Rupee Millionaires

by Frank Kusy

  *

  This did not, however, stop me admiring Spud. I particularly admired Spud’s ferocious energy, the way he just kept on going, like an everlasting battery, until he suddenly dropped from exhaustion. Spud could go four days, sometimes five, with no sleep at all, and all the time – while the rest of planet Earth was happily snoozing – he was doing something. He was either dreaming up big plans for world domination, or he was ringing me at 3am to tell me about them. At other times, he was dashing to and fro like a Duracell bunny – sorting out stock, doing complex figure-work, and tinkering around with our market stall. In short, he was totally wired.

  Up until his ex-wife’s appearance, I hadn’t really known much about Spud’s personality, other than that which he’d shown me. On impulse, I rang up Lou to satisfy my curiosity.

  ‘I’m sorry about the money, and I hope you don’t mind my calling,’ I said, ‘but I have a question. I don’t know why you should tell a virtual stranger this, but now you’ve got me worried. What does make this man tick?’

  Lou gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, that’s easy. He’s not right in the head. Anyone who can get discharged from the army for “unreasonable conduct” has a screw loose. He was also a raging alcoholic until the time I met him.’

  ‘What’s the reason for it?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’s the youngest and smallest of eleven kids from Ireland. Because of that he’s always had a lot to prove and a good reason to think big. That’s why he’s so driven!’

  What she said made a lot of sense in terms of his personality. What I couldn’t figure out was why Spud, so obviously tight with money, had trusted me with every penny he had. I could have just run off with it.

  As it was, maybe I should have.

  Chapter 6

  Saree Wars

  On the 29th of March 1990, I landed in Delhi – and straight into trouble.

  ‘Get out of the car,’ the policeman ordered, pointing a gun through the taxi window. ‘Get out of the car now!’

  We’d stopped at a dark, desolate checkpoint in the middle of nowhere, half an hour out of Delhi airport, and I was about to be fleeced by three corrupt Sikh policemen. There was no way I was going to get out of that car. In addition to the £6,000 I was legally entitled to bring into India (the joint ‘partnership’ money) I was carrying £10,000 of “excess” foreign currency within two hidden armband wallets. This illegal excess was to pay off past loans from Indian suppliers. If I stepped out of the vehicle, I would lose it all.

  I had three choices: be brave, be stupid, or select that mad, impetuous place in between. Staring into the barrel of the gun, I made my decision.

  ‘What do you want?’ I politely enquired.

  ‘Get out of the car!’ repeated the policeman. ‘I want to see your papers!’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, handing him my press card. ‘And I want to see your badge. I am a travel writer, I am going to the Oberoi Maidens hotel, and I am seeing your police chief in the morning for breakfast. Please give me your badge number as well as those of your two colleagues.’

  The gun wavered, but stayed in place. ‘Why is this?’ demanded the Sikh.

  I gifted him with the warmest of smiles. ‘Because you are such good friends to foreign tourists, I would like to recommend all three of you for promotion!’

  The gun promptly dropped and was replaced by a salute. ‘Please tell Inspector Singh,’ the man stuttered, ‘that we are honoured to welcome the Press!’

  I waited until we were safely on our way again then leant forward to berate my taxi driver. ‘Why did you take me to this bad place?’ I accused him. ‘And why do you let bad policemen steal from people like me?’

  The driver shrugged, resignation clear in the sag of his shoulders. ‘If I no stop there,’ he said, ‘they take away my licence!’

  This was obviously a well-practiced scam, and I was vaguely proud of myself for getting past it so easily. I had no reason to expect it to happen again.

  I was so naïve.

  Six months later I was back at Delhi airport, this time with Spud, who I’d already told about my close-shave story. Suitably enthralled, he decided to bring along his camcorder in case there was a repeat performance. To Spud’s delight, we were back at the same checkpoint half an hour out of the airport, staring into the barrel of the same police gun. I couldn’t believe it. I also couldn’t believe that Spud was scrabbling about in the back of the taxi, ready to poke his camcorder through the half-open window.

  ‘Put that away!’ I hissed. ‘If they see you filming them, we’re as good as dead!’

  Spud sulked, the Sikh looked in and recognised me, the salute went back up, and we were on our way again.

  This was Spud’s first experience of India, and it taught me one thing: if you take on a loose cannon as a partner, you have to be careful it doesn’t blow up in your face.

  The next day, as Saddam Hussein stormed into Kuwait, Spud and I wandered into Delhi. And the first thing we did was get on an elephant. One minute it was parked by the side of the road; the next we had hopped on board at the invitation of the driver and were swaying down Delhi’s busiest thoroughfare, Main Bazar.

  ‘This is the bollocks!’ enthused Spud. ‘I mean, when you’re on top of an elephant, you are the business, you are the man!’ From where I sat behind him I was treated to the sight of his bald head swinging back and forth, following the lines of people on either side of us. ‘Everybody else is down there somewhere, and they’re all scurrying out of our way!’

  It was fun having someone else around, I decided. Having experienced India so many times on my own, I was in danger of becoming jaded with the place. Now, seeing it fresh through Spud’s eyes, I began to recapture the feelings of awe and excitement with which I had first viewed the country. In particular, the feeling of being an alien suddenly dropped onto a distant planet.

  ‘I can’t get my head around it,’ Spud said, keeping a firm grip on the saddle. ‘As soon as you get over here, everyone is operating under a completely different set of rules. All of a sudden you’re on Mars and walking down the high street. When someone comes up and starts to hassle you, how do you behave?’ He barked out a laugh. ‘Who knows? Do you smack them in the head or smile and give them money? Everything you’ve been conditioned to do, right down the years, is absolutely useless!’

  I nodded silent agreement, and from my vantage point on top of the elephant, noticed something I hadn’t seen before: the whole long, straggling road that was Main Bazar was criss-crossed with a spidery confusion of overhead wires. It looked like someone had got hold of all the electricity cables and patched them together in motley order, so as to provide every shop with a light, a telephone, and a TV. The general effect was of a frontier shantytown where there were no rules or regulations, and no one had any fear of either being electrocuted or of buildings falling down around them. Everything—from the cows and dogs to the scooters and wedding processions—moved in slow motion, all of them complaining in loud barks, trumpets, horns, and tannoys, creating a twenty-four hour cacophony of noise and brouhaha.

  ‘Forget St Martin’s!’ I shouted to Spud. ‘This is the market to end all markets! It runs for six days a week, and on Mondays—the one day it is supposed to be closed—it’s still open!’

  I shut my eyes and inhaled the pungent aromas of stale piss, rotting fruit, dung, and decay, over-laden (just) by the sweet fragrances of rose, sandalwood, and frangipani. It was a heady, intoxicating mix and could belong to only one country: India. My ears welcomed the distinct sounds: the jingling bicycle bells, the hooting rickshaws, the blaring taxis, and the collective roar of a thousand voices shouting at the same time. Bullock drivers demanded space, Indian housewives bargained over vegetables, touts and moneychangers haggled with tourists, and every few seconds someone wandered up to enquire, ‘Hashish? What you want? Anything possible, Mister. Change dollar? You remember me? Wot is my nem? What country you? Why you no speak me? You no like India? Why not?’

  The s
yrup of India flowed over and around me, and I became one with the din and the smells, absorbed into the vast, heaving melting pot that was Main Bazar. Overhead, far beyond the impossible spaghetti junction of cables and wiring, scores of wild kites soared in ever-widening circles, their distant shrieks faint over the honk and blare of the traffic below.

  ‘It’s mad, it’s bad, and very, very real,’ I informed Spud, leaning in to yell in his ear. ‘No escape possible, and right in your face!’

  I loved Main Bazar. It was street-life as street-life was meant to be. Halfway down the market I spied three cows facing the shop window of a jeweller’s. The owner couldn’t shoo them away (‘holy’ cow!) so they just stood there, a trio of static cattle, looking as if they were choosing a gift for a friend but unable to make up their minds. Further down hunched the dogs, so sad that deep furrows cut between their big brown eyes, so desperate for affection they cuddled up to anything—including vagrant calves or parked motorbikes—just to find a “friend.” Many had only three legs and were hopping around with care, trying to avoid losing another.

  ‘I call them the haunted hounds of Paharganj,’ I told Spud when he pointed at them, ‘because I’ve never seen any animals look so very, very worried.’

  At the top of the market we stopped the elephant, climbed down, and went walkabout. Our first stop was an old print shop where we bought two ancient business cards. I became ‘Babu Baloo: King of Melodies’ and invaded roadside shops, singing bad pop songs and begging for money. Spud became ‘Ashok Singh: The President’s Bodyguard’ and darted around various passers-by, pretending to protect them from imaginary attackers. Later on, we donned the clobber we’d nicked from our Thai Airways flight, wrapped lilac pillowcases and blankets over our heads and shoulders, and tucked royal orchids behind our ears. Then we wandered around, telling everyone who asked that we were Thai Airways Buddhists.

  ‘This is amazing!’ crowed Spud. ‘You can play any part you want in India, and they go along with it!’

  Chapter 7

  Special Requests

  I hadn’t been sure how Spud would fit in with the Indians, but I needn’t have worried. Their respect for a fat (read: wealthy), bald (read: holy), and crazy (read: touched by the gods) little Irishman was wonderful to behold. They patted his head for good luck, offered their babies for blessings, and kept asking him to adopt them. The ruder and more direct he became, the more they seemed to like him. They picked up on the fact that Spud didn’t give a fig about anything. What they saw was what they got. And in a society where true feelings were often hidden behind a mask of fake politeness, that kind of attitude was a real novelty.

  Spud adapted quickly to India. Yes, he could be crass and childish, but he could also be civil, even philosophical, when it suited him. In two short days, despite the unfortunate incident with the Sikh policeman, he proved to be a lively, easygoing travelling companion. He was always fun to be with and always useful to have around. I could tell he had what it would take to jumpstart my small market operation, launching it into a large scale concern. I could hardly wait to get started.

  Unfortunately, the first step towards big business was to board an early train to Jaipur. The train was called the Pink City Express, and it left New Delhi railway station at the unearthly time of 5.50am. Still tired and jet-lagged, I crashed on an available seat and hoped to catch some sleep. But the noise around me rose, and with a degree of horror I realised I was on perhaps the only rail carriage in India filled with thirty-two philosophers.

  How did I know this? Well, for one thing, each one of them held a book called The Knowledge. They enthusiastically debated conundrums like ‘Why is life?’ and ‘What is God?’ Confirmation arrived when Spud yelled out, ‘Who’s got a degree in philosophy?’ and thirty-two hands shot up.

  Five hours later we arrived in Jaipur—the picturesque ‘pink city’ of Rajasthan—and checked into the Megh Niwas hotel in Bani Park, the guesthouse run by my friend, Colonel Fateh Singh. He greeted us warmly when we walked through his hotel’s doors, obviously in an expansive mood. The Gulf War was raging, and he was wishing himself in the thick of it. Gesturing enthusiastically, he ushered us outside to meet his ex-army buddies who had been waiting for him on the back lawn, mapping out battle strategies. Later that night the lawn was invaded by tents and tables, and spirited conversations about the Gulf bounced around the VIP party.

  At one point a drunken customs official from Delhi airport sidled up and hissed in my ear, ‘I can get anything through for you…except drugs!’ Minutes later he reappeared and confided with even more urgency, ‘I can get anything through for you…except explosives!’

  Around midnight, the Colonel cornered me in my room and offered me an arms contract. ‘Frank,’ he said, ‘you know that fridge I asked you to bring me from UK? Well, now that I have put my thinking cap on, I would prefer you to bring me the nose cone of a Patriot missile. Could you do this thing? It will fit in your hand luggage, I am sure. In fact, bring me any convenient part of western defence system. Anything better than Pakistan!’

  Colonel Fateh Singh, retired, ran this small guesthouse in Jaipur with his attractive, unassuming wife, Indu. What I liked most about the Colonel, and the reason I could listen to him for hours on end, was that he was so magnificently larger than life. Every time we met he had a new scheme on the go, a fresh, grand vision of international enterprise. Indu, on the other hand, was easier to please. She delighted in the tea kettle or the shortbread biscuits I brought her from England.

  If there was one thing I knew by now, it was that the more enthusiastic Fateh was about his pet projects, the more likely they were to end in failure. The previous summer, for instance, he had taken it into his head to export every Kashmiri carpet from Jaipur to London. Only after they’d been sent did he discover, to his great chagrin, that nobody trusted Kashmiri carpets any more. They only wanted cheap imitations. Unfazed, he changed tack and began buying land in the middle of the Rajasthani desert, planning to plant the biggest rose farm in northern India. To my surprise this scheme worked, but only because Indu, the quietly smiling power behind the throne, had a fondness for English-style rose jam. Long after Fateh’s initial enthusiasm had waned, she insisted he go through with it.

  I had a soft spot for Indu. Fateh was terminally anglicized, proudly sporting old-school ties and blazers, and sipping at his exclusive collection of old Scotch whiskies. In contrast, Indu was the very model of Indian hospitality. It was because of her that their humble, out-of-town hotel hosted so many foreign patrons. She welcomed each guest with a tray of silver-service tea, served on the lawn by quiet servants in cummerbunds, and introduced them to the resident parrots and peacocks. In the afternoons, she encouraged them to play croquet, and to ease the inexhaustible evening heat by attending impromptu puppet shows on the cool green lawns. To round things off, she guided them inside to watch the English news on television at 10pm, then outside again to visit Fateh’s mobile bar. There they dutifully remained until—several cocktails later—they lost consciousness.

  Spud and I were planning a trip with the Colonel to pick up more jewellery. But over an English breakfast of boiled eggs and real English tea, Fateh made two new suggestions.

  ‘You should not put all your money into silk and silver,’ he said, holding his hands palm-up as if they cradled every penny. ‘You should diversify into fashion clothing. This is something Jaipur is famous for.’

  Before Spud or I could question the idea, he also suggested that rather than lugging all our Pushkar silk home by hand, we should find a proper freight agent to fly it back for us.

  ‘And I have a solution for both,’ he added, grinning. ‘We must visit a local handicrafts emporium called Texstyles in Chameliwala Market.’

  Texstyles was run by a portly little character named Gordhan Agarwal, and I instantly took to him. Physically, I noted with fascination, Gordhan looked like an overweight hobbit. Small and squat, with no neck at all (just a succession of chins), he was possesse
d of a large belly, a round moon face, and a vulturine nose which hooked down towards his fat lips. His party trick was to lick his prominent proboscis with the tip of his tongue. The one thing that saved Gordhan from the ridiculous were his eyes, which twinkled with impish humour.

  Gordhan did business for fun first and money second. In India, that made him an original. He was one of those ultra-efficient Indians who could split their brain into five or six separate compartments, each of them performing a complicated task to perfection.

  Spud was not so sure of the little man. Sometime later, having pulled Gordhan aside to discuss the export of our silk, he returned to me with a bemused look on his face. ‘This silk is not a problem,’ he reported, ‘as long as Gordhan goes to Delhi and has a talk with the silk inspector. According to Gordhan, the silk inspector will “enjoy” him because Gordhan will “make with the Black Label” and bribe him with whisky.’

  It hadn’t occurred to me that exporting our silk would be a problem. I’d never even considered that there was a ban on sending it abroad. Gordhan explained, in breathless, near-unintelligible English, that several other countries—notably China—had insisted on the ban in order to protect their own silk exports. There was something called ‘baksheesh’, a popular form of unofficial bribery, which Gordhan could use to get around the ban, but he wasn’t promising anything.