A knock.
I opened to see a customer of mine from the days of smokers and sniffers.
An orange person. A Rajneesh sannyasi. "HEY, HI! I can't believe it! What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I came to see how you were. Need anything?"
"Wow, do I ever! Could you take me to Bombay? Oh, PLEASE! Get me out of here! I'm trapped." He nodded.
But I would have to leave Bach. Aw, Bach. It was impossible to bring him with me. I wrapped my arms around my furry companion. He licked my ear. Don't, worry, Bach, I'll be back. Then be able to feed you the tasty treats you deserve—prawns in wine sauce every day.
I ran to Laura, who hadn't been off Anjuna Beach since the time we'd been in Bali. I knew she'd be there.
"Sure, I take care of Bach," she told me, "but he didn't stay with me last time, and I doubt he’ll stay now."
Oh, my little Bach. Forgive me. There's no way I can survive the monsoon down here.
After two days on the bike, we arrived in Bombay. My orange friend dropped me at the Crown Hotel—disgusting, loathsome, and cheap. Without cheer I waved goodbye as he headed back to Poona. Maybe I'd have been better off starving in Goa after all. Now what?
The rains came. Bombay was as deserted as Goa had been. By this time anybody with half a mind had found some way to leave the country. Only the last drugs of the down-and-outers remained.
Bila from Dipti's allowed me to eat on credit, but I knew that many failed Goa Freaks owed him money, and he couldn't afford to support us all. Because of us Bila was in debt himself. I hated to take advantage of his generosity. I limited myself to one dish of his ice cream a day. The man from the travel agency that arranged visa renewals lent me rupees for a few days at the hotel.
A week later I was still desperate and also hungry. Not eating because you didn't have money to buy food was different from not eating because you were too stoned to eat. I wasn't anywhere near stoned. I rationed myself tiny bits of the tola of opium I'd acquired on credit from the Chor Bazaar opium den.
July 1979. Birmingham Bobby approached me on the street, hoping for a free hit of dope. After I disappointed him by not having any, he recounted the police trouble the Birmingham Boys had had in England: Birmingham Timmy was in jail there, Bobby himself couldn't return. Like me, Bobby was broke.
He slept on the streets with the beggars.
Holy cow! Living like an Indian beggar. Could that happen to me? It was not impossible, I concluded.
And so, in fear of a similar face, I contacted Rachid and became initiated into his traveller’s checks scam. Fleecing vacationers seemed the only means of survival. As I spent days in the rain with Dandruff and luckless tourists, I consoled my conscience by thinking they'd get their traveller’s checks refunded. The taste of raspberry doughnuts also helped soothe my mind. At least I no longer worried about food, drugs, or shelter.
Or rather, I didn't worry until I found myself in the New Delhi police station. With Dandruff in the cell that said "Ladies." And me in a police inspector's office. Under a desk. Chained to the desk. With the inspector stroking my hair and whispering how he would make everything okay.
"You are not having to cry," he said. "I can make everything okay for you. I can take away this manacle even, if you are wishing."
Arrested and chained to a desk—what to do now? I wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget everything for a while. How to handle the inspector? I didn't have many options. I could hassle with the guy, make a fuss, make an enemy of him, and probably not be able to sleep for hours. Or I could manipulate him with a clever story so he'd leave me alone. But that, too, would take hours, and my brain didn't have the energy to be that creative. Or I could give him what he wanted, which probably wouldn't take five minutes. After that I'd be able to sleep in peace. Maybe he'd even help me out of this mess. Of the choices, his way seemed the easiest and the most potentially rewarding.
"Okay," I told him.
"Okay?"
In the darkness I imagined a lecherous smile on his face. With a clanging, rattling, and jangling, he unchained my leg—and it didn't even take five minutes. After another two, I slept.
Morning filled the Office with activity—servants ferried glasses of water, police bandied papers, civilians shot in and out asking questions. The inspector couldn't have been sweeter to me. He plied me with tea and fried Indian food; jumped to find someone to accompany me to the bathroom every time I wanted to go; asked if I needed anything, anything at all. He treated Dandruff differently. He kept Dandruff handcuffed to a wooden chair, ignored everything he said, and spoke to him harshly. Dandruff hadn't had dope since the day before and felt sick. Good—the double-crossing creep. I had a ball of opium inside my dress.
In the afternoon Dandruff and I were driven to a courthouse. Rachid sent a lawyer for us, but I had barely spoken a word to him before being deposited in a lathes' bathroom, where two fat females in white saris guarded me. When they called me to the courtroom, Dandruff and I were pushed through a mob of turbaned Sikh lawyers and their clients. I didn't know when our turn had come. Our lawyer stood three feet, but several people, away, and I couldn't understand a word he said. Then I was led back to the bathroom. What had been decided? What would happen to me now? No one could understand my questions.
In the evening a guard ushered me to a truck. Scores of chained male prisoners were herded inside, and then, after a grilled door had been closed behind them, I was signalled to climb aboard. A long ride later we arrived at Tihar Jail. Machine guns protruded from corner towers. Machine guns! Yippee.
Once we were inside, a guard brought me to a side area. Another female prisoner waited there. She was being searched.
Oh, shit! My Opium. I couldn't lose the opium now. Oh, no!
I hurriedly dog it from my dress and held it in my palm. One of the guards ran her hands over my body. While she searched my feet I shoved the opium under my tongue. She moved up my torso and opened each palm in turn. Nothing there. With my head bent down so she could slide her hands through my hair, I snatched the opium from my mouth and pressed it into my hand again. Next she looked in my mouth—behind every tooth. She was satisfied.
Whew! How had I managed that?
The Indian prisoners went in one direction, and I was led in another through a garden, into a maze of walls.
"Here she is!" I heard suddenly, and I saw two Westerners run to me with big smiles. "Hello, there! Welcome to Tihar. I'm Frin. This is Marie-Andree."
Marie-Andree spoke Hindi to the guard, who then went away. What a relief to be among people I could communicate with—and they seemed thrilled by my arrival. They lavished good wishes on me as they took me to our quarters. Originally isolation cells, the compound now housed foreign nationals.
"We have this whole area for ourselves," I was told. "Tomorrow we'll show you around. Class A prisoners five in a mansion. That's where they kept Indira Gandhi."
"Indira Gandhi was here? Wow!"
"Tihar is a renowned prison," said Frin. "You know the entrance hall you just passed? That's where Sanjay Gandhi made his famous speech after his arrest."
Our compound had ten cells. The three of us occupied the front ones. At the other end lived an Indian prisoner who acted as Frin and Marie-Andree's servant. Her three children stayed with her. The other cells were empty. Each had two rooms: an outer one, with Bars on the front and roof, and an inner one with a toilet, and plastered ceiling and walls. A barred door connected the two rooms. Marie-Andree draped a blanket over mine for privacy. Frin filled my arms with necessary items, like mosquito repellent, toothpaste, and toilet paper.