The Bodyguard

I had gotten quite tired with the bustle of a large city and just craved for some peace & quiet. The constant hustling and the demands on my time and favor had finally got to me. A small town with its own quiet surroundings seemed like a good idea; one that may refresh the mind and help focus on the immediate task of creative writing.

Then I told people around me that was looking out. In our country the relationship tangles creates lots of disadvantages but there can be some positives too. One being if you keep casting stones in this pond some ripples are bound to reach back to you. It is quite another thing though to matching the ripple to the stone. Opportunities are like these ripples and one soon came by me. The source of this one was actually quite simple to trace too. It came from the Uncle of the friend of the sister-in-law of the greengrocer from whom my current land lady brought her vegetables. The Uncle belonged to a small town whose claim to fame was a fiery mutton curry, a temple, black soil and footwear. It had in its midst a local English language magazine that had a position of an editor recently left vacant. It sounded good. However was not too sure till the Uncle himself came to have a look at me. He had carried his lunch box with him. It was the mutton curry that tilted the decision in favour of this assignment. Now, here I was in the spacious and surprisingly cool office on the first floor of a printing press, the same one that brought out the magazine. One issue under my editors pen was on the stands and had been fairly well received. A reprint was on for fresh copies.

It was that odd hour of the day when the intensity of the harsh bright sun has dimmed and the time of the long shadows is not yet here; an hour suspended between the afternoon and evening. I was composing an article on the rising prices of sugar and the open window gave me a view of the golden cane swaying in the fields nearby. An article on the politics of sugar in this part of the country is a great filler that uses up the pages & makes for a good debate.A safe strategy employed by most magazine editors in varying proportions and made me no exception. The finishing touches on it were being applied, when I felt a draft as the door opened and there he was.

A man of indeterminate age who came in closing the door behind him. Some people bring in their own atmosphere and such was the case here too. He wore non descript soiled clothes of the locals with his cap sitting askew a head full of dirty grey brown hair; browned by the elements and grime. As he came close the smell of rotten molasses hit me. Immediately knew then that I was in the presence of one who was aerial bound on the wings of Bacchus. "Hello" said he in the local language. And as i stared he sensing my appraisal asked me "What in your opinion is my age?" "Fifty five? Sixty?"…I hesitatingly ventured. He was old but seemed relatively fit though. Then he smiled a smile of such charm and said "I am Jiva Mahala." "Jiva who?" I asked him and again he smiled that curious smile and looked at me and said "Everybody would know whose bodyguard I was but they remember not my name. I personally guarded Shivba", said he. “Shivba who? You mean Chhatrapati Shivaji Raje Bhonsale?” I exclaimed incredulously. He nodded solemnly and a curious eeriness crept into the room. The wind had stopped and the shadows started casting themselves on the walls.

In this profession one encounters many a crank who has a story to tell and one cant be more careful. But this seemed to beat all of my previous experiences and I was not too sure how far this would go. Petrified and yet fascinated kept watching him as the quiet of the place that I had sought a few months ago now suddenly started seeming quite spooky. That would make you how many, I stuttered about 380 years old? He said 383 son and was born in the same year as Shivba. It was I who saved his life. I was with him even when he took his oath of “Sampoorna Swarajya “( Total freedom )in front of the goddess Bhavani." " But how..now and here?" I asked as I found my lucidity completely gone in front of this stranger. "You still don’t believe me I guess? Look at this" and from the folds of his clothes he brought out a “hon” a coin from the old era. I looked at the coin and it seemed like the real McCoy no doubting this ( Had some knowledge about coins ).Jijabai - Shivba’s mother gave it to me . "But how come I have never heard of you?" Said I and he told me that he blamed a lot of chroniclers for missing him. He said "Over the years have met a lot of them had even gone and seen Angus Maddisson in 1700. He was here then & was in the process of writing "The World Economy". I asked him to include the “hon’s” minted during Shivrajya. Maddisson said he in his sing song voice liked this coin so much that he offered to buy it off me, but I refused." Jijabai had blessed him with this coin and eternal life for saving the life of Shivba and that’s how he came to be here still. "In the early 1900's I had even met the firebrand bramhin leader Lokmanya Tilak. Adviced him to keep the valor of Shivaji and his history in mind when he fought the British. Soon after which was the partition and the Hindu – Muslim riots, a sad bloodbath.I was in the state of Bombay during then. This immortality thing can force you to see a lot, he sadly said. With time even a blessing becomes a curse, I just listened completely fascinated as he went on.

But how did you save Shivba and where? His eyes shone as he narrated the time of his training. He was the best dandpatta (a flexible sword of super fine sharpness) wielder of his time and hence was appointed to guard Shivba’s back when he met Afzal Khan at Pratapgad. Do you know this atleast? I nodded as this was one of the legends on which the stature of the great Maratha warrior had grown. The whole day had gone by in my polishing the “Wagh nakhis” (tiger claws). Shivba had worn then. He expected treachery from Afzal Khan in his tent. As we descended down from Pratapgad, Shivba told me Jiva remember it will be just you, Sambhaji Kondhalkar and me who will meet the Khan. Sambhaji remains outside but you and I will go in. The Khan won’t be alone and while I handle him you shall look after the rest. Where is your patta, is it hidden? I had wrapped it around my waist on which hung a sword. In the Khans camp, our swords were taken from us when we entered the tent. The Khan was a huge man. He had with him his loyal and brave slave called Sayyed Banda. When the Khan embraced Shivba I saw him withdraw a khanjar and I shouted a warning. But I need not have worried as by this time his stomach was laid bare by Shivba. It was then that Sayyed Banda rushed him from the back.but Shivba's tiger claws were stuck in the Khans robe and he was in an awkward position.My patta flashed & whizzed like a snake of destruction. I had aimed it at Syyed's shoulder of the sword hand. Both the sword and the hand holding it were severed cleanly and dropped to the ground. Syyed had not felt this at all as he rushed Shivba. But then when he saw the sight of his own severed arm down he almost died from the shock. I should have killed him but I rushed out.

As the Khan stumbled to his palanquin outside Sambhaji Kondhalkar slit his neck before he could raise the alarm.Shivba grabbing Sayyed Bandas sword killed off Krishnaji Bhaskar - a Brahmin who did the chaakri (service) of the Muslims. We ran out without anyone knowing and then the army attacked. We had won decisively and the path to Hindavi Swarajya paved then. My throat is quite parched. Do you have any paava (local liquor)? I shook my head. Never mind said he and just as silently he had come he reached the door. Then turning back said "Set the record straight. Write about me." I nodded and uneasy though I felt, was relieved when he was gone. It was a fantastic tale.

The next day the sun rose bright and strong as I went out into the small market. Here I saw him again.This time he seemed different and was sharpening knives & other blades of the people under a mango tree. Sitting on the charpoy of Tukaram’s chai stall I ordered tea. It was then Uncle came over and joined me. I told him about my last nights encounter. Uncle smiled and said Jiva is our town's knife sharpener. Long ago he found an old coin in a fort nearby and there are several such coins that turn up. Most of the times he is quiet and good but in the evening he goes on a binge & by late evening is roaring drunk. Then he imagines he is Jiva Mahala, Shivaji’s bodyguard. He is an educated man as he has done his schooling till seventh and used to be the history teachers favorite child. This I heard from my father said Uncle. Then he got married and his wife died in his daughters childbirth.Jivni grew up into a winsome girl and fell in love with late blacksmith Afzal’s son Sayyed. In those days it was unheard of marrying outside your community and so they ran away to Bombay. It is rumored that Jiva shamed by his daughter here followed and caught up with them there.He had with him his koyata ( the curved heavy blade used for cropping and coconuts ). He chopped off the boys arm and he would have killed him too in the next blow but it was Jivni who came in the way. It was her neck that received the blow. Jiva spent 14 years in the Agripada jail and returned back. It was then he started drinking.

As I walked back to my office Jiva was still at his wheel sharpening. The strange tale that he believed in, ran across my mind. "Set the record straight" was what he said. In the stupor his mind had refused to acknowledge that he had done the deed himself. Looking at the wind swaying the cane and the open skies, there came a sudden longing for the sound of a car horn , I was missing the rush of the city.

Memory

He felt the cold metallic touch of the stethoscope and did not like it. The Doctor’s face had lost the smile it normally carried. As he was very sternly asked “How long has it been since you have taken a break? Did I tell you to go easy, or not?” smiling back indulgently said “Arrey Doctor, you relax first.” Dr. Phadke continued in his reprimand saying “Even if you are relatively young (he had just crossed the big four oh in June this year) things don’t look good; especially that bump on your head. We should get it tested. What is now forgetfulness can have the possibility to blossom into a complete memory loss and you may just find everything erased off your brain. Let’s test while you take rest and have it easy" This conversation had taken place a couple of days back.

He called out the customary goodbye to his wife in the morning. As he reached the door she somehow managed to be there before him and very casually flicked the few hairs that had fallen on his collar, brushed his back, inspected him and passed her Ok. Years of practice had honed her routine too. He looked around the house & was pleased with what he saw. The business and the house were his pride along with his books; those he collected, read and reread with a passion bordering on the manic. It didn’t vary much this routine of his as he considered it. This was his world and he worked very hard for its tranquility. The doctor’s words had stayed with him though.

He felt dizzy when the floor vibrated under his feet. As he looked down, he could see his fallen trousers & he realized he was siting in the toilet of a train. He definitely had a name but it seemed to elude him. Curiously he started searching in his pockets for some clue. All he did find were two neatly taped bundles of 1000 rupee notes with the bank seals intact. No branch written there either, the seals just said “State Bank of India”; Rs. Two Hundred Thousand in his pocket and one card ticket to Mumbai, nothing else. As he pulled up the trousers he noticed the cut. It was pretty good and the material seemed to be of a fine quality too. Hurriedly buttoning up he looked in the mirror. A smooth face with mischievous dark eyes stared back. The hair was jet black and all there with a few flecks of grey giving the face a rather distinguished air. He came out and turned into the compartment searching for a familiar face but his memory made them all strangers. He then noticed a man get up with a smile to give him room to pass. He saw the seat empty beyond and without any preamble sat in it.

The man next to him was reading the newspaper was similarly attired. In a friendly manner common to long distance travelers who make small talk, he asked “Are you one of us?” then without waiting for his reaction continued “You must be. What’s your name?” The question was posed in Marathi and automatically he found himself answering in the same language, “Dhananjay Kulkarni from Pune - call me DK.” “Hi DK, Makarand Dixit and am from Karad. I have joined the association just this year” said the man. “And I am told that the venues sure are degrading day by day for our conferences. Had they told me this earlier I would have saved myself the membership participation fee. The Retreat on Madh is a nice property but the stink of fish can be quite irritating. Thankfully it’s away from the main city, yet not so far off that one can't see it if the convention gets boring. I am into plastic bags and with the government defining thicknesses it’s getting tougher. It has happened since the floods in Mumbai and how about you?”

“I am into designing and labeling” said he in response. “I thought so as you have that look of the creative man from an air-conditioned atmosphere.” He just smiled to this observation. “DK take a look at this he said pointing to a small bit of news. Another of these lost memory cases reported missing and may be wandering about. After Aamir Khan’s Ghajini everybody seems to be having a penchant for memory loss.” He glanced at the news item and it read…””Ajay Kanetkar , a Chartered Accountant with his own successful practice in Kolhapur withdrew a rather large sum from his bank and has gone missing.”” “I am sure said Makarand that he must have run away for a tryst. DK I wish I could do that. My kids, I tell you, the noise that they make in the house makes the machinery in my factory seem peaceful.” Laughing, he just leaned back and closed his eyes.

He was herded by Makarand into the waiting bus for the delegates arranged to take them to the venue. DK and Makarand reached the hotel lobby. Removing a few notes a fresh reservation was obtained in his name when he said that his luggage was lost and with it his papers. He told Makarand that he would be skipping the conference, to arrange for clothes and stuff. “Oh, have fun said he, I wish I could” and they parted. Two days passed in a blur. DK was how he started calling himself, as he set out in a taxi, exploring the mega polis. Along with a curious thrill what he acutely felt was a sense of absolute freedom. He wandered about exploring the street shops of Linking Road at Bandra and later as the sun reduced its intensity ambled onto the shoreline of the Bandra Causeway. Constraints if any, he realized to himself are more expectation driven and social in nature. The moment a person decides to step out of them, deny them, ignore them or even break them then nothing else matters. There shall be a price to pay for it, for this absolute freedom else you end up being shackled by convention; Idle thoughts churning in his mind as he walked alone, knowing no one and no one knowing him. He had adjusted to this new state quite smoothly. He actually felt liberated and liked the feeling. Looking up at the crimson sky he saw that it was getting late & decided to turn back to the hotel.

It was when he was crossing the lobby after retrieving his key that he felt the tap on his shoulder and turned. A fat portly man who had just checked out was beaming at him. “I thought it was you Kanetkar, what are you doing in Mumbai?” DK just brushed past him and said “Sir, you must be mistaken, I am Dhananjay Kulkarni and am with the Plastic Mfrs and Accessories Services Association and in a conference here.” Swiftly he crossed to the elevator and came to his room leaving the man staring at his back in puzzlement. Explaining his fantastic situation was just too embarrassing and he thought that the way he handled it was quite the best given the circumstances. He ordered room service not wanting to run into the man again should he still be around for dinner.

The next day morning he came down from his room for breakfast that was laid out at the poolside. He observed an elegant lady of about his own age, sitting at a table near the pool. As their gazes met he saw her looking back at him with a half smile. As he collected his plate and looked around for a place to sit the woman waved out and invited him over. Puzzled, he walked over and setting down his plate looked at her. "Are you sure you know me?" "No" said she “I was never ever sure of that”. He said "What if I tell you that my name is Dhananjay Kulkarni from Pune?" "I would only assume that you have not brought Shalmalee along with you?” She said in the same mischievous banter. “Have I changed that much since college Ajay?” Again that name. She seemed to know him and someone called Shalmalee . But now his responses as DK were automatic. He said "I am afraid my memory is giving me a problem." "It used to be bad even then when you had forgotten my birthday and it became more so after Shalmalee came into your life and you got married. I married my first husband soon after “Someone called out to her “Poornima are you coming?” and she turned and replied “No you guys carry on, have met an old friend after long and we have a lot of catching up to do.” She was good looking and he felt the envious stares of all the males around who were eyeing his companion covertly in the company of their wives and kids. He looked around and saw Makarand , also with a few people at a far off table giving him a knowing smile.

“Now that you are in Mumbai and all alone by the looks of it let’s play hookey and spend the day together like earlier. You can gift me that single orchid like you would then, what say?” He found himself smiling back and saying “Dare I refuse such a charming invite from such a lovely lady? As she smiled in satisfaction he continued ever so smoothly “This would have been my response had I remembered you but since I do not, I have to pass it up”. Her smile froze on her face. Stiffly she asked "Just satisfy my curiosity Ajay, just this once. After our nights then, don’t tell me that you can look at an orchid and not feel me in your senses. Call it the curiosity of a woman, even pride if you must. Have you truly forgotten me?" “I am really sorry madam Poornima, isn’t that what your friend called you? If I start explaining my current situation it may sound totally implausible. Had I known you as well like you are telling me then I certainly would not have forgotten you or any flowers. But I have and am sorry.” She stood up with a poised dignity and looked at him with a sad smile and said "You are a liar Ajay, but nevertheless we have bumped into each other after long. Just seeing you was good." She walked away and he watched her hips sway gracefully and he felt a sense of regret at his condition. He went out of the hotel and spent the day wandering about. After a late lunch he went into a cinema house and even took in a movie.

The next morning the reception called his room “ Mr. Kulkarni, there are a couple of visitors waiting for you.” DK walked down to see a very beautiful lady with a strained face and a man with her who looked equally sober of disposition. “Hi” said the man and the lady had almost taken a step to him but was forestalled by the man. She stood looking at him anxiously. Hello said he, “Do we know each other?” He heard the woman muffle a sob as he turned back to the man who said “Don’t you know who we are Ajay? I am Dr. Rakesh Phadke your friend of fifteen years and your personal physician. This lady here is Shalmalee. Mr. Kapadia of Jagruti Sugars saw you here and called us only yesterday, as he had lost your residential number. He was worried and curious about why had Ajay not recognized him. It was after that call, Shalmalee called me & we came straight over.” He told them "Yes I remember the plump gentleman man who accosted me in the lobby here, calling me Kanetkar". The lady was on the verge of tears and the man turned to her and said you go to your room, this here is a case of memory loss caused by severe stress. It will heal up with time.” She reluctantly went away.

The man came up the elevator with DK to his room. “You have been missing for over a week now. Your name is Ajay Kanetkar and the lady Shalmalee is your wife who has been under tremendous strain over the time you have been missing. She is a woman to be proud of and you are very fond of her. You are one of the leading CA’s in Kolhapur with a booming practice but given the strain of your job and monotony of your life, I was very much afraid of your memory being wiped out. It was the little bump on your head that worried me. It may be the clot, I suspected"

While the man spoke they had walked into the room. The room seemed different from earlier to when he was called down. In his absence someone had kept one white orchid bloom in his room. The doctor did not miss the wistful smile on his face and saw him pick up the orchid up and pass an indolent finger gently on its moist petal. He asked “Doctor is this condition of mine serious?” “Well one can’t say, some people have taken years while with some others it has been a real quick trip back to normalcy” replied the doctor. Something in his face told the doctor that the man had arrived at a decision. He walked over to the balcony and flung the flower out. “I am engaging you to be my doctor and better make sure the cure is a real quick one” and he plopped himself back on the sofa. I have had enough of this. You can go & get Shalmalee in now and Rakesh, he said with a wink, “It was simply marvelous.”

Whats in a Name?

That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. – Juliet,

Romeo & Juliet by William Shakespeare

The bright light of the afternoon sun made me blink. The eyes screwed up and began adjusting the vision while the brain started to process the location of the nearest auto rickshaw stand. I had just spent the last 3 hours in a dark cinema hall being thoroughly entertained by a movie called “3 Idiots” and as I flagged and got into the 3 wheeler, the names of 3 film stars of Indian cinema flashed across triggering a train of thought. Comparing film icons or film stars is a national pastime & was not immune to it. Auto comparison is what this was ( Auto = Automatic and not because it was done while I was inside an Auto rickshaw). There is no other reasoning of the need to compare them at all, but for an idle mind that needed some fodder. The neuron of wackiness had raised its head in my head.

The names that immediately popped into my mind were Amitabh Bacchhan, Shahrukh Khan and Aamir Khan; 3 equally talented and successful superstars of Indian cinema. If ever one is to compare then the ground for comparison needs to be a fair ground. This very small sample set met all parameters required for popularity and talent in their field of choice. Their beginnings had been relatively similar too; they had taken nearly 20 odd films to get to their big breaks to get stably established. All came from non-acting backgrounds. Two are contemporaries while the third though active is a generation senior to the other two. These were the apples in my basket. We are not discussing favorites here as I have liked them all at different phases so what was my originally idiotic thought that began this train?

If one is to take a closer look at Billy the Bard’s line and turn it upside down, does it conversely hold true. Can anything that smells sweet be called a Rose? or if you call something a Rose will it begin to smell sweet? Is there a power or a character that emerges from taking on a name ? And what connects this thought to our 3 stars?

Examine this:

Amitabh Bacchhan made his debut in Saat Hindustani and after a few false starts was about to return back to where he came from. One can almost visualize the scene at the railway platform, as he is boarding the train. 3 people who were standing there one producer-director, Prakash Mehra and 2 writers ( Salim Khan & Javed Akhtar ) call out "Vijayyyyy" and Bacchhan turned to look back, "Come back don’t go" they say. He stays back and makes cinematic history as the angry young man. Amitabh on screen became synonymous with Vijay. This at the most changed to Jai or Jay. Whether he preferred to be called by that name or the directors/producers insisted he be called thus can remain a mystery. What is not a mystery is in almost all roles for close to 15 years that he did thereafter he was Vijay. This was till his fall from grace after some really crass movies like Lal Badhsah that he took a break, from these ashes to again be reborn like a phoenix on TV and rekindle a film career. The funny coincidence is that in all the movies where Amitabh has had the name Vijay despite roles being different; the displayed angst is identical whether he played a cop or a don. The variety of Vijay’s career graph has been in the different last names/ surnames, as he changed from a Vijay Khanna to a Vijay Dinanath Chauhan. You take one Vijay and you have seen them all which is a tragic waste of nearly fifteen productive years of a great talent.

Shahrukh Khan began his film career as an extra in the mercurial movie “In which Annie gives it to those ones” a movie that was written by the Booker prize winner Arundhati Roy. If you blink you would miss him. TV happened to him nearly the same time where he was noticed and his work appreciated. Shahrukh Khan's most exciting phase of work is in his early years but that did not make him King Khan till he donned the mantle of a lover boy “Raj” in Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge in the year 1995. Till date after this movie, saving two or three exceptions, SRK has been some version of Raj/Rahul. The journey of 14 years has been a repetition of playing himself where the character in the script could be anybody, but what would emerge is Raj/Rahul. Lately he even started appearing as SRK the superstar ( Billu, Luck By chance, Om Shanti Om). SRK/Raj is what you would get whether playing a suave Don or an ancient Indian emperor-Asoka. The day he actually chucked aside that tag to play Kabir Khan in Chak De and a Mohan Bhargava in Swades, a different character came through. But these were more exceptions than a rule. Here one could see flashes of his earlier brilliance, being shaken up awake from a long hibernation. Before one got used to this he returned back to playing Raj in his comfort zone. SRK and Raj have got so intermingled that the work has a sameness which does not befit his talent. It is the intoxication of perpetual perching on the imagined throne of Hindi cinema that requires King Khan to remain a "Raj".

Raj rules now as Vijay did earlier. There is a peculiar power in these names that have graced the characters played by these two stars.

Aamir Khan too has tasted immense success in Quayamat Se Quayamat Tak (his debut as a lead actor) as a Raj. He again saw big success when he had the name Raja for "Dil" and "Raja Hindustani", both spectacular hits. In these 3 movies Raj & Raja are similar romantic characters. Coincidence? But this actor has never been king nor seemingly aspired to be one as evident in his path to stardom. His has been the path of a daring knight of the Kings court who could do anything. A dashing reporter in " Dil Hai Ke Maanta Nahi" who is hungry for a story, boarding an inter-city bus as Raghu Jetley kick-started this journey. The character Pooja played by Pooja Bhatt even asks the question at some point in the film “What kind of a name is Raghu Jetley?” His journey has had some interesting milestones; Sanjaylal Sharma the enfant terrible student who comes of age in "Jo Jeeta wohi Sikander". Siddhartha Marathe of "Ghulam", Amar Dhamjee in "Baazi", Munna of "Rangeela", DJ of "Rang De Basanti" all have had their time. Akash Malhotra of "Dil Chahta Hai" could not have been more different from a Bhuvan of "Lagaan" or a Ram Shankar Nikumbh of "Taare Zammen Par". With each name a different flavor has emerged to the character played by this actor. The movies may not have all succeeded phenomenally but the journey from Raghu Jetley to Rancho of 3 Idiots been rich varied and fulfilling. This then extends to the viewers who wait in anticipation for a new movie to release and a new character with a new name to emerge.

It is said that with “Six Degrees of Separation” one can connect anything or anyone. This was the muddled tattle about the nomenclatural title ruffling the cerebral neuron as I came out of the movie.

Money Talks

He stepped out into the balcony of his 18^th storey apartment and saw the grey dawn about to break. The cobwebs began to clear off from his head. Not once had he missed this hour since the time he had reached awareness age. He had a firm belief that in the dawn was hidden the force of a day taking shape. He drew his strength from it. The sun rose amongst the largely decaying decrepit and the few sparkling structures of this wild part of city called Bombay, Mumbai now, when would he ever could get used to this change of name, he wondered. He was a couple of years past sixty but an onlooker would peg him to a decade younger at the very least. The apartment inside housed all the luxuries one only dreams of and he owned them all. This included the nubile form that lay sleeping exhausted with her mouth slightly open. She was as pretty as they came by and had lasted him all of three months, a tad longer than the others. He had craved all of this with a fierceness that had belied reason and had even spilled blood to possess some of them. Surprisingly none evoked any emotion in him now. Abdur Ramzan Shakeel Ahmed was his moniker but he popularly answered to Ramzan bhai.

The aroma of freshly brewed tea tickled his nostrils. It was followed by the sound of shuffling feet of his faithful man Friday -Quadir with Suleimani chai (Black tea with a squeeze of lemon) the way he liked it piping hot with just a hint of sugar served in a large enamel mug. He settled in the arm chair set on the wide balcony, took a sip and nodded his appreciation. Quadir beamed as he lit a small Gold Flake cigarette for Ramzan bhai and withdrew. He left behind the pack and the change from the Five Hundred rupee note taken for its purchase. He sat there on the balcony puffing away in between tiny sips of the chai.

The sparkling rays of the sun reflecting off the railway tracks caught his attention below. He saw the Shatabdi Express at Bombay Central station getting ready for departure to Ahmadabad. The platforms were buzzing with people. He had been one of them once and still felt a curious bond with the antlike forms rushing from one place to another. His gaze shifted to Maratha Mandir - the cinema hall opposite the station, which seemed to be lying benignly like a spent whore. Cinema’s and whores worked nearly the same hours and the mornings were for resting. It was ironic that in the arms of this very same whore he had found true love.

Fatima worked in a ladies beauty parlor and he had met her in the compound of Maratha Mandir. She had come to watch the new release “Raja Jani” and he was selling the tickets in black. He had seen that she was alone and having just two tickets left of his bunch he sold her the ticket at cost price. She smiled as she paid him the money and he was utterly lost. Using the last ticket for himself he entered the hall and sat next to her. She shyly batted her eyes and he quite like the hero had whispered in her ears that he would be by her side always. He had remained true to his word over the next 24 months when he married her and buried her. He who had conquered all could not win over Fatima’s tumour that grew in her brain. Her lovely form wasted before his eyes but he did all that was possible then and was with her till she breathed her last in his arms. She had smiled when she said hafiz khuda to him and in the greatest loss of his life was a numbing peace. His eyes pricked with the tears to an event that had happened 37 years ago. She was the only woman he had truly loved. He had not married after her.

After that life became a roller coaster ride. From black marketing tickets he had graduated to numbers in the gambling dens. He was a natural here and soon rose up to be Rasool Pathan’s right hand man in the gambling racket. Ramzan though did not see much future in activities illegal and bought a run down lodge with 18 rooms from his earnings and converted it into a hotel. It however became a target for the hourly custom for the local red light area. This circumstance nudged him to graduate into the protection rackets to keep away and manage the police. Rasool was into drugs and prostitution but Ramzan wanted no part of it and with the Pathan’s blessings went into construction and development. Legally he made more money than Pathan’s illegal trade and soon became an expert moneychanger for the underworld. He had long ago sold his interests in the hotel and seen the turf wars that killed the Pathan. By then Ramzan was almost completely legit and now he had hired top brains from good schools to manage the business while he spent a semi-retired life arbitrating problems and generally managing peacekeeping issues between the men in uniform and the men they shot at. He silently said a prayer to Allah for keeping him alive to enjoy all he did without fear of a bullet or the tension of a ballot. Long ago he had given up thinking as to the why and how of such a life coming to his lot.

He reached out for his second cigarette and gathered the notes to put them back in his wallet. While sliding the notes in, he closely looked at one of them & drew it out. It was a hundred rupee note of the old type, an impossibly soiled specimen that had the words R loves F written in the scrawl of an almost illiterate man, loves conveyed by a shady heart with a pierced arrow running through it . Fishing out his glasses from the pocket of his white kurta he examined it again, he was not mistaken. It was the first note that Fatima had given him when she paid for her movie ticket. He had written the words on it promising to himself never to spend this note, but somewhere in the travails of his life it had left his hand.

Smiling fondly he looked at the note again and said “Where were you, all this while? Glad to have you back”. “I have been around and am tired with my journey too. It’s good to be back. To help you make-good your promise?”The voice had a clear ironical tone full of mischief. Ramzan bhai almost fell off his chair and looked around to see who had spoken. The girl in his bed snored lightly and had not stirred a muscle since the time he had left the bed. Quadir was busy in the kitchen evident from the sounds of the clanging pots. A light wind blew the ash from the cigarette on his lips stoking the ember crimson and the note fluttered in his hand. “It is me Ramzan. You of all people should know that in the city of Bombay, Money Talks. See this and start believing it quickly as I too am very particular about who I want for a conversational companion. That’s the basic reason, second coming from the currency family it is our curse that we can never initiate a conversation even if we wanted to. Only a person who knows the ways of the world and who has the wisdom to understand us can speak to us.”

“You have been initiated Ramzan so feel good. I have some cousins in the USA who have had some interesting conversations with Warren. Ramzan looked blank. Warren Buffet, the note told him in an exasperated note. From the time we were conceptualized as money and created by men we have taken various forms. We have been cast in stone, wood, metal, paper and plastic. But yet in all our existence through time the number of people we have ever really talked to would be less than a thousand. In most hands we have just been momentary visitors, slipping in only to slip out even faster. Rolling and circulation is what your race called this, but did we really roll or circulate? Nope, most of the hands that held us didn’t have the wherewithal to keep us and make us grow. Ramzan was fascinated and asked so why me? The note said “Ramzan when you tattooed my body with your and Fatima’s name, our fates got interlinked. It was deemed that I should be back with you but only after you were capable of keeping me having understood us and our significance as a concept. What’s it now 37years, since we last met? I was young and crisp and both of us had far lesser creases than we have today. Ramzan laughed and said that’s true for sure. And both us had had interesting lives.

You bet said Ramzan but I can very safely tell you that my life has had more ups and downs than yours. Don’t bet on it Ramzan even though I know you were a betting man once. We are nearly the same age right? Ramzan said I don’t know your date of birth. The note winked at him and said that’s fine, it’s more important that you know yours. Do you? Ramzan felt sheepish and said actually he did not. He just remembered being told that he had been born in the year that the states of India were split according to linguistic basis. And he was four years old when the state of Bombay became Maharashtra, Gujarat and some portions went to Karnataka. Very good said the note that means you are born in 1956, same as me. Ramzan said with wonder “So if we have seen nearly similar days on this earth, how were you so crisp the first time I met you. It was 37 years ago when you would have been what, 28 years? My early years said the note were quite sheltered. I was part of a bundle that never got moved out of a vault for 26 years. The three lions on the note seemed to be chuckling. So technically I was just 3 years out when you marked me; tattooed forever. But after that did I move around or what? The note said with a curious pride and relish.

The note continued speaking “Okay so here we are both about 65 years old and destined to be together now. Let us not debate about who has had a more eventful life. We can compare our travels for just one day yesterday and settle it at the point where we met again. How is that? Sounds good, said Ramzan.

Ramzan bent and lit one more cigarette and started recounting. Yesterday at 11.00 am after my morning chai and nashta had to go to Agripada to look at the site where we are reconstructing an old chawl. The fifth floor slab work had begun. One fool of a worker who had not clipped his helmet while working on the floor dropped it. “Salaam alei kum Ramzan bhai” comes a shout and I turn to find my old friend Murad. The step forward to embrace him saved me as the helmet crashed behind. Murad in a flash removed his pistol and would have nailed the man but I stayed his hand. His swearing at the poor man was far worse than if he had just shot him quietly. Murad has a wonderful vocabulary of swear words and it is an education to hear him. The site was progressing well and around 1.30pm we walked over to my Western Union money transfer office. It is a new branch and had wanted to just look over. Not much business was being done in the afternoon and the staff was eating lunch so we left them to it decided to grab some ourselves.

We walked over to Nagpada and entered Hotel Saarvi. Gaffoor the waiter immediately cleared out a table for us and told us to just sit, he would bring us lunch. He brought us two steaming soup plates full of paya and bread and some kebabs fresh off the skewer. Kebabs at Saarvi are worth killing for, crisp on the outside and soft like butter inside. Break a piece with your fingers, wrap around it a sprig of mint, dip in the mint chutney and pop it in your mouth. This is one more road to jannat or heaven. Refusing the biryani we had two cups of tea and moved out. Murad had some work at Dongri so we hailed a cab and reached there. Here Murad went on to his office and I strolled over to Jaddanbi’s kothi. She is an old friend who runs an escort service. An escort herself once she unlike others put her money away and now owns the finest service in the business today. She is sharp of tongue and I love doing gup shup with her. Spent a couple of hours chatting with her as she whined about how narcotics and AIDS was the bane of her line of activity. But business was good she said and said as long as the plugs kept coming she would keep supplying the sockets and lighting up the world. She always had a wacky sense of humour that old mare. Then after loitering about my old haunts and catching up with Kamaal the matka king and Junaid the dock king; he controlled all movement of goods around the docks, came back to my pad and rested.Then Nafisa, Ramzan said pointing to the sleeping form came in and we ate. Then she wanted to show off her newest negligee that I was encouraged to rip off her and we played the exhausting game that uplifts all down trodden spirits to meet you now. Very good Ramzan so all in all a quiet day with friends except for one scare at the construction site said the note. Hmm nodded Ramzan as Quadir came quietly filled his mug with a second chai, kept a khari biscuit and left noticing nothing.

The note said I started my day at Pune in the pocket of an executive being driven in a car. He was traveling to Mumbai in his Skoda and I love air conditioning, but fate wasn’t kind to me. At Khopoli toll station I was taken out and handed over to the toll agent who pulled me roughly and dumped me into his till. I hate this type of people who have no respect for our race. I was barely finished nursing my bruises, stretching my body when I was whipped out again. Then in the company of three other Rs.100 notes of a newer vintage handed over to the driver of a Maruti car who immediately turned into the food court across the plaza. At the coupon counter he looked into his wallet and selected me, when we get older people don’t want us retained is my observation. It was a good thing too as unlike the skoda drivers wallet this man’s wallet had more coins than notes and they were hurting me. Oily fingers picked me up and I was held to light and reluctantly accepted. Then I was kept on top and not in the drawer, another reminder of my stage in transit. A young girl who smelled nice took possession of me along with the coupons and I travelled to the batata wada counter in her hip pocket. I felt nice with my back that was naturally massaged along firm curvy hips. We who are old love the firmness of the youth, I say. Ramzan chuckled in acceptance. Travelled on the girls hip to Dadar bus stand where she boarded a taxi to go to Shivaji park . I said goodbye to her lovely form reluctantly refusing to slide out of the pocket but her insistent fingers brought me out. The cabbie too refused to take me and I prepared myself to dive back in, but she screamed at him and he meekly took me and stuffed me in his shirt pocket. His next fare was to Bandra but all his fares refused me and I was crushed. It is so frustrating to be unwanted and age can make you feel useless though your value has not diminished one bit. From Bandra he got a fare to go to VT and I travelled there but yet again the passenger refused me. The cabbie in frustration stopped at a roadside joint ate a chai with a nan khatai and smoked an unfiltered cigarette and gave me to the fellow. Poor chap had to take me in and could see the sense of quiet relief in the cabbies eyes. I was glad to be away from him. I heard some words in Tamil and it was the owner of the tea stall talking to his assistant to wash up faster. I could rest for a couple of hours till I was handed over while I was sleeping and found myself stuffed into a cheaply scented brassiere. I almost choked and passed out and hoped my confinement would end soon. Ramzan was chuckling. The painted lady walked calling out to people on the street till she could fix one for a quick hand job in an alley. Thankfully after a heaving fifteen minutes later I was brought out into the evening air and I gulped it in. The hand that accepted me stowed me quickly into a wallet and I travelled till Dongri on a bike where the man stopped to buy a pan. This was at Biharilals pan shop below your place. I rested in Biharilals gulla (till) for a while till Quadir pocketed me as part of the change for your cigarettes and here I am.

Ramzan laughed and said that without a doubt your yesterday has been far more eventful than mine. But you are now not going anywhere and I shall show you to your place of rest till I frame you up. You are an integral piece of the best slice of life that signified youth & love. The note beamed and said now you know why we don’t engage people in conversations. An overwhelming majority of you only silently look at the numbers on our back and then pass us around, without seeing us and inside them to understand what meaning we brought to their lives. It is wonderful to be home finally, Ramzan. As he looked at his scrawl of years ago on its face, the note seemed to be happily smiling back at him.

I C a Case

His eyes wandered to the crack in the old solid wooden desk before him. The crack was filled up with dirt, grime, tea, food and ink falling into it over the years. It was a curious shade of ochre today and he was sure it would be richer a few years ahead with more of the same piling in it. The desk was not his or this office. The paint was peeling off the walls due to moisture seeping in from the heavy rains the city suffered. This was not monsoon hence the drying marks had created a pattern all their own. It may have been totally depressing had it not been for the photo frames hanging there as are typical in most sarkari (government owned) offices. Subhash Chandra Bose stared at him from one of them. He was glad to meet the eyes of a fellow Bengali, so what if he was long gone and was just a poor photograph.From behind Subhash Babus photograph a fat gecko (lizard) speedily slithered out and gobbled up the fly sitting on a wooden cabinet and made swallowing/chewing motions. He too felt the pangs of hunger as he looked at the watch. It was 1.20pm. He had been waiting his turn on the long wooden bench. It was a police station. ‘Next’ came a voice and a young boy sitting beside nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. Sir, it’s you.

“Name?” Satyesu Tathagat Basu, said he in a clear voice. Police Constable Vishwas Ghorpade looked him up and asked and what position do you work for in this firm? I am the Chief Accountant and Internal Auditor, sir. PC Ghorpade saw a nondescript man sitting wearing non-descript clothes and had he met him anywhere apart from across his desk, he would have missed him. The fact that he was sitting for nearly two and half hours in his office had not even registered. The rest of the questions were a blur…Noting the complaint PC Ghorpade tore off a copy and handed it over. Satyesu Babu rose and the PC looking at him again barely noticed him as he left.

Such was the magnificence of Satyesu Babu’s personality it was characterized by its absence. Even at home his wife and children barely noticed his presence till it was the first of every month, when he handed down a portion of his salary for household upkeep and paying the school fees and rent. But behind this freak of a nature of Satyesu Babu’s invisible personality resided a wishful pride. It was a pride at being not just good but truly great at his job. Not an adventurer escaped his eyes when it came to misappropriation of numbers and no sales fellows could fudge their vouchers in his domain. He lived by the book and smelled chicanery from a distance. Like his name which his maashi ma (mother’s sister) reminded him often, he was a seeker of the truth. His training in the craft of accounting made his approach precise and logical; but he had a very imaginative mind totally creative and free flowing. In its realms he fancied himself to be a detective. His idols were Byomkesh Bakshi and Feluda and he had read each and every one of their detective stories many times over. He didn’t fancy Poirot or Sherlock Holmes much not because they were foreigners and non-Indians but because they were not Bengali.

Now why was Satyesu Babu sitting in a police station in the first place?

It all began with somebody mentioning classified advertisements and it rang a bell. He remembered Feluda his investigator idol tell his cousin and assistant Topshe in Jai Baba Felunath “Read the classified advertisements. They are always more interesting than the news articles in the paper.” Satyesu Babu had done the same thing in his expense register and found out that over the last 6 months their company had released 48 classified advertisements. This was pretty interesting he thought and asked Vinayak his assistant to get the cash vouchers for all the expenses. This was not a mission that he wanted to tell anybody so he just collected the files and piled them on his desk for later. After office hours he sat and studied them to find that all advertisements released have been towards loss of C-forms. Expenses towards each advertisement averaged around Rs.1300 to Rs.2200. The total money spent by the company of recovery of C-forms had been about Rs.78000 and this over a six month period. The value on the C-forms had been in Millions of rupees hence this expense had been overlooked and attended to.

The procedure for obtaining a duplicate was to lodge a police complaint and then release an advertisement in a local newspaper. It is a simple procedure obtaining a duplicate however not doing it would put the company in trouble. One of the office boys would go and do it normally as a matter of course. But Satyesu Babu had smelt a rat and like a bull terrier on a chase he traced back the course with the next form loss. He had come to make the police complaint himself and the havaldar noting down his FIR said conversationally, I will now have to raise the charge to note down your complaint. How much you make me write in a month? This time I will take 100 and not my regular 50. Without saying a word Satyesu Babu paid up. Taking the complaint he went made a photocopy and took the same to the agency that released ads for them as per the bills. Oh you are from Agarwala & Co said the attendant, one more C-Form lost? We have your standard draft saved up. All we do is change the number and release your advertisement. How much Satyesu Babu asked? Rs.200 sir. Same as always why? Is Rameshwar Pandey on leave today? He is the one who normally comes for this. The clerk tore a receipt writing the figure Rs. 200 without writing it in words and gave it back.

Satyesu Babu preened to himself. Quite like his idols he had successfully identified the Modus Operandi. Now he also had the perpetrator; Pandey the peon. A clean Rs.1000- Rs.2000 per transaction made and an average of Rs. 10000/ month skimmed off over the last six months. He needed to know the reason as Pandey had been with the company for 22 years and never had a late mark or a misdemeanor to his name. Reaching back he had studied to see whether Pandey had made any requests to the company and found out that he had asked the company for a loan of Rs.50000/- and it had been turned down by his predecessor on flimsy grounds. Satyesu Babu called Pandey to his cabin. Asking him to sit he closed the door and laid the advertisement agency’s receipt in front of Pandey without saying a word. Pandey’s face paled and he started to cry. Sobbing he said I had not wanted to do this but I needed the money for my daughters marriage. She has good in-laws who did not ask for a dowry but the wedding expenses itself were beyond me. I borrowed from a lender then and paid him back this way. Please don’t report it to the management as I will lose my job, my respect, everything, I have done wrong and want to make amends.

Satyesu Babu told him that it will be done on one condition that he returns the money back to the company. On the accounting front, I will accept your request for a loan and sanction it as advanced to you. From your Salary a portion shall be deducted till you cover it.

I will still have to do some jugglery to take the money in but that will be my problem. We shall not speak of this matter again and this is given the fact of your earlier service that has been blemish free. No more C-forms should be lost. Pandey dumbly nodded and folded his hands and walked out.

Satyesu Babu felt good that the case of the C-form and classifieds had been solved and justice done. He reached for the tiffin box & to his delight found that his wife had packed rosgolla’s for him today. Smiling he picked one up, squeezed the syrup out and popped it whole into his mouth chewing contentedly with eyes closed. At this moment one seeing Satyesu Babu’s expression while chewing may be forgiven should they be reminded of the gecko from the police station.