THE OLD MAN AND HIS OLDER REMINGTON

 The other day I was at Tees Hazari , Delhi in connection with some legal matter and was required to submit  an application post haste.

Bereft of the support of a Computer /Printer I looked around, searching for some one free and unoccupied   from among  those busy   in the innumerable,   miniscule open cubicals   displaying Court Marriage, Affidavit and such sundry jobs  on small  boards, lining the  narrow road.

The  heavy traffic plying  in both directions, making walking  across  on my wobbly legs a dangerous proposition, still I make  slow haste towards one, who appears to be free and without business, hoping to get the job completed quickly.

 Next to his seat, under the same shed, a Court Marriage was being solemnised. The  young couple, the bride in her finery, possibly, self made-up and dressed, as there was no one accompanying  them,  were  setting up   on a journey,  with hope and love ,  in un-chartered waters and  an uncertain future : what are their aspirations and worries, forgetting my on immediate concern for  a moment , I wonder. I did congratulate her as they rushed past, possibly too involved in her own thoughts, to be aware of the surroundings, thee was no response.

He  happens to be an old man with an even older Remington typewriter, possibly a family heirloom handed down  from generation to generation,  on rickety table, next to it  is   a stack of files, possibly containing templates  of the various  legal documents in demand for typing.  Both are an aberration, in the company of young operators, with computer/printers, around and stand like a sore thumb.

 Distracted briefly, by the happenings nearby, I quickly draft the required matter, in my nearly illegible hand and  not only    have to dictate but, due to his rudimentary knowledge of English, also spell most of the words.

 Despite his age, his typing skills appear to be that of a beginner, with no delete /insert facility and apparently no whitener available, I have to be content with what ever he could and did  produce.

A wise man nonetheless, with the going rate being per typed page, I notice, he has typed in double space, trying to stretch the matter on as many pages as possible.

 The typed page now in my hand I query

“How much”

“Rupees Twenty “he replies.

 With the business settled amicably I leave wondering as to how many such Rs 20 he will earn in the day to subsist upon

54 THE OLD FAITHFUL – 

        As narrated by Ashoak

O

F LATE THE OLD FAITHFUL, LESS OF A CAR then a family member, Esteem had been trying to tell me some thing about her ailment. Having learnt how to filter out clutter and  unmindful of her   sluggishness noticed or unnoticed,  during our frequent outings together as a reflex action I would press the accelerator a bit more, increasing the RPMs, to achieve the normal speed.

          

 Come one day it was my turn to pick VKs for a social, late in the evening at Delhi, some distance from Noida.

 Getting dressed, I opened the door and slid in to the driving seat, cranked the engine, pushed the clutch, engaged the gear and pressed on the accelerator, simultaneously releasing the brakes. Expecting the normal surge of taking off I was surprised to note it missing and the reluctance in the Esteem to speed up; the nagging appeared to have become louder and more persistent.

 I picked the waiting VKs from there place, across the road, and cajoled her to gain some momentum and speed.

 The loud nagging soon became whimpering with the Esteem labouring up the slopes of the numerous flyovers en route. Somehow, though reluctantly she did make it and carried us to Surbiton Park.

We were   drinking and making merry inside while she, acutely aware of her debility and lack of energy, making it difficult her to serve her master, was weeping outside.

  Late at night for the return journey to Noida, the engine did pick up immediately on turning the key but with little power being transmitted to the driving wheels it was a slow and agonising takeoff.

 Looking at the car’s state my worries increased many fold; even the thought of a chance break down, in the middle of night, far away from any help with a lady accompanying us was unthinkable.

Keeping my fingers crossed, praying all the while, I   cajoled her to slowly crawl back at least to VK’s, and luckily which she did. However, it needed a push, by the colony guard, on to the road to   Ashoka House across the road. 

 Loyal as ever, gasping for breath, with valiant effort, somehow, she made it to the gate of the house.  And there, with hardly any energy left, having performed her last act of duty for the master she gave a sigh and died on the spot.

The mechanic called the next morning, diagnosed a worn-out clutch and a pressure-plate with no pressure left.

  All  the while,  ignoring the signals from the car,  the clutch slipping,  I had been, as a reflex,   compensating for the loss of power  by pressing on the accelerator till  both the clutch  and the pressure plate  gave way completely.

 Morale of the Story ‘Give due attention to Nagging :  from Wife or Car: man or machine ’

106 THE ROOM IN THE   ARMY R R HOSPITAL AND THE WARD BOY

E

VERY TIME THERE IS AN ADVERTISEMENT for   Body Odour or Perfume cylinders with or without gas, targeted at the minds of the impressionable youth, creating a delusion of their potent effect on the female of the specie, on the TV screen and these are many  and frequent, I am reminded of the dreary room in the VIP ward of the RR Army Hospital.

 I had been running a low temperature, especially in the evenings, progressively loosing energy and becoming weak in addition my gate was getting prone to loosing balance and     falling down.

The Specialists  of the local Kailash Hospital despite advising   tests after tests, all   giving   negative results,  had not been able to provide any succour, Even a desperate visit to the local Homeopath did not help.

As a last resort I thought it better to get admitted in R R Army Hospital, where they could   conduct research on me, diagnose and hopefully treat me back to health...

 With the ECH cover now provided to the retired personnel of the Services getting referred, to RR is a bit tricky.  However, I did manage and landed in the Neurology Department OPD.  After a long wait, with the department chockfull of patients, my number flashed and I was wheeled in the consulting room by my son, Ranjit, where a young Lt Col recorded my case history in detail. I was also made to walk in a straight line and do some twists and turns, a few question were thrown at a me regarding my various faculties,

After a short consultation among the Head of Department and the junior doctors it was decided that I was a fit case to be admitted:   for research leading to the advancement of medical science. And that is how   I landed in the dreary room with two of the three beds already occupied.

Apart from the routine   blood and urine tests   soon started  the daily trips  to the more exotic X rays, ECGs, EEGs  and  MRIs  and other   labs with State of Art equipment, recently acquired requiring testing  and practice  on the recently acquired patient.

 I was subjected to electronic pin pricks, on my legs,  calves, on my forehead ,temples and many more places, by transducers  connected to shiny boxes with knobs, dials , flashing lights and flat panel displays, adding their own electronic hum and crackles, coupled  my sighs and ouches  uttered at each prick,   to the  hum of the Split AC.

It was every day a new lab, every day a new box, some so recently acquired that the test was conducted by the supplier’s engineer, and a new instrument of torture for me.

What these test revealed or did not, was the result   negative or positive I was never made privy to: a National secret or an RR secret, except the usual assurances by the doctor on his daily morning rounds.

  Coming back to the room, and the main story, with thee beds occupied by  so called VIP patients in  various stages of disrepair, all in a state of flux moving in and out of the room to and back from laboratories, Operating theatre, ICU  or getting discharge as the case may be.

 “We are near the diagnosis,” was the usual refrain; with me eagerly awaiting the Final Diagnosis. That did come on one morning...

“You have Tubercular meningitis”

T B was a dreaded word, remembered from child hood, as dreaded then as Cancer is now.

I took the announcement bravely and with out betting an eyelid  

“What Next “I asked

“Now we treat you”

“How did you come to this conclusion? ’

“We did a Lumber Puncher”

So started the long and slow treatment, a number of capsules taken couple  of times a day, I remained in the hospital for a few days more   till the  fever was brought under control.

On discharge, my son drove me to our flat in Greater Noida, where there was no help waiting   to look after and  provide support , this onerous duty falling in the willing hands of Ramjet ,  by default, but that is another story to be told some other  time.

 The treatment which could be effective, partly effective or totally ineffective, this I was told much later on one of the review visit to the Hospital., by then I had progressed well on the path to recovery  and possibly considered in   a fit mental state   to  be apprised of the severity of my affliction and possible consequences.

Reverting to the main thread of the story, when in room,   I become a silent spectator to the comings and goings around me. Visitors arriving with broad grins,   move straight to their near and dear ones ignoring the others like me. The wives, soon on arrival getting busy with setting house from the various carry bags, brought along, moving items from one bag to other from the bag to the cupboard top and back in the bag, a frantic activity to keep the mind busy and occupied.

Friends narrating   stores from old times, while in service and sharing their own ailments and nicks, hoping to cheer up the disinterested patient albeit making him tired, who has to,  Wily Nelly,   suffer  them, with a wane smile in addition to his own predicaments of the moment.

  The bed next to me is occupied by one not only with medical problems but also   burdened with other more pressing issues. His diatribes, soliloquies and angry mumblings have the poor wife a suffering and silent listener.

 The two daughters, one of them unmarried, hover around.   The   son -in- law, not part of the inner circle, with a deadpan expression, a bit distraught, a bit fore lone,  there but not there,   stands slightly away..

 The junior sisters who tend and look after us watch us with compassion and curiosity. The senior sister, a Lt Col, a bit of a battle axe, is there to keep every one, the staff and the patients included, under   control and check with her sharp tongue.

There is also a young ward boy, meticulous in his grooming, shrouded in an envelope of liberally doused with one of the sprays being advertised on the TV.   Not too welcome but always hovering around and over zealous to tend to the patient behind the cloth screen, in the process creating additional tension in the mother, and the married daughter.

He, smitten with the young daughter is under the illusion,  thanks to the  suggestive power  of TV advertisements, convinced of the power  of the  perfume cloud  enveloping him,  that he has made a mark  on  her and has some thing going for him: possibly a small smile,  a long eye contact   had   acted as a  the trigger, or may be there was   really more   than some thing gong between them .

One day he looses his object of desire, the daily visits come to a stop as the father is discharged to home.

What happened to his short lived romance, remained one sided or was responded? Did he stalk her or set up a vigil at her house on his off days? I wonder.

 The social gap, between the two, that was too large to bridge or did it get bridged?

Who is to be blamed : the barrage of  suggestive advertisements on the TV  showing  a gaggle of lissom ladies in various stages of undress, getting  willingly entrapped in the cloud of the perfume spray or the gullible  youth  of  today getting misguide and  away from the reality of life..

 But that  the real  charm of youth : experimenting,  without fear of the outcome   and consequences,  having  immense faith and confidence in self,  ever  willing to experiment, taste  and enjoy. Hang the consequences. Live life,   Live for Now.

 77 THE INDEPENDENCE DAY THEN AND NOW

I

 WOKE UP; THIS DAY THE 15^th August 2004, to a heavy dose of patriotic song blaring from loud speakers strung along the road, the official contribution to patriotism.

A small gathering in this huge multistory complex, where I live; I few children with tricolor flags and balloons, from the enterprising hawker who had setup his stall near by, fewer elders and a posse of colony security guards comprised the gathering for the flag hosting ceremony organized by a few well meaning residents, others watching the Tamasha from the balconies of their respective flats.

It brought back, fleetingly the memories of Independence Day, 15 August 1947.  I had already listened to the famous "Tryst with Destiny" speech by Pundit Nehru on the radio past midnight 14/15, the day dawned with, some thing new in the air, a never before sensation experienced by me, in my limited, seventeen years of life experience.

There was this flag hosting, with whole of the small town of Muzaffarnagar, congregating in the Company Garden, the venue. I do not recall the VIP who did the honor. What is clearly etched in my mind is the vision of the three girls singing the National anthem under the Tricolour swaying in the mild breeze. As it happened, I instantly fell in love with all three of them, they appeared so special, so unapproachable and, clad in their white cotton sarees, so ethereal,

Years later, I did happen to see one of my Independence Day loves in Lucknow University, where I was a senior student and she a fresher, but only from a distance. It was as well that I did not approach her, as it would have certainly broken the magic spell; the three had created that day, as they sang from the elevated stage.

How I wish for the same magic on this day once again and again!

        HOWARD HUGES AND THE NEW BRIDE

Just watched the movie   ‘The Aviator’ on the T V  : a deeply  engrossing film based on the life of the legendary Howard Hughes. Howard Robard Hughes, Jr. (December 24, 1905 – April 5, 1976) an American business magnate, investor, aviator, aerospace engineer who  test flew his own planes, film maker and philanthropist.

 He was one of the wealthiest people in the world and dated the most beautiful Stars of Hollywood , possessed an eccentric behavior and followed a reclusive lifestyle in later life,

 Back in 1979, then posted with a gunner regiment at Pathankot, I had picked up a paper back titled Howard Hughes from the book shop in the local market.

Howard’s fascinating life, as it unfolded page by page kept me glued to the book till the end and for many repeats.

With my nose frequently in the book my bride of a few months found competition from  the book, eating up her time and attention from  me and soon became  an object of ire with her leading to our first fight.

New brides can be highly volatile and effective fighters with all the weapons of choice available with them. Jeet was no exception and  I soon  found myself sandwiched between my desire for the book and her desire for my time. A stand off it was.

 The issue was soon sorted out  with the book one day suddenly disappearing, possibly confined to the dustbin by her.

16 December 1971; the day Bangladesh was born

As I wake up to a bitterly cold 16 December morning it takes me back to 16 December 1971.

Our formation has move from Kalimpong to Lungthu, in west Bengal, guarding the Jalapala pass from any ingress by the Chinese.
Lungthu with the Chinese just a stone throw away with the battle raging down below with its rarefied air, deficient of oxygen, its intense cold, the bleak landscape its mountain sides denuded of the trees by years of illegal falling by the troops positioned there for cooking and heating, all combined to create an atmosphere totally alien to us dwellers of the planes. The sensation was particularly strong and overpowering at night with the full moon appearing unusually large the stars so near and shining bright in the thin clear air of the night. The stark wilderness bereft of any human or animal being in the near vicinity that late made one aware of some supernatural power some where very near.

Normally, at that height, we would wake up to a bitterly cold morning, albeit to a clear sky with the early sun bathing the surroundings in a golden hue.

This day, however was different, the daybreak came not with bright sun-shine but with a severe storm raging in its full fury, it was more like a tornado with the corrugated tin-sheets from various structures around getting uprooted from their moorings by the force of the wind and flying around like unguided missiles. Coming out of my hut I was buffeted by the strong gusts of the wind, crouching low and struggling against the wind force I slowly made my way to the mess for breakfast. However, the mess was in a mess with soot every where. No breakfast could be served that morning as the strong gusts of wind flowing in and out of the kitchen made it impossible to light the stove.

Down below in the planes of the then East Pakistan birth of Bangla Desh had taken place and the post-delivery calm prevailing. It was all quiet once again after days, months and years of killings of the locals prolonged fighting by the Mukti Bahini and a short fight with Indian forces when 90,000 odd of the Pakistani Army had surrendered to India Armed forces.