An awkward encounter at Punjab secretariat
Working with the government, a transfer always brings conflicting emotions of excitement and apprehension at the same time. The reasons for both being the same – moving out of the comfort zone, dealing with a new subject, meeting and working with new people. The transfer orders in August 2020 announced the inevitable for me, moving from the field to the intimidating secretariat at Chandigarh.
Over the years, I have always romanticised the idea of moving back to Chandigarh – it’s the city where I spent most of my short career as a journalist. It brings back thrilling memories of zipping from spot-to-spot to cover the education beat as a cub reporter on my scooter after the iconic Press Club poolside morning meetings.
Even though the second stint in the city was not expected to match the thrill, the prospect of catching up with old friends, making new friends and maybe picking up a hobby was incentive enough.
As with most things in 2020, the Covid-19 pandemic played a spoilsport here, too. I joined my new assignment at the peak of the pandemic, the usual apprehensions were double-fold. There were no friendly smiles from strangers – just masked faces, temperature checks and muffled sounds. Introductions and briefings that generally take days and copious cups of tea were limited to a quick exchange of user IDS. The new norms restricted all personal interactions. Meetings were to be attended online, agendas shared by email and e-files to be cleared on the portal.
THERE WERE NO FRIENDLY SMILES FROM STRANGERS – JUST MASKED FACES, TEMPERATURE CHECKS AND MUFFLED SOUNDS
Staring at the screen all day long made the new environment stifling. To add to the uneasiness, I started hearing strange noises from the roof. As I didn’t want to alarm and sound eccentric to my new staff, I waited for it to stop. And it did! I heaved a sigh and went back to the screen. But as soon as I did, wild scampering started above my head. I gratefully realised it wasn’t the isolation playing with my head, as two screws of a ceiling light got unhinged and it drooped down.
I rang the bell to announce to the staff that there’s a cat trapped in the roof. Expressions of disbelief from them made me point to the light as proof. We made a strategy to rescue the cat. A ladder was procured and a part of the ceiling panel removed. Cellphone lights were flashed to locate the feline, but there was no movement or sight of life. I got some visitors in my isolated office, to offer solutions as word spread that there was a cat living in the roof. Since all the activity made the cat disappear, a bowl of milk was left, in the hope that it would climb down and leave for a safer place overnight.
The next day, the milk was gone but the activity on the roof increased. My suggestion to leave the balcony door open for the cat to escape should it decide to climb down was met by strong opposition as monkeys could walk in. As the day went by, the bustle increased overhead and while attending an online meeting, I spotted the cat looking at me suspiciously through the opening in the roof with two kittens in tow. The AC vents were opened to help the cat lead the kittens to the corridor and down the stairs. This time round, the milk was left in the corridor. The next day, the cat and the kittens were gone. And so was my awkwardness.