by Ajeet Sharma
Rishi entered the reception area. A peon in a grungy uniform surfaced from the adjacent room. ‘Rishi Verma Sahib?’ he enquired, moving his tongue through the tobacco juice in his mouth.
‘Yes. Mr Fotedar?’
‘He is waiting for you. Please go inside.’
Fotedar’s office was a tidy, bright, and spacious room with modern furniture and a marble floor, quite a contrast to the interiors of the guesthouse. The room smelt of lavender.
‘Namaskar, Rishiji,’ greeted Niranjan Fotedar, the chairman of the Home, standing up and joining his hands hospitably. He was a man in his early fifties, exuding authority with his black bandgala and Karakul cap.
‘Namaskar, Mr Fotedar.’
‘Please be seated.’ He closed a thick file as they sat down.
A day before, Manwani had informed Rishi that the politician was not as soft and considerate as he appeared to be and since he needed money, he would put up an indiscernible disguise. ‘I believe you have received a formal communication from Manwani Beverages and Freedom about the recent developments,’ said Rishi.
‘I am aware of the developments, Rishiji,’ acknowledged the member of Parliament. ‘Your company will market and sell Yodel from now on and you are one of the three dynamic promoters there. Right?’
‘Right, and thanks for the compliment.’
‘Is this about proposing any change in our association?’
A cold gust of wind blew into the room through the open windows and caused a sheaf of papers to flutter under a paperweight. The weather had changed in the past hour. It was a cloudy winter afternoon of January.
‘Well, not really,’ replied Rishi.
Fotedar studied his guest’s ruddy face and said, ‘Manwaniji has been kind and donating regularly to this home of God. His donations have helped us immensely in sustaining this place.’
‘Is Manwani Beverages the only source of funds to run this home of God?’ questioned Rishi, crossing his legs, feeling cold in the brashly ventilated room.
‘As you are aware, this is an NGO and it operates on charity. We have been able to get a good chunk from Jammu and Kashmir as well,’ replied the politician defensively.
‘Well, let me assure you, Mr Fotedar, according to our understanding with Manwani Beverages, Freedom will donate to your Home. But there is a condition.’
Manwani had informed Rishi that Fotedar could continue to receive donations from industrialists in Jammu and Kashmir only until his own party was in power in the state. The donations could stop after the next assembly elections if the ruling party failed to form a government again. The parliamentarian feared the day when the opposition would come to power again in the state—a government that had once instigated the local Muslims to encroach upon his expansive orchards. The enraged Muslims had claimed that during the partition of India in 1947, a number of Hindu families, including Fotedar’s, had usurped agricultural land and orchards that belonged to the Muslim families who had to migrate to Pakistan.
If the funds stopped, the local government would acquire the Home or order another body to manage it. Whatever goodwill Fotedar had earned from it would suffer irreparable damage. He needed uninterrupted flow of funds to save the Home and that was the reason why charity from Freedom was important.
‘Condition, Rishiji?’ asked Fotedar, indifferently.
‘A condition that will hardly cause any inconvenience to you, Mr Fotedar,’ said Rishi, eyeing the man’s silver bracelet.
After a few seconds of silence, Fotedar said, ‘All of us are elements of the same ecosystem. In the long run, everyone should survive.’
‘Well said,’ said Rishi. ‘The condition is that you allow our company to periodically inspect the utilisation of our donations.’ That was something Manwani had never bothered to do.
Fotedar reacted as if Rishi had lifted a heavy load off his chest. ‘Of course! Go ahead. My people will cooperate with you whichever way you want.’
‘Thanks.’ Recollecting his points, Rishi continued, ‘Mr Manwani had once mentioned the herbal medicines you produce here …'
‘Ah, that’s on a very small scale and hardly a revenue generator. The cost of production is very high and we are barely able to meet it. Though our clinic, which you see there near the entrance,’ he pointed to a block visible through the window, ‘is providing great relief to patients. Of late, we have also started supplying these medicines at nominal prices to herbal medicine shops in Delhi and other parts of the country. That has motivated these women and given them a feeling that they are making a difference somewhere.’
‘It shouldn’t bother you if the medicines are not generating high revenues,’ said Rishi, noticing the politician’s maroon pocket square. ‘The Home is anyway not supposed to be a business centre, though you do generate some revenue, making these women work at your nursery the whole day.’
‘A small amount, yes.’
‘Without paying them much for their hard work …’
Fotedar chuckled disagreeably. ‘We are paying a reasonable amount of wages to them. One should not ignore the fact that everything is free for them here … their entire stay here. We are bearing the whole expenditure.’
‘Which you are recovering from donations …’
‘Well …’ Fotedar shrugged his round shoulders and tried not to show his annoyance at the comments. ‘Only we know how we manage. We could always give up and shut down this Home. But that would be a sin, as this is the only shelter these women have. Some people choose humanity over everything else, Rishiji.’
Rishi nodded and said, ‘There’s no doubt about it. As far as the inspections are concerned, they are only to see that our money is being utilised the right way. We don’t intend to carry out a long-drawn process for that.’
‘As you say.’ Fotedar stretched his hand to a wooden cabinet on his side, drew a silver box of betel nuts, and offered them to his guest. Rishi hesitantly picked one up. ‘When do you plan to start?’ Fotedar popped a small piece into his mouth.
‘Next week,’ said Rishi.
‘Just out of curiosity, what makes you think we are not utilising your money the right way?’ he enquired, chewing the nut.
‘I never meant you were not utilising it the right way. Since we are new in business ourselves, we know no other way but the straight one.’ Rishi gazed at the politician’s cap, thinking of a way to sound more convincing. ‘We have a rather simple but rational approach to business, and that includes ensuring our every penny is appropriately spent, whether on promotions or on philanthropy. At the same time, we are unlike those who give and count the cost. Being an MP, you have other pressing responsibilities all the time. Our inspection will only help you understand how your own employees are spending the money.’
‘I’ve already said yes.’
Rishi felt he had accomplished his task. ‘Thank you, Mr Fotedar, for understanding our motive. Someone from my office will be here next week.’
‘Anything for a good motive, Rishiji.’ He stretched his spine inside his flabby body, feigning attention to a pile of unsigned papers.
‘Is it possible for anyone to show me around the campus before I leave?’
‘Oh, why not? I’ll ask my manager.’ Fotedar pressed a button. A peon entered the room instantly. ‘Send in Baggaji,’ he said.
A few minutes later, a tall and sturdy man in his late fifties, with a long greyish beard and hair, walked into the room.
‘Baggaji, this is Rishi Vermaji from Freedom. Please show him around and let him have a good feel about the place.’ Kanwaljeet Singh Bagga, the estate manager, aware of the recent developments, bowed his head to the guest. ‘Why don’t you have lunch with us first, Rishiji?’ asked Fotedar.
‘Thank you, but I have to return at the earliest, as there is an important meeting scheduled.’
After they walked out of the Admin Block, Bagga led Rishi to the nursery at the back of the campus. It was cold. Rishi shivered and pulled his jacket forward to cover his chest.
‘How many inmates are here, Mr Bagga?’ he asked, seeing a three-storey hostel building on their way. Standing in one of its balconies were two women. When they saw Rishi, they quickly turned, leapt into the adjoining room, and slammed the doors shut.
‘More than two hundred. Two-hundred-nineteen, to be precise.’
‘Mr Fotedar is doing a great job empowering these homeless women.’
‘The medicines produced by them have provided relief to many patients of this village, who are suffering from ailments such as epilepsy, asthma, diabetes, high BP, and also chronic diseases like tuberculosis and cancer, in some cases. I’ll take you where they make such medicines.’
They walked past a wide block on their right. A board read, ‘Central Mess’. They crossed the badly maintained road, the weeds around chopped to the ground level to make space for the inmates to wash clothes and utensils.
‘Here we are,’ said the old manager, as they reached an iron gate with many rusty barbed wires tied to it on either side, forming an impenetrable fence around the nursery. They crossed the gate and walked into it.
Rishi looked around. The twenty-acre nursery was a fragrant garden of rare flowers and plants. He took out his phone and captured the view. The inmates, who were in white cotton saris and black shawls, were busy gathering roots, barks, leaves, and flowers. The area beyond the nursery was wilderness, part of the jungle he drove through. ‘Who supervises them? The doctor at the clinic?’ He observed the women had stopped working and were looking at him, whispering to one another at the same time.
‘Yes, Rishiji. She is Dr Radhika Sapru, an authority in herbal medicine. She supervises them and also administers these medicines to patients who consult her at the clinic.’
‘How come this place has so much inside it?’
Bagga must have smiled under his beard. ‘Wait till you see the processing shed. This was a full-fledged processing unit managed by Tej Bahadur Fotedar Sahib until 2003, when he died in a road accident. Then his son, Niranjan Fotedar Sahib, took charge but could not give it much time because of his involvement in political affairs. The unit ran into several problems as a result, the most severe being labour turnover and theft. But thanks to these women, we managed, though it is no more what it used to be, a money maker. Its only purpose is welfare now, and it is surviving on donations from socially responsible people like you. The small stock of medicines produced here is barely able to beat the operational expenses.’
‘Who are the buyers?’
‘Small pharmaceutical wholesalers who distribute to various parts of the country at subsidised rates. Come, let us go up. I will show you how the herbs are processed.’
They plodded on an ascending road along the rows of reddish-brown pots. A young and light-skinned inmate nudged a woman beside her as Rishi passed by them.
‘How does a woman who needs help learn about this place?’ asked Rishi as they walked.
‘We do not advertise. Our medicines create awareness. We mention our Home on our containers, bottles, vials, and packs.’
They reached a tin-shed with large windows. The women here were working in groups to make medicines with the help of big mortars and pestles, pitchers, wooden spoons, strainers, funnels, and blenders, among other items.
Rishi spent some time walking around like a supervisor, observing them and the processes of infusion, decoction, distillation, and tincturing. ‘Wow,’ he said to himself in admiration.
‘You see that group on your left?’ It was a group of five women. ‘They are carrying out the process of decoction.’
‘What is decoction?’
‘Oh, it’s … umm …’ Bagga stuttered but explained, ‘it’s prepared by boiling herbs in water or a fluid.’
Rishi watched them transfer the herbal contents of a big vessel into a bigger one containing cold water, and then place the latter on a burner.
‘The contents are boiled for some time depending on the kind of herbs they’ve used in the process. After allowing the decoction to cool, it is strained using a filter paper.’
‘Mr Bagga, you know quite a bit.’
‘Rishiji, stay here for a few days and you’ll learn more than me.’
The estate manager pointed to another group of women making hydrosols for external application. There were three other women at the far end of the floor making syrup. He explained the processes and informed Rishi that the Home also procured certain herbs from various growers in Dharamshala, Kangra, Leh-Ladakh, and Kargil.
Bagga wanted to show more but it started drizzling. Not wanting to get stuck in the rain, they decided to return.
‘I didn’t see the doctor around,’ said Rishi, as they descended the road.
‘She will be on rounds later in the afternoon.’
‘Why hasn’t such a facility been able to attract funds from big investors?’
‘We have not tried much, Rishiji,’ replied Bagga, throwing up his hands in despair. ‘Fotedarji is least interested.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘But maybe he has a valid reason.’ They walked down further. ‘Does your company have any vacancy in Finance?’ asked Bagga.
‘Well, no. Why? Looking for another job?’
‘No, no. Not for me. I am asking for my son. He’s qualified in the area.’
‘I’ll see if we have anything for him. You can send me his resume. Can we go there?’ Coming out of the nursery, Rishi pointed to the hostel building looming out of the trees.
‘Well …’ The old man hesitated.
‘What?’
‘Since it is a women’s hostel, we have to follow certain rules. No outsider is allowed to enter it, male or female.’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I only wanted to inspect their living conditions. Since at present, they are at the nursery, we have a chance,’ reasoned Rishi, as they stamped their way back speedily.
Bagga was quiet.
The drizzle was turning into a shower. As they passed by the hostel building, Rishi heard what sounded like a woman’s howl. He stopped suddenly and that made him skid a bit on the wet road. He faced the hostel building and stood still, raindrops wetting his face. ‘What was that?’
Not caring to reply, Bagga continued to walk down, his knees bent, shoulders leaning backwards, and hands hanging down.
‘Mr Bagga!’
The old manager stopped. ‘It’s one of them, Rishiji. This is something they have to live with. Please come along to the Central Mess.’ Rishi continued to stare at the building as if it were a historic tomb. ‘Ah,’ said Bagga, coming back to him, ‘it is not so easy for these women to forget what they have lost—their families, their worlds. Often they break down, howl, and wail unstoppably for hours.’
Before Rishi could fathom his words, another loud cry fell on his ears, as if a lamb were being chased by a deadly animal. Disturbed by the sudden change in the environment, he decided to go inside the hostel.
‘This way to the mess, Rishiji,’ ordered Bagga. ‘We’ll have a hot cup of tea. Isn’t it cold?’
Reluctantly, Rishi followed him to the mess.
17
Mumbai.
A week had passed after Vidu reached Mumbai, yet there was no progress in the execution of the plan. He had stationed himself in his hotel room, surfing the net, watching television, and reading newspapers. He knew no one in the city but Baruni Mehta, though he doubted if she would be of any help.
Sitting in bed with his laptop, he searched for contact numbers of agents to actors and filmmakers, and even dialled a few. None responded positively when he mentioned whom he wanted to get through to.
A few hours later, his phone rang and the screen flashed her name for the first time since he came to Mumbai.
‘Hey, Baruni,’ he said tunefully with hope.
‘Hey, Vidu. There’s some development.’ She was audible, yet he pressed his handset closer to his ear. ‘I was able to get in touch with the choreographer of Ek Aur Shikaar.’
Choreographer? ‘Oh.’ It was difficult no
t disconnecting the call.
‘This choreographer, Anantha Swamy, has a good rapport with Kabir Raja’s manager. So I’ve requested him to talk to the manager … and then … let’s see how things go.’
Oh, thanks, woman. I’m made. Where do I treat you? thought Vidu, but composed himself. ‘Hey, that’s great, Baruni. When can we hear back from this Anantha Swamy?’
‘Can’t say and I can’t even call again and annoy him, at least for a week or ten days.’
Vidu only wished to book a return flight to Delhi. ‘Oh, I understand that,’ he said weakly. ‘Maybe I should go back to Delhi and come back once there’s something going on here.’
‘Don’t do that. If there’s any development, you’ll have to show up immediately, which could be at an hour’s notice.’
‘Then please tell me how I should kill time in your city. Do I join yoga classes somewhere?’
‘Not a bad idea.’ She laughed. ‘Where’s your hotel?’
‘Hill Road, Bandra West.’
‘Great. There’s this mall you can—’
‘Come on.’
‘Or you can go to Borivali.’
‘And do what? Hit a bar there?’
‘Nah. To socialise.’
‘With pedestrians?’
‘Well, a wannabe actress stays in the area. She could take you around in the evenings for some sight-seeing, if you’re interested.’
He smiled. ‘What’s her address?’
‘675, Green Meadows, Borivali West.’
Vidu glanced at the wall clock. It was 4.15 p.m. ‘Is she there at present?’
‘At present, she’s not, but in the evening, she will be.’ She ended the call.
It was after months that Vidu felt like studying himself in a mirror.
Delhi.
Sitting in his cabin, Karan Jaani read a half-page advertisement of Festi Cola on page two of Delhi Times. A large-font headline read:
BUY A 500 ML FESTI COLA PET AND GET A TUMBLER FREE!
Below the headline was a picture of Ravi Lamba, the opening batsman of the Indian cricket team, showing a 500 ml PET bottle of Festi Cola. In the other hand, he held a yellow plastic tumbler, as if he were serving a drink to his guest. A conspicuous callout below the picture read: