When Gyanu was asked to resign

For nearly a week, the nation had been in the grip of a crisis. Television anchors were shouting, political commentators were frowning, social media was incandescent, and protest slogans seemed to be everywhere. One demand, in particular, had acquired an almost national urgency:

“GYANU MUST RESIGN!”

The language was uncompromising. “Gyanu, your time is up!” “We know what you did, Gyanu!” “Resign immediately or face the consequences!” There were allegations of misdeeds, demands for accountability and even calls for Gyanu to be sent to jail or, if she preferred, to turn approver. To the average citizen, it looked like another high-stakes political and constitutional confrontation. To one particular person in our neighbourhood, however, it looked like the end of her career.

At first, Gyanu tried to ignore it. News channels, after all, are perpetually angry about something. But by the third day, the repetition began to frighten her. The slogans were everywhere. And, as far as she could tell, they were all directed at her. She had, admittedly, had a difficult few weeks. There had been a couple of misplaced items, some delayed schedules and one unfortunate episode involving expensive crockery. She had also, under circumstances still being investigated by the household, used fabric softener meant for clothes on the floor mats. But a national campaign demanding her resignation? That seemed excessive.

By the fourth day, Gyanu decided that discretion was the better part of survival. If the country had already made up its mind, she would resign before the police arrived. Thus began Operation: Draft the Resignation.

What followed was a remarkably well-organised diplomatic exercise. Over the next forty-eight hours, Gyanu quietly approached several households in the neighbourhood. Templates were requested, opinions were sought and confidential consultations were held. Nobody quite understood why she needed a resignation letter, but the seriousness on her face discouraged unnecessary questions. By the end of the exercise, five draft letters had been assembled. Gupta ji from 3B, whose corporate experience was apparently considerable, produced a letter full of references to financial quarters, severance packages and professional transition. The college-going son of 4A took a more philosophical approach, writing about finding oneself, toxic work environments and new beginnings. The elderly uncle in 5C, perhaps influenced by decades of government paperwork, produced something that sounded suspiciously like a petition for mercy. None of them, however, seemed quite right. Gyanu needed something authoritative. Something final. Something written in impeccable English.

And so, late one evening, the dossier arrived in our living room. My wife was sitting with her phone when Gyanu approached her with five sheets of paper clutched to her chest as though they contained state secrets.

“Didi,” she said softly, “please help me.”

My wife looked up. “What happened?”

Gyanu glanced nervously towards the television. “I have to resign.”

My wife stared at her. “Resign from what?”

“My job, Didi!”

There was a brief silence.

“Why?”

Gyanu looked genuinely astonished that she needed to explain. “Because everybody is saying it!”

“Saying what?”

“Gyanu must resign!”

My wife looked at me. I looked at Gyanu. Gyanu looked at the television. The television was showing a photograph of Chief Election Commissioner Gyanesh Kumar, surrounded by flashing graphics and several very agitated faces.

“Didi,” Gyanu continued, lowering her voice, “it is becoming very serious. They are saying I have done misdeeds. They are saying I should go to jail. One channel said I should become an approver.”

My wife blinked. “An approver?”

“Yes. I don't know what that means either. But it sounds dangerous.”

She thrust the first letter towards us. “Gupta ji gave me this one. But what is financial quarter? I don't know anything about quarters. I only know two-bedroom flats.”

She produced another. “Verma ji's son wrote this one. It says I am leaving because of a toxic work culture. I told him you and Bhaiya are very nice. He said it sounds better in English.”

At this point, my wife was struggling not to laugh. Gyanu, however, was close to tears. “Didi, please write one proper letter. Very strong English. I will give it to everybody in the building and go back to my village before the police comes.”

“Why do you think the police are coming?”

“Because TV people are very angry.”

That was difficult to argue with.

My wife finally turned towards me. I looked at the five resignation letters, then at Gyanu, then at the television. Only then did the extraordinary possibility occur to us that this entire domestic drama might have something to do with the name being flashed across the screen.

It did.

Our Gyanu was not the Chief Election Commissioner. She was our 12th-pass domestic help, fiercely literate, extraordinarily self-confident and affectionately known throughout the neighbourhood simply as Gyanu.

The national controversy was about Gyanesh Kumar.

Gyanu had heard only one part of the name.

And, in her defence, the television channels had not exactly helped.

The democratic foundations of the Republic were therefore perfectly safe. No constitutional crisis had entered our building. The government was not about to collapse. The Supreme Court did not need to convene an emergency bench.

The only institution facing an immediate crisis was our household.

More specifically, my morning tea.

Because while the nation debated the future of the Election Commission, our Gyanu had already threatened to resign from the only institution that reliably produced my breakfast.

The five resignation letters were ceremonially retired to the dustbin. Gyanu was reinstated to her high office of vacuuming, mopping and maintaining household order. There was, however, one constitutional amendment:

The television would remain on the cartoon channel until her shift was over.

The High Command Responds

The matter did not end there. The following morning, the building WhatsApp group became the venue for what might generously be described as an inquiry. Once the truth emerged, there was considerable relief, followed by the sort of embarrassment that travels faster than any breaking-news alert. Gupta ji quietly deleted his corporate resignation template and later explained that he had assumed Gyanu was looking for a data-entry job. Verma ji's son disappeared from the WhatsApp group for several hours. The elderly uncle from 5C, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the entire affair.

When Gyanu entered his flat that morning, he looked up from his newspaper and asked, with a straight face, “Aao, Gyanu. No jail today?”

Gyanu burst out laughing. Then she adjusted her dupatta, looked at my wife with the solemnity of a senior constitutional authority and delivered her final verdict:

“No, Didi. Tell Bhaiya the high command has rejected my resignation.”

For once, there was no argument from the high command.

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(Author: kgsharma1@gmail.com; The writer is a retired officer of the Indian Information Service and a freelance writer. Also worked as an international media consultant with UNICEF Nigeria and contributes regularly to various publications.)