CITY LIMITS
The picture of the Tram in the first issue of 'City Limits' brought rushing back, the memory of my first trip to Delhi, some times in the summer of 1936 or 1937. I was then the excited child of six or seven accompanying my parents, who were on a shopping trip to Delhi for my sisters ensuing marriage.
Where else one could one go for shopping in Delhi then but Chandni Chowk? Of all the purchases made that day, I clearly remember the portable HMV gramophone bought from Maharaja Lal and Sons, for Rs Forty, so I was told. Hand cranked, with a needle screwed in the sound box and the 78-RPM record, with a two and a half minute play time. Place the needle in the grove of the spinning record and the music would come floating out, no less than a miracle, in the pre FM Radio and TV days. Yet another memory was of a bolt of cloth purchased, from the cloth shop opposite the Town Hall and the Clock Tower, once a famous landmark, alas no more. The old shop recognised now, more by the old massive tree, the trunk jutting out of a hole in the top of the veranda, old even then, than by the sign board of the shop. Memorable because it evoked an embarrassingly hilarious mental image of the wardrobe tailored for the wedding for the 3 brothers of whom I was the youngest. Though the eldest, then in college was the proud recipient of a suit with trousers and the middle brother and I had to be satisfied with suits with half pants, they were all cut from the same bolt of cotton fabric.
Coming to 'Trams', the tracks ran on one side of the road, the trams click clacking up and down the length of Chandni Chowk and possibly beyond, at regular intervals. The Tan, Tan of the bell, rung so often by the driver standing in the front portion of the tram , with one hand on the
'Dead-man's- handle', to warn the offending pedestrians or possibly the cows and dogs, straying across, was an essential part of the Chandni Chwok cacophony.
The Paranthas of the Paranthewali Galli, savoured for the first time, did leave a taste, still lingering, never replicated or equalled, despite many subsequent visits, accompanying my late wife, Jeet,on her frequent shopping trips..
The Majestic Picture Hall , now closed and part of the Gurudwara Rakab Ganj complex at the fountain, the fountain a landmark of an era passed, demolished, a casualty to progress and increasing traffic congestion. Interestingly, while screening, block-busters of the vintage of 'Achut Kanya' a Davika Rani and Ashok Kumar starrer, those days, had the lyrics of the songs, being mouthed on the screen, projected alongside on a smaller side-screen. The songbooks being sold for two paisa during interval had many ready buyers, since songs were simple, catchy and easily hummable, and in good demand.
From a subsequent visit one evening, to the Coronation Hotel, also remembered was the 'Ice-cream' in a cup with a pink wafer stuck on the top, that my father ordered for us after dinner, seated on the terrace of the hotel.
Strangely, I have no memory of the Red Fort, the most famous landmark of Delhi, from that time, still in existence and very much a tourist attraction. The drive to Mehrauli from Chandni Chowk, faintly remembered was that of a long, long one on nearly empty roads, through thick shrubs and trees on both sides. The visit to Qutub is remembered for the never ending steps, going up and up and the vile smelling bats hanging upside down in the, dark circular tunnel that was the staircase.
What comes to mind of New Delhi of that time, is the wide open spaces, nearly empty roads, an occasional sighting of a solitary commuter bus dropping and picking up an odd passenger or two. However, what is unforgettable is the sight of the Traffic Constable standing Six foot plus tall, dressed in blue and white with a stylish turban on the head, so imposing a sight did strike terror, in any traffic offender and strangely even in a child that was me.
Crossing the massive steel structure, the bridge over River Jumna, now sadly, soon to be decommissioned by the railways, one was forced to follow at the speed of the vehicle in front which at times was a Tonga. The horse at a fast trot prodded along by whip lashings and choicest verbal invective of the Tonga-walla. The rumbling of the trains, passing over the upper deck, made an unusually loud racket. This unfamiliar sound generated a disturbing feeling accentuated by and reminiscent of horror tales, real or imaginary of kings and queens, fairies and witches recounted by elders mostly my aunts and servants in graphic detail late at night. Among those were frightening stories of the ghosts of those who had died or were sacrificed during the construction of the bridge by the British, to appease imaginary Gods. The recollection of these made me cow with fright and hide my face in my mother's lap.
Returning back from Delhi, exiting from the bridge, one took a sharp 'S' turn and soon stopped at a petrol station. It was a picturesque sight. The small wooden hut painted green that passed of for office with quaint looking Petrol pumps, which had two one gallon capacity, glass bottles arranged side by side. As the attendant manually cranked the pump handle the petrol level rose in one of the bottles while getting decanted from the, already full, other bottle in the car's tank.
The process repeated alternately, until' and as indicated by the needle on the large clock dial of the meter, the required gallons had been dispensed.
Once on way towards Shahdra, the car took the lower of the two roads, then reserved for fast moving traffic, the upper being for Camel pulled, load carriers, known as Shikrams, bullock carts and other contraptions, with hanging Hurricane Lanterns, swinging to and fro while making valiant efforts to illuminate the path, slowly trudging along.
These and other memories of Delhi of old, do come tumbling out of the mind, triggered at times, by chance events, like looking at the picture of the Tram in City Limits.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
THE MESSAGE OF LIFE
Standing on the threshold of the decade of eighty as I step over the dividing line on November the fifth, the question of celebrating the birthday does not cross my mind.
Come evening, there is a visit by a family of friends: father , mother and daughter, carrying a box of pastries and a bouquet of lovely blue-green and magenta orchids arranged tastefully in a basket.
I am pleasantly surprised, overwhelmed and falling short of words, in how to thank for the thoughtful gesture: the present and the effervescent ‘Happy Birthday’ wish proofed in unison, mumble some thing...
The box, containing Black Forest and Pineapple pastries, the pastries to be savoured slowly, is destined to the fridge, the basket, the Orchids to be admired at leisure, to the centre of the dining table.
As the days pass, one by one, the pastries, slowly, dwindle in number, enjoyed in small bites and pieces, the orchids on the other hand, strangely, day by day grow by millimetres, both in height and beauty.
Somehow, in the growing Orchids and dwindling Pastries I discern a subtle ’Message of Life’: its beauty, continuity and finality.
Standing on the threshold of the decade of eighty as I step over the dividing line on November the fifth, the question of celebrating the birthday does not cross my mind.
Come evening, there is a visit by a family of friends: father , mother and daughter, carrying a box of pastries and a bouquet of lovely blue-green and magenta orchids arranged tastefully in a basket.
I am pleasantly surprised, overwhelmed and falling short of words, in how to thank for the thoughtful gesture: the present and the effervescent ‘Happy Birthday’ wish proofed in unison, mumble some thing...
The box, containing Black Forest and Pineapple pastries, the pastries to be savoured slowly, is destined to the fridge, the basket, the Orchids to be admired at leisure, to the centre of the dining table.
As the days pass, one by one, the pastries, slowly, dwindle in number, enjoyed in small bites and pieces, the orchids on the other hand, strangely, day by day grow by millimetres, both in height and beauty.
Somehow, in the growing Orchids and dwindling Pastries I discern a subtle ’Message of Life’: its beauty, continuity and finality.
THE CHANDIGARH FAMILY MEET
Getting out of Delhi was a bit difficult: the straight roads, well traveled from earlier days, were now folding and turning over themselves with 360 degree turns, while climbing over the numerous flyovers en route and forking in detours to different destinations. One wrong fork taken and you are lost.
New land marks, the old having got obliterated by the frenzy of construction and chaos added to my confusion.
I had started early to beat the traffic; apparently every one had the same bright idea, it appeared that the whole of Delhi had decided to exit on the same route and at the same time.
Once on NH 1 (National High-Way- The grand trunk Road from Calcutta to Peshawar, I shifted to the overdrive, the fifth gear of the Astra, and with the engine purring smoothly accelerated to a steady 80 KM per hour.
80 KM , was slow for the highway, with 90 the max permitted speed, others driving at 100 plus overtook me regularly; the brash Santro’s, i 10s’ , Maruti Ritz’s and others of same ilk, showing no respect for the big brother; aggressively and disdainfully by the Honda Citi’s, SX4’s and Assent likes , all with disregard for the elder sibling, smoothly and condescendingly by the stately Mercs, Accords and Audie’s and frighteningly by the intimidating behemoths of the Haryana , Himachal and Punjab Roadways, hurtling down, with blearing pressure horns, on any and every one in their path.
The truckers were the one who showed courtesy and waved me past.
Sadly, the earlier king of the road, the status symbol of yore, the ubiquitous Maruti 800 was conspicuous by it minimal presence on the road, completely ignored by all. Alas their time had gone past.
There was a new menace on the road, three wheelers plying between Karnal and Kurukshetra, obstructing and slowing down the fast moving traffic with their quirky habits of hogging the road,
Past Ambala and the confusing signages with the road bifurcating in numerous directions to various destinations, once on the road to Chandigarh made me wonder as to where the single carriageway, travelled earlier had vanished replaced by a smooth highway traversing many flyovers.
The only jarring note of the journey was the reasonable and at places unreasonable Toll Tax I had to dish-out en-route starting from Noida itself.
Though entering Chandigarh was easy, identifying the land marks as indicated, on phone, by Bimal Jain to his house in Sector 35A, where every one was congregating for lunch, was difficult.
I missed the Tribune Complex, the first land mark, but did pick up the under construction hotel on the left, a bit confused took the left turn at the round about instead the right and promptly got lost.
Many queries and directions later , especially by the good and ever helpful Rickshaw-pullers, finally I did reached Bimals, albeit when most, a few diehards still holding to the Beer mugs, were past the dessert stage.
To the all-round delight, the officially designated ‘Photographer’ had arrived and I was hailed with more than a hearty welcome. Karnail Sandhu, pleased and excited was all smiles to see in me one from, our own, the Technical Graduate entry.
Missed the lunch, I retrieved the Yashika from the car, and got going with my assigned duty. Hopefully, the worthy editor of the News Letter will find a place for some of the vignettes captured from the occasion.
With the sun creeping down, the shadows lengthening and many eyes drooping down with the beer induced sleep, it was time to break.
I had the now daunting task of locating the house in Sector 8 B where I was to stay .Once again the, Behari Rickshaw-Pullers came to rescue and put me on the right road.
Once settled, I had time to open the thick envelop proffered in my hand earlier on arrival at Jain’s. It contained a thick sheaf of papers; a detailed itinerary of events of our stay directions and instructions with details of the hosts and the guests; very helpful and convenient, a neat staff work it was.
Dinner at Bakshi’s, with their house, fortuitously, in Sector 8A was just a walking distance away.
I changed into a lounge suite from the blue blazer , picked my camera along with the flash drove the walking distance to Teginder’s imposing house, the entrance full of blooming Chrysanthemums, the house tastefully done and to the open arms and broad smiles from the Bakshi’s not forgetting their charming daughters- in- law and the doting assistant hosts, their sons.
Every one, in keeping with the dignity of the occasion had changed to formal attire from that of the earlier casual dress for lunch.
The party went along, roaringly, with snacks, drinks, games, sing-songs and the soothing music from the Bose stereo in the background.
The food on the table, with the candles earlier lit lovingly by Mrs Bakshi, catered to every taste, included ‘Makki ke Roti and Chana ka Sag’.
One would have liked to linger-on but the next days activity, the picnic, was to start early in the day.
The RV for the picnic was the Rose Garden parking lot and I was early carrying my Mamiya SLR loaded with a slower 200ASA film, giving me ample time to watch Chandigarh that was in a holiday mood with the milling crowed enjoying the open space of the Rose Garden, the early morning fresh and nippy air. The much liberal and uninhabited attitude of teenager, boys and girls, out for fun, on public display in the parking lot, was a revelation in as to how far ahead the teens were from rest of the country.
Cars kept arriving with the guest, driven by hosts or drivers, once all were in they left en block, leaving me and Bajaj, to find our own way to some place known as ‘Kansal Forest Reserve Resort’ with a cryptic direction “Go past the Engineering College- keep driving straight”.
We drove straight for some time, but even the straight roads do turn and twist and so did our road: with the mobile signal too weak to seek guidance from the main party, once again I had to resort to seeking directions from passers-by some ignorant, some indifferent, the helpful, on the other hand guided us to a Forest Resort but not the one that we were seeking.
The diversion was, however, utilised by Bajaj to have a look-see around, speak to property dealers who had setup shops to sell plots to those who can’t afford one in Chandigarh but still, by spending some money, can live cheek and Jowl with the city.
To cut the story short, we did manage to reach the gate of the Forest reserve, or was it reserved forest for VIP’s and cajoled the, frail looking, forest guard, after establishing our bone fides, to open the gate and let us in.
Driving on and on the narrow dirt track, cutting through the thick forest, over a number of causeways some dry others with a thin stream of water flowing over, we suddenly reached a wide open space, the line of cars parked and the partying crowed in the distance was welcome sight. Bajaj and I joined the conglomeration to a tumultuous welcome, having been given as lost, with mutual relief.
With beer, coke, snacks all around and in plenty from the makeshift bar and kitchen; some went for a walk around while the others basked in the sun, reminiscing about old times, and current ‘Sass – Bahu –Children’ issues. The diehard Golfers tried their hands at the makeshift chipping range and won some prizes. I on the other hand with a few in-between sips from the glass of Coke got busy in capturing the mood of the party.
After the sumptuous lunch and bit more lingering around it was time to say goodbye. However, before that DSR Sahni on behalf of all of us thanked the Chandigarh family members, for the unique and unforgettable event that they had organised. As some of us had plans to leave the same evening and were in a hurry, it was also getting late, so the departure and exit from the forest was quick.
Golfers among us stayed on for the next day Golf. I, a non-golfer, left for Delhi / Noida early next morning.
As I drove out of Chandigarh, having spent last two days with fellow course-mates, I was profoundly moved and felt honored and privileged to be part of the, Jun 55 pass-outs, family.
Getting out of Delhi was a bit difficult: the straight roads, well traveled from earlier days, were now folding and turning over themselves with 360 degree turns, while climbing over the numerous flyovers en route and forking in detours to different destinations. One wrong fork taken and you are lost.
New land marks, the old having got obliterated by the frenzy of construction and chaos added to my confusion.
I had started early to beat the traffic; apparently every one had the same bright idea, it appeared that the whole of Delhi had decided to exit on the same route and at the same time.
Once on NH 1 (National High-Way- The grand trunk Road from Calcutta to Peshawar, I shifted to the overdrive, the fifth gear of the Astra, and with the engine purring smoothly accelerated to a steady 80 KM per hour.
80 KM , was slow for the highway, with 90 the max permitted speed, others driving at 100 plus overtook me regularly; the brash Santro’s, i 10s’ , Maruti Ritz’s and others of same ilk, showing no respect for the big brother; aggressively and disdainfully by the Honda Citi’s, SX4’s and Assent likes , all with disregard for the elder sibling, smoothly and condescendingly by the stately Mercs, Accords and Audie’s and frighteningly by the intimidating behemoths of the Haryana , Himachal and Punjab Roadways, hurtling down, with blearing pressure horns, on any and every one in their path.
The truckers were the one who showed courtesy and waved me past.
Sadly, the earlier king of the road, the status symbol of yore, the ubiquitous Maruti 800 was conspicuous by it minimal presence on the road, completely ignored by all. Alas their time had gone past.
There was a new menace on the road, three wheelers plying between Karnal and Kurukshetra, obstructing and slowing down the fast moving traffic with their quirky habits of hogging the road,
Past Ambala and the confusing signages with the road bifurcating in numerous directions to various destinations, once on the road to Chandigarh made me wonder as to where the single carriageway, travelled earlier had vanished replaced by a smooth highway traversing many flyovers.
The only jarring note of the journey was the reasonable and at places unreasonable Toll Tax I had to dish-out en-route starting from Noida itself.
Though entering Chandigarh was easy, identifying the land marks as indicated, on phone, by Bimal Jain to his house in Sector 35A, where every one was congregating for lunch, was difficult.
I missed the Tribune Complex, the first land mark, but did pick up the under construction hotel on the left, a bit confused took the left turn at the round about instead the right and promptly got lost.
Many queries and directions later , especially by the good and ever helpful Rickshaw-pullers, finally I did reached Bimals, albeit when most, a few diehards still holding to the Beer mugs, were past the dessert stage.
To the all-round delight, the officially designated ‘Photographer’ had arrived and I was hailed with more than a hearty welcome. Karnail Sandhu, pleased and excited was all smiles to see in me one from, our own, the Technical Graduate entry.
Missed the lunch, I retrieved the Yashika from the car, and got going with my assigned duty. Hopefully, the worthy editor of the News Letter will find a place for some of the vignettes captured from the occasion.
With the sun creeping down, the shadows lengthening and many eyes drooping down with the beer induced sleep, it was time to break.
I had the now daunting task of locating the house in Sector 8 B where I was to stay .Once again the, Behari Rickshaw-Pullers came to rescue and put me on the right road.
Once settled, I had time to open the thick envelop proffered in my hand earlier on arrival at Jain’s. It contained a thick sheaf of papers; a detailed itinerary of events of our stay directions and instructions with details of the hosts and the guests; very helpful and convenient, a neat staff work it was.
Dinner at Bakshi’s, with their house, fortuitously, in Sector 8A was just a walking distance away.
I changed into a lounge suite from the blue blazer , picked my camera along with the flash drove the walking distance to Teginder’s imposing house, the entrance full of blooming Chrysanthemums, the house tastefully done and to the open arms and broad smiles from the Bakshi’s not forgetting their charming daughters- in- law and the doting assistant hosts, their sons.
Every one, in keeping with the dignity of the occasion had changed to formal attire from that of the earlier casual dress for lunch.
The party went along, roaringly, with snacks, drinks, games, sing-songs and the soothing music from the Bose stereo in the background.
The food on the table, with the candles earlier lit lovingly by Mrs Bakshi, catered to every taste, included ‘Makki ke Roti and Chana ka Sag’.
One would have liked to linger-on but the next days activity, the picnic, was to start early in the day.
The RV for the picnic was the Rose Garden parking lot and I was early carrying my Mamiya SLR loaded with a slower 200ASA film, giving me ample time to watch Chandigarh that was in a holiday mood with the milling crowed enjoying the open space of the Rose Garden, the early morning fresh and nippy air. The much liberal and uninhabited attitude of teenager, boys and girls, out for fun, on public display in the parking lot, was a revelation in as to how far ahead the teens were from rest of the country.
Cars kept arriving with the guest, driven by hosts or drivers, once all were in they left en block, leaving me and Bajaj, to find our own way to some place known as ‘Kansal Forest Reserve Resort’ with a cryptic direction “Go past the Engineering College- keep driving straight”.
We drove straight for some time, but even the straight roads do turn and twist and so did our road: with the mobile signal too weak to seek guidance from the main party, once again I had to resort to seeking directions from passers-by some ignorant, some indifferent, the helpful, on the other hand guided us to a Forest Resort but not the one that we were seeking.
The diversion was, however, utilised by Bajaj to have a look-see around, speak to property dealers who had setup shops to sell plots to those who can’t afford one in Chandigarh but still, by spending some money, can live cheek and Jowl with the city.
To cut the story short, we did manage to reach the gate of the Forest reserve, or was it reserved forest for VIP’s and cajoled the, frail looking, forest guard, after establishing our bone fides, to open the gate and let us in.
Driving on and on the narrow dirt track, cutting through the thick forest, over a number of causeways some dry others with a thin stream of water flowing over, we suddenly reached a wide open space, the line of cars parked and the partying crowed in the distance was welcome sight. Bajaj and I joined the conglomeration to a tumultuous welcome, having been given as lost, with mutual relief.
With beer, coke, snacks all around and in plenty from the makeshift bar and kitchen; some went for a walk around while the others basked in the sun, reminiscing about old times, and current ‘Sass – Bahu –Children’ issues. The diehard Golfers tried their hands at the makeshift chipping range and won some prizes. I on the other hand with a few in-between sips from the glass of Coke got busy in capturing the mood of the party.
After the sumptuous lunch and bit more lingering around it was time to say goodbye. However, before that DSR Sahni on behalf of all of us thanked the Chandigarh family members, for the unique and unforgettable event that they had organised. As some of us had plans to leave the same evening and were in a hurry, it was also getting late, so the departure and exit from the forest was quick.
Golfers among us stayed on for the next day Golf. I, a non-golfer, left for Delhi / Noida early next morning.
As I drove out of Chandigarh, having spent last two days with fellow course-mates, I was profoundly moved and felt honored and privileged to be part of the, Jun 55 pass-outs, family.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
My first flight
MY FIRST FLIGHT BY IAC AND LATER
It was back in 1962, IA was then known as IAC, that then as a young Captain, I was posted in Assam, separated and far away from a younger wife, living in Dehradun. The only contact between the two pining souls was by the infrequent letters, which took days to move to and fro.
The daily IAC flight from and to Calcutta, flew low over our Regiment, located at the Sonbari Airfield, Tezpur, and landed and took-off regularly. The flight operated by a Dakota aircraft, which with its characteristic drone of the twin engines was both a friendly sight and sound.
A God sent short training assignment at Agra made me realise that I could manage a couple of days at Dehradun by shaving-off some from the slow train journey, from Tezpur to Agra, if I took the flight to Calcutta. and then the train to Dehradun .
It was a strange feeling of exhilaration when I had taken my seat in the aircraft and the door closed with a bang. I had flown earlier, as a young boy of fourteen, but only in a Royal Indian Airforce aircraft. A pair of
Tiger Moths were on a war effort exhibition tour giving joy rides to district officials and local VIPs. It was just a takeoff, a single circuit around and then the landing on the grass strip at Saharanpur way back in 1945.
The Dakota flight was an entirely different experience, with its comfortable well-padded seat next to the window, looking down at the town of Tezpur, the majestic Brahamputra maundering on its way to Bay of Bengal and the slowly changing landscape down below. Seeing all, but possibly not registering much, with my thoughts at far away Dehradun.
Nearing Calcutta the aircraft banked, took a turn and aligned itself with the runway and slowly sank down making a smooth three-point landing. As we were walking towards the terminal I did manage to complement the Captain for the flawless landing, who gave me a pleasant smile in return.
The taxi drive to the Howarth Junction from the airport took more time than the flight had from Tezpur to Dum Dum Airport, Calcutta. However, I did manage some precious time with my wife and baby daughter, many times worth the princely sum of Rs 100, I had spent on the Air Ticket.
On the other hand, returning from Nagpur to Delhi by flight 872 on the morning of 5thApril 04, this time in a Boeing 737 Jet was a different flight experience. Unusually fussing-over cabin-crew, breakfast served with shining cutlery, but with a plastic knife, for reasons of security and self-defence, than flying in a Dakota, but similar in one respect.
Approaching Delhi, the aircraft started to loose altitude preparing for the landing, I cold see it crossing the outer-fence of the Airport and then descending to contact the, closing by the second, tarmac and the runway markers flying backwards. It was any moment now, by instinct, based on the experience of so many earlier landings, in fair weather and foul; I braced myself for the expected thud and the accompanying jolt of the landing wheels making contact with mother-earth. It was then that my co- passenger made some remark, but before I could respond I realised, to my surprise, that we had landed. No thud and no jarring note at the end of the flight. It was a strange coincidence, the non-event, suddenly brought back the memory of the landing at Dumdum Airport way back on the afternoon of 24 March 1962.
There was no chance to complement the pilot this time; I could
It was back in 1962, IA was then known as IAC, that then as a young Captain, I was posted in Assam, separated and far away from a younger wife, living in Dehradun. The only contact between the two pining souls was by the infrequent letters, which took days to move to and fro.
The daily IAC flight from and to Calcutta, flew low over our Regiment, located at the Sonbari Airfield, Tezpur, and landed and took-off regularly. The flight operated by a Dakota aircraft, which with its characteristic drone of the twin engines was both a friendly sight and sound.
A God sent short training assignment at Agra made me realise that I could manage a couple of days at Dehradun by shaving-off some from the slow train journey, from Tezpur to Agra, if I took the flight to Calcutta. and then the train to Dehradun .
It was a strange feeling of exhilaration when I had taken my seat in the aircraft and the door closed with a bang. I had flown earlier, as a young boy of fourteen, but only in a Royal Indian Airforce aircraft. A pair of
Tiger Moths were on a war effort exhibition tour giving joy rides to district officials and local VIPs. It was just a takeoff, a single circuit around and then the landing on the grass strip at Saharanpur way back in 1945.
The Dakota flight was an entirely different experience, with its comfortable well-padded seat next to the window, looking down at the town of Tezpur, the majestic Brahamputra maundering on its way to Bay of Bengal and the slowly changing landscape down below. Seeing all, but possibly not registering much, with my thoughts at far away Dehradun.
Nearing Calcutta the aircraft banked, took a turn and aligned itself with the runway and slowly sank down making a smooth three-point landing. As we were walking towards the terminal I did manage to complement the Captain for the flawless landing, who gave me a pleasant smile in return.
The taxi drive to the Howarth Junction from the airport took more time than the flight had from Tezpur to Dum Dum Airport, Calcutta. However, I did manage some precious time with my wife and baby daughter, many times worth the princely sum of Rs 100, I had spent on the Air Ticket.
On the other hand, returning from Nagpur to Delhi by flight 872 on the morning of 5thApril 04, this time in a Boeing 737 Jet was a different flight experience. Unusually fussing-over cabin-crew, breakfast served with shining cutlery, but with a plastic knife, for reasons of security and self-defence, than flying in a Dakota, but similar in one respect.
Approaching Delhi, the aircraft started to loose altitude preparing for the landing, I cold see it crossing the outer-fence of the Airport and then descending to contact the, closing by the second, tarmac and the runway markers flying backwards. It was any moment now, by instinct, based on the experience of so many earlier landings, in fair weather and foul; I braced myself for the expected thud and the accompanying jolt of the landing wheels making contact with mother-earth. It was then that my co- passenger made some remark, but before I could respond I realised, to my surprise, that we had landed. No thud and no jarring note at the end of the flight. It was a strange coincidence, the non-event, suddenly brought back the memory of the landing at Dumdum Airport way back on the afternoon of 24 March 1962.
There was no chance to complement the pilot this time; I could
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Flight to GOA
THE FLIGHT TO GOA
Jostled by the impatient and milling passengers, crowding the isle, with bulky carry on board baggage, searching for some empty overhead bins, I make way to 24 C, my isle seat, on the Kingfisher flight to Goa, a bit uncomfortable to find 24 A and B occupied by a Goa bound Honeymoon couple for company.
Seated, I look for the two ends of the seat belt, wondering of their feelings with a stranger intruding in their privacy. Sitting a bit separate from each other, as far as possible, in the narrow seats of the cattle class, I notice that, unlike typical honeymoon couples, they appear a bit like two strangers thrown together by chance or parental design, yet to fathom and explore each other.
My ‘Hi’ barely acknowledged, confirming my first impression, I confine my attention to the small TV screen on the back of the seat opposite flashing updated messages of distance and time to destination, outside temperature the moving progress of the plane to Goa on a relief map of India and later , once airborne, a choice of movies and live news.
The plane starts to move, trundling like a lumbering overloaded truck, for its position in the long queue of other departing flights. I keep shifting my attention between the ever changing display on the TV screen and the shifting scenery through the window. Ages later the plane stops, finally at the top of the queue. With clearance from the ATC, the pilot pushes the throttles forward and rumble of the twin GE engines increases, the engines whining are tested at full power, the brakes are released and the aircraft commences the takeoff run lumbering slowly, soon picking speed, accelerating furiously, with the massive effort to free itself from the shekels of gravity.
The uneven ground run, bumping on the runway potholes, shuddering and squeaking of the aircraft all adds to the typical takeoff stress that permeates the cabin. : Looking out of the window, at the speedily falling distance markers of the runway behind , I can not but help notice some other shekels of inhibition being cut in the cabin itself: the slowly crawling hand of the bride suddenly jumps like a spread Cobra-head and clutch the expectant hand, hopefully waiting all the time for this to happen.
As the plane breaks from the pull of gravity and takes to air, climbing at a steep angle, the vibrations die and an uneasy calm descends in the cabin. The tension some what ebbed, the hand also is slowly withdrawn back to the comfort of the lap, strangely, at the same time trying to hide the large number of shiny slivery bangles on the other hand, a newly wedded’s traditional symbol, under the pullover’s long sleeve!
During the flight, though, deep in my own thoughts, I could not but fail to sense their lack of mutual chemistry. If a confirmation was needed it came nearly two hours later, during descent for landing at Goa; with one hand, expectant and waiting for the other, extend hopefully for the repeat of what had happened at the takeoff, which all this time, in the flight, lay inert in the lap, suddenly getting twined but once on the ground and the Boeing rolling to a stop is withdrawn with alacrity.
Hopefully they were more comfortable with each other on the return flight after the three days and two nights of the honeymoon package, a post marriage gift.
This little drama pushed me back the memory lane, back to the July of the year 1985: we were on an Airbus flight to Bombay a few days before my imminent retirement from Army.
With the monsoon clouds extending right up to the cruising altitude of the aircraft and only the pea-soup of the woolly clouds visible through the window, my wife of 27 years, unlike the bride of the day, held my hand, tightly clutched all the way from Delhi to Bombay. Was it the feeling of security accruing from the low voltage, low frequency current of companionship and its assurance flowing to and fro, or was it the silent expression the deep love and affection, felt more so in the close proximity and isolation of the Airbus cabin at 35,000 feet cut-off from the myriad pressures of the small worries of life left down below.
Once on the ground and the plane taxiing, the grip loosened some what, possibly the expectation of soon meting her younger sister, then residing in Bombay, some what overshadowed the influence of my proximity.
Jostled by the impatient and milling passengers, crowding the isle, with bulky carry on board baggage, searching for some empty overhead bins, I make way to 24 C, my isle seat, on the Kingfisher flight to Goa, a bit uncomfortable to find 24 A and B occupied by a Goa bound Honeymoon couple for company.
Seated, I look for the two ends of the seat belt, wondering of their feelings with a stranger intruding in their privacy. Sitting a bit separate from each other, as far as possible, in the narrow seats of the cattle class, I notice that, unlike typical honeymoon couples, they appear a bit like two strangers thrown together by chance or parental design, yet to fathom and explore each other.
My ‘Hi’ barely acknowledged, confirming my first impression, I confine my attention to the small TV screen on the back of the seat opposite flashing updated messages of distance and time to destination, outside temperature the moving progress of the plane to Goa on a relief map of India and later , once airborne, a choice of movies and live news.
The plane starts to move, trundling like a lumbering overloaded truck, for its position in the long queue of other departing flights. I keep shifting my attention between the ever changing display on the TV screen and the shifting scenery through the window. Ages later the plane stops, finally at the top of the queue. With clearance from the ATC, the pilot pushes the throttles forward and rumble of the twin GE engines increases, the engines whining are tested at full power, the brakes are released and the aircraft commences the takeoff run lumbering slowly, soon picking speed, accelerating furiously, with the massive effort to free itself from the shekels of gravity.
The uneven ground run, bumping on the runway potholes, shuddering and squeaking of the aircraft all adds to the typical takeoff stress that permeates the cabin. : Looking out of the window, at the speedily falling distance markers of the runway behind , I can not but help notice some other shekels of inhibition being cut in the cabin itself: the slowly crawling hand of the bride suddenly jumps like a spread Cobra-head and clutch the expectant hand, hopefully waiting all the time for this to happen.
As the plane breaks from the pull of gravity and takes to air, climbing at a steep angle, the vibrations die and an uneasy calm descends in the cabin. The tension some what ebbed, the hand also is slowly withdrawn back to the comfort of the lap, strangely, at the same time trying to hide the large number of shiny slivery bangles on the other hand, a newly wedded’s traditional symbol, under the pullover’s long sleeve!
During the flight, though, deep in my own thoughts, I could not but fail to sense their lack of mutual chemistry. If a confirmation was needed it came nearly two hours later, during descent for landing at Goa; with one hand, expectant and waiting for the other, extend hopefully for the repeat of what had happened at the takeoff, which all this time, in the flight, lay inert in the lap, suddenly getting twined but once on the ground and the Boeing rolling to a stop is withdrawn with alacrity.
Hopefully they were more comfortable with each other on the return flight after the three days and two nights of the honeymoon package, a post marriage gift.
This little drama pushed me back the memory lane, back to the July of the year 1985: we were on an Airbus flight to Bombay a few days before my imminent retirement from Army.
With the monsoon clouds extending right up to the cruising altitude of the aircraft and only the pea-soup of the woolly clouds visible through the window, my wife of 27 years, unlike the bride of the day, held my hand, tightly clutched all the way from Delhi to Bombay. Was it the feeling of security accruing from the low voltage, low frequency current of companionship and its assurance flowing to and fro, or was it the silent expression the deep love and affection, felt more so in the close proximity and isolation of the Airbus cabin at 35,000 feet cut-off from the myriad pressures of the small worries of life left down below.
Once on the ground and the plane taxiing, the grip loosened some what, possibly the expectation of soon meting her younger sister, then residing in Bombay, some what overshadowed the influence of my proximity.
DEHRARUN AND BACK
DEHRADUN AND BACK
Had I delayed my trip to Dehradun till after reading Ruskin Bond’s Mussoorie Diary both I and my car would have been in a better shape today.
From Delhi , reaching the Meerut bypass, I was diverted on the road passing through the city and soon joined a crawling nightmare of a procession of all imaginable types of vehicles , with a sickening sound announcing the scrapping of the car by a rogue truck.
Wary of taking the same route back, I took the third, rather than choosing from the two suggested by Bond, via Pauntashab planning to hit the GT Road at Karnal.
, I made good time up to Pauntashab. and then suddenly there was no road, only undulating ground where perhaps a road lay aligned earlier , the yellow of the mustard and the green of the lush wheat crop were all there but obscured by the swirling dust clouds raised by passing buses and trucks engulfing the car and totally blinding me , the engine whining , body creaking, swaying ,dipping and rising like a boat in a choppy sea, with me on tenterhooks, struggling with the steering wheel to keep the boat of a car on even keel. It was a wonder that we did make to Yamunanagar without a breakdown or accident .
Things changed and the torture subsided only on hitting the GT Road at Karnal with both the car and me long taking a long sigh of relief with the foot pressure transferred from the brake to the accelerator.
Nearing Delhi it was a nightmare of a different kind; with the familiar landmarks disappearing fast, thanks to the frenzy of construction due the fast approaching date of the CW games, especially now that it was night , with no signage to guide I took a wrong turn and promptly got lost , only and thankfully to be extricated by a good Samaritan of a Taxi Driver who led and guided me to the Road to Noida
The car resting in the custody of local Denter/Painter (work-shop) I am still trying to calm the frayed nerves from the return journey, wishing I had chosen one of the two routes advised by Bond in his diary.
Had I delayed my trip to Dehradun till after reading Ruskin Bond’s Mussoorie Diary both I and my car would have been in a better shape today.
From Delhi , reaching the Meerut bypass, I was diverted on the road passing through the city and soon joined a crawling nightmare of a procession of all imaginable types of vehicles , with a sickening sound announcing the scrapping of the car by a rogue truck.
Wary of taking the same route back, I took the third, rather than choosing from the two suggested by Bond, via Pauntashab planning to hit the GT Road at Karnal.
, I made good time up to Pauntashab. and then suddenly there was no road, only undulating ground where perhaps a road lay aligned earlier , the yellow of the mustard and the green of the lush wheat crop were all there but obscured by the swirling dust clouds raised by passing buses and trucks engulfing the car and totally blinding me , the engine whining , body creaking, swaying ,dipping and rising like a boat in a choppy sea, with me on tenterhooks, struggling with the steering wheel to keep the boat of a car on even keel. It was a wonder that we did make to Yamunanagar without a breakdown or accident .
Things changed and the torture subsided only on hitting the GT Road at Karnal with both the car and me long taking a long sigh of relief with the foot pressure transferred from the brake to the accelerator.
Nearing Delhi it was a nightmare of a different kind; with the familiar landmarks disappearing fast, thanks to the frenzy of construction due the fast approaching date of the CW games, especially now that it was night , with no signage to guide I took a wrong turn and promptly got lost , only and thankfully to be extricated by a good Samaritan of a Taxi Driver who led and guided me to the Road to Noida
The car resting in the custody of local Denter/Painter (work-shop) I am still trying to calm the frayed nerves from the return journey, wishing I had chosen one of the two routes advised by Bond in his diary.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)