Induction with Remington

Social Short Story – Induction with Remington

9:45 a.m.October 1^st, 1984. The day was strange.

I felt something sinking within me. Nothing felt similar. Nor the familiar faces, nor the shops, nor the kiosks and more over the paper print smell that I was accustomed to, too hit differently in my nervous system that day. I huffed through the meandering barely 10 feet wide lanes; measuring multiple curves on foot, rubbing shoulders with the milling pedestrians of Kinari Bazar, Chandni Chowk.

As I traversed the busy Kagzi Market, I remembered my induction day at M/s K.C.Agarwal and Company.

**

“So this is the new boy for the post of Steno.”  Mr. Agarwal, a tough man with piercing look and raised criss-crossed graying brows questioned his senior clerk Ramavatar.

“Yes Sir.” Ramavatar nodded obediently. “The shopkeeper down in the market, recommended him.”

“Give him paper and carbon and show him the typewriter.”

I felt the rhythm of my heart in my cheek. I didn’t know how to feed typewriter with paper and carbon. With cold hands, of course out of edginess, I set the carbon between two legal papers and loaded it onto the machine inscribed Remington.

“Shall we start?” questioned Mr. Agarwal in an authoritative tone.

“Yes.” I replied softly.

Mr. Agarwal started dictating, “He will have to pay special attention to the sinking fund, an amount which is annually set aside out of revenue and invested with the interest accruing to provide, at a future date, for the redemption of a loan or a series of debentures, or for recouping the gradual shrinkage value by exhausting the known profit bearing resources of a mine or an undertaking…..”

Even the outside busy market clutter drowned under his lucid profound voice.

“Okay. That’s it. Hand me your draft.”

“Why is the counter copy blank? Interesting, so the boy does not even know how to place the carbon between the original and the carbon copy,” said Mr. Agarwal sarcastically.

“Sir the carbon might have overturned due to air.” I said sheepishly pointing to the ceiling fan above, trying to hide my ignorance underneath an excuse.

Mr. Agarwal’s raised brows hopped from my face to my work giving me instant relief.

“Few minor mistakes but your speed is low.”

“This is my first job after college. I’ll soon pick up, Sir.” I clarified confidently.

“Ramavatar if the boy approves in 500 bucks per month, fix him up,” said Mr. Agarwal and disappeared into the busy market.

“Ecstatically I accepted the offer.” My journey as a stenographer began.

Daily I used to see and hear Mr. Agarwal discussing with his clients while my now accustomed fingers kept on striking the keys on Remington.

Occasionally he used to call me for dictation. He used to hand me used envelopes as dictation pads to save paper. Initially confused, late I approved him for the novel idea.

One fine day a troubled shopkeeper appeared at our office and pleaded before Mr. Agarwal to save him from heavy tax recovery of 60000 bucks.

“Sir, you put in any of your acts but save me from this recovery,” pleaded the fairly rich man, as he seemed by his dressing.

“I know no act, only tact,” replied Mr. Agarwal.

“Sir, do whatever you feel apt but save me.”

“Your balance sheet profit has to be brought down.” “Okay, show that your goods were kept in a warehouse in some flood prone area and the same got submerged in flood water.”

“Sir, I cannot do that.”

“2^nd option. Show that your goods kept at basement caught fire and the same were reduced to shards.”

“Sir, I am unable to do that too.”

“3^rd option. Pay 60000 bucks.”

“Sir that is impossible for me.”

“You cannot exercise option 1. You are not able to materialize second option and option 3 is impossible for you. Now only God can help you.”

With drooping face the shopkeeper left.

Almost five months passed by working at M/s K.C.Agarwal and Company. Mr. Agarwal as a mentor etched his striking voice, simplicity, paper utility skills, legal and business language command, typing speed and his ace trait ‘tact’ on my young barren mind.

All of a sudden two days before Mr. Agarwal said, “Mohan I am feeling uneasy. If God desires then we will surely meet again, till then goodbye.”

I stood there glued awestruck, pondering hard on what he actually meant.

**

One more curve and appeared my workplace in my visual field.

With red face due to racing feet and racing mind, with full panorama of first to last memory of Mr. Agarwal, I climbed up the big rickety stairs to my office. Mr. Agarwal was nowhere to be seen.

Ramavatar from the corner where he was typing, said, “Mr. Agarwal is suffering from 102 degree Fahrenheit fever. I received call from his son last night.”

I kept my bag on my desk and looked up at the stature that appeared at the entrance shielding the earsplitting market view.

“Ramavatar come on close the office, father is no more. He passed away this morning,” announced remorsefully, Mr. Agarwal’s son.

I silently shifted my gaze to his vacant chair. Mr. Agarwal’s last words kept reverberating in my temporal lobe.

__END__