Blame it on Steinbeck and Chekhov

Unpredictable are the ways stories find their authors.

Of the many blunders I have committed, two stand out because, together, they almost cost me my sanity.

The first was taking Anton Chekhov’s words seriously. When asked how he got ideas for his short stories, he is believed to have said, “Put your cigarette on this ash-tray and I’ll write a story about it.” I was naïve enough to believe that everything had a story; all one needed was the mind’s eye to find it, read it and reproduce it.

It sounded so simple that, unmindful of the quality of output, I began writing on everything that crossed my imagination. From military life to mosquitoes; from a railway platform in Uttar Pradesh to a cemetery in Sweden; from Champagne to golf and from Trump to China, my pen spared none.

One writes to be read. So, I kept thrusting my posts on friends who, I thought, didn’t mind being inundated by the ink I spilled. As if that was not enough for a peacefully re-attired life, I made the second big blunder of reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley in Search of America and believing that I could travel and write in India as freely and easily as he did in America.

With raw inspiration from Steinbeck and Chekhov, and nothing else for a backup, this Don Quixote — you might call me one — decided to conquer the literary world. I was oblivious that my chosen mission would demand the daredevilry of an absolute fool. I resolved to travel to the most crowded parts of Delhi — Chandni Chowk and Sadar Bazaar — in search of the authentic pulse of the old city and write about it.

That spelt my doom.

To begin with, the going was good, or at least I thought so. The writer in me was buoyant with the many stories that stewed in my small head, the scalp of which had not seen a crop in years. As I carried on, I clicked hundreds of pictures, for I believe that each picture is worth a thousand words.

Then disaster struck.

It was a Sunday in June. Most of the main shops in Sadar Bazaar were closed, but the pavements and ledges outside had been taken over by street vendors selling everything from imitation jewellery to bridal dresses, toys to suitcases, polythene bags to gift-wrapping paper — it was an endless list. Rickshaws, hand-pulled carts, motorcycles and honking cars, all vied with pedestrians for whatever road space remained. Skeletons of men carrying loads twice their size reminded me of the skeletal robots performing miraculous feats at a Robotics Exhibition in China.

***The sheer intensity of human activity in *that* environment reinforces one’s faith in the 84,000-odd Indian gods.***

I shuddered at the sight of electric cables criss-crossing the pathways—a potential fire hazard, I thought. Peepal plants sprouted from cracks in the walls of a dilapidated building. A massive banner displaying the face of a prominent political leader, surrounded by a dozen party workers and proclaiming “Happy Eid-ul-Fitr”, seemed to be the only thing preventing the adjoining wall from crumbling. Older posters still wished people “Happy Holi” and “Happy Diwali”. Several others conveyed birthday greetings to beloved leaders.

There was momentary panic when the vendors suddenly began winding up their wares and closing their shops.

“Committee is coming! Committee is coming!” A boy on the run had energised the street.

The chaos settled as the team of Municipal Committee members—supposedly there to stop the vendors from encroaching on the roads—turned into another by-lane. It was business as usual thereafter.

The sheer intensity of human activity in that environment reinforced my faith in the 84,000-odd Indian gods.

I ventured further and entered a narrow lane to get a ‘different’ feel. Even at 3 p.m. on that sunny afternoon, it was pretty dark. Hawkers had spread their wares on either side of the narrow passage, making walking past them something like manoeuvring through a minefield. I kept moving, but soon the combination of the asphyxiating smell of an open drain, rotting fruit on the floor, cow dung infested with flies and a lavatory somewhere in the distance began to nauseate me. Further up, the passage was choked with people.

I turned back; I thought I had had enough for the day. In minutes, I would discover how misplaced my assessment was. I hadn’t had enough; there was more to follow.

After clicking the last picture in that lane, I slipped my iPhone into the side pocket of my cargo troussers. I maintain that cargos are ideal for travelling in crowded places, with their box pockets secured by flaps.

Just then, I felt a push on my right flank. I turned around. A boy, in a hurry — he must have been a teenager—was trying to find his way. I gave him a look that said, “Behave yourself.”

Before he could extend the apology, I thought he was trying to convey with his eyes, I was pushed from the left. Another youngster; late teens, perhaps. Then came another push, this time from a third direction. And then, two more.

Those pushes threw me off balance. In the split second that I took to regain my footing; my instinct told me that something was amiss. I felt my pockets — cargo pockets, six of them, secure pockets with flaps — not once, twice, thrice, but many times.

The horse had bolted.

Those five devils! They had taken away my iPhone. In a flash, I realised what else had gone with it. Data apart, my notes and pictures, around which I was weaving stories, were gone—one of my loved worlds had shattered like an Austrian wine glass struck by a Vande Bharat. They had stripped me of my secret pride.

It was an emergency akin to a parachute failure I had experienced years ago. I had seconds to act if I was to get my phone back. Running behind those boys in the dark alley would have been a wild-goose chase. Besides, my ageing knees would have given up the chase sooner rather than later. So, I did the next best thing. I hobbled to the nearest police assistance booth on the main road, introduced myself to the officer on duty and told him that my phone had been snatched.

He sent a police constable with me to ascertain the exact spot where it had happened. To my good fortune, the location was partly covered by a CCTV camera.

Back at the police booth, the cops sifted through the last few minutes of the CCTV footage. Lo and behold, there I was, surrounded by the little devils, signalling to one another and exchanging meaningful glances. Although the actual snatching was not caught on camera, the cops assured me that if those boys had taken my mobile phone, they would get it back.

“We’ll take it out of their belly if they swallow it,” one of them assured me. He identified one of the boys as an old offender.

A constable sent to the boy’s house returned with the information that he had not returned home.

“Please don’t visit our home. Cops visiting us brings disrepute to the family. Arrest the boy if he has committed any crime,” an elderly lady of the house had urged the constable.

“Sir, these people take undue advantage of the laws governing treatment of juvenile delinquency,” the police sergeant apprised me of the difficulty they face dealing with teenaged miscreants.

In the meantime, the smart alecks who had taken my mobile had powered it off. It couldn’t be reached when my number was dialled several times from different mobiles.

“Please rest assured your phone will be recovered.”

Those were the parting words of the police officer when I left Sadar Bazaar that day.

As a first step, on reaching home I blocked my SIM and used my Apple account to declare my phone ‘lost’. This would prevent misuse of my device by anyone. Apple’s Find My option gave the last known location of the device as Sadar Bazaar, where it was snatched.

Thereafter turning on my MacBook and trying to determine the current location of the lost mobile became a mania with me. I tried it several times through the following night, hoping that someone would switch it on and I’d be able to lock its location.

Thanks to the Telecom Department, along with strict regulations to prevent fraud, there is also the convenience of getting another SIM across the counter. The procedures are simple; and the representatives of the service providers, helpful. I got mine in a jiffy the very next day, when there were still no signs of recovery of my phone.

It was surprisingly difficult to use an old phone that I had discarded years ago. Installation of essential apps, including banking apps, entailed long-drawn processes involving passwords, debit-card details and OTPs. How I went about installing the apps—and the loss of all my messages during the reinstallation of WhatsApp—exposed my technological illiteracy and how poorly organised I was. Many of the lost messages were actionable; they were my commitments which, sadly, I would never even recall, let alone fulfil.

Hassled by the goings-on at my end, I had no time to read, act on, or respond to messages on social media. So, over the following two days, I publicised that I was going on a digital detox and would rejoin in due course. I did this partly because ‘digital detox’ sounded ‘hap’ and partly under the influence of Johann Hari, of Stolen Focus fame. It was my opportunity to stay away from avoidable noise for a while.

It didn’t surprise me a bit when none asked why I was going silent.

It was my conclusion that people are too burdened to bother about another’s life. A genuine soul calling or messaging to enquire about someone’s welfare could be seen as an intrusion or as someone trying to seek a favour.

A break from social media, which ultimately lasted for about a month for different reasons, was a boon. It let me indulge in some of my loved activities and hobbies. A return to calligraphy, sculpturing, caricaturing, serious reading, writing and even walking and cycling was godsent.

Nothing encouraging happened on the second day. The confidence in the police camp dwindled.

“Sir, if your phone is sold while we are trying to trace it, I am afraid it will become impossible to find,” the officer warned.

I discovered that stolen Apple phones are generally not resold for use; they are cannibalised — dismantled, with their parts passed on to repair shops. The outer cases, screens, microphones, speakers and camera lenses fetch decent returns.

I crossed my fingers.

On the third day, Apple’s Find My feature spotted my phone in a residential area near Sangam Vihar. A prominent landmark, Boozer’s Bar, was a block away.

I informed the cops and then, assuming I was smart, drove 30 kilometres to the general area with my dear wife and a team of two tough men — just in case.

When I think of it today, it was a funny sight. The four of us moved stealthily, laptop open, through the locality. It reminded me of an Indian film in which the protagonists, dressed as street singers, with a harmonium dangling from the hero’s neck, go around singing to find a kidnapped child.

Our search that day ended in a fiasco when the batteries of our devices drained and we realised that the location we were chasing was two days old. Once in the vicinity, Google Maps went bonkers. After a three-hour adventure, we, the self-styled sleuths, returned home empty-handed.

The probability of finding the phone receded with each passing day. It dipped to almost zero, and my heart sank when on a following day, Find My spotted the phone at a location in Gaffar Market, notorious for sale of stolen gadgets.

On impulse, I thought, I would pose as a buyer of an old iPhone 15 Pro and look for my phone. In my heart of hearts, I was prepared to buy my own phone. My primary aim was not saving money, but recovering my valuable data.

I gave up that ‘brilliant’ idea when I realised that the Gaffar Market location was also two days old. With the villains switching the phone on and off as they pleased, and scooting all the time, it would be impossible to catch up with them in the normal course.

Initially, I did not lodge an FIR because if the stolen device were recovered after filing one, I would have to get it through the court—a long bureaucratic hassle. On the third day, I lodged an eFIR reluctantly to stake my claim on the mobile if it were to be found at a later date.

I lumped every torture as a necessary evil and kept going. After four days, I even stopped nagging the cops but continued staring at Find My on my computer screen.

All along, sanity kept eroding. Yoga didn’t help regain peace of mind, but staying away from social media and pursuing hobbies did.

More than a week later, I spotted the device at a location in Sadar. When I called the cops, I was told that they had recovered the phone. I identified it by its ‘night blue’ colour. To avoid the circuitous procedure of getting it back through the court, I withdrew the eFIR. I thanked the cops profoundly and didn’t pester them to tell me how they had recovered it.

When it was handed over to me, I switched it on and tried to ‘open’ it using Wi-Fi. In my excitement, I skipped some steps and lost all the unsaved data on the device.

Recovery of the phone turned out to be a Gift of the Magi for me.

Aware of the futility of pursuing a case against the juvenile delinquents, I didn’t pursue the matter. I was too exhausted to do so. Besides, in some corner of my heart, I had developed a kind of admiration for their skill and teamwork.

I had sympathy for them, for we as a society, had failed to channelise their energies.

It certainly was not a case of Stockholm Syndrome.

In the following three weeks, I lost my remaining sanity trying to re-activate the eSIM in my phone. The police had done their job; the Telecom Department had unblocked the IMEI, but in the records of the service provider it was still BLOCKED.

Out-of-the-way assistance of a buddy, Major General Lav Chand, and an Airtel associate helped remove the glitch and finally ended my ordeal.

It all started with me wanting to look for stories and write them. Instead, I ended up being one.

I blame Steinbeck and Chekhov for it.

O Khajuraho!

“Some paths trodden by Gen Z do not pass through Jantar Mantar.”

There is something quaintly amusing about my visits to the Khajuraho temples. My first trip, more than forty years ago, was a 75-minute whirlwind tour, including the journey from the airport to the site and back. The circumstances in which I saw the sculptures were far more memorable than the monuments. I have written about that trip in an earlier post: “The Unforgettable Throttle Dutt and his Flying Machine.”

My second trip to the heritage site last weekend likewise became memorable for a reason quite apart from the grandeur and beauty of the place. A chance meeting and interaction with a rare specimen of Gen Z gave my excursion an entirely unexpected significance and meaning.

It happened when the train stopped at Gwalior Railway Station and I got up from my seat to stretch my legs.

“Sir, please hurry up if you are getting down here. The train will start any minute,” Sonu Diwaker said to me with deep concern. He was seated alone at a window seat—the seat next to him was vacant.

His stubbled chin, uncombed hair, listening pods stuffed into his ears, floral shirt, cargo trousers, sports shoes, the glow in his eyes and, above all, his body language made me take him for one of those Gen Z youngsters who had made news a month ago.

How wrong I was! He wasn’t it. He wasn’t one of them. Rather, in the ensuing interaction, I discovered a focussed gem of Gen Z in him.

I looked him in the eyes and said without the words leaving my lips, “Yes son! Talking to me?”

When he saw that his words didn’t inject any urgency in me, he removed his ear-pods and spoke again, a bit subdued this time, “The train is about to leave, Sirr…” He stopped midway, sensing that I had no intention of disembarking.

“How do you know, I have to get off the train? Do you read minds?” I grinned.

Now it was his turn to chuckle. He said excitedly, “Of course, Sir, I am a mentalist. I read minds, predict choices and influence decisions.”

“O my God! Can you read my mind?” I asked him and sat down next to him.

An audience is as important to performing arts as a believer is to a miracle. Through the following hour, I was Sonu’s cherished believer. For me, he was a coveted book I wanted to read.

He took out a pack of cards and in minutes stole 60 years from me and turned me into an ecstatic child of seven who wondered, “Is he the reincarnation of Mandrake the Magician.”

I have been enthralling grandchildren in my clan-like large family with similar tricks and have maintained that I cannot be tricked. But here was this twenty-something foxing me beyond my imagination with his words and sleight of hand.

As we went along, he satisfied my natural curiosities.

He enlightened me about what exactly mentalism was. Until I met him, everything was frivolous street-magic to me. He had left studies to pursue his dream of becoming a mentalist. At a time when young people his age are thronging Jantar Mantar over paper leaks and reservation in educational institutions; I found the decision of this son of a man who provides ironing service to people daring. Very daring!

He completed homework and wrote assignments for other children to manage the fees for his guru, Mr Shankar Bakshi to whom he gives 50% credit for his being a successful mentalist. To cut cost, Sonu taught himself and developed tricks on his own too. Today, he mesmerises people from Connaught Place and Select City Walk to Dubai. He is also pursuing a law degree.

“Some paths trodden by Gen Z do not pass through Jantar Mantar.”

We could have gone on and on, but it was time to part when the train reached Jhansi. I had set out for Khajuraho expecting to be fascinated by the 1100-year-old sculptures. Instead, the chance encounter on the train introduced me to an equally fascinating specimen of Gen Z. My biggest takeaway from our meeting was his willing acceptance of me as his pupil—and his invitation to be part of his team someday.

The Unforgettable Throttle Dutt and his Flying Machine

Thanks to Throttle Dutt, how we got to see the heritage site became more memorable than the temples.

C-119 Fairchild Packet…

Legend has it that after the Korean War the Americans didn’t want to take that aircraft back to the US and offered it to India at a paltry Rs 5,000/- an aircraft; some say, the aircraft were passed on for a mere one USD each. A number of them were certainly donated by the US, to address India’s dire need. Interesting indeed! An aircraft de- commissioned by the US became a workhorse for the IAF.

Packet aircraft remained the mainstay of the IAF’s transport aircraft fleet from the mid- 1950s (around the time when its production stopped) until she was finally given a place of honour in the Air Force Museum at Palam (March 31, 1986). Whether it was to serve the UN in Congo or to airlift relief supplies to Egypt and Hungary; whether it was to land guns and men at Chushul (India-China War, 1962) or to paradrop troops over Tangail (Liberation of Bangladesh, 1971); whether it was to ferry Prime Minister Nehru on a state visit across the Iron Curtain to Moscow or to ship Lieutenant General AAK Niazi from Dacca to Nagpur (1972)––Packet did it all, and did it in style and with élan. The Packet fleet also undertook air maintenance task and paratrooping training as a matter of routine.

***…defying gravity and the principles of flight.***

A look at that aircraft would make one marvel at its ability to defy the laws of gravity and the Principles of Flight. In appearance it was quite un-aircraft-like — its designers called it a Flying Boxcar. Others, less kind in their treatment of the workhorse, gave it the epithet of Flying Coffin. One wonders, “With not-so- appealing (streamlined) features, how a Packet aircraft used to (at all) get unstuck, let alone get airborne and stay afloat?” Well! Packet aircraft had a wingspan of 110 feet. Its engines were the most powerful engines ever built in piston engine era. They produced 3500 horsepower for a weight of 3350 pounds, that is, more than a horsepower per pound of weight. With that brute power, the aircraft could land at Daulat Beg Oldie, the highest airfield in the world. That was in the years 1962 to 1965––more than half a century before the first C-130J Super Hercules landed there. The great Indian Jugaad of installing a jetpack atop the fuselage gave Packet aircraft the added power needed to achieve marvellous feats. Interestingly, Packet was the only aircraft, which had both, piston engines and a jet engine to provide thrust.

My first acquaintance with the aircraft was in February 1982 when I flew for an air experience. And, before I could get the real feel I had boarded the aircraft a second time, for my first parachute descent. In the following 35 years, as a Parachute Jump Instructor (PJI) I have jumped from nearly a dozen different types of transport aircraft of the IAF––from the vintage Dakota and the Caribou to the state-of-the-art Special Operations aircraft, C-130J Super Hercules. But the memory of the jumps made from Packet aircraft is indelible.

As the mind perambulates between now and those days, I recall that it was the magnificent men who flew that machine that really made jumps and life so memorable. I feel that Packet used to fly not because of its overly powered engines, but because of the willpower of the men in blue. Volumes can be written about those memorable days and those heroes. Today I’ll recall just one.

We called him Throttle Dutt.

As the name suggests, he was indeed throttle-happy––ever eager to hop into the cockpit and fly off. Rex Raymond, his course-mate thought, that nickname suited SK Dutt also because of his resemblance to the thin (read, “slim”) shaft of the throttle of a Piper Cub aircraft, which they flew as youngsters. We, the Parachute Jump Instructors (PJIs) knew that if there was an airworthy aircraft on the tarmac and Throttle was around, we’d get our fill of jumps––he would stop only after the task was completed.

Whenever Wing Commander SK Dutt dropped us, we would land in the Drop Zone, evenly scattered on either side of the centre; his name spelt confidence. He would often come to our crew room and, over a cup of tea discuss almost everything under the sun. He was a voracious reader. No wonder, some of his buddies called him Professor.

That day I was anxious about the jump; I had reasons to be in that state of mind. It was my first outstation jump as an independent spotter. Wing Commander GJ Gomes, our Chief Instructor at the Paratroopers Training School had detailed me to take charge of the Skydiving Demonstration at the ASC Centre at Gaya. It meant that I would be required to work out the release point depending on the prevailing winds and advise the pilot to drop the jumpers. To achieve that, I would be required to lean out of the open door of the aircraft in flight and advise the captain on the intercom to steer the desirable course, with last minute corrections. Skill of the skydivers apart, a good understanding between the pilot and the spotter is the key to pinpoint drops.

I had lined up the skydivers on the tarmac at Gaya Airport and had just completed the pre-jump briefing, when a smiling Throttle Dutt and Squadron Leader Venkiteswaran (the pilots) arrived and signalled us to emplane. They wished me good luck and were about to board the aircraft when Captain Anil Kumar, one of the jumpers walked up to Throttle Dutt and said, “Sir, Khajuraho will be on our way when we fly back to Agra after the demonstration jump…” Then, with wickedness swirling in his eyes, the young officer added, “How about flying a little low over the temples. May be we’ll get a glimpse of the beautiful statues.” He laid extra stress on ‘the beautiful statues’.

Throttle chuckled equally slyly and nudged him towards the aircraft ladder as if to say, “Son, first go and do a good jump.”

The demonstration went off very well. All the skydivers landed in the designated target area in front of the spectators. Wing Commander Gomes was pleased; the crew complimented me when we reached the tarmac after a lavish lunch and fanfare, which are synonymous with such demonstrations. Incidentally, with that jump I completed another century of safe landings. Very soon we were airborne again, heading for Agra. There would be a refuelling halt en route, at Allahabad.

Partly the fatigue, and partly the odd beer or a gin and lime cordial that people had downed at lunch, started taking its toll. Wickets fell one after the other. Within minutes of our departure from Gaya, more than half of us were asleep; the other half were fast asleep. None kept track of time. The chit–chit in the ears caused due to the aircraft’s descent and the mild thud associated with the landing, jostled people from their deep slumbers. Rubbing the eyes and trying to get the bearings right, someone asked, “Allahabad? How much time will we take to refuel?” That question went unanswered as more and more people got up and started looking out of the windows. Sleepiness and the fogging caused by their breaths on the cold Perspex conspired to keep them from getting their dead reckoning. It actually didn’t matter because: Throttle Dutt would ensure our return home by dinner.

As was customary, people waited for the captain of the aircraft to come out of the cockpit and deplane first. Then, they would form a beeline to the nearest rest room. The fastest would get relief first. “Guys!” Throttle Dutt said as he clapped twice and drew the attention of the people still shuffling restlessly in their seats. “I am giving you exactly one hour and fifteen minutes,” he looked at his wristwatch and continued,” It is three now. Be back by four fifteen. We are in Khajuraho; the temples are not far. You can have a look as I get the aircraft refuelled.” He exchanged a meaningful glance with the young officer who had made the suggestion at Gaya Airport.

Throttle Dutt had chosen to refuel at Khajurao instead of Allahabad––it was his way of keeping the morale of the people around him high without, of course, compromising operations. Four thirty was the closing time for that less used civil airport. For the next ninety minutes Throttle would have a tough time handling the airport staff.

It took the greater part of a long minute for the import of Throttle’s communication to sink into the heads of the jumpers. And when it did make sense, they got into action; they couldn’t afford to waste another minute. It was precisely a three-minute, all male striptease inside the aircraft, at the end of which men were in smart casuals. They couldn’t have gone out in the streets in overalls and dungarees.

In the next few minutes two scores of crew-cut men were out in the narrow streets invading the sleepy little town of Khajuraho. They caught hold of any means they could––cycle rickshaw, auto-rickshaw, tonga and some even jogged to reach the tourist attractions.

Meanwhile at the airport…

A worried air traffic controller begged Throttle Dutt to clear the tarmac. He said there wasn’t enough space to accommodate an Air India B 737 aircraft scheduled to land in a while. Throttle assured him that he would move his aircraft further back and create enough space on the tarmac for the incoming B 737. Then, Throttle got into the cockpit, started up the engines and used reverse thrust to create manoeuvring space for the B 737 in full view of a spellbound Airport Staff. It was a sight, they had never seen––they had never seen any aircraft, let alone a massive one of the size of Packet, moving backwards under its own power.

And although that act of reversing the aircraft on that small manoeuvring surface impressed the controller, it did not allay his anxiety. He now urged the crew to get airborne by four thirty; that was when the watch hours at Khajuraho Airport would cease. Throttle assured them that we’d leave in time.

Back at the Temple site––they went; they saw; and they felt conquered! How the jumpers felt after their visit to the Temples could be the subject of another piece. Suffice it to say that they did not talk about it. Perhaps, how Throttle Dutt made it possible for the bunch of those curious men, and the effort it took to reach the heritage site, was more interesting and memorable than the beauty and the artwork people got to witness there. Period. The entire lot was back at the airport in time for the take off. They lined up and got into the aircraft hurriedly. Throttle Dutt gave an impish smile to a beaming Anil Kumar as he climbed the ladder to take off for Agra.

Brother Officer

Service camaraderie travels farther than one can imagine.

Wing Commander Ranjit Singh Mann left early. But he knew of his inevitable early departure. Very thoughtfully, he had prepared his family, Mrs Mann in particular, for life after he was gone. He trained her and left her an unwritten SOP to go by. So, when he finally departed, there was only the vacuum to be dealt with, most other aspects of life had been taken care of. Mrs Mann stayed in their flat in Gurugram for a few years before she moved to Bathinda to occupy their house which was being eyed by vultures in the absence of the owner. She did well on that front; had a good grip on evolving situations in which most people would buckle. Life moved on.

When faced with a health concern that could be addressed better in Delhi than in Bathinda, she sought an appointment in Max Saket and travelled to Delhi. What followed was not covered in her SOP. I was a silent witness to it.

Conscious of the heavy traffic and parking woes, we started from my home with sufficient cushion time. That consideration paid off because we found a parking slot far away from the main building. I felt sorry for Mrs Mann who had to walk a long distance on a dusty, uneven pathway between haphazardly parked cars. Nearing noon, the sun was adding to her woes.

Mrs Mann was to travel to the US shortly. Back in Bathinda she had been advised to undergo surgery related to varicose veins. Since she didn’t have much time in hand, she wanted to seek a second opinion and undergo the surgery if mandated by the specialist at Max Hospital.

When we reached the reception just about in time, we were told that it was not Dr Kumud Rai’s OPD day. The Principal Director of Vascular Surgery Department was not seeing patients.

“But I have a confirmed appointment with him,” said Mrs Mann, a bit rankled.

“If that be so, you can see him in the adjoining building,” advised the receptionist.

Unaware of the golf cart facility available at Max, we trudged about half a kilometre, part in the sun and part through winding corridors in the hospital buildings to reach the location. There, at another reception, was a long queue of patients registering their names to meet different specialists. I could see mercury rising in Mrs Mann’s head as we kept crawling forward. We were more than half an hour behind the slotted time with Dr Kumud Rai.

Mrs Mann exploded when our turn came and the receptionist told us that the registration for the ECHS Card holders was at a different location. Going there, registering and then reporting to the specialist would mean that we would be late by more an hour.

“We have been running from pillar to post for more than 40 minutes. Somebody should have guided us through this maddening maze.” Mrs Mann raised her voice.

The receptionist stood silent. Her eyes seemed to say, “I am sorry Ma’am. But that’s the way it is. Registration for ECHS is where it is… for your own convenience.”

Agitated, she dialled Dr Kumud Rai directly to give the specialist a piece of her mind. I smelt trouble and requested her to hand me her mobile. I was expecting a female voice at the other end.

“Hello, Dr Kumud Rai here.” I took a long second to realise that Kumud could be a male name too.

Then without wasting another moment, I delivered the monologue, which I had prepared seconds before and rehearsed too.

“Good afternoon, Dr Rai, I am Group Captain Chordia. I have come with Mrs Mann to Max. She had an appointment with you about half an hour ago. We were in the hospital premises on time but we have been wandering around cluelessly, still trying to register. I’ll be grateful if you could help us out.”

“Okay, I am handing the phone to my assistant. Please tell him where you are. He’ll send someone to assist you.” Dr Rai was busy as we could see.

Very soon, one of the hospital staff came and helped us clear the red tape and, before I could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ we were face to face with Dr Rai.”

Mrs Mann had carried the baggage of our recent experience into the doctor’s chamber. “We have been running from pillar to post for an hour…” she let out a volley when she got an opportunity to speak to the doctor.

Dr Rai poured a bucket of freezing cold water on her, “Ma’am, please calm down. Group Captain Chordia has told me in great detail about the torture you seem to have gone through. Those were procedural requirements. Unfortunately, you were inconvenienced. Now, please tell me what your medical problem is?”

Mrs Mann narrated her condition and showed him her medical history. “Dr, I want to know if surgery is necessary as advised by the doctors in Bathinda. If yes, how soon can it be done? I want to leave for the US within next two months.”

Dr Rai scrutinised Mrs Mann’s reports and said, “Get that person to me who says you need surgery. You don’t need it. You can leave for the US fearlessly. I’ll only advise you to use compression stockings.”

“I am already using compression stockings,” said Mrs Mann.

“Custom-made ones are better. If you wish, you can order them here and they can be delivered to you in Bathinda in two days.” [Note: After we were done with Dr Rai, we met a specialist who took measurements and the compression stockings were delivered to Mrs Mann in Bathinda.]

Dr Rai was interrupted a few times while he dealt with Mrs Mann. He disposed of each matter summarily and with intent. He was multitasking efficiently without ignoring the patient in front of him.

“Anything else?” enquired Mrs Mann.

“I suggest an ultrasound to help us determine an even clearer course of action.”

“Can I get the ultrasound done today?” asked Mrs Mann.

“I am afraid, ultrasounds are done with appointment and there is a queue there too… wait, let me see.”

He dialled a number on his mobile and spoke to someone in the X-Ray and Ultrasound department. “How busy are you? Can you help me with an ultrasound? It’s a brother officer’s wife…”

I don’t remember what he said after that. But that last bit—‘It’s a brother officer’s wife…’—stayed in my head; kept echoing till he completed his call.

When he was through, I asked him if he had a service background.

“I took premature retirement as a Colonel,” he said.

For Mrs Mann and me, the atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The drudgery of the hour gone by was replaced by fresh fragrant mountain breeze.

I have always felt proud of my uniform—my service. Some occasions instil extra pride. This moment with Dr Kumud Rai was one of them.

Dr Rai not only saw Mrs Mann and examined her papers but also helped us get a priority appointment for the ultrasound. Mrs Mann didn’t have visit Max again to discuss the report with Dr Rai. The gentleman doctor saw the report and advised her on the phone.

A brother officer!

Divorced… Almost! Not once, twice!

“Till death do us part.”

Word-of-mouth publicity and a few flattering comments on Amazon are doing good to promote the sales of Chhaya’s book—UNSCRIPTED: A Dateless Diary. The concluding line of one of the reviews has popularised the book among the soon-to-be-married and the just-married people. Young women are gifting the book to their partners in the hope of some transformation. That one line, which whets curiosity, is: “Last but not least, it (the book) tells you what a husband should be like.”

Needless to say, Chhaya was very kind to me through the pages of her book. After reading that comment a match-making bureau requested me to guide their clients. Now, that’s a lie meant to humour my own self. The fact is that some youngsters did seek ‘the secret’ of a peaceful married life and I made a hash of it. It was like, a blind person trying to lead other blind people.

Oh God, forgive such naïve people for they know not that the role model who they wish to follow has been close to being divorced. Not once, twice!

Read on, if you must.

The first instance when our married life neared termination was within less than a year of our blissful togetherness. Exceptional chef that Chhaya is, she had already found her way to my heart through my tongue. She loved seeing me feast on her preparations with the joy of a child. I specially relished the different kinds of cakes she baked.

One day, she prepared a pineapple cake for me. Ah, a pineapple cake!

It had a lovable deep golden-brown crust. I got my share of the spongy thing, and ate it too. I don’t recall if I had eaten one like it before. The leftover part of it was kept for tea over the next few days.

I blundered the very next evening. In Chhaya’s presence, I ate a piece of the cake with mango pickle. I thought she would approve of my inherited Marwari palate, and appreciate my spirit of experimenting with food.

I was mistaken.

Chhaya looked at me as though I had committed culinary sacrilege. She was H-U-R-T. A divorce between us was averted on the condition that I’d never again ask her to bake a cake for me. With a heavy heart I agreed; it was indeed a small price to pay for my monumental misdemeanour. Notwithstanding the unwritten agreement, the kind-hearted person she is, Chhaya continued baking cakes for me. On my part, I have never again tried experimenting with my taste buds in her presence.

I concede that, in that instance, it was my fault. Entirely my fault. I still carry the guilt for hurting my soulmate by that ‘cake & pickle’ episode. But the second time when the boat rocked dangerously, I was definitely a victim of circumstances. The real culprit was Javed Miandad who drew a wedge between us.

How can I forget that date—April 18, 1986? The two of us were watching the Austral-Asia Cup final between India and Pakistan being played at Sharjah. A cricketer herself, she was engrossed in the match, ‘dil se.’ For me, it was just a sporting event. While I wanted India to win, deep down I knew that Pakistan winning the match was a possibility. Period.

As the game progressed, I realised that she was deeply emotional about the outcome. Since I did not want her to miss watching even a ball, I took it upon myself to fetch the occasional coffee and snacks. It didn’t occur to me then, that besides coffee and snacks, she was sending me on trivial errands repeatedly—to fetch water, a cushion, more snacks, and even for chores like closing the bedroom door ‘properly’. I could barely observe a pattern or comprehend her behaviour.

Only in the final over did she disclose a theory of her own, which I found amusing. According to her, every time I left the room to do something, Pakistan suffered a setback—missed a boundary, or lost a wicket. She was convinced that my presence in the drawing room in front of the TV set was somehow favouring Pakistan. And then, at that critical point when Pakistan needed four runs off the last ball to win, she pleaded, “Shona (she calls me lovingly by that name), if you go out of the room, India will surely win.”

“Anything for the country, and for you, darling,” I laughed, and stepped out, closing the door behind me. I took a walk on the lawn for what I thought was a reasonable time, and then, returned. As luck would have it, just as I re-entered our drawing room, Javed Miandad smashed Chetan Sharma’s delivery for a six.

India suffered one of its most heartbreaking defeats that day.

“You couldn’t wait outside just for five minutes for the sake of the country!” Teary-eyed Chhaya blamed me for India’s debacle. My advocate father-in-law sided with me and saved the situation for me in that instance. To this day, close finish of sporting events involving India, leave me uneasy.

For the reason I stated earlier in this piece, it would be improper on my part to sermonise young people on the age-old institution of marriage. Perhaps every marriage survives on love, laughter, and the willingness to forgive the occasional foolishness. Ours has endured because of Chhaya’s tolerance of many of my habits, including snoring and, accepting me the way I am.

Comments

Mrs Sanghmitra Nanavaty:

Good morning!
This has been most hilarious! Little did I know about your capability of stepping on her wrong side at such precarious stages!! Boy, cake + pickle is unacceptable, 🤦‍♀️Chhaya has been truly kind….
Anyway you both are definitely an example to follow (never mind what’s behind curtains 😜) and the younger generation will continue to consider you a role model. Chhaya is lucky and so are you, having HER in your life. God bless. Stay the way you are.❤️

Bonny Mukerjee

As usual, well articulated with the right amount of humour and the right touch of truth.
We have been married for 56 years….in all these years never discussed divorce— but murder, often !!!😂

Air Commodore Harishankar ((Veteran)

A delightful read sir.

Whilst the pickle on cake was an unforgiveable culinary transgression (even with yur Marwari antecedents), I might’ve taken sides with the aggrieved lady.

However your inopportune and untimely and re-entry at the last ball couldv’e been met with a dollop of magnanimity.
Nevertheless, your matrimony as I can gather, is definitely tougher than these pinpricks and has survived, nay thrived despite the rollah-costa ride.
And that is the icing on the pinepapple cake.

Traffic Monsters of NCR

Article reproduced with permission from Wing Commander JK Kaushik (IAF Veteran).

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.

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!

Women of Substance

सैर कर दुनिया की ग़ाफ़िल, ज़िन्दगानी फिर कहाँ? ज़िन्दगानी ग़र रही, तो नौजवानी फिर कहाँ?

This couplet in Urdu––please do not mind the spellings––nudges one to travel around the world while one is (still) alive, for life would mean less (nothing) in old age.

Although I do not go out of my way visiting places, I try to live up to the spirit expressed by the poet and try to make the best of the opportunities that come my way. And, I love to travel by rail rather than by air. Time spent travelling in the train is fun. Sometimes it is more memorable (and enjoyable) than arrival at the destination. The same is true about life too––the struggle and toil that one goes through in life, is as enjoyable, if not more than the achievement of the goal. A journey is a period of time, it is dynamic. The achievement of goal is, but a stationary point. Talking of train journeys––two of my best friends are the people I met during one such memorable journey more than a quarter of a century ago. Arun! Prashant! Are you listening?

I always carry a book when I travel. But lately, the opportunities to flip pages have become rare. There are enough books to read in the faces of people around you. Thanks to the media (social media, included) people are so opinionated and so articulate these days that it is difficult to concentrate and read a line because of the cacophony that surrounds you. When an issue is debated, it becomes difficult to stay neutral. People nudge and tip you to one side of the fence even if you don’t have the knowledge, let alone an opinion, on a subject.

In those regards, my last train journey from Nizamuddin to Ujjain to visit my nonagenarian mother was no less memorable; I carried back a life’s lesson from it. My co-passengers were three men and four women––a balanced crowd, devoid of gender bias. The ages of the men are not all that important; the women were ‘going to be’ senior citizens in a year or two. This revelation came when the conductor made a round and it was revealed that they had availed the concession, which is due to senior citizens (women aged 58 years or more).

The men sat silently; the women were chirpy––talking and cracking jokes. They were less mindful of the people around. Nonetheless in polite meaningless conversation, it emerged that they were a part of a larger ‘women only’ group (nearly a dozen or more travelling by the same train) visiting Ujjain and the nearby places of tourist interest. Their visit to the holy city had nothing to do with their religious beliefs. They were just going sightseeing.

More about them…

That rare species of genuinely happy humans had got together and embarked on this excursion; they had been visiting places similarly for several years now. They had been abroad in the yesteryears. They said that they were through with their commitments in the sense most Indians look at life. Their children were married and well settled in life with respectable jobs. The husbands? Well, they too were happy doing what they were doing.

They appeared to be working ladies in Government jobs travelling on Leave Travel Concession (LTC). A little more familiarity led to a revelation. They were all working for MTNL/ BSNL. They were travelling at their own expense, not on LTC. They had not received their pay cheques for some months and to add to their woes, there was a move to lower their retirement age. There were some glitches with the Voluntary Retirement Scheme (VRS) too.

Surprisingly, there was no trace of grief that one would normally associate with people in such a state––no pay for months and uncertain future. Their only ray of hope was––the union leaders being true to themselves and finding an amicable solution. If the union leaders fell for any personal allurement by the management/ government, all of them would face doom.

“Why were they, the MTNL/ BSNL, a one time Nav Ratna Company, in such dire straits?” queried a curious listener.

“Sir, for years we (MTNL/BSNL) have been getting a raw deal, a stepmotherly treatment. Successive governments have tried to clip our wings. We were not allowed to partcipate (actually ‘forbidden’) when 4G spectrum was auctioned. Now even though we give unlimited data, other private companies are preferred because although they offer very little data, they provide much higher speeds (4G). We have enviable assets, which are rotting. If the government has decided to favour the private players over us, so be it. They can go ahead and sell our assets and give us our pay.” With passion they continued to talk in turns. “Now that we do not have 4G we’ll not be eligible to go in for 5G although our R&D people are already working with some world leaders on 7G technology.”

One of the ladies showed a video clip on her mobile in which someone was trying passionately to elucidate how MTNL/BSNL were unscrupulously marginalised.

Their arguments were Greek and Latin to us. And honestly, we didn’t care. We were satisfied with our Jio and Airtel connectivity. Without going into the depth of what those ladies were saying, we tended to believe that MTNL/BSNL were paying for their poor performance. Period!

Did they care what we thought about MTNL/ BSNL or about them? Or, what was in store for them? Not the least.

Those exuberant women were joined by many others of their ilk when they disembarked at Ujjain Junction. None would have believed that they were going through a crisis of their lifetime with no end in sight. “We want to live life today and now,” said one of them. “Tomorrow when we retire, we’ll go and settle down in different parts of the country and might not get an opportunity to be together ever again.”

Never seen women of such substance, such grit. God was perhaps reading my lips when I picked up my bags to proceed homeward: “Oh God! Give them their due, and more.” I had prayed.

A week later, lost in the din of the UN Climate Summit and Howdy Modi, there are two news items.

One, a threat from a foreign vendor: “Won’t invest more if denied 5G permission, says Huawei.” Is it going to be another nail in the coffin of BSNL/MTNL?

Two, a relief to the deserving: “BSNL pays August salaries to staff: CMD.”

Beyond Work & Golf

Sapan Das.

My meeting with him was incidental. It (just) happened.

When I was posted to Tezpur in the December of 2000, I had to leave behind my family in Delhi to avoid disruption in our son’s studies. He was in the XI standard then, and had to appear in the board exams in the following year.

In the Exotic East it was rather difficult for a forced bachelor (that is the term commonly used in the Air Force for an Air Warrior separated temporarily from his family) to spend the time after work hours. I had taken to serious golfing to put my spare time to good use but then, there were days when weather stymied that effort.

It was one of those days when, although it was not raining, the golf course was flooded and I had little to do. So I started my scooter and headed aimlessly towards the sleepy town of Tezpur. I stopped en route to visit Sapan Das. I thought I’d buy one of those wooden rhinos sold at his complex. Normally I would have requested one of my colleagues to buy one for me.

Hidden from view, a little off the road among the trees was his set up. A better word would be ‘Ashram’––‘Ashram’, because he used to sculpt his masterpieces in that serene environment. He had mastered the art of carving a rhino in wood. It would not be an exaggeration to say that he could carve a rhino with his eyes closed. All his creations were identical to the minutest detail––only the size varied.

Everyone posted in the region used to buy one for self and more for gifting. It was almost a ritual, and I had gone there to fulfil it.

In his hamlet among the trees, there was a low platform, half the size of a volleyball court, covered with a thatched roof. He sat there on the floor engrossed in chiselling a piece of wood. He greeted me with a smile and pointed at a cane chair opposite him.

“Dada, I have come to buy a rhino,” I said, as I sat down.

“Sure Sir, please choose one from those kept on the shelves,” he pointed at a rack. It amazed me that he was looking at me while his deft fingers worked unceasingly on his next masterpiece. Awestruck, I postponed the selection of a piece and sat down again in the chair and started observing the master.

I sat mesmerised for the greater part of an hour.

The spell broke when Sapan Das took a break. Otherwise a quiet person, he opened up when I made small talk over a cup of tea. He had won several national and international awards for his work. He had also been training youth in the area. A large number of them were learning the art from him. I sat for another hour looking at him work. I bought a rhino and returned to the Air Force Station only to come back to Sapan’s abode the next day.

Golf, my passion, had taken a back seat.

My second day at his premises: he was amused at me watching him work so intently. Soon it became a routine. I would visit him whenever time permitted and just watched him work. It used to be a soothing experience; next best to a round of Yoga.

Then, one day, I asked him, “Dada, why do you carve only rhinos? Why not any other thing?”

“Because it represents our region; it symbolises Assam. Besides, it sells and generates funds for me to train these children.”

“For a change, why don’t you carve something else?”

“What else?” He was quizzical.

“I’ll get something for you.”

The next day, I brought a clay dog for him to copy. For him, it was a refreshing change. He got down happily to carving a replica. While he did so, I took a piece of wood with his permission and tried my hand at woodcarving with my Swiss Knife. This amused Sapan Das to no end. He encouraged me by giving me a chisel and a larger piece of wood to carry to my room and work on it in my own time.

A few days later, when I went to collect the wooden dog, I surprised Sapan Das with my work––a statue of Ganesha. He was mighty happy with my maiden effort. He appreciated my work and wax-polished it for me.

I continued visiting Sapan for the rest of my stay in Tezpur.

Observing me learning woodcarving, one of my men too got interested. He was talented and picked up the art really fast. I was delighted when he carved a miniature replica of Sapan’s iconic rhino, and presented it to me. Still later, he carved a large, 18-inch statue of Ganesha––an absolutely professional work by an amateur.

Sapan Das is one of the most unforgettable characters I have met in my life. Time spent at his abode, was time well spent. There I learnt that there was life beyond work and golf.