MEMORIES OF A STRIPLING :The office-goer - Part 2

Subedar Khudadad Khan, first Indian recipient of the Victoria Cross

My visits to my father’s office on Special Saturdays were not entirely wasted. The office was filled with fascinating people and advanced technological wonders that amazed a seven-year- old.

After my giddy hour, riding the escalator at the Reserve Bank of India, I would make my way to the imposing office on Council House St. The façade, always spotlessly white, with its classical-baroque elements, its arched windows with its green shutters and jute blinds that were rolled up, ready to be let down to protect against the fierce monsoon showers or when the afternoon sun got too intrusive. There were two air-conditioners that jutted out on the top right of the building. Otherwise, the ‘punkhas’ with their giant cream-coloured blades, lazily circling overhead, and the jute blinds did the trick, keeping the interiors cool even during the worst summer months.

General Accident Fire & General Insurance Corporation, 3, Council House St. 1920s

But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I could get as far inside as the lobby, I first had to shake hands with

my friend, Sikandar Aslam Jaan, the “keeper of the entrance”. Aslam, was a retired Havildar Major, over six feet and 2 inches tall. He looked even taller in his imposing uniform with its epaulettes over his wide shoulders and the two rows of shiny brass buttons across his chest. The whole effect was made all the more imposing by the complicated Peshawari pugree he wore. It had a black, dome-shaped hard cap and a starched plume forming what looked like the crest of a peacock in the front and a tail down his neck . Aslam was the head concierge, and nobody could step under the white canvas canopy and the red jute carpet that led up the five steps to the glass doors of “his” lobby without his say so. He tolerated no nonsense from vagrants and loiterers when it came to “his” patch of the pavement in front. He made sure that only authorised drivers dared to pause in front of the building to disgorge those who had legitimate business. All others were despatched with a ear-drum-shattering blast of his whistle if they stopped a fraction longer than necessary in front of his domain.

Aslam was constantly concerned about my skinny state. He would scoop me up like a small bag of onions in his giant hands. Those hands had dug trenches in Mesopotamia and jammed bayonets into the enemy, but it felt remarkably safe to be in his hands. He would pinch my cheeks and my arms, like a butcher sizing up a particularly sad specimen. “Shankar baba aap roz chaar gilaas malaaiwala dudh piyo. Aur roz gosht khao. Ghosht ke bina aadmi bilkul namard ban jaata hai.” He would then gently put me down, grinning at me through his paan-stained teeth, his giant face covered by luxurious whiskers and sideburns. He would then flex his own biceps and do ten ‘lift ups’ with me hanging on with both my arms around them. What fun!

Kushan or Gupta 5 CE. Bust with turban and moustache

Formalities with Aslam over, I would stumble into the lobby and wave to Mrs. Mukherjee behind the polished counter, partly hidden by the PABX. She would smile sweetly as I lunged up the wide stairs, breathing the coolness of the interior, so different from the blazing sun outside and burst into the second-floor where father had his office. I would peep into his room, and he would invariably be frowning at some figures in front of him over the glass-topped table. Hearing the disturbance, he would briefly look up and irritably wave me away.

Thomar Arthur, Count Lally. Lally at Pondicherry, by Paul Philipotteaux.

I would then go around and harass whoever happened to be handy in the department. There was Sadhanbabu, the department`s thespian. He was a legend for his interpretation of Count Lally in the office production of ‘Tipu Sultan’ - “Janaab! Haam France jaayega. Haamara desh mein rebholushaan!”. He would then draw his sword, wave it dramatically in the air, and make his exit. Applause! Sadhanbabu was my hero and I looked up to him, awe-struck at his ability to turn chameleon. Whether in a powdered wig, or as Feluda in a crime thriller, he was unsurpassed.

Sadhanbabu had his own idiomatic English. “Mashima aar aami pujor sari choice korte jacchi. tumi follow korbe?” (“Mrs. Mukherjee and I are going to buy sarees for Puja, do you want to come along?”). “tumi je Kolkatay born aar fed-up, tomar bangla to khubi mota-moti.” (“You are born and brought up in Calcutta, but your skills in spoken-Bengali are dismal.) “tara tari koro, next year, aamader office day-te tomar jonne balok Prahalad-er role ta bhebhecchi.” “tomar baba-ke bolo je aamader-ke second-Saturday chhuti dite. tirish bochhor dhore ekhane boshe aacchi, chamra ghishe gechhe, tomar baba, he is not giving leaf?” (patta dilen naa?)

Iftikhar Ali Khan, Nawab of Pataudi

There would be Haldar sir, with his encyclopedic knowledge of cricket. He would tell me about Lala Amarnath, Nari Contractor, Sardesai and Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith. I would be wide-eyed, as he narrated their exploits. “Contractor was hit by a no-ball. The leg umpire called him for throwing, but only afterwards. Pataudi became captain. His father was also captain of India. But first he played for England. Only player to play for India and England.”

Srinivasan mama would amaze me with his ability to add up large sums in his head. He would tell me about a man named Pythogarus and something about a square Hippopotamus. All very interesting, but I didn’t understand everything he would tell me and would soon get restless.

Text by Shankar A. Narayan Photo credits: Wikipedia, RCAHMS and Aviva