Banner seemed unhappy when I was admitted to his parlor. He got up and shook hands reluctantly, as though I were a tax collector making an unannounced call. We spoke of inconsequential matters, then I asked, “You said that Satya couldn’t hold his drink. Did he say anything unusual?”
When he hesitated, I said, “Must have been peculiar, since you remember it?”
“Uh, not peculiar exactly,” he stammered, “just … not what one might expect.”
“What did he say?”
“You can’t expect me to recall … it was just idle talk, really.”
“Details matter. Minor things can add up.”
He fussed with his immaculate cuffs and lapels, then said, “We’d had some drinks and he said … I couldn’t swear to this, all right? He said, ‘Can a child despise their parent?’ Just out of the blue. It threw me, I mean, thing like that, how’s a bloke to answer? I said, ‘I suppose,’ but he wasn’t listening.”
I leaned closer, elbows on my knees. “Who did he mean?”
“Couldn’t tell you. Perhaps his parent—the pater, what? It’s always the father, isn’t it? I’d been grumbling about mine…”
I covered my fist with my palm and pressed my lips to my knuckles. Can a child despise their parent? It felt significant, but what the devil did it mean?
Banner went on, “After that, he seemed embarrassed, so I let it alone. Bad form to press him, eh?”
“He say anything else?”
“N … no, we were swapping stories. Traditions, Hindu culture, upbringing. Did you know, when he got back from Oxford, his family couldn’t touch him? He underwent some sort of ceremony to become pure again. Oh! I remember—before that, he asked whether it was unnatural. To hate a parent. I was in my cups, I’m afraid, not sure what I answered. Probably said, ‘Depends upon the parent!’ Been so long, I really can’t recall.”
“Hate. He used that exact word?”
Banner scratched his eyebrow. “Think so.”
This put a new cast on things. Did Satya really despise his father? Thinking of Tansen, the quiet man who had so ably marshaled his troops, I could scarcely conceive it. Was it unnatural?—a strange way to put it. As though he felt guilt for his feelings. Yet this too did not satisfy. It left me feeling uneasy, as though I’d seen something from the corner of my eye, which when I turned to look, wasn’t there.
I dug out the dratted key and showed it to Banner. “Seen this before?”
He blinked, took it, then handed it back with a grin. “Sorry, old chap. You know, you are the most interesting guest I’ve had all week.”
Next, I visited Adi and learned that the Bank Manager’s alibi had withstood cross examination. It was still light, so I took myself off to Jameson’s infirmary. Accustomed to seeing me at all hours, the orderly admitted me without question.
“Is the mali asleep?” I asked.
He jerked his chin at the ward.
The beds contained few patients, just long shapes covered by thin blankets. I sat in the bedside chair beside Bala Mali and slumped.
God, I was tired. The previous day’s excitement from battling the Rastogis’ fire had worn off, and I felt worn to a crisp. I leaned my forearms on my thighs and gazed at the wizened figure swaddled in bedclothes.
A machine whirred at the back of the quiet infirmary. The smell of phenol was mixed with medicinal odors, not unpleasant. Memories of my year in hospital flickered past, a year when, like Bala Mali, I’d been barely conscious.
Bala sniffed. Blinking, he rubbed his face. “Sahib?” he said in a thin voice.
“How are you?” I asked, pitching my voice low.
Lifting his thin hand, he turned it over in a hopeless gesture. “Satya is dead,” he whispered. “There’s no one left.”
No one left. No one for whom he had any affection, no one who cared whether he lived or died. My throat tightened. When I covered his cold, bony hand, he made no reply.
Why had I come, I wondered? He’d given me the statuette hidden in his hut. Satya was unlikely to have confided anything of import. But was that all there was? Was this my life, then, to demand, cajole, bribe or threaten? I wanted to rescue Adi, but that made my motive no less selfish, from the mali’s view.
“You fed Satya,” I said. “He had no one to care for him. You brought him food.”
The mali’s eyes flickered as I went on. “You saw how hard he worked.”
His thin chest rose with a breath. “Night and day. He was skilled. Such an intelligence, but … there was no pride in him. A quiet child. A silent youth.”
“Did he have, ah, an affection for someone?”
Bala dropped his chin and silence enveloped us. Satya had grown apart from his family, his clan. Was that why he’d lived in self-imposed exile? In his youth, or even earlier, he’d found he was no longer aligned with his family, his lineage. A cog out of place. Trained to fit into the machine, yet somewhere along the way he had outgrown that role. Perhaps when he’d met and loved Sona, it made him a pariah to his kin.
Pity spurted in me for a lad I had never known, because I had been more fortunate. Our circumstances were the opposite of each other: in meeting Diana, I had also found my life’s path.
To the mali I said, “You knew him as a child, comforted him. And when he was weary, you brought him vadas or puris. For that, you have earned thanks.”
To my surprise, his face crumpled and shook with silent sobs. Tears slipped down the hollows of his face, but he did not notice. Here was a father, I thought, a father bereft.
Did he know Satya was plating statues at night?
I said, “He hid his work from Adi. Bala, what was he doing in the factory?”
Silence answered.
“Why did he work so hard?” I asked. “What did he want?”
To my surprise, the mali covered his face with his hands. I caught some words, which ended with “… promise.”
“I also made him a promise,” I said. “He was trying desperately to do something. I saw his office, wire baskets, chemicals, forms and molds. I swore I would give him justice, give him peace.” I drew a slow breath and waited.
A touch on my forearm. The mali said, “He sent me with messages.”
“Where?”
My question disturbed him. Pained, he mumbled and rubbed his forehead, his scrawny hand like a crow’s foot. “Cammattipoora.”
My heart lurched and kicked into a gallop. The red-light district of Bombay where women were sold for an hour’s pleasure? Jussawalla had seen his Ganesh statue there.
In an urgent whisper I asked, “Which house?”
He shook his head. “They will not admit you. There is a way … Satya reminded me each time, ‘Take two boondi laddoos. Don’t forget.’ I would buy them from the market and offer them at the door.”
Boondi? Those sweets were available on most streets. “Who did you ask for?”
He shook his head. “No one. Just gave the laddoos, and the message.”
“Written?”
“Very short messages. Just few words.”
“Could you read them?”
Bala smiled a toothless grin, shaking his head.
“Who received the messages?”
He said, “A girl. And one time”—he squeezed up his face with effort. “Sahib, one time there were no laddoos to be had. I bought jalebi, but at the door, they turned me away!”
I breathed, my pulse racing. “Only boondi laddoo would do. That was the code.”
In Cammattipoora I might find Satya’s girl, or his coconspirator, the wellspring of this plot. I was so close!
Bala said, “One time he sent me to buy four laddoos. In a box. He was very clear about that. In a box. But he didn’t send me to Cammattipoora!”
I stiffened. “No?”
“Sahib, he was wearing his best kurta. He went himself, carrying the box!”
There were two codes. Two laddoos for a message; four, to visit in person.
“What color was the box?”
“Red and white, sahib. The sweets have a thin gold covering.”
Gold leaf on the sweets. Gold. Sona. That was the “open sesame” to this lair.
“Where would you present those laddoos?” I asked. My voice sounded rough as I tamped down my excitement. If a door was cracked open, I must push my way in and discover Satya’s secret.
Bala named a street. “After the lamppost, it is the ninth door, sahib.”
“From which side? Falkland Road, or Byculla?”
He repeated the directions, left after the garbage pile, right at the cowshed.
Before I left, I told Bala, “Do not fear, you will be cared for. Adi sahib must give up the factory and the garden, but you will be safe. I will find you a suitable place.”
Folding his hands, he assured me that he was strong and knew about plants. All he wanted, he said, was the shade of a few trees, and one roti a day. He would work for it, he said, and not be a burden. I swallowed hard and told him to eat and get stronger. Then, with a clumsy pat on his shoulder, I prepared to visit the brothel.
As I exited the infirmary, two native constables approached, huffing.
“Stop!” a harsh voice cried. “Agnihotri, you’re under arrest!”