Usually the RM's secretary is a man who doesn't belong to any group, for fear that he may overhear or discover something and pass it on to the Big Boss. But luckily I don't inspire fear because as you know, Mrs. Arora, I don't gossip. I neither squeal nor carry tales. I am therefore welcome in any group, though I can sense an undercurrent of caution among the members; after all, though I am powerless and inconsequential myself and even though I am known for my neutrality, my proximity to the local power center is enough to make any man wary in my presence.
The trainees, the junior engineers and clerks I find are among the most outspoken of the lot. As men grow older they become more guarded, behind their apparent joviality lies fear; fear of God, fear of job, fear of the boss. I am sure they shun me inwardly, for they greet me with undue respect.
The groups have now formed, isolated clusters of men and women, chatting, shuffling, and looking towards the path leading to the RM's house - who will take the lead?
A pandal is erected in front of the house and chairs and tables waited to be filled. Behind it, there were lights in every room of the house and the sound of music reached our ears through the still moonless evening. It was very quiet, the trees scarcely moved. The heat of the day rendered the trees motionless in the night; they were silently recuperating, sustaining on bare essentials and waiting for the rejuvenating morning dew. The stars shone with brilliant clarity in the dark sky, something that is never seen here in the city. The cloudless sky, vast and peppered with numerous points of dazzling shimmering light, produced a grand spectacle. But very few looked at it, for they were engrossed in their own world of endless chatter, and missed the beauty of the world that is constant and available free for all who would experience it. It seems to me, Mrs. Arora, that there is more to living than merely seeking success, striving endlessly as if it were the very goal of life.
Now, a couple of cars drove up and the contractors, including Mr. Abdulla, arrived for the party. They looked around once at the arrangements, nodded to themselves and made their way into the RM's house. Then the senior managers started to move purposefully towards the pandal, followed by their juniors, and the clerical staff brought up the rear.
"Excellent arrangements, Mr. Abdulla." The RM expressed his satisfaction and Mr. Abdulla grinned effusively and bowed to acknowledge the honour.
"Thank you, Sir. It is my pleasure." Mr. Abdulla declined to take a glass of liquor offered to him by the office boy. He pointed at the RM and told the boy to begin from there.
"You are being too formal, Mr. Abdulla. Remember, this is an informal get together. Come on, friends," the RM picked up a glass,turned and swept his hand in an all-inclusive gesture. "Make yourselves at home. The party begins now."
The women formed a cluster around the First Lady who offered cool drinks and snacks to her retinue. From time to time their eyes roved over the partying male fraternity which was now slowly regrouping in the vicinity of the RM.
The men stood respectfully around the Boss, some closer and some a little farther, while the rest watched from the sidelines. The men who were closest formed a coterie, a loyal group of men who made the RM's life easy in this industrial outback. They spoke to the contractors on his behalf and arranged matters so that he could quietly enjoy certain benefits which would not be possible even at his position in the company. These men formed the first circle, followed by hangers-on who were eager to do their bit if they were given a chance to prove their worth. The men on the sidelines envied those in the cynosure of the Boss and watched helplessly. The men who did not and couldn't care to belong to the elite group were the clerks, the trainees and the juniors. They crowded near the liquor counter, cracked lewd jokes, argued over cricketers' fortunes or listened to the music in a wistful way as if it reminded them of home.
"They seem to be discussing something seriously with the RM. Why are they crowding him?" the junior trainee wanted to know.
"Oh, no, no, no." The senior trainee has seen a bit of the world, so he says, "they don't discuss. They are yes men, they repeat what the Big Boss says and feel satisfied that they have repeated it verbatim. Look at them running to fill his glass, how they jostle to light his cigarette and fetch snacks for him."
"Not all of them, though. I can see only some of them fawning all over him while the others are merely nodding and talking politely." The junior corrects him.
"Yeah, and those fawning men have an unenviable epithet - every one of them is a chamcha, a stooge," he said contemptuously. "You see them buzzing around him like flies around a Gulab Jamun."
Drinks begin to loosen tongues, raise the level of voices, increase the clatter of utensils and before long there is din enough to submerge the music from the record player and the silence in the vast open fields beyond the pandal.
Rati, remember? The RM's daughter, the lone adolescent in that little community, chattered with her even younger companions and threw inviting glances at the trainees. Accidentally our eyes met and she winked. An itch arose on the inside of my palm as I remembered our last meeting and closed my fist almost involuntarily. She grinned and said something to a little girl beside her and they both burst into laughter. The junior trainee caught our exchange and let out a high-pitched yodel. When I turned to him, he buried his head into his glass and licked lasciviously at the golden liquid. I must have reddened, for his mate, unaware of the context, remarked, "Guru, I think you need to go slow on that stuff. You look like you are going to conk out soon."
"No, it's nothing," I said defensively and moved away with extra steadiness in my step to show him he was wrong.
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