Hilarious accounts of encounters with BC Roy, refugees and government office politics
After joining IAS in 1958 Midnapore or Medinipur, as it is now called, was my first posting, as Assistant Magistrate on training, to commence my career as an IAS official of the West Bengal Cadre. When I learnt that I was to be one of the ‘neutrals’ destined for Bengal, I was disconsolate. With all the stories of the Quit India uprisings and violence during partition, to a docile South Indian Bengal seemed a frightening prospect. Before leaving for Midnapore I had sought a meeting with my mentor in Madras, the Principal of the Law College, which was my last academe, for advice and solace. He was far from consoling. On the contrary he seemed rather happy that I was going to Bengal. “Bengal has been a great society, Sivaramakrishnan,” he said, “You now have the rare opportunity to closely observe its decay.” I had not taken such a sociological approach to posting. As part of the training, while I was sitting as magistrate in the court, a case of someone’s wife being spirited away by someone came up for a preliminary hearing to decide whether charges should be framed at all. At some point of time the young lady at the centre of the controversy was produced. Since it was not clear who the husband was and who the pretender, I had to ask her with whom she would like to stay pending the court proceedings. “Whatever the Magistrate Sahib decides” was the sweet reply. Fortunately, there was Nari Niketan which saved the Magistrate from abetting adultery unwittingly.
Midnapore was lashed by storms in August 1959. And when we, the trainees, paid a courtesy call on the Chief Minister (CM), Bidhan Babu, as Dr BC Roy was known in all of Bengal, the demand for data gathering on flood damage came to us. Bidhan Babu was the stuff that legends were made of. Fearful, we entered his office. The CM, who was looking at some papers, lifted his spectacles and looked at us cowering in a corner of the room close to the door. He asked the Chief Secretary, “Satyen, who are these boys and what are they doing, standing near the door?”
The Chief Secretary replied that we were a group of young IAS officers allotted to the state of West Bengal and we were spending our time on district training.
“What training?” asked the CM. “Does it mean they have no work and are here for sightseeing?”
The Chief Secretary, who had worked with Bidhan Babu for a long time and was well versed with his ways, said, “You are partly right, sir, but these boys are here to pay their respects to you and to have your blessings.”
“What blessings? I want them to work. Can I give them some work or is there any rule which says that IAS trainees cannot do any work.”
“No, sir,” said the Chief Secretary, “you can give them whatever work you want them to do.”
The CM then turned to us and said, “Why are you standing there? Come and sit down here.”
The CM then spoke to us about the floods in the state. “My District Magistrates are all sending highly inflated figures of flood-affected people. In many cases, it exceeds the population of the district. I expect you boys to be a little more honest. Go and make a fair assessment of the people affected, identify the spots where the shelters could be put up and get back to me with your reports in 15 days.”
It was in 1958 during the Bharat Darshan tour for IAS probationers that I first saw Durgapur. Ten years later I was back as SDO, Asansol. Much had taken shape in Durgapur in these 10 years. Durgapur was a product of the vision and drive of Dr BC Roy and he was determined to recapture West Bengal’s leadership in industry with its coal reserves and access to iron ore nearby. He was not very tolerant of the Government of India’s policy on what the state could do and what the Centre’s own prerogatives were. I recall the launching of India’s first DC electric locomotive in Chittaranjan in October 1961 when both Jawaharlal Nehru and Dr Roy were present for a lunch. Dr Roy and Nehru were having a conversation by themselves in one of the rooms. We were out in the verandah and the lawns, waiting for lunch. At some point of time we heard Roy shouting, “Jawaharlal, if you pursue this policy, the states will revolt.”
Nehru was counselling patience. “Dr Sahib, Dr Sahib, please try to understand.” For a few minutes the arguments seemed to continue. Eventually, the voices subsided. Lunch was announced and eaten in partial silence. When Dr Roy was ready to leave, Nehru said, “Dr Sahib, won’t you stay for a little longer and leave after dinner?” Dr Sahib would not oblige. He left for Durgapur.
On 26 January 1960, I, as one of the young magistrates in the district, was asked to go to a refugee camp, hoist the flag, make a speech, and distribute saris and dhotis to the inmates. This was going to be my first ceremonial event. On arrival, I was led to a makeshift stage. Someone blew a conch shell, a garland of half-wilted marigolds was put around my neck and a child was lifted to my face to put a dot of sandalwood paste on my forehead. Someone came to the stage and proposed that our new Joint Magistrate be elected the Chief Guest for the occasion. The proposal was duly seconded and carried by a round of applause. Flag hoisting over, speeches followed. I made mine in broken Bengali. The distribution of saris and dhotis was the next item. After a formal vote of thanks, I got ready to leave. From some corner of the small crowd came cries of “Inquilab zindabad, give relief, give loans, give refugees decent homes” and so on. The same gentleman who had so ably proposed my name to be the Chief Guest approached me once again and told me, “Sir, you have to wait for some time. You cannot go now.”
I asked, “What would you like me to do?” He said, “Nothing. You just have to sit down because we are going to gherao you.” I tried to argue but was told politely and firmly that this was a longstanding tradition and every year the Chief Guest was gheraoed after the ceremonies. I had no alternative but to sink down into my seat. The slogan-shouting continued and the gherao lasted for an hour. A few days later I submitted an angry and impassioned report to the District Magistrate arguing how keeping the refugees in camps on dole and relief had made them irresponsible dependents and how much I wished to see the word “refugee relief” removed from the government’s glossary. The comments of my boss were prompt and sharp. “These are programmes decided by the government. Your personal feelings are not relevant.”
One day, a bulky file landed on my desk. It was about electrification of the sub-divisional office complex. I noticed that one portion of the complex, some six or seven rooms, had been marked “exclude”. My personal secretary was reticent when I sought an answer and suggested it would be best if I talked to SDO, PWD (Electrical). A couple of days later, Bada Babu came. I asked him why some rooms were left out. “Sir, please take a look at the large shield in the glass behind your chair and I presume you will want our office to continue to win the tournament.” I said nothing would please me better. “In that case, sir, I beg you not to pursue your queries about the electrification project.” I could not understand the connection. “What has the football tournament got do with office electrification?” Bada Babu elaborated, “Sir, who will play football if there are no punkha-pullers and how do we employ them if we have electricity?” The logic was stunning and simple. A few rooms had to be kept out from the electrification project so that the punkhas and the pullers could be retained in the SDO’s office, and the tournament’s rolling shield remained where it was. I signed the file and gave it to Bada Babu without further ado.
In September 1988, I joined the Ministry of Urban Development as Secretary. Mohsina Kidwai was my minister. She was taking a meeting to consider the reply to a “starred” question about the total number of housing units built for slumdwellers, how many allotted, how many under construction etc. It transpired that as many as 3000 units could not be accounted for. The otherwise gracious minister was steadily losing her patience. She became quite angry. She turned to me and said, “Sivaramakrishnan, do you realize what sort of a ministry you are going to handle? How do I explain to Parliament that 3000 housing units are missing?” After another round of explanation, she rose, thumped the table, and said, “I want to know the truth.” The intrepid Joint Secretary then stated in a very calm voice, “Madam, here we are trying to answer a Parliament question. It has nothing to do with finding the truth. That is a completely different process.” The tension that had built up in the meeting until then dissolved in laughter.
I moved to Delhi in 1985 to become the first Project Director of the Central Ganga Authority and Additional Secretary in the Ministry of Environment. In 1988, I became Secretary in the Ministry of Urban Development and after three years Secretary, Supply. I retired from the IAS in 1992.
He said, ‘You just have to sit down because we are going to gherao you.’ I tried to argue but was told politely and firmly that this was a longstanding tradition and every year the Chief Guest was gheraoed after the ceremonies
The logic was stunning and simple. A few rooms had to be kept out from the electrification project so that the punkhas and the pullers could be retained in the SDO’s office, and the tournament’s rolling shield remained where it was
