Vikram Chandra - Love and Longing in Bombay

Sartaj stood erect, feeling the muscles in his back, and he scraped the plaster off his shoulder with his right hand. He thumped it sharply and the white came off in little clouds. Sartaj shook his head. He tucked his shirt in, pulled up his belt, with both hands he felt the slant of his turban and corrected it. Then he smoothened his moustache, said, “I’m all right. Come on.” He walked down the stairs, to his work.

*

“Mr. Patel was a very helping kind of man,” Kaimal said. Kaimal was in his sixties, a retired merchant navy captain who lived two floors below the Patels in a flat of the same size and floor plan. “We bought together,” Kaimal said. “Seven years ago, almost exactly. Before that we rented in the same building in Santa Cruz.”

Mrs. Kaimal brought out coffee in small steel tumblers, and Kaimal rubbed his forehead absently and ran a finger around the edge of the glass. A moment passed and Mrs. Kaimal sat down beside her husband and put a hand on his wrist. Behind them Katekar, who was a tea drinker, sniffed suspiciously at his glass. “He was very much younger than I am,” Kaimal said quietly.

“Was he well liked in the building here?” Sartaj said.

Kaimal looked up and nodded. “He was president of the building society for three years in a row. He organized all our functions.” Leaning forward, Kaimal said decisively, “He got jobs for the children of many people here.” He sat back, and said again, “He was younger than I am.”

“You must have seen Kshitij grow up,” Sartaj said.

“Yes. He is a very intelligent boy.”

“Did his father think so?” Sartaj said.

Kaimal looked at him consideringly, and Sartaj could see the beginnings of distaste. This was familiar: the policeman’s assumption of grief and deceit hidden in every happiness was frightening in its simplicity. It implicated everyone.

“Of course. He was very proud of him. Very proud.”

“And his mother is proud too?” Sartaj said.

“What else? Of course. Kshitij is a very good son to her. It is good to see a young man with such respect for his mother these days.”

“And were they happy together?”

“Who?” Kaimal said.

“Mr. and Mrs. Patel,” Sartaj said. “Were they happy?”

“Happy?” Mrs. Kaimal said, shaking her head, exasperated. “They were husband and wife. What else would they be?”

Sartaj finished his coffee. It was very good coffee indeed. In people like this, decent and hospitable, loyalty to the departed was always the most unbreakable bond. They were telling a truth that had become sharp and clear in the sudden glare of death, and he knew he couldn’t persuade them to turn them back towards the shadowed ambiguities that were so crucial to him. That would cause them to break with their obligations.

“I see,” he said slowly. “I see.” He looked at Mrs. Kaimal until she shifted uncomfortably, and then both husband and wife seemed to shrink against the faded lily pattern of their sofa. Then Sartaj said quietly, “Were you aware if Mr. Patel was in any kind of trouble? Did he seem afraid? Had he told you of any threats? Quarrels?”

“Threats?” Kaimal said. “No.”

As Sartaj stood up they watched him apprehensively, turned their heads to watch Katekar’s thumping walk. He thanked them for the coffee, told them to contact him if they remembered anything, and then he shut the door quietly behind himself and Katekar. They were a nice old pair, handsome and finedrawn and cultured, but he had no regret for inflicting fear on them. It was what his job required of him, this distance from the rest of the world, their wariness of him, it was inevitable and necessary and he knew that very often it was this very thing that made it possible for him to grasp the truth, to see the secret and fix it, forever. Usually he thought nothing of it, never needed to, but today the click of the lock brought with it a bitter little bubble of loneliness in his mouth. He looked up and down the stairs, leaned towards the grilled door that covered the lift-shaft, and spat into the long pit. Then they went on to the next flat. As the day went on, as they walked down the stairs, from one home to another, Sartaj watched the sweat stain grow between Katekar’s shoulder blades and spread across the large breadth of his back.

By late afternoon, from the fragments of many conversations, from hesitations and allusions and things left unsaid, he had teased out these unremarkable facts: the father was a genial man, full of humour, ready to backslap and also to come to one’s help when needed; the son was known for his intelligence, for his first rank in every exam, for his quietness; the mother was a good cook, she doted on her son and laughed at her husband’s jokes, the husband and wife went for drives every Saturday, long drives.

*

Sartaj learnt about Patel’s passion for his red Contessa as he stood next to it in an incense-filled garage. Patel’s driver, a tall, bulky man named Sharma, was polishing the car with a kind of melancholy patience, inch by inch and with many flourishes of a waxy rag. He had two agarbattis burning in front of a picture of Shiva — they let forth, now and then, undulating drifts of white smoke, full with the aroma of chameli , an aphrodisiacal essence of moonlight and river water and rain. Katekar strolled around the periphery of the room, looking at the cans on a shelf, the calendars on the wall.

“He liked to listen to ghazals in the car,” Sharma said. “Every new cassette, we got. We just got new speakers.”

Between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s there was a box full of tapes. A tape with blue writing on it was in the deck.

“What’s that one?” Sartaj said.

“His favourite. Mehdi Hassan. He listened to it again and again.” Sharma reached into the car and a moment later the song drifted out into the garage: Voh jo ham me turn me karaar tha, tumhe yaad hoke yana yaad ho

“When was the last time he was in the car?”

“Last Saturday. I don’t come for duty on Saturdays. But he must have gone for a ride.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Around. But he must have gone.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve worked for him for thirteen years and every Saturday he went for a drive with Memsaab . I used to pull the seat forward every Friday night for him. He liked cars. This one specially. Last weekend he even washed it.”

“Washed it?”

“Outside and in. It was shining clean when I came in on Monday morning.”

It was a very long car that filled up the garage so that Sartaj had to squeeze behind it. He opened a door and leaned in. The seats were spotless, and the interior smelt of soap and ammonia. The song was gentle and a little sad and very sweet.

“Was he worried in the last few days? Afraid of something? Upset?”

Sharma stopped rubbing at the metal and looked up at Sartaj. “No. But I’m worried now. What will happen now to Kshitij Baba?”

“Kshitij? Why?”

“He has to take care of his mother. Very much love between them. Often when he was tired and had a headache he would lie with his head in her lap. I saw this when I would go up to give the car keys back in the evenings. But he’s very young. How will he manage? So young.”

Sartaj took the rag from him and sniffed at it. “Are you afraid for your job?”

Sharma laughed aloud. He straightened up, away from the car, and he was at least three inches taller than Sartaj, and not at all afraid. “Inspector, you know there are jobs for drivers in Bombay. No, I’m worried for him. He looked very tired today”

“Did he take the car out?”

“No, no. When I came this morning I saw him taking rubbish out of the building. Then again an hour later.”