KUTUMBA RAO
227
"Uh?" the bald man said absently.
"Nothing. Just that I feel like I've seen you somewhere."
He forced himself to look up. "Me? In Saraswati Publishing," he
said, and immediately immersed himself again in his book.
A light went off in my head.
"If
you want, you can take those books home and read them and
bring them back after two days," I said. "But tell me one thing. What
do you do at Saraswati Company?"
This proved to be a better topic than sex. He said goodbye to Rad–
hika Santhyanga and looked at me with a funny smile. "What do I
not
do at Saraswati is a better question. There is nothing that I don't do
there. People from all departments call me-they kill me sometimes."
He remembered something and laughed loudly. "One time, something
funny happened. My general manager telephoned ten places looking for
me. I wasn't anywhere. He wrote a long complaint about me and sent it
to
the proprietor. All that time, I was in the proprietor's office, talking
about a very important issue. 'Don't make silly complaints; G. K. was
with me all the time,' my proprietor scolded him hard in English over
the telephone. 'G. K. was with me all the time!' Ha ha ha hal 'All the
time!'" said the bald man. He was enjoying himself very much-much
more than with Radhika Santhyanga.
"So look, friend," I said. "Is the proprietor in town?"
"Why? What's your story?"
I took out my Lord Brahma's arrow. By this time, some dust from the
shop was on it. After a little more time, I would have to sell it for recycling.
The bald man (a.k.a. G. K.) examined the watermark. "Raccoon
drafted this. Raccoon is his nickname-his real name is Rambadran.
What kind of letter is this? What a bad draft! He never listens to what
the proprietor says.
If
he does listen, he doesn't understand it and won't
bother to have the issue clarified. The proprietor would have told him
to
find an opening and give you that job. But Rambadran drafted a let–
ter without a head or tail, without even informing you of a salary. For
this type of performance, he gets the company car! His children go to
school, his wife goes to her ladies' gatherings, all of them go
to
the tem–
ple at Tirupati in the company car. Nobody crosses the threshold of
their house except to get in the company car," he said. Then he told me
many other things.
I stopped the flow of his words by asking a question. "What should
I do now?"
"Let me think a little," he said, and tapped his nose five or six times
with his index finger. Most people tap their forehead. But this man
