Road Worker

It was a rainy night. After all, it was the monsoon season. I had had a light dinner in preparation for a long bus journey. From Cochin to Mysore. I got into the bus and in a short while, the bus started and, unusually enough, I slept off.

After a comfortable sleep, I woke up and peered at the watch. 6 am. The bus was not moving. I parted the curtains and looked outside and found that the bus was in the bus stand of some town. As the cobwebs of sleep cleared from my brain slowly, I sat up with a jerk! I realised that that the bus was still in Kerala whereas it should have been in Karnataka, in some town close to Mysore. Gundlupet or Nanjangud perhaps. But, why????

My fellow passengers were all fast asleep. I got off and found the driver in a tea shop. He told me that there was a land slide on the Wayanad Ghats road. It was being cleared and that we would start soon. My hopes of reaching home to a hot cup of coffee, a bath and breakfast receded by at least by six hours. So I changed my target to a hot bath and lunch at home.

The bus started, as promised, after I had a cup of tea. Having slept through the night, I was wide awake and could enjoy the scenes outside of the wet and dripping Wayanad. The bus started making its way up the curved road. Outside, it was the verdant forests stretching as for as the eye could see through the steady drizzle. Then a cool grey sky stretching up from the horizon. Large and small wisps of pure white clouds moving up the green slopes of the ghats is an unforgettable scene.

When the bus moved ahead a kilometer or so, it was met by a landslide blocking its path. Luckily enough, we had just passed a small stretch of road that was a little wider than the rest of it. Wide enough to allow a skilled driver to maneuver the bus and turn it around and head back down the ghat. There were some discussions if it was the right thing to do. The rains which had appeared to be getting lighter had in fact become heavier. The stretch on which the bus had stopped, was right at the top of a sheer drop to the right - a prime candidate for a landslide - bus and all. To the left was another sheer slope that could slide in on the bus itself. The incessant rain made that a real possibility. So it was decided that it was better to head back.

Unfortunately, by this time, there were half a dozen vehicles behind our bus. The possibility of turning around had almost disappeared. Within a few minutes, there was no need to fret about it because there was another small landslide behind the last vehicle that blocked that option.

So, we all sat, hour after hour, listening to the rain make a monotonous noise beating on the roof of the bus. The green covered hills with a grey sky and wisps of while clouds climbing up the ghats through the tops of the trees that looked so enticing and beautiful just a few hours ago completely lost its charm. I tried to read a book even in the dark interior of the bus trying to ignore the stomach clamouring to be fed and thinking too much of the real danger we were in.

There was a lady in a seat a few rows away who had two small children and she was trying to manage them with some snacks and milk she had carried. People talked of their previous experiences from their travels, none of the pleasant. Much of the talk was in Malayalam which I barely understood, which was a good for me, I imagine. Everyone was wondering why no one had come to clear the landslide.

The minutes and hours moved agonisingly slowly. Some people, with their dhotis folded up till the knees and holding umbrellas for protection, walked down the road. They informed us that there was a landslide up the road nearly at the top of the ghat and there were PWD men clearing it and they would come down to clear "our" landslide. They also said that they would be done in an hour or so. Apparently that was a bad, large one.

Somehow this news seemed to galvanise some people into action. They said that if we could somehow clear our land slide, we could go ahead and the other bigger landslide would be cleared by then. That sounded like a good idea but how does one clear a landslide without equipment. Someone went and enquired with the driver of a truck behind us if he had something that would help in the task. Well, he had! A few crowbars! I also got off the bus in the pouring rain and joined hands with those who had started trying to clear the debris on the road. Fairly big boulders, small trees and mud and grass and driftwood had to be cleared. We were all thoroughly soaked but the camaraderie in the air was something exciting. A few lengths of rope and a few pick axes appeared as if from nowhere. Soon there were a bamboo baskets and steel bowls used in construction work and so on joined forces. I had to take my glasses off as it was getting wet and water vapour from my breath was collecting on it and hindering me. My only pair of leather shoes was taking a beating.

Working in steady rain on a stomach that had only seen a cup of tea some eight hours earlier did not seem to matter. By about four in the evening, we had managed to clear the path. With a collective cry of jubilation we all hurried back to our vehicles and the convoy started up the road. I had to go through all sorts of contortions to change my clothes on the moving bus.

Thanks to this experience, I can add "road worker" to my résumé, perhaps?

I remember that when I finally reached home at seven in the evening instead seven in the morning everyone at home was relieved. No one had an idea what had happened to their son/brother until I reached home. I remember that there had been some disaster the previous day and the newspapers had screaming headlines but, I can't remember what it was!

Reading “The Cry and the Covenant”

Sometime during the year 1980, I was in Pune on work. I went for a stroll in the evening and came across a road-side seller of second hand books. I stopped and browsed hoping to find a book that would interest me.

I came across an old and dog-eared book. The paper was brittle. The book had lost the glue that had once held the leaves together at the spine and had been stitched together. Close to the stiches, the paper was broken. Yes, broken. Not torn. Obviously, it had been read a few times after it was stitched. I flipped through the pages and found the story very interesting.

It was the story of Ignaz Semmelweiss. The great triumph and tragedy of his life. The man who had the means to stop the disease that killed innumerable women during childbirth - puerperal fever. It was transmitted by the doctors who examined women without disinfecting their hands. The very concept of infection didn’t exist at that time, let alone disinfecting. Even without the concept of the germ theory of diseases, he deduced how the disease was being spread and how to prevent it. That was his triumph.

When he told the doctors in the hospital in Budapest, where he worked, they were actually spreading the disease, and how not to, they were incensed. In a temporary triumph of ego over evidence, they continued to kill women ignoring Ignaz. That was his tragedy. The greater tragedy was how he went about proving (or so he thought), once and for all, that he was right. I don't want to reveal this greater tragedy and prevent you from enjoying the book, if you happen to read it.

All that came after I read the book but I got glimpses of it from browsing. I was captivated. I bought the book after a bit of friendly bargaining. I brought it to the hotel room. I caught hold of two covers - a brown paper one and a clear plastic one. I cut the cotton thread that barely held the pages together. I put the "book" into the plastic cover.

I started reading, after dinner, by taking one page out of the plastic bag, reading it and putting it into the brown paper bag. So it went and I finished reading the book in a few days. If I remember right, my sister read it too.

It is the only book I have read, one leaf at a time.

May Their Tribe Increase!

Panjim Airport. Dabolim. Gate G. After two intense days with a client, I was relaxing while waiting for my flight. I was drawing the people around me in my sketch book - my pastime at airports.

I rested a bit and kept my book on the seat next to me. My flight was called and I left.

I realised that I had left it behind only when I dug into my bag soon after we started taxiing. Too late.

It was an ordinary 200 page notebook filled with my sketches – done mostly while on travel. Drawn while on the move on a bus, waiting at train stations, bus stands and airports. In the hotel rooms. Views from the windows of hotel rooms.

So many memories. This was a visual diary with no dates, no names, no words. I knew every small thing in that book - where, when, who, what, the weather.... practically everything but the date and year.

Now gone.

A friend asked me to call the airport. I did. No one picked up.

I posted the loss on Facebook and Twitter with the hope of increasing the chances of getting it back.  An artist friend who saw the post called me to suggest that I call the duty manager at the airport.

Here comes the bright part. I found a landline number on the web and called. The gentleman heard me out and said, in Hindi, that he was actually the apron manager (what does an apron manager do anyway?) and generously gave me the mobile number of the duty manager.

I called the duty manager. His line was busy – in three languages. Drat! I waited a few minutes before trying again and he called! He was returning a missed call! How nice! He was patient too and heard me out. Talked to the people around him (as I could visualise) and told me that they had not received the book.

I asked hesitantly, if he could send someone to check. He said he would. REALLY? He asked me to call again in the morning. When I did, he picked up and as soon as I started explaining, he remembered and asked the people with him if they had received a book. He had actually sent someone to check. But, alas, no. No book.

The gloom of the loss was mitigated by the praiseworthy behaviour of these gentlemen. Thanks - whoever they are!

We are so used to people in authority of any sort being unhelpful. I have had my share of those.

But I have had a good measure of the exceptional ones too. But I always make it a point to praise them and their kind, when they are nice. Here.

May their tribe increase!

Drivers

In 2002, soon after joining Philips in Bangalore, I travelled to Eindhoven, Noord (North) Brabant province, The Netherlands. It was the headquarters of Philips. I was there for three months to undergo training in IP and patent analysis. I stayed in a two-bedroom apartment. My apartment mate was Ajay Nitin.

Through Ajay, I met another colleague, Ramakrishna, and we three often had a good time together after work. One day, Ramakrishna, who lived in an apartment some distance away from mine, invited Ajay and me for dinner. Chicken and beer were on the menu, we were told.

The aroma of puliyogare welcomed us when we entered Rama’s apartment. Though some Tamizh knowing friends of mine tell me that it is actually puliyodharai, for most Kannadigas it will always be puliyogare. Rama apologised as he opened the bottles of beer. “I am sorry. I didn’t have chicken masala. I used puliyogare masala!” I said, “Ah! To hell with Iyengars! We shall enjoy chicken in puliyogare masala!” This seemed to tickle him immensely and he remembered it often, even years later.

The chicken tasted really good. We had a great time – the conversation flowed, lubricated by good Dutch beer, perhaps Grolsch. I choose that name because I just like the sound of it.

While we were at Rama’s, it started raining. When it was time to get back, we abandoned the idea of walking back and rang for a taxi. It was an impressive looking Mercedes with an equally impressive looking driver. He was wearing an expensive looking suit. He was young, tall, (The Dutch are now the tallest people in the world. I am told that the people from Brabant are not very tall) and good looking. He spoke very good English too, like many educated Dutch. I sat in the passenger seat, to take a look at the hi-tech dashboard, after seeking the driver’s permission. I plied him with questions and what I learned surprised me.

He was the owner of a fleet of taxis – all Mercedes. Still, he drove one himself. He wanted to stay close to the customers and experience his business first hand.

On another occasion, years later, I landed at Schiphol and took what is called a Schiphol taxi that was booked for me. I had to go to Den Haag – The Hague – to attend a seminar on patent search (cleverly named, “Search Matters”). Since I wanted to enjoy the flat, green Dutch landscape that I so love, I took the passenger seat again.

It was something like a station wagon and not very fast. It was hence a longish journey and we had enough time to talk. The driver was willing to talk too. I asked him how long he had been driving a taxi. He mentioned some number. I asked him what he did before for a living.

He said he was a brigadier in the Dutch army!

I asked him why drive a taxi. His answer was interesting. Paraphrasing, “I don’t have to really work. With this job, I am the master of my own time. But, it gives me good money. I get to see places and it gives me an opportunity to meet interesting people. Like you.” I don’t know if he really meant the last but I appreciated it.

The Dutch are very proud of their well-earned reputation for being blunt.

The reason for saying all this is that it is almost impossible for anyone in India with their backgrounds (taxi company owner or a retired senior officer of the armed forces) to be driving taxis. I recently came across an auto driver who was studying for his master’s degree in commerce. There used to be an auto driver in Mysore, in the seventies and eighties, who was a graduate. His auto was named “Dignity” or some such word with gravitas. He always wore his shirt with its top button buttoned. I couldn’t help wondering if it was an attempt to advertise his dignity.  He seemed to say that though he was a graduate, he was driving an auto and there was nothing wrong with it.  I had once come across a cycle-rickshaw-wallah (cycle rickshaw pedaller?) who was a graduate. He said he was jobless for a long time and had no choice but to ply a cycle rickshaw. I once listened to a BBC radio quiz that was won by a London taxi driver. (QM: How do you know so much about so many things? LTD: I always browse through a volume of The Encyclopædia Britannica when I am waiting for a fare)

I once told my son that I wanted to drive an auto-rickshaw, after retirement, because I wanted to know how it felt and how the customers would treat me. He was horrified by the very thought of it and was angry with me for even entertaining such a thought. It appeared to me that the Mysore auto-rickshaw driver and the cycle rickshaw pedaller chose their professions because they were somehow forced to. The M. Com. student’s choice was his own and there was no chip on his shoulder.

The reason for any profession being considered high or low is economics. If every job pays one enough to lead a decent life and the ratio of the highest paying jobs and the least paying jobs is not humongous, this perception of a job being below one's dignity will  come down, if not disappear.