WENT AIR by "GO AIR"

During the last week of June 2010 Renjan, Anna, Susan and I were in Mumbai. Renjan had to join the Tata Institute Of Fundamental Research (TIFR) for the PhD programme, on the 26th of June. We boarded the Nethravathy express on the 24th so as to reach Mumbai on the 25th. But a landslide on the Konkan railway track upset all our calculations. The train was held up before Madgoan at a small station. (The details of what happened then, in another post). We started by train from Kochi and reached Mumbai by a brand new red Tata Sumo driven by the young handsome Mr Mahajan. From Ratnagiri to Mumbai it was a six hour wonderful drive along the beautiful ghat road, the NH-17 Goa-Mumbai highway. Ten minutes into our journey from Ratnagiri, from where we hired the taxi, the heavens were opened and there was torrential rain resulting in poor visibility. But undeterred Mahajan drove his Sumo at an average of70 km/h. He was too well aware of our urgency in reaching Mumbai. And finally when we reached the TIFR campus on the evening of 26th Ribu and Sangeetha were there to receive us. Tired and exhausted a return journey by the Nethravathy express (for which we had our reservation) was unimaginable. We all sat together and in our collective wisdom we took the important decision-We shall fly back.Anna, Susan and I had never seen the inside of an air plane. We had seen these flying machines only as small little things there, far up in the skies. An online booking by the "GO AIR" airlines was done. The next day Renjan joined TIFR. We remained in the beautiful campus till noon and in the evening went to the Nariman Point. With a turbulent sea on the one side and sky high buildings on the other, the place had a very exotic look that we refused to believe that this is a part of India. But then we were standing before Hotel Trident which was in news with 26/11. When BMW's sped past us in large numbers, I pinched myself to convince myself that I was not dreaming.
28th June. We reached the Santa Cruze airport. We went through all the formalities with all the diffidence of first timers. Once inside the plane I saw passengers seated with stiff necks and tight lips. None was talking. I felt very uncomfortable. "No questions", I said. Just mimic the seasoned air travelers. Though not with flying colours, I passed every hurdle starting with the seat belt. The plane took off. An hour and forty five minutes later came the announcement. "We are reaching Kochi and are ready for landing. Please fasten your seat belts". I obliged. Not a minute elapsed. The plane descended with frightening speed and tilted violently. The ladies screamed. The purse in my pocket was thrown off. Somebody else's mobile phone came flying to me and landed on my head. But for the seat belt I woud have ended up a flying object. The pilot apologised for the "small inconvenience" and put the blame on air turbulence. Once the plane stabilised people had a sigh of relief. I gave a pat on my back congratulating myself because in the turmoil I was the only one who remained cool.
You know how? .......er.....because......you know.....to tell honestly......
I thought, this was how planes land!!!

NOTE: Today( 31st June 2010) my niece Nidhi came flying from Bangalooru, again by the "GO AIR". She too experienced the same landing problem. A veteran of so many flights around the world she could not stomach the air turbulence theory. My friend Dr Sreekanta Kurup says that he has read that this is a dirty technic employed by private air lines to save fuel. If that be true, then this is a crime that deserves to be brutally punished.

A winter-night adventure

Agra. One December night, 1985. I just got typed the last page of my MPhil dissertation at the type writing centre owned by Mr Das. Das was a civilian employee of the Indian Air Force. He used to open his shabby one room shop at 6 in the evening after a day's work at the IAF office at Kheria. We used to sit all through the night and it was a treat watching Dass's fingers flying over the key board at tremendous speed, but with grace. It will be far too an exaggeration if I say that Das resembled Zakhir Hussian over the tabla. But still Das was a phenomenon. After that last page typed, I left Das and it was two hours past mid night. With no hope of getting a cycle rickshaw I was standing there alone at the St: John's college junction. It was so cold that I started shivering in the freezing winter. I wondered how I will survive the night. I even thought of jumping the gate of St: John's college and finding a refuge on the veranda of the Physics department. After all St: John's college belongs to me!!! It was almost an hour since I was standing at the St: John's "Chourah". Then suddenly there appeared a glimmer of hope. I could see the head light of an approaching scooter from the Raja Mandi side. I decided to ask for a lift. But alas, it all happened in a flash. The scooter reached the junction with great speed , went over the unmarked road divider and I saw a Sardarji thrown off. I ran up to him and he was crying aloud. He said that he has broken his back. I offered to take him to some hospital. He requested me to take him to his house. Surprisingly, his house was very close to the University old boy's hostel where I was staying. (The hostel was not for the old. Nearby there was another newly constructed hostel and the old one came to be known as the old hostel). The scooter was still in good running condition with just the handle "looking" slightly sideways. The Sardarji managed to sit on the back seat and I started off. I changed gears 1,2,3 and when all my efforts for the 4th gear failed, the Sarderji murmured, "it has only 3 gears". The VIjay Super had only 3 gears which I never knew. We rode through the Palliwal park near the University, which bore a frightening ghostly look in the chilling moon light. On reaching home the Sardarji alighted with great difficulty and limped to the front door and pressed the bell. In no time all the lights were on and the ladies who came out started screaming seeing the man with blood all over his body. I stood at the gate not knowing what to do. Suddenly the man turned to me and came almost running to me. I was surprised to hear him saying "Bhayya, I am sorry, I forgot to thank you". That was like a Sardarji.
I was about to leave but he wont allow. He awoke a sleeping rickshawalla on the street and instructed him to take me to the hostel. It was also instructed that not a penny shall be taken from me. I could not believe. For him then, the greatest concern was to take care of me and not of. Only a Sardarji can behave like that in such a situation. I told him that the next day I was leaving for Kerala. And pat came the proclamation, "whenever you are in Agra, come here. Ask for Bhutto. I will take care of you".
The next day I narrated this story to my friends in the hostel but many of them refused to believe that I have not just seen Bhutto but even rescued him. They told me that he was a big shot and that he owned a large fleet of trucks plying all over India.
After that incident I had been to Agra many times but could not visit Bhutto though I always wanted to meet him.
In November 2008 I was again in Agra to attend the alumni meet of the Physics PG students of St: John's college. I and my family stayed with my friend Anandakuttan. His flat is near the Hariparwat junction. Kuttan is a gentleman par excellence. He teaches Zoology at the St: Peter's college, Agra. And amazingly, he can teach Physics and Chemistry with equal ease. His wife Lekha is a wonderful host. She teaches Mathemaics at the St: Paul's college, Agra. Their son Achal Anand walks away with whatever he aims at! Yes, a student of St: Peter's, Agra, he is a national level winner in long distance walking. In the 10th board examination he was the topper among all the students of Agra city. I told Kuttan of my desire to meet Bhutto. I had only a faint idea of the location of his house. It was almost 25 years since the mid night incident. I, Kuttan and Achal went searching for Bhutto's residence near the Agra University. None knew of him. Finally seeing a Sardarji name board we went in. The person staying there was a retired army officer. The moment we told him of our purpose he started shouting at us and threatened to call the police - for what reason, I still do not know. He kept talking like a possessed. Kuttan felt insulted and started explaining. But I felt it prudent to leave the place as quickly as possible as the sardarji was at his abusive best.Even as this drama was in progress I had a call on my mobile. It was Lekha,
She asked "GOT?"
I replied "WE ALMOST GOT!"
And here ends the Bhutto saga

A HISTORIAN'S TRYST WITH HISTORY

It was the last day of my MSc final year examination at the St John's college ,Agra.Even as my friends started preparations for the next day's journey back to their homes, I suddenly and mysteriously fell into some sort of melancholy. I thought. I will not be attending the classes of Gosh Sir and Ram Sir any more. I will not be sprawling idle on the lush green lawns of Haileybury House (my hostel) enjoying the morning sun during another winter. I will miss the Burfy, Samosa and hot tea of Chaubeji's canteen. This Chuabeji smiled a lot but never talked a word as his mouth always contained loads of Pan. Then I thought. I won't anymore see R.K Lakshman's cartoons as The Times of India was not available in Kerala those days. This list of all that I was going to miss was endless. Then it suddenly occurred to me, I will go to the Taj Mahal. Who knows when I get another chance to see it. I went there alone. I hired a Tonga (horse cart) though it was a little expensive. When the Tonga reached the Raja-ki-Mandi junction, I had this funny yet romantic thought. Emperor Shahjahan might have ridden his chariot along this street in all majestic splendour, a chariot pulled by seven white horses. And here I am. A boy in his early twenties sitting as much majestically in the back seat of a Tonga eager to see Shahjahan's poetry in white marble for one last time. Finally when I reached there I heard some inner voice telling me, "This is a very divine place. This is the shrine of love. A place where one should not dare to tread". And finally when I was in, I could not believe. I was experiencing new things. The Taj was revealing to me all that I had missed during my earlier visits. It's beauty defied all description by the greatest poet. The Taj is not just a huge structure in white marble. It is the culmination of the visual expression of all the romantic beauty of the entire universe. I had this inexplicable feeling every time I was inside the Taj. I just see it and hear no sound. This is in contrast to my feelings when I am inside any other moghul wonder, for instance the nearby Agra Fort. While inside the Agra Fort, I go back in time through centuries and feel like being in Akbar's court. I hear the court musicians singing. Mostly I hear the flowing music of Sarod and Sarangi unaccompanied by Tabla. I cannot explain this that defies all reason. I went to the back of Taj and stood there looking into the Jamuna. Oh God, how much water might have flown since the Taj had "occured" on its banks? As always there were any number of visitors from India and abroad and some of them had hired tourist-guides. Even as the guides were waxing eloquent I stood there with my eyes glued to the Jamuna. And then a thunderous shout rocked me and brought me back to reality. I saw an old man standing on the banks of Jamuna down there. He had long hair and beard. He looked like a mad man. A weirdie. I could not believe when he spoke excellent fluent English. He was ridiculing the guides saying that they knew nothing about the Taj. He asked us to come down and promised us to "teach" the history of Taj. Most people laughed off the invitation and turned away. But I was struck by the sincerity and authority of his words. I remained there listening to his uninterrupted discourse on Taj. I felt like sitting in a history class. On any other day I would have gone down to "Jamuna Kinare", talked to him and quenched my curiosity.
Back in Kerala, one day I was casually going through the pages of "Manorajyam" weekly and a photograph caught my attention. Yes, it was that of the very same man I saw on the banks of Jamuna. I was taken aback reading the description of the man. Hold your breath. He was the history professor of a reputed university in India. One day he came to Taj with his wife and daughters. They spent a day joyfully there. But at the end of the day the professor gave his family members the greatest shock of their lives. He told them that they should go back and that he has decided to stay back and spend the rest of his life at the Taj. Unbelievable? I have narrated this story to so many people who heard it in disbelief. But Hari (and only Hari)told me;
"Quite possible Sir".