Alfred tips the scales

When I was in college, Alfred (not his real name) who managed the administrative office there, was among the most disliked people around. 

He was the chap we had to meet on most routine matters and his unsmiling, stern demeanour was hardly encouraging.  Now, most students who entered the office did so to find a way out of something; to atone, you could infer, for their sins.  Inadequate attendance was the commonest, a delay in the payment of fees, having misappropriated the parent’s grant of funds for an outing to the cinema, was another, requesting the use of some facility or a pardon for the damage of something that was college property (and where you could be easily indicted) was yet a third reason, but there were several. 

Even before you said what you had come to say, his head, with that neatly cut crop of hair and that clean shaven face with a sneer affixed on it,  would shake in an emphatic ‘No’.  He would look down at some other work he was doing and ignore you then, his manner that of an inspector dealing with a juvenile driver.  If you persisted, as most did, he would eye you with one of his trademark looks that was calculated to induce discomfort if not downright fear.  ‘Ask the Principal,’ he would say, as he turned away from you in final rejection of the pathetic piece of human flesh standing in front. 

It did not help that he was considered the eyes and ears of the Principal.  It certainly did not help that the faculty stayed out his way and refused to get involved,  with practised political ease that had been accumulated over the years. Yes, Alfred was a bummer, if there ever was one, and I made it my policy to have as little to do with him as I could.  Instead I stayed, for much of my tenure in college, in the Principal’s good books.

It was in my final year that I had a particularly bad run-in with Mr Sneer and was needlessly hauled in front of the Principal to explain myself; the actual incident is now a distant memory and quite irrelevant really.  What I do remember is my irritation and a sense of helplessness in dealing with this astute gatekeeper of assumed virtues.

A couple of days later, on a Friday evening, a friend, who was a year junior to me in college, and I cycled upto Rumali’s for dinner.  This venerable restaurant on Church Street, now alas a distant memory, was run by a wonderful middle-aged couple on the small patio of a building and was open only in the evenings.  There were few tables, all overlooking the street and the food was simple yet delightful.  The speciality, if you missed it a couple of lines earlier, was Rumali rotis, and, in this, the restaurant was nonpareil, in a class of its own.  Watching it being made by an expert, who twirled it into the air with flourish, picking it neatly as it landed, was as delightful as was the meal that followed.

Well, Anil and I sat down at the table knowing what we’d order.  A minute or two later, when Anil was talking animatedly - which he always did -, the waiter showed up and asked us in a courteous tone what we’d like. 

I looked up and saw Alfred.  For a few seconds, there were three startled faces staring at each other, before he forced a weak smile to appear (the muscles must have creaked from years of disuse).  Never particularly courteous with a waiter, I instantly learnt new manners, “May we please have two Rumalis….” and so on.  He dutifully took the order down and confirmed it in a neutral tone  and then attended to someone else, with us watching his every move, however slight.  

  

When he entered the kitchen though, Anil and I went into whispering overdrive, speculating on his motives for moonlighting.  Our dominant thought, of course, was on just how we could use this priceless information in future negotiations in the college office. 

He brought the food in about fifteen minutes and I could no longer resist the question. “How is it that you work here?” I asked. 

“The college salary is not sufficient, you know,….” he replied in an apologetic tone, leaving the answer mid-way.  I am not sure if there was a “Sir” added at the end, or am I, in sepia-toned reflection, being optimistic ? Along with the surprise of seeing him here was a certain empathy for the man as well; perhaps circumstances had created the mask of aloof severity.

We decided that a good strategy would be to leave a generous tip, but do it in a most discreet way.  If it were today, of course, accepting such a tip would leave Alfred open to a charge of conflict of interest among about thirty other things; at that moment, it just seemed an astute tactic on our part. 

He wordlessly took the bill folder away and pocketed the tip. I thought I saw the trace of a smile.  Sorry, this description is incorrect; the hint of a trace of a smile.  It suggested that we were on a strong wicket with him from now on and both of us chose to keep the little incident away from the troops.

When I had my next encounter with Alfred, it was a confident final year student who strode in to the college office and stated my case.  Alfred looked up, with an enquiring glance, and – this I remember distinctly – shook his head emphatically as he had done a million times before, the sneer intact, the eyes cold. I would be better off, the scorn implied, speaking to the clock on the wall. 

His confidence suggested that I had no negotiation leeway at all and all that privileged information was wasted.  Even worse, I had lost a fortune in a princely tip.