Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard

20

It was into this strained atmosphere that the new District Collector was delivered when, at long last, the awaited express from Delhi arrived. As soon as he descended from the train, he found himself rushed at and surrounded by several stern-faced messengers and a secretary; they bore all sorts of plans and proposals on a subject about which, who knows how, he had not been briefed before his arrival.

‘I am sorry, sir. I tried, sir,’ said his secretary, ‘but the phone lines are out and the postal and telegraph services are being run by my old boss, sir, who will not let me enter the premises, and we did not want to alert any of the big authorities for it would be better if we can deal with the situation ourselves … Or all the blame will be on our heads, sir, and it will go down as an immediate black mark on your record … Never mind, sir, in this way you will have had a nice peaceful journey instead of being worried … Am I right?’ He beamed and garlanded the bewildered official with the garland of marigolds he had brought along, even though the flowers were rather bedraggled from having been at the station so long.

The newcomer was a quiet man and, though firm in his ideals, he was a very shy man, only just installed in government service, and very thin and weak-looking. He had been offered the town of Shahkot as his first posting precisely because it was not a very big responsibility, and so that he might find his feet gently, for, after all, his father was an influential officer in the Indian Administrative Service. How the family had rejoiced to have a new member in the government; after a short vacation to celebrate the news, he was sent on to his posting with thirty-five pickle jars containing pickles made personally by his mother, enough to last him two entire years in service! He had hoped to go home quietly with cook and driver, unpack, explore … and now … Black mark on records? What good is too much worry?

Who do you think this secretary was, giving all this fine advice in a waterfall of words? It was Mr Gupta from post-office days! Lonely after being more or less completely deserted by Miss Jyotsna and miserable in the post office with nobody to talk to but a curt and silent man hired in Sampath’s place, he had applied for and obtained the post of secretary to the DC. At last, he felt, he was in the thick of things; more so, in fact, than at any other time in his life. His spirits rose. He would have been even happier if there had been a lady around to flirt with, of course, and he had been disappointed to learn the District Collector was a bachelor, but this job, he thought, might put him back in touch with Miss Jyotsna …

‘I will escort you to your new home, sir. I myself gave orders for dinner. The cook is left over from the Raj, sir, and wanted to make you cutlets with caramel custard. I said: “Nothing doing. What did we get rid of the British for? To continue eating cutlets and custard?” You will have to be very strict with him. He got into a very bad mood, but I gave him orders for vegetable pulao and mutton curry. That is why he refused to come to the station. I am sure he is still sitting on his stool sulking … Oh, and after you have eaten, sir, we had better visit the Monkey Baba. It must be done, sir, or it will look bad. It is expected.’

In the meantime, swaying and jumping in the government jeep, the DC was trying hard to read the missives that had been delivered to him. He could not understand what was going on at all … and how his secretary could talk! He could not think, what with all the talking that man was doing. There, only a few days ago he had been on a blissful family vacation in Mussoorie and now here he was immersed in the worst governmental tragedy he could have dreamt of.

‘These monkeys are a terrible business, sir,’ said Mr Gupta, pretending hard to be unhappy, but looking, despite it all, very happy indeed.