The Mammaries Of The Welfare State Part 11

There is only one argument in favour of giving our legislators soft loans for cars. Theyll all be plied as long-distance private taxis, of course-the New Markand-Daanganga Lake run being particularly profitable, as has been proved over the years by all our civil servants whove so far used-or availed of, as theyd say-the Motor Car Advance Rules 1949 to buy private cabs. Some of themve cogently argued that its the simplest way of solving the problem of public transport for the hill resort at Daanganga Lake during the peak tourist season.

Not to forget, in the midst of these meanderings, that each of our guiding lights also gets a crore of rupees for the development of his const.i.tuency. They want more-to speed up the process of improvement, they say, because times running out. Well, so will the money-fortunately-leaving us with nothing but the question: has socialism been a very good thing for anybody other than the socialists?

There had been times when Dr Chakki had thought that he would never ever finish The Magic of the Aflatoons. Every time-whether in Madna or back home at the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Transit Hostel-that hed believed that he had the essay wrapped up, some incident had bobbed up in his memory or in the newspapers and simply screamed to be included. The first draft had been fourteen pages long; the latest stood, vacant, incomplete, at page forty-seven. Hed even toyed with the idea of converting it into a periodical journal that would be a beacon, an icon for their troubled times, wise, statesmanly, therefore with a circulation of forty-three and steadily dwindling because too respectable, too much Nuclear Disarmament and not enough mammaries. In it, he would run a column, quite simply called Sleight of Hand and discuss threadbare therein the marvels of the week.

Of the previous Thursday, for instance, when HUBRIS Minister Bhanwar Virbhim in the Senate, while replying to a Starred Question, had likened the tumult in the House to the chaos of Chor Bazaar, the market for the resale of stolen goods. Dr Chakki had not found the comparison funny. Instead, hed thought it deeply insulting to the tradesfolk of Chor Bazaar because they, unlike politicians, shriek purposefully, dispose of whatever they take up and do not cheat unreasonably, dealing in amounts befitting the poverty of their State. Sleight of Hand would then suggest that the Minister, in a formal statement, apologize in the House to all the shopkeepers of all the Chor Bazaars of the country. Think of their six million votes, itd say.

The evening before, Bhanwar Virbhim had had to fly out to Navi Chipra for some urgent political skullduggery. The Welfare State paid for the three tickets, of course, on the reasoning that every second and every act in the lives of Ministers and officials is official. As is usual with our oligarchs, felt Dr Chakki in a fever of outrage, when it comes to their personal work, they truly behave as though they lead a nation on the move and going places. Thus at 5.30 p.m., the staff of the Minister ordered the booking office of National Airlines to reserve two Executive Cla.s.s seats for master and mistress-sharer-Minister and Secretary-and a third Lumpen Cla.s.s seat for some unidentified bag-and-golf-clubs-carrier on the seven oclock flight that same evening. Some lionheart, some unsung war hero at the booking office, pointed out that people had already begun checking-in for the flight, that it was jam-packed, but that through some sleight of hand, he could just about accommodate the Minister in Executive and unfortunately n.o.body else. Then the parleying began and lasted for a couple of hours. The flight was delayed till the Minister, Raghupati and the caddie boarded, sighed and sat back in the seats that theyd wanted, content. Almost. Of course, on Friday, it was learnt that the lionheart in the booking office would receive his orders of suspension from service that day.

Had that been all, it wouldnt have interested Dr Chakki in the least. What intrigued him, in fact, was that Bhanwar Virbhim always sat in the front left window seat of any plane (or car or bus or bullock-cart, it may safely be imagined). He had been advised so by Baba Mastram. It had probably something to do with staying ahead of the compet.i.tion, though while up front, hed be well-advised to watch out for his back. On that Wednesdays flight, however, he couldnt get the seat of his choice. Apparently, the boarding card for it had already been issued to the wife of the Domestic Aviation Minister. Physically lifting the aircraft and carrying it off the runway would have caused less of a stir than trying to convince her to change her seat. In any case, why on earth should she?-one could have asked, most reasonably-once allotted, allotted.

Bhanwar Virbhim hadnt thought so. After beaming a greeting at Madam Minister, all through the flight, he had sulked and unseeingly flipped through the pages of some glossy. Behind that enormous chocolate-brown dome of a forehead, however, the great brain had been ticking away. Two days later, he formally pet.i.tioned the Privileges Committee of the House.

Like many other citizens, Dr Chakki was a bit foggy about the Privileges and other Committees of the House, but he surmised that their work had very little to do with the welfare of the people. Bhanwar Virbhims argument before it, he imagined, would be that as a Princ.i.p.al Minister, he was ent.i.tled to certain privileges, one of which was the seat of his choice in the Executive Cla.s.s section of an aeroplane whenever he flew. When he cant sit exactly where he wants to during a flight, he must argue, somebody or some inst.i.tution has breached his privilege and thereby insulted him-and through him, the State that he represents at all times. Not granting Bhanwar Virbhim the front left window seat on all flights that he cares to take, therefore, would be like making wearunders out of the national flag.

Over the weekend, Dr Chakki had asked around. Apparently, the privileges of the privileged hadnt been either defined or codified. Naturally, he concluded. The vaguer the law, the larger its ambit. The more the privileges, the more refined the caste. In his ideal republic, the welfare of Bhanwar Virbhim was not a subject that the State would want to spend much time and money on.

He had been piqued even more by the Starred Question that the Minister had parried and deflected in the House. It had been asked by a witless Independent, the usual front for some disgruntled backbencher.

Has the government finally decided on the proposed surrender of Suk.u.maran Govardhan? Why on earth is it taking so long to fix a date? Astrological clearance? Or havent the national parties finished squabbling yet over which of them he will join?

Insidiously, over the past few weeks, the transfiguration, the apotheosis, of the fabled dacoit-smuggler had begun. A newspaper report in the Dainik of Madna had stated that Govardhan had donated, incognito, several lakhs of rupees to start a primary school in his mothers name in a predominantly tribal area of the coastal region. He waits for permission to bow down in contrition before the people, trumpeted a full-page advertis.e.m.e.nt in The State Today, without specifying the he. A second news item claimed that he had sent by envoy a blank cheque for the Plague Relief Fund to the Regional Princ.i.p.al Minister. Philanthropist, humanitarian, champion of the poor-the phrases had started to appear-even statesman. In some of his posters, after the phrase Wanted Dead or Alive had been neatly stencilled, For Parliament.

In one of his speeches at a public function in Madna, Bhanwar Virbhim had gone even further and suggested that Govardhan was blessed in that he had at last seen the light. The occasion for the speech had been a routine three-in-one: Virbhims first visit to his const.i.tuency after signing up as central Minister, his dropping in as sitting Member of Parliament on the unconscious Rajani Suroor in hospital, and thereafter his benediction of A.C. Raichurs never-ending hunger strike, to mark the forty-fifth day of which, the Minister had, from a dais rigged up under the trees in Aflatoon Maidan, held forth in his typical, slow, deep, soporific way on the similarities amongst Govardhans desire to be restored to life, Suroor comatose in Madna, and Raichurs self-denial for a better world.

In the spa.r.s.e audience that afternoon could have been spotted two players of Vyatha, in town on an emergency, namely, an infection of Suroors urinary tract. At Vyatha, they all took turns to visit Madna once a fortnight, not that they were of any help at the hospital. All that they ended up doing was squandering their tight budget on second-cla.s.s rail fare. Had Suroor, to a man felt they, been shifted out of that town and taken to the capital, at least the troupe would have saved its finances.

He wasnt-so the players learnt that afternoon from the horses mouth while listening to the Minister-because Madna was considered to be as good a d.a.m.ned spot as any in the world for miracles. Suroor must rise from where he has fallen in time to be part of the committee that would welcome and accept Govardhans surrender. One must always give the G.o.dforsaken-whether small-town, gross man or distinguished villain-the chance to make good. If they goof up, why, it simply means that one has underestimated their underprivilegedness.

In his reply to the Starred Question in the House, Bhanwar Virbhim had impressed even that jaded audience with his disingenuousness and his double tongue. He skirted all the facts that even the children of the alleys knew. Suk.u.maran Govardhan after all was to sandalwood smuggling what Kelloggs is to breakfast cereals. For over two decades, his gang of murderers had razed hundreds of acres of sandalwood plantation, hanged by the same trees forest officers, shot dead police officials, terrorized and exploited entire villages, and G.o.d alone knows stolen how many hundreds of crores of rupees of the national wealth. His surrender would only marginally be less of an event than the nations achievement of independence. It-the surrender-was to be televised live for over two hours on the National Channel. His life had already inspired eight violently romantic Bombay films, in all of which hed been depicted as a modern Robin Hood. Hood he certainly was. After over two decades of brutal criminality, he had nowhere to go but into politics. It was being bruited about that he intended to officially and legally change his name to Suk.u.maran Aflatoon and contest the Parliamentary elections from Baltod, where hed already bought up his entire caste vote. He had once over two hundred criminal cases registered against him. Of course, before the law, one is innocent until proved guilty-and so he was free to fight the elections, but in the last ten years, the two hundred cases had been as effectively forgotten as the sandalwood, for their witnesses had quietly retracted their statements and been encouraged to crawl back into the woodwork.

In the discussions in the House, the Minister eulogized Govardhans philanthropy but omitted to mention that behind the setting up of almost all the smugglers charitable trusts could be seen terrifically well-planned moves to either evade tax or grab land. Always a sound investment, land. Well, felt Dr Chakki, if the record of the House was going to comprise Virbhims fictions, there would be no harm in adding the half-truths, the rumours, the whispers. It could include, for example, the one from last March, namely, that to escape unscathed from the urea scam, Suk.u.maran paid the Minister in the PMs Secretariat two crore rupees just to have forty-five seconds alone with the Prime Minister, on the red carpet, on the tarmac, before the Great Man boarded his plane. Or the old one from his past, that hed arranged for the deaths of his father and an uncle when hed sensed that they were going to sell him out to the police. Or the near-certainty that he had abandoned ivory only because he found the cocaine traffic as lucrative and less c.u.mbersome. Or Dr Chakkis favourite Suk.u.maran myth, that no matter how late the hour, at the end of the day, after his bath and his prayers and before nodding off, he needed to deflower a virgin every night-perhaps again on a red carpet.

In the future, Dr Chakki fancied that he himself would be appearing quite often before the Privileges and other Committees for both his incendiary journalism and his reformist thinking. Well, he was quite ready. Once he had broken through the avarice of the self-serving cla.s.ses and prodded them to see that the welfare of all was in their own interest, he could with an airy heart explain to the Bhanwar Virbhims that he wished to be judged not by those legislators for whom he had scant respect, but by the people. The Committees, nonplussed, would half-heartedly threaten him with jail. He would welcome the idea, for it had for a long time been one of his intentions to expose prison conditions in the Welfare State. To save face, as it were, they might even sentence him to four days imprisonment in the Apnalal Aflatoon Marg jail, but grant him A-one status in it; to wit, a Brahmin among the inmates. He would be provided a cot with a special mattress and bedsheets and be ent.i.tled to the luxuries of newspapers and food from home. He would take along with him an amulet of a tiny sandalwood Ganesh-to remind himself, with its perfume, of why he was there-and hed write about those four days for the next four weeks.

Bhupen Raghupati did not notice that the Dambha who brought in the jug of milk and an ice bucket had changed since the afternoon. At five oclock, he had received in the servants quarters-c.u.m-milkmans dhaba an expected, long telephone call from Madna. Hed spoken guardedly, in dialect; in any case, n.o.body around him could have followed the coded talk of money, accomplices, hits, dry runs, his Durga suit and weapons. After the talk, he had looked happier, more confident. With his ambition rising, hed felt on top of the world, quite the emissary of the G.o.ds.

It took Makhmal a couple of seconds to place the vaguely familiar face. 'Ah-its you. Hed of course forgotten the name. 'Settling down here? Dambha blushed, pleased at being recognized. Makhmal stretched out a regal hand. Dambha touched it, then abashed, dropped to his knees and touched his feet. He hesitated for a moment, then got down on all fours and brushed Makhmals toes with his forehead. Makhmal grunted in appeas.e.m.e.nt, reached forward and proprietorially squeezed the youths a.n.u.s and all of a sudden, guffawed, 'I hope Jayati Aflatoon responds the same way with my father!

Red-eyed and abruptly pensive, he gazed searchingly at Dambhas face, at the adult, knowing mien that had emerged from behind the artlessness.

Efficiency Bar.

The following October. Early in his career, while examining the junk in the official pen tray on one of the desks, Agastya had come across an ear-cleaning pen. Steely-grey in colour, it was made of some aluminium-like metal. Its nib, about an inch long and made from the same material as the body of the pen, was like the end of a ball-point refill, only more rounded, considerate, more moulded to the intricate inner s.p.a.ces of the ear. When hed realized what it was for, Agastya had been touched by the wisdom and the courtesy of the Welfare State. Instinctively, in each new office, hed looked for it first thing on his desk and had never been disappointed. Tickling ones earwax with it was a wonderful way to unwind when the tensions of office became insupportable.

It was in his left ear and he in the midst of his pre-lunch office crash (that is to say, with eyes wide open, body behind his desk swaying in sleep, mind at home, files open before him, hand jotting and signing away) when the door opened to admit a man who looked as though he expected Agastya to spring out of his chair to receive him. He was tall, fiftyish, slim, with gold-rimmed spectacles, a trim jet-black wig, well- fitting dentures and bottle-green safari suit and no moustache. While Agastya struggled to wake up, he, not a man to waste words, strode up to the desk and introduced himself. 'Mr Sen? Good afternoon, Im Dr Harihara Kapila, the Regional Finance Secretary. Youll recall that we were in Labour together three years ago. Im in the city for a dozen meetings with the Centre, but I thought that perhaps we could lunch together, that is, if youre free?

'Yes sir . . . no sir . . . of course sir, what an honour . . . if youll just give me a minute to . . . He rushed to Kalras room. 'What gives?

Kalra too was surprised, a rare occurrence. 'Maybe hes heard of how well you work. Would you like a drink to buck you up?

'Yes . . . What of Doctor Bhatnagars post-lunch trauma-meeting? Youll tell him, of course. I can see the envy and curiosity pushing his colon up, up and out of his mouth . . . You know, he caught me with the stencil-pen in my ear.

Dr Kapila had naturally been given one of the offices newer Amba.s.sadors, air-conditioned, black-gla.s.sed, fitted with a stereo and a bottle of scent on the velvet-coloured dashboard. 'Where would you like to lunch, Mr Sen?

'The Bageecha, sir. Mr Sen was feeling happy after two large, quick rums. 'Its new, sir, an air-conditioned greenhouse, very interesting, tropical lush stuff, enormous potted plants, practically sky-high, all fake plastic, and sometimes a live band that specializes, according to the crooner, in rarities-which means terrible songs that no one in the restaurant has ever heard before. Hes clever, thinks the crooner, because if you send in a request for one of your favourites, an oldie goldie, what in my youth I would have called An All Time Cla.s.sic-Now Or Never, for example . . . did you too, when you were young, sir, categorize books, movies and songs into All Time Cla.s.sic, Cla.s.sic, All Time Great, Great, All Time Time Pa.s.s and Time Pa.s.s? . . . Agonising, these decisions of ones nonage . . . But the fuc-crooner. h.e.l.l read your request, b.l.o.w.j.o.b the microphone, crack a joke into it about your request-very personal, in bad taste-and then sing something else, whichll sound as though he composed it that morning in the bus, squeezed in the crush of peak hour, with his nose jammed into a couple of armpits.

'Twenty-five years ago, when I was a.s.sistant Collector at Pinchpaguda, your father was my Commissioner. How is he now?

'In fine fettle, to use one of his phrases. Strong enough to break a camels back. Not that hed want to, of course.

'Please give him my warmest regards when you next communicate with him.

'Certainly sir. Raj Bhavan has a fax now, for sure. Do you want to fax him yourself, directly? When your regards arrive just like that, out of the blue, Im sure that h.e.l.l be very-well, warmed.

'I have the Raj Bhavan fax number somewhere already, thank you.

Their waiter was moustached and in the black and white of a penguin. Dr Kapila waved the booze menu away. Agastya recalled it to order a Scotch and soda. 'Im nervous, sir, if you dont mind, to be frank. Alcohol, Ive noticed, sharpens my wits. In office, at least. And this is a working lunch, certainly. Finance Secretary and all that.

'When I chose you for your present b.o.o.bZ post, Id remembered what you were like. You must be a chip off the old block, Id reminded myself. Menon in Personnel told me that youd whizzed off on long leave because from your Manure Supply post, you wanted to avoid going back to Madna as Collector for a second time-and that you returned from leave for the b.o.o.bZ post only because you ran out of money.

'Ah, but Menon the triple agent didnt tell you why I ran out of money. Because I had neither a PA nor a peon while I was on leave, thats why. Meaning that to collect my monthly pay cheque from the Treasury, I had no lackey to send, so Id to go myself. The Treasury of course is part of your empire, isnt it, sir? The clerk wanted three hundred rupees before he released me my salary. Dont be silly, you fool, I retorted, I belong to the Steel Frame, you cant expect me to bribe you, hara.s.s somebody else.

'My reaction must have offended him because as a result, he packed me off on a sort of treasure hunt in the Treasury. Here, get an authorization from the Treasury Officer, the Drawing and Disbursing Officers clearance, the signature of the Accounts Officer, the counter-signature of your Controlling Officer and a copy of the sanction order, duly certified by at least the a.s.sistant Financial Controller. Toughski-s.h.i.tski, marathon man, chip off the old block, absolutely, that I am, I plodded off on the first round of the hunt. I joined a queue of forty-odd losers, all lumpen, waiting to meet some b.u.g.g.e.r who wasnt, as we say, in his seat. The peon at the door, crafty and smelly like some creature out of a fairy tale, officially had no idea when the b.u.g.g.e.r would return but for a bribe could ensure that I slipped in to meet him first of all, way before the lumpen. Cla.s.s consciousness, I dare say.

'Look here, I thundered, Steel Frame and all that, the lawful Descendant of the Child of Empire. The peon retorted that hed summon the police and turn me in for impersonating an Honourable Member of the Civil Service. Shattered by the encounter with the real world, unable to control my trembling calves and chattering teeth, and with my blood at sub-zero, I prepared to wobble off to borrow some money from my uncle to last out the month. Man, what a f.u.c.king jungle. At the next table pleaded a doddering old bird whose pension they had suddenly stopped. It had taken him six devastating visits to find out that the cause was the Proof-of-Life Certificate that he needed to submit once every five years, that he obviously hadnt deposited in time and-silly man-that was not to be confused with the attested receipts of payment that were required every month. It simply wasnt enough proof of life that he had showed up in person before the clerk.

'Who was being admirably logical, patient and unhelpful. He was a n.o.body, a mere clerk, a file-pusher and -preserver, certainly not a taker of-ugh!-decisions. Go and meet my boss, hed suggested helpfully-after taking pity on the old man, as it were. The boss of course hadnt been available on any of those six visits. The clerk had even mooted that it was time for a revolution.

'It boggles the mind, sir, that millions of similar cases of hara.s.sment occur every day. Id even propose that as an economy measure, we subst.i.tute for life imprisonment for our criminals a series of such encounters with the Welfare State at what Dr Bhatnagar-our Ace of Spades-would call the operative level. It would surely finish the criminal off within weeks and we wouldnt moreover have to suffer any of that tiresome rubbish about Human Rights in our jails. Ive thought most of it out. The thugs can choose from the electricity, telephones and munic.i.p.al offices. The complaints thatll be thrust on them will be some of the standard ones-the phones been dead, for example, ever since its been installed and just because ones written in in rather strong terms, ones received a bill of two lakh rupees, that sort of thing. One can pick and choose from the Grievances columns of any of the daily newspapers.

'Two: Ive decided that the rapists and murderers will be dispatched to our State hospitals to be treated for tuberculosis. That wouldnt be-if youll pardon the expression, sir-a criminal wastage of resources because apparently we all have either active or dormant TB. If not, it can be quite easily picked up from the OPD itself. Rest a.s.sured, sir, that the hospital will take care of them all. Theyll cut them open, insert-and abandon-a rusted pair of scissors in the folds of the small intestine, st.i.tch them up again right as rain and send them off with a pat on their backs for being so cooperative on the operating table. Each time the rapist returns with a complaint of high fever, pus in his belly b.u.t.ton and an agonizing tummy ache, theyll slice him open and slip in another rusted instrument. No wonder that our hospitals whine all the time about shortfalls in surgical appliances.

'Three: Should women criminals be packed off to the labour room? Need more be said? Your kind attention is invited to one of the State hospitals in the north somewhere, where, just before lunch, an intern found himself alone with a woman in labour in the delivery room. Alone because, according to the muddled newspaper report, everybody else had downed tools-a vulgar expression, Ive always felt-in a lightning strike. The intern must therefore, before anything else, be applauded for his heroism.

'The foetus was in breech. The intern, having no idea what to do, panicked. He rushed up and down the corridors for a while, blubbering for help, but found n.o.body else on duty, apparently, except a second heroic intern who was going nuts trying to patch up some fat puling hunger-striker whod been shot at by pa.s.sing terrorists while hed been protesting against something completely different-the Kansal Commission, I think. The first heroic intern returned to his responsibility, steeled himself, groped, found a leg of the foetus and yanked. He must have heaved pretty hard because, according to the box item, he stopped only when he realized that hed left the head and shoulders behind. The report added that it was then that he zipped off to partic.i.p.ate in the lightning strike.

'From your expression, sir, I gather that you didnt think that to be an appropriate yarn to accompany an aperitif, and that you wouldnt wish such an adventure even on a criminal. But why do these horror stories happen only to the poor, the wretched, the f.u.c.ked of the earth? Why not to our serial killers or to Dr Bhatnagar? The Welfare State exists-has been created-for them, hasnt it, for the economically, socially, culturally d.a.m.ned. So we build them a hospital to which they walk fifteen kilometres to have their babies delivered. When we satisfactorily face these questions, well be on our way into the next millennium with b.o.o.bZ. G.o.d Deliver Us from Our Interns, by the way, was the t.i.tle of the news item.

'One of the biggest fears, sir, of the old block, incidentally, is that h.e.l.l have his heart attack while in harness, that unconscious, h.e.l.l be limousined off to the Intensive Care Unit of a Welfare State hospital-from which, naturally, h.e.l.l never return because h.e.l.l be at the mercy of the behemoth. After so many distinguished years in the civil service, what is my daily prayer? Heaven help me, O Lord, from any encounters with the State as a private citizen. Against the cop, the telephone linesman, the property tax a.s.sessor and Dr Bhatnagar, I must have my PA, my peon and my white Amba.s.sador car. How many civil servants do you know, sir, who zip off on long leave just for the heck of it? A handful, I bet. Theyre too scared.

'Calves still trembling, Id phoned Dhrubo for counsel. Dhrubo Jyoti Ghosh-Dastidar. Do you know him? Hes a couple of years my junior in the cadre, but weve been friends since KG. Hes here in Aflatoon Bhavan and is my mole at the Centre. He knows people in Personnel. Last week, he managed, for example, to avoid being posted as Deputy Chief a.s.sessor of Confiscated Contraband. He tells me that the villains are unhappy with me and want me out of the way. A monstrously unjust world.

'Dhrubo it was who had suggested that I immediately return from leave, join an office somewhere and send a cop off to the Treasury for my salary arrears. We arent a Police State yet, Id reminded him loftily. Once installed here, I requested our top agent, a genius at liaison, the backbone of this dungheap, Madam Tina, to do the needful. She returned with the bank. Arrears that I hadnt dreamed of existed, lots of Regularization of Pre-Revised Pay Scales Emoluments, and Advance Interim Reliefs. Spirit soaring with visions of freedom, sick to death of Dr Bhatnagar, I applied for leave on the grounds that my mothers become serious once more.

'Doesnt he know that shes dead?

'Hes G.o.ds bad joke on Asia. Nothing that doesnt concern him moves a b.l.o.o.d.y centimetre. So he hasnt yet recommended my leave application. Fed up with him, I then sent in last week a letter of resignation from the civil service. Those are the only two pieces of paper on his desk. He cant handle either.

A second waiter drifted over with the real menu. Agastya ordered a third Scotch, chicken tikkas, prawn fried rice, mutton curry and pork vindaloo. In pointed contrast, Dr Kapila asked for some light vegetarian c.r.a.p, an eggless salad, a raita, mineral water, that sort of thing. Agastya gazed at him both happily and warily, that is, hed half-guessed what the lunch was for, he didnt care, he liked the impression of his companion that hed received of a shy, gentle, well-bred and slightly boring nature, and he still wanted to see how he, Dr Kapila, would play his cards. It was good to be drunk. Sober, such a lunch with a teetotaller, vegetarian, Brahmin, senior civil servant who had, moreover, a genuine Ph.D in Economics, for him would have been inconceivable.

Hed been reluctant to speak of their work in the office and had tried to hide his unwillingness by babbling of other things. He couldnt see how hed be able to convincingly explain to an outsider the pointlessness, the horrifyingly comic futility and irrelevance of the daily acts of their official lives. Dr Kapila wouldnt believe him and would probably mentally dismiss him as juvenile, silly and unnecessarily mean. He couldnt have believed himself.

Not when he described, just as an example, the routine crisis that all of last week had convulsed the office, truly a place of no illusions. A fine morning, the sun had promised to be clean and warm, it had looked as though the West Indies would lose the cricket, so one-half simply hadnt turned up at office and another quarter had melted away after attendance. Dr Bhatnagar had been tied up-literally, Agastya liked to imagine-in the Home Ministry. Kalra and Agastya therefore had settled down on the sofa before the telly in Dr Bhatnagars office room. Agastya had been feeling particularly good all morning because the office car had picked him up from home on time-well, almost, give or take an hour.

Those were his princ.i.p.al moments of office-related tension during the day. Would the b.u.g.g.e.r show up or not, or would he have to phone Footstench only to learn that none of the cars were free because Sherni Auntie and Bitiya had commandeered one each? Three times a week on the average, when the car failed to turn up, he, cursing the life that he led, would drive to office in his uncles falling-to-pieces Amba.s.sador. Apart from the moments when the traffic frightened him to death, the twenty minutes that he spent behind the wheel tended to be self-harrowing. Just why are you, in your f.u.c.king middle-age, wasting your life away, driving a kerosene tin thats going to break down on you right now, in the next five minutes, even though you spend five thousand rupees every month on it and a further five thousand on petrol? And just wheres all that money coming from? Why arent you outside this car, begging on the streets, on crutches at a traffic light, importuning the windows of cars that contain suckers like you? However, when you think of where youre heading to, of the smog-like, grey blankness of the day to come, can you will yourself to change gears, steer this wheel, pump these brakes? Quite often, in a routine traffic jam, hed got out of the car, lifted the bonnet, feigned a breakdown and pretended to fiddle with what he thought were called spark plugs simply because sitting behind the wheel had become unbearable, because he needed to have something to do, even if it was only to add to the chaos by accidentally, in pa.s.sing, touching and disturbing a wire or tube that would actually lead to the car not starting up when the snarl at last showed signs of letting up; it seemed as good a way of pa.s.sing the day as hanging around in office. So low had his self-esteem been on such occasions that hed distinctly heard disembodied voices snickering to one another: Aha-the a.r.s.eholes on his way to office and The monkeys p.r.i.c.k is down and out and blue. The voices had made him feel like Joan of Arc till hed realized that theyd snickered in Hinglish, the language of tomorrow.

In office, they hadnt expected Dr Bhatnagar to show up at all. Not only because of the West Indies, but also because of the successful official dinner that hed hosted three evenings before, to which hed invited, inter-alia, to be frank, the key Additional Secretary in External Affairs who dealt with UN postings, along with some of the chaps in Commerce. At the dinner, hed drunk one Scotch rather quickly under the cold fish-eyes of Sherni Auntie, got high more on nervousness than alcohol and wolfed down the food with both hands because itd been both sumptuous and free. All evening, Sherni Auntie had as usual supervised with eagle eye the loading of the tiffin-carriers that had been dispatched home at regular intervals of half-an-hour to satisfy the nutritional needs of her expanding children. The office mini-van, dubbed the Gravy Train by Agastya and the Dining Car by the cooks, had been specifically a.s.signed to the kitchen for ferrying the food. Overseeing the stewards during the filling up of the tiffin carriers was essential, so Sherni Auntie had learnt through bitter experience. For on the occasions that she hadnt been around, the poor things at home had received what she indignantly called stepmotherly treatment-to wit, two compartments of curry but no pieces of mutton, dal but no fried fish, boiled rice but no chicken biryani, potato chops but no paneer tikka, potato fingers but no devilled eggs, chapatis but no methi parathas, a couple of tins of condensed milk but no carrot halwa. 'Its the greed and vulgarity of these lower fellows, Dr Bhatnagar had clarified, sucking gravy off the fingers of his left hand. 'You see, theyre simply not used to good food and all that.

At these dinners, the duties of Agastya, Kalra and Footstench were to wear ill-fitting suits and hang around. Periodically, theyd fade into one of the anterooms of the Liaison Suite and sort of bathe in Glenfiddich and Royal Salute. After each Patiala peg, theyd munch mouthfuls of cardamom and walk out slowly and carefully to check on things, particularly Sherni Auntie, short, white, snub-nosed, not especially fat elsewhere but with the fattest, jelly-like a.r.s.e that the Liaison Suite had ever seen, complete with a subcutaneous life of its own. Time and again, Agastya watched the faces of the guests when it traversed them; there was not one head that did not swivel to observe its gelatinous pa.s.sage. It petrified the entire office, her husband most of all. In front of it, he behaved as nervously as, to use Kalras carefully-chosen simile, a child before its stepmother. 'Hes an orphan, didnt you know? The omniscient PA had revealed. 'Which goes to show, doesnt it, that even orphans can be b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

The Liaison Suite of course was the set of rooms on the second floor of the office building where the Commissioner threw his official parties when they, the rooms, were not occupied by some VIP from the regional government. Kalra had explained that during the Golden Age, the Liaison Suite had been built and christened by the-then Commissioner Bhupen Raghupati. A rare combination of vision and drive, hed needed a place where he could f.u.c.k in peace the wh.o.r.es that were procured for him. Since he paid for them out of the office contingency fund, it was only fitting that the State pay for the place too.

At these official dinners, alcohol greatly increased Agastyas appreciation of Dr Bhatnagars qualities, prominent amongst which was his skill at name-and-designation-dropping.It is with pride, sir, Agastya had declared after a few weeks under his tutelage, 'that I wish to report that Im learning to pick up your droppings. Thus, through the evening, whenever he felt Dr Bhatnagars pink eyes on him, he bent his head and stuck his b.u.m out at the correct sycophantic angle and began to nod his agreement with whatever bilge Doctor Saab was trilling out at that moment.

'Yes, it was Geneva-Captain Chandra was rather keen on the post, but you know, to be frank, hes an ex-airlines pilot, so low IQ and all that, and to quote Amba.s.sador Saleykhan-he has too much ego-sheego. In fact, Amba.s.sador Saleykhand proposed my name-Amba.s.sador Saleykhan- it was clear that Dr Bhatnagar liked to p.r.o.nounce the word 'amba.s.sador. He lolled it around on his tongue like a d.i.l.d.o and his mouth remained open in an O for a second after each emission-'I speak of 85, when I was learning the ropes in Geneva and Amba.s.sador Saleykhan was being tipped for Brussels-for which Id been sounded out, of course-its no secret that Amba.s.sador Saleykhan was rather grateful that Id refused-declined, I should say-my sabbatical, you know, at Harvard-so Amba.s.sador Saleykhan and Ive been together for donkeys years-brothers-in-arms, partners-in-crime and what have you . . .

Usually, for close to a week after each official dinner, Dr Bhatnagar would withdraw into the Home Ministry to confer with Sherni Auntie, to a.n.a.lyse and dissect each move and utterance of the evening and thus to tot up his chances of a rosy future. Periodically, of course, in those days of retreat, hed order Kamat the Residence peon to phone and hara.s.s the office.

'Bakra Saabs on his way over. An emergency, Kamat said. Mustve run out of food. Gupt the Hindi stenographer thus interrupted Agastyas and Kalras session before the telly. Gupts post was an Official Language Requirement. He doubled up as Kalras PA because he had absolutely no work. 'Bakra Saab wants an in-house meeting immediately.

In-house meant Agastya, Footstench, Madam Tina, Kalra and a couple of others. A disgusted Kalra refused to go downstairs to receive Dr Bhatnagar-a policy requirement-and dispatched Gupt instead, certain that the sight of the PAs PA beside the car door would infuriate the Doctor no end, but he was past caring.

If there was a point to Dr Bhatnagars meetings, it was usually well-hidden. They tended to be long, incomprehensible, soporific pep talks centred around his cherished Management themes: the Modernization of Administration, the Techniques of Negotiation, the Human Factor: Means Or End? The Will to Change, Strategies for Objectives and the Bottom Line. Someone, usually Kalra, took notes at each of these sessions. They generally stopped all of a sudden, most often when Dr Bhatnagar began to feel hungry. Each of them ended in a flurry of telexes and faxes, aimed at whoever it was that week that Dr Bhatnagar wished to seduce by the power of his positive thinking.

Just a handful of comatose subordinates around his battlefield of a desk, but one could actually nod off under his nose if one wished to, he being too senior to stoop to officially notice such insubordination. He didnt much like any interruptions of his flow and all questions had to be reserved for the end. Not that his inferiors had worked out any tactics beforehand, but skill and experience alone had devolved upon Footstench the responsibility of encouraging Dr Bhatnagar to meander on for the duration of the session without disturbing the peace. At every third or fourth phrase therefore, Footstenchs goatee would bob up and down in agreement, or his black eyes would gleam in admiration, and even when, during the post-lunch sittings, they threatened to close and his rhythmic rumbles of approval began to sound like snores, hed still continue to emit his steady murmurs of appreciation: ' . . . absolutely . . . weve to keep an ear out for their demandments . . . yes, to come to the nuts and bolts of your gra.s.sroots . . . get down, of course, on the bra.s.s staff . . .

The Wednesday of the near-debacle of the West Indies, Dr Bhatnagar surprised his in-house team with his black wig, his soft contact lenses and his new go-getting manner. 'If four baskets of the very best mangoes have to be picked up from the West Coast and personally deposited in Hyderabad for a marriage positively by Sunday, whats the best way to do it? The new Dr Bhatnagar had come straight to the point of the meeting, except that his in-house team took half an hour to realize it. Finally, Agastya suggested that they fly Sarwate the Dispatch Clerk out for the mission because in any case, hed be disappearing a week later, on leave, to get married in Hyderabad itself. If they packed him off by plane-at the States cost-and a few days earlier, itd be the ideal wedding present from the office. Everyone applauded the idea. Dr Bhatnagar actually said, 'Bravo and shot off a fax to the Additional Secretary, External Affairs, repeated to about six other people: Apropos our emergency telecon this morning at my residence re Operation Hyderabad Mango, am completely in control and charge of the situation. Consider mission accomplished. Any other fruitful interface desirable, please convey the needful. Regards.

The very next day, the new Dr Bhatnagar sent Footstench off on the first flight after the mangoes. Kalra later explained that the Doctor-that is to say, Sherni Auntie-had had an afterthought. Apparently, the Additional Secretary had been so pleased with Dr Bhatnagars promptness that, at the latters suggestion, hed upped the baskets of mangoes to five, the fifth being a gift for the Doctor himself. However, on Wednesday afternoon, while reviewing his plan of action, Dr Bhatnagar had suddenly realized that the last basket would take a long time to reach its destination since Sarwate the Dispatch Clerk would be away for a month. In a panic, hed phoned the Home Ministry on the hotline, the red phone on his desk that Kalra had been instructed to use only to contact Sherni Auntie.

From the official dinner to the wig and contact lenses, Operation Hyderabad Mango, all in all, cost the Office of the Liaison Commissioner about eighty thousand rupees. Money well spent, since Dr Bhatnagar got his UN a.s.signment shortly after. It made Agastya curious to see the UN, where the civil servants of the world congregated; the scope would be breathtaking.

The costs of the wig and contact lenses were borne by the Welfare State under Medical Expenses. They should not, strictly speaking, be computed along with the expenditure on Operation Hyderabad Mango since they belong to a larger strategy. They were in fact the fallout of a policy decision of the Home Ministry, taken keeping in mind the highest level, namely, Prime Minister Bhuvan Aflatoon, at that point about twenty months old in office, and his coterie, youngish, full of ideas, forward-looking. Whatever would their expectations be from the few successful, go-getting, experienced, yet mentally alert members of the Steel Frame? No spectacles, certainly, just sleek reading gla.s.ses. A decent-looking pate. What else?

No black Amba.s.sador cars, because itd been rumoured that during his autumn break on one of the Nicobar islands, Bhuvan Aflatoon had referred to his motorcade as a group of fat black dung beetles too stuffed with s.h.i.t to more than crawl. There mustve been some truth to the rumour because it will be recalled that not long after Dussehra, the motorcades of the VIPs of the Welfare State switched from black Amba.s.sadors to steel-grey Contessas.

What else was in? Signing files, looking at papers, like the PM only on Thursdays so that decisions could be announced on Fridays and effected-things could get cracking, in Dr Bhatnagars words-on Mondays. On Thursday afternoon, therefore, Kalra on the intercom to Agastya: 'Good afternoon, sir. About the resignation letter that you handed in, Bakra Saab wants to know whether youre serious or whether youre fed up.

'Im fed up. Its my mother whos serious.

'Well, hes finally decided not to do anything about it, except that he isnt yet sure whether he should tell you. You see, he and Sherni Auntie have been advised not to rock the boat until the UN a.s.signment comes through. Thus, in the past few days, on top of that enormous burden of the affairs of state that rests on his wide, steady shoulders, has come to perch-and rock-in his words, a new Beast of Anxiety. Am I rocking the boat when I send a fax to our High Commissioner in Australia congratulating her-inter-alia-on her fifty-fifth birthday? When I allow Sherni Auntie to have a second office car for the day since my revered mother-in-law is visiting? When I sign the letter forwarding, three weeks late, our Performance Budget, to the government? And when I decide to attend in person the General Body Meeting of the Gaj.a.pati Aflatoon Centenary Celebrations Committee-with Shri Agastya in tow, of course, in case I need someone to glare at when somebody more senior glares at me-which of my decisions can rock the boat? . . . To quote him again, in any decently-managed organization, one is paid, as the years pa.s.s, for the width and steadiness of ones shoulders.

To resolve the uncertainty of his resignation, Kalra then advised Agastya to seek an appointment with the capitals happening astrologer, Baba Mastram, though he also warned him that getting five minutes could well take six weeks. The Bhatnagars had tried for a month and had succeeded only when Doctor Saab had accepted Kalras suggestion that he himself speak to the Babas PA, because the latter had made it clear to Kalra each time that they had chatted, that he didnt much care to speak to suppliants PAs. It was the Baba whod advised the Bhatnagars in sonorous Sanskrit, in a three-minute session that had cost them a donation of twenty thousand rupees-not to rock the boat, to allow Luck, as it were, to clamber aboard.

The office, to a man, prayed for Dr Bhatnagars departure. It had prayed the previous summer too, when the UN had let it down. 'The rains wont come, Footstench, a minor oracle in his own right, had proclaimed, 'until he goes. Sure enough, last years monsoon had been catastrophic for the agriculture forecast.

Agastya wondered whether, as a sort of surrogate offering to the G.o.ds, to egg them on, as it were, into egging on the UN, he should gift Baby Bhatnagar a couple of his sweaters. The original idea, of course, of presents to the Bhatnagar family on appropriate occasions had sprouted from the good Doctor himself. Its expression varied from the subtle-'Agastya, dont phone me tomorrow before nine forty-five. Its my birthday, you see, and weve organized a rather long, early morning puja-to the circuitously direct, as in Kalra to Agastya: 'Good afternoon, sir. Dyou remember the reddish-brown turtle-neck sweater that you wore to work on Monday? . . . Doctor Saab admires your taste in clothes and thinks that it would be a gracious gesture if you were to gift that sweater to Baby this week-dry-cleaned, of course. Its a good week for Baby to receive, so the stars foretell Sherni Auntie. If you do, he might even consider forwarding your letter of resignation with his recommendation . . . no, just trying his luck, I think, seeing what he can grab before he departs. In return for the sweater, he also offers his counsel: "Dont quit, dont be silly. You havent married yet, your worth on the marketll vanish without a trace, like hot samosas and chutney on a cold, rainy day. With your useless English Literature-civil service background, youre unemployable. Out there in the jungle, your upbringing itself will be an insurmountable Efficiency Bar."

Dr Kapila finished his lunch quite early and while patiently watching Agastya gorge his, chatted of b.o.o.bZ, how essential it was in theory and how impossible in practice. After they had ordered dessert, easily and smoothly, like a knife cutting through c.r.a.p, he introduced the subject of his daughter. At one moment, they had been debating gulab jamuns versus mango ice cream and when Agastya focused next, the moot point had become an attractive, single, young woman with a mind of her own.

'I want her to marry-whoever she wants, but marry. Then sh.e.l.l stabilize. After which, she can do whatever she wishes-her abandoned Ph.D on the influx into the Punjab of labour from Bihar, her Bharatnatyam-at which she showed promise-even her silly TV job, whatever. She isnt stupid, you know. Shes tall, beautiful and intelligent, even if its her father speaking. She was shortlisted for the Rhodes scholarship in her final year in college. At the last interview, at the Golf Club, Id sat outside in the lobby and prayed that she wouldnt make it, because it would have upset all my plans for her. Do you think Im old-fashioned? . . . But shes precious, and theres a time for everything in life, a time for fun and a time for responsibilities. I asked her whether shed like to sit the Civil Services exam; instead, she joined some incredible fly-by-night television production company called TV Tomorrow. It pays her per month more than what I earn per year after twenty-six distinguished years in the civil service. I must say that there are times when I dont understand the economics of the modern age. Nor its outlook . . . We-my wife and I-have built a rather nice house for ourselves in Gulmohar Vihar-do you know it? Its a bit far from the centre of town-fortunately, I say-fresh air and all that, breathing s.p.a.ce-but my daughter simply refuses to stay with us for more than the occasional weekend. Its embarra.s.sing in company, she contends, to reveal that one stays in the suburbs and with ones parents. To quote her, a total loss, yaar. Shes rented a place the size of a paperback novel just off Cathedral Road. I suspect that her rent is paid by her Gujarati venture capitalist friend. Sunitas conduct has made her mother more religious than ever. Shes changed her name too-Sunita, I mean-to Kamya Malhotra, after a character in some modern epic or myth, I forget which.

'Would you still consider me eligible, sir, if I were to quit the government and join a small ad agency as its Senior Vice-President, Public Affairs?

'Youd be less attractive, but not entirely worthless . . . which organization were you thinking of?

'Softsell.

'But the DGPs office reported that after your transfer to the capital, your ardour for that lady had considerably diminished.

'On the contrary, sir, to cite St Augustine, absence makes the fart go Honda. Were still thick as thieves, a chain gang, h.e.l.ls Angels, absolutely.

As usual, Agastya exaggerated without meaning to. To be sure, whenever he and Daya met, Casper still flew with the old vigour and froth, but because several hundred kilometres now separated them, they simply met less often. They wrote occasionally and frequently wished they hadnt. They were both by nature composed, self-centred and unhappy. They thought of each other only in fits and starts, often guiltily, puzzled at the fickleness of their desire. They would have both liked to return to the old life-the romance by night, the yoghurt with honey at three in the morning, the happy film music through the open French windows-but they-Agastya in particular-were too dazed by the minutiae of their daily lives to act, to move towards recapturing their past. Their letters to each other reflected their sadness and confusion only indirectly, that is to say, they never straightforwardly described their feelings. Daya for example never wrote: 'Look, cut the c.r.a.p, lets be together because then we both feel very nice, and despite-or perhaps because of-the differences in age, temperament and upbringing, we should give a future together a chance. Therefore, please ask the Welfare State for a transfer back to where you belong. Her letters instead were altogether of a different style.

August, That last visit of yours wasnt such a grand success, was it? . . . youve definitely become thinner, weaker and more depressed (oh-oh, she means Thursday night, when she could come just once because I asphyxiated and had a heart attack with my nose in her p.u.s.s.y. How selfish of the darling, how come she hasnt blown me even once, and we havent f.u.c.ked-in the sense of in-out, in-out, the earth moves, in-out-even once in all these nights that weve spent together. Weve never even met by day. Im not even sure that she and I can be called an affair. Which modern oracle can I ask?) . . . Please give me a weeks notice of your next trip and Ill set up an appointment with my doctor, a h.o.m.oeopath with an absolutely luminous intelligence. Yours is a condition that can be corrected. Ive read up a bit on your problems and am convinced that Dr Thadani is the person for you. I dont know if youve ever consulted any specialist, but even if you have, please meet this luminary. Ill accompany you and if you like, wait outside while you chat with him. Please, August, you owe yourself a chance. Shape up! Why do you allow the inertness of your official life to seep into the personal?

What else is new? Quite accidentally, I reread Wuthering Heights last week and was very impressed by Emily Brontes s.e.xual energy, by its (obvious) transformation into a creative energy and by its transference onto the elements, the very landscape, of the book. Heathcliff is natures power wonderfully anthropomorphized, of course . . .

Agastya shuddered at the prospect of their next a.s.signation.

Moreover, she was right; his last visit hadnt been such a grand success. Of the three days that hed been there, shed had a female friend-a large, Caucasian Anand Margi whom Daya had addressed as Lazy Susie-staying over two nights and sharing her bed, hai Ram, so what was one to infer? Lazy Susie and Agastya hadnt hit it off. Shed found August, his nickname, rather droll and him in general ill-informed when he, to make polite conversation, had asked her whether she, as an Anand Margi, liked dancing with the skulls of wolves. Later, Daya had told him that Lazy Susie had disclosed to her that the vibrations that she, Lazy Susie, had received from Agastya had been 'cold, sneering and anti-life.

One of the many things that hed liked about Daya was that she came from another planet; there existed nothing to connect her with the world of the Pay Commission, the Steel Frame, Interim Relief, Off-White Paper and the Efficiency Bar. With her, therefore, hed felt less tired, less futile. On his last visit, however, he learnt that he should have known better; the Welfare State was truly everywhere and even those who sneered at its clumsiness condescended to suck at its dugs.

Over mugs of hand-churned b.u.t.termilk and tiny Chinese bowls of raisins and blanched almonds, they had been chatting in their usual manner of this and that; Daya had been asking him whether hed finally succeeded in slipping either a request for a transfer or a letter of resignation past his extraordinary boss and Agastya had been describing how her health food tended to fill him up like a balloon with gas and how therefore it was the one element of his old life that he didnt miss, when she had sighed, tied up her hair at the nape in a bun and muttered: 'As Senior Vice-President, Public Affairs, youd be the talk of the town.

'Yes, but what if I quit my job and join you and then you die?

'Well, Ill try to take you with me, if you like. I mean, really. And dont eat so much if flatulence is a problem.

In a bit of a huff, she had swished off to the kitchen with the mugs and unfinished bowls. Shed returned, calmer and more determined, to suggest that if he gave her a copy of the letter in which he was going to ask for a transfer, shed probably be able to swing it through Jayati Aflatoon.

'Oh, I say.

Apparently, they had been dear dear friends ever since boarding school. Agastya must have looked disoriented because Daya had continued, 'In the few minutes per day that you must take off from gazing at your navel and feeling sorry for it, have you never wondered what takes me to the capital twice a month? Apart from love of you, of course. Those hotel bills and plane tickets-it isnt the hand of G.o.d, you know, that pays for them. But pretty close. Daya had turned out to be the Princ.i.p.al Media Advisor to the Executive Group of the Gaj.a.pati Aflatoon Centenary Celebrations Committee. The Executive Group was nominally headed by the Prime Minister but the buzz confirmed that it was his power-hungry, culture-loving wife-of-cousin who actually called the shots.

She had got her friends and lovers into the group-Rani Chandra, Rajani Suroor, people she could work with. Culture was fun-tribal operas, carnivals of ethnic wear-one dressed to kill all the time for elaborate dos-not dreary and dusty like Land Reforms or the Agriculture Census. Her friends of course worked gratis, for the honour (the equity, in Dayas words) and the fun of peeking at the behemoth from up close-and for the pickings that were to be had. Daya for example had an eye on the general elections (G.o.d willing) eighteen months away and the ruling partys advertising and publicity plans for it. Jayati would get her cut, naturally, were Softsell to succeed in seducing the party of the Aflatoons into letting the agency manage its fabulous publicity budget. In its high places, the Welfare State could be quite exciting.

And munificent. To celebrate the centenary of the birth of Gaj.a.pati Aflatoon, statesman extraordinaire, founding father and Guide of the Nation, the Committee had over a hundred and fifty crores to spend. In Parliament, members of the Opposition, feigning outrage, had yelled and bayed for over four hours (at the rate of fifty thousand rupees per second) on the subject of the gross extravagance of the Centenary Committee. Had the government again lost its mind? Would the Prime Minister care to explain why he had sanctioned ten crore rupees to combat the plague scare in Madna and fifteen times that amount to celebrate the birthday of his grand-uncle? Had he any plans for the wedding anniversary of his parents which was just round the corner? Why did the Centenary Committee have an incredible one hundred and fifty members? One fiddler for each crore-was that the idea? If so, why had the government discriminated against the backward castes? Didnt they too enjoy the right to nibble? Why had the recommendations of the Kansal Commission not been implemented in the Centenary Committee? Did the government believe that matters of culture and heritage were above the grasp of the depressed castes? If the Committee truly comprised, to quote the Government Resolution that had announced it, the 'best and brightest of our cultural firmament, then how on earth could one explain the presence in it of Bhanwar Virbhim? And Madam Jayati Aflatoon and her friends? Whatever were they doing there?

The Opposition had indeed enjoyed itself hugely. When Jayati Aflatoons name had cropped up, Member of Parliament Bhootnath Gaitonde had suddenly jumped up from his bench and baying for attention, stridden down to the Well of the House, waving a doc.u.ment that hed hollered was the New Charter of Sycophancy of the ruling party. n.o.body had allowed him to speak but that had never posed a problem in the House. Shrieking over the tumult, shrugging off the hands that reached out to physically shush him, overriding the commands from all quarters of the hall ordering him to keep quiet and c.o.c.k up, clambering over the benches, dancing and dodging in the aisles like a football maestro his colleagues and adversaries who rushed up to show him his place, Bhootnath Gaitonde informed the Chamber of the People of the grand plans that the riffraff of the ruling party, led by the redoubtable Nominated Member of the Regional a.s.sembly from Madna, Shri Makhmal Bagai, had chalked out to celebrate in a befitting manner the fiftieth birthday of the Prime Ministers cousin-by-marriage, Madam Jayati Aflatoon.