Notes of a Mediocre Man

by Bipin Aurora

  Mister Thakur sighed, turned to those in line behind him. “Can I go and sit somewhere? Come back at two? Will I be at the front of the line?”

  The others laughed. They laughed out loud.

  “First come, first serve,” someone from the back of the line called out.

  “What is this?”

  “First come, first serve.”

  “But I was here first.”

  “You leave the line, Mister Thakur, you are no longer first.”

  There was logic to the words. Could he deny the logic? A man needs to go out and to stretch his legs. But so what? To go to the bathroom. But so what? Logic is logic: it cannot be denied.

  Mister Thakur looked at the others behind him. They too had heard enough, they too had moved on to other things. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor. The floor was dirty, but that hardly seemed to trouble them. Some were opening up their tiffin boxes, getting ready for lunch. Some were sitting there eyes closed, rocking back and forth. Were they in prayer? Others were opening a deck of cards.

  “Joker? You want to include the Joker in the game?”

  “Yes yes, of course. There is no fun without Joker.”

  Mister Thakur looked at them, marveled at their patience. They looked like experienced people who had been here before.

  Perhaps he should admire them, follow their lead. His back hurt, but so? His knees hurt, but so? He wanted to go to the bathroom, he wanted to go somewhere and get a bite to eat. But how could he?

  ***

  The time passed. Slowly it passed. Mister Thakur looked at the clock: 12:20. He looked again: 12:21.

  Slowly the time passed. Mister Thakur stood there, shaking his head. He stood there, fuming. “Breathe,” he said to himself. “Breathe deeply. You took yoga—took it twenty years ago. With breathing, calm can come. Peace can come. Anything is possible.”

  The time passed. One-forty. One forty-one. Somehow, somehow, it passed. As the hour of two approached, there was hope again. There was light. The ordeal was almost over.

  Two o’clock: no sign of the lackey. Five after two: no sign. Ten after two: no sign. “Where is he? Where is he?” the shouts were heard.

  One or two messengers were seen in their khaki clothes. A security guard—also in khaki clothes, a baton by his side—appeared. But the esteemed one, the lackey, where was he?

  At 2:13, the back door opened a peep. It closed again. Two-seventeen—it opened again. There was movement now, real movement. At 2:21 the lackey—the host and esteemed one—was back. He was back again at his esteemed place.

  He stood there, shuffling some papers. There was a rubber stamp to his right. He lifted it, put it back in its former place. There was a metal stapler—he lifted that, put that back again.

  His eyes were groggy and red. Had he been sleeping? Had he been drinking? Was he ill, even that?

  “Next!” he shouted out with some authority.

  Mister Thakur, already at the window, hunched closer.

  “Next!”

  Mister Thakur hunched closer still.

  Mister Thakur had vowed to himself to be bolder this time. Did he remember his words? To teach the other his place. Did he remember his words?

  Mister Thakur had the bills in his hand. He slid them forward to the other—slid them through the hole under the glass. The other looked at the bills. He looked at them again. He seemed confused, distracted.

  “What is this?’ he said at last.

  “The error,” said Mister Thakur, reminding him. “The error.”

  “Error? What error?”

  Mister Thakur reminded him—calmly, simply—of all that had preceded. The discussion before lunch. The bills for the previous months. The bill for this month. The error, the obvious error.

  The other was not impressed.

  Mister Thakur persisted.

  The other was not impressed.

  “Remember, we were talking about the bill. The electric bill. In the past few months, 300 rupees. This month, 3,300. Three hundred, that is the correct amount.”

  “Correct amount? Who says that is the correct amount?”

  “History, sir, that is the historical record.” Historical record: Mister Thakur was surprised at his own words.

  “I do not care about history.”

  “What is this?”

  “History tells us about the past. It tells us nothing about the present.”

  Mister Thakur was about to argue, to put the other in his place. But he thought better of it.

  “A meeting,” he said calmly. “A meeting—you said before lunch—a meeting is needed.”

  “No meeting is needed.”

  “What about a supervisor? Is there no supervisor we can turn to?”

  “Are you trying to insult me?”

  “No no, it is just that …”

  “I know what you are thinking, Mister Thakur. You think that I am an incompetent man. You think that I cannot make a decision. You think that superiors, only superiors …”

  “No no, it is just …”

  But the other was in no mood to listen. He ranted, he railed. He lectured to Mister Thakur—lectured on the need to defer to others, the need to let other people do their jobs.

  “Each person has his duty, Mister Thakur.”

  “So I see.”

  “I know my duty, Mister Thakur.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” And so it went. On and on, on and on. As they were speaking—back and forth, back and forth—a short dark man emerged from the back. He wore a short-sleeve checkered shirt. His hair was grey and balding, there was a grey stubble on his face. Perhaps he had not shaved in days. He went to the lackey, whispered something in his left ear.

  Mister Thakur leaned forward discreetly, straining to make out the words.

  The visitor stood up on his toes, cupped his hands around the other’s ear. He whispered again.

  Again Mister Thakur strained to make out the words.

  The lackey raised his head, looked at Mister Thakur. There was a big smile—or was it a look of weariness, of infinite weariness?—on his face.

  “The Committee will see you,” he said.

  “The Committee?”

  “The Committee will see you.”

  “The Committee—what is this Committee?”

  But the other was in no mood to explain. There was a low gate to the right.

  “Through the gate,” he said.

  Mister Thakur collected his papers, hurried to the gate.

  “The signs,” said the other. “Follow the signs.”

  “Where do they lead?”

  But the other was in no mood to answer. “Next!” Mister Thakur heard the loud words behind him. “Next!”

  ***

  There was a low swinging gate in the right corner of the room. During the day only the two messengers and the security guard had passed through it. Now Mister Thakur hurried to the gate as well.

  It was a blue gate, quite low to the ground. A young, healthy man could easily have stepped over it. But who would dare? And besides, Mister Thakur was hardly a young man. He was an old man, well past his prime. He was much closer to his death than to his birth. Much closer to his death than to his wedding date. Much closer to death … But why persist with these thoughts? He was an old man, quite old. The point is made.

  Mister Thakur walked down a narrow hallway and then down another. The floor creaked beneath him and the walls were dingy—a faded green with the plaster peeling in several places.

  Mister Thakur made several turns, came at last to a small room. The light was dim, a single naked bulb hung from the ceiling. There was an old wooden table, three men sat on the other side in simple wooden chairs.

  They were middle-aged men, all in faded striped shirts, the collars open. Two of the men, one at each end, wore white T-shirts underneath, both round-collared. The other, the one in the middle, seemed to be wearing no undershirt. The hair, rank and gross, protruded from under the top button of his shirt.


  Some bills lay in front of them. But what bills were they? Mister Thakur had brought his own bills with him. Were they not the relevant documents? But perhaps the others had already looked at the same bills. How? When?

  Mister Thakur stood at the table and bowed to the men.

  The others did not respond.

  “May I sit down, please?”

  No answer.

  At last one man gestured with his hand toward the empty chair. He did not speak.

  Mister Thakur sat down, hunching his body tightly, his hands on his lap. He waited for the others to speak.

  Silence.

  Still he waited.

  Nothing.

  At last Mister Thakur decided to speak himself. He tried to do so loudly and confidently. But more than once his voice cracked.

  “I was speaking to the … the gentleman—the kind gentleman—in the front. We spoke for some time. I explained to him the case.”

  No answer.

  “The bills for the past months. The bill for this month.” And Mister Thakur went into the details.

  The others were not impressed.

  “The current bill is in error, clearly. Not three hundred but three thousand three hundred.” Mister Thakur emphasized the needed words, waited for a response.

  No response.

  He spoke some more.

  Silence.

  One of the men—the one on the extreme left—turned towards the one in the middle. He cupped his right hand around the other’s ear and whispered something. The other’s right cheek twitched.

  There was another pause. Mister Thakur wanted to continue, but what should he say? He had explained his case the best he could. Should not the others ask a question? Was it not up to them?

  Mister Thakur fidgeted in his chair, clearing his throat.

  Silence. And then: “You seem to be quite sure of yourself, Mister Thakur.”

  “What is this?”

  “You seem to be very confident.”

  This was the man on the extreme right. Mister Thakur was nonplussed. He did not know what to say.

  “You seem to be quite sure, Mister Thakur. Are you a philosopher?”

  Philosopher: what an odd word. “A philosopher, sir? No no, I am not a philosopher. A businessman, a retired …”

  “Are you a priest?”

  Another odd word. “No, sir, I am not a priest.”

  “And yet you seem to be so sure. Why is that?”

  Mister Thakur was at a loss. He was no philosopher, he was no priest. He was just a customer. A customer who had received a wrong bill. Who had come to plead his case. A good case, a strong case.

  The other ignored Mister Thakur, looking at the papers in front of him. His companions leaned forward as well, looking at the same papers. They squinted their eyes. The light was not good.

  “The light is dim, Mister Thakur.”

  “What is this?”

  “The light is dim, Mister Thakur, very dim. What is one to do?”

  The light was indeed dim. But were there not more pressing things at stake?

  “The light is dim, Mister Thakur.”

  “But the case, sir …”

  “The walls are dingy.”

  “But the case, sir …”

  “But God is great, Mister Thakur. Is it not so?”

  God, God, why must they bring Him into it? God was a good and kind man—of course He was. But the facts were the only thing that mattered. Should they not stick to the facts?

  The others were not impressed. “Do you believe in God, Mister Thakur?” This was another man now, the one on the extreme left.

  “God, sir?”

  “Do you think that He is the cause of the bad bill?”

  God? The cause? “It was a human error, sir, a computer error. But why bring God into it?”

  The other was unmoved. “We know metaphysics, Mister Thakur.”

  “Metaphysics, sir?”

  “We know logic. If you deserved, God would have helped you with the bill. He has not helped you. Therefore, you do not deserve.”

  “What is this?”

  “If you deserved, God would have helped you with the bill. He has not helped you. Therefore, you do not deserve.”

  Logic, what kind of logic was this? It was terrible and flawed logic. If God intervened, it could be for many reasons. If He did not intervene, it could be for many reasons. How did it follow at all that Mister Thakur did not deserve?

  “Logic is a good thing, Mister Thakur. Do not dismiss it. Do not dare to dismiss.”

  Mister Thakur stared at the others in disbelief. Words, words, empty words. He had the facts on his side, important facts. And did they care? He stated the facts again and again. And did they care?

  It was dark in the room, and getting darker. There were flies in the room, humming in the corner. In the distance a lizard climbed the wall. In the corner there was—or did Mister Thakur only imagine it?—the scurrying of a mouse.

  A few seconds passed. The men on each end of the table had apparently had their say. The man in the middle—the one with all the hair on his chest—now began to fidget. He had been silent to this point. Now he leaned forward and seemed distressed about something. He shook his head sadly—several times he did it.

  “The light is dim, Mister Thakur.”

  “But the facts, sir …”

  “The walls are dingy.”

  “But the facts, sir …”

  “We are tired, Mister Thakur. Very tired. Is it not best that you go home?”

  But Mister Thakur did not want to go home. He spoke again of the bill. No interest. He spoke of the principle of it all. No interest.

  “But this is madness,” Mister Thakur said at one point.

  No answer.

  “It is your job, your duty.”

  Silence.

  It was dark in the room, it was getting darker. There were flies in the room. Were there gnats and bees as well?

  The men looked at Mister Thakur—they stared. They looked at him—they grimaced. Did they laugh as well?

  “Go home now, Mister Thakur.”

  “But my case, sir …”

  “Go home now, Mister Thakur. Do not complain.”

  Mister Thakur was a grown-up man. He had the right to complain. He was an educated man. He had the cause to complain. And did anyone care?

  “Go home now, Mister Thakur. Go.”

  At last Mister Thakur rose and collected his bills—one bill, the next, one bill, the next. He shook his head. It was dark now, soon it would grow darker. Was it not best to leave?

  Mister Thakur made his way in the darkness. The scooter-rickshaw, the horse carriage. The walk. The interminable walk at the end. Slowly, slowly, he made his way home.

  The days passed, the weeks. And did anything change? The weeks passed, the months. And then? Mister Thakur went to the man at the counter: he was a busy man. He went to the room in the back: they were metaphysical men. He vowed to fight the case—to fight, to fight, to take it to “the highest court in the land.”

  And did anyone care?

  “But it is not my fault.”

  “These things happen.”

  “But it is not my fault.”

  “God made the world, Mister Thakur. Accept what is.”

  The bill, now due, soon became “overdue.” Mister Thakur protested. But to whom, to what avail? The bill soon became “in arrears.” Again he protested. To whom, to what avail? Mister Thakur was not a young man anymore. Why fight the things you cannot control?

  One day Mister Thakur sat in his room and he wrote a check for the full amount. Did he not do the right thing? One day he sat in his room, he prayed. Did he not do the right thing?

  Mister Thakur went to each of his three houses—each week he went. He dusted, he dusted. “I am a lucky man,” he said. Was there irony in his words? He dusted the sofas, the tables, the mantelpiece. “I am a lucky man,” he said. Even his wife said that he did a good job, very good. He did not miss a single sp
eck.

  Pranab Roy

  Pranab Roy was a short dark man, about five feet four inches. He went shopping for a new jacket at the mall. He had a job interview coming up.

  He went to Raleigh’s—much too expensive. He went to Hecht’s, to Woodies—still too expensive. He went to Montgomery Ward, he found a jacket he liked.

  “We will give you a pair of pants for free,” said the people at the store.

  “A whole pair?”

  “We could give you two pairs if you let us. But for that you have to buy a suit.”

  “Don’t need a suit. A jacket will be fine.”

  Pranab Roy emerged from the store, a long plastic bag in his hand (the brown wooden hanger peeked out at the top). He was proud of himself, proud of the purchase he had made. An interview lay ahead—an important interview—and he was bound to do well.

  The interview was three days later. Pranab Roy bathed, he dressed. He put on his new jacket, he put on his favorite maroon tie.

  He appeared at the interview, they smiled at him. Smiled knowingly. “A new jacket?” they said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “A blazer, a navy blazer.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “But the jacket is polyester,” they said.

  “What is this?”

  “Wool is fine, cotton is fine. Silk, linen, gabardine. But a polyester jacket—no no, not so good.”

  “It is new,” he said.

  They were not impressed.

  “I bought it at Montgomery Ward.”

  They were not impressed.

  They said that Pranab Roy had learned his lesson—and had he? He would go to the mall. He would wander the mall—back and forth, back and forth. But he would never buy a polyester jacket, not that. He would never do it again.

  He was leaving the interview, they were walking him to the car.

  “And polyester pants?” he said. “Are they allowed?”

  They smiled at him, smiled again. Was it in pity?

  ***

  Pranab Roy returned to his apartment. He did not get the job, not that. But he had learned his lesson.

  He went to the bathroom, he washed his face. He took off his shoes and socks, he washed his feet as well. A man is tired, beaten. Does he not need to feel clean, at least that? To feel pure—even that?