It’s My Name
written by: B. Jeyamohan
@jeyamohanwriter
translated by: Jegadeesh Kumar
@jekay2ab
When I arrive at the Research Coordination Center at seven in the evening, only Doctors Harihara Subramaniam and Mohammad Jalil are present. The cars parked outside are familiar to me. I’m relieved that it is not too late. I can reach here in ten minutes by car from my office, but my departure has been delayed as usual. What I do in the name of a scientist is just administrative work, a most popular job in India that involves supervising, monitoring, surveying, recording…
The driver opens the door, and I step out, carrying my personal documents. My crumpled cotton sari’s mundhanai is lifted and spun by the breeze. I pull it back down, press it against my waist, and walk away.
The Research Coordination Center’s facade was designed by highly skilled horticulturists and is adorned with several plants, whose names I don’t know, except for a rose. The building lights are shining brightly. The British-style white building with the shiny twin pillars at the front looks flattened to the ground.
The guards recognize me and let me in. A guard follows me down the long, cool, quiet corridor on the soft, high-quality carpet. The walls are adorned with expensive original paintings in bronze frames, like it is some five-star hotel. But none of it makes the structure beautiful. It only causes distress and dread in everyone, as if it were a beautifully crafted killing machine. Killing? Nobody kills in this place. Violence is not practiced here. But isn’t hiding something a form of violence?
There is no violence? I chuckle to myself. It is just the scientists’ fancy. If a missile manufactured here is used properly – used? Dammit! What ridiculous rhetoric! – in a war, it can cost hundreds of thousands of lives. Men who speak softly, have gray sideburns, thin cold fingers, eyes turned inward behind thick glasses, and who would consider even a mustache to be savage, prepare these missiles here day and night. I’m one of them.
When I look in the mirror, I envision the perfect outfit: the starched sari, the sleeveless blouse, the thick glasses, the lipstick, the gray bob haircut. What joy I felt when I first took on this role twenty years ago! I imagined myself as the next Marie Curie! It was a time when I was mulling over the lines of my Nobel acceptance speech. A period in which preconceived notions flooded the mind in search of methods of proof.
On my first day as an associate scientist, my desk was piled high with paperwork. Most of it pertained to employee travel reimbursement accounts that I compared, calculated, recommended, and distributed… over and over again. For years. I copied my superiors’ research papers and searched for and collected footnotes. I was allowed to go everywhere except the two floors that housed the purchase department and the research planning department, both of which are run by people close to the Chairman.
Early on, I realized that research was something that could not possibly be done in Indian research institutions. Working on research here implies making do with some of the plans and drafts stolen or purchased by the intelligence agency. Many of those who began with me left the country a few years later. Those who were unable to leave were gradually transformed into desk clerks. There were people who committed suicide, like Snehalatha Reddy. People who were mentally deranged, like Pratap Nair. People who were missing, like Harish Bandopadhyay.
I did not join any of the categories. In my sixth year of service, I wrote a thesis for Anantha Padmanaba Iyengar that drew the attention of three international seminars. It was eventually published in a leading scientific journal. “Are you from my town?” Iyengar asked through his glasses as he led me into his room. I just mentioned my father’s name. Looking at the papers on his table, he smiled. I moved up the ladder as easily as an elephant through a crowd at a festival would.
Keerthy Naidu comes up behind me in a hop. “What’s going on, Padmavathi?” he says.
“How do I know? I was just asked to come here.”
“Forget it. Who doesn’t know about your ‘secret’ relationship with that old man?”
I remain silent. To stoop to a certain level at a top research institution, even a fourth-rate liquor store must come down seven to eight steps.
In the bright, spacious waiting room, I take a seat on an earthen-coloured cushion. Hiren Mukherjee arrives with two cups of coffee in his hands, sits next to me, and offers me one.
“Thanks.”
“How did your daughter’s college admission go? Did she get it?”
“She did. It’s her favorite course alright. But she is not happy about leaving town and staying in a hostel in Delhi.”
“Give her a week. She’ll forget all about home.”
“I’m fine with it. But it’s too much for my husband.”
“Don’t get me wrong. You South Indians are incredibly sentimental, clinging to each other all the time in little packets of family.”
“That, to me, is happiness, the meaning of life.”
“Is this how a high-ranking scientist talks?”
“High-ranking? Scientist? Nonsense. Look, Hiren, what does Science have to do with us? There is a handsome salary, car, bungalow, and status, that’s all. Damn, sometimes I think I should quit and move to Delhi to live with Manju.”
“What about your salary, car, bungalow?”
“Shit. My husband has no prospect of transfer anytime soon. He doesn’t even know how to make coffee. Someone has to cook him food every day.”
“Do you think it’s easy to make Srirangam degree coffee? Is there any kind of training course for that?”
The orderly emerges from inside and stands next to me.
“What?”
“He’s calling you.”
I go inside. The oldster is deeply absorbed in a file and motions for me to sit down.
“What’s he saying?” he inquires.
“Who?”
“The bearded fellow.”
The oldster detests Mukherjee: he who does not bow. More importantly, a scientist who is truly interested in science. A few of his articles have been published and have garnered attention. K. Narayanasami once said: There is goat sacrifice in higher research institutions every year. Goats that jump around uncontrollably are executed instantly. It is no secret that Mukherjee wears an oleander garland around his neck and sports kungumam on his forehead, forever prepared to be sacrificed. Abdul Kalam had written to him, complimenting him on his research article. The oldster refused when Mukherjee asked permission to go to Copenhagen. Homemade it as a matter of prestige and refused to budge even when Mukherjee went all the way to Delhi to push his case. I look into the old man’s dark, narrow eyes. How many conspiracies and tricks would he have executed to get to this position?
“What about him?” I ask.
“A clever fellow.”
“I know.”
“He has a bright future in cryogenics. He’ll probably fly away.”
I suddenly feel sympathy for Mukherjee.
“How’s Manju doing?”
“She left home crying.”
“Poor child! You could have got her admitted somewhere here.”
“What to do? She didn’t get into any college here. Her marks aren’t that great.”
“Mmmm…” he hums a tune in Sindhu Bhairavi Raga. He knows nothing about music. He only knows those four lines.
“We’ve received an order from above. We need to send someone to lead our research team that goes to Russia.”
My stomach turns cold in horror. “What about Hari?”
“He is sick.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. Some poison has been injected into his system. It’s unclear if it is germs or radiation. They’re examining him.”
Hari’s face appears in front of my eyes. The research team is made up entirely of spies. A senior scientist is required to lead the team solely to be scapegoated in the end. Everything is clear to me now.
“This is a huge opportunity for Mukherjee. He’ll have lots of contacts. A chance for him to visit all of the research sites in person. What do you say?”
“That is true.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll call each one and tell them about it. Don’t blabber anything in the consultation meeting. Do you get it?”
“Okay.”
I see Mukherjee and Naidu as I walk out, laughing and talking to one another. About female scientists and their body parts, what else?
I grab another cup of coffee and start sipping. My head aches a little. I can’t wait to get home once this goat sacrifice is over. Can’t wait to take this costume off and start cooking for my husband. I’m not sure if he saw the Chapati and Kurma in the fridge or fell asleep while watching TV.
At half past eight, we gather in the secret council room. The doors close when everyone is seated. Even the last of the orderlies leaves.
The oldster begins with a formal speech about the research center’s accomplishments, projects, the contributions of its people, the expected quality of service… All of us listen calmly and relaxedly, knowing fully well who the victim will be. Naidu wants some clarifications. Mohammed Jalil discusses the departmental reforms he is implementing. The oldster appreciates and listens with a feigned but unexaggerated astonishment.
“These are not new reforms,” Jalil points out. “These are the things that our respected Chairman successfully implemented when he was the Chairman of the Kanpur Research Centre twenty years ago. This is only a successful copy, in my opinion. I must apologize for not being able to adhere to copyright law.”
There is laughter. “No, no,” says the old man, laughing. “It’s all due to your imagination and abilities. I know it very well, Mr. Jalil.”
There is a well-known research center joke. “Have you been promoted to the rank of senior scientist? What did you discover?” asks one scientist. “The itchiest spot on my department Chairman’s body,” responds the shrewd winner.
Mukherjee looks me in the eyes. He moves his lips slowly as if he were eating appalams. I tuck my grin behind my lips.
The sword slowly emerges from its sheath. It circles the room, touching every neck as if to say, ‘Look! This is such a lovely flower garland! How delicate!’
“As you are aware, the further refinement of our research depends on the relationship we have with others who conduct research in the same field. Also, the greater our absorption capacity…”
The sword is now resting on the table. The game has almost reached its end. All that remains is for the scapegoat to be moved a little further. Looking at Mukherjee irritates me. What type of birth is this? Like the supreme Brahman, he sits there, oblivious to everything.
“Let’s get some coffee,” the Chairman suggests. The bodies make a few movements. With a slight shock, I noticed something odd a few moments later. Nobody gets out of their chair for coffee. The coffee machine and paper cups are located in a corner of the room. Eyes occasionally reach out and touch me. The Chairman carefully examines a file, while everyone wears stiffness and an artificial indifference.
Just as I’m about to stand up to get my coffee, the reality of what’s going on hits me like an electric shock. Snehalatha Reddy was the one who filled paper cups with coffee and served everyone for as long as she was there. I hadn’t noticed the subtle bias in the act because it was usually done with a friendly laugh and formal teasing. She isn’t here now. So, it’s my time to serve coffee.
For a brief moment, I’m naked in the consulting room. I shield myself completely with heavy, iron armor.
As the Chairman closes his file, I open one of mine, flipping through papers and staring at them. Glances collide with my armor.
Finally, the Chairman gets up and goes to get himself some coffee. There is a commotion as others too get up to bring their coffee. “Aren’t you drinking coffee, Padma?” Naidu inquires.
“No. I’ve had two already.”
“Well, it’s good for your health to drink less coffee,” the old man says blandly.
Everyone gets up to drop the empty cups in the trash can and returns. The Chairman dabs his mouth with a handkerchief and clears his throat.
“All right, friends. We were discussing the high-level research delegation that we are supposed to send to Russia…”
The sword comes back to life. I look at Mukherjee. I look at everyone’s face. I think of my baby, my husband, my home, and the books in my private room… My head becomes as heavy as an iron ball, strangling my neck. I’m not sure how many minutes have passed or how many words have been spoken.
The long-awaited moment has arrived. The sword cuts through me like a knife through butter. Each face maintains the serenity of a deity. That is it. It’s all over.
But despair and terror do not swell in me. There are no tears. I am astounded to notice how calm and clear I am.
“Padma has been one of my brilliant students. I’m happy to assign her this huge responsibility…”
Suddenly, I realize I’ve been writing something on the white paper in front of me. When I see that I’ve written my name over and over again, a smile appears on my lips.
The End
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This story appears in A Fine Thread and Other Stories, a collection of stories by Jeyamohan translated from Tamil into English by Jegadeesh Kumar.
- It’s My Name - February 15, 2025
- Rope-Snake - March 22, 2023
- Over The Fire - March 19, 2022
