The cop and the bribe

 

There is a system called “Bharat Darshan” prescribed for all government officers of Group A. This essentially means that during probation, a group of young, idealistic trainees go around the countryside under the guidance of a senior officer of the service to various parts of the country, get acquainted with different cultures, traditions and different systems of administration in different parts of India that is Bharat. Usually, it covers 5/6 states in each route – you meet the Governor, Chief Minister, President/ Prime Minister if your route includes Delhi, Chief Secretary, DGP and so on.

In one of the groups, 21 of my batch, bright – eyed IPS probbies accompanied by a seasoned IPS officer were ushered into the august presence of a particular DGP in a state. Many of the probbies asked probing questions like how to improve the criminal justice delivery system, whether there was life after or outside IPS and so on, when the DGP held out a restraining hand and asked, “Woh sab toh theek hei, yeh bataao, paisa kamana hei ki nahin?” The officers were stunned! The DGP asking this! He amplified, “Nahin, nahin, yeh baat nahin hai. When you join the posting, people will be very curious about you. No matter how much you try to hide anything, within three years of service, everyone will have a very good fix on you. Whether you are trying to be part of the ‘haves’ (read corrupt) or ‘have nots’ (read beggar). If ‘have,’ whether you are a ‘grass – eater’ (Allah ke naam pe kuchh de de) or a ‘man – eater’ (I shall squeeze your neck ever so slowly but with excruciating force until you cough up your last drop) and so on. Point is, if in those crucial three years you have built the reputation of a ‘have not’ and after three years, you want to ‘have’, you can’t. Yeh kambakht reputation tumhe paisa kamane nahin dega. Soch lo. Paisa to kuchh logon ko chahiye hota hai. The time to decide is now.” The probbies didn’t know whether to think of it as some weird sense of humour or a brush with real life.

When I was doing my district training, I was attached to a Police Station. Part of the routine consisted of stopping errant drivers and booking them for traffic violations. One truck driver offered me Rs. 50 for releasing his truck. I was flabbergasted. How dare he try to bribe a senior officer like me? So I started to give him a lecture on the hierarchy in Police. I told him that most of the cops he deals with are Constables and, on his lucky day, probably a Head Constable. Above this rank is an Assistant Sub Inspector who reports to a Sub Inspector who is the BIG GUN, usually called “Bada Babu.” A Sub Inspector is usually in charge of a Police Station. Several Police Stations come under an Inspector. Several Inspectors report to a Dy. S.P. and above Dy. S.P. is a rank of Assistant Superintendent of Police which was roughly where I was. His daring to bribe such a senior officer was mind boggling. The truck driver was suitably chastened and said, “Galti ho gaya sahab. Sau rupaiya (100 rupees) le lijiye.” I was depressed for days. That was the only time I was offered a bribe. Some mistake somewhere in those first three years, probably.

During my first posting as SDPO, Alipurduar, I was staying at a guest house until my predecessor vacated the government quarters. I moved in the day he vacated and then I realised that I needed to have a cot and basic furniture. When I was debating where to go to buy these things on instalment basis, my security guard who was a Constable suggested that since he had a spare cot, he should lend it to me until I made more permanent arrangement. Gradually, it turned out he had spare everything, spare cot, spare dining table, spare TV, spare VCR and so on. When I asked him how he managed to achieve so much at such a young age, he said one single posting at Barobisha and he had gone from “shunya to shikhar” within three months. Barobisha is the check post between West Bengal and Assam. I went back to the subdivision for a holiday three years after leaving it. This same Constable heard about my visit and came to meet me. As a part of small talk, I asked him where he was posted. He said cheerfully that he had been under suspension for about a year on charges of grand corruption …

Demand and supply

The day the cadre allotments are announced while we are at the training academy is a big day. There is intense discussion amongst the probationers as to who got a better deal and who got the rough end. Generally, the north eastern states are less preferred, except by officers belonging to those states. During our probation, Punjab was facing the height of its militancy so some officers were not too keen on it. And so on. However, for some reason, the day our cadres were announced, officers who had drawn other cadres converged upon us, the West Bengal allottees, to commiserate and condole.

 

Even after retiring from the service, I haven’t fully figured out why. I found the cadre to be nice and informal. The force had faced the first terrorist movement in independent India and had acquitted itself remarkably well. There was enormous camaraderie and full-throated celebrations to go with onerous duties. Probably one of the reasons for the cadre getting a bad press was that, at the time, West Bengal Police force was the only Police force in the country where the Police associations were allowed trade union rights including the right to industrial action.

 

In theory, it was a good idea. The unions were expected to focus on the welfare of the staff, act as a bulwark against high-handedness and discrimination, prevent victimisation of the members and secure better working conditions for them. The dream glowed; reality did anything but.

 

Soon after I assumed charge as Superintendent of Police (SP) of a district, the office bearers of one of the unions came to “call on” me for an introductory tete-a-tete. Post the initial exchange of pleasantries, they told me that the district Police situation needed a lot of improvement. I asked them where all the infrastructure was deficient, what the duty hours were, whether adequate transport, fuel, etc. was provided, the state and availability of the police ration, accommodation and so on. There was pin-drop silence. After a while, the leader said, “Sir, you don’t have to bother about those things. Just tell us what you have decided on the forthcoming general transfers and postings.” It was now my turn to be speechless.

 

There were almost weekly delegations by the two unions with varied demands. In Police, there is a system of Orderly Rooms, usually held once a week. During this, subordinate staff charged with smaller misdemeanours are marched in in Muster Parade (i.e., ceremonial) uniform, given a hearing of their defence, and, if adjudged guilty, summarily awarded a “minor” punishment. One of the first demands of a union was that, as per the law, no one can be punished twice for the same offence and I must put a stop to it. I was surprised that such a practice obtained in the district. The law was clear. There cannot be double jeopardy. I invited them to give me instances of such anomaly. They informed that I was the biggest culprit. Whoa, what! They then proceeded to inform me, in words of one syllable, that I was making the charged officials appear in the Orderly Room in muster parade uniform which constituted the first punishment. Not satisfied with such a grave tribulation, I again awarded them a “censure” or “warning” which was a second punishment. My inhumanity and cruelty were such that sometimes I even awarded a third punishment by cutting their pay for unauthorised absence. I was speechless.

 

One of these increasingly fractious meetings was held in the afternoon. Usually, the two unions were at loggerheads and looked at issues in opposite directions but this one day, they were unanimous in their demand. They pointed to the afternoon hour when the meeting was being held, informed how the human body undergoes enormous transformations after lunch, and “demanded” that I should exempt wearing of the (uniform) belt after lunch. I was speechless.

 

Coming to the original issue, just before the annual general transfers and postings, the bigger of the two unions came up with a series of “demands.” There were two sub divisions in the district. The first demand was, an official from one of the sub divisions could not be transferred to the other sub division because it entailed humongous dislocation [the longest distance in the district was 133 kms]. Secondly, officials who were above a certain age should not be relocated. Thirdly, officials who had ageing parents could not be displaced. Further, officials whose children were in 10^th or 12^th standard could not be relocated. Finally, officials who or whose family members suffered from any illness could not be relocated. These were not so much “demands” as “non-negotiables.” Curious, I asked them how complicated the whole exercise would be and they said not to worry, they would give me a “list” after due diligence, covering about 60 % of the personnel. The other union, being the smaller one, would give me a list covering about 30 %. The remaining 10 % was completely at my discretion for pleasing the powers that be. I did not say anything. I was speechless.

 

The real subtext was that all those constraints would not allow anyone to be “disturbed” from the existing location. All that could be done was to transfer someone from a Police Station duty to Intelligence gathering or white collar crime or home guard supervision or office duty and so on at the same duty station. Some of these “postings” had better extortion potential than the others. However, once a person has been identified as from the police station, the general public in the area would not know that he has been transferred to Intelligence branch or elsewhere. Thus, his “income” remained steady. All the locations had been arranged in the past through “negotiations” with the union office bearers at virtual auctions.

 

It was early days of computers. What I did was divide the locations into three categories – “High Oxygen,” “Low Oxygen” and “Gasping for breath,” meaning high, low and negligible “incomes.” With the help of a small computer programme, in a completely mechanical fashion, I shifted the location of all the personnel having completed two years at a location across the categories. All hell broke loose.

 

As per a government order, I had to provide a small vehicle to the unions for welfare work, as per need. They requisitioned one and went around the whole district to mobilise the personnel to assemble at the district headquarters on a particular date and “gherao” me. When alerted to this, I personally typed out a letter of resignation without the knowledge of anyone and kept it in my drawer. I had decided that if they gheraoed me, I would simply put it on the table, tell them there goes your SP and walk out from their lives and the service. I had no intention of being subjected to a 24-hour or a 48-hour barricade without food, water, toilet break, etc.. The appointed day came. I waited in the office the whole day but the dramatic things didn’t happen. In the evening, my informants told me that the union did mobilise the numbers. Unfortunately for them, too many personnel who never had any hopes of getting a so-called “good” posting had got those and resisted in greater numbers. One member of the latter group went and put a huge padlock on the union’s office door. They effectively “gheraoed” the militant union’s office bearers. Thus did I live to tell the tale.

After the district stint, I was leaving for central deputation, with a certain amount of relief that my life would have at least one less complication now. A few days before that, the big fry in that concerned union came to my office alone. We were chatting generally and after a long while, out of the blue, he said, “Chaalano jaaye Sir, chaalano jaaye. Maayna bhetore sonsar chalano jaaye. Aamra bujhechhi ekhon.” [It’s possible, Sir. One can manage the household within the salary. We’ve learnt that now.] I was speechless. At his candidness. One. Final. Time. 

A question of loyalty

 

In the service, it so happened that I was given my first posting as Sub Divisional Police Officer (SDPO) in the same sub division where I underwent the district training. I had worked closely with the sitting SDPO, assisting him and training with him for raids, investigation, law and order duties, case supervision, etc.. Looked like, my training was incomplete and one vital piece of training was still missing.

 

A few days prior to the scheduled date of my taking over, during some law and order duty (where I was not present), the Superintendent of Police (SP) and the SDPO had a falling out and the latter told the SP that he will not make over the charge of the office to me on the grounds of a pending representation. Miffed and feeling affronted, the SP sent a wireless message to both of us to hand over/ take over the charge of SDPO on a particular date and “report compliance.” After this, he left for some important meeting in Bhutan for a few days and was incommunicado. On the appointed date, I went to the SDPO residence-cum-office to take over and the SDPO refused to make over the charge. Since there was an express order with the proviso to “report compliance,” not doing so could be construed as insubordination. So I unilaterally took over charge and sent a message to all concerned. The SDPO, acting on his copy of the message, directed that it should not be transmitted. The poor subordinate staff, caught between the ire of a sitting SDPO and potential problems from incoming SDPO, were having kittens, not knowing what to do, and sought directions from the Range DIG who could not take a decision, could not contact the SP who was in Bhutan (pre-Cellphone days!), and, in the best traditions of civil service, kicked the can upstairs by allowing both my message and the sitting SDPO’s message to be transmitted to Police Directorate and the government. However, of directions, there came none. So, every day, whichever of us got up first used to be the SDPO for the day. This happy state of affairs continued for about a month after which the guy formally handed over charge on paper.

 

I was staying in a guest house and attending office in the residence-cum-office, leaving the residence portion for use of my predecessor and his family for as long as they wished. Whatever happened between the SP and him was not my battle to fight. I also felt that I owed him for my training and that there should be an element of grace and cordiality in conduct between brother officers. One day, when I was sitting in the office, his daughter came to me and said that they were leaving. I went out to see them off. It was very emotional because of the circumstances and also because of the past close association I had shared with the family before the posting bit drew a cloud over it. Meanwhile, there was this “intelligent” ASI (Assistant Sub Inspector).

 

SDPO’s is an operational, field job and there is not much of office work. The Police Regulations of Bengal (PRB) have catered for a total staff strength of two for the SDPO office, one “intelligent” (PRB word) ASI and a Constable. This particular intelligent ASI in the SDPO office also came to see my predecessor and his family off. He burst into tears and started bawling – not just crying, but full-throated, no-holds-barred bawling. When the jeep started, he jogged alongside the jeep for a long distance, tears streaming down his face and soaking his shirt. The display of unfettered emotion got to me also. I went back to the office and was sitting thinking about the twists and turns of my relationship with the previous SDPO when the ASI came back and stood politely in front of me. When I looked up, he said, “Sahab, bhalo kaaj korben. Aager saheb toh sub divisioner barota baajiye diye gechhen.” [Sahab, I hope you will do well, your predecessor has left the sub division in ruins.]

 

I asked him how my predecessor had achieved this and on what basis the ASI was making this assertion so he said all the crime figures shot up under my predecessor. There was a board behind him detailing the comparative chart of cases under DRBTM, i.e., Dacoity, Robbery, Burglary, Theft and Murder which he himself had filled up. I pointed to it and said none of the crime figures seemed to have jumped; in fact, they all seemed to have come down. He also looked at the board and, much head scratching later, said, “See Sir, Murder was only 52 last year, this year it has gone right up to 53!” That day, I realised that not only should loyalty never be assumed, the outward show of loyalty can be questionable.

 

Over one and a half years of working together, I grew somewhat fond of the ASI. Shortly before leaving the sub division on promotion, I found that he had committed a major blunder with potentially disastrous fallout for an election-related police arrangement and berated him long and hard. He was silent throughout and his silence got me even more worked up. I asked him repeatedly what he had to say in his defence and why hell, damnation and severe disciplinary action should not be visited upon him. He quietly put on his cap, saluted and said, this time in Hindi, “Galtiyan hote hain Saheb … lekin, wafadaari mein koi kami nahi.” [Mistakes happen, Saheb … but, my loyalty knows no bounds!]

 

Funny thing, loyalty. Like love. Bites you in the leg when you least expect it.

Proud to be a Hindu

 

In today’s India, there is a lot of discussion around Hindu. Shashi Tharoor has written a book titled, “Why I am a Hindu.” This has left me stunned, startled, aghast, stupefied, confused, shocked, rattled, paralysed, dazed, bewildered, surprised, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, confounded, astonished and numbed. How dare he? 

To be a proper Hindu, you have to go to Hindu. Like I did.

 

I was all of sixteen and, as Mr. Hardeep Puri, hon’ble Minister said about himself in the self-same situation, “with nothing more than a school certificate and an application form in my hand.” It was the best of times as the crazy cut-offs had not kicked in then; it was the worst of times for a small-town boy overawed by the bright city lights, barely able to speak English and dreading the ragging in the hostel.

 

Soon after entering the hostel, we were marched in before the seniors. And the indoctrination started. First, we had to introduce ourselves and then spell our names – in CAPITAL LETTERS! Then, we had to learn and recite the Hindu namaz. Only after adequate proficiency in this, we were introduced to the virgin tree. I think, during my first year, Protima Bedi who visited for a show was chosen as Damdami Mai for the Valentine Day obeisance. Then we had to go to Miranda House to lose the gaali exchange with the girls and come back sheepishly. Only after two months of this baptism by fire and ice would we graduate to Freshers’ Night and be bestowed the notional keys to the Lovers’ Lane, that mysterious place unknown to singles and the faculty.

 

In Delhi University, all gents’ hostels were out of bounds for girls except in Hindu where girls were (unofficially) allowed up to 8 PM. Whether they were actually allowed after that, well, don’t ask and I will not tell.

 

In the hostel, there was an institution called Dhan Singh. Nothing escaped his gimlet eye. At the beginning of the month, each hosteller had to declare whether he would have veg or non-veg dish for the month. That dish was controlled. Any extra helping was charged. A veg optee having a non-veg dish or vice versa was charged extra. So, in proper Hindu tradition, the attempts to beat the system were many and varied. But old Dhan Singh, in just one cursory glance, could always, ALWAYS, unerringly make out who was doing what “funny business” and swoop down with a register to sign. After some time, we all gave up trying to outsmart him. We feared him but he was also the best part of our lives. He was our “winter of despair;” he was also our “spring of hope.”

 

Beneath that no-nonsense exterior, Dhan Singh had a hidden font of generosity, helpfulness, diligence and care. Somehow, he knew all the problems of all the 200 hostellers and would act as friend, philosopher and guide. I was trying to work my way through the fees and bills and would be sometimes late rushing back from my part-time job/s in the evening. Despite the mess hours being strict and Dhan Singh enforcing them strictly, he would make sure that a plate was kept for me, hidden. I had never asked him for the favour nor told him about my financial situation. When we applied for the IIMs and some other places, we had to send stamped self-addressed envelopes so that the institutes could inform us about the interview call. This was critical communication but the call letters came by ordinary, non-registered post and used to get misplaced sometimes. It was Dhan Singh who advised us to send unstamped envelopes so that the postman would chase us with the letters to collect the penalty. That way, all of us lucky ones never missed an interview call.

 

Many of the wall magazine write-ups and limericks immortalised Dhan Singh in lyrical prose and lively poetry. There was a mixer with Miranda girls. The notice gave the date, time, other details and concluded, “Come one, come all; there will be music and Dhan Singh.”

 

There was strict sorting of the students, based on their hip quotient. The usual categories were Sheetal Billi, Sampoorna Billi, Moti Billi and Raheesh Billi, meaning Cool Cat, Total Cat, Fat Cat and Ash Can Cat. Inter-‘cat’egory migration was possible, but after great effort.

 

In my final year, we were once rudely woken up at 2 AM in the night with a lot of commotion, shouting and fisticuffs. All of us went to investigate. We found that some of the students were bashing up the mess supplier. Apparently, for all those years when we were happy to opt for non-veg, the supplier had been palming off dog meat as goat meat. Some of the students had found out and had hauled him in for a punch-up. No wonder, batch after batch of the pass-outs turned out to be so dog-matic.

 

There was the famous Jai Singh dhaba which has been the key component of much of the country’s post-Independence governance. Sustained by its nourishing Bun-Andaa, hundreds of students from three institutions went on to crack the civil services. If ever a proper survey of the premier government service holders is conducted, it will be seen that a disproportionately large percentage of those brains were nurtured in their formative years by a healthy diet of the Jai Singh dhaba Bun-Andaas. There was the chargesheeted Sher Singh, with a rumoured 12 murders to his credit. He somehow managed an admission in Hindu and terrorized the whole university for a while. Then he fell in love and tried to be a lady-“killer,” with tragic consequences. All this and more, for another day.

 

With so much of rich, assiduously ingrained experience under my belt, I am proud to be a Hindu(ite). Shashi Tharoor can’t be. He went to some other college. Stephen’s or something. So, how dare he?