Appearing For the IAS

               “I want to appear for the IAS,” I told Shri Husband.

“Why?” Shri Husband asked loudly, then said in his most convincing tone. “You’re too old for it.”

               “The government shouldn’t discriminate by age,” I retorted. “What’s age got to do with talent? So many more people can be given a chance if they remove that age clause. Think of all our experience. All the mistakes we’ve made, let the Executive benefit from them. What do the young know? IAS can mean India’s Aging Superwomen.” “Or men,” I added generously.

               “What has suddenly put this idea into your head?” Shri Husband will never give up. Old (pun not intended) habit, asking question upon question.

               “Now people are taking the exam in Hindi. In a few years’ time, they’ll allow it in all the Indian languages, Konkani also,” I said, reasonably. “So I’m going to start preparing already.”

               “You and I will be off the planet by the time any decision on this gets taken. We already have thirty-plus official languages, and in those same few years, there’ll be another ten added,” said Shri Husband, negative man. Then followed the trademark questions: “You think they’ll have question papers in all the languages? All?”

I deflected that one, “Someday they’ll agree to having entrance exams in Konkani for engineering, medicine, toothbrush-repair, management, everything. In addition to English, and they’ll be lenient with the age limit for women at least.” Shri Husband is jealous because my school-fees were waived off and I got a free bicycle from the government and also some money when I turned eighteen. Of course, he was compulsory-pass till class eight, good for him.

               “What makes you think you’ll get through?” another question followed by a snide: “There are only three chances.”

I wasn’t going to let him know I didn’t know that, so I lagoed: “That’s another request the protestors must ask for, that the candidates should appear as many times as they wish to. Representation is what democracy is all about, the will of the majority. The protestors will…”

“Which protestors?” Some people talk in riddles, Shri Husband talks in questions.

“Those who are asking for changing the UPSC system. IAS-IFS-IPS-IRS aspirants,” I told him; I’m a patient person.

“Are you talking about what they showed on tv?” Shri Husband will never make it to the IAS, but he could become a part of the UPSC paper-setting team, with his question-manufacturing talent.

“Yes.”

               “Do you know it’s an intellectually and emotionally demanding exam?”

               “Stop using words that the aam junta can’t understand.”

               “You have no aptitude for administration.”

               “Exactly. That’s what the protestors were saying. Stop this aptitude business. Very elite and urban.  Not for the saadhee manshan.”

               “I give up.” Shri Husband says this often to me. He will never make it to any Service. I told him I was going to bash on regardless.

               “Suppose I get through,” I said, “You’ll be proud of me, won’t you?”

               First, he threw a sentence at me: “If you get posted to Arunachal or Andhra, you will need to learn their language.” Then the question: “Will you?”

Second round: “If you get posted to Somalia or Uzbeckistan, you’ll have to learn their languages.” Followed by: “Will you?” I suspect Shri Husband sometimes thinks I’m stupid. Then I sit quietly until he gets out of that mood.

He babbled on: “IAS people have to read balance sheets of companies, do valuation for pubic sector privatisation, analyse large amounts of data, do profitability analyses.” I let him babble.

“… you need an analytical and logical mind…”

Not once did I interrupt, adarsh Bharatiya naree that I am, until he ran out of breath.

I read somewhere that in parts of India, they’re planning to introduce Sanskrit seriously. I said, “Maybe they’ll allow me to take the exam in Sanskrit. If there’s quota, there’ll be very little competition for me.”

“Why would they have entrance papers in Sanskrit?” Shri Husband again.

“Mother of our languages, the root of our heritage, software compatible,” I can also impress with big-big words when I want to. I’d heard this on television, sounded impressive.

“Go ahead,” he said, stumped. “Convince the powers-that-be that the IAS entrance exam should be in the ancientest Indian language. Suggest Tamil or Pali.” Shri Husband ideas are sometimes good. “And tell them that you’re nearly superannuated.”

“So, finally you agree I’m super, eh, annuated or not,” I smirked.

Shri Husband’s complaining of a headache. Gotta go.