“His name is Augustine, Augustine Ramon Fernandez, deputy commissioner. And I must tell you that he is the only person who can help you in this regard because all the TDS returns are dealt with only by him. We understand your problem but we can not help you” the ITO returned the loosely held bundle of documents back to him. He contemplated the ITO with torrid indignation, almost on the verge of tearing his head apart but he knew that there was nothing that could be done. Having run around in the Income Tax Office for three months continuously was taking its toll. He gave a deep sigh and asked “and where can I meet this Mr. Augustine?”
“in room number 306, but he is not here. He is out of station, gone to Delhi, and perhaps on long leave.”
“long leave? So when he would come back?” this was another rider he had to contend with.
“cant say, really cant say.”
“but there must be someone who took his charge? You cant really let all the work stop just because one officer is on long, and” he added sarcastic emphasis, “indeterminate leave?”
The ITO didn’t even bother to lift his head from the freshly arrived dak and answered “I told you sir, that yours being a special case, the files have been kept separately by Augustine sir himself. You might think that we ain’t doing nothing’ but I’d like to tell you that we tried for almost a month to fish out your files but couldn’t find it. Now you tell me what else you could have done had you been in my place?”
He muttered under his breath that he couldn’t possibly be so idiotic and indifferent but he knew it was no point arguing. He picked up his dog eared bundle of papers and moved to leave, but then abruptly turned around and asked “can I find Augustine in Delhi?”
The ITO raised his one eyebrow as if it was something novel and amusing and added “you can try”
“where?”
“CBDT office” he took a piece of paper and wrote the address and gave it to him. He silently picked it up and took his leave.
Exactly three days after his last encounter with the ITO he was in the TPL section of the CBDT asking his way around to room number 417.
“whom you want to meet?” asked the avuncular looking man who loomed almost dangerously over him.
“Mr. Augustine, DDIT”
“Ah! Young man, he has left Delhi, he has been transferred to Bhubaneshwar.”
This came as nearly a stroke to him. He was tortured enough and now he couldn’t take that the man he was so intently looking for since last three months had now been transferred to yet another place. He didn’t react, he simply hung his head low and asked in a dead voice, “can I find him in Bhubaneshwar ? And where?”
“these species of IRS are to be found only in Ayakar Bhawan , wherever you go” the man took a hearty laugh and departed, leaving him with nothing but just the ground to stare on, and a calendar hung on the gallery wall which told him the date, 3rd March 2007.
And so he went to Bhubaneshwar, from where he came to know that this Augustine was immediately transferred to Calcutta before his arrival. He went to Calcutta, from Calcutta to Gwalior, Gwalior to Indore, Indore to Salem, Salem to Patna, Patna to Ahmedabad, Ahmedabad to Bhopal, Bhopal to Aleppi, Aleppi to Mysore, Mysore to Ranchi, Ranchi to Raipur and so on, from countless cities to countless other cities when ultimately he ended up in Akola.
He got down from the bus and just out of habit took a look in the side mirror at his face. It had now been forty years that he had been looking for Augustine but always ended up in a new city instead of Augustine’s chamber. The years had put a lot of novel features on his face, his skin was now freckled and sagged below the eyes, the hairline had receded to show his rather small forehead and had turned white. Even the look in his eyes were now full of long toil and waiting. He asked a Rickshaw to take him to the income tax office.
“is it the income tax office?” he asked the rickshaw puller, looking incredulously at the large double story building which looked almost deserted except for an old gatekeeper at the main door. The rickshaw puller simply nodded and left him with his suspicion intact.
“is this the income tax office” he asked the gatekeeper who was dosing off on his stool.
“yes sir” he answered but didn’t open the large wooden door “whom you want to meet?”
“Mr. Augustine, is he here?”
“yes sir, he is here.” the gateman got up and opening the door motioned him to go in and added “after the gallery is over there is a hall. Right in front of the gallery you will find his chamber with his name plate. Knock before entering, but if you don’t hear any response, just enter.’
He couldn’t believe his ears, after all these years of searching in vain, it was welcome but incredible to him. He stepped inside the gallery and the gateman closed the door on his back. The gallery was long and it was near dark with not a single soul around. After ten meters or so he found himself in a large square hall and on the opposite wall he saw the name plate and his heart skipped a beat. At last, he murmured to himself, I am going to meet this fellow. He went to the door and knocked twice. There was no answer, so he pushed it open and entered inside.
“god!” he almost screamed. It wasn’t a room. It was just a door exiting to the roadside. He had stepped right on the road. He looked around and the door mocked him motionlessly. He looked to his right, a few people were coming on a tractor. He looked left. The road was empty to the end. He knew whatever he had sought until now was not for him to find. A cruel excruciating pain rose around his chest and he fell on the road.
The tractor stopped right where he was lying on the road and the people got down to see what was wrong.
“oh god! He is dead” said one of them
They all speculated among themselves what might have killed him and then took him to a nearby graveyard, dug a deep pit and buried him there. And lastly put a wooden cross atop and wrote in red paint
R.I.P. Augustine Ramon Fernandez born 3rd Jan 2007, died 27th March 2047.
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