The Mammaries Of The Welfare State Part 1

UPAMANYU CHATTERJEE.

The Mammaries of the Welfare State.

Upamanyu Chatterjee was born in 1959 and joined the Indian Administrative Service in 1983. He has written a handful of short stories and two novels-English, August (1988) and The Last Burden (1993). He is married and has two daughters.

In memory of friends:.

Alok Roy, Vikram Malhotra and Anuradha Chopra.

Housing Problem.

Agastya was so enervated by his life in the city that ever so often, when he was alone, he found himself leaning back in his desk chair or resting his head against the armrest of the lumpy sofa in his office that served as his bed, shutting his eyes and weeping silently. The cry generally made him feel better.

His office was his home, so hard-working a civil servant was he. Just a week ago, hed been placidly content in his position of a Joint Commissioner, Rehabilitation (on Leave Not Granted and Without Pay), snugly afloat on the unplumbed murk of the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Welfare State Public Servants Housing Complex Transit Hostel in the countrys capital. As an illegal occupant of flat A-214, he had felt in those days coc.o.o.ned and distanced from the swirl around him. Marathon power cuts in summer, a cleanish Munic.i.p.al swimming pool a minutes cycle ride away, great dope, no s.e.x though-all in all his life on leave had been okay-minus. Then out of the blue-Personnel always moved like lightning when it wanted to f.u.c.k somebodys happiness-hed received his transfer orders to this fifteen-by-fifteen boarded-up section of veranda on the fourteenth floor of the New Secretariat in the western provinces capital city.

The grimy, once-orange, lumpy sofa was for VIP visitors. His predecessor had won it from Protocol and Stores after a stimulating five-week struggle. Beneath the windows lay the plain wooden bench that Agastya had stolen from down the corridor. It was his kitchenette; on it stood his kettle, cafetiere, electric stove and tea things. Beside the door, on a desk, sat a personal computer swathed in dusty dust sheets-the Ultimatum System Configuration Module 133 Mhz Intel Processor 8MB RAM 1 GB HDD 1.44 FDDSVGA Megachrome Monitor Skylight 99 was ent.i.tled to air- conditioning, so it had to remain. The windows of his section of veranda offered a breathtaking view of the worlds largest slum undulating for miles down to the grey fuzziness of the Arabian Sea.

Agastya spent three to four nights a week at Dayas, a forty-five-year-old divorcee whom hed met on the luxury coach that hed caught out of the Transit Hostel on the occasion of his transfer. Theyd found themselves sitting side by side at the rear of the hot and crowded bus. Luxury simply meant that its tickets cost more. Daya was bespectacled, and had been dressed in a whitish salwaar-kameez. Agastya had been in his valedictory present from the staff of his Rehabilitation office, his new blue jeans. After eight years in the civil service, hed come to dread farewell gifts chosen by subordinate office employees; after the tearful speech-making, theyd routinely, on each occasion, given him a clock.

'So that even though time flies, youll remember us, theyd explained when theyd felt that he hadnt looked grateful enough. At the Rehabilitation Commissionerate, therefore, hed summoned the Office Superintendent and asked: 'Do you plan to collect some money for a farewell present for me? Yes? How much will it be? If you dont mind, Ill accompany whoevers going to buy the thing . . .

The long last seat of the bus had been intended for six b.u.ms; eight had been a disgraceful crush. Agastyas right thigh had virtually fused with Dayas left; thus the ice had been broken. The heat had helped too.

Shed taken off her gla.s.ses rather early in their relations.h.i.+p. She had large, tired eyes and a wide mouth. Agastya had immediately yearned to go to sleep with his face restful between her ample, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Only repressed h.o.m.os, his soul had pointed out to him then, long to f.u.c.k women old enough to be their mothers, especially when their own mothers are dead. Ah well, que sera sera.

Shed wanted her sungla.s.ses and some tissues from her travelling bag and hed got up to take it down from the overhead rack when hed noticed an uneven dark blue strip running down the outside of the thigh of her whitish salwaar, like a ribbon down a bandmasters trouser leg. His new blue jeans had been shedding colour like a snake its skin. Destined To Fade, ran their ad; they were called Eff-Ups. Hed died of embarra.s.sment for four seconds, then had plonked down with her bag on his lap, determined not to get up till journeys end, or till she lay down on the floor of the bus, wriggled out of her kurta, peeled off her salwaar, sighed and begged him to gnaw off her panties with his teeth-whichever was earlier. Hadnt she noticed how hed touched her up? Ahh, her spectacles were off. Ohh, the blessings of imperfect sight.

'Where in the city will you be staying?

'Oh . . . at the Raj At.i.thi State Guest House. Daya had looked blank, reminding him that the world of the city encompa.s.sed much more than the universe of the Welfare State. 'Thats on Pandit Samrat s.h.i.+romani Aflatoon Mahamarg. Shed continued to look blank. 'On Cathedral Road, between the Secretariat and what must be the worlds largest garbage dump.

Her face had cleared. 'Ah. The Secretariat was a splendid colonial structure before they boarded up those verandas and installed those Freedom Fighter statues.

The Raj At.i.thi Guest House was a fourteen-storey building crawling with low life. A five-foot-high wall separated its compound from the worlds largest garbage dump. Atop the wall stretched four rows of barbed wire, from various points of which sagged torn polythene bags of diverse colours. These contained human s.h.i.+t in different stages of decomposition. Theyd been flung, of course, at the dump and hadnt made it across the wall. They in fact looked pathetic, like POWs in a Hollywood movie ensnared in a vain attempt to escape from a concentration camp.

'Hmmm . . . breathe deep, my dear, this fragrant, invigorating air, said Agastya to himself as he crossed the covered car park towards the stairs.

Amongst-and in-the twenty-odd white Amba.s.sador cars there nested the low life with its charpais, kerosene stoves, lines of was.h.i.+ng and racing children. It included some of the drivers, peons, bearers, attendants, cooks, orderlies and sweepers who worked in the Guest House and the Secretariat. Like a million other servants of the Welfare State in the city, they faced a housing problem. Theyd got themselves enrolled in the list of those needed for Emergency Services and in almost every other list for priority housing that theyd heard of, namely, Priority Housing List, Top Priority Housing List, Chief Ministers Quota, Housing Ministers Quota; Scheduled Castes Percent, Scheduled Tribes Percent, Backward Cla.s.ses Segment, Other Backward Cla.s.ses Segment and Depressed Groups Reservation. They collected receipts, notifications, stamped doc.u.ments, resolutions and photocopies of illegible forms as a kind of subst.i.tute for brick and cement; n.o.body had either land or houses for them.

On the first floor, Reception was a noisy ceiling fan, a decolam-topped counter with an abandoned dinner thali on it, a flickering tubelight, a vacant armchair, and behind it on the floor a snoring maid in a blue sari. Agastya rapped on the counter, and 'Koi hai? he hollered in his were-the-Steel-Frame-thats-kept-the-country-together voice. The maid snorted and briefly opened one eye. She stopped snoring.

A taciturn bald clerk with crimson eyes had no room for Agastya. Agastya showed him a photocopy of his illegible room reservation form. The clerk belched explosively. With a 'tch of exasperation, the maid got up, adjusted her sari and left. 'Look here, Ive been posted here as Deputy Secretary. (Id rather sniff a eunuchs p.u.s.s.y than bribe you, you shaved a.r.s.ehole.) 'Look here, Im a girder of the Steel Frame, okay? After a twenty-minute discussion, a yawning lackey accompanied Agastya in the groaning lift to a room on the twelfth floor, from where, in the morning, through the birds.h.i.+t, the crud and the whitewash droppings on the window panes, he could enjoy a spectacular view of both the garbage dump and the slum.

The room had two separate beds. The second bed had been unoccupied when hed nodded off, thinking of Dayas blue thighs and-regrettably-smirking. He awoke early and abruptly to discover two men in the second bed and two women and a third man on the floor, all asleep. While he blinked at them, the loo door opened and a fourth man came out with a bottle-green towel around his neck. He and Agastya stared at each other sullenly and silently. Agastya watched him cross over to the jute bag on the table, rummage in it and return to the loo with a shaving razor.

Once in the Secretariat, insecure, disoriented and unhappy, he wanted to meet the Housing Secretary to discuss his housing problem. He couldnt because the Housing Secretary was too senior. Hed joined the Civil Service before Agastya had been fathered. On alternate weekdays, only Joint Secretaries and above could call on him, and only between three and five p.m., to plead for solutions to their housing problems. The others could go f.u.c.k a duck. Ditto for Joint Secretaries and above after theyd pleaded.

His PA told Agastya to go and call on Menon, the Deputy Secretary (Personnel Housing) instead. Menon wasnt in his room; Agastya could finally meet him two days later. Eight years ago, theyd been posted together in the district of Madna and had pleasantly disliked each other.

'Hi, Menon! Long time no see, great to see you, have a nice day . . . look, are you in charge of the Raj At.i.thi Guest House? . . . I share my room with six strangers and Im not used to it. When I return to my room in the evenings, one or two of them are sprawled out on my bed . . . Yes, they do get up when they see me . . . naturally, Steel Frame and all that . . . theyre quite inoffensive, actually, and the younger woman, when aroused, would, Im certain, make the earth move . . . but, I say, the point surely is: what about the prestige and the perks of the Steel Frame? . . . because of that horde in my room, I havent been able to exercise in the morning ever since Ive arrived . . . Ive had to work out in my office room, and some b.u.g.g.e.r downstairs on the thirteenth floor came up to check on all that thumping and interrupted my spot run, so I had to stop, chat with him and start all over again after hed left . . . s.h.i.+t, Im sick of my life here . . . I dont see why you fart around in a three-bedroom two-thousand-square-foot flat by the sea while Ive to moulder in a cloak room with a gang that for all I know could be a nomadic criminal tribe . . . how long did you have to wait before you could allot yourself the flat youre in?

'Three years, simpered Menon.

'Oh. Long pause. 'Theyve placed their gas cylinder and burner right next to my bed, eyeball to eyeball with my pillow, practically . . . the most sullen of the men apparently follows some special diet and cant eat even carrots and tubers in general because they grow underground and dont get any direct sun while growing and therefore are full of germs instead of being full of-well, goodness . . . Ive begun to breakfast and dine with them . . . I decided that on the second day after my first meal in the Guest House Canteen . . . as the British would say, my word! . . . I went to complain about them to the Reception counter . . . their reservations are just as valid as mine-more, actually, because their bookings apparently for ever, whereas mines for a mere ten days . . . so whats going to happen when my time runs out? is what I asked Reception . . . in reply, all of a sudden, it simpered so wickedly that my heart really bobbed up and down for seconds, I swear it . . . my room- and loo-sharers are guests of gun-loving Makhmal Bagai, Honourable scion of the ex-Chief Minister . . . theyre on their way to some place to do a job for him, probably beat up some innocents . . . what a wicked world . . . whatre their women for, then? I asked, and they gave me a Look . . . one cooks, the others for fun . . . some people truly travel in style . . . Look, every time I leave the Guest House in the morning, I dont know how many strangersll be floating around in my room-loo when I return, and whether theyll let me in . . .

Menon asked him to fill up some, forms and, simpering, added that hed see what he could do about his position on the waiting list, which was 1294. 'Unless, he smirked, pus.h.i.+ng across a second set of off-white, cyclostyled papers, 'you want one of these more recent, sub-standard houses. Agastya picked the sheets up with reluctance.

4/Applications/SS/TAB/84-92.

The Welfare State.

Regional Commissionerate of Estates.

Allotment Type 'A(B).

Dated:.

Memorandum.

Subject: Invitations for Applications for Uncla.s.sified Sub-Standard Houses of Type A The undersigned is directed to state that the servants quarters and outhouses (of the erstwhile Imperial Barracks) that do not have any modern amenities and were originally intended to be demolished and that would have been brought down had it not been for the stay order from the High Court that has been obtained in this regard by the Heritage Preservation Trust are therefore now available to those Category A government servants already enrolled on the Emergency Accommodation Shortlist. A list of available locations of these servants quarters and outhouses is at Annexure A.

It may kindly be noted that only those officers who drew a pre-revised salary of Rs 950 per month or above on 1.1.87 and who entered service on or before 1.1.81 are eligible for the above accommodation. Grade III (pre-pre-revised) Short Service Staff are also deemed to be eligible in this regard. The application form is at Annexure B . . .

'What does "do not have modern amenities" mean? Agastya wished to know before he decided. 'No jacuzzi or no c.r.a.parium?

'It probably means an early-morning squat on the beach, with salt water tickling your b.u.m, alongside a hundred thousand of your fellow citizens from Bhayankar. Its quite good fun, Im told, after one loses ones initial middle-cla.s.s inhibitions-rather liberating, lots of fresh air early in the day, no stink. The waiting list for the sub-standard houses stands at 379.

'I cant decide whether 380 is an auspicious number for me or not. Let me first explore other avenues and the apartment blocks on them.

On the phone, Daya sounded happy to hear his voice. After the preliminaries, he got down to business. 'Hi, Daya, do you smoke dope?

She didnt falter at all. 'No. Why?

'Im new to the city. I mean, Ive been here before for meetings 'n things, but I havent stayed here for more than a couple of days at a time. Do you know anybody who can tell me where I can buy some good dope without being hara.s.sed by some cop? Either gra.s.s or charas? Im old-fas.h.i.+oned.

'Ill have to phone you back.

She did, at about seven that evening, while he was vegetating in his office room, observing a tiny mouse scamper about from corner to corner, wondering i) how to extract a TV set for his office out of Protocol and Stores before the World Cup started, and ii) whether, since mice were cute and rats loathsome, it followed that compact men and women were more likely to enjoy better s.e.x than jumbos, other things being equal.

'There are pushers everywhere in the city, one per streetlight, i.e., for every thirty metres of road length. I understand that they usually sell lizard s.h.i.+t to novices. However, I do have a couple of friends of my age who still make believe that the sap gushes just as strong in their veins. They order their charas from Golinaal and Megham-so I gathered. One of them is here from Madna with the latest on the plague; hes never been without dope in the twenty-seven years that Ive known him. If youre desperate, you could join us for a drink-or him for a smoke, I shouldve said.

Agastya was elated at the prospect of meeting Daya again. If her spectacles are off, thats a sign that G.o.d too thinks that I should sleep with her this month. By this weekend. Tonight. He returned to the Guest House to find his room empty and an eviction notice taped to his pillow. It declared that the Executive Engineer (State Housing) hereby gave the legal occupant of Bed No. 1 in Room No. 1206 five days notice to vacate the said bed and to remove his/her belongings from the said room, failing which action as deemed fit under Section 63c (ii) sub-clause 41 d of the State Immovable Properties (Maintenance, Protection and Preservation) Act would be initiated against the illegal occupant ('So help me, G.o.d, murmufed Agastya). Details of that action as deemed fit had presumably been too ghastly for the cyclostyling machine to bear, for the rest of the notice was a muddle of lines wandering off in unexpected directions, lurching over one another, often ambling back on themselves.

He prepared for war by thres.h.i.+ng about all night in Bed No. 2, drafting in his head letters of resignation from the Civil Service. It had been one of his favourite pastimes in the last eight years. 'Im sick of the pointlessness of the work I do and the ridiculous salary that I get for it, you f.u.c.kfaces, was what he, by three a.m., finally settled on; he repeated the line till dawn like a litany just to check the rhythm, its fall. At eleven, fuzzy, unwashed, unexercised and rebellious, he showed up in Menons anteroom to learn that Smirkerd buzzed off for a week to attend, with the Housing Secretary, a seminar on Alternative Housing and The Coastal Regulation Zone.

'I see. Whereve they gone?

'The Seych.e.l.les, sir.

'So what should I do about this eviction notice? Should I sit on my a.r.s.e and rotate until they return, and maybe tickle my b.a.l.l.s with it while rotating?

Menons PA pooh-poohed the idea. 'The standard practice, sir, has been to avail of the shelter of the landmark judgement of the Supreme Court in the case of Bhootnath Gaitonde and Others Versus The Welfare State, wherein the Honourable Court has decreed that the need for shelter, though not a fundamental right of the citizen, nevertheless is so basic a necessity that it ought to be one of the Welfare States primary objectives, that is, if the State considers itself a Welfare State at all. The Honourable Court has demanded, sir, very pointedly, though rhetorically, How is one to distinguish the Welfare State from the Police State? It aptly quotes in this connection Tirupati Aflatoon quoting Kautilya: Only the Rule of Law can guarantee security of life and the welfare of the people. Menons PA paused for a moment for the exasperated look on Agastyas face to change. 'Sir. Bhootnath Gaitonde was one of the two million inhabitants of- he gestured towards the grimy, frosted gla.s.s of the window '-Bhayankar, which, as you know, is the worlds- his voice quivered with pride '-largest slum; it covers over two hundred and fifty hectares. Bhootnath Gaitonde was an advocates clerk, a quiet, well-behaved law-abider, a worm yet to turn, a model citizen but for his address.

'Early one June morning, the Munic.i.p.al Corporation showed up at his door. It had decided that week to clean up his part of Bhayankar-a routine exercise that it undertakes every month in different parts of the city, to tear down the shacks of those without clout, hara.s.s all who do not bribe to devastate the property of the unprepared. Under the noses of the police and the demolition squad, however, Bhootnath Gaitonde waved a stay order from the court. The worm had turned-and moved like lightning.

' "Me-laard," argued he before the judge, "I dont want to stay in this slum, I didnt choose to live surrounded by several varieties of excrement, used sanitary napkins, the rotting refuse tossed out every day by a thousand neighbourhood eating-houses, soiled bandages, broken syringes and bottles chucked out by clinics, dispensaries and hospitals, the rubbish of a thousand and one shops, cottage industries, backyard factories, workshops-and rats, stray dogs and vultures-I didnt select them as my neighbours. Of course, I had no choice; in any other city, with my salary, I would have been staying in a two-room flat in a lower-middle-cla.s.s area with trees, a playground and perhaps even a munic.i.p.al school-but I work in this city, and Im one of the millions that make this city work. Were all here in Bhayankar, me-laard, we clerks, taxi-drivers, autorickshaw-walas, bus-conductors, peons, postmen, delivery boys, shop a.s.sistants, waiters, porters, cleaners, dhobis, telephone linesmen, electricians, plumbers, painters, cobblers, tailors . . . If the Welfare State is the driving force, me-laard, then we are the wheels, and each one of hundreds of thousands of us stays-each with seven-to-ten members of his family-in a ten-by-ten tin-and-jute box; we all troop out and c.r.a.p every morning amongst the vultures and dogs. Our women queue up at the water taps by four a.m. We sh.e.l.l out five rupees a bucket to whichever hoodlums taken over the taps.

' "Ive been in Bhayankar now, me-laard, for twenty-two years, in which time the Welfare States done nothing for me for free-which is as it should be. Im not a freeloader, and Im not complaining. Ive paid in bribes for my ration card, my photo pa.s.s and my electricity metre. Ive been bribed in return for my vote-but thats all fine, its the proper procedure. Self-interest is the only commandment-naturally-of the Welfare State, the rest is waffle."

'Bhootnath Gaitonde, sir, held forth in court for weeks. He reasoned that if the Welfare State was at all humane, it wouldnt dishouse him just before the monsoons, which, as me-laard well knew, could be awesome in this region. Me-laard agreed completely and at the end of a forty-four-page judgement, ordered the Munic.i.p.al Corporation to not even dream of going near Gaitondes shack till the winter.

'Oh you bewitching storyteller, may I cuddle up in your lap like a rapt grandchild, tickle your navel and ask you what happened next?

'No thank you sir. Instead, you could with profit cite the Gaitonde verdict in your appeal against your eviction notice. The cases are very similar, the same city ward, seven-to-ten persons per room, versus a heartless Welfare State, the same season of the year, give or take a few months. On the coast, one really cant tell winter from the monsoon . . . You should submit your application quickly, sir, to the Housing Secretary.

'At once. Tomorrow, anyway. I shall draft it tonight during Night Duty. Can you check it . . .?

'With pleasure, sir, Ill be honoured. Who knows what the future has in store for us? Bhootnath Gaitonde, for example, sir, abandoned Bhayankar long before that winter. He became an active member of the New Vision Democratic Party at the Centre, so enthused was he by his performance in court.

Night Duty was in the Secretariat Control Room. Up and down the sixteen floors, out of the Annexe and into the East Wing, withdrawn from the New Extension and eased into the Old Bas.e.m.e.nt, over the years, the Secretariat Control Room had changed venues in the manner of a file being tossed about from Home Affairs to Labour to Finance to Employment to Personnel to Home Affairs. When Bhanwar Virbhim had been Chief Minister the first time, the idea of a Control Room in the Secretariat had been suggested by his Princ.i.p.al Secretary to 'convince the electorate, sir, that yours is a government committed to delivering the goods.

The Secretariat Control Room was supposed to monitor and sift the information relayed to it by the thousands of Police-, Earthquake-, Flash Flood-, Cyclone-, Typhoon-, Fire-, Landslide-, Other Acts Of G.o.d-, Communal Riot-, Festival Mishap-, Special-and General-Control Rooms located all over the region. To show that the Bhanwar Virbhim government was serious about the Secretariat Control Room, they set up the first one on the sixteenth floor itself, within the Chief Ministers Secretariat, just a few doors away, in fact, from his suite of rooms. After three months, however-'Its a security risk, opined the police on the basis of the evidence that began to be discovered there in the mornings: an empty bottle of Old Monk Rum, a couple of used condoms, a page or two of adult literature. It was then decided to s.h.i.+ft the Room to the Ladies Lunch Room on the third floor; the Ladies Lunch Room sank into the bas.e.m.e.nt to dislodge the Court Receiver of Smuggled Goods, who trudged up to the eighth floor to evict the Controller of Cattle of the Dairy Development Commissionerate, who in turn drifted onto the ninth floor of the Annexe to unhouse the Joint Chairman of the Committee for the Welfare of Nomadic Tribes . . . and so on. At any point of time, at least one Department in the Secretariat is transferring one of its offices from one room to another; since movement is action, a permanent housing problem is itself proof that the government works.

The thousands of Control Rooms in the region had been instructed to inform the Secretariat Control Room of anything important that happened in their areas. But what was unimportant? Naturally, n.o.body could tell. Thus it was that the two phones in the Secretariat Control Room were kept permanently off the hook. The Night Duty staff could therefore better concentrate on the telly. The staff comprised one Deputy Secretary, one Desk Officer, one clerk, one peon, one bearer and four cops. For all of them, the bearer provided dinner (pooris and dal) and snacks (pooris and tea).

Being English-speaking, the seniormost present and a man of the world, Agastya strode up to the TV and switched to BBC. The Look that the others gave him turned his insides to jelly. From eight to eight, he too then watched, in fits and starts, four-and-a-half benumbing, cacophonic, brutal, gormless Hindi films-and a sluggish rat that hed spotted beneath one of the almirahs and that was plainly invisible to the other TV-watchers.

In the wee hours, when he was in a catatonic trance on the settee, skull twitching to the thwacks, thuds and shrieks from the TV, G.o.d pointed out to him that his housing problemd been solved, hadnt it; all that he had to do was to smuggle in, in his file boxes, his clothes, his tape recorder, ca.s.settes, his books.

By Friday evening, hed begun to feel at home in his boarded-up section of veranda. Being slow and secretive, he told n.o.body-not even his PA or his peon-that hed moved into his office room. He knew that n.o.body cared where he stayed as long as he didnt formally inform them or ask for permission. 'Say No till Kingdom Come, then deflect to Finance was a guiding principle for Personnel.

He was shocked to discover that the Secretariat had neither showers nor bathrooms. He had to bathe in the loo with a bucket and plastic mug. In the mornings, therefore, after his traumatic Canadian 5BX workout, he began to dress appropriately for his journey down the corridor, in once-white sleeveless vest and blue-and-green striped, loose drawers. Swinging his red bucket in one hand, whistling and humming sixties Hindi film tunes, he indeed felt like his a.s.sumed role-a carefree carpenter or plumber whod been up all night toiling away somewhere in the Secretariat and was now going to refresh himself after a job well done.

He breakfasted, lunched and dined at Krishna Lunch Home, a dreadfully crowded two-storey eatery on the fringe of Bhayankar. Fanatical account-keeper that he was, hed calculated that on his disgraceful salary, in that frightfully costly city, he couldnt spend more than a hundred rupees a day on food. With its thirty-rupee thalis, Krishna Lunch Home suited his budget. So did its atmosphere him. Women, for example, both young and of a certain age, dined singly there without attracting even a second glance, leave alone being hara.s.sed by leers, salacious suggestions, obscene gestures or sudden lunges. The waiters too were uniformly pleasant, usually adolescent, with ready smiles. Their shorts, though, tended to be tiny and tight, making them reveal many inches of thigh and strut more than walk.

Booze was swigged only upstairs at the Lunch Home. The ground floor hall, a forty-by-thirty crush of tables, customers, waiters and food, was for those madly pressed for time-a soup, two idlis, an uthapam, some halwa, a coffee and away. The first floor was smaller, windowless, always tubelit and cosier despite the cold white light, quieter, with a quarter bottle of gin or rum on almost every decolam top. Single customers generally shared a table with lone strangers. Conversation was not obligatory, but sharing the pickled onions, chillies and mango was. One could strike up a romance if one wanted to fall in love with, say, a bald fat man with bulldog jowls and yellow teeth who looked as though he planned to drink himself to death, alone.

Or one could hang about a bit to see whether one got a seat opposite a human being. Thus it was that two evenings in a row, Agastya sat across from a very beautiful, thirtyish woman with open, shoulder-blade-long jet-black hair. He hadnt known that hair dye could be that black. Throughout both evenings, she pecked at veg chowmein, soaked up rum n Pepsi and wept silently. While fas.h.i.+oning her face, G.o.d had contemplated shaping a stunning pink pig; seconds before the finis.h.i.+ng touches, however, Hed plainly been called away. Ah well. In her jade-green salwaar kameez, she looked like a radiant emcee from an outlandish Zee TV set; she spoke Hinglish too in a charming Zee TV-Puppie way. Agastyad never piled on in his life before to anyone in Hinglish. It was rather a challenge, like trying to babysit an unfamiliar infant of another race.

Never before either had he sat in front of anybody whod snivelled in this manner two evenings running. And he hated food being wasted, particularly in a developing country. On Thursday, therefore, while waiting for his order, he reached over and began helping himself to her chowmein. Quite tasty. Her smallish eyes focused and flickered a bit. Almost mechanically, she pushed the pickled onions across to him.

'No thanks, were to utter sweet breath tonight. He waved to Thais and, when he strutted over, asked him for cigarettes, Wills Filter Navy Cut.

He felt stuffed by the time hed finished with her chowmein and his own chholey-bhaturey, keema dosa and alu-pooris arrived. 'Developing country, he explained to her as he attacked the keema dosa. She smoked a cigarette. 'As in a marathon, one must pace oneself in life, with people, with food, he clarified to her as he pitched into the alu-pooris. 'Anything is possible at the right speed.

She rose unsteadily from the table. He beamed enquiringly at her. 'Looking at you, I want to vomit, she mumbled in Hinglish and lurched off towards the stairs. As her first words, they didnt augur well for their romance.

He was torn between her and his chholey-baturey, between s.e.x and food, love of woman and love of country. Hating her for winning, for making him waste both money and nurture, he followed her.

The worlds largest slum had its virtues. One could, for example, puke anywhere and you couldnt tell. When he emerged from Krishna, a voided Kamya had her arms wrapped around one of those wizened mongrel trees that abound in the city, that survive against awesome odds, that offer neither shade nor flowers or beauty, the trunks of which are too flinty for the nails of advertisers boards, dour, self-centred, enduring without growing.

'Are you all right? he asked in Hinglish-Aap all right hain? While waiting for her to unwrap herself, he realized that he liked the rhythms of Hinglish. It was a genuinely national language, as truly mirroring the minds of the people as Benglish, Tamilish, Maralish, Punjlish and Kannalish. He told himself that when he returned to his boarded-up veranda, he should note in his diary the following items as food for thought: i) Why cant Hinglish be the Official Language of the Welfare State? and ii) Why dont you translate into Hinglish or Benglish some of your favourite English poems? Jhe Alphred Pruphrock-er Laabh Song? And Shalott Ki Lady?

'I stay right here. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the Secretariat. 'Main right here stay- 'Main English follow karti hoon, thank you. She was tall. 'Hmmm, so aap right here stay karte hain. Her eyes had widened and brightened with interest.

At the gate of the Secretariat, he advised her. 'If the guard asks, just say, Night Duty. If he acts tough and argues that women are exempt, scoff and enlighten him, New Policy, Womens Quota.

She liked the room. She drifted about in it, touched the kettle and his skipping rope on the wall, gazed out of the window at the night lights and asked how come. Feeling safe with her, he explained how hed solved his housing problem. She was more impressed than amused. 'Ek dum top-cla.s.s idea, Tiger, she lolled on his lumpy sofa, now covered with a brightly-patterned counterpane, 'Ek dum top- . . . Her head slumped to one side as she fell asleep.

I should unhook her bra as a beau geste. Then, feeling old, lonely, morose, washed out, tired of his own jokes, he too b.u.mmed around the room, brewed himself some tea, flopped down behind his desk, now and then watched her breast rise and fall in sleep, and finally bedded down on the jute matting between his computer and his kitchenette. I should get married now to any one of those decent, h.o.r.n.y Bengali dullards from Calcutta that Manik Kakas been dying to line up for me for the last eight years. Enough of this hepness of being single. After a while, one just felt sick of books and music and cinema and being boss of ones time; one wished instead for human company and the warmth of another body in bed, for everyday domestic clutter and social completeness, for the outward tokens of an ordered life-a sofa set in the drawing room, a was.h.i.+ng machine, a magnetic remembrancer on the fridge.

A little after six, he woke abruptly to find himself alone in the room. He waited for a minute or two. Then he crawled over to the sofa and nodded off again in the faint aroma of perfume.

The preceding Thursday. Dayas flat had been a fifteen-minute walk away from the Secretariat. Upmarket, downtown, one of the backlanes behind the new steel-and-gla.s.s Stock Exchange. The backlanes were quieter, greener, pseudo-colonial and comprised some of the worlds costliest real estate. One square foot of flat cost eighteen thousand rupees, i.e., more than twice Agastyas monthly salary. It could cost more if, from it, one could glimpse a corresponding square foot of the sea. 'Not worth it, honey, he cautioned himself as he crossed the street to avoid a knoll of garbage that stank- whew! like a government permission-and to which had been drawn a zoo of cattle, pigs, curs, cats, crows and rats.

Daya was on the third floor and her doorbell a s.e.xy chime. She took some time to answer it. He heard her trill to somebody, presumably the dope-provider, 'Youre barking up the wrong tree, before she opened the door. She looked like Ageing Raw s.e.x Incarnate. No spectacles. Shed touched up both eyes and hair. She wore an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot-a luxurious peac.o.c.k-blue-and-amber salwaar kameez. She beamed at him and offered him her cheek (facial) for a peck. He was a bit taken aback at how happy he was to see her.

'Im so glad that you dont have your blue jeans on, otherwise Idve had to smother the entire flat in dust sheets . . . I didnt notice how youd fouled up my salwaar till I came home that evening . . . for a while, I couldnt even figure out whatd happened . . . and then I imagined that youd done it on purpose, for some perverted reason . . . was it your way of making a pa.s.s? . . . I even fancied that you mightve been a sort of walking ad for a, you know, detergent or something . . . thatdve been clever . . . or an anti-depressant . . . Dont spread the blues . . .

A s.p.a.cious, lamplit living room, French windows at the far end, a veranda beyond. Arty, uncomfortable furniture, bric--brac, tribal statuary, richly-coloured rugs on the floor that Agastya kept tripping over and apologising for; white bookshelves with sleek tomes on Modernism, Reductionism, Margaret Mead, The Death of Tragedy, Russians in Exile, Rilke; a colour TV before a settee, on, on the settee a tall, darkish, handsome, hairy, bespectacled, generally groovy man with long, wavy salt-and-pepper hair who rose with a commanding smile to shake his hand.

'Rajani Suroor.

'How do you do.

The telecast was a recording of the inauguration of the Festival of Russia. Gymnastics, the human pyramid business. The camera closed in on one of the saps in the bottom row. It shouldnt have, the b.u.g.g.e.r was dying, but in the cause of better relations between the two countries.

'So youre a dope-smoking civil servant. Do you bring to your work a new perspective? Groovy Suroor apparently knew a lot about the government. From his kurta pocket, he pulled out a metal cigarette case and a silvery Yin-Yang box and while rolling a joint, dropped names in a well-bred way. Agastya decided to 'sir him while sharing the smoke, to try and discompose him. The camera had abandoned the Russians and zeroed in on the VIPs in the front rows, beanbags all in starched, billowy white, a white Gandhi topi atop each like a blob of icing crowning a cake, snugly shapeless in white armchairs and sofas. 'Ah, our dear, dear Minister-to-be, the Jewel of the Deccan Mafia, murmured Groovy as the TV showed bald, bespectacled, obese Member of Parliament Bhanwar Virbhim of the heavy-lidded eyes licking the toenails of Jayati Aflatoon, the wife of a cousin of the Prime Minister.

'That isnt fair, Rajani, objected Daya, handing Agastya a gla.s.s of watermelon juice. 'If you cant stand even the possibility of his appointment, you should stop sucking up to authority. My favourite commandment from the Readers Digest goes: If you dont like what you do for a living, quit. If you cant quit, shut up.