Ashok Khemka’s moving experiences

The redoubtable Ashok Khemka, an urban legend from the Jatland of Haryana, retired from the IAS on April 30. He had his brief hour of fame and glory (always a dangerous thing for an IAS officer, though Mr Amitabh Kant appears to have bucked this trend) about 12 years back when he refused to register a land deal of Mr Robert Vadra because he smelt a (Vad)rat: an act of bravery worthy of a medal, if not a mention in dispatches, considering that the said Vadra was the nation’s acknowledged son-in-law. As it turned out, however, Mr Khemka got neither a medal nor a mention; he was transferred. Which brings me smoothly to the heart of my story.

Ashok Khemka served for 34 years and was transferred 57 times, something one hopes the Guinness Book of World Records will take note of. He had probably hoped that with the change of government in 2014, his fortunes too would change and that he would, like a good dog, be rewarded with a juicy bone in the matter of postings and that he would come in from the cold, as it were. Not so, because the new, non-Congress government transferred him yet again! For, politicians, though fond of dogs as status symbols, prefer the poodle or lap-dog breed and not the hound or German shepherd types. It doesn’t matter which political party a Chief Minister graces — when it comes to dogs, a pit-bull like Mr Khemka is a strict no-no.

And so, 12 years later, Mr Vadra continues to be the Opposition’s official son-in-law and the cases against him have petered out like the mystical Saraswati river, while Mr Khemka has now passed into the realm of archives, like all of us, and may shortly become a case study in Mussoorie.

Be that as it may, however, I am here on a different, though related, issue, viz that with 57 transfers, Mr Khemka must have got 57 farewell parties — another record, by the way. And it is these farewell parties which I wish to dilate on, having had some experience of them myself, though I bow before the sheer numerical superiority of Mr Khemka.

Farewell parties are an integral part of a career in the IAS, but like everything in the bureaucracy, they serve a double purpose. The overt purpose is to extol the retiree’s qualities and achievements, while glossing over his failures. The good is emphasised while the not-so-good is interred with the (tandoori chicken) bones, as Shakespeare would have put it if he had dined at a curry restaurant in Stratford. But it is the second, covert, purpose which really matters — to tell the retiring bloke that his innings is now over, and that by accepting the farewell, he is now estopped from seeking any extension. Which actually makes the repast a bit like the Last Supper; there is even a Judas lurking behind the scenes — the guy who hopes to succeed the retiring Chief Secretary or whatever, ready with a gift to seal the deal, as it were.

At least, that’s how things were during my days, but times have now changed and the old rules no longer apply, as events in one state recently demonstrated. IAS officers no longer accept retirement as a natural and inevitable denouement to a successful career; imbued by a nationalistic fervour, they wish to continue to serve the nation, at least till the next Pay Commission increases their salaries and resultant pensions. And so, apropos the event mentioned above, the Chief Secretary of the state was invited for his farewell dinner by the IAS Association on the eve of his retirement, at considerable cost to the members.

The CS arrived graciously, and just before the consomme was served, announced that he had been granted an extension of six months! Judas had to be given first aid on the spot.

Now, as regards the original Last Supper, Biblical records are not clear about who paid for the meal. It could have been the GAD (General Administration Department) where all such bills for victuals land up, or it could have been Judas (from out of the 30 pieces of silver he had received), or it could have been the Holy Ghost via PrayTM (as PayTM was then known). But in the case of the Chief Secretary mentioned, the Association members had given hefty amounts from their own pockets, so, as expected, there were murmurs of protest at their having been sold a pig in a poke. To calm them down, it is reported that the said CS has promised that he will not expect a farewell again when he does retire in the fullness of time. A knotty (or is it naughty?) issue, if there ever was one.

But it does appear to have set the cat among the pigeons: IAS Associations all across the country are now thinking of a new SOP for farewell parties, I learn. In future, all retirees (especially Chief Secretaries) will be asked to furnish an affidavit before a farewell dinner is organised for them. They will be required to give an undertaking to the effect that (a) they have not sought an extension in service, and (b) in case they do get an extension, they would refund to the Association the entire bill of the farewell dinner.

Mr Khemka has eluded this fate by a whisker, fortunately, and has retired with the grace and dignity we expected from him. He has announced that he will now enter the legal profession, which is welcome news for a profession where crores are found in judges’ houses and the Bar looks like a mix of crony capitalists and the United Auto Workers Union. But I do have a suggestion for him to consider: given his vast experience in moving house and home every eight months for almost four decades, he could consider setting up a packers and movers company.

I even have a name and tagline for his new venture: Khemka Movers and Shakers — We Promise You A Moving Experience. (I will, of course, understand if he turns down my well-meaning suggestion).

— The writer is a retired IAS officer