The Moors Last Sigh

a murderess; or, in some way as yet unfathomable, both at once? There was a mystery in Uma Sarasvati which she had taken to her grave. I thought in that hypothecated taxi that I had never known her, and would never know. But she was dead, dead with shock on her face, and I was coming through, was being reborn into a new life. She deserved my kind remembrance, the benefit of the doubt, and all the generous good feelings I could find. I opened my eyes. Bandra. We were in Bandra. ‘Who did this?’ I said to Lambajan. ‘Who worked this magic trick?’
    ‘Shh, baba,’ he soothed. ‘Not long and you will see.’
    Raman Fielding in the gulmohr-tree-shaded garden of his Lalgaum villa wore a straw hat, sunglasses and cricket whites. He perspired heavily and carried a heavy bat. ‘First class,’ he said in that guttural croak of his. ‘Borkar, good work.’ Who was this Borkar? I wondered, and then saw Lambajan saluting and realised that I had long forgotten that injured sailor’s real name. So Lamba was a covert MA cadre. He had told me he was religious, and I half-remembered that he came from a village somewhere in Maharashtra, but it was being made shamefully plain that I had known nothing of importance about him, nor made it my business to know. Mainduck came across to us and patted Lambajan on the shoulder. ‘A true Mahratta warrior,’ he said, breathing betel-fumes into my face. ‘Beautiful Mumbai, Marathi Mumbai , isn’t it, Borkar?’ he grinned, and Lambajan, standing as close to attention as he could with a crutch, assented. ‘Sir skipper sir.’ Fielding was amused by the incredulity on my face. ‘Whose town do you think this is?’ he asked. ‘On Malabar Hill you drink whisky-soda and talk democracy. But our people guard your gates. You think you know them but they have also their own lives and tell you nothing. Who cares about you godless Hill types? Sukha lakad ola zelata . You don’t speak Marathi. “When the dry stick burns, everything goes up in flame.” One day the city – my beautiful goddess-named Mumbai, not this dirty Anglo-style Bombay – will be on fire with our notions. Then Malabar Hill will burn and Ram Rajya will come.’
    He turned to Lambajan. ‘On your recommendation I have done much. Murder charge is quashed and suicide verdict has been agreed. As to narcotics question, authorities have been directed towards the big badmashes and not this small potato. Now you justify to me why I have done it.’
    ‘Sir skipper sir.’ And with that the old chowkidar turned to me. ‘Hit me, baba,’ he encouraged.
    I was taken by surprise. ‘Beg pardon?’ Fielding clapped his hands, impatiently. ‘Deaf or what?’
    Lambajan’s expression was almost beseeching. I understood then that he had put himself out, made himself vulnerable, to save me from prison; that he had gambled everything to persuade Mainduck to move a mountain on my behalf. Now, it seemed, I must return the compliment and rescue him, by living up to his praises. ‘Baba, just like in the old days,’ he coaxed. ‘Hit me there, there.’ That is, on the point of the chin. I took a breath, and nodded. ‘OK.’
    ‘Sir permission to set aside parrot sir.’ Fielding waved an impatient hand and settled down like dough in an outsized – but still groaning – orange cane chair, set by the lily pond. Mumbadevi statues crowded around him to watch the demonstration. ‘Mind your tongue, Lamba,’ I said, and let fly. He fell hard, and lay unconscious at my feet.
    ‘Pretty good,’ croaked Mainduck, impressed. ‘He said that crooked fist of yours was a hammer worth having. What do you know? Seems like it’s true.’ Lambajan came round, slowly, nursing his jaw. ‘Not to worry, baba,’ were his first words. Suddenly Mainduck went into one of his famous rants. ‘You know why it’s OK that you hit him?’ he screamed. ‘It is because I said so. And why is that OK? Because I own his body and also his soul. And how did I purchase? Because I have looked after his people. You-tho don’t even know how many family members does he have in his village. But I have been getting kiddies educated and solving health and hygiene problems since many years. Abraham Zogoiby, old man Tata, C. P. Bhabha, Crocodile Nandy, Kéké Kolatkar, Birlas, Sassoons, even Mother Indira herself – they think they are the incharges but they care nothing for Common Man. Soon that little fellow will show them they are wrong.’ I was rapidly losing