Who is Bhaisaheb? Inside the cult of the unnamed authority
Dushasan
In the corridors of power, where whispers become decrees and a single raised eyebrow can signal a bureaucratic avalanche, a new lexicon has emerged to match the changing political climate in the saffron party-ruled states. Enter the era of the “Bhaisaheb culture,” a phenomenon so enveloping that even the most seasoned mandarins find themselves nodding in reverence to this unseen, unspoken force.
It began innocuously enough, as most revolutions do, with a few cryptic nods and a wink here and there. Local politicians, now emboldened by their party’s ascension, approached the staid bureaucrats with a curious phrase: “Bhaisaheb se baat hogyi.” No one ever named this Bhaisaheb, but like the omnipresent Big Brother, everyone understood. And thus, the Bhaisaheb culture was born, a new vernacular for an old game of power and influence.
In this brave new world, ambiguity reigns supreme. Take the example of a diligent Deputy Secretary who once prided himself on his clarity and precision. One day, a politician sauntered into his office, leaned over his desk, and whispered, “Bhaisaheb se baat hogyi.” The deputy secretary, well-versed in the art of bureaucratic survival, nodded sagely, pretending to understand. But in his mind, questions swirled. Which Bhaisaheb? The Chief Secretary Bhaisaheb, the DGP Bhaisaheb, or perhaps a new Bhaisaheb he hadn’t been briefed on?
As the days went by, the Bhaisaheb nomenclature expanded, attaching itself to every significant post. The Chief Secretary, once a title of considerable clout, became CS Bhaisaheb. The Director General of Police transformed into DGP Bhaisaheb. Even the lesser-known Joint Secretary found himself rebranded as JS Bhaisaheb. The titles were the same, but the addition of ‘Bhaisaheb’ carried with it an air of unapproachable mystique and implicit authority.
Bureaucrats, ever the chameleons, adapted swiftly. Morning briefings were now peppered with phrases like, “As per CS Bhaisaheb’s directive,” or “DGP Bhaisaheb insists.” These statements were met with solemn nods, each one an acknowledgement of the new order. Of course, the true genius of the Bhaisaheb culture lay in its vagueness. If a policy went awry or a directive led to public outcry, the Bhaisaheb shielded everyone involved. After all, who could blame a faceless, nameless entity?
The Bhaisaheb culture wasn’t limited to the upper echelons. It trickled down, reaching the grassroots level. Local office clerks began referring to their superiors as “File Bhaisaheb” or “Cabin Bhaisaheb.” The tea vendor outside the secretariat found his customer base expanding, as his humble stall became the unofficial meeting point for “Chai Bhaisahebs” – a nod to the ubiquitous tea culture and the ever-present Bhaisaheb phenomenon.
In this Kafkaesque world, the real power brokers relished their anonymity. Decisions flowed from unseen hands, and accountability became a relic of a bygone era. The true Bhaisaheb, whoever or whatever they were, remained shrouded in mystery. It was whispered that even the Chief Minister had his own Bhaisaheb, a higher power to whom he deferred.
As the Bhaisaheb culture gained momentum, satire became the only form of rebellion. Cartoonists had a field day depicting legions of identical Bhaisahebs, all indistinguishable, all-powerful, and ultimately answerable to no one. Writers penned thinly veiled allegories, and comedians found rich material in the daily absurdities of a system that bowed to the omnipresent Bhaisaheb.
And so, the Bhaisaheb culture thrived, a testament to the ingenuity of political survival and the enduring power of the unnamed. In this new lexicon of power, one thing was clear: the Bhaisaheb, unnamed and unchallenged, was here to stay.
