JOHNNY GONE DOWN

by Bajaj, Karan

  ‘Yes,’ barked a thick, unrecognizable accent from the other end.

  ‘Marco told me…’ I began.

  ‘Call me from a pay phone,’ he said and disconnected.

  I called him from a pay phone after a few hours. I had been discharged and was wearing the same clothes I had worn when I’d first come to Minnesota a couple of years ago.

  ‘I called a few hours back…’ I began.

  ‘Yes,’ he said in his thick accent. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. Do you want to die more than you want to live?’

  However surprising the question, I didn’t need to think about it for too long.

  ‘Yes,’ I said without hesitation.

  ‘Can you go to Asia in a couple of days? To India or Thailand or Vietnam?’ he asked.

  I thought for a moment.

  ‘Only India,’ I said. A poetic end to an unpoetic life; from ashes to ashes, from dust to dust; back to the place where this whole miserable journey had begun.

  ‘I can do just one assignment,’ I added. ‘I have no will for more.’

  ‘I don’t deal in small stuff,’ he said. ‘It’s all or nothing.’

  Click.

  The sharp sound of the blank was followed by a sudden silence. Then there was clapping, hesitant at first, but soon it rose to a crescendo like the roll of funeral drums. Someone thumped my back, another shook my hand which still held the smoking gun, someone else banged on the table.

  ‘You did well. You won half a million rupees,’ said the handler. ‘Now hand him the gun.’

  I passed the gun to Dayaram. He took it with trembling hands. I looked into his eyes. He seemed to have lost his fear and held the gun to his temple with an air of inevitability.

  The crowd cheered wildly.

  Finally, an end to a saga that couldn’t have been better scripted in a Hindi film: five bullets blank, the last bullet would draw blood. I watched dispassionately as Dayaram released the barrel and placed his finger on the trigger. He began to pull the trigger…

  In one swift movement, I reached across the table and pulled the revolver from his hand.

  Dayaram looked at me blankly, his empty hand still pointing towards his temple. The applauding crowd fell silent.

  ‘What the fuck?’ The tight muscles in the handler’s neck twitched as he reached for the gun.

  I jumped up from my seat and pointed the gun between his eyes.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘There is a bullet here and you know I won’t miss.’

  A hush fell upon the crowd.

  I looked around at the surprised faces. Bastards, I thought with sudden anger, they lived lives that people like us could only wish for; if drama was what they craved, I’d gladly exchange my life for theirs. Now that the gun was pointed at them, however, their quest for a thrill seemed to have ended.

  ‘Come with me,’ I shouted at Dayaram.

  He was still rooted to his spot with his hand on his temple.

  ‘Daya,’ I said sharply. He seemed to wake from a trance. ‘Follow me.’

  I began to inch backwards towards the door with my gun still pointed at the handler. I didn’t care about the others. They could easily jump me if they wanted to, but I knew they wouldn’t. If they were so insulated from death that they paid money to seek it out, they wouldn’t have the guts to face it themselves. Violence was entertaining only as long as others were spilling blood.

  ‘You know we will find you,’ said the handler flatly.

  I had no doubt that they would and I didn’t care. I had come here to die. Instead, I had almost killed another man. No, I couldn’t die with more blood on my hands.

  ‘I don’t want the money. You take it back,’ I said, gun still level. I pointed at Daya. ‘I just want him alive.’

  ‘You can’t do this for me…’ began Daya.

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, pointing the gun at him as we reached the door.

  He followed me quietly.

  We left the basement room and I locked the door carefully behind me. Almost immediately, the men inside began pounding on the door.

  ‘We have five minutes before someone comes,’ I said. ‘He would have called already. Just follow me. Don’t ask questions.’

  We ran up the stairs and rushed past the closed furniture showroom and onto the busy street.

  There was still too much light for us to merge into the crowd. It would be dark soon, a long familiar ally; until then, we had to drop out of sight. I saw a lifeline and ran towards the main road.

  ‘My friend has an auto-rickshaw here, sahib,’ Daya panted behind me. For an old man with a cancer ridden body, he ran surprisingly well.

  ‘They will track him down,’ I said. ‘We need to take a bus.’

  I looked down the street and saw a public bus rumble in our direction. ‘This one,’ I shouted. I managed to hold on to the railing with my arm and hopped on, closely followed by Dayaram.

  I stood still in the middle of the crowded bus, sweat pouring down my face as the bus rolled forward, weaving through the crowded intersection in Mayapuri where Sam and I had once knocked down a cyclist while learning to ride a Lambretta, past the Rachna theatre in Patel Nagar where we often went after bunking school, the Moti Mahal in Karol Bagh, my mother’s favourite restaurant -Delhi was full of happy, uncomplicated memories from the days before I began this Faustian journey of self-destruction. We passed my old school on Pusa Road. I’d been the head boy once, the captain of the basketball and football teams, everyone’s unanimous pick for the one who would be the most successful in life. Would my old teachers be alive? What would they say if I walked in right now in my torn clothes, sans an arm, broke and homeless, a man who had deserted his family and was wanted by drug barons and the police in multiple countries?

  ‘Where are we going, sahib?’ Daya asked timidly as we stood next to each other in the bus.

  ‘Haan?’ I said, shaking out of my reverie. ‘Where does this bus go?’

  ‘CP,’ he said.

  Another blast from the past. ‘Connaught Place?’ I said. ‘I will go there.’ I paused. ‘You will be safe. You did nothing wrong, so they won’t come after you. You don’t need to run with me. Go back and die with grace.’

  ‘Why did you save me, sahib? Why didn’t you just take the money and go?’

  ‘Money doesn’t stick to my hands,’ I replied. ‘Why do you need it so much?’

  ‘I told you I’m dying of cancer, sahib. My life means nothing,’ he said. ‘My daughter is getting married tomorrow and the groom’s family will call it off if we don’t give them money.’

  The same old story, I thought uncharitably. After so many years, nothing seemed to have changed. Only I had changed. Twenty-five years ago, this story would have roused some pity in me, maybe even anger at society’s injustice. Now, I felt no sympathy, no anger, no sadness. Life is tough, get over it.

  ‘If he wants money to get married, he will want money to stay married. It won’t end. Your daughter is better off without him,’ I told Daya.

  ‘Easy to say, sahib. You won’t understand until you have your own children.’

  His words pierced me, a misdirected barb that hit an unintentional bulls-eye.

  ‘What’s this sahib business? Don’t call people that. You are oppressed because you want to be oppressed,’ I said.

  A strange sense of the surreal gripped me. What was I doing here, mouthing Marxist bullshit to a guy who I had just played Russian roulette with? It wasn’t meant to be like this, was it? I shook my head and tried to snap out of it.

  ‘Would she be happy getting married if she knew you had killed yourself for her?’ I said.

  ‘I’m going to die anyway.’

  ‘Says who?’ I asked as the familiar white pillars of Connaught Place came into view. ‘You don’t die until you die.’

  A memory of my mother writhing in pain on her bed as the cancer spread from her urethra to her bladder to her bloodstream struck me as the bus stopped at CP. More images of people lost and
places forgotten flashed through my mind. I had to get out of Delhi, I thought, as I stepped off the bus. Everything I saw unlocked dark closets of memories; some joyful, some miserable, but all tinged with regret. I couldn’t take the agony of these multiple worlds any more.

  ‘The New Delhi railway station is nearby, right?’ I asked Dayaram.

  He nodded. ‘But you can’t get a train today,’ he said. ‘There is a railway strike for the next two days.’

  Nothing had changed, I thought again.

  ‘You can get a bus from ISBT, though.’

  ‘That’s okay, I will just find a hotel here,’ I said. ISBT would open another box of memories: trips to Shimla, Jodhpur and Dharamsala; more people, more images. Besides, I was tired and wanted this to end. If I were in Delhi, they would find me soon enough. If I was somewhere else, I would keep waiting for them to show up - and I had nothing to accomplish in that extra time.

  ‘Arre sahib, how can you even think of staying at a hotel? Please come to my house,’ he said. ‘We would be honoured to have you as our guest.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m used to being alone.’

  ‘No, sahib,’ he insisted. ‘You saved my life. How can I let you stay in a hotel?’

  ‘No need to be so dramatic,’ I said.

  ‘No…’

  ‘Shut up. Don’t you understand it’s dangerous, you idiot? They will come for me,’ I snapped. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  And I walked away.

  Every block I crossed evoked memories. Tired, I stopped at the first run down hotel I saw.

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked the inconspicuous looking clerk standing behind the crumbling reception desk, a desire for conversation and confrontation shining in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ I said.

  He appraised me from top to bottom.

  ‘Will you get any girls?’ He smirked.

  ‘I don’t do girls,’ I said. ‘Only men. I have a special weakness for hotel clerks.’

  I took the Glock out of my pocket and placed it on the table. He shrank back.

  ‘How much?’ I repeated.

  ‘How long?’ he asked in a small, scared voice.

  ‘One night,’ I said. I was certain they would find me within twenty-four hours.

  ‘Four hundred rupees,’ he said.

  I took out all the money I had from my shirt pocket. Four dollars.

  ‘That’s all I have,’ I said.

  He stared at me for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said and handed me the room key.

  ‘Do I get you free or do I pay extra?’ I asked.

  He recoiled in disgust as I climbed the creaky stairs to my room.

  What do you do on the last night of your life, I wondered as I lay spreadeagled on the dirty pink bedsheet. The small unreliable bulb in the room flickered on and off, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Soft strains of Hindi music wafted through from an adjoining room. The ceiling fan whirred slowly and I closed my eyes, trying to remember all the good moments - of which there were plenty. In Lara I had found love that knew no boundaries. I hadn’t seen my son, but I had experienced the joy of bringing a new life into the world. Sam, Ishmael, David, Marco, Philip - everywhere I went, I met strangers who loved me more than I deserved. A good life, I thought, all in all. And I bore no ill-will; not to the Khmer Rouge, not to La Madrina, not to the girl who had pretended to be Lara in Another Life, not to the local mafia, who would surely get me tonight. They all had their reasons and I was never a hapless victim. I had dived headfirst into the deep end; I couldn’t blame anyone if I sank.

  I woke up with a start. Someone was knocking frantically. The sun beat steadily against the dusty windows and I was covered in sweat. I looked at my watch. It was one p.m. I had slept for fourteen hours straight and I was still alive.

  The pounding on the door continued.

  They had come for me, I thought, and felt oddly excited. My dying wish, I announced to an absent audience, was not to be tortured before death; just a simple shot in the temple or the back of the head would do just fine. Maybe it was the good night’s sleep or the abundant happy reflections, but I felt weirdly optimistic as I opened the door.

  ‘You!’ I exclaimed.

  My heart sank. I had expected the handler and his henchmen with sleek revolvers loaded with silencers.

  ‘Yes, sahib,’ said a smiling Dayaram. ‘I went from hotel to hotel asking for you. I’ve come to take you for the wedding.’

  ‘Didn’t I explain yesterday? Please get out of…’ I began, but he interrupted me.

  ‘Everything is fine, everything has been taken care of.’ He smiled. ‘Yesterday you gave me a new life and everything fell into place. The groom’s family has agreed to the marriage if I promise to pay the money later. I will figure something out by then.’

  ‘Don’t give your daughter to a man who asks for money to get married,’ I said. ‘He will keep asking for more.’

  ‘That is our destiny, sahib.’

  ‘I told you not to demean yourself by calling people that.’

  ‘Sahib, please bless us on this auspicious occasion. You saved me. The marriage can’t take place without you.’

  ‘Don’t watch so many films,’ I told him.

  ‘Please come with me. I beg you,’ he said with folded hands.

  ‘I told you it’s not safe.’

  ‘It’s okay, sahib,’ he said. ‘It will give me a chance to die with dignity. Please come with me.’

  ‘Look…’ I began to argue but felt too exhausted to resist. ‘I don’t even have a set of clean clothes,’ I said lamely.

  Immediately, I regretted the statement. ‘Arre, that’s no problem, sahib. I am a big man’s servant, and he won’t notice even if ten suits are missing from his cupboard.’

  I found myself inside a small gaudy shamiana, surrounded by happy faces and boisterous voices. I felt distinctly uncomfortable, not just because the big man’s small suit stolen especially for me for the occasion was tight, but because I was being treated like a guest of honour.

  ‘No,’ I said for what seemed like the hundredth time as Dayaram came up with a plate of oily samosas.

  ‘Please, I insist,’ he said. ‘You saved my life, you are the reason…’

  ‘Okay, okay, don’t start with the dialogues,’ I said and stuffed another samosa into my mouth.

  He disappeared to search for more things to load me with, while I nursed an orange drink in my hand, trying hard to think of it as an orange drink and not Gold Spot. Gold Spot would bury me in an avalanche of memories, just as thinking of this as a wedding would. Memories I wanted to purge my mind of - wanton childhood days spent stuffing myself at marriage buffets, oblivious to who was getting married and unconcerned about what marriage meant, except for a vague fantasy of marrying Waheeda Rahman’s daughter one day.

  Stop, I told myself as my mood began to darken, you are doing it again. Think of this as a loud, gaudy affair; unknown faces streaked with garish face-paint exchanging false pleasantries to the accompaniment of coarse music.

  ‘Arre, sahib!’ I heard Daya’s voice behind me. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  I turned around, determined to improve my mood and at least pretend to share in his happiness - and saw a ghost.

  Curiously, the first thing I noticed was the make of the security guards’ rifles - a Marlin, a Browning, another Browning - perhaps because I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had recognized the face of the man who was flanked by the guards.

  I recognized him immediately, not by his eyes or his face, but by his sloppy, clumsy gait - unchanged, it seemed, even after twenty-five years.

  Dayaram went up to him. ‘Sahib, this is the man who saved my life,’ he said. ‘He is like a bhagwan, an angel in human form.’

  Dayaram turned to me. ‘This is our big sahib,’ he said proudly. ‘He runs India’s largest film studio and cable television network, yet he was kind enough to atte
nd a minor servant’s daughter’s wedding. What a great man!’

  The big sahib stretched out his hand.

  ‘Sameer Srivastava,’ he said. ‘Call me Sam.’

  I must have turned white because I felt my blood stop for a second. Suddenly, I didn’t want him to know it was me. I couldn’t see my failure reflected in his eyes. I didn’t want to share my past with anyone. I shook his hand mechanically without meeting his eyes, but couldn’t think of a name to make up.

  ‘I must go,’ I whispered and turned away.

  I began to walk away quickly. Why me, I wondered. Why this cruel twist when all I wanted was to die in peace?

  ‘Hey, wait.’ I heard his voice behind me.

  I didn’t stop.

  ‘Nikhil. Nick. Nikhil Arya,’ he shouted. ‘Stop, for god’s sake!’

  I stopped and turned as Sam came up to me. He had lost his puppy fat and looked tanned and fit. The boyish impulsiveness had given way to a measured, almost arrogant swagger, though his face looked like he had seen a ghost as well. He looked at my face searchingly.

  ‘Nick?’ he said. ‘Oh my God.’

  Tears began to stream down his face, softly at first, and then torrentially - just like in high school, when he was legendary for frequently bursting into tears.

  A small crowd had gathered around us, though thankfully the cacophonous band music kept the others distracted.

  ‘Should we get out of here?’ I asked.

  He nodded, recovering a little.

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I said awkwardly as I looked around the swanky furnishing inside the limousine.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Well, you are being driven in a limo…’

  ‘After all these years, why did you turn away when you saw me?’ he said. ‘Why haven’t you contacted me all this while? Once the Khmer Rouge was thrown out by the Vietnamese in 1979, I spent months in Cambodia and Thailand, but they didn’t have a single record of you - not of you coming in, going out, living, dying - nothing. Remember that crazy guy we met at the airport?’