MATRIMONIAL ENQUIRIES

‘‘You will go to Calcutta tomorrow and call on the IG ,’ the SP told me one afternoon in his chamber. With a great effort I concealed a what- the- fuck frown. I had great regards for the SP, and even today  a visit to him is a pilgrimage, and I come back lighter. But that day, I thought he was finally punishing me for having slept on his shoulder, a year ago, while travelling from Asansol to Durgapur.

I had never quite liked this call -on funda from my NPA ( National Police Academy) days, actually I did not like anything which came in way of enjoying my drink in the evening with a bunch of like- minded friends. The British had opened up the Higher or Covenanted Civil Services to the Natives over a hundred years ago, and it was with savage energy that social graces were taught to make the browns pucca sahebs, the  tradition sticking  on long after the stroke of midnight in 1947. The liturgical quad consisted of calling on, the fine art of dining with forks and spoons,   raising a toast and knotting a tie.

I recalled vividly the PMC ( President Mess Committee)  advise  the probationers to call on the members of faculty at NPA after “ascertaining their identity and convenience over telephone”.

‘ Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Mahapatra….. sir , I am MVSN Surya Prasad, would seven in the evening tomorrow be a good time to call on you and ma’am?’, he illustrated one day before going on to suggest that all carry a visiting card to be left with the officer’s orderly or PA in case he was not present.

Calling on was a serious business, especially after a rumour had been tactically floated that marks for Diro’s ass ( Director’s assessment)  would also be based on call-ons. It was taken up by the KTPs ( Keen Type Probationers) [5]  as seriously as the bandh gala dining rituals with their selection of correct cutlery and sequence , muffled silence, ruminant mastication and unfulfilled appetite,  or even the painfully bedevilling sacrament of raising a toast.

‘ Better wear your uniform  properly,’ the  SP added, as soon as the orderly had departed after leaving us each with a cup of tea and the ubiquitous cream cracker. It was said more as a warning than advice. Those days, people could be ticked off for wearing uniforms improperly, unlike today when there is a huge tolerance for all kinds of deviations. Seniors  could even tick off the SP if his probationer’s turn out was shoddy. But today I was not intimidated about the uniform thing. I was not even bothered , I wore my uniforms properly , not to pass scrutiny, but because I had pride in them. The stars on the shoulder of my Vimal Rider uniform pointed correctly, the Silvo polished buckle and crest shone brightly, the sleeves were folded a proper regulation and even the laces I would carefully slip straight through the five pairs of eyelets of my dark tan Oxford shoes without a twirl.

I was concerned more by this Lone Wolf call on. I had been through our group  call ons in Calcutta during the Barrackpur days without missing any - the DG,HS and CS at Writers’,  CP and his officers at Lalbazaar and Great Eastern, officers of IB and CID. I did not quite like this and smelt something fishy.

“ Sir, any idea why he has sent for me?’ I asked though I had this nagging suspicion that the matter could be matrimonial in nature and was worried about Vikas, my unmarried younger brother who had competed in the IPS the year after me and was floating free in the air like an element  waiting to be compounded.

As newly recruited officers of the civil services, one of the first jobs that most, if not all, did was to get married. A few solemnised their pre exam blooming love, some moved on from their previous affairs, a substantial picked up among the fellow probationers , a few tactically to get their cadres changed, but a vast majority were grabbed up for arranged marriages. It started right at LBSNAA, Mussourie where prospective in- laws poured in for a dekkho[10] at young officers on way to Whispering Windows or even at Hari’s Tea stall. Stories of senior IPS officers stalking young officers were all too common.

‘ We were scolded by the DG for spending an extra day while calling on senior officers at Gauhati and missing out on training at Deragaon PTC, but then  after a few weeks, he asked me to call on an IG who had missed seeing me during the Gauhati call on,’ Pinda had lambasted during the debriefing session of the senior batch of 40th RR.

Much earlier Mathur saheb , two years my senior, who had come to LBSNAA  ( Lal bahadur Shastri National Academy  of Administration), Mussourie to complete his Foundation Course along with twenty four of his raucous batch mates, had told me about an incident during his district probation days in Madhya Pradesh.

‘ The zonal IG had sent for me to call on him and to come with  a list of the year’s Civil Services List,’ he recounted one evening over a bottle of Raja Rum at 14 Mahanadi.

So one day he went in a one tonner,dressed  in his tunic and cross belt with a sword dangling.

‘ Hello Parshuram, ‘ the IG flashed a weak smile to acknowledge Mathur saheb’s salute.

‘Sir, here’s the list,’ the young officer came to the business straight away and thrust a piece of handwritten in the hands of the IG who started to read it , eyebrows arched, snatching sheepish looks at the probationer in front of him, and then stopped.

‘ What do you mean by this ?’ he shouted, waving the sheet of paper, his eyeballs travelling over his nose to hit Mathur saheb, ‘ how dare you?’

‘ Kya thha paper mein,  Mathur Saheb?’ Shrikant asked, his eyes gleaming in the incandescence of the single rod heater Irayanbu  had left in the room.

“Kya Thha?’ Mathur saheb let out a guffaw, his epiglottic fart shaking up his body.

‘ I had prepared a list of all my batch mates mentioning their caste and marital status, this is what that fellow wanted , and his whole purpose of calling me was to enlighten about these things only, except that he did not like the idea of I reading his mind,’ Mathur saheb explained.

‘ Sir, surely you had not wanted me to come just with a paper cutting of the list of successful candidates of Civil Services which I am certain you must have read already,’ I told him, before being shown the door by the IG , and denied the courtesy of even a cup of tea.

Sure enough , I was not wrong and when the SP spoke, I realized that Pinda and Mathur saheb has talked about a trend quite common , and probably carrying on from the colonial times. A batchmate, much after my proposed call-on, almost had to face contempt of court for not agreeing to marry a High Court judge’s daughter.

‘ I think he has to make some enquiries for his daughter’s marriage,’ the SP hinted.

‘ But sir, Vikas’s marriage has already been fixed ,’ I let out an alarm of sorts.

' Arrey,  why are you panicking, you first hear him out na,’ the SP said, and was about to close the chapter when I thought of salvaging something good out of a bad deal . A year earlier when I had been sent to lead a contingent of the 13th SAP in the Combined Police Parade at the Maidan in Calcutta ,  I had not been provided with a vehicle even though it was a hugely ceremonial occasion, and for a few days I had to do with commuting in my cross belt and sword in the yellow taxis.  I better take a vehicle , if for nothing else than to avoid my uniform getting crushed, I said to myself.

‘ Sir, may I take my jeep to Calcutta?’ I asked and was promptly rewarded with the permission.

I reached 34 Ballygunge Circular at  around lunch,  and after eating a hearty meal at my wife’s uncle’s house, drove to Moore Avenue, Tollygunge, the headquarter of Police Wireless. It was a quite a big campus dominated by a huge steel tower that shot through towards the sky, there was an abundance of trees and a big garden lay in front of a three- storeyed building painted a dull pink and cream. I entered the dimly lit foyer and sure enough an unexcited constable greeted me, supremely clueless about the Visiting Card I thrust in his hand , but after a swift shuffle of feet , an Inspector came out and ushered me in.

I saluted as smartly as I could . The IG sat under a light that dropped just above him, illuminating his immediate surrounding in an otherwise not brightly- lit room. The furniture was classier than what I had seen in many police offices , the succession board was done a different  black and brass unlike the usual wood and white of other offices, but what stood out were the telephones that lay arranged neatly to his left- the zaniest ones I had seen so far. He scanned me for close to a minute.

‘Please sit down,’ he said and made some inane conversation as the orderly brought in tea and biscuits. He was pleasantly polite, like most Indian men are when the matter of their daughter’s marriage is at hand.

As the conversation continued,  he suddenly let his right hand drop behind him to open a drawer and drew out  a post card size black and white photo . After checking furtively that no third person was around , he turned towards me. I was sure by this time he must have pressed the button for the red light to glow outside his room.

‘ He is your batch mate, isn’t he?’ he asked , and immediately put me at ease because it wasn’t going to be  about Vikas.

I craned my neck and saw  my friend’s Saxon’s photo, with his trademark beatific smile that could have put Arun Ramayan Govil’s look like a scowl.

‘ Oh yes, sir, and what a fine person he is ,’ I gushed in support of my squadmate.

‘But his eyelids look to be very droopy,’ he got into second gear,’ does he take drugs?’

A wave of pity for Saxon swept over me. So many times  the unfortunate Saxon had been wrongly singled out by Jassa Ram, the Drill Instructor,  for smelling drunk at morning PT.

‘Bahut buri baat hai,’ he would admonish Saxon in a  baritone Desi and Bidee voice.

Poor Saxon! the teetotaller’s  only fault was that he would often stand next to either Bhasky or me during the morning PT,  and the fumes of our previous evening’s boozing, by the diffusive process of olfactory ventriloquism, would effusively gush out through his mouth. On the fields of NPA we would play ball with Jassa in mock admonition despite Saxon’s  protest at the molestation of his reputation, but here, in front of the IG and his inquiring stare, there was no way that I was not going to defend by squad mate’s squeaky clean .

‘ No way, sir, he doesn’t even smoke or drink,’ I said, thinking that would calm down the frayed nerves of a prospective dad-in-law.

‘ There are so many people who don’t smoke or drink but take drugs, and why do his eyelids droop ’ he probed with the experience of a seasoned policeman and anxiety of a marriageable girl’s father.

‘ I can assure you he doesn’t do drugs,’  I said firmly and wondered whether the IG had ever held a mirror to his face. His eyelids were also heavily drooping.

‘He is such a fine athlete, and had almost won the Tonk Cup,’ I lied through my teeth, and had Bijlee or Chandini , the two mares who normally carried Saxon during the riding classes, heard me , they would have choked on their hay. For the uninitiated, the Tonk Cup is awarded to the best Equestrian in the batch.

As soon as he was relieved that his prospective son in law was not a junkie, the IG suddenly changed gear, became formal,  and spoke into the speakerphone of his intercom to announce my departure.

‘I am sending the ASP Burdwan to you, you will show him around the entire  Control Room and workshops so that he can write his his tour diary,’ and waved me off. To be frank, I liked his style.

The wireless units, like most things technical,  held no fascination for me. I quickly went through the motions, the Inspector HQ through with dignified emotions. Quickly we completed the formalities of gathering material for my tour diary. I was eager to utilize  the chance of a Calcutta visit to check at the WBPSC Bhavan, Tollygunge the results of my departmental exams. Well that is a story already told I guess.It was a rather fruitless day, I had failed in all the papers of the Departmental, and despite my certificate and vetting, the enquiry did not result in matrimony.