Devil in Pinstripes Read online

  This was also the first time she had stepped out of Jamshedpur. The city of horror and wonder – Mumbai – scared her. Vast, complex and confusing as to defy generalisation, Chanda feared getting lost in this jam-packed and maddening metropolis. Even after staying in the city for a while and trying to get used to its weird ways, things were not getting any simpler. As time went by, it only became worse. In the mornings, Chanda would hate seeing the receding back of Amit. She would dread the long day ahead. This state of mind didn’t take too much time in pushing Chanda towards mental depression. Day after day, Amit would be greeted by a tearful Chanda at the doorstep. This was not the woman he had married. Surely this was not PMS. He was concerned and decided to do something himself, and being a relationship manager was useful.

  One night when the entire rigour replayed itself, Amit called out to her.

  ‘Chanda . . .’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Chanda had again withdrawn into a shell.

  ‘Come here,’ said Amit and gave a couple of pats to the seat next to him, gesturing her to come and sit next to him on the sofa in the drawing room. She was clearing up the table after dinner. Chanda ignored him and continued clearing the table. When she didn’t come, Amit switched off the TV, walked up to the table, pulled out a chair and sat on it.

  ‘Bored?’ Amit asked her.

  She didn’t respond. She gave a blank look that pierced right through Amit and rested on the wall behind him. It was as if he was invisible. Amit felt a slight pang of pain in the pit of his stomach. It was as if some sharp instrument had just given a twist to his insides. Loneliness can be dangerous and Amit knew that. Its deadly grips could sometimes push you strongly towards depression – at times too deep to be able to get out of. Chanda seemed to be hurtling towards those depths at a furious pace.

  ‘I met Shankar Raman today.’

  ‘Umm hunn . . .’ Again a minimalist response.

  ‘He is the MD of Biotech Scientific Research Institute Limited.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Though her facial expressions seemed to lighten up on hearing the word ‘biotech’, it was still not much of a reaction.

  ‘He is a club class customer of ours. He wants to meet you tomorrow. The office is in Bandra.’ Club class customers were the crème de la crème of all the customers of NYB. Rich customers who kept all their monies locked up in their bank accounts. These people, by virtue of their relationship size with the bank, demand and also get extremely high levels of service. All of them have a dedicated relationship manager, who is their single point of contact for all transactions at the NYB. Amit was the relationship manager managing Shankar Raman’s account. Over the years he had developed a rapport with the MD of Biotech Scientific Research Institute Limited. Their relationship had transcended the realms of professional association to become a more personal one. Amit had requested his help in finding Chanda a job.

  ‘For what?’ asked Chanda.

  ‘His is a biotech company and I spoke to him about a job for you. He wants to meet you to see if something can be worked out.’

  Chanda was a bright and intelligent girl and didn’t need Amit’s recommendation to find herself a job. The problem that she faced in those days was a peculiar one. In 1996, there weren’t too many biotechnology companies in India. While it was a sunrise industry in the west, it hadn’t really evolved as an industry in India. And whatever limited presence it had in India was in the garden city of Bangalore. Institutes like Biocon and Indian Institute of Science offered great research opportunities, but only in Bangalore. As a biotechnologist, being in Mumbai didn’t give many research options to explore.

  She did go and meet Shankar Raman the next day.

  ‘What happened?’ Amit asked her when he came back from work that night.

  ‘Nothing. It will not work out,’ said Chanda without looking at Amit. Her face had no expression. She had a blank look.

  ‘Why? He told me that he will hire you.’

  ‘He is ready to hire me. I refused.’ She didn’t seem too thrilled about it. Amit ignored her frustration because he knew what she was going through. He just gave her a questioning look. The silence told her that he was waiting for more. ‘He wants me to take up a sales job. His research facility is in Pune. I didn’t waste time doing my Masters to take up a sales job.’

  Amit had expected this. However, he had pushed her to go, hoping against hope that her frustration at home would nudge her to make up her mind to take up a sales job. He was feeling guilty that he had messed up Chanda’s potentially successful career. But this option hadn’t worked out. Chanda was clear about this in her head. A career in sales wasn’t something she wanted.

  ‘Should I ask for a move to Bangalore? NYB has a small branch there. I might get a transfer if I request for it,’ he asked her one day, unable to see her continually depressed state. Chanda had even stopped smiling these days and Amit couldn’t take it anymore.

  Chanda walked up to him, put her arms around and hugged him tightly. While tears welled up in her eyes, she hid her face behind his shoulders and said, ‘I am fine Amit. I do not want to screw up your career. Do not worry. One of us has to go ahead. The other person will have to take what comes his or her way. I know that you are the one who can provide for the house. You will get the priority in matters of career. A move to Bangalore in NYB may get me a research job, but will definitely not be as good for you. Aditya may not like this career move at this point either. My frustration is not directed at you. It only comes out in front of you. I am sorry. I don’t have anyone to cry in front of.’ Despite all her herculean attempts to hide her tears, she couldn’t hold them back any longer. Before Amit could take in whatever she had just said Chanda started sobbing violently. Her petite body was shivering while tears gave vent to her sorrow. Amit hugged her tightly and didn’t say a word after that. The guilt inside him only deepened when she said, ‘Don’t force me to join a biotech firm in sales. I cannot do that. I waited all my life for a research job in biotechnology and now if I work in a similar environment in sales, which I know nothing of, my failure, will stare at me every day of my life. I will not be able to take that torture. Won’t be able to tolerate it. I will take any job which comes my way in any other industry . . . please . . . please don’t push me to do injustice to my education and my aspirations . . .’ and she sobbed, sobbed and sobbed. Amit did not know what to do. He just hugged her tightly and tried to console her . . . in vain.

  Things changed over the next three months. Chanda gave up her quest for joining a biotechnology firm and joined Standard Chartered Bank (SCB) in Mumbai as a customer service associate. SCB was looking for postgraduates to fill in for this position and Chanda was a postgraduate. Whether the person was a postgraduate in biotechnology or maths or even the arts, SCB didn’t care.

  A biotechnologist in a foreign bank as a customer service associate! Life, it is said, is never bereft of surprises, and this was one of those.

  Amit accepted this, though he always held himself responsible for Chanda not being able to pursue her dream – a career in biotechnological research.

  20 December 2007

  Bandra Police Station

  Mumbai

  Rakesh Srivastav didn’t come out of the room for a while. Amit was waiting at the bench along with other convicts. He still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that he was sitting alongside murderers and thieves. He was hoping against hope that this was just a nightmare that should end soon.

  He looked around the room. It was a large hall with about twelve doors leading into different sections of the police station. The walls were painted white, or must have been, many years ago. They had deteriorated into shades of pale yellow interspersed with patches of black – the damp proofing of the walls clearly hadn’t worked. As any other government office, large portraits of Indira Gandhi and Jawahar Lal Nehru adorned the walls of this police station too.

  To his right, a doctor in a white coat was administering first aid to a man bleeding profusely from a cu
t on the cheek. It looked as if he had been hit by a sharp object. Seated next to him was a guy, probably in his mid-thirties, who was not at all in his senses. Completely drunk, he had almost collapsed. By the intermittent looks of disgust and annoyance that the injured fellow gave the drunkard, it seemed quite clear that the latter was responsible for the state of the former. The police had brought in both of them.

  Seated on the far side of the room, away from him, was a lady inspector. Standing in front of her was a team of women, who seemed to have been picked up from a raid in a brothel. ‘What am I doing amidst these folks,’ thought Amit as he instinctively reached out for his mobile phone, only to realise that he had left it at home. Rakesh had hurriedly bundled him into a waiting jeep, not allowing him to pick up anything he wanted. He felt like an outlier in the police station – the only decent and honest looking guy.

  At that very moment Chanda rushed in. Following her were three others. Amit recognised one of them. He was Rohan Naik, the head of Risk and Security at NYB. But, he did not know the other two. Rohan handled all matters concerning courts, police, security of branches and people at NYB. Chanda too was in her office attire. She was all dressed to leave for work and normally left with Amit. Today, however, things were different – this entire episode had taken both of them by surprise.

  He hugged Chanda and looked at Rohan helplessly. Rohan walked up to him and patted him on his shoulder. ‘Did they tell you what’s going on?’

  ‘No,’ Amit shook his head. He was completely at a loss. They had also taken away the warrant copy which was shown to him in the morning.

  ‘Who is the inspector who spoke to you?’

  ‘Rakesh Srivastav.’

  ‘Oh yes, Chanda told me so. Is there anyone else who has spoken to you?’

  ‘No, I have been sitting here since morning doing nothing! Waiting for them to come and talk to me.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  He raised his right hand and pointed towards the half-green and half-brown door at the far end of the room. ‘He went inside that room an hour ago.’ The shiver in his voice was apparent. The uncertainty was killing.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ assured Naik. ‘We have spoken to Pathak. He was not aware of this. But he said that his office will let the Bandra Police know that they should not harass you in any manner, till we get to the bottom of this.’ Pathak, Amit knew, was the Inspector General (IG) of Mumbai Police. He was the seniormost in the Mumbai Police fraternity. If he said something, it obviously carried a lot of weight. Pathak’s reassurance to Naik was soothing to Amit’s ears and nerves.

  Rohan Naik left him and Chanda together and walked towards the room that Amit had pointed towards – the room where Rakesh had disappeared an hour ago. Chanda looked at him and then looked away, staring into the huge wall in front of them. The patches of yellow and black on the wall seemed to tell her the story of their lives. There was a loud silence between the two of them. They hardly spoke these days. Even the police station was no different. They were sitting together on the bench, next to each other. However, neither of them talked. The only thing which indicated that the bond between them was still alive was the fact that Chanda’s hand was on his knee . . . a subtle gesture that spoke a million words. It said that no matter what happens, she was with him. Amit’s hand rested on top of hers. He needed her. He desperately wanted her support.

  1996

  Mumbai

  Chanda joined SCB as a customer service associate in October 1996. The job kept her busy and kept her away from the monotonous and boring routine of a lonely housewife. It was a high pressure job. Despite the occasional regret of not being able to pursue biotechnology, her first love, she was getting used to it.

  Thankfully, the offices of Amit and Chanda were close by. Amit would drive her to work every morning, and pick her up in the evening. Both of them worked late. Hence it wasn’t too much of an effort for him to stay back and pick her up. On days that they got unduly late, dinner would be at a roadside shack. Bandra had many of them and it was more than simple to find a convenient and inexpensive joint.

  Both of them were at the starting line of their careers and hence, it was important for them to give it their best shot. ‘If we don’t work hard now, we’ll be left struggling later,’ Chanda quite agreed with this statement of Amit.

  Life went on at a feverish yet exciting pace for the two of them. They enjoyed every moment of togetherness. Mornings were special. They would get up early so that they could have their morning coffee in the luxurious lap of their sea facing balcony. They would enjoy watching the tired waves lash against the shore. It was as if they were looking at Amit and Chanda and saying, ‘Thank your stars, you don’t need to keep working away through the night like we do.’

  Their morning coffee would only be interrupted by the unfailing show of strength and skill by the newspaper boy, who would hurl The Times of India and The Economic Times from the ground floor with such force and precision that it would land bang to their right every single day. Throwing the newspaper up three floors is not easy, but the Mumbai newspaper boys would manage to do it correctly day after day. After a quick run through the newspaper, the two of them would help each other prepare breakfast. A quick shower later, they would be back in the balcony where breakfast would have been laid out by the one who got ready before the other. Newspapers were banned during breakfast. It was supposed to be their personal time, and both of them adhered to this rule. After a peaceful bite, they would leave for office, never quite sure about whether they would end up having dinner within the quiet walls of their house or amidst the company of tiny nocturnal insects and the noisy chatter of a lively roadside dhaba.

  Sometimes, after an exhausting day at work, both would be too tired to talk. Dinner would then be accompanied by a comfortable silent conversation. The silence never disturbed them. It is said that familiarity breeds contempt. In their case, familiarity bred comfort. Chanda would look into her plate of food and feel a smile. She was never the one to blatantly display her feelings, and Amit never failed to understand that. She couldn’t help feel lucky for having Amit as her husband. She was sure that he was the man of her dreams. Amit too reciprocated her thoughts.

  That night they were driving back home in their Maruti 800. Amit had bought a new Maruti 800 when Chanda joined SCB. He didn’t want her to travel by train everyday. Mumbai locals can be very threatening to outsiders if you are not used to it. It was the month of July and the monsoons had set in. It was about 9.30 at night.

  ‘Shyam had a town-hall* this morning,’ Chanda looked at Amit.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Amit didn’t take his eyes off the road. He was a very careful driver. He knew Shyam. He was the India cards head of SCB.

  ‘He wants to extend phone banking to twenty-four hours from the current 9 a.m. to 6 p.m.’

  Amit turned and looked at her, and almost immediately went back to fixing his eyes on the road. It was drizzling and the roads were slippery. He did not want to take a chance.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, as his eyebrows knitted together to form one straight line.

  ‘Citibank has done that. Apparently your bank is also going to do it. If we don’t do it quickly, we will lose the competitive advantage. It will soon become a hygiene factor and customers will start expecting it from everyone.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ Amit didn’t volunteer any opinion at this stage.

  ‘So if we don’t start a twenty-four-hour phone banking unit, we will lose customers to other banks,’ she continued when Amit did not say anything.

  ‘When does he want to start this?’

  ‘Next sixty days.’

  ‘Would it impact us?’

  ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They want us to start working on shifts.’ Currently, Chanda was on regular office hours. She was required to work from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., though it normally extended to over 8 p.m. Before Amit could give a further thought to this new development, he suddenly rea
lised that it was way too late to go home and cook. They had reached Bandra and the image of a cosy restaurant and deliciously cooked food that doesn’t require the remains of your sapped energy levels were enough to nudge Amit into asking a very important question.

  ‘Tavaa?’ he looked at Chanda with raised and expectant eyebrows. Tavaa was a popular eating joint on Turner Road in the heart of Bandra. Chanda nodded. Amit turned his car towards Tavaa. He dropped Chanda at the gate and went ahead to park. Chanda went in to place the order so that their rumbling stomachs didn’t have to undergo the torturous fifteen-minute-wait! They found a cosy table on the far end of the restaurant, away from the door, and settled down. Being a week day, the restaurant was thinly populated. Their order arrived within ten minutes. By then the discussion had resumed.

  ‘I too will have to be on shifts. Thankfully, they will not put women in night shifts, but they plan to have shifts from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., where women will have to work. They have still not closed out the modalities. Work is in progress but they will flesh it out over the next thirty to sixty days.’

  ‘What happens if you don’t want to do it?’

  ‘Someone asked that question.’

  ‘What did Shyam say?’

  ‘He said that if anyone does not want to be in shifts, they would try and move them to other parts of the bank . . .’ and then she paused, ‘ . . . on a best effort basis.’

  ‘Means you don’t have a choice? What should you do?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she sounded worried.

  ‘Okay, fine. You relax. Let’s take it as it comes. If it becomes too difficult, we’ll find something else. Otherwise we’ll carry on as it is.’