DIPLOMACY

One mid-morning, my boss summoned me to his office. Sitting before him were three others, the oldest in the traditional kurta-pajama and a bandh-gala jacket. The other two were younger men nattily dressed in wrinkle-free shirts, trousers and colour-coordinated ties. One wore a turban too.

The boss motioned to me a chair. Thanking him, I sat on it next to the Sardarji.

"Meet Lala Amarnath, my friend for over three decades," the boss said. "When I was posted in ... as branch manager, Lalaji was my most valuable customer. His father was the richest man in the taluk and had the largest land-holding which he had inherited. He is the chairman of the local cooperative sugar mill."

Lalaji shifted his portly frame in the chair, greeted me with folded hands and proceeded to introduce me to the other two. Shamsher Singh Bagga is the Manging Director of the sugar mill and Samir Mittal is the General Manger (Finance).

As I shook their hands, the boss told them, "KT is our new Deputy General Manager (Credit). He has come on deputation from State Bank of Travancore where he was handling corporate credit. The youngest DGM in State Bank group, he is an expert in credit appraisal. Your application for switching over from ... Bank is in safe hands."

Turning to me, the boss said, "The mill is now being financed by ... Bank but Lalaji would like to switch over to our bank for better service. For us, it will be a worthwhile proposition because the advance will be self-liquidating in nature. During the four-five months of the sugar season, the loan account would be fully drawn, but in the remaining months, it would show a huge credit balance. Think of the interest on the loan and the interest-free deposits!"

Meanwhile, Charanjit had come in with a tray of tea and biscuits. After tea and some small talk, the boss asked me to take Bagga and Mittal of the company to my room for discussions and return, while he would spend some time with the Lalaji.

Once in my room, Bagga handed over to me an envelope containing a letter requesting for credit facilities. Mittal opened his briefase and took out a file containing the financial statements for the previous three years. After speaking to me for some time about the company, the two went back to join Lalaji.

On going through the financial statements, I saw that continuous losses had eroded the entire capital. It was in such a sorry state that no banker in his right senses would touch such a proposal with a barge-pole.

The intercom phone buzzed. At the other end was the boss. Before I could broach the subject of the poor financials, he told me, "KT, that Lalaji is a big crook. Don't sanction that loan. Forget all the good things I said about him in his presence. That was just to please him."

PROXY

 It was the 1950s. Many families in North Malabar were still matrilineal and uncles called the shots.

Parvati was a middle-aged housewife living a miserable life, her husband having deserted her and their two small children. Though they were entitled to a fair share in the property of the joint family, it was administered by Kunhiraman, her maternal uncle.

He would collect all the produce (coconut, arecanut, cashew etc) and sell them. Though Parvati and her children were also entitled to it, he would keep all the money. To be fair, I must add that he would supply the victuals to the household.

Parvati had to do all the domestic chores in return for three meals for herself and her children. When she was not in the kitchen breathing in the smoke from the hearth fuelled by firewood and palm fronds, she had to tend to the cows and the chicken coop as well as nurture the kitchen garden.

On certain days, the uncle would announce that there would be guests in the evening. Parvati knew what it meant: she would have to fry chicken to serve as short eats for the guests who would be served raack, the country hooch.

It was on such days that she would give vent to her ire against the uncle who was the cause of her misery. She would catch a bird from the coup, christen it 'Kunhiraman' and wring its neck.

PET-NAME

Sangameswara Iyer was on a short visit to London where his son worked. With no one else for company, he soon started feeling bored.

So he was glad when, during his morning constitutional one day in the streets of Southall, he sighted a lanky, grey-haired gentleman walking his four dogs. Happy to see a fellow-Indian, Iyer raised his hand and greeted him when they came close, but the stranger ignored it. He must have migrated to England in his teens, Iyer told himself, and must have acquired the local traits: he would not speak unless introduced and spoken to.

Next morning Iyer made bold to stop the stranger and said "Good morning!" which elicited the same greeting, albeit reluctantly, in return.

Though this continued for a week, there was no further progress in communication. Iyer could not bear his solitude any longer.

So the next day, Iyer asked him, "Good morning, are these your dogs?" Obviously a stupid query, in retrospect he realised, when he heard the terse "Yes."

He decided that the other party being obviously a cynophilist, the best opening gambit would be an enquiry about his pets.

He went to the Osterley Bookshop specialising in used books and purchased an illustrated book on dogs. Iyer read up about the different canine breeds, particularly, the varieties the person he wanted to befriend kept.

The next morning, fortified with the knowledge about the canine species, he enquired, "How old is this St Bernard?"

Oh boy, that worked! It sparked off a conversation. He replied, "Four."

"And this pug?"

"Just past three."

"How about the labrador?"

"He is the oldest of the lot: eleven."

"And this white terrier?"

"Seven."

"What do you call them?"

"Satvinder Singh, Gurmeet Singh, Devinder Singh and Harjeet Singh."

Having established diplomatic ties, Iyer introduced himself, "I am Sangameswara Iyer from Tiruchendur in Tamil Nadu. Pleased to meet you. What is your name?"

"Tommy."