First steps in the civil service
I should like to set down here a bare factual account of my experience of the civil service. Unlike other authors of reminiscences I shall resist the temptation to dwell on my own achievements, such as they are. I am restrained not merely by innate modesty, but by regards for the sound juridical principle that “no man should be a judge in his own cause’. Unlike many other memoirists I also wish to avoid being anecdotal, I think I have not yet declined into that state of mind called anecdotage, into which so many of my former colleagues, rendered prematurely senile by their lifelong subordination, descends betimes. My concern is simply to isolate those general propositions, which can be inferred from the incidents and happening that occurred in the course of a fairly typical career. I am aware of course, that though my career was fairly typical, as a person, in terms of characters and temperament I was really a misfit in the service. But then I was not the only square peg in a round hole. There are many other who start out in a similar fashion but loses their ‘squareness’ by the time they reach the end of their innings. Where I differed from the other was in the fact that I did not lose my angularity with the passage of time and remained uncompromising square till the very end. In this I was certainly not typical, but for that very person, my observation about the civil service may have a certain value.
To being at the beginning than, let me go back to the years 1975. I was a post-graduate student of English literature at Delhi University doing rather poorly studies. Like most other young men I had other things on my mind. He might have added that a civil servant was only a sort of glorified clerk but did not. He left me to discover that at my own cost.
I took my father’s advice, took the civil service examination in October 75 and was selected. I also eventually passed my M.A. examination in the third division as foreseen by my father. But by then I had already become a civil servant.
My career in the civil service started with a long training course at the national academy of administration at Mussoorie. I should like to narrate this experience, because it is of interest on two counts. First it gives one an insight into the minds of a larger number of young men and women about to set forth on their voyage of life and as yet uncorrupted by the influence of power. Second, it gives one a chance to observe all the men and women selected for the civil service in a given year, one whole batch as it is called in civil service parlance, as a collective entity. Once the period of training is over, the officer proceeds to their places of posting scattered all over country, and never come together again to live a corporate life under a single roof. The sociologist who wants to observe the civil service, not as a group of individual but as a class, the civil service, not as a group of individual but as a class, can do no better than to start his enquiry at Mussoorie, where in the cloisters of the academy, the newly selected candidates come together to form a new sodality, as exclusive as a monastic order, ostensible dedicated to a life public service.
There are two other reasons why this matter is interesting. First there is the historical interest. After the old academy building burden down in the early eighties, the old way of life, of which the quaint old structure was a symbol, has disappeared forever.
The concrete and stucco of the modern building which has replaced the old wooden structure, is in a way more impressive, but it isn’t the same thing. Of course the director’s lodge and the officer block have survived and the reader can gather some idea of the old structure from these relics. But the old library, with its wonderful collection of books on the Himalaya, among other things, and the old lounge with its old world graciousness and the panoramic view of the eternal snow to the north is gone, and it may not be out of place say a few words by way of a personal tribute in remembrance of time past. The second reason is that the national academy of administration is the nearest thing the IAS has to an alma mater. It should therefore be a repository of the tradition and value of the service and for this reason alone deserve some space in a book on the civil service. What o offer here is however, a personal and perhaps idiosyncratic recollection and the reader should turn to other source to supplement his knowledge, if he finds his curiosity aroused.
The journey to Mussoorie begins at Dehradoon, a town with a park like ambience, nestling in the Verdurous Doon valley. Dehradoon has many old buildings; many of them are rambling colonial structure which stands in huge compounds. Dehradoon itself is surrounded by a thick forest and the road from Delhi winds through a particular attractive section of the Shivalik Mountains a particular attractive section of the Shivalik Mountains, before reaching Dehradoon. The Shivalik are clad with a an evergreen forest of sal and other trees, and the road crisscrosses the broad bed of a mountain stream,: dry, except in the rains, when it turns into a raging torrents. After climbing for the about an hour through this charming landscape, the road descends into a wooded valley, where Dehradoon is glimpsed for the first time. Reaching the town, one has the feeling of reaching a safe haven after a perilous journey. It was in Dehradoon that I arrived on my way to Mussoorie one morning in July 1976. I have always been a lover of hills and it was with a pleasant sense of anticipation that I boarded the bus to Mussoorie. Nor was I disappointed. The road to Mussoorie is a steep ghat road, that twist and turns over green pine clad hills while climbing all the time. The gradient is steep and climb of almost five thousand feet is accomplished in a little over two hours. A little more than half way up the town of Barlowgunj appears over the brow of hill. Thereafter the character of the scenery changes a little, the typical oak forest of Mussoorie interspersed with the Deodar and fir makes its appearance. To some one visiting the Himalaya for the first time, the mountain seems impossibly large and steep. Their summits remote and distant, piercing the heavens. All this naturally heightened my sense of anticipation.
On arrival in Mussorrie, one alights at the library square, so named after the old municipal library, a venerable old colonial building, and standing on tall cast iron pillars over a shopping arcade, and approached by a rickety winding staircase. The building is frail but picturesque, melancholy, yet with an oddly defiant and jaunty air. A note typical of Mussoorie. The library square is no longer than a couple of tennis court joined together yet it has a sense of being a meeting place where roads converge and journey end and begin. From here on follows the mall road, keeping close to the winding hill side, with the green moss encrusted cliffs on one side and a deep valley on the other. This road like most of the road in Mussoriie, is in abundantly all over the hills. About a kilometer west to the library, after rounding a bend, one sees for the first time a truly unforgettable prospect. A vast valley, whose flour is shrouded in impenetrable shadow lies before one, and at the far end of the valley, rising fold upon fold till they merge into summit of Nag Tibba are the middle Himalayas, and above and beyond towering over the whole scene and covering the entire horizon from west to east are lofty summits covered in eternal snows, the incredible panorama of the Garhwal and Kumaon Himalaya. It is a scene of wondrous beauty, of awesome grandeur, and timeless serenity. Anyone coming up from the hot and dusty plains and casting his eyes upon such scene cannot fail to be impressed. I was naturally enraptured.
A short distance from this is the entrance to the academy itself, an oddly prosaic cement and concrete gateway, surmount by a steel arch which identifies the place. Going past the gateway, and after a moderate climb, one arrives at the academy. This is group of building forming a small quadrangle is a large expanse of lawn, with a clump of noble deodar trees standing on it. The building are all made of timbre and cast iron, embellished with gables and steeples and all painted a dull green. These buildings are unlike any other official building in India; they merge quietly into the beauty of the landscape and do not call attention to themselves. Their low outlines reveal rather than hide the landscape, their dull green color matches the green and tranquil beauty of the surroundings, and their conical roofs seem an extension of the conifers all around.
The southern side of the quadrangle is taken up by the office block which still stands, but it was the northern side of the quadrangle which housed the most romantic building, this was the old library, the lounge and the old dining hall. The lounge was the focal point of the place. This was a large hall, cavernous yet cozy, with old Victorian furniture, overstuffed sofas and so on, whose most remarkable feature was the balcony on the north side, which looked out on the panoramic view which I have just described. The balcony seemed to hang over the valley which falls below one, in steep gorge.
The topography of the place was equally interesting and deserves a brief description. The main buildings are situated at the end of an elevated promontory of land, on three sides of which the ground slopes downwards. On the northern side the slopes are steep, the escarpment forming one side of the deep valley describes above. On the south side the land falls away sharply for about a hundred feet to end the land falls away sharply for about a hundred feet to end in a small valley, which is aptly named the happy valley. On the western side the promontory continues after a gradual decline and ends abruptly in a narrow island connected to the promontory by a thin strip of land. This island has vertiginous sides and is crowned by a small shrine dedicated to some local divinity. On the eastern side is the approach to the academy when I have just described above. The approach road is boarded by the happy valley on one side and a small hill on the other side, which is surrounded by a real castle, known as Katesar castle after the chief Katesar, who built it. This castle is build of grey sandstone, has turrets and battlement like a real castle, and a coat of arms over the portal. From the window in the tower one can see far over the north, towards the panorama of snows. Katesar castle is like a gingerbread castle, a piece of pure fantasy. All the hills and the valley described herein are covered in a forest of oak and deodar.
The residential blocks, where the probationers have their rooms are situated on the slope over the happy valley. A fortunate few also get to stay in Katesar castle. There are also several large houses scattered about the eastern entrance, which have been acquired by the academy and serve as residences. They have evocative names like Stapleton, Pleasance and so forth.
From the road there are small bridle paths leading down into the valley or trails wandering off into the forest or leading up to the various summits. The hill side in Mussoorie is dotted with old bungalows, with chalets, with mock castle and gothic structure and other picturesque dwellings, but none have a better situation or a more pleasing aspect than the academy building. These building and the bustling bazaar, restaurants, theatres and cinema add an air of civilized amenity to the grand romantic scenery and the touch of Himalaya wilderness that one experience in Mussoorie. In short the place is as close as you can get to an earthly paradise.
It may be interesting to describe the daily routine that I followed in this place. My lifestyle and habits were quite different from most other probationers, who spent most of the day time in attending the officially schedules lecture and other programmers lay out by the academy staff.
As far I was concerned, anytime not spent out of doors, was time wasted. Accordingly after breakfast, I set out with a particular friend of mine, from whom alas I have not heard since then; and wandered out over the many trails. Our peregrination usually ended up in place called the company gardens. This is a small garden, nestling into the hill side at the south western end of Mussoorie. Here over countless cups of coffee and cigarettes we debated the various problem of life set forth notes about our experiences. About noon we set forth again and usually visited a café called Waverly that stood at the top of the hill. This café had a delightful collection of old songs as well as delightful menu of snacks and another hour was passed in eating, and pleasant rumination. About lunch time, after having spent the entire morning and early afternoon in these mild dissipations, we reacted our way to the academy. On the way back we usually ran into our course director, coming back after a hard day’s work.
But this great man never asked us how we had spent our day. But this great man never asked us how we had spent our day. All that we received was a knowing smile. This tolerance of minor delinquencies is rare in senior civil servant. This course director was a man of rare mettle and later proved himself in various more responsible positions.
My afternoon I passed in the library. This had an excellent collection of works about the Himalayas. These were accounts of expedition to all the major peaks in the hindukush, the karakoram, as well as the Garwah and Kumaon Himalayas. It was particularly thrilling to read these works within sight of many of the great peaks described by them. But the travel book which impressed me most deeply was Doughty’s “Arabia Deserta”. This book has a romance all its own. There was an also a good collection of book on literally criticism, as well as philosophy, politics and history. Enough to afford several months of absorbing reading. The instruction that one got here was more edifying than that provided in the class rooms; and I do not regret the many hours that I spent in the library at Mussoorie.
The evening was another round of civilized pleasure. I did not frequent the fashionable places in Landour or library square, where most of my colleagues spent their evenings. My favorite haunts were some small dives in happy valley, run by Tibetans. Their traditional rice beer, called ‘chhang’ is a mild brew, and has to be taken in gallon to induce even mild intoxication, but there is no better way to pass a long evening when you are young and in congenial company. May a pleasant evening have I passed there, consuming not glasses or bottles but whole jerry cans of chhang. The propensity of this drink to intoxicate without inebriation and to leave the intellect unclouded by the swinish stupor induced by grosser spirits is wonderful.
Dinner, taken in a large hall over the library, was usually a sumptuous affair, but the focal points of the evening were the after dinner gathering in the lounge. Most people were in a mellow mood, induced by a good dinner if nothing else and in no time the room was echoing with the lively hum of animated conversation. In one corner the gramophone played old numbers, sentimental gazals, or mournful melodies, it hardly mattered what. Outside on moonlit night one could see the great snowy peaks to the north. There was youth and romance in the air. Most young and women, then looking forward to the fut5ure with such bright and cheerful faces, hardly realized that most of them would be soon parted, perhaps never to meet again. These were moments of poetry that one recollects with pure nostalgia.
So the days passed pleasantly. There were several remarkable things that happened to me in Mussoorie, but no one will believe them, therefore it is better to pass over them in silence. Before I come to more mundane things however, let me narrates one incident.
At the south western end of Mussoorie is a rather singular peak, known a benog. The peak is separated from happy valley by a deep gorge and stands about five miles distant from the academy, as the crow flies, to the south west. This is certainly the loftiest peak in the vicinity of the academy; it is probably higher than lal tibba, which is popularly known as the highest peak in Mussoorie. This peak is densely covered with forest up to about their fourth of the ways up, but the last quarter of the peak, the highest portion, sports only a light growth of stalwart tress, mostly oak. On the North Slope near a small saddle, stand a white dome like building, no bigger than a roq’s egg, which is said to be an observatory.
Except for this remarkable structure, there is no sign of human habitation on the peak. It is clearly visible from the academy, rising up in lonely eminence, with an indefinable air of mystery about it. I do not think any one of my colleagues spared so much as moments’s thought to the peak, but to me it seemed to throw a challenge which seemed irresistible. But to climb a few thousand feet of a comparatively gentle slope is hardly a heroic undertaking. To make this task interesting I decide to do the climb, on a moonlit night, alone and unaccompanied. Benog is approached from the east over a narrow ridge, which connects it to Vincent hill, the hill where the company gardens are situated. The last house on the way is a large rambling structure, with the evocative name of ‘clouds End’. It was already quite late when I set out on my quest, one night in late September. The moon was up and lighting up the peaks, through the valley was still deep in shadow. A little past Cloud’s End, on the narrow ridge, just mentioned above, is a small forest. Just as I had entered this forest I saw an indistinct form, standing over the path. On coming closer I saw an indistinct form, standing over the path. On coming closer I saw that it was a woman, who stood on a small knoll by the side on the road. As I came nearer and find shelter if I so desired. There was no man anywhere in sight. This woman wore the dress of a hill woman, and was obviously a local person. However her presence at this lonely spot, was a little strange and I decided to ignore her offer of hospitality and continue on my way. A little while later I came across another strange phenomenon. Deep in the woods, but clearly visible nonetheless, was the intense red glow of a fire which seemed to be burning within hallow in the forest floor.
On getting closer I saw that this came, not from the eye of some cyclopean creature, but from a small furnace or kiln built by charcoal makers who seemed to frequent this part of the forest. As I climbed higher the forest thinned out, the moonlight seemed to grow more intense, the silence deeper. Large trees cast enormous shadows on the turf. As I gained the top of the hill I came upon a strange and moving memorial. Here were three Christian graves, simply three grassy mounds, each with a wooden cross standing at the head. One cross was smaller than the other two, signifying that this was the grave of a child. There was an ineffable pathos and mystery about these graves. Who was it who had sought to be buried in this benighted –place in this unconsecrated earth. I felt like a intruder, disturbing an inviolate sanctuary. Some large animal seemed to dash off into the forest just a few hundred yards away, one could hear the undergrowth rustling for a while. As I set off for the return journey. I felt consider ably more nervous than before. I remembered wordsworth’s lines:-
I heard among the solitary hills
Low breathing coming after me, and sounds
Of undistinguishable motion, step
Almost as silence as the turf they trod.
I hurried back, looking back over my shoulder frequently. The return journey however was without any singular event. To this date I have no satisfactory explanation for the presence of the woman in that lonely place, in the dead of night. I narrate this incident to show that even the most humdrum and eventful life has its moments of mystery, provides one has the inclination to wander off the beaten tracks.
I did find my colleagues over eager to follow my example. When I narrated this story to some friends they looked upon me as a dangerous crank. I did not mind this accolade. In my eyes it is better to be a crank than a cynic. Cynicism, I found was the besetting sin of my friends and colleagues. They all seemed to be very worldly wise and well informed about official matter. Their dreams were already of official success, of a plums posting and career advancement. They knew how the system worked, and who should be approached for securing the desired posting etc. even those few who seemed to show intellectual brilliance of a superficial kind seemed to know how to put their abilities to the rest own advantage did not figure largely.
These are serious faults, but to this let me add an even more serious flaw. This was their indifference to the glorious scenery of Mussoorie. Many of them felt that the academy should have been situated at Delhi. Imagine preferring the heat and dust of Delhi to the heavenly ambience of Mussoorie. This indifference to the beauty of nature is more than a want of sensibility. It shows a spiritual torpor, an atrophy of the soul; a moral deadness, that in my eyes is the mother of all other crimes.
Let me now return to more serious matters. Going by what I have described so far, the reader may well imagine that I led a completely lotus eater existence and had absolutely no interest in what went on in the class rooms of the academy. But this would not be true. I look just sufficient interest in the official curriculum to ensure that, I would be able to pass the required examination. I did not consider that the course of study followed in the academy justified more serious application on my part. Too serious an attitude to study in a young man argues a want of spirit. But quite apart from this, I did not think there was a anything in the course content that was intellectually Challenging or stimulating.
On the other hand it seemed to suffer from a curious confusion and lack of direction.
I believe this confusion came about the authorities at the academy were not clear whether the training should focus on purely professional matters, or whether it should also includes some moral instruction. By moral instruction I mean some intrusion about strategic and long term issues including the goal and mission of the civil service. It is this which builds up espririt de crops, required to sustain morale and to induce a high standards to conduct in an elite cadre.
As far as professional instruction went this was of a very general nature. As the land tenure systems, the revenue codes and other laws are different in every state, this was perhaps inevitable. What could have been done was as to include in depth studies of selected states. This would have given the probationers some standards of comparison when they arrived in their own states. The states of India are like sovereign countries without diplomatic relation with each other. We know less about the systems of governance and the official policies of our neighboring country. Once an officer is allotted to a particular state cadre, there is very little chance for him to visit other states, albeit he may occasionally spend time at the central government. This being the case, a comparative study of different states would have provided useful information. This training could also include some content about the systems in vogue in different countries. This would offer a corrective to the insularity and egocentric world view from which all elitist organization suffer.
However the actual course content includes only a general study of the Indian penal code and the code of criminal procedure. A very general study of bureaucracy based on the theories of Max Weber. Almost nothing on public finance and theories of economic growth. In short the professional and academic part of the training tended to be of undergraduate level and rather amateurish.
As far as moral instruction was concerned, there was nothing of this beyond a few pious platitudes about the ethics of service and so on. An elitist civil service should be a sort of secular priesthood, inspired with an evangelical zeal for public service. But for this to happen, they must have a proper conception of their role and it’s important. They must have before them some overriding purpose which transcends small aspiration based on career and personal advancement. They should moreover be completely unapologetic about their elite status.
Of course it has to be said, that no kind of training or any other system devised to foster talent can ever be really successful. In the civil service, excellence is really a matter of character, not intelligence. The really first rate civil servant is also a first rate human being. There is a definite ethical dimension involved here and no system, and no hierarchy certainly; can nurture excellence of this kind. It should be understood that these qualities are ultimately imponderable and the number of men of character that the system can throw up is an index of the quality, not merely of that system, but also of that culture and that civilization.
What a system of training can do however is to foster a collective ethos that puts a premium on certain norms of behavior. That builds up good traditions and establishes a code of honors that makes it difficult for member of service to stray from the straight and narrow path. But all this can be done only when one has a certain sense of vocation, a sense of mission, of being involved in a momentous collective enterprise. The IAS lacks this sense of vocation. It is not surprising therefore that the course of training is also an aimless exercise.
It followers therefore that the academy is not a real ammeters, a place that house the holy grail of scared traditions but simply a pleasant place which provides a lovely setting for a thoroughly enjoyable sojourn at an impressionable age.
