HOW TO SPEAK AUSTRALIAN
‘Name, sex and age, please, Sir,’ says the timid-looking census man standing in the porch wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses. He carries a sheaf of forms with him and fiddles with a blue felt pen.
Colonel Taylor has an irritated expression on his face as he begins the introductions. He is dressed in a cream-coloured linen suit. He wears suits all the time, in summer and in winter. They suit his tall frame. He has an oval face with a thick pepper-coloured moustache, thin lips and ruddy cheeks. His sandy hair is swept back. The entire Taylor family and all the servants are gathered on the front porch as if for a group photograph. ‘I am Colonel Charles Taylor, male, forty-six. This is my wife Rebecca Taylor, female, forty-four.’ He points out Mrs Taylor, thin, blonde and dressed in a long skirt. ‘This is our son Roy, male, fifteen.’ Roy is fidgeting with his mobile phone. He is tall and lanky and wears his trademark faded jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. ‘This is our daughter Maggie, female, seventeen.’ Maggie is not so tall, but quite good looking with a round face, blue eyes and golden hair. She wears a really short skirt.
Colonel Taylor draws himself to his full height and puts more force into his voice. ‘I am the Australian Defence Attaché. We are diplomats, so I don’t think you need to enumerate us in your census. The only people from this house who should go into your report are our servants. That is Bhagwati, standing near the gate. He is our driver-cum-gardener, male, fifty-two. We have a maid, Shanti, female, eighteen I think, who is not in the house at the moment. That is Ramu, our cook, male, twenty-five, and this is Thomas, male, fourteen. Will that be all?’
‘No, Sir, I will need to ask your servants some questions, Sir. For the latest census they have introduced a long questionnaire. All kinds of weird things, such as which TV programmes you watch, which foods you eat, which cities you have visited, and even,’ he sniggers, ‘how often you have sex.’
Mrs Taylor whispers to her husband, ‘Oh Charles, we don’t want Ramu and Thomas wasting their time on this silly exercise. Can’t you get rid of this drongo?’
Colonel Taylor pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Look, Mister whatever your name is, my servants really don’t have the time to go through your full questionnaire. So why don’t you accept this packet of Marlboros and move on to the next house? I am sure you can afford to exclude four people from your survey.’
The census man eyes the packet, then licks his lips. ‘Well . . . Sir, you are very kind. But you see, I don’t smoke, Sir. However, if you have some Black Label . . . or even Red Label whisky, I would be happy to oblige, Sir. After all, what difference does it make if we take out four drops from an ocean? No one will miss four people out of a billion!’ He laughs nervously.
Colonel Taylor gives the census man a dirty look. Then he stomps off into the drawing room and returns with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label. ‘Here, take this and rack off. Don’t ever bother us again.’
The census man salutes Colonel Taylor. ‘Don’t worry, Sir. I won’t bother you for the next ten years.’ He walks off happily.
Mrs Taylor is also happy. ‘These bloody Indians,’ she smiles. ‘Give them a bottle of whisky and they’ll do anything.’
Bhagwati grins from the gate. He has no clue what is happening. But he smiles whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile. Ramu is also grinning. He smiles whenever he gets to see Maggie in her short skirts.
I am the only one not smiling. Granted, we servants are invisible people, not to be heard during parties and family occasions, but to be left out even from our country’s head count is a bit too galling. And I do wish the Taylors would stop their snobbish references to ‘bloody Indians’. This must be the fiftieth time I have heard them use this expression since I have been with them. Every time I hear it, my blood boils. OK, so the postman and the electrician and the telephone repair man and the constable, and now even the census man, have a weakness for whisky. But it doesn’t mean that all Indians are drunkards. I wish I could explain this to Mrs Taylor some day. But I know I won’t. When you live in a posh locality of Delhi in a nice house, get three hot meals a day and a salary of one thousand five hundred, yes, one thousand five hundred rupees a month, you learn to swallow your pride. And smile whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile.
To be fair to the Taylors, though, they have been very kind to me. Not many people would employ you if you turned up on their doorstep suddenly one day from Mumbai. Moreover, I gave all the wrong references. Colonel Waugh was Colonel Taylor’s predecessor, twice removed. And the Taylors, being Anglicans, had nothing to do with Father Timothy’s Roman Catholic Church. It was pure luck that they needed a servant urgently, having just kicked out the previous domestic help.
In the fifteen months I have been with the family, five more servants have been dismissed. All because of Colonel Taylor. He is The Man Who Knows. Just as there is an omniscient God above, there is Colonel Taylor below. Jagdish, the gardener, stole fertilizer from the shed and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Sheela, the maid, picked up a bracelet from Mrs Taylor’s room and Colonel Taylor knew. Result: dismissed the next day. Raju, the cook, opened the liquor cabinet and drank some whisky at night. Result: beaten up and dismissed the next day. Ajay, the new cook, hatched a plan to steal some money and mentioned this to a friend on the phone. Result: dismissed the next day and both he and his friend arrested by the police. Basanti, the new maid, tried on one of Maggie’s dresses. Result: yes, dismissed the next day. How Colonel Taylor gets to know these things that take place behind closed doors, in the dead of night, or on the telephone, with no one around, is a real mystery.
I am the only one who has survived. I admit, occasionally I am also tempted to pocket the loose change lying around on Mrs Taylor’s dressing table or grab one of the delicious Swiss chocolates from the fridge, but I keep such urges in check. Because I know that Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows. And the family trusts me. The fact that I have a Christian name and speak English helps, too. Apart from Shanti, who was employed just two months ago, I am the only one to have exclusive access to the family’s private quarters. I can enter all the bedrooms and I am the only one allowed to watch TV and occasionally to play Nintendo with Roy in the living room. But even I am not allowed to enter Colonel Taylor’s office, known as the Den. It is the small room adjacent to the master bedroom. It has a sturdy brown wooden door, protected by a thick iron grille. The iron grille has three locks: two small ones and one huge golden padlock that says, ‘Yale. Armoured. Boron Shackle.’ On the wall next to the padlock is a small white electronic panel with a picture of a skull and two bones and numbers 0–9 like on a telephone keypad. You can open the padlock only after punching in a code. If you try to open it forcibly you get a 440-volt current and you die. A little light on the panel burns red when the room is closed. Whenever Colonel Taylor enters the room, the light changes to green. No member of the household is allowed to enter this room. Not even Mrs Taylor, Maggie or Roy.
The time I have spent with the Taylors has helped me forget the traumatic events in Mumbai. Shantaram and Neelima Kumari have become painful but distant memories. For the first few months I lived in constant dread, cringing whenever a police jeep with a flashing red light passed the compound. Over time, the feeling of being hunted began to dissipate. I often thought about Gudiya, too, and wondered what had happened to her, but it is difficult to sustain a memory if you don’t have a face to associate with the name. Gradually, she disappeared into the dustbin of my past. But Salim I couldn’t forget. I was often racked with guilt for having left him behind. I wondered how he was coping, whether he was still working as a dabbawallah, but I refrained from contacting him, worried that this might reveal my whereabouts to the police.
Living with the Taylors, I have learnt to do barbies and make fondue. I have become an expert at mixing drinks and measuring whisky by the peg. I have tasted kangaroo steaks and crocodile dumplings imported directly from Canberra. I have become a fan of rugby, tennis, and something called Aussie Rules, which I watch with Roy. But even after all this time, I still struggle with the Australian accent. Every evening I sit in my room and practise speaking like an Australian. ‘G’day Maite, see you at aight at India Gaite,’ I say, and burst out laughing.
I especially enjoy going shopping with Mrs Taylor. She gets most of her provisions from Australia. But from time to time she buys imported products from Super Bazaar and Khan Market. We purchase Spanish chorizo and Roquefort cheese and gherkins in brine and red chillies in olive oil. The best days are when she takes Maggie and Roy with her to Kids Mart, the biggest kids’ store in the whole world. It has clothes and toys and bikes and cassettes. Maggie and Roy buy sweatshirts and jeans and I get to go on the free merry-go-round.
Roy and Maggie get a magazine every month. It is called Australian Geographic. I think it is the best magazine on earth. It is crammed with page upon page of photos of the most gorgeous places in the world, all of which are in Australia. There are beaches with miles of golden sand. Islands fringed with lovely palm trees. Oceans full of whales and sharks. Cities teeming with skyscrapers. Volcanoes spewing out deadly lava. Snow-covered mountains nestling against tranquil green valleys. At the age of fourteen, my only ambition is to see these beautiful places. To visit Queensland and Tasmania and the Great Barrier Reef before I die.
My life with the Taylors is comfortable, too, because I do not have much work to do. Unlike in the actress’s house, where I was the only servant, there are three others here sharing the work. Ramu is the cook and the kitchen is completely under him. Shanti makes the beds and does the washing. I have only to do the vacuuming and the cleaning. From time to time, I also polish the silver cutlery, stack up books in Colonel Taylor’s library and help Bhagwati trim the hedges. All of us live in the servants’ quarters attached to the main house. We have one large and two small rooms to ourselves. Bhagwati lives in the large one with his wife and son. Shanti lives alone in the second. And I share the third with Ramu. The room has bunk beds. I sleep in the one on top.
Ramu is a nice bloke. He joined the Taylors four months ago and is an excellent cook. His main claim to fame is that he knows French cooking, having previously worked for a French family. He can make gâteau de saumon and crêpes suzette and cervettes au gratin, which is my favourite dish. Ramu is well built and his face, if you ignore the pockmarks, is quite good looking. He loves to see Hindi movies. His favourite films are those in which the rich heroine runs off with the poor hero. I have a suspicion that Shanti fancies Ramu. The way she looks at him, winking occasionally, makes me think she is trying to give Ramu a signal. But Ramu does not care for Shanti. He is in love with someone else. He has made me swear not to mention this to anyone, so I cannot reveal the name. But I suppose I can mention that she is a beautiful girl with blue eyes and golden hair.
Although I live in the servants’ quarters, the Taylors treat me almost as part of the family. Whenever they go for an outing to McDonald’s, they remember to buy me a kids’ meal. When Roy and Maggie play Scrabble, they always include me. When Roy watches cricket in the TV room, he always invites me to join him (though he gets nasty whenever Australia is losing). Every time the Taylors travel to Australia on holiday, they make a point of getting me a small gift – a keyring saying I LOVE SYDNEY or a T-shirt with a funny message. Sometimes all this kindness makes me cry. When I am eating a slice of Edam cheese or drinking a can of root beer, I find it difficult to believe that I am the same orphan boy who was eating thick blackened chapattis and indigestible stew in a filthy juvenile home not far from here just five years ago. At times I actually start imagining myself as part of this Australian family. Ram Mohammad Taylor. But when one of the servants is scolded or dismissed or when Colonel Taylor wags a finger and says ‘You bloody Indians,’ my dream world comes crashing down and I begin to think of myself as a mongrel peeping through a barred window into an exotic world which does not belong to me.
But there is one thing that does belong to me, and that is the money piling up from my salary, though I have yet either to see or touch it. After bad experiences with a string of servants, Colonel Taylor decided not to give me a monthly salary on the grounds that I am a minor. He gives me only fifty rupees per month as pocket money. I am supposed to receive the rest of my salary as accumulated savings only on termination of employment. And only then if I have behaved well. Otherwise, like Raju and Ajay, it is bye bye without pay. Unlike me, Ramu gets his salary every month. A full two thousand rupees. He has already accumulated a kitty of eight thousand rupees which he keeps safely hidden inside a hollow space in the mattress of his bed. I have only a hundred rupees in my pocket, but I have a little red diary in which I keep adding up my salary every month. As of today, the Taylors owe me 22,500 rupees. Just the thought of owning all this money makes me giddy. Every night I dream of visiting the places I see in Australian Geographic. Ramu has bigger ambitions. He dreams of marrying a beautiful white girl and honeymooning in Sydney, and starting a chain of French restaurants where he will serve venison and crème brûlée.
The neighbourhood junk-dealer, or kabariwalla, is here. Mrs Taylor is selling him all the newspapers and magazines we have hoarded over the past six months. They must have cost at least ten thousand rupees to purchase. But we are selling them at fifteen rupees per kilo. Ramu and I bring out heavy bundles of the Times of India, Indian Express, the Pioneer and the Hindu. We pull out the stacked copies of India Today, Femina, Cosmopolitan and The Australian. The kabariwalla weighs them on his dusty scales. Suddenly Roy appears on the scene. ‘What’s happening?’ he asks his mother.
‘Nothing. We are just getting rid of all the junk newsprint in the house,’ she replies.
‘Oh, is that right?’ he says and disappears into the house. He comes out after five minutes armed with thirty copies of Australian Geographic. My jaw drops in shock. How can Roy even think of selling off these magazines?
But before I can say anything, the kabariwalla has weighed the glossy magazines. ‘These come to six kilos. I will give you ninety rupees for them,’ he tells Roy. The boy nods. The transaction is completed. I race back to my room.
As soon as the kabariwalla leaves the house, I accost him on the road. ‘I am sorry, but Memsahib wants those magazines back,’ I tell him.
‘Too bad,’ he shrugs. ‘I have bought them now. They have excellent quality paper which will fetch a good price.’ Eventually I have to give him my hundred rupees, but I get back the issues of Australian Geographic. They are now mine. That evening, I spread all of them out in my tiny room and watch the images of mountains and beaches, jellyfish and lobsters, kookaburras and kangaroos float up before my eyes. Somehow, these exotic places seem a little more accessible today. Perhaps the fact that I now own the magazines means that I also own a tiny part of their contents in my heart.
Another notable thing that happens this month is the debut of Spycatcher on Star TV. This serial has taken Australia by storm. Set in the 1980s, it is about the life of an Australian police officer called Steve Nolan who catches spies. Colonel Taylor becomes completely addicted to it. Almost every evening he disappears into his Den to come out only for dinner. But come Wednesday night, he sits in the TV room with his stubby of Foster’s beer and watches Steve Nolan catch dirty foreigners (called Commies) selling secrets to some Russian organization called the KGB. I like the serial because of the car chases, death-defying stunts and cool gadgets, such as a pen which doubles up as a miniature camera, and a tape recorder which becomes a gun. And I am fascinated by Steve Nolan’s car – a bright red Ferrari which hurtles through the streets like a rocket.
The Taylors’ garden party is a regular fixture during the summer season, but today’s party is something special. It is in honour of a visiting general from Australia and even the HC – High Commissioner – will be attending. Ramu and I and, for once, even Bhagwati are ‘laired up’ – clad in spotless white uniforms with round golden buttons. We wear white gloves and black shoes. Big white turbans with little tails sit uncomfortably on our small heads. They are of the type worn by grooms at weddings. Except we don’t look like grooms on horseback. We look like fancy waiters at a fancy garden party.
The guests have begun to arrive. Colonel Taylor welcomes them on the well-manicured rear lawn. He is dressed in a light-blue suit. Ramu is busy grilling skewers of chicken, pork, fish and mutton over the barbecue pit. Bhagwati is serving cocktails to the guests on a silver tray. I am manning the bar. Only I can understand the guests when they ask for a Campari with Soda or a Bloody Mary. Shanti is busy helping out in the kitchen. Even she is wearing a smart skirt instead of her usual sari.
The guests are mostly white and from other embassies. There is a sprinkling of Indians as well – a couple of journalists and officials from the Defence Ministry. The whites drink Kingfisher beer and cocktails. The Indians, as usual, ask only for Black Label whisky.
The conversation at the garden party falls into two categories. The Indians talk about politics and cricket. The diplomats and expatriates exchange gossip about their servants and colleagues and crib about the heat. ‘It’s so bloody hot, I wish they’d declare a holiday.’ ‘My maid ran away the other day with the gardener, and after I had given both of them a raise.’ ‘It’s so difficult to get good help these days. Most of these bloody servants are thieves.’
The arrival of the HC with a smartly attired man, who, I am told, is the general, creates a buzz. Mrs Taylor almost falls over herself in her rush to greet the HC. There is a lot of kissing and pressing of hands. Colonel Taylor looks pleased. The party is going well.
By eleven o’clock, all the guests have gone. Only the two Indian journalists and one official from the Defence Ministry called Jeevan Kumar are still sitting, nursing their tenth peg of Johnny Walker. Mrs Taylor looks at them with disdain. ‘Charles,’ she tells her husband, ‘why do you have to invite these bloody journos? They are always the last to leave.’
Colonel Taylor makes sympathetic noises. The Ministry of Defence official, a dark, heavy-set man, lurches into the house. ‘Can I have a word with you, Mr Taylor?’ he calls out. Colonel Taylor hurries after him.
It is past midnight and Ramu is still not asleep. I hear him tossing and turning in his bunk bed. ‘What’s the matter, Ramu? Can’t you get to sleep tonight?’ I ask him.
‘How can I sleep, Thomas? My darling is tormenting me.’
‘You are stupid. How often have I told you not to entertain this fanciful idea? If Colonel Taylor finds out he will have you slaughtered.’
‘Lovers have to be prepared to sacrifice themselves for their love. But at least now I have a piece of my love with me.’
‘What? What have you got?’ I climb down from my bed.
‘Shhh . . . I can only show it to you if you swear not to reveal it to anyone.’
‘OK, OK, I swear. Now show me what you have got.’
Ramu pushes his hand underneath his pillow and brings out a piece of red fabric. He holds it close to his nostrils and inhales deeply. Even I can smell a faint perfume.
‘What is it? You have to show it.’
Ramu unfurls it like a flag. It is a red bra. I jump up in shock and hit my head against the wooden rail.
‘Oh, my God! Where the hell did you get this from? Don’t tell me it is hers.’
‘Here, see for yourself.’ Ramu hands the bra to me.
I turn the bra up and down. It seems like a very expensive piece, full of lace embroidery. It has a small white label near the hooks which says ‘Victoria’s Secret’.
‘Who is Victoria?’ I ask him.
‘Victoria? I don’t know any Victoria.’
‘This bra belongs to Victoria. It even has her name. Where did you get it from?’
Ramu is confused. ‘But . . . but I stole it from Maggie’s room.’
‘Oh my God, Ramu! You know you are not allowed to go to the children’s bedrooms. Now you will get into real trouble.’
‘Look, Thomas, you promised not to tell anyone. Please, I beg you, don’t reveal this secret.’
I cross my heart as I climb back into my bed. Soon Ramu begins snoring. I know he is dreaming about a girl with blue eyes and golden hair. But I am dreaming about a jeep with a flashing red light. I am convinced that Ramu is heading for trouble. Because Colonel Taylor is The Man Who Knows.
Sure enough, two days later a jeep with a flashing red light comes screeching to the house. A Police Inspector wearing goggles swaggers into the drawing room. He is the same Inspector Tyagi who took away Ajay. He asks for Ramu, and the constables drag the cook out of the kitchen and take him to his room. I scamper behind them. It is my room too. They rummage through Ramu’s bed. They find the money he keeps inside his mattress. They also discover a diamond necklace nestling under his pillow. How it got there I have no idea, but I know Ramu is no thief. Then the constables start rummaging through my things. They find my Australian Geographic magazines, neatly stacked in one corner. They find my keyrings and my T-shirts. And then they find a crumpled red bra underneath my mattress. How it got there I have no idea, but I know it is the same bra Ramu stole from Maggie’s room.
I am brought before the Taylors like a notorious convict. ‘Taylor Sahib, you were only talking about one crook in the house, and we did find the diamond necklace and a lot of stolen cash in his bed. But look at what we found in this little bastard’s bed. We found these magazines, which he must have stolen from the children –’ he drops the stack of Australian Geographic on the floor, ‘and we found this.’ The Inspector unfurls the red bra like a flag.
Maggie begins crying. Ramu looks as if he is about to faint. Colonel Taylor has a murderous glint in his eyes.
‘Strewth! You too, Thomas?’ says Mrs Taylor, in complete shock. Then she goes into a rage and slaps me four or five times. ‘You bloody Indians,’ she rants. ‘All of you are just the same. Nothing but ungrateful bludgers. We feed you and clothe you and this is what you give us in return, trying to flog our stuff?’
Colonel Taylor comes to my rescue. ‘No, Rebecca,’ he tells his wife. ‘Fair crack of the whip. Thomas is a good bloke. That bastard Ramu hid this in his bed. Trust me, I know.’
Colonel Taylor proves yet again that he is The Man Who Knows. His omniscience saves me that day, and I get back my collection of Australian Geographic. But the beaches of Queensland and the wildlife of Tasmania do not entice me any longer. Ramu weeps and confesses to pocketing the bra, but continues to maintain that he did not steal the necklace. He points an accusing finger at Shanti. But it is all to no avail. The Inspector takes him away in his jeep. He also takes away a bottle of Black Label whisky from Colonel Taylor, smiling toothily. ‘Thank you very much, Taylor Sahib. Any time you need my services, just give me a ring. It will be a pleasure to serve you. Here’s my card.’
Colonel Taylor takes the card abstractedly and leaves it on the side table in the drawing room.
There is a lot of excitement in the house. The Taylors have got a pet dog for Maggie. The Colonel brings him in on a leash. He is small and furry, with a tiny wet nose and a long tail. He looks like a doll and yelps rather than barks. Maggie says he is an Apso. She decides to call him Rover.
There is excitement in the house again. A new cook has arrived. His name is Jai. He does not know half the things that Ramu knew. Never mind cooking French cuisine, he cannot even pronounce au gratin. But he gets the job because he is a mature, married man, with a wife and two girls who live in some nearby village. I am not very happy to share my room again. I was enjoying sleeping alone in the bunk beds. On some nights I would sleep in the top bed and on others in the bottom.
I take an instant dislike to Jai. He has shifty eyes. He smokes secretly in the room (smoking in the Taylors’ residence is prohibited). And he treats me like a servant. ‘What is your ambition in life?’ he asks me like the teacher in the Juvenile Home.
‘To own a red Ferrari,’ I lie. ‘What is yours?’
He lights up another cigarette and sends smoke rings spinning out of his mouth. ‘I want to open a garage, but it will cost money. I have a very rich friend, Amar, who has promised that if I can arrange a hundred and fifty thousand, he will put together the rest. How much money do you think these firangs have in the house?’
I keep my mouth shut. So from the very first week, Mr Jai has begun plotting a robbery. Good that he doesn’t know about The Man Who Knows. He will find out soon enough.
Colonel Taylor starts going on early-morning walks with Rover to Lodhi Garden, which is close to the house. Till the Delhi Government brings out a new law under which people with pet dogs have to scoop up the dog litter or face hefty fines. From then on I am instructed to accompany master and dog and act as sweeper to Rover. I hate this chore. Imagine having to get up from bed at five-thirty and go running with scoop and pan after a dirty, stupid dog which shits every two minutes. Lodhi Garden, though, is a nice place for a morning walk. It has a lot of greenery and a crumbling ancient monument called Bara Gumbad in the centre. In the morning the park is full of joggers. I see fat old ladies doing yoga and thin anorexic girls doing aerobics. I also begin to notice that sometimes Colonel Taylor disappears from my view for long periods when I am busy scooping Rover’s poop. This intrigues me, so one morning I leave Rover to his own devices and decide to follow Colonel Taylor. I see him go past the Bara Gumbad and move towards a little thicket. I peer from behind a dense bush and see him greet the same Indian from the Ministry of Defence who had come to the garden party.
‘Do you know, Mr Kumar, that I followed you last night from your house in South Ex all the way to the sweet shop, and you didn’t have a clue?’ says Colonel Taylor.
Jeevan Kumar is sweating profusely and is clearly fidgety. He seems very contrite. ‘Oh, I am really sorry, Colonel Sahib. I will be more careful in the future. I know people should not see us together.’
‘Of course, Mr Kumar, that goes without saying. But if you continue to be lax about your security I am afraid we will have to terminate these face-to-face meetings. Just remember a simple rule: CYTLYT.’
‘CYTLYT?’
‘Yes. Confuse Your Trail, Lose Your Tail. It’s actually quite simple. What it means is that you must never take a direct route to your destination. Change roads, change cars, duck into one shop, come out of another, anything to confuse your trail. Once you do that, you make it extremely difficult to be followed. Whoever is tailing you will give up.’
‘OK, Colonel Sahib, I will remember that. But let me tell you the good news. I think I will be able to give you what you have been wanting from me all this while. Meet me on Friday the fourteenth in the car park behind Balsons in South Ex. It is generally quite deserted. At eight pm. OK?’
‘OK.’
The meeting ends. I hurry back to Rover before Colonel Taylor returns.
My eyes are wide open on Friday the fourteenth and my ears extra sensitive. Colonel Taylor discloses his plans early in the morning to his wife. ‘McGill, the new Commercial Attaché, wants me to show him a couple of places in the city after work. So I’ll be a bit late, Rebecca. Don’t wait for me at dinner.’
‘That’s fine. The HC’s wife has asked me to a bridge party, so I’ll be out too,’ says Mrs Taylor.
I can put two and two together. Why did Colonel Taylor lie to his wife about his meeting? He falls in my estimation that day. I feel a terrible sadness for Mrs Taylor.
After Ramu, it is Roy’s turn. Colonel Taylor has caught him kissing Shanti in his bedroom. Shanti swears on her dead mother that there is nothing going on between her and Roy baba and that this is the very first time Roy kissed her – and that, too, by mistake. But all her pleading is to no avail. The result is all too predictable: immediate dismissal. But at least she gets her wages. Roy will probably get a thrashing for getting too close to the ‘bloody Indians’, and all his shopping in Kids Mart will be stopped. I decide not to do any cleaning in Maggie’s bedroom for the next ten days as a precautionary measure.
If I had, I could probably have saved her. Because barely two weeks after Roy, his sister is in the dock. The Man Who Knows has obtained irrefutable proof that she has been smoking in her room, despite strict instructions. Maggie tries to deny the charge, but Colonel Taylor produces the carton of cigarettes she has hidden inside her almirah and even the stubs she has forgotten to dispose of. That is the end of Maggie’s shopping trips to Kids Mart as well.
Believe it or not, two months later Colonel Taylor catches someone else cheating. His own wife. Mrs Rebecca Taylor. Turns out she was having an affair with someone in the Embassy. ‘You bloody bitch!’ he screams at her in their bedroom. ‘I am going to fix you and that half-arsed lover of yours.’ I hear the sound of a slap and of something being broken, like a vase. Mrs Taylor doesn’t come down for dinner that evening. Maggie and Roy also maintain a respectful distance from their father. I cannot help commiserating with Mrs Taylor. Her husband has discovered her little affair but she doesn’t have an inkling of his own dirty secret. I want to spill the beans on Colonel Taylor. How he meets up with old Jeevan Kumar in deserted car parks. But those who live in glass houses cannot throw stones and the constant fear nagging me is that The Man Who Knows might find out how I pushed Shantaram through the railing. And that he might know things about me that even I don’t know.
While all these crazy things are happening in the Taylor family, Jai is getting on my nerves. His cooking has gone from bad to worse. His clear soups are clear of all taste, his curries make me worry, and even Rover will not eat his steaks. He bores me to death by talking about his stupid garage and getting the hundred and fifty thousand. I have almost made up my mind to complain about him to Colonel Taylor when tragedy strikes the family. Colonel Taylor’s mother dies in Adelaide. Everyone is very sad. For the first time we see the softer side of the military officer. ‘We are all going to be away for a week,’ he tells Jai in a subdued tone. ‘The house will be locked. You and Thomas can eat outside.’ Maggie and Roy are weeping. Mrs Taylor’s eyes are red. Naturally, Bhagwati is also crying. Even my eyes are misting with tears. There is only one person smiling slyly behind the kitchen wall. It is Jai.
That night, Jai breaks into the Taylors’ house. He doesn’t go to the children’s rooms or the master bedroom. He goes straight to the Den. First he switches off the electricity at the mains. Then he short-circuits the electronic panel, cuts the padlock with a chainsaw, pushes aside the iron grille and kicks open the wooden door.
I am woken by the sound of violent screaming coming from the Taylor residence. At three am I rush into the house and discover Jai’s handiwork. He is inside the Den, beating his head against the wall. ‘These bastards. They live like kings and don’t have a penny in the house,’ he seethes.
Alarm bells are ringing in my mind. I am convinced that The Man Who Knows will find out about Jai’s treachery even while he is attending a funeral ten thousand miles away. And that I will also be implicated by association.
‘Jai, you fool, what have you done?’ I yell at him.
‘Nothing more than what I came here to do. I am a professional thief, Thomas. Spent eight years in Tihar Jail. I thought that with all this security, that bastard Taylor was keeping the family jewels in this room. But there’s not a penny here. Six months of effort has gone completely to waste. OK, I am restoring the electricity and then I’m off. I am taking the VCD player and the three-in-one in the TV room. They are crumbs, but I have to respect my profession. You can clean up after me. And if you try and call the police I will break every bone in your body.’
After Jai has gone, I look around the room. It is full of strange-looking gadgets: microphones like tiny sunflowers and miniature cameras like disembodied eyes. There are pads saying ‘Cipher’ with nonsense combinations of numbers and letters. There are some books: The Art of Espionage, Essentials of a Good Counter Agent, Spying for Dummies. There are papers bearing labels like ‘Top Secret’ and ‘For Your Eyes Only’, drawings of various kinds, one saying ‘Advanced Technology Vessel nuclear reactor design’ and another ‘submarine schemata’. And there is a drawer full of miniature VHS tapes. I look at the labels on the tapes, arranged alphabetically: Ajay, Bhagwati, HC, Jeevan, Jones, Maggie, McGill, Raj, Ramesh, Rebecca, Roy, Shanti, Stuart. And Thomas. Hidden inside the second drawer is a portable video player. With trembling hands I pull out my tape and insert it into the player. The screen comes alive with images from my room. I see myself reclining on my bed; writing in my red diary; talking to Ramu; sleeping. I fast-forward to see whether there are any pictures of Shantaram on the tape. I then insert the tape with Mrs Taylor’s name. She is sitting on her bed. A man enters surreptitiously and takes her in his arms. I can only see his back. He kisses her long and hard. Suddenly there is a knock and the man whirls around and looks me straight in the eye. I almost die of fright. It is the High Commissioner. I hastily take out the tape and switch off the video player. For a couple of minutes I stand absolutely still, worried that a secret camera might be in action even in this room. Then I breathe deeply. Now I know how Colonel Taylor became The Man Who Knows. He has bugged the whole house and probably the whole High Commission. He is a spy. But I’m not Steve Nolan from Spycatcher. I get 1,500 rupees a month, which I have totted up to 43,500 rupees in my red diary. And I don’t want all this money to remain only in a diary. I want to touch the bundles of currency, feel the smooth surface of the crisp new notes. So I will keep my mouth shut. And smile whenever Sahib and Memsahib smile.
I call up Colonel Taylor on his cellphone number. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir, but there has been a robbery in the house. Jai has taken away the VCD player and the three-in-one. And he also broke into the Den.’
‘What???’
‘Yes, Sir. I am sorry, Sir.’
‘Look, Thomas, this is what I want you to do. I want you to secure the Den immediately. Take out the broken padlock. You don’t have to enter the room. Just put any lock on the door and do not allow anyone to enter it. It is very important that you don’t call the police. If the alarm sounds, just punch in the following code on the keypad on the door: 0007. You got it? 0007 and it will stop. I am taking a flight back immediately and should be in Delhi by tomorrow afternoon, but till I arrive I want you to make sure that no one enters the Den. Have you understood?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Colonel Taylor returns to Delhi without even attending his mother’s funeral. He rushes into the Den as soon as the taxi pulls up outside the house. He comes out looking relieved. ‘Thank God, nothing has been taken from the room. Well done, Thomas. I knew I could rely on you.’
Over the next six months, my life slips back into the same groove as before. A new cook is hired who has not been within a thousand miles of Tihar Jail. Bhagwati is dismissed for taking the car without permission for a wedding in his family. Maggie’s new boyfriend James is discovered and banned from entering the house. Roy is caught taking drugs and given a thrashing. Mrs Taylor and her husband continue to speak to each other with icy formality. Colonel Taylor, I presume, continues to meet Jeevan Kumar in lonely alleys and deserted car parks.
Maggie and Roy are playing Scrabble in the living room. They ask me to join them. I have learnt many new words playing this game with them, such as ‘bingle’ and ‘brekkie’ and ‘chalkie’ and ‘dosh’ and ‘skite’ and ‘spunk’. Maggie always wins these games. Her vocabulary is really good. She is the only one who knows eight-letter words and once she even made a nine-letter word. I am the worst. I make words like ‘go’ and ‘eat’ and ‘sing’ and ‘last’. Once in a blue moon, I do get six- or seven-letter words, but I still end up with the least points. Sometimes I think Roy invites me as a third player just so that he doesn’t come last. Today, my letters have not been good. Lots of Xs and Js and Ks and Ls. The game is about to end. Maggie has 203 points, Roy has 175 and I have 104. My last seven letters are G, P, E, E, S, A and I. I am thinking of making ‘page’ or ‘see’. Then Roy uses an O from one of Maggie’s words to make ‘on’ and I latch on to it in a flash. I put E, S, P and I before O and A, G and E after N. ‘Espionage’. That’s a total of seventeen points, and triple that for putting it on a red square and add fifty points for using all seven tiles. 101 points. Take that, Maggie!
I have been hovering around the phone all day. Maggie is expecting a call from James and she has instructed me to pick up the phone before her father does from the Den. The phone finally rings at seven-fifteen pm. I lift the receiver in a flash. But Colonel Taylor has already beaten me to it. ‘Hello,’ he says.
There is heavy breathing at the other end. Then Jeevan Kumar’s voice floats over the static. ‘Meet me tomorrow, Thursday, at eight pm at the Kwality Ice Cream Shop near India Gate. I have dynamite stuff.’
‘Good,’ says Colonel Taylor and disconnects the line.
Colonel Taylor sits with his stubby of Foster’s in the living room, watching the latest episode of Spycatcher. This time Steve Nolan is in a real dilemma. He has discovered that his best friend, the one he went to college with, the one who was best man at his wedding, is a Commie spy. He is very sad. He doesn’t know what to do. He sits in a bar in a dishevelled condition and drinks loads of whisky. Then the bartender tells him, ‘It’s a dirty world out there, but if no one agrees to do the washing, the whole country goes down the shit house.’ Steve Nolan hears this and gets all charged up. He rushes to the Commie spy’s house in his red Ferrari. ‘You are a good man, doing a bad job,’ he tells his friend, before taking out his gun. ‘Friendship is important. But the country comes first. I am sorry,’ he says and shoots him dead.
The next night a police jeep and an Ambassador car with flashing red lights come screeching to the house at ten pm. The same Inspector who arrested Ramu gets out, together with the Commissioner of Police. Colonel Taylor is with them, looking like Steve Nolan in the bar. Within ten minutes, the High Commissioner also arrives, looking very grim. ‘What’s all this?’ he asks the Police Chief. ‘Why has Colonel Taylor been declared persona non grata and asked to leave within forty-eight hours by the Foreign Office?’
‘Well, Your Excellency, we have evidence of your officer indulging in activities incompatible with his diplomatic status. I am afraid he will have to leave the country,’ the Police Chief replies.
‘But what’s the charge against him?’
‘We caught him red-handed taking sensitive and top-secret documents from a man by the name of Jeevan Kumar, who is a clerk in the Ministry of Defence.’
Colonel Taylor looks ashen. He doesn’t say these Indians are bloody fibbers. He just stands in the middle of the drawing room with his head bowed.
The High Commissioner lets out a sigh. ‘I must say this is the first time in my long career that any of my officers has been PNG’d. And believe me, Charles is no spy. But if he has to go, he has to go.’ Then he takes the Police Chief aside. ‘Mr Chopra, I have sent you many cases of Black Label over the years. Can you do me a favour and answer one question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Just for my information, can you tell me how did you come to know about Charles’s meeting today? Did this fellow Kumar lead you to him?’
‘Funny you should ask. It was not Jeevan Kumar. Quite the contrary, it was one of your own guys. Called up Inspector Tyagi this morning and told him to go to India Gate at eight pm to catch Colonel Taylor receiving some secret documents.’
‘I don’t believe it. How can you be so sure it was an Australian?’
Inspector Tyagi steps in. ‘Well, Mr Ambassador, the accent was a dead give-away. The man said something like, “G’day maite, cight at aite.” I mean, only an Australian would speak like that, wouldn’t he?’
The next day, Colonel Taylor leaves Delhi alone on a Qantas flight. Mrs Taylor and the kids will follow later. I am leaving the Taylors, too. With three keyrings, six T-shirts, thirty Australian Geographic magazines which I will sell to a kabariwalla. And 52,000 rupees. In crisp new notes.
I say my hooroos to the Taylor family. Roy behaves like a whacker. Since he started taking drugs he has kangaroos loose in the top paddock. Maggie’s pashing James. And I am not worried about Mrs Taylor. With the HC around, I know she’ll be apples. As for me, I’m off to meet Salim in Mumbai. It’ll be a bonzer!
Smita looks at her watch. It shows the time as one-thirty am. ‘Are you sure you want to carry on?’ I ask.
‘Do we have a choice?’ she replies. ‘They will file formal charges against you by tomorrow.’ She presses the ‘Play’ button again.
We are in yet another commercial break. Prem Kumar taps his desk. ‘You know what, Mr Thomas, your luck has finally run out. I am ready to bet you that you cannot answer the next question. So prepare to use one of your Lifeboats.’
The signature tune begins.
Prem Kumar turns to me. ‘We now move on to question number five for fifty thousand rupees. This one pertains to the world of diplomacy. When a government declares a foreign diplomat persona non grata, what does it mean? Is it a) that the diplomat is to be honoured, b) that the diplomat’s tenure should be extended, c) that the diplomat is grateful or d) that the diplomat is not acceptable? Have you understood the question, Mr Thomas?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘OK. Then let’s have your reply. Remember, both Lifeboats are still available to you. You can get A Friendly Tip, or you can ask me for Half and Half and I will remove two wrong answers, leaving you with just two choices. What do you say?’
‘I say D.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said D. The diplomat is not acceptable.’
‘Is that a guess? Remember, you stand to lose the ten thousand rupees you’ve already won if you give the wrong answer. So if you want, you can quit right now.’
‘I know the answer. It is D.’
There are gasps from the audience.
‘Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?’
‘Yes.’
There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes.
‘Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You have just won fifty thousand rupees!’ declares Prem Kumar. The audience stands up and cheers. Prem Kumar wipes the sweat from his brow. ‘I must say, this is remarkable,’ he says out aloud. ‘Tonight Mr Thomas really seems to be The Man Who Knows!’
