A Son of the Circus

of his childhood, not to mention the photographs of his three daughters; they were married, and therefore Dr. Daruwalla’s writing desk also exhibited their wedding pictures—and the pictures of his several grandchildren. Then there were his favorite photographs of John D.—downhill-skiing at Wengen and at Klosters, cross-country skiing in Pontresina and hiking in Zermatt—and several framed playbills from the Schauspielhaus Zurich, with John Daruwalla in both supporting and leading roles. He was Jean in Strindberg’s Fraulein Julie, he was Christopher Mahon in John Millington Synge’s Ein wahrer Held, he was Achilles in Heinrich von Kleist’s Penthesilea, he was Fernando in Goethe’s Stella, he was Ivan in Chekhov’s Onkel Vanja, he was Antonio in Shakespeare’s Der Kaufmann von Venedig—once he’d been Bassanio. Shakespeare in German sounded so foreign to Farrokh. It depressed the doctor that he’d lost touch with the language of his romantic years.

At last he found a pen. Then he spotted a pad of paper under the silver statuette of Ganesh as a baby; the little elephant-headed god was sitting on the lap of his human mother, Parvati—a cute pose. Unfortunately, the grotesque reaction to Inspector Dhar and the Cage-Girl Killer had sickened Farrokh with elephants. This was unfair, for Ganesh was merely elephant-headed; the god had four human arms with human hands, and two human feet. Also, Lord Ganesha sported only one whole tusk—although sometimes the god held his broken tusk in one of his four hands.

Ganesh truly bore no resemblance to the drawing of that inappropriately mirthful elephant which, in the most recent Inspector Dhar film, was the signature of a serial killer—that unsuitable cartoon which the movie murderer drew on the bellies of slain prostitutes. That elephant was no god. Besides, that elephant had both tusks intact. Even so, Dr. Daruwalla was off elephants—in any form. The doctor wished he’d asked Deputy Commissioner Patel about those drawings that the real murderer was making, for the police had said no more to the press than that the artwork of the real-life killer and serial cartoonist was “an obvious variation on the movie theme.” What did that mean?

The question deeply disturbed Dr. Daruwalla, who shuddered to recall the origin of his idea for the cartoon- drawing killer; the source of the doctor’s inspiration had been nothing less than an actual drawing on the belly of an actual murder victim. Twenty years ago, Dr. Daruwalla had been the examining physician at the scene of a crime that was never solved. Now the police were claiming that a killer-cartoonist had stolen the mocking elephant from a movie, but the screenwriter knew where the original idea had come from. Farrokh had stolen it from a murderer—maybe from the same murderer. Wouldn’t the killer know that the most recent Inspector Dhar movie was imitating him?

I’m over my head, as usual, Dr. Daruwalla decided. He also decided that he should give this information to Detective Patel—in case, somehow, the deputy commissioner didn’t already know it. But how would Patel already know it? Farrokh wondered. Second-guessing himself was the doctor’s second nature. At the Duckworth Club, Dr. Daruwalla had been impressed by the composure of the deputy commissioner; moreover, the doctor couldn’t rid himself of the impression that Detective Patel had been hiding something.

Farrokh interrupted these unwelcome thoughts as quickly as they’d come to him. Sitting next to his answering machine, he turned the volume down before he pushed the button. Still in hiding, the secret screenwriter listened to the messages.

The First-Floor Dogs

Upon hearing Ranjit’s complaining voice, Dr. Daruwalla instantly regretted his decision to forsake even one minute of Dhar and Julia’s company for as much as one phone message. A few years older than the doctor, Ranjit had nevertheless maintained both unsuitable expectations and youthful indignation; the former involved his ongoing matrimonial advertisements, which Dr. Daruwalla found inappropriate for a medical secretary in his sixties. Ranjit’s “youthful indignation” was most apparent in his responses to those women who, upon meeting him, turned him down. Naturally, Ranjit hadn’t all this time been conducting nonstop matrimonial advertisements, dating back to his earliest employment as old Lowji’s secretary. After exhaustive interviews, Ranjit had been successfully married— and long enough before Lowji’s death so that the senior Dr. Daruwalla had once more enjoyed the secretary’s pre-matrimonial industriousness.

But Ranjit’s wife had recently died, and he was only a few years away from retirement. He still worked for the surgical associates at the Hospital for Crippled Children, and he always served as Farrokh’s secretary whenever the Canadian was an Honorary Consultant Surgeon in Bombay. And Ranjit had decided that the time for remarrying was ripe. He thought he should do it without delay, for it made him sound younger to describe himself as a working medical secretary than to confess he was retired; just to be sure, in his more recent matrimonial advertisements, he’d attempted to capitalize on both his position and his pending retirement, citing that he was “rewardingly employed” and “anticipating a v. active, early retirement.”

It was things like “v. active” that Dr. Daruwalla found unseemly about Ranjit’s present matrimonials, and the fact that Ranjit was a shameless liar. Because of a standard policy at The Times of India—the advertising brides and grooms eschewed revealing their names, preferring the confidentiality of a number—it was possible for Ranjit to publish a half-dozen ads in the same Sunday’s matrimonial pages. Ranjit had discovered it was popular to claim that caste was “no bar,” while it was also still popular to declare himself a Hindu Brahmin—“caste-conscious and religion-minded, matching horoscopes a must.” Therefore, Ranjit advertised several versions of himself simultaneously. He told Farrokh that he was seeking the very best wife, with or without caste-consciousness or religion. Why not give himself the benefit of meeting everyone who was available?

Dr. Daruwalla was embarrassed that he’d been inexorably drawn into the world of Ranjit’s matrimonials. Every Sunday, Farrokh and Julia read through the marriage advertisements in The Times of India. It was a contest, to see which of them could identify all of Ranjit’s ads. But Ranjit’s phone message was not of a matrimonial nature. Once again, the aging secretary had called to complain about “the dwarf’s wife.” This was Ranjit’s condemning reference to Deepa, for whom he harbored a forbidding disapproval— the kind that only Mr. Sethna might have shared. Dr. Daruwalla wondered if medical secretaries were universally cruel and dismissive to anyone seeking a doctor’s attention. Was such hostility engendered only by a heartfelt desire to protect all doctors from wasting their time?

To be fair to Ranjit, Deepa was exceptionally aggressive in wasting Dr. Daruwalla’s time. She’d called to make a morning appointment for the runaway child prostitute—even before Vinod had persuaded the doctor to examine this new addition to Mr. Garg’s stable of street girls. Ranjit described the patient as “someone allegedly without bones,” for Deepa had doubtless used her circus terminology (“boneless”) with him. Ranjit was communicating his scorn for the vocabulary of the dwarf’s wife. From Deepa’s description, the child prostitute might have been made of pure plastic—“another medical marvel, and no doubt a virgin,” Ranjit concluded his sardonic message.

The next message was an old one, from Vinod. The dwarf must have called while Farrokh was still sitting in the Ladies’ Garden at the Duckworth Club. The message was really for Inspector Dhar.

“Our favorite inspector is telling me he is sleeping on your balcony tonight,” the dwarf began. “If he is changing his mind, I am just cruising—just killing time, you know. If the inspector is wanting me, he is already knowing the doormen at the Taj and at the Oberoi—for message-leaving, I am meaning. I am having a late-night picking-up at the Wetness Cabaret,” Vinod admitted, “but this is being while you are sleeping. In the morning, I am picking up you, as usual. By the way, I am reading a magazine with me in it!” the dwarf concluded.

The only magazines that Vinod read were movie magazines, where he could occasionally glimpse himself in the celebrity snapshots opening the door of one of his Ambassadors for Inspector Dhar. There on the door would be the red circle with the T in it (for taxi) and the name of the dwarf’s company, which was often partially obscured.

VINOD’S BLUE

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