The Hindu Business Line : Lost in their overcoats

Both of us work 12 hours a day, all 7 days a week. If we don't appear for work, they'll cut our pay. We barely earn enough to eat. I mean, where's the new India?"

On a wintry Bangalore night, Basavappa stood near the gate of the apartment complex peering into the street outside. Where was Prasad? It was 12.05 a.m. and usually he would be there ten minutes before midnight. Basavappa had put away his paraphernalia — his torch, cane, the day's newspapers, some rice and curd in a bowl that an apartment occupant had doled out to him — and was ready to leave. He and Prasad were the watchmen of the complex of 520 fashionable apartments. They took turns handling the day and night shifts.

While Prasad stayed with his wife in a tenement about two miles away, Basavappa had been given a room in the servants' quarters of the apartment complex. As an aging bachelor, it suited him to live where he worked. Tonight it was the turn of Prasad to watch over the complex from midnight until noon the next day.

Prasad was Basavappa's mentor. He claimed he retired from a research laboratory, although he refused to provide more detail however hard he was probed. That didn't bother Basavappa since Prasad provided satisfactory answers to most of his inquiries.

Before retirement, thanks to his long service as a peon in the nearby school, Basavappa became literate enough to read English though he could comprehend it only with great difficulty. But, by his own admission, he lacked Prasad's "general knowledge." Over time Prasad became a symbol of sagacity, and Basavappa deferred to him when in doubt. Which was practically every day, though about different things.

It was the daily custom of the men to engage in a brief, joshing conversation during handover of duties that the apartment dwellers derided as "change of guard."

Both felt a terrible sense of incompleteness without this banter on the occasional day when one didn't turn up for work.

Prasad shuffled in at quarter past midnight with two mufflers thrown over his torn overcoat. He apologised for coming late. Hardly had he sat down when he remarked at Basavappa, "You should have brought your mufflers too."

Basavappa shrugged. "It's only a few minutes now. I'll go to sleep under my blanket."

Their soiled and frayed overcoats were a part of their employment package.

When they had exchanged their usual pleasantries, Prasad glanced at the headlines of the newspapers that lay on the floor.

"What's that you've been reading?" he asked. "Ah, the minister says the country will grow by 8 per cent. A new India, that's what it is. The new India... four lane roads, better lifestyles... "

"I hear and read a lot about this new India thing too," Basavappa interrupted. "That life's changing. That many good things have come. More good things are coming. They say it is all about IT. Wonder what this IT is? Surely not income tax?"

"Don't be such a simpleton," Prasad laughed.

"Then is it Indian Technology?"

"No, you bumpkin," Prasad chided. "It's got to do with computers."

"Then why not call it computers?"

"Must be different kinds," said Prasad with an air of superiority.

"Then what is BPO? That's also connected with the new India, isn't it?"

"Also to do with computers," answered Prasad.

"If both IT and BPO have to do with computers, then why have two names?" Basavappa was getting more strident with his doubts.

Prasad chose not to answer this question.

A fresh gust of wind drove knives of cold into their bones where the shirts under their coats were torn. Both men instinctively drew their overcoats tight around them. Basavappa cursed himself for not getting his muffler.

There was a lull when both men stopped speaking else their voices would quaver. They waited out the gust.

"I can't see anything new about the new India," declared Basavappa when his teeth settled down. "Yeah, I can see the cars, more fashionable apartments... but what I mean is my life hasn't changed in the last few years. It doesn't look like it will change in the next few years either. Look at you. Your life remains the same as well. Both of us work 12 hours a day, all 7 days a week. We can't afford to fall ill. If we don't appear for work, they'll cut our pay. Yet we have to brave the cold and our age. We barely earn enough to eat. Sometimes we get free food, sometimes we don't. I mean, where's the new India?"

"You old fool. The new India is not for people like you," said Prasad, paused for a moment, and corrected himself. "Not for people like us."

"Who is it for then?"

"It's for the others." Prasad swept his authoritative hand through the air quite vaguely like a Hindu God from the movies, perched in the clouds, and pointing to the earth down below somewhere.

"Who others?"

"Perhaps people like these apartment dwellers," said Prasad uncertainly, feeling the distinct danger of being knocked off the pedestal of erudition on which Basavappa had placed him for some time now.

Unusually he hadn't answered even one of his colleague's questions with panache. When he was gazing at the tunnel of darkness that was the half-lit street wondering what he should do to protect his implicit position of scholarship, relief seemed in sight.

At a distance, silhouetted by the skylight, was a man walking towards the apartment complex.

"That's Mr Diwaker. I think he works for a BPO company," said Prasad excitedly. "Let's ask him."

Basavappa remembered Mr Diwaker. He lived in the apartment with large glass windows through which could be seen a huge TV. Didn't appear to have a family, though he entertained his friends occasionally treating them to expensive liquor.

Basavappa knew since he was asked to clear the bottles the following morning. During such times, he had gaped at the swank furniture, the glassy marble floor and the general paradisiacal appearance of the apartment. Maybe Prasad was right about the new India.

As noiselessly as they could, through the still of the night, they hissed and hailed Mr Diwaker as he entered the compound. He strode towards them and looked askance.

"Sir, we understand you work for a BPO company?" Prasad asked.

"Yes, I do. What's the matter?" Mr Diwaker appeared worried.

"Nothing, sir. We just wanted to know what this BPO is."

Mr Diwaker slapped his forehead with his palm. "Nice hour you chose to ask me about BPO. I've got to work 12 hours a day, sometimes 14 hours. Seven days a week. Can't get time for a decent meal. And finally when a man comes home, he has to face this."

Even before he completed the sentence, he was on his way to the elevator, muttering profanities, leaving a stupefied Prasad staring after him.

"May be IT is International Technology?" Basavappa continued trying.

(The author writes fiction and non-fiction. He is Director, Consulting and Enterprise Solutions, Satyam Computer Services Ltd. He can be reached at gbprabhat@gmail.com.)

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