High Standards

Nina Varghese

21 May 2008, 01:39

Today like every other day, Baldevbhai Desai was on the patio soaking in the weak Nilgiri sun. His day was set to timings of the town, down in the valley below. He had his breakfast with the eight o’clock siren and his tiffin at five when the siren blew again. He loved to watch the train chug up the hills but now at ninety his eye sight was not what it was. He remembered that day, fifty years ago, when he first set foot in this little town in the mountains carrying a gunny bag with him.

The old man sunk down in his chair and looked at tea growing on the mountain sides and the mist rising from the valley. The scar on his forehead was twitching and as he rubbed it he looked at the mountains which had been his refuge and where he had made his fortune. The Gold Leaf Tea Trading Company was not just the biggest tea buying company in the country but also the most respected.

He had built his tea business from scratch on the basis of trust and hard work. Baldevbhai Desai was a man who was feared and loved at the same time, a pillar of society. A philanthropist and patron of the arts, he was fond of saying that he did not take from anyone but was always ready to give.

The memories of that fateful day always made the scar on the forehead twitch, Baldevbhai thought as his mind drifted back to almost fifty years, to the Victoria Docks in Bombay.

Baldev saw a large group of people had gathered just outside the docks, watching the firemen hose down the decks of a ship. Forgetting his errand, Baldev also joined the crowd. “What’s happening?” he asked the man near him.

“Looks like there is a fire on that ship” was the reply.

Baldev stood around for a few more minutes but there was nothing to see, so he walked back to fetch the tea for the men in the office where he worked.

Baldev had landed this job as a general gofer for Marsh and Sons, a firm of freight forwarders, on his arrival from his small village in Gujarat. His uncle had got him the job and pocketed almost half his pay, every month.

He had hardly gone a couple of yards when there was a blast which send him spinning into the gutter. A large tin sheet came spirally out of nowhere and landed over him. On the docks there was chaos. The air was filled with billowing smoke and metal pieces which had wrecked havoc among men on the docks. Though just late afternoon, it was as if the sun had set. It was difficult to breathe even. Just then there was a second blast which send burning cotton bits and fiery metal into the air. The air was filled with dust and fiery, flying debris and the shouts of wounded men.

It was the smell of burning and the intense heat which woke him. There were now the fires blazing on the ships. Men were running around and burning debris falling all around him. Carefully, he touched the tin sheet and screamed. The tin sheet was hot, very hot. He sat up gingerly and pushed the tin sheet to the side covering his hand with a piece of bunting in the gutter.

Something hard had hit him on his forehead. He touched the bump and found it was bleeding. He looked around and saw what had caused the injury. It was a piece of dull yellow metal. In a flash, he recalled the conversation that the gorah he worked for, had had with someone on the phone. The Englishman had been worried and was yelling at someone on the other end, “Bloody fools! How could you stuff cotton bales, explosives and gold”, he had shouted. At that point, Baldev did not pay much attention, now he understood.

Without thinking, Baldev picked up the gold bar and immediately dropped it. It was very hot. He looked around and could find nothing to cover the gold bar. Without even thinking, he lowered what was left of his pyjamas and peed on the metal which cooled with a loud shisssh. He then pushed the bar of gold into the gutter and covered it with the tin sheet. He then sat near the gutter and waited. The wound on his forehead hurt very badly. At the gate there was chaos again, a fire engine was coming in and people thronging the entrance were blocking the way. Sitting near the gutter, Baldev watched the fire spread to the other ships, men falling down dead and the falling debris. He seemed to be safe in his corner.

After what seemed like ages, he touched the gold bar and found it had cooled. Lifting it carefully, he hid it under this kurta and walked away. The police had already swung into action and thrown a cordon along a three-mile periphery. He was hungry and thirsty but had no money to buy anything. He dared not go back to the chawl he shared with ten other men from his village. The risk of discovery was high there. Not knowing what to do, he kept walking. By nightfall, his feet were sore and his head and body ached all over. He felt he could not move another inch and sank down at the edge of the pavement.

After he had rested for some time, he realized that he had inadvertently reached the railway station. Baldev slowly got up and walked to the station and onto the platform carrying his rolled up gunny bag with him. No one questioned him, there was chaos all over. He walked behind a group of people who seemed to be carrying an inordinate amount of luggage. After some time, he realized that they were speaking his mother tongue, Gujarati. In a trice his mind was made up and he decided to follow them.
Thinking about the chain of events, he dozed off. He woke when he heard the car coming up the drive.

“Dad, get up. I have brought someone to meet you”.

Baldevbhai looked up at the white man who was standing with his son. Both the men were dressed identically in grey flannels and blazers. The white man was older of the two. For a minute, he could not breathe. He felt as if all the air had been pumped out of his chest. Then he arose slowly with his hands together in a namasthe, “Marsh, saab,” he whispered.

“Dad, are you ok?” Baldevbhai waved his son aside and walked up to the visitor. “Mr Ronald Marsh….. after all these years.”

“It’s Peter Marsh, actually, Ronald Marsh was my father. Did you know him?” asked the visitor.

The old man nodded. “You look just like your father.”

“How did you know my father?” asked Marsh.

“I used to work for him”

The Englishman looked closely at Baldev’s forehead and pointing to the scar on his forehead, he said “Ah, the gold standard. My father had a similar mark on his neck.”

Note: On April 14, 1944 a ship containing a mixed cargo of cotton bales, explosives and gold blew up at the Victoria Docks in Bombay. A lot of people lost their lives and some people made a killing, they struck gold or rather gold struck them.

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