Devil in Pinstripes (3 page)

‘Oye!’ screamed a constable as he hobbled about to drive the children away.

What have I done to deserve this? He seemed to think as he walked inside the police station with Rakesh leading the way.

‘What is this for?’ a shocked Amit had asked Rakesh Srivastav, when he was handed over the Non-Bailable Arrest Warrant. The aloo parantha and the dripping butter had been swept out of his mind. From the details mentioned on the warrant, it was not too clear as to what the issue was.

‘Mr Sharma, I have been instructed to accompany you back to the police station,’ was the statement from Srivastav that helped in no way.

‘What happened?’ It was Chanda this time. On hearing the word ‘police station’, she had panicked and rushed into the drawing room.

‘Nothing Chanda. You go inside. Let me handle this.’

Chanda didn’t pay any heed and instead, looked at Rakesh, questioningly. ‘You are . . .?’ She knew his name but didn’t know what he did or why he was there.

‘Rakesh Srivastav, Investigating Officer, Crime Branch.’

‘What is the issue, officer?’

‘I need Mr Sharma to come with me to the police station. There is a Non-Bailable Arrest Warrant for him.’ Words failed Chanda. She just looked at Amit, with shock writ all over her innocent face.

‘What have I done?’ Amit was getting agitated now. This was no joke or prank. It was serious stuff. He had visited the police station on numerous occasions in the past, but never as the accused. Rakesh Srivastav didn’t respond to Chanda or Amit’s satisfaction.

Amit and Chanda tried to reason with Rakesh, but their arguments fell on deaf ears. Amit was not even allowed to make a call to the legal advisor of NYB. He had just been carted off in a waiting police jeep and taken to the station.

The spectacle outside his building was embarrassing. As he came out of the elevator, he was shocked at what he saw. In front of him were two jeeps full of policemen. Something had gone awfully wrong. The normally composed Amit was stressed, worried and undoubtedly hassled. He had never encountered anything like this. He was supposed to be the senior vice president at NYB and here he was, being treated like a terrorist!

He was not even allowed to change clothes. One look at him and it was obvious. As he walked into the police station, the clatter of the police boots clearly overshadowed the feeble clap of his hawai chappals. His polished boots were left behind on the shoe rack, as he was hurriedly jostled into the police jeep.

A feeling of nausea took over as he walked into the police station. In the past, whenever he had walked into a police station, it was with a purpose. Stepping out of the place was in his control. Not today though. The entire hall was repulsive. The same pair of hands that held him steadily shoved him onto an empty bench. ‘Wait there,’ said a stern voice. He didn’t recognise the face behind the voice. All looked the same. Two policemen stood guard, to ensure that he didn’t run away. Srivastav left them and walked into the adjacent room, leaving him to wonder why all this was being done.

Chanda! What will she do? How will she manage without him? They had old parents living in Jamshedpur. If they get to know how would they react? How will Chanda explain the situation to them? For that, he had to know what was going on.

I
n the autumn of 1996, Amit and Chanda solemnised their marriage with a very simple ceremony in Jamshedpur. Both hailed from the same city; their parents worked in Tata Steel (TISCO in those days). The common streak ended there. Their marriage was a perfect example of obedience to the Indian tradition. Like most other Indian marriages in the twentieth century, theirs too was a traditionally arranged marriage. No romance, no courtship. Their parents had met at a colleague’s son’s wedding and the ‘deal’ had been struck.

Amit and Chanda were complete opposites. If one was chalk the other was cheese. However, just like all other Indian families where people of different attitudes, opinions, beliefs and judgements stick together and make a life out of nothing, Amit and Chanda were thrown into the quagmire of life.

Chanda was a biotechnologist. She had done her postgraduation in biotechnology and had no interest in corporate boardroom politics. Her aspirations for a doctorate degree were nipped in the bud by her entry into wedlock. Though she had never held Amit accountable for it, somewhere in a dark corner of her heart, she regretted her circumstantial inability to pursue further studies. A career in research was something she had looked forward to and to be successful in that line, a doctoral degree was essential. Not that Amit did not want her to or did not let her study further. It was just that once she got deeply involved in her marital life, she just didn’t get the time or the drive to pursue it. After marriage, Chanda moved with Amit to Mumbai.

Chanda’s parents had been very impressed with Amit’s credentials – an MBA from IIM Bangalore . . . working with NYB . . . decent salary . . . Amit’s candidature was a winner from day one. A relationship manager for a son-in-law sounded very happening those days. It upped their prestige quotient by a few leaping notches.

‘My son-in-law is a PRO in a foreign bank,’ Chanda’s mother would show off at social gatherings. Not knowing that there was a world of difference between a PRO (public relations officer) and a relationship manager. Chanda tried correcting her a few times but all her efforts proved to be in vain, an obvious consequence of which was quitting the attempts at correction. She couldn’t change her. But one thing was sure – her parents were completely in awe of Amit.

It was no different for Amit’s parents. Their pride in their daughter-in-law was very obvious. The first biotechnologist in the family . . . and more importantly, it was an arranged marriage. Till date, the majority of middle-aged men and women (or uncles and aunties) believe that an arranged marriage is the ultimate mark of a respectable family in India. And a ‘love marriage’ is still capable of being the biggest source of gossip and criticism in the ‘society’. Well then, Amit and Chanda’s marriage was incapable of providing fodder to the society’s gossip mongers. ‘My son married the girl of my choice,’ Amit’s mother would proudly state at family gatherings. And when she would say that, mothers would turn to their sons and daughters and smirk, ‘Look at Amit’, thus making him one of those dreaded example-setters! Amit and Chanda became a yardstick for their relatives to measure their generation by. And that is why Amit’s parents were all the more proud of the marriage and of course their beautiful daughter-in-law – Chanda. Her simple demeanor and humble roots only added, and matched the list of qualities that are supposed to be the trademarks of the ideal Indian bahu. There was just one exception, and that was when she would get irritated on being introduced to others as a microbiologist by her in-laws. ‘I am a biotechnologist, not a microbiologist,’ she would say. The pride she took in her being a biotechnologist was never hidden.

‘If I can be a PRO, you can be a microbiologist,’ Amit would say in jest and smile at her.

Chanda and Amit settled into a small two-bedroom tenement in the Bandra area of Mumbai. They were an ideal family – looked good as a couple, were well-mannered and soon won the love and respect of all their neighbours.

As in any foreign bank or an MNC, NYB had a rigorous work culture. Amit would leave in the morning and come back late at night. He would call Chanda at least six times a day and Chanda would do the same. Everyday he would come back home to a delicious dinner which Chanda would have cooked. They had a couple of maids to help her out too. Life was coasting along and beginning to settle down into a routine.

Six months passed.

One day after reaching home and freshening up, a hungry Amit rushed to the dining table. The dinner was laid out and looked sumptuous. Amit hurriedly pulled the chair next to Chanda’s. He mumbled a few inanities and the usual complaints about the traffic and roads in Mumbai. Just as he was about to grab a roti, he suddenly realised that Chanda’s usual chatter was missing. Something was wrong. Was something wrong with her family in Jamshedpur? Was she not feeling well? A look at Chanda’s face made him forget about his hunger.

‘What happened Chanda? Are you okay? Your eyes look swollen.’

‘No. I am fine. Just feeling tired.’

‘Do you want to see a doctor?’ He just said that for effect. The way she had responded to his earlier question told him that something was wrong. However, he let that be, hoping that it would resolve by itself. Chanda was an introvert and hence, any further probing wouldn’t have helped.

‘Aaah. Could be the effect of PMS, he thought.’ A quick mental calculation ensued Yes, it’s anyway time for those days of the month. Having complete faith in his rationalisation of her behaviour, Amit very conveniently ignored Chandas’s mood swing.

However, this soon became a regular feature. The truth was that Chanda was beginning to feel stifled and it was not because Amit had stopped caring for her. In fact, whenever Amit was at home, life revolved around Chanda. The problem started whenever he was not at home. Being an educated biotechnologist, whiling away her time sitting at home was not exactly what she had really aspired for. A doctorate degree, a career, name and fame as a research specialist were some of the dreams that Chanda had cherished and longed for since the day she had enrolled herself into the postgraduate course in biotechnology.

This was also the first time she had stepped out of Jamshedpur. The city of horror and wonder – Mumbai – scared her. Vast, complex and confusing as to defy generalisation, Chanda feared getting lost in this jam-packed and maddening metropolis. Even after staying in the city for a while and trying to get used to its weird ways, things were not getting any simpler. As time went by, it only became worse. In the mornings, Chanda would hate seeing the receding back of Amit. She would dread the long day ahead. This state of mind didn’t take too much time in pushing Chanda towards mental depression. Day after day, Amit would be greeted by a tearful Chanda at the doorstep. This was not the woman he had married. Surely this was not PMS. He was concerned and decided to do something himself, and being a relationship manager was useful.

One night when the entire rigour replayed itself, Amit called out to her.

‘Chanda . . .’

‘Hmm . . .’ Chanda had again withdrawn into a shell.

‘Come here,’ said Amit and gave a couple of pats to the seat next to him, gesturing her to come and sit next to him on the sofa in the drawing room. She was clearing up the table after dinner. Chanda ignored him and continued clearing the table. When she didn’t come, Amit switched off the TV, walked up to the table, pulled out a chair and sat on it.

‘Bored?’ Amit asked her.

She didn’t respond. She gave a blank look that pierced right through Amit and rested on the wall behind him. It was as if he was invisible. Amit felt a slight pang of pain in the pit of his stomach. It was as if some sharp instrument had just given a twist to his insides. Loneliness can be dangerous and Amit knew that. Its deadly grips could sometimes push you strongly towards depression – at times too deep to be able to get out of. Chanda seemed to be hurtling towards those depths at a furious pace.

‘I met Shankar Raman today.’

‘Umm hunn . . .’ Again a minimalist response.

‘He is the MD of Biotech Scientific Research Institute Limited.’

‘Hmm . . .’ Though her facial expressions seemed to lighten up on hearing the word ‘biotech’, it was still not much of a reaction.

‘He is a club class customer of ours. He wants to meet you tomorrow. The office is in Bandra.’ Club class customers were the crème de la crème of all the customers of NYB. Rich customers who kept all their monies locked up in their bank accounts. These people, by virtue of their relationship size with the bank, demand and also get extremely high levels of service. All of them have a dedicated relationship manager, who is their single point of contact for all transactions at the NYB. Amit was the relationship manager managing Shankar Raman’s account. Over the years he had developed a rapport with the MD of Biotech Scientific Research Institute Limited. Their relationship had transcended the realms of professional association to become a more personal one. Amit had requested his help in finding Chanda a job.

‘For what?’ asked Chanda.

‘His is a biotech company and I spoke to him about a job for you. He wants to meet you to see if something can be worked out.’

Chanda was a bright and intelligent girl and didn’t need Amit’s recommendation to find herself a job. The problem that she faced in those days was a peculiar one. In 1996, there weren’t too many biotechnology companies in India. While it was a sunrise industry in the west, it hadn’t really evolved as an industry in India. And whatever limited presence it had in India was in the garden city of Bangalore. Institutes like Biocon and Indian Institute of Science offered great research opportunities, but only in Bangalore. As a biotechnologist, being in Mumbai didn’t give many research options to explore.

She did go and meet Shankar Raman the next day.

‘What happened?’ Amit asked her when he came back from work that night.

‘Nothing. It will not work out,’ said Chanda without looking at Amit. Her face had no expression. She had a blank look.

‘Why? He told me that he will hire you.’

‘He is ready to hire me. I refused.’ She didn’t seem too thrilled about it. Amit ignored her frustration because he knew what she was going through. He just gave her a questioning look. The silence told her that he was waiting for more. ‘He wants me to take up a sales job. His research facility is in Pune. I didn’t waste time doing my Masters to take up a sales job.’