Made In China, page 16
‘Get ready, everyone. We’re going out to lunch!’ his wife said.
It was Saturday afternoon, and the kids had just returned from a game of soccer and scrubbed themselves squeaky clean. The younger one, especially, looked like he’d been bathed in saffron milk, having inherited his mother’s enviable genes.
‘I was about to suggest the same. It’s been so many days since Udipi!’ Raghu chimed in.
Rukmini shot him a gobsmacked look. ‘Udipi?’
‘Yes. Spring dosas for everyone!’ he announced, dreaming of the green and white chutneys.
‘Please, Raghu. Not today. Today, I have something else planned. Something truly special. After the week we’ve had …’ she said, shooting their older son a look as he hung his head, suitably ashamed about his recent trip down drug-paved roads.
In the car, Rukmini refused to tell Raghu where they were going, and instead guided him from the passenger seat; a left here, a right there, till they finally landed up right in front of a sprawling, majestic property. Aman was beside himself, squealing with delight. Arjun’s eyes wide with surprise. Raghu swallowed nervously. They were on the expansive grounds of the exquisite Taj Gateway hotel, erected on the banks of Tapi river.
Lunch buffet was four grand each. As Raghu saw his family eat, he couldn’t wait for them to finish polishing off their plates so that he could get home and wallow in this completely unexpected and abrupt loss of sixteen grand.
But Rukmini had other plans. ‘Wait, wait, we can’t leave just yet. Special cake coming up,’ she said smugly, waving at the waiter. The fellow rather sweetly brought out a large cake and waited for it to be cut, as if he were an undeniable part of the celebration. Raghu stared at it uncomfortably for a moment.
‘Is that the Ashoka Chakra?’ A brown circular thing adorned the cake and Raghu squinted at it.
‘It’s a mini compost shredder! Cute, right? I thought since we can come here today because of it, we should celebrate it! Go on, cut it,’ Rukmini said.
Raghu stared at the cake. This day was going from bad to worse, he thought. Before he could bring himself to cut the damn thing, a hand tapped on his shoulder.
‘Look who’s dining in style.’ A dapper Dev, dressed in a steel grey jacket and fitted jeans, stood looking down at Raghu. The usual pleasantries were exchanged, but Raghu could see Dev looking at him strangely. Not a best-buddies-meeting-after-ages look, but a how-can-you-even-afford-to-be-here one. Raghu felt a surge of guilt. If only he could muster enough courage to tell Dev what was going on. Or tell his wife, so that she wouldn’t have to celebrate the wrong product!
‘We need to catch up,’ Dev said. This was said in the tone of a top cop promising a suspect that he’d be back with concrete proof.
Raghu’s old pals – anxiety and discomfort – were quick to show up. ‘Yes, yes, certainly, I’ll call and stop by one of these days.’
But the meeting at a later date was not to be, for Dev caught Raghu in the parking lot later.
‘My driver will drop Rukmini bhabhi and the kids home. Chal, let’s have some chai,’ Dev said, and practically dragged Raghu back to the hotel’s coffee shop.
Inside, they sat across from each other and Dev fired his first shot.
‘So, this is what becomes of friends who turn into millionaires overnight. They conveniently forget about old friends,’ he said, smirking.
‘Arre, you know me. It’s not like that—’ Raghu started.
‘Nevermind, tell me this. How is the shredder doing?’ Dev interrupted.
‘Good. It’s been good.’
‘What’s your monthly volume?’
‘Same volume you’d put down in the forms you filled on my behalf in Beijing.’
‘Really? What was it … something like hundred a month?’
‘Exactly.’ Raghu replied. ‘Just what you’d set me up with.’
‘They come with diamonds in them or what?’ Dev asked, clearly amazed at how an imports business with such low margins could possibly turn such profits for someone.
‘Why make fun of a poor man? Let it go,’ Raghu said evasively.
‘Cut the crap, Raghu. I am happy for you, but I’m just curious. How did you make this thing so lucrative so quickly? It is because of that newspaper article? That model I sent must have been really good,’ Dev speculated. Raghu gulped as he thought of that sorry saga. He certainly didn’t want to be reminded of it now.
‘Isn’t that why you set me up with compost shredders? Because it was a lucrative business?’ he asked instead, looking Dev straight in the eye. Suddenly, he knew instinctively that his friend had only set him up with the compost shredder because he knew Raghu would never be able to make a success of it. It would mean Raghu would continue to look up to Dev, the real success between the two of them. This way, for Raghu, Dev’s status would always remain aspirational, but never attainable.
‘I see how this works. I introduce you to this world, but I have no right to know the details. Fantastic.’ Dev’s rejoinder was cold.
Clearly there was no escaping the scrutiny. Think of something quick, Raghu instructed himself, but before he could, Dev received an urgent work and spared Raghu any further trauma of explanations. As he thanked his stars at the narrow escape, he also thought that it was perhaps a good thing that he had overeaten at the buffet to get his money’s worth. The recurring acid reflux kept all other emotions, including guilt, at bay.
‘Are you all right?’ Rukmini asked perfunctorily when Raghu collapsed on the bed later that evening.
‘Acidity. I spent sixteen grand to taste acidity. Lovely.’
‘Oho, stop whining,’ she called out from the other room.
Before Raghu could reply, the good wife that Rukmini was, she showed up with something in a pure silver bowl that reminded him of the full moon on karva chauth. He thought about how every aspect of their lifestyle had been upgraded since the money started coming in. He kept stumbling upon new things around the house that came with fancy adjectives attached; the furniture was ‘asymmetric’, the shoes ‘chic’, the wall art ‘abstract’; the dinnerware was ‘classy and sophisticated’, the flower arrangement was ‘artsy’ and the towels were ‘plush’. He missed his old towel. It had served him for the better part of a decade. But one day, it had been unceremoniously donated to the house help without Raghu’s knowledge.
‘Here,’ Rukmini passed the bowl to him and pulled him back to the present.
‘Medication in silver bowls?’ he asked.
‘Uff, just eat this. It’ll make your acidity vanish like that.’ She clicked her fingers.
Raghu looked at the full bowl. Not only was there no room in his stomach, he felt like all the malai kofta and dal makhani filled cells in his body were about to burst like fireworks.
‘Please. No more food, unless you are trying to kill me,’ he said.
‘Is it that easy?’ she asked with puppy eyes and pushed the bowl up towards him. Raghu took a spoonful, all the while eyeing the bowl with suspicion.
‘What is this?’ He asked between rapid mouthfuls, the chilled, sweet liquid coating his food pipe, giving him much-needed relief.
‘Eat na. So many questions.’
‘Even a man about to be executed is allowed one wish. I’m just asking for an answer.’
She gave him the look of someone in the audience who wanted her money back because the comedian cracked pathetic jokes.
‘It is some kind of cold soup.’ She grabbed the bowl and said. ‘The kids and I stopped by at Dhani masi’s on the way back from the restaurant. I thought we’d check on her. We haven’t met her in ages. She had dozens of containers of these. God knows where she got them from, wouldn’t tell us, but she did give us a few to take home. She said it’s good for digestion and general health. Was pretty bland so I added some sugar and elaichi powder to it.’
‘What?!’ Raghu gasped, springing up from the bed in pure panic. ‘You didn’t try any yourself, did you?’ Raghu said in a shaky voice.
‘No, my stomach is fine,’ she replied.
Raghu breathed a deep guttural sigh of relief. So, maybe it wasn’t all bad.
‘But the boys had three each,’ she added casually, dipping a cotton ball in a bottle of toner and cleaning her face with it. She turned her face slightly to the right, then to the left, moving closer to the mirror to examine her pores. Her skin was tinted with a healthy shine, and his with shame.
‘What! Why did you let them?’ Raghu shouted
‘Arre! You know your boys. Such endless pits. They liked the taste and kept asking for more.’
‘Oh God! Are they feeling all right?’ Blood drained from Raghu’s face and gushed to the pit of his stomach, churning dangerously.
‘Yes, why?’ Rukmini asked, surprised.
‘Where are they?’ Raghu pressed, hyperventilating by now.
‘They’ve been in their respective rooms ever since we got back. Being good boys for once.’
Raghu leapt off the bed and ran in the direction of Arjun’s room. The door was locked. Raghu knocked with two fists. ‘Arjun, open the door, right now!’
‘Wait,’ the boy responded.
First drugs, and now aphrodisiacs. The boys was making a habit out of giving his father mini strokes. Raghu couldn’t even get himself to face his thoughts, let alone his reflection in the mirror.
A tap materialized on Raghu’s shoulder. He turned around; his eyes fraught with horror on seeing Rukmini holding the bowl. She held a spoon to his lips. ‘Finish. You will feel better.’
Raghu pushed away the silver bowl frantically. It fell, the content spilling over the floor, the bowl ringing. He rushed out to the balcony, his hands grasping the railing as his mind raced.
A noisy bunch of men across the road, in their undershirts and pyjamas, were cackling as they lit a bonfire and roasted corn on skewers. In the particles of charcoal dancing in the air against the pastel softness of sundown, in the slow diffusing smoke, Raghu Mehta had an epiphany; his burning ambition was going to burn him down.
He locked himself in his car and dialled the doctor’s number, restless, flustered, his finger hitting the call button again and again. He waited for the doctor to answer. His lips were dry and he bit on them. After his eleventh call went unanswered, he sent a text, ‘I can’t do this business anymore.’ Then, just as he pressed send, he recalled that the doctor was out of town and would return the following evening.
The next day, Raghu picked up his car keys and scurried out of the house. Outside, his eyes fell on the crowd that had gathered around a … wait, was that his car? His spanking new red Santro? It took him a minute to take the distressing scene in. The car’s rear windshield had ceased to exist. It had degenerated into a million little spiky pieces that carpeted the back seat and the strip of road around it. The whole thing looked like a bomb explosion site.
Before he could wrap his head around it, the neighbour’s college-going son came running up to him with a bottle. It was a slender yellow can, the size of a bottle of bug spray. Raghu narrowed his eyes to examine it. It was air freshener bottle with the lid blown off. The one he had bought recently for his car, to make it smell of lilies. Raghu gawked at the can.
‘Uncle, so much heat no? The bottle burst because of the closed car. You should keep your windows slightly rolled down.’
Raghu couldn’t believe it. No enemy, no bombs; just a dumb air freshener bottle that had destroyed his car and his pride.
‘Don’t worry, uncle. Not much of an expense. You can get a new windshield for four-five thousand rupees. One-day job.’ The boy spoke with the nonchalance of someone advising on shoelace replacement.
‘Sahil beta, this is a new car, not your grandfather’s antique scooter.’ Raghu retorted, gnashing his teeth. ‘Why don’t you ask him to sell it, add four-five thousand to that amount and get you a new bicycle? One-day job!’
The boy pulled a face and grunted. ‘I was just trying to help.’
‘Run along now,’ Raghu grunted in response at the kid, darted to his room, went back into the house and picked up another set of keys without saying a word to Rukmini, and came back to his old scooter. As he perched upon it and rode off, he avoided looking at his poor car.
On the way, he honked incessantly, ran a couple of red lights and almost hit an elderly woman carrying a bagful of oranges. He parked right outside his shop, manoeuvring around a cow to find space at first, upsetting her quite a lot, as was evident from the animal’s deep moan. He barged into the shop in a terrible mood, and saw that instead of manning the shop, Ishwar was in a coveted state of sleep-induced tranquillity, his body curled up on a patchwork rug, his arm acting as a pillow, a table fan keeping him cool.
‘Today is a bad day to mess with me,’ Raghu muttered, and kicked the table fan hard. It fell on its back but didn’t wake up the sleeping man. ‘Ishwar,’ Raghu screeched.
‘Sorry, sahib! I was just planning on what to clean next,’ Ishwar said as soon as his eyes popped open, not a trace of guilt on his face.
‘With your eyes shut? Brilliant. Simply brilliant. Stop lying through your teeth!’
‘Truth can be stated in a thousand different ways, yet each one can be true.’ Ishwar replied in the most tedious tone.
Raghu glowered at him.
‘Swami Vivekanandji said that.’ Ishwar said, folding his hands and bowing to an invisible Vivekanandji.
‘And who are you? Scholar Ishwar Divan, PhD?’ Raghu asked.
Ishwar put the fan and the mattress away and pulled out a cleaning towel from a cabinet. ‘I used to work at a barrister’s place in Nathdwara before I came to Surat. He was a huge fan of Swamiji. Shared all his teachings with me,’ he replied calmly.
Raghu had no interest in his servant’s past, or his present for that matter. ‘Did anyone come by?’ he barked at the man.
Ishwar had been made to learn the difference between the front door and the back door customers. Front door customers came looking for idols, or to pick up shredders. Backdoor was exclusively for the milkman to deposit receipts of soup orders. Sometimes, rarely, the doctor sent patients directly to Raghu’s shop. Ishwar was discouraged severely, threatened even, from getting involved in any conversations about the magic soup with the neighbouring shop owners, especially the ever-prying Adarsh Patel. So, Ishwar, the consistently docile and obsequious employee, did as directed and never asked a question. In return, he was paid slightly more than the hourly wages the other neighbouring shops paid their employees. He was also given a generous bonus and hand-me-downs from the Mehta family. That had kept him loyal and content.
‘I have new stock of compost shredders coming in from the port today.’ Raghu said. ‘Clear up the space here on the right side. And clean it well. They would be here by three.’
‘Haan, sahib.’
Raghu poured himself chilled soda from the mini refrigerator and collapsed into his plush, swivelling chair. He took a sip, felt the fizz rushing to his brain and experienced the dramatic cooling effect it had on him. Feeling slightly better, he picked up the phone and dialled the number of a builder he’d been chasing for a contract of five-hundred compost shredders for the latter’s new building scheme, but the call went unanswered.
Raghu shut his eyes and put his head on the table, his hands functioning as pillows. He was counting minutes till the doctor returned, so he could meet tell the man that he wanted to move on from the soup business. That his heart wasn’t in it anymore. That while it may have been his dream to see the business flourish, it just rattled him now.
He started when he heard two gentle knocks on the shop’s back shutter. There better be a stinking rich and devastatingly impotent man in need, Raghu thought in frustration.
‘Open it.’ The voice from outside was manly but soft. Ishwar was still cleaning the area for the shredders, so Raghu got up to open the shutter himself.
The scene outside was anything but what he’d expected and made Raghu’s heart skip a beat. Two young men stood outside – one in a police uniform, the other sharply dressed in a plain white shirt and grey pants.
‘Raghu Mehta?’ the cop asked.
‘Yes, that’s … that’s me,’ Raghu said, his hands tucking the shirt into his pants.
The non-uniformed man pulled off the quintessential Indian curiosity dance with his eyebrows. Raghu followed suit with his own eyebrows, indicating he hadn’t grasped the question.
‘I’m Nag. NTCA.’ Then the man said. ‘Heard of us?’
‘No?’
‘National Tiger Conservation Authority of India. We’re the Tiger Task Force. We trap those who trap tigers.’ Nag flashed Raghu a slightly crooked smile.
It was as if someone had lit fire under Raghu’s butt and he had to sit there and let it burn. The ground beneath his feet began to shake. Tigers? How on earth did they … no one knew … not one soul … who had ratted him out?
‘So!’ Nag wriggled his eyebrows. ‘Philanthropy and all, huh?’
Raghu hadn’t a clue where this was headed. His palms felt cold with sweat.
‘Single-handedly you’re taking care of the poor old men in this town, huh? Good. Good. Very good. I like it,’ Nag said, a murky smile playing on his slightly parted lips.
‘I’m sorry?’ Raghu said weakly.
‘So,’ Nag spoke again. The other cop stayed silent.
Raghu blinked repeatedly, unable to grasp the man’s meaning.
‘So, do you also have potions for young men? Or are they for senior citizens only, huh?’ Nag leaned in and used his eyebrows again to reiterate his question. ‘Give us something magical as well, my friend. We shouldn’t be deprived. Not fair, right?’ He locked eyes with Raghu. Raghu looked at his shiny hair, enviable physique and white, straight teeth. Nag didn’t look like he needed the magic soup. Then again, Raghu knew as much about the ailment he was trying to treat as he knew about India’s foreign policy.
‘But I … I don’t understand what you are asking,’ he said, playing for time.
