Chasing a Jet Plane, Not Only Diplomacy

 Chasing a Jet Plane

My wife grew up in Nigeria in the 80s. She has very fond memories of Port Harcourt, and our dinner conversations have on many occasions been about her pastimes, play times and friends from those years. Her childhood stories of staying in a compound with many friends of the same age group fascinated me, as I did not have such a childhood and I perhaps yearned for it. Her childhood stories filled in the gap in mine, and over the years I have got to know and befriend many of my wife’s childhood friends. 

Once, all of a sudden, an opportunity arose for me to travel to Nigeria. I used to be a press officer in the Ministry of External Affairs of India and the Prime Minister of India was to travel to Abuja, the capital of Nigeria, for the Commonwealth Summit. As a press officer in the MEA, I was supposed to be part of the advance recce team to tie up arrangements. I had heard so much about Nigeria, that I decided to go a few days in advance of my colleagues and visit my father-in-law, who continued to live and work in a Birla enterprise in Port Harcourt. There was a great deal of excitement and nostalgia amongst my in-laws’ family when they learnt I was going to visit pa-in-law in Nigeria. Apparently, I was the first family-member-by-marriage to travel to Nigeria. 

I reached Port Harcourt after changing from the Emirates aircraft to a Virgin Nigeria Embraer at Lagos airport. In an hour or so, flying over the emerald green Niger Delta, I reached Port Harcourt in Rivers State. I spent a weekend with my pa-in-law visiting his factory and friends. I also visited the house in which my wife grew up, and saw the trees and plants that my mother-in-law had planted back then in the compound where they used to stay.  While the compound was well kept, the road leading to it was potholed and bumpy. When I asked my father-in-law the name of the road, he said that the locals called it “Man must walk road”—in obvious reference to its being a potential graveyard for motor vehicles. While being dismayed at the state of the road, I marvelled at the Nigerian sense of humour. 

Traffic, rather, traffic jams in Nigeria, are legendary. Unlike in other parts of the English speaking world where traffic congestions are known as ‘jams’, in Nigeria, they are known as ‘go slow’. It is clearly a misnomer, as there is nothing slow about them—they are a dead stop. When I had to catch the flight on Monday morning, at almost mid-day, my father-in-law reminded me of the ‘go slows’, and said that we needed to leave early in the morning to avoid traffic snarls and catch the flight. I had to travel to Lagos and then to Abuja, to meet my team who had arrived the night before. As it was related to a PM visit, I was anxious and readily agreed to leave early in the morning. 

We were either too early or very lucky and we reached the airport in a breeze. I checked in and handed over my suitcase, and with our boarding cards in hand, we found that we had many hours to kill before the flight’s departure. I called my wife in Delhi and gave her a detailed account of my visit to the town where she grew up. I must have earned several brownie points then. She asked me what my plans were. I said we would kill time in the airport as we’d arrived very early. Then she came up with a killer suggestion: the Federal Government Girls’ College Abuloma (her former school) was close to the airport—why not visit it and take some pictures? After she left Nigeria for India, she hadn’t been back to her school and had many fond memories of it. Not to lose out on this opportunity of staying on her right side, I readily agreed. Being a small town airport, there were few security restrictions and with boarding cards and time in hand, we set off to see the FGGCA. 

We zipped out of the airport and within minutes crawled into a ‘go slow’. There was a total standstill. The only movement was the hawkers selling their wares. My anxiety levels started rising and I asked the driver about the prospects of being able to reach the school. He just muttered “wahala,” (Nigerian pidgin for trouble). I asked my father-in-law whether we needed to abort the plan as the bank of time we had was rapidly evaporating. Pa-in-law seemed like a sea of tranquility but I could sense the turmoil within him, obviously divided between parental love for his daughter, and his responsibility to see his son-in-law on the plane. However, when the ‘go slow’ soon turned into a “no go”, he took the decision of aborting the Abuloma mission and returning to the airport. Luckily there was not much traffic on the other carriageway and we were able to reach the airport in time for the flight. 

When I entered the departure lounge, I found several people calling my name out loud. K-leg (very suspicious)! I didn’t know I was so popular in Nigeria, and on a first time visit, that too! Visibly surprised, I went up to one of them and presented myself. He was aghast, rather furious, and demanded to know where I had been. I told him that since there was so much time for the flight I was hanging around. His reply? “Oga, your flight don go! See the tarmac, there it goes!” What!!! I rushed to the door, saw the Virgin Nigeria plane taxiing away, and panicked. If I did not get on this plane, I would miss the connecting flight to Abuja, and the important prime ministerial mission. Without thinking, I darted out of the terminal building and ran after the plane. This was certainly a big security breach. Soon, many well-built security personnel and airline staff came running after me and held me, restraining me from going ahead. It simply couldn’t be done. They were angry. I saw that the aircraft was now taxiing on the runway. Suddenly I had a brainwave. I told the guys holding on to me that it was fine if they wouldn’t let me get on the plane, but my suitcase was on it. Which led to a series of disbelieving cries of “Wetin!!” (Nigerian pidgin for “What!!”). That was an even bigger security breach, so it was decided that we would run to catch the plane. This time, rather than just me running after the plane, I had a phalanx of fitter companions, running much faster than I could and waving the pilot down. Luckily the aircraft had to taxi to the end of the runway and then turn to take off, and we caught it somewhere in the middle of the runway. The pilot stopped, opened the window and asked what the matter was. “Sir, his suitcase is in the plane!” The gentlemen with me said. The pilot replied saying that in that case, I’d better be on it too. 

I was lucky. It was a small jet with built-in stairs on the door, which the stewardess kindly lowered for me to climb in. I was a bit worried about how the passengers would react to me. But in true Nigeria style I was greeted with a round of applause. Notin spoil, as they say. All was well!

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Office-Office, Not Only Diplomacy, #HumorinDesiLife

Office-Office     

After undergoing training in Mussoorie and the Foreign Service Institute in New Delhi, my batchmate Puneet and I joined a territorial division in the Ministry of External Affairs, South Block for our desk attachment. It began in around January, in 1998, and continued till about August of the same year, after which we left for our language postings. Puneet went to Cairo to learn Arabic and I went to Spain for Spanish. 

    For trainee officers to undergo desk attachment in those days, the infrastructural and logistical arrangements were scanty at best. We were basically asked to hang around and make ourselves available. We made a deal with the then Under Secretary of our Division for sharing her room. The understanding was that we would sit on her sofa, and in return, we would run her errands—from answering calls to emails. The deal was perfect and we were the envy of the entire batch for having a room to ourselves. 

    As there was not much to do, both Puneet and I would spend hours rummaging through the holy bibles of the MEA: the Civil List and the History of Services. These two manuals documented the career details of Indian diplomats. One fine day, Puneet said, “Sandeep, don’t bring lunch tomorrow! There will be a party in the Division!” When asked about the occasion, he said it was a rare occurrence—the Joint Secretary (Head of Division) and the Director had their birthdays on the same day. So it was obvious that they would host a party and we would be invited. In those days, with our paltry salaries, parties and free lunches were music to our ears and I happily agreed to Puneet's suggestion. 

The next day we both put on our finest shirts and promptly went to wish our boss a happy birthday. Puneet even informed him about the coincidence of it also being the Director’s birthday. While he happily accepted our wishes, there were a few moments of awkward silence, which we hoped he would fill with an invite—sadly, none was forthcoming. We left his room and headed to the Director’s. We warmly greeted her and enlightened her about the remarkable coincidence of it being the Joint Secretary’s birthday as well. Here too, no invites as far the eye could see. Still, we optimistically soldiered on. Puneet decided that we needed to rush back to our room and stay put there, since the phone might ring with an invitation for the party at any time.

    Normally, for us, lunch was at 1:00 p.m. and we waited  anxiously well beyond it. As I was getting jittery with hunger, I reminded Puneet that if the call didn’t come, the canteen in South Block would also run out of food, and we needed a backup plan. Puneet shot down the idea. The wait seemed interminable and at the end of it, there was no phone call. The canteen too had run out of food. So we sadly decided to step out of South Block and go and eat somewhere else. 

    As we walked towards the second floor elevator, on the way we crossed many seemingly well-fed and happy colleagues. When the second floor elevator arrived, we saw a staff member of the Director’s office walk out of it with several boxes of pizza. Bingo! At last, the food had arrived and it was going to be a big pizza party! Puneet and I rushed back to our room to ensure we did not miss the phone call inviting us. We waited and waited, but alas, no phone call came, even this time. I vaguely remember having to go without food that day. 

    Hurt, hungry and dejected, we additionally had to digest the humiliation of not being invited for the Division party. The next day we went up to the Director's staff and summoned up the courage to ask him why we hadn’t been invited to the party hosted by the Director. “What party?” he said. “There was no party! It was the staff that was treating the Director.” 

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Case of the Disappearing Momos, #HumorinDesiLife

 

    

    Not exactly an example of good neighbourly relations. My Foreign Service batchmate Puneet shifted into the flat below us the day before. 

    Yesterday morning gripped by hunger pangs, I was rummaging through the fridge and saw in a green tiffin box some chicken momos. Was slightly miffed with my wife, Taruna, for not letting me know about their existence. Promptly poured them out into a plate and heated them in the micro. Being a chilli buff contemplated for a second on which chilli sauce to pour on top and settled for the red hot chilli paste which one gets in the Indian-Chinese restaurants. With characteristic flourish I polished them off. 

    Seeing my intensive surgical strike on the momos, Taruna gave me a bewildering look, almost quizzing me as to where I got them from. My return look was full of avenge-  like first you hid them from me and now you don't like that I got hold of them. Loved the delicious momos!! Luckily I didn't have to share them with her, as she is vegetarian. Somehow and I don't know why, Indian-Chinese leftovers always taste better the next day. 

    I had left the green tiffin box on the kitchen table. Soon thereafter Taruna shrieked from the kitchen. Oh my god!!, those momos were part of the food Ronnie, Puneet's wife, had kept for safekeeping in our fridge as their fridge is yet to arrive. Got a earful of invectives from Taruna, luckily I was able to stomach them thanks to the good momos inside me. 

    Sorry Puneet. Will make it up with good scotch soon. Your food may not be safe with us, but as jewellery and cash are not edible, please feel free to keep them with us, safely!

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Krishnani Begane Baro (Oh, Krishna, please come quickly)

 

Krishnani Begane Baro 

                            (Oh, Krishna, please come quickly)

– oh, Krishna, please come quickly!

– Come quickly and show your face!

– with beautiful anklets on your feet, sapphire armlets,

– oh blue-hued one, come with dancing steps!

– wearing a waist band with bells, a ring on your finger,

–round your neck, the Vyjayanti mala,

– (wrapped round your waist) a yellow coloured silk garment from Kashi, holding the flute in your hand.

–the sandal paste applied on your body exudes fragrance.

– you who revealed the whole universe in your mouth to your mother,

– you are the saviour of the world, dear Krishna of our Udupi!

(Composer -Vyaasaraaya, 1460- 1539, Rajguru of King Krishnadeva Raya of the Vijayanagara Kingdom, original in Kannada, translation by RSachi, rasikas.org)

    Krishna did come to us, quickly, and wearing beautiful anklets on his feet, armlets, and a golden waistband with a flute in his hand. And, he came under exceptional circumstances.

    New York is a beehive of activity and the Indian Consulate is no different. Soon after arriving in New York in August of 2017, I began a series of lectures in the Consulate called the “New India Lecture Series”, where eminent personalities came to share their vision of New India. It was in one of these lectures that I met Mr. Khan. He came up and introduced himself, sharing with me that he was from Hyderabad and had some familial ties with the Nizam's clan. Our first meeting was certainly not our last. From then on, I saw him regularly at our events, asking questions and sharing his ideas of wisdom. Some people were unhappy with his questions since they stayed the same, no matter the occasion, but I tried to patiently and courteously hear him out. I believe such behaviour prompted him to come up to me one day and tell me of the personal connection he felt with me. In fact, in a show of gratitude, he wanted to give me something which had been with him for years. Though I do not remember my exact response, I must have agreed because he went on to tell me of a Krishna idol he had at home. He felt sad that it was not being worshipped and thus wanted to give it to me. Parting with a promise of this gift, he left the Consulate and I never saw him again.

    Months passed. One day, I noticed a packet lying on my office table. I asked my Secretary what it was and she told me that one Mr Khan had come to hand it over and then left. I opened the packet with great anticipation, and lo and behold! It was the Krishna idol; a carved out of single block of blackstone (which we later learnt of be touchstone or koshti pathor in Bangla) with exquisitely crafted features. I was struck by His beauty. I immediately placed Him on my desk next to a potted plant so that as I worked, I could admire Him every day. For some reason, I did not tell anyone at home about my Krishna.

    One day, as I was working, I looked up at Krishna as I had come to do so regularly. Admiring him, I was once again spellbound by His beauty and decided to take a picture and send it to our family Whatsapp group. Within minutes, my wife was in my office. Slightly emotional, she asked me what her Krishna was doing in my office. She explained that Krishna had come to our home and promptly took Him away. All for the good.

    Not being worshipped and taken care of for years, He had a dishevelled and forlorn look. My wife set about immediately correcting the situation. She performed “Abhishek” (ritual bathing of the deity) with milk, curd, honey, ghee, and sugar and then applied sandalwood oil on Him. The daily ablutions soon transformed Him and Krishna’s inner radiance surfaced. His eyes were no longer distraught but seemed to overflow with love and compassion. His lips seemed to smile with the happiness and contentment of being home, where he is loved and taken care of. The blemishes on His “skin” due to dryness were now smooth and shining. He seemed to be playing His flute and knowingly (and unknowingly), we now all danced to His tune. The home began to reverberate with the poems of Adi Shankaracharya and many other Saints. He became the talking point of all conversations with guests. Many even came to see Him, and were enthralled by His beauty and the tale of how He came to us.

    Once we came back to India, we took Him to Vrindavan for a few touch ups since He had been neglected for a long time before He came to us. Now He looks the handsomest of all, with a peacock feather adorning his head, pearls decorating his neck, a flute in His hands, a shepherd's staff, and silken robes of His preferred pitambari (yellow) colour. We have also built a small temple for him which He occupies with aplomb for which we have only Mr. Khan to thank.

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There is a lot in a name, Sandeep Chakravorty

Bengalis and their nicknames- or ‘daak naam’ - have become part of folklore. But this tale is not about nicknames; it is about given names and surnames. Right from mychildhood itself, my family has never shared the same spelling for our surname. My father wrote it as “Chakravarty’’. My mother always signed herself off as “Chakraborty”, just like her parents; she didn’t bother to change the spelling from one Chakraborty gotra to another after marriage. Apparently, Chakravartys and Chakrabortys belong to two se[arate gotras -Vatsya and Shandilya respectively- so inter-marriage among them is allowed. Emulating our father, my siblings wrote Chakravarty as well, but my childhood desire to be different led me to change the spelling and write my surname as “Chakravorty”. Today, I have a family of Chakravortys, following the change I made many years ago. I am not the only one to write my name differently. There are others who write Chakraborti or Chakrabarti, while others write it as Chakraverty. I have come across some Chakravarthys and, Chakrawortys as well. I have even met the odd Chakravertty. And though our spellings may be different, we are all bound by the same meaning and pronunciation. 

In school in Shillong, I was taught to write my first name as “Sandip”. After moving to Delhi, however, I was introduced to the Delhi spelling, Sandeep. Seeing the strange way I spelled my name, my classmates mocked me, saying that I didn’t even know how to correctly spell my own name. To avoid any unnecessary name-calling, I changed the spelling of my name yet again and began writing my given name as Sandeep. And so, the complete spelling of my name became Sandeep Chakravorty and the 10th class matriculation certificate sealed it forever. 

For the class 10th examination, we were all requried to fill a form. In the form there was a column for the  grandfather’s name. My grandfather was called Annada Chakravarty, Annada deriving from Annadata–provider of food. My classmate Vishal who was sitting next to me read my grandfather’s name and started laughing out loud – that I couldn’t even write my grandfather’s name correctly.  “What is Annada, there is no such word, the correct name is Anand”, Vishal remarked aloud. We were all familiar with Anand, not with Annada. All the boys in the class started mocking the name of my grandfather. In embarrassment, I conceded that I had made a mistake, the correct name was Anand. So I filled in Anand as the name of my grandfather in the form. That evening at home, I made the folly of mentioning to my father – how I had changed the name of my grandfather while filling in a form at school. Hearing this, my father was appalled at my audacity. He exclaimed ruefully that he had heard son’s besmirching the name of their father’s, but his son had gone to the extent of not leaving alone his grandfather even, who himself was long gone from this world. 

Fast forward to the internet age. Some time in the early 2000s, curiosity about finding myself in cyberspace led me to searching my name on a search engine. I wanted to see if there were others like me who spelled both the given name and the surname similarly. Those were pre-Google times so I can't say that I “googled” myself, but using a good friend of those bygone days- Internet Explorer-, I was able to find four such compadres. One homonym was an eminent scientist in the US, with lots of research papers to his credit. The second worked in Crompton Greaves; the third was a software engineer in California; and the fourth was, of course, yours truly. Brimming with excitement, I couldn’t withhold the temptation to email all three. Surprisingly No. 2 and 3 responded quickly. We exchanged a few hotmails, but we couldn’t find much in common other than the rather tenuous denominational fact that we spelled our names the same way. Soon, and expectantly so, the exchanges stopped. 

In 2002, I was posted in our Embassy in Bogota, Colombia, working on pushing commercial ties with India. A delegation from Crompton Greaves had arrived during my time there. As you can already guess, amongst the delegation was none other than Sandeep Chakravorty. It was a strange meeting, delightful due to the coincidence  of the encounter but also awkward due to the formality that came with business interactions. I learnt that he knew my cousin Debashish Chakraborty, who also worked in Crompton Greaves in Africa. We, of course, discussed our Californian friend. Soon thereafter, I left Bogota for India but Sandeep of Crompton Greaves made several more trips to Latin America transiting through the US on his way to and from there. 

As luck would have it, a few years later, I once again bumped into him at a business event in Delhi. He then narrated his own appelative tale. This one time, he was transiting through Chicago’s O'Hare Airport where he stepped out for a smoke. Another gentleman approached him and asked him for a light, which he was happy to share. These two gentlemen started a conversation only to discover that both were talking to Sandeep Chakravorty. Immediately, and almost simultaneously, they asked each other if they knew the Indian diplomat of the same name. One is always amazed by coincidences but this was bordering on incredulity.

Now, fast forward to 2016. I was posted to Lima, Peru where I met with a compatriot from Asansol by the name of Rahul. The first thing Rahul told me was that he had a school friend from Asansol who spelt his name the same way as I did and worked in Crompton Greaves. He asked me if there was any chance I knew him. Of course, I did know Sandeep Chakravorty from Crompton Greaves, and I did narrate to him-in detail- a part of this story. 

In 2019, I was in New York, and Rahul from Peru came visiting. He invited me to dinner at his friend’s house  in Long Island. There weren’t too many others at the dinner except for the hosts and another person who had flown in from Chicago to meet Rahul. It was, of course, his school friend Sandeep. I couldn’t resist taking a photo with my Crompton Greaves homonym, who had now relocated to the US. Before writing this piece, I texted him and reminded him of the series of mind-boggling coincidences. As always, we enquired about the welfare of Sandeep number 3 who is reported to still be living in San Francisco, California.   

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Cause & Effect: A Fall Story

Cause & Effect

    Sunday evening my laptop just wouldn't boot. Tried everything I know but the screen alternated between blue and black. Sought expert help from my teenage  daughters who looked up hacks on the internet, but still no remedy. My daughters gave the verdict, the hard disk had collapsed, it needed to be fixed or replaced. I may lose all the data. 

    Consoling me they said, don't worry Dad, such things happen, it happens all the time, it happed to us as well. No big deal. Promptly the family got around to determining the age of the laptop, which they concluded was about four years. That is equivalent to old human age and therefore injury, disease or even death is quite explainable and should be accepted with equanimity. My daughter even said that Dad when you are unwell or sick, you need to see the doctor. Same with the laptop. It is injured and needs treatment. I feared the worst.  

    Don't know why but I have been very affectionate towards my laptop. Endearingly I call it Lappy. It is the only one in our family with a touch screen, foldable monitor, and is sleek and smart. It is my home office. While my daughters have Apple laptops, I opted for an HP Spectre. There is institutional competition, so I have to be more caring, possessive and defensive about my Lappy. Needless to say, my daughters detest the name as well.   

    Monday morning, saddened by eminent sickness or possible death, I took Lappy in my office bag to  office in the hope that the NIC wizards can fix it. I got down from the car with Lappy in a bag in one hand, my lunch bag in the other, my mobile in my third hand, mask on my face and eye glasses, ready to conquer my day in office. As I looked towards the office gate, I found my vision clouded by moisture on my glasses. But since my hands were full and I still had some tunnel vision through the glasses, I was confident I would be able to manage the four red stand stone steps of South Block. A grave miscalculation! Just as I was about to finish  climbing the steps my vision disappeared and in a flash I stumbled and found myself prostrate on the ground. The friendly and strong CISF men at the gate quickly helped me on to my feet. I did a quick systems check. Both my bags and my phone were in my hands but I felt an acute pain in my right knee and swelling in a finger of my left hand. Somehow I managed to navigate myself to my room.

    Taking a breath, sipping some water, I took stock of the situation. Clearly I was rattled. It was a sudden and a big fall. I found my finger black but didn't have the courage to look at my knee. Within a few minutes I was myself again and the first thing I did was call Ramesh, my secretary. I handed him Lappy and asked him to immediately call tech support and fix it. I went into some length explaining to him how Lappy was important to me and how I was able to work from home during the Covid second wave only because I had this machine. Like all good secretaries Ramesh was convinced. 

    I then examined my knee with some trepidation. Luckily the gash was not very deep and there appeared to be no bone damage. I left the wound to dry after applying the ubiquitous hand sanitizer to disinfect it. I then got back to seeing my papers, with Lappy not far from my thoughts.

    Within minutes, Ramesh was back, asking me for the systems password. I laughed at him responding that I would give that later but first get the machine to boot. Fix the hard drive baba. Saar, he said, there is nothing wrong with Lappy, it is just fine. It just needed to power up. Once Ramesh plugged in the cable, the computer started as normal. 

    Normal!! I couldn't believe it. Promptly I entered the password and it was as if nothing had happened. My familiar home screen appeared. Lappy was alive and kicking. 

    Somehow the computer healed. Was it because of my fall? Now, as I sit on my bed and type this story on Lappy, I only hope that my wounds are like Lappy's and that they will disappear overnight.

Atmanirbhar Bharat: Why, What and How, A Compendium

For the entire compendium please click here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1T6RUVRLw4eq4se1-wwGfFU2Mru-Yj9YY/view?usp=sharing