by
A Meeting of Minds
It happened one summer afternoon, when the heat, the dirt, the sweat and the crowd of Calcutta coalesced into a primordial swamp. My Dad and I were going towards Birla Buildings to meet Mr. B.G.Birla, director of Bally Jute Mills. Mr. B.G., as he was called, was involved with a firm run by his brother—this firm was acting as selling agent for the plastic bobbins made by my Dad at his factory.
We were both feeling below the weather, for things had been going badly. Finance was in short supply; the Bally Jute Mills, our chief customer, was under lockout, and the last lot of bobbins had unaccountably broken during use. Operations were threatening to come to a halt.
Mr. B.G. was at a meeting with M.P.Birla. We waited for about half an hour, our spirits drooping lower and lower, till the meeting was over and Mr. B.G. appeared, surrounded by his staff. We all walked into his chamber. It was roomy, carpeted, and had a plush sofa set. Of course Birla Buildings was fully air-conditioned, and soft music was relayed throughout. But the music was off now—the Birlas were in mourning for B.R.Birla.
Mr. B.G. was under enormous strain. He had barely time to nod at us. People were firing questions at him from all sides, and he had to make quick decisions. Still the smile on his face never wavered. In a lull in the proceedings my Dad told him about our financial difficulties. Without a word he drew his pad towards himself, wrote a note to his brother asking him to advance us three thousand rupees, and signed it with a flourish. We walked out beaming, and suddenly the dirt and the crowd had lost their meaning.
A Pot Boiler (Written a long time ago)
The music went off and voices were raised in heated argument. The detective ducked as somebody violently drew aside the blinds.
"It's too risky. I don't like it, " the man was saying, "all our eggs in one basket". "Chance of a lifetime," the girl persuaded, "Three crates carried by three coolies. A piece of cake. Two miles through the jungle, then our rope-bridge; hunky dory!"
The detective cat-footed forward to hear better. The girl, a blonde, was silhouetted at the window.
"There'll be a full moon," mused the man.
"All the easier for us, " the girl interjected, "We won't need torches."
"Easier for the police too, if you ask me. I prefer the trickle method. Slow but sure."
"No sweat," said the girl, "this time let's do it my way".
The detective waited no further. He slipped away, satisfied, pausing only to glance at the number plates of the Volkswagon parked at the kerb.
***
The moon was full but there were splashes of cloud in the sky. The world was a mass of dancing shadows. The detective's boss was with him, portly, prancing, with a wheeze in his breath that irritated and alarmed him.
In the distance was the checkpost. Strung along the border, hidden behind bushes in twos and threes, was a dragnet of waiting policemen.
Tyres screeched. Powerful headlights cut a swathe through the night, and a car pulled up a furlong away. There was the flurry of moving figures and the sound of slamming doors. Before the dragnet could mobilize, figures started vanishing into the jungle.
"Halt or we fire!" the police chief bellowed.
Brilliant flares lit up, blinding in intensity, catching the police by surprize. It gave the smugglers precious seconds to get away. It robbed the policemen of the element of surprize.
***
The line of men advanced, panting in the heat, and trying to avoid the trailing creepers. The blonde girl was there. So was the man who drove the Volks. They slipped in the muddy trail, and cursed the previous night's rain.
"We'll never make it, " the man rasped in an undertone of fury.
"We will." The girl was calm and icy, but spoke through clenched teeth.
Three coolies carried the goods which represented the pair's entire operating capital.
"We go across the bridge and snip, snip, we cut it, " the girl reassured the man. They both knew the plan.
"Provided we reach it!" he muttered, pausing to let off a round at the following pursuers, menacingly audible.
Suddenly they were there at the gorge, harshly stark in the moonlight. After a moment of intense scrutiny the girl said, "Yes, we go left a bit."
They followed her, came to the bridge and paused. There was nothing to be said. The bridge hung uselessly from the far end, lifeless and still. Last night's rain had taken its toll, and behind them in the darkness the policemens' whistle grew louder.
A Tribute To Mr. Ghosh
In our youth, my sister Jaya and I counted time forward and backward from 1961, the year we had visited England. This was, of course, because our one-year “ English Holiday” had been such a watershed event in our lives. For ten years before 1961, and for ten years after, my Dad earned money steadily, working as an engineer.
I cannot begin to write how important it is to a child to have the security of a happy family and a cozy home, and I thank my Dad and Mom for providing me with both. But in 1970, when I was in college, Dad’s contract with the Goenka’s, a leading business group in Calcutta, wasn’t renewed, and he was forced to go into business.
With a loan from the State Bank of India, Dad started a small workshop with a lathe, shaping, drilling and grinding machine. The plan looked good on paper, but Dad was no businessman. The business failed and our economic condition steadily worsened.
Our rent on our house became three months overdue. I still remember our landlord, Mr. Ghosh, who lived in the adjoining house, knocking on our door at the beginning of every month. He was a man of few words and never exactly asked for the rent. But, of course, we knew why he was there. Dad would talk about his business and explain his difficulties in paying, and Mr. Ghosh would go away, somber-faced. To us impressionable children, it was a frightening ordeal, but, looking back, I realize that our landlord was trying to be as nice as he could.
What could he do? We had been model tenants for more than two years now, and he could see that we needed a roof over our heads. But on the other hand, could he allow himself to become a sucker?
His wife, Mrs. Ghosh, was a different kettle of fish entirely. She gave us dark glances and we could sense that she was urging her husband to be firm with us. Eventually, we left the house with six months’ rent overdue, and moved into smaller, cheaper quarters on the outskirts of the city.
Mr. Ghosh used to come regularly to see us every month, ostensibly to collect his back rent, which he eventually did, but also to keep our acquaintance. He had told us that he had always admired us as a family. Not once did he rant and rave, as he was perhaps entitled to do. With a difficult and trying situation on his hands, he bore himself remarkably well and came out of it all as a human being, a friend, and a savvy businessman. My hats off to him.
A Vignette of World War II
As a substitute teacher, I stood in for the US History teacher Mr. Gates one day. His first period class was studying the battles of WW II. I shared with them brief memories of the War, as told to me by my parents and uncles.
Briefly, there were American troops in Calcutta, my birthplace, flying sorties into Burma against Japanese forces. I believe there were land battles also. Mom recalled seeing truck loads of American troops passing down the streets, showing the V-for-victory sign to the local people gathered on their balconies.
Dad recalled that, even 20 years after the war, roads built by these American troops still stood—people were amazed at their quality. Also, after the troops departed, the markets seemed suddenly full of electronic spare parts from their aircrafts. People used them for all sorts of things, including paperweights.
There was a saying among Calcuttans that out of every two Japanese bombs that fell on the city, one never exploded. In retrospect, now that the world is getting smaller and national boundaries are blurring, perhaps that was the greatest blessing from the Great War. Perhaps I should have named this piece “The Dud Japanese Bombs”.