Murder in Old Bombay

by Nev March

  I bit into a disk of Chutki’s flatbread, savoring it with the purchased lamb. Thereafter I did not grumble. She could cook. Rather than buy something for herself, she’d chosen a means for our survival.

  We were a week out of Simla. Less, if I could beg a ride on some farmer’s cart. That might ease us—both Chutki’s feet and my shoulder.

  Alas, the very next day our troubles grew worse.

  CHAPTER 32

  AMBUSHED

  The next day we stopped on the banks of the Sutlej. We had not seen Chutki’s captor since that first night, yet I kept a close watch. I planned to follow the river east until it looped north at Roopnagar, then continue across hills and tea plantations to the safety of Simla.

  Days had passed since I left Bombay and said farewell to Diana in the twilight. She’d have reached Simla and likely heard of trouble in Lahore. Adi, awaiting my cable in Bombay, would be worried.

  I set Chutki by a low wall bordering the river. She began preparing dinner, while I stripped off my kurta and went down the bank to bathe. All day the sun had burned down on us, and my shoulder ached. The river babbled and eddied around smooth rocks. Standing waist deep, breathing the soft air of evening, I rubbed a handful of sand over myself for soap. Peace reigned.

  “Bao-di!” Chutki cried.

  Yelling in a high voice, she wiggled and kicked at some small, wild thing—an urchin boy? I scrambled back, sloshing, slipping on rocks, hampered by sopping wet trousers.

  Grabbing a handful of clothing, I hauled the scrawny blighter off her. Scarcely more than a bundle of clothes, he landed on his bottom. A spurt of pity flashed through me, even as I dropped to my knees beside Chutki.

  “Are you hurt?”

  How valiantly she’d defended our meager supplies! She replied in a startled voice, when a sound interrupted, only inches to my left.

  Click-click: a weapon cocked to fire.

  I looked up into the barrel of a handgun. Adi’s revolver, with its safety off. My breath locked in my throat. A boy with green eyes aimed the weapon with both hands.

  “Don’t shoot,” I said, showing him open palms.

  About ten years old, tight-faced and scrawny, he’d hidden behind the wall while his brother lured me to Chutki’s rescue. Unseen, he’d plucked Adi’s revolver from my clothes left by the river and ambushed me.

  I could disarm him, snag the weapon with a quick move. But if he squeezed off a shot, Chutki was too close. Even if he missed, it would be heard a great way. Something else held me back—desperation narrowed those green eyes, but pride, too, a boy trying to be a man, caught between fear and resolve.

  A handsome youth, he wore a rough turban on his head, his kaftan bunched at the waist. Were they thieves? Part of a tribe? If so, the others would hear and descend upon us.

  Chutki’s assailant, perhaps seven or eight years old, came to the boy’s side.

  When I kept still, the boy lowered the pistol and dropped to his haunches. His brother pointed at a roti burning on the pan and mumbled to him. Next, a baby wailed behind us. I turned, astonished. A third boy appeared, holding a bundle. Setting it on the stones, he crawled over the wall.

  I stared, disbelieving, at three boys, the youngest carrying a baby. I’d been taken by a band of children!

  For long moments no one spoke, while the baby’s wail tore and broke in waves. At last the infant’s cry drew Chutki out. Taking the babe, she knelt by the griddle. Humming under her breath, she broke off a piece of roti, sucked on it, and fed the little one. Silence dropped over us.

  Since I was not yet to be shot, I leaned against the wall in relief. My journey had taken a strange turn. With a rustle of dry leaves, the leader of the scoundrels scooted up beside me.

  “Can I have the gun?” I asked in Pashto.

  He glowered with suspicion, then handed it over, butt first.

  Once I set the safety, my breath slowed at last. By God, when Adi loaned me the weapon he’d surely never foreseen this.

  The two younger urchins clustered around us, peering and curious. Where had they come from? Barefoot, shirtless and wearing only a clumsy dhoti for britches, the youngest might have been five. The middle boy, in lumpy trousers and torn kurta shirt, had a mass of freckles over his face. All three were filthy, and quite comfortable in their grime.

  “I’m hungry,” said the youngest, swiping the back of his hand across his nose. That small motion broke the strange mood that held me.

  With growing amusement, I looked over at Chutki. “Sister, do you want to feed them? They are thieves, you know.”

  The younger boys giggled. The leader grinned and scratched his head, unabashed. Chutki shushed them, rocking the baby. To my dismay, she placed the foul-smelling bundle in my lap. As she slapped a piece of dough between her hands to prepare more roti, her brusque manner held the lads in check with impressive ease.

  The baby snuffled and squirmed against my chest. Little hands reached, grasping. Somewhat surprised at the weight of this small parcel, I settled him closer and he quieted. I’d never held one so small before.

  “Where do you live?” I asked the pint-sized leader.

  He shrugged.

  “Where is your father? Your village?”

  “Pathankot,” he replied.

  Wasn’t that a mountain fortress farther north? I’d heard of it—an army supply post.

  “I am Razak,” he said, then pointed. “These are Parimal and Hari.”

  “Who feeds you?” I asked. They shrugged and grinned in reply.

  Chutki handed me the next roti off the stove. I took it one-handed, tossed and blew on it, watching the boys’ grimy faces. The youngest, Hari, sniffed, eyes hungry, ribs protruding with each panting breath.

  I divided the bread between them. Reaching into the sack for apples, I tossed them at the boys. Once they saw they need not fight for fruit, they leapt and caught with startling agility.

  “Whose child is this?” I asked, reluctant to move and awaken the infant.

  Razak shrugged. “We found him in the mud. This morning.”

  “Found him!”

  Speaking all at once, they told of searching the refuse behind a stable. They could not name the place. The child was abandoned, so they took it. It would have died, but for them.

  “Where is the mother?”

  Razak shook his head. “I was curious. Saw a sack moving, so I opened it.”

  I plied them with questions they could not answer. When I insisted we had to take the child back, the urchins protested, hopping in distress.

  Razak cried out, horrified. “We saw soldiers. They don’t like us.”

  “English soldiers?” I pronounced it Ang-rez, as locals did. Hope knotted in my chest.

  He shook his head. “Pathan.”

  Bollocks. The enemy were all around, I didn’t have much cash and I’d accumulated three boys, an injured girl and a baby. I needed a new plan.

  Watching the lads cavort in the stream I considered—should I take them to a temple in the next village? They’d only return to their roving ways. As we settled to sleep, I learned that Razak had come south with his village kin, but got separated in a skirmish with another tribe. The younger boys had lost their parents in a mela, a festival fair. Razak found them starving. They’d been together since the monsoon. Six months—a long time to live on stolen scraps. They’d hid from soldiers. I asked where. Taking turns to tell their adventures, they fell asleep.

  I considered our situation. The oldest boy came from Pathankot. Could I send him to his village? Deep in Afghan-held countryside, that was impossible. I’d have to take them to Simla.

  Adi would think me mad. Diana would smile and shake her head. I had come north to solve the riddle of Kasim, to find who might want to avenge him. Now the prospect of finding Doctor Aziz, and some answers, seemed distant.

  Next morning Chutki grilled lumpy biscuits, delicious, despite nuggets of salt. Like me, the boys ate whatever she devised. I watched with admiration as she made a thin
gruel, soaked the corner of a rag in it and fed the baby.

  Shaking our blankets to rid them of ants, we broke camp. Chutki insisted she could walk. I suspected the boys’ presence played into this show of independence. Hoisting my depleted sack, I started out. Chutki followed, carrying the baby. The boys ran alongside, chattering and grinning. When Razak came up, I asked, “Are you with us?”

  He ducked his head and nodded.

  “And you won’t shoot me?”

  He shook his head, glancing up, wary.

  I nodded, maintaining a solemn expression. Behind us, Chutki sniffed, a sound of such derision that I raised my eyebrows. At that, Razak began to laugh, a husky, pleasant sound.

  Alas, by midday Chutki lagged behind on her wounded feet and sobbed. Giving the baby to Razak, I hoisted her up. She curled in my arms, her head bouncing against me as I walked.

  Ever since the boys’ ambush, I’d begun to worry. If the lads had been Afghan soldiers, I’d likely be dead, and Chutki…?

  Now I asked Razak, “If we come by soldiers, what will you do?”

  Razak crinkled his eyes and said, “We keep them busy—you kill them.”

  That was how he’d ambushed me. Children grow up quickly in the countryside.

  “No, we hide,” I said. “How can we quickly tell the boys to hide?”

  The little general grinned. Putting two fingers to his lips, he warbled. The two younger urchins dashed into the brush beside the road. Another birdcall sounded and they scrambled out.

  By God, even Colonel Sutton would be impressed. Young as Razak was, the army might hire him as a groom or mess boy. If only I could get the children to safety in Simla and find someone to keep them.

  CHAPTER 33

  ON THE TRAIL

  We walked.

  Days ago—six? seven?—the trail of refugees trudging east from Lahore had dwindled. We bought coconuts one day, walnuts the next, whatever came our way. When we passed wide cornfields, we tossed ears into my sack until it was all I could carry. Later, Chutki picked out the bugs and roasted these. Watchful for Pathan soldiers, avoiding crossroads when possible, we made slow progress toward Simla.

  “What town is this?” I asked a passing shepherd, solemnly herding his animals. His answer—Roopnagar—lifted my spirits: Simla was about sixty miles away. Leaving Razak with Chutki and the baby, I took the younger boys to the bazaar. Provisions were dear now, depleting the funds Adi had given me a lifetime ago in Bombay. Yet I bought the boys sweetmeats, unable to begrudge the few annas that gave them such pleasure.

  That night we heard the low growls of cheetahs. Surely the beasts were high in the hills? Hard to tell, with the wind swishing eerie sounds down the slopes. Little Hari shuddered, tiny shoulders quaking. I checked my revolver, added twigs to the fire and decided to keep watch. The children huddled against me, peering. As the smoking embers died, they slept. So did I.

  At daylight we begged a ride from a bullock cart that lumbered by. When the driver scratched his head and halted, the boys swarmed over bales of hay with happy cries. I boosted Chutki into the back of the cart and clambered after her, glad to be off my aching knee.

  At sundown our cart reached a cluster of huts. The driver, a friendly sort, agreed to let us shelter in his cowshed. We drank from the village well and washed, then flopped down in a shed that smelled of hay and manure to consume our remaining supplies. Exhausted, my little brood lay down to sleep amid the comforting low of bullocks.

  * * *

  We caught a ride with a milk cart and were spared trudging some twenty miles the next day, leaving the cart when the driver turned south to his market. Simla was eastward, so we headed toward the sunrise the next morning. A goatherd gave us some milk at noon, and the last of my cash went to purchase cheeses that we consumed with grabbing abandon.

  We moved slowly now. The day grew hot. As I walked, my thoughts returned to the Framjis. My dance with Diana seemed part of another lifetime, my hunt for Kasim and Doctor Aziz, a distant quest. Yet if I had not undertaken this expedition, Chutki might still be yoked to her captor, farmed out for men’s pleasure. Razak and his little band would have thieved their way across the hills until overcome by misadventure.

  Soon, the youngest, Hari, began to wilt. Already carrying the baby, Razak could only coax him along. While Chutki hobbled along, I lifted him onto my shoulders. The older boys quarreled and shoved each other. We stopped often.

  At last poor freckled Parimal collapsed. He sat in the dust, crying great heaving sobs. I set Hari down, feeling helpless. Then I remembered—when I’d startled the Framjis with my Pathan guise, how had Burjor comforted his child? As he’d done, I pulled the weeping boy into my arms. His despair pulsed into me as I held him.

  We had not heard the baby’s wail since dawn. Had Chutki fed it milk soaked in a corner of her scarf? I asked her whether that was today or yesterday. She scowled, leaning her head against me. I feared that Simla was too far, that the children would starve before we reached it.

  “Bao-di!” Razak leapt up, pointing.

  An oxcart ambled toward us. Razak ran to it, calling out, arms waving with all his might.

  Dammit. I had no money left.

  Chutki tugged at my hand and pressed something narrow into it, rolled up like a cigarette—the five-rupee note I’d given her! She’d saved it.

  We would not starve. When I began to laugh, freckle-faced Parimal clung to me, while Hari stared. We hurried to the oxcart, where Razak was already haggling over a basket of apples.

  In the late evening we climbed a rise and settled on a hillside overlooking Simla. I watched the setting sun touch purple clouds with silver. A peachy light bathed the bedraggled children, silent in their weariness. Below us, gaslights appeared, flickering, while stars filled the carpet of sky. I remembered Diana’s peach dress, her smile, the turn of her head in the twilight. I’d lost track of the days, and didn’t even know if she was here, in Simla. Adi would be desperate with worry, since I had not cabled him from Lahore. Well, tomorrow would tell.

  * * *

  Next morning, we passed a line of carriages and jampans—porters carrying sedan chairs at Simla checkpoint. Ignoring the queue of waiting pedestrians, I strode up carrying Chutki. Razak and the boys followed, still sleepy and confused. A Sepoy in crisp uniform manned the pedestrian gate. I approached him at full tilt.

  “Captain Agnihotri, Fourteenth Light Cavalry,” I rapped out, shocking the man. “Who commands this garrison?”

  “General Greer, sir,” he said, staring. Despite my appalling state, he snapped a salute.

  “Right. Let us through. Send word I need to see him, about a fellow called Doctor Aziz. Got that?”

  He pushed the gate partway open and the children scurried inside. I followed.

  “Captain Agnihotri, sir. Where will he find you?”

  “At the Framji residence,” I said, without breaking stride. Dear God, I hoped they were here.

  Bundled in my arms, Chutki gawked. She’d never heard me speak English before.

  CHAPTER 34

  REUNION

  Diana opened the door wearing a striped blue sundress. A white hat dangled from gloved fingertips. She was about to go out. Her lips parted in surprise to see us on the steps below.

  “Miss Diana,” I said, “I’m sorry, we had nowhere to go.”

  She stared at the infant in my filthy hands, the bedraggled children standing close.

  “Good heavens.” Sounding shocked, she pulled the nearest, Razak, into the house. Chutki followed with the others. Limbs leaden, I went after them. A stout woman with an enormous bindi on her forehead took the baby. People spoke, but their words held little meaning.

  Feeling weak, now that we’d arrived, now that we were safe, I slumped. Diana flew at me. Stepping back with the rush of it, I felt a wall against my back, anxious hands on my chest. Face upturned, she asked me—was I all right? Her luminous eyes shone, relieved I was here, unhurt. She was all I could see, her relief, her smile, her
welcome. I heard a clamor, but distantly—children’s voices, high and anxious, the baby bawling.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” Burjor bellowed. The sight of him in his blue dressing gown brought such comfort, it threatened to buckle my knees.

  “The Captain, Papa. Captain Jim is here,” Diana said.

  Was Burjor furious with us, Diana and I, standing so close? He went from irate to concern, and hollered, “Someone catch him!”

  Diana’s arms went tight around my waist, propping me up. I struggled to keep my feet, lightheaded with gratitude, pleasure at Diana’s care and, most of all, relief. I liked Burjor. His opinion mattered.

  Servants were called. Mrs. Framji took charge, dismissing my fractured explanations for later. Once Diana and her parents saw that the children could not be separated without breaking into sobs, we came to an agreement. Crowded into a white tiled washroom, we scrubbed hands and faces at a fancy molded sink. As I soaped his face, little Hari licked the foam. Razak kept turning the faucet on and off, dipping his fingers in the cool water, marveling.

  The smell, the sizzle of frying tantalized us now. Clustered in an enclosed verandah, we ate large quantities of potato sabzi. A seemingly endless supply of fried pooris came hot from the kitchen. The boys stuffed their cheeks, swallowing so fast that Parimal coughed, choking in his haste.

  “Slow down!” I said, in Pashto.

  Seated on a charpoy, Diana was cuddling Hari on her lap. Her head snapped around at my command. Still clutching pooris, the boys threw anxious looks at me, but stopped downing the meal like wild beasts.

  Razak began to sob. Shoulders shaking, his head drooped, the poori fell from his hand. He was the leader, this shrewd little thief, and the younger lads, seeing his distress, wailed too.