The conductor gave three hard yanks on the stop cord, signalling the driver to stop immediately so he could throw Varoon off the bus. However, the bus was unable to halt as they were in the middle of rounding Horniman Circle, which only annoyed the conductor, who began to pull at the cord again. Varoon became furious with the conductor for treating him so contemptuously. He stopped searching for the third ten-paisa coin and didn’t even know he was standing on his feet in the aisle, inches away from the conductor’s nose, when his face went red hot and all he saw were black spots in his vision, darting like shooting stars from one corner to the other. The heat that was glowing in his head quickly spread and overtook his universe. Only when he smelled the conductor’s perspiration did Varoon realize they were in a brawl in the aisle. Varoon grasped the conductor by his collar, and as the bus shot out of Horniman Circle and onto the main road towards Customs House, Varoon used the motion of the bus to drive the conductor into one of vertical steel poles in the aisle. The conductor’s ticket box, which was slung over one shoulder and hanging by his side, saved his body from smashing into the pole with full force, but Varoon drove the conductor’s collar towards the pole once again and his head slammed into it before he was able to wrestle Varoon’s hands free of his collar.
The conductor yelled to the driver, “Stop! Stop the bus!”
When the bus screeched to a halt, both Varoon and the conductor tumbled in the aisle as coins spilled out of the conductor’s bag. Varoon quickly came to his senses and realized that it would take the driver only seconds to climb out from his seat and into the bus, and even if Varoon were able to fight off both of them, policemen weren’t far away. In the Fort District there was one on every other street. The bus driver would naturally support the conductor and accuse Varoon of not only starting the fight but of also being a thief. So Varoon let himself be thrown off the back of the bus while the conductor yelled, “You have no respect for your elders! Your parents should beat some sense into you!”
The bus left Varoon on the side of the road as it chugged away, exhaling puffs of black diesel smoke in its wake. With his hair dishevelled, and shirt missing a few buttons, Varoon began making his way to the closest bus stop but realized that during the fight he’d lost all his money.
With empty pockets, Varoon stood on the pavement, wondering how he’d get back to the shop now. The summer heat was unrelenting, wilting the brilliant red blooms of the gulmohar trees in Horniman Circle.
Walking back to the other side of the bay and then up Malabar Hill would take nearly two hours—if he could bear the heat. He did have a few acquaintances from college who worked in the Fort District. He could go to one of their offices to borrow money, but how pathetic would that look? Borrowing thirty paisa for a bus ride? It was beyond embarrassing. Besides, he hadn’t kept in touch with most of them. But maybe he could make up a story about being mugged; with his shirt dishevelled from the fight and two buttons missing, he wouldn’t even need to play act much. However, he imagined his chums reacting with suspicion as they handed him the money, thinking: In broad daylight this happened to you? In the middle of the city?
His only true friend, Manu Advani, wasn’t due home from the military academy until tomorrow. Varoon could telephone the Advani home and ask if one of the servants could take a bus and loan him the bus fare, but no, he had no money to place the call.
Perhaps he could try his luck with the next bus. But what if the conductor was another Muslim? The thought of having to beg for a free ride from a Muslim was too degrading. And yet, what other option did he have? He was already an hour late. How would he explain his absence? Luckily, his father took little interest in anything other than his miniatures. The old man probably thought his son was just up the road, dozing under the canopy of the large banyan tree next to the paan walla, listening to a cricket match. But Varoon had never been this late before. Maybe a walk was needed; it would give him enough time to come up with a solid excuse. Then he reminded himself he was doing nothing wrong; it wasn’t as though he was some kind of truant. He was searching for a better job, doing something his father ought to have been proud of. Varoon was only trying to further himself, improve his lot in life. Was that not admirable enough in and of itself? Was it not noble to seek a better job? Especially one solely through his own merit, when so many other young men were handed cushy jobs through their families’ wealth or connections?
But another part of him rallied: of course there were people who proclaimed such righteous creeds, a few who even believed them, but everyone knew the way things really worked in this country was through connections and money. A true meritocracy was as elusive as the end of a rainbow.
The heat was sucking the life from him as he trudged on. It was as though somebody was up there in the sky, pointing a magnifying glass directly at the crown of his head, as if he were an inconsequential ant.
After walking in the heat for what seemed like an eternity, Varoon telephoned his best friend, Manu Advani. The two of them had met at school when they were six years old and had been best friends since. It was only after high school that they saw less of each other, as Manu followed his father’s footsteps into the military academy in Delhi. The Advanis had been in the military for generations. There were framed photographs of several men in uniform on the walls of their bungalow. Even though the Advanis were much wealthier than the Sharmas, it was a testament to the boys’ friendship that Manu never behaved as though there was any difference between them.
Stepping into the shade of Manu’s new ambassador car with its fine leather interior was a welcome respite from the sun. Manu slapped his old friend on the back while they embraced—a macho contest between men: whoever could withstand the harder backslap without wincing would win the exchange. Varoon, with little energy and in no mood for games, received the raucous backslapping and winced first. He was ashamed to be penniless and felt like a child in need of rescue.
As they drove, Varoon explained the episode on the bus with the Muslim conductor, but as he retold it, he became aware that he’d overreacted, even instigated it. It was difficult to explain how disdainful the conductor had been. Manu laughed and said, “You should’ve knocked some sense into the Muslim bastard, yaar. If the police had arrested you, I would’ve been happy to pay the bribe and collect you from the station.” As they drove Marine Drive to the other end of the bay, Varoon told Manu about his efforts in applying for a shipping licence.
At a red light near Chowpatty Beach, Manu parked the car and got out.
“I have to get back to work, yaar,” Varoon said, leaning out his window.
Manu said, “Come, have a drink” while sauntering to a lime juice vendor’s cart.
Varoon refused, but Manu insisted, “Chal, yaar!” Manu’s irritation conveyed that there was no humiliation in receiving a drink from a friend as well as a ride; friendship was not calculated on a ledger where both sides had to balance out.
Manu ordered. “One savoury, one sweet.” They’d always ordered the same. Varoon finished his savoury lime drink in a flash and could easily have drunk three more. Manu said, “I have a business opportunity that might be right for you.”
Varoon perked up a bit.
Manu said, “A truckload of goods has just arrived from Delhi and needs to be sold. On the black market. Quickly.”
As Manu sipped his sweet lime drink and explained, something fell into place for Varoon: how the Advanis had amassed some of their wealth, how they’d probably used their influence in the military to get in on deals like this—stolen goods resold on the black market. Everyone knew it went on; police and politicians were paid to look the other way, sometimes they were the ones doing it.
Manu said, “It’s being held in a container at the docks.”
“What is it?” Varoon asked.
Manu looked at Varoon for a moment and then said, “All you have to do is take it to a place in Chor bazaar. I’ll give you the address. Simple.”
Varoon’s mind raced as t
o what could be in the container. There were plenty of goods on the black market: imported electronics, cigarettes, booze. To be a part of an operation like this was something Varoon had never considered. His father would never approve. But then again, what did his father know about business? Two decades in Bombay and the shop had not made a significant profit. To hell with his father.
Varoon said, “You can count on me.”
As they shook hands and slapped each other on the back, Varoon decided he didn’t need to know what was in the container. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.
- 31 -
1965
THE CONTAINER VAROON PICKED UP at Victoria Docks for Manu was smaller than Varoon had anticipated—a reinforced steel box with a padlock, about the size of a crate of mangos. As instructed, he delivered it to a small shop in Chor bazaar. Varoon was about to ask how the man would open the steel box, but kept quiet when he got a glimpse of the back room through a door that opened for a moment. Inside, he saw half a dozen men working with soldering tools and flashes of gold. Varoon realized the box was most likely full of stolen jewelry about to be extricated and melted. His cut of the deal was fifteen hundred rupees—six months’ salary at the shop. He walked away with a spring in his step. It was the easiest money he’d ever made, but guilt soon got the better of him. He met with Manu a few days later and Manu assured him. “Don’t worry, yaar. These people in Delhi had it coming. They’ve done atrocious things. Even bought off a judge to stay out of jail. So just think of it as a bit of justice.”
Varoon didn’t press the matter as he knew Manu was somewhat on edge on account of the daily rumours of India and Pakistan fighting over territory in the Rann of Kutch and that Manu had just been called up to Gujarat, where the skirmishes were. With Partition still fresh in the minds of many, the entire country was a bit fretful.
Between sips of his lime drink near Chowpatty Beach, Manu whispered, “Mandatory blackouts are soon going to be implemented in Gujarati border towns so Pakistani bombers can’t find their targets at night.”
While Manu spoke, Varoon couldn’t help but wonder how deeply Manu was linked with organized crime. In a country where nearly everything was mired in a jumble of bureaucratic chaos, maybe sometimes it was necessary to be like Manu, break the rules and take things into your own hands, be a maverick and make your own fortune.
Ever since picking up the box from Victoria Docks, Varoon had been spending more time there, amazed at the volume of containers. It had prompted him to start the application process for his import/export shipping licence, but for that he needed a hefty bribe. He explained to Manu, “The future of trade can only grow. The Americans have implemented containerization and it’s only a matter of time until the entire world of shipping will adopt container technologies. India is desperate for imports. Heaps of money will be made.” Then, as much as it galled him, Varoon continued, “I just need ten or twelve thousand to get started.”
Manu said, “Brother, you know I’d give you the shirt off my back, but all my money is tied up with an ammunitions delivery contract. I can’t really talk about it now. But I have about two thousand in savings—it’s yours.”
Varoon felt like a common beggar, but Manu slapped him on the back and ordered two more lime drinks.
During the following weeks, Varoon went to the Port Authority building every lunch hour where he had to jostle with dozen of men in various queues. Some days he’d finally get to the front, only to be told by a clerk he was in the wrong queue. When he got his hands on the correct paperwork, there were dozens of superfluous questions he had to write answers to and filling out the paperwork incorrectly meant you had to start all over again. It didn’t help that there were no signs, that the queues changed daily, arbitrarily, leading to mass confusion. Prospective importers, exporters, suppliers, cargo providers, ship workers, tradesmen, all had to rely strictly on daily rumours to decipher where to queue up. Like the city police force, the civil servants who worked there earned so little that they relied on bribes, and each government worker seemed to have his own system—what was worth a ten-rupee bribe to one was only worth an eight-anna toasted vegetable sandwich to another. It was maddening that the primary duty of the government agency was to promote the flow of trade, and yet here they were, going out of their way to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to get a business going. If you were lucky, the government clerks were just incompetent, but some were downright deceitful, willfully misinforming applicants for no other reason than to quell their own malicious satisfaction or collect larger bribes.
While standing in a queue one day Varoon repeated the gayatri mantra silently—a habit he had developed to pass the time—but this time it brought memories of his mother, of his final night with her in Lahore, and so he abandoned it. When he got to the front, a new clerk approved his paperwork and granted him a meeting with a senior official for an import/export licence. Not wanting this meeting to be a failure, Varoon meticulously constructed a business plan. Since the containers were coming to Bombay full, he’d maximize revenue by sending them back full. He met with wholesalers of toys and fabric and spices—cheap goods to export. It wasn’t a new idea, something the British East India Company had done for centuries. But now, after seventeen years of independence, the bureaucratic government India had inherited from the British, and perfected, now prevented the smooth flow of goods while encouraging the corruption that festered in every aspect of daily life. Seeing that it might be his last opportunity to get out of the godowns, Varoon was scrupulous in crafting his business plan. Every bit of cost was accounted for, researched, double and triple checked. It became an obsession. He frequented the city during lunch to keep in touch with the toy and fabric wholesalers he negotiated deals with. Through one of Manu’s contacts, he reached an exporter in Singapore and spoke with him on the phone every week, discussing prices, inventory, etc. He talked with people at the docks and worked out transport fees, cargo space; all he needed was a healthy bribe for the senior official to approve a commercial import/export licence. Word was that the senior official would not approve a licence without a bribe of twelve thousand rupees, perhaps more. While working in the godowns, Varoon had his business plan always in hand. Instead of keeping a close eye on the sanders, the builders, the lacquerers, he added and subtracted and divided and multiplied numbers with his pencil and eraser. Even though his father wasn’t business-minded or a risk taker, Varoon reasoned that the old man would have to see the sheer ingenuity of his plan: import machinery and electronic goods and then fill the same cargo space with toys and fabric and spices, all to maximize revenue. The rate at which the city was growing and imports were in demand, the business would inevitably grow.
The Sharmas didn’t have much. Praveen Sharma had sunk all the family money into the furniture shop, but Varoon knew he had ten thousand tucked away for a rainy day. Even if Praveen didn’t see why his son yearned for a different life, he would at the very least see this as an opportunity to invest the family savings and eventually get his money back with some interest.
It was seven in the evening and the workers began sweeping and closing shop while Praveen continued to work on his miniatures. Varoon bounded up the steps, three at a time, keen to show the old man his business plan.
In the office, Praveen was sanding a miniature Chippendale-style chair with a small piece of sandpaper tightly wrapped around his index finger.
“What is it, behta?” he asked without looking up. He was trying not to sand away the rococo-carved designs on the legs of the chair.
Varoon unfolded his papers on his father’s desk, explaining the various contracts and costs and revenues, how profitable the business would be in a year, perhaps even six months, all he needed was ten thousand rupees for bribing the senior official at the Port Authority.
Praveen Sharma stopped sanding. “This business plan seems impressive, but I don’t think you’ve thought it through.”
Varoon was prepared for this. He spoke calmly. “But
everything is in place. I could begin to repay you in a year. More docks are opening up soon, trade will only grow—it’s just a matter of time.”
But Praveen shook his head and said, “Haven’t you heard? A war might start soon. It’s no time to start a risky venture like this. Besides, once you start bribing these people it never ends. It will always be there with you. You’ll never shake it loose. You’re better than that.”
Varoon was at a loss for words. The old man’s antiquated homespun wisdom may have made sense a few decades ago but didn’t the old man see that the world had changed? Hadn’t he seen the ships at the dockyards eight, nine, ten stories high?
But of course he hadn’t. The old man never went anywhere these days. He remained in Walkeshwar—the neighbourhood was a small peninsula, but it might as well have been a deserted island since he never left it. The old man had missed the evolution of business in the modern world, and his swift opinions of corrupt officials were smug, shortsighted. If a little grease was necessary to get the job done, than so be it. Varoon didn’t like the fact that senior officials abused their authority by demanding large bribes, but times had changed. If you didn’t keep up with life, it passed you by. There seemed to be no better example of that than the old man, who clung to his world of miniature antiques. Varoon swore to himself he’d never become like his father. But as he stood there, he realized he’d have to pay the price for his father’s self-righteous pride. If Varoon wasn’t able to get this licence, then some other fellow would elbow him out of the way for it, leaving Varoon in the godowns for eternity. The son would inherit the father’s destiny—not that Varoon knew his father’s destiny. He wasn’t even sure if he believed in kundalis, but he didn’t want to be manacled by his father’s constellation of sad stars.
Praveen Sharma resumed sanding his miniature chair while saying, “Why don’t you try to put even just half the effort you’ve put into this shipping-flipping business into the shop?”
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 20
