***************************************************************************************************************************
In the early 1950s our Village, Muthukur, had only three Government Officials: my Father (the HM of our school), our Doctor, and the Sub Inspector of Police (SI). To the lay public these three were demigods. There was also the Post Master, who, unlike the three, was a higher Central Government Official but he was not feared or adored. He was a meek old grizzly man who ran our mini-post-office single-handed, selling stamps, manning the savings, and keeping his ledgers when he wasn't smoking his beedis. He didn't give lives or take them nor issued the dreaded Transfer and Conduct Certificates to the kids of the public.
...Posted by Ishani
**************************************************************************************************************************
...Another experience I had in England the same year helped to shake the faith of at least one Briton in the much-vaunted Yankee affinity for machinery. The battery of my car had run down in a village about twenty miles from York, my destination. I put in a call to a garage and a young mechanic showed up presently in a wrecking car. He said he would give me a tow for a few yards. I was to let the clutch in and out (or out or in, whichever it is) and start the engine that way. It is a device as old as the automobile itself, and years before I had managed it successfully. Any child or old lady can do it.
So he attached a rope to the back of his car and the front of mine, and we were off. I kept letting the clutch out and in (or in and out) madly, but nothing happened. The garage man kept stopping every 500 yards and coming back to consult with me. He was profoundly puzzled. It was farther than he had ever dragged a car in his life. We must have gone, in this disheartening manner, about a third of the way to York. Finally he got out for the seventh time and said to me, "What gear have you got her in?" I didn't have her in any gear. I had her in neutral. She had been in neutral all the while...
...James Thurber
In the early 1950s our Village, Muthukur, had only three Government Officials: my Father (the HM of our school), our Doctor, and the Sub Inspector of Police (SI). To the lay public these three were demigods. There was also the Post Master, who, unlike the three, was a higher Central Government Official but he was not feared or adored. He was a meek old grizzly man who ran our mini-post-office single-handed, selling stamps, manning the savings, and keeping his ledgers when he wasn't smoking his beedis. He didn't give lives or take them nor issued the dreaded Transfer and Conduct Certificates to the kids of the public.
There was only one bus plying between our Muthukur and the district headquarters town, Nellore. It ran to and fro taking an hour to cover the 12 miles each way. For, it had to stop at 12 villages on the way...the conductor shouting like, "Brahmadevam...Brahmadevam...Brahmadevam" and also stopping whenever the driver sighted a wayside rustic running up lifting his hand that wasn't carrying a milk can or a chicken.
It was not a bus by modern standards...more like a minibus. There were two seats beside the driver separated from him by the elaborate gear-shifter lever that was longer than my legs. These two seats had a door on the other side of the driver. The thing was like a cockpit and the two seats were Business Class. A wall separated the cockpit from the rest of the bus. And the hoi-polloi entered through another door at the back of the bus and occupied the quadrangle inside.
There was a fight for the Business Class. And two chaps always sat there beaming. But when one of the three Officials happened to arrive, they had to vacate their seats and get demoted to the Cattle Class behind.
When more than one Official happened to arrive, there was a strict protocol. I guess the Doctor and the HM took precedence over the SI who had no Degrees beside his name.
The front seat beside the driver was supposed to be a mark of honor and prestige.
This notion of mine got reversed when I reached IIT KGP which then had a couple of Ambassador cars. I learned rather painfully that the back seat of the car was reserved for the owner or the Director if it was being driven by his chauffeur. If the honored chap was the only passenger, the front seat remained sullenly vacant. It was rather a class affair. It would be infra dig for the Diro to sit beside the driver who, though a Central Government Employee like him, was only a Class III staff.
On the other hand, if the owner of the car was himself driving and invites you to get in, you are not supposed to open the back door and take a back seat humbly, which would be a sacrilege...you have to get into the other front seat willy-nilly...and keep up the small talk.
I had a lot of problem with the Late Prof GSS, ex-Diro of IIT KGP. He was a stickler for protocol. He was the only one in the campus who had a tie on day or night or summer or winter, institute or market. He was like Field Marshal Cariappa, who, after retirement as the Chief of Staff of the Indian Army, is said to have lived alone in a sprawling bungalow. But he would have an army of cooks, butlers, bearers, drivers and attendants and would invariably dress for dinner or lunch before he arrived at the dining table.
He lived like that to his 94...like GSS.
GSS was then the MD, STEP, a sister organization at IIT KGP and had been given a Qrs and a car with a chauffeur. And I often found him traveling alone in his car from his residence to his office in the Old Building. It was a sight to see him sit majestically, all alone, in the center of the backseat of his Ambassador car (Ambassador those days had a single plush three-seater back bench). And his driver was sort of friend of mine.
I used to walk to the institute those days trying to keep myself fit. And GSS suddenly developed a craze for lasers of which he thought I was an expert for reasons too complicated to go in here.
So, whenever he sighted me walking by the roadside, he would ask his driver to stop the car and ask me to get in. For one thing, I was too scared of GSS and his car, and for another, I wanted to avoid a viva on lasers. So, I would try and sneak into the front seat beside my friend....but GSS would have none of it. He would ask me to come out and get in by his side. And the viva would start. As soon as my department arrived, I would try to get out, but GSS would have none of it...the car would stop by the roadside till he was satisfied for the day.
But he wasn't ever satisfied truly...next day when he chanced to see me, the drill would restart and fresh questions and fresh gul would go on...
...till I gave up and bought a push bike...
...Posted by Ishani
**************************************************************************************************************************
No comments:
Post a Comment