1. Room No. 3 Yarrows: Lessons and Memories for Life
Room Number 3: Various descriptions fitted this room. The room atop the telephone, below
the attic, on the landing, venue for all Mess conspiracies, page 3 of ‘black’ Yarrows, the morning café
con leche doth overfloweth here, barbecue centre, the origin of the kaddu sauce at breakfast and
the quantum of rum in the soufflé…………….. such and zillions more attest to the weighty feeling of
being occupants of Room No. 3. So what if it were the langur savouring Colgate this day and
Pepsodent on the morrow, of Sissy Ram not too gently chiding us for being late latifs (our now late
Director made sure we were never late)? So what if Yarrows’ first Matador van was ordered on the
basis of 45 horses being sufficient to carry 14 weighty probationers @ 3 horses a probationer? Did it
really matter if a friendly neighbor had toothpaste-flavoured Darjeeling Orange Pekoe for bed tea in
our room? What really mattered was our room’s standing tiny imprest for which we never kept
accounts. The sight of a fresh pineapple pastry cut in three matched by dutiful preservation of a
piece if any occupant were missing. Reville at sunrise, peppered with our versions of Rabindra
Sangeet and the latest Mallu and Tamil hits in sonorous and somewhat disjointed tones, ensured
that none of us were ever late for class. Our beds did not resemble the remains of Napoleon’s army
after Waterloo, nor did our intimate wear spread out on the easy chairs; least of all our notes and
books remained neatly stacked (please don’t ask how and why!). And, if my failing memory serves
me right, we proudly managed to clear the first departmentals without any casualty!
Room No. 3 was a microcosm of Yarrows (we are mercifully still a free country and my batch
mates may therefore have their opinions). Glen went without central heating because IA&AS officers
shouldn’t get ‘habituated’ in good living on their own pennies, or so was preached. Or when, caught
in the midst of Bacchanalian merry making (along with our then esteemed Dy. Director), the then
(now unfortunately late) Director served us notices in state saying he would visit us again, so
“forewarned is forearmed”. Or even when the old man told some of us not to lick curds from our
elbows on the eve of Bharat Darshan. Or the rustic of an esteemed batch mate evidenced in a less
than appropriate reply to our esteemed Director’s “(probationers) balance sheet not tallying” in
class attributing such shortfall to a temporary call of nature best described in the vernacular. We
were amused by the shiver in the spines of the faculty when the Great Man strode the corridor for
his constitutional to the convenience (I always thought it was an inconvenience!) and passed with
eyes right on the way to and eyes left on the way back to his ‘chamber’. The innumerable dinners for
visiting worthies that we sustained from our 700-1300 pay and yet had enough to savour a bird or
part of a quadruped at dinner topped with a souffle and preceded by …………… The Rs. 15 T-series
that were gifted to our music collection from a 75-buck honorarium paid to CAG/DAI/ADAIs. The
bonhomie in the batch showed up as a lady batch mate would always fetch pineapple pastries for all
of us on her way back from the Mall. Or when we exchanged a wall clock with a batch mate, than
attending his wedding in a then militancy stricken state. Or the thought for the esteemed occupants
of the Director’s neighbours in Yarrowville while imbibing spirits in inhospitable climes, loyally
conveyed by Bihari and acted upon by our the OTs even in their pyjamas!
We grumbled when the construction of the Glen denied us our basic human right of a bath
and a Cupid-fresh early morning breath. Our cries of disappointment when we did not get a hand at
badminton or failed to fire a Bofors cannon shot on the baize top. We griped when, with bellies filled
with Hariram’s luncheon, we had to labour up the 100 km slope to the Railway Board Building
topped with a 100 step climb all for our good health. Grrr………. when we were denied our

2. fundamental right of free return transport in the ice to Yarrows (even as we made amends with the
weightier worthies like yours truly stepping off the Matador at crucial climbs). And brrr………. when
the ice snapped the power lines and the distinction between a moonlit frigid night in the open and
room no. 3 was reduced to an optical illusion. Or the Great Escape by the Hon’ble Mess Treasurer
and Secretary to Davico’s for survival while Yarrows had the humble kaddu on its menu from soup to
soufflé (our version of an austerity drive!). Needless to add, both the office bearers were thankful
that (Chhota Shakeel) Bhai Sahab was not in town or in business then to accept a supari for us!!
Our educational qualifications ranged from BAs and MAs in History, Political Science, Botany,
Plant Physiology, International Relations – DU, JNU, Allahabad, et al. Debit and credit were worse
than Latin or Greek to us – in fact the impact was the same as a Lamb Murcileago hitting a
pedestrian at 300 mph! Most of us were uninitiated and had to be indoctrinated in the art of survival
by our more khaye khele batch mates who had seen active service before joining the IA&AS. We
eagerly lapped up tips for survival from visiting seniors, although we suspected that such vignettes
were born out of experience than actual application by them! Hariram taught us the art of
management while Sissy Ram the virtues of sahebi discipline (including bed sheets washed every
second day). Gehru Ram’s booming voice scared the langurs (even as ours didn’t) and gave us a
lesson or two in crisis management while the maalis assured us of the most beautiful garden this
side of the Suez, an important lesson in showing an impact. All the while the Buddha languished
without a coat of enamel paint (we paid our respects to Him and gifted him a coat before our
departure) yet showered his benediction on Yarrows and its occupants.
We have survived hits to the fence, hit our own wickets, been run out or declared LBW,
professionally and personally over the last quarter of a century. We have each had our moments of
glory outside the IA&AD, unfortunately none within, in the last quarter of a century. We have swum
all lengths in combinations of freestyle, back and breast stroke and butterfly and survived Srinagar to
T’puram, Gandhinagar to Gorakhpur, Chandigarh to Shillong and the Caribbean to Japan so far. Our
widely variegated physical forms have ranged from featherweight to super heavyweight and
hairlines from heavy graying to token presences……….yet we retain our balance and civility,
individual common sense and our collective wisdom, notwithstanding several abortive (so far)
attempts to break our individual and collective spirits. We unfailingly meet for lunch and dinner
whenever there are two or more of us around, share tidings of joy and downs of grief in equal
measure, and retain our sense of humour even when faced with the gravest of adversities. If not
CSOI, IHC and DGC, then Google Talk, MSN Messenger and Skype make the world a tiny place for ’84
to live in.
Happily, Yarrows and Room No. 3 taught us not only to survive but also how not to morph
into a moronic existence in the guise of attaining nirvana. If living in glasshouses we shouldn’t throw
stones at others was our first lesson on an icy December morn, Yarrows also taught us a lesson for
life – the centrality of joie de vivre and gave a buena vista (positive outlook in this sense) to sustain
us in all adversity, within and outside of the IA&AS.
Twenty five years is the better part of our professional life; add another 25 years to it and
we are short of only twenty short of the Biblical three score and ten. Can we therefore please live
the Yarrows experience again?

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