‘The driver brought me to the Koramangala locality and parked his auto in the No Parking Zone near a bus-stop. We went into a disco bar on the first floor. Damn it! I never seemed to be rid of the same world. He introduced me to the owner, who scanned me from top to bottom.
“Where did you work earlier?” he asked.
“In a disco bar,” I said.
He leaned towards me. “What did you do?”
“I managed the girls and their safety, and ensured smooth functioning of the place.”
The man crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. Can you manage mine?”
‘I ran my hand through my hair, lifted my chin, and bent towards him. “I can manage any work on any planet, sir,” I said and pushed back. “The problem is my Gujarati origin. I don’t know the local Kannada language, yet.”
‘He glanced at the driver who signalled with his eyes. The man held my hand and shook it on every word he spoke. “No issues. I’ll inform Shankar to help you. You handle the disco bar.”
“My salary?”
“You have accommodation?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He left my hand and pointed at a door. “Shankar stays in that room attached to the disco bar. You join him. Besides food and shelter, I’ll pay you Rs. 3000 a month. After evaluating your performance, I’ll revise the payment.”
“Done,” I said.
‘Along with a humble thank you, I paid Rs. 500 to the auto driver. Shankar guided me into his room. A 10 x 10 feet nest with four concrete walls, a window and a door. I was in Bangalore. But I missed my parents. I slept with my back to Shankar and shed tears.
‘The Discotheque was an ordinary one and therefore attracted a similar crowd. To prosper, I convinced the owner for a makeover, inside as well as outside. He agreed.
‘The Disco bar’s approach lane from the main road was full of filth. Garbage was heaped beside the staircase and spread a rotten stench in the air.
‘I approached the civic-agency sweeper and questioned him. “Why do you avoid cleaning the rubbish from our premises?”
“Your owner doesn’t pay us,” he said.
“What? It is your job, your duty, and your responsibility to clean the trash. You are appointed and paid by the government for the same purpose. Why should we pay you?” I said.
His reply shattered me. He said four words that explained the country’s situation. He said, “Everybody pays except him.”
‘Hah. I bribed the sweeper to keep our surroundings clean. The interiors changed to colourful lights that flashed and danced with the music. A couple of maids worked hard to maintain the cleanliness. National and international liquor brands replaced the Chhangli-type of alcohol. I searched and procured sexy girls from West Bengal, Nepal and Bangladesh regions. Their makeup, their moves, and their provocative costumes lit the atmosphere. Backstreet Boys, Boyzone, Ricky Martin, Enrique Iglesias and other English and foreign tracks rocked the bar. I organised pole dance and lap dance training for our girls and launched them.
‘In four months, the bar’s popularity skyrocketed. From a filthy discotheque where women in lousy costumes gyrated their waists to musical beats, it changed to a happening place in the city where the rich and the famous liked to visit. Political leaders and the cream of the society frequented the bar. The business grew manifold, and so did my contacts with influential people.
‘The owner was very happy as his bank balance and reputation soared. He shifted us to a 1BHK flat and raised my salary to Rs 10,000 and Shankar’s to Rs 5000. He also granted me full liberty to manage the bar my way.
‘I relished my new identity but worried about exposure. For legal proof, I sought my employer’s help. He suggested documenting a rental agreement for the room we stayed in earlier. “Go to the City Court. You’ll find people sitting with typewriters. They’ll do it for a nominal fee,” he said.
I approached one. He asked my name and age, the owner’s name, age and address, and the property’s location, deposit and rent charges. And within a few minutes, he handed me a two-page typed document for Rs. 20. My owner and I signed the agreement, and he asked two staff members to sign as witnesses. Done. I legally became Vikram Thakur.
‘Next, I applied for a driving licence and a ration card based on my rental agreement.
‘My proficient handling rocketed my salary to Rs 12,500. I bargained for Shankar’s payment, which rose to 6000.
‘To reach a larger population, I planned for a delivery business. Unlike Gujarat, the Karnataka State enjoys liquor permits. Yet, a similar system to grease the hands of the concerned police and officials exists here, too.
‘Why do people sell and buy toxic things? If alcohol kills, why does the government mint money off it? And if it allows booze in one region and bans it in another, is this not discrimination? Regardless of the ban, Gujarat’s liquor consumption is more or equal to the regions where it is permitted.’
‘Sooner or later, they’ll remove the ban,’ said Zaheer.
‘They will. Alcohol is a business. A lot of money.’
‘Hmm. Your story...’
‘Yeah. I advertised for the home delivery for parties and gatherings. The sales boomed. People from religious, social, political, and business groups placed abundant orders. My salary increased to 15,000 rupees and Shankar earned 8,000.
One day, I received a call on my mobile. “Hello,” I said.
“Sisterfucker, asshole, bastard, bloody pig...”
‘Endless obscene words. “Oh, Gaurang,” I said. “Hahaha... Six long months to trace me, huh? How can I help you?”
“Motherfucker. We will mince you, bastard. You think you can escape from us?”
“What will you do?”
“Pig. We will come to Bangalore and cut you into pieces.”
‘Another man picked up the phone. “Vikram... I am Nitin here. Don’t play with fire.”
“Oh, Nitin Saheb. How are you?”
“Stop worrying about me. Save yourself. I am the new secretary here, and I will avenge my predecessor’s death.”
“Hmm... I’ll say two things, Nitin Saheb. First. You should be thankful to me.”
“What? Thankful to you? Why?”
“You secured this position because I knocked off Sunil. Enjoy your power and forget the revenge, Nitin Saheb. And most important is the second reason. I possess your deadly secrets. Don’t force me to expose them. You dare not come near me, or it will cause disaster. I have lost everything and have nothing more to lose, but your foolishness will ruin you. Take this as my final warning. Live, and let me live. Goodbye,” I said and disconnected.
‘I worked at the bar for 18 months. The owner cherished my management and Shankar my companionship. Shankar was of my age and adored me. He obeyed every instruction of mine and helped me learn Kannada. Despite my laughable accent in English, I conversed well in Kannada.
‘After work, we roamed around some awesome places like the Lalbagh garden, which brought me closer to nature and blessed me with solace or Cubbon Park, a famous recreational venue, especially for children. Sometimes we roamed the streets of the sparkling MG Road and Brigade Road, our modernism sample to the world. The rich girls flocked these venues wearing skimpy clothes, to shop in fancy air-conditioned stores. We, and the poor, thronged to ogle the women.
‘Besides, that posh area had an odd feature conflicting its status. Three theatres operated in old buildings. Two in a short adjoining lane from MG Road, called Blue Moon and Blue Diamond. And the third named Opera, at the intersection of Brigade Road and Residency Road. These theatres screened X-rated films at cheap rates. Dejected men who failed to enjoy wealth and gorgeous women, visited these dens. They released their frustration in a one-and-half-hour show, which streamed erotica. The first two theatres showed an adult movie. Fair and topless foreigner ladies, and mating scenes filmed in dim lights or through a curtain, mocked the miserable destinies of the audience. The Opera theatre boasted boldness. It played a South Indian soft-porn film a
nd inserted hardcore porn clips in between. In the guise of inspection, the police visited the Opera theatre in turns, and enjoyed the porn. The viewers gaped, holding their crotch, but their frustration never defused. Their desire for fair chicks with red lipsticks, long eyelashes and high heels kept increasing. I could defuse mine because I had money. Still, I failed to enjoy peace.
‘Sometimes we went to Commercial Street which is a famous shopping junction for all. The rich shopped from the stores illuminated with flashy lights. The middle class purchased from the roadside vendors who spread their collection of clothes, shoes and purses on the by-lanes and the pavement.
‘At other times we roamed to the Vidhana Soudha where pot-bellied public servants clothed in white with dark skin and darker deeds, planned how to rule the people.
‘We visited the brick-red High Court building where people traded justice and the Bannerghatta National Park, where some ferocious beasts are caged in, but deadlier ones move freely to see them. Except for the most adventurous Safari ride, where it is the other way around.
‘Bangalore is a beautiful city. Many human beings live here, and I adore it.’
Chapter—24
Everything is Fair in Business
‘In January 2004, our disco bar owner died of a heart attack. His family members shut the place, and we quit. I rented a room in the Koramangala locality and shifted along with Shankar.
‘Working at the bar had offered me many advantages. The delivery service had connected me with influential people. A builder named Vishaal Gowda, my regular customer, ordered for alcohol. I updated him of the owner’s death and the bar’s closure, but he pleaded for some wine. I arranged it and reached his place.
‘He owned a company called ‘VC Builders and Developers’. The letters V and C were attributed to Vishaal and his wife Chaitra. Vishaal Gowda requested my help in executing his construction project at Koramangala. The Mahanagar Palike had blocked the approval, and he needed the sanction. I demanded my share. He offered a 25 percent partnership. I negotiated for 33 percent, and he accepted.
‘At the Mahanagar Palike office, I found a customer at the revered table. I shared my requirements and proposed the safe delivery of wine, women, and currency. Hah. I received the sanction letter the same day, and I arranged for his rewards. Vishaal Anna clapped with joy, hugged me and patted my chest. He cheered me and offered a peg.
‘Vishaal Anna, the 62-year-old widower, stayed alone in Bangalore and lived for wine and women. With his only son working in the USA’s Silicon Valley, he needed an efficient man to manage his business and earn profits. I presented myself, assuring him to fulfil his requirements. He made me an equal partner and dumped the responsibilities on me. I took over the charge of his business.
‘Bangalore’s software boom fuelled high housing demand. The city was converting from Garden City to India’s Silicon Valley, from green to glazy and grilled. I planned and launched multiple projects, and all flew off the shelf. VC Residency, VC Lake view, VC Blossoms, VC Nest, VC Serenity, VC Enclave, VC Habitat, and many more.
‘From municipal councillors to MLA’s and ministers; from constables to the inspectors and even Commissioners; from the employees to the officers at Palike office, Revenue, Electricity, Water and Sanitary Department—everyone had enjoyed my services at the bar. And later, as an upcoming builder, I emerged as their customer who paid them in crisp currency and satisfied their cardinal desires of quality wine and women. How exciting it is when you are comfortably transported to a secret location, where you open a bottle and your pants and fulfil your desires. My success was confirmed.
‘I hired civil and other contractors and delivered qualitative projects with luxurious amenities. In two years, I launched 30 residential and commercial ventures and sold over 1500 units. Suppressing my Chhara instincts, I shared profits with my partner as agreed.
‘Pity for Vishaal Anna. His excessive alcohol consumption damaged his organs—liver, heart and kidney. I admitted him to the best hospital and prepared old-dated documents regarding transfer of his share and assets to me. I visited him in the ICU. Along with papers of ongoing projects, I took his signatures on the sale agreements of his wealth. He passed away, and I emerged as the sole owner of “VC Builders and Developers.”
‘His son called me once. I informed him that I had purchased his father’s share and assets, and e-mailed him the documents. He never contacted me again.
‘The company’s name thrilled me for it matched my originals. I continued as its proprietor.
‘One evening, when my memories tattered me, my inner voice prompted me to contact two people. “Hello, Praveen Saheb?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember me? I am Vikram, Saheb.”
“Oh, Vikram. Where are you? And how are you, my child?”
“At Bangalore, Saheb,” I said and shared my story.
“Wonderful. Your progress delights me. Climb high and uplift others, Vikram. And yeah, you left Ahmedabad with a bang.”
“For a little peace, Saheb. And he deserved it.”
‘After a long and encouraging chat, he said, “Keep away from evils, and help the needy. All the best. Keep growing. And keep in touch.”
‘I made one more call.
“Hamid Saheb, Vicky, here. How are you?”
“Ya Allah. Where are you man? Everything OK? I was worried about you.”
“Better, Saheb. With your blessings, I run a company in Bangalore.” I briefed him on my progress.
“Amazing. Work with sincerity and reach the peak, my lad. Thank you for remembering me and calling me.”
“I won’t forget you, Saheb. You sheltered me.”
“You executed a neat plan, huh?”
“Ha, Saheb. For my parents. I miss them.”
“Prayers for you. Have a peaceful life. And contact me for any help.”
‘Another long and satisfying discussion ended. My eyes were moist again, but their concern fuelled me.
‘The next year, I launched my flagship project at the Outer Ring Road (ORR) near Marathahalli. The ORR area flourished with the arrival of foreign companies. The towering cranes, construction activities and debris covered the surroundings.
‘Politicians targeted a 40 acres of land at ORR to build a gigantic information technology complex. The property belonged to over a dozen owners who owned pieces of it, with another hundred lined up in inheritance. The State’s Finance Minister and my close companion, Mr Ashok Gowda, handed me a challenging task. He explained their business proposal.
“We need this land, Vikram. Either buy it or grab it. You understand?” said Ashok.
“Sure, sir. But if I succeed, you must award the project to my company,” I said. The Minister accepted.
I hunted the owners. Some agreed for the sale and earned nominal payments, others objected and received nothing.
‘Hats off to the Minister’s advocate who specialised in property dealings. The lawyer forged numerous Power of Attorneys issued by owners in my favour. A few were registered and recorded at older dates. He played a nasty game with documents and created a documental mess. Entangle. If the victims approached, the Court would take a few years to understand the complications. Hah. And the law officials would receive money, wine, and women to overlook the same.
‘The struggle lasted for seven months. Supported by the Karnataka’s PL administration, I ran from pillar to post at various government agencies. I bribed them, forged some papers, and registered the records manually into the old and worn-out ledger books, eaten away by moths in the rusted iron cupboards at the department offices. Finally, I emerged as the owner of the 40 acres of land at the ORR stretch near Marathahalli. It was difficult, but one can do anything in India.
‘The political circle celebrated. The Chief Minister launched the massive VC Info-Tech Park. International mega corporates transferred funds to buy space. After three years, the project was completed and forced me and many public servants to visit Switzerland to open a bank
account there... The filthy Chhara who rode and played with stinking pigs became a multimillionaire. The Chharanagar scum visited the American, European, African and Asian countries for vacations.
‘But, I faced one major problem. Amidst the material glamour, I hunted for peace. I lived with the brutal pain of guilt and repentance, which ripped me apart.’
‘You have a family?’ asked Zaheer.
‘Yes. Courtesy Vishaal Anna. A girl named Ameeti worked in his office, and I often conversed with her regarding work. Our interactions blossomed into friendship, and later into affection. I married Ameeti in December 2005 but didn’t share my secrets with her. In October 2006 she delivered a girl and in February 2011, another baby girl. I, being a Chhara, craved a boy. My Chhara and your Indian society bear at least one similarity—women’s suppression. My wife, though unfit for pregnancy, conceived in expectation of a son. She has travelled to her mother’s house in Udupi along with my daughters.’
‘Good, you enjoy a happy life,’ said Zaheer.
‘Oh, please. I never experienced happiness after the massacre. A few experiences provide temporary joy, but trust me, Zaheer, peace dumped me after that baby’s death. With a new identity, I live under mainstream society. I own riches and connections in the political, bureaucratic, police and business circles. I’m married, and have two children, but no contentment. Materialism cannot give you peace. Money can’t buy you happiness.
‘Often, the hallucination of that baby burning and screaming distresses me. I tremble, I cry, I go into depression, but I never get any respite. Whenever and wherever I see a girl child, pain clutches me. And imagine my fate. I have two daughters. I witnessed them growing from infancy. How do you expect me to embrace them or buy them chocolates? But I did it for years. My wife inquires of me about my sorrow but I cannot answer her.
‘The Creator has a common rule. Everyone will reap what they sow. Yet, there must be a solution for sinners. And I search for that path of tranquillity.
‘It’s been 15 years, and I have shed rivers of tears over my crimes. The guilt lives deep inside me and burns my heart. It often erupts and spreads tremors across my body. My thoughts and movements freeze, and the situation turns critical. It would’ve driven me to suicide but for my father’s preaching—to not destroy what I cannot create, and search for solutions with convictions. I splurged money on medication—allopathic, homeopathic, Unani, ayurvedic... all kinds of treatments. I did yoga and meditation; visited temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras and many religious places; prayed to all Gods, but got no relief. It thus confirms the Creator’s oneness and punishment for sins. I hunt for the right path to free myself from the clutches of my deeds.
The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation Page 18