Destinations :: North-East :: Churachandpur, Manipur (1989)

http::/www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

Charade in Churachandpur*

F

ifty year ago when I left Gwalior on that hot May night for Delhi on way to the National Academy of Administration Churachandpur was, if at all, only a feeble blip on my radar, somewhere from far away – from the general direction of North-East. The region was so fuzzy in my consciousness that I couldn’t have put my finger on the place on an atlas and, what’s more, wouldn’t have been able to tell a Mizo from a Khasi or a Naga. It was only when in that summer of 1961 I met in the Academy fellow-trainees – Rominthanga, James Michael Lyngdoh, Thang Khuma Tocchawng and many others – that I became familiar with the region and the people who inhabited it.

The last named, Tocchawng (unfortunately, no longer around), became a very good friend right in the Academy and also, incidentally, a (Indian Postal) Service-mate when the services were allotted. He was of Mizo parentage, though was virtually a Khasi having spent most of his early years in Shillong, the most cosmopolitan of North-Eastern towns. Endowed with a mobile visage, he was urbane to a fault and was an excellent companion. Having travelled outside his native regions, he could speak a smattering of Hindi that enabled him to mix around easily with those in the batch as well as in the Service. At Saharanpur, during professional training at the Training Centre we played a lot of tennis and badminton together. After the games he would regale us with those 1950’s mushy, romantic Nat King Cole numbers that continued to top popularity charts even in the ‘60s. He didn’t have that “incandescent” voice “King Cole” was known for but it was good and deep and he sang really well.  Among his favourites were “Mona Lisa”, “Love is a many splendoured thing” and “Rambling rose,” all of which were (and even today are) my favourites.

Over time, as we went to hold field jobs in different states, the link between us became a little tenuous, but the warmth endured. Telephone calls, though few and far between, strived to keep the relationship alive. At the middle level of our respective careers both of us happened to converge at our departmental headquarters in Delhi, making the old ties once again vibrant.

Years later, when we had made it to the Senior Administrative Grade, it was he who informed me of my posting to Shillong even before the regular orders arrived. I was to replace him as the chief of the departmental outfit there. Around the late 1980s Shillong was considered a bad posting for a non-tribal, more so for a Bengali. Thoroughly refined as he was, Tocchawng was quick to commiserate with me, assuring me that I would not find it problematic as, he said, “I was not that kind of a Bengali” – knowing as he did that I was offspring of a Bengali who had migrated out of Bengal long years ago. Nonetheless, I was at once reminded of Jimmy Lyngdoh once jokingly asking me in the Academy, “You’re not from Sylhet, are you?” Sylhet, now in Bangladesh, is only 60 miles away from the border town of Jowai in Jayantia Hills. Apparently, most of the Bengalis settled in Shillong hailed from those parts and, I suspect, for the ‘qualities’ of their head and heart, were thoroughly disliked by the locals.

Having heard so much about Shillong from friends, acquaintances and seniors in the Service I looked forward to the posting though it was a transfer that took me from the Western coast of the country to virtually India’s far eastern end. Shillong was indeed a different world, easily one of the finest of the places I ever worked in. I had six of the seven north-eastern states in my jurisdiction, each different from the other. I had necessarily to travel a lot and that was time consuming, distances being long and roads mostly wretched.

One such trip took me to Manipur. At Imphal, one day finding myself free, I decided to take in Churachandpur, a district town to the south-west about three hours away by a rather bad road. Throughout my career I have had this penchant for visiting out-of-the-way units, situated whether among the snow-laden conifers on the heights of Kashmir or within coconut groves in the depths of Konkan, which were hardly ever frequented by inspecting officers. Accompanied by the local director and an inspector fluent in Manipuri we decided to surprise our unit there.

Churachandpur was like the usual run of small towns, inhabited predominantly by Mizos, perhaps because it was close to the state’s border with Mizoram. While driving down the bouncy road, curiously, I was surprised to see Mizo women walking about wearing fancy and delicate footwear despite the road’s terrible condition. Somewhat gratuitously, I thought to myself that shoe-menders had for them a great market in the town.

Finding the departmental unit doing well we turned back for Imphal. On our way back we came across a wayside part-time post office and walked in to check out its operations. The postmaster, an elderly Mizo, was assisted by his two young daughters, all looking very vague and deadpan, wearing typical poker faces. While the father answered all the questions the daughters looked for and produced all the documents. The Q&A was, however, three cornered as all of them were ignorant of both English and Hindi. The inspector did the job of an interpreter. It was a torturous process lasting about a couple of hours.

Everything seemed to be hunky dory. We prepared to leave and as I conveyed our appreciation to the postmaster for his good work I saw for the first time a faint flicker of emotion on his face. Soon, he visibly relaxed. Thawing, his eyes brightened and his gait changed noticeably. A bit of new life seemed to have been infused into him. Quickly shuffling across from a respectable distance he had all through maintained he came closer and asked “Sir, where is Mr. Tocchawng these days?”

Aghast, we were all rendered speechless. The man spoke faultless English – after feigning ignorance of the language for all of two torturous hours. Seeing the shock on our faces the father and the daughters burst into uncontrolled laughter. Even the two daughters were fluent in English having been educated in a Christian missionary school.

It was unbelievable – an incredible charade played out with consummate artistry by each of the three protagonists without so much as even a hint of a flap. The director progressively became crimson with the rage that built up within him but somehow did not go ballistic. Seeing the family having a good hearty laugh I couldn’t help grinning – marvelling at the facile ease with which a part-timer with two of his young off-shoots in a remote Manipur village made suckers of as many as three of his departmental seniors.   

*This was initially published in The Pioneer. Later it was also published in the souvenir brought out on the occasion of the Silver Jubilee celebrations of the 1961 Civil Services batch

Destinations :: North-East :: Kohima & Manipur (1989)

http::/www.bahchiblog.blogspot.com

A view of part of the town of Kohima

We had two options to approach Imphal from Guwahati. One was to go via Silchar and the other was to go via Guwahati and Kohima in Nagaland. The driver was reluctant to take the route via Silchar as, he said, it had the disturbed area of Tamenglong on the way. It is the westernmost district of Manipur with Assam on its western flank. True, that area of Manipur had been disturbed for quite some time with rebel activities and they did not quite like outsiders. We naturally chose to take the other option and travel via Guwahati.

So we headed towards Guwahati from where we took the highway on

A street in Kohima

the northern bank of Brahmaputra to travel to Kohima in Nagaland. It was only around 400 kilometres but was likely to take more time because of bad roads. Nonetheless, it was interesting as we got to see some wildlife including rhinos of Kazi Ranga feeding close to the highway. The road passes through some thick jungles before one reaches Kohima.

Kohima is today the capital of Nagaland but it is historically very important. It was here that a very important battle of the World War II was fought. It was a very bitter battle with hand to hand fights on the heights of the Kohima Ridge where the Kohima Collector’s bungalow was located. While the Japanese made a determined push the British threw into the battles all that they had, eventually succeeding to force the Japanese to retreat. Both the sides saw Kohima as very important as a foothold here would have provided the Japanese access to the railhead of Dimapur about 40 miles away

View from the historical road to Imphal from Kohima

and the British decided to deny that to the Japanese at any cost. The cost was very heavy as the Collector’s tennis court acquired the likeness of a meteorite-hit site with burnt out vegetation and human bodies.

One does not know how Kohima looked like in 1944 when Japanese had occupied large parts of the town but when I visited it more than a quarter century ago it was a beautiful hill town, green and sparsely populated. Staying at an elevation where the circuit house was located when I looked out it appeared attractive with its undulations and lovely conical-top houses. I believe it has now developed beyond

The cros with the evocative epitaph

imagination. What is more important perhaps is that shedding their insularity the Naga people are now making forays out into the country. We saw a Naga troupe giving beautiful dance performances in the Museum of Man in Bhopal.

I suppose the only place worth visiting in Kohima at that time was the War Cemetery. Maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, the Cemetery is dedicated to the soldiers of the 2^nd British

My wife Bandana at the War Cemetery

Division of the Allied Forces who died at Kohima. According to the Graves Commission, about 1429 soldiers are buried here and it also has a memorial for about 900 Hindu and Sikh soldiers who died in the battles and were cremated according to their religious rights. It is a beautifully maintained place that exudes its sombre ambience.

The Cemetery is located exactly at the place where the battle was fought i.e at the tennis courts of the Deputy Commissioner’s bungalow between two ridges. The place offers a panoramic view of Kohima town. Two memorial crosses – one at the upper end and the other at

A temple at Bishnupur on way to Moirang

the lower end are important. The one at the upper end commemorates the Indian soldiers who laid down their life. It carries the epitaph: “Here… lie men who fought in the battle of Kohima in which they and their comrades finally halted the invasion of India by the forces of Japan in 1944”. The lower end memorial, dedicated to soldiers of the British 2nd Division also carries an epitaph that is more evocative which says :

“When you go home tell them of us and say for your tomorrow we gave our today”

Next day we travelled on the historic Kohima- Imphal road. Here at several places placards have been put up indicating the battles that took place there as the British Army pursued the retreating Japanese

A  part of the Women's market

Imperial Army. It was very interesting. The road was good up to Mao, the last town of Nagaland at its border with Manipur. As soon as we crossed into Manipur, more specifically its Senapati District, we came up against nightmarish conditions. Un-tarred and probably never attended to, presumably, since the Allied Forces left the area about forty five years ago, and to say that it was bouncy would be an understatement. It was bone-rattling, stomach churning and what have you. I have never had such a drive anywhere in the country, including in Ladakh. It took more

Netaji's statue at Moirang

than four hours of grueling drive for us to reach the level grounds of Imphal. I am sure if the road conditions were somewhat like this when Japanese retreated perhaps more soldiers would have died of exhaustion than by being hit by bullets.

Imphal proved to be a pretty small town but was torn by rebellion. Militants were very active and life was not quite secure. I remember when I visited the Imphal head post office I was given normal salutes by armed CRPF men outside the building. Inside the office the salute shook me a bit as it was loud and had kind of bullet-like report. On regaining my composure I realized it was only a salute. But then I noticed CRPF jawans had taken positions elsewhere in the office – positions that they had probably considered to be vantage ones.  From their preparedness it seemed as if an attack by the rebels was imminent. Nothing, however, had happened even after I returned to Shillong but, I presume, they

The stone commemorating hoisting of national flag

had anticipated genuine threat. Apparently they preferred to remain on high alert as the rebels always targetted the Central Government offices/installations.

Having finished whatever work I had to attend to we moved on to Moirang which is around 50 kilometres away in the south. The road was reasonable and it passed through the Bishnupur district. Moirang is important for us Indians as this was the place where the Indian National Army (INA) organized by Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose defeated the British army and hoisted the National Flag. It was here that the first Provisional Government of India was formed and established.

It was described as a small sleepy town when the INA forces came

Loktak Lake

barging in after crossing the treacherous rivers, hills and jungles of Burma. But the battle-weary troops valiantly fought and routed the British detachment to claim the place as liberated. The building that housed the INA headquarters could do well with a repair job, However the spot where the National Flag was hoisted on 14^th April 1944 has a museum which transports one to the days of Second World War and the audacious fight put up by the well-organised band of gutsy but ill-equipped fighters raised by Netaji. There is also a statue of Netaji donated by the Government of West Bengal mounted on a pedestal nearby. It was, I am afraid, pretty disappointing; as it seems to have made Netaji somewhat of a midget. That is my impression and it should not be taken amiss.

Nearby is the Ramsar Site of Loktak Lake which is claimed to be the largest fresh water lake in the North-East. It is a valuable economic resource as it helps in generation of electricity, irrigation and fishing. It has what are known as “phumdis”, a collection of a mass of vegetation soil and organic matter which are so tightly married together that an antelope like Sangai, though endangered, can thrive on them. We too walked on them, of course, not with much ease. The largest “phumdi” is of 40 sq.kms and is the only floating national park in the world. It is known as Kelbu Lamjao National Park.

We also proceeded to Churachandpur, the headquarters of the eponymously named district. The visit to it is another story which will be mounted separately.

"Pothole deaths" - failure of civic bodies

http://www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

Even the Supreme Court of India has expressed its concern on the “pothole deaths” in the country and observed that number of deaths due to potholes on the roads is more than deaths due to terrorism. A division bench made the observation and directed the Supreme Court Committee on Road Safety to look into the matter. Terming the situation “frightening” the Bench said that those who die in such accidents should be entitled to compensation. The issue arose before the Bench when it was hearing a matter relating to road safety.

We Indians have lived for long with bad roads and pot holes in them. When we were less developed and hence most of us could not afford a motorized vehicle we never really thought that it mattered much. We would either walk across giving the pot hole a wide berth or cycle past it avoiding its treacherous depths. In lightless nights, which many of our towns suffered from not too long ago, the potholes were actually a kind of nightmare. Many a pedestrian broke his ankle and many a cyclist broke his shoulders by becoming victims of this failure of men building roads for the benefit of the citizens.

One recalls that even in childhood one used to see ads of motorcycles or cars made abroad adding that the product was made for Indian road conditions. One did not know what those conditions were but presumed that they were, if anything, bad. Hence, one was told that the product was made sturdier to withstand an unforeseen shock caused by deceptive surfaces. The tyres, their rims and the shock absorbers could get damaged as also misalignment of the steering system might result. The materials used in manufacturing them had to have a high level of tolerance against such sudden and unanticipated hits. Whether this was done or not by the manufacturers is, of course, another matter.

The fact, however, is that we have lived with pot holes all our lives. Whether in mufussil or in metros pot holes have been a part of our lives. Despite allotment and outlays of crores of rupees for laying and relaying of urban roads there has been no respite from potholes. Even the country’s capital or its financial or electronic capitals, Mumbai and Bengaluru, suffer deeply with the menace of potholes. The newspapers are littered with reports and photographs of splitting roads and pot holes therein but hardly any measure is ever taken to provide relief to the people. Things have come to such a stage that even tyre companies exploit bad roads and pot holes to push their products.

After all what exactly is a pot hole? It has been defined as “a structural failure in the road surface due to water in the underlying soil and the traffic passing over it. Water first weakens the underlying soil, traffic then fatigues and breaks the poorly supported asphalt surface area. Continued traffic action ejects both the asphalt and underling soil material to create a hole in the pavement”. One believes that this results from indifferently made roads without due diligence and use of proper material and technique. Besides, road building in India suffers from utter lack scruples as well as supervision. Most of the road-building agencies wink at use of material of indifferent quality short-changing the government or its various subordinate outfits.

The Indian monsoon is generally blamed for broken down roads all over the country. True, water is an enemy of asphalt and the moment it seeps in it starts eating away the roads from underneath. But, it has been argued, that South-East Asian countries which generally have heavier rains do not face the problem of bad roads as we do. Singapore, for instance, has rains every day – sometimes light and sometimes heavy – but its roads hardly ever deteriorate like ours. Of course, all these countries, barring very few, are run very efficiently and, presumably, the repair work is carried out promptly and competently using modern gadgetry. The commuting public, therefore, never face the danger and/or inconvenience from ever-enlarging pot holes as we do.

It is, therefore, a matter of shame for us that our highest court has had to make an observation on bad roads and the casualties that they have caused. Even the national print media has taken note of it but the authorities that matter do not seem to have blinked. These are mostly the local bodies, the municipal corporations or public works departments of the state governments. Significantly, no chief minister of any of the affected states has ever found time to comment on the daily casualties that are caused on the roads by pot holes or even indifferent road engineering. They probably think that it is a matter to be handled by the municipal authorities and hence refrain from making any observation. In Bhopal, for instance, deaths on the roads are reported daily but the chief minister has never tried to ascertain as to why the citizens, generally children in prime of youth, are dying in such large numbers. Likewise, Bengaluru is another city where death-on-the-roads is very common but the state government has hardly ever taken steps to improve matters. Probably, in this matter the colour of the government is not material.

Everyone knows that the road construction agencies like the public works department of the state governments or the civil construction wings of the municipalities are highly corrupt. It is openly said that only around 60% of the amount sanctioned is spent in road construction and the remaining 40% is eaten up by officials, engineers and elected representatives. No wonder the position of a municipal councilor is highly attractive and a five-year term can bring in immense riches for them. It has been noticed that they not only build multiple palatial houses, they also acquire a fleet of vehicles, generally of SUVs. There is, therefore, so much at stake in a municipal councillor’s post for a petty politician. One can imagine the pickings at higher levels if politicians at the lowest tier of our people’s democracy have such a rich harvest from a single 5-year term.

We claim to be on the way to become a super-power. It would be a shame for a super-power to have such miserable basic essential of civilized life as roads. Mao Tse Tung is reported to have said that If “you want prosperity build roads”. But India’s politicians have failed to adhere to this sensible aphorism. They only treated construction activity as a cash cow and made money for themselves and the party to which they belonged. The Madhya Pradesh chief minister had the audacity to broadcast from US that roads in his state were better than those in America and later his son, an aspiring politician, also came out with a supporting statement. Both seem to have been oblivious of road conditions in the capital city and elsewhere in the state where life and costly assets are lost everyday due to bad roads. The losses, if compiled, could be worth crores making a dent on the country’s GDP.

One doesn’t find any hope for improvement in the foreseeable future as drastic changes in the system are necessary. That is unlikely to happen as the changes would be against the interests of the very agents of change – the politicians. Hence, India is going to wallow in muddy and watery pot holes for quite some time which will continue to take precious lives and destroy private and public assets.

*photo from internet

My brother Bijoy - a tribute

http://www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

I lost my elder brother the other day. Bijoy was the third brother after my eldest brother and sister. The second brother Ajoy left us more than six years ago

Bijoy was 84 and was doing well till last year. Then his health started failing and yet he put up a brave front. His wife assisted him very ably caring for him all the while. But with one thing or another he had to be repeatedly hospitalized. Of late, Death was seemingly stalking him and made occasional lunges at him. He, however, fought them off. He came out of Septicemia and a pre-dialysis cardiac arrest – conditions serious enough from which very few ever came back. But in his case, every time Death did back off and he came back home. Even after repair of his fractured hip bone he came back and was recovering well when Death, apparently, changed its strategy and decided to cheat. Instead of attacking from the front it came quietly by stealth, crept in at the dead of the night and took him away.

Memories of eighty-odd years came flooding to me. We had been children together and played games together. I remember when father would be playing badminton on the courts of Victoria College at Gwalior both of us would play our own game with an used shuttle cock a little away without a net. We were not tall enough then for a net, anyway. If it became windy we would move into the wide verandahs of the college and play till it became dark. We were active in adolescence, too, and would play in a make-shift court in the neighbourhood. Here elders, father’s former students organised a club for us children and named it “Club de Juvenile”. We would regularly play badminton here.

 In the College he excelled in NCC which virtually became an obsession. His well-starched uniform and highly polished regulation boots had to catch the eyes of the seniors making him the favourite of the Commanding Officer. They had him lead the NCC contingent of the Republic Day parade at Delhi. But on the lighter side, he would excellently mimic his CO, Capt. Gill – complete with the latter’s thick Punjabi accent.

Ever a sports lover, it was billiards that brought him a break after post graduation. A fair amount of finesse acquired in the game brought him to the notice of others in the Jiwaji Club where he used to play. That got him the job in the Gazetteer Unit of the then newly established state of Madhya Pradesh. Once he acquired a foothold, he swung his way up by sheer hard work and exemplary commitment, to head the newly established state tourism office. Post-graduation in history came in handy and he mapped out the tourism potential of the state that has a number of places of historical importance. With his energy and drive, tourism in the state was promoted like never before. Eventually a tourism development corporation, for which he had worked tirelessly, was established to build on further on the solid foundation that he laid. Retiring from the post of Managing Director he ran a consultancy. His expertise on tourism soon fetched him a World Bank assignment that ran for about a couple of years.

Basically, extrovert, affable and genial as he was, he was surrounded by friends who would make everyone laugh. I recall those early days in Bhopal around late 1950s when the Medical College was yet to come up and there was the Bhopal Club still on top of the hill where the College has now come up. Peals of laughter would be heard at even the tennis court when he and his friends would play billiards. That club was an obsession with him and he couldn’t stay away from it in the evenings. Even in the driving rain of Bhopal in the peak of the monsoon he would don his raincoat, sit astride his Vespa drive up to the club unmindful of the risks on the roads.

Bhopal was his “karmasthana”* for more than sixty years where he devoted himself to work and where his genius flowered. Here he got married to a beautiful devoted wife who gave him a brilliant son. Bhopal is where he found fulfillment in life and in the midst of laughter and happiness he quietly left it – at dead of one beastly night.

Au revoir, my beloved brother! Go and rest in peace.

Memories of an ordinary Indian :: 17 :: On to School

http://www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

My parents thought it was time for me to go to school. I was now around six and curiously they thought it was getting late. I say curiously because others in the family did get education at home till they were eight or nine. Perhaps my mother, with all her domestic chores, was not able to find time to take care of my learning. So one morning one of my father’s students took me not to the Gorkhi Middle School where my other brothers were admitted but to Sarafa Middle School. It was a government school, a private schoo,l like an American’s Miss Hill’s School, was not chosen presumably because of its higher fees. He took me straight to the Head Master who appeared to me rather impressive. He was, surprisingly I noticed, well shod and was in a tie as also wore a learned look with thick horn-rimmed spectacles. He promptly asked me to recite the table of 13. By the time I reached 13x8 he asked his orderly to get the Section 3B teacher. The teacher was asked to take me to the class and register me as a new pupil.

I accompanied the teacher to the class which was not a room but only one end of the outer verandah of the building. The street in front was screened off by removable curtains of cane and cotton cloth stitched on to them. Two stretches of jute cloth were spread on two sides on the floor with the teacher's chair and table at the end. The students were to sit on the floor. We all sat on the floor, i.e. on the jute cloth. The other end of the verandah was occupied by Class 3 Section A.

 It was a boys’ school. We had only one teacher, a dhoti-clad Maharashtrian with shaven head with a long tuft at the back. He used to teach us Hindi, English, Arithmetic, local history and geography – practically all the subjects. School hours were from 7.00 to 11.00 in summers and from 11.00 to 4.00 in the evening in winters. We were taught by the same teacher right through the school hours. He too seemed to have had, from hind sight, tremendous staying power to deal with 30 or 40 odd children and the din that they raised for four or five hours without losing his head.

One peculiar thing I recall, in view of the current yearly change of text books is that we had no such problem. Year after year the courses would remain the same as did the books saving that big hole in the budgets like those of the parents these days. We used to inherit the books from our elder siblings. No wonder my mother always used to ensure that the books were kept in good condition. I remember I used the same English language book, Himalayan Reader, that was used by my eldest brother six or seven years earlier; then it rolled down from brother to brother, at the end it came rolling down to me. This was true of books of all the subjects in all classes up to matriculation.

We had to have a slate and a pencil as also  single line and four-line note books. The four-line note books were meant to inculcate in us the habit of writing each letter of the alphabet properly. We had to have a special nib, the G nib, for writing in these note books. If one wrote well on these notebooks with the G nib the writing would   appear somewhat like Old English. There were no ball-point pens those days; it was pen and ink that one had to have in a pot. Fountain pens were a strict no no.  Among the writing instruments was also included a pen of cane for writing Hindi in white on a small wooden plank painted black. This apparently was like the use of G nib for lending to the written script a classical appearance.

The class teacher was a hard task master. If the tasks given on previous day were not carried out he would cruelly punish the boys. Those days the belief was “spare the rod and spoil the child” and I remember a child got a bad hiding for not doing the home work. He kept crying right through the remaining school hours.

It was a kind of socialism in the class as even our maid’s son was with me. The tuition fee was abysmally low and looks ridiculously low from today’s standards; it was only three paise – three quarters of an anna which used to be sixteenth part of a rupee. Of course, things were very cheap as the prices I remember appear preposterously low. A 32-page single line note book of widely popular Elephant brand with good quality paper would cost two and a half annas and a pencil that we used to use just an anna or maybe an anna and a half. An anna would fetch a samosa and a colourful ice candy we would buy in half that amount. This was seventy five years ago. But I still feel the Maharaja was also subsidizing education of boys – girls’ education was free right up to the college level.

Since there was no playing ground for the school we used to run across the street in front to a pretty big rather badly maintained park during the recess. The only traffic we used to come across on the street was of cyclists and horse-drawn carriages called tongas. There were hardly any cars or motor bikes. We used to play the game of seven stones in a rather big clearing. On many occasions the ball would miss the target and would travel across to the other side of the park where there was another street known as Phalke Bazar. Phalke was a minister in the Gwalior State and was an autocrat and a feudal contributing to the Maharaja from his revenues out of his huge land holdings. His two sons became my friends at the college and another elder one was a very good friend of my big brother.

Health of the boys seems to have been of great concern to the administration. Every year small pox vaccination was a ritual. Small pox was rampant in those days. Besides, vaccines against cholera and typhoid were routinely administered. These diseases would suddenly spread and take lives of large number of children. I remember after the first TABC injection I cried so much that in desperation the teacher asked me to get back home. I ran a fever for couple of days with pain in the arm that got the shot.

Likewise, the quality of education was monitored by annual inspections. There used to be a flutter in the school whenever the inspector of school came. He would come on a bicycle accompanied by a liveried official who would promptly take care of the bicycle as the inspector alighted. I happened to see the process once from my place in the class. He also came to our class once accompanied by the headmaster, asked a few questions and was apparently satisfied and walked away.

Four years passed uneventfully and as I cleared the Class VI examination my father thought I should get to a better school. Our private tutor suggested the local DAV School, run by Arya Samaj, a Hindu Reform Movement, and thither I went in the next session.

Destinations :: North-East ::Kazi Ranga (1990)

http://www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

A quintessentially sight of an Assamese tea garden

One morning we drove out of Shillong for Kazi Ranga. Kazi Ranga is in Assam and has extensive grasslands which host the famous Indian one-horn Rhino. It also hosts wild elephants, tigers, wild buffalos and assorted wildlife including a variety of antelopes.

We had to go through Guwahati and so we headed for the Assamese capital. It seemed to have quietened down from its recent turbulence. But tell-tale signs of its unobtrusive simmering were still around. The fabulous Manas National Park was closed as the ethnic militants were in occupation and businessmen in the State had to part with substantial amounts towards the security of their person as also their property. 

From Guwahati we took the scenic highway on the north bank of Brahmaputra. An important town located on the north bank is Tezpur - a town that was under serious threat during the Sino-Indian War of 1962. Now it has a biggish Indian Air Force base. It has a beautifully located circuit house, the new wing of which is right on the river bank. The windows offer magnificent views of the Brahmaputra. It was a delight to spend some time there.

 There are numerous legends for the name that the Kazi Ranga Park was given, the most

The expansive Brahmaputra

popular being the one about two lovers from two different tribes who, when not allowed to marry, fled into these forests never to be seen again. The girl's name was Rawanga and the boy's Kazi and the forests came to be known as Kazi Ranga. The Park has a long history as will be evident from the fact that it celebrated its Centenary in 2006. It was Lady Curzon, wife of the Governor General Lord Curzon who being unable to sight a single rhino during her trip across the jungles recommended to her husband steps for conservation of the animal. As a consequence Kazi Ranga Game Park was established in 1906. As the name Game Park suggested that hunting was still permissible it was changed to Kazi Ranga Wildlife Park in 1926. It was, after all, hunting that had eliminated all the rhinos that deprived Lady Curzon the view of even a single rhino. Late in the Twentieth Century its name was changed again to Kazi Ranga National Park and Tiger Reserve. The UNESCO awarded it the status of World Heritage Site in 1985.

Kazi Ranga has a variety of wildlife. Apart from its rhinos which constitute two thirds of the population in the world of the animal, it also has the other pachyderm, the Asiatic Elephant, in

In pursuit of rhinos

substantial numbers. The latter’s current number is more than a thousand. The rhino population, however, has shown a remarkable upswing. From around hundred odd in the initial years of the last century the count has now come to more than two thousand. The Park is also the largest tiger reserve in the country hosting more than a hundred tigers apart from being a refuge of the Indian Wild Water Buffalo. Along with assorted antelopes and other smaller animals it has a large variety of birds some of which like hornbills are rare in other parts. The Birdlife International has designated the park as an Important Bird Area for its varied species of resident and migratory water birds.

We mounted an elephant at the Elephant Station and took off for the forests.. Soon I realised that we were moving through the grass that were as high as the elephant or even more. As the elephant moved the grass that was rather stiff brushed against our legs.. This was, I realised, elephant grass country which I had never been to before. The elephant was walking through it

The coveted sight

sure-footedly. I wondered how it managed to negotiate the invisible highs and lows of the ground with such facile ease.

Soon enough the elephant came to a halt. The mahout whispered there was a tiger around. The pachyderm advanced with great care, as stealthily as possible. But nothing perhaps can escape the sharp olfactory sense of a tiger. It deserted its kill that was right in front of us in a small clearing. It was a half-eaten water buffalo of such massive proportions that amazed us. It was a huge hefty beast with its muscles shining through its beautiful black coat. It had lovely swept back and curved horns that seemed to have had a polish recently. Its hind quarters were eaten

up with dark red blood flowing freely from the large-sized wound. We did not tarry further and moved away from the spot to allow the tiger to resume its meal. I ruminated over the kill and

Sunset on Brahmaputra at Tezpur

reckoned only a ravenously hungry tiger could bring down such a massive creature. But how big was the tiger? The answer eluded us as we could not sight it.

We were unable to see any tiger. In such tall grass it is impossible to see one unless it comes out into a clearing. We were also deprived of the sight of a live water buffalo. Perhaps it would have been well worth the effort to try and see one. Our target was rhino so we moved in pursuit of them. We didn't have to go far looking for them. They were there in good numbers. After having seen the African two horned rhino I found our own ones rather likable. With its single horn it looks less belligerent though with the armour-like folds on its body it gives an entirely different impression. It is generally shot for its horn that is valued in thousands of dollars. It loses heavily in numbers for this reason. Massive efforts

Barak Valley below Jaintia Hills

for its conservation have shown a rise in their numbers.

Looking back, I feel the most impressive sight in Kazi Ranga was of the dead buffalo, its build, its muscles and its massive horns. One wonders how it failed to gore the tiger with them. Then, of course the flight of a hornbill was something that was worth watching.. The elephant grass, too, were very impressive. I don't know whether the grass in Mudumalai is similar to these.

On our way back we stopped at a wayside kiosk where green coconuts were being sold. The coconuts were so peppy that when the seller punctured the shell its water gushed out in a jet and went up as high as around couple of metres. I had never seen such peppy tender coconut, not in the South, nor in Sri Lanka or even in South East Asia.

.

Trees are not dispensable

http://www.bagchiblog.blogspot.com

'

When things reach an edge Delhi’s civil society comes together to rally and protest for public causes. In 2011 the rampant corruption in the Manmohan Singh government threw up a Gandhian Anna Hazare who was agitating in Maharashtra for years against local corruption and then came to Delhi with support of various civil society leaders. He evoked tremendous response in his protracted agitation, including a prolonged fast, supported by unorganized members of public, forced the government to assure that his main demand of creation of a Lok Pal would soon be met by suitable legislative action. That, however, turned out to be ruse as a Lok Pal is yet to be appointed. The movement, however, gave birth to Aam Aadmi Party which has been ruling in Delhi with a rather scratchy performance for around four years.

Again in December 2012 when “Nirbhaya”, a young girl, a physiotherapy intern, was brutally raped and physically abused by the staff of a commuter bus which eventually led to her untimely death the civil society of Delhi again rallied round for greater safety of women on Delhi streets. It forced the government to enact a series of stringent anti-rape laws. The laws may not have reduced the incidence of rapes but the civil society’s rallies and demands in unison sensitized the administrations of the entire country against such horrendous crimes against women. On account of that unrelenting movement the accused in the Nirbhaya case have since been awarded death penalty.

Now once more, as the wellbeing of people of Delhi has been threatened by the proposal to cut down as many as 14000 trees for the so-called re-development of quite a few South Delhi residential colonies, including Sarojini Nagar, Netaji Nagar and Nauroji Nagar, they came out in strength to strongly protest against the decision of the government. The protests were so strong, especially because of the rising pollution and temperature in Delhi that the government had to back off. The court and the National Green Tribunal, where the matter had been taken, imposed a stay on further cutting down of trees. The Minister for Housing and Urban Affairs ordered that no tree would be cut and asked for redesign of re-development plans of the long-established colonies. Such is the power of the civil society when it chooses to rise in protest. One wonders what kind of planners have been engaged who seem to have been oblivious of the current extremely high level of pollution in the city and have suggested felling of as many as 14000 trees existing in these colonies for decades. This after the Delhi Forest Department indiscriminately allowed massive tree-felling in Delhi.

Something obviously is wrong with the Forest Department of Delhi Administration. Reports indicate that in the last seven years it has given permission to fell more than 44000 trees and now it had again permitted felling of as many as 14000 trees for the so-called redevelopment of South Delhi colonies. The officers of the Department seem to have lost all sense of proportion. Whenever proposals are sent to it for felling of large number of trees they impose only token cuts allowing large-scale felling. They have displayed utter apathy towards the health and wellbeing of the citizens of Delhi and their environment. One imagines their mechanical way of functioning, unless checked, will convert Delhi into a desert in not too distant future. Besides, the City is already highly polluted with PM-10 and PM 2.5 levels way beyond normal. Such massive tree-felling operations will greatly enhance atmospheric pollution. The City’s citizens are already choking and with so many trees gone they would be exposed to untold health hazards.

It seems, none ever pays attention to the welfare of the citizens – neither the government environmental conservation agencies nor the bureaucrats or city planners. They are only interested in building concrete jungles replacing all greenery. Their argument that compensatory plantation will be carried out has proven to be only a ruse. Besides, saplings cannot be substituted for full grown decades-old tall trees with widely spread–out canopies. It is only the canopies which intercept the particulates and also provide shade to the commuters walking on the hot asphalt in summers.

In accordance with rules, for every tree cut down ten need to be planted. Often so much of land is not available in and around the site of the cut-down tree. The compensatory plantation is thus carried out wherever land is available which is generally in the outskirts of the city. This does not help in any way the localities where mass-scale tree-felling is undertaken. Besides, authorities often do not plant native trees; they go in for decorative or ornamental trees which are of little help in conserving the environment. Compensatory plantation is actually perpetration of a fraud on the people. A rate of survival of 30% of planted trees is considered good but generally only 10% survive. Pradip Krishen, author of Trees of Delhi, a strenuous study conducted by him, says “the concept of compensatory plantation is fundamentally flawed. The land has poor quality soil – the reason why it is vacant in the first place. And the agencies are interested only in meeting targets.” The forest departments’ business is to protect forests and trees. They do not pursue compensatory plantation with due diligence and yet they indulge in large-scale felling of trees.

Translocation of trees, a practice that is being bandied about, is also not very successful. The success ratio has been poor in trans-locating fully grown trees with their entire ecosystems of parasites, insects and animals mainly because of lack of adaptability in many accompanying organisms and unfamiliar as well as strange, sometimes even hostile, ecosystems of the new surroundings. Besides, removal of a fully grown tree from its moorings inflicts a severe shock on it which alone sometimes is cause of its end.

Though already a few thousand trees have been felled in some of the ear-marked colonies yet Delhi’s environment has been saved for the time being. Now that the Minister concerned himself has taken matters in his own hands the redevelopment projects are likely to get drastically modified. Credit has to be given to the civil society of the city which did not take the decisions of the authorities lying down. They rose up in protest and forced the authorities to re-examine their decision.

Numerous other cities are not as lucky as their civil societies seldom rise against local decisions that hurt their interests. But in places like Bhopal severe protests by civil society forced the government to trash the builder-oriented City Development Plan 2005. Likewise, in 2015 widespread protests forced the government to change the site of the smart city as thousands o trees were to be felled destroying green ambiance of the city. Nonetheless, urban areas need to draw a lesson from Delhi and ensure that their health and wellbeing is given priority over the dreaded word “vikas” and hence whenever there is a confrontation between the two they have to stand for their own interests. There can be no trade-off between development and environment.

*Photo from internet of cluster of tree in highly urbanised Chicago