Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Memories
Are made…
Of This!
by
Subroto Mukerji
2
DEDICATION
This book is for
My Timeless Muse
Enigmatic…Enchanting…Eternal.
Introduction
4
Preface
~ Subroto Mukerji
6
First Memories
****************
Captaingunj
********
20
Birth of a Big B
India, 1869. Perched precariously on a hillside, high up in the Kumaon
hills near Kaladhungi, which means, in the local dialect, ‘black stones’, a school
called simply the ‘Diocesan Boys School’ came to life. It was started by a band of
Englishmen serving in the United Provinces of British India, for the purpose of
providing quality education, on the English pattern, to their offspring. By virtue of its
remote location, the salubrious and sylvan surroundings, and the prospect of
scholarly success that solitude often brings in its wake, the school prospered,
patronized as it was by English administrators and the wealthy merchants of the
region. Since it offered education leading to a High School degree and even beyond,
right up to the Intermediate level (which was then a qualification that signified a
fairly advanced level of scholastic achievement, and which was equivalent to having
set foot in an institute of higher learning), the school was renamed ‘Sherwood
College’.
In the late ‘eighties, however, a disastrous landslide, that caused
immense loss of life and which carried half the hillside down into Naini Tal Lake far
below, so damaged the buildings, that, in the interests of safety and future growth,
the school was re-established at a spot close to Ayarpatta. Transplanted to land on a
series of rolling hillocks below Dorothy’s Seat, a minor promontory with a small
memorial for an English lady who found it an ideal spot for her haunting water-
colors of Kumaon, the school prospered even more; the relocation turned out to be
blessing in disguise. It was now far more accessible from the town of Naini Tal,
though still a thousand feet above it, and the terrain made future expansion—and the
laying out of spacious playfields and swimming pools—a distinct possibility.
India, 1958. June 5th, the school’s Founder’s Day, was the high point of
the school’s annual activities. And the crowning event that everyone, parents,
distinguished guests, and students, awaited with the keenest anticipation, was the
Annual Play. It is significant that, in a school dominated by the English idiom and
the ‘pukka sahib’ atmosphere, there were actually two plays that were presented, one
in English and the other in Hindi. The school governing body, the Diocese of
Lucknow, a Protestant organization with a liberal and progressive outlook, moved
with the times and Hindi was the wave of the future. Conspicuous by its absence at
Sherwood was the scorn that many Christian-run outfits reserved for the national
language. It was a land of equal opportunity. Even the school motto, ‘Mereat
Quisque Palmam’— 'Let each one merit his own prize'—reflected this philosophy.
The governing body, aware of the importance of a large assembly hall-
cum-stage to the social and cultural life of the community that comprised a
residential school of six hundred students, had designed and constructed ‘Milman
Hall’, so christened after the then Principal who had pioneered the program. It could
seat seven hundred people, and at the far end of it was a commodious stage with
adjoining green rooms, a couple of rest rooms, utilities, and an elaborate sound
21
control center. The Hindi play that year of 1958, when I was in class 5, was a stage
adaptation of an excerpt from Victor Hugo’s novel ‘Les Miserables’…’The Bishop’s
Candlesticks’. Not many of us had heard of this guy Victor Hugo, and demand for
the book was high in the library.
We discovered that the book was about the indignities and injustices that
the poor always face, especially as those prevailing in the post ‘Reign of Terror’
Paris of 150 years ago. The poor of Paris were a miserable, hunted lot, and none
personified this better than the main character, Jean Valjean. Having stolen a loaf of
bread to feed his starving family, Valjean was forever stigmatized by a society that
never forgave crime, no matter how petty. It was a harsh and cruel time where the
term ‘extenuating circumstances’ was unknown to judges.
Always on the run after his release from jail, Valjean finds to his horror
that, no matter where he goes thereafter, he is stalked by the implacable, iron-souled
Inspector Javert who hounds him constantly, hoping to catch him red-handed once
again and put him behind bars for a long time. Desperate, embittered, the once-
amiable and cheerful Valjean becomes a shadow of his former self, starting at the
slightest sound and expecting to find the heavy hand of the law on his shoulder at any
moment. Paranoiac, his faith in humanity and God demolished, he is now little more
than a fugitive, a hunted animal pursued by demons he cannot hope to exorcise.
One evening, starving and penniless, Valjean is given sanctuary by a
provincial bishop. The tall, calm man of God treats him with all the respect due to a
fellow human being. But to the cynical and distrustful Valjean, he is yet another
beast in human form who will surely exploit him sooner or later. But as the evening
wears on, and the bishop invites him to share his humble supper, the first stirrings of
doubt arise in Valjean’s mind. Is this man for real? Can it be that there still survives
on this planet a man who can be called human?
The bishop is the last of a line of aristocratic forebears, the last surving
scion of a once-proud family that had seen better days. Impoverished, a simple man
of the cloth, the bishop shows Valjean his room for the night, pointing out the
magnificent pair of silver candlesticks that are the last of the cleric’s once-proud
heritage. They mean more to the bishop than their intrinsic worth would indicate (for
they are indeed valuable); they are to him a symbol of a vanished glory of which he,
too, is a part, no matter how indigent and insignificant. His eyes grow misty as he
fondles them, the last remnants of a fortune long consumed in the fires of Revolution.
For the tall, dignified old man, they are a thread that links him to life itself, such as it
is—a reason to go on living.
The bishop retires for the night, but Valjean cannot tear his eyes away
from the gleaming silver; it is a fortune gathering dust on the mantelpiece. It is
obvious that he is torn between his newly awakened respect and regard for a fellow
man, and the need to secure his own future. He is already branded as a thief; why not
be one, then? But no, this man has taken him in from the cold, dark night, has treated
him like an equal, given him a meal and a real bed to sleep in. He cannot betray his
22
trust. But what does the good bishop know about life in the cruel, pitiless world
outside this protected backwater of a suburban parish, a cruel world where the poor
are criminals because they have no money? The silver will make him, Jean Valjean,
rich. He will be secure; the bishop will not starve just because his silver candlesticks
are gone: he cannot eat them. Valjean loses the battle with his conscience. Thrusting
the heavy silver into a sack, he makes a hasty departure through one of the French
windows.
The last Act opens on the bishop entering the spare bedroom in the
morning to greet his guest, to find he has departed during the night with his precious
candlesticks. Initially upset and dismayed, he comes to terms with his loss,
rationalizing that the poor man needs them more than he does. As a true Christian, he
feels he should rejoice in his brother’s good fortune. He kneels and prays to his God
to deliver him from the bondage of ties to material possessions. It is the most moving
part of the play, an old, defeated man surrendering to his God, putting himself
confidently in His hands, praying for a higher perspective on life and the strength to
sever all ties with the contaminating human craving for mundane possessions.
There is urgent knocking at the door; it is Inspector Javert, with Valjean
and his booty in custody. He reveals that the bishop’s silver is too well known to be
disposed of so easily, and asks that he press formal charges in writing. The bishop
takes pen and paper, and writes out a brief note. A disbelieving Javert reads aloud
that the silver candlesticks, hitherto in possession of the Bishop’s family for
generations, are now the legal property of Jean Valjean, acquired by way of part
compensation for invaluable services rendered, services that cannot quite be
compensed in material terms. The silver is only a token of his great esteem and
personal regard. A frustrated Inspector Javert, shaking his head and muttering to
himself, takes his leave, while a stunned Valjean kneels contritely at the bishop’s
feet, only to be pulled upright and hugged. The indigent bishop, himself uplifted by
his good deed, has transformed Valjean from animal to man; it is obviously a turning
point in both their lives.
Let us take a quick look at the two principal actors in the drama onstage.
The part of the convict Valjean is played by darkly handsome, stockily muscular
Ramesh Yadav, a final year student with a talent for sports and a lethal uppercut in
the ring. His pride shattered, his confidence in humanity destroyed by circumstances,
Valjean has become a fugitive, an animal of the shadows, merely existing, not daring
to think that he will ever live again. He has been thoroughly and quite systematically
dehumanized by society. Ramash Yadav brings Valjean magically to life.
The bishop’s rôle has gone to Yadav’s batch-mate, a tall, slim youth
with a quiet, pensive air and dreamy eyes. The voice is outstanding in its clarity and
power, quite astonishing coming as it does from that willowy frame. As the bishop,
he is utterly convincing, his poignant pride in the once-great family name he bears
contrasting sharply with the stark reality of his obvious penury. Clinging to the last
shreds of his sense of identity, he treasures the great silver candlesticks: they are the
23
tangible link between him and the vanished glory that is all he has inherited. They are
the gleaming symbols of his sense of self-worth, which is sinking day by day.
His name, according to the hand-made programmes so eagerly sought
today by souvenir hunters, is Amitabh Bachchan. In a powerful portrayal of a proud
man sinking ever deeper into the quagmire of poverty and helpless to do anything
about it, he turns in a performance that stirs the audience to tears. It is his obvious
relief and exultation at being unshackled from his false values, and his newfound
vision of a higher reality, that drives home the point of the story. In his humility and
compassion for another, he does not realize he has transformed his own life as well
as that of another. A most effective supporting rôle by Ramesh Yadav highlights
Amitabh Bachchan’s incredible talent. No one is surprised when the coveted prize for
the ‘Best Actor’ goes to him.
Every phenomenon has to be born sometime, someplace. But what is
unique about the birth of the Big B is that it lay palpable in the air of Milman Hall
long after the play was over…for years afterwards, in fact, long before the unknown
advertising executive from Allahabad with the impeccable bloodlines exploded onto
the screen in ‘Zanjeer’, long before his unforgettable appearance as Dr. Bhaskar
Banerjee opposite reigning matineé idol Rajesh Khanna in ‘Anand’ brings yet
another audience to its feet. It is still fresh in my memory, though I was but a boy of
nine then, the play that was called ‘Aur Subah Ho Gayee’.
I had been one of the fortunate few who had witnessed the birth of a
legend, on that unknown stage tucked away in a small residential school in the
Kumaon hills. Something very rare had unfolded before my eyes that summer
evening in 1958, of which I was reminded strongly once again when I saw ‘Amar,
Akbar, Anthony’: there was the bishop again, this time in a comic rôle.
In due course, the shock waves of the explosion would spread far and
wide, as Amitabh Bachchan straddled the globe like a colossus, a phenomenon
unique to Indian cinema.
******
Farewell to Captaingunj
1960. The three years have passed in a flash, much too fast for Buntoo,
for Sat Narain, and for me. It was time to go. Captaingunj Distillery was a going
concern, and its market value had skyrocketed. It was now worth so much that Seth
Ishwar Chand Kejriwal took off his diamond ring and offered it to Father, a gift that
was politely declined. When Sethji asked him whether he knew its worth, Father
shook his head. “It is worth fifty-five thousand rupees today, and it is yours.” Father
shook his head. “Sethji, what is money before the confidence you reposed in me, and
your blessings that I take with me?”
Never have I seen a man who made so much money for his employers
but distanced hilself from it. One day the secret of his detachment was inadvertently
revealed to me. We were fishing and picnicking on the banks of a little stream a mile
from the distillery, just Father, Mother, and I, when he turned around instinctively to
see thick smoke issuing from the plant.
He leapt to his feet, and shouting “Ma Kali! Ma Kali!” he sprinted off in
the direction of his beloved distillery. But even as he ran, thinking his life was going
up in flames, an overhead water-tank inexplicably collapsed, spilling 10,000 gallons
of water over the conflagration caused by spontaneous combustion in stacked coal.
By the time he got there, men were sweeping up the mess.
(We had heard what had happened and I, at least, never questioned him
about it. But I had come to know the secret source of his strength and confidence.
And when his end was near, on that fateful day of 6th February 1987, he only took
Her name and none other.
30
She was always his guardian angel, his inspiration, and his shield, in
life as well as death, for he passed away peacefully and did not suffer. He lived like a
prince-hermit, always looking beyond things as they seemed to be, as if searching for
something Greater, which eludes most men all their lives. I hope and pray he found
it…at last.)
A farewell party was organized, and men gave speeches. Father wept. I
could not understand how a man going to a better assignment could so weep. Now I
realize that he wept because all the men gathered there were his brothers; he wept
because he knew he would never see them again. They had helped him make a
success of his assignment, and they represented so many challenges, so many
hardships, faced and overcome together. Thus do men mourn their passing from the
midst of their comrades.
Our things are packed and loaded in the brake-van; the stationmaster is a
friend and ensures that clearance is given only when he has been personally assured
that everything is on board. Then the green flag is waved and the steam engine blows
its mournful whistle, a lonely sound that echoes through my memories down the
years. A jolt shudders through the train and it starts to slowly chug away from the
platform, taking us away from Captaingunj forever.
The steam engine is emitting thick clouds of black smoke that roll past
the barred windows, covering us with soot as the train picks up speed. For some
reason, tears are rolling down Mother’s cheeks. My own eyes are misty, so that I
cannot see much of the scene through the window.
But wait! There is a tall, powerful man sprinting alongside, keeping up
with the train. Tears are streaming from his eyes and at his heels bounds a giant
Alsatian, barking furiously. The two friends – locked forever in partnership now that
Buntoo has chosen to enjoy the freedom offered by this rustic backwater to the end of
his days in the company of his human counterpart – are bidding a tearful farewell to
the man they will worship all their livers.
Words float to my ears, “Do not…forget…Do not …forget…Do not…
forget…”
The rails clickety-clack faster and faster, taking up the refrain as
Captaingunj falls back into the past.
Seohara
Sir,
All India Radio, with its frequent and lengthy news bulletins, is
becoming an instrument of torture. What the public needs is not
only news but entertainment also.
But there was no stopping Father; once he got a bee in his bonnet about
something, it was very difficult to oust it. I remember K.C. Pant, to whom Father
then reported, going ‘hmmmmmmm’ when he took the radio in his lap for a while and
happened to read the unknown (but persuasive) Mr. Maitra’s letter (Mr. Pant, a one-
time Defence Minister and the former Deputy Chairman of the Planning Commission
of India, was an old family friend).
34
He had studied at Allahabad university, our families knew each other, and
his father, Pandit Gobind Ballabh Pant, had been, as everyone knows, a famous
freedom fighter and one of the chief architects of India’s freedom; he was politically
very active at Allahabad, then a stronghold of anti-British resistance, thanks to
Motilal Nehru. K.C. Pant is the coolest Sem-ite (yes, he’s from St. Joseph’s, Naini
Tal, Sherwood’s rival school) I’ve ever met. He has a way of talking to you as if you
are his contemporary and equal, which, apart from his obvious stature and intellect, is
one of the many outstanding and endearing things about him. I think he and Father
made a great team in running the organisation.
In 1961, the Chinese attacked and overran Indian positions on the
border. Fighting at heights of 18,000’ and over, the ill prepared, badly equipped
Indian army was savaged by the well-fed and well clad Chinese forces. Father got
regular reports of this conflict, thanks to his trusty radio, and it became an even
closer ally as his men rallied around the set to listen.
Fifty years back, transistor radios were so rare that they were status
symbols, sure-fire conversation pieces. The Mukerji men are boys who love toys,
toys that get costlier as they grow up (thereby meeting the classical definition of the
difference between the two: ‘the only difference between men and boys is that the
toys get costlier’).
In Father’s case, however, his radio and his fishing gear were his only
toys, the car coming much later, when he was over fifty. He liked guns but never
bought a licensable weapon, preferring to enjoy the occasional air gun he bought me.
He was a natural shot, and couldn’t teach me much more than the basics of drawing a
bead on a target. Whatever I learnt in later years I had to pick up on my own from
range practice, books and magazines.
That year, I was in for a terrivle shock when I got home. Father
confessed he had gifted my gun, the old Diana Model 1, to a colleague whose son
wanted it. I couldn’t believe my ears—given my gun away! I never suspected Father
could be so…so underhanded. I was distraught, if that word, normally reserved for
little old ladies in Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes stories, could be applied to a
pre-teen. But you get the drift, don’t you—or do I have to elaborate and say I was
thoroughly pissed off? Whatever! I was struck dumb at Father’s treachery…but
before I could go into depression, Father reached behind his desk and…there was
another gun in his hand, a brand new, Diana Model 16!
What a Dad! What a fantastic, convoluted, crazy way of giving me a
surprise! (He had gifted the gun to Bob Lal, the son of a fellow distiller). I was a very
lucky kid to have a Father like him. I realize that now only too well, seeing that he’s
been gone these many years, especially when I compare my own performance as a
Dad with his. He was not, however, twice the man I am; he was a million times the
man I am…if not more.
Apart from Tika Ram, the bearer and Bailey, the chauffeur, there was
Giridhari, the gardener. He was another Sita Ram mali (of ‘Captaingunj’ fame), very
35
devoted to the garden, what little there was of it—it could hardly compare with the
one we’d had earlier. Giridhari was scandalized when I got a small khurpi (an
indigenous gardening trowel) made for myself at the factory workshop and joined
him in turning over the flowerbeds and flowerpots. But I had to keep myself busy
during the vacations, and gardening was fun, especially as it meant getting dirty, to
Mother’s dismay. We had a vegetable garden outside the perimeter, in the Distillery
enclave, and Giridhari would go over every day and bring fresh vegetables for the
table.
One day, he had a small something in the gamchha (a sort of towel-
cum-kerchief that villagers always sling over one shoulder). He carefully untied the
knot to reveal a baby hare. I daresay, despite of all baby things I’ve encountered—
frogs, tortoises, puppies, lizards, quail, day-old chicks, or even mice—this tiny hare
was the cutest little chap I’d ever seen. A family of hares had been in the vegetable
plot, and had bolted when Giridhari dropped in unannounced, leaving this tyke
behind. But the winter that year was very severe, and the little fellow was just too
small to take it minus his mother. In spite of all our ministrations—heater, hot-water
bottle, warm milk, and cotton wool-lined shoebox—he failed to wake up next
morning. I have lost many a pet, but this one really got to me…I skipped meals the
next day.
**************
Stephania or Bust!
1965, July: Admission-fever time. I have applied only to St. Stephen’s
College, situated in the North Campus. The pardner is now in his third and final year
of B.A. (Hons.), Economics. Dr. Birendra Nath Ganguly, a distant relative, is the
Vice-Chancellor of Delhi University. That doesn’t dispel my nervousness; will St.
Stephen’s take me, or not? My marks aren’t so very hot. Dr. Ganguly has spoken to
Rev. S.C. Sircar about my application, but he knows only merit counts with the soft-
spoken man of principles who is the principal of this famous college. He urges me to
apply in Ramjas, Hindu, and Kirori Mal colleges as well. I refuse his well-meant
advice; it’s St. Stephen’s or nothing for me.
I am barely sixteen years and five months old, scraping past the
minimum age for admission, sixteen, by the skin of my teeth. It is my genuine age,
my date of birth being 28th February 1949. A common practice that many parents
adopt today is to admit a seven-year old child as a five or six year old in nursery class
by producing an affidavit stating a falsified date of birth. The true birth certificate is
by-passed. The child is a year or two older and has a physical, mental and emotional
advantage over other children whose parents have not adopted this ruse. Dad would
never have dreamt of doing such a patently unfair thing. It is obvious to all that I am
as old as it says I am on my school-leaving certificate, a fresh-faced kid, puppy fat,
downy cheeks and all. My chin is innocent of all but the first signs of an adolescent
beard, and has still to feel the razor.
I can afford to take a year off; I don’t mind joining a Social Welfare
outfit or a Wildlife magazine called ‘The Indian Rifleman’, which has already
published a poem of mine called ‘Exploited Earth’. Legendary shikari Anil Deva
Mukerji has read the poem in the magazine without realizing a nephew has written it;
he confesses to a mild curiosity about the author with the same surname as his. He
has not seen me since I was a child. He has forgotten my first name. (Among
Bengalis, the pet name is, for all practical purposes, a person’s real name; the official
one is almost always a tongue twister, an offshoot of the penchant for flowery
elaboration so typical of Bengali culture. It gives those outside Bengal a hard time).
He is willing to put in a word to the Editor on my behalf once he learns
it is but I who wrote the poem he had liked so much. It is raw, callow, stuff, but he
has made appreciative noises about it to Dad. I squirm with embarrassment at praise
from one who was, in his heyday, an ace hunter, marksman, and leading wildlife and
39
ecology expert. (see: ‘Byasghat and Brigadier Chakraborty’). He is an early role
model for me. Though born to wealth, he shuns a life of effete luxury, taking the road
less traveled, following his heart. He was the last of the great shikaris and an
inspiring outdoorsman. I never came even remotely close to duplicating any of his
stupendous achievements. He lives on in the hearts of those who knew him
personally.
St. Stephen’s calls me for the mandatory interview (I think they
probably want to give me the gentle brush-off). It is a depressing day, cloudy and
humid as only a July day in Delhi can be. I miss the heavy, honest downpour of the
Kumaon hills, where it must be raining cats and dogs right now. I can see in my
mind’s eye, as I await my turn on the bench in the waiting room, the muddy rivulets
as they unite into torrents that rush downhill via pukka nullahs which open into Naini
Tal lake, roiling its blue-green waters.
I can see people huddled under the bandstand, lovers taking advantage
of the situation to steal a kiss behind their umbrellas. Colorful raincoats sprout
everywhere. The ubiquitous squelch-squelch of soaked feet inside gumboots is proof
that raingear, no matter how well made, cannot cope with a typical Monsoon
cloudburst in the hills. Memories of Naini Tal assail me; I hate this stuffy place and
this unfamiliar ordeal. I want to walk away. My name is called.
There are only three persons at the table. They introduce themselves.
The one in the center is Rev. Sircar himself. On his right is Mr. R.I. Shankland, on
his left is Rev. William Rajpal, the Dean. Mr. Shankland explains why they can’t
oblige by giving me English Honors: I didn’t have English literature as an elective
subject in the school-leaving examination. I curse myself silently for my pig-headed
masochism in dropping English in favor of Biology, seeing as the school had made
Addl. Maths, Physics, and Chemistry compulsory.
I see the logic behind this later; these subjects stood boys in good stead
when they took competitive examinations such as those of the Services Selection
Board. In those days, a decent percentage of Sherwoodians joined the Forces, some
rising to the highest ranks (like Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw). In both the World
Wars, they covered themselves with glory. In the small chapel is enshrined the roll of
honor, names of ex-Sherwoodians who fell in battle. We read the names with pride;
they inspire us from beyond the grave.
They offer me History (Hons.). I jump at it; not because I love History (I
loathe the subject) but because it means I am in St. Stephen’s. I cannot countenance
joining Hindu College, or any of the others. Best of all, it means the pardner and I
will carry on where we left off, years ago. I sign my acceptance, and after thanks and
a round of welcome and congratulations, I emerge into the corridor thronged with
hopefuls. They crowd around me to find out what the grilling was like. I paint a very
gloomy picture of the ways of the Inquisition. Their apprehension is mirrored on
their faces; these young men really take life very seriously, I think to myself.
40
But then, I am not a young man yet. I feel like a lost and frightened
schoolboy, alone and vulnerable. I spot a familiar face, with a dark shadow of beard,
atop a sturdy, six-foot-one frame. It is..yes, it’s Behram (Varji) Mody, taller and well
filled-out. He is already through (same subject) but has come with a seedy-looking
individual called Ardeshir Dalal. with them is Bobby Vaid, a Sherwoodian who’s
joined the merchant marine, and has tagged along with Varji to check out the famous
institution he has heard about but never seen. I’m feeling better already.
Dad heaves a sigh of relief. Some of his tension dissipates; he has been
under some considerable stress, chain-smoking as usual. He is upset at the loss of his
precious Parker ’51, his favorite pen. Someone borrowed it when we were filing up
the application forms, days earlier, and never bothered to return it. Dad was so tense
he forgot all about it till he got home. But he is pleased that St. Stephen’s has agreed
to give me hostel accommodation, only here, it’s called ‘residence’. Use of the word
‘hostel’ is actively discouraged. I go around to the office to pay the fees.
During the crisis of ‘forms-submission day’, an obviously high official
of the College had terrorized everyone, barking instructions and tongue-lashing
dazed applicants, who cowered meekly before the wrath of The Great Dictator.
Lesser ones, like me, trembled before him. I remember quaking in my shoes (Bata
size 8) with apprehension as I handed over my form to him at the window. He had
imperiously accepted it. I was tempted to touch his feet in gratitude for this small act
of kindness. He, Mr. Rampal, had condescended to personally accept my unworthy
application from my very hands.
Now, as my turn came to part with currency, I froze in terror. It was Mr.
Rampal again. But wait a minute; the board at his counter read ‘Cashier’. I’m afraid I
giggled, the first and the last time I did so within those hallowed precincts. Rampal
was just the office cashier. He had had his day; the reign of terror was simply his
annual ego trip. It was the one day that made up for the rest of his crummy year, I
intuitively sense, a petty clerk who was boss for a few hours, allocated a crumb of
glory to relieve the drudgery of his otherwise probably joyless life. I feel for him. I
address him meekly as ‘Sir’. He glances apprehensively over his shoulder and
quickly counts the money before handing over a receipt, unable to look me in the
eye.
The real boss was Roberts Sahib, a bluff, hearty individual who was a
human computer: I mean it, a human computer who understood the problems of
those who came to him. He was no longer young, not by a long chalk, but he put in a
twelve-hour day, every day except most Sundays. He was a straightforward, God-
fearing man of the old school who quietly demonstrated that work is worship. You
only had to tell him once that you needed such-and-such certificate, or snatch a few
minutes of his precious time to discuss some particularly aggravating problem and
seek his advice.
When you turned up at the appointed time to collect your piece of paper
or to seek the solution to the baffling quandary, it was always ready, endorsed by
41
Rev. Sircar who, quite understandably, reposed complete and absolute faith in him. A
man of few words, Roberts Sahib never seemed to be in a hurry, yet arrears in his
department were quite unheard of. He was a legend, to put it simply. They say no one
is indispensable; quite possible. Those who have known Roberts Sahib can but
wonder how College runs without him, for he is, alas, now no more.
I move into room number G-2, in Rudra North block. (All residential
blocks are named after departed Principals). It is a tiny room, very oddly shaped on
account of the staircase that runs above it to the first floor. There is not enough room
to swing a cat in. I make a mental note not to swing any cats in this here room. The
view from out my window is pleasing but uninspiring, nothing but a stretch of green
lawn. To my eyes, accustomed to the glory of Kumaon, it is little more than a barren
landscape. (In later years, confronted by vast, soul-shriveling expanses of cement
concrete, I belatedly realize what a lovely, soothing view my window offered).
Opposite G-2 are the rooms of Brij Raj Singh, a member of the college
staff. Never before in my life have I heard Hindi spoken with an Oxford accent. But
he is a dear old boy (he is all of thirty-two), a pipe-smoking bachelor, and has the
rather disconcerting habit of blinking his eyes rapidly, REM style. It is a nervous tic.
I find the effects of studying English Literature varying from case to
case. Some are punsters, some metamorphose into dreamy, poetic types. I dismiss
them most of them as pseuds. Some are just plain loony. These I can handle. It’s the
pseuds who get my goat. Brij Raj is all right. He explains to all and sundry that he
doesn’t blink because he likes blinking; he blinks, he says, because he can’t help
blinking. It is a perfectly satisfactory explanation. If a man blinks incessantly because
he can’t help blinking, it shouldn’t be held against him, I feel, letting the matter drop,
once and for all. It is getting a bit too heavy for me.
Rev. Wiliam Rajpal is the Dean. One should not speak ill of the dead,
and I don’t, but I wish he had reached his point of equilibrium by the time I joined
College. I suppose the man was a victim of his own, self-created, identity crisis. It
was strongly rumored that he started life as one Ram Sadan. Then, as he moved up
the ladder of life, the name changed to Ramsdon (probably on conversion). Now he
was known to the world as Willy…ooops! Rev. William Rajpal! To give him his due,
he had obviously worked hard at reinventing himself repeatedly. He was tall, portly
(which accounted for his astounding displacement), apparently erudite (he took
English (Honors) classes), and he had the same vast, bone-marrow-freezing expanse
of bare upper lip as had Bertie Wooster’s Headmaster, the terrifying Aubrey Upjohn,
M.A.
Willy had cultivated an interesting hybrid accent, not quite Oxbridge,
not exactly Stanford, surely not St. Stephen’s…it fell somewhere between these three
stools. And that was the whole problem; it was hard to nail him. It would have driven
a librarian nuts, the task of cataloguing Willy. You didn’t know quite where to put
42
him, so to speak. So you ended up either putting him out of your mind, or putting
him in his place (if you were tired of life in residence, that is).
But someone up there had a soft corner for him. He had a lovely wife
and two attractive young daughters. The eldest, Madhu, grew out of her schoolgirl
awkwardness into a dazzling beauty. She was pardner’s sister’s classmate at Mater
Dei Convent, so one even got to talk to the vision, on rare occasions. Normally,
closely chaperoned by her mother (who knew only too well that girls will be girls and
boys will be boys and ever the twain shall meet), she was out-of-bounds. She was
ultimately carried off by a young (English, if I remember rightly), handsome
diplomatic service officer, and rarely seen except at exotic locales where her husband
was often mysteriously stationed.
There is an old saying that no matter where you go, you’re bound to
bump into a Stephanian. Vivid reports of Madhu Rajpal sightings by globetrotting
Stephanians continued to trickle into India as late as the ‘80’s. She had been spotted
at a nightclub in Rio, she was seen at Las Vegas, she had met someone in Cannes.
She was even lovelier than before; western dresses suited her tall frame and the
classic hourglass figure. Man, that’s one dream babe the Stephanians of my
generation aren’t going to forget in a hurry.
Willy succeeded Rev. S.C. Sircar as Principal of St. Stephen’s. The
elevation mellowed him and broadened his mind; there’s nothing like exposure to
challenges to bring out the best in a man. Willy did himself and the Board proud; he
surpassed himself. Beckett-like, he grew into the high post that life had given him,
and, by all reports, he did a rather good job. He changed, becoming receptive to
constructive criticism, adopting something akin to a democratic form of functioning
absolutely unthinkable during his tenure as Dean. He relaxed his strict control over
his daughters, allowing them more freedom. I heard later that he went on to a
distinguished tenure as Principal of St. Stephen’s College. I have no problems with
that. Why should I? He had served College well; that was enough, as far as I was
concerned. The Lord rest his soul and give it peace.
The Head of the Department of History is Professor E.R. Kapadia, a
short, typically Parsi gentleman with atrocious French pronunciation. Since he taught
European History, which seemed to me, between bouts of day-dreaming during his
dreary classes, as being all about France (“Mukerji, did you hear what I just said?”
“Er…sorry, no Sir: could you please repeat it?” “Well, as I was saying, when France
sneezes, Europe catches cold.” “Ha ha ha, excellent, Sir!”) I can’t bring myself to be
rougher with the lovable old boy; his son, Farrukh, is an Old Sherwoodian, four
classes above me. It’s his old, yellowed notes, which he constantly consults, that
send shivers up and down my spine. I realize that European History must be really
history, when the notes he’s lecturing to us from are themselves history.
One day, a prankster with a sense of history breaks into Professor
Kapadia’s office and removes the aged notes, no doubt giving them a decent, well-
deserved cremation (they are never recovered). Professor Kapadia (Kaps) suffers a
43
nervous breakdown; he has taught from those beloved notes for thirty years. He
cannot function without them. Farrukh probably comes to the rescue, passing him his
own notes. Kaps resumes classes. We notice a change in the tone of the lectures; they
are better constructed, more analytical. Best of all, the old, stale jokes are gone. In
our final year, a new Kaps greets us. He is barely recognizable. He has spent the
winter in the south of France, where Farrukh (now in the foreign service) is posted.
He spouts French at the drop of a hat, waxes eloquent on French wines and the Great
Impressionists, and sports Hawaiian beach shirts. It all takes a bit of getting used to.
France has a way of doing things to people; I’ve never met anyone who
came away unchanged from Paris. I adore people who know, and speak, French. To
me, it is the world’s most sophisticated language, with Punjabi at the opposite end of
the linguistic spectrum. Both have their uses. The latter is an excellent safety valve in
Delhi traffic, I discover, after I get the hang of a few choice phrases. Unfortunately,
my French does not extend much further than “Enchante, Mam’selle” and “Merci
beaucoup.” I have no gift for languages, and finally decide to give the Gallic tongue a
wide berth. I remain a hill-billy at heart, a sucker for dazzling, brainy babes good at
French…the language, I mean.
Kap’s classes now become quite popular. The episode of the stolen
notes and his visit to France gave a fresh lease of life to his sagging career and God
knows what else. The average marks scored by his students begin to show an upward
trend. Kaps takes to the Coffee House circuit, (an unprecedented development for
him: he used to be rather stuffy and conservative) where he continues to hold forth
(minus notes of any sort). It is touching to see a man with a resurrected, revitalized
career. But there is another cause for his sudden rise in popularity; Homai, his
attractive teenage daughter, aka Dolly. Dolly has bloomed overnight. Many of the
guys are crazy about her. I think she knows this, with the age-old wisdom of Eve.
There are three other girls on the Stephen’s campus; Doc Ghose’s
daughter, Lolita, an intellectual type who has her own circle of admirers, Mr. Prem
Chand’s daughter, Saran Prabha, an extroverted, hyper-intelligent type who has the
guts to ask guys out for movies. She is excellent company. And lastly, there is Deepa
Bhalla, daughter of late Professor Bhalla. She is a quiet beauty, slim, tall, and
shapely. She looks more like Waheeda Rahman than Waheeda Rehman herself. I
confess to admiring her shyly from a distance.
Later, I learn that her suitors are legion. I don’t know how he did it, but
one Suresh Sharma woos and wins her. He is one of those rakish, dissipated-looking,
Kohlapuri-shod, jhola-slinging, Coffee House hangout types, one or two classes
before me. He smokes Charminars with an abstracted, philosophical air. He leaves
the university with a brace of thirds under his belt, the hallmark of the true-blue
pseudo-intellectual. This species encounters such heavy weather in coping with the
rugged demands made on them by pseudo-intellectualism that they have no time left
for studies (which, in any case, is infra dig for a pseud).
44
It is a wonderful world to be plunged into. There is, of course, the
ragging and lots more besides, but do you think it can wait? It’s time for dinner, and
if you are late you have to catch the eye of Prof. Stephen Charles Francis Pierson,
dining alone at the High Table, and bow your apology to him. He composes one
outrageous Grace after another, my all-time favorite being “Daily, Lord, we’re
getting thinner: Could it be this lovely dinner?”…. Amen!
**************
A Freshman in Stephania
“You will be mercilessly ragged,” Dr. B.N. Ganguly is warning me. “So
what?” I reply. My retort is unintentionally rude, a result of bravado at the coming
ordeal, with all its promised horrors. I bid my parents good-bye. As the black
ambassador with Bailey at the wheel rolls off, I am reminded of another day, way
back in March, 1957,when I bade them goodbye in similar fashion as I prepared to
settle down to life at Sherwood. I was only eight then: I am over sixteen now, nearly
a man, but the old lump returns, unbidden, to my throat. To divert my mind, I unpack
and settle down.
There is thunderous knocking at the door. “All freshers line up in the
lawn outside.” The ferocious voice belongs to a bull-necked, tousle-haired goon with
wide gaps between his tombstone teeth. A mean bruiser, if ever I saw one. Reminds
me of Ernest Borgnine. His belly looks soft, though; ‘a hard, low right punch,
straight-armed, to the solar plexus, full bodyweight behind the blow, then dance
away, jabbing with the left, in case he has the wind left to follow. Alternatively, you
can try a left uppercut if he folds—remember to bend your knees as the glove comes
up, then snap them straight just before impact, to add body-weight; remain focused
on his chin’…Thapa’s voice rings in my ears. No, this is not the boxing ring at
Sherwood, it cannot be done, this is a ritual, going back to pre-historic times when
the young, would-be warriors are ‘blooded’. I join the queue of sacrificial lambs.
(‘Borgnine’ is later to be revealed as Vik Atal, one of the jolliest blokes going. It’s
just as well as I didn’t try anything funny, though; he is as tough as they come. He’d
probably have taken me out in seconds. Besides, it’s just not done).
An hour of reciting, and acting out our favorite nursery rhymes, follows.
I guffaw at the antics I see all around me. The bruiser is not amused. He complains
loudly, in a martyred tone, that this is one hell of a fresh Fresher. No matter how
rough the ragging gets, I just can’t help enjoying it; it shows, to his consternation. I
seem to be a first, for him. He’s determined to sort me out. When the others are
through, he selects ten of us, myself among them, and marches us off to his room (in
Rudra South, I think it was). Calisthenics follow: routine stuff for a Sherwoodian, but
some of the guys don’t see much point in endless deep-knee bends while clutching
one’s ears in a crossover hold.
45
We are told to lie down on the floor, one atop the other. The pile of
bodies is unstable, as heaving chests labor for air. Fresher pressure, our tormentor
gleefully calls it. I am second from the bottom. Between the hard floor and me is a
slight frame, bespectacled and of scholarly mien. I feel sorry for him (the world
knows him later as Dr. Arvind Narain Das, Gold Medallist in B.A. (History Hons.), a
genuine intellectual and prominent Leftist thinker/ writer, and the author of many
books including The Republic of Bihar [Penguin]. His sudden demise in August 2000
leaves an army of friends and admirers shocked and deeply grieved).
Two cricketing types hi-jack us from Borgnine. From frying pan to fire!
One is a thickset, gray-eyed fella with wiry forearms who reminds me of Charles
Bronson. The other is a slim, Hugh Grant-type with a comma over his right eye, like
Bond in Dr. No. He would have been handsome had he not pasted that bored,
cynical expression on his face (it’s a façade, I see later---he is the legendary Michael
Dalvi—his partner is the equally famous Pradeep ‘Bablu’ Bhide, an opening batsman
of a class Stephen’s rarely sees). The lawns are flooded ankle-deep; the deadly duo
make us ‘swim’ two lengths of a pool—naturally, the smart fellow who decided to do
the Dolphin finished miles ahead of the rest—he just stretched out, then dragged his
knees his up to his chest, then stretched out again---and so on. Funniest sight is
Giddy (James Gideon), doing the crawl: he thrashes about for half-an-hour at exactly
the same spot.
We are bedraggled, grass-stained, thoroughly soaked. The two heartless
hooligans march us off to where they’ve lost their hearts---Miranda House. Here, at
the boundary wall, we present impromptu versions of the Romeo and Juliet balcony
scene---on the road. Judging by the cheers and the titters from the jam-packed
windows, the performance is highly appreciated by a knowledgeable audience.
Traffic crawls. Shakespeare seems to be highly popular with the Kingsway Camp
dadas, turned out in full strength; now we have one audience trying to outdo the
other in cheers, jeers, catcalls, and wolf-whistles. Things are getting slightly out of
control; we are marched off in the pairs, holding our partners up close and personal.
The applause is deafening. We are mere cannon fodder; we have but served our
purpose. Body language (at our cost) has done what words have failed to do. (The
deadly duo connects unerringly, later on, with their respective heart-stealers).
We are now marched off to the College café and treated to a gargantuan
meal of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and mince chops. Introductions follow, the
signal that our battered bunch has earned the right to live in Stephania, as far as the
going concern of Mike & Bablu are concerned. Henceforth, we are invited to resort
to nicknames when addressing them, equals in a land where we are more equal than
the vast, unwashed multitudes of the outside world. It is a never-never land that, once
left, we will never, never again encounter, though we will search for it all our lives.
A word about the café. The St.Stephen’s café, at first glance, looks
somewhat run-down and frayed at the edges. It is situated indoors. Two spring-
loaded wire-mesh doors (which later prove to be portals to a paradise of rare
46
gastronomic delights) afford ingress to a large room (about 25’x 25’), with a split-
counter on the left leading to the alchemist’s alcove (the kitchen). There are about a
dozen tables with four or five cane chairs set at each, and there is no music or
carpeting. It is well ventilated, however, so cigarette smoke is not a problem. There
are ceiling fans whirring away overhead, and the walls and ceiling are whitewashed.
That’s all. It is a man’s kind of place.
But first-time visitors learn that appearances can be very deceptive. For
in this hallowed place are available the best scrambled-eggs-on-buttered-toast, mince
chops, and shikanji (sweet-lime) in the world. The wizards responsible for these
wonders are known to the faithful as Dolly and Shelley (although it is rumored that
their secret identities are Daulat Singh and Shailendra Singh). They never reveal their
secrets, handed down from sorcerer to sorcerer; for decades, foreign powers have
sent agents/ moles to steal the magic recipes. They return empty-handed, including
one Zia ul Haq, who, in spite of graduating from Stephania, fails to lay his hands on
the secret formula. His frustration ultimately turns to belligerence. It’s a case of
tortured taste buds. We, the cognoscenti, understand.
It is common currency that Ian Fleming thought up Blades for Bond and
his boss, ‘M’, and P.G. Wodehouse invented the Drone’s Club for the Last Of The
Woosters, after sampling the atmosphere and fare of the café we had just left. We
know for a certainty that the outside world, large though it is, will never be able to
satisfy our palates, at least as far as the items we have just gorged on are concerned.
They will remain a mirage to tantalize and madden our spouses, whose culinary skills
will be put to the ultimate test and found wanting. Breakfast, it is said, is the time
when the Stephanian, married and addicted to scrambled-eggs-on-toast, is on his
shortest fuse. Ambrosia, alas, is only available on Olympus… not in Eden.
Under the shade of the large, leafy Neem tree outside the café sits
Sukhia (he has been there for as long as anyone can remember). He is a Barfi and
samosa specialist, and that’s all he stocks. The quantity is limited, but the quality is
not. After sampling Sukhia’s wares, from which the aroma of homemade ghee wafts
like a cloud, attracting swarms of bees (a sure sign of purity, Agmark or no), one
becomes rather suspicious of other mithai-wallahs. One complainant, unhappy about
the shrinking size of the Barfis, is silenced by the acerbic observation that he himself
is but an etiolated, effete version of his father… a grand gentleman who was never
heard complaining. Just thinking about Sukhia’s offerings, not merely the edible
variety, makes me salivate, even after all these years.
Ominous news: the annual ‘Miss Fresher’ contest is scheduled for the
coming Saturday. But before that, one has to be blessed by the ‘Blacksmith’. This
mysterious deity turns out to be the huge water-cooler opposite the notice board. The
exact reasons for this nomenclature are lost in antiquity. Suffice it to say that every
Fresher has to make obeisance before, and swear fealty to, this icon. Then he has to
recite the Blacksmith’s Song; recite, because the score has been misplaced ages ago,
and no Stephanian, not even venerable Khushwant Singh or the brothers Bharat Ram
47
Charat Ram, can recollect the tune. I once even asked Dr. Karni Singh of Bikaner,
ace marksman and Olympian, but he couldn’t recollect any tune, either.
The lyrics compensate, in large measure, for the lost music. They are
full of earthy wisdom, imparting deep insights into certain aspects of general
anatomy. They provide the wet-behind-the-ears Fresher a vivid glimpse into a murky
world of human predilections, even as they inspire research into an esoteric area of
mechanical engineering. Unfortunately, certain laws of the land, common to civilized
societies, come in the way of my reproducing them here. In any case, I do not wish to
be drummed out of the Old Stephanians’ Society for committing a breach of faith.
Like the Rosicrucians, I am only allowed to externalize the mantra on select
occasions (viz. Stephanian get-togethers), linking arms with my fellows and hollering
it at the top of my baritone, while the foam froths down the sides of my beer-mug.
The magic chant, it is said, has the power to rejuvenate, to roll back the years as it
were. It works.
The Blacksmith is the logo on the masthead of the college fortnightly,
Kooler Talk, aka KT (or Katy, for short, not to be confused with Katy Mirza, she of
the good-old Dolly Parton school of BOOBS [Birds Or Other Beasts Savory]
representing a laissez-faire approach to promoting and popularizing abundant natural
resources as tourist attractions, i.e., before Dolly’s entirely unwarranted ‘surgical
rationalization’ of said abundant assets—which triggers off a global hue-and-cry
against the criminal vandalization of an international, UN-certified cultural heritage
site. It is Sanjeev Misra, breathing fire and brimstone at my appalling GK, who fills
me in on this vital bit of information during a tough ragging session from which I
emerge with the distinct impression that nothing I know is worth knowing). Phew!
KT claims to print all the talk that’s kool to print. It is a trendsetter, a
breeding ground of many future writers and journalists. The captions and headlines
are often over three decades ahead of their time: even the snappy bold-print of
today’s newspapers is hard-pressed to match the best of KT. It is unique, presented in
esoteric idiom for a select audience, not unlike The New Yorker or The Field (both of
which are available in the reading room, rubbing shoulders with Punch, TIME, The
New Statesman, National Geographic and The Economist. I freak out. ) Illustrious
names have figured on the editorial page; I can remember Arvind Das’s name on it
vividly. As a wit that wagged full-time, only one K. Doraiswamy (passed out,
unfortunately, before I joined) – better known as ‘Doray’—is said to equal Arvind’s
stature as Editor of KT.
A trio hauls me away from the reading room. One is Yashwant Sahai
(son of Ram Sahai, IAS, an old friend of Dad’s from his army days). His fellow
inquisitors are a surd who is an ex- Sherwoodian a year my senior, who therefore
grins and takes a back seat. The other is one who finally reveals himself as Deepak
Dhawan, only the D’s and P’s come out as ‘Fr’s’ on account of some acoustical
aberration; my interpretation of his name, therefore, is highly confusing.
48
The last of the threesome is a short, barrel-chested, rubicund roundhead
with sparse brown hair and an infectious grin. He finds out I am a Sherwoodian like
his surd friend. I am grilled mercilessly about C.S Bedi’s (for that is the sardarji’s
monicker) school record. Fortunately, it is quite outstanding, so I have little difficulty
in remembering; besides, he was my House Captain. In an inspired moment, I even
recollect the full version—Chiranjiv Singh—a rare occurrence, since only surnames
are used in Sherwood. My ex-chief grins proudly at my tormenters, and pulls them
off me. I have got myself a staunch ally from the past. He lets it be known that I am
an old friend. The ragging begins to abate.
The barrel-chested one is Lawrence Rydquist (“Just call me Larry”), a
rock-hard boxer-type from St. Xavier’s, Hazaribagh. He is an irrepressible jokester,
who loves it when the joke’s on him (which it often is: no one can resist kidding
Larry. If I were a girl, I’d probably describe him as ‘cute’). One thing I notice is that
ragging is a fantastic icebreaker; we come to know each other intimately, even to the
point of often remembering, for the rest of our lives, which school the other fellow
went to. Snobbish? I don’t think so, merely someone else’s personal details, long
remembered, and very flattering to a friend…a bond-enhancer if ever there was one.
Stephania, I discover, is a tiny country in the clouds where everyone knows everyone
else well nigh inside out.
A burly figure with a powerful, metallic voice commandeers me and
marches me off to his room in Allnutt South. The shelves groan under the weight of
myriad classics. He has a profound knowledge of Shakespeare; I am grilled on
Laertes and Ophelia, Lear and Mercutio. I have to recite the Seven Ages of Man. The
aristocratic figure nods without comment at my fumbling attempts to match the range
and daunting sweep of the questions flung at me. He exudes confidence and
authority: his erudition is scary. He seems to be a throwback to some senator of
Roman times, a patrician type born to sway the masses. I, a mere stripling of a
freshman, am awed. He starts looking bored, asks me to name any ‘difficult’ word I
can think of. If he doesn’t know the meaning, I am off the hook. I come up with
“Hector”. His eyes twinkle (relief? amused pride?). He insists it’s a proper noun, a
character from Ovid. “From Homer, Sir”, I correct him. “Ah, yes, Homer. The Iliad,
of course.” That twinkle again: he is toying with me. “But what does it mean,
fresher? It has no meaning.”
“It has, Sir,” I protest, “it means ‘to bully’.” He asks me to look it up for
him from the dictionary on the shelf. I locate the word and present the evidence. He
reads it with satisfaction. “Bully for you, Fresher. Good going.” He is genuinely
appreciative. (But why the pride in my performance? Simply because, I see in a flash
of prescience, he is a born leader and motivator). “By the way, call me Kapil, as in
‘Kapil Sibal’”, he says, as he shakes my hand, the signal that the ragging session is
over.
I have just met Stephania’s legendary orator, Shakespearean actor non-
pareil, and a great gentleman. No production of the justly-famous Shakespeare
49
Society of St. Stephen’s College is ever complete without him; he is Hamlet, he
Julius Caesar, he is King Lear, he is Romeo, he is Henry II, he is a hundred
characters from other plays like ‘Rhinoceros’; he is history come to life in living
literature. In a word, he is unforgettable. In time, he becomes the leading lawyer of
India’s Supreme Court of Justice, the first Indian non-parliamentarian to address both
Houses of Parliament, to finally himself sit in the Upper House and go on to a cabinet
post. He achieves fame and fortune through sheer merit and honest toil, quietly
accepting the respon-sibal-ities he was pre-destined to carry across his massive
shoulders. A fine Indian it was my privilege to have met in my formative years.
How can I possibly take the names of all the great men with whom I had
the privilege of breaking bread with in Stephania? Today, if I recount their names, it
will seem as if I, an unknown Stephanian, am attempting to shine in their reflected
glory by mentioning illustrious names in my little book. But I have mentioned so
many who, great men all, are not in the public eye, that I do these stalwarts an
injustice by omitting to mention them merely because they are already newsworthy.
How about Suman Dubey, tall, serious, bearded, very fit as per the requirement of his
hobby: mountaineering. A brilliant student, who plays a key role in the Ministry of
Finance and Planning Commission? Or Siddharth Kak, film-maker and theatre
personality extraordinary?
Sanjit ‘Bunker’ Roy, fresh-faced and energetic, keeping a very low
profile despite being the Indian squash racquets champion (1969) and undoubtedly
one of the all-time greats of the game, who has become a legend thorough his social
service organization in Tilonia, a remote little village in Rajasthan that he has
transformed by his pioneering efforts? How about Roshan Seth, famous thespian?
Mighty Manjit Singh, now a top gun in the Audits & Accounts Department? Rajeev
Sethi, India’s Czar of Culture, always in the dailies whenever avant-garde is news?
Maybe Rana Talwar, sharpshooter turned Banking mogul? Top bureaucrat Ajit
Jadhav? Kabir Bedi? Shakti Maira? Charan Das Arha? Gobinder ‘Goofy’ Singh?
Kiran Rai? Nirupam Sen? Naren Belliappa? Badal Roy? Nirmal Andrews? Shiv
Shankar Menon? Cricketers like Ashok Gandotra, and cousins Jeevan and Sheel
Mehra? Media personalities Suraj and Chander Rai? If I let my mind freewheel any
more I’ll run out of paper. The corridors of power, the media, the creative arts are
where you find the best of Stephania; no matter where you go, you are bound to
bump into a Stephanian!
Ragging is banned in Delhi’s colleges today. In recent years, the influx
of undesirable elements (often said to be politically-sponsored) into the university,
has given it a bad name. Excesses, in the name of, and under the guise of, ragging,
have had serious repercussions of a law-and-order nature. Ragging, too, apparently,
therefore, carried within itself the seeds of its own demise: it just needed the right
socio-economic conditions to ignite the fuse (see “A Farewell to Arms.”). With its
passing, a whole new generation will step out into life after an insipid, uninspiring
experience of passively joining an institution, studying for examinations, and passing
50
out, without ever having known the euphoria of close friendship and intimacy, the
stuff that esprit de corps is fashioned from.
It was not elitism, it was not a bourgeois tradition, it was simply a great
way for young people, who would otherwise have remained closed doors to each
other, to function effectively as a group and make the most of college life. It helped
forge lasting bonds that served them well throughout life, the sap of the ‘Old Boy’
network that sustained and supported the ever-growing edifice. It was a golden
opportunity for developing inter-personal skills that enabled one to better endure, and
perhaps cope with, the inanities and pettiness that life in the great, big world outside
would be found to be brimming with.
If the other name of Stephania was Utopia, ragging served the useful
purpose of helping one keep firmly in touch with terra firma. No ‘five-pointer’ (five
points are the highest possible marks in the inversely-structured marks-sheet system
of the Indian School Certificate Examination) ever got shorter shrift than the one
Stephania gave him. It chastened the proud and uplifted the meek and the modest. It
taught one how to stiffen the spine in the face of apparently hostile elements, to laugh
at oneself and at life, and perhaps inspired solutions that enabled one to win over an
opponent.
It smoothed-out the rough edges, buffed by a hoary tradition driven by
peer-pressure. Many an intractable rough-diamond departed as an exquisite brilliant
whose fine-cut facets reflected the fire that burned brightly within. It also served to
raise lasting mental memorials to friends never seen, met, or heard from again.
Young people today, I feel, are much the poorer for its passing.
*********
Men are given to celebration; they love spectacle, and so they are
always on the lookout for a spectacular way of celebrating something by whatever
means appear to be appropriate. This could help explain victory processions,
seasonal festivals, fertility rites, or even the ritualistic changing of the guard at a
certain palace on a certain foggy little isle. The Romans fed the early Christians to
lions, and gladiators killed each other for the crowd’s benefit, morituri salutamus
and all that. Heathens danced around the Maypole or offered human sacrifices to
Ba’al. Rome countered with Bacchanalian orgies and Vestal virgins. The Greeks
answered with their Olympic games.
Stephania has its Miss Fresher’s Night. I use the present tense because I
haven’t bothered to check whether the event that marked the peak as well as the
51
culmination of ragging, has managed to survive to the present day. Probably not, for
—horror of horrors—there are now real, live females in Stephania, in residence, to
boot!
Who, and under the evil influence of what, allowed this to come about, I
do not know nor do I care to find out. Post mortems do not interest me particularly.
All I know is that sacrilege has been perpetrated. No more will the likes of Jainder
Singh or Jitu Gohain crawl out of bed after a night’s revels and stagger to breakfast
just in time to beat the 9.00 AM deadline. No one cared to remark on their
grumpiness, their unshaved cheeks, their tousled hair or the crumpled pyjamas. It was
all part of their personae. With femme fatales around, there will never again be any
more genuine Jainders and Jitus. Sad.
Incidentally, Jainder’s room was a true work of spontaneous modern art:
it always looked as it was meant to look: a Daliesque 3-D mural created by a
wayward Texas tornado that had sucked up books, old newspapers, notes, tutorials,
back issues of Playboy, sundry items of attire and toilet articles and, after mixing
them thoroughly, had scattered them in surreal confusion all over the room. Such
wonders will have passed forever from the sight of men, for females have overrun the
last frontier. Stephania will never be the same again, RIP.
All this foregoing is, naturally, part and parcel of my argument as to
why the memory of the original, annual Miss Fresher’s Contest is even more
meaningful from a historical point of view. With so many misses joining as freshmen
(which paradox makes the muddle all the more hideous), how could there be a Miss
Fresher? There would have to be a Master Fresher as well, a title hardly euphonic or
even logical, a ridiculous exercise in futility. Nevertheless, let us return to the golden
days when men were men and the only sex (meaning ‘gender’ ahem! Of course, there
are a few notable exceptions: see “Stephania or Bust!”) resident in College.
Now, given Man’s propensity for celebrating at the drop of a bra…
sorry, hat (see how rattled I am with all this females-in-College bit), the Miss
Fresher’s Annual Contest was a BIG ONE! Here, half-a-dozen freshmen of tender
years, whose lack of fully-developed secondary sexual characteristics, viz., facial
hair, etc., and smooth complexions which, apparently, were entirely due to copious
use of Lux soap—the creator of Fair & Lovely cream was in diapers then, and
unable to play an active role—were cosmetically metamorphosed into transvestites
for a night, ersatz women to be pitted against each other for the title.
Rules of the arena were followed; thumbs down meant the participant
was axed, whilst the loudest whistles, cheers, and obvious unanimity of the experts in
the crowd of seniors automatically threw up a winner. The object of the whole
exercise, I suspect, was to prove, over and over again, how right Tennyson was when
he wrote:
“Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match’d with mine,
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine---”
52
A panel of seniors whittled the field down to about ten contestants, some
of whom were Benjamin Gilani (Eng. Hons.), Dennis Michael Joseph (Eng. Hons.),
Rajiv Sethi (Hist. Hons.), Barun Lal Barua (Phy. Hons.), Saket Mohan (Hist. Hons.),
and…to my dismay…the undersigned (also Hist. Hons.)! Costumes were designed
and re-designed; make-up men practiced feverishly, while certain light-fingered
fellows were commissioned as ‘cosmetics and accessories suppliers’.
Sisters, mothers, and even girlfriends must have complained bitterly
about choice goodies that mysteriously vanished overnight from vanity cases and
lingerie drawers. The venue, as usual, was the JCR (the Junior Combination Room—
a classic bit of convoluted nomenclature so typical of Stephania). It was, as its name
deliciously hints, the recreation room. It had a music room equipped with a state-of-
the-art stereo record player-amplifier-speaker system, ably supported by about three
dozen or so LP’s (which meant ‘Long Playing’ records, designed to be played on a
turn-table set to rotate at 33 ⅓ RPM (revolutions per minute). There were caroms,
and a table-tennis table that saw a lot of action. And there was the television set.
In the early sixties, television was a novelty. In The Beginning was
Doordarshan (a single channel, thankfully), which dished out sundry garbage for
viewers to take or to leave; a monopoly, I believe it’s called. I’m sure that, for most
people, ownership of a TV set was just a personal statement, more of a status symbol
than a real source of entertainment or enlightenment (some things never change---it
still is, only the sets grow more sophisticated with each passing year, with
manufacturers adding a plethora of features in competitive desperation, features that
few users either need or know how to use).
DD’s signature tune gave me the creeps, as it still does. Imagination has
never been DD’s strong point. Creativity was an optional extra…a novelty
discouraged in State-sponsored outfits. Images were fuzzy, studio subjects poorly lit
and composed, and sound quality was terrible even if one had the premium, up-
market, State-owned (naturally!) Uptron brand (which we did). At that moment,
however, I was deeply thankful that the event was not being recorded for telecast.
DD was a staunch follower of Henry Ford I; customers could have any
color of image, as long as it was black. White was thrown in for free, a value-
addition that did not go unappreciated by the novo cognoscenti, the new breed of TV
couch potatoes. If white failed to appear at times, no one complained; one doesn’t
look a gift horse in the mouth, does one? It speaks volumes for the human penchant
for novelty, that large numbers of the image-hungry (and image-conscious, too, it
may be said) residents sat around the set, deeply absorbed in the miasma it spewed
forth.
My life-long aversion for The News, going back to the early days of
valve radio-sets, was given a fresh lease of life by the fiendish new torture of a
captive audience devised by DD. A newscaster called Salma Sultan was the only
audio-visual guaranteed to please. The sole program worth watching (at least as far
as I was concerned) was a pot-pourri of global happenings called “Mirror of the
53
World”, anchored by Prakash Mirchandani. He was succeeded by Kabir Bedi, who
did an equally splendid job.
I was pleasantly surprised to find Kabir in College. He was a
Sherwoodian two years my senior, a serious, intellectual type with a physique like
that of a Greek God who did his bit on the sports field with determination if not
always with distinction. His mind seemed to be on higher things, even then. The
Gods had smiled on Kabir, blessing him with the amazing good looks and boyish
charm that remain with him today. He accepted the gift of manly beauty graciously if
somewhat absent-mindedly, never really conscious of it or hamstrung by it. He was,
and is, in essence, a person of the spirit.
It was all the more galling for me to find that in his final year, I had, by
some lucky fluke, equaled his marks in the senior school General Knowledge
examination. To make matters worse, my being two years his junior meant I got two
handicap points by way of weightage, which landed the prize, so deservedly his, in
my clumsy hands. I could never really look Kabir in the eye for a long time after this.
He was unfazed; prizes mattered little to him. He was after Life itself, and the Grand
Prize it awards its devotees. As we all know, he got it…after Sandokan, he never
looked back. No one ever deserved success more, especially because it did not spoil
him; it simply added even more depth and texture to what was already a masterpiece.
It is said of Paul Baumer that he fell on a day that was so sleepily
uneventful that, in dispatches, it was tersely dismissed as being ‘All quiet on the
Western Front.’ Miss Fresher’s day could have matched Paul Baumer’s last one,
dispatch for dispatch—till darkness fell, that is. Then all hell broke loose, as they say
in Westerns. In the music room, temporarily converted into a field greenroom, the
contestants were being readied by their trainers and make-up artists to charm (and
calm) the yelling, stamping, whistling savages outside. Bets flew thick and fast as to
whose ‘horse’ would win, for each contestant had a ‘sponsor’.
Behind the scenes, bottles of war paint were all over the place. Lipstick
of all the garish shades possible to imagine were being thickly coated on lips, and eye
shadow seemed to be in more in vogue in Stephania than in Vogue itself. As we, the
miserable few who’d qualified for this particularly testing ordeal for reasons beyond
our control were being readied for the ramp, the impatient hooligans outside raised a
clamor fit to raise the dead. Even through the haze of misery that seemed to envelope
me (for I was, and had always been, unmistakably hetero in my inclinations…drag
was abhorrent to me), I seem to remember that I put my foot down when it came to
having my legs shaved. D.M. Patel, in school, was rather particular about his legs,
but I was no transvestite. I resisted strongly; so strongly, in fact, that my sponsor
backed off: a last-minute substitute was impossible to arrange.
And so it was that I walked the ramp (I felt I was walking the plank) in a
grass skirt, stuffed bra, and Hawaiian slippers. I was meant to sashay down the
catwalk doing the hula. Unshaved legs under grass skirts are hardly the stuff that
turns a crowd on. When the legs do the Camel’s Walk (for some unknown reason,
54
this came to me naturally), and hips gyrate Elvis Presley fashion, boos and jeers are
but natural.
A somewhat prominent set of trapezius and triceps muscles also does
nothing for the male libido, ditto for a tell-tale bulge in the nether regions. Excellent
make-up (I have to admit I looked rather fetching in the wig) notwithstanding, I got a
standing---er, what’s the antonym of ‘ovation’?
Wodehouse, as lost as I am here, uses the term ‘bird’. The disappointed
hooligans gave me the bird in no uncertain fashion. Boos and hoarse cries of
thwarted passion rebounded from the rafters. I was hastily recalled by those in event
management. In the ultimate analysis, natural talent will always win hands down.
Rajiv had it…in spades. Possessed of sharp, attractive features, a
smooth, dusky complexion, wavy hair, large, soulful eyes with lashes to match, he
was tall, slim, and walked with a lissome grace that would have given many a
Mirandian a complex. The crowd went wild…and the title was his.
Even today, he is a very handsome man. Age has bypassed him, but not
fame, and his thick, black hair is as lustrous as ever. He dominates the country’s
cultural scene, a highly creative artist and visionary and India’s globe-trotting
cultural ambassador. Rajni…oops! I mean ‘Rajiv’, has countless friends among the
Bold and the Beautiful of the world, one of them being his long-time chum Bianca
Jagger.
And to think that we endured history lectures together, breathing the
same air and yawning at the same lousy jokes! What strange bedfellows doth Fate
bring together.
**********
Postscript: After college, I got myself a Jawa, but it felt all wrong, and I
switched to another make; mere transportation minus transport. I realized, sadly, that
a song is nothing without the singer.
*******
Or consider this:
“At the end of many births, the man of wisdom takes refuge in Me,
realizing that Vasudeva is all that is. Rare indeed is that great soul.” …verse 19, ibid.
Or this:
“And whatever is the seed of all beings, that am I, O Arjuna. There is no
being, whether moving or unmoving that can exist without Me.”…verse 39, chapter
X.
Or this:
“All this universe is pervaded by Me in My unmanifested form; all
beings exist in Me, but I do not abide in them” …verse 4 chapter IX.
Or this (I could go on and on, for the Gita is like that, sheer intoxication):
“I am the Self, O Gudakesa, seated in the hearts of all beings. I am the
beginning, the middle and also the end of all beings.”...verse 20 chapter X.
It was Palti Menon, a year senior to me in College and an ace long-
distance runner, who told me of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, and urged me to read
him. Of course, I didn’t…we usually avoid reading something we are strongly urged
to read; at least, I’m like that, stupid cuss that I am. I like to feel my way to a book
instinctively, even stumble across it serendipitously, rather than be goaded into
reading it. I must have missed many great books because of this unfortunate tendency
of mine. But at the same time, I also have a sneaking suspicion that a great book is
57
lying in wait for me on the path ahead; it will come to me when I am ready for it.
And so it was with Paramhansa Yogananda’s ‘Autobiography of a Yogi’: urged to
read it ever since college days, it was fated that I finally buy a copy (from a second-
hand bookshop) in the closing year of the 20th century. And then I remembered
Teilhard…and connected.
Nature, apparently seized of the tragedy of Man’s lamentable short-
sightedness, occasionally relents; born are men who, while assiduously pursuing their
vocation, have the gift of another vision, enabling them to pierce the mundane and
intuit a Greater Scheme operating behind the apparently chaotic disorder of the
cosmos. They are men of a different breed, marching to the beat of another drummer,
for whom the ordinary little things dovetail into a larger vision of Reality that enables
them to transcend the illogic of the Human Predicament and see in it a credible,
logical symmetry. Such a man was Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.
Teilhard, born in France on May 1, 1881, was the son of a gentleman
farmer, and joined the Jesuit order when he was 18. He was ordained a priest in
1911, and chose to serve through World War I as a stretcher-bearer instead of taking
up the safer, but perfectly acceptable, duties of regimental chaplain. His valor under
enemy fire earned him the highest military decoration France can offer, the coveted
‘Legion of Honour’. It was already clear that Teilhard was cast in a different mould.
After the war, his early interest in geology progressed from paleontology to
paleoanthropology, in a striking parallel to Charles Darwin. Marooned in China
(where his interests in paleontology and geology had drawn him repeatedly since
1923) during the World War II years of 1939 to 1945, a virtual prisoner, he
astonished the world by the major role he played in the discovery of ‘Beijing Man’,
(Sinanthropus pekinensis), the fossil remains of a hominid carbon-dated to be about
350,000 years old, now reclassified within the Homo erectus group of Early Man.
Education, it has been said, is what remains after learning has been
forgotten. But Teilhard, a true empiricist, exercised his considerable erudition as he
went about his seminary, geological, and paleontological activities. The ancient
rocks, and fossil-remains of early men took on new meaning, as he visualized the
march of the eons. As his fertile brain absorbed the coded messages from the remote
past, he scientifically interpreted their relevance to the present, and extrapolated the
process into the future.
He saw the Earth and Man in the throes of a continuous, logical
procession of change and evolution. From protoplasm to predator to the ‘Parousia’
(or second coming of Christ), he saw Man, in his mind’s eye, become a proto-god, a
creature endowed with consciousness moving towards super-consciousness, towards
an ‘Omega’ point, and a climactic union with the ultimate source of intelligence, or
God. There came to him revelations of strange new dimensions. He stepped through,
as it were, into a new universe whose presence few suspected.
58
He perceived that men, usually seeing themselves as single, isolated
entities, were possessed of joint-consciousness. The constituent cells, i.e. human
beings, united to form a single, sentient whole, a Human Being, as it were. And this
Human Being was itself part of a greater entity, a mere cell functioning within the
order of a larger organic, thinking entity, planet Earth, whereof Human Being was
itself but a small component. His vision of the ‘Noosphere’ (from the Greek noo, for
mind) as a sentient membrane covering the planet was almost biological - it
postulated a globe with a brain, and, by extension, the globe was itself a living,
thinking being with feelings, attitudes and a destiny. Teilhard wrote that the
Noosphere "results from the combined action of two curvatures - the roundness of
the earth and the cosmic convergence of the mind." Astronaut Edwin ‘Buzz’ Aldrin
often recalled that as he saw the Earth from orbit, a lovely blue-white pearl sharply
contrasted against the dead blackness of deep space, he knew it was alive! This
mystical experience changed Aldrin’s view on life.
Over the last thirty years or so, sweeping changes have taken place in
offices. The most obvious one is that there is less paper around. When I joined the
Shriram Group in 1970, the first thing I noticed was that those officers who had the
best typists got the plum jobs…or was it the other way around? Everything went
through the typist, and an officer’s efficiency was only as good as the quality of
typing in his department. Typists were a hard-worked but pampered lot. A newly
recruited officer’s training began with learning the basics of punching, filing, and
record keeping. Instant recall needed a good memory and an even better filing
system. But officers never typed! Today, only officers (such as they are) type!
An officer was only as good as his initiative, his drafting, his
proofreading, and his man-management. Innovation was encouraged, indeed
mandatory! Efficiency was the watchword, and fast decision makers scored.
Officialese was still terse and businesslike, but capital letters, paragraphing, and
62
punctuation were vital elements to good written communication. No one ever
blamed a typist for typos. Officer-like qualities included motivating typists to give of
their best. ‘Follow-up’ and ‘feedback’ were the primary mantras.
The Boss’s steno, Manmohan Gupta, was superb at taking dictation and
returning error-free material. I rarely saw him use an eraser or erasing fluid. Within
six months, I had more or less commandeered him. A year down the line, as my
Boss’s understudy, I shifted some of my routine work to him. One day, he rebelled.
He wanted to know why he should do my work. I told him that I had already got the
hang of it and I felt it was time he should take it over from me, as I myself had taken
over some of the Boss’s functions. Delegation. It was the key to growth.
Of course, Mr. Gupta, talented as he was, could revert to being just an
ordinary stenographer anytime he liked. But if he aspired to promotion (as Office
Assistant / Supervisor), it was an opportunity he should welcome. I wanted him to
learn the work well enough to one day take my place as second man to the powerful
HRD & Personnel Manager. How else was I going to move up if I didn’t create a
replacement for myself? Indispensability has been the graveyard of many a career.
And he should, in turn (I hinted) train one of the typists secretly aspiring to become
stenos and learning shorthand from him, to take his place.
The message sank home. Sharma, Mr. Gupta’s protégé, became a stand-
in steno, while Manmohan Gupta not only took over most of my routine work but
also enrolled at the Institute of Company Secretaries. Pushing forty, he suddenly
realized that, for the first time in his life, an officer was willing to train him to take
over his job. Today, he is also an ICWA, apart from a registered Company
Secretary, and after a successful career and retirement still functions in an advisory
capacity in a large organisation.
He was my first challenge (and success) in personal growth and
motivation, and the source of immense satisfaction for me, at the age of twenty-
three, to see that it was possible to motivate a co-worker to surpass himself and,
unleashing his dormant potential, reach heights of achievement he had never dreamt
he was capable of. But the major credit goes to the culture and impeccable systems
of that great organisation where I worked and which made the dreams of ordinary
men and women come true. There were outstanding men on the Board of that
company who had joined as peons, and I never forgot that.
In later years, it was my good fortune to motivate many a clerk,
godown-keeper and peon to become an officer and rise to the post of Branch
Manager in the bank. These talented people, who responded gallantly to my urging
and the challenges I threw their way, are my real wealth. As are the great bosses I
worked for, incredibly creative, hard-working, dedicated yet fun-loving men all.
They are still my role models. And to my immense good fortune, in my own twilight
years, I again (perhaps as a reward) got a boss cast in the same mould as the giants
of the past, to serve under.
63
Always interested in hierarchies within systems, and organizational
structures, it takes me time to adjust to the fact that organization charts have
flattened. Vertical has given way to horizontal, laying me low in the process! There
are only two discernible levels, workers and managers—and I’m in the former! It’s
an interesting experience. I am comfortable within a vertically structured system, not
very relevant in the multi-tasking, multi-reporting relationships favoured today.
People young enough to be my kids call me by my first name. They dress in clothes
I wore when I went hunting. Worse, they call the Boss by his first name!
What the hell is going on? It is comfortable, predictable, manageable,
to report to only one person. I like the idea of vertical structures (within limits) and
as an ex-personnel department hand I can see the advantages of it. Web-based
organizations have been largely responsible for this innovative compression of the
Christmas tree-like organization chart of old into two-tiered bogeys.
I am left to conclude that organizations themselves have changed in a
not-so-subtle manner. One-to-one working relationships, something I’m used to and
which I love, have been diluted by LAN systems and intercoms. People sit around
all day on their asses and look at screens. This is what we did after we got home!
The imperatives of the market place and the tyranny of the bottom-line have joined
hands to crush the old P-to-P equations that were so crucial in the past. Friendships
are shallow and transitory. We made colleagues our friends for life. I am fortunate
that I get a large share of the old-style ‘personalized’ supervisory style I cherish. No
amount of cold-blooded emails can replace a chat over coffee with the boss or a
colleague to get things moving. It is time well spent, for face-to-face plainspeak is
worth a million bytes.
Almost everything was done manually when I was a beginner. There
were no electronic calculators to take the drudgery out of counting and accounting.
True, there were large, heavy mechanical FACIT calculating machines in the
Accounts Department, but fortunately I had no need for them. All organisation
charts, graphs, tables and statements were either made by hand or typed. Here again,
a maestro like Manmohan Gupta was worth his weight in gold, for the Chairman,
Dr. Charat Ram, had a penchant not only for accuracy but flamboyant presentation.
We had heard that things called electronic calculators were on the anvil,
but it was only in 1975 that I saw my first one, a small model that ran off two AAA
batteries (then unavailable in India. Alkalines, Lithiums and rechargeable NiCads
were a decade away). Two years later, Señor El Tomâso, the mustachioed rally
driver from Kuwait (who had brought me the now-legendary Minolta XE-1 and a
200 mm telelens, thereby catapulting me into the ranks of serious photographers),
brought me my first LED-screen CASIO pocket calculator, powered by two AA
cells. I promptly gifted it to Dad. It speeded up his work (he was a Distillery Plant
Designer and Alcohol Technologist, and his project reports needed lengthy and
complicated calculations). Then in his mid-sixties, Dad went ga-ga over the gizmo,
64
and it always accompanied him wherever he went. It was still going strong in 1996,
eight years after his death, when I gifted it to a friend.
There was no STD…correction: there was plenty of sexually
transmitted disease around, according to government propaganda…but there was no
Subscriber Trunk Dialling. A ‘Lightning’ priority call was the fastest (but
prohibitively expensive) way to get a trunk call through quickly. A ‘lightning’ call
was supposed to mature in two minutes…and I used the facility several times in the
bank…but it rarely came through on time. You waited, sweated, and you paid eight
times the cost of an ‘O for Ordinary’ call. And explained to the RM, in a lengthy,
carefully worded Office Memorandum, the compulsions that necessitated the call.
The AGM/GM okayed it (if all went well, and the matter was condoned). Otherwise,
its cost was liable to be deducted from salary). Trunk calls could be a pain.
So could telex. The telex was a cross between a typewriter and a
telephone. The telex operator dialed a number through the Telex exchange and
proceeded to type out the message, which scrolled out of its jaws on a roll of paper,
on the receiver’s machine as well as yours. It was a bit like a chat room of today;
and telex operators had their own ‘shorthand’, abbreviated language to save time,
paper, and cost. The ‘tks & rgds’ I type today on my emails dates back to the time-
honoured signoff of the telex operator ‘ok tks rgds’ followed by the cryptic
signature. Even TTs and LCs came over telex, duly coded/ encrypted. Halcyon days,
gone forever. The nostalgia still blooms strong in my nostrils, the romance of a
bygone era we’ll never see again. The excitement of using these ‘modern’
communication aids, at the age of twenty-five, bursting with youth, curiosity, and
inexhaustible energy can never be recaptured.
There was no such thing as a facsimile photocopying machine. All
communications that had to be circularized—which used up about 30% of a bank’s
energy at the Regional and Head Office level—that meant they had to be
cyclostyled, an excruciatingly boring, messy, and lengthy solution. Shourie and
Gestetner were the big players in the duplicator market. One got the matter typed
out on a ‘stencil’ sheet, which was a wax-coated tissue paper with light cardboard
backing, the perforations on the wax serving as entry points for the ink as it passed
through the rollers of the machine. Crude, smudged copies emerged at the other end.
Years would pass before Chester Carlson and his Xerox machine revolutionized
copying…true facsimiles…and many years would go by before someone would
stumble upon the idea of mating a telephone with a photocopier to invent the fax
machine we take for granted today.
Letters—the backbone of communications—went by post. Sea mail
gave way to airmail. But it was only with the coming of fax, cable TV and, of
course, the Internet, that the age of instant communications—foreseen by Arthur C.
Clarke—dawned. The world shrank to the global village Marshall Macluhan had
written about in ‘The Gutenberg Galaxy’. Teilhard de Chardin’s ‘noosphere’, the
globe with a network of nerves stretched on a membrane that represented the
65
collective brain of mankind, is already visible in the prototype WorldWideWeb, the
precursor of electronic and cyber intelligence whose ultimate reach we can only
speculate on.
Global handheld telephony was a costly experiment—in the ill-fated
Iridium Corporation—a wonderful but unviable convenience that had to wait till a
cheaper, more technically and economically practicable stallite telephony emerged.
Meanwhile, mobile telephony technologies like CDMA, WAPS, GPRS, and
Bluetooth have paved the way for a series of innovations including the new
cellphones that do everything except wash one’s clothes! One can even take digital
pictures and transmit them instantly over the Ethernet! Laptops and palmtops are
already passé. Soon, everything related to communications and entertainment will be
worn on the wrist a la Dick Tracy. But instant transportation? Teleportation is
science fiction today…but tomorrow, who knows? I have seen too much science
fiction come true in my lifetime to snigger at even the wildest idea.
Machines that do the impossible—machines that think—are coming.
The Man-machines—the cyborgs and the androids—are on their way. The world is
changing faster than many can adapt to. The boot is on the other foot now, for Man
himself is now hard-pressed to adapt. But adapt he must, perhaps even evolve, to
keep up with his own creations that threaten to overwhelm him. Whether all this
‘progress’ is a good thing, I cannot say. It will take the perspective of another
century to judge its impact. Man will continue to reinvent his future as long as he is
Man…for the stars beckon, and he must answer their call.
***********
How many people, I wonder, are given the privilege of looking back at,
and writing about, more than fifty years of their conscious life. For this opportunity,
again, I acknowledge my debt to my Eternal Muse, for it was she who made me
conscious of my eligibility for doing so.
I had never seriously considered the possibility that I might grow old,
and now I find myself rejecting the likelihood of such an eventuality outright! True,
the calendar says I’ve been around for over six decades, but what’s that got to do
with me? For some odd reason, I don’t feel old! For six years, however, silver starnds
have been multiplying in my hair, but I don’t mind that at all, it’s something I’ve
always wanted. Jet-black hair can become boring after fifty-five years.
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Hair! When I look around me, I’m surprised to find that most of my
classmates don’t have any hair left on their heads. Shiv Shankar Menon, our current
National Security Advisor, is a case in point. But I must say it makes him every bit as
distinguished as he in fact is. It adds certain indefinable dimension to his already
handsome features, and though the quintessential senior civil servant, I have no
doubts he'd have made a fine actor if he'd been so inclined.
I ought to be grateful, I keep telling myself. I’m no senior civil servant,
but then, I’m not anybody’s advisor, either! I’m a doer, by the grace of God. Besides,
I can almost stuff myself into my son’s jeans. My wife grumbles that it’s ridiculous,
a sixty-plus man wearing jeans, minus middle-age spread and cigar (a la Chandan
Seth, India’s cigar baron) that such men are said to favor.
She always dreamed of marrying a prosperous man who smoked cigars
and who sported fifty-two fly-buttons in his trousers! Too bad I can’t oblige—I detest
cigars, and I couldn’t accumulate money or acquire a respectable middle-aged girth
even if I tried. Such are the disappointments of life!
But if over thirty-four years have passed after the loss of my
independence and haven’t managed to change me much, sixty-one years of
independence have definitely changed the nation. The old stalwarts are gone, leaving
a vacuum uneasily filled by lesser men. History teaches us that the times throw up
the man, producing a Napoleon, a Gandhi, or a Mao at just the right point in time (or
so it seems; perhaps these men changed the times so much that they are identified
with them forever).
We deserve the corrupt, self-serving, cynical politicians who cling to the
chairs the greats once occupied. As Bertrand Russell said, “Politics deserves a better
name than it has, and has a better name than it deserves.” It is an age of mediocrity
more than anything else, an age of compromises, of unholy alliances to hang on to
political power, the devalued times we now live in. the British have gone. We have
gone from frying pan to fire.
The British felt they were superior to any other race on earth, but this
was an innocent belief in themselves and in their colonial destiny, howsoever
mistaken, fostered by a thousand years of conquest, naval supremacy, and the myth
of the White Man’s Burden. They made Indians walk on the bridle path known as the
Lower Mall in Naini Tal, reserving the Upper Mall for themselves. Dogs and Indians
weren’t allowed into First Class railway compartments, and it was a rare colored
man, perhaps a Maharajah or a senior bureaucrat, who was allowed to join their
clubs.
Most of them were elitist by definition (there were notable exceptions,
as anyone who has read Corbett knows). After the Revilot of 1857, few of them
preferred to mix closely with their subjects. Yet they were intimately azquainted with
the problems the country faced, and their administration, if sometimes autocratic and
biased, was balanced by their dedication to their work and their enthusiasm for
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perfection. It is my personal observation (based on my days at Sherwood) that they
were thoroughly objective, impartial, and encouraged men of merit.
A whole new ruling class has replaced the white men who left in 1947.
They are just as bad, some might say. I say, perhaps they are even worse, barring a
few notable exceptions. They live in a rarified atmosphere the common man never
gets to see, in the sort of luxury the British might have envied. The British looted the
country, transferring the wealth of India to the Crown. But they did much to bring the
benefits of modern civilization to India, let us not forget that.
The new rulers are thick-skinned, encourage sycophancy, despise the
poor by offering them the illusion of self-rule, they rape the country and transfer the
proceeds abroad. Accumulating wealth has become a serious pastime for most Indian
politicians, most of whom make hay while the sun shines. The upper classes emulate
them with glee. The age of the patriotic, enlightened industrialist or businessman of
the likes of J.R.D. Tata and Jamnalal Bajaj has passed.
As Gandhi said, India is a rich country full of poor people. Now, they
are even poorer, bereft of the comfort of age-old cultural and moral values, let down
by a new generation that is mesmerized by the mirage of globalization aand has sold
out to the multinationals. It is our faultthat we have produced a new generation that
mistakes indiscipline for independence, is disrespectful of the elders who gave them
their todays by sacrificing their own tomorrows, who treat the older generation with
contempt, who are only concerned with ‘I. Me and Myself’.
I, in turn, do not repose much confidence in this new generation. They
are a bunch of spoiled, lazy, qualified but uneducated bunch of Hinglish-speaking
boors berefrt of creativity and originality. They can copy but cannot create…the
flaws in the regimented system of education are all too apparent to old timers like
myself who have had the good fortune of studying in the earlier liberal system of
education left by the British.
The prevailing system, with its emphasis on marks over originality, on
analysis as opposed to rote learning – the outcome of an unimaginative, mechanical
educational system promoted by a government of dull ciil servants who have
squeezed all creativity out of GenNext, the effects of state-controlled high school
system are maling a mockery of education. Values have been replaced by
expediency…the devil take the hindmost, it seems. Everything goes, it seems, if
brings success within reach. The trouble is, none of these hip youngsters seems to
have bothered to define what success means to them. They want instant solutions
from an age addicted to the Internet and an IT culture that revolves around their
mobile phones and palmtops. What follows next is not hard to predict…
Everything has a price, and if the newspapers are to be believed, one can
wriggle one’s way out even after arraignment for crime and murder…if one has the
money or the clout—or preferably both. Money brings security, puts one above the
law, and opens hitherto unexplored social and ‘cultural’ vistas for khadi-clad
‘servants of the people’ who exhaust themselves undertaking strenuous foreign
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‘study’ trips so that can see the way to solving the problems at home! India is like a
vast battleship doing 22 knots on the high seas: it takes five miles to turn her, and by
the time she does, no one remembers why they wanted to turn her and who gave the
orders in the first place.
Hypnotized by the illusion of democracy (“Of the people, by the people,
for the people,” as Honest Abe said—catch any Indian politician saying it with a ring
of sincerity in his voice)—perceiving in it a means to their own salvation and
forgetting that such a democracy is a mere façade, the masses are lured on by
‘causes’ continuously invented by cynical politicians to make them chase the middle-
class mirage of progress to distract them from their misery or to fight for what they
are guaranteed to them by the Constitution—their sole, and lasting, heritage.
Democracy, a product of the ancient Greek city-states that were small
enough to hold a national referendum in a town square, is an unreliable transplant in
a huge country like India, with all its mind-boggling diversity. Nevertheless, it has
the innate resilience to work here, mutatis mutandis. But only if it is treated with
respect and manned by patriots, in keeping with the spirit of the Indian Constitution
and the Directive Principles of State Policy. Otherwise it can become the instrument
of a thralldom much worse than any foreign rule.
Alas! Confronted by a clamor against her totalitarian and increasingly
erratic rule, with the worst inflation ever witnessed in modern times, our leadership
has reduced political governance to a mockery. “Power tends to corrupt”, said John
Emerich Edward Dalberg (Lord Acton, historian, 1834-1902), “and absolute power
corrupts absolutely.” Indira Gandhi castrated the bureaucracy, disemboweled the
judiciary (especially after the State of Emergency she declared when she found that
Justice Sinha’s landmark judgment had fatally wounded her political career), and
beheaded the political process, bringing it to a stage where it has become a macabre
dance of zombies. Corruption, nepotism, and cynical self-service: these evils crept
into the nation’s bloodstream and have come to stay.
Contempt for due process of law and steady erosion in public morality
are the inevitable outcomes. But while she had the guts to take the bull by the horns
(she still had an aura about her that came with being the charismatic daughter of that
English Indian, Jawaharlal Nehru), the netas who followed her, lacking her intellect
and mass appeal, have carried on where she left off, to subvert Indian Democracy
from within.
A whole new tribe of professional politicians has come to power,
usually low on education, dubious of background, and in the game for the monetary
rewards and not because it is an opportunity to serve the nation (God save us from
such ‘servants of the people’!). Any political agenda is acceptable, irrespective of
whether it is good for the country as a whole or not, that serves their ends.
For example, the increase in communal tension and the massacres of a
minority community in Gujrat, March 2002, allegedly sponsored by an
administration in cahoots with goonda elements, has made every Indian hang his
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head in shame. The world watches, and compares it with pogroms earlier in history.
India’s international image, refurbished with such difficulty and individual enterprise
by men of sterling worth, has taken a bashing. So it’s hardly surprising that we get
side-lined when it comes to a Security Council berth in the United Nations. Our
nominee for the top UN comes close but misses; it is an honorable ouster. Corrupt
politicians will ultimately bear the brunt of their shortsighted policies and perish at
the polls. Darwinism extends to politics as well.
India’s wealth (and character) continues to be siphoned off, whether
from Bofors guns, Tehelka-exposed deals, Telgi stamp paper scams (Rs. 30,000
crores is a tidy sum; the sum totals of scams, in rupee terms, could eliminate all but
the last vestiges of poverty form India, which the trillions of rupee-dollars stashed
away by Indians in Swiss Bank accounts could not do).
Such a canker has spread through the circulatory system of the nation
that one sometimes despairs that ever will come the avatar who will be able to clean
the Augean stables. Perhaps his name is Charles Darwin. The nexus between
politicians, bureaucrats, and criminals is out in the open, but one doesn’t find
anybody blushing. Public memory being proverbially short (one-third of India’s
masses does not know where their next meal is coming from and have little time to
ponder on these issues—hunger is a harsh mistress), these politicians stay in
circulation for long periods, wreaking immense damage on the system from within.
Pliable men, men of mediocrity and flexible consciences, reach the
highest rungs of service in Government and Defence jobs. There is corruption
everywhere, but no one has the guts to take th bull by the horns. Those who do do not
last long. They tend to run into debilitating spells of bad luck or suddenly expire due
to unknown causes. Everything can be fudged for a price, from driving licences to
passports to customs records to DNA reports.
Scams surface with boring regularity, and scapegoats are inevitably
found. But governments, discredited by the actions and attitudes of these men, and
are forced to delink themselves from them in a hurry. The case of Ravi Chaturvedi,
once a big-time businessman alleged to be a go-between gutka barons and top-
ranking politicians and bureaucrats, who now has slid into disgrace and obscurity, a
la Jeffrey Archer, comes to mind, as does that a certain IT industry head. Another
gifted writer with a sudden urge for politics has bowed out of the arena after getting
entangled in the IPL fiasco.
It is difficult to understand why the meritorious, the honest, and the
upright, those who have principles and minds of their own, are usually given short
shrift by governments that need the services of such valuable men. Don’t the people
in power realize that to encourage mediocrity in high office is to sow the seeds of the
nation’s (and their own) downfall? Have they forgotten, for instance, that Hitler
signed away the only real chance of resistance to the snowballing Allied forces when
he ordered Reichfeldmarschal Erwin Rommel to be eliminated? Who knows how
many upright, fearless officers have been asked to take the cup of hemlock? Shored
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up, like the gigantic cardboard cutouts of Tamil supremos, democracy in India
staggers from one farcical crisis to another.
In their unseemly haste to sack the country, most of our netas have
displayed amazing ingenuity in raising issue after issue that encourages regionalism
and factionalism, and which chloroforms the sense of patriotism. There are few
Tendulkars who are heard insisting that all things are subservient when it comes to
India’s interest. India must come first, not petty issues that divert the mind, inflame
sectarian and parochial passions, Balkanise the country (like V.P. Singh’s infamous
Mandal issue) and give the politicos a chance to step in and skim the situation for all
it’s worth. It’s a time of ‘every man for himself’. Is it any wonder, then, that Indians
have lost a sense of their Indian-ness, a feeling that they are all citizens of one
nation? It is seen to revive when our countrymen go abroad, when they encounter the
infectious nationalistic fervor of, say, an American or a Frenchman.
The Indian masses—kept poor, hungry, ill-educated units of casteist
vote-banks—are bound to see through the game one day. We all know what
Abraham Lincoln said, “You can fool some of the people all the time, and all the
people some of the time, but you can’t fool all the people all the time.” The story
may be apocryphal, but (as Tap would have said), it’s height (high) time, by Joe
(Jove) that our political leaders realized this for their own good and for the good of
the country. Indians are a patient, long-suffering people, but they have started to
come awake. Confused by the blatant show of wealth of the new rulers, disoriented
by the influx of foreign values and culture, the common man is in a belligerent mood.
The obsequious face of rural India that my uncle Brahma Deva Mukerji,
ICS, noticed with dismay has vanished. In its place is an aggressive, classless
egalitarianism, the ‘my money is as good as yours’ mind-set of a generation that does
not know what it means to bow under a foreign yoke
The well-bred ‘aap’ form of address has been replaced by the
democratic but rude ‘tum’ in the marketplace. Independence is sliding towards
indiscipline, I observe. It will be to the best interests of the politicians if they wake
up to this fact. We all know that, as a wise man once said, “Politics is the last refuge
of the scoundrel”, but let us hope that the masses will vote into oblivion those
scoundrels who manage to get a chance to fight elections thorough unfair means such
as bullets, booth-capturing, and ballot-box tampering. How far this will ever be
possible in the hinterland, now ruled by neo-feudal overlords and their muscle-bound
henchmen, without the High Commands of political parties denying them tickets to
contest elections, is a moot point. Ultimately, it is a question of the national interest
over self-interest. I find little in the past record, however, for much optimism here.
Yet, in spite of the drag of its anchor, the ship of India has sailed far. I
will not quote economists or reel off masses of statistical data to make my point, for
my point concerns the common man. He has changed everywhere except in
Laxman’s inimitable cartoons. The type of people I met at Captaingunj or at
Seohara no longer exists. No rustic youngster would be caught dead in a dhoti or
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pajamas. A boy from the chawls of Bombay, who goes under the screen name of
Govinda, has ensured that every penniless village lad can wear Levi’s jeans and
dream of dating his master’s daughter. Shashi Kapoor, an impoverished young scion
of a once-wealthy family, becomes a chauffeur to his former classmate and self-
conciously woos her when she throws herself at him (Waqt).
Govinda’s own rise to fame and fortune is a parable of modern India,
albeit the interpretation can differ from person to person. On one hand, it seems to
signify that talent and merit will always succeed; on the other hand, it seems to say
that all men are equal, those who are crude and risqué are even more so, and whoever
does the most obscene dance gets the girl. To my mind, the opium of the masses has
been replaced by the fare dished out by Bollywood. To my mind, Bollywood movies
are doing a great disservice to the Indian people. They claim to entertain but only
titillate. They think to portray contemporay morality honestly, but all they are
interested in is the Box Office take. The public tries to ape what it sees in these films,
and Bollywood gallantly responds by sinking a few notches lower, from vulgarity to
obscenity. Some explicit scenes slip past the scissors of an eminent, conscientious
but beleaguered team of censors. Art is probably the hackneyed excuse. At least the
French have the grace to wink at the mention of that word. There is a fine distinction
between art and obscenity, more’s the pity, and few know where one ends and the
other begins.
The aping of Hollywood actors and their mannerisms by the younger
generation is understandable if not condonable, for the truly educated Indian is as
good as his or her counterpart anywhere in the world or better and, as such, is entitled
to a global lexicon and idiom common to youth everywhere. Youth culture is a
powerful force. Remember the ‘beat’ generation and the ‘flower children’—the
much-misunderstood hippie culture that stood for a peaceful, individualistic way of
life that did not want to clash with other ideologies—and played such a major role in
exposing the madness that was war (Vietnam) to the world? But the youth culture I
see around me does not deserve the ‘culture’ part of the term. Few youngsters today
know (or bother about) what culture means, other than biology types who culture all
manner of nasty little bugs in Petri dishes.
For the majority of poor, half-educated Indians with little or no hope
either by way of career or romance, it is either sheer mercy or utter cruelty to put
Bollywood-type dreams into their heads. Time will teach them that they are not the
chosen ones, and many will turn, in their frustration, to a life of drugs and crime.
This future has already arrived.
The age of domestic staff is at its last gasp. Men like Tika Ram and
Puran Singh are extinct. The pahari comes down to the plains now with some
education under his belt and makes a beeline for a clerical or subordinate-class job…
but he will not be a night watchman if he can help it. There are enough Nepalis
around for that job. The first thing a common man needs is a bicycle. A good English
(naturally) bicycle had cost my father Rs. 20/- when he was a college student. A
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decent bike today costs around Rs.1,600/-. The next step up is a scooter. These
machines used to cost about Rs. 3,000/- when I was in college (if you had the
connections to get one out of turn, for the waiting list was about ten years, the
foundation of Rahul Bajaj’s now rapidly-waning pre-eminence): today, they cost
around Rs. 40,000/- and go a-begging in showrooms.
When my father was in college, Rs.6,000/- on the nail meant one could
leave the showroom at the wheel of a brand-new six-cylinder Buick! In 1983, when
the Maruti was introduced, it sold for Rs.45,000/-. Today, its successor costs nearly
Rs.2,70,000/-, while a Chevrolet ‘Aveo’ or a Maruti Dzire goes for about
Rs.7,00,000/-! A Volkswagen Beetle goes for over Rs.20 lacs, and a Merc ‘S’ Class
for about a crore! Do we need all this? Ah yes, I almost forgot…this is an age that
says that if you’ve got it, flaunt it. Flaunt your money but not your education—it
doesn’t go down well with GenNext.
Are big, gas-guzzling cars really necessary for India? Can our roads,
now choked with vehicles, take much more of this? What price did we pay for
throwing open our doors to imports from other countries? Why did we have to open
our doors, to begin with? Has our move been reciprocated by beneficiary nations
who have flooded our country with cheap imports, or have they managed to retain
their protective tariff barriers? If so, why? Are they right, those who argue that India
has knuckled under to U.S. pressure, in view of the formidable loans from the IDA
and the IBRD, and opened its markets to manufacturers in developed countries…
markets desperately needed by them to prop up their own sagging domestic sales.
Foreign car manufacturers are either merging or going out of business…and rightly
so. Their relevance is coming to an end, as a crippled planet looks for alternate, non-
polluting sources of energy and transportation.
If India wants to keep on receiving foreign aid and avoid crippling
economic sanctions, what will it be asked to concede next? How long will it take
before domestic production collapses, unable to cope with the lowering of trade
barriers? How long will it be before we become another Pakistan? Did anyone bother
to read the small print? And what was in it for the politicians, based on the Bofors
experience? Did inflation come down? Did the GDP go up? Were old-age security /
welfare measures introduced, funded by taxation of conspicuous consumption? How
long will it take for India to have Social Security, as in U.S.A.? How much longer
will the poor, the old and the abandoned have to suffer the massive neglect of
successive governments?
Educated Indians – the few that are left – must ask themselves such
questions if they are to see which way the country is going. Why has the recent
global downturn not hit us badly? The answer, of course, is because we have a
parallel economy that serves to cusion the shock. We have created a captive market
for goods and services lucrative enough to support the meticulously trained white and
blue-collar workers, but food inflation has eaten away the common man’s disposable
income.
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We educate our best brains and export them to developed countries to
exploit…and then drop them like hot bricks when the going gets rough abroad. Only
those indigenous enterprises that have solid backlogs in their order books are
unperturbed; exporters, dependant on principals abroad, are shell-shocked at the way
foreign demand for their services has dried up. This illustrates one of the
disadvantages of the ‘global economy’; if one part falls sick—it may be Japan,
Southeast Asia, or U.S.A—the rest of it also goes into a tailspin.
I am from the old bricks-and-mortar economy, and I am one of a dying
breed that can remember a time when one picked up a telephone receiver …and
found a steady dial tone! Or opened a tap…and water gushed out, pure water that one
could drink minus an Aquaguard filter, not water from some water-sewage mix-up
somewhere up the pipeline. One flicked on a switch…and there was light! We took it
all for granted. Things worked.
The term ‘load-shedding’ had not been coined then. There was no such
thing as a power cut. There were few villages in India that had electricity then; now,
quite a large number of rural areas are electrified…but there isn’t enough electric
power to go around! In some sort of cruel Parkinsonian joke, excess capacity is
absorbed as soon as it is created. The gap between demand and supply will keep
increasing with India’s runaway population, now comfortably over the billion mark.
We’ll be plunging back into the Dark Ages if we don’t watch out.
As people increase in numbers, resources shrink in relative terms. There
is less and less of everything: scruples, broad-mindedness, vision, honesty,
principles, fresh air, water, electricity, housing, roads (it is estimated that 150,000
billion rupees are needed just to bring the national road transportation network up to
scratch), food, and jobs. Disparities in income continue to widen as inflation soars
and GDP / take-home income doesn’t. If it is not already too late, draconian
measures are needed to control population growth, or our nation will collapse under
the sheer weight of its own numbers. Do we have the political will to undertake
unpopular but essential programs?
Successive governments have pussyfooted around the problem; drastic
measures are needed, backed by financial disincentives (China has scored here).
Unless we do something now, it will be too late. Like it or not, we need to have a
good look at the Chinese model. Question is, who will bell the cat? Meanwhile, India
grows larger and poorer every day.
I had always felt that education was the key to India’s woes. Now, I am
not so sure. There are reasons for this. Firstly, no amount of legislation can educate
an entire country. At the subsistence level, which our law-makers are not familiar
with, children are harnessed in the daily task of survival: they fetch water, tend the
cattle or poultry, look after smaller children, supplement the family income by
begging, shine shoes, work as child labor in roadside dhabas and dangerous factory
environments, or are plunged into things far removed from the idyllic world of
children’s story books.
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Few children of the poor or lower classes have a normal childhood,
being beset early by adult issues that should never have intruded to shatter their
innocence. At this rate, we will turn into a society of neurotics and psychopaths, as
the poor outnumber the relatively better off. But for the life of me I don’t see how the
new Act for compulsory free education for children between the ages of 6 and 14 can
work. The dice are heavily loaded against it. What will the government do to
offenders, imprison the parents and admit their wards to government –run residential
schools? Is George Orwell’s ‘1984’ here, in the India of 2010?
Secondly, education has lost its charm: for two major reasons. One, it
has to be remembered that the educational curriculum, as well as the system itself,
was based on the legacy left by the British, who founded it to promote their own
interests, viz. to turn out an intelligentsia who, having absorbed something of their
culture, thought like them or at least appreciated their viewpoint. It was designed to
produce the army of bureaucratic civil servants from the indigenous populace, who
were to be the mainstay of the administration. Fifty years down the line, this system
has been replaced by a worse one. Read ‘DUMBING DOWN EDUCATION:
Producing the Qualified Uneducated’ in this column.
Administration has become an increasingly technical and managerial
function, yet we have seen bureaucrats in charge of critically important technical
departments who, howsoever superior their IQ or intellect might have been adjudged
to be when they were recruited, haven’t the foggiest idea of engineering principles,
management techniques, industrial psychology, or ergonomics. Issuing orders is not
the same as knowledgeable leadership. To our civil servants, they are synonymous.
Moreover, with the evolution of the Indian economy and the boom of
the eighties, it became apparent that education was not a sine qua non if one wished
to acquire wealth. One could go into politics, the time-tested formula for getting-rich-
quick. Move over, Napoleon Hill…the Indian politician has upstaged you! Being
street smart and unscrupulous was never more profitable. For many ambitious young
men and women with an unscrupulous streak in them, politics meant a chance to
plunge their hands into the pot of gold. Brought up in an age of instant gratification,
when money buys recognition and all the goodies of life, a few years of ‘political’
work as a Youth worker in the youth wing of a political party was preferable, in
terms of career prospects, to going to university and acquiring a degree or other
useless qualifications that did not guarantee security.
This is the single most important reason why Indian politics today
attracts an increasingly dubious class of thug. The tremendous competition for
government jobs was a daunting factor, and a first-generation literate usually was at a
distinct disadvantage without parental guidance and a family ambience that fostered
the right climate for such academic pursuit. Many students tended to take only those
courses that facilitated their entry into their family businesses. For the tough,
ambitious, glib-talking type, however, politics remains a quick and easy road to fame
and fortune. It is significant that in recent times, the average age of politicians is seen
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to be falling, and fairly young men and women hold important portfolios
incommensurate with their merit or potential.
For if money was the sole criterion of success, which it often is, politics
beats commerce—and commerce beats service every time. Illiterate millionaires
aren’t all that rare in India. The rapid urbanization of the villages surrounding the
metros has brought new wealth to rustic and formerly marginalized segments of the
population, as prices of suburban land have soared out of sight. This has created new
social tensions, as values and cultures have collided. The neo-rich are resentful that
their wealth doesn’t always open doors to social acceptance. Again, politics presents
a way out, for money—the more unaccounted the better—is the sinews of politics …
and vice versa. Money is not the sinews of war alone, unless one sees politics as
warfare. Many do. A political career is becoming an increasingly risky affair in the
subcontinent. Life is the cheapest commodity in India.
Business tends to be a dynastic process, and an education was thought to
be largely irrelevant till fairly recently, the norm being usually a B.Com. Degree
followed by an MBA, no matter how dubious the credentials from which the diploma
is purchased…oooops! Sorry, earned. Meanwhile, the numbers of unemployed
graduates and post-graduates from the humanities and even Science streams swell
into astronomical numbers. They have had to re-invent themselves to fit into other
vocations, abandoning their adolescent aspirations as they went along. Many
succumbed to survival imperatives, becoming bus conductors or timekeepers or
whatever, sinking into despairing obscurity with an irrelevant education under them
to ‘cushion’ the impact. Crime offered a way out, but a creer in crime is usually
short-lived. The cops often shoot first and ask questions later, once they have
identified elusive suspects.
Given that a drastic overhaul of the educational system is overdue, I will
stir the hornet’s nest further by insisting that the liberal system of education, both
entertaining as well as instructive, be reinstated. The CBSE model has not served the
purpose and must be abandoned or drastically overhauled. It must now teach young
people without indoctrination or bias, transferring knowledge in such a way as to
make thinking a habit. Learning must not be buried under a pile of facts; learnings
must emerge from facts. Rote learning really doesn’t help business, trade, industry,
or even government. It is useless a year after, as memories are discarded. Finally, the
young students know nothing of value; facts are half-forgotten and they have learnt
to use their brains to arrive at conclusions or solutions, so they have to go to school
again to learn how to think for themselves. I find the mass of today’s youngsters a
dull and intellectually crippled lot. It does not augur well for the future.
Those of lesser mental abilities ought to learn useful things like personal
hygiene, civic sense, computer repairs, inter-personal skills, a foreign language,
yoga, office administration, meditation for self-growth and stress-relief, principles of
accounts and commerce, and a trade or skill that will make self-reliant persons, able
to make a useful and saleable contribution to society from Day One. (This writer has
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none of these, so he has taught himself to type and is enjoying himself hugely by
using some of the words he picked up in the course of receiving his liberal education,
and keeping himself busy in the process).
Do I give up on India? No way! I am convinced that India, the real India
—not the mess we see in the papers—has a vital contribution to make to the world.
In an age of crass materialism and spiritual decay, when the West is reeling under its
own excesses, India alone can show the way to lasting peace and a freedom that
flows from the true brotherhood of man. When all the fads have faded away, the
eternal principles embedded in every religion will be found to have been distilled
down in India—a panacea not only to give suffering humanity abiding relief, but also
to light the way to human fulfilment.
Practical, pragmatic, and universal in scope, the wisdom that has
allowed this ancient land to absorb all invaders and integrate them into itself will
enable it to re-vitalize the world and play its appointed role in showing a bitter, strife-
torn, and despairing humanity the way to peace and self-realization. But India has to
kick-start her own transformation. As that day dawns, men will recall the words of
the great bard, who wrote thus in his immortal work, Gitanjali:
“Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening
thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country
awake!”
The End