Spoiler warning: this recap refers to events in episode eight of Indian Summers
Catch up with episode seven here
It’s all gone a bit Pelican Brief this week. Given festivities in Shimla generally revolve around xenophobic singalongs with Coffin & co, and the occasional egg-and-spoon at the Viceregal Lodge, the murder trial of Ramu Sood is unbelievably hot entertainment – and the ladies have packed their sandwiches.
So who will be backing the main players? “I can defend myself,” growls a proud Sood from his cell, a declaration undercut by the fact much of his battered face is hanging on by flaps of skin. Luckily, his family has appointed top Indian lawyer Vinod Mukesh to get him off. On the other side, the British prosecution has brought in Hugh Slater: haughty, smug and possessed of an expression that seems to whisper: “I know you’ve no idea how to tie a double Windsor. But I do.” However, he’s also rigorous and smart, and knows better than to underestimate his opposition. “There’s no such thing as an open-and-shut case,” he says, tersely.
Still, the case against Sood is circumstantially strong. He had a motive for killing Jaya, ran to evade arrest, and the source of his alibi, Ian Mcleod, is seemingly in training for the drinking Olympics – even if our soused wee hero is determined to testify on Sood’s behalf. “You’re more stupid than I thought,” Ramu shouts at him, predicting that once the prosecution start prying into Ian’s private life, he’ll “turn into a drunken fool, just like your uncle”. As gratitude goes, it’s not exactly a bouquet and box of Roses.
In court, Cynthia’s up in the box faster than Gary Barlow after a royal variety performance. She does a good “frail old dear” routine, while perjuring herself and slandering everyone else. Her intention is to paint Sood as violent and deranged. “I think he’s very lucky to have only been charged with one murder,” she announces, probably going on to accuse him of stealing the World Cup and putting that cat in that bin. Slater chooses to harp on about Sood’s recently dead wife (because lawyers are smart, and nice guys). His provocations enrage Sood to the point of appearing violent and deranged. Good teamwork, guys!
On the home front, Sita has been brought further into the Dalal household, presumably to heighten the emotional turmoil when she’s kicked out of it. The family is giving her the Aafrin cheat sheet: apparently, timekeeping and bad breath are his major problems, though in every shot I’ve seen he looks spotlessly hygienic and has never missed a cue. Just goes to show.
At the school, there’s turbulence. Dougie is afeared to cash Ralph’s “generous” cheque, but also to go to the lawyers with their suspicions about who Adam’s father is. Then Ralph himself shows up, but young Adam instantly knows who he is – in the same way Luke Skywalker senses the presence of Darth Vader – and runs into the forest.
Leena, however, summons her courage and takes the stand. Jaya brought Adam to Shimla to meet his father, a man she calls “Devil”. (This is the same name Ralph’s would-be assassin shouted, though of course the world doesn’t know that, because of a trademark Whelan coverup.) Mukesh rewards Leena’s bravery, painting her as a jealous, warring mother figure with motive to murder Jaya after their fracas. Like I said: smart, nice guys, those lawyers.
Faced with Sood’s scorn, Ian is deep in talks with his own counsel, ie a bottle o’ whisky. His house looks like Pete Doherty lost his last roll-up in it, and he’s gone missing. Sunni and Aafrin go looking for him, which gives Aafrin time to triple-check that Sita didn’t deliver the note to Sunni as he asked, and that he has been an unmitigated dick about it to lovely Alice.
It’s time for the inevitable – Aafrin meets Sita in their romantic tomb-strewn hook-up spot, and he gives her the boot, using her failure to deliver the note as a pretext – which is a bit weaselly, as it’s probably more due to his being in love with Alice. Also, he should try Royal Mail, where receiving letters is at best 50/50.
Anyway, back to court, where the action is. Dougie can’t stand the unfair treatment of Leena and protests from the gallery, which causes Sarah to spontaneously vomit. There’s also a shock new witness, the Indian laundryman, who the chattering sandwich-chompers identify as “the man who sublets dresses”. Now that is niche criminality. He saw the killer running away, and found the chappals (sandals) he was wearing abandoned on a rock.
This all feels very convenient. Is he lying for someone? If so, why not just testify that he saw Ramu Sood kill Jaya, hoisting the rock above his head and roaring “I AM RAMU SOOD”? Why this sandal nonsense? Maybe it’s true. It’s artful at least, and certainly more Poirot-like. And it allows Slater to get a snobby racist joke in: “Can you imagine a British gentleman in sandals?” Good one, Slater.
After a pep talk from Sunni, Ian testifies for Sood, which we knew he would because he’s great. “Moments before the killing I saw Sood on his verandah, with all the lights on, looking out for me as a father would for his son,” he says, which brought an unexpected lump to my throat, although it does suggest Scottish fathers push their sons around and repeatedly call them fool. But it’s clear Sood’s is a brand of tough love, doled out because he does not want Ian dragged down by the rotten politics of colony.
But we all choose our path, and Ian’s way is truth, rather than an easy life. The prosecution rip him to shreds, calling him a drunkard, liar, philanderer and reprobate, not to mention a traitor to his own people. “Bloodsuckers!” he yells at their bench, jeopardising the case, burying himself and Sood, and all the more noble for it. Despite myself, I hoped that justice would win out; but with the power and prejudice of the English establishment brought to bear, that was foolishness. Sood is found guilty, and sentenced to hang. The native portion of the gallery is up in arms; hopefully the uproar will extend beyond these walls.
Chez Lodge, Dougie returns Ralph’s money with the words “we are not for sale”, which is the equivalent of an “IOU FA” note. An angry Ralph, who has had a quiet week, tears it up and storms indoors, the camera cutting in close on the Indian-style sandals he wears. Oh, Ralph.
Best pass-agg portfolio browsing
While a dung-eating Aafrin grovels his apology to the blameless Alice, she flicks disinterestedly through his book of pictures. “Do you do landscapes?”
Chai Guevara
Sunni is assisting Mukesh, in order to secure a place at a college of law. The firebrand has been tamed! Or is she channeling her idealistic energies constructively, depending on your point of view. She doesn’t look overjoyed about it, possibly because Mukesh refers to her as his “new chai-wallah”, or tea-maid.
The award for bone-deep delusion
“They were actually starting to like me, after all these years,” wails a publically humiliated Sarah to her unfaithful husband. I don’t mean to kick her when she’s down, but I’m really not sure they were.
They do both hate the English after all
In only a few scenes, Sunni has a good week. Particularly inspiring Ian to do the right thing in court by quoting Kipling at him (before dismissing it as “imperialist claptrap”). I know there are bigger fish to fry at the moment, but is this a legitimate meet-cute?
What do they make of the Welsh?
Roshana doesn’t want her daughter “going off to meet some English chap alone”. When Shamsad reminds her Ian is Scottish, she replies: “Those are the worst of the lot.” Which Scottish stereotypes have penetrated the subcontinent? Tossing the deep-fried Mars Bar to the skirl of bagpipes at 4am? Mystifying.
Speaking of Scottish sterotypes
… Alexander Cobb is doing probably the best drunk acting on TV at the moment, which is much harder than it looks. Witness his sozzled re-emergence, crashing out of the undergrowth with pants unbraced, like a confused, petulant rhino. Magical.
