Power Behind The Desk(Sudeshna Majumdar) Power Behind The Desk

Some years ago we had to change our residence from one area of the city to another. This would necessitate changing our ration cards as well. Having acquired the requisite form for the purpose, I filled up the particulars and made my way to the Rationing Office of the area.

I found a long queue consisting mainly of illiterate poorly dressed women in the corridor outside the Rationing Officer’s room. I joined the queue to wait my turn. After a while, the woman at the head of the queue must have inched into the Rationing Officer’s room, this enraged the official who was seated behind his desk. He shouted at the encroachers not to enter his room and to remain outside. The line of women stepped back, I along with them. When there were just two women ahead of me in the queue, the Rationing Officer spotted me, “please come in, madam,” he invited. Among the group of poorly clad women I stood out as an incongruous sight. I could picture the man’s head. Obviously I belonged to a higher social status than the rest of the women. For all he knew, I might even be a senior government official’s daughter and he had to show me due consideration, otherwise his job might be at stake. But he was not prepared for my reaction to his differential invitation. “No, I won’t come in,” I replied. “I’ll remain outside your room as I was asked to do.” The Rationing Officer looked clearly uncomfortable sitting behind his desk while I stood outside his door. When the woman just ahead of me went in, he said, “Now you may come in madam.” As I entered, he said, “Please take your seat” indicating the solitary chair opposite his desk.

By now my democratic hackles had risen. How could he single me out for preferential treatment when the rest of the women who had come for a purpose similar to mine were being treated like sheep and cattle? “Thank you,” I replied, “but I’ll remain standing.” Having dismissed the other woman with a curt reply to her query, he turned to me. “What can I do for you, madam?” he asked. I handed him the form that I had filled up and told him the purpose of my visit. Then, as he was examining the form, I said, “you should not shout at people just because they are poor and illiterate. If you want them to do something you can ask them politely and they will do it.”

It was as if I had pressed an invisible switch. From an attitude of almost fawning subservience his manner changed to one of outright belligerence. Half rising from his chair, his face contorted with anger, he shouted at me, “you mind your own business; you don’t have to tell me my business. What is your business?” Still unruffled, I said, “My business is that I need your signature on this form so that I can apply for new ration cards for my family.” He hastily scribbled his signature on the form and pushed it towards me. When I asked him where I could find the rationing office in the area to which we would be moving, he snapped, “Ask your neighbor.” “Thank you for your help,” I said.

By now he was so completely rattled that the only words he could manage were, “Thank you too, madam.” During this little drama the scene in the room had undergone a change. The two women typists who had been tapping away at the antiquated machines had stopped their clickety-click, their eyes riveted on the rationing officer and his female adversary. The sleepy peon had suddenly come to life and was watching these unusual spectacles with his mouth agape.

I did not linger after my work was done, but I am sure that the rest of the women in the queue must have received at least a modicum of the courtesy due to them.

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