"Astonishing." said Father Booty. "Just look at this one here." Peacock blue and long emerald streamer tails. "Oh goodness, and that one" – black with white spots and a pink flame at its heart… "Oh my camera… Potty, can you just rummage in the glove com-partment?"
Uncle Potty was reading Asterix: Ave Gaul! By Toutatis!!!!# @***!!, but he roused himself and handed the little Leica through the window.
As the butterfly fluttered beguilingly on a cable of the bridge, Father Booty snapped the photograph. "Oh dear, I think I shook, the picture might be blurry."
He was about to try again when the guards began to shout and one of them came racing up. "Photography strictly prohibited on the bridge." Didn’t he know?
Oh dear, he did, he did, a mistake, he had forgotten in his excitement. "So sorry, officer." He knew, he knew. It was a very important bridge, this, India’s contact with the north, with the border at which they might have to fight the Chinese again someday, and now, of course, there was the Gorkha insurgency as well.
It didn’t help that he was a foreigner.
They took his camera and began to search the jeep.
A disturbing smell.
"What is that smell?"
"Cheese."
"Kya cheez?" said a fellow from Meerut.
They had never heard of cheese. They looked unconvinced. It smelled far too suspicious and one of them reported that he thought it smelled of bomb-making materials. "Gas maar raha hai," said the Meerut boy.
"What did he say?" asked Father Booty.
"Something is whacking gas. Something is firing gas."
"Throw it out," they told Father Booty. "It’s gone bad."
"No it hasn’t."
"Yes, it has, the whole vehicle is smelling."
The checkpoint guards now began to examine the pile of books, regarding them with the same wrinkled noses as the unclaimed cheese that had been destined for Glenary’s.
"What is this?" They hoped for literature of an antinational and inflammatory nature.
"Trollope," Lola said brightly, excited and aroused by the turn of events. "I always said," she turned to the others in a frivolous fashion, "that I would save Trollope for my dotage; I knew it would be a perfect slow indulgence when I had nothing much to do and, well, here I am. Old-fashioned books is what I like. Not the new kind of thing, no beginning, no middle, no end, just a thread of… free-floating plasma…
"English writer," she told the guard.
He flipped through: The Last Chronicle of Barset: The Archdeacon goes to Framley, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton Piles her Fagots.
"Did you know," Lola asked the others, "that he also invented the post box?"
"Why are you reading it?"
"To take my mind off all of this." She gestured vaguely and rudely at the scene in general and the guard himself. Who had his pride. Knew he was something. Knew his mother knew he was something. Not even an hour ago she had fed her belief and her son with pari aloo accompanied by a lemony-limy-luscious Limca, the fizz from which had made a mini excitement about his nose.
Angry at Lola’s insolence, his face still awake from the soda spray, he gave orders for the book to be placed in the police jeep.
"You can’t take it," she said, "it’s a library book, you foolish little man. I’ll get into trouble at the Gymkhana. You’re not going to pay them to replace it."
"And this?" The guard examined another book.
Noni had picked a sad account of police brutality during the Nax-alite movement by Mahashveta Devi, translated by Spivak who, she had recently read with interest in the Indian Express, was made cutting edge by a sari and combat boots wardrobe. She had also selected a book by Amit Chaudhuri that contained a description of electricity failure in Calcutta that caused people across India to soften with communal nostalgia for power shortage. She had read it before but returned every now and then to half drink, half drown in those beautiful images. Father Booty had a treatise on Buddhist esotericism, written by a scholar from one of the legendary monastic universities of Lhasa, and Agatha Christie’s Five Little Pigs. And Sai had Wuthering Heights in her bag.
"We have to take these to the station for inspection."
"Why? Please sir," said Noni, trying to persuade him, "we’ve especially gone… What will we read… Stuck at home… All those hours of curfew…"
"But officer, you only have to look at us to know we’re hardly the people to waste your time on," said Father Booty. "So many goondas around…"
But they had no sympathy for bookworms, and Lola began to shout, "Thieves, that’s what you police are. Everybody knows it. Hand in hand with goondas. I will go to the army major, I will go to the SDO. What kind of situation is this, bullying the population, you little men throwing your weight around. I’m not going to bribe you, if that’s what you’re hoping – forget about it. Let us go," she said grandly to the others.
"Chalo yaar," said Uncle Potty and glanced at his bottles to indicate they might have one or two IF…
But the man said, "Serious trouble. Even five bottles will not be enough." And it became obvious what Kalimpong was in for.
"Calm down, madam," the policeman said to Lola, offending her still more. "If there is nothing in your books, we will return them."
The red-hot library books were taken carefully away. Father Booty’s camera, too, was confiscated and delivered to their supervisor’s desk; his case they would review separately.
Sai didn’t notice much, for she was still thinking about Gyan ignoring her, and she didn’t care the books were gone.
Why was he there? Why hadn’t he wanted to acknowledge her? He had said: "I can’t resist you… I have to keep coming back…"
At home the cook was waiting, but she went to bed without her dinner, and this greatly offended the cook, who took it to mean that she had eaten fancily in a restaurant and now despised the offerings at home.
Sensitive to his jealousy, she usually came home and complained, "The spices were not ground properly – I almost broke my tooth on a peppercorn, and the meat was so tough, I had to swallow it without chewing, all in a big lump with glasses of water." He would laugh and laugh. "Ha ha, yes, nobody takes the time to clean and tenderize the meat properly anymore, to grind the spices, roast them…" Then, growing suddenly serious, he would exclaim, holding up a finger to make his point like a politician: "And for this they charge a lot of money!" Nodding hard, wise to the horrors of the world. Now, in a spoiled mood, he banged the dishes.
"What is going on!" shouted the judge. A statement, not a question, that was to be responded to by silence.
"Nothing," he said, beyond caring, "what can be going on? Babyji went to sleep. She ate at the hotel."