The Mother and the Mistress.

 “No. We need to wait. Wait another half an hour. That’s all.”

“What is this sir.? Rahukaalam( inauspicious time according to the Hindu almanac) will start soon. The dead body has to be taken to the graveyard.” the priest was getting impatient, and increasing restless.

“No sir. We are waiting for an important relative. That person may come anytime soon. Please understand.”

“Who is it Kiran?”, My mom asked. “Noone. Absolutely no one”, I shot back.

“Where is she? I am waiting for her only. People are shouting at me now. Where? Vinayaka temple? Okok. That means five minutes.” I mumbled into my mobile.

“Sir. Another five minutes. Rahukalam and Yamagandam are irrelevant now. He has already passed away. A few minutes this way or that wouldn’t matter now. You take some coconut water sir.” I winked at my sister who ran in to get some coconut water for the irate priest who had resigned himself to the slight delay.

An autorickshaw stopped right in front of our house. A single lady got out of it. A tall, fair woman in her early fifties stepped out of the rickshaw, clutching only a handbag. She was exceedingly pretty even at this age. A strong jawline, aquiline nose and heavy hazel eyes, fresh with recent grief revealed a familiar face. A gentle coffee brown saree was draped carefully around her shoulders and neck, revealing only an old gold necklace (strikingly similar to one my grandmother had) and her sharp piercing gaze scanned the crowd intently looking for recognition. Those standing were familiar visages to her memory but were strangers for all practicality. None of them smiled at her or even betrayed even the slightest of emotion. She walked hesitantly towards the porch. Whispers rose in the gathering and she walked closer.

The body was in his favorite reclining chair and was seated in the porch, facing east. Dabbed with turmeric, vermillion and tulasi leaves and hair wet with holy water, my grandfather would have easily passed away for being just an elderly man in deep sleep. The two day stubble, the cheeky smile and the blue chequered lungi on the body would have fooled an innocent passerby about the lack of life in it.

She saw me. I smiled hesitantly. She gathered a little courage and walked forward. She saw the body. And immediately her composure melted and she fell on her knees in front of the gate. Her pink face was instantly blanched of its colour and she began to wail loudly and beat her chest. Her voice rose to a steady yowl as she got up and walked up to the cadaver and fell at its feet, still crying loudly.

 “Dude. Who is she? Some long estranged relative?”

“No. She is Manjulavani. My grandfather’s mistress.”

“Oh fuck. So this is the lady you always speak about. Manjulavani. The famous house wrecker. You were right dude. She is pretty, even at this age. Your granddad had kickass taste man.”

“Shut up. My mother hates her with the depth of her heart. If she hears you praising her, we might need to dig another grave for you. Hold your tongue.”

“Wasn’t she informed?”

“She was. But late in the night. My dad was saner than my mom. He informed her. My mom would have never allowed her to come. But whatever has happened, she has been in my grandfather’s life for a greater part of 25 years. She does have the right to a last visit.”

 

Manjulavani was still crying at my grandfather’s feet. She wailed and wailed, and set entreaties to the gods and abuses to the fates, and reminded everyone of her impending misery and loneliness. A few other women who had been silent until now, started to sob loudly, obviously a reflex reaction to this outburst. She got up finally and walked up to my mother. They looked at each other.

“This was not going to be good”, I whispered to my friend. “Not at all good. Brace yourself. We may need to physically separate them if need be.”

My mom (and my grandmother during her time) had hated her for all I remember. All interactions between them had been famously acrid and acrimonious. Ofcourse, no other emotion could be expected. My mother had even blamed her for my grandmother’s untimely death 7 years ago (which was stupid since my grandmother had lifelong issues with endocarditis and ultimately died of congestive heart failure). Manjulavani had been successful in retaining my grandfather for 10 days a month, even now.

She hugged her suddenly. My mother, overwhelmed with grief and despair hugged her back. They had spent their whole lives hating each other and trying to get one up against another. The daughter who thought her rightful share in the affection and inheritance of her father was being usurped by a tramp from a small village on the banks of Godavari versus the mistress who had spent a lot of her life in the shadow of a legal spouse, living with the proverbial sword hanging over her neck about being cut off from the one man she adored, living the life she wanted in her own terms.

The women hugged and cried. Both of them had lost an important part of their lives. My grandfather was a towering personality. All his relatives had lived in his shadow. Even I. For an instant, these two women had decided to put aside long standing differences and grieve in unison for the man who meant the world for both of them.

Death is a great leveler. Death is also a great unifier. People are brought closer during deaths. A common loss is all that it takes for people to be united, albeit temporarily. A shared misfortune is often a stronger bond than a shared gift or a mutual bounty. People can identify with someone who is going through a similar rough patch as their own. Communal bonding is often centred around this concept of death and the subsequent rituals are designed to draw relatives and friends to the house of the bereaved, as a symbol of lessening the pain and sharing the grief.

In my case, it was the daughter of the deceased making peace with the mistress. It might be a short lasting peace. But its still a peace for today.

 

Later in the day.

As we had finished our rituals in the graveyard and walked back, I saw Manjulavani standing in the corner of the cemetery. She was holding a large hand kerchief as she continued to dab her face at regular intervals.

“You shouldn’t be here. Women of the household aren’t allowed into the burial ground during the burial, according to custom”, I spoke as I approached her.

“As your mom has reminded me several times in the past, I am not a woman of the household. For that matter, any household.” We smiled weakly. “I am going back home now Kiran. You wont hear from me again.”

 

*Loosely based on real life. Poetic licenses have been taken

A Night Duty in the Emergency Unit

 

“Sir!” I came running to the bedside where the postgraduate was desperately trying to resuscitate a patient who was rapidly worsening.

“Whats it Kiran?” He didn’t even look at me, and just curtly barked as he heaved upon the patient, chest compressions in full force.

“A fourth patient has gone bad. What do we do?”, my voice quivered slightly as I waited for my supervisor to make a difficult decision.

 

 Let me rewind a few hours ago.

AMCU. Acute Medical Care Unit.  A dark dingy ward in the King George Hospital where the patients requiring intensive medical care are lodged. A night duty here is the most difficult time of a House Surgeon’s life. Surviving a night duty without a death (or a wicket as the emotionally detached doctors would call them) is considered to be the equivalent of a miracle.

This was one such particular night duty. Night duties in our hospital usually last from 2 in the afternoon till 8 the next morning. One hour later we had to report for our routine rounds. It was 2:05 pm and I had just dropped my bag on the chair in the nurses’ station and extricated my steth from the bottom of it when I heard the staff nurse call out “ Doctor gaaru. Patient bad. Come quick”

Ten minutes later, I was scribbling notes in casesheet while the staff nurse was disconnecting intervenous lines from the rapidly cooling body of the patient. “Time of death. 2:10 pm”

“Madam. Looks like this shall be a night for fast bowling. Wickets seem to be falling faster than India’s batting line” This was the stale, recycled joke every house surgeon would crack with the head nurse on duty every afternoon at which she would throw a fake laugh and go back to counting her diazepam vials. Who were we kidding?

The evening steadily worsened. We had lost two patients by nine in the night. I had known they would die the moment I saw the case sheets. “BAD PROGNOSIS EXPLAINED TO RELATIVE” was scribbled across the header in bold in both the cases.

Patients steadily kept pouring in throughout the night. Monday duties were always horrible. Snake bites, Acute Asthmatic attacks, Pneumonias, Liver failures, Nephropathies, Suicide attempts, accidental ingestions of poisoning.

“Rajiv. Whats happening? Why the rush?” I spoke up as I entered vitals into a case sheet.

“Dont you realize who is on duty.? Amruthavarshini is the duty nurse. You are the house surgeon on duty. And Rajkumar is on night duty in the casualty. All three of you have reputations to attract heavy workloads individually. And today all the three of you are on duty together. It’s like three evil planets have aligned and are smiling crookedly over the ward. Malevolent intent”

“No need to be so dramatic man! Anyway I protest man. My shifts aren’t so bad.”

“Oh! Really? Don’t remember the Gynaec duty of 16^th March?? Its in the history books now. Your shift saw 8 C-sections in one night. That was a record. After that they start posting an extra intern along with you.”

“That I admit. I must have transfused 15 units that night. God only knows how I managed.”

 

Fast forward to present time. We were two house surgeons and one Post graduate on duty.

Four patients going bad. Three doctors on duty. Sophie’s choice.

“Who are these patients Kiran?”, my postgraduate asked , as he lifted the patient’s shorts searching for a femoral pulse.

“Mine is female. 42. Snake Bite. Her vitals have dropped. Bed 36. Outside first left. The trainee nurse is attending right now.

“Who’s your patient Rajiv?” I yelled into the distance “Male, 65, Acute Malaria. Bed 12, Inside last right”, shot the reply from within the bowels of the dim lit hospital ward. “I can’t find a vein sir. He is too irritable and is not cooperating!”

“And this is our third bad patient” He looked at his own candidate and then shouted over my shoulder. “Staff!!! Another ampoule of atropine! This fellow has a fighting chance. He is 26, Infective Meningitis”. The head nurse scurried to the bedside and unloaded the ampoule into the IV line. The pulse oxy-meter attached to the index finger seemed to have picked up this new push of drugs into the blood stream and beeped slightly strong.

“Who is the fourth patient?”, I asked the head nurse who was standing next to us, in silent anticipation waiting for orders. It was surprising how the experience of 25 years on the phenol soaked floors of the hospital wards would silently fall in line at the sight of a degree of 5 years.

“This is 35, female, Diabetic Ketoacidosis. Bed 3. Inside 4^th left. Her peripherals have started going cold.”

 “Looks like she might be going into organ failure. Just our luck”

“What do we do sir?”

Before he could say anything, the nurse spoke up. “I have already called up the Nephrology ward. The intern there is already tied up. Overseeing two dialyses. He can’t leave the post. IRCU doctors have a bad patient themselves. The surgery interns are in theatre. Some accident case. Paediatrics and Gyneac folk cant leave their wards. The Cardio intern said he might be able to come in half an hour, if there are no fresh admissions. The casualty is already backed up. Kiran sir just spoke to them.”

I nodded in assent. “What do we do sir?” the sense of urgency in my voice only rose a few levels higher as I saw my trainee nurse run towards me. Apparently my patient had taken a turn for the worse.

My post graduate looked out of the window for an instant. Took a deep breath, and spoke. He didn’t look at me but at the head nurse. “Leave the oldest. Attend to the rest”. She gave him a wry smile and rushed off in Rajiv’s direction with the case sheet of the snake bite victim.

A moment later Rajiv appeared running across the corridor into the other end of the ward, changing gloves midway without even breaking his sprint.

I still stood there, frozen in disbelief. “Sir? What was that?”

“It’s called triage Kiran. I am short staffed. I shall attend to the patient who has the best chance of surviving the night. Now go to your bed. This trainee nurse is already petrified. Five more minutes and she will need a bed.”

“Sir. This is not right. We don’t have the right to….”

“Get the fuck out of here Kiran. Your patient needs you. That snake bite is your responsibility”

“Yes sir.”,I broke into a run “ kutti ( looking at the Malayalee trainee), get me an NS line and double dose of epinephrine!

By morning, we had lost two of the above mentioned four patients. None of us had slept for a moment. We had skipped dinner. I had broken a bottle of 25% Dextrose and drank from it. I had spent the whole night at the foot of my snake bite victim, on a small stool, monitoring her vitals. She had made it through finally. She was discharged three days later. I never found out her name. For me she was always “Female 42 Snake Bite”.  Right now, in retrospect it doesn’t matter. All I remember is the yellow of her sari.

Life goes on.

 

 

Claustrophobic in the Cosmopolis

I don’t remember the house I was born. It was in a Railway quarter in the hot sweaty town of Titlagarh in interior Orissa. It was in the height of Summer and the Hailey’s comet had just passed us by a month earlier. My grandfather even joked about naming me after the celestial visitor, but his mother, our matriarch (who supposedly sat next to my mother during labour with a HMT watch in hand to record the time of my arrival) who put her foot down and dictated that I be named after the Lord of the Seven Hills. That scotched the matter.

All I know that it was a large quarter close to the station and closer to the local temple. Fleeting memories visit me when I think of Titlagarh but they are too scant and too hazy.

My first concrete memories are my ancestral homes, in Rajahmundry from my maternal side and Berhampur on my paternal side. The Rajamundry house, nestled in the delta of the Godavari, was a large three storeyed building with a mango and guava grove where a majority of my summers were spent.

Dad’s place in Berhampur was more of a farmhouse. Straddling the border of the Telugu and Orissa cultural spheres, the village where the ancestral farm essentially meant large stretches of paddy fields and banana plantations. Winters were spent here, trying to play with kids who knew little or no Gult and older cousins who teased the city kid.

Home in Vizag was a large government quarter in the Railways. A modest quarter in the Gurkha Lines was our initial residence but a promotion to the grandfather landed us pretty early in a large bungalow. That was where a large portion of my childhood was spent and my formative years were developed. The bungalow had five bed rooms and my grandfather had the walls between two of them knocked down to give me an extended room. I enjoyed my life there. A servants quarter and a cowpen were the added advantages of that place. Flowers grew in abundance, large parties could be thrown, we made a rainwater harvesting pit, and a cousin even got married there. I graduated from a tricycle to a bicycle to moped to a motorcycle in that house. Its not surprising that I still dream about it at night. It was home for me. The mango trees and the jasmine flowers and the dogs we had.

It was 2003 and my grandfather retired. After 37 years of serving faithfully the Indian Railways, we moved to a plush 2BHK house in an upmarket area of the city. 1200 sft of space is a large space for three people but the joy of a bungalow is a pleasure within itself. This house was in the heart of the city of Vizag, and any family would be more than happy to live here. But my grandmother never got over the downgrade of her lifestyle. She had lived in bungalows the size of small palaces when my grandfather was working, supervising vast vegetable fields and cattle herds, and lording over a small contingent of servants and maids. Unable to abandon the city she loved for the wide open spaces of her village, but incapable of making a transition to this bookshelf (that’s what she called our house), she passed away in a few years.

I mourned her death and mourned our shared misery silently. I hated the small place myself. “Where is the room for the dog to sleep in?” had been my innocent question when I was first shown the apartment. I shared her passion for the great outdoors. But I had begun to resign myself to a smaller lifestyle. The days of large houses are over. Those houses are extinct now.

When I was packed off for training to Mumbai, I shuddered at the thought of a hostel room. But I was lucky to have been given a single room in the officer’s hostel in Bhandup East. Even though it was only a small room, the fact that we had a huge lounge, a large cafeteria, a gym and a billiards room, a badminton court library and a fine lawn made the campus look comfortable and comely. It couldn’t come close to my earlier homes though. I still hated the fact that I could see my entire residence within my field of vision.

Now I live in a 1BHK Hall Apartment in Bandra, falling back on savings to pay the hefty rent. It’s a pleasant locality in the middle of Kalanagar, within walking distance from the Bandra station and biking distance from my office in the International Airport. I live alone. But its still not big enough for me. The 1 BHK opposite mine is shared by 4 girls. I don’t know how they manage to adjust. I could never live with three more folks in a house like this.

Claustrophobia sets in. Walls seem to close in on you. You need to open your windows and attempt to claim some of the world for yourself. You need to drown yourself in your work, in your tears or in alcohol. Or else for a person like me, who has spent childhood in large houses and with an army of servants, this transition is extremely painful. But we have to shrug it off. We say it’s the Bombay life. We unwillingly admit that this is the reality of this cosmopolis. Bombay tends to do that to its citizenry. Space is a constraint of this city. People born here have grown up used to confined small spaces and frequent intrusion of privacy or a complete lack of it. But for a recent implant like me, someone reading your whatsapp chat over your shoulder in the local, or the neighbor aunty coming over asking about your friends isn’t acceptable.

But what can we do? When my brother asks the reason for the expenses, I reply “This is Bombay”. Why haven’t I made substantial savings? “This is Bombay”.   Rents are exorbitant and homes as big as matchboxes and, if lucky the size of shoe boxes. I know friends who inhabit houses that were smaller than the kitchens of my older homes. It’s been two years in Bombay and I still haven’t been able to get over the fact that I live in a much smaller house than all my life. The floor space just isn’t enough. I love the peaceful view though. That’s the only advantage of this home.

The walls seems to be winning the war on me, closing in slowly as I grow older.

Call me old fashioned. Call me princely. Call me spoilt. Call me fastidious. But this is me. Claustrophobic in the Cosmopolis.

Attachment of Property for Dummies

Defaulter: Mr Ram Kumar  Amount : Rs 2.15 crores

Property to be attached:  Flat 171, Four Bungalows, Andheri West.

“Where is the flat located. Have you visited it?”

“Chaar Bungalows sir. Four Bungalows.. Versova sir. Yes sir. Four visits already. Ram Kumar never cooperates with us sir. He is always rude and brazen. Doesn’t let us enter the house only. Refuses to take our Demand Notices. Not a pretty sight. His sister, I think sir, one lady is also there. She keeps yelling at us and says we shall all go to hell.”

“Like she had to tell us that. We already know it. Any chance of making recovery? How big is the place?”

No chance at all sir. This party won’t cooperate. We have threatened them with attachment till now. We have tried to embarrass them in front of the society. Nothing worked sir. We haven’t seen the entire flat but the house does look big sir. The owner estimates it to be around 1000 sft. We should be able to realize our dues if we sell it.

“If being the operative word. IF we sell it. Anyway be prepared for an attachment anytime. Get the paperwork ready. Read the Departmental Manual on Recovery.”

Boss’s chamber.

“This attachment wont hold up Kiran. The property isn’t on Ram Kumar’s name anymore. He gifted it his brother Alok Kumar in 2006. He shall go into litigation now. He shall litigate the life out of us. Why are you proposing such extreme ideas?”

“No sir. The government is the biggest litigator in India and no one can beat us at our game. Anyway we can apply TOPA,1892 to this case and get a favorable judgement. Just give me permission sir.”

He signed the noting side of the file and merely said. “Go. Raise Hell”

As the departmental cars swooped down the Barfiwalla flyover and sped towards Versova, we were stopped by a traffic policeman at the Juhu Circle. The driver wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. The policeman who strolled towards the car, immediately smiled and saluted as he saw the sepoy sitting in the front in his khaki uniform and I flashed him my ID card. Good omen, I thought.

As the car swerved towards the gate of the society, I spoke up to my staff.

“Listen. Now no more good guys. This liberal attitude and trade friendly measures are only when we are clearing cargo in Sahar. Now we are here on Tax recovery duty. Need to be harsh and strict. Lagad!” I turned to my sepoy. “Why is that watchman still not allowing us inside even after seeing our ID cards? Get down and set him right.”

Lagad promptly walked upto the gate, waved a finger at the watchman, whose demeanour melted from bravado to apology at the sight of khaki, and roughly swung the gates open and let our car sail through. All I heard was “ Maloom nahi hain kya? Saab hain woh”, and I smiled silently.

There were five of us and the sepoy. Two of them lady officers since this was a residential premise.

“Lets do it by the rule book. Identify the property.”

“First floor sir.”

The doorbell was answered by a middle aged woman. She recognized our officers and her face dropped. She hesitated to open the latch and let us in.

“Is this the abusive sister who swears like a taxi driver?” I whisper to my officer. “No sir. This is his wife. Damayanti” . My breathing returned to normal and I spoke up. (First Attachment jitters)

Madam. I am Kiran Kumar. The Assistant Commissioner of Customs, Tax Recovery Cell, Sahar AirCargo. We are here on official duty of the Government of India to attach the property of Mr Ram Kumar, who as per adjudication orders confirmed against him in the year 2002 is liable to pay outstanding dues of Rs 2 crores to Indian Customs. Since the payment has not been made inspite of repeated demand notices, we are here to attach your property under Rule 5 of  the Recovery Rules, 1995. Any sale, gift or creation of third party interest in the mentioned property is prohibited. If within fifteen days of attachment, the dues are not paid, the government shall proceed with valuation and subsequent auction of the property. You, ofcourse, shall be served an eviction notice.”

She was shell shocked as she heard me rattle out the legal position of the case. Tears began to roll down her eyes. Two kids, in their teens walked out to the door. I gently tugged at the latch, and she realized we were still standing outside. I was ushered by my staff into the drawing room where we decided to complete our paperwork.

“Ranvijay. Go to the next flat and call the resident. We shall need a witness for the panchnama.” I perfunctorily spoke while I sat down in the plush sofa and started signing the copies of the Appendix-II issued during the attachment of the property.

Our lady officers shooed the kids inside and spoke to the lady. “Madam You need to pay the amount. This file will not be closed. It’s a large amount. Two crores is big. Saab has not alternative.” They swung from Marathi to English and back to Hindi as they tried to convince her.

Mrs Ram Kumar sat next to me. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“Other than paying the amount there is nothing else madam. Where is your husband? In Dombivili?Ok.” I couldn’t look at her and turned my gaze towards the balcony where I saw one of the kids playing with a teddy bear. An old lady hobbled upto her and led her inside. These are the people I was going to evict out of their home soon. But one look down at the file which clearly shows Mr Ram Kumar has methodically scammed the department out of crores and all other thoughts disappear.

Just then, a tall and strongly built lady walked in. Dressed in a long salwar, she appeared exceedingly out of character and nervous. Probably Lagad gave her this anxiety, as she kept pensively looking at his uniform.

“Sir. She is Mrs Yusuf. The neighbor from 172. She refuses to sign the document.”

“Madam.” I tried to remain friendly “This is just a formality. It’s a panchanama. Merely proof that we were here and we attached this property in a legal manner. You just have to sign as a witness.”

“I know my rights sir. Yeh humaari Mulk hain. Humko humaari hak maloom hain. I will not sign anywhere. Hum sarkaar ko poora support denge. But mujhe sign ke liye math boliye.”

“That’s the problem madam. Citizens know of their rights too well. But not of their responsibilities. You are all willing to take mombattis and jholas and walk around in Juhu against corruption or powercuts. But when the government asks you for support, asks you to discharge your duty as a responsible citizen, you shirk away and refuse. Is this the way you say you support your government and your government officers? Sad state of affairs madam.”

“I understand sir. But I cannot sign. I don’t want any problems”

I looked at her and realized that it was a lost cause.

“Ok. Madam. Aapka mulk. Aapki marzi. Call the other neighbor na. Whoever is in 170?”

Few minutes later I was in the same dilemma as Mr Deshmukh refused to sign any papers.

“ It’s just a panchnama sir. You are the secretary of the society. You are a responsible person in the building. I was expecting you to be a little more cooperative with the government.”

“These are good people sir. Why are you harassing them? I have known them for twenty years. Please leave them.”

Mrs Jadhav, my superintendent, usually silent and composed lost it. “Leave them? Is the government your father’s jagir? Or are you Chidambaram? If you are so sympathetic towards why don’t you pay the amount? You look like a big shot. Three gold rings and swede shoes and all. You have a bank in your bathroom kya? Chalo sir. Iska Ghar attach karte hain. Useless fellow. Free advice he is giving. Bhaag saala”. He leaves rather embarrassed, but relieved.

“Looks like these men of Four Bungalows are useless.. Listen. Idea. Call that watchman who thought he was dabangg. We can get him to sign.”

Few minutes later. “Ranvijay. Explain the entire panchnama to him in Hindi and ask him to sign it. Whats your name bhai? Vikram.? From? Gorakhpur.? Good Good. Understood what Ranvijay has told you? Look around. We haven’t broken anything or spoken abusively to the women of the household, have we?” and I looked at Mrs Ram Kumar.

“Where should I sign sir?” I ran my finger along a dotted line and his pen ran behind my finger.

“Good boy. Thank you man for helping us out in this situation.” I turn towards my officers. “Paste the attachment notices outside on the wall of the house. Also in the notice board of the society.  Take pictures of it also. Or else, these people might say we haven’t come only.”

“Madam. We are leaving. Please note that the Customs owns this house now, until the attachment has been lifted by Court, if at all. Please convince your husband to make payment and clear this mess. I apologise for this situation but we have no alternative. Lets leave.”

“Well. It feels interesting sir. Our first attachment sir. Very exciting sir.”

“We are going to kick out a family onto the road. Nothing exciting. This is the dirtiest part of our job. Lagad. Ask the driver to bring the car in. We have to go back to Sahar. And listen Ranvijay. Start working on that Krishna Offshore file. We need to attach that house also.”

“Where sir?”

“Carmichael Road. Mazaa aayega. Commercial property.”

 

Recovery of Arrears: A Tale of Two Men

This is not a piece of fiction. This is a true story I have encountered in the course of my work. Of course names have been changed.

I work in the Indian Customs. Posted at Sahar International Airport, I am the Assistant Commissioner in-charge of the Tax Recovery Cell of the AirCargo Customs Commissionerate, among other sections..

Two cases have always struck my imagination. The amounts involved are inconsequential to the story, but I shall mention them nonetheless.

Case 1.

Party- M/s Prachi Overseas. Offence: Undervaluation of knitted garments. Amount involved: 50, 000 Rs (a paltry sum for a commissionerate which churns out revenue in excess of 7500 crores annually.)

Offender : Mr Vikram Ved

My officers had visited his house, a little known lane in Nallasopara East. Later recollecting the visit, my officers spoke thus.

“ Sir. There was absolutely nothing in his house. I don’t even think he has an attached toilet. Except one old Videocon TV, nothing is worth even a second look. His wife is there sir. Old lady with arthritis I think. She can’t even walk properly. Always is in pain. He has a son who works in a call centre. Except for a French beard, that boy doesn’t have any airs of a Call centre employee or a Bombay chap. Vikram Ved is also not doing well. He has had a cataract operation recently and is suffering from some kidney problem it seems. He was thin and frail. But very cooperative sir. He offered us tea and all”

After receiving the demand notice, Mr Vikram Ved turned up at my office three days after the visit. He had asked for a personal appointment to which I agreed instantly.

“Sir. I have nothing to do with Prachi Overseas. It was a friend of mine who was doing this fraud. He gave me five thousand rupees and took my ration card. I didn’t know that he forged my signature, procured an Import –Export Code and was running this smuggling racket. Finally he was arrested and the case was decided. The Commissioner imposed a penalty on me also because the import was carried out on my name. I am innocent sir. Or only guilty to the extent of falling prey to the lure of quick money. I am not a smuggler. I am a respectable man. It was so horrible to have government officers to knock on my doors like this”

“But Mr Ved. The adjudication is final. There is a confirmed penalty of Rs 50,000 against your personal self in this order. We cannot disregard this. Nor can you. You will have to pay this amount. Now tell me. When you can make the payment?”

“Sir. I have nothing. Arrest me if you want. Atleast I shall get food in the jail. I have no money to pay my electricity bills right now.” He paused for a moment and spoke again “ Sir. Can I pay it in installments?”

My officer looked at me and conveyed it through his eyes that there was no provision for installments. “But there is a provision for part payments”, I smiled as I spoke.

My officer speaks up, “That circular says that a maximum of three payments are allowed.” “I know. I have read the bloody law before sitting in this chair. I have not jumped over the wall to come here.” I bark impatiently.

“Saab. I am leaving for Vapi tomorrow. I have got a small job there. I shall be earning enough to run my household. I shall make a payment everymonth. My son shall deposit it on the 5^th without fail. I shall clear my dues to the Government. I am an honest citizen.”

“How much can you pay every month.?”

“Two thousand five hundred.” “ Deal”

My officer is riled and interjects, “ Sir. This is not an angaadiya where we can make such deals with offenders and make adjustments. This is not acceptable sir”

“Jaiswal. You can do as you wish when you sit in my chair. Not now. Go do your work. Where is that letter you were supposed to put up for approval? Is it hatching eggs?” I angrily throw a file into the outbox and a sepoy scurries in to carry it out.

It has been five months and I have received five payments.

Case 2

Party: M/s Excelsior Engineering Amount Involved : Rs 40. 52 crores Offence: Illegal exemption on ATM parts

Offender : Jitender Seth

My officers dutifully visited the premises of the defaulting party. As my preventive officer later recollected

“ Sir. It is a big four storeyed commercial complex in Tardeo, near AC market. There are almost 20 offices there. A big name board outside reads several names sir. Jitender Marketing. Jitender Foundation, Jitender Financial Services, Jitender Real Estate”, he continued to read on as he looked at his notebook.

“As per our records, Jitender Seth is the Director of Excelsior Engineering. He owns the building sir. There are CCTVs everywhere. Clean and beautifully done lobby with artworks and all sir. You have to swipe a card to go inside sir. Full security. Wonderful building and a pretty receptionist also.

“Can you stop drooling over the building and tell me details useful for us.? Did you get the deed of the building? Ownership agreement.? Atleast an electricity bill?”

“They were not very cooperative. Everyone knows Jitender owns the building but no one will admit it. They didn’t even let us inside until you had spoken to the manager and threatened that non-cooperation with a government officer is an offence. They wouldn’t give any documents sir.”

“So basically, you took the departmental car and drove around Girgaum and came back?”

“No sir. We went to Jitender Seth’s apartment on Napean Sea Road. Huge building. Beautifully decorated gardens, three floor parking spaces and even a fountain inside sir.” “ Cant you stop showing me NDTV Lifestyle please?” “Sorry sir. Jitender’s manager came out and met us. He promised to give us all the documents in three days.

Two weeks later. I am on the phone with his manager. “ Mr Bhatt!! This delay in not condonable. I shall issue a summons to Mr Seth.! I am not joking. I don’t care if you have the case pending in the tribunal. You don’t have an operative stay. I can recover the money. I don’t mind selling all the property to recover government dues. I am issuing a summons right now!”

The next day, Mr Bhatt is in front of me with the bank statement of Excelsior Engineering from a bank in Thakurdwar. I utter my first mother-sister abuse of the day at him. “Six Hundred Rupees!! Are you fucking kidding me. Your company has defrauded the exchequer of 40 crores and your bank account has 600 rupees. What sort of an idiot do you think I am?”

“Jitender saab was trapped in this sir. He is innocent. He runs schools and colleges and hospitals and charities.” “ Any proof?” Silence.

“Trapped.? I have read the file. Imports were staggered over 8 months and three airports. Three clearing agents were changed. You tried to illegally clear consignments without Customs punch seal. This isn’t entrapment. This is outright smuggling. I was not taught the law yesterday. I want the deed to the Napean Sea Road house tomorrow. I am anyway issuing a summons.”

The next day I receive a call. “Karlapu saab.” “ don’t call me Karlapu. Call me Kiran Kumar.”

“ I am Jitender Seth. What is your vengeance against me? I am a Gandhian, believer in the principles of the Mahatma” “ Where did Bapu teach us to evade Customs Duty?”

“ That is in the court sir. Why are you in such a hurry? Mistakes happen. We all do them. Cool down.” “ Forty crores isn’t a mistake sir.” “ Do you Mr Rajesh Krishnan, retired Commissioner? He is my advocate in this matter. He would certainly love to meet you once. Bhatt says you are young and hardworking. Krishnan would be impressed. Come over to Cricket Club on Sunday na. We can all talk it out comfortably. He is also from the south. Tamil just like you.”

“That’s it! No one confuses me with a Tamil..” I disconnect the phone and start perusing through the draft summons. I call my officer on the intercom “ What is this? SHRI Jitender Seth? Is he your father in law? He is a fraudster. Remember that. Correct it. Write Mister.”

A week later we receive a letter from his advocate. My officer reads it while I sit, fists folded beneath my chin, as if in deep thought “Sir. You are accused of causing mental trauma to the defendant and we are accused of manhandling his staff. He blames you for the deteriorating health of his client, who after being bit by a mosquito has contracted malaria it seems sir.”

“Malaria in December.? Super!” “So he is not in a condition to honour our summons. The advocate also threatens to complain to Delhi for our high handed action and extra lawful activities. The language looks scary sir. What do we do?”

“File it and forget it” . We are still fighting this case

The Guy who came to see my Sister (In Telugu)

Sister gets ready for a traditional Telugu style pelli choopulu. Everything is normal for about ten minutes. In my family, nothing stays normal for more than ten minutes.This scene contains my parents, my maternal grandfather and my paternal aunt (menattha). Conversation is going on for sometime….

Amma: “Vaadamma Vaasu ani cheppaanu kada neeku. Naaku Krishna College lo classmate.”

Chelli: “ Vaadena panimanishi tho vellipoyaadu?

Amma : “Vaadu kaadu ehe. Adhi vaadi annaya Raju.”

Chelli: “Yevado okadu panimanishi intlo deepam pettaadu kada.”

Grandpa “ Asalu monna nenu Discovery channel lo Bastar jungles lo adivasi tegala gurinchi oka documentary chusaanu. Vaallu asalu inumu ni vaari konda panimutla tho elachestharante….”

Dad walks in to announce that the groom’s family has arrived.

Naanna: Vaallu chaala maryadasthulu. Mana laaga Dakota family kaadu. Abbayini thikka prasnalu veyoddu. Vaallaki manam nachchaali ante andaram SlumDog Millionaire range lo acting cheyyaali.”

Amma: “Ante mee ardham memu andaram tegala thine batch ani anumanisthunnara?”

Naanna: “Anumaanam kaadu idhi confirmed. Mee andari pichchi chusthe pelli vaaru paaripothaaru..”

Grandpa: “Bastar lo aadivaasila gurinchi chepthe yevaru vinarenti asalu. Naa maata ante lekka ledaa? (anxiously seeks attention)

Chelli: “ Bastar ante Kashmora story lo vasthundi. Ade kada mummy?”

Amma “Adhi Bastar kaadu ra. Adi Bistha gramam. Dantlo Kaadra Vuntaadu.”

Chelli: “Vaadevadu. Village Sarpanch aa?”

Amma: “ Nee nethi. Nidramoham daana. Vaadu kshudra mantrikudu.”

Chelli: “Magician aa? Ante hat lonchi rabbit teestaada?”

Amma: “ Kaadu nee body lonchi blood teestadu. Vaadi comedy magician kaadu. Serious villain type.”

Grandpa: Nenu Munchingput lo pani chesetappudu akkada ilanti kshudramantrikulanu chala mandini chusaanu. Asalu vaallu…….”

Nenu: Vaddu taata. Nee tribal stories tarvaatha kaalakshepamga vindaam . Ippudu vaddhu. Pellivaaru vachchaaru kada.

Nanna (With mom): “ Tactful tackle chesi abbayi jeetham gatta adagandi. Mari direct ga ilanti vishayaalu adagakudadhu.

Amma: “You don’t worry. CBI, ISI range lo nenu information laaguthaanu kada abbayi nunchi”

Naanna: Antha akkaraledu. Police constable range lo maatladu chaalu.”

We walk out. Sister is still inside. The rest of us come out to greet the guests. Two minutes into the conversation

Amma: (Looking at the groom) “ Jeetham yentha. Chethiki yentha vasthundi. Cutting lu ponu anamaata.”

Naanna #Megafacepalm

Grandpa: Bank udyogam anta kada babu. Yem bank lo panichesthunnaav?”

Abbayi: Al-Amana Bank.. Al-Amana andi.. Saudi Arabia bank andi.

Amma: (whispers) : Amma neeyamma Bank laaga adem peru ra.. Idedo Kola Krishna Mohan type bank la vundi ra Kiranu.

Grandpa:” Al- Amana Bank aa? Idedo Othoothi bank la vundi manavadaa”

Atthaya (whispers into my ear) : “Abbai Aamani bank lo pani chesthaada?. Aamani ante Subhalagnam heroine kada. Daaniki bank yekkadidhi. SV Krishna Reddy antha remuneration icchchaada?”

Nenu: “Amani kada atthaya. Amana. Al-Amana.”( gestures her to be silent)

Amma: “Ponile Saudi bank kada. Ye Dubai lono Muscat lo vuntaadu. Yenchakka shopping ki vellochchu. Anthe kada abbayi” (looks hopefully at the guy)

Abbayi: “Right now African Union joint venture tho nenu work chesthunnanu.”

Atthaya: “Abbayi Africa lo panichesthunnaada? Mee Mamayya kuda foreign returned andi. Andamans lo work chese vaaru” (smiles proudly)

Nenu: “Andamans foreign kaadu Atthaya. Mana Desame.”

Atthaya: “Adentra Padavekki vellevaaru. Ante paraayi desame kada. Nuvvu naaku Zoology  nerpaku. Asalu Atlas geesinde nenu. Muyyi inka.”

Grandpa: “Ala ante nenu 6 months Rangam lo panichesaanu.”

Abbayi (trying to initiate conversation): “Rangam movie lo na taatayyagaaru?”

Grandpa: “Nee bondha. Nuvvekkada Telugu vaadivi ayyaa. Rangam thelidaa.? Rangoon. Burma desam.. Adantha sare. Inthaki Africa lo yekkada baabu. Johannesburg aa?”

Abbayi: “Mombasa”

Atthaya: “Idigo.. Ishtam lekapothe cheppodu gaani ila Africa bhasha lo thittaku ayyo..! bagodu mari.” ( gets slightly miffed)

Nenu: “Atthaya. Adhi thittu kaadu. City peru. Tanzania desam lo vundi”

Grandpa : “Tarzan desama? Ante cheddilu vesukuni tiruguthaara? Idedo soukaryamaina desam laa vundi.”

Amma( mumbles to me):  “Musalodiki kukka buddhi poledu. Tarzania yenti ra. Ee desam peru neneppudu vinaledu. Abbayi gaani sodi chepthunnaada? “

Nenu: “Vundi le amma Desam. Naaku thelusu. East Coast of Africa. Formed by the union of Tanganyika and Zanzibar. It is there amma.”

Amma: “Nenu nammanu. Nuvvvu Google open cheyi. Alanti Desam ledani itte cheppesthundi google.  Ehe. Ninnu nammanu nenu. Nenu iddarine nammuthaanu. Okati nannu Rendu Google. Open cheyyovoi. Chettulu padipoyelaaga rojanta mobile lo tikku tikku antu kottukuntu vuntaavu kada . Ippudemayindi soorathvam. Prove it I say..!! Asale nenu IST ni..”

Nenu :“IST kaade neeyamma. ISI …” “Yedo okati . Yedaithe yenti aakhariki pelthaanu kada violent ga.” “Adhi RDX amma..” “Avna.. Anduke nenu IST lanti daanni ante office lo andaru navvuthunnaru.. Maa Panigrahi kuda cheppaledu yeppudu. Aagu phone chesi danchaali vaadini.”

I show it to her on Google.

“Okok . Tarzania. Adhe adhe Tanzania desam vundi abbayi. So Only Africa aa? Inkem desaalu tiragaledaa abbai?

Abbayi : “Bulgaria lo oka one year pani chesanu aunty.”

Atthaya.. “Ee desam kuda mee mammaya vellaaru ra. Naaku baaga gurthu. Ledu ra. Nidadavolu Kota Sattemma meeda vottu. Appudu memu Rajahmundry Durga Talkies daggara vunde vaallam. Mee mammaya chala clear ga cheppaaru. Osei Sarojini . Nenu Bulgaria vellosthaanu. Talupulu vesuko.”

Nenu: “Big Bazaar ku vellosthaanu ani vuntaaru atthaya.”

Atthaya :“Yemo ra. Sanchi maatram pattikellaaru mari.”

Nenu (with mom) “Eevida Sound Engineering complete chesi yennaallu ayyindi.”

Abbayi #Bittharachoopu

Amma: “Bulgaria ane desam ledu ra Kiranu. I am very sure of it. Google work avvadu gaani Wikipedia open cheyyi eesari. Adi more trustable.”

Nenu:“Amma! Bulgaria vundi .Rajadhani Sofia. Danube nadi meeda vundi. It’s a Central European country.

Amma : “Nenu nammanu. Naaku Wikipedia lo chupinchu. Aadevado geddam vedhava adigaadu ani poyina yedaadi padi dollars daanam chesaav kada Wikipedia ki. Paisa vasool cheyyi.”

I show it to her. “Ok.. Kotha desama? Poyina yedaadi ledu kada. ?”

Nenu “Amma. 18^th century nunchi vundi amma.” Amma:“ Nenu current events follow avvanu Kiranu”

Grandpa ( to the guy) “Nuvvu TV chusthaava? Discovery channel lo poyina vaaram bastar lo inumu gurinchi documentary vachchindi chusaava?”

Atthaya: “Inthaki ippudu yekkada working babu?”

Abbayi : “Bangalore andi.”

Atthaya :“Parledu mana state lo ne vunnaadu. Aha.. Ala kaadu naayana. Bangalore ante mana state lantide kada. Andaru Telugu vaalle. Antha Andhra Mess kada. Next plans yenti baabu?”

Abbayi: Nenu next foreign trip meeda Zambia velthunnanu andi next month.” She gives me a look. I nod saying that there is such a country.

Amma: “Daani tarvaatha Somalia naa? Paddathi aina desaalu pampincharaa?”

Abbayi:“Ala kaadu andi. Nene challenging ga vuntundi ani ilanti assignments aduguthunnanu.”

Grandpa: “Ante neeku ichchi pelli chesthe maa manavaraalu karuvu peedithe praanthalalo brathakaaala? AikyaRajya Samithi vaallu aaharapotlaalu helicopter lo lonchi visuruthuntaaru. Aa desamenaa Zambia ante?”

Amma: “Kaadu naanna. Adhi Cambodia.”

Atthaya: “Kaadu ra. Adhi Uganda.”

Naanna: “Ledu ra Eritrea anukuntanu.”

Amma: “ Maatladaventi baabu. Meminthe. Andaram kalisipoyi hadaavidi ga gola gola ga vuntaam.”

Pelli koduku paraar!!!

More such funny stories from the life of the author shall be posted!

Indian Philanthropy

        The main administrative block of my medical college is called the “Rajah of Panagal” building. Donated in 1931, it remains an affectionate memorial of the charity of the erstwhile Chief Minister of Madras Presidency towards the city on the coast. The Victoria Maternity Hospital was donated by the Raja of Gajapathi and our Hospital for the Handicapped was donated by Rani Chandramani, the Zamindar of Chemudu. All in Visakhapatnam. The rich and the generous have supported my college all through.

In the fourth age of man, the goddess of Dharma, represented by a divine cow is shown to be limping only on one leg, indicating the erosion of moral values. It has been accepted that the only value that holds up the fabric of creation in this age is “Daana” or charity.

Very often, actually more often than required are we reminded about the great entrepreneurs of the West who are donating X% of their assets to charity or to some foundation. Bill Gates, Jackie Chan, Warren Buffet and Richard Branson and the list goes on. As usual our media goes into “excited cheerleader” overdrive mode whenever they see a shiny new thing in the West. And accordingly they don’t stop with extolling the virtues of the Western Charity. They start exhorting that our wealthy don’t donate enough and question the ethic of the Indian philanthropy and its alleged hesitance to venture forth.

I have nothing against or for the Indian wealthy. You can’t expect a Birla or an Ambani or for that matter a Karlapu (yours truly) donating 50% of his/her wealth to charity. India is a deeply structured inheritance based society where each individual would want his children to inherit the fruits of his labour. Nothing wrong in it. You can’t force philanthropy. But at the same time, you can’t pass judgment that the Indian rich don’t do enough to serve society. India’s elite and ruling classes have always been charitable. Right from the donations of emperors to temples, in the form of maintenance and land grants until the charity of modern day powerful,  India’s history is replete with examples of the magnanimity of the affluent. The Bhoodan ( Land Donation) movement started out of the sleepy, silk weaving village of Pochampally and grew to  the voluntary donation of a million acres in post-independence India. Several embellishments of the city of Mumbai are mostly a result of the donations of the wealthy Indians, notably the Parsees and Jews community ( JJ Hospital, Mahim Causeway, David Sassoon Library, Masina Hospital etc). We all know about the Birla Mandirs.

            Indian philanthropy is different. As with everything about India, our charity can never be captured in account books and excel sheets. Ninety percent of us never keep tabs for the charity we have done. India isn’t its millionaires. India is its middle class. I believe that the cultural ethos and traditional heritage is so strong in the middle class that we think donation isn’t mere charity, it’s a moral responsibility.

When a man thinks it’s his responsibility rather than a legal obligation to part with a little of his wealth to help the poor out, it’s real SOCIALISM.

Every day as I walk home after work, I would see an aunty from the building across the road come out with Dal Khichdi and start whistling. Within no time, a pack of stray dogs start scampering towards her and lap up the food she has with her. I asked her once if it was leftovers from dinner. She merely replied that she always cooks a little extra for the dogs.

The great Indian middle class is taught to share, to donate and to give. It is also taught to repay and forget. In our own households, we see this happening. The kid breaks off a piece of his/her chocolate and gives it to the maid’s kid, as instructed by the mother. Old clothes and clothes out of which he has grown are recycled. Leftover food is given away. My grand aunt had got her maid’s daughter married, full kharcha. And I am sure she didn’t declare it in her income tax returns as a donation to charity.

I feel that Indians have an inherent mistrust towards large corporations and NGOs. That’s the reason we don’t see many large Pan-Indian foundations operating, solely based on individual donations. The bigger foundations are always supported by a large corporate donor. Indians prefer to trust God. No wonder the temples have such a large and steady cash flow. We may say that we are offering our gratitude towards God when we make donations, but sub consciously all of us know and trust the temple to proceed with some charitable activity with our contributions. Whenever each of us drops a coin into a Hundi in Tirupathi, ISKCON or  Shirdi, we know that somewhere a kid is being fed, some village is getting drinking water or a free surgery is being performed. The community kitchens of the Gurudwaras and the Annadaana schemes of temples are all financed by the devotees, all clutching notes of tens and twenty. All of us are aware that we are donating, not to God, but to others. Its these little donations that count. This is the Indian idea of philanthropy. Its ok for a billionaire to part with a few millionaires. But the salaried employee or the small time trader who donate, often at their own expense is the real hero.

            I am reminded of a Telugu movie a few years ago, called Missamma ( Loosely translates to Madam) where an ailing heiress dupes a married middle class man into tying the knot with her so that he can inherit her wealth legally and spend it wisely. The only reason for zeroing in on this particular gentleman is that in spite of a fixed salary; he donates a large part of his salary to charity and leads an exemplary life. There are many such gentlemen and women in India, all donating silently but diligently. How else do you think India still survives? It’s because of these good folk.