A time to celebrate

 

A time to celebrate

Traditionally, the night of December 31 is an occasion to celebrate for everyone because it brings with it the sunrise of potentially better 365 days in the New Year. That is what we innocent humans thought of 2020 also but enough said about that disappointment, so I put it aside for the moment.

For me too the last night of the calendar year is a time to be happy about as two years ago it pulled me out of the life of a Mem Sahib/Madam, unnatural and uncharacteristic for me, and plunged me back into this life of anonymity and realm of irreverence.

Although I daresay I am amazed at the power of egalitarianism where we choose, fete and celebrate those political leaders, who mostly well beyond the big 60 in age themselves, have formulated rules that kick out everyone else who reaches that summit, even if his mental faculties are still functioning fine. You are worthless for us now, declare the government  papers.

But to continue my story, that is how we came to this city, which still feels to me like the asylum of retired senior officers of the department.

One of the things that impress me is the unwritten, unschooled training in commitment to the department. Everyone (almost) climbs up to the sincerity level of Bhishma Pitamah (Mahabharata) who had perhaps said that his nishtha Hastinapur se hai, kisi vyakti vishesh se nahin (commitment lies with the state of Hastinapur and not with any person in particular). Out of sight, out of mind, is the rule. As soon as one leaves a station, his/her dirty linen is washed for the benefit of the next occupants and the cycle goes on. You stop gushing your gratitude to the lady who sent you mangoes from her parents’ garden/mango pickle/dahi bada because the staff snickers and tells you woh to hamesha GM meddum ko bhejti hain (she always sends it to the GM’s wife). My sense of self-importance mercilessly dented, I learnt to accept that the gift was for the position and not for the person.

Mani was due for promotion as the general manager of a zone/ production unit, most likely the last of his career before retirement. The GM’s post in the unit he was posted at was also due to fall vacant at the same time and there was this fat chance that he could be posted there. Everyone was sweet and respectful, we loved the climate and my son was happy in his school. But the unit was small and held no attraction for Mani’s ambitiously progressive plans for the department. The promotion time came and much to my chagrin, he requested for a bigger unit making coaches in Chennai. I was looking for ears to share my disappointment with, but I could see only closed windows.  In a day or two it came to my notice that the friendly neighbours had stopped sharing the lauki (bottle gourd), palak (spinach) and bhindi (okra) growing in their kitchen gardens. Nobody was calling me up to chat or share the colony gossip or to go for a walk. Oh, then it came to me! I was not going to be ‘their’ GM Madam.

What took the cake was that one evening when I was walking out of the colony for something, I crossed a group of ladies coming into our lane.

‘Where are you going in a procession?’

‘Have you been to the Gauri Ganpathi pooja?’

‘What pooja?’

‘At so and so’s place.’

‘No she did not invite me.’ I was my usual forthright self for I had no grounds to find reasons for her lapse of memory. They looked at one another and started to slink away as the new GM’s wife drove by and went into the house. The pooja lady did invite me but at 9 0’clock when everyone was gone for sure and nobody could see me. I had become the pariah.

We got a very slight taste of the post-retirement time while in service. A sports enthusiast, Mani suggested organising a marathon in the ‘winter’ of Chennai (whatever that is, please) for the production unit. Since it was a sports event, he gave his sarkari (official) vehicle a pass and took his favourite toy out. With both of us riding this bombarding Royal Enfield, the disappointed official driver (himself an Enfield lover and very dear to us) was forced to follow in the vehicle. The route was clear of traffic and RPF smarties posted all along. The uniformed men as they saw the GM’s car come from afar, started to scream ‘hut’ ‘hut’ and angry instructions in Tamil as they signalled us to clear off the road, of course not imagining the heads of their GM and 'GM Madam' under those helmets. That day I knew how a stray dog must feel when he tries to get into a fortunate domestic one’s space. I have never been admonished so sternly before or after that morning while the two attenders sitting in the vehicle glowed and beamed with self-importance for they had never been saluted so much before and after.

But what can happen at retirement, may be a heart-changing experience. Our friend Dr Rajeev Srivatasava had this story to share.

He retired from Government service as a physician, in May 2016. But what pained him was that his colleagues of several decades who had earlier showered love on him and respected him, had started to slowly shrink way like a baked cake does from the tin, as his days amid them drew to a close. On the final evening he went for the customary farewell function with a heavy heart, accepted the medal, let the people he had spent good times with cushion his head with floral garlands around his neck, accepted the sapling he was presented as a going away present, and returned home. Teary-eyed, he tried to look at his future without his fair-weather friends.  He had spent years with them and the indifferent behavior of some of them now that he was not to work with them, shocked him.

It was not even an hour of wallowing in self-pity that he received a call. With excuses cooking in his mind to avoid any more meetings with friends of his past, he picked up the railway phone. It was from the boss, the Director General of the organization himself.

“Dr Sahib, the Central government has extended the retirement age of all doctors by five years so you are still on the rolls. Please come back on duty tomorrow.” Within minutes an official was his doorstep to collect the medal, mala and gamla (garland, flower pot).

I would never want to be in the shoes of his erstwhile friends at that hour. Sheepish and bursting with mixed feelings they all came back within the next few days.

It is five years now. In a few months he would be retiring, hopefully finally this time. The thought of that kind of déjà vu could give me peptic ulcers.

Fortunately for us, my last day as GM Madam was super fun. Our friends Shalini and Amitabh Sinha also landed there, whether to make sure that we did not have an emotional overload on the final day or to dull the pain of the kick in the rear, I dare not ask them. As the RPF band played he is a jolly good fellow at midnight, the last hour of the year, after the bunch of brave officers had put the chair bearing my weight (discount for the lady in a sari) for the customary bumps down, I felt like dancing in the rain drunk. My days of just being me and myself, had come.

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