‘Yes, yes.'
It is stating in the guidebook' - Ah, she is admitting she is having some guidebook to her Calcutta - ‘that the gatekeeper expects a donation.'
They had arrived at the closed iron gates between their two enormous, double-pillar, vase-crowned gateposts. The darwan, hand fiercely gripping a spear, rather rusty in appearance, glowered out.
Donation equals bribe that Khokon Babu was mentioning, Ghote said to himself, thrusting a moderately generous ten-rupee note through the bars into the man's ready outstretched hand.
The gate was opened a few inches. They squeezed in, leaving behind the incessant clatter of sound in the street beyond, the calls of vendors, the shouts of laughter or of anger, the tinny music of transistors, the ting-ting-ting from rickshas, the hoot-hoot-hoot of taxis, the irritated whirring pings of bicycle bells, the thwarted rumble of car engines and the high-pitched revving of the dozens of autorickshas at a standstill in the press of traffic. And leaving behind, too, the long line of beggars waiting till noon for the Mullick family's daily gift of a meal.
Has M. F. Tuntunwala paid his bribe before me, Ghote thought? It would be a bigger one than ten rupees. Or is he still to come? Or will he not be coming today at all?
Guarded by stone lions, mouths open in silent roarings, the immense building stood before them, fluted white pillars rising high to an enormous, fantastically carved pediment.
‘That is Calcutta for you,' Protima said. ‘More than magnificent.'
Yes, he thought. But inside this huge place will I ever find M. F. Tuntunwala? And there are gardens also, stretching out. Perhaps - this is a fine day - he will be there somewhere.
‘I am thinking,' he said, with unusual directness, ‘we must first see these gardens. I have heard that they, too, are typical beautiful Calcutta.'
Protima looked a little surprised. But pleased as well.
They set off. A tank with in the centre of its sun-glinting water a much-carved tall statue, a dry fountain, with some Western sea-god, bearded, blowing some kind of horn - it looked as if it had become broken off - with behind him bare-breasted ladies upholding the fountain's basin. Ducks of a dozen different sorts swam, waddled, or sat in dozy contentment on the well-mown grass. Peacocks strutted. All round, neat paths with yet more statues beside them, a Redskin, some Chinese, Western emperors with carved wreaths on their brows.
But no head of a huge commercial empire, prowling.
‘Time to go inside,' Ghote said at last.
‘But it is so nice out here.'
‘No, we should go in. Or we would not have time to see all that is to be seen.'
‘Yes, perhaps you are right.'
A wide courtyard, looked down at from a high gallery, its floor a pattern of different coloured marbles. More statues brought from Europe. Romans in togas. And in cages all round, their narrow bars rusty, birds of various sorts, whistling, tweeting, cheeping. Shoes by direction carefully removed and added to a small collection already there, they went on into the rooms behind. A huge head of some kind of deer, its antlers spreading wide. And, yes, a label underneath, Moose.
Was that one of the objects M. F. Tuntunwala had looked at with lip-licking envy?
Move further on. A billiard table, covered in a heavy cloth, evidently unused for many, many years. A statue of some sort of slave girl. And everywhere dust. And stucco peeling from walls, and patches of greenish dried mould from monsoon damp after monsoon damp, and cobwebs high up in wide greyish circles and dangling in long rope-lengths.
Eaten away. Everything, everywhere, eaten away.
Oppressed, Ghote recalled Mr Bhattacharya's long outpouring about how Calcutta was being corrupted as much by physical neglect and its scorching suns and battering monsoons as by the rapacious poor who had come flooding in, taking what they could, and the rich who had been taking yet more. Poor corrupted Calcutta.
For a moment he heard again the haunting music of the old man's quiet singing. His Tagore song.
But no place now for softly sad, Bengali thoughts. He was here for a purpose.
The next room, all red marble. Queen Victoria here, carved in wood, in wood now worm-holed almost to destruction, a young queen but, sceptre-wielding, monarch of all she surveyed. Blank white busts almost beyond counting looking back at her from shadowy nooks. And, beside him, Protima producing confused facts and guesses, only half taken-in, about what it was they were seeing.
But, at this early hour and public-barred day, no living beings except themselves. Not a sign of M. F. Tuntunwala.
And when I spot him, if I see him, Ghote thought, subduing panic, how am I to get from him whatsoever would enable The Statesman to start up such an investigation that even this man, unbribable by God, will at last tumble into dust?
The Paintings Room. The immensely valuable pictures, dull, gloomy, brown, their subjects hardly to be made out. One of them hopelessly cracked and bubbled. But so precious that M. F. Tuntunwala would be drawn to stand looking at them? Thinking how much was to be made if they were sold back to the countries they had come from?
The Mirror Room. Its walls covered with the hugely tall mirrors, twelve feet high and more. But all spotted and speckled. Corrupted. And, hanging from above, enormous chandeliers, some of their hundreds of glassy slivers long missing.
He thought for an instant of the hole in the ceiling of Protima's house where another chandelier must have been ripped away, to be sold or to hang from the branches of that pipal tree until a buyer appeared.
But move on, move on.
A room seemingly dedicated to the Emperor Napoleon. Two busts set up on ornate tables facing each other.
Yet Ghote hardly took them in. Because, circling round and round one of them was a man he instantly recognized. A man with a dark complexion, large prying nose, hair oiled back from a sloping forehead and, plain to see, two long thin moonscape-sculptured ears close to the skull. White shirt, pen in its pocket. A white dhoti, though by no means as beautifully pleated as Bhattacharya Babu's.
At once he turned to Protima, still murmuring to him her confused commentary.
'You were saying it was nice in the gardens,' he said, low-voiced. 'Too hot for me, just now. I have headache. But you should go out again. I will wait here, and when you have had a walk, come and find me. We should go back to eat one paid-for Fairlawn Hotel curry lunch.'
'But— But you are all right? You are not feeling ill?'
'No, no. It is just only headache. With looking at so many beautiful things. It would go soon.'
She seemed doubtful.
'No, please. It would be better for me just to be here in the cool, and not to be trying to take in any more magnificent objects.'
'All right then.'
She left.
Over by the Napoleon bust M. F. Tuntunwala was standing now in silent contemplation of the great emperor.
What it is he is thinking? No. No, I must not be asking myself that. There is one thing only I must do. Speak. Speak to M. F. Tuntunwala, head of Tuntunwala Management, the man who wants the house Protima has inherited, the man who is planning his huge corrupt deal.
Moving silently, shoeless on the cool patterned marble of the floor, feeling as if he was one of the palace's statues not come to life but suddenly endowed with the power of movement, he traversed the huge room. And then he found himself looking over the top of the white bust of Napoleon at the man he had at last hunted down.
'It is Mr Tuntunwala? Mr M. F. Tuntunwala?'
Was his voice cracked? Perhaps. He certainly could not tell.
The Marwari millionaire glanced up sharply.
'What if I am Tuntunwala?'
'Sir, I must speak with you.'
'You must? And who are you?'
'My name, sir, is Ghote. It is perhaps known to you?'
'No.'
'Then, sir, let me remind. There is a house in South Calcutta, a big old house if now in a state of eaten-away ruin, which, because it is where it is only, has beco
me very, very valuable. Once the property of one Chatto-padhyay Babu, lately deceased, now the property of my wife, Mrs Protima Ghote.'
M. F. Tuntunwala made no reply to that. But it was clear that he did have a shrewd idea now who it was who had come up to him.
‘Sir, it is about that house that I am wishing to talk.'
'Well?'
‘Sir, I have come to know that you are the man who, in the end, wishes to obtain possession of that property.'
He came to a halt. This was it. The point where he must turn from jamai of a Bengali lady who had inherited a certain house into— Into what? Into a police officer interrogating.
'And, sir, I am well knowing why you are determined to get hands on this property and none other.'
'Are you?'
'Sir, also I am very much aware of what steps you have so far had taken to stop my wife from continuing to keep that house. But, sir, she is wanting same. It is her lifetime's wish. Sir, why cannot she have?'
'And why should she wish to have what you have called an eaten-away ruin?'
But was this, perhaps, a thin crack. A small opening.
'Sir, it is not so much why she should wish to keep what she has in full legality inherited. It is a question of the reason that you are wanting same.'
'And why do you think that is, Mr Ghote?'
His answer banged out. For better, for worse.
'Sir, it is in furtherance of one corrupt transaction.'
There. Said. The accusation made. To his face.
'Very well, you have found out that I am engaged in what the world calls corruption. Now, let me tell you something, Mr Ghote. There is no such thing as corruption.'
Ghote felt it as a ringing slap to the face.
M. F. Tuntunwala let a small, hostile smile curve for a moment his hard, out-thrust lips.
‘I see I have surprised you. But let me invite you to live if only for a moment in the world as it is. A world where the days of what they call Anglo-Saxon morality are long gone. As they are gone even in the Anglo-Saxon world, where I conduct not a little of my business. Oh yes, people still mouth the words of that morality. But it is mouthings only. I doubt if, in fact, those much-praised standards ever existed anywhere, beyond in the practice of a green-behind-the-ears handful convinced by their own preachings. As for me, when allegations are thrown at me of breaking the Anglo-Saxon taboos, those straw-and-paper or painted-clay idols, it is my policy not in any way to react.'
Ghote wanted to break in. He wanted to say that there were standards, that the old rules were more than straw idols to be sent up in flames at festivals or clay ones to be immersed in the sea or the river. But he was not sure that he could put that forward with all the determination, and the truth, needed to stop M. F. Tuntunwala in his tracks.
‘Yes, I see you find yourself without any good arguments,' the Marwari millionaire went on. ‘As you can hardly help being. You must know in your heart that life on earth is a fight. You cannot truly believe anything else. We each of us fight against what keeps us down. Some fools fight with the strength of their arms. But men who know what it is they have to fight against fight with their brains and their wills. And if corrupting those weaker than themselves is the weapon that comes to hand, then they use it. As much and as hard as is needed. Yes, because the only weapon there is, when you get down to reality, is money. Money, Mr Ghote. You are a police officer, isn't it? An inspector, Bombay side?'
So he is knowing that. He has asked and asked about myself for his nefarious purposes.
‘Yes, sir, I am a police officer.'
He had wanted to say more. But he still needed time to find the words, if find them he could. In the meanwhile that declaration would have to do. I am a police officer. That is what I am. That is all I am. An upholder of the laws as we have them.
And - there is something else here - M. F. Tuntunwala knows more about me than that I am one inspector from Bombay side. He has been told more about me. He knows I have seen that memorandum of A. K. Dutt-Dastar's. So I am on his list. In his field of fire. Out on the Maidan in front of his cannons.
But that means, yes, he is fearing me, however little. He is believing I can do him harm.
He felt a glow.
It was soon extinguished. Or water-showered almost to nothing.
‘Yes, a police officer. So you will have little idea about money. Oh yes, you will scrape up whatsoever salary you are handed. You will argue over deductions and accretions. And I dare say you will gladly hold out your hand when there is money coming from above.'
‘No- '
‘But you will have no idea what money does. So let me tell you. Little good though my telling will do you. Money, Inspector, changes hands. Yes, that is what it does. It goes from one person to another. And as it goes it brings power to one person, takes power from another. So if you want in this life to make yourself safe, then you have to make the money come to you. By any means. Call that corruption, call it business, call it what you are liking to. But get the money to come into your hands, as much of it as you can. As I have got it to come to me. As I have fought with every weapon I could reach for to make it come to me. And it has. And I intend to keep it. And all those who have got it intend the same, make no mistake in that. Do you think that I am shunned in society? Or that any who are known to use the weapon of corruption are shunned? No, if they are the sort who like to belong to the clubs, they are welcomed as members. Their daughters are begged for in marriage. Their sons are courted. You know what the effect of all this money changing hands is? Quite simple. The work gets done. The world continues. And without the money going to and fro the world would come to a wretched standstill. A standstill. Without money changing hands. Without corruption, as they call it, that Anglo-Saxon relic. Yes, Inspector, corruption is necessary. Just that. Necessary.'
Necessary? He must say something in face of that.
‘Sir, no. Sir, I— '
‘Inspector. Go away. Leave Calcutta. Just go.'
A cold smile was set on the thrust-forward lips as the millionaire turned and walked off.
Ghote stood there where he was beside the marble-white bust of the all-conquering Emperor Napoleon.
For one moment he had thought of running after the Marwari, of seizing him by his arm, spinning him
round, shouting into his face. The police officer in full pursuit.
But, no. No, he had absolutely no authority for any such action. And something worse. Far worse. He had just been told, by perhaps the man in all India with the knowledge to tell it, just exactly what corruption is.
Chapter Eighteen
He did not know how much time had passed before he became aware that Protima was once more standing beside him.
‘You are looking not at all well.' he heard her say.
For a second or two he was unable to answer her. Then, as he gradually began to piece together what his situation now was, he managed to murmur a few stopgap words.
‘Headache is still there.'
Yes, he confusedly thought, what has happened is that I have discovered nothing more whatsoever about the corrupt deal M. K. Tuntunwala as good as admitted he was masterminding. I was coming here to find him and to somehow get from him some fact I could be taking to The Statesman to be more of proof. But what it is I have succeeded to do? Nothing. Nothing. I have no more evidences than I was having before. And instead I was receiving one blister of a lecture that is making me -1 cannot help it - begin to wonder if corruption can be halted anywhere at all, ever.
So what now can I do?
‘Still you are not sounding like yourself.'
Shall I tell her I am truly not myself? Not the man who was saying with utmost pride to M. F. Tuntunwala I am a police officer. One who enforces the law. One who if he finds corruption stamps on it. But I am no more that man. I am a man who does not know what he is believing.
‘No, I tell you. I am okay.'
At once he regretted that little jet of anger. It had been direct
ed against himself, the man who did not know. But Protima had been its victim.
‘No,' he lied swiftly. ‘No, it is just headache. With so much of sightseeing.'
Another little upspringing of regret. I should not have said those last words. Especially when they are not at all true. And I was the one who, even if it was a lie, told her I wanted to sightsee at the Marble Palace. But Protima did not respond to the jibe.
‘Well, we should go.' she said, ‘if we are to be in time for the lunch gong at the Fairlawn.'
He felt a little revived by her forbearance.
‘Then we must be quick,' he managed to say with a smile. ‘I do not want to have to go for fish-head eating once more. I am not yet a hundred per cent Bengali.'
She laughed.
‘It will take me many years to get you even to twenty-five per cent.'
Another little bounce up the ladder from black depression. Even if she still thinks of herself as staying here in Calcutta, she is not after all determined to make her Bombay husband into a full Bengali jamai.
So it was that he decided to tell her as soon as opportunity arose the real reason that they had visited the Marble Palace and to try to get her to see what he had so painfully learnt.
It was a decision that, as they worked their way through the Fairlawn's curry lunch - it was not in any way unpleasant, he decided, just somehow too British, too solid - he very soon came to regret.
He had moved onwards, cautious step by cautious step, with what he had to tell. He had explained first how he had discovered that ex-ICS brown sahib Gopal Deb was merely a nominee as purchaser of her house and in fact perfectly ignorant of why the sale was to be made. He had gone on to say how he had gone back to The Sentinel, armed with Gopal Deb's advice, and had succeeded there in extracting from Soumitra Mukerjee Babu the name of the man behind the plot, M. F. Tuntunwala.
Bribery, Corruption Also Page 17