The Gold coins tumbled out of the oblong metal box , and lay
in a glittering heap, slipping off the mound of higgledy-piggledy piled
mountain of bank notes. Ananth was tilting the” golak” , and now he gasped .
The smooth shiny roundels continued to slide off the metal walls till the last
of them rolled out with a clatter. There was a long moment of pin drop silence.
You could hear the ticking of the clock.
“Hey bhagwan!” Head clerk Tushar exclaimed, breaking the
stunned silence. “So many gold coins !Where has it come from ?”he asked ,
voicing all thoughts.
“And who would donate such a thing ?”Ananth always raised
practical doubts .Assistant manager Ghorpade, the bank nerd, knelt and placed
one near his spectacled face , sniffing it slightly, like a bloodhound.
“ Mudras”!! He exclaimed”Gupta era , Chandragupta , 320 BCE,
Brahmi script“ Ghorpade wore a aura of smugness around him. Looking around
triumphantly, he added,”Belongs to some museum, price may go upto several
crores.”
“Haan, haan , woh sab thik hai , but what do we do with all
these gold coins ? Kahan ? Where do we keep this hoard?”The manager Mehta
shifted in his seat.
All looked up at him , askance . Eyebrows raised at the
mention of the word “hoard”.
”Sir, yeh khajana nahin hai . This is called “Prasad”. Tushar
Mishra’s moral compass always pointed north. Neither did he hesitate to speak
his mind . Even to the boss Mehta.Profoundly religious, Mishra always sported a
large red “tika”on his forehead, spoke in a language liberally peppered with
Sanskrit terms, and wore his no-nonsense attitude on the sleeve.
In sharp contrast,the boss Mehta was always sloppily-dressed
and ill-kempt, foul mouthed with a phenomenal temper,and also went by the
private nick name of “mehetar Mehta “(the untouchable Mehta) in his junior’s
circles.
Ananth quickly
disappeared in a small back room, and emerged with a smallish-gunny sack. He
quickly separated the infernal coins from the heap of other normal donations,
piled it into stacks of ten, and swiftly counting them (100), placed them in a
jangling unceremonious mass, in the bag.Tying a swift knot at the top, he held
it at an arm’s distance, as if it was dog poop, and asked, turning towards
Mehta” Now where do we keep it? What do we do with it?” Ananth, a practical man
adept at his job, did not believe in dilly-dallying.
He had been counting donations from the golak , for donkey’s
years now. A weeks’, or month’s collection could be sorted out within minutes.
Needless to add, a months’ collection often ran into tens of crores of folded
and crumpled banknotes, hastily shoved into the “golak” by distressed
devotees.
$$$$
The’ pir baba mazar’
was located on the bank premises. Situated bang next to a Government
Hospital, partly owned by the bank. That explained the presence of bank
employees at the quarterly counting of donations, from the golak or the
traditional donation box.
Strange things, besides hefty amounts of money, were known to
surface. Gold jewellery and traveler’s cheques were common.
But this was unprecedented.
It almost seemed as if someone was trying to get rid of his booty in a hurry,
as Ghorpade rightly pointed out.
Now, everyone was in a fix. A natural oath of secrecy was
reinforced with constant reminders, not to leak this information in the bank colony,
lest fake claimants turn up in hordes, and the press/police is dragged in. The
sack of coins was kept in the same metallic safe, as the rest of the money;
triple locked, sealed, and the key handed over to Mehta.
$$$$
Far away, thousands of miles across the country, there was
hectic activity on foot, and those very same Gold madras were giving sleepless
nights to authorities in the Regional Museum of Arts in Patna, Bihar.
Mr.Verma my boss, the archaeologist and head of management of
the Museum called me to his office, one wintry evening, when all had headed
home. After office hours,only a small yellow bulb burned in the foyer, in the
silent, desolate building, when I , Pratiksh Bal, a junior archaeologist, and
an expert on numismatics was summoned. Pandeyji, the night watchman, sat on his
rickety chair , rubbing tobacco on his lime stained palm.
“Kahe bullat rahin bade sahib, pata badon?”He jumped up and
breathed his tobacco breath into my ear, scanning the ghostly verandahs, this
way and that.(Do you know why have you been called?)
I took a step back.” Nahin. Aap batayiye, pandey ji!!”I
crossed my arms irritatingly.
“Kono chori ka mamla badon. Bahut badi chori!!” He whispered
loudly and spread his arms to emphasize. I caught a glimpse of his filthy,
hairy underarms, from inside his checked blanket.(It is about a big heist!!)
I had seen enough. I
dodged him and sprinted to the glass door with Verma written on it with cheap
red enamel paint.
Verma ji sat pensively, with his back to the door. A room
heater glowed at his feet, and a half drunk cup of tea lay on the table.
I cleared my throat, Verma ji didn’t respond. Something was
not right. Mr. Verma was a small man, highly strung and was known to jump at
every small noise. As I went and swiveled his chair towards me, he lurched and
fell into my arms, cold , dead weight, head lolled to one side , eyes glassy,
unseeing.
“Pandey ji!!” I screamed.
He was declared brought-in-dead, by the government hospital.
$$$$
The police conducted routine queries. Statements were
recorded, the body was handed over to the family after autopsy, and the cause
of death was written down as cardiac arrest.
That was when I
decided to pay a visit to Pandey ji, the night watchman, who was so terrified
of sitting alone in that massive building, that he had taken a few days off.
His wife, with a large
ghoonghat, covering her face, lurked in the doorway.
I put my cup of sugary tea away, and confronted him. Shaking
his shoulders, I looked into his rheumy eyes, and asked –“How did you know of
the theft, pandeyji? That is all I am asking.”
“Pulice hamar ke bahut marab , sahib.Is liye hum nahin
batab.Hamar chot-chot bachcha badon.”(The police will beat me to a pulp, if I
tell. I have my kids to look after.)Pandeyji grabbed my feet. The ghoonghat in
the doorway, nodded assertion.
After I promised not to tell anyone, and he made me swear on
his “Janeyu’(sacred thread), he leant his face towards my ear, darting looks
this way and that. The wife shook her ghoonghat with violent negation.
$$$$
Early morning, next weekend, found me sitting in the office
of the Bank manager, Bank of Bharat, Mudgaon, Maharashtra.
Sipping the espresso from the bank dispenser, I sat listening
to the various banking woes from Mr. Mehta, the tall, gangly unkempt and
scruffy bank manager of the bank. After a while, I asked the question, I had
flown all the way here for –“Mr., Mehta, do you in your bank have an employee,
by the name of Mr. Ravikant Ghorpade?”
Mehta went pale, beads
of sweat appeared on his brow, and he stammered-“Wwwhhho?”
I had already read Ghorpade’s name on the bank employee of the month board
outside.
After few gulps of water, Mehta composed himself, and rang
the bell, “Ghorpade ko bulao.”He asked the boy in khaki who appeared. After a
few moments, the boy reappeared; looking very agitated, and whispered something
in Mehta’s ear.
Mehta turned pale again. Turning slowly towards me, he said
haltingly, “Ghorpade is no more, Mr. Bal.
We will resume this talk later.”
Leaving me open-mouthed, he shook my hand stiffly, shut his
briefcase and marched out of the office, his hairs bobbing up and down.
The bank employees had broken ranks, and were whispering in
small clusters. All clammed up at the sight of me, and followed me with
accusatory looks. Word must have emerged, that I came looking for Ghorpade, all
the way from Patna.
I stopped by one particular group. The speaker was a portly
man with a red tikka on his forehead.
“Hari, hari, very bad. His skull was smashed by the very
books he was reading. Vidya se hatya?”
“Ghorpade was sitting,
nay sleeping, lying on top of his books, when he was found today morning by his
Landlord.”
“No, family, Ghorpade never married.”
“Hey Ram! History was his life.Even on his death night, he was
found reading about Chandragupta and Brahmi script.”
“He was such a good soul, who would murder him?”He tut-tutted
loudly, and the group resumed work, as the snaky queues of customers had grown
restless.
By noon, I had gathered enough information about Ghorpade,
the ex-convict, turning a new leaf as a bank employee in a remote town. He had
been jailed for a heirloom heist, from a rich widow’s locker. He served five
years and had been released six months’ back, for good behavior. A numismatics
expert, he was being consulted by Mr. Verma two days before his death, the
conversation overheard by Pandey ji, the nosy watchman.They were trying to put
a price on the booty.
If Ghorpade was the
thief, Who had murdered him? Who stood to gain ?Where was the loot?Was Mr.
Verma an accomplice too? This was a deeper and darker mystery than I thought. I
had a sinking feeling.
I was lost in my reverie, sitting on a bench, in front of the
pir-baba mazar, when someone shook my
shoulder. It was the tika-clerk from the bank.Reeking of paan, he lifted his
face and talked, as the red spittle built up in his mouth.
“Are you related to Ghorpade?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Das ko Tushar Mishra
kehte hain?”He folded his hands dramatically.I namasted in reply.”You were
asking about him in the bank today, that is why?”
“Where have you put up? Why don’t you stay in my home?”
I smiled back at his hospitality, when I suddenly became
aware of a person looking intently at us.
Sitting on a low stool next to a clerk, I had noticed this “human
counting machine”, whose lips and hands moved like an automaton, and left the
eyes to stare and brain to think. Weird!
Mishra followed my glance and said-“That is Ananth,” our
money machine “. He laughed, and moved to the roadside to spit the paan-spittle.
I suddenly felt certain malevolence in the stare.
$$$$
Over swollen hot rotis and fragrant dal, Mishra told me about
how he came about this job. His house was on the bank colony premises. He was
overtly religious, no doubt. After the meals, he laid a charpoy for me in the
courtyard, and said he would come back, after his routine obeisance at the
“Peer-baba” ka mazar.
I took the opportunity to accompany him half way through, in
the dark. Gathering courage, I asked
him, “Mishraji, do you know anything about a theft of gold coins?”
Mishra stopped abruptly in his tracks and turned to face me.
I could not see his face in the dark. But he was furiously chewing his paan ,
as if keeping the truth from spilling. Then he spied someone over my shoulder,
and told in a very loud voice –“God (pointing the mazar) will tell you all
truths.”
I turned back as Mishra made away hastily, and almost ran
into the person he had spied. It was the same counting machine from the
bank-Ananth.He was almost chasing Mishra and the two began an animated
conversation, the moment he caught up.
I must have dozed off for good three odd hours, when the bell
of the mazar started ringing dole fully, at regular intervals.Mishra’s wife
came out and informed me that he was not back yet, which was unusual.
I immediately grabbed a torch and set off in the direction of
the mazar. The ringing became louder.
It was coming from the sanctum-sanctorum, which had to be
accessed by crossing two doors.
As I struggled with my footwear, I hastily made
a phone call. In the dark, I saw a man
swing a lathi, at me. Then the world went dark.
$$$$
When I came to, a deafening sound filled my head, the temple
bell ringing. It was swaying right in front of me. The gong of the bell was
tied to something, a human arm! Mishraji lay face down, while his hand swung to
and fro. I tried calling him, but no sound emerged from my dry lips. I was tied
by the wrists and ankles.
I tried freeing myself ,that was when, a shadow in the dark
spoke out.” It is no use, you can’t undo it”. The man, thrust out a lathi and
stopped the macabre bell. I was inside the sanctum, with Mishra draped on the
holy tomb, dead, hand tied to the bell.
“He was always ringing the truth, the bastard! Thought I
should let him ring some more.”He chuckled, I saw the face; it was Ananth, the
money machine.
“So, it was you.”
“Yes, me . The loyal, unspeaking servant. Who always counts
money and never owns it.”
He spat on the Holy ground, with vehemence.
“But, why Ghorpade?”
“Ghorpade started
studying the coins, the bloody padhaku.He would have leaked our secret, sure as
hell, sooner or later.All I asked him was to lie low with the coins , till we
smuggled it out of the country.But he panicked and poured it into the golak,
fool!! He was better than me in studies,
father always said-“He is the better one .” Till he ran off, with the widow’s
money, the rascal.”He chuckled here, and then suddenly went silent.
“He was your brother, wasn’t he ?”
“Half-brother. He was born of the witch my father brought
back home, one night. My mother and I were given the servant quarters to live.
Overnight, I changed from son to servant.”
He continued bitterly, half to himself.
“But I still kept a look out for him, got him this job here,
when he was out. The coin theft was not his idea. It was fathers.’
“Whose?” I could not contain my curiosity.
“Your boss, Mr.Verma’s.I just had to pay him a visit. He took
one look at me and conked off, the poor sod",he snorted in disgust." Now, I will take your leave.”
“Wait!! What about me?” I had to stall him.
“You can tell people how you killed Mishra.” Again , the mirthless , scary chuckle. By now, I had
freed my hands.
I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was
running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and
started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven,
six, five, four, three, two and one”. The door opened and in stepped Mr. Mehta,
in the full police uniform of a Sub-inspector.
“Well done Major. Thanks for your timely phone call,we have recorded
your conversation, and you”, he looked at Ananth”, are under arrest.”
Ananth, for once, was stumped.
“You are …”He stammered staring at Mehta.
”S.I Mehta, in charge, of investigating the gold coin heist and he is”
Mehta finished for him and, jerked his thumb towards me, “Major Bal of Army Intelligence.”
I never dreamed I would one day, be sneaking a jam sandwich at bed time , and have my daughter roll her pretty eyes at me , reminding me , in a furious whisper-“Maa, aren’t you supposed to be off-carbs?"