He was the oldest gentleman in my section. I worked there about three years.
He had maybe only a few years to retire. Tall, somewhat hefty, wheatish looking. But he, I observed, did no work.
Absolutely.
He lived in the city, a good thirty minutes away. As soon as he stepped in, the first thing he did was to place his tiffin in the autoclave.
He'd then wash his face under the tap, remove his large checked handkerchief from his pocket, and wipe it thoroughly.
Then he'd proceed to sit down for the day at his table at the end of the room.
Folk began coming in and first thing they did was to wish him. He commanded lots of respect, I didn't fail to note.
He regaled them with anecdotes, while they laughed. He had a baritone voice. From U.P actually, he had a good command over Marathi as well.
The office got down to work. He didn't miss company even for one minute.
Lunch time. The others proceeded hungrily to the canteen located five minutes away.
He slowly would rise up, get the hot tiffin out from the oven and relish its contents for at least half an hour. The high point of his day.
His wife probably was a good cook.
Lunch over, his well wishers trooped in again. He made them laugh some more. Olden times were relived, I guessed.
At sharp four, the siren blew, everybody scampered home. Mr Tiwari too made his way to the door.
He hadn't done one bit of work the entire day.
I learned he used to bet at the races. Maybe he was loaded with cash.
Or did he have a panga with the administration? Was he frustrated with the system?
Did he do it because his retirement drew near?
I'd never know the answer.
But he seemed to be a good man. Never had fights or arguments with anyone.
He made folk laugh. That attracted others to him as a magnet does to nails.
I moved out before he did. Twenty three years have passed.
Wonder what he's up to now...
Is he still alive?
Regaling his friends in his deep voice.
