Bits and pieces

HARE RAMA HARE KRISHNA

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sun, 23 Mar 2025 06:30:00 +0000

Growing up in the 1970s, the only doable foreign destination appeared to be Nepal , and for a reason other than that of affordability was Dev Anand’s Hare Rama Hare Krishna ( HRHK) , its iconic number Dum Maro Dum with its capture of the extant hippie culture . However, a proper visit to Nepal was to wait till 24th December, 2024 when, with my wife, I finally took off for Kathmandu.

Amongst the places we visited included Thamel, the bustling maze of of streets of shops, nightclubs,

nightclubs and whispering touts that serves as the touristy hub of Kathmandu, the UNESCO World heritage sites of the Durbars at Bhaktapur and Kathmandu, and the tourist capital of Nepal called Pokhara . One thing which was common to all these places was that they have been locales of shooting for different Bollywood films spanning from 1960s to present times . However , the link of Nepal and Hindi films is not just about some places of the former being the locales for shooting, but of a much more intricate tapestry of relationships between the two.

Although Nepal’s first cinema hall was started in 1951 by converting a Town Hall into the Kathmandu Cinema Ghar and then Janasewa with the inaugural screening of Ram Vivah, symbolizing the strong cultural ties between Nepal and India. it was only with the accession of King Mahendra, who ushered in partyless multi-tiered

Panchayat democracy, that the Hindi, or Bollywood , films came to make a deep impact in Nepal . The King was an ardent lover of music and films, a photo of his with Elvis Presley adorns the walls of quite a few cafes - we saw one in Pokhara. His many visits to watch movies during reserved shows at Ranjana Cinema Hall ( opened in 1956 with the screening of “Bhai Bhai” ) have been recalled by the hall owner's son Keshav Shrestha.

A society immersed hitherto in rituals and festivals, Nepal was completely bowled over with the realism of moving picture with sound or the Talkies of the Hindi films screened ( though with a delay of upto a year), not only in Art Deco styled (like in many places in India as well) cinema halls of Ashok Hall in Patan, Biswajyoti, Jai Nepal and Ranjana in Kathmandu but also the movie theatres in Patna and Darbhanga which could now be accessed via Raxaul - Birganj axis with the facility of Byroad ko Bato ( built by engineers of the Indian Army ).

Gerd Anita Weiser , a Swiss girl who grew up in Nepal and along with another local Meena Singh of Padma Kanya Campus played the role of two local girls close to Jasbir or Zeenat Aman in HRHK ) and an avid film goer to the screens of the Jaya Nepal Cinema Hall and Ranjana Film Hall said , “I’d see many simple women who probably worked in their fields all day and had a hard life glued to the cinema screens,” she said. “House Full” was the dreaded signage we feared to behold whenever we went to the movies as it meant looking at ticket touts who would extract blood,” reminisces blogger Subodh Rana.

A defining moment was of course the shooting of HRHK which took the celluloid stars closer to the people. The film, whose storyline was the outcome of a meeting by Dev Anand with an Indo -Canadian hippie Janice ,whom he had chanced to see at the hippie hotspot Bakery, had the blessings of King Mahendra ,who advised him to retreat to the FishTail Lodge at Pokhara ( owned by his brother Prince Basundhara) to write the script. As Dev Anand wrote in his memoir, ‘Romancing With Life’, the 10 weeks of the shooting was, “one huge celebration” and Kathmandu was “agog with excitement, living day and night with the phenomenon called ‘Hare Rama Hare Krishna”.

The Hindi films directly and indirectly helped configure perspectives, teach the the link language

of North ( as it did in huge swathes of non Hindi speaking parts of India and Pakistan as well) and define fashion , much like in other parts of India - the girls braided their hair like Vyjantimala and boys strutted about in drain pipes and later in bell bottoms. Traditional Nepali men attire Daura Suruwal and Gunyo Cholo for women have evolved over time as saris and lehngas, sherwanis and turban, have influenced wedding trousseau and even festival dresses during Dasain, Teej and Tihar. Jeans, T-shirts, and casual kurtis worn by Bollywood stars in everyday scenes have become popular staples for Nepali youth. Slowly but surely, the transcendence of portrayal of women in Bollywood films from the periphery to the core of the narrative in such new wave films like Chak de India ( 2007), Kahaani (2012), English Vinglish ( 2012), Queen ( 2013), Pink ( 2016), Neerja ( 2016), Gangubhai Kathiwadi ( 2023) have helped the female audience in Nepal find release from the immurement of submissiveness.

One of the effects of Indian movies and its large body of actors, musicians, technicians and production facilities, was their catalysing nature in the development of Nepalese Indigenous film industry. An invite by King Mahendra to showcase Nepal’s early experience of the Panchayat System he had introduced, made Bombay based director Hira Singh Khatri direct (for Nepal’s publicity department), its first homemade movie Aama with post production formalities done in Kolkata - he directed two more .The King was at it again to facilitate Nepal’s first homemade movie with private capital Maitighar ( with lead role by Mala Sinha and her husband CP Lohani and guest appearances by Sunil Dutt and Rajinder Nath and songs composed by Jaidev and sung by Manna Dey, Geeta Dutt and the three Mangeshkar’s sisters ) - he even wrote lyrics for a song sung by Lata Mangeshkar in the film.

The musicscape of Nepal has had many borrowings from Indian- the Hindustani classical of which the Ranas were a big patron of, Modern Indian ghazals , the Hindi film songs from 1960s influenced locally originating Nepal adhunik and lok geet and finally to the end of the spectrum where Nepali Pop, in addition to western pop, has borrowed from developments of Indian pop and of the pop musics of the Indian diaspora, such as bhangra.

Nepali music and musicians of Nepali stock have also contributed significantly to the songs of

Indian film industry. Ranjit Gazmer ( fondly called Kancha) was a key member of the trend-setting musical team of composers R D Burman and S D Burman during the 70s as his madaal ( a percussion and rhythm instrument that oozed of the sounds associated with mountainous landscape , hilly terrain and serpentine ghats of the Himalayan region) playing lent a special tang to the compositions of Ravindra Jain, Bappi Lahiri, and Ram Laxman as well.. The legendary Nepali Band Himalayan Band’s ‘Musu Musu Haasi Deu’ inspired the song sung by Shaan in Pyaar Mei Kabhi Kabhi , the Nepali song Aage aage topaika Gola by Danny and Asha Bhonsle was adapted by RD B as Sang Mere Nikle Thhe Saajan in 1980 film Phir Wahi Raat song by Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar while the 1992 Bollywood film Bandhu was remake of Nepali Blockbuster Saino ( 1989) and even all the songs in the remake were inspired from the original .

However, the contact of Indian films and music with Nepal has not always been one of steady and happy relationship.

There has been much insensitive and unedifying portrayal of Nepalis in many Hindi movies. The Gurkha , otherwise one of the most courageous soldier s in the world, is in a large number of Indian films , a watchman who is either dumb witted like Pran in Kasauti (1974) , funny, suspicious and loyal like Paresh Rawal in Haseena Maan Jayegi ( 1999) , comical props like the aides of Mohan ( Pran in Johnny Mera Naam ) or he is the blockhead Chunky Pandey and his henchmen in Apna Sapna Apna Money ( 2007).

But what adds salt to the wound is that his bodily markers are : national dress of Nepal ( the daura surval and dhaka topi which I saw so smartly worn by the mandarins of Jhapa, Meiti and Elam during my coordination meetings as Superintendent of Police, Darjeeling , and also by my late friend Hemadri Shumsher Jung Rana, grandson of the reformist Rana and a former Finance Minister Sir Major General Subarna Shamsher Rana ) ; and the khukuri or knife which. is a symbol of legendary Nepali combat courage.

If these indignities were not enough, there have been unflattering or controversial references by some Indian actors on Nepal or Nepalese, though quite a few could be on account of dubious media reporting. Manoj Kumar, Nanda , Hrithik Roshan and Dharmendra all got it between the eye, and for all its success Sholay (1975) could not be shown in Kathmandu and other hill towns – because Dharmendra was one of the three male leads.

The vicissitudes of political relationship between India and Nepal (although this shall be the

subject matter of another writing) have also informed the hiccups surrounding Indian movies in Nepal. First is the issue of unresolved border disputes- especially those relating to Kalapani and Lipulekh, The second is the perception of Indian interference whose most recent example was India’s stalling the making and promulgation of the new constitution. The third has been the hardships suffered in several economic blockades ( especially the last one of 2015) . Further , references are made to “unreasonable” provisions in the Indo- Nepal Treaty of 1950 and India’s Big brotherly attitude by politicians of many hues.

Finally, the tendency by India - either the Indian state or its films or even the academia- to appropriate origins of everything of the wide religio-cultural Indosphere to present day India ( birthplace of Sita or Gautam Buddha or even the architecture of Hindu temples in South East Asia ) is naturally a source of intense indignation. In June 2023, the hugely Kathmandu Mayor and rapper Balendra Shah asked for a ban on all Indian films because of a controversial dialogue in Adipurush where Sita was referred to as daughter of India, and even deployed Kathmandu Metropolitan Police to enforce the ban -and soon Pokhara followed suit.

These get exacerbated due to the China factor which ( without much detailing of its financial heft and soft power penetration here ) pans out as a ‘ benevolent ‘ neighbour against the image of a ‘selfish’ India, to the extent that more than the annexation of Tibet by China in 1950, it is the incorporation of Sikkim in 1975 that raises more hackles in Nepal.

To the extent that Indian movies are perceived as the prime motor of India’s cultural influence, they are targeted . Among the 40 demands made by the Maoists before they went underground in February 1996 was a ban on Hindi films.

Kanak Mani Dixit, a Nepali publisher, editor and writer and founder of the magazine Himal Southasian, wrote in “Kathmandu and the Reality of Bollywood, ” The radical politicos of Nepal have always carried an ultra-nationalist chip on their shoulder. ….A section of the Kathmandu political class, particularly student leaders on the make, is constantly on the lookout for slights against the Nepali nation made by Bombay actors”.

The Nepal based journalist Peter Gill in an article “Bollywood meets Nepali Nationalism”, mentioned how the SRK Fan Club Nepal, founded by supporters representing a variety of caste and ethnic groups – Brahmin, Newar, Chhetri, Tamang, Muslim, met with online hostility and trolling. One angry commenter wrote, “I’m a fan of my own Nepali hero Nischal Basnet [a popular director in Nepal], you guys are fans of that dhoti [derogatory term for Indians],” punctuated by several middle-finger emojis.

However, for all the ultra nationalism exhibited within Nepal and all the reservation against India’s big brotherliness, there is, what Dixit calls, an” elastic nationalism” that informs the attitude of people of Nepal to India. This elastic nationalism derives from a need for differentiation from 'big brother' on the one hand, to the other, the reality of the open border, the simple practicality of a peaceful bilateral relationship with a massive neighbour and fact that tens of thousands of mid-hill ethnicities are dependent upon the salaries and pensions of the Indian army". Al Jazeera quoted one Shishir Bhattari, 19, a trainee at Salute Gorkha Training Centre , Pokhara, '' I had a dream to join the Indian Army. So many of the Gurkhas [soldiers primarily native to Nepal] have served in India ... I also loved the Bollywood movie Shershaah whose storyline is about the Indian Army and that motivated me even more”.

India continues to be Nepal’s biggest trading partner, accounting for 72% of its

exports and 63% of its imports. Nepalese were not much behind the Indians to take a dip in the Kumbh Mela even as the country’s premier airlines, the Buddha Air, pastes stickers of Varanasi and Kathmandu, the two premier cities of Shiva”s temples, as an exemplar of emotional and cultural connectivity between the two countries.

Peter Gill writes “ despite moves to align more with China politically, people-to-people ties remain much stronger with Nepal’s southern neighbor. This is exemplified by the popularity of Indian films — both Bollywood and South Indian — whereas Chinese films are rarely shown in Kathmandu”. The ban on Sholay hardly deterred Nepalis from flocking to Kolkata or towns of Bihar to watch the film and repeating the iconic dialogue” Arre O samba”. Dev Anand and Zeenat Aman remain reigning deities even decades after the movie HRHK was released.

“It’s not that we don’t like Indian people, it’s the government we don’t like,” said Anoj Adhikari at the SRK rally. “They always interfere in our own matters. But the citizens aren’t bad — they are good.”

During my visit to Kathmandu, I saw the movie Pushpa 2 in a packed multiplex in Darbar Mall while the whole town was abuzz with excitement over Sonu Nigam’s Musical Nite during Christmas at Hyatt Ground . When I went to Chandragiri Hills, with the luck of a sunny day and clear sighting of snow capped mountains around, I stepped on a rotatory with a gyro camera to dance, to the tune of the Nepali influenced Hindi song Keti Ko from Unchai.

Even as I finish this piece, the welcome news that appeared on 20th March edition of Hindu

is that Nepal’s iconic Khukuri Rum, started by three Parsi Nepali businessmen in 1959, is coming to India, the country of the Old Monk. One wishes that this could be the harbinger of another good news for both the countries- the resumption of recruitment of Nepalis in the Indian Army, stopped in 2020 after the introduction of the Agnipath Scheme. If there is one connection that predates the popularity of Indian films in Nepal is the chance of employment in the seven Gurkha regiments of the Indian army. In this context , the statement of General Dwivedi highlighting India’s willingness to resume the recruitment process” in a manner respectful of Nepal’s sovereign decisions “ since resumption of Nepali Gorkha recruitment is not just a matter of military significance but also a question of maintaining a cultural and historical bond, is indeed welcome.

Yeh Hai Bombay Meri Jaan

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sun, 01 Dec 2024 10:20:00 +0000

"Modern Bombay, in a sense, has its genesis in the poppy fields of Bihar"

- Amar Farooqui in Opium Enterprise .

Anil Yendluri is a batchmate with a difference in that he dared to leave the service after becoming an Inspector General in God’s Own Country. The scope for personal growth , he said, was tapering and he wanted to take up new challenges and be a part of new changes . So off he went and joined Vishwa Samudra (VS) whose tagline incidentally is Challenge it, Change it. But more on Anil. credited with developing the world class Krishnapatnam Port and his Chairman Chinta Sasidhar, a bit later.

From the verge of being abandoned by the British in the late eighteenth century for

producing very little revenue , Bombay ( as Mumbai was called those days), bounced back on the transit tax levied on Malwa opium once its export was allowed from there, and became , over the years, India's premier economic and financial city. Today, Bombay is Bombay, rest is India , many say. . The skyline of the city spans across the city’s shores , and in a rather amphibian way, goes even under it . Yes . I refer to the Worli Sea Link, the Atal Setu and the tunnel segment of the Dharmveer Swarajya Rakshak Chhatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj Coastal Road which passes about 20 meters under the Arabian Sea. The Metro and Monorails have already added new dimensions to the city’s public transport which , till a couple of decades ago, was limited to the local trains and BEST buses. New skyscrapers continue to be built, to be lived, bedazzle , evoke wondrous envy with prices of upto Rs. 1.5 lacs per square feet - and galloping further. It still remains India numero uno city for people to chase their dreams - and for many, to shatter them as well.

To the many reasons Mumbai attracts me is now the added one of our daughter staying there - having joined the ranks of many young corporate lawyers- with dreams in their eyes, punishing loads of labour as weekday and even weekend, office as well as home, companions. But the breed has a Yeh Bombay Meri Jaan exuberance to rough it out despite all odds and not miss a chance to live life kingsize.

When Anil offered the options of participating in Vishwa Samudra’s signature Golden

Eagles Golf tournament, an amalgamation of Golf, Glamour and Glory and a brainchild of the group's Chairman, at either Delhi or Mumbai , it was the latter I opted for - forsaking my regular partner and occasional foe of the Kolkata fourball , Herman , who lugged it out at Delhi ‘s ITC course a week earlier . Herman , Ramphal , Sujoy and I could play only thanks to the CEO Anil’s invite . The takeaways at this tournament are staggering, but more than that, Anil ensures that all participants feel as if they are part of Vishwa Samudra’s family - to be extended warmth and camaraderie .

The venue at Mumbai was the Bombay Presidency Golf Club or BPCG , a course I had played over ten years ago and had completely forgotten the outlay .This is a lovely course , each hole seems to have a character - fade , draw, undulations , water bodies to teach you humility, a clutch of Out of Bounds to make you despair and swear, and the warning signs about poisonous snakes to keep you alert .

The counting for assembly elections was in progress on 23 rd November ,the day I

played a practice round at BPCG, but so unexpected was a coalition’s sweep that it even left the winners stunned. Maybe that is why I could not see much jubilation - of colour, sound or dance during my drive from Chembur to Saat Raasta or even in the late evening when I went for dinner at O Pedro in BKC with my daughter Tanya , and school friend Alok Bahl.

On Sunday, the tournament kicked off with the introductions in which Anil spoke about VS’s current projects like the aerial cablecars of Varanasi, a slew of Highway projects from Kashmir to Kollam, a greenfield port at Mulapeta in Srikakulam, a novel cement additive to lay roads , and a clutch of CSR outreaches. Amongst the many organizer's flexes that dotted the course, an. interesting one was of a bull on treadmill which Anil said also manufactures energy , and enables keeping bulls viable for farmers - otherwise the only presence of bulls would have been in the sperm banks .

The four ball I was drawn into was a varied lot - an executive of an electronic

manufacturing company in Pune , an owner of an IT firm and another of an E Commerce platform . Pretty competent golfers , focused , talked very little about politics and had no curiosity whatsoever about travails of and travails by police officers - it was so different from Kolkata. T Parthiv , a two handicapper , even managed a prize later - an Apple 16 pro . I enjoyed their company , though I did have a few distractions- the fantastic victory where Boom Rah’s boys berthed the Aussies at Perth , the news of IPL auction and the occasional calls for some help from Kolkata by friends - ranging from cyber crime frauds to need for FRRO’s intervention in some visa stamping matter.

The mega evening event ended on an intense foot tapping note . While VS roped in Ajay Devgn and the Deshmukh duo , the star of the show , like last year, was Kapil Dev . After ticking off the Emcee for not speaking in Hindi , he proceeded to plod on, in a much improved English - maybe the transition from cricket to golf had something to do with it . Accessible , the iridescent smile never leaving his face , he wished Shashi , Chairman of VS, to make more profits and host more golf tournaments. Anil was there with his family - wife and two lovely daughters , looking after his guests . As usual , the intensity and infection of his smile never dimmed throughout the day.

One cannot escape Mumbai 's peak time traffic , of pythonic proportions and

laboured slither , on the Eastern Express Highway . As Shankar , my friend Asim’s driver missed an exit , we took 15 minutes more to reach the house of Rohit , classmate of my school De Nobili, Dhanbad . Bright as always , Rohit is now a Professor at IIT Powai where he researches in computational neurophysiology , and also pursues writing fiction. He has two novels to his credit , and a host of professional works . His seniority has now got him an independent double storied bungalow where amongst other things his wife and he have to be watchful of poisonous snakes and keep their knees in shape .

For me , apart from a chance to catch up with him ( last was in his flat overlooking the Powai Lake) was to get his wonderful book The Enclave , which I had finished a few days ago ,signed by him . Rohit writes for his own satisfaction and for what he owes to the language and craft of storytelling. For those who understand both , his novels are entertaining and unputdownable.

The class of '79 has now moved on. In addition to Rohit, there were Asim, Alok and Debu - and a chance to catch up with his wife Shivani, a professional career counselor . There was a fair amount of wellness talk , especially as Shivani goes about caregiving her 92 years father - insulin resistance , sugar spike , knee extensions, the demonisation of cholesterol, the dangers of statins , strength training, etc . After some time she took leave of us but not before getting the dinner started - no mean task this. The senior citizens also cleaned up the table, and with guidance from Rohit, completed the management of left overs as per the exacting standards set by the lady of the house- a task achieved with an after dinner combo of shots of Singleton and double scoops of chocolate ice cream .

The return journey from Powai was quicker , the sleep deeper , and I woke up in time for the morning return flight . The Terminal 2 dazzled , the staff at Adani lounge satiated my hunger with a decent cheese omelette and an iced Americano . Just as I boarded, received the news that my batchmate Rashmi Awasthi was back in saddle as the top cop of Maharashtra as the ECI’s Model Code of Conduct had been withdrawn.

THE WRONG STEPNEY

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Fri, 18 Nov 2022 10:18:00 +0000

Dream Range

"Vivek, I am sending you to what has remained a dream range for me . DIG Jalpaiguri Range, ok?"

I told him, with much feigned humility that it was indeed a privilege to be chosen by the HoPF to live his dream on my promotion to the rank of DIG in 2004. Anyways, as I had the security of retention of a government flat at 32, Ballygunge Circular Road, where Bhaiya also stayed in the same RHE, I went to what was a moth eaten range it now remained, leaving my family behind. When I was SP Darjeeling, the Range DIG, Jalpaiguri looked after all the districts north of Farakka ( I hope my readers born and brought up in Kolkata can name all of them ) but now it was just Jalpaiguri and Cooch Behar districts.

Prod for peacekeeping

When my batchmate Zulfiquar messaged from Freetown to try for a Sierra Leone UN Peacekeeping assignment (UNAMSIL) , I jumped at it. If one has to stay away from the family, then one might as well go abroad, earn some dollars and acquire international work experience to boot. As luck would have it, I was selected and on 4th of September, 2004, along with Amar Pandey, Indu Bhushan , Tanamay Ray Choudhury and Vimal Bisht , we boarded an Air France plane, transited from Paris to a place called Conakry , and then were heli lifted to touch down on the UN Helipad just as the sun sank into the Atlantic beyond the Lumley beach.

The why of UN Missions

Many are curious to know what a UN Peacekeeping Mission is and why policemen are taken on these missions. Even though not mentioned explicitly , peacekeeping draws its locus from Chapter VI( Pacific Settlement of Disputes ) and VI of the UN Charter It is a way to help countries torn by conflict create conditions to progress towards sustainable peace. United Nations peacekeepers have taken part in a total of 72 missions around the globe, 14 of which continue today. The peacekeeping force as a whole received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1988.

Missions have been established for a variety of reasons- to observe and maintain ceasefire like the 1948 Arab- Israeli conflict ( UNTSO) ; international conflicts like in Cyprus between the ethnic Greeks and Turks ( 1964) or Iraq- Kuwait Observation Mission in 1991; to facilitate decolonization like ONUC in Congo (from Belgium); a large number of Middle Eastern conflicts like UNOGIL in 1958 at Lebanon,UNYOM in Yemenin 1963; civil wars related to ethnic cleansing and genocide like in Rwanda and the ones following break up of Yugoslavia ( the latter saw eight missions), Somalia, Haiti, Sudan, Liberia , Burundi, Ivory Coast ,etc; and for independence facilitation in Namibia, East Timor and Western Sahara.

Moneybags peacekeepers

UN assignments evince mixed reactions from colleagues and friends. Most think of them as fun jaunt with dollars in the bargain. It is often forgotten that UN Peacekeeping Missions are established in countries in violent conflict , and chances of falling in the crossfire - either being taken hostage or even getting injured or killed remains a real threat. UNAMSIL , when it wound up, had a total of 192 UN fatalities: 69 troops, 2 military observers, 2 international civilians, 16 local civilians, 1 police, and 2 others ( a memorial in honour of martyr Havildar Krishna Kumar of INDBATT in UNAMSIL built by locals at a place called Daru is affixed), In an earlier Mission to Mozambique in mid 1990s, a peacekeeper from West Bengal was taken as hostage. 4207 ( maximum 175 from India) have died - I think now the figure is higher. When I was Sierra Leone, I had received a mail from DPKO to assist some officers from DPR Congo to render assistance to their officers for exhuming the bodies of that country’s peacekeepers who had succumbed to Lassa Fever- and given its infectivity, the medical protocol demanded an immediate burial in graves deeper than the normal and exhumation only after six years.

UNAMSIL

The Mission in Sierra Leone called UNAMSIL was established in 1999 to end the civil war , after consolidatory work by a previous mission called United Nations Observers Mission in Sierra Leone or UNOMSIL . It was to implement the Lomé Accord which included demobilisation and disarmament of the RUF, a rebel outfit supported by the the renegade President Charles Taylor of Liberia , and their reintegration ; protection of civilians ; humanitarian assistance, etc. The Civil War in Sierra Leone had been one of the bloodiest - killings, amputations, sexual assaults, vandalism and arson, up-roofing of houses and destruction of community/government properties.

The initial years

The initial years of the Mission had been rather eventful, one of which was Operation Khukhri-

a joint land and air British and Indian Army units of the UN to rescue over 500 peacekeepers from Kailahun who had been surrounded by RUF rebels - this operation was to inspire a movie by the same name starring Shah Rukh Khan. However, by the time we reached in 2004 , peace had been largely established , but the Indian army which was in the lead in the initially tough years of conflict, had withdrawn .When we reached , it was the Pakistani Army under its Force Commander Maj Gen Sajjad Akram which was in the lead - my first UN Peace Medal was pinned by him only.

Induction into the Mission

The start of the mission was a bit stressful. We were lodged in the ground floor rooms of Hotel Mammyoko, the HQ of UNAMSIL. Wary of contacting cerebral malaria, we went out in full sleeves- but despite precautions, all of us contacted the cerebral malaria- yours truly twice. Unfortunately, the first test for motor driving permit was conducted by one Irish officer Francis - and none of us could pass. We didn't know, like I believe 90% of Indian drivers, who has the right of way among vehicles approaching a roundabout or a crossing, how often to look in the rear view mirror or even pull up the vehicle properly ( later on, after a month of two, under a benign Cameroonian examiner, we passed our tests). Tanamay and Vimal hyper stressed poor Indubhushan suggesting, after the first failure, a second one could invite repatriation! It did not help that UN CIVPOL ( Civilian Police) Commissioner was a bit hostile and sent us to the provinces - and me to the most distant, Kailahun.

Anyway, there were silver linings. Firstly our Indian colleagues, Zulfiquar and Thota Rao, at whose house we would visit and stay during HQ visits, were immensely helpful . For most of the evenings, the only source of light came from the candles mounted on empty bottles of Jim Beam - the National Power Authority was a hugely Non Performing Asset. Secondly, there were other senior Indians, notable Major General Bhagat (Retd), Rajinder Dhawan and a large number of other countrymen in the technical services of the Mission, Thirdly, the Pakistanis, being in command , were quite helpful. Post Kargil wounds had healed , and it was quite a bonhomie. The Pakistani Army was all over. Fourthly, Amar and I had become members of Freetown Golf Club - an 18 hole course with browns instead of greens - by the Atlantic. At the club, we made friends with one Vinod , an Indian married to a Sierra Leonean lawyer , Luba, a woman of Chinese- Russian extract whose ex husband was a local minister in a previous government, many officers of IMATT ( mostly British) and even a Lutheran Pastor from Germany called Fritz, Of course, we gradually made friends with a large number of UNAMSIL colleagues from other parts of the world as well. It was my first exposure to truly international cuisine and lovely beaches as well.

Kailahun and PAKBATT mohabbat

I was initially posted to Kailahun, an eastern province abutting Liberia. Kailahun also had a PAKBAT HQ which was also the provider of our meals . Every evening from the team site where the CIVPOLS ( Civilian police of UN ) and MILOBS ( Military Observers of the UN) stayed next to a mosque , two team site vehicles would go to fetch biryani and korma from the PAKBATT kitchen at a nominal charge of a dollar per meal , which was good enough for two meals, dinner and lunch. Breakfast was milk and muesli and egg at the team site which was equipped with a coffee machine, microwave, fridge and a stove.

There was this Uruguayan MILOB ( Military Observer ) who would insist that I go with him .

“Vivek, they pamper and give you huge quantities of food , but they starve me.”

“Saab, bahut khata hai yeh mota ,” Havildar Sikandar Khan would tell me”, chaar aadmi ka khana akele kha jataa hai.”

When the unit wound up and departed, we moved into the site vacated by PAKBATT. While leaving, the Havildar handed me a huge store of jams, ketchup, juices, pickles, etc.

The PAK BATT would distribute biryani twice a day to about 30-50 people everyday, as part of its community outreach. When it was leaving, as part of Mission drawdown, I asked the local police station commander , one Sylvester Kamara, whether he apprehends unrest by the people who would no longer get free food. He said, absolutely not. All these people were solvent enough to have food at home, it is just that when free food was offered, no one refused. And he was bang on target. There was no murmur of protest.

Flat tyre

When I returned to Freetown from Kailahun , and later assumed the charge of OIC CIVPOL ( heading the UN Civilian Police ) , the bonhomie continued. Maj. General Bhagat was heading the Mission integrated technical services , and often he would organise parties where Pakistani military officers were sometimes invited - and the language of the evenings would generally be Punjabi. My Punjabi being even worse than my driving , I limited my interest to food and beverage, and gossip with the Pakistani police officers - one was a Sindhi and other a Baluchi , both not really enamoured of the Army and the Punjabis in their country.

Once , I had just returned to Mammyoko Hotel from Koidu where my colleague Tanamay was located. It was a long drive, and I had driven alone in the Nissan Patrol .The Nissan Patrol was issued to heads of sections , but the basic and almost omnipresent vehicle of the MIssion was the smaller Toyota 4 wheel drive model. On return , after an almost 350 km journey, through jungles , mud tracks , and deserted highways , I left the office to go out for lunch, only to find there was a flat tyre in my car. Major Zaman who was walking with me when I spotted it, asked me to leave the matter , and instead asked one of his Havildars to change the tyre and get the punctured one fixed at the workshop. I was grateful, I had never replaced a flat tyre , except once in a test on Motor Mechanics Test at NPA, Hyderabad.

We walked back for lunch, and when I returned, the Havildar was there to hand me the keys.

“Shukriya,” I thanked him.

“Janaab, ik baat bolni thhi.”

“Boliye.”

“Khuda ka shukr hai.”

“Kya hua?”

“Aapki stepney iss gaadi ki thhi hi nahin. “

“What? Kiski thhi ?” I blurted , in alarm .

Scenes of vehicles , pulled up for running road repairs, in alarmingly empty stretches in dark hours on the Freetown - Koidu highway, flashed by in my mind.

“Toyota ki thhi,” he smiled, saluted, and walked away.

IN THE SARDAR's SHADOW

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Tue, 18 Oct 2022 15:25:00 +0000

“The College is the first institution of its kind in India. It has no precedents to look back upon but has an inspiring example to set for future generations. It has to build itself and build others….-

Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel on the Central Police Training College, later the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel National Police Academy

Visited the Sardar Vallabhbhai National Police Academy , Hyderabad on 16th and 17 th October- for the first time since COVID . There was an invite for a lecture on Road Safety Interventions . I am passionate about road safety, and thoroughly enjoyed my tenure as ADG Traffic for over three years- and I was delighted to go.

Hyderabad is by far my favourite amongst the cities of the south , having undergone Basic training at the Academy during 1988-1990 .Since then , I have visited the academy many times - for various in- services courses ,as well as the 25th and 30th batch reunions .

The Central Police Training College was established in 1948 at Mt. Abu as a central institution to train IPS - operating out of unused Army barracks, the rented rooms of Hotel Rajputana and Abu Lawrence School. It was upgraded as an Academy in 1967, and two years after admitting the first woman officer to its ranks , it shifted to Hyderabad in 1975 . Located on the Bengaluru highway at the then village Shivarampally, the Academy has grown by leaps and bounds - having trained 73 batches of IPS officers as well as officers from Bhutan, Maldives, Mauritius, Afghanistan. It conducts a large number of mid-career training programmes for senior police officers as well as officers of other allied departments.

As we approached the Academy, the journey became a bit bumpy since a flyover was under construction. Flyover building activity in Hyderabad has always been prolific - as the city grew exponentially from mid 1990s. During my training days, whenever we would go out of NPA, , we would turn right only to go the stables , the dispensary and a dhaba. Otherwise , it was always a left turn as we entered the city by the river bridges over Musi to Koti and onwards towards Husain Sagar and Tank Bund . Now one hardly turns left - airport is to the right and the huge urban build up , approachable by an elevated flyover , is in that direction. I am of course nostalgic about the old days as all these areas were earlier a huge swathe of empty lands with rocks of various shapes and sizes that made the sunsets look so scenic.

It was close to 11 in the night that the vehicle took me up the Vallabh Shikhar and deposited me at the Rajasthan Bhavan . Built in the traditional Rajasthani style of architecture , it now occupies a space which we earlier used for rock climbing - and a giant rock has been retained in situ as a landscaping prop . It also overlooks the Mir Alam Tank - sparsely inhabited during my training days , now a humongous cluster . Went to sleep straight as I had already consumed a huge G.O.A.T cheese mutton burger from Pronto.

It was a lazy start in the morning. Had wanted to swim , but the academy pool is closed on Mondays for cleaning . So I went out for the usual walk . The academy is now dotted with buildings , as training demands have grown. The academy seems to be in race with the city it is situated in so far as construction activities go. There is a vertical of Mid Career Training programmes - though has now lost a lot of sheen as they have snipped the foreign leg of the programme . The present AD MCTP informed me that the last phase V batch which went abroad was in 2015 - the year I did alongwith a number of my batchmates - Zulfi , Bhaskie, Ramesh , Anil , Sanjay, Rohit and many more - and even my younger brother Vikas .

However , a stroll in the academy sans the IPS probationers , is rather insipid . This is

the time when either the PT ground or the parade ground is dotted with probationers in different stages of toil - the sight is energising and also evocative . I went past the empty parade ground , the PT ground , the obstacle courses , a clutch of new buildings to my left and then hit the stadium. It is now named after Ashok Kamte of 1989 batch , an outstanding sportsman, a sterling officer who lost his life in the 26/11 Mumbai attack . There is a synthetic track now , in place of cinder track earlier . Two records still stand out in the name of my batch- 4X100 M relay and javelin throw ( Brij Raj).

On my return from the stadium , went up to the imposing statue of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. The Sardar perches over an elevation - keeping vigil over the flock. He is the central figure , his name affixed to the academy since 1974 . The IPS is because of his strident assertion that the country needed All India Services to maintain its unity - his statue a mirror for all of us to reflect, introspect, and correct.

There is hardly a patch in the academy premise that doesn’t trigger fond memories - but alas no batchmate or faculty was around to share and reminisce with. My whole batch had been making a programme to visit the academy when Atul Karwal , the batch topper, Evererester , prankster , dancer , singer , influencer, triathlete and what not was the Director of NPA. But he is transferred now and heads the NDRF. Had he been around , would have surely stayed over to spend an evening , instead of the hurried retreat after collecting Biryani from a Paradise outlet en route the airport .

Later in the day when I set out to deliver my lecture, I went all alone and sat under the Sardar’s portrait in the Central IPS Mess lounge , the batch remaining ever present in the frame by virtue of having presented the walnut table with inlay works in the central sofa enclosure . Atul has swapped the lounge with the dining area and extended the earlier lounge to accommodate a whopping 192 hungry probationers to dine at a go. The dining area now looked much larger , and smelt stronger of the menu served during our days.

The lecture was delivered post lunch - at 3 pm . The MCTP building is now named

after Randhir Verma of 1974 batch, a gallant officer awarded the Ashok Chakra for his daring bid to foil a bank dacoity by suspected terrorists armed with AK 47s . Sri Verma was a hero of sorts in Bihar - brave, helpful and possessing unimpeachable integrity. Winner of many death defying battles , he had shot down the dreaded Kamdeo Singh and contained the tribal agitation in Chaibasa. “ In the shadow of of your gigantic achievements we pitch our miserable little tents, “ Sri Manoje Nath , his senior by a year , would write about him in a hagiographic requiem . After joining the service, I had visited Dhanbad and my cousin Pradeep Bhaiya took me to meet him. It was Diwali, he was so humble and self effacing, nary a swagger, and my last memory of his is he taking hold of some crackers from his wary son , stabilizing him, and bursting them nonchalantly.

There were about 24 officers of the ranks of SP and Addl SP. It is tough to engage a group after lunch and siesta, but I plodded on. The group had the usual mix of interested , disinterested , and those in siesta . I think I did well as per the session feedback scores communicated the following day - but more than that I am happy to note that NPA has taken taken it up in earnest to organise training courses on not just traffic management but on road safety as well.

I always find it very engaging and rewarding to meet colleagues younger and from different places. It was no different with the Course Director Bhushan Gulabrao Borase of 2009 batch. A keen learner in the field of blockchain technology and road safety, he confirmed what I had discovered on a couple of occasions in West Bengal . I had information, and on two occasions , evidence that sometimes false road traffic fatal accidents cases were being lodged involving snake bite or electrocution or even drowning victims to claim false insurance - by a cabal of touts, autopsy surgeons ,policemen , insurance agents. , etc . But what Bhushan told me took my breath away - the Special Task Force of Haryana busted a gang whose modus operandi was to target terminally ill cancer patients of Bhagwat Dayal Sharma Post Graduate Institute of Medical SCiences, Rohtak, approach relatives to buy insurance policies , pass of the death as road accident , and claim insurance. Its SP Virender Vij, younger brother of my batchmate Rajinder, said the gang committed 281 such offences, and the seizure included Rs 60 lakhs cash, 53 ATM cards, 41 Cheque Books, 38 OPD cards, 40 policy papers, 14 passbooks , four mobile phones and 66 new kits of different banks.

After the lecture , went back to Rajasthan Bhawan, and poured over the Indian Express over a cup of tea. The news which stood out was the introduction of Hindi as medium of instruction in the study of allopathy medicine . Medical practitioners have been divided , and already the Facebook pages had carried out a humorous take on it . Hindi always has a tough time - it is indigenous but as cementing agent, it has to yield ground to a language of foreign origin , English .

But I missed The Hindu. I was addicted to its cryptic crossword. Such was my association with the Hindu quiz that in the batch yearbook , its editor and my good friend Pankaj Singh wrote :

Did you ever realise why the last page of the The Hindu is often vandalised ? Well, you only have to look for VS who , armed with the Hindu crossword, would be muttering possible combinations, anagrams, etc and trying to spoil the neighbour .

SONGS OF MY MOTHER

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Mon, 18 Oct 2021 12:48:00 +0000

I can’t quite recall when I came to realize that Mummy was an extraordinary singer. I may have been 4-5 years old, we had still not shifted to Dhanbad, but I remember there was great excitement in the house that Mummy’s song was to be aired on the radio. Local Radio station was in Chajju Bagh, Patna. Many of the huge joint family that was ours in Kadamkuan were huddled around a radio, probably in the room abutting my grandfather’s . It was evening. I felt very proud.

“She is a Radio Station artist , “ family members would talk effusively about her singing talent. I don’t think anyone else in the house sang so well. After we moved to Dhanbad, in late 1968, Radio Station recordings ceased- as would my father’s participation in the Masonic Lodge meetings of which he, like a very large number of people in the family, were regulars in Patna.

My father was very appreciative of her singing abilities, and in many colony and office level cultural functions, she sang. She sang bhajans and ghazals ( a few penned by her father as well). Very lavish praise attended her performances- but I never saw her practise, do riyaaz, etc. She didn’t have time - she had started to teach , and what with bringing up three children with limited luxury of helps, and tight means, it was not possible. There was a collection about ten songs from which she sang regularly.

She was much in demand to sing the songs during weddings, which were big family gatherings . At least for three days , the household would be filled up with kids and their fights, women and their gossip and men and their arguments. Not all women were great singers- but sheltered by the anonymity in a chorus or the voice of an accomplished singer , many would join in - some unwillingly, some courageously. Mummy’s voice stood out.

She was the lead singer of an ensemble which consisted of my Dadi with her encyclopaedic collection, my phuas and women of similar antiquity and intimidation, a few friends, and Novices being initiated into the Order of Bihari weddings. She had built up a huge collection for the various occasions - haldi, ghritdhaari, matkor, chheka, mandapachhadan, haldi kutai, tilak, etc. Within the genre of wedding songs was also the gaali which were sung to welcome the baaraat , and abuse the groom’s relatives. Competition between the women choruses of both sides were common- I believe our team used to fare well. I am told that ribaldry was much more during my Dadi’s time- she also had a more colourful Nandkeolyar tongue and much at ease in using it.

But even more than these wedding songs , for me, my connection to Mummy’s voice was her Guru Vandana. Hey Dinabandhu. Dayal Guru kehi bhanti tab gun gaaoon mai….My Nana was inducted into the Ramashram Satsang , headquartered in Mathura, and Mummy, not yet a teenager, joined it with all her passion and devotion. It stayed with her till her death. The puja corner in my house consisted of a framed photo of Guru Maharaj on a pedestal - tucked under it was a copy of Ramcharitmanas ( passages from which she would read out during teej ) , a dabba of mishri, and a folding prayer mat which she would take out while praying twice a day. When she died, she was among the oldest shishyas of the Order, and commanded a respect from many across Mathura, Patna, Jaipur, Tundla, Gaya and many other places where the bhandaras would be held - known to many through her name Pratibha and even through her delightful maiden nickname Putul. I barely knew the wordings, she never made us learn even though she would take us once in a while to the Sunday sittings. But my whole world of connect with divinity was photo of Guru maharaj and my Mummy’s beautiful vandana, with its lilting tune, the crescendo and decrescendo, broken with a period of silent meditation. It was the time we were also not expected to disturb her.

She loved her ghazals the most, it brought her nearer to her father. Her talaffuz was remarkable- given that she was raised in Ara and Chatra and in her natal household everyone conversed in Bhojpuri. Once I left home after my 10th exams, and visited our homes intermittently, I did not hear her sing as much, though she was quite prolific in the Western Coalfields Limited functions at the club.After my father’s death, Mummy would divided her time between Kolkata, Ahmedabad and Delhi- with her three sons. Vikas had managed to get a few ghazals recorded in Ahmedabad. Even as recently as 2020, when karaoke assisted songs would be sung by people from their verandahs in the evening, to break the melancholy of lockdown , Mummy was much in demand by Bunty’s neighbours at East Kidwai Nagar. I saw and heard her on videos Whatsapped to us.

But amongst the numerous occasions that I have heard her sing, the most poignant was in the summer of 2012. As my father lay wasted due to glioma, relatives would keep on coming to visit him, rather to be with him because he was non responsive. It was an evening , Vikas and Bunty with their families were present , and the sun was going down. Maybe a couple of more cousins were also there. We were all sitting in the lawn of my Salt Lake house when Vikas egged her on to sing. She sang, with a passion, with a depth that I could make out was a one off moment as her voice trailed off with the strain of singing so many and tears that had welled glistened in the lambent lawn lights. It was the last time she sang for the man she loved, convinced he was listening. He passed away a few days later. It is a moment that still gives me goosebumps.

Almost ten years later , she went away - in an ICU. Without a word of goodbye, without holding my hand as I had thought she would do for one last time. I don't have the last photo I clicked with her, but a black and white of my first with her remains my screen saver.

The Governor departs

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Thu, 27 Aug 2020 12:22:00 +0000

The day before yesterday , I completed 32 years in the service. There was a request from Bhaskar, friend from Delhi University days, squad mate, fellow straggler in the cross country runs at the academy , director of Kafka’s Metamorphosis where he tricked me into his cast, a director of many documentaries, tough and sensitive cop and now DG, Assam , to ferret out some pictures from the academy days .

There were quite a few- rock climbing, Army attachment at Tenga, sundry academy activities, and many of the Bharat Darshan where I was given the North India segment. Bhaskar was with me in that group , and amongst the many was a group photo with Satya Narayan Reddy, the then Governor of UP , at Nainital.

I don’t quite remember about the visit to His Excellency, except that the interaction was at a lush green lawn, and bereft of any moment that could stand out. He was a man of few words , but quite at ease with posing for such group photographs.

But we were to cross each other’s path again.

When Prof Nurul Hasan , the Governor or West Bengal whose ADC I was in the year 1993, died at Woodburn Ward at SSKM Hospital, Kolkata , Satya Narayan Reddy who had since moved over to a gubernatorial assignment at Odisha, was asked to look after West Bengal as an interim arrangement. He would visit Kolkata quite often, fly in the Orissa sate govt. plane.

An early riser , he would love to walk in the south side lawns of the Raj Bhavan, a building earlier known as Government House , built by Lord Wellesley who wanted that “India should be ruled from a Palace and not from a Counting House; with the ideas of a Prince, not with those of a retail dealer in muslins and indigo.”

The Governor would be dressed in starched white kurta pajama and a white bundi, even at 6 in the morning , and I in my uniform with an aiguillette, a kind of a ceremonial tempering or tadka. On those walks, the spartan and man of frugal habits, came out as an amiable person with an intimidatingly outstanding command over Hindi - not for nothing this man from Mehboobnagar had in his student days published a Hindi fortnightly Mukul and later edited an Urdu weekly Payam-e-Nav during his incarceration in 1947 by the Nizam’s government.

This Gandhian, Lohiaite, and Socialist was rather fit for his age , and I remember once he slipped in mid stride on the moss formed on the road and even as I lunged sideways to break his fall, he steadied up on his own. I just shuddered to think what would have happened had this happened with his predecessor. Anyway, the Estate Staff , long used to neglect during the incumbency of a largely non ambulatory Governor, and who probably thought the road has to be made only drive and not walk worthy , was hauled up.

An event from his incumbency which I recall was police firing on supporters of Congress Party who were participating in the Writers’ Chalo Abjhiyaan called by the firebrand leader Mamata Banerjee on 21st July , 1993, and the flurry of activity that followed. Home Minister SB Chavan had come over, and was briefed by the Chief Minister in presence of the Governor at the Wellesley suites of Raj Bhavan. Bengal’s politics was never dull, and I thought Satya Narayan Reddy ji quite liked his visits to Kolkata.

During one such visit , it so happened that the Warrant of appointment as Governor of West Bengal under the hand and seal was issued in favour of Raghunath Reddy , ex labour minister of India, a three times Rajya Sabha Member and the then Governor of Tripura.This sudden announcement , along with the information that swearing in would be held on the following day, resulted in Satya Narayan Reddy ji deciding to fly back to Bhubhaneshwar on the second day of his proposed four day visit to Kolkata.

There was one problem - the two pilots who had flown him in were traceless ( they thought they would be required to fly after two days later). Mobile phones were yet to come. . With great difficulty , one was traced and asked to proceed to Dum Dum Airport.

We, too , left for the airport . His Orissa ADC , a year junior to me , was also present . Home Secretary and Under Secretary , Government of West Bengal were already there as part of protocol.

The Orissa ADC was scared that only one pilot would be available to fly back the plane . What would happen if he had a heart attack ? Was it safe ?

Then he went to the craft . The solitary pilot who was pottering around , doing the pre flight checkings , the ADC said , was drunk . The ADC, a non - drinker and was quite intimidated at the prospect of flying with a pilot who reeked of liquor at 230 pm . He kept on coming to me in the ceremonial lounge and mumble his doubts . I was not in sync with him about anxiety over the pilot smelling of liquor as I knew even after more than a few drinks, men could wake up the next morning early, do morning PT which could include rope climbing and front and back rolls and horse vaults, and then slip into starched khakis for a two period of parade under a hot Hyderabad sun.

I did not know much about planes and pilots, having flown only once in my life in a commercial plane till then. Besides, my next air journey had almost ended up in a tragedy. No, not a crash or something like that, but in the return flight in this same Orissa government with the then West Bengal Governor Nurul Hasan who was holding additional charge of Orissa, I had accidentally touched the back adjusting lever , in a dark cabin, and the back rest went down with a very helpless and weighty Governor lying almost flat on his back. The Governor, however, displayed remarkable sangfroid even as he lay supine and uttered Barkhudaar, aapne toh mujhe leta diya ( son, you have laid me down ).

So I said go and talk to HS who could already sense the ADC’s unease . He got up , went up to the plane , undertook an olfactory survey, and announced - oh , it’s just a hard night’s drink . He is fit to fly .

Now the ADC had no further court of appeal to approach . The Governor saw his ADC’s crestfallen crouch and said for all to hear in his very shuddh Hindi. - tumhe bhai lagta toh yahin raho, main to avashya jaa raha hooN ( if you are afraid, then you stay back. I will definitely go).

The poor ADC couldn’t back out .

But though he said it was fine, he sat in the cockpit in the co pilot’s seat - which the pilot , to humour , had offered as a lollipop - with as much ( or as little if you insist) confidence as a quite a few probationers did while astride the horses of Hanumant Singh’s stable at NPA, Hyderabad.

That was the last I saw of the Orissa Governor and his ADC who both waved and flew away.

NIGHTS OF THE NITES

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Thu, 06 Jun 2019 15:40:00 +0000

The more avid of my readers would possibly recall that during my first year in college, I had gone to India Gate to listen to Osibisa , an African band. My friend Amit Jha , in whose company Lady luck even at the peak of her jollivity refused to smile, was with me. There was a slight problem- we had no tickets to the show, and our pursuit for passes ended with a summary shove from the house of his Deputy Commissioner Dhiru mama. Amit suggested we could get stoned, go and enjoy from outside the venue. We left no stone unturned , and fortified with a Rs. 10 Afghani from Khanna’s at Kingsway camp left for India Gate. However, it was a no show for us due to a basic glitch in planning- the show had been long over by the time we reached !

Even after I joined service , my poor run of luck with these musical shows or “nites “, and functions like the jatras , continued. I was a probationer in Burdwan in 1990 when Lata Mangeshkar ji came to sing at Mohun Bagan Ground . The venue was circled by a wall of sal barricading and corrugated sheets . I was detailed at one of the gates, and after the people in the long , snaking queue had entered the gate, I went inside only to find a very agitated Addl SP telling the SP ' Sir aapki force phaltu hai.'

The Superintendent of Police, the venerable Nawal Kishore Singh, told him ‘bhai, yeh tumhari bhi force hai. Don’t bother , sit down , we will take care.’

'Maliwal, jara dekho toh kya hungama ho raha hai, and take the probationer with you ,' he ordered his more reliable No. 2.

So I got tagged with Mr. Maliwal , and we rushed towards the corner from where the unruly crowd was trying to gatecrash. The young Addl SP ordered a lathi charge, the younger probationer also joined him. We ran, chasing for over 50 meters , and then stopped as an eerie silence from behind grabbed and pulled us up . Standing in the midst of a sea of abandoned footwear , I looked behind. The posse of over twenty five men which had started out for the chase with us was nowhere to be seen , except our two security guards.

‘Yeh hamesha hoga, always remember to look behind your back in such situations.’

Lesson learnt , we re- collected our men and made a further chase leading to a tear gas charge .

Naina barse rimjhim rimjhim, Lataji sang, as we got the gas in our eyes after the breeze did a reverse flick and Ai mere watan ke logoN zaraa aaNkh mei bhar lo paani accompanied us during our return trudge and lachrymal outpourings.

A few months later, another such Nite - of junior Bengal artists at Sidhu Kanu stadium, Durgapur. Shotgun Sinha had also come I recall. But what remains an abiding memory was the continuous lathi charge outside- apparently counterfeit tickets were sold leading to ruckus inside and riotous situation outside. Uma Shankar Mukherjee, the OC of Durgapur PS was able to crack the case, but the night had been more bruise than a breeze for many of us.

During my days as SDPO, Tamluk there was this Amit Kumar Nite in Jhargram. From outside, the venue looked like one of the many circus locales I had seen in my childhood - Amar, Gemini, etc. Addl SP Kharagpur was in charge. At about ten in the night the show started with a string of junior artists. Then it became 11, and now midnight. The junior artists - a gaudily sequinned Shakeel here and a shimmering Shobujkali there-seemed to have exhausted their repertoire and the audience’s patience . The jokes were falling flat, the gyrations were not enticing enough and the murmurs were getting louder. The police deployment at ladies’ enclosure was beefed up. Still no sign of Amit Kumar.

Announcements were being made from time to time to reassure. Finally around 1. 30 am when our nerves had become quite frayed , Amit Kumar made his entry.

As he stepped on the stage he stumbled - one wrong step by him was a giant skip of beat of every policeman’s heart. One could almost see every policeman on duty bend to catch and break his fall- their safety depended on his sobriety . He collected himself and straightened up. Next step and he lurched on the other side. The law enforcers also lunged instinctively to catch him from their positions. Catcalls flew, a few liquid filled plastic packets as well. I thought this it was going to be bad, and uttered a silent prayer to steady the rocking ship. The Almighty was fortunately on watch and He heard my prayers.

Amit Kumar composed himself, apologized endearingly , and promised to sing for three hours. And he lived up to his promise and regaled right through the break of the dawn. It was one close shave for us .

A couple of years later I was posted in Barasat . An organiser of Manna De Nite came over to my bunglow office late evening and informed that the great singer had gone back on his promise to turn up at Swaroop Nagar despite having pocketed the advance . He showed me documents to support his claim.

‘When is the function?’ I asked.

‘Sir, it is about to start within an hour today.’

If Manna De was not going to turn up, there was going to be serious trouble. Maybe even firing , I thought, as this district had a reputation of violent public protest to keep. Swaroop Nagar was on Bangladesh border with a fair number of mischief mongers , smugglers , transborder criminals - quite near to Baduria where police firing had taken place a few months ago during a jatra performance , and to Habra with its star studded Gobardanga and Massalandpur hotspots .

I was equally bemused as to how many would would come to listen to the maestro whose oeuvre was more classical and semi classical than the popular ones - I mean listen to Yeh kahaani hai diye ki aur toofan ki and Laaga chunari mei daag .

I immediately rang up Sunil Haldar , the SDPO Basirhat who was in charge of the police arrangements and informed him about this possibility.

‘ Sarbanash ! he could not have described the possibility of mayhem better.

‘Sir, this is his phone number, he is putting up near Narkeldanga . You call him up and tell him to turn up,’the organizer pleaded.

I thought no harm in trying.

‘Namaskaar, aami Bibek Shohay, Addl SP Barasat bolchhi.’

‘HaaN, bolun,’ the singer replied in a tone not very cordial, and not very deferential either.

I explained to him that he had committed to turn up at Swaroop Nagar that evening , having taken an advance, and that if he doesn’t go, there could be a huge trouble. He stated that he was not going since the organizer , as per contract, had to pay the balance on his arrival at Kolkata and had not paid .

I cupped the mouthpiece and asked the organizer in front of me about this defaulting on balance amount.

‘ Sir, I promise to handover the balance by tomorrow, well before his return flight. Right now, we are waiting for the ticket receipts to be calculated.’

Fair enough , I thought, and uncupped the mouthpiece.

‘He will pay you tomorrow, you go otherwise there could be pandemonium at Swaroop Nagar,’ I tried to reassure and reason.

‘That is your problem, I will not go, that organizer Tuhin is a fraud,’ Manna Dey replied in a tone as unreasonable as it was without any assurance.

I was absolutely livid , and shouted on the mouthpiece, , ‘ I will get you arrested for criminal breach of trust.’

I thought for a moment, foolishly of course , that Manna Dey might change his decision when the enormity of my threat would have dawned upon him.

‘ You can arrest me if you can, but I am not going. Actually, I am flying off to Bombay tonight, ‘ he called my bluff and hung up.

I was happy the phone didn’t have a speakerphone , so my came -with -a bang- left -with -a -whimper humiliation was a fairly private affair.

My next phone calls were to the Reserve Inspector for a section or two of ( composite ) force, to Binay , the SDPO Bongaon to rush with available force and meet at some point under Habra PS , and finally to Sunil Haldar to keep the show going on with the junior artists till we arrived .

I took me over two hours to reach Swarupnagar PS where the local OC had already put the secretary of the organization behind bars.

“ What for is this fellow inside?”

“Saar, it is protective custody, it could save him from being lynched.”

Sanjit was a veteran of the field , impressively rotund as thanedars of most mofussil thanas are, and fully in control.

The venue was not very far from the police station, and as we walked you could the cut the tension with a knife. An ominous buzz was going around , and as I was contemplating the next step, a footwear flew and fell the microphone in front of the singer on stage , and soon a couple of chairs found their target in the huddle of sound technicians and a few constables .

These missiles also ended my contemplation. The decision was immediately made. There was a wild lathi charge , the crowd ran in different directions, and surprisingly, dispersed in a few minutes . Till date, I have always wondered as to how the situation did not deteriorate further , but then I guess, sometimes one can be lucky. It was one of those days again. I looked up to thank the Almighty.

The only thing I saw up above was a plane flying.

‘Could it be Manna De ?’I wondered.

Maybe as a token of the advance , he had at least flown past the venue.

April the 15 th

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Tue, 16 Apr 2019 17:32:00 +0000

After a night of long vigil on 14th , staying awake past midnight to see and savour Tiger’s 15th Major , and an early pre 6 am tee off, the second on the trot in as many days, I tucked in early yesterday. Well rested, I woke up late but was shocked to see the first page of Times of India.

A massive fire had broken out at Notre Dame, bringing down its iconic spire - a photo capturing the tilt before it went down. Built with recycled materials of earlier structures which stood there, the Notre Dame cathedral, attacked by Huguenots, desecrated by atheist and deistic elements of the French Revolution, and targeted by terrorists, is “part of the fate, the destiny of France “.

Though not as intense as for the French, , Notre Dame holds some sentiments and is familiar for people like me who studied in Jesuit schools . The male priests were from Society of Jesus with S.J as their post-nominal letters while the nuns in the junior section and in the two Mount Carmel Schools in the coalfield city of Dhanbad were drawn from Sisters of Notre Dame or S.N.D.

I had visited Notre Dame in 2005. We hung around for over an hour in the huge open space outside its much photographed western facade - part of the many who thronged the place. From the market abutting the cathedral , I bought a few paintings of some Paris landmarks and a Black Tee- the Eiffel Tower stylistically swirling in the multi hues of Olympic Games - the city was making a bid for the 2012 Olympics .

Sharing space with picture of Notre Dame was the EC gag on some leading politicians,an IMD
prediction of near normal monsoon and a small picture of an injured Shashi Tharoor , promising more on the incident at page 8. I flipped over to the page and found the injury was on account of a freak accident while offering the Thulambharam ritual - the honourable MP and candidate for the LSE, 2019 and writer of Why I am a Hindu, was weighing himself against offerings of sugar, jaggery and banana. He had earlier tweeted a word floccinaucinihilipilification , and I wondered whether this freak accident could be described as one such.

Separated by a column announcing Ravi Kishan’s candidature from Gorakhpur was a picture of Pari, the buffalo captioned Moo-ving Graffitti. I wonder whether EC’s regulation against wall graffitis could cover ‘buffaloboards’ or not. Pari was now viral on Whatsapp, and I instinctively checked my phone . While I did not find any forward, I caught many forwards on “the exasperating farrago of distorted ropes …..resulting in disintegration of calciferous structure and hydraulic damages …..” to describe the freak accident during Thulabharam.

The Global page had an interesting news “ Could a gay mayor from a small town become POTUS?” , something more on the Notre Dame fire, made a small mention on gender mainstreaming of Taliban talks , a news item the Ecuador president leaking information on Wikileak Assange’s activities in Ecuador’s embassy in London, and even a tiny bit on “Man sues parents for destroying his porn collection “.

Exports hit record in FY 19 on the business page, WPI inflation hit a three month high , the Sensex
rallied on normal monsoon prediction and Foxconn announced set up of mass iPhone production outside Chennai. I moved on quickly to the Sports pages which were lapped up by World Cup selection DK- Pant debate , IPL , more IPL but finally settled into a full page on Tiger’s comeback and his 15 Masters.

I moved back into the City newspages. At 268 meters, with the casting of the roof of the 65th floor, The 42 at 268 meters now stood tallest in India. Road accidents and delinquent driving rivalled Poila Baishakh’s gastronomic excesses also held their ground. Looking for something more interesting to accompany the second cup of tea I moved to Time Trends.

Holding Centrestage in the only half of the page not consumed by advertisements, amidst columns on inhalable chemotherapy, Green protests in London, weight bias in women caused by celebrity fat shaming and 3D printing of heart using human tissues was Helen Coffey’s 4 columns on “No mini toiletries at California hotels?”. A bill is pending for Governor Gavin Newsom decision to ban “lodging establishments ---- from offering small plastic bottles from distributing single-use toiletries”.

I do not know whether the prohibition placed on carrying larger quantities of gel and shampoo post 9/11 attack in hand baggage led to a significant surge in supply of single use toiletry bouquet by the hospitality industry. I know for sure the prohibitions were loaded heavily against mustachioed travellers because I have surrendered quite a few moochh clippers to the X ray man at the Security check.

9/11 or not, there is no denying the fact that hospitality business has started to stack a huge variety of single use toiletries small plastic pouches and bottles - conditioners , shampoo , body wash, face wash ( yes , while the pharmaceutical business researches on broadening the spectrum of its antibiotics , the cosmetic industry splices its products as per the body parts ).

Much like the quality of lunch which informs the success of official meetings, the toilet bouquet has ,for many, come to take precedence over quality of room service , linen, the food , etc . More important , these items become the most poignant memory of their stay patrons carry home. The unintended consequences of this carry-to- home offer has been the growing trend of taking away towels and stationary, as well something which the hotel management suffers in simpering, silent agony and wives with red faced embarrassment at their husbands when pointed to by the concierge during departure.

However, the California Bill is not about pinched towels or spousal embarrassment. It is about the recognition of the need to control plastic pollution from entering our waste streams. I hope Governor Newsom signs the bill into law , and inspire others states and nations to do likewise. One has got to make all the right noises and tick all the boxes in this fight. Disneyland Paris has banned the plastic straws and the European Parliament single-use plastic products like cutlery and cotton buds from 20121.

My friend Anurag Shukla did not even wait for that- at his daughter’s wedding at Mhow which I attended with a few school friends last month, all food and drinks were served in arecanut plates and kulhars. He laid out his courage of conviction and simplicity with a panache - to him and his family, I dedicate this blog as well.

DILLI DIARY

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Wed, 23 Jan 2019 17:14:00 +0000

After a long time I avail a Banga Bhavan car during my trip to Dilli . The driver , tall and bearded , in whites and a thin waistcoat , is at Terminal 1 to receive me . The light is fading, the smog makes for a grainy vision, and we follow a trail of a thousand cars- lit by the tail lights working overtime as they brake more than move. The driver informs me that Dilli has 8. 5 crore vehicles , that Metro takes in close to 40 lac passengers everyday .
8.5 crores !! That stops me in my tracks . Here I am , to take part in a meeting on road safety , for West Bengal, having probably the third highest road network in the country, with a registered vehicular fleet totalling just over 85 lacs ! Later I found out, it wasn’t 8.5 crore but maybe 1.5 .

Still, even 1.5 crores in just one city was humongous, and it explains the long traffic jams , new multi laned superhighways notwithstanding. One doesn’t tackle obesity by increasing the trouser’s waistline. It will , in a short while, demand another increase. One does it by diet control. Ditto with traffic congestion - not my original. I had picked this up from someone at the World Road Meet in 2017, liked it and repeated it quite often.

The driver laughed at the analogy.

“Kahaan se kam hoga, ek ek ghar mei teen chaar gadiyaaN haiN.”

I tell him about how completely lost I have felt in Dilli since the Commonwealth Games. I just can’t seem to find my way to places , with new flyovers , snaking elevated metro tracks , and skywalks. We drive to East Kidwai Nagar through affluent areas where there was space large enough for the pedestrian to walk and walk his dog . One item on our agenda for the meeting is about Street Vendors Act . West Bengal , with a very high population to road ratio , is expected to keep its pavement unencumbered for the pedestrian .

The driver is garrulous .

“ If I shave my beard , I would look younger than the other much -younger drivers of Banga Bhavan .”

“ What’s your name ?”

“Anil. “

And then it strikes me . He was part of the Banga Bhavan team of drivers who were in service when I used to visit , about 25 years ago , as ADC to Prof Nurul Hasan , the Governor of Bengal . I tell him I have now placed him - young , jean clad handsome chap . He is delighted. He says he has also been grappling with his memory to place me, but the period in between today and our last encounter and my increased waistline has blurred the recall.

Anyone who had touched the late Governor Nurul Hasan could never come away without a pot of anecdotes . We reminisce about his visits and entourage - the other ADCs like Mariah, Hrishikesh and Rakesh Chhillar, the doctors, the nurse , Tulsi the thin attendant with a thinner voice , Kulwant Singh his PA, Baji , his sister , his children, and so many .

We talk about the time the Governor had thrown a party at 2 Circular Road, inviting all MPs of the state and the entire cabinet of late Pradhan Mantri Narasimha Raoji. They came in big numbers , including the polyglot and highly learned Pradhan Mantriji . A lavish spread had been laid out , chosen by the Governor’s old cook, and of course, approved by His Excellency who was very particular about food he offered his guests.

Actually , many mornings my first encounter with the Governor would be in his residence where his CA Kulwant Singh would be huddled with a pen and notebook taking down his boss’s dictation on the menu of the day , and air and travel itinerary of the Governor and of the staff . Wasted he may have been , but above the neck , he was one of the sharpest and possessed a photographic memory . He could reel off dictation for three four journeys without looking at either the Bradshaw or the Indian Airlines time table.

The cook was from Rampur. . He came as a fifteen year old lad , accompanying the Nawab of Rampur’s eldest daughter during her marriage to Syed Nurul Hasan and was as bossy as the Governor was gracious and self effacing . I forget his name, probably Jamil.When the governor would eat well, and his gastronomic indulgences never went unnoticed , Jamil would cook fabulously lest be ticked off by his master. The Governor was very famous for his hospitality, especially food, and beamed at the compliments the guests showered.

But when prof. Syed Nurul Hasan returned to Bengal for a second gubernatorial term , his health had deteriorated and severe restrictions had been placed on his diet . Phulka , plain lentils, some vegetables he was allowed , sometimes strictly rationed roasted cashew nuts which he liked so much that quite often his inquisitive fingers, emissaries of unsatiated hunger, tried to fish out from a quarter plate emptied quite some time ago .

But the Docs had not placed restrictions on him to bring over guests for meals . So he continued to invite people from among the usual Governor’s constituency made up of Vice Chancellors ( he being the Chancellor of all except Shantiniketan ) , the local chiefs of Victoria memorial, Indian museum and EZCC. As his ADC, I also had to sit at the table and partake.

However, Jamil Mia did not rustle up any great food. His study of human psychology was profound indeed. Smug with the knowledge that that Governor’s subordinates would never fail to praise whatever food served at the Governor's table , he hardly put his soul into cooking. At times , it could be so unexciting that I would seek exemption after setting up His Excellency at the table.

But the fellow knew it was different when the PM and the cabinet came over . They , quite a few of them on first name terms , many like the PM much older , had little reason to praise ordinary food. So the old Rampur bawaarchi gave his best to lay out a daawat fit for kings . One item - the Murgh Mussalam kebab- I can never forget . I even asked for a recipe, and later even inflicted the dish on my guests, making up for inadequacies with stories of Jamil Mian and the great dinner at 2, Circular Road.

The party at 2, Circular Road was coming up nicely when a mini storm broke out and it started to rain. The guests left hurriedly , not all having eaten . The governor also passed out - a syncope to which we were used to expect and equipped to handle .

Anil recalls the subsequent days in GB Pant hospital where the Governor had been admitted . He remembers that I had put him for extra duty during those days . I say he was the youngest driver then , so naturally.

The governor’s last trip to Dilli was in a coffin I accompanied in an IAF Transport plane. The day we laid him to rest at Jamia , it rained cats and dogs . Anil was also in that convoy. Prof Hasan was a towering scholar of medieval Indian history, builder and architect of many iconic institutions like ICHR and ICSSR, had been our Ambassador to USSR , a connoisseur of music , a great human being. Kolkata paid him a poignant farewell as thousands had come to Raj Bhawan to offer respectful homage , and more had lined up the Park Street and VIP road through which the cortège passed . I was deeply saddened and quite affected by his death to renal failure at Woodburn Ward in Kolkata Presidency General Hospital.

Anil talks about how he had built a gym in Banga Bhavan ( maiN toh pehelwan hooN) and even a library ( help from Minister Subhash Chakraborty). Later on , his initiative and proximity to senior officers and ministers didn’t go down well.

“ Politics ho gaya mere saath”.

He drops me at East Kidwai Nagar , and it strikes me that I have forgotten the file in the car . I try to call him on my cell phone , but I cannot . Connectivity is extremely poor in these newly built towers. I usually find connectivity a big issue on my Kolkata Vodafone number in Dilli. I can barely talk to my colleagues from Banga Bhavan rooms in Hailey Road where I had gone the following day for a pre- meeting meeting. Even as we sit , hunched in the lounge waiting for our turn after Andhra Pradesh , there is no data connectivity and it is even difficult to talk .

The meeting in Vigyan Bhavan is followed by lunch . Simple , frugal , bland - the opposite of opulence and affluence of Lutyens Dilli . Quite unsatiated, I try a chicken and egg roll at Nizam’s at T1 later in the day . It smells of some chemical, and I leave it after a few bites. What a shame , Dilli can otherwise offer such lovely food. Hardly a month ago, at my niece and nephew’s weddings, the food was superb.

En route Terminal 1 , I see a huge stone monolith in a huge compound . Anil informs that it is the Police Memorial . They had pulled down the earlier one .

“Rashtrapati ke Shaan ke khilaaf thha, ” Anil, the Mr. Know-all said.

Later I read that there were environmental issues .

The redoing cost the government Rs. 20 crores Anil adds. I haven’t cross checked on that.

“Phew! 20 crores?“

“Yes , 20 crores .”

“ No one noticed when it was being made in the first place ?”

“ Arrey sir , sab ne gaur ( notice) kiya . Tabhi toh isse gaurment kehte haiN !!”, and laughs at the joke. I join him.

“Kulwant Singh used to say so , ” he added.

Thank you , Anil . You made up for traffic , connectivity and food woes .

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sun, 12 Aug 2018 17:13:00 +0000

Sudhir and I were standing with the Traffic Inspector (TI) , Howrah , just next to the Howrah Station Tram Depot, ensuring taxis don’t stop at that point on GR Road .It was for all practical purposes our first working day for the on- job training after completing the first phase of Basic Training at National Police Academy , Hyderabad. The previous day, after reporting at Police Training College, Barrackpore, we had been bundled off in pairs to Howrah, North and South 24 Parganas for Puja duty.

It was getting dark. During the breaks between breaking tail lights of errant taxis, we suffered the TI’s incessant boasts. It was during one such lull when the TI was firing on all cylinders that one teenager came up to him. We will call him Chap A.

“Is one allowed to piddle over there ?” he asked in Bengali, pointing towards a garbage dump towards the river side.

“Shut up , you cannot .“ “ What will happen if one does?” “ He will get a sound thrashing, du danda debo shalaa ke.”

“Ok, I will go and warn my friend, “ and Chap A went away .

He went about 30 yards where his friend , to be referred henceforth as Chap B , was standing, awaiting clarification, and soon after hearing from his friend, began to ease himself, spreading his legs in a ten past ten angle, much like the hands of a watches in advertisements. The moment he was in the middle of his act, Chap A darted towards us.

“ Uncle, see what that person is doing. Thrash him up as you had promised.”

The much medalled Inspector , having promised violent retribution just under a minute ago, and apprehensive about derision from us, was left no option but to rush towards the fellow’s friend. Willy-nilly, the Chap B was surprised in processus, and ran with his willy .

On any other day, the young, lanky lad would have made good his escape, but today, with his guard and drawstring dropped, Chap B didn’t stand much chance. The TI soon collared him. After being allowed to tie up his pyjama, the fellow confided that he had started to relieve himself only after being told by Chap A , his friend, that police officer had actually allowed it.

The Inspector realized that he had been taken for a ride, and glared with impotent rage at the young man who was now whistling and showing his thumb with unadulterated glee.

“Hadeyharaami, rascal to his bones , “the Inspector muttered , his swag gone, his boast deflated , reputation battered, ridicule completed.

“Sir, beware. People here are very mischievous and crafty. “

We wondered where the hell we had come to. At NPA Hyderabad, people had offered soulful regrets to seven of us at being allotted West Bengal cadre. We had been fed with stories of a population in protest , of labour militancy, police unions, hartaal and gherao.

Within an hour , we got a call to go to Belilious Road where the then Punjab Governor Siddhartha Shankar Ray was to come and inaugurate a Puja Pandal. It had drizzled by this time, roads had become muddy. We reached and shortly the convoy of one of the most protected politicians entered the premises. However, the lead cars got stuck trying to reverse . Soon, the small ground in between the pandal and a stage became a theatre of intense cacophonic confusion, the cars revved up to prise out the rubber from the slush. The sound of the cars drowned the welcome salutations of Vande matram and Zindabad by a crowd gathered around and atop the boundary wall. But even as his partyman Priya Das Munshi was extolling the virtues of Sidhharta Shankar Ray, Tiger of Bengal ( ToB), the Governor got up and took away the mic .

“ Who is in charge of the police bandobast here?”

“I have seen a thousand but never as bad as this, “ he roared.

We would have been a hundred odd policemen, and a hush fell upon the gathering. The Superintendent of Police was in charge of the arrangements , and he was nowhere to be seen. Sudhir and I wondered what who would go if the SP was not going to come forward .

“Who is in charge of the police arrangement,?” ToB roared for the second time.

I looked at Sudhir nervously, Sudhir looked at me with a crestfallen anxiety.

And then the ToB looked at our direction.

“You,” he shouted, “come here. I will talk to you now, the SP later.”

I was about to step forward when , a Deputy Superintendent of Police, tall and in a peak cap, standing next to us, saluted. But just as he saluted in response to the Governor , the Superintendent stepped forward.

He was short from head to toe, wide around his belly, his long hair curled out from the rim of his peak cap, and offered a salute which he had customised with his personality. The salute is done by raising the right hand palm open , the spine erect, the neck straight, fingers held together ( including the obstinate little finger which tends to part with the ring finger when so stretched) just above the right eyebrow. Basudeo Singh, my ustaad at NPA would tell us that the point at which the index finger met the middle should be touching the edge of the visor.

The Howrah Superintendent had a different one. He brought his palm, inclined slightly inwards, till chin level, and then bowed his head down to meet the index finger.

“He does not look look like a Superintendent of Police , look at his belt,” the ToB mocked , beckoning at the multitude who agreed in a gleeful chorus. We also could not disagree much. The Superintendent smiled sheepishly, tugged his belt , saluted , and looked up for approval. The ToB let him go, and handed over the mic to Dasmunshi for more fawnsome praise.

I was shocked , and devastated. Where the hell had we come to. Teenagers making fun of cops, politicians openly upbraiding Superintendents of Police. All the misgivings about being allotted West Bengal cadre were coming to be true. Sudhir, too, was too shocked to offer any comfort.

During night in my room in the Railway Officers Rooms atop Howrah Station where we had been accommodated, I recalled my first day in another metropolis which had become my home for almost 7 years- Dilli.

I had reached Dilli on a warm August in 1981. Probably Sonbhadra Express. To realize the Bihari dream of civil service success via Dilii, leaving behind a first class history faculty of a top class college, Patna College, founded on 9th of February, 1863 in a Dutch Opium Godown by the huge Ganges. The admissions were over in Delhi University , which traditionally opened on 16th of July ( if not a Sunday) those days.

So there I was, a leather suitcase in hand, to find out Raju Bhaiya or Rajendra Dayal of Kirori Mal college. I boarded a bus from the Paharganj side ( there was no Ajmeri Gate entrance those days). Was it route 110 ? I can’t recall. It took me some time to attract the conductor’s attention and ask for a forty paise ticket to Maurice Nagar, and in the process gave away my roots.

“Dakhila lene aaye ho? Bihar se ho ?”

I turned around and found one thin middle aged man, with a thick mop of salt and pepper , was dressed in a pair of white kurta pyjama , a bag was slung across .

“ Ji haan , have come for admission“ I replied, in a not too eager manner the purpose of my visit. There were other people around him, probably his students. Within a minute, he got a seat and so did one of his students.

“Uthho, is ladke ko baithne do,” he commanded the boy.

I sat down, tired and grateful. He inquired about my marks, where I wanted to take admission, and the subject.

“Do you know anyone?”

“One Rajendra Dayal of Kirori Mal College. That’s all. “

He asked for a pen and paper, and his students promptly obliged. He wrote down, in Urdu, I didn’t understand a word as I chased his pen from right to left.

“Quersihi saheb ko de dena. Farasi Department ke head haiN. Maybe he can help. He is a good friend. “

I thanked him. Soon it was time for him to leave. As the group was alighting, he stopped and commanded one of them.

“You stay back and drop him at Maurice Nagar.”

“Bacche, all the best,” he wished me, smiled and alighted.

I never saw this kind hearted soul again in my life.

Delhi had welcomed me with open arms.

It remains the city I love to visit. I am simply bowled over by its medieval monuments, and would want to visit them again and again, probably alone, as earlier occasions of visits have been marred by impatience of friends or family members. I would like to visit the lesser known trails as well . A big part of me will always stay in this city, not everywhere, but in that place bound by the Khyber Pass, Kingsway Camp, the Ridge and Kamla nagar or K’nags - yes, Delhi University and within it my college, Kirori Mal or simply KMC. Sometimes when I want to get away from it all, I retreat to the recesses of memories of those days - the hostel corridors, the bun anda and cha at Jaisingh’s , the hours in the library, churning out the tutes, the the college fests and the waft of weeds, the DTC night specials, the close shaves with college and police authorities, the Civil Services grind, and the final exit via Dholpur House on Shahjahan Road.

But . then if there is a city I don’t want to work and live in , that again, paradoxically, is Delhi, even though some of my most loved ones are in Delhi. New Delhi is depressingly sarkari. I could never like the narcissistic stonecraft of Raisina Hill structures or the blandness of government housing estates in Moti Bagh, RK Puram, Rabindra Nagar, etc.

The empire was at the beginning of its decline when New Delhi was built, and typically evolved into a cut-off, guarded, almost distrustful - like its Lutyens and Baker, its two architects who fell out- city. The large spaces which separated the melancholic bunglows in Tughlaq, Moti Lal, Rajendra Prasad and other roads were informed by that mindset. Spaces induce coldness, and that is what gripped New Delhi and its people. The ruler and the ruled remain coldly separated even today. There is a roughness in the air, there is war on its roads , and whispers about fixers abound in its corridors. This was not the Delhi where I had spent some of my best years.

On the other hand, Kolkata, which had disappointed and distressed me at the beginning, grew on me. It is easier to live in , easy on the pocket, far less polluted-more so after significant improvement in its solid waste management. Its traffic is managed by one the best traffic police forces in the world. The City of Joy is safer for women, its cuisine is top of the shelf and it has some of the best clubs in the country. I opted to stay in Kolkata during both of my central deputation tenures- CBI and CRPF. Calcutta was built, not by a government, but by merchants at a time of buoyant optimism. The social origin of the city informed its evolution.There were no Civil Lines in Kolkata, people mixed everywhere, the buildings also stood next to each other. In short , there was nothing official about it. Over the years, I became a diehard Kalkatiya.

GREEN COCONUT POLICING

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Fri, 27 Jul 2018 05:04:00 +0000

“If a probationer will not commit mistakes, then who will”. By this yardstick, constantly reiterated by men who had a big heart , huge patience and great commitment towards their Service fledglings’ training , I was an ideal probationer in the days when the waist was sub- 30 and weight under 60.

On my first day with the training Superintendent of Police in Burdwan , I had knocked violently on his shoulder --- copiously sleep-deprived . I had my share of goof ups with the police uniform - once I reported at the Muster Parade without a peak cap. Of course, it was nothing compared to the occasion a few years later when a Head of Police Force arrived at Combined Police parade wearing his sword on the wrong side - it is not a mean feat, and requires a huge leap of faith in a daft homeguard to kit you up.

The Holi in 1990 at Galsi Police station provided me with an insight into the social habits of the local people. In utter disregard of Sub Inspector Bhagwandas Sur’s advice of serving sweets severally in small plates to guests , I had initially placed about 15 rosogollas in a big plate expecting it to go around. Nothing of that sort happened, one fellow accepted the whole lot with much reluctance , and proceeded to pop them in, one by one in a cavern beyond his hoopla. I , too, accompanied him - with squirm and shock . The Circle Inspector attachment was used by the the Inspector to regale me with stories of his thana days with a huge array of SsP. But one level of police deployment I had never worked with during my probationary days was the police camp. My only acquaintance was with a camp set up in Guhagram in connection with release of waters by the DVC - having just visited it once.

Police camps are usually set up for a temporary period - to restore normalcy in a locality.They could be placed for as short as a day, and extend to much longer period of months, if not years. There are all kinds of camps- quite a few of the armed police personnel loved it for the perquisites of Halting Allowances or even a steady supply of fish in the bheri camps. Some camps are set deep in very hostile settings - looting of arms and killing of security forces have been reported from Purbasthali during the Naxal movement of 1960s and 1970s and in Silda in 2010.

Very often, once the camp was set up, all kinds of pressure would be brought upon to prevent its withdrawal as it afforded a sense of security in distant areas- when I was Addl SP Nadia, there were 37 camps of a section strength each in Karimnagar PS, an area ravaged by cattle thieves,dacoits, and women abusers from across the border in those unfenced days. Many a time when a battalion commandant would send vehicle to close a camp, locals would gherao and prevent its closure.

But sometimes, people would be eager to have the police camps removed. I recall an incident in Tamluk which was my first posting in service. Tamluk is now the headquarter of Purbo Midnapore , those days it was a sub divisional town under undivided Midnapore. Famous as Tamralipti in ancient towns as a river port, it has museum which chronicles this antiquity. To the religious minded, the Bargabhima mandir is a top draw. Its revolutionary pedigree is borne by its association with Khudiram Bose, Matangini Hazra, and Sushil Dhara who was a co founder of Tamralipta Jatiya Sarkar during Quit India Movement. The place was also famous for cultivation of betel leaf while the Sunday highpoint in those days would be the screening of a movie by the Tamluk Cine Society.

There was a village , I now forget the name, but it was on the road to Mecheda, where two warring Muslim families were locked in dispute over control of some waqf property. Quite often , there would be violence followed by registration of cases and counter cases . In due course of time, this led to a demand for placing a police camp to prevent further escalation of violence , and a motley of home guards, NVF and a few policemen were under ASI Hiranmoy Sikdar.

It was now over a month that the camp had been set up, and I decided to pay a visit to the village. So one afternoon, with Pannalal Goswami, my OC of Tamluk PS and Gaurango Mitra, the tall and handsome Circle Inspector , I went. The weather was muggy, the path from where we alighted muddy, and very soon , the train of excited people which had been following us , became a huge crowd.It was a medium sized village, with a few ponds, large number of and coconut trees, with surprisingly few fruits . A few elders took to swooshing and shushing away the loud curiosity of children and livestock , and suddenly out of nowhere a few chairs and a matted cot were offered for us .

Camp- in -charge ASI Hiranmoy Sikdar appeared, a bit off balanced at our surprise visit, in a uniform which clearly appeared not to have been worn for quite some time.

“Saar,” he saluted and knocked off his spectacles , out of lack of practice and surprise I thought.

But what really bemused me was the camaraderie between some people whom I had seen abusing each other during their thana visits. While some were making all the show of friendliness, two of them took the OC aside , and were requesting him for something with folded hands. Pannalal Goswami broke into a smile soon came up to me with them.

“Saar,” he said, “ they have promised me not to fight again, we could withdraw the police camp.”

“Are you sure”, I asked the crowd, “ camp ta tule nebo?”

“ Yes,” they chorused, the ladies, nearly all with children in arms, seemed firmer in their resolve.

“ Amader jhaagda ta mitey gechhe”, they said. I looked with wondrous awe at the fumbling and feeble ASI, in admiration of his skills at salishi or negotiations, at having resolved the disputes when a bunch of cases and a clutch of 107 CrPC prosecutions had failed.

Very soon, after accepting ASI Hiranmoy hospitality of daab or green coconut water , we left, after leaving orders over wireless for quick dispatch of the thana 1 tonner to come and pick up the camp personnel.

“ Bada Babu”, I remarked through the smoke of a cigarette lit in relief after reaching the thana,” I never knew this Hiranmoy could be so effective.”

“ What exactly did he do, and what were those two telling you?”

“Saar,” Pannalal said, gently placing a cup of tea from a tray before me.

“Please remove the camp otherwise we will will be doomed .“

“Everyday, we get an earful from our women.”

“Why, what happened ? This guy would misbehave with them ? I thought he looked pretty harmless?”

“No sir, “ Pannalal smiled wider, “ they were saying at the rate Hiranmoy orders their plucking , no daab stands a chance of becoming a proper coconut. So we decided to resolve our differences !”

“ Sir, ekta o dab narikol hotey paarbe na,” OC Pannalal Goswami, policeman, cricket umpire, magician and snake catcher, translated for effect.

I drank in the sweet tea, sucked harder at the cigarette, and blew out a ring to garland this wonderful doctrine of Green Coconut Policing of ASI Hiranmoy Sikdar.

“Put up a handsome reward roll tomorrow for him,” I said and left the thana.

IF A WORD IN THE DICTIONARY IS MISSPELLED , HOW WOULD WE KNOW?

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Wed, 31 Jan 2018 06:20:00 +0000

Life is our dictionary-

Ralph Waldo Emerson

A few months ago, the google doodle popped up the picture of Samuel Johnson on his 308th birth anniversary . Samuel, arguably the pioneer among lexicographers. Lexicographers, the gentlemen who compiled big fat books, called dictionaries. There are not many uses of a dictionary other than to find meaning, usage, pronunciation and origin of words - and sometimes to leave a peepal leaf and wait to see it fossilize into a neatly patterned veinal skeleton.

But my first use for dictionary was for something that children of today would find it unbelievably absurd. It was a thick Chambers Dictionary my maternal grandfather had gifted to my mother when she resumed her studies after three childbirths. When heat or rain outside held back stepping out for a game, and one was fed up with board or card games, it was the big fat Chambers Dictionary which would come to our rescue as we opened and closed, at random, the fat tome and wrote down scores from the even numbered pages of Chambers - 2, 4 6. 0 was out while 8 counted as one run. Not exactly random if you ask me, because it was my job to open the dictionary after every run or wicket , and I had mastered the art of ‘fixing’. Gavaskar never got out without a century, and England never won ! This was called Book Cricket, and when I played it , you could call it the Art of Book Cricket.

It was such fond memories of Chambers Book Cricket matches that the Google Doodle reignited . And now having moved on in years, I reflected at the immense effort that would have gone behind compiling dictionaries, and that , too, in English, whose present form holds no great vintage , whose evolution was haphazard. A dictionary is not a book which you can write with a plot in mind. Compiling dictionaries was a humongous task. To begin with, it was difficult to know as to how large was the English language. How big is the English language? Samuel Johnson’s dictionary contained 43,000 words.The revised Oxford English Dictionary of 1989 had 615,000 entries. However, if we calculate at the rate of one word one meaning, the numbers could be much more.

One reason is that English is prodigiously polysemic, that is, one word with a multitude of meanings. Shouldn’t mouse be counted as two separate entities? Man,mole, bank, book? What about fine - it has fourteen definitions as an adjective, six as a noun and two as adverb? Further, the language has a large number of contronyms- words having opposite meanings- you can sanction funds as well impose sanctions against release of funds; and a horse could bolt through a door bolted just a while ago.

The other challenge to lexicographers of English has been catachresis or constant change in meanings of words - like shifting dunes ever since Creation you could say. What earlier meant a legitimate copy came to be known as counterfeit; brave once implied cowardice. And the task of denoting pronunciation must have been no less arduous - in Loughborough, the first ough sounds as in cuff while the second rhymes with thorough, and that Leveson- Gower could be 'loosen gore'.

But despite these challenges, the English -speaking world has the finest dictionaries.

Samuel’s was actually not the First. From Cawdrey’s Table Alphabeticall in 1604 ( a compendium of 3,000 words with incorrect alphabetization), there had been a dozen popular dictionaries, including the fairly distinguished and containing more words , the Universal Etymological Dictionary by Nathaniel Bailey in 1721. However, Samuel’s Dictionary of the English Language, published in two volumes in 1755 after nine years of painstaking research, from an attic room off Fleet Street , containing definitions to 43,000 words, embellished with more than 114,000 quotations is a masterpiece ( it ranks 86th in English non-fiction) and gave to the language the dignity it deserved- though in the process he must have become fairly bored . The boredom surfaces , for example , when he gives an example of the world dull: “Not exhilarating;not delightful;as, to make dictionaries is dull work.”

But Johnson’s monumental accomplishment was quickly eclipsed by a fussy schoolteacher/lawyer half a world away in Connecticut- Noah Webster after whom the Dictionary Day is celebrated. His Elementary Spelling Book, 1788, went through 300 editions between 1788 and 1829, and with the possible exception of Bible, it is probably the best selling book in American history- though to many it should come as a surprise that Americans took to being civilized and educated with such fervour! His dictionary was the most complete of its age, with 70,000 words . Webster is commonly credited with changing American spelling , his work was informed by ardent patriotism, but it is not usually appreciated that his views oscillated more than sometimes a simian would on a swing.

He insisted on such radical spellings as soop, bred, fugitiv, tuf , yet stood firmly against American tendency to drop the u from colour and humour but nevertheless acknowledged the American affection to transpose the British re in theatre and centre. In terms of pronunciation, he is responsible for American schedule rather than the British shedjulle , the American lewtenant against the British lefftenant and even accepted a number of clearly ungrammatical usages like ‘it is me’, ‘we was’ and ‘them horses’.

The next great event in lexicography started in Britain, a compilation which stretched to 12 volumes - the Oxford English Dictionary - with a a stated objective to record every word used in English since 1150, trace the shifting meanings , spellings and their uses to their earliest recorded appearance. The mantle fell upon James Augustus Henry Murray ( 1837-1915). Amongst its hundreds of contributors were Murray’s eleven children, a voracious reader and frequenter of docks and opium dens named James Platt and one Dr WC Minor, an inmate of a hospital for criminally insane. When completed after 36 years , the OED , with 414,825 entries, supported by 1,827,306 citations ( out of 6 million collected in an age without internet), described in 44 million words, spread over 15,825 pages was quite simply the greatest work of scholarship ever produced. If one knows more about the history of English than any other language, it is largely because of this scholarship. It is all the more remarkable considering it was compiled when no CPR existed- Cut, Paste, Reproduce!

The Chambers Dictionary (TCD) with whose copy I had played Book Cricket was first published in 1872. It was used by British crossword solvers and setters, by Scrabble players ( though it is no longer the official Scrabble dictionary) and was known for its wryly humorous definitions as in” eclair: a cake , long in shape but short in duration”.

A dictionary which gave me company during the dozen or so years of mofussil posting starting from Tumlook - as I opened envelopes sealed with lac to check my daily dak, moved from one dakbunglow to the other, handed out bucksheesh and inaums, wore my khakhee, monitored moccadamas, rounded up the budmaash, learnt sherista work in thanas, performed bundabast duties during hurtauls , led teams of darogas and bundook- carrying constables, discovered the world of different musallas in Bengali curry was , you probably guessed it right. Yes, it was Hobson- Jobson of Col.Henry Yule ,R.E., C.E and A.C. Burnell, Ph.D., C.I.E.

Later on, I used the official Scrabble Dictionary a lot during my Scrabble games which were one of the few engrossing engagements in the sedate mofussil postings . But Scrabble is much like golf which permits “local rules”, something which my colleague Anuj learnt with much distress. He is being consistently out scrabbled by his sons who insist on inclusion of words from Urban Dictionary , an online crowd-sourced dictionary and winner of Disruptive Innovations Award in 2013, which spawns with super fecundity a slew of slangs, cultural words and phrases not found in standard dictionaries.

Dictionaries have now gone online and the one to which I look up to most is theFreedictionary.com. The one I find great delight for its compellingly wry humour and satire is the Devil’s Dictionary:”Apologize - to lay the foundation for a future offence ;author(n.): A small plant that requires little nourishment , but lots of trimming”.

A new interest relating to dictionaries I have is what I call Dictionary News - the quarterly announcement of words accepted as legit in Oxford English dictionary. One reason I guess is that speakers of English, despite having a vocabulary of over 2,50,000 words, find themselves lost for words to describe some situations, say for example the experience of hesitating when you are about to introduce a person whose name you don’t quite remember . So the Scottish word tartle has been included. And they had to fall back on a Danish word kaelling to describe a woman who stands on her doorsteps constantly screaming obscenities at her children . The first I have a morbid fear of as I advance with age while the second is a sight almost anywhere in India. To the alphabetically curious , this juggernaut has also pushed back zythum as the last word in OED and given the spit sprayers a field day- the brand new last word is zyzzyva!

The second reason is that English Language is broadbasing its appeal in the countries it has travelled to by the processes of assimilation and co-option of popular languages ( something which Hinduism would do many centuries ago till it lost the plot to a new surge of inward exclusivism) . A few of East Asian new additions include “yum cha” which means a type of Chinese breakfast, “guanxi” for personal connection that aid business and “wah”, a Singaporean word which is an expression of delight ( and you that it was actually a Hindi word meaning the same thing). I,too, find it strange that the OED chaps had to travel to Singapore to pick that word when it was being spoken right here in India for centuries and was recently celebrated in Zakir Hussain’s Wah Taj commercial for a brand of tea!

However, to be fair to the OED, it continues to incorporate Indian words, and not just the language from the cowbelt - abba, anna, jugaad, achcha,dadagiri , timepass, funda, chamcha, natak and chup are just a few examples. This is an admission of distinctiveness of Indian English, an acknowledgement to not just the “highly specific vocabulary( of Indians) with no direct equivalents in English”, but also to “to the shared history between Britain and India that has left behind a legacy of loanwords and other lexical innovations”. It is clear then that change is rampant even at the the foundation or base of the English language - and emblematic of this change is the choice of Aadhaar as the most popular Hindi word chosen by Oxford Dictionaries for 2017 !

HANDWRITING

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sun, 31 Dec 2017 15:00:00 +0000

How many of us remember when exactly our scrawls became readable handwriting ( can't be said about all, I 'm sure). One of my abiding memories associated with 'learning' is filling up blank Cursive handwriting workbooks my mother bought for me- and laboured to assist. She didn't have to try very hard since I picked up quite fast- and probably it was on account of my good handwriting that I could clear the admission test to KG II, Mount Carmel, Dhanbad . I had goofed up by writing 'Right Cat' when asked to write cat ( because my Mummy would always dictate in Hindi saying 'cat likho'). I liked my handwriting, and got fairly good marks in English Handwriting, a paper which carried equal marks as Recitation in the early years.

By and large, the guys who were at the top of my class had good handwriting. Bad handwriting, while writing mushy epistles, was almost like bad mouth odour- and not everyone is a Clarke Gabel to be allowed to kiss, despite halitosis, the Darjeeling born Vivien Leigh and a string of beauties. and no one wanted a crush to be still born on this account.

Getting pens as presents during birthdays was quite common and a good one was treasured. My father even allowed me to use his Sheaffer pen which was otherwise as precious to him as his Omega Seamaster. In my hand, it glided on paper- like a ballerina on the dance floor. As one grew up, one heard about graphology- the science of analysing handwriting with a view to know about skills and personality traits from one's handwriting. Forensic Science has a section devoted to Questioned Documents which was primarily about forged handwritings and various penal codes had elaborate offences drawn up relating to forgery. One doesn't quite know how the earliest humans took to writing from chalk to pencils to pens, but it does appear to be primeval skill and in the evolution of human civilisation, it is said that the pen became even mightier than the sword. A written document was the final destination of one's thoughts, and one would put ink on paper as a final confirmation.

Handwriting , doodling, scribbling, sketching and probably painting have been shown to have deep and seamless connections- all artisanal impulses. For Tagore, it was a craft- and his paintings basically emanate from his manuscript corrections and deletions. Ray's interest in typography did not actually start with metallic letters used for printing but with calligraphy done with a thick brush. He created many new Bengali typefaces which have refreshingly innovative yet perfectly legible form. He created four Roman fonts (Ray Roman, Ray Bizarre, Daphnis and Holiday Script)and numerous new fonts in Bengali.Ray is the first and possibly the only designer of typefaces in Bengal who inspired an entire community to love the beauty of the letters of their mother tongue. One of the reasons for the Bengali's love of reading is their ability to appreciate the beauty of Ray's typography. The United States even celebrates National Handwriting Day every January 23 -- John Hancock's birthday on account of his very stylish signature.

But slowly, and more steadily, technology started to take a heavy toll of handwriting. Computers, tablets, cellphones took away the pen from our fingers which found their way to the qwerty keypads. This trend is indicated by a 2012 study that found 33% of people had difficulty reading their own handwriting. And recently I realised how much I had slipped. Today, I am almost ashamed to write a simple Best Wishes note on a Birthday card or a book to be gifted to friends( who despite being women have uncharacteristically not been uncharitable :)), or make entries in the Visitors' Register at the various units I visit in the course of my official visits.

As schools bring in new technologies into instruction, handwriting itself is becoming a redundant skill. Teaching cursive in not required in Common Core curriculum standard in the US, now being followed in 45 of its 50 states. This has sparked a debate among the English educators across the English speaking world. There is a fear that in the age of emails and texts,handwriting finesse will take a beating and ams shorthand will find its way in term papers.With the arrival of chip and pin, even a person's signature has become obsolete as a means of identification.It is not just children's over-reliance on computers and mobile phones for communication that is the problem, it is the way technology encroaches on leisure time too - children generally have far less physical play these days.

Despite the fact that the toppers of my class had lovely handwriting in addition to being intelligent, I am sure that there is no co relation between good handwriting and intelligence. But that is not the point I want to make- handwriting, good or bad, should continue to be a prescribed skill because unlike when one is writing and using both the cerebral hemispheres, in typing or texting, one does very little little thinking because one is not allowing the brain to form neural processes.While technology does allow communication portability, we must remember that one day our children will need to function in business environments - and hence, I am not in agreement with a view that why depend on a skill like handwriting which is a just a part in the evolutionary chain of technology designed to record our thoughts when we have faster technology available.

Regardless of the method chosen by schools and parents, spending minimal daily time on handwriting with your children helps to ensure that they will be better able to express themselves competently and creatively in whatever method they choose. If a child’s writing is a painful and laborious process, his or her expressive efforts will be stifled.Children who are fluent with a pen can use language and writing skills to escape the limits of their circumstances, and those who do have access to computers will not be restricted in their communication and creativity if there isn’t an electronic device within their grasp 24/7.Infact, technology itself offers wonderful apps to learn handwriting.

The pen is almost a part of our anatomy- its becoming obsolete is , however, not as frightening as the likely demise of another part of anatomy if these technologywalas perfected the science ( and art, though I doubt very much on that) of parthenogenesis;)

HUNG JURY

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Fri, 15 Sep 2017 17:17:00 +0000

‘People refused to have water which passed through the turbines of the hydroelectric plants of Bhakra Nangal projects, thinking the turbine blades had taken away the “properties” of water,’ my Geography teacher quipped in his ultra Malayali accent . We all laughed, made more fun of the sardars in the class, and proceeded to hear his next take on justifying Idi Amin’s expulsion of Asians from Uganda. ‘The Indians were selling Bata shoes , charging in Ugandan shillings the equivalent of Rs. 55.95 for the left foot, and ditto for the right from the poor Ugandans!’ he delivered in his nasal twang to the class of ‘79.

But while the Sardars not only got over their scepticism of turbine treated water and even took to relishing lassi churned from the blades of washing machines, the Americans, or rather 51% of them, even today think that stormy weather “affects” Cloud Computing , though usually remaining “ foggy” about what Cloud really is! This is as per a survey conducted by Wakefield Research in 2012. The world’s most preferred educational destination is a country where 11% of the population thinks HTML is a sexually transmitted disease, 42% regard Motherboard the deck of a cruise ship, 27% thought gigabyte is a South American insect while 12% are of the belief that USB is an acronym for a country in Europe!

This set me thinking. What is really going on in the name of surveys and research? For me , research and surveys were usually shackled with matters very serious, not for something as flippant as say who amongst siblings would tend to be a better driver and who a criminal.

But then there are some research , and God knows what analytical tools they employ or samples they chose, which are about sibling differences. A study by Privilege Car Insurance revealed that youngest children tend to be the safest drivers while the eldest most likely to get a traffic ticket for motoring offences and traffic collisions.

Scientists at Vrije University , Amsterdam found the eldest with higher IQ , (probably due to the attention parents lavish on the first born), dominant, religious and neurotic - but at the end of the spectrum, the youngest , who despite usually being the dullest, would be the most favoured. The researchers are not exhausted by the eldest and the youngest, there is something for the second as well. The second born have a number of fantastic qualities - diplomatic, outgoing, natural mediators , competitive , and social in addition to being rebellious, less religious and impulsive. A research in progress being conducted by the National Bureau of Economic research has already indicate that second born are more likely to become criminals!

The studies are usually limited to American families of single , two or three children or mixed ( the steps after multiple divorces) but still a small one digit number. Not much study has been done about the eleventh or the child who suddenly ran to greet his Afghan warlord father only to make him jump with a scare of fidayeen attack, not realizing that it was actually his seventeenth child .

While such surveys and researches do promote arguments and banter at the dining table, they don't do any further damage. But sometimes, the researches are commerce driven, sometime centre around peer rivalry. When British scientist Yudkin in his book Pure, White and Deadly sounded the alarm on sugar way back in 1972, a battery of scientists led by one a scientist in Minnesota Ancel Keys and his allies in most influential bodies in American healthcare as well as the Sugar Lobbyists like British Sugar Bureau and the World Sugar Research Organization debunked Yudkin’s work as “emotional assertions”, “ science fiction”, sold the idea of diet- heart hypothesis, basically painting cholesterol and saturated fats as public enemy no 1.

Internal sugar industry documents,recently discovered by researcher in University of California, San Francisco and published in JAMA Internal Medicine suggest that many of the dietary recommendations against saturated fat were considerably hewed by the sugar industry which derailed discussion on sugar for five decades and even paid three Harvard scientists in 1967 to publish a review on research on sugar, fat and heart disease.

In 1980 US government issued its first Dietary Guidelines and UK in 1983 which was to cut back on saturated fats and cholesterol- yet from 12%obesity amongst Americans in 1950, 15%in 1980, it rose to 35% in 2000, and corresponding figures in Britain rose from 6%in 1980 to almost 66%, making Britain the fattest country in EU. It is only recently that cholesterol has been removed from the Naughty List, but in these intervening years pharmaceutical companies have sold over $1.5 trillion of cholesterol reducing statins, billions of dollars of orange and other sugary products. I suspect tinkering with range of required Vitamin D is also calibrated to push sales of medicines .

Perfidy was further alleged by Dr Wolfgang Wodarg, head of health at Council of Europe, against pharma firms whom he accused of influencing scientists and official agencies , responsible for public health standards, in declaring what was a minor flu( the bird flu) of the H1NI virus as a pandemic , ‘clearly one of the medical scandals of the century’ when governments were forced to stockpile billions of dollars of vaccine.

The chaotic findings in medical researches are quite bugging. I am at my wit’s ends to decide once and for all whether or not to eat the yolk of the egg and my wife to consider my intake of red wine as safe or not. I am unsure as to when is the best time to have a banana - morning or before sleep, and whether to cover myself in blanket and bleed the fever or avoid it altogether when running temperature. Confusion reigns not only on what we eat, but now also on what we release, how we interact with the opposite sex and with obese people.

Yes, research scholars at western university like Exeter’s found medicinal qualities in hydrogen sulphide, exploiting it to make a compound called AP39, administered to the mitochondria ( the energy powerhouse of our cells) as assisting treatment of dementia, diabetes, arthritis , heart failure and ageing. So now anal egress of pungent intestinal gas would no more be considered embarrassing- it seems such a shame that the late Indian Prime Minister was ridiculed for his shivambu.

Researchers from Radboud University of Nijmegen have confirmed what every every Bihari emigre to Delhi University used to think about someone who would stray from the herd and start interacting with “chicks’ . Yes, interacting with women make men stupid, the researchers conclude. And if that was not enough, Spanish researchers from the Center for Advanced Studies at the Juan March Institute in Madrid found that men who participate more in housework done typically done by report like cooking, cleaning and shopping report having sex less frequently than those who participate more in traditionally masculine tasks- auto maintenance, paying bills, etc!

I always used to think that flu, yawning, coughing and piddling were contagious, but now in a paper published in New England Journal of Medicine in 2007 researchers have concluded that obesity can spread like flu- their findings suggest that when people become obese, the risk of their closest friends becoming obese over the next 2 to 4 years increases by 171%.

And if this is not enough, the modern research papers can have fairly exciting , wacky, titles -

Wax on , wax off: Pubic hair grooming and potential complications;

Nifty Ways to Leave Your Lover: The Tactics People Use to Entice and Disguise the Process of Human Mate Poaching;

Carbon Monoxide: To Boldly Go Where NO Has gone Before;Ashes to Ashes:

Thermal Contact Burns in Children Caused by Recreational Fires;

A Lucky Catch:Fishhook Injury of the Tongue;

”Here’s Egg in your Eye”: A Prospective Study of Blunt Ocular Trauma Resulting From Thrown Eggs;

Hung Jury: Testimonies of Genital Surgery by Transexual Men

Of course, you all must have heard of the Ig Nobel prizes, awarded for scientific research which “make you laugh at first and think later” every year, sponsored by science Humour magazine Annals of Improbable research, the Harvard- Radcliffe Science Fiction Association and the Harvard- Radcliffe Society of Physics Students. Prizes have been awarded for Digital Rectal Massage for Termination of Intractable Hiccups, Pressures produced when Penguins Pooh,Extraction of vanilla from Cow Dung, Effect of Country Music on Suicide, whether Coca Cola is an effective spermicide and for such other banalities.

On 24/9/2017, the Ig Nobel awards, awarded prizes to a group of four scientists for their discovery of insects with genitalia that reverse the traditional sex roles as well as for a treatise On the Rheology of Cats which argues that cats can technically be regarded as simultaneously solid or liquid due to their uncanny ability to adopt shape the shape of their container.

And the prizes for Ig Nobel at $10 trillion cash prize is way above the Nobel Prize of $1 million. There is this small difference , though- yes, of the currency. Unlike the US dollars for the Nobel, the Ig Nobel prize recipients receive in trash Zimbabwean dollars !

CHAAR TI SHIKKHA OR THE FOUR LESSONS

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Mon, 06 Mar 2017 21:03:00 +0000

“Saar, OC Nandkumar wants to talk you, says it is urgent,” one homeguard from the Sub Divisional Control Room came and informed. It was Sunday evening, the sun had set but it was not totally dark as yet. I had just finished watering the marigolds and a few croutons on the lawn of my house in Tamluk, Midnapore.

I got up, went to the phone of my bungalow office only to find it dead, not quite uncommon during those days of manual exchanges .

“ Ok, I am coming over to the wireless room, “ I said and took a minute to slip into a track bottom and reached the Wireless sub control, hardly 75 yards from my house. The operator, immediately cleared the net with an “All please wait , all please wait” bark and soon put me across to SI BK Mondal OC Nandkumar .

There had been a communal riot in area under Sutahata PS in the adjoining subdivision, and the Addl. SP had asked for one section of force to be deployed from Nandkumar PS to set up a camp. I gave instructions for despatch of the same, a hybrid composition of four National Volunteer Force personnel and 3 constables under an ASI.

As I was about to leave, BK Mondal cackled again with a compelling energy and urgency.

‘ Saar, what to do with these two people ?’

‘Who?’

‘Saar, these two , Esh Pee shaheber driver and security guard,’ he whispered into the wireless.

‘And where’s the SP saheb?’

‘Bodo saheb is not with them.’

With a great effort I suppressed my bewilderment , anxiety, a few cuss words and politely enquired as to how these two shadows had managed to land in the police station without the Superintendent of Police.

He bleated incoherently, just told that they had been disengaged with the Bada Saheb about two three hours ago at near Chandipur and had now come to the police station.

‘Sir , they are feeling very nervous.’

Bloody hell, the Security Guard and Driver’s nervousness was the last thing that was bothering me. What the hell has happened to the SP I was wondering.

‘Where’s the SP, I hope he is safe?’ I demanded, throwing all caution to the wind about airing such things on the air as taught to us at NPA, Hyderabad .

‘Sir, CI saheb has taken him to Midnapur,’he immediately updated my Missing Person query.

'Were our people at fault?' I asked out of my self-preservation instincts . I had no intention of being hauled up as a rookie SDPO about the sorry conduct of my officers which had uncoupled the top most district police officer from the comfort of his car, shield of security and trappings of authority.

The OC assured me that we were not at fault. So I told him to ask if the SP’s driver felt confident enough to drive back to Midnapur without any apprehension of a heart attack, or committing a stress related accident.

Soon he answered , ‘Saar , eraa jete paarbe.’

‘Let them go,’ I said and left the Wireless Room.

On that note I returned to my house, a bit shaken. Surely there were misgivings about this cadre I had been allotted. One had heard about police unionism in Bengal, stories about heckling of senior officers. But even in my wildest imagination, I never thought that these fellows would leave an old SP on the road and scoot away.

The following evening, I went to Nandakumar to meet the CI and enquire in detail. It emerged that after having having an early lunch, the SP, with his driver and security guard, went to hold a personal enquiry in Khejuri, a block situated on the coast, once a thriving port from where Raja Ram Mohan Roy had set sail for England , famous for having the first post office made by the British in India, the Cowcolly (Koilkhali) Lighthouse which was the first under Calcutta Port Commissioners and a mosque built by Afghan rulers in 1662. He could have easily returned to Midnapur from there ,but decided to proceed to Kolkata via Chandipur, Nandkumar and Tamluk and then catch the NH-6 from Mechada . SPs are supposed to be touring officers as well, and he decided to live it up to that.

As he approached Chandipur Bazaar, he was held up in a traffic jam as happens in most highways narrowed in Bengal by haats, shops, van rickshaws, the odd party office and possibly an electric pole. He instinctively sent instructions on wireless to OC Chandipur to come and clear the jam. But OC Chandipur did not respond, a very flustered SP and his security guard laboured to decongest, then went to the police station and gave him a severe tongue lashing.

However, after having gone hardly a kilometer from Chandipur PS,after Narghat Bridge, the SP's driver and security developed an urgent need to pee. Permission granted from SP, they ran across the road ,maintaining the distance which hierarchy informally but firmly ordains. Now coughing and piddling are extremely contagious, the urge is transmitted in a jiffy. It soon infected the SP, and he quietly slipped away. Meanwhile, after a quick bolt action, the SP's staff rushed back and drove away in the black Ambassador with tinted glasses. Nothing wrong with their trained response, except that by that time the SP had not come back to the car, and it was a car with an empty backseat that they drove, for about 70 kilometres till Debra when the security guard realised, as he turned around to hand over a vial of homeopathic globules, that the SP was not in the car!

Meanwhile, CI Nandkumar, who had heard the SP’s call to Chandipur regarding the traffic jam, and quite bewildered to hear the SP’s unannounced presence in his jurisdiction, got into his jeep and drove towards Chandipur.. As he was driving down, he saw a man wave and shout at him. It would be an understatement to say that he was surprised to see a lone bald , spectacled man resembling the SP , walking briskly . He stopped, he confirmed , he was appalled. There was no sign of the SP’s car, he was sweating, and shorn of any trappings of authority, looking harried. The CI thought probably the SP had escaped from some hungama in Chandipur and braced himself for an earful from the SP at the sorry state of affairs in his AOR or Area of Responsibility . But soon he could make out from the muffled, but very eloquent, mumble from the SP that there had been an error of judgement by his own men with devastating results.

‘CI saheb, help me get a private from Nandkumar More.’

Nothing bigger can happen in the career of a Circle Inspector than to rescue his SP from such a mess, , no finer story than this to tell his grandchildren and the CI beamed at his achievement. For CI Nandkumar, a timid man man who had all along suffered at the hands of women- as son, as husband and as father- this was his macho moment. He took the SP to his office in his jeep and sent out the OC to arrange for a private taxi for Midnapur, and while the car was being arranged, took the advantage of circumstances and requested for bring provided with a secretariat table and an almirah for his office.

The CI’s request was , of course, granted by the SP who wanted to settle this personal debt promptly from his official resources. He accompanied the SP to Midnapore, deposited him in his house and returned triumphantly. I thought that would have been the end to this horribilis incidens. But no, it was not to be.

The following Sunday my Addl SP, who had joined recently, and I had to rush to Midnapore after spending a harrowing and embarrassing time in rescuing OC Panskura PS from a clutch of fisherwomen. Prior to that, as part of my reporting obligations about important incidents in the area, I had faithfully informed him about the previous Sunday’s events. On way to Midnapore, I requested him not to broach the issue as it would only embarrass the SP. He just nodded.

We reached the SP’s bungalow office, the SP was in a lungi and genji, his pet dog and a kitten were sitting near his chair, very imperious, and looked at us as trespassers intruding upon their time.

Within ten minutes, we told him about the Panskura OC’s shenanigans, and after extracting an assurance to start a departmental proceeding against him, we were served tea and cream crackers. The SP was served again, but he shared it with his pets.

And then it happened. Out of the blue, the Addl SP said,’ Sir , I believe you were greatly inconvenienced that day,’and stopped for the effect to sink in.

It doesn't take much time for this to sink in a man who had been more than greatly inconvenienced just a week ago. But with great fortitude , he just said, ‘haan.’

‘Sir, I was wondering that when the PO was Chandipur, why did you go to Nandkumar for help?’ the Addl SP enquired.

PO?Place of Occurrence? Used in police term as to denote the scene of crime, documented as a sketch map in case diaries? A very unfortunate term to describe a place where your SP was divested of his symbols of authority . But who can stop such a person when he is on a roll.

The SP looked at him a bit irritably, and so did his pets.

“ You have been Addl SP of Tamluk for lesser number of months than of the years I have spent as SP here. I bloody well know that the place was hardly a distance from Chandipur PS,’ he snapped, though a bit mildly.

‘But tell me, just a few minutes ago I had asked OC Chandipur for help to clear the traffic jam. The fellow had not only not come to the bazaar, he was sitting cross legged in a mufti, shaking his right leg and reading Pratidin when i went there. The whole thana looked like as if they had not even heard about instructions. I gave him left , right and centre and walked out.”

“Now tell me, with what face I would have gone to him hardly 10 minutes of this berating?

“Amaar ki authority thakto?”

I also imagined the scene of SP shouting, uttering profanities rightfully expected from such a wounded authority, and of OC Chandipur,mumbling his defence, blessed with a voice that was heavily nasal, a sound box which had a preponderance of of female vocal folds, an ever uncertain throat and a full tooth missing in the front that allowed air to pass causing all sorts of confusion to the listener- and fear of spit spray.

Such a lucid explanation in public administration- I thought the Addl SP would be satiated, but I had clearly miscalculated..

“ Sir, it must have been an arduous walk to Nandkumar. It is a long stretch,” he said, with an expression of post facto concern.

'Mai ri , 'I squirmed, from where does he remember a word like arduous , evocative of so much pain and nightmare.

I thought the SP would throw us out. There is limit to needling. But displaying great sang froid, and grabbing an opportunity to philosophise, he said,

“Tumi jano,aami jokhon haat chhilaam, amaar chaar ti shikkha holo.”

‘When I was walking, I learnt four lessons,’ he ‘bilingualled’ for his two abangali subordinates.

I was speechless . How come this gentleman learns lessons from seeing his car walk away from him without his permission. People have been known to lose their wits in similar circumstances and here was this fellow inding nuggets of wisdom in such abundance as one would small unripe mangoes that carpet the ground after a kaal baisakhi or nor’wester.

The Addl SP turned towards me and gave a triumphant smile, as a vindication for his due diligence in the matter of SP, Piddle and the Car Dribble.

“ Sir no. 1?” he enquired quickly asked lest the SP change his mind.

“Ek number holo je je kono ghotna ghot te paare. Any thing can happen. Never in my 26 years of service I thought that such a thing can happen.”

It struck me as simple but profound, and provided the right traction for Addl SP’s curiosity.

“Dui number ,sir?” he prompted.

“Dui number holo je je kono ghotona tomar songe o ghot te paare. Any such incident can happen to you also, don’t think that such a weird thing would never happen to you . “

This great exposition of the ordinariness of one’s existence was a unique lesson for people like me steeped in their exclusivity and uniqueness, of Jesuit education and covenanted police service. It dismantled one’s ego, the self deprecation was so earthy that now even I longed for more.

My immediate superior, his huge appetite for wisdom whetted by these two nuggets, was in an epistemological trance. He cupped his hand , as if he was holding a microphone, and almost thrust it towards the Sage .

'Number three?’

'Teen number holo je you must always carry cash on your person. You see, I don’t carry cash with me, give Rs 100 to my security guard and when the amount is spent , he comes back to me. Imagine, I had no money, I couldn’t hire a van rickshaw, nor get into a bus.'

This was a real shikkha I said. IPS officers usually considered it infra dig to personally get down and buy cigarettes or cup of tea or some eat, and would normally let the security guard do on a reimbursement/ adjustment basis. Usually, they hardly needed to pay for anything though there have been instances of a few insisting to pay for an aath anaa cup of tea. I also did the same, handing over money to Amit , my security guard. It was a habit I learnt from my Phupha, who unlike me was a teetotaller and hadn’t had , right till his retirement as DGP, Bihar, the benefit of serving under an SP like mine with such profound, life changing experiences.

“Number four, sir,” was duly announced.

‘Number four holo, ‘ and he permitted himself a smile , ‘that you should be physically fit to walk ten kilometers.’

Absolutely illuminating. We IPS officers hardly walk , and not used to walking on a highway, walk fearfully, always away from the edge of the road, shuddering with fright whenever a truck rushes past. Walking ten kilometers during those days was never advised by any training SP.

The SP continued , ‘ jokhon Bhogowan dekhlo je chheleti r shikha hoey giyechhe, when God saw that the ignorant the boy has learnt his lessons, he sent CI Nandkumar to rescue me.’ He stopped, and smiled, his teeth shone, and even his eyes, minus one glass eye, lit up at at the denouement.

I was moved, amazed, spellbound. This indifference to vicissitudes of fortune , to pleasure and pain, this acceptance of Fate and Knowledge , their identification with Reason- I doubt whether Zeno of Citium could have explained Stoicism so well.

I thought on this note of Bol Siyavar Ram ji ki jai and all’s well that ends well, I would just get up , salute and walk out. But sometimes, a tongue used to talking cannot remain silent for long. And such a tongue, inspired by an eloquent reductionism of SP of explaining such a complex phenomenon as narrated above in such simple terms, was animated in situ. Suddenly I started up, startled. I heard a voice resembling mine.

“Sir, very nice of CI Nandkumar to have come and rescued you, otherwise had you reached Nandkumar PS in mufti, the sentry wouldn’t have even recognized and allowed you in,’ I heard myself say.

I thought it was a very incisive comment, it had logic and empathy, and I deserved to have this comment, made as the youngest officer present there, commended by the SP , appreciated by his pets, and tolerated by the Addl SP for speaking out of turn.

The SP looked at me and snapped, ‘what very nice! Had the CI Nandkumar not come, you fellows would have never come to know about this story.’

SP’s don’t normally say ‘’Get Out’’ to IPS officers, but every person knows when to leave. There is a silence, as sudden as it is intimidating and indicative. We got up with a shuffle and saluted and turned around. The pets came out to ensure that we had left.

MATRIMONIAL ENQUIRIES

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sat, 25 Feb 2017 00:51:00 +0000

‘‘You will go to Calcutta tomorrow and call on the IG ,’ the SP told me one afternoon in his chamber. With a great effort I concealed a what- the- fuck frown. I had great regards for the SP, and even today a visit to him is a pilgrimage, and I come back lighter. But that day, I thought he was finally punishing me for having slept on his shoulder, a year ago, while travelling from Asansol to Durgapur.

I had never quite liked this call -on funda from my NPA ( National Police Academy) days, actually I did not like anything which came in way of enjoying my drink in the evening with a bunch of like- minded friends. The British had opened up the Higher or Covenanted Civil Services to the Natives over a hundred years ago, and it was with savage energy that social graces were taught to make the browns pucca sahebs, the tradition sticking on long after the stroke of midnight in 1947. The liturgical quad consisted of calling on, the fine art of dining with forks and spoons, raising a toast and knotting a tie.

I recalled vividly the PMC ( President Mess Committee) advise the probationers to call on the members of faculty at NPA after “ascertaining their identity and convenience over telephone”.

‘ Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Mahapatra….. sir , I am MVSN Surya Prasad, would seven in the evening tomorrow be a good time to call on you and ma’am?’, he illustrated one day before going on to suggest that all carry a visiting card to be left with the officer’s orderly or PA in case he was not present.

Calling on was a serious business, especially after a rumour had been tactically floated that marks for Diro’s ass ( Director’s assessment) would also be based on call-ons. It was taken up by the KTPs ( Keen Type Probationers) [5] as seriously as the bandh gala dining rituals with their selection of correct cutlery and sequence , muffled silence, ruminant mastication and unfulfilled appetite, or even the painfully bedevilling sacrament of raising a toast.

‘ Better wear your uniform properly,’ the SP added, as soon as the orderly had departed after leaving us each with a cup of tea and the ubiquitous cream cracker. It was said more as a warning than advice. Those days, people could be ticked off for wearing uniforms improperly, unlike today when there is a huge tolerance for all kinds of deviations. Seniors could even tick off the SP if his probationer’s turn out was shoddy. But today I was not intimidated about the uniform thing. I was not even bothered , I wore my uniforms properly , not to pass scrutiny, but because I had pride in them. The stars on the shoulder of my Vimal Rider uniform pointed correctly, the Silvo polished buckle and crest shone brightly, the sleeves were folded a proper regulation and even the laces I would carefully slip straight through the five pairs of eyelets of my dark tan Oxford shoes without a twirl.

I was concerned more by this Lone Wolf call on. I had been through our group call ons in Calcutta during the Barrackpur days without missing any - the DG,HS and CS at Writers’, CP and his officers at Lalbazaar and Great Eastern, officers of IB and CID. I did not quite like this and smelt something fishy.

“ Sir, any idea why he has sent for me?’ I asked though I had this nagging suspicion that the matter could be matrimonial in nature and was worried about Vikas, my unmarried younger brother who had competed in the IPS the year after me and was floating free in the air like an element waiting to be compounded.

As newly recruited officers of the civil services, one of the first jobs that most, if not all, did was to get married. A few solemnised their pre exam blooming love, some moved on from their previous affairs, a substantial picked up among the fellow probationers , a few tactically to get their cadres changed, but a vast majority were grabbed up for arranged marriages. It started right at LBSNAA, Mussourie where prospective in- laws poured in for a dekkho[10] at young officers on way to Whispering Windows or even at Hari’s Tea stall. Stories of senior IPS officers stalking young officers were all too common.

‘ We were scolded by the DG for spending an extra day while calling on senior officers at Gauhati and missing out on training at Deragaon PTC, but then after a few weeks, he asked me to call on an IG who had missed seeing me during the Gauhati call on,’ Pinda had lambasted during the debriefing session of the senior batch of 40th RR.

Much earlier Mathur saheb , two years my senior, who had come to LBSNAA ( Lal bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration), Mussourie to complete his Foundation Course along with twenty four of his raucous batch mates, had told me about an incident during his district probation days in Madhya Pradesh.

‘ The zonal IG had sent for me to call on him and to come with a list of the year’s Civil Services List,’ he recounted one evening over a bottle of Raja Rum at 14 Mahanadi.

So one day he went in a one tonner,dressed in his tunic and cross belt with a sword dangling.

‘ Hello Parshuram, ‘ the IG flashed a weak smile to acknowledge Mathur saheb’s salute.

‘Sir, here’s the list,’ the young officer came to the business straight away and thrust a piece of handwritten in the hands of the IG who started to read it , eyebrows arched, snatching sheepish looks at the probationer in front of him, and then stopped.

‘ What do you mean by this ?’ he shouted, waving the sheet of paper, his eyeballs travelling over his nose to hit Mathur saheb, ‘ how dare you?’

‘ Kya thha paper mein, Mathur Saheb?’ Shrikant asked, his eyes gleaming in the incandescence of the single rod heater Irayanbu had left in the room.

“Kya Thha?’ Mathur saheb let out a guffaw, his epiglottic fart shaking up his body.

‘ I had prepared a list of all my batch mates mentioning their caste and marital status, this is what that fellow wanted , and his whole purpose of calling me was to enlighten about these things only, except that he did not like the idea of I reading his mind,’ Mathur saheb explained.

‘ Sir, surely you had not wanted me to come just with a paper cutting of the list of successful candidates of Civil Services which I am certain you must have read already,’ I told him, before being shown the door by the IG , and denied the courtesy of even a cup of tea.

Sure enough , I was not wrong and when the SP spoke, I realized that Pinda and Mathur saheb has talked about a trend quite common , and probably carrying on from the colonial times. A batchmate, much after my proposed call-on, almost had to face contempt of court for not agreeing to marry a High Court judge’s daughter.

‘ I think he has to make some enquiries for his daughter’s marriage,’ the SP hinted.

‘ But sir, Vikas’s marriage has already been fixed ,’ I let out an alarm of sorts.

' Arrey, why are you panicking, you first hear him out na,’ the SP said, and was about to close the chapter when I thought of salvaging something good out of a bad deal . A year earlier when I had been sent to lead a contingent of the 13th SAP in the Combined Police Parade at the Maidan in Calcutta , I had not been provided with a vehicle even though it was a hugely ceremonial occasion, and for a few days I had to do with commuting in my cross belt and sword in the yellow taxis. I better take a vehicle , if for nothing else than to avoid my uniform getting crushed, I said to myself.

‘ Sir, may I take my jeep to Calcutta?’ I asked and was promptly rewarded with the permission.

I reached 34 Ballygunge Circular at around lunch, and after eating a hearty meal at my wife’s uncle’s house, drove to Moore Avenue, Tollygunge, the headquarter of Police Wireless. It was a quite a big campus dominated by a huge steel tower that shot through towards the sky, there was an abundance of trees and a big garden lay in front of a three- storeyed building painted a dull pink and cream. I entered the dimly lit foyer and sure enough an unexcited constable greeted me, supremely clueless about the Visiting Card I thrust in his hand , but after a swift shuffle of feet , an Inspector came out and ushered me in.

I saluted as smartly as I could . The IG sat under a light that dropped just above him, illuminating his immediate surrounding in an otherwise not brightly- lit room. The furniture was classier than what I had seen in many police offices , the succession board was done a different black and brass unlike the usual wood and white of other offices, but what stood out were the telephones that lay arranged neatly to his left- the zaniest ones I had seen so far. He scanned me for close to a minute.

‘Please sit down,’ he said and made some inane conversation as the orderly brought in tea and biscuits. He was pleasantly polite, like most Indian men are when the matter of their daughter’s marriage is at hand.

As the conversation continued, he suddenly let his right hand drop behind him to open a drawer and drew out a post card size black and white photo . After checking furtively that no third person was around , he turned towards me. I was sure by this time he must have pressed the button for the red light to glow outside his room.

‘ He is your batch mate, isn’t he?’ he asked , and immediately put me at ease because it wasn’t going to be about Vikas.

I craned my neck and saw my friend’s Saxon’s photo, with his trademark beatific smile that could have put Arun Ramayan Govil’s look like a scowl.

‘ Oh yes, sir, and what a fine person he is ,’ I gushed in support of my squadmate.

‘But his eyelids look to be very droopy,’ he got into second gear,’ does he take drugs?’

A wave of pity for Saxon swept over me. So many times the unfortunate Saxon had been wrongly singled out by Jassa Ram, the Drill Instructor, for smelling drunk at morning PT.

‘Bahut buri baat hai,’ he would admonish Saxon in a baritone Desi and Bidee voice.

Poor Saxon! the teetotaller’s only fault was that he would often stand next to either Bhasky or me during the morning PT, and the fumes of our previous evening’s boozing, by the diffusive process of olfactory ventriloquism, would effusively gush out through his mouth. On the fields of NPA we would play ball with Jassa in mock admonition despite Saxon’s protest at the molestation of his reputation, but here, in front of the IG and his inquiring stare, there was no way that I was not going to defend by squad mate’s squeaky clean .

‘ No way, sir, he doesn’t even smoke or drink,’ I said, thinking that would calm down the frayed nerves of a prospective dad-in-law.

‘ There are so many people who don’t smoke or drink but take drugs, and why do his eyelids droop ’ he probed with the experience of a seasoned policeman and anxiety of a marriageable girl’s father.

‘ I can assure you he doesn’t do drugs,’ I said firmly and wondered whether the IG had ever held a mirror to his face. His eyelids were also heavily drooping.

‘He is such a fine athlete, and had almost won the Tonk Cup,’ I lied through my teeth, and had Bijlee or Chandini , the two mares who normally carried Saxon during the riding classes, heard me , they would have choked on their hay. For the uninitiated, the Tonk Cup is awarded to the best Equestrian in the batch.

As soon as he was relieved that his prospective son in law was not a junkie, the IG suddenly changed gear, became formal, and spoke into the speakerphone of his intercom to announce my departure.

‘I am sending the ASP Burdwan to you, you will show him around the entire Control Room and workshops so that he can write his his tour diary,’ and waved me off. To be frank, I liked his style.

The wireless units, like most things technical, held no fascination for me. I quickly went through the motions, the Inspector HQ through with dignified emotions. Quickly we completed the formalities of gathering material for my tour diary. I was eager to utilize the chance of a Calcutta visit to check at the WBPSC Bhavan, Tollygunge the results of my departmental exams. Well that is a story already told I guess.It was a rather fruitless day, I had failed in all the papers of the Departmental, and despite my certificate and vetting, the enquiry did not result in matrimony.

CROSSING THE BENGAL FRONTIER

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Fri, 17 Feb 2017 22:25:00 +0000

“The exams consisted of papers in Accounts and Law ( with books and without books) and a language paper, and it was compulsory for non- Bengali officers to pass in Bengali which consisted of three parts- Written, Oral or Viva and Dictation. Officers who passed all papers at one go were also rewarded with an extra increment, like the ones who underwent a vasectomy after two children. The Bengali paper for abangalis deserves a separate narration, and I would do it shortly.”

- from The Departmentals and Mister Sho Hai.

I really had trouble in learning to speak Bengali , which for a Hindi speaking person should have been actually easier since roots of both lay in Sanskrit . But I think learning language is more of a knack than due to any shared linguistic ancestry. Had it been so, I, brought up in a predominantly Bengali neighbourhood in Dhanbad , would have learnt it very early.

But I had no such knack , and studied in a Jesuit school which had been unfortunately split into separate sections for Bengalis and non Bengalis in what was Bihar's most cosmopolitan district. Even though I counted the Bengalis Anupam, Anil and Jude amongst my closest friends, the language of interaction would always remain Hindi.

If I had learnt to speak Bengali later on , it was primarily because of the encouragement from people in West Bengal. Bengalis profoundly encouraged anyone trying to learn their language- I guess it is so with most of the provincial linguistic communities in India. There was no question of anyone laughing to make you feel conscious if you mispronounced a word or committed any howler which incidentally one did with dead certainty and alarming frequency those days. In my entire two years of learning to speak the language , only once I had someone make fun of my Bengali. It was in a village under Galsi Police station where I had been undergoing my thana training . We had gone to attend to an information about suicide by a married woman, and in the course of the visit, I must have said something and a young lad of 16-17 laughed , mimicking me. His laughter had not even died down when the local Pradhan took hold of his hair, and violently boxed his ear.

' Shala, tor kono lojja nei,ekhuni khoma cheo', he rattled him up and the poor boy immediately apologized.

Contrast this with the way the Hindi wallahs make fun of other Hindi spoken by Bangali babu or Sardarji or a Madrasi. Forget this, within the Hindi world, there is a linguistic hierarchy so that even a Balliatic laughs at Bihari's Hindi only to be sniggered at by the fellows in Allahabad and Lucknow - the UPites, despite having the holiest city Benaras and Ram's Ayodhya never got over the fact that it was the kings of Bihar who had ruled over the mightiest empires in India! The Dilliwala , ruling India for the seventh time in the country's history, as in so many other things, takes a dig at the Hindi spoken not only by the Bihari, but also by the guy from Etawah and Bhopal and Sonepat. Even the Bihari, whose Hindi occupied the lowest rung in the language varna system, was derisive of the Bengali Babu's Hindi. Making fun of language was a trait that the Hindiwallas passed on to the Bengalis as well, so much so that the Bongs who would never laugh at a Bihari's Bengali would roll over with laughter at another Bong's Hindi- they also inspired the care- a -fig -for- gender Hindi of Marwaris in Kolkata.

It wasn’t, however, just due to the generosity of the Bengalis that I managed to learn to speak the language well enough to pass the Oral Test. `It was also due to the magnanimity of the Board for Oral Test which was Moderate, unlike the Extremist Written Bengali group. It would even pass guys from the Land of Five Rivers who spoke Bengali not with a rosogulla in their mouth but sugarcane clenched between their teeth, and rarely failed anyone thrice. Most cleared at one go, I did in the second.

It was only our lack of knowledge of Bengali punctuation signs that led to our failure in the first attempt at Bengali Dictation- most of us did not know that that the full stop or poorna viraam was called Daandi. The result was that whenever the person reading out the passage from Kapaalkundala would say daaNdi, we would write it as a word and not put the punctuation sign instead. The upshot of this all was that passage was splattered with the word "daandi" and most failed. Soon after the exam, the fault was realized, a note made and all passed during the second shy.

The Bengali Written paper in the Departmentals was a tough one to crack. It consisted of a pair of passages for translation- Bengali to English and English to Bengali, comprehension, one essay and a letter, generally to one's mother. Translations from Bengali were from Kapaalkundala again, highbrow sadhu bhasha stuff, written by Bengal’s first Calcutta University graduate, Bankim Chandra Chattopadhya. This made the start torrid like the first few overs of swinging pace bowling on a dreary English morning. As such,the Bengali script became difficult as soon as it entered the world of juktakkhors ( not only is their construction very complex, their pronunciation, at times, unrelated to the sound of their components) and if you combined this with the very limited vocabulary, the paper appeared to be too insurmountable a challenge. I think the paper setters and examiners took it as a personal affront if some abangali would pass in just one or two attempts , and would, therefore, be ruthless in setting and parsimonious in evaluating.

Sometimes I wondered whether setting the written Bengali paper was their way of getting a revenge for shifting the capital from Calcutta over 75 years ago and giving Subhash Chandra Bose a short shrift, an occasion to demonstrate the richness of the language of Tagore, remonstrate against Centre for withholding funds to Bengal and to protest against Rajiv Gandhi for calling Calcutta "a dying city". The more the Khottas, Udes, Hindustanis, Shordarjis, Meros , Madrasis assembled together for the Bengali Written exam, the more the mirthful banter at the expense of the Bengalis flowed - ma bokbe, aloo posto dim shiddho, supercillous aan”tlami, fish in pulses and other peculiar culinary practices.

I was not alone in finding Written Bengali difficult . A senior IAS officer once confided that he would get chits prepared for the likely questions in the exams and hide them inside his socks , but the problem was that when he would take them out, he did not know which chit was for which question! Another senior recently commented that one officer took to wearing uniform and carrying his service revolver to the examination hall as signs to prove how no- nonsense -dead- serious approach he had towards clearing the exam. Most of them relied upon the ability of a friendly colleague to sit outstretched from the seat to allow copying. One even arranged for a look alike imposter to write the paper ( but he somehow failed). Most of us took tuitions, and I also did when I had just one chance left before I was due for my promotion.

Despite the tuitions, I was a bit diffident and had requested a batchmate to arch out a bit to enable me to confirm that I was on the right track. I had cajoled him to sit in front of me , a decision I had made during the Settlement Camp. The camp, held the previous winter over six weeks in Alipurduar for Revenue, Police and Judicial services recruits, was memorable for many reasons : my first exposure to the incredibly beautiful Jalpaiguri district where if you took an eastward ride from Coronation Bridge you came across miles of tea gardens, a few dots of army units and some famous forest sanctuaries on either side of the road, the southern Himalayas hills giving you snow-capped company right through while white rivers like Leesh, Geesh and Teesta streaked playfully across your path ; field visits carrying Gunter's chain; lots of tennis ball cricket in a ground around which we had shacked up in tents , played mischief like school kids in the lazy afternoon classes sparing neither the Camp Commander nor the Divisional Commissioner and reviewed the day’s proceedings in the Old Monk's Tent.

The Land and Land Revenue Department which conducted the Settlement Camp was one of the oldest departments in the state, and as such departments go, had an obsession for changelessness. It insisted that the Settlement Camp officers wear shorts during field visits and use service latrines, perpetuating, at public expense, the abominable practice of manual scavenging even after forty five years of our Independence and fifteen years of of one of the longest elected communist governments in the world! The joining instructions , we read with a chuckle, contained directions on do's and don't's of bringing and keeping cycle and servants, storing firewood and cleaning of lanterns.

But the camp was also memorable for exposing to me the precocious proficiency of a batchmate in Bengali. I saw him carry thick novels of Bankim Chandra and Sharat Chandra and heard him speak in chaste Bengali with a dazzling fluency. I had made mental note of this mastery for future use, and finally after flunking in Written Bengali for a third time ( which is not as bad or rare as you think it seems), I picked on him to bail me out. To be fair to him, he cooperated like a true friend. But after sometime, I realized that my benefactor was not batting properly.

‘I don’t think you are going to pass ,’ I told BN and got up, some fifteen minutes before the bell,and handed over my Bengali answer script to the invigilator who accepted it with a smile. He proceeded to fold his hands in a namaskar and extend a warm invitation in Bengali to come again.

'Abaar aashben,' he said.

'Nischoy dhekha hobey', I also waved an affectionate goodbye to Guin Babu to acknowledge his invitation. The kind - hearted ministerial staff, one of the many such invigilators, had become a familiar face for people like me who kept on coming back to to the exam hall at West Bengal Public Service Commission building at Tollygunge every six months for writing our departmentals.

He must have seen me struggle with my paper, not just from what I was writing but also from where I was trying to copy . It is not that what my benefactor batchmate wrote would have been substandard stuff on that balmy afternoon . I was sure he must have answered his paper quite well, but his problem, in my view, was homesickness in matters scriptural. He was a proud Telugu bidda, with great longing for the script of his mother tongue . When he wrote Bengali which had a much more pointed script, like the present POTUS's , he wrote with such an overwhelming homesickness that the end product morphed into letters which resembled Odiya more than Bengali. If I could not follow what he was writing in his letter to his mother about his first day in office, there was little chance that the jabakusumed examiner would.

It is a different matter altogether that on being let down by by my batchmate ‘s handwriting I had to fall back on my knowledge of Bengali brushed up by Tamluk mastermoshai.

As luck would have it, I passed and he flunked yet again.

THE DEPARTMENTALS AND MISHTER SHO HAI

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sat, 11 Feb 2017 20:09:00 +0000

A few days ago, the results of Departmental Exams of IPS officers appeared in the Whatsapp IPS West Bengal Group of my phone. From Pankaj Dwivedi to Harikrishna Pathak. Two officers had passed completely, for the others a few remained to be cleared.The message just took me back to days over twenty five years ago, of writing those exams in alternate cycles of Calcutta’s muggy May and wonderful winter. The exams were held biannually at the WBPSC Bhavan which had been recently constructed - old timers talked about sitting in dimly lit halls somewhere near Sealdah for those departmentals.

These bi-annuals were welcome breaks from the mundane world of district training as officers got a week's leave to come to West Bengal’s capital city , hole up at either at Hungerford or Kyd's Street, talk about their SPs and DMs, prepare something about the exams and most important of all, strategize about seating arrangements. These visits were occasions to unwind and explore what was then called Calcutta ; the chicken rolls at Kusum's; the Mutton Rezala at Nizam's; the many restaurants and street food joints in Park Street, Free School Street , New Market and Kyd's Street ; the cinema halls Roxy, Globe, Metro, New Empire and their bars.

Backpackers roamed in large numbers, attracted by its cheap hotels and abundance of drugs , in the historic Sudder Street whose ambience had once electrified a precocious Rabindranath Tagore to pen a long poem Nirjharer Swapna- bhanga about a century ago. Once Mrityunjay and I even went to a modest roadside restaurant styled Vishwa Hindu hotel near the examination centre at SP Mukherjee Road where we were surprisingly attended upon by female waiters , and soon realized that the restaurant was just a front , the place actually witnessed more activity and customers during the night.

The "lady wives" ( as the wives are called in many uniformed services parlance) got to know one another better, did a bit of shopping on the side , mostly in and around the Chowringhee and for many, including my wife, who came from cities where ogle, brush and cat calls greeted women in public places, Calcutta appeared much safer and civilized in its attitude towards women. Bonhomie among batchmates used to be strong during those early years of service before the rat race of professional rivalry would come to affect it, as is common in most organizations.

The departmentals did not affect the inter se seniority,that is the seniority within the same batch like the exams at NPA, Hyderabad, and so were not taken up that seriously, but since failure could push back promotion for upto an year if not cleared within the five- six times, they were not ignored either. It meant not being promoted as an additional SP from SDPO after completion of four years of service ( and in my batch two out of seven , or was it three, had an extended six months as SDPO). No less important was the fact passing meant a jump from Basic Rs 2200/- scale to the Senior Scale of Rs. 3000/- scale , a very handsome, eagerly awaited pay rise in those difficult days.

The exams consisted of papers in Accounts and Law ( with books and without books) and a language paper, and it was compulsory for non- Bengali officers to pass in Bengali which consisted of three parts- Written, Oral or Viva and Dictation. Officers who passed all papers at one go were also rewarded with an extra increment, like the ones who underwent a vasectomy after two children. The Bengali paper for abanagalis deserves a separate narration, and I would do it shortly.

It was on a warm July in 1990, just after the taxing Passing Out Parade practice session at the National Police Academy, Hyderabad when I opened a mail my batchmate Zulfi had received from Government of West Bengal informing about the results of our first departmental held the previous December. We were a batch of seven from West Bengal cadre , and there were results of six of us. But surprisingly there was no mention of my name. I thought there has been an oversight, and I would chase it up once I returned to Bengal after finishing the second phase of training at Hyderabad.

After about three months I got the chance. I had gone to the West Bengal Telecom HQ, having been called over for certain matrimonial enquiries ( more about it later ) , and after being done with it, and also having collected all information to be written in my tour diary, I hurriedly went , without even changing to civvies, to WBPSC Bhavan. The lift took me to the sixth floor where the concerned section was located, and at four in the afternoon, I was quite surprised to see a few persons working. The babus had not quite expected an IPS officer to come in ceremonial uniform and make enquiries about departmental results. The dealing assistant was just too overwhelmed when I explained my problem in a manner that was short neither on agitation nor animation. He also seemed to be in agreement with my apprehension that someone had blundered.

'Boshun,' he offered me a chair, and went to open a dull green coloured almirah from which he took out a file and a register and started looking up for my results, turning the over pages with his spit coated middle finger. I also craned my neck to offer help. After sometime, he located the relevant page, read something with furrowed eyebrows, then looked at me deeply , asked me to settle back in my chair, rubbed his eyes, and after allowing for the phosphenes to fade, exhaled . I thought he was going to tender some apology for an oversight which he had just detected. I prepared myself to be magnanimously forgiving, straightened the creases of my frown and promptly wore a smile.

'Mishter Sho Hai, the results are sent to candidates who have either passed completely or partially, but as per the rule, no communication is required to be made with candidates who have not cleared a single paper, ' he started to explain the rule position, as most clerks do before they deliver the punch. But for people who are used to deliver the punch through the impersonal letters and telegraphic signals, the sudden emergency to deliver it personally to an agitated and flustered IPS officer in ceremonial uniform was too much, and Malakar Babu waited for me to infer and grasp the enormity of the mishap.

'So I have failed in all the papers?' I asked, betraying no emotion of my disbelief. He nodded, words failed him at my quick realization, and in sheer gratitude for my composure , he drew up a long and sad face to join me in my personal grief.

'Mishter Sho Hai,' he said in a voice brimming with sympathy and encouragement,' chinta korben na, if this time you have failed subjectively, next time you will pass subjectively '. I got up as I felt no need to discuss the subject anymore, and it was just as well as I could see from the corner of my eyes that some other clerks were walking towards us, and would probably subject me to more ridicule.

I ran down the six floors without waiting for the lift, and, shelved my plan to visit New Market, and instead asked Barrister Singh to drive straight to Barrackpur and look up my friend Sanjay Chander who was recuperating with a long plaster over a leg fractured in a law and order situation which had turned violent at Gourisankar Jute Mills.

He was delighted to see me, and as I narrated the PSC experience, his pain considerably lessened, as pains normally do in the face of bigger pains. I cleared all my papers except written Bengali in the second attempt, and passed Written Bengali even before Bankim Chandra Ramesh. But for quite some time , my wonder had not diminished even one bit as to how I managed to flunk each of the papers till my my first Superintendent of Police enlightened me , a year later, with a sublime piece of truth - Je kono ghatna ghot te par e or any thing can happen. But about that Mahabodhi session some other time.

BISSAU TO CAP SKIRRING- A JOURNEY ACROSS BORDERS

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Tue, 07 Feb 2017 00:07:00 +0000

The Senegalese Lion with a lockjaw! At least that is the impression I get when I see the map of Senegal with Gambia, the Kunta Kinte country of Alex Hailey, stuck in between the upper and lower regions of this West African country. It is this lower jaw , the southern part of Senegal, the Casamance region, which has been theatre of a popular separatist movement , launched by its Jola community, against northern domination. The movement has claimed over 5000 people since 1982, internally displaced over 60,000, and sent thousands into Gambia and Guinea Bissau which have also supported the movement at different times.

The entry to this region from Guinea Bissau is Ziguinchor, the second largest city of Senegal and the capital of its region by the same name. The name is derived from the Portuguese Cheguei e horam, which means, and probably conveys most poignantly the reception to colonial rule, “ I came and they cry”! Wonder why the Portuguese felt so surprised, after all in very little the town had indeed developed into a slave port.

On a Saturday morning last month , my wife Simi and I, drove through this town in a rented Toyota Hilux with Ibrahim at the wheels. The road from Bissau was not particularly bad, traffic was sparse, and we passed through fields studded with orchards of mangoes in fecund inflorescence, rows of neem, the amazingy gigantic silk cotton trees called God trees , majestic cabaceiras, neatly trimmed palm and freshly pruned palmyra trees , a few laden with weaver's nests. We didn’t see much of forest abutting the road in the countryside, primarily because they have been pushed back with planting of more and more cashew nut trees, the crop now accounting for income of almost 85% of the population, but not without the increasing trend towards monoculture causing concern.To an extent, it is also on account of felling of a large number of rosewood trees , much in demand in China, and anything in demand in China stands a small chance of survival - even if happens to be a tiger's penis!

Now and then the brown, dried paddy fields would fade into saline shores with their mangroves, not as extensive and luxurious as the ones I have seen in the Sundarbans, but enough to make one recollect the visits to the largest delta in the world. Every fifteen minutes one passed by small hamlets, the markets, quarter in stalls, three quarters by the edges of the road- small grocery items ,peeled laranja, chestnuts, bottles of palm oil, de-shelled peanuts in tiny plastic sachets, and vegetables, fresh and dried fish, etc.

A two hours drive took us to to Sao Domingos, Guinea Bissau's northern province, and Ibrahim purchased a vehicle crossover permit for a 10, 000 CFA payment. As I got down at the border at the Immigration Check post in Guinea Bissau, I was surprised to see a plaque at a small community hand pump inscribed in Arabic. It was clear that Arab based organizations were stepping into two areas where the penetration of the government of a Portuguese and Creole speaking nation- provision of water and primary education- was low. Islam, which has a long history of presence in this continent, has seen considerable growth in a country which is about 45% animistic in its religious belief, reflected also in increase in number of mosques and the beginning of sartorial prescriptions. Incidentally, one of the problems this northern province of Sao Domingos is facing is of Talibe children, small Muslim boys who are handed over by their indigent parents to a teachers or marabouts who take them to Senegal for religious education but often force them to undergo a number of abuses, not just limited to forced begging. The problem has attracted the attention of local faith leaders and international organizations like UNICEF.

While the Senegal Immigration was quick and efficient, the problem started with local gendarme which had set up small checking posts. At the one just after the Immigration check post,its most unhelpful and unfriendly personnel took no cognizance of my diplomatic passport or the United Nations laissez Passer , and insisted on checking physically each and every item of our two suitcases. "Get a taste of your medicine" the Almighty must have been chuckling, " what do your own men do to hapless people?". Incidentally, Senegal, like India , is also one of the biggest contributors to UN.

After about 10 stops for confirmation at various places in Ziguinchor, we finally reached Cap Skirring and checked into Hotel Cisco Point. I must admit I had one of the quicker check- ins , but probably it was my lack of diligence or too much of faith in Booking. Com that I picked up a hotel which was not on the beachside. Had it not been for Ibrahim and the car, we would have had a tough time. Our room on the first floor , overlooking the swimming pool, passed through an area where a huge bearded goat, tethered to a tree, was trying to clear his throat with almost ghostly sounds, and was most unamenable to our pleading shush shush.

Very soon we rushed to Club Med and Amina, one of the receptionists at Cisco Point , energetic, bubbly, beautiful, offered to be our guide. Club Med is an amazing upmarket residential club with expensive rooms and equally expensive boutiques and shops, and one felt one was back in the colonial times. The clientele was 100 percent European, mostly French , who had probably flown in at the local air strip. A Pro Am was in progress, so I booked a slot for the following day , but not after having trouble in explaining myself a to French girl who was lisping as well. Amina was a big help, she had worked there before, and probably seemed to know everyone in Cap Skiring.

The Paradise was the beachside resort we settled to have lunch - the cool breeze from the Atlantic , chilled beer, and Amina’ giggles kept us company as we gorged on Poulette Yaasaa which is grilled and caramelized chicken with lots of lemon and onions. Ibrahim tried out the Tiboudienne, almost a national dish of the country - fish marinated with herbs and lemon and garlic and mixed with tomato paste and a number of vegetables.

As the day cooled a bit, it was time to move the palm -fringed beach . The sand not so fine, a bit granular as well , and made walking heavy. There were a few shacks, but my search for sea food ( looking for prawns and crabs as I would easily at Mandarmoni in Bengal) yielded no result. There were a few massage shacks, but we opted to relax on the deck chairs , watching the sun scatter and sink beyond the horizon, the odd boys walking a few cows as well, some playing football, women in colourful dresses selling fruits, but not before succumbing to the marketing charms of a woman selling junk jewellery.

I began the next day at Cap Med for a round of golf. Simi walked with me, and ‘Tafa , short for Mutsafa, kept us company with a passing knowledge of English, but an elaborate one on golf. The greens were good, the fairways had crabgrass, but the beauty of the course were the holes along the ocean. Anyway, I never complain about the quality of golf courses, anywhere it is played, it is God's own land for me! After a satisfying round of golf, and an experience of snootiness of the club ( they wouldn’t serve tea even on payment to non members /residents), we left for the arts bazaar.

The arts bazaar is by the town's tri- junction, and Simi picked different items gifts ( table coasters made of bottle openers, painted horns, key rings with wooden carvings and a couple of masks). There was a mobile shop selling handicrafts as well , and the owner happily obliged us with a photograph. African masks and statuettes have fascinated ever since my Sierra Leone days in the middle of the previous decade, and like those of all other regions, have significant and mystical history- part of their religious ceremonies and rituals, black magic and performing art. But probably what I find most arresting as a definer of African identity are the clothes they wear.

Like anywhere in Africa I have seen, so, too in Cap Skirring, I saW on display in the shops and on people , the bold and brightly coloured clothes reminiscent of Indonesian batiks. Usually the fabric is what they call wax, named so after the Dutch process of waxing a fabric before dyeing , and worn as long robes - boubou for the man and the kaftan for the women. Of course, there are striking usage of brocade and lace as well, but what sets apart the African woman is her headwrap or the gele. The gele is a cultural marker for sure, but it is done with so much of intimate passion and energy that only women can when they want to set off a conversation with everyone in full public view- many create their own patterns and designs and even spin the cloth themselves. My most abiding memory that day in the arts bazaar was the sight of a tall shop owner, in a champagne and gold kaftan and luxurious gele, looking as presidential as Ellen Johnson Sirleaf of Liberia had when I had spotted her about 12 years ago as she walked into Mammyoko, HQ of UN in Sierra Leone, after being elected the first woman head of a state in Africa.

After the shopping, devoured a luxurious lunch, starting with a well laid out plate of tapas, a combo of sea food, tomatoes and even slices of omelettes on pieces of bread, before moving on to more elaborate grilled prawns and of course, yet another helping of poulette yassa and Gazelle beer. The town seemed to have a large number of donkeys , and as I clicked one, it just hit me that in India, this beast of burden which has inspired fables and idioms is hardly to be seen anymore. A quick check out, another long hold up at a gendarme checkpoint in Ziguinchor, and before sundown we were back in our home in Bissau. A delightful experience, just singed with some bitterness at the border.

THE ETERNAL CITY AND THE HEEL OF ITALY

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sat, 17 Dec 2016 22:50:00 +0000

The first chapter in my history book in Standard IV was on Rome. I vividly remember the picture of a bronze statue of she- wolf suckling the brothers Romulus and Remus , and the first date I learnt in history was 753 BC, the year the city was founded on the Seven Hills by the river Tiber. In the same chapter, there were accounts of the gallant Horatius repulsing an Etruscan attack under Larspor Sena ( a name I found funny enough never to forget ) with just two more comrade in arms across the narrow entrance of the Pons Sublicius , the bridge across Tiber, allowing enough time to his army to cut down the bridge after which the three dived into the Tiber to scamper back.

There were a large number of reasons to know more about Rome later on, not just on account of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in ICSE or Roman history being part of syllabi of my Intermediate and Graduation studies , but also in no small measure to the comics of Goscinny. Rome comes back to us in the English language :When in Rome, do as the Romans do; All roads lead to Rome,; Rome was not in built in a day. The inimitable Lalu Yadav also popularized the Eternal city in Bihar with his slogan “ Rome hai Pope ka, Saharsa hai Gope ka”. But even if these later encounters with Rome had not taken place, the picture of that bronze statue and Horatius’s saga of courage had left an indelible imprint of Rome on me, and it remained ever since on my bucket list.

The chance came, in continuation of a New York visit, when I got to spend a weekend in the Holy City before I took up training for a week at Brindisi. I flew into Rome from Casablanca on a Friday evening, and settled without much hassle in the budget hotel Silla after passing through three remotely controlled access gates/ doors ( such an arrangement seems to be quite common in the old gated structures in the area). Not to waste time, I went out for a walk in and was soon hit by a sweaty Bangladeshi draught. There were shops on the pavement run by Bangladeshis, actually just too many of them, selling cheap shawls, scarves, hats, coats, overcoats , mufflers , and what not. What also struck me the first evening, after being used to a relatively disciplined crossing of roads and lanes in New York with a near complete submission to traffic signs was the stark difference here. Here you crossed the roads , though not the main arterials , but quite often there as well, by a mixture of judgement, persuasion and luck- and not necessarily the traffic signs!

It can take up to 50 euros for a guided trip to the Vatican museums, though there are provisions for internet booking for single tickets with microphone as well for 37 euros. I had booked one, but soon ran into a pretty Romanian agent ( she said her community was the largest foreign community in Italy) and was coaxed into paying twenty more to join a group. The guide Marco did a good job, even though it was a most basic tour. One can spend weeks, going through the wonderful museums, but it was one of hell of an experience, as you come out of the wonderful spiral staircase to start the tour, though most of the time, people were taking snaps of the art de objects or selfies, and not many were listening to the guide or reading from the descriptive tablets.

The sheer splendour, the size of the canvas, the sublimity of creativity leaves you spellbound- Raphael’s The Transfiguration in the Vatican Pinacoteca done with the chiarascuro or” light on dark” technique which probably inspired Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel paintings; the Loacoon sculpture group and the Apollo Belvedere Greek sculpture as you move around, breathing in the crisp air in the octagonal courtyard of the Pio- Clementine museum; the Sala Rotonda which is amazing right from the oculus in the ceiling to the royal purple porphyry basin and amazing mosaic floors; the three dimensional effects of the ceiling paintings which wow you as you enter the Tapestry Hall but before you recover, the amazing Belgian tapestries, especially the Resurrection of Christ with done a “moving perspective”; the Map Room whose ceiling paintings are as amazing as cartographic frescoes inspired by drawings of Dominican Monk Ignazio Dantis ; or the utterly amazing Raphael’s The School of Athens in the Raphael Rooms of The Papal Apartments.

The last of the museums is the Sistine Chapel, as famous for being the venue for the papal election as for Michelangelo's path breaking paintings on the ceiling between 1508 and 1512 his painting The Last judgement after 1535 ( which unfortunately obscure the magnificent Cosmatesque floor) . Apart from the sheer sublimity of the work, which I was able to appreciate a bit more after the briefing in the Pinecone Courtyard outside the museums ( one is not allowed to take photographs or even speak inside the Sistine chapel) , I was amazed at the sheer scale of labour and discomfort it involved. Here was I, uncomfortable at staring at the ceiling for 15 minutes, and this maestro painted it just looking up, hours after hour, days, after days! That he created a piece of art which was not his original forte ( he was more comfortable with sculpture), adds to the wonder of it, and I realized that rivalry ( in this case with Raphael?) is the mother of creativity !

After the museums, I went inside the second largest Church in the world, probably the holiest in the Catholic world as well, one of the four to have been given the rank of a Major Basilica, and considered by many to be the finest piece of Renaissance architecture. I am usually amazed at the opulence that is to be seen in the leading religious edifices of most major religions of the world, and it was no different here. In front of the Church stands an iconic Egyptian obelisk ( Romans were fascinated by them, pulled down quite a few and transported them to Rome ( only about eight I guess survive in Rome) and even built many locally. As a stand alone, it is marvellous, but placed in front of the Church, it kind of obstructs the view when you take a picture of the church from behind the Obelsik Vaticano. How would a minaret look in front of the Taj Mahal?

The following day, a Sunday, the only place where I spent some time was the Flavian Amphitheater, known famously as the Colosseum and one of Rome’s most iconic structures. It is indeed very colossal in size, but that was not the reason for its name as known today, but derived from a colossal statue of Nero built around that time. Just like a large part of the grandeur of St Peter’s basilica was funded by wealth created from the infamous sale of indulgences, the construction of the Colosseum was also funded from the opulent spoils taken Jewish Temple after the pillage of Jerusalem in 70 AD and the over 1,00,000 prisoners which provided the labour.Fires, earthquakes, pillaging and scavenging of its basic construction material, the travertine , are the tell- tale signs at the magnificent ruins, famous for gladiatorial fights, hunts, even sea battles and debatably the death of Christians, witnessed by a hugely excited crowd, inebriated on food, amphoras of wine and the spectacles. .

After encountering a very unhelpful booking lady at the Fiumicino airport in Rome who insisted on charging for the second piece of booked luggage, despite my international haulage, I landed at Brindisi for a Civilian Deployment training. There were some interesting moments in the course, not the least the staged kidnaping and illegal hostage taking of UN officials, to prepare for hazardous missions. The United Nations Logistics Base in Brindisi, situated on the Adriatic Coast, accommodates the Strategic Deployment Stocks of vehicles, containers, generators to be deployed in the numerous UN peacekeeping and peacebuilding Missions, the base for Information and Communication Technology deploying critical telecommunications equipment and designing applications and systems for the UN Missions, an Integrated Training Centre , the Strategic Air Operations Centre, GIS Centre, and also the Standing Police Capacity of the Police Division of UNDPKO.

But what gave a totally different dimension to my stay was Sanjeev Joshi, an Indian Economic Service officer working in the Standing Police Capacity . Of friendly disposition, he just overtook the responsibility of my comfort, taking me around to places of tourist and culinary interests. So Monday evening we travelled about 40 kms to Lecce whose burst of baroque leaves you spellbound, even though it was late evening. LIke most towns in this area having traditional affinity with Greek culture, Lecce is also known as the Florence of South, its local soft malleable limestone stone admitting to heavily ornate work after being immersed in milk. The old Roman remains of an amphitheatre mingle with baroque effusion as I travelled in the emptiness of the deserted cobbled streets in the diffused yellow glow , glimpsing the Piazza Del duomo, the Lecce Cathedral with its imposing Bell tower, a host of other buildings before finishing at Porta Napoli or Triumphal Arch . We got hopelessly lost while tracing our way to the car, and celebrated the success in re tracing it by having a lovely dinner in a warm restaurant with local red wine, bruschetta and cavatappi in cialda or fusili shaped pasta with pork, red chilli pepper and parmesan cheese.

The following day we went to Ostuni, about 45 kms north west, and as he parked the car, Sanjeev took some pictures of adjoining shops and landmarks to help us recollect the parking slot. We started from the Ostuni square with the Saint Oronzo’s column and started our circumambulation, around small shops and cafes ( stopped for a coffee at one of them) and then went towards the old citadel . This is the White Town or La Citta Bianca , with white walls and architecture , through a maze of lanes and bylanes , houses with small baroque designs around plain entrances and arches, spotting restaurants at unexpected and impossible nooks and corners, sometimes opening up to a burst of Adriatic shimmer afar, sometimes in cul de sacs. From the Church of Santa Maria, we descended down to retrace our steps to the car , scanned all over for the shops and landmarks whose pictures we had taken as a matter of abundant caution, but failed hopelessly. Finally, a strapping, just under seven footer, with a hooded cape came walking, and offered to take us back to the piazza . But he asked for money , not much , just enough for a cup of coffee. I was totally surprised.

This is the dark side of Italy- its unemployment rate is almost 12 % which is almost half of Greece but double of Bangladesh and Romania whose people have come to populate the country in large numbers. In the region of Brindisi, the rate goes up as high as 17%.Italy’s politics have been quite colourfully Berlusconi-esque, the trade unions quite hawkish and the mafia quite in command- the one in Brindisi I came to learn was Sacra Corona Unita though one colleague warned that while Lecce and Brindisi were quite safe, it could be unwise to wander away from the town centre in Bari, a port city about 100 kms away.

I have always tried to reach out to the culinary offerings places I visit, but i was spoilt for a choice in Italy. There is this nice restaurant in Brindisi called Don Angus where we went twice after walking down the seafront, through a yellow lane of graffitied walls. The beef and pork cuts are on display, you order and take your seat to be looked after for the evening by a young and attractive waitress whose smile and efficiency were not her only assets on display. But if I had thought that I had eaten my best Italian food yet at Don Angus, I was wrong. It was to be at a restaurant on the outskirts of Brindisi, with a kind of rough village house ambience, run by the same people who ran the cafeteria at the UN Logistics Base. The antipasti bouquets are created by every restaurant and probably by every connoisseur of food differently in different regions. The one here, after suggestions from the owner and a few from Sanjeev and Benigno, and accompanied with a lovely glass of spritz, I was in a different world. However, what took everything away from what I had ever eaten before in Italy was the Ocean Beef steak.

Finally it was time to bid farewell to Brindisi. Sanjeev saw me off, vowing to have only vegetables for the next fortnight at least, blaming me for all the red meats he had to eat as a price for keeping me company , wasting his waist management resolutions. The lady at the Alitalia counter was more helpful than her colleague at Rome a week ago, she didn’t charge me for extra for the second piece of booked luggage. I finally returned to Bissau, after almost twenty days of tour abroad, to political stasis which has been was the only activity in this country.

FROM DECO BY THE BEACH TO DECO ON THE OVAL

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Tue, 22 Nov 2016 09:39:00 +0000

The evening of Saturday, the 12th of November, 2016 at Fort Lauderdale was an occasion for a Patna get- together, yet another round of election- result talk, a couple of bottles of fantastic IPAs or Indian Pale Ale, and Trinidadian cuisine ( courtesy my Trinidadian sister-in-law). Trinidadian Indian food- mutton curry, thin rotis of maida stuffed lightly with lentils, a few vegetarian dishes and huge parathas rolled up and smashed parathas ( also called Bussup Shirt because a paratha can be rolled to sizes of a shirt) is very mildly spicy. Sharat Bhaiya guessed that people who went there from India were average peasants from Bihar and UP could have ill- afforded the spices found in the kitchens of Rajas or Nawabs- after all, the relocation of the Indian indentured labour to many parts of the Caribbean's was not quite like that of Wajid Ali Shah's to Metiaburz or even Tipu’s children to Kolkata when the chefs of royal kitchen accompanied.

Sunday we started at 830 am for Miami. We went past the Biscayne Bay, marvelling at the downtown Miami skyline and then the huge line of cruise ships. I was told that Miami is the cruise capital of the world- cities on the move they looked, and like most things American, are developed on a huge canvas - and sometimes , by converting a couple of floors exclusively for Indian tourists, a few cruises are even touted as Maharaja Cruises ( it will be interesting to see how many Maharaja cruises ply post- demonetization of the two big bucks !). We were in a bit of a rush as the guided tour conducted by the Miami Design Preservation League of its famous Art Deco district was to begin at 1030 hours.

After the over hour and a half walk with a group led by Sandy, a passionate and knowledgeable guide, it was time for Cuban lunch at Versailles whose menu jacket claimed it as The World’s Most Famous Cuban Restaurant. The service was fairly quick for such a rush hour time and plenty of Trump supporters, and very quickly we finished a sumptuous meal of fried pork chunks, ¼ roasted chicken, shrimp “al ajillo” black beans, boiled cassava “yuca” with cuban mojo, garlic bread, plenty of rice and fried plantains , washing them down with St Pauli Girl, a Bremen- brewed beer.

The week following this Sunday, which was largely in New York, I had occasions to further try different cuisines- with Bunu Di the Korean at Wonjo not very far from Penn Station, with my nephew Yash a sushi debut, yet another culinary first time on the 2nd Avenue of the Turkish at Ali Baba with my colleague Robert Haslinger and finally the Shrimp Fajita at a Spanish joint not far from the UN HQ. The only disappointment was in inability to savour Ethiopian food. The culinary juggernaut is continuing in Rome, and will till I reach Bissau on 27th instant, but more on it some other time.

We hurried back from Versailles for a Swamp Ride in Fort Lauderdale, the Everglades Airboat ride. Not many know that Fort Lauderdale, in south eastern part of Florida, is also known as Venice of America. The town is famous for the sawgrass marshes with a complex system of interdependent ecosystems that include cypress swamps, estuarine mangrove forests, tropical hardwood hammocks, etc.The one hour ride is on airboats fitted with airplane turbines at the rear as shallow water with thick undergrowth would jam the rudder and motor of the conventional motorboats we see in the usual touristy marine sites. The siting of a large number of iguanas, red crested vultures and a lone alligator made the trip worthwhile.

Now I must return to the Art Deco walk, which is the main reason for this account.Miami’s Beach Art Deco district is the first 20th century Historic District, consisting of over 500 houses around the Miami Ocean Beach front, thanks to the untiring effort of a Communist Jewish widow Barbara Capitman, who teamed up with a gay doorman Leonard Horowitz in the passion to save the buildings built between 1920s to 1940s to the condomania of behemothic realtors from around 1970s.

The fanciful pastel buildings with maritime elements ( porthole windows , ship deck style railings, waves and sleek curves), glass blocks, geometric patterns ( saucer like turrets, zigzags), rounded balconies , obsession with symmetry, and terrazo floors that characterize these buildings are a treat to watch - see the basic schematic guide captured from the Art Deco Welcome Centre at Miami.

Even though the term Art Deco came from the 1925 Exposition International des arts decoratifs industriels et moderne held in Paris, and was an architectural style influenced by Egyptian artefacts, cubism and futurism, its famous signatures on cityscapes were grand edifices like the Chrysler and Empire State building or the Metro theatres of Kolkata and Mumbai, Art Deco was profusely borrowed for building a large number of cinema halls in many cities, hotels and most important, the private houses of hundred of self employed professionals and businessmen between the third and fifth decades of the last century. And this is primarily the reason that most of us can identify with them, having seen them in different places in our childhood. When I saw the Congress Hotel in Miami, I was left dumbstruck. I thought I must have seen this kind of building in many Indian cities, including one Hotel Everest in Dhanbad which is now converted into a Nursing Home.

I was first drawn to the term “art deco” when I read a string of columns by writer Amit Choudhary and a few others , making an impassioned plea to save the buildings constructed by middle class Bengali professionals in Bhowanipore, Sarat Bose Road, Lake Road, Southern Avenue, Hindustan Park, Paddapukkur in which a few confirmed to the Art Deco style, though most were were a typically Bengali modernist evolution combining the Victorian with Bengali zamindari kothi styles ( red oxide floors , sleepy green-shuttered windows, spacious porches , intricate cornices , elaborate wrought-iron grills, etc). Actually, Mumbai has the second largest concentration of Art Deco houses after Miami, the majority designed by a Hungarian architect Laszlo Hudec and a walk along the Marine Drive, Oval Maidan, Churchgate, Malabar Hills, Peddar Road will help illustrate this claim.

But to me , the most important call from within was because I hail from a locality called New Kadamkuan in Patna, an area developed post 1934 earthquake, the first instance of town planning in Patna in the British era, carved out of mouza Muharrampur that had changed hands from the Mughal Empire to the Company to opium growers, and leased to a large number of lawyers, a few doctors and some career politicians like Anugrah Narayan Sinha, later on the Deputy CM of Bihar.

It was in this Kadamkuan Mohalla of rows of 8/6/5/2 cottahs plots, separated by broad metalled roads( the Bihari cottah is almost double the Bengali), that huge houses came up, about a hundred, built by masons from Midnapur and Murshidabad, probably introduced or recommended by a large number of Bengali professionals who held high positions in Patna’s society those days, in yes, you guessed it, the Art Deco style. Of course, I did not know the name of that style, nor for sure many of the owners of these Kadamkuan houses, as the term itself was popularized as broadly applied stylistic label only in the 1960s when historian Bevis Hiller published the first major academic book on the style : Art Deco of the 20s and 30s.

What makes the Art Deco buildings of Bombay, Patna, Kolkata or the Bengali- European houses of Calcutta so unique is that the era represents these towns’ first expression of “modernity and modernism” - in Calcutta they were neither the British created space nor the “aristocratic Bengali mansions of North Kolkata, in Patna the new professional classes, buoyant from creation of Bihar Province came out of its Patna City, Naya Tola closet as it were, while in Bombay the emerging Parsis, film personalities spearheaded the construction of these houses.

Art Deco could well have been one of the first major thing Indians borrowed from America, probably as a political message as well since these were also the years of popular nationalism in India and America was an example of successful independence from Britain. It was also India’s first expression of cosmopolitanism in that various Art Deco features were seen not only in exterior design but also the grand interiors of the cinema halls , the new form and places of public gathering - Roxy, Metro, Elite, in Calcutta, Hind and Pearl in Patna, Relief Ahmedabad, Mayfair in Lucknow and of course a whole lot in Bombay.

But I doubt Amit Choudhari’s team can hope for much success. He rues the fact that well -heeled Bengali NRI could invest millions to buy a heritage house in London or Marakech but not in Kolkata where he would like a new flat instead. The concept of heritage is itself quite unique in this country. For a young country like America, probably 1920s and 1930s is old enough to attach the label of antiquity, in India with over five thousand years of history, the same period is not so back in history to justify the honour and consideration we give to age. Besides, a house not lived in by a great personality is not considered sufficiently heritage-ed, there is no quarter given to a style of architecture of anonymous professionals and the only architectural effort which is gaining traction in Kolkata is the dichromic painting of government buildings, housing estates ! I also doubt very much Amit and his team can muster the razzle dazzle support of fashion designers, gay activists and artists to the cause of Art Deco preservation as successfully as Barbara Capitman was able to- afer all Versace bought a house in this Art Deco district, the Casa Casaurina, where he was later on murdered.

A large number of Kadamkuan Art Deco buildings have survived, but only because of the statutory provision of leased out Khas Mahal plots prohibited any changes to the original structures. But I wonder for how long , my own grandfather’s house wears an ugly look with the covering of open verandahs, while in several plots in this mohalla, new houses have come up in the vast front lawns and driveways. One after the other, old cinema halls are being converted to shopping malls, and a similar fate awaits a large number of Art Deco private houses.

The Bombay enthusiasts have probably the best chance. They have, around the Oval Maidan, a ground that separates two contrasting styles of architecture separated by almost 50 years, have applied for UNESCO World Heritage site for an ensemle of Art Deco buildings on its western side and the Victorian Gothic structures on its eastern. But then "Bombay is Bombay, rest is India".

TRUMPED IN UN POLICE WEEK

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sat, 12 Nov 2016 12:02:00 +0000

Arrived in New York last Sunday, and found the days expectedly very short , shorter than what the 630 pm snap from the plane window suggested - a layer of light up above the horizon when actually it was dark down below on the roads .

Friends in India were thinking that US Elections would be a big Tamasha in the streets , it wasn't actually so. While there may have been a lot of hype generated , the visibility of Indian election props - police patrols , festoons , banners , miking, graffiti were all missing. On the 1st Avenue between 42nd to 46th Street ( the Trump Tower is probably on 46th, diagonally opposite the UN HQ where I had come to attend the 11th Heads Of UN Police Components Conference) I couldn't see any booth .

It was only during my post- office walk to Macy that I saw the sign of a booth on the 2nd Avenue . But the Election Day must have been celebratory - the Empire State was bathed in National Colours . The iconic building has a large number of programmed lightings which is put to use on special occasions like the UN Day General Assembly Meeting , Olympics , etc , and whenever it is India's, the hoax media kicks it up a unique , first time to happen - only- because- of- Modi chain of messages !

Trump's victory it seems has been met with incredible incredulity and despair, and even a snigger by many in the establishment and elsewhere- I wonder whether this was the cocktail of emotions amongst the Establishment when the Left came to power in 1977 . I am told that in Brown University , classes were suspended, counselling centres set up and comfort food offered to help people cope with the shock. But what was very different this time was the series of protests on the streets- the NYPD whose Control Room we visited on Thursday is massively engaged covering them . The day following the result , it was dark and dreary , with a persistent drizzle . Back home in our country, it could have been taken as sign of divine dissonance with the result .

The week in UN was tight , and also included a session at the Security Council and the first thing that strikes you is the mural painted by the Norwegian Per Krogh of a phoenix rising from its ashes. It was very rewarding to see four Heads of UN Police Components address the Security Council , and many of the member states actively participated in the proceedings . The translators make it all happen for one to follow the proceedings conducted in the six UN languages. Protection of civilians, attacks on peacekeepers and the spectre of terrorism were discussed in the weeklong sessions as was the way forward to have better set of skills with peacekeepers before induction and also a Strategic Guidance Framework being developed by the Police Division . I wish India , one of the bigger police and troop contributing countries has a more improved peacekeeping induction assistance policy .

Monday was great start , lovely dinner at Naya Mezza with my niece Richa - a Lebanese restaurant. The UN cafeteria , at least the one adjacent to Conference Room Number 9 where most of our meetings were conducted was also very good . But I have a huge problem , I am supremely diffident and actually intimidated in ordering a dish . First is the accent . Then the different methods of collecting your trays and making your salad - take so many percentage of greens , so of yellow and so if green. I avoided . Then the sushi bar . Everyone uses chopsticks . So I didn't try . A large number of drinks and food have fancy and different names . I ignored . The corner Italian Pizza shop by my hotel was my refuge , even on the days of dinner receptions by Permanent Missions. People talk softly , don't get drunk , and leave the place by 730 pm. Thursday dinner was at Ping Restaurant in Chinatown ( Ping probably means peace in Chinese ) - I very much liked it , and it was not as bland as some China- visited friends had told me . But I still prefer my Calcutta Chinese, and I was most happy to see a Bangkok Food shop nearby - going to pick up Thai ingredients next Thursday for sure .

Had come to US twice before , but never seen the trees during the Fall which has truly set in . Yellow , red , burgundy, crimson - the colours the trees wear . Snapped a view in the morning from a window in Prashant and Raju's house in Bethesda, a DC suburb where I had come over for an evening of warmth, drinks and good company. . Now off to Fort Lauderdale before another week in New York . The Vamoose Bus which took me to DC had a wash room which had a very helpful sign inside it . Saw it for the first time , and under no illusion about my shooting skills in a moving vehicle , promptly obeyed it.

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Thu, 03 Nov 2016 22:08:00 +0000

KERE- A TREAT OF A RETREAT

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Thu, 03 Nov 2016 22:08:00 +0000

As promised, I come back to you with my account of the visit to Kere island. I doubt many of you would have visited an island which is just about 300 meters by 300 meters and yet houses a proper tourist resort with almost twenty huts, an entertainment “box”, a dining hall with a bar, and a host of activities ranging from swimming or just a jal samadhi with chilled Cristal for company, lolling on the white- sand beach to kayaking and fishing. Kere, a wisp of an island in the Bijagos archipelago in Guinea Bissau, was uninhabited till the turn of the millennium till one Laurent came and set up a resort around 2000. Actually when I was talking to Laurent , he told me that it was the news that the island had very few mosquito that drove him to pitch his tent for the first time when he was doing some biodiversity study in the archipelago.

The occasion of my visit was to participate in a Retreat being organized by a super efficient colleague Samanntha for an important division of the UN mIssion in Guinea Bissau called the ROLSI or Rule of Law and Security Institutions. Frankly, as per the usually understood meaning of retreat as a kind of military withdrawal , you would be surprised but then the English language is wonderfully polysemic. Retreats can also mean, , in line with long drawn Hindu, Buddhist, Sufi, and the Christian spiritual traditions ( the Christian one being actually established by Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus whose priests ran a school named after an Italian Missionary in India by the name of Roberto de Nobili in the coalfield town of Dhanbad where I studied) actually aggressive ways of deepening powers of concentration and insight. They can be held in solitude or in a conversation, kind of a “loitering with intent “ in the words of Evelyn Underhill.Well, the fellows in ROLSI are not exactly priests and nuns, but then the diversion to explain just puts things in a perspective. Carrying your thoughts into a quiet sunset is indeed very invigorating.

About 24 of us, mostly from Portuguese speaking countries on either side of the Atlantic, left early morning from Bissau and debussed at a point beyond Quinhamel after a long drive on unpaved roads where three country boats , powered with ubiquitous Japanese engines, met us . We started to weave our ways through the delta formed by the Canal do Geba and Rio Mansoa into the Bijagos Archipelago - typical mangrove, a scale much smaller than the Sunderbans but fairly reminiscent of it. The archipelago was declared by UNESCO in 1996 a Biosphere reserve - the Boloma Bijagos Biosphere Reserve to be precise, known also for animals including marine turtles and even sea water hippopotamus. The Bijagos, also known as Bissagos, Bojagos, Anaki, Bidjogo and Bujagos are an ethnic group ( and probably gave the name to the country ) and also the name of the only deltiac archipelago in Western coast of Africa, covering an area of over 10,000 sq km off the coast of Guinea Bissau.

Amidst banter, slips in the deltaic slush, selfies and usies, the journey was wonderful though without an event. We were lucky with the weather as it didn't rain during the two and a half hour south western journey , most of it in the green blue waters of the Atlantic, and while the last forty five minutes I spent to catch a series of catnaps, the journey was spiced up with Portuguese and Brazilians making fun of each other’s Portuguese - so the transatlantic divide is sharp not just in English.

On the horizon we left the islands of Maio , Ponta and Formosa, three of the over 80 islands that make up the Bijagos Archipelago . Kere is really small, and doesn’t find a mention in the tourist maps of Guinea Bissau available in the shops. When I first spotted Kere, I thought it could be just be a segment of its northern sea face, but Samanntha remarked that was the full face. It was way too small I thought, but my heart cheered up as soon as we , the last of the three boatloads, got down a soft landing. In most of the smaller islands, like in Rubane off Bubaque I had spent three wonderful days or Kere do not have any jetty, nor can dry landing be facilitated by the improvisation of long, narrow wooden planks which one can see in Sunderbans , so all of us were in our flip flops or hawai chappals, in shorts or rolled up trousers .

The moment I stepped on the white sand , I fell in love with the place. You step out of the boat , go past a thin grove of cabaceria tree and a few others, a few joined by hammocks, some canopying over beach chairs lying about, and you are next to the Dining Hall cum Bar which is a half gazebo, half hall. When Sonia took me to show in my Cabin No 10 , she threw off her sand- filled sandals just at the entrance, dipped her feet in a small rectangular water filled bucket ( the kind you see around some swimming pools placed as hygiene assists with a solution of potassium permanganate) and I followed her wet footprints on a red rough cemented floor, absolutely clean. The verandah had four huge lounging chairs, a heavy circular table, the usual wall trophies of horns and animal skulls, and its floor was ringed around with a carpet of clam shells . A dim lit room, an attached bathroom, it was oozing with the warmth. I only wish Laurent and Sonia had installed ceiling or stand fans. I couldn’t sleep well the first two nights, even though on night two, I had started my sleep on one of the beach deck chairs . It was only when I had shifted to room no 3 which had a more upfront exposure to the sea, I got good sleep.

Frankly, the Retreat was a serious business. Breakaway groups, presentations, plenary, wrap-ups - it kept the rapporteurs very busy, and I thought it quite useful to wind up 2016, spell out priorities for 2017 and set up a strategy to achieve them. It was hot and humid, the promised cool breeze playing truant, and meeting hall which was a Entertainment box with exposed beams and a pool table, had the roots of a silk cotton for one of its walls, opening into a wild grove. I think in an island of Bijagos archipelago where the silk cotton tree or polom as it is called in Guinea Bissau Kriol is also supposed to be a repository of wisdom of elders, the choice of the Meeting Hall was apt.

Laurent also probably developed the area around the roots of the silk cotton tree as they were said to be the refuge of some iras or spirits , were centres of most ceremonies and served as sort of as central to life of Bijagos people as the temples were to the communities in many parts of medieval South India. He could set himself up here only after almost two years of hanging around, and his chance advantage of saving the life of a very sick pregnant girl who was the daughter of a local chieftain was taken as a calling for the spirits to have accepted him as one of their own. His baptism was by Bijago animistic custom and various initiation rites ( fanado) . Later when he married Sonia, it was as per the Bijagos custom, which is a half way way matrilineal society!

In my view, the silk cotton tree should serve as a kind of insignia or heraldry for any task force set up to secure the maritime security of Guinea Bissau, threatened as this poor country is by rapacious trawlers froas far China and Korea, drug and human traffickers and even terrorists. Actually, the maritime security architecture is intended to stand on sensitization of and support from local people for proactive interdiction , and what better than to suggest the silk cotton tree, where in the past, the Bijagos tribes planned counter attacks against Fula, Muslim and later on Portuguese invaders .

The dining hall was indeed the centre of activities, as all would have to eat the pre arranged menu. I wish they added some variety to the breakfast, it was the usual crepes, a few cakes, fruits , juice, coffee and tea. Most of the times, breakfast was the time one had to be most vigilant as bees clung on to your jam and honey spreads . Food during lunch and dinner was excellent. Fish, caught locally would dominate. The entrees included very thinly cuts fish fillets marinated in lime , sometimes soup of pumpkin, and on one occasion platefuls of clams, while most of the main dishes would include fish boiled, fried, grilled , roasted or even steamed, served with bread or rice or even potato fritters. The dinner on Saturday evening had huge pieces of pumpkin, caramelised and roasted which I quite relished. Dessert was either fruit salad or caramel custard , the latter having more body than the ones which we normally have in India. Antero, Chief ROLSI , introduced me one evening to the Brazilian Cachaça which is also known as Brazilian rum, but is different from the usual rum we know for unlike the latter which is made from from molasses, Cachaça is made from fresh sugarcane juice that is just fermented and distilled.

The Retreat was officially over on Friday, and then was the time for fun. Saturday morning I went for fishing. Actually, the USP of the place is that it is a fishing resort- it is called M’îles Vagues de Découvertes fishing lodge and Laurent represents Guinea Bissau in International Game Fishing Association. The archipelago, with their islands and shallow waters , do not allow the trawlers to come inside and scrounge, as a result of which the waters are abundant with various varieties of trevally, barracuda, cobia, tarpon, etc and I saw a framed picture of a world record being broken in respect of probably Red Snapper.

So with my two colleagues Salomoa and Kitane, both from Mozambique , and the knowledgeable Kere hand Brato, I spent a good two- three hours on a warm morning . We caught four barracudas, the largest one was about 6-7 kilos which fought and won the battle against my angling rod, but lost the war to Brato’s iron hook - but enough for a been -there -done -that picture for me. The catch received a lot of shabashi when we returned, but then when I saw the size of catches in the pictures in the dining hall, I could really appreciate , with a great sense of humility, what international level game fishing was all about.

The afternoon the same day the Brazilian gang egged me to for kayaking. The strong and silent Kitane was my partner, the two had never kayaked , and it was only misplaced enthusiasm and fear of toppling over that kept us going. Our coordination, or lack of it, almost capsized the others due to laughing fits, and we covered, in the first leg, at least three times the distance as others over the same stretch - our glorious mismatch of paddling resulting in almost ox bow slaloms and on a couple of occasions even figures of eight !Well, on the return journey, Fernando advised me to sit in the rear and guide, and the result was a much straighter path.

The following day, Antero exhorted me for another kayaking expedition with Salomao to the Carache Island . Salomao gave up after two three tries and hopeless topsy- turvy , very wet results, so it was once again Kitane. The two of us, and Antero and Christina in another , set out for the more distant, and larger island. For a good two hundred meters before the beach, we hit a sand bank and we didnt know whether to keep rowing or step out and drag the kayak. Anyways, the four of us reached, met a guy in Jesus Loves You T shirt, who was there for a visit to the local village or tabanka, I found a lovely turtle shell, but out under the bright sun, it was hot. Laurent has helped dig several freshwater wells for the population, one for M’incha health clinic and a few for his vegetable gardens as well.

On return, the tides joined us, and for the last fifteen minutes , the waters became menacingly choppy, and for a non swimmer like me, a heart in the mouth experience, for about ten, interminably long minutes. Kitane, the Corrections Officer was quiet, I was quiet, this deafening quietude was our anxiety- loaded friendship bond. Meanwhile, in the other kayak, Christina did a big favour by opting out of any activity which made it easier for Antero to plan his journey uncomplicatedly , and I think confidently - after all, he had his Iberian sea- faring genes on his side.

The return journey on a Sunday afternoon after lunch was evidently quieter, the journey slowed by intermittent engine snags in the other boat, but it felt good to be back, as I noted for my future references a few places Antero pointed out which operated local handlooms.

Bits and pieces: BARBECUE AND BARANBARA FROM BISSAU

noreply@blogger.com (Vivek) — Sun, 16 Oct 2016 17:55:00 +0000

Bits and pieces: BARBECUE AND BARANBARA FROM BISSAU: Time for an update since I last posted pictures of my Bubaque trip from the Land of Eder on my FB wall. The monsoon is on its last legs,...