“I have come to seek your support, and valuable vote, as I have decided to stand for re-election” declared the bespectacled, somewhat fat, middle aged man- dressed in an off-white safari suit- rather pompously, as he stood with folded hands at the door of my house, surrounded by a bevy of chumchas and chumchis, who suitably nodded their head in unison.

“Vote for which re-election?” I muttered under my breath, irritated at the uncalled for intrusion in my privacy on a rather lazy Sunday morning.

“I am the President” he replied sheepishly, maybe taken aback at my nonchalant reply. “I had decided not to stand for this year’s election due to increased professional and personal commitments-actually I had desired to give someone younger a chance to bear the responsibility, and take a backseat- but had to relent under the immense pressure from fellow residents, who want my leadership for a further period of three years” he continued, his voice a cocktail of benevolence and beneficence for his ‘supporters’, and the seasoned politician’s chicanery.

“But isn’t Pratibha Tai the President?” I retorted, further trying to pull his leg.

“Malhotra jee, I am the President of our Resident Welfare Association (RWA) for the past several years” he said, flabbergasted, a tad angry and certainly deeply offended at my failure to recognize him, and worse, acknowledge his self-perceived exalted status.

Although I had recognized him the moment he pressed the doorbell of my house, and I opened the front door to face him, my innate aversion of people who like to throw their weight around, and flaunt uncalled for appellations came forth with all its bitterness. Nonetheless, realizing that the man was getting increasingly exasperated at my maneuverings, I salvaged the situation by promising to cast my vote in his favor, and profusely apologized to him for my failure to identify his ‘Excellency’, with the pretext that my better half is the face of our family for outside interactions, while I busy myself in mundane things, like reading and writing. 

Not too surprisingly, denizens of my beloved Dilli, sitting on the center of power since the dawn of history, have a deeply ingrained fascination for posts and titles- which proliferate dime a dozen- and take a macho and perverse pride in flaunting them, with the same exuberance with which a child displays his or her toy, albeit not with the same innocence. This fact is borne out in the form of roadside boards and car number plates, which often bear vague titles- such as ‘Secretary, Youth Media Cell, ABC party, B-block, Village XYZ’. A carryforward from the era of the Mughals and British imperialists, this is a desperate shot to seek the much desired VVIP status, at least in the circle one operates in. Thus, it is not unknown to find members of RWAs run virtual fiefdoms in their associations, maybe as recompense for the voluntary service rendered in serving the community. The perks could include free car wash and laundry facility, use of funds near the residence where the self styled Maharajas live, et al.

One can only speculate as to what would happen if this maniac lure of titles and appellations invades the next, and perhaps the last bastion of community living, the home. Then, it would be no surprise to see name boards outside individual residences read like this: 1/103, Beverly Park: APS Malhotra, President; Sonia Malhotra Vice President; Dr. Mehak Malhotra, Secretary (in absentia). In families with matriarchal tendencies, the designations could be reversed.

Well, worth a thought!