On File Notings and Tea-Time Rights

Did you know that on the file notings the clerks sign on the left hand side of the note while the officers sign on the right hand side? Now you know. A dealing hand is the karta of a file while the invisible hand dictates the fate of the notings and drafts. The invisible hand, be that of Adam Smith's or a typical neta's or even that of Maradona's imagination, is, like the foreign hand, an all powerful hand. The invisible hand pulls strings while the dealing hand stains itself with ink.

These are practical matters, something that many OTs were keen on learning. What do we do with practicality? For, practicality is only a convenience for the moment. What is eminently practical and practicable may be impractical within no time. Learn the philosophy, if you can, is what I say.

In case one wonders what the civil servants are being taught, the topics range from international trade to how to sign off a demi-official letter. Famous writers drop in as guest speakers from time to time and deliver underwhelming lectures. Well, it is up to the OTs to be either overwhelmed or underwhelmed. 

Speaking of whelming, I must need to come up tops in the scrimmage for snacks during tea time. It is of essence to the modern civil servant to be well conversant with the finer techniques of pushing through the crowds with a cup in one hand to home in on to the tea dispenser and the other hand simultaneously grabbing whatever light nibble may have been offered as snack. Assertion of tea time rights would be the term the bright, KTP type OTs would identify.

A literary festival will be held on the academy premises over the next two days. Prominent personalities and litterateurs will be prowling the campus. The unlettered like me may find the going tough. The literary festival is being organized by a private entity.

More about the literary festival and the personalities in the future posts. But the PT! The horrific PT! Knees creak, ankles squeak, muscles ache, eyes burn from sleeplessness but to no avail. Ours is to do PT and die.

Or not. While the niggling pains and residual aches may trouble us for sometime, I suppose at least this level of physical activity is necessary in order that one is prepared for the trek in the upper Himalayas.

On a Splendid Cultural Performance

A guest lecture dealt with the Dalit entrepreneurship as well as with the social and political thought of Dr. B. R. Ambedkar. Can capitalism be a solution to casteism? The speaker thought so.

The 2nd edition of the cultural programme was entertaining through and through. The evening started off with a recitation of a shloka which was not clear. 

A Sufi song, Fuzon's 'Mora Saiyan' and a group song by the students of the NIVH received standing ovation from the audience. Of special note was the group song.

The performances by the NIVH students were followed by a Rajasthani dance by the lady OTs, dazzling in traditional dress and the very picture of poise and grace with pots balanced delicately on their heads. Theirs was a mesmerising performance.

The comperes, meanwhile, had started LBSNAA TV. The 'news' snippets of a certain lady OT who can talk for hours together (and yet find it not enough), a gentleman OT who wanted administrators with 'real experience' to teach at the academy, a gentleman OT whose questions are as lengthy as lectures etc kept the audience regaled with instant connect and recall.

A jugalbandi of old Hindi movie songs was next in order. There was a change of guard in the compere team and 'Mushie' and the lady OT kept the audience engaged for the rest of the session. A rather innovative dance by OTs from AP and Telangana had the audience asking for more. How innovative was it? Well, the gentleman OTs danced, even, to the ditty 'hamara Bajaj'!

A lady OT sang a soulful song. Pardon my ignorance but the song was an unfamiliar one.

To jazz up the evening, a peppy salsa number was next to follow. However, it gave raise to a lot of mirth owing to, how shall one put it, few too many left feet of certain gentleman OTs. Two of them specifically. :) The ladies simply sizzled.

A mimicry show riveted the attention of the audience next. Bollywood stars of yester years as well as the current Khan crop made an appearance. Usual suspect politicians, news anchors and movie stars were portrayed with easy and impressive talent by three gentlemen OTs. Who would have thought that the serious civil servant types can mimic?!

Santana got a place too with two gentleman OTs playing their own variation on Santana's piece. The OTs' talent with guitars was amazing.

A synthesis of Gujarati and Punjabi dance numbers enthused the audience with the catchy beats. The thoroughly entertaining evening was brought to a close with an invite by the 89th FC batch for a dandiya raas tomorrow. Looking forward to it.

Special mention and appreciation to the coordinators, backstage personnel, various clubs and societies which came together to make this cultural event a resounding success. Loved the mellow lights and perfect sound arrangements.

On Blessed Rainy Day and Ephemarality of Thoughts

I have decided not to bore anyone tonight. I am hard pressed to find content fit for the blog without resorting to tabloid tactics or talking about the weather. 

What about the weather? It is getting colder. The night low dipped a few notches almost as if on cue on the 23rd September. What gives? It was the same day as the Blessed Rainy Day, a holiday in Bhutan marking the end of the monsoon, as my friends from the Royal Bhutan Civil Service and Royal Bhutan Forest Service, a jolly bunch, informed me.

What a simple and pleasing name- blessed rainy day!

Rain may have taken leave of Bhutan but not of Mussoorie. It drizzled for sometime, drenching the multi-hued garden dahlias growing wild on the hill sides. The delicate flowers were akin to rain kissed damsels, their flimsy clothes hiding nothing. Only, there was nothing to hide for these flowers. The bees visited, reluctant, hesitant. Cliches abounded, like now.

Post the group formation, a sub-group, namely, couples, formation activity is on. Here, if I delve more into this topic I shall be breaching the 'no gossip' rule I put for myself. However, I shall mention any activity that may be of general public interest without compromising anyone's privacy. We shall cross that bridge when we come across it.

A note on the trek. I noticed that the full moon is on the 8th of October right when we would be in the middle of the long trek in the upper Himalayas. I look forward to 'moonlight on the mountain rivers', mists of love, Milky Way to my heart etc. Though the moon, prima donna that she is, would drown out the light from the stars. I was eagerly looking forward to spotting stars I last saw during my adolescence when I used to sit in the balcony of our place, books in my lap for pretence, gazing at the sky hoping I would catch a glimpse of a shooting star so that I could make a wish to fulfill my boyhood fantasies. No, the fantasies did not come true though events more magical and astonishing than my juvenile mind could fantasize about did come about. Such is life. We wish for something, on a shooting star no less, and something else happens, a cosmic surprise, far outshining and underlining the ephemerality and fickleness of our thoughts. Who am I to complain of my lot?!

On a Peak and Summiteers

There were many kings of the hill, a much quarried limestone hill. A hill that appealed to Sir George Everest enough for him to set up a bungalow and an observatory for him to compile the results of the Great Indian Arc survey. The bungalow is now in utter ruin, visited annually by various batches of OTs, cows, goats and other wild creatures. The kings of the hill all talked but could not decide on who would be the summiteer of the peak of the quarried limestone hill.

Speaking of peaks, the Peak XV, later to be named as Mount Everest, has an interesting story behind its naming. This article from The Himalayan Journal by William Aitken is an engaging read.

An enquiry in to the real name of Mt. Everest

The Tibetan name for the peak, Chomolungma, has a sweet meaning. It means 'Snow Blue High Queen.'

The trek to the Sir George Everest estate, a gentle walk on the road, was done with the group configuration for the first time. The group members and their leaders were kind enough to check on my welfare and position from time to time. No child left behind was implemented in letter and spirit.

There were Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags, clouds and needy photographers around. The result is few photos for your viewing pleasure.

The Lone Trekker

A cross current of prayers

Eternal prayers

On a Social Experiment and on Imposition

'Data will confess to anything if you flog it hard enough.'

Over four years of working with data has one develop a healthy suspicion of data. Not all data is suspect, of course. But then not all data is data. A lot of it is fiction. Most of the rest is noise. The current hot phrase 'big data' may yet be the next big thing in the world of technology. How do you use big data in administration?

While we are on the topic of data, let me share the results of the social experiment performed over the past few days. The experiment in itself was simple-the experimenters (two males, socially unremarkable) claim a specific spot of 'in-demand' real estate in the mess during the meal hours and observe the reactions of the OTs to this deliberate attempt at encroachment. The result of this experiment was consistent- almost all OTs desirous of occupying the prime real estate assiduously avoided the chairs next to the experimenters. Few had expressions of irritation writ large on their faces at the inconvenience, few others could mask their emotions well. Few OTs who initially were inclined to sit next to the experimenters would change their seat at the last minute on finding OTs from their 'group' elsewhere. After close to a month at the academy, it is the transitional phase when the OTs would move from the awkward group formation in to their comfort zones. The experimenters desired to gauge the effect of external stimuli in assessing the cohesiveness of groups. The number of chairs left vacant next to the experimenters, even during the peak mess hours, was indicative of the OTs' affinity towards their homogeneous groups and their aversion towards unfamiliar, heterogeneous groups. The ideal group size, we deduced, was 7. Anyone above that number becomes unwieldy in terms of communication. Therefore, 7 is the core group membership. There are associative memberships as well. The peripheral members move fluidly between different groups. These try hard to belong somewhere, anywhere. Unless one has strong social bonds, the ideal nuclear size is 2. Group accretion does not start easily below this size if the individuals at the centre do not have compelling social aura around them. Service, geography, gender, regionality, ranks are the usual suspects in promoting homogeneous groups. The only notable exception was when one lady OT broke the valence barrier and took the trouble to make small talk with the experimenters, occupying the chair next to them. We need more time to understand this aberration.

That then was our experiment. It was pseudo sociological, yes, but it was fun. Apologies for my engineering friends for using non-technical sounding jargon. Apologies too to the serious sociologist types for trivializing your field with these engineering incursions.

Irrespective of the experiment, I had had a chance to listen in to a rather entertaining and insightful monologue of a fellow OT at the dining table tonight. I shall present the monologue in a suitable format at a later date.

Before signing off, I would like to ask what we are imposing and what we are superimposing. Can we 'impose' secularism? Can we 'impose' religious intolerance? Can we 'impose' peace, love and brotherhood among people? What do we impose and what do we displace?

I remember imposition as a punishment at school when one had to write out apologies on the blackboard. 

The trek routes have been finalized, the group leaders, assistants, navigators, communicators, treasurers and bookkeepers have all been appointed and prepped. We look forward to 8 odd days in the Himalayas. But before that we have to survive the PT, intensified many fold with the ostensible purpose of toughening us for the Great Himalayan Trek. Yours truly will be on a route to Dodital. Details at a later time. For the present, one has to match Sir George Everest and trek to his bungalow tomorrow.

On Shramdaan and Cleanliness

Plastics are nonbiodegradable. Our brains are biodegradable. What is more valuable?

The 89th FC batch expended some energy in cleaning the academy campus and the adjoining areas. Funnily enough one finds this exercise more tiring than the regular PT. The exercise was that of Shramdaan. The OTs were given a broom or a large bag and asked to clean up the academy area, concentrating on ridding the campus of plastic wastes. We did our best. It was heartening to see the OTs sweep the dead leaves and dried dung off the ground and a host of others try to hunt down bits and pieces of plastic and gather them. Gather them we did, till there were a good number of garbage bags filled with plastic waste. One was amazed to note the amount of plastic waste found in just a patch of ground 100 ft by 10 ft. The marketer in me noted the fact that the chewing gum and chips of snack food category are doing a good job in terms of distribution. However, I was incensed at the consumers who threw away the wrappers by the road sides and in to the campus in a callous manner. The marketers need to rethink packaging and they need to do it at war footing. If a small stretch of land with sparse population can produce so much waste, I shudder to think of the magnitude of waste (particularly nonbiodegradable waste) being generated by the megapolises and metropolises of this country. 

Shramdaan showcased the dignity of labour in the civil servants. It was a heartening sight to see the faculty and the OTs out on the roads and clearing the area of plastic waste in earnest. The devotion with which all of us participated in the activity must need to be shown in daily life. Only through our devotion to cleanliness and in a larger sense our ownership of our environment can we be godly.

There are efforts afoot to cleanse the country, initiated by the present dispensation. The cleaning has to be material as well as spiritual and therefore the cleaning of Ganga makes sense at two levels. Hopefully we will be morally clean too, soon.

On Questions of Capability and a beautiful movie

The film society is my most favourite society as of now. Hopefully the journal society will meet my expectations. [Full disclosure: I have vested interest in the latter society].

The film society screened 'Life is Beautiful' (1997). Since I am writing this not five minutes after watching the movie, there is a strong after glow of that beautiful movie. Two visuals that stay with me, without giving anything away, are the sight of the train engine, a steam engine, entering the concentration camp and that of the protagonist goose-step marching near the end of the movie. While the first half of the movie is an absolute joy to watch, the second half gives one goosebumps. This time I managed to leave the auditorium with only moist eyes and it is a vast improvement over the past. Yes, men's lachrymal glands get activated too when one watches such movies. 

In fact, this movie, 'Life is Beautiful' (1997) and 'Grave of the Fireflies'(1988) are the two movies that turned me against any movie that depicts even an iota of sadness. The thought goes, that the life is anyway filled with sorrow and tears and to watch the same in the make believe world of movies seems superfluous. The terrible thing is that the two aforementioned movies are incredibly beautiful movies. And I can not bear to watch them. And I end up watching them. Sad, sad, sad.

After watching the movie it seems petty to even complain of the many insignificant slights and irritations of the day. After all, life is beautiful.

The social, experiential experiment is on and our hypothesis has been validated. We shall share the silly experiment and the silly results at a later time.

The beauty of the 89th FC batch is that one gets to, no, runs into, interesting people all the time. There are siblings of friends and batch mates from under graduation and graduation times, OTs whose relatives hail from the same small, obscure village as one's ancestors do and so on. In fact, given my diverse geographical base over the past 15 years and the education and work experience in various nodal institutes and organizations, I may yet have the most number of common acquaintances and friends and connections with most of the OTs. This thought gives me a feeling of centrality, a puffed up feeling of self-importance and feel goodness that takes an unceremonious beating once in a while.

Like it did today. There I was, standing alone and preening myself over being quite the network man in an era of networking etc when out of the blue (unhonee, in Hindi :)) a beautiful lady OT who I did not know existed in this batch, comes straight at me and pops this question: "Are you capable?" Chump that I am, I was stumped for an answer as nobody ever questioned my capability in so direct a fashion nor did an occasion arise for anyone, especially ladies, to question my capability, be it in any field. I mean any field. While I was thinking of appropriate replies, inoffensive, officer-like, blah blah blah, the moment passed and the concerned OT clarified that she meant if I were capable of managing things. I felt equal parts offended and relieved. Relieved that the capability in question was related (only) to some managerial activity and nothing else. Offended that a face in the crowd who did not even have the courtesy to enquire of my name or somehow acquaint with myself would call in to question my capabilities. Over the rest of the day, the question rankled me till I got lost in the silver screen.

Now that I have had time to calm down and the irritation has subsided, I wonder if I am developing a thin skin, if I am over sensitive to perceived slights, to imagine slights to begin with. Or if it were a simple case of miscommunication- a case of an OT who did not care to choose one's words carefully. As I had mentioned elsewhere in this blog, I am no one to judge anyone. So, I will rest this matter here.

There was a debate organized today with a topic on democracy. There was this strange scene of demagoguery and even more bizarre was the response to it from the audience. The topic was democracy and its relevance to India, the mode of communication was debate. Therefore, one wonders why dramatics and demagoguery got mixed up in this. To each his own then. The debate saw few brilliant insights being made regarding the topic and few excelled in the rhetoric, the essence of a debate. Kudos then to the deserving candidates, both to those who won and those who did not but whose performance was no less.

On Commensality and Democracy

Commensality is an integral part of a social experience. A fellow officer trainee with super keen observation powers has noted a peculiar thing about the officers' behaviour in the Officers' Mess. Deductions from these observations shall be shared after few repeats of the social, experiential experimentation. Well designed experiments must need satisfy the repeatability condition. And we have a control too.

Commensality has an original reference to the caste system along with endogamy. We will touch these topics at a later date. The current experiment has a different purpose.

There are many ways of life. Democracy is one among them, according to some. Religion is, for most others. Food is religion is way of life for certain others. Are they beliefs? Are people convinced about their views? What would it take to change the views? I believe there is a surprising amount of discomfort with the ambiguous. We yearn for certainty. However, what is wrong with randomness? Anyway, I think democracy is a daydream of philosopher kings and capitalist czars. Pessimistic? No, I think I am being realistic.

That is it for today. The posts are contracting by the day and with good reason. I am sleep deprived and it is showing. Mere skimming of topics is poor writing, but between no writing and poor writing, I suppose I should choose poor writing.

In general

The batch got a wake up call, so to speak. Probably it was deserved.

People are busy researching on places from the upper Himalayas as a part of the trek path to choose from among many options. It is always a hard choice when one relies on Wikipedia, Google and Indiamike to decide on which path to trek. Why not leave the choice to the fates and be merry? Anal retentive civil servants believe they have things under their hand, in their control. How long would it take to disabuse them of this notion?

All in good time maybe.

On a purported blog holiday and on editorial introspection.

Today is a blog holiday. I thought I should rest a bit, sleep early instead of burning the candle from both ends. One is never not busy at the academy. There will be meetings of societies, socializing occasions like dinners, events showcasing one's talents etc to keep one busy the whole day and most of the night. Then there is the PT (sigh) and classes (snore), couple of hours spent eating sprouts and half a day spent dressing in smart casuals. Not that I am insinuating that I am doing any or all of these activities. I am merely suggesting that such are the busy lives of most of the OTs.

I had been musing on what I am going to write in the coming days. There will be events and incidents enough to write about but would that satisfy my pretence of desire to be a 'writer' one day? A prize winning writer no less!

Literary aspirations aside, I have had an occasion to rethink about the content and the philosophy of this blog. The trigger was an anecdote by a fellow OT on how she used to avoid taking pictures of people but has since amended her opinion as she felt photographs without people in them are prone to losing their context. I have a habit of avoiding photographs of people (and that includes me!) as much as I can. I prefer taking photographs of everything else under the sun. However, the lady OT's statement has a deeper meaning (whether intended or not I do not know) which I realized upon meditating on the statement for some time. And the deeper meaning, in my understanding, is whether art should exist for the sake of art alone or have a utilitarian value, a functional existence. Over innumerable weekends spent at National Gallery of Modern Arts (Mumbai) and Jehangir Art Gallery (Mumbai) watching people interact with art, I believe art can and must exist for its own sake alone. Art, like poetry, is the natural instinct of our being. [paraphrased Bill Aitken's line from 'Seven Sacred Rivers.'] People understand art instinctually. They react to it, irrespective of their prior experience with art, in a primal manner. Photography is a form of art and is also like a time capsule. You put in old love letters, photographs of one's beloved, assorted knickknack dear to one at that particular time, shut the lid of the time capsule and open it at a later date. A photograph is similar in its function. Therefore, if I do not include markers, faces and bodies, in the photographs, would the photographs be relevant at a later date?

Similar to photographs, would these blog posts be relevant at a later date without names and specifics? I try not to name anyone in this blog out of various well founded reasons. However, one is bound to reel closer to the boundaries of specifics when one tries to write about an intensive course for a batch in the higher 200s in number. In that case, what is the appropriate action? Desist from posting or go ahead with it and trample on few toes in the process? I am all for a generic blog, let us see how it goes from here.

So much for a blog holiday. However, I thought I might take some time for editorial introspection.

On a trek to Lal Tibba and blue berry cheese cake.

Here is the trek description in a more readable form.

• Trek from the academy to Lal Tibba.
• Started at 7.30 am.
• Downhill walk till Bhilaru pump house.
• Salt sprinkling ceremony to ward off leeches and to maintain pH levels, slaughtered few mountain goats to propitiate trekking gods (ok, this part is made up, the sacrifice part).
• Some more downhill walk on algae covered paths (slippery as hell).
• Bicchu buti kisses in between (painful, painful, irritating initially, but one forgets after a while as the aches in legs from climbing overtakes the bicchu buti sting). Nobody quite grasped the nettle!

  

  Beware of bicchu buti.

  
  

• 

  Some mushrooms enroute.

• Dead wood blocks the narrow path; OTs slide on their bottoms in order not to roll down 80 ft before the fall is broken by trees. Fat bottomed OTs you make the rugged world go round!
• Crossed leech infested area near a pool of stagnant water and a ribbon of a stream that has the deceptive roar of a raging torrent, somehow. Yours truly mistook the leeches for earthworms, steps in to the pool, soggy shoes and socks torment for the rest of the trek.
• Climb begins in earnest. Narrow, gravelly path. Precipitous drop one one side and stinging nettles on the other.
• Crawl on all fours at a place. Palms still sweat when one thinks of that part. Happy because of the paunch which lowered the centre of gravity.
• Climb past hamlets, barking dogs, flatulent cows.
• Climb past fruit bearing trees (apple, apricot), 'mansoor' shrubs
• Climb ends at Lal Tibba view point. Two sleepy, generic cafes. A binoculars on a roof top. Cloudy so could not see any of the upper Himalayas. Do ends justify the means? Not for Lal Tibba trek I say!
• Pleasant walk downhill and some more climb up to ITM lawns for lunch.

• 

  A bee going about its business.

• Kellogg Memorial and St.Pauls churches, old and redolent of 19th century Raj era.
• Char dukaan disappointed few motor vehicle borne pretty young things. Heard the pancakes are worth making the trek to Landour. Should check out the said pancakes.

  

  Signboards at a cafe.

• Kulri bazaar home to quaint shops. Antiques store was a shortcut to an indeterminate past, in to lives of others, memorabilia mundane and mysterious. Reminded me of the saying that love is greater than truth. And commerce in nostalgia did not seem an example of exploitative capitalism.
• Serendipitous discovery of Clock Tower Cafe by friends. Blueberry cheesecake was out of this world. The ambience made it especially noteworthy.

  

  The interiors of Clock Tower Cafe.

  
  

  

  The coffee was good.

So that in nutshell is an account of the trek. Was it tough? You bet it was. Was it memorable? Every bit yes, especially the scary bits. Was it worth all the sweat, salt, fat etc? I suppose so.

A larger collection of photographs of the trek can be found here.

Below is the trek account in its original form.

Lal Tibba earned an enemy in me today. The trek was 18 km long. The unsuspecting batch started a slow walk downhill till we reached a point where we sprinkled liberal amounts of salt on our shoes (a pointless exercise, for dry salt does not stick to dry shoe surfaces), socks and inside the shoes. This pickling of ourselves in salt was to deter potential dependents in the form of leeches. Once sufficiently salted, the batch made its way through a narrow path surrounded by an abundance of bicchu buti. A handwritten caution note pinned to a tree does not prepare one to the full scale horror of bicchu buti rubbing against one's shins and arms, even through a layer of cloth. The resultant sting was bitter, intense for the initial 2-3 minutes and the itch fades away in to the background remaining a persistent irritant for a time. There was a spot in the descent where a fallen tree caused few anxious moments as the OTs had to go around the gnarled roots on a narrow path and descend some 12 ft in an almost vertical drop, land on another narrow strip of loose dirt path of 1 ft width failing which the OT would take a tumble down an abrupt drop of around 80 ft. It was the first instance when one feels a bit of trepidation. One also imagines Final Destination 1 to 5. Then there was another point in the climb where the loose gravel and a slope of close to 60 degrees meant one had to cling to tufts of grass or shrubs and climb on all fours. It was not a dignified sight for the civil servants to crawl on the sides of the hills, but between the indignity of crawling and the reasonable certainty of a headlong plunge to the very bottom of the valley some 1500 ft below, rational human beings choose crawling.

There was this funny thing of feeling giddy the moment one raises their head to admire the vista of trees of the deepest tree-green covering folds of earth, like vertical love handles, the tremendous middle Himalayan Mussoorie range. So, to avoid falling off the mountain side, one tends to keep his head down, eyes peeled to the path, belabored breath like a sputtering engine. Keep one's head down and climb and climb and climb. Through rocky paths strewn with slate slabs, dried cow dung, an accompanying dog and a racket of dog barks. Climb till you wonder if you are ascending to heaven. Climb some more till your calf muscles turn in to mountain goat muscle. Stringy and tough.

After all the climbing one reaches Lal Tibba. The point we landed up at after the rather difficult trek was a small piece of tarred road and couple of cafes. Since it was overcast there was no chance of seeing the snow-clad Himalayas and the prominent peaks. The culmination of the trek was underwhelming to say the least. Post lunch one was free to move to the academy as per one's preference and I opted to walk down to Landour, along with few friends. Landour was pretty as a post card. Of special mention was the Clock Tower Cafe, a delightful cafe with superb views and a blue berry cheese cake to die for.

On a Movie and a visit to Dehradun

"Day 19: Like Darwin’s finches, we are slowly adapting to our environment."

I borrowed the line from the movie 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel for the Elderly & Beautiful' (2011). Thanks to the Film Society for screening this good movie. It was an entertaining watch. Due to the recency effect, I shall borrow liberally from the movie. Like this dialogue, for example.

"Evelyn: The only real failure is the failure to try. And the measure of success is how we cope with disappointment. As we always must. We came here, and we tried. All of us, in our different ways. Can we be blamed for feeling we're too old to change? Too scared of disappointment to start it all again? We get up every morning, we do our best. Nothing else matters.

Evelyn: But it's also true that the person who risks nothing, does nothing; has nothing. All we know about the future is that it will be different. But, perhaps what we fear is that it will be the same. So, we must celebrate the changes. Because, as someone once said "Everything will be all right in the end. And if it's not all right, then trust me, it's not yet the end."

It can be said of the batch of 89th FC that we are slowly adapting to our environment. This point was driven home strangely enough when we ventured out of this environment. Half of the batch visited two institutes in Dehradun for the differently abled. The change in environment was quite obvious. 'The heat, the motion, the perpetual teeming crowds' of Dehradun were, if not of Mumbai level, at least a sea change from the life at Mussoorie. Weather at Musoorie is balmy while in the plains it was hot, humid and enervating. The sweet, fresh, rejuvenating air of the mountains was missed the most. When one starts living in the hills, the plains seem too plain. Now it all makes sense, the reason to locate these institutes and institutions at such altitude. However, there is no such thing as a free lunch after all. The price that we pay for the sweet mountain air is all the walk up and down the hills. 

The visit to the institutes was to sensitise the civil servants to the lives of the differently abled and also to acquaint them with the scope of work and the work that is being done to fully integrate the differently abled in to the main stream society. The issue to ponder about was not what software or hardware to use to aid the visually impaired or what approach to take to care for the intellectually disabled, rather, it is about how we perceive, in the first place. There is an us-them distinction that crops up the moment we talk of the differently abled and in deed when we talk of anyone or anything 'different' from our preconceived notions of the normal. If one can see the visually impaired as only visually impaired and then take actions that alleviate the day to day problems faced by them, as a matter of administrative right rather than as a duty, one feels that the lot of the differently abled will not be an intractable problem as it is being perceived. The incident that made a deep impression on me was how an intellectually disabled child was keen on showing off his talent at drawing to the visiting group of OTs. Dignity, in my opinion, is the foundation of human existence. The dignity and the self-esteem that the children displayed touched my heart. It was an important lesson they reinforced in me this day.

The bus ride to and from Dehradun was spent in blissful, if unstable, sleep by most OTs. One suspects the body is accustomed to sleep during those particular class hours of the day. For shame, KS! For shame.

The dinner was a pleasant surprise in that it was themed- Bangla being the theme. It is but obvious then that fish must be present and it was a delicious dinner that we had. A rohu is not a hilsa, yes, but it came close to the original maccher jhol. Memories of KGP came flooding back. The food at KGP was not the best I have had but it was the company that made all the difference.

Let me end this post with the birds again. In stead of the much maligned PT, we have had yoga this morning. Apparently it was the first time that yoga has been introduced as a part of the early morning PT regime. After awkward twisting and impossible folding of arms and limbs, one got to lay on one's back on a foam mat and watch the sky-blue sky and the underbellies of the swifts and the lapwings lit by the rising sun. I felt the world was a better place for the sun having lit the underbellies of the birds in brilliant gold. Such simple joys of life.

It is late in the day. A trek to Lal Tibba awaits tomorrow. Another day, another day trek. I am surprized we are even finding time to do the things that we are doing. As a character in the movie says, "First rule of India: there's always room."

A general post.

Horse riding is not easy as it seems. The smell. Horses stink. Sorry Gulaab, you do too. Gulaab is my ride. Then there is the infernal riding position. It stresses certain muscle groups. Like a fellow OT had remarked, all muscles are not equal. Gluteus maximus takes the maximum beating followed by other tender places. Horse riding may appear to be fun to the casual onlookers. But for chubby OTs on old horses, it is a different ball game. One tends to cling to the saddle hoping one does not fall off a horse. The horses rarely ever listen to the OT. They listen to the commands of the riding instructor or to the handlers. The OTs are nothing but sacks of fat on horsebacks. If the horses could talk, they would have said, "It is I who run things around here, not you."

I got a close look at a keen type probationer (KTP) today. The said specimen volunteered for a second round of a particularly strenuous activity while the first round was trying enough. It feels good to know that the future of this country is safe in these driven personalities. I expect to see more of these kind to emerge out of the wood works. What is life after all? Is not it a number? A rank? A comparison with every other person on earth? A position at the top in the inter se seniority? To each his own.

Since one half of the batch was out on a visit to two institutes for the differently abled, the campus seemed emptier. Would it be like this post the FC? Sleepy, quiet, no dramas to unfold?

 

Few potshots and on Social Justice.

There are a surfeit of academic sessions. The result is that one tends to get overwhelmed in the information overflow. There is sleep to contend with, too. This potent mix of sleeplessness, comprehension difficulties, civil servant egotism gives rise to situations where one quite forgets what they are speaking. Of these, egotism is a funny thing. The joke, almost always, is on the egotist. Perhaps it is the altitude, perhaps it is the clouds rolling gently on to the lawns of Gyanshila or Kalindi, whatever may be the reason, some people (not necessarily OTs or may be only the OTs) think it condescending to walk on terra firma. 

It is a pain in the neck to watch such people. Partly because they are so high above the ground. :)

I understand I am venturing in to the mine-field of value judgements.  I should refrain from taking potshots at fellow OTs, maybe? If I do take potshots, the end result would only be so many deflated egos. :)

Me and my rotten PJs. My insufferable PJs.

A senior functionary from the Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment presented a lecture on the status of persons with disability in India and the legislative and administrative actions planned and taken to tackle the problems faced by the differently abled. There are challenges galore, however, the government is seized of these matters and is taking proactive measures. The lecture was akin to a CT scan. We got first hand knowledge of the thinking of a senior bureaucrat and it was amazing (but not surprising) to observe how a lot many issues that the OTs had raised regarding the subject matter were already anticipated and remedial actions were in various stages of planning/implementation. The bumps in the road were the coordination involved in rolling out of initiatives all over the country. The biggest challenge is the mindset of people across the administrative spectrum. Unless one empathises with the differently abled, one can never be an effective administrator. I hope the OTs of the 89th batch carry forward the same enthusiasm they displayed in asking so many questions.

We have visits scheduled over the next two days to institutes nearby which are affiliated to the Ministry. I look forward to these visits. 

On Marxist lectures and Sleep Operas.

What political orientation would the agents of polity have? 

Should the political orientation be declared? 

Can a civil servant be neutral? 

There was a guest lecture today by a faculty from a well known university. The lecture was about socialism (in particular Marxism) and its relation to politics. After the lecutre was over, the common refrain that I got to hear from the batch was that there was a bias towards one particular ideology and a bias against another. This is purely speculative, for a random overhearing of grumblings of sleepy OTs is in no way an authoritative account of their political leanings or preferences, but the majority seem inclined to a particular ideology. In itself, it is no harm. However, one wonders if it is desirable to have homogeneity in opinion. Does that mean heterogeneity is desirable as and end in itself? Another question might be, how has the selection process succeeded in screening so many like-minded people? I suppose it may be answered the day one understands the reason why there is a preponderance of engineers in this batch of civil servants.

While these and other thoughts were churning about, I found, refreshingly enough, that I was awake. It afforded me a chance to see my batchmates in (in)action. Perhaps I too may have snored gently, almost inaudibly. Perhaps I too might have been nodding away to dream lands all these days. We never know. A gentle tap on the shoulder by the kind staff woke those sleeping sitting near the aisle. What of those ensconced in the middle of a row, surrounded by similarly drowsy friends?

Tongue firmly in cheek, therefore, I would like to dedicate this tenor aria by Luciano Pavarotti to the batch, from the 3rd act of Giacomo Puccini's opera 'Turandot.' (I got this information and much of everything else from Wikipedia). Yes, the aria has shades of gray, but take the opening lines literally, please.

For those interested in what the aria means, here is a good source and this too.

Cultural Day

The Cultural Day performances took off, true to the name 'Parwaaz.'

The 89th FC batch showcased their acting, dancing, singing skills, keeping the audience captivated for close to two hours in the first cultural event for this course. After the lamplighting by the senior faculty members of the academy and a spellbinding rendering of a devotional song, a skit depicted the travails that the UPSC Civils aspirants undergo both before and after crossing the academy gates. This was done through the use of mythological characters. The result was that the skit was the undoubted attraction of the evening. Few notable and popular characters were Narada, Shiva and Yama. The others contributed their best to deliver an entertaining programme.

The lady officers of the batch took us through a quick tour of a Bollywood heroine's evolution from the 1950s on till date with the help of illustrative dances. A jugalbandi between the ladies and gents team of clever, modified Bollywood songs was entertaining if a bit long. There were recitals of shayari, English and Urdu poems, a group dance, a group song (Dooba dooba!), a solo guitar performance-all were memorable. 

Kudos to the OTs who participated on stage and to those behind the screen. Kudos too to the comperes, they kept the audience engaged. Overall an evening well spent.

This batch truly deserves the tag 'Rainbow Batch.' If this were the preview one looks forward to more such scintillating performances in the future for India Day and other cultural days.

The cultural event was followed by a dinner hosted by the course faculty. There were a variety of savoury victuals that could have sated the most gluttonous OT.

Photographs of the event may be posted at a later date depending on their availability from fellow OTs.

A lazy Sunday, 'Roads to Mussoorie'

'Let me have a companion of my way, were it but to remark how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines.'- Laurence Sterne.

Today was a breathing space of sorts. A much needed one. I spent the day idly lazing around in the room and in the campus. It afforded me time to read Ruskin Bond's 'Roads to Mussoorie.' The book is available in the Gandhi Smriti Library, along with few other books by Ruskin Bond. It is a good source material for information on local history, geography, flora and fauna. Like, did you know that Rudyard Kipling stayed in the Charleville Hotel in the summer of 1888? The erstwhile Charleville Hotel is the present LBSNAA as you all know.

So, from one writer to another, hope you enjoyed your stay at the academy. Did you write anything while you were here?

The OTs occupied themselves in various ways. The culturally inclined practiced rigorously for the cultural programme scheduled tomorrow. The invite for the said event is in the form of a memo. A memo is short for memorandum. More about memo in a later post may be?

A bunch of OTs played cricket with tennis ball and few even got injured. Most others went to the Mall Road to see all that one has seen last week too. Once one starts living in a hill station as a resident and not visit it as a tourist, the perspective starts changing. There is one main street and not much else to the sleepy town. The town itself starts contracting in size, especially after one covers the surrounding areas in short but intense treks. Soon enough one starts to look at people after one has had their fill of the trees, hills, clouds, shadows, flowers and birds. Now, people are infinitely complex creatures. And writing about them is fraught with consequences. As a writer, one must write. Therefore, you may find fictitious people in my accounts here. They will never be real people, not even in approximation, but an amalgamate of various characters, various facets of very many people. Any resemblance is surely your imagination.

About the quote at the start of this post. It is best to go for walks in the hills alone. However, it is not bad to have a companion too. Provided the companion can maintain composure not to talk except to remark on the remarkable aspects of the surroundings. That is what the quote means.

Trek to Benog Tibba

Benog hill is a squat hill 2104 metres in elevation located 9 km west of Mussoorie. From the academy it appears like a cute, fat, shy, distant school going cousin who has come visiting your home during his vacation. You would want to pinch his chubby cheeks, muss his hair and be the patronizing all India or group A service elder brother/sister. Only when the squat fellow gets comfortable and fast loses his inhibitions does he show his true colours. He would kick you, punch you, pinch you, mess up your neat system, bite your calf muscles, sit his heavy self on your thighs, make you sweat buckets in order to catch him. Benog hill is that exact cousin.

The 89th FC batch trekked to Benog hill this week. Unlike the underwhelming trek to Kempty falls, this one was a pleasure. The initial 6 odd kilometres were no trek at all, having only to walk on undulating road till the Clouds End, a holiday resort which was constructed in 1838. 1838! Mussoorie is steeped in antiquity and one discovers it everyday. Convent of Jesus and Mary, 1845, Clouds End, 1838. The trek starts to mean business from then on, a steady climb to the top would take around two hours. One gets beautiful vistas of Hathi Paon, Aglar river valley, Dehradun valley and other peaks of the Mussoorie range from atop Benog Hill. There is a temple, Jwalaji Devi temple at the top. The descent from the apex to Rabbit Farm point was the most memorable part. The trail was non existent at few places, very steep and slippery at other places. At these places, the OTs descended with the help of a rope. It was a pretty sight watching the unlikely mountain goats. We passed by the Murray Pumping House, built in 1907. The colonial era building houses a still functioning pump and remnants of another one of another era. The pump house supplies water to the Mussoorie town.

The supremely difficult part of the trek was the final leg that involved a steep ascent from the pump house to the Tibetan Homes Foundation complex. It took a good two hours. However, that does not capture the burning in the legs, the feeling that one's lungs would burst from the effort of breathing, the protest of body that has not been pushed like this in a long, long, long time. Push we did, clawing at the air, slipping, skidding but somehow climbing, pushing against gravity.

Photos from the trek can be seen by clicking on this link.

Mussoorie weather, Bollywood movie and Mills & Boon

There was a conditioning walk today for the trek tomorrow. I am not complaining. Who would not want to escape the hip gyrations, the awkward bending of limbs, the absurd twisting and exertions that pass off as PT? It may all be good for us, yes, but why would any right thinking individual want to wake up at unearthly hours in this weather, in this place?

The clouds envelope you when walking (climbing, huffing-puffing) to the Officers' Mess at Karmshila, like a beloved draping a coat over your shoulders, a wrapping around of delicate concern. There is a moderate rain in the morning before the PT starts, in the afternoon and in the evening. The sun shines bright and strong in between. In the remaining times the clouds come calling, like fluffy white cows airborne, out in herds for grazing. And graze they do the hill sides clad in million shades of green. With grace. There is always something happening in the skies in Mussoorie. If, by chance, the sun, the clouds, the rain etc forget their lines, a rainbow appears as if on cue and gladdens my heart from this end of the sky to that end. A better prompter of happiness one could not find.

The celestial drama does not end with the sun set, which is poetry in hi-definition in itself. The nightfall reveals the Milky Way in all its glory if the sky is cloudless. It was a full moon day few days ago. The moon hung over Mussoorie, a crown of indescribable beauty to the Queen of the Hills.

Such sights and sounds make one's stay pleasurable. In particular the sonorous call of a bird (have to ID that blessed bird- the call is a 5-6 note call) is most pleasing. A chance to walk in the hills before the sunrise is a rare privilege in deed.

The only disagreeable thing in it all is perhaps the pockets of methanaceous air that one has to pass through where the cattle congregate in groups for rest at night. The odour is quite incongruous with the sweet hill air.

One of the guest lectures was cancelled and a movie was screened in lieu. I had not watched 'Paan Singh Tomar' earlier. It was a good movie. The strongest point of the movie was when Paan Singh Tomar, who transformed from an international athlete to a 'baghi' in the Chambal valley, could not find closure to his situation despite cornering his enemy whose actions forced him to turn to violence in the first place. Violence begets more violence, a vicious circle in which the man confuses an effect for a cause.

The Gandhi Smriti Library springs surprise after surprise. There is an AV (audio/video) section with excellent and extensive collection of movies from different regions and industries and genres. And, who could have guessed, there are two shelves full of mint-new Mills & Boon titles. While one does not understand the need for Mills & Boon titles in an academy for administration, the fact that they seem unread gives one hope, still. Maybe the OTs of this and the previous batches of Foundation Course are not mushy, sentimentalist romantics after all.

On that note, ciao. A trek looms large tomorrow. Leeches, exhaustion, solitude and exhilaration await.

Coffee and baking

The Plaza Cafe is open from 4 pm to 10 pm. It is a hole in the wall operation, in the literal sense. It is located close to the Gyanshila building. The cafe has a coffee machine, obviously, and also serves snacks of a single variety. I have Cafe Americano (a diluted espresso) and the snack. I am finding good company for the coffee nowadays. It is a good sign. A coffee tastes better when one talks in between taking sips. [I should probably patent this idea.]

Every alternate day, the snack happens to be a brownie. The brownies are fresh baked, light, fluffy and taste perfect. To top it all, it costs only Rs.10! Not for me the brownish black lumps of bread that masquerades as brownie at run of the mill coffee shops. I have become a fan of the brownies here.

Mussoorie has a baking culture, probably a vestige of the colonial times. I have read about few places on the Mall Road and Landour that are famed for their pastries and other baked items. Besides, there is an extra curricular module on baking and cooking. Few batchmates were kind enough to share with me their experiments with baking. I am looking forward to them improving their skills and testing the end products of their efforts on me. I am not averse to tasting a cake, brownie or a cookie every evening at 4.45 pm and passing my considered opinion on the baked goods and the baker.

I shall make it a point to visit the bakeries that made Mussoorie famous someday soon. The thing about making promises is that I am wont to break them. Even promises made to myself. But this is about food. I may find my feet walking to these places without me knowing it. All in good time KS.

One would expect the Officer Trainees to be more officer-like sometimes. However, I have no business standing in judgment of anyone. Probably with time one becomes officer-like by default. Time will tell.

The Ganga Dhaba and its unnamed cousin, the adjacent cafe/grocery shop/daru-sutta adda are gaining the batch's patronage steadily but surely. The mess and the cafe within the campus may have to work harder to retain the loyalties of the OTs.

Heritage walk, Debate, Cows and Red Tape

To break the monotony (and the physical exhaustion) of PT, we had a heritage walk, of sorts, near the academy. Walk is a relative term. For a few, a simple climb up a road may be a challenge enough.

Waverly houses an old and venerable institution, the Convent of Jesus and Mary, Musoorie. It was established in 1845. A road in front of the school leads to Hathi Paon. Sir George Everest's estate used to stand there. I hear it is now in ruins. This place may be a destination when I find time and motivation enough to trek to places unbid. It may be a closure to the book 'The Great Arc' by John Keay that I read.

A very old school

Somewhere to go

The highlight of the day must be the debate in which the OTs participated. The topic of the debate was 'Executive should have no say in the appointment of HC/SC judges.' The participants put in a splendid performance. I think I can speak for the audience in saying that we thoroughly enjoyed the debate. Kudos to the participants for sparing no punches on their opponents. :)

I have noticed that the cattle here have an attitude problem. Sample these two:

Whatcha lookin at?

 The bovines charged at two or three OTs during the trek to Kempty falls. One does not relish the thought of a senior civil servant being charged at by the cattle. But what would the poor cows know? They can not differentiate one fat human from the next, and can not certainly read our ID tags which also mention the service we have been allotted. A true blue bureaucrat may try out a project to educate the cows. If not outright reading of the name tags etc, at least to differentiate between the services by way of colour, smell or in any other manner. I am sure the primary reason for their anger at the bureaucrats may be the red tape.

The Civil Servant Manifesto

What happens when a civil servant contests elections?

What promises do the civil servants make in their manifestoes?

What is the difference between an agenda and a manifesto?

It is election time at the academy. The good old handpressing, campaigns that promise the moon and canvassing are on. However, the election fever seems to be missing. The PT afflicted OTs seem disinterested in the lures of power. Many posts have gone uncontested. The elections are for posts in the various clubs and societies of the academy.

And there are very many clubs and societies in the academy. For an OT of sound mind and body, these clubs provide ample opportunities to excel at hobbies and extra curricular activities. All Officer Trainees are members by default. 'Nominal' membership fees are deducted. I dread to see my first paycheck after all these deductions.

The class room sessions have now moved from the initial agenda setting to introduction of concepts in law, management, public administration, economics etc. I recall reading these same concepts many years ago. Memories come, if at all, in snatches. However, they have to first cut through thick mists of slumber. Mussoorie weather is more fickle than a woman's mind. It shines brightly one moment and the next it rains. Clouds, in formations enough to give a complex to figure skaters and swimmers, are ever present. The hills and the clouds, they are lovers eternal. Alas! The only clouds the OTs see are the ponderous, impenetrable clouds of sleep! I may have to resort to my favourite solution for stimulation- a cup of steaming hot strong black coffee that sets one's senses abuzz.

The elections have set the group formation in motion, I believe. The proto groups of Mukherjee Nagar, coaching classes, regional, linguistic, service affiliations etc are now coagulating in to thicker groups. People seem to remember names (I am yet to improve in this regard), cribbing points are emerging. Group normation and formation is in process. By the time of the big trek, the batch may have taken a definite shape and character. Let us see.

The civil servant manifestoes seemed curiously unaware of budget constraints. Overall, the canvassing seemed a tame affair, used as I am to intense politicking of the kind seen at KGP and Wimwi. And that is tame compared to the student politics that get played out in colleges in rest of India. Elections to student union bodies at universities in Punjab was a recent issue. There was enough violence and drama involved in these student elections to put to shame any Telugu movie. Court strictures on student elections have been ineffective.

The elections are scheduled for tomorrow. Oh, by the way, yours truly has been elected unopposed to be a member of the journal society. So much for the silly manifesto that I typed in a hurry and shot off in a mail to the entire batch. I should have waited till I had known that no one else was contesting for this obscure post. I would have been spared the embarassment of that manifesto.

Wake me up when September ends.

He felt as if few none too lightweight fairies were resting on his eyelids, sending him to the land of sweet slumber. He slapped himself from time to time to snap out of the extreme torpor. There was no charm in sleeping during class time. Sleep bore down on him, loosening his will, loosening the joints of his limbs. Sleep bore down on him like a cascade. He felt heavy, like water. He felt his skin bulge like the skin of a water bag. Then he fell headlong into sleep and woke up after September ended.

Thukpa, solitude, Mahatma Gandhi

Leeches dominated the last post. That was not my intention. Nor theirs, I believe. Let us agree to be friends and bloodsuckers.

Post trek, since my feet were still zombie walking while my body was stationary, I felt I needed to be out and about. What better destination than the Mussoorie town? Besides, a social media post of a photo of a friend with Ruskin Bond at a book store spurred my curiousity. I had last seen him eight years ago. I thought I might get a glimpse of him again. Celebrity spotting is not my hobby and I do not think Ruskin Bond answers to the title 'celebrity.' Nevertheless, curiousity is a powerful thing, it can move mountains.

By the time I reached the Mall road, the author was gone. I took a leisurely stroll and popped in to the restaurant "Momo's" after I felt safe I was not being followed by food snatchers. The food snatchers are nasty creatures that inhabit one's mind and make it impossible for one to have food anywhere but the Officers' Mess. They also reside in one's purse, from time to time, mostly the month ends and forever when one is in the government's employ. Momo's (apostrophe placed as per the signboard) specializes in authentic Tibetan and Chinese food. That alone is a give away. There is no such thing as authentic Chinese food. We know it to be a deadly concoction of MSG, soy sauce, vinegar and possibly, sesame oil. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the meat Saptak and meat Thukpa. I ate alone. The food was greasy, as may be expected from an outlet selling 'authentic' any food. All those calories I burnt during the trek were regained seven fold. This place may be my haunt over the weekends for the remainder of my time in Mussoorie till I discover a better place. The hot soup of Thukpa helped clear sinuses and warmed me enough to consider walking back to the Academy from Landour. It was two days before a full moon but the clear mountain air was as a thin, cold sheet of glass. The moonlight came flooding through the trees and illuminated the road as paved with a carpet of shadow leaves.

Solitude finds one in the hills like Cupid's arrows find their mark. Or not. That was a stupid comparison. The hills seem to be an enabling environment for solitude. I trekked for long periods alone, out of sight of others, my belaboured breathing my companion with the songs of a few birds or the gurgle of a stream far out of sight. What is it with mountains and me and solitude? The altitude perhaps. So much potential energy. It is natural for it to be converted in to kinetic energy. Words gush out, in poems, through blogs.

Today was Onam. The Malayalee OTs organized a gala fest. Onam sadya was well appreciated by the entire batch. The pookkalam was the centre of attraction. Not to be outdone were the ladies who dressed in their festive best. A slice of Kerala was seen in Mussoorie. One misses the seafood, though. The Konne Mara market in Palayam of Thiruvananthapuram was the place to be for fresh seafood. The best time to snag fresh produce was before 6 am, preferably around 5.30 am.

I spent most of the day at Mall road. Picture Palace to LBSNAA is a moderate walk of one hour. I have come to like these walks. It affords one time to think while walking. I am waiting for creativity to strike me one of these days while I am walking. As long as it is not in the form of lightning, I shall not complain. 

I have been hanging around the Gandhi Chowk so often that I may be considered as much a fixture of Mall road as the statue of Mahatma Gandhi at the band stand near Library Point. The clouds came rolling in from the valley below. A day of brilliant, blue sunshine and crisp, sweet air transformed in to a day for the moody, the gloomy, the solitary writer. The father of the nation emerged from the clouds, looming larger than life, his staff gripped tight in his right hand, the robe draped in a way that meant business, his stance that of a warrior going to battle. The sculptor used his imagination, no doubt and the result is better for the effort.

As a nation, we have a lot to fight for still. Maybe we should stop fighting with each other first?

A fist full of salt.

Leeches are as leeches do. They are much maligned creatures. One expects them to be engorged with blood from a hapless victim, sinister creatures with no morals, blood suckers, etc. In reality, they are no more than an inch in length and quite often can be mistaken for earthworms, except for their colour. A leech that has partially fed itself looks like this.

Yes, it is not a pretty creature. And judging from their desperation to cling on to anything, they remind me of eternal romantics, dil phenk characters that I run in to from time to time.

I encountered leeches in good number in our trek to the Kempty falls, some 14 km from the academy as the road rolls. The trek path may have been much shorter- not more than 15 km in all. There was a trek briefing yesterday, complete with Google Earth view of the trek path. Needless to say, the GPS-computer jazz did not resemble anything we have seen on ground. That much must be obvious. Doh.

The trek briefing had specific instructions on how to deal with leeches. A fistful of salt liberally applied on parts of the body vulnerable to leeching, would get rid of the creature. I saw it in practice today when a sprinkling of salt antagonized the leech. They were present in full numbers in parts of the trek through the mulch and dense undergrowth.

The trek in itself was uneventful. The upper reaches of the Kempty falls have improved a bit, with cement pavement in place of boulders behind which the tourists would unburden themselves.

I shall continue this post at a leisure time. I need to sleep now.

Hear it from the horse's mouth

Hear it straight from the horse's mouth, then: Dear readers of KS's blog. I am Tin Tin. I am a chestnut brown horse, 5 years old. I have beautiful black mane and my groomer is quite good at his job. Therefore the chestnut skin glows like molten Dairy Milk, especially when my thigh muscles ripple whenever I gallop. And gallop I like to do. Often. Alas! I am not free to gallop to my liking, though. I was born and brought up in the Indian Army. At Equine Breeding Stud, Babugarh to be precise. The first letter of the place of my birth and the last digit of the year of my birth are branded on to my left thigh. So, I have B9 with an arrow mark pointed upwards indicating my ownership by the army. I was born in 2009.

While the OT group of about 28 (us horses are good at numbers, among other things) gathered in a circle about the Riding Instructor (RI), the riding assistant (helper etc) helped demonstrate to the OTs how to unshoe me, clip my nails, brush my mane and how to saddle me up. The Riding Instructor is a 6.5 ft tall gentleman from the President's Bodyguard. The OTs were also instructed on how to mount and dismount a horse. Grab the rein in the left hand, grab the pommel with the left hand, stirrup leather to face you, left foot in the stirrup, haul yourself up on your left leg, haul your right leg over the cantle on to the right side, sit, take better grip of the rein, snag the right foot in the stirrup. The RI explained to the OTs the dietary requirements of us horses and I could see one fat, round OT shift uneasily on his feet at how many kilos of different kinds of sprouts, jaggery, salt, mustard/fish oil we are fed. Was he hungry or did all those kilos mentioned remind him of how less he was eating?

We were a bunch of 17 horses, of different ages and colours. The riding assistants had worn us out previously so that we would be tired and less frisky when the OTs would decide to ride us. Soon enough, as Fate would have it, that fat, round OT was assigned to me. He had some difficulty  mounting but once he was settled in the seat of the saddle, he seemed content just to be where he was. Probably he had never seen the world from these commanding heights. We were led by the riding assistants on a round of the riding grounds. The OT assigned to me pulled the rein too hard initially, which is a sort of a brake for me, so I stopped, bringing the group of horses at my back to a halt. The riding assistant asked him to loosen the rein and things were all right from then on. Press the heel of the corresponding leg to go in that direction, pull back the rein to brake, press both the heels to move forward. Basic movements. The Riding Instructor asked the OTs to slap our necks in appreciation. In the good old military fashion, it was an 'ek do ek' of appreciation shown. The OTs dismounted and thanked the riding assistants and walked to our front. The RI instructed the OTs not to move to our back without intimating us. A well placed kicking of an IAS officer is therefore missing from my account.

Riding ground where Tin Tin and KS met

A fat, round OT's account: You could hear the 'clop, clop, clop' of their horse shoes on the steep, cemented road running from the Silverwood hostel near the academy gate all the way down to the Polo grounds. Over and from between the tree tops one could catch glimpses of the riders in riding helmets, riding breeches and riding boots, every bit equestrian and smart. When my turn came for riding a horse, a chestnut brown one, I was a bit apprehensive. However, my heart rate stabilized soon and though I looked ridiculous riding a horse while clothed in formal wear, I might have also looked like a fat, brown saheb on his brown horse. We were asked to slap the neck and the back of the horse to show our appreciation. It came naturally to me, the appreciation in 'ek do ek' time period.

One juggles, one struggles.

One juggles, one struggles.

The academic sessions have started. A common complaint of the OTs seems to be a struggle to remain awake during the classes. In all fairness, this is not a reflection on the faculty or the course content. Instead, it is a race to adjust to the changed circumstances of structured physical exercise in the morning and classes all day. Hopefully we should be able to win this race.

I see no point in updating details of the classes. I might just as well upload the course PPTs and the time table. If I persist on insisting on writing about the going-ons of this place, this will turn irrelevant. However, I shall try my best to capture the interstitial spaces and times. I shall try to write about the reading in between the lines.

There is a great deal to do at the LBSNAA for the OTs. There are extra course modules specifically designed to let an OT hone her skills or pick up new ones. The OTs are also expected to learn a new language. The idea is to push the OTs out of their comfort zone.

Yours truly has opted for, and has been allotted to, horse riding. Yes, I too am thinking Sea Biscuit. Or Black Beauty. That is how far my knowledge of horses and riding extends. This promises to be a novel experience. We can hear it straight from the horse's mouth in the future. :)

Ice breaking, crushing, slushie making

The thing about being in the hills is that sometimes one sees the sun rise much later than one’s brethren in the plains. So we watched the sun rise from the Polo grounds during a 2-minute break we got in the middle of the PT. Since it was the first day of the PT, the instructor was easy on the OTs. Just some basic stretching and few rounds around the ground.

The climb up to the hostels after a vigorous session of PT may just be one of the many challenges that the OTs may face in the coming days. 

The batch was split in to groups for activities to familiarize with each other. However, after few hectic ice-breaking sessions, I suspect I forgot more than I remembered. May be the ice did not  break enough, it only thawed and refroze. Then it refroze all wrong. We are at a worser place than from where we started. Faces that look vaguely familiar are somehow not associated with the names and names that one has on the tip of one's tongue are somehow blurted out to address the wrong people. Perhaps it is the initial awkwardness, perhaps it is the cold climate and the decreased supply of Oxygen, if it is true, whatever be the reason, this name-face matching is taking too long.

A session today spoke of mess etiquette and another on the sartorial expectations from a civil servant. The aim of both these sessions was to instil officer-like behaviour in the OTs. Few of the suggestions made for the sartorial options available to the lady OTs may have tread on quite a few toes of the OTs, both male and female. Or I am reading too much in to the sentivities of the batch.

The overarching theme that emerges, in clothing, is the requirement for an internally motivated conservatism in the civil servants. Though this holds true in any other sphere of activity, it is of particular importance in clothing. One wonders if there were any civil servants during the Neanderthal era and if they did, what conservatism went in to their dressing before they jumped off a branch from the tree of evolution.