The Mammaries of the Welfare State Read Online Free PDF Page B

on her Walkman to a tape of a male voice thinking aloud about what he longs to do to her body . . . very hot stuff, no holds barred . . . the tapes are a by-product of her husband’s electronics mega-company . . . she gifts the tapes to her closest friends . . . they’re rather well-composed, actually . . . very little music . . . there are four sets of tapes . . . Man-to-Man, Woman-to-Woman, Man-to-Woman, Woman-to-Man . . . her brainchild, apparently . . . I gather that she presented a box set of CDs to Kinshuk Aflatoon at Diwali and that he andJayati listen to nothing else . . . in the capital, amongst the Gur Baoli Farmhouse jetsetting crowd, Rani Chandra Cassette parties are nowadays all the rage . . . RCC get-togethers, they’re called . . . she plans to diversify soon into a separate range for paedophiles . . . the sky’s the limit for those blessed with enterprise . . .’ Now that he’d seen himself, he rose and switched off the TV just when, after surveying the audience, its camera returned to
Swan Lake.
    He stretched, yawned and smiled at Agastya. ‘Why
aren’t
you venal? How
do
you survive on your ridiculous salary without being dishonest? . . . Some six months ago, they’d been planning a Roving Festival Of Tribal Arts for South-East Asia. A Cultural Delegation from Japan, Malaysia and Singapore’d visited us and I’d escorted them when they’d called on the Heritage Secretary, Harihara Kapila—he’s just returned here, hasn’t he, to Regional Personnel? The delegation was headed by a TV mogul from Singapore. We’d sent them off to Jalba, Agrampada and Sindhyachal and they’d predictably returned with heatstrokes and the shits.
    ‘However, they still had questions to ask—about the Heritage budget and the Archaeological Survey and transport bottlenecks and Buddhist monuments and overseas funding and local initiative and the Preservation Trust. Then, after a lull and out of the blue, “Mr Secretary, may I enquire of you a personal question?”
    ‘Kapila, whose wit’s given the world some of the deadliest headaches that it’s ever known, beamed and quipped, something like, “Oh, fire away,” said he as he snapped away his cigarette and faced the firing squad, inscrutable to the last.
    ‘ “What, Mr Secretary, is your basic pay?”
    ‘ “I cannot invoke the Official Disgraceful Secrets Act against our honoured guests . . . Eight thousand.”
    ‘ “Dollars US?”
    ‘Kapila chortled, not the sweetest of sounds. “No . . . rupees, my dear sir.”
    ‘A gasp from a lady member of the delegation; then, after a pause, “How is that possible, Mr Secretary? After over thirty distinguished years spent in the top ranks of the civil service of the world’s largest Welfare State, how can it be that you earn merely about sixty dollars US per week? Sir, please do not misunderstand our questions. We’re neither civil servants nor diplomats and yours is a bewildering country in more ways than one. One cannot argue that you are a poor nation because from this magazine—“ the TV mogul drew out from his camera bag a fat, slick
The State Today
—“I learn two facts germane to this issue, i) that in the last five years, an enterprising stockbroker of Navi Chipra has filched from the system more than three thousand crore rupees, which is almost one billion dollars US, and in those five years, the system didn’t wince even once, and ii) that within the last two years alone, eleven billion dollars have been laundered away from here to the US alone, and the system hasn’t hobbled even a step—how can the country therefore be poor? You also enjoy one of the severest tax structures in the world, so one cannot plead that you are a rich country with a poor government.”
    ‘ “Oh no, I’d instead assert that we’re a rich country, a rich government and a poor civil service . . . We’ve now touched upon a subject as old as Plato, namely, How can you entice the best brains of a country to take on the