A Son of the Circus

“The report on Rahul will be very lengthy,” Patel promised him. “But not even the sensational number of murders will impress the judge. I mean, just look at who most of the victims were—they weren’t important.”

“You mean they were prostitutes,” said Dr. Daruwalla.

“Precisely,” Patel replied. “We will need to develop another argument—namely, that Rahul must be confined with other women. Anatomically, she is a woman …”

“So the operation was complete,” the doctor interrupted.

“So I’m told. Naturally, I didn’t examine her myself,” the deputy commissioner added.

“No, of course not …” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“What I mean is, Rahul cannot be imprisoned with men—Rahul is a woman,” the detective said. “And solitary confinement is too expensive—impossible in cases of life imprisonment. And yet, if Rahul is confined with women prisoners, there’s a problem. She’s as strong as a man, and she has a history of killing women—you see my point?”

“So you’re saying that she might receive the death penalty only because of how awkward it will be to imprison her with other women?” Farrokh asked.

“Precisely,” Patel said. “That’s our best argument. But I still don’t believe she’ll be hanged.”

“Why not?” the doctor asked.

“Almost no one is hanged,” the deputy commissioner replied. “With Rahul, they’ll probably try hard labor and life imprisonment; then something will happen. Maybe she’ll kill another prisoner.”

“Or bite her,” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“They won’t hang her for biting,” the policeman said. “But something will happen. Then they’ll have to hang her.”

“Naturally, this will take a long time,” Farrokh guessed.

“Precisely,” Patel said. “And it won’t be very satisfying,” the detective added.

That was a theme with the deputy commissioner, Dr. Daruwalla knew. It led the doctor to ask a different sort of question. “And what will you do—you and your wife?” Farrokh inquired.

“What do you mean?” said Detective Patel; for the first time, he sounded surprised.

“I mean, will you stay here—in Bombay, in India?” the doctor asked.

“Are you offering me a job?” the policeman replied.

Farrokh laughed. “Well, no,” he admitted. “I was just curious if you were staying.”

“But this is my country,” the deputy commissioner told him. “You’re the one who’s not at home here.”

This was awkward; first from Vinod and now from Detective Patel, the doctor had learned something. In both cases, the subject of the lesson was the acceptance of something unsatisfying.

“If you ever come to Canada,” Farrokh blurted out, “I would be happy to be your host—to show you around.”

It was the deputy commissioner’s turn to laugh. “It’s much more likely that I’ll see you when you’re back in Bombay,” Patel said.

“I’m not coming back to Bombay,” Dr. Daruwalla insisted. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken his thoughts so unequivocally on this subject.

Although Detective Patel politely accepted the statement, Dr. Daruwalla could tell that the deputy commissioner didn’t believe him. “Well, then,” Patel said. It was all there was to say. Not “Good-bye”; just “Well, then.”

Not a Word

Martin Mills again confessed to Father Cecil, who this time managed to stay awake. The scholastic was guilty of jumping to conclusions; Martin interpreted Danny’s death and his mother’s request that he come to her assistance in New York as a sign. After all, Jesuits are relentless in seeking God’s will, and Martin was an especially zealous example; the scholastic not only sought God’s will, but he too often believed that he’d spontaneously intuited what it was. In this case, Martin confessed, his mother was still capable of making him feel guilty, for he was inclined to go to New York at her bidding; Martin also confessed that he didn’t want to go. The conclusion Martin then jumped to was that this weakness—his inability to stand up to Vera—was an indication that he lacked the faith to become ordained. Worse, the child prostitute had not only forsaken the circus and returned to her life of sin, but she would almost certainly die of AIDS; what had befallen Madhu was an even darker sign, which Martin interpreted as a warning that he would be ineffectual as a priest.

“This is clearly meant to show me that I shall be unable to renew the grace received from God in ordination,” Martin confessed to old Father Cecil, who wished that the Father Rector were hearing this; Father Julian would have put the presumptuous fool in his place. How impertinent—how utterly immodest—to be analyzing every moment of self-doubt as a sign from God! Whatever God’s will was, Father Cecil was sure that Martin Mills had not been singled out to receive as much of it as he’d imagined.

Since he’d always been Martin’s defender, Father Cecil surprised himself by saying, “If you doubt yourself so much, Martin, maybe you shouldn’t be a priest.”