JOHNNY GONE DOWN (27 page)

‘If he wants money to get married, he will want money to stay married. It won’t end. Your daughter is better off without him,’ I told Daya.

‘Easy to say, sahib. You won’t understand until you have your own children.’

His words pierced me, a misdirected barb that hit an unintentional bulls-eye.

‘What’s this sahib business? Don’t call people that. You are oppressed because you want to be oppressed,’ I said.

A strange sense of the surreal gripped me. What was I doing here, mouthing Marxist bullshit to a guy who I had just played Russian roulette with? It wasn’t meant to be like this, was it? I shook my head and tried to snap out of it.

‘Would she be happy getting married if she knew you had killed yourself for her?’ I said.

‘I’m going to die anyway.’

‘Says who?’ I asked as the familiar white pillars of Connaught Place came into view. ‘You don’t die until you die.’

A memory of my mother writhing in pain on her bed as the cancer spread from her urethra to
her bladder to her bloodstream struck me as the bus stopped at CP. More images of people lost and places forgotten flashed through my mind. I had to get out of Delhi, I thought, as I stepped off the bus. Everything I saw unlocked dark closets of memories; some joyful, some miserable, but all tinged with regret. I couldn’t take the agony of these multiple worlds any more.

‘The New Delhi railway station is nearby, right?’ I asked Dayaram.

He nodded. ‘But you can’t get a train today,’ he said. ‘There is a railway strike for the next two days.’

Nothing had changed, I thought again.

‘You can get a bus from ISBT, though.’

‘That’s okay, I will just find a hotel here,’ I said. ISBT would open another box of memories: trips to Shimla, Jodhpur and Dharamsala; more people, more images. Besides, I was tired and wanted this to end. If I were in Delhi, they would find me soon enough. If I was somewhere else, I would keep waiting for them to show up - and I had nothing to accomplish in that extra time.

‘Arre sahib, how can you even think of staying at a hotel? Please come to my house,’ he said. ‘We would be honoured to have you as our guest.’

‘That’s okay. I’m used to being alone.’

‘No, sahib,’ he insisted. ‘You saved my life. How can I let you stay in a hotel?’

‘No need to be so dramatic,’ I said.

‘No…’

‘Shut up. Don’t you understand it’s dangerous, you idiot? They will come for me,’ I snapped. ‘Just leave me alone.’

And I walked away.

Every block I crossed evoked memories. Tired, I stopped at the first run down hotel I saw.

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘Where are you from?’ asked the inconspicuous looking clerk standing behind the crumbling reception desk, a desire for conversation and confrontation shining in his eyes.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ I said.

He appraised me from top to bottom.

‘Will you get any girls?’ He smirked.

‘I don’t do girls,’ I said. ‘Only men. I have a special weakness for hotel clerks.’

I took the Glock out of my pocket and placed it on the table. He shrank back.

‘How much?’ I repeated.

‘How long?’ he asked in a small, scared voice.

‘One night,’ I said. I was certain they would find me within twenty-four hours.

‘Four hundred rupees,’ he said.

I took out all the money I had from my shirt pocket. Four dollars.

‘That’s all I have,’ I said.

He stared at me for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said and handed me the room key.

‘Do I get you free or do I pay extra?’ I asked.

He recoiled in disgust as I climbed the creaky stairs to my room.

What do you do on the last night of your life, I wondered as I lay spreadeagled on the dirty pink bedsheet. The small unreliable bulb in the room flickered on and off, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Soft strains of Hindi music wafted through from an adjoining room. The ceiling fan whirred slowly and I closed my eyes, trying to remember all the good moments - of which there were plenty. In Lara I had found love that knew no boundaries. I hadn’t seen my son, but I had experienced the joy of bringing a new life into the world. Sam, Ishmael, David, Marco, Philip - everywhere I went, I met strangers who loved me more than I deserved. A good life, I thought, all in all. And I bore no ill-will; not to the Khmer Rouge, not to La Madrina, not to the girl who had pretended to be Lara in Another Life, not to the local mafia, who would surely get me tonight. They all had their reasons and I was never a hapless victim. I had dived headfirst into the deep end; I couldn’t blame anyone if I sank.

I woke up with a start. Someone was knocking frantically. The sun beat steadily against the dusty windows and I was covered in sweat. I looked at my
watch. It was one p.m. I had slept for fourteen hours straight and I was still alive.

The pounding on the door continued.

They had come for me, I thought, and felt oddly excited. My dying wish, I announced to an absent audience, was not to be tortured before death; just a simple shot in the temple or the back of the head would do just fine. Maybe it was the good night’s sleep or the abundant happy reflections, but I felt weirdly optimistic as I opened the door.

‘You!’ I exclaimed.

My heart sank. I had expected the handler and his henchmen with sleek revolvers loaded with silencers.

‘Yes, sahib,’ said a smiling Dayaram. ‘I went from hotel to hotel asking for you. I’ve come to take you for the wedding.’

‘Didn’t I explain yesterday? Please get out of…’ I began, but he interrupted me.

‘Everything is fine, everything has been taken care of.’ He smiled. ‘Yesterday you gave me a new life and everything fell into place. The groom’s family has agreed to the marriage if I promise to pay the money later. I will figure something out by then.’

‘Don’t give your daughter to a man who asks for money to get married,’ I said. ‘He will keep asking for more.’

‘That is our destiny, sahib.’

‘I told you not to demean yourself by calling people that.’

‘Sahib, please bless us on this auspicious occasion. You saved me. The marriage can’t take place without you.’

‘Don’t watch so many films,’ I told him.

‘Please come with me. I beg you,’ he said with folded hands.

‘I told you it’s not safe.’

‘It’s okay, sahib,’ he said. ‘It will give me a chance to die with dignity. Please come with me.’

‘Look…’ I began to argue but felt too exhausted to resist. ‘I don’t even have a set of clean clothes,’ I said lamely.

Immediately, I regretted the statement. ‘Arre, that’s no problem, sahib. I am a big man’s servant, and he won’t notice even if ten suits are missing from his cupboard.’

I found myself inside a small gaudy shamiana, surrounded by happy faces and boisterous voices. I felt distinctly uncomfortable, not just because the big man’s small suit stolen especially for me for the occasion was tight, but because I was being treated like a guest of honour.

‘No,’ I said for what seemed like the hundredth time as Dayaram came up with a plate of oily samosas.

‘Please, I insist,’ he said. ‘You saved my life, you are the reason…’

‘Okay, okay, don’t start with the dialogues,’ I said and stuffed another samosa into my mouth.

He disappeared to search for more things to load me with, while I nursed an orange drink in my hand, trying hard to think of it as an orange drink and not Gold Spot. Gold Spot would bury me in an avalanche of memories, just as thinking of this as a wedding would. Memories I wanted to purge my mind of - wanton childhood days spent stuffing myself at marriage buffets, oblivious to who was getting married and unconcerned about what marriage meant, except for a vague fantasy of marrying Waheeda Rahman’s daughter one day.

Stop, I told myself as my mood began to darken, you are doing it again. Think of this as a loud, gaudy affair; unknown faces streaked with garish face-paint exchanging false pleasantries to the accompaniment of coarse music.

‘Arre, sahib!’ I heard Daya’s voice behind me. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

I turned around, determined to improve my mood and at least pretend to share in his happiness - and saw a ghost.

Curiously, the first thing I noticed was the make of the security guards’ rifles - a Marlin, a Browning, another Browning - perhaps because I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had recognized the face of the man who was flanked by the guards.

I recognized him immediately, not by his eyes or
his face, but by his sloppy, clumsy gait - unchanged, it seemed, even after twenty-five years.

Dayaram went up to him. ‘Sahib, this is the man who saved my life,’ he said. ‘He is like a bhagwan, an angel in human form.’

Dayaram turned to me. ‘This is our big sahib,’ he said proudly. ‘He runs India’s largest film studio and cable television network, yet he was kind enough to attend a minor servant’s daughter’s wedding. What a great man!’

The big sahib stretched out his hand.

‘Sameer Srivastava,’ he said. ‘Call me Sam.’

I must have turned white because I felt my blood stop for a second. Suddenly, I didn’t want him to know it was me. I couldn’t see my failure reflected in his eyes. I didn’t want to share my past with anyone. I shook his hand mechanically without meeting his eyes, but couldn’t think of a name to make up.

‘I must go,’ I whispered and turned away.

I began to walk away quickly. Why me, I wondered. Why this cruel twist when all I wanted was to die in peace?

‘Hey, wait.’ I heard his voice behind me.

I didn’t stop.

‘Nikhil. Nick. Nikhil Arya,’ he shouted. ‘Stop, for god’s sake!’

I stopped and turned as Sam came up to me. He had lost his puppy fat and looked tanned and fit. The boyish impulsiveness had given way to a
measured, almost arrogant swagger, though his face looked like he had seen a ghost as well. He looked at my face searchingly.

‘Nick?’ he said. ‘Oh my God.’

Tears began to stream down his face, softly at first, and then torrentially - just like in high school, when he was legendary for frequently bursting into tears.

A small crowd had gathered around us, though thankfully the cacophonous band music kept the others distracted.

‘Should we get out of here?’ I asked.

He nodded, recovering a little.

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I said awkwardly as I looked around the swanky furnishing inside the limousine.

‘Why?’

‘Why? Well, you are being driven in a limo…’

‘After all these years, why did you turn away when you saw me?’ he said. ‘Why haven’t you contacted me all this while? Once the Khmer Rouge was thrown out by the Vietnamese in 1979, I spent months in Cambodia and Thailand, but they didn’t have a single record of you - not of you coming in, going out, living, dying - nothing. Remember that crazy guy we met at the airport?’

I nodded. I remembered Ishmael well. Too well, perhaps.

‘Even his picture was there as one of the victims of the regime’s misguided attempts to find traitors,’ he said. ‘But you seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. What the hell happened?’

It made sense that they would purge my name from the records. There were so many bodies all around that one less made no difference; to obliterate an existence was far easier than explaining an escape.