The Punkhawala and the Prostitute Page 3

  “Gentlemen, if I could get your attention, please,” he repeats.

  This time, some do turn around to see what the bother is while a short, skinny French man whose nose is nearly touching the bottom of his champagne glass abruptly stops drinking and approaches Osbert.

  “Say, Osbert, my good man, maybe a little later?” Bastiani whispers with an indistinguishable French accent.

  “Bastiani, it is already past midnight. If not now, when?”

  “Exactly, we just entered the new year. Nobody really wants to talk business yet. A little later. Now, just drink. Yes?” Bastiani smiles and holds out his glass of champagne.

  Osbert looks away and ignores the offering. Bastiani sighs and lowers the glass of bubbly.

  “Un moment,” Bastiani says as he swivels to the side, places his glass down and grabs a large white sack tied up like a hobo’s precious bindle. He walks to the middle of the room, smugly and spiritedly, and unties the knot on the bag. Without spreading it open, he lays the loose bundle on the rich, patterned burgundy carpet that covers the floor from edge to edge. His theatrical motions have people stopping in the middle of their conversations, their attention effectively diverted. The room comes to a curious silence save for the lonely creaking of the punkha above, which continues to move back and forth.

  The punkha, a large rectangular swathe of pure white cloth suspended across a wooden rod from the ceiling, is attached to a cord and pulley that run to the veranda outside the room. On the veranda, the cord is pulled in rhythm by a slave, never to be in the presence of those privileged enough to feel the breeze coming from above. “Punkha” originated from the word “pankh”, which refers to how the wings of a bird produce a draft when they are flapped.

  Bastiani flips aside his fringe that is being blown gently by the punkha above and retrieves his bubbly from the table in one swift spin before commanding the room.

  “Gentlemen, attention please.” He clears his throat. “I, Bastiani Babineaux, thank you for coming today and”—he notices Osbert standing by the side, away from the limelight—“I mean, Osbert Emerson Read and me, Bastiani Babineaux. You already know my name. Yes. We welcome you to Osbert’s lovely home here in River Valley for this New Year celebration. We are thrilled to usher in the year 1870 with all you extraordinary and amazing gentlemen.”

  There is courteous clapping from everyone.

  “Merci. Now, you all have your prestigious positions and accomplishments—hurrah, many hurrahs, splendid. I am always in awe. But did you know that you all share something in common?” A cheeky grin splits Bastiani’s face as he starts to parade around the room like a ringmaster. The guests are all ears but nobody is sure what the answer is. The mathematician John Henry Pratt in particular looks like he is cracking his brain too much, muttering non-stop to himself.

  “Your love for discovery—that’s the thing you great men have in common. And as I promised, I have what you have been waiting for all evening.” It’s amazing how the champagne in his glass never spills as Bastiani practically pirouettes, then takes his time to gaze at each guest surrounding him, making them feel that they had his attention as well. “Now, you all know me as Bastiani, the French businessman who can smell a deal from miles away.”

  “Hear, hear!” one of the guests bellows in approval.

  “Years ago, I made many of you a fortune by convincing you to invest in exporting canned pineapples to Europe. You must agree that no one can snag a good deal like I canned.”

  Silence. They don’t get the pun.

  “But we lost good money with your phony version of packed sardines,” Robert Carr Woods says with some resentment.

  Always eager to earn a quick buck, Bastiani was once an assistant to Alfred Clouët, a massively successful French businessman in Singapore who made his name canning sardines in oil. Relations between the two soured when Bastiani let greed overcome his integrity, and he started making his own version of canned sardines.

  “We win some investments, we lose some,” Bastiani preaches. “But this time it’s a clear win, gentlemen, because we can’t just keep investing in mere fruits and fish. The thing about business is evolution.” He punctuates his speech with a note of conviction.

  “Hear, hear,” someone else calls out amidst a lacklustre clinking of glasses. Bastiani looks unconvinced by the reaction.

  “We have to keep moving, keep the money flowing. We know where the money is at—ah, yes, both Osbert and I. Which is why I have gathered you all here today.”

  Bastiani deftly places his drink on the table before unravelling the white cloth he had placed on the carpet. Inside are dried bones or seeds of sorts, shrivelled, almost charred, all moisture seeped away. The bits and pieces could be considered charming oddities.

  “What are those?” Thomas Dunman asks as the crowd gathers around the cloth, intrigued murmurs erupting amongst them.

  “The beast of the jungle, gentlemen. The tiger! Tiger parts are selling for more than ever. The Chinese use them for medicine. They’ll pay anything to get their hands on them. Many others are using them as well. The market is growing rapidly in Asia.”

  “What would they use…these bones for?” Frank Athelstane Swettenham asks, baffled.

  “I am glad you asked. They are used for countless cures. For example, tiger bones can cure arthritis, rheumatism and headaches. Tiger brains cure laziness and pimples, if any of your children need some.” Bastiani takes a tiger bone in hand and points it at Frank Athelstane Swettenham. “Not for laziness, for pimples. Your children are lovely.” The crowd chortles in response.

  Bastiani grabs a few more oddities and rolls them around like dice. “Tiger claws can cure insomnia. If any of your wives keep bugging you at night, you know what to do now.”

  Another chortle from the guests.

  “Tiger eyeballs cure malaria, convulsions and epilepsy.” Bastiani shudders exaggeratedly. “And the list goes on and on, gentlemen. If I continue, we’ll be here till morning.”

  Bastiani begins placing the tiger bones back on the cloth. Knowing he has their money in his pockets already, he decides to close his sales pitch. “Fund our amazing expedition to hunt tigers in the jungle right here in Singapore and you will reap an enticing percentage of the healthy profits from the tiger parts sold to medical clinics and private collectors.”

  John Henry Pratt, who looks to be the only one uninterested in Bastiani’s pitch, speaks thoughtfully, “I’ve heard about these hunts. There’s this hunter I met at the cricket club. What’s his name? Ah, Tiger Carrol!” He begins to gush. “They say he is better than the legend back home, Lord Reading. Tiger Carrol’s expedition brought back the biggest tiger I have ever seen—over twelve feet long! You must have him for your expedition.”

  Osbert glares at Bastiani.

  “Tiger who? No. There won’t be this Tiger Carrol person you speak of,” Bastiani declares.

  “But he is the only tiger hunter in Singapore!”

  Bastiani clears his throat. “I would like to introduce you to someone whose name will soon be on everyone’s lips. He is the brave man leading the hunts that you will fund. Our one and only Mr Osbert Emerson Read.”

  The creaking of the punkha fills the awkward silence.

  Osbert quickly takes two steps forward, lifts a glass he had taken earlier and accidentally spills champagne on the carpet.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for coming to my lovely home this evening. Many of you may have known my father-in-law, Sir Geoffrey Coldwell, and traded with him over the last thirty years. Here in Singapore, I am continuing his good work overseeing our thriving nutmeg plantation in Tanglin and now, we are exploring tiger hunting.”

  “No offence, old chap, but last I checked, nutmegs do not bite. Would you care to share what kind of experience you have?” one of the guests pipes up.

  “I am experienced.”

  “How many tigers have you killed before?”

  “How many? Well, none yet.”

  The guests are
displeased, but they are too civilised to jeer at him.

  “But I have killed other animals before,” Osbert supplies, starting to feel the heat build up.

  “Pray tell, what kind of animals?” Thomas Dunman asks.

  “Deer, cows and many more.” Osbert wipes the sweat off his forehead by pretending to rub his eyes. He looks up at the punkha oscillating slowly and is irked by his slave’s incompetence.

  “I don’t understand, Bastiani. You want us to fund him? A cow hunter? I don’t need more milk. Can’t we get a real hunter to catch the tiger?” The speaker stifles a laugh, likely only out of respect for Osbert’s father in-law.

  “I am not going to catch just any tiger,” Osbert proclaims. “I am going to capture Rimau Satan.”

  “Rimau Satan?” Robert Carr Woods says incredulously. “You will catch the biggest and fiercest tiger of them all in Singapore? The elusive, man-eating Rimau Satan? Have you read the news, my boy? He has killed more men than all the other tigers combined. He is not a kitten that you can get your father-in-law to buy for you. No disrespect, but I wouldn’t want to read about your death in The Straits Times after you get mauled. A waste of bloody ink and page space, if I do say so. These tiger killings are already making the news every other day.” Laughter breaks out in the room.

  Osbert feels even hotter as he sees everyone enjoying a hearty laugh at his expense. He wipes his sweat again. Pulls at his collar. He looks up at the punkha once more, certain that his slave is conspiring to undermine him.

  “Imagine the headline—‘Cow hunter killed by Rimau Satan after mistaking the tiger for a cow’,” Robert Carr Woods adds and the laughter in the room escalates. After joining in the laughter himself, Robert Carr Woods apologises. “Sorry, old chap, I couldn’t help myself.”

  “If you are all not interested, don’t bloody fund me then,” Osbert blurts out.

  Bastiani quickly cuts in, “No, no. He didn’t mean that, gentlemen.”

  Sweat continues to drip from Osbert’s forehead. He looks up at the punkha languidly swinging back and forth like a pendulum, testing him, provoking him. As the laughter lingers in the room, his eyes follow the cord attached to the punkha that runs through a shuttered opening in the wall.

  “Osbert?” Bastiani calls out as the former walks out of the room and onto the green-tiled veranda where the cord begins. There, alone in a corner, the rattan blinds pulled up for the evening, is the punkhawala, clothed in a singlet and a folded-up dhoti. The slave is stooping on a small stool, pulling the cord diligently. His back is turned towards Osbert; he does not know what approaches.

  “It’s bloody hot in there! Pull faster!” Osbert shouts, then violently kicks the stool away. The punkhawala falls backwards and hits the tulip-patterned floor of the veranda with a hard thud. Like an animal jumping out of a trap, the punkhawala gets onto all fours and lifts his head up. He is unrecognisable at first, but his bloodshot eyes and short curly black hair are dead giveaways.

  It is Gobind.

  “Just fan faster, you mute piece of shit. It’s bloody hot.” Realising that Gobind can’t, in fact, hear, Osbert instead gesticulates with his arms. Gobind gets the message. He quickly rights the stool, gets back on it and starts pulling the punkha. This time, faster. Osbert turns around and realises that the guests are looking at him from the doorway. Not in disgust—they are impressed.

  “Ah, there you go, everyone—it is his rage,” Bastiani declares while gesturing animatedly. “His rage! His rage against Rimau Satan is what will make sure your investment turns into a fortune. Do you not agree?”

  Osbert walks back into the room and smiles a little at the realisation that what he had done out of rage was the key.

  “We don’t need this hunter called Tiger Carrol,” Bastiani continues. He seems to have everyone convinced, but just then, a rough voice suggestive of a heavy smoker takes over the room.

  “Tell me. What do you do when the beast Rimau Satan approaches you and you’re out of bullets?”

  Standing at the main entrance to the room is a rugged middle-aged man so tall his head nearly touches the door frame, his imposing figure blocking out the light from the corridor. His long grey beard looks like it hasn’t been washed in days, the scraggly ends gathered and threaded through a golden ring that makes it clear who the man is as the crowd begins to chatter. It is Tiger Carrol, the fiercest hunter of tigers in Malaya. Tiger Carrol, the French-Canadian sharpshooter who takes no rations when he goes hunting and is rumoured to eat monkey brains in the forest for breakfast. He has caught all of the most ferocious tigers in Malaya except the most formidable of them all, Rimau Satan. But, going by his track record, it will not stay that way for long.

  His long boots leaving muddy footprints on the carpet, Carrol makes his way across the room towards Osbert, slowly and intimidatingly.

  “So, what do you do?”

  While thinking of his answer, Osbert notices that the right leather shoulder patch on Carrol’s ivory-buttoned green coat is on the verge of disintegrating. It was probably all worn out from bracing countless gun recoils.

  “You stand your ground and take it like a man,” Carrol answers for him. He pulls his collar open, revealing an old ghastly scar running from shoulder to chest that sends the crowd gasping in awe of his bravery. “I can’t believe I wasted my time coming all the way here because I heard there’s a new tiger hunter. Anak kucing menjadi harimau?” Carrol smirks.

  “Sorry, I don’t understand,” Osbert says. “I am Osbert Emerson Read.” He extends a hand to Carrol, who does not take it.

  “Now where have I heard that name before?”

  Everyone has his gaze fixed on Carrol, waiting for his next move, as Osbert retracts his hand in embarrassment.

  “He scratched you because you couldn’t catch him,” Osbert claims. He turns to face the crowd. “Gentlemen, who wants to make a wager? I will be the first to catch Rimau Satan.”

  “Osbert, no, no, please, no,” Bastiani cuts in as the crowd begins to murmur anew.

  “What say you, Mr Tiger Hunter? Put your money where your mouth is?”

  Carrol slowly takes a breath. He walks over to the cloth laid on the floor and picks up a tiger part. He strolls back to Osbert and places the organ in his hand.

  “You’ll need this. See you in the jungle, little kucing,” Carrol says before leaving the room and more muddy boot prints in his wake.

  Osbert opens his fist to reveal a dried tiger penis. Laughter erupts once again as the guests recognise what it is.

  “Bastiani, please, could you kindly ask my guests to leave?”

  “You need their funding—”

  “I’ll fund myself. Get out! All of you!”

  “Wait, everyone, there is a misunderstanding—” Bastiani pleads, but he cannot stop his money from walking out the door.

  “Pathetic,” one disgruntled guest says as he leaves with the rest.

  Osbert, still at the entrance of the veranda, now absolutely drenched in sweat from the heat of the commotion, slowly turns his vicious gaze towards the slave who is frantically pulling the cord.

  My muscles are burning. My master marches towards me and I look away and continue pulling the cord as quickly as I can. You do not have to worry about me, Renuka. I can take care of myself. Even if I don’t like the food, during meal times I make sure to wipe my plate clean. Singapore is so different from India. I can’t say I hate it, but if I weren’t a slave and we visited this island together then perhaps I would feel differently. But for now, I am just a slave serving my sentence, and my master is now just a few steps away from me.

  Here, masters are like kings. They do as they please. Like King Uttama in those stories Mama used to tell me when I was a little boy to teach me about morals. If you’re lucky, a king could have a heart. Remember the last master I had? I am sad he had to leave. He was different. He treated me with care and concern. Always watching me, studying me, taking note of what I did. He would never lay a finger on me. Unlike my curre
nt master.

  Here he is now. He grabs me by the shoulder, then wipes his hand off in disgust after realising that I am covered in sweat. I try to read his lips but can’t make out what he is saying. He frantically scolds me as I pull faster than I ever have before; any faster and the punkha would take on a life of its own and fly away.

  Even after more than two years of silence, it is still unsettling yet blissful to hear absolutely nothing even as somebody rages at the top of his voice at me. You’re right, Renuka. It is for the better, being stripped of one of my senses to pay for my sins. I never thought that screams and ocean waves would be the last things I would ever hear as I lay on that ship deck waiting for death to take me. I also remember the unbearable ringing in my ears from being hit.

  I just wish that the last thing I actually heard had been your voice. After that, life could have ripped my ears off for all I care.

  4

  A WICKER CHAIR haphazardly flies across the crimson-lit alley of Malay Street. The passionate words “Panjang is mine!” are declared by Mr Wang, a piss-drunk, ruddy-faced but somehow still respectable-looking Chinese man of middle age. Huan, who is younger, athletically dodges the straw-plaited missile. It lands and tumbles on the busy walkway between the brothels, their peeling plaster façades packed closely together like the teeth of a comb detangling the sorrows of lonely men. These kindred souls from all walks of life now gather around, momentarily pausing their lusty pursuits to enjoy the free entertainment provided by the two.

  “I am first... Me… I need all the luck I can get…” Mr Wang slurs, adjusting his tie and trying to remain composed enough to match his impeccable Western-style business outfit, which is a little creased now. Despite his drunkenness, his refined mannerisms come to him easily.

  “Wait there!” Huan shouts, whipping off his shirt like a kung-fu star in the making. He looks around and finds what he’s looking for: a well-carved stone maneki-neko statue, the size of a toddler, in front of a two-storey shophouse.