My Dad’s Three Managers
Round Pizza in a Square Box
Excerpt from Chapter 3 – My Dad’s Three Managers
One morning, my father asked me to accompany our Munim ji (a term for a confidential accountant) to the Sales Tax office. The government required every business owner to pay a percentage of his earnings to the all-powerful Sales Tax Officer. I say all-powerful because the Sales Tax Officer knew full well the influence he had over another man’s profits. A person could claim all day long that “this is what I sold” and “here is the sales tax I owe,” but if the Sales Tax Officer was unhappy with the claim, he could scrutinize it and cause the business a lot of trouble. This is why many business owners hired a Munim ji to act as their mediators. The Munim ji ensured that both parties walked away happy.
The day of our appointment, my dad told me to dress in simple clothes. When we arrived at the Sales Tax building, the Munim ji bought two cases of the most expensive cigarettes from a small stall to the left of the entrance. I felt perplexed. “The Munim ji does not smoke. Why does he need two packs of cigarettes?” I wondered.
We continued through the building’s entrance, up a few flights of stairs, and into a corridor where we waited to see the “Bada Sahab” (the name we called the Sales Tax Officer, meaning “big officer”). In the silence of the waiting room, my curiosity got the best of me. “What is this all about,” I asked the Munim ji. “Why do we need these cigarettes?”
“Wait and learn,” he whispered.
Ten minutes passed before an office peon called our name. The Munim ji walked up to the peon and handed him the cigarettes, before proceeding coolly into Bada Sahab’s office for our official meeting. I watched speechless, trying to find the meaning behind the transaction. I hurried after the Munim ji and into the office, all the while looking over my shoulder at the office peon who quickly disappeared down the corridor with his newfound prize.
The meeting did not last long. We presented our financials and the Bada Sahab signed them without question. Returning to the corridor, I noticed the peon sitting on his stool, but the cigarette cases were gone.
“What is this all about?” I asked the Munim ji a second time, as we made our way out of the building.
“Let me explain something to you,” he answered casually. “It is irrelevant that the Sales Tax Officer does not smoke. We bought the cigarettes at their full price, and gave them to the peon. The peon took the cases back down to the cigarette seller so that the cases could be recycled and resold. The next guy who comes in to see the Sales Tax Officer will also buy some cigarettes, and give them to the peon, only to repeat the same transaction.”
He shrugged a little. “I don’t know. I wager that this happens fifteen or more times before the office closes. At the end of the day, the seller calculates the cost of each cigarette case sold, recycled ‘x’ number of times, and he sends a percentage to the Sales Tax Officer or his peon. Not a bad day’s earnings for three people who invested precious nothing. All it cost the peon was the energy it took to run up and down those flights of stairs.”
I listened to the admission, unable to hide my surprise. I could hardly believe how complex yet smooth this system of corruption operated.
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