Baumgartner's Bombay Read Online Free

the big holes, say, “No money, no pay.” Just like that.’ Farrokh slapped the table with his hand, making Baumgartner draw back. ‘Just like that. And what you can do? Call police because boy has not paid bill for two rupees? No, you have to forget. Then they go to shop – I have seen them myself, picking up bread, picking up bananas, saying, “I am hungry, no money, my mummy-daddy no send money, please give me,” and you know what kind of people we are in India, Bommgarter
sahib
, can we refuse food to anybody?’ Baumgartner obediently shook his head, thinking of his plastic bag with shame, with a pang. But Farrokh was not referring to him at all, he was going along in the full flood of his indignant rhetoric. ‘All the time we are giving, giving – to bull walking in the street like a lord every morning, to the beggar, to the leper, to the fakir who comes to my restaurant with tin can and marigold garland and snake round his neck so I give, give him money to go away and not trouble my customers. To all – give, give. My religion says: give, give.
Yes
, but that is enough. Why must I give to rich, bad children from England, from America? Is it we who must give them or their own people, their mummies and daddies, rich-rich uncle-aunties in
foren
?’
    Farrokh was so incensed that his hand kept slapping the marble table-top again and again, smacking it as he might smack the cheek of an offender. Bubbles of spit grew on his moist red underlip and were caught in the bush of his moustache from which they fell in drops. Baumgartner looked from them to the hand on the table, slapping and slapping, till his own cheek felt worn and numbed.
    ‘Kick them all out, kick them over the sea, I say – hanh? But how? They have no money for ticket, they say. They come here very grand – tickets, rucksacks, trekking boots, everything. Then everything goes – in Afghanistan, in Nepal already it starts to go, so they can buy hashish, buy
ganja
, all those powders they have to take like babies take milk. So when they come here nothing is left – rucksack empty, feet bare. What to do? Bommgarter
sahib
, what to do?’
    As requested, Baumgartner shook his head silently.
    ‘Go to Goa, that is what,’ Farrokh bawled violently, leaning forward as if to throw Baumgartner backwards. Forced to raise his hand and wipe his face of flying spit bubbles, Baumgartner pretended to be smoothing down his hair instead, politely. ‘Goa they all hear about, you can be sure. Golden sand, palm trees, cheap
feni
to drink, music on the beach, dancing naked – you know what goes on there?’
    No, Baumgartner indicated.
    ‘No, I also not. Such things were not in my day. I only knew school, shop, work, wife, children – that is my life. But these – these baby-men who come now from America, from England, they know another kind of life, Bommgarter
sahib
, they have other life. Music they have to have, hashish they have to have, women they have to have – not wife, not like my wife, but
women
. And all in Goa they can get, under coconut tree, under moon and star. So there they go. Pay fisherman ten rupees to build hut with coconut palm leaf. Crawl in with woman, with hashish, not come out for two day, three day, five day even.’ A note of envy had entered Farrokh’s voice. It slowed, came to a standstill, exhausting itself in a sigh. His chin sank down into the mat of black hair on his chest. ‘Such a life,’ he sighed, and Baumgartner felt that regret had overtaken the censure in his tone. Perhaps he could now excuse himself and slip away?
    But Farrokh clenched his hands, knitted together the fingers on which small hairs grew in tufts, and roared, ‘How long it go on, hanh? How long? Soon they need money. Go to post office. Has letter come from my dear mummy, my darling daddy? No? Must have, please look, look again, they must send! No, no letter, no money. Then they begin to scream – shout filthy language, abuse – begin to cry, sit in post