‘Oh, shit,’ Vikram sighed. ‘There goes my bargaining. Fuck it. I’ll have the money in half an hour. Clean him up, and get him ready.’
‘There’s something else,’ I interrupted, and they all turned to look at me. ‘There are two men. In my dormitory. They tried to help me, and the overseers or the guards gave them six months more. But they finished their time. I want them to walk out the gate with me.’
The cop gave an inquiring look at the prison official. He responded by waving his hand dismissively and wagging his head in agreement. The matter was a mere trifle. The men would be freed.
‘And there’s another guy’ I said flatly. ‘His name’s Mahesh Malhotra. He can’t raise his bail. It’s not much, a couple of thousand rupees. I want you to let Vikram pay his bail. I want him to walk out with me.’
The two men raised their palms, and exchanged identical expressions of bewilderment. The fate of such a poor and insignificant man never intruded upon their material ambitions or their spiritual disenchantments. They turned to Vikram. The prison official thrust out his jaw as if to say,
Vikram stood to leave, but I raised my hand, and he sat down again quickly.
‘And there’s another one,’ I said.
The cop laughed out loud.
‘
‘He’s an African. He’s in the African compound. His name’s Raheem. They broke both his arms. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. If he’s alive, I want him, too.’
The cop turned to the prison official, hunching his shoulders and raising the palm of his hand in a question.
‘I know the case,’ the prison official said, wagging his head. ‘It is… a police case. The fellow carried on a shameless affair with the wife of a police inspector. The inspector quite rightly arranged to have him put in here. And once he was here, the brute made an assault on one of my overseers. It is quite impossible.’
There was a little silence, then, as the word
‘Four thousand,’ the cop said.
‘Rupees?’ Vikram asked.
‘Dollars,’ the cop laughed. ‘American dollars. Four thousand extra. Two for us and our associates, and two for the inspector who’s married to the slut.’
‘Are there any more, Lin?’ Vikram muttered, earnestly. ‘I’m just asking, like, because we’re workin’ our way up to a group discount here, you know.’
I stared back at him. The fever was stinging my eyes, and the effort it took to sit upright in the chair was causing me to sweat and shiver. He reached out, leaning over so that his hands were resting on my bare knees. I had the thought that some of the body lice might creep from my legs onto his hands, but I couldn’t brush that reassuring touch aside.
‘It’s gonna be cool, man. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon. We’ll get you the fuck outta here within the hour. I promise. I’ll be back with two taxis, for us and your guys.’
‘Bring three taxis,’ I answered, my voice sounding as though it came from a new, dark, deep place that was opening up as I began to accept that I might be free.
‘One taxi for you, and the other two for me and the guys,’ I said. ‘Because… body lice.’
‘Okay’ he flinched. ‘Three taxis. You got it.’
Half an hour later, I rode with Raheem in the back of a black-and-yellow Fiat taxi through the tectonic spectacle and pedestrian pageant of the city. Raheem had obviously received some treatment-his arms were encased in plaster casts-but he was thin and sick, and horror clogged his eyes. I felt nauseous just looking into those eyes. He never said a word, except to tell us where he wanted to go. He was crying, softly and silently, when we dropped him off at a restaurant that Hassaan Obikwa owned in Dongri.
As we drove on, the driver kept staring at my gaunt, starved, beaten face in his rear-vision mirror. Finally, I asked him in rough, colloquial Hindi if he had any Indian movie songs in his cab. Stunned, he replied that he did. I nominated one of my favourites, and he found it, cranking it up to the max as we buzzed and beeped our way through the traffic. It was a song that the prisoners in the long room had passed from group to group. They sang it almost every night. I sang it as the taxi took me back into the smell and colour and sound of my city. The driver joined in, looking often into the mirror. None of us lie or guard our secrets when we sing, and India is a nation of singers whose first love is the kind of song we turn to when crying just isn’t enough.
