Dinshaw Mansion was a three-storeyed building about halfway down one of the lanes from the park. Classical in style, it reeked of old-world charm through its neglected state. There were two flats per floor, each with a carpet area that only the very rich of the city could afford and a ceiling height that could not be bought at any price. They simply didn’t make buildings like this any more. The residents of the building were well aware of their good fortune. Even more, they enjoyed a monthly rent that would not buy a family of four a square midday meal.
On this Sunday morning the residents had gathered in the living room of the ground floor apartment that belonged to Mrs Dinshaw in preparation for the monthly meeting. Mrs Dinshaw was the unfortunate owner of the building and of the kingly piece of land that it stood on. Her husband was no more and they had no children. They had made the mistake of renting out all the spare space in the building a long time ago. Inflation and the Tenancy Act had ensured that they had become prisoners in their own palace. Mr Dinshaw had spent the last decade of his life fighting a gentleman’s battle to legally repossess the flats. The only outcome was the loss of a significant part of his savings to lawyers. After his death, a shattered Mrs Dinshaw made a pragmatic decision to surrender the lawsuits. It brought relative peace to her already aching heart and some degree of compassion for her from the tenants. Yet, this did not release her completely from social interactions, as the demands of running the building required some kind of group consent. This was managed in an ad-hoc manner, as there was no registered society.
On the first floor lived Mr and Mrs Wadhwani. They enjoyed possession of both the flats on that floor. Mr Wadhwani was a senior chartered accountant and civil lawyer. Their children were well settled in Australia. On the second floor lived Noor and Saira Tyrewalla and their 27-year-old son, Mustafa. They managed an old family business of tyres, of course. Also on the second floor were Mrs Gandhi and her daughter Meghna. Mrs Gandhi had separated from her philandering husband and had consequently thrown him out of this flat. Meghna, now 36, seemed intent on remaining single while constantly figuring out what business venture to embark upon. In one of the two flats on the third (and topmost) floor lived Mr and Mrs Sharma. Mr Sharma held a government job and was of a quiet and balanced demeanour. He was the right choice to be appointed the official secretary for the unofficial building committee. Nobody had ever heard Mrs Sharma speak up in any of these meetings, though she faithfully attended them. In the other flat on the third floor lived Mr and Mrs Sinha, who seemed to be perpetually displeased about everything. Especially their leaking roof that no one else believed actually leaked.
Measured pleasantries were exchanged as they waited for the last attending resident to join. Behind the small talk, their minds scrambled to recollect the events of the previous meeting, the stance each of the others had taken and to sharpen their own strategy for a fitting response. Also, insults received and from whom had been secretly nursed since the last meeting. Now the appropriate hard stand was ready if needed.
The secretary, Mr Sharma, brought the meeting to attention with a practised managerial air – also meant to be an early deterrent to suppress open conflict. He passed around a short, typed list of the agenda for the meeting and announced, “The first matter to be discussed is the case of Mr Abhay Rao, paying guest of Mrs Dinshaw.” A murmur, mostly disapproving, rumbled for a few moments. Everyone was resentful of this simple act of an aged widow trying to financially survive. But they could not stop her from letting out a part of her flat. The murmurs settled and Mr Sharma continued.
“Mr Rao proposes to take care of the garden and surrounding building area, plant trees and revive the lawn.” A mute wave of suspicion rippled through the members. What was the hook? “Why on earth should he want to do that?” Mrs Sinha openly voiced everyone’s suspicion of this altruistic gesture. “Has he mentioned any fees?” asked Noor Tyrewalla, adding a professional touch to the concern. After all, nobody did anything for free these days. “He says he will do it totally free of cost,” said Mr Sharma. The suspicion congealed. It was hard to believe but the proposal looked attractive. It did not get an immediate veto. It was too tempting and so an odd silence ticked by. Among them, Mr Wadhwani was the least likely to let a freebie go but he also liked to first make sure that they were not being taken for a ride in any way. “Let’s find out,” he said. “Call him in, Mr Sharma.”
Mr Sharma obediently stepped out to call Mr Rao, who apparently had been kept on hold for the meeting. As a paying guest and not a tenant, he had no right to attend until invited. He walked in, tightly clutching a brown briefcase to his chest as though his life depended on it. No one tried to conceal their scepticism. He wished everyone a very good morning and stood at a respectful distance from the group. There was something about his wide, almost unblinking gaze that gave him a hunted look. The gaze systematically scanned each member and they felt he could read their thoughts. Everyone felt Abhay Rao’s alienness in slightly different ways. He was certainly not one of them. But they could not pin down why.
Each tenant felt Mrs Dinshaw had complicated matters in the building by renting out a part of her flat. And that too, to this odd loner whom they could not fathom. His briefcase, though branded and expensive-looking, subtracted further from their impression of him. Mr Wadhwani took charge, using unnecessarily formal language to let Mr Rao know that he, Mr Wadhwani, was highly educated and unlikely to be conned. “Mr Abhay,” he began, “we have been apprised of your deemed proposal to maintain the said garden of these premises. What are your qualifications in this field?”
“I am an amateur gardener. I love plants.” The jury was unimpressed, this did not hold much water. Mr Wadhwani probed further, “Mr Sharma says you are willing to offer your esteemed services without any remuneration. Why is that?”
“I am retired. I have plenty of time. I love gardening.” The jury was stumped. Silence prevailed until Mrs Sinha raised what she considered a deal-breaking concern. “I think starting a garden is a very bad idea. There has been a severe water shortage for the last ten years. We are all rationing water and we simply cannot afford to waste water on a garden.” Affirmative sounds buzzed through the room, even though the others felt a garden might have been nice. Especially for free. “I will not use any water,” said Abhay Rao.
“What nonsense!” snapped Mr Sinha. “How is that possible? You think plants grow without water?” Abhay was unperturbed and answered evenly. “If handled correctly, yes,” replied Abhay calmly. “Plants develop deeper roots and find their own water. Nobody waters a forest.” The collective could not figure out whether this was a plain answer or a cheeky one. No one could come up with a suitable response to the apparent common sense behind the response. Indeed, no one watered a forest. He continued, “Increasing ground cover with perennial plants will preserve soil moisture. A diversity of selected plant types with deeper roots will revive the ground water. Your corner well is almost dry. It will revive too.” En masse, offence was taken at the amount of research he must have done out around the property. They would have called it snooping had it not come with the promise of a free garden. Also, no one wanted to look like they had been convinced by such a simple answer, so they all sat silently on the fence, faking contemplation.
“I can’t say I believe you,” said Mr Wadhwani, the chronic negotiator, finally breaking the silence and letting his statement hang provocatively in the air. Abhay Rao failed to take the bait and Mr Wadhwani felt forced to make his next move. “But…but we could possibly allow you to execute your plan for a limited period of six months. You will have to show tangible results or the deal is off.” Again, no reaction. Mr Wadhwani did not like this. He could sense he was being forced to show his cards further and look like the party who is eager to conclude the deal. “Anyway,” he said pompously, “what is most important …is that you understand that we will allow it but…only and only if there are no extra costs to the building.” Abhay Rao nodded and smiled politely. “And…strictly no using any water…as you say.” Again, a firm nod. “You have exactly six months to show tangible results. Starting today,” Mr Wadhwani concluded in a tone that declared him the winner of the negotiation. This exchange did not change the other doubtful, even mutinous, expressions. There was another palpable silence that said: The interview is over. Now get out so we can continue with what we really came here for.
Excerpted with permission from One: The Story of the Ultimate Myth, Mansoor Khan, HarperCollins India.
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