The Mammaries of the Welfare State Read Online Free Page A

right?’ he asked in Hinglish—’
Aap all right hain?
While waiting for her to unwrap herself, he realized that he liked the rhythms of Hinglish. It was a genuinely national language, as truly mirroring the minds of the people as Benglish, Tamilish, Maralish, Punjlish and Kannalish. He told himself that when he returned to his boarded-up veranda, he should note in his diary the following items as food for thought: i) Why can’t Hinglish be the Official Language of the Welfare State? and ii) Why don’t you translate into Hinglish or Benglish some of your favourite English poems?
Jhe Alphred Pruphrock-er Laabh Song?
And
Shalott Ki Lady?
    ‘I stay right here.’ He pointed vaguely in the direction of the Secretariat. ‘
Main right here stay
—’
    ‘
Main English follow karti hoon, thank you.’
She was tall. ‘
Hmmm, so aap right here stay karte hain.’
Her eyes had widened and brightened with interest.
    At the gate of the Secretariat, he advised her. ‘If the guard asks, just say, Night Duty. If he acts tough and argues that women are exempt, scoff and enlighten him, New Policy, Women’s Quota.’
    She liked the room. She drifted about in it, touched the kettle and his skipping rope on the wall, gazed out of the window at the night lights and asked how come. Feeling safe with her, he explained how he’d solved his housing problem. She was more impressed than amused. ‘
Ek dum top-class idea, Tiger,’
she lolled on his lumpy sofa, now covered with a brightly-patterned counterpane, ‘
Ek dum top-
. . .’ Her head slumped to one side as she fell asleep.
    I should unhook her bra as a
beau geste.
Then, feeling old, lonely, morose, washed out, tired of his own jokes, he too bummed around the room, brewed himself some tea, flopped down behind his desk, now and then watched her breast rise and fall in sleep, and finally bedded down on the jute matting between his computer and his kitchenette. I should get married now to any one of those decent, horny Bengali dullards from Calcutta that Manik Kaka’s been dying to line up for me for the last eight years. Enough of this hepness of being single. After a while, one just felt sick of books and music and cinema and being boss of one’s time; one wished instead for human company and the warmth of another body in bed, for everyday domestic clutter and social completeness, for the outward tokens of an ordered life—a sofa set in the drawing room, a washing machine, a magnetic remembrancer on the fridge.
    A little after six, he woke abruptly to find himself alone in the room. He waited for a minute or two. Then he crawled over to the sofa and nodded off again in the faint aroma of perfume.
    The preceding Thursday. Daya’s flat had been a fifteen-minute walk away from the Secretariat. Upmarket, downtown,one of the backlanes behind the new steel-and-glass Stock Exchange. The backlanes were quieter, greener, pseudo-colonial and comprised some of the world’s costliest real estate. One square foot of flat cost eighteen thousand rupees, i.e., more than twice Agastya’s monthly salary. It could cost more if, from it, one could glimpse a corresponding square foot of the sea. ‘Not worth it, honey,’ he cautioned himself as he crossed the street to avoid a knoll of garbage that stank— whew! like a government permission—and to which had been drawn a zoo of cattle, pigs, curs, cats, crows and rats.
    Daya was on the third floor and her doorbell a sexy chime. She took some time to answer it. He heard her trill to somebody, presumably the dope-provider, ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree,’ before she opened the door. She looked like Ageing Raw Sex Incarnate. No spectacles. She’d touched up both eyes and hair. She wore an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot—a luxurious peacock-blue-and-amber salwaar kameez. She beamed at him and offered him her cheek (facial) for a peck. He was a bit taken aback at how happy he was to see her.
    ‘I’m so glad that you don’t have