Many years ago, in a small magazine I used to work for, I had hired a recent arrival in Delhi as a cut-paste artist (a job that has since become extinct with progress in publishing technology). He had been working as an electrician’s helper in his hometown, and knew nothing about our business, but I thought he was a plucky lad to have travelled to an unknown city to seek his fortune, so I should help him. The man did absolutely no work. He drank several gallons of water every day and hung around the office reading newspapers. Finally, one day, I had to call him in and speak to him. Look, I told him, you showed initiative and courage to come to the big city so far from your home and were willing to learn a new trade. There are huge economic opportunities in Delhi; if you work hard, you can see your earnings grow several times in a few years, maybe even double every year. Please try to give some attention to your work, do what you are asked to do. He thought about this a bit, then, while cleaning his right ear with a little finger, said: “Actually, sir, when I was a child, I had paratyphoid. After that, whenever people talk to me, I don’t quite understand what they are really saying.”

I sacked him immediately. The next morning, he came to collect his dues, wearing new clothes, with a smug smirk on his face, which grew smugger as he was going out of the door for the last time. “You think you bought me just because you were paying me a salary?” said the smirk. “There, I showed you people what I am, I don’t give a damn for your lousy job and your money.” He was going back to his dead-end hometown. As I read Mamata’s deranged rantings in the papers every day and see pictures of all her ignorant and deluded supporters, I am reminded of that man and what his notions of pride and victory were.

... contd.