by Tahir Shah
The last miracle was the most intriguing. Although certain that it was achieved by illusion, I couldn’t see how the deception was done. A rusty tin chest – the size of a school tuck box – was carried to the center of the dais by the swami. The box appeared light enough. It was filled with heart-shaped sweets, which were distributed to the infirm. Once in position, the purple-eyed godman invited members of the congregation to lift it up and carry it away. Twenty impatient fanatics scrabbled up and tried their luck. None could wrest the tin tuck box from the floor. Warning his devotees that only true hot love could provide real strength, Gobind went over to the box and raised it effortlessly above his head.
Over the next three hours, Sri Gobind cured one patient after the next. Cancer, emphysema, angina, intestinal hemorrhaging, and tuberculosis: all were assuaged without medicine or surgery. Such methods, the guru insisted, were the tools of quacks. He merely waved half a coconut over the head of each patient. An assistant followed, tying a pink cotton band around the left ankle of those who had been treated. The string was, they were told, an amulet. It would protect them as they recuperated from the avatar’s therapy.
Early that evening, when the disciples and pilgrims had hurried away to frolic in the heart-shaped pool, I returned to the heart-shaped auditorium and examined the dais. First, I noticed a series of inconspicuous nozzles located where the tulips had stood, presumably used to spray the chloroform mist. On the left side of the stage was a trap door. Making sure no one was watching, I prized it open and climbed down into the chamber beneath. Enough daylight was filtering through the cracks between the floorboards of the stage to provide illumination. In the middle of the room stood an electrical contraption, the top of which was connected to a sheet of metal on the dais. The device was wired up to the electricity mains, and consisted of two magnets, cables and some wire coils. The metal chest must have been held to the floor using this, a crudely made electromagnet. When the yogi had wanted to pick up the box, a lackey had obviously switched off the power supply, disabling the magnet.
Unlike the small-time godman working in an Indian village, Sri Gobind had a fully developed magician’s stage at his disposal. The facilities permitted complex illusions to be carried off faultlessly. However tempted I was to condemn such illusionists – who pretended their tricks were miracles – I had to admit it: this was impressive stuff.
* * * *
Later that night I told Bhalu what I had found. He was more interested in recounting his own exploits than listening to the details of my investigation. While I had been scrutinizing miracles, he had smuggled his pillowcase sacks out of the ashram in a workman’s truck. The loot was now stashed in the bushes behind the compound. He pleaded with me to take flight while the going was good.
Reluctantly, I scrawled a simple letter to the swami, thanking him for his hospitality and blessings of hot love. There was no point in disturbing him again. More importantly, I was unsure whether the cult had discovered that their toiletry supplies had been plundered. Handing the note to the sentry at the main gate, we slipped from the ashram before dawn the next morning.
Despite arriving at Chennai Central Station before breakfast, the first express to Bangalore wasn’t due to leave until 13:30 hours. The seven hours of waiting were spent taking it in turns to protect the pillowcases. When train 6023 arrived we struggled aboard with the swag. Once we were aboard, I secured a window seat for myself. In the luggage racks above me were lodged eight pillowcases of booty. Promenading up and down the aisle, proud as a bulldog, was Bhalu. The usual fraternity of salesmen, with their potato-peelers and pinking shears, had shied away. None could compete with the Trickster. After all, who would buy a potato-peeler when they could spend their savings on a sachet or two of cut-price Givenchy aftershave?
Shortly before midnight, the express screeched into Bangalore City Station. Virtually every descending passenger had an assortment of newly acquired goodies tucked away. Hand-towels and shower caps, talcum powder and tiny sewing kits, shoe horns and sun block, moisturizer and French perfume: none had resisted Bhalu’s tantalizing sales pitch. Stuffing a fortune in coins and paper money into another pillowcase, the Trickster grinned his Charlie Chaplin grin. Even he had never known a sale quite like it.
TWENTY
The Penniless Billionaire
Bhalu, who had not owned many belongings before, was fast learning the drawbacks that assets bring. Traveling with the pillowcase sacks of valuable cargo was a nightmare. For the first time, he had become paranoid about falling victim to thieves. For this reason – and the late time of our arrival – he talked me into staying at the Bangalore City Station’s retiring rooms.
All next day, the Trickster sat in the railway suite, crooning over his hoard. I invited him to accompany me to see the town. He sniffed at the idea. Why would someone who had just cornered the miniature soap market want to go sight-seeing?
Bangalore has been described as the Silicon Valley of India. Much of the world’s cutting-edge computer software is written in air-conditioned bunkers around town. News magazines are always pointing to the foreign companies relocating to Bangalore in droves. Stirring as this was, I had come in search of the city’s more archaic sights. First on my list was the Bull Temple on the south-western corner of Bangalore, at Basavanagudi. Its gray granite statue of Nandi, Shiva’s bull, was rumored to be growing in size.
I made my way south from the station down Bhashyam Road, and on towards the southern extremity of town. It was a stifling day. Before I knew it, sweat was pouring from my brow and I was feeling faint. Better get some pills, I thought. So I meandered into the Gandhi Bazaar area in search of a pharmacy.
Sandwiched between a video rental shop and a cloth merchant’s, I found an impressive-looking chemist’s shop. A flight of steps led up to the door. I ascended and entered. The emporium was like the den of corsairs who had knocked off a hospital ship. Medical equipment was piled up in stacks. Stretchers, wheelchairs, and irrigation syringes; drip stands, forceps, and clamps. With such an impressive Inventory of medical accessories, I could only imagine what the pharmaceuticals were like. I hurried over to the sales desk. Before I put in my order, the chemist slapped a kilo tin of potassium permanganate crystals down on the counter.
“This is it, “ he said.
“No, you misunderstand … I’d like some pills, please.”
“Only having potassium permanganate.”
The shop-keeper, who stank of liquor, waved his arm in a grand arc across the display cabinets behind him. They were filled top to bottom with identical tins of potassium permanganate.
“I see, you’re a specialist shop, are you?”
The chemist grunted, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. An open bottle of Mohgul Monarch whiskey on the counter hinted at how he had spent the morning.
The thought of a potassium permanganate bath was, for some inexplicable reason, suddenly very tempting. After all, Sri Gobind appeared to favor it greatly. Why not follow his example? Or that of my own paternal grandfather, Sirdar Ikbal Ali Shah. Like the Madrasi godman, my grandfather had been very keen on potassium permanganate. He used it to kill germs in the food, a habit which began when he was living with the Bedouin in the 1930s. Everything he ate was washed liberally in potassium permanganate which, he said, cleaned out his digestive tract as well as disinfecting food. Whatever he ate – from chicken to strawberries – was dyed sludgy brown.
The chemist had begun to wrap the tin in newspaper. His movements were extremely disjointed.
“Are you drunk?” I inquired.
“No, Sahib, not drunk.”
“By the way, how much is it?”
“How much what?”
I pointed to the wrapped tin.
“Two hundred twenty rupees,” the shop-keeper slurred.
“That’s an awful lot. Can’t I get a discount?”
The chemist shook his head violently from side to side in a savage sweeping motion. Then he threw up over the cou
nter. The sudden swiveling movement had been too jarring.
“Yuck! Why did you do that?”
“Sorry, Sahib,” wheezed the shop-keeper, “feeling not well.”
“Why don’t you take some medicine?”
Again, the chemist shook his head.
“Indian medicine garbage,” he said. “No working. Potassium permanganate good.”
“You’ve got the wrong attitude,” I retorted, dabbing at the residue of half-digested egg which had splattered on to my shirt. “I happen to be a great fan of Indian potions and pills … actually, I can’t resist them. That’s my trouble!”
I pulled a few crumpled notes from my pocket and held them out in front of me.
“Look, I haven’t got a lot of cash,” I said. “Bit impoverished … you know.”
Mopping a splash of vomit from my purchase, the pharmacist let out a great hoot of laughter.
“Not like Krishnan!” he cackled.
I didn’t understand what he had meant.
“Who’s Krishnan?”
The pharmacist stared at me bleary-eyed and disbelieving.
“Richest man in world,” he said.
“Really? Where does he live?”
“Round the corner, Bugle Rock Lane.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why not?” said the chemist. “Everyone’s knowing him round here.”
If I were the richest man in the world, I would move into a cliff-top palace in Monte Carlo, or to a tropical island paradise in the Caribbean. For this reason I found it odd that the world’s wealthiest tycoon should live in a secluded lane in Bangalore.
The pharmacist passed me the telephone directory. I flicked to “K” and scanned the columns.
“There it is … Krishnan, B … Bugle Rock Lane …”
“Are you sure he’s got more money than anyone else?” I quizzed as I dialed the number.
“Of course not,” riposted the pharmacist, taking a swig of his whiskey. “Krishnan is having no money at all! “
Feroze had once said that riches and deception always go hand in hand. Where you find one, you’re sure to find the other. So, praising Mr. Krishnan’s legendary philanthropy, I strained to arrange a rendezvous.
Thirty minutes later, I found myself sitting straight-backed and correct at a secret location in central Bangalore. My clothing stank of the chemist’s alcohol-pickled vomit. My shoes were disintegrating, and my hair needed cutting. I was in no state to meet the wealthiest man in the world. What if he had intended to fly me to his desert castle for dinner? The private jet might be refueling at that very moment. My eyes glazed over at the thought of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. Then Mr. Krishnan arrived.
Taking both his hands in mine, bowing acutely, I greeted him with dutiful respect. Such veneration seemed appropriate. After all, the rest of my life might hinge on the meeting; and first impressions are rarely revised. Krishnan waved me to a seat and sat back. He was a short man, about five feet four. His face, although engaging, bore many wrinkles – no doubt gained through weighty responsibilities. And his attire was decidedly modest. Indeed, it was almost as shabby as mine. He was wrapped in a ragged beige blanket. On his feet were carpet slippers. This man, I puzzled to myself, is so rich he can dress as he likes. He doesn’t have to impress people. To act like this, he really must be as rich as the rumors say.
Sipping a glass of sweet mint tea, Mr. B. Krishnan swept back his silvery hair in his hands and told the extraordinary tale of how he became the richest man on Earth.
The son of a penniless farmer, he was born a little over sixty years ago into an impoverished village family on the outskirts of Bangalore. Determined to seek fame and fortune, he fled the countryside in his youth, adamant that he would carve out a career for himself in the big city.
“My ancestors were direct descendants of the ancient Vijayanagaram kings,” Krishnan began, in slow and precise English. “Our family was once in the ruling class. Heirlooms were passed down from one generation to the next. Seemingly worthless objects, but nonetheless each was worshiped by our family for centuries.”
The old tycoon paused to wipe his mouth with his hand.
“A special room was set aside in the farmhouse,” he said, continuing with the story. “Inside was a variety of icons, idols and other objects. My father used to worship those things in the ceremony room. Amongst the items there were four odd-shaped black lumps. On all auspicious occasions they would be taken down and worshiped with great reverence.”
Krishnan explained how one generation after the next performed rituals in respect of the mysterious black lumps.
“Nobody knew exactly what they were,” expounded the billionaire, with a glint of excitement in his eye. “All that was known was the lumps were very special. They were always protected and worshiped.”
The years passed. Krishnan went off to Bangalore, where he began his career as a legal advocate. He moved into a tiny apartment. He married, had four children and, after thirty-two years of practice, retired due to ill health. His life, which had been very ordinary, in no way, prepared him for the events that were to come.
Krishnan had never been a religious man. But when his parents and the other children of his generation had died, he inherited the room filled with icons, objects, and the four black lumps. He was far too busy and impatient to perform the pujas necessary to keep the gods content. Instead, he shut the heirlooms up in a cupboard and forgot about them.
“My wife used to nag me for locking the relics away,” moaned Krishnan. “She has always been much more religious than I. So, to please her, I agreed we would donate the artifacts and the four lumps to the temple of Nanjundeswara, at Nanjangud, south-west of Bangalore.”
At the temple, Krishnan was met with endless forms and bureaucracy.
“Being an advocate,” he said authoritatively, “I knew how to make an application, and that getting through all the red tape was not worthwhile. I had no intention of getting permission from the High Commissioner just to donate some old heirlooms.
So Krishnan took his family back to Bangalore. On the way his wife pestered him again. She feared ill fortune would prevail if the objects were not worshipped at all. But Krishnan, whose mind had set to work, had other plans.
“As we made our way home,” he carried on, staring at me without moving, “it struck me that the black lumps were very heavy. Perhaps, I thought, they might contain gold. Even if there was a trace of gold, it could be extracted … and I would make some money. When I told my wife, she was horrified at the idea of desecrating the sacred objects. She pressured me not to melt down the lumps or change their shape.”
The thought of the gold nagged at Krishnan’s conscience. He tried to forget about it, but was unable to do so. Everything reminded him of the possible ore, the gold, and the instant wealth. So one night Krishnan sent his wife and daughters off to the cinema. Then he set to work.
“I embarked on an investigation,” he began softly, speaking in formal English. “There was a thick black crust of soot and grime covering the lumps. I took an old toothbrush and a bar of soap and began to wash. At first, I assumed I was washing metal. The dirt was so hard that only some came away. After a lot of cleaning with the toothbrush, I held the lumps up to the light. In one I could see specks of red, and in another blue specks. It was then I realized these were not metal, but minerals, and that they might be very valuable indeed.”
For months Krishnan kept his discovery secret. He immersed himself in the study of gemstones from books and articles borrowed from Bangalore’s public library. He was dogged by worries that news of his find would leak out. No one could be trusted with the secret.
“I thought,” he went on, “if I took them to a jeweler, I might be hoodwinked and misguided. Such people might try to work for their own benefit. So I studied the gemological sciences for a year or two.”
Gradually the retired advocate learned the experiments necessary to identify a precious gemstone. In the seclusion of his
book-lined chamber, he performed the vital tests. At last he could pronounce with certainty the minerals’ true identities.
Three of the stones were enormous rose-colored double-star rubies; the fourth was a colossal sapphire.
How did four of the world’s biggest gemstones end up in Krishnan’s cupboard in the first place? They may have been passed down through generations, from his ancestors – the Vijayanagaram kings. For safe keeping, the gems could have been dyed black, and then covered in soot and dirt. Over time, members of the family may have forgotten exactly what they were, remembering only that they were important religious artifacts.
Krishnan’s discovery filled him with fear for his safety. Constant anxiety, long hours of gemological study, not to mention his diabetic condition, hampered his health. But still he could confide his great secret to no one. Having read a little about the art of lapidary, the advocate bought a hand-driven grinding wheel. One evening, in the darkened study at his home, he set to work with the grinder to remove the top portions of the stones himself.
For months, Krishnan continued to maintain his secrecy. He would attend to his chores by day, and study gemology by night. One by one, he had the three rubies and the sapphire cut by a trusted professional. Over the next months and years, he announced their existence to the world.
All the gems were cut in India. Krishnan himself admitted regret at rushing into having them cut. His knowledge, about how some of the biggest and most priceless gems in the world should be faceted was very limited indeed.
Krishnan amazed the gemological world by first producing a colossal ruby of 215 karats. A second great ruby was the next to be put on show. It weighed 650 karats: having been cut from the original stone of 1,125 karats.
For two more years Krishnan kept silent. Then, quite unexpectedly, he announced his ownership of a ruby of truly phenomenal proportions. It weighed 2,475 karats when fully cut.