You paid how much for this dhania patta?” I screamed when I saw those limp sprigs of coriander on the kitchen counter.
“Well, whether you like it or not, coriander is Rs300 a kilo. These days you don’t get it for free when you buy vegetables,” said the missus, defiantly.
“No one buys dhania patta! Free dhania and a fistful of chillies are your birthright as a veggie’s customer! That vegetable vendor—what’s his name— Bansidhar? He should be jailed for daylight robbery,” I declared.
“It is not Bansidhar’s fault. That crook Trump has raised tariffs. There has been too much rain this year. The Bihar elections are coming. There was an earthquake in Afghanistan. That’s why the price of dhania has shot up!”
“That’s utter nonsense! You’ll believe any crap the Bansidhar fellow tells you. From now on, I will go to buy vegetables,” I said.
The following day, I felt the way Rip Van Winkle would have felt if he had woken up after 20 years in the middle of the sabzi mandi. The price of onions was sky high, and I wondered which Maratha strongman was manipulating stocks in Lasalgaon. The potatoes were expensive enough to have been directly imported from Idaho. And I could have bought two bottles of Hercules in the good old days for the amount Bansidhar was demanding for a kilo of tomatoes.
I discovered that Bansidhar was not the only one who had jacked up prices. Apparently, the whole sabzi mandi had felt tremors of the Afghan earthquake! Bansidhar sniggered when he saw the look on my face. Presiding over his wilted cabbage and shrivelled pumpkins, he sang out gaily, “Sahib, with the new pay commission, you will get a lot more money. Why don’t you share the loot with us?”
I scowled and left the market without buying any greens.
On the way back, I was mentally making up excuses for returning empty-handed when suddenly Bassa Ram, our driver, asked “Sahib, what is a ‘fitment’?”
“The term fitment factor is used for fixing the revised pay after any pay commission award is announced. But you don’t work for the government, so what is it to you?”
“Nothing Sahib. But other drivers with whom I hang around have sarkari jobs. They say that some commissioner has come, and he will give fitment of three. Then their pay will go up three times. I was thinking that you should double my salary, at least.”
Now I had two awkward issues to broach with the missus. No veggies and Bassa Ram’s demand. I diffidently entered home and was considering how best to start a difficult conversation when my wife blurted out, “We will have to give Phulwanti a raise!”
“Why should we? The maid’s work has not increased, and she altogether skips coming to our house at least once a week.”
“Yes, but she said that because we are getting a bonanza before Diwali, we should increase her wages.”
“Who told her that we are getting a bonanza?”
“Hello, stupid!” said my wife. “Wasn’t the announcement made from the very ramparts of the Red Fort just a few weeks back? Phulwanti may be uneducated, but she’s not a fool! And, further, she said something about that GST thing and said we would be saving tons of money!”
“So, you don’t understand this GST thing; I don’t understand this GST thing, but Phulwanti does, eh?”
“Well, she keeps watching the television. The anchors have been shouting and screaming about the Gabbar Singh Tax becoming the Good and Simple Tax.”
So there we were—suddenly in the middle of a full-blown crisis. On the one hand were the rising expectations of the hoi polloi based on lofty but vague promises made by the inner party. On the other was our anaemic treasury, haemorrhaging because of payments to the proles. We aren’t exactly poor, but we aren’t so rich either as to go around distributing largesse to all and sundry. If ever there was a time for a husband-wife duo to work as a team, this was it. The little woman and I went into a huddle and decided to drive a hard bargain with the domestics, no matter how obdurate they were.
After haggling and negotiating and bickering for most of last Thursday, we reached an understanding with Bassa Ram. He agreed to a raise of one thousand from next January and a thousand more when, and if, I got a higher pension by the new Pay Commission. Phulwanti proved to be a tougher nut. She refused to cook or do the dishes unless she was given a raise immediately. Finally, she settled for a raise of five hundred. And my wife extracted a promise from me that I would never again go to buy vegetables.
Sadly, so far, I have not gotten one penny extra—not from an enhanced pension nor by way of any GST relief. The Diwali jackpot is nowhere in sight. But everyone believes I am rolling in wealth. It is therefore quite likely that I will become diwalia—bankrupt—before Diwali. All that I now want for Diwali is for assorted worthies to stop dangling carrots and promising me lollipops. The delusive bonanzas are injurious to my financial health.
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com