A Cut-Like Wound (37 page)

Ibrahim tried to resist as they led him up a flight of steps into what seemed like a newly built bungalow. He tried to shake off their grip but they merely yanked his arms behind him, almost pulling them off their sockets, and pushed him
forward. He yelped in pain. ‘Where are you taking me?’ he whimpered in fright, suddenly seeing his life dangle at the end of a snub-nosed revolver pointed at him.

India on the jaw sniggered. ‘Afraid, are you?’

Ibrahim bit down an angry retort.

Itchy ears knocked on the door. After a long pause, the door opened and a clone of the two men stood within. Ibrahim stumbled as they thrust him in.

‘C’mon, take it easy. He isn’t a criminal, just someone we want to chat with,’ a voice spoke from the end of the room.

Ibrahim blinked. He searched for the source of the voice. A tall man, middle-aged and veering towards burly, sat on a sofa. There were flecks of grey in his short hair.

India on the jaw loosened his grip and suddenly let go. Itchy ears hawked as if in disgust.

‘Come here, Ibrahim,’ the tall man said. ‘Sit down. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ He spoke Dakhani Urdu while the others had spoken in Kannada.

Ibrahim continued to stand. He drew himself in. He had heard enough about this good guy–bad guy routine from some of the boys on the street who had been taken in.

‘Mamu, one arsehole will pretend to be your friend while another arsehole will pretend to be the tough type, out to pull the hair off your balls one by one,’ Soup Sayeed had said only a few days ago. ‘And they’ll play with you in such a way that you’ll end up telling them everything including your sister’s menstruation dates. Motherfuckers!’

They were the police. Ibrahim realized that now. If they took VRS and left the force, they could rent themselves out to one of the gang lords. Thugs, each one of them. The only difference was that these had a uniform and a pension when they retired.

The tall man’s fingers played on the sofa arm as if to rein in his impatience. He stood up abruptly and thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. This must be the senior man, Ibrahim decided.

‘I must apologize, Ibrahim,’ he said. ‘My men deal with criminals all the time. In their eyes everyone brought in is either a criminal or one in the making.’

‘So I am free to go,’ Ibrahim demanded.

‘Yes, of course. But you need to answer a few of my questions before that. Think of it as a casual chat and no more.’ The voice was silky, the tone pitched between a steely firmness and easy joviality. ‘Here,’ the tall man said, walking towards a dining table and pulling out a chair. ‘Sit down.’

Ibrahim looked at the oval-shaped table and the six chairs. Once, in another life, Ibrahim had been a carpenter; a man who made furniture. A man who went to sleep every night and slept through the night.

Rubbish, factory-produced furniture, he thought as he pulled out a chair. Overpriced too. ‘What did this cost?’ he asked, unable to help himself.

The tall man stared at him blankly. ‘What?’ he asked. Then catching on, he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’

Ibrahim shrugged. ‘I was making casual chit-chat. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

Ibrahim could see that the tall man would have liked to lean across the table, haul him up by his collar and snarl, ‘Don’t fuck with me!’

But he held himself back. Only the drumming of his fingers on the table bespoke his agitation.

India on the jaw emerged from his side. He shoved Ibrahim against the wall. ‘You are too soft, sir. Let me deal with this bastard…’

‘No, I’ll handle this.’

‘What do you want, sir?’ Ibrahim spoke to the tall man. ‘What is it you want to know?’

The tall man peered at his watch. The room was wreathed in shadows. It was almost six. He raised his hand to a panel on the wall and switched on an overhead lamp. The little pool of light on the table turned it into an interrogation room. Or, at least, like those Ibrahim had seen in the movies. He swallowed. A lump of saliva that made a plop as it slid down his throat. His eyes met the tall man’s fleetingly. He dropped his gaze.

‘Do you want a drink?’ the man asked.

Ibrahim shook his head. ‘I don’t drink.’

‘Don’t lie, Ibrahim. I know you do … a small one?’

Ibrahim shook his head again. ‘No, I am fasting. It’s Ramzan, you know. Once a year I try to be all I should be for the rest of the year. A good Muslim!’

The tall man nodded. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming, and said, ‘So you will be honest with me. Isn’t that part of being a good Muslim? No lies or games!’

Ibrahim licked his lips.

‘What’s your connection with the corporator?’

Ibrahim’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Which corporator? Shamima Bibi? I used to know her as a child. But now she’s the corporator of my ward…’

‘Not Shamima Bibi. I am talking about Ravikumar. Caddy Ravi, as he used to be called.’

‘Sir, I made some furniture for Anna. Then he asked me to work for him. I do some plumbing and electrical work too. So he asked me to become a kind of manager of his properties. Make sure everything’s working, etc’ Ibrahim spread his arms in an all-encompassing sweep.

‘That’s all there is…’

‘That’s all, sir. I swear by all I hold precious that I am his employee, a lowly employee.’ Ibrahim leaned forward and folded his palms in supplication.

The tall man stood up and moved into the shadows.

‘Who else is there at his home?’

‘His younger brother. Their parents died some years ago. Anna hasn’t married yet, though he has been searching for a bride for the last ten years now, and this may sound strange, but the house is run by an elderly chhakka called Akka.’ Ibrahim’s voice dropped to a whisper.

‘Why hasn’t he married yet?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but the talk is Anna got a certificate saying he belongs to a scheduled caste and he stood for the elections under the SC quota. Now none of his caste people will marry their daughters to him; they think he has lost his claim on the caste he was born into … I don’t know the truth, but this is what everyone says.’

‘No one else lives there?’

‘No one else, unless you take into account all the people who come and go. Anna’s sisters visit once in a while. And oh, the corporator has a special puja every Friday. A group of eunuchs come to help, and sometimes stay over. I don’t understand why the chhakkas have to be there … some strange ritual associated with the goddess they worship … no one else.’

Ibrahim’s stomach growled. Soon it would be time for the maghrib prayer. What would Khadija cook tonight? He had set out to buy the meat when these arselickers had grabbed him.

‘As part of your job, you fetch and carry little packets for him?’ a disembodied voice demanded.

Ibrahim took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes, sir. Sometimes Anna tells me to do it if the driver has to do something else.’

‘No outstation trips?’

Ibrahim’s heart hammered in his chest. ‘A few times. But I don’t like leaving home…’

‘Ever checked on the contents?’

‘No, sir. I presume it’s printed material. A relative of his runs a small press. Anna subsidized it, so he takes a great interest in the business.’

‘And you were never curious?’ His interrogator suddenly moved into his line of vision. ‘You have absolutely no idea what it could be…’

‘Anna is a good employer. Why would I risk my job?’ Ibrahim snapped, unable to help himself. He was weary and irritable. All through the day, his thoughts were hinged to the evening prayer. When the maghrib was over, there would be food. He could hold on until then. Not any longer.

‘So, tell me again, how did your association with Ravikumar begin?’

Ibrahim blinked. Was the man an idiot? ‘I just told you…’ he said furiously.

‘So, tell us again…’ India on the jaw appeared out of the shadows.

Ibrahim looked at his fingernails. ‘Even if you break every bone in my body, I will have nothing new to say…’

‘Just tell us how you began your association with Ravikumar,’ the tall man spoke up now.

‘Like I said, I made some furniture.’

Two hours later, Ibrahim was faint with hunger. But he still clung to his story of caretaker, occasional courier and absolute ignorance.

The tall man stood up. ‘Seeing that he has been so cooperative, give him some biriyani,’ he said.

India on the jaw grinned. Through his hunger-crazed eyes Ibrahim wondered what the grin meant. And if finally his ordeal was over.

It was close to midnight when they dropped him back. They opened the car door and shoved him out, like one might a sack of rubbish, onto the street they had picked him up from. He stumbled, then straightened himself and glared at them. Motherfuckers! he cursed under his breath.

Itchy ears wiggled his little finger in his ear once again. ‘You asked for it!’ he said lazily, pulling his finger out and searching its end as though he expected to see an elephant perched on his nail. ‘You could have saved us and yourself all that trouble!’

India on the jaw leaned across his companion and called out, ‘In the end, you did bleat like the goat in the biriyani!’

Ibrahim hawked and spat a gob of saliva in their direction.

Itchy ears narrowed his eyes and turned to India on the jaw. ‘Are you sure it really was a goat in the biriyani?’

‘What do you mean?’ Ibrahim asked with growing horror.

‘Well, the constable I sent picked up the biriyani in Johnson Market. I read something in the newspapers the other day that goat is too expensive. So it could very well have been bow bow biriyani!’ Itchy ears spoke slowly.

India on the jaw yelped in laughter. The door slammed shut and the car sped away. Ibrahim leaned over, retching…

He had been kept waiting at the dining table for another half hour after the tall man, whose name he subsequently
discovered was Inspector Gowda, left. Itchy ears came in and asked, ‘Do you want to use the lavatory?’

Ibrahim didn’t understand the word. ‘What?’ he asked.

Itchy ears’ mouth twisted. ‘Kakoos?’

Ibrahim nodded.

The toilet was tiny but it had a washbasin. Ibrahim peed, washed himself and decided he may as well as do the wudu he should have done before the maghrib. He would have at least fulfilled one of the prerequisites, of cleansing himself before formal prayers, as his religion advocated.

He sluiced his hands up to his wrist three times. Then he rinsed his mouth out three times. Then the nostrils, the face, the arms up to the elbows three times again. He wetted his hands and wiped his head and then cleaned the insides of his ears with his index finger and the back of the ears with his thumbs. He took his handkerchief, held it under the water and wiped the back of his neck. All that was left was his feet. He filled a plastic mug and poured it over his feet. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Itchy ears called out, ‘Hey, what are you doing in there? Bathing?’

Ibrahim opened the door. Itchy ears saw the wet floor and sighed. ‘What did you do? Pee on the floor?’

Ibrahim glowered, but didn’t speak.

A newspaper-wrapped parcel sat on the table. Ibrahim tore open the wrapping and fell on the biriyani. What would Khadija and the children eat? Someone would send them food. That was certain. But there was no knowing when he would have his next meal. These bastards would keep him here through the night, he knew.

Ibrahim hiccupped. A glass of water had been placed on the table. He drank from it and shovelled more of the biriyani
into his mouth. He realized the game they were playing. Being good cop again: We’re friends. We don’t want to hurt you. Just tell us. Ibrahim would have to be born again before he became such a haraami. You can call me anything, but I’ll never be a snitch.

Ibrahim belched. He would kill for a Suleimani, he thought. A lime-flavoured tea from Bombay Tea House. The best in the world. After the maghrib and the fast-breaking meal, he had taken to wandering towards Shivaji Nagar. There was always a Bombay to Goa auto available for the ride back home.

Ibrahim’s lips rose at the corners. Those autos starting from Shivaji Nagar going up to Nagawara via Tannery Road were a bloody rollercoaster ride. Packed with at least eight people, the auto would trundle, truckle, leaping over every pothole and hump, so one man’s nose was in another’s armpit for a bit and in someone’s neck the next moment. But no one complained. It was all part of the celebratory mood, like being at a carnival. You even relished the pushing, pulling, brushing of skin, the fug of body smells, attar and breath.

‘Since you are having such a good time, here’s another packet of biriyani.’ India on the jaw thrust a packet before him.

Ibrahim frowned. They were really pushing the good cop routine. ‘No, it’s fine. I don’t want it. I am not hungry any more.’

India on the jaw pushed Ibrahim down on the chair. ‘Did I ask you if you were hungry? Eat it!’

‘I can’t.’ Ibrahim shook his head.

‘You’d better, Ibrahim. Do you want me to force it down your throat?’

Ibrahim opened the parcel wordlessly. He began
shovelling the food into his mouth. Halfway through, he couldn’t eat a morsel any more. He pushed the parcel away.