by Tahir Shah
“It’s about the size of a tennis ball,” mumbled Krishnan, draining his cup of tea.
Had the heirlooms been a few gold coins, or even a hoard of smaller gems, the aging advocate would have found it far easier to cash in his fortune. Rubies and sapphires the size of tennis balls are worth a lot of money. So much money that no one on Earth can afford them. For starters, calculating their value is no easy matter.
Krishnan used the rule of the celebrated French traveler and jeweler Jean-Baptist Tavernier to estimate the value of his gems. Tavernier said that the value of a precious stone is directly proportional to the square of its weight. So, if one karat of a ruby is worth $3,000, the value of Krishnan’s largest ruby would be $3,000 x 2,475 x 2,475 – more than $18 billion. Krishnan said that the rarity value of the stone would double its price, to about $36 billion.
But Krishnan’s treasure did not stop with rubies. His collection was also home to one of the greatest sapphires in existence. Weighing 1,370 karats, according to Krishnan, it was worth up to $5 billion.
They say I am the richest man in the world!” he exclaimed, counting the billions on his fingers. “Next comes the Sultan of Brunei, Bill Gates, and others. These people have money, so let them come forward and buy my gemstones!”
B. Krishnan, the billionaire who lives in a rented flat for about one hundred and fifty rupees a month, was willing to sell his gems off at bargain-basement prices. He needed the money. His daughters were soon to be married, but the solicitor-turned-penniless-tycoon, was worrying about their dowries. “A wedding in India is very expensive these days,” he grumbled. “It costs good money – money which I don’t have.”
One morning the press got word of the advocate’s priceless gems. Only then did his obsession with The Guinness Book of Records begin. It’s an obsession which seems to grip many Indians. After months of correspondence he gained an entry into the columns of the hallowed book. Nothing could have made him happier. Indeed, he appeared more interested in his Guinness record than in the actual value of the gems.
Krishnan was a confused man. Sick of poverty, of the threatening telephone calls, and worrying about the safety of his family, he was trapped in a no-win situation. He could cut up the gems into smaller and more affordable sizes: but then his most prized possession – the Guinness entry – would be lost.
He had begun to wonder whether the gems were a divine test. The tale smacked of irony. It was a resolute disbelief in the divine which helped Krishnan unveil the gems in the first place.
His conversation was peppered with references to God and supernatural energy. But Krishnan had good reason to believe in angelic powers. A strange incident many years ago had returned to haunt him.
“When I was a young man,” he recalled, “I was once taken by a friend to a famous astrologer. The man read my future and told me that all mundane things in my life would fail. He asked me to pick a card inscribed in Sanskrit.
“It was written that solar power is dominant in me. Rubies are associated with solar power. The fortune-teller told me that this solar power would bring me fame and fortune. Before I went away, he prophesied that in my late fifties I would become famous and extremely wealthy.”
So where was this billion-dollar fortune of gems? Perhaps they didn’t exist – was that the deception? Krishnan side-stepped all questions of their whereabouts.
“They are locked away in bank vaults, but even I am not knowing where they are right now,” he disclosed, pulling out a couple of scratched transparencies of his treasure. “Look at that!” he croaked. “They are the rarest of the rare gemological phenomena! What a great thing I have achieved!”
Shaking his head slowly to and fro, Mr. Krishnan got up and shuffled away in his bedroom slippers. His wife would be waiting. Under one arm was clutched his bible: The Guinness Book of Records. In his hand nestled the two blurred slides of the hoard which had brought so many worries.
“Oh, by the way,” he called back as he left, “do you know anyone who could afford my gems? Please bring buyers to me. If they are serious I could take them to see the stones. We could negotiate on the price.”
TWENTY-ONE
Take One Live Murrel Fish…
For fifteen hours the Trickster brooded over how he might relieve Mr. Krishnan of his hoard of gems. He considered it criminal that such wealth should have fallen to a man with so little foresight.
We were aboard a bus, heading north towards Hyderabad. Bhalu, whose sacks had been strapped to the roof of the vehicle, was busy scheming.
“I’m going to dress up as a buyer, and then you’re going to take me to Krishnan … then I’ll snatch the gems,” he explained, plotting aloud.
“You’re going to do no such thing! Besides, you’re only twelve years old. He’d never take you as a serious buyer.”
To the Trickster, the idea of becoming a gentleman gem thief was very appealing. I told him about Raffles, the infamous aristocratic jewel robber. He liked the sound of it very much. While the world scorned a Calcutta-born pickpocket, they would surely fall at the feet of a thief with breeding. Imagine the perks of such a profession … the fine clothes, the opulent estates, and, most importantly, the bawdy women of the court. For Bhalu, the dream was an easy one to picture. But then, Raffles had been at least twice his age. And in any case, Bhalu was no gentleman.
By the time the bus entered Kurnool, on the banks of the Tungabhadra River, it was extremely late. Taking charge, Bhalu clicked his fingers twice. A clapped-out rickshaw appeared from nowhere. Loading the filthy pillowcase sacks aboard, like bags of coal on to a tender, we clambered up. Bhalu exchanged a few words of Telugu with the driver. The boy never ceased to surprise me. He had an unrivaled gift for languages. Lowering his head as if he were an accomplice in some vile misdemeanor, the driver revved his vehicle and sped away.
Rather than heading towards the city center, the rickshaw slalomed down dim back-streets. One dark, rat-infested alleyway led to another. With each turn the streets became dingier and more deserted. As if taking care to select the dirtiest building in the most abhorrent corner of the suburbs, the driver brought his vehicle to a halt. We unloaded the booty, the rickshawalla explained what seemed to be directions, and then careered away.
“Bhalu,” I whispered, “I don’t think the driver understood your instructions. This is the most ghastly, forsaken place I’ve ever been. It’s even worse than Hotel Bliss in Delhi.”
“Relax,” replied the Trickster, motioning for me to be silent. “He understood exactly what I meant.”
“Are we at a hotel?”
“Well, it’s a sort of hotel,” he murmured.
We staggered ahead under the weight of the three remaining pillowcases of loot, and my own more modest luggage. Bhalu led the way round to the back of the building. The path which encircled the ramshackle squat of a building stank of ripe urine. Although I had seen no other patrons making for the hotel, the trail was remarkably well trodden. It was so late that everyone must already have been inside, tucked up for the night.
Once at the back of the inn, Bhalu fumbled around in the darkness. He found a Fanta bottle on the ground.
“What’s going on?” I griped impatiently. “Let’s just knock.”
“Do you have a coin?”
“Is it for a tip?”
“Just give me a coin, any coin.”
I handed over a one-rupee coin. Bhalu zipped its edge across the grooves in the bottle. A whirring sound was created.
Then a queer thing happened.
A sizeable trapdoor, leading to a cellar beneath the building, was opened from within. A young man ushered us down. The bottle and coin had been the hotel’s doorbell. But as my eyes adjusted to the candlelight of the subterranean chamber, I realized that this was no hotel. And what I had taken for a bell was actually a password.
The cavern was very big. Its brick walls were dappled with damp rot; its ceiling was low and caked in soot from the candles. Sixty or so men sat about. Some were m
oving bottle tops across home-made checker boards; others merely sat in silence, staring at the array of candles.
The Trickster led me to a pair of old car seats at one end of the underground saloon. My lungs filled with the cavern’s intoxicating smell. I shook Bhalu by the arm, suggesting we ought to leave and find a proper place to spend the night. But the Trickster took no notice. He was delighted with the surroundings. As he coaxed me to relax, a tall figure swanned over and clinked two glasses of fluorescent green liquid down in front of us.
It was impossible to avoid breathing in the asphyxiating vapor which was rising from the surface of the brew like mist from a peat bog. My eyes began to water, and I felt an asthmatic attack coming on.
“What’s going on, Bhalu? I want a hot bath and a filling meal. These people shouldn’t be serving alcohol; don’t they realize Andhra Pradesh is dry?”’
Bhalu drained his glass in one; then he drank mine.
“This is good stuff,” he coughed, motioning to the waiter for another round.
“I can’t believe you’re drinking in a dry state.”
“Well, what do you expect?” said the scam-artist. “This is a chat-slowly.”
“You mean speakeasy.”
In the movies, the American Prohibition always seemed like such a convivial time. Granted, there were plenty of mobsters massacring each other, but everyone else in the old films was having a ball. American speakeasies were wild with ambiance. There was always an old bar-back playing ragtime on the piano, damsels dancing, cigar smoking croupiers, roulette wheels, fancy cocktails, crystal chandeliers, and a genteel clientele with slicked-back, center-parted hair.
I scanned the cellar. No one was smoking Havana cigars. There was no piano, no chorus line, no croupiers, no cut-glass light-fittings, and no cocktails.
An elderly, cultivated man with almond eyes and fair skin pulled up a chair and joined us. He leant over and put his arm round Bhalu.
“One taste of this drink and you have an unquenchable thirst!” he said.
The Trickster hissed incorrigibly.
“But drink is illegal in Andhra Pradesh, so everyone here’s breaking the law,” I said righteously.
“My friend,” responded the old man, gulping his glass of rotgut as if it were orange squash, “this liquid is medicine … medicine for the soul.”
“Then why does it destroy the body?”
*Shortly after our visit to Andhra Pradesh, the state government lifted the Prohibition order.
The man gave me a cold look.
“I can’t help it,” he announced stolidly, “if elixir for the soul is poison for the flesh.”
As another round of moonshine was dished out by the waiter, Bhalu’s drinking partner introduced himself. He was a Christian businessman named A.B. Robert. I asked him what line of business he was in. Swirling the gritty, glowing liquid around his glass, he held it up as if ready to make a toast.
“I’m in this,” he snorted.
“You make moonshine?”
“Make it, supply it, own places which sell it …”
“But what about the police?”
A.B. Robert shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, the police love it,” he said, smirking. “The problem’s the women.”
“Women police?”
“No,” sighed the old man. “I told you, the police aren’t a problem: it’s the wives who give us trouble. They thought their husbands would give up drinking when Prohibition came. But the men love this – it’s much stronger than the usual stuff.”
“But how exactly do the wives give you trouble?”
Again, A.B. sighed.
“They break all our bottles,” he said. “They burn down our warehouses and smash our stills. They've become very violent. We tell husbands not to overdo it – but they won’t listen. Of course they’re going to die if they drink too much. This is strong stuff!”
“What about the people who find your chullu too strong?”
“Yes, some don’t have the stomach for it,” said A.B. Robert. “That’s why we give them something special.”
“Soft drinks?”
“No … not soft drinks!” barked the businessman.
He stared at me acerbically. To him, the thought of a beverage devoid of alcohol was sacrilege. “Not soft drinks!” he repeated.
“Then what?”
“Cocktails … we give cocktails to the weak ones.”
Cocktails – it sounded very sophisticated. I pictured a frozen daiquiri with a sliver of lime. A.B. called instructions to the bartender, who presented me with a delicate brown bottle. It was wrapped in a grimy cloth and contained a sludge-brown liquid, which smelt faintly of mint.
“It’s a refreshing, smooth little cocktail made locally,” elucidated the liquor magnate.
I peeled away the knotted rag to inspect the orange and white label. The word MUKUF was written in bold lettering. Beneath that was more writing: “Herbal Cough Syrup. Take Two Teaspoonfuls Three Times Daily.”
* * * *
Despite my experiences, it was still as an innocent that I arrived disheveled and gasping for breath at the great Mughal stronghold of Hyderabad. By the time we alighted from the wicked country bus, it was late afternoon. Eight hours of rush-hour traffic had turned the air charcoal gray with diesel fumes. My asthma was now so acute that every breath was a strain. I was panting like a wolf after the kill. I had longed to explore the secret corners of the city; to track down Thesiger’s beloved Rock Castle Hotel; to trek out to Golconda Fort. But far more pressing matters first demanded my attention.
Bhalu hailed an auto-rickshaw and commanded the driver to hurry to the Old City. He agreed that in my deteriorating condition, the Gowd brothers’ miracle asthma cure might be my only hope. Not once had the Trickster shown impatience with my constant infirmity. A childhood spent on the hidden back-streets of Calcutta had ensured that his was a cast-iron constitution. His own lungs were hardy as a blacksmith’s bellows; his stomach was robust as granite; and his stamina was unflagging. My handicaps were the product of the familiar luxuries of our world: central heating, sterilized foods and regular doses of antibiotics.
Even though I was aware of the approximate date of the asthma cure, and the name of its guardian family, I knew nothing more. In any other country the distinct lack of key information would have been a setback. Yet in India, only the barest nugget – in this case, a single sentence from Gokul – is usually enough to go on.
The rickshaw skidded to a halt beside the gateway of Charminar: the four spectacular minarets which loom up, marking the center of the Old City. Bhalu directed the driver to take us to the Gowds’ house.
“We want the cure for asthma,” I explained.
The driver bit his lower lip.
“Fish medicine?” he groaned.
“No, asthma cure.”
“Haa, fish medicine asthma cure.”
Gokul had never said anything about fish. I’ve never been one for seafood. The manservant, who was aware of this, had obviously overlooked the fact deliberately.
Before I had time to protest, the rickshaw had veered right, down into the labyrinth of back-streets east of the Charminar monument. A cluster of women veiled in black were haggling for glass bangles on lowset stalls; another knot of wives were wrangling for melons, guavas and grapes, piled high like trophies of war. A group of elderly gentlemen were standing in an arched doorway, bemoaning married life; beside them, a goat was gazing affectionately at his owner, a butcher, oblivious to its fate. Everywhere children ran through the dirt pulling kites and hoops and home-made toys on strings. As we ventured on at break-neck pace, down one passage after the next, the secret lanes of the Old City revealed themselves. Then we turned into Dood Bholi, the street where the Gowd brothers lived.
As we turned the corner, the rickshawalla slammed on the brakes and emitted a demonic shriek. Never one to show surprise, Bhalu also released a piercing cry of terror. Unlike the others, I made no sound. The shock h
ad turned me dumb.
Before us lay an ocean of people. Tens of thousands of them, packed together like grains of salt in a sack. Every inch of cobblestone was thick with feet. Arms thrashed upwards, as the strong trampled the infirm down into the quagmire of mud. People everywhere jostled like bees around their queen. All were gasping for breath; gripped by an ecstasy of hyperventilation. All knew their objective – to reach a mottled cloisonné-blue door, which led to a tiny whitewashed home at the center of the lane.
There was no question of the date … and we had certainly come to the right place. I sent Bhalu to gather background information for a preliminary report. He returned with the gossip, which read like a ticker-tape bulletin: the treatment would begin the next day, with the first sighting of the Margashirsa Karthe star. Special trains, buses and flights had been laid on to ferry people to Hyderabad from the furthest reaches of India. More than half a million people had already turned up. Many had staked their life savings to make the journey. Others were arriving with their entire families for the expedition of a lifetime. In a rare show of solidarity, Muslims, Buddhists, Jains, and Hindus, from every caste, were gathering at the Gowds’ house. Every hotel and guest house in town was full to bursting. Mosques and temples, wayside cafes, bus depots, and railway stations were cluttered with panting asthmatics from far and wide.
I indicated to the Trickster that a little queue-barging would be in order. When on a journey of observation, one is occasionally required to get straight to the point. We climbed up to a roof at one end of the lane and, scurrying on our hands and knees, made a beeline for the Gowds’ refuge.
Harinath Gowd was sitting in the courtyard of the family home, casting an uneasy eye at the main entrance. The battered blue door bent inwards as the half-million-strong crowd pressed against the other side. The Old City’s narrow streets were clogged with asthmatics for miles around. Second eldest of the five brothers, Harinath greeted us cordially, without questioning why we had leapt into his house from the roof.