Chankya's Chant (20 page)

The emphasis was on
we
.

‘I’m really not sure what you can do,’ was his reply.

The emphasis was on
you
.

‘Here’s the five quid I owe you,’ said Victor to Geoffrey as he handed over the note.

‘Hemingfords never lose bets,’ said Geoffrey smugly, ‘but you owe me ten’.

‘Why?’

‘Five if I got the Paki into bed, another five if she got banged up,’ said Geoffrey slyly.

‘So she’s pregnant?’ asked Victor.

‘Let’s just say that you can now safely claim the presidency of the Oxford Union,’ said Geoffrey, accepting the second note from Victor.

The telegram in front of Gangasagar told him more than he wanted to know. It was the usual monthly report that

came to him from a gentleman in England—a Mr Harvey Richardson. He conveyed regular updates regarding her grades, her progress, her debates, her friendships and her extra-curricular activities—and she’d had more than her fair share of those.

Mr Richardson was not an affluent man but a man who could get things done on occasion. He had originally been a business associate of Agrawalji and, during Gangasagar’s employment with Agrawalji, had helped Gangasagar import manufactured goods from England and export commodities to England. He had been delighted when Gangasagar had offered to sponsor his daughter, Josephine Richardson, to Oxford. It was an incredibly generous gesture.

But generous gestures usually came with some strings attached. In his case—and Josephine’s—it was to look out for the Indian girl at St Hilda’s in Oxford.

The critical elements were the syringe and formula containing shavings of carbolic soap. Her power douche would eventually result in a pregnant girl shedding her uterine lining within forty-eight hours, after which everything would be bright and sunny once again. The house to which Josephine accompanied Chandini was a modest low-income home in which the nameless resident, a middle-aged and matronly lady, would administer the douche to terrified girls. She had performed over a hundred back-alley abortions and operated one of the most hygienic illegal clinics from her home.

Josephine had ferretted out the lady’s name from another girl. Chandini, who was petrified that her father—Guptaji—would somehow get wind of her condition, and brave all odds to reach the shores of England to strangle her for bringing shame and dis-honour upon the family, was relieved when Josephine took all the planning out of her hands and into her own.

The matron asked Chandini to undress and lie down on the wooden table, putting her feet in the stirrups one at a time. She positioned herself between Chandini’s legs and asked the girl to open them, but try as she would, Chandini’s knees refused to budge. They remained glued together almost as though a voice within her was telling her not to abort.

The Mother & Baby home at Grasmere was secluded enough to filter out unwanted attention. Moreover, it was unlike the usual ones managed by nuns where ‘errant unmarried mothers’ were sent to deliver illegitimate children who would subsequently be put up for adoption. This was, on the contrary, a private home that charged substantial fees from wealthy families who sent their pregnant daughters to its care. Grasmere was the loveliest spot that man had ever found, according to William Wordsworth, who had lived there for fourteen years of his life. Located in the centre of the charming Lake District, Grasmere was ethereal—surrounded by misty hills, unending lakes, and undulating farmlands. Harvey Richardson had instructed Josephine to take Chandini there without letting on that anyone—including Gangasagar or Harvey himself—knew of her condition.

Josephine bought a gramophone that she installed in one corner of Chandini’s room. She managed to source long-playing records of Chandini’s favourite music—violin concertos by Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, and Paganini. Chandini would sit by the window gazing out at the serene Grasmere surrounded by gentle walks and craggy peaks. Josephine would often go to the market while Chandini meditated to the sounds of the violin. Sometimes, when Josephine returned, she would notice that Chandini’s eyes were moist and her face stained with dried tears. Sounds of the violin reminded her too much of Geoffrey. Josephine tried to cheer her up by placing a vase of fresh pink chrysanthemums on the windowsill every few days— they were Chandini’s favourite flowers.

Eight weeks after moving in, Chandini was ready to deliver. She had not realised that it would be the equivalent of pushing a bowling ball through a nostril. Josephine held her hand while the matron checked her cervix for dilation. Blood and amniotic fluid were seeping out as the nurse urged her to push. Chandini pushed and blacked out as she felt a body covered in slippery gob gush out of her.

When Chandini awoke, she realised that she had been cleaned up and wheeled back into her room with the flower-patterned curtains that framed a picture postcard view of the lake. Josephine was sitting by her side, gently running her fingers through Chandini’s hair. Chandini took one look at Josephine and she knew instantly.

‘I’m so sorry, honey,’ Josephine whispered, ‘the doctor says you can have others but this one was stillborn.’

Another telegram a few days later informed Gangasagar in Kanpur that the needful had been done. Gangasagar did not inform either of the fathers—Guptaji or Ikram. The telegram also informed him that the two girls had rented a cottage in the Lake District and were spending a few more weeks in the country before Chandini returned home.

‘One down, one more to go,’ thought Gangasagar as he dropped in to meet Agrawalji for an evening walk along the riverbank.

The Air-India Boeing 707-420 on the bus-stop route of London-Cairo-Geneva-Mumbai had a hundred and sixty passengers on board. Chandini was airsick as they landed turbulently in Geneva in the middle of a thunderstorm. By the time they reached Mumbai airport, she was relieved to be back home.

She could never forgive Geoffrey for the games he had played with her life. She could try to forget—but she would never forgive. Neither would Gangasagar.

London’s hip Esmeralda’s Barn was located in Wilton Place, a fashionable street running off Knightsbridge. One of the first clubs to open after the new Gaming Act, it had the best croupiers, waiters, hostesses and chefs in town. A narrow and dimly-lit passage led to the large office that accommodated two giant antique desks, each illuminated by a green lawyers’ lamp. The two men that sat behind the desks smoking Cubans had been separated by just ten minutes. Ted had been born ten minutes before Fred. The twins had gone on to create and ruthlessly manage England’s largest crime syndicate— the Payne Brothers.

Born in Hoxton, East London, to Jack Payne, a scrap gold dealer, the twins had exhibited none of their future ruthless tendencies at school. Their grandfather had led them into the world of amateur boxing, and the brothers never lost a single bout. The problem was that they were more interested in throwing punches outside the ring than inside it. They soon bought a run-down local snooker club in Bethnal Green, where they started several rackets—protection, hijacking, armed robbery, arson, betting, and prostitution. Their most high-profile acquisition had been Esmeralda’s Barn.

Harvey Richardson headed over to the roulette wheel. The croupier was stacking chips while customers were placing their coloured chips on the playing field. The croupier expertly flicked the small white roulette ball between his thumb and index finger towards the rim and the ball went into frenzied orbit. Harvey placed a fiver on black. As the ball lost momentum and slowed down, it wobbled and fell gently into the still revolving wheel. ‘Double zero,’ said the croupier, ‘no winners.’