Government offices in one western state have reportedly been instructed to display photographs not only of the Chief Minister but also of his two deputies. I immediately felt sorry for the poor government officer. Where, I wondered, will he put the photograph of his wife and children? Somewhere behind the cupboard? Inside the drawer? Or perhaps the family can stand outside the office and wave through the window.
Of course, this may only be the beginning. Once pictures begin multiplying, everyone will want wall space. Cabinet ministers will wonder why they have been left out. Party leaders may feel neglected. District bosses may demand equal treatment. Soon the office walls may resemble a political family album, with government files struggling to find a place between smiling faces.
I have always found it amusing how eagerly we preserve images of power, while forgetting how quickly power itself disappears.
Many years ago, I received an award for my writing from the hands of a cabinet minister. It was a proud moment. The photographer captured the handshake. The picture was beautifully framed and presented to me.
Then life took one of those unexpected turns that reality often enjoys. The minister was arrested and eventually landed in jail.
That elegant photograph has never found a place on my wall.
Not because I was ashamed of receiving the award. Writing is still writing. But the picture became a reminder of how temporary public greatness can be. One day the cameras flash. The next day the headlines tell a different story. Fame has an astonishing habit of changing its address without leaving a forwarding note.
Whenever I think of such things, my mind wanders to the poem Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley. It tells of a traveller who discovers the shattered statue of a mighty king standing in the middle of an empty desert. On its pedestal are the unforgettable words, “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.”
Yet there are no mighty works left to admire.
Only ruins, and broken stone. Only endless sand.
Time had quietly done what no army could.
Perhaps that is why history is such a wonderful teacher. Every generation believes it has produced leaders who will be remembered forever. Every generation erects statues, hangs portraits and puts their pics in newspapers every day. Then another generation arrives, replaces the pictures, removes the statues and writes new names on the doors.
The walls remain.
The faces change.
Maybe government offices would do well to hang fewer portraits and more mirrors. A mirror may remind every minister that the face looking back today will one day grow old, or get thrown out, and become just another photograph in somebody’s forgotten cupboard.
Hang the pictures if you must, but remember vanity finally lands up in the dust..!