Salute to the art of scoring brownie points

In the police, they say, always be a yes man to your senior. During my career spanning 35 years, I haven’t seen the adage being belied or even blurred in its perceived visage. Rather, I have seen layers and layers added to the notion, and many dimensions tagged, to suggest newer ways to win brownie points with bosses.

Well, it began with my training in the early ’80s. In our academy, there was a deputy superintendent of police (DSP), who besides taking care of the mudlayering of the tennis court every week, entertained the director in his own quintessential manner. The director too in his wisdom, never took him as his partner but as his opponent. Usually, the director’s wife played against him with the DSP being there to return the shots to the director’s convenience. At the most crucial juncture, the DSP would lose on purpose, making his boss jubilant. The DSP wouldn’t forget cheering the director with a “What a shot, sir!”

Nearing retirement when I was posted as joint director of the academy, I learnt that the DSP of the ’80s, had left many of his subordinates grow into facilitators like him. He had groomed them well in the art of pleasing their seniors.

I decided to try my luck with golf and took along a couple of ustads who had picked up the game well. They doubled as officers’ coaches. One day, a professional coach visited us when I was already seasoned in golfing for six months. He found all my tees and shots horrible, while those who had been supervising my initiation into golfing only had praises to sing. When I looked at them in disgust, one of them grinned and said, “How can sir be ever wrong, sir?”

For about a year, I was police commissioner, Ambala-panchkula. Naturally, all cops in the town knew me personally and recognised me since I met them not only at parades but also on streets, checking patrolling. I rode bicycles with them and we undertook many cycle rallies for the cause of road safety.

After retirement, I began going to a nearby park for my evening stroll. The park is a couple of kilometres from my house so I drive to the park for the constitutional eight laps. I admit I avoid going all the way around a roundabout and generally go some 20 yards in the wrong direction, taking a shortcut.

One day, there was a bandobast in the city because of a law and order problem. I steered my usual way in the wrong direction, when I suddenly realised there were many police officials posted there. Before I could correct my wrong, the traffic constable right in front recognised me on the wheel. He blew his whistle and let me go my (wrong) way. Some half-adozen other cops standing by a police control room Gypsy saluted, craning their necks a tad more and grinning at me.

I could not help but salute my trainer, the DSP.

COACH FOUND ALL MY SHOTS HORRIBLE, WHILE THOSE WHO HAD BEEN SUPERVISING MY GOLFING HAD ONLY PRAISES TO SING