Two years ago when we emigrated to America, I’d boxed up my disguises and supplies. In the chaos of leaving Bombay, I’d told Adi about them as Diana and I boarded our ship. Now, I asked Mrs. Framji about my motley collection.
She smiled and set aside her sewing.
“I put your crates in a godown. Come,” she said, including Diana in her glance. Nonplussed, we followed her to the kitchen, where she piled fruit in our hands, then she bustled outside toward the servants’ quarters.
This row of connected rooms, fronted by a joint verandah, lay thirty yards behind the main house. Gulmohur trees spread their branches like open arms over the squat building, their canopy a giant umbrella. In the shade, the new houseboy mended a char-poi, literally a four-legged bed meshed with woven jute. A Nepalese woman, Gurung or Ganju’s wife, was hanging clothes on a line. Tossing wet garments over her shoulder, she joined her hands in a pranam.
Our arrival caused a cheerful tumult in the yard. Gurung and Ganju’s children ran up and surrounded Mrs. Framji. Smiling, Diana handed out chikoos and apples to the gaggle of grinning toddlers who bit into them immediately. Their dark eyes shone as juice ran down sunburned cheeks and dripped from their little chins. They giggled and chattered, tugging at Diana’s sari to command her attention.
Meanwhile Mrs. Framji tried keys from her bunch at a sturdy lock on the door. “It is one of these, beta. We didn’t expect you would come back … it is quite a mess inside.”
A string of dried flowers drooped over the door. “Who lived here?” I asked.
Silence answered. I caught Diana’s sideways gaze and knew. “Chutki. It was her room.”
Later, I sat on our bed and asked Diana, “D’you want to live in Bombay, sweet?”
“Not with these daily slights and bruises!” she retorted, opening a trunk of clothing.
I saw the morose downturn of her lips. “Why do you care so much what they think? Can your papa not manage without the Parsi businessmen? If the Wadias refuse to ship his tea, why not hire Sassoon Shipping? Why not English companies, or other Indians? The Parsis cannot have a chokehold on everything?”
“They do seem to manage most of it,” said Diana, shaking out a skirt. “Papa sells tea and coffee using hundis—bearer notes. To get paid, he must have access to money changers and banks. Most are run by Parsis.”
While Diana floated to and fro putting away laundry, I wondered whether they’d blackballed her father because she’d broken their rules or because Burjor broke ranks to forge a connection with me. I leaned my forearms on my knees. “Do these people matter to you?”
She made a face. “It is nice to be admired, but the world outside these windows matters in itself.”
As she went by, I swung out an arm and hooked her tiny waist. “All I need is here.”
She chuckled. “But we cannot live without others. You’d become … too accustomed to me.” Her voice turned teasing as she set the clothes down and touched my hair. “It’s gone too long, again. Without others, you’d no longer be enamored of me!”
I snorted, pressing my lips to her chin.
She kissed me, then pulled back, her brown eyes liquid chocolate. “And what of our someday children? How will they learn a trade? Or find spouses? If they believe all families are like ours, won’t they be dismayed when they venture out? How will they earn their livelihoods, find adventure, like you? We need the world, Jim.”
I closed my arms around her and there was considerable room to spare. “Sweet, I have to be away some days.”
She arched back to see my face. “Days? Where will you sleep?”
I paused to consider that. “In my godown near the dockyard, or … on the street.”
Her intake of breath hissed near my ear. “In disguise. Why?”
“I must watch to find the culprit.”
“No!” Her narrow arms clung. Then she pulled away so I could see her face. “Come late, come in the morning, come by noon! But come home, Jim. Don’t stay away. I can’t … do that again.”
I remembered her panic when I’d had to leave her in Boston. “I’ll find a way to send word. Maybe Gurung and Ganju can take messages…”
I hired an ekka to cart crates bearing the tools of my trade to my rental warehouse behind the bakery, then took a tram to Adi’s factory. The gate was as I had left it, and my new lock still dangled on the paltry latch. Tugging it, I sighed. Anyone could lever it open. Its only purpose was to let me know whether the thief who’d assaulted the mali had returned. Reluctant to leave, I walked the perimeter of the compound, pondering the mali’s plight.
Dead blooms littered the flower beds where brown leaves curled, so I unwound the rubber hose and worked the pump to spray down the rows. Soon droplets showered the foliage, scenting the breeze that cooled my skin.
Trees rustled as sparrows chittered to each other, bringing tranquility I had not known in months. With regret I turned off the faucet and gathered up the hose. Bala’s gentle presence was everywhere. Would he die, then? My limbs felt heavy. Such senseless waste of life: first Satya and now his gardener, whom McIntyre believed to be a watchman, a guard. Having met the gentle mali such an idea was laughable.
I started down the path to the gate, pausing at the spot where I’d found Bala. In the shrubbery, a dark object caught my eye. Bala’s hand-tilling fork, the tool of his trade. He’d held it constantly, even when he pressed palms together in greeting.
Shaking open my kerchief, I picked it up, feeling bleak. Brown-black stains smeared the white linen. Here was the weapon that had struck the old mali. Wrapping it securely, I lodged it inside a pocket and pulled the gate closed behind me.
I searched the dry scrub around the entrance for signs of a bicycle, but the pebbles and dirt kept their secrets. Handcarts and tongas rolled past. A vegetable vendor pushed a laden handcart. A carriage rolled by, then teenagers in school uniforms cycled past. A woman balanced pots on her head, calling, “Topli-wali, topli nu paneer!” hawking fresh curds and cheese.
Uncertain, I circled the block. Diana would know in an instant what was wrong, but I could not pin it down. Here was the old formal entrance to the property, now closed and barricaded. I caught glimpses of the factory as I strode around the stone perimeter. Through it, the mali’s verdant garden was a lush paradise.
Across the street, a peanut vendor sat on his haunches. When I hailed him, he scrambled over with his basket and began to prepare a twist of paper. Recalling the packet in Satya’s desk, I asked the chanawala whether he’d sold peanuts to a young man at the factory.
“Yes,” he said. “In the evening, he would often buy.”
I asked a few questions, and learned that he had not known Satya except as a customer. As I handed him a coin, an idea took shape. “Would you like to earn a bit more?”
He was willing. I said, “Sit on this street, each day, or at the corner. Watch this gate, and tell me if someone comes in. I want to know how long they stay.”
He blinked a few times, then asked what I would pay. After some haggling, we settled on twelve annas a day. “This is a good lane for business,” he said. “Schoolchildren come, people pass. When will you pay me?”
We agreed upon a plan: If anyone visited the factory, he must remember them; it would earn him an extra four annas.
Having planted the chanawala in place, my spirits lifted. The case had to break soon. The mali’s tool still weighed down my jacket—a murder weapon, perhaps. Would anyone care if he died? As yet no one had investigated his assault. I went to police headquarters and left it on McIntyre’s desk with a short note written on his own stationery.