Mahatma Gandhi’s Pen
by Vishwas R. Gaitonde
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Now I sat opposite Jimmy D’Mello at the Waldorf, sipping strong coffee from an exquisite Wedgwood cup. I felt uncomfortable amid the posh surroundings and D’Mello’s watchful eyes but slowly relaxed, despite the melancholy tune played by the sad-looking man on the baby grand piano at the other end of the room. Someday I would invite D’Mello for drinks at the Ritz and the Waldorf.
D’Mello had made sympathetic noises when he first heard my story and declared my setback was temporary. I’d half hoped he’d give me a helping hand, but so far there had been nothing. Dropping a discreet hint would have been quite out of place at his parties. But here at the parlor of the Waldorf, ought I to drop that hint? More than money or position, I was seeking an acknowledgement that my adopted country had wronged me. I wanted to be replenished, restored.
I asked him why he was staying at the Waldorf when he had a manor in Harefield a stone’s throw away.
“Too far out even if you fire the stone from a cannon.” He made a deprecating gesture. “I’ve many meetings in Central London and in the evenings instead of fighting the traffic out of London... ” He winked. “I prefer to relax at a West End show in the company of pretty women, friend. Followed by wine and good food and more. So, the Waldorf for three days, Harefield for three more, and back on the road again. I hadn’t planned on this but now that I’ve run into you, would you do luncheon for me next Saturday at Harefield? Your special lamb biryani. And rasmalai for dessert. What’s dessert without rasmalai, eh?”
“I’d love to but, Mr. D’Mello, strange though it sounds, for once I’m travelling too.”
“Really? Where to?”
“India.” My wife and I had planned this trip for years. After our deliverance from the Butcher of Kampala and our safe passage to England, she developed this strong desire to go to our ancestral village in India and offer thanks at the temple where our forefathers had worshipped. I explained this to D’Mello.
“We’ll close shop for a couple of weeks. I don’t want to, ummm, entrust it to anybody else. Customers annoyed at finding a closed shop, they’ll come back. But two weeks of second-rate food can destroy a reputation.”
“Good for you. When do you leave?”
“On Friday.”
“To Delhi? Bombay?”
“Bombay.”
D’Mello’s face took on a thoughtful look and he patted down the hair on his temple, then brushed a finger over his ear. “This is most unusual — but could I ask you for a favor? A huge one?”
What a strange question! “You want a favor from me?” I eyed him warily.
“Well, if not you, I’ll have to find someone else. I need to send some items to Bombay. I cannot trust the post; they have to be hand-carried. My associate will collect them there.”
I breathed again. People visiting India were always cajoled into carrying items for relatives or friends. Such requests invariably came from those who knew you well and couldn’t be turned down without generating friction. D’Mello hardly came under that category. But in a way, maybe he did. If I refused him, he might turn to other Indian caterers. We raked in more income from one of his parties than what four or five routine catering orders generated.
D’Mello did not wait for my yes or no but pressed on. “It’s nothing, really. A few personal items that a close Indian business associate forgot when he was visiting London. They’re in my room. I’ll be right back.”
He took his time, and I sank deeper into the plush sofa as I took in the artsy décor and the glittering chandeliers. How much would it cost to stay here a night: two, three hundred pounds? I began to worry what expensive items D’Mello wanted me to carry to India, and whether the personal items of people who could afford a room in such a place would get me into hot water with Customs at Bombay airport.
When D’Mello came down at last, the items he brought such shoddy items I laughed myself silly for worrying. He handed me a transparent plastic bag with a few things: four or five silk ties, a tie clip, a pocket notebook, a pair of eyeglasses and other sundry items. The extra length of plastic was rolled up, wrapped around and secured with rubber bands to make the bag compact.
“I know.” D’Mello was apologetic. “But he’s sentimental about them. The number of calls he’s made from Bombay, just for their return! He doesn’t want them couriered, the strange man. I’d have taken them the next time I went to India, he’s such a valued personal friend besides being a business associate, but I’ve no idea when that’s going to be.”
He took down my address in Bombay. We were to stay with my wife’s relatives. Somebody would collect the packet the day after my arrival, before we left the city on the pilgrimage to our ancestral temple in the rural heartland. He thanked me profusely for agreeing to carry the items.
“I’ll more than make it up for you,” he promised, and a glow of satisfaction warmed me all over. The time was right to drop the hint that my career could do with a boost well within his capacity to provide. I talked about my aspirations and Jimmy D’Mello listened.
* * *
Bombay! Even my life in Kampala had not prepared me for this overcrowded city that tweaked all my senses. Stately buildings stared with disdain at slums that fermented like compost; traffic ran amok on the roads just as people did on the pavements. The overpoweringly harsh white sunlight should have long ago bleached all the bright and kaleidoscopic colors that sprouted everywhere. And the cool sea breeze that blew into the city in the evening put not even a slight dent to the smells of the exhaust fumes of vehicles, the woodsmoke, and the enticing aroma of an array of snacks sizzling in the oily pans of street vendors.
Midmorning on the day after my arrival, a boy — my wife’s nephew — informed me that a man had arrived to collect the parcel. I pulled out the package from my suitcase and went into the living room, then stood rooted in bewilderment. Waiting for me was Jimmy D’Mello.
“The world’s full of surprises, right, friend?” He smiled broadly at my discomfiture as he held out his hand. “After we met in at the Waldorf, many things happened, and I had to make this lightning trip to Bombay. I could have carried the packet myself.”
I was nettled. Businessmen at times do make trips at the drop of a hat, but everything about D’Mello’s face rang false: the too-bright eyes, the deprecating smirk. He took his packet and left with his twisted smile, promising he would contact me on his next visit to London and invest in my business, making it take off in a big way, as we had planned at the Waldorf. But within minutes he was back — and never have I seen a man so transformed. He was livid, his face suffused with a rage he only half-successfully held back.
“There’s an item missing!”
“An item missing?” I gestured to him to sit down, thinking he might calm down if he sat, though I feared that the rickety furniture might not bear his bulk.
“Yes, a pen,” he said, without taking a seat.
I immediately knew what he referred to: a hideous bright orange fountain pen with a fat barrel and a squat brass nib. It was not a practical writing instrument; one’s fingers would have quickly tired just gripping it. The rubber bands had slipped off during the flight and the packet had unwrapped. The pen must have rolled out into the suitcase. The explanation relieved him.
I slipped into the inner room quietly, so as not to disturb the other occupants of the room: an elderly man, ill and prone on his bed, and my wife’s nephew, leafing through a magazine. I sifted through the items in my suitcase but did not see the wretched pen. I removed everything from the suitcase. The pen had vanished.
D’Mello did not take to the tidings kindly. He blanched, and then every last drop of his angry blood surged back into his face.
“Gone? How? Unless somebody deliberately took it out of the package?” He choked over his words, looking at me through narrowed eyes with an expression I hadn’t seen in a long time, an expression that had haunted me in my nightmares. I saw in his face the menacing eyes of the soldiers who threw us out of Uganda, the murderous pig-eyes of Idi Amin Dada.
“Mr. D’Mello, sir, I’m not the kind who’d lie about a small matter.” I tried to sound polite but firm. I had helped him out; I didn’t have to, and I didn’t deserve his brutal tone. “We — my wife unpacked some of the items. She’s not here.... when she returns, we’ll make a thorough search. The pen is here somewhere, all right.”
“Well, search now. You need your wife for this?” he shot back. “This isn’t much of a flat; we can comb it over in no time.”
He made as if to move into the adjoining room, and I desperately sidled between him and the door, shivering, though the day was warm. “Mr. D’Mello, please, this is not my flat, it isn’t even the flat of anybody I know. These people are my wife’s relatives — we don’t know them well and they’re being kind in letting us stay here for a night or two. There’s an old man in that room, and he’s very suspicious. If we both go in there and poke around, he’ll kick up a ruckus and the whole building will be aroused. This is Bombay.”
D’Mello ignored my words and looked ready to brush past me, then paused. Before his moment of uncertainty passed I pressed on, “Sir, I’ll get the pen for you by this evening. Give me a telephone number where I can reach you.”
“I am done for, if that pen does not turn up.”
“Sir, the pen will be found. In the worst case, I can always go to the pen shops in Bombay — there are so many of them — and get you a pen exactly like that.”
D’Mello looked aghast, then enraged at the suggestion. He suddenly sat down in a chair, bowed his head and placed his hand on his forehead. Then he looked at me through lifeless eyes.
“That pen is one of a kind. It’s irreplaceable. That was Mahatma Gandhi’s pen.”
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Vishwas R. Gaitonde
