The Foreigners

Debu got off the bus at Police Bazar. It was Shillong’s high street— home to many of its iconic shopping destinations like Lila Brothers, Radharani Stores and Ratna’s Mascot. It was early evening and the place was bustling with office-goers finishing the day’s shopping on their way back home.

Police Bazar had always been too noisy and crowded for Debu’s liking. But today it seemed like a haven of peace. He felt grateful for the warm, safe embrace of the hordes of people thronging about him. He stopped for a breather and treated himself to a rupee’s worth of chana masala. It helped him calm down and, after a while, he felt that his legs were steady enough to walk back home.

Home was a wattle and daub Assam-type cottage with a red tin roof and a small garden on Upper Jail Road—a residential colony that had sprung up around the high walls of the Shillong prison. Once in a while, a police van would arrive at the gates of the prison and deliver its consignment of sullen-faced convicts, hands tied behind their backs. Debu would watch with a fearful fascination as they disembarked from the van and slouched to their new lodgings at the far end of the prison grounds.

When he was about eight years old, Debu used to have a recurring nightmare. He would dream of the prisoners breaking out of jail and sneaking into his bedroom in the dead of night. Grinning evilly at each other, they would pounce on him and swiftly bundle him inside a thick blanket that muffled his cries. They would then spirit him away to some nameless place, where they would commence to torture him in a variety of unspeakable and embarrassing ways. Why me, why me, what have I done?—he would yell in his dream. But he would never get to know the answer, for he would always wake up at that point, quaking in fright. It was a fear that gnawed at him for weeks on end, until one day, his father came to know of it.

Debu’s father sat him down for a man-to-man chat. There is nothing to be scared of, he assured Debu. Jail Road prison is the second-most secure prison in the whole world. Which is the first? Debu asked. Alcatraz, his father whispered into his ear, in a voice filled with dread. It was a most terrible prison where only the most blood-thirsty and dangerous criminals were sent. It was located on a desolate island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean—and no one had ever escaped from it alive. The few who had tried had been shot or drowned, or eaten alive by sharks.

Jail Road prison was equally secure, his father went on. Of course, it was not surrounded by an ocean or patrolled by man-eating sharks. But no one in living memory had ever escaped from it. And even if someone did (which they never would), his father said nonchalantly, there was nothing to worry about. Why not? Debu asked. Because, his father replied, the police were very clever. Much cleverer than the chors. That is why they had built Police Bazar right next to Jail Road. Every inch of the locality was bristling with policemen. But most of them were plainclothesmen, which is why no one noticed them. Any prisoner foolish enough to attempt a getaway would be caught at once and thrown right back in. We are lucky to have so many policemen here in Jail Road to protect us, his father said. It is the safest place in the whole world— after Alacatraz.

That was one of the things that Debu really liked about his father—the way he could make his fears go away with a simple chat. So, when he arrived home that evening, it was very comforting to see his father seated in his usual chair on the verandah, sipping on his tea and puffing at a cigarette.

‘How come you are home so early today?’ Debu asked. ‘Business is bad,’ his father shrugged. ‘The farmers are all busy at the Shad Suk Mynsiem dance festival. No point in keeping the shop open.’ Debu’s father, Mr Dutta, owned a small pharmacy in Iewheh, which in Khasi meant big market. True to its name, it was the biggest market in Shillong, much bigger and far more rustic than its urbane cousin, Police Bazar. Farmers from the nearby villages came here to sell their produce—vegetables, poultry, beef and pork. They were simple, hardworking folks, largely untouched by the complexities of urban life. They would often drop into Mr Dutta’s shop for a quick chat over a kwai.

The farmers were pleasant company but poor customers. They were blessed with robust health and hardly ever fell ill. And even when they did, they needed a fraction of the medicines that a city dweller might need to get well. It wasn’t easy running a medicine shop in Iewheh, and Mr Dutta had to work hard to make a living. He did not earn a great deal but was happy to make enough to take care of his small family.