Departments of Democracy — Part I

The dilapidated building to the left of the Ambedkar statue was the office of RK Mehta, OSD of the local MP in the district of Krishnapur. The building was safely ensconced in a compound which houses the ATM booths of the Allied Bank and the Waterloo bank, the Sales Tax department and a makeshift parking lot (belonging to the government) which served as an enceinte for the cars of the officers’ relatives. The office was completed merely 5 years ago — the ribbon of which was cut by none other than the Principal Secretary himself, and with hindsight it appears that it was for the better that he didn’t crack a coconut to mark the opening of the office — but with erratic rains, thawing winters, harsh summers, and a good portion of construction material consisting of rapacity, all promises of using the building for a ‘minimum of 25 years’ now appeared wanting. It looked as if the building was supported by a curious combination of patch-work (undertaken every year now and appropriately listed down as a non-recurring charge) and prayers from the religious employees.

In the winter session of the parliament, the MP from the district had, on the steps of the parliament building, boisterously declared that the government is planning a slew of changes which will lead to the “……betterment of the society and lead to a cornucopia of reforms in the public sector [sic.]”. “This government has been known for its clean record in the last four-and-a-half years of functioning. It has always maintained — on the lines of the erstwhile USSR — the policies of glasnost and perestroika, and will continue to do so in the years to come when (it was not a matter of if) it’s chosen for another 5 years in office.” Everyone knows this to be an election year with political parties vying to unfurl the panoply of policies and completing the development works, the clearance of which alone took 4 years. The political parties were not the only ones ‘vying’: this tendency to vie had slowly permeated the media and the journalists, who now vied with each other to get their mics as close to the didactic minister as possible. Sedulously taking notes in their self-invented shorthands and asking questions, all of them spoke together until the result was Babel; and the minister, fearing the inevitable, recused himself into the Japanese made Westinghouse car which was now being used by ministers and cabinet-people alike.

Inside the OSD’s office however, the faces were terse and told a story diametrically opposite to what one was hearing on the outside. It was as if the people working inside were insulated from the panglossian attitude that had shrouded the country and were draped in a pessimism of their own (a state which was accentuated by the fact that a quantum of the staff wore grey coloured shirts and trousers). The announcements meant different things to different people: to the politicians, it meant rallies and meetings increasing at an exponential rate; to the bureaucracy it meant sleepless nights in mooring the promises to reality; to the lower echelons of government employees, it meant acclimation to the ever-increasing expletive laden language of their superiors; for the common people it unequivocally meant what it had always meant, and that which need not be repeated.

The bureaucrat had been busy in his work all day working on a destructive order (D.O.) for a site in the heart of the city which had unlawfully been occupied by a milk-seller. Eviction notices had been served and all of them found their way to the nearby drain clogged by plastics and cow-dung (and buffalo-dung too, but it was excruciatingly difficult to tell the difference). Mr. Mehta, sensing that all the petitions had been falling on deaf-ears, resorted to taking the matter in his own hands and using the highest provisions of the law: law which not only graced the books but was also now ubiquitously found garbing the elite. According to the head-clerk however, in matters like these, the only logical way would be to start with the extremes, a feeling which he elucidated to his subordinates. “That milk-seller, what’s is name, by virtue of his profession is a Yadav; look at Mahabharata …… these Vrishnis are the root cause of all evils. Krishna…… who was he? A Yadav! …… And look what he did what’s is name: A war leading to the destruction of everything. Pandavas wanted the kingdom and all they got was a staircase to heaven. I’m telling you, issue a D.O. straightaway in matters like these. It’s not as if he’s a conscientious human being: if that were the case, his milk would at least have equal proportion of milk and water. If we, what’s is name get rid of people like him, miserly as they are, we’d be doing everyone a favour”, exposited the head-clerk, stopping only to spit the tobacco which was a permanent denizen of his mouth and making full use of the dustbin as a spittoon kept near his table. This fluent harangue was disturbed by the landline when it sprang to life, with the voice on the other side requesting (ordering rather) the head-clerks presence on the first floor.

“The D.O. notice has not been properly drafted Mishra Ji,” Mr. Mehta had been telling the bade-babu, “get it typed again and mention the khasra number. We don’t want the notice to be defenestrated on technical grounds. And send some tea and samosas!” The bade-babu feigned ignorance and said: “Ji Sir, even I thought the same. For that reason, what’s is name I asked Rajkamal to check the file again. It appears, Sir, that the khasra number hasn’t been mentioned on the file heading itself. You might remember, Sir, that this file has been in the record-room for too long now. Who knows who what’s is name noted down, or not noted down, these details?” “That may well be”, said the OSD, seemingly unfazed by the former’s rejoinder, “but you tell me whether it is possible for a property to not have a khasra number?” He handed over the file to the bade-babu, allowed him more time to make the necessary changes, and reiterated his earlier request of snacks being sent to his room. The head-clerk had been paying for the OSD’s penchant of chai and samosas for some time now, and he didn’t seem to mind it. This behaviour wasn’t looked at with geniality by Ramveer, who had recently been promoted from the post of chaprasi to that of babu. “Bade-babu does it because he knows that he’ll be able to earn it back. He spends 10 rupees and earns 100 back. But I tell you I can’t do it”, he’d been telling his audience, which composed of such esteemed members of the Krishnapur intelligentsia such as Upadhyay (the typist), Pushkar (the line-man), a couple of chaprasis and several other daily wage workers. These members of the club, sensing some soupcons of envy, would not just treat the matter with levity but would even egg Ramveer on; and he, instead of cowering down, would take the bait and renew his tirade like an inveterate offender.

The bade-babu’s departure was marked by the crooning of Mr. Mehta’s phone, the number which carried with it the imprimatur of summoning powers he found increasingly discouraged to say no to. He, who had been sitting on his haunches, jumped up swiftly from the seat he so dearly loved, and plucked himself out of the reverie he regularly found himself consorting with. This motion of reverence had been triggered because the personality holding the phone on the other side was none other than Mr. MP himself. The MP had, in a rare moment of clairvoyance, correctly guessed that Mr. Mehta would be standing and therefore politely asked him to take his seat, his voice betraying an emotion of excitement often seen in children waiting for their ice-creams. “Mehta”, said the MP in his excitable baritone, “I know you have been very busy, but I want you come to my office in about half-an-hour” Mr. Mehta had already made a sprint towards the staircase, minutes before he heard this and was inside the car before the call had even finished. “Minister’s office”, commanded Mr. Mehta to the driver who, indefatigably, had been debating the finer points of how a new temple construction beside the mosque (which was built on usurped temple property anyway) would bolster the tourism in the city. He had nearly reached the apex of his argumentative prowess and was about to knock out his opponent with a debating equivalent of a double-whammy when he was called out by the OSD’s secretary.

Upon reaching the office, Mr. Mehta was told that the MP will shortly be in and was therefore asked to wait outside. He acquiesced with a glint and a hint of smile, skirted back to the cement benches and went back to his favourite task of sitting. He had been contemplating how the suspension in his car (the official car provided by the government) had managed to make even a five-minute journey on an otherwise calm road — a road bereft of potholes and other out-of-place items — a particularly jumpy affair. Days before, he had ebulliently petitioned that the older Democrat cars be replaced by the new Japanese ones (the Westinghouse, used now by ministers), which not only had good suspensions but were also fuel-efficient. All these machinations never produced the intended result, with the authorities citing cash crunches to overrule such weighty arguments. It thus occurred to him, in an epiphanous revelation, how even a powerful government officer (he was after all MP’s OSD) was unable to get what he not only desired but so clearly needed, and extrapolated this line of reasoning to what would happen when he’d retire that he shuddered with both fear and disgust, so much so that this immiscible feeling of resentment was writ large upon his face. His thoughts suddenly emigrated from this state of disappointment to a scene in the office concerning the former bade-babu. Mr. Kasere had retired last year from the post of head-clerk and was regularly seen inside the office compound in the hopes of getting his pension fixed — which was an individual’s indefeasible right — but an objection in the file had precluded him from getting what was his. He had also met with Mr. Mehta to expedite the process; on several occasions Mr. Mehta himself had even castigated the concerned babu and the accountant for not performing their duties, but when Mr. Kasere was out of sight, he was out of mind. The department where this former head-clerk had worked for 27 painstaking years had forgotten him, his name being relegated to the last page of the file where similar cases languished indefinitely; in cases where the pension was actually paid, it was grudgingly bestowed. It was in this state of profundity that the minister discovered his OSD. “Daydreaming?”, asked the MP who had returned from his recently concluded inner coterie meeting. Mr. Mehta sheepishly smiled and wished the minister good evening.