3 TWO-CENTS WORTH
In the Spring of 2003 I and an Indian driver soon-to-be-friend spent a month driving 2,000 miles across northern India. New Delhi to Agra, then west all around Rajasthan, the Thar Desert north to Jaipur, Udaipur, Pushkar, Ranthambore, and eastward via Orchha, Kahjuraho, Jabalpur, the Kanha of Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, and down to Nagpur. From there, following a two-hour interrogation in a tiny office by a local airport Customs officer who was certain I was a drug courier, I flew to Kolkata and onward to Darjeeling. In that mountain town the eponymous tea is great but the view across the valley of Kanchenjunga, the third-highest mountain in the world, with Everest in the far distance, is more memorable still.
Likewise memorable was a brief encounter my driver and I had at an outdoor snack bar on the road between Khajuraho and Jabalpur. It has stayed with me ever since. Not haunted me, but stayed with me.
Which is not to say it couldn’t haunt someone else.…
It was April, and the heat was unrelenting. By May and certainly by June it would become unbearable, and people would begin to die. Knowles knew that the misery would persist until the monsoon arrived sometime in late June or early July. Not that it mattered to him. In a day or two he would be on a plane back to London, his business in Agra complete. Everything was going swimmingly and he foresaw no roadblocks to closing the deal. The contract had been hard-won, of course. Any time you did business with Indians, it always was. That made the terms he had been able to extract all the more satisfying. One rose, he firmly believed, to the level of one’s competition.
This morning’s difficult, occasionally fractious discussion had left his throat drier than he had realized. Uncharacteristically, he had neglected to leave the meeting with a bottle of something cold and refreshing. Outside the steel and air-conditioned cocoon of his Mercedes, the great living sea that was Mother India heaved and surged and rumbled around him. Camels and the great wooden disks that were the wheels of the single-axle carts they pulled slowed but did not stop traffic. Neatly dressed men, women, and sometimes children on buzzing motorbikes and scooters skittered in and out of the mass of traffic like angry waterbugs navigating a crowded swamp. Three-wheeled powered rickshaws, mostly painted green and yellow, pocketa-pocketaed along on the sidelines, trying to get their passengers or cargo to their respective destinations while keeping out of everyone else’s way. Astoundingly overloaded Tata and Ashok-Leyland trucks, not one of which would meet minimum safety standards in Europe or America, lumbered through the mass of traffic with saurupodian grace while engaged in a gruff, eternal ballet with ancient, wheezing, rusty buses not one of which could boast of glass in a single window.
Their weight distributed with Euclidian precision, a family of five balanced on a single motor scooter squeezed past on his right: father, mother, and three small kids. It was not a circus act; just classic Indian commuting. Idly, Knowles found himself imagining the mess they’d make if they were unlucky enough to encounter a speeding bus while cutting through an intersection. The bus would be unable or unwilling to stop, he knew. The family would go flying. There would be a flurry of recriminations, shouts, tears. As if out of nowhere, some municipal authorities would eventually appear to clean it all up. And more than a billion people, one sixth of humanity, would get on with their lives.
He was still thirsty.
Knowles did not often act on impulse: certainly not in his business dealings. But a cold drink was a cold drink, so long as the bottle was properly sealed, and he was unwilling to wait until they reached the hotel. Leaning forward slightly, leather upholstery squeaking beneath the tailored tropical silk of his trousers, he murmured to the driver.
“I need a cold drink, Raju. Pull over someplace.”
While startled by the request, the chauffeur did not look back at his important passenger. Though a poor man, the driver believed he enjoyed a fortunate life. To take one’s eyes off traffic while driving in an Indian city was to invite suicide.
“Here, sir?”
Amused by the man’s response, Knowles glanced briefly to his right, out the tinted window. “Yes, here. Why not? The drinks for sale here come from the same plant as the ones at the hotel, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir. Please, just let me find a good place.”
“Any place will do. Any stand.” Knowles leaned back against the cushioning seat. He was enjoying himself.
At least, he was until the driver finally settled on one of the hundreds of tiny clapboard street-side stands, most of which were smaller than the bathroom in the suite at the executive’s hotel, pulled over, got out, and opened the passenger-side door of the Mercedes. It was as if a door had been opened to a commercial oven. But having made the suggestion and forced the issue, Knowles felt compelled to brazen it out.
Even though he did nothing more strenuous than get out of the car, he began perspiring immediately. He could feel the clammy droplets drip-dripping from his armpits down his sides. Well, he had intended to change as soon as he got back to the hotel anyway. A dip in the pool would fix everything.
The man behind the battered, splintered wooden plank that served as a counter front for the cubicle was slender and active. You expected both in India. Everyone was attuned to business as a way of life, and there were very, very few fat people. There was no sidewalk, of course. Where the cracked and abused asphalt layer of the street ended, dirt began. Cut by occasional rivulets and rills, what passed for the space between the road and the first tattered buildings was paved only with garbage, rocks, and pieces of flaked roadbed. Even the plastic and paper litter looked hot.
Efficient and expectant, the cubicle keeper inquired of the driver as to his customers’ needs. While the chauffeur ordered, the several locals who were hanging out looked up from their seats at one of the two tables that had been set out on the dirt and gazed with unapologetic interest at the tall European. Such directness was another Indian trait. If they thought he spoke any Hindi, Knowles knew, within minutes they would openly be asking him the intimate details of his life; everything from did he have children to how much did he make in a year.
Raju came back with a pair of cool, if not cold, Fantas. While Knowles sipped his, after carefully wiping off the rim, he contemplated the endless parade of animals and humanity that overflowed the overworked street as thoroughly as floodwaters ever filled a riverbed. The current parted only for a pair of Brahma cows. Chewing their cuds while seated serenely in the middle of traffic, they ignored the lethal hysteria swirling all around them, secure in holy bovine confidence that everything from lurching cement trucks to rampaging interstate buses would swerve to miss them. And in truth, there was not so much as a scratch on hindquarter or flank. Of all the thousands of sacred steers Knowles had encountered on his many visits to the subcontinent, he had yet to see one that had been injured by a vehicle.
The beggar did not seem to step out of the human current so much as appear before him. He was of average height, about five foot six, and clad in dirty but intact cotton pants and overshirt. Stained as if by coal, his feet were unshod. Though uncut and hanging almost to his shoulders, his straight black hair had been given a cursory combing. The face was lean and undistinguished, the nose slightly hooked. Higher up, black eyes stared unblinkingly at Knowles. The man’s right hand was extended toward him, palm open and facing up, in a pose familiar since humanity began.
Knowles ignored him. It was what you had to do, he felt. Giving the man money would only serve to instantly draw a crowd, and the executive had not yet finished his drink. He turned away. Not condescendingly, but just enough to show he was uninterested.
The beggar stayed, hand out, eyes fixed, staring. The index finger rose. One rupee, the man was saying silently. About two cents at current exchange rates, Knowles knew. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t the money. It was the principle of the thing. The man looked healthy enough, especially compared to some of the pitiful specimens the executive had seen. Agra was a reasonably prosperous place. There was work to be had. Knowles believed it was his responsibility not to encourage the fellow.
At least he was being quiet about it. Nothing more aggressive than the politely upraised index finger. But the unbroken stare was growing unnerving. Irritated now, Knowles turned further away and muttered, “Nahi, nahi.”
The man could not or would not take the hint. He remained where and as he was; silent, persistent, demanding. While clearly uneasy, the chauffeur was reluctant to intervene. Not so the shopkeeper. Carrying the pan of soapy water with which he had been scrubbing his walls and few dishes, he came out from behind his makeshift counter and began yelling at the beggar. While Knowles could not follow the rapid stream of annoyed Hindi, it was clear enough what the shopkeeper was saying. Get lost, and quit bugging my customers.
The beggar ignored him, his unswerving, unbroken stare reserved solely for the well-dressed European. Knowles drank a little faster. The man was ruining the small pleasure of the cold drink.
There was a sudden loud, almost shocking splash as the shopkeeper heaved the filthy contents of the dishpan. The dirty water struck the beggar square in the face. For the first time, his eyes closed and he twitched slightly. Behind Knowles, the cruel laughter of the slightly better-off came from the men seated at the table. The beggar’s black eyes opened and shut a couple of times as he blinked away the wastewater. Otherwise he hardly moved. Displaying either maniacal determination or immense natural dignity, he remained where he was, the arm still outstretched, never having wavered even when he had been struck by the water. The index finger remained upraised. One rupee. Two cents.
With the eyes of the now amused men at the table following him, Knowles handed the empty soda bottle to the chauffeur, who returned it to the still irritated shopkeeper. The executive let himself back into the car, careful not to burn his fingers on the door. As chilled air enveloped him and the car started to pull slowly back out onto the pavement, he saw the vagrant outside the window. The man was bent over and staring in at him, expectant palm hovering outside the tinted glass. The beggar followed like that until the car accelerated slightly and entered traffic.
Knowles never looked back. His thoughts were already elsewhere. He had automatically put the encounter with the possibly deranged panhandler out of his mind.
Within the grand lobby of the high-rise, five-star hotel, men and women of many nationalities promenaded freely. Sikhs sporting tightly wound, multi-colored turbans discussed business with visitors from opposite sides of the world while Indian women draped in sarees of brilliantly colored silk and gold thread flowed frictionlessly across thick woolen carpets from Tibet. Laughing and giggling, several innocent children of the privileged chased each other in the direction of the hotel pool.
Knowles hesitated as he approached the gold-colored elevators. Work and the subsequent drive back to the hotel had made him hungry. Not hungry enough for a meal. A proper dinner was still hours away. But a quick snack would be nice.
The hotel boasted a fine bakery. Entering and finding himself alone, he scanned the contents of the wood and glass cases while waiting for the absent attendant to put in an appearance. The slick sugary sheen of freshly chilled Napoleons and dark chocolate éclairs was tempting enough, but he had learned from previous trips to develop a taste for the fine local sweets. He decided on a quarter kilo of small rectangles of dense pastry made with a dough of semolina flour and finely ground cashew nuts that had been sweetened with Lebanese honey and rose syrup.
Where was the attendant? Sensing slight movement behind him, he turned from inspecting the high-caloric contents of the display cases, and nearly stumbled with shock. Staring back at him was not the attendant, but the unblinking beggar who had accosted him outside the roadside stand. Black eyes bored into the executive’s own. The open palm extended toward him.
This was disgraceful, an outraged Knowles felt. There was no way on Earth such a vagabond ought to have been able to slip into the hotel past its intense and ever watchful security. Evidently a staff that was not ever watchful, he decided angrily. He would have a few harsh words for the management, harsh words indeed!
“Nahi!” he barked furiously as he pushed past the man. Though the brief physical contact was rough, even challenging, the beggar did not respond, either with word or gesture. Instead, he simply turned and followed Knowles, tracking the executive with open palm and unblinking eyes.
When he was halfway to the elevators, Knowles turned to look back. To his relief, the beggar was gone. Not surprising, the executive decided. If the man had any sense at all, if he knew what was good for him, he would already have slipped out of the hotel by whatever mysterious means he had sneaked in. It was unconscionable to think such individuals could make their way into a hotel of this class. Perhaps the next time he visited Agra, Knowles decided, he would take his trade elsewhere.
He was debating whether to return to the bakery when the elevator arrived. The hell with it, he decided. He would order something from room service.
The latter was so prompt and so good and the waiter who brought it to the room so politely obsequious that Knowles magnanimously decided to forget the letter of complaint he had composed in his mind. A swim followed by a fine dinner in the hotel’s main restaurant settled him further into a state of general contentment. Tomorrow he would be off anyway, back to London, the contract signed to his satisfaction. He was looking forward to escaping from the appalling heat and poverty and getting back to real civilization.
It was while coming out of the shower that he nearly bumped into the beggar.
Knowles was not a man easily frightened. He was used to commanding, to giving orders, and to having them obeyed. He was also physically much bigger than the lean whip of visibly undernourished intruder. The man was between him and the door. A second door accessed the hall from the sitting room of the suite. If he broke and ran for it, would this insane intruder chase him and try to stop him? A thought made the executive suddenly nervous. Was his unwanted visitor armed? Even beggars could afford a cheap knife.
But there was no threat in the man’s open, staring eyes. Only a silent demand reinforced by the open palm and the upraised index finger. One rupee. Damn the bastard! Knowles would not give in. It was a matter of principle. The letter of complaint he had intended to write to hotel management returned in full fury. Bad enough the transient had managed to sneak into the hotel. For him to find his way upstairs, to Knowles’s very room, was inexcusable. Turning, he started for the sitting room.
The beggar moved to block his path.
For the first time, Knowles found himself growing slightly concerned. There was still no sign of a weapon, but who knew what a madman like this was capable of doing? Retreating slowly, never taking his eyes off the intruder, he considered picking up the phone and dialing security. Ordinarily, the gesture alone would be enough to frighten off any intruder. Any sane intruder, the executive reminded himself.
“Get out of here,” he snapped as he backed away. Who knew what possibly contagious diseases lurked within those soiled cotton garments? Was the room already infected with something unseen? He felt the wall and window bump up behind him. Arm outstretched, the man continued to approach. True to form, he had still not uttered a word. A small piece of garbage from the dirty dishwater the shopkeeper had thrown in his face still clung to his left cheek.
Enough, Knowles decided. This was going to stop, and it was going to stop here and now. And if the hotel could not do its job, well, he would damn well have to do it for them. Balling his right hand into a tight fist, he drew back his arm.
And screamed as he felt the window vanish behind him.
“He fell.”
Sergeant Tarun and Inspector Aggrawal studied the place on the pale pavement near the pool where the body had been found. Only the slightest hint of a stain remained, the hotel staff having scrubbed furiously at the spot all morning. Fortunately, the accident had occurred late at night, while the pool area was closed. Only one hotel guest had been disturbed, and that was the unfortunate woman out for an early morning swim who had discovered the body. Her hysteria had been cured by a clearing of her bill.
“But what was he doing on the roof?” Tilting back his head, the Inspector squinted up at where the sharp crest of the hotel intersected the haze-filled pre-monsoon sky. It was going to be hot today. It was going to be hot until July.
“Who says he was on the roof?” Kneeling, the sergeant studied the place of demise. The chalk that had been used to outline the broken, splattered remains of the corpse had long since been scoured away by the hotel staff.
“He had to have been on the roof.” The Inspector was as confident in person as he had been in his report. “All the windows in this hotel are sealed and can only be opened with a special key, in the event of emergency or a breakdown in the air con system.”
Sergeant Tarun straightened. “I expect we’ll never know exactly what happened.”
The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. “At least we can be sure it wasn’t robbery. He had two hundred pounds, a hundred Euros, and four or five thousand rupees in his room.”
“Lot of good it does him now.” The sergeant looked up at his superior. “Chai?”
Aggrawal nodded. Stopping on the way back to the station for the traditional small cup of tea and milk, they were intercepted by a beggar. The woman had a babe in arms and a toddler at her feet, one finger shoved up its dirty nose. It regarded them out of innocent dark eyes that showed a spirit of curiosity that had not yet been crushed by life. The Inspector handed her a coin. He always kept a handful of small change in his pocket for just such encounters.
Besides being right, it was the sensible thing to do.