Kerala
State Chief Secretary Vishwas Mehta, who was born in Rajasthan, talks about his
three-decade stay in God’s Own Country
Pics: Vishwas Mehta; with wife Preeti
By
Shevlin Sebastian
On July
22, when Vishwas Mehta, the chief secretary of the Kerala State Government, was
returning home, after a hard day’s work at the Secretariat, in
Thiruvananthapuram, he realised that it was the birthday of the playback singer
Mukesh (1923-76). Vishwas had been an intense fan for many years.
He
remembers the day Mukesh died, on August 27, 1976, as if it had happened
yesterday. The singer had been performing with Lata Mangeshkar at a concert in
Detroit, USA when he collapsed with a heart attack. “I was 16 years old then,”
says Vishwas. “His songs are so melancholy. I don’t know why I was attracted to
them.”
Vishwas
was devastated when he heard the news. He stepped out of his home at
Chandigarh, went to a nearby park and cried for a long time. Then Vishwas
prayed to God, “Please give me the voice of Mukesh.” Vishwas also prayed to
Mukesh with a similar plea.
At his
home in Thiruvananthapuram, Vishwas has a mike and a sound system. That night,
in the presence of his wife Preeti, and a family friend, through karaoke, he
sang ‘Kahin door jab din dhal jaye’ from the 1971 film, ‘Anand’ and other
songs. Another version of him singing ‘Kahin door’ can be seen on YouTube. It
would seem as if God has granted his wish. He sounds like Mukesh. And he has
sung in many public concerts.
In his
official career, Vishwas has been steadily moving upwards — Sub Collector,
District Collector, Secretary, Principal Secretary, and Additional Chief
Secretary. On May 31, Vishwas became the Chief Secretary in place of the
incumbent Tom Jose who had retired. And he has gone straight into the hurricane
as COVID-19 is now spreading all over Kerala through community transmission.
“These
are busy and stressful days,” he says. “The most important task at hand is to
find as many places to convert into first-line COVID treatment hospitals. Every
day there is planning and coordination with the different departments so that
things move forward smoothly.”
What is
interesting to know is that Vishwas is a Rajasthani who has now spent 34 years
in Kerala.
Asked
his view about the state, Vishwas says, “Kerala is 15 years ahead of other
states in terms of its health and education. It is on par with Europe.”
And he
has a clear idea of how this has happened. “There are Four ‘M’s’ behind
Kerala’s success,” he says.
The first
M is missionaries. They came over a hundred years ago and set up schools and
hospitals.
The
second M was the prevalence of the matriarchal society. It brought empowerment
to women. They got educated and owned property. As a result, they developed
independent thinking.
The
third M is the monarchs. The kings never fought a war with anybody, but they
built many schools, colleges, hospitals and public infrastructure like the
Secretariat. There was not much consolidation of wealth and power within the
royal families. “In Rajasthan, the rulers were engaged in wars all the time,”
says Vishwas. “They were fighting the Mughals or the British. So, they needed
to make forts and castles to defend themselves. In Kerala, you will not find
forts or castles, except maybe, the Bekal Fort.”
The
fourth M was the first Marxist Government in the world which came to power in
Kerala in 1957 through the ballot box. Chief Minister EMS Namboodiripad started
education and land reforms. There was a limit to the number of acres an individual
could own. Excess land was distributed to the landless.
“This
was missing in other parts of India where many people do not own land even now
and have to work directly or indirectly for a landlord,” says Vishwas. “These
four ‘M’s have brought about the transformation that we see today.”
But it
is not all perfect. “If the people had been aware of their duties also, instead
of only their rights, Kerala could have become an island of prosperity,” he
says. “There also would not have been this demand for labour from other
states.” This now numbers five lakh.
And
despite having 22 lakh people in West Asia, there is hardly any manufacturing
industry, nor do Keralites generate economic wealth. “All they do is make
houses, buy cars and jewellery,” says Vishwas.
But it
does not mean Vishwas does not enjoy himself. He had the best time of his
career when he spent four-and-a-half years as Sub-Collector and Collector of
Wayanad. He would travel to the most remote hamlet to meet the tribals, like
the Panniyan, Kattuniakkan, and the Kurichyan, and try to address their
problems.
“They
will say a road needs to be repaired, or a well needs to be dug deeper as there
is no water, or the doctor does not come to the primary health centre or they
are not getting their weekly rations,” says Vishwas.
He knew
that a lot of officers and politicians who visited them had not resolved their
problems. Vishwas wanted to restore their faith in the administration. “I tried
to fulfill at least one or two of the demands immediately,” he says. “In the
collectorate, I would chase the departments to ensure
implementation.”
There
were unusual moments, too. One day, 30 tribal women led by an elderly woman
named Ponamma came to the Collectorate. They said they wanted to see the Collector
and see the collectorate. So Vishwas led them around and showed them the
different departments. For them, it was an eye-opener. At the end of the
walk-around, he chatted with them as they sipped cups of tea.
He asked
the Bishops of the local churches to give him all the donations in kind, like
clothes, oil, and rice grains. He would put the materials in the boot of his
car and donate it directly to the villagers. He was aware if he gave it to the
officials, many things might be pilfered away.
After two
years, when it was announced that he was being transferred, he was invited to
Sulthan Bathery for a farewell. While there, in front of a church, over 500
tribals had assembled. Since he did not want a formal meeting, they surrounded
the Collector and started talking to him.
At the
edge of the crowd, Vishwas noticed a 70-year-old tribal lady. She looked
familiar, yet he was not sure. A few minutes later, he suddenly realised it was
Ponamma.
He said,
“How come you are here?”
She
replied, “I just came to meet you. We are very sad that you are leaving.”
When
Vishwas was leaving, she caught hold of his hand and put something in it. As
the car left, he opened his palm and saw that it was a chocolate eclair.
“This
was her gift, and it was from her heart,” he says. “It made me cry. It was one
of the best gifts I received.”
Early
Life
Vishwas,
who was born in Dungarpur in Rajasthan, is the son of a geology professor who
taught in Punjab University. So, he grew up in Chandigarh. An exemplary student
throughout his school years, he did his MSc in geology. After initial stints in
geology research and as a management trainee at the Steel Authority of India
Limited, Vishwas got a job as an executive officer at the Oil and Natural Gas
Commission. But all along, his father urged him to sit for the civil services
examination.
To
please his father he sat for the exams. In his first attempt he got a rank of
186 and was inducted into the Indian Police Service in 1985. His batch mates
included Rishiraj Singh and Lokanath Behera. While Rishiraj is the
Director-General of Prisons and Correctional Services, Kerala, Lokanath is the
state’s Director General of Police. But Vishwas wanted to join the Indian
Administrative Service. So he sat for the exams the next year and got the ninth
rank. However, through random selection, he was inducted into the Kerala
cadre.
Before
he embarked to Kerala, all his colleagues sympathised with him. “Kerala is rock
bottom in terms of facilities for government servants and the people do not
give much respect,” says Vishwas. “Nobody wanted to come to the South.”
In North
India, the officers lived in palatial bungalows, with many servants at their
beck and call. “You are treated like a demigod,” says Vishwas. “But that is not
the case in Kerala.”
In fact,
Vishwas remembers a Class Four staffer telling him one day when he was posted
to Mananthavady, “Sir, the only difference between you and me is that you sat
for an exam and passed it. I did not have the resources nor the education to do
so.”
Vishwas
was taken aback. “Lakhs of aspirants take the exam,” he says. “It is not easy
to get through. But he was unwilling to show that respect.”
Vishwas
spent one year, from August 1987, in training at Kollam under the collector CV
Ananda Bose. Like any first-timer, it was difficult for Vishwas to adjust to
the rice-based diet (he preferred chapatis), people, culture and language. But
within a year, he got married to Preeti, a homemaker, so his family life became
settled soon.
In the
office, at Mananthavady, he had a clerk translate Malayalam words into English.
“I realised that whether you speak right or wrong does not matter,” he says.
“What matters is to keep speaking in Malayalam.”
It took
Vishwas about five years to gain some measure of fluency.
“I am
still learning,” he says. “People have shown their appreciation because they
know I was from Rajasthan. They never made fun of me. That was very nice of
Malayalis.”
In his
personal life, Vishwas has two married sons, Ekalavya (San Jose, USA) and Dhruv
(Noida). Both are in the IT industry.
Meanwhile,
Vishwas remains focused on his work. “My aim is to do good for society and try
to make a difference,” he says. “Only when you give back are you honoured and
respected.”
(Published
in Mathrubhumi, English edition)
