It is all due to the will of God. I will remain alive and fit till the day Padmanabha Swamy wills it. The day he feels that my work on earth is over, I will be gone. And no one will even miss me.
You also live a life of frugality?
I am a man of limited needs. With Padmanabha’s blessings, we have everything we want. The people of Travancore have given us so much respect, love and affection. What more can I want?
If one were to believe what insiders say, the temple is one of the richest in this part of the country. You are the custodian of this wealth. Aren’t you ever tempted? Haven’t your children demanded that you up your lifestyle? For that matter, do you even know how much wealth is there, locked up in the vaults?’
The wealth that the temple has is a result of the riches that have been passed down through the ages. In the seventeenth century our ancestors built the temple vaults to protect that wealth from the plunderers from the north. Our entire wealth belongs to Padmanabha. And we have faith in Him—when the time is right, He will give us what we need.
What is the value of the wealth in the temple vaults? There has been a lot of speculation.
It’s difficult to say. Almost impossible. No one has ever inventoried those vaults. I have personally never visited them. You are welcome to inspect them and make a rough approximation for yourself.
Right in the middle of the interview was the image of the gold and jewellery allegedly in the vault. Gopi saw it and looked up, meeting Rajan’s eyes.
‘Who all are authorized to open the temple vaults?’ Rajan asked in a low voice.
‘There are six vaults,’ Gopi answered, ignoring Rajan’s question. ‘Of these, four contain items of critical importance to the temple—utensils, puja paraphernalia, antiques and a few curios and statuettes.’
‘Yes. And only three people are authorized to open these vaults. Right?’ Rajan persisted
‘Periya Nambi and Theekedathu Nambi, the priests of the temple, are the custodians of the four vaults. They keep opening them on a day-to-day basis. The other two vaults haven’t been opened in the past eighty years. Vault A was last opened in 1931 and Vault B has apparently never been opened after it was sealed. God only knows when it was sealed!’ Gopi ended with a shrug.
‘And the keys to those two vaults?’ Rajan prompted.
‘Why are you asking me?’ Gopi snapped. ‘As if you don’t know. Two of three—Theekedathu Nambi, Periya Nambi and I—need to be present to open the vault, along with the king.’
‘So, if they wanted, the two of them could have independently opened the two vaults that contain unimaginable wealth, without your knowledge.’
‘Correct. But it is not easy to open a vault without other people knowing. Specifically these vaults.’
‘Then where did the paper get this image from. These pictures from?’ Rajan argued, pointing to the second image on the page, which showed a pile of haphazardly dumped jewellery.
‘This could just be a stock photo.’ Gopi said. ‘Is this what is making you angry?’
‘I am not angry.’
‘Then?’
‘I am worried.’
‘Worried about what?’
‘Thampuran has never spoken about the temple’s wealth openly. He has always skirted the issue. Until now. Not only is he being candid about the riches, he is also saying that the wealth was thanks to his ancestors. He is even inviting the journalist to photograph it.’
‘So?’
‘It indicates a changing climate, Gopi. The Privy Purse payable to these people . . . the royalty,’ Rajan said with disdain, ‘was stopped long ago. The temples, all of which were being run by private trusts, have come under state control. Temple-owned land has been taken away in the name of urban development, to make way for roads and infrastructure. All except the Anantha Padmanabha Swamy Temple. This one still remains in the control of the king. Do you think it’s possible that Dharmaraja Varma might be tempted to siphon the entire wealth of the temple before the state decides to take control—whether voluntarily or by the courts’ decree is another issue. Even if he doesn’t give in to temptation, the next generation might force his hand.’
‘I still don’t understand why you are so upset about the interview!’
‘Anything which deviates from routine worries me. If an old man does something which is out of character, it is a red flag. There is something fishy about this interview. When I saw this, I called the journalist who did the piece. He told me that the interview was done at the behest of Dharmaraja Varma. Why would someone who is camera-shy and hasn’t spoken much to the media in fifteen years, despite his towering stature, suddenly ask to be interviewed? And . . .’
‘And what?’ Gopi asked with mounting impatience.
‘The photographs were supplied by the Thampuran’s media manager. I am not even arguing if these are stock photos or not. The assumption is that they are not.’ He paused to catch his breath, then continued, ‘Where did this photo come from if all the vaults are locked?’
This time Gopi did not dismiss him summarily. He thought for a while. ‘If the idea is to siphon off this wealth, then why draw attention to it?’
‘You don’t understand. There is enough noise these days about wealth being hoarded by temples, churches and other religious institutions. At some point in time, if not today then a few years down the line, the vaults will be opened. No one knows what is inside them. Nothing is documented.’
Gopi listened intently. He knew Rajan well enough and didn’t interrupt.
‘Thus far, everyone has relied on the integrity of the kings. But times have changed. This could well be an attempt to tell the world that this is all there is in the vault, while the truth could be very different. The actual riches in the vault could be ten times more.’
‘And you think the rest will be siphoned off?’
Rajan nodded. ‘If it has not been already. Dharmaraja Varma’s son has just returned from Stanford. The timing of this article somehow worries me.’
Gopi didn’t need any explanation for what Rajan was referring to. The king was growing old. Since Kerala was a matrilineal society, his sister’s son would become king upon his death, not his own son. It was natural to expect the king to worry about the future of his children and their inheritance.
‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.
‘There’s only one thing we can do. We must accelerate the process of the control of the temple passing into the hands of the state. Out of the king of Travancore’s hands and into those of the Government of Kerala.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘By filing a writ in the court against the Thampuran and the temple. I’m going to ask that the entire wealth of the temple be catalogued in full and that the Thampuran be relieved of his temple duties and authority in the interim.’ Rajan was clear in his intentions. He did not want the temple wealth to be used to fill personal coffers.
‘You love playing with fire, don’t you?’ Gopi chuckled. ‘Not many will support you. I hope you have considered that.’
‘Gopi,’ Rajan looked him in the eye, steely resolve in his own, ‘never be scared of doing what your conscience tells you to do. If you think what you are doing is right, do it even if the whole world is against you. When you’re doing what is right, nothing can harm you. Lord Padmanabha will be with you.’ He walked up to Gopi, put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. ‘I don’t care about others. Are you with me?’
Gopi shrugged off his arm and walked towards the steel cupboard. ‘Of course. What’s there to doubt in that?’ He opened the cupboard and dumped some papers on top of an existing pile. ‘And this is not because I agree with you about the newspaper interview or because I have always stood by you. But because I believe that the state must take over the temple and manage its day-to-day affairs. The vast wealth that our temple is said to possess cannot be looked after by a private family. There is always the possibility of it falling in wrong hands. In the right hands, this wealth c
an do a lot for the people of this state.’
‘Whatever you plan to do, do it soon,’ Gopi said, sitting at his desk and opening the register he had been writing in. He was the treasurer of the temple. The chief trustee was his superior.
Rajan smiled and left. Once outside, he sat on a ledge on the temple premises for a couple of minutes. It was widely believed that whenever one visited a temple, one ought to sit down in the presence of the lord or at least inside the temple complex for a few minutes. If one didn’t do that, the punya that one earned from paying obeisance to the lord passed to the first house right outside the temple door.
The mandatory two minutes over, Rajan got up and left the temple. The sun was shining overhead, heating up the tar roads—walking barefoot on them was out of the question. He started walking on the mud track by the side of the road. He had barely gone a few feet when an autorickshaw pulled up.
‘Cheta! Get in. I will drop you.’
‘Ah Kannan!’ Rajan exclaimed. Kannan was the only one around who called him Cheta, Malayalam for elder brother. He was a trusted autorickshaw driver whose mother had worked in Rajan’s house for many years. He also doubled up as a personal errand boy for Rajan.
Even though the house was only a short distance away, Rajan was happy that he didn’t have to walk. In any case he could sense he had a long and lonely journey ahead.
5
AMSTERDAM
Present
Aditya was in seat 23A on the Amsterdam–Mumbai Jet Airways flight. He was ecstatic. And why not? He had just finished in the top three in an international jewellery design competition, organized by Piece de Resistance in Amsterdam.
The airhostess walked up to their row and started explaining the emergency exit procedures. Aditya watched her for a few minutes and then turned to look out of the window. As he thought of everything that had happened the previous evening, and the way events had unfolded over the past few days, his sharp eyes sighted two people talking across the barbed wire fence at the far end of the airport. One of them, a guy, was inside the fence, while the other, a girl, was on the outside. They continued speaking for a few minutes—the barbed wire between them. Then suddenly the girl threw something up in the air towards the guy. The airhostess had finished giving her instructions by now and disappeared to her post. Aditya tracked the package in the air and subconsciously curled his fingers into a fist and banged it against his leg as the package failed to make it across the fence, settling on top of it instead. The girl had given it the elevation but the package couldn’t travel the distance. The guy walked close to the fence and pulled the packet towards him using a stick. Once the packet dropped to the ground, he tore it open, took out a jacket and wore it. It certainly was cold in Amsterdam. He blew a kiss at the girl, turned and walked back towards the airport terminal.
Aditya smiled. The couple reminded him of his girlfriend back in India. For a minute the thought of lapses in airport perimeter security crossed his mind, but the romantic appeal was so strong that he didn’t let it spoil the moment. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. As he thought about his girlfriend back home, the events of the previous days kept barging in on his reflections. He ignored them as he pushed back the seat and stretched his legs.
Divya would be at the airport, waiting for him to land.
6
MUMBAI
Nirav Choksi, a name the who’s who of Mumbai had on their speed dial, designed and manufactured customized jewellery for the rich and famous all over the world. He was often referred to as the Indian Joel Arthur Rosenthal, one of the world’s most exclusive jewellers whose high-flying clientele included Elizabeth Taylor, Elle Macpherson, Kim Kardashian, Michelle Obama and even the Princess of Jordan. Nirav Choksi’s client list boasted the marquee names on the social circuit—politicians, wealthy Indian businessmen, film stars. Choksi wielded a fair bit of clout on the jewellery trade in the country. A man with both contacts and influence, he was an extremely sought-after guy in the political circuit for skills which went beyond jewellery design.
Like Rosenthal, he too made fifty to sixty pieces of jewellery a year. Connoisseurs recognized an NC piece the moment they saw it. From traditional to contemporary, he designed them all, never repeating a design. A man with a huge ego, Nirav crafted his own designs and would get very upset if a client tried to dictate to him. He was once overheard saying that he preferred international clients to Indians, not because they paid more, but because in India every woman thought she was the best designer in the world. There were times when he had refused to sell a piece of jewellery because he felt the ornament would not look good on the client—such was his pride in his craft. Every stone is a canvas and every item of jewellery is a piece of art, he would say. Advertisements and self-promotion were not Nirav’s style. According to him, ‘word of mouth’ was what helped him get and retain clients. Even his office in Zaveri Bazaar was a thousand-square-foot pigeonhole in the basement of Pancharathna Complex.
Zaveri Bazaar was the nerve centre of the jewellery trade not only in Mumbai, but the whole of India. Roughly sixty per cent of India’s gold trade passed through the narrow overcrowded lanes of the bazaar. The shabby buildings lining the sides of the main road held crores of rupees worth of gold, diamonds and jewellery, all stored in lockers built into the walls of the small stores, said to be strong enough to withstand any kind of robbery attempt, earthquake or bomb blast. The Government of India’s attempts to move the diamond and jewellery trade to a snazzy new building in Bandra Kurla Complex, an upmarket suburb in Mumbai, had been met with resistance. Many jewellers, led by Nirav Choksi, were Zaveri Bazaar loyalists and unwilling to move to the government-sponsored yet privately owned BKC Diamond Bourse.
Nirav had one more office in the neighbourhood. Apart from the basement office in Pancharathna Complex, he also had a small workshop a few buildings away where his trusted and most skilled workers crafted the pieces that he so painstakingly designed.
That day, he had just stepped into his basement office when his phone rang.
‘Hi beta!’
‘Dad, where are you?’
‘Just reached the office.’
‘So late? You left over an hour ago.’
Zaveri Bazaar was a fifteen-minute drive from Nirav’s house, after which he would get down from his car and walk for another ten minutes to reach his office. In all, twenty-five minutes from door to door.
‘Traffic was terrible.’
‘Why do you even go there, Dad? It is an apology for an office.’
Nirav smiled. He was the third generation in the business to operate out of that office. His grandfather had begun a small bullion trading business in that same thousand-square-foot office. Nirav’s emotional bond with it ran deep. Becoming a famous, immensely successful designer was not reason enough for him to shift out. The space he needed was for him to sit alone, think and sketch. His office was more than sufficient for that. For the few clients who insisted on meeting in his office, he had had a small comfortable lounge built.
‘Dad, why don’t we shift to the diamond bourse in BKC? We can get a large, spacious office there worthy of your stature.’ Nirav’s daughter hated coming to Zaveri Bazaar. The crowds drove her mad, and the area was too downmarket for her.
‘People come to us because of our designs. When they go to parties and social events wearing the jewellery we’ve made, other people admire the pieces. They appreciate our designs. Not our office. That’s the way it is supposed to be.’
‘There you go!’ came the exasperated response.
‘We built our business here. This building helped us realize our self-worth, beta. We will stay here. Besides, none of the others are moving. The bourse at BKC is barely occupied. It is a bhoot bangla.’
‘The other jewellers are not moving because you are not. The day you decide to leave, they will follow.’
‘Can we discuss this at home?’ Nirav cut the conversation short. ‘I need to work on a design.’
&n
bsp; ‘Okay okay!’ she hurriedly replied. ‘I completely forgot what I had called for. I am going to the airport to pick up Aditya. He is coming back from Amsterdam today.’
‘Fine. Call me once you return.’
Nirav had not met Aditya yet. It had been a bit difficult for him to accept him. Until Aditya, Nirav had been the only man in Divya’s life. Nirav’s wife—Divya’s mother—had died of cervical cancer eight years ago. After her death, Nirav had almost given up everything. But his love for Divya brought him back from the brink and made him rebuild his business. Today, he had money, fame and respect, but the only things that truly mattered to him were Divya and his jewellery designs, in that order. Everything else, according to him, was incidental.
7
DUBAI
The telephone on the shining laminated table of the commander-in-chief of Dubai Police, Mohammed Jilani, rang three times before it was picked up.
‘Assalam waleikum.’
‘Waleikum assalam,’ the chief replied.
‘The Audis have been traced. Found abandoned about sixty miles outside of Dubai . . . On the route to . . .’ the caller informed him, excitement in his voice.
‘It has taken us two days.’ The chief was not impressed.
Silence.
‘And what else do we know now?’
‘Forensic teams are on the scene, sir, but it’s unlikely that we will find any clues. The cars were completely burnt, destroying every bit of evidence that we could have relied on. No fingerprints. No DNA.’
Jilani asked a few more questions and hung up. He was a worried man. The media had been closely following the story from the time the two Audis had crashed through the gates of Wafi Mall. The CCTV camera footage of the first Audi crashing into the gate in reverse, immediately followed by the second Audi, was playing on a loop on all the local TV channels. An angry Jilani stared at the TV, wondering who could it be. The police had sought out all their informers, checked out all the leads they had and investigated potential suspects. In vain. Now, the two cars had finally been traced. But they weren’t expected to yield any fresh clues.
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