THE WRONG STEPNEY

Dream Range 

"Vivek, I am sending you to what has remained a dream range for me . DIG Jalpaiguri Range, ok?"

I told him, with much feigned humility that it was indeed a privilege to be chosen by the HoPF to live his dream on my promotion to the rank of DIG in 2004. Anyways, as I had the security of retention of a government flat at 32, Ballygunge Circular Road, where Bhaiya  also stayed in the same RHE, I went to what was a moth eaten range it now remained, leaving my family behind. When I was SP Darjeeling, the Range DIG, Jalpaiguri looked after all the districts north of Farakka ( I hope my readers born and brought up in Kolkata can name all of them ) but now it was just Jalpaiguri and Cooch Behar districts. 

Prod  for peacekeeping 

When my batchmate Zulfiquar messaged from Freetown  to try for a Sierra Leone  UN Peacekeeping assignment (UNAMSIL)  , I jumped at it. If one has to stay away from the family, then one might as well go abroad, earn some dollars and acquire  international work experience to boot. As luck would have it, I was selected and on 4th of September, 2004, along with  Amar Pandey, Indu Bhushan , Tanamay Ray Choudhury and Vimal Bisht , we boarded an Air France  plane, transited from Paris to a place called Conakry , and then were heli lifted to touch down  on the UN Helipad just as the sun sank into the Atlantic beyond the Lumley beach.

The why of UN Missions 

Many are curious to know what a UN Peacekeeping Mission is and why policemen are  taken on these missions. Even though not mentioned explicitly , peacekeeping draws its locus from Chapter VI( Pacific Settlement of Disputes )  and VI of the UN Charter It is a way to help countries torn by conflict create conditions to progress towards sustainable peace. United Nations peacekeepers have taken part in a total of 72 missions around the globe, 14 of which continue today. The peacekeeping force as a whole received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1988.

Missions have been established for a variety of reasons- to observe and maintain ceasefire like the 1948 Arab- Israeli conflict ( UNTSO) ; international conflicts like in Cyprus between the ethnic Greeks and Turks ( 1964)  or Iraq- Kuwait Observation Mission in 1991; to facilitate  decolonization  like ONUC in Congo (from Belgium);  a large number of Middle Eastern conflicts like UNOGIL in 1958 at Lebanon,UNYOM in Yemenin 1963; civil wars  related to ethnic cleansing and genocide like in Rwanda and the ones following break up of Yugoslavia ( the latter saw eight missions), Somalia, Haiti, Sudan, Liberia , Burundi, Ivory Coast ,etc; and for independence facilitation in Namibia, East Timor and Western  Sahara.

Moneybags peacekeepers 

UN assignments evince mixed reactions from colleagues and friends. Most think of them as fun jaunt with dollars in the bargain. It is often forgotten that UN Peacekeeping Missions are established in countries in violent conflict , and chances of falling in the crossfire - either being taken hostage or even getting injured or killed remains a real threat. UNAMSIL , when it wound up, had a total of 192 UN fatalities: 69 troops, 2 military observers, 2 international civilians, 16 local civilians, 1 police, and 2 others ( a memorial in honour of martyr Havildar Krishna Kumar of INDBATT in UNAMSIL built by locals at a place called Daru is affixed), In an earlier Mission to Mozambique in mid 1990s, a peacekeeper from West Bengal was taken as hostage. 4207 ( maximum 175 from India) have died - I think now the figure is higher. When I was Sierra Leone, I had received a mail from DPKO to assist some officers from DPR Congo to render assistance to their officers for exhuming the bodies of that country’s peacekeepers who had succumbed to Lassa Fever- and given its infectivity, the medical protocol demanded an immediate burial in graves deeper than the normal and exhumation only after six years.

UNAMSIL 

The Mission in Sierra Leone called UNAMSIL was established in 1999 to end the civil war , after consolidatory work by a previous mission called United Nations Observers Mission in Sierra Leone or UNOMSIL . It was to implement the Lomé Accord which included demobilisation and disarmament of the RUF, a rebel outfit supported by the the renegade President Charles Taylor of Liberia , and their reintegration ; protection of civilians ; humanitarian assistance, etc. The Civil War in Sierra Leone had been one of the bloodiest - killings, amputations, sexual assaults, vandalism and arson, up-roofing of houses and destruction of community/government properties. 

The initial  years 

The initial years of the Mission had been rather eventful, one of which was Operation Khukhri-

a joint land and air British and Indian Army units of the UN to rescue over 500 peacekeepers from Kailahun who had been surrounded by RUF rebels - this operation was to inspire a movie by the same name starring Shah Rukh Khan. However, by the time we reached in 2004 , peace had been largely established , but the Indian army which was in the lead in the initially tough years of conflict, had withdrawn .When we reached , it was the Pakistani Army under its Force Commander Maj Gen Sajjad Akram which was in the lead - my first UN Peace Medal was pinned by him only.  

Induction into the Mission

The start of the  mission was a bit stressful. We were lodged in the ground floor rooms of Hotel Mammyoko, the HQ of UNAMSIL. Wary of contacting cerebral malaria, we went out in  full sleeves- but despite precautions, all of us contacted the cerebral malaria- yours truly twice. Unfortunately, the first test for motor driving permit was conducted by one Irish officer Francis - and none of us could pass. We didn't know, like I believe 90% of Indian drivers,  who has the right of way among vehicles approaching a roundabout or a crossing, how often to look in the rear view mirror or even pull up  the vehicle properly ( later on, after a month of two, under a benign Cameroonian examiner, we passed our tests). Tanamay and Vimal hyper stressed poor Indubhushan suggesting, after the first failure, a second one could invite repatriation! It did not help that UN  CIVPOL ( Civilian Police) Commissioner was a bit hostile and sent us to the provinces - and me to the most distant, Kailahun. 

Anyway, there were silver linings. Firstly our Indian colleagues, Zulfiquar and Thota Rao, at whose house we would visit and  stay during HQ visits, were immensely helpful . For most of the evenings, the only source of light came from the candles mounted on empty bottles of Jim Beam - the National Power Authority was a hugely Non Performing Asset.  Secondly, there were other senior Indians, notable Major General Bhagat (Retd), Rajinder Dhawan and a large number of other countrymen in the technical services of the Mission, Thirdly,  the Pakistanis, being in command , were quite helpful. Post Kargil wounds had healed , and it was quite a bonhomie. The Pakistani Army was all over.  Fourthly, Amar and I had become members of Freetown Golf Club - an 18 hole course with browns instead of greens - by the Atlantic. At the club, we made friends with one Vinod , an Indian married to a Sierra Leonean lawyer , Luba, a woman of Chinese- Russian extract whose ex husband was a local minister in a previous government, many officers of IMATT ( mostly British) and even a Lutheran Pastor from Germany called Fritz,  Of course, we gradually made friends with a large number of UNAMSIL colleagues from other parts of the world as well. It was my first exposure to truly international cuisine and lovely beaches as well.

Kailahun and  PAKBATT mohabbat 

I was initially posted to Kailahun, an eastern province abutting Liberia. Kailahun also had a PAKBAT HQ which  was also the provider of our meals . Every evening from the team site where the CIVPOLS ( Civilian police of UN ) and MILOBS ( Military Observers of the UN) stayed next to a mosque , two team site vehicles would go to fetch biryani and korma from the PAKBATT kitchen at a nominal charge of a dollar per meal , which was good enough for two meals, dinner and lunch. Breakfast was milk and muesli and egg at the team site which was equipped with a coffee machine, microwave, fridge and a stove. 

There was this Uruguayan MILOB  ( Military Observer ) who would insist that I go with him .

“Vivek, they pamper and give you huge quantities of food , but they starve me.” 

“Saab, bahut khata hai yeh mota ,” Havildar Sikandar Khan would tell me”, chaar aadmi ka khana akele kha jataa hai.” 

When the unit wound up and departed, we moved into the site vacated by PAKBATT. While leaving, the Havildar handed me a huge store of jams, ketchup, juices, pickles, etc. 

The PAK BATT would  distribute biryani twice a day to about 30-50 people everyday, as part of its community outreach. When it was leaving, as  part of Mission drawdown, I asked the local police station commander , one Sylvester Kamara, whether he apprehends unrest by the people who would no longer get free food. He said, absolutely not. All these people were solvent enough to have food at home, it is just that when free food was offered, no one refused. And he was bang on target. There was no murmur of protest. 

Flat tyre 

When I returned to Freetown from Kailahun , and later assumed the charge of OIC CIVPOL ( heading the UN Civilian Police ) , the bonhomie continued. Maj. General Bhagat was heading the Mission integrated technical services , and often he would organise parties where Pakistani military officers were sometimes invited - and the language of the evenings would generally be Punjabi.  My Punjabi being even worse than my driving , I limited my interest to food and beverage, and gossip with the Pakistani police officers -  one was a Sindhi and other a Baluchi , both not really enamoured of the  Army and the Punjabis in their country. 

Once , I had just returned to Mammyoko Hotel from Koidu where my colleague Tanamay was located. It was a long drive, and I had driven alone in the Nissan Patrol .The Nissan Patrol was issued to heads of sections , but the basic and almost omnipresent vehicle of the MIssion was  the smaller  Toyota 4 wheel drive model. On return , after an almost 350 km journey, through jungles , mud tracks , and deserted highways , I left the office to go out for lunch, only to find there was a flat tyre in my car. Major Zaman who was walking with me when I spotted it,  asked me to leave the matter , and instead asked one of his Havildars to change the tyre and get the punctured one fixed at the workshop. I was grateful, I had never replaced a flat tyre , except once in a test on Motor Mechanics Test at NPA, Hyderabad. 

We walked back for lunch, and when I returned, the Havildar was there to hand me the keys.

“Shukriya,” I thanked him.

“Janaab, ik baat bolni thhi.”

“Boliye.”

“Khuda ka shukr hai.”

“Kya hua?”

“Aapki  stepney iss gaadi ki  thhi hi nahin. “

“What?  Kiski thhi ?” I blurted , in alarm .

Scenes of vehicles , pulled up for running road repairs, in alarmingly  empty stretches in dark hours  on the Freetown - Koidu highway, flashed by in my mind. 

“Toyota ki thhi,” he smiled, saluted, and walked away.  

IN THE SARDAR's SHADOW

“The College is the first institution of its kind in India.  It has no precedents to look back upon but has an inspiring example to set for future generations.  It has to build itself and build others….-

Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel on the Central Police Training College, later the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel National Police Academy

Visited the Sardar Vallabhbhai  National Police Academy , Hyderabad on 16th and 17 th October-  for the first time since COVID . There was an invite for a lecture on Road Safety Interventions . I am passionate about road safety, and thoroughly enjoyed my tenure as ADG Traffic for over three years- and I was delighted to go. 

Hyderabad is by far my favourite amongst the cities of the south , having undergone Basic training at the Academy during 1988-1990 .Since then , I have visited the academy many times - for various in- services courses ,as well as the  25th and 30th batch reunions . 

The Central Police Training College was established in 1948 at Mt. Abu as a  central institution to train IPS  - operating out of unused Army barracks, the rented rooms of Hotel Rajputana  and Abu Lawrence School. It was upgraded as an Academy in 1967,  and two years after admitting the first  woman officer to its ranks , it shifted to Hyderabad in 1975 . Located on the Bengaluru highway at the then village Shivarampally, the Academy has grown by leaps and  bounds  - having trained 73 batches of IPS officers  as well as officers from Bhutan, Maldives, Mauritius, Afghanistan. It conducts a large number of mid-career training programmes for senior police officers as well as officers of other allied departments. 

As we approached the Academy, the journey became a bit bumpy since a flyover was under construction. Flyover building activity in Hyderabad has always been prolific - as the city grew exponentially from mid 1990s. During my training days, whenever we would go out of NPA, , we would turn right only to go the stables , the dispensary and a dhaba. Otherwise , it was always a left turn as we entered the city by the river bridges over Musi to Koti and onwards towards Husain Sagar and Tank Bund . Now one hardly turns left - airport is to the right and the huge urban build up ,  approachable by an elevated flyover , is in that direction. I am of course nostalgic about the old days as all these areas were earlier a huge swathe of empty lands with rocks of various shapes and sizes that made the sunsets look so scenic. 

It was close to 11 in the night that the vehicle took me up the Vallabh Shikhar and deposited me at the Rajasthan Bhavan . Built in the traditional Rajasthani style of architecture , it now occupies a space which we earlier used for rock climbing - and a giant rock has been retained in situ as a landscaping prop . It also overlooks the Mir Alam Tank - sparsely inhabited during my training days , now a humongous cluster . Went to sleep straight as I had already consumed a huge G.O.A.T cheese mutton burger from Pronto. 

It was a lazy start in the morning. Had wanted to swim , but the academy pool is closed on Mondays for cleaning . So I went out for the usual walk . The academy is now dotted with buildings , as training demands have grown. The academy seems to be in race with the city it is situated in so far as construction activities go. There is a vertical of Mid Career Training programmes   - though has now lost a lot of sheen as they have  snipped the foreign leg of the programme . The present AD MCTP informed me that the last phase V batch which  went abroad was in 2015 - the year I did alongwith a number of my batchmates - Zulfi , Bhaskie, Ramesh , Anil , Sanjay, Rohit and many more - and even my younger brother Vikas . 

However , a stroll in the academy sans the IPS probationers , is rather insipid . This is

the time when either the PT ground or the parade ground is dotted with probationers in different stages of toil - the sight is energising and also evocative . I went past the empty parade ground , the PT ground , the obstacle courses , a clutch of new buildings to my left and then hit the stadium. It is now named after Ashok Kamte of 1989 batch  , an outstanding sportsman, a sterling officer who lost his life in the 26/11 Mumbai attack . There is a synthetic track now , in place of cinder track earlier . Two records still stand out in the name of my batch- 4X100 M relay and javelin throw ( Brij Raj).

On my return from the stadium , went  up to the imposing statue of Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. The Sardar perches over an elevation - keeping vigil over the flock. He is the central figure , his name affixed to the academy since 1974 . The IPS  is because of his strident assertion that the country needed All India Services to maintain its unity - his statue a mirror for all of us to reflect, introspect, and correct.

There is hardly a patch in the academy premise that doesn’t trigger  fond memories - but alas no batchmate or faculty  was around to share and reminisce with. My  whole batch had been making a programme to visit the academy when Atul Karwal , the batch topper, Evererester , prankster , dancer , singer , influencer, triathlete and what not was the Director  of NPA.  But he is transferred now and heads the NDRF. Had he been around , would have surely stayed over  to spend an evening , instead of the hurried retreat after collecting Biryani from a Paradise outlet en route the airport . 

Later in the day when I set out to deliver my lecture, I went all alone and sat under the Sardar’s portrait in the Central IPS Mess lounge , the batch remaining ever present in the frame by virtue of having presented the walnut table with inlay works in the central sofa enclosure . Atul has swapped the lounge with the dining area and extended the earlier lounge to accommodate a whopping 192 hungry probationers to dine at a  go. The dining area now looked much larger , and smelt stronger of the menu served during our days.

The lecture was delivered post lunch - at 3 pm . The MCTP building is now named

after Randhir Verma of 1974 batch, a gallant officer awarded the Ashok Chakra for his daring bid to foil a bank dacoity by suspected terrorists armed with AK 47s . Sri Verma was a hero of sorts in Bihar - brave, helpful and possessing unimpeachable integrity. Winner of many death defying battles , he had shot down the dreaded Kamdeo Singh and contained the tribal agitation in Chaibasa. “ In the  shadow of  of your gigantic achievements we pitch our miserable little tents, “  Sri Manoje Nath , his senior by a year , would write about him in a hagiographic requiem . After joining the service, I had visited Dhanbad and my cousin Pradeep Bhaiya took me to meet him. It was Diwali, he was so humble and self effacing, nary a swagger, and my last memory of his is he taking hold of some crackers from his wary son , stabilizing him, and bursting them nonchalantly. 

There were about 24 officers of the ranks of SP and Addl SP. It is tough to engage a group after lunch and siesta, but I plodded on. The group had  the usual mix of interested , disinterested , and  those in siesta . I think I did well as per the session feedback scores communicated the following day  - but more than that I am happy to note that NPA has taken taken it up in earnest to organise training courses on not just traffic management but on road safety as well.

I always find it very engaging and rewarding to meet colleagues younger and from different places. It was no different with the Course Director Bhushan Gulabrao Borase of 2009 batch. A keen learner in the field of blockchain technology and road safety, he confirmed what I had discovered on a couple of occasions in West Bengal .  I had information, and on two occasions , evidence  that sometimes false road traffic fatal accidents cases were being lodged involving snake bite or electrocution or even drowning victims to claim false insurance - by a cabal of touts, autopsy surgeons ,policemen , insurance agents. , etc . But what Bhushan told me took my breath away - the Special Task Force of Haryana busted a gang whose modus operandi was to target terminally ill cancer patients of Bhagwat Dayal Sharma Post Graduate Institute of Medical SCiences, Rohtak, approach relatives to buy insurance policies , pass of the death as road accident  , and claim insurance. Its SP  Virender Vij, younger brother of my batchmate Rajinder, said the gang committed 281 such offences, and the seizure included Rs 60 lakhs cash, 53 ATM cards, 41 Cheque Books, 38 OPD cards, 40 policy papers, 14 passbooks , four mobile phones and 66 new kits of different banks.

After the lecture , went back to Rajasthan Bhawan, and poured over the Indian Express over a cup of tea. The news which stood out was the introduction of Hindi  as medium of instruction in the study of allopathy medicine . Medical practitioners have been divided , and already the Facebook pages had carried out a humorous take on it . Hindi always has a tough time - it is indigenous but as cementing agent, it has to yield ground to a  language of foreign origin , English . 

But I missed The Hindu. I was addicted to its cryptic crossword. Such was my association with the Hindu quiz that in the batch yearbook , its editor  and my good friend Pankaj Singh wrote : 

Did you ever realise why the last page of the The Hindu is often vandalised ? Well, you only have to look for VS who , armed with the Hindu crossword, would be muttering possible combinations, anagrams, etc and trying to spoil the neighbour .

SONGS OF MY MOTHER

I can’t quite recall when I came to realize that Mummy was an extraordinary singer. I may have been 4-5 years old, we had still not shifted to Dhanbad, but I remember there was great excitement in the house that Mummy’s song was to be aired on the radio. Local Radio station was in Chajju Bagh, Patna. Many of the huge joint family that was ours in Kadamkuan were huddled around a radio, probably in the room abutting my grandfather’s . It was evening. I felt very proud. 

“She is a Radio Station artist , “ family members would talk effusively about her singing talent. I don’t think anyone else in the house sang so well. After we moved to Dhanbad, in late 1968, Radio Station recordings ceased- as would my father’s participation in the Masonic Lodge meetings of which he, like a very large number of people in the family, were regulars in Patna. 

My father was very appreciative of her singing abilities, and in many colony and office level cultural functions, she sang. She sang bhajans and ghazals ( a few penned by her father as well). Very lavish praise attended her performances- but I never saw her practise, do riyaaz, etc. She didn’t have time - she had started to teach , and what with bringing up three children with limited luxury of helps, and tight means, it was not possible. There was a collection about ten songs from which she sang regularly. 

She was much in demand to sing the songs during weddings, which were big family gatherings . At least for three days , the household would be filled up with kids and their fights, women and their gossip and men and their arguments. Not all women were great singers- but sheltered by the anonymity in a chorus or the voice of an accomplished singer , many would join in - some unwillingly, some courageously. Mummy’s voice stood out.

She was the lead singer of an ensemble which consisted of my Dadi with her encyclopaedic collection, my phuas and women of similar antiquity and intimidation, a few friends, and Novices being initiated into the Order of Bihari weddings. She had built up a huge collection for the various occasions - haldi, ghritdhaari, matkor, chheka, mandapachhadan, haldi kutai, tilak, etc. Within the genre of wedding songs was also the  gaali which were sung to welcome the baaraat , and abuse the groom’s relatives. Competition between the women choruses of both sides were common- I believe our team used to fare well. I am told that ribaldry was much more during my Dadi’s time- she also had a more colourful Nandkeolyar tongue and much at ease in using it. 

But even more than these wedding songs , for me, my connection to Mummy’s voice was her Guru Vandana. Hey Dinabandhu. Dayal Guru kehi bhanti tab gun gaaoon mai….My Nana was inducted into the Ramashram Satsang , headquartered in Mathura, and Mummy, not yet a teenager, joined it with all her passion and devotion. It stayed with her till her death. The puja corner in my house consisted of a framed photo of Guru Maharaj on a pedestal - tucked under it was a copy of Ramcharitmanas ( passages from which she would read out during teej ) , a dabba of mishri, and a folding prayer mat which she would take out while praying twice a day. When she died, she was among the oldest shishyas of the Order, and commanded a respect from many across Mathura, Patna, Jaipur, Tundla, Gaya and many other places where the bhandaras would be held - known to many through her name Pratibha and even through her delightful maiden nickname Putul. I barely knew the wordings, she never made us learn even though she would take us once in a while to the Sunday sittings. But my whole world of connect with divinity was photo of Guru maharaj and my Mummy’s beautiful vandana, with its lilting tune, the crescendo and decrescendo, broken with a period of silent meditation. It was the time we were also not expected to disturb her. 

She loved her ghazals the most, it brought her nearer to her father. Her talaffuz was remarkable- given that she was raised in Ara and Chatra and in her natal household everyone conversed in Bhojpuri. Once I left home after my 10th exams, and visited our homes intermittently, I did not hear her sing as much, though she was quite prolific in the Western Coalfields Limited functions at the club.After my father’s death, Mummy would divided her time between Kolkata, Ahmedabad and Delhi- with her three sons. Vikas had managed to get a few ghazals recorded in Ahmedabad. Even as recently as 2020, when karaoke assisted songs would be sung by people from their verandahs in the evening, to break the melancholy of lockdown , Mummy was much in demand by Bunty’s neighbours at East Kidwai Nagar. I saw and heard her on videos Whatsapped to us.

But amongst the numerous occasions that I have heard her sing, the most poignant was in the summer of 2012. As my father lay wasted due to glioma, relatives would keep on coming to visit him, rather to be with him because he was non responsive. It was an evening , Vikas and Bunty with their families were present , and the sun was going down. Maybe a couple of more cousins were also there. We were all sitting in the lawn of my Salt Lake house when  Vikas egged her on to sing. She sang, with a passion, with a depth that I could make out was a one off moment as her voice  trailed off with the strain of singing so many and tears that had welled glistened in the lambent lawn lights.  It was the last time she sang for the man she loved, convinced he was listening. He passed away a few days later. It is a moment that still gives me goosebumps. 

Almost ten years later , she went away - in an ICU. Without a word of goodbye, without holding my hand as I had thought she would do for one last time. I don't have the last photo I clicked with her, but a black and white of my first with her remains my screen saver. 

                                

The Governor departs

The day before yesterday , I completed 32 years in the service. There was a request from Bhaskar, friend from Delhi University days, squad mate, fellow straggler in the cross country runs at the academy , director of Kafka’s Metamorphosis  where he tricked me into his cast, a director of many documentaries, tough and sensitive cop and now DG, Assam , to ferret  out some pictures from the academy days .

There were quite a few- rock climbing, Army attachment at Tenga, sundry academy activities, and many of the Bharat Darshan where I was given the North India segment. Bhaskar was with me in that group , and amongst the many was a group photo with Satya Narayan Reddy, the then Governor of UP , at Nainital. 

I don’t quite remember about the visit to His Excellency, except that the interaction was at a lush green lawn, and bereft of any moment that could stand out. He was a man of few words , but quite at ease with posing for such group photographs. 

But we were  to cross each other’s path again. 

When Prof Nurul Hasan , the Governor or  West Bengal whose ADC I was in the year 1993, died  at Woodburn Ward at SSKM Hospital, Kolkata , Satya Narayan Reddy who had since moved over to a gubernatorial assignment at Odisha, was asked to look after West Bengal as an interim arrangement. He would visit Kolkata quite often, fly in the Orissa sate govt. plane.  

An early riser , he would love to walk in the south side lawns of the Raj Bhavan, a building earlier known as Government House , built by Lord Wellesley who wanted that “India should be ruled from a Palace and not from a Counting House; with the ideas of a Prince, not with those of a retail dealer in muslins and indigo.” 

The Governor would be  dressed in starched white kurta pajama and a white bundi, even at 6 in the morning , and I in my uniform with an aiguillette, a kind of a ceremonial tempering or tadka. On those walks, the spartan and man of frugal habits, came out as an amiable person with an intimidatingly outstanding command over Hindi - not for nothing this man from Mehboobnagar had in his student days published a Hindi fortnightly Mukul and later edited an Urdu weekly Payam-e-Nav during his incarceration in 1947 by the Nizam’s government. 

This Gandhian, Lohiaite, and Socialist was rather fit for his age , and I remember once he slipped in mid stride on the moss formed on the road and even as I lunged sideways to break his fall, he steadied up on his own. I just shuddered to think what would have happened had this happened with  his predecessor. Anyway, the Estate Staff , long used to neglect during the incumbency of a largely non ambulatory Governor, and who probably thought the road has to be made only drive and not walk worthy , was hauled up.

An event from his incumbency which I recall was police firing on  supporters of Congress Party who were participating in the Writers’ Chalo Abjhiyaan called by the firebrand leader Mamata Banerjee on 21st July , 1993,  and the flurry of activity  that followed.  Home Minister SB Chavan had come over, and was briefed by the Chief Minister in presence of the Governor at the Wellesley suites of Raj Bhavan. Bengal’s politics was never dull, and I thought Satya Narayan Reddy  ji quite liked his visits to Kolkata. 

During one such visit , it so happened that the Warrant of appointment as Governor of West Bengal under the hand and seal was issued in favour of Raghunath Reddy , ex labour minister of India, a three times Rajya Sabha Member and the then Governor of Tripura.This  sudden announcement , along with the information that swearing in would be held on the following day, resulted in Satya Narayan Reddy ji deciding to fly back to Bhubhaneshwar on the second day of his proposed four day visit to Kolkata.

There was one problem - the two pilots who had flown him in were traceless ( they thought they would be required to fly after two days  later). Mobile phones were yet to come. . With great difficulty , one was traced and asked to proceed to  Dum Dum Airport. 

We, too , left for the airport . His Orissa ADC , a year junior to me  , was also present . Home Secretary  and Under Secretary , Government of West Bengal were  already there as  part of protocol. 

The Orissa ADC was scared that only one pilot would be available to fly back the plane . What would happen if he had a heart attack ? Was it safe ? 

Then he went to the craft . The solitary pilot who was pottering around , doing the pre flight checkings , the ADC said , was drunk . The ADC, a non - drinker and was quite  intimidated at the prospect of flying  with a pilot who reeked of liquor at 230 pm . He kept on coming  to me in the ceremonial lounge and mumble his doubts . I was not in sync with him  about anxiety over the pilot smelling of liquor as I knew even after more than a few drinks, men could wake up the next morning early, do morning PT which could include rope climbing and front and back rolls and horse vaults, and then slip into starched khakis for a two period of parade under a hot Hyderabad sun. 

I did not know much about planes and pilots, having flown only once in my life in a commercial plane till then. Besides, my next air journey had almost ended up in a tragedy. No, not  a crash or something like that, but in the return flight in this same Orissa government  with the then West Bengal Governor Nurul Hasan who was holding additional charge of Orissa,  I had accidentally touched the back  adjusting lever , in a dark cabin, and the back rest went down with a very helpless and weighty Governor lying almost flat on his back. The Governor, however, displayed remarkable sangfroid even as he lay supine and uttered Barkhudaar, aapne toh mujhe leta diya ( son, you have laid me down ).

So I said go and talk to HS who could already sense the ADC’s unease . He got up , went up to the plane , undertook an olfactory survey, and announced - oh , it’s just a hard night’s drink . He is fit to fly . 

Now the ADC  had no further court of appeal to approach . The Governor saw his ADC’s crestfallen crouch and said for all to hear in his very shuddh Hindi.  - tumhe bhai lagta toh yahin raho, main to avashya jaa raha hooN ( if you are afraid, then you stay back. I will definitely go).

The poor ADC couldn’t back out . 

But though he said it was fine,  he sat in the cockpit  in the co pilot’s seat - which the pilot , to humour , had offered as a lollipop - with as much ( or as little if you insist) confidence  as  a quite a few probationers did  while astride the horses of Hanumant Singh’s stable at NPA, Hyderabad. 

That was the last I saw of the Orissa Governor and his ADC who both waved and  flew away. 

NIGHTS OF THE NITES

The more avid of my readers would possibly recall that during my first year in college, I had gone  to India Gate to listen to Osibisa , an African band. My friend Amit Jha , in whose company Lady luck even at the peak of her jollivity refused to smile, was with me. There was a slight problem- we had no tickets to the show, and our pursuit for passes ended with a summary shove from the house of his Deputy Commissioner Dhiru  mama. Amit suggested we could get stoned,  go and enjoy from outside the venue.  We left no stone unturned , and fortified with a Rs. 10 Afghani from  Khanna’s at Kingsway camp left for India Gate. However, it was a no show for us  due to a basic glitch in planning- the show had been  long over by the time we reached ! 

Even after I joined service , my poor run of luck with these musical shows or “nites “, and functions like the jatras , continued. I was a probationer in Burdwan in 1990  when Lata Mangeshkar ji came to sing at Mohun Bagan  Ground . The venue was circled by a wall of sal barricading and corrugated sheets . I was detailed at one of the gates, and after the  people in the long , snaking queue  had entered the gate,  I went inside only to find a very agitated Addl SP telling the SP ' Sir aapki force phaltu hai.'

The Superintendent of Police,  the venerable Nawal Kishore Singh,  told him ‘bhai, yeh tumhari bhi force hai. Don’t bother , sit down , we will take care.’

 'Maliwal, jara dekho toh kya hungama ho raha hai, and take the probationer with you ,'  he ordered  his more reliable No. 2. 

So I got tagged with Mr. Maliwal , and we rushed towards the corner from where the unruly crowd was trying to gatecrash. The young Addl SP ordered a lathi charge, the younger probationer also joined him. We ran, chasing for over 50 meters , and then stopped as an eerie  silence from behind grabbed and pulled us up . Standing in the midst of  a sea of abandoned footwear , I looked behind. The posse of over twenty five  men  which had started out for the chase with us was nowhere to be seen , except our two security guards. 

‘Yeh hamesha hoga, always remember to look behind your back in such situations.’ 

Lesson learnt , we re- collected our men and made a further chase leading to a tear gas charge . 

Naina barse rimjhim rimjhim, Lataji sang,  as we got the gas in our  eyes  after  the breeze did a reverse flick and Ai mere watan ke logoN  zaraa aaNkh mei bhar lo paani accompanied us during our return trudge and lachrymal outpourings. 

A few months later, another such Nite  - of junior Bengal artists at Sidhu Kanu stadium, Durgapur. Shotgun Sinha had also come I recall. But what remains an abiding memory was the continuous lathi charge outside- apparently counterfeit tickets were sold leading to ruckus inside and riotous situation outside. Uma Shankar Mukherjee, the OC of Durgapur PS was able to crack the case, but the night had been more bruise than a breeze for many  of us. 

During my days as SDPO, Tamluk there was this Amit Kumar Nite  in Jhargram. From outside, the venue looked like one of the many circus locales  I had seen  in my childhood - Amar, Gemini, etc. Addl SP Kharagpur was in charge. At about ten in the night  the show started with a string of junior artists.  Then it became 11, and now midnight. The junior artists - a gaudily sequinned Shakeel here and a shimmering Shobujkali there-seemed to have exhausted  their repertoire and the audience’s patience . The jokes were falling flat, the gyrations were not enticing enough and the murmurs were getting louder. The police deployment at  ladies’  enclosure  was beefed up. Still no sign of Amit Kumar. 

Announcements were being made from time to time to reassure.  Finally around 1. 30 am when  our nerves had become quite frayed , Amit Kumar made his entry. 

As he stepped  on the stage he stumbled - one wrong step by him was a giant skip of beat  of every policeman’s heart. One could almost see every policeman on duty  bend  to catch and break his fall- their  safety depended on his sobriety . He collected  himself and straightened up. Next step and he lurched on the other side. The law enforcers also lunged instinctively to catch him from their positions.  Catcalls flew, a few liquid filled plastic packets as well. I thought this it was going to be bad, and uttered a silent prayer to steady the rocking  ship. The Almighty was  fortunately on  watch and He heard my prayers.

Amit Kumar composed himself, apologized endearingly , and promised to sing for three hours. And he lived up to his promise  and regaled right through the break of the dawn. It was one close shave for us .

A couple of years  later I was posted in Barasat . An organiser of Manna De Nite came over to my bunglow office late evening and informed that  the great singer had  gone back on his promise to turn up at Swaroop Nagar  despite having pocketed the advance .  He showed me documents to support his claim. 

‘When is the function?’ I asked. 

‘Sir, it is about to start within an hour today.’

If Manna De was not going to turn up, there was going to be serious trouble. Maybe even firing , I thought, as this district had a reputation of violent public protest to keep. Swaroop Nagar was on Bangladesh border with a fair number of mischief mongers , smugglers ,  transborder criminals - quite near to Baduria where police firing had taken place a few months ago during a jatra performance , and to Habra with its star studded Gobardanga and Massalandpur hotspots . 

I was equally bemused as to how many would would come to listen to  the maestro whose oeuvre was more classical and semi classical than the popular ones - I mean listen to Yeh kahaani hai diye ki aur toofan ki  and Laaga chunari mei daag . 

I immediately rang up Sunil Haldar , the SDPO Basirhat who was in charge of the police arrangements and informed him about this possibility.  

‘ Sarbanash ! he could not have described the possibility of mayhem better.

‘Sir, this is his phone number, he is putting up near Narkeldanga . You call him  up and tell him to turn up,’the organizer pleaded.

I thought no harm in trying.

‘Namaskaar, aami Bibek Shohay, Addl SP Barasat bolchhi.’

‘HaaN, bolun,’ the singer replied in a tone not very cordial, and not very deferential either. 

I explained to him that he had  committed to turn up at Swaroop Nagar that evening , having taken an advance, and that if he doesn’t go, there could be a huge trouble. He stated that he was not going since  the organizer , as per contract, had to pay the balance on his arrival at  Kolkata and had not paid . 

I cupped the mouthpiece and asked the organizer in front of me about this defaulting on balance amount.

‘ Sir, I promise to handover the balance by tomorrow,  well before his return flight. Right now, we are waiting for the ticket receipts to be calculated.’

Fair enough , I thought,  and uncupped the mouthpiece.

‘He will pay you tomorrow, you go otherwise there could be pandemonium at Swaroop Nagar,’ I tried to reassure and reason.

‘That is your problem, I will not go, that  organizer Tuhin is a fraud,’ Manna Dey replied in a tone as unreasonable as it was without any assurance.

I was absolutely livid , and  shouted on the mouthpiece, , ‘ I will get you arrested for  criminal breach of trust.’

I thought for a moment, foolishly of course , that Manna Dey might change his decision when the enormity of my threat would have dawned upon him.

‘ You can arrest me if you can, but I am  not going. Actually, I am flying off to Bombay tonight, ‘ he called my bluff and hung up. 

I was happy the phone didn’t have a speakerphone , so my came -with -a bang- left -with -a -whimper humiliation was a fairly private affair. 

My next phone calls  were  to the Reserve Inspector  for a section or two of  ( composite ) force, to Binay , the SDPO Bongaon to rush with available force and meet at some point under Habra PS ,  and finally to Sunil  Haldar to keep the show going on with the junior artists till we arrived .

I took me over two hours to reach  Swarupnagar PS where the local OC had already put the secretary of the organization behind bars. 

“ What for is this fellow inside?” 

“Saar, it is protective custody, it could save him from being lynched.”

Sanjit was a veteran of the field , impressively rotund as thanedars of most mofussil thanas are, and fully in control. 

The venue was not very far from the police station, and as we walked you could the cut the tension with a knife.  An ominous buzz was going around , and as I was contemplating the next step, a footwear flew and fell the microphone in front of the singer on stage , and soon a couple of chairs  found their target  in the huddle of sound technicians and a few constables .

These missiles also ended my contemplation. The decision was immediately made.  There was a wild lathi charge , the crowd ran in different directions, and surprisingly, dispersed  in a few minutes . Till date, I have always wondered as to how the situation did not deteriorate  further , but then I guess, sometimes one can be lucky. It was one of those days again.  I looked up  to thank the Almighty. 

The only thing I saw up above was a plane flying. 

‘Could it be Manna De ?’I wondered. 

Maybe as a token of the advance , he had at least flown past the venue.