Looking Manu squarely in the eye, Varoon said, “Yaar, you can trust me. I can secure containers for you at the Victoria Dock.”
Manu paused and deliberated for a few moments before saying, “My uncle, the lieutenant general—is in charge of transporting weapons and ammunitions. We’ll use your containers for transport. Don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated.”
- 35 -
1967
“COME BACK TO BED SOON, jaan,” Anju said, half asleep. “I will, jaan,” Varoon said, getting dressed, thinking how beautiful she looked even in the middle of the night.
Manu had just come to town, unexpectedly, and as they only saw each other a few times a year nowadays, drinks were in order.
When Varoon reached the drawing room balcony, Manu was waiting there for him with an imported black market bottle of whisky. The two of them embraced and exchanged backslaps. Manu winced this time.
Varoon’s servant, Chottu, brought out glasses with ice. Manu said, “This new flat of yours is amazing. Better view than mine.”
“Thanks, yaar,” Varoon said. A lot had changed in the two years since he’d transported munitions for the army. Manu had made sure Varoon was handsomely compensated. The top port foreman was bribed to look the other way and had no idea of the contents of the shipment, ergo the senior official at the Port Authority office knew nothing so he couldn’t exact his cut, leaving Varoon with a large profit, enough to buy an ocean-view flat on the top floor of a new building in Breach Candy named Sea Face Terraces.
The two men clinked glasses. Varoon asked, “How’s everything?”
“First class, yaar. How’s Anju? Your father?”
“She’s well, thanks. But my father is losing his marbles.”
Chottu, originally from the shop, but now employed as house servant, occasionally took food to the old man and reported on his condition, which was gradually deteriorating. Varoon explained how one day the old man would tell the workers to make one thing and the next day be furious at them for doing exactly what he’d instructed. Sales had pretty much dried up and Varoon was growing tired of paying the workers for doing little. “I think he’ll soon have to come live with us here,” Varoon said. Eager to change the subject, he added, “How’s Delhi treating you?”
“Well, yaar. Very well.”
Varoon sipped his whisky and couldn’t help but relish the moment. He was happily married, lived in his own home, and was now supplying a number of wholesalers across the country, including Manu’s connections in Delhi, with high-quality imported goods such as air conditioners, machinery, and electronics, worth much more than toys. But the greedy senior government official at the Port Authority was still taking a sizeable cut of Varoon’s profits.
Varoon had a handful of employees and his mind was always churning on how to increase revenue, how to make more connections and supply more wholesalers. The supply chain was a problem: paying off truck company owners and their agents to earn their trust took time. It was also difficult to send things via rail as each city had its government bureaucrats, middlemen, and black market gangsters, not to mention a corrupt police force that also had to be kept happy. But Varoon had learned that where there was risk, opportunity also existed. It was a sophisticated juggling act that required constant attention. Someone, somewhere, was constantly needing more money. The wheels had to be greased. And as long as the senior government official was taking his cut, Varoon couldn’t see how he would ever realize his full profit margin.
Luckily, Manu’s connections in Delhi seemed trustworthy even though Varoon had never met them. He was curious but he also wanted to keep a distance because they moved his goods so quickly and paid him just as expeditiously that he knew they had deep pockets. And the way Manu talked about them, in hushed tones, suggested they were very powerful. Maybe even the Lal Nagas, the Red Snakes—one of the most infamous and violent gangs who ran the underworld black market in Delhi.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Varoon said, raising his glass. “I hear congratulations are in order for you, Major!”
They clinked glasses again and drank. India had come out on top from the war and Manu had earned several medals, including a promotion in rank. But the Americans and the Soviets had spoiled an unequivocal Indian victory by negotiating a diplomatic cease fire via the UN. So even though the war was technically over, a small, contained conflict was still occurring.
Varoon asked, “Is it true what the say in the papers that a few dozen Pakistani soldiers have infiltrated the border and are in Indian territory?”
“A handful of Pakistani commandos paratrooped into an area my men and I were in charge of. We captured them.”
“What did you do?” Varoon asked. All kinds of rumours were circulating. Some said that the captured soldiers were released for a price, while some were tortured, had their throats slit, and drowned in rivers with stones in their pockets.
Manu drained his drink and answered, “We did what we had to.”
Varoon realized Manu didn’t want to elaborate. And to his surprise, Varoon wasn’t bothered by the fact that his friend had perhaps murdered Muslim soldiers. It made Varoon wonder if he would ever have the courage to take a life. He doubted it—even though a part of him still wanted to squeeze the life out of a Muslim. Memories of his mother and his time in Lahore as a young boy came to him in broken fragments but they were from so long ago that he couldn’t trust their authenticity. Just recently he’d remembered his mother teaching him the call of the native birds, the chirps of the yellow bitterns and warblers, the repeated three-syllable call of the Lahore pond herons that sounded as though they were chanting Va-roon, come! Beseeching him to play by the river, where the dhobi walla and his wife washed clothes.
Manu said, “Still getting used to being called Major. Anyway, listen—I need a favour.”
“Anything.”
“Our friends in Delhi have been duped by a judge. Long story short is that they thought he was in their pockets but some bastard politician paid the judge more—anyways, the judge has been straightened out, but an arrest needs to be made now to appease the politician, the newspapers. Someone has to be thrown in jail.”
“So what can I do?” Varoon asked, his heart skipping a beat. He didn’t like where this was headed.
“The plan is that we give them someone, anyone, doesn’t matter who. They just need to show the newspapers that someone has been thrown in jail for smuggling in the black market. Most likely the fellow will only be there for a few months. Do you have someone loyal you think would be willing to do this?”
Varoon was relieved he wasn’t the one being asked to go to jail. But there was no one he could think of that would be willing to do something like that.
Manu said, “If you were to provide the Lal Nagas with a man willing to do this, they would be greatly indebted to you.”
Varoon’s suspicions had been right all along then. He shifted in his seat.
Manu said, “You OK?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Varoon said, reining in his anxiety. Where there was risk, opportunity also existed.
Draining his drink, Varoon called for Chottu, who came quickly from the kitchen. The boy refilled Varoon’s glass with ice, smiling. He was so happy Varoon had taken him out of the godowns. Instead of inhaling musty sawdust every day the boy now enjoyed the ocean breeze. He was the worker in the shop some said had been dropped on his head as a child and was therefore a bit slow. No matter how much Varoon tried to disparage that kind of talk over the years, it never ceased, and when it came time to find a head servant, Chottu was a perfect choice. The boy was loyal and did his work well. Now, as Varoon sipped his drink, he realized Chottu might be perfect for this task. The boy was likely not a day over sixteen, but being born in a village, he had no birth certificate. It wouldn’t be difficult to say he was eighteen and could therefore be legally incarcerated. The boy would easily be appeased with a few years of extra salary for the time in jail. Even if he wanted a hundred years’ salary i
t would be a pittance compared to what Varoon might gain.
“Suppose I do. Would I be able to ask for something in return?” Varoon asked.
“Of course.”
“The senior government official at the Port Authority has been taking unfairly from me. I thought it would be only for a few months, but the bastard—”
Before Varoon could elaborate, Manu said, “Consider it already taken care of.”
- 36 -
1973
ARRIVING HOME NEAR MIDNIGHT, VAROON unrolled the pathari on the drawing room floor where he slept most nights now that Anju and the baby were in the bedroom, waking several times a night for feedings. Varoon and Anju had been trying to have a baby for many years and had almost given up hope, but finally, by some miracle (Anju claimed it was all her praying), they’d been blessed with a beautiful baby boy that Anju named Anush, after a faint morning star above the Arabian Sea that she sometimes caught a glimpse of while praying at the Mahalakshmi Temple. The old man, who’d become quite senile, had moved in with them at Sea Face Terraces, and was in the spare bedroom. Some nights he woke as often as the baby and Varoon would have to calm him down and tuck him back into bed.
The shipping business was growing and Varoon was working fourteen-hour days, sometimes more. Despite being exhausted, he tiptoed into his bedroom to check in on Anju and Anush, who were in a deep sleep. They looked so peaceful, sleeping snug together on the bed. He noticed how Anush took two breaths for every one his mother did. Varoon was tempted to lie with them, but he knew Anush would wake in a couple of hours for a feeding and disturb his sleep, and so with a gentle kiss on each of their foreheads, he returned to the drawing room. He’d lie with them in the morning for a bit before leaving for work. Snuggling with the two of them in the warmth of their bed was his favourite part of the day.
Weary, Varoon was ready to dive into a deep sleep but just as his head hit the pillow, he heard a stirring in his father’s room. He tried to ignore it but the old man kept mumbling, having incoherent conversations with himself. He hadn’t been lucid in days and was given morphine daily. The two of them hadn’t spoken to each other in years. Varoon finally went to his father. Quite often he just needed a glass of water and he’d fall back asleep. In the spare bedroom, Varoon, too tired to even stand, knelt on the floor by his father’s bedside in the dark.
The old man’s eyes were closed and he was mumbling, “The teak this season is dry . . . Check the mahogany, when first cut it should give a spicy tang . . .”
Varoon said, “Papa,” but the old man was no longer himself. The doctor had said he’d fallen prey to dementia.
“Rosewood works well for joining, mortise it with black cherry . . .”
Varoon touched his father’s hand and that seemed to calm him. It was the first time they’d touched each other in years. In the dark room, the old man’s breathing relaxed and he stopped mumbling. The waves outside crashed on the rocks. Varoon asked the question that had been at the back of his mind for over two decades: “Do you remember my kundali? It was lost the night we fled Lahore.”
The old man, with eyes closed, didn’t say anything for some time, and then blurted out, “Rosewood’s grain grows more floral and dense at the core, so thick that it can dull blades . . . the deep reds and browns . . . tight growth rings overlap . . .”
Varoon shook his father and said again, “Tell me of the kundali.” The old man was so weak and frail now that he weighed less than forty kilograms.
The old man opened his eyes and said, “Your kundali. We left it behind. Along with everything everything everything. Lost. Gone. Slipping through fingers. Impossible to keep it all. You you you were born in the middle of a monsoon storm. Even though it’s customary to wait for seven days after birth to have a kundali made, your mother insisted I have it done right away.”
Varoon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was the most lucid his father had been in weeks.
The old man continued. “With sheets of rain flying sideways sideways sideways in my face, I went. At first, the panditji refused to believe the charts he’d rendered so he started again only to reach the same same conclusion. He sat me down, held my hand, and I’ll never forget his words, he said: This boy is extraordinary. I’ve never seen a kundali like this. The Sun firmly resides in his first house, indicating he will be a strong-willed leader. Neptune influences his Sun, making him even more courageous to overcome great odds. Mighty Saturn prevails in his tenth house, which represents his unbridled ambition. Nothing will stand in his way. But beware—this south node, where Pluto sits in his tenth house, marks ego or greed to be his downfall.”
Something had changed in the old man. He hadn’t spoken to Varoon so earnestly about anything other than the shop in years, and especially not about impractical matters like kundalis. A few moments of silence passed during which it seemed as though the old man had said all there was to say. The final secret had been imparted. An eerie calm imbued the room as he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was almost as though he was another person now. The doctor had warned Varoon and Anju that with dementia, fragments of the personality can alter, changing the patient entirely.
Varoon asked, “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Why did you leave it behind?”
The old man continued to stare at the ceiling and beyond as he spoke, “Your mother believed in that nonsense. Not me. Left it. Left it. Left it all behind. No one knows exactly—Mr. Desai says it’s the Muslim League, they have the police on their side. But there’s a five-thirty train train train to Amritsar.”
For a split second, Varoon was back under the gardener’s carriage, hiding with his mother. She was shushing and kissing him. He could taste salt in her hot tears.
“The Desais will give us a ride to the station station station.”
Varoon thought of the dhobi walla being stabbed and then his wife being stripped of her clothes. Her shrill shrieks fading away as the Jeep drove off. How he’d done nothing to help either of them.
“The train is leaving leaving leaving. Do you see her?” The old man remained lying on his bed but was in a state of panic now, shaking, perspiring.
Varoon could hear the sharp blast of the train whistle at Lahore Station while he and his father continued to search the platform. His father holding him tight, saying, She’ll be on the next train. She’ll be on the next train.
All these years that they’d avoided talking about that night had made it possible for Varoon to think that there was an infinitesimal chance that his mother had made it across the border and was somewhere safe. He’d never allowed the thought of his mother being set upon by a mob of Muslim men to fully play out in his mind. Whenever the thought had come, he’d suppressed it by thinking she’d been quickly killed along with many on the next train. But what if she’d been taken like the dhobi walla’s wife, stripped of her clothes, raped by a number of men before being brutally tortured and murdered? Varoon’s stomach churned. His universe went black and he felt as though he was lost in a vast expanse of nothing. His breathing became shallow and it felt as though there was an anvil on his chest. He couldn’t take in a full breath. Finally, he managed to whisper, “We abandoned her. You abandoned her.”
The old man continued staring at the ceiling and beyond, his body quivering.
Varoon went to the balcony for some fresh air. It was dark and there was no sound except for the waves crashing and the hum of air conditioners stuck in dark bedroom windows. As he gripped the railing, Varoon thought no amount of violence could quell his rage. He could shout and scream at the stars for an eternity and never be satisfied.
He heard the old man stir and returned inside.
The old man whispered, “Pani. I need water water water.”
There was jug of water on the bedside table but Varoon scooped up his father in his arms, walked to the balcony, and in one swift move cast him over. Varoon barely heard the quiet thud nine floors below. He walked into the bathroom, rinsed himself clean with s
oap and cool water. Soon, he was back on his pathari on the floor in the drawing room and fell into a deep sleep while the waves continued to crash on the black rocks.
- 37 -
1984
VAROON EXAMINED A BOTTLE OF Calmpose pills a doctor had handed him two days ago, after Anju died.
The doctor had said, “They’re mild tranquilizers, but habit-forming—so use them sparingly.”
Anju had been admitted into the hospital only two weeks before after complaining of stomach pains. Varoon had told her a dozen times to see a doctor but she refused, not wanting to burden a doctor with what was probably cramps or a stomach flu. After being admitted into the Breach Candy Hospital, they decided not to worry Anush at Bharat Academy unnecessarily. Varoon continued going to work but visited Anju every evening, sometimes even sleeping on the floor of her hospital room. During the first few rounds of tests the doctors were confounded while Anju’s condition deteriorated rapidly. The pains in her lower abdomen grew sharper and had to be dulled with morphine. Finally a senior doctor told Varoon that there was a possibility Anju had cervical cancer, that it had spread. Surgery was the only option. “She might only have a year or two if the cancer isn’t removed.”
Varoon paid the right hospital administrators so that Anju was placed at the top of the list. However, the day before she was scheduled to go into the operating room, while Varoon was at work, she died.
The autopsy revealed that the cancer had spread farther than anticipated: from the ovaries to the uterus to lymph nodes in the abdomen and even into the liver and pancreas.
It was difficult to comprehend. Two days ago she was alive, and now her body was cold, being prepared for cremation.
It was past midnight. After bidding a few distant family relatives goodbye at the door, Varoon sat in the balcony of his bedroom, looking out over the black and silvery sea. He listened to the sound of the waves rushing in and out among the rocks on the shore across the street, and as he stood in the dark, he was reminded of his father, of throwing him off the balcony all those years ago. Had he made the right decision or committed an unforgivable sin? He’d had this conversation with himself countless times, reassuring himself that his father’s dementia had ravaged him to the point where he didn’t know who or where he was. There had been no joy in his life, no purpose. If his father had been given the choice, when he was once lucid, he wouldn’t have chosen to live out his days totally senile. And yet, it was still a life, with occasional moments of lucidity. A life Varoon had taken. Or thrown, like a piece of rubbish.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 23