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BOOKS:
EXTRACT
Housing Problem
Agastya
was so enervated by his life in the city that ever so often, when he was
alone, he found himself leaning back in his desk chair or resting his
head against the armrest of the lumpy sofa in his office that served as
his bed, shutting his eyes and weeping silently. The cry generally made
him feel better.
His office
was his home, so hard-working a civil servant was he. Just a week ago,
he'd been placidly content in his position of a Joint Commissioner, Rehabilitation
(on leave not granted and without Pay), snugly afloat on the unplumbed
murk of the Prajapati Aflatoon Welfare State Public Servant's Housing
Complex Transit Hostel in the country's capital. As an illegal occupant
of flat A-214, he had felt in those days cocooned and distanced from the
swirl around him. Marathon power cuts in summer, a cleanish Municipal
swimming pool a minute's cycle ride away, great dope, no sex though-all
in all his life on leave had been okay-minus. Then out of the blue-Personnel
always moved like lightning when it wanted to fuck somebody's happiness-he'd
received his transfer orders to this fifteen-by-fifteen boarded-up section
of veranda on the fourteenth floor of the New Secretariat in the western
province's capital city.
The grimy,
once-orange, lumpy sofa was for VIP visitors. His predecessor had won
it from Protocol and Stores after a stimulating five-week struggle. Beneath
the windows lay the plain wooden bench that Agastya had stolen from down
the corridor. It was his kitchenette; on it stood his kettle, cafetiere,
electric stove and tea things. Beside the door, on a desk, sat a personal
computer swathed in dusty dust sheets. The Ultimatum System Configuration
Module 133 Mhz Intel Processor 8 MB RAM 1 GB HDD 1.44 FDDSVGA Megachrome
Monitor Skylight 99 was entitled to air-conditioning, so it had to remain.
The windows of his section of veranda offered a breathtaking view of the
world's largest slum undulating for miles down to the grey fuzziness of
the Arabian Sea.
Agastya
spent three to four nights a week at Daya's, a forty-five-year-old divorcee
whom he'd met on the luxury coach that he'd caught out of the Transit
Hostel on the occasion of his transfer. They'd found themselves sitting
side by side at the rear of the hot and crowded bus. Luxury simply meant
that its tickets cost more. Daya was bespectacled, and had been dressed
in a whitish salwaar-kameez. Agastya had been in his valedictory present
from the staff of his Rehabilitation office, his new blue jeans. After
eight years in the civil service, he'd come to dread farewell gifts chosen
by subordinate office employees; after the tearful speech-making, they'd
routinely, on each occasion, given him a clock.
"So
that even though time flies, you'll remember us," they'd explained
when they'd felt that he hadn't looked grateful enough. At the Rehabilitation
Commissionerate, therefore, he'd summoned the Office Superintendent and
asked: "Do you plan to collect some money for a farewell present
for me? Yes? How much will it be? If you don't mind, I'll accompany whoever's
going to buy the thing..."
The long
last seat of the bus had been intended for six bums; eight had been a
disgraceful crush. Agastya's right thigh had virtually fused with Daya's
left; thus the ice had been broken. The heat had helped too.
She'd taken
off her glasses rather early in their relationship. She had large, tired
eyes and a wide mouth. Agastya had immediately yearned to go to sleep
with his face restful between her ample, firm breasts. Only repressed
homos, his soul had pointed out to him then, long to f**k women old enough
to be their mothers, especially when their own mothers are dead. Ah well,
que sera sera.
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Orthodoxy in economic thought is as odious as obscurantism in the socio-religious context. INDIA TODAY Associate Editor, V Shankar Aiyar, offers a contrarian take on the stock markets and the cause and the impact of policy and practice. 