by Frank Kusy
‘I forget your order,’ he mumbled sleepily. ‘What was it?’
I tried to impress upon him the urgency of the situation, but he remained impassive. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘One man, he is coming.’
Sure enough, one man did come, but he didn’t do anything, so I stopped the order. Isaak promptly gave me a new name – Mister Order Cancel Man – and sank into a major sulk.
‘Well, that’s it.’ I told Tim. ‘Time to go home. Time to confront Spud with the news that I’ve cancelled all his orders and won’t be letting him go buying again.’
Tim raised an eyebrow. ‘Rather you than me,’ he replied. ‘I’d hold back with that second piece of news if I were you.’
I was defiant. Spud had blown his last chance. Not only had he ruined both our reputations in India, but my new title of ‘Mister Order Cancel Man’ stuck in my craw. I hadn’t deserved it; the name belonged to Spud. And now, after all those cancelled orders and Spud’s insane assault on Isaak, no one (bar Satish) would make any more clothing for us.
Back in England, I stormed into Spud’s office and found him sitting behind a new director’s desk, sniffing trails of coke off its shiny veneer. ‘I’m chasing an outline of my van!’ he said, giggling insanely. ‘I’m down to the last wheel!’
I rattled off my carefully rehearsed speech of complaint, but Spud wasn’t listening. He was off in a private world where he was a little Napoleon and everyone else was his lackey troops.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he asked me with a mad cackle. ‘Without me, you’re nothing!’
I eyed him doubtfully and left the room.
The final straw, when it came, was brutal. Shortly after my return, I went out in the van and took a record £12,000 in a single week.
Not to be outdone, Spud went out the following week and also came back with £12,000. It was such a coincidence that I decided to investigate. And what I found out, after much questioning, shocked me to the core. Judging competition to be more important than partnership, Spud had sold the entire contents of his van to another wholesaler – and for a lot less than it had cost to buy them.
‘Half that stuff was mine!’ I raged. ‘And you sold it at a loss?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Spud replied, smirking. ‘You’re just being paranoid.’
‘Oh yeah? Then why is your van empty?’
‘I’m having it cleaned.’
‘And the contents?’
‘None of your business.’ Suddenly he was on the offensive. He narrowed his eyes and leaned towards me. ‘I’ve been asking around, and I’ve found out you’re the one who’s been giving people big discounts. I always wondered how you sold more than me. Now I know. You’ve been undercutting me for years!’
‘So this is payback?’
‘Call it a lesson,’ Spud said stonily. ‘Nobody fucks with me and gets away with it.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Fine. But you’ve cut your own throat in the process. That van had over fifty grand of stuff in it.’
He shrugged. ‘So what? A lesson is a lesson.’
I went very quiet inside. ‘This is the end of the road,’ I said. ‘You’ve just lost yourself a partner.’
‘Yeah, right,’ mocked Spud, completely nonplussed. ‘You leave, and you’re good as dead.’
‘Really? Is that a threat?’
Another shrug. ‘Call it what you want. But you’re not going anywhere.’
I turned on my heel and strode out of Spud’s house. I would have kept going, marching straight out of Spud’s life, too, but I couldn’t. The company chequebook was still in Spud’s hands. And since all our money was tied up in stock, it would be many months before Spud could afford to buy me out.
So I did the only thing I could do. I went back to work with Spud—for Spud, in effect—until two things forced a final separation.
First, I learnt my mother was sick.
Second, I met Madge.
Chapter 21
Plague? What Plague?
On 1st September 1996, I finally split with Spud. I stuck around long enough, on Spud’s insistence, to train up his only long-time ‘friend’, Fat Pete, so he could take over my job. I then endured a long week of humiliation, during which I phoned Spud every day to ask for my thirty grand ‘severance pay.’ And every day I was cynically fobbed off. On one occasion I even heard Tim, my one remaining ally, audibly snickering in the background at my pathetic, begging calls. But by the end of the week I had my money at last, and I was free of the whole sorry mess.
I was sad it had come to this, but I hadn’t had a choice. My sanity was at stake. During the final six months of our partnership, as I burnt rubber to earn my precious exit cheque, I had slaved twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and was close to a breakdown. And in all that time Spud had been looking over my shoulder, pushing me on, defying me to leave, yet wanting me to stay. He was now playing the jilted lover: harsh, unforgiving, and full of scorn. But at the same time he left the back door open should I ever decide to return.
I could not return. Five long years of non-stop wheeling and dealing had finally caught up with me, and I needed a break. I also gave Spud the one reason for getting out that Spud could understand – my mother had just been diagnosed with cancer, and I wanted to spend more time with her.
But the real reason was the drugs. I could not return to work with a partner who was falling apart before my eyes. Spud was a shadow of his former self, no longer fat and healthy, but pale and gaunt; no longer in charge of his emotions, but wild and irrational, like a simmering volcano. It was almost too painful to watch. I tried—only once—to stop it.
‘What’s with the coke, the Es, and the endless parties?’ I asked. ‘I’m doing all the work here, and you’re just sitting behind that desk, filling your nose with crap!’
‘Mind your own fucking business!’ Spud growled. His eyes were rolling like deranged marbles as he said this, and his mouth was ringed with dry spittle. ‘Somebody’s got to be on the ball here. And with you sabotaging all my plans, cancelling my orders in India, and cutting my prices in the UK, it sure ain’t fucking you!’
I did not try again.
I had no clear plans for the future other than wanting to take my mother to India while her cancer was in brief remission. I wanted to share the most important place in my life with the most important person, and for the two of us to enjoy one last holiday together.
I also—and this was a very secret agenda—still craved my mother’s sanction. I was fed up with being told I could ‘do better’ for myself. I wanted her to see that though I had never become the doctor or architect she had expected of me, I was no longer a lowly ‘barrow boy’ on a London market stall. Now I was a man of substance in a foreign land.
The holiday couldn’t happen just yet, though. Nasty rumours had started trickling in about India, and I decided to put my mum’s ticket on hold. I flew to Delhi alone, and during the flight over I scanned the papers for more news. That’s when I realised I really shouldn’t have been going there at all.
India had fallen victim to a lot of recent flooding, I learnt, due to an abnormal monsoon. It had been this, more than anything else, which had brought rats and a plague to Gujarat. The plague had spread to the capital, and everybody was wandering around the streets wearing white masks, looking haunted. This explained the mysterious fax Spud had received from Gordhan, saying his consignment had been delayed ‘due to action of plague.’ For once it wasn’t just an excuse, but the truth. Indeed, on the very same day that I booked my flight into India, all flights out of India were indefinitely suspended.
My arrival at the Oberoi in Delhi caused quite a stir. All foreign reservations had been cancelled, I was informed, so I had the whole hotel to myself.
‘Big fuss over nothing!’ complained Mr Bhatia, the manager. ‘Only fifty people die, but everyone want to quit India. They come my hotel, take all my guests, and send them back to their country.’
‘Who does?’
‘The
government. They do not want any dead foreigners on their hands.’
‘Isn’t the plague serious, then?’ I asked.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh yes, it is “serious”, but only because the press make it serious. All media is going crazy, shouting “Plague this!” and “Plague that!” It will kill tourism in this country, you know. It is “storm in a teacup”, as you British say, and it will cost us for many years to come!’
To date there had actually only been two deaths in Delhi, but fears of an epidemic were rife. Even now, with the schools and hospitals cautiously reopening, the streets were almost empty. They were also, I noticed as I taxied into town, incredibly clean. In only three weeks the garbage trucks—working flat out for once—had managed to remove fifty years of accumulated rubbish.
There was not even one other foreign buyer in Paharganj. In fact, there were no other foreigners at all. The only activity along Main Bazar was a single huddle of garlic sellers hunched under a large umbrella, hiding from the hot autumn sun. Most shops and eateries were closed until further notice, and all the street-touts had taken to sleeping or playing cards in back alleys. Paharganj, like the rest of Delhi, had become a ghost town. Only the occasional barking dog or tinkling bicycle bell disturbed the eerie feeling of post-nuclear calm.
I couldn’t help but think that this situation was a buyer’s paradise. I knew I was callous thinking that way, but with no traffic on the roads, no shops clogged with foreigners, and nobody else competing for goods, I had India all to myself. It was a golden opportunity, and I would be a fool to pass it up.
But I was cautious. Before committing myself I decided to check out Jaipur, to see if it was the same story there. After all, I was supposed to be ‘retired.’ I couldn’t afford to take any chances.
I needn’t have worried. In Chameliwala market I came upon a very happy Gordhan.
‘Flag sell! Flag sell!’ he said, hooking a short chubby arm around my neck. ‘Hee, hee, hee!’
‘Flag sell?’ I repeated, puzzled, and then, ‘Oh! You mean plague sale!’
‘Yes, yes!’ I let him guide me firmly into his warehouse. ‘Flag sell, just for you!’
‘But haven’t you heard? I’m no longer in business. I’m here on holiday.’
‘Yes, yes,’ persisted Gordhan. ‘First make business, then take holiday!’
There was no point arguing with him. In Jaipur, as in Delhi, I was the sole buyer in town, surrounded by masses of shops desperate to sell me stuff at rock bottom prices. I felt like a kid let loose in a candy store. Excited, I wired home for more money, then stopped.
Spud wouldn’t like this one bit.
Along with this thought came another: ‘Who cares what Spud likes?’
It wasn’t as though I owed Spud any loyalty. He had used and abused me for years. Plus Spud had bought me out real cheap: just thirty grand for a company worth millions. I still had a few customers of my own back home, I figured, shops that wouldn’t deal with Spud under any circumstances. So why shouldn’t I start buying again?
Gordhan was keen for cash. So keen for cash in fact that he let me go through Spud’s entire shipment, a shipment for which Spud hadn’t yet paid. With a wide grin and open arms, he invited me to pick out all the best pieces. Girish did the same with Spud’s jewellery, also not yet paid for. They stopped short of selling me all Spud’s goods when I casually remarked that my mother was coming to visit in a few days. This piece of news had both men inexplicably jumping for joy.
Prompted by their reaction, I picked up the phone and rang back home. It was my mother’s birthday, 20th October, and to commemorate it I told her she was coming to India after all. I did not mention the word plague. My stepfather would never have let her on the plane.
While awaiting her arrival, I briefly visited Ram in Pushkar to arrange a camel trek for her. ‘This is not a problem,’ he solemnly assured me. ‘I will make one special safari for Mama! One special camel also!’
He then guided me out of his shop to show me his new sign. It read:
Ram’s Camel Adventures!
We enjoy people!
We presents the Thar Desert!
The Thar Desert is a world of its own
— an unrelived ocean of sand dotted with
beautiful dune and spotted with xeropaytic shrubbery!
Amused, I asked Ram what “xeropaytic shrubbery” was and he said it was shrubs that mostly lived on a dry diet. He had got this phrase out of an ancient English dictionary, and no amount of persuasion could get him to change it.
I strolled through Pushkar market, once again struck by the absence of white faces. Even the Israelis were gone, packed off to Delhi the previous week by the tourist police. All the shopkeepers were crying.
‘No business, no profit, no life!’ complained Satish, and he reflected the sentiments of everyone in town.
The last time I had seen Pushkar this quiet, I reflected, was when Rajiv Gandhi had been assassinated in 1991. Flanked by two neat rows of turbaned soldiers, some of the great man’s ashes had been brought up the long market street to be deposited in the holy lake. Only George and I, emerging from Mendu’s shop after hours of checking silk, had witnessed the event. Every other tourist had been chucked onto a bus and sent out of the country.
Rajiv was the best Prime Minister India ever had, but he was never long for this world. Like his namesake, the Mahatma, he tried to change millennia of class prejudice within the space of a few years. After defying the caste system and trying to give land and votes to both villagers and untouchables, his assassination had been a sad inevitability.
I did not enjoy the quiet of the street for long. The news that I had gone out of business spread like wildfire, but none of the Pushkar shops could believe it. The only reason anyone went out of business, in their opinion, was that one had too much money to know what to do with it.
I found this out when Satish drove me out to an empty wasteland on the outskirts of town and proposed that he and I build a hotel there. He was closely followed by Ram, who suggested opening a chain of joint handicrafts shops. Finally there was Girish, who dragged me to one side as soon as I arrived back in Jaipur and tried to interest me in co-owning Jaipur’s first ever ‘disco bar.’ Each of these strange projects would have required an initial investment from me of at least £20,000, which, unknown to anyone, was about all I had left in the world.
It was now time to meet my mother, and I went to see travel desk Deepak, to prepare for the nine hour drive from Pushkar to the Delhi airport.
‘I want a good car this time,’ I told him. ‘I do not want my mother going to Gujarat!’
Deepak laughed, a deep baritone sound, and gave me an Ambassador taxi which was quite literally tyred-out. The front nearside tyre was more bald than Spud’s head. ‘Why don’t you change that tyre for this one?’ I suggested, pointing at the brand new tyre lying in the boot, but Deepak just giggled. ‘After,’ he said.
‘After what?’ I barked. ‘After we’ve crashed and died?’
‘This is not a problem you need to concern yourself,’ Deepak said confidently. ‘You have number one car!’
Two hours out of Jaipur I became very concerned. The bald tyre expired with a loud pop, and we skidded over to the hard shoulder. The driver laughed merrily to himself and exchanged the dead tyre for an even balder one which had been cleverly secured beneath the undercarriage by a piece of string. The new tyre—the one still lying in the boot—was obviously only there for show.
Thirty-two minutes later, the replacement tyre exploded, instantly wiping the grin off the driver’s face. He was now forced to use the good tyre, a necessity which plunged him into a deep gloom. Then he started wrestling with the gearstick, and I suspected a new problem. Despite wiggling with and shoving at the gear shift, he could not locate any other gear but first. The car crawled along at a funereal pace for ten minutes until he finally juggled the stick up to third. At this point, just as we’d managed to establish a sensible speed, we ran over
a pig. Rather, the pig ran under us—then it scurried out the other side, miraculously having escaped injury.
We rolled into Delhi around dusk, still cruising in third gear. The first thing the driver did on arrival was to buy two more bald tyres. The first thing I did was ring the Oberoi and book a different car. I had just spotted my driver putting the ‘show’ tyre back in the boot...and fixing another suicide one in its place.
Chapter 22
Mother India
A small, familiar figure emerged from the throng of new arrivals at Delhi airport, waving an unnecessary umbrella.
It was my mother, and she was on a roll.
She excitedly introduced me to three total strangers she had met on the plane, and then she found a hole in my jumper and lunged into her bag for a sewing kit to fix it on the spot.
I guided her gently but firmly into the waiting taxi – her chattering all the while – and took her straight off to Jaipur. I couldn’t wait to introduce her to Gordhan.
If she was tired from the flight, she certainly didn’t show it. By the time we reached Dudu, the midway food-stop, she had fired off so many questions to the driver – about his life, his hopes, and his dreams – that he had become positively entranced by her. As we ground to a halt, he turned to me and said, ‘I like your mummy!’ Then he pointed at her, still beaming away in the back seat, and said, ‘You take my mummy, I take your mummy!’
Well, that shut her up. The prospect of living the rest of her days in some hot and dusty Rajasthani village was so scary that she immediately lay down in the back seat and pretended to sleep.
Six hours down the line in Jaipur, Gordhan stuck his hand out to my mother…and became the surprised recipient of her useless umbrella. She then proceeded to make such a fuss of him, his workers, and his family that they all wanted to be Hungarian. Hungarians, if she was anything to go by, were obviously a lot more fun and well-mannered than any other foreigners they’d come across. They heard her rattle on about exotic places like Budapest and Lake Sopron (where her father had once owned vast lands) and they wanted to relocate there immediately and meet lots of other Hungarians just like her.