India's National Magazine
From the publishers of THE HINDU

Vol. 16 :: No. 04 :: Feb. 13 - 26, 1999

---

IMPRESSIONS

The pain killer

R.K. LAXMAN

I WAS dashing to Delhi on work as usual. My boss asked me to call on one of the Ministers he knew. This meeting was supposed to sort out the mess he was in, created by a new amendment to excise duty provisions on the export of cotton. I was just a catalyst. I knew nothing about the nature of the problem or its solution, not even remotely. My boss had the right contacts everywhere in the country and made use of them without their knowing it. He was clever, devious and discreet.

At Delhi I phoned the Minister's secretary, identified myself and sought an appointment. I proceeded to the Minister's house carrying a plastic bag containing an antique piece of bronze Nataraja to be handed over to the Minister. Once again I was an ignorant agent carrying out my boss' orders.

I stood outside the huge ornate gate of the Minister's bungalow while the security guard telephoned from his booth asking for clearance to let me in. Then through a side gate I stepped in and walked towards the bungalow. It seemed miles walking on the road lined with trimmed and tended avenue trees before I reached the steps to the veranda. There stood officials cast in the mould of similar types in short closed coats and white pants seen around any ministerial residence.

I was conducted into an inner room where more of the same characters were seated at tables of various sizes that indicated the degree of their importance in the set-up. I was given a slip of paper which I filled in with my name, address and so on and handed over to one person sitting in front of a computer. He studied it closely, tapped the keys, studied the screen and then led me to a narrow side room for a security check as in an airport, frisking and brushing all over me with a metal detector. The bronze Nataraja also went through the test like a piece of hand luggage. When they were satisfied that there was no security risk in letting me go close to the Minister, I was escorted to a car parked in the garden and whisked away in the direction of the main building at a short distance.

The reception room of this place was crowded with people waiting to see the Minister. But I was taken to an inner chamber which was vast, empty and well furnished. I sat buried in a commodious sofa gazing at life-size portraits of the Prime Minister and the President of India in gold-hued frames.

It was quite some time before I noticed another person sitting in a corner at the far end, lost among the furniture, curios and flower pots. He smiled and made his way over to my side and sat down. He asked for my name, about the nature of my work, from where I came and so on. I gave suitably edited and camouflaged replies. In my turn I asked him what he was doing in the Minister's drawing room.

"I live here," he replied proudly, and added: "I am his astrologer. He always consulted me even when I was employed in one of the public sector units. It was I who predicted that he would become a Minister. When it came true he asked me to take premature retirement and come over here and stay with him." I clucked my tongue and marvelled at the strange ways in which the destiny of men worked! Encouraged, he was about to launch on his philosophical observations on the subject when a head peeped into the room and announced the Minister's arrival.

The room was full of visitors. They were seated around an unoccupied chair. They were conversing in low whispers punctuated by suppressed laughter. The Minister took his own time making his appearance.

Finally we saw him ambling down the corridor. All of us stood up respectfully with folded hands to receive him. He seemed bored, tired and ill except for a flicker of a smile of courtesy. He plunked down in the reserved chair, looked around and gave a slight nod of recognition to a few in the crowd.

The visitors took turns to sit close to him to pay their respects and explain the purpose of their visit in a confiding tone. The Minister listened without expression and automatically handed over to his secretary whatever papers were left in his hand.

Then my turn came. I took out the Nataraja from the plastic bag and displayed it for his inspection and appreciation, turning it this way and that. He stared at it with a deadpan face. All eyes in the room were on the Nataraja and there was an expectant silence in the room for the Minister's reaction. He said, "Nataraja!" At once I began to describe the finer points of the antique, the delicacy of the dancing pose and the exquisite craftsmanship of the ornaments. He nodded and said, "My house is full of such pieces presented by my well-wishers. I do not know what to do with them..." and waved it towards his secretary's receiving hands.

He seemed extremely tired. I was impelled to enquire: "Are you not feeling well, sir?"

"Backache! Backache!" he said with difficulty, trying to touch his back.

"The U.P. Chief Minister was here and I had to..."

I ventured to suggest, "Why don't you rub Novoo, sir? It will give immediate relief, sir."

"What's that?"

"Novoo. It's an ayurvedic preparation, sir. Novoo."

"Heard of it, Novoo?" he asked the assembled group. Everyone stood around repeating "Novoo, Novoo." "I think it comes in tubes," someone said. "Also in jars," someone else added his voice which drowned in the murmur of "Novoo, Novoo" that filled the room.

"Anyway, get me a tube," the Minister said.

"All shops are closed tomorrow due to an indefinite strike declared by drug dealers. Don't worry sir, I will courier it to you when I get back tomorrow, sir..."

"Thanks," he said feebly. His secretary moved briskly towards me to brief me about the procedure to send the consignment to the Minister.

On the flight back I was surfing over the newspaper headlines - scams, crimes, strikes, train accidents, IT raids, Cabinet expansions, bilateral talks, bomb blasts and so on.

The next morning I met the boss to report about the meeting. He was in high spirits and cheerful. He had already got a call from the Minister. Probably the problem had been sorted out.

I told him about the Minister's back pain and the need for applying Novoo and told him about the difficulty in getting it there.

"Buy half a dozen tubes and send them immediately. Poor man must be really suffering."

The following morning, newspapers carried a report which stated that the Cabinet had been expanded and some Ministers dropped, my boss' patron being one among them, for anti-party activities.

I asked my boss what I was to do now with the half a dozen tubes of Novoo which I had procured. He looked thoughtful for a moment and said, "Keep them with you till the matter clears up..."