Under Process

CASE: CLOSED
Status: No Further Action Required

‘Lift it,’ Sharmila said. ‘Properly. Don’t just guess.’ Mrinal bent and gripped the rim of the gas cylinder. He lifted it slowly, adjusting his hold midway. His breath caught, then settled.

‘Still enough,’ he said. Sharmila nodded. ‘Then we’ll wait for two more days.’

Mrinal wiped his hands on the side of his trousers and straightened.

The Banerjee family lived in a flat that had been approved and forgotten. The walls were thin but stayed standing. The ceiling leaked only after office hours. The staircase occasionally added or subtracted a step. No complaint had ever been accepted regarding this matter.

Bangles were no longer replaced when they cracked. Rice was measured with increased precision. The toothpaste tube was folded from the bottom and pressed flat each morning. Mrinal continued wearing the same pair of shoes to work, though the soles had begun to wear thin. One heel leaned slightly to the left.

Mrinal Banerjee worked for the Department. No one remembered its full name because it changed depending on the form being filled. It was sometimes a Directorate, sometimes an Authority, and occasionally a Portal that did not open. His designation, Temporary Assistant Processing Officer, was printed on his ID card in letters so small that even the Department seemed unsure of it.

Every morning, Mrinal entered a building that appeared to have been constructed entirely from corridors. Doors led to other doors. Offices contained smaller offices. Desks had outlived several governments. Files were stacked high enough to bow. No one had opened them in years.

Mr Chatterjee, his direct supervisor, had a face like aged paper. His cheeks bore faint, stamp-like marks.

‘Banerjee,’ Mr Chatterjee said gently one morning, ‘you appear tired.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mrinal nodded. While signing a register, he coughed into his sleeve and waited for his breath to settle before finishing. The line trembled slightly near the end.

‘Tiredness,’ Mr Chatterjee replied, smiling with professional warmth, ‘is not reflected in your service record.’ Mrinal nodded. He excelled at nodding. It required no approval.

At home, Sharmila ran the household with the authority of someone who knew exactly how much rice could be spared for tomorrow. She haggled over every rupee at the vegetable market, rationed electricity, and saved her sarcasm for when it was needed.

‘The cylinder is half-empty,’ she announced one evening.

‘Like Papa,’ Ronojoy said.

 ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But the cylinder, at least, will be replaced one day.’ Mrinal laughed, a little too eagerly. Sharmila noticed but said nothing.

The neighbours were indistinguishable from official notices. Most conversations ended with ‘noted.’ Mr Ghosh from 3B looked like a walking affidavit. Mrs Fernandes downstairs complained about noise that had not yet occurred. Mr Rao, the building secretary, had no neck. His head rested directly on his shoulders.

It seemed the city cooperated with them, but not with Mrinal. Buses arrived just after he stopped running. Traffic lights turned red when he approached with urgency, then green when he stopped caring. Even potholes shifted overnight. Street signs changed direction, citing ‘Administrative Work in Progress’.

At first, it felt like an inconvenience. Then it began to feel deliberate. One evening, while waiting at a crossing, Mrinal heard a dull, official sound: paper being pressed into a file, then into a decision.

He turned. No one seemed to notice.

‘Please cooperate,’ a voice said.

Mrinal stepped aside without knowing why.

And somewhere during all this, without announcement, the Department acquired a body. It did not arrive. It was simply there: a figure, trousers slightly too short, a torso thick with files. It stood just beyond where a person’s vision extended. It did not blink. It reviewed material. Its pupils moved only when a file moved. Its fingers were stained with ink. Its breath carried the faint smell of paper and office tea.

‘Please cooperate,’ it said again.

Mrinal first noticed it at the bus stop.

It read a file.

Later, he saw it in the reflection of an office window, standing behind him in a queue that did not move.

At first, he assumed it was meant for someone else. Then he realised it was always facing him. It did not approach. He felt no fear, only misplaced gratitude – to be seen felt like recognition. Mrinal nodded. The Department had begun tracking.

That evening, Sharmila noticed he had returned without buying vegetables. ‘You passed the market,’ she said.

‘I forgot.’

‘You never forget.’

Mrinal removed his shoes slowly and placed them beside the door. He nudged them straight with his foot and sat down. ‘So today, I forgot.’

Sharmila watched him for a moment longer than usual. Her hand rested briefly on the back of a chair, as if steadying something that did not need support.

‘You should have told me in the morning if you weren’t feeling well.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not.’

Mrinal’s voice rose before he could stop it. ‘Why does everything have to be measured?’ he said. ‘Rice, gas, vegetables … everything.’ The room became very quiet. Ronojoy stopped turning the pages of his book. Sharmila spoke after a moment. ‘Because things finish,’ she said.

Mrinal looked away. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They do.’

Mrinal began shrinking. Even Sharmila did not file an objection. He coughed into his sleeve, softly, as if apologising. When Sharmila asked about it, he smiled too quickly. ‘It’s just tiredness,’ he said. The word still sounded respectable.

Letters began arriving before they were posted. They slid under the door and waited. OTPs hovered briefly on phone screens like fireflies, then vanished before anyone could read them. The house was filled with paper, but none of it said what needed to be said.

‘The house is filling with forms, Maa,’ Ronojoy said.

Sharmila did not respond immediately. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘It means we still exist.’

The house had grown quieter in recent days.

Things continued as before, but with less resistance.

Mrinal no longer hurried. He moved carefully, as if keeping pace with something already underway. That evening, he returned home smiling. ‘The Department approved something,’ he said.

‘What?’ Sharmila asked.

‘Medical insurance.’

‘For whom?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

That night, the Department visited. It sat at the dining table, opened files. ‘Your medical insurance,’ it said, ‘has been approved.’

Mrinal nodded. He felt lighter, not better, just lighter. ‘That’s efficient,’ he said, and lay down. He did not ask anything further.

Sharmila watched him sleep. She noticed how thin his wrist had become. She reached out and adjusted the edge of the bedsheet near his hand. Her fingers rested there for a moment longer than necessary. ‘Sleep,’ she said quietly. Then she withdrew her hand.

By morning, he had been fully processed. Afterwards, the Department behaved impeccably.

It issued condolences in triplicate. It sent a cheque that was perfectly validated. It was useless. The account holder was deceased. Fresh applications were required.

‘Regrettable,’ the Department said. ‘But unavoidable.’

At the cremation ground, it stood at a respectable distance, holding its files against its chest.

Thick smoke climbed steadily into the sky.

‘Papa was finally approved,’ Ronojoy said.

‘Yes,’ Sharmila replied. Her voice was almost steady. This time, she did not laugh. Life in the city continued as before. Files multiplied. Some grew thicker each day. Clerks aged into cupboards. Some had stopped standing up straight years ago. The Department grew larger. Well-fed. It remained.

Within its vast body, a small box was ticked:

CASE: CLOSED
Banerjee, Mrinal
Status: No Further Action Required

Another file waited underneath.

CASE: OPENED
Banerjee, Sharmila
Status: Under Process