The Mountain Shadow

‘It doesn’t matter what you did, or what you were. It doesn’t even matter what you are. It’s what you try to be that counts.’

I smiled.

‘It’s not that easy. We’re all what we were.’

‘No we’re not. We’re what we want ourselves to be. Don’t you get that yet?’

‘I’m not free, Lisa.’

She kissed me, but the summer wind had passed, and clouds fell across a grey field of flowers in her eyes.

‘I’ll start the shower for you,’ she said, jumping from the bed and running toward the bathroom.

‘Look, this is no big deal, getting this guy outta the lock-up,’ I said, passing her on my way into the bathroom.

‘I know,’ she said flatly.

‘You still want to meet up? Later today?’

‘Of course.’

I stepped into the bathroom and stood under the cold shower.

‘Are you gonna tell me what it’s all about?’ I called out to her. ‘Or is it still a big secret?’

‘It’s not a secret, it’s a surprise,’ she said softly, standing in the doorway.

‘Fair enough,’ I laughed. ‘Where do you want me for this surprise, and when?’

‘Be outside the Mahesh, on Nariman Point, at five thirty. You’re always late, so make four thirty the time in your head, and you’ll be on time at five thirty.’

‘Got it.’

‘You’ll be there, right?’

‘Don’t worry. It’s all under control.’

‘No,’ she said, her smile falling like rain from leaves. ‘It’s not. Nothing is under control.’

She was right, of course. I didn’t understand it then, as I walked beneath the high arch of the Colaba police station, but I could still see her sorrowful smile, falling like snow into a river.

I climbed the few steps leading to the wooden veranda that covered the side and rear of the administration building. The cop on duty outside the sergeant’s office knew me. He wagged his head, smiling, as he allowed me to pass. He was glad to see me. I was a good payer.

I gave a mock salute to Lightning Dilip, the daytime duty sergeant. His bloated drinker’s face was swollen with smothered outrage: he was on a double shift of bad temper. Not a good start.

Lightning Dilip was a sadist. I knew that, because I’d been his prisoner, a few years before. He’d beaten me then, feeding his sad hunger with my helplessness. And he wanted to do it again as he stared at the bruises on my face, his lips tremors of anticipation.

But things had changed in my world, if not in his. I worked for the Sanjay Company, and the group poured a lot of liquid assets into the police station. It was too much money to risk on his defective desires.

Allowing himself the semblance of a smile, he tilted his head in a little upward nod: What’s up?

‘Is the boss in?’ I asked.

The smile showed teeth. Dilip knew that if I dealt with his boss, the sub-inspector, the trickle-down of any bribe I’d pay would barely dry his sweaty palm.

‘The sub-inspector is a very busy man. Is there something that I can do for you?’

‘Well . . . ’ I replied, glancing around at the cops in the office.

They were doing an unconvincing job of pretending not to listen. To be fair to them, pretending not to listen isn’t something we get a lot of practice at in India.

‘Santosh! Get us some chai!’ Dilip grunted in Marathi. ‘Make fresh, yaar! You lot! Go and check the under barrack!’

The under barrack was a ground-floor facility at the rear of the police compound. It was used to house violent prisoners, and prisoners who violently resisted being tortured. The young cops looked at one another, and then one of them spoke.

‘But, sir, under barrack is empty, sir.’

‘Did I ask you if there was anyone in the under barrack?’ Dilip demanded.

‘N-no, sir.’

‘Then do as I say, all of you, and check it out thoroughly! Now!’

‘Yes, sir!’ the constables shouted, grabbing their soft caps and stumbling from the room.

‘You guys should have a code or something,’ I suggested, when they’d gone. ‘Must get tedious, having to shout them out of here, every hour or so.’

‘Very funny,’ Dilip replied. ‘Get to the point, or get the fuck out. I’ve got a headache, and I want to give it to someone.’

Straight cops are all alike; every crooked cop is corrupt in his own way. They all take the money, but some accept it reluctantly, others hungrily; some angrily, others genially; some joke and some sweat as if they’re running uphill; some make it a contest, while others want to be your new best friend.

Dilip was the kind who took the money resentfully, and tried to make you bleed for giving it to him. Fortunately, like all bullies, he was susceptible to flattery.

‘I’m glad you can deal with this personally,’ I said. ‘Dealing with Patil can take all day. He doesn’t have your finesse for getting things done decisively and quickly, fatafat, like lightning. They don’t call you Lightning Dilip for nothing.’

They called him Lightning Dilip, in fact, because his shiny boots, lashing out from the darkness of his rage, always struck a chained man when he least expected it, and never twice in exactly the same place.

‘That is very true,’ Dilip preened, relaxing in his chair. ‘What can I do for you?’