Tuesday, 5 October 2010
best practices
27 Jul 2010 ... Punam Khaira Sidhu. CIT (CIB), Bengaluru. 16. Bengaluru. Best Practices / Initiatives. Sukumar Mondal. DCIT (CIB), Bengaluru ...
www.incometaxindia.gov.in/.../DeptNews_ListofContributors_07272010.pd
Renewable law in India
WISE ORGANISES SECOND RENEWABLE ENERGY LAW SEMINAR |
Renewables: CDM in the power sector
A presentation for National Workshop on "CDM in the Power Sector" on. 6th October, 2006, at Hotel Claridges , New Delhi . By. Punam Khaira Sidhu,IRS ...
www.cdmindia.com/.../Experience%20with%20CDM%20revenue%20sharing-other%20regulatory%20issues%20_229.pdf
punamsidhu: March 2007
Bangalore gets Everyone
Saturday, 21 April 2007
My Son's Teacher
My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu
WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!
It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.
Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.
The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.
The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.
When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.
There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.
I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.My Son's Teacher
My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu
WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!
It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.
Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.
The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.
The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.
When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.
There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.
I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.Mussorie: The Ageing Hill Queen
The ageing hill queen called Mussoorie
Punam Sidhu
ACCOMPANYING my husband on a mid-service training course, we drive into the town on a sunny October afternoon. The filth accumulated on the narrow winding roads is appalling. The stench of uncollected garbage and defecation, noxious. By evening, however, the chill sets in and we witness a spectacular sunset, with the fiery ball of the sun dipping into tall deodars and pines in the Garhwal mountains. The lights come on and by night, the city, she is still the Queen.
The darkness cloaks the wrinkles of pollution, and neglect. The warts of urban decay are precipitated by the pressures of the tourists who take the population of approximately 30,000 (91 census) to 2,50,000 in a season. Mansoorie, is named after the Mansur shrub (Coriana nepalensis) growing on the hillsides. Captain Young established this former British retreat in 1827.
The protagonist in Gurcharan Das’s “A Fine Family” refers to going to the Mall “to eat the air”. The Mall as a focal point of social interaction is common to all the hill-stations developed by the British. Mussorie’s Mall Road, situated 6950 feet above sea level, starts from the Library Point, past the Gurudwara Sahib Trust and Lakshmi Narain temple, down cobbled streets past porticoed shops to Kulri and the Landour Clock Tower at the other end of the bazaar. You can take a mule or a rickshaw until the old train station or wade through mule droppings on foot to the other end of the bazaar. Rudyard Kipling, Nobel prize winner, has portrayed ‘the Great Ramp of Mussoorie’ in his book “Kim”.
Mussorie in the 40s was quite the playground for the Talukdars of Awadh and other Indian Princes. Shimla being out of bounds for them, the funseekers sought out this lovely ridge town known for its active social whirl. No one was allowed on the Mall without a tie. A Regimental band played from the bandstand regaling the strollers savouring their favourite tipple. There were two popular hotels, the Savoy and Hackmans. Sukhbir Grewal told me about Hackmans having a Froth Drinkers Club. The gentlemen gathered to drink beer, at 11 each day and blow the froth. The one who blew it furthest, was declared the champion for the day and got a free beer. Hackmans has gone to seed and the Savoy, the hauntingly beautiful Heritage Hotel is barely surviving, brooding mistily, in the shade of the oldest and tallest Deodhars in all of Mussoorie.
But if heritage is what you want then, its all there at the Savoy. As you drive up, stables line the drive. The courtyard is surrounded by large urns and a filigreed boundary wall. At the reception desk, photographs of Nandu Johar, the Savoy’s owner, and his father with Indira Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, The King of Nepal, Ethiopian Emperor Haille Selassie, and his Holiness the Dalai Lama occupy pride of place. Inside the hotel there are several wings furnished with Edwardian antiques, billiards tables, panelled walls, stuffed game trophies, carved balustrades and fine wooden floors. The ballroom is an architectural marvel. A large hall, with a balcony running right around it, it is hung with taper lit chandeliers. In 1907, the tapers were replaced with electricity. The Savoy orchestra played every night and the ballroom was full of waltzing couples.
Each bedroom has its own bathtub and dressing room. Lowell Thomas who visited Mussoorie in 1926 writes about the Savoy separation-bell. This was rung before dawn, “….so that the pious may say their prayers and the impious get back to their own beds”.
The Savoy Writers’ Bar was witness to a writers workshop in 2001, where they compiled a festchrift for Ruskin Bond, Mussoorie’s adopted son. He lives just beyond Landour, in his “room on the roof”, “Ivy Cottage”. He can be spotted at book stores signing autographs for visitors. The Writers Bar is dedicated to the authors who have an association with the Savoy. Rudyard Kipling (Kim), Phillip Mason, Commissioner of Garhwal who wrote under the pseudonym Woodruff, Lowell Thomas (India:Land of the Black Pagoda),John Lang (Botany bay) and John Masters (Bhawani Junction), Charles Allen (“Plain Tales from the Raj), Pearl S Buck (Good Earth) and Peter Hopkirk (In search of Kim) have all visited this watering hole. Ruskin Bond is a regular visitor and you can join him for a drink with Nandu Jauhar at the Writers Bar just after 6 PM.
The Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy for Administration is located at Mussoorie in the old Charleville Hotel. It was formerly advertised as “the only hotel that was patronised by Her Majesty the Queen Mary” who visited Mussorie in 1906 when she was the Princess of Wales.
Mussoorie today is truly a mini-India. There is Kashmiri, Rajasthani, Saharanpuri and Benarasi handicrafts, Tibetans and the locals with their mobile woollen rehri markets. There’s also a large Punjabi trading population. Most like Sardar Harbhajan Singh of Nirankari Cottage Industries, emigrated from Pakistan after partition. His shop has over 600 Ganesha statues under one roof. Further down the road in Landour Bazaar, his brother stocks porcelain antiques and a collection of water colours exquisite in detail.
I experience a sense of déjà vu as we walk down the steep, winding, cobbled roads, of Landour past the porticoed shops with their lacey iron grills, wooden beams and sloping roofs. The tall lamp-posts cast shadows and there is a chill in the air. If I shut out the smells I could be in the United Kingdom.
If antiques are your destination head for Irfan Ahmed’s Ancient Palace at London house or Irshad Ahmed and Son’s shop in Hill Queen Centre, Kulri or Sabri’s at 11 Landour Cantt. Furniture, paintings, crockery, books, chandeliers and lamps, the list of memorabillia they stock is endless.
There’s food of every sort as well. Punjabi, Udipi, Tibetan momos or fast food, there’s a restaurant at every 10 yards to cater to appetites sharpened by the exertion and salubrious weather. We met Anil Kapur, a St Stephens alumnus, who runs the newly renovated Mussoorie Tavern and Brentwoods Sanctuary on Kempty road. His young son has just returned with a degree in hotel management and is responsible for the spanking new kitchen. The food is sumptuous and the chairs moved over after 10 to make place for the wooden dancing floor. The Manager, Mr Ashok Mahendroo, plays on the guitar and sings holding you in thrall to the tunes of a time gone by. “Once upon a time there was a tavern,……. where we used to raise a glass or two……. .”.
The cottages and buildings beautiful in their Elizabethan architecture are patchworked with new materials without respect for the antiquity or the heritage of the original construction. Only some like the State Bank of India , housed in what was earlier The Imperial Bank are carefully restored and maintained. Jim Corbett’s father was married in St Pauls Church, Landour, and served as Postmaster in Mussoorie. The stained glass windows of St Pauls backlit with Mussoorie’s setting sun are one of my lasting memories of Landour. That, and Conkers on the Chestnut trees and roasted chestnuts being sold by pavement hawkers. The magic of Mussoorie endures.