All’s well that ends well

Finally that day had arrived. The day on which to bid goodbye to the Service. To severe, once and for all, the umbilical cord that had kept me tethered to the community of servants of the citizens of this great country.

Suddenly there appeared before my mind's eye, sharp memories of many moments from the past. The earliest was that of Moinuddin, an officer working in the Bandar (Machilipatnam) branch of State Bank of India, where I was, in early 1968, serving as a Probationary Officer under training. He playfully hid behind his back that day’s edition of the Indian Express, and asked me what I would give him if he gave me good news.

I had just arrived for work then and had no idea of what he was talking about. Moinuddin, beaming, then announced to all present that my name was in the list of those who had successfully cleared the Civil Service Examinations that year.

I grabbed the paper and scanned the list of names (those days full names of successful candidates appeared in the papers in view of the small numbers). Sure enough, there it was – my name at number 77 in the list. My joy knew no bounds and I hugged Moinuddin.

Several things happened thereafter in quick succession. I had, of course, to tender my resignation from the Bank. It was accepted in the normal course. The big bonus was an unexpected accrual of interest of Rs. 70 a huge sum those days! Then there was the traditional farewell party at the branch; I returned home to Hyderabad to commence my preparations to go to Mussoorie.

I remember the thrill of reading the letter from the Department of Personnel Government of India formally intimating the fact of my selection and with detailed instructions about what to bring to Mussoorie, the weather to be expected there etc., Of particular interest was the fact that the Academy was at a height of 6500 feet above the sea level, an altitude that I had never been to before!

I flew to Delhi from where I took the overnight Kalka express to Dehradun. Travelling with me in the same four-berther were Ashok Cairae, Charan Das Arha and Sikandar Talwar, all fresh recruits just as I was. We got up a game of bridge soon. Although I had only the most rudimental knowledge of the game, and had never actually played a hand at the table before, I pretended I was an old hand.

I made a mess of the game. Ashok in particular was somewhat straightforward in his criticism, as we had known each other at college earlier. One took a cab to travel up to Mussoorie. In the same taxi as I was Aftab Seth, who had been selected to the Foreign Service.

He is now retired, having had a distinguished Service ending with a posting as India's ambassador to Japan, his contribution during which tenure was recently recognised by the Japanese government by the conferment upon him of a special award. After a little over an hour we reached Mussoorie, green, silent and scenic those days.

Motor vehicles were not allowed into the premises of the Academy and we had to lug our suitcases on foot. While I was about to pick up my bag, it was Ashok, once again, who reminded me of our recently elevated status, saying "ask for the help of the porter – behave like an officer.” (aa jaatey hain afsar ban ke!). We had all assembled near the lawns opposite the Director’s office and were then conducted to our respective rooms.

All of us enjoyed the luxury of a bearer for each room. In fact A.M. Moheb from the revenue services and K.S. Sarma of the IAS shared a room whose bearer was the same one who had earlier served Jim Corbett, the famous tiger hunter! I must mention here a curious fact. Jim Corbett's book ‘The Man Eaters of Kumaon’ includes two chapters, one ‘The Man Eater Mohan’ and ‘The Man Eater Kanda’!

The routine at the academy was quite stiff if not scary beginning with a short but vigourous set of exercises based on the module used by the Canadian air force at that time, called 6BX.Learning to ride was, thankfully, a slow and methodical process, beginning with befriending the horse and losing one's fear of the animal.

One crawled under the belly of the horse from one side to another. We were then taught to saddle a horse, - mount it, how to use the stirrups and then to jump onto the horse without the help of the stirrups, holding on to the saddle and heaving oneself up.

Another unexpected source of excitement was having to learn Urdu, which happened to be the official language of (the then) Andhra Pradesh State. Classes began after my allotment to Andhra Pradesh state was made known. I had to learn Urdu as I was a Telugu speaking person.

S.K. Duggal, my best friend at the academy, helped round off the rough edges of my learning every now and then. The next time my proficiency in that great language received a boost was when I worked with Justice Hidayatullah the Vice President (VP) of India.

Siddiqui, who also worked in that office, found the time to teach me how to improve my ability to read and write Urdu. I was at last able to understand better the couplets I had learnt as a teenager and also read them as they had been written by Ghalib, Zauq, Firaq Gorakhpuri and Sahir Ludhianvi.

Ghalib in was a poet gifted with a devastating sense of humour richly laced with wit and sarcasm, often self – deprecatory. A Mullah once decided to visit Ghalib during the Ramzan days, a time of penance and purification for the followers of the Islam.

The news had Ghalib a little worried because there will tell tale signs of drinking and hookah smoking all over his house. He tried his best to fumigate the house and keep it free of the incriminating evidence. But there is so much that one can do in a few days after years of indulgence.

The Mullah, sure enough, sensed what had been going on and is saidto have asked Ghalib, "did you not know that Shaitan was locked up during the Ramzan days"?

Pat came Ghalib's reply, "even the devil needs a place to stay. Perhaps Allah has chosen my abode for his hideout!"

It was Ghalib again who wrote a couplet "Subah hoti hai, shaam hoti hai. Umr yun hi tamaam hoti hai"
Morning comes, then evening, all life is like that. ennui, in other words.

The morning comes, then the evening. The whole of life passes on like this. As days passed I made more and more friends. My familiarity with Hindi and Tamil Help helped a lot as people open up more freely when you converse with them in their own tongue. Within no time I got to know so many people that, when it was time for the elections to be held to the post of the chairman of the officers club, I was elected unopposed!.

I was, a member of the winning team in the bridge tournament organised at the academy. The tournament was in inter-zonal event and I was a member of the South Zone team. Although I was a rookie our team managed to win the prize.

So much was the surprise this caused by this development, that my friend J.S. Gill swore off the game for the rest of his life! T.K. Das was a master chess player and it was a routine event for me to get beaten by him black and blue, on one occasion also being the victim of what is called the "fool's mate.”

I had also the pleasure of being a member of the team which won the cricket trophy for the South Zone. The achievement was particularly memorable as the teams of other Zones had seasoned veterans playing for them. M.M. Mohanty who played for the East Zone, and R.M. Prem Kumar for the South Zone, earlier represented their states in the prestigious Ranji Trophy tournament.

In the final match I had made a few runs and Mohanty walked up to me and patted me on the back saying "a sensible innings.” An amusing aspect of that game was that G.P. Rao, to whom we impacted the basic rudiments of the game on the spot, such as preventing the ball from hitting the wickets, stood like a rock while batting even though he had to indulge in some grotesque acrobatics to defend his stumps!

Although I had overcome the initial fright of hotels I never really got to enjoying riding. I recall on amusing incident that happened when the foundation course, which was common to all services, ended. The ex-Army IPS officers were to leave for completion of the rest of their training at Mount Abu, where is the National Police Academy was then situated.

The IAS ex-Army officers had arranged a farewell party to those who were going away. Naturally, as it happens on such occasions, the party became animated as time passed and a few people, unsurprisingly, had had a couple too many.

And, to top it all, somebody had dared Muthanna, who was also the President of the Mess Committee, to finish off a half-finished bottle of rum. He obliged cheerfully. As he downed the bottle from his lips, he collapsed in a heap. But then the Army is made of sterner stuff, and he was soon revived. A group, of the revelers merrily singing “He's a jolly good fellow,” carried him as if in a procession, to the mess hall.

After learning about this incident K.K. Das, then Director of the Academy, called for a meeting the next today. He give us all a piece of his mind – an incident which I have separately described elsewhere in this book.
The late T.V. Ananda Kumar our batchmate.

Unusually for Mussoorie we had that year a truly White Christmas. We were to have left for Bharat Darshan in a couple of days and were getting ready, packing for the long journey ahead. On Christmas evening we had gone round visiting a couple of churches, listened to carrols, being sing, enjoyed the bracing cold and had come back and slept.

When I woke up I stepped out of the room straight into the snow which had hardened over night – slipped all the way down to the riding rink some hundreds of feet below!

The much anticipated of state allotment had been finalised and I was allotted to Andhra Pradesh State. C.S. Sastry then collector of Krishna district where I was to train as an assistant collector, wrote a sweet and warm letter to me welcoming.

After the customary farewells which, in view of the imminent prospect of starting our careers in the respective states, were short and brisk, we all set off to our new destinations. Mussoorie to Dehradun by road, then by flight to Hyderabad and then by train to Machilipatnam, the Headquarters of Krishna district.

On arrival I was received warmly by Mastan Rao, my ‘camp clerk’, and taken to what was to be our residence for close to two years, a ramshackle outhouse of the district collector’s bungalow, originally intended in the colonial days to be a swimming pool for the collector and his family.

It consisted of the abandoned pool (now home to a community of bats which came to life by night) together with a card-room, a changing room and an attached wash room. It had traditionally been occupied by a long succession of trainee officers and my collector Sastry let it be known that he would be happy if we made it our home.

I personally saw no reason why not. Usha, who joined me a few months later, also accepted the surroundings as part of what came with the turf. It was our cook Ravi, who was and to be a long-time companion, who was terrified by the bats and insects, especially as the poolside embankment also improvised as our kitchen!
The first thing that struck me was the peculiar protocol those around me used in addressing me - “assistant collector” rather than ‘you’ - a colonial formality I found it difficult to adjust to.

Within a few days after I had taken over I accompanied Rama Rao, the district revenue officer (now called the joint collector), on my first tour or ‘camp’. On return after a night’s stay at Gudivada, a major town in the district, I found myself the pleasantly surprised recipient of all of ten rupees, the ‘batta’ or the daily allowance the government for tours.

Training was fairly extensive, long and elaborate in those days. Nearly everything that was necessary to ensure that one was holistically prepared for taking on independent responsibilities, was a part of the process. It began with the village.

Where one stayed for a month understanding the working of the Revenue department, learning how survey and settlement were done, observing the maintenance of the village accounts, and issuing the manner in which revenue is assessed and collected. One was asked to study the socio economic conditions in that village and prepare a report which was then reviewed by the district collector.

A village called Pamarru, which lay on the highway connecting Machilipatnam to Vijayawada was the one chosen for me. Although the ‘Karanam’ (village accountant) of the village was only an under graduate he wrote and spoke flawless English. And the way he maintained accounts was a lesson in excellence.

Usha joined me for the month’s stay there. While Pamarru was undoubtedly a bit of a climb down from Switzerland where, in the heady days of our courtship, we had dreamt of spec spending our honeymoon, it gave was no less joy and happiness.

With the help of Ravi we cooked our meals in the guest house, walked around, played cards and generally had a wonderful time. In November 1969 a severe cyclonic storm hit the coast of Andhra Pradesh State. Krishna district was one of the worst sufferers. Severe gales and heavy rains came with the cyclone.

When Usha and I woke up one morning we found that our bed was floating on water! We cautiously paddled our way out of the room and found that the guest house, which was slightly below the level of the canal across the road, was totally submerged as the canal had breached its bund and overflowed overnight. My car which was parked on the verandah of the guest house was literally floating in water up to its hood.

The three of us somehow managed to get into the car and drive out with a sheet of water all around us. In fact, as I turned on to the road from the gate of the guesthouse, all I could see ahead of me was just water and it was impossible to tell where the road margin ended and the canal bund began.