THE GOLDEN DAYS

Onboard The Chancellorsville in 1980. At extreme left. 

The year was 1968 and salary offered to a Trainee Driller was a princely sum of Rs. 600 per month. Accommodation was free and Duliajan was a very cosy and well-planned township.

Friends congratulated me profusely for this dream break. Their reaction was expected as the going rates for fresh engineering graduates those days were around Rs. 400. Moreover with any public sector undertaking, one had to sign a bond to work for at least five years! Oil India Limited or OIL as we fondly referred to the organization was not in the public sector. It was, we proudly pointed out, a joint sector company with a 50:50 partnership between Burmah Oil Company of UK and the Government of India.

Many years later, my son, still in high school asked me what my salary was when I started my career. He was probably trying to analyse what would be in store after he completes the rigorous process of education.  He was disappointed at the figure and made a quick mental calculation, “Well, that was not even fifteen dollars! How did you manage to survive?”

“Well” I hurriedly explained, “Indian rupee was a much stronger currency those days, it was four rupees to a dollar!”

He was still not impressed, “Hundred and fifty dollars, hmm, not enough!”

But it was; I can assure you. Four of us budding executives shared a two-bedroom D + bungalow in the area between the hospital and the road running along the market. Our residence faced the road. We had a kanchha taking care of our daily needs. His name was Ramprasad. The monthly expense for food was around Rs. 75 per head. And, let me remind you, we did not live frugally. Our days started with a hefty breakfast, followed by a three to four course lunch, heavy afternoon snacks and dinner replicating the lunch. We did not eat any leftovers.

Being flush with money, I bought a Philips radio after receiving my first pay cheque. Oh, what an excitement it was. Radio Ceylon and Vivid Bharati were at my fingertips. Looking back, I feel rather dismayed that we had no TV, no mobile phones and no internet and still we survived, and survived rather cheerfully. The only hassle was to queue up in front of the post office once every year to renew the radio licence. Yes, a licence from the government was needed to listen to the radio!

A couple of years later, when we moved out of our shared bungalow to our own little abodes, I bought my first stereo. In fact, it was the first stereo marketed in India as claimed by Philips. It had a simple turn table with a switch on one side to adjust the unit to play 78, 45 and 33-1/3 RPM records. There were two wires extending to two little speakers.  The sound of drums dominating one speaker and the instruments the other was a fascinating experience. I remember arranging an impromptu party to celebrate the possession of such a unique product.  Alas, I soon ran out of steam as the recurring expenses of buying records made a large hole in my pocket. Cassette tape recorders where you can record and erase songs were not easily available unless you had a cousin or an uncle in Singapore or New York!

Among all my friends, Pankaj (Barbora) had the privilege of having a four wheeler in his possession. It was a Mahindra jeep assigned to him by the company. Consequently, he was the most sought after person among all the friends. Without him, the trips outside Duliajan were not feasible.  Come December, the entire region would buzz with the most exciting annual event, the “Club Meet”. Every week, a club in the region mostly run by the tea planters and the two Oil companies would invite the members of the other clubs to a fun-filled weekend. We eagerly waited for these events.  However, a driller’s duty hours were not conducive to having fun all the time. Very often, I found myself on night shifts on a club meet night.  Missing the ones at the home turf i.e. Zaloni Club hurt the most.

In the absence of TV or internet, the source of entertainment was a weekly English movie at Duliajan club or an occasional Hindi movie at Basant, outside the township.  On weekends, we would go out to Zaloni, entertain ourselves, return to someone’s house and have fun. The impact of fun often exploded to a high pitched cacophony, which must have reached the peaceful abodes of some young families in the neighbourhood. However, I must acknowledge gratefully that those young families, very sportingly, treated us with an affectionate indulgence.  A few grumpy ones were brushed aside by the others.

However, it was not fun all the way. The work front was tough and pretty demanding. Drilling operations, in particular entailed a lot of physical effort as well as mental alertness.  The first day we were taken to the rig site, we were given a wire brush each, a can of cleaning oil and some cotton wastes. Our first job in the company was to clean the threads of the drill pipes on the rack.

We were flabbergasted! “Why do we have to clean pipe threads? We are qualified engineers with a degree in engineering”. Our trainer was not impressed, “This is what you have to do”, he boomed, “This will teach you the dignity of labour and appreciate the pain, the agony and the emotions of the crew working for you”. And, he was absolutely right, we realized a few months later.  In course of time, we went through the arduous process of working as roustabouts, roughnecks or floor men, top men and graduated to the status of drillers in charge of a shift.  By the time, we took over as full-fledged drillers; we knew the function of each and every member of the crew and could have replaced any of them in any position on the rig.

In retrospect, I can confidently state that the training programme we were exposed to with OIL has been the best in my experience. Later in life, I interacted with several oil companies including the multinationals but never came across a programme as comprehensive as it was in OIL. I sincerely hope that the tradition continues even today.

The day I was asked to take over as a driller in charge of a shift was one of the most gratifying ones in my long career. Life was not easy. I still remember the dreadful rainy nights in winter at a site surrounded by dense jungle, while trying to get the operations going with the help of an exhausted crew.

However, there were lighter moments as well. There was a man in the engineering maintenance team. His name was Rajani. He was very fond of conversing in English, having worked with “gora sahibs” during his early years. One day, I heard an unusual mechanical noise from the engines and almost simultaneously, I saw Rajani huffing and puffing towards me with his hands waving vigorously. He was urging me to suspend operation immediately.  The reason?  He exclaimed, “Number-1 engine phesphes leaking, hose pipe phaating down”. Well, he did covey the message. On another occasion, there was a major breakdown when the drilling supremo, Mr. Harry Hay came to the rig on a routine visit. It was Rajani’s day! He ignored me completely and stood in front of Mr. Hay and said, “Shaft broke in two tukras”. Mr. Hay’s frown turned into a smile!

Winter months were beautiful in Duliajan. The trees lining the streets used to be in full bloom rendering a multi-colour landscape all around. The drive outside the town was very pleasing to the eyes. The road to Tinsukia had lovely green tea gardens on both sides of the road. I do not remember how many times I stopped my car to capture the breath-taking sights in my camera. Alas, there were no digital cameras those days.

Having spent my school days in Digboi, my off-day trips to this neighbouring town was rather frequent. I had plenty of friends in Digboi including Surajit (Dutta), who was my contemporary  in high school. The road to Digboi had dense forest on both sides as well as smallish habitats of very friendly people, who would willingly extend a helping hand in case of a flat tyre or any other break down. However, one particular night, my wife and I were returning from Digboi rather late. Midway through, we felt there was absolutely no traffic on the road. Perplexed, I drove a bit more and discovered the reason. There was a lone elephant standing across the road in majestic elegance blocking traffic movement completely. There were rows of stranded vehicles on either side as if waiting to pay tribute to the jungle king. Apart from an occasional movement of the trunk, the elephant was completely standstill and indifferent to the line-up of vehicles. Discretion being the better part of valour,I quietly reversed my car within the limited space; the road was rather narrow; and drove back to Digboi. From there I took the long route back to Duliajan via Bogapani, Panitola, Tingrai, Makum and Tinsukia. It was well past midnight when we reached our house in Duliajan. Later, I found out that his royal majesty of the jungle decided to lift the blockade at the crack of dawn next morning. This was one of the events my wife and I narrate even today while reminiscing about the good old days!

There are plenty of stories and anecdotes flooding my memory right now. Some of the stories were outright funny when they happened and should normally cheer me up. However, the stern realization that many of the main protagonists of those events are not with us anymore casts a depressing spell on me.  Among them were my close friends, colleagues and mentors. Their absence left a permanent void in my life.

**********

VANDE MATARAM

It was 14th August 1947, 15 minutes to midnight. At an industrial town built and maintained by a British Oil Company, a group of Indian professionals and their families gathered around a flagpole. Their faces glowed in excitement and the hot summer wind felt unusually soothing. Nobody complained. Among the group, was a young couple. The husband beamed in anticipation. The young wife stood close to her husband, as if in a daze. A two-year-old baby boy was blissfully asleep on the man’s shoulder.

The senior most man in the group was assigned the honour of hoisting a tri-coloured flag tied strategically at the lower end of the pole. 

All were rather quiet awaiting to experience an event they never thought would be possible in their lifetime. 

Suddenly, sound of conch-shells from a few houses nearby, signaled the arrival of the historic moment. The senior most man pulled the string. His fingers trembled and eyes went moist as the tri-colour went up and started to flutter in the hot August air.
Everyone burst out in spontaneous cheers and then went quiet, unsure of what to do next. Suddenly, a lone female voice chanting “Vande Mataram” resonated the air, followed by a roar in unison from the rest. It was an extemporaneous act; an act which could have landed them in jail a few weeks earlier.

At that very moment, the young man woke up the baby on his shoulder and lifted him high to draw his attention to the flag. The baby was known to break into deafening wails if woken up prematurely from his slumber. But, that precise moment, he looked around him, squinted at the flag and went back to sleep again.

That baby was me. Yes, I was a witness to that great moment but I have no recollection.

Jai Hind. 

Happy Independence Day.

KALAPANI

A few hours after landing at Port Blair airport, we were taking a ride around the city in a car provided by the tour operator. The driver was a friendly young man, eager to show us the sights normally frequented by tourists. He was driving at the usual speed feasible in a traffic returning home after a day’s work.

Suddenly, he slowed down the car and pulled up at the side next to the curb and pointed to a huge gated premise. It was rather an obscure building but bright flood lights and presence of a few armed guards in uniform standing in rapt attention gave it an ominous look.

This is the Cellular Jail,- the driver’s voice suddenly sounded grim. I felt an instant chill down my spine. So, this was the place which bore witness to a sordid tale of our freedom struggle. Innumerable stories lodged in my memory narrated by my teachers at school and the stories I read in various books and magazines suddenly started flooding my mind. I suggested to take a walk around the building and “feel” the place. The young driver objected, - it was rather late and the gate was closed for the visitors. Moreover, we were scheduled to visit the place the following day.

There was a long queue outside the building when we arrived next day. People came from all over the country and waited patiently for the gate to open. Our guide, who joined us in the morning, had the tickets ready.

An eerie feeling greeted me the moment we entered the compound of the stone and brick structure that stood witness to a gruesome saga of our freedom movement. My heart felt heavy; breath heavier and the cool January air whined and resonated the screams of hundreds of interns, who were exposed to the worst kind of torture perpetrated by fellow human beings.

Who were the tormentors? They were the colonial representatives of the world’s most advanced civilization of the time, a nation known and admired for its sense of justice and fairness. It was a society that gifted the world a charter of democracy. It was the leader of the free world before the Americans stepped on the global stage.

However, the treatment meted out to the prisoners stood in sharp contrast to their sanctified image. They left behind contraptions and devices meant and designed to torture a fellow human being to the worst form of agony. The victims were not hard-core criminals who indulged in murder, drug peddling or kidnapping! They were men from average Indian families with an indomitable desire to set their country free from the clutches of an alien power. Some of them were barely in their teens.

The jail was originally designed in the form of a Star fish with 7 wings radiating out of a watch tower at the centre. The front of each wing faced the back of the next to eliminate any chance of communication between the prisoners. Only three wings survived the Japanese bombing during the Second World War. The prison came to be known as the cellular jail due to number of isolated cells built for the prisoners. There were 693 cells in all, each measuring 13.5 ft x 7.5 ft with a 3 ft x 1 ft ventilator located 10 ft above ground. There was no light whatsoever. The cells have been left as they were to let the visitors have a feel of the mental torture the prisoners were exposed to. The prisoners begged for lights to be installed inside the cells to enable them to read or write within a brief time slot they were allowed . Their request was summarily dismissed.

The prisoners were pushed into the cell behind heavy iron doors at 6 pm every evening and let out after 12 hours. Each prisoner was given a small earthen plate to defecate or answer to nature's call. Each morning, their first duty was to clean the plate for reuse. There were no toilet facilities inside the cells or anywhere else in the prison for the inmates. Their meals consisted of dry grass roots and rice mixed with stones.

The prisoners were given hard labour with unattainable targets. Flogging and solitary confinement without food was routine. Of the many arduous tasks, the toughest was to extract oil from cocoanuts and make ropes. The target set was often unachievable and prisoners were punished with severe flogging with their hands and feet tied in chains. No rest or recess was allowed. Any resistance, overt or covert, forced the inmates to solitary confinement with no food or water for days.

Political prisoners and revolutionaries were given the cruellest treatment. At the slightest pretext, they were flogged till they bled and became unconscious. Many died, some committed suicide. Ullaskar Dutta lost his mental balance and was transferred to Madras. Indubhushan Roy was another revolutionary who could not stand the torture and killed himself. Pandit Ramraksha went on a hunger strike as his holy thread was snatched away. He died of self-inflicted hunger. Vinayak Damodar Savarkar was branded as a “dreaded revolutionary” and was kept confined in an iron contraption that made his movement severely restricted.  Ganesh Damodar Savarkar, Veer's elder brother was also in the same jail at the same time. They were not aware of each other's presence. So severe was the isolation.

Quite frequently, a few prisoners were condemned to death. The gallows were set up behind a wall, where all the prisoners would be gathered before carrying out the execution. Normally, three condemned prisoners were hanged simultaneously. There were no funerals, neither cremation nor burial. The bodies were tossed away in the sea as a feed to marine creatures in full view of the prisoners.

Due to the vast stretch of Bay of Bengal and the ferocious marine creatures, escape from the island was perilous.

David Berry, a devil reincarnate, was the dreaded jailor whose cruelty probably had no parallel in history. He boasted often that in heaven and on earth there was one God but on the Andaman Islands, the sole God was he himself. Some of the survivors described Berry as a 5 ft 3 inches tall bull dog whose ferocity was unparalleled. Unfortunately, as has been the norm in our country’s history, his assistant and partner in crime was an Indian. Mirza Khan was a petty officer who often went beyond his brief to torture his fellow countrymen to keep his masters happy. He was rewarded with a promotion to the rank of Jamadar and proudly flouted his authority. It was probably divine justice that Berry became ill with a mysterious disease and died on the way to Calcutta for treatment.  Our guide was unclear about the fate of Mirza Khan.

There was a dead silence all around when our guide was narrating the horrifying stories. The tourists were too numb to even react or comment. Suddenly, there was a commotion behind us. I turned around and saw a young lady presumably in her thirties, on her knees and sobbing profusely. A young man, obviously her husband was knelt beside her and consoling her affectionately. It transpired that the young lady’s late grandfather was a freedom fighter and was confined here for many years.  For her, the tragedy was too personal. Later, we saw the lady once again caressing the name of her grandfather on one of the many tablets where names of the internees were inscribed. 

In spite of the inhuman treatment meted out to the inmates, a few had the courage to defy orders. They were locked up in devilishly designed devices that were far worse than being confined in a tiny cell. No wonder, in course of time the notoriety of the cellular jail reached every corner of the country and this beautiful islands of Anadaman Nicover came to be known as “Kala Pani”.

Ever since the British strengthened their grip on the country in 1857, they were on the lookout for a penal colony as there were not enough jails to imprison their perceived adversaries. Andaman & Nicobar Island, which were initially conceived as a naval base, were found the most suitable. Ironically, the freedom fighters themselves were sent to these islands as bonded labours to construct the dreaded dungeon.

Being away from the roving eyes of the society, the jail authority in the cellular jail unabashedly indulged in the worst form of atrocities. However, due to a twist of fate, the Japanese captured the islands in 1939 during the Second World War and many of the British perpetrators were interned in their own cesspit. One important event in history during this period was the arrival of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose here under the tutelage of the Japanese army. He hoisted the Indian flag here for the first time. However, Japanese turned out to be equally cruel in their treatment to the prisoners. They even tortured the local residents ruthlessly. At the end of the Second World War, the British recaptured Andaman Islands.

It was really tragic and outright shocking that the government of independent India continued to use this place as a prison till the late seventies. Though the freedom fighters were released, the appeal to dedicate this structure to the memory of thousands who made the highest sacrifice to see their motherland free was lost in procedural complexities. Only in 1979, it was declared as a national monument. Every evening, a light and sound show at the courtyard kept the memories of the sacrifices alive.

A memorial with an eternal flame has been erected at the entrance with the heart rending message, "When you go home, tell them of us and say, for your tomorrow, we gave our today'.

Jai Hind.

23 January 2018

BOOKS, BOOKS AND BOOKS ......

About a month ago, Shri Gopal Krishna Gandhi, former governor of West Bengal wrote an article in a leading newspaper published from Kolkata. In the lucid write-up, he lamented the loss of valuable books from his collection. Quite a few of them had the signature and notes of his illustrious grandfather. He even mentioned of a book signed by George Bernard Shaw presented to the Mahatma, which went missing one fine morning.

One anecdote narrated by him was particularly intriguing. He was gifted a freshly launched book signed by the author himself along with a huge bouquet of flowers. An elegantly dressed lady, who appeared to be one of the organisers of the event, graciously offered to carry the gifts to his car. Later, after reaching home he found the bouquet but not the book. The lady could not be traced.

I was sad initially but felt, oddly, rather elated to have found myself in illustrious company.  I have many such sordid tales in my kitty too. During my younger days, funds were a constrain and I depended on pavement vendors selling old books, often badly soiled. However, I valued them immensely and was quite proud of my humble collection.

An aunt on a visit to Kolkata spent a few days with us and on her return to Delhi borrowed one of my prized possessions, - “A Short History of the World by H.G. wells”. She would read the book in the train and promised to send it back with her son, who was scheduled for a business visit to the city a week later. The son did arrive but had no clue of what I was talking about. His mom did not mention anything of a book whatsoever. I was devastated. Many months later, I met my aunt once again in the city at a family wedding and she seemed to be under a serious bout of amnesia. That was that.

A friend, who happened to be son of a senior manager of a company where I started my career as a trainee, was on a visit to his parents and dropped in at my humble abode for old time’s sake. He apparently was thoroughly bored at his parents’ sprawling bungalow and borrowed my “Complete Sherlock Holmes” to while away his spare time. He walked into his father’s official car and that was the last time I saw the book. We met a few months later during my holiday and he swore that he left the book behind with his mother to be returned to me. I did not pursue of course as I did not want to rub a senior manager’s wife on the wrong side (no pun intended) during my probationary period.

On another occasion, I found a two-inch wide gap in one corner of my packed book shelf after a close relative left following a few days holiday at my humble residence. My guests are encouraged to pick a book from my shelves for bed time reading. However, at this instance, the book or books were probably packed inadvertently with personal baggage.

There are number of similar apparently unintended misdeeds that I prefer to forget and forgive. Sadly, the latest inventory check revealed at least 20% of my collection is missing. Out of sheer frustration, I made a New Year resolution in the early hours of 2018, not to lend my books to anyone, - friends, foes or family, - much to the chagrin of my well-wishers.

Well friends, I ran out of all other options.

Let me end with another story I read a long time ago. A friend visited a highly respected celebrity and found hundreds of books stacked on the floor. When the friend queried why he did not get book shelves, the celebrity sheepish replied, - no one will lend me one!

Happy reading.

Kolkata
24 January 2018