Mr Cooley Meets Mr Choudhury

 

Mr Choudhury

The new girl at reception phoned to tell me Mr Choudhury
was just now coming through. He was the Number Three
Accountant at the bank two floors below our High Commission,
and given that we two were working with the Rupee he had come on spec
to shake my hand and put a face to money talk; it was her first week here;
she hoped to heavenly Betsy that she had not made a mess of things,
had not not sought permission of the Britisher with braces on his teeth.

Before I could blurt out my standard lie he dashed in through my open door
to stare at me as if just caught on camera unexpectedly. No taller than
a 3-wood, no less slight, round eyed beneath round glasses, his hair
dyed darker still and lacquered tight, a smile evangelising healthy gums
above a run down linen suit which fit him like a diplomatic bag,
he looked to me just like a child's drawing of himself.
Come in Mr Choudhury.

I could have popped him in my safe, but on behalf of HMG
I led him to the corner window whence we had the perfect view:
Fort Roundabout and one Mahatma sculpted here as ancient Prospero,
still charming in the mess of midday cabs. Dutifully in prattle
we touched upon his trip to Europe, how did I find the monsoon,
did I find any Black Label, would my family be joining me
or Bombay heat too much for them; some newly-married cousin in Seattle.

Our bullet-points well made, I steeled myself for the dullness
of more measured tones; preferential rates and non-convertibility,
overseas remittances and chances were a visit visa;
so I gestured to the corner in the manner long prescribed.
Would you care to sit and take some tea? Oh, no, said Mr Choudhury,
I've a thousand things to do today, I'd love to have a shit with you but then
I'm shitting all the morning and I do not want to shit again just yet.

My stomach tightened straight away, my throat began to strangle me,
I wanted only to shout STAY!, then to summon every diplomat
who'd share with me this legend. But bowing slightly, struggling with a hand
caught up in a protruding sleeve (the other whipped a name-card from within a
frayed breast pocket), Mr Choudhury honoured me with the ruby of them all:
Mister Cooley, sir, you really can have no idea the pleasure you would give to me
if you should come for dinner where my wife will cook a mutton dish and you can
meet my children, we will all shit round the table and become the best of friends!

With this he turned and slipped away to leave me in ecstatic pain:
all my mind could focus on for several minutes after was the sound
of Mr Choudhury describing in most earnest tones the day he took a back seat,
or wound up in the hot seat, or took a shit at ringside while waiting for the bout,
I swear to God I thought my braces were going to come out.
As I passed her on the way to lunch I left a memo with the new girl
that though she'd breached a protocol, the Number Three Accountant
at the bank two floors below should have free passage any time.

 

Mr Cooley

Mr Cooley was to dine with us tonight.
The kids dressed in Kashmiri silk,
Shernaz prepared a mutton dish
and Aunty Sonia's pumpkin tart.
Mr Cooley, I explained to one and all,
was first-rate entertainment, leastways
was when I surprised him late last week
on being told by Jagnath Dahiwal that finally
a replacement from the London FCO
was here to bank the daily takings
from the third floor visa show.

By way of introduction I would play
the simple Indian, he would not hear
from me much talk of shop.
I smartened myself up to dumb right down,
threw black dye into my black hair,
no grey for me at thirty-three.
I took the stairs two at a time
to meet uncalled a new man-of-the-trade.
My friend-in-figures said he'd see me.

I stood to one side at his door
to work my mouth into a grin
before I hunched and darted in
to freeze my face in reverence as
he looked me up and down
once he'd got through the shock.

He sat behind a note machine,
I saw him all at once:
unruly hair and crooked teeth,
a local cotton shirt, short sleeved,
burnt arms, a Bangkok watch
that clattered as he fiddled with
two piles of mildewed tens.

When he rose I saw the Chinos,
when he put his hand in mind
it felt just like a dead man's hand,
or a Bavarian roll mop. Cooley
spoke just slightly loudly,
at the volume of his colleagues:

"It's hot for sure, Ciaodairy,
but my blood thins by the day.
The boys who dive beneath those
moving buses when the rainfall
floods the road . . .
has no-one told them
they're completely mad?"

Glancing at him furtively
while otherwise decrying all the
bird mess on dear Ghandi's cap
I sense he towered over me
but cautiously as he surveyed
with twitching eyes
us masses down below.

More in perplexed amazement
than in fear, though deep inside
his British heart I think the numbers
scare him stiff, he acknowledged
the teeming celebrants
of nature's greatest feat.
So I told him that I thought
the Brits were neat.

Tittle-tattle done, the arm of Cooley
swept out at two green chairs, one
matching table, and with a 'why don't we'
he determined to kill another hour before 5.
How the moment was in need of livening up.
In an instant I became what I can only call
my chitty flicking self with all the shitting down
and shitting still, upgrading to a shit in business class,
how his ribs hurt. I made him wince with agony
as I opined that when you're buying rattan
for the dining room it pays to take four solid shits.

By now I was sadistically primed.
I plucked from deep inside the
subjugated hat the crowning glory:
my come-to-dinner bit,
to meet the wife and children,
we'll have such fun together
with banana leaves while
shitting on my floor, until
I flashed a card and leapt
well satisfied in three bounds
to the door to stroll back past
two hundred years of plumed hats
and the flipside of the visa room
where the pinkies lounge
while we masses shuffle,
away I went to send my
friend an invitation up.
Even so it is poor form
then to accept and stay away.

 

—Daniel Roy Connelly

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