Dahanu Road: A novel (20 page)

The dacoit’s name was Chambal—not a very original name, since most dacoits had terrorized the Chambal Valley. Zairos had met him a year before through Santosh, the unofficial singer-poet of Dahanu. Santosh was a wholesaler of chickoos who, while weighing his fruit, sang old Hindi songs and recited his own poetry.

Santosh’s cousin was a part-time prostitute. Chambal, apart from being a former dacoit—he was now in retirement— was a truck driver. He passed through Dahanu on his way to Bombay and slept with Santosh’s cousin. When Zairos first met Chambal, he had parked his truck outside Santosh’s wholesale shed. About six foot three, with a handlebar moustache so typical of his ilk, each half twirled to perfection, the tips pinpointed to enter the smallest hole, Chambal wore a dhoti and a white shirt, and was talking with great pride about how ruthless he was. “But after retirement, I have slowed down,” he said. “After retirement, I have done only two murders. One with my sword and one with my gun.” The long-haired Santosh continued weighing his chickoos on a large scale and recited a poem under his breath. Chambal did not seem to mind that Santosh was not paying attention. He was more interested in having Zairos as an audience. “This man in my village,” continued Chambal, “he courted my sister, slept with her, and did not marry her, so I killed him. That was the honour killing with the sword. I cut his head off in front of his brother. The other killing I did as a contract. A landlord paid me to get rid of a man who refused to sell his land. So I shot him and then his
wife had to sell the land. Apart from these two murders, I have done a few more but they were during my days as a dacoit and I do not want to talk about that.”

Then Chambal climbed into his truck and got his shotgun. The truck was at a height, so he towered above Zairos. All of a sudden, he aimed the gun at Zairos. Santosh stopped reciting his poem. “I could kill you just now and feel
nothing,”
said Chambal. Santosh stepped out from under his shed. “Chambal, my friend,” he said. “You should wear some underwear.” Zairos could not believe his ears. Was this a poem? Was it symbolic of his death, of his getting shot?

“What are you talking about?” asked Chambal.

“This truck is very high,” said Santosh. “I can see your spare parts beneath your dhoti. You should wear underwear.”

Chambal roared with laughter. He jumped off his truck and thumped Santosh on the back. That night, the three of them had drinks together. Chambal was a lovable killer. He was a killer in love. He told Zairos how much he wanted to keep Santosh’s cousin for himself. He told her he would marry her, but she was too fiery a woman to tame, and when she rejected him it excited him even more, and she was heartless because when Chambal said he would kill her other clients she said that it was a horrible thing to do—it would hurt her income.

Zairos thought of that first meeting as he waited at the Big Boss Hair Salon for this killer in love to appear. He told Sharmaji to treat Chambal to the most expensive body massage, and while he was getting massaged, Zairos planned to talk to Chambal about Kusum. Hosi and Bumble warned him that he was getting too involved.

“No woman is worth fighting for,” said Hosi. “Unless she’s a horse.”

Outside the Big Boss Hair Salon, a madman walked up and down the road. He looked like a Rastafarian and his face had seen some tough sun. He had a strange routine. He walked three steps, then touched his right toe and opened his mouth wide, stretched it as far as his jaw would allow.

Soon, an auto rickshaw pulled up, and Zairos saw Chambal’s great hand holding on to the roof of the rickshaw. He paid the driver and greeted Zairos with a salute. Zairos liked Chambal’s shoes. They were black leather mojris, and the tips curled exactly like the tips of his handlebar moustache. Zairos led Chambal to Sharmaji’s inner sanctum, where a bed awaited, along with Sharmaji’s oils, his own concoctions, which had been passed on to Sharmaji by his father, an expert in Ayurveda.

Sharmaji did not even wait for an introduction. He opened the cap of one of his small bottles, poured some oil into one palm, and started rubbing his hands together. He indicated for Zairos to start the blue table fan that was in a corner of the small room. Particles of black dirt hung off the blades of the fan, some of which would soon blow all over Chambal’s body and into everyone’s noses. Chambal took off his white shirt and hung it on a hook on the wall.

Sharmaji slapped his hands onto Chambal’s back. There were two patches of coarse black hair. The oil flattened the hair and made it stick to his body. Chambal had his head to one side and his eyes were closed. Sharmaji became inconspicuous almost immediately, which was his gift, a sign of a true masseur.

“I was glad to get your phone call yesterday,” said Chambal. “It’s always good to hear from an old friend.”

Zairos was hardly an old friend. But who in his right mind would argue with a dacoit?

“After hearing your problem, I can tell that you are a passionate man,” said Chambal. “I have a good feeling about you. I am sure you would be able to do a couple of murders.”

“Thank you,” said Zairos.

“So you want to help this woman whose husband beats her.”

“Both her parents are dead and she has no one.”

“Is she your woman?”

“I just want to help,” said Zairos. “Is this something that can be solved?”

“A gun can solve anything.”

“No, no,” said Zairos. “I don’t want you to kill him.”

“But that’s the simplest thing to do,” said Chambal. “Aaah …” Sharmaji was forcing his knuckles deep inside Chambal’s lower back.

“I just want you to scare him,” said Zairos. “To make sure he leaves Kusum alone.”

“Kusum? That’s her name?”

“Yes.”

“My woman’s name is Rekha. You know Santosh’s cousin …”

“Of course,” said Zairos.

“I have killed men, but this woman kills
me
every time I meet her. What can I tell you about women? They are so deadly. Your problem will be solved. We will do it tonight. But let me tell you that you are making a big mistake by not killing the husband. A wounded man is a dangerous man. But your wish.”

“How much would you charge for this kind of work?”

“Nothing,” said Chambal. “If I was killing him, I’d charge ten thousand, but for wounding a wife beater, I’ll do it for free. I’ll do it for love. I’ll do it on the condition that you tell Santosh about my kindness so that he can tell Rekha and then she will ask me about it.”

“It’s a deal.”

“We’ll get him tonight,” said Chambal. “But you will have to come with me. I don’t want to wound the wrong man.”

Zairos did not tell Kusum that they were coming. He did not want to warn her in any way because her nervousness would tip Laxman off. When a man was prepared for a fight, he had time to transform—into an animal, into something ferocious. But when a man was home alone with his wife, he was vulnerable.

“Let her see what we do to him,” Chambal said. “Let her realize the extent you have gone to protect her.”

But there was one problem. Chambal refused to sit in Zairos’ car or Bumble’s because one was red and the other was white. “Not good colours for me” was what Chambal said.

That meant Hosi would have to drive his car. It was black, perfect for Chambal, but it was the worst getaway vehicle ever—it ran on cooking gas. The front seat had been removed and a gas cylinder installed in its place. It was Hosi’s way of fighting rising fuel prices. He did not care about decor: “As long as the car is functional, what I save on petrol, I can spend on horses.” Each time Zairos sat in the car, it brought a smile to his face. Hosi’s Maruti had been manufactured in Japan,
and if the Japanese could see Hosi with the gas cylinder sitting by his side like an old lady, they would, despite their culture, be forced to show some emotion.

Chambal put his shotgun in the hutch of the car and they took off.

As he drove, Hosi kept looking at the gas cylinder, worried that she might hit her head on the dashboard. The metal fittings that secured the cylinder in place had come loose. Chambal was most amused with the gas cylinder. He kept tapping it and chuckling. In response to that chuckle, Hosi lit a cigarette. “Just imagine what would happen,” he said, looking straight ahead as he drove, “if this car overturns and there is a gas leak.” Then he looked back at Chambal. “I’m not a fan of suicide. I find pills and rope hangings very stale. But this … a sudden, unexpected explosion … there’s something visionary about it.”

The car grunted along the dirt road, crept closer to its target with the stealth of a tank. “There’s no moon tonight,” said Chambal. “It has gone to warn Laxman.”

Midway through the journey, Chambal asked Hosi to stop. He got out of the car and started collecting large stones. Five in all, round and heavy. Then he took the long white cloth that hung around his neck and laid it flat on the ground. One by one, he neatly placed the stones in the centre of the cloth and wrapped the cloth around the stones, securing them with a knot. He swung the weapon over his head a few times to test it. “I call it my hathoda,” he said. “A hammer that leaves no marks. My father taught me this. He was also a dacoit,” he said, almost sounding nostalgic. “The gun is for bigger jobs. Tonight, the gun is just for safety.”

They stopped a short distance from Kusum’s hamlet. Hosi lit another cigarette, but Chambal told him to put it out. “The light will tell Laxman we are coming.”

The hut was ideal for attacking—the other huts were not too close. As they moved forward, Zairos could feel the blood swirl around his heart.

There was a glow in the hut that came from a cooking fire.

Chambal was the first to go in. Laxman was on his haunches fanning the flames of the cooking fire with one hand, smoking a beedi with the other.

As he tried to stand, Chambal struck him with the hathoda in the ribs.

That was surely going to leave a mark.

Zairos tried to get Kusum out of the hut, but she stood her ground. Laxman was bent over in pain.

“We just want to talk to you,” said Chambal. Then he bludgeoned Laxman again, in exactly the same spot. “We just want to talk to you,” repeated Chambal, softly.

He was a master at this, cool and calm; this was his meditation.

“Now listen carefully,” said Chambal. “From this day on, Kusum is no longer your wife. You will not speak to her, you will not follow her, and you will not touch her ever again.”

Laxman looked at Chambal and Zairos. Then at Kusum, the look of a betrayed man, the foolishness of being outwitted. He started uttering gibberish.

Chambal slapped him hard across the face. It was an extra touch that was not required. Chambal was used to feeding men bullets. Laxman was still alive, and that in itself was something Chambal could not deal with.

“This woman is no longer your wife,” said Chambal. “You do not know her. You do not know where she lives even though she is going to stay in her father’s house from now on. If you even look at her, I will come back and kill you. My name is Chambal and I have killed many men. Remember my name. Remember that I have killed many men.”

Then Chambal looked at Zairos to signal that his work was done.

Zairos reached into his pocket and took out a bundle of notes, three thousand rupees in all, and placed the bundle on the floor.

“That is much more than what you spent on the wedding,” he said. “Now she is free.”

Laxman tried to lift his head, but it was useless.

The cooking fire had lost its glow, the paper fan still by Laxman’s side.

Kusum looked at her husband’s hut one last time. Her face revealed no emotion.

Zairos admired her courage, how unshaken she had remained throughout the car journey to her father’s hut. He asked Hosi to wait in the car with Chambal, about two hundred yards away from Ganpat’s hamlet. The sound of a car at this time of night would arouse the curiosity of neighbours.

Not a single tremor, not a trace of remorse.

She was pure steel, but he wondered what she was like on the inside.

Neither of them spoke.

They walked in the darkness, and this time Zairos was the one who followed Kusum because his eyes were unaccustomed to the dark. She knew the path the way a mongoose knew it. Her feet made no sound, but his sneakers crushed the pebbles and he kept flicking his hair offhis face, but it made no difference to the quality of his vision. His blue jeans got caught in a thorny bush, and she did not wait for him to disentangle himself.