Grey. The only word that could describe this office. Its grey walls covered with the graffiti left by generations of spiders and their annually dusted cobwebs. The windows were a showcase of various types of patterned glass, each pane replaced, when the broken glass could no longer be held up by hastily pasted newspapers, by the lowest bidder. The faded images of gods and goddesses interspersed those of actresses from bygone times, staring with their plastic grins and outdated hairstyles from calendars. Files stood on every desk like mini skyscrapers. The petitions and lives of thousands of people lay buried somewhere in its dusty folds. At the end of this long hall, to the left, in a corner, under the wash of its single rickety ‘Usha’ fan lay the domain of Raaghavan.
R. Raghavan. B.Com. Accountant. The little wooden board on his overcrowded desk proclaimed. Placed in such a way, that no visitor could ever miss reading it. On the desk a large glass sheet held down all that was dear in Raghavan’s life. A dozen different pictures of gods and goddesses, a picture of his 3 year old son, random visiting cards, a list of important phone numbers and the train schedule from 6 months ago.
At precisely 9.34 am, Raghavan would set his ‘tiffin’ carrier to the right of his chair, his small imitation leather briefcase to the left and say his prayers, before the tiny mob of his admirers fought for his time. The first twenty or so minutes of his time would be spent going through office papers and pending files, at least the more recent ones, and then as he sipped on his tea he would listen to the problems of others. This is not to be mistaken with the problems within the office. Raghavan never bothered himself with that; there were unions to do that. The people who poured out their problems to him were colleagues (a few of them), strangers, (referred to him by word of mouth), and just about anybody else. He would listen, occasionally scribbling strange numbers onto a sheet of office stationery. Scratching his immaculately ‘pomenaded’ hair he would then offer his advise. “Add another R to your name… things will be fine”. “What is your vehicle number... aha! Terrible, very unlucky. The total is 6… enemy of your birth number. First…sell it then you will see improvement”.
Raghavan's first love in life was numbers. Numerology.
Born into a family of 9 siblings, Raghavan was the youngest. His mother, tired of bearing and rearing children, hardly had time for the eager little
number cruncher. His sisters brought him up. Despite his love for numbers, Raghavan was never a bright boy. Barely managing to scrape through his SSLC exams, his fathers influence was the only reason he got a seat in the prestigious Theyagaraya College. Of course, the fact that his father was a member of the board of trustees helped too.
His father was the first qualified Chartered Accountant in the city, some said in South India, but no one was really sure… and as long as no proof to the contrary came forth, so the legend remained.” At least one of my sons should continue my practise after my time…and you are the only rascal yet to finish your studies”, his father often said.
It took him 4 years to finish his 3 year degree program. Then it was time to study to be a chartered accountant. While Raghavan loved numbers, he could never really fathom the mysteries of accounts. Credit, debit, Malthus, supply, demand, trial balance… it was not his world. Numbers, pure and simple, were his loves. Nothing more complicated than addition and subtraction.
That’s when he discovered number plates. Those characterless little boards that are a vehicles identity. He never saw vehicles, he only saw numbers. “Akka, today, on the way back, this MRA 7841, nearly knocked down TNA 7732. luckily TNR 8145 moved forward… otherwise…avalovuthan. Periya accident!”
“Sir, big traffic jam sir. TNU 7347 tried to make an illegal U turn, but got stopped by oncoming traffic, mainly TNB 1987. In the meantime this ORG 347, Orissa, tried to get through the gap…but TMR 4065 was also trying. That’s it… big mess… that’s why I am late sir.”
Life inched along in an endless traffic jam of number plates and numbers.
9 attempts at the Inter C.A exam and he still was unable to get through. Each brother stepped in to try and help him get through.
“Come to Ooty, to the estates, nothing to disturb or distract you there”, the eldest said. Attempt number 10.
“Military discipline. There is nothing better.” Attempt number 11.
“Muttaal. That’s what you are. How were you born as my son?” his father said.
‘Get him married. That will teach him some responsibility…then he will surely pass”, said his mother.
There it was the solution to end all solutions. Marriage. 15th December… perfect, total of the numbers 9.
Soon after, he got a job…the attempts stopped. He discovered numerology. Jayshankar was born. He got a promotion. Just one… and his fame within the office seeped out through its rickety windows and leaky tiles to the world outside. Well perhaps that’s an exaggeration… for it reached the ears of just a few.
For Raghavan, the number 9 was the mother of all numbers. It is magical he would say. Add 9 to any number… add the digits and you will get the original number… go ahead try it...9 + 7 equals 16… add 1 and 6… there, you see 7. Multiply 9 into any number… same result. Why? Why are there 9 planets? Navarasas? Navadhanyam? Why… because it is magic. The purifier. The cleanser. Why do you think I am this lucky in life… because I am the 9th child in my family… what greater proof do you need?”
Nobody thought about asking him what was so lucky about the life of a low level accountant who eked out a living in a decrepit government office. Nobody wondered why this self proclaimed numerologist never got his numbers right and transformed his life to one filled with fame, fortune and recognition. But that’s the way it is. People often spend hours listening to sage advice handed out by a bird carrying gypsy. A grain of rice dropped at the right time… the picture of one of the gods from the 33 crore that we can choose from… and suddenly the gypsy knows everything about your life. How generous and talented you are. Why nobody ever understands the real you. How you have been going through a rough patch… but now things are going to change. Just pay a tiny little sum of 501 rupees… a special prayer and a talisman will transform your life. Fifteen minutes later it’s someone else. The same bird… another grain of rice… a different picture… the same story. Yet, nobody asks the bird man why he doesn’t do the same for himself? Say a special prayer, grab a talisman… and become a columnist in some weekly magazine and hold forth on television on the fate, lives, loves and fortunes of a billion different people unified under some dubious moon sign or sun sign or tarot sign… or parrot picture!
But that’s life… and for Raghavan life was all about 9. When he bought himself a small motorcycle, he paid an extra little ‘something’, to ensure that the numbers and letters added up to 9. TNZ 5475.
It’s difficult to imagine that Raghavan ever had an enemy. Such a nondescript life never attracted the attention of anybody. Not even the proverbial evil eye. But Raghavan did have a self proclaimed enemy. The number - 6. “Saathaan”, he would say,” Terrible number. Never trust someone who is born on 6th. Life number or birth number adds up to 6…don’t even let his shadow fall on you.”
It was a strange obsession. Raghavan would never travel in a vehicle whose numbers added up to 6. If a six featured in the digits and the total was not 6, and if he had no choice but to travel in it… he would do so with a prayer on his lips all through the trip. Berth number 42 on the train, the bogey number adds up to 6; train number adds up to 6… Raghavan would not travel. Life for his beleaguered wife was a procession of cancelled journeys and hours standing in the ladies queue at the booking office…but she never complained. Good, Brahmin wives of government accountants, never complain. But they do have doubts… and that’s what prompted her to ask Raghavan a pertinent question. After all she had passed her SSLC exams and knew a thing or two about numbers. Running the house on just 2675 rupees was an exercise in mathematical artistry.
So she said, “But Anna, three sixes add up to 9…isn’t that good?” “How did Ravana fool Sita?” he said. “He came in disguise. What disguise? A Sadhu. A pious religious man. That’s what this is… evil trying to disguise itself. But it could only fool Sita, and it will fool you… because you are a woman. Me… no way. I can see through the disguise.” Being compared to Sita, the so called epitome of womanhood and the role model for all Indian wives was compliment enough for Mrs. Raghavan. She never brought up the topic of numbers ever again.
Life moved on in a blur of 9’s and 6’s. The spiders worked on their graffiti. The files piled up. The tea vendor changed… the insipid tea did not. The fan creaked to a halt one day unable to cut through the stagnant summer air on its twice rewound motor. Three newspaper window panes were changed. 78 more people received Raghavan's advice. The government changed because of 18 seats lost. 6 more employees crowded in. Then one day, Raghavan did not come to work. No leave letter. Nothing.
In a grey world of conformity and routine, one change can spell a disaster. As the office tried to understand the reason for this deviation from routine, 3 of the new government appointees strolled in.
‘Terrible accident no da?’
‘Aal out, surely, on the spot.’
‘These bus fellows must be shot. Did you see the state of that motorcycle?’
‘TNZ 5475? Yes…and not a scratch on the bus TNQ 6066.’
And then they knew.
The numbers added up. Perhaps Raghavan was right.
AJS=1 BKT=2 CLU=3 DMV=4 ENW=5 FOX=6 GPY=7 HQZ=8 IR=9
