Rupee Millionaires

by Frank Kusy

  Enough was enough. When I phoned Madge in England later on, it was to suggest packing it all in. Travelling alone, without any foreign friends, was far harder than I had anticipated.

  ‘What are you complaining about?’ she chided. ‘You’re approaching the Brechtian ideal!’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of Bertolt Brecht? He reckoned that the “ideal man” would be in control of all aspects of his business. And that’s you now, isn’t it? You’re a one-man band, and you do just about everything yourself. You travel to India, you buy all the stuff direct, you check it all out personally, you lug it all home by hand or ship it, you drive it out to your customers in the UK, and you sell it all by yourself and for yourself. Brecht would have loved you!’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But one question: did Brecht ever go to India?’

  *

  The following day opened with a famous sadhu squatting in the road directly below the Venus restaurant, lifting a 30-kilo slab of granite with his penis. The event drew a crowd of hundreds.

  ‘Ouch, that has got to hurt!’ I said, wincing, and pushed my breakfast away.

  ‘What an original way of collecting money!’ declared Rose.

  Rose was Ram’s new girlfriend, and though I had often spotted her knocking around Pushkar, this was the first time I had spent any real time with her. All I knew of her from before was that she had been designing clothes. – first for herself, then for Spud, then for herself again – as a means of getting back to India as often as possible.

  Rose was like a past-due-date chocolate: sweet and tempting on the outside, hard as a rock at centre. Pretty and petite, with enormous blue eyes and a Twiggy-like figure, she had a quiet self-assurance which completely belied her fluffy exterior. She inherited this strong inner core, she said, from her high-flying parents—one a banker, the other a barrister—who had always expected her to ‘do well for herself’. Having shown an early talent for art and design, she graduated top of her class at one of the better universities.

  Then she had come to India and fallen in love with an Indian. Not just any Indian, mind you, but my old friend-turned-fraud, Ram. When I came across Rose that particular morning, she had been writing a letter of complaint about Ram to the management of the Arya Niwas hotel in Jaipur. No sooner had her illicit affair with him emerged than she had been drummed out of the hotel under suspicion of being either a prostitute or a chubbi-wallah.

  ‘What’s a chubbi-wallah?’ I wondered out loud.

  She scowled. ‘A commission agent. Chubbi means twenty-one, and that—in percentage terms—is the amount of commission most Indians pay on sales.’

  As she put the finishing touches to her letter, Rose told me—rather tongue-in-cheek— she was planning to get banned from as many hotels in Rajasthan as possible. She was finished at the Arya Niwas, she was persona non grata at the Pushkar Palace, and no business hotel in Delhi would touch her because she invited so many men back to her room. The fact that all these men were western buyers who had employed her to check their clothes and silver was immaterial. In India, a single woman being visited by more than one man was obviously a whore.

  Rose was now holed up in the Venus restaurant’s new hotel. Himmat, the manager, had taken pity on her and given her a private room where Ram could visit whenever he liked. This room had a large fridge in it, containing such western delicacies as Nescafe coffee, Hellmann’s mayonnaise, and a super-size pot of Vegemite from Sainsbury’s. Most of the fridge, however, was occupied by mangos (this being the mango season), and Rose invited me down to sample a massive bowl of sliced and pulped mangos accompanied by lashings of fresh orange juice. It was the best dessert I had ever tasted.

  In the course of our conversation, I learnt Ram had sold shop number one to his brother R.J., and shop number two to his old partner, Yadav. Shop number three had just been opened in his Indian wife’s name, this being a crafty court dodge in case Eri, his Japanese ex, decided to sue him for putting her money into shops one and two. Listening to all this made me giddy. If I thought my life was complicated, I needed only to think of Ram’s.

  Rose wanted me to meet with Ram, but I wasn’t too sure. I had never been the forgiving type, and I still remembered the humiliation I had felt when Ram had stood up Madge the year before—not just once, but twice. I also had reservations about the way Ram had betrayed and swindled poor Eri. But on the plus side, and this outweighed everything, I recalled how kind Ram had been to my mother, and how he had helped her to finally understand—and even approve of—my life in India.

  So it was with mixed feelings that I turned up at Rose’s room that night to make my peace with Ram. The very first thing Ram did, after hobbling forwards for an awkward embrace, was to light up two bidis and hand one to me. It was an old ritual, one that I recognised from long before, and as I accepted it I felt all the anger, all the past bitterness, slip from my heart. Nobody was perfect, I told myself, so why shouldn’t I forgive and forget?

  Rose was a fine hostess. She flitted busily between us as Ram tried to explain his behaviour the previous year, and I tried to believe him. He had been unable to welcome Madge, he said, because everyone in Pushkar hated him over the Eri business, and he hadn’t felt safe leaving his house.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I can accept that. But what about the Eri business? Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. Don’t you feel bad about that?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Ram. ‘I intend to pay her back as soon as my shops make a profit.’

  I couldn’t say anything. Ram’s situation exactly mirrored my own with the Inland Revenue. And it was only with the greatest reluctance that I had decided to pay them back.

  Just then, fortunately, Ram changed the subject. He told me of his four days in jail which, rather than being the nightmare he’d been expecting, had turned into quite a holiday. From the moment he arrived, Ram had felt like a star. Celebrity status had been conferred on him by just one thing: being the first Pushkar person to get his photo on the front page of a national newspaper in twenty years. Everyone had seen his photograph in the Times of India and they were all queuing up, in typical Indian fashion, to glimpse the ‘famous criminal.’ Even the police superintendent of Pushkar jail was in on it. He had prayed that Ram would be sent to his jail and no other, and when this prayer was answered, he told Ram, ‘Usually the prisoners I get, I like to see them go quickly. But you I hope will stay a long time!’

  Ram and I were so happy to be friends again that we decided to celebrate in style. The very next evening saw us enjoying a slap-up meal at the Mansingh Palace in Ajmer. This hotel, we knew, was the only place for miles where we could get away from Pushkar and its ubiquitous vegetables. It was also the last resort for anyone who wanted to remind themselves of what good food and wine tasted like.

  We put away a gargantuan meal, running the gamut from mouth-watering chicken tikka and lamb rogan josh to an ‘all-American banana surprise’ dessert. Throughout the evening, Ram’s eyes kept swivelling towards the classical music trio entertaining the guests—in particular their tabla player. He was struck by the uncanny resemblance between the musician and Jagat Singh, manager of the Pushkar Palace hotel. After two or three beers, he was convinced they were in fact one and the same person, and Jagat Singh was leading a double life as a popular entertainer in a four star hotel.

  Ram’s loud declarations to this effect, coupled with the ensuing hilarity, was disturbed by the arrival of a fat American businessman at our table. He said he was bored by his own dinner guests and wanted to join our party. The inebriated intruder grabbed Ram’s left arm by way of introduction, unaware that Ram’s arm was hurting from one of his crutches. Ram promptly screamed in pain and told him to fuck off, whereupon the drunken slob slunk back to his own table. Half an hour later he reappeared to touch Ram’s foot and beg apology. Ram graciously accepted the apology, since he had now passed his sixth Kingfisher beer and was ready to forgive anybody any
thing.

  It had been good, I reflected later, to spend time again with Ram, good to renew our ties of friendship. But if I thought we were off to a new beginning, I was wrong. As it turned out, this was to be our last supper.

  My business in Pushkar completed, I returned to Delhi to collect my silver from Bobby. But first I had to get past Babu.

  Babu was a small, fifteen-year-old sex maniac with a penchant for soft-porn western magazines. He knew when I was coming into town, and he knew I always brought him a ‘Men Only’ from England. I did him this favour because Babu was Bobby’s main distraction, even more distracting than Bobby’s constant offers of food and drinks. Only a lurid girlie mag could get rid of him.

  It took twenty minutes for me to get into the shop. All that time, Babu blocked the doorway, his big brown eyes gleaming in anticipation, his teeth bared in an expectant grin.

  ‘Book?’ asked Babu, peering into my bag.

  ‘Not whole book,’ I warned. ‘One half must go to another man.’

  ‘What other man?’

  ‘Oberoi hotel receptionist. He give me good room!’

  ‘Give me book.’

  ‘No. I can give you one girl only. Which you like, dark or light-hair girl?’

  Babu thought carefully, then came back with his verdict.

  ‘GOOD!’ he said. ‘Very GOOD!’

  And so I had to give him the whole book, with both types of girl in it, which made his huge eyes positively burn with lust. He vanished into the shop toilet, growling as he went, clutching his prize possessively to his chest. He was not seen again for hours.

  ‘We call this boy Bihari Babu,’ Bobby said with a low chuckle, ‘because he come from Bihar, a very poor place. My father is his uncle and gives him job here so he can send money home to his parents. He is a good worker—except when you bring him book. Then he go crazy!’

  Before long, I was going crazy, too.

  ‘It take two weeks, boss!’ had been Bobby’s response when I placed my order, but I had just given him two weeks and nothing was ready. This was my last day in India, and I had spent most of it sitting in a chair, waiting. Whenever I asked where my silver was, Bobby said simply, ‘One man, he is coming in bus from Jaipur.’

  I was not alone in his shop. Three other western buyers were sitting with me, miserably supping on their chicken chow meins and anxiously praying that their stuff would arrive before their flights left Delhi airport. As they sat in silent vigil, Bobby made himself as busy as possible, wanting to avoid having to deal with any of us. This brought me to one sad conclusion: Bobby was in business for money only, not friendship.

  ‘I don’t want a problem,’ I said when I finally cornered him, ‘but my plane is leaving in two hours. I can’t wait any longer!’

  ‘No problem, boss!’ replied Bobby brightly. ‘Coffee or tea?’

  Minutes later, just as I was about to give up, my silver materialised in a big anonymous sack. With no time to look at it, let alone check it, I was forced to make a quick dash to the airport.

  *

  As soon as I was back in England, I opened up the silver and gasped in dismay. Half of it was so bad I couldn’t even sell it as scrap. Bad stones, wrong designs, faulty workmanship — the list went on. I couldn’t even send it back to Bobby because the customs officials at Delhi airport were so corrupt they would simply confiscate the lot.

  So I picked up the phone and booked a flight straight back to India. Actually, I booked two flights, since I needed Madge along this time. If we divided the returning silver between us, I calculated, it was less likely to be seized.

  Then something quite unexpected happened. The couple from whom we had been renting our house in Surrey suddenly returned from Dubai, and we were forced to find a new home. This was mid-2000, when property values were still quite low, so we quickly pooled our resources and actually bought a house just three doors down from the rental one. It was a good deal, and the only creatures not happy about it were Thomas and Rhetty. I never saw anything so pathetic as those two cats sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting to be dispossessed. They were the last things to be moved out of the old house, and they were the first things to try moving back in. No sooner had the landlords returned from Dubai than they were confronted by two pairs of sad, homesick eyes peering in at them through the garden doors.

  I put my flight tickets on hold while we all adjusted to our new lodgings, and made do with the good half of Bobby’s silver. It lasted me till just before Christmas, then it was time to hit India again. This time it would have to be more than just India, however. My customers were getting bored with chunky handmade jewellery in the Indian style. Fashions were changing quickly, and the new demand was for lighter, machine-made silver from Thailand, especially chic copies of designer brand names like Nike, Adidas, and Playboy. So I took a gamble and bought an onward flight to Bangkok from Delhi, the plan being to ditch the likes of Bobby forever and buy my silver in Thailand instead.

  The second part of the plan was to send Madge back to England on her own with all thirty kilos of Bobby’s replacement jewellery, and to save myself lots of freight charges.

  It didn’t quite work out that way.

  Chapter 28

  We Are the Agarwals

  It was 18th January 2001, and no sooner had we landed at Delhi airport than five customs guys descended on us, pulling handfuls of Bobby’s silver out of our bags and shouting ‘No allow!’

  I explained that it was all reject stuff and had to be returned for exchange, but they wanted to hold onto it. For what reason, I couldn’t possibly imagine. It was a Mexican stand-off, and it was only broken when I led the head honcho—a fierce little official with a stiff black hat and a moustache to match—into a nearby urinal and laid two crisp £50 notes on him. After that, he couldn’t do enough for us. He even opened the taxi door for Madge and waved us off with a big smile.

  Our arrival at the Oberoi Maidens shouldn’t have been a problem, but it was. Anil, usually so polite and welcoming, stood at the door with his arms crossed.

  ‘No allow!’ he said sternly. ‘You are not welcome!’

  This was the second time I had heard ‘No allow’ that day, and my mind raced, seeking an explanation. Whatever it was, it had to be serious.

  Before I could ask, he launched into his explanation. ‘Your friend, Mister Spud, he bring this hotel into disrepute!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, half-relieved. ‘What has he done now?’

  ‘He bring in dirty girls, like prostitute!’

  I played back a conversation I’d had with Lou, Spud’s ex-wife. She had left him over a prostitute, hadn’t she? And since Spud’s wealth had never brought him the lusty women he had been expecting, it made sense that he had sought comfort elsewhere.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Anil,’ I apologised, ‘but it’s nothing to do with me. Spud and I are no longer partners. I mean, we’re not even speaking to each other anymore. Look, here are a stack of his bills for people in Delhi, Jaipur, and Pushkar. I must pay these if I want to stay in business. Spud gave me big problem also!’

  ‘You no speak Spud?’ said Anil, mildly appeased.

  ‘No, he doesn’t!’ chipped in Madge. ‘Spud want to kill him! He try to blow up his house!’

  Anil was finally convinced. But as he welcomed us in, all teeth and grins again, he slipped me a piece of paper. It was Spud’s unpaid room bill.

  Madge wanted to chill out in the Oberoi, since Anil had given us the honeymoon suite, but I wanted to get Bobby’s silver back to him. The sooner I returned it, I reasoned, the sooner Bobby could replace it with good stuff. So we dumped our bags in our room and hopped into a waiting hotel taxi.

  The driver, a swarthy turbaned Sikh, knew me from before. ‘Ha, ha!’ he said, laughing. ‘Very old man!’

  ‘He means I am a regular customer,’ I explained.

  ‘Is that right?’ asked Madge mockingly. ‘By Indian standards, you could actually be a granddad!’

  Outside on the s
treets, as we headed into town, the poorer elements of Delhi society were fighting an unusually cold January snap by collecting rubber tyres from dead rickshaws or lorries and setting light to them in huge communal bonfires by the side of the road. There was no wood left to burn, so this was the only way they could keep warm, especially in the chilly nights.

  Ironically, the air seemed a lot less polluted. Maybe, I mused, the government’s drive against diesel was working. The lead-laden smog which always hung over the city was now only a faint haze, and I could actually look around without my eyes streaming and a handkerchief shielding my nose.

  Bobby wasn’t very happy at having thirty kilos of rubbish silver dumped back in his lap. He had said on the phone that it was ‘no problem’ returning it, but he obviously hadn’t expected us to get it through customs. I came to this conclusion when he explained that the thirty kilos of good silver I’d ordered a month before wasn’t available. It was not available because, in Bobby’s words, ‘One man, he is serious.’ This man was so serious, it transpired, that his family had already ordered logs for the funeral fire.

  ‘Is this the same “one man” who forgot to get on a bus from Jaipur last time?’ I teased Bobby. ‘Because every time I give you an order, there’s always a last minute crisis involving “one man.” It’s like a death sentence, isn’t it? I give you an order, you pass it on to “one man”, and the next thing I know he’s dead, crippled, or afflicted with amnesia!’

  At this point, a worried-looking Babu appeared and guided us into the street.

  ‘Who’s he?’ asked a puzzled Madge, ‘and what are we doing out here?’

  ‘It’s Babu,’ I said, sighing, ‘and I don’t know.’

  We watched Babu go into a weird little pantomime, jumping up and down, flailing his arms about, and burbling incoherently. All we could get out of him was ‘Woman … downstairs … you know.’ Which I eventually translated as ‘Give me book, but downstairs, because my uncle is upstairs and he will confiscate it.’