The door opened to his first ring. A man stood blinking and looking annoyed; a hairy man of medium height, perhaps forty years old. All he had on was a pair of very brief shorts. He was unshaven and covered with sweat as though he had been doing exercises. ‘Who are you?’ he barked.
‘Balram Das, sir.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I was called for an interview; for the assistant manager’s post.’
‘Oh, yes. You’d better come in.’ He let in the caller; shut and bolted the door and disappeared through an inner door.
The room was hot and covered with a fine layer of dust, and not a single one of its windows was open. There were no other candidates, unless, by some freak, he had arrived on the wrong date; or had they already filled the post? He wondered.
Behind him, a woman’s voice said: ‘So you’re Balram Das. Come and help me set this up.’
There was something faintly familiar about the voice, high-pitched and slightly querulous. She was a thickset woman who must have been pretty when young, but now looked coarse and flabby, with her hair untidy and with the eyeblack making streaks on her cheeks. She was carrying a tape recorder. ‘Put that table here, near the wall,’ she commanded. ‘And pull a chair for yourself. No, no, close to the mike. Yes, sit down.’
And again he wondered where he had heard the voice before.
She plugged in the machine, switched it on, and waited till a green light came on. She tapped the microphone professionally and handed it to Balram. ‘Say something,’ she told him.
‘What?’
‘Oh, say anything, dammit!’
‘Anything, dammit!’ he repeated.
She uttered an obscenity which startled him. ‘God, you’re dumb! Speak into this, will you? Say something.’
‘The Twenty-Point Programme?’
‘All right.’
After he had run through the Twenty-Point Programme, she told him to say something in Hindi, and he began to enumerate the Five Points in Hindi. He had got as far as the disavowal of dowry when he heard the bedroom door open. ‘That’ll be enough,’ the man said. ‘I’ve been listening.’
For a moment, the man and the woman looked at one another, and then without a word, the woman switched off the machine and went in. Through the open door, Balram could hear snatches of their talk.
‘…Amazing resemblance…oh, weird.’
‘…But so utterly dumb! I could have screamed.’
‘…Good thing…oh, ideal…might have been stuck with a smart alec…’
Then the door closed as though someone had pushed it from the other side. Balram sat in the heat, staring at the grey box which had recorded his voice for posterity, still clutching the microphone in his hand, trying to put down an impulse to get up and flee.
The door opened and the man came out, this time wearing a dhoti with one end draped over his bare shoulders, almost like a sari.
He said: ‘Okay, we’ll take you on.’
‘My name,’ the man told Balram, ‘is Shamendra Swami. You can call me Swamiji. The lady is Devata Ekanti-Ma. Call her Ekanti-Ma.’
The pay was good, much more than he had hoped for: eight hundred rupees a month, and he was given one of the two bedrooms in the flat. The other bedroom was shared by Swamiji and Ekanti-Ma. Balram was given a latchkey and told that he could go out to eat and to the cinema and for walks and shopping, but he was not to see any of his friends in Delhi.
‘I don’t know a soul in Delhi,’ he admitted.
‘Good! Oh, yes. You’re not to use the telephone except when…when we want you to use it.’
This prohibition, Balram was later to discover, was wholly unnecessary since the telephone was in their bedroom, which was locked whenever the two were out of the house.
Swamiji also warned him not to reveal to anyone what work he was engaged in, not even in a letter to his parents.
‘Both my parents died years ago,’ he told them. ‘But what work am I to do?’ he asked.
‘All in good time. Now you can go and bring your bags.’
The work, such as it was, was absurdly light. For nearly a week he was made to repeat short sentences in Hindi and English. Swamiji or Ekanti-Ma would make him say things into a recorder, play back the tape, and show him where he had gone wrong. They were extremely patient and did not mind how long it took him to say things just as they wanted him to say them. They spent a whole morning trying to get him to say just one line with the requisite degree of authority and disdain. ‘You know you’re getting off cheap. Huh! What’s a lakh to you!’
‘Don’t make it sound like an apology, Balram,’ Swamiji kept reminding him. ‘Be rude, offensive, arrogant; imagine you’re speaking to someone who‘s cringing. Now try again.’
At the end of the first week they made him listen to a recording of what was obviously an excerpt from a public speech, for it was shot through with background sounds of wild cheering and clapping. ‘Repeat each sentence with the exact intonation,’ Ekanti-Ma told Balram.
Balram practised the speech, not knowing whose voice he was imitating for he had never heard it before.
‘We have been told that in this city, nothing is done for the poor and the downtrodden. Ours is a party of the workers, the poor, the masses.’
While he was practising, Ekanti-Ma must have switched on the recorder. In the evening she played back the tape to him, along with the original. He was amazed by his own performance. Only by the absence of the cheering could he tell which one was his.
After that, Balram was given a list of a dozen or so phrases. ‘Study them carefully,’ Swamiji told him. ‘Repeat them again and again. And when the time comes, say whichever seems to you most appropriate. You will be speaking into the telephone. Remember that if you’re stuck for an answer, swear, say something rude, or bang the receiver down, but for God’s sake, don’t hesitate.’
Swamiji had decided that they would begin their activities on Monday, the 22nd of April. On the previous evening, they held a rehearsal.
‘I’ll have been on the phone for a few minutes, and some time during my talk I’ll say: “Well, these are orders from the palace and there’s nothing either you or I can do about them.” There will be perhaps another minute’s talk, then I’ll say: “Well, if you must. No, no, he’s right here. I’ll give you the unlisted number.” I’ll give the number, put down the receiver, and wait for the ring. I’ll check who’s speaking and pass on the telephone to you. Okay? What do you do then?’
‘I take at least a minute to pick up the receiver, and in an irritated voice, ask: “Yes? What do you want?” ’
‘Okay. Let’s say the man on the line says: “Sir, a gentleman called Shamendra Swami rang on your behalf to order that the Victoria dry dock should be dismantled at once.” What do you answer?’
‘I say: “Oh, for God’s sake! You say that you have received the order. Get on with it then.”’
‘And if he answers: “Sir, I merely wanted to check up because the project engineer is bound to protest to…”’
‘I interrupt whatever he’s saying and demand: “Ask him from me if he wants to be made bistra-gul!” Then I talk away from the mouthpiece but say, quite loudly: “Nam lelo; yes, yes, MISA. What else?” ’
‘That’s when the other man might say: “Sir, we’re only checking because hitherto your orders were passed through…”’
‘I laugh and say: “So you want to restrict me to just one secretary.”’
‘Good!’ Shamendra Swami commented. ‘But, as I said, there might be some really awkward types who will persist in asking more questions. What happens, then?’
‘I don’t do anything for a while, but wait for Ekanti-Ma to remark: “I told you not to waste time answering phones. Pass the man on to someone who’ll deal with him. I want you to see this.” At this stage I say rather hurriedly into the telephone: “Well, I must go,” and put down the receiver.’
On Monday, everything had gone off without a hitch. The managing dire
ctor of the Harda shoe company was ordered that no more shoes were to be manufactured, only chaplis for the poor, which must be retailed at five rupees a pair. ‘But, sir, what about our export orders? Nine thousand pairs to Russia…’ The man was still whining when Balram had put down the receiver.
Two days later, Swamiji had the hotel tycoon Obeta on the phone. He was told that the opening of the new four-star hotel at Banwa beach which was scheduled for the 8th of May would have to be cancelled because the hotel had been built on land that was earmarked for fishermen’s huts. ‘But sir, I have invited international stars…Richard Brando and Marlon Burton…’ Obeta was saying.
‘Don’t make me mad!’ Balram had shouted. The beaches should be for the poor, the downtrodden, the masses.’
Two days later, the film producer-star Nagesh Kumar was told that his film Burai which was scheduled to be released on 15th May, could not be exhibited. Balram had shut up the star’s protests by saying: ‘I’m not arguing with you; I’m telling you.’
After that there was a break which lasted for two weeks. At last Balram found he had nothing to do, even though Swamiji and Ekanti-Ma seemed to be very busy, talking endlessly in their room and going out almost every day for long periods. Balram went for walks, read magazines and slept. Occasionally, the telephone rang and went on ringing, but there was nothing he could do about it since the door was always locked.
Once, while he was lying in bed, reading a film magazine, he heard the doorbell ring. After a little hesitation, he went and opened the door. A man was standing outside, holding a paper in his hand. He said: ‘I just came to check on what date you people were vacating the flat.’
‘I am sorry,’ Balram told him. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’
He peered at the paper and said: ‘It says end of the month here. But, if you are leaving a couple of days earlier, it’ll give me a chance to get the painters in, before the new occupants come on 1st June.’
‘You’ll have to come when Swamiji is at home,’ Balram said.
That evening, while he was walking aimlessly along Aurangzeb Road, he saw a large white car turning into the entrance of Claridges Hotel. In the back seat his two employers, and between them, with his arms flung familiarly on Swamiji’s and Ekanti-Ma’s shoulders, sat a man whose face must be known to every Indian filmgoer: Nagesh Kumar.
For several days past Balram had been trying to work out what Shamendra Swami and Devata Ekanti-Ma were up to, and by now many things had become clear. He knew who it was whose voice he was made to imitate. This and other realizations had come to him not in one flash but in a series of jolts, making him sick with fear. He did not know if the Harda companies had stopped manufacturing shoes, but he had seen from the papers that the Obeta hotel had been opened with all the expected fanfare on the 8th, and that the film Burai was to be released as scheduled, on 15th May.
Admittedly he was being paid well for his services, and indeed on 1st May, Ekanti-Ma had given him the full month’s pay even though he had not worked for the whole of April. But what he had been made to do for that money did not bear thinking.
On that Saturday, when Burai was to be shown in thirty different theatres in India’s major cities, Balram noticed that Swamiji was on tenterhooks. Ekanti-Ma had gone out early in the afternoon, and soon after she had gone he had begun pacing up and down behind the front door, breathing heavily and biting his nails. At last the door opened and Ekanti-Ma came in, holding high an air bag and beaming. They hurried into the bedroom and locked the door. Balram was preparing to go out for the evening when Swamiji came to call him to their room. As he entered it, he noticed that Ekanti-Ma had been packing, and had deposited a suitcase on the bed. ‘You’re quite sure, aren’t you, that they don’t open the baggage?’ she was saying.
‘Oh, never! They check only the hand luggage,’ Swamiji told her. He turned and saw Balram and said: ‘I need your help. The airlines people say they’re fully booked and have a waiting list of twenty on the Bombay flight. Ma-ji must go this evening. You order them to give her a seat.’
‘What shall I say?’ Balram asked.
‘Tell them very firmly: “I don’t care who you throw out, but my secretary must get a seat.” ’
Swamiji rang the number and asked to speak to Mr Shah. He said: ‘Mr Shah. About this Bombay seat. I told you these were palace orders… and that if you wanted to speak personally to…What? Oh, in that case…of course not! Thanks. The name is Devata Ekanti-Ma. Got it? I’ll have the ticket collected. No, no; no need to send it.’ He put down the receiver and remarked: ‘God, they’re so scared…the poor man kept apologizing.’
Ekanti-Ma went to Bombay on Saturday and returned on Sunday, and on Monday they were back at work. They ordered the press boss Sidwa to stop publishing the Tamil edition of his paper from 1st June; told Rungania, the business tycoon from north India, that he would have to shift the site of his projected paper factory away from the river because of the risk of pollution; and they ordered Rungania’s bitterest rival from the south, Chettinon, to drop his brother from the board of directors of all Chettinon companies, again from 1st June.
Balram knew that well before the date came, his employers would contact Chettinon, Rungania and Sidwa and arrange amicable terms with them for not carrying out the threats. He also knew that some time before June 1st, Ekanti-Ma would make a trip to Bombay with another suitcase stuffed with currency notes. Or would they both bolt – and if so, when? What would he do, if he opened the door and found the flat empty?
The thing to do was to run away before they did, or before they were discovered; and then he wondered if they would let him go away. He would have to be extremely careful. Pretend he knew nothing and plan his getaway as carefully as they planned their operations. Luckily he still had nearly six hundred rupees left from his first month’s pay.
The thought of going back to the poky rooms behind the palace elephant stables in Udaipur, to admit to a bent old man that he had again failed, that the great city where others made fortunes had rejected him, was a continuing torment.
Thursday, the 20th of May: a blazing hot day. For the past three days his employers had been particularly busy, and this morning they had gone out of the flat even before Balram was awake. That was when he took his trunk to the railway station and bought a-third-class ticket to Udaipur for the evening train. He deposited his box in the luggage room and thought of sending a telegram to his grandfather. But he decided against it; after all he was returning as a failure.
When two hours later he got back to the flat, Swamiji was waiting for him. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked peevishly. There’s work to do.’
‘I went to the coffee house for breakfast,’ he told Swamiji.
‘Anyway, come in.’ He led the way into the bedroom. ‘Now listen. There’s a company called the Brindian Canning Company. I’m calling up the proprietor to tell him that his contract for supplying tinned vegetables and fruit to the defence forces is being cancelled. You know what sort of things you will be called upon to say.’
‘Sure, Swamiji.’
He waited while Swamiji lifted the receiver and put it down again, very gently. Someone had rung the doorbell. ‘Go and see who it is,’ he told Balram.
It was the man who had come to ask when they were vacating the flat. ‘It’s a man with a bit of paper,’ Balram reported to his employer. ‘Something about the flat. Says he wants to see you.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Swamiji got up and went out. The man was standing in the doorway. Swamiji turned round and shut the bedroom door before going to speak to him. Balram sat looking idly round the room, wondering where the money already collected had been stashed, when the telephone began to ring. He looked guiltily at the closed door and lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he asked peevishly. ‘What do you want?’
‘Sir, I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,’ a man’s voice was saying in great agitation. ‘I’m speaking on behalf of Rungania Seth Sir. My train was late and by the time I got to t
he hotel the lady had already left. Sir, I have the box here with the…goods.’
That was when some madness must have gripped Balram. He found himself saying: ‘Go straight to the coffee house and wait there.’
‘Will the lady be there?…’
Balram was thinking desperately, trying to work out all the angles.
‘No. She won’t. I have…I’ve sacked her. Listen and don’t interrupt. A young man will meet you. He wears glasses. Brown trousers – not bell-bottoms, and a yellow check shirt. His name is Jamna Das but wait…he’s not allowed to speak – he won’t say anything at all.’ His eyes alighted on a film magazine lying on the twin bed. ‘And here. He’ll be carrying a film magazine.. .Filmindi. After you’ve asked his name, he will pass on the magazine to you, open at the page where there is a photograph of Nagesh Kumar. Got that? You hand over the goods to him then.’
‘Brown trousers and…’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Don’t make me mad!’ Balram told the man and put down the receiver. He was wiping the sweat on his brow when Swamiji entered the room. God, he can’t help noticing how I’m shaking all over, Balram thought. But the latter picked up the telephone and began dialling a number.
Even as Balram was talking to the proprietor of the Brindian Canning Company, Ekanti-Ma came in. She answered Swamiji’s inquiring look with a negative shake of her head. As soon as he had put down the receiver, Balram said: ‘I’m taking this magazine to my room, okay?’
Rungania‘s man was waiting, and handed a large cardboard box to him. ‘One lakh,’ he whispered. Balram motioned him to wait, took the box to the toilet and saw that it was stuffed full of hundred rupee notes. He came out and indicated that the man could go, and himself took a rickshaw to the station. He retrieved his little trunk, stuffed the cardboard box into it and had himself driven to the airlines office. Yes, they could give him a seat on the Udaipur flight that afternoon. He bought his ticket, and suddenly realizing that Swamiji and the woman were bound to use all their influence to find out where he had gone, gave his name as Jamna Das. He had his box checked in, and discovered that the coach would not leave for another hour. If he hurried, he had just enough time to send a telegram to his grandfather to meet him at the airport. After all I have made my fortune in the big city,’ he told himself.
Khushwant Singh Best Indian Short Stories Volume 2 Page 9