The Setting Sun (19 page)

‘I’ll ask around when I get back to the UK,’ I offer. ‘I’ll write and let you know.’

‘My sons tell me the market for historical novels is bad at the moment.’

I nod. ‘Where do they live?’

‘One’s in South Africa and the other just went back to the United States.’ Anticipating my query, she adds: ‘You see, it would have been hard for them here as non-Hindus.’

‘Your daughter’s the only one with you?’

Kiron leans forward confidentially. ‘She’s our adopted daughter.’

She tells me the story. The girl’s biological mother came from rural Bihar and was sold into prostitution, passed from gang to gang until she ended up in the Falkland Road cages in Mumbai. Modak discovered her during a drugs raid. The woman said she preferred to stay in her brothel rather than be sent home. She feared reprisals from the people who first peddled her and abuse from her family, which had been content to have one less superfluous female mouth to feed. Modak took pity and invited her to join his household. The couple adopted her infant child in due course. The mother worked her way up to cook and it’s she who’s preparing high tea. The daughter’s recently graduated from university and now works in the personnel department of an IT company. As the story unfolds, I remember Vasanthi, the ‘untouchable’ character in
No Place
, whose brutal killers Kumar pursues so determinedly. I’m impressed. Clearly Modak shares his protagonist’s admirable desire for social justice. I now also better
understand the girl’s self-effacing demeanour in her parents’ presence.

Just as Kiron finishes, the front door bangs to again and soon her husband comes shuffling out to the courtyard. He’s wearing a loose red-and-black check shirt and grey slacks, his skin almost colourless in the fading light. I can’t interpret his expression. Is he pleased to see me or not?

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘Moore-Gilbert’s started
No Place
, Emmanuel dear,’ Kiron announces, patting the cushion beside her on the bench, ‘he thinks it’s awfully good.’ She has to repeat herself as her husband cups his ear.

‘Yes, I haven’t had time for
Sentinel
yet.’

Is that a flicker of relief on my host’s face? He, too, seems very frail today.

‘Sorry you’ve been unwell,’ he mutters.

‘I’m fine now, thank you.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be coming. I got out some photographs, anyway.’

‘Thanks so much. I have some for you as well.’

Modak shuffles back indoors, returning a few minutes later with two large black albums. But his archive’s a disappointment. There are dozens of black-and-white photos, fixed at the corners with stamp hinges, pages separated by crinkly semi-transparent sheets. The first one which Modak shakily removes shows him with Mountbatten, inspecting a guard of honour. His evident pride seems another example of his Raj-identification. Other photos feature various politicians met as his career progressed. I wonder again how my host felt after Independence, as the servant of the people he’d pursued in the 1940s. It’s fascinating to see the leaders of the Parallel Government, Nana Patil and Y.B. Chavan. But these pictures date from the 1960s. The commentary stumbles along as Modak tries diligently to remember. However, he’s behaving as if I’ve come to research his life rather than Bill’s. I try to be
patient. Anyway, what am I hoping for? He can’t be expected to suddenly retract his accusations. Besides, I’m not supposed to have read
Sentinel
and I can’t think how to probe without revealing that I have.

By the time Kiron calls us for food, I’m frustrated and rather bored. It’s a relief to come inside to the delicious aromas. We sit at the dining table as a middle-aged woman with hennaed hair in a centre-parting brings out the dishes. Looking at her, solid, comfortable and smiling, it’s hard to imagine what would have become of her but for Modak’s kindness.

‘Beef curry, dal and paratha,’ Kiron explains, waving round the dishes like a conductor, ‘rice and
methi maloo.’
This last looks like spinach fried with plenty of garlic. ‘And one of your father’s favourites,’ she adds fondly, pointing to lamb cutlets and coarsely mashed potato flecked with skin. ‘We often had it in Satara.’

The English food looks insipid. But to humour Kiron for going to the trouble, I help myself. Like Bill before me, I imagine, I mitigate the blandness of public-school chow with a dollop of acid mango pickle. Modak looks at me keenly.

‘Fully recovered, I see.’

Is there a hint of knowing irony?

Over the meal, I show him my Aunt Pat’s photos. He immediately identifies the ones of the PTS. None appear to have been taken in Satara, though he doesn’t recognise all the locations. I deduce that those are from Bill’s later postings.

‘I remember his “Woodie” well,’ Modak remarks, pointing to a picture of Bill sitting in a Ford station wagon with timber framing. ‘We had to buy our own cars in those days, though we got an allowance. That’s Sergeant Staines, the drill instructor,’ he comments, pointing to a figure in long shorts to whom Bill is listening with a half-smile. ‘Ex-Guards. He always used to say, “Mr Modak, walk straight now, don’t waddle like a duck.” We were called “Mr”, like at Sandhurst,’ he adds proudly.

Police-Probationer Bill listening to N.A.P. Smith, Inspector-General of Police (in homburg) and Charles de Vere Moss (in pith helmet), Principal of Nasik PTS c. 1940

‘And these two?’

Bill looks on respectfully as two older men confer, like a schoolboy privy to a discussion between masters.

‘On the left’s Smith, the inspector-general, and the other’s de Vere Moss, the principal.’

‘ “Pembroke” in your novel.’

Modak smiles appreciatively. I show him Rajeev’s photo.

‘This is the intake before mine. That’s Ted Dodwell and Michael Mountain, can’t remember the chap between them.’

I make a note for Rajeev. Mountain features in
Sentinel
as a colleague who escapes Satara for a cushy post in Air Raid Precautions at the local hill station, thereby doubling Modak’s workload. My host tells one or two anecdotes about each figure, recaps aspects of the probationer’s life described in
No Place for Crime
and explains the syllabus he and Bill followed. There were four main elements. First, instruction
in the Indian Penal and Criminal Procedure Codes and the Bombay Police Evidence Acts, with lower and higher exams in successive years. Subsidiary courses covered Hindu law. Second, study of two Indian languages. Hindi was compulsory, with the choice of another lingua franca of the province, Marathi, Gujarati or Kannarese. Then, Physical Training. This included drill, weapons, riding and team sports. Finally, the Police Manual and Investigative Procedures. When I look up, Kiron’s eyes are shut, as if she’s exhausted, or has heard it all many times before.

She perks up again when the cook appears to clear the plates. After a portion of kulfi and what resembles spotted dick, which I dutifully swallow, she excuses herself to make some phone calls. Modak and I retire to the courtyard again for coffee. An oil lamp’s been lit, attracting a large grey moth. I ask my host to look at the photos of Bill’s ‘girl-friends in India’. He doesn’t recognise either. Maria’s uniform, he suggests, indicates that she might have been based at Deolali army camp, outside Nasik.

‘Your novel suggests Bill Pryce-Jones had an Indian girlfriend at the PTS. Did my father?’

It takes Modak a while to understand what I’m asking.

‘Out of the question,’ he says firmly. ‘Such things were not allowed.’

‘But in your novel …’

‘My dear Moore-Gilbert, you’re a literature person, you’ve heard of novelistic licence. Some of the British certainly did such things. There
was
a man in Nasik, Gumbleton-something. But not an IP officer. Good Lord, no.’

Modak sounds very like the orthodox Brahmin officer whom ‘Bill’ scandalises in
No Place
.

‘But you talked about a lady friend the last time I came?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Modak responds testily, ‘but that’s quite another thing. I had a great English lady friend, the wife of the executive engineer in Satara. It doesn’t mean …’

He gazes impassively, as if the subject is closed. I wonder why ‘Bill’ is turned into such a womaniser. Perhaps it’s simply to give his character colour after all. I take a deep breath and ask about the novel’s treatment of police brutality.

‘How much of that was “novelistic licence”?’

My host looks uncomfortable, but he confirms the documentary nature of this aspect of his narrative, without mentioning Bill explicitly.

‘Regrettably, some officers thought it the most expedient way to get results. They were wrong. As I said yesterday, it simply fanned the insurgency. On the other hand, it wasn’t to be compared with what the Patri Sarkar were doing.’

Startled, I explain that I read Kamte’s memoir in Mumbai. ‘Was it common practice to beat demonstrators?’

‘My dear Moore-Gilbert, you have to understand what it’s like to be faced with a violent stone-throwing mob which won’t disperse and reckon the probable loss of life and property if they have their way. Sometimes we had to use live rounds.’

I’m struck by that ‘we’. But his look tells me that this subject, too, is closed. Damn it. I’m never going to find out exactly what was fact and what fiction in
No Place –
or in
Sentinel
.

Kiron returns, looking very tired. Although it’s only seven-thirty, I sense it’s time to leave.

‘There’s a lady who’d like to meet you, if you’re free now. She knew your father.’

After all the talk of ‘lady friends,’ I’m startled. ‘Who might that be?’

‘Her name’s Dhun Nanavatty. A Parsi. Widow of K.J. Nanavatty, who joined the IP a few years before your father and Emmanuel. They worked together, he and Bill. If you’re free, she’d like you to go round.’

‘Now?’

‘In an hour. It’s not too late for you?’

Kiron explains where Mrs Nanavatty lives, fifteen minutes in an auto-rickshaw.

‘I said I’d phone back if it’s not convenient.’

What luck. Thank God I didn’t cancel my meeting with the Modaks. This could certainly make up for the lack of new information here.

‘More than happy. Do you know when and where they were together?’

Kiron frowns with concentration, pulling at her lower lip.

‘In fact, do you know where my father went after Satara? His Service Record’s incomplete. The last entry says Ahmedabad, in early 1946.’

‘That’s where he must have been with Nanavatty,’ Modak chips in. ‘Keki was up there for quite a while, running the Home Guards.’

‘Didn’t Moore-Gilbert go somewhere on the coast?’ Kiron counters.

‘I don’t think so, my dear,’ Modak responds moodily, ‘I’m sure your father stayed in Ahmedabad until Independence.’

Kiron shrugs deferentially. ‘Perhaps Dhun can tell you.’

‘Now, I’ve made some telephone calls, too,’ Modak intervenes rather abruptly. ‘In case you want to go to Satara.’

Startled, I explain that I’m waiting for a call from Rajeev about Poel and the SIB archives.

‘Well, I phoned the DSP anyway. They’d be delighted to show you round. It might give you a better sense of what we were about. And you can see the fort your father used to run up to.’

I’m doubly glad I didn’t cancel. ‘Thank you, Mr Modak, that’s very kind.’

‘Not at all. Who knows, they might be able to dig up those confidential weekly reports. And if they don’t, ask to see the Part IVs.’

‘Part IVs?’

He nods. ‘The station’s annual records. They provide an abstract of the main developments, communalism, crime, traffic and so on. They don’t throw those away.’

The thought suddenly occurs to me. ‘Do you know anything about my father’s involvement in putting down the Hoors? I’ve been told that’s why he got the job in Satara.’

‘The Hurs of Sindh? I don’t remember him talking about them.’

Surely, if Professor Bhosle’s right, Bill would have discussed that earlier rebellion with his colleague in the course of preparing a strategy for dealing with the Parallel Government? If he didn’t, either he was never in Sindh, or this is further evidence of the distance or mistrust between the two men. Maybe Modak’s simply forgotten, as with some of the names in the photographs. How much can anyone be expected to remember after sixty-odd years?

When I get up, Modak gives me another of his visiting cards. On the front, above his details, he’s written ‘Sent By’ in a trembling script: on the back, the name and phone number of the DSP in Satara.

‘I hope you enjoy meeting Dhun,’ Kiron says, shaking my hand warmly. ‘Do try to get to Satara, it’s only a few hours and the drive’s beautiful. Ah, Satara,’ she adds wistfully, ‘we had some happy times there. It was just after we married.’

Modak’s face, however, suggests otherwise. ‘If you come back this way, be sure to drop by,’ he mutters.

I leave with mixed feelings. Kiron’s a darling, without a bad bone in her body. As for Modak, he’s too complex to grasp in two sittings.