A tale to tell

I am a PUC. A acirc;euro;tilde;paper under considerationacirc;euro;trade;. Today, I am about two years old. I have moved from the mi...

I am a PUC. A acirc;euro;tilde;paper under considerationacirc;euro;trade;. Today, I am about two years old. I have moved from the mighty cabinet minister to the care of a clerk. Several times. I am still a PUC. Lying in a file cover. In one of the pigeonholes. Gathering dust. But I have a tale to tell.

The government had assured senior citizens that they would get pension. To be comfortable and independent in the evening of their lives. This had kindled a ray of hope. In the minds of many. The old and gullible people had really started dreaming of better days. But like many other promises, this too was not kept. The payment was not made. So, some people had gone to the tehsil office. Persuaded the petitions writer to prepare a petition. Thus, I was born. Obviously, under some inauspicious stars.

The sarpanch had then prevailed upon the local member of the Legislative Assembly to take me to the minister. He had. And after the usual courtesies, I was in the hands of the honourable minister. He had scribbled some instructions and passed me on to his personal assistant. Since then, it has been a long, arduous and unending journey.

I was registered. Placed before the dealing assistant. Given a good hammering. On an old typewriter. Vintage 1932. With a lengthy note, I was put up before the deputy superintendent. Another note. Then the superintendent had done his bit. The under secretary, the deputy secretary, the secretary and the principal secretary had merely appended their initials. Finally, I was in the lap of the financial commissioner. acirc;euro;tilde;acirc;euro;tilde;Quote the rules,acirc;euro;trade;acirc;euro;trade; was his command. And with that had begun my return journey. Same route. Same rituals. Ladder by ladder. Step by step.

After two months, I was back to square one. With the assistant. He again typed a lengthy note. Quoted the governmentacirc;euro;trade;s instructions on the subject. He referred to the rules as well. Thus started the upward ascent. Again a smooth sail. Till, I reached the top of the bureaucratic ladder. Only to roll back to the bottom. With a short but crisp observation.

I have had a few rounds. Every time, the MLA meets the minister, I hear the telephone ring. I am picked up from a pile. Thrashed with a rod. I guess this is the babuacirc;euro;trade;s way of shaking off the unwanted dust. And my journey begins. Upwards and then downwards.

In this interregnum of two years, I have grown from a page to a pile. From a sheet to a sheaf of paper. I am not a full-fledged file. I present a fairly formidable front. My colour and complexion have undergone change. These bear testimony to my age. I have moved through many hands. Also typewriters. I can almost recognise the touch. Of the individual as well as the typewriter.

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During the rounds, I have met various kinds of clerks, assistants and superintendents. Also the secretaries. At five levels. The last three with different designations.

On one side, I carry the tale of woe of the poor petitioners. The old and innocent people who were hoping for heaven on earth. They were waiting expectantly. They would stretch their eyes for the postman. Every day. They must be totally disappointed. On the other side, I have moved from pillar to post. Hoping to be laid to rest. In the foreseeable future. To enjoy eternal sleep. But the end is still nowhere in sight. Why is it so?

I am only a piece of paper. Lifeless. Even speechless. With no sensation of pain. But look at the fate of the living begins. The old, decrepit and helpless ones. Their dreams seem to have been simply shattered. Whom should they tell their tale?