Should we take birth signs in the Zodiac at their prescribed value or believe their alleged influence over our lives, capable of propelling us forward or knocking us down? Some say yes, others a stern no, dismissing it as nonsense. Personally, I care little for it, as the veracity seems humbug and the whole matter mere mumbo jumbo. However, I’ve had enough experience to know what some people can do with an unassuming zodiac sign. A few individuals born under a particular sign have caused me considerable discomfort and trouble. One fellow stands out as the enfant terrible of the constellation—a Sagittarian. Mercifully, I last met him in 1995.
This takes me back to 1982, when I was posted to Cochin after a six-month stint in New Delhi. I was raw, fresh out of college, and something of a pushover in an organisation, regardless of my position. After all, I was a trainee, being inducted over two years. This fellow, let’s call him Mr S—as S is the first letter of his name, evoking holiness—was anything but saintly. In fact, he shared his name with a revered figure and his consort from the mythical Ramayana, yet in real life, he was their antithesis.
It was through enduring him that I learned his attitude stemmed not from fault but from his limitations and his acute awareness of them. Such people need a fig leaf to cover their shortcomings, and he required many. Yet, there was no limit to my annoyance with his idiosyncrasies. As a co-worker, I had no choice but to tolerate him. He was short, about 5 feet 3 inches, which seemed to fuel his inferiority complex. A veteran who had risen to some extent from a low level in the organisation, his years of service ensured his continuity on the payroll. That says it all.
Beyond the annoyance he was adept at creating, his innuendos and duplicitous games at the workplace simmered within me, with anger always waiting to erupt. The quality I detested most was his servility to senior managers. He stooped miserably low, crawling when he merely needed to bend. It was nauseating.
During review meetings and conferences, held in five-star hotels across various metropolises, he was at his most ridiculous. I saw hotel staff managing banquets, lunches, and breaks laugh and smile mockingly at his conduct. The worst was reserved for evening cocktails and dinners, when, under the influence of spirits, he became a derisive caricature of himself.
I could tolerate his personality quirks, but the attribute I loathed most was his “shoestring tying” and sudden vanishing act to the loo. He wasn’t exactly a miser but was artful in living off others while safeguarding his wallet. He drank like a fish and ate like a famished Rip Van Winkle. Once, during a dinner when kebabs were served, someone remarked loudly on his clownish behaviour, “Arey, kebab mein haddi kaise?” (How could there be a bone in the kebab?)
The shoestring act was always reserved for the end of evening gatherings, to which he tagged along like a limpet, even uninvited. When the bill arrived, Mr S’s diminutive figure would vanish below the table—either fumbling with his shoelaces or disappearing to the washroom, only to resurface after we had paid. He would then enquire earnestly about the “damages” for the evening before slinking like an eel to his vehicle in the car park.
Why do I write this memoir about Mr S? Because I had a dream in which he was devouring kebabs alone, caring not a hoot for me standing nearby, smacking my lips and drooling uncontrollably. When I awoke, my pillow was damp, and I could almost smell the kebabs.
