Vikram Seth - A Suitable Boy

Bloody pen-pushers, the whole lot of them, Arun said to himself as he surveyed the sweltering clerical section on his way to the air-conditioned executive offices beyond.

He was in a bad mood not only because of the foul weather but because he had solved only about a third of the Statesman crossword puzzle, and James Pettigrew, a friend of his from another firm, with whom he exchanged clues and solutions by phone most mornings, would probably have solved most of them by now. Arun Mehra enjoyed explaining things, and did not like having things explained to him. He enjoyed giving the impression to others that he knew whatever was worth knowing, and he had virtually succeeded in giving himself the same impression.

The morning mail was sorted out by Arun’s department head Basil Cox with the help of a couple of his principal lieutenants. This morning about ten letters had been marked out to Arun. One of them was from the Persian Fine Teas Company, and he looked it over with particular interest.

‘Would you take down a letter, Miss Christie?’ he said to his secretary, an exceptionally discreet and cheerful young Anglo-Indian woman, who had grown accustomed to his moods. Miss Christie had at first been resentful of the fact that she had been allocated to an Indian rather than a British executive, but Arun had charmed and patronized her into accepting his authority.

‘Yes, Mr Mehra, I’m ready.’

‘The usual heading. Dear Mr Poorzahedy, We have received your description of the contents of the shipment of tea — take down the particulars from the letter, Miss Christie — to Teheran — sorry, make that Khurramshahr and Teheran — that you wish us to insure from auction in Calcutta to arrival by customs bond to consignee in Teheran. Our rates, as before, are five annas per hundred rupees for the standard policy, including SR&CC as well as TPND. The shipment is valued at six lakhs, thirty-nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy rupees, and the premium payable will be — would you work that out, Miss Christie? — thank you — yours sincerely, and so on. . Wasn’t there a claim from them about a month ago?’

‘I think so, Mr Mehra.’

‘Hmm.’ Arun pointed his hands together under his chin, then said: ‘I think I’ll have a word with the burra babu.’

Rather than call the head clerk of the department into his office, he decided to pay him a visit. The burra babu had served in the insurance department of Bentsen Pryce for twenty-five years and there was nothing about the nuts and bolts of the department that he did not know. He was something like a regimental sergeant major, and everything at the lower levels passed through his hands. The European executives never dealt with anyone but him.

When Arun wandered over to his desk, the burra babu was looking over a sheaf of cheques and duplicates of letters, and telling his underlings what to do. ‘Tridib, you handle this one,’ he was saying; ‘Sarat, you make out this invoice.’ It was a muggy day, and the ceiling fans were rustling the high piles of paper on the clerks’ desks.

Seeing Arun, the burra babu stood up. ‘Sir,’ he said.

‘Do sit down,’ said Arun casually. ‘Tell me, what has been happening lately with Persian Fine Teas? On the claims side, I mean.’

‘Binoy, tell the claims clerk to come here with the claims ledger.’

After Arun, who was dressed in his suit, as was appropriate to (and unavoidable for) one of his position, had spent a sweaty but enlightening twenty minutes with the clerks and ledgers, he returned to the chilled sanctum of his office and told Miss Christie to hold off typing the letter he had dictated.

‘Anyway, it’s Friday,’ he said. ‘It can wait, if necessary, till Monday. I won’t be taking calls for the next fifteen minutes or so. Oh yes, and I won’t be in this afternoon either. I have a lunch appointment at the Calcutta Club and then I have to visit that damned jute factory at Puttigurh with Mr Cox and Mr Swindon.’

Mr Swindon was from the jute department, and they were going to visit a factory that another company wished to insure against fire. Arun could not see the sense of visiting a particular jute factory, when the insurance for all such factories was clearly based on a standard tariff that depended upon very little other than the process of manufacture used. But Swindon had apparently told Basil Cox that it was important to look over the plant, and Basil had asked Arun to accompany him.

‘All a waste of time if you ask me,’ said Arun. Friday afternoon by tradition at Bentsen Pryce usually meant a long, leisurely meal at the club followed by a round of golf and possibly a token appearance at the office around closing time. The week’s work was effectively over by Thursday afternoon. But, upon reflection, Arun thought it possible that by asking him to help with a matter of Fire Insurance when his normal duties fell under Marine Insurance, Basil Cox was attempting to groom him for wider responsibilities. In fact, now that he considered it, a number of matters of General Insurance had also been marked out to him lately. All this could only mean that the powers above approved of him and his work.

Cheered by this thought, he knocked at Basil Cox’s door.

‘Come in. Yes, Arun?’ Basil Cox gestured to a chair, and, taking his hand off the mouthpiece of the phone, continued: ‘Well, that’s excellent. Lunch then, and — yes, we’ll both look forward to seeing you ride. Bye.’

He turned to Arun and said: ‘I do apologize, dear boy, for nibbling away at your Friday afternoon. But I wonder if I can make up for it by inviting you and Meenakshi to the races at Tolly tomorrow as our guests.’

‘We’d be delighted,’ said Arun.

‘I was talking to Jock Mackay. It appears he’s riding in one of the races. It might be rather fun to see him. Of course, if the weather keeps up, they’ll be swimming their horses round the track.’

Arun permitted himself a chuckle.

‘I didn’t know he’d be riding tomorrow. Did you?’ said Basil Cox.

‘No, I can’t say I did. But he rides often enough,’ said Arun. He reflected that Varun, the racing fiend, would have known not only that Jock Mackay was riding, but in which race he would be riding, on what horse, with what handicap and at what probable odds. Varun and his Shamshu friends usually bought a provisional or kutcha racing form the moment it appeared on the streets on Wednesday, and from then until Saturday afternoon would think about and discuss little else.

‘And now?’ Basil Cox prompted Arun.

‘It’s about the tariffs for Persian Fine Teas. They want us to insure another shipment.’

‘Yes. I marked that letter out to you. Purely routine, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not so sure.’

Basil Cox stroked his lower lip with his thumb and waited for Arun to go on.

‘I don’t think our claims experience with them is so good,’ said Arun.

‘Well, that’s easily checked.’

‘I’ve already done so.’

‘I see.’

‘Claims are a hundred and fifty-two per cent of premiums if you take the last three years. Not a happy situation.’

‘No, no, indeed,’ said Basil Cox, considering. ‘Not a happy situation. What do they usually claim for? Pilferage, I seem to recall. Or is it rainwater damage? And didn’t they have a claim for taint once? Leather in the same hold as tea or something like that.’

‘Rainwater damage was another company. And taint we disallowed after getting a report from Lloyds, our claims settlement agents on the spot. Their surveyors said that taint was minimal, even though the Persians appear to judge their tea more by fragrance than by flavour. It’s pilferage that has really harmed them. Or, rather, us. Skilful pilferage at the customs warehouse in Khurramshahr. It’s a bad port, and for all we know the customs authorities may be in on it.’