Rupee Millionaires Read online

  Rupee

  Millionaires

  Frank Kusy

  Published by Grinning Bandit Books

  http://grinningbandit.webnode.com

  © Frank Kusy 2013

  ‘Rupee Millionaires’ is the copyright of Frank Kusy, 2013.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Cover design by Anna Donovan

  Dedication

  For my beloved mother…always in my heart.

  CONTENTS

  Map

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1. Here Comes Spud

  2. On the Make

  3. In The Beginning

  4. Market Days

  5. Life with Spud

  6. Saree Wars

  7. Special Requests

  8. The Ups and Downs of Spud

  9. What Makes a Rupee Millionaire?

  10. Mister Bank-Rupert

  11. Colourful Characters

  12. Ram, Ram, the Camel Man

  13. Recession? What Recession?

  14. The Pushkar Posse

  15. Susie

  16. Troubles with Spud

  17. Monsoon Madness

  18. Spud vs Nita

  19. Mister Order Cancel Man

  20. Full Moon Camel Trek

  21. Plague? What Plague?

  22. Mother India

  23. Margreet

  24. Second Honeymoon

  25. Mister Magic Trouser Man

  26. Madge’s 64-Million-Dollar Question

  27. Busy Bobby

  28. We Are the Agarwals

  29. A “Poor Man’s” Castle

  30. Mister Duplicator

  31. Thai-Tracked

  32. A Very Bad Year

  33. On being a Bad Buddhist

  34. The Dark Side of Delhi

  35. Burn Out

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  MAP

  Epigraph

  This is an (almost) true account of my life that was.

  Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.

  And some to protect myself against the not so innocent.

  Prologue

  31 August 2011

  Our anniversary lunch wasn’t much compared to Will’s and Kate’s recent love-fest, but The Raj did a mean vindaloo. More importantly, we were happy. As Madge chatted to our usual waiter, I scanned the menu and came across ‘Warped Chicken raped with Bacon’. I couldn’t help smiling to myself. Indian restaurants and Indian menus always reminded me of my ill-fated quest to become a rupee millionaire. It seemed like a lifetime ago. For my ex-business partner Spud, it literally was a lifetime ago. It finished him off – just before he could finish me off.

  Sometimes, not often, I could think of Spud and forget the anger and heartache and misery. Sometimes I could feel the tiniest pang of guilt at his squalid demise. And sometimes, like when reading the menu in The Raj, I would be reminded of a funny memory of Spud. Like the time he ordered bacon – no, it was sausages, wasn’t it? – in a vegetarian town called Pushkar.

  But more often my mind was flooded with less funny memories, like the night he forced a Muslim tailor to eat mutton curry at Ramadan, doing his best to invite an international fatwa on the both of us. Yes, the bad memories dominated – the abuse, the mental torture, the drug plants and the many death threats. There was no doubt about it, I was much better off without that bald little menace.

  Having pushed all the bitter memories to the back of my mind – and enjoyed a few Tiger beers – I was feeling quite content by the time I arrived home. Madge had gone to pop the kettle on and I switched on the TV. Settling in for a quiet afternoon snooze, I stretched absent-mindedly across the settee and closed my eyes.

  Then the phone rang.

  It was my old friend and customer, Sharon in Poole, and what she said took my breath away.

  ‘You’ll never guess who just walked into my shop!’ she gushed. ‘Spud!’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Yes, it really was him. He’s not dead at all. He’s been entertaining Her Majesty in Wandsworth for the past 12 years. He blew up the wrong house – one with a policeman in it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot. Except that he’s heard you’re writing a book about him. And he wanted me to pass on a short one-word message.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘“Don’t.”’

  *

  What follows is the full story of what Spud doesn’t want you to know...

  Chapter 1

  Here Comes Spud

  Spud was under his table when the Petrovs showed up. The two of them, Ivan and Sergei, had strolled in, squinting curiously at my market stall. They seemed particularly interested in all the silk clothing I had just brought back from India.

  Ivan—the tall, dark, handsome one—was relatively polite. He waved a slender hand at his own stall, packed with the very same silk, and said, ‘I think we have a problem.’

  Viktor—his short, psychotic brother—was more to the point. The stubby fingers of one hand curled around my table, lifted it and tipped the whole thing over. He glared at me. ‘If that goes back up,’ he growled, ‘I’m going to petrol-bomb it.’

  I had heard enough of Viktor to know I should take the threat seriously. According to Spud, Viktor had already dispatched two silk competitors that morning – one by holding him against a wall and punching him repeatedly in the head. So I gestured over my shoulder with one thumb. ‘Have you met my new partner?’ I asked. ‘He’ll want to know what you have to say about silk, too.’

  Viktor might have been a psycho, but he knew a worse psycho when he saw one. Spud, resplendent in his best lunatic grin and a pair of wraparound reflecting sunglasses, reared up from under his table like a demented bulldog. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just stood there, rocking dangerously back and forth on his heels, until Viktor took a step backwards, breaking the stand-off. Ivan crouched, gingerly helping to set the stall back up, and a tacit agreement was reached: the Petrovs would move their pitch up the road to Covent Garden, and I would stay put in St Martin-in-the-Fields.

  I had made a deal with the Devil, entering into this partnership with Spud, but I really hadn’t had any other choice. All in all, it worked out well. On the one hand, Spud was very good at scaring people, a talent which occasionally came in handy. On the other, he was funny, surprisingly intelligent, and full of big plans for the future.

  The following morning, Spud appeared with a huge pile of scaffolding and wordlessly welded our two stalls together. This was his idea of a partnership: no formal paperwork, just a brief handshake and a hastily combined double pitch. The day after that, now that we had a much larger area in which to operate, we brought in £500 in silk clothing alone.

  Chapter 2

  On the Make

  The one miracle of my life before India was that I never got arrested.

  Back then I was known as ‘dodgy’ Frank Kusy. Most people took in my beaten-up leather jacket, dusty trilby hat, and dishevelled, greying beard and incorrectly assumed that I was a drug dealer. I suppose my round Lennon spectacles and the permanently abstracted expression I wore behind them did nothing to dispel the theory.

  The truth was that I didn’t just look weird. I was weird. And with my kind of background, that was hardly surprising. I lost my father when I was two, which left my Hungarian mother and me to survive on the breadline. She and I lived in one shared room in the poorest section of London. My mother worked all day—and all night too, darning dresses – so she could keep
a leaking roof over our heads.

  I wasn’t given pocket money, so I learned to earn my own. My first enterprise consisted of prising up the floorboards in our house so I could retrieve the gas meter shillings that had slipped through the cracks. Then I traded rare pennies with geeks in mackintoshes. Later on, shortly after entering primary school, I began sneaking into big auction houses in The Strand and bidding for collectable stamps. I hung around the doors, watching the crowds, then gained entrance by grabbing old geezers’ hands and flashing pleading eyes up at them.

  ‘I want to buy some stamps,’ I said, ‘but they won’t let me because I’m not old enough. Can I be your son for the day?’ They never refused.

  I was determined not to be poor. By the age of seven I made homemade fireworks and sold them to friends, then stashed the profits up the chimney. My mother became acquainted with all the local firemen; they knew exactly where to come when a neighbourhood kid blew up a pile of dog poo or some hapless garden shed. They didn’t seem to mind coming. In fact, more than one of those heroes asked her out. With her perfect smile, perfect figure, and perfect pile of jet black hair, she looked just like Jackie Onassis.

  When I was eight, I got my first taste of market trading. Every Saturday morning I cycled down to Whitechapel to help an old cockney called Charlie on his second-hand book stall. Though this job didn’t last long.

  ‘He’s a very nice man, is Charlie,’ I told my mother. ‘And he’s generous, too. Everyone in the market keeps giving him money, but he doesn’t keep it. He gives it to another nice man called Ronnie Kray. Ronnie says he’s there to protect them all!’

  My mother promptly confiscated my bicycle.

  When I entered my teens, my budding career as a pint-sized wheeler-dealer came to an abrupt end. I was packed off to a north London Jesuit school, where grim, black-cowled priests took pride in crushing my natural exuberance. My mother had expected me to receive the best education in the world at that school. What I received instead was daily punishments meted out with a leathered whalebone.

  The priests disliked more than my stubborn resistance to male authority. They disapproved of just about everything about me. I was a tall, geeky boy and stuck out like a sore thumb in the playground. As a result, I was the first to be picked out for any disturbance. Maybe it was a poor decision on my part, but I hung around with the two worst kids in the school, who were later expelled for flushing a holy crucifix down the toilet. Those were the kind of boys I used as role models. To the priests I seemed hell-bent on creating trouble. I suppose they were correct to a degree. It’s true I was curious to see how far I could provoke these zealot priests until they lost their sanctimonious cool. And I was, admittedly, a very precocious child. I enjoyed asking awkward, rhetorical questions like, ‘How many angels do dance on the head of a pin?’

  But it didn’t seem to matter that some events occurred over which I had no control—after all, how could I have known my voice would break when they put me in the choir during the ordination of nine priests?

  Their punishments made me devious. I held pretend fainting fits, I invented complicated alibis, I even feigned total memory loss. The lies got so bad that I had a recurring nightmare that I was Pinocchio, and my nose was permanently circling the globe.

  On one occasion, when things got completely out of hand, I invented Wojciech. Wojciech was my identical twin brother, and he was visiting from Hungary.

  ‘We know it was you who blew up that tree that fell on number 26 and destroyed the roof,’ accused a police officer. ‘We have six eye witnesses.’

  'Nem tudom,' I replied, shaking my head with innocence. ‘My name Wojciech. No understand.’

  ‘Your name is Frank Kusy,’ insisted the officer. ‘And we have you bang to rights.’

  I nodded, letting comprehension brighten my expression. 'Cusunum, thank you. My twin brother, Frank, he is very bad boy. I tell him so, write him long letter. He go Budapest.’

  The policeman scratched his head and left, bemused.

  My poor mother. Every Parent’s Day she would troop to my school in the dwindling hope of good news, only to be sent home crying by some teacher who thought I should see a psychiatrist.

  At seventeen, I cut a deal with her. She agreed to write a letter to the school saying I was suffering from nervous exhaustion. In return I would apply myself to my studies at home. The arrangement worked. Blessed with fierce concentration and a near-photographic memory, I learnt one-third of the entire syllabus in six weeks. I passed my A levels with straight As. Lucky for me, the questions came from the right one-third!

  As soon as I reached university, I dropped Catholicism, deciding to take up astrology and Steiner philosophy instead. These paths were, I knew, only clues to destiny – they had no power to change it – but they were infinitely better than the world of pain and cruelty I had left behind.

  My twenties was a decade I prefer to forget. I moved from one dead-end job to another, working with insurance, sales, publishing, and social work. Not one of these jobs lasted more than a few months.

  It wasn’t until I turned thirty and discovered both Buddhism and India that I latched onto a faith and a country that suited me perfectly. Together they gave me the freedom and the constant inner challenge I craved, along with a growing sense of purpose.

  Chapter 3

  In The Beginning

  What I liked about Buddhism—well, the version of Buddhism which I chose, anyway—was the absence of guilt, hellfire, priests, and temples. Oh, and the lack of rules and regulations. Apparently everything was okay as long as I respected Life: my own as well as everyone else’s.

  Best of all, I was allowed to chant for money.

  One of the Buddhists in my area had a helicopter. I wanted one of those.

  I also wanted that elusive thing called ‘enlightenment.’ I’d tried yoga but had concussed myself falling backwards from one of the more complicated positions. I’d tried transcendental meditation, but the concept had been lost on me. I worked myself up to near-hysteria trying to free my mind of all thoughts.

  I was told that if I chanted the title of the Lotus Sutra, the Buddha’s most important teaching, I would achieve enlightenment as a matter of course – no counting of breaths, no sitting in uncomfortable poses, no boring ‘emptying of the mind’. Just a simple Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. What could be easier?

  My mother, a hard-line Catholic, was not impressed by my new choice of religion. ‘Jesus died to redeem our sins,’ she scolded me. ‘How can you abandon Him?’

  ‘I haven’t got a problem with Jesus,’ I replied, still sulking in my thirties. ‘Just all those priests He keeps employing!’

  My new mentor, Dick Causton, was a whole lot better than a priest. He had graduated from being a colonel in the army to becoming the leader of our small Nichiren sect in the U.K. Tall, dignified, and charismatic, Dick reminded me of a white Morgan Freeman. He was the first male figure to gain my undivided respect.

  That's who I want to be when I'm seventy, I decided. This is the Buddhism for me!

  Dick set me on the path to India. ‘So you want to see where this great religion began?’ he asked, raising his arms as if to encompass the world. ‘Well, go out there and be like a sponge. Soak it all up. Then, when you get back, squeeze it all out. Produce something remarkable!’

  India was fun. It took me two or three trips to really pick up on that, but as I did so, I found that the childlike quality of the country – the simple curiosity, the warm-hearted openness, the sheer craziness of it – struck a chord in me. Six weeks into my first trip, around February of 1985, I had forgotten that I had ever worn a suit to work. By the time I returned in April, I had vowed never to work again. Somehow, I determined, I would be going back to India on a regular basis – and that was when I started to write.

  Dick had said I should squeeze out the sponge of my travels, then produce something of value with whatever came out. I decided to use my experiences to write a book about the real India, a serious
accounting of its poverty, politics, and religion. But the real India was far more surreal than serious. It was like a giant playground wherein everything—people, traffic, and livestock—bounced off each other at random.

  I had attempted to put pen to paper before, but I’d never got past the first three chapters. I’d simply lacked the incentive to go any further. Now I had all the incentive in the world. It was either getting paid to write about India or return to the drudgery of running an old people’s home in Clapham.

  So, discarding the idea of writing a ‘serious’ book, I decided instead to type up the diary of my first trip through India. When I’d finished I packaged it up, then sent it off to forty-two publishers and agents. Then I hopped on a plane to Japan, spending every penny I had, and prayed to the main Buddhist temple that my gamble would succeed.

  I returned to London with the worst case of flu I’d ever had. On the positive side, the phones started ringing. The first call was from a minor publisher who wanted my book. The second was from a bigger publisher who wanted me to write a travel guide to the whole of India. It was a dream come true. The money they offered wasn’t much—£2500 advance and 7.5% of royalties on sales—but all my flights were paid for, and they threw in lots of free hotels. Suddenly I was doing what I’d always wanted to do: travel and write. My life, which had been on hold until this moment, finally began to move forward.

  From this point on, I began to lead a split existence – half the year in India, the other half in England writing about India. And each time I came home, with a bagful of notes and tapes to transcribe, I carried more of India back with me. I felt lighter, freer, more at ease with myself. India was rubbing off on me, I realised, and when I laughed now, it was not shy and restrained as before, but loud and contagious – a true reflection of what I felt about myself and about India: that both things were so wacky, so absurd, that I just had to laugh.