For a Bengali, Bombay is, in certain respects, stranger than England. We have spent a hundred and fifty years with the English. Enough time to come to terms with their eccentricities, their starched collars and their strange preference for hounds and horses to human beings. Our Gujarati and Maratha brothers and sisters though, the bulk of the Indian population of this fair city, are a different issue entirely. The fact is, that while unified by religion and a certain distant kinship, a Bengali will never be fully trusting of any Indian who prefers roti to rice, and vegetables to fish. But then, it is hard to blame these non-Bengalis for their choice, given the paltry offerings of the Arabian Sea as compared to the piscine bounty of our Bay of Bengal. Take the favoured local fish: the pomfret. It is flat, ugly-looking, and in terms of taste, not a patch on our own handsome hilsa or noble ruhi. Furthermore, and as a keen cricketer, I felt there was a certain justice in the fact that the pomfret was known here as Bombay duck.
So it was indeed a relief to finally return to the Far Bengal Guest House and find the kitchen still open and manned by a bristling, goondah-looking fellow in a lungi and a half-sleeve vest who went by the name of Bhontu-dā. He was the sort of chap, who, back in Calcutta I might have given a wide berth – much brawn and very little brain – a rather un-Bengali sort of Bengali, but here, far from home, the mere opportunity to exchange a few words with another soul in our shared mother tongue provided comfort.
‘So, dada,’ he said, ladling a generous helping of machher-jhōl onto my plate, ‘you have been out late. Enjoying the city?’
The familiar aroma evoked memories of my mother’s own cooking, which I had not savoured in far too long.
‘I have been working,’ I said.
‘Working? At this hour? What is your business?’
And immediately I regretted my nostalgia for Bengali conversation.
‘What is it you do,’ he repeated, ‘to be out so late?’
There was nothing for it. In normal circumstances I might have invented something convincing, but now, having been given a cover story, I felt I had little choice but to stick to it. I marvelled at the absurdity, that the truth could be replaced with a lie, but not a lie with another one.
‘I work for the Post Office.’
‘Hmmm.’ He nodded sagely. ‘My cousin Bala in Konnagar is also a postman. Like you, he delivers his letters very early. But he gets to sleep all day.’
I made my excuses, carried my plate to a corner table and sat down.
Removing a single green chilli from atop the fish, I tore off a morsel of the now mustard-coloured flesh, and taking some rice, began to eat.
Despite Sam’s exhortations to the contrary, I was doubtful we would even get close to Irani, let alone find a way of questioning him about whether he had indeed sent Gulmohamed to the house in Budge Budge, and if so, why? None of it made sense to me, and if I could not explain it, then what hope was there that a judge would fare any better when I put it forward as my defence in a murder trial? As I sat there in the mess hall of a Bombay guest house, slowly savouring the dish of my homeland, the truth crept up on me like a winter fever. I would not be able to prove my innocence. There would be a trial and I would be found guilty, and then I would be hanged.
I was not, I told myself, scared of death. But it was one thing to die in the line of duty, or in the service of a greater cause, quite another to be hanged for a crime, and more so one which I had not committed. That would be a futile and shameful death.
I pushed my plate away, reeling at the thought. It felt as though a ton weight had smashed into my stomach. My head swam in a sudden maelstrom as all the hitherto certainties of my life crashed around me and disintegrated to dust. Tears, borne on a tide of self-pity, welled up, and I felt the first treacherous one trickle down my cheek. This emotion was not fitting. What would my father say if he saw me indulging in such shameful despair? I wiped the tear angrily away and pulled myself together. If that were to be my fate, then so be it. I would face it. There were worse things in the world.