The Formula to become an Officer

 

He was born with the birth of the nation. So his farmer father, at a small village, had enough reason to spend the little money he had saved. That day, nearly a maund of choorma, the farmers’ delicacy made of chapattis meshed with ghee and jaggery, slithered down the digestive tracts of many a burping farmer. During those bucolic old days, the blessings for the host were directly proportional to the gastronomical pacification of the guests. So the newborn was showered with a torrent of blessings, the majority of which bordered on ‘become strong like Bhola—the sturdiest bull in the village—and also become a sahib, an officer.’

The proud father took the blessings very seriously. He kept it fresh by repeating it to the infant as and when he occasioned to hold the baby. ‘You have to become an officer,’ he would say. As the boy grew up, he was well aware of the fact that while the rest of the boys in the village could grow up to be simple farmers he had to be an officer.

He indeed turned out to be an officer long way down the decades. The old farmer didn’t survive to see his son becoming an officer though. The father passed away while the son was still pursuing his B.Ed. degree after completing bachelors in science. But by this time the old farmer had ingrained certain things that would keep his son steadily yoked in the mission. The burly son kept furrowing the plough to be an officer in the education department, first as a teacher to headmaster to district education officer to finally retire as deputy director in state education board. An officer indeed.

He himself is an aged father now and points out the four life-changing episodes whiplashed by his father on his young psyche. ‘Four things made me what I am today!’ he declares by holding out four of his thick hairy fingers and keeping the thumb out of the league by jutting it against the palm.

I think his father should have given him five principles to make it a wholesome and more emphatic hand spread. Anyway, we have to do with four only.

Number 1:

‘During those days in the village school we had to spread out our hand like we are taking an oath and declare before the entire class that I can no  longer hold my waters and hence need to go to the bathroom at the far corner of the vast playground. Apprehending public shame, I asked the teacher’s permission. He was busy in twisting the ears of the biggest tramp in the class, hence in a bad mood. He said ‘go’ without looking at me, being still busy with the naughtiest boy’s ears pretty spiritedly. Immediately I made a dash for the door. But then he harked back on second reflection. “Did you eat your father’s bull-feed today to be under such urgency to run to the corner?” his anger spilled over to me. He beckoned me to him. I approached with fear and he gave me a heavy slap that was too big for my face. I fell down and apprehending more to follow, I took to my heels and bawling with rage and fear I ran back home. There I told the episode in the spiciest terms, portraying the teacher as the biggest villain and me as the most innocent kid on earth. Father seemed moved by the tale. I was very pleased within, thinking that now the teacher was for a lesson because my father was a big man. Father politely took me back to the school. Then he suddenly changed colours. “Master ji your student had run away, I bring him back,” saying this he treated my other cheek with such impunity that the teacher’s strike felt a soft cuddle in comparison. “Never ever complain against your teacher and commit the sin of running away from school under any circumstances,” her thundered episodically. I had my lesson. The teacher is always right and holds tremendous might. Later, I expected the same from my students and printed the same lesson on their cheeks. As a result, many of my students turned out to be officers themselves.’     

Number 2:

‘I was in the eighth standard when he got me admitted to a school at the district town about 10 kilometres from the village. The village school looked all freedom in comparison to the town school. So sulking and sad I was one day fleeced by a naughty group to scale over the hostel wall and watch a movie at the only cinema hall at the town. It was a dream-like experience. It was a Dilip Kumar film. My boyish senses were so jolted that I saw the moving pictures around for a fortnight. The entire world looked a motion picture. I reached the climax scene of this real-life film when I came back to the village on the weekend after a fortnight. There he stood like the bulkiest villain in the movie and looked very stern as I entered. As I put down my bag, he followed my every step and then calmly asked me to fetch the bull-whip lying in the corner. I thought the bulls must have played truant while ploughing, hence required some remedial action. With a jump in my step I got the weapon and handed it over to him. He handled it with a deep reflection and said, “Son, films are a dream and studies mean real life!” Then he competed with his treatment of errant bulls while making me realise the hard fact that there is hardly any connection between films and real life. I think I underestimated his spying capabilities, thinking he was always walking behind the bulls, tilling the land. He must have deputed someone to keep a watch on my activities. Well, I felt bad at that time but now I understand how good it was to me. During my headmaster days I myself went into the theatres and searched for the vagabond filmi students with a torch and saved many careers with kicks and slaps there within the cinema halls only. In fact a few of those officers visited me later and acknowledged my kicking help inside the cinema halls to rectify the error. The lesson is: be a protagonist in real life instead of just a spectator of reel life. My dedication to real-life picture has enabled me to create many officers, the real heroes, not the made-up fake ones.’

Number 3:

‘As a consequence of the filmi misadventure, I was taken out of the hostel and asked to commute daily to the school from the village. During those days, public transport was almost zero, just two or three buses to and from the town and those were crammed like fodder husk in a barn. He surprised the entire village in pulling out the last farthing from his purse inside a clay pot buried somewhere in the house, barn, dung heap or God knows even cremation yard. The brave act resulted in a brand new Atlas cycle for me. It instantly raised my status to the clouds. Going to the school on your own bicycle made you a prince. I felt princely. And princes don’t give too much of trouble to their legs. There was this tractor that plied between two wood markets at almost fixed hours daily. I would stop and wait for it about a kilometre from the village and take the help of the tractor trolley to make a motorbike of my bicycle. I would hold some log with one hand at the end of the laden wagon and allow myself to be pulled smoothly. It was extreme fun. It became a routine both ways as I managed my timings more smartly than I managed maths problems. But I should have remembered that it was not the era of motorbikes. One day, as the mammoth lurching bus raised dust and overtook the prince on his motorbike, two eyes really-really appreciated the commendable feat. If I was the prince, my father was the king. So the king saw his son’s feat from the window of the rickety bus. I had indeed misused the privilege. Quite naturally he had the authority to impound the misused property. He punctured its tyres and said, “It stays airless till you learn to use a bicycle as it’s meant to be.” He spared the air in me this time, keeping himself to putting out the air of the tyres only. In any case it was a big punishment, the fall in grace from a prince on a motorbike to a sweaty nonentity crammed in the cursed bus for which one had to wait till eternity and that too for the tiniest of foothold. The lesson here is: never misuse your bicycle by treating it as motorbike. I myself used the principle to great effect in making officers later on. I convinced many foolish parents who gave motorbikes to their boys coming to the senior school. I got them demoted to bicycles, telling them it will add muscles to their thighs at least. A motorbike just gives you wings to fly wrongly. And those who had bicycles, I got them cut down to their real size by getting them taken away so that they walked to their destiny. One boy, whose bicycle I arranged to be taken away from him, daily walked from his village five kilometres away. As there was no public transport on the dirt road from his village, he had to walk. As he walked, he got late usually. So I used my palm on his back very effectively during the morning prayers publicly. He thus ran to be on time and save his back. His stamina increased to an extent that he was soon playing nationals. He also became an officer on sports quota. There are sure-shot definite ways of producing officers.”

Number 4:

‘After completing my B.Sc., I opted for pursuing B.Ed. at the district city 40 kilometres away. There was no option of bicycle, motorbike or daily commuting in the rickety bus service that plied twice daily. So my father arranged a modest room near the university and giving me a long list of primarily not-to-dos left me alone with plenty of apprehensions in his mind. “Without plenty of milk you won’t be able to become an officer. Almonds and milk are the foundations of an officer’s mind,” he said. So he left plenty of almonds under my bunk. For milk, he arranged with a milkman in the bazaar. “Brother, swear that you will feed him as good milk as to your own son. I will come every month-end to clear the account,” saying this he left for the village. Those were rainy days. The milkman didn’t seem to keep his promise. I found a tiny baby frog swimming in my three litres that he supplied in the morning. He must have found mixing the tap water with milk to be too expensive, so he went for pond water most probably. Other issue was about accounts. He said I owed him far more than what I had calculated as per my mathematical skills. When Father came, he listened patiently to both sides. I tried to stand my ground to pay less. “No son, this we have to pay. In future, you either manage it in a way to keep both parties satisfied or stop taking milk from him. All this depends on you,” he gave his verdict. “But what about pond water in the milk?” I tried to turn the scales in my favour. “Are you sure it’s only pond water, son?” he asked me. I said yes. “I’m happy that you didn’t mix gutter water because there were no worms in it,” he patted the milkman on the shoulder. The milkman was visibly ashamed and lowered his eyes. With his slow, steady and cautious steps, Father walked away to get back to the village. There was a marked improvement in the milk quality after that. I think he wanted to tell me that you have to help others to keep your trust in them. It helped me a lot in becoming an officer later on. Despite all the bullshit sprayed by rascally seniors, I kept on giving them more chances to retain my trust in them and I had hassle free rise in the ranks. Using the same principle, I managed many criminal-minded students in a way that they at least didn’t go to jails as convicts and became petty employees, if not officers.’

Well, the farmer died while his son was a mere teacher. The demise was unexpected and sudden, given his sturdy constitution. But then one can’t help it. His last words to his son were: ‘Son, come whatever may, you have to become an officer one day.’ He became one later on. These four anecdotes carrying four formulas, he says, are the building blocks of his becoming an officer.