MARXIST NABENDU

Nabendu Naskar was a friend of mine. The friendship had started about two decades back when both of us were run of the mill junior level government employees. Later he became a wealthy man and his flamboyant life style was beyond my reach even in the wildest imagination. For I continued to languish in the ennui of government service which indeed offered stability of income but affording any kind of luxury was just out of question. Exasperated, Nabendu could break this cage and set himself free about a decade back. Then he could successfully set up his money spinning business, building and leasing of warehouses all over India and even abroad. Profits earned from the business allowed him to amass wealth sufficient to ensure comfort and extravagance of his own and his two generations down the line beyond an iota of doubt. 

Affluence neither inflated his ego nor made him arrogant. Nabendu remained down to earth and our friendship flourished.

That evening a few days before Diwali, my wife was not home having gone to visit a relative with an oversized basket of fruits, as customary Diwali present, which I knew would be reciprocated soon. I was in my flat enjoying the evening whisky and listening to Begum Akhtar when Nabendu arrived. I knew he drove in his Mercedes or BMW like several times before. Though visitors were not allowed to park inside our complex, yet the society president who I knew well granted a special permission on my request. Nabendu was never keen to enjoy this privilege. His car was always parked outside the main gate with his driver sitting inside under the close watch of our guards who I knew were recipients of generous tips when Nabendu exited. Intriguingly Nabendu always flaunted his left leaning and declared himself a diehard socialist.

He looked at my brand of whisky and gave a disapproving nod. He was carrying an expensive Louis Vuitton Ellipse back pack and before putting it down aside the central coffee table, took out a bottle which indeed pleased me a lot. It was the bottle of a very expensive single malt scotch. " Bought it only three days back in Europe and this bag too" he seated himself on his favourite rocking chair and asserted.

I knew Nabendu did not like gazals and preferred Rabindra Sangeet instead, a type of vocal music, which I of course hardly enjoyed but did not mind to make a small sacrifice for the sake of the single malt of this exquisite quality. I switched to Rabindra Sangeet and his all-time favourite George Biswas. Till about a year back I had a JBL blue tooth speaker which was now replaced by a high end Bose gifted by Nabendu with a note that Bose and Tagore blended well.

While sipping whisky and pretending to enjoy the songs, I put forward my humble enquiry " Nabendu your son is studying in Harvard and daughter in Princeton..."

He did not let me finish the sentence and quipped " Wrong! Son is in Princeton studying Quantum Computing and daughter in Harvard law school."

"Whatever but that is not the point ..." My sentence remained unfinished again.

" What do mean by whatever? You the bourgeois always compromise." He was about to thunder but checked himself at the last moment and said this calmly.

I sipped from my glass, a piece of Swarovski crystal once gifted by Nabendu, and said with a tone of apology in my voice" Sorry bro, just slip of tongue. But the point is your children are jewels, you have no liability, then why do you still chase money? "

Nabendu looked pensive with eyes closed and fingers of his right hand softly tapping the chair’s arm appreciating the baritone voice of George Biswas. Casually he asked "May I smoke my Havana now?"

I disliked smoking and did not allow anyone to smoke inside my flat but there were obvious reasons to exempt Nabendu. He lighted a cigar with his S.T Dupont luxury lighter. I offered the astray taking it out from a drawer. It was also a Swarovski crystal once gifted by him for his own use in my flat.

Giving off smoke from his cigar he polluted the air inside my living room and filled it with the awful smell of tobacco, I never liked. After a few cycles of inhale and exhale he asked " Do you know my motive to earn?"

"Obviously avaricious aggrandizement" I answered confidently hoping not to miff him.

"Damn fool as always you are with typical capitalist thought process." He tried to roar but messed up with mouthful of smoke causing embarrassing bouts of cough.

He extinguished the cigar gulped some cold water, drank some whisky and proudly declared " I earn to pay taxes "

Nabendu was embodiment of extreme opulence. He liked to wear custom made Giorgio Armani suits, Gucci or Louis Vuitton shoes, premium French perfumes, top end designer watches from Switzerland and the most expensive Ray Ban sunglasses. He always carried the latest and the priciest model of Apple phone and a top of the range Mont Blanc pen.

That day too there was no exception but weather condition did not allow him to wear a suit, instead he wore crisp and brilliant white designer Kurta Pyjama made of superfine premium cotton with a matching navy blue silk jacket which inside its front pocket housed the phone and the pen. The sun glasses were obviously not necessary.

"So do you earn to pay income tax?" I asked with the tone of disbelief and mild sneer.

Nabendu looked contemplative. Staring at the photograph of Karl Marx on the wall, the same one framed in wood and glass which he gave me three years back with a clear instruction to display it prominently, and said " Yes I earn to pay income tax, spend to pay GST and import duties, buy and sell capital assets to pay capital gain tax and stamp duty. A capitalist like you places self-interest over the welfare of the masses. I don't because I want governments, both at the centre and the states, to spend for the upliftment of the poor and the underprivileged. How will governments get money if we don't pay taxes? " Nabendu paused his monologue, poured some more whisky and ice cubes in his glass, lighted the Havana cigar he had put out before, spewed some pungent smoke of tobacco and started again " Do you know how many cars I have?"

" Yes two. One is Mercedes and the other is BMW, both are top end models." I answered.

" No, these less expensive ones are only used to visit people like you." He said and condescendingly chuckled.

It was an affront which hurt me a bit but I ignored in consideration of the freebies he had offered me in the past and the superb single malt of which the third peg I just started.

"I also have two more, a Bentley and a Lamborghini, of course the latest models. But I have parking space for six. Thinking to buy a Ferrari and a Rolls Royce."

" You claim to be socialist. Do you need to flaunt so much opulence?". It was my humble enquiry.

In response Nabendu grinned with somewhat repulsive arrogance and said " You always think like a consummate bourgeois. Do you know the amount of taxes I have to pay to own them? It will be my humble privilege to contribute to government finances." he continued " last week I disposed of my bungalow at Prithwiraj Road and purchased a new one at Aurangzeb Road, sorry slip of tongue, Abdul Kalam Road. Both are in prestigious Lutyens Delhi "

" But you bought that wonderful bungalow at Prithwiraj Road only about one and half years back." Stupefied I stammered to ask the question that involuntarily came out from my mouth.

" Yes, to pay short term capital gain tax. Also I paid stamp duty for the new one. I admit cars pose some problem, they always depreciate. I cannot sell them to enjoy the pleasure of paying capital gain taxes."

Suddenly I saw fleeting shadow of sadness on his face. His tone turned sombre. His voice reflected grief when he said “You know in our house the kitchen has no function. My wife and I have decided to hop hotels, Taj, Oberoi, Mauraya, Leela Palace, Marriot and what not, for our meals. You know to express solidarity with our poor countrymen, we eat only two meals a day, the brunch and the dinner. Today was a bad or should I say a sad day. I had to eat lunch too!” he stopped.

“Why? “bewildered I had to ask.

“That girl!” His voice was grim.

“Girl friend?” I was naturally curious.

“OMG! When will the capitalists like you redeem themselves?” He reprimanded with sudden thunderous tone.

“She was from the class of proletariat. I saw her begging teary eyed with torn clothes which barely covered her young body. I was in my Lamborghini on the way to meet an important client. Spotting her from a distance I asked my driver to stop at the road side where she was hopelessly standing and imploring the passers-by to give a few rupees. “

I thought he had stopped with lecherous motive to feast his eyes on the half-naked body of a young and pretty woman but chose to ask an innocuous question, “Then what did you do? Did you Empty your bulky cash stuffed purse on the stretched palms of that poor soul?”

He curtly replied “I have stopped carrying cash. I offered to pay her digitally but she had no account where I could transfer money to. My driver had a small sum of about fifty thousand and he gave that to her on my behalf and I transferred to his account later.”

“Then?” I asked flummoxed.

“Then what? Taj Mahal hotel was nearby, drove in there and had lunch with my driver. As you know I am a true socialist. My heart melted seeing the poor girl. As usual food and drinks bill was huge by capitalist standard but I, a true socialist, viewed it differently. It gave an immense pleasure to pay the GST. How will our poor government alleviate poverty if we the socialists don’t pour in fund?

“Could you eat so much? “. It was my turn to ask another question.

“Am I crazy? I value my health. Ordered a lot, paid off the bill, ate almost nothing, my driver ate some, got the rest packed neatly and as I often did, gave it to the serving waiter as tips. A socialist has to be philanthropic.” He responded.

Every time he visited my place around 7:10 in the evening and left around 8:20. The clock in the wall showed his departure time was nearing, so I knew he was about to leave. I was right. He looked at his watch and abruptly stood up to signal his imminent exit.

The bottle of the single malt he had brought had about one third left out. I knew he would not carry it back and I was right, but a pleasant surprise followed. He pulled out another bottle, that of a super-premium French Cognac, casually placed it on the coffee table and advised me to keep it and drink sensibly after dinner.

Extremely pleased, I tried to be effusive to convey my heartfelt thanks, but he cut me short saying “Shed your decadent bourgeois outlook and work for the proletariat. The cancerous growth of abject poverty needs to be excised and exterminated.”

While getting out of my apartment gate, Nabendu said something which was the tag line of his vison and epitomised the rationale behind his present life style. It was: Luxury of the class cuts down penury of the mass.