Chankya's Chant (62 page)

H
arry Richardson sighed. History was definitely the most boring subject ever. Even the colourful Henry VIII and his fetish for newer and newer wives did not interest him. He adjusted his false collar and white tie as he reread his textbook. His neck was itching. He had never really got used to the school uniform—black tailcoat, waistcoat and pinstriped trousers. Eton was a pain in the arse.

He shifted his bottom uncomfortably on the chair in his private room in Godolphin House. His rump was still sore from five strokes of the cane that he had received from the headmaster the previous day for being late for division. His stomach grumbled. Eating breakfast, lunch and supper in Bekynton—the massive central dining complex—was plain unappetising. The only meals he enjoyed were the mid-morning Chambers snack and the mid-afternoon boys’ tea, but today he had missed both because of the work he had to finish. How he longed to be home.

Harry was a handsome boy. His pale skin had a gold sheen to it and his dark hair was thick and lustrous. The seventh grader was already five feet four inches tall and had delicate features. His face was a picture of innocence —delicate lips, chiselled nose and emerald-green eyes.

He had asked his mother, Josephine, many times why he had to be in Eton when he could have lived with her in idyllic Grasmere and attend day school nearby. He was only allowed home for long leave every half, and for short leave, twice, once in the Michaelmas half and once in the Lent half. Mum would say that ever since his dad passed away, she had to look after Harry alone. The only way she could afford a decent life for them— including the outrageous Eton boarding fees—was by working at a furious pace.
How hard could a painter’s work be
, thought Harry. Most artists painted because the sale of their work allowed them to eat, drink and copulate. And she never seemed to sell any of her paintings—the house was full of them. Josephine had chosen not to tell Harry that his patron was an old man in India—a man whose generosity allowed Josephine to lead an artist’s life—Pandit Gangasagar Mishra. Ever since Josephine and her father had looked after Chandini, Gangasagar had considered it his duty to look after Josephine.

Eton provided for every imaginable sport one could think of—soccer, rugby, hockey, cricket, basketball, rowing, athletics, fencing, martial arts—the list was endless. For the less sporting, every musical instrument— including the didgeridoo—was offered in the state-of the-art music department, which included an incredible music technology suite and recording studio. There were two theatres in the school and the theatrically inclined could engage in school plays, house plays and even scriptwriting. Beyond this, Eton offered painting, drawing, sculpture, ceramics, printmaking, debating and elocution.

But Harry’s only interest was his violin. His had been among the eight music scholarships that had been awarded the previous year and it had been a test of endurance to get it. The Music Scholarship Examination was held at Eton in late January and candidates were required to play two contrasting pieces on their principal instrument and one piece on their second instrument, to sight-read, undergo aural tests and perform scales appropriate to their grades. Harry had passed with flying colours—he had been a Grade Eight on the violin even before he entered Eton. It was almost as though he had been born to the sounds of a string quartet in the background.

Josephine bought a gramophone that she installed in one corner of Chandini’s room. She managed to source longplaying 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 flowerpatterned 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’.

‘Bhabua State Cooperative Bank,’ said Gangasagar.

‘What is that?’ asked Agrawalji.

‘I need to ask our appointee, the Reserve Bank of India’s governor, to investigate the bank.’

‘Why?’

Gangasagar held up a share transfer form. He had a whole bunch of them in front of him. ‘See this transaction? Shiva Finance Pvt. Ltd sold this batch of stocks to Vishnu Investments Pvt. Ltd.’

‘Since when did selling company stocks become a crime? In any case, what does it have to do with an unobtrusive little cooperative bank in the state of Bihar?’

‘Dig a little deeper, my friend. Vishnu Investments Pvt. Ltd sold this same batch of shares to Brahma Securities Pvt. Ltd.’

‘I’m still confused, Ganga. The whole point of sharetrading is to buy and sell. What exactly have these companies done wrong? And how is Bhabua State Cooperative Bank involved?’

‘Don’t you get it? The sacred trinity of the Hindus— Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva?’

‘Sorry, I just don’t see what you’re driving at.’

‘Brahma—the creator, Vishnu—the preserver, Shiva— the destroyer. Three facets of one single entity. Don’t you see that all three entities are owned by the same promoter?’

‘Even so, what’s the problem?’

‘Here’s the problem. Shiva sells this batch of stocks to Vishnu on a Monday for 140 rupees per share, the prevailing market price. The next day—Tuesday—Vishnu sells the shares to Brahma for 150 rupees per share, a little higher than the market price. On Wednesday, Brahma sells the shares back to Shiva for 160 rupees each!’

‘So?’

‘Shiva loses twenty rupees per share and Vishnu and Brahma gain ten rupees each. It’s a zero sum game if all the entities belong to the same promoter!’

‘But why do it? There’s nothing to gain.’

‘Because if you do it often enough with the same set of shares and with enough money, you’ll end up driving the market price upwards. The share scrip that was traded by these three entities went up fourteen per cent in three days! Three days!’

‘And where does the money for these trades come from?’

‘Bhabua State Cooperative Bank.’

‘But banks have to maintain a cash reserve ratio. There’s no way that a small bank in Bihar’s rural heartland can possibly advance large amounts for stock speculation without the regulator knowing,’ argued Agrawalji.

‘Simple solution. Banks only need to report their cash balances to the Reserve Bank of India every fortnight. There are thirteen days in between when no reporting happens. Trades are executed during these thirteen days and the accounts settled on the fourteenth. The regulator never knows.’

‘So why not go after the share traders? They’re the ones who are speculating.’

‘Because Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva are owned by a very important man.’

‘Who?’

‘The chief minister of Bihar.’

‘And what do you hope to achieve by going after Bhabua District Cooperative Bank?’

‘What happens each time the music stops in a game of musical chairs?’

‘There is always one chair short?’

‘Precisely. Freeze the bank’s transactions in the middle of their reporting fortnight. They’ll be unable to explain the mismatch in funds. That’s the reason I wanted my own man in the Reserve Bank of India.’

‘And what do you gain?’

‘A nervous chief minister of Bihar.’

Chandini reached the village after travelling the last mile on foot. Jitaura Musahar Tola in East Champaran district of Bihar was a village without roads, electricity, drinking water, schools or hospitals. It was almost as though civilisation had decided to entirely bypass Jitaura.

She was spending the night in a Dalit home, if the hut could be called that. Infested with mosquitoes, bandicoots and snakes, the shack provided virtually no shelter from the elements. Spreading a mat on the mud floor outside the hut, she held an impromptu open-house with other Dalits and shared a frugal meal—rotis, onion and salt—with them. These were human beings who were labelled
untouchables
by Brahmins at one time. Even though untouchability had been banned half a century earlier, the stigma remained. She was moved to tears as she heard of poor labourers being forced to sell their children into bonded labour so that they could earn a meal.

Back in New Delhi, two days later, she met Gangasagar at her official bungalow at 19, Teen Murti Lane. ‘Why did you send me there? The situation is so completely hopeless! Out of two hundred children in the hamlet, only three attend school! The nearest school is six miles away! Forget about hospitals, there isn’t even a dispensary to provide basic medication. Sanitation doesn’t exist—typhoid and cholera are the villagers’ most frequent callers, visiting them every now and again. Doesn’t it worry you?’ she asked.

‘Worry is like a rocking chair; it keeps you in motion, but gets you nowhere,’ replied Gangasagar, swaying back and forth on the lounger he was seated on. ‘I have asked Agrawalji to set up a privately-funded trust. The money from R&S won’t be used entirely for political ends. It shall identify Dalit villages in Bihar—the poorest of the poor—and focus on a few simple issues.’

‘What issues?’

‘A primary school, clean drinking water, a basic healthcare centre and the guarantee of daily nutrition.’

‘And which villages are the beneficiaries?’

‘Villages in Rohtas and Bhabua districts of Bihar.’

‘Does the choice of Rohtas and Bhabua have anything to do with the fact that these districts are the electoral strongholds of Bihar’s Dalit chief minister?’ asked Chandini shrewdly.