Spring in autumn!

Sometime in the middle of January this year as most people were busy breaking resolutions or recovering from the revelries which led to these resolutions, I quietly crossed into senior citizenship. Six decades on mother Earth do not weigh too heavily on my mind as much as they do on my body now. Crossing the border between middle age and old age also heralded another important milestone — retirement at the month’s end after which one would be able to channelise one’s energies exclusively into mastering the art of swinging a golf club.

But golf can wait as I look back at the 35-year-old journey that started on a warm and balmy night when one boarded the nocturnal bus to Mussoorie from ISBT Delhi. On arrival at the hallowed gates of the Academy, one joined the long line of other fresh faces at the registration desk, and the irony is that the journey now ends with the prospect of standing once again in many such lines at airports, banks, post offices and even many a junior’s office for all kinds of help and favours that the elderly need from time to time. Daunting as it may seem as I am looking forward to this new phase of life. My only issue is that my hair has stubbornly refused to grey, thus depriving me of a serious and intelligent appearance befitting my new status. I’m in the market for a cream or dye that will embellish my hair with the right number of grey cells, at least outwardly.

The past three and a half decades have given me much to ponder over, though mine has been a career remarkable for its ordinariness. Over the years, one has, with the patience of a sloth, slowly but surely climbed up the not-so-greasy pole of bureaucracy. I attribute this to the fact that the pole assumes greasiness proportionate to the butter and ghee that hangs on the top as the reward. In my case, there was neither and, thus, my rather unremarkable climb!

But there are other rewards one can look forward to upon retiring. I can now legitimately hold junior audiences prisoner to the raconteur in me. Unlike retired generals, we civilians don’t quite have the same artillery of gore and glory to pick from but there is enough material to keep retired mandarins in business for many years post-superannuation. Even away from the battlefields, there are tales to mesmerise young minds with of course a little help from a generous splash of gin and tonic to lubricate the vocal cords and fire the imagination.

I fear my generation of bureaucrats could well be the last of the breed that can start the evening rolling with the famous words “when I was the Collector of……” and, along the way, embellish the tale with many twists and turns, both real and imaginary. These often involve mysterious happenings in Da(r)k Bungalows, encounters with politicians and other similar worthies which almost always end in victory (overnight transfers are worn as medals no less than those won by our uniformed brethren) and of course the detailing of how one found solutions to most problems that are confounding young officers today. The gin-soaked evenings reverberate with new prescriptions for all types of maladies that afflict the system, which somehow never occurred to the seniors themselves when they were in service. If subjected to merciless scrutiny, it would be obvious that the old prescription was always to procrastinate decisions and sweep them under the carpet till one is transferred. At that point, one could safely and sagely pass on the baton and, hopefully, the blame to the successor!

I have my own tales from the crypt which I shall keep for the evenings ahead when surrounded by an unsuspecting audience, I can pounce upon them like an old lion that can no longer join the pride for more vigorous hunts. After all, what’s the point of spending 35 years of your life pushing files and people around if at the end of it all you cannot spin tales?

Wisdom is not one of the rewards of a long career. In fact, the longer you serve the more you find wisdom draining out, rather than oozing out, of you. With each passing year, doubts about the choices you have made begin to haunt you, especially on days when you find yourself disposing of more flies than files. The charm of a foreign posting grows with each year even though you might have turned down the prospect of spending your whole career abroad when offered. And the grass continues to grow greener on the other side as you realise that only the postal colleagues can retrieve your misplaced speed post parcel containing crucial documents. Or on a cold December morning, you are walking your dog who is refusing to do its business, and you are passed by the neighbour’s dog escorted by a couple of well-built commandos well-trained in ensuring that the pooch under their charge follows a disciplined and policed routine. It is customary for some colleagues to breeze past the green channel on arrival at airports while you could be stopped and interrogated about the foreign-looking Indian watch you had bought in India.

Thus, the years go by like a desert safari — twisting and turning with highs and lows and changing gears regularly. Rare are those who have followed only one trajectory — either shooting straight to the top or going downhill all the way from day one, both paths uninterrupted by bumps. For the majority, it’s the sloth’s way — you twist and turn ever so slowly, occasionally pausing to look for sanity or logic and finding neither, plod on satisfied that you have done due diligence and what more can be expected of you. And at the end, you retire like a butterfly emerging from a cocooned life, ready to finally fly free for the last mile even as Janis Joplin reminds you that “freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”.

Views expressed are personal