As the curtain began to fall on the year 2022—and my professional innings spanning over three and a half decades—I found myself navigating an office caught in the throes of a full-blown LTC syndrome.

It was December, the final stretch of my service, and with just days to go before the calendar year flipped—and with it, the LTC block closed—my office resembled a bustling travel desk. Almost every staff member, from senior officers to Group D employees, seemed gripped by an urgency to avail their Leave Travel Concession for destinations far and wide. The buzz was unmistakable: earn ten days’ basic pay as LTC bonus and gift your family a year-end getaway. Who wouldn’t bite?

The syndrome, though understandable, did leave a mark—routine functioning took a hit, with attendance dipping sharply. This, at a time when the state government had ramped up its expectations, urging the PR machinery to go full throttle in publicising welfare policies ahead of the model code of conduct. Assembly elections were around the corner, and the push to showcase development and pro-people initiatives was intense. But thanks to the meticulous coordination among my colleagues, we managed to ensure a steady media presence—both in print and on electronic platforms—without compromising the core work.

Truth be told, I harboured no resentment. After all, the long, relentless spell of COVID-19 had kept people indoors for two painful years. Families had been starved of outings and children cooped up inside four walls. Denying someone their well-deserved travel break felt almost cruel. That’s why, in the true spirit of leadership and empathy, I chose to liberally sanction LTCs, ensuring that everyone could reconnect with life beyond office files and meeting schedules.

Ironically, I became the go-to person for last-minute LTC approvals. On December 30, just a day before retirement, my ever-polite peon approached me hesitantly, “Sir, may I go to Haridwar on LTC?” I smiled, signed his leave, and saw his face light up. Barely had he left when my driver came in with a similar plea. He too was promptly allowed. They both walked out glowing, and I—somewhat emotional—watched them, reminded of the small joys that matter.

That evening, I returned home a little late. My wife was irked—the maid had neither turned up nor informed. To calm the waters, I ordered dinner online, turning her frown into a half-smile.

The next morning brought another round of surprises. Our Nepali car washer was missing, and I found myself hosing down the vehicles on my own. The mali, too, didn’t show up, despite my reminder to plant the flower saplings I had carefully selected the previous day. My mother mentioned that the dhobi hadn’t been seen since last Monday. As if on cue, my father descended the stairs and remarked, “Beta, even the chowkidar has been missing for a week now!”

Exasperated but amused, I quipped, “Don’t worry, they’ll all be back after New Year. Perhaps… they too have gone on LTC!” And just like that, the house erupted in laughter—a fitting endnote to the final chapter of my professional life. 

(Dr. Opinder Singh Lamba is a retired Punjab Govt officer who served as the Press Secretary to Chief Minister,Punjab.)