The Burra Saheb of Kingsway Camp - From the book A Story of Faith and Miracles

The Burra Saheb of Kingsway Camp Postgraduation – a trip down the memory lane Well, like I mentioned I could barely muster only 56.7% in the bachelor’s degree. To put it very plainly, I had passed with a second class which certainly did not endear me to my father. Khokan graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree and subsequently did a short course in journalism and perennially lamented the fact that he lost those twenty precious marks in mathematics in the 12th standard examination. This rattled him and became the primary reason for his poor performance. It was akin to Indian cricket team not recovering from 17 for 5 against Zimbabwe in a World Cup match and subsequently folding in at a paltry 42, all out. Meanwhile at Doctors Quarters there was a fresh suitor for Satra. He was christened Sunny. In our eyes Sunny was a rockstar. With his long curly hair and lean frame, he was also known as the Kumar Gaurav of our colony. Kumar Gaurav was the reigning heart throb of several Satras across India. Sunny a product of Modern School, after some dalliance with hash and alcohol eventually settled down to become a doctor. Sunny used to regale us with his escapades with the wives of some doctors of the colony which we viewed with some degree of suspicion and then turned his overtures to Satra. My inner voice maintained a studied silence when I thought about the veracity of Sunny’s claims. And I used to ponder over this strange silence, wondering whether I ought to challenge Sunny. Sunny replaced Bumboo in our everyday humdrum existence, but unlike Bumboo he was not fiendish or covetous. He had a humungous collection of western numbers ranging from Jimmy Hendrix, Eric Clapton, the Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel and we collaborated to write and direct a musical play based on Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Those were the days where we all loved to revolt, be anarchists and our favourite tag line was, If one is not a liberal at twenty-five, the young have no heart. It is only later in life that we realised that, if one is not a conservative at thirty-five, then the man possesses no brain. We were still to discover faith in Sunnyisms. Sunny had some prodigious theories on life and medicine. He was a strict non-believer, who propounded that there lived and existed in every colony in Delhi, a Satra. In fact, he was brave enough to extend the theory to all of India. These were extremely interesting and radical views, at variance from the rest of the pack I had ever encountered thus far. Khokan and I found his views quite quirky and would argue over the Theories of Sunny. While he was extremely brainy, I had little idea he was under the influence of Calmpose (or diazepam) when he generously sermonised these homilies. His allegiance was to science, atheism and even to hash. The colony could be Defence Colony, Greater Kailash, Green Park or say R.K. Puram and the more we moved southwards from our lowly North Delhi area the benchmark of Satra was exalted. He had yet another important view and belief in life that Bollywood and other regional directors canned only two kinds of movies – one was sheharwali (or the urban based themes) and second gaonwali (the rural based ones- referring to the offbeat cinema). And very clearly after swallowing a couple of diazepam he would choose to watch a Bollywood block buster. I argued in vain to try and get him to watch the cerebral performances of Naseeruddin Shah and Om Puri, but the collective will of Sunny and Khokan prevailed and I was compelled to watch Vijay a.k.a Amitabh, Ravi a.k.a Shashi Kapoor, Ravi a.k.a Jeetendra, Paaji a.k.a Dharmendra and Chintu a.k.a Rishi Kapoor. Very soon after my graduation, I joined a Chartered Accountant at Chandni Chowk. My mother had rightly prognosticated that it would not be long before I would quit Chartered Accountancy programme. Her prophecy came true and I survived with disgust in those dusty files with numbers for barely 3 days … not even three weeks. “What is in the DNA of mothers that they understand the psyche of their children so very well?” I wondered. “From where do they manage to predict so accurately,” I paused to think. “Elementary Mr Watson … it is their faith in their children whom they carried for nine months,” the transmigratory souls whispered from the universe. Thus, mothers who carry children in their wombs for nine months and nourish them can understand the psychology of their children much better than fathers. As I was wondering what should be the next course of action after I dropped out of Chartered Accountancy, it was my father who helped me secure admission in M.A. (Business Economics) in South Campus, Delhi University. Confession Time – My experiments continued “Amma pardon me, I have been smoking occasionally,” I said while touching her feet in remorse. She admonished my misadventure and made me swallow homeopathic pills. I was afflicted by a double whammy of pharyngitis and chronic colic. My inner voice agreed with the cure proscribed by my mother to tackle the problem of throat and colic pain. Adversity was converted into an opportunity Even though I was plagued with a host of medical problems like amoebiasis, colic pain, pharyngitis and chronic cold apart from a relatively average academic performance and last but not the least shying away from Chartered Accountancy within a mere three days, I suddenly found my mojo while pursuing M.A. (Business Economics). One, I had thinned down and lost weight and was looking fresh and handsome. Some of the staff members at the rehabilitation centre at the T.B. Hospital found an uncanny resemblance with Dilip Kumar, the yesteryear melancholic, romantic actor par excellence. And I started to believe in them, while essaying the remarkable trouper in front of a mirror. Secondly the subjects in Business Economics were not boring and desultory like those in B.Com. and most importantly South Campus was flooded with several Satras. We surmised that Sunny was correct in his assessment and that there were Satras in every colony. A cynosure which attracts strapping youngsters who indulge in various fantasies ogling at them, as very few had the requisite courage to approach the women for a date. And Dr Sunny was in particular right about South Delhi girls who appeared smarter and better dressed than those of North and West Delhi (with no offence meant). Now we were the North Delhi type guys and generally shy of the South Delhi women and had to muster adequate courage to approach the real smart South Delhi girls. While Satra was my first crush but did not become my valentine, there was a prepossessing girl exceedingly charming and alluring who was nicknamed as Pimple- E - Azam soon to grab the eyeballs of the students in our class. I was attracted to the charming girl. Well, I fancied myself to be the melancholic and romantic Dilip Kumar and found shades of Vyjayantimala or the statuesque Madhubala. But I strangely lacked in courage and guts (despite my histrionics on the stage) to express my feelings to her, despite several opportunities. Though I spoke with her, I could never utter the three epochal words. In fact, on the Diwali day after downing a few pegs of exquisite scotch at Sunny’s residence, I mustered the courage to dial Pimple-E-Azam. “Hi, Happy Diwali.” “Oh, who is it?” she spoke softly almost expecting my call. But I could barely speak. My heart was pounding, palms were sweating, beads of sweat collected on my forehead and the throat was parched. Partho and Sunny were now pretty high and had egged me on. But I could barely speak and merely wished her a happy Diwali. I could hear a sigh and a comforting laughter as we hung up. Next day I was to meet a resplendent looking Pimple- E- Azam who was effervescent and enquired about the call the previous night. Once again, I could mumble a few indistinguishable words and Pimple-e- Azam just wrung her hands in despair. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Sometime during that period, one Saturday, I was asked by my father to accompany him to FICCI located at Tansen Marg, near Mandi House. A little later after my father wound up his work, we were at RAU’s IAS study circle, barely a kilometre away. Dr Rau has once been selected to the Superior Revenue Establishment of the Traffic, Transportation and Commercial Department of Indian Railways which was later to be rechristened as the Indian Railway Traffic Service (and now is a part of Indian Railway Management Service). Dr Rau was leftist in his leanings and considered to be a Maoist way back in late 1950s and thus could not get the necessary police clearance to join the service. He ate very parsimoniously – some fruits and upma and was quite thin. My father had suggested that he could start an academy to train Civil Servants and Dr Rau forayed into this unchartered territory. Now he had made a name for himself at the plush academy on Hailey Road. He was the lodestar in the firmament of IAS coaching institutes, and produced several civil servants every year. Other institutes could manage but an occasional Hailey’s comet. He looked at me and passed on a sheet of paper and asked me to write two pages on the current affairs of the country and the world. Rings of smoke of Dunhill made the room foggy as he intently read what I had written. “Mr Sri Ram, tell your son to join the institute from tomorrow. I promise he will crack the Civil Services in his very first attempt. He’ll become a burra saheb,” he spoke with conviction and faith. His eyes could spot talent and had remarkable faith in his intelligence. “I believe in everything until it's disproved. So, I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?” the iconic John Lennon was to say. And Dr Rau was quite like John Lennon, blessed with incredible faith and confidence. However, my father was unsure. I was still to complete my postgraduation. As my father dithered, Dr Rau added, “Catch them young is the magic mantra in the bureaucracy.” “One can rise to exalted positions in government the earlier a bureaucrat joins,” Dr Rau argued. “He would lose two precious years of service if he were to wait to complete his post-graduation,” he attempted to convince my father. But my father’s logical and conservative mind was divided between the corridor of a safety valve and diving into what he presumed would be an abyss of uncertainty. My mother was a wager through her belief and faith. She was all for the gambit and advised that I ought to take the plunge. But in the end my father’s will prevailed and I did not join Rau’s IAS Study Circle, a decision which perhaps would have altered the course of my destiny. Surprisingly my inner voice was to remind me about the past encounters in Mysore Ashram about supply chain logistics and rattling trains. Was there a deeper meaning to this sudden flash I wondered in amazement. Though blessed with a scientific temperament n the true Nehruvian mould, my father had identified the precepts of fate and destiny and clearly delineated them. My mother was willing to take calculated risks. She reiterated that I ought to follow the advice of Dr Rau. So once again I was sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, but in the end, I opted for the softer, safer option. I continued with M.A. (Business Economics) at South Campus Delhi University. A match aborted by a murder The date was 31st of October and the year 1984. Few of us were aware this was the day the Iron Man of India was born. Yes, I am referring to Sardar Patel. The weather was salubrious and most of us bunked classes to catch the Indo-Pak one day match at Sialkot on the radio. But there was no sign of the match and we were wondering as to why it was called off. Suddenly news spread like wild fire that Mrs Indira Gandhi, the popular Prime Minister of India had been attacked and was rushed to the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences. We chucked our fags, left empty cups of tea and rushed for cover. There was absolute bedlam and also an eerie silence as students headed for buses. Everyone on the road seemed to be returning home. Prime Minister Indira Gandhi had been assassinated at 9:29 a.m. at her residence in Safdarjung Road, New Delhi by the bullets of her Sikh bodyguards, Satwant Singh and Beant Singh, in the aftermath of Operation Blue Star. Indira Gandhi, feisty politician and Prime Minister never brooked any defiance. It was a common knowledge among the political class and those interested in political activities that whenever her political star dimmed, she resorted to dramatic actions. Operation Blue Star was an Indian military action carried out between 1st and 8th June 1984, ordered by Indira Gandhi to exterminate Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale and his followers, most of them ultras holed up in the holy precincts of the Golden Temple in Amritsar. Collateral damage included the death of many pilgrims, as well as damage to the Akal Takht. The military action on the sacred temple was criticized both inside and outside India. Delhi and several places in the country were rocked by large scale violence, looting, rape and mayhem against the Sikh community as retribution for the assassination. Houses were set ablaze; trains were torched and the proud Sikh community was numbed. In our doctor’s campus lived two Sikh medical practitioners, Dr Pritam Singh and Dr P.P. Singh. They were petrified and scared for their lives. Several doctors and some of them very close friends turned a blind eye to their plight, but it was my feisty mother loaded with the power of faith and my cerebral father who rose to the occasion to organise their protection. Their lives were saved, but from our terrace for the next few days we could hear shrieks of terrified citizenry, stench of carcasses and smoke billowing from razed houses. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The cold war following the War of Roses between Satra and me suddenly thawed and terminated sometime in early May 1988 as the results of the Civil Services Examination were declared where I secured the 205th rank among the lakhs who appeared for the prestigious examination. This mellowed the heart of the beguiling woman. Quite unexpectedly, she broached a conversation while we were waiting for a bus to reach our respective destinations. This reminded me of our last bus stop encounter when she was drenched in a heavy downpour as we sought shelter under a shop. Suddenly only chemistry and bonding sparked-off in the laboratory of our minds. “Some pelf of being selected to the Civil Services,” I presumed. Relationship which had turned frosty by the antics of an irritating Bumboo were revived upon my clearing the Civil Services Examination as suddenly I had risen in her esteem. Finally, the faith of my mother translated into a miracle which stupefied the residents of our colony, especially the inhabitants of D-17, as I was to emerge a Civil Servant. As I was ranked 205th, doctors and other paramedic staff could hardly believe that I opted for the Indian Railway Traffic Service instead of the much-touted news which spread like wild fire that I had been selected for the IPS or Indian Police Service. Satra and company had apparently checked my rank, which was published in the newspapers. Very few, including the soon-to-become-bureaucrat were aware about what the Indian Railway Traffic Service (IRTS) was all about and as to what the job actually entailed. Generally, everyone felt that I would become a Station Master, a guard or maybe a TTE on a train, but for some reason not a uniformed police officer as was proclaimed by me and my mother. I could not but help remember a poem by the eminent poet R.L. Stevenson before heading to Railway Staff College (RSC), Baroda for my probationary training. This poem was published in Robin Louis Stevenson’s 1885 volume of poetry for children, A Child’s Garden of Verses. From a Railway Carriage Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along like troops in a battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain