Devil in Pinstripes Page 2

  Aditya walked up to him and held out his hand. ‘Well said Amit! Well said!’

  Amit too held out his hand, a bit nervous. He felt he had overstretched his brief, but it didn’t seem so. Aditya looked at others in the room, and then swung his gaze back towards Amit. ‘I am sure everybody here agrees that we need young passionate people like you in our team.’ All the others nodded in unison.

  ‘Welcome to NYB. I am quite happy to confirm that you have made it to our final list. I look forward to working with you young man,’ and he held out his hand once again. Unaware of his own movements, Amit robotically lifted his hand and held it out for Aditya to complete the shake. The others in the room stood up and a chorus of congratulations filled the air. Amit didn’t realise till after a few minutes, that he was the only person in the room who was still seated and hurriedly stood up.

  A few pleasantries later, he walked out of the room an elated and proud man. He was all set to join NYB as a management trainee and oh boy! Wasn’t he proud?

  Once out of the room, he did not go back to the hostel. He called Paresh, his roommate and both of them headed to the Meenakshi Sundareshwarar temple, a few kilometres from the IIM Bangalore campus, on the outskirts of the city. He wanted to thank God, for he believed that God had a huge role to play in getting him through to NYB. And what did Aditya end up asking him in the final interview . . . a question on God! It surely was result of a divine intervention.

  On the way back, he stopped at the phone booth outside campus and called home. His parents were in Jamshedpur, where his father worked with Tata Steel. Though they belonged to Delhi, Amit’s formative years were all spent in Jamshedpur. If there was any place he could call home, it was the steel city – Jamshedpur.

  After conveying the exciting news to his parents, he stepped out of the PCO, and looked up at the sky. His right hand instinctively went up to his chest. ‘Thanks Dad. For just being there for me.’ He traced his steps back to the hostel, stopping en route at the placement office to collect his appointment letter from NYB.

  ‘Hey Amit! Where have you been? We were hunting for you all over the place.’ It was Naveen, the placement coordinator for his batch, who called out for him when he was heading back to the hostel. Amit looked at him, a look that conveyed a thousand questions.

  ‘Anderson has short listed you for their final interview. They want to see you in another fifteen minutes. Good that I found you. Just freshen up and rush to Room 4.’

  ‘Can I avoid?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No. I don’t want to go to Anderson. I have decided to stick with the NYB offer.’

  ‘Have you seen the package? Anderson is offering 5.5 lakh. NYB’s at 3.75 lakh p.a.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘You will never understand. Please decline Anderson,’ and he walked away without waiting to hear Naveen’s response.

  ‘They don’t have Aditya Bhatnagar,’ he said to himself as he walked back to the hostel. A new life was about to take shape for him.

  May 1994

  NYB Head Office

  Mumbai

  The first few days at his new job just came and went. Amit didn’t even realise. Time was flying past at rocket speed. The fifteen days of induction were hectic and Amit enjoyed every moment of it. Aditya would address them every evening. Amit looked forward to those inspiring sessions. Aditya was like God to him. For him, ‘If God was a banker’, he would have been like Aditya. His words were gospel truth. Amit was an enthusiastic participant in all his sessions and tried to make the maximum of his interactions. He worked hard on assignments, volunteered himself for group activities and soon he stood out as a performer par excellence.

  Aditya remembered him from the days of the interview. It’s natural for anyone to have an affinity towards someone they have hired . . . and Aditya had hired Amit. He had to be special. As far as career was concerned, Amit had a headstart. There was no doubt that if he didn’t screw it up, his career would rock. It was the competence he demonstrated which made him even more exceptional.

  Finally decision day arrived. Aditya announced the final placements to the team over dinner at the Sunset Lounge, Oberoi Towers – a luxury hotel at the far end of Marine Drive in Mumbai. The view from the lounge was spectacular, but something else was more important. People wanted to know where they were headed to in life and whether they had been given the positions and jobs they wanted. There were about thirty of them in the room . . . eager eyes and restless minds were waiting for their final postings.

  Finally the suspense was broken and the placements were announced. Aditya made it very special for all of them. He had got visiting cards ready for the entire lot, with their designations printed on them. He called each one to come upfront, open their box of visiting cards and read out the job and location the person was expected to move to. It was an ecstatic moment for most of them. Receiving the first set of corporate visiting cards is indeed special, as any MBA would know. Amit’s name was the second last to be called out. Till then, most of his batchmates had been placed in the auto loans business which was one of the largest businesses for NYB. Not only was it the largest business, NYB was also the market leader in auto loans. This was so close to everyone’s heart that they had nurtured it at the cost of other businesses. And to be fair, till date the auto business had delivered larger than life profits for NYB.

  Amit walked up to the front, trying to conceal his nervousness. Aditya handed him his box of visiting cards, which he carefully opened. One look at it, and he broke into a smile. A microphone was placed on the podium. He walked up to it, cleared his throat and announced, ‘Amit Sharma, Relationship Manager. Bombay Fort Branch.’ He took a bow and walked back to his seat.

  Bombay Fort Branch, was a very prestigious one. It was in a building where the entire senior management of New York International Bank was based. The CEO, the heads of businesses, the marketing department, etc. . . . all operated out of this building. Not only did they operate out of this building, they also maintained their personal accounts in this branch. It was normal for at least three or four from the bank’s senior management team to drop in on any given working day. It was a high visibility branch and held in it the potential to make or break a career. Any screw ups on the bank accounts of senior management could sound the death knell for individual careers. On the contrary individual perceptions could also help shape up various careers. Amit was getting into a steam boiler and he knew it. It provided an excellent opportunity for him to build a relationship with the management team and he was going to exploit it.

  What he did not know was that Aditya had handpicked him from the entire team and placed him there. He wanted to keep him under his aegis and for that physical proximity was important. Amit had already been singled out amongst his batch of management trainees. His career was just about to take off and he was already the chosen one.

  20 December 2007

  Bandra Police Station

  Mumbai

  The dirty white and blue jeep slowed down in front of the Bandra Police Station on Hill Road. Though it was called Hill Road, there was no hill remotely in sight. The jeep stopped in the middle of a big muddy puddle that had formed right outside the compound. A drain pipe criss-crossing the road had been ruptured again by what the telecom department is best at – incessant digging! The big muddy puddle was proof of their ‘hard work’.

  Rakesh Srivastav stepped out first, followed by Amit, dressed in a spotless white shirt and a Satya Paul tie. A convict? Did he look like one? He looked more like a corporate honcho who had come in to lodge a complaint. Convicts are not dressed like this. Besides the grim look and a party of policemen around him, he looked pretty much normal.

  Just as soon as he stepped out of the jeep, something crashed into the muddy mess created by the gushing water and splaaassshh! A few kids playing in the nearby area had hit a cricket ball in their direction and as luck would have had it, the ball had made a di
rect and grand entry into that very puddle, sending dirty muddy water all over Amit. Nature had made her designs on Amit and thus, his impeccably laundered and starched white shirt had turned into an assortment of brown patches.

  ‘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.

  September 1996

  Jamshedpur/Mumbai

  In 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 inan
ities 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.