Vikram Chandra - Love and Longing in Bombay

He pushed ahead, moving aside the matted stalks with his hands. His face was covered with moisture and the breath burned in his chest. Something buzzed against his cheek and then he saw a flash of white to his left. He tried to turn and something gave way under him and he fell full length into the water. As he came closer he saw that the white was a smooth form, like stone, that came out of the liquid, and as he struggled he tried to place it in his memory, he was sure that he had seen it before, and then it turned over in his vision and took on a new form, like a cloud, and he saw that it was the Apsara’s shoulder, and that she lay face down in the water, almost covered but held up by the criss-crossing reeds and the thrust of the swamp itself. He reached her and panted as he strained to turn her over. Her smile was eternal and untouched by what she had come to. He looked around for the buildings and the pathway, but could see nothing, and then he tried to imagine Chetanbhai’s wife bringing out the Apsara and throwing her into the muck. It was impossible and improbable, but he could see without any effort Kshitij dragging out the white form, like a corpse, in the darkness of the early morning, not looking at the Apsara’s eyes, her swollen lips, and tipping her into the water. What he couldn’t form within himself was a logic for it, a first cause, a reason why. Not yet, he said, yet, and then he began to look for a way out.

*

“You smell,” Kshitij said when he opened the door to Sartaj’s urgent knocking.

“Of shit, yes,” Sartaj said, walking into the apartment, which was clean now, neatened and stripped of its gaudiness. The paintings were gone, and the books on the shelf were a different lot, thicker with gold writing on the spines.

“Did you fall into a gutter or something?” Kshitij said, looking at the puddles of water on his floor. “Hope you didn’t swallow anything. You need medical attention if you did.”

“Not quite. Not quite.” The swamp was used as a gutter by the labourers who built the apartment buildings, and some of the servants who worked in them, and Sartaj understood Kshitij’s pained look of distaste, but he was reading the titles on the shelf. “ A History of the IndianPeople ,” Sartaj said. “Was your father a great reader?”

“Not really, no,” Kshitij said.

“Your mother?”

“No, she’s not.”

“I see. And you?”

“Yes, I read. But is something wrong?”

“I’d like to see that chequebook I gave to you. If I may.”

“What is this? I thought you had the man.”

“I have the man. Where is it?”

There was a moment then in which Sartaj saw the possibilities clicking in Kshitij’s eyes, and fear, and then Kshitij shrugged and laughed. “All right. No problem.”

When he had it, a minute later, Sartaj held the chequebook by his fingertips, away from his body, and flicked through the pages. “I’ll keep this,” he said.

“Sure. But why?”

Sartaj looked at him, considering. Then he leaned forward and said deliberately, “I’m very interested in your father’s reading habits.”

*

The Jankidas Publishing Company turned out to be a man, a woman, and two computers in a garage. The garage was at the rear of an old four-storied building in a lane near Bandra station. Lines of fresh clothes hung from every balcony above the garage, and as Sartaj, now dry and no longer fetid, unlaced his shoes he was aware that at least three women were watching him from different homes above, their laundry forgotten. He had called Katekar from home, while he was changing, and had him waiting outside Chetanbhai’s building in plain clothes, ready to shadow Kshitij. There was an excitement in his blood now, a hunter’s prickling on his forearms. As he tugged at the lace on his left shoe there was again that darkened stirring in his mind, something falling into shape, barely recognizable yet. But moving. The “Remove Shoes Please” sign had been done in a fancy curled typeface on red paper, and inside Mr. Jankidas was eating his lunch near his computer, under a purple sign that announced, “We Believe in God and Cash. No Credit Please.” Mrs. Jankidas, who wore steel-rimmed spectacles like her husband and looked very much like him except for her full head of hair, held a tiffin from which she occasionally served out puris and bhaji. Mr. Jankidas sat cross-legged in his chair, quite content, and it was as perfect a scene of domestic tranquillity as Sartaj had ever seen. He broke it with some satisfaction.

“I am aware of some transactions between you and a certain Mr. Chetanbhai Ghanshyam Patel,” he said. “Who is unfortunately in the position of being the deceased in a very serious case of murder.”

“It’s more serious than the average murder case?” Mr. Jankidas said. Sartaj liked him.

“It appears to be,” Sartaj said. “It may turn out to be very complicated. Which is why I must appeal to you. This Mr. Patel was in the habit of writing cheques to you. Monthly, that is, as far as I can tell.”

“He was our client,” Mr. Jankidas said.

“Satisfied, no doubt. What did he purchase from you?”

Mrs. Jankidas tilted her head slightly and Sartaj saw the look of command that passed between them.

“We promise our clients confidentiality,” Mr. Jankidas said. “It is, you understand, part of the terms.”

Sartaj leaned back in his chair. He was quite comfortable in the air conditioning. “Is this allowed, to operate a business in a garage in this building? According to the building society rules? What about municipal rules? I wonder.” He was addressing himself to Mrs. Jankidas. “I must remember to find out.” He turned his head to look at the other signs in the room. Mr. Jankidas was a believer in signs. Dust Is the Enemy of Efficiency. Customer Is our Joy. When Sartaj looked back Mr. Jankidas was ready to talk.

“We provide multiple services. Brochures. Business cards. Company papers. Legal typing. Invitations. Wedding cards. If you need, please.”

“And?”

“Also we publish a magazine.”

“Yes?”

“We function as a stage, you see. For the exchange of information. Mutual communications.”

“What kind of information?”

Mr. Jankidas bent over in his chair and fished beneath the computer desk. He brought out a magazine with slick covers, all red and yellow, resplendent with many typefaces. On the front a young woman looked straight into the camera, under the title in green, The Metropolitan. Sartaj had seen it before, at railway book stalls, the pages stapled together securely. He took it from Mr. Jankidas and opened it and read, in the middle of a column, “R-346. (M) Bombay : I am 32 year old, Engineer man working as a Class-I Gazetted Officer in a Central Govt. Establishment. 168 cms, 72 kgs, heartily welcome be, cpn from frank, good-looking, bm ladies-couples l-nw, no bars. Cfndt assured-expected, pht appreciated. H: Games, nature, outing. LK: English, Hindi, Marathi.”

“What’s a ‘bm’?” Sartaj said.

“Broad-minded,” Mrs. Jankidas said suddenly. “H for Hobbies, LK for Languages Known.”

“Languages. Of course,” Sartaj said. “I see, I see.” Of course he didn’t see at all, but he pushed on. “I take it Chetanbhai was a customer for this.”

“Yes,” Mr. Jankidas said. “They ran one ordinary ad every month.”

“They?”

Mr. Jankidas picked up a ledger, ran a finger down a ruled page, and pronounced, “M-434.”

Sartaj found M-434, towards the back of the magazine. “ Bombay : In absence of true and loving friendship, life is nothing but one long process of getting tired. Let’s join up! Come together to explore the fascinating future. An educated, charming, very friendly couple is inviting like-minded singles/couples to make the life a colourful span of sweet surprises, tender thrills. Melodious moments, fabulous felicities and warm welcome are all waiting for you. What are you waiting for?”