𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗔𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗘

(𝐴 𝑆𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑙 𝑡𝑜 "𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑙𝑎𝑔-𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑟")

After the departure of a Parliamentary Committee in 1998, the bill from the five-star hotel where the delegation was accommodated was put up to me for sanction of payment. The consolidated bill for about Rs 1.75 lakh which was supported by room-wise bills had a mysterious item "Miscellaneous - Rs 485". This naturally intrigued me.

The officer who was coordinating the tamasha was summoned and I asked him for the details. As he drew a blank, I asked him to ascertain what it was all about.

A little later, he came and reported that the General Manager of the hotel was reluctant to disclose what it represented. I told him that in that case, I would pass the bill for payment after deducting Rs 485.

Then the General Manager of the hotel told me over telephone in strict confidence, "Sir, the guest in Room No 1109 seems to have packed the electric kettle (kept in the room) in his baggage."

It turned out that the honourable MP did not realise that he had taken only one half of the equipment with him. Little did he know that without the base unit screwed on to the table and connected through a thick black cable to the source of power, the half with him was just about as useful to him as a bicycle to a fish!

Curiosity got the better of me and I leafed through the supporting documents to see who the klepto was. For those who are curious to know the identity of the worthy people's representative who occupied Room No 1109, all I will say is that he later went on to occupy a ministerial chair.

 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗚-𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗘𝗥

(Another Underwear Story from my archives)

Kurup (Name not changed - but not given in full either) was bored stiff. Life as a junior officer in the administrative office of a public sector bank was uneventful. Each day was like any other. It was therefore a welcome change when he was taken off his routine duties one day and assigned the role of the Protocol Officer for a VIP.

The senior officer who was coordinating the two-day visit of a Parliamentary Committee convened at meeting of the fifteen Protocol Officers like Kurup and told them that the bank would be playing host to the high-power delegation. Each dignitary was to have a Protocol Officer. It was their responsibility to see that there was no complaint from any of them.

"Kurup, you have a special responsibility as you have been assigned the charge of the Chairman of the Committee," the boss said. If there was a slip somewhere, heads would roll, they were warned. (The footnote was that any minor discomfort to the VIPs could cost the boss HIS job!)

The entire machinery got into action. All finer details of the visit were planned meticulously. Bouquets and garlands were ordered, stay (Where else but Kovalam?) and transport (Air-conditioned limos, if you please!) arranged. The itinerary (including a visit to Padmanabhasawmy Temple, the mandatory trip to Kanyakumari) and the menu for the lunches and dinners (Five-star, no less) were drawn up. The bill would, of course, be picked up by the host.

Last, but not least, another team collected the data (on the implementation of official languages or the roster system in recruitment of SC/ST or subordinate legislation - whatever that means - or some such high-funfs stuff) required for review by the VIPs and put the papers required in natty folders.

As soon as the team landed, the parliamentarians were whisked off to their posh hotel. Plied with the goodies at the lavish pool-side dinner hosted by the bank and lulled by the ambience of the resort, the VIPs were kept in good humour. The meeting held the next morning went off as smoothly as the peach melba ice-cream that went down their throats the previous evening.

Post lunch, the team was to proceed to Kanyakumari. Over a dozen white ambassador cars stopped in the porch, picked up the VIPs one by one and moved forward. Leading the pack was the car of the Chairman of the Committee. In the front seat beside the driver was Kurup, the Protocol Officer.

The April sun was beating down mercilessly. The corpulent neta found the heat unbearable. He removed his topi, exposing his shining pate with a few silver hairs. For protection, the VIP raised the shaded window glasses. The two engaged in small talk. The VIP found the name Kurup amusing: "𝐴𝑎𝑝𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑛𝑎 𝑛𝑎𝑎𝑚 𝐾𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑝 (Ugly) 𝑘𝑦𝑜𝑛 𝑟𝑎𝑘ℎ𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑖? (Why do you call yourself 'Ugly'?) 𝐴𝑎𝑝 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑘ℎ𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑟 𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑡𝑒 ℎ𝑜! (You do look handsome)."

The car had barely left the city limits when the VIP shuffled his portly self within the car. Kurup espied through the corner of his right eye: his guest now opened the suitcase, took out a polythene bag and pulled out the contents. It was a light blue garment with broad white, black and grey stripes. Too casual a shirt to be worn by a usually white khadi-clad politico, said Kurup to himself.

The VIP spread the garment open and muttered to himself. Handing it over to Kurup, he said, ‘𝐾𝑢𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑗𝑖, 𝑒𝑘 𝑒ℎ𝑠𝑎𝑛 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑔𝑒 (Can you help me with this?) 𝑌𝑒ℎ 𝑎𝑎𝑗 𝑠𝑢𝑏𝑎ℎ 𝑘𝑎𝑎 𝑑ℎ𝑜𝑦𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑖, 𝑝𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑑𝑎 𝑔𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑖, (I washed this in the morning but it is still a little wet." His request was "Please hold it against the wind: by the time we get to Kanyakumari, 𝑦𝑒ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑜𝑘ℎ 𝑗𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑔𝑎 (It should dry.)"

The choices before Kurup were two: do as he was told or get out of the car (and put in his papers the next day). Being a pragmatic chap, he opted for the former, hoping that no familiar face would catch a glimpse of him speeding southwards on the NH 47 in a car, a striped blue 𝑘𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑐ℎℎ𝑎 (underwear) flailing from his left hand!

PS Please do not ask me for the full name of Kurup. Suffice it to say that he reached the Senior Management cadre in three years of this even and went up further before retirement.

 𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗥 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗦

𝑀𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑚𝑒 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑂𝑟𝑘𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑐 𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤-𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑡 𝐹𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠. 𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑜𝑝, 𝐼 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟. 𝑅𝑒ℎ𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛.

‘April is the cruellest month,’ said T S Eliot. Smitten by the merciless April sun, we all agree. That reminds me of Utpal Mohapatro, my one-time boss.

This Regional Manager of a bank, he was headquartered in Calcutta (not yet christened Kolkata) but his territory lay far beyond the city limits. He had to undertake periodical visits to the branches to see that everything was fine in his ‘empire’.

One hot April morning, he set out for a branch visit. The chauffeur-driven car carrying him left his house around 7 am, crossed Vivekananda Bridge and hit National Highway No 2 in half an hour and passed hamlets, villages and small towns.

By the time they reached Palsit, the sun was high and heat oppressive. The driver removed his shirt, wiped the sweat and continued driving. The master took a cue and removed the upper half of his safari suit. That felt good!

In the relief brought by the divestment of the garment, Mohapatro soon dozed off. When he woke fifteen minutes later, the car was clipping fast along the highway, harvested paddy fields on either side of the road.

Mohapatro’s back was aching. Age was catching up, he rued. Adding to the misery was the sweltering heat. It would take another two hours, he estimated, before they reach the first port of call, Gorhar (then in West Bengal).

The doctor had told him his lumbago would ease if he lay on his back. While at it, he thought, he would remove his trousers and relax. And soon went into deep slumber. So deep that he did not know when the car stopped at a manned level crossing.

The driver had a look at the back seat: the boss was sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Noiselessly, he got out for a cup of tea.

A little later, the stillness woke up Mohapatro; he looked around: it was wilderness all round, the railway gate was closed and the driver was in the teashop. Mohapatro got out and went behind a bush nearby to take a leak.

After his cuppa, the chauffeur approached the railway gatekeeper. It was ‘Open Sesame’ when some currency changed hands. He trotted back to the car, switched on the engine, stepped on the gas and sped off.

When Mohapatro returned, the car was not in sight. His suitcase, wallet, spectacles and both parts of his safari suit were all in the car speeding at a great pace towards Gorhar.

Mohapatro tried to stop every vehicle passing by, requesting them for a lift, to no avail. He cried out, citing his designation, but it carried no conviction, as the claim came from a man curiously dressed in his vest, brief, socks and shoes. What hurt him most was that some sniggered ‘Kanke se bhaagaa hogaa,’ the allusion being to the recent reports on the escape of some inmates of the Kanke Mental Asylum in Ranchi!

History does not record what happened to the driver.

JOB SATISFACTION - A SEQUEL

In a recent post of mine, I had mentioned how my boss had told me that there is nothing called "job satisfaction" because job and satisfaction are mutually exclusive.

Coming to think of it, though there is a great deal of truth in what he said, he was not entirely right. It is my experience that I do derive COMPLETE satisfaction from some jobs. I remembered about this when a friend and I were speaking yesterday about helping the significant other in household chores like making the bed, dicing vegetables and setting the table. What I am referring to may not be "jobs" in the conventional sense of the term, but they are tasks nevertheless.

Topping the list of the tasks that give me job satisfaction is pressing clothes. I was twelve when I started ironing my clothes - the khaki uniform of the Boy Scout, to be precise - and to this day, I have not had my clothes pressed by someone else. (This does not include my suits which were sent to the dry cleaners.) I enjoy doing it because while on that job, my mind is without care. The pile of clothes neatly stacked in the cupboard is such a spectacle to watch!

Before the electric iron came, the task involved greater amount of planning. One had to determine the sequence in which the clothes should be ironed: clothes made of thick fabric, the starched ones, those made from thin material, etc. That done, one set fire to the shells of three coconuts (no less, for the iron may get cold earlier than desired, and no more unless you wanted to burn your clothes) and before they got charred, transferred the embers to the chamber of the device. The electric iron has changed all that, but the fun and the satisfaction of the job remain.

The labour involved in laundry-work has been taken away by the washing machine, but the contraption does only half the job. Spreading them neatly on the clothes-stand placed in the balcony to dry in the sun - all the coloured clothes inside out - gives me the kind of joy that a painter or a sculptor or an installation artist would get on viewing his work of art from a distance.

Folding the crisp clothes that have been sun-dried and do not need ironing is an equally pleasurable occupation. While at it, one can hum a tune, plan the activities for the day or the week, or whatever. Once again, the sense of achievement you feel after the task is done makes it worth doing it.

The practice in our house has always been that after a meal, you carry your plate to the sink, run water on it to wash off the food particles and leave the finishing job for the maid. As we do not want to risk the delicate chinaware at the hands of the maid, on days we have guests for dinner, we do the dishes ourselves. That was when I realised that it was indeed a task that gives immense job satisfaction.

After the advent of the dishwasher, the chore has become lighter, but mercifully, stacking the clean plates and vessels, forks and spoons, and ladles and spatulae, needs to be done manually. And that is enjoyable!

Watering the plants, brewing the tea in the morning and the evening, smoothing the wrinkles on the bed sheet and spreading the counterpane, chopping the vegetables and setting the table before every meal are all tasks one can do well and derive job satisfaction from. If you have not done it, try doing that!

JOB SATISFACTION

Just now it struck me that today is the fifty-second anniversary of the day I joined a bank as a Probationary Officer. No, this is not an essay on "My First Day in the Bank" on the lines of the composition work one is assigned in schools.

The first thing that I noticed was that a bank considered itself the centre of the world. Or else why would a customer who wanted to PAY some money into his account be directed to the "RECEIPTS" counter? Why the label on the counter to which customers go for RECEIVING money after tendering a cheque should be "PAYMENTS" was a conundrum that I could never address, leave alone solve. Rather than from the perspective of the thousands of customers it serves, the bank considers everything from ITS side and that of the dozen or two people crouched behind the counters and minding others' money! It was indeed a world of contradictions!

The contradiction did not end there: the summary of the transactions of the day would be recorded in the General Ledger after they transit through what was called the Day Book, but I had felt that a more appropriate name for the Day Book would have been the Night Book. For, in those days of manual banking, the task of writing it could not be taken up in large branches until 8 pm after the other Subsidiary Books were completed.

If Day Book was a misnomer, its other moniker, Clean Cash Book, was no better. After the several revisions of numbers in the Subsidiary Books leading to consequential changes, amendments and corrections, its pages would be such a blotch of red and blue that no one in his right senses would call it the Clean Cash Book.

It did not take me long to discover that the contradiction in the nomenclature was all-pervasive. Though it was said that banking is based on trust, my limited experience told me that it was actually based on mistrust. Why else would there be the concept of 'maker and checker', collateral security and 'checks and balances'?

I soon realised that I was not cut out for the job I was doing. Not only was work in the branch of a bank repetitive and boring, it afforded hardly any scope for creativity. Bosses would frown at the slightest hint of deviation from the procedures and norms laid down. They swore by the sacrosanct Book of Instructions and circulars from the Head Office. (It was, of course, true that any departure from the former, handcrafted by the astute Irish and Scottish bankers, would make the transactions vulnerable.)

It was in 1975, while working in Calcutta, that feeling handcuffed, if not choked, by the rigours of the routine, one day I told my boss that I was fed up with the bank job. "It gives me no satisfaction," I told him. I wanted to look for another job. Mr Borker sat me down in front of him and gave me a short lecture. "Rajan, you will have either a job or satisfaction - but not both, whatever be the job you do," he concluded.

That, to me, was one of the most profound truths expounded.

WHEN STATISTICS IS NO LONGER STATISTICS

KRR is no more.

Eleven young men joined the bank (erstwhile State Bank of Travancore) as Probationary Officers of the 1969 batch. KR Rajagopal was one among them and I was another. From day one, the similarity in our names caused confusion. In a small organization like SBT, paths are bound to cross and ours did, many times - in early career as second branch probationers and finally when both of us were on deputation to State Bank of Patiala. And every time we were together in the same office, cases of mistaken identity arose because of the name.

[The confusion persists even after his demise if the responses to the post in the WhatsApp group of SBP Retirees is anything to go by, as the admin had to step in and clarify that it is KR Rajagopal - and not KT Rajagopalan - who has breathed his last!]

The similarity, however, ended there. We were poles apart in our temperament and attitude. KRR was in a tearing hurry to get done with things, while I think I was organized - a euphemism for 'slow'. He was more mature, being over four years my senior - and, at barely 22, it makes a lot of difference - and more experienced - he had worked in SBI for four years - and more qualified - he came armed with a CAIIB.

Having been schooled in Malayalam medium and having studied in Kerala, I spoke English haltingly. Chennai-educated KRR would talk at a rapid pace - so rapid that those unfamiliar would not be able to catch what he said. It was his practice to pepper his conversation with words like fellow, bugger and guy, and without meaning it, keep mouthing expressions like bloody fool and blooming idiot. His favorite abuse was the Tamil-English hybrid "Ayogya rascal" and the pure vernacular "somberi". I used to call him Captain Haddock, the cussword-spewing, rum-guzzling sailor of Tintin comics.

He was tactful and worldly-wise; I was neither. I was kind of serious and he was fun-loving. When we were both second branch probationers in Ernakulam (Broadway) branch, KRR told me one Saturday, "They go ga-ga about Malayalam movies. We'll watch one today; you decide which." I took him to Laxman to see the Sathyan-starrer 'Odayilninnu' based on Kesavadev's novel by the same name. He sat through the tear-jerker of the movie where Sathyan, the rickshaw-puller, coughs and struggles. After the show, KRR cursed me in a blend of Tamil and English and added, "We go for movies for entertainment, not to see misery, squalor and sickness. Tomorrow I'll take you for one and show you the real stuff." We saw 'Revolver Rita' the next day and 'Thuppaakki Rangan' the next Sunday.

KRR used to smoke and a packet of ten Gold Flake cigarettes would last him barely a day. He enjoyed a glass or two of chilled beer too, but gave up these habits and turned a vegetarian soon. Somewhere along the way, he became very devout. I don't know if these changes had anything to do with his marriage. As Jaya was employed in Chennai and KRR got posted in other centres, he would cook for himself. And believe me, he was good! I have relished many meals that he would rustle up on holidays.

***

I had called KRR about two weeks back. We had spoken for a while before hanging up.

I am told he was infected by Covid and had been in the hospital for four days. The end came this morning when the oxygen levels dipped significantly. That was no way to go, my friend.

When we see the number of deaths flashing on the TV screen, it is cold statistics; when it turns out that one of the deceased is known to you, close to you, it ceases to be statistics.

***

Up there, Captain Haddock, I am sure you will find time to enjoy Quick-gun Murugan!

THE JOKE IS THAT...

"The group chairman is scheduled to visit Punjab and the neighbouring states for three days in the first week of the next month. No effort should be spared in seeing to his comforts," said the Managing Director of the bank in a meeting of the senior executives.

A task force was constituted to plan the itinerary - what to do when and how. The chairman of the task force asked the members to drop WHATEVER they were doing and concentrate on the impending visit of the dignitary. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the task force would meet and review the arrangements made so far and what more needed to be done.

It was perhaps the fifth such review meeting - or may be the sixth, it really does not matter. Though he had full confidence in hospitality of the Punjabi and the ability of those down the line to think of everything that the Chairman may need and to cater to them, the Managing Director himself was present at that meeting to get a first-hand idea about how things were progressing.

At that meeting, as in all earlier ones, each executive charged with the centre that the Chairman was due to visit reported what he had done. The man in Chandigarh had fixed up separate meetings with the Chief Secretaries of Punjab and Haryana in the afternoon on the first day, followed by a dinner with the high and the mighty in Hotel Shivalik, with a visit to Nek Chand's Rock Garden thrown between to fill the intervening time.

Next morning, the man from Shimla would take over. All the seats in the toy train to the hill station had been booked so that no 'outsider' would board the train. Boxes of sweets, canisters full of thick and creamy lassi, and crates of soft drinks would be loaded into the train before the Chairman boarded the train. Bearers working in Hotel Piccadilly (owned by cricketing legend Kapil Dev) had been requisitioned to serve as liveried footmen during the journey to ply the Chairman with the goodies. The highlight of the evening would be a dinner meet with the top bureaucrats of Himachal Pradesh to which some Bollywood stars shooting in nearby Chail had also been invited.

The members of the SGPC (Shiromani Gurdwara Prabandhak Committee) had been contacted, said the man in charge of Jalandhar, and they had agreed to accord the greatest respect to the Chairman when he visited the Golden Temple at Amritsar. Amidst fanfare and adulation, he would be presented with a 'siropa' (a two-metre long saffron cloth bestowed as a token of respect to selected dignitaries). In the evening was scheduled the mandatory visit to Wagah to witness the symbolic "border-crossing ceremony" by the Indian and Pak military personnel in full regalia. The Station Commander had been 'persuaded' to host a dinner for the Chairman.

The Managing Director smiled to himself: everything - every single thing - had been taken care of. He, however, asked everyone to make sure that there was no slip-up anywhere and back-up, contingency plans were in place, just in case.

***

The meeting got over at 7 pm. I was in a hurry to get back home. As we ambled out of the conference room, my boss tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Remind me of the joke of Handowal Kalan tomorrow at teatime." (Every day, around 1130, my intercom would buzz and he would tell me "She is coming" or "She is ready" - his take on the feminine gender that 'tea' is in the Hindi "Chai aa rahi hai." The time we spent on that cup of green tea, a great stress-buster, was when we went over the work in the pipeline and engaged in small talk.)

So, the next forenoon, at teatime, I nudged him about the joke of Handowal Kalan.

"Okay," he said, gracefully pouring the golden brew from the white ceramic teapot into the bone china cup. "Do you know where Handowal Kalan is?"

I didn't, but ventured, "Must be a village in the heartlands of Punjab."

"Yes... In Hoshiarpur district, to be precise. There was this Patwaari called Santokh Singh there, responsible for revenue affairs like jamabandis, shajra nasabs, girdwaris, mal guzari, khasras and khataunis. English was not his strong point, but he had what you could call a working knowledge. It was his life's ambition to become a Tehsildar, but there were obstacles strewn in his way.

"There were reports that his palms had an affinity for grease and that once the required amount of lubricant was applied, with just one stroke of Santokh Singh's pen, a tropical forest would turn into a barren plot, an encroacher into a landowner, a tenant into an encroacher, paddy into wheat, black money into apples. [If you find parts of this sentence vaguely familiar, it is because you have read "View from (Greater) Kailash", the highly readable blog by Avay Shukla.]

"It was only a matter of time that this reached the ears of the DC (Commissioner of the Division). He was put on enquiry and sent Veeraraghavan, one of the sub-collectors under him to the village on a two-day inspection. Santokh Singh was visibly surprised, nay, upset, by the sudden visit of the senior officer, but soon took control of the matter. He was at his hospitable and courteous best, plying him with goodies and attending to all his needs.

"As Veeraraghavan wound up his inspection for the day, he walked towards the jeep, Santokh Singh in tow. 'Come a bit early, say, at 9 tomorrow so that I can finish the task by afternoon and leave,' he said, as he raised his left foot to get into the jeep.

Santokh Singh saw the golden opportunity slipping away. If Veeraraghavan was to leave the next afternoon, where was the chance to entertain him and win him over? Now is the time to act, he knew.

'But where are you going to spend the night, Sir-ji?'

'In the IB, of course!'

'But that's some twenty miles away and the road is no good. If the jeep breaks down half way or you have a flat tyre, you'll be stranded in the middle f nowhere. No, I cannot let you go, Sir-ji!' Santokh Singh managed to convey this in broken English and a mixture of Punjabi and Hindi.

"After some persuasion, Veeraraghavan relented. Santokh Singh spruced up the best room in his house for the boss. Punjabiyat and hospitality were in full display. A sumptuous meal complete with fluffy naans fresh from the oven, butter-chicken, daal-makhni and gaajar ka halwa dripping with ghee followed a couple of shots of the best whisky that could be commandeered by a Patwaari. Santokh Singh was confident that after all this, the report that Veeraraghavan would submit to the DC would at least be neutral, if not exculpating him altogether; it would not stand in the way if his promotion to the post of a Tehsildar,

"The problem arose the next morning. Veeraraghavan needed to take a dump and there was no loo. Santokh Singh directed him to a secluded patch of vegetation about two furlongs away.

"Not too pleased with the prospects of a morning walk for the purpose, Veeraraghavan trudged along, with Santokh Singh maintaining a respectable distance from the boss. He lowered his portly frame and while the work was in progress, he felt something gently crawling up his posterior. His searching hand grasped a leech making its way up for a vantage point to suck blood from.

"Startled, Veeraraghavan got up and confronted Santokh Singh.

'What is this?' Veeraraghavan yelled.

"Santokh Singh went close and identified the offending creature. A leech, but the poor guy did not know the English word for the insect (called 'jok' in his mother tongue.

"Mustering all the English at his command, he managed to clarify, 'Sir-ji, it's a jok!'

"Veeraraghavan roared, 'You call this a joke?'

"It is not given to us to know if Santokh Singh fulfilled his ambition of becoming a Tehsildar."

Your guess is as good as mine!