The Setting Sun (10 page)

I know from talking to friends, as well as teaching male autobiography – from Edmund Gosse and Samuel Butler to Hanif Kureishi and Nick Hornby – that there comes a moment when everyone sees through the father-figures constructed in childhood. The venality or violence, the failures and disappointed hopes one day thrust like a fist through the canvases they’d so lovingly created. Barack Obama describes this moment beautifully in
Dreams from My Father
when his half-sister, on a visit to the US, recounts what the Old Man was really like in daily life back in Kenya: ‘I felt as if my world had been turned on its head; as if I’d woken up to find a blue sun in the yellow sky, or heard animals speaking like men. All my life, I had carried a single image of my father, one that I had … never questioned.’

My circumstances, however, differ from Obama’s. My father didn’t desert me in any conventional sense, and I have a rich collection of childhood memories of him. Moreover, he didn’t live to a ripe old age. Nonetheless, perhaps precisely because Bill died before I reached adolescence, and more so because everyone spoke so well of him, the moment of disenchantment has been postponed until now. I recognise that, even at my age, I have further growing up to do.

Still, I’ve only read one account of his activities in India. Whatever the density of Shinde’s archival material, his narrative – like any historian’s – is shaped by his particular investments, personal and political. That’s one of the sharpest lessons of Nirad Chaudhuri’s memoir of his life as a historian, which now lies on my bedside table. Perhaps the same material could be read differently. Maybe other sources exist which
cast a different light. If I can get to see the full versions of the confidential weekly reports which Shinde occasionally cites, Bill’s own point of view might emerge. After all, by his own admission, the Congress worker on whose account Shinde relies so heavily wasn’t able to get to Chafal himself. How, then, did he compile his report? It wouldn’t be the first time a nationalist politician exaggerated events to mobilise opinion against colonial authority.

So, however tempting the prospect, I can’t run away to Goa after all. Further investigations may throw up evidence to challenge Shinde’s narrative, or at least put Bill’s behaviour into some sort of context. On the other hand, perhaps they’ll simply confirm the accusations. I feel trapped between the emotional loyalties formed during childhood and the postcolonial political ethics I’ve acquired as an adult. How am I going to resolve things?

CHAPTER 4

Glimpses of Bill

Over late morning tea with Rajeev in Elphinstone, I conceal how disturbed I am. I don’t know him well enough to confide.

‘May have a surprise later,’ he twinkles, as I get out my file. ‘Won’t say anything more for the moment.’

I’m not in the mood for further shocks. But I force a wan smile.

‘Well, did you find your Shinde?’

I nod equivocally. ‘Lots of references to follow up. He says district superintendents of police had to write confidential weekly reports,’ I say evasively. ‘I’d give my eye teeth to get hold of my father’s.’ Anything to deflect attention from my wound.

Rajeev nods. ‘Yes, it’s the same system today. The originals are held in the station concerned, copied to the inspector-general, then to state headquarters in Mumbai. In those days, Satara reported to the inspector-general in charge of Southern Range, in Belgaum.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in Karnataka now – the next state down. It got tacked onto Kannada-speaking territory when Maharashtra and Gujarat came into being. They’ll have their own archives.’

My heart sinks.

‘Anyway, according to the
History of Services
, your father was a special additional district superintendent of police in Satara, a temporary position. He may not have written such reports himself; that was the job of regular DSPs.’

‘But Bhosle says he produced this secret Memorandum on the Parallel Government. And according to Shinde, he was in
charge of anti-insurgency operations in Satara, not the DSP in place.’

Rajeev looks askance. ‘You may be right. But in any case, such reports are destroyed after thirty years. There simply isn’t the space to keep them.’

‘Shinde’s book came out in 1989. That’s forty-five years after the events.’

‘He might have done the spadework earlier?’

‘Is everything destroyed? Even material of such obvious historical importance?’

‘It’s possible that some was kept,’ Rajeev concedes. ‘In fact, I’m not sure exactly when the thirty-year rule was introduced. Did you make a list of Shinde’s sources?’

I detach it from the rest of my notes. He looks puzzled.

‘But most of these are Home Department and Special Branch reference numbers. Special Branch is now State Intelligence Bureau. Each has its own holdings.’

Why on earth did Bhosle send me here to Elphinstone? ‘Then I’ll try them.’

Rajeev glances at me mournfully. ‘You won’t get in just like that. Especially now, since the attacks.’

I try not to look discouraged. ‘How do I get permission?’

‘Normally you’d write. You could try in person. But they can be sticky at the best of times. Your attestation from the consulate should help.’ Rajeev pats my arm. ‘Look, I can’t stay, the wife’s poorly. Just a seasonal bug, but nasty enough. Believe it or not,’ he adds, fanning himself with his folder, ‘this is midwinter here.’ He bends towards me, smiling enigmatically. ‘I want you to come over to my place when you’ve finished today. I may be onto something which could really help.’

It’s an effort now to contain my curiosity. ‘But your wife’s unwell.’

‘My dear man, it’s only for a cup of tea.’ He scribbles directions.

Mantrale, seat of the Home Department of the Government of Maharashtra, is, indeed, crawling with security. The main building’s another ugly 1960s tower and someone forgot to plant any trees round the concrete apron in front, which shimmers like a grill. The queue for admission snakes far down the street. Joining it, I take out my new book, Rohinton Mistry’s
A Fine Balance
, set in mid-70s Bombay during Indira Gandhi’s Emergency. After Rajeev’s scathing comments, I want to find out more about that period. But I’m too tired to concentrate and soon feel faint from the heat and caustic smell of melting bitumen. My spirits plummet. Am I going through all this just to defend the indefensible?

By the time I get to the front gate, I’m not just demoralised, but thirsty and sunburned. After signing in and showing my documents, I’m nearly stifled by the press in the single up lift. On the seventh floor, where I’ve been directed, there’s another queue – this one comprised entirely of Westerners. I check with an elderly attendant, only to find I’ve been sent to the wrong place.

‘I will take you,’ he offers, once he registers my long face and the throng at the lift.

Two flights up is another bare, airless corridor with peeling veneered doors. To my huge relief, no one’s waiting. The attendant knocks at a door and leads me in. The disorder reminds me of Elphinstone, with the same dusty document-sacks, crammed shelves, ancient typewriters and rickety chairs. Hard to believe this small room’s the Home Department archive. The young man behind the front desk has a mole on his chin and hunched shoulders. He motions me to sit but is in no hurry with the paperwork before him. Indeed he looks ostentatiously at his brassy watch, as if to suggest I’ve come at an inconvenient moment. At last he yawns, scratches the chest of his greying polyester shirt and asks my business. When I explain, he looks put out. I show him Shinde’s list of sources.

‘Do you have permission?’

‘Yes. I’m a professor at London University,’ I state importantly, showing him the consul’s attestation.

He studies it. ‘This is for research in Elphinstone archives.’

‘I need a separate letter here?’

He nods blandly.

‘But I’ve come all the way from England, and I only have a couple of weeks.’

‘Foreigners should apply from country of origin. It takes about two months.’

Desperate to locate Bill’s reports, I try arguing. He’s adamant.

‘Can you at least tell me if these files still exist?’

‘Sorry, closing in half an hour. We’re short-staffed because of seasonal leave. Archives in other building.’ He points out of the window to a beautiful colonial edifice, across a road so busy it’d probably take that half-hour just to cross.

‘Well, thanks very much and have a nice Christmas,’ I reply sarcastically, frustration getting to me. But his offhand manner has fired me up for one last throw of the dice. Will the State Intelligence Bureau keep the same hours as Mantrale? Even if they work later, they’re doubtless up to their necks dealing with the aftermath of the attacks. My chances of accessing their archives are probably nil. Still, there’s nothing to lose now. I’ll have no peace until I see those confidential weeklies. Delaying only to buy a bottle of water from a stall, which I drain in two long gulps, I hail a taxi.

‘Maharashtra State Police Headquarters.’

Close to the Gateway of India, it’s another monumental Raj building, several floors of the same yellow brick and stone-faced windows as Elphinstone. The main gate’s guarded by men in khaki. Beside them, the barrel of a machine gun pokes out of a makeshift pillbox constructed from sandbags. Beyond I glimpse an immaculate lawn, edged with orange lilies, dwarf fan palms and oleander bushes daubed
with creamy-pink blossom. A statue of what looks like a medieval horseman with drawn sword gallops motionlessly towards the city. It’s the ubiquitous Mahratta hero, Chhatrapati Shivaji, who liberated Maharashtra from the Mughals.

‘What is your affair?’ the duty constable asks affably.

‘I need to see the commissioner of SIB, please.’

‘Your affair?’

‘It’s hard to explain. Could you send this note up?’

I give him my university visiting card. On the back I scrawl: ‘My father was in the Indian Police, 1938–47.’ The constable takes it into the guardroom, where I see him conferring with a superior. The latter’s sceptical expression makes me regret my cut-offs and sandals.

Half an hour later, the affable constable returns. ‘Do you have other visiting card?’ he asks. When I produce one, he smuggles it hastily into an inside pocket.

‘One day I will visit London. Now enter.’

I can hardly believe my ears. In the guardroom I go through scanners and my bag’s emptied, its contents checked. Then the constable leads me round the side of the building, through a pool of white 4×4s with red sirens, to the sandbagged main entrance. It’s deliciously cool in the tiled porch. After a body search, I’m escorted up some stairs, lined with photographs of commissioners, stretching back to 1947. On the second floor, I’m shown to a tatty divan on the deep veranda, from where I can see the Taj tower, bone-white against the cloudless sky. A sickly looking crow sits brazenly on the balustrade, stropping its beak with one claw.

It’s well after six when I’m eventually summoned. The attendant directs me into a box-like office, its walls entirely lined with hazel formica. There’s a neon strip light and air conditioning. Three people are seated before a large glass-topped desk, behind which sits a powerful-looking individual in a beige safari jacket. He has a bullet-shaped cranium, straggly
silvery hair and watery eyes. The desk’s covered with dockets, intercoms, a fan and a couple of photographs. He’s closely examining my card.

‘Commissioner Sivanandan is away. I’m Assistant Commissioner Poel, SIB.’ He waves me to a chair with a quick smile. ‘So your father was Indian Police?’

I get out my copies of Aunt Pat’s pictures. Poel seems fascinated, as are his visitors, to whom he passes the pictures across the table.

‘He was at Nasik Police Training School, too?’ he asks, examining Bill in his black-tie rig. ‘The building behind is the mess. I was there in the 1960s.’

Their curiosity apparently satisfied, the three men get up, bow a
namaste
and withdraw.

‘How can I help?’

I tell my story, omitting what I’ve discovered in Shinde’s book. Poel nods and murmurs as I speak. When I’ve finished, he presses a buzzer.

‘I’m very grateful to you for seeing me when you must be so busy dealing with these terrible attacks.’

A world-weary look settles on my host’s face. ‘Very busy. Doing nothing.’ Catching my look of surprise, he shrugs. ‘What to do? We have the surviving perpetrator. Now is up to the prosecutors and politicians.’

‘Do you think the terrorists had inside help?’ It’s the current obsession of the newspapers.

He shakes his head. ‘That’s just
badmashes
trying to stir up communalist feeling.’

I wonder how he can be so sure, given the intelligence failings for which the SIB must be partly responsible. The attendant pokes his head round the door.

‘Take the sahib to Records.’ Poel turns back to me. ‘Just to show you where they are. Come again at ten tomorrow and we’ll see what we can dig up.’

The Assistant Commissioner hasn’t mentioned the word
‘permission’. I want to jump across the desk and kiss him. He throws me a soulful look as I get up to leave.

‘It must have been very hard to lose your father so young.’

At the Records office, the desks are empty. I look round eagerly. Somewhere here, I’m sure, I’m going to find what I need. I make my way out of the building in a daze. Have I really just seen the second-in-command of the current antiterrorist operations in Mumbai? I’m so tired, maybe I’ve hallucinated it all. It’s hard to account for such helpfulness. Perhaps it’s another sign of the continuing prestige of the IP. Or the clout of a London University professorship. Surely it can’t be because I’m white? I call Rajeev to tell him the good news. He congratulates me on my persistence.

‘You’d have made a good detective, just like your father,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Listen, I’ve caught this wretched thing from my wife. I don’t think you’d better come this evening after all. Don’t know if it’s swine flu or what, but I feel like a pig.’ He manages a weak chortle. ‘Do you have enough to keep you busy for a couple of days? Haven’t had time to work on that lead.’