Bombay Monsoon, page 18
But I considered myself an intelligent if foolish guy. If I thought about it seriously, I might be able to figure his next move. He’d come calling again at some point. Or he’d try to win back my good graces. Or Ranjit would. He was the lead agent on this, after all. But Harlan was the persuader.
MONDAY, JULY 21, 1975, 3:22 P.M.
I took a taxi to Lower Parel to an address I’d found two days before.
Mukesh Sharma’s mother answered the door of the small, dark flat. She was dressed in a white cotton sari. A widow—I knew from the color. Her gray hair was tied into a long braid at the back. She spoke some English, but not well enough to make up for my lack of Hindi or Marathi or Punjabi, whatever was her first language. But I managed to communicate that I wanted to talk to her about her son.
Somewhat warily, she let me in and offered to serve me chai. I smiled, and she seemed to like that. Before long, we were chummy. She produced an old tin whose original purpose was no longer decipherable because the paint and the words had been worn off over the years. Inside the box were biscuits to dip in the tea. I made sure to take only one. Clearly she didn’t have much, and I didn’t need to be taking advantage of her goodness.
“Your son,” I said, “Mukesh. The police have detained him?”
She understood son and Mukesh, but not detained. I tried arrested but no dice. Jail? I asked. That worked.
Her eyes expressed the love and worry of a mother who didn’t know where to turn to help her son. Obviously, she didn’t have the means to bribe him out of jail. Nor did she have, I was sure, the connections to secure him a good lawyer.
“Have you spoken to him?” I asked, pointing to her, miming what was supposed to pass for speech, then saying her son’s name.
“Ji,” she said. “He’s fine. Safe.”
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I managed to glean that the poor guy was arrested for making a film that somehow had been interpreted as a critique of the government, even though it had been released nearly a year before the Emergency. The film featured unrest and protests from workers, led by the handsome star, as he fought for social justice in a provincial town beset with corruption and crime. She gave me the name of the picture—Nyaay!—Justice!—and I made a note to research the newspaper reviews from a year before.
She also gave me the name and address of the starlet her son had been involved with. Someone named simply Ruchika. Maybe she was trying to achieve that single-name fame of someone like Rekha. Or Cher.
“Please help mera Mukesh,” she said, as she saw me to the door.
I told her I’d try, though I doubted I could do him any good. I had no idea how the arrestees were being treated. Maybe his girlfriend Ruchika could tell me more.
It took me forty minutes by train to reach the Borivali station in the far northern suburbs. Then another twenty minutes to find the place on foot. It was a newish development, a society—a sort of co-op—on Rohan Nagar Road. Modest, to be sure, with low ceilings and little air. But I was a spoiled American, used to space, air-conditioning, and electrical service without daily interruptions.
Sharma’s mother had told me the girl’s surname was Pillai. I found the flat number on the residents’ board in the entryway to Building D, Block II. R. Pillai, number 3-B. I climbed the stairs—no lift—and knocked, well aware that if she wasn’t in, there was no way I’d ever take the train out to Borivali again. This was Ruchika’s one chance at international stardom, in the form of an interview via a wire service.
It took a minute, but eventually the door opened a crack, and a very pretty young woman peered out. Clearly surprised to find a gora outside her flat, she asked in good English what I wanted. I told her who I was and that I’d like to talk to her about Mukesh Sharma. She said no and tried to shut the door on me, but I explained this could help him and give her some international publicity at the same time. That did the trick.
“You may come in,” she said, standing to one side.
Her place wasn’t bad. Recent redecoration, some modern furniture, and incandescent lights, not the dim tube lighting I’d come to expect. I complimented her on her taste, and she smiled. I could see why she thought a career in the movies might be possible. She was pretty enough. The question was whether she had that spark that made a star. And could she dance? Starlets in Bombay needed a good figure, beautiful hair, a pretty face, and excellent dancing. A singing voice wasn’t required, since they dubbed all the songs with playback singers.
“Please sit,” she said, indicating the divan, a brand-new white-leather number that looked as if it had come straight off the set of a Hindi-language film.
“What can you tell me about Mukesh Sharma’s arrest?” I asked.
“You won’t make me look critical of Mrs. Gandhi, will you?” she asked. “Because she’s only trying to protect the nation.”
I sensed Ruchika was playing it safe, in case I wanted to write a political piece.
“Of course she is,” I said. “I’m not writing about protests or criticism of the government. I’m only trying to take the temperature of the film industry. Has it been affected by the Emergency, or are things going on as usual?”
“Mukesh was arrested,” she said. “How can you avoid that in your article?”
“I can’t be sure until I know why. Where is he? Are they treating him well? That kind of thing.”
She seemed doubtful, but she told me he’d been picked up at his home in Bandra. I asked about his politics, and she said he was a Congress man. Critical of Mrs. Gandhi? Never.
“He made that film, Nyaay!” she said. “A love story about a workingman who fights injustice and wins the girl. Nothing more.”
I told her maybe the authorities will realize their mistake and let him go. Then I asked how they’d met.
“I had a small part in a film last year. The sister of the lead actress. Mukesh saw me at Sun-n-Sand Hotel in Juhu. I was hoping to catch the eye of a producer, so I sometimes went to the swimming pool and permit room there.”
“I see. And he noticed you.”
“Yes. He was very nice. Not arrogant like most directors. He treated me with respect and bought me things. This flat, for instance.”
I cast my gaze around the room, admiring, and told her it was lovely. A shame Mukesh hadn’t put his mother in something as nice.
“But now I don’t know how I’ll manage,” she said. “There’s the society dues and my cook. And the sweeper who comes to clean every day. I don’t know how I’ll pay them.”
“No roles coming your way?”
She shook her head. “There are so many pretty girls trying to get into films. And they’ll do anything to land a part. It’s not fair, really.”
I sympathized, handed her my card, and asked her to contact me if anything came up with Mukesh.
“But you’ll use my name in your article?” she asked. “Nothing negative. Only that I’m a pretty actress? With good English. Ready for American films.”
“Of course. And you’ll let me know if they release him. Or if they’ll permit visitors.”
She stared at my card, then asked if I knew Robert Redford.
MONDAY, JULY 21, 1975, 7:46 P.M.
When I turned the key to unlock my door, it opened before I could lift the latch. Ramu—not Bikas—was there to greet me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Good evening, sir,” he said in his old servant’s accent.
“Cut the crap, Ranjit,” I said, pushing past him. “What are you doing here? And who let you in?”
He shut the door behind me. “I made a copy of the key long ago. And you can call me Ranjit inside this flat but, for appearance’s sake, I’m Ramu outside. Your servant can’t suddenly change his name.”
“You’re fired,” I said. “Problem solved.”
“Come on, Dan. You can use the help. Or the company. Or the protection. At least until you decide your answer to our request.”
“I have decided. The answer is no. I don’t want anything to do with this operation. Willy Smets may well be the head of a drug cartel and a prostitution ring. But he’s always treated me right. I’m not a cop. That’s your job. You guys should do this, not ask me to be a snitch.”
MONDAY, JULY 21, 1975, 10:10 P.M.
Ranjit and I relaxed on our respective sofas and toasted each other, me with my one-after-dinner Dewar’s, him with his juice. The Boy Scout didn’t drink liquor. The meal he’d prepared had been his best effort to date. A mushroom pulao and moong dal, flavored with garlic and onion, followed by an aloo gobi in gravy and bhindi, okra. A sliced-tomato-and-onion salad, and chutney rounded out the menu. Pure veg. Then, to show me what I’d be missing after I fired him, he brought out some kheer for dessert.
Damn Ranjit. Former army officer, current cop, climber of buildings, speaker of languages, and a chef who should open his own restaurant. He ironed a mean shirt, too. How the hell could a guy be so good at so many things?
“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked, staring up at the revolving ceiling fan. “Don’t tell me the army again, or I’m going to enlist.”
“From my mother. And at the CBI Academy in Ghaziabad,” he said. “And please take your feet off the table.”
“I’m sorry?” I said, sitting up to glare at him. “This is my house, you know.”
“Which is why I’m asking. Do you know where your shoes have been today?”
I considered his question. Then I answered him, ticking off my errands one by one, and I realized the son of a bitch was right. Why would I put my filthy shoes on the furniture? I removed them immediately.
“I never thought of that before,” I said. Then, to salvage some measure of authority, I added that if I wanted to put my feet on the furniture, I’d do it.
“By all means,” he said. “Remember that smell from the platform at Churchgate Station this afternoon? Whatever it was is on your table now.”
“Crap.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. By the way, if you’re interested, and not too proud to accept a gift, I’ve placed a pair of new rubber chappals in your room. I suggest you wear those only in the flat and leave your shoes at the door from now on.”
On top of everything else, Ranjit was a smart guy, too.
That night, he moved into the second bedroom. He’d been sleeping on the floor in the tiny pantry behind the kitchen. There was a dark little servants’ bathroom back there, too. I felt awful for having let him sleep and bathe back there before, but I’d been following blindly what I’d been told. Servants ate and slept on the floor and did not use the same bathrooms as the sahibs and memsahibs. He must have been horrified by my poor hygiene while he was being treated as the dirty one.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 1975, 11:20 A.M.
I could get used to this. Ranjit was making all my meals—keeping up the appearance that I still had my servant—all the while providing pleasant companionship every night. And, of course, he had a gun and gave me great peace of mind where Bikas was concerned.
Work, too, was going well, mostly because Frank Muller was on vacation. Why anyone would visit Goa during the monsoon was beyond my ken. Maybe he was that cheap and couldn’t resist the off-season prices. Or maybe he was holed up with his new lady friend. Why should I begrudge him the same escape I’d enjoyed with Sushmita in Lonavala? Maybe he’d let off some steam and come back a better man and boss for it.
“That policeman phoned this morning looking for you,” said Janice, tilting her little cup to touch mine as we enjoyed our late morning tea from Vikky. “He wanted to know if you were still alive or had been blown up.”
I chuckled.
“It’s not funny, Mr. Jacobs. What if that Bikas tries to find you?”
“I’m taking precautions.”
“What about the pictures?”
“I told you there’s no film.” That, unfortunately, was true, in the sense that it was lost.
“You know, that Lokhande asked me if you’d dropped off any film recently. Photos from a story you were working on. Do you think he suspects you took pictures of the bomber?”
“There’s no film. And the only thing I’m working on is the movie industry story.”
“How’s that coming along?”
“Terrible. I lost my chance to interview Shashi Kapoor and Jeetendra last week. And now Shabana Azmi won’t return my calls. All I’ve got is that one guy was arrested for a syrupy film he made a year ago that hit a little too close to home for the ruling party. Oh, and his girlfriend wants me to introduce her to Robert Redford.”
“Sounds great. I hope your résumé’s in order when Mr. Muller gets back.”
About this time, I was wondering when Sushmita might try to get word to me. The fact that Ranjit was living in my flat complicated matters. He could easily intercept any attempt by her to communicate with me. Or was she smarter than that? And what about Bikas? Had he actually given up? Decided to leave me alone? I figured he still might try to find me. What I didn’t expect, however, was a reunion that evening.
CHAPTER THIRTY
WEDNESDAY, JULY, 23, 1975, 8:03 P.M.
“Your friend Willy Smets requests the pleasure of your company,” said Ranjit, handing me a card when I came through the door. “And Lokhande paid a visit. He wanted to see if you were still alive.”
“More likely he wants another bottle of whisky.”
“One more thing,” he said, ignoring my remark. “Harlan is coming to speak to you. He’ll be here soon.”
“What does he want?”
“I’ll let him tell you.”
In fact, Harlan arrived a few minutes later, as I was combing my hair after my evening bath. And he had the beautiful Birgit with him.
“Why?” I said, once he’d made his pitch to me. “Why would I take Birgit to Willy’s tonight?” I turned to her and offered a weak “no offense” apology.
She smiled, despite the tension in the room, and I thought she was truly lovely. No wonder Willy liked her.
“Dan, you’re going to do Ranjit and me this one last favor,” said Harlan. “You’re not willing to be our double agent. Okay. I get it. But I’m asking you for this. Take Birgit with you to his dinner. She told me they really hit it off. You can do what you like. Flirt with his girlfriend, drink his liquor, I don’t care. But take her with you. Do that for me, will you?”
“Why would I do you a favor?”
He stared me down, long and hard, and I felt myself weakening. “Because you might just get your girl without dirtying your hands.”
“Mein Gott! Birgit! Was machst du hier?” Willy was happy to see her. He kissed her on both cheeks and beamed at her.
“She’s in town on a layover,” I said, once she’d answered in German. “I ran into her at the President this evening. I hope you don’t mind that I brought her along.”
“Of course not, Danny Boy. She is always welcome. Come, let us get you both a drink.”
“How long are you in Bombay?” I asked when he handed me my whisky.
“Until Sunday. I have business in Poona Monday.”
Sunday. That gave me several days if I played my cards right. I scanned the room, looking for Sushmita, but didn’t spot her right away. There was Arkady, the Russian guy who’d been at the last party; Marthe, the German woman I’d met twice before; two Englishwomen; three Indian couples; and Ash Pethe. He was chatting up two pretty French girls who looked like a couple of hippie tourists who’d cleaned up nice for Willy’s party. A few minutes later, the three of them left together, looking awfully cozy with each other.
I surveyed the room again for Sushmita, but came up empty. Willy was all eyes for Birgit, who sparkled under the spotlight of his attentions. I maneuvered my way over to them, intending to find out where Sushmita was as soon as they could tear themselves away from each other.
They were engaged in a lighthearted conversation in German, effectively shutting me out. I waited for my opening.
“And where is the lovely Sushmita?” I asked, once the two had come up for air. “I never got the chance to thank her for her hospitality.”
“I’m afraid she wasn’t eager to spend six hours with me in the car,” said Willy. “She’s still cross about Chhotu. But she asked me to tell you she misses you.”
“How nice.”
He turned back to Birgit, and I was forgotten.
I nursed my drink, thinking of Sushmita. Why hadn’t she come? And why hadn’t she sent me some kind of word as she’d promised. I was feeling neglected, sitting there next to Willy as he flirted with Birgit.
And then I got it.
The 23:45 train pulled out of VT—Victoria Terminus—on time. I hadn’t bothered to pack anything. I simply slipped away from Willy’s party and jumped into a taxi. I ended up in a third-class seat since there was no time to buy a better ticket. Reservations required advanced bookings. I didn’t mind. It was only a couple of hours.
I was sitting with two young men—domestic help or restaurant workers—traveling back to their village with two great trunks in tow. They offered me water and some wada pao they’d picked up as a treat in the station. It must have been an extravagance for them, since I knew these kids saved every anna and paisa for their families back home. Yet I couldn’t very well refuse their generosity. I tucked in.
Managing to communicate some details of their situation, they told me they were brothers, heading back home to visit their gao—their village—after almost two years working in Bombay. A third brother would meet them at the Poona station, then they’d all board a different train going north. They said they would take turns sitting up to guard their belongings from thieves, until they arrived in Patna a day or two later. Their father would meet them there with a bullock cart to take them and their trunks the rest of the way.
When the train pulled into Lonavala shortly after two in the morning, I thanked them for their hospitality and wished them a safe journey.
The rain was holding off but threatening. The night was warm, not hot, with a pleasant breeze blowing from the west. In the line of taxis, a few drivers were sleeping on the hoods of their cars, legs folded over knees as if they were lying back and reading. I knocked on the fender of the first taxi in the queue, gently at first, then a bit more insistently to wake him. The driver rolled off the car and climbed inside. I got in the back and told him where to go. To a little hotel about a kilometer from Sushmita’s bungalow.
