Once upon a time, in a land far-far away – because modern public discourse requires
that we avoid talking of here and now – there was a crumbling haveli
inherited in alimony from a disgruntled husband. There lived Tinderella. CA
Tinderella as per her Facebook profile. She spent her days drowning in an ocean
of paperwork and swiping left on a multitude of dating apps. Her stepmother, a
beady-eyed woman named G. Esti Devi, and her two stepsisters, Formika and
Redtapia, had turned her life into a nightmare of compliance forms and tax
audits. “File INC-28!” G. Esti Devi would shriek whenever a guest would visit, “and
make a disclosure in the notes while you’re at it!”
Tinderella’s days were spent sweeping, swiping, and filling
out forms – all signed, stamped, notarized, scanned, and placed in an easily
findable folder. The forms would be filed in triplicate – always in triplicate –
because the tax office needed one copy for themselves, one copy for their
files, and one to lose to mice. Tinderella’s only companions were a pair of
overworked parrots who were trying to form a union, and a stray dog named PANkaj,
who barked every time someone mentioned “Aadhaar linkage.”
One day a courier arrived – sweaty, late, and demanding
chai-paani despite delivering an already opened envelope. Inside was a garish
invitation: the King was throwing a grand ball to find a bride for young prince
Upi. “All eligible maidens must attend,” it read, “subject to biometric
verification. Dress code: taxable silk.” G. Esti Devi cackled, “Formika and
Redtapia will go. Tinderella, you stay here and calculate our input tax credit.”
The night of the ball arrived and Tinderella sat alone,
surrounding by stacks of payment vouchers, muttering, “if only I could escape
this cess-pit.” Suddenly, the room filled with a haze of incense and the faint
whiff of rotting papers. Before her stood a figure in a saree so crisp it could
slice through the bureaucracy – not that it would. A woman adorning it with a
stern gaze from bespectacled eyes and the annual budget floating beside her.
“Are you a genie?” Tinderella asked.
“Genie?”, the woman said quizzically. “Surely you know there’s
no such things. Haven’t you not read about them in your NCERT books? No, I’m
your fairy God-Tai. I’ve come to fix your life, though I must warn you: it
might cause a slowdown in the auto industry.”
Tinderella blinked, “auto industry? I’m just trying to
survive my stepmother’s tax evasion schemes!”
The God-Tai waved a dismissive hand. “Markets are all about
sentiment my dear. Now let’s get you to that ball. But first, we need to
rationalize your… asset.”
“What do you mean?” Tinderella said self-consciously.
The God-Tai ignored Tinderella like a Finance Minister who
doesn’t contest elections and snapped her fingers. A swarm of glowing forms
descended – GST-TRAN-1, 26AS, MGT-7, and something called “Declaration of intent
of compliance towards enforcement agencies”.
“Fill these out,” the God-Tai said. “No ball without
compliance.”
“But I don’t have a dress!” Tinderella protested.
The God-Tai smirked. “There are enough incentives in the
textile sector – didn’t you hear my last speech? Here’s a saree with 5% GST
included. Though the Gujarati loom it came from is mysteriously untaxed.” With
a flourish, she conjured a shimmering silk saree, slightly frayed at the edges
because “we must promote handloom, even if it’s substandard.” Next, she pointed
at a pumpkin rotting in the courtyard. “That’ll be your chariot. Low emissions,
high depreciation.”
The pumpkin shuddered as if being molested by a wet weasel,
and transformed into a creaky autorickshaw with a meter that ticked on even
while stationary. A driver materialized, chewing paan and spitting crimson
streaks onto the ground. “Name’s Bakshesh,” he grunted through rotting teeth
that would put Ajay Devgan to shame. “Where to madam? Fifty rupees extra.”
Tinderella hesitated. “But my shoes…”
The God-Tai, now getting visibly irritated by the endless demands
of this entitled Gen-Z brat, thrust forward a pair of glass slippers. “Imported.
No tariffs, because I say so. Consider it a gift from the Make in India
initiative.” Then with a grave tone straight out of a budget address, she
added, “be back by midnight, or the ED will find you. Also, I’ve rationalized
midnight to 11:45 PM to align with fiscal discipline.”
Off Tinderella went, rattling through potholed streets in
the autorickshaw. Bakshesh turned mid-journey and leered, “nice saree. You got
cash? No UPI. Also, toll ahead – gimme hundred rupees.” Tinderella, having no
money thanks to G. Esti Devi siphoning her savings into an offshore shell company,
offered a sheepish smile, “can’t you… let it slide?”
Bakshesh spa out the window. “No money, no ball. Rules are
rules. Unless you’ve got a friend in the ministry.”
At that moment, the autorickshaw hit a speed bump, or
possibly a sleeping cow, and one glass slipper flew out, landing in a gutter.
Tinderella, now one-shoe-ed and desperate, begged Bakshesh to keep going.
Grumbling, he did, but only after extorting a promise of chai-paani later.
The King’s palace was a gaudy monstrosity of marble and
unpaid contractor bills. Inside, Prince Upi twirled maidens across the dance
floor, scanning their QR codes. Formika and Redtapia were there, drowning in
cheap perfume and arguing over who’d claim the prince’s digital wallet. Then
Tinderella entered, hobbling on one slipper, her saree shimmering under the disco
lights, after installing which the contractor was able to buy a safe haven in
the Caribbean islands.
The prince spotted her instantly. “Who is this glitch in the
system?” he murmured, captivated by her aura of quiet rebellion. They danced,
awkwardly because Tinderella wore only one ill-fitted shoe, and he asked, “What’s
your name?”
“Tinderella,” she replied. “But my salary is below the
taxation threshold. So I never got a PAN card made.”
“Fascinating,” said Prince Upi. “I’ve never met anyone so…
untaxable.”
Just then, the palace clock chimed 11:45 PM. The God-Tai’s
warning echoed in Tinderella’s mind. “I’ve got to go!” she cried, bolting for
the exit. In her haste, the second glass slipper slipped off, clattering onto
the marble. Prince Upi lunged for it, shouting, “Wait! I didn’t get your account
details!” But she was gone, vanishing into the night with Bakshesh honking
behind her.
The next morning the streets buzzed with news: Prince Upi
was scouring the city for the owner of the glass slipper. “It’s a matter of
national security,” he declared. “Also, I’m in love.” He dispatched his royal
bureaucrats, armed with measuring tape and Form KYC-1, to every household.
Back at the haveli, G. Esti Devi was livid. “She went to the
ball!?” she screeched like an old tyre, shoving Formika and Redtapia forward. “Fit
that slipper on them! Forge the receipts if you have to!” The bureaucrats
arrived, sweating in polyester uniforms, and demanded Formika’s foot. It was
too wide – years of stomping over Cinderella’s dreams had bloated it. Redtapia’s
was too long, a side effect of chasing tax loopholes. Both tried bribery, but
the bureaucrats, for once, were incorruptible – mostly because Prince Upi had
promised them a Diwali bonus.
Tinderella cowered in the corner, clutching PANkaj. “She’s
just a servant!” G. Esti Devi snapped. “No PAN, no slipper!” But Prince Upi
pushed past, holding the glass slipper aloft like a budget surplus. “Let’s see
your foot,” he said. It fir perfectly.
“It’s her,” Prince Upi exclaimed, despite the bureaucrats
wondering if this was the proper way of identifying a girl the prince claimed
to love. “My untaxable love!” He turned to the God-Tai, who’d appeared in a
puff of incense, ledger still floating. “Fairy God-Tai, how do we marry? What’s
the process?”
The God-Tai adjusted her saree. “Simple. File Form MAR-69 in
triplicate, pay 28% GST on the catering, and submit an affidavit swearing your
love isn’t an immigration scheme. Oh and the onion prices are rising, so don’t
blame me if the food is subpar – it’s market forces.”
The wedding was a bureaucratic circus. Bakshesh demanded Rs.
500 to drive the couple to the mandap, muttering, “no tip, no trip.” The priest
insisted on a fee to appease the Gods and the guests grumbled about the cess on
gifts. The God-Tai gave a speech: “This union proves that the country is a
5-trillion-rupee economy in sentiment, if not in reality. Now, please, link
your blessings to Aadhaar.”
And so, Tinderella and Prince Upi lived happily ever after –
or as happily as one can in a country where the taxman lurks behind every joke.
G. Esti Devi was audited into oblivion, Formika and Redtapia opened a failing
compliance consultancy, and the God-Tai vanished to deliver another cryptic
budget speech. As for Bakshesh, he’s still out there, overcharging for rides
and spitting paan at the system.
