‘Would have been hundred times better to rest at home.’
Dilnavaz set out three cups. Dinshawji waited, rolling and unrolling the newspaper. The edges were peeling in thin strips.
Gustad gulped his tea scalding hot, soon as it was poured. ‘Slowly, slowly,’ cautioned Dilnavaz. ‘It will burn up your blood.’ She appealed to Dinshawji: ‘Won’t listen to me when I say it’s not good to drink it so hot and so black. Blood burning is not the only problem. It can also cause stomach cancer.’ Dinshawji shuddered when she said this. He sipped his tea slowly, the cup trembling at his lips.
‘My sister-in-law’s father had the same habit,’ she continued. ‘Drank the tea soon as it was poured, boiling from the stove. By the time he was fifty, the whole lining of his stomach was completely gone. They had to feed him through a tube in his arm. Luckily, poor man did not suffer very long.’
Gustad asked for a second cup. She said, ‘Dinshawji is waiting, he has something very important to say.’
‘Say it, Dinshawji. I am ready.’
Dinshawji’s hands shook as he opened the newspaper. He folded it and gave it to Gustad, along with the bulky white envelope. Gustad recognized it and flared up. ‘Are you crazy? You did not deposit?’
‘Please read,’ he implored, close to tears. ‘You will understand.’ The piece was fairly short, titled ‘CORRUPTION RIPE IN RAW’, which made Gustad snort:
Acting jointly on the basis of an anonymous tip, the CBI and city police yesterday arrested in the nation’s capital an officer of the Research and Analysis Wing, Jimmy Bilimoria, on charges of fraud and extortion.
He turned disbelievingly to Dinshawji, feeling as if the paan’s numbness was returning to lay its icy fingers on his brain. ‘Impossible! What kind of rubbish is this?’
‘Please read,’ he pleaded again, but Gustad had already lowered his eyes:
The police report stated that, based on the accused’s confession, the facts were as follows. Some months ago in New Delhi, Mr. Bilimoria, impersonating the Prime Minister’s voice, telephoned the State Bank of India and identified himself as Indira Gandhi. He instructed the Chief Cashier to withdraw sixty lakh rupees from the bank’s reserves for delivery to a man who would identify himself as the Bangladeshi Babu. The next day, Mr. Bilimoria, this time in the persona of the Bangladeshi Babu, met the Chief Cashier and took delivery of the sixty lakh rupees.
The police report goes on to state that Mr. Bilimoria has admitted he perpetrated the fraud in order to expedite aid to the guerrillas in East Pakistan. ‘The Mukti Bahini are brave and courageous fighters,’ the RAW officer is said to have written in his confession, ‘and I was growing tired of watching the bureaucrats drag their feet.’ He claims the idea was entirely his own, and his zealousness in helping the Mukti Bahini is to blame.
A Footnote: While the alleged facts of this case are certainly unique, what strikes this reporter as even more unusual are the circumstances surrounding this highly imaginative crime. For example, assuming that Mr. Bilimoria has the talent of voice impersonation, is it routine for our national banks to hand over vast sums of money if the Prime Minister telephones? How high up does one have to be in the government or the Congress Party to be able to make such a call? And was the Chief Cashier so familiar with Mrs. Gandhi’s voice that he accepted the instructions without any verification whatsoever? If yes, does that mean that Mrs. Gandhi has done this sort of thing frequently? These questions cry out for answers, and till the answers are heard, clearly and completely, the public’s already eroded confidence in our leaders cannot be restored.
Dilnavaz handed Gustad the second cup of tea as he finished reading. It slipped through his fingers to the floor. The cup shattered, the hot liquid splashing his right foot and ankle.
‘What’s the matter? Are you feeling all right?’ She felt his forehead in alarm, thinking it was the paan.
‘Of course I am all right,’ he said irritatedly, ‘you are the one who dropped the cup.’ He made no attempt to pick up the broken pieces or wipe his foot. ‘Jimmy has been arrested.’
‘What?’ She took the paper and sat beside Dinshawji who was much calmer now. Gustad wondered what he was thinking. ‘Believe me, Dinshu, I had no idea, or I would never have done it. I would never have asked you—’
‘Where is the question of that?’ said Dinshawji gently. ‘There is no doubt in my mind about you at all.’
‘He lied. Major Bilimoria lied from the beginning. About everything! To me!’
‘Yes, but I am wondering what to do now,’ said Dinshawji.
‘We took such a risk. For his stolen ten lakh rupees. For a bloody crook, thinking we were doing something good!’
‘Yes, yes, Gustad,’ said Dinshawji calmly. ‘But we cannot change that now. Fait accompli. Jay thayu tay thayu. Now we have to think about what to do with the money.’
‘Dinshawji is right,’ said Dilnavaz, surprised to hear him speak so sensibly.
‘I’d like to burn it all. The way that dogwalla idiot burned the newspapers,’ said Gustad bitterly.
‘First of all, I think we should stop depositing it,’ persisted Dinshawji, still on the rational track.
‘But what about the money already in the bank?’
‘Just leave it the way it is. Maybe Ghulam Mohammed will contact you. Or you can contact him.’
‘But he could also be in jail,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘We don’t know how far he was involved in it. Maybe we should go to the police with everything.’
Gustad remembered: ‘Ghulam Mohammed is not in jail. I’ll go to him tomorrow. Peerbhoy Paanwalla told me he saw him today, looking very upset and worried. No wonder. Yes, he is definitely involved in this. Too risky for us to go to the police. You know what kind of dangerous fellow he is.’
‘Is he?’ asked Dinshawji.
‘Of course,’ said Gustad, then remembered in time that Dinshawji knew nothing about the cat and bandicoot. ‘That is, I am assuming.’
‘I still cannot believe,’ said Dilnavaz, ‘our Jimmy would do something so crooked.’
‘People change,’ said Gustad. ‘In his confession it says money was for guerrillas. Then why did he send ten lakh to me? My right hand I will cut off and give you if this is not something crooked. What kind of guerrilla pipeline is that, from Delhi to Chor Bazaar to Khodadad Building?’
‘True,’ said Dinshawji. ‘But we don’t know the whole story. And I think the reporter is asking some good questions. Everyone says Indira and her son — the motorcar fellow — are involved in all kinds of crooked deals, that they have Swiss bank accounts and everything.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘And there has been talk of worse things. When Shastri died.’
‘I remember that,’ said Dinshawji. ‘It was the time I had my gall-bladder operation, almost six years ago. I was in bed when the news came on the radio.’
‘Yes,’ said Dilnavaz. ‘And before that, when her father was still alive, there was poor Feroze Gandhi. Nehru never liked him from the beginning.’
‘That was tragic,’ said Dinshawji. ‘Even today, people say Feroze’s heart attack was not really a heart attack.’
Gustad got annoyed. ‘What does all this gossip and rumour have to do with the Major? He is the one who tricked me! If politicians are crooks and rascals, how does that change what Jimmy did?’
Dinshawji saw it was time to leave. He shook hands with them both. ‘Sorry for bringing so much bad news.’ He plodded to the door.
‘On the contrary, thanks for coming. Without your newspaper we would never have known about it,’ said Gustad. After Dinshawji had gone, he sat on the sofa for a while, worrying the doll’s veil. ‘My bakulyoo didn’t take her doll to bed tonight.’ Then he went and stood by the window. ‘What kind of evil spell are we caught in, I wonder sometimes. How long is this punoti going to last?’