Bombay Monsoon, page 14
SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 7:27 A.M.
I woke up early and stepped out for a run Sunday morning. I covered five miles or so, exploring Koregaon Park’s picturesque lanes and North Main Road. As I went, I replayed in my head the passionate night I’d spent with Sushmita. The surprise of it, coupled with the danger we’d taken, only made it that much more delicious. And unforgettable.
I had my bath, dressed, then, around half past ten, slunk into the drawing room, where I hoped I’d be able to maintain my poker face.
“Danny Boy, come join us,” said Willy. He was sitting on the divan with a tall glass of something cool. Across from him on a hanging swing chair suspended from the ceiling sat a large obese man in a Western shirt and pants. Sushmita was nowhere in sight. “I want to introduce you to my business associate, Chhotu.”
“Don’t get up,” I said, once I’d noticed him struggling to free himself from the chair. “I’m Dan. Danny.”
Chhotu offered a broad smile, showing a set of brilliant white teeth. “Pleased to meet you, Dan,” he said in the plummiest British accent I’d ever heard. There were minute traces of his Indian origins in his exaggerated speech, but the overall impression he gave was of George Sanders, slimy but well spoken.
“Chhotu is passing through Poona on business,” said Willy. “Arrived on the morning train from Calcutta.”
I sat on the other end of the divan. “That’s a long ride. No flights available?”
“I’m too fat for airplane seats,” he said. I must have appeared taken aback, because he added that he was only taking the piss out of me. He spoke deliberately, with great attention to his pronunciation, which made expressions like “taking the piss” all the more jarring to my American ear.
Willy slapped his knee and laughed. “Do you know that Chhotu’s real name is Debajyoti? Debajyoti Goswami. A beautiful name. And yet he’s known as Chhotu.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I believe dear Willy is referring to the irony of my pet name,” said Chhotu. “‘Tiny’ would be a close approximation in English.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m happy to call you whatever you like.”
“Please, dear chap, call me Chhotu. I love my name.”
I agreed then asked what kind of business the two of them did together.
“This and that,” he said. “We trade in all kinds of lovely items. Carpets, sculptures, handicrafts, illustrated versions of the Kama Sutra. Anything your heart desires. Even forbidden things. For example, dear chap, would you like to smoke some stick?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Chhotu, that’s enough,” said Willy. “Danny is not interested in hashish. And you must be careful around here. We don’t want trouble from the police.”
“Or from me.” That was Sushmita, who’d entered the room from behind us.
Chhotu frantically wrestled with the chains holding the chair aloft, and managed to push himself out of the swing.
He namaste’d and gave a little bow to her. “Sushmita-ji, you are looking ravishing, my dear.”
She didn’t respond. Instead she warned everyone in the room that there would be no smoking of stick with young Danny. “He’s not accustomed to the drugs you get in this country.”
“Mita, darling, don’t exaggerate,” said Willy. “Nobody is taking drugs. Just the occasional bit of hash for my private use. Don’t give Danny Boy the wrong idea.”
“I’m serious, Willy. No drugs for Danny.”
I’m not sure who looked more ill at ease, Chhotu, Willy, or me. I didn’t really care. Though I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and I’d smoked hash a couple of times in college, I was flattered that Sush was looking out for me.
SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 3:24 P.M.
The weather was gray, but the rain held off. The forecast called for heavy downpours and strong winds later on, but as Sushmita and I strolled the grounds of the compound that afternoon, we did so without umbrellas. The lawn, cut close to the ground as if with nail scissors, carpeted the entire garden, except under the three great banyan trees near the wall. Durva grass, Sushmita, informed me, then said it was an invasive weed. Still, she admitted, Manjunath, the gardener, did a nice job keeping it green and trimmed.
At all times during our walk, we made sure to stay in plain sight, visible from the windows in the house. Willy and Chhotu had remained inside, discussing details of their business, while Sushmita and I amused ourselves among the flowers, trees, and fresh air.
“You don’t like that Chhotu, do you?” I asked.
“He’s a swine,” she said with more vitriol than I’d expected. “I’ve told Willy a hundred times I don’t want him in my house.”
“Why? Tell me.”
“He’s a chamcha—a sycophant. Also dishonest, immoral, ugly, and ill-mannered. Shall I go on?”
“Where did you go to school, Sush?” I asked.
“What?”
“I’m impressed by your vocabulary. Your wit. Everything.”
“Because I’m Indian? You don’t think I might be a clever girl without some fancy schooling?”
“No, not at all. I meant—”
“Sorry, Danny,” she said. She couldn’t very well reach out and caress my cheek or hold my hand, what with the two business associates able to see everything we did. But I sensed she wanted to. “You Westerners have assumptions about us, the same way we do about you. But I want you to know I’m a product of my heritage, my experience, and my choices. I’m neither a credit to my people nor a brown little sister for you to civilize. Even if it’s with the best intentions.”
I gulped. “Got it.”
“Cambridge.”
“Sorry?”
“I studied at Cambridge, you ass. And St. Mary’s, here in Poona, before that. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Where did you get to be so smart? How did a Jewish boy manage to be accepted in American society?”
“How do you know I’m Jewish?”
“I had a friend in London named Jacobs. She was Jewish.”
“It’s not as bad as all that back home. Sure, there are bigots, but I—”
“Oh, Danny, please stop. If you’ve skated through life without people calling you the foulest names, I’m glad for you. But that hasn’t been my experience.”
“I love you, Sush.”
“You can say that, Danny. But I don’t want to hear it if it’s a concession. Or a mercy, or a step down.”
“It’s not. I can’t think of anything, anyone but you. I want to take you away from all this.”
“All this?” she asked. “This is mine. This is my life.”
“But why, then? Why Willy? Why does he live in your penthouse in Cuffe Parade and in this gorgeous bungalow here in Poona?”
“Don’t ask me that. Not now.”
I nodded. This wasn’t the moment. “Yale,” I said.
“Kya?”
“I studied at Yale, you ass.”
She laughed. A truly happy laugh. Then she kissed me, but only with her eyes. “Mazha Danny,” she said.
“Wh—?”
SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 8:16 P.M.
The cocktail hour was tense. Willy had invited Chhotu to stay for dinner and the night without having consulted Sushmita. She was stewing and, though she couldn’t exactly broadcast it, I was her ally and the only one who made the evening bearable.
Twice, when Willy and Chhotu were serving themselves drinks, backs turned to us, Sushmita grabbed my hand and threw me a smoldering look of desire. I knew Chhotu was sleeping in Willy’s study, well clear of the other bedrooms, so I had reason to think she might visit me again after midnight.
“What’s your business here in Poona, Dan?” Chhotu asked once he’d climbed back into his hanging chair after dinner. I eyed the chains suspending the seat from the ceiling and hoped they could bear the weight.
I had no idea what Willy had told him, but I wasn’t interested in constructing a big lie. Instead, I kept it simple, the same way he and Willy had described their business.
“I’m a journalist for UNI. I’m doing some background work for a story.”
For all I cared, Willy could tell him about the bomber. But I didn’t want to have the conversation with this swine. Yeah, if Sush considered him a swine, I wasn’t going to disagree. This guy threw off the stink of a child molester with an ice cream truck.
SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1975, 11:51 P.M.
“Tell me, Dan. What’s your game?” asked Chhotu once Willy had dozed off. Sushmita had dragged herself away an hour earlier, unwilling to socialize with the new houseguest.
“Sorry?”
“Come, old chap. You can tell me. Are you in it for the free liquor and the company? Or is there something more?”
“Go to hell,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled at me from his perch in the swing chair. “Gloves are off, eh?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MONDAY, JULY 14, 1975, 12:37 A.M.
Sush came to me after midnight, as the rain lashed at the windowpanes. I worried about Chhotu, but once we’d locked the door and switched off the light, I forgot everything except the present. Her scent, her silken skin, her breath, and bite on my neck. We kept our voices down. The world and its problems—mine, India’s, Sushmita’s—none of those mattered. Who cared what banks failed in Yonkers? With apologies to the Gershwins, all I could see was Sushmita. To hell with everything else, starting with that swine Chhotu. And Willy Smets second.
I put those thoughts aside. How could I stop time and make the night last? The morning would come soon enough. I’d have to make a new excuse to Frank Muller for why I was AWOL, and Sushmita would have to put on her mask again. Pretend she loved Willy. Pretend I was only a friend to her.
She rose from the bed, kissed me, and stroked my cheek. I tried to decipher the sadness in her eyes, peer into her soul and understand what emotions were tormenting her. But all I could see was trouble, worry, and uncertainty. Then she wrapped herself in her robe, slipped out the door, and melted into the darkness of the hallway.
MONDAY, JULY 14, 1975, 8:09 A.M.
Freshly back from my morning run, I heard noise outside my window. I peered out to see what was going on and saw Willy and Chhotu in deep conversation beside the Mercedes. Chhotu smoked a cigarette and listened. Willy seemed perturbed about something. Business perhaps. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, except for the stray word here and there. Something about the king.
Chhotu nodded and threw his cigarette to the ground, not even bothering to crush it with his shoe. After a few moments, they shook hands, and Chhotu stuffed himself into the back seat of the car. A man I hadn’t seen before appeared and climbed into the driver’s seat. I learned later that he was Shankar, Willy’s driver. He started the engine, shifted into gear, and drove off toward the gate, where the guard stood and saluted the departing guest.
It was Monday morning, and I needed to phone the office to let them know I was not coming in. It didn’t look good to call in sick twice in the first two months at a new job, but I didn’t have a helicopter, so I was stuck.
I dressed and was heading to the dining room for morning tea. That’s when I noticed the envelope on the stone floor just inside my door. Dan was scrawled across the front in a man’s script. It smelled strongly of cloying cologne.
You should exercise greater caution in your nighttime assignations. Not everyone sleeps as soundly as your host. I have a proposition for you. Perhaps you’d like to invest in securing my discretion.
Till Wednesday, when I’ll be back.
Chhotu
Another trunk call. Twenty minutes before I got Girish on the line. He seemed unconcerned about my health and any damage I might be doing to my career by missing work. I told him I had interviews in Juhu Tuesday and Wednesday for my film story, so I wouldn’t be in those days either. He said he’d inform Frank for me.
I ran into Willy, who had Kamal prepare me some tea and biscuits. Breakfast would be later, at ten. Then he excused himself to do some important work.
Shankar had left the house to drive Chhotu to the station, and Willy was shut in his office. I didn’t know where Govind was, but he didn’t seem to be around. As far as I could tell, the only other person in the place was Kamal, and I could hear the pressure cooker hissing in the kitchen. She was at work preparing breakfast. I went looking for Sushmita.
She’d told me the day before which room was hers, then made me promise never to try to sneak inside. I sensed she didn’t trust me to be as careful as she was, but this was an emergency she needed to know about immediately.
“Aa jao,” she said through the door after I’d knocked softly. I entered. When she saw it was me, she leapt from the bed, crossed the room, and locked the door. “Are you mad, Danny?” she whispered. “I told you not to come here. You’ll ruin everything.”
I said nothing. Handed her Chhotu’s note instead. She read it then crumpled it.
“Destroying the letter’s not going to make this go away,” I said.
She looked up at me, her deep brown eyes betraying her usual cool. She was worried. “He must have seen me leave your room. I should have expected that swine was spying.”
“What can we do?” I asked. “Pay him?”
“No. He’ll want lakhs at the very least. You don’t have that kind of money. And he’ll only come back for more later.”
We stood by the door for a long moment, both searching for ideas. At length, she fetched a matchbox from the bedside table and burned the letter in an ashtray.
“I know this doesn’t fix our problem,” she said as we watched the flame consume the paper, leaving a wad of black cinders. “But we can’t risk Willy finding this either.”
She crushed what was left of Chhotu’s blackmail note into a fine ash with her thumb.
“We have some time,” she said. “Let me think about this. You go, and I’ll join you for breakfast at ten thirty.”
She kissed me long and deep, then stroked my cheek. I made for the door, but she called me back. “I’ve blackened your face,” she said, wiping away the smudge she’d left on my skin with the ashes from her thumb. Satisfied I was clean, she peeked out the door to be sure no one was near. “Go,” she said, waving me past her.
MONDAY, JULY 14, 1975, 3:48 P.M.
“We’re going to North Main Road for some coffee,” Sushmita said to Willy. “Will you come with us?”
He emerged from his study, placed his palms against the small of his back, and pushed, grimacing as he stretched. “Thank you, Mita, but no. I have some accounting to finish. You two go. Enjoy yourselves.”
“We’ll bring you back a gift,” she said, and we were off.
Strolling through the lane, we maintained a respectable distance between us. She was a familiar figure in the area, and word could easily get back to Willy if she were seen holding hands with a strange gora. That kind of thing was frowned upon in India anyway. Even when it was Indian couples.
“Sush, I’ve been meaning to ask you if Pooja managed to get the grease out of my slacks.”
“Sorry, no. She threw them in the dustbin. Why?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I was just wondering if I left some money in the pocket.”
I didn’t want to tell her, or anyone, for that matter, about the film.
“She didn’t mention it. But at least she saved your belt. I believe Govind put it back in your room.”
We walked a little farther, and she asked me if I had any ideas of what to do about Chhotu.
“It seems there are two options. Either we pay him or we challenge him to rat us out to Willy.”
“There’s a third option,” she said looking down at the footpath as she went. “We kill him.”
I smiled despite our predicament. And then I wondered if she was serious. I offered a fourth idea.
“We can run off together.”
She laughed. “Mad or what? And leave him in my house? My houses? Where will I stay?”
“Your bungalow in Lonavala. You said he doesn’t know about it.”
“Danny, I’m not ceding two valuable properties to him. Besides, what would we live on? I have very little income, in case you thought I was rich.”
“But the houses?”
“Not liquid, are they?”
We walked a spell in silence, then I asked her about the three properties.
“My great-grandfather built the Poona house and the one in Lonavala. The penthouse, my father bought shortly before he died. I inherited the lot.”
“I’ve got my salary,” I said meekly.
She stopped and looked me in the eye. “Sweet Danny. That’s kind of you, but I’m afraid—”
“Of course you can accept it. We’ll be together.”
“No, I was going to say we’d never survive on your salary. Please don’t insist. I’ll keep thinking of what’s to be done. And you do the same.”
We had coffee in the German Bakery on North Main Road and agreed to talk about anything but our troubles. I told her our time together should be happy. She said nothing, but the skepticism was clear on her face.
She wanted to hear more about me, my family, my life in the States. I knew she didn’t like to talk about herself. She’d warned me twice not to ask about her father.
“My dad’s a law professor,” I said. “Retired. He’s had some health problems in recent years.” I paused to consider how to say what came next. “He’s … older than my mother. She’s a pediatrician.”
Sush sipped her coffee and grinned naughtily at me. “How much older?”
Growing up, I’d always felt uncomfortable discussing this very topic with my friends. Or whenever Dad came to my baseball games or picked me up from school. I loved the guy, of course. He was kind and gentle, brilliant, loving, and generous to all. I admired his politics. Despite his successful career and a knack for investments that paid off, he remained a fierce liberal. He believed in the brotherhood of man and defended the poor, the black, the brown, and everyone in between, both in court and in society.
