Ah, the quintessential sign-off of the Indian office email:"Happy to Discuss. " Three little words dripping with professional courtesy, yet harboring a silent plea - "Please, for the love of chai, don't actually make me discuss this. "
Rajesh, a seasoned Assistant Undersecretary (Grade III) in the Ministry of Moderately Important Things, knew this dance all too well. He'd crafted the perfect email, outlining the new stapler requisition process (staples, it turned out, were a national security concern these days). He'd included a flowchart so intricate it resembled a family tree of the Mughal Empire. Surely, this would leave no room for "discussion. "
But then, the dreaded reply arrived. "Thanks Rajesh, very informative. Perhaps a quick chat to clarify a few points?" Rajesh's stomach lurched. A "chat" could morph into a two-hour odyssey through bureaucratic red tape, involving endless cups of chai and existential debates on the optimal paperclip-to-staple ratio.
Rajesh wasn't alone. Millions of Babus (derisive term for bureaucrats) across India harbored the same secret fear. The "Happy to Discuss" was a shield, a desperate attempt to deflect the inevitable. It was a national sport, a silent competition to see who could craft the most comprehensive, discussion-proof email.
One enterprising fellow, Baburao from the Ministry of Redundant Forms, had even developed a template. It included 17 disclaimers, ranging from "For clarification, kindly refer to aforementioned appendices" to the ever-reliable, "As per established departmental protocol. . . " This, he believed, was the ultimate discussion-slayer.
But the cunning ways of the Indian office worker were legendary. Sunil, the eternally jovial chap from Accounts, had mastered the art of the "Clarification Email. " This seemingly innocent request for minor details would snowball into a full-blown meeting, complete with PowerPoint presentations on the history of stapler technology (courtesy of the intern, bless his heart).
Then there was the dreaded "CC Brigade. " A single email, innocently "CC'd" to a dozen irrelevant officials, could trigger a bureaucratic avalanche. Replies would pour in, each a mini-dissertation on the finer points of staple selection. Rajesh once received a 500-word treatise on the environmental impact of different stapler brands, courtesy of a particularly enthusiastic officer in the Ministry of Flora and Fauna.
The ultimate weapon, however, was the "Out of Office" reply. A strategically timed "Away on Important Stapler-Related Business Trip" message could buy precious time, allowing the email storm to simmer down.
But sometimes, even the most elaborate defenses crumbled. Rajesh found himself staring at Sunil's cheery face across a conference table, surrounded by enough stapler brochures to wallpaper his cubicle. He braced himself for the onslaught.
To his surprise, Sunil simply smiled and said, "Rajesh, this email is fantastic!Just one tiny point. . . perhaps we could consider a slightly different shade of beige for the stapler?"
Rajesh blinked. Was that it?A mere color consultation?Relief washed over him, so profound he almost offered Sunil a celebratory samosa.
The "Happy to Discuss" may be a charade, but in the grand ballet of Indian bureaucracy, it plays a crucial role. It's a silent signal, a plea for understanding, a desperate hope that sometimes, a well-crafted email is enough to avoid the glorious mess of a good old-fashioned "discussion. "