Driftwood

Story 1: The Piano Man

It felt good to step on land again. Anand stamped his feet hard on the ground to be doubly sure and raised a small cloud of dust in the process. The reddish-brown dust of bauxite lay everywhere along the jetty like a threadbare carpet. He hurried on towards the dock gates to catch the bus to town. He had just a few hours of free time and was determined to spend them as far away from the ship as possible.

It was a hot, sunny afternoon in the port of Gove in Australia’s Northern Territory. Anand’s ship had docked that morning. Alcan Gove, the mining company that ran the port for its exports had a bus service to town, as a friendly gesture to the seafarers who wanted to go ashore during their off-duty hours. Australia is like that. One of the few countries in the world that still gives a damn about seafarers who visit her shores. Anand had no company to go ashore with, but he did not really mind. A lone wolf by nature, he had always been comfortable in his solitude.

The hot, dry wind blew dust in through the window of the bus and tugged at his hair and shirt. His lips turned chapped and dry. He put on his dark glasses to keep out the glare of the bright harsh light of the day. All he could see outside his window was a broken waste of desert, the desolate, rugged Australian Outback. And the road ahead, straight and narrow, heading into infinity. In the distance the road evaporated into mirage after vaporous mirage, each only to disappear as the bus came closer.

After about half an hour’s drive, they reached the town of Gove. Three dusty dock workers and the solitary Indian seaman got off the bus. The bus driver told Anand to be at the same spot at 5.30 pm for the return trip. They all gave a friendly wave of thanks to the bus driver who turned and drove away. The three locals walked away in earnest conversation and Anand was left alone. He stood on the sidewalk and looked around.

He felt like he was in one of the old Hollywood westerns in which the tall, laconic stranger walks into a sleepy, little ghost town as silent eyes watch him from doorways, porches and balconies of rotting houses, where the doors hang on the few threads of their hinges and groan in pain with every gust of dry wind. But no, he chuckled to himself, he mustn’t let his imagination carry him away. This was a small town, but quite a pretty, well-maintained, modern one. And there really didn’t seem to be anyone around to watch him on that blazing afternoon.

He stood there for a while, deciding what to do next. More than anything else, he wanted a chilled beer or two, then a local meal and some Internet time. Perhaps later browse around the few shops that seemed to be open. He needed to head back by 5.30, so there really wasn’t that much time to do other stuff. As he started to walk down the main street, he noticed the familiar signs of a McDonald’s and a KFC. But no, he wanted something different to eat. And a tall chilled glass of Foster’s. Or two.

The faint sound of a piano made him stop outside a pub. ‘Eddie’s’, the sign beckoned. There was somebody playing inside for sure. It wasn’t a recording; somebody inside was practising a tune. Anand walked in through the wooden swing doors. Inside, a glass door automatically slid open to receive him with a cool blast of air conditioning. He stepped in, stood for an instant at the entrance to get his eyes used to the dark and then walked in. The place was empty. The décor was Wild West, with the bar counter on the right and a piano on the left. There was an elderly gent sitting on the piano stool, practising a few notes on the keys and a sullen, tired-looking, middle-aged woman in an apron sitting by the bar examining her fingernails. No customers.

They both turned to look at the visitor. The old gent smiled and nodded in greeting. The woman slowly got off the bar stool to fetch a menu card.

Anand took a seat facing the piano and nodded back to the pianist. The older man got up and walked over. He was tall and thin. Twinkling eyes framed by thick grey eyebrows, stubbled cheeks sunk in. Grey hair escaped from the baseball cap on his head in several directions.

‘Hi, I’m Bill,’ he said. The voice was hoarse. They shook hands. ‘You from the ship, mate?’ Anand nodded. Bill sat down opposite him. ‘Where’s home?’ he asked.

‘New Delhi, India.’

‘Aha… India! I thought as much, son. Mary!’ he called out to the woman who was approaching them with a menu card. ‘This lad is from India!’ The woman gave the visitor a stiff smile as if she couldn’t care less, said nothing and waited for Anand to decide on his order. She was an unattractive, sullen specimen. Her forehead was wrinkled by years of consistent scowling, and her countenance seemed drained of any signs of joy or amusement.

Anand placed his order along with a beer. Realising that the old man was in no hurry to leave his table, he ordered a beer for him as well, out of politeness, and received a nod of appreciation. Mary walked away and returned with two tall chilled glasses of Foster’s. Just what he needed. Apparently, the old man needed it as much.

‘That’s my wife,’ Bill said, after a long swig. ‘Doesn’t talk much, does she?’ he added after making sure she was out of earshot.

‘So do you own this place, Bill?’

‘No, son, no such luck. We just work here,’ Bill said, taking another sip of his beer. ‘You know, we’re from India too. Born and raised in Calcutta.’

‘What! How come?’

‘Yes! We’re AIs, son… Anglo Indians. Moved here twenty years ago.’

On scrutinising Bill’s features, Anand realised that it could be true. There were so many AIs who could pass off as Caucasians. Anand had heard of the mass exodus of AIs from all parts of India to Australia and the UK in the 60s, 70s and 80s to seek greener pastures, hoping that they would blend in better with the local populace and be accepted. Except that most of the youngsters who left India with dreams in their hearts and holes in their pockets never studied enough or acquired any qualification to get a real good start in their new environs. Just hoped to get by on their looks and charm. Didn’t work for most of them. Here was a shining example, Anand thought, but wisely kept his opinion to himself.

He found the older man looking at him thoughtfully. Experience seemed to dance on Bill’s lips like a curious child. Anand could tell that this old man had stories to tell, and was dying to find a willing audience. ‘Since you’re a seaman, mate, I want to tell you a story that happened to a friend of mine,’ Bill said. ‘He was a Captain.’

‘I am listening,’ Anand said, sipping his beer. He welcomed it; he had an hour to kill.

‘Well, son, this happened in the late 80s,’ Bill began his story, leaning back in his chair. ‘My friend was Captain on a small bulk carrier docked in the port of Mombasa in east Africa. They’d been in port for two weeks discharging their cargo. You know two weeks is a long time to be in port. Anything can happen.’ Anand nodded in agreement. He did not like long stays in port either. The daily shipboard routine got disrupted, routine maintenance suffered and the ship became dirty and messy with so many dock workers boarding and leaving in shifts day after day. Chaotic would be an apt word.

‘Anyway, they finally sailed from Mombasa and headed south,’ clearing his throat, Bill continued. ‘A day later, the crew spotted two stowaways hiding in the Steering Gear Compartment aft! Yes, two young, skinny black boys lying on coils of rope, scared shitless.’ He took a long swig of his beer. ‘The Bosun hauled these two boys up to the Captain. The Captain asked them a lot of questions but they spoke no English. They had no identity papers with them…nothing.

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