A Fine Family: A Novel (27 page)

From the suburban train he could see the urban stain spreading, eating away at peaceful old villages, driving back the coconut trees, smothering the once-calm lives in lazy bungalows with chemical fumes and dotting the shores of creeks with slums. Because it was an island, joined at the top with the mainland, Bombay’s dormitory suburbs lay to the north; on the other three sides there was only water. In the northern reaches stretched mile after mile of urban sprawl, with sordid apartment blocks, already dirty and crumbling, although only recently constructed. In between he caught a glimpse of a green field here and there, scattered palm trees, an occasional blue mountain. But more often the view was of dull shanty towns with mud huts pushing one against the other, covered with tin or plastic sheets, sometimes only with rags. Exposed suddenly to this horror, Arjun felt ambivalent about industry and ‘city living’. He imagined the island city one day being swamped by a dangerous tide of humanity, and crumbling into the sea.

After the initial shock wore off the city slowly began to grow on Arjun. The wind from the Arabian sea, sent as if by Bedouins from the other side, had the power to banish all uncomfortable thoughts and soothe the palpitant body. Waking up in the soft morning air to an entrancing view of the sea, shining like a brilliant turquoise stone, became a daily pleasure. He delighted in walking on full moon nights in the dazed air of Hanging Gardens alongside the gulmohar trees, watching the clear night sky above the Queen’s Necklace. Even negotiating the gales on Marine Drive during the monsoons held a certain adventure. Arjun was gradually won over by the city, in whose daily life whole centuries coexisted within every passing moment. He admired the city for its great heart. Bombay was a miniature India which opened its arms to people from all over the country. It contained an infinite number of social worlds, intricately woven, yet separate, which moved back and forth, over the same long strip of island.

Even Arjun’s ambivalent feelings about industry underwent a change as he got slowly caught up in the romance of the commercial world. He worked in the heart of the business city, surrounded by the port, the stock exchange and the commodity markets. On his way to work he passed by warehouses, business houses of limited companies and shipping agents. Gradually he adopted Bombay’s heroes as his own. His eyes would grow misty when talk turned to the merchant princes like the Sassoons, Wadias, Tatas, and Birlas. He began to use phrases like ‘capital accumulation’, ‘growth markets’, and ‘competitive strategy’. Instead of viewing industry with disdain, he began to see it as the life blood of the future and a symbol of prosperity. He believed that if the engineering industry had not succeeded the old textile industry, and if petrochemicals and chemicals had not succeeded engineering, Bombay would not have continued to be a source of strength, employment and taxes for the country. Yet, at the back of his mind, he was bothered by the dilemma that prosperity and squalor seemed to grow equally.

A month after he joined the company, Arjun was sent out into the field to learn the trade. Billimoria was a great believer in learning in the bazaar. Carrying a brown salesman’s bag, Arjun arrived on a dusty winter morning at Ratlam, a rail junction on the main line between Bombay and Delhi. The coolie carried his bedroll and trunk a hundred yards to Sri Krishna Lodge, situated opposite the railway station. The pink-and-green, ten-room hotel was popular with salesmen and other commercial travellers. As it was ‘house full’, Arjun had to share a room with another salesman. He was grateful for a bed, and did not mind the flies or the open drain outside his window. He walked out to the small balcony outside his room and looked down at the street. The movie theatre diagonally across appeared forlorn. A cycle-rickshaw pulled up beside a tea-stall. Its driver, with a long scarf around his head, lit up a beedi as he waited for a hot mug of tea. Another rickshaw passed, top heavy with half-a-dozen school children balanced precariously. Arjun walked back to the corridor, stained by betel juice. He waited in a queue outside the wet bathroom, which was shared by the four rooms on his floor. He bathed noisily out of a metal bucket, using a brass mug to pour water over his head. After breakfast he called for a rickshaw and went to the market.

His first call was on the company stockist, Messrs. Malwa Traders. Malwa Traders was the leading wholesaler of patent medicines in town, and for a five percent commission had served as the stock point of Arjun’s firm’s products for two decades. The local retailers and some wholesalers, who catered to rural retailers, bought their supplies from here. Arjun was greeted by the short, dust-covered and unshaven proprietor, Kewal Ram. He was cleaning his teeth with a twig from a neem tree, and had not changed from the lungi he had slept in. The shop was equally dusty. The open jute bags of grains and chillies sent Arjun into a fit of sneezing.

Kewal Ram ordered tea from the tea stall in front of his shop while Arjun got busy checking stock. Over tea they chatted about wholesale rates. ‘The market is depressed,’ said Kewal Ram mournfully. Seeing that Arjun was a novice, Kewal Ram decided to take him under his wing, and lectured to him on the devious ways of the wholesalers. Meanwhile, two salesmen arrived from a thread-making company. Kewal Ram was an important wholesaler of theirs but not their stockist. They sat down and tea was again ordered. They too were new men. Shyly they opened their order books, and took an order. Soon they were ready to leave, but the tea had not yet arrived. They asked to be excused as they were in a hurry.

‘Ah, but you
must
have tea,’ insisted Kewal Ram.

‘No, no, heh, heh, thank you, you are so kind.’

‘No, you
must
have tea!’

‘Well, if you insist. But we have to catch the noon train, and many shops still to cover.’

‘Hey, what happened to the tea?’ Kewal Ram roared at the tea stall, lifting his finger indignantly. ‘Bring two glasses of your best special. And quickly.’

After waiting ten minutes, the salesmen got restless, and wanted to leave, but their host was insistent. Again he shouted across the street, admonishing the teashop with his finger. Another five minutes passed. The salesmen finally left, while the wholesaler continued to curse the teashop. As soon as they were gone, another cup of tea promptly arrived for Arjun.

Later that evening in the hotel, his room-mate threw light on the tea episode. ‘Kewal Ram is both a stockist and a wholesaler. His policy is to serve tea only to the representatives of companies whose stockist he is. But he doesn’t want to appear less hospitable to the others. Therefore, the lifted finger is an old, established signal between him and the teashop. If he orders tea with a lifted finger, it is understood that tea is not to be served. The old timers know his ways, but these thread people must have been new. Anyway everyone gets caught the first time.’ Arjun wondered how Kewal Rambenefitted from his foolish penny-wise tea policy at the cost of losing the goodwill of his suppliers.

Despite the heat, the dust, and the occasional ‘house full’ hotel, Arjun enjoyed his field training, and meeting new people. Everyday he worked diligently from morning to evening and learned to outsmart wily traders. He grew accustomed to the narrow, congested streets, full of pedestrians, bicycles, handcarts, and garbage dumps. After visiting the local stockist each morning, Arjun would call upon the major retailers in the town, accompanied by a ‘poster man’ and a tricycle filled with the company’s products. While he took orders, the tricycle driver delivered stock and collected cash, and the poster man plastered the shop with advertising. It was an efficient division of labour, even though the poster man sometimes put the posters upside down.

Lunch was always a leisurely meal since the bazaar closed for the afternoon. He couldn’t get used to sleeping in the afternoon, and would read a book instead, sitting on his hotel bed under a fan. At night, if he didn’t have to catch a train for the next town, he would walk down to a nearby cinema, check the advertising commercials of his company, and watch the latest Hindi melodrama. Occasionally he would be expected to hire and supervise schoolboys and girls who would sample and demonstrate his products either in the bazaar or at schools and other gatherings. These demonstrations were in accordance with the promotion plans laid down by the Advertising Department in the Bombay office. They were meant to supplement the meagre reach of mass media in the particular town. The stockist usually contributed half the cost of the promotion.

By and large his fieldwork went off uneventfully, except in a little trading centre called Katni, near Jabalpur, where he was bitten by a snake one night. He was carried off by the hotel staff, not to the local hospital, but to a Parsi cloth merchant.

‘Stand!’ shouted the Parsi, as Arjun wobbled before him. While Arjun tried to stand erect, the grave merchant recited a mantra.

‘Stamp your foot!’ bellowed the Parsi.

Arjun obeyed, and again the Parsi repeated the mantra.

‘Stamp your foot, twice!’

A minute later Arjun walked out of the merchant’s shop without a limp, fully cured.

‘Before I die I want to see my grandson and I want to see the sea’. Bauji told Bhabo one day early in 1972. A few days later, his eyes twinkling with excitement, he held up a set of keys and a pair of train tickets. He said, ‘There is a servant in Lala Surya Narain’s house but let’s take ours as well.’ Bhabo protested, ‘Bauji, three months ago you were on your deathbed, and now you are ready to go to the other end of the world. The crow who goes travelling comes home just as black.’

‘I have already wired Arjun. Tell the servant to pack,’ he said. Bhabo knew when she had to give in.

‘Why can’t we stay with Arjun?’ she asked. ‘The boy has been pleading with you for years.’

‘He is a young man in the city. We don’t want to be a burden to him. Besides, Lalaji is going abroad with his family. The bungalow will be empty and we shall have it to ourselves.

‘And why has Lalaji become so generous all of a sudden?’ asked Bhabo.

Bauji parried the question at first, but he finally admitted, ‘I imagine he’s grateful for my help with the court case last year.’

Bhabo was tempted to ask, ‘And why are we accepting hospitality from someone whom you daily abuse as a “black marketeer”, a “tax evader”?’ But she did not say anything.

Arjun was waiting at Bombay Central station to receive them. He was at first disappointed that they were not to stay with him, but when he saw the bungalow at Juhu beach he was reconciled. It seemed to be a more sensible place for them to be, rather than being stuck in his small flat all day long, and besides, it allowed Bauji to be near the sea.

Arjun looked the figure of confidence and Bauji was proud to see his grandson. In the past five years Arjun had done exceptionally well at his job. As Billimoria had predicted, he had become the Advertising Manager, not in two years, but in four. He was also regarded as one of ‘Billi’s blue-eyed boys’. As a consequence of Arjun’s rise, Choudhary had been pushed up to Sales Director, and still continued to be Arjun’s immediate boss. Billi had once told Choudhary, ‘If it were not for Arjun you wouldn’t be a director today. Surround yourself with good people, I always say. They will push you up in the world, as long as you resist the temptation to interfere with them daily.’ One of the reasons for Arjun’s quick rise was the success of Bombay Pain Balm. He had worked indefatigably to get the product improved and to get the advertising copy right. He had tested and retested his idea with the consumer before he took it to the market place. His strategy had eventually paid off. People did begin to perceive the product as a good solution for headaches rather than a general, multi-purpose balm. With the new positioning the product gained credibility in the public mind, and sales shot up to the point that the company had to instal another production line at the plant. Because Arjun’s promotion was based on visible performance, no one could accuse Billimoria of favouritism, although there was much envy among Arjun’s peers. After he was promoted, Arjun was much in demand socially by the glamorous advertising agency crowd. He was constantly asked out for lunch or dinner. But he did not let his new-found social success go to his head, because he was aware that his sudden popularity was in proportion to the size of his advertising budget.

‘Tea number one,’ ordered Arjun when he met Bauji on the veranda of Bombay Gymkhana the next day. ‘As long as anyone can remember, “tea number one” has always meant Darjeeling tea with overdone buttered toast.’

Bauji smiled and turned to look at the imposing Victorian edifices across Azad Maidan. ‘Ah Bombay! It is truly a free city, Arjun, built with patience and hard work by men of trade.’ After a pause he added, ‘But it seems to me that the one great defect of your city is that it dwells too much in the present, and is not aware of the past. Look at those buildings there. They have been around for over a hundred years. But, my boy, they still have an alien quality.’

Arjun looked quizzically.

‘Because the English were as alien to India at the end of their Raj as at the beginning.’ As if he were talking to himself, he added almost in a whisper, ‘Maybe they didn’t want the races to mix.’ After another pause, Bauji pointed to the Municipal Corporation. ‘Look at it! I suppose you’d call it Gothic-Muslim or something. Whatever else it may be, it certainly is aloof.’ There was another pause. ‘Mind you, I admired the English for many things. But I never forgave them their remoteness. Rulers are expected to be proud and arrogant, Arjun; they can even be cruel and oppressive; but to be so cold and unfriendly, that is hard.’

‘Detached, objective, and fair,’ said Arjun. This is what the British Raj prided itself on. Wouldn’t you rather have that from a ruler, Bauji, than friendship and injustice?’

‘But why do I feel more comfortable when I visit Delhi? There too I am surrounded by monuments left by foreign rulers. Muslims also came as conquerors, but they assimilated into India. What they left behind—whether it is Urdu, or the Qutub Minar—it is a synthesis of ours and theirs. They don’t feel alien like these buildings.’

There was another pause, while Arjun thought about the choice between British fairness and Muslim empathy.

‘Enough!’ said Bauji abruptly. ‘I want above all to know what you are like, your views and your beliefs, what you have become and what life has taught you.’

‘And all in one sentence!’ said Arjun with a laugh.

As Bauji listened to Arjun talk easily about his work and his life, he had the ressuring vision of someone who would proudly carry on his line. Arjun seemed to have both intelligence and ambition in abundance. He had fresh confidence, an assured manner, and a good instinct about people, Bauji thought. He would do well and bring honour to himself. As the guru had predicted at his birth, Arjun had grown up into a fearless young man, like his namesake in the
Mahabharata.
Bauji noticed that his cheeks were flushed when he became excited. His wide eyes, still boyishly earnest, were framed by long lashes and sharply defined brows. Success at thirty was a delightful thing, felt Bauji—you meet the great, you are attractive to beautiful women, you enjoy life.

Bauji himself belonged to the first generation in his family to acquire a Western education in the early years of this century, and he had become a lawyer. At that time the law was almost the only profession open to young Indians. He had married off his daughter, Tara, to Seva Ram, who had been part of the second generation, which had gone in for technical training. Seva Ram had become an engineer, because the British had realized that roads, canals, bridges and railways had to be built in order to rule and exploit the country. Now here was Arjun, who represented the third generation, which aspired to managing private enterprise in a scientific manner in a free country. It was new and it was good. Despite the changing occupations of the three generations, Bauji could feel a continuity. Despite great social changes that had taken place during his lifetime, he could still detect the unbroken and enduring thread that linked one generation to the next.

Before returning home, Arjun took Bauji to see an exhibition of paintings at the Jehangir Art Gallery. Quite unexpectedly Bauji liked a ‘modern painting’, showing three female figures in green and blue colours. Upto now he had only seen unveiled imitations of Western paintings or crude copies of the Ajanta frescoes. This was something quite new, with sharp, bright colours and a feeling of animality, which was akin to his own sensual temperament. Looking at it, he felt the old feeling of ecstasy returning. He decided, on the spur of the moment, to buy it, even though it was more than he could afford.

When they reached home Juhu was dark. Bhabo was worried and upset because they were late. She also thought the painting too expensive. At dinner Bhabo did not touch anything. She began to cry and then the truth came out. She had eaten lunch cooked by Lalaji’s servant, who she later discovered was of the ‘untouchable’ caste. She had immediately vomited, and had taken a bath. On her face Arjun saw deep disgust, an almost physical revulsion. She had felt soiled by the contact with the casteless man. On hearing this Bauji became embarrassed. He shouted at her. ‘I am ashamed of you, woman! How can we call ourselves a democracy when we have this going on.’

After dinner Bauji wanted to get away from the house and he suggested a walk on the beach to Arjun. ‘Be careful,’ said Bhabo as they went out. Bauji took a deep breath and inhaled the sharp breeze of the Arabian sea. The darkness and the silence were broken by the uneven lapping of the white waves on the deserted sand.

‘So strong is the pride in one’s caste, it is easily wounded,’ said Bauji. They walked on silently. Arjun recalled that Bhabo had once told him that in her village when she was young even an untouchable’s shadow was not permitted to fall on a brahmin. Their casteless sweeper used to creep stealthily into the brahmin’s house from the back, clean the toilets and sneak away. If by chance he saw a brahmin on the road he had to hide till the brahmin had passed.