The Lights of Bombay

By Davis Varghese

It’s the year 1509 and the battle of Diu is raging.
In the thick of the fight, Viceroy Almeida, one of Portugal’s best known Naval commander loses his precious amulet which finds its way via a singular twist of fate into the hands of an unassuming soldier from the Zamorin's camp.
Hundreds of years have passed and the Thambi family of South India is proud of their priceless possession which has been handed down to them through generations. It signifies their ancestor's exploits and they consider the amulet as an integral part of the family as they believe it brings them good luck. But little does Sanathan Thambi (later known as Itzhak), who is in Germany to pursue higher studies during the war, know the extreme hardships he'd have to endure in order to safeguard the amulet, which he takes along with him as a good luck charm. The novel follows him through war torn Germany and the extreme risks he takes to save his ancestor's legacy from the prying hands of Otto, a Nazi sympathethizer and Ramos, Itzhak’s Portuguese friend who work for the Nazi’s. Years after the war, Itzhak passes on the amulet to the newest member of the Thambi family as part of the tradition. Through a very unfortunate circumstance, the amulet is lost and Itzhak, who is in the twilight years of his life pitches in to save the Thambi family’s legacy yet again. The adventure brings him to Bombay and he finds himself racing against time to retrieve the amulet but unknown to him the amulet is undertaking another perilous journey through the city.
Prof. Kanth - the greedy archeologist, Sid and his friends - drug addicts wasting away their life, Kabir - the hotel supervisor,Kranti- the committed cop, Valery- the Ukrainian business executive and Rahem- the bar dancer unwittingly become part of this journey. How the amulet shape their lives and how does Itzhak and Rahem come together to try and save the amulet forms the thrilling climax of this novel.
The novel, set against the backdrop of Bombay and its frenetic pace of everyday life, renders a sense of reality to the otherwise fictional plot which also throws light on the issue of illegal human trafficking and the underlying threats that dog the city, now and then but drives home the fact that the city does best what it is famous for – make lives!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Davis Varghese
• Release date: Nov 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310572296

Book preview

THE

LIGHTS

OF

BOMBAY

By

Davis Varghese

Copyright Davis Varghese 2012

Dedicated to my beloved city.

DISCLAIMER:

This is a work of fiction.

While the locations and some of the timelines are real, the characters mentioned in this story are completely fictional. The aim of this story is not to manipulate history but to portray a fictional work in a more realistic manner.

1-The Call

JULY 1990

TEL AVIV

ISRAEL

The telephone rang and Itzhak Grossmann almost jumped over the teapoy to answer the call. His reaction was nothing out of the ordinary for it had been several moons since the telephone rang; it had almost sort of become a useless paperweight. It was an overseas call, the sound was feeble and he dug the phone into his ear to muffle out the surrounding noises but as he listened intently to every spoken word, an unbearable dread dawned upon him. Flushed with blood, his brown visage betrayed the tension through the pair of blood red eyes as Itzhak Grossmann tried hard to digest the bad news. A relative was calling from India to tell him that his grandson had died.

But I just spoke with him a week ago, he shouted, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Only weeks earlier had he lost his wife and the grief of her death still hurt like a fresh wound. In that moment of loneliness, he felt as if his whole world had collapsed, consuming his soul in its dark ruins. A fireball of sorrow was surging in his chest, snaking its way slowly up through the neck into his head. He could feel it. Sitting on the floor of his tiny one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of a far-flung Tel Aviv suburb, he cried like a baby. The surroundings spoke volumes of his modest sustenance but he was used to living a simple life. Sometimes, the daily rigor became a bit too trying for a seventy-eight year old but he was a man who had lived a tough life.

He suddenly realized he shouldn’t be crying; he hadn’t done so in a long time. A rusty wind chime occasionally broke the monotony of the silence while reminding him of the utter melancholy that awaited him. It seemed to empathize with him in a way he couldn’t describe. He brushed away the tears.

During his younger years, he was with the Mossad and the training he received then, dictated his disciplined lifestyle. His wiry yet strong frame was supple enough not to betray the signs of aging, but for a generous mop of gray hair crowning his head.

Rivka, his wife, had finally succumbed to leukemia after a long drawn battle with the disease. The only solace he felt was about the fact that he was by her side when she was taking her last breath. She was old, like him but much frailer and had suffered greatly. But his grandson was a young lad, barely two and twenty. He couldn’t have just taken his own life as they said he had.

And with him, not only was a dear life lost forever but also the family treasure, a priceless possession Itzhak had once risked his life for. They said it was stolen from him and he was so overcome with guilt and shame at having lost it that he took his own life.

For almost 500 years that priceless artifact, the arrival of which was an important milestone in their family timeline, was carefully passed down through generations, filling them with a sense of pride and achievement. Its loss would definitely bring the family untold misery or so, they believed and every adult member of the family was expected to safeguard it.

From the hands of the devil, himself had Itzhak reclaimed it, having lost it once, by no means an easy task given the conditions of war-ravaged Europe. And for someone to steal it so easily was not acceptable to him. As this thought crossed his mind, his sorrow turned into an intense rage and he brought his fist down upon the glass top of the old teapoy. The metal cup, which still had some coffee in it, jumped high into the air and then crashed into the glass with a loud shriek that left a long crack.

A funeral had to be attended and the family icon had to be retrieved. That became his mission. He was confident. He had always prevailed - and in this seventy-eighth summer of his life, he had nothing to lose. As he flew out on an El-Al flight to Bombay, he quietly reminisced upon his life and the path it had taken over the years.

2 - Prologue

FEBRUARY 1509

DIU

GUJARAT

The years were 1508-09. Dom Francisco de Almeida was preparing for a battle which would change the way trade was conducted between the newly discovered lands of the Far East and Portugal. He knew, if he won the decisive naval battle, it would establish Portuguese supremacy over the sea route from Surat and Bombay to Lisbon via the Cape of Good Hope.

It would be nothing short of a major turning point in the history of Portugal and perhaps the history of the world.

Almeida was a seasoned soldier having fought in the battles of Morocco and Granada and was responsible for claiming many lands for Portugal, adding them to his long list of conquests as he went about colonising them. At that time, Diu was a strategic port on the western coast of India - It is not so much of an important town now and is perhaps more famous for its sandy beaches and cheap beer. The spices grown in the humid climes of the Malabar Coast were routed through this very port to Europe. Almeida knew its importance more than anyone else but he also knew that the monopoly of the spice trade rested with the Mamluk Sultanate of Egypt and the Venetian empire. During those times, Mahmud Begara was the Sultan of the province of Gujarat, of which Diu was a small part. He hated the Portuguese naval expansion taking place in his backyard. Teaming up with the Egyptians, he assembled a small force to render a fatal blow to the Portuguese flotilla but in the resulting skirmish, Portugal lost Dom Lourenco who was the son of de Almeida.

When Almeida was told about this unfortunate incident, his anger knew no bounds. His paternal emotions overflowed and above everything else, his heart cried out for vengeance. Establishing the trade route was a priority but Almeida, having lost his son, wanted revenge. He made up his mind to attack and annihilate the Sultan of Gujarat and his ally, Mir Hussain who was the commander of the Egyptian-Gujarat naval alliance and with this singular intention, he arrived at Cochin.

Fortune favored him - he found another shipload of Portuguese soldiers who had just landed on the Indian coast after completing their winter sortie in Mozambique and together with his own, they were a sizable force.

On the Flor do Mar, which was the main battleship, his able commander, Dom Pedro called a meeting at his behest to strategise the battle plan as they lay in wait at the harbor of Cochin. He had a crew of very able commanders and 18 ships, of which ‘Espirito Santo’, captained by Nuno Perreira and ‘Belem’, commanded by Jorge Pereira were the main warships. When he saw the Portuguese buildup, the Zamorin of Cochin fled with his army to join the ranks of Mir Hussain. Finally, Almeida with his naval flotilla of 4500 men and 400 Malabari natives set sail for Diu.

On the way, they made a brief stop at Angedive Island to stock up water for the remainder of the long voyage. Viceroy Almeida took this chance to organize his captains and draw up the attack plan. It was then decided that the ‘Flor do Mar’ would approach the vessel of Mir Hussain first.

As they sailed forth, the unfavorable trade winds did slow their journey down a bit but by December of 1508, they were finally able to weigh anchor near the city of Dhabol where a bitter fight ensued between the forces of Mir Hussain and de Almeida. The city, protected by the able hands of 6000 men repelled the attack, however, the Portuguese, using their supreme artillery and tactics managed to eliminate 1500 enemy men while losing just 16 of their own. The city was looted to the core by the rampaging Portuguese soldiers.

Having won a difficult skirmish, the Portuguese were high on morale, which got a further boost, when Viceroy Almeida received a letter from Malik Ayaz, the governor of Diu with a proposal of peace. But de Almeida’s mind was still like a raging tornado, set to explode on the unfortunate ranks of the enemies who had killed his dear son. By January, the fleet reached the island of Mahim, one of the seven that formed Salcete and Bombay. At Mahim, however, the expedition faced stiff resistance from the locals and the Turks who had hidden themselves around the area.

One of the Portuguese captains perished in the onslaught but again after a tough battle, they emerged victorious. Once they replenished their rations they set sail again, this time for the destination that de Almeida so badly wanted to visit – Diu. Before he set off from Mahim, de Almeida sent a letter to Malik Ayaz warning him to refrain from protecting the people who had killed his son.

At sea finally, the triumphant de Almeida hoped to sight Diu in a fortnight and was ruminating scenes of his victorious attack and the subsequent mortification of the city at his hands when suddenly, one of his navigators came running up to him and said with much anguish, Sire, we have lost course. The winds don’t favor us and I’m lost for directions.

Almeida obviously flustered at this sudden unexpected turn of events retorted, What is our position now?

Sire, we must be somewhere on the way to Socotra. But I have to establish that.

And how soon can you tell me which way we are going?

The clouds are gathering, sire and the storm forbids me from knowing our path.

Your advice then?

I beg your permission to turn back to Cochin and come back when the monsoons have subsided.

Almeida winced at the suggestion and tugged at the rope angrily. The navigator could see that he was deep in thought as he toyed with the fine amulet that dangled around his neck.

Not possible! Find a way to get to Diu, he said, after much thought.

The navigator left the viceroy’s cabin in disappointment. When news spread among the flotilla about a possible change of course, one of the captains suggested that they seek the help of a navigator, from one of the captured boats, who belonged to Mecca as they were very familiar with the currents and could possibly take them to Diu despite the unfavorable winds. Fortunately for de Almeida, there was a navigator among the prisoners taken from the battle they won at Dhabol. The captain brought him into the viceroy’s cabin, still bound in chains.

Can you pilot us to Diu? he asked.

The navigator thought for a moment before answering. He saw that it was a great opportunity to bargain for his freedom in exchange for a safe passage to Diu, which of course he could direct easily.

I can your Royalty, but I wish to ask of you something dear to me, with your kind permission, Oh merciful one!

And what is that? inquired the curious de Almeida.

My freedom, my lord!

Almeida weighed the position he was in. He had nothing to lose.

Granted! But, only if, you show us the spires of Diu. If not, death awaits you at the edge of the mighty swords of Portugal, he said and banished the navigator from his cabin who got on with the job without losing a moment.

The thought of tasting freedom again made his heart jump with joy and he charted a course which would ensure landing on the island of Diu. With great efficiency, he navigated the warship through the raging waters which tore at her belly. The winds, though unfavorable, were forced to assist the propulsion of the craft by skillful maneuvering of the masts. Slowly but surely, the ship inched forward, cutting through the choppy waters of the Arabian Sea until the grand vista of the city of Diu was in sight.

Meanwhile, Mir Hussain and Malik Ayaz were fighting demons of their own insecurity. Both of them were aware of the massive naval strength that de Almeida possessed. Malik Ayaz, realizing the precarious situation that he was in, decided to embark on a little political game with de Almeida. He sent a letter, praising the extreme valor displayed by de Almeida’s son during the battle. He also assured the Viceroy that the Portuguese prisoners of war, who were currently in his captivity, would be treated well. But Malik, in his heart, knew that if the Portuguese did not bite the bait, then all would be lost so he also set up a well-armed naval armada to repel back an attack, should it come unannounced.

Mir Hussain, on the other hand, was also planning a strategy of his own to face the mighty Portuguese navy.

By now, the letter that de Almeida sent earlier, prior to embarking on the Diu expedition had arrived which sparked off a panic in the allies camps. They were convinced that the viceroy would leave no stone unturned to avenge the death of his son. Malik Ayaz, for once, regretted the decision to allow Mir Hussain and his Turkish soldiers to establish a base camp in Diu. A similar train of thought railed through the mind of Mir Hussain, who convinced himself that his dear friend would deliver him into the hands of the Portuguese, should he lose the battle. He was thinking of ways to escape back to the Red Sea, if such a situation arose, which actually was quite probable.

When news came that de Almeida was in the vicinity of Diu with his massive fleet, Malik Ayaz and Mir Hussain called an urgent meeting to strategise the plan of attack.

Mir Hussain, who was the more seasoned warrior of the two suggested that they attack the Portuguese headlong at sea as they had the advantage of number as far as the smaller rowing boats were concerned. He was sure such an attack would turn the war in their favor. But Malik Ayaz saw through the plan with the cunning political mind he had. He instead suggested that they fight, anchored close to the fort. This would provide them with additional cover and the Portuguese would not be able to get close to them so easily. He furthered his cunning plan by excusing himself from the battle, saying that he had urgent matters to attend to at the royal court and left the Diu fort, leaving the battle theater open for de Almeida and Mir Hussain to settle scores.

As they approached the ship of Mir Hussain, ‘Espirito Santo’ unleashed a volley of cannon and gunfire resulting in the target ship’s absolute devastation. Mir Hussain’s vessel listed dangerously as sea water rushed into the gaping hole created by the cannon fire. The terrified sailors, to save their ship from drowning, rushed to the other side. Though this act balanced the huge vessel for a moment, it also caused the water, which had already filled the chambers, to fill up the ones on the side where the sailors were, causing the ship to list further and eventually drown.

‘Espirito Santo’ suffered a similar fate due to the heavy artillery fire that engulfed it. Mir Hussain, who was severely wounded, realized that his chances of a victory were slim when he saw the other ships moving towards his forces. In the ensuing confusion of the battle, he managed to cross the channel without being noticed and reached the village of Rumes. He then mounted a waiting horse and escaped into the territory of Cambaia. With their leader gone, the Turkish fleet and the Zamorin’s soldiers found themselves in an utterly perplexing situation.

By now, Almeida’s ‘Flor do Mar’ moved into position occupying the center of the channel. The small Turkish rowboats with support from the Calicut sailors began to attack de Almeida’s ship incessantly. Canon balls flew across the sea destroying everything in its path while the acerbic smoke choked the soldiers who found themselves swinging their spears and swords blindly at each other.

At one point in the battle, a sharp hit from one of the Turkish cannons rocked the ‘Flor do Mar’ wildly, setting off a panic among the soldiers. De Almeida struggled hard to control his balance as the ship swayed dangerously from side to side. Grabbing a thick coir rope used to bind the sail to the mast, he tried to prevent himself from an imminent fall but again a blast close to where he was standing sent shockwaves through his body causing his knees to buckle under him. As he lost his balance, the golden chain holding the precious amulet got caught in the rope and snapped. Unknown to him, it slipped off his neck and fell down into one of the Zamorin’s boats below, which was getting its guns ready for yet another vicious attack.

No one noticed the amulet, save for a young soldier of the Zamorin’s naval fleet who grabbed it as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He quickly hid it inside his robe and continued to attack the Portuguese soldiers with zest.

The next few hours were crucial for the Portuguese navy who fought with all they had against the Turkish fleet. The Zamorin, after Mir Hussain, was next to realize that the scales of victory were tipped in favor of the Portuguese. He soon beat a hasty retreat through the other end of the channel with his boats in tow. With all support for Mir Hussain’s fleet gone, the Portuguese caravellas set in, sinking the Turkish fleet with systematic precision.

Meanwhile, the soldiers started to kill the Turks who were trying to swim ashore. By sundown, the Portuguese navy had annihilated what remained of the Turkish naval fleet. Prisoners of war were murdered brutally by tying them to the mouth of the cannons and blowing them up. The stage was set for Malik Ayaz’s unconditional surrender which was ensured by the signing of a peace treaty.

De Almeida’s captains organized a celebration to commemorate the victory.

Wine and food flowed freely and de Almeida used this opportunity to appreciate the navigator who was in a way responsible for the resounding victory.

Today, in this immaculate hour, announced Viceroy Almeida. Portugal thanks you for your services. I thank God Almighty, for gifting you with a unique skill and for rendering you to us at the moment when it was needed most.

Thank you, sire... I’m honored beyond words, to be a part of this victory, said the navigator with immense gratitude

From this moment, you are inducted as the chief navigator of my fleet and I hereby order your unconditional release to freedom.

The grateful man couldn’t control his emotions which ebbed out in torrents from his already moist eyes.

The celebrations continued with the tired soldiers enjoying to the hilt except for de Almeida, who quietly retreated to his chamber, somewhat sad at the loss of his favorite amulet gifted to him by the Portuguese King. He had always believed that the amulet brought him luck.

By now, the Zamorin’s boats had crossed Goa and things had started to settle down in his camp. He regretted his decision to ally with Malik Ayaz and worried himself to the verge of insanity, fearing a Portuguese reprisal sooner or later. But not all shared the gloom in his camp, aggravated by the horrible defeat at Portuguese hands.

In a private corner, the young sailor admired the exquisite amulet in the soft moonlight. It was made of solid gold and bore an insignia depicting the Portuguese coat of arms. The insignia was deep blue in color due to the topaz stones and accentuated by sparkling diamonds occupying the position of each quina in the cross.

Never in his lifetime had the poor soldier seen such a marvelous piece of ornament and it didn’t take much to realize that fortune had thrust a piece of fine treasure into his hands.

In a solemn moment, he vowed, never to sell it for money but to pass it down the generations so that his descendants would be proud of his achievement.

3-Itzhak’s tribulation

JANUARY 1930

BAD HAMBURG

GERMANY

Sanathan Thambi, after a long and exhaustive journey, which had almost lasted a month and a half, reached the shores of Hamburg. He had a relative in the city who had got him a seat in the law college of the famed Hamburg University. Hailing from the ancient Thambi family in Tirur, on the Malabar Coast, Sanathan was one of the rare and privileged upper-class citizens of his little town who had travelled overseas to pursue higher studies.

His ship took him from Cochin to Aden where he caught a liner going to London via the Suez Canal. At London, he had the option of either going to the mainland to catch a train to Hamburg or continue his sea odyssey. He chose the latter for a fellow passenger told him that it’d be a direct passage with no changeovers, unlike the train journey which would have needed him to change trains at least twice along the way.

His relative had come to receive him at the port but to his utter surprise, he escorted Sanathan to the dormitory of the university instead of the airy confines of his house. Alone and already feeling lost in a strange city, he spent the remainder of the day on the rough bed fiddling with the amulet which his father had made him wear around his neck. Apart from being a good luck charm, his father thought, it would also serve as the last resort in case he ran out of money. After all he was going to a faraway land and anything could happen. But he also knew it would never come to that for his son was a disciplined, mature young man who understood the value of the amulet. Sanatan was equally petrified to wear the amulet – it was too much of a precious cargo to be on his person and he swore to himself that he would never use it for any other