation or exculpation Singh wasn’t sure. “All that man’s fault.”

  “Who?” asked Singh genuinely puzzled that his wife had found a single party to blame for decades of violence.

  “Jinnah!” she snapped, referring to one of the authors of partition and Pakistan’s first prime minister.

  “I think you’ll find he had help.”

  His wife ignored this heresy.

  “Now another land dispute verdict is coming. This time mosque is in Maharashtra. Jama Masjid.”

  The fat man shrugged his fleshy shoulders, retrieved a can of Kingfisher beer from the mini-bar and flung himself onto the bed that was made up with crisp white sheets and an embroidered brocade bedspread. He snapped open the can and let the bubbly gold liquid wet his parched throat. He wished Superintendent Chen could see him now and then changed his mind quickly. He wouldn’t have put it past his superior officer to summon him back and assign him to a case if he saw his inspector nestled so comfortably in the lap of luxury. Singh wanted to get back to work, but not that desperately.

  ♦

  The goondas had chosen their ambush point well. The only creature watching proceedings was a glossy crow with its head on one side and an expression of indifference on its face. Sameer had been lost in his own worried thoughts, a maze with no escape route. But that had been a mental trap. Now he was in a physical one and he’d walked in without paying any attention to his surroundings, without sensing the danger. He could have kicked himself but knew he didn’t need to bother. The three men in a semi-circle, all of them in the crouch that predicated an attack, were about to punish him well for his lapse of concentration. He backed away slowly until his back was against a wall, looked at the men, looked at the gaps between them. They had the angles covered. He wasn’t going to be able to make a run for it. The man at the apex took a step forward and his sidekicks stepped in as if they were wired together.

  “I don’t want to fight,” said Sameer in an agreeable tone as if it was the most ordinary statement in the world. “If you need money, I’ll give you what I have. It’s not much.” He gestured to his pocket, inviting permission to retrieve his wallet.

  “We don’t want your stinking money,” spat out one of the men who looked as if he’d been put together in a hurry by a blind bricklayer.

  Great. This was personal. They weren’t after his money, they were after him. Sameer was prepared to bet he knew who had sent them. He looked around, wondered whether to shout for help. Although it was still daylight, they were in a narrow road in the deep shadows of buildings. He could smell blocked drains and rotten fruit. The sides were like prison walls, high and stained with peeling paint, graffiti and the inevitable political posters and advertisements featuring Amitabh Bachchan. Didn’t the old man have enough money already?

  Sameer flexed his fingers and raised his hands palm up. It gave him some protection from a sudden blow but didn’t look aggressive. Truth be told, he doubted that he could turn these guys from their purpose. They looked as keen as mustard, spoiling for a fight, the paan stains on their lips like blood. They’d been well paid, he guessed. But they might underestimate him if he looked suitably cowed.

  “We’ve been sent to teach you a lesson,” said the leader.

  “Your boss too afraid to do his own dirty work?” Sameer’s tone was flippant. At this stage, it was worth annoying them. Anger might cloud their judgment, impair their reflexes.

  “He doesn’t want to soil his hands on rubbish like you, bhai chod.”

  They’d been circling closer as they spoke. Sameer watched them carefully, rocking back slightly on the balls of his feet. He knew they’d come in together. Why ruin the odds? He looked for the signal from the leader, a wave of the hand, a nod of the head. Anything so that he would have that split-second warning – whatever good it was going to do him. Despite watching, he missed it. They rushed in as one.

  He dodged, feinted, tried to strike, aiming somewhere soft like the lips or nose. Three against one. He wasn’t even getting close. He air-punched in the best tradition of Bollywood – he could almost hear the ‘dish, dish’ soundtrack as his fist whistled past a cheek. Sameer tried to stay on his feet, lashed out some more. He wondered if they’d been given instructions to work him over or whether the family wanted him out of the picture – completely. Either way, he didn’t want to rely on the restraint of these men. He dodged a blow that would have put him on the deck. Once he was down, he was dead. They were taunting him, he could see their lips move, ugly twisted mouths. But he couldn’t hear past the blood pounding in his veins. A punch caught him on the side of the head. Sameer felt his neck snap to one side, his ear explode in pain. But he was still on his feet. He whirled around, arms raised to protect his head, tried a shoulder charge. The leader swept his legs from under him. His last thought as he fell was that it had been a smooth move, a trained move. Nothing but the best for his enemies it would seem. Then he was curled up on the patchwork road, feeling the blows rain down on his back and shoulders. The pain from each kick exploded in his brain like firecrackers. Colourful spots swam before his eyes. And then, mercifully, everything went black.

  Three

  “Enough sleeping. Time to go.”

  “Go where?” muttered Singh, opening a heavy eyelid and reaching for the remote control.

  “Visit the family, of course. Or why do you think we’re here in Mumbai?”

  Singh was not impressed with this energy. “I’ve just found a cricket channel,” he pointed out, waving an arm in the general direction of the television. “Mumbai Indians playing.”

  “Mumbai Indians?” asked his wife.

  “A bit oxymoronic,” he agreed, “but a great team.”

  “You can watch a replay later.”

  How had he come to marry a woman who did not appreciate the difference between a ‘live’ game and a dull replay for which he would already know the result? The same way this Ashu Kaur was marrying ‘an MBA’, he supposed: with eyes closed and fingers crossed and very little information about their soon-to-be spouse save for skin colour and educational qualifications. The inspector sighed, a gentle rolling sound. He should have insisted all those years ago that the matchmakers found him a wife with a fondness for cricket. On the other hand, Mrs. Singh was already a formidable creature – was placing a heavy willow bat in her hands really a good idea? Singh, chewing on his bottom lip, decided that he preferred a wife who could cook over one who could bat.

  He clambered out of bed, huffing and puffing like a mountaineer tackling the last ascent on Everest. “I need a cigarette,” he said wistfully.

  “In this hotel?”

  Singh eyed the smoke alarms discreetly tucked into the ceiling. After their terrifying encounter with terrorists who had invaded the hotel, murdered indiscriminately and holed themselves up in a corner before fighting a last stand with the police, the hotel probably had a ‘shoot to kill’ policy if anyone set off an alarm.

  “Anyway, you cannot have a cigarette in front of the family.”

  Singh nodded. Even he, with his disregard for protocol, wouldn’t dare light up in a Sikh home in Mumbai. He’d heard horror stories from his wife of Sikh men, foolish enough to smoke in public in India, being harangued by strangers. It was quite possible that Mrs. Singh had made up these tales to frighten him – he wouldn’t put such underhand tactics past her – but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  “Where is their place, anyway?”

  “Not that far – Colaba district.”

  “How do we get there?”

  He had his answer soon enough. Standing together on the road outside the hotel, they were bombarded with the usual offers of transport.

  “Let’s take an auto rickshaw,” said Singh, feeling a sudden intrepidity in an alien land. It was probably the beer talking. “We’ll see
more of Mumbai.”

  Again he was disappointed. “No autos in city, saar,” said one of the solicitous drivers. “Phased out. Only in Bandra.”

  “This effort to clean up Mumbai has removed all the adventure,” complained Singh petulantly as he stared after two young men, in stone-washed jeans and polyester long-sleeved shirts, walking along with their arms draped affectionately over each other’s shoulders. Homosexuality was largely ignored or denied in Indian society. But apparently, friendly physical contact between heterosexual men was completely acceptable. Perhaps it was because contact with women was frowned upon. Maybe young unmarried men had no choice but to walk around arm in arm or hug their mothers if they desired physical human contact. He nudged his wife, hoping to draw her attention to the pair, but she was still considering their transport needs.

  “No autos but you want adventure? OK, then – we’ll try non-AC.”

  Singh, having belated second thoughts, nodded dubiously and demanded of the nearest fellow, “How much – Colaba.”

  “Three hundred rupees, saar.”

  “I checked in the hotel,” whispered his wife. “It shouldn’t be more than one hundred rupees to get there.”

  “It’s still a pittance,” argued Singh. Were they really going to haggle about a few dollars? He’d rather get on with it. He might be back in time to watch the second half of the cricket if they hurried.

  “If you’re not careful, everyone will cheat you,” said his wife, shooing away the driver with a firm hand.

  The next fellow demanded two hundred rupees but Mrs. Singh was determined to stand her ground.

  “Sat sri akal, bhai. Good day to you. I will be taking you with great pleasure.”

  Both Inspector Singh and his wife turned around to see who had greeted them in Punjabi instead of Hindi or Marathi.

  An enormous Sikh man in a grey turban that brushed the roof of his taxi continued loudly in English, “Come, come. Nothing to wait for here. You can trust me. The Sikh must take care of the Sikh and I am your brother. Tua-day naalmil ke khushi hoi hai.”