The black Audi slowed down.
The chauffeur, Bhīma, certainly wasn’t comfortable driving through this sea of traffic with chaotic waves of pedestrians, cycles, rickshaws, two-wheelers and various makes of cheap, derelict cars. Despite being in his air-conditioned enclosure, the sounds from the street were loud and the stench from the open sewage overpowered the expensive deodorant in the car’s ventilation system. The shops on either side of the road were completely rundown – broken signages, shattered windows; gaudy lighting and glaring displays put up to conceal the dilapidated exteriors.
Some were even boarded up, and the homeless day labourers were settling in on those storefronts for an early night. An unbroken string of hawkers on trolleys and carts stood outside the shops, blocking access to them, but no one here sold anything of interest to the passenger, or even the chauffeur for that matter. The Audi, in these surroundings, was itself as out of place as a camel marching in a zebra suit. People turned to see if the car accommodated some celebrity – a film star, a singer, a cricketer – but the darkened windows disallowed it. They assumed it would be some VIP and moved on.
“Stop anywhere after that white building on the left,” said the sahib from the back seat, pointing at the building in the next block.
“Jee, hukum,” Bhīma replied.
The car turned left into a side road and stopped. Bhīma got out. He was wearing a suit. Summer, winter, autumn, spring, morning, noon, evening or night, Bhīma always wore a suit; it was part of his uniform. More importantly, in deference to his boss’s safety, he kept a licenced handgun – a Colt Anaconda .44 Magnum – concealed inside his suit jacket. As with others like him, there were more firearms that Jay Singh owned, but this handgun was the only one that the authorities knew of.
Bhīma looked around, his sharp eyes darting like a fox’s to canvass the area around the car. Built like a small mountain, he could well have been a reincarnation of the legendary Bhīma from the Mahabharata or a cousin of the modern-day Khali of WWE fame. At six feet eleven inches and weighing over 170 kilos, he towered over everyone and everything, especially his boss, who stood at a mere five-foot-seven. He was Jay Singh’s chauffeur-cum-bodyguard-cum-valet-cum-man Friday, and as loyal to his “hukum” as a thoroughbred St Bernard.
Truth is, no one makes such devoted friends in life without eliciting fierce animosity in others. Sometimes you create enemies that stay enemies till they croak. Or you do. An armistice is simply out of the question. Of course, some of Jay’s arch enemies had attempted to do what they themselves couldn’t achieve with Bhīma around: persuade and bribe him, but it wasn’t money that got his loyalty. It was a deep-rooted debt of gratitude that – despite Jay treating him as a close friend – led the latter to revere his master as no lesser than a god. The alliance, the bond was simply unfaltering, and the fidelity absolute and indefatigable. Once sure of the security details, Bhīma got out to open the rear door for the sahib, who offered an almost imperceptible nod of approval and walked towards the white building – a hospital.
Just before entering, Jay put a hand in his jacket’s inner pocket and speed-dialled Bhīma’s cell from his spare phone. This covert call would continue till he returned within Bhīma’s field of sight. This was standard operating procedure. Bhīma would attentively listen to all communication on his car radio – a passer-by could be forgiven for thinking that he was listening to the audio version of George Orwell’s Animal Farm – and would react within seconds, in case his boss was in trouble of any sort.
The hospital – if one could call it that – was more of a general practitioner’s clinic, with basic facilities and seven rooms for private patients. If one were to look at the official hospital listings in Gurgaon – the existence of which was a mystery in itself – BK Memorial Hospital wouldn’t even feature. Jay’s research had revealed that it was run by its owner–proprietor, one Dr KK Mehta, who was a plain MBBS with no specialisation. Yet, business was brisk, with a never-ending queue of patients from eight in the morning until eight in the evening. In fairness, Mehta worked relentlessly and even took on apprentices to help out with the patients; he had ten nurses working in shifts to provide services to private beds 24x7.
“What can I do for you?” asked the receptionist with henna-streaked hair, looking up from the computer screen she might have been staring at for the last ten or so hours. Jay could see the bewilderment on her pretty face. He knew that by no stretch of the imagination did he look or dress like the patients who consulted Dr Mehta on a regular basis, but he didn’t care. Wasn’t that the sole reason he was here? Moreover, she had no business judging him. “I have an appointment with Dr Mehta at 7.45”
“Your name, please?”
“Singh, Jay Singh.”
The girl quickly browsed through the diary on the screen in front of her. “Take a seat, Mr Singh. Dr Mehta is with a patient. He’ll call you as soon as he’s done.”
Jay lifted the sleeve of his expensive olive green linen jacket and glanced at the Hublot on his wrist: 7.38. He was indeed early, despite the traffic. Looking around, Jay found the reception area to be completely unoccupied, exactly as he had expected. He had booked the last available appointment of the day as he didn’t want Dr Mehta to be in any kind of haste to see a subsequent patient. One needed time to build comradeship. Jay sat there, taking in the clinic: basic yet clean, professional yet unsophisticated – several past issues of the ubiquitous health and vigour magazines, found only in waiting areas of doctors, dentists and vets, were scattered on the only table in the room. Dr Mehta could do so much better.
“Mr Singh,” the girl’s voice broke Jay’s trance. “Sir will see you now.” Jay looked at his watch again. 7.53. The doctor had made him wait eight minutes. He got up and elegantly walked to the receptionist. “Thank you,” he said with a charming smile that left the girl’s knees a bit wobbly, and moseyed into the doctor’s room. What was the rush?
“Good evening, Mr…” Dr Mehta uttered, looking up from his screen and standing up to receive his last patient for the day. His countenance also communicated that his clients didn’t look anything like the swish client who had just walked in. “…Singh.”
“Good evening, Doctor.”
“How may I help you, Mr Singh?”
“You can call me Jay,” he said, skimming the room in one glance. Certificates of his practice, his medical school diplomas, a photograph of his hospital being inaugurated by somebody – even if the somebody wasn’t influential enough to be a known face – and an overabundance of inconsequential freebies most obviously gifted by some pharma reps.
“I want to invest in your hospital, doc.” Jay pulled up a chair and sat down without invitation. He looked around to check if there were any cameras or recording devices. None.
“Excuse me?” Dr Mehta looked confounded. He almost fell into his chair and his eyebrows rose a few centimetres.
“You heard it right, Dr Mehta. I am here to make a deal.”
Excerpted with permission from Déjà Karma, Vish Dhamija, Pan MacMillan India.
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