The British knew how to run things, reflected Arun Mehra. They worked hard and they played hard. They believed in command, and so did he. They assumed that if you couldn’t command at twenty-five, you didn’t have it in you. Their fresh-faced young men came out to India even earlier; it was hard to restrain them from commanding at twenty-one. What was wrong with this country was a lack of initiative. All that Indians wanted was a safe job.
Bloody pen-pushers, the whole lot of them, Arun said to himself as he surveyed the sweltering clerical section on his way to the air-conditioned executive offices beyond.
He was in a bad mood not only because of the foul weather but because he had solved only about a third of the Statesman crossword puzzle, and James Pettigrew, a friend of his from another firm, with whom he exchanged clues and solutions by phone most mornings, would probably have solved most of them by now. Arun Mehra enjoyed explaining things, and did not like having things explained to him. He enjoyed giving the impression to others that he knew whatever was worth knowing, and he had virtually succeeded in giving himself the same impression.
7.21
THE morning mail was sorted out by Arun’s department head Basil Cox with the help of a couple of his principal lieutenants. This morning about ten letters had been marked out to Arun. One of them was from the Persian Fine Teas Company, and he looked it over with particular interest.
‘Would you take down a letter, Miss Christie? he said to his secretary, an exceptionally discreet and cheerful young Anglo-Indian woman, who had grown accustomed to his moods. Miss Christie had at first been resentful of the fact that she had been allocated to an Indian rather than a British executive, but Arun had charmed and patronized her into accepting his authority.
‘Yes, Mr Mehra, I’m ready.’
‘The usual heading. Dear Mr Poorzahedy, We have received your description of the contents of the shipment of tea – take down the particulars from the letter, Miss Christie – to Teheran – sorry, make that Khurramshahr and Teheran – that you wish us to insure from auction in Calcutta to arrival by customs bond to consignee in Teheran. Our rates, as before, are five annas per hundred rupees for the standard policy, including SR&CC as well as TPND. The shipment is valued at six lakhs, thirty-nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy rupees, and the premium payable will be – would you work that out, Miss Christie? – thank you – yours sincerely, and so on… Wasn’t there a claim from them about a month ago?’
‘I think so, Mr Mehra.’
‘Hmm.’ Arun pointed his hands together under his chin, then said: ‘I think I’ll have a word with the burra babu.’
Rather than call the head clerk of the department into his office, he decided to pay him a visit. The burra babu had served in the insurance department of Bentsen Pryce for twenty-five years and there was nothing about the nuts and bolts of the department that he did not know. He was something like a regimental sergeant-major, and everything at the lower levels passed through his hands. The European executives never dealt with anyone but him.
When Arun wandered over to his desk, the burra babu was looking over a sheaf of cheques and duplicates of letters, and telling his underlings what to do. ‘Tridib, you handle this one,’ he was saying; ‘Sarat, you make out this invoice.’ It was a muggy day, and the ceiling fans were rustling the high piles of paper on the clerks’ desks.
Seeing Arun, the burra babu stood up. ‘Sir,’ he said.
‘Do sit down,’ said Arun casually. ‘Tell me, what has been happening lately with Persian Fine Teas? On the claims side, I mean.’
‘Binoy, tell the claims clerk to come here with the claims ledger.’
After Arun, who was dressed in his suit, as was appropriate to (and unavoidable for) one of his position, had spent a sweaty but enlightening twenty minutes with the clerks and ledgers, he returned to the chilled sanctum of his office and told Miss Christie to hold off typing the letter he had dictated.
‘Anyway, it’s Friday,’ he said. ‘It can wait, if necessary, till Monday. I won’t be taking calls for the next fifteen minutes or so. Oh yes, and I won’t be in this afternoon either. I have a lunch appointment at the Calcutta Club and then I have to visit that damned jute factory at Puttigurh with Mr Cox and Mr Swindon.’
Mr Swindon was from the jute department, and they were going to visit a factory that another company wished to insure against fire. Arun could not see the sense of visiting a particular jute factory, when the insurance for all such factories was clearly based on a standard tariff that depended upon very little other than the process of manufacture used. But Swindon had apparently told Basil Cox that it was important to look over the plant, and Basil had asked Arun to accompany him.