While the group of retired officers spend their time constructively, pursuing hobbies they could not earlier, or discussing topics they had not heard before; and doing just about everything than be persona non grata, their counterparts in Surat seems to have lost the thread.

They constitute in themselves a specie, even rank newcomers to the city are warned to keep off. They are still holding on to years they passed in service, be it the university, government departments or banks, desperately as if needing them as a bulwark of their identity.

The fear that the tide of time will sweep them to anonymity forces them to do what they would have definitely avoided during their prime. They begin their day in search of potential victims: patient listeners whose deadpan expressions won't reveal whether they are happy or sad; angry or jubilant; smiling or smirking; pontificating or trivialing.

If they could prey on these unsuspecting souls at parks, bus stations or any other public places that make their day. But if by any chance they fail to swoop down on any one, telephones come in handy. The ones at the other end can do little but to curse themselves for lunging towards the instrument.

Once the victim is spotted, trapping him becomes very easy. The ordeal begins with the exchange of pleasantries and does not end before taking at least a couple of rounds of merry-go-round of the tormentor's life, especially his escapades while he was in service.

Strangely, the she of the species are almost unheard of; whatever maybe the reason. Probably an attempt to relive the golden memories of the period when one was powerful, at least in a position to pull a few strings, but the exercise leaves many a people bruised and battered in the process.

Consider yourself unluckiest, worse then the ones who fail to decide which side of the bed to get down from, if you walk into a retired professor; if he happened to be the vice-chancellor you had it. The session may go on and on; many of your suggestive gestures like yawning or uneasy shuffle of legs go abegging; till the time you drop dead exhausted. That is if you don't belong to the tribe excelling in deadpan expressions.

If one were to witness what people mean by scurrying for cover one will have to keep a track of the movements of the retired specie. Their sight drives away people in hordes; those within earshot scurrying for cover; those out of it scampering for safety.

Remember they avoid their own specie for obvious reasons. You can't have two people speaking on the same lines simultaneously; trying to glorify your past with a dash of anger and argument.

Of course, not all the retired ones can be dismissed so cruelly. But the ones among them who have a lot to share -- and think others are duty bound to share it -- give the specie a distinct identity, and a cutting edge.