Something about West Bengal cadre

 

Even before eight of us IPS probationers landed up in our allotted cadre, West Bengal, we were exposed to tales of what a unique cadre it was. There was a case of a DIG (Deputy Inspector General) at Barrackpore who, in a fit of exaggerated conjugality, picked up his service revolver and shot at his wife. Thrice. He hit a few valuable things but not the wife who ran to the local Police Station to lodge an FIR against him. For an SHO of a Police Station, this was equivalent to several kilotons of atom bombs bursting on his head without warning. Caught in the Scylla vs Charybdis, he did what every SHO does in such a circumstance – delegated the decision upwards. His immediate superior, the Circle Inspector did his bit and passed it up to the SDPO who passed it to the SP and so on up the line right up to the supreme authority, the Head of the Police Force (used to be IG then). The IG heard out the whole story on the phone, merely said, “Oh, I always knew that DIG was a bad shot,” put the phone down and went back to his newspaper. In the enquiry, the DIG’s explanation: “Hadn’t been to the firing range for a while so I missed.” 

When we heard the tale, as a curtain-raiser before arriving in the cadre, we thought it was semi-fictional but later, several sources confirmed it to be true. When we arrived, the first bit was a month-and-a-half-long training at the Police Training College (PTC), Barrackpore for learning about local laws, local problems, local customs, local language, etc.. One night, at about 2 AM, we were jolted awake by a huge commotion in the neighbourhood of our Mess. We didn’t know Bengali then. Our cook, Ravi who stayed in the Mess, didn’t know Hindi or English. However, since he was from Orissa, I was designated to find out from him what was happening. I nudged him awake with some urgency and asked him what was which. To which, he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, it’s nothing. Just the recruit constables bashing up the Superintendent of Police.” We were stunned.

 

What had happened was that a recruit constable had taken ill in the evening and his associates had taken him to the Command Hospital in the PTC campus. Since it was outside the OPD hours, the doctor was not available so they took him to the doctor’s house. However, the doctor (reportedly inebriated) didn’t wish to attend to him at his house. Later, the patient’s condition worsened and he died. His associates went ballistic and went to the doctor’s house to attack him. Having learnt the news, the doctor had fled. When they didn’t find him, the recruits vented their anger on the Principal whom they could find in the campus. The latter probably didn’t have any inkling of the situation leading up to the death till then.

 

As the Principal was getting beaten, his panicked colleagues rang up a senior officer in Calcutta, informed him of the situation and requested him to come handle it. The senior officer asked thrice, “Is the situation serious?” Each time, he was told that, indeed, it was as serious as could be. Realising the seriousness of the situation, he refused to come. We were pretty shaken by the incident. Those were the days of severely militant trade unionism informing all walks of life in West Bengal.

 

At the National Police Academy, Hyderabad, we had attained proficiency in many physical activities including swimming for which there was a nice swimming pool there. At PTC, West Bengal, we had to do swimming and we happily marched out under the diligent supervision of the ustaad (trainer). However, we couldn’t find a swimming pool. What we saw was a "pukur," practically a ditch where water had collected since prehistoric times. When we looked askance, the ustaad just smiled and said, “Nahin, zyada gandaa nahi hai!”

 

After that "idyllic" month and a half at PTC, Barrackpore, it was time to go for our district training and confront what is called “real life.” Prior to that, we needed to submit a Travelling Allowance (TA) claim for a troubled area visit (to Darjeeling) which we had undertaken as a part of our training. The claim needed to be submitted on the last day and we trooped in to the TA clerk’s office at about 1030 hrs. to collect the form. The TA clerk was nowhere to be seen. We kept visiting his office at half-hour intervals, only to be rebuffed by an empty chair and other signs of non-occupation. 

Time was ticking by and we had to catch our trains in the afternoon so on our third visit, in desperation, we went to the next-door room which was the office of the Head Clerk (Bodo Babu) who was around. When we told him about our predicament, he said we should just wait a while; the TA clerk would appear like magic when we least expected it. When we insisted, he said, “Aare baba, bollaam toh aasbe, ektu wait karun.” [Uff, I told you, he will come, wait just a bit.] We told him we had been waiting and waiting and had trains to catch and so on and he kept repeating the same answer. Finally, we asked him exactly where the TA Clerk or his house was so that we could visit him and plead. To this, he replied, “Ei toh aamar saamene base achhe, aamra ektu golpo korchhi.” [Umm, he’s sitting right here opposite me. We’re just chatting a bit.] This was 1988. I submitted that TA bill for Rs. 263 and some paise. The reimbursement is still awaited. Hell hath no fury like a TA clerk whose gossip session has been interrupted.

[The swimming pool]

[To be concluded]