“What is Caprolactam?” asked the missus as we settled down before the TV.
“Capo Laktum? Never heard of him. Is he some old Sicilian friend of mine?”
“Caprolactam, stupid. Ever since I remember, every year taxes were increased on petrol, cigarettes and Caprolactam. But now I find no mention of the stuff.”
I made a mental note for myself. One of these days, when I am at a loose end, I must tootle off to the library and research why this Caprolactam stuff earlier found mention in dispatches but now does not. Occasional intellectual pursuits are said to be good for the grey matter.
The missus prattled on, “The Economic Survey makes everything look so rosy. I have a sneaky suspicion that all the figures are fudged.”
She declared this with such conviction that for a moment I thought she really understood what all the annual hoo-ha is about. I have never pretended to understand the Economic Survey or the puzzling numbers that go with it. Even then, for the little woman to declare that the statistics dished out were fudged was a bit strong. I said as much.
“Now, now my dear, maybe the mandarins in North Block occasionally do a bit of creative accounting, but to say that the figures are fudged is a bit strong, what?”
I must here inform those who do not know us that we—my wife and I—make it a point to sit before the TV every year at budget time. We follow all proceedings attentively, though neither of us has ever understood the monotonous speeches of successive finance ministers. The desultory thumping of tables in Parliament possibly reveals as much about our MPs. Nonetheless, the occasional sher-o-shayari, though hackneyed, lifts our mood. The antics within Parliament are entertaining and the booing and hissing provides variety in our humdrum retired lives.
Watching budget proceedings is also useful for putting down snobbish guests in snooty parties. The missus and I enjoy ourselves by casually saying things like, “I found the FM’s speech enervating. It could have been less facetious and more dextrous.” The hoity-toity elements are usually impressed because they have no idea what we are talking about. In fact, nor do we—but the hoits and the toits don’t know that!
This year too, as in the past, we sat glassy-eyed listening to the budget speech of the FM. I noted there had been no mention of Caprolactam.
“Did you notice there was no mention of an increase in prices of cigarettes or petrol?”
“Oh, don’t be stupid!” said my wife. “They keep increasing the prices of those throughout the year. They no longer wait for the budget muhurtham for that!”
Meanwhile, the minister droned on. There were incomprehensible amounts mentioned—hundreds and thousands of lakhs. There was the mandatory genuflection at the altar of electoral shibboleths like kisan, women and the downtrodden. There were references to the poverty line and a few hundred crores earmarked for painfully contrived acronyms. Agricultural income, as always, remained beyond the ambit of taxation. But this sadly is of no interest to me because I have simply not been able to grow cabbages on my balcony.
I was deep in thought about cabbages, when my wife poked me in the ribs.
“Aren’t you listening? Why must new schemes be announced year after year, without any mention of what happened to the similar sounding scheme announced last year? Every year we are told that the tax regime is being rationalised. Can’t it be done in one go? Why must there be this never-ending tinkering? Why must the wheel be invented anew every year?”
I did not know, so I said, “I don’t know.” People often don’t realise that it takes courage to say you don’t know something if you don’t know something.
“I know you don’t know, stupid,” said the love of my life.
Soon the minister came around to the income tax proposals. Even as my better half was whooping with joy, I was suspiciously looking for conditional clauses, back doors and booby traps. Bitter experience has taught me to look beyond the headline grabbing lollipops, because on closer examination lollipops are often not lollipops at all but merely sticks. The devil lurks in the small font. The bigger the devil, the smaller the font.
The day after the budget, Bassa Ram, our driver, greeted me in the morning with a wide grin. “Sahib, you’ve been given a tax bonanza! Now you must pay me more.”
“I have been given nothing! It’s just that I will be, hopefully, robbed of less,” I said.
This cut no ice and Phulwanti, the maid, followed suit and demanded a raise from her memsahib. The matter would have ended there, but the dhobi who irons our clothes upped his charges by evening. Chhotu, who pretends to clean our car every morning, declared that he would work from next week on double the wages. The vegetable seller who comes around with his cart of wilted greens justified his exorbitant prices by the same argument.
The chimerical income tax relief will kick in only from next year, if it is not stymied by a new Income Tax Act. Till then, because of increased prices of vegetables, the additional money that the dhobi and Chhotu extort from us and the higher wages that we must shell out to Phulwanti and Bassa Ram, I am going to pay dearly for the middle-class income tax bonanza.
(THE WEEK – 16/02/2025)