Fare Thee Well

Taking a farewell had always been child’s play. Accustomed as one was to transfers at the drop of a hat, one had got fairly used to the drill: solemn faces- marigold garlands (even if it did, on occasion, feel like a departure to the netherworld)-speeches-tea-modest gift, in that order. One usually made a crisp speech, consumed the biscuits (casting only a wistful look at the gulab jamun), and left with a cheery wave, the entire exercise spanning not more than thirty minutes. The senders-off, probably then relaxed with a relieved sigh and settled down to leisurely enjoyment of the snacks, interspersed with sage comments about the next incumbent being a jolly good type.

But the last farewell, after spending five years in Transport Bhavan, was a different cup of tea altogether. Initially, one had entered the bustling building with trepidation, imagining that the GOI deputation would be a tough grind. Reality belied expectations; it was rigorous incarceration, no less. After getting everything wrong initially, one cleverly resorted to asking complicated questions on each file. Needless to add, one’s unintelligible scrawl made the confusion worse confounded. But the team was unfazed and their never say die spirit ultimately prevailed, transforming what had seemed a hard labour camp, into a closely knit organization where interpersonal relations made all the difference. Net result—in five years, the battle/transfer hardened veteran, always ready with a packed suitcase, had softened into a sentimental soul.

Before you knew it, the time had come to leave. D-day dawned and the morning gently, albeit reluctantly, yielded to 5pm—in effect, farewell hour. The conference hall where one had attended innumerable meetings, even nodding off on occasion, was now the farewell venue. The hall was full but smiles were few. One tried to summon up the business like air which had hitherto been at one’s command but it turned out to be a surprisingly difficult task. The fault was entirely of one’s colleagues, soon to become erstwhile. They spoke so feelingly, it touched a chord in a heart that should have been its usual practical, unemotional self.

Put fair and square, one’s defences were singularly down. Prior planning of the farewell speech had not been done, on the lofty assumption that for a garrulous type like yours truly, this would be a cakewalk. Having delivered addresses and presentations galore, one was smugly sure of sailing through with a glib ‘We meet to create memories and part to preserve them.’ But alas! The throat closed up and the words struggled to come out. Everyone looked up expectantly, but instead of gregarious me, they found a red-faced tongue-tied individual. Mumbled thanks for the co-operation rendered and the speech was over even before it had begun. All the philosophical quotes expounding on one’s world vision were forgotten and one literally fumbled for words.

But all that is in the past. The old order changeth, so one became part of a new order and the months went by. Now the time has come for the referee to say game’s over—off the field! What is certain though is that one has lived unseen and unknown here and will definitely be unlamented after departure. For sure, this time round, both parties will have a song on the lips and nary a tear in the eye….    

Of writers blocked

I must confess to being consumed by jealousy, the green-eyed monster, and the target of my envy is none other than Chetan Bhagat. No, not because he got into IIT and I didn’t. Well actually, ‘couldn’t’ would be a more appropriate word, because I cleverly opted for Humanities after passing school, thereby putting paid to all fond parental and sibling hopes that I’d become an engineer or doctor. But I have digressed as usual from the main point, so I come back to this vexing problem of why a sunny disposition like mine should harbour a grudge against Mr. Bhagat, when I did not compete unsuccessfully against him either for an IIT/IIM seat, or for the love of his life. Well, the answer is simple— I consider myself a rival for the affections of the Times of India. Sadly, TOI treats the articles that I enthusiastically churn out and coyly mail to them, in a true Mr. India manner, in that they simply vanish and are neither acknowledged, published, nor returned, whereas Chetan’s views are always (sniff) on the edit page.

And so it has come to pass, that inspired by the Priyanka- Kareena loving exchange of pleasantries, I, too, have been making catty comments about the one I envy. In fact, I came perilously close to penning an open letter to Chetan, asking for some useful tips on ‘How to write the right stuff.’ It is quite the fashion these days, for well-known individuals to write purple prose to each other, but since they are busy and absent-mindedly misplace the recipient’s address, the letters are dispatched to the media, which then very helpfully does the needful. But the catch here is, both must be prominent personalities and thereby hangs a tale, bringing me back to the original lament of being an unseen and unknown yours truly.

But what do you think; I have had a change of heart. Yes, jealousy the green-eyed monster has been conquered and only because I recently finished reading Chetan Bhagat’s latest novel, ‘Two States’. The book is a heart-warming narration of a simple problem and its complex solution. The deft style of writing and lightness of touch where it could easily have degenerated into heavy-handed melodrama are the reasons why it is a best-seller. I particularly like the bit where he talks of states dividing us all and since I belong to neither of the two concerned states, I thoroughly enjoyed all the jokes at their expense—which proves his point really. 

Chetan knows his numericals; whether it is ‘One night...’,’Two states’, ‘Three big mistakes...’ or ‘Five point someone’, and is sure to go laughing all the way to the bank this time round too, because this book is certain to become yet another Bollywood blockbuster!

It's your call

The staff assigned to attend the telephone in government offices appear to have been trained in the same school of (mis)communication. You call up an officer; the peon receives the telephone and in a singularly bored tone, asks you your name, on receipt of which information he apparently goes into a state of mild shock since his voice disappears only to be replaced with another equally disinterested one. You bark out smartly ‘good morning sir’ to find that the legitimate owner of the second disembodied voice is the officer’s personal assistant, who, in highly suspicious tones, asks your business.

Being a veteran, he then proceeds to get your vital stats pronouncing himself duly satisfied only when you have divulged your passport details, PAN number, age, weight and extra marital liaisons if any. By now you’re feeling quite shifty-eyed, wondering when Interpol issued the red-corner alert. A series of classical melodies entertain you as you hang on to the receiver with clammy hands. The officer comes on the line; you stumble and stutter into fumbling speech and the discussion is over.

When an officer wishes to converse with his colleague, the ensuing conversation between their highly devoted personal staff is quite illuminating. First they coyly skirt round the issue, engaging in a guessing game about the relative urgency of the call. Then the velvet gloves are off; the first dutiful PS asks the seniority of the other’s officer. The latter may take offence and they will then wrestle around on the telephone ring, waiting to see who will blink. Till one of them turns decisive. Sorry, he shrugs, next time please call up from before to find out when you can call up again.

In the district, the style of receiving calls is perfected to a fine art. The telephone duty is generally a peon whose shift keeps changing. End result, he does not know whether he is coming or going. Even if fully alert and fancy free, he finds it too mundane to just press the buzzer and transfer the call. So the DM’s PA now enters the scene and proceeds to get his kicks out of third-degree interrogation. After establishing your credentials, he airily informs the caller that the DM is having a meal/ conducting a meeting/ busy with sundry tasks of earth-shaking importance …there are innumerable permutations and combinations and always a method in the madness. The DM, basks in a state of blissful ignorance about the tangled webs woven around him, till some candid soul tells him that he is about as accessible as a remote mountain peak.

At the end of it all, a hapless soul has two choices; either hang yourself by the selfsame phone cord or grit your teeth and go back to the awesome task of establishing communication. Good luck.

Uplifting experiences

My office is on the tenth floor and I have not been inspired enough by the fitness freaks to use the stairs, thanks to the pull of gravity on a lost battle of bulge which rules out walking up, and creaking knees that stoutly warn against attempting the reverse. I have therefore opted for the elevators, though I have to jostle for space with numerous women who get into the one going up even if they had to descend or vice versa, because this gives them the chance to catch up with the world and their aunt on the way. 

There are four elevators in this building and I have named them Speedy, Snappy, Grumpy, and Slow-coach. It stands to reason that I would opt for Speedy every day. Speedy does its job briskly and efficiently and even its doors clang shut with an air of professionalism. Alas, Speedy has proved to be devious by nature and cleverly given my floor a go-by. I would have had to chuck my ego aside and take the lift to and fro the ninth floor, if I wanted to make the nodding acquaintance blossom into a permanent relationship.

Instead, I toyed with the idea of showering my affections on Snappy, because it is the newest kid on the block, visits only the even-numbered floors and does so stylishly, to the tune of a peppy jingle. But being too smart by half, Snappy, has a spat with the lift operator ever so often, and then sulks all day in the basement. If brought back into the fray, Snappy insists on making a whooshing sound up and down, a sort of cheeky ‘My bad’ statement. How can you win allies if you persist in being irreverent is something no one has taught this brat.

That leaves me with the difficult choice between Grumpy and Slow coach. You might, at this point, stop to ponder about the similarity between Snappy and Grumpy, given the fact that their names are so similar. I must hasten to clarify that Grumpy is not given to fits of temper. It is always in a bad mood. For the life of me I have never been able to read the digit on the panel that indicates whether Grumpy is coming or going, and if so, which floor exactly it is gracing with its presence. Perhaps its sensitive nature has been offended due to muttered epithets uttered in its confines, but that can only be expected. If you do happen to favour Grumpy even one day, it thumbs its nose at you and stops at every floor, regardless of whether that floor has any takers. The tune belted out is melancholy and Grumpy draws a deep, shuddering breath every now and then, giving you the sinking feeling that you are about to join the netherworld shortly thereafter.

Ideally, Slow-coach should win the contest hands down with its consistent style of operation. It doesn’t have any moods, being stoic by temperament. The fan is slow and you are not subjected to gusts of cold or hot air that leave you shivering and sweating in the wrong season. There are sonorous announcements at every floor and the doors swing open courteously for every latecomer; our good friend frowns upon all expression of unbecoming haste. But the flip side to this abundance of dignity is that too much gravitas makes Slow-coach a dull boy.

At the end of it, nail-biting decisions stare me in the face every time I face the elevator doors. Whichever lift I opt for, I’m agonized by the thought that I could have been zipping up or down, had I but chosen any of the others as my friend, philosopher and guide. After stepping out finally, I invariably stop, swivel around and stare at their individual panels to find out the status, discover that as usual I had made the wrong choice, and then proceed to wallow in my own misery. The daily stress has become quite nerve-wracking. I think the solution to mastering these ten floors, is to enroll for a crash course in wall climbing with Spiderman. Either the course will take care of the daily problem or the crash will solve the issue for all times.