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  ‘How stupidly mistaken I was to take those stragglers for innocuous pedestrians,’ said Gautam.

  Dumbfounded, they all kept peering through the curtains, witnessing the gruesome spectacle near the rear end of the tea-stall, just a few feet away.

  ‘A real catch!’ said the tallest of the assaulters, who seemed to be their leader.

  ‘Let’s carry her away,’ said another.

  The man in dhoti drew near, and cried out: ‘Spare her, please—she’s my sister.’

  ‘Good for her,’ grinned the leader. ‘We’ll let you have her first so that she knows the difference between a grass-eater and a beef-eater.

  The words lanced through Gautam’s heart. ‘What wanton lechery!’ he muttered.

  ‘Oh please, be merciful,’ the woman’s brother again implored. ‘We were on our way to see our sick mother.’

  ‘Then we’ll have your mother too. We’ll ravish the whole lot of you—bloody grass-eaters!’

  The man now began to tear away at the woman’s sari, which came off, then the petticoat, the blouse, the bra, till she stood totally stripped, trying in vain to cover up her breasts with her hands.

  As her brother again struggled to intervene, a hefty fellow whipped out his knife and stabbed him in the back. Then he threatened to plunge it into his heart.

  ‘Don’t kill my brother, please,’ the woman entreated, her lips trembling. ‘Oh Lord, save my brother!’ she shrieked.

  But the cry whizzed idly past their ears. The leader had already pushed her against the wall, and was now pulling at her breasts.

  ‘All right, let her brother live,’ he suddenly told the hefty creature who had threatened to kill him. ‘Maybe, she’ll then cooperate,’ he laughed. ‘Isn’t that a deal, honey?’

  ‘Kill me instead!’ the woman sobbed.

  ‘That wouldn’t help, my love. We’ve so much to do. Where can I find such taut breats, such fragile lips?’

  With a lascivious sparkle in his eyes, his mouth went for her breasts.

  Gautam could take it no longer. Blood shot into his eyes, and his temples began to throb.

  ‘Can’t we do something, Berry? Must we stand here impotently?’

  ‘It isn’t that we are impotent, Gautam—this just isn’t our moment. It would be certain death if we tried to save them now. It’s very agonizing, I know, but …’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Gopinath.

  ‘So we just sit here and watch the show?’ Gautam asked, his entire body shaking like a leaf.

  ‘Let’s move away from the window,’ said Berry.

  For the first time Berry realized that such a public exposure of nudity could kill all sexual urge in a man. Ordinarily, he would have felt aroused to see a young woman stripped. But now he felt as though he’d himself been abused and humiliated.

  What distressed Berry most was his utter helplessness. He had always been proud of his physique. If the assaulters had been unarmed, he would have certainly charged into them like a wild bull. He’d have wrenched the neck of their leader, even if subsequently he would have been overpowered by the others.

  Suddenly, the sound of a shrill siren hit their ears.

  ‘It’s the police van,’ Berry shouted excitedly, as he opened the window. ‘Thank God, they’ve arrived—at least once, at the right moment.’

  At the sight of the police, the entire gang bolted from the scene, carrying away the woman’s clothes. Seizing a large tablecloth from the dining room Berry rushed out.

  ‘Wrap yourself in this, please,’ Berry said to the woman, giving her the tablecloth. Then he hurried forward, signalling the van to stop. A swarthy young officer jumped off, and almost grunted.

  ‘What’s it, man?’

  ‘A bunch of Muslim goons tried to rape a Hindu woman,’ Berry said, breathlessly.

  ‘Where are they?’ the officer asked, rather nonchalantly.

  ‘They’ve vanished into some bylane.’

  ‘And what were you doing all this time? Watching the fun?’ the officer taunted.

  ‘They were armed,’ Gautam intervented, walking up to the van.

  ‘And are you both eunuchs? Couldn’t you have picked up something—a stick or a crowbar? Always waiting for the police to come to your rescue.’

  Although there was some truth in the officer’s barb, his cockiness stung Gautam. As he looked closely at his face, he noticed a white patch of leucoderma on his left cheek, and a deep cut on his chin. He wondered if the officer’s ugliness was responsible for his uppishness.

  ‘And what are the police officers supposed to do?’ Gautam flashed out. ‘Go careering about in their vans?’

  ‘Shut up!’ the officer barked. ‘Telling us what to do? Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘Gautam Mehta, assistant editor of The Challenge,’ Gautam snapped back. ‘And may I have your name, please? … Perhaps I should report to Thornton sahib …’

  At the mention of the police commissioner’s name, the officer went pale.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, sheepishly. ‘We’re trying to do our best.’

  ‘Are you?’ Gautam quipped. ‘Always arriving a little too late, and then shouting away at everyone.’

  ‘I apologize.’

  But Gautam pressed on: ‘This place has been through hell during the past two hours: a cow slaughtered, a woman nearly raped, her brother stabbed. And no sign of the police anywhere around.’ Then, pointing to the woman who’d by now wrapped herself in the tablecloth, and to her brother who stood drenched in blood, he added: ‘There, look at them!’

  ‘I’ll personally escort the lady to her house and arrange for immediate medical aid for her brother,’ said the officer.

  ‘That would be very nice of you, indeed,’ Gautam said, now mellowed.

  Both Gautam and Berry waited till the woman and her brother were helped into the van by the officer’s aides. As the vehicle snorted into motion, the woman’s eyes turned towards Gautam and Berry—a pair of eyes, deep and moist. Her lips quivered as though she wanted to say something. But it was her brother who spoke: ‘I don’t know how to thank you both.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Gautam. ‘I hope the wound isn’t too deep.’

  ‘No, sir … I’ll be okay.’

  As the van zoomed away, Gautam turned to Gopinath.

  ‘And how shall we thank you, Mr Trivedi?’

  ‘Well, I did nothing. It was a pleasure to have you both with me for a short while. In fact, I’ll now feel frightened to be alone here for the rest of the day.’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ said Berry.

  It was about two o’clock. The broiling sun stood, almost immobilized, in the bare sky, pouring down its heat relentlessly. Through the trees on either side of the street, the white-hot rays cast shadows that looked like a grotesque jumble of spears, knives, and headless bodies of animals and human beings. The sun’s blaze fell on the cow’s carcass, on the blood drops near the tea-stall …

  ‘ I feel as though I’ve been through a baptism of fire,’ Gautam said.

  Berry merely nodded.

  They now walked past the spot where, a few days ago, Gautam had seen a young woman vendor feeding her infant, while her customer leered at her nipples.

  8

  In 1946, a year before independence, the British rulers moved the Civil and Sessions Courts from their modest premises near the Kashmiri Gate to the new mammoth structure near the Azad Market to meet the mounting pressure of daily cases of civil disobedience against the government.

  This complex of closely knit buildings looks like a giant beehive with a multitude of cells, each representing a different section of the law. The open compound that encircles the courts is cluttered with tea-stalls, stamp-vendors, typists—and touts who prowl about for gullible litigants, claiming direct access to the judiciary. Although the British christened the new courts Tis Hazari—the Mughal name for the halls of justice—the custodians of law always handed out their verdict in favour of the rulers.

&nb
sp; Gautam came to the divorce court of Justice J.P. Appaswamy, with his lawyer, precisely at ten. Berry preferred to wait outside near a tea-stall in the backyard so that his presence inside the court wouldn’t provoke Sarita.

  A few minutes later, she arrived, accompanied by her lawyer. She was dressed in a gold filigreed Banarsi sari as if the occasion were a wedding rather than a divorce. Gautam dropped his head as soon as he saw her, striving hard to look disconsolate and lonesome as though he already regretted the foreknown verdict of the court. Berry had advised him not to look too confident lest the woman should change her mind even at the last moment.

  Both parties had to wait for about three hours; it was only after lunch that the court crier announced their names. They were then ushered into the chamber of Justice Appaswamy, who was seated on a high chair, behind a lacquered table. Gautam noticed that the judge, who was in his mid-fifties, now looked fagged out. When Sarita’s lawyer began to spin out his plaint, a mere mock show put up by both parties, the judge cut him short: ‘I feel the learned counsel has meandered into irrelevancies. The basic issue is quite simple. The ground on which the petitioner is seeking divorce is her husband’s conversion to Christianity. So I ask the learned counsel for the respondent if he wishes to contest this charge.’

  ‘No, my Lord,’ responded Gautam’s lawyer.

  ‘Then,’ the judge moved in brusquely, ‘I declare the marriage dissolved.’

  As soon as the judgment was announced, Gautam rushed out of the court towards the courtyard where Berry was having his tea.

  ‘Did you get it?’ Berry asked him anxiously, putting down his cup.

  Berry knew that in spite of the out-of-court settlement between Sarita and Gautam, she could have still ditched him. Having secured the transfer of the house in her name, wasn’t she now in a supremely advantageous position to deny him the divorce? All that she had to say in the court was that she was still willing to stay with her husband even though he had changed his religion.

  ‘Mea culpa!’ Gautam exclaimed, throwing up his hands jubilantly in the air, like an athlete who finishes first in a race.

  But hardly had Berry jumped forward to pat him on the back when someone shouted from behind: ‘You prevaricator!’

  It was Sarita, striding menacingly towards Gautam. ‘You liar!’ she bawled out again. ‘The honeyed words you poured out the other day. I couldn’t imagine you’d be so excited to get rid of me. And, there, in the court you looked so forlorn.’ Then turning to Berry: ‘And this accomplice of yours—isn’t he a bone-breaker?’

  Gautam felt tempted to even the score, now that he was a free man. His lips twitched out of revulsion for this woman. But Berry pulled him away.

  ‘This is not the moment,’ Berry whispered into his ears. ‘Just stay cool. Let’s get out of here at once. To Neel Kamal!’

  While Sarita was still hollering, they both hurried away and took the first taxi on the road. Since it was too early for the cabaret, and the bar hadn’t opened yet, they settled down to tea.

  ‘I still can’t believe I’m a free man,’ said Gautam.

  ‘It’ll take you a little while to shake off the weight of those four years.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  When the bar opened, a couple of hours later, they took their seats near the cabaret floor. Gautam ordered a bottle of champagne and some pakoras. He felt the occasion now demanded nothing less than the queen of all liquors. When the drinks arrived, Berry raised his glass: ‘A toast to your release!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They both clinked their glasses. As the hall got filled up with people, the flashlights were turned on. They had hardly begun to drink when a cabaret girl swished onto the floor, like a comet. She was wearing only a see-through satin bra—that showed her breasts like two ripe mangoes—and a pair of gold-laced panties. Her long serpentine hair cascaded down to her thighs that glistened as the searchlight chased her from one end of the floor to the other. Then she broke into a voluptuous snake dance, crawling lithely as the music rose to a crescendo.

  Her head touching the floor, she arched her supple body, like a swan—her thighs stretched taut, her breasts swinging like two inverted cups of nectar, balanced precariously mid-air.

  A wave of excitement swept through the crowd—an upsurge of deep yearning for the body beautiful.

  ‘Oh God!’ Berry exclaimed. ‘Isn’t she a temptress?’

  Gautam, however, looked staid, untouched.

  ‘Is something still bugging you?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Gautam just shook his head.

  ‘Missing your wife?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  There was a pause. ‘I was just thinking of that woman near the tea-stall,’ Gautam said, heavily, ‘nude and helpless.’

  ‘Ah, the knight-saviour is reflecting on the brutality and pathos of life!’ Berry teased. ‘Well, one has to move on … After all, I was there too. Don’t be a bloody killjoy. We’ve come here to celebrate.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I tell you what’s wrong with you, Gautam. You’re a prisoner of your past … You must now learn to pull yourself together.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Look at that girl’s breasts. Don’t you feel like swigging off those cups …?’

  ‘Maybe I don’t.’

  ‘Come on, you sulking thing,’ said Berry. ‘What you need is a night with a girl like this dancer—to exorcize you. You’ll then wake up the next morning a phoenix risen from the ashes.’

  ‘There you go again,’ said Gautam, ‘as though a woman is only sex and a bout in bed could cure one of all tension.’

  ‘Yes, it can old man,’ Berry responded.

  Someone from the back seat tapped Gautam’s shoulder.

  ‘Quiet please. Let the others watch the show,’ the man hissed.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gautam said, turning back.

  ‘Serves you right, my dear Gautam Buddha,’ Berry whispered.

  During the past few days, Gautam had begun to feel a sort of sexual impotence creeping all over him. He wondered if it was due to the trauma of betrayal. Should he allow Berry to talk him into something that was morally repugnant to him?

  The dancer now moved into the final phase of her performance. She undid her bra to reveal the full rondure of her breasts. Then she slithered like a cobra from one table to another, sipping from every glass, kissing old men on their cheeks, the young ones on their lips. One bold creature even pulled her onto his lap, capturing her mouth in a fervent kiss. But she went pliant in his arms, taking it all sportingly.

  When she came to their table, Berry stroked her smooth hips, saying: ‘Won’t you kiss my friend, please? He needs it most.’

  But as the dancer bent over Gautam, he just looked away.

  It was now time for supper.

  ‘Will you get us something to eat, please?’ Gautam asked a waiter, who appeared at their table.

  ‘Some seekh kebab, raita, nans and hot chutney …’

  ‘And some fried chicken,’ added Berry

  It was about ten when Gautam and Berry left the restaurant, flushed with a generous round of liquor and spicy food.

  The evening was unusually tranquil, as though the rioters had taken a day off. The moon shone bright and clear in a cloudless sky, and although some heat still persisted, the atmosphere was no longer sultry. The traffic along Faiz Bazaar flowed smoothly. There were no military trucks rumbling down this main artery of the capital, no crowds on the pavements—only a few persons standing near the tobacconist’s.

  Both of them thought of rounding off the evening with Banarsi paans from the tobacconist, whose nimble fingers were folding up the betel leaves into neat little rolls for his eager customers. Above his head dangled a thin coir rope, whose smouldering tip served as an instant lighter for the smokers. His mouth stuffed with a paan, lips stained red and almost dripping with saliva, the tobacconist himself looked a perfect connoisseur of betel-chewing. His right hand dipped into each of the
several tiny silver cups around him, containing a variety of coloured pastes. He took a pinch from each cup and rolled it all into a betel leaf.

  As Berry pulled himself out of this small crowd, holding a packet of king-size Gold Flake and two paans, a middle-aged balding man, with bushy eyebrows and betel-stained teeth, drew close.

  ‘Care to try some good stuff, sir?’ he whispered.

  Berry flashed a smile of understanding, while Gautam looked mystified.

  ‘A virgin, sir—just turned twenty,’ the man spoke again.

  ‘I know it’s always a virgin, even if the stuff is fusty.’

  Gautam understood that Berry was talking to a pimp in his own language.

  ‘This one’s a real lotus, sir—fresh, untouched. Arrived only last week from the UP. And from a respectable family too.’

  ‘A whole week gone and still a virgin?’ Berry kept up his jibing.

  ‘She had to be broken in, gently.’

  ‘A Muslim?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘A Hindu.’

  ‘There’s perfect communal harmony—isn’t it?’ Berry kept up his banter. ‘And look, I’m a Hindu too, but my friend is a Christian—pure and tender like a lotus.’

  The man looked a little nettled; he didn’t relish this teasing.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ he said, somewhat petulantly. ‘If you’re not interested, you don’t have to needle me.’

  But as the man was about to move away, Berry held him back by the arm.

  ‘Angry?’

  ‘No, sir. But I thought you were just fooling me.’

  ‘On the contrary, we’re interested in your stuff … Only, not tonight. We’ve had a gruelling day … How about next week—Saturday evening, eight?’

  The man took in Berry with a probing glance, then smiled.

  ‘All right, sir.’

  ‘But do make sure she’s a Muslim.’

  Berry had a fascination for Muslim women who, he thought, were full-blooded because they fed themselves on such hot stuff as mutton rogan josh and seekh kebab, while most Hindu women were pale, anaemic creatures living on rice and lentils. Shyama he took whenever nothing better came his way.