The Mysore City Corporation building was located close to the Mysore Palace. Janani and Vinod had visited the palace on the day of their arrival. Sesha Uncle had hurried them there right away as if royalty was in danger of being dethroned and the fairy godmother had warned them that, instead of Cinderella’s carriage, the entire palace would turn into a pumpkin at midnight.
The corporation was housed in an ornate building with domes that resembled those of the palace. The exterior was painted the colour of egg yolk – pale yellow, with cornices in white. The crown molding was a cheery mix of red and maroon that matched the colour on the domes. It was hard to tell if the people who thronged the external corridors and the inner hallways were employees or members of the public.
Sesha Uncle and his entourage wandered around the labyrinthine hallways, peering into a honeycomb maze of dusty offices. Janani was glad Sesha Uncle and Rukmini Aunty had insisted on coming with her and Vinod.
Janani gave a shiver of excitement as if they were descending into the bowels of intrigue where you slid bundles of cash under the table to oily-faced men in ill-fitting suits. Instead, they walked into a large room with high ceilings.
The dust mingled lazily with a single shaft of sunlight that struggled through a hazy cracked glass window set high up on the wall.
Several people waited patiently in front of a few desks while the clerk was busy on his mobile phone; whether official or personal, it was hard to say. Other desks had groups of people chatting and casually shooting the breeze. Finally, they reached a desk piled high with papers and files, tilting precariously, ready to slip from the edge of the table and send their contents flying, lying neglected wherever they landed – under other desks or on the floor. The clerk was not scrolling through his mobile phone. He acknowledged them with a perceptible nod. There was no one at the next desk, and Vinod dragged that chair closer and urged Sesha Uncle to sit on it. Janani and Vinod leaned against the other desk. Rukmini Aunty stood behind Sesha Uncle with her hand on the back of the chair, as though they were posing for a photograph.
Sesha Uncle leaned close to the clerk as if they were lifelong friends and he needed to disclose some long-held secret to him. Sesha Uncle told him about their trip to Mark Twain’s house, disparaging Hannibal, saying it was not as nice as Mysore, which had its palace and royalty, but if they could make such a nice museum for a writer in Hannibal, why should Mysore fall behind in honouring the greatest writer they had. The clerk nodded and allowed the story to proceed at its own pace. It was no different than scrolling through his mobile phone.
“Even Becky Thatcher, she only has a side role in the story, but even her house has been maintained as if she is still living in it,” Sesha Uncle said.
The clerk nodded moodily. “Ah yes, the church. The Christian church takes care of their famous people very well.”
“What church?” Sesha Uncle asked. He turned to Janani. “Did we see a church there?”
Janani said, “I don’t remember.”
Sesha Uncle turned back to the clerk with an accusatory gaze, as if he had brought in a side plot. “Where does the church come into it?”
“Becky Thatcher. Christian name, aa? Must be getting money from the church for her house. They are always converting people to their religion and tempting them with money. Only our temples do nothing for us. Take all the money we pour into our worship and hoard it. Always with outstretched arms.”
This time, Janani did not try to control herself. Vinod did not stop her as she clutched him and collapsed into laughter. The clerk looked on in annoyance as her laughter filled the room. Even Rukmini Aunty hid her smile. The other clerks stopped their scrolling and peered over the files piled on their desks. People normally came to this office, frustrated and angry, and left ranting and furious, threatening to get them all fired. It was the clerks who had earned the privilege to laugh because they knew no one could unseat them.
Who was this person trying to turn the tables on them? “We have come to find out who owns that house,” Sesha Uncle said.
“The house in America?” the clerk asked.
“No, no, the house of that writer,” he said.
“Nagaraj. No, Narayan. What Narayan?”
“RK,” Vinod said.
“Oh, house document search? You have to apply at another place. With Murthy there.” The clerk gestured across the room at an empty desk.
“But there is no one there,” Sesha Uncle said.
“Oye, where is Murthy?” The clerk threw the question up into the air for anyone to catch and toss back with a reply, if he chose.
“Personal leave, for three days,” came a disembodied voice. “Gone to native village for the temple festival.”
Mustering up whatever dignity he had left, Sesha Uncle hustled them out of the office.
On the way home, Uncle threw a litany of abuses at the Indian bureaucracy, their disrespect for writers and their girl characters like Becky Thatcher, the lack of respect for girls in this country and corruption of Hindu temples that would make even a godless rascal like that clerk believe in the power of the church. When they entered the house, Rukmini Aunty said she did not want to hear another word about that eyesore of a house and wanted to have her lunch in peace.
Excerpted with permission from Rukmini Aunty and the RK Narayan Fan Club, Sita Bhaskar, Penguin India.
