We belong to a generation that was humbled by teachers when we were in school, and by children now” lamented an aggrieved childhood friend. I said, “Look buddy, I am a twice-blessed top cop — a deputy inspector general of police, to be precise. Can you even guess what this designation meant to people at large once upon a time?” I went on to recall the powers vested in a DIG and the extent of his jurisdiction. The number of officers he commanded. Most importantly, the fact that he never needed to dance attendance on those who had the power to transfer him. I narrated to him the typical hyperbole in which officers holding this rank were addressed: Banda-parwar, Ali-Jah, Janab, Sahab Bahadur, Mai-baap, etc, etc. I also referred to the impressions people had of the DIGs of those times who “if they cast a casual glance at the green grass, it started to burn”. And that “if they sniffed and someone came in the way, he remained ‘air lifted’ for quite some time!” Such was the grandeur and glory attributed to and enjoyed by the jarnail of yore.“And what is the plight of a DIG today?” I looked at my friend and continued, “The other day I was reading the paper with my septuagenarian father. I happily announced to him the recommendations of the Sixth Pay Commission. And before I could read that the DIG rank had been hugely discriminated against, not only with regard to the monthly take-home but also in the comparative official reckoning, the old man added fuel to the fire: “Son, you do not look like the DIGs we knew in our times.” “What do you mean to say, Bauji?” “I mean they were really, really big people. Awesome, enviable men!” he said. “And how many of them did you see in your lifetime?”— I became a little rude. “Not even one. They were there not to be seen but to be heard and talked about for the stature they possessed.” I told my friend, “Now tell me, my father doesn’t think I am big enough. And the Sixth Pay Commission doesn’t think I am ‘functional’ enough.” Poor me! The deputy inspector general of police!
