‘Who then hired this guy,’ she quickly cut in, ‘to be my bodyguard, for a couple of weeks.’
‘I’d say you’re in very good hands.’
‘Thank you,’ Naveen said.
‘Fuck you,’ she said.
‘Nice meeting you,’ I said. ‘So long, Naveen.’
‘And all because I get mixed up with this Bollywood wannabe movie star,’ Divya continued, ignoring me, ‘I mean, not even a real movie star, just a wannabe, for fuck’s sake. And he’s such a fucking jerk, he starts to threaten me when I refuse to go out with him. Can you believe that?’
‘It’s a jungle out there,’ I smiled.
‘You’re telling me,’ she said. ‘Have you got any hash, or not?’
‘I have!’ Farzad said quickly. ‘Count on it!’
We turned to stare at him.
He reached down into the front of his pants, fiddled there for a while, and pulled his hand out to reveal a ten-gram block of Kashmiri hashish, wrapped in clear plastic.
‘There,’ he said, offering it to Divya. ‘It’s all yours. Please accept it as . . . as a gift, like.’
Divya’s lips peeled a lemon of horror.
‘Did you just pull that thing . . . out of your underpants?’ she asked, gagging a little.
‘Er . . . yes . . . but . . . I changed my underpants only yesterday night. Count on it!’
‘Who the fuck is this guy?’ Divya demanded of Naveen.
‘He’s with me,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry!’ Farzad said, beginning to put the hash in his pocket. ‘I didn’t mean to –’
‘Stop! What are you doing?’
‘But . . . I thought you –’
‘Peel the plastic off it,’ she commanded. ‘And then don’t touch it. Just leave it in your hand, on the open plastic. Don’t touch it with your fingers. And don’t touch me. Don’t even think about touching me. Believe me, I’ll know it, if you do. A mind like yours, it’s a toy to me. It’s a toy to any woman. So, don’t think about me. And gimme the fuckin’ hash already, you chudh.’
Farzad began to unwrap the block of hashish, his fingers trembling. He glanced at the petite socialite.
‘You’re thinking!’ Divya warned.
‘No!’ Farzad protested. ‘I’m not!’
‘You’re disgusting.’
Farzad finally succeeded in unwrapping the parcel, leaving the hashish exposed on his palm. Divya picked it up between forefinger and thumb, broke off a little piece, and dropped the rest of it into the silver fish-mouth of her purse.
She took out a cigarette, squeezed some tobacco out of the end of it, and placed the little piece of hash into the blank end. She put the cigarette between her lips, and turned to Naveen for a light. He hesitated.
‘You think this is a good idea?’
‘I’m not going in there to talk to the cops unless I have a smoke,’ she said. ‘I don’t even talk to the downstairs maid until the upstairs maid has given me a smoke.’
Naveen lit the cigarette. She puffed at it, held the smoke in her lungs for a few moments, and then let out a solid stream of smoke. Naveen turned to me.
‘Her father filed a complaint against the wannabe actor, before I came along,’ Naveen said. ‘The actor acted heavy. I paid the actor a visit. We talked. He agreed to back off, and to stay backed off. Now we need to lift the complaint, but she has to do it in person. I want to get it done early, before any reporters get onto it, and –’
‘Let’s fucking go, already!’ Divya snapped, grinding out the cigarette under the sole of her shoe.
Naveen shook my hand. I held it firmly for a moment.
‘The guy following the Zodiac Georges,’ I said. ‘His name’s Wilson, registered at –’
‘The Mahesh,’ Naveen finished for me. ‘I know. In all this, I forgot to tell you. I tracked him down last night. How did you find out?’
‘He came here, looking for information.’
‘Did he get any?’
‘Dilip, the duty sergeant – do you know him?’
‘Yeah. Lightning Dilip. We’ve got a little history.’
‘He says Mr Wilson wouldn’t pay, so he threw him out.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Not usually.’
‘You want me to go see this Wilson?’
‘Not yet. Not without me. Check him out. Find out what you can about him. Get back to me, okay?’
‘Thik,’ Naveen smiled. ‘I’ll get on it, and –’
‘This is the fucking longest I’ve ever stood up,’ Divya interrupted angrily, ‘on my legs, for God’s sake, in the same fucking place, for God’s sake, in my whole fucking life! Do you think we can get on with it now?’
Naveen smiled a goodbye, and escorted the poor little rich girl through the arched gate.
‘It’s Farzad!’ Farzad called after her. ‘My name’s Farzad!’
When he lost sight of her, the young Parsi turned to me, grinning widely.
‘Damn it all to hell, yaar! What a beautiful girl! And such a nice nature! Some of those super-mega-rich girls, they can be very stuck-up and all, so I’ve heard. But she’s so natural, and she’s –’
‘Will you cut it out!’
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words withered when he saw my expression.
‘Sorry,’ he said bashfully. ‘But . . . did you see the colour of her eyes! Oh, my God! Like bits of shining stuff, you know, dipped in something . . . really, really full of . . . really lovely stuff, like a bucket of . . . loveliness . . . honey.’
‘Please, Farzad. I haven’t had my breakfast.’
‘Sorry, Lin. Hey, that’s it! Have breakfast! Can you come to my place? Can you come home with me, now? You promised to come this week!’
‘That’s gonna be a no, Farzad.’
‘Please come! I have to see my Mom and Pop, take my bath and change my clothes before I go to work. Come with me. They’ll still be having breakfast at home, some of them, and they’d love to meet you. Especially after you saved my life, and all.’
‘I didn’t save your –’
‘Please, baba! Trust me, believe me, they’re waiting to meet you, and it’s very important that you come, and you’ll find it damn interesting at my house!’
‘Look, I –’
‘Please! Please, Lin!’
Four motorcycles pulled up hard beside us. They were Sanjay Company men. The leader of the group was Ravi, a young soldier in Abdullah’s enforcement group.
‘Hey, Lin,’ Ravi said, his eyes behind mercury lens mirrors. ‘We heard some Scorpions are having breakfast at one of our places in the Fort. We’re all heading there to kick the shit out of them. Wanna come along?’
I glanced at Farzad.
‘I’ve already got a breakfast date,’ I said.
‘Really?’ Farzad said.
‘Okay, Lin,’ Ravi said, putting his bike in gear. ‘I’ll bring you back a souvenir.’
‘Please don’t,’ I said, but he was already riding away.
The Fort area was only a thirty-minute walk from where we were standing, and roughly the same distance from Sanjay’s mansion. If the Scorpions were really provoking a fight so close to home, the war that Sanjay had tried to deal away was already on his doorstep.
‘Do you think they might take me with them, one of these days?’ Farzad asked, watching the four motorcycles vanish in the traffic. ‘It would be so cool, to kick some ass with them.’
I looked at the young forger, who’d been kicked unconscious the night before but was already thinking of kicking someone else. It wasn’t cruelty or callousness: Farzad’s violent fantasy of brotherhood and blood was a boy’s bravado. He was no gangster. After just a few hours in the cells, he was already breaking down. He was a good kid, in a bad Company.
‘If
you ever go with them, and I come to hear about it,’ I said, ‘I’ll kick your ass myself.’
He thought about it for a moment.
‘Are you still coming to breakfast, please?’
‘Count on it,’ I said, putting an arm around his shoulder, and leading him to my bike.
Chapter Fifteen
Bombay, even now, is a city of words. Everyone talks, everywhere, and all the time. Drivers ask other drivers for directions, strangers talk to strangers, cops talk to criminals, Left talks to Right, and if you want a letter or parcel delivered, you have to include a few words about a landmark in the address: opposite the Heera Panna, or nearby to Copper Chimney. And words in Bombay, even little words like please, please come, still have adventures attached, like sails.
Farzad rode pillion with me for the short trip to the Colaba Back Bay, near Cuffe Parade, pointing out his favourite places. He liked to talk, that kid, and started three stories inspired by places we passed, but didn’t finish any of them.
When we parked outside his parents’ home I looked up at a huge house, at least three storeys high, with gabled attics. The impressive, triple-fronted house was one of three between streets on either side, forming a small inner-city block.
Joined to the similar homes on either side, the Daruwalla mansion presented a façade that we South Bombay partisans love: the architectural flourishes inherited from the British Raj, cast in local granite and sandstone by Indian artists.
The windows boasted stained-glass embellishments, decorative stone arches, and wrought-iron security spirals, sprouting elegant metal vine leaf traceries. A flowering hedge gave privacy and shaded the morning sun.
The wide, wooden door, flanked by Rajasthan pillars and adorned with complex geometric carvings, swung open silently as Farzad used his key and led me into the vestibule.
The high, marble-walled entry hall was decorated with garlands of flowers trailing from urns set into scalloped alcoves. Incense filled the air with the scent of sandalwood. Directly ahead of us, opposite the main door, was a ceiling-high curtain made of red velvet.
‘Are you ready?’ Farzad asked theatrically, his hand on the partition of the curtains.
‘I’m armed,’ I smiled. ‘If that’s what you mean.’
Farzad pulled one half of the curtains aside, holding it back for me to pass. We walked on through a dark passageway and arrived at a set of folding doors. Farzad slid the panels back. I stepped through.
The vast space beyond the corridor was so high that I could only vaguely make out the detail of its sunlit uppermost reaches, and the width clearly encompassed a far greater space than Farzad’s home alone.
At ground level, two long tables had been set for breakfast, with perhaps fifteen place settings at each table. Several men, women and children were sitting there.
What appeared to be two fully equipped kitchens, open to view, formed the left and right boundaries of the ground floor. Beyond them, doors at the back and sides of the vast chamber led to other closed rooms.
My eyes roved to the upper floors. Ladders led to head-height walkways. Ladders from those wooden pathways led to still higher boardwalks, supported on bamboo scaffolding. Several men and women chipped or scraped at the walls serenely, here and there on the walkways.
A parting in the monsoon cloud sent sunlight spilling from high turret windows. The whole space was suddenly a topaz-yellow lucency. It was like a cathedral, without the fear.
‘Farzad!’ a woman screamed, and every head turned.
‘Hi, Mom!’ Farzad said, his hand on my shoulder.
‘Hi, Mom?’ she yelled. ‘I’ll take your Hi, Mom, and beat you black and blue with it. Where have you been?’
Others came to join us.
‘I’ve brought Lin,’ Farzad said, hoping it might help his cause.
‘Oh, Farzad, my son,’ she sobbed, pulling him to her in a suffocating embrace.
Just as swiftly she pushed him away and slapped his face.
‘Ow! Mom!’ Farzad pleaded, rubbing his face.
Farzad’s Mother was in her fifties. She was short, with a shapely figure and a neat, gamine haircut that suited her soft features. She wore a floral apron over her striped dress, and a string of well-matched pearls at her neck.
‘What are you doing, you wicked boy?’ she demanded. ‘Are you working for the hospitals now, drumming up trade for those doctors by giving everybody a this-thing?’
‘Heart attack,’ a grey-haired man I guessed to be her husband helped her.
‘Yes, giving everybody a this-thing,’ she said.
‘Mom, it wasn’t my –’
‘So, you’re Lin!’ she said, cutting him off and turning to face me. ‘Keki Uncle, may his spirit shine in our eyes, used to talk about you a lot. Did he mention me? Anahita? His niece? Farzad’s mom? Arshan’s wife? He said you were quite the one for talking philosophy. Tell me, what is your take on the free will versus determination dilemma?’
‘Give the boy a chance to relax, Mother,’ Farzad’s father said as he shook my hand. ‘My name is Arshan. I’m very pleased to meet you, Lin.’
He turned to Farzad then, fixing him with a stern but loving frown.
‘And as for you, young man –’
‘I can explain, Pop! I –’
‘You can explain my hand across your backside!’ Anahita growled. ‘You can explain how we worried so much we didn’t get a wink’s worth of sleep the whole night? You can explain how your poor father was roaming on the road at two o’clock in the morning, looking for you, because maybe a water truck ran over you and left you crunched up like scrambled eggs in a ditch?’
‘Mom –’
‘Do you know how many ditches there are in this area? This is the peak area for ditches. And your father searched through every one of them, looking for your scrambled eggs corpse. And you have the shamelessness to stand here, in front of us, without a scratch on your miserable hide?’
‘You might at least be limping,’ a young man said as he approached us to shake hands with Farzad. ‘Or slightly disfigured, na?’
‘This is my friend Ali,’ Farzad said, exchanging a penitent smile with the young man, who was his twin in height and weight, and seemed to be roughly the same age.
‘Salaam aleikum,’ I said.
‘Wa aleikum salaam, Lin,’ Ali said, shaking hands. ‘Welcome to the dream factory.’
‘Lin got me out of jail this morning,’ Farzad announced.
‘Jail!’ Anahita shrieked. ‘Better you should have been in one of those ditches, with your poor father.’
‘Well, he’s home now, Mother,’ Arshan said, gently pushing us toward the tables on the left side of the huge room. ‘And I’ll bet these boys are both very hungry.’
‘Starving, Pop!’ Farzad said, moving to take a place at the table.
‘No you don’t!’ a woman countered, tugging at Farzad’s sleeve.
She was wearing a colourful salwar kameez of pale green tapered trousers and a flowing yellow-orange tunic. ‘Not with those hands full of jail germs! Who knows what diseases you’re infesting us with, even as we speak. Wash your hands!’
‘You heard her!’ Anahita said. ‘Wash your hands! And you, too, Lin. He might have infected you with his jail germs.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I have to warn you in advance, though,’ she cautioned. ‘I lean towards determinism, and I’m ready to roll my sleeves up, if you’re a free will man.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And I don’t pull my punches,’ she added. ‘Not when it comes to philosophy.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
We washed our hands at a sink in the open kitchen, and then sat down at the long table on the left-hand side of the huge room. The woman in the salwar kameez immediately served us with bowls of meat in fragrant gravy.
‘Have some mutton now, you young fellows,’ she said, seizing the moment to pinch Farzad’s cheek between her fingers. ‘You’re a naughty, naughty boy!’
‘You don’t even know what I’ve done!’ Farzad protested.
‘I don’t need to know any such thing,’ the woman averred, giving his cheek another mutilating twist. ‘You are always a naughty, naughty boy, no matter what you’re doing. Even when you’re doing good things, you’re naughty also, isn’t it so?’
‘And cheeky,’ I added.
‘Oh, don’t get me started on cheeky,’ Anahita agreed.
‘Thanks, Lin,’ Farzad muttered.
‘Don’t mention it.’
The woman in the salwar tunic twisted one more bruise into Farzad’s cheek.
‘You’re a cheeky, cheeky, cheeky boy.’
‘This is Zaheera Auntie,’ Farzad said, rubbing his face. ‘Ali’s mom.’
‘If you have a taste for pure vegetarian,’ another woman, wearing a pale blue sari, suggested brightly, ‘you might like to try this daal roti. It’s fresh. Made from just now.’
She placed two small bowls of the saffron-coloured daal on the table, and unwrapped a napkin of freshly cooked rotis.
‘Eat! Eat!’ she commanded. ‘Don’t be shy.’
‘This is Jaya Auntie,’ Farzad stage-whispered. ‘It’s kind of a competition between Zaheera Auntie and Jaya Auntie as to who’s the best cook, and my Mom stays out of it. We’d better be diplomatic. I’ll start with the mutton, and you start with the daal, okay?’
We pulled the bowls of food closer, and began to eat. It was delicious, and I ate hungrily. The two women exchanged knowing glances, happy with the drawn result, and sat down beside us.
A few adults and children joined us at the long table. Some came from the ground-floor apartments, while others climbed down from the interconnected catwalks to stand near us, or sit further along at the table.
As Farzad took a hungry bite of his mutton in masala gravy, Anahita approached from behind and smacked him on the back of the head, as swiftly and unexpectedly as Lightning Dilip might’ve done. All the children near us laughed and giggled.
‘Ow! Mom! What did you do that for?’
The Mountain Shadow Page 17