Breathless in Bombay

by Murzban Shroff

  Madhulikar understood he was being called upon to prove his capacity, his strength. It was the kind of game people played during marriages, when requirements of splendor outweighed reason, when every purchase made is a statement about your status, and any departure from custom is seen as shallowness, deserving condemnation.

  And society was so warped and so lopsided that the burden always fell on the girl’s family. Madhulikar sighed and stretched out. He’d been sitting cross-legged a long time now. He looked at the list before him. The amount still did not take care of gifts for the boy’s side: for Jai’s aunts, uncles, cousins, Jaipuri guests, and so on and so forth. What were they expecting from him? What did they like? Then, what about his own family? he thought. He hadn’t even gotten around to them yet. He had to get his wife a new set of jewelry, some saris at least. God bless her, she deserved it—the noble woman! She had never asked him for anything all these years, not like other women, hinting, cajoling, moping, sulking, even nagging about material things. And Disha and Kahini—he’d have to get something for them, too. Something elaborate, because the boy’s side would be watching and they would judge his heart by the size of the ornaments. And, of course, he’d have to give the boy something, too, something substantial. Not just the trousseau, but something like a settlement, to help him get started. It would be better if he did it in dollars. But how did this havala thing work? No point thinking about that, because he wasn’t going to be able to afford it. And no point dealing with underworld goons, because that was unthinkable. “Hey Bhagwan, spare me that,” Madhulikar said to the idol sitting in the corner of the room. The idol continued smiling, as it always had, one hand raised in hope. Madhulikar searched its face for a trace of sympathy, some sign of response. He’d known miracles to happen—just like that.

  For the first time in his life, Madhulikar felt lonely and abandoned. He felt the burden of his years, all fifty-five of them. His heart went dhak dhak, as if intending to leave the shell of his body, as if wanting out. He felt a drop of sweat run down his face. He noticed that his palms were moist; they felt stiff, like his shoulders, and there was a dull pain in his left side. Could he be having a heart attack? he thought. Quietly he waited for the grinding pain, the seizure that would force him to lie down, knock him cold and kill him perhaps—there, on his life’s achievements. They would think he had died of shame. They would not see the relief, the sweet, subtle triumph of escape on his face. Out of contempt for the struggle he had undertaken, he’d lie facedown on the certificates and dribble a little spit onto them—his life’s achievements that had proved inadequate. Yes, death would spare him the humiliation of begging, borrowing, or stealing. Or maybe he could just take the bribe.

  THE BABU BARRAH TAKKAS, they used to call them: the ones who took the bribe. Babu barrah takka because barrah takka, or 12 percent, would be the minimum bribe for the officials at the NPRC—the clerks, the head clerks, the field staff, the engineers, the supervisors, the inspectors, the managers, the regional heads, the directors, the management, et al.

  How did the system work? Well, it was all about an apex body of the government empowered to make decisions, using the taxpayers’ money. The NPRC was the direct representative arm of the petroleum ministry. It was established to disseminate resources that would fuel the growth of the oil industry. It was there to subsidize products, to promote awareness, and to usher in progress. It had great powers and budgets to back it but little or no accountability. No one had to carry the can, and no one ever felt the heat, which explained why its employees took their jobs lightly, why corruption reigned unchecked, why risks were taken and deals were struck with magnanimous regularity, and why no one was alarmed: because everyone was involved. Well, almost everyone, save a few employees like Madhulikar.

  So far, he hadn’t felt the need to take a bribe. No, it was a lot deeper than that. There was his family and a history of honesty. And when your roots are solid—as they were with him—it’s not easy to tear yourself asunder, to be the one who succumbs, shamelessly.

  Hadn’t his grandfather given up land given to him by the government in favor of needy farmers? Hadn’t his father vacated their three-bedroom flat, handing over the keys to the landlord, because of a commitment made years ago? Hadn’t his uncle—the one who’d run off to Kenya at eighteen—made his millions and then given them away to starving children in Somalia? With this kind of a lineage, what chance did Madhulikar have to become a Babu barrah takka? How would he face his father, his grandfather, his God Almighty, before whom he sat in puja one hour daily?

  No, not possible. Not till today, at least, when he was beginning to think seriously, think differently. Besides, it was just once. For his daughter’s sake. For her happiness. Wasn’t that important? No, most important! “But what do I have to give my daughters besides character and education?” he used to say. And now he was getting educated by life. The expenses were mounting. The shopping knew no limits. The boy’s parents were doing a lot for Disha. They had bought her expensive saris, shoes, jewelry, and designer dresses from Ensemble, where the prices, it was whispered, began at forty thousand. Unfortunately, they expected twice as much. “We will look after our daughter, you look after your son,” the boy’s father had said. And Madhulikar knew what that meant. They would take care of their son’s education, but he, Madhulikar, would have to do the rest. And he didn’t earn in U.S. dollars—unfortunately.

  But the bribe would take care of that. Didn’t all bribes come in cash, in rokda, as they called it? And this rokda would be a huge amount, huge enough to make a transfer, a havala. Madhulikar’s heart ached. Truly, how miserable he was that he was even thinking of it. And really, it was true what Chaggan Babu, his college professor who taught him ethics, used to say, “One act of deception leads to another; one rotten cell infects another; kill it before it kills you.” It killed Madhulikar to think what it would do to Disha if he fell short in his obligations. She’d have to live with the boy’s parents. She would have to hear their taunts later.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked but held his weight. The late-afternoon silence fell around him. He flicked the newspaper to page 2. His eyes fell on a headline that screamed: “Housing Board Fails to Rehabilitate Displaced Tenants,” and below that: “Old couple at Goregaon Bludgeoned to Death.” The phone rang. He answered it.

  “Srini!” the voice from the other end screeched. It was Archrekar, his boss. He always called Madhulikar by his surname, and for some reason that irritated Madhulikar. “What have you thought, Srini? Have you gone through the proposals? Have you decided?”

  “No, sir, but I will, before the evening is up. And I will have my report ready by morning. I hope that is okay with you, sir? In such an important matter, we don’t want to rush. We don’t want to regret our decision later.”

  There was a pause. The voice at the other end sounded cold yet restrained. “No, of course not, Srini, but if you ask me I would go with Lodha. I have met him personally. A good man, a capable man, like you, Srini. Why don’t you meet him and see? You will like him.”

  By God! thought Madhulikar. The stakes must be high this time, for Archrekar to come on so strong. But, of course, a gas station on the expressway was no small business. It would mean crores of rupees of business. The payoffs would be huge. Everybody would be looked after.

  What’s more, this was to be a model gas station, which meant that the company could invest in it, too. The company could set it up for the owner. And in this there’d be further moneymaking opportunities: Tenders invited but vendors signed indiscriminately. Kickbacks on everything, from construction to design, from food companies to soft-drink manufacturers, from equipment providers to kiosk makers, from the guys who sold computers to the guys who would maintain them, from ATM operators, card operators, Internet providers, advertisers, and of course, the adulterated gas—a cash cow that could only be maintained with the connivance of partners like Lodha. Madhulikar remembered him: a short, obsequious man,
with a double chin and patchy skin.

  “Certainly, sir, I will take into account what you say,” Madhulikar said. “Once I have read the proposal, I will discuss it with you. Then maybe we can call the party and have a meeting. I am sure it will be to our advantage.” He winced. His ears felt like they were on fire. Had he really said that? Had he crossed the line, broken his code, put out his hand like a Babu barrah takka?

  There was a sharp silence at the other end. Then Archrekar spoke. “That would be nice, Srini, very nice, the correct way to approach it. In fact, just do it your way, and let me know if you need anything—any information, that is.”

  Every man has his price, or so the pundits of greed believe. For Madhulikar it was his daughters. First or second, it did not matter. He loved them both equally. In their presence, he became young, unfettered, joyous; he could listen to their banter for hours. When he looked upon them—their sweet faces, their trusting eyes—his heart would expand like it was being called upon to store some mammoth, impossible joy. Some men felt that way about sons, about continuation and lineage. Madhulikar wasn’t one of them. He liked his two girls and their dependence on him. They looked up to him, listened to him, gave him so much respect and love. For them a thousand cynics he would bear, a thousand expenses, too, and not for anything in the world would he do anything to risk their happiness. Having decided thus, he took Lodha’s call without his usual frostiness. It came at 5:00 P.M. sharp, just as he had finished going through the proposals, and he knew even before he picked up the receiver who it was—the death knell of his conscience.

  He spoke to Lodha and endured his unctuousness. It hurt to think that he was bending his own rules, for in his books tendering parties weren’t allowed to call before a decision was made. It would amount to disqualification.

  They decided on a meeting. 7:30 P.M. the following day, at the clubhouse on Marine Drive. “If you are not comfortable, please say so, sir. We can always meet at some five-star hotel. Or perhaps you would like drinks and dinner at the Rooftop? I can come and pick you up. It’s no problem, sir. I am always at your disposal—always.”

  Madhulikar put down the phone with a trace of disgust. How low would the man stoop? How much would he grovel for a piece of the pie? And where did the pie end, where indeed? Well, he himself was no better, he thought, picking up the file with the proposals. He would have to prepare his report, come up with an analysis, give his recommendations, an eyewash and a farce, but it would have to be done as a matter of bureaucracy, for that’s how the NPRC operated.

  There were three tendering parties: the Lodhas, the Seths, the Kankadias. Each owned property along the expressway. Each wanted the NPRC to develop it and allow them to manage it for a share of the profits. Each felt theirs would be a feasible and lucrative location. It was for Madhulikar to decide who was right. He held the key to their future.

  Strangely, he did not see it that way. In his thirty-four years with the NPRC he had figured out how things worked: how under a veneer of impartiality individual pockets were lined and personal fortunes were built.

  There, on a hot sunny afternoon made more oppressive by his own downfall, Madhulikar Srini tried to picture the sequence of events if left to a Babu barrah takka.

  Ten minutes would have been spent on the proposals, weighing the capabilities of each party. No analysis would have been made, no queries raised. The preferred party, the one most amenable, would have been summoned to a club or a restaurant of standing. Expensive liquor and exotic snacks would have been ordered; lavish tastes and habits would have been discussed. The host party would have been supplied with ample hints. Then the conversation would move to other topics: the state of the share bazaar, the new economic policies, the onslaught of competition in the petroleum sector and its impact, in the midst of which the soliciting party would nurse but one question at the back of his mind: am I getting the license or not?

  After a while, the Babu barrah takka would declare, “I have been through your proposal. [Pause.] I think it holds merit. [Pause.] Of course, there are a few questions, but in principle it looks okay. To me it does.”

  If the host party is a seasoned player, which in all probability he is, he will intervene and say, “Look, sahib, I don’t know your company’s policies. I just know I want this license anyhow. You be my guide, sir, and help me get it. I am ready to follow all your instructions.”

  At this stage, the Babu barrah takka would pretend to look reflective. In reality, it was probably the third drink in his system that brought on that look. He has worked out his calculations earlier and has been primed by his bosses as to what size of deal to strike. Yet he must pretend, he must playact, he mustn’t make it look too simple.

  “I don’t know,” he’d say doubtfully. “I would love to see you get this order. I would love to see you succeed, but it is my boss . . . he is close to one of the other parties. I don’t know whether he will listen, or if he will agree.”

  Dropping his voice, the host party should then say, “You tell me, sir. Is there some way we can get around your boss? I am prepared to do whatever it takes—in my power.”

  “See,” the Babu barrah takka would say, “my boss is not alone. There are others over him. They will question him. We have to do this carefully, very, very carefully, so no one is upset.”

  This is the cue for the party to make his pitch. The door has been unlocked; now it’s up to him to open it, by loosening his purse strings, by showing his willingness to invest. Deferentially he must say, “I understand, sir; we cannot afford to ignore anyone. Please tell me how many people need to be covered. And for what amounts.”

  The Babu barrah takka will do some calculations, plucking at his eyebrow. Then he’d suggest a figure. Meanwhile, out of nervousness, the host party would have gulped down his drink, and yet his throat would feel itchy and dry.

  Once the amount was specified, a fresh round of drinks would be ordered. A natural ease and friendliness would set in. Both host and guest would now warm and expand to each other, and the Babu barrah takka would lower his voice and say, “After this license, I will show you how we can look at other opportunities. This location is a gold mine. I hope you realize what you are getting?”

  “Of course, of course, sir,” the party would say. “I can’t thank you enough—for your help.”

  And the Babu barrah takka would open up and say, “See, I have nothing in my heart, I tell you. I help everybody. But sometimes people don’t appreciate. They forget what I have done. Then, I also wait my time. When the opportunity comes, I show them.”

  Drunk on all the foreign liquor he had imbibed, the Babu barrah takka would launch into a tirade about ungrateful people, an ungrateful world, and the ungrateful place he was employed. The party realizes he has made a friend he didn’t want.

  But this was never Madhulikar’s situation. He never met suppliers socially. He never allowed them to entertain him. He never took their calls, and if they managed to get through, he would write out a report and disqualify them. To date, he held a strong contempt for the Babu barrah takkas, which showed in his eyes, his face, and his stiff, haughty manner when he spoke to them. They, in turn, thought him foolish and impractical, one of those foolish idealists who’d go broke to his grave. Their aversion suited him, for his faith in his thinking was deep and unshakeable.

  But this time there has been some change, a mellowing of sorts, a willingness to blend. Maybe he was getting practical, now that he was close to retirement, Archrekar thought, after his chat with Madhulikar. Who can resist the Goddess of Wealth when she comes knocking at your door? Good, then, that Srini had come around.

  Out of habit, Madhulikar went through the proposals carefully. He took an hour over them. As he had anticipated, Lodha’s case was the weakest. For one, his location was half a kilometer off the main road, which meant that it could easily be missed by the passing traffic. For another, the ground there was stony; it would be expensive to lay the pipelines. This made the yellow slip on
top all the more amusing. “Worth considering!” Archrekar had inscribed in lavish blue ink. Worth how much, and for whom? Madhulikar thought wryly.

  It was 7:00 P.M. by the time he finished his report. In between, there had been some distraction. His father’s words had appeared loud and clear in that small room: “Your office is your temple. It feeds you, clothes you, maintains you. Do not abuse this generosity ever.”

  But things were different then, Madhulikar thought. Society was clean and incorruptible. Honesty was the rule, not the exception, and there were great examples all around—leaders like Gandhi, Nehru, and Patel, men of impeccable integrity. But one must adapt, however late. And even as Madhulikar told himself this, he felt foolish. He felt his life had been a waste. All these years he had carried the illusion of character, of it being something solid, which you carried inside you and which carried you in return, holding you upright for the rest of your life.

  After work, he decided not to return home. He walked—from his office to Flora Fountain, seeking anonymity among the hordes of men and women returning from work. Usually he would have paused and browsed at the books on the pavement: the Teachings of Vivekananda, the Lives of the Saints, the Autobiography of a Yogi, The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, and though he owned all of these—they sat in his bookcase at home—he would have picked them up and mulled, taking care to flick the traces of dust that had settled on the pages. But today he just wasn’t in the mood to do so. Instead, he walked through the Oval maidan, past the groups of boys playing cricket with tennis or season balls. He noted the excitement of the players and their focus on the ball, which got hit all over the place and rolled away, hiding itself in tall shoots of grass. Coming on to Churchgate Station, he stood with the crowds at the signal and waited patiently while the traffic flowed past and a constable retained them with a rope and a whistle. It was only fair that he should wait in line, he thought. For who was he to go against the traffic?