Rubbish, Shri Dharam Chand. Our politicians wear khadi. The Prime Minister wears it. The clip of his Cartier gold fountain pen looks splendid against it.

Ah, but thats khadi from another planet. Whereas ours is Welfare State khadi. I know, Cla.s.s IV types like me in the Khadi Board spin hundreds of thousands of metres every year-and then the Board sells all of it back to the State to be distributed to the likes of me, and we use most of it to shroud our corpses before burning. Khadi burns well. Sound Welfare State economics, khadi. Spend an enormous amount of time, money, infrastructure and manpower fundamentally to transfer funds from one Department to another and incidentally, in pa.s.sing, create a product that no one wants, but stuff that z-grade product down the throats of your Cla.s.s IV employees and then pay them peanuts to swallow it.

Moreover, the Prime Minister, continued Shri Dharam Chand, wears starched white khadi. Our Washing Allowance doesnt cover starch. Our Employees Union has sent at least twenty memorandums to the Welfare Secretary to initiate an Additional Uniform Starching Allowance but no one listens to anyone here.

It was pointed out to Shri Dharam Chand that Mahatma Gandhi wore khadi too.

Well, when I return from South Africa and England and after Ive become famous and can roam around leaning on women for support, what I wear wont matter, will it.

I gather that Shri Dharam Chand follows me to the toilet because he has been directed to do so. This is a secret administrative fallout of my representation at Annexure P, that is, he has to verify the general conduct of our Black Guard Commandoes and apparently protect me from them. While I am in the toilet, they chortle and guffaw outside and, from the shrieks that filter through to me, prod one anothers private parts with their AK-47s.

A dear friend of Shri Dharam Chand, a short young male with thick lips and curly hair, is a permanent inhabitant of the Ladies Toilet on the fourth floor, that is to say, I have seen him in there, three-to-four times a day, every day, for the last two months. He is always half-naked, in large white-leather boots with splashes of paint on them and mustard-coloured boxer- type underwear. Shri Dharam Chand for some reason calls them wearunders. I have asked him why his friend couldnt dress and have been informed that the half- naked one is a painter. It is true that whenever I enter the toilet, he makes a pretence of washing a paintbrush at the sink. The pretence is truly bizarre because there hasnt been any water in that, toilet in the time that I have used it and on seventy-four occasions, no water taps and on twenty three occasions, no sink.

A glance at my representation at Annexure S will reveal my strong suspicion that Shri Dharam Chand and his young friend, in league with the Section Officer, Stores, have been merrily trafficking in taps, toilet sinks, flush tanks and other sanitation and plumbing articles. Their modus operandi is simple and effective. One accomplice is permanently installed inside the Ladies Toilet, busy all day long with hammer and wrench. The mastermind, using a foolproof pretext, pops in four times a day to check on progress. The stolen stuff goes out of the window and down the scaffolding that is permanently up in Aflatoon Bhavan because of its size and the lethargy and venality of the painters contracted by the Welfare State.

At the sink, apprehensive of the monkey munching away a bare two feet above and to the left of his head, Dr Alagh, standing on one leg, rinsed his left calf and foot. He almost lost his balance out of fright when, suddenly, from behind the animal and out of the blue beyond the window, bobbed up a human head, curly-haired, thick-lipped. It didnt startle the monkey, however; the latter merely turned and perfunctorily bared its teeth at the painter who in turn aped it.

Just then, the lights went off, but only in the toilet and a section of the adjoining corridor. It could have been a routine power failure, terrorist sabotage, a routine economy drive, a snafu due to overloading or routine illegal electricity tapping. Agastya felt that they would do better to get on with their appointments than to hang around in the dark in a weird loo.

To their discomfort, as they left the Gents, the monkey abandoned its food, hopped off the sill and began to trail them. n.o.body else seemed to notice or be perturbed by it. Its small restless eyes squinted ceaselessly about as it followed them into the Departmental Canteen. It paused momentarily as they settled down at a plastic table near one of the windows, then, red b.u.m held high, stalked regally off to perch on another window sill. Agastya relaxed just a bit.

The monkeys of Aflatoon Bhavan werent hostile, they were simply unfriendly. There were at least three thousand of them. Theyd been there longer than anyone could recall, since the Word, practically. Administration had summoned Pest Control once, but hed said that they didnt do monkeys. Under Secretary (General Maintenance) had also written a couple of times to the Ministry of Environment and Forests to prod the zoo to come and round them up. (During the first week of the plague scare, incidentally, a rustle from their building had been heard but itd later turned out to be only a woman clerk shifting in her seat while knitting during the morning session.) Three thousand monkeys. Agastya wondered where on earth they stayed. Perhaps they had addresses with pin codes or some of that www stuff. It was funny-uncanny, really-how they-the monkeys-had a problem only with Personal files. Just once in the history of Aflatoon Bhavan had one of them actually pounced on a civil servant and made off with his file. The victim had been Chhote Lal Nilesh, then Section Officer, Departmental Enquiries. The monkey didnt even scratch him, unfortunately-it was repelled, so the story goes, by Shri Nileshs general sliminess. It simply landed on Nileshs shoulder, coiled its tail around his neck-not out of love, one would imagine-reached down for the file, kissed Nilesh twice, once on either cheek, in the French manner, in grat.i.tude and farewell, and then lazily loped off with its booty. Personal files tend to be a bit exhibitionistic, after all. All bound in red parchment, with those flags in huge letters simply screaming for attention-CONFIDENTIAL, FOR RESTRICTED CIRCULATION, TOP SECRET, FOR SECRETARYS EYES ONLY, Civil servants should rather blame themselves for arousing in the first place the curiosity of their resident apes, who became quite popular after the attack on Nilesh. Missing files still continue to be attributed to them. Its much simpler, everyone agrees-though less permanent-than arranging, in somebody elses room, for an accidental bonfire.

Waiters continued to careen past them, bent sideways at alarming angles to counterbalance the weight of five-to-six trays, one atop another, poised equably on left shoulder and upturned, backward-pointing left palm. On each tray, Agastya could see rows and rows of identical, tiny steel bowls; those on the top tray were full of some mud-coloured gravy. The waiters wore crumpled, off-white khadi uniforms and extraordinary, foot-high, maroon turbans all brocaded in gold; they looked like the proud crests of a flock of some rare, gigantic birds bobbing, bouncing and nipping about against the grey-and-brown shabbiness of the canteen. To each waiter who shot past them, Agastya serenely and pleasantly repeated their order for tea. Some of the waitersd grunted, but one couldnt be certain that itd been in response.

The tea finally arrived, tepid, sweet, mild dishwater in a cracked cup. Well, what else could he expect for fifty paise, demanded Agastya of himself, Darjeeling Flowery Orange Pekoe from Fortnum and Mason? A fundamental law of economics in the Welfare State, Sir-subsidy breeds substandard. Youre in a Departmental Canteen, remember, a welfare measure for the employees of the government, not to be confused with any of the welfare measures for the citizens under that government. The canteen buys its raw stuff-rice- dust, oil-and-used-engine-oil, flour-dust, potatoes-and-worms, curry-powder-and-the-good-earth, c.o.c.kroach-and-lizard-s.h.i.t-from the Department of Raw Materials and Civil Supplies-pretty cheap, special rates and so on. Its a tortuous, instructive journey for the bags of sugar and the cans of kerosene, from one warehouse to another G.o.down, from a depot to a storehouse to a truck to Aflatoon Bhavan. Everyone steals en route-it is Clause 28(iv) of the Public Distribution of Essential Commodities Act. Notwithstanding any law or regulation to the contrary and for the time being in force, all dealers, purveyors, transporters, merchants, middlemen, tradesmen, caterers, canteen managers and the suchlike, of food, raw materials, provisions, foodstuff, provender, rations, groceries and the suchlike, meant for the eventual consumption of the employees of the Welfare State, may, whenever deemed fit, adjust to their convenience, the quality and quant.i.ty of the edibles and consumables under their charge. It is the reason why therell always be rats in government warehouses, their ground excreta in government wheat, monkeys in Aflatoon Bhavan and G.o.ds in Heaven-somebody has to be around to take the s.h.i.t, to foist the blame on, scapegoats for human misdeeds. If he a.n.a.lysed the ingredients of his cup of tea, hed find that it wasnt worth more than fifty paise. It was completely off the point to argue that outside the sphere of the Welfare State, far far away from that indescribable Departmental Canteen, in a normal, decent, ordinary cafe or restaurant, a cup of tea cost about twenty times more. That was only natural because it was twenty times closer to what a cup of tea should be. The Departments Cla.s.s IV Employees Union had till then strenuously resisted all attempts by the Canteen Management to raise the prices on the menu. The proposed hike for tea was to one rupee-a hundred percent increase. Criminal! Would people never understand? In the Welfare State, everything was free or as close to free as cheap could get. Give us this day our daily crud.

They temporarily parted ways after tea, Dr Alagh to try and find the two Under Secretaries whom theyd come to meet, Agastya a quiet corner where he could smoke a joint. Eventually, the Civil Surgeon located at least the room of one.

Not many more signs could be put up on his door. Beneath his bilingual nameplate hung a board that took up half the door. It described his designation in full, in both Hindi and English: Under Secretary: Gaj.a.pati Aflatoon Centenary Celebrations, Our Endangered Tribal Heritage, Promotion and Diffusion of Demotic and Indigenous Drama and Other Such Forms of Self-Expression. The third sign read: No Visitors Without Prior Appointment, underneath which was the suggestion: Please See My PA In Room 3872, D Wing, Desk IV. The fifth board reminded all pa.s.sers-by that Visitors Without Prior Appointment (were) Not Encouraged. The sixth stated quite simply: Please Do Not Spit Here.

The seventh and last plate read: This Area Meant for Parking of Official Cars Only. Any Car Unauthorizedly Parked Will Have Its Tyres Deflated. By Order of the Under Secretary Administration. Thank You. It had been stolen about a year ago by the Under Secretary from the car park downstairs because hed liked it and had wanted to see how many pa.s.sers-by would actually read it on his door and find it odd. In one year, no one had complained.

Dr Alagh knocked. No response. He knocked again, then bravely opened the door. A tall, plumpish man concentrated on his tai-chi exercises in the centre of the room. At the second desk, a solemn, bespectacled attractive woman paused in her writing to glance up forbriddingly at Dr Alagh.

'Oh h.e.l.lo! . . . I was looking for the Under Secretary for Demotic Drama. Ive an appointment with him.

Without quickening or disturbing the slow, flowing rhytnm of his arm movements, the exerciser pointed to the vacant chair behind the first desk and remarked in soft, measured tones, in harmony with the undulations of his body, 'There is no response from the inc.u.mbents seat. Please try after some time. Then the exerciser pointedly-but fluidly-turned his back on Dr Alagh.

Who, nonplussed, shut the door and read the boards and nameplate on it one more time. Had he just encountered one Under Secretary and her gigolo or two Under Secretaries, of whom one, for reasons of state, was nameplate-less? Mr Tai-Chi had been more poised than unfriendly. How many minutes was after some time? Perhaps he should go off somewhere to unearth the Collector of Madna. Or he could ferret out in one of these warrens the Under Secretary for Freedom Fighers (Pre-Independence). He ambled off, nervous.

Meanwhile, to avoid pa.s.sing under a monkey that squatted atop a steel almirah and bared its teeth at everyone that tramped past, the Collector of Madna had purposefully turned into the first open door. A huge room that looked small because of the usual chaos of tables, chairs, almirahs, shelves and hillocks of files. There was just one man in the room, hunched in a chair by a window. Agastya threaded his way across. The man wore a brown suit and sparkling-white, new tennis shoes. He had yellowed, sad eyes. Beside him, on the table, lay his opened lunch box. At his feet glowed the rooms single electric heater, on the wire frame of which were being reheated, in twos, the chapatis from the lunch box. On one of the cleaner files beside the heater lay the chapatis thatd already been done. The silence was companionable.

'How will you reheat the vegetables and the dal?

The man pointed to the flat metal pen-tray. 'That fits very well on the heater. We stir with the stencil pen. Have you had lunch? asked he courteously.

'Yes, thank you, but please do go ahead . . . Its way past lunch hour, isnt it? . . . Actually, I came in in search of a light for my cigarette.

'Smoking is forbidden in all Welfare State offices, said the man sadly, dextrously replacing the chapatis on the heater with the last two from his lunch box. 'I tend to have my lunch late because of my arthritis and my piles. I have to complete my special joints-and-neck-exercises every morning, so I cant reach office before eleven. Wheres the time for lunch at one? . . . during lunch hour, everybody saunters off outside to soak in the sun and eat peanuts and oranges . . . in our Department, only Under Secretaries and above are ent.i.tled to electric heaters in their rooms. Presumably only they need to keep warm in winter. I represented, arguing that I ought to be issued one on account of my arthritis. General Administration ordered me to face the Medical Board. I represented, arguing that the members of the Board committee belonged to castes traditionally hostile to mine. A final decision is still awaited. Meanwhile, I befriended the Section Officer, Stores, at our Lunch Club. He picked up the pen tray from the table, tipped its contents-ballpoints, pins, clips, erasers, markers-into a drawer, wiped it with a duster, then paused to glance shyly at Agastya, 'Are you sure you wont join me for a late lunch? . . . If you really want to smoke, you may light your cigarette from the heater. Here, use this paper-handing him part of a blank sheet that hed torn out of the nearest file-'but please smoke at the window and try and exhale with your head out of the window, if you dont mind.

'With pleasure. You wouldnt mind, of course, if my cigarette is crumpled, hand-rolled and smells a little eco-friendly?

'Not at all.

The phone rang, a muted but insistent, urgent, brr-brr. The man in the white tennis shoes ignored it, perhaps because hed started lunch, at all times a sacred business. It wasnt easy to discern which phone to pick up, since each of the eight desks in the room had an instrument, and they all seemed to be ringing.

Agastya made himself comfortable on some files on the window ledge. It was a good place to finish his joint; then hed get back to locating Dhrubo. Sighing richly, he exhaled dragon-like through where the pane was meant to be. Before him, not a hundred feet away, were the rows of windows of some other wing of Aflatoon Bhavan. From his seat, he could see nothing else, no sky, no ground, just the occasional pipal sapling tenaciously finding life in the damp walls, the black waste pipes and the trash of fifty years thrown out of a thousand windows. Where they werent slimy-green with damp, the walls of Aflatoon Bhavan were a dusty grey. One in two window-panes was broken, two in three windows wouldnt shut. Pigeons roosted on the occasional air-conditioner. Families of monkeys went about their business on diverse floors, under different ledges, much as though his seat was a vantage point from which to view a cross-section of some simian apartment block. He couldnt see much, though, of the interiors of any of the rooms that faced him. Those windows that hadnt been sealed off by air-conditioners had been stoppered by brown files, by mountain ranges of off-white paper, chunks of which, in landslides, had joined, on the overhangs below, the plastic bags, the newspaper wrappers of lunches, the dry ink stamp pads. Nothing, no record (the mountain ranges seemed to say) is ever thrown away. Naturally not. After all, government is based, and acts, on its records. Records are its history and the ground for its planning, are vital for Audit and Parliament, for continuity in governance, for the protection of the taxpayers interests. In 1950, the Hakim Tara Chand Committee, in its report on Doc.u.mentation and Codification in the Welfare State, had pointed out that to house the permanent records of the Central Ministries and Departments alone, the National Archives, against its 1949-capacity of twenty linear kilometres of shelves, would need four hundred-plus linear kilometres.

It may be noted here (to quote from the Foreword of the report) that the requirement of shelf s.p.a.ce of ALL the Departments of the nineteen REGIONAL governments of the Federal State was felt to be beyond the purview of this Committee; also, that it focussed only on the Centres PERMANENT records, a.s.suming-optimistically, it must be admitted-that it, the Centre, had organized well its system of weeding out its Himalayan quant.i.ties of paper, of separating its permanent files from its ephemeral transactions, its land records from its applications for Casual Leave.

The record is silent on precisely what the Welfare State did with the Hakim Tara Chand Committee Report. In the Bhanwar Virbhim regime, however, a proposal under consideration moots the setting up of the Taj Babbar Committee to study anew the vexed question of the updating of the recommendations of the, 1950 Committee. Professor Taj Babbar, as is well known, is a prominent educationist and the ex-Princ.i.p.al of Madnas Janata College.

Nothing, therefore, is intentionally jettisoned-one never knows when one will need what, and later, one doesnt want to be blamed, as they say, for acts of omission and commission. But its altogether a different matter-and it cant be helped, you know-if some of that record simply slides, wilts, gives up, falls by the wayside, drops dead.

As for the living, Agastya couldnt spot very many human figures; it was that uncertain, somnolent time of the afternoon. Occasionally, a head leaned out to spit paan into the air; at another window, a figure gargled and washed up after yet another late lunch.

'Should I answer the phone?

With his mouth full, the man raised his eyebrows and his shoulders, and even curled his lips a fraction.

'Which phone is it?

'All of them. Theyre all extensions.

'Why dont you pick it up? It might be important, or even for you.

'Ive said h.e.l.lo to you already, said the man coldly, 'its enough for the afternoon.

Agastya descended from his seat, walked over to a desk nearer the door and lifted the receiver. Just then, the man advised him, 'If whoever it is first wants to know, without preamble or introduction, where youre speaking from, you must retort, "From my mouth. Where are you speaking from?" Thatll teach them. I always do that. It hasnt taught them anything, but it does give the conversation a flavour.

'h.e.l.lo . . . from my mouth. Wherere you speaking from? . . . no, nothing, nothing at all, I said, whom dyou wish to speak to? . . . yes, this is Aflatoon Bhavan, Department of Culture, Heri- 'This is Atomic Energy, not Culture, objected the man politely, clearing up after lunch, sweeping crumbs and leftovers directly onto the heater, from which merrily flew the sparks, like Tinker Bell, onto the floor and the occasional, vicinal mound of files.

'Really? . . . But how odd that Under Secretary, Vanishing Musical Traditions should be just about three doors away . . . the man on the phone wants to know whether the office is open on Monday.

'A good question, tell him that. The man now stood at attention, ramrod straight beside the desk, chin up, shoulders back, chest out, stomach in, knees locked, gazing into the middle distance. He inhaled deeply and as he spoke, began to swivel his neck, with agonizing slowness, from extreme left to extreme right and back. 'Were all tense this afternoon. You see, including the weekend, there are six official holidays next week. Mondays the only working day. Tuesday is a new holiday-the Bajendrabadkar Centenary as a sop to the Marxists. Wednesday of course is Christmas, Thursday is the martyrdom of Guru Shankar Shambhu, therefore a Restricted Holiday-the twenty-third of the year-very tricky that, what in government circles is referred to as the RH factor, and Fridays the Declared General Strike, the Viraat Bandh of the opposition-so n.o.bodyll waste time trying to reach office. Its interesting that weve never had week-long official breaks in December before. April, August and October have traditionally been the better months from that point of view. Its a development that Im sure all of us will welcome.

'But we learnt this morning that Mother Almeidas more ill than ever before-which is saying quite a lot, considering that her heart stopped beating last month and her lungs gave up pumping last Sat.u.r.day. Shes ninety-five or thereabouts. When she departs, thats a holiday, for sure-maybe even two, who knows?-but were all pretty tense, you see, because if shed said, Good Night, World, this morning, then Home Affairs would have declared the holiday today itself, which would have disappointed us acutely, because wed all have been in office anyway-after eleven, at any rate. Ive never taken a single days leave in my twenty-nine years of service. One doesnt need to, I say. Once I finish my exercises and reach office, it isnt so bad . . . some of my women colleagues went out to the lawns with their knitting and everything earlier than usual this afternoon. While in the sun, before they start their peanuts and oranges, they intend to hold a Special Prayer Meeting for the health of Mother Almeida. All are cordially invited. Ideally, theyd like her to leave us on Sunday afternoon. Otherwise, please, please, G.o.d, let the gentle soul live all of next week . . . tell him not to be so lazy and to phone Home Affairs if hes so keen to find out about Monday.

'He wants to know whom hes speaking to.

'Well, give him your name.

Nervous, in two minds, without saying anything, Agastya put the phone down. It immediately began ringing again. Ignoring it, he watched his host carry a plastic water bottle to the window, rinse his hands, gargle and spit out into the void three mouthfuls of water, return to the desk, pack up his lunch box in a plastic bag, in pa.s.sing drop a cupful of water to douse a spark atop a mound of files that had been smouldering menacingly, flick invisible specks of dust off his suit, and with a last, sad glance at Agastya, toting the plastic bag and the water bottle, make his way to the door.

It unnerved Agastya to realize that he was going to be left alone in the room. 'Oh, I ought to be leaving too. Many thanks for the light for the cigarette . . . Arent you going to switch off your heater?

'It isnt mine, you know. I always leave things the way I found them. It is a sound principle in government. Doesnt ruffle any feathers. You rise faster.

'Yes. Should I switch it off then?

'After I leave, please, if you dont mind. If you receive a shock or something, I dont wish to be late at my desk, you follow.

'Naturally.

'We usually wait for the power cuts to effect our economies in consumption . . . I should get back to my desk before the lights go off. Ive quite a way to go, you know. Irrigation, A Wing, eighth floor . . . Water Resources Management . . . Wastelands Development Corporation . . . leave the heater on, actually. If the power doesnt fail us, my wifell be pleased to return to a warm seat. Okay, goodbye.

In the corridor, the mewl of a siren, terrifyingly loud, almost made Agastya forget where he had to go. As usual, n.o.body around him seemed to be affected by-or indeed, even hear-the din. Its hideousness-the wail of a thousand police cars-drew him forward like a magnet to its source, one of the two elevators in the west lobby. Out of Order, flashed the red sign above its doors, on-and-off, on-and-off, perfectly synchronous with the modulations of the siren.

'It sounds like a fire alarm, muttered Agastya to himself.

'Paycho, it is a fire alarm, declared-almost shouted-a voice at his shoulder.

He was surprised to see Dhrubo. 'But it is attached to the elevators and has been primed to go off only when they malfunction. It is the first mystifying principle of firefighting on a war footing.

'Yes, hissed Agastya. The ear-splitting noise had sent his blood pressure spiralling and his heart off pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, like a long ping-pong rally. 'Do you know where I can find Dr Jain, Under Secretary, Freedom Fighters (Pre-Independence)?

'Of course. Im going to him myself. We enjoy a special relationship because his present PA is my ex. They began to climb the stairs.

Dr Jains present PA and Dhrubos ex, coincidentally also a Jain, was in Dhrubos opinion, a first-rate PA. He understood things in a flash. Early in their acquaintance, Dhrubo had asked him one of his fundamental questions: Are you being paid by the Welfare State to reach office on time in the mornings or not? Ever after, they had vied with each other to be more or less punctual. Office started at nine, they were both in, every other day, by half-past, thanks to Dhrubos bicycle and Shri P.A. Jains Chartered Bus. He disapproved of Dhrubos bike, incidentally, and felt that his boss should drive a car, or better still, w.a.n.gle an official car like some of the other Under Secretaries did. Hed been particularly outraged by Dhrubos asking for a loan from the Department to buy his bicycle-it reflected badly on his PA, Jaind muttered.

From nine thirty to ten thirty-till the peon came-free and undisturbed, they planned their day. 1) Send the peon with the bicycle to the repairwala at the gate of Aflatoon Bhavan to pump air into its tyres and check for hidden leaks, 2) phone and phone till ones fingers become stubs and till one gets on the line the Secretary to the Princ.i.p.al of the Hiralal Aflatoon High School and Centre for Non-Formal Literacy and beg her to reveal whether theyve admitted ones niece, 3) send the peon to the Departments Welfare store to buy hairoil, washing powder, dried mango, mosquito repellent cream, two kilos of rice and three cakes of Lifebuoy soap, 4) contact Sodhi in the Commissionerate of Estates to find out whether he knows somebody in the Munic.i.p.al Corporation who can fix ones property tax, 5) ask the peon to cover with brown paper ones nieces new school textbooks, 6) try and extract from the Film Festival Secretariat two extra free pa.s.ses for the forthcoming Latin American Cinema Retrospective, 7) send the peon on the bicycle to the office of the Princ.i.p.al of the Hiralal Aflatoon High School with the letter of recommendation from the Ministers office that one has faked . . . and thus the day of the civil servant pa.s.ses. By the time one has finished with ones PA, one is quite exhausted.

The other Jain, the doctor who looks after freedom fighters, is the Departments h.o.m.oeopath-very experienced and wise, by all accounts. Staff and officers come from far and near, from all over the building, to consult him. Hes extremely reasonable and freely prescribes by proxy. For example, his own PA would accost him at his desk with: 'Jain saab, my neighbours son suddenly became deaf this morning.

'I see. Algebra exam?

'We dont think so. TV hasnt attracted him all morning.

'How old is he?

'I dont know. He looks twelve.

'Any family history of any irregularity?

'I dont know. His mother has the hots for me, but perhaps that isnt related.

'Difficult to say. Give him these two powders . . .

Dr Jain liked looking after freedom fighers because they gave him lots of free time for his h.o.m.oeopathy. He was a good soul-he was quite upset when Dhrubos second promotion was withheld. It reflected badly on the service, he muttered. And sharp-and mindful of his colleagues good name; it was he who had suggested that in winter Shri Dastidar could bring two jackets to office, one for his goodly frame and the other to be draped for the day on the back of his chair, to rea.s.sure all those who came calling for a response from his seat. It was the easiest way to slip into Aflatoon Bhavan, incidentally. The next time the cop at the gate stopped one, one could just point heavenwards and mumble, 'Consult Jain Saab. He practised his h.o.m.oeopathy gratis, of course, for the love of the craft.

'Whats with the camera around your neck? asked Dhrubo of Agastya between the eighth and ninth floors.

'Ah. I plan a photo-exhibition on the Innards of the Welfare State, for which I was hoping to touch you for a grant.

'Any time for old times sake, save during my tai-chi. We are at the moment tied up with the celebrations of the thirtieth anniversary of the nations Finest Hour in Athletics-you know, when Silkha Singh came in fifth in the heats at the Rome Olympics. Perhaps next week? On the landing of the tenth floor, Dhrubo continued, 'May I ask why you need to consult Dr Jain? Or is it a delicate matter?

'Well-for Dr Alaghs piles. You see, in the last harrowing fortnight in Madna, miraculously, his haemorrhoids have improved-virtually disappeared, actually. Somebody in Vyatha, that theatre troupe, told him that one little-known symptom of the plague is its beneficial-but temporary-effect on piles.

'Im not sure, responded Shri Ghosh Dastidar the tai-chi performer, breathing easily as he took the stairs two at a time, 'whether my office-chair isnt a piles giver. Youre familiar with the principle? He waited on the eleventh floor for Agastya to catch up. 'Ive submitted a proposal to the Anthropological Survey for funds to study the alarming phenomenon of the sizable number of civil servants who have piles. Piles and piles-if youll permit-of clerks, Section Officers and above, sitting in the same chairs for seven hours a day, munching plates of pakodas and gulping down twenty cups of tea in the course of their labours. Surely the force of gravity-I argue in my proposal-will find it easier to tug down a colon when it can focus for such a considerable length of time on its target. In an Appendix to my project outline, Ive set down an interesting corollary to my main argument, namely, the fascinating relationship between a senior civil servants piles and his Personal a.s.sistant.

'Ive cited the example of the Liaison Commissioner Dr Bhatnagar and his PA Satish Kalra. Do you know Dr Bhatnagar? Know of him? A legend of a man, a gem, one of our very best. Destined for the UN, absolutely. The longer Dr Bhatnagar is held back from what he feels is his forte, i.e., a key posting in one of our Economic Ministries, the worse his piles becomes, naturally. Equally naturally, being so senior, he cant possibly speak directly to his doctor, who is after all merely a General Pract.i.tioner attached to the office, and therefore a sort of freelancer on the payroll of the Welfare State, a part-time junior of his, in effect. Loss of caste, absolutely, to speak to him face to face, or even on the phone. A Doctor of Ideas cannot stoop to listen to the counsel of a Doctor of Medicine, even when its for the pain in his own a.r.s.e. So he waits for his PA to phone him in the morning and whimpers and moans to him the intimate physical details of his agony. The PA then phones the Doctor of Medicine and summarizes those details for him-to wit-"The pain in my a.r.s.e has a pain in his a.r.s.e." He next listens to the doctors prescription, then phones Bhatnagar Saab and relays to him a careless precis of it-for example-"Youve to apply Trusted Hadensa, sir, to the affected part, rest in bed all day, no disturbance, no phones, and call him-I mean, Ive to call him-in the morning, sir"-and immediately after switches off while the Doctor of Ideas bawls out both the PA and the GP for failing to sympathize with and understand his a.r.s.ehole. To improve that understanding, Kalra the PA spends the entire day alternately phoning the two doctors . . . In pa.s.sing, Ive suggested to the Anthropological Survey to grant me funds to study the economics of that day of the PA, and of his relationship with his bosss b.u.m. You really ought to meet it, and feature it in your photo-exhibition.

'A legend, you say?

'A lion of the civil services, a model for all seasons.

b.o.o.bz.

For his first meeting with the Liaison Commissioner, Agastya Sen had worn a tie and carried a briefcase in which hed put his tiffin box, a bottle of boiled water and the days snipped-out crossword from The State of the Times. Hed been on leave for close to six months before that and had put on weight. When hed take off his shirt and tie, hed feel as free as toothpaste emerging.

After eight and a half years in the Civil Service, his professional career had fallen into the rhythm of a few months of work followed by as many months of leave as his bank balance and the Welfare State would allow. The government was usually quite generous with Leave Without Pay.

On his return from Aflatoon Bhavan in December, he-apparently due to Makhmal Bagais lobbying-had been booted out of the Collectorship of Madna in the last week of the year and been made Deputy Chairman of the Coastal Regions Manure Supply and Marketing Structures Authority. Within a fortnight of his taking over his new a.s.signment, the recommendations of the Central Ninth Pay Commission had finally been accepted and given effect to by the State. As a result, civil servants all over the land had received: 1) numerous cyclostyled circulars in the regional language full of inferences and reasoning, percentages, months, years and the sign @, and 2) at last, long after the circulars, a bonus the equivalent of about two months pay. It hadnt been called either bonus or pay, but Agastya couldnt be bothered. It had seemed ridiculous to him to waste time, energy and paper differentiating between emoluments, arrears, defrayments, acquittances, settlements, remittances, disburs.e.m.e.nts and payments when all that was being discussed was a couple of thousand rupees. When hed seen the State Order distributing the chickenfeed, hed counselled himself, 'Time to take wing, my dear. Set the wheels in motion. So hed written to his boss, the Coastal Region Zonal Commissioner, 'I beg to take whatever leave is due to me because I need to visit my native place urgently since my mother is serious. His command of officialese was excellent and one was hardly ever refused leave when ones parents were serious.

Once every fortnight, from a hole in the Praj.a.pati Aflatoon Welfare State Public Servants Housing Complex Transit Hostel in the capital, hed sent a telegram to the Zonal Commissioner: Mother still serious.

He waited in the waiting room of the Liaison Commissioners office from ten-thirty onwards. The Commissioners PA, one Shri Satish Kalra, periodically looked in on him, first to usher in a peon whod brought him sweet, milky, rather nice coffee, then to silently thrust into his hands, at intervals of half an hour, The India Magazine, Business Today, India Abroad, What Business of Yours?, India Today and Inside Outside. Shri Kalra was an averagely tall man with a huge head, a young expression, grey hair and a stoop. His facial skin sagged. He dressed impeccably. Later, Agastya learnt from the others in the office that Kalra had once been immensely fat, out of some book of Donts, but had, some five years ago, mysteriously and rapidly lost weight.

From ten-thirty till two, one by one, different heads popped in around the door to briefly stare at him-just checking the new Deputy out-he in his tight cream shirt and tie, all t.i.ts and tummy, inhaling and feeling slightly sick at his days nth cigarette. Just after two, Kalra came in once more to escort Agastya to his own room. On the way, he told him that the Liaison Commissioner would be a little late that day in reaching office.

Agastya finally met him the next morning. Dr B.B. Bhatnagar was in the midst of dictating to his PA. He liked being called Doctor Saab. He had a Ph.D on Third World Economic Initiatives from the Bhupati Aflatoon International Open University. The Ph.D had of course been attained on office time. For two full years, hed made various subordinates of the Liaison Commissioner copy down for his thesis different paragraphs from a dozen other Ph.Ds. Then, with his contacts in the government, hed sent his Ph.D supervisor and others on his jury panel off on one official junket after another-a seminar in Bangkok, a symposium in Hawaii, a conference in Rio, three nights and two days in Hong Kong, four nights in Sydney. After his Ph.D, he preferred to refer to himself as an Economics man, Commerce and all that.

Dr Bhatnagar had four receding chins, soft, dimpled, demure folds of skin shying away in layers from his bird nose, his. .h.i.tler moustache and his gold spectacles. He had pink lips and eyes. Behind his thick gla.s.ses, the edges of both his upper and lower eyelids were turned outward, thus lining his eyes pink and giving his expressionless pupils a rosy tinge.

Behind his enormous desk, he sat balanced on a chair that rested precariously on just its rear legs. With a pencil in his left hand, he explored the jungle in his left ear for crud and animal life. His right hand clutched the desk for support. Periodically, to simulate the Thinker, he would raise his right hand to his chin, lose balance, flay his arms about for equilibrium, and finally lunge forward to land the chair with a thump on all four legs.

'Good morning, sir. Im Agastya Sen.

'Good morning. Dont disturb my chain of thought just now. Im feeling very creative. Kalra will tell you that Im usually at my most creative in the mornings. You may sit down. You couldnt call on me yesterday because Im too senior, thats all right. I joined the Service twenty years before you did, while you were wetting your short pants probably. We wont meet very often because of your juniority. I will leave notes for you with Kalra, and you may phone me at 8.30 every morning to receive your instructions for the day because, as I pointed out just now, Im at my most creative in the mornings. If Im in the middle of my puja at that time, you may phone me again at 8.45 and-Ill be frank-if need be, again at 9 a.m. You may now listen carefully to-and try to understand-this first draft of a White Paper on b.o.o.bZ, that is to say, Budget Organization On Base Zero. Yes, Kalra, where was I?

Agastya quietly collapsed into the chair next to Kalra. On the edge of the seat on his left perched the offices Public Relations Officer, a small, fat, wicked-looking man with eyes radiant with anxiety, eyebrows that wouldnt stop wriggling, and a goatee. Hed taken off his shoes and socks and was vigorously rubbing the s.p.a.ces between his toes. Hed overwhelmed the large room with a prodigious foot stench. Agastya wanted to leave the room and the job at once. Dr Bhatnagar, however, dictated right through the foot stench, so senior an officer was he.

'Hahn, Kalra . . . please take down . . . on the other hand, as a resultant implication of my feedback comma which is based on integral considerations comma-no, Kalra-make that integral subsystem considerations comma there is bound to be a sharp interface in coordination stroke communication stop. The specific criteria for the regulated flow of effectual information will have to be worked out per se comma but it is imperative that there is an initiation of critical paradigmal development comma and a crucial tertiary feedback on the functional interrelationship of hardware comma fourth generation technologies and the system rationale stop Regards stop Read it back to me.

Kalra read it out loud, dispiritedly, in silence and footstench. After hed finished, Doctor Saab pushed his pink lips out in a thick, dissatisfied moue and after a long, contemplative minute, suddenly landed his chair with a decisive thump, startling them all and snapped out, 'Okay, fax it immediately, send a telex too, crash, and in the post copy, highlight the thrust area. They all watched Kalra get up heavily from his chair, lumber to the door and leave the room. Doctor Saab seemed to wait for him to reach his seat, then he picked up the intercom and brayed, 'Hahn, Kalra, Doctor Saab here . . . come in, please, I want to add one more line to the fax. While they waited for him, Doctor Saab looked at the PRO while informing Agastya, 'Its terrible, Ill be frank, but I cant leave these policy statements to anybody . . . Hahn Kalra- Dr Bhatnagar rocked back to an impossible angle to observe his PA through his nostrils. 'Take a line before Regards. Quote In any case comma Im having examined the commensurate set-off that the PO stroke HA may like to give in a costing exercise to such an eventuality Unquote.

Doctor Saab called Agastya by his first name because it was a sound Management technique. Hed picked it up when hed been 'in Commerce . . . later, Ill be frank, Business Administration at Harvard and all that. They asked me to stay on for my Ph.D but I said no, my government needs me-which is not quite true, because only a section of government needs me, the forward-looking, dynamic, creative section . . . Why were you on long leave before you joined us? Family problems? I understand from Personnel that youve availed of long leave quite often, in fact, virtually twice a year in the last eight years.

The entry just then of a small, s.e.xy, North-Eastern woman mercifully prevented Agastya from replying. Doctor Saabs face became the colour of his lips and he began to trill incoherently. To make the room worthy of her, he sent Footstench out at once. Babe and Agastya exchanged Looks. 'Ah . . . come, come . . . Madam Tina is our Office Superintendent . . . this is Shri Agastya Sen, the new Deputy Liaison Commissioner . . . hes been posted here to a.s.sess the new b.o.o.bZ programme . . . you may go now, Agastya . . . Kalra will help you familiarize yourself with the office . . .

The Liaison Commissioner liaised between two governments, the regional government several hundred kilometres away, and the Centre. He was a sort of amba.s.sador of a particular province to the government in the capital city of the same country. Hundreds of cases of the regional government, in any one week, would be pending with Big Brother at the Centre-a Ways and Means Advance with Finance, a Drought Relief Sanction with Agriculture, Political Clearance for the Chief Minister to travel abroad with External Affairs, a proposal to take over a sick cloth mill with Textiles, Industries, Commerce, Economic Affairs and Labour, a scheme to mutilate the coastline beyond recognition with Environment, and so on. The Liaison Commissioner was meant to chase up whatever was important. He was Mr Fixit. His entire office had been created and existed only to doggedly prod the Welfare State into moving, shall we say, different portions of its mammoth, immensely sluggish a.r.s.e. In him, the government thus officially acknowledged that-G.o.d d.a.m.n the citizenry!-even for its own OFFICIAL work, nothing moved in the Welfare State unless it was prodded. The Office of the Liaison Commissioner cost the country about one crore per year. There were thirty-four of them in the capital. Plans were afoot to have each province similarly represented in each of the thirty-three other provinces in the land.