Fatherly matters

The proud glow on the face of the man holding his first born of few months, is evident even in the black & white photo taken in early seventies. Back then in 1970, he had the moral courage to stand up to his family and the society at large and get married to a girl driven out from Bangladesh after partition. His parents resisted with all their might, including the threat to disown him. But the man in question loved the girl for her grit and success. She crossed over penniless and homeless, barely out of her puberty. But she toiled hard over the following years to get herself trained as a montessori teacher and got herself a teaching job with the state government. The money she earned helped her to take care of her younger sister, who was still in college. That she managed to achieve that despite all the odds, had drawn him towards her. He married her in a simple ceremony surrounded only by a couple of his friends, who stood him in good stead through thick and thin. His family disowned him, as was threatened. Together they resolved to make one life out of all the challenges they faced in their lives. I am their first born.

Baba, my father, has been the silent force who shaped my life. With a few words and a lot many deeds. His unique ways of being a father is what I have drawn a lot of my life's lessons from. When I was in class six, barely eleven, he taught me the ways to handle banking transactions. He reposed great faith in a young child for any father of that age and time. I became a confident kid who cycled to bank branches and post offices to complete all his financial transactions. He prepared me in advance on how to how to handle curious fellow customers and questioning tellers. I did wonderfully well on that count. That was his way to train his son to become a confident man. Years before, he and maa sent me out to stay with my aunt when I was barely four. That was to esnure that I get a good education. It must have been a painful decision for them. By the time I turned teenager, he let me travel alone by train between home (Kharagpur) and Burdwan (where I stayed with my aunt), a good 250 kms and six hours apart. The journey required a break journey and a train change at Howrah Jn., a place teeming with millions! This despite the fact that back then in Bengal child-kidnappers lurked around every street corner and every day newspapers carried horrifying stories about the same. He in his usual style prepared me for what lay in store and the dos and donts. He was getting me ready to face the world. There were scores of people around to discourage him from his unusual methods, but he stood firm; including he spurning an offer from his police officer friend who wanted to send a constable to watch me over through the journey. Years later on my way to SSB interview, when I was getting bullied by six-footer, many-time SSB-flunked Jats in Varanasi Jn. that lesson stood me in good stead. I could at five and a half feet, stand up to them, without even having to sound aggressive!

Back then, every father worried about a growing son and the bad habits he could imbibe. I could overhear his friends warning him about smoking, drinking, porn and all the other bad things in life. When the time finally came, he never discussed the topic. Not even once. He never said a word about smoking, drinking or porn. He just spoke about choices that a man makes in his life. And he gave a lot of examples from his own life - the decisions he took and what they meant for him. Over days and weeks he taught me the value of making choices in life. Not about right choices, but just about choices. He taught me about the eventuality that choices can go wrong, but that not making a choice out of fear of making a wrong one, would be a greater failure in life. He never warned me about wrong choices. Instead he taught me that choices can go wrong anytime, even at times due to factors beyond one's control. And he told me how it is more important for a man to be able to recognise a wrong choice and work towards correcting it. He told me about his choice of marrying my maa. about he sending me away to study; about letting me handle his banking matters; about he letting me travel alone; and many other choices he made in life. and he told me about how he arrived at those decisions; and why he made those choices, despite so many concerns and misgivigs! Life, seen through his perspective, became an interesting subject for me! In the end, as it has turned out, I have made fewer wrong choices in my life. That is what my father has gifted me!

Though his family was cross with him for many many years because of his marriage, he never allowed that distance to get him separated from his siblings. When the time came, he had the courage to walk up to his father and seek his permission to take three of his school-going brothers with him. He believed that they will have a better chance at education if they stayed with him. The three uncleteers, as I call them, stayed with us for ten years, over varying periods, and went on to make thier own lives. The three uncleteers would give their lives to be by our side at times of need. When my maa was in ICU last year, battling for her life, all of the three were there, even before any one of us could reach Kolkata.

My Baba is a self-made man....he left home in his teens to study further, even though his father did not fund his study. When he landed a job, he went back home and volunteered out of his share of property and farm land. He felt his other siblings without a job needed them more. One more choice of his that shaped my own thinking a long long way. His three children share a relationship beyond the values of money and inheritance. Once I heard him telling someone in the family that he is relieved his children do not bother about inheritance, even after marriage.         

All his three children - my sister, my brother and myself have been brats all our lives. We have had accidents, many of them near fatal, number of times that I have lost count of. Such was the frequency with which we had to visit the family doctor's clinic that he had a running account which was settled once a month! I had put my own house on fire, nearly drowned in the pond by the house, drank kerosene, swallowed 14 sleeping pills at one go, yanked my head open when landed on a stone slab while diving in the pond! my brother fell from a date palm tree onto a barbed wire and slpit his face wide open that required 24 stitches, carries a bent hand that was broken to smithereens when it banged onto a railway pole when he let it out of the window of a running train, nearly got suffocated to death when he lay buried under a ton of husk; my sister was the mischief maker and the ideator behind all these daring acts, most of the time! Despite all these and many more incidents, he never ever gave up hope. He just found a new way to keep his belief and positive attitude alive, despite the repeated and frequent incidents that could have shaken anyone's belief! He never imposed embargo on us because of what we did! He never preveneted us from continuing to play with the children of the maids and farm hands, during which most of these incidents happened. Instead, he would tell us to take care of each other. He ensured that the children of all our maids and farm hands study. He values education like nothing else. When our farm hands and maids used to fall sick, he would visit their homes and drop medicines. He would call the doctor and ask him to take care of them. It is from him I have learnt not to be class conscious. Even to this day, Usu and Nirodh kaku and Bou and Kamal and scores of others would visit us whenever we visit his home. Last year, the whole family gathered for Kali Pujo at home. My father wanted this pujo to happen at home. It was a festive atmosphere at home, with crackers bursting, children running around, kebabs getting grilled and the aarti happening. All our house-helps and farm-hands and their families were invited to share the joy. It was great fun. It was after many many years that such a gathering was happening at home and happiness was written all over Baba's face. He even did a whole night aarti one day!

My sister has been his favourite child. He made a worng choice to get her married at a young age. Years later, when the marriage fell through, he humbly accepted about the wrong choice he made. Yet, he never blamed the person who was singularly instrumental to drive him to take that decision! When he realised that my sister could take it no more, we decided to bring her back home. A choice he is happy about as he can't bear to see her unhappy. I still remember the moment vividly when my father broke down during her bidai! Tears fell unabated as his daughter touched his feet to seek his blessings! The moment immortalised in video, which I have seen several times over, reminds me of the love he has for his daughter. I had never seen him cry before. When the marriage was finally over, he stood behind her like a rock and provided her with all support to resurrect her life. She went on to study fashion designing post her break-up and she is doing well. He is happy to see her settled in career, though he constantly grouses about her inability to achieve work-life balance.

Life presented with difficult times when his favourite brother and his two sons made their choices about their life partners. But each of the three times he walked the distance to come around and keep the family bonded. He may have been upset and may have faced tough questions within the family, but eventually he respected the choices we made. By then I became his sounding board for most of the major decisions he took. My ability to stay calm even during stressful times is what comforted him. If I am visiting home, we would walk up to the terrace to discuss such private matters. The terrace is where he feels comfortable. We would sit by the side facing the pond. The cool breeze from the pond and the birds and squirrels made up the rest of the presence! Typical of him, he would pause for long moments between sentences, looking at the distant end of the pond to pour his heart out. I would be listening patiently and then providing my perspective about the things spoken about. And more often than not, he would agree with my thoughts. Maybe, in me he sees his own self. If I am away, he would call in advance and tell me about things he wants to speak to me about. We would chat for hours to share our perspectives. When I made my choice - to marry the lady I liked and loved, I wrote a long letter to him explaining the reasons behind my choice. He called me back in a couple of days to say that he is happy with my choice; and happier for the reasons behind the choice. That she is a divorcee will not be a cause of concern. I had a lovely wedding in Cochin, far away from home blessed by him. He even admonised the pandit for taking short-cuts during the long drawn bengali wedding!

Life let him down when my maa was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It has robbed him of the company of his wife, when it mattered most. With his children busy with their own careers, he is alone, gallantly fighting all odds to keep maa functioning. Yet, he is still not bitter about life. I have learnt from him on how to remain positive in life against all odds. He has taught me to be patient by not spanking us with the proverbial stick when we played rather dangerous mischiefs. Instead he had the patience to make us sit down and explain the pain such acts caused to one and all. I remember once I had thrown a gold ring down the well. He had won it in a bridge competition. I wanted to hear the echo the ring would create when it dropped in the water! Instead of beating me up, he made me sit through the day to watch the people who went down the well to get the ring back. It took three men one whole day! It was then he explained how a single careless act of mine resulted in all these. I realised that it not only cost him money, but also the efforts of so many people. I learnt to be more careful in life. He could have easily beaten me black & blue to instill the fear that everyone would have advocated. He didn't. In fact, he never raised a finger at me. Every time we made mistakes, he patiently explained the repurcussions of them. When I put the house on fire for the silly reason of watching if the fire really went up or down, one room got completely gutted. On his return from office, he must have felt devastated, but showed examplary patience to put things back in order. Though he spoke to me about what a gravely wrong thing I did, and how it pained him and maa, he ensured that he did not douse my inquisitive spirits. I have grown up to become a house proud man, one who values a well kept house. I don't feel odd about cleaning and mopping my house to keep it tidy.

He is my beloved baba. The man who I owe the story of my life to. The man who ensured that his mischevious and bratty son grows up into a patient and understanding father. The man who did not kill my curiosity with the stick. The man who through his actions taught me how to be an indulgent father and an understanding husband, without being patronising. The man who proudly shared the kitchen work with his wife and along the way taught me to be an equal human being. The man who taught me the value of making a choice! He is the man whose unusual ways of handling a difficult kid left lasting impressions in my mind. The man whose ability to repose faith in a growing child made me into a confident and positive person. The man who achieved all these without even raising a finger! To him I owe the little successes I have had in my life. He is not an internet literate person and will probably never read this piece, but never passes a moment when his heart doesn't beat with the rhythms of my love for him. Happy Father's Day, baba! In all matters that are fatherly, I hope I will continue to do the good things for my daughters. And for the rest of the world to know what a wonderful father you have been!

The tears haven't stopped crying

I was well into my thirties when the feeling dawned on me. By then I had my first born to understand the pangs of separation. A good part of the eight years that Aarzoo has graced our lives, I have been away from home. Tamanna, my younger one, have seen even less of me. If I look back at the thirty-nine years that I have breathed, the pain only grows stronger.

Since the age of three when I left my parents' home to enjoy an opportunity to study in a good school, I have hardly been with my mother. I used to visit my parents during the two vacations - Summer and Durga Pujo. A good whole month. That was the only time I used to spend with my siblings. I have loving memories of those times. Of the time spent as a family. Of the time spent being just with each other.The more years I am adding to my life, the more is the urge to hold on to those memories. The vacant eyes of my mother make me feel helpless.

We, my mother and I, have had a very tempestous relationship. We love each other from deep inside. When I look back I realise that she has never beaten me up. Not even once. And given the accident prone prankstar I was, I would have presented her with a thousand chances to cane me. But not did once she raised her hand on me. I have no idea why she didn't nor will I be able to find it out now. I can only guess that the pain of not having me around would have possibly always tugged at her heart. She worked as a teacher, she was a wonderful cook, a great host and managed the house smartly. Even before we would get up, she would have finished her bath and morning puja, fed my father breakfast, packed his lunch and would be halfway through her cooking. These were the days she had to rush to school by eight in the morning! If you add to that the list of instructions she would leave for the housemaids and farm-hands it's hell of a multi-tasking in less than three hours. She didn't allow anyone else to cook for the family. When I was home, she would make the choicest dishes for me - the hilsa, the prawns, the poshto, fish kaalia, kosha mangsho et al.

Ours was a welcoming home. Anyone passing by our house would drop by for a cup of tea. She liked it that way. So we had scores of visitors throughout the day, even when she wasn't around! It's a strong inculcation I have imbibed. Like her, I love to have people around. I love to be in the kitchen and drum up new dishes. That uncanny sense of experimenting while cooking is a gift from her. I hope to pass it on to my kids. In the evenings we would sit around under the open sky and break into an impromptu session of singing that would last for hours! It used to be a tour that would cover rabindra sangeet, nazrul geeti, adhunik and even filmi songs. But all were bengali songs. That's what she loved. She had a beautiful voice. All three of us - siblings have got this gift of singing from her genes. Of course training helped, but the essence of our ability to sing well came from her. She was a master in stiching - in all forms. We still have the Singer around that used to hum along with her tunes. The house was her kingdom, and she was the Queen. She also taught us to treat alike all those who worked for us. The househelps, the farmhands, everyone. And all of them have stayed on for all the three decades. We still have the same househelp we used to have when we were young. We still have the same farmhand. The ones who have retired still drop by for a cup of tea. When we visit the home, they visit us with the whole family to relive the times gone by. The one who was her favourite, had been helped to set up his own business. He runs his own dhaba and does good business. Last time when I met Ushu, he told me that his business runs well because the food he cooks is different from other dhabas. He doesn't forget to mention that the art of cooking well was a gift from my mom. She really loves Ushu and taught her every secret. Ushu joined us when he was barely in his teens and stayed on for two decades. When he wanted to open a dhaba, my mother helped him set it up. I have promised Ushu that during my next visit I will stop by his Dhaba for a meal. He has been wanting to feed us for some time. I can understand why. Kamal, the farmhad is her another favourite and she trusted Kamal with everything. Kamal is still around and ensures that my kids have the best of times when we are there; including getting his grandchildren to play with Aarzoo & Tamanna. I know I have learnt the art of fostering a relationship from my mother.  

And yet, there was period, spread over a few years when we, Mom and I, were hardly in talking terms. One particular family matter wedged a dividing line between us. I was into my late teens, the rebel streak firmly settled in my thoughts. She was a head-strong lady, when it came to certain matters. I was an equal match for her back then. My father struggled to play a peacemaker, but didn't succeed. Time took it's own course to settle the difference. Very close to when I was set to leave home to make my career, both of us came around to bury our differences. I was leaving home to join the Army. I guess the thought of Army would have left a little niggle in her heart, but she never expressed that. I hardly spent time with her after that. Work took me around the world and I would just get a couple of weeks a year to be with her. She welcomed my wife, a Coorgi with open arms. She ensured that we had an intimate wedding in Cochin, far away from home. She also ensured that Muthu was welcomed into the family. Years later my sister told me that the first time my mom met Muthu, while visiting Cochin, she quipped that this is the girl I will be marrying. It took another couple of years for me to break the news to her, but she acted matter of factly, when I finally did. When she finally realised that I have turned an atheist, she never resisted the fact. Her father was one and she once told me that she had the fear that I will become one. I guess she was prepared. But she liked the fact that I kept my non-belief to myself. There were times when she would urge me to visit the temple with her and I would. Though I would not pray, just my presence made her feel happy. She liked the fact that I did not turn into a staunch person like her father who never had anything to do with God. He did not even allow idols in his home. She liked the fact that I kept my non-belief to myself.

I have great regrets of not having spent enough time with my parents. I can't undo the course of my life. When I experienced the pain of separation, I understood the pain my mother went through to send me out to get a good education. Thanks to that education I have done well in life. I now understand how she would have lived through her pains to see me succeed. Mothers are like that - they endure the pains without expressing them. And when you realise their gift, you are too old to undo the past. I now realise that the most I have missed in life is having her time. And how I have been weeping alone for years to turn the time back. For me to be able to sit with her and talk. To break into an impromptu singing session with her. For her to play with my kids. For her to see that her son has done well for all the sacrifices she has done. I wish to have her by my side when I am in the kitchen. What an interactive and creative session it would be to try and experiment new recipes along with her. Everytime I visited home after I joined work, she called me to ensure that I carried my harmonica. I play it well and I could see she felt proud of that fact. She always used to tell me that her father would have felt great pride listening me playing harmonica. He used to play the Violin. And she loved the fact that I played so many bengali songs. Hemanta, Shyamal Mitra, Jaganmoy Mitra and Gita Dutt were her favourites. I picked up many of their songs. Everytime, she used to ask me to play her favourites. As I would play the harmonica, she would sing along the lines.

When I visit home now, she looks at me for hours but can't speak. When I clasp her hand, she clasps mine back, pressing hard as if to tell a thousand words. If I talk to her, she makes great effort to voice out a word here and there to express that she understands. When I wave her goodbye, she gives me that blank look that pains me down to my spine. Everytime I try and dress her up, she lets me do it without a resistence. When I tell her to eat, she nods in acceptance. The moment I start humming she will become alert. Just before I left for Africa, I visited her. We took her to visit the doctor. We had to wait for hours to see the doctor. And with the few words she could mutter, she could clearly express her displeasure to the doctor at having to wait for so long. But when the doctor apologised, she lost her stiffness. She is happiest when she visits her own home where she once ruled. She feels comfortable to be in that sorrounding. She loves hearing Kamal's and Bou's voice. My kids would have learnt bengali if she could speak. She would have ensured that they read and write bengali to be able to comprehend Rabindranath and Saratchandra, two of her favourite authors. I know I will get around to teaching my kids the language my mother loves most.  

Cruel Alzheimer's have stolen my mom's best years from all of us. How I have wept alone for years in pain when I realised that I will never get the time I so much wanted with her. I had thought once she retires, I will have her by my side to make up on lost time. But life had other plans. She has braved a lot to make a life for her when the riots drove her out of Bangladesh just after independence. She left her home to cross over to a new country, far away from her own. Whenever she got the chance she used to break into the bangal dialect - one that originates from Bangladesh. Amongst her own, she spoke in that dialect. Amongst her own, she loved her shutki maach - the dried fish. Life had taught her to manage life's dichotomy. I learnt it from her. But she always felt the pain of that separation. The story of that separation still continues, across the Atlantic. The tears haven't stopped crying, even on this Mother's Day.

An unequal friendship

I was just past class ten, a young boy of seventeen. He was past sixty, retired from a high profile medical career. But we became best of friends. 

I come from Burdwan, a small mofussil town hundred kilometres north of Calcutta. Those days Burdwan was more well known for having a St. Xavier's School. Back then, the town hardly attracted anyone to settle down, having nothing to offer in terms of a career or a peaceful retired life. One exception to that was Dr. D N Das who retired as Chief Medical Officer of Ispat General Hospital, Rourkela and decided to settle down in Burdwan. His wife's family hailed from Burdwan and they preferred Burdwan over Calcutta because they wanted to avoid the big city.

Dr. Das is related to the Roys, our neighbours, who are like a family to us. Such strong is our family tie with the Roys that we even share common friends and enemies. Dr. Das was the Pishomoshai (Pupa) to the Roy family. Needless to say he became Pisomoshai for me as well. Pishomoshai opened his private clinic just down the road where we lived. I guess the year was 1989, when I was in class eleven. Pishomoshai was a product of R G Kar Medical College, Calcutta and was one of the lucky ones who were taught by none other than the great Dr. B C Roy! He used to share his incredible experience of being taught by Dr. B C Roy and how great a teacher he was. Once he lamented that the modern teaching methods employed by the Medical Colleges are no match for the methods used by Dr. B C Roy back then in the fifties. His teaching methods gave far more importance to practical aspects of medical education. Just the other day I read an article in the newspaper which said the a new committee appointed by MCI has decided that the medical teaching methods in modern India are inadequate as they do not lay importance to the practical trainings! They have suggested a wholesome change to the teaching methodology. I guess, the realisation came fifty years too late.

Given Pisomoshai's background we expected him to have a roaring practice. But in reality he struggled. He made a decent earning, but nothing close to what a doctor of his standards should have earned. Unlike other doctors he refused to prescribe medicines, prefering to treat the root cause of the ailments. This was how he was taught by Dr. B C Roy. But that meant the ailments took more time to heal, though the healing process was better and healthier. But in the age of antibiotics, patients hardly bother about correct treatment. They prefer quick results! His patients wanted quick-fix solutions. Perceptually, the agrarian patients of Burdwan equated the quality of a doctor with the amount of medicines prescribed! For them a doctor prescribing little or no medicine was a sign of his ignorance! And so the quacks down the road had patients by the hundreds, whereas Pishomoshai was struggling!

Pishomoshai's free hours meant I had the luxury of spending hours with him in his chamber. I was a young boy, who had a great penchant for general knowledge. I was always eager to learn anything. The fact that Pishomoshai was a student of Dr. B C Roy endeared me to him. Dr. B C Roy was one of my childhood heroes, having read about him a lot. My off days and most evenings were spent with Pishomoshai, chatting away for hours. It was thus our friendship was born. He is a great story teller who can weave a magic to his narration. I was the eager listener, who wanted to know more about India of yore. Right from his student days to the days when he became the CMO of Ispat General Hospital, he used to narrate his life stories! Those stories used to transport me to a different world, which existed only in my mind's eye! The bond only grew thicker over time.

Once he told me about a patient who he treated in Rourkela General Hospital. It was late at night and he was at his home when he was called by the emergency to attend to a seriously injured person. What he saw stupefied him. In the emergency ward he saw an adivasi man standing with a spear like object stuck inside him. He spotted no sign of blood loss or general weakness in the patient. The patient could not lie down on the bed as that pained him a lot. Sitting was equally uncomfortable. The injury happened in the evening and the patient travelled for nearly eight hours to reach the hospital, the only good one that served the poor around the area. What baffled Pishomoshai was the fact that the patient was in no great pain, despite the fact that he had more than half the spear-like object inside him! Nor was there too much of blood loss, except for some that he lost due to skin injury. When he cut open the man's belly in the OT, he was stunned to see what he saw. The object had a sharp metal head made of iron. While working in the field, the man somehow fell down from a height onto the object. As he fell down the object pierced his belly and went inside. As it travelled inside the body under the great gravitational force, it managed to sneak past all the organs and arteries before lodging itself on the spine! As it came to a stop in the spinal bone, the head of the spear stopped just millimeters short of the spinal chord. The man was in no pain because none of his organs were injured. He did not lose blood as none of the arteries were scratched! There was no internal haemorrhage either. And he was bloody lucky that the spear did not touch the spinal chord! Otherwise, he could have been paralysed for life! The operation was over in no time and the man walked out of the hospital spring fit in a few days. Pishomoshai narrated this story to me as his most strange experience! He also mentioned that the patient being an Adivasi did not suffer from shock. If it happened to lesser mortals, he was certain the patient would have suffered from shock and would have been in dire mental state.Pishomoshai was considered a hero among the Adivasis of Orissa around Rourkela. He spent almost all his life in Ispat General Hospital, treating them of snake bites, injuries sustained from factory accidents, leopard attacks and many more. He was a hero among the Adivasis because he hardly treated them with antibiotics and medicines. The Adivasis loved his treatment methods, as he treated them in the most natural way. Sadly, the supposedly more progressive city dwellers shunned him for the same reason! What a travesty!

One saturday morning we were chatting away in his chamber when a tractor stopped right in front of the chamber. There was great hurry among the people who were in the tractor and moments later we saw a bloodied man being carried inside. There was so much blood all over the man's body that one could hardly make out what the problem was. From close quarters I could see the skull of the man wide open from the front with blood gushing out. The injured man was tilling his land when accidentally a tractor belonging to the neighbouring land owner hit him. The iron plough of the tractor hit him on the head, splitting it wide open. As Pishomoshai took a first look he opined that he could survive only if he was taken to a large hospital. On second thoughts, he realised that the patient may not survive the journey as it was almost way past an hour since the injury had happened and the man had lost too much blood. On the way, the patient's relatives stopped at several nursing homes/hospitals, but everywhere they were turned away. Pishomoshai had to take a quick call and he decided that he will give it a shot. He explained the facts to the relatives of the patients. I guess even they realised the graveness of the situation and gave their consent. He instructed the relatives of the patients to organise 2 bottles of blood. As he quickly moved in, he asked me to help him out. It took a few minutes for the anaesthesia to set in. Pishomoshai cleaned up the injury and then the damage was clearly visible. The injury was at least ten inches wide with a gaping hole! I was standing by his side helping him by handing over the required equipments. Pishomoshai asked me to slide in a set of gloves and instructed me on how to hold on to the skin as he prepared to do the sutures. He needed someone to assist him and asked me to step in. If I remember correctly, the man needed some thirty odd sutures, criss-crossing at every possible angle. That was the first time I witnessed so much blood and my head was reeling as I stood there helping Pishomoshai out. At times I felt like throwing up, but bit my lips and carried on. My hands were shaking and my whole body was trembling. All along Pishomoshai kept on encouraging me, reminding me that I can help him save the man's life! And all along he never once wavered from what he was doing! Such was his power of concentration. In the end everything went off well. As soon as it ended I ran out straight to the house. As I sat down lowering my head, I lost all feeling. I guess I stayed like that for quite sometime as I did not notice Pishomoshai entering the house. My aunt was worried as to what had happened. I had no energy left to explain to her. I guess the blood and the gory sight did me in. I could not eat for the next couple of days. The strong smell of chloroform and the sight of blood numbed my taste buds. Pishomoshai spoke me out of that feeling. But for him, I would have carried a dislike for such sights for ever. A couple of weeks later, the patient came down to thank Pishomoshai. I was present on that day as well. He had brought along his wife. She gifted Pishomoshai a sackful of their first harvest! That was unadultereted gratitude! The wife was crying as she expressed her thanks. I could see the satisfaction in Pishomoshai's eyes. That pleasure of saving a man's life meant more to him than the money he earned. It happened many times when patients would get treated first and then say that they did not have the money to pay him. Not once did he lose his temper on them. Instead, he asked them to pay him later, whenever they could. The rural patients always came back and paid him to the last dime. It was the city dwellers who cheated him most times. I wonder why our minds have to get corrupt as we become more progressive. 

Pishomoshai is now pushing eighty. I met him last january at a family wedding. It was after a good seventeen years I was meeting him. We sat and chatted. And had our dinner together. I left Burdwan right after my graduation. Pishomoshai left Burdwan a couple of years later, around the mid-nineties for Calcutta. He shifted base as his private practise was not doing well in Burdwan. Though I kept myself informed about him through family, I never managed to meet him during the last seventeen years. Last year when the marriage was fixed, I made sure to ask if he would be present. When I learnt that he would indeed be there, I ensured that I travelled all the way from Kabul to meet him. Pishomoshai taught me many things in life. His life experience opened up the world for me. That I was more than forty years his junior and younger than his own children never made a difference to our friendship. He always treated me like a friend. From politics to business to life's lessons, he discussed everything with me. From sharing his point of view to listening patiently to mine, he always ensured that we had a healthy debate. Those hours spent with him for many years taught me the value of a healthy debate. It taught me to respect others' point of view. It taught me to have a positive outlook even when one is down and out. For Pishomoshai, those were tough times with a meagre income. But he soldiered on. I have learnt many of my life's lessons from Pishomoshai, the most important being the will to fight on when the chips are down. I have nothing else but pure love for him. In this friendship, I have been the receipient. I have had nothing to give him in return.

Lst january when I met him, I narrated my uncle's problem to him and asked him if can can suggest any remedy. My uncle's left eye muscle has become weak and as a result he has lost control on the movement of the eye. The loss of control is substantial, to the extent that his left eye will be focused in the opposite direction than that of his right eye, giving an appearance of a squinted eye. He had been to many renowned hospitals in Bangalore, Madras and Calcutta, including the famous Shankar Nethrayalaya. Everywhere the doctors recommended operation, that too with just a 50% chance of it being successful. That left us in a piquant situation and my uncle resisted the operation. It took Pishomoshai just a few minutes to suggest a remedy. And it involved no medicine! He asked for a piece of paper and a scissor. What he did was an eye-opener. He half-covered the left lens of my Uncle's pair of spectacles with a piece of paper. He covered that half of the lens, in which the eye generally rolls out to. Because of the problem, my uncle's eye ball rolls towards the outside, farther away from the centre, near where the eyebrow ends. So he covered the half of the lens that is on the outer side of the centre. And voila! in a few days time, Uncle's eye started getting its strength back. Pishomoshai's theory was very simple. The eye is light sensitive and will always seek the light source out. If he covers that portion of the lens where the eye ball rolls out, the eye will be in a dark atmosphere. This will prompt the eye to seek the light source, thus pushing the eye muscle to go on the reverse direction! And that's what exactly happened! Today, after a year, my uncle's problem is in a manageable stage, without even popping a single pill! And when I complimented Pishomoshai, he told me that he owed all this to Dr. B C Roy. For it was he who had taught them to treat the root cause and not the symptoms! Pishomoshai for me will remain a great doctor. I never saw Dr. B C Roy, but in Pishomoshai I could see the great Dr. B C Roy! He did not have the page long degrees that the modern doctors acquire, but just his MBBS degree was enough to make him a very fine doctor!

Pishomoshai was the one who solved my back problem years ago. I suffered a bad back problem, so much so that if I sat down, I could not get up and vice versa. I picked up the injury while playing cricket, a sport I carried on playing to some serious level. I consulted many major orthopaedicians including a famous sports orthopaedician, to no avail. All of them suggested surgery. Pishomoshai, after diagnosing my problem, suggested that every morning after I wake up, for one month I should use an Indian style latrine. He said that it will be painful, but if I can carry on, I will become alright. He suggested I squat on the loo few times a day, even when I was not required to use it! And that my dear readers solved my problem. In less than a month, the problem was gone. Gone forever. That exercise helped strengthen my lower back muscle enough to take the stress of the sporting activities I pursued. Even during the back-breaking military training that I underwent years later, the problem never relapsed! That is Pishomoshai for you! It felt lovely meeting him after so many years. In the intervening years, I have grown up to become a man, married and fathered two daughters. Time has added years to Pishomoshai's wrinkles and many more old age complications. But he is mentally agile and as sprightly as he ever was! He even stayed over at our house for a couple of nights.

Pishomoshai, this is my way of saying thanks to you. As I said, I never could give back anything to the cherished friendship we have had over the years. You have taught me many good things in life. The lessons have made me a much better person than I possibly would have been. I only have love and gratitude for you. I am an atheist and do not believe in after-life. But if I have the power to grant immortality to a few people of my choice, you would be one of them! You are a great doctor and a very fine human being. This world needs more people like you. I hope I can be like you!

That day, Sir John saved me from rustication!

I cannot have fond memories of St. Xavier's School, Burdwan without lovingly recollecting the time spent with the doting Sir John. He was always the sane voice even when others fumed. His love for his students was without any inhibition and unconditional. He loved my imitation of his nasal tone (especially the way he used to pronounce 'mug-neyyyyyyy-sim') and used to plant one of his famous pinches every time I used to mimic him.

There was only once when he had hit me and then moments later broke down in front of the entire class. I think he was in a bad mood that day, which itself was very rare. I was in class nine and one of his favourite students, though I was never the class topper. He was our class teacher, if I remember correctly. I had this bad habit of seating in the class with my legs jutting out sideways on the aisle between the two rows. He had warned me a couple of times in the preceding weeks about that. Obviously, he would have received some complaints from other teachers. That particular day I committed the same mistake. John Sir used to walk around the class as he taught us. As he was passing by the aisle, my outstretched legs tripped him, nearly making him fall. In one moment he was out of the class. Even before I could realise what happened, he was back with a huge stick and started beating me up. That was some beating. For the next couple of minutes the classroom reverberated with only the swoosh of the stick and the smack of it landing on my skin. When it stopped, I could hardly stand, having nearly blacked out. Moments later, I saw him near the blackboard shouting at me and then breaking down. He was hysterical and utterly upset about the incident. He looked at me and said to this effect: "I never want to beat you people. Why do you force me to do this? I hate doing this". With that he started walking towards me. I stood there petrified, wondering what would happen next. What happened next is what John Sir is all about. He came and gave me a warm hug as tears kept rolling down his cheeks. He dissolved the class and took me to the staff room and applied Dettol and Boroline on the wounds inflicted. That was Sir John for you, our beloved Chemistry teacher!

But this was not the day when he saved me from certain rustication. That happened a year later, when I was in class ten, few weeks away from my ICSE exam.

Sir Nabi (sadly, he is no more) was our geography teacher. He had a rather dull method of teaching an interesting subject like geography. I was very good at geography and loved the subject. Once before our ICSE finals, I was even made to take a geography class for my classmates, when Nabi Sir was absent! That was a high. Some weeks before our ICSE exam, in one of the Geography class, Nabi Sir was revising some chapter and discussing answers. On one particular answer, I differed with Nabi Sir. I kept insisting I had the correct answer and I got into an argument with him. Confidence gave way to teenage arrogance and rightfully Nabi Sir did not appreciate it. The altercation became heated and in the end he threw me out of the class. But before doing that, in a typical Nabi Sir manner, he humiliated me in front of the class rather badly.

The ego of a class ten student was too big to take in the humiliation of being seen punished, standing outside the class, by the junior students. The hurt was even more when you consider that ours was a co-ed school! That feeling lead me to plotting a revenge. Two decades later, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder at myself and my stupidity of even having thought of a revenge! I am such a changed person now. But then again, maybe these experiences have made me into a better person that I am today. It didn't take many minutes for Sandip(Sinha) to walk out of the class on a forced pee-break. He was my alter-ego, the evil-twin at school. He felt the ignominy as much as i did. I knew we had to plot. As we walked down the staircase to reach the washroom at the ground floor, we saw Nabi Sir's scooter parked below the porch just outside the Chemistry lab. Those days Nabi Sir was the only one to own a scooter, a Bajaj Priya. On some telepathic spark, we looked at each other and both of us had an evil smile to share! The next couple of minutes were spent to work out the details. I went back and stood outside the class, contended that I will have my revenge in a couple of hours! Sandip went back to the class to rope in Indranil(Karmakar), the third member of the mischevious triad we formed at school.

The first period after lunch was Chemistry practical class. As the Chemistry practical class started, we (Sandip, Indranil & myself) took seats far away from the window that overlooked the porch where Nabi Sir's scooter was parked. We actually took the farthest seats. Once experiments were allocated, we were required to collect the materials required for the experiments from the store keeper by signing a register. We asked John Sir, rather innocuously to give us some experiments which involved HCL or H2SO4 (I don't remember exactly which one was that, but pretty sure, it was one of the two). Combining the share of the three of us, we had a beaker full of acid, in its concentrated form. Once everyone got busy with their experiments, John Sir as usual walked upstairs to the staff-room. The store-keeper was busy inside the store room, least attentive to what went outside. That was the time we were waiting for. We sneaked out quietly, taking care to hide the small beaker, reaching the closed collapsible gate round the corner of the wall. On the other side of the collapsible gate was Nabi Sir's scooter. If one stood in front of the collapsible gate one could not be seen from the other classes as the giant pillars formed a natural obstruction at that obtuse angle. And on either side of the gate was open ground, where no one would be there at that hour. We just needed to finish the job in double quick time as anyone coming down the stairs could see us from the landing itself.

All that separated us from the scooter was thin air - it was easy to reach the scooter through the gaps of the collapsible gate. At first we poured a small amount of the acid on the front seat. Lo and behold! in a jiffy the seat had a gaping hole! We looked at each other wearing a wicked smile on our face. We started pouring acid at random and soon the seat had holes all over! Next we targeted the pillion seat. In no time, it had the same appearance. There was hardly anything left of the seats except the coiled springs. Even the springs had a badly corroded look. It is as if someone had scooped out the seats with some sharp rounded object! By then strong pungent smell started filling the place up. We realised that it was time to go. As we turned to head back to the lab, I could not resist the urge to turn back and pour the rest of the acid on the stepney! Phew! in a moment, a large chunk of the tyre was eaten up. The wire mesh of the tyre lay exposed giving it a scary skeletal look! The satisfaction on our faces said it all! We stepped back into the lab as quietly as we had stepped out.


We spent the next two periods in a restless state, wondering if the act had been noticed. But the quietness suggested that it had gone unnoticed till then. As we walked down the stairs at the end of the class hours to head for the field for the games period, we stole a glance of the scooter. There, it lay, unattended wearing a bony look. It was midway through the games period we spotted the commotion near the scooter. There was a large crowd of students and teachers. We knew that that was the moment of truth, we had been eagerly waiting for. We rushed across to the spot, wearing as bemused an expression as anyone else on the crowd. Dutta Sir, the games teacher, Ashish Sir, the Maths teacher and Felix Sir, the English teacher followed us. They used to play with us during the games period. There was Nabi Sir, standing by the scooter, distraught and seething in anger. He was in an animated discussion with John Sir. It turned out that some girl student noticed the problem (the girls' throw-ball courts were by the porch, where the scooter was kept parked) and reported it to Nabi Sir, who came rushing down. In no time, Father Foshow, our Headmaster was at the spot inspecting the damage. There was no trace of the acid in the air, so no one was able to figure the problem out. Except one person. He was Sir John.

The moment Sir John noticed us, he signalled us to follow him. As we stepped aside on to the corridor, he told us bluntly: "I know you three have done this. That's why you asked for the acid. Now tell me why did you do this". To John Sir, we could hardly lie. We saw Ashish Sir walking towards us. He would have seen us stepping aside and knew something was wrong. He was our guardian angel - for the three of us that is. Most of the times, he knew about our pranks in advance. That way, he was prepared to help us out in times of trouble. We had a special relationship with him, something more than a usual teacher-student rapport. As we blurted out the reason for our stupid action, both John Sir and Ashish Sir wore a startled look. They were angry and smiling at the same time. The whole idea made them laugh, but the thought of what happened to one of their colleagues did not put them at comfort. They told us bluntly that what we did was grossly wrong. John Sir even told us that if we get caught, we would get rusticated without a question. That would mean missing the ICSE exam. That was the first time we felt scared! The prospect of missing ICSE had never occurred to us before. We started fearing the worst. Both John Sir & Ashish Sir noticed the change in our appearance. They asked us to get back to the field as they headed back to join Nabi Sir. 

As time wore by, the final bell rang and we headed for the bus. Indranil and me travelled in the same bus along with Ashish Sir. Sandip travelled with John Sir in the same bus. We gathered that no one could figure out how it happened. Nabi Sir was outraged, to say the least. He mentioned to Father Foshow the need to institute an inquiry and punishing the culprits in the harshest manner. To that Father Foshow quipped that it would be rustication. As we gathered at Ashish Sir's place in the evening (we used to take private tuitions from him), we started discussing the possibilities. We had started worrying after hearing about rustication. That was never budgeted! John Sir was our best hope, if we got into trouble. So off we went to John Sir's house, a twenty minutes cycle ride away. At John Sir's house, we got the reprimand we deserved. He told us that Father Foshow has called for a Teachers' meeting the next morning to discuss the subject. John Sir was furious with us. If it was not for the impending ICSE exam, he would have told the truth to Father Foshow. In the end, the John Sir he was, he told Ashish Sir the need to protect our career. He feared that knowing how headstrong Father Foshow was, the truth can lead to our rustication.

We stepped into the school the next morning with trepidation. At the assembly, Father Foshow was furious. He spared no words and was categorical that whoever was found guilty, would be rusticated. That sent a chill down our spine. The only thing that cooled us down was the fact that till then no one had figured out who did it. Or how did that happen. And the only two people who knew about the truth decided to keep quiet, for our sake, keeping our careers in mind. Obviously they did not like doing what they did, especially since it affected one of their own. We felt turbulence inside all the while when the Teachers' meeting was on. It was a long half-hour. We were antsy to meet John Sir & Ashish Sir as soon as they stepped out of the meeting. But better sense prevailed and we waited till lunch time. They said all the teachers unanimously agreed to rustication for the guilty. A committee was instituted to investigate the matter. But beyond that no one in the meeting had an idea about what happened. Or for that matter who could have done it. When Nabi Sir was asked if he suspected anyone, he drew a blank. Though at second guess he mentioned that it had to be someone from the senior classes. To our advantage, there were a number of pranksters in classes eight, nine and ten.

The committee hadn't made any progress in their investigation. They hit a dead end without any clue, whatsoever. The committee questioned a lot of students, including us. The pranksters in the school were well known. But this time, the finesse with which the prank was done left everyone clueless. In the meantime we received our ICSE exam admission cards. With that we knew the danger had passed away. Even if we were to get caught now, no one could prevent us from taking the exam. But it was a close shave. Much later, after the exams got over, we did hear murmurs that Nabi Sir suspected us. He had opined in the staff room that the act required daring and clever minds; and that he could think no one else other than the three of us who could have possibly pulled it off. He said that he did not have the proof, but in his heart he knew it was us. During our farewell, Nabi Sir did ask us about our involvement in the incident. And he said that he was just curious to know and that he meant no harm. Especially, since we were essentially out of school, beyond his reach. But we kept a straight face and denied without hesitation. We had to protect the honour of the two men who saved us from surefire rustication. Till this day, no one else knows the truth. Of the five men who knew about it, John Sir and Sandip are no more. I have taken the liberty to write this piece without seeking consent form Ashish Sir or Indranil. This is my tribute to John Sir, who I will always love from the bottom of my heart. He braved torrential rain to attend my marriage reception, blessing us with all his love. He became fond of my half-malayali wife, never failing to ask about her whenever we met up. Kerala was still close to his heart, even though he spent almost all his life in suburban bengal. I used to visit him whenever I was in Burdwan. I met him last a few months before an untimely heart attack stole him away. I was far away in Bangalore, when the news of his demise came in. Time didn't allow me to become a pallbearer for him, a regret I will carry with me till my end.

Follow my blog to read about Sandip, the best friend who I lost to an accident. That is another loss I am yet to come to terms with.

The fastest ten seconds of my life

It was drizzling when our flight took off from Lagos for Benin city. I was on an overnight business trip. That plan changed within a couple of hours of my landing in Benin. I was in the middle of a training session when an SOS call came from HR. The instruction was clear - to get out of Benin immediately as a riot had broken out. The riot was turning violent in double quick time. In times of riots, a captive expat is a prize catch! It can fetch a windfall. The office driver did an F1 encore to get me to the airport. The drive was more scary than the flying missiles on the streets which were strewn with spent bullet shells, hand made crude missiles, stones and burning tyres. As I wished the driver good bye, I felt relieved having made to the airport without any harm.

As I walked into the small airport it was already late afternoon. The calm look of the morning had turned into chaos, with hundreds of passengers trying to flee. I did not have a ticket, so had to first get myself booked. There were only a couple of airlines that flew between Lagos & Benin. But the airline I took in the morning had already left for Lagos with its return passengers. So I had no choice but to book with the second airline, a small operator. As I approached the booking counter, I saw a dapper looking gent, in his mid forties manning it. In a few minutes I had a ticket in hand and knew that I will be home before sundown. Little did I know what lay in store!

I was told the flight will take off in an hour and boarding pass will be issued fifteen minutes before take-off. This was Nigeria. With the bus-shelter like airport packed to the seams I tried hard to concentrate on the plot of the fiction I was reading. The sky had turned angry by the next hour when I looked up to catch a glimpse of the terminal. The persistent drizzle had turned into a downpour. As the rain abated, one by one, all the other flights took off, leaving behind us - just the twenty odd passengers who were to fly to Lagos. That left us on tenterhooks, as with Benin not having night flying facility we were in real danger of being locked down in the airport for the night. Depression started setting in, with the thought of having to use the airport bathroom!

But luck turned very soon for us. The rain slowed down to a small drizzle and visibility improved. Soon enough we were on the 'Q' to collect the boarding passes and headed straight for the security gate. I saw the same dapper gent at the check-in counter, busy issuing boarding passes to us. Minutes later, at the security gate, the same gent was frisking us to complete the security process. I had my antenna up, but let the thought pass-by thinking that the other employees would have left for the day. But when I saw him again at the boarding gate, I started having a very uneasy feeling.

But nothing prepared me for the shock I felt when I sighted the plane! As I walked out on to the tarmac to take the walk to the aircraft, my heart sank, literally. There in front was parked a plane, straight out of World War II vintage. It was one of those small propeller aircrafts. It looked more like a polka-dotted toy, than a real plane! Only that the polka-dots were made out of aluminum, riveted onto the body of the plane! There was practically no part of the airplane frame left untouched by the silver coloured rivets! If some were round, others were oval and still others rectangular. I wondered if the air-frame was air-worthy at all! Where on earth would someone fly an aircraft like this? I even contemplated staying back, but the airport staff would have none of it. The airport would be shut close once this flight leaves. No passenger was allowed to stay put in the airport, leave alone an expat. So, reluctantly, I walked back to the plane.

As I climbed up into the plane, I was jolted! The interior confirmed my worst fears! It was dark, dingy and smelly. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the plane with just a curtain! The lone air-hostess looked no happier either. As my eyes took a quick round, I saw exposed wires and flipped-out wall panels. I shut close my eyes, took a deep breath and sat down. Only to be jolted back when I saw the dapper gent on the pilot's seat! "What the hell is he doing here?", I blurted out failing to control my vocal chord. Only for the air-hostess to dart a dirty look towards me. Sheepishly, I looked around for some support, but none came by. At last, the gent seated next filled in: "These are pilot-owned aircrafts". What he meant was this: enterprising fellows would get a CPL from Russia or other such east European countries paying a fortune by Nigerian standards. The package also included a deal to buy one of the real old, possibly condemned, east European aircrafts. These single-plane airline companies were owned and piloted by the pilots themselves. They employed no check-in clerks and no ground staff to keep cost down. This enabled them to offer dirt cheap tickets. Business flourished, as there was hardly any public transport system in Nigeria. When the pilot, the dapper gent, announced take-off, I wondered if I will ever make it home!

The flight took off amidst the slight drizzle. I comforted myself with the thought that it was only a 45 minutes flight. At least I was up in the air, safe from harm's way! Or so I thought. Small turbulence was the order of the day with such weather, so when the plane started shaking, ever too often, I did not get concerned. But gradually the shaking became ever more violent. I looked through the window, only to see clouds, menacingly looking back at me. Even before I could realise what happened next, I was flown out of my seat and hit the overhead locker hard! As were many others. Baggage tumbled out of overhead bins. We were taking a deep plunge! We had hit an air pocket and we would have dropped for a good 3-4 seconds. People shrieked and shrilled. No sooner we got back to our seats, we were jolted out once more, this time for an even longer period. This time the drop lasted for a good 5-6 seconds. I was sure, we were crashing. I only wondered if my family will get my remains. "Why on earth, I had to die in Nigeria, of all places?", the question almost came naturally to my mind.

The middle aged lady in front of me was loudly praying to Jesus, with rosary in hand. The man on the next seat was offering his last prayers, asking Jesus to forgive him for all his sins. Another man seated diagonally in front was on a confession mood! If some were crying, others were shrieking. The air-hostess herself had hopelessness written all over her face! A Muslim co-passenger was trying to look towards the sky, hoping to find the Almighty. And then, the free fall ended as suddenly as it had started! The cries changed to shrieks of laughter. Clapping followed. Smiles returned. I realised those were the fastest ten seconds of my life!

As realisation dawned, embarrassment set in. No one looked at each other. Somehow, the darkest secrets come out only when one is most vulnerable. I sighed, realising that I will live to tell the tale.

We touched down to a smooth landing at the Murtala Muhammed airport in Lagos. Someone drew the curtain out and walked into the cockpit to thank the dapper pilot. He certainly looked relieved; his investment has survived one more scare. As I walked out of the plane, I turned around to give it one final look and hoped not to be back again. When I walked into the terminal I dialled my wife's number. I desperately needed to soothe my nerves.

From Tahrir Square, Cairo to Al Tahrir Square, Sanaa

Uncle Sam, you take great pride in the freedom of expression that all your citizens are allowed, enshrined by the constitution.

But the crony politicians that you have propped up for the last three decades in the Arab world deny that very freedom to all their citizens, with impunity! And you look the other way, conveniently!

Uncle Sam, you take great pride in your country's democratic set up that follows Lincoln's "of the people, for the people, by the people" principle of political governance. 

Yet, you have been backing the despotic leaders in the Arab world who have been autocratic, corrupt and who never missed a chance to unleash violence on their own people!

Uncle Sam, you take great pride in your practice of political plurality, where even a Barrack Obama rose to presidency, based on choices made by your own people in a free and fair election.

Yet, in the Arab world, your chosen ones practice dynastic politics for decades, where free and fair elections have been non-existent and people's voices have been ruthlessly repressed!


The story repeats itself on either side of the Indian Ocean, Uncle Sam. Across Tunisia, Sudan, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Yemen the story is the same.You cared only about your own vested interests. You did not feel the necessity to bother about the interests of the millions of muslims across the Arab world whose basic rights are being trampled upon by these very acts, for decades.

If the youth of the Arab world want freedom, they have to leave their motherland and take asylum in your paradise!

If the Arab youth want good eductaion, one that can liberate their minds, they have to pay greenbacks on the thousands to seek admission in one of your pedigreed universities. Their motherland offers no such facilities!

If the Arab youth want to lead a life of dignity, where they can make their own choices, just like any common man does, they have to take flight to US of A, for in their own country only the privileged few get to enjoy these!

And Uncle Sam, you thought that the billions of dollars that you donate (to the despots) will help maintain status quo! Except that you did not budget for the youth of the new era! They are the modern youth who googles and twitters. They are the modern youth who aspires! They are the modern youth who demands equality. Uncle Sam, you have been creating a volcano over the decades that finally erupted at the Tahrir Square! This is people power, Uncle Sam, even if they don't happen to be your people. They are as much the future of this world, even if they do not belong to your country. The world doesn't belong only to US of A, Uncle Sam.

It is the policies crafted and practiced by you, Uncle Sam, that have radicalised the Muslim youth and not their religion. It is your policies Uncle Sam, that have allowed the radical mullahs to breed and cultivate extremism and propagate terror across the world. If you have a heart, take this chance and introspect. For in that, you will possibly find a solution that can pave for a better and equitable world. If you have the gumption to bite your overgrown ego, then the world will be a far better place to live in. The people of Egypt have thrown out one of their own, but in that act they have send you a strong message. These youth, do not want to immigrate to the US of A to have a good life. They want a good life in their own country! It is their birthright.

Otherwise, this movement will not end in Tahrir square, Cairo. In no time, it will cross the Suez to travel across to Nejmeh Square in Beirut to Martyr Square, Damascus to finally reach Al Tahrir Square, Sanaa! And on its way, it will take down all your cronies. That will change the world order, one where there will be no place for unipolarity. And just remember that Egypt got liberated by a completely non-violent movement! Mubarak ho, in advance!

The Colonel in my life

After I failed to clear the colour blindness test, I had to give up my dream of flying. I chose to join the Army instead. With colour blindness not being an impediment in joining the Army, I was not ready for the shock, when the doctors told me I had "Heart murmur" and can't join the Army. That was the first time I ever heard the word, forget about knowing what it meant! I was stupefied. I was fit like a cat having played cricket till the under-19 level. There was no way I could have had a heart problem.

That's when I remembered my new friend. On my way to Delhi for the medicals, I met a cardiac surgeon in the Rajdhani Express. He was with the BM Birla Heart Research Centre, Calcutta and was on his way to Delhi to attend a conference. We got talking and became acquainted. I remembered while giving me his visiting card he had asked me to approach him for any help. That's what I did! And help, he did, in large doses. I took the Rajdhani back to Calcutta, having managed to cajole the TT to let me travel even though there were no seats available. The TT perhaps realised my plight and let me in. I stood at the vestibule gate for the entire sixteen hours that it took to reach Calcutta. Over the next couple of days, the doctor friend conducted many tests and comforted me that I was alright. He encouraged me file for an appeal. There was a slight regurgitation of impure blood back into my heart, but that should not impede me from performing any military duties. I filed an appeal with the Medical Board along with all the findings. Those days doctors from BM Birla had far reaching reputation and commanded great respect. After two agonising weeks I received the letter. Finally, it was triumph!I won the appeal. The doctor friend is another good Samaritan, I will never forget in my life.

That's how I landed up in IMA, Dehradun in a cold January morning. But even before I could finish my training, I got badly injured and landed up in hospital. The doctors at the Command Hospital, Pune diagnosed my condition as IDK or internal derangement of knees. After a good six months in hospital and a series of operations later, the doctors said my problem can't be fixed! I was medically boarded out of the Army. Was I distraught? You bet I was. The journey back home was painful as I realised it was the end of the road for me as far as a career in the services was concerned. But back home my folks were happy - they never liked my idea of joining the defense forces in the first place. They started impressing upon me about the 'divine intervention' that was saving me time and again. The atheist in me paid no heed to the emotional atyachar. I started wondering about my future when I received a letter from the SSB (Services Selection Board) asking me to join the OTA (Officers' Training Academy), Madras. OTA passouts joined the Indian Army under Short Service Commission. The letter lifted my spirits, but also left me bemused at my luck! Of course, this ensured a battle at home. One that saw my folks invoking names of all possible gods to prevent me from heading back to the Army. But Gods never ruled my thoughts and in the end I was on the train to Madras to give it one last try. 

The first five months in OTA followed the rigours and the routine. I was able to sustain the grind. Just when I started thinking about the commission, the knee problem relapsed. It started off as a small niggle, but progressed into a massive swelling, leading to hospitalisation. This was where I first met Colonel (Dr.) Manoharan, the then Adjutant of Military Hospital, Madras. His expert eyes and constant grill easily pried out the history out of me. Once he learnt about the IMA episode, he wasted no time in asking for my file from the HQ. He had a bewildered look! This was the first time he met someone who managed to re-enter the Army after being medically boarded out! He was bemused by the facts of my case, possibly even doubting my version at times.

Col Manoharan was livid at the doctors who handled my case at the Command Hospital, Pune. It was a mistake committed by them which lead to this mess up. The doctors at Command Hospital, Pune assigned a wrong category while medically boarding me out. Instead of assigning the permanent disability category, they put me under the temporary category, that was revocable. Once the time elapsed, the system generated a call letter for me! Col. Manoharan was categorical: I can't be out there serving the Army. I just did not have the knees to sustain the rigours of an Army life. But he was kind enough to acknowledge that I was a victim of someone else's callousness. He was the doctor who finally signed off the papers and medically boarded me out of the services, for good. He assigned me a 40% disability category that meant I was permanently barred from the services. But it also ensured that I became eligible for disability pension, which was rightfully due to me, as the injury was accountable to the service. Col Manoharan wished me luck as I took his leave to walk out of the MH. I held no grudge against him. He played fair. But this is where the story takes a twist!

Years later, I landed up in Cochin to pursue my MBA. When I joined BPL Mobile in Cochin in 1997 to start my corporate career, I had no idea that this city will play such a critical role in my life. That year BPL Mobile was sponsoring a fund raising event hosted by Raksha, a local NGO, which worked among children with multiple disabilities. As Brand Manager, I was responsible for liaising with the NGO on a day-to-day basis. I was coordinating with The Executive Secretary of Raksha, an attractive young lady. Business acquaintance gave way to friendship, followed by years of courtship, finally playing cupid in 2002. Muthamma Devaya, Muthu to her friends, was the antithesis of what a lady stood for in conservative Cochin. She was bold and did not care to conform to the norms. Me, being me, I was the hardcore non-conformist. It always took two to tango. Thus started the Devaya-Sen family journey! I hope to write my 'two-states' some years later. I can bet it will be far more fascinating! 

Muthu comes from a half-coorgi, half-malayali family. Her maternal side is from Kerala. Few years into our marriage, at a family get-together, I was recounting my OTA experience when, Mano mama, my wife's uncle, upon hearing my story, sprang up from his chair! As it turned out he was the Col. Manoharan of MH, Madras, who boarded me out! For him the OTA episode was one memorable experience, which he story-told many times over. As the seconds passed by, we just kept looking at each other and then embraced each other in a big hug. Col. Manoharan is now the Mano mama to me! Typical fauji banter followed and Amma, Mano mama's sister, wondered about the quirkiness of it all! I had landed up all the way from OTA to Cochin and then got married to a girl who belonged to the same doctor's family, who sealed my career in the Army!

The many seasons that filled in the decade and a half that passed by, made it difficult for me to recognise Col. Manoharan, even though we crossed paths several times at family functions. And I had turned from a flagpole thin Gentleman Cadet when he last saw me, to a paunch flaunting corporate executive. There was no way he could have recognised me.

Today, Vishnu, Mano mama's only child is married to Tulsi, my wife's favourite cousin from her paternal side. The Colonel is now bonded in blood. We share a great camaraderie between us due to our shared fauji past. He was the one who made me a pensioner when I was barely twenty-four! At times, we wonder how our lives have twisted their courses to bring us back together! It had all started from Pune, where Mano mama now spends his retired life. He will forever remain the Colonel in my life, though I love him more as the Mano mama I know him as.

Egypt, the way I will always remember

The flight from Lagos, Nigeria to Cairo was uneventful. We slept through the flight, never realising that an eventful morning is awaiting us upon landing. Early morning encounters with immigration officials anywhere in the world is something not very desirable. Cairo immigration officials were no exception. Though excited to have finally made it to Egypt, the early morning grogginess made us a little tired. We were on the 'Q' waiting for our turn to be grilled at the immigration counter, when we heard our names, loud and clear, on the public address system. The announcement sent a chill-wave down our spines! Nigeria, those days, was notorious for drug peddling, and we feared the worst. I thought they found some drugs in our baggage! My mind raced to the prospect of getting caught in an Islamic country with drugs. I felt my feet heavy like a rock and could not move them at all....when the announcement was played out once again. This time, we headed for the Chief Immigration Officer's room. Hundreds of pairs of eyes pried on us, some filled with pity, others with detestation. We were already convicted.

Three of us stood in front of the Immigration Officer like school boys, hand palmed together at the back. He asked for our Passports. The sight of our luggage at the corner of the room made me numb. I felt the end was drawing near. My head started spinning. Images of my wife and daughter flashed across as I thought I will possibly never see them again! And then the Officer asked us for the 'letter'! Letter? What letter? Three of us looked at each other perplexed at the question. We started pleading with the Officer that we are good souls and that we come from India, from good families....and we did nothing wrong. We even said that we had locked our bags to ensure there no one could pilfer with them. "But where is the letter you are carrying for me?" It was then the matter dawned on me! That was the fastest reflex action I ever managed in my life - in one swoop I opened my handbag and gave the letter to the Officer. A smile flashed across his face and relief across ours! We wiped off the sweat on our faces, as we took seats. Nice camaraderie followed when the Officer realised what we went through the last ten minutes. It was time for tea, toast and banter as the sun peeped out for the day.

The letter what the Officer wanted was the one given to us by the Egyptian Ambassador in Lagos. He had told us to hand it over to the Immigration official. Needless to say we forgot about it completely. The excitement of having made it to Egypt made us completely forget about the letter till we were jolted out of our senses. We had been planning about the Egypt trip for sometime, but the sudden declaration of a 4-day strike in Nigeria gave us the opportunity to get out. We just had a day to plan for the trip. First we booked our tickets with Egypt Air. It was late in the afternoon when we finished with the travel agent and landed up at the Embassy of Egypt in Victoria Island, Lagos. We stood outside the closed iron gate. Business was closed for the day. We being Indians, tried cajoling the security guard into opening the gate for us, though he repeatedly said that there was no staff to attend to us. But we managed to charm him out of his resistance. That took us only as far as the Security Officer, who was a burly Egyptian, not interested in any of our stories. He was more mad at the security guard at the gate for allowing us inside. His yelling drew the attention of no less than the Ambassador himself, who was passing by on his way to his residence, just at the back of his office. That was the stroke of luck we needed!

On learning that we were Indians, he promptly invited us to his office. What happened next is unbelievable and will forever make me love the Egyptians. The Ambassador himself called up Cairo and spoke to someone. He ensured that we had our visa within half an hour. During the time in between he went out of his way to make us feel good. He did not stop at the small pleasantries. He gave us a lesson on history on why Indians are loved by Egyptians. He said: 'all Indians are our brothers. For what they did to Egypt through the NAM, every Egyptian will go out of their way to help an Indian. Pandit Nehru is someone who we admire, for no one else had the guts to stand up to the superpowers back then'. That flattered us. And made me rethink about my views on NAM. He promised that we will have a great experience in Egypt - one that we will remember forever! Just when we were about to take leave, he handed us the 'letter' and told us to walk straight to any Immigration Officer at the Cairo airport and hand it over. And we forgot to do exactly that!

We did not know what the letter had to say, but this is what happened next. As we were escorted out of the terminal, we could see the awe-struck faces of the co-passengers, who a while ago had sported a smirk on their faces. There waited a car for us that drove us straight to The Intercontinental, instead of the three star accommodation we had booked for ourselves. We had a lovely looking lady guide at our disposal who was a wonderful host. The 4-day trip covering Cairo & Alexandria was a spellbound affair, both for the experience and the hospitality we received.

And Egypt turned out to be a very liberal state, contrary to what we had thought it would be. Young girls were out on the streets till the wee hours without a fear. We could see girls wearing sleeveless tops comfortably mingling with those with the burkha! Night life was buzzing with action and street food was something which the locals loved! By sundown, almost all street corners were filled with food carts ferrying food. I particularly loved the falafel...I never had such good falafel. Rolled into the pita breads, the crispy hot falafels tasted out of the world. The early morning camel-ride (actually it was a run rather than a ride) on the Sahara made me feel tiny. The camels can run real fast on the sands of Sahara. I realised that the wee hours was the best time to see the Pyramids in their full splendour.

Alexandria drove me crazy. The clear azure water of the Mediterranean was something I admired for hours. The old town housing most of the historical monuments was awe-inspiring. The general architecture of the city had a distinct character if its own. Alexandria had an air of invincibility, much the same way Alexander himself had! If the 1000 pillar mosque was mindbogglingly large, then the place where Mary & Jesus supposedly remained exiled for a while was unbelievable. As the return flight to Lagos took off, I promised that someday I will come back with family. 

If we did not pay a visit to The Ambassador in person on our return to Lagos, to thank him for all that he did, we would have done a great harm to our reputation. But the visit was less out of courtesy and more out of gratitude. He did what no one else possibly will ever do to anyone. I still do not know what prompted him to do so, but I guess we have to thank our forefathers for that. I can only hope that the Muslim Brotherhood would allow the Egyptian society to retain its multi-cultural and liberal outlook and not turn it into a talibanised country once the new regime takes over.  

Cross-pollinating offers can offset price disadvantage

Leaders do not necessarily innovate and laggards do not necessarily remain indolent. Many brands seem to thrive as underdogs. Etisalat is the sector leader in the middle east for ILD (International Long Distance) wholesale carrier business. For obvious reasons they are able to provide cheaper ILD tariff to their subscribers compared to other operators in Afghanistan. This ILD tariff difference leads to the market perception that Etisalat tariff is cheaper than the other operators - AWCC, MTN and Roshan.

Though the tariff difference was only in ILD segment, the general perception was that Etisalat provides cheaper calls, even on-net or off-net calls. That was hurting us as we were fast losing market share, especially in the ILD segment. An opportunity came to us during the Hajj period when traditionally most Muslims across the world make calls to their friends/relatives who perform the Hajj.

There was no way we could have fought a direct price battle with Etisalat as being the carrier operator, they would always have the price advantage. And we had to price ourselves above the interconnect tariff and tax just to break-even, which created a substabtial gap in the tariff offered by us & Etisalat. We had to come up with an alternate strategy. On analysing the ILD traffic during Hajj period for earlier years, we discovered the following:

1. Every Haji (one who performs the Hajj) receives an average of 3-4 calls daily while roaming in Saudi
2. These ILD calls have an average duration of 2+ minutes
3. That the MSISDNs from which the Haji receives incoming calls from, also make 1.5 times more outgoing calls during the Hajj period

The analysis proved that friends/relatives kept in constant touch with the Haji throughout the visit. And secondly, friends/relatives who stayed back, talked more among themselves during the same period. We came up with a cross-pollinating idea, one where the benefits were not direct discounts, but more than one product were inter-linked to provide the benefits. We did various permutations and combinations, before arriving at the 786 offer. 786 is the holy number in Islam. The offer was simple and attractive:

Call Saudi Arabia for 7 minutes to get 86 units* of FREE on-net calling in AWCC, Afghanistan.

(* In many countries, airtime is sold as units instead of minutes. Units can be defined in multiples of 0.5 units of a currency. In Afghanistan, 1 unit = 50 POL or 0.5 Afghani, the national currency.) 

 

In effect, for every 7 minutes of calls made to any number in Saudi will give the caller 43 minutes of FREE one-net calls (or 86 units). And the callers could accumulate their ILD call duration over many calls to receive the benefit. 

Of course, the prospect was scary. The margin one makes on ILD calls is minimal, whereas on on-net calls the margins are high as there is no cost outgo. Compared to previous years, the volume of ILD call traffic had to increase by 5 times to break even! During the last three years, the year-on-year growth on ILD calls during Hajj was just 25% or 1.25 times! And this growth was mainly due to the subscriber growth the portfolio witnessed year-on-year. Which meant, that if the call voume did not grow significantly, we will not only lose money on the offer, we will also have to subsidise the free on-net calls later. Needless to say, that it took a lot of patience and courage to convince the finance committee to get the approval. But kudos to the finance team - they finally agreed to take the risk.

But we were convinced that we had a killer product on hand. We just had to crack the communication strategy. If we had a good campaign, we believed, we were with a chance to upset the market calculation. So, the next challenge was to push the agency to deliver a good idea. In Afghanistan, coming up with a break-through communication idea is a challenge, mainly because of the socio-cultural and illiteracy problems. In the end, we settled for a graphic lead infommercial. By doing this we made sure that even the most illiterate could understand the communication. It clicked and how!

• In the 45 days the promo was live, the ILD call volume increased by 13 times! Never in the history, Etisalat had lost out on such a large volume of ILD call share. 
• During the peak time - 3 days when most Hajis assemble in Saudi, the ILD call volume went up by a whopping 33 times!
• In that period, we sold 20,000 more SIM cards than we normally do. 
• The average call holding time went up to more than 4 minutes.
• Obviously, we had to budget for the huge volume of FREE on-net calls, but this had a positive spin-off. Because people accumulated such a large volume of free on-net calls, attrition over the next 2 months decreased from a monthly 4% figure to 3%. 
• This not only improved the margins made in the promo, it also helped fight the perception that AWCC calls were costlier! We killed two birds in one shot!    
• In 45 days we made more ILD revenue than we make in six months!

In my opinion, the the plan succeeded for the following reasons:

• Hajj period forced ILD communication need, so we did not have to sell the concept of making additional ILD calls...it was a need of the people at that time
• Secondly, cross-linking ILD with on-net calls ensured that customers perceived the value of the benefits more. The free on-net calls that could be used over the next few months for making regular on-net calls, clinched the deal. Everywhere, relatives/friends/business partners tend to use the same operator SIMs. Making on-net calls is a more basic communication need of a mobile subscriber,compared to off-net or ILD calls
• Lastly, the offer rode on the holy number concept....we converted the product feature into product branding. This helped in explaining the offer easily.

Beating a category leader in its own game gives a different high!

 

PCO business - where is it heading to?

I was way too young in the eighties to understand the kind of socio-economic changes Sam Pitroda's telecom policy heralded then, even though the daily front-to-back reading of the The Statesman made me aware of the changes happening. Few years later when I left home to pursue my dream, the ubiquitous yellow booths by the roadside helped me understand the impact of the change brought in by the telecom man. By the nineties, every other rural house owned one of those yellow booths with PCO written in black, bold letters. That was their livelihood - a chance to get out of the crippling poverty cycle. And what a change that PCO revolution brought! If you look back, you will see how the PCO business mainstreamed the marginalised sections of the society, which included persons with disabilities.


I had left home to become a fighter pilot. From the cockpit of a Mirage or a MIG, the yellow specs (of what a booth would have looked like from high above) would never have been an important landmark in the pilot's screen. But if I were to know then that colour-blindness would eventually rob me of my dream, I would not have felt cheated. It is another matter that my aunt, who brought me up, still thinks that it is her fervent prayers to her God that quirked my fate and denied me my chance of flying one of the mean machines. She was ecstatic when I broke the news that I cannot join the Air Force on medical grounds! 


By the time I completed my MBA and stepped into the corporate world, telecom had become the new glam industry to work for. And I was one of the few first lucky ones to be absorbed by the industry. Now you know the Sam Pitroda angle, that shaped my career. And for good. Thank you "Uncle Sam".


A decade later in the new millennium I landed up in Afghanistan to market mobile phones. This time my aunt's prayers did not help. I think even her God understood my destiny. But how do you sell PCO in an ultra conservative, orthodox society, where the buyers of the service have to step out of their homes to avail of the facility? Especially for women who are forbidden to come in contact with a male stranger. And most PCO owners were men of youth, full of vigour and vitality. In the few cases, where women owned the PCO, how could she sell the service to strange males who would walk up to the kiosk? But globally, telecom companies have shown the spunk to innovate when the dice is down. Afghanistan is no exception.


The most dreaded war that broke out in Afghanistan solved most of the riddles. The war took out an entire generation of able bodied males. There are millions of families in Afghanistan who have no male members. It was a bullet or a bomb that claimed them. It did not matter to the families whose bullet did the job - Taliban's or NATO forces'. For they bore the brunt of abject poverty in the absence of an earning male member.  When faced with a no-choice situation, even religious or cultural strictures fail to clamp down the human spirit. Faced with poverty and the prospect of dying out of hunger, the mothers and the daughters found PCO as a saviour. At least it gave them a chance to live. Even if it meant that the young and beautiful daughters would never get a chance to get married. The conservative society would boycott them as they have broken one of the fundamental tenets of their religion. But look at the quirkiness - the war which brought them to the streets, also gave them the resolve to fight. Thanks to that change, you can find many Afghan girls enrolled in schools or even working in a corporate office. They had the disposable income to stand on their feet. They may not be married, but they live with dignity! You can even see widows ferrying SIM cards on the streets of Kabul. Telecom has surely revolutionised the lives of Afghan women.


That was then. Now with falling tariff and flooding of the market by cheap Chinese handsets, many are able to afford the mobile phones. Naturally, the PCO business is shrinking, and shrinking at a faster rate than what one could think of. We needed to innovate. Thus was born the Virtual PCO.


Virtual PCO enabled a PCO owner to have multiple virtual MSISDNs (mobile numbers) from one handset. So in effect, a PCO owner can distribute MSISDNs to multiple families who need not own a mobile connection. Just a handset can allow them to connect to the world outside! It is a win-win situation. It delivered few critical benefits:

1. It provided the PCO owner with a new revenue stream. A lifeline for a fast losing business.
2. It did away with the pain of the PCO business - where the user had to walk up to the nearest PCO kiosk to use the service. This service brought the service to the doorstep! It also diminished the chances of losing a life or a limb in a war-torn society!
3. For the customer, it meant that even without owning a mobile phone and a connection, he/she can make or receive calls from their home. Again, this product allowed the customers to decide when to use the service! It also conformed to the social norms!
4. Lastly, Virtual PCO allowed the customers to receive calls!

Needless to say, this product will redefine the market once again. And not only in Afghanistan, but across Africa & Latin America, where there are many millions who still cannot afford a mobile phone. For the PCO owner, its a windfall. He can make money through

1. Handset rental
2. Incoming call charges or a monthly rental for receiving calls
3. Outgoing call charges (as was earlier)

I strongly believe that this product will become a roaring success in the next few years, till the cycle turns on its head again! But we will be ready to innovate once again.

This brings me back to India. What will happen to the PCO business in India? The Afghanistan model will not work in India. India is far too telecom-developed for that solution. But I see a new trend emerging out of the 3G networks. 

It will take years for 3G handsets to capture a sizeable market share. Which means, the middle-of-the-pyramid and bottom-of-the-pyramid subscribers will not be able to afford 3G services in the near future. Even the cost of the 3G services will be a factor. This does not necessarily mean that these subscribers would not want to use the 3G services! As I mentioned in my previous article, even the poor has aspirations! 

I see PCO booths in India turning into mass video-calling centres. It will become Skype of the mobile industry! Imagine a mother from interior Kodungallur in Kerala whose son works in the Gulf! She is too ill-equipped to handle a 3G phone. But let her walk to the nearest PCO...and she will be thrilled to video-call her son! It is debatable at this stage whether the virtual model will work here in India.....only time will tell. I remember way back in the nineties, when I was working with BPL Mobile, we test marketed a product in which the users could use the text message facility on a virtual mass-market level. It was based on a subscription model. Though the response was good, the prohibitive cost of the SMS was a dampener. But the scenario has changed and India possibly will give a new definition to video-calling feature. Who knows how many more innovative ideas will be born in the coming years! 

Though the pang of never realising my dream of flying still pricks me now & then, I am a happy man marketing mobilephones. The experiences have been life-defining. I can say these experiences have helped me in becoming a better human being. At the end, that is what matters most!