A short story of an assassination at the Oberoi-Trident. Part one of two. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
Roland. On The Wings of a Dove Pankaj Sheth woke up to the bright Bombay morning light coming from the Arabian Sea, stifling a large yawn and contemplating a pleasant thought. He was going to meet Leslie Smith today. And conclude another deal that would bring him a couple of million dollars. Nothing like more money to add to the horde you already would never have time to spend, he thought, amused at the irony. Leslie Smith's was a plain name but she was anything but a plain woman. A stylish, always well dressed, deal making executive of a mid-size American telecommunications corporation, she had come to trust Pankaj and even to like him. If there was any business to be done in India, Leslie would have thought of nobody else. With Pankaj, the feeling was mutual. She was a charming woman and more to the point, a hard-nosed business person, like himself. He was quite discerning of the female species. Indian women were too shallow for him. If they had substance, they wanted to overshadow you. If they didn't, they wanted to marry you. No meeting of equals with them, he thought. Baboobhai Sheth, Pankaj's father was a true Gandhian. He believed in God, his country and his family – in that order. As an Assistant Rationing Controller of Bombay city, he was completely incorruptible, in a department of government where corruption was the creed. There was money to be made and made easily. Money that would keep his wife happy, give a good education to his only son and help to ease the financial strains of his extended family. But to Baboobhai, taking a bribe would be the ultimate betrayal. To his God, his country and his family – again in that order. So Baboobhai struggled on the straight and narrow, with his measly salary. Antonio Alvares the Rationing Controller was an equally upright man like Baboobhai, but unlike him, he was a bachelor and came from an aristocratic Margao family that could give him the comforts that his pay grade could not. Antonio and Baboobhai – an odd couple, a duo of sinlessness in Bombay the sin city as Time magazine so often called it. Pankaj ate a hearty breakfast that was cooked and served up to him in his lavish Marine Drive flat. Three thousand square feet of opulence in a neighborhood where an area of seven hundred in living space would qualify you as a super rich man indeed. A vegetarian, he wiped off the remnants of the tomato omelet and the orange juice from the corners of his mouth. An omelet made by his Bhaiyya cook that even a chef in the nearby Oberoi would give his left arm to be able to make. Pankaj knew how to choose his domestic staff and he treated them well. Money of course was never any consideration. He got off the elevator, crossed the lobby and flung his briefcase into the arms of his chauffeur. Raju deftly caught it while still managing to give Pankaj a smart salute that would be the envy of an IPS officer acknowledging an IAS man. "International Airport" barked Pankaj to his driver who bent to switch on the air conditioner to hold off a muggy Bombay day that promised to become muggier. He would meet Leslie in person, he thought, take her for a masala dosa which she insisted on when in Bombay and then spend a few hours in a city gymkhana until dinner. It was always an Oberoi restaurant meal over which they would conduct their business. That was the plan. Besides, Leslie stayed in one of the suites above. Father Freddy Vesaokar watched the barefooted boys play on the grounds of the Sacred Heart school at Ghas, a ward of Bassein. This was an undeveloped part of Bombay that would one day become another suburb of a hungry, expanding city. He watched Pankaj with sadness. Here was an ambitious lad who had what it took to become very successful in whatever he chose to do. But Pankaj was always filled with anger. Anger that he had to study with bare-foot boys who didn't have half the smarts and intelligence as he. Anger that his father had an important government position but could not afford to stay in the city. That he could have been a rich man if only he did what others in the department did – took bribes. Anger that his mother who doted on him had to spend hours upon hours tending to a vegetable patch so that they had could have enough to eat. But mostly Pankaj was angry at the god of Father Freddy who he was told ever so often, was a merciful, forgiving god. What mercy was there in poverty, what forgiveness for people in the Rationing Office who laughed at your hardworking and patriotic dad. Holy Spirit, help him achieve whatever he desires, Fr Freddy prayed, for this young boy. Be careful what you wish for Fr Freddy! The sleek black 2008 BMW 735 SI purred its way softly through the barely crowded Eastern Highway in the direction of the city. Leslie looked at the scenes enfolding on the sides, a swelter of miserable humanity at its worst and yet at its most touching. She could not bring herself to believe that she was looking at busy roads in the country's richest metropolis. A country that was projected to become one of the world's most powerful. Am I really in India she asked herself time and again. She had been on this road before and she knew the answer to her own question. The bohemian lead crystal glass half-filled with Blue Label scotch from the bar in the car dulled her sadness. -- Roland Francis Toronto +1 (416) 453.3371
