Sunlight filtered through the trees, while a morning gust fluttered my clothing. I was putting Gurung and the lads through squats and push-ups, which had been de rigueur for morning drill in the army. The group conducted these exercises with snappy shouts that made me feel I’d stepped back in time.
At nine that morning, disaster came in the shape of a gleaming black carriage. It rolled through the gate, the new houseboy running alongside to announce it.
When the carriage crunched to a halt, Smith stepped out in full police drill. A pair of crisply uniformed constables flanked him. Holding his white solar cap stiffly at his side, he started up the front stairs.
“Stephen!” I called.
He turned and paused for me to catch up. We shook hands without ado.
“You know why I’m here,” he said, nodding at the house. “Sorry, old chap.”
I felt short of air. “For Adi. To question him again?”
He grimaced. “I’m to arrest him. Here, give us a hand so he don’t make a fuss.”
Bloody hell.
“Why now?” I demanded. “What’s happened?”
“Mac’s orders. I’m to get your boy so he don’t fly the coop again.”
Adi’s trial must be near at hand. I was out of time.
Despite the warm breeze, Smith looked pale. He swiped a kerchief across his forehead. “The boss thought this would be easier than showing up himself. Sent me instead.” He gave a low grunt.
I nodded, feeling nauseous. “He’ll come. Let me get him.”
Disregarding Smith, I strode ahead and stamped up the curved staircase to Adi’s quarters. I knocked and entered.
“Jim?” Dressed in crisp white shirt and dark trousers, hair slicked back, Adi came from his water closet, wiping his face. He plucked his glasses from a breast pocket and put them on, then hauled up his suspenders.
Breathing hard, I struggled with a grenade-sized lump in my throat.
Adi said, “So. It’s come. Will I be handcuffed?”
“No.” I forced the word through my swollen gullet.
He smiled slightly, came up and laid a hand on my arm. “It’s all right. I’ve been expecting it. Surprised they waited this long.”
I groaned and grabbed his shoulders. “Hold on, all right? We’re not done.”
“Mmm. Should I pack a few things?” He glanced about, pulled a narrow valise from under his bed, and flipped it open on the counterpane. When I’d helped put in a few clothes, his diary and pencils, he knotted on a tie and rolled down his shirtsleeves to add cuffs.
“Go back to America, Jim,” Adi said, as he wore his coat. “Take Diana, and leave.”
“God’s sake, Adi, why?”
“If I’m going down, can’t take you too.”
Or was it you two? Although my ears buzzed as though I was underwater, I got out the words, “You can’t give up.” They sounded calm, believable.
Adi straightened his collar, ran his hands down his lapels. “Better this way. The waiting was killing me. Mama and Papa can start over in Rangoon.”
“What’re you saying?” I snapped. “D’you know who attacked Satya?”
“No, no!” He waved that away, slipping a kerchief into his pocket.
“Who are you protecting?”
He smiled, a twist of lips. “No one, Jim. I don’t know who killed Satya.”
Once downstairs, Smith was quick about administering the formalities. Burjor and Diana kept their composure, embracing Adi with admonitions as though he were going to university. “Make sure you drink enough water.” “Exercise, every day. You need to keep up your strength.” “Don’t forget to write!”
Burjor enveloped Adi in a bearlike hug. When he stepped back, Burjor’s wide face looked sallow and clammy, strands of hair sticking to his perspiring forehead. In his dark eyes was the glitter of desperation, and something I could not quite name. He glanced at me in entreaty, then back to Adi, as though grasping at straws and resolved not to show it.
Mrs. Framji hurried from an inner room. With a wordless cry she clung to Adi, holding him in a close embrace for long moments. Neither spoke. When she released him, her eyes blazed some message I could not decipher. He ducked his head, then nodded.
Adi turned to shake my hand, but I swiped it away and put an arm about him. “I’m coming with you.” I did not ask Smith’s permission.
Once Adi, Smith, and the two constables were ensconced inside the carriage, I hailed the driver, “Move over!” and clambered up top beside him.
We went down Queens Road to the police court on Chuikshank Road and then on to Bombay Jail on Caskine Road. Dismounting there, Smith escorted Adi through the bullpen and down a hallway I’d known well when I worked at the constabulary. I followed, carrying Adi’s valise. Our process drew attention—my old friend Sabrimal met my gaze and flushed. Others stood back in silence to give us way.
While Smith handed over the necessary paperwork, Adi tilted his head to me. “Some of these chaps know you.”
“Mr. Framji,” McIntyre said, behind us.
“Yes, sir.” Adi swung around and stuck out his hand. The gesture stabbed my side, as he said, “We’ve met. Last year at the Governor’s Holiday Gala. And other times.” He smiled politely as though this were an ordinary day but his cordial tone pierced me. Adi did not know how to be any other way.
McIntyre shook hands. “Should you require anything, Mr. Framji, please let me know.” He glanced at my clenched jaw and back to Adi, saying, “I suppose we’ll see Agnihotri every day now. Who’s your lawyer?”
Adi said, “Don’t have one yet. My father will find someone.”
“I’m sure. Brown and Batliwala aren’t used to this sort of case. Barrister Dinshaw Daver, now, he’s an excellent pleader. Or Pheroze Shaw Mehta.”
Superintendent McIntyre recommending defense counsel? His cheeks somewhat ruddier, he nodded a farewell and strode away. However, the conversation had been noted, and Adi would be afforded as much consideration as possible under the circumstances. He was not stripped and forced into the usual stripes of inmates awaiting trial but was escorted to a wing I had not seen before, where most cells were empty.
In the political prisoners’ row, each cell contained a low bed and worktable, a chair and washbasin. A ceramic latrine was parked in a corner with a bucket of water. All the amenities of home, then. Adi would be spared the hard methods used on suspected insurgents.
In his cell, Adi’s valise was subjected to a cursory examination. He emptied his pockets as asked. The native constable in charge did not demand that he disrobe, but placed striped khaki clothes on his bunk. The British constable stood stiffly, giving instructions in a flat tone, while native constables tightened their lips. A glance confirmed what I suspected. Adi, a respected Indian gentleman, had been arrested; their manner said they had no wish to be his jailors.
Adi held up under the strain, although he flinched when a metal door clanked in the corridor. Smith waited outside while I embraced Adi, feeling the nervous tremor in his thin frame, the bones of his shoulders. His frayed look told me he was close to collapse.
In an undertone, I said, “Don’t you give in. I’m not done, hear?”
He pushed me away. “Go now, Jim.”
Swearing inwardly, I left, then turned to reinforce my message with a look. Adi attempted a smile that damn near brought me to tears.
Leaving him in that cell was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.