The Setting Sun (6 page)

Bill aged eighteen at school in 1938, the year he left for India

‘Is there a later edition? He was here until Independence, for sure.’

Rajeev grimaces regretfully. ‘Not until 1950. And it doesn’t have records for those who’d retired by then. Perhaps he stayed in Ahmedabad until he returned to the UK?’

That would corroborate Aunt Pat’s instinct that Bill witnessed first-hand the horrors of Partition. Ahmedabad is the closest Indian city to what’s now southern Pakistan, and many
a refugee train would have left or arrived there. Was that where he received his wounds?

‘What about this gap between his first and second spells in Nasik?’ I repeat what Bhosle told me about the Hoor rebellion.

Rajeev shakes his head after a moment. ‘No, look here.’ He shows me another page, where the entry of a contemporary of Bill’s reads: ‘Services placed at the disposal of the Government of Sindh.’ He shakes his head. ‘So if your father went there, it should be recorded, too.’

It’s perplexing. ‘But there’s no mention of his Indian Police Medal, either. It’s listed for other people.’

‘Maybe he got it in late ’46 or ’47?’ The mournful look returns. ‘I found discrepancies during my own research.’ He’s almost apologetic. ‘I think the British became less meticulous about record-keeping towards the end, perhaps because of the war or because they knew they’d soon be leaving.’

Despite the frustrating incompleteness of the record, for the first time I have an outline of Bill’s Indian career. What a stroke of luck to have run into Rajeev.

I ask my engaging new acquaintance how he became interested in Indian police history. He looks startled for a moment, before explaining that he lives in a building near Churchgate station, formerly inhabited by several IP officers, mostly Parsis. Their stories inspired him to research the Bombay branch of the service in his spare time.

‘My upstairs neighbour was Nagarwala, the man who arrested Gandhi’s assassin. Six foot four and fair as an Englishman. Nags joined the service in 1935. Your father would certainly have known him. He died a couple of years ago only.’

I feel horribly cheated. Why didn’t I come to India earlier? ‘Are any of his contemporaries still alive?’

Rajeev shakes his head regretfully and looks heavenwards. ‘Not here in Maharashtra. They have all gone up.’ He smiles encouragingly. ‘Listen, I’ll look through the notes I have at
home. Perhaps there are some references to Moore-Gilbert. Unless you know what you’re looking for here, it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Everything’s so chaotic and disorganised now.’

I suddenly remember. ‘There’s a book by someone called Abasaheb Shinde, about the Parallel Government. Professor Bhosle told me it was the most authoritative account. Do you think they might have it here?’

Rajeev cocks his head doubtfully. ‘Abasaheb Shinde? Just a minute.’ He gets up and approaches the supervisor’s desk. I’m struck by the deference my new friend is shown. The supervisor bows and nods throughout their animated conversation, following which they pore over an ancient computer terminal. Rajeev returns with a sorrowful expression.

‘No sign of this Shinde. Let me make inquiries.’ He glances at his watch. ‘I have to go and pick up my wife. Can you come tomorrow?’

‘Isn’t this your last day?’

‘My dear man, you’ve got me curious now, too. Will you be here?’

‘If they let me in.’

‘Any problem, send someone to get me,’ he pronounces authoritatively, extending his hand. ‘I’m very pleased you’ve come to do this research. It’s important the past isn’t forgotten.’ He taps the ledgers on his desk. ‘Before it all disintegrates.’

Morale partly restored, I take a quick shower back at the hotel before heading out to familiarise myself further with Mumbai. Through the half-open window of the bathroom I see an alley directly opposite. Plastic bottles, old clothes, twisted metal lie heaped between fetid-looking pools. So still does he squat that it takes me a while to notice the man crapping behind a pile of cardboard boxes. Unnervingly, he seems to be looking straight at me. By the time I’m dressed he’s gone, thank God. I check the guidebook and step out of the hotel onto streets
heaving with office workers heading home. I merge into the flow streaming towards a magnificent edifice, with mosquelike domes and pointy windows.

‘Victoria Terminus, now Chhatrapati Shivaji station,’ a stall-holder explains.

He tells me with unmistakable relish that Shivaji is the local hero who drove the Muslims out of Maharashtra in the seventeenth century. I’m reminded of St Pancras in London, but the scale is even more colossal. Outside, snub-nosed yellow-and-black taxis butt through the throng like giant bumblebees. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like on 26 November, the panic, the terror here as the terrorist attack unfolded.

Ducking down a side street, I join a crowd outside the white-painted eighteenth-century cathedral of St Thomas to watch an organ-grinder with his monkey. I suddenly understand what Kipling wrote about Indian crowds in
Kim –
how they contrast with the indifference of English ones. Here I’m not just an anonymous atom; somehow I feel enhanced by the multitude, which seems not just to surround, but to support me. The feeling intensifies when I run into a wedding procession, led by a marching band in gold tunics, black jodhpurs and turbans with trailing tails. The brass sections blare back to wailing reeds and ear-splitting drums. Behind comes the wedding vehicle, a kind of barouche, but raised and rounded at the rear like the back end of a galleon and hauled by several pairs of horses. Every square inch of the coach is covered with what looks like beaten tin, scored with intricate patterns, madly reflecting the light of tapers, camera-flashes and street lamps. The bridal couple’s gorgeous in yellow and orange and purple, garlands of jasmine and marigold draped round their shoulders, the exhilaration of their well-wishers contagious. It seems the most natural thing in the world to join in.

As I work my way closer through a swirl of incense and rose-water spray, a man bumps into me. He pauses apologetically
before spitting what looks like a mouthful of blood into the dirt. As he moves on, he’s already feeling among the biros clipped inside his shirt pocket for the next green twist of
paan
. I’m almost near enough now to touch the couple on the palanquin. In the blinding electric light mounted above them, they look hardly more than teenagers. The bride smiles diffidently through her tinkling nose-pendants, but the boy looks as if he’s on his way to be sacrificed. He grips the handrail with both fists, staring straight ahead, oblivious to the shouts and laughter of the guests who eddy round.

After months of difficult negotiations over bride price, a posse of Kimwaga’s future in-laws has arrived for the wedding in Tabora. It includes a pair of lumpy matriarchs who smoke evil-smelling clay pipes of crinkly local
tumbaco,
their demeanour plainly suggesting Kimwaga isn’t good enough for their girl. The young man’s thoroughly intimidated, his habitually sunny eyes screwed with anxiety. He was unable to smile even when, the day before the ceremony, one of the turkeys escaped its pen and put his startled tormentors to flight
.

A goat is killed and fires lit outside Kimwaga’s quarters when the big day dawns. The boy’s father sends over a few cases of beer to supplement the revellers’
pombe,
the curdy, musky banana or millet brew which starts to be consumed in impressive quantities as soon as breakfast is over. The boy darts in and out of the festivities, gawping at the bride, an impossibly young, shy creature, who’s equally cowed by her mother and aunt
.

Early evening, as the drumming and dancing is reaching a crescendo, the boy finds himself back in the living room, where his father’s reading the
Tanganyika Standard.
Just as ‘Lillibullero’ sounds on the BBC, Kimwaga stumbles in
.

‘Ninaogopa,
bwana
, ninaogopa.’

The boy’s father stands up, concerned. ‘What are you afraid of, young fellow?’

A flush darkens Kimwaga’s face. ‘Tonight, the two
bibis,
they will be with us.’

The boy’s father nods uncertainly
.

‘No, I mean, her mother and aunt, they’ll be in the room tonight.’

His employer takes a moment to understand before his face melts. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, struggling to contain his laughter, ‘you mean …’

Kimwaga can’t see what’s funny. He nods disconsolately as the boy’s father puts an arm round his shoulder
.

‘Grab a couple of eggs from the fridge,’ he tells his son. ‘And a spoon.’

When the boy returns, his father’s at the drinks cabinet, Kimwaga holding the chunky dimpled glass normally reserved for lime-and-sodas. His employer pulls out a bottle of evil-looking yellow syrup
.

‘From Prince Bernhard,’ he assures Kimwaga
, ‘dawa nguvu,
strong medicine. This will do the trick.’

The Prince of the Netherlands has recently come out on safari with the boy’s father, leaving behind several cases of Heineken and a variety of liqueurs. Kimwaga was thoroughly awed by his contact with royalty, as well as amazed to see the boy’s father defer to another man. He watches intently now as his employer pours generously from the bottle, cracks the eggs on the edge of the glass and whisks them briskly into the custardy Advocaat, before splashing in a dash of Lea and Perrins
.

‘Drink up,’ he orders
.

He stands over the trembling Kimwaga until it’s drained
.

‘Yote itakua sawasawa.
Everything will be alright. Go on, now. See you tomorrow.’

Kimwaga already looks an inch taller as he makes his way out to the kitchen. The boy’s relieved. He’d been dismayed to see his minder in distress, irritated by his father’s levity
.

Later that night the boy’s woken by triumphant ululations. In the morning, a dark-stained blanket hangs from the window of his minder’s quarters. The smell of roasted meat and
pombe
still hangs in the air. The matriarchs sprawl on the steps, puffing at their pipes, complacent smiles signifying that everyone’s done their duty. The boy’s father winks at him as they make their way to the Land Rover. His son affects a worldly expression. On the way back from their wonderful safari to the Ugalla River, his father decided to explain the facts of life, in interminable detail, with the aid of a cold sausage. His face had been so intent, so concerned not to shock, that, despite the boy’s exquisite embarrassment, he couldn’t bring himself to confess he’d already learned it all at school
.

At breakfast the next day, I get another call from the consulate. Back on course, thank God. They’ve established that I’m not a drug dealer or a gunrunner, and invite me to pick up my documents. Rushing back to Makers’ Chambers in a tuk-tuk, I pick up the attestation and return to Elphinstone. There’s more good fortune when I get there. Dhavatkar is still ill, and his deputy genially accepts the document without even mentioning Delhi. Perhaps things are really beginning to go my way. Rajeev’s already at his carrel, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. This time I order a Coke in the canteen.

‘Look at this,’ he says, once the pleasantries are over. He removes a manila envelope from his satchel, out of which in turn he fishes a scanned photograph. The caption reads: ‘Central Police Training School, Nasik, 1940’.

Despite the poor quality of the sepia reproduction, I immediately spot Bill in the front row. My heart leaps. He looks as fresh-faced as a model for Pear’s soap, much blonder than I remember. Perhaps it’s overexposure? One shoulder’s slightly turned, as if he’s cramped amongst his close-packed comrades. He gazes back at the photographer with the ghost of a smile. For some reason, he’s the only one not wearing riding boots. Perhaps he was late for parade?

‘These are the others from his cadre,’ Rajeev explains, pointing to the front row. To my surprise, Indians outnumber whites.

‘Who are the people behind?’

‘The ones in black shakos are trainee sub-inspectors. Behind them, head constables. The civilians in the second row taught riding, law and languages.’ He hands it to me. ‘For you. I copied it.’

I’m deeply touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘Can’t tell you how grateful I am, Rajeev.’

Here’s the first new visual evidence of Bill’s Indian career, another piece in the jigsaw. I’m impatient to find out more and suggest we begin our search in the archives. My new friend detains me a moment.

‘I looked at the notes I have on the Parallel Government, so called.’

‘Why so-called?’

Rajeev’s eyes droop. ‘Terrorists mostly. Many started as petty criminals, although some of the leaders became important politicians after Independence. One such was Vasantdada Patil, commonly known as Nana Patil, who ended up chief minister of Maharashtra. Then there was Y.B. Chavan, later federal defence minister under Indira Gandhi. He helped bring in the Emergency in the 1970s when Indira Gandhi wouldn’t give up power, using legislation which the British brought in during the 1940s. Nearly a million people were locked up.’