by Braham Singh
‘He designed it to use the American Purex process.’
‘Something the Americans themselves abandoned as too dangerous,’ Salim Ali said to his friend, who should’ve known better than to lob so feebly. ‘When do we stop taking hand-me-downs from the West?’ Salim Ali asked.
The answer of course was, never. But who was Ernst to further disillusion heroes marching to a new tomorrow ?
Mohan Driver slowed down and parked on the left to wait out the Lambadi-style Ho Chi Minh trail cutting across Central Avenue. The women emptied long, shiny, stainless steel pipes from a curbed Tempo with brutal speed, to have them disappear in the maw of the Phoenix building. It was an elongated structure, adjacent to a smoke stack as tall as the building was long. The chimney reached out into the sky. Men wielding clipboards supervised the work detail with non-verbal hand gestures at the Lambadi—speaking to lower caste types, verboten. Leering though, was permitted. Tufan waved at one of the clipboards Ernst recognised. ‘Mr. Paranjpe,’ he said, waving away like a school boy. ‘Our Purchase Manager.’
It was the same man scurrying behind Jehangir Merchant that day at Fertilisers when Jehangir the bagman had dropped the blueprint on the floor—blueprints for a building full of pipes. The same man in the permit-room, sitting next to Jehangir and trying to go invisible. The same man now moving pipes into a building with a chimney the length of Dara Singh’s dick—turns out it’s a plutonium reprocessing plant. Paranjpe saw Tufan and waved, then saw Ernst and froze. Hand stilled mid-wave, it was impossible to turn invisible the way he had managed in the permit-room that day.
Invisible maybe not, but miserable, absolutely. His assistant looked puzzled at a Paranjpe suddenly so out of sorts. By now, Ernst was used to his general unpopularity in certain quarters. This though, was embarrassing, the way Paranjpe dove into his clipboard and buried himself.
‘What’s wrong with him today? Such a friendly fellow otherwise.’ Tufan asked.
Past CIRUS, the forest closed around them again. The Central Avenue remained its silky smooth self—like her skin—and not a pothole in sight.
‘Strange.’ Tufan shook his head and looked confused. ‘Those pipes Paranjpe was unloading. I don’t recall issuing them.’ Then, back to normal. ‘Seedha Barkhurdar!’ he said to Mohan Driver, slapping his shoulders. ‘Straight ahead, young man!’
Ernst studied him. This serene tribal from India’s Northeast border with China. ‘My Smiling Buddha!’ is what Dr. Homi Bhabha had called out, knowing full well his Smiling Buddha was burning up behind that smile. Tsering Tufan’s illness sidled over to settle next to his. What was there to nitpick between the two? One was frying his innards to eventually show up outside. The other, burning Tufan from outside to burrow in. In either case, the end was the same. He felt grey, like the buildings they had left behind.
‘We left everything behind,’ Mohan Driver pointed out. ‘Where to now?’
Tufan displayed his shy, Smiling Buddha side and Ernst gave the lush greenery a closer look. Low-slung, pillbox-like structures nestled here and there. Bhabhaji’s subtle handiwork. One had to wonder whether there would be any forest cover left to hide India’s nuclear program, if the Parsi scientist wasn’t around. It was difficult for Indians to keep their hands off timber. The straight road began curving right as they neared the tip of Bombay’s northwest land mass. The forested turf to their left turned mangrove. Up ahead would be the stretch of water tapering into Thana Creek to the North, opening into the Arabian Sea to the South. Tsering Tufan thumped a resigned Mohan Driver again and pointed where to park.
They were in deep forest and could make out a well-maintained concrete structure behind a shiny, chainlink fence. Such impeccable upkeep with rust-free fencing was like a pair of Wranglers, a colour TV, or Toblerone chocolates for that matter—taken for granted only in the West.
‘Come,’ Tufan said, in spite of all the tiredness. ‘Come, come, come!’ Cicerone for the day, Tufan was taking the tour very seriously.
~
Past the fence, a brick path led them to an elongated whitewashed pillbox, complete with sealed turrets. The humidity was overpowering. Ernst felt his feet heat up in their plimsoles. His legs went into a slow bake inside the trousers. He would have worn shorts, but there are rules in India: no long-pants for boys, no short-pants for men, unless Bombay Police. The police wore dark blue shorts that ballooned from the waist like skirts, just in case someone were to take them seriously.
A three-wheeler Tempo was aligned with the pillbox when they drew up. Shiny stainless steel pipes laid flat along its open payload section and stuck out from the back; the tailgate was down to accommodate their length. They looked like the pipes they just saw Paranjpe unloading over at the reprocessing plant. Five workers in blue overalls and one Sikh stood by, next to the Tempo. The workers in blue were Mallus and had Salim Ali written all over, while the Sikh, he would be the Tempo driver. The blues were barking at each other in Malayalam, making the Sikh grimace. To a North Indian Sikh, these were an unfamiliar and alien race.
Not so to Ernst, because these were his employees from the Goregaon workshop. He watched Tsering Tufan work the brass Nav-Tal lock on the door and reeled from a blast of cold air when it opened. All his years in India, Ernst had never known an air-conditioned shop floor. ‘I’d left it on for you,’ Tsering Tufan said shyly. Ernst thought of the ceiling fans back at Goregaon circulating sweaty body odour.
‘West German,’ Salim Ali crooned, once inside and caressing a Siemens lathe. Air-conditioned workshops, imported machine tools and now communists salivating over Western products. Meanwhile, Tsering Tufan was pouring over the In/Out logbook kept by the door—black ink scrawling what came in, went out.
‘Strange,’ he registered again, as he had in the one-eyed Fiat at seeing Paranjpe unloading pipes for the Phoenix plutonium reprocessing plant. The same confusion seeped from his tired face as he studied the In/Out log. ‘Those pipes Paranjpe was unloading. I was right. They are not registered here. Why not?’ Ernst empathised. After all, he too had no idea why his workers were here in AEET.
‘Paranjpe could be procuring the pipes elsewhere?’ Ernst suggested. Anything to get the Buddha smiling again.
‘Cannot,’ the Buddha said, deigning him a smile. ‘It’s critical we quality control what goes into Phoenix. That’s why Bhabhaji gave us this workshop. See?’
~
At Ernst’s workshop in Goregaon, Salim Ali’s Marxist labour had the walls decorated with every deity known to man. From Rama to Krishna to Jesus with his big, Sacred Heart on full display, to Karl Marx and the unseen presence at Mecca’s black, draped Ka’bah. Plus 2 x Buddha-heads thrown in for back-up.
Tufan’s theme over here was more monotheistic; his gallery of framed black-and-whites celebrating a single God. There was Homi J. Bhabha striking a pensive pose to outclass any Bombay film hero with that face, the chin, those large, liquid eyes. Homi J. Bhabha speaking at the Atoms for Peace conference in Hiroshima. Homi J. Bhabha with Prime Minister Nehru, watching his nuclear reactor take wing. One more of Homi J. Bhabha with the PM, this time with two Americans; the looming one resplendent in a 12-gallon Texan hat, that looked a lot like Jack Hanson’s. Which would make sense, because the man was Hanson. Homi J. Bhabha strolling with Albert Einstein. Homi J. Bhabha with UN Secretary-General Dag Hammarskjöld. Homi J. Bhabha with J. Robert Oppenheimer and the shorter American from the picture with Nehru and Hanson. There was something about Oppenheimer, while the American alongside him looked like anybody. Oppenheimer had fathered the world’s first atom bomb, but Bhabha was the centre of this universe.
Homi J. Bhabha, out there in the air-conditioned Ambassador, rushing off with his Louis Vuitton luggage to meet India’s new Prime Minister and save the world in style, rather than save his Smiling Buddha. Ernst felt like questioning Tufan on his blind devotion but knew he shouldn’t. Bhabha like any God had better things to do and a world to save. Instead, Ernst lingered over the expensive machinery lining
up at their deity’s shrine, there to control what went into Phoenix. Whereas, Salim Ali was already at the far end of the room behind the stamping machines. Tufan shut the In/Out logbook and hurried over to lead them through a narrow passage. Looking at Tufan muster the energy, Ernst was tempted to take the man home, make him lie down, rest, and do the same himself. The two of them lying side by side, then letting go together at the count of three.
The other end of the passage held more drawing equipment, and a Cold Pilger. Everything one needed to draw stainless steel with precision, make flanges, deliver a building full of pipes. Like the one they had seen Paranjpe fitting out over the human conveyer belt. Ernst looked at the cold rolling machine. He remained polite. ‘Those pipes we saw Paranjpe moving into the Phoenix building. You’re very sure they were drawn on this Cold Pilger? Not somewhere else?’
‘Where else?’ Tufan said. ‘However, I don’t recall that batch coming in, or going out. Nothing entered in the In/Out log either. We can be lazy at times, Mr. Ernest. And forgetful.’
‘What about the Tempo load outside with my workers?’ Ernst asked. ‘Have those pipes been entered in your In/Out logbook? Better check, because I think you may have forgotten to enter them too. Actually, no need to check. I think you know very well they are not entered. What you may not know, is that they are the same pipes Paranjpe is unloading. You are a damn fool, but that’s okay because so am I.’
‘There is no need to be rude to Comrade Tufan,’ Salim Ali said. ‘Try being grateful, instead.’
Ernst wanted to do something bad to him.
‘Those are Sassoon’s pipes in the Tempo outside?’
‘Yes. You can tell Sassoon that delivery has already begun.’ Salim Ali’s chest swelled. An inch more, and he could take on Gomes.
‘You illegally processed his pipes here at AEET?’ Ernst asked. ‘What, for free? In a highly restricted, Government facility? Just because you know the Head Machinist? Are you out of your bhenchod mind?’
‘Depends on what you mean by illegal. The facility belongs to the people.’
‘You were the one not wanting anything to do with AEET.’
‘I don’t want us drawing bleddy pipes for their reprocessing plant. We don’t have the expertise. I have no problem with them drawing pipes for us.’
‘Not for us. For Sassoon. These pipes go back to Punjabi, yes? No? Yes. And no record coming in or leaving this place. After all, Tufan’s letting you use this facility illegally. So obviously he can’t show them in his In/Out log, can he? Funny thing is, Tufan just found that lot Paranjpe was offloading at Phoenix, that’s also not in the In/Out log. How come? Maybe because they’re one and the same. You got these pipes drawn by Tufan at AEET to supply Punjabi, who then supplied them via Paranjpe, back to AEET. Punjabi’s pharma-grade pipes are ending up in the plutonium reprocessing facility, after all. Exactly what you feared. And it’s because of you. If you feel like a chutiya, I’ll understand.’
Salim Ali curled his lip. Tufan looked bemused. Ernst so badly wanted to kill one and kick some sense into the other.
Ernst’s Mallus were carrying out more of Punjabi’s pharma-grade pipes to the three-wheeler. They looked like they knew their way around. No one bothered with the In/Out log. There was no record of the pipes leaving the facility. Tufan could put hand to heart and say AEET’s Cold Pilger was never used to draw these pipes for Ernst’s Salim Ali to sell to Sassoon’s Punjabi to sell back to AEET’s Paranjpe. On the other hand, you knew it was. It made Ernst India’s most unique middleman.
‘Why?’ Ernst asked, once in the one-eyed Fiat on Trombay Road heading back. ‘Why, now that we have money? You couldn’t find another cold rolling mill in all of Bombay? Why make Tufan do this? Put the poor bastard at risk? Just like you did with the girl, making her play that communist anthem.’
‘I didn’t make anyone do anything.’ Salim Ali asked. ‘Besides, I’m telling you, those pipes simply cannot be for Paranjpe. Why would Sassoon supply substandard material to a nuclear plant? Fuck with something this big? You’re wrong as usual.’
‘What’s costlier? These pharma-grade pipes or ones that are nitric acid grade?’
‘What do you think? Of course, the austenitic stainless steel for nitric acid.’
‘There you have it. I’ve known Adam Sassoon since before you were born. He is that same capitalist who features in your Marxist nightmares. The one who does anything for money.’
‘No one in his right mind would do such a thing.’
‘This is India.’
Silence.
‘Quite the role reversal, you’ll agree. My pointing out a capitalist’s culpability and you defending him.’
‘Conjecture. You’re very good at that.’
‘I’m good at that? Anyway, tell me, would you have processed these fucked-grade pipes if you knew they were for the plutonium reprocessing plant? ’
Salim Ali considered the matter carefully before deciding to ignore Ernst.
‘Why?’ Ernst asked. ‘Why did you do this?’ Ernst persisted. ‘I’m not letting this go, you know.’
‘Your aeroplane ticket, that’s why. I told you, tell the Seth to go fuck himself. But, do you listen? No. You had to go honour his bleddy cheque. Now after salaries, you’ll have just enough left for your ticket. Or the pipes. One, or the other. Not both. But thanks to Tufan, I’ve gone got the pipes done for free. We can now go buy your ticket with the money left. Get you to a proper hospital in West Germany.’
‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘Why not? Someone has to think of you, because you don’t.’
Ernst leaned out into the humid, tropical night to hide his face. It had turned red and his ears burned. Salim Ali, though, was busy looking out from his side and that, therefore, was that. All for the best, because Ernst didn’t know what to say, what to do. Unlike him however, everyone else clearly did; Salim Ali over at Tufan’s workshop, taking care of business and Paranjpe at the reprocessing plant, doing the same. Installing Sassoon’s pipes. Probably, bribed silly to do it. By Adam Sassoon. Ernst was there in the permit-room when the great man was seen taking care of business. With someone he wouldn’t normally touch with a barge pole. Paranjpe was the kind of person normally left for Jehangir to sequester.
Yet, ‘Bring some orange juice over for Paranjpeji,’ the great man had ordered D’Souza, the barkeep, that day in the crowded permit-room. The great man knew exactly what he was doing, playing host to this Indian. It was unprecedented, stepping down from Olympus to get a wog aligned. Could be because in this case, the wog would need to bypass Bhabha’s quality control and install substandard pipes in a nuclear reprocessing plant. Too big to be left to a Jehangir. Given the price difference between austenitic stainless steel and pharma grade, what did that translate into, Ernst wondered. Double the usual profits for Sassoon Industries? He settled on triple. Still, what a risk to take.
Then there was Bhabha—this other great man who knew what to do. Not just a great man, but God. Goes builds a national atomic program from scratch. Installs the finest machine tools money can buy. Ensures key components are machined in-house. Total quality control over what goes into his nuclear reprocessing plant. But then goes appoints a Paranjpe as Purchase Manager.
Nothing from the pictures arrayed in Tufan’s workshop would suggest that gods fucked up too. They looked infallible in the line-up. Well, at least Bhabha did. After China, one couldn’t look at Nehru anymore and ignore the clay feet. As for Oppenheimer, when was that picture taken? From the look in his eyes, definitely after his atom bomb, but before or after he resigned from America’s nuclear program in remorse? They took away his security clearance in retaliation and he was no longer God. One thing America couldn’t deal with was rejection. Ernst on the other hand, was good with it. To be rejected was his natural state. Anything else was disconcerting.
33
Dress Code
Englishness remains the primary qualification for membership into an Indian club.
—Daily Mail
Sassoon stared at the greens. He could be searching for the meaning of life. He leaned back into his rattan sofa and smiled at good friend, Ernst—rehabilitated for a second time. Sassoon’s cheque would have cleared today, raining zeroes all over Ernst’s overdraft. In turn, Ernst’s cheques to the Seth would have cleared—circle of life.
Ernst was at the club just to make sure. Cover all bases. Look Adam Sassoon in the eye to find out if his cheque would pass. Better than to learn the next day that the great man had reclaimed the zeroes on a whim. Or, because of Salim Ali. Jewish by birth and Hindu by choice, it was okay to be insecure.
‘The pipes,’ Ernst said. ‘Punjabi never mentioned what they’re for.’
‘Did he provide the specs? Thirty-one millimetre, I believe?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, that’s that, then. What more do you need?’
‘Those blueprints with Jehangir, the other day in the permit-room. Couldn’t help but notice. They’re for Atomic Energy’s reprocessing plant. That means nitric acid grade pipes. These ones we’re drawing for you, they’re not. Just saying. ’
‘You’re wide awake these days, old chap. Good to know. But if you’re saying they are not Atomic Energy grade, then they’re not for Atomic Energy, what?’
‘The man with Jehangir. That same day in the permit-room. He’s Purchase Manager over at AEET. So, thought I’d ask.’
‘Eclectic sort of a bloke, our Jehangir. Can’t be bothered whom he drags along.’
With that the great man went got lost in the greens again. After a bit, he emerged to ask, ‘By the way, what if they are?’
Ernst went, ‘Eh?’
‘The pipes. I mean, what if they are for the reprocessing plant you’re all worried about. What then? You wouldn’t do the job? Not accept the money?’
