Ravi Subramanian - The Incredible Banker

THE
INC RED IBLE
BANKER

From the same author

If God was a Banker

Devil in Pinstripes

I Bought the Monk's Ferrari

THE
INC RED IBLE
BANKER

Ravi Subramanian

Published in 2011 by
Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.
7/16, Ansari Road, Daryaganj
New Delhi 110002

Sales centres:
Allahabad Bengaluru Chennai
Hyderabad Jaipur Kathmandu
Kolkata Mumbai

Copyright Ravi Subramanian 2011
Cover design:

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and
incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination.
Any resemblance to actual personsliving or deadevents or
localities is entirely coincidental.

This digital edition published in 2012

e-ISBN: 978-81-291-2156-1

Ravi Subramanian asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved.
This e-book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated, without the publishers prior consent, in any form or cover other than that in which it is published. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, print reproduction, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any unauthorized distribution of this e-book may be considered a direct infringement of copyright and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Dedicated to my wife

Dharini and my little doll Anusha

10 January 2004

Malkangiri, Orissa

HE rickety state transport bus was the last to leave the small run-down bus stand in Malkangiri. On board, apart from the driver and the conductor, were sixteen people, all making their way to Bhubaneswar via Koraput - a neighbouring town. Till the early nineties Malkangiri was a part of Koraput but it was carved out as a separate district in 1992. The vast dense jungle of Malkangiri was home to several tribes. Dotted with steep ghats, plateaus, valleys and wooded hills the area was beautiful, though secluded and lonely.

In one of the blocks in Malkangiri, Ganjali, the local coordinator of an NGO was resting in the dark and isolated balcony of the dak bungalow. The bungalow was about twenty-five metres away from the main road connecting the highway passing through the town to the bus depot. The only people in the bungalow were Ganjali and the caretaker. A lone bulb glowed dimly in the hall of the bungalow threatening to go off anytime, casting surreal shadows on the walls. Some would have found the scene intimidating but not Ganjali. Even though Bhubaneswar was where he carried out most of his lobbying he was not new to Malkangiri. The caretaker in the dak bungalow didn't know that, since Ganjali was staying there for the first time.

'Why is the dak bungalow empty? Does no one come here?' he asked the caretaker.

'People do come, sahib. But they mostly leave before night falls. They stay back for the night only if they miss the bus or if something urgent comes up.'

'Why?'

'Because this place is not safe, sahib. You are an outsider, so you do not know what happens here. Please do not venture out in the night. Just put off the lights and go to sleep. These are bad times.'

'I am anyway waiting for the bus to come. I will be leaving in an hour's time.'

'Oh yes, yes. I completely forgot, sahib!' the caretaker said as he went his way. 'Good for you. Very good.' Ganjali saw his back disappear behind the weak wooden door of the balcony as he lifted his legs up, bringing them to rest on the railing. The bus would be here any time, he thought. He patted his bag and felt the consignment. It seemed to be in order. There was another bag in the bedroom. He decided to gather it on his way out.

After a wait of around thirty minutes Ganjali heard the rumble of the bus in the distance. He got up immediately, went into his room and picked up his bag. On his way out, he tipped the caretaker a few hundred rupees which lit up the caretaker's eyes. The sound of the bus was getting closer. He ran out of the main door towards the gate and then on to the road, to the bus stand.

He was the only person at the bus stop. Not a soul in sight. Even the stars had forgotten to light up the sky. Had his wait at the balcony not gotten his eyes used to the darkness, the blackness of the night would have blinded him.

A couple of honks told him the bus was not too far. Within a few minutes he could see the headlights of the bus coming his way. It was an antiquated bus, looking like parts loosely held together by nuts and bolts and kept in place by layers of mud and dirt. It screeched to a halt at the bus stand. Ganjali got in through the door at the far end of the bus. There were enough seats for him to choose from. He quietly picked the one towards the front. Sitting on top of the rear wheels made him nauseous. In any case most people were sitting in the front and he just followed suit. A few stared at him wondering why he got in through the back door if he had to walk all the way to the front for a seat.

The bus moved. It was a journey which would take him another five hours to reach his destination. By daybreak he would be in Bhubaneswar, from where he had to take a flight to Mumbai where his family lived.

Reminiscing, he went over the events of the past few days: the hostile meeting with the tribals, the work his organisation had started there, the apathetic local administration and allegations of working against the government. His wife had warned him it would not be easy but he was extremely passionate about the cause of the tribals and he had, against all odds, taken it up. Both his grandparents belonged to this region and he had not seen any progress in the tribal areas since the time his parents decided to leave Malkangiri and moved to Mumbai in search of a better life for themselves and their children. He rested his head on the window grill as thoughts of his wife and kid haunted him. It had been a month since he had seen the innocent smiling face of his child which he knew he would never see again. A tear squeezed itself out of the corner of his eyes. He wiped it off hurriedly, reminding himself that he couldn't afford to be emotional or weak. This was the time to demonstrate his strength, the strength of his team, his group and the entire movement of which he was an integral part. The work he had begun had to be completed. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes since he had left the dak bungalow. It was time for the action to begin, for him to do what he had set out to. Everyone around him was sleeping. He counted. There were eleven Special Police Officers (SPOs) and constables in the bus. The others were tribals making their way to the city to buy essentials. He stretched to his left and pulled out his bag from below the seat. It was heavy even to drag. Bending down, he opened it and pulled out a tiffin box. A couple of wires were sticking out. He tugged a bit at the green wire, removed the tape covering it and joined it with the red wire sticking out from the other end. He closed his eyes and said his prayers.

It was six in the morning when the shrill ring of the phone broke Ganjali's wife's dream sequence. She first thought it was the alarm on her cellphone going off. But when she got hold of her cellphone, she realised it was not the alarm. She got out of the bed and picked up the call.