Serious Men

about what Dr Acharya had done. She came here and told him why she contaminated the sampler. The door was not shut properly, Sir. So I heard everything.’
    ‘Why wasn’t the door shut?’
    ‘Her hairclip had fallen on the floor when she was entering and that jammed the door, Sir. She didn’t know that.’
    ‘She contaminated the sampler of her own free will? Arvind didn’t ask her to do it?’
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘She said that?’ Nambodri asked, sitting on the sofa.
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘And you heard it?’
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘Why did she contaminate the sampler?’
    ‘Love problem, Sir.’
    ‘Why are you telling me this, Ayyan?’ Nambodri asked, collecting a newspaper from the centrepiece, and turning its pages casually. Ayyan interpreted this as a calculated move to make him feel that it was not a big issue. He knew the tactics of the Brahmins. They called it management.
    ‘I’m telling you this because I think you should know, Sir. What I am trying to tell you, Sir, is that even if I was called by the inquiry committee I would not have told them what I’d heard. I thought, for the good of all, the man has to go. I wanted you to be here in this room, Sir.’
    Nambodri pointed to the sofa that was facing him and Ayyan sat down feeling strangely impertinent. Nambodri threw the paper away and asked with dead eyes, ‘What do you want, Ayyan?’
    ‘Nothing, Sir.’
    Nambodri studied the floor. ‘I am so touched by your gesture,’ he said. ‘A personal secretary’s deposition would have meant nothing to the inquiry committee. We were interested only in the statements of scientists. But still, I am deeply moved.’
    ‘Shall I get you some coffee, Sir?’ Ayyan asked cheerfully,standing up. Nambodri shook his head. Ayyan went to the door. ‘Dr Acharya was a good man, Sir,’ he said from the doorway, ‘but sometimes he was very rude.’ He walked back into the room and said, ‘I will give you an example. My son loves the Institute. He talks about it every day. He wants to take the JET, Sir. He is only eleven but he says he will crack the entrance test. He is mad, my son. I asked Dr Acharya if Adi can sit for the entrance exam. He asked me to get out. He said the entrance exam is not a game. I thought that was very unfair.’
    ‘Your son wants to take our entrance test?’
    ‘Yes, Sir. People call him a genius, but I know he doesn’t have a chance to make it.’
    ‘He does not have a chance,’ Nambodri said.
    ‘I know, Sir. But Sir, do you think, you’ll let the boy take the test?’
    Nambodri’s eyes studied his secretary with a mix of cunning and new respect. ‘Ayyan, how many people know about it?’ he asked.
    ‘About what, Sir?’
    ‘About what Oparna had told Arvind.’
    ‘No one, Sir.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘No one. Except me, Sir.’
    The news of Adi’s application to the Institute of Theory and Research was covered in the English papers with a happy photograph of Jana Nambodri accepting a form from the boy. Two television channels interviewed them in the Director’s chamber.
    ‘He is a genius, so I thought, why not give him a chance?’ Nambodri explained.
    ‘I’ll pass,’ Adi said.
    It was a fitting end to a great game. But three days later, the Marathi papers would tell this story with the picture of a man whose arrival on the scene unnerved Ayyan Mani. The game, he feared, had now gone too far.

N OT EVERYBODY IN the crowd knew what they were waiting for, but they stood in a festive murmur outside one of the many exits of the BDD chawl. Some people asked what was going to happen. Many did not bother to ask. Excited boys ran through the assembly, and little girls played a conspiratorial game among themselves, all hopping on one leg. At the head of the crowd was Ayyan Mani, and a man bearing a massive rose garland that could break the neck of the beneficiary.
    On the pavement by the side of the road was planted a banner two storeys high. Even in the blow-up the celebrity appeared stunted. He stood in a safari suit, his palms joined in greeting. His face was a light pink because poster artists did not have the freedom to paint his face black. His little mop of hair was spread thinly over an almost flat scalp. And his thick moustache had sharp edges. Just above his head was an English introduction in large font – DYNAMIC PERSONALITY. A thinner line that followed said he was the honourable Minister S. Waman. It seemed appropriate that it was at Waman’s black shoes