The Easy Day Was Yesterday (17 page)

The old man proceeded to give me his first lecture which went on for about 10 minutes. He knew I couldn’t speak Hindi, but that didn’t stop him from serving it up to me. To appease him, I picked up a packet of biscuits and ate one. He shook his head and walked out.

My cage had dried from the morning mopping, so I lay down and tried another Sudoku number. As I settled in, the cage began to fill with smoke; it literally poured through the barred hole in the back wall. This hole was about three metres up and near the top and was about 30 centimetres square. I threw on my boots and walked around the back of the cell block to see who was making smoke signals. Three blokes were gathered around a small oven made from clay trying to get a fire going, but the thing was just spewing white smoke, most of which went straight into my cage. I didn’t actually mind because the smoke cleared out all the mosquitoes. The three blokes shared the oven and spent most of the day preparing food and chai. The oven itself was a simple construction and there were about five of them scattered around the yard, all owned by someone. The oven was about 30 centimetres square with a hole in the front for the wood and air intake and a hole on the top where the frying pan and pot sat. One man prepared the food, another sorted the coals, while the third cooked and sat in front of the oven fanning the fire. When they saw me watching them they smiled and offered me some chai. I said no, but thanked them and went back to my cage to continue with Sudoku.

About an hour later, Manish came and told me to go to the Warden. I slipped on my boots and one and only shirt and wandered to the office. There were three people in the Warden’s office: the Warden and two others. A young Indian bloke introduced himself as the Sub-District Magistrate and the older bloke with him was his assistant. Both were clearly well educated and spoke very good English. I felt embarrassed that I was talking to these important men wearing my sarong. They told me not to worry about what I was wearing. Apparently the Sub-District Magistrate had seen the article in the newspaper and, as the prison came under his jurisdiction, he had decided to visit me. We spoke for over 30 minutes and he explained that his position was similar to the district Mayor, except that it was a government-appointed position. He told me not to worry. He had read the charge, Magistrate Triparthy was a friend of his, and both believed I’d only be here for a few more days. He told the Warden to send someone to buy lemonade and we all had a glass. It tasted good. As he left he asked if I needed anything. I couldn’t think of anything, so said I was fine.

‘What about a mosquito net, do you have one?’

‘No I don’t,’ I said.

‘I will have one sent to you this afternoon. You must treat me as a friend and ask for whatever you need; don’t hesitate. The Warden has my number and you can tell him you want to talk to me any time, okay?’ ‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’

I walked back to the cage wondering what all that had been about and whether the Sub-District Magistrate was just another guy who wanted money or something else from me. Frankly, at that moment, I’d have paid anything for this drama to be over. After a nap and a battle with the swarms of flies, I was again summoned to the office. On the way I asked Manish if one of the visitors was a white man.

‘I do not see, but I think.’

The Australian High Commission guys had arrived. Apparently they had a hell of a time getting to the gaol as Araria is so remote. They had flown two hours from New Delhi then driven for five hours. At the end of the day they would drive four hours back to a hotel. I felt for the poor bastards and cursed myself for a wanker for asking them to make this effort for me, but I really needed their help. One of the guys, Craig, was a consular officer and the other was a locally employed staff member. They didn’t have much for me at this early stage and really had little to offer. Their powers to intervene or influence were nil. I asked them to speak to Ujwal, the Sub-District Magistrate, my lawyer and the SP. I also had to sign some papers to say that I would pay back any money lent to me by the Australian government and to confirm the names of people to whom DFAT could release information. I confirmed Sallie’s name. Craig handed me an envelope containing paraphernalia offering assistance to those in gaol overseas. Many of the brochures I’d read during my time inside foreign embassies around the world and there I was scanning the brochure for any clue for a way out of this mess. Craig also gave me a bag with some bottled water, a bar of chocolate and a novel. He asked how I was being treated, but added that he couldn’t doing anything to ensure I received better treatment than the other prisoners.

‘Mr Sing is being very kind to me and I’m grateful for everything he is doing,’ I said, using the opportunity to suck up to Mr Sing in front of Australian government officials.

‘Thank you Sir, for your treatment of Mr Jordan,’ added Craig helpfully. Mr Sing just wobbled his head and said, ‘It’s our duty to look after him properly.’

‘Well, thank you again. Would it be okay if Mr Jordan used my cell phone to make a two-minute call to his family, Mr Sing?’

‘That would be fine,’ said Mr Sing, wobbling his head.

Craig entered Sallie’s number into his cell phone and pressed call. I tried to leave the office for privacy, but Mr Sing asked that I stay in his office. Fair enough, I thought.

Sallie answered and I felt myself plummet into depression. The visit from the High Commission staff had made me feel like Schapelle Corby or the Bali nine, and then hearing Sallie’s voice had made me lose focus on what I needed to say to her. But Sallie took control and described Amrita’s conversations with the SP and his reassurance that everything would be fine. The IFJ had gone into full swing in Australia, Nepal and India. The Federation of Nepali Journalists was visiting the Indian High Commissioner to Nepal and the Nepali Prime Minister demanding action. Sukimar, the IFJ representative in India, was talking to the Home Secretary daily demanding action, and my journalist friends in Australia were calling government ministers there demanding intervention in this matter. In fact, Sallie said there weren’t too many federal ministers who didn’t know who Paul Jordan was. Bloody hell, more embarrassment. She told me she loved me, I told her the same and she was gone. Craig told me they had to go and visit a number of people, but would be back tomorrow, hopefully with some good news. I shook their hands and returned to the cage.

About an hour later I was again summoned to the office. I thought Manish would be getting pissed off with all my visitors by now. It was Ujwal and I had to talk to him through the gate of the entry room. Ujwal had brought two other Nepali journalists with him for support. He had just come from Magistrate Triparthy’s office with good news. Triparthy had said I could be released today, but most likely tomorrow, if the paperwork from the police arrived in time.

‘That’s great news, mate. Let me tell you, Ujwal, I won’t be letting you take me for any more tourist rides,’ I said with a laugh.

‘Yes, we made a huge mistake and I don’t want to come to India again.’

‘Me neither. What will you do now?’

‘We will go to the SP’s office and ask him to write the report quickly.’

‘Thanks, mate. Hey, do you have my wallet?’

‘No, but I took some money from it to pay for the lawyer and some other things.’

‘No problem. Can you give me some money, but in small notes. I need to give some to someone in here.’

‘Are you being threatened?’

‘No, no, no. There’s an old guy helping me and I want to give him some money.’

Ujwal handed me some notes and got smaller denominations from the other two journos.

‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘Yeh, could you please go to my bag at the hotel and get my book and my thongs?’

‘Okay. I will bring them tomorrow,’ Ujwal said as he wobbled his head and handed me a plastic bag with three bottles of water and two packets of biscuits.

‘Okay. Thanks, mate. Bye fellas.’

Three heads wobbled and they were gone.

Back in the cage I immediately started reading the novel Craig gave me. I wondered whether this wasn’t some perverted humour on Craig’s part. The novel was called
Primal Fear
and was the story of a nutcase in gaol for murder. But it was a good, thick novel and was a great relief from the Sudoku puzzles. The fan wasn’t working due to a power outage, so it was hot and the flies were torturous. It occurred to me that the fan never died at night. They obviously had a generator to keep the lights on all night, but it didn’t matter during the day. When the fan was on it was enough to blow the flies off me and give me some respite from their torment.

The old man walked in and was followed by Sanjay Pandi. For some reason that I couldn’t determine, Sanjay was also in the sick cell next door. Sanjay was about 6 feet 2 inches (188 centimetres) and built like a toothpick. He spoke a little English and insisted on calling me ‘Sir’ despite my pleas for him to call me ‘Paul’. Sanjay was a nice guy, but beyond annoying. You know the type of bloke? He would give you the shirt off his back, but had no social skills or comprehension of personal boundaries, and it could be painful to be around him, but I could never say he did anything wrong. I’m sure Sanjay wished he had been selected on the first day to sweep the floor of the cage and then he might have been my helper, but thankfully he wasn’t.

Sanjay spent a lot of time telling me about his crime. He’d been found guilty of murdering his wife, but insisted she had committed suicide. Having only known Sanjay for a short period of time, I thought he didn’t seem to have it in him to murder someone, but I could see why his dear wife might have considered taking her life. After five minutes with him I considered the idea myself. Sanjay was a former policeman who was arrested by his colleagues for the murder. Apparently the local police commander told him he would drop the charges if Sanjay paid him US$1000. Of course Sanjay didn’t have that sort of money so he went to prison and then his five sons lived on the streets begging for money. We were in the poorest state in India so I don’t know who they begged from. Sanjay annoyed the shit out of me by walking into my cage at times when I just wanted to be alone. Both Sanjay and the old man sat against the wall and just hung out. I decided to pull out the bar of chocolate and broke it onto three and we all munched on Cadbury’s chocolate. They were both ecstatic. I was certain they hadn’t had chocolate for a very long time. In fact, the look of surprise mixed with delight on the old man’s face made me think he’d probably never tasted it before. When we were done the old man got up to leave and told Sanjay to leave as well. I was starting to like the old man. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but he seemed to have taken over caring for me.

Sanjay walked back to his cell and I called the old man back. I dug out 200 rupees and pressed them into his old, wrinkled hand. The old man’s face lit up and he thanked me over and over. I felt guilty because 200 rupees was about $3, but we were in gaol and the old man was beyond poor. I settled into the hessian-covered concrete and read some more.

About an hour later, a guard walked into the cage and threw something at me. I started, wondering if I was about to get the beating I’d been expecting all along. The object landed at the entrance to the cage and the guard walked away. I hadn’t seen that guard before, but he didn’t look too happy. I retrieved the bundle and realised it was the mosquito net promised by Sub-District Magistrate Bala. A few minutes later, the same prisoner who put the nails in the concrete walls so I could hang my clothes walked in with four nails and a hammer. He belted the nails into each corner of the cage so I could tie the mosquito net up every night. I thanked him and he was gone.

At around 5.00 pm I was again summoned to the Warden’s office. When I walked in, Mr Sing pointed to the phone and told me, ‘Your wife is on the phone. She is not allowed to call on the phone. It is not allowed.’

‘Okay, Mr Sing, thank you.’

Mr Sing acknowledged my thanks with a wobble of his head.

It was nice to hear from Sallie and I wondered how I’d go tomorrow not hearing from her, although I was convinced I’d be out of here tomorrow anyway. Sallie told me everything at home was fine. Trevor had told my son, Sam, who was handling things well. Sallie was upset that she couldn’t call me any more and said she would keep pushing it with the gaol. I asked her not to as I didn’t want to piss the Warden off. She told me the company had agreed to send her over if I wasn’t released in the next few days but, like me, she believed I’d be out of here very soon.

The old man was waiting when I walked back to my cage and put pressure on me to have my freezing bucket bath. Then Satya, the politician, came by and we went for walk around the yard.

I now looked forward to the nightly lock-in as it was the only time I had any peace and quiet. As I now had the book, I decided to read for as long as possible into the night. I thought I’d start staying awake at night and sleeping as much as possible during the day. My rationale was that the nights seemed to go faster while the days just dragged on forever. I spent the first 30 minutes setting up the mosquito net ensuring the correct tension on the strings so the net touched the floor and the sides were tight enough not to pull out the nails. The fan blew the net all over the place so I put full bottles of water at each corner to hold the net down. Finally I was set for a night without the threat of being carried away by the usual mosquito squadron.

Thursday 29 May

At 3.00 am the singing started followed by a beating about 20 minutes later. I didn’t mind the early wake-up as I wanted to sleep during the day and had only been asleep for three hours. The singing was awful and, to be frank, I felt like digging a hole through the wall and giving the singer a decent beating as well. The screaming and crying stopped at around 4.00 am and, by then, I already had the light out of the Calvin Kleins and into the socket and had read about 10 pages of the book. The caveman walked past and, despite the light being on, decided to shine his torch in my face and deliver his usual greeting, ‘arrrggghh’.