satire: Genies from the House of Sarma ji

 

There is a peculiar modern tradition: if someone in society starts slipping mentally, emotionally, or logically, we simply step aside and let gravity do its job. Let him fall, Who has the time and inclination thus, yet another life goes down on the slope of life, gets conveniently abandoned. 

 

Sharma ji was one such abandoned masterpiece. Officially he ‘worked’ in my office. Unofficially, he was our department’s Bermuda Triangle—he existed only in rumours. In my three years tenure, I never saw him. Guys in my office had a different folk tale about him. And with every version, my curiosity rose—what sort of rare species had accidentally been placed on our payroll?

 

He had been instructed to attend office many a times verbally as well as in writing. My predecessors attempted, failed, and eventually surrendered—leaving Sharma ji to operate in his own time zone, universe, and possibly dimension. Now you might ask, why would anyone disrespect such a dignified post—Deputy Chief Officer? Simple. Life had gifted Sharma ji an impressive collection of frustrations, and he responded by turning himself into a high-powered not terminator but generator of problems. A colleague all along thought ‘Trouble Shooter’ is the person who creates Troubles, he shoots the troubles everywhere for everyone around. He could not be convinced how a Trouble Shooter could be the one who rather kills or solves the trouble.

 

The peak episode appeared on a day when he(Sarma ji)  phoned the Head of one of our sister institutes. The poor man picked up the phone and instantly regretted every decision that had brought him to that moment.

 

“This is Sharma. I have been receiving serious complaints about your institute. I have been specially deputed to check your functioning. I am coming this afternoon. This cannot continue!”

 

By the time he hung up, the Director General was halfway through cardiac complications. Chaos erupted. Floors were scrubbed, files straightened, dust fearing for its life. If they could polish the air, they would have.

 

And then Sarma ji arrived—on time, for the first and last time in recorded history. He delivered a monologue that could make dictators proud. The DG sometimes suspected something was amiss, but unfortunately courage was not on that day’s menu. Sarma ji vanished abruptly after the performance, leaving behind a perspiring senior officer questioning his career choices. A quick check of the phone series revealed the call originated from my department. Naturally, I received the panic call, “Who the hell is this Sarma?!”

 

Ah yes. Our departmental legend. The man who climbed to the post of Deputy Chief Officer without troubling work, office, or logic. Somewhere along the journey, an internal wire seems to have come loose. He began speaking in bursts—English, Hindi, unknown languages, sometimes all at once. He muttered, chanted, babbled. The office developed a safety radius around him. No one went near him with files. Self-preservation is a powerful thing.

 

On some days he would suddenly declare: “In the known history of mankind fundamental rights have never been suppressed even in the dark continents of Africa the way they are being trampled in this office. I refuse to participate in such functioning!” all of it one breath. This was when we were discussing a leave application.

 

He eventually qualified for a ‘special medical examination’ —a polite way of saying, ‘Please go figure out what’s happening in your brain’ Whether he went or simply scared the hospital staff into early retirement, nobody knows. But after that, Sarma ji adopted ‘No work from home’ —meaning, he stayed at home and harassed everyone on phone. Years before the concept even existed. Truly a visionary.

 

His other full-time occupation was prayer. He prayed so much that even God probably started putting his calls on silent mode. Once, two unfortunate staff members waited hours outside his house for a simple signature. Sarma emerged holding a brass vessel like an exorcist on night duty. He sprinkled water everywhere. On seeing the staffers, he got offended—because how dare they interfere in his routine. He stormed inside, returned with half a lemon, chanted something that sounded like a cross between Sanskrit and Wi-Fi password, and hurled the lemon at them. Followed by another holy shower.

 

The two men ran at speed previously recorded only in wildlife documentaries. After that, visiting Sarma’s house was an activity classified under ‘risk allowance not provided’ The Director General, upon hearing this saga, asked the most intelligent question of his career: “Why does he still have an office phone?” Fair point. But removing the phone required someone to physically approach Sarma ji. Everyone declined. Courage died that day. We finally deactivated the SIM. And the DG—who had just been trembling like a washing machine on spin mode—asked me for a written note authorizing the disconnection. Bureaucracy: where you need paperwork even to save your life.

 

Naturally, Sarma ji continued exactly as before. Departmental proceedings began. Since he had crossed 20 years of service, the committee concluded—politely—that he should be compulsorily retired. One senior officer refused to sign his VR order and protested, “Why are you making me do this sin?” As if allowing him to continue would be a virtuous thing. Before the matter reached closure, I got transferred.

 

Later, I heard that Sarma ji’s condition worsened. Eventually, the department retired him compulsorily. People said he was unmarried. His brother lived with him—another prayer enthusiast, who clocked 22 hours daily on the spiritual treadmill.

People don’t lose their mental balance overnight. They slowly slide… and without care, medication or support system, the slide becomes a freefall. Sarma was simply the final product of that neglected descent.

 

When news of his death reached me, I genuinely felt sad. A life had been thrown into a dustbin—first by circumstance, then by people, and finally by the system. And all we were left with was a ghost story no one knew how to stop.