“There’s something about a badge. It makes you feel so official,” said Gloria Reuben, Canadian actress, known for her role in the drama ER.
Sometimes it’s just the badge; other times, it’s the uniform. Put on a light blue short-sleeved shirt and navy blue trousers — have freshly shaved cheeks and a fit, purposeful stride — and one can be mistaken for a police officer on his day off.
In a thoroughly unsuccessful attempt at self-publishing once, I wrote a book about a destitute village boy condemned to a life of poverty in a remote Indian village where his home is a giant disused cement pipe. The goings-on in this village, not all very savoury, were reported through the eyes (and the rather crass, innocent, naive, unrefined but sharply observant mind) of this young man. As the author, the idea behind the novel was to show how innocently, willingly and unquestioningly people offer respect and obeisance to others as long as those ‘others’ display the proper uniform (or badge) of office.
Last week, when I received a badge in the mail, a stray thought recalled my book, Piped Voices. The badge in the mail was an entitlement to attend, for two weeks, as observer in a local nursing home for the elderly. It had my name printed in block letters in a stylish font. And so off I went feeling very official.
The first morning was a hectic blur of activity and information, a hundred different jigsaw pieces, trying to fit themselves into a recognisable picture. The staff, fortunately, were admirably friendly and exceedingly willing to share their knowledge.
The first thing I noticed in all this frenzy was that not all the staff wore similar uniforms. One of them, a pleasant young woman, took me under her charge, I suspect because we both discovered early on that we were ‘cocktails’ — that is, persons of mixed, and somewhat shaken and stirred, heritage.
Anyhow, at tea time some hours later, I felt I could no longer suppress the desire to ask her something I’d been dying to ask earlier but thought inappropriate since it wasn’t work-related. So over a cup of tea, looking at the badge on her uniform pocket, I let it all out in a rush: “Your name ... not to sound offensive, but it is terribly familiar,” I began, continuing, “I may not have met you, but I feel I may know you. You see I used to work with a person — a very good friend and colleague of mine — at the Copy Desk in Gulf News, in Dubai. She hails from an army background. Her dad was an army man, her two brothers were army people.” As I spoke, I was aware of myself looking closely at her for a hint that she was connecting with something, anything, that I was saying.
She appeared politely inquisitive, if I may put it that way. So I continued, “Now this ex-colleague’s brother, if I’m not mistaken, used to be a tank commander. It’s his wife ... er, do you write?” The lady nodded, “Yes, I do. Whenever I have the time. I write a lot, in fact.” Goodness me, I couldn’t help thinking. This is a small world indeed. Why didn’t my friend Vanaja in Dubai inform me that her brother had migrated to Australia, to Sydney, to the very suburb in which I live? Well, well, well, how small is the world after all! And similar sundry thoughts scuttled through my head.
Pointing to her badge once more, I said, “Cynthia Rao. You’re from India, too, aren’t you?” Stirring herself slightly, the lady looked down at her badge and smiled, then shook her head. “No, my surname is Lockington. Cynthia Lockington,” she informed me. “Why Rao, then?” I enquired, plunging on naively like my own novel’s character. “Oh, that’s my designation,” she chuckled, “It’s RAO, Registered Activities Officer.”
Mercifully, the embarrassment ended there. Shakespeare it was who said in his play Titus Andronicus, “Sweet mercy is nobility’s badge.”
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
