14 February 2012

Tomorrow has come almost a month later. I am too lazy even for the five hundred words before lunch dictum for lazy writers. This morning I pounded away on my laptop to come up with this fragment from the past and then discovered that today is "Valentine's Day". It is an odd memory to come up on Valentine's Day, may be something more romantic would come up tomorrow.

Miss Bala Baskar and the Deputy Commissioner

The year was 1976. We were about to finish our first phase of training in the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration, Mussoorie, and were greatly excited about moving to the towns where we would get our district training. With great enthusiasm, I wrote to the Deputy Commissioner of Hisar District to inform him that I was looking forward to learning the ropes of administration under his able guidance. I was thrilled to receive a prompt reply from the Deputy Commissioner within a few days. Alas, the thrill lasted only till I opened the envelope and found that it was addressed to: “Dear Miss Bala”. The Deputy Commissioner was equally keen to have me undergo training in his district and had assured Government accommodation for my stay. He wanted my travel plans, so that he would have someone to receive me. At first, I felt sorry for the middle aged codger, who must have been fantasising about training a pretty young “Miss Bala” for a year under his tutelage. Then I worried about my fate after it is discovered that Miss Bala is just the opposite of what the man imagined.

It took a few days before I decided to write back to the Collector to inform him about my travel plans and when I would reach Hisar for my training. I added an explanation that in South India, Bala is usually a suffix for women. Men, like me, prefix Bala to their names. There was neither a reply nor was anybody there to receive me when I landed on a hot April afternoon in, what I thought was a dirty and dry, Hisar. I took a cycle rickshaw to the Deputy Commissioner’s office where a genial Raj Pal Singh, the General Assistant to the Deputy Commissioner received me with warmth and sent me off to my quarters in his jeep.

The next morning I presented myself to the Deputy Commissioner in his office. There was no talk about South Indian naming practices, especially for women. The Boss was aloof and asked me to take the training seriously. I thought he was attempting a smile but was worried when his expression turned to a definitive scowl as he let out a loud fart. The gods were on my side and I managed to keep the grin off my face till I left his august presence after not listening to his ten minute lecture on what I should do.

The very same day I wrote this Fart Poem in Tribute to my new Boss:

Epistemelogs

are serious people

who do not smile

while discussing

the question

of their existence.

Listen:

the epistemelog

said ‘I am sorry’

when he farted

in company

while he shoulda said

“I fart,

therefore I am”