This is a beautiful subject for a reflective, experience-based article. I would make it more personal, conversational and emotionally powerful, using the donkey story as the turning point. The humour of the wife’s final remark should be preserved because it gives the piece a memorable ending.

A retired IAS officer’s encounter with the truth about power, position and human relationships

My first Diwali after retirement was perhaps the most unusual Diwali of my life.

For more than three decades, I had celebrated the festival in a rather grand fashion. Not because I was particularly fond of extravagance, but because that was how life had gradually become for someone occupying an important position in the administration.

A week before Diwali, the gifts would begin arriving.

First, a few familiar faces would appear with greetings. Then came the dry-fruit boxes, sweets, decorative hampers and expensive-looking packages. Some were sent by people I knew well; others came from people whose faces I could barely remember.

By the time Diwali arrived, one room of our house would resemble a departmental store.

My wife would often complain.

“Where shall I keep all these things? We have more dry fruits than we can possibly consume!”

I would laugh.

“Distribute them among relatives, friends and the staff. That is what they are meant for.”

Even after distributing a substantial quantity, there would always be enough left over.

There were telephone calls, greetings, visits and invitations. People would come to touch my feet, exchange pleasantries and seek blessings.

I had gradually become accustomed to this attention.

Perhaps, without realising it, I had begun to believe that all this affection was directed towards me.

Then came retirement.

And with it, my first Diwali outside the familiar world of official authority.

The first Diwali after retirement

This time, something was different.

A week before Diwali, I found myself occasionally looking towards the entrance whenever the doorbell rang.

But nobody came.

The telephone remained unusually quiet.

There were no impressive gift hampers, no overflowing boxes of dry fruits and no familiar stream of visitors.

My wife was going about her household preparations as usual.

I looked at the clock.

It was already two in the afternoon on Diwali.

I could not help expressing my disappointment.

“Strange! Nobody seems to remember us this year.”

My wife glanced at me.

“Why? What were you expecting?”

“Nothing much. Just the usual people wishing us Diwali. Earlier, the house would be full by this time.”

She smiled faintly but did not say anything.

I tried to sound casual.

“Perhaps everybody is busy. Maybe they will come in the evening.”

But somewhere inside, I was uncomfortable.

The same people who had once considered it important to visit me were suddenly nowhere to be seen.

I began wondering whether relationships were really so temporary. Had people forgotten me so quickly? Had all those years of association meant so little?

Or was there something I had failed to understand about human nature?

I picked up a newspaper, hoping to distract myself.

Fortunately, I came across a small story.

It was about a donkey.

I had no idea that this little story would teach me more about my life than many years of occupying an important office.

The story of a donkey

Once upon a time, there was a donkey whose owner earned his living by transporting goods from one village to another.

One day, the owner loaded several beautifully decorated idols of Hindu deities onto the donkey’s back. He was taking them to a temple for a religious ceremony.

The donkey walked along the village roads carrying the idols.

As they passed through different settlements, something extraordinary happened.

People came out of their houses.

Some folded their hands. Others bowed their heads. Many gathered around the procession to offer prayers.

Women brought flowers. Children watched with curiosity. Devotees stood with reverence as the idols passed before them.

The donkey noticed all this.

At first, it was puzzled.

Why were people suddenly behaving so respectfully?

Then a thought entered its head.

“They are greeting me!”

It began walking more proudly.

Its ears stood upright. Its neck became stiff. It lifted its head and moved with an exaggerated sense of importance.

“Look at me,” it seemed to think. “I must be someone very special!”

The owner, meanwhile, was busy managing the procession.

The donkey became increasingly convinced that the villagers were paying homage to it.

After all, wherever it went, people bowed their heads.

What greater proof of importance could there be?

The illusion of borrowed respect

The procession eventually reached its destination.

The idols were unloaded and installed at the place of worship.

The religious ceremony was completed.

When it was time to return, the owner loaded sacks of vegetables and other ordinary goods onto the donkey’s back.

The two set off again.

But this time, something was terribly wrong.

Nobody came out of the houses.

Nobody folded their hands.

Nobody bowed.

Nobody offered flowers.

The villagers simply went about their daily business.

The donkey was bewildered.

“What happened?” it wondered. “Have these people suddenly forgotten who I am?”

It walked a little farther.

Still no attention.

It began to feel insulted.

“Yesterday, everybody was bowing before me. Today, nobody even looks at me!”

It decided to remind them of its importance.

It started braying loudly.

“Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”

The villagers were irritated.

“What’s wrong with this animal?” someone shouted.

Another person complained:

“Take this noisy donkey away!”

The owner was equally annoyed.

“Will you keep quiet? What has got into you?”

But the donkey continued braying, desperate to attract the attention it had received the previous day.

Finally, the owner lost his patience and began beating it.

The poor animal could not understand what had happened.

Yesterday it had received respect.

Today it was being insulted and beaten.

What had changed?

The answer was simple.

Yesterday, people had been paying respect to the idols on its back.

Today, those idols were no longer there.

The donkey had mistaken borrowed respect for its own importance.

Suddenly, I saw myself in that donkey

I stopped reading.

For a few moments, I simply sat there with the newspaper in my hands.

Then I read the story again.

And again.

Something inside me had shifted.

I looked around my drawing room, at the empty spaces where gift boxes would once have been piled up.

And suddenly, I understood.

All those years, perhaps I had been the donkey.

People had not necessarily come to honour me as an individual. They had come because of the position I occupied, the authority I exercised and the influence attached to my office.

The respect was often directed towards the chair, not the person sitting in it.

The gifts were not necessarily tokens of personal affection. Some were gestures of courtesy, some of professional obligation, and some perhaps calculated attempts to remain in the good books of an influential officer.

I had been carrying the idols of authority on my back.

And I had mistakenly believed that the people were bowing before me.

I remembered the official functions where I had been invited as chief guest.

The bouquets, the shawls, the garlands, the elaborate introductions and the flattering speeches.

I remembered people waiting outside my office for appointments.

I remembered how quickly meetings could be arranged when my intervention was required.

I remembered the enthusiastic greetings during festivals.

And now I wondered:

How many of those people would have behaved in exactly the same way if I had been an ordinary retired gentleman without any official influence?

The answer was uncomfortable.

I had spent years receiving respect without always questioning its source.

Perhaps I had become accustomed to the attention.

Perhaps I had even begun to expect it.

The donkey in the newspaper had suddenly become my mirror.

A conversation with my wife

I called my wife.

“Listen, I have just read something very interesting.”

She continued arranging things in the kitchen.

“What is it now?”

I told her the story of the donkey.

She listened patiently.

When I finished, I said:

“I think I have finally understood something important. All those years, people were not necessarily respecting me. They were respecting the position I occupied. I was carrying the idols on my back, just like that donkey.”

My wife looked at me.

There was a pause.

Then she burst into laughter.

I was slightly offended.

“What is so funny?”

She replied:

“Are you telling me that you have only understood this today?”

I remained silent.

She continued:

“For so many years, I have been trying to explain to you that you are nothing without your chair. Whenever I told you to remain humble, you thought I was being unnecessarily critical.”

I tried to defend myself.

“That is not fair. I always treated people properly.”

She gave me a knowing look.

“Really? Do you remember how you behaved when somebody disagreed with you? Do you remember how you ignored people who had no influence? Do you remember how important it was for you to be introduced as the chief guest?”

I had no immediate answer.

She continued, now with a mischievous smile:

“And today, a little story in a newspaper has achieved what I could not achieve in all these years. Congratulations! You have finally discovered that you are a donkey!”

We both laughed.

But her words stayed with me.

Sometimes, the people who know us best are the ones whose advice we are least willing to accept.

The dangerous intoxication of a chair

The experience made me reflect on the psychology of power.

An important position can be intoxicating.

When a person becomes an IAS officer, a senior police officer, a minister, a political leader, the head of an institution or the president of an influential organisation, his surroundings begin to change.

People start treating him differently.

His telephone calls receive immediate attention.

Appointments become easier.

Invitations increase.

He is welcomed with bouquets, shawls and ceremonial honours.

At public functions, he is introduced with a long list of titles and achievements.

Sometimes, even before he has spoken a word, the audience is instructed to stand and applaud.

Gradually, a dangerous illusion can develop.

The person begins to believe that all this respect belongs to him personally.

He forgets that much of it is attached to the office.

The chair creates an aura around its occupant.

And if the occupant is not careful, the aura begins to influence his personality.

He may start expecting special treatment everywhere.

He may become impatient with ordinary people.

He may consider disagreement an insult.

He may surround himself with flatterers who agree with everything he says.

The people who offer honest criticism are gradually pushed away.

The talented and independent colleagues become inconvenient because they cannot be controlled through praise or intimidation.

And the sycophants become increasingly valuable because they provide a constant supply of admiration.

This is how power can distort judgement.

When the chair becomes more important than the person

I have seen how people change when they occupy positions of authority.

A person who was once approachable may become inaccessible.

A colleague who once enjoyed an equal relationship may suddenly find himself waiting outside the office.

An old friend may be made to feel that he needs an appointment.

A junior employee may hesitate to speak honestly because the senior officer has developed a habit of taking disagreement personally.

Sometimes, the transformation is so complete that the individual begins to confuse obedience with respect.

People say yes because they are afraid of displeasing him.

He interprets their silence as admiration.

They laugh at his jokes, even when they are not funny.

He mistakes their laughter for affection.

They praise his decisions, even when those decisions are questionable.

He interprets their praise as evidence of his wisdom.

And slowly, he creates a world in which nobody tells him the truth.

This is perhaps the greatest danger of authority.

The person loses the ability to distinguish genuine affection from professional courtesy, and sincere respect from calculated flattery.

The more powerful he becomes, the more isolated he may actually be.

The day the chair becomes vacant

Retirement is a peculiar experience.

For some, it is liberation.

For others, it is a sudden confrontation with reality.

The office telephone stops ringing.

The official vehicle disappears.

The personal staff are reassigned.

The security arrangements change.

The daily stream of visitors gradually dries up.

The new officer takes over the office.

The same people who once waited outside your door now wait outside his.

The same bouquets are presented.

The same elaborate introductions are made.

The same people who once praised your wisdom now discover extraordinary qualities in your successor.

And the former occupant watches this transition with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment.

He may ask himself:

“Have they forgotten everything I did for them?”

But perhaps the more important question is:

“Did I ever build relationships that existed independently of my office?”

A position is temporary.

An office is temporary.

Influence is temporary.

Even public recognition is temporary.

But kindness, honesty, friendship and human dignity can survive long after official authority disappears.

The loneliness of borrowed importance

The most painful consequence of confusing status with personal worth is the loneliness that may follow retirement.

A person who has spent decades surrounded by people may suddenly find himself with very few genuine companions.

The phone may remain silent for days.

Invitations may become infrequent.

Former subordinates may no longer feel obliged to visit.

People who once praised him may now discuss him without any particular enthusiasm.

Some may even remember the unpleasant experiences they had while working under him.

A person who was once feared may discover that fear does not create affection.

A person who was once obeyed may discover that obedience does not create loyalty.

A person who was once surrounded by flatterers may discover that flattery does not create friendship.

This is a difficult realisation.

And it is particularly painful for someone who has spent his life believing that the attention he received was evidence of his personal greatness.

Sometimes, the former officer becomes bitter.

He complains that people have changed.

He says that today’s generation has no respect for seniors.

He wonders why former colleagues no longer visit.

But perhaps people have not changed.

Perhaps the circumstances have changed, and the old relationships are finally revealing what they were always based upon.

Respect the person, not merely the position

There is an important lesson here for everyone who occupies a position of authority.

Do not wait until retirement to discover who your real friends are.

Treat people well while you have power.

Respect your colleagues, particularly those who are junior to you.

Listen to people who disagree with you.

Do not humiliate someone merely because you have the authority to do so.

Do not confuse your designation with your personal worth.

Never use your official position to satisfy your ego.

Remember that the peon who opens your office door, the clerk who processes your file, the driver who takes you to meetings and the junior officer who works late to complete your assignment are human beings deserving of dignity.

The people who cannot offer you anything professionally may still offer you something far more valuable: genuine friendship.

Do not ignore them.

Do not reserve your courtesy only for influential people.

And do not allow a crowd of flatterers to convince you that you are indispensable.

No individual is indispensable.

The institution existed before you arrived, and it will continue after you leave.

The chair will not remain empty for long.

The real test of a successful life

I have gradually come to believe that the real measure of a person’s success is not the number of years he spends in an important position.

It is the number of people who continue to remember him with affection after he leaves that position.

When a retired officer walks into a room, do people stand up because they are afraid of his former authority, or do they welcome him because they genuinely enjoy his company?

Do former colleagues visit because they need something, or because they want to spend time with him?

Do people remember his orders, or do they remember his kindness?

These questions are far more important than the titles printed on a visiting card.

A person may retire from the highest office and still remain deeply respected.

Another may retire from a relatively modest position and remain surrounded by friends.

The difference is often not the designation.

It is the character.

A different kind of Diwali

That evening, I stopped waiting for visitors.

I went to the kitchen and found my wife preparing for the festival.

“Shall we light the diyas?” I asked.

She looked at me.

“Of course. We have celebrated Diwali every year. Why should anything be different this time?”

I smiled.

“Perhaps this year we should celebrate it a little differently. No waiting for people. No counting gifts. No wondering who has remembered us. Just you and me.”

She laughed.

“That sounds sensible. And perhaps you can help me with the preparations instead of sitting in your chair waiting for visitors!”

I joined her.

We lit the lamps, performed the puja and had dinner together.

There were fewer gifts.

There were fewer visitors.

There were fewer telephone calls.

But there was something else.

A certain peace.

For the first time, I was not measuring the success of Diwali by the number of people who came to greet me.

I was simply celebrating the festival with someone who had known me long before I acquired any designation and who would continue to know me long after I had lost it.

Perhaps that was the greatest gift of the evening.

The final lesson

Whether the story of the donkey is historically true or simply a clever piece of folklore is not particularly important.

Its message is unmistakable.

The donkey was respected because it carried something sacred.

The moment the sacred images were removed, the donkey was once again treated as an ordinary animal.

The mistake was not that the donkey carried the idols.

The mistake was believing that the reverence directed towards them belonged to him.

Many of us make the same mistake.

We confuse the respect attached to our position with respect for our personality.

We mistake ceremonial honours for genuine affection.

We mistake fear for respect, obedience for loyalty and flattery for friendship.

And sometimes we discover the truth only when the chair is taken away.

My advice to anyone occupying a position of power, whether in government, politics, education, medicine, business or social service, is simple:

Be humble when you are powerful.

Be courteous when you are senior.

Be generous when you have authority.

Never humiliate someone merely because you can.

Remember the people who stood beside you when you had nothing to offer them.

And above all, develop a personality that people will continue to respect even when you no longer occupy an important chair.

Because one day, the chair will belong to somebody else.

The new occupant will receive the bouquets, the garlands, the gifts and the greetings.

People will gather around him.

And life will move on.

Do not spend your entire life decorating the chair. Spend it developing the person who sits on it.

For the greatest achievement is not to be remembered as a powerful officer, an influential politician or a celebrated institutional head.

It is to be remembered as a good human being.

And that is a position from which nobody ever needs to retire.

— A personal reflection of a retired civil servant