Traffic Monsters of NCR

Article reproduced with permission from Wing Commander JK Kaushik.

Anyone who drives a car or two wheelers knows the sorry state of our traffic. A study of the CCTV footage of the peak-hour traffic by the department of road transportation concluded that there were over 1300 traffic violations in a half hour period in a small stretch of less than 500m. And guess, who were the biggest violators—not the bus drivers, not the autos, but the educated car owners. Hard to digest and believe? One evening when I was seeing off some relatives at the Noida Bus terminus, I overheard two drivers discussing the traffic on Dehradun Highway. It happened to be a Sunday evening. “Today there will be chaos on the roads because all the educated lot will be coming back after the weekend. They have absolutely no sense and try to squeeze in from anywhere.”

The traffic in the NCR is not regulated by any rules. “Might is right,” seems to be the only norm. The next principle of driving is, “I go ahead and everything else be dammed.” Lane driving, overtaking from the right, right of way and maintaining distance are rules and principles that are extinct like the dinosaurs. Most of the car drivers are oblivious of these principles. About the bus drivers, autos and trucks… well, the less said the better. Of course, there is one other class—the tractor drivers. Traffic rules? What are those? Are they applicable to farmers/tractors? And then we have the gentlemen and ladies from the traffic police whose job it is to enforce the rules. Except for a few exceptional policemen from Delhi police the rest of the traffic police in the NCR is as ignorant about traffic rules as the tractor drivers.

Let’s understand the basic traffic rules as understood by the NCR drivers. First, to turn right at a traffic signal, you can be in any lane. It is your birth right to turn from any lane and if in the process the other drivers get held up, it is not your problem. The policemen are equally ignorant about the rules governing this. Next, while negotiating roundabouts, there is no such thing as right of way. One can go to the extreme end and then cut across traffic coming in from the inside. Don’t believe me? Check out any of the roundabouts in New Delhi area or the one near the Golf Course Metro station during the morning and evening rush hours. Overtaking from the left is something that everyone does. There is of course one basic rule, driving on the left of the road. This is violated so often that traffic police have put up a board as soon as you enter Noida from the N24 side near Sector 62. People of all classes happily drive on the wrong side of the road for a few hundred meters putting themselves and others to grave risk. I fail to understand why these people can’t follow the rules and execute a U-turn from the authorised spot and come and turn towards their destination. A few hundred meters will not increase their fuel costs too much! While the car drivers are bad, the two-wheeler riders are horrible.

Another important characteristic of this region is the scant respect and regard for other drivers/ traffic. All one has to do is try driving past any of the schools in the morning or when the school is closing or whenever there is a PTA meeting. Every parent assumes that it is their birthright to park their vehicles as close to the school gate as possible in any haphazard manner whatsoever. So what, if in the bargain other motorists are put to inconvenience. Who cares? Not the traffic police for sure. I am yet to see traffic police disciplining these errant parents around any of the schools be it DPS, Bal Bharti, Khaitan, or any of the countless others. We can also see the same behaviour when people decide to have an ice cream or a snack, and park their vehicles on the road blocking the traffic in the process.

The two wheelers are a different breed all together. They dodge in and out of traffic with scant regard to the traffic, speed limits or rules. There seems to be some unwritten rule stating that a two-wheeler can weave in front of a fast-moving car at any speed and it is up to the car driver to slow or stop his vehicle. A biker also need not signal or indicate in any manner when he decides to turn.

A class apart is the drivers who drive around with their music systems at full blast and their windows open. I often wonder about the impact of such loud music on the hearing of the driver and the occupants of the car. Another irritating habit that is fast developing into a pain is the use of the ambulance siren by all and sundry. Call centre taxis and SUVs have the siren installed and switch it on when they wish to overtake. The use of sirens by unauthorised vehicles is illegal, but our policemen simply don’t seem to care.

One day, in Chennai a few years ago, I saw a car coming from the opposite direction weaving in and out of traffic and breaking all possible rules. In Chennai, such rash driving is really rare. In a lighter vein, I told my wife that that driver of that car was driving like a Delhiwala. And sure enough, as the car passed us, I saw the Delhi number plates. So, friends, Delhi drivers stand out wherever they may be. In stark contrast to this are drivers abroad. In Malaysia or Singapore or Thailand—people follow rules and respect the others sharing the road. Of course, strict enforcement by the law enforcing agencies helps.

It may be a good idea to make the implementation of the rules stricter at all times and not just when the police carry out some special drives. Policemen should instil a sense of fear and respect in the mind of the driver. As a final word it is very easy to say that someone else should do something about the traffic while the majority of us continue to violate rules. Let each one of us resolve to first educate ourselves and our families about traffic rules and to follow them. If each one of us follows traffic rules as a matter of habit, I am sure the NCR will improve making life safer and happier for all.

A Sinner, or a Saint?

Do I need to correct everyone I perceive to be ‘wrong’?

On rare days, the area around Nizamuddin Railway Station, on the Sarai Kale Khan side, is in chaos. On normal days, it is in utter chaos. To my luck it was a normal day on that June morning when I had alighted from the Bhopal Rajdhani at 6:00 am. I skilfully wove my way through fly-infested little heaps of litter, and patches of dirty water caused by leaky pipes, and manoeuvred around people sleeping on the platform to exit the station. Getting atop the foot-over bridge and walking through a tidal wave of humanity had been an exercise in itself. Outside the station I was greeted by the mixed smell of overcooked spicy food emanating from the dingy hotels on the roadside. Competing with the signature odours of omelette and aloo parantha was the stench from the overflowing drains. A wretched dog, and two crows were feasting on the leftover food offered by a kind-hearted passenger.

Having lost my iPhone a few days ago, I was undergoing a forced digital detox. The apps on the phone I was using for the time being, were functioning at less-than-optimal efficiency. For that reason, my four attempts to engage a cab had failed. In the meantime, I had declined several auto rickshaw drivers to take me to NOIDA. Not that I was averse to travelling by a three-wheeler. It is just that I had three suitcases and an air-bag, which I presumed wouldn’t fit into an auto.

Mahender Singh, an auto driver—the events of the following half hour or so, had obliged me to ask him his name when we parted in NOIDA—read my mind and nudged me to re-evaluate my options. “Sir, don’t worry, I’ll be able to adjust everything into my auto,” he offered.

“Should I continue to stand in the crowded place and keep trying to get a cab; or, I must hop into his auto and get some semblance of relief?” Embedded in that dilemma was my strong urge to be anywhere else, soon. Then, the stench and the noise nudged me to accept his offer. The man could well have been a smart warehouse in-charge, or a logistician, I thought when he stowed my bags meticulously in the little space behind the passenger’s seat.

“Sir, sit tight and keep pushing the back of the seat so that your bags stay in place,” he directed me as he cranked the engine to life. Soon, we were zipping down the crowded road. In a small stretch of about half a kilometre, where pedestrians and vehicles of all kinds were fighting for every inch of space, Mahender’s driving speed was causing me anxiety. The horn of his vehicle was perpetually ‘ON’. He was shoving the nose of his auto into the small gaps wherever he could find them, and was pushing forward. He was behaving like a man possessed. At one point, he entered the wrong lane. My heart missed a beat every time he dodged the traffic coming from the opposite direction. He was occasionally lifting his eyes off the road and staring at the Google Maps on the damaged screen of his mobile phone, which he had tied (literally crucified) on the handle of his auto where the speedometer ought to have been. To him, speed did not matter. In any case, he was driving at max possible throttle setting all the time.

By the time we reached the Outer Ring Road, I had refined the long draft of my sermon to him on adherence to traffic norms. The density of the traffic had reduced, and the average speed of vehicles on the road had gone up considerably. So, I decided to defer the delivery of a piece of my mind to him until we reached NOIDA.

Yet, there was no respite for me. All along the way, he kept changing lanes without giving any indication and overtook vehicles from any ‘convenient’ side. I held firmly on to the metal pipe in front of me and avoided getting thrown out of the auto. On a few occasions, I dared to assist him by stretching my hand out to convey his intention (turning left or right) to the drivers he was sharing the road with. He was looking at me from the corners of his eyes and didn’t mind what I was doing.

“If we, the educated lot, do not correct these erring drivers, who will? On reaching my destination, I’ll pull him up…. But, who am I to correct him? Who all will I correct? There are so many reckless people on the road… the drunken, the rich and the mighty who mow down unsuspecting pedestrians… the under-age privileged ones who kill and are let off by the court after writing an essay on traffic rules….”

My thoughts were travelling ahead of the noisy auto when, all of a sudden, came a moment of reckoning. An ambulance approached a roundabout which Mahender was negotiating at a high speed. I was certain that he would carry on driving, not giving a pass to the ambulance approaching us from the left. So, I stretched my left hand, indicating to the ambulance driver that Mahender was in no mood to slow down.

To my utter surprise, Mahender slowed down, almost to a halt, and asked me to pull back my hand. “Sir, let the ambulance go,” he said with an air of urgency. Then, he felt the surprise in my reaction and said, “Sir, an ambulance must always be given the right of way. Don’t know how serious the patient inside it might be.” This thought coming from Mahender who had been flouting almost every possible traffic rule since we left Nizamuddin Railway Station, surprised me no end.

I ejected the draft of the moral lecture meant for Mahender, out of my cluttered mind when the auto stopped at my residence. He didn’t deserve a sermon from me. He didn’t let me carry my bags—lifting them himself up a flight of ten steps to the landing in front of my flat. And, before I could realise, he was gone, leaving a breath of fresh air on that summer morning.

Comments

Air Commodore Sanjay Sharma (IAF Veteran)

I was 17 and a half. BSc Prev. Onboard Utkal Express from my small town Kosi Kalan to Raja ki Mandi. ( From home to Sapru Hostel, Agra College). Month of December. A group of four ruffians in their twenties boarded the train without a ticket (an accepted norm on that route) from Mathura. Asked the other passengers to ” Khisko, thoda sa” to make room for them to sit. Started playing cards. I was cursing them silently in my slight frame for being so unruly. There was a beggar in a tattered shirt and an excuse for a pajama. He came dragging himself and started begging. Hardly anybody gave him a paisa until he came close to this gang and suddenly, the most ” Goonda looking” one amongst them took his pullover off and made this beggar wear it.
People broke into applause. I felt small in my own eyes for judging the book by its cover.

Countries Settling Scores Without Bloodshed: Is it a Possibility?

There are times when the living envy the dead.

There’s a pause in the fighting…

Troops are sprawled on the sunny side of their camp. These are the boys who had been pulled out of schools; given doses of patriotism and conscripted to fight for the country. Ill-clothed and ill-equipped, sometimes, they wait anxiously for a dying brother-in-arms to breathe his last to stake a claim to his boots and other accoutrements. They are disgusted as they had just had an hour of saluting practice because one of them had greeted an officer sloppily.

“Watch out, lads! We’ll lose the war because we are too good at saluting,” says Kat. The frustration is evident in the senseless talk.

Kropp says philosophically, “All declarations of war ought to be made into a kind of festival, with entrance tickets and music, like they have at bullfights. Then the ministers and generals of the two countries would have to come into the ring, wearing boxing shorts, and armed with rubber truncheons, and have a go at each other. Whoever is left on his feet, his country is declared the winner. That would be simpler and fairer than things are out here, where the wrong people are fighting each other.”

The above is an excerpt (abridged and reworded for flow) from All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. The novel is set in the Europe of the First World War. It exposes the brutal realities of war and traces the disillusionment of soldiers. It underscores the lasting impact of war on their minds and emotions. Remarque’s literary masterpiece is a powerful reminder of the human cost of conflict.

Wars are fought for one or more of the following reasons: territory, resources, or ideological differences. They follow an almost set pattern or cycle—differences arise; discussions take place; diplomacy fails; military action follows; the two sides fight to exhaustion, or until one side—or both—recognises the futility of seeking a military solution. Finally, the warring sides return to dialogue. Interestingly, wars end where they begin—at the negotiating table. But, in the process thousands (sometimes millions) of lives are lost; economies are shattered. At times, the living envy the dead.

Kropp sound ‘NUTS’ when he suggests that disputes between countries be settled between leaders wearing boxing shorts using truncheons. But an equally nuttier solution was tried at least once to resolve a territorial dispute between states. And, it really succeeded in arriving at a permanent solution.

The story goes like this. When the colonies declared their independence from Britain, New York State and New Jersey both claimed Staten Island. It was decided to settle the matter with a sailboat race around the Island. The two states sent their best sailor. One Captain Billopp won the race for New York and the island became a part of New York State. Simple!

***Can leaders settle scores in the ring?***

Fast forward to today, to the wars in Ukraine, Iran, Gaza, Israel and Lebanon.

Imagining peace descending upon today’s world through physical scuffles involving the likes of Donald Trump, Mojtaba Khamenei, Benjamin Netanyahu, Mahmoud Abbas, Vladimir Putin, and Volodymyr Zelenskyy sounds absurd. Yet the idea of these same leaders returning to negotiating tables after millions of lives have been lost is equally absurd.

Does it mean that thousands of lives would have to be lost every time before sense dawns on the leaders?

Sacking of several general officers by the Pentagon and the many desertions in the Russian Army is a clear indication of the fact that the days of the Charge of the Light Brigade are over. Political leaders and diplomats will have to find ways to break the cycle—negotiation, war, negotiation again—with thousands of lives lost in between. The question remains: must we always bleed before we negotiate?

Stoic Valour

“Never say die.”

“Sir, it is a “hang-up!”

Even in the noisy cargo compartment of the C-119 Fairchild Packet that warning from the master dispatcher on the cold Friday morning of February 17, 1967 rang loud. It jolted Flight Lieutenant Minoo Vania who was all set to make a parachute descent. He was the officer in-charge of the batch of jumpers now on board preparing to take their first plunge after undergoing 12 days of rigorous ground training at the Paratroopers Training School (PTS), Agra. Within seconds, Minoo was in the cockpit with Mukho (Flight Lieutenant Mukherjee), the captain of the aircraft.

A paratrooper was trailing behind another aircraft flying ahead of them over Malpura Drop Zone (DZ). The jumper’s parachute had failed to open. The16-foot nylon staticline which initiates the opening sequence of the parachute had fouled up accidentally, preventing the deployment of his parachute.

The Standard Operating Procedure (SOP) to deal with such a situation entails two crisp actions—to connect a set of two parachutes to the staticline of the jumper in distress and then, to snap the anchor cable. The dispatchers, who are Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs), are expected to take less than two minutes to execute the ‘Hang-up Release Drill’.

Six long minutes elapsed as Minoo stood anxiously next to Mukho in the cockpit and watched the man buffeting behind the other aircraft. The young PJI’s worry was that if the reserve parachute of the hanging paratrooper got deployed for some reason, it would endanger the life of everyone on board.

“What is holding them back? Why aren’t they releasing him,” Minoo asked Mukho who was in communication with the other aircraft.

“Some argument is going on with the DZ Safety Officer about what height must the jumper be released,” Mukho explained.

“Do you mind if I take the RT (Radio Telephone) and talk to the crew of that aircraft?” Minoo said with a sense of urgency.

Mukho acceded.

Minoo took the RT set and aired an appeal: “The aircraft with hang-up, please release the paratrooper in the next run-in over the DZ.”

“Who are you?”

The pilot at the other end happened to be Minoo’s boss—the Commanding Officer of Paratroopers Training School (PTS). He was clearly rankled.

“I am Flight Lieutenant Minoo Vania.”

“But we have to climb higher before we release him….”

“Sir, further delay in release will endanger the life of the paratrooper and everyone on board. Please go ahead and release at whatever height you are.”

“If anything goes wrong, it’ll be your funeral, young man!”

“I understand that, Sir. Please go ahead and release immediately… I am saying this with responsibility.”

Perhaps the CO didn’t appreciate the young Flight Lieutenant’s assertiveness and professionalism in that moment of crisis. Even as they talked and the PJIs prepared to release the paratrooper, something unusual happened. The jumper got detached from the aircraft and his parachute deployed on its own. This happened a few kilometres away from the DZ.

Minoo judged the gravity of the situation and said to Mukho, “I don’t know how and why this trainee jumper was dangling behind the aircraft. In this while, he might have sustained some injuries and will be in trauma when he lands. There’ll be nobody on the ground to assist him. I want you to drop me close to where he lands. He is my pupil, and I must go to his rescue.”

Without ado, Mukho turned around and let Minoo jump out at a point close to where the trainee had landed. Mukho did a professional job—Minoo touched down yards away from the paratrooper. He quickly discarded his parachute and ran to the jumper who lay unconscious in a field.

To his horror, Minoo found that the man’s right wrist was severed. Apparently, his staticline had wrapped around his wrist preventing the deployment of his canopy. Only when the nylon rope cut through his wrist did the parachute open. The man was lying in a pool of blood. Every time his heart beat, it sent a fountain of blood from the stub that remained of his hand. A childhood lesson on the use of tourniquet returned to the officer’s mind at that anxious moment. He ripped off the cloth belt of his overall and tied it tightly around the profusely bleeding arm. The blood stopped spurting.

Minoo cradled the injured Paratrooper’s head in his lap; looked for signs of life and tried to revive him as he waited for the medical team and the ambulance to arrive. Among the villagers who had gathered to watch what was happening, there were good Samaritans who came with a charpoy, water and milk. Minoo told them to look for, and guide the rescue team to the spot. Flight Lieutenant GJ Gomes, another PJI was the first to reach the spot. The medical officer and the ambulance arrived minutes later.

The first words the paratrooper spoke with a smile as he responded to Minoo’s efforts to revive him were: “Koi galti to nahin ho gayi, sahab (Have I made any mistake, Sir?)?”

A new right hand was fitted to this brave young man at the Artificial Limb Centre in Pune. Although, he could not complete the para basic course and become a qualified paratrooper, Minoo Vania wished he had the authority to award the young man the coveted para wing for the fateful jump he made. After all it was for that little insignia that he had volunteered to join the Parachute Regiment. He lost a limb in seeking the distinction, but in the eyes of his fellow men he would forever walk tall.

Now in his nineties, Minoo recalls that moment vividly when his injured pupil lay in his arms after his extremely painful and traumatic experience. The boy’s words echo in his mind. The legendary PJI wonders, “If this is not stoic valour, what is?”

Epilogue

When Minoo Vania parachuted to help his pupil in distress, he was in the flight path of the Agra airfield. Technically speaking it was an operational hazard—NOT A DONE THING. And, there were people who saw it through that lens. “Minoo deserves to be tried by a court martial for flouting the laid down flight safety norms,” they opined. But then, there was a conscientious OC Flying in Wing Commander Pete Wilson who saw Minoo’s action differently—as a selfless act of daring. He viewed it as an officer risking his own life to provide succour to a jawan in dire need of assistance. Pete prevailed. Flight Lieutenant Minoo Vania was awarded the Shaurya Chakra for his selfless act of gallantry in peacetime. In the years ahead, Minoo Vania would train on D-1-8 parachute (jumping from AN-12 aircraft) in erstwhile USSR; carry out jump trials in Ladakh Region and the eastern sector, and undertake numerous equipment trials. His contribution to operations would be recognised by way of award of Vayu Sena Medal.

Postscript (by Air Commodore Minoo Vania SC, VM) Ashok suggested I add a postscript to this story you just read about the hang-up at Agra. To my eternal regret, I never learnt the name of the brave paratrooper. It was not for want of trying that his name eluded me, and I still have a hope. Maybe a fellow paratrooper on reading Ashok’s story may recall; maybe an officer of that era; or even a medical person where he would have been fitted with a prosthesis. It could be anybody who would lift the cloak of anonymity from this hero.

Other Parachuting Stories

Tipping the Fear of the Unknown… the very first jump

Jumping… definitely not to conclusion… what if the parachute fails to open.

Out of the Blue into the Tree!!… and, when one lands in trouble.

Mission First… will do everything for a jump.

After me, Chaos

By some quirk of fate, I—a confirmed non-believer in astrology—found myself at the book discussion on “After me, Chaos: Astrology in the Mughal Empire” by MJ Akbar, held at India Habitat Centre. It was January 21, 2026, the Wednesday after Makar Sankranti—an unusually sad festive time when India was reeling under Trump Tariff.

Honestly, my raison d’être at the gathering that day was purely to listen to the author who also happens to be one of my favourite and revered writers. The astrology part of it, I had thought, I’d somehow endure. The erudite panel included Sudhanshu Trivedi, MP; Shazia Ilmi, National spokesperson of BJP; Come Carpentier, Distinguished Fellow, India Foundation; friend Alok Bansal, Executive Vice President, India Foundation and of course, the author himself. I admit that they succeeded in shaking my deep-rooted anti-views on astrology to the extent that I became a fence-sitter; decided to buy a copy of the book and, read it.

In the heart of my heart, I knew that my transformation was temporary. I’d be satisfied with reading the interesting historical facts compiled by the author from primary sources. I believe, one cannot discard an opinion built over 60 plus years of indoctrination by ‘scientific knowledge’ of which one is so proud. At the end of the discussion, among other interesting facts, two bits stuck with me.

One, about the title of the book, “After Me Chaos.” Mr Akbar had pointed out that it was derived from Aurangzeb’s revelation to his son, Bahadur Shah that every event of his (Aurangzeb’s) life had played out exactly as per the horoscope cast by Fazil Khan. He (Aurangzeb) also forewarned that after his death there would be chaos. And, as we all know—chaos, there was.

Two, the interesting story of Akbar’s (not Akbar, the author; but, Akbar the Great, the Mughal emperor’s) birth. Humayun, engaged in a battle at that time, had deputed his personal astrologer, Maulana Chand to be present at the birthplace to record the exact time of the birth of the baby and to prepare an accurate horoscope of the would-be heir to the throne. The conscientious man was striding up and down, outside queen Hamida Bano’s room when he heard the queen writhe in (labour) pain. At that critical juncture, the enthusiastic astrologer went a step ahead and, from the placement of celestial bodies calculated the ‘right’ time of birth which would ensure that the baby would grow up to be a great emperor. That ‘right’ time, according to him, was still a few hours away. Something had to be done to delay the birth of the baby. The ingenuous man, caught hold of an ugly looking midwife and shoved her face into the queen’s bedchamber. The queen was startled and scared at the apparition. Her pains subsided. Akbar’s birth was thus delayed—he was born under the stars that would ensure name, fame and greatness. Rest is history.

Before, and several times during the discussion, my mind had strayed. I had thought of the stress Trump was causing to India, in particular. Those thoughts influenced my questions in the Q&A session. My first question to Mr Akbar was very personal: “Do you, yourself, believe in astrology?”

“Of course, I do believe in astrology,” was his candid answer.

My second question, with a one-line preface, was: “Sir, astrology is as good as the astrologer. Do we have any ‘good’ astrologers around, who can foretell how long would the world have to endure Trump torture?”

In response, Mr Akbar just smiled; the audience burst into laughter. All of us—the author, the discussants, the audience and I—knew that my question that day was a light-hearted one. It didn’t really seek an answer. A gracious Mr Akbar, complimented me for my question when I approached him for a signed copy of his book. “To the best question of the evening,” he wrote for me.

Today, while that question of mine is swirling in millions of minds all over the world, more questions are cropping up. Here are two of them:

One, “Could Trump’s birth have been advanced or delayed to prevent the crisis facing the world today?”

Two, “What can be done so that leaders (as in case of Akbar the Great) are born under appropriate (read “the best”) planetary influences which bolster world peace?”

Even as I conclude this post, my mind, as is its wont, has strayed yet again. I am now wondering if Trump (like Aurangzeb to his son) has told his son-in-law, Jared Kushner, “CHAOS WHILE I AM THERE! UTTER CHAOS AFTER ME!”

Comments

Viney Sharma: Good article Ashok.
As regards Trump, here’s another question…

Q: Could his existence have been prevented?
A: Yes, with the use of a simple device called the condom😀

Group Captain KUK Reddy: Hi Ashok Chordia, It’s so interesting to read your encounter with the great Hyderabadi, Mr M J Akbar, whom we also adore and always keep him in Reverence for being a prolific writer and seasoned journalist.
The question about Trump by you is so tactical as the whole world is asking the same and so no doubt yours is the best question of the evening. I am so proud of you Ashok for your erudice and knowledge and your free expression. Keep it going,my dear.

Unsung Women of Substance

One discovers them by chance…

It wasn’t eavesdropping; the words simply fell on my ears, and I couldn’t help respond. What followed was a precious insight into the behaviour of two conscientious service providers.

The story goes thus:

Yesterday (Tuesday, April 7, 2026), I was in the path lab of Kailash Hospital for a blood test. Since on numerous occasions in the past, I have fainted at the sight of blood, I deliberately looked the other way as the nursing assistant prepared to prick my vein and draw a sample. It was a deliberate effort to divert my attention away from the needle. That’s when I noticed these two young women talking. One of them, Manisha, was a member of the support staff in the lab. The other one, Lalita, was at the desk handling patients’ documents.

It was a rare lull in the otherwise overcrowded lab.

“I was very angry at that patient who left a while ago,” said Manisha.

“I know,” nodded Lalita with understanding.

Curious, I turned to them after my test. “How can you be angry at a patient? As service providers—especially in healthcare—you’re expected to remain calm and caring,” I said.

“But Sir,” Manisha responded politely, “that man spat paan in the bin meant for medical waste. It is unhygienic and simply not done. There are spittoons outside.”

“That’s pathetic behaviour,” I quickly jumped the fence on to her side. “If that was the case, he deserved a slap, not just your anger,” I added with superficial agitation.

On a serious note, I added, “You should have reported the matter to the authorities.”

“Sir,” now it was Lalita’s turn, “Everyone who visits us, is already stressed with an ailment or the other. They carry their own worries. Reacting harshly or escalating matters would only add to their distress. We don’t take offence when none is intended.”

Lalita left me speechless. I hadn’t expected such maturity from someone dealing routinely with difficult situations. I admired the sense of duty of the two women.

“Keep up that spirit,” I said as I left. “Your attitude will take you far.”

How I wish Dr Mahesh Sharma (CEO of Kailash Hospital) reads this piece and gives these women of substance a well-deserved pat on the back.

Postscript:

I happened to be at the lab again yesterday (Tuesday, April 14, 2026). I saw the two ladies; busy as bees. I thought that after my pleasant interaction the other day, they’d recognise me. No, I was mistaken. They couldn’t place me. So, to start a conversation I addressed Manisha, “You are Manisha. Aren’t you?”

“How do you know my name,” said Manisha quizzically.

“Don’t you remember,” I said, “I spoke to you that day about…”

“Ohhh yes, Sir. Of course, of course” she smiled, “I remember now…”

I showed them this post on my blog and said, “I wish, Dr Mahesh Sharma sees it. He’ll be pleased.”

I thought, the two would be flattered by something being written about them and their CEO coming to know about their dedication to duty. But Lalita surprised me yet again with her response. “Sir, it matters less whether Dr Mahesh Sharma reads this and pats us. More important and greatly satisfying for us is that you are pleased with our work and have cared to write about your experience. That, indeed is a big reward!”

My feeling of appreciation and respect for the two climbed many more notches.

If only there were more such people around!

True Education: Lessons that Outlive Classrooms

“True education,” Mr RGL Srivastava, our English teacher, used to reflect, “is what stays with one after one has forgotten everything one learnt.” Young naughty minds then, we spent much time splitting hairs over the literal meaning of the pearl of wisdom. “If one forgets everything,” we used to argue, “nothing remains. So, there is no such thing as true education.”

Much of what my teachers, which includes my parents, sister and brothers, taught me, has stayed with me and shaped the way I think and work. The lessons were not limited to classrooms and textbooks. They were about curiosity, discipline, and integrity, and more importantly, about the spirit in which knowledge should be pursued. Those values, slowly absorbed, became part of who I am.

Today, when I stand before students as an adjunct faculty member and honorary Professor of Practice, I often find myself trying—however modestly—to emulate my own teachers. I try to make learning engaging. A class may begin with an anecdote, a little-known fact from the history of science, or a challenge that students cannot resist attempting. Sometimes there is a small surprise reward for solving a quiz—a pen, perhaps, or a book.

It brings excitement to the classroom. The students participate, question, and occasionally throw back a challenge. By the time the formal lecture begins, the atmosphere is already alive with curiosity. It is fun for them and me alike. I find each teaching experience rewarding in some way.

On this journey I continue to learn from seniors whose profession is teaching. One such person is Dr Devendra Singh, the erudite Head of the Mechanical Engineering Department at AK Garg Engineering College in Ghaziabad, whose passion for teaching is unmistakable.

One afternoon last month, we were exchanging notes over a cup of tea in his office when a student walked in. She was a resident student, a hosteller.

“Jai Hind, Sir,” she said politely. “I’ve come to request approval for a night out-pass. My mother is visiting Ghaziabad to see my local guardian who is unwell. I’ll stay with them over the weekend.”

It sounded like a routine request. I expected the form to be signed without much discussion. Instead, Prof Singh asked her to call her mother. “I just wish to speak with her,” he said.

To me, it appeared to be a rather cautious approach. I wondered, if it was really necessary to treat a young adult that way. I got my answer soon; in the very next minute.

The telephonic conversation between the mother and Prof Singh revealed that the student’s LG wasn’t unwell. Also, her mother was not scheduled to visit Ghaziabad any time soon. The student had simply wanted to spend the weekend with friends—something disapproved by the parents. The request was declined without drama, and the student withdrew quietly.

Later Dr Singh remarked that the student’s body language had made him suspicious. “Giving students freedom while ensuring they don’t stray into trouble is difficult these days,” he mused. “It was much easier when we were students,” he chuckled as he recalled an incident from his own days as a student in the late 1980s at the Motilal Nehru Regional Engineering College in Allahabad.

On a frivolous issue, a few students had instigated a strike and encircled the main building with the intention of causing nuisance. They were pressing unreasonable demands and seemed to be on the verge of going on a rampage. Slogans of “Zindabad… Murdabad…,” had filled the air.

At that moment, the proctor, Prof SM Goel stepped out of the main building and walked up daringly to the agitated crowd. Standing on the steps above them, he raised his hand to quieten the noise. Just as the students seemed ready to listen, one self-styled leader shouted dramatically, “If our demands are not met, we will immolate ourselves!”

Professor Goel, a habitual smoker, happened to be holding a lit cigarette. Without losing his composure he said loudly, “I have come to settle your problem. But if someone still wishes to immolate himself, here is a can of petrol—pour it over yourself… and here is the light.” He flashed the lit cigarette in his hand.

The effect was instantaneous. The crowd dispersed, and the fiery leaders vanished.

Prof Singh cited the incident in the lighter vein. Yet behind the humour lay an important lesson about authority, wisdom, and the ability of a teacher to influence young minds in a moment of confrontation.

Our conversation then drifted to how education has changed over the decades. There was a time, he recalled, when engineering colleges in places like Roorkee and Muzaffarnagar produced some of the finest engineers in Asia. Placements were so abundant that in one instance the placement rate exceeded one hundred per cent—some students received offers from several companies.

Campus life had its own informal discipline. Seniors did not merely dominate juniors; they mentored them. They taught them how to conduct themselves, even basic table manners. Walking into the dining hall improperly dressed invited silent disapproval.

“Now,” he said with a smile, “I find myself on the other side of the fence—teaching. I enjoy it far more than my years in the corporate world.” Listening to him, I was reminded again of my schoolteacher’s words about true education. Theoretical knowledge may fade, facts may blur, and textbooks may gather dust. But the values, habits, and examples set by impressionable teachers continue to dispel darkness and illuminate our lives.

Note: Here are two of the quizzes my students and I had fun solving.

Two Sports Cars and a Drone

Eiffel Tower & Three Projectiles

Even the US needs them

Arms lobby promotes a parallel business — that of coffins & body bags.

Comments

Air Marshal PK Roy PVSM, AVSM, VM, VSM: True… It brings back memories of the body bag requirements during the Kargil operations. I was posted as Stn Cdr Thoise during that time. This is the grim price nations pay for the reckless decisions of a few who believe they can play god with the fate of others.

The Emperor’s New Clothes

Where have all the American children gone?

‘FAIRways’ for All

Kerry Packer is incidental to this post on golf.

“There is a little bit of the whore in all of us, gentlemen. What is your price?”

When Kerry Packer reportedly delivered that line during negotiations with the Australian Cricket Board, he wasn’t merely bargaining for television rights — he was detonating a revolution. What followed, reshaped cricket forever. The game leapt from stately grounds and private clubs into living rooms, into prime time… into the bloodstream of nations. Cricket became spectacle. It became aspiration. Above all, and most importantly, it became accessible. Before Packer, cricket belonged to the privileged few. After him, it belonged to the masses.

Like cricket, golf was introduced to India by the British and has been played here for nearly 200 years. But unlike cricket, golf has never quite had its Kerry Packer.

The sport has always worn an expensive reputation like a blazer badge. The cost of equipment; the vast acreage required; the manicured greens; the membership walls — have kept the game away from the common man. In India especially, it signals status before it signals sport. A golfer is presumed to be affluent, uniformed, bureaucratic — or a caddie who caught lightning in a bottle.

But revolutions rarely announce themselves with television contracts. Sometimes, they begin quietly — with one believer.

India’s golf revolution seems round the corner.

Wing Commander Arun Kumar Singh — “AK” to friends — is no corporate magnate. An Indian Air Force veteran, former Parachute Jump Instructor, mountaineer, and the founding Commandant of the IAF’s elite Garud Special Force — AK’s life has been defined by discipline and audacity.

He first swung a golf club at the National Defence Academy in 1978 — he thanks his buddy, Rahul Bhardwaj for introducing him to the game. But it wasn’t until the late 1990s, while serving as Secretary of the Air Force Sports Complex, that his relationship with the game deepened into a mission. He upgraded the golf course, introducing sand-based greens in line with USGA recommendations. The improvements were technical — the impact, transformative. Participation surged.

Where others saw turf, AK saw possibility. Through keen observation, AK had discovered a pattern. India’s golf champions (particularly Army children and some caddies) often shared a common denominator: access. For ‘Army kids’, access to courses in cantonments was easy. Likewise, some caddies were lucky to get similar access to courses like Delhi Golf Club and Royal Calcutta Golf Club which enabled them to achieve excellence.

So, he chose to create access.

His stint at Golden Greens became a laboratory for inclusivity. Amateurs (including juniors) in the IGU order of merit were allowed to compete; sometimes, free of charge. Professionals from the PGTI and WGAI were facilitated likewise. In the early years, PGTI, WGAI and Albatross began conducting their events there, often at highly concessional rates; and at times, free. In AK, budding players found not just a host, but a patron.

Later, as the Director General of the Indian Golf Union, AK widened the map — conducted feeder tours across zones. He took IGU tournaments beyond the usual metros — to Shillong, Visakhapatnam, Cochin etc. New geographies; new dreams!

The most radical strokes were, however, played off the course. AK took Rotary Club on board to fund golf at the school level. In a heart-warming initiative, he joined hands with “RAYS – Asha ki ek Kiran,” an NGO to introduce the game to HIV-positive children who had been (almost) rejected by their near and dear ones. It was a ‘simply’ noble cause — “To give those children an identity and self-worth through golf.” AK thanks Preetam Saikia and his team who toil to turn ordinary children into promising golfers.

AK’s Ultimate Foundation (UF) has opened doors for children from less privileged backgrounds. In collaboration with Golden Greens, UF has been selecting young golfing talents from modest backgrounds; some have already begun playing on the national circuit. Thanks to another enthusiast friend, Wing Commander Pradeep Bagmar, government school students in Nashik and Niphad were given a chance to swing a club at Riverside Golf Course — many for the first time in their lives. An enthusiastic and dedicated Ms Navita Mansingh (Secy, UF), he says, keeps UF going.

The 23-year-old Green Keepers and Superintendents Association of India is the body of turfcare professionals who work behind the scenes to keep the golf courses in good condition and suitable for playing. The Association focuses on education about turfcare and regularly conducts programs/seminars by inviting external and in house domain experts. As the current President of the Association, AK has recently promoted and supported a certification program for the professionals in collaboration with Protouch Sports and George College of Kolkata.

Today, as advisor to “72 The League” — India’s first professional golf league — AK stands at another inflection point. With icons like Kapil Dev, Samant Sikka, Amit Kharbanda (Game of Life), Joy Bhattacharya (ESPN fame), Shouvik Roy and Aditya Ghosh lending their weight, the league promises to blend youth and experience, amateurs and professionals, teenagers and veterans in their sixties.

Success of “72 The League” will do for golf what Packer did for cricket — minus the provocation, minus the profiteering. It’ll popularise the game and shatter the myth of the game’s inaccessibility. Here, and now, AK Singh is not selling television rights; he is only creating opportunity for enthusiasts who would otherwise never step onto a fairway.

Revolutions do not always roar. Sometimes, they tee off quietly at dawn. And sometimes, all it takes to change a sport is a man who refuses to believe it belongs only to the privileged few.

PS: Passionate about popularising the game, AK is a moving, living encyclopaedia of golf; a repository of interesting stories. His knowledge of the history of the game is profound. All one needs to do is — goad the otherwise quiet man, into speaking.

More golf stories…