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.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
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!
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!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, February 7, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, February 4, 2011
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:
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.)
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:
- Every Haji (one who performs the Hajj) receives an average of 3-4 calls daily while roaming in Saudi
- These ILD calls have an average duration of 2+ minutes
- That the MSISDNs from which the Haji receives incoming calls from, also make 1.5 times more outgoing calls during the Hajj period
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 my opinion, the the plan succeeded for the following reasons:
- 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.
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