Out of the Way.

They had been advised to wear suits after sundown, and sungla.s.ses and their name tags at all times. 'Had we been better-looking and less fidgety, the Maltese had commented in English to the few who claimed to speak it, 'we couldve made a living in a YSL shop window somewhere in the sixieme. For a variety of reasons, none of his audience had laughed.

Every half a minute, as they tumbled, took a header, came a cropper and bit the dust, their name tags flashed like brooches in the hard clean light of the sun. Winded, stunned, flat on their backs in their bright, kindergarten-coloured gear that had cost them a quarter of their monthly stipend, they gazed up into a flawless, deep blue sky, felt grateful for their sungla.s.ses and pined to be immediately transported elsewhere, to a less perfect, warmer, more human climate where one walked, or better still, was driven about in a car. For those of them who declined to stand again on their own two feet till the instructor drew up to prod them with his barks of encouragement, the skyline was spectacular. The chocolate- and-white undulations of the Hautes-Alpes, with their patches of dour, dry pines and their unbearably-white ski slopes, encircled them like gigantic cakes around a group of gaily- coloured ants. The spotless blue of the sky was completed by the immaculate white of the snow; together, with their newfangled shoes, outfits and daily routines, nature itself made them feel clumsy, a bit silly and out of place. Snow was neither their element nor, as it were, their scene.

Fifty-two of them had travelled together by train and autobus across six hundred kilometres to arrive, disoriented, cold and apprehensive, at Puy-St-Etienne on Monday morning. The more conscientious among them had worn their suits for the journey-partly, perhaps, to prevent them from becoming all crumpled up in their suitcases and grips, but more certainly because they wished to impress their Madam Director who headed the team that was shepherding them. She was a formidable personality, articulate, intelligent, not easily impressed. That was why their dear colleague from the African Democratic Republic of Begon had put on a tuxedo and a scarlet silk bowtie for the occasion. But not everybody sought Madame Europe Olympia Grosse-Reynard out. Some of them, in fact, couldnt emit a sound in front of her. They became tongue-tied, as most would when face to face with an a.r.s.ehole.

She reminded them, four to five times a week, not to forget that they all received fellowships-subsistence allowances, really-from the European Union. She implied, naturally, though she was too well-bred to explicitly say so, that they therefore, while in Europe, were expected to comport themselves like Europeans. Be punctual, for example. Nine-thirty meant nine twenty-nine and not nine thirty-five. Agastya, for whom, after eight years in the Welfare State, nine-thirty meant between ten-ten and ten-forty, had found the initial weeks under Madame Director quite tense-making. In a well-bred way, shed made it clear to him that if he wasnt punctual, shed arrange to cancel his scholarship. Truly, it takes a b.i.t.c.h to shepherd black, thick-skinned sheep.

Agastya had almost skiied once before, as a teenager, in Gulmarg and hadnt much liked it. Too alien, too cold. The little that he remembered from his previous experience of it had urged him to choose, on their first morning at Puy-St- Etienne, cross-country over Alpine. Hed thus earned the joshing contempt of the Head Instructor who, in his other avatar, was a Professor of Sport in Paris. Whatever that t.i.tle might secondarily imply, it primarily seemed to mean a man bronzed for all seasons, square-jawed, laser-eyed with the men and all-a-twinkle with the chicks.

'You dont feel adventurous enough, Monsieur, for some Alpine skiing?

'Yes, exactly that, youre so correct, Monsieur, thank you, replied Agastya in his ghastly French. In the eight weeks that hed spent in Europe, he couldnt remember laughing or smiling even once, so heavily had his exile weighed him down. Because of the circ.u.mstances of his departure from his country, he missed Gandhan, Madna, Nirmalgaon-virtually each one of the eight small, hot, messy places that hed been posted in. Phoning home and chatting with ones near and dear ones was not at all the same thing. For one, phonecalls were expensive in Europe; for another, one had to pay. In none of the four centres of their training programme-Brussels, Luxembourg, Strasbourg, Paris-did they have access to an office phone. Naturally. Hed had to relearn that in the more efficient part of the planet, the State made the ordinary, unprivileged user pay for everything-the loos on the pavement, the photocopier in the library, the coffee during coffee break.

In Europe, he hadnt laughed even once, not really laughed, not in the way that he used to back home, above all in Madna, most of all on the phone with Dhrubo, for minutes on end, silently, stomach heaving like an earthquake, crimson in the face, tears streaming down his cheeks, helpless in the grip of Nutsyanyaya. Those calls had almost always been occasioned by matters of official interest and had therefore-but naturally-been official. 'Chidambaram, get me Mr Dastidar, Under Secretary for Demotic Drama, Aflatoon Bhavan. 'Chidambaram, get me Deputy Chairman, Barren Lands and Disputed Territories Development Corporation. That sort of thing.

'Is that you, f.u.c.ker? Agastya would ask to establish ident.i.ty because quite often, it wasnt, but Dhrubos PAs didnt seem to mind being mistaken for their boss. When at last hed get him on the line, Agastya, without saying another word, would collapse, like a marathon man who reaches the finishing tape only a step, a breath away from his breaking point. Virtually on cue, just the idea, the image, of Agastya hysterically and soundlessly guffawing away at the other end would trigger Dhrubo off too. For a couple of minutes, any phone-tapper wouldve picked up nothing save their harsh, periodic intakes of breath and extended, rasp-like exhalations-almost like two members of an obscene-caller club practising their heavy breathing tricks on each other. Just a couple of middle-level civil servants unwinding, having a laugh at government expense. When one began to flag, the other would incite him to continue by reminding him, with a few key words, of some past instance of Nutsyanyaya that had cracked them up. Or one would have a new ill.u.s.tration to share.

Agastya to Dhrubo, for example: 'Ive just received a fax from Bhanwar Virbhims office. May I share it with you? . . . Enclosed pleased to find Honourable Ministers tour programme for const.i.tuency. Of course, you know that the telegraphic style, the elimination of articles and grammatical rules in general, is an old economy measure. On 7th instant, Minister desires evening of interfacing with cultural luminaries of Madna, followed by night halt at Circuit House. Ive ordered RDC in writing to round up the cultural luminaries of Madna. Never at a loss, quick as thought, hes come up with A.C. Raichur. I think Im going to fax back: All arrangements tied up, including Shri Raichur to the bedpost of the double bed in the master bedroom of the Circuit House, in the raw, with an empty bottle of ma.s.sage oil over his w.i.l.l.y and a full one upright in his left palm, raring to go at Honourable Ministers flaccid, trembling calves. Permission sought to add the cost of the new, wonder-working liquid to the overall expenses of the Ministerial visit under the Given Head of Promotion of Non- Conventional Systems of Therapy in Less-Privileged Areas . . .

In Europe, Agastya usually felt too blue to simply step into a phone booth and dial Dhrubo. Everything was efficient, formal, cold and different. One got through immediately, for one thing-quite disconcerting; it left one no time to figure out what one had to say. Then the delay between saying something and hearing a response was impersonalizing and off-putting; instead of partic.i.p.ating in a dialogue, one became an auditor of ba.n.a.l phrases recorded in two different voices and played back alternately, off-key and off-cue. So he sent faxes and letters instead, randomly detailing the First-World face of Nutsyanyaya, the omnipresence of which didnt surprise him in the least. Its evidence in fact provided ideal material for picture postcards filled out during a seminar.

Were in the thick of a one-week gabfest on The Optimalization of Human Resources in the Public Sector, nine-to-five every day, of course. Each one of the other partic.i.p.ants wears a suit and takes notes with the help of a footruler, a pencil and ballpoints of four different colours. Ive spied on my neighbours and learnt that the blues for the actual stuff, the paragraphs of immortal prose, the green for date and major headings, black for minor headings, and almost everything to be underlined in red with footruler. The pencil is for afterthoughts in the margins. When I shut my eyes, which is often, I hear, beneath the lecturers voice, the continuous clatter of ballpoints of one colour being dropped on the table in favour of another. When I open them, Im likely to see one of my colleagues in a suit, in the corner, over the wastepaper basket, with his back to us. It looks as though hes taking a leak but no, hes merely sharpening his pencil-lead pencil, I should clarify, lest you, harking back to the euphemisms of school, suspect something kinkier. Our ages, I should add to give you perspective, vary from thirtyish to that of the E.T. from one of the Francophone Indian Ocean states, who let drop, early in our acquaintance, that hes an ex-Minister. To redress the balance, the less said of what they think of me, the better . . .

As a general principle, Personnel tries and packs off abroad, on one training programme or another, at least once in their careers, each member of the Steel Frame. Only a couple of the dozens of available courses are in French, the rest, naturally, being in English. The general principle is rather sound-a break from the grind for the poor sod, exposure, widening of horizons (Hull in the UK), a chance to see the world (Luxembourg, Cardiff, Adelaide), a fulfilment of a clause in some triennial Exchange Programme and the consequent achievement of an annual target for some Ministry, sometimes a smooth exit from the scene for some unsavoury types and on occasion, an award of a paid holiday for a faithful subordinate. Agastya fell into none of the above categories. His foreign training had been a pre-marriage incentive from Dr Kapila. He thus became one of the two civil servants that Personnel had unearthed that year whose cvs proclaimed them to be fluent in French. Their controlling governments recommended them for all courses in glowing terms and pushed with unexpected focus for their departures.

The Inst.i.tute officials though were neither impressed with his French nor his reasons for being there. 'In your original application form, Monsieur Sen, youd written nothing in the column marked Expectations from the Course. By now, Im sure that youre clearer about what they are?

Agastya mouthed some appropriate drivel in reply. He too was too well-bred, of course, to say the truth, namely, that his government had sent him off to Europe for two good economic reasons: one, that it would spend nothing in conveying him there and two, that it wouldnt fork out even a rupee on his upkeep during those twelve weeks. Ditto for his dear colleagues, the rest of the cream of the Third World. If hed understood correctly, the Inst.i.tute spent the equivalent of some five hundred thousand French francs per dear colleague per course. A jacket, a tie, punctuality and a willingness to play the game werent much to ask for in return.

There were times, though, when he found their demands-and the games that they were made to play-just a bit trying. The entire group, for instance, spent the month of January pretending to be the United Nations. The Inst.i.tute paid a Professor in International Administration and Geopolitics from somewhere in Europe the equivalent of twenty thousand French francs to guide the dear colleagues through their paces. As a first step, he gave each of them three hundred photocopied pages of UN Resolutions to read. As a second, he asked them to pick a country out of his hat, become its permanent representative in the Inst.i.tutes auditorium for four weeks, nine-to-five, and prepare a twenty- page file on it within a fortnight.

He was bald, save for two silvery tufts that rose like Cupids wings above his ears, short, fat, with a splendid patrician nose. In his introductory remarks, he claimed that in the course of the past fifteen years, by means of that game that hed invented, hed revealed the fundamentals of the techniques of international negotiation and corridor diplomacy to a wide variety of target groups-students, probationary officers, middle-level civil servants and members of the diplomatic corps. All the dear colleagues felt that it was extremely nice of the Professor to have brought along with him about a hundred students from his university, a wonderfully-high percentage of whom were blonde or brunette, long-legged, tight-jeaned, rosy-cheeked, gum-chewing, cigarette-smoking and exhilarating girls. They were needed to flesh out the UN. All at once, January began to look a d.a.m.n sight better.

Out of the Professors hat, Agastya picked Russia. To create his file, he polished his black leather shoes and asked his dear colleague from Georgia what 'Lets git the h.e.l.l outta here sounded like in Russian. During the first formal session, after one of the Professors male students, an enthusiastic jerk, Ireland, had been elected President of the Conference, Agastya suddenly took off his shoe, repeatedly banged the table before him with it, delivered his few words of Russian into the mike, added 'Paycho as an afterthought prompted by nationalistic fervour, put on his shoe and, while the lot on the stage was reminding the honourable delegate from Russia that as per Article 27 of the Joint Declaration of the Four Sub-Commissions, the official language of the present UN Conference was French and French alone, left the auditorium, free as a bird for the day.

For two days, because on the third, he was up against Madame Europe Olympia in her posh office. Being intelligent, she first admired his take-off on Khrushchev and then firmly stated that it simply would not do. 'You perhaps arent aware, Monsieur Sen, that over the years, your countrys record, its performance, at the Inst.i.tute has been abysmal. This year, for example, you began with two of you here, but one returned home within a fortnight-even though your government had specifically signed an a.s.surance confirming that both of you would be available for the full twelve weeks. Well. Now there rests just you. Truly, the less said about you, the better, even though Ive much to say on that score. Your att.i.tude is rather similar to that of your predecessors. Theres nothing that a course in Europe can teach us. Were untrainable, in short.

'Ha-ha, thats very witty, Madame, if you permit . . . thank you . . . May I hold forth for a while, Madame, if you permit? . . . thank you . . . It is true what you say, we simply cant be trained. We are as seasoned and hardened as criminals, if you wish. In my world, no one makes it because of the diploma that hes picked up from somewhere fancy. Please dont get me wrong. Its wonderful to spend these months in Europe-particularly Paris-and be paid for it. But as for going back home a changed, more capable, administrator-as Mahatma Gandhi told Jinnah at Bandung in 1944, "In-service training is a science that provides gainful employment to in- service trainers." It-the training, that is-is simple hard, common sense blended in a mixie with some Management jargon, some boxes, arrows, arcs and circles on charts and transparencies with not more than four magnified words per frame. May I digress here, Madame, if you permit, to include an anecdote? . . . thank you.

Madame Director agreed because she wanted the Third World to remember her as patient, attentive and wise. She also had very little actual work, despite her packed agenda, which mainly comprised interviews (with others of Agastyas kind, all of whom shed have to bully and hara.s.s for one silly slip or the other) and meetings with different officials to chalk out more short- and long-term courses for other Third World types so that the Inst.i.tutes impressive budget could be justified and-who knows?-perhaps even increased.

'One day, Madame, in my last week as District Collector of a place called Madna, one of my hundred-odd visitors was a spirited, eighty-year-old woman. If youll permit me to digress for a minute from the anecdote itself, I wish to add here that our District Collectors are a bit like the French Prefets, only younger, in general . . . The womans name was Saraswati Something-or-the-Other. She asked me whether Id heard of her. I hadnt. She was a little taken aback by my att.i.tude. So was I, I confess, by hers. Visitors of the District Collector, even at their angriest, do not introduce themselves and then grimace in disapproval because they arent household names for their interlocutor. Saraswati Something turned out to be one of our Veteran Freedom Fighters. Fifty years ago, shed been a captain in our Patriotic National Army, Burma and all that, and had even been awarded a couple of medals. Some months before she came to meet me, she applied for a new pa.s.sport. Her application was rejected, though-naturally-n.o.body would tell her why. It took her quite a few visits to the Regional Pa.s.sport Office and a couple of nervous breakdowns before the door of some unheeding official to learn the reason, which triggered off a third collapse.

My dear Dhrubo, Madame Europe Olympia didnt have as much time as I needed to finish my instructive tale. She dismissed me in mid-sentence quite charmingly and then sent a letter of warning after me, threatening anew a stoppage of the scholarship if I dont in future finish my anecdotes on time. This above all, to thine apportioned time be true. May I therefore, to an old friend, and since I dont like to leave any business unfinished, recount and round off the fable?

Saraswati Something discovered that her name was on the Intelligence Bureaus list of Dangerous Persons. She had to burrow a bit more to learn that whichever cop office dealt with Intelligence work in her home town of Madna hadnt updated its lists for about fifty years, which thus continued to have in them the names of those whod once posed a threat to British national security.

Which of the princ.i.p.al characters in the above narrative would you choose to send abroad for training? Thats the question. I myself wouldve opted for ol Saraswati. Ive asked Madame Europe Olympia for a second appointment, in which I wish to suggest to her that to prepare us for the UN, she could invite a European Dr Bhatnagar to come and take some cla.s.ses.

In their course calendar, Puy-St-Etienne had been put down as a study tour to acquaint the foreign trainees-and their numerous shepherds too, no doubt-with some aspects of a typical European mountain economy. The skiing began at ten sharp. Everyone was punctual since none of them wished to be left alone to catch the others up on a pair of skis, to traverse hundreds of slippery metres-half on ones b.u.m, a bit undignified, but safer-to the ski-lift, to board-and later, to descend from-which, under the derisive eye of some lazy, unhelpful operator, would be subsequent nightmares. Since the group did everything alphabetically, Agastya shared his turn on the ski-lift with his predecessor on the course list, an ancient, amiable but taciturn South-East Asian who settled down on the bench as in a lecture hall for an after-lunch snooze, chin tucked deep into chest, one gloved hand cupping his b.a.l.l.s and the second hand covering the first. Agastyad noticed the posture before and had found it oddly moving, elemental; a primal act, of defending even in sleep ones most vital possessions. On the ski-lift, moreover, that position of repose also helped to significantly increase ones chances of losing ones batons, which one left dangling on the edge of an armrest, where they swayed more crazily and clicked against one another the more one mounted. Of course, were they to fall, the disapproving instructor would naturally order one back-on foot, mercifully-to retrieve them, and that would take care of the morning.

Windy, sunny, sub-zero and breathtaking; Agastya could feel the ice wrapping itself around his bronchial tubes and had to remind himself that he still had a few degrees Celsius to descend before he could claim in his postcards home that hed slipped into an Alistair Maclean novel.

'Your compatriot has missed the experience of a lifetime, is it not? Puy-St-Etienne? She doesnt return or what? Conversations amongst dear colleagues tended to be in French, straightforward, elementary. For in his sojourn in Europe, Agastya had sensed, or recognized anew, the obvious fact of the variety of our planet, of the millions on it from whom English was as remote as Spanish, French and Portugese were from him. They embarra.s.sed and saddened him-his narrow Anglocentricity and the insidiousness of all colonialism, by which succeeding generations of the once-colonized too were obliged to think and to communicate in perpetually-alien tongues.

'Ive no idea. I received a long letter from her last week which doesnt mention us, the Inst.i.tute or the course even once. She had to go back for her lawsuit, as you know. Thats taken up most of the letter-and her time, I imagine. At the mention of Lina Natesan, warmth from the base of his sternum had oozed out in all directions, uncontrollable, thick like the sauce of some meat that slowly cooks in its own juices. Man. What a weirdo, with what an a.r.s.e. All she needed to become divine was a sense of humour. He really shouldve written to that judge of hers. Me-laard, the case for the defence rests only on the mute evidence of its one witness, on its irresistibility, in brief. Me-laard, I call upon the a.r.s.e of Lina Natesan to come to the witness box and take the oath. Meanwhile, I urge you, me-laard, to thine own self be true, observe carefully and imagine a piece of a sari, of gra.s.s-green georgette, thats stolen into that cleft and that remains there-snug and warm-for minutes on end. Fifteen. Twenty-two. Thirty-seven. Oh quel cul tas! How can anyone possibly resist digging that sari out and, as it were, allowing it to breathe? Lebensraum! And subst.i.tuting for it ones nose? The defence rests its case, me-laard.

Agastya had proposed more or less the same argument to Lina Natesan herself in the one fortnight that shed spent in Europe. More less than more, to be honest. They would never have become friends in any other place. This had been her first voyage out and since shed sensed behind it a conspiracy designed to deprive her of justice, shed found the whole experience of her first fortnight rather trying. In her hour of distress, shed turned to Agastya only because he always seemed to be there, smiling like the moon whenever and wherever shed turned around. On his part, he wouldnt have minded much had she-a suspicious type-not swivelled around all the time to see who was following her because man, what an a.r.s.e. I shall sink my teeth into that ma.s.s before the month is out or my name is Anthony Gonsalves, me-laard.

It irked him that she never smiled at anything witty that he said but hed always find her t.i.ttering politely over the Malteses jokes. Fortunately, he got on reasonably well with the Maltese, who was a couple of centimetres shorter than him. As a rule, he didnt much like people taller, save for Dhrubo, whose case, reasoned Agastya with himself, was special because in school the b.u.g.g.e.r had been a millimetre shorter till theyd both turned eleven, which is when the b.u.g.g.e.r had begun jerking off like a monkey and calling him August; both factors had helped him eventually to look up to Dhrubo.

What he, Agastya, dreamed of most was to make her, Lina, laugh so much that even her a.r.s.e jiggled. Oooooooooh. He was stupefied to learn-and that too from the Maltese-that she was going away.

'Dont be crazy, you cant go back now. Youll cause an international incident if you use your stipend to buy a plane ticket-Interpol and all that. Dont be stupid, you yourself told me that Raghupati has the judge in his pocket peeing in. The game is so obvious that even a r.e.t.a.r.d would see through it. Announce the dates for the hearing a couple of times in your absence, and then especially since youll be representing yourself, dismiss the case because the prosecution doesnt show up. Look, leave Raghupati be. h.e.l.l entangle himself in any one of the thousand intrigues that hes spun in a long, murky career. Therell always be some petty injustices that simply arent worth struggling against-Oh dear-foot in mouth again. I mean, here we are, in Paris. I love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles-though by our standards, its mild winter. Oh why oh why do I love Paris? Why on earth do you want to leave the Jardin du Luxembourg and return to see Raghupati! Look around you, Lina, couples kissing on every bench, children playing in the sand, laughing on the backs of ponies, Americans at tennis, lonely hearts soaking in the sun, and you and me, babe. Think of me, Lina! How can you leave me alone in the midst of these corny aliens! He held her by the shoulders and lightly kissed her on her right cheek, then on her left. She didnt freeze, neither did she look him in the eye; she seemed to be biting her lip and to have reddened a bit, so he hugged her hard and while nuzzling her neck, which smelt nice, though he was no b.l.o.o.d.y good at identifying perfumes, squeezed, in turn, her shoulder, her waist and a fistful of her b.u.m.

A turning point in her life, though nothing changed in her immediate future. She still insisted on returning home to fight Raghupati and on his-Agastyas-not accompanying her to the airport. But it was the first time that shed liked somebody elses hands on her. Reflecting on the experience on the long flight back, she attributed its strangeness both to their dislocation and to Paris. Call it the warmth of loving human contact, if you will, but a turning point it was, nevertheless, because out of the blue, against all expectations, she won her case. In fact, Justice Sohan went out of the way to ensure that she did. On his long flight back from Honolulu, where, at the World Poetry Conference, neither his Urdu couplets nor Punjabi haikus had bewitched either audience or any literary editor, and where everybody else-Z-grade poetasters in Spanish, Arabic and Chinese-had appeared to be drinking tequila, laughing and slapping English-language publishers on their shoulders all the time-on the long flight back, the boorish air-hostesses had refused to upgrade his Economy ticket to First-Cla.s.s. His was a Special-Price Concession offered by Civil Aviation to its Sister Ministries in the Welfare State, theyd explained. Not that hed understood.

'Im a judge, dyou follow? Do you know my place in the Warrant of Precedence? On this same ticket, how did I travel First-Cla.s.s on my way out, tell me!

The air-hostesses had neither any idea nor were they interested. The least blase of them even fetched Justice Sohan the Flight Complaint-Book without his demanding it, thereby infuriating him all the more against Bhupen Raghupati.

Whom he sentenced to one month in prison, a fine of fifty thousand rupees and dismissal from service. The gist of his wordy, forty-page judgment was that the law must come down with a heavy hand indeed on any conduct unbecoming of a civil servant, on crimes against women and on the abuse of hierarchical power and a juniors trust.

'Paycho, a bitterly-amused Raghupati doubtless wouldve muttered had he been present on the day of judgment and, after consulting Baba Mastram, appealed against the decision. His rights of appeal wouldve shielded him for a decade or so; after which, hed have thought of something. How could the struggle for injustice ever end?

Hed intended to be present in the courtroom but wasnt because he hadnt returned in time from the lightning trip that hed made, on Makhmal Bagais squeaking-with-excitement appeal, down to the district of Madna, to swing and clinch an earth-shaking land deal of acres and acres for the development of teak farms south of Pirtana. Curiously, on the day after Raghupatis departure from the capital, Dambha, the tribal lackey whom Bagai had recommended for a post in his fathers domestic establishment, vanished from 21 Ganapati Aflatoon Marg without a trace, much like an unlucky soldier into a long war.

Or a jeep into a jungle. Raghupati and Bagai were last seen driving off into primeval forest by a.s.sistant Commissioner Moolar of the Revenue Department. 'They were going to inspect some sites, sir, declared he a thousand times to senior police officials, Intelligence men and b.u.t.toned-up civil servants. To further probing, he could only respond by clacking his dentures.

'We should wait, sir, now for the extremists to announce the kidnapping and demand their ransom.

Which occurred within the fortnight. The Superintendent of Police of Madna received at home an ordinary off-white government envelope containing a ca.s.sette tape of the All-Time Cla.s.sic film songs of Mutesh and two sheets of paper. The first sheet, presumably the proof of ident.i.ty, was s.e.m.e.n- stained and blank. The second was a typewritten note in Hinglish from a hitherto-unknown outfit called the Neelam Sanjeevam Lazarus Youth, or NeSLaY, for short and sweet. It demanded from the Welfare State, in return for the safe release of a representative criminal-politician and a singular senior bureaucrat, twenty crore rupees in cash and the creation of a new regional state for the tribals with Madna as its capital.

'This tragedy would never have happened, lamented the SP, 'had all officers of a certain level and above been officially allowed to carry mobile phones.

'Lazarus? enquired Bhanwar Virbhim, sotto voce, in one of his rare manifestations of speech.

'Apparently after their leader, sir, explained Princ.i.p.al Secretary Kapila. 'Hes an extremely angry tribal teenager who was once a temporary government servant and whos risen quite rapidly in the last few months in Suk.u.maran Govardhans army. Into their ears has been dinned some seditious, post-Naxal, neo-Salvationist ideology. You are aware of course that Govardhan is fed up of government inertia on the subject of his coming out into civil society and is planning some alternative strategies.

Bhanwar Virbhim had reverted to saying nothing. Dr Kapila continued, pausing between phrases to smile, as was his wont, without mirth and princ.i.p.ally to disconcert his audience. 'How urgently and how near in the future would you like the captives back? A view could be taken that the event in effect is Phase Two of the OYE OYE Happening and that as desired by the Prime Minister, two town mice have gone off to experience the life of their country cousins. On our stand would depend, sir, whom we nominate as negotiator . . . I personally had in mind a very fine young candidate for the post of Officer on Special Duty in Madna. Hes been there before as District Collector and even been trained in its forests. Very fine officer indeed. An Agastya Sen. He is at present in Europe for a prestigious training programme, where he is expected to shine. I also hope to hear from him certain responses to certain career management plans that have been proposed to him. If he does not rise to the occasion, Madna would be an immediately suitable option for Mr Sen. Of course, h.e.l.l be provided adequate logistical support. We are lucky in fact to have found a Junior Officer whom Raghupati was rather keen to have in his own team. This Lina Natesan Thomas would, Im sure, be a perfect Deputy to Mr Sen.

Who, though confused, didnt really mind swapping Dr Bhatnagar and Dr Kapilas Europe for Lazarus. He was sick of being buffeted around by the government and depressed that Daya hadnt immediately said yes to his offer of marriage. 'Madna again. It couldve been worse. Personnel has apparently asked for volunteers for the UN Peace Keeping Force in Kosovo. Some thousands have applied. Perhaps I should make a special effort in grat.i.tude for the Special Incentive Allowance of a hundred and fifty rupees per month that Im going to get . . . But which language, Daya, will I haggle in? An eye for an eye and a choot for a choot. Id better brush up my trade terminology.

'Take your time, sweetheart, botching it up. While you unwind in the forests of Jompanna, Ill ponder over and try and decode your offer. It was sweet of you to have made it.

They were in Agastyas unsightly Amba.s.sador, en route to a Rani Chandra ca.s.sette party which, it was rumoured, Jayati Aflatoon would briefly grace. Following Lina Natesans example, he had decamped from Paris on the preceding freezing, wet and gloomy Monday morning, completely distracted by the first e-mail that he had received from Daya the Sat.u.r.day before.

Youll be glad to learn that our new Senior Vice-President (Public Affairs) is someone you know. I chose Kamya, among other things, for her good head . . .

To Madame Europe Olympia on Monay morning before departure, Agastya, justifying it, said: 'Mon pere est serieux, Madame.

She let him go, partly to avoid having to listen to his French.

For the Rani Chandra ca.s.sette party, he would have preferred to travel to those posh suburban farms in a cla.s.sier, j.a.panese, chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned, stereo-fitted car arranged for by Dayas office, but she wished to be alone with him.

He was tense because he was driving at dusk in peak hour traffic. Two successive mystifying and enervating road blocks produced by the movements of some VIPs entourage had forced him to change routes and soured him even further. Then, just when he was on the edge of the snarl of enraged, uncivil vehicles outside the gates of the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Transit Hostel, the city lights went off. The volume of the din-the honking, yelling and the invective-immediately increased; so did the collisions in the foglit smog, much like the shows of strength amongst the more macho members of a herd of animals. 'Cool it, honey, Agastya advised himself and pushed the gear of the Amba.s.sador into neutral to sit the chaos out.

'Dhrubo phoned me yesterday to ask whether Id like to join this new political party that he, along with another madcap Bengali, hopes to launch before the next general election. I said yes unthinkingly.

It was doubtful whether Daya heard him. She was distracted and amused by the two motorcycles that in exasperation had mounted the pavement and were chugging their way through the pedestrians, the hawkers with their kerosene lanterns and the stray dogs. Three of the riders were dressed in police khaki. The fourth, riding pillion, was eight-armed, outlandish in a Durga mask and a tight multicoloured jacket from which protruded six stuffed limbs. He carried what looked like a very real AK-47.

The bikes stopped before the gates of the hostel, apparently waiting for the steel-grey Contessa saloon that was emerging from the compound to precede them. As the car inched forward into the muddle, the motorcyclists got off and went up to it. One figure in khaki tapped on a rear window, a second-a woman, with a scar across her cheek-climbed, in two feline leaps, from the back on to the roof of the car. Squatting and leaning over, she, with an iron rod, shattered wide open its rear windshield. Even as she jumped off, the other three opened fire.

For the rest of his life, Agastya remembered that sharp in the headlights of the Amba.s.sador, he had seen the man in the rear left seat of the Contessa-plump, bespectacled, distinguished, with great tufts of hair sprouting out of his ears-duck down and to the right milliseconds before the other three occupants-the driver, a bodyguard and an obese, newly-appointed Personal a.s.sistant-were rocked and bloodied by bullets.

The a.s.sa.s.sins stopped firing as suddenly as they had begun. They clambered on to their motorcycles and turned into the compound of the hostel. In the ensuing seconds of awesome silence, above the bronchial rattle and wheeze of the Amba.s.sadors engine, Agastya could hear the motorbikes roar away towards the freedom of the south gate. Cautiously, a hawker of wearunders then shuffled forward to the Contessa. He seemed first to inspect the holes in its body and the reddened, spider-webbed shards of windshield before daring to peek inside.

Three dead, with Suk.u.maran Govardhan wounded but alive when they were all shifted to a van to be ferried to the Chintamani Aflatoon Memorial Hospital. Something however happened en route, for Govardhan was declared dead on arrival at Emergency and the unnamed chauffeur wounded but alive. While the newspaper headlines applauded the event- 'END OFAN ERA 'b.l.o.o.d.y DEATH OF LAST EMPEROR 'GANG WARFARE CLAIMS DRUGLORD- the unnamed chauffeur arranged to slip away from hospital and into oblivion, where, safely out of the way, he had the hair from his ears surgically removed while working out a few deft moves for a smooth entry into politics.

In that hall on the seventh floor of the New Courts, with its defaced tables, broken windowpanes, scarred walls, chipped mosaic flooring and flickering tubelights, Lina Natesan, radiant in a sari of cream georgette, had n.o.body to share her joy at the judgment of Justice Sohan with save her old neighbour from the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Welfare State Public Servants Housing Complex Transit Hostel, Dr Srinivas Chakki. On his part, he was delighted to be present in her hour of need, though hed been convinced that he wouldnt be able to show up. Ever since hed been suspended from service for writing articles in various newspapers and magazines that were openly critical of the policies and personages of the Welfare State, hed become a newer, busier and even more revolutionary man, travelling, writing, thinking, exhorting, curing, debating, making an a.s.s of himself at different forums, not caring because time was still running out at the speed of light, plunging on.

The rules provide a suspended civil servant with half his basic salary, or half a peanut per month for, as they say, a tough nut. While starving his family to death, he is meant, no doubt, to shame himself into joining them. An idealistic vision of the perfect state of things, for shame and guilt are not feelings that he has experienced often since his adolescence, or whenever it was that he lost his innocence. If he has other sources of income, he is supposed to declare them. If he leaves the town or city of his residence, he is obliged to inform the office from which he continues to draw his survival allowance. Contrary to type, as a free man, Dr Chakki scrupulously followed all the rules. To the National Inst.i.tute of Communicable Diseases, he sent every fortnight an outline of his tour itinerary, attaching photocopies of his second-cla.s.s train tickets. Of all the stuff that he wrote that was published, and of the meagre cheques that followed months later, he posted xeroxes to his old office, highlighting the pa.s.sages that he felt warranted careful reading. Never Say Die, Mister Hope, was one of his favourite mottoes. As long as his brain ticked away, there was always a chance that some, or at least one, of his ex-colleagues-fellow-citizens, after all-would arise from his stupor to see the light.

Wake-Up Call.

On a war-footing, therefore, the Welfare State must encourage our entrepreneurs to make some first-cla.s.s, hard p.o.r.nographic films. n.o.body who is truly honest with himself will balk at going ahead full steam with this programme, which I have tentatively ent.i.tled Operation b.e.s.t.i.a.l, that is, Better s.e.x for Tuning Into Life. Its acronym is one of the very few aspects of the plan that remain tentative. Indeed, if I may be permitted to say so myself, as time pa.s.ses, the surer and clearer the future as a whole looks-from my point of view, of course.

It will be necessary to define the programme at length. I have learnt from my experience in bouncing my ideas off Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha not to abandon even the smallest detail to the imaginations of my auditors. When left to themselves to fill in the blanks, they collapse into endless, low-key giggles. Nothing moves. Bad time management, therefore.

Hence b.e.s.t.i.a.l, first of all, should be seen as part of a larger education policy. It is neither a joke nor a secret that our people need to be told what goes in where. The films will show-in close-ups clear enough to satisfy the most myopic, the dumbest and the most aroused-and explain the acts and processes that are in fact so profoundly moving, so beautiful and fulfilling, but in our country and in the psyche of our countrymen, have been warped and polluted, made obscene, the inspiration for sn.i.g.g.e.rs and lewd, b.e.s.t.i.a.l thinking. I speak of terms and concepts like o.r.g.a.s.m, c.l.i.toris, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, p.u.b.es, erection, c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s, f.e.l.l.a.t.i.o, ovulation, spermatozoa, fallopian tubes, mammary glands and erogenous zones in general-the b.u.m for some, armpits and all that. Education through positive, wholesome entertainment.

To ensure which will be the responsibility of the new- look, positive, wholesome Cinema Certification Board. All happy endings. Made for Each Other s.e.xual organs live happily ever after. All S & M, under control, positive, wholesome. No debas.e.m.e.nt of women, no blood, violence or females as s.e.x objects. Just great, inventive s.e.x arising out of love. Above all no film songs oozing s.e.xual innuendo, than which nothing could be more disgusting.

The latest platinum Hindi film hit-which dates from a few months after your time, and which I know by heart because Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha coo it to each other, across and right through my head, pausing only to giggle, eight hours a day, five days a week-is a perfect example. I translate faithfully from our official to our administrative language.

The rooster-c.o.c.k of my love c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo, Calls to you, my dove, c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo.

Youre very wet, I see.

It isnt the rain, my p.u.s.s.y, c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo.

Go not away from me, But c.u.m c.u.m welcome the rooster Like a virgin bud the bee For a warm shot of a booster c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo.

Let me see if I can bring along a tape of it tomorrow. Even your subconscious will revolt against its fat, yellow-fanged vulgarity. And its one of the better ones! In fact, its almost redeemed by its infectious, bravely-plagiarized, Latin American rhythm. As for the others! To plumb the depths, I accompanied Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha to something called Tushun Hi To Hai Darling, Samajh Gaye Na, universally referred to as THTHDSGN. Utterly exhausting. Three hours of spurting blood, bludgeon, thwack, wham, hero indistinguishable from villain, deafening cacophonous music, silicon heroines with faces like powder compacts-where on earth is the romance? I put it to you, as I proposed to Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha, that you, I and the whole country would be infinitely more fulfilled by a wholesome, hard p.o.r.nographic movie. Top-angle shot, followed by close-up, of heroine helping hero to correctly slip on his condom. Hero confesses that earlier hed always donned it on his middle finger, with which hed then mauled clockwise the nipples of the female forms beneath him. As a contraceptive measure, it hadnt been very successful. Surely you realize the value of the message, the education, that such scenes will transmit into that hot, darkened cinema hall? The possibilities are endless. Vamp has VD, close up, pa.s.ses it on to villain, who deals in drugs, whose second-in-command mainlines indiscriminately, the dangers of AIDS, and so on and so forth. A good p.o.r.nographic film would disseminate through tasteful entertainment all the loaded info of the Ministries of Public Health and Family Welfare. At no extra cost.

On the contrary, while simply raking it in for the Welfare State. Of which more need not be said, save that, to reach out to everybody, I must presume that Im addressing-begging your pardon-the dumbest of the dumb. It is safe to infer from the last census figures that we have a s.e.xually active and eager population of some seven hundred and fifty million people. Not bad, huh. Tickets will be priced at one hundred and two hundred rupees. The Welfare State itself will take over and run the black market in the sale of tickets outside cinema halls, thereby providing additional employment to thousands, Id imagine, for whom one may well consider a perk of free entry to the films up to a maximum of ten times per week. At a conservative estimate, I visualize a net revenue of about fifteen crores per film. We are therefore looking at a possible thousand extra crores a year.

Almost all of which will be pumped back into the world of s.e.x. The health of our prost.i.tutes, their housing and hygiene, the quality of their lives, the education of their progeny-their own education too. I mean, whats wrong with power to the prost.i.tute as a welfare policy? Then well always need funds to improve the quality of our contraceptive devices-those copper Ts and condoms-and the health of our womenfolk, not necessarily in that order. You know, anaemia, tuberculosis, oral cancer from chewing tobacco, terrible menstrual irregularities, that sort of thing. To any insensitive male pig who objects to this diversion of funds to favour only one s.e.x, we will retort: A healthy woman is the devils workshop.

My old roommate, mentor and friend, Shri Dhrubo Jyoti Ghosh Dastidar, would require a minuscule fraction of our net profit to fund his research project on the frenetic s.e.xual activity of the mandarins of the Welfare State. Id be inclined to grant him the amount required for a number of reasons. One: As he himself phrases it in the conclusion of his proposal, if we dont ourselves study our peccadilloes, then sooner or later, a Caucasian European or American academic will slip in and make off with it, and once abroad, squeeze it dry of its richness, its worth, in fifteen papers and four seminars, from which in turn he will wring out two books, which will of course be sold back to us-and indeed-since theyll be on the reading lists and bibliographies of thirty Sociology and Political Science courses here-will become bestsellers of a kind. It is this chain reaction that Shri Dastidar wishes his study to preempt. He sees it as a protection of our cultural heritage. Two: As a long-time resident of the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Transit Hostel, I myself have been witness to the nuts, screws and bolts of the suggested project. It is an open secret amongst the hostellers that many of our fellow public-servant allottees have sublet part of their apartments to prost.i.tutes, ma.s.seurs, computer salesmen, astrologers and barbers.

If I may digress for a minute to elaborate. In your present state, you probably dont recall the PATH-as the hostel is familiarly referred to. Twelve hundred one-room fully-furnished flats, six buildings in all, marvellous location, a minute from the Public Gardens. About five hundred of those flatlets, Id say, have been sublet. Its easy-undo your pyjamas, and your brothers too-hes bound to be staying with you; back home, all of us have a housing problem-tie the two strings together and hang up a couple of your wifes saris across the middle of your only room-and voila, youve a one bedroom-hall-kitchen-toilet in the centre of town, of which you rent out the portion between sari and balcony for about five times the sum thats deducted from your salary as house rent. Neat. At ten a.m., or whenever the breadwinner departs for the day, an entirely different, parallel life swivels into existence, like a change of scene on a revolving stage. I myself regularly get my hair cut in D-248 and Miss Snigdha, I understand, has her toes done in E-117. After he broke away from Baba Mastram, Dharam Chand first set up shop in B-747, an address, he is quick to point out, numerologically significant for an astrologer of the jet age. Miss Shruti frequently has her fortune told there.

As for the s.e.x, each building of the hostel, like territories carved up amongst the mafia, tends to have its own don of a racketeer. Any one of them, overly venturesome, trying to muscle in on the domain of another, might suddenly one Monday find himself transferred to some dump a thousand kilometres away. Hence they all follow scrupulously the rules of the game. Ministries and Departments too have been parcelled out amongst them. My Under Secretary colleague down the corridor, for instance, covers Home Affairs, Planning, Rural Development, Energy and a handful of others. Hes arranged-quite clockwork, smoothly-with the Caretaker of the Commissionerate of Estates to always have at the disposal of the pa.s.sionate and panting the flats on the ninth floor of our building that are officially designated as the guesthouse of the Regional Potato Research Organization. What Shri Dastidar intends to a.n.a.lyse are the processes and the structures within the system. Can one discern a correlation, for example, amongst the seniority of the concupiscent official, the economic clout of his Ministry and the social cla.s.s, attractiveness and youth of the service provided? What percentage of the women professionals active in all the six buildings are resident housewives or tenants of the servants quarters of the nearby Ganapati Aflatoon Marg, all of them terribly respectable middle- and lower-middle- cla.s.s women who wish to supplement the family income incognito, and whod be horrified were you to ask them, for instance, in a printed questionnaire: At what do you play When your spouse is away?

How many genuine guests does the Regional Potato Research Organization board per year in the capital? Has none of them ever wondered at the goings-on in the guesthouse, at how all its staff seems to comprise painted up, well-turned-out women rather the worse for wear? Is the billing cycle weekly, fortnightly or monthly? Does the don accept payment by cheque and credit card? Do the rates change on religious and government holidays? As you can see, Shri Dastidar has his work cut out for him.

In his approach to the subject of his study, he has, as he says in his Introduction, distinguished two broad categories of male civil servant and one special category of female. He sees one male type as the sort who just cant get it down, exemplified by Shri Bhupen Raghupati, last seen disappearing into the jungles of Jompanna. In contrast, the second male type simply cant get it up, as an example of which, Im rather surprised to note, he suggests me. Though his ill.u.s.trations can be-and in one case, certainly is-faulty, Shri Dastidar nevertheless draws interesting connections between the business, the activities, of the Welfare State and the s.e.xual behaviour of its functionaries. It is the mirage of power, he argues, that keeps Shri Raghupati in a state of permanent excitement; and significantly, when he wants to pucker down, Shri Raghupati resorts to reading Cabinet notes, demi-official correspondence, circulars, memorandums and minutes of previous meetings-in brief, to wading through the innards of the Welfare State, the very same stuffing that, whine the male mandarins of the second type according to Shri Dastidar, permanently prevents them from experiencing the joys of a respectable hardon. Youd agree that we should encourage Shri Dastidar to further probe these links between power, doc.u.mentation and desire.

Operation b.e.s.t.i.a.l will have an interesting spin-off or two. Well become trailblazers for the International Hard-p.o.r.nography Film Festival Circuit, for instance, and when our ageing p.o.r.n film stars decide to perform in politics, their pasts will help to keep them in perspective.

Dr Chakkis hour was up. He switched off the Walkman, stepped up to the bed and methodically removed the earphones from the head of the comatose Rajani Suroor. He took out of his backpack his sungla.s.ses and his headdress-a Ya.s.ser-Arafat kind of thing that hed fashioned out of a small tablecloth-and packed into the bag the machine, the earphones, his diary, pen and water bottle. As was his habit, he scanned the cubicle with experienced eye-the drips, the ECG, the catheter, the tricky air-conditioner, the voltage stabilizer-before pulling shut behind him the ill-fitting door. Outside in the ward, manfully ignoring the awesome heat, the whirr of the ceiling fans and the reek of disinfectant, he smiled at Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha, and gave off very good bad vibes. They, simperingly and in a flurry, sat up in the hospital bed thatd been placed beside the cubicle specifically for the guardians of Shahid Suroor and in which they, supine, had been pensively a.s.sessing the undulations of their forms down to their painted toenails.

Seven other beds in the ward, six of which were occupied; all six were cases recommended by local VIPs, for one still needed clout to get close to Rajani Suroor. In the initial weeks after the attack on him, the cops, adept at bolting stable doors, had cordoned off the entire hall-sanitized it, to appropriate their phrase for a hospital-and hadnt allowed anybody in, not even, at times, the doctors. However, time, the boss that eases up all crises, slackens just as well constables on duty, and thus with its pa.s.sage, gradually at first and freely thereafter, patients, nurses, sweepers, attendants and visitors wandered in and out of Ward Two.

Since Dr Chakkid been visiting Rajani Suroor every morning for the last three weeks, hed become a familiar face at the hospital. Some of the occupants of the other beds in the ward smiled at him as he pa.s.sed by. The good entomologist had a doctorly word for each one of them. ' . . . So, Mr Chidambaram, still feeling nervous? . . . Dont worry, a piles operation is nothing . . . Another handshake at the next bed, ' . . . Well, Raichur, my dear host, the gastero any better? . . . Dyou think its G.o.ds way of admonishing you for snacking in the wee hours while officially on a hunger strike? . . . Come come, youll be out soon, well in time to douse yourself with kerosene and light up at the next auspicious hour and date . . . Dr Chakki then paused at the foot of Bed One and modulated his voice to sound less pleased with himself and more solicitous of his interlocutor, a blind woman, with a patch over her right eye to boot, whod been admitted for a dengue fever that simply refused to go away.

Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha watched Dr Chakki depart with unalloyed joy. Keeping vigil at a bedside was much more fun without his watchful eye on them. On their own tape recorder, they could play for the patient one of Dr Chakkis recorded ca.s.settes and then settle down to concentrating properly on playing their own game of Antaakshari without being distracted all the time by his bad vibes tingling their skins. Of course, Miss Shruti, who was more sensitive, claimed, particularly when she was losing an Antaakshari session, that his bad vibes emanated from his recorded voice too, though-naturally, she acknowledged-not with the same intensity. Theyd pointed out to each other countless times, helplessly trembling with mirth at their own wit, that both Dr Chakkis voice and his choices of subject matter were so soporific that a combination of the two would never ever work like an alarm clock, and that Rajani Suroor had surfaced out of coma once, but the bad vibes from the tape recorder had immediately knocked him out again.

It ought to be explained that Antaakshari which, transliterated, means 'Of the last letter, is a game generally played with film songs. One partic.i.p.ant sings the first complete stanza of one song, or even just the first couple of lines, provided that they are long enough to convince his auditors that he knows the tune and the lyrics reasonably well. The last letter of the word on which he ends must form the first letter of the first word of the song that the second partic.i.p.ant must respond with, usually within a tense twenty seconds. When earnestly played, Antaakshari has been known to be as harrowing as poker in a Western. Miss Shruti and Miss Snigdha, whose knowledge of Hindi film songs is truly encyclopaedic, play with professional single-mindedness, completely blind and deaf to the outside world. Their neer- say-die sessions last for hours (no song can be repeated in the same sitting), usually till their next rendezvous with Dr Chakki. Naturally, since they dont wish their surroundings to either interrupt or eavesdrop, they sing only for each other, intensely and softly; correspondingly, one listens to the other with the c.o.c.ked ears and alert face of a dog sensing a rat.

Thus, there was no way in which they couldve either heard Rajani Suroor groan or seen his eyelids flicker. Moreover, he groaned mutedly, respectably, not like a starlet achieving o.r.g.a.s.m in a blue film. One must also remember that the ladies sat outside his cubicle, both out of modesty and because neither much liked either air-conditioning or Dr Chakkis ca.s.settes, one of which was playing at that time beside Suroors pillow. Alas, one will never know whether this was the first time that Suroor had shown any signs of revival or whether hed stirred and moaned before, but sadly, each time when there wasnt anybody in the cubicle.

Dr Chakki was due back from the Madna International Hotel at two. Hed spend another hour with Suroor and play him one more ca.s.sette before tea. Hed recorded all the tapes himself in one of Rani Chandras studios, complete with different kinds of mindless background music at the beginning, at points of emphasis and changes of topic and as flourishes at the end. Fifteen tapes in all, and that was just the first phase, for he had much to say on the subject of the rebirth of the Welfare State. Unfortunately, since n.o.body conscious had wanted to listen, hed been constrained to seek out another type of audience.

The way to Suroor, long and tortuous, had begun with Shri Agastya Sen one rainy evening at the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Transit Hostel, over spicy samosas and tea. 'He has the right cv for a messiah; hes perfect for a figurehead. He knows the people, he can act, hes performed before them on the streets, hes famous, his resting-places become a shrine. When he wakes up, itll be as though Rip Van Winkled decided to contest for Parliament. Moreover, Suroor was-is-was-a sort of civil servant, a skilled survivor, he knows-knew-the ins and outs of the nuts and bolts. I think of him as a dormant dragon who needs to be roused into breathing some fire into his fellow countrymen.

'I want to urge him to wake up through sound. Audiotherapy has been greatly ignored in our country. Think of him as a schoolboy determined not to get up on Monday morning no matter what tricks his mother tries. Weve nothing to lose, you know, except Suroor. Your Dharam Chand agreed with me. G.o.d is yet to take a decision on Suroor Saabs file, but we may issue Him a first reminder, he declared after consulting the stars.

'Its wonderful, Sen da, how youve kept in touch with the influential and powerful. So thats the route that Id be grateful if you could take for me. Mr Dastidar to Dharam Chand to Rani Chandra to Jayati Aflatoon. Our demands are quite simple. One: No fee. The work is its own reward. Two: My team and Ive to be set up in Madna for the treatment, the duration of which I havent decided on yet. Three: Im to be placed in charge of Suroors revival. I dont want any myopic Civil Surgeon breathing dust down my neck.

'Ive brought with me photocopies of one of those scripts that later, Id like to record on tape and eventually propose to Suroor to take up as themes in his street plays. You could present these pages as convincing arguments to both Rani Chandra and Jayati Aflatoon-and in fact to anybody else who you know might want to join us butd first like to learn what were up to.

Is it coincidence (ran Dr Chakkis script) that in Hindi our official language, Plato the Greek political theorist is called Aflatoon? Three centuries ago, when a migrant family from the North-West settled down at Aflatoonabad, dropped its caste name and picked up another-something less indicative of its social roots and region of origin-it chose Aflatoon. Was that foresight or irony? Or modesty, in that it mightve been referring to the incredibly sweet, cloyingly heavy, mildly sickening and slightly lumpen candy of sorts, after which the town of its-the familys-choice is named and for which it-the town-is justly renowned? Succeeding generations of the family-the leaders, thinkers, statesmen, founding fathers and polo players amongst them-have often pontificated on the nature of politics and of the Welfare State, complimented one another on their acuity and wisdom and often recalled in comparison not the candy, but their Greek namesake. He seems a good point, therefore, at which to begin.

In The Republic, Platos Socrates states that Asclepius, the son of Apollo and the patron of doctors, believed that 'no treatment should be given to the man who cannot survive the routine of his ordinary job, and who is therefore of no use either to himself or to society. Plato-Socrates approves entirely of the idea and himself declares a bit later, 'This then is the kind of medical and judicial provision for which you will legislate in your state. It will provide treatment for those of your citizens whose physical and psychological const.i.tution is good; as for the others, it will leave the unhealthy to die, and those whose psychological const.i.tution is incurably corrupt it will put to death. In the perfect state, in brief, imperfection has no place, naturally.

Yes but, I mean, really, I say . . . protests Rajamani Aflatoon, the first founding father of our Welfare State, in the twenty-three volumes of his Complete Works thatve been published so far, and elaborates in his letter to Gaj.a.pati from a Swiss sanatorium in 1951, to be found on Wake-Up Call of Volume Fourteen: Our blemished Welfare State exists, therefore, for all the millions of the imperfect wholl never qualify as citizens of the ideal republic. Like people, like government. The quality of the second can only reflect that of the first. After all, its representatives and administrators are drawn from, and rise out of, them, the different sections of the ma.s.ses. In fact, to make Platos monumental meritocracy work, it seems to me that his wise men must first improve the basic stock from which they choose their candidates. In other words, even the perfect state could do with a dose or two of the principles of welfare.