Breathless in Bombay by Shroff Murzban

Author:Shroff, Murzban [Shroff, Murzban]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781447212928
Publisher: Picador Hardbacks
Published: 2012-08-09T04:00:00+00:00

BUSY SUNDAY

♦ ♦ ♦

GAMDEVI POLICE STATION, 11:30 A.M. I take my seat on the visitors’ bench opposite Inspector Damle, the duty officer in charge of complaints. He is a robust-faced officer in his thirties, with smooth muscular arms, flickering eyes, and a mustache twirled like an army man’s.

The visitors’ bench is long and hard. There is no backrest; it is propped against the wall. To rest my back I would need to lean against the wall, which I don’t do, because the paint on the wall is peeling; it would stain my shirt. Although I am first on the bench, I have to await my turn. The inspector is busy noting the complaint of an African man seated in front of him. The African has his back toward me. I can see his face only partly.

The African is stout, with a head like a bull, close-cropped hair, and layers of fat in the neck region. He appears uncomfortable with English. He keeps saying, “I beg your pardon,” to the inspector, who, I notice, is patient with him.

Next to the African, on a chair, is an Indian, a weasel of a man with an air of self-importance. I realize he is some kind of aide because he acts as an interpreter for the African, repeating the inspector’s questions slowly back to the African.

The African is some sort of a dignitary. I could tell that from his letterhead, which he handed to the inspector as a way of introducing himself. The inspector studied it, rubbed his jaw pensively, and passed it back.

The inspector asked the African whether he was a colonel, whether at some stage he had fought for his country. The African howled with laughter; he shook like a schoolboy possessed with mirth. Wiping his eyes, he replied that was his father’s ruse; he had named him with great expectations. The inspector smiled and proceeded to ask him more questions.

Just then I was distracted by a video monitor on the wall, which showed what the prisoners in their cells were up to. The video shifted from cell to cell, jerking like a handheld camera. The camera would zoom in on the prisoners—from a long shot to a mid-close-up to a tight close-up—then to the next cell, and so on and so forth.

I saw some of the prisoners were eating moodily, others were playing cards, and two of them—bearded rogues—had struck up a yogic pose. I could swear they knew they were being watched. The picture changed to show a prisoner alone in his cell. He was asleep, in fetal position, fists clenched and held to his chest. I wondered if he had been beaten or tortured.

The African finished his complaint. He suspected he’d been robbed by some of his house staff. Some artifacts, curios, and medallions were missing. Also an African mask, a family heirloom he was attached to.

Inspector Damle assured him they’d get to the bottom of it. There was a heavy sentence for those who stole from foreign dignitaries. He’d use that to threaten the staff.

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