‘Yes, Richard. And that’s why Chicago lends itself to such a wonderful analysis. By the way, what’s the source of this data? Published data or is it classified?’
‘Lucier and the Illinois State Rifle Association helped us get this data. While some of it is published, a lot of the core working data is not published by government departments. Nothing to suggest it is classified, though.’
‘Lucier badly needs this to work for him.’ When Deahl said this, Richard smiled.
‘When will you be able to run your analysis on the data?’
‘Give me a few days, James. There is too much of it.’
‘This will form the basis of our next course of action. Let’s get it out fast.’
24
July–September 2007
Mumbai
The suburban railway station at Bandra (West) was crowded. Gangu Tai got off the train on platform number ten and walked right towards the end. Two platforms to cross and she would be out of the station. She looked up. The asbestos sheet of the station roof was cracked. The sun filtered through a few tiny holes in the asbestos, exaggerating their size. The overhead walkway came in sight. She thought for a second and decided not to use the deserted walkway. Crossing the tracks would be dangerous, albeit easier. She jumped off the platform, dashed across two sets of railway lines and climbed on to the next platform. With swift steps, she walked across the platform, crossed two more tracks and in no time, she was next to the railing marking the boundary of the railway station. Manoeuvring herself through a gap in the railing, which had become a sort of a thoroughfare, she got out of the station and on to the road. A short walk from the station, across the Mithi river, was a civilization in itself. Dharavi. This was Gangu Tai’s world. Her name was Gangu Bai, but because of her age everyone called her Tai, an affectionate term for grandmother.
Almost half of Mumbai lived in slums, of which Dharavi was the largest. Gangu Tai was returning after delivering a consignment of four hundred bags. Her steps were pacy, their span large. She was getting late for a meeting with Cirisha, who was waiting for her outside a small roadside temple below the flyover connecting Dharavi to Mahim, the nearest suburb.
It was an emotional reunion for the two of them. Cirisha was seeing her after four years. Gangu Tai had aged significantly from the time that she left her job as a domestic help at the Raisinghania household—a job that she diligently did for three years. A strange reaction to a problem at home had made her return to her village, promising never to come back to Mumbai. But return she did, after two years. The lure of money in this big city was too strong to resist. She needed money to take care of her drunk and chronically ill husband back home.
‘Gangu Tai,’ Cirisha called out affectionately as she hugged her, unconcerned that her Marks & Spencer top was getting messed up. ‘How are you, Gangu Tai? How is my darling Kavita?’
‘She is fine, Didi. Helping my brother in his fields.’
‘After doing her BA?’ Cirisha asked. She was both angry and troubled that such a bright talent was being wasted.
‘What else could I have done? You are the only one who knows the state we were in.’
‘Yes, I know. And if I remember, I advised you against it.’
‘I didn’t have a choice, Didi.’
‘Hmm …’ acknowledged Cirisha as the incidents which had occurred four years ago flashed before her eyes. Kavita was the eldest of Gangu Tai’s three daughters. A smart and inquisitive girl, she was the darling of her teachers. Cirisha was fond of her. Kavita had just finished her graduation and was looking for a job. A few rowdy elements saw her one day while she was walking out for an interview and began harassing her. They began stalking her every day. The roads within Dharavi were narrow and congested. Taking advantage of that, the rowdies would collide with her while walking and often make snide, derogatory remarks. Kavita tolerated it for as long as she could and eventually, one day, she mentioned it to Cirisha in the presence of Gangu Tai. Aditya was also around at that time. He advised her to ignore it. ‘The guys would stop it by themselves,’ he said. Cirisha was appalled at such a suggestion and stormed out of the house with Kavita to the local police station to register a complaint. The cops, strangely, did not even bother to register a First Information Report, which they were obligated to in such instances, and instead, advised them to go back and talk to the rowdies and settle matters amicably. This only made the rowdies braver. When it became unbearable, Gangu Tai decided to leave Mumbai for good and headed back to her native place in Amravati. She returned to Mumbai within two years in search of a job.
Gangu Tai became Cirisha’s guide through the bylanes of Dharavi, an unending stretch of narrow, dirty lanes, open sewers and cramped huts. It had its own laws; every basic necessity was run by the mafia like a parallel government. The teeming slum of Dharavi, home to a million people, had become the hotbed of political lobbying thanks to its location. Situated right next to the biggest commercial hub of Mumbai, the Bandra Kurla Complex, Dharavi was prime real estate, which interested every single construction lobby in the country, possibly even the world. Gangu Tai introduced Cirisha to everyone who mattered in the administration of Dharavi.
Cirisha spent entire days with families that had migrated from rural India. Though over 40 per cent of Dharavi comprised second- and third-generation residents of the slum, she spent most of her time with people who had migrated to Mumbai from remote parts of the country, and largely, for cost reasons, sought out the solace offered to them by the big heart of the largest slum. Most of them, as she figured out, had migrated to the city for a perceived better life for their children. At times, their commitment to their children, even at the cost of their own lives, brought tears to Cirisha’s eyes.
Raghu was one such migrant from distant Amravati who had come to Mumbai at the behest of Gangu Tai. He had initially come to Mumbai alone, but three years back, his wife moved in with him. Now he had a two-year-old son who was born in the hustle and bustle of this urban jungle. Having sold off his land in Amravati before coming to Mumbai, Raghu was relatively better off than most of the other migrants. He had invested his savings prudently and started a small business. It had worked well for him, for he was now able to get more people from his village to come and work with him, for him. Working with familiar, loyal people was always better than unknown devils.
After spending a day with him, Cirisha went with Raghu to his factory, deep inside the guts of Dharavi. ‘There is no way I can find my way out of this,’ Cirisha thought as she made her way into the maze, led by Raghu. After a jumpy ride of fifteen minutes in a rickety autorickshaw, they reached a multi-storeyed building. The rotten smell of a tannery made her impulsively reach for her handbag to pull out a scented tissue. As she stepped out of the autorickshaw and walked towards the entrance of the building, she saw Raghu talking to someone.
‘Gangu Tai? How come you are here?’
‘Didi, I was the one who started this with Raghu.’
‘Gangu Tai!’ Cirisha exclaimed. A big smile lit up her face. ‘Wow! You never told me that you run a business.’ Cirisha was both surprised and amused. This was the same lady who used to mop the floor of her Pali Hill apartment.
Cirisha looked around. It was a large factory. ‘How many people work here?’
‘Around two hundred. And Didi, last evening you asked me what would make me go back?’
Cirisha nodded.
‘You only tell me, how can I leave these two hundred people and go back to my village? With the money I have made for myself, I will live comfortably all my life. What will happen to the lives of these people and their families if I go? I will never be able to. My conscience will not allow me.’ Cirisha was touched. Gangu Tai’s victory felt like her own.
She walked through the leather goods manufacturing facility. The ground floor was where they manufactured bags. Handbags, slingbags and laptop bags. She could never have imagined that a facility like this would exist deep inside a slum. They walked up
to the third floor. Being fit helped; Cirisha didn’t puff and pant while climbing three floors. On the third floor was a dormitory where many of the workers lived.
Shoes were being manufactured on the second floor. Shoe tops, without the soles. ‘We don’t have moulding units. So we are not able to mould the upper of the shoe into the soles. That’s why we just make the shoe uppers and supply them to the company. Someone else does the moulding,’ Raghu volunteered. Cirisha picked a few of the uppers and looked at them. They looked absolutely top class. ‘In the case of leather-soled shoes, we make the complete product too.’ Raghu showed her some finished shoes. She picked one up and admired it. It looked like a branded product in a posh store. She brought the shoe to her eye level and looked inside.
She was handing it back to him when she saw it. Hastily she pulled it back and looked inside the shoe. This time, she carefully lifted the tongue of the shoe—the flap beneath the laces—and there it was.
‘Snuggles!’ she exclaimed. ‘You make shoes for Snuggles.’ The tongue of the shoe had a label of Snuggles stitched on it.
‘Yes, Didi. Even handbags. We work exclusively for them.’ Cirisha was surprised that an MNC like Snuggles got their shoes manufactured in Dharavi. Cirisha turned towards Gangu Tai, a look of anger swelling in her eyes. ‘So you run a fake shoe racket, Gangu Tai?’
‘No, no, Didi,’ Gangu Tai responded hurriedly. ‘These are genuine shoes. I can show you the order copies too.’ Gangu Tai, feeling a little insulted, went out of her way to convince Cirisha that their business was genuine. She walked to the office and pulled out a file. By the time she came back, Cirisha had clicked images of a few shoes on her iPhone, making sure that the Snuggles tag was captured. She wanted to show it to Aditya.
As she walked through the facility, the sight of young girls, barely in their teens, working there irritated her. Even Gangu Tai’s youngest daughter was there, packing shoes into boxes.
What got her worked up was that if Snuggles was getting contract work done in that factory, it should have made sure that the work environment was up to the mark and more importantly, that it adhered to the ‘no child labour’ policy which most good companies have. She despised Shivinder, and this only made it worse.
Aditya was already home by the time she reached. ‘Hi Cirisha!’ he said as he opened the door, making a feeble attempt at giving her a hug. Cirisha pushed him away. ‘Sorry, Aditya. I’m feeling very dirty after a day inside Dharavi. Let me take a quick shower and then you can give me a big, big hug.’ She smiled and rushed towards the bathroom. Aditya could hear the splashing of water on the floor. He sat down on the bed. ‘Adi, you there?’ Cirisha screamed from inside the bathroom.
‘I am right here waiting for you.’
‘You know Gangu Tai has her own business now. She employs close to two hundred people.’
‘Yeah? What does she do?’
‘She works for your friend.’
‘Who?’
‘Shivinder. Who else?’ she screamed above the noise of gushing water.
‘What rubbish!’ Aditya exclaimed. The bathroom door opened and Cirisha was standing there, a towel wrapped around her, arms akimbo. ‘What did you say? Rubbish? Eh?’ And she walked briskly to her bag and pulled out her mobile phone. She quickly flicked through a few screens of her new iPhone and held it out towards Aditya. ‘See.’
Aditya took the phone from her hand and browsed through the pictures.
‘Look at the last few pictures.’ Cirisha referred to the labels. She wanted Aditya to see the images that she had clicked.
Aditya reached the image of the label and stopped. ‘You took these pictures at Gangu Tai’s factory?’
‘Yes. Gangu Tai and her partner, a guy called Raghu. Both are from the same village.’
‘And you said the factory is in Dharavi?’
‘Right.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Must be fakes then.’
‘No, Adi. I thought of the same thing. But only until I saw the order from Snuggles. It was an original letter signed by Deven Khatri.’
‘Deven Khatri?’
‘Yes. He is the same guy who ran away with Shivinder’s money, right? I took a picture of the order copy too. And you know what, Adi, when I saw what was going on there, I was pissed off as hell. They don’t even bother about working conditions in these sweatshops. Children work there, Aditya. Children. It’s shameful for an MNC like Snuggles. You must tell your friend.’ Aditya just nodded. He hadn’t heard a word of what she said. He scrolled through the images and reached the last picture—of the order copy. It was on what looked like an original letterhead of Snuggles. And it was indeed signed by Deven Khatri. Dated March 2007, it was an order for shoes and bags to be supplied over the next six months.
Two questions clouded Aditya’s mind. First, why would a CFO sign a manufacturing order? And second, Snuggles did not have a manufacturing unit in Mumbai, leave alone Dharavi. Then what was this unit of Gangu Tai doing?
His newly acquired iPhone was lying next to him. He tried calling Shivinder whose phone was not reachable. That’s when he remembered that Shivinder was away on a vacation, an exquisite Alaskan cruise. ‘Such discussions can’t happen over the phone,’ he said to himself and decided to wait for Shivinder’s return.
Cirisha was hit by a bout of insomnia that night. She was in an extremely agitated frame of mind when she remembered that Richard had done some work with the American Apparel and Footwear Association, and sought him out. She wrote to him in detail about what had transpired at the footwear factory and requested him to raise it with Snuggles if he had any contact with them through the footwear association. She obviously didn’t want to route the request through Shivinder.
25
Early October 2007
MIT, Boston
Deahl was in his room, engrossed in a serious discussion with Richard, when there was a knock on the door.
‘Later, please,’ Deahl thundered without even looking up.
‘Dr Deahl.’ The visitor was unfazed and stood there adamantly.
Deahl had heard the voice earlier. ‘Aah. Lucier. Why is it that you insist on giving us the pleasure of your company at the most inappropriate of times? Especially when you should not be seen here.’
‘Good evening, Dr Deahl. Mr Avendon.’ Lucier looked at Richard and just nodded his head, completely ignoring the sarcastic comment. Richard acknowledged him. He had seen him a couple of times in the past. He was not at all fond of Lucier, particularly his near-perfect sense of dressing—expensive Zegna suits, handcut black shoes, a briefcase in hand, which Richard always suspected held more than a few sheets of paper. ‘It is urgent, Dr Deahl.’
‘Please take a seat.’ Deahl shut the file he was looking at. Turning towards Richard, he said, ‘We will discuss this later.’ He looked at Lucier with eyebrows raised. ‘Would you mind if Mr Avendon stays? He is …’ Lucier interrupted him. ‘Yes I know. He is driving the research for you. Please be my guest.’
Deahl reached out to the telephone to call his secretary. ‘Don’t worry, Dr Deahl. I have told her not to disturb us for the next twenty minutes,’ Lucier said.
‘OK. That’s kind of you. What brings you here? Your presence here gets me nervous. I can’t be seen conferring with you on anything, least of all my research. It’s the institute’s reputation at stake.’
‘Have you seen this?’ Lucier didn’t even bother to listen to Deahl. He threw something on the table. Seeing the blank look on Deahl’s face, he added, ‘You might want to read it.’
Deahl picked it up. It was a copy of the New York Times. Right on top was a big picture of Senator Barrack Obama with a headline, ‘Obama: The Most Anti-Gun President in the History of America’. And in fine print, it carried the line, ‘If He Becomes One’. The article went on to suggest how Obama the senator supported the blanket ban on buying and carrying guns in the state of Illinois.
‘If this man comes to power
, we will be in a serious spot.’ Lucier had a concerned look which made wrinkles appear on his forehead. ‘We can’t let him come to power. The only way we can counter him is if your research comes out favourable to us and we are able to drive public opinion based on that.’
‘I am aware.’
‘Then why is it taking so much time? The Democrats will announce their candidates for the elections in another four months. It’s likely to be an Obama vs Hillary game. In all likelihood Obama will win the nominations by the time the March primaries are done with. A Republican win seems unlikely given the public mood. Our hopes for a favourable report for the NRA are receding really quickly. Obama cannot become the President, we have to do everything possible to counter his anti-gun stance.’
‘Thanks, Lucier. We do understand the urgency.’
‘No, you don’t.’ Lucier’s fists came thumping down on the table. ‘The NRA needs the research done and dusted by December. Not later than that. The NRA can’t go down. We haven’t paid twenty million dollars for nothing.’
Deahl nodded his head as Lucier got up from his seat and swaggered out of the door.
A nervous Richard looked at Deahl. ‘Weird guy.’
‘The NRA does function in a strange manner. Look, Richard. No one in his or her right senses will oppose some form of gun control in this country. But the NRA guys know their business, which is why they have bought out our research even before commissioning it. The twenty million dollars that they have pumped into this research puts the onus on us to prove why gun control is not required. By linking gun-related crime and poverty, they would have done enough to deflect all the pressure from gun-control laws to the broader issue of economic development. Twenty million dollars is a lot of money. And our research will give them lots of credibility. I won’t be surprised if they have related research being conducted by different universities across the country.’
Bankerupt (Ravi Subramanian) Page 10