NOTHING OFFICIAL ABOUT THEM

Note: This article has previously appeared in an edition of TOI-Crest. All Illustrations are by Ajit Ninan

By Manas Gupta

Every office has its share of characters that add colour to the environment or even take a toll on the productivity. TOI-Crest profiles a few stereotypes. Look around you. Chances are you’ll recognize a few.

Flirty over Thirty: This group is comprised entirely of compulsive flirts who have as much control over their raging hormones as Zardari has over the Pakistan army. Often missing from their seats, they need to recharge every half hour by touching attractive members of the opposite sex. In the corporate jungle, some of the seniors even see appraisal time as mating season. For the extreme lot, companies are starting to come up with anti-sexual harassment squads.

Foreign Phoney: Observe your colleagues carefully. You are bound to find at least a couple of blokes who talk as if they were born in an Oxford classroom, probably when a Shakespeare class was on. Chances are they probably went abroad for a 2-month course and the only thing they picked up was the accent. These ‘know-alls’ talk faster than a Klashnikov on auto, banking on the fact that a befuddled listener is bound to miss most of the conversation. Most people can be forgiven for thinking the so-called NRI’s tongue got stung by a bumblebee. Interestingly, these guys eat their words more often than they spit ’em out, that too in exotic, indecipherable and bogus accents.

Chew-wah-wahs: This group loves ‘see food’. (As in ‘if I

see food, I eat food’). They are visible in office only when a cake is cut or a pizza ordered. In fact, they home in on an open tiffin box like a heat-seeking missile targeting a Taliban camp, and proceed to give embarrassed colleagues a lesson in wolfing down huge portions at warp speed. Beware! Watching can make you ‘see sick’. For this mobile digestion unit, everything goes... down the throat, that is.

Sycophantosaurus: Every office has them and every office hates them. Apart from missing a crucial piece of anatomy called the spine, these folks base their career entirely on kissing their superior’s posterior. When they’re not fetching boss coffee or asking about the boss’s wife’s mother’s sister-in-law’s hernia operation, they’re generally thinking up ways to go into raptures over the boss’s four-and-a-half-year-old presentation.

Dramacula: A sub-species of Sycophantosaurus, these people love the idiom: ‘Appearance can be deceiving’. So, they only appear when their superior is around, suddenly discovering the joy of work and putting up an impressive show of LBDN (looking busy doing nothing). This includes making loud noises at the right time, moving all over the office with rapid, long strides and screaming abuse on the cellphone. They’re normally found hiding behind a computer or a stack of files, where they’re busy snoring like wild elephants in heat, while their colleagues slog through the day. They are most active around appraisal time.

Tattle cattle: This species believes in the philosophy: “Have mouth, will gossip.” When they are not busy linking one half of the office to the other half, they indulge in badmouthing colleagues, most of whom are their ‘closest friends’ within the environs of the office. Normally found lurking around water dispensers, smoking areas and office canteens, most of them start a conversation with a dramatic “Did you hear...?” And you thought ‘Breaking News’ was a much-abused term.

Backstabbix: This one’s as dirty as they come. His or her philosophy: Divide and rule and look cool. They have no friends, yet call everyone a friend. Hobbies include starting dirty rumours about colleagues and pulling people down. A Backstabbix is more insecure than the Af-Pak border and more dangerous than a crazed fidayeen. Subject is always armed and dangerous. Keep your distance or shoot at sight.

Smellysockicks: This group forces the office to indulge in ‘stench warfare’. If it’s not the socks, it’s the mouth or simply BO. Every orifice is a danger zone. Apparently, in this day and age, these people are still not aware of products like deodorants. Stand next to them, sniff loudly and ask: “What’s that weird smell?” and there will be no effect. Selective hearing or earwax: Take your pick. These ‘cleanliphobic cretins’ inhabit most offices and usually come out of hibernation in peak summer to spread their stink and goodwill all over the office.

Men of steal: Kleptomaniacs have evolved into a modern species. Now, they prefer the term borrowers. Nothing is safe from this sophisticated band of bandits… pens, staplers, chairs, money, ideas, you name it. Heck, they even give the government a run for its money. These borrowers are never lonely…just ‘loan-some’. Now, hide that stapler before someone whacks it.

Workoholics anonymous: The most crucial cog of the office machinery — the quiet, efficient worker. The flip side is that they live and breathe their work 24x7. They give the same importance to family that the Thackerays give to North Indians. Their no-nonsense approach often has people like Backstabbix and Sycophantosaurus stealing a march over them. This species is nearing extinction. It can only be saved with massive disaster-management plan, which includes words like hikes, bonuses and a pat on the back.

The Boy Who Didn’t Know Gandhi

GARBAGE GUY

I met Bodhraj when he was about 15 years old, though he looked 12. He was a thin, good-looking boy, with a bright wide smile that lit up his cherubic face. But in that winter of 1997, in the small town of Udhampur, his face was stained and dirty, his clothes torn, and his spirits weighed down by fear and responsibilities.

Bodhraj was helping the contractor in charge of collecting garbage and installing cable TV in the residential quarters of Air Force Station, Udhampur.

In those days, when child labour laws were still lenient, the contractor literally had him working as bonded labour 24x7. 

My mother developed an instant liking for this hardworking cheerful boy and like many housewives do, would often invite him inside for a steaming cup of tea, a meal and conversation. “Bodhu”, she called him affectionately.

It was in these chai sessions that Bodhraj narrated his tales of woes in broken Hindi, usually after some hard interrogation by my ever-so curious mother.

“Does he (the contractor) hit you?”

“Where do you live?”

“Why didn’t you study?”

Bodhraj would answer this relentless stream of questioning between loud slurps of hot tea and a big grin.

He could not understand why this stranger would have such a keen interest in his life or why she considered his life so hard.

Bodhraj came from a remote village on a hilltop near a picturesque and remote town called Ramnagar. This teenager, whose voice had still not broken, used to take a bus and travel some 2-3 hours to Ramnagar and from there climb uphill for a few hours on foot to reach his village. Sometimes the climb was done in snow, with the only protection for the boy’s feet being a pair of worn-out slippers.

He carried with him his earnings and whatever goodies he could manage as gifts — hand-me-downs, biscuits and even vegetables for his family. Once, after spotting our petromax — a bright lamp connected to a tiny LPG cylinder used during powercuts — he decided he wanted to take it back to his village, which still didn’t have an electricity connection.

He would have done it too. It was only when he realized that he won’t be able to carry anything else apart from the heavy and bulky item up the steep hill that he gave up his plan.

THE RESCUE

He was a tough guy alright, but life was tougher.

One day, after a harsh thrashing by the contractor, a visibly disturbed Bodhu made his way to our house and burst into tears in front of Ma.

My mother, showing the quick thinking and resourcefulness of the typical ‘fauji’ housewife, immediately took him in and told him he was staying with us from now on. Nothing could be done about it now. Ma had spoken.

As was expected, the contractor made an appearance and an ugly showdown took place. But Ma was not about to back down. A shouting match and some police threats later, the contractor backed down and never showed his face in our house again. It was a resounding victory for Mrs Gupta.

Of course cable TV services were never the same for us again, but that was acceptable loss.

Ma, of course, was not just an innocent rescuing angel in this entire episode. In Bodhraj she found a willing domestic help. Not that he needed any convincing but much to her delight Ma soon had a Man Friday in the house.

So that was how Mr Bodhraj aka Bodhu came to stay with us and I soon discovered a friend in this 5-foot Kashmiri bundle of energy.

THE FRIEND

If Bodhraj was one lonely figure in that small quaint hill station, I was the other. I was around 16 years old and there was not one person in my age group in the area. As a result, my recreational activities were restricted to playing squash with some of the young Air Force officers and walking my neighbour’s Labrador Misha.

I and Misha took long walks down lonely trails alongside the hill where our living quarters were situated. As Misha chased birds and initiated deep philosophical conversations with trees and insects, I would choose a spot overlooking the valley and just sit and think. Not a very active lifestyle for a young, energetic teenager, you would agree?

For this version of a lonely me, Bodhraj was a perfect companion. While I and my family worked on his Hindi (and even a little English), he became my sports companion, my grandmother’s co-TV watcher, my mom’s vegetable cutter and my father’s mechanic assistant. My sister on the other hand just found him to be an irritating pest.

His innocence, however, was a delight to behold.

I taught him cricket or rather I tried teaching him cricket. His idea of a complete bowling action involved running a few metres to the crease, coming to a complete stop and rolling his wrists over each other like a dance step. And then he would just chuck the ball, straight, fast and deadly. Needless to say he bowled a lot of no-balls.

He was always eager to learn.

Once he wanted to know who the “buddha” (old man) really is on all the rupee notes. That statement was made with so much innocence and irreverence, that I burst out laughing. Since then, he never referred to the Mahatma as Gandhi. It was always “buddha”.

Interestingly, in the beginning everyone used to call him Bodhram. It was only after a couple of months that he revealed that his name was actually Bodhraj.

Not only was Bodhraj a good student, he picked up things really fast and was a good mimic. But what I really loved about him was his sense of humour. He was always quick with a joke. His eyes would  twinkle and his mouth crease into a wide naughty grin whenever he unleashed a wisecrack.

Once, I noticed that whenever I asked him something he would respond with “No probdamn!” While we were all impressed with his attempt to say “no problem”, it later dawned on us that he was mimicking a Japanese accent from a motorcycle ad. Its slogan went, “Suzuki Samurai, No Probdamn!” He was a smart cookie alright.

DELHI

When dad got transferred to Delhi, Bodhraj decided he wanted to accompany us. Now, a transfer is obviously a hectic affair for any family. But what made it worse were the living quarters.

Delhi always has a long waiting list for getting your entitled house allotted. So the Gupta family and Mr Bodhu first stayed in a single room where most of the space was taken by boxes. We then shifted to a tiny 2-room house and eventually to a proper bungalow.

Packed into those tiny spaces, giving each other any space was out of the question. We and Bodhraj rediscovered each other. He regaled us with his jokes and his funny accent, we pulled his leg and made him learn.

He would sit for hours with me and watch cricket even though he had no idea about the concept of Team India or who Sachin Tendulkar was. But his excitement when a six was hit was the same as mine.

Unfortunately, while Bodhraj loved Delhi, Delhi didn’t love him back. He developed a disease called Pleurisy — a painful inflammation of the lungs that usually afflicts people who live in high altitudes.

We admitted him in the military hospital where neglect by the staff led to drug-induced jaundice. Eventually we transferred him to a private hospital where a complicated surgery was performed on him.

The doctors managed to save him though the trauma of the surgery left him scarred. After all, he was still a young boy.

My parents somehow managed to get a message to his village and his father travelled from his remote village in J&K to the chaos of Delhi. His father was a simple farmer, who spoke less and smiled even lesser. When he met the doctor who operated on Bodhraj he fell at his feet and thanked him. When Bodhu showed him his scars he cried.

We sent Bodhu back with his father for rest and recovery. “He won’t come back,” my mother said, convinced that the surgery had left him shaken and Delhi left him scared.

But two months later there he was, tanned, thin and cheerful as ever. This time he brought his brother Channu Ram with him. Channu Ram was a dwarf and like his brother, a cheerful dwarf. His Hindi was atrocious.

When you asked him, “Aapka naam kya hai? (What is your name?)” He would respond with, “Aapka naam Channu Ram hai. (Your name is Channu Ram.)”  He was a hilarious character and soon found work with our neighbours in Delhi.

Bodhraj worked with us for a few more years. Eventually he left with plans to marry and possibly settle down. He went saying he would be back but he never did.

One day I plan to visit his village. Go meet this old friend of mine who didn’t care about the ‘buddha’ on rupees, and see if life has changed him, as it does us all.

Maybe he still goes around saying ‘no probdamn’.

© Manas Gupta

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