Inside the bedroom, the only place air-conditioned in the flat, the three of us sat on what must have been a bespoke giant-sized bed, whisky glasses in hand.
On a chair, with his feet up on the bed, sat the host, a likeable but dodgy businessman in his early 30’s. He made a fortune from buying and selling used luxury cars, switching original parts for clever fakes, knowing his nouveau riche customers wouldn’t know better. With the tight import controls in the country, genuine auto spares were priceless on the black market. He had invited me over to dinner, with the promise that he would settle a long outstanding bill.
On a pillow at the top of the bed, in a lotus position, sat the strikingly handsome deputy commissioner of police, reciting Urdu couplets. He prided himself on being more a poet than a policeman and was looking forward to retirement when he could write poetry full time. Diagonally across the bed, occupying most of the space, lay an attractive voluptuous woman, quite obviously his lover. In her late 40’s, she oozed sexuality and self-confidence. I sat between her and the host on the chair.
My elbow still hurt from earlier in the evening. The policeman, quite high by that time, had boasted that despite being decades older, he was the strongest and fittest in the room. Then, he had grabbed the host in a martial arts hold and tossed him onto the bed, sending a bottle of Scotch crashing to the floor. Then he grabbed my hand but I managed to pull free, roll off the other side of the bed and dodge him.
Close to midnight, the cook-cum-caretaker announced that dinner was ready. Eating at the midnight hour and then straight to bed, is quite typical in India. The others headed for the dining room and I went to the attached toilet to throw some water on my face. Midnight and the malt were showing their effects on me.
The rest of the flat wasn’t air-conditioned and when I left the bedroom, I pulled the door shut to keep the room cool. Despite the eleventh hour and the eleventh floor, it was humid and stinking hot. I asked the host why he didn’t have the whole flat air-conditioned. He replied that he was here only for a couple of days each month. Though he lived in New Delhi, he maintained this flat only for his business visits to the city.
Dinner was delicious but hurried because of the discomfort. After the meal, we headed back to the bedroom but the door was locked unwittingly, because of me.
The host had an early morning flight back to Delhi and it turned out that his keys, ticket and other documents were in his attaché inside the room. So was my cash.
We rattled the door knob and banged at the door but it wouldn’t budge. The cook brought out a long thin knife and tried picking the lock. I got the feeling that he had tried this a couple of times when the owner wasn’t around.
Then the Deputy Commissioner of Police had a solution.
He called Lal Bazaar, the police headquarters and spoke to somebody. Then he asked the cook to go downstairs and summon his bodyguard. Soon, a large moustachioed policeman in khaki followed the cook into the room, hand resting on his holster. He received some instructions from his boss, then bowed, a little too obsequiously, and left.
About an hour later, the bodyguard and another policeman returned with a blindfolded and handcuffed man between them. The blindfold was pulled off roughly and the lock breaker was shoved in front of us. The deputy commissioner gave the man some instructions and one of the policemen handed him a dirty bag. The man took some instruments out and walked to the locked bedroom door. Within minutes he had it open.
I sat there in disbelief, more at the open camaraderie between the lock breaker and the police escorts.
When he had finished opening the door, the lock breaker came back to the deputy commissioner and touched his feet. He insisted that he was in prison despite his innocence; that he had been drunk and had entered the wrong house by mistake. Then he tried a different story; that his wife and her lover had framed him.
The deputy commissioner looked at all of us. He reminded the lock breaker that everybody in the room – the host, the guests, the police escorts and the cook had just witnessed him committing a break-in. The policemen laughed as they blindfolded the trembling man and led him away.
Then calling the cook, the deputy commissioner told him not to try opening any doors in the flat, when the owner was away. For him, it wouldn’t be prison, he warned, but crushed knuckles.
© Percy Aaron
Wow Laos 