My India-Time-Pass Jokes

" There was a panic at home. Never before were we scratched either by a tiger or a policeman. Mother was upset. The eldest sibling was abusive. With a pounding heart, a rupees five bill and some small bills in pocket, I travelled 40 km by bus and entered the lower court perimeter only to be intercepted by a mosquito like thin person, who asked me if I had a case."

by Maloy Krishna Dhar

(September 23, New Delhi, Sri Lanka Guardian) I have been boring and burdening my readers with serious essays. Some readers say, they love to read but I add to their headaches. When I heard Pratyush, former Chief Vigilance Commissioner speaking out, I thought something in lighter vein must be shared with the readers. Corruption is no more an issue in India. It is better to make fun out of it and philosophize the concept as offering given by mortals out of fear and veneration to Gods and accepted by Gods as divine rights. That gives better sleep without sedative or a few whiskies. Let’s share a few jokes.

The outgoing Chief Vigilance Commissioner Pratuysh Sinha told Mint newspaper in an interview on September 7, 2010 that nearly every third Indian is utterly corrupt. To quote him, as a paper said, “Almost one-third of Indians are “utterly corrupt” and half are “borderline”, the outgoing head of the country’s corruption watchdog has said, blaming increased wealth for much of the problem.” (TOI 08.09.2010). According to Transparency International, the global anti-graft body, puts India at 84th spot on corruption perception charges with 3.4 and New Zealand at comes first at 9.4. Somalia comes last with 1.1. In average 20% Indians are estimated as honest by nature, the way they are.

It is futile to try to trace the history of corruption in Hindu period, during Muslim suzerainty and British hegemony. I would rather beg indulgence of the readers to be little personal. At the age of twelve, in the year 1952, at a Calcutta suburban town, I was returning from soccer field around 6 p.m. in the month of June. Suddenly, a belly protruding Havaldar with a well-oiled bamboo baton in hand stopped my cycle. What for, I asked. He informed me the Sun had gone down and I had no light in my cycle. I pointed out that the Sun was still hovering over the Ganges with all its glories and in our part of the country Sundown was normally at 7 p.m. The Fat belly screamed at me: was I the God to decide when the Sun would sink! He would determine if and when the Sun would set. The universe ran according to his law. He asked for three rupees as graft. I did not have the money with me. Irritated the Bhagalpuria Fat belly issued me a ticket and directed to appear before a court in Chinsura, district headquarters court. He confiscated my cycle.

There was a panic at home. Never before were we scratched either by a tiger or a policeman. Mother was upset. The eldest sibling was abusive. With a pounding heart, a rupees five bill and some small bills in pocket, I travelled 40 km by bus and entered the lower court perimeter only to be intercepted by a mosquito like thin person, who asked me if I had a case. When nodded in affirmation he extorted 50 paise from me and took me to a peshkar (court official). He demanded another 50 paise. The mosquito, a mukhtiyar, taught me that I should not argue with the judge and admit guilt. I was framed, I told the mosquito. He warned me that I could argue but I would have to spend 30 days in jail. My protesting spirit collapsed. The peshkar pushed me to the scaffold and the grave-looking judge asked: Plead guilty or not. Guilty sir. Find rupees five. I was delighted to be free, shared a sweet with the mosquito and travelled home and after producing the court receipt retrieved my cycle. The Bhagalpuria was bitter that I could take all that trouble but did not agree to pay him rupees three. More about the Bhagalpuria later.

After I qualified for the Central Services and the IPS I decided to join the police and try to reform it. My mom was not so happy; she wanted me to join Audit and Accounts. She advised me to go to Barrackpore, across the Ganges and pay obeisance to my elder aunt before I left for Mussorie. Dutifully, I purchased a box of sweet, crossed the river and reached the home of my aunt. She was busy with kitchen work. On query what prompted my visit and the sweet I replied I was selected for the IPS and would soon go for training. What was IPS, she asked? It was a senior police post. The best job under the Sun she knew was of a Customs sub-inspector, that one of her son was. Police? Was it a Daroga job? No aunt, it was slightly higher. Was there enough upri (gratis)? No, I thought in senior posts there was no gratis. She was really irritated. What stupid police job it was; you were neither a daroga nor you have upri. She condemned me outright and pointed out that her Customs son brought home enough upri every month. However, the old lady was kind at heart. Though disheartened over my stupid job, she offered me a nice fish curry lunch. In later life I realized my aunt symbolized average Indian society, which glorified graft as upri (additional) income and expected riches through unfair means.

Having finished training in Darjeeling and Naxalbari I was posted to the scenic town of Kalimpong as sub-divisional officer. Sipping morning tea and appreciating the morning glory of the Kanchenjunga from the front verandah of my bungalow I noticed an old man standing at the outer gate and weeping. I summoned him. He was pretty old and emaciated. He immediately broke down, touched my feet and begged pardon. What for? For detaining my cycle and demanding bribe. Oh! He was the same Bhagalpuria who could order the Sun to rise and set. What happened to his protruding belly? I made him comfortable with a cup of tea and enquired about his problem. His son Somdutt Jha worked in the house of a tea magnate, he was killed by his master but police hushed up the case as suicide. I was stunned. I assured him justice, reexamined the FIR, medical report and made local enquiries. There was a story. Somdutt was allured into a relationship by the daughter of the tea baron. They had a roaring affair. A Nepali lady living in the terrace below witnessed when Somdutt was accosted by the baron and he, with help of another servant, inflicted a fatal would with a sharp weapon on his right jugular. The lady deposed before a magistrate. The medical report was sent for fresh forensic examination. They opined that the angle of entry and exit was homicidal in nature. On that basis I registered another FIR and ordered arrest of the tea baron.

Next morning another tea baron accompanied by a top Tibetan exile gentry and a member of the Bhutan royal family visited my residence in the morning. They, the top diamonds of Kalimpong society offered me rupees 80,000 to hush up the case. I did not budge. They hiked up the offer to 5 lac. I declined. They threatened me with complaints with the Divisional Commissioner etc, etc. I just offered them tea. They declined and left after plenty of thunderstorm and scanty rain. I narrated the story to my SP (retired as Director CBI). The Bhagalpuria finally touched my feet and said all these years he had been a fool. When I look back, I realize I was the fool. I had to borrow rupees five hundred from my SP after two years when I was transferred to Delhi (1968), because my BB was 1,200 only after 3 years of service. My monthly pay was Rs. 480.00.

The next funny incident (amongst many) accosted me in Manipur in 1970. The ruling Congress party was disintegrating and the disunited opposition was uniting with the glue of power-hunger. They were equally poised in the territorial assembly. The Chief Commissioner summoned and ordered me that I should maneuver defection from the opposition rank and increase the strength of the Congress. I had no order from Delhi, I said. This infuriated the Indian Forest Service turned IAS and he informed the high command in Delhi. In flew the party president, the home secretary and a senior officer of the IB. What could I do to cause defection from the opposition as I had friendship with few of their leaders? How much money would I require to pay? My departmental boss and the home secretary grilled me. Cornered by the bread giver I told him that I could arrange meeting between the HS and the leaders of the opposition and he should handle the money matter. HS insisted I should handle the money to the tune of one crore. I declined. He succumbed and agreed that a party official would handle the money. The horse-trading was successful. The Congress formed a government, the HS and my boss went back with chest full of pride. My wife told me I had done the right thing. I do not know. Nothing would have happened if I removed 25 lac from the amount. Why did I not? Fools always regret later.

The next major systemic joke haunted me in Delhi in 1983. Shepherding Delhi and NCR area I was supposed to be nearer to I Safdarjung Road. It was politically a lean period for the ruling party. It lost the Haryana election. I was summoned by an aide to the PM, if I could tap Ch. B.lal. I did not know the trader. I approached the top boss. He nodded in affirmation. All the forces were mobilized and a cutout was found and a link between the trader and No. 1 was established. The trader demanded 50 crore. I was reluctant to carry the suitcases. Who would carry the suitcases? Not me, I said. Another political baniya was selected for the taxi job and the miracle happened. The entire opposition took a somersault and landed in Congress trapeze. Whether the full amount was paid or not I would never know, but the baniya taxi-man shortly started a restaurant in the CP. Horse trading had made a permanent mark in the gangland democracy of India with this shameful incident.

The next joke was played in the battleground of Punjab between 1987and 1989. Peak insurgency haunted Punjab and Pakistan backed terrorist groups had established liberated areas. Over 150 heavily armed terrorists had entered the Golden Temple premises. Designated as operations chief I had to share my time between Delhi and Punjab. My Home Minister, some Banta Singh insisted that while trying peace negotiations and other operations I should take help from a Muni. Why? The minister insisted. I visited the so-called Muni. He was overshadowed by his Amrapali type personal secretary, some sadhwi. The mystery was resolved. The Amrapali was the key that opened door to the heart of Banta. Banta’s order was the sadhwi and the Muni were the steps to solution of Punjab problem. Major SS funds meant for supporting some collaborating terrorist groups should be channeled through them. My boss did not tilt his head this or that way. He was in a fix. I decided to break the jinx. The boss was told that SSF can be handled by own officers only and not by the HM or an Amrapali. Again he behaved like Gandhi’s three monkey. Banta summoned me and threatened that all demanded Secret Service Fund should be given to sadhwi Amrapali and Muni. My answer was: yes minister, but I cannot do that. This fund does not exist in law. He shouted. I absorbed the sound waves and did what I was supposed to do. Big chunks of terrorist groups broke away from the main terrorist body paving way to peace dialogue.

When Operation Black Thunder was initiated (May 1988) Banta insisted that a particular group should not be harmed and fired upon. Why? They were his own men. Why they were in? He was trying to create a resistance group. Could I give him ****0lac and assure safe passage to his boys? Consulted boss. His neck tilted affirmative. I carried the cash to Banta and arranged two trucks to evacuate his personal fauj from the temple. My minister! My country! Jai Bharat.

I considered myself as a “powerful” officer as I was posted as the Officer on Special Duty to the Union Home Minister. From that position one could make and unmake things. So thought my Patna based medical doctor friend Dr. Sinha. His son Pratyush had qualified for the IAS, but had not received appointment letter from the department of personnel. Could I use my influence? Did you talk to the Daroga? Yes, besides talking an amount of 30,000 was paid. Still the report was not finalized, he said. Don’t worry; your job would be done, so I thought. I walked down to the Joint Secretary’s room; my batch mate. He summoned his PS and found out that the matter was dealt by a baboo on the third floor of North Block. He wrote a chit and requested if I could go up. Minor matter. The Baboo occupied a room with numbers of pigeonholes, where life and death of All India Service officers were shoved in. I introduced myself pompously. He was not impressed; drinking tea and smoking cigarette unmindful of the OSD sitting before him. Finally he walked up to a pigeonhole, took out some papers and said: police verification had not been completed. He returned to his table, looked at his watch and finally graced me by disclosing that it was about lunchtime; could I come tomorrow? I caught the baboo’s air by my antenna. Let’s go for lunch. Took him to Standard Restaurant in CP, offered a sumptuous lunch, offered a packet of Dunhill and dropped him back. Requested if he could issue a provisional appointment letter (APL) so that the poor boy could join the Mussorie Academy. Come tomorrow. Tomorrow another lunch and the provisional appointment letter was in my pocket. I showed this to my batch mate JS. He smiled, what could he do; the master of the pigeonholes determined the fate of the AIS officers. The system was like this. Well, I called my Patna friend, asked his son to collect his PAL from me and proceed to Mussorie Administrative Service Academy. It must be a good grooming ground for good administration, and a part of the pigeonhole System. In the process I lost some of my ego. The pigeonhole had humbled me.

The HM was a frequent visitor to Chandraswamy, the guru of all charlatan politicians and international thugs. Often the minister would ask me to accompany him to the fake swamy’s ashram in Safdarjung enclave. I always declined to go in and remained in the car. On most occasions he carried brief cases (empty) and returned with loaded ones. His APS carried the BCs. Once, while busy in North Block office with certain important work, an aspirant for Director General’s post of a Central police force came to my room with two heavy BCs and sought an appointment with the Hon. HM. I sent in a slip. Though in a meeting, he sent for me and asked: had he brought anything. Could be. He carried two BCs. Go and look at the BCs, there should be 20 lac. I returned asked the senior officer how much he had brought. Twenty he said. I relayed over RAX phone. Okay, after the meeting you go with this to swamiji and give him the BCs. I defied him. For such matter you have to use Prasad, your APS. Why can’t you? I’m that way. He gave me a dirty look and said I was a stupid and arrogant person. Anyways, the senior officer had passed through the eye of the needle and become DG of a force that guarded our borders. Jai Bharat.

It was my fortune or misfortune to be attached with the Minister of Information and Broadcasting and the Urban Development minister; in both stations as Principal Private Secretary. First with the I&B minister. One day around 11 a.m. a peevish looking young man with anxious look entered my room and expressed his desire to meet the minister. I could recognize the young actor, Shah Rukh. His face was known as he acted in a serial called Circus. I made him comfortable with a cup of coffee and a cigarette and went in to inform the minister. He looked up. Has he brought anything? Any BC? No sir, he was empty handed. Why do you allow such riffraff to come in? No money no business; must be here for another serial. Sir, he is your fiancée’s co-actor. He looked up again and told me with all the dejection that he could paste on his face: You are a strange officer. You don’t understand money. Get him in for two minutes. Yes minister, I digested the dig. I hope King Khan remembers the minor but hilarious dialogue I had with my honourable minister, who, according to a newspaper, is one of the poorest ministers in the Union cabinet today with 3.7 lac as personal asset. Where has rest of the mountain gone my respectable minister? Eaten by Chandraswamy! Poor, poor me. My personal asset is little over 5 lac my minister! Want a little donation?

I had the temerity of opposing the then I & B Secretary who openly discussed the rate for approving serials proposed by producers and directors. Senior to me in service career he did not have the courage to summon me to his room. He took cover of the minister and in the tripartite meeting, also attended by a senior Door Darshan official, it was proposed by the minister that for a 22 episode serial a flat rate of rupees 30 lac should be charged. The secretary was more meticulous in accounting matters. He proved that from each show-cast of 23 minutes the producer would earn minimum 50 lac through ad revenue. Therefore 30 lac were not sufficient. The DD officer agreed with the secretary. I had no opinion on the subject. Could I make a move sir?

No, no wait. My minister said that someone from Mumbai had called him to say that a person called Dadamoni was coming to Delhi and the minister might like to felicitate him by organizing a dinner party and inviting other dignitaries. Any idea who this Dadamoni was? I was angry and outraged. I suppressed my feeling and politely submitted that the legendary icon Ashok Kumar was fondly called Dadamoni. Would he like to organize a party and invite the PM and other glitterati and literati of Delhi? All at Government cost at Ashoka hotel. He could even invite a couple of film personality from Mumbai. Was there any money in it? No sir. But you would have media glare and Dadamoni would soar up your image. Okay. Go and organize at grand scale. Poor me. I have two photos of that memorable occasion in my album, Dadamoni embracing me. His whisper that the minister was a bull in China shop was not recorded in the still shots. Unfortunate. The minister had a gala press expose, with a Mumbai cutie serenading him; Dadamoni wasn’t in the frame.

Time Pass jokes are too many. But I must not miss my Urban Development Minister. Posted at Nirman Bhawan he lorded over most prestigious land, assets, buildings, construction works etc in the capital city and the NCR region. A virtual gold mine. He wanted me to solve two problems. The dearest problem that haunted him was a 5 * hotel in the heart of Luyten’s Delhi. It was believed the owner had influenced one of the Gandhis and got it done illegally. But an aide to another Gandhi protected him. The hotel owed rupees 24 crore to the government. The honourbale minister wanted me to negotiate with the hotel owner, reduce the amount by more than half and free them of all encumbrances. While scrutinizing the papers it was noticed that their liability was nearly 50 crore. The management offered me 5 crore and ten to the minister. I backed out saying that the scandal could not be covered like this, by dumping graft money. The media was already after his connection with the lady-owner of the hotel. He should better not touch this deal. You want to blackmail me. No sir, it was an advisory. You are a stupid; the minister added a title to my name. Yes minister, I was delighted to accept the compliment.

The next task was terminating government right on a piece of land somewhere in west Delhi worth 100 crore. The party was ready to pay 20 crore to the honourable minister. I was the selected goat to negotiate the deal. One fine morning the developer reached my government quarter with two BCs. Here was two cr. Rest 5 cr would follow. I should clear the file and get it signed by the minister. My wife (late) called me in and told that the man should leave immediately. One could shoo away a tiger but not a moneyed builder who was a known goon too. I politely declined with a promise that the file would be before the minister by tomorrow. After prolonged procrastination I walked up to the minister with the file and told him that the media had become aware of the proposed deal. The builder’s rivals were waiting to break the news in TV and print media. What should be done? He looked deep into my eyes. You idiot. Can’t even finalize a smooth deal? You would die a beggar. Yes minister. I accepted the epithet.

Sorry my friend, I am still alive and not begging yet. Living in my tiny apartment across Jamuna I am happy with my small talks and passing time cutting jokes and authoring books. Despite what Pratyush says India will still live in spite of ministers like you and the pigeonhole baboos in almost all government offices, hungry politicians in Gangland Democracy, darogas, baniyas, street corner vendors, milk and food adulterers and 80% looters and muggers. No serious talk today.

End with a joke: Jai Bharat.