Before you read, click on a button to change Background Color to a colour of your choice

“Then, the only way we can meet is if you come visit me in Mussoorie,” Jagan told me over the phone when I called him from the States. His hectic schedule at the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy gave him no time to come down south during my visit to India in December of 2001. So Prema and I agreed to travel from Chennai to Mussoorie. The trip would cost us an entire week of our vacation time in India, but we had no choice. I was interested to go to Mussoorie because our family has had some history with the place. My dad, and two of my uncles, had their training at the academy. And even today, more than thirty years later, they fondly recollect their times there. It was at the academy that they learned to use a fork and knife for the first time. And along with proper dining etiquette, they learned horse riding, and the game of billiards. Being Tamilians, all of them, they had a difficult time getting used to the cold climate and the daily routine of chapattis and aloo sabji. So, at the earliest opportunity, they would escape to the south Indian restaurant in the Mall road, that was run by a Chettiar, and feed on dosas and idlis to their heart’s content. Jagan had arranged for a room at the Happy Valley Guest House for us, which was a hostel during our dad’s time there. “In fact, appa lived in this hostel,” he told us after we checked in. Later that evening, as we walk along the Mall road, I ask him to point to the south Indian restaurant that was run by a Chettiar, but he tells me that it’s long gone. “Nowadays a Sardarji runs the place,” he replies, ruefully. For some strange reason, I imagine appa walking along with me on the very same road and pointing out the landmarks of interest. He would have loved to play the host if any one of his brothers or sisters had visited him then. It was a great achievement for the entire Ranganathan family, and appa would have made the most of it. With limited resources, and lots of hope, the eldest son of a postal employee had persevered to make it into the Civil Services. For a large family with eight children and a single source of income, teetering on the very edge of poverty, this must have been a great breakthrough. None of them had ever crossed the state of Andhra Pradesh before, and to travel so far up north, to the very foothills of Himalaya, would have been a source of great joy for them. Soon his brother, Santhanam, also made it into the academy with flying colors and shortly thereafter my uncle, Partha, joined the Railways and went to Mussoorie, too. Jagan interrupts my reverie: “Do you see the lights there at a distance?” Prema and I take a look at the spectacular view and nod in affirmation. “That’s Dehradun glowing in the night. The air is so clear, you can see it from almost thirty kilometers,” he declares with the satisfaction of a magician who has conjured up something amazing out of thin air for his audience. I realize that even the knack for dramatization is inherited in our family. As I meet many of Jagan’s colleagues, I start to understand that this hill resort is a place for people to come share their achievements and hope for better things in the future. Vijayalakshmi Bidari, the top ranker in the batch, talks about her celebrity status in her home state of Karnataka. She has given more than 200 interviews and doesn’t have the time to reply to all the letters that she has received. “I have asked my father to reply to those letters,” she tells us without a trace of haughtiness in her voice. And, Shahla Nigar, the second ranker, was dressed like a goddess and taken in a chariot through the streets of Patna. There were 500 babies named after her in Bihar! During the conversation I turn to Jagan and mention half-jokingly that perhaps nobody made that kind of a fuss in his hometown, to which he smiles without offering a reply. Later, while escorting us through the campus that cool, starry night, he recalls my comment from the day and confesses, “You know Mukund, when you have aspired for the IAS all your life, given your heart and soul to attaining it, and finally achieve exactly what you had always aspired for then you don’t look for any recognition from others. All the contentment comes from within.” I got the full appreciation for the contentment in Jagan’s reply only when I saw the eagerness and desperation in the tone of an IAS aspirant that I happened to meet at the University of Roorkee (my alma mater, situated just 90 kilometers south of Mussoorie). As Prema and I stood in front of the Main Building (the building that appears in the stamp that was issued by the Indian Postal Service to celebrate the completion of 150 years) to get our pictures taken this young lad appeared out of nowhere and volunteered to click our camera. I thanked him for the favor and he started to chat with me. He was here to attend the convocation. Having graduated from the Electrical Engineering department the previous fall, he had taken up a job with a multinational company and then resigned to “prepare for IAS full time.” His ambition was to get into the Civil Services and the job was actually a distraction for him. I told him about Jagan and all the other candidates that I had met just then recently. His face brightened at the very thought of making into the campus at Mussoorie. “Sir, I hope I also get the opportunity to get into IAS with my home cadre. I have sacrificed a lot for it,” he said. At Roorkee it is still customary for students to address their seniors with a “sir”! On the last day at Mussoorie, Jagan took us to the balcony after breakfast to show us the hills of Garhwal. The snow capped peaks stretched all across the north and the view was breathtaking. “This will be the image that will remain etched in your memory whenever you recall this trip,” he told us. I had to agree with him completely on that. I sipped my cup of tea that nippy morning and stood there in silence. “These mountains talk to you, don’t they?” he said, breaking the silence after a while. “Yeah, it is as if they are asking me if this trip was worth my while,” I replied. He looked at me questioningly and I assured him that it was a fabulous experience. It was a short trip but a thoroughly enjoyable one. I hugged Jagan one more time and bid him goodbye before getting into the taxi to leave for Dehradun. As the cab negotiated the hair pin bends down the mountain slopes my thoughts went back to the young lad whom we had met at Roorkee. I hope the mountains of Garhwal will call him to come see their majestic snow covered peaks from the balcony of the Officer Trainees’ mess, I thought. BACK to the Main Page