The Mammaries of the Welfare State (4 page)

‘Many moons ago, when I was a babe in these woods, I’d imagined that People Like Us—i.e., those who’ve grown up on Richmal Crompton and the Rolling Stones, and who speak English more often than any other Indian language— we just aren’t corrupt, we can’t be, constitutionally. Fortunately, these silly notions evaporated pretty quickly in these woods—as soon as one grew up, really. How worthless one’s upbringing’s been when it’s come to facing one’s own country! Ah well.’

Daya’d joined them by then; she looked a little alarmed at these confessions but clearly felt that they could still serve as a topic for drawing-room conversation. ‘Why then did you become a civil servant in the first place?’

‘Because within the civil service, one is likelier to know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody who knows a cop. Or so I believed eight years ago. Now that I’m wiser, I know that the government can fuck you up bad even if you’re part of it—unless you suck, suck, suck. The civil servant can fellate with the best of them. I say, sir, can we roll another joint?’

‘But why don’t you quit, then?’ Daya was correctly puzzled.

‘But I like it here! And quit and go where? The more years one spends in the civil service, the more competent one becomes to remain in it.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure you could find a job more to your taste. Cynicism is a waste of a life. Why, I could give you a job if you wanted.’

He glanced at her. She laughed and answered, ‘Because I like you, Peter Pan.’

Just at that moment, however, on the TV screen a close-up of Suroor himself, looking deadly in a silk kurta, head intelligently bent to peep at the boobs of a gorgeously-painted middle-aged woman who was seemingly tonguing his ear. ‘Ooooh . . . who’s that?’ trilled Daya in theatrical envy.

‘Why, that’s me . . . oh, the woman . . . don’t you recognize her? . . . Rani Chandra, the capital’s new Culture Czarina . . . they change every three months . . . she too shed her caste-revealing surname somewhere on the way up the ladder . . . but she’ll learn, sooner or later, that the single factor that works in every corner of this country is caste . . . a Brahmin vibes best with a Brahmin, a Thakur lends a hand most often to a Thakur . . . her surname must’ve been Saxena or Katoch— something simply not arty enough . . . at that point, she was breathing into my ear that coitus these days is totally out of fashion because nobody has the time . . . at best a couple of minutes off for a quick grope and feel . . . the only way in which she unwinds is in her Toyota Lexus, listening on her Walkman to a tape of a male voice thinking aloud about what he longs to do to her body . . . very hot stuff, no holds barred . . . the tapes are a by-product of her husband’s electronics mega-company . . . she gifts the tapes to her closest friends . . . they’re rather well-composed, actually . . . very little music . . . there are four sets of tapes . . . Man-to-Man, Woman-to-Woman, Man-to-Woman, Woman-to-Man . . . her brainchild, apparently . . . I gather that she presented a box set of CDs to Kinshuk Aflatoon at Diwali and that he and
Jayati listen to nothing else . . . in the capital, amongst the Gur Baoli Farmhouse jetsetting crowd, Rani Chandra Cassette parties are nowadays all the rage . . . RCC get-togethers, they’re called . . . she plans to diversify soon into a separate range for paedophiles . . . the sky’s the limit for those blessed with enterprise . . .’ Now that he’d seen himself, he rose and switched off the TV just when, after surveying the audience, its camera returned to
Swan Lake.

He stretched, yawned and smiled at Agastya. ‘Why
aren’t
you venal? How
do
you survive on your ridiculous salary without being dishonest? . . . Some six months ago, they’d been planning a Roving Festival Of Tribal Arts for South-East Asia. A Cultural Delegation from Japan, Malaysia and Singapore’d visited us and I’d escorted them when they’d called on the Heritage Secretary, Harihara Kapila—he’s just returned here, hasn’t he, to Regional Personnel? The delegation was headed by a TV mogul from Singapore. We’d sent them off to Jalba, Agrampada and Sindhyachal and they’d predictably returned with heatstrokes and the shits.

‘However, they still had questions to ask—about the Heritage budget and the Archaeological Survey and transport bottlenecks and Buddhist monuments and overseas funding and local initiative and the Preservation Trust. Then, after a lull and out of the blue, “Mr Secretary, may I enquire of you a personal question?”

‘Kapila, whose wit’s given the world some of the deadliest headaches that it’s ever known, beamed and quipped, something like, “Oh, fire away,” said he as he snapped away his cigarette and faced the firing squad, inscrutable to the last.

‘ “What, Mr Secretary, is your basic pay?”

‘ “I cannot invoke the Official Disgraceful Secrets Act against our honoured guests . . . Eight thousand.”

‘ “Dollars US?”

‘Kapila chortled, not the sweetest of sounds. “No . . . rupees, my dear sir.”

‘A gasp from a lady member of the delegation; then, after a pause, “How is that possible, Mr Secretary? After over thirty distinguished years spent in the top ranks of the civil service of the world’s largest Welfare State, how can it be that you earn merely about sixty dollars US per week? Sir, please do not misunderstand our questions. We’re neither civil servants nor diplomats and yours is a bewildering country in more ways than one. One cannot argue that you are a poor nation because from this magazine—“ the TV mogul drew out from his camera bag a fat, slick
The State Today
—“I learn two facts germane to this issue, i) that in the last five years, an enterprising stockbroker of Navi Chipra has filched from the system more than three thousand crore rupees, which is almost one billion dollars US, and in those five years, the system didn’t wince even once, and ii) that within the last two years alone, eleven billion dollars have been laundered away from here to the US alone, and the system hasn’t hobbled even a step—how can the country therefore be poor? You also enjoy one of the severest tax structures in the world, so one cannot plead that you are a rich country with a poor government.”

‘ “Oh no, I’d instead assert that we’re a rich country, a rich government and a poor civil service . . . We’ve now touched upon a subject as old as Plato, namely, How can you entice the best brains of a country to take on the onerous task of administering that country disinterestedly and well? Answer: By getting them, the administrators, to tell themselves and one another, all the time, that they
are
the best brains, the cat’s whiskers, the absolute cream of the scum mainly because they perform their onerous task so disinterestedly and well. And who gets them to swallow their own gobbledygook? God, without a doubt. God is a first-rate bureaucrat, one of
the best. In all matters, He sees the truth, but is yet to take a decision. We have high regard for Him. In almost all the homes of civil servants, you’ll find a puja room devoted exclusively to Him . . . Doesn’t it amaze you to learn that over three hundred thousand hopefuls sit for the Public Service Examination every year, of which just about a hundred are selected for the top slots? Ergo, there must be something in it! Job satisfaction is my salary! We get by on plain living and low thinking.”

‘Kapila stopped without warning, as was his wont, but continued to beam at them. The delegation clearly would have preferred him to go on discoursing instead. His beam was winning when the TV mogul tried for the last time, “A rich country, a rich government, at least one fabulously rich Navi Chipra stockbroker, and a poor civil service: who then, Mr Secretary, manages all that money?”

“Some of it goes down the drain, of course—we being a Welfare State. Some of it goes—with the blessings of the Almighty—to a good many bank accounts located in several tax havens. The balance we leave to the guidance of God.”

‘The delegation’s Escort Officer from External Affairs was a bespectacled blob of oil, a disciplined envoy-in-the-making. I could read on his face an increasing concern for the sanity of the Heritage Secretary—to whom nothing happened, of course, for shooting his mouth off, or for losing his marbles, in front of a foreign delegation. Some sub-caste network shielded him, I gathered.

‘What do
you
think, my dear Agastya, of the hordes of bureaucrats who go off their rocker in the course, and because, of their official duties, and who consequently indulge in diverse kinds of conduct unbecoming of a civil servant? Is nobody, as you mandarins say, seized of the problem? The system—the work they do, doubtless—is to blame; the strain, the tensions, together with the futility, the absence of direction, the triplespeak, the bottomless greed of our middle
classes, certainly produce a lethal blend—but my point is, it is the civil servant’s preposterous salary that is at the heart of it! My God—if you’re honest, on your savings you can’t take your family of four out to dinner more than once a decade and you can’t fly them, say, Navi Chipra—the capital—Navi Chipra, on a holiday more than once in your lifetime, and you definitely can’t do both, if you’re honest.’

Agastya wished to contribute his views. ‘I too have examples of plain living and low thinking. The plain liver is my Assistant Director friend who turned vegetarian because he couldn’t afford meat. The low thinker is my cop acquaintance, a Station House Officer who was dementedly corrupt because he contended that he had four daughters to marry off with dowries of over five lakhs each. Speaking of which, why doesn’t the Welfare State legalize dowries for the civil servants of its Steel Frame? It could then stop paying them salaries altogether.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Why not? You aren’t that young. Are you gay?’

‘No, not yet. But tomorrow is another day.’

‘You should marry early. As one grows older, one becomes increasingly reluctant to share one’s toilet with someone else. What’s kept you from marrying so far? Haven’t you yet found the dowry of your dreams?’

‘That’s it, exactly. My expectations’re always being thrown haywire by inflation and the new economic policy. Eight years ago, I’d more or less settled on marrying a Kelvinator fridge, a Videocon colour TV with remote and a Maruti 800 Deluxe car, red, with a.c. and stereo. How naïve I was! A noble savage, a rough diamond. Now, of course—I’m happy to say—that sort of simple-mindedness is a thing of the past. But today’s decisions suffuse me instead with a modern disquiet. A Peugeot diesel 309 or a Mitsubishi Lancer? The Samsung TV or the Whirlpool Washing Machine? The BPL,
three-door fridge? A mobile phone? These tides that’ve to be taken at the flood—they’re upon me, I feel it in my bones. I’ll certainly invite you to the wedding.’

Smiling intelligently, Suroor departed soon after for dinner with his dear friend the Governor. He sweetly left behind for Agastya his Yin-Yang dope box. ‘You look as though you need it, friend.’

Despite the Hindi Top Ten sort of music that drifted in through the French windows, the apartment, all at once after Suroor’s departure, began to feel cosy and restful. His nervous energy disturbed others; it clamoured all the time to be the centre of attention. Agastya followed Daya into the kitchen for a refill of watermelon juice. She was busy with the ice bucket when he held her by her shoulders and lightly kissed the nape of her neck. She paused to smile at him before returning to the drawing room with their drinks. He felt a bit silly.

Gingerly, he sat down beside her on the sofa and grinned at her with stagey bashfulness. ‘I need to improve my style.’

An exhausting night. No dinner till three in the morning. After the watermelon juice, Daya had without warning bobbed up and vanished into her bedroom. A few minutes later, through the closed door, Agastya had heard some terrible Shirley Bassey kind of music. Then the door had opened and she’d called him. He’d all at once felt nervous, as before a job interview. With reason, boy, he’d realized at the doorway. For the room was dark and Daya naked, legs crossed, in a rocking chair by the window. Serves you right, fucker, for trying to be so cool.

‘Please shut the door, Agastya and take off all your clothes . . . Could you leave your shoes outside, please? . . . Thanks . . . you could put away your jeans etc in that almirah on your right . . . there are free hangers in it . . . hmmm . . .
could you please wash yourself, Agastya, as a courtesy to me? . . . thanks . . . the light switch—no, up . . . up and left . . . no, you can leave the door open . . . ahh, come, come . . . now lie down . . . the sheets are cool, clean and blue . . .’

He continued to feel nervous and depressed as he adjusted the pillow beneath his neck. You deserve this, you Dildo King, he told himself again as he watched her toss her hair off her shoulders and straddle his stomach. He’d generally lived his life according to two dictums: Finish what you start, and Don’t start what you can’t finish. He couldn’t quit his job, for instance, because of his dictums, just as because of them he now had to swallow whatever this middle-aged bomb was going to dish out. He was nervous because he would have preferred to be in control. Couldn’t she’ve asked him first whether he’d relish being suffocated by her pussy? Wasn’t he too a human being, with feelings? She wriggled about a bit till her vagina was split wide and tight against his solar plexus. She then began to ride back and forth, slowly at first, then with gathering momentum, lazily but irrevocably sliding up over his chest towards his face. With her hands, she fondled her breasts, teased her armpits, kneaded her stomach, played with her hair, adjusted the sound from the stereo by the bed. Rhythmically, she groaned and gasped, deep but subdued, and licked her upper arms, her breasts. By the time that she’d crossed Agastya’s nipples, his spunk was flying all over the room like Casper the friendly ghost. You don’t even know the surname, Arsehole, of this juggernaut who’s pussy-lathering your neck. Now that he’d spent himself, he would have liked to relax a bit, smoke a cigarette or something, but
she’d
just finished warming up. He made a move to rise but quick like a cat, she slid up and clamped her pussy down on his face. She then began to bloody gallop. Soft whoops of near-hysterical rapture, thinnish Casper in half an hour, the creaking bed marking time, quickening rhythm, his jaws unhinged, till at last from her a succession of deep, slow,
sated moans, wrenched out, as it were, from the bowels of the earth. From where she’d last squatted, Daya, now drained through and through, abruptly flopped back and lay down on her lover, writhed about a bit to make herself comfortable, her hair a ticklish, silken tangle about his loins, crooned a few bars along with the Shirley Bassey type and miraculously fell asleep. He palmed her breasts, idly wondered whether she’d ever get up and allow him to go for a piss and then dropped off too.