अतिथि देवो भव
“THE GUEST IS GOD!”

Mumbai, India – March 2011

It was early 2011, and it was almost a month since I moved into a new apartment that I had rented, in the heart of Bandra, in Mumbai. This was my first ‘Ghar wapsi’ (Return to Home), after having left India over eight years back, during which I had lived in multiple cities, countries and continents. I had taken up a role with a Singapore based employer, and was tasked to start and run their business operations in India, starting from Mumbai, the commercial capital.

After the initial struggle in terms of settling down, I had found myself a decent apartment, at a very nice location, within a walking distance from my office, and with bars, restaurants and even night clubs in the vicinity. Most of the people I knew and worked with, had vocally convinced me, that this was the best a man can get, and could possibly want, in a city like Mumbai.

My apartment was exceptionally well done, especially compared to all the other options I had checked out. The interiors were tastefully done, and it came fully furnished with almost everything in place, including two fridges and three televisions, one in each room. The living room was so spacious that it reminded me of the bungalows I had stayed in, in Africa. The two bedrooms were of average size, but very aesthetically done as well. This apartment was one of the few things that brought me immense joy, during my early days in Mumbai.

The problem with this apartment, and the reason why it was relatively affordable, compared to far inferior alternatives, came into light only a few days after I had moved in. There was a new residential property under construction, right in front of this building. The construction work would happen throughout the day and continue through the night, something that became almost unbearable after a couple of weeks. The loud noise of heavy machines, huge metallic pipes being thrown around, and the continual yelling of construction workers, turned me into a person who was sleep deprived, irritable and constantly complaining.

The Landlord and the Neighbour:

The apartment was owned by an aged Punjabi widower, Mr. Ranbir Singh Bhasin, who happened to own all the four apartments on that floor. He was initially reluctant to rent his property to me, reiterating that he “only rents out to foreigners”, but had eventually agreed, after consulting with his son, who resided in Dubai. Mr. Singh was a chatty and a very lonely gentleman, who was temporarily residing in the next flat, and he would warmly greet me every time he saw me, and there were times when our conversations would start while I was unlocking my door, and continue for twenty minutes with my keys still hanging from the door lock.

So I was really relieved when one day, I found out that Mr. Singh had moved out of the next door apartment, after renting it to a new tenant, John. [I have changed his name, since we are connected on social media, and have chosen a generic name.] John was a young British guy, in his late twenties, who had relocated to Mumbai for his work. I bumped into him a few times, and we struck up a decent rapport very soon. John was a massive supporter of Newcastle United F.C., the Tyneside club from England, with a rich history and a passionate, vocal supporter base. It was also the period when Newcastle United were having a revival in the top tier league, after being relegated to the second division for the few years prior to that. John would wear his Black and white stripes while watching his home team’s matches, and I could hear his celebration from my adjoining flat, every time the Magpies scored a goal. John and I discussed football a lot, and we had vowed to watch the Liverpool vs. Newcastle match together at my place, with a couple of beers. Unfortunately, that plan never materialised.

The Power-cut!

It was a Sunday morning when I woke up feeling all sweaty, and realised that my air conditioning was not working. A quick check made me realise that there was a power cut. Now, there is hardly any period in your life, when you can feel the effect of boredom more than waking up on a Sunday morning in the midst of a power cut. The Aircon, the television, and even the internet was not working and I couldn’t even take a shower, since the water heater needed electricity to run as well. Luckily, my iPhone, still a treasured possession back then, more so in India, was fully charged and I sat idly on the couch, and watched a few YouTube videos to kill some time. I watched some cricket videos, a sport I used to follow back then, and it was the time when the World Cup was being played in India, a cup that India would end up winning, eventually. I browsed casually through a few clips of MS Dhoni and Sachin Tendulkar. Finally, I decided that it would be better to go out and get some fresh air. I gathered my phone, wallet, cigarette pack, a lighter, and my keys, and stepped out of my apartment. As expected, the lift was ruled out, so I walked five floors down using the staircase.

Once at the ground level, I figured that I was not the only one who was bored and frustrated, since there were quite a few residents gathered downstairs, doing nothing of substance. I greeted a few familiar faces, as I walked to the corner of the premises towards the iron gate, which was open during the day. I seated myself on a concrete slab, a few meters from the gate, and lit up a cigarette. The security guy, Ravi, greeted me with a curt salute and I greeted him back with a smile. Ravi was from the state of Bihar, to the northern part of India, close to my own home state, West Bengal. Most of the buildings (Housing societies) engaged private security agencies, and a chunk of their security guards were from the states of Bihar and Uttar Pradesh.
Most of these poor guys were both underpaid and overworked. They were less security officers and more attendants for the members of the housing societies, often executing trivial personal commands for them, in exchange for petty cash and/or staying in their ‘good books’ to somehow stay employed.

John!

To the right side of the gate, about fifteen yards from me, I noticed a middle aged gentleman, seated on his parked scooter. I had seen him a few times before, and he was clearly someone who resided in the same building. He waved at me and I acknowledged by nodding my head. As I took a drag on my cigarette, I caught the site of John walking towards us from the lift entrance. I could sense his restlessness, which was unsurprisingly due to the power cut. I smiled at him; he looked pleased to see someone who he knew personally, as he approached me with quick steps. I shifted a bit, patting on the space next to me, and John came and sat beside me and asked for a cigarette.

I passed him the last cigarette in my pack and lit it up for him, as he took a drag and thanked me. We had a casual chitchat, during which John was mostly cursing himself for not having charged his hand phone the previous night. He had some work to do, but he couldn’t do anything unless the power came back. The man sitting on the scooter was listening to our conversation, and he made a few remarks in English, without either of us asking. John and I both nodded at his words, giving him enough acknowledgement, and yet not encouraging him too much to continue.

“Do you want to go and get some tea?” – John suggested.

“Yeah, sure. Let’d do that. I am so bored” – I responded.

John patted his pockets, before letting out a swear word. He had forgotten to bring his wallet. I told him not to worry, I had mine on me. But John said he needed his wallet anyway, and told me he will be back in a few minutes. I told him not to bother walking up five levels, just for some tea, and that it would be on me, but he insisted and walked back towards the lift entrance. I watched him walk away, as I stubbed my cigarette and looked around for an appropriate spot to litter.

The Lady and The Scooter-Man!

There was a young lady walking towards the gate from the lift, and I observed as she and John crossed each other on their way to opposite directions. I couldn’t hear anything, but there was a moment’s pause as they passed each other, and then continued on their own ways. The lady was in her mid twenties, wore glasses and could be considered reasonably ‘pretty’. She rushed her last few steps and came straight at the man seated on the scooter. I had meanwhile, found an old trash can next to the gate, barely four meters from the scooter, and walked up to it, and was dumping my cigarette stub, when I heard the lady speak to the guy on the scooter, in Hindi;

“Dekhiye na, kya ulta seedha bol raha hai”

[See, he is saying improper things to me]

My senses went on immediate alert, as the man on the scooter fumbled with his words.

“What? Wh… What did he say?” – he almost stammered

“He is asking me to go with him for coffee!” – She replied, again in Hindi.

The man let out a common swear word in Hindi, and then shouted out at full volume at John, who was still walking and was a just a few meters from the lift area.

“Oye Gora!!!!! Oye Behen**** Gora!”

[‘Gora’ means ‘white man’, while the other word is the most common curse word in Hindi, implying a not-so-healthy relationship involving one’s sister.]

John was still walking away, but he heard the commotion behind him and turned back towards us. The Scooter-man was still calling him using those two chosen words, neither of which was familiar to John. He looked at us quizzically, as Scooter-man waved his right hand frantically, signalling him to come right over. My sixth sense alerted me of an impending trouble, so I came a step closer to the where the Scooter-man was seated on his two wheeler, as I kept my eyes on John walking gingerly back towards us.

The Altercation!

As John stood in front of the Scooter-man, he faced the first question, this time asked in English, well mostly;

“Hey you Gora, what did you tell her?”

“Who, me? Nothing …. “ – John’s first response was still incomplete, as Scooter-man turned around and spoke to the lady softly, in Hindi.

“He is saying he did not say anything. Are you sure you heard correctly?”

The girl nodded her head as a reaffirmation, while John was still mumbling the rest of his response.

“Nothing ….. I was just asking her, if there is a place nearby where we can get some coffee…”

The moment I heard the word ‘Coffee’, I knew John had landed himself in trouble. But even I couldn’t anticipate the speed of Scooter-man’s reaction, with enough accuracy. As soon as the word ‘Coffee’ escaped John’s lips, Scooter-man sprang up from his scooter seat, took a quick step towards John, and landed a loud slap on his left cheek. A full swing slap with a solid noise on impact, as John, completely taken by surprise, and the force of the slap, wobbled on his feet for a quick moment.

Before he could land the second blow, I managed to rush in and hold his right arm, which was in the middle of another backlift, this time clenched as a fist. He put up a forceful struggle to free his arm from my grasp, and I have to admit, Scooter-man had some power, but I managed to hold on to his wrist and prevent further swings. I looked at John and shouted “Go!” at him, but John did not move.

“Why is he hitting me, man? Shall I punch him back? I am trained in boxing!”

John looked pretty serious, and I quickly weighed up the odds between a mid twenties British guy, claiming to be trained in boxing, and a pot bellied Indian man in his fifties, and the odds seemed to be heavily stacked in one direction. For a moment I felt I should let it go and leave it to the theory of “Survival of the fittest”, but I knew that could only spell further trouble for the young foreigner, living in my country as a guest.

By this time, a few others had gathered around and were asking all kinds of questions about what was the reason behind this fracas. Scooter-man freed himself from my grasp and explained in half Marathi and half Hindi;

“This ‘madar**** Gora’ was making lewd proposals at the lady”

[The expletive used literally implied a not-so-healthy relationship involving one’s mother, this time.]

The Intervention!

I intervened and tried to explain that we didn’t have any concrete proof, that it was indeed the case. Scooter-man, whose name turned out to be Vikram, didn’t like that and asked me what was my relationship with the ‘Gora’ and when I explained that we were neighbours, he threatened me about speaking to my landlord, Mr. Bhasin. He was still grumbling and every once in a while, he would raise his right first at John, and I would restrain him.

“You Gora motherf*****! You think you can come to my country and F*** our mothers and sisters? I will F*** your mother and sisters. Your entire white race!”

As a man who had lived outside of India, I clearly didn’t appreciate these kind of words, and raised my objection. Another gentleman supported my view and asked Mr. Vikram to calm down. Some people asked the lady, what exactly the ‘white guy’ had said to her, and from her response, it was understood that she did not speak or understand English. So she was not exactly sure what John had said, but she knew he had asked her out for coffee. I signalled John to leave the ‘crime scene’ and head back to his apartment, and he finally relented and circumspectly started to walk away. I pointed to the fact, that since this lady didn’t understand English, her entire accusation becomes unreliable. Mr. Vikram gave me a stern look and warned me in an intimidating tone;

“You Bengali Chu****, this is Mumbai! Don’t end up taking the wrong side or you will regret it. If I see you loitering around with that ‘Gora’ again, you will see what will happen to you!”

[The expletive used this time is a sexually derogatory term, to amplify the word ‘idiot’]

Over the next fifteen minutes or so, things calmed down to some extent, although Scooter-man was still talking about handing over John and his ‘Indian stooge’ to the Police. Finally, people started to leave the scene, and I called Ravi and asked him to keep an eye, so John is not harmed. Then, I decided to go and buy some cigarettes for myself.

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I ended up doing some grocery shopping as well and returned about forty minutes later, and by then power had been restored in the premises. As soon as I entered through the main gate, Ravi came running towards me. I thought he wanted to help me with my grocery bags, and dismissed him swiftly. But Ravi whispered in a concerned voice;

“Sir jee, the Police came and took away John Sir. They were also looking for you. I think it is not safe for you to be here now. Go spend a couple of hours away from your apartment!”

It felt almost unreal! Scooter-man had indeed filed a complaint at the Police station, and some law enforcement officials had come down and taken John into custody. I asked Ravi which police station it was and how to reach there. Then, I handed him my grocery bags, and asked him to keep them anywhere he can, while I went to the Police station and took a stock of the situation. Ravi pleaded me not to go, insisting it was not safe, and that Mumbai Police were hostile to people from other states, but I paid no heed to his advice. I flagged an Auto rickshaw, the three wheeler local transport, and headed to the Khar Police station in the neighbourhood.

Inspector Shinde

Once I reached the Khar Police station, I explained to a constable outside, the purpose of my visit, and he noted down my name and pointed to a bench, asking me to wait. About twenty minutes later, the constable gestured me to step inside, where a burly man in his late forties with a name tag ‘Shinde’, signalled me to sit down on a wooden chair facing his dusty table. He cleared his throat and exclaimed in a high pitched voice;

“So you are the Bengali man who supported a foreigner in a molestation case?”

“Excuse me? Molestation case?” – I stammered a bit, trying to regain my composure.

“That’s what it has been reported as. You don’t agree?” – He smiled at me, in a sort of a condescending manner.

“No, I don’t agree. A lady accused the guy of asking her out for a coffee. It’s not even a credible accusation, since the lady admitted that she didn’t speak or understand English. And someone already slapped him for that!”

“You mean Mr. Vikram?”

I paused for a moment, unsure if I should take names at this point, but my main objective was to make sure John was not made to suffer, so I nodded my head in the affirmative.

Mr. Shinde then interrogated me for the next twenty odd minutes, asking numerous questions, including where I came from, what I did for a living, how long I had been in Mumbai, what I did in Singapore, who I had at home in Kolkata, what was my opinion on Mumbai, what my father did for a living, what qualifications I had and from where, how I had known John and for how long, etc. etc. He seemed to meticulously take notes in an old note book, as I tried my best to answer his questions. He then asked me about the incident in detail and asked me a few questions, most of them relevant, including seemingly trivial ones like;

“How far were you when John talked to the lady?”
“When you tried to restrain Mr. Vikram, which hand did he use?”
“What was the lady doing when you and Mr. Vikram were having a tussle?”
“What did Mr. Vikram say to John?”

Finally, he looked up from his notes and smiled at me, this time with slightly more warmth.

“So, why exactly are you putting yourself through all this trouble? What do you owe John?”

“I don’t owe John anything. He is my neighbour and he is a nice guy. I was there, and I know that he didn’t do anything criminal. I don’t want a foreigner to get bullied in our country, without him actually doing something wrong.”

“But if he was making lewd comments at a local girl, he should be punished. Don’t you think? Or you think the girl made it all up?”

I thought for a while and realised that I couldn’t be sure about what John might have said to the lady. But it was down to one person’s word against another’s. In hindsight, I felt that it was actually possible for John, to make an attempt at asking the lady out for coffee.

“Mr. Shinde, I admit that I was not able to hear what John said to the lady, if anything at all. And honestly, it’s not impossible for a person from another culture to try and ask a lady out for coffee. In their culture it would be seen as a very normal thing to do. And besides, he did not touch her physically, and I am sure he wouldn’t have said anything obscene or lewd…”

Mr. Shinde interrupted me;

“But that’s disrespecting our culture and our women. We don’t ask strangers for coffee. When in India, you have to respect our traditions, whoever you are. Or you are guilty and will be punished!”

“But by which law is asking someone out for a coffee, a crime?” – I wasn’t ready to accept his logic.

“We don’t do that! Now, Mr. Das, I respect your stance on trying to help a foreigner, but I suggest you stay out of this. You are an educated man, living here as a professional. Why bother to risk your neck for someone you don’t even know? And against local people who are well connected, I mean, very well connected.”

Mahendra Singh Dhoni!

I sensed the warning in his tone this time, and realised that I had come to the end of this discussion. Mr. Shinde did his best to not be rude to me, but conveyed his reluctance to see it in a different light, and finally I gave up. I pleaded to him one last time and without finding much of a response, I slowly walked out, feeling very dejected. I stepped out of the police station and lit a cigarette. The constable who had attended me earlier, nodded at me, but in my frustration I didn’t even acknowledge his friendly gesture.

That is when it struck me!

I suddenly remembered watching something on television, a few times in the last few days. In fact, I had also seen a thumbnail of that video this morning, when I was browsing YouTube videos, although I didn’t play it. It was an advertisement featuring the Indian cricket Captain, Mahendra Singh Dhoni!

I fished out my phone, and quickly searched for some random YouTube videos with M S Dhoni, and finally found it. It was from a recent advertisement by Aircel, the Mumbai based mobile network operator, which had recently launched its 3G services. The ad clip shows MS Dhoni seated in a bus, that has taken a halt at a traffic signal, as another bus halts next to it. A nerd looking guy is seated behind Dhoni, and both of them see a gorgeous lady in the other bus, at the same time. The lady smiles, and both of them want to impress the lady by … wait for it… asking her out for coffee!
But since the glass windows prevented their voices from reaching out, and the lady couldn’t understand what they were proposing, both of them try to show the same ‘coffee’ image using the internet. And of course, because Mr. Dhoni was using ‘Superfast 3G network from Aircel’, his coffee image downloads much faster than the nerd’s and by the time the poor guy’s image was ready, the lady was already having coffee with the cricket captain!

Such a lame advertising campaign, but nothing could have been more apt, under the present circumstances!

The Counter-attack!

I stubbed out my cigarette and rushed back in. The constable was taken by surprise, but before he could respond, I was already inside and straight at Mr. Shinde’s desk. He was talking to a lady, but I went close to him and insisted;

“Mr. Shinde, sorry to barge in like this, but please, I need to show you something. It won’t even take a minute”

He looked irritated, and raised a hand, probably to command the constable to throw me out, or lock me up, but then he lowered his hand and gestured me to step forward.
I approached him and played the video from my phone as he kept his eyes glued to my hand set for thirty seconds or so. Then he let out a curse word, in a subdued voice.

“As you can see, Sir, it’s pretty much the same ‘crime’ here, encouraged by none other than our national cricket team’s captain, so there is nothing like ‘it is not our culture’.

He stared blankly at me, without responding immediately.

“Asking someone out for a coffee, is not a crime by any means. I am pretty sure of that. As long as there is no obscenity or force applied. But, slapping someone is a clear case of ‘assault’ that is punishable by any law. I would like to register a report against Mr. Vikram for assaulting Mr. John, and I can site witnesses who would be happy to come down and testify!”

It took Mr. Shinde a few minutes to find his words. This was clearly not what he had expected. But eventually, he laughed out loudly, even though somewhat awkwardly, and stood up from his chair. He apologised to the lady, then walked towards me, placed an arm around my shoulder, and walked with me to another room. Finally, when it was only the two of us, he started speaking to me.

“You are a tough nut, Babumoshai! I must give you credit for that.”

‘Babumoshai’ is an old but common term used by non Bengali speakers, to address a Bengali person.

Mr. Shinde then chatted with me for a while, in a very friendly manner, and promised that he will release John asap, since it was only fair. But he advised me against pressing charges against Mr. Vikram, as that would lead to unnecessary hassle for everyone, including me. He explained that Mr. Vikram was a local, and a politically well connected person, and it won’t be unusual for him to get back at me. Since I was staying in the same housing society, it would be inviting trouble. But he ended his friendly advice with the note:

“This is just a suggestion, as a friend, not as a Police officer. You are an educated an honest man, I don’t want you to face problems and have a bad opinion about Mumbai! If you still want to, let’s go in and I’ll register your complaint.”

Even though I wanted to see where this would take us, there was something in his voice that sounded sincere. I decided not to pursue this any further and gave him my word, not to file a complaint against Mr. Vikram, for this incident.

Life … Actually!

In another ten minutes, John and I walked out of the Khar Police station together, and were headed for our way back home. John was very nervous and shaky, understandably. To be locked up in Police custody in India, is not the dream of any British professional working abroad. I tried my best to make him feel safe, even though I was not convinced about it myself. I made sure John was safely back in his apartment, before I went back to mine.

In less than a week, John left his apartment and shifted to another part of the city, and I never got to see him after that. During the last few days after this incident, I bumped into him a few times, and we spoke briefly, but I felt that he made a deliberate effort, not to extend the conversation beyond basic courtesy. I left Mumbai a few months later, and returned to Singapore, while John stayed in Mumbai for another couple of years, married an Indian lady (not the one he proposed coffee to), before relocating back to the UK with her, and they have a lovely boy who is already wearing his black and white stripes, and accompanying his father to watch the Magpies at St. James’ Park stadium.
We stayed in touch through social media, and still write to each other once in a while, especially on the occasion of birthdays.

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