Chance Encounter - The Magic Of The Five

The voice was unmistakably Parsee “So beautiful, listen to what this talented Madarchod writes”

A Man Young and Old:

"My arms are like the twisted thorn

And yet there beauty lay;

The first of all the tribe lay there

And did such pleasure take;

She who had brought great Hector down

And put all Troy to wreck."

William Butler Yeats would certainly have choked and died yet again, had he heard this exact praise. The mischievous Bawa had now effortlessly switched to the Queens English. On the footpath that housed the bookstall he read aloud the verse. He was Yezdi Khambatta, a fellow browser of many a year.

I had made many friends browsing around the footpaths. Like smokers, footpath-book-browsers are a breed by themselves. Each one has their marked out spots like two or three favourite destinations, a few favoured vendors and this is how a gathering of the usual suspects comes together at a location. The past two and a half decades of browsing had turned me into one such peculiar stereotype. There are three stages in meeting people at these browsing zones. The first stage is where no one speaks to one another, neither the book seller to the new prospect nor the other browsers to the new entrant. He is sized and categorized from his first pull. The pull is the book that he picks up first that decides his station among the regulars and with the seller. A quick purchase and his leaving would at times be excused for shyness only if he makes a repeat appearance, which is stage two. Then the vendor would nod at him while the browsers still observe him. It is only after his next visit in the third stage that browsers nod at him and he begins his journey into seriously being counted. Once he is accepted as regular then other browsers and the vendors both start to recommend titles & ask for preferences, share information, on title availability of both location and period. He is now a bonafide member of the club. I have been a diamond class member for years now.

Yezdi was about 70 years old and very much into poetry. Yeats's inspiration Maud Gonne had gone into his creating this visage of Helen of Troy which was passionately enjoyed many miles away from his native Ireland nearly a century later. “This is pure genius, aisa creative Chutyagiri ek Irishman hi kar sakta hai” Yezdi had reverted into Bombay Bawaspeak again. The Irishman would have been proud to have his work treasured but I was not exactly as confident about the same enthusiasm display for the unique praise bestowed upon him, with absolute irreverence. Yezdi was a quirky piece of work. He referred to authors and characters in the first person. This though was extremely peculiar, never had pursued this line of inquiry with him. On noticing what I was looking for, he promptly said, Its Isabhai for you & whispered, you just may be ready for the magic of the first five. There are times when I think he has gone seriously senile. We were after all companions of a location and had never extended our acquaintance beyond this zone. It was the code, a line that fellow browsers never crossed. Isabhai had fresh stock, was the message for me. With a nod of thanks to Yezdi, I started walking across the busy street to the other footpath where that stall was. Isabhai is yet another one of Bombay’s unique component populace. He is simply huge not the baseball player kind of huge, but more like “Jabba the Hutt” (Star Wars) huge. He sits on a large metal folding chair wearing a lungi and a T shirt and if one can spot the chair from under him, I would give that person a medal. He simply spills over the chair from all sides. Isabhai knows his customers and knows his books. His collection is the best around not for its number but sheer quality. He had a natural eye for the rare book. Today though it was not the rare but the specific that I had come for. I looked around and picked up five books and retired into a corner to browse. My titles : The Prince – Nicolo Machiavelli, Arthashastra – Arya Chanakya, Sun Tzu and the Art of War, Shivkalyan Raja – Swami Ramdas, Ethics & Logic – Aristotelian Thoughts.

I have never articulated my utter fascination for books, both new and old. Leisurely browsing at a library, a book store or on the footpath, I lose myself. My techno friendly friends keep advocating the Kindle, a device from which to read E-Books. Store zillions of them into it, save money, weight and improve convenience.

I was yet to be convinced to go down that path. With an E-book device, one can only browse within the confines of one’s knowledge or some ones suggestion. The E-Book browser can never experience the absolute pleasure of landing on a title that has eluded one in the past. I could picture myself picking up such a copy of an author never tried before nestled among other titles, turning the cover and experience the joy of flipping a page.

“From the top my boy, always from the top”, Ramachandran sir’s voice rang clearly in my ears. He had taught us English in the 9^th grade and had instilled this habit in all his students. “The pressure is off the seam as you turn a page from the top. He would insist , always use a bookmark instead of folding a page at the corners. Respect a book and you would be amazed at how it loves you back. The book then speaks to you way differently from the chap who doesn't care for it.”

The smell of a tome, musty and old in used books to the fresh ink of the new, running a finger down the seam of the binding to check its sturdiness, to caressing the cover to check for a blemish, I was a confirmed page turner. Someday in the future the e-book just may offer all these features as an experience but by then I would have moved on.

The busy traffic of Flora Fountain whizzed on, cars were honking, people were yelling as I browsed on, examining the condition of the books; reading a line here and there at random, checking whether there were any missing pages. At Isabhai’s one generally got good stuff and these were outstanding by any standards. I got lost in the pages.

I felt something brush past me again and again while my face was buried in the tomes. The dull dank day vanished and brightness took over.The sounds of the city receded and died. After a while I looked up to find myself staring into the face of one of the handsomest of men. He was tall, very fit as if he exercised every day. He wore a saffron loin cloth and had a flowing beard with hair worn long tied back. His eyes were a nut brown and sparkled with such radiance as he smiled at me; inadvertently I smiled back at this friendly visage and then looked around. There was no footpath; no Isabhai, no city and we were standing beside a cave up on a mountain. There was a large banyan up here in the clearing and sitting on its foundation around was an assorted group of three men while a fourth one paced about in front with a manic energy. The pacing man wore the bare clothes of a Brahmin about to go to a temple, he curtly nodded at me. Among the sitting three, one wore clothes of such magnificence but from an era past and his sharp features and dark black eyes told me he was distinctly Italian. Farther to him sat a plumpish man with a very friendly face obviously oriental with his almond eyes shining bright. He was middle aged and carried a long smooth willow staff. The last of them wore the strangest of costumes quite similar to our lungi and angavastra but worn very much like a Greek toga. Then I looked at his face and he too nodded sagely, he was indeed Greek. What was happening, where was I and who are these people, why was I here and more importantly how did I get here?

The Greek spoke as if he heard me, when I introduce us you will arrive at the answers yourself. My name is Aristotle the Greek there was a time when I was Macedonian but in your times its best to introduce oneself this way. Sun Wu said the oriental, Niccolo Di Bernardo Di Machiavelli from Florence said the guy who I had guessed was Italian, the man pacing up and down barked out a terse Vishnugupta – jeez this was the famous Chanakya and the tall man standing in quiet repose said Narayan Suryaji Thosar – holy cow this was Samarth Ramdas. He just nodded at the books in my hand and said it was time.

Now Yezdi’s quirky message started to make sense. Ramdas continued that there comes a time and tide in the life of every man that he does what he does. It’s a combination of heart, will and love after which he can achieve anything. We are the living proof of it. Living? I blurted out, at once regretting my tactlessness. Ramdas nodded; yes living in fact when you hold our works in your hand we remain alive. We shall live as long as our work gets read, digested and understood. How shall I address you because I do not want to seem to presumptuous and each one smiled now. Whatever you have been calling us so far said Chanakya. I felt relieved because this man seemed so ill tempered that a force emanated from him that made one wary of his presence. Chanakya, Sun Tzu, Nick please interrupted Machiavelli with a charm that was switched on so suddenly that I was dazzled, Aristotle and Ramdas Swamy. Please drop the Swami and use only Ramdas because it’s a contradiction my name and how it has been made popular. When I am a Das (Servant of god) how can I be a Swami (Lord and Master)?

These very questions were in my mind that these guys were answering way before I had even uttered them. Looking at me Sun Tzu said, why waste time on that when we can talk ahead of things to come ? It was then I realized that why these men became forces of nature in their times they walked on this earth. Of all the people in the world what connects the five of you? There have been many before you and after you, why are just the five of you together. Aristotle looked at me and beamed. We are here together because of you, now why did you pick us five? It did come back to me . I tried articulating nervously and said that Heroes and Kings have been recognized celebrated and even worshiped for ages. But it was my conviction that they would not have been great Kings or even reached their station without guidance. Being Guru Pournima that day, the idea had cropped up and I had before me five majestic Kings in King Helu of the Wu dynasty, Sun Tzu smiled, Chandragupta Maurya and his golden age, Alexander of Macedonia, The Medici’s & Borgias of  Rome and Florence and Shivaji Raje Bhosale of Deccan.

Aristotle (384 BC – 322 BC, 62 years)

Aristotle exclaimed that this was what I advocated before it was understood properly. I had a question mark on my face as he continued while the others soberly listened to the great man speak. His voice rang out clearly and his oratory was magnificent. His toga twirled around as he captured the circle and looked straight at all of us. Didn't your mind separate the wheat from the chaff, the sense from the verbiage and step by step arrived at the answer when probed. I nodded quietly. This process in its most simplistic form where the answer is reached by separating the sense from the rhetoric is called Logic. The mind has a natural ability to cull out the useless but it needs practice else the garbage piles up. So beautifully did he put the point across.

 I had to ask him the thing which no historian had clearly answered for me. How did Alexander die? Is it true that you had a part to play in his death? He took a deep breath and paused before replying. He said, Plato was my guru and I studied with him in Athens till 347 BC. Then I was 37 years of age. For the next 4 years I wrote studied and had the best part of my working life creating my thesis on Logic, Live Sciences, Metaphysics but then in 343 BC Philip of Macedonia invited me to tutor his son Alexander. I had refused initially, stating private tutoring spoils and unless there were other boys of equal merit to compete with him he would never make a good King. Philip had vision and he had Ptolemy from neighboring Egypt along with Cassander brought along to keep his son company. My nephew also studied with them. When they were about 12 years old in one of their boisterous plays my nephew was killed at Alexander’s hands. Philip was the man who I looked up to for justice but he kept mum then on account of his son. It would be a lie to say from that day on I did not bide my time. Yet I was true to my job and taught them well. All were bright and after their graduation Ptolemy went back to Egypt. In my ward lurked an ambition to conquer the world. I hated the moor Darius the III and his grand kingdom of Persia and steered Alexander to him. Either ways I would have my satisfaction. Alexander proved to be a brilliant tactician and brave in battle and kept winning all the way right up to the Indus. It is from here with his tired troops that he turned back. He also was injured. An arrow had hit his ankle,his excesses in celebrating battle victories had damaged his liver and he also had a venereal disease that today we know as Gonorrhea. By the time he reached Babylon in 323 BC it was Junos and he was delirious. I had him in my care. In my biological studies I had access to many rare poisons and every single day was tempted to temper his wine glass. But in the boys suffering I laid to rest my ghosts of revenge and he breathed his last. Ptolemy and Seleucus Nicaetor his generals had a difference of opinion and Nicaetor came back as a victor to Macedon. Ptolemy dug out the body of Alexander from Babylon and had him buried in his own kingdom of North Africa naming the port Alexandria. He nursed a hope that the warring spirit of his friend would protect the kingdom. That in god’s presence is the truth. 

Sun Tzu / Sun Wu / ChangChing / Chang Qing (544 BC – 496 BC, 48 years)

I looked at Sun Tzu and asked him Why did he come to write the “Art Of War”? The monk in a sing song voice said China then (2500 years ago ) was only known as the middle kingdom and in it we had provinces that were at war with each other. My education was simple in the temple of the Wu-dan province where I learnt calligraphy, sword fighting, meditation and the Wu-Shu arts. After my education at the age of 30 I joined the court of the principality of Helu. Helu was young and a good administrator but faltered in warring times. His commanders and army had no clue. For two years in his court I simply watched the young King being misled by his generals.By this time I had enough clout in his court and got myself appointed the sole General of his armies. I had no choice then but to kill the then current general who refused to vacate his position. He paused as I asked a question “So you are a warrior?” In the blink of an eye I found myself flying in the air and landing on my back as the plump man had transformed into a speedball. The staff in his hand that I had mistaken for a walking stick was twirling in the air and he had it stop a hairs breadth away from my Adams apple. The others simply laughed. Sun Tzu without any modesty stated, I was the best warrior of my time and all that I have written is from my own experience.

The preparation of an army starts with the idea of a nation. The middle kingdom was forever attacked by the fierce raiding Manchus along with the armies of other provinces. Against them, I allowed this idea to take birth and grow into the land of the Wu. I sacked all the mercenary professional soldiers and recruited from the land; those who have something at stake fight the fiercest and longest. I trained spies and had them garner latest information and keep it updated. Advance information is the key to winning a battle. A prepared man wins because he fights from a position of knowledge. This is the position that allows a man to also avoid a engaged battle and win without bloodshed. This is the greatest of victories when the loss to self and others is minimal. It seemed so natural coming from his mouth and so practical and I told him that his work has now being used most often by corporate businesses. It is a reference book in most management schools. He bowed humbly and said my greatest teaching is the one very few understood which was how to have no wars. Helu and the Wu dynasty after the initial battles ruled the middle kingdom well for 50 long years. I had retired from active life to meditate and it was then that I captured my thoughts and learnings into the “Art of War”. Why is it not the Science of War because victories can come from even numbers inferior, ask him, he will elaborate this point better, he said pointing to Ramdas. War is a state of the mind but its execution is a skill that lies in the realm of creativity because you are managing the most intemperate of resources ever known, your fellow man. With that he sat down and looked at Chanakya.

Arya Chanakya / Vishnugupta  ( 370 BC – 283 BC, 87 years )

Vishnugupta was an impatient spirit and his energy hit me the moment he turned his eyes upon me. He seemed friendly only with Aristotle but then it was only natural, they were two great minds both teachers who lived in the same period of time. They had a lot more in common and had much to share with each other. Chanakya looked at Sun Tzu in the same manner a brilliant student would look at his even more brilliant guru. He had seen me catch that look and said, I was a teacher in Takshashila ruled by the great Ambhi the father of this Ambhi who invited Alexander in. I learned under the great Panini who was the principal of the University of Takshashila and after him I became the head there. At age 32 I felt its time to go back home (Kusumpur, near Pataliputra) and that’s how I landed back in Magadha. It was ruled by Dhanananda who was a degenerate king  but the kingdom had a good prime minister in Amatya Rakshas. As he looked up I asked him “Who exactly was Chandragupta Maurya ?”.

He smiled at my question and said Magadha though well administered had in Dhanananda a man who indulged himself in a whole lot of vices and women. He himself was an illegitimate son of the previous monarch. “Is it true that Chandrupta was fathered by Dhanananda ?

Well who Chandragupta’s father was not known even then. He had to be from a higher family than his mother was sure. His mother. Mura was a maid in the palace of the Nanda’s, hence the rumours, however Chandragupta’s being from a noble family was definite. He was a platoon commander in the army of the Nanda’s. I too was employed in the court for sometime but the Nanda’s insulted me and I left the court. In a fit of temper had shouted back that this Brahmin will bring down your empire in such a fashion that people shall remember your successor far more easily than you. Sun Tzu’s scrolls were transcribed in the library of Takshashila and I had learnt the art of strategy from this work. Chandraguta was the student that every teacher hungers for, quick to learn, having loads of potential and absolute faith in his master. Together we raised an army and won many battles. Sun Tzu is right, most of our battles were psychological and we won them without even having to draw a weapon. Our spy network was strong hence we could spot the Vishakanya sent and we inverted the game. We out thought the Nandas and established the first golden Age of this subcontinents history. Down south Raja Raja Chola & Krishna Devaraya and in the north Akbar came after. No other periods have been titled so. It was then I started writing the thesis on Economics and Administration called the Arthashastra. One European sociologist Adam Smith and an economist john Malthus are rumoured to have drawn inspiration from this work. Boy, I was impressed with the sheer pride that existed in Chanakya…age that even death had not managed to dull.

Niccolo Di Bernardo Di Machiavelli (AD 1469 – 1527, 58 years )

Isn’t it surprising that the more recent the history the less clearer it becomes? Machiavelli had to possess the most perspicacious mind amongst these five was pretty obvious. The Prince was such a work that more could be inferred from reading between the lines than from the lines themselves. This skill of writing and choice of words had conjured up a crafty, evil, manipulator instead of the strangely good looking open faced man facing me. Do not be mistaken, I practiced very hard to never betray my feelings on my face because the times I lived in Florence were very violent. Then I discovered that people read just as easily from a blank face and a closed expression and worked at a unqiue deception which was the approachable friendly face. His frank admission had me laughing out for the first time I was with them.

He said all of our times were very violent yet of them I am the only one who has experienced physical torture at the hands of the same people who I helped bring to power, the Medici’s. Cesare Borgia, have you heard of him? Pope Alexander VI th’s son? Yes, you know your history, good it helps me proceed faster. The pope was one of the most violent of men but his son was infinitely worse. They had designs on all the provinces of Italy which were kingdoms in their own right. Florence, Venice, Rome, Tuscany were the principalities Alexander like his namesake wanted under the ambit of the Vatican. I was in charge of the Florentine army for 3 years and we defeated Pisa but the Medici helped by the Spanish took over Florence and I was relegated to surviving in the courts. Briefly I also served in the courts of the Borgia’s and then back with the Medici’s when they tortured me. Political survival is a game and the Prince is my allusion to the effort invested in surviving through such a time which perhaps was the bloodiest in Italian history. I backed anyone and everyone. The Greeks, he said looking at Aristotle had invented the Democracy and a political system of administration. But I may just be the one credited to have given the word Politics a verb form in "Politicking" and making it sound negative. He laughed his charming laugh then he said, I had to use the only tools in my possession way better than those brutes, my mind and my wits, simply to exist, live and be. I never intended to write a treatise, it was just a satirical mockery of the Medici’s but here are you trying to read between the lines. Read well my friend, I have left as much unsaid, now you go and say it.

Narayan Suryaji Thosar / Samarth Ramdas (AD 1530-1608, 78 years)

 Ramdas smiled and said Machiavelli is right. The more recent the history the more cloudy it appears to be. There are people who call me a saint, which I certainly was not. I chose not to have a householder’s life which the family had planned for me. So is it real that you ran away from your own wedding? I asked. Yes, said he. Simply because why spoil a girl’s life? How did you come to aid Shivaji ? He looked around and said originally am not from these parts but have lived here at Chaphal and Sajjangad the longest. It is here that I met the young man from the Sisodiya clan who had sworn to establish the Mahratta Empire. Basically he wanted to win his land from the outside invaders who were the Muslims from Adilshahi kingdom in Central and South India and the Mughals from the North.

Shiva Bhosle was a single minded man;  he was not the best swordsman though his guru Dadaji Kondeo skilled him adequately, nor was he physically impressive, he was short, but what he had was the gift of leadership, a silver tongue, tonnes of courage and sheer ruthlessness when it mattered. What are u saying , wow, really so?  I asked. He continued, do you know the incident of Chandrarao More…I said vaguely yes I know. He was one of the Maratha chieftains who did not agree to Shivaji usurping leadership of all chieftains. History has romanticized this episode while it was brutal in reality. After More had announced this disconnect, Shiva just attacked his house and had him killed. No fair chance was given, in fact no chance at all. He would certainly have become an enemy later and a powerful one too hence he was squashed, immediately, there and then. So also when he looted Surat not once but twice after because money was needed to raise an army and buy provisions. He was a great man and great men are focused. When he came to Sajjangad, we had met a few times; this is the first time I am referring to. I saw his soldiers all heavy, broad and stocky, they were hardy fighting men but something did not sit right with me. I told Shiva, at this rate you won’t last one year. He was surprised as he had come in from a spate of victories. I told him his men were unfit, have them exercise, do the surya namskar drop weight.  A heavy man sits heavy on his horse, tiring it and reducing the speed, time and distance the animal can travel. He had no spies in his camp and till then his information gathering process was adhoc on an as is where is basis. So you were his spymaster? He laughed loudly. Of course, someone had to be. People being people do not question a religious man and my followers in all temples, devasthanas and muths were spread across the land ideal for just this purpose. I simply deployed them and created the most efficient information gathering system this state ever knew.

They had started talking among themselves. Aristotle and Chanakya walking side by side had gone on into a distance.  Sun Tzu had kept the staff beside him and had closed his eyes. In repose he looked like a marble statue, so quiet that the fly which had buzzed around was now perched on his forehead but did not seem to bother him. Machiavelli was stretched out eating a ripe mango enjoying it immensely and said to Ramdas, this is very good. We don’t have this fruit in Florence or Pisa. Ramdas too turned to go into the cave. All the attention was off me. I looked in pure wonder at possibly the best collection of strategic brains the world had ever produced, casually exchanging conversation totally comfortable in each other’s company. And I had conversed with them. This was fabulous; I had enough material for a thesis and as I stepped back, bumped into an overhanging branch.

***********

It hurt and as I rubbed the spot, my ears rang. I closed my eyes. Opening them, saw that Isabhai had opened the door of his cabinet box next to where I was sitting on the compound ledge. The door had swung with a wind and bumped into my head. I was back on the footpath of Flora Fountain. Paying Isabhai for the books, I walked back wondering what had happened. Was it a dream, a hallucination or something entirely different? Walking on I bumped into Yezdi again. One look at my face and he seemed to know it.  You are wondering now what was it, right am I correct? He asked and I nodded. Arrey Chootyyaaa why bother, just call it a Chance Encounter.

Mumbai Dances...Again

July 16, 2013, The Supreme Court of India upholds the Bombay High Court 2006 verdict squashing the ban on dance bars in Maharashtra as per the Bombay Police (Amendment) Act 2005.

Dance Bar: Liquor Bar having girls & women dancing to film music encouraging patronage of customers who would shower & garland them with money in appreciation. Considered political opinion had it that these were the seedbeds of vice hence needed to be shutdown and they were in 2006, summarily.

Mulund : 20^th June 2013, 2.00 pm

The fan above made a whirring sound and the rain beat furiously outside the dirty window pane, bouncing off thin metallic parapets, creating an incessant beat. The room just an hour ago had heard the bed creak to a more basic rhythm where the couple above had furiously started a battle that began with moans, continued with sweaty grunts and had ended in a whimper. Illicit acoustics never made for good music.

Strewn clothes indicate the man to be a member of the constabulary of the Bombay Police and the stars on the epaulet rank him as a senior Police Inspector. The other clothing is feminine, rather flashy not having seen the inside of a designer’s studio for sure. Just as we are reading this, they were being gathered and draped around a rather comely form of a young woman about 24 years of age. The face is beautiful but the expression in those dark eyes is resigned to that of a chore completed. The man is sleeping, tired from the bout and she completes her dressing up. Looks around for her sandals and purse, searches inside, finds & fishes out a comb to get her hair back into order. She is Roshni, a commercial sex worker, since the dance bars closed back in 2006. Originally from Jabalpur, Roshni had come into the city of dreams to join the movies but reality caught up with her rather quickly. Being good looking and able to dance very well proved to be an advantage. She found work as a second string dancer in Opal Bar. The money was good and there was no compulsion to go with a client who hit on her and they did. She retained her dream of getting into movies while the bar funded her stay in Mumbai. It was a kind city but showed its cruel side when one didn’t have money. Money made Mumbai move.

She sent some money back home to her parents regularly; never had they come to visit her here. She had been free and lived on her terms, life was good. Then the police had come and shut the bars down. The money she saved started to dwindle yet she did not go back. By then news had trickled back home on what she did. The family called her all kinds of names but still took her money, they didn’t have any issue with that. She bitterly recalled this while combing her hair in the cracked mirror. Having no skills, survival was indeed an issue. One of her kindly patrons had asked her out and she had gone with him, got paid. Sporadic work happened in the film industry but there were millions who came to the city in search of work willing to do anything and it was not long before she had hit the streets. She was caught soliciting and brought in front of the senior PSI Vishnu Kadam. He didn’t arrest her but brought her to this lodge for the first time a couple of years back and had his fill with her. Now once in a couple of months he would call her and she would have to come. She gave, he took; there was no commerce, only congress. The bars had opened again and this gave her hope. Amreek Singh the owner of Opal had called her and she had her old job back. She had been tried out and was frontline this time, she was happy there was respect there.  

As she stood up and clicked her purse shut, her hand brushed his trousers hanging on the chair and it fell to the ground spilling his wallet. She stooped to pick it up and saw Kadam’s family in a faded photo. As she was gathering up the money, the noise woke him up and seeing her with his wallet he reacted with a flash and screamed, “You bloody thieving whore”. She was no stranger to foul language but the words had the same impact of a hard slap delivered and something inside her snapped.

“I was going, your purse fell and I picked it up. She said calmly, very quietly with the anger and hurt seething in every word ‘I am a whore, yes...but not a thief. I have always paid a price for what I have taken and when somebody pays me, I give him his money’s worth. Ask yourself who is a thief in this room? Sahab, with you my duty is done, forever, never call me again and even if you do I shall not come, now. She walked out of the room without a backward glance. Roshni was free to dance again

Chembur : 20^th June 2013, 4.00 pm

 The import of her words sank in and Kadam felt ashamed. He almost shouted after her to come back, but knowing that it would expose him to the lodge owner, he resisted. Dressing up he took a taxi to his police station at Chembur. Something in her words had hit the mark and he grew morose. He knew he had lost her and asked the Hawaldar Shirke to fetch him a chai. The Hawaldar came with the chai and dropped a fat envelope into Kadam’s drawer. Testing the envelope, he forgot about the girl and beamed, the collections are improving. Havaldar Shirke said Saheb, the bars have opened again na! A ha.

The last eight years had been tough on him and the rest of the police force. The Home Minister on one fine day had suddenly decided that the dance bars have to close and the police had little choice but to action the diktat. The Police Commissioner had tried to reason with the minister that the move was unwise but to little effect. As Kadam sipped his chai, he thought to himself that every large city requires its whore houses, its dance bars; in fact every civilized city should have them. The city was a conflux of people and people are a bundle of energy. This energy needs an outlet; it keeps the pressure under check. He firmly believed that the whorehouses and dance bars were the “Whistle (safety valve) to the city's pressure cooker, if the whistle does not blow periodically, the cooker could explode” & in the last 8 years it had. Crime had virtually spilled out onto the street. It had become more violent, more graphic and now there was no place to gather the information anymore. The paid informants who frequented these bars had melted away, that the collections had reduced was the other impact. It was pretty much tough to sustain living on a police mans salary. He for one was glad to know that the dance bars had opened again. He also fervently hoped that the jokers in power don’t go and do something as idiotic again and upset the apple cart. 

He bunched up the envelopes into a bag and had Shirke send it along where it would find its way through the upper echelons of power from the commissioner to the secretary who handled it for the ministry. Things were rolling again. Shirke had gone & forgotten his phone on Kadam’s table. It rang out quite loudly but he made no move to pick it up. The caller tune rang out the popular new release “Badtameez Dil”. Kadam’s mood lifted and his foot automatically started tapping in rhythm and kept on even after the tune had faded away.

Malabar Hill : 20^th June 2013, 9.30 pm

In distant Malabar hill which was the bags final destination before it would be emptied and sent back, the same song played at a party organized by Kokilaben aka Kuku Patel. Kuku was the wife of the chief secretary in the home department. A leading socialite married to a bureaucrat, she came from a rich industrial family and the plush apartment was proof of her lineage, it had been her dowry. Kuku gave great charities ( NGO's if one were to insist on a correct nomenclature) and great parties. The party was a fundraiser to one of her charities which had been dormant over the last eight years; in aid & rehabilitation of bar girls forced into the trade. During the time. the bars were on, her page 3 contacts had ensured she got good press. She heroically fought for the bar girls across the lobbies and restaurants of many a five star hotel. She and her coterie had sampled the finest foreign liquor, food and condiments while giving ample sound bytes to the media on the great work being done by them for the bar girls. Then her party had been pooped as the dance bars were shut down. She had screamed at her husband to convince the minister to rescind the order. Three new Michelin starred restaurants were to open up. Without her NGO and an issue to make noise about she would now possibly have to pay. She was damned if she were ever to let it happen. Just imagine the gossip, Kuku Patel has to pick up a tab in her own town, the horror of it all, what would that do to her reputation as a powerhouse hostess ? 

Mangalbhai Patel had patiently heard his wives rant and ignored it. She who rarely got down from her high hillside set & making her way downtown to the dance bars was less than remote. She had never to his knowledge visited a single dance bar but had convincingly operated an NGO dealing with the subject. It was not an easy task and he admired her initiative & drive. He on the other hand was bored to death of her party crowd and was waiting for the bag to arrive such that he could leave. The fake conversation, the innuendo and the musical beds played by his wives friends and their toy boys they maintained was just about tolerated by him. Her family had important contacts and as much as he needed them, they too needed his services from inside the ministry, it was symbiotic. The men were more practical making allowance for the women who chose to turn up their noses at where their fount of champagne flowed from.

He saw Jamila Sircar pull a young man to his feet and sway to the song playing. The fellow an aspiring actor aped the moves of Ranbir Kapoor from the movie to a T. Then he grabbed her in a close hug and they swayed to the music barely conscious of the crowd around. They simply moved against each other.

Mangalbhai’s phone rang;the bag was here. He went to the door, collected it from the policeman who had come from the HQ and walked back into the bedroom. Pressing a button he released a catch and the wardrobe swung aside to reveal a large safe. He put most of the money in the safe, some fat covers from the bag he removed and put them into his coat, shut the safe, and returned the bag back to the courier. Mangalbhai was excited. His friend had phoned him about an old dance bar that had reopened with a great fanfare only for select high profile visitors. Unlike Kuku, Mangalbhai was no stranger to the dance bars. He found them more real than his wife’s parties. The dancing was certainly more sensuous, the promise in the eyes more ethereal, even the liquor tasted better and the dealings were cleaner as they had their roots firmly embedded in the earth-bed of commerce . Commerce to him justified everything. Did not the city danced to the tune of money? Their was power in it and he enjoyed wielding it. Against Kuku’s protestations he left the party at his house and got into the car. Leaning forward to his driver he just said ‘Opal' 
’.

Open & Shut Case : ( Part 2 ) The Case

Open & Shut Case : ( Part 1 ) The Journey

The locality was clearly Bengali, almost a ghetto, of the early migrants into the fast growing parts of suburban Bombay. A strong aroma of turmeric & mustard oil had steeped into everything around. Cats were fat in this locality where fresh-water fish bones, heads, tails and entrails are constants of the refuse bins. The only mice were the men who worked at clerical day jobs quietly and morphed into tigers on their way back home.

Nobody who had seen the house ever forgot it. It was that kind of a building. Houses too have character and if one were to describe this one, it was darkly mischievous. Exactly like the family that stayed here; a large family of many people but few personalities. This was the residence of the Chakraborty’s.

Justice Chakraborty, the man who built this original structure had been a renowned high court judge in British Bombay. He sired three daughters & two sons; Gangadevi, Jamuna devi, Nirmalendu, Sarasboti devi  & Prabhatchandra. His honor’s dash & fire had found its way in only one of his children though, the elder son, Nirmalendu. The judge had typically serious expectations from this son to succeed him in the legal field and the son equally typically had distinctly different ideas. Nirmalendu was brilliant in schooling and had secured admission into the Jesuit run Wilson College. Here he saw his first enacted stage play & Nirmalendu chanced upon his life's vocation & mission. Explosive arguments were the natural fall out of this choice. But the son was made of the same mettle and he persisted. He was hard working too , dropped out of college , went professional early & soon became the most successful drama artiste the stage had ever seen. The judge however untouched by his son’s achievement, refused to attend a single play and died a man unbroken but shamed. The sisters were all married into respectable families and moved on to different cities. Prabhat, the second son had followed his father’s footsteps into law but he never did find the trail blazed by his illustrious father. He had a small seedy local legal practice that attended to minor matters of drafting documents and notarizing them. Years passed and both the sons got married and the number of people in the household increased. There had been servants during the judge’s time too, who had separate quarters inside the house but now a few more were needed.

                                                                                                                 

Nirmalendu was now the head of the family & had added a section to this house, expanding both the family and servant quarters. He also got it painted like the Badi’s of old Calcutta; where the walls are painted a turmeric yellow that grows darker & dirty with age while the windows and door frames painted a dark green remain as glossy as ever. There was a large window that looked out into the street above the main door that opened into the courtyard. This window had thick vertical bars and would be permanently open all day. The two windows on the top floor were forever closed and this is what gave the impression that the house was maliciously grinning with closed eyes. The house was always loud noisy, full of people, there was lots of laughter but very little joy could be traced in the sounds that emanated.

The courtyard of Nirmalda’s badi (house) has an old tall jamun tree around which a broad brick lined enclosure was built up such that visitors who were really not very close could sit themselves comfortably and the privacy of the house remained undisturbed. Shayamoli , Nirmalda’s elegant beautiful wife and the mistress of this house sternly also kept it that way. Left to Nirmalda the world would have been totally chaotic. Nirmalda had held court here with many others who would sit around on the platform or on the floor on most evenings. This now happened more frequently in this year since he had given up the stage. There would be good natured arguments and long winded discussions  on subjects varying from the arts, to the sorry state of Bengal, to as esoteric as to why tea tastes better double boiled when served in an earthen ware pot than when had from in an enamel  cup. She restricted the chaos to the platform yet never ever joined in herself. One could notice disapproval in her eyes sometimes at the loud arguments. Nirmal da was the king and his voice was the loudest. When he had downed his third double of VAT 69 he literally took centre stage and rattled off the poems of Gurudev Tagore to Byron and Shakespeare with equal fluency.

Two days hence would be the festival of Divali. I was just about to hand over the night charge to Inspector Sane at 7.15 am when the call came. Dwarakababu, from the Chakraborty residence reported a serious accident. Three of us had gone to the scene my senior inspector Rahul Sane, constable driver Moreshwar Patil and me, Sub-Inspector Mahadev Ramakant Pinge. Sane took over, asked for Dwarkababu. He turned out to be the servant in the household, and enquired as to what had happened here? He just silently led us up the staircase to the last room on the first floor corridor. Sane opened up the door, took everything at a glance, asked me to stay here and secure the room. He turned to Dwarkababu to ask who the person inside was? Nirmal da, came the answer. He started writing down the names of those who were in the house as of the last night and insisted on meeting all of them. I stepped forward and stood at the doorway and looked inside.

The pool of congealed blood behind the chair told a story all its own. His head leaned back over the back of the chair behind the desk. The neck stretched out as if he had been asked to play the role of a murdered man and like the many other things that he was known for to do well in his life, this too was executed with perfection. The scene had completely taken over with an absolute finality. Nirmalda was dead.

I wondered at the curious choice of words that occurred for the scene before me; it was as if the mind had colluded with the senses mischievously to pick these particular ones from all the words existing. If the truth be told I also nurtured a hope that something fishy would exist in the matter. This was my first view of an unnatural death up-close; hence I tried to keep the excitement at bay.

The scene seemed all the more peculiar because the room looked so neat and orderly. No disturbance whatsoever defined any other presence in the room but for the man who lay there quite dead. Between Nirmalda’s feet lay a roll of paper. I drew it out using a pencil and gently spread it open on the desk with the pencil and another pen preserving the possible evidence that could be later taken from it. The department had been informed and they were sending the forensic team here. Till then I waited outside.  

I recalled the words in the note…“I do not blame anybody for the course of action taken. Rather than live the life of a drunken has-been star I take this way out”...the words were firm and clear but the handwriting was scraggly. The note was not signed. This seemed like a fairly open and shut case. Sane used to say he did not like suicides especially high profile ones as they created tremendous paperwork and strained the already tenuous impression of the police with the affected family, but procedures had to be followed.

The forensic team arrived with the photographer. First in was the doctor who looked for the pulse of the victim, confirmed death & stood to one side. The photographer took over under the guidance of the forensic pathologist. I quietly handed the letter as evidence to the forensic team who glared at me for disturbing evidence. He bagged it with a pair of forceps.

I came out into the courtyard and joined Inspector Sane who was smoking in the courtyard; I had shown him the letter earlier. Silently I shook my head only to find the inspector staring at me with rapt interest. This is not good he said but you are wise to keep quiet. Do not be surprised by what happens next said he ominously crushing the cigarette butt quite fiercely under his feet.

Shyamoli the wife, Prabhat the younger brother, his wife Sunayna, their children Suman and Apu, Sunaynas brother Tapan, Dwaraka babu the servant, Dwaraka babu’s wife Bijoli were present from the family. Taraknath Sinha the son of Justice Chakraborty’s best friend Pashupatinath Sinha had also visited and left. The family had had finished dinner by 9.45pm and Nirmal da had retired to his study. Shyamoli di had prepared the coffee that he enjoyed post dinner and had kept it in his room. Tarak babu had stayed chatting with Nirmal da for a while and had left at 10.15 pm. The main door was locked. Death had occurred by a gunshot wound but no one had heard the sound of a shot as the neighbouring kids had started bursting crackers even before Divali.

The next day’s newspapers were full of articles about Nimalda and his illustrious career. It was painted like a typical rags-to-riches story. It also added instances on how Nirmal da was thrown out of the house by his father the strict judge, which had not been true. How he had started out as a helper in the theater company doing odd jobs and was discovered in the backroom by the director when he had been mouthing the lines of the lead role with a far better conviction than the actor who had the part, which was true; the first lead role and the success that followed and remained with him for more than a decade and a half, his romancing many a lady and then falling for the much younger co-actor Shyamoli Guhathakurta and their fairy tale marriage. The story unfolded in pictures of happiness with the birth of their child and then a tragedy with the accidental death of his son who fell down the stairs of their own house while he was playing Hamlet at the Tapan Theater at Kalighat, in Calcutta. There were rumors of his hitting the bottle after that and the roles dwindling. Cinema also became more popular and how it was anathema to him after the purity of the stage. I came to know more about Nirmal da after reading this. Some newspapers had not been very kind and hinted at his many dalliances with his leading ladies and some even went to the extent of hinting at how this had pushed Shyamoli into the arms of his brother who stayed in their house. I was quite irritated reading this that for some people nothing was sacred in the pursuit of news. However could not dismiss this view offhand as my first impression had been that it was indeed a peculiar household.

Days passed and the crowds had dwindled in front of Nirmal da’s house. It was on the fourth day from the tragedy that we got the complete forensic report. Inspector Sane had clearly told me that we shall only talk after all the evidence is in. It is always better that way especially in family suicides. Till then we can talk to the family and the people in the house.

Dr. Godghate our forensic expert had himself made the report. The report clearly said death occurred due to the gunshot wound with the bullet passing from the inside of the mouth to the back of the skull where he lay. The fingerprints on the gun belonged to the victim only and no other prints were found on the gun. But there were a few peculiarities that also were highlighted. The victim was right handed while the bullet had passed at an angle from the left to the right. Prior to the victim “supposedly” having shot himself he had imbibed a large quantity of arsenic de hydride commonly found in rat poisons and this was found in the coffee cup on his table and through his blood stream. Had he not shot himself he would have died anyway. The poison was the reason why so much blood had flown. There was also an attempt made to strangle the victim with a tie rope of the curtain, the pieces of which had been found at the victim’s feet. The handwriting on the suicide note was not of the victim but of Shyamoli  his wife as was verified from the various samples of writing found from the house. On reading the report I now knew what Sane had meant when he said do not be surprised. Now the darker side of what the newspapers hinted at had started to become clearer.

What do you think now Pinge? Is it an “Open & Shut Case”?

Why would a man try to commit a suicide in 3 different ways? I asked and Sane jumped on it and said because it may not be a suicide at all.

Sane was assigned the case along with me and the commissioner wanted an early closure of this because of the high profile nature of the personality involved. It was discovered that Taraknath babu was the family lawyer and earlier Nirmalda had created a will that had assigned his wealth in equal portions to his family members, there were some bequests to the servants but it was only a month back that he had modified the will and changed it to favor Shyamoli in toto, the minor bequests were unchanged but Prabhat and his family were totally excluded. On enquiry it was found that in one of the gathering of his cronies Nirmalda and Prabhat having downed a few extra fingers of the amber had had an argument. It was some silly matter that escalated and the frustration of the normally quiet Prabhat had given through and serious words got exchanged. Nirmalda took severe exception to his brother’s words and despite the two women trying to cool them off it was after that he had called Tarak babu and changed his will.

On further enquiry Prabhat was remorseful of that incident. Nirmalda had again in a fit of spite referred to it over dinner yesterday in front of Tarak babu and Prabhat had angrily left dinner mid-way and gone up to his room. Shyamoli tried to mollify things but Nirmal da got incensed and he censured her too for defending that wimp who could not stick around to fight his own battle. Prabhat was not seen till the morning except by his wife. Sunayna had slept taking a pill because of the headache that came on because of the showdown. She had woken up groggily only after the police had come into the house. Shyamoli had slept alone as Nirmal da often would read until late and frankly after his boorish behavior she was not keen on seeing him soon. Sane had also done the inquiry and had found that the rumors of closeness between Prabhat & Shyamoli had a grain of truth. Nirmal da at the height of his career would tour often and was not a saint. Prabhat was not married then and living with a beautiful woman in a house there had been several moments of weaknesses for both of them. After he got married it had stopped but even if the fire is extinguished the stench remains. So it happened with Prabhat & Shyamoli. Prabhat's modest earnings kept him bound to this house. Sunayna too had left home more than once due to reasons unknown but had been persuaded to return.

Now the case was solidly prepared Shyamoli and Prabhat were arrested for the premeditated murder of Nirmalendu Chakraborty. They were separately arrested for planning the crime, executing it and tampering with evidence to point it towards suicide. Shyamoli was charged with the poisoning of her husband and writing the letter while Prabhat for attempting to strangle an asleep Nirmal da and failing that shooting him with his own gun and planting it in his own hand. Both claimed innocence but were found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment.

Both Sane and I got promoted after this case.

Years later I met Dwarakababu in the market and he said that he too had left their employ. The house had been doomed right from the start. Apparently after their release from the prison after their term the house had been put up for sale and it fetched a handsome value that was split between Shyamoli and Prabhat and they had left town never to be heard of again.

The case was sordid and often I had wondered that crimes of such kind are largely motivated by Mammon (lust for money or power) or Passion( Love, Hate)  this one clearly fell under the revenge motive and had been properly & quite thoroughly handled from the word go. I had been disturbed by the claim of innocence by both the perpetrators initially though but this had been my first case. With every new case that came my way I realized that very few accused actually admitted guilt and gradually it faded from my memory too…until now

 ---------------------######################################-------------------------  

Chitragupta looked at me and said now do you remember? I nodded. The case had flashed before my eyes & I had lived it again.

He told me that there were some right questions asked by you but not pursued. I was puzzled. You mean this case was not solved perfectly? I was keen to know where the loopholes that we had not plugged were. Chitragupta said there were many things that you diagnosed correctly. After so many years of service you are now an experienced cop what is the first question that comes to your mind when you see an unnatural death? How did the victim die, I said. He nodded and asked, what's the second? Who gains from this?Correct said he. 

So can we revisit the evidence? I was puzzled and not able to figure out what Chitragputa was driving at. I interrupted his flow and insisted on knowing what the correct question that I had asked was? He smiled and the whole narrative flashed on the wall like a power point presentation and halted at “why would a man try to commit suicide in 3 different ways?”. Holy cow...You mean it was actually a suicide? But how... the motive was clearly proven as revenge and it was a premeditated crime. Chitragupta said yes, but only from the opposite end. Do you remember your first impression of the room. Yes , it was a scene. Exactly…the victim had staged his own death. Nirmal da had been cuckolded inside his own house by his brother whom he rated as next to nothing. There can be nothing more humiliating for an achiever who is recognized in his world as a top dog. For more than a year he had planned his exit like the trained actor that he was. He intentionally picked up a fight with Shyamoli. He practiced her writing and deliberately kept the note short , cryptic and unsigned. The note was the stroke of genius that drew attention to it being a murder. He drank the rat poison from his coffee to implicate her completely. Posion is a woman’s weapon. The tie rod he strangled across his neck and broke it such that the weals stayed. This tied in Prabhat. The gun was to ensure he died. I was stunned as the lettering across the ledger disappeared…

Not for nothing was he a great artiste…he always opened his acts with an impact and shut them in style. Chitragupta naughtily said it can still be called an “Open & Shut Case” you know….

Open & Shut Case : (Part One ) The Journey

The crow swooped down on the ghee soaked ball of rice and pecked hungrily. Very soon others had joined him and the rice was finished in no time.  The people around at the crematorium beamed at each other with relief. All the dead man’s wishes from this life had been satisfied, was the general belief, when the crows did that.

My ticket to the other world was now confirmed. The heart had just stopped beating on a lark at 92 years, six months and three days since my birth; not unlike the engine of an antique car, one that is assumed to run forever, giving up one day without any warning breaking down & after a cursory check by the mechanic is relegated to the junkyard.

 That frail aged body had restricted a lot of my motor movements when alive and in an instant now, I tasted freedom again. I conducted a world tour but it finished in a mere two hours, the same tour that had taken Phileas Fogg 80 days. 


Having seen it all now, the other geographies of the world held no charm for me as much as being around my own people and spooking them. Yes, there were a lot of people to spook. I had a rip roaring time scaring the daylights of the neighborhood children, those who had deliberately kept  playing on in the afternoons noisily ( despite requests and then warnings ) during my siesta times. Hence now when they played cricket, I kept floating their ball out of reach in the air till it freaked them out completely. Next on my list was the mean green grocer Dayanand, who refused to look at me and insisted on  speaking to my daughter-in-law only because she was the one who paid his bill. I whistled past and made him drop the vegetables on the staircase. Later also blew his dhoti exposing a dark posterior in the middle of the busy market. I visited the old crime beat and the police station. It was huge fun to rock the chairs of the few officers who enjoyed refusing sanctioning leaves, then after I scared a few fellows while they counted the collected graft. 


Soon I got bored with all this and couldn’t wait for my journey to begin.

The 13^th day dawned and no sooner had the priest started uttering his chants I felt a sensation of an upward pull. In my childhood I had sat on a roller coaster at a fun-n-fair, this was similar. With each sonorously chanted mantra I rose up at a tremendous speed cleaving the clouds. It was a terrific rush. The motion stopped no sooner had it begun. I seemed to have arrived at my final destination which turned out to be a fairly curious building. An immense fortress of clouds, no other description could fit.

It had many gates. Each of the gates had a nameplate on it. Wonder of wonders, every one of them seemed to be manned by the same person wearing a different uniform. The gatekeepers had small nameplates pinned at chest level on their flowing white robes. The closest door read “Pearly Gates” and the name plate on the person standing outside read “St. Peter”, On the next gate where it read “Jannat” the keeper was “Aadam”, I was rushed off towards the third one that read “Swarg “and again it was the same face with “Chitragupta” as his tag who asked me to wait inside in the reception.

The Reception turned out to be a large hall with hundreds of chairs laid out. Some were occupied. At the end of the room was a long wall with many doors. Everyone here seemed to be gliding about in a smooth motion like the ice skaters of the winter Olympics. 


This did resemble the inside of the new Consulate in Bombay at Bandra Kurla, the one that issued American visa’s. A name would flash on a door and an occupant of a chair would get up, glide over to vanish inside. No one came out. After a brief wait while a few more of the chairs emptied, felt a tug and saw that it was my name “ACP Mahadev Ramchandra Pinge” flashing. I too found myself gliding over to the door & go through it. 


Beyond the door was a small cubicle that had a working table and two chairs. “Chitragupta” was sitting in one & he gestured for me to take the other. Looking around curiously & studying the place, I saw on the walls a picture of a red eyed man with an extremely dark complexion. He had fierce moustaches, was holding a mace on one shoulder and a noose loosely coiled in his left hand like a cowboy. Only instead of a horse, he was astride a tall strong but benign looking water buffalo. Chitragupta, who was watching me with a smile said that’s our Co-Founder and CEO Mr.Y. My curiosity was further aroused with his answer. Only a co-founder, does that mean there are others involved in this enterprise? He nodded. This particular section, he said was the most chaotic amongst all. There are 330 million founders in all. Mr.Y was the CEO and took all the decisions. The other founders rarely interfered with this section & being alone it had become Mr. Y’s fiefdom.

What am I doing here? I asked him. He told me that there are a few formalities to be completed before I can be assigned. I raised my eyebrows as he removed a ledger book which seemed more like an accountant’s balance sheet. It had a debit and a credit side. He looked up from it and said that I am impressed, that even after being a policeman all your working life, you have remained relatively clean, which in itself is a major positive factor in your favour. Nodding, told him that I had only one interest, that was to do a job well, close all the cases to satisfaction & I have done just that. 


At that he looked up & asked me “Are you very sure?” because that’s the reason we are sitting here. I looked down and saw all entries on the page that had balanced out had vanished, only one remained, blinking furiously. The words were an amber red. It was the same one that had bothered me when I had officially closed it. But now here it was winking mischievously to haunt me even after my death. 

The high profile case of Nirmalendu Chakraborty….it had become famous as the “Open & Shut” case...it was back…I stared at the blinking red lettering on the ledger & was transported to the venue back in time…60 years ago

(Contd...to part 2 ,click to view)