The Easy Day Was Yesterday

by Paul Jordan

  An hour later, just prior to lock-down, Manish woke me and told me to go to the administration building. I staggered and stumbled into the administration rooms and could feel the resistance of the sleeping pill in my system that needed another seven hours of sleep time. I was directed by Gaz to the Warden’s office. Gaz told me to be sick because a medical board was waiting to assess me. ‘Thanks, mate,’ and I immediately slumped a little further and, with the support of the sleepers, I was in my element and really had my wobbly boot on. When I entered the Warden’s office there were two doctors, the prison doctor and Bala waiting for me. I was only wearing shorts, T-shirt and thongs. When they asked what my complaint was, I told them I had terrible headaches and felt as though I was having a heart attack — I just made that up because I had to say something. I also mentioned the horrible fungal infections and ringworm that had recently appeared on my skin. They took my blood pressure, which was a perfect 110 over 70, and my pulse was 60 — bloody hard to fake those. Then they listened to my heart and said everything was normal. ‘No,’ I said, ‘listen again,’ which they did with me trying to force the end of the stethoscope into my heart and then moving the end over my heart trying to find a murmur somewhere. Again, they declared my heart was fine. This wasn’t going too well. I watched as they wrote and read words like ‘suffocation’, ‘anorexia’, ‘malnutrition’ and ‘fungal attacks’. It then occurred to me that this was probably a done deal and, thanks to outside influence, I was getting a report that supported Debu-San’s claim about me being on death’s door. They dragged out the old scales that I’d stood on when I’d first come to prison and had been processed by Gaz and Manish. Then I had weighed 97 kilograms but now weighed 86 kilograms. I’d lost 11 kilograms in 16 days. I knew I’d lost some weight, but didn’t think it was that much. Eleven kilograms in 16 days is a bloody good effort — they couldn’t even do that on The Biggest Loser show. I could have lost more if I’d decided to eat the local food because I was sure that came with a side order of typhoid — that would have been the rapid weight loss program. Those fat people should just spend a few weeks in an Indian prison, drink water and only eat five or six biscuits per day and sleep the rest of the time; easy stuff and better than all those manic work-outs with those two sadistic personal trainers.

  They sent me back to the cage. When I left the administration building it was dark outside and the prisoners had been locked in for the night. As I staggered across the yard I wondered whether I had given them enough to be moved to the hospital. I decided a little more wouldn’t hurt so, when I walked over the only clean piece of concrete, I went down like a sack of shit. Obviously I had to find a spot where I wasn’t going to hurt myself, and a place that was ‘relatively’ clean, but it was a thing of beauty. As I hit the deck I slapped my hand on the concrete at about the same time as my head hit the cement; although I eased my head slowly to the ground over the last centimetre or so; I didn’t want to hurt myself after all. There was instant pandemonium. The prisoners in their cells were watching my late arrival, but when I went down they started yelling and screaming. I silently laughed as I could imagine they were saying stuff like, ‘the white boy has gone down,’ or ‘can someone help that dickhead who fell over,’ or ‘that was the worst fake fall I’ve ever seen.’

  But there I was and this was how I got to be in this shit hole. Why me? Why is it that I was always the one in the middle of the drama — or the shit, as in this case? Buggered if I knew and I supposed it was all character-building stuff. But, frankly, my character had been built enough and I’d have been happy now to live a quiet life — well, maybe.

  Within minutes a prisoner was there to help me up. I didn’t know where he had materialised from. He helped me up and I stumbled towards my cage and I think my helper ran away to raise the alarm. As I walked into the front section of my cage I looked for my helper but, again, I was on my own. I assumed that people would come, so positioned myself on the ground to make it look as though I’d collapsed once more. Again, within minutes people rushed into my cage and all started tripping over my semi-conscious body. I nearly started laughing and could only imagine what my mates would be saying — they would probably start kicking me. The prisoners helped me to my feet and to my mattress. Again, people ran away and I hoped that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. Manish and others ran into my cell and asked where it hurt. I moaned that I was very dizzy and had a shocking headache (which I really did) and my heart was racing. ‘Okay,’ Manish said, ‘we’ll get some medicine.’ Oh shit, what were they going to inject into me; had I gone too far? I’d seen the sick guys lined up at the office. The medic briefly examined each man before giving them all the same injection of something through the same syringe, although he usually changed the needle. I certainly wanted none of that. Manish returned and confirmed that my head ached. ‘Yes,’ I moaned, so he started rubbing some ointment onto my brow and temple area. About five seconds later I realised it was tiger balm and my head felt like someone was running a blow torch across my temples. Ah, fuck me, that was painful. I hoped they had some ointment for the damn burns this treatment was causing. Then Manish said, ‘where else does it hurt, Mr Paul?’

  ‘I’m fine now,’ I said, hoping they wouldn’t rub any more acid into my body.

  ‘No, you said your heart hurt as well, I remember.’ And he started rubbing the napalm balm on my chest. Holy shit it burnt. The pain was something else. They must have got this special tiger balm because I didn’t remember it being this bad. I hoped there was a burns unit at this hospital! But, surprisingly, the tiger balm actually worked and my headache miraculously disappeared within minutes — maybe they burnt the nerve endings. All I wanted to do was to slip into a coma and wake up in about three weeks. The sleeping pills were really fighting to be noticed and I struggled to control the urge to sleep, but I couldn’t because I had 10 people staring at me and mumbling to one another in Hindi. But then finally they all walked out and I was able to rest. Within five minutes Manish was back and he had to wake me.

  ‘Mr Paul, you must come.’

  ‘Oh God, what now?’

  ‘There are people to see you.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’ Now who could this be at this time of night? I wondered. You’d think they would have called first! My house is a mess!

  Those sleeping pills were really getting pissed off with me and they fought to keep me asleep as I staggered with Manish to the administration building. Manish stared at me and I could see him wondering whether I was still faking it or whether I was genuinely dying. As I meandered into the Warden’s office I saw Bala and the prison doctor. Bala grabbed hold of my arm and led me to a chair.

  ‘Paul, I heard you collapsed, are you all right? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Bala, it’s very kind of you. I’m okay. I just have a terrible headache, I’m dizzy and there is a pain in my heart.’

  ‘I will have you moved to the hospital tomorrow. Can you make it until then?

  ‘I’ll be fine Bala. Thanks so much for your kindness.’

  ‘Do you need anything tonight?’ he asked, with a concerned look on his face.

  Suddenly I thought of the people I missed. I thought of my three children and how much I missed them and wanted to be with them. I thought about my dad and my desperation to make it home before he died. I thought of my brothers and my mother, and I thought of poor Sallie.

  ‘I want to go home now, Bala. This nonsense has gone on for long enough,’ I said, barely containing my anger. I wanted to smash something. I wanted to get the angry man at the border and bash him senseless. I really wanted to hurt that low life piece of shit. I made a silent vow; if I’m not at home to see my dad before he dies, I’m going to make the angry man pay, and pay severely.

  ‘Yes I know,’ he said, putting his hands on my shoulders. ‘We’re doing all we can and tomorrow you will go to court and plead not guilty. The right person has given me this advice. So ensure you plead not guilty. If you plead guil
ty he will have no choice but to convict you and you will get months not days. But the Magistrate won’t tell me what the sentence will be so you must plead not guilty. Okay?’

  ‘Thanks Bala, I will because I am not guilty.’

  ‘Okay, I will go now,’ he said as he stood and shook my hand.

  I stumbled my way back to bed realising that the God-awful headache had returned. I pulled my light bulb out, but the guards told me to leave it in. I didn’t argue. I just crawled under the mosquito net, pulled my sheet over me and slipped into a coma.

  After about four hours of dead sleep, I woke looking directly into the sun. I was confused. The sleeping pills were destroying my ability to think logically. How was the sun in my cage? How did I sleep past Ugly unlocking my cage? No, it wasn’t the sun, it couldn’t be. Bloody guards were shining a torch in my eyes. I then woke every 30 minutes when the guards entertained themselves by waking me. Maybe this would be my last night in the toilet? They kept talking about moving me to the hospital tomorrow; or was it today now? Yep, today, but who could tell; there was always something thrown in the way, and I was tired of getting my hopes up only to be continuously disappointed.

  25.

  NIGHTMARE DAY NINETEEN

  Tuesday 10 June

  I had only been acting, but it had been made easier by the fact that I felt bloody terrible. The headache was a shocker — it would have killed a lesser man. I was covered in spots where the fleas and other insects had feasted on my body. I had bite marks on my feet from the rats. I had ringworm or some other fungal infection growing around my groin. My ear ached and I think something had crawled inside and died. When I used the cotton buds Sallie brought me, the yield was black and messy. I felt very weak after living predominately on biscuits and water for 16 days. I think the only reason I could keep up the sit-ups and push-ups was because I got lighter every day so they became easier.

  I decided not to rush the morning and to walk with Satya as it might be my last opportunity. But we didn’t walk for long as I was supposed to be dying. The old man prepared my morning bucket bath and then I shaved for the third time in prison. I put on my jeans and black Rivers T-shirt and then packed those items I wanted to keep; everything else I left. Optimistic, I suppose, but all I had was hope.

  At 7.30 am my name was called and I crept to the administration building where I was forced to sit. I wondered how getting to court would go today as I wanted to walk, but couldn’t because I was supposed to be on death’s door. I accepted that I’d just have to go in the cattle truck today with the other guys. I got up to board the truck with everyone else, but was told to sit. When all the prisoners were on the truck, I was escorted to the passenger seat next to the driver. The other prisoners must have bloody hated me for my special treatment and I wondered how much longer they’d accept it. I decided I would refuse any special treatment if the Magistrate sentenced me to a few months in the cage. At court I took my usual seat in the police station and bought chai for all the police from the tea boy. Sallie, Martin and Rajeesh arrived about an hour later, but Sallie was quickly whisked away to do an interview for Indian TV.

  At 10.30 am I was called into court and escorted by a policeman to the first real court I’d been to in India. The Magistrate (Triparthy) sat at his bench, the gallery was full and I was told to stand behind a wooden rail at the back of the courtroom. Eventually I heard the Magistrate say my name, my dad’s name and then ask me to plead. I remained in my position with my head bowed, leaning on the railing for support. I could sense the whole courtroom looking at me for a response, but I didn’t move. It seemed like an eternity and I wondered how long I could keep this up. Finally, Debu-San approached me and touched my arm. He told me to be strong and to plead guilty or not guilty. I looked up and saw everyone looking at me, including Triparthy. I then said, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’ That was good enough for Triparthy who nodded to the police to remove me from the courtroom. I was led back to the police station with Sallie and Martin trailing behind.

  The police made available our two seats in their court office and again we sat and waited. Sallie could barely contain herself. She said my acting was bloody awful and she had nearly burst out laughing as the whole court had turned to look at me when I hadn’t answered.

  ‘You nearly burst out laughing? How do you think it was for me? That silent period was excruciating. I had to use everything I had not to laugh!’ Twenty minutes later, a policeman arrived and asked if I was up to walking back to the prison. I said I’d give it a go and off we went. Sallie and Martin were going to visit with Bala, but agreed to visit me later instead.

  Back at the prison, I thanked the police officer and returned to my cage. Loud Talker came in and we talked for 15 minutes about life. He seemed to be a smart guy who could do so much more than working in a prison. His brother was a lawyer and his sister a magistrate. During our conversation he quoted Nietzsche, Freud and the Bible — even though he was a Hindu. He told me I’d be going to the hospital today — it had been decided. I thanked him for his help, gave him three clip-on kangaroos for his children, and asked him how long it would be before I was moved. He said a few hours and then said goodbye.

  Satya came into my cell to ask how it went in court. I told him that I was being moved to the hospital and that I hoped I wouldn’t be back. He told me he expected to be released in a few days. I thanked him for his friendship, kindness and guidance and told him I’d send him a letter when I got my feet back on the ground in Sydney. I then asked if he could translate for me while I spoke to the old man.

  The old man was already sitting in my cell with a look of concern on his face — he wasn’t sure what was happening. I asked Satya to tell the old man I was being moved to the hospital today and that I probably wouldn’t be back. I thanked him for everything he’d done for me and told him that I wouldn’t have coped as well as I had without his fatherly kindness. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes.

  ‘You have given me hope that I will someday return to my wife and children,’ he said. ‘I assumed my life was over when they sent me here. Then you came and I knew you were a special man and important too. Then I helped you and I felt very honoured. You have become the son that I desperately miss. I have worried for you so because you have lost weight and you are sick too much,’ he continued with tears now flowing down his checks as he reached out to place a hand on my cheek. ‘I will miss you greatly when you are gone and will not know what to do with myself. These past weeks have gone by quickly because I had you to take care of. May God lead you safely back to your family and bless you forever,’ he finished and wiped his tears with his sarong.

  I felt bloody awful for the old man and wished I could take him with me. He was such a genuinely good guy and I liked him a lot. I had been paying him, but only with miniscule sums of money every few days and even then he usually spent the money on sweets, and once on warm milk, hoping I’d eat and put on weight.

  Satya rose to leave and I walked with him telling him I’d see him before I left. The old man went to leave behind Satya, but I grabbed his arm and gestured for him to come into my cell again. At the court this morning when Sallie had confirmed I’d be going to the hospital I asked her to give me some money so I could give it to the old man. He needed at least 2,000 rupees for his defence in court. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bundle of rupees. I wanted to cover his court costs as a minimum. I also wanted to ensure he had money so that when he was released he had some money to get all the way back to his village. I also didn’t want him to arrive home empty handed so, in total, I gave him 10,000 rupees. That was about $250, which was nothing when I considered what he had done for me. The tears started falling again. He was beside himself. I think it had been a long time since he had seen so much money. He came from a very poor village and 10,000 rupees was equivalent to about six months’ pay. If I had $1000 I would have given it to him.

  Loud Talker came back to my cell with Manish and said the police were waiting
to escort me to the hospital. I grabbed all my gear, but Loud Talker told me to leave my mattress and fan and to only take the things I would need. He said the cell would be locked and all my belongings would be secure for when I came back. I won’t be back, I thought, but you can have all this shit anyway.

  So, with two plastic bags with clothes, medicines and bottled water, I stumbled towards the administration building. When I got there I looked at the police escort who looked pretty bloody serious. They had their shackles and rope ready and I panicked. I thought about my phone, which was nestled neatly right behind my balls. Amazingly, it never moved, but I was certain they’d search me. They had to. How could I go to a hospital with all this stuff and not be searched? I didn’t want them to find the phone because I knew the consequence was 12 months added to my sentence, and it would also look bad for Bala, so I told them I felt sick and had to go to the toilet.

  I held my stomach, pushed the door open and went to the squatters. Once inside I pulled my phone apart and removed the sim card and stuck it in my pocket. I then pulled the battery cover off the phone and forced that down the filthy, shit-clogged drain. I stood on the phone a few times to destroy it totally. I then pushed my phone down into the hole as well. But then my phone got stuck and wouldn’t budge in or out. It was stuck right there for all to see in the toilet drain. It was under an inch of water and had as much old shit stuck to it as my hand did. Nothing I can do now, I thought, so I left it right there. I wish I really had needed to go because I would have backed one out right on top of it. I did the best I could, washing about five years’ worth of shit from my hands. I was disgusted with myself, but thought this was a better option than having the phone found during a search. Now I worried that a prisoner would dig the phone out from the drain and they’d come for me anyway. Fuck me, nothing was easy.