The Great Crossing -my First Phoren Trip

It was my class reunion and we were comparing notes.

“You must come over and see my pictures of the pyramids at sunset”, said H

Our plane flew low over the Angel falls,” gushed K’s wife,” It was just magical”

“In Peru…” D began, ever the quiet and diffident one.

“I will tell you about this woman at Bondi ..,” F interrupted. His eyes were bright and glassy and he held his glass at such an angle that it could hold no more than a few drops. His wife looked uneasily at him. Deciding that family secrets were no longer safe, she took away the glass and led us back to Peru.

D looked at Mrs. F as he did his teacher three decades ago-with admiration and gratitude- and proceeded to lecture us on the fascinating dietary habits of Andean villagers.

And thus continued the travellers' tales

Pattiveerampatti, Machharwa,and Kot Kamte  do not find a mention in our geography texts. Naturally, my visits to these places could hardly be considered the stuff of heady discussion at a class reunion. In the company of Marco Polos, I was the frog in the well.

It was a sore point in my family that I had not set foot outside India. The opportunity to travel abroad did not present itself to me; nor did I look for one. It was as simple as that and I was quite sanguine about the whole thing. But the family fretted that I was fast reaching the “untravellable” age, a condition that I understood to be as undesirable as  an “unmarriageable” one.

The discussion would invariabley end with my solemnly promising to travel abroad whenever the opportunity arose. Like all political treaties, the result was confusion over its interpretation and a tenuous peace on the domestic front.

The opportunity came up sooner than expected and I grabbed it with both hands. It was also far easier than I imagined.

No stone faced customs and immigration

No jumpy security

No demanding to see your passport ( or any kind of identification)

Don't trouble the sentry, just go around the barrier...

..and you are in another country

No baggage checks, no X ray scanners, our customs is clearly overwhelmed





It was so simple that I made two
phoren trips in as many days.

WELCOME TO NEPAL





The Punjab Mail-Memories of a Summer Afternoon

Dang..dadannng…..dang…danng,  Dang..dadannng…..dang…danng….

The Bombay(now Mumbai) bound Punjab Mail is passing slowly over a small bridge, the  wheels drumming rhythmically against gaps in the rail joints which, in turn, transmit the vibrations to the steel columns. The locomotive driver leans out of his cabin. The station is in sight. He tugs at a steel wire above his head and the engine lets out a rasping hoot to warn people standing on the platform of the approaching train…..

“Igatpureee”, the driver announces.

It is the summer of 1968.

                 

We-my younger brother, my mother and I- are on vacation at my grandparents’ home in Matunga. Lunch is over. Mother and grandmother are relaxing and indulging in desultory conversation. Grandfather is away at office and the aunts in college. My brother and I are playing in the balcony of the flat. It is early afternoon and Vincent (now Dr Ambedkar) Road is quiet save for the occasional rumble of a bus or the honking of a car.

My brother is perched on a high stool and is leaning out of the balcony. He is the driver of the Bombay-bound Punjab Mail. The train has just chugged into Igatpuri Station and the steam locomotive will be replaced with an electric one. The driver puts his lips to the web of his thumb and index finger and blows. The engine hoots again and draws slowly away from the train.

I am the fireman of the locomotive. I have been shoveling coal without pause into the firebox without a pause so that the driver is able to maintain a full head of steam. The shovel is a skillet tied to one end of a long bamboo stick. I bend, gather the coal in the shovel, straighten, turn around and toss the coal into the firebox. I repeat this action over and over again. It is backbreaking work. But the train must not run late and the driver is a hard taskmaster.

          

 I don’t like the job. Actually, I want to fly a Boeing 707 (without my brother, of course) to Tokyo. But mother has decided that the fireman’s job is more important for the sake of the driver’s safety. The driver must not be allowed to lean too far out. 

For the time being, my ambitions are put on hold.

My brother, of course, is driving the electric engine that will pull the train to Bombay. The hoots and huffs and puffs will gave way to a loud horn and a brisk clackety-clack, cackety-clack as the train speeds to its destination

The electric locomotive has been coupled to the train. The driver checks that job has been properly done and makes doubly sure by using a rope to fasten the leg of his stool to the balcony grille. He jumps onto his perch .With a loud, bass “oooooooomp”, the Punjab Mail sets off from Igatpuri on the final leg of its journey.

The fireman has become the electric loco driver’s assistant. The driver gives me a green towel which I must wave as we pass the stations en route to Bombay. The train must reach on time and my brother does not want a red light to hold him up. Kasara, Titwala, Asangaon, Kalyan, Thana… he announces the names of the stations as they whiz past.

“Daaadarrr…”, the driver calls out and, satisfied that he has completed the journey, prepares to leave the engine.  I stop waving and rub my arms. They are hurting.

My brother jumps off the stool and runs into my mother’s arms.

End of journey? Wasn’t the train supposed to go up to Victoria Terminus? Did the driver forget? I suppose we will never know.

INCIDENT AT A TRAFFIC SIGNAL

The two vehicles stopped abreast of each other at the traffic signal. Both were spotless white in colour. They were SUVs- big and muscular- that took up most of the road’s width and made the other waiting vehicles   look small and humble.

The drivers of the two vehicles glared at each other and spat on the road. Their employers sat behind, not looking at each other. Both men were dressed in the whitest of starched whites and their faces hidden behind the darkest of dark glasses. They were the humble servants of us ordinary folk. Out of respect, we called them our netas. It was just unfortunate that they belonged to opposing political parties.

It is said that when elephants fight, it is the ants that suffer. And so it was proved that day.

The light turned green and both vehicles surged forward. As it was in their politics, so it was on the road. Each wanted to get ahead of the other. The inevitable happened.

There was a scraping sound followed by a screech of the brakes as both vehicles stopped.  The drivers jumped out to survey the damage. It was intolerable, they concluded. A’s driver shouted at B’s driver. B’s driver shouted back. First, they argued about each other’s eyesight; then compared each other to the less intelligent of animals. Then they  quickly settled down to discussing each other’s ancestry and the legitimacy of their families. Each driver invoked his master’s name and described what he could do to the other. As this also did not end the argument A and B both decided to take matters in their hands.

A abused B’s driver and B abused A’s. Threats were repeated and exchanged. Those who witnessed the argument were overawed by their claims of power and their god-like capacity for retribution.

To the constable on duty it was a situation far more complex than shopping for groceries for his superior’s wife. As he watched the scene in the middle of the traffic junction, he wished he had not opted for duty here.  But he had no choice. Traffic had piled up in all directions. He went up to the two men and requested them to continue their discussions somewhere else; and would they please move their cars?

“He tried to kill me”, they shouted, fingers now pointing at each other.

“Looks more like an accident to me,” the constable replied.

“Are you calling me a liar?” they shouted again, finger now pointing at the policeman. Having decided that the situation was beyond his capacity to manage, he called his superior and went back to his seat in the shade.

It was the media’s day out on the following morning. Depending on their political leaning, they reported that B assaulted A or vice versa. The few that did not take sides published both stories- on different pages.  Readers complained that they were confused. One TV channel ran a prime time discussion on how unsafe traffic signals had become. An expert suggested that, like ambulances and emergency vehicles, politicians also should be allowed to drive through the red light. Someone pointed out that they were doing it anyway and the discussion ended.

A’s followers organized a public meeting to protest against the attack on him, offer a thanksgiving prayer for his providential escape and to reward his driver for the courage he showed in protecting his master. Not to be outdone, B’s followers organized a similar meeting.

A then accused the police of bias and not doing anything to “bring to book the perpetrators of the dastardly attack” His followers demonstrated their displeasure by calling for a public strike. They then set a few buses on fire. The next day, B’s followers protested against “the conspiracy to tarnish” their leader’s image. They also organized a public strike and burnt a few more buses. The score remained even

The police chief went on air and declared that he would not tolerate acts of lawlessness and that those caught damaging public property would be punished. This had the desired effect in that everyone turned against him. He was transferred out of the city and investigations turned over to the CBI. But peace remained elusive

A and B took their quarrel to the state assembly. It was so serious that the speaker allowed one hour daily for a discussion on the situation. He rested his chin on his hands while the honorable members debated with their lungs and- to emphasize their point- threw shoes and furniture at one another. At the end of the hour, he would adjourn the proceedings and go home.

When it became clear that nothing would work, the party chiefs met. The venue was a five star hotel in a hill station and the discussions lasted most of the night. Naturally, the media was kept out.

In the morning, citizens came out their homes to see hoardings with pictures of A and B in an embrace and smiling down on them. Their parties  had decided to merge. Both A and B promised to work for the betterment of society.  There were firecrackers and celebrations all around. This time, buses were damaged not out of anger, but out of the revelers' exuberance. Peace had returned at last

But loose ends had to be tied. The police constable who was on duty that day was reprimanded for filing a false report and transferred to a far off place. The CBI closed the case on the grounds of lack of proper evidence and reliable witnesses.

The Elections-P's Dilemna

It was time for the  elections. Lofty ideals were rediscovered and manifestos dusted off and given a contemporary appeal. The candidates realized that they could not give away the moon. So they promised TV Sets, pilgrimages to places of one’s choice, mobile phones to young people, and the like. Candidates with more constrained resources offered liberal supplies of the locally made fermented stuff. One person talked about garbage management and public transport. Everybody laughed at him and no one attended his meetings. He quit the race.

I commented to my wife that, except for the one who dropped out, the candidates were being quite practical with their promises.

“Who wants a TV or a mobile phone?” she sniffed, “I prefer the pilgrimage”.

I am not a great one for pilgrimages but, I thought, what if this chap wins?  A few days by myself with the wife away is not such a bad idea, after all. Thus, the engineer’s head overruled the heart of a loving husband. I decided to vote for my wife’s candidate.

There were issues in plenty and breathtakingly global in scope. So it came about that my maid worried about the melting Antarctic ice. “But it will mean more water for us, no?” she asked hopefully. The wife took the easy route- she told the maid to speak to me about it. My candidate, P, promised a world class sports complex. I was impressed although I knew I could not afford the tickets to get inside.

Silly, old fashioned me, fretting about potholed roads, unlit streets and uncleared garbage. I must to accept that the world has moved on. After all, this is a land of seven hundred million mobile phone users.

P’s benevolent pictures smiled down us from his campaign posters. We were urged to remember his deeds. How could we forget? He got us an additional water line in the middle of summer and helped the paanwala set up shop on the footpath. My grocer was grateful to P for being able to extend his shop to the pavement. In fact, there was hardly anyone who was not affected by P’s munificence.

And thus we cantered towards voting day.

As the big day neared, I set out on an evening walk to compensate for several consecutive mornings of lethargy and late rising. It was cool and I made brisk progress as I dodged assassination attempts by the scores of vehicles that used my road. I saw P walking in my direction. I was surprised to see him alone at this time. P believed in two kilometer visibility in the densest fog. On a normal day he would be walking with a half dozen people and chat up the dozens he would come across.

Apparently, it was not a normal day.

As P came closer, I noticed that he looked worried and distracted.

“Hello”, I greeted him. I was game for some small talk and local gossip.

P looked at me sadly and with a touch of bitterness said, “Your foreigner friend has brought me lot of trouble”.

That was not possible. J’s meeting with P had lasted about five minutes. I said as much.

“Do you want to know?” he warmed up, “My family wants a toilet in my home”.

“Ahhh…” was all I could say.

“The people, too. They are saying that they have waited for too long”

“That should not be too difficult once you are elected”

“After all that I have done for them...” P was at the point of tears, “They just don’t seem to understand”

I decided that it was best not to say anything.

“There was no problem all these years; and now, this”

I nodded my head in sympathy. P’s beneficiaries lived on public land, got free electricity and water. They should not have anything to complain about.

“They have a lot to be grateful about”, I said to P.

“They are laughing at me now,” P’s voice was almost a wail, “They want a promise from me that if I get elected, I will....get one built”. He almost choked on the last few words.

 I excused myself and walked on.

Election Day came and went. Those who took their civic responsibilities or their candidates seriously lined up at the polling booths to vote. The uncaring ones left town.

We had nothing to do till counting day. So we analyzed in detail the winning prospects of every candidate and consequences of his victory. Overnight we had all become experts.

It was counting day at least. P was noticeably nervous. The possibility that some of his faithful could have voted against him had made him even more jittery. To make matters even more difficult, his family threatened to revolt if they had to “go to the backside” after the elections.

As the counting progressed, it became clear that it was going to be a very close contest. P could not sit still any longer. He began pacing outside the counting hall. His faithful scurried behind, trying to calm him.

P clutched his stomach. The tension was getting to him. He looked around in desperation. The only place he could go to was the inside the building and he was not allowed to enter even on “urgent compassionate grounds”.

When he could not bear it any longer, he ran around the corner crying, “I promise, let me go please, I promise”

How do the Americans say it? You can run, but you can't hide, baby.

Of Mobile Phones and Toilets

About a month ago newspaper readers and TV watchers were informed that seven hundred million Indians own mobile phones. Another bit of interesting information was shared- there are many,many more mobile phones than toilets in India.

Also on TV was a brief discussion between an ecstatic ( the “you aint seen nothing yet” type) executive of a mobile phone company and a grumpy looking do-good city planner who was evidently not happy with our sense of priorities. The discussion ended with mobile phone guy looking even more cheerful and the do-gooder even more pessimistic.

I was a little skeptical about the data at first. Then the engineer in me took charge of my reasoning. There are four mobile phones in my home and two toilets. Extrapolating this statistic over a larger population-and considering that the ratio is even more skewed in favour of mobile phones in many homes, it was not hard to conclude that the information could indeed be true. I prided myself on my powers of deductive logic and turned my interest elsewhere.

Or, tried to. No thanks to J.

J was my guest from overseas. After making his millions, he had come to India in search of inner peace and spiritual enlightenment. His stay at my place was the last leg of a long visit to India and J was due to fly back home later in the week. From his descriptions I gathered that J had found what he came in search for. But one thing continued to bother him.

J could not quite comprehend “our different standards of hygiene”.  Put differently, the average Indian’s toiletry habits were beyond his understanding. Why do so many Indians have to “do it” in the open, he asked? The mobile phones to toilets ratio did not make sense to him. I could not explain it away and J would not let the matter rest.

Reluctantly, I arranged for J to meet P. Depending on your point of view, P was the neighborhood Mr Fixit or social worker. P is also the benefactor to hundred and odd families who have built their tin and plastic homes on a large piece of public land. P himself lived amongst these people in a brick and cement house. He is a very important person and I was hoping that he would be able present J with a perspective that I could not.

We went to P’s house the next morning. As we entered the dwelling, J could not help noticing that nearly every house had a TV dish and most people were carrying mobile phones.

P’s wife opened the door. She recognized me and invited us in. She also told us that P has gone to the “back side” and would be back soon. I translated the information literally and let J stew in bewilderment.

P walked in soon after. His one hand was wet and carrying an empty pail. With the other hand he was talking on his mobile. He went inside and came back with his hand dry and smelling of soap. Apparently, he had also finished his conversation on the mobile. I made the introductions and P sat on his chair and looked benevolently at J.

“How can I be of service to you, sir?” he asked. I translated for J’s benefit.

“I would like to know why there aren’t any toilets here”, J said. I translated.

 P looked at J as if to ask, “You came all the way from your country just to ask me this?”

 “We don’t need them,” he said flatly. J was taken aback.

“But, why?” J persisted, “what about privacy and hygiene?”

P spread his hands expansively in the direction of the main road. “We have all the space we need,” he said, “the women go there before daybreak and the men’ later. There are no problems. Everyone respects the discipline”. The logic was lost on J and I told myself that I would explain in detail after we reached home.

I then remembered the land use guidelines for the place. I pointed out to P that there is enough vacant space to construct toilets.

“Ahh…the rules and procedures are very complex”, he said. He was on the defensive now.

“Surely the task is not beyond your abilities?” I responded, resorting to flattery.

P tried to look modest as he replied “ It can be done,” he agreed. There was a pause and then he smiled “But, you see, I have promised the land to a very dear old friend. He wants to build a shopping complex there.” He also added, looking at J “There will be a few toilets, too”. I could not help but admire this noble soul who could gift away public land for friendship’s sake. Such acts of generosity so humbly performed that we rarely get to know about them these days.

P’s phone rang and as he answered it, he looked at us as if to suggest that the meeting had ended. We left without J getting any closer to a rational explanation.

On the way home, we met M, the local mobile phone salesman. I made the introductions. Since M spoke English, I did not have to translate. The conversation ran freely.

“How’s business,” J asked, perhaps out courtesy. Whereupon M launched into a detailed explanation on the market for mobile phones, service quality and why he was in the best position to offer value-for-money services. Apparently, he was looking at J as a prospective customer.

“Quite, quite,” J murmured and brought up the T-word again. “I still cannot understand why mobile phones are more important than toilets”, it was an almost plaintive wail.

“Sirji,” M replied “Its all business. Mobile phones are good business. Toilets are not. Tell me, if there was money in toilets, wouldn’t you spend millions to get film stars to promote them?”

J returned to his native country a singularly unenlightened soul.