Blowing with the Wind

Life in the Bangalore Cantonment sails along its merry way with the wind in its sails provided courtesy a rum-loving night watchman, an amorous sahib, and an auto mechanic in over his head with an irate customer.

Life for Govindram Uttamrao Shinde, or Gus, as he was affectionately known, changed, as the Americans say, on a dime, the day he met Mr. and Mrs. Nigel Greenfield.

“He’s a bit portly,” Mr. Greenfield ventured uncertainly when his wife, Claire, introduced her husband to their new gardener.

That was the day Gus became Potli. His love of potlis of the local brew had nothing to do with his new name. That was just a vicious rumor spread by those envious of his good fortune.

“Make sure the grass is cut today. I want the lawn to be perfect when Mr. Greenfield comes back from his office tour on Sunday.” Mrs. Greenfield said, on her way to her Thursday kitty party. “Don’t forget to clean the car. He will be leaving at 10:30 sharp.”

Potli had been looking forward to a nice nap in the garden. The new English movie at the Plaza was very long. As the night watchman, he had to stay awake and lock up after everyone left.

Shielding his eyes from the bright sun, Potli picked up the bucket of water and the rags before staggering over to Mr. Greenfield’s pride and joy, a white 1949 Morris. Technically, it was a Hindustan 14 but the Greenfields refused to entertain that fact. This was a true English family car. Nigel’s uncle had worked in the Morris factory in England. Old Mr. Greenfield had bought this fine automobile brand new. ‘Made in England’ was stamped on the engine and the ‘Hindustan 14’ letters on the bonnet and dicky had been replaced by ‘Morris’ decals uncle Greenfield borrowed from the English factory.

“Oh, Gus,” Mrs. Greenfield called, as she came up behind him. “I want you to cut five red roses and take them to Frederick, I mean Mr. Dias, the tailor. Make sure you give it to him only.”

“Yes, madam,” Potli mumbled.

“And Gus,”

“Yes, madam?”

“Tell him Mr. Greenfield will be back from his tour on Saturday night. Here, this is for you.”

“Yes madam, no madam, thank you madam,” Potli stammered, electrified by the fleeting touch of her hand as she slid a ten rupee note into his shirt pocket.

Life in the Cantonment was not bad, he decided, his skin tingling at the feel of the ten rupee note in his pocket. The streets were cleaner, the gardens greener, and the skirts shorter. He splashed a mug of water on the wheel and started wiping it clean.

“Potli!” a familiar voice called out. It was Farid from the car denting and painting shop. “Make sure all four wheels shine, Potli! I like my tires and wheels clean,” Farid said as he sauntered away laughing loudly.

“Fool!” Potli hissed under his breath, wiping down the windshield vigorously, making sure no drop of water left a stain behind.

After the 6:30 show interval was over that night, Potli took a sip of the triple X rum, the quarter bottle expertly hidden in his practiced hands. Ah, rum! So much smoother than his regular brew. The next sip was smoother and the next one was like silk. Before he knew it, the bottle was empty and the show over. Crowds started streaming out of the hall, jostling past the crowds streaming in.

“Good evening, sir!” Potli saluted smartly, his face inches away from a startled Mr. Greenfield.

“Gus! What, what are you doing here?” Mr. Greenfield asked, looking around furtively.

“Night duty, sir,” Potli replied, the warmth of rum filling his belly. “I am Plaza night watchman. You did not go on tour?” Potli asked, suddenly noticing the young school teacher standing next to Mr. Greenfield.

“Ah, well, I had some urgent work to finish,” Mr. Greenfield stammered, “Miss Pinto and I are working on a school play so we, so we came by to…” Mr. Greenfield began to trail off.

“To take some notes.” the young miss Pinto interjected perkily.

“Yes, yes. Take some notes.” Mr. Greenfield added, relief creeping back into his voice. “Gus,” continued Mr. Greenfield slipping a ten rupee note into Potli’s shirt pocket, “keep an eye on my car and don’t tell anyone about our secret project.”

“Yes sir, no sir, thank you sir,” Potli replied as quarter bottles of rum danced before his eyes.

Potli smiled as he stood at the English liquor shop around the corner. He could hear a customer shouting at Farid.

“You said my car would be ready in two weeks. It has been three months,” the customer said.

“Everything is ready, sir. I was waiting for the tires to come. My boy has already gone to get them. Tomorrow morning your car will be ready. I give you my word. Promise, sir, promise.” Farid replied.

Potli swayed his way back to the Plaza just in time for the interval. Crowds milled around furiously puffing away at their cigarettes. Animated discussions sprouted everywhere. Cinematography was dissected, music was critiqued, acting was admired, the story exalted.

The interval end bell went off. The hall snuffed out the last of the discussions and sucked in the last of the audience. Lights began to dim as people settled in to watch the love story of the American Civil War unfold.

The world outside the Plaza went quiet. The cars lined up stood silent, waiting patiently for the show to end and the hubbub to begin. Potli settled back in his night watchman chair. A little boy walked by carrying a load of bricks.

The Old Monk rum was even better than the triple X. The memory of Mrs. Greenfield’s hand touching his shirt pocket made his spine tingle as he drifted away into a delicious world of caressing hands and flowing honey rum. The glare of the sun, the mosquitoes in the garden, and the endless polishing of windshields faded away. Even Farid’s voice became a low murmur.

“Mr. Doraiswamy, Farid from the garage, sir. Sir, your car is ready, sir. All four tires came in last night, sir.”