Yours,
Mrs Shalini
The letter was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. The truth dawned on me – it wasn’t Sridhar or Lalita who were at fault. The one at fault was me. I was the one who had gone astray. My selfishness had led to this situation. I had forgotten that, in the process of trying to help Sridhar and Lalita, I was destroying the lives of innocent people. All this time, I’d been thinking from Sridhar and Lalita’s perspective. I hadn’t looked beyond that, or thought about anyone else. The worst part was that I had been feeling good about it. I had congratulated myself on getting two parted souls back together. I thought I’d done a great job. Shalini’s words, which came from the depths of her heart, exposed my shallowness and my petty attitude. I was living in my own dream world of pride. Her letter made me realize how hollow my pride and so-called generosity were. I had put Sridhar and Lalita on a pedestal for my own selfish reasons.
‘It seems you’ve got a letter from my wife.’ Sridhar came in unexpectedly.
I tried hiding the letter in vain.
‘Arre, I’m not asking you to show it to me. It’s from my wife, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, smiling to myself.
‘Come. I’ve come to take you somewhere,’ Sridhar said, extending his hand for me to get up.
‘But where?’
‘For lunch.’
‘Lunch?’
‘Yes. My wife has sent a special lunch for you.’
‘For me?’
‘That’s right. There’s a note too. Read it. You’ll understand,’ he said, handing it to me.
Dearest,
You mentioned your close friend last evening, who has to eat at a hotel every day as his wife has gone to visit her parents. I was busy with household chores, so I forgot to talk to you about it. I’m sending food for him, too. Please do ask him to join you for lunch. I hope he likes it, and that what I’ve sent will be enough for the two of you.
Yours,
Shalini
‘Come on, now. Let’s not delay lunch.’
Sridhar pulled me from my chair. I was stunned. Sridhar divided the portions and pushed my plate towards me.
I was overwhelmed by guilt. I didn’t deserve the love, affection and trust that that poor soul had reposed in me. She didn’t know that I was the culprit. I didn’t deserve to, and had no right to, touch the meal. I had belied her trust. Refusing food was an insult in our tradition. But I bowed down before the food presented to me, silently asking for forgiveness, and said aloud,
‘Sridhar, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you. Today is Thursday, the day of my fast.’
SATWALEKAR
There are times when you get fed up of everything. Not that something triggers it. On the face of it, everything looks normal, but somewhere deep down, something is not right.
The hundred-odd tables with an equal number of chairs, the heap of files threatening to touch the ceiling, the typewriter on the desk that spawns more files, the boss’s cabin with the peons standing outside, the incessant clamour of the call bells, the ringing of the phones, visitors, traders, contractors…
What the hell is happening all around us?
And for what purpose?
I type hundreds of pages every day.
‘Being given to understand…’
‘Your letter dated…’
‘In continuation of my previous…’
‘Tenders are being invited…’
To top it all, the ‘confidential reports’ which everyone knows all about, but which are still called that.
What exactly is a chargesheet? Isn’t it a way to pin the blame on the lowest in the hierarchy for crimes committed by the highest?
What is the meaning of all this? And why does it have to exist? What is real?
Why do we have all these people here?
And why do they create these files to torture us further? The person who invented paper may have thought he did a fantastic job. But there’s nothing more dangerous than a piece of paper. It is the reason for lakhs – no, crores – of clerks to exist.
How I wish I could destroy each and every piece of paper in this world.
It would be fun, wouldn’t it? Some air might finally circulate in the office. We might then see the sky that’s currently being blotted out by files stacked against the windows. Three huge windows have been blocked, because there’s no other space to pile the files. In the last eleven years, I have not seen a single one of those files being required or referred to. But we need to keep them, preserve them. So what if one can’t see the sky? The boss always has such questions to ask.
I’m bored. And boredom always arrives alone. I remember some poet saying, ‘What happens on a day of boredom? First boredom arrives, followed by boredom, followed by more boredom.’
‘Excuse me!’
That shook me out of
