Dead Money

by Srinath Adiga

  “Your account’s ready,” she announced a few minutes later. “Now all we need to do is transfer some money into it. How much would you like to transfer?”

  Sanjit inhaled. “I’d like one million Afterlife Dollars.”

  “One million Afterlife Dollars works out to …” She drew out the “to” as she consulted her computer for the exchange rate. “Ten million rupees.”

  Sanjit looked at her. “Ten?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’ve made a mistake. The exchange rate is one. It should be one million.”

  “One?” She snorted. “Which century are you living in?”

  “It says one on the website. Check.” He scowled.

  She looked at him skeptically and turned to her computer.

  “You’re right, it does say one here,” she admitted. “That’s a mistake.”

  “Mistake? I wonder what your founder will make of it.” Sanjit frowned, remembering Raymond Li fussing about a scrap of paper in the waiting area.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll speak to our comms team and make sure it’s changed immediately. So yes. You need ten million rupees.”

  “But I don’t have ten.” He swallowed.

  “How much have you got, then?”

  “One million rupees,” he said, lowering his voice as if embarrassed by the figure.

  “That’s going to get you one hundred thousand Afterlife Dollars.”

  “Only one hundred?” Sanjit asked, unable to hide his dismay.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t set the exchange rate. So would you like to go ahead?”

  But Sanjit wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer. The whole thing felt so damn unfair, the way she got his hopes up and then dashed them to the ground.

  “You know, I’m a salesman too. One time, I made a mistake in the pricing in a proposal I wrote and was forced to honor the price.”

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” She frowned.

  “I’m saying you made a mistake in your published exchange rate. Therefore, you have to honor the exchange rate on the website. You have to give me ten million Afterlife Dollars.”

  “I don’t have to give it to you for anything less than today’s exchange rate of ten. So one more time, do you want to go ahead?” The air-hostess smile was long gone. She had the cold, hard eyes of a debt collector, making him feel small with her stare.

  At this point, Sanjit should’ve left with his dignity intact, but he didn’t.

  “I’ve got motor neurone disease, Sheetal. Your aunt has it too, right?” His voice was abject with self-pity. “How old is she? Sixty? I’m only thirty and come from a middle-class family, just like you. I’ve not had the opportunity to earn decent money. Please, one human being to another, can I have a better rate?”

  The look on her face went from contemptuous to downright cruel.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got customers waiting.”

  He caught her hand when she reached for the button to call the next ticket number.

  “Is that what you’re going to say to your aunt, too?” He squeezed her hand. “Sorry, Aunty. You’re going to rot in hell. There’s nothing I can do.”

  She snatched her hand back.

  “Leave. Before I call security,” she hissed.

  SANJIT EXITED THE bank’s sliding doors, head lowered, fists hanging by the sides of his body. He stopped on the pavement and suddenly kicked the ground, sending up clouds of dust.

  Bitch. Who does she think she is?

  His tongue was now burning with all the things he should’ve said to that woman: low-level salesperson, bum-licker of the rich, pathetic social climber, glorified prostitute.

  He turned around, nearly obeying the urge to go back in and say all those things to her. But wiser counsel prevailed. Besides, could he really blame her after the way he’d behaved?

  Sanjit sighed.

  There was no shortage of beggars in this city. You saw them at traffic lights, polishing their misery and displaying it as if it were a product in a shop window. You saw them expertly work the guilt on first-world tourists and devotees outside places of worship. Now Sanjit had joined their ranks, begging for his afterlife. What other indignities did this disease have in store for him?

  He walked for a few minutes and then collapsed on a stone bench, exhausted by the blistering sun and the heat from his own impotent rage. Beyond the retaining wall, the sea was a toxic shade of grey, glistening in the afternoon sun. No waves. Still as a painting. Behind him, the city breathed a relentless smog that obscured the horizon and turned the high-rises at the other end of the bay into a collection of boxy outlines.

  Mumbai wasn’t just alive, it was pulsing. A conveyor belt of dreams, a powerhouse channeling the energy of millions of bodies moving here and there, each driven by a plan to get rich or to simply get by. A heady feeling when you were part of it, but he no longer was. Each day, he was receding further into the fringes.

  A long time ago, he’d heard someone say that a man who woke up hungry in Mumbai never went to sleep hungry. The city might crush your spirit, but it made small amends with its own fucked-up brand of benevolence. But now, it too had shunned him. There was no room for him anywhere, it seemed. Neither down here nor up there.

  Suddenly, he stood upright and slapped his forehead. The wedding fund. How did he forget about it? A joint account with Reshma in which he’d deposited twenty percent of his salary each month. It had close to a million rupees for a wedding that was never going to happen. If he could access this money, he’d have a total of two hundred thousand Afterlife Dollars: two-thirds of the target of three hundred thousand.

  Buoyed by this thought, he went in search of an ATM. He found one nearby in the ground floor of a building, next to a bakery. There was a lot of whirring behind the screen after he inserted his card. Then the machine spat it out as if it were a piece of rotten fruit.

  “CARD DECLINED.”

  He removed the card, rubbed its magnetic strip on his shirtsleeve and tried again. Same result. He thumped the wall.

  Reshma.

  After retrieving his card, he embarked on a hunt for a pay phone. By the time he found one, steam hissed from every pore in his body.

  “What did you do to my card?” he demanded when she came on the line.

  “Sanjit!”

  “Did you cancel it? Answer me! Did you cancel it?”

  The line went quiet. The chatter of voices in the background suggested she was at work.

  “Is that why you called? Because you want the money?” He could picture her indignant frown.

  “My money. It came from my salary. I want it back.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s my money.”

  “Fine. If that’s how you want to be—”

  “Wait!” Sanjit cried, sensing she was going to hang up. He bit his lip and told her why he needed the money.

  For a few moments, she said nothing. The silence shredded his nerves.

  She thinks I’m mad.

  “Investing in your afterlife is a great idea,” she said finally.

  Sanjit slanted an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Sure. I mean, why not? It’s your money.”

  “Great,” he said, relieved. “For a moment, I thought you might—”

  “Do you think I’m a monster? You think I’ll take your money and run off and buy shoes?”

  “No, no, no,” he said hastily. “I didn’t know how you were going to feel about it, that’s all. I mean, this was our wedding fund.”

  “I just want you to be happy. That’s all I want.” An arrow dipped in guilt and aimed at the heart. Sanjit swallowed.

  “So … you’re going to sort it out?”

  “You need to be there, too.”

  “Why do I need to be there?” He fumed. “Can’t you just add my name back?”

  “I wish it were that simple. You have to come and sign. And I have to vouch for you. When do you need the money?”r />
  “Soon.”

  “We can do it right now if you want. Why don’t you come and pick me up? I’m at the office.”

  He nearly said yes, but something stopped him. A warning siren only he could hear. Something wasn’t quite right. She was being too understanding, too accommodating, too eager.

  Then it clicked. Of course. She had no intention of giving him the money. It was a trap to lure him back. He quietly disconnected the call.

  10.

  IN THE MARBLE LOBBY OF THE FIVE-STAR HOTEL, Sanjit drank a measured sip of his iced tea; it was the only thing on the menu he could afford, and he had to make it last. The table to his right was occupied by housewives wearing the nation’s gold reserves in jewelry. On his left, a bunch of teenagers appeared to be on a mission to spend their parents’ black money. A waiter attired like a sepoy patrolled the cafe, his waxed moustache gleaming in the light of the chandelier.

  Sanjit nursed his iced tea till there was only ice dissipating in a pool at the bottom of the glass. Then he exhaled sharply and looked at his watch.

  An hour late. One goddamn hour.

  He almost raised his arm for the bill, but a voice in his head counseled him to hang on a few more minutes. His patience was rewarded when Raunak finally appeared, dressed like a clown in his bright pink shirt, yellow pants, baby-blue tie. His body looked like a Photoshop mistake: large head, small eyes, round frame, ears jutting a long way out. Sweeping aside his irritation, Sanjit flashed his best fake smile.

  “Raunak, so good to see you.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. You know how crazy the office can be,” Raunak exclaimed with a dramatic sigh.

  Sanjit nodded. He’d worked with Raunak long enough to know that keeping him waiting was part of his mind games. In all probability, the fucker had been playing solitaire in his office while a “Do not disturb” sign hung on the doorknob.

  “We’re working on this major deal in Singapore. If we crack it, that’s my target for the year done,” Raunak said, scratching his balls. Sanjit tried not to look, but even if he did, Raunak wouldn’t have noticed. This act of genital husbandry was something that occurred without any conscious thought, like breathing. They ordered, iced mocha for Raunak, another iced tea for Sanjit.

  After the waiter left, Raunak talked at length on his favorite subject: himself. When the disease had forced Sanjit to resign from his job, he considered not having to deal with this pompous idiot as the only upside. Yet there he was, oohing, aahing, laughing loudly, doing everything he could to stoke the prick’s ego. He had to play this carefully, not look too eager or desperate, wait patiently for his opportunity. And the opportunity surfaced eventually, when the drinks arrived.

  “So tell me, how are things with you?” Raunak asked, stirring the coffee’s creamy head.

  Sanjit sipped his iced tea.

  “Very good, actually. I saw this ayurveda doctor. The medicines he gave me, I don’t know what’s in them, but they worked a treat. The symptoms have gone.” The lie came out exactly as he’d rehearsed: smooth, not too excited.

  Raunak looked at him. “Is that right?”

  “My neurologist couldn’t believe it. He was like, ‘How did this happen? There’s no cure—’”

  “Wait a minute. Did you say you were actually getting better?”

  “It’s truly amazing,” Sanjit said, making his eyes wide. “I’m getting better. Against all odds. I don’t know how or why. But it’s happening.”

  Raunak shook his head thoughtfully. “You know what the problem is? We tend to underestimate traditional medicine. Haven’t they worked for centuries before allopathy came along?”

  “You’re looking at living proof. In fact, the doctor said I might even be well enough to work.” Sanjit dropped it casually over the drumrolls in his heart.

  Raunak raised an eyebrow. “So you want your job back? Is that what this is about?”

  “The treatment isn’t exactly cheap. Now that I’m better, I’m planning to get married, plus I have Mum to support,” Sanjit said, trying not to sound too needy.

  Raunak took a big gulp of his mocha and made appreciative sounds.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve already hired someone in your place,” he said. Once again, his hand had returned to his balls as if guided by a homing beacon. He scratched.

  “But you said you were busy. Doesn’t have to be my old job. I’m flexible, you know. I just want to work.”

  Raunak stopped scratching and appraised Sanjit with his small, mean eyes. “Look at you.”

  Sanjit straightened. “What about me?” He remembered checking in the bathroom mirror a while ago and thinking he looked fine.

  “Your face. Your arms. Your hands,” Raunak said, pointing all over Sanjit’s body.

  Sanjit swallowed. “My brain’s still good. Tell me, wasn’t I your best salesman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t clients love me?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Please, I need the money.”

  Sanjit bit his lip. Once again, he was begging. And once again, that look from across the table: total contempt, as if he weren’t a human being but a stray dog you’d want to kick off your porch.

  Raunak snapped with irritation as he brushed something off his sleeve.

  “You want my advice?” he said. “The other day I went to see a friend whose mother has the same thing as you. But she was much worse. Could barely walk or do anything. And she had this eye patch. Do you know what happened? One day, the servant took her to the park for some fresh air. He left her in the wheelchair for a few minutes to take a piss. In that time, a crow attacked her. The poor woman couldn’t fight back. Worse, she couldn’t scream for help. By the time the servant returned, the bloody thing had gouged her eye out.”

  Sanjit gasped, startling the jewelry-laden women at the next table.

  “Things are going to get bad,” Raunak said. “Really bad. So forget about working and enjoy yourself while you can. Okay?” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. Another meeting.”

  He patted Sanjit’s shoulder with the same hand that had scratched his balls, and walked off without paying the bill.

  THE BUS CAME to an abrupt halt, jerking Sanjit out of his reverie. Realizing it was his stop, he raced down the aisle, jumping off just as the vehicle started to move.

  He dragged his body through the heat rising from the pavement, sweat dripping down his back, shoulders sagging from the weight of despair. After the unsuccessful meeting with Raunak, he’d made a few more calls, people who at various times had offered him a job. But now, all he got was some bullshit excuse: hiring freeze, tight budgets, bad economy. No one had the guts to say it straight: “Sorry, Sanjit, but that terminal illness doesn’t look good on your resume.”

  After that, he bought a newspaper and circled a few jobs in the appointment pages, but the thought of attending rounds of interviews and jumping through hoops made him feel tired. And if he felt tired just thinking about it, would he be able to handle the rigors of seventeen-hour days and endless traveling if he did get the job?

  Perhaps Raunak was right; he was in no shape to work. But if he couldn’t work, where was he going to get two million rupees from?

  The street, flanked by low buildings, had sunk into a mid-afternoon lethargy. Inside a shop, a man slumped beside a towering bundle of newspapers, his large belly rising and falling as he snored. A stray dog curled under a pipal tree, sharing the shade with a ragpicker who lay in the dirt, head resting on an outstretched arm, presumably tripping on heroin.

  Sanjit stopped in front of a mustard-colored building hunched in the heat. The front door had an open grill and above it a sign: “Bank of India.”

  Maybe I should go in and rob the place, he thought with a wry smile. A few moments later, he stopped smiling and pictured the act. Borrowing from Hollywood films, he imagined racing through the double doors, balaclava pulled tight over his face, pistol in hand, announcing himself by firing a shot in the ai
r.

  “This is a robbery. Do as I say and nobody gets hurt.” He’d put on his best bank-robber voice, keeping the pistol trained on the staff as they filled his bag with crisp hundred-rupee notes.

  Once he had the money, he’d race out of the bank and—

  The daydream was abruptly terminated when the security guard emerged from the bank, rifle strapped to his back. The man had a fearsome moustache and keen eyes that appeared to be looking straight at Sanjit.

  Sanjit swiveled, walking away from the man’s gaze, slowly at first to avoid arousing suspicion, and then he ran. Cars screeched and honked angrily as he darted across the road, and once he reached the other side, he kept running till a mighty explosion inside his rib cage forced him to stop. He leaned on the lamppost, heaving, gasping, wheezing, inhaling pain, exhaling pain, pain everywhere—chest, nose, stomach, legs—stabbing away like daggers. He grimaced.

  Did I just imagine robbing a bank?

  It was just a thought. He was never going to go through with it, he told himself. Not in a million years. But the very fact that he was even contemplating a criminal act left him shocked.

  What’s happening to me?

  Desperation. Once again, life had dangled hope at the end of a string, only to yank it away when he tried to reach for it. A cheap candid-camera trick. Somewhere up there, the gods were watching on their TV sets, slapping their thighs as the speakers brayed canned laughter. “Can you believe this sucker? Thought he had a chance,” they were saying, wiping away a tear.

  He felt tears gathering in his eyes, too—not ones of laughter. But he clenched his jaw, blinking them back with all his might. He was determined not to give the gods any more entertainment by crying. Besides, what was the point? He had to accept his fate: eternity in a slum or rebirth, in which case he could hope for better luck in his next life. Be born into a family of industrialists, film stars, or tycoons. No money problems. Just breeze into Indraloka.

  Drawing a small measure of comfort from this thought, he resumed walking. A saffron flag fluttering from a window indicated he was entering a Hindu area: small discolored buildings with shops on the ground floor and cramped housing in the floors above. The two-lane street was virtually reduced to one from the encroachment of stalls selling vegetables and flowers under colorful umbrellas.