Man is the only animal that blushes or needs to – Mark Twain
by Jayasankarankk
You learn all sorts of things from other people. One of the jobs magistrates do is to witness hangings, at least in those days when they were still administered.
This was what R told me about the first hanging he witnessed as a magistrate in the 1980s. He had to be at Pudu Prison early because the deed was always done at sunrise.
But what really struck him was what the hangman did after the fact: he stooped and washed his hands in the early-morning dew on the grass.
Of course, R asked. The man, a devout Muslim, replied he’d just “washed the (sin of the) hanging off” his conscience. So, the ever-careful R did the same. You never can tell!
Early in my career, I had occasion to meet a then up-and-coming businessman who was a scion of a top politician reigning supreme in the ranks of government. His first question was curious: what sort of Indian was I?
I normally try and dodge such questions because I find most non-Indians are puzzled by the distinctions. But he persisted, saying he knew of the differences. So, I replied I was Malayalee, and my parents were from Kerala.
He shook my hands, grinning. “Countryman,” was all he said. He clearly didn’t have any hang-ups about his ancestry.
In the early-1990s, a tycoon, now a Tan Sri, was buying shares in a public-listed conglomerate that, among other things, owned a bank. The tycoon kept buying the stock until he was on the verge of a hostile takeover.
It was either that, and a relatively cheap way to get a bank, or greenmail: a tactic where an investor buys enough shares to threaten a hostile takeover, only to force the company to buy back the shares at a premium.
The markets were agog and the business press were in a frenzy. I asked to meet the tycoon and, to my surprise, he invited me to lunch.
Would he sell?
“You’ve to understand something about me,” answered the magnate. “Except for the family, everything’s for sale.” For the record, he later sold off his block of shares for a handsome profit.
I had asked another top business mogul who recently passed away for a meet but didn’t get a reply. Then out of the blue, he called and asked me to come to his office at 3pm the next day.
His office took up an entire floor of a tower block near the Petronas Twin Towers. It was lushly carpeted and full of artwork, so much so there were paintings stacked on the floors. Massive would be an understatement. (“I love art and buy too much. Someday, I’ll create an art museum.”)
The man said he hadn’t eaten the whole day and tea was served. A cake was rolled in and he cut slices while saying it had no butter or fat and was, therefore, healthy.
It tasted like it too, but he ate with every appearance of relish. I’d heard he was a health buff: he swam 50 laps a day without fail.
I
t was a pleasant enough interview and when I stood to leave, he said he had a present for me.
It was another cake.
In the car, I asked Hassan, my driver, if he liked cake. He said yes. Enthusiastically too. So, I gave him a present. That cake.
I had forgotten about it until Hassan rounded on me the next day. He didn’t believe my story that it had been from a billionaire.
It was terrible, he said, and so he had fed it to his chickens. They sneered at it too!
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