Dashrath’s Dinner Party
By Amiya Sen Translated from the Bengali by Bhaswati Ghosh Originally published as “Dasharather Atithijawggo” in Desh As she pulled the curtains off the doors and windows and dumped them on the floor, Shakuntala hollered, “Munga, come here, fast!” Dashrath was at the dining table, shaving. Casting a glance towards Shakuntala, he said, “Why are you taking those off yourself? Have Munga do that…if you fell down—” “That worthless servant of yours. You brought home a rascal from the orphanage. It’s eight in the morning, and he is yet to finish his work in the kitchen. A heap of clothes remains to be washed. I must load them into the washer myself and wait until the cycle is completed. If left to him, he will ruin the clothes like he did last time. Sigh, your new safari suit and Gudiya’s expensive zari-bordered lehnga-choli.” “Let it be. Where will you get a servant for 30 rupees in today’s market? We are managing just fine. Hey, Munga, get up on the stool, take down the curtains and pile them in the backyard. Then bring a duster. Clean everything in all the rooms. Khabardar, nothing should break, or else I will beat you to a pulp, you understand?” Munga, once a resident of a developmental home governed by the Delhi Administration, said with a broad, foolish smile, “Ji.” Literate and illiterate, rich and poor, all kinds of residents in the capital make use of these homes. Any mentally retarded or low-IQ child in the family is swiftly dispatched to institutions like these. The Delhi administration has opened a lot of centres for the mentally challenged. The poor occasionally come to visit their children (they grow up into young men and women in the homes, though many also die from the ‘care’ they receive from the home staff). They even take the children home during holidays. But well-to-do families are interested in only admitting their children. They return at the very end, honking their cars, to collect the dead children’s bodies. It’s a relief to keep such social disgraces away from their day-to-day lives. This has been one of the boons of independent India. Alongside running several other types of homes, the Delhi Administration carries out a lot of social welfare activities by instituting shelters for insane and mentally challenged people. This has created thousands of jobs and countless official posts. It is quite remarkable. Munga is a lucky one. He caught the attention of the superintendent and found a place in his home as a child servant, thus being spared the decrepit paradise of the government home. Of course, the superintendent had to pay a price for it every month–30 rupees. Considering the scarcity and steep cost of domestic servants in Delhi, this is a small amount. Five years ago, Dashrath Sharma, the superintendent’s brother-in-law, brought Munga to his own house. The child grew up into a young adult at his home even as Dashrath’s own fortunes blossomed. The fifteen hundred rupees that he earns as salary for the job he poses to be doing in Delhi Administration’s Social Welfare department is just his pocket money. As with many others, the job is only a front for him. His primary enterprise comprises a variety of side businesses. It began with a scooter dealership that he started with a small investment. Next, he moved to real estate. Thanks to the arrival of Maruti, he now has a dealership for automobiles. Before this, he also dealt in colour television sets for a while, but left that because of the high profitability in the auto business. In Delhi, money overflows from people’s pockets; there’s no place to store the cash. Black money can’t be stashed in banks either. This explains why even seemingly innocuous looking middle-class people have an underground basement in their house–even if it’s no bigger than a match box. One only has to place a life-size photo of Rama or Hanuman on the wall next to the stairs leading to the basement. That does it. It’s a god-fearing country after all. Even Information Bureau and Income Tax officers are forced to bow down and take leave. As two-wheelers like scooters, mopeds and motorbikes started becoming vehicles of the lower middle classes, the demand for cars was at its peak. Dashrath made the most of it. Every car brought a fat amount, including the booking cost. Most people didn’t want to remain stuck in the waiting list–they were willing to spend a few extra thousand rupees if that could get them the car faster. When Dashrath hadn’t made it big, he had also opened a marriage bureau. That brought the telephone in his house. But as the phone came to be used more for inquiring the market rates of limestone, sand and cement, the butterfly of the marriage bureau fluttered away. Not a big deal. Dashrath harbours no regrets over it. His three older brothers were reasonably well-heeled. He was way down on the scale, a member of the lower middle class. He had funded his graduate studies by offering tuition classes. After searching high and low for a job, he found one with a salary of 35 rupees. To keep the job he had to buy a bicycle in installments. That’s when it struck him that one could no longer get to the top by climbing one stair at a time. In order to succeed, it was necessary to have a political party’s support. So he joined a party. The results were instantaneous. Using the party affiliation he obtained a fake social worker certificate that got him his current job as a probational officer in the Social Welfare department. At the time, his party was a superpower–everything from the corporation to the municipality was in its control. Dashrath had to participate in some party activities, though. Dashrath Sharma was at the forefront of the mutiny that erupted in the university campus, gunning for the removal of the Vice Chancellor who came from