The Mammaries of the Welfare State by Upamanyu Chatterjee Page B
Authors: Upamanyu Chatterjee
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orifice without clearing it first with Baba Mastram.
‘Babaji I’ve a lot of extra heat energy in me that I could— with benefit to both—transfer to the massage-boy. What do you advise? Today?’
‘No, not yet, sir. Be patient. To fret under patience is to despair, but with calm to conserve, to augment one’s sap, one’s vital forces, is to overcome the world, and all in it.’
‘Hmmm. And that new steno in my office, a very junior person—I’d want to share with her too, the instant the conditions are propitious.’
Raghupati did nothing important without consulting his astrologer. Had it been feasible, he would have checked with the stars even before buttoning up his shirt or scratching his elbow or breaking wind. A family tradition. Over the years, astrologers and palmists, yogis and fortune-tellers had advised him on whom to marry, what new first name to give his wife, when to copulate so as to beget only sons, when to officially drop his caste-revealing surname, what allonym to adopt, when to angle for a transfer, which posts were both lucrative and safe, whom to beware of, whom to trample on, whom to suck up to, when to separate from his wife, which functions to attend, what colours to wear on which occasions, what food to eat when, when to divorce—in brief, how, when and where to place every step of his life.
Baba Mastram had been his guiding light and troubleshooter for, off and on, two decades now, ever sincethe affair of the bungalow peon at Koltanga. In that time, whenever practicable, he’d arranged for the Baba to follow him wherever he’d been posted. He was now toying with the idea of buying him a mobile phone. He’d turned down two positions at the Centre because the Baba had counselled against both when he’d sensed that he wouldn’t have been part of Raghupati’s baggage on either occasion.
On most mornings, Baba Mastram’s session with the Commissioner ended by eight-thirty. He then ambled around in the compound for a bit, drank a glass or two of coconut water, unravelled dire futures in a couple of sweaty palms, and at a quarter to ten, along with the domestics, hung about in a circle to watch the Commissioner leave for office. Afterwards, excitement over, they all got down to the day; they breakfasted for a second time. While readying lunch, they snacked, and throughout the day, quaffed litres of tea in front of the TV.
On Tuesday morning, Baba Mastram warned Chamundi to be particularly vigilant of his person in the next two weeks, and above all, not to wear green; nervously—and in gratitude— Chamundi massaged him with especial vigour.
On the quiet days, Raghupati’s massage was followed by a bath, lunch and a nap. He generally returned to work at about four. Not that there was anything at that hour that couldn’t wait till next week, but old habits die hard. By posting him to Madna and making him responsible for Land Revenue, Depressed Tribes and Forests Protection, the regional government had wished to teach—not the wildlife raiders and timber smugglers but Raghupati himself—a lesson. The Commissionerate had neither money nor manpower, none of those rungs and rungs of torpid employees ranging away to the horizon.
Just before he dozed off, he mentally composed a rejoinder to Miss Lina Natesan.
My magnificent Niss Natesan,
I was intensely moved that evening last month at the sight
—
or should I say, vision?
—
of a greyish-brown shadow in the crevice of your green-georgetted hips. I went mad trying to figure out what it could be. As you know, I do not put on my spectacles in front of ladies. At last, at 10.10 p.m., I realized that it was a stray wisp of your false ponytail, the rest of which tapers off at your sari-line. And then, at that very moment
—
a staggering coincidence!
—
I see God’s hand here!
—
you scratched the crack of your arse, thereby pushing your sari deeper in. A less sharp-eyed man, admittedly, might not have noticed, but for me, sex is
‘Babaji I’ve a lot of extra heat energy in me that I could— with benefit to both—transfer to the massage-boy. What do you advise? Today?’
‘No, not yet, sir. Be patient. To fret under patience is to despair, but with calm to conserve, to augment one’s sap, one’s vital forces, is to overcome the world, and all in it.’
‘Hmmm. And that new steno in my office, a very junior person—I’d want to share with her too, the instant the conditions are propitious.’
Raghupati did nothing important without consulting his astrologer. Had it been feasible, he would have checked with the stars even before buttoning up his shirt or scratching his elbow or breaking wind. A family tradition. Over the years, astrologers and palmists, yogis and fortune-tellers had advised him on whom to marry, what new first name to give his wife, when to copulate so as to beget only sons, when to officially drop his caste-revealing surname, what allonym to adopt, when to angle for a transfer, which posts were both lucrative and safe, whom to beware of, whom to trample on, whom to suck up to, when to separate from his wife, which functions to attend, what colours to wear on which occasions, what food to eat when, when to divorce—in brief, how, when and where to place every step of his life.
Baba Mastram had been his guiding light and troubleshooter for, off and on, two decades now, ever sincethe affair of the bungalow peon at Koltanga. In that time, whenever practicable, he’d arranged for the Baba to follow him wherever he’d been posted. He was now toying with the idea of buying him a mobile phone. He’d turned down two positions at the Centre because the Baba had counselled against both when he’d sensed that he wouldn’t have been part of Raghupati’s baggage on either occasion.
On most mornings, Baba Mastram’s session with the Commissioner ended by eight-thirty. He then ambled around in the compound for a bit, drank a glass or two of coconut water, unravelled dire futures in a couple of sweaty palms, and at a quarter to ten, along with the domestics, hung about in a circle to watch the Commissioner leave for office. Afterwards, excitement over, they all got down to the day; they breakfasted for a second time. While readying lunch, they snacked, and throughout the day, quaffed litres of tea in front of the TV.
On Tuesday morning, Baba Mastram warned Chamundi to be particularly vigilant of his person in the next two weeks, and above all, not to wear green; nervously—and in gratitude— Chamundi massaged him with especial vigour.
On the quiet days, Raghupati’s massage was followed by a bath, lunch and a nap. He generally returned to work at about four. Not that there was anything at that hour that couldn’t wait till next week, but old habits die hard. By posting him to Madna and making him responsible for Land Revenue, Depressed Tribes and Forests Protection, the regional government had wished to teach—not the wildlife raiders and timber smugglers but Raghupati himself—a lesson. The Commissionerate had neither money nor manpower, none of those rungs and rungs of torpid employees ranging away to the horizon.
Just before he dozed off, he mentally composed a rejoinder to Miss Lina Natesan.
My magnificent Niss Natesan,
I was intensely moved that evening last month at the sight
—
or should I say, vision?
—
of a greyish-brown shadow in the crevice of your green-georgetted hips. I went mad trying to figure out what it could be. As you know, I do not put on my spectacles in front of ladies. At last, at 10.10 p.m., I realized that it was a stray wisp of your false ponytail, the rest of which tapers off at your sari-line. And then, at that very moment
—
a staggering coincidence!
—
I see God’s hand here!
—
you scratched the crack of your arse, thereby pushing your sari deeper in. A less sharp-eyed man, admittedly, might not have noticed, but for me, sex is
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