Introducing My Parents to the World of Bureaucracy

Bureaucracy is an interesting place to be. Ever since I became a part of it, it's felt like everything, everywhere, all at once. Firefighting has become a reality, sometimes on all fronts, yet I still walk in with prim clothing and polished shoes, my head held high every day, as the reality of the 'glass house' sets in. From the lush high teas and formal dinners to understanding the differences between ceremonial, formal, and smart casual attire, from presenting themes about which I had little to no idea to giving speeches in a language whose alphabets are still new to me, it has been like a swimming lesson with no trainer in the deepest end of the pool, clinging to just one floater.

However, doing it all on your own and introducing your family to it are two very different challenges. My parents, like many first-time bureaucrats, knew about bureaucracy as much as an engineer knows about his course—he's supposed to understand it but keeps asking his classmate what is really going on. The classmate, knowing little, pretends he's figured it all out, and then they both pretend together. Needless to say, I was this 'poor classmate'!

My father, a veteran in the UP state government, works in a much smaller capacity than me but has been proficiently inducted and assimilated into the system's workings. To him, bureaucrats are "bade log" (important people), discussing "badi baatein" (significant matters). He now shuns buying from street markets, insisting that "Bade log" don't dress like the rest. When I visit home, I'm often not allowed to roam on my scooter as I used to; now, a car is deemed more appropriate for me, preferably with a gunner and an orderly. I send him photos of my training, and his curiosity about my batchmates and seniors often mirrors the enthusiasm of a child at a vanity fair. When asked why, he lovingly responds, "We should also know, in case someone asks."

And people do ask my parents—a lot of questions. The nuances in these conversations intrigue me: how some of my father's colleagues refer to me as "Aap" (a respectful term), how neighborhood aunties eagerly host me for meals, or how food finds its way into my mother's refrigerator if I decline their invitations. Holidays like Holi and Diwali are never the same; we end up hosting my father's curious seniors, all eager to know when I can move back to UP as the Collector of Aligarh, my hometown. My training, an exhausting and chaotic two-year process with numerous transfers, is seen as a paid vacation by outsiders! I shy away from the limelight, while my parents proudly share snippets of newspapers featuring my picture, even in languages like Assamese.

It's a new experience for them too. I wish there were a training manual for first-time bureaucratic parents. Once, when my parents visited the academy, we had an hour-long video call just to decide what they should wear, with my father shuffling through his four blazers, one from his wedding. He often finds himself in situations where our extended relatives ask for retail discounts or help solving long-standing land disputes. I navigate through all of this, balancing the tenets of my service with my family responsibilities. It's conflicting and new, but I enjoy the process. It's a privilege to come from a family that saw my current life as one of their biggest aspirations. It's humbling and gratifying to bring my parents the respect they deserve, which, in my opinion, is the middle class's greatest opium.

Being a woman, I was often told what I could and couldn't do. This service allows me to break every single preconceived notion with dignity, grace, and resilience. But nothing matches the fulfillment of holding my mother's hand, walking her through the doors of LBSNAA, her eyes sparkling and brimming with tears, one step at a time!