An Extraordinary Destiny

by Shekhar Paleja

  Varoon wanted to overturn the table, smash every miniature, and yell: I can’t stand it here any longer! I spend every minute of every day dreaming of being anywhere but in this musty-wood-rotting hell. I wish I were someone else’s son. I wish it was you who had died instead of her all those years ago!

  But all he could do was gather up his plan and go down the road to the paan walla under the banyan tree and exhale cigarette smoke at the orange evening sky.

  - 32 -

  1965

  AS THE BUS CAREENED DOWN Walkeshwar Road, towards Marine Drive, Varoon noticed the ocean on his right, usually sparkling under the sun, was now a subdued grey. The monsoon season had just begun. A leaden sky loomed above the bay, threatening to unleash a torrent of water onto the city. Even though he only had about a third of the twelve-thousand-rupee bribe gathered, Varoon was on his way to a meeting with the senior port official—it had taken months to secure so he had no choice but to go and hope that, miraculously, he’d be approved, perhaps be granted some time to come up with the extra money.

  When he arrived, the Port Authority office wasn’t busy—many people had likely not ventured out for fear of heavy rains. However, Varoon was left waiting nearly four hours on a wooden bench, during which he became hungry, lost his appetite, and became hungry again.

  Finally, a peon with greasy hair said, “The senior official will see you now.”

  Dressed in a traditional white kurta pyjama, much like the framed photograph of the late Prime Minister Nehru that hung on the wall, the senior official sat behind his desk eating his lunch. Tearing a roti with one hand and holding a Times of India newspaper with the other, the spectacled middle-aged senior official asked without taking his eyes off the newspaper, “What are you applying for?”

  Varoon answered with a thick tongue: “Sir, I’m applying for a commercial import/export licence.”

  After clutching a bit of palak aloo sabji from a tiffin with his roti, the senior official popped it into his mouth and then gestured for the application. Varoon hesitated as the official’s fingers were sullied with spinach and Varoon had gone to great lengths to keep the application in pristine condition. At all times it lived inside a thick brown paper envelope he’d purchased specially for it in the Fort District, and when he went to his suppliers and the bank for signatures, he was careful to not just let anyone handle the application for fear they might smudge something.

  “Domestic goods foreign-bound for sale?” the senior official asked while chewing with his mouth open. Varoon noticed a birthmark on the man’s right cheek about the size of a ten-paise coin. It sat there unceremoniously like an ink blot.

  “Yes, sir,” Varoon said, still standing as he hadn’t yet been asked to sit.

  “To where?”

  “Singapore and Hong Kong, sir.”

  The senior official made a small grunt, indicating his satisfaction for the time being as he leafed through the eleven-page document while Varoon stood tense. Everything he’d worked tirelessly on the past few months was about to be approved or rejected. He’d heard several accounts of importers and exporters being rejected by the senior official for no valid reason. One man had been trying for nearly five years and hadn’t gotten anywhere.

  The senior official looked over the document while chewing his food. Varoon’s stomach began to rumble and he felt nauseous. The thick humidity that hung in the air had him in a headlock. He wiped the perspiration off the back of his neck with a handkerchief. Out the window, a few cargo ships were berthed at the Indira docks. The cranes were immobile while the workers took their midday meal.

  Looking over Varoon’s application, the senior official said, “What do you have to offer?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?” Varoon asked, pretending not to understand the question. Since he had very little money, he reasoned that this would be his best tactic, to plead ignorance and naiveté at first, and then offer his life savings—four thousand odd rupees. The senior official would hopefully take pity and grant him an extension. Varoon felt awkward standing there with his arms hanging by his sides and would have felt more comfortable sitting in the empty chair but he didn’t want to be so presumptuous and run the risk of offending the senior official. After having to grovel with clerks over months to schedule this meeting, Varoon reasoned he’d lick this man’s heels if it came to it.

  The senior official glared at Varoon and said, “Have you ever been caught in the middle of a monsoon rain?”

  “Sir? Yes, sir.”

  “Ever wonder how all that rain comes almost on the same day every year without fail?” the senior official asked, tearing into a roti with his right hand.

  “No, sir. I mean yes—” Varoon was confused.

  “Almost as soon as it comes, it goes back out into the ocean, up into the clouds, and then it all comes back again the next monsoon.” The senior official paused to take a bite, and with his mouth full again, explained, “My point is that there’s a circle in life. Things always flow back and forth. If I give you approval for your licence, what can you give me?”

  Pulling the money out from his pants pocket, Varoon placed it on the official’s desk and swallowed before speaking. “This is my life savings, sir—all I have.”

  The official let out a muted laugh while he chewed, then said, “Son, what I can give you is a downpour, a present from the heavens—and you’re offering me a few beads of moisture.” He laughed at the metaphor he’d so cleverly created and continued, “Only a parsimonious man goes to the temple with small offerings of sacrifice when he’s aware of the rich returns that lie in his future.”

  “Sir, this is all I have. Every last penny,” Varoon said, gesturing meekly towards the money on the desk.

  The senior official leaned back in his chair to take a good look at Varoon and then said, “You wouldn’t believe how many unworthy applicants have stood in my office over the years. What makes you so special, huh? Are you aware that we might be headed into a war?”

  It was all that was on anyone’s mind lately. Manu had still not returned from near the border in Gujarat. Varoon nodded and said, “Yes, of course, sir,” while trying to figure out what that had to do with him getting a licence.

  The senior official explained, “The eyes of the world will be on us. We have to show the world that we can trade on par with the best and for that to happen it’s my responsibility to ensure that only the most qualified are given licences and not every halfwit that walks into my office. There is too much corruption in this country, sadly,” he said while shooting the thin wad of bills on the table a contemptible look before focusing again on Varoon. “Bribes are eating this country from within, like maggots!”

  Varoon had never felt so humiliated. His face and ears flushed hot. To be refused a licence was one thing—he’d half expected it—but then to be shamed like this was a kick to the balls.

  After gathering his money, Varoon turned to leave. The senior official said, “Wait. Have a seat.” Then, as Varoon did, the senior official asked, “You have a sister?”

  “No, sir,” Varoon said, confused more than ever, wondering where this analogy would go.

  “Surely a cousin sister?”

  “No extended family, sir.”

  The senior official asked, “Are you married?”

  “No, sir.”

  The senior official’s optimism disappeared. “How unfortunate.” He clucked his tongue and muttered, “I could have used a pretty assistant,” then returned his attention to the newspaper on his desk.

  Varoon realized the insinuation and it instantly filled him with rage that the senior official had the audacity to intimate something so vulgar. He wanted to bash the steel tiffin into the man’s face, stab the birthmark on his cheek with a pen, overturn the desk with all his might, but all he could do was sit there while the senior official read the newspaper. Varoon had kept the thought of being stuck in the godowns for the rest of his life at bay all this time, wanting to remain positive, calm, patient, because t
hat’s how you stayed in control, but anguish flooded him now. The truth of his destiny being one in which he was confined to a meagre life in the godowns was something he’d ignored for too long and it was now filling him with dread. His chest heaved, he felt as though he were drowning. Gasping for air, he got on his knees and with wet eyes, he managed to say, “Please, sir.”

  “I’m sorry I cannot approve your application at this time. I’m afraid it simply isn’t in your stars, son,” the senior official said without bothering to look at Varoon. Looking over the application one last time before handing it back to Varoon, he said, with some irritation, “Your application says you already have a decent job as a manager of a furniture shop. Be grateful. There are millions in this country who don’t have that kind of opportunity. Count yourself lucky.”

  Varoon was ashamed when the senior official looked up from his newspaper to find him shuddering, trying to rein in his tears. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried anywhere other than in his bed silently at night. It was one thing to have someone lecture you as though you were a common imbecile, and another for them to reject you, but it was absolutely degrading to let them see you blubbering.

  Wiping his tears and blowing his nose with his handkerchief, Varoon went to leave.

  “Well, I suppose there might be an alternative.”

  “Anything, sir, anything.”

  “I take a cut every month.”

  “How much?”

  “Until you’ve repaid my generosity.”

  Knowing that the senior official would exact a large, unfair sum of money over the years, Varoon had little choice and agreed, “Of course, sir.”

  The senior official stamped the application and before handing it back to Varoon, he warned, “And don’t even think of trying to cheat me. I know precisely what comes and goes from the docks.” He motioned for Varoon to give him the four thousand from his pocket, and Varoon did as instructed.

  “Yes, of course, sir,” he said as he bowed several times and backed out of the office, adding, “Thank you, sir.”

  Despite seeing a cruel cunning in the senior official, Varoon considered himself lucky—he had his import/export licence. It was the first step out of the godowns.

  On his way home, as the bus stopped at the foot of Marine Drive, unable to ascend Walkeshwar Road because of the heavy rains that people darted under shop awnings to escape, Varoon trudged up Malabar Hill in the warm tropical rain.

  - 33 -

  1965

  AFTER SIGNING ALL THE NECESSARY paperwork, Varoon gave the dock foreman a box of sweets. His first shipment of toys from Singapore had just arrived. He was officially an importer/exporter. As he rode the double-decker bus home, he looked out the window from the top deck to the other end of the bay where the shop was and wondered if the old matchmaker was in the office again. At the shop, all was quiet these days as workers were on leave for the monsoon season. The rain that had fallen earlier that morning had now subsided but low-hanging clouds were threatening to unleash more.

  “. . . A very decent family from Gujarat . . . older sister’s husband in Canada . . .” Varoon had recently overheard the matchmaker say to his father, with whom Varoon had not spoken in nearly two months, ever since he’d asked for the bribe money for the Port Authority senior official.

  Varoon was curious about the girls that the matchmaker had in mind. He’d fantasized about Bollywood heroines like Saira Banu and Sharmila Tagore. Their beautifully painted eyes and bosomy figures on the silver screen made him yearn for a woman’s embrace.

  It would’ve been somewhat easier to handle the matchmaking from elders he looked up to or was even a trifle inspired by, but it was annoying to have someone decide your fate who didn’t know you, who wasn’t aware of your capabilities, who couldn’t understand your dreams, who in fact kept you from them. Although he was curious to meet with the girls and their families, he was also terrified. Would they be pretty? Fat? Thin? Ugly? Bosomy? Covered with warts? If he could only delay the meetings for six months, maybe a year, just until the shipping business was in full swing, then he might be in a better position to agree or disagree to any prospective match. Presently, he had no leverage. The bottom line was that the more money he made, the more executive power he’d have in the final decision.

  He’d tried to talk about it with his father but the old man had said, “Having a job as a manager in the shop is respectable work. Nothing to be ashamed of.” On the surface it seemed to any passerby a solid business. After all, it employed over a dozen workers who produced and refurbished vintage furniture. But the truth was the business was stagnating because Praveen Sharma refused to let it flourish.

  Varoon had said, “There are ways to increase efficiency without having to compromise quality. The workers can be trained better, modern equipment could increase productivity, even ensure better quality.”

  But Praveen shook his head while continuing to work on his miniatures. “Electric sanders are for common lumber. We work with fine woods. An electric sander is incapable of feeling the grain of teak or ebony.”

  Varoon was both incensed and relieved that nobody knew that the shop barely kept afloat some months. The thought of getting married and living with his father above the shop in their tiny one-room flat was becoming less pleasant by the day. There was no privacy up there.

  As the bus came to the north side of Marine Drive, traffic up ahead was being rerouted. There was confusion. Riders said to the conductor, “Arre, what’s going on?” “Why are we not going down the normal bus route?” “I’ll miss my stop . . .” People began to yell and shove, debating whether the driver should take a left or right, arguments erupted about where there would be less traffic. But Varoon refrained from joining the melee, content that his shipment had arrived and was on its way to the wholesaler. He couldn’t erase the smile from his face as he sat by the window on the upper level of the bus. For the first time in his life he felt as though he might be in control of something.

  Somewhere near Chowpatty Beach, instead of climbing up Walkeshwar Road, the bus unexpectedly veered to the right towards Opera House, swaying everyone on the bus to one side. Out the window Varoon saw a mob of angry people spilling out into the street from the beach. Some were carrying large signs: Hindustan for Hindus Only! Someone in the crowd yelled, “If you want to stay in our country, adopt our ways!” Several people in the crowd were in the midst of a fight. A man was holding a hand up to his bloodied face trying to stop the thick stream of crimson that was spilling onto his white kurta. The bus grew quiet all of a sudden as everyone took in the scene. But before long, the bus rounded the corner and the mob on the street was out of sight. It was clearly some kind of altercation between Hindus and Muslims, perhaps a political party was marching or a politician from Delhi was in town. Newspapers had been speculating that the fighting in Gujarat between Indian and Pakistani border police would soon escalate into war. In metropolitan cities like Bombay where there was a sizeable minority Muslim population, tensions between Hindus and Muslims were usually quelled without the need of police—level-headed citizens generally prevailed and the odd skirmish fizzled away. But all that had recently changed as the situation on the border became more unstable and both sides amassed more troops. Varoon wondered how Manu was doing. He hadn’t heard from his friend in a while.

  After seeing the man with the bloodied face, everyone on the bus had stopped arguing over the traffic. They were grateful the bus driver had avoided going into the heart of what could soon become a savage riot. Nearly everyone on the bus was old enough to remember the violent Partition nearly twenty years ago when millions fled from one newly created country to the other. Varoon’s heart raced as the bus sped away and he tried his best not to think of the fateful night in Lahore when he’d last seen his mother but it all rushed to him now: the acrid smoke, the fires crackling in the distance, hiding under the carriage with his mother, the dhobi walla and his wife, his mother’s salty tears, driving to the train s
tation with his father, the night sky littered with stars, the train departing Lahore Station without his mother.

  A part of him wanted to leap off the bus and join the turbulent mob, clutch Muslim throats with his hands and strangle the life out of them, rip and tear their limbs. Surprised at how quickly rage had filled him, he took a deep breath and remained on the bus, looking out his window.

  The bus continued past Babulnath Temple, rounded Kemps Corner, and didn’t make a stop until it went down Nepean Sea Road. After several minutes in the traffic jam the bus stopped near Priyadarshini Park. People leaned out the open back compartment of the double-decker, trying to look through the fog and traffic that snaked ahead.

  A guava vendor boy pushed his cart through the traffic while announcing with his nasal voice, “One anna, one anna only for ripe guavas.”

  People on the bus stuck their heads out the windows and tried to negotiate with the boy. One lady said, “Shame on you for charging so much—just yesterday it was half-anna.”

  The guava boy said, “These are the best batch of the season.”

  “Forget the guavas,” another man said, “ask him what’s going on up the road.”

  A chorus of people agreed. “What if the whole city erupts into madness?” one man offered, although cooler heads shushed him to hear what the guava boy had to say.

  But the boy refused to tell them anything until someone agreed to buy a guava, which someone reluctantly did. As the boy dipped his knife into a mixture of salt and red chilli powder before slicing into a ripe guava for his customer, he explained, “The street has flooded up ahead and is impassable.” Word quickly spread and the bus emptied. People were relieved that there was no imminent danger of a mob.

  Most travellers chose not to traverse the flooded street as they alighted the bus, hoping the sewers would clear up soon. There were a few paan walla stalls in the area and food shops where people were drinking chai, eating freshly fried wada pauns, listening to radios that hung on vendor carts, reading newspapers, and generally loitering. Some from the bus were still shaken from the mob they’d witnessed at Chowpatty Beach. As Varoon walked by them he overheard snippets of conversation: “How do you think the riot started?” “God only knows.” “These politicians can whip the public into such a frenzy.” “Has the situation at the border changed at all?”