No civil-ity this

Maninder Singh  

HE was the likeliest person to be labelled as the ruffianly Casanova of the civil service. This babu was supposed to be related to an irrepressible and scandalous former governor, if newspaper reports and television videos are to be believed.

The much-speculated ties between the civil servant and the veteran leader, which did not seem to be just true lies, manifested themselves on every possible occasion of public holiday and private ceremony. The bureaucrat invariably contrived to go and meet his mentor once a week. He went for inspiration, for words of wisdom and to draw motivation and solace from a life well-lived and worth emulating.

The governor had spent his  life by showering the blessings of key positions and the baker’s loaves and smelly fishes of public offices upon followers from the ranks of the fairer sex. He had been so generous that the women, who had served to assuage his nobler and esoteric cravings for the philosophical higher truths of life, were gifted and blessed with all manner of indulgences. Some were fortunate to benefit from altruistic changes of land use, which resulted in the taking up of housing projects and commercial units.

The babu, the accidental chip off the old block, inherited many of the public-spirited virtues and forgettable vices of his acclaimed ancestor. He made it to the civil service and made it a point thereafter to attempt to attach himself to every lithe presence that glided by “with sails of silver”.

The obsession with members of the fair tribe became so pervasive that he was known to turn back, in a violent about turn of the heels, if ever a siren-like being sailed by, in full panoply, “like the Battleship Potemkin”.

He dressed up rakishly, even in non-formal settings, adorning himself with whitening creams, blinkers, multi-coloured ties and, even cravats, when the weather became chill. While other officers wore their “formals” and “bandgalas”, mostly unwillingly, this budding rake was always suited, with a dress sense that was described as rather loud. It even led many officers to wonder what powerful defect of character, dangerous vice or tragic flaw in personality he was attempting to cover up. Undeterred, the hero of these adventures went on his unwavering way, in his unalloyed style.

The constant dalliance has one striking and unhappy result. This god-forsaken satyr was forever in trouble, either being caught in embarrassing circumstances or walking the tightrope between discovery and a veiled bliss. As he rose in seniority, the flaws that had been brushed off by indulgent acquaintances as a late blooming had acquired the manifestations of a gigantic infirmity. In his government postings, he betrayed a manic streak of populating various positions with members of the opposite sex. There was never a god-given chance, with him in the saddle in a ministry, where the sex ratio could be even flimsily adverse. If you happened to sit in his office and a woman walked in from some department, he would turn oblivious to your presence.

An officer who had worked with him  said he had quite a reputation. Another said in those days, he was the sole male officer in the ministry. A third confided that now that the ruffian had superannuated, he had no time to pick up his calls or listen to his prattle. “And why would I do that, when he had no time for people like us when he was in service.”

But why do you attach to him the appellation of a ruffian, a colleague  asked the officer. He replied, “Because he was always acting the rogue, or was delinquent in some substantive matter and was invariably the bully to juniors. He preyed upon the vulnerable, from positions of fidelity and trust, in every which way. He was a scalawag.”

If ever the #MeToo movement hits the steel frame of the civil service, this clayey sawdust figure might be the first to face the music and the wrath of the starry spheres.