C'est Fini Les Amis

A last push

I adopted a multi modal transport approach to arrive at Patiala after the valedictory ceremony. Why is that relevant? There are two aspects to the mode of travel and this day's events that are correlated. The valedictory gathering was addressed by the Honourable President of India. He exhorted the OTs of the 89th Foundation Course to adhere to the tenets of the Constitution, to be responsive to people and to be responsible for the development of the country. In the mass transport systems that I had availed of, a bus to Dehra Dun, a Vikram (7 seater auto) to the ISBT, a bus to Saharanpur, a general compartment train ride to Ambala, a Magic van (8 seater automobile) ride to Patiala, one rubbed shoulders with the people whose principal representative addressed the gathered OTs that very morning. In those ballooning delays, in the grit of the unkempt general compartment and the grime of the public utilities, in the disfunctioning anarchy of the system we misnamed as 'transport', in that dreamy disjointed multimodality, I found the reason for the existence and the cessation of the civil services.

The valedictory function went off without glitches. The Honourable President arrived at the Academy and has had a group photo taken with the officers of the 89th Foundation Course. The Honourable President then addressed the OTs, his employees in the literal sense. The valedictory ceremony was preceded by a mini drama of sorts involving course completion certificate, the OTs and a few palpitating hearts gripped by the fear of failure. The OTs were given a course completion certificate, a copy of the group photo taken few days ago and a sketch of the director's office building by a very talented artistic OT. 

The OTs with the highest marks in various subjects and the OTs who promoted the esprit de corps were awarded prizes by the Honourable President of India.

The 89th Foundation Course came to an end with a lunch in the Officers' Mess. 

Tears were shed, farewells were said, numbers exchanged, selfies clicked and without much ado, the 89th Foundation Course came to an end.

Heart's strings were plucked, a portion in the pit of the stomach went into knots encountering familiar and fond faces, knowing one would not see them as often as one would have wanted. Pretty faces, handsome faces, friendly faces, smiling faces, haughty faces, faces of civil servants all, they will remain in that portion of the brain which specializes in short term memories and will be over written by more immediate faces, a set of 180 faces, a fresh beginning of understanding old faces. What remains in the long term?

What remains in the long term is our conception of reluctant starts to friendships, of awkward remembering of faces and corresponding names, of human bonds and the surprising transformation that urgency has brought about in the nature of relationships. Would we have felt the same way if the Foundation Course was of 5 year duration?

The star ship Mycadea righted itself after the group photo, opened all the vents of the Karamshila Engine Complex, fired all its engines and achieved escape velocity within an hour of address by the First Citizen. However, 180 T-OTs were left behind and they looked on, many with moist eyes, heavy hearts, restless minds, looked on at the departing 104 T-OTs, their friends, lovers, philosophers and guides over the past 111 days.

Godspeed spacefarers!

PS:

As promised, this is the last post on this blog, Labhashana.blogspot.com regarding the 89th Foundation Course. While I debate whether to continue the same title and merely demarcate the Foundation Course section or to start a new blog with a new title and a different ethos, I would like to thank you dear readers for everything and nothing.

My personal objectives for the FC were realized in parts. Weight loss- yes but unsatisfactory. Books read- yes but far too few. Super power attained- Anonymity- worked well but only to an extent.

And that is all folks.

Post Script: I did decide to blog about the 1st Phase. You can read all about the 1st phase here.
https://firstphaser.wordpress.com

On Leadership and Farewells

Lao Tzu says "A leader is best when people barely know he exists, when his work is done, his aim fulfilled, they will say: we did it ourselves."

Is such a leadership suitable for the civil services? Can a civil servant be not seen? Should a civil servant be not seen?

The Leadership Module scheduled over two and half days aims at mapping the leadership competencies of the OTs, the future leaders to use but one cliche. The workshop exercises were heavy on crayon sketching and might have resembled a kindergarten class of overgrown OTs drawing their hearts out while the benevolent faculty looked on.

Preparation for the one act play is in full swing. Natural and unnatural actors are emerging. Hope it will be an entertaining evening. [Full disclosure: I am involved somehow with the play].

It seems only yesterday when I started blogging with a very narrow mandate. I had referred to the quintessential bureaucratic process of 'no-dues.' It is time for the 'no-dues' dance to begin. Books have to be returned, accounts settled with the juice-wallah, the Home Turf, Plaza Cafe, Ganga Dhaba, forgetful Bihari friends and so on.

One has grown fond of the fellows who would be completing their professional training at their respective service's training institutions. Future CAG, Chairperson CBEC, Chairman CBDT etc have made excellent friends. Their presence would be missed. 

Another four days remain for the FC to be wrapped up. I may not get time to say goodbye to most friends owing to the hectic schedule. I thank the readers of this blog for their sustained interest. Without your consistent encouragement it would not have been possible for me to write. If writing the blog is half the picture, you readers sitting in front of monitors or smartphones hearing me out patiently, bearing with my rants and acid laced barbs and bureaucratese infested event updates are the other half.

I may yet continue blogging of events in Phase 1. However, it will not be the same. I may start a new blog for that phase. As of now, these are the last few posts for the 89th FC blog. I have had fun writing, as much as I could. There is nothing of interest to the UPSC Civils aspirants and that is how I meant it to be. No coaching advice, no motivational quotes, no challenges to your dignity or mine.

Notwithstanding anything I might have said in this blog, the Officer Trainees of the 89th Foundation Course batch are unique, purpose driven and ambitious. Most are empathetic, concerned citizens. The Rainbow Batch, as I had called it, shall be looked up at to achieve great things.

On a Sunday walk to Landour

One develops a territoriality, stakes a claim on a specific spot at their frequently haunted place. It is as if one has acquired ownership rights by virtue of planting one's behind on a seat for long. How much more rightful must the peasant feel who tills the land!

The library has a peculiar smell. It is the smell of books of old, the letters, the pages, the ink, the binding and the glue, the pictures, the characters and the abstractions of human thought- all breathe. They inhale and exhale, a smell of knowledge, a smell of parched curiousity quenched by a rain of Dewey Decimals.

One sits and breathes. Forget sometimes to exhale and sometimes to inhale, according as the plot rises or falls.

One gazes out of the window from time to time, a day changes, days change- yesterday is like tomorrow which will be like today. A bird sings in the back ground, melancholia filters through air thick with the spirits of the unread books, thick with the spirits of books thumbed through, licked, torn, highlighted, mutilated, loved, issued, returned, stolen.

The sun rise was spectacular today.

A sunrise to watch

The full moon loomed larger than life while the sun light lit up the tops of the hills one by one.

Full moon crashing on to pine trees

Vincent Hill catching the first light

We figured a revisit to the Lal Tibba might be a good idea, now that the snow peaks seem tantalizingly close. The sky was a fifty shades of blue.

A shade of blue

However, the view itself was a disappointment, from Lal Tibba. For one, the trees block the view. And the two tourist traps of cafes/tea stalls were closed and access to the 'Govt Approved' binoculars was cut off by multiple locked doors. There were other places from where the view was quite good, like the point where the road forks, near chaar dukaan. Swargarohini massif was yellow beryl in the first rays of the sun. The honour passed to the Gangotri range peaks-Srikanta, Kedarnath and Chaukhambha as the sun light found these peaks at length. One can spot the various buildings of the academy from afar. The maligned Polo Grounds look innocuous enough from these great distances.

Spot the Polo grounds if you can

The quiet of Lal Tibba yielded fantastic opportunity for bird watching. The quiet also attracts the quiet minded people.

One can reach Lal Tibba by taxi but the fun is in walking and taking in the sights. Then there is Doma's Inn, a restaurant with kitsch interior decoration.

Cute kitsch.

It is a good place to pack in some calories exhasuted by nearly 2 hours of walking and pack some more for the next two hours of exhausting walk. All in all a day well spent.

On a ruined building and a boring movie

There are good places for a short walk of less than an hour around the academy. One such place is the ruins close to the Mussoorie Modern School. A road branches off to the left when one comes from the Library Point towards the academy. The ruins are visible from afar. One reaches them by a short walk on a gravel path, the stone chips under the shoes sound as if a giant has been munching potato wafers underfoot. The fried variety, not the boiled ones.

The ruined building with a fire place had an eerie feel to it. The roof had caved in and the walls too would follow. The premises were free of tell tale signs of tourist abuse-graffiti, declarations of love etched in to the plaster on the walls, bottles of beer or cheap whisky, ugly plastic wrappers of chips packets etc. 

The neat ruins were a contrasted juxtaposition on the nature of the ruined building. The decency and the cleanliness with which its walls still stood lent some solemnity to the ruins. Access to the building might have been regulated or outright banned for there was a rusted old sign prohibiting trespassers and glaring dire warnings. However, the paint was lost with large flakes of rust and the unkind admonition was ignored, with good results.

Immediately behind the ruins was a rocky outcrop which has the best views in Mussorie and of Mussoorie. Seated there on the ledge, with the sun rising ahead of you, a sapphire blue sky above you and yellowish green mist and grass and the trees beneath you, one can see the snow peaks and the massifs (Swargarohini, Bandarpunch, parts of the Gangotri range) to the north, Dehra Dun to the south east and the twin towns of Mussoorie and Landour to the north and the north east. A near panoramic view.

One dreads the day when one has to leave these hills and the pleasant winter mornings and go back to the grey, dreary, joyless cities, crowded, polluted, soulless artificialities dead to beauty.

An occasional foray to Dehra Dun reinforces the dread. Add to the toxic fumes and the intemperate city spirit a headache of a movie, the 3D version of Exodus: Kings and Gods and etc. Ridley Scott terrorized us with Prometheus with atrocious dialogues as this.

"Janek: You know, if you wanna get laid, you really don't have to pretend to be interested in the pyramid scan. I mean, you could just say, "Hey, I'm trying to get laid." Heh.
Meredith Vickers: I could. I could say that, right? But then it wouldn't make sense why I would fly myself half a billion miles from every man on Earth if I wanted to get laid, would it?
Janek: Hey, uh, Vickers. Hey, Vickers. I was wondering... Are you a robot?
Meredith Vickers: [scoffs] My room. Ten minutes."

He continues the streak with Exodus too. There seems to be a prudish turn to Scott which makes him approach the subject of sex with stilted dialogue.

This is but a minor niggle compared to the lugubrious length of two and half hours aided by a very thin, familiar biblical plot. In the end there is only so much a director can imagine and it shows. The only effort seems to be in trying to provide a pseudo scientific explanation to the 10 plagues visited on the Egyptians by the god of the Jews. This effort too gets abandoned midway. The movie therefore was a disappointment.

The last week of FC is hard upon us. And so are the deadlines for pulling a rabbit out of one's hat and organize the one act play. A last gasp of strenuous activity.

The academy wore a deserted look today on account of a host of people going home for the weekend, the usual Delhi suspects, people taking part in river rafting at Rishikesh, organized by the Adventure Club and by people visiting the Rajaji National park.

On a sunset

The sun set on the 3rd of December was the best so far.

The Himalayas were mountains of the moon, shining jagged pieces of blemished silver, looked so sharp and bright as if pain got personalized and projected on to looming granite. Lustrous. The sun did its business for the day and came home for the night, met by the blushing mountains, blushing of the night ahead.

The valleys filled with a gray black haze, a miasma arising from the depths of the earth and filling up the hollows, the crooks and the deepnesses of the valleys while the sunlight fled up the slopes, anti gravitic, hurried and ungentlemanly. The darkness was the ink into which an accidental writer dipped his pen and sketched scenes from memory.

Motor cars turned corners on roads stencilled in to the hill sides, their headlamps intermittent fireflies. Or they were sprites of the seas playing peekaboo with the intense looking sailor gazing at them from the portholes of the upside down star ship Mycadea. The sailor plodded midway through a thin book of stars to chart a course for Mycadea. It was slow work, involved turning pages aided by the infrequent wetting of the index finger tip to provide a grip. The sailor was confused, tired and he clicked the pages with his index finger thinking they were virtual. He felt stupid and so gazed out of the window. It has been 93 days since Mycadea crashed on to this strange sad planet. He had been asked to plot a course to Phase 1 star system. He did not understand the point of the exercise when their star ship was stuck headfirst on a hill on earth. How was the captain planning on getting them unstuck, for instance? How would they be airborne? Do they have enough fuel even to upright themselves? He had no answer and the captain was his usual inscrutable silly self. The cadre comet was a fizzle compared to the anticipation it created. The Toughened Operational Turnips (T-OTs) had already calculated the trajectory and the probable crash points of the comet and braced themselves.

Exhaust vents of Mycadea

The middle ranges were bald nude brown in the sun light and in the rapid night rise were menacing hulks of negative space. Villages on the slopes shone in clusters of light and, to the sailor disoriented by his thoughts, they looked like boats tossed about by gigantic waves. The star ship made sense, but it has capsized, and the aliens and the T-OTs were breathing air trapped under the belly of the boat.

He felt heroic, clever even, for having thought of this analogy. He felt sea sick too, imagining the mountains as waves and himself as driftwood. The villages must be underground cities, populated by pretty mermaids. He thought of all the hill women he saw, prettier than pearls. He wondered if he could stay back on this planet, live in a village for a while, love a lovely hill woman, move to another village, love another woman, an itinerant romantic in eternal search for happiness.

Just then the captain Chip Spik bellowed at him for day dreaming when on the job. He wanted the course on his desk five minutes ago and warned the sailor that in case he falls behind schedule one more time he will be delivered to Ming the Merciless.

 

On Impossible Trinity

It is not always vitriol and vinegar. Oftentimes one gets touched by the terrible cuteness of it all. Techno-managerial-bureaucrats pooling in resources, joining purpose, attaching minds and hearts to solve intractable problems of how to score more marks and rank above the next person is a heartening sight. A mark here or there is all that determines whether one becomes a cabinet secretary or a chief secretary or a nobody. It is that tough, this intense competition, this dog-eat-dog-eat-dog-eat-dog-eats chowmein and momos world. Tough, tough, tough. And amidst this chlorinated atmosphere, this pungent, vitiated air, there are heartwarming stories of romance, budding love, pink and rose hued shades of friendship, of group studies in groups in which oftentimes one has eyes for only one or more, of congregations in the hostel lounges, of currency in slide handouts, justice, welfare, maintenance all mingling in cloying displays of affection and equal parts tension. What of the time when one is in the field, that far away, exotic la-la land of red, blue and amber beacons and four score retinues and the forefathers breathing down one's neck?

A possible trinity but an impossible threesome. Alas!

Here is an impossible trinity for you. Dinner at Momo's, dinner at Little Llama, desserts at Clock Tower Cafe or Rockby all in the same day. That came out all wrong, it is quite possible.

Let us try again. Fixed exchange of hearts, open bank account and autonomy in marriage policy. Ha! Got you.

A good thing about the exam is that the whole batch is exempted from PT. Hurray!

On Eerie Silences

There is an eerie silence in the academy. The corridors of Ganga hostel are empty. One's footsteps echo in the emptiness. The ramp up to the academic block is devoid of movement. Even the frisky monkeys seem to have abandoned their friskiness for far weightier matters. The Happy Valley hostel corridor and the A.N. Jha Plaza are vacant. The piped music plays to the cold gallery and the air does not stir, nor the blades of grass nor the stone cold cast iron benches nor the sodium vapour lamps sending out crystal yellow rays to a December night. Ganga dhaba's daily profit dipped few crores due to the sudden evaporation of footfalls. The music system at the gym plays out peppy songs with unintelligible lyrics and the treadmills wait for their hamsters. Light bounces off the shiny floors of Silverwood hostel, escapes via the windows and gets eaten up by the silence of the darkness.

The Officer's Mess is a pale shadow of itself, rows upon rows of chairs await misshapen behinds, and plates await unintentional chipping and the hand dryers await the insertion of hands in to the slits for drying. From profound to the profane, KS, you manage the transition well.

The answer that begs the question is...

OTs of the 89th FC, Mussoorie, are hard at work, solving questions on probability and statistics, solving problems in education, health, internal security, Constitutional law, IPC, CrPC, CPC, official language, solving Plato, Aristotle, John Locke, Thomas Hobbes, Marx, boredom, distraction, old age, Facebook privacy and other things. And a whole body of macro, micro and miniscule Economics that if when read shall ensure a Nobel prize for Economics reading.

My best wishes to the OTs.

On Counsellor Groups

A practice that is prevalent at the academy is that of a formal, structured mentorship programme called the counsellor groups. The counsellor groups provide informal platforms for interaction between the faculty and the OTs. These interactions are scheduled on a fortnightly basis. As a goodwill gesture and as a courtesy from very senior civil servants, the counsellors host a demi official dinner/lunch for the OTs. We have had one such luncheon this day. The counsellors are guardians for the OTs, their friend, philosopher and guide in times of need. This structure works well. The counsellor group OTs are like a platoon and they participate in various events as a group, competing with other counsellor groups. The tug of war was one such event.

The end term exams start Monday and once again the FC 89 batch is wrestling with Powerpoint presentations of a wide variety of topics. As the marks obtained in these exams count towards determining the final batch inter se seniority which determines the speed at which one is promoted or pushed up the ranks, a lot is at stake for few OTs who have age on their side.

13 days of non-IAS OTs' company left. Less or more is subjective.

On few eateries

The Home Turf Cafe is a cozy, well furnished, economical place to have one's snacks or non alcoholic beverages. The snacks are all popular stuff, momos, maggi, egg bhurji, sandwiches etc. The menu at Home Turf is a welcome departure from the monotony of the Officers' Mess. The Home Turf staff is efficient, cordial and talented. The Home Turf is a favourite haunt for OTs who have had their fill of Pooja and Ganga dhabas. The decor is that of a hang out for sports lovers. Therefore there are few board games, posters of sports icons and sports equipment. There are also flash cards with quiz questions on sports. Quite thoughtful, I think. Quite did not understand what the bean bags are doing there, though.

Home Turf, interior.

Illuminated Home Turf

The way to a man's heart is through food...or eyes.

When one is feeling lethargic, it is recommended that one stuff oneself to the gills. What better place to accomplish this noble deed than at Momo's, the place for all edible things Tibetan?! Momo's has an attiribute that sets ia part from other eateries/restaurants in town, namely, consistent quality. The food is tasty and it is so every time one has had the opportunity of dining at Momo's. Consistent quality performance and promise of good quality is an essential element of branding. If they do not do too bad in the future, Momo's will be a strong brand to reckon.

A light fixture at Momo's

The afternoon was given off so that the serious OTs can prepare for the end semester exams. The non serious types went for lunch and since it was a balmy day, decided to take a stroll through Mussoorie town. Hence, Gun Hill was visited, for the first time after all these months. And what an utter, utter disappointment! The area is smothered by tacky commerce. What might have been a good view point-Gun Hill is the 2nd highest point in the local area, highest being Lal Tibba- has been spoilt by greed. We have a talent for killing the golden goose. Take Kempty falls, for example. The area surrounding the falls is infested with tin shed installations blocking the view of the falls. So it is with the Gun Hill. The area was boxed in by tin shacks, tourist traps. There were shacks with games of chance and skill, shacks with shiny clothes, snack shops and a 'binoculars point.' There are 3 binoculars and the slick businessmen characteristic of tourist places charge Rs.30 per person for peering closely at the snow peaks, the same peaks which are visible to the naked eye.

View from the Gun Hill, from the Binocular Point

A sample of shops at the Gun Hill

Temple Bell

The chronic disappointment of the Gun Hill was however offset by the pleasant walk on the Camel Back road. The quiet back roads were a good place to watch birds. There were many pretty bungalows as well.

Blue Whistling Thrush

The longish walk from Gun Hill via Camel Back road, Waverley road and to the academy was timed for the sun set. Sun rises and sun sets have been spectacular of late in these areas.

The after glow

Stairs near the AN Jha Plaza

14 days yet to be chopped.

On Networking and Little Llama Cafe

A 'maha' cultural festival comprising of performances by the very senior officers of Phase 5 training programme and the FC participants, followed by an interaction session between the two ends of a civil servant's career spectrum were the highlights of the day.

It is always a good idea to find a mentor. Few OTs are brilliant at networking. In a twisted, false sense of propriety, a misplaced modesty, a characteristic hypocrisy that typifies us, networking is seen as a sinister activity, as a sign of inferiority complex, a sign that one is taking advantage of people. I believe it only shows a congenital fear of social interactions. Networking is a key activity in professional lives. The word networking is a compact explanation of a complex process of social interaction. There is no need to disparage networking. One only stands to gain from it.

A corollary of networking, or, rather, a consequence of networking is lobbying. This is a dirty word the way it is understood. Lobbying for one's interests is a basic process of social membership. The whole world lobbies for the rich and the mighty. Who lobbies for the common man? The beauty of the Indian civil services is that the Constitution of India mandates that the civil servants be the lobbyists for the poor and the underprivileged.

In a departure from the rut we had fallen in to, namely continued patronage of the restaurant Momo's (on Kulri Bazaar road), we checked out the delightfully cramped Little Llama Cafe on the Kulri road, next to the Union Church. It can seat at most 7 well-fed OTs sans their egos. The compact open kitchen lets one see and smell the food being cooked, a fascinating experience any time. One recalls the many hours spent watching one's mother in the kitchen creating beauty and perfection in food. One also chipped in by helping when possible, chopping, dicing, slicing things. The menu at Little Llama features western snack and fast food at moderate prices. It is a welcome change from the many bowls of Thukpa and platters of meat Saptak one has at Momo's.

At Momo's on Kulri Road

With only 15 days to go, most activities of the FC are winding down. Tomorrow is the last day of academic classes and also of PT. The end term exams start from Monday and will go on for five days. Most OTs are preparing for the exams at a fever pitch.

Two weeks and it is curtains down.

FC 89 - A Space Odyssey

Those of us in the know will know that the Karmshila building is a space cruise ship which slammed in to a middling hill in the Mussoorie range nose down. It arrived after a short haul from Prashaasanik constellation, from the 3rd Attempt star system. Owing to a loss of control over Interview Mark II (the thrusters required for calibrated landing), the ship crashed head first in to the hill. One can see even now the exhaust vents on 'top' of the building, the conical glass structures that one assumes are for ventilation, for letting in the inadequate November sun light.

The flight deck was the current toilet of the Officers' Lounge, comprising of both men's and women's washrooms. From this cockpit the ship had been captained by Captain Chip Spik, ably assisted by his first officer Madam Loud Squeak, the navigator Mr. Long John, gunner Ms. Rattle Tattle, medical officer Mr. Palaver Salve, a vague but validated comic creature called Miss Higg's Bosom and other crew members. The pilot sat on the toilet seat, pulled on the toilet roll to release the throttle and flushed the toilet to break hard. It was an easy and intuitive control system. And there was the auto-pilot, Found Attention Cores, the artificially intelligent automaton.

Why did the space cruise ship chart its way to the planet Earth? Was there a mistake in file noting? Were they supposed to have reached File Cabinet planetary system but got sucked up by the In-Tray 101 black hole and ended up in the Red Tape galaxy? One may never know. The sentient beings of the space cruise ship adapted to life on earth. The aliens learnt early on that commerce is the dominant activity of humans. Therefore they mutated in to Mr. Ganges Dabas, Mr. Milky Rum, Miss Lovely Professional Universe Omelette Centre, Mr. Tevern and so on. They brought their strange rituals like morning PT which involved bending otherwise inflexible human bodies into awkward angles early in the winter morning cold, weird alien clothes like formal wear, funny practices like sleeping in the class etc.

The aliens sought to replicate their social structure called the Bureaucratic Hierarchy through a well graded Administrative System, on earth. It was easier said than done. To this end, the aliens formed a special committee called the Universal Potentially Silly Choice committee whose sole mandate was to screen a large number of humans and select from among them creatures with pliable minds, massive egos and a sense of entitlement. The committee received an overwhelming number of applications, all eligible. Therefore, they added more criteria and kept them all secret so that the humans can never decipher the alien thinking. However, few qualifying conditions that leaked out were that the applicants need to be insufferable, intolerant, elitist in nature etc. Even so, the swell of eligible candidates overwhelmed the committee. Therefore, they chose to add further stringent criteria, like a stay in a village for a week, a trek in the Himalayas for a week, cultural programmes every fortnight and so on. The cultural programmes did the trick, may be, they got the required quantity and quality of specimens whom they called the T-O.Ts (Toughened Operational Turnips).

The aliens designed a maze, an obstacle course in which these T-OTs run and must hurry ever forward to achieve an elusive goal. The aliens graded the T-OTs in to PKTP (Potential Keen Type Potato), LKTP (Latent Keen Type Potato), OKTP (Over Keen Type Potato) and various other grades. The T-OTs had all of 100 days to accomplish various tasks like scoring Walnut Brownie points with the instructors and T-OTs of the opposite gender, gather enough gold coins so that they rank higher in the Inter se Potato Seniority etc., while dodging injuries (which can be glossed over by acquiring Med Packs hidden near the Reception Counter) as well as red hot Memos, supposed radio-active pieces of paper that had to be avoided at any cost.

This was the set up of the doomed space cruise ship, its time-space travellers, their experimental subjects the T-OTs, their exercises, their existence whence all of a sudden and out of the blue, like the Chelyabinsk meteor but much more devastating, on this peaceful pale blue dot of a planet earth dropped the Cadre Comet!!!

Cheylabinsk meteor, for illustration purposes.

What happened next? Did the T-OT race survive the comet strike unlike the dinosaurs? Why not find out tomorrow or the day after or any day in the distant future when I am in a mood to write more?

Sweet 16 today but wont last forever, these number of days of the Foundation Course.

On A Cat on Cold Tin Roof

I came across a cat in the academy today. In itself it is nothing to write about. However, it is the first time I have noticed a cat. Dogs, monkeys and langurs make up the fauna of the academy. Stray cows too. A stray cat is a strange sight and hence it merited a mention. It jumped in the cold air from the Happy Valley Hostel, sauntered across the 135 degree wide stairs and leaped on to the Unhappy Plateau Hostel roof. 

Cat on a cold tin roof.

The cat then proceeded to the Gandhi Smriti Library and pawed at books yellowed from the Hippie days, the pages brittle as the bones of the rainbow generation. The curious cat browsed through the books kept at the shelves at the end of the book racks, the books that the batch of OTs had gotten issued, read and returned. There were books on law, public administration, warfare, economics, poverty. The cat's curiosity was aroused, however, by the books at the English fiction section. Camus and Wodehouse were being read. Good for the batch, the voyeuristic cat thought, good for the batch for reading more than PowerPoint presentations of subjects, good of them for consuming more than mere slide handouts. But what is this? 'Chicken Soup for the Couple's Soul'?!

The thought of chicken soup made the cat hungry. The cat went to the A.N. Jha Plaza cafe for a cup of coffee with a dash of strawberry syrup and pretty lady OTs for company.

The cat walked in to the Sampoornanand auditorium and listened in on few lectures. Insincere sounding media men and earnest senior civil servants lectured on topics dear to their hearts. The OTs nodded in agreement or in sleep. Few OTs  spoke among themselves. Their thoughts were bubbles rising from vats of boiling tar, the thoughts were tar bubbles, ink black demons and they rose from the mouths of these OTs, floated up a little and then burst, staining the shirts and sticking to hair of fellow OTs, irritating them. The cat decided to shred the demons of distraction to shreds and scratch the presumptuous OTs, scratching away the thick blanket of arrogance with which they cloak themselves. These narcissistic fish think nothing of talking aloud in the class. They love to hear their voice and think everyone does too. 

'Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.' (T.S. Eliot)

Our cat makes short work of these blow fishes, leaps across the valleys, ridge to ridge, peak to peak, in to the distant sun set, in to reluctant night, in to chalked out horizons.

The cat then woke up and found itself in the Happy Valley Ground, it appeared from a winter of discontent. It performed slick moves as an aerobics practitioner, all the while imagining the feline female forms in unitards, actresses escaped from Cats.

Good Cadre, Bad Cadre, ICBMs

The big news of the day was that the cadres have been allocated. The allocations were as per calculations/estimations and were more or less a confirmation of the expected cadre. Are the OTs happy? Are they disappointed?

What is a good cadre or a bad cadre? Do they even exist? One of the Phase 5 seniors with whom we interacted was of the opinion that a 'good' cadre and a not so 'good' service is preferable to a 'good service' and a 'bad' cadre. Another senior officer was of the opinion that AGMUT is a 'good' cadre in that if one falls afoul of the political dispensation at power, one can always move to another state within AGMUT and bide one's time whereas in any other cadre one is stuck with that dispensation.

Then there is the whole aura of the home cadre. One supposedly gains 12 inches in height if one is allotted the home cadre. Or not. The most advantageous thing that I see of being allocated the home cadre is that one could be close to home (duh!), dig one's roots deeper in to the soil.

Good or bad is relative, of course. There are OTs disappointed even though they got 'good' cadres and vice versa.

Truth be told, no one except a privileged few have a clue as to what lay in store for us in any of the cadres. We only hope that we do what we are supposed to do and do it with devotion.

It is time for the ICBMs to be launched. Long range, solid fueled, mobile or submarine launched missiles will be the talk of the day. Inter Cadre Based Marriages (ICBMs), however, do not come in the MIRV (Multiple Independently Targetable Reentry Vehicles). The game would change beyond comprehension if the MIRV were allowed.

Another term to describe the feeding frenzy that will be unleashed is that of CBMs (Cadre Based Marriages or Confidence Building Measures in diplomatese.) One wonders as to what confidences are being shared or built for a change of cadre. There must exist a law to prevent speculation on cadre based marriages.

As for me, I am going back to the state of my youth, a state where my world view evolved, where I fell in and out of love, with it and without it. All good.

On Athletics Meet

Athletics Meet for the 89th Foundation Course, Mussoorie, was an unqualified success. Kudos to the organizing team, a fresh set of faces, and the athletes for a grand show. The event was stretched over two days so as to cover events such as 100 m, 200 m, 400 m, 800 m, 1500 m, 3000 m, 5000 m races, 4X100 m relay, 4X400 m relay, javelin, discus, shot put, high jump, long jump, tug of war, spoon race, three legged race, wife carrying race, horse race and rat race. At least few of these events are fictitious.

The athletics meet showcased the athletic talent of the batch. There was enthusiastic participation in most events. Some of it was necessitated by the word 'compulsory,' an admonitory, authoritative term that is applied to most rules made by bureaucrats, as I am coming to realize now. However, the participation was also driven by peer pressure or inspiration. The sight of a fellow OT manhandling a shot put or a javelin aroused the competitive instincts in onlooker OTs and compelled them to try their hand at sports, often in many cases for the very first time in their lives. Never mind the 10,000 hours of practise that Malcolm Gladwell talks of, never mind the quarter that needs to be given to one's age. One was content getting coached by videos from Youtube. Another factor was at play too, related to competitive spirit of the OTs. Many of them were competing against themselves more than with others. They wanted to see how far they can throw or how fast they can run, an assessment of their bodies and to satisfy the doubt if their ships would hold fast till the journey completes.

The OTs would never forget the singular sight of a gentleman OT flying towards the finish line, only puffs of dust at intervals of 2 metres on the track to hint that he was in fact running, not flying. If there is any one event that defined the athletics meet, an event that shall be remembered for a long time to come, it was the 100 m race. The performance of a gentleman OT in that race, to be particular. It was a joy to watch the record set by the previous batch being broken by a good margin, it was a joy to watch the athlete, the gentleman OT demonstrate the beauty of the human body. We are all grateful to him for making the athletics meet the most memorable event of the FC. There were few other shining stars, athletes who participated in most other events and bagged medals, including the flying Jharkhandi. Congratulations and thanks are in order to these athletes, sportsmen of first order.

The athletics meet has proven that the civil servants are sound in both mind and body. It is a good sign for the country when its administrators can set new records or at the least challenge themselves and push themselves harder.

On Idiocy of Rules, Lovelorn OTs

22 days for the batteries to run out. What will the Duracell bunny do then?

Autocratic is not a word to be bandied about lightly but few instructions and few strictures now seem to warrant such an action. They walk the thin line between idiocy and absurdity. Long after all the love has vanished, O KS! one only finds faults in one's beloved. The multiplicity of rules which at first appeared charming and idiosyncratic now seem dreadful and suffocating. C'est la vie.

Ours is not to ask why, our is to do PT and die. Though in all honesty, one feels one enjoys PT too much to safely conform to any group norms.

The Honourable Minister of State for Home Affairs, Shri Kiren Rijiju addressed a session this forenoon. The session was informative, interactive and interesting. Of all the valuable advice the Honourable Minister had given, only one point seeped in to my sleep addled brain, i.e., his advice to the OTs to marry for the sake of love and not for cadre and that cadre do not matter in these premiere civil services. Sound advice no doubt but who will heed this advice? The gear wheels in the brains of the bright OTs are shifting and turning as we speak, making mental calculations on cadre probability and caste compatibility, arriving at a list of probables on whom love can be bestowed.

Today was a dead line for submission of village reports and book review. If this sounds school-like then you are not far off the mark. Throw in a strict head master type figure, demanding PT master types, eccentric science teacher types AND throw in sexually repressed adolescent OTs, you have it spot on, school all over again.

I have been receiving many suggestions and topics for the blog posts. The Sunny Leone Shrimati Sunny Leone part was inspired by a suggestion catered to by a gentleman OT. It is always a good sign for the blog when the readers are livelier than Google spider bots.

A gentleman OT, mad and sick in love, requested that I convey his feelings on this blog to his lady love, in case she too reads this blog. I had played Cupid earlier, successfully I must add, for the couple in question are celebrating their 4th wedding anniversary today, let me see if I can reach in to my thinking hat and pull out few love bunnies.

The closest approximation to the gentleman OT's situation can be found in the lyrics of the song 'Hello!' by Lionel Richie. The relevant lines are as follows:

I sometimes see you
Pass outside my door
...

...

...

Hello!
Is it me you're looking for?
'cause I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely?
Or is someone loving you?
Tell me how to win your heart
For I haven't got a clue
But let me start by saying I love you.

The video of the song, for your viewing pleasure.

There are benefits of being at the academy. One can run in to a certain illustrious gentleman who pioneered the use of zeros in audits and accounts, a veritable re-inventor of zero in the Indian political math. A series of selfies of OTs with the illustrious gentleman civil servant may follow in time. Watch your Facebook feeds.

The Athletics Meet is to be held over two days, both of them happen to be on the weekend. Why, oh why?!

Look forward to the Rainbow Batch making a mark, breaking few records by the way.

On Matches Made in Heaven and Marriages in the FC

23 days to the finish line.

Suave speakers score in the academy. They score brownie points. They score unbeatable adulation among adolescent OTs. They impress the wizened older OTs with their clever use of idioms. Slick speakers, city slickers, skilled orators.

The 89th Foundation Course is witnessing a unique event, namely the wedding of two fellow Officer Trainees, a handsome gentleman OT and a beautiful lady OT. A happy culmination after a long period of courtship. This heartening event, the marriage of OTs during the Foundation Course, is scheduled for a day in this week. We are all thrilled, excited and happy for the couple. As a part of the Great Indian (Administrative Service) Wedding, the preliminary event Sangeet was celebrated this evening. The event was the exclusive domain of the womenfolk and so I have no information as of now to share.

We all are thankful to the couple for giving us an opportunity to be a part of their extended family, as it were, involving us in inarguably the most pivotal and significant moment of their lives. Thus one sees several OTs standing in for the family in distributing invitation cards to the faculty and to the staff. Such simple sights as these brighten the dreary days with which the FC now seems filled. There is a general air of despair and ennui with the activities of the FC. Extended PT sessions aimed at turning OTs and potato sacks in to lean, mean and clean fighting and marching machine contingents in 3 days flat are the cause for a great degree of irritation. Ek do ek goes the Pied Piper's tune and the OTs march one and all off the cliff of the Polo Grounds and tumble down, down and down in to the valleys of the Dalai Hills.

Talking of the dreary days, special mention needs to be made of the generous lady OTs for celebrating the 'Men's Day' with a well made presentation, eminently lightening up our day. They charmed the socks (stinking, mismatched, torn socks) off the gentlemen OTs with the presentation and the celebration. Thank you lady OTs, your gracious gesture is well appreciated.

Schrodinger's Cat was a Cow and other Absurdities

24 days for the circus to leave the town. Would you shed some tears for the dearly departed?

It is always a good idea to write off when in anger and then trash it. Or put the post up in the probables list. Or dip the post in such caustic humour that it turns in to a pulp of vague references.

Anyway, it was a dreamy day. The sun light was sweet, straight and bright. It fell on the delicate shoulders and intelligent heads of the pretty lady OTs, giving an unintentional brilliant golden highlight to their hair, illuminating them as Madonnas on stained glass panels of medieval cathedrals. Just another day in the academy. The class rooms are neither cosy nor cold, they are just so. However, a filling breakfast of proteins, carbohydrates (hydrocarbons?) and fruit juices puts a generic gentleman OT in to a genial mood for sleep. Lectures on rights based legislation by explorers and pioneers or on macro economic policies by advisers to very important people of India get taught, while a head somewhere drops abrupt, a fresh entrant in to the world of the sitting sleepers.

Sometimes the 89th FC OTs get surprising guest lecturers. Shrimati Karenjit Kaur Vohra, a.k.a Shrimati Sunny Leone, an actress of some talent and an accomplished business person, visited the academy to deliver a lecture on the Ancient Art Forms Of India. A particular art form was referred to more than others. A clairvoyant's image of the artist captured the essence of the art and the artist's engagement with the audience. The guest lecturer asserted that the Ancient India was a place of high refinement in tastes. Cultural norms of the society of Ancient India were of a standard unsurpassed. The guest lecturer derided the current crop of civil servants for their pusillanimity in their imagination. She insisted that glorious, golden, halcyon days of the past can be regained once gain when the civil servants shed their inhibitions and take grand decisions, adopt bold positions on issues and come out on top, in general. The degradation in standards (of what was not specified) were a cause of concern to her. The guest lecturer concluded by exhorting the OTs to exert themselves (on what was not specified).

Shrimati Karenjit Kaur Vohra extolling the glorious days of Ancient India.

A gentle tap on the shoulder usually wakes a day dreaming OT before they embarrass themselves by exerting  in snoring during the classes. 

Apart from the exciting guest lecturers, the batch also receives unsolicited emails from well meaning citizens and/or civil servants. The emails are summaries of news, general impressions and opinions. Fearless fellow OTs however are not very amused by the voluminous mail as it only adds to the increasing sense of an impending showdown, a denouement of the FC, adds to the stress of unresolved issues, unread mails amidst a deluge of emails dreaming of achieving coordination via electronic media.

In other unrelated news, conclusive evidence emerged that the Schrodinger's cat was in fact a cow. Not any other average Joe cow but the very sacred one, a cash cow. The cow was supposed to answer the question 'when does the actual quantum state stop being a linear combination of states, each of which resembles different classical states, and instead begin to have a unique classical description?'

Disclaimer: None of the points stated in this post are true except this disclaimer. There was no such guest lecturer nor was Schrodinger's cat a cow.

Back from Village Visit

We are back from the village visit. For a week we forgot all about Mussoorie, Officer's Mess, the rigmarole of dressing in smart casuals (at least) for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the pain of PT early in the morning, the dread of horse-riding every once or twice a week et cetera. We got a taste of what it means to be a civil servant in India. With the benefit of hindsight one can say it was a bitter sweet taste. As a representative of the government, even if a junior most officer of the senior civil services (All India, Group 'A' etc) one has signed away their privacy. It was akin to being on a display in a zoo. One knew in a muddled sort of way that a career in the civil services involved certain trade-offs. However, did not expect that one's privacy would be the first casualty, followed very closely by one's sense of right/wrong/correct/incorrect/good/bad.

Enough of these harangues already. Sunday mornings are best spent in the quiet of a library, fighting post-breakfast slumber, watching the scant traffic on the Kalindi lawns from a vantage perch. However, retired bureaucrats eat the morning silence for breakfast by a two hour long phone conversation in the reading room, organizing meetings, moving and shaking things over phone. I wonder if civic sense departs once one is out of the civil service.

 

One looks away from fiction to notice pretty girls taking selfies in the pleasant sunny lawns of Kalindi, a middle aged woman dressed in an egg yolk yellow chudidar and a white sweater, for all appearances a cross section of a boiled egg on two legs-a lady Humpty Dumpty, OTs taking relatives, family friends and prospective in-laws on a guided tour of the campus and so on and so forth. Matcmaking, soul-mate finding and cadre marriages are an integral part of the FC. They are traditions coming down from ages and one respects traditions. To the curious outsider or the clueless insider who queried Google in a charming naivete, "Are couples formed at LBSNAA?" (and landed on this mine blog), yes, couples are formed at LBSNAA everyday. It is a chain reaction really. Once the couple formation process starts, no coolants or control rods can stop it. We only watch from miles away, safe in our radioactive shelters, through darkened glasses the flash and the shock waves and the fire storms. Couple formation is assisted in most instances by catalysts in the form of helpful family members, relatives and well-wishers packed in to an Innova/Xylo and disgorged at the Academy or the Ganga Hostel gates. Out pops the nani, dadi, dada, nana, foofa, foofi, bhatija, bhanja, bhanji, sala, sali, chacha, chachi, chechi, cheta, mummy, daddy, uncle and aunty from next door, dad's colleagues from office, his boss' in-laws, the all important match fixing aunty from somewhere in the extended family etc. It is a charming sight.

Persistent queries on the quality of food and non-veg being served at the Academy also land on my blog. I can only say with the utmost conviction that the food served here is A-1, top class, number one quality. Non-veg is generic Chicken preparations (the butter chickens, mughlais and tikka masalas of the world-boring fare) or mutton or fish once in a while. Pork and beef are not served, to my utter disappointment. Fish is a poor stand in for the amazing variety of sea-food one can eat. This high in the mountains, one is satisfied with chicken. For everything else, there is Momo's on Mall Road (Kulri Bazaar).

A host of dignitaries are scheduled for guest lectures this week, staring with a luminary from the Foreign Services. Also, the PT and class hours are shifted by half an hour. So we trudge and trundle to the Polo Grounds at 6 instead of at 5.30 am.

The Man-Eating Rumour

We were resting after a heavy lunch. There were no participatory learning activities scheduled. The Panchayat secretary and two lekhpals entered the room with somber expressions. They requested our permission to provide us with some news. The assembled IAS officers granted permission to impart the news. The panchayat secretary told us that the man-eating tigress terrorizing the area had struck again and close by. It had killed a fakir/baba who lives in a kutir at the edge of the forest. The said killing happened as late as last night. We were aghast. The shocking news sent chills up my spine. I was jesting online only a day ago that the tigress may develop a taste for fat and juicy OTs. What if the tigress did get a whiff of my scent-the scent of a bureaucrat? What if the tigress was active on online social networking platforms? What if it decided to wreak vengeance on me for rejecting her friend request sent from a profile with Katrina’s face as display picture? The conjectures were many.

We decided to visit the site of the killing. For good measure we asked the two UP wala police bhaiyyas to come along with their .303s. The convoy consisted of two motorbikes, a Gypsy and a Scorpio. We could have as well been a travelling circus. The road was a kachha road. It could not have been kachha-er than it was. There were deep ruts from the bullock carts and pot holes 3 feet deep. A two inch layer of fine dust topped the road which was raked up by the tyres and rendered the air a post-apocalyptic yellow/ochre tinge. The silent convoy was an eerie sight. Sugar-cane rose 10 ft on either side, eucalyptus and poplar trees blocked sight of the fields afar. After what seemed like a venture deep in to the uncharted forests, we arrived at a clearing, the said kutir. There were two banyan trees 50 ft tall, a thatched hut open on two sides and a makeshift mandir. There was a farmer, his wife, kids and sugarcane on a bullock cart nearby the kutir. The whole platoon of police, revenue officials and prashikshu adhikaari disposed him to a chatty mood. He informed the gathered government machinery that the baba was safe in a village close by and that there was no tigress attack. The villagers assumed the worst when they saw the contents of the kutir turned upside down and a trail of blood on the floor. Blood on the kutir floor. That there were 15 odd killings by a man-eating tigress in the area only bolstered the villagers' doubts. A drunken brawl and a possible bloody nose led to the wild (but probable) news of an attack by the tigress. Lessons learnt: One needs to verify the information fed by the lower administrative machinery and not take it at face value.