Free I Am an Executioner by Rajesh Parameswaran Page A

somehow hesitated to disturb his profound reverie! This moment of foolish hesitation had the benefit of rewarding me with the idea that I should really corroborate this insanity, to reassure myself that R.’s equanimity was indeed an act—that it was he who was behaving outrageously, and not my own perceptions that had been shattered.
    I went to the window and called to Dhananjayan. When he came inside, I politely asked R. to show Dhanu the letter, and R.—finished, apparently, with his reading—obliged.
    “Dhananjayan,” I asked, in the calmest, most agreeable tone I could muster, as if nothing at all were amiss, “would you please tell us what you think of this letter that R. has transcribed on my behalf?”
    Dhanu looked at R. and at me, with a bemused expression. Then he raised the letter to his eyes. I could not see his face behind the paper, but from the small clearings of his throat and mutterings of interest, I imagined him squinting and perusing, eager, as I had been, to find some meaning in what was clearly meaningless. He took a great deal of time in the perusal, and I must say, I was on tenterhooks, frightened lest he might have found some explanation for the madness on that page, some meaning that was plainly there, but that I, from some fundamental defect of intelligence, was unable to see.
    Finally, he returned the letter to my hand, and gazing now with assurance at R. and then at me, rocking his head with satisfaction, he offered the following analysis:
    “It’s a fine letter. Very fine, sir.”
    “Very fine?” I could only repeat, in a voice that sounded, to myself, small and distant.
    A horror was creeping into my soul, for here was sure evidence that I was mad, or that my eyes had lost reliable function. How many other things, I wondered, held meaning for everyone in the world but for me? Was it because I had been pampered by my parents, sheltered all my life in this hamlet, that the incapacity was not brought to my attention sooner?
    Only slowly did the explanation come to me, and lift, like the iron lid of a government well, the anxiety that rested heavily on my heart. Why, Dhananjayan was perfectly illiterate! Letters in written English were no more recognizable to him than letters written in language of birds. In my agitation, I had allowed myself to forget it: the boy had no idea whether he was looking at straight gibberish or the sonnets of Shakespeare!
    So again, I had reason to twist him up by the ear. “Talking out of your nose, Dhanu, eh? How many times have I told you not to speak when you don’t know what you are speaking about? I should be rid of the both of you now, should I not?”
    I released Dhanu’s ear and turned to R., reaffirmed now in my conviction that there was no option but to fire him, chuck him, blast him, discard him on the spot, cashier him, expel him, and expunge him. A secretary who could not take dictation, and moreover, pretended to take dictation while instead perpetrating outrageous crimes and wastages of ink and paper, could not and would not stand in my office.
    “Dhananjayan’s appraisal notwithstanding,” I told R., “can you tell me why I should not dismiss you here and now?”
    R. did not answer, nor did he seem in the least discomfited by my tirade, and in the again growing silence, I realized I did not have quite the “fire in my belly” to proceed. For courage, I drew closer to Dhananjayan, who stared at this unfolding scene, rubbing his tender ear, in perfect amazement. I patted Dhanu’sshoulder—no hard feelings—and said, “I’ve scolded Dhanu in good fun, but I’m sure even he would make a better secretary than you, R. What do you say, Dhananjayan Rajesupriyan? What would you do were you in my position?”
    Seeing now which way the wind was blowing, Dhanu did not hesitate to offer his opinion. “I would twist
his
ear and make him howl. I would. Then I would thrash him cent per cent, and leave him crying at his door. Shall I do it for