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Copy Editors, Oxford Commas and Other Pestilences

Someone told me years ago that J.K. Rowling, author of all that Harry Potter nonsense, had her first manuscript rejected eleventy-six times before becoming a sensational bestseller. Well, dear Joanne certainly had far greater stamina, tenacity and perseverance than I do. My patience and optimism ran out after my magnum opus was rejected by three publishers. But, before throwing in the towel (and my typewriter after it), I thought I would make one last attempt. And voila! The fourth publisher accepted the manuscript and made me sign a contract undertaking to publish my masterpiece in a matter of a few months. Then I heard nothing for more than three years.

Suddenly, last month, the editorial team of the publishing house wrote to me to get my manuscript ready for publication. “But wait!” I wrote back. “What do you mean ready for publication? Haven’t I already given it to you? So, publish the damn thing!”

But no, that was not to be. I was then educated by some underling with an unimpressive designation about the procedure that would be adopted to actually publish my bestseller. I had expected someone with a grand-sounding title – like the Supreme Principal Editor in Chief – to call me up and beg me to come to their office to collect humongous royalties. Instead, I had got an email from a lowly assistant co-editor named Hrisha who claimed that she would find mistakes (not errors) in my masterpiece. I was offended! By Jove, was I offended!

Then followed a series of most infuriating and frustrating email exchanges. The assistant co-editor was clearly uneducated, if not IQ-impaired. There also seemed to be a generational gap between that sweet young thing and the dirty old man that I am. Hrisha had very firm ideas about psycholinguistics and philological propriety. According to her, body-shaming was a no-no! Sexist remarks were to be eschewed! Words indicating bias were to be omitted! And she considered many terms that are an integral part of my colourful vocabulary to be homophobic.

“Sir, such words show that you are prejudiced!”

“Of course I am, stupid!” I wanted to retort, but I let it pass.

I was certain that in respect of many words, she kept saying ‘no’ merely because she had said ‘nyet’ once. I kept offering alternate words – many of which she still found offensive. We haggled over semantics the way delegates at the United Nations do while considering a particularly tricky resolution.

She also stumbled and tripped over almost every reference to classical literature. She had heard of Shakespeare but was blissfully innocent of almost every soliloquy or quotable quote. “What does ‘methinks he doth protest too much’ mean?” “Shouldn’t the name be Alfred J. Prufrock, rather than J. Alfred Prufrock?” “Are you sure there was an author named Coal Ridge?” “Why do you refer to George Eliot as ‘she’?”

We disagreed about the use of lowercase letters and the articles. I insisted it was ‘an hotel’ while she said that such usage was at least a hundred years old. I declared that numerous objects could be counted as lebenty-nine and digity-two, but she said those were made up words.

“You just can’t make up words!” she declared.

“Well, bad luck! I just did! If umpteen can mean a large number, why can’t slepenteen?”

We then crossed swords over punctuation. She primly informed me that they follow ’in house’ rules of punctuation. ‘In house’ rules of punctuation? Whatever does that mean? It is only the Queen (bless her) who may tinker with colons and apostrophes. The Queen and Wren and Martin. But no one else! No, not even the King! But here was this sweet young thing telling me that her publishing house has rules of their own! I could not immediately think of the exact equivalent of ‘ghor kaliyug’, so I merely remarked that the end of the world was nigh. Which again got me rap on my knuckles – the word ‘nigh’ was struck through and replaced by the word ‘near’.

Hrisha informed me in a rather snooty manner that, “We do not use the Oxford comma”. I assured her that I did not use one either, and further that I had been unaware that universities could lay claim on punctuation marks. Just imagine, there could be a Hindu College semicolon or a Mission College umlaut! I had always believed that rules of punctuation were universal, but here was Hrisha, brazenly suggesting the use of single inverted commas where I and the rest of the world would have used double quotation marks!

It was after a particularly nasty exchange of emails that Hrisha took umbrage at my use of the term ‘sweet young thing’. “It is so sexist”, she remarked. I asked her not to take it personally, but Hrisha calmly informed me that ‘she’ is in fact a man and not a girl! The deceiver, Hrisha, then poured salt on my wounded ego. “Don’t forget, Sir, the readers of today are young like me – quite happy to ignore your abstruse literary references, your poetic licence and your obstinate opposition to contemporary punctuation rules. It is time you stopped swearing by your Wren and Martin, whoever those gentlemen might have been, and learned – not learnt – to write proper English.”

Well, that was the final straw! In future I will never approach publishers with my creative works. I will consider self-publishing everything – without giving any copy editors with androgynous names access to what I write. Maybe a better solution would be to altogether give up writing?

The Week – Print edition – July 21, 2024

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Love in Tokyo

Love in Tokyo

Friends are horrible people, don’t you think so? The fewer friends you have, the happier you will be. Take my word for it. I know. I am so so unfortunate to have a large number of friends. They say they wish me well, and therefore they have to be frank. The fact is they are not just frank, they are brutally frank. It is they who puncture my ego the most. On the other hand, my greatest victories have been gifted to me by those I consider my detractors, if not my enemies. .

Let me share with you what happened a few years back. I had gone on a business trip to Beijing. Luckily, I was able to negotiate a full day’s stopover in Japan, which I had never visited earlier. I was put up in an hotel at the Narita airport, and I decided to venture out to Tokyo as I had the whole day to myself. On the advice of the concierge, I decided to take the train to downtown Tokyo, rather than an expensive taxi.

At the train station, however, I was totally bewildered. I could not make out how to buy a ticket as I saw no booking office. I could neither understand the language, nor could I make out the value of the currency notes. I requested help from those passing by, but no one understood English.

I must have looked quite lost, because an attractive girl approached me, bowed low and introduced herself. In broken English, she told me to use the ticket machine, and rapidly explained how to use it. She said she had to hurry; otherwise she would miss her train. Somewhat shyly she explained that she was going to meet her boy friend. She turned and ran away, even before I could thank her.

I now addressed the ticket machine. The staccato instructions given by the girl proved useless and I could not coax a ticket out of the machine. I stood there helplessly, defeated by the Japanese, their language, their machines and their currency.

Suddenly, the same girl came rushing out of the station gate. She said she had missed her train, and that the next one was not due for another seven minutes. She had come back to make certain that I had got my ticket. She made me put money in the machine and punch some buttons, till a ticket popped out. I took the ticket and my change. She gave me the most beatific smile and hurried off, because she said she did not want to miss her train again.

On the train to Tokyo, I glanced at myself in a mirror. With the silver in my hair, I looked handsome and quite distinguished. It gave me a nice warm feeling to think that a young beautiful girl, on the way to meet her beau, had found me attractive enough to come back a second time to help. It might not count as a conquest, but it was also nothing to sneer at. I must have been smiling to myself, because many Japanese on the train smiled back. Even in the stores in Tokyo, other shoppers returned my smile.

The day after I returned to Delhi, I shared impressions of my foreign visit with my colleagues in office. I especially wanted to impress the new executive, the cute one who always wore high-heels. With a smug smile, I shared the pleasant memory of the girl at Narita station. I wasn’t gloating, but yes, I definitely conveyed that I, more than my middle-aged friends, had retained a certain youthfulness and charm. I also looked pointedly at high-heels.

That is when this friend of mine piped up. He said, “Oh the Japanese are such a polite people. The girl would have come back to help someone even a lot uglier than you.” Everyone burst out laughing; and high-heels laughed loudest.

Did I not tell you that it is one’s friends who deflate your ego the most? I concede that this guy knows a lot about Japan, but could he not control his urge to show off his knowledge about that country? At least he could have chosen his words with greater circumspection. Could he not have said that the girl would have come back, even for someone less handsome than me?

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The Secret School for Spy Catchers

There was a time when the training establishment of MI5, the Security Service of the United Kingdom, was located at a place named Mount Pleasant. It must have been somebody with an overweening sense of loyalty to the Crown, or a weird sense of humour, who decided that the Intelligence Bureau (IB) of India should also locate its training establishment at some place with a similar, if not identical, name. Unfortunately, there was no Mt. Pleasant to be found in Delhi or its vicinity. After searching high and low for some place – any place – with a name resembling Mount Pleasant, the powers that be zeroed in on the area called Anand Parbat in the western part of Delhi. And it was on this Mt. Pleasant aka Anand Parbat that the IB established its training centre sometime in the early part of the 20th century.

One would really need to stretch one’s imagination to consider that molehill called Anand Parbat to be a mountain, for it was nothing but a pimple on the landscape of Delhi – infested with shanties and miserable huts. The Karol Bagh road ended at a paan shop at the foot of this hill, and taxi and auto rickshaw drivers refused to go up the lane that curved its way to the top. If one trudged uphill for a quarter mile or so, one was rewarded with the sight of the Ramjas School that had boasted of a proud campus in the distant past. Unfortunately, all that remained were dilapidated buildings, with broken glass panes. As there was no land or other accommodation available, the IB hired a portion of that rundown school to impart training to its new recruits and police officials of different states.

The training centre was an IB establishment and, therefore, it was deemed necessary to keep its location secret. No sign boards were put up to show the way, and officials assigned for training were instructed not to reveal to anyone that they were headed to the IB training centre. Instead, if needed, they were to ask for directions to the Ramjas School.

Most officials who came for training to the IB were unfamiliar with Delhi, and after getting off a taxi or auto rickshaw at the end of the Karol Bagh road, they needed to ask for directions. The most accessible person was the paanwala, who soon got curious about so many grownups enquiring where a particular school was located. He cottoned on after some time and he then started referring to the training centre as the Central CID School. And for many years thereafter, that paanwala directed people to the IB training centre whenever they asked for the way to the Ramjas School. Gradually, a few thousand residents of Anand Parbat, and many thousand more residents of Karol Bagh, came to know that a Central CID training establishment was located atop Anand Parbat.

But no one knew the location of the Intelligence Bureau training centre! That remained a secret!

Tribune – July 15, 2024

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A Police Officer and a Gentleman

In 1974, I was a young Assistant Superintendent of Police, posted in the remote Madhepura subdivision in Bihar. While reviewing cases of serious crimes under investigation, I came across an armed robbery that had taken place in the house of a retired railways doctor, who lived on the outskirts of town. The case did not seem to have been properly investigated and I wanted to question the inmates of the house to better guide further investigation.

It was getting dark when I reached the house of Dr. Ganguly – if I remember the name correctly. The place had a large compound, with a path from a latched gate leading to a pretty bungalow. No one came to open the gate when my driver blew the horn, so he got down from the Jeep and opened the gate. Once we had driven in, I made him stop the vehicle and go back to close the gate.

The doctor was a frail old man, and his wife seemed equally delicate. Both were sitting in the veranda, where an equally old family retainer served them tea. They invited me to join them, and I explained the purpose of my visit. I chatted with them for almost an hour, exchanging pleasantries, besides trying to elicit more information that could help in further investigation. But there was really no new information and, when we drove away, I again got my driver to carefully close the gate after us.

A few months later, I visited the old couple once more, but the investigation made no progress and meandered to a dead end. I decided to recommend closing of the investigation as there was no hope of solving the case. I visited the old couple one last time, more as a courtesy to acknowledge their old-world charm. I was apologetic that the police had not been able to solve the case nor recover any of the stolen items. I assured them that we had tried our best and there had been no lack of sincerity on our part.

The doctor was all smiles and his wife blessed me affectionately. “Don’t worry, son,” he said. “I know you must have tried hard.” He saw my somewhat puzzled expression, and explained, “I take your word because you are a gentleman. I knew it the very first time when you came and you closed the gate after yourself. I was pleasantly surprised.”

I was glad that I had impressed the old man, though inadvertently, and that too by the very ordinary act of closing a gate. But with this feeling of smugness came another thought. Was he as pleasantly surprised when other visitors to his house closed the gate behind themselves? Or was he pleasantly surprised because a policeman had shown the courtesy of closing a gate? I wanted to ask him but did not. I half suspected what his answer would be and I did not want to be proved correct.

(The Tribune – June 17, 2024)

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An Encounter to Remember

I was a young Assistant Superintendent of Police in 1973 when the Banka by-election was announced. The Lok Sabha constituency was then a part of Bihar’s Bhagalpur district and the District Magistrate, Bhagalpur, was the returning officer. One morning, Wati Ao, the DM, curtly called me to his office. “Jaldi ao,” he shouted in his heavily Naga-accented Hindi. I scurried over to the DM’s office which was just fifty yards away.

A bizarre sight met my eyes in the DM’s chamber. There was a sizeable crowd in the room and the DM sat in a corner with a resigned expression. Sprawled on the large office table was an unkempt man with a green bandana on his head! I was about to scream at the pyjama-kurta clad man but Ao’s expression made me hesitate. Politely, I asked the man what he thought he was doing. He said he was on satyagraha. He complained that the DM had deputed an official to the treasury to deposit the security amount for Shakuntala Devi, the Congress candidate, when she came to file her nomination. He demanded that he should be extended the same courtesy. I assured him that I would get it done for him and asked him his name.

Surprised, he said, “You mean you don’t know who I am?”

“No Sir, I don’t! And I don’t care. But I need your name for filling the treasury challan,” I said

My youthful brashness seemed to amuse him as much as his antics amused me. “Write down,” he said, “The name is Raj Narain.” Still lying on the table, he took out a bundle of currency notes from his kurta pocket and gave it to me.  He clambered off the DM’s table only after the treasury counterfoil was brought, which he submitted with his nomination papers.  

Later, when the polling date approached, the district SP fell ill and I had to take charge of security arrangements for a difficult election. It was indeed a clash of titans. Shakuntala Devi of the Congress treated Banka as her pocket borough and was confident of winning. The Communist Party of India had fielded one of its giants – Tarni Mandal, who is now quite forgotten. Madhu Limaye, who ultimately won the election, was a towering leader of one socialist party. The enfant terrible of the pre-Emergency days, Raj Narain, represented another socialist party. There were also other less well-known candidates.

It was a remarkable election for several reasons. Even though many bigwigs came, and the contest was keenly fought, the election concluded peacefully. Many said it was the fairest election that they had ever witnessed and, unbelievably, the ruling party nominee forfeited her security deposit! In 1973, this was unprecedented. For me, however, the most memorable event was my encounter with Raj Narain. In my mind’s eye today, more than fifty years later, I can still see him stretched out on the DM’s table in a pose reminiscent of Lord Padmanabha reclining on the serpent sheshanag!   

The Week May 12, 2024

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The Ruby Mines and the Jade Mountain of Burma

In the 1970s, areas of Burma (now Myanmar) adjoining Manipur were poorly governed, and the very mention of the Somra Tract or Kachin conjured up images of armed rebels sneaking through jungles. Naga and Mizo insurgent groups had used routes through these sparsely populated areas to reach China. Then militant Meitei groups also set up camps across the border. Collection of trans-border information was important, and every villager living in the border area was a potential informer. Many of them collected good money from different intelligence agencies by peddling the same information. Fabricated stories often gained currency because there was no way of verifying information emanating from Burma, and security agencies were sometimes misled by concocted yarns.

Understandably, therefore, I disbelieved the story of the discovery of a mountain of jade when I first heard about it. But as the local head of a Central intelligence agency, I couldn’t just disregard the persistent rumours, even if they varied in detail. There were reports that a huge ruby mine had been discovered near Myitkyina, that the Burmese army was guarding a mountain of jade in Layshi and that valuable gemstones had been discovered in Homalin. A trans-border informer of mine claimed that there was a significant movement of the Burmese army because of geological finds near Hkamti. I discounted his claims, but I became curious when he asserted that a magical substance had been found — it never caught fire, and it could be uranium ore! He promised to provide me a sample of the mineral on the condition that he be paid a handsome amount, which happened to be higher than my monthly salary. I told him to first get some evidence of the magical discovery.

Several weeks later, the informer slunk into my office late in the evening and, with a flourish, took out a cricket ball-sized rock from a bag and placed it on my table.

‘Uranium, sir,’ he said. I jumped out of my chair. I did not know what uranium ore looked like, but I had no desire to die of radioactive poisoning. I yelled at the informer, but he assured me that I was safe; after all, he had been carrying the rock around for more than two weeks. Nevertheless, I told him to replace it in the bag, which I then got him to hang on a tree in the office compound. Reluctantly, I paid him a portion of the amount he had demanded.

But I was in a quandary. I could not send the rock to my superiors in Delhi if it were indeed radioactive, nor could I send a report that it was uranium without confirmation. So that rock continued to hang on the tree till, fortuitously, a geologist friend visited Imphal a month later. I showed him the ‘uranium ore’ and he burst out laughing. He declared that it was asbestos ore, large deposits of which had been found in Burma. The discovery was quite worthless because asbestos use was banned. I had no option but to write off the money that I had paid as spent on buying experience, and, sheepishly, I threw the rock away.

(The Tribune – May 10,2024)

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My Wife’s Kitchen in the Palace

My Wife’s Kitchen in the Palace

One comes across ‘Sita Maiyya ki rasoi’ at many places of pilgrimage where, it is believed, Sita Ji set up her kitchen while wandering over hill and dale for 14 years of ‘vanwas’ with Lord Ram. Sometimes I wonder whether the many places in which my dear wife has set up her kitchen and cooked for me and our children will ever get to be as famous. The one that most deserves such recognition is the one that she set up immediately after we got married.

I was posted in Patna in 1975 and, towards the end of that year, I took leave for a couple of weeks to get married. When I returned with my new bride, I learnt that I had been transferred to Darbhanga as commandant of an armed police battalion. My friends in Patna informed me that the commandant’s house was a large bungalow of the Darbhanga Raj, with a sprawling compound. It was common practice in the 1970s for officers living in such bungalows to let out the land for sharecropping to a ‘bataidar’ and earn a good amount from sale of the crop. But agriculture is hardly ever of great concern to newly married couples.

After an overnight train journey to Darbhanga, my wife and I drove to the commandant’s bungalow, which was indeed very large. But we were disappointed to learn that the family of my predecessor, Mr. Sinha, was still living in the house. My predecessor had left a message that they would stay in the house for some more time and that he had arranged for us to stay in the guest house of the local Postal Training Centre. So my wife and I proceeded to the Postal Training Centre, which we were delighted to find was housed in the Bela Palace of the Darbhanga Raj. 

This small palace had been constructed for a scion of the royal family and was acquired by the Postal Department sometime in the 1960s, along with all its fittings and furniture. The building was said to have been inspired by the palace in Versailles. It had similar intricate balustrades, sweeping staircases and fine Carrara marble flooring. The original master bedroom, with a huge bathroom, had been reserved as a guest room for visiting officers. We were escorted to this room, while two attendants followed with all our worldly possessions – three steel trunks, two suitcases, one holdall and one deal wood box containing the camp kitchen of my bachelor days.

The guest room was magnificent! It had heavy drapes and a regal four-poster bed with gossamer-thin mosquito curtains. There was what looked like a Chippendale writing bureau and two faux Loius XIV chairs, upholstered in slightly moth-eaten gingham.  But no other furniture! So, we arranged the steel trunks and suitcases on the floor, leaving sufficient space so as not to scuff the walls.  Notwithstanding its opulence, however, the bedroom alone could not be used as living quarters for an extended period because there was no kitchen. My wife looked at the huge expanse of immaculate marble and decided to set up the very first kitchen of our wedded life on the floor in a corner of the bedroom. I had to admit that the pots and pans and a ‘Janata’ brand kerosene stove, painted in garish red, green and yellow, did not much enhance the beauty of Bela Palace. 

Initially, there was a quaint novelty about the situation – a newly married couple, the wife lovingly preparing dinner and the devoted husband peeling potatoes, without even changing out of his police uniform on return from office! But the charm wore off very quickly. After all, how long can cooking utensils be washed in a queen-sized bathtub? Living out of a suitcase is fine for a day or two, but not much longer. And certainly not when one must wear a well-ironed uniform every day.  But Mr Sinha’s family showed no inclination to vacate the house that was now rightfully ours. I broached the matter politely with Mrs Sinha, who said that they would vacate the house as soon as their son’s examinations got over. A week passed. Nothing happened. I then telephoned Mr Sinha, who said that he needed a few more days because some delicate negotiations for his daughter’s marriage were to be concluded. Another week passed. Still, nothing happened.

Then one fine morning, the quartermaster Subedar of the battalion informed me that the house would be vacated that day. He requested me to visit the house after office to see if any repairs were needed. I asked him whether the child’s exams were over, and if any match had been finalised for the daughter. The Subedar coughed delicately and looked away without answering. I understood his reticence that evening when I visited the bungalow. The house looked quite different, and I wondered why. And then it struck me! The place was bare! The paddy that had been standing in the vast compound had been harvested!  Obviously, Mr. Sinha had not vacated the house as he was waiting for the crop to ripen. In fact, I would have gladly let him reap what he had sown if only he had mentioned the matter. Instead, my wife and I had to suffer the comforts of living in a magnificent palace.

But the experience was not a total waste because I got one lasting benefit. Over the past almost fifty years that we have been married, I have not been a paragon of virtue, nor the ideal husband. My wife has been annoyed, exasperated and just plain angry with me on more occasions than I care to remember. But whenever she complains that I do not value her enough or that I treat her as anything less than a queen, I gently remind her that after we got married, I had carried her away to live in a palace!

(The Week – 25/04/2024)

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 Protecting The Penniless Candidate

Before the Representation of the People Act was amended in 1996, the law required the countermanding of the election in a constituency if any contesting candidate died before polling. This provision created complications, especially when there were reasonable apprehensions that unlawful elements would deliberately harm candidates. The problem was worse when several independent candidates entered the fray because each had to be provided security, as happened in the 1992 Assembly elections in Punjab. It was in these elections that a poor labourer, whom we might call Kirorimal, was encouraged by his equally penniless friends to contest as an independent candidate. They assured him that some rich candidate would pay a fortune to make him withdraw from the electoral contest.

Once he had filed his nomination, Kirorimal was assigned two constables, Surti and Hiralal, for protection. Sadly, there was no space for the cops in the shanty that Kirorimal shared with five other labourers, and the constables could not take their charge to the police lines either. So, they decided to escort the labourer only during the day, when he went about earning his daily bread. The cops, however, were mortified to stand with Kirorimal at the ‘labour chowk’ every morning, while he waited to be hired for the day. They then had to hang around the whole day while Kirorimal went about digging earth, cleaning drains, or doing whatever else he had been hired to do. There also were days when Kirorimal got no employment at all. The three of them then roamed around in public parks or sat in some ‘dhaba’, where the cops paid for the food of their penurious protectee. Once, they even watched a film, but the cops resented paying for Kirorimal’s cinema ticket.

Surti and Hiralal looked on enviously at their colleagues who were deputed to protect well-off contestants. Those lucky fellows whizzed past in cars or lolled around in palatial houses of the candidates. Kirorimal’s bodyguards, on the other hand, were condemned to toiling in the sun, trudging behind him as he went about seeking employment. Surti was particularly miffed because he had been refused leave, which he badly needed to help his father till their land. Aware of their resentment, Kirorimal repeatedly assured them that it was only a matter of a few days before some rich contestant bribed him to withdraw. But no one made any offer.

Surti lost patience after a week of waiting every morning at the ‘labour chowk’, which he felt was most demeaning. He demanded that Kirorimal should withdraw from the election, but the labourer said he would do so only if he were paid twice the amount that he had paid as deposit. Surti then had a brainwave – he offered to hire Kirorimal to work in his own fields in his native village. All three promptly proceeded to Surti’s village, where the election candidate ploughed the fields every day. It was a win-win situation – Kirorimal got steady employment; Surti was able to get his field ploughed; both cops could discharge their duty in comfort and the independent candidate remained secure till the polling day!

(Tribune – March 27, 2024)

 

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The Japani Magistrate & The Amazing Maize

There was a story that went around in Bihar in the early 1970s that everyone believed to be true, even though there was disagreement about its provenance. Some said the incident happened in Banka while others insisted that it occurred in Naugachchia. And there were others who declared that two distinct, but similar, incidents were witnessed in different places. Be that as it may, the place is only a matter of detail and quite immaterial to this narrative.
There were two prominent landowning families in Banka (or Naugachchia) who were known to grow the best maize crop. For some reason, a quarrel broke out between the two families, and both laid claim to the maize crop standing on a large patch of land near their village. The dispute escalated and the warring parties took the matter to court. The court granted an injunction, directing both parties to stay away from the disputed farmland and to contest a civil suit for ownership of the land. The court further prohibited the two families from harvesting the produce and ordered the deployment of an armed picket near the cornfield to maintain peace. Accordingly, a posse of one havildar and four constables was despatched. The armed force, however, required a magistrate too, but unfortunately no magistrate was available to be posted to a place in the middle of nowhere.
To meet just such exigencies, the government is empowered to appoint any person as a special executive magistrate for a short term. Till the 1970s, such ersatz magistrates in Bihar were called ‘Japani magistrates’ – being equated to cheap imitation products manufactured in post-war Japan. And it was the good fortune of Misserji, a schoolteacher from distant Bhagalpur, to be appointed the ‘Japani magistrate’ for Banka (or Naugachchia).
Misserji and the five policemen buckled down to camp for an indefinite period at the remote location, far away from any market or eatery. They made themselves as comfortable as they could in a tent pitched next to the cornfield and arranged their own meals. They had brought dry rations from the city and purloined whatever vegetables they could from the fields around them. But Misserji was a man widely known for his love of life, his girth, and his gargantuan appetite. He found the daily ‘dal roti’ boring and craved something extra. And eureka! He discovered the taste of sweet corn! He and the policemen started helping themselves to the luscious ‘bhuttas’ ripening in the disputed field. After a few weeks, the cornstalks swayed in the wind as majestically as ever, but totally bereft of cobs. People said it was an exaggeration, but the ‘Japani Magistrate’ and the five cops were said to have gobbled up about a thousand kilograms of corn in six weeks. Whether it was true or not is anyone’s guess but ever since then, people of Banka (or Naugachchia) have been wary of quarrelling over land, especially one with a maize crop standing on it.
(Tribune – March 6, 2024)
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A Tale of Two Towns

As the General Election approaches, my heart goes out to the officials who will be involved in making arrangements to ensure smooth conduct of the polls and the bandobast for rallies by prominent politicians. I hope none of them will have to live through the consternation that I did a long time ago over a visit of the Prime Minister to (the then undivided) Bihar.

I was part of a team of Central Government officials that descended on Ranchi to liaise with state government officers to make arrangements for the PM’s visit to a town called Ghat Hamaria. The PM had agreed to visit the nondescript place because some apparatchik had prevailed upon him to come to his hometown and address a public gathering. We anticipated no problems in making the arrangements, but the task turned out to be not quite that simple. Senior state government officials who had arrived from Patna told us that the Ghat Hamaria near Ranchi was a stronghold of the main Opposition party, while the ruling party boasted of a bigwig in another Ghat Hamaria, which was in north Bihar. The state government officials were certain that the PM would have been inveigled to visit the other Ghat Hamaria. In an age when there were no cellphones, frantic trunk calls were made between Ranchi, Patna and Delhi to clear the confusion. But even after waiting for almost two days, there was no confirmation from Delhi as to which Ghat Hamaria would be fortunate to host the PM. We gathered that no one really knew and that possibly even the PM did not remember which leader had spoken to him about visiting which Ghat Hamaria.

With barely a week to go for the visit, we toyed with the idea of making arrangements at both places. But this was quickly abandoned because of logistical reasons. Finally, the Central and state officials cooped up in the circuit house hatched a ‘conspiracy’. We decided to go ahead and plan for the Prime Minister’s visit to the Ghat Hamaria near Ranchi because it was well connected by road, unlike the one in north Bihar. It was a calculated risk that was worth taking because, at worst, it would invite the ire of the party heavyweight from north Bihar. The unacceptable alternative was to keep waiting and compromise on the PM’s security.

As things came to pass, there was an unexpected political development and the Prime Minister’s visit was cancelled. All of us camping in Ranchi heaved a sigh of relief and returned home. Though no formal written covenant had been executed, there was an explicit understanding that all officers party to the skulduggery of choosing one Ghat Hamaria over the other would forever hold their tongue and never talk about the matter. By speaking up now, more than three decades later, I am quite certain I am not violating my oath of omerta.

(The Tribune – 12/02/24)