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.                

A Lesser Death

 

A very beautiful former actress died in the last week of February, 2018 of cardiac arrest in Dubai. Dying at 54 seems too premature for someone whose lively eyes and trilling voice enthralled millions for decades. The news was shocking and there was genuine outpour of grief. Death the darkest mystery stumps us. The actress but stays alive through her brilliant characters in 300 movies she starred in.

So what we do with this life matters more than anything else. We leave a tiny trail of memories for those still alive. Let’s at least try that we leave behind a bouquet of pleasant memories. Well, ‘some nice memories in a few hearts’ must be the hallmark of a successful life. It definitely makes death ‘lesser’ in magnitude.

However small is the arena of your life, the stage set up for you by the forces beyond your control, to dance on it or cry is fully within your prerogative. We can at least try to dance well with joy, of course without stepping on the feet of others doing the same. 

And to remind me how ubiquitous its tentacles are, death ruffled its feathers around me also. A puppy died under my little old car. It wasn’t a bloody death. The little thing must have been sleeping under the vehicle. I simply started the ignition. The wheels rolled for a few feet. I heard muffled sounds. I stopped and found the poor thing struggling for breath with a rattling death sound. It surely was my fault.

One must be considerate for the smaller world that we find almost non-existing around our feet. We take it for granted that the higher world of we humans is all that matters. We shouldn’t forget that to the bigger forces in nature there is hardly any difference between a microorganism and a human being. Both get tossed with the same nonchalance by the forces of nature. We just feel, cry, blame, act and react more. Other than this, there is no qualitative difference between an ant being crushed under a human foot and a human being getting crushed by the circumstantial wheels.  

Well, the writer is completely in acceptance of the responsibility of causing a death. With a bit of more awareness, it could have been avoided. The little thing would have been playing with its itchy siblings in the village street. All of us have our quotas of sins of omission and commission. And acceptance of a fault definitely puts one on the path of betterment. It adds a nice positive element to life.  

Beyond the apparent causes, death drives its own forces. It’s not, as most of us may think, the effect of some accident, disease, crime, happening or mishappening. It itself is the primary cause. The means of death are in fact the effects of death. Its surety, inevitability, the absolute truth behind it, makes it the cause in itself. Had there been an exception to mortality, maybe then it could have been taken as the effect of the apparent means of death.

Death stands alone as an absolute entity. Only the means vary. There are as many possibilities of the so called ‘reasons’ ascribed to death as there are thoughts in mind.

Given the ease with which death picks up its timing, it makes it almost a supreme force. This nullifying interlude is a great push in the cycled movement of things and phenomena.

It picks from the grossest to the easiest routes. All that we can pray for is a painless, simple, aged death—a fading away, a kind of ripened drop, a finely graduated trailing off, a reasonable sign off. A dull gaze of the old, almost blind eyes into the future. A centurion. A kind of lesser death.  

A Full-baked Sense of Security

 

The boy is from Bareilly in Uttar Pradesh and sells coconuts on the pavement at Sonipat in Haryana. There is an awning of polythene sheet and bamboos, a rickety wooden diwan and the heap of coconuts. He wields the big cutter knife with throwaway ease.

He is a nice talker and offers a free conversation as you sip the coconut water. He talks pretty intimately, so much so that the next time you visit his set-up, you come as an old acquaintance even though it’s your second visit only. Well, that is the hallmark of a good salesman. These are inborn traits beyond the reach of business school logic.

‘Life is far better here. Less crime. People don’t bother you too much. I have taken a cheap room on rent nearby and go there just for cooking, bathing and toilet. I sleep here on the pavement and there hasn’t been any problem during the eight years of my stay here.’

Little does he realise that of late Sonipat has almost overtaken his home state in mischief and tumbles on the wrong side of law. But then one’s sense of security and comfort about a place is driven by the weight added to one’s purse by that particular place. All is well as long as you feel the weight in the wallet. So he is right in his judgement as one can see a few customers around him.  

He is dark with taut face muscles on his eager face. His hairstyle gives an inkling that he takes himself seriously to a decent limit. His caste, creed or communal identity is clouded by his primary identity of just being one of the struggling millions who pack their bundles of deprivation and move outstation. They treasure their little vial of happiness. Their eyes always looking at the pleasures of the relatively better offs, which acts as a big driving force enabling them to keep pulling the heavy cart.

We are talking about the gems of hard work and the inherent richness of economically poor people who dig a well daily to drink water. He holds the pavement strugglers in very high esteem.

‘The rich people are very poor in afterlife. All that they have to see is finished in this life only. Their quota of rewards, pleasures and happiness lasts during this life only. Nothing is left for the other world,’ he points to the sky.  

‘The poor are very rich after their death. A poor man will get compensation for his sufferings in the afterlife...there...in jannat!’

Well, for me it would be swarga. Now I get a clue to his religious identity.

The idea of afterlife surely helps the poor people in pulling the cart. This world may not have enough for them. They then take a huge leap of faith to shift the destination into the unfathomable depths of the skies.

‘Did you ever feel unsafe here? Some incidence or happening?’ I ask him.

Now he looks even more confident as he replies. ‘Never, it’s a very safe city as I told you. There is a very kind policeman uncle in the neighbourhood. He is very helpful and always asks me to tell him if anyone bothers me. What a nice man he is! I really like him. Coconut water is really good for one’s health. And such good people must be kept healthy so I offer him one coconut every day before he sets out for the thana. He also understands that I give it to him out of genuine respect so he doesn’t insult my feelings by offering money. I will make him the fittest policeman in the city.’

‘Oh, you are lucky to have a friendly policeman,’ I congratulate him.

‘True. Especially an honest policeman,’ he enthuses.

‘How do you know that he is an honest one?’ I ask.

‘It’s very easy! He has told me that he has never taken a bribe in his career. And I fully believe in him. He is such a nice guy,’ he is all praise for his protector. 

Well, I also believe him. A free coconut every day must be enough to fetch contentment to the policeman. And anyone would feel safe after becoming the part of a fit policeman’s book.                                          

The Rich Princes of Poor Ghettos

 

The laundry man, the fruit seller, the shoe mender, the juice maker, a pan and cigarette stall, a subzi puri booth, a chhole kulche cart, the roadside barber, the coconut seller, the key maker, a sugarcane juice crusher, queues of autos, more juice makers, rickshaw pullers, tea stalls, tiny carts laden with mouth-watering spicy samosas and the changing faces of the people as they pass through this dense urban spot.

The list of its constituents is almost endless and makes it an intense spot of struggle and survival. Life here is static as well as in a flux: static in terms of the very same old struggle, weariness and challenges to make the ends meet by these little protagonists of this tiny stage; in a flux also as the squeezing urban behemoth continuously pushes in and pushes out scores of people through this small spot. Life is slow as well as fast simultaneously. And so are the undercurrents of pleasure and pain. There is a smoky tension in the air. Everyone is on taut nerves. A massive heaving of effort is going on to somehow survive in the urban jungle.

It’s a journey where hundreds of steps count to just one of those in the bigger world. You huff and puff for miles after miles, while in reality you are still at the same spot of your misery. Happiness, the dream puller, is forever cajoling millions after millions. It’s very easy to get seduced by the thoughts and notions of happiness. Sadly, we usually ditch whatever little we possess in the present to avail happiness in future.

These institutions are built upon the pavement with gunny sacks, wooden planks, plywood, plastic and iron sheets. The rickshaws, carts and bicycles constitute the battle gear of this fighting band. They have their own poorly contrived, self-made signboards. Tired labourers, who are the small soldiers of a big battle, sit on rickety stools, chairs and benches and eat the cheap servings to continue fighting for another day.

Two pensioners talking about pension hike. Targets and goals rarely meet an end. It’s always about more money. Your own journey may be ending, but it crosses over to the next generation. You have to grab more of this world to hand over the baton to your progeny. Even though you come across hundred reasons when the ones for whom you are holding out the battle front, even in the old age, make you feel redundant and obsolete. You have but already ceded your life to them. ‘You’ means ‘they’. They may not understand it. However it doesn’t matter. You simply cannot hate them enough to stop worrying about them. Just like they cannot love you enough to help you take less painful steps on your rickety joints.

A rickshaw puller comes, mops his face with the corner of his head-cloth and gets busy in finishing his cheap lunch. He eats heartily. Hunger drives you like the best teacher. It guides you and misguides you at the same time. Poverty makes you devour your frugal pieces with a peculiar nonchalance. You chew more of your worries, hardly giving attention to what exactly you have on your plate.

The spring sun is getting scorching with each passing day. Its swiftly lays its hot fingers to absorb the leftover coolness the air still has. It devours it hungrily. Of course you wish less of the sun now at the beginning of summers, like you pray for more of it during winters.

The bigger world is just at an arms’ length but it’s miles long in distance if you measure the gap between the best dream of the people of this little stage and the normal day realities of anyone in the bigger world. There is impressive Wave City Centre Metro station, part of the world class metro rail system. Then you have an elegantly imposing tower, an ultra-modern shopping mall. Then you have a noteworthy underpass nearby. There are more impressive cars on the clogged road than any other vehicle.

Irrespective of what time of the day it is, you have a heavy throng of people. Young, middle aged, old, students, beggars, rich, poor, fat, thin, crippled, semi-crippled—a tightly squeezed bale of humanity. Their individual identities seem to be melting into a faceless commonness. The crowd colours everything with a swiping monotony. Poverty cuts your life’s meaning to keep it centred around a few bucks earned at whatever cost it requires. When you are pinned against the wall and just fight for a day, you automatically sharpen those instincts to prey upon any possibility or opportunity. The codes, principles and values constituting the great edifice of goodness get clobbered down, lose their value and go down the huge sewage drain whose foul odour fills the lungs with a marvellous continuity. After some time one finds it normal to inhale the obnoxious cocktail of motor exhaust, dust and sewage smell topped by the terribly sweating, smelly human bodies.

You have Audis and BMWs zooming past. On a garbage dump, almost in the middle of the stage, the cows and pigs that usually forage snout-to-muzzle and muzzle-to-snout are suddenly pushed out. There are intruders. A big herd of sheep, jutted against each other to make it one hungry jelly monster, is devouring the shitty leftovers. This is ultra-modern junk—cups, disposable plates, glasses, stale food, fruit peelings, plastic, plastic and more plastic. The Rajasthani sheep herder, roaming around hundreds of miles for the last blades of rapidly vanishing grass, stands pensively with his chin supported on the herding stick. He has his signature tight-fitting kurti, languorous dhoti and a huge shiny red headgear. He stands with the typical nomadic elegance from his part of India. He can have an eye feast. At a short distance, impressive towers having luxurious apartments shine under the bright sun. Many more are in the making. He is lost in their heights with a misty look in his eyes.

Inside the swanky super-mall, a stone’s throw away, it’s a completely different world. It’s not defined by hunger. It’s a replica of the dream after which the poor mass thronging the gates outside is running after. It smells of super elegance and style statement. You inhale a very condensed cocktail of luxury, perfume, spicy food, fine-soled footsteps, clothing, cosmetics, grocery and even Crossword bookstore. It has a heady aroma. A feeling of super-luxury seeps into your nerves. Utter want and hunger is just yards away outside. Many people feel hugely helped by just being a part of this luxurious dream for some time.

Grass is always greener on the other side. Thousands throng the muck to pick out morsels of survival. It’s a fight for more and more in the littlest of space. People leave the open countryside, getting bored with the smallness and feeling lost in the easy spaciousness, and run to get squeezed in the cage to feel a part of a bigger world.  

Learning a Worldly Grip

 

In two months time Sky, my nephew, will be two years old. What do we make of the world around us? It’s not the same world for everyone. To me the movie on the TV may have a certain meaning defined by relationships, love, jealousy, hate, anger and greed. To him the moving picture on the TV means the things he knows: water, car, ball and a few more things he has come to recognize. The entire drama being otherwise meaningless to him, his eyes light up the moment he sees any of these few items he is familiar with.

None of us can comprehend this existence in its entirety. There is always more to know, experience and feel. Just a part of the picture we see and draw out meanings on the basis of what we know, what we recognise and what we have experienced. The purpose of life then is to know and understand more of the picture. Know more, understand more, feel more. It’s no guarantee of happiness though. Some even say that the lesser you know, the happier you are. However, it cannot be helped. The quest stays. The pursuit remains.  

He has taken the first tentative steps to assert his claim to independence and free will. As usual, in an effort to explore the otherwise meaningless world to him, I find him wreaking havoc in the flower bed. And he does it expertly by doing the thing in totality by pulling out the entire branch.

‘Sky bad boy,’ I try to make him say, thinking it will somehow make him learn that flowers aren’t to be torn apart.

He looks at me, a finger pointing to his chest, ‘Sky good boy,’ making it plain that my ‘right’ is not essentially the same to him.

This happens to be the first instance of asserting his right to think of his own, instead of being guided by elders in each and everything from shitting to eating. A landmark indeed!

Another landmark follows. He gets congestion in chest so the doctor has prescribed nebulizer. Now he gets irritated like anything when these vapours engulf his face. He gets scared and howls. Now he learns to bargain.

‘Ma Ma bhaanp de do...and chu-chu de do!’ he says.

It means, ‘I will take steam without any fuss if you let me watch chu-chu TV.’ Needless to mention, he is fond of this animation program to the craziest limit.

There is a little set of picture books. Whenever he sees me reading a book, he grabs the set of picture books, dumps it on my lap and stomps his feet to be immediately taught.

Even when you reprimand him, he repeats your rant word by word as if practicing his tongue for the bigger verbal battles in future.

Then he ignores your presence completely because he is absorbed in watching cartoons on chu-chu TV. Things are now beginning to make a sense to him in the ways and manners of we grown-up humans.

He is scared of aeroplanes. When he is playing in the front yard, the moment an aeroplane’s droning sound reaches his ears, he runs inside saying, ‘Aeroplane, aeroplane!’ Sometimes it’s a false alarm, as he mistakes a vehicle’s sound as an aeroplane.

On a flight from Bhopal to Delhi, he continuously kept a few old passengers nearby on tenterhooks by repeatedly saying, ‘Papa this plane is going to fall!’

This afternoon an aeroplane’s silhouette flashed silvery bright against the blue azure of the sky. I held him in my arms, made him look at it with his little finger pointing towards the metallic bird.

‘Aeroplane good boy,’ I made him repeat many times as he stared at it on the border of curiosity and fear. Hope he finds the metallic bird a bit friendlier now.

He is scrawling every nook corner with whatever object he can accomplish the deed. The walls are his big canvas to draw his sketches and stamp his authority.

His first attempt at telling a lie to fetch the situation to his advantage:

Whenever he sees me reading a book, he runs to grab his picture books. So here he is trying to slip out of my hands. ‘ABC...ABC,’ he is saying. I’m not in a mood to teach him at this point of time. He makes full effort to slip out. He feels my unwillingness to let him go and grab his picture books.

‘Nani pas, nani pas,’ he is trying to convince me that he wants to go to his granny. So here I let him go, taking him on his word. He has duped me. He runs to fetch his glossy picture books and dumps these in my lap. Here are his efforts to get attuned to the larger clatter of life with more impressive notes of the bigger world.