Geetanjali Krishna: Give and take in the 'scorty' business

Just when I thought the saga of finding a groom for Munni's daughter would never end, it did. Happily. She came one day bearing sweets and a beaming smile. "We've done it," she cried jubilantly. "We've fixed Meera's wedding!" The boy had a good job, his father owned a pucca house and best of all, they didn't want dowry. Of course, I wanted to know more about the prospective groom. He lived with his parents not very far from Munni's slum in Munirka, she said, and worked as a "scorty" guard. The following day, she brought a photograph of her prospective son-in-law. Bespectacled, thin and slightly pigeon-chested, he didn't quite fit the image of the well-built security guard she'd conjured for me, even though he was posing proudly in his smart blue uniform. I asked her how much he earned, and she hadn't a clue. I asked her where he worked, and she sheepishly admitted she didn't know that either.

"You made me realise I should know more about what he does," she commented a couple of days later. "So I found out he's been working for a security firm for the last two years. They are even contributing to his provident fund now!" I thought about his unprepossessing picture and just had to ask: "How did he get this job? Does one need any qualifications to become a security guard?"

"It isn't easy," said Munni proudly. "My husband has also worked as a 'scorty' guard and says you have to be at least class 12th pass for starters..." I wondered aloud whether being (or at least looking) physically strong was also a qualifier. Of course, Munni didn't know. The next day, she came to me and said she'd found out even more about the prospective son-in-law. "He earns Rs 7,000 per month," she breathed excitedly. "His night shift is for only eight hours... imagine!" I imagined. It didn't seem like a very high salary to me, but I kept my council.

Then Munni told me something that got my interest. "The boy says he'll just take three days off for the wedding as his pay gets cut every time he takes a day off," she said. Did he not get any paid leave, I asked. "None at all," she said. "He doesn't get any overtime either!" Since he received provident fund, did that mean he was a permanent employee of the firm, I asked. "Oh no," she said. "They'll never make a guard a permanent employee! They just deduct Rs 800 from his salary every month and put it in a recurring deposit. It's a forced saving for him, you see!"

The next day, Munni came with more news about "the boy", which is how I'd come to think of the prospective bridegroom. "He's told my husband he's looking around for a better job," she said. "The day he gets one, he says he'll quit!" Didn't he like his job, I asked. "He says it's a little boring, especially the night shift. He drinks endless cups of tea to stay awake, but still falls asleep after midnight," she said. Munni's husband, she said, had counselled "the boy" to keep this job and take up another one during the day. "He gets enough sleep on the night shift anyway!"

As she left, humming happily to herself, I figured that if her prospective son-in-law wasn't getting much security from his employers, he wasn't providing them much security either. Maybe he needed to get more to give more, or maybe he got less because he gave less. Or maybe this was just how the unregulated "scorty" business worked in India...