‘Funny,’ she said eyeing me up and down, the double lines of lipstick around her nose and chin wobbling in sync with the corn cob that she chewed, ‘You don’t look like one’.

The line of children standing beside her nodded in unison. The identical clothes of the girls and boys acting as a camouflage of sorts, hiding the productivity of their parents who had, apparently been celebrating Pakistan’s success every year. There was the famous miracle victory of ’92 Cricket World Cup. She was the oldest, the most in the mould of her sceptical mother. Hockey World Champion ’94 was tired from standing so long and couldn’t wait to go home.  Atomic Bomb ’98 was hissing, not at me but at the world in general. It was hard to tell if it was due to the aggressive state of the year she was born in or because of the extra spicy massaala on her corn on the cob.

Kargil ’99 seemed more interested in fishing out the booger from his nose and inspecting it under the waning light of the sun. Finally, it was the wailings of T20 Championship 2009 that broke the silence as he let us know from the vantage point of his crib that it was time to get a move on.

‘So’ said the aunty as she threw away the gnawed end of the corn on the cob disdainfully, ‘Are you really a CSS Officer?’

I knew what she was saying. As she looked me up and down again for my benefit, I could imagine her ticking off the boxes in her mind of all the characteristics I was failing to meet.

It Starts with the Shoes

It has to.

They have been run ragged, scampering from floor to floor.. suffocating silently under the burden of massive, rotting, fly-stained files. Each time the wearer presents a new case to his/her superior with mandatory accompanying ‘submitted for kind perusal, please’ the soles cave in on themselves a little more, the lack of self-esteem gnawing at it from the inside.

There are differences of opinion about the fate of the socks. Some schools of thought consider them to be lucky in that they do not need to be presentable or seen. Just as well, for it is too late for them. Long ago, before historians started keeping records, socks had already lost the war to the big toe and they no longer have an identity or shape of their own. There is no discrimination on the basis of colour, material or length amongst this oft-neglected segment of, what has come to be known as the ‘Lost generation’ ; all are equal in the eyes of the wearer who is too busy stuffing the last piece of samosa in his/her mouth as the call from the boss comes, to notice the strain on these poor souls who silently hold their noses and work well past their retirement age, in situations no self-respecting sock would.

Next Come the Trousers

Legend has it that they were once part of a suit. Maybe they still are together, maybe not. It is not important. All relationships are a gamble, and you knew that going in when you bought the ready-made suit at a discount. The rigours of working in the government can drive clefts between the staunchest of relationships. The trousers have seen better days. But the ‘honeymoon phase’ was over the day you were whistling your way out the corridor when your boss called you back and you ended up staying till midnight. If the trousers look slept in most of the time, it is because they usually are. Government departments are always promoting austerity measures and thus, part in solidarity and part in order to make both ends meet, the trousers have also been delegated the double charge of being office wear by day whilst moonlighting as comfortable PJs at night. It is no longer advisable to look for the crease because there isn’t one to be found. They are the true remnants of a post-colonial past, having long crossed the line that separates trousers from shalwars. In fact, they are now categorized as ‘Shalwousers’. Of special mention are the knees which show more wear owing to decades spent smooching the floor, bent over.

Onwards and Upwards

The belt comes with the area, and disposition of the wearer. Like the human tailbone, it is a relic of a bygone era, totally redundant and useless in the evolved day-to-day working of the government officer. For those unlucky souls, still floundering in the choppy waters of the bureaucracy, the belt has lost its efficacy due to the countless times they have been futile in rescuing the trousers from being pulled down to knees in meetings by irate seniors –figuratively speaking ofcourse.

The shirt is irrelevant and comes into the equation, not because of its texture or quality. Rather it is due to the monstrosity that it tries to encompass..the gut. Their ability or failure to ‘hold it all in’ is in fact the actual ACR of the officer if there ever was a need for one.

The gut is the end-all-be-all of the government officer. Like the rings around the tree bark or carbon dating, you can tell a lot about the government officer by the acreage of his/her pastureland (don’t kid yourselves, ladies..you’re in it too, although in the case of females, the gut readings are not as conclusive or accurate owing to difficulties in terms of norms and ethic involved in the observation. Therefore, anthropologists have reverted to other tried and tested variables such as the quantity of war paint and accompanying paraphernalia).

If the buttons are down to their last threads, hanging on for dear life cliffhanger-style, you can tell the wearer has been classically conditioned in the art of seminar/workshop/meeting attendance. The gut size of an officer is directly proportional to the number of meetings attended which is in turn, a dead giveaway to the level of involvement in day-day government affairs. Because, let’s face it; not much happens in all committee meetings involving done-to-death Powerpoint presentations that do not involve tea, biscuits, sandwiches, patties, working lunch…

*drool*

One of the first things a government officer learns is to never..NEVER pass on a chance to feed the gut. There may not be any free lunches in life, but if you play your cards well and are willing to take minutes of meetings, you can assure yourself a pre-retirement era of free luncheons.

Moving On

There are two things that define a government officer; a tie and cufflinks. After a few years in the service, an officer can easily quit his job and open up a tie and cufflink shop. No matter what the weather; come hail, snow, or fire the government officer will be sporting a tie that will have seen better days. You can tell a lot from the stains at the end of his tie. For example, does he prefer Chinese or Continental, what sort of condiments he prefers with his food, does he like oily foods or coloured sweets. Cufflinks will mostly be sported by officers whose hands are in full view most of the time. Be it holding the millions of files as they scamper after their boss or the food plate while heading out for refills on state-sponsored buffets. Nothing says ‘made it’ like a gleaming pair of cufflinks-one of many presented to the wearer on prior such ‘meetings’. And that my friends is what we call ‘the circle of life’.

The coat has spent more days hanging on the shoulders of the chair than on those of the owner. It wasn’t always like this, but we are living in a world that is in flux. Oceans are rising, ice caps are melting, and shoulders and spines are vanishing. In such scenarios, moving the coat away from the eroding shoulders to the less volatile ecosystem of the chair was a prudent decision. It thus performs two important functions; on the chair, it is a constant reminder to snooping seniors who are liable to burst in on any day that the wearer is present and on-premises, even though he isn’t. On the occasions when the coat has been spotted in the company of a live person, it is easy to mistake it for a shawl, kurta or even a jacket..depending upon the mileage the apparel has accrued.

Sitting on top of this amalgam is the owner; the government officer. A quivering double chin that has heard more ‘No’s’ than ‘Yes’s’, fed on years and years of office tea and samosas leads up to a pair of lips that have been frozen into a scowl that strives to resemble a smile, but succeeds in showcasing a snarl that advocates mercy killing. Spectacles are mere decorations, eyesight having long since been considered obsolete along with other mental faculties. The officer performs purely on muscle and gut memory.

The crowning glory of the specimen is a clear and shiny helipad that has been created over the course of days, weeks and years pulling out hair, one follicle at a time.

And there you have it ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Your beloved government officer.

Disclaimer: Resemblance to any uncle, father, aunty, brother, or sister is purely coincidental.

Corollary:

(i) It must be noted that the size of the gut is irrespective and in most cases, in contrast to the overall health of the officer.

(ii) Government officers are rarely spotted in isolation. They travel in packs and feed off of each other’s company.

(iii) There are further sub-species within, known as ‘service groups’ which may differ slightly.

And there it was.

I hooked my thumbs on the sides of the belt I had around my waist self-consciously and smiled back, ‘I don’t know aunty’ I said, ‘ I really don’t know.’