The Mammaries of the Welfare State (9 page)

He noticed things, almost everything. Mobile billboards and sign painters on a scaffolding—yes, because they were out of the way and commanded one’s attention—but also the workman in beige trousers on a balcony fiddling with a TV antenna, the whirr and cluck of pigeons atop the air-conditioner at his office window, an obscure clerk’s haircut, his stenographer’s new perfume. Being a top-notch civil servant (and only for the moment out of favour and in the cold), he’d over the years honed his survival instinct to a razor’s-edge keenness. All the information that one’s senses picked up had to be filed away for future use, for God alone knew what one would need when to surmount which flap. God would of course know because he was an A-one bureaucrat himself, absolutely top-drawer, wise, on the ball, amoral, utterly self-serving.

The hoarding on the van depicted the white-tiled walls of a Gents’ Urinal and at the bottom the back of a man squatting to piss. Above him on either side rose the marble partitions of his stall. Before him, over his head, on the surface that would actually receive the piss, were painted a few horizontal lines. Way above, atop the flush tank, was the legend:

NEW CRITERIA LAID DOWN BY THE KANSAL COMMISSION FOR THE ANNUAL EXAMINATION OF THE NATIONAL CIVIL SERVICE COMMISSION FOR ADMISSION TO THE CENTRAL URINAL SERVICE AND THE FIRE BRIGADE.

Below, in the hoarding, beside the topmost horizontal line, was painted:

PISS THIS HIGH FOR FIFTEEN CONTINUOUS SECONDS IF YOU ARE AN ORDINARY, UNPRIVILEGED CANDIDATE FROM THE UPPER CASTES.

The other lines had been drawn considerably lower. Each had beside it similar instructions.

PISS THIS HIGH FOR FIVE SECONDS IF YOU BELONG TO ANY OF THE FOLLOWING BACKWARD CASTES
—followed by, in brackets, a list of names absurdly long.

. . .
FOR THREE SECONDS, NOT NECESSARILY CONTINUOUS, IF YOU BELONG TO ANY OF THE FOLLOWING NOTIFIED CASTES
. . .

. . .
FOR FIVE SECONDS ON ANY CANDIDATE FROM ANY OF THE UPPER CASTES IF YOU BELONG TO ANY OF THE FOLLOWING DEPRESSED CASTES
. . .

At the bottom of the hoarding, in large red letters, for all those who’d missed the point of the drawing, was the declaration:

WE WILL FIGHT TO THE FINISH THE RECOMMENDATIONS OF THE KANSAL COMMISSION. IF YOU VALUE JUSTICE, LIBERTY, EQUALITY, HONESTY AND TRUTH, JOIN OUR MASSIVE MARCH TO PARLIAMENT ON MARCH 24. FOR FURTHER DETAILS OF OUR RELAY HUNGER STRIKE THAT STARTS ON FEBRUARY 27, CONTACT AC RAICHUR
. . .

The bottom right-hand corner disclosed that the hoarding was the handiwork of the National Federation for the Human Rights of the Upper Castes.

Beneath the hoarding and atop the van, a fat man in off-white kurta-pyjama and a broom of a moustache periodically donned a surgeon’s cloth mask—presumably against the miasma of the plague or the Kansal Commission or the state of the times—and doffed it to bay some doctrine into a mike in his hand. He was largely incomprehensible because of the din of the street, the ghastly quality of the public address system and the general woolliness of his thinking. Raghupati recognized him.

‘Just call Raichur,’ he told the driver.

Sharada Prasad leaned across to roll down the window and let the noise in. To summon Raichur over it, he simply switched on the car siren. When enough heads had turned, he beckoned regally through the window. He let the frightful wailing continue for a few seconds longer before switching it off.

‘Sir good afternoon sir sir.’ Raichur’s voice boomed in the confines of the car. His moustache, fleshy cheeks and general air of sweat and sycophancy seemed to fill the window. ‘Any instructions sir or orders?’ Other faces began to crowd in around Raichur.

‘I can’t say whether I am more impressed or bewildered by your hoarding. Why has the man squatted to piss? All the qualifying marks are way above his head.’

‘Sir, exactly.’ Raichur nodded vigorously, exuding heat and sweat like steam. ‘Kindly bear in mind the percentage of our citizenry that
stands
and makes water. Not more than seven, I’d say. Urine, sir, is a bodily fluid the touch of which we find particularly polluting.’

‘More than the Kansal Commission? Or the plague?’

In response, Raichur snorted explosively, tricking a couple of the surrounding faces into cackling. The snort itself had been non-committal because Raichur hadn’t been certain whether the Commissioner had been witty.

‘What does the town think of the plague? Just because the government hasn’t woken up to it doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.’

In her memorandum, Miss Natesan phrased the same concern quite differently.

I’m being packed off to Madna to battle the plague,

but the question is: does the plague exist at all?

I wish to draw your attention here to the headlines in
various newspapers this month. The story first broke on the 24th of November and thereafter, every day till the 2nd of December, the plague was
—
naturally
—
big news:

‘And now the plague.’

‘DEMAND TO SEAL OFF MADNA REJECTED.’

‘500,000 Flee Madna.’

‘CENTRE CONFIRMS 24 PLAGUE DEATHS.’

‘No Shortage of Tetracycline, Says State.’

‘Multinationals Pulling Out of Madna.’

‘State Denies Plague Deaths, Confirms Viral Pneumonia.’

‘State Denies Multinationals Pulling Out of Madna.’

‘State Working on Action Plan to Combat Epidemic.’

‘UAE Bans Import of State Foodstuff.’

‘Doctors Flee Madna.’

‘PM’s Directive to Health Ministry to Expedite Action Plan’

‘Gulf Bans All Flights to and from State.’

‘Remaining Madna Medical Staff in Militant Mood.’

‘State Fighting Plague With Data of 1928!’

‘Irate Mobs Attack Abandoned Madna Medical Clinics.’

‘State Denies Use of DDT, Gamaxene Is Waste of Resources,’

‘Red Alert in Capital’

‘Dacoities Increase in Abandoned Madna Houses.’

‘Life Must Go On: Virbhim.’

and so on.

So far so good
—
if
indeed I may use such an expression in connection with the plague. However, yesterday, on the 8th of December, something extraordinary happened; the plague disappeared altogether from the front pages of our national newspapers. Instead, our headlines were:

‘Jayati Aflatoon Grants Appointment to Virbhim.’

‘Bhanwar Meets Jayati.’

‘Jayati and Fortune Smile on Virbhim.’

‘JAYATI GIVES BHANWAR SAAB TEN-MINUTE HEARING.’

‘Virbhim Calls on Jayati; Prospects in Party Soar.’

In brief, the scoop of the day was that the Prime Minister’s sister-in-law
—
more strictly speaking, cousin-in-law
—
agreed to meet (in what is probably
—
by our standards
—
just a minor palace intrigue), at short notice, for ten minutes in the evening, a crafty, venal, lecherous, sixty-five-year-old Deccan politician who has for the last two years been trying to snuggle back into the lap
—
and nuzzle once more the bosom
—
of the Aflatoons. As a result of that meeting, Bhanwar Virbhim will probably be given a berth in the Cabinet and
—
Heaven help us in Aflatoon Bhavan!
—
very likely the portfolios of Culture, Heritage, Education and Welfare, because it, the post, is politically a graveyard.

Yesterday, the plague was on
Housing Problem
and today, it’s on
Housing Problem
.
At this rate, by day after tomorrow, it’ll be engaged in a tussle for space with the Crossword and the Thought for Today. My point is, does my presence in Madna serve the larger interest of the Welfare State more
—
and better
—
than my remaining here in Aflatoon Bhavan? I fear that the answer to that question is: Please reflect. How can we be sure of that when we aren’t even sure of the plague?

Other questions arise at this juncture. Since I’ve been given no personal staff here in Aflatoon Bhavan, what is the guarantee that I’ll find my staff awaiting me on my arrival at Madna? A Personal Assistant, a stenographer, a clerk, a peon? I have already sent a telegram in this regard to the Municipal Commissioner, Madna. Of course, he hasn’t replied but that is only to be expected. Your good self must be fully aware that we in the Welfare State wake up only to the tenth reminder, much like a behemoth sluggishly stirring only at the tenth prod to its private parts.

Why need I travel to Madna when Madna has already showed up at Aflatoon Bhavan
—
in fact, has been here for quite some time? Placed at Annexures M and N are two recent photographs of the world we inhabit. One
is of the grounds outside the Bhupati Aflatoon Memorial Hospital at Madna, the second is a view of Gate No. 17 of Aflatoon Bhavan, here in the capital. Your good self will notice that both photographs contain more or less the same details
—
namely, hillocks of rotting garbage, stray cattle, pigs and other animals, children answering the call of Nature, passersby with handkerchieves over their noses and mouths. How can one tell, in these two photographs, Madna from Aflatoon Bhavan? Of course, one can’t. What obliges the Welfare State then to draft me to Madna when I can enjoy its air right here in my office by simply opening my window?

Your good self will no doubt point out to me that the difference between the capital and Madna is the plague. But the plague has struck in the capital as well! Today’s newspaper mentions en passant on
Housing Problem
:
‘
Six Suspected Plague Cases in Capital.’ It’s here! And what is of even more interest to a cultural historian (like me, I might add) is that it’s always been here! A fact of which there exists compelling evidence. The newspapers themselves have published charts and data to indicate that the plague has been recorded in our country ever since 1500 B.C. I take the liberty of placing the relevant information on record here for your good self’s perusal.

We should be indebted to the Press Trust of the Welfare State for the above facts.

And to update the chart
—
the plague’s also been around for the last two weeks in our national newspapers and for the last one year in Madna. I draw your good self’s attention to the reports published in
The State of the Times
on the 28th and 30th of November and on the 1st of this month relating to the proposed dramatic transfer of the very-recently-appointed Collector and District Magistrate of Madna, Mr Agastya Sen. The items went largely unnoticed in the general hubbub of the plague. It was intended to turf Mr Sen out to
Gandhan (population: 42000) to be Deputy Chief Inspector of Steam Boilers and Smoke Nuisances. Before the orders were put into effect, he addressed a second press conference, at which he disclosed that he was being booted out for having addressed the first.

On November 27, the day after he joined his new post, Mr Sen had spoken to a handful of journalists for the first time on the subject of the plague in his district. He’d commented that he didn’t know what the fuss was all about since his office, for the past year, in its quarterly statements to the regional government, had regularly reported Deaths Due to Plague in the District of Madna. The plague, he had elaborated, was endemic there, as much a feature of the region as famine, floods, cholera, typhoid, malaria and female infanticide.

‘The plague, Collector Saab, is supposed to be extinct in our country—hence this colossal embarrassment over Madna—so are you sure?’

‘How many Deaths Due to Plague, Collector Saab, have there been in the district in the last twelve months?’

Fifty-four, the Collector had replied, that is
—
your good self will note
—
more than double the total number notched up so far by the newspapers.

‘Did Collector Saab know the difference between bubonic and pneumonic plague? That Madna had been hit by the pneumonic?’

‘Fifty-Four. I rule out the possiblity of a mix-up between Deaths Due to Plague and any of the other figures that we periodically convey to Headquarters: Deaths in Police Custody, Suicides in Government Hospitals, Fatalities Due to Acts of God and Drowning Cases in Unlicensed Swimming Pools . . . Yes, the Municipal Corporation
has
shut down its swimming pool because of that unfortunate
accident last week—quite terrible, really, because I need to re-figure out the leg movement of the breast stroke. I intend to wheedle with them to keep it open just for me— the Steel Frame must work out and all that. However is one to manage a district if one can’t first manage one’s own goodly frame? . . . no, I didn’t spot any dead rats in the pool—frogs, yes, but not rats. Well, eleven on last count but the official figure is nineteen and the buzz in the streets is that there isn’t any plague at all. Instead, there is apparently a gang war on here, a fight to the finish amongst the diamond mafia, they say.’