by Vish Dhamija
Life in miserable, yet majestic Mumbai.
However, the quest to find Margaret and his roots never left Junior’s brain. He could never fathom why he needed to know, the need to go back…and go back to what? He tried to exorcise his past ghosts, but unfailingly strayed back into memories of his mother. Her violation, each tear she had shed after losing some legal case, and, then, her killing herself.
His mind had retained the scenes of his mother’s last moments…he had seen her dying…he regretted there had been no goodbyes. Retribution had become his bedmate; when he slept, when he couldn’t sleep and lay sobbing softly — so that it didn’t wake up Raaj — or when he woke up. Time couldn’t debilitate his resolve. If anything, the passing time made his determination more sinister.
Junior kept his misery personal; he didn’t share it with Raaj, at least for the first few months.
It was the July of 2002. It had rained since the evening before, making it impossible for the duo to venture outside for any food. If you lived life as pennilessly in Mumbai, you instinctively knew you had to stock up for such days. The fish don't need swimming lessons.
‘You ever had sex?’ Raaj asked as he nibbled on cold and soggy French fries they had picked from trash outside a takeaway the day before.
Junior turned crimson. Sex was something one had to stomach to sustain; his mother fucked for money, he had fucked to survive. The ugly visions flashed in front of his eyes: of being in Viviane’s room or Margaret’s room, watching them having sex or when Mr Fernando and his friends sodomised him. Sex couldn’t have been intended for pleasure. In any case not his pleasure. Why was Raaj asking such questions? Had he come to know about Junior’s background?
‘What happened man, you didn’t answer me,’ Raaj said, busy gobbling on whatever was left. ‘In fact, it would have been so much better if you were a girl. You know what…you are real chikna…look at you.’ He turned around to face the bare-chested Junior sitting in his shorts. ‘No hair, smooth white skin…’
Junior clenched his fists, he tried hard to keep his rage under control, but Raaj noticed his friend’s growing distress. However, before he could utter the next word or apologise, Junior burst out. The tears flowed; he had stifled his emotions for an extremely long time, pushed them under, but they gave away. Raaj dropped his food and rushed to console his friend.
‘What happened? I was only joking. Let me get you some water.’ He picked up a tin can, stretched his hand outside the pipe to collect distilled water from the skies above and brought it back to Junior. ‘Sorry. I know you are unhappy, I sometimes wake up at nights to find you sobbing, but I never asked. If you think I am a friend, tell me. Maybe I can help.’
Junior relented. Raaj had been his friend for quite some time now, given him shelter, food and had never asked for anything in return. He gave an account, albeit anachronistically, of the miserable life he’d lived; the mind had lost all sense of sequence, certain frames had gone missing on account of memory lapses or because of the sameness of the preceding decade. How was one supposed to discern one squalid night from another?
‘So you’re looking for this foreign girl Margaret, who was a sex-worker in Mumbai years ago?’
Junior didn’t say anything, just nodded. He appreciated Raaj’s good judgment of not using the word whore. Whoreson, that’s what they used to refer to him as. Even back then, when he did not comprehend what it meant, it sounded like a profanity.
‘We’ll find her together. Don’t worry.’ Raaj comforted his younger friend, taking him into his arms.’
How? Neither knew.
‘Have you ever had sex?’ Junior asked a bit later as they lay alongside each other watching a steady stream of raindrops leaking into their dwelling through a small aperture in the pipe.
‘Ha…how?’ Raaj lit up a cigarette from his collection of half-smoked cigarettes he had gathered throughout the previous day from various pavements.
‘What do you mean, how?’ Junior took the cigarette out of Raaj’s hand and inhaled, deeply filling his lungs with smoke.
‘Boy, I live in a pipe…sorry, I share this pipe with another guy.’ He looked at Junior and quickly took the fag back to catch the last drag of the stick. ‘I survive by picking rags and pockets. There isn’t enough to feed my stomach, how do I feed any sexual itches? You think some girl would fuck me for love?’
‘Why does it have to be a girl?’ ‘What?’ Raaj had a double take. ‘I love you.’
‘Oh…I love you too, but —‘ ‘No. I love you.’
‘Whoa…’
Junior had rolled on to his side looking fervently at Raaj. His hands moved to the uncovered torso of the bigger man playing with the hair on the chest. Raaj closed his eyes. The sensation was too much to bear. He felt Junior’s hand move down to unbutton his shorts, while Junior slipped out of his shorts too, and came on top of Raaj. He kissed Raaj on the lips, and then slithered down to take his older friend in his mouth.
That night when Raaj entered Junior, it didn’t hurt.
There’s a good reason why the lion bears the moniker of the king-of-the-jungle. Irrespective of how old, indisposed or wounded it is, no other animal even conjures up the illusion of hunting the big cat. Not one.
The wolves patiently wait till it dies.
Bir Desai had successfully disposed of any or all challengers who had ever threatened his position. People died or simply vanished. He was in his seventies, an old man now, weakened with age, and terminally ill. The end was nigh. His once impregnable, vast empire of illegal activities — firearms, alcohol, drugs, hired-killings — was disintegrating owing to him being out of action.
However vile, corrupt or precarious your business is you, nevertheless, wish for the right heir to take the reins. Desai’s only son had beaten him in the ultimate race by almost two decades. The whispers he had disregarded about the illegitimate grandson up until now, had increasingly started to scream at him. A lot of water had flowed under the rickety bridge: Bombay was Mumbai, Jay Desai was Junior, Pathak was dead, and the Club at Cuffe Parade had closed.
Mumbai was a city of 18 million: how could one look for a lost child in this madness, lost in this glut some twelve years ago? Nonetheless, if Bir Desai decided to hunt for someone, he found him or her; it didn't matter if the prey had to be exhumed or the earth needed excavating.
Raaj got arrested. He had snatched a lady’s handbag outside a restaurant, but her man caught Raaj. No amount of apologies or begging for mercy worked. The man called the police.
Custody. Police beatings.
Petty-offence charge.
Three-month imprisonment.
Bail was set at ten thousand rupees, which was a fucking farce considering that the boys didn’t have money to feed themselves.
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine Junior. Do not stop looking for Margaret,’ Raaj said when he came out of court after the conviction. Junior, holding back his tears, nodded. He hadn’t been away from Raaj for years now, but fortunately Raaj had taught him how to survive. Three months would pass soon. ‘And don’t fall in love with anyone else,’ Raaj whispered as he gave a seemingly friendly hug before the police constable dragged him into the van.
Junior watched the van drive away through a waterfall of tears. He felt his pockets to check if he had any cigarette stubs to smoke, but couldn’t find any.
‘Cigarette?’ a hoarse voice, behind him, asked.
‘No thanks.’ Junior refused without turning around. He had no intentions of peddling his ass for a cigarette.
‘Are you Mister Jay Desai?’
‘Yes.’ Junior turned around. A well-dressed man in his mid-thirties smiled and offered a cigarette. A full Benson & Hedges, not a half-smoked stick. His first instinct was to bolt, there was every possibility that the orphanage authorities had caught up with him, but he stood confidently. He was an adult now, he knew, and they couldn’t take him back to that despicable house. ‘Who are you?’ he confidently asked.
�
�Your humble servant, Mr Desai.’ The guy opened the cigarette packet and proffered it to Junior. As Junior put the stick between his lips, the man held out a lighter.
‘You’re mistaking me for someone else, but thanks for the fag anyway.’ Junior turned to leave. Agreed his official name was Jay Desai, but he wasn’t wont to hearing Mister Desai…there was undoubtedly some mistake somewhere.
‘Wait Mr Desai.’ The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to stop him. ‘We’ve been looking for you for months now.’
‘Wrong. You might be looking for Jay Desai, but that Jay Desai isn’t me.’ He started walking
‘No, Mr Desai, we’ve been looking for you,’ the man called out, following Junior like a faithful dog.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because you are Madam Viviane’s son, and you carry your father’s name: Jay Desai.
Junior was merely a nickname your mother gave you; sadly it stuck.’
‘What do you want?’ Junior halted abruptly. This man knew something. ‘Your grandfather would like to see you Mr Desai.’
‘And who is my grandfather?’ ‘Mr Bir Desai.’
‘You mean… the Bir Desai?’ Which misfortunate hadn’t heard the name in Mumbai? The man nodded. ‘The car is waiting for you.’
It was a Mercedes Benz S320. White. Privacy glass.
The rivals had infiltrated into Bir Desai’s gang, had bought one of his trusted security guards. In the annals of treachery, an unfaithful guard working for an underworld bigwig should go down as the worst criminal, but that’s a story for another day. The guard, obviously, got the kingpin. Bir Desai was shot dead as he came out of his residence for an early morning walk, but it was two days too late.
Jay Desai Junior had already been crowned as the incoming messiah.
A pawn only has to cross five spaces to become the queen. It took Jay Desai five years — since he left the orphanage — to become the king, the king of one of the most feared underworld empires in Mumbai.
‘Your bail has been given.’
Raaj couldn’t believe it. Who in their right minds would bail him out? The only person he loved was Junior, and to the best of his knowledge, Junior couldn’t afford the kind of cash the court had asked for. But, this wasn’t the time to ask. He collected his belongings and happily walked out.
The white Mercedes was parked right in front of the prison gate. Shining. Privacy glass. Raaj looked at the car, but had no desire to confront or challenge the person who had got him put of prison before the term. The uniformed chauffer stepped out to summon him to the car.
‘Why?’ Raaj asked as he walked closer to the car. ‘Mr Desai would like to see you.’
‘And who the fuck is this Mr Desai?’
The window in the rear cabin lowered for Raaj to see Junior, who sat dressed in an expensive woollen steel-grey suit, quite a change from the torn shorts he wore at the pipe they called home. Junior winked, and beckoned him into the car.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Sit comfortably, my friend.’ Jay Desai uttered pressing the button to raise the glass between them and the chauffeur. They kissed. Like lovers do. The tongues entwined like two snakes fighting a wrestling match.
‘How did you —?'
Jay Desai gave a detailed account, in the privacy of the car, as the car drove them into the meandering lanes of Byculla — his inheritance, his empire.
‘This is not mine, this is yours,’ Junior said lighting up a fag and filling the glasses with Chivas Regal when they got home. He threw the packet of B&H on the table for Raaj.
‘What do you mean?’ ‘I have a plan.’
‘You found Margaret?’
‘Yes and no. I didn’t, but my grandfather did. That’s how he found me.’
‘You met her?’
‘Not yet. The first person I’ve met since my grandfather died is you.’
‘What’s the plan, then?’
Junior explained he had decided to walk away from the crime hole, giving the reins of his inheritance to Raaj. 'As I said, all this is yours because I don’t belong here.. I want to go away from all this, but I might need your help all along. Promise me you’ll never compromise me, never let anyone know my origins.’
‘Unconditional promise, my friend. I'd kill myself before I do anything that can harm you. You sure you don’t even want to tell me what is it that’s driving you away from this opulence?’
‘The opulence, the way it’s gathered, it’ll always remind me of the past, which I want to forget.’
‘No worries, you don’t have to tell me if you don't want to. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?’
‘You’re right,’ Desai agreed.
‘You were my first love, remember? I know I turned gay under the circumstances, why did you?’
‘I can’t even think of being with a woman. Let’s not discuss this any further on that please.’
‘As you say. What do you want me to do?’
‘You run this crime empire, which you always wanted to do. I go away, but if I need anything, you shall give me without any questions...’
‘That’s a promise.’
They made love the last time.
‘There’s someone to see you madam.’
‘Me?’ Margaret sounded perplexed. It had been quite a while since someone had asked to see Margaret at Bhendi Bazaar. ‘Who is it?’
‘Mr Desai.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s me Margaret.’ Jay had walked in behind the girl who had opened the door. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Yes.’
Margaret squinted her eyes. Something about Desai was familiar, but she couldn’t place her finger on anything. There was an air about the man that she wanted to recognise, but it escaped her. The eyes were recognisable, but nothing else was. ‘How come you know me and I don’t?’
‘You do, you aren’t exercising you brain enough Margaret.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Jay Desai.’
The name rang a thousand bells. She had definitely heard the name before, but it had got buried under the dust she had accumulated in her mind for decades. It took her a little longer than a minute to pull it out. ‘Junior?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh my Junior.’ Margaret got up and hugged him. ‘How have you been?’
‘Forget about me, how have you been? You wouldn’t believe, but I’ve thought about you so many times. I had no idea where they put you up after you were gone from that dump.’ She wiped the tears that had started to form. Memories of Junior’s childhood, her two deceased friends — the deaths of whom she had incessantly held herself responsible for — zoomed inside her brain, in front of her eyes…the one ill-fated step; an error she made in a hapless moment in time, and the price she had paid for almost a quarter of a century.
‘Tell me everything Margaret, everything from the beginning.’
‘Drink?’
‘Sure.’
Margaret called a girl and asked for whisky. ‘Water or soda?’ She looked at Desai. ‘Nothing.’
‘Get two glasses and the bottle of Scotch from my room please.'
From USSR — a country that did not exist any longer — to Mumbai, Margaret apprised Jay Desai, giving all details she could pull out of memory. Two hours and five drinks later, the story stalled. ‘Here we are. I will never forgive myself.’
‘Don’t be too harsh on yourself Margaret, you did, whatever it was, in good faith.’
‘I am so happy to see you Junior.’
‘I can get you out of this wretched place.’
‘Where will I go now?’
‘I hear you. But I need your help.’
‘My help?’ Margaret looked flabbergasted. What could a whore who was well past her expiry date do to help the prince of the underworld?
‘Yes.’
‘I’d do anything for you, anything you ask for.’
‘Good.’
Desai spoke for about a quarter of an hour,
with Margaret nodding and pouring drinks. ‘I am in. I’ll do as you want, but I am sure you appreciate the risk.’
‘I can arrange a passport for any country you want, you might need it in case you feel the heat around the corner…’
‘Really?’
‘Which one do you want?’
‘One Russian and one Irish.’ The dream might have been buried, but it wasn’t dead. ‘It will be done Margaret. I’ll make sure they are delivered to you in the next few weeks. We’ll talk but I’m not sure if we’ll ever meet again. One last question...do you know where my mother's grave is?'
'Yes.'
The two exchanged numbers, hugs and parted. It was bucketing down when the car picked up Jay Desai from Bhendi Bazaar.
‘Home?’ asked the driver.
‘Not yet.’ Desai looked at his watch. 6 p.m. ‘Take me to Takshila Apartments in Andheri East, I have to square up an old debt.’
The car drove into the housing complex — Takshila Apartments — a little after eight. Mr Fernando died of a skull fracture at 8:20 p.m.
Jay Desai’s visits to Raaj decreased with time. Raaj was glad that his friend who had given him everything was finally happy. No request, however atrocious — guns, alcohol, whatever— was ever to be declined was what he had instructed everyone who worked for him.
Then, one day in July of 2006, Desai dropped the bomb. He told Raaj he was leaving.
Forever. And Raaj knew it was pointless to even ask.
‘Just one thing Raaj, I am leaving a friend in the city. If she ever needs anything, she’ll call you and give you the reference of this conversation. Give her anything she ever wants, would you?'
‘I promise. And if you ever come back, be in touch.’ Jay nodded.
‘You’ve done so much for me Jay…my Junior…please be safe.’ Raaj’s eyes were wet. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
The same afternoon, Jay Desai visited Viviane’s grave at Sewri Cemetery. Viviane was befittingly buried in the cemetery that had originally been set up for European burials in 1865. Located in Parel, it was now the biggest Christian burial ground in Mumbai. Amongst some of the older and more intricate European gravestones Viviane lay under an asphalted grave — soiled with time, monsoon and bird droppings — that hadn’t been tended to since she had been buried under the cover of the night. The gravestone named her as Viviane Casey; no dates for birth or death were mentioned, which was obvious. If Pathak had declared such a young death, someone might have asked for an autopsy.