The Enduring
BABU

The life of a civil servant is not humdrum and humourless. K. C. Sivaramakrishnan strings together interesting episodes from his years in office in his book. Excerpts:

ON the Ring Road in Delhi as one proceeds from Tees Hazari to Majnu Ka Tila, a large building coloured in pink can be noticed on the left. The only attractive feature of the building is its long and slightly curved verandah. Much of this is obscured by a high compound wall and barbed wire fencing since the building is now used for some defence research work.

This is the Metcalfe House built by Charles Metcalfe, a successful colonial administrator who had done much to advance the fortunes of the East India Company in Burma and India. Ransacked in 1857, the building was eventually restored to accommodate the Federal Public Service Commission. With the creation of IAS as an All-India Service after Independence, Metcalfe House became the IAS training school, where it remained until 1961 when the school was shifted to Musoorie.

Metcalfe House is where I arrived in May, 1958, from Madras by the Grand Trunk Express. I was one of the many from the south selected for the IAS, with little knowledge about the north. Eyes filled with wonder and hearts full of expectations about a promising and satisfying career in the service of the country, we began our fist days in Metcalfe House.

The principal and the faculty who were assigned the task of shaping a collection of eager young people from different parts of the country into a fine set of ‘upright, hard working and efficient officers,’ were a keen and sincere lot.

One of the traditions of the training school carried over from the old ICS days was that officers should learn to ride horses. It was expected that this would somehow inculcate qualities of courage and discipline in the officers. For those of us who came from the south used only to the sight of emaciated beasts tied to a small carriage, the horses of the Delhi Police seemed ferocious with their stamping hoofs and bellowing nostrils. As the arduous lessons of horse riding progressed, all that many of us could manage was to somehow clamber onto the animal and stay on the saddle.

The riding instructor was a pitiless man who had his own way of communicating with the horses. His words were totally unintelligible to us, but the horses knew the language and at his command would trot, canter or even gallop, leaving us holding fast to the neck of the animal. On one occasion an intrepid horse took off with its rider and deposited him in the grounds of the nearby Maidens Hotel. A small crowd of amused children gathered around and clapped in glee while the worthy officer trainee was doing his best to regain a measure of composure.

When I learnt that in order to be confirmed in service, I was required to take and pass an examination in horse riding, I panicked. I ran to a friendly doctor and tried to convince him that the chances of my emerging as a leading civil servant would be very slim indeed if I had to get on the back of a horse. The kind doctor took an X-ray and discovered I had an enlarged heart that might not take the strain of my hobbling on a horse back.

On the strength of this medical opinion, I sought exemption on medical grounds from the riding classes. R.K Trivedi, Vice-Principal, was not at all impressed by the shape or size of my heart. As I feared he gave me a dressing down and ordered me back to the riding grounds.

On the day appointed for the riding test, I found myself on top of a white charger. In addition to the usual rounds of rising trot and canter, I was told I had to gallop across the full length of the field. I prayed and kept tightening the strap of my sola topi and spoke some endearing words to the horse following the maxim of the instructor "Ghora ko pyar karo." Without warning, the instructor cracked the whip, the horse took off, the wind lashed my face and in a little while the sola topi flew off. I held on to the neck of the steed for all my worth: lo and behold, at the end of the gallop, I was still on top of the animal.

My colleagues cheered, the instructor patted me on the shoulder and expressed the hope I would pass. But a few days later I was informed by the tough Vice-Principal that I had failed the riding test because I had fallen short in attendance and my negative attitude to riding was unbecoming of an officer. My probation was extended by six months.

When I arrived in West Bengal I was still a probationer awaiting confirmation. I had to take some compensatory riding lessons in the Police Training School in Barrackpore. Fortunately, the horses there had imbibed the intellectual traditions of the state and were rather gentle. After a few more trots and a few more topis biting the dust, I was cleared. At the end of some more convoluted paper work, I was duly confirmed.

Civil defence escapades

MY previous escapades in civil defence made me a marked man when I returned to Bengal in 1965. This time the venue was Calcutta and the Indo-Pakistan conflict was the occasion.

At the time of my induction, Calcutta’s civil defence organisation consisted of one retired Major-General, one retired Sub Inspector, half a dozen clerical and other staff, one hurricane lantern and one tourist map of Calcutta, designed perhaps to fox the enemy as it showed the Hooghly river to the east rather than west of Calcutta. Sirens were not a problem as several had been set up in the city during the World War II, attached mostly to police stations. But due to years of disuse, many would not start when switched on, or stop when switched off. The civil defence control room was located in the basement of the Indian Museum on Chowringee Road. We had for company several sarcophagi and other funerary chests from Egypt.

In the first few days of the conflict we were kept busy every morning by numerous volunteers. Unfortunately, very few were prepared to sit for a specified period to man the telephones. Notwithstanding all this, we got a system going.

A few days later, a truce was called at Tashkent. But the government decided to continue with the civil defence set up. Manning the control room with a battery of telephones with direct connections to electricity, water, gas, police headquarters etc. proved impossible for the simple reason that no one called.

To check the lines we would make test calls three to four times during the day but that became tedious in the day and uncertain during the night.

After a while, the staff, members, particularly those manning the night shift, came to me with reports of some strange noises coming from different parts of the museum’s basement. There was a hint that the contents of the funerary chests might not be totally innocuous.

I urged the government not to insist on a full-fledged control room.

Fortunately, the government heeded my advice and before the mummies could come to life, reverted the civil defence set up to its original occupant, namely the retired sub-inspector of Calcutta police.

The lotus finally blooms

THE Chittaranjan Locomotive Works (CLW), located near Mython was one of the many important installations set up to manufacture steam locomotives. The first electric locomotive to be made there was named "Lokmanya" after the great freedom fighter Tilak and was to be launched by Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru himself.

The General Manager of the CLW R. Krishnaswamy, R K for short, was an exceptionally competent person who combined vision with a keen eye for detail. For Nehru’s visit he produced an elaborate plan.

Let me now focus on the technology prescribed for the ceremony for launching the locomotive. The PM was to press a button on the dais. Thereafter, a wooden lotus in front of the dais would rise and open its petals. From the petals would emerge an illuminated model of the locomotive. The real locomotive itself was positioned near the dais with its name covered by a brocade curtain. The curtain would then slide open. With a blast of the horn the engine would move forward. This was the script for the evening ceremony that RK had prepared. Detailed instructions had been issued to all his chiefs who were to check and recheck the details and rehearse the sequence repeatedly. The event commenced. `85 the time came for pressing the button. It was duly pressed: nothing happened. The PM pressed it again: still nothing happened. I could see R K’s face becoming red. We had also heard of Nehru’s temper on such occasions. But this time his sense of humour prevailed.

"What is happening, Mr General Manager" Nehru asked, "am I doing something wrong?"

He then made an elaborate show of lifting his arm to full length and brought it down on the button. Alas! Nothing happened.

In what seemed a suicidal leap, RK then jumped out from the front of the dais and with his bare hands peeled open the petals of the wooden lotus. The model of the locomotive came out but it was unilluminated. The brocade curtain had to be tugged aside by hand. Fortunately, a real life driver was positioned inside the locomotive. He sounded the horn and took the engine forward.

Later in the guest house, Nehru asked RK whatever happened to that button pushing ceremony. RK’s explanation was candid. "Sir, it is the same problem which has plagued development in the country; lack of coordination. I had given instructions to all my chiefs but at the last minute the Chief Civil Engineer thought it fit to put an extra shine of spirit polish on the lotus. But he did not inform the Chief Electrical Engineer nor the Chief Mechanical Engineer of this penultimate act to add shine to the proceedings. The polish did not quite dry, the petals got stuck, the circuit was broken, and the rest, Sir, is too shameful for
me to recount."

RK was duly consoled by the PM.

Excerpted with permission from The Enduring Babu
by K.C. Sivaramakrishnan.
Har-Anand Publications.
Pages 164. Rs 295

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