If the water was only a few inches deep most people would have had little problem with hiking up their pants or saris and getting their feet wet, but depending on the amount of rainfall and how clear the storm drains were, Nepean Sea road flooded a couple of feet, sometimes more. As the rain fell on Malabar Hill it washed away earth and the water became turbid with all kinds of debris. Varoon remembered from when he was a schoolboy that tropical snakes and large bandicoot water rats would lurk in these murky waters, stealthily searching for toes and ankles to bite. It wasn’t just a story parents scared their children with. Varoon had, on a couple of occasions, seen bite marks and little bits of flesh ripped away from people’s toes and calves. As he disembarked the bus, Varoon contemplated having a cup of chai. Perhaps the flooded waters would soon ebb away, or then again, they might rise—there was no way of telling. But there was something banal in staying behind with everyone from the bus who’d gathered on either side of the road, smoking or sipping chai, speculating inanely for hours about the flood, the riot. His first shipment had come in, he’d just embarked on a new career, capitulating to a little rain now seemed inauspicious and so, with a newfound confidence, Varoon decided to wade into the caliginous water.
During this time of year, after a heavy downpour, in parts of the city where the storm drains became clogged the streets remained submerged for days. Most of Malabar Hill and Walkeshwar were high enough not to flood, but lower sections became waterlogged at times. On the eastern side, the lush tropical soil and trees in the governor’s residence had little problem absorbing the water, but down the western side of Malabar Hill, the monsoon waters rose quickly on Nepean Sea Road, often trapping food vendor’s carts, bicycles, rickshaws, even cars and buses.
Wading through the water on Nepean Sea Road, Varoon saw a half-submerged stalled rickshaw. The driver and an older gentleman were standing nearby, arguing. Varoon had no intention of getting involved, but as he approached the rickshaw he caught the eye of a pretty young woman sitting inside. As soon as their eyes met she looked away but then seemed to find the courage to look his way again. She was fair with long eyelashes and hazel eyes. Her mother was also in the rickshaw, busy gathering up the folds of her sari and petticoat to keep them from getting wet while keeping her legs perched upon the rickshaw seat. The mother stopped praying to instruct her daughter to do the same and the daughter smiled a tiny smile to Varoon that seemed to acknowledge the absurdity it, of trying not to get wet when they were surrounded by water. It wasn’t until he got closer that Varoon could make out that the mother was quietly reciting the gayatri mantra. Om tát savitúr váreṇyaṃ bhárgo devásya dhīmahi dhíyo yó naḥ pracodáyāt Om. She was obviously not a local and had never been in a Bombay monsoon. Her daughter tried to comfort her but it was no use. The mother, on the verge of tears, kept repeating the mantra.
Varoon spotted an old wooden fruit cart abandoned by the side of the road and found himself running towards it. He wasn’t quite sure why, but the next thing he knew he was steering it through the knee-high water towards the rickshaw.
Up twenty yards ahead, the rickshaw driver and the gentleman were still arguing. The driver said, “People warned us the road might flood ahead but you insisted we keep going. And now my engine is waterlogged!”
They began haggling over a fair price. By the end of this exchange the gentleman was shocked to find that a young man was trying to kidnap his wife and daughter on a wooden cart, and to his utter dismay they were eager in accepting his help. He ran towards them as quickly as he could through the water while waving his hands in the air. “Take your hands off my wife and daughter!”
“Sir, I’m only helping—”
The daughter and mother, now somewhat composed and safely seated on the wooden fruit cart, came to Varoon’s defence. “It’s true.” “He’s helping us.”
After the father calmed down, he apologized and pushed the cart with his wife and daughter up Nepean Sea Road alongside Varoon for nearly half an hour in silence.
Varoon, labouring with every step, stole furtive glances of the beautiful young woman. Her eyes seemed to smile at him. A cat and mouse game began. Every time they locked eyes, Varoon felt inexplicably drawn to her. It was if he was being pulled into her universe. An attraction he’d never experienced and could not explain. The water was now up to the men’s thighs and both were breathing with more difficulty. Varoon noticed the girl’s jade bangles and the chinks of milky white skin they concealed underneath. He’d never before considered a woman’s wrist, how beautiful it could be.
The mother said, “I think the water is rising,” and repeated the gayatri mantra.
There had been a handful of occurrences during monsoons throughout the past few decades where the storm drains backed up suddenly and some streets would flood ten feet. Two people and a cow had drowned at the bottom of the hill, on separate occasions, but Varoon assured the women, “We’ll be fine.” He wasn’t sure if the mother believed him as she shut her eyes and silently prayed, moving only her lips.
The father asked Varoon quietly so that his wife couldn’t hear, “Will the water get deeper?”
Through gritted teeth, Varoon kept pushing the cart and lied, “No, this is as bad as it gets.” There was no reason to tell him otherwise. He wished now he hadn’t stopped to help them.
The mother said to the father in a hushed tone, “This is a sign, an omen. Our naseeb is rotten here. Let’s return home at once.”
The man said to his wife, “I’ve told you—more importantly than bad luck or good luck, it’s what you do with it that counts.”
They continued on for some time pushing the cart uphill and then the man asked Varoon, “What do you think? You believe in luck?”
Varoon wasn’t sure. Over the past year working at the shop, his life felt thoroughly devoid of any luck. But it occurred to him that after all these months of trying to get his business going, of trying to make a new life for himself out of the godowns, it might finally happen, and he reasoned that it was his hard work, his persistence, that made it happen, not his luck or kundali. Sure, he might have had friends like Manu help him along the way, but ultimately Varoon himself was the one responsible for seeing things through. Had other men with similar circumstances had to endure the same obstacles they might have quit and resigned themselves to be content with a life in the musty godowns making old furniture. Perhaps his old man was right never to have made a new kundali for his son after it was lost that night in Lahore. Luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe luck didn’t even exist, and maybe destiny, while it supplied hope, only alleviated responsibility from the individual while lessening his character, his capabilities, mollifying him from standing up and fighting for himself.
“Sir, it’s what you do with your circumstances. I believe in hard work,” Varoon finally replied.
After more pushing, when they were nearly at the top of the hill, the father said, “This is an auspicious day. My daughter is getting married. We’re going to meet our future son-in law.”
Varoon’s heart sank a little. He looked up at the young woman to catch another look but she didn’t turn to him anymore. The flirtatious game they’d played with their eyes was over. The mention of her impending marriage had cast a gloom between them. The cart seemed heavier but eventually the murky water began to recede as they finished their ascent and came to a fork in the road. Between heaving breaths, Varoon asked, “Sir, which way?”
“Do you know the Sharma furniture shop in Walkeshwar?”
- 34 -
1965
VAROON DASHED OUT ON SUNDAY morning, eager to see Manu, who’d been in Delhi the past few months. They both had reason to celebrate: Varoon was engaged and Manu promoted to Captain.
Stopping at the Muslim ghantia walla up the road, Varoon said, “Half-kilo” and pointed a finger at the man. “Make sure they’re fresh. Last time you threw stale ones in the middle.” As the ghantia walla wrapped a freshly fried batch in newspaper, Varoon added, “and th
row in a few green chillies. Last time there was only one in there.” Varoon would have rather gone to the Hindu ghantia walla but the fellow was shut today. Hindus across the city were starting to frequent Muslim businesses less and vice versa as the situation between Pakistan and India worsened at the border. War seemed unavoidable.
“Two rupees, eight annas,” the ghantia walla said. Even though the rupee had been decimalized into one hundred paisa for years now, the older generation still referred to change in annas.
“For frying up some chickpea flour—that’s what you’re charging now?!” Varoon asked, doing his best to act outraged.
“Sahib,” the fat man said in a mock tone of respect, “you still owe me from the last two times, remember?”
Varoon silently cursed the ghantia walla while fishing for change in his pocket. Two toy shipments had arrived and been delivered to wholesalers, but after the senior official took his cut, Varoon was left with a shrapnel of coins. Unless he had more investment to increase volume, he was at his wits’ end how to increase revenue. Going to his father now for money would only prove his old man right that the shipping business was a fool’s dream. And even if he were to increase volume, there was the senior official’s cut—the bulk of the profit margin. Maybe he’d made a huge mistake. Maybe he’d reached too far. Maybe he should forget about shipping and settle with the furniture shop. Maybe his kundali was terrible. Is that why it had been left behind and never redrawn?
“I’ll give you the rest next time, I swear,” Varoon said, placing a couple of coins on the counter and grabbing the package from the ghantia walla. A tug-of-war began but Varoon was younger, stronger, and managed to pry it from the man’s fingers before fleeing up the road.
“You rascal! Come back here, I’ll tell your father!” the ghantia walla shouted after Varoon, who tucked the warm package under his arm and walked away quickly, thinking, Go to hell, you Muslim bastard.
When he reached Manu’s new address Varoon wasn’t surprised to find that it was one of the new towers recently built on Malabar Hill. A lift boy took Varoon to the fifth floor. During the ride up, Varoon was struck with a pang of jealousy. The Advanis had always been well off, living in a little bungalow ever since Varoon had known Manu. But now, Manu had his own place in a brand-new building.
A servant opened the door for Varoon, who was let into a beautiful flat with marbled floors. It wasn’t large but had a nice view of Priyadarshini Park and the sea that stretched out infinitely to the horizon. Manu Advani emerged from a room wearing his uniform. They embraced and laughed while slapping each other heartily on the back with resounding thuds. Varoon winced first.
“Congratulations, yaar! Can’t wait for the wedding,” Manu said, leading his friend to the balcony.
Varoon wanted to avoid talking about the wedding as it was going to be a much smaller affair then he would’ve liked. Surely not as grand as some of the weddings Manu had become accustomed to in Delhi. Now that Manu was climbing the ranks within the military he’d no doubt been to stately marriages of government ministers’ sons and daughters.
Varoon said, “And congrats to you. At the rate you’re being promoted you’ll outrank your father and uncles in no time!” It wasn’t an exaggerated compliment. Manu had always been astute, an effortless leader. Barely twenty-four, he already had a flat of his own that most men in the country could never even dream of.
There was a pleasant breeze on the balcony and they could see the ocean tide crashing silver froth on the black rocks as it waned. Varoon thought he’d consider himself lucky if he were to become one-tenth as successful as Manu. He was wondering if he should ask whether or not there was any more stolen jewelry from Delhi. It was reprehensible, of course, but his cut from the last deal was the easiest money he’d ever made. Besides, the jewelry was most likely stolen from those who had plenty.
“Tell me about the soon-to-be Mrs. Sharma,” Manu said.
Varoon was thrilled to be marrying Anju. They’d barely spoken to one another during their formal meeting when the matchmaker and parents were present, but a connection was undeniable, the quick stolen glances charged with electricity.
“I’m a very lucky man,” Varoon said. “Anju is lovely.” Between all the surreptitious looks they’d exchanged during that first meeting, he’d sensed her intelligence, her bravery—she wasn’t afraid to be his equal, his partner. The physical attraction was indisputable. But the fact that he was broke kept him awake at nights for hours on end. The idea of having to share the small flat above the shop with his father and Anju was distressing. They would have little privacy.
“I’ve missed these ghantias,” Manu said, unwrapping the newspaper for a sniff. “Nowhere in Delhi can you get ghantias like these!”
Varoon imagined Anju and himself living in a beautiful new modern flat, one with a view of the sea. He knew that with her looks she could have gotten a more handsome and perhaps wealthier husband. Her marriage to him didn’t seem entirely compulsory. Her parents weren’t so draconian that they would force their daughter into a marriage she wasn’t ready for. It seemed from that first and only meeting that her family had the upper hand. He could tell from the looks on their faces when they entered the shop that it wasn’t quite what they’d had in mind. They could have politely refused and seen more suitable boys. When her parents had asked to see his kundali, the old man bluntly stated he didn’t believe in astrological nonsense, at which Anju’s mother was taken aback. But as her father paused and considered this non-traditional point of view, he glanced at his daughter, who seemed to beseech him with her eyes to overlook this minor detail. Anju had chosen him. And for that, Varoon would always be in her debt. But he worried if she didn’t complain of living with his father in their tiny flat above the shop now, she would, over time, most likely come to loathe it, resent him.
As they started on the ghantias, Manu said, “Let’s have some chai, yaar. It’s not the same without the chai.” Manu called his servant, who brought out the chai. It was piping hot, just the way Varoon liked it. The perfect Sunday afternoon snack. The sweetness of the chai perfectly balanced the heat of the green chillies, and the cardamom and cinnamon in the chai also countered the savoury ghantias. Varoon poured a portion of his chai onto his saucer to cool. It was a simple meal, but one that they’d often shared together on Sunday afternoons since they were teenagers. He couldn’t help but feel like a failure sitting in his best friend’s new flat, eating a meal that he’d gotten on credit, or stolen, depending on who you asked.
Finally Varoon screwed up enough courage. “Any chance of uh, another shipment of jewelry . . .” He was trying his best not to beg like a street dog for a bone, “I’ve started the shipping business, but it’s small right now—”
“What can you ship?”
“Anything.” Varoon shrugged. “Exports of textiles and spices are handled by the big companies, but so many new appliances and electronics are finding their way from America. I’m only able to afford toys at the moment. Despite the government’s red tape everything can be bought and sold on the black market. Demand will only grow.” He took a sip of his chai, but instead of sipping from the chai that was cooling in the saucer he drank from the cup, forgetting that it was piping hot. He immediately spat it out as it burned his mouth. Manu shouted for his servant. The young boy dashed from the kitchen and wiped up the mess.
“Ice water?” Manu asked.
Varoon was about to shake his head, not wanting to bring attention to his clumsiness, but he remembered seeing a brand-new refrigerator as he’d walked by the kitchen earlier. Of course Manu knew all about the black market. His contacts in Delhi were the ones who trafficked it. They were the ones he most likely got the new refrigerator from. “Maybe just a small glass of ice,” he said to the boy, who darted back to the kitchen and reappeared moments later fulfilling Varoon’s request.
After Varoon sucked on an ice cube and soothed his burn, Manu gave his servant some money to go down to the paanwalla to fetc
h a couple of paans and a pack of cigarettes.
Manu waited till the boy was gone before speaking in a whisper. “Something big is brewing in Gujarat, in Kashmir—with Pakistan.”
“What’s happening?”
“The military is prepared to attack but the government is sitting around with their thumbs up their asses. Those Pakistani maadar chods have come into Gujarat and Kashmir. We have to hit them hard.”
The situation with Pakistan had escalated throughout the monsoons. Newspaper reports were at times contradictory. Everyone knew both sides’ media were biased. There was talk that secret infantry and armoured units were carrying out attacks all along Kashmir, around disputed border territories. It seemed as though every other day there were fresh rumours of Pakistani commandos infiltrating the border into Kashmir. The Indian newspapers and local leaders were repeatedly crying out for the central government and the prime minister in Delhi to take swift military action.
Manu explained, “A substantial attack from either side is imminent. We need to strike first. I have some connections in Gujarat at the Jamnagar port. We need supplies to be sent there soon. By the time the government decides to do something, it might be too late. We need a reliable source here at this end.”
There was a slight pause in which Varoon crunched his ice cube. He’d never considered being involved with anything of this kind. Transporting army supplies—smuggling weapons? It all seemed out of his league. He just wanted another little box of stolen jewelry. But maybe this was an opportunity. This might be his chance to make some real money. Start a proper shipping business. Something that would get him out of the musty antique furniture shop for good.
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