Delhi Noir (29 page)

There’s no way Sushma could have known what accounted for Ramnivas’s surprising turnaround. She knew this much:

She’d done well by showing up at the bus stand that Tuesday morning, after having spent the whole night thinking,
Do I show up? Do I not show up?
It turned out she’d made the right decision.
There
is
someone out there in the world who loves me!

Sushma thought, overflowing with joy. Even after Ramnivas had gotten her pregnant and then paid for her abortion at the Mittal Clinic in Naharpur, she’d remember the whirlwind trip that day two years before in the autorickshaw.

The roots of happiness lie hidden in money. From there, a tree of pleasure can grow, and flourish, and bear the fruit of joy. Maybe the best qualities of men, too, lie locked inside a bundle of cash—this is how Ramnivas began to think. He was a new man: Everything had changed. Life at home had also improved substantially. First, his wife Babiya seemed content all the time, and now cooked the most delicious food.

They could afford to eat meat at least twice a week and eggs every day. The kids asked for ice cream, and the kids got ice cream. If a guest came knocking, Babiya would bring out the good stuff: Haldiram’s namkeen snacks and Britannia biscuits.

Ramnivas bought a sofa, a TV, a VCR, a double bed, a fridge, and a foreign-made CD player from Palika Baazar, and announced that it was only a matter of time before he bought a computer for the kids. He said everyone knew that there was no getting ahead without one. He planned to get them computer courses and then send them both to the States, where they’d make six-figure salaries.

Ramnivas’s relatives, who’d always steered clear of him, suddenly started showing up at his place with whole families in tow. His stock within his own caste community was on the rise, and he was often approached for advice about matrimonial alliances between families. He got all sorts of letters and wedding invitations. If he felt like it, he’d go. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. But when he did—what a welcome he got!

Meanwhile, Ramnivas had begun drinking every day, and his liaisons with Sushma also became a daily occurrence. By then, Babiya knew all about the affair but had decided to keep her mouth shut. She knew enough about the kind of man Ram-nivas was to feel confident he’d never leave her or the kids.

Sometimes Ramnivas wouldn’t come home until well after midnight. Sometimes he’d disappear for a few days—sometimes with Sushma, who now owned several salwar out-fits, complete with matching sandals and jewelry sets. She used to go toe-to-toe with Ramnivas no matter how small the squabble, but now, fearing he might get angry, Sushma silently put up with more and more. On several occasions her mother cautioned, “How long will this last? You have to stand up for yourself and tell him that what’s yours is yours. And
he
is yours, honey. People are beginning to talk.” But Sushma would reply, “I’m no homewrecker, Amma. He has kids, don’t forget. Let it go for as long as it goes.” And she was sure it would go on for the rest of their lives.

If people asked Ramnivas where he’d gotten so much money, he’d say he’d invested in a half-million-rupee pyramid scheme in Saket, or that he was playing the numbers and kept hitting. Or that he’d won the lottery. Or—and this he reserved for only a few—that he’d met a great holy man near the mosque who whispered a very special mantra in his ear that caused future stock-share figures to flash before his eyes.

In turn, Ramnivas whispered the same mantra into the ears of several people, all of whom failed to see the numbers flash before their eyes.

Whenever Ramnivas felt like it, he’d go and fill up his bag with a few stacks of cash from the wall in Saket. It was amazing that no one had stopped him or arrested him, and no one had moved the stacks of rupees around. Spending the money as he pleased for so long with no one stopping him had turned Ramnivas into a carefree man, and so his daring grew. And yet he was still beset with worry that one day the rightful owner of the money might show up and take it away. So with foresight, he bought a ten-acre plot of land in Loni Border and put it in his wife’s name. He took three-hundred thousand and deposited it into various savings accounts in several banks—all under different names.

Things began to crumble about eight months ago.

Ramnivas made big plans to take Sushma on a trip to Jai-pur and Agra, where, of course, they’d have their photo taken in front of the Taj Mahal.

They found a taxi driver the moment they stepped out of the train station. Ramnivas instructed him to take them to a hotel. “What’s your price range?” the taxi driver asked, sizing him up.

Ramnivas could tell that the driver thought he was an average joe, or worse, some schmuck. “It doesn’t matter so long as the hotel’s top-notch,” Ramnivas said firmly. “Don’t take me to some cut-rate flophouse.”

The driver appeared to be around forty-five; he had a cunning look on his face and dark eyes as alert as a bird of prey. He smiled, asking sardonically, “Well, there’s a nice three-star hotel right nearby. Whaddya think?” The man must have been expecting Ramnivas to lose his cool at the mere mention of a three-star hotel, but Ramnivas was unfazed.

“Three-star, five-star, six-star—it’s all the same to me. Just step on it. I really need a hot shower and a big double plate of butter chicken.”

The driver gave him a long look, which he followed with a piercing, hawklike glance at Sushma. Pleased with himself, and mixing in mockery, he added, “Yes sir! On our way! And do you think I’m gonna let you settle for a plain old hot shower? I’ll see to it you have a whole big full tub of hot water! And butter chicken? You’ll get triple butter chicken!”

Ramnivas laughed at this and said, “That’s more like it! Now step on it.”

The taxi driver then asked, “So where are you from, sir?”

“Me? I’m a Delhite. What, did you think I was from U.P. or M.P. or Pee Pee or someplace like that?” Ramnivas quipped, smiling at Sushma as if he’d just won the war. “I come to Agra every couple of weeks with the company car,” he added, hoping that this shrewd driver wouldn’t ask him about his big job. What would he say? Grade four sanitation worker? Broom pusher? Fortunately, the driver didn’t follow up.

When they got to the hotel, the driver told him, “Go and see if they have any rooms. If not, we’ll try someplace else.”

Ramnivas left Sushma and went inside. When he got to the reception desk and heard the rate, he wondered if they should find a cheaper place to stay. But he soon signed on the dotted line for an air-conditioned room with a deluxe double bed for fifteen hundred a night. The man at the reception desk sent a bellboy to fetch the luggage.

When Sushma arrived upstairs, she looked a little worried. “Gosh!” she exclaimed. “What kind of a place is this, anyway? Everything’s so shiny and polished, like glass. I feel like I shouldn’t touch anything. What if it gets dirty? There’s something about all this stuff that gives me a weird feeling.”

“Just enjoy yourself. We’ve still got plenty socked away, so why fret?” Then, lovingly, he added, “Come here and give me a big smooch. And crack open that bottle in my bag while you’re at it.”

The knock on the door came at half past 10 that night. It had already been a long day of sightseeing at the Taj.

Ramnivas wondered who it could be so late. He opened the door to find two policemen. One was an inspector, and the other, the inspector’s sidekick.

“You’ve got a girl in there?” the inspector asked in a scolding voice.

“Yes,” Ramnivas replied. The inspector and his sidekick came in. The name
V.N. Bharadwaj
was engraved on a little brass tag pinned to his uniform. The way he was looking at Sushma! A fury began to build in Ramnivas, but he was too scared to say anything. Sushma was wearing her pink nightie, and you could see right through to the black bra he’d bought for her. And beneath that was her fine, fair skin.

“Something tells me she’s not your wife,” the inspector declared. “So where’d you pick her up?” The man’s square face housed cunning little eyes that kept blinking. His hair had been turned jet-black with unspeakable quantities of dye.

“She lives next door. She’s my sister-in-law,” Ramnivas said; he was a terrible liar.

“So, you’ve been having a little party!” the inspector con-tinued, glancing at the fifth of Diplomat on the table. Then he gave Sushma the hard once-over. “She ran away. You helped her. You brought her here. My guess is she’s underage.” He turned to Sushma. “How old are you?”

She was scared. “Seventeen,” she said.

“I’m taking you down to the station—both of you. We’ll find out from the medical reports exactly how much fun you’ve been having.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “So where’d the money come from? A three-star hotel? AC? My guess is this isn’t your usual style. Did you steal it? Or knock someone off?”

Ramnivas had a good buzz going, and he should have been able to pluck up his courage; but Sushma telling the truth about her age had unwittingly thrown him to the wolves. He felt as if he was walking right into their trap. He thought quickly, and a smile took shape on his face. “C’mon, inspector, just give the word. Another bottle?”

“That I can order from the hotel. As for you two—I’m taking you to the station. Get dressed. Is she coming like
this?
With her see-through everything?”

“What’s the rush? The station goes wherever you go, inspector. The inspector’s here, so we can work things out right now,” Ramnivas suggested with a little laugh.

He was surprised at himself. Where had this been hiding? He took a quick look at the sidekick, who was standing by the bed, to see if he could get him to go along. It looked like a yes, Ramnivas thought: The sidekick was busy staring at Sushma, but seemed to give a little nod when his eyes met Ramnivas’s. “Aw, they’re just kids, Bharadwaj sahib,” he said. “They come to see the Taj. Let ’em have their little party. You and me can have some fun with her too. Whaddya say, pal?”

Ramnivas didn’t like what the sidekick was hinting at.

“Wait just a minute,” he said. “Look, Bharadwaj sahib, as far as some food and drink go, just say the word and I’ll have it sent up in no time. But you’ve got to believe me that she’s really my sister-in-law. I swear!”

The inspector began to laugh. “Uh-huh. You need an AC hotel room in order to polish off a fifth of the good stuff with your underage sister-in-law? And then let me guess: The two of you were singing hymns and clapping your hands? But now that you mention it, go get a bottle of Royal Challenge and order a plate of chicken. Actually, don’t move.” The inspector sat down on the bed. He pressed the intercom button at the head of it that got him to the reception desk, placed the order, and then stretched out on the mattress. He loosened his belt buckle and regarded Sushma, who was sitting at the foot of the bed looking as if she wanted to crawl under a rock. “And you—go sit in the chair in the corner and face the wall. Don’t make me crazy. I lose it a little when I drink, and then the two of you’ll go crying to your mothers about big bad Bharadwaj.

I just can’t help it, like when I see those pretty Western girls that come here on vacation.” He had a big laugh.

They killed the bottle in just over an hour. First, Ramni-vas finished off his own fifth, and then he joined the police in a few more shots from theirs—by the end, he was completely drunk. The inspector and his sidekick left the hotel room sometime after midnight. They settled on five hundred to let the matter slide; later, the sidekick shook him down for an extra hundred. By the time they’d gone, Ramnivas was utterly spent, so drunk he was queasy and started getting the spins. Sushma helped him into the bathroom and poured cold water over his head, but Ramnivas lay down right there on the bathroom floor and began to retch. Out came all the butter Schicken, the naan, and the pulao. After the vomiting subsided he clung to Sushma, but everything was a blur, so he went straight to bed.

In the morning, Sushma told Ramnivas that after he’d gotten drunk he told the police about some cash hidden behind a wall somewhere in Saket. Ramnivas instantly sobered up. He’d been so careful about keeping his secret! He hadn’t even hinted about it to Sushma or his wife. In the end, a little booze had turned the sweet smell of success into a putrid pile of shit.

He made a few excuses to Sushma about something coming up back home and canceled their trip to Jaipur, then decided to take the next train back to Delhi.

Just as he’d feared, a police Gypsy idled in front of his house, waiting for him the next morning. “The assistant superintendent wants to talk to you,” a policeman said. Ramnivas got into the Gypsy.

This was some eight months ago—I think it was a Tuesday, and there was a light cloud cover. It seemed it might start to drizzle at any time. That day, I saw a very nervous Ramnivas at Sanjay’s; he was waiting for Sushma.

I ordered two cups of deluxe chai from Ratan Lal, and got my first inkling of how desperate Ramnivas was when I saw him down the piping-hot tea in one gulp, burning his mouth and everything else.

It was early afternoon, and Ramnivas, eyes full of pleading, looked at me and said, “I’ve gotten into a big mess. Way in over my head. Help me find a way out—please! I won’t forget it for the rest of my life.”

I asked him to tell me all about it, and he did; and now I’ve told you everything he told me. When he finished—just as I was about to see if I could find some way to help—Sushma showed up.

“Meet me here tomorrow morning. I’ve got to go,” Ramni-vas said, and the two of them jumped in a rickshaw. I watched them ride away until I couldn’t see them any longer. That was the last time I saw Ramnivas.

He hasn’t come back to this little corner of the street.

He’ll never come back. If you ask anyone about him, no one will say a word.

And if you keep going from this corner to the sixteenth-century ruins at the bypass, and ask Saliman, Somali, Bhusan, Tilak, or Rizvan about Ramnivas, you’ll get the same blank stare. Ask Rajvati and her husband Gulshan, who sell hard-boiled eggs at night—they’ll all give you the brush-off.

Even the fair and graceful Sushma, who comes every day from Samaypur Badli to clean people’s homes, will walk right past you at a brisk pace without so much as a word. That’s how bad it is. Nowadays, she’s been seen with Santosh munching on chat and papri in front of the Sheela Cinema.