“Fire him!” thundered my brother, as he strode in my cabin, and threw a Newspaper on my table. “Who?” I asked, even as I glanced at the paper.
‘CHILD LABOUR BANNED’ informed the banner headline.
“That office boy of ours. He is just thirteen or fourteen. They are challaaning every office and shop in the city, which is employing under aged boys. Fire him, now! Find an older guy.”
Our regular office boy or peon had gone to his village and had left this boy, Rambabbu, his nephew, with us, as a stop gap arrangement; so that the job that paid Rupees Two Thousand five hundred per month, did not go to someone else.
I had employed him.Within days he had won our hearts (at least mine, my brother had chafed at such a young lad handling the ‘responsibilities’ of being the tea boy.) He brought a lively cheerfulness to our drab, mundane work place. His ready smile, made even me, a certified grouch, smile back, well at least sometimes.
A dreamy, reclusive, disposition, wrapped in a thin veneer of laziness, doth not a successful business man make; so very often the struggle of having to keep our clients, creditors, and bankers, hopeful, gets too much for me. Sometimes then, I would call him and we would chat, about his village his family, et el. We became friends, so to say, a much easier friendship for me to make, then with those of my age.
Once I saw him eat the leftovers of our lunch. After that I instructed my wife to pack a few extra chapattis and subzi in the afternoon Tiffin. I would quietly leave them for him, without making it a clause of his contract of employment, by mentioning it.
“Where would he go?” I wondered, aloud. “Not our problem yaar!” replied my brother.
Out he went, as briskly as he had walked in. He was in a hurry, as he was leaving for his annual holiday in the mountains, with his family. I was the boss for a week, so I moved to his cabin and sat down behind his desk.
In the boss’ chair, you automatically think like him. My brother was right, of course. It is important to keep at the right side of law for the Indians who belong to the middle classes, especially when there is no profit in trespassing it. Eager to get it over with at the earliest, I pressed the bell to summon our officiating office boy.
That day, however, it was the aggarbatti boy who beat him. Armed forces would not have stopped him, as he marched into the inner cabins of our small office, ignoring the extended arm of Rambabbu, who though a couple of years older than him, was not much bigger in build. Size does decide the amount of authourity you wield.
This boy comes to our office, every Saturday, to sell us scented sticks. My brother has a MOU with him to buy twenty rupees worth every week. He lights them to propitiate the pictures of an assorted congress of Gods. Canny business man that he is, he believes in playing it safe. Who knows which party is currently ruling up there?
“Don’t you know the sahib never stops me?” he came in, scolding the flustered peon who had followed him in. The newcomer however stopped short, as he found me sitting behind my brother’s desk.
“Where is Sahib?” He demanded, obviously disoriented by this unexpected turn of events. Though, we share the same office, both us brothers have separate, exclusive cabins. He had never seen me before, but I knew him.
I do not pray. (Explains, perhaps, why I work in a subordinate position to my own younger sibling. Not an easy thing to do. Ask any Indian.) So, when the boss was not in the saddle, I tried to renegotiate the terms with his aggarbatti supplier. “Well, he is out of station, can I help you?”
He recovered fast, the hall mark of a good salesman, “Every Saturday sir, I come to this office to sell agarbattis to uncle,….uh…. sahib, two packets for twenty rupees, sometimes four, if my sales are low. Sahib is very good and helpful.” “Sit,” I gestured him to a chair in front of me.
He did, simultaneously fishing inside a shoulder bag to come out with two, slim, long, rectangular boxes, full of the scented sticks, and placed them on my brother’s desk. It was easy to see why my brother had a soft spot for him.
He was a carbon copy of our respective sons (both were born in the same year); the same lean, scrawny looks, disheveled hair, and age. He also spoke our language, was obviously of our caste and the tone of his skin was similar to ours. Punjabi. Amritsari in fact. One of us!
He was looking at me. Hopefully? Fearfully? Doubtfully? Nervously? I could not decide. But he reminded me of myself, when ever I am forced to go and make a presentation before a recalcitrant client.
“You sell him aggarbattis?” I asked, making it sound as if he sold my brother the nuclear fuel. He nodded, gravely; it was actually more important than nuclear fuel to him. Did he ever smile?
“You go to school?” I detoured sharply, to my favourite question, as I rang a bell and summoned Rambabu, who had earlier left us alone, to bring two glasses of water.
I think I saw an impish glint flit across the visitor’s eyes and a hint, just, just, a hint of grin lighten his features, before it vanished.
“Yes,” he replied.
“So you work after school?” “Yes.”
“How many brothers and sisters are you?” “Three.”
He kept his answers to the point, not sure why the additional information was being sought.
“All of you work?” “Yes, except youngest sister. She is outside.”
“Why have you brought her along?” “Some times she comes, we play along the way.”
How much do you earn every day?”
“I do not know. Papa knows. I have to sell Hundred Rupees worth everyday, and then I can go home.”
I could not help but admire his aplomb and composure under the relentless interrogation, he was fielding each query of mine, as solemnly as any of the seasoned diplomats of the foreign office do, when they go to Washington, Geneva or wherever, to beg for aid.
“I do not need aggarbattis,” I finally declared, gesturing to the many unopened boxes that were stacked on the shelf below the multitude of pictures. His features darkened, as worry lines creased his face, at an impossibly young age. Well, they assail you the moment your parents fail you, whatever may be your biological age.
“Uncle buys twenty rupees worth every Saturday,” he informed me, determined to make it an undisputable, unarguable, nonnegotiable fact.
“He prays,” said I.
“You don’t?!!” he queried. I shook my head.
“Why not? You should, mom says, God gives us everything.”
“Do I need any further evidence to prove that there is no one to pray to? Anywhere.”
He rolled his eyes to register his protest at such a blasphemous statement. His patience and the subtle use of emotional blackmail to browbeat and shame me into agreeing the terms of his contract were amazing. The boy was a much better salesman than I would ever be, forced as he was by his destiny to be one, taught and trained as he was, at the premier-most management Institute in the world, The University of Life, and by its best professor, Ms Burning Need.
But I was not about to give in. For a few moments, we looked at each other. Direct. Eye ball to eye ball. His gaze was even, unflinching. He was reading my mind, sizing me up.
Another hallmark of a good salesman is to recognize when you have run into a wall, a dead end. They do not waste time and time was running out on this guy. He had a sales target to meet, “You don’t need?” He sought final confirmation.
“No.”
With great dignity, that did shame me to death, he got up.
“When will uncle be back?”
“Some days,” I informed him.
He was about to go out when I said, “Wait.”
Hope rushed back to his pale cheeks, colouring them. He was going to make a sale after all. I leaned back and picked the dozen odd boxes of aggarbattis, “You can take them back, free.” And I put a twenty rupee note on top of them.
“No, mother has told me never to accept charity. I am not begging, I am working!” He said matter of fact, without any dramatics. Out he went, without wasting another glance at me.
Occasionally, I have seen him, since and before, knocking at the glass windows of luxury sedans, late in the evening, as I go back home. My day at work usually gets over by seven, his does not, till his sales target is met. He has to do his homework too. A heavy task. Ask me, I know it for a fact, from the tantrums my son Achyut throws as he attempts his. Does he ever get to see any television?
It’s my nature to brood, so I brood as I drive on. I often wonder at how the tightly rolled up glass window between him and us, separate two worlds. The few thousands on the inside, are seated on the plush seats of a bright and shinning space ship, as it zooms into the stratosphere, on its way to become the next superpower of the world. Excited, they feel good, great in fact, as the Sensex zooms, the real estate booms and the IT sector vrooms. Things have never been so good.
The millions on the outside are hanging on, just about, for dear life, to the coat tails of the same ship. What ceaselessly amazes me, is the way, people on both sides of that glass window, coexist, absolutely unconcerned with each other. Calmly they keep out of each others way, like planets dutifully adhering to their respective orbits. Every now and then, they come close, within kissing distance, only to move away, once their business is done.
The Universe, vast though it is, is getting progressively crowded. There are other, newer, unruly, planets, zooming around, fighting for survival. How long, how long, before they crash? How long, before the tiny, islands of prosperity are swamped by the huge cesspools of poverty, denial, and inequity that surround them? How long before these cute tots, develop sharp teeth and become fearsome sharks (or God forbid, may even become policemen). They will, then, like their kin, circle the islands and patiently wait for an Achyut to merely dangle a leg out, before pulling him deep, into the dark, stinking waters.
But as on most occasions, I had worried unnecessarily; the mandarins sitting in the high, offices had already taken a huge step to redress a serious wrong. Like a dutiful citizen, I just had to implement the new Act and rest in peace. I rang that bell again.
In he came, in that typically jaunty gait of his. Our Rambabbu, this time alone, “Tea?” he asked expectantly.
He too got a cuppa , when he brewed one for me. Mine sugarless, his laced with two spoons of white crystals. “No, you are fired,” I said without preamble, avoiding looking at him direct, adding needlessly, “the Government does not allow me to employ boys of your age.”
I felt rather than saw, his eyes drop, “I am sorry!” I managed to mumble.
The sunny smile was, however, back in a trice, as he worked things out, “Don’t worry sahib ji, the Dhaabha Waalah, next door has been pestering me to join him. He will pay Rupees Eight hundred less but will give me three meals a day free, I will be fine.”
Salute, India, at sixty four. Take a bow!
