A Third View

Bendre had lived in different states of India, and was sick of being invariably treated as an outsider everywhere. A clear hostile demarcation would never betray his relationship status with local people, be it Bihar, Punjab, Gujarat or South. Having had enough of this, he finally decided to go to his native Maharashtra when he was offered a job in Satara. Upon reaching the small town but with the presence allover of his own language and culture and a sense of belonging, in a few days he found his accumulated wrath and disgust petering away. He found he had dislodged his mass of disgust on few outsiders there in Satara. He, sitting in his cabin with a sketch lying on his table looked at it. Two views, elevation and plan of an engineering component were drawn on the sketch. A third side view would have completed the drawing, but it was not drawn thinking that the side view can be inferred and drawn on the basis of the two views. This was what had been happening with him, he thought. He had been the third and unnecessary side view for all those years of his living in outer states, thought he. Now he was the two drawn views and outsiders here were the not drawn side view; he smiled as he thought.

Bendre had traveled 5 hours in the bus from his town Satara to reach Borivili of Mumbai to deposit the high value cheque- his lifelong income- in the public sector bank. Later, this money was to be invested in post office, and used for Bachelor education of his son in a Mumbai college. He filled the cheque deposit form carefully, checked and rechecked the entries of the account number, and then carried the cheque together with the form to the counter. To his surprise, the bank man won’t accept the cheque at the counter; it was to be just dropped in the insecure looking cheque deposit box. No stamped counterfoil, just nothing. He requested the bank clerk, a local Marathi young man, to at least give him a counterfoil stamped and signed, but it was not to be heard. Checks only more in value of 20 lacks were to be attended on the counter. Soon a Gujarati businessman came with his fat cheque, which the counter clerk accepted and entered the details in his computer. When the businessman went away, Bendre again reached the counter, and requested the clerk that he could not take chances with his 5 lakh 57 thousand rupee amount check by simply dropping it in the precariously looked after drop box. The bank man in his ennui and indignation simply pointed to the deposit box. The man , Pratap Bendre, a Marathi writer as well as a Physics postgraduate, didn’t have the courage to drop the cheque like that in that wooden box hung on the rain marred wall of the bank near the more often than not unattended door. May be even if the check would not be misplaced, the rain water from the outside might destroy it. He looked helplessly at the bank man; but the dead expression on the bank clerk’s face knew no example of disparity done by him to the poor, vulnerable customers of the bank. Suddenly, Bendre realized the presence of disgust similar to the one of the old. He looked at the unyielding bank man, and then tore the form in two, tore it further; his face calm but the tumult and disgust inside storming and finding escape from his mind that had upheld a superficial equanimity. He stopped a bit, then not content, he tore the already turned bits into yet further smaller pieces. A thought dawned upon Bendre that he, standing in a lone house, was a lone harrowed man who had a nonplussing, heavy sleep descending steeply on him; and it was vital that he evade this sleep somehow. He thought what the lone man might do in the helplessness like that. Perhaps the man would, like Bendre’s mandal friends used to do on examination nights in High school classes, start doing a workout to drive away the sleep. Then when tired and being still afraid of the devastating sleep, the man would stop a bit, only to resume his option of physical deterrent to sleep a little later. And perhaps the man would not believe his ridding himself of the sleep so easily; this would keep prodding him to continue his efforts, again and again, in bits for quite some time.

The aforementioned cheque was the fee that Pratap Bendre, the Marathi writer and physics scholar had received from a Marathi filmmaker who had planned to make a film based on one of the writer’s stories. After the office hours, this day he sat on a table in a tea and snacks restaurant accompanied by one of his friends and the only confidant of his real life. Gopal Naik, dragging away from him the empty cup of tea, said “why don’t you open an account in Janata Sahakari Bank? It has a branch in Ghatkopar. In this bank, the money would be safe. I know very well. The bank is operating in Maharastra for the last 30 years. Most Marathi people prefer to have accounts in Maharastian banks, why? Because they trust the Marathi owners of such banks. This is because of the reputation of the owner families allover Maharashtra as trustworthy people. There are other reasons as well. They offer 10 percent interest on fixed deposits compared to governments 6 percent.�

“Do you know how unimportant all this would become if I … You know what I mean. You have seen all those publications which are lying useless in a metal trunk in the house. If I sell one of them, I can buy a bank or a forging shop where you and I work.�

�Now don’t start that again Pratap. We both know you won’t do that all your life. You are sick of your small ways of life but still you will not take a materializing step.�

Pratap just looked at his friend and with his head gradually leaning downwards; he decided to reach for the cigarette packet lying on the wooden table.

Pratap Bendre reached Ballavnagar of Gujarat. The place was a small town though Industrial products of this town were famous picks allover the country. Bendre had come for inspection of an order of his company for some forging items that were to be chrome plated by this company. .

Bendre reached the plant and was received in person by Parekh, the owner of the company. Bendre rejected the invitation of Parekh for lunch and insisted to start the inspection as soon as possible. He found that all the forgings of cylinders were under machined at rod side. There was no point in checking further. He rejected all the forging items. It had so happened that forging had come to this company from Bendre’s shop and were only chrome plated by this company.

A visibly shaken Parekh came running to the place in the shop where Bendre was taking the measurements. He was almost in a surrendering mood. He requested Bendre to come to his cabin. Upon reaching his cabin, he ordered for tea, turned to Bendre, and said in a speech that had apology, sycophancy, enticement all shamelessly put together.

“Now Mr. Bendre, I have some ideas. Suppose we shrink fit a sleeve on the rod side and you accept the rectified forging lot. You know how much loss I will incur if I am to replace all the defective forging.�

“No Mr. Parekh. It is not even technically acceptable. The cylinder would simply be flooded with oil. The forgings are going to be used in a MNC’s Steel plant.�

“Then how about changing the covers on the rod side? I will manage the seals. Please try to understand Mr. Bendre. I will run into losses beyond my capacity if you insist on replacing the items. And how about a personal 50,000=00 Rupee for you for the favour.�

Bendre immediately rose from his place and saying the words, “never again try to buy a Marathi man� left the office of Parekh.

Parekh had later pulled his wires and got the defective cylinders accepted. As the rumour was, he had paid one lakh fifty thousand to the Senior Inspector, a good part of which had gone to GM and AGM of the company. Bendre was not even informed as the file had been given to the senior inspector.


Bendre rested without motion on the sofa with his head sunken into his folded arms that were hiding his face; he leaning his depressed face with encircling arms on the armpit of the sofa. Then gradually it would happen as always. From some corner of his mind, a dormant spark would flash, immediately wiping in its surge, the depression, and making its presence of a moment ago quite unbelievable. His personality as a genius would rise to full scale and ‘this is what matters’ he would say to him. Then he would imagine him in his thoughts talking to his employers; imagining how those blighters and fools would be left speechless and slighted as he delivered his stiff sentences mentioning significance of his intellectual achievements (of published papers in physics) in contrast to their zeroes. The precipitous change in him would be redolent of a machine running silently in a sequestered, unmanned, noiseless and poorly illuminated corner casting the listlessly mutant shadows of the machine’s outline on the backdrop. It then happens without a herald; some fasteners fitted improperly start loosening and finally drop in the greasy foundation of the machine; this would trigger breaking loose of a hell and immediately change the surroundings packing it with alarmed presence and panicked, confused pieces of yelling conversations and instructions. The machine is vitally important; stopping it would run the losses into unimaginable figures.

Bendre had come to Mumbai to see his son. Suddenly, a Marathi movement against north Indians in Mumbai rose to peak level fueled by politicians and there were violent scenes in Mumbai. As Bendre was trudging to VT station to take his train for Satara, a mob came charging near a waiting taxi, pulled the north Indian driver out and started beating him. Others started destroying his taxi. Bendre ran to the scene and pulled the man away, sheltering him from the mob. Others engaged in destruction also stopped a bit to see what was happening. Bendre said in marathi, “this Bihari is not an outsider here. Do you hear me? He is not an outsider. We, the poor Marathi people are same as him. Money is the demarcation in vogue, not the caste or creed. We are fools if we don’t know our fraternity. This man is our brother. We are outsiders in this land of the rich.� And leaving the place, Bendre resumed his trudging towards the station with a head sunken on his shoulders. He recalled the words spoken to him over phone by Parekh of the Gurarat company, “ Mr. Bendre, your two fellow maharastians have sold themselves for the same matter over which you declined. Now you can see, Mr. Bendre. All of us, come what may, are helpless and become willing to sell ourselves in this age if the money is good. It is not the old time of the saying “Marathas don’t sell themselves.� All of us sell ourselves if our needs press us.