The old man was weeping. I had seen him for years at party gatherings, a distinguished looking figure, erect in his late 70s or early 80s, in a neat off white or beige jubba (short kurta), always carrying a furled umbrella. He usually had a friendly smile but today his expression was sombre, even grieving. “What is the matter?” I asked, and he broke down.
For a year I have asked your staff to get my grandson a job at the Technopark. And they have done nothing for me. What is the point of having been a swatantra senani (freedom fighter) and making so many sacrifices for the party if you can’t even do this for me?
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