THE GOLD HEIST

                                                                                 

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.  

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”