All characters appearing in this work are non fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is impurely coincidental. Reading the following work is not advisable for a guilty Sahib of the Great Indian complex Babudom.
Dedicated to The Immortal Sahib.
I wanted to write this blog earlier. The Sahib who has made millions of Indians wait in queues, in its sun, in its rain, in its pain and now let the bastard wait to be written about. The one who leeches on the curse, bloods, sweats and savings of ordinary middle class Indians. The one who exists in every cause of the poverty class Indians. The Immortal Sahib.
Somewhere in southern forests of vast Republic of India, an office is prepped with fresh green hand towels on the shoulders of an executive chair. The chair is now well oiled to shut its rants on the previous Sahib. Common Muniraju, a young office assistant with a permanent employment by the mercy of his voted MLA who share his caste and Common Nagraju, the 55 years old stenographer whose 55th birthday is celebrated every year and still on contract employment due to his caste. These two plot every Common offices. They are in constant touch with Common Muthuraju, an aspiring daily wager who will soon put his application after he chauffeurs the new Sahib from airport. Nagi would have enquired from his contacts in the Sahib breeding center or previous deputation about Sahib’s religion, caste, sub caste, region, preference of food/beverage/liquor, marital status, extra marital status, education of his father, his siblings, their data too would be mined if he can. Muni would have gone to an extent of understanding the handedness of the bestowed Sahib so that he could place the paperweight and pen-stand based on Sahib’s dexterity. The making of a Sahib has begun even before the Sahib knew his emissary. It is like a butcher’s shop; flinting his knife the butcher keeps a constant touch with the Common Sadiq about the maal of sheeps.
Muni hooks a Lord X-eshwara calendar based on the Sahib’s last name. He puts a new Nippon AA cell into the wall clock that marks another Sahib’s reign. He lights an incense and banters his office doe: Common Muniyamma to phenyl the floor.
Nagi is busy segregating the files based on priorities, caste-wise and Gandhi-wise. He barks orders to both Munis of opposite genders. And sends the male Muni to the Common Iyengar bakery for a kilogram of Mysore Pak. In the meantime Nagi organises the desktop computer, its documents, clears cache, history and My pictures. A picture of untouched benignant Mahatma Gandhi crucified to the high wall is the only thing constant in the entire office through leagues of Sahibs. Gandhi is still busy in the currency notes, this Gandhi can abolish casteism in no time and move the stack of files above all the secularism of Common Nagi.
Sensitive ears of Muni picks the raging diesel car. If he hears a higher rev of the engine in a forest road, he will know that Common Muthu has been asked to keep the AC on. Muni quickly puts additional towel in the bathroom – hospitality is in his blood. The car halts at the porch of the building, the dust settles to be only risen again. Enters Sahib.
He doesn’t take notice of the surrounding, he doesn’t appreciate the three palm pots, not the washed five steps, he doesn’t bother to thank the Common Muthuraju. Won’t even notice the charming female Muni, yet. The Sahib has mounted already. Nagraju has less task of polishing the narcissist, the Sahib in his plumages can be tamed easily. The little paunch of the Sahib lead him in quick sprint up the stairs and into the office, he raced the April’s sun. Come December, the paunch would undergo mitotic reaction from the blessings of Muni’s wife each time she wants him to take leave, the Iyengar bakery and Nagi’s wicked third wife would all have contributed to the flamboyant bulge of the Sahib. His belly would be mostly circular. It neither grows below the waist nor does it stretch his waistline nor churn oval. It is maintained for the Sahib to rest his forearm while he checks his downloaded videos on phone. When he stalls a whisky glass the upper valve of his gifted belly is where he rests his arm so that his evil laughter doesn’t spill the precious drops of his newfound alcoholism. By his year’s makeover, the almighty Sahib may have to see his genital only in the mirror. Another interesting fact to Sahib’s belly is, the more it peeps off the sheepishly holding buttons, the more the Sahib commands respect within and outside his department. Some watchmen in different offices readily ID the Sahib by their proud mid tier and mock a salute even if he arrives in a private car – although arriving in private car is an exaggeration.
For a research student who is working on the Body Asymmetry Syndrome, the Sahib is an excellent specimen. Especially during those unofficial offs in a guest house that reserves for him by vacating tourists by surprise. When the full groomed Sahib is making love to his whiskey and material love in his Common blue-checkered lungi, the student must study the skinny legs. The asymmetric feeble legs that had held the power and supremacy all day now splits the lungi and allows the bhujiya to cascade from his chin, chest, belly and into the abyss. After his holiday in the guest house, the Sahib drives through the beautiful landscapes of Indian jungle in an ungodly hour. To prove his sincerity to the jungle, to the submissive wildlife, to none-but-fun the Sahib will use a spinning red light that glows his ego in darkness.
In case the Sahib is introduced to a youngster or to a tourist or to a Common man who does not have any connection to the khaki or khadi brigade, he communicates differently. Ever wondered why there are steel benches, plastic chairs and also Morris chairs at the reception lobby? This is the seating hierarchy defined by thickness of Gandhi bundles, these are genetic arrangements by the Common Nagi, Sahib is not that smart. When people of the bench class meet, the Sahib looks from the corner of his eyes or avoids eye contact and even a handshake. With the plastic chair class, the Sahib might make frequent eye contact. And Morris holds the asses of big wallets, the Sahib would glue his eyes on all embarrassing parts of the Victim. If the Sahib is shorter than the victim, he would consider the victim to be invisible. There are other visitors who would not be given any seat, they would be Sahib’s Sahib who shall prowl on the Sahib’s chair itself.
Our holy Sahib is almost certain in most cases that his victim understands the notion of ‘Public Servant’, he assumes that the schools have educated the educated victims about the added preposition, ‘Public is Servant’. If a school has failed to teach the victim, the Sahib will make sure that during his tenure, he will teach the preposition to the victim. In many cases it is taught till the end of the Sahib’s tenure.
The generations of Muniraju’s, Nagraju’s and Muthuraju’s have passed their genes from the reign of Maharajas then the British Raj and now the Supernatural Sahib of Republic of India. Even if a dog makes it to the ranting executive chair their genes instruct them to serve. The dog or the Sahib shall ride the open asses invariably. However Muni might depreciate the towels, the incense and oiling the abusive chair. Our rich resources are in these Sahib’s hands, under their pen nibs, breast feeding on Common Nagraju’s third wife forming patterns under Babugiri that shall weave in the same way a carpet is woven. Only its colors change with time, the Immortal Sahib never does!