What I will say is in the realm of fialty – ‘fi’ as in fiction and ‘alty’ as in realty. The word is used for anecdotes that are in an area between fiction and realty. There is a soap on the tube airing juicy conversations between the ubiquitous (wherever there is a CD there is…) Amar Singh (AS) and a few cronies and industrialists. AS always reminds me of my school fellow Mannu B. Com. (MBC). I had attended a boarding school in Kannur on the North coast of Kerala.
I brought my army team to a PSU in Bangalore in the beginning of the last decade. I was still in uniform. On a first posting really down south, I had an opportunity to network with a few of my old school mates who have made Bangalore their home. One day, I got a call from the reception of this PSU telling me there was one certain Mr. Mamoo, wanting to see me. Earlier Saimesh, a senior at school and a neighbour in my village-town (there were/are no typical villages in Kerala) now settled in Bangalore had told me about MBC. I gave the green signal to let him in. I was more than curious to meet this fellow, three years my junior at school and from a neighbouring town to my own, in Kerala.
Soon, MBC was ushered into my office with all the trappings of fauj in attendance. Of medium height with a round countenance, on the threshold of balding, a thin typical Kerala style moustache lining the upper lip, MBC sauntered in wearing a bush shirt, trousers and leather shoes. The shirt was not tucked in. We hugged, although I could not then recognize him from Adam. We discussed the school and old boys (and some girls from the convent adjacent to our school) over cups of tea and biscuits. When it was time to leave he handed me a CV of his son, a fresher, who had applied to be an apprentice engineer with this PSU. A stepping stone before taking off for Dubai, Sharjah or Kuwait, I thought. I had no mind to refuse and so accepted the CV and promised to look in. He also insisted that Ramesh and I with our respective wives attend and Iftar – it was the id season - at his residence on the week end. At the iftar, dum biriyani and accompaniments after few tots of ‘imported’ Scotch whisky were exemplary and MBC and wife were hosts beyond compare. I felt happy for old time’s sake – or was it the scotch?
A couple of days later while in my office, I got a call from the CMD’s (of the PSU) office asking me to meet him immediately. This was strange as the urgency would not be so unless there was an emergency akin to war. So I dashed off to the HQ complex, where I was directly rushed into his office. Lo behold! What do I see? There he was, our MBC, a cup of tea half full in one hand and a half bitten off pastry in the other, sitting cross legged across from the CMD, wearing a wide grin in addition to his traditional bush shirt and all. It was obvious they had exchanged talks beyond pleasantries. The CMD greeted me “there you are Vish, here is your langoti yar, do you recognize him? It seems he came to know you are here and did not know how to get to you; so he came to me…..” Well I could only stare at MBC in bewildered appreciation. Before we left, the CMD had assured MBC of a place for his son among the next batch of apprentice engineers to be hired by his Company.
I learnt a lot about MBC in the subsequent months and years. A strictler, he is a member of the back-scratcher club. He does not do anything for free and does not accept obligations. No favours done no favours taken – be it a friend or foe. There is a price tag on everything. A good principle to follow in his trade.
He says, there is only God who can do better than him – and you can see he believes that when he says it. He can even create authentic births and deaths, on paper, from thin air. If he undertakes a job, consider it done. In Bangalore everybody knows him and he knows everybody; that is everybody who matter. You do not meet people like him until you have met him.
He is the wheeler-dealer.
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