Mrs. Commissioner

by Sudha Nair

MRS. SHANTHI VARMA
ASST. COMMISSIONER OF INCOME TAX

read the shiny black letters on a dark polished wooden plaque outside the room. The name seemed as formidable as Mrs. Varma’s reputation in the department. She sat at her desk, as was her routine every morning, having her mid-morning coffee with a plate of sandwiches. She didn’t mind keeping Mr. Motilal, her client waiting outside. After all there were still five minutes left for his appointment at 11.30.

At 11.30 sharp she rang the bell, and Mr. Motilal was sent in. “Good morning, madam,” he said, looking nervous even before they had begun. She nodded and motioned to the chair so she could begin her inquiry. One by one she questioned him about the discrepancies in his documents, pointing to the mismatch in his bank statements and the documents that he had submitted, the penalty that would be slapped on him for income not declared to the government. “It must have been an accident,” he said, “Believe me, madam. I have declared all my income.”

“There are no accidents, Mr. Motilal. What about this purchase?” She pointed her finger at a line that she had highlighted. “There are several such items in which the source of income is questionable. This would incur a fine that you have to pay immediately. I need you to bring the required documents for the marked items.” He looked crestfallen. He was breaking into a sweat. There was no doubt that Mrs. Varma would not spare him at all.

“That is all,” she said finally. “See me in my office at 11.30 on the same day next week,” and sent him away like a school boy sent out of the classroom for bad behaviour. He paused for a moment on his way out and said, “Madam, I have a request. My wife has asked that I invite you and your family for lunch next week. She is a very good cook. Many officers have eaten at my house and complimented her cooking.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Motilal. I don’t accept such favours from my clients. I shall see you next week in my office. Have a good day.”

She could sense that Mr. Motilal had been insulted. She had little patience with dishonesty and bribery. She had left him with no escape route. Mr. Motilal would have to cough up the penalty no matter what trick he tried.

Mrs. Varma’s stressful day continued with such cases. There were more meetings and more clients who walked in and out of her office all day. At 6 pm it was time for her to go home. She trudged slowly to the train station, stopping to buy roasted peanuts to eat on the way. The train was packed and she didn’t get a seat. It was a 45-minute ride home but she preferred the train ride to riding in a government paid car. At least it saved her a lot of time and got her home in time to carry on with her household chores.

Stepping into her home, Mrs. Varma saw that Mr. Naresh Varma was in a foul mood that evening. “Why can’t I find anything in this house? The newspaper is missing, and I did not even have time to look at it this morning. And why are you girls watching TV? Do you have nothing to study?” he went on. Mrs. Varma started making dinner, folded the laundry, helped the girls with their homework and sent them to bed, and sat at the dining table chopping vegetables for the next day.

She began to dread Mr. Varma’s mood as it neared 10 o’clock for he sat with his bottle of whisky, pouring it out peg by peg into a glass, accompanied with a plate of fish that she had just finished frying. After three pegs, he turned belligerent. “Why is this fish so salty?” She pretended not to hear the irritation in his voice. “I must have added a little more by accident,” she said gently. She was used to this by now, his frustration at work pouring out in the form of abuses at her. She had learnt to ignore his fury and let him vent. “Accident! There are no accidents,” he fumed. “You think you can make an honest and hard-working man like me take this crap that you serve me every day. You! You don’t even care that I’m talking to you. One day you burn the fish, the next day you’ve made it too salty. You think I am like the men who line up outside your office, palpitating like idiots and twiddling their thumbs while you reprimand and belittle them. To me, you are just a good-for-nothing wife.” He continued ranting in an ascending pitch.

In the past she would have retorted at him. That evening she didn’t say a word, but her eyes were clouded suddenly. It blurred her vision, and she almost nicked her finger with the knife. She slowly took the chopped vegetables back into the kitchen and calmly brought out his dinner and laid it on the table. “Have your dinner. I’ll make you something else for tomorrow,” she said, then left the room. She knew that he would eat dinner and then watch TV for an hour before he went to bed. She went to clear the table when she heard him wash his hands. Then she closed the kitchen and went to bed. He slumped into his easy chair, his eyes beginning to droop. He started flicking through channels and finally settled on a movie for the night. By morning he would have forgotten everything he said.

She didn’t like his drinking habit but she’d given up on him a long time ago. She knew she could handle tougher men at work but it was different at home. After 20 years of marriage, she knew her true power was her silence. If she yelled back at him it would frighten her girls into thinking that their parents were having a fight. Her kids were growing up and asked her why she tolerated their father’s abuses. Did they not love each other anymore? “If a couple of drinks comfort him, let him be. All I want is peace,” she said. All she cared about was a good education and marriage for her girls, a well-deserved pay check, and peace at home. At one time she may have dreamt about a loving father for her girls and a doting husband, but now all she wanted was a good night’s sleep.

Mrs. Shanthi Varma sat on her bed, clutching a balm that she started to apply to her aching feet. She remembered that she hadn’t eaten her dinner, but was too tired to go back into the kitchen. She thought of Mr. Motilal’s invitation to lunch, of how he had bristled when she had refused. She envisioned Mr. Motilal taking out his anger on his wife, seething with anger at the authoritative commissioner who had taken him to task that morning, and rejected his lunch invitation as well. “Poor Mrs. Motilal,” she sighed as she pulled up the cover and switched off the lamp.

Sudha, a mother of two, is constantly trying to pursue new avenues to push her creative boundaries. A chronic daydreamer, she is in awe of people who have followed their heart. Sudha is passionate about music, fitness, her family, and most recently, writing. 

Pic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/genista/

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