THINK BEFORE YOU LICK

It was the winter of 1992 and I had been suffering from persistent cough for over three months. I had tried all possible medicines but the rogue cough wouldn’t go. I even went to a TB Hospital to have myself checked up for a possible onslaught of tuberculosis but all reports were clear. To say that I was miserable would be an understatement!

It was at this juncture that someone suggested, “Why don’t you consult  xxxx Vaidyaji  ( an Ayurvedic practitioner)? He is really good.”

My response was lukewarm and I said hesitatingly, “I somehow don’t believe in Ayurvedic treatments.”

But my well-wisher was very persuasive, “No, no. He’s not like those ordinary Vaidyas. He is a Gold Medalist and also the personal physician to the President of India… And he sits in this building only. Govt. of India have also recognised him and given him a place in their office building.”

I finally got persuaded and went to consult the famous and highly revered Vaidyaji.

Vaidyaji checked my pulse and advised confidently, “You will be alright in no time but you will have to take this pudiya (powder) with honey twice daily, in the morning as well as in the evening, at least for a year. As of now, I will give you the medicine only for a month.” I was highly impressed with his confidence and expertise.

“See me after a month and don’t stop the medicine under any circumstances,” he gave parting advice.

Two days of licking honey smeared in the grey-white powder and lo and behold! ... my cough had vanished. I just couldn’t believe this miracle and was on top of the world.

A month passed and I went and picked up another month’s supply of powder from Vaidyaji. I admit honestly that I had never respected a doctor more in my life. I was now perfectly alright and bubbling with energy all the time whether it was sitting late in office or saying yes to a suggestion for going for a late-night movie on a working day or arranging a dinner for 50 persons at home. I had become a fountain-head of unstoppable energy. Such was the magic of Vaidyaji’s medicine!

In one such dinner organised by me, my brother who is a doctor and another friend who is also a doctor were present and I could not help bestowing effusive praises on this great man who treated me as if with a magic stick.

My brother laughed and said, “Are you sure, this Vaidyaji of yours is not stuffing you with steroids?”

I felt belittled and snubbed him immediately, “Now, this is the problem with you allopathic doctors. You can never accept any other system of medication.”

I must have been on the verge of losing my cool when this other doctor friend intervened, “My son is also suffering from similar perennial cough and I would like to show him to the Vaidyaji too provided the medicine does not contain any steroids.”

I nodded understandingly. He continued, “If you do not mind, can you give me one of the pudiyas of the medicine. I’ll have it tested in my lab and then seek an appointment with Vaidyaji.”

I immediately obliged him with two pudiyas of the medicine. He put them in his coat’s pocket and left.

I waited anxiously for his call which came after six days, “Hey! Are you aware, what you have been eating for the last two months?”

I was shocked at the revelation he made to me, “This powder is full of steroids…unaccounted and unmeasured. How long have you been taking it?”

I felt as if the carpet had been pulled from under my feet. I knew the side-effects of steroids and had always been against eating them even in small quantities. And here I was, eating them morning evening happily for over two months now. I could not stand any longer and had to slump in the nearest chair.

With great difficulty, I mumbled, “Now, what do I do?”

“Stop it. But you can’t stop it immediately. It will have to be tapered down over a period of three weeks at least….,” he went on and I was thinking why I did not listen to my brother earlier. I was feeling dazed now.

Over the next three weeks, I gave up the steroids and reverted to my normal though low energy levels.

A year later, I was diagnosed as having Diabetes Type II although no-one in my family has ever suffered from this dreaded silent killer. Recently, while surfing the internet, trying to collect more information on the causes of Diabetes, I was shocked to read somewhere “excessive use of steroids” as one of the probable causes of non-functioning pancreas! It took me no time to connect the threads.

How I wish, I had not undergone that ‘miraculous treatment’ by Vaidyaji !

(A real life experience)

*****

STRANGE ARE THE WAYS OF HEART

“I am having burning sensation in the upper abdomen,” said hubby.

“What do you expect if you keep watching the TV the whole day?” I couldn’t help being sarcastic.

“Take some antacids. It must be the Chinese food we had last evening.” 

But neither Eno nor Tums seemed to be effective.

“You guys have given up on all your exercise of late. Why don’t you go for a walk? The weather is so nice outside,” suggested our son.

The two of us set off for a lazy post dinner stroll. Five minutes of walking and he says, “I am not comfortable…am having some funny feeling in my upper abdomen. Let’s go back.” And we turned back.

In the morning, he shared that he felt a strange discomfort in his chest when he climbed stairs… a kind he had never experienced before. We were alarmed. Let’s go to the doctor, was the unanimous view.

And we headed off to an Urgent Care Centre in this small city of US Mid West. The doctor wants to do an ECG. But the machine has just conked off. He suggests that we get an Ambulance and take him to the Emergency Care of the Hospital.

“What rubbish!” hubby exclaims. “Let’s go home and have lunch. I am feeling hungry and perfectly ok.”

And we go home and have our lunch. Hubby goes up and down the staircase and flaunts, “See. I’m alright now. No need for going to the Hospital.” Was it the escape-artist in him, I wondered.

Lunch is over but both I and our son are concerned. We insist that we go to another Urgent Care Centre. The Doc on duty sees him and says, “I can do ECG and a much needed blood test too. But I can give you the result only tomorrow morning. I’m afraid it may be too late by then. You better take him to the Emergency Care of the Hospital right away.”

We were alarmed. “This sounds bad news. Let’s go straight to the Hospital,” concern was evident in our son’s voice. Thus despite hubby’s resistance, we reached the Hospital Emergency Unit. And the real-life drama that unfolded that afternoon, lasted for the next twelve days…..

A Heart Monitor 

As soon as we arrived at the Reception of the Hospital Emergency and shared the reason of our visit, the girl at the counter dropped everything and rushed to get a wheel-chair. Hubby is amused and laughs, “I came walking from the Parking.” But she insists that he sits in the wheelchair. He is briskly wheeled into a room…. Room No 113. The Doctor on Duty reaches there simultaneously. An X-Ray machine has come and chest X-ray taken, ECG machine is wheeled in and ECG done, blood sample is drawn, oxygen has been placed on his nose and an IV (Intra Venous) drip administered.  All this happened in less than ten minutes. In another few minutes, the Doctor on Duty had confirmed by looking at the Blood Report and the ECG that he had suffered a heart attack, may be a few days ago. We are told that a Cardiologist is on his way.

The Cardiologist arrives in no time and prescribes the further course of treatment. Hubby is now being moved to a room on the 3^rd Floor… Room No 313.  I notice the number 13 coming my way the third time that day but keep quiet. Why allow my mind to run unnecessarily into irrational directions, I thought.

View from CCU

As we settled in the room, the Hospital Registration people came in seeking details of his passport, local address and Insurance Company who will foot the bill etc. We are confidently carrying a Travel Insurance which covers him for USD 200,000. Wasn’t it wise of us to have taken such a huge insurance, I muse. Some signing of papers and documents etc. and we were in the room, experiencing for the first time, life in a US hospital.

As soon as we are left alone, we trigger off our network. First of all, inform the elder son in Canada, then my doctor brother back home in India and my doctor nephews in the US. We need support from all quarters.

Hubby’s condition appears to be stable. But will we have to deposit the entire cost of treatment up-front as we do in India? I can mobilise money back home but here I am carrying limited foreign exchange by way of a Foreign Travel Card. The night is spent worrying about his unexpected heart-attack and in figuring out how I will manage the finances. Will he be able to get the treatment he needs?  

Trnng…trnng…… the phone rings early morning next day. It is our elder son from Canada, “Hi Mom, I am on the way to the Airport…will reach there by noon. This is the earliest flight I could get.”

The Cardiologist visits. He has seen the early morning blood reports, has reviewed the vitals and announces, “We will have to do angioplasty on him.” We are stunned. The doctor is very understanding and says, “You may discuss amongst yourselves and let me know. I’ll come again after an hour,” the doctor’s patience was admirable.

Elder son has arrived and so has the doctor. With both my sons firmly by my side now, I was breathing easier. We discuss with hubby and he signs the consent for angioplasty (a procedure for inserting a stent in the blocked arteries of his heart).

Hubby in the hospital

Immediately, he is wheeled into the Cath Lab where a stent will be put in his heart to open the clogged mischievous artery. Wishing him well, we all wait in the lounge. After half an hour, a Nurse comes and announces, “It will take some more time.” Another 20 minutes pass in total silence and the Cardiologist steps out. He looks concerned, “We could not do angioplasty on him. There are too many blockages. Come with me.”

In the room, he shows us the angiogram, a video where we all could see hubby's pumping heart with multiple clogged arteries with two major ones blocked at Y junctions where stent cannot be put as the artery branches off into two.

“I am recommending a bypass surgery. Will talk to the Cardiac Surgeon,” he said.

We were directed to the CCU (Cardiac Care Unit) where he had been shifted to recovery.

The Cardiologist has been trying to line up a Cardiac Surgeon but is not successful. “Anyway, you guys don’t worry. Even if I line up with a surgeon, he will not be able to do any procedure before five days …until the effect of these drugs taper off from the system,” he comforts us before leaving.

The doctor leaves and we are sitting in suspense the whole day. The evening dawns and the Nurse informs that we have to shift to the room now…Room no 313 again.

At night before leaving, I hesitatingly ask the nurse on duty whether we can get a CD of his Angiogram which we had seen, maybe by tomorrow. Expecting a curt ‘No’, I was pleasantly surprised to hear, “Yes, of course! Let me see if the concerned person is available. I’ll give it to you in ten minutes.”

Armed with CD of the angiogram, I talk to the Doctor back home in India. He wants to see the angiogram. The file size is big. It is not going with the e-mail as an attachment. We keep struggling and finally the boys manage to do some technical jugglery and send the links to the doc in India. E-mails sent, we go to bed past midnight.

In the morning, we contact the doctors in India. The cardiologist over there advises, “It is only a mild heart attack. You can easily bring him back. Ask the doctors in the US to do medical management. Surgery can wait.” 

In the hospital, we suggest to the Cardiologist medical management of the patient. He refuses point-blank, “He is not stable. I have given him every possible medication, but he still has some pain. If I remove these drugs and allow him to go out, he sure will have a massive heart attack and you will come back here again by calling 911. I am the doctor on the spot and I know the condition of my patient better than anyone else.”

Next day, I wake up at 5am. It is not possible to sleep anymore. I fix up my cup of morning tea. My elder son also comes down to the kitchen. He quietly fixes up his coffee. As we sit on the deck sipping our morning cuppa, he says, “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll do our best. Don’t bother about the money either. We will take care of everything.”

The stress is becoming too much. The uncertainty is killing me. That night as I hit the bed, I want to cry burying my head in the pillow. But tears do not come. Instead, what I hear is a sudden pounding heart. The heart beat is going up. It is so clearly audible and is becoming louder by seconds…boom boody boom boody….oh my God! What is happening to me? I try to take charge of myself, try to calm down, try to relax, whatever I could think of in those awful moments. Noooo…I don’t want to fall sick at this juncture….not at this time, not at this place.

Finally, a Cardiac Surgeon arrives, looks at the reports, sees the angiogram and gives his verdict, “It is not possible to perform a bypass surgery for a variety of technical reasons. More than 10% chances are that you may die during the bypass,” he declares.  Can anybody be so straightforward, I wonder?

The ball is again in the court of the Cardiac Interventionist who had already ruled out putting a stent earlier. He says it is not possible to put stents due to the location of the blockages and leaves. But then we knew this 10 days ago also. Didn't we?

What do we do now? Interventionists say stent is not possible. Surgeon says bypass surgery is not possible. And the Cardiologist says that if you step out of the hospital, massive heart attack cannot be ruled out. What do we do? Fly him to India? What are the risks involved? If he suffers a massive heart attack on the flight, what will I do except watching him helplessly. But what are the options? The mind is going numb. I am finding it difficult to think and decide. Have all doors closed?

An hour passes in a state of limbo. A young doctor in his early thirties comes again. He is now beaming, “Yayyyy! There is hope. I have contacted some senior doctors who have found a way out. They can put two long parallel stents at the points where arteries are branching off. ”

I am still skeptical and blurt out, “How many such operations have you done, Doc?”

“None,” the doctor is honest. “But the Senior Doctor has done a few of them. This is the only way for the patient.” I am amazed at his calm tone despite my brusque query.

We seek time. A doubt arises... is my poor husband being made a guinea pig? But what is the alternative?  Anyway, another weekend is approaching and nothing will happen for the next 72 hours. Keep thinking, keep worrying.

On Monday morning, as we do not see any other alternative, we sign the agreement for the procedure.  He is wheeled into the Cath Lab once again. We kiss him luck and wait in the Lounge. Half an hour passes. A nurse comes out, “The patient is doing well. The Doctors are on the job. It may take another hour.”

Inside the Lab, the patient is wide awake and is fully aware of the environment and the activities around him. He has not been given even local anesthesia...not even a sedative. He can see everything, hear everything, feel everything. Two doctors are controlling the movement of the catheter while the third one is guiding them. “Push it further by .25mm. Yes, move it a bit more…No, no, a little backwards.” The mattress underneath is changing position automatically from time to time.

The Lobby outside the Cath Lab where we spent hours of restless waiting

Outside in the waiting lounge, all of us are trying our own individual methods of keeping our minds calm. Lobby, Lobby in the hall? Who's the tensest of them all? Difficult to say.

Two and half hours of impatient wait, two and a half hours of worrying ourselves to bones, two and half hours of sinking into depression and bouncing back to eternal optimism. The wait was finally over when the doctor walked in to announce that all was well and that they have managed to put five stents in his heart including at those crucial locations by merging them or putting them in parallel. He guided us to a room where he showed us the angiogram of his heart with stents in it after a grueling process and the smooth flow of blood in them.

In next ten minutes, we were ushered to be with him in the CCU. He was smiling away. What a relief! Oh my God! And suddenly we realized how hungry we all were! Time to go and pick up something from the café to eat.

In another four hours, back to Room No 13 on the 3^rd floor, I realized that the number 13 which had been with us all through had actually been lucky for us. 

The journey, that started on the 13th day of the month, had to culminate in room no 13 only and it did. Who said unlucky 13? It was Lucky 13, which helped my hubby all through!  

(A real life incident)

The Hospital

*****

BREAKING THE MOULD

The year was 1971. The place was Lucknow University campus. The occasion was the Convocation ceremony of the 1970 pass-outs. The area was chock-o-block with the students who had even thronged the verandas of the first floor to get a better view of the ceremony.

She had come to receive her Master of Arts degree and the Gold Medals and was sitting consciously at the last chair at the end of the first row on her assigned seat.

His Excellency the Governor of Uttar Pradesh Shri B. Gopala Reddy had just arrived and was being escorted to the high podium in the venue by the Vice Chancellor and the Dean of the University.

The initial welcome of the Chief Guest over, a bouquet of flower presented, it was now time for him to start handing over the Degrees and the Gold Medals to the toppers of various courses.  As the students started receiving their medals, she started getting restless as her turn was soon going to come. She observed that the male toppers who approached the dais, shook hands with His Excellency, received the degree and the medal, bowed and left. As is customary on such occasions, boys were all shaking hands with the Governor. But the girls? How can a girl shake hands with a man? Two women candidate who came to receive the honours simply received the degrees and walked away.

In those days, in that city, with those social mores, no girl was supposed to shake hands with a male even if he was of her grandfather’s age. But it is not correct, she thought. Why should a girl not shake hands with the Governor?  She cannot just take her medals and walk off without even acknowledging the receipt by saying a proper thank you symbolised by shaking hands. But no woman is doing it. Should she? Should she not? What a dilemma! Who could she ask for guidance? There is nobody around. What to do?

The announcement had started, “Master of Arts in Political Science, the topper this year is Kum. Ranjana Sharma. She has received two Gold Medals, one for obtaining highest marks in the subject and the second one Devi Nirupama Gold Medal for being the female candidate with the highest marks in the University……..”

As she walked towards the dais amongst the sounds of clapping and a roaring applause, the conflict in her mind was getting more intense. Should she shake hands or should she simply walk away like other females? Should she? Shouldn’t she?

Ranjana Sharma shaking hands with  His Excellency Sh. B Gopala
Reddy, the  then Governor of Uttar Pradesh

As she reached the dais, the Governor of Uttar Pradesh extended to her the degree and the gold medals with a very serious and disinterested face half looking in some other direction. She in turn extended her right hand for shaking it with His Excellency who was taken aback. As he awkwardly shifted the degree and the medals from his right hand to his left hand to free it for shaking it with her, it took him a few seconds. 

For her, those few seconds when her arm was still stretched out awaiting a hand-shake, felt like eternity. As he shook hands with her, he burst into an indulgent grin.  After shaking hands, she received her medals and walked away with her head held high and shoulders straight and square only to hear an unprecedented uproar from the gathering, whistles and cat-calls, cat-calls and whistles. It appeared to be unstoppable. 

Later, in the evening where all the Heads of the Departments had been invited to dinner by the Governor at the Raj Bhawan, he enquired,

“Who was that girl who shook hands with me in the convocation this afternoon?” 

The Head of the Department of Political Science, Dr P.N. Masaldan smiled and said, “She is my student, Sir.”

As if this was not enough, the next day’s newspaper carried a boxed news item,

“Kum. Ranjana Sharma, who topped in MA (Political Science), was the only female candidate who shook hands with the Governor in the Convocation.”

This paved the way for a new journey of life for her. Looking back, shaking hands with a man is no big deal in the present times but the social values forty years ago in a small town were so different that today’s generation may find it absolutely difficult to understand and appreciate how difficult this small step towards breaking the mould must have been for that girl and how this simple incident of her shaking hands with a man was being quoted year after year in the University. 

(This is a real life incident.) 

*****

TIPS FOR THE FIRST TIME INTERNATIONAL TRAVELLER

                                        *  *  *  *  *

For my TRAVELOGUES, please visit my dedicated blog on travels http://globalhindustani.blogspot.in

A TRIBUTE TO MY FIRST TEACHER IN ORAI (DISTT JALAUN) - UP

The eternally grateful student in 1953

It was one of those ordinary evenings in the year 1953 when my father had just returned from the office. As he settled down in the Sitting Room with a cup of tea with me as a four-year-old romping around, a gentleman in white dhoti, kurta and Gandhi topi walked in unexpectedly and touched his feet. 
Embarrassed at this gesture from a stranger, my father stepped back and said, “What are you doing?”

The old frail man stood there with his hand folded and said, “Sir, I want to thank you for what you did for me today. Your decision in the court this morning has restored my dignity and prestige, I had been fighting for the last twenty years…and that too without my knowing you. I don't have words to express how grateful I am to you.”

“It is alright,” my father said. “I am glad you received justice and what was your right.”

The gentleman continued standing with folded hands, “I am grateful to you from the bottom of my heart and I want to do something for you in return to express my thanks.”

“No, no… nothing. I have done my duty and I do not expect anything in return. God has given me everything. Please go and enjoy,” my father was losing his patience at the end of a long and tiring day.

“Sir, I am a teacher by profession. Can I teach your children for some time?” he was persistent.

“My children are very small. They don’t even go to school. This child is only in Nursery. You can’t teach anybody,” my father started laughing at the thought of my getting a tuition.

“Sir, in that case, can I give her some lessons in handwriting? .....Only for a month…please, Sir. Don’t say ‘no’. My heart will be broken,” saying so, he caught hold of my father’s feet with tears in his eyes.

My father, who was all of 28 at that time felt much too embarrassed and finally relented, ”OK then, only for a month, not more than that.”

And thus started my one-hour class of hand-writing training for the next one month.  A wooden Munshiji type desk on the sitting room floor, a ‘G’ nib, a holder, a square flat  ink- pot which had two ink tablets dissolved in some water and a four-line note book, all these  were purchased for me by my mother as per the directions of that teacher.

Then on, every single day, he was there exactly at 4 pm for an hour in those hot scorching summer afternoons of Orai (Distt. Jalaun) in Bundelkhand area of UP.  Writing continuous Os without lifting the holder, the variations in the height of the loops of the Ls, Hs & Ts, the flow and length of strokes of various letters, the various pressures ….. everything he taught me with so much patience, precision and perfection that the foundations of a good hand-writing were laid.

One month passed and on the last day, my mother insisted that he leave after taking Guru Dakshina (fees) of a Khadi Kurta at my hands. He hesitated, but the mother insisted that in the true Guru-Shishya system, no education is complete unless the Guru (Teacher) is given the due Dakshina (fees) by the Shishya (pupil). He humbly accepted the Dakshina and left and I was only too happy to run out of the house to play with my friends.

Today, I do not remember this gentleman’s name and don’t even remember his face clearly. But he has a clear-cut impression in my childhood memories. What he has given me by way of a handwriting is still a part of my personality. Each time I get a compliment even today, almost after six decades, I bow to him and thank him.

On this Teacher's Day, I pay my humble tribute to this first Teacher of mine whom I remember with unfathomable respect and gratitude.

                                                             * * * * *

TO GIVE OR NOT TO GIVE

Let me take you to Lucknow of 1970 to share a personal experience which I found funny then but thought-provoking now.

I had given my wrist watch at Rupani Bros. for repairs. So on our way back from the University, I asked a friend of mine to stop over for a few minutes in Hazratganj to take care of my bicycle while I went to pick up my watch from the shop.

As I stepped down after picking up the watch, I was intrigued to find my friend grappling with a young beggar woman who was trying to wrench her wrist from her firm grip holding a baby in another arm. Suspecting trouble, I ran to my friend’s rescue and tried to intervene. In the melee’ that followed, the beggar-woman managed to pull her wrist away and ran, with me chasing her.

“Let her go. Let her go,” my friend called out after me. 

On hearing her, I stopped and came back.

“What had happened?” I inquired excitedly.

“Nothing,” my friend, cool as a cucumber, continued in her inimitable style, “This woman was asking for money. So I advised her to do some work instead of begging. I told her that she is hale and hearty and should not demean herself by seeking alms.”

“So, what happened then?”

“Well, she replied that there are no jobs available. So I told her that she should come with me. Our maid has left. She could stay in our servant quarters and work in our house. We would have given her salary as well as food and shelter. But she started running away. So I caught hold of her wrist and told her to sit on the carrier of my bike so that I could take her home. Ha..ha..ha..Seeing a potential employer, she ran away.”

As she shared this, we laughed and laughed pedalling our way home.

Today whenever I think of it, I can’t help thinking that we the people are basically responsible for encouraging beggary in our country. We think that by giving alms to beggars, we are washing away our sins or may be doing some good to humanity. Or is it that by doing so, we are unburdening ourselves of the guilt of having all that the poor beggar is deprived of?  The fact is that by giving alms to professional beggars, yes I mean professional beggars, we are only encouraging a tendency to beg and shun hard work. 

Here I must share a more recent experience of mine. While driving down quite late from office, I think it was around 11pm at night, that a pedestrian on the pavement near Hotel Hyatt Regency caught my eye. A frail bearded fellow wearing pants and T-shirt walking confidently looked very familiar …who is he?  Where have I seen him? I kept wondering without my brain finding an answer.

Next day morning, as I stopped at the same traffic junction, I sighted the same old, frail, bearded man who was lame also whom I had seen so many times begging at this traffic light. He walked with the help of a stick and had an aluminum begging bowl in his hand as usual. Half bent as he moved towards my car, the expression on his face invoked tremendous sympathy in the passersby.

It is then that it flashed like lightening, he was the same guy who I had seen walking confidently on the pavement the previous night with both legs intact! He was apparently in his professional attire now.

THE ROMEO OF THE SEVENTIES

It was Lucknow University in the year 1970.  She was doing her post-graduation in Economics and was the only girl who cycled her way to the university from the Cantonment area.

Those days, although it was a co-ed institution, the interaction of boys and girls in the university was extremely limited. However, one particular boy started waiting for her at the Cycle Stand every day and would stalk her after the classes were over. On the lonely cantonment roads, on hot summer afternoons, it was extremely uncomfortable for her as he would keep his bike’s front wheel close and parallel to her rear wheel for full one hour.

She was an average looking girl, thin like a reed but had tremendous guts. She would abuse him every single day, but he was quite thick-skinned and would not give up. One day she pulled out her chappal while riding her bike and tried to hit him, but he ducked and kept smiling without allowing the distance between the two bicycles to increase. It was becoming highly irritating for her, but a strong person that she was, she would not seek anybody’s help in this. Over a period of time, it became too infuriating for her.

And one day, his courage knew no bounds and he decided to follow her to her house. As she stopped in front of her bungalow in the Cantt, he kept cycling further hoping to move on after seeing her house. Little did he realise that it was a blind road with barbed wires securing it from all sides with no exit available and he had no alternative, but to retrace his steps which he did.

Meanwhile, my friend acted fast and laid her bike across the road. She also called out her mother, a hefty woman from the village of Haryana, fed on the diet of pure milk, curd and home-made butter who was used to carrying three pitchers full of water on her head back home. In a minute, she was out on the road and by the time the young Romeo came back, the mother and daughter were ready for action.

They caught hold of him by the scruff of his neck, pulled him inside the bungalow and tied him to a pillar in the veranda. Within half an hour, her father, a Colonel in the Army had also come home for lunch. On hearing the story, he was all fire and threatened to send the boy to Quarter Guard for punishment. The boy was now scared like a mouse and was pleading for apologies.

Colonel Sahib listened to him and finally his heart melted and he decided to reduce the punishment. He ordered him to pick up the lawn mower and mow the grass of his one-acre lawn on that hot June afternoon which he took about five hours to complete. At the end of it, the poor Romeo was totally pooped out.

The boy was then allowed to go but thereafter was never sighted in the university.

I at times wonder now, what kind of turn the things would have taken place if the incident had taken place in today’s crime-infested society? Would the girl have been kidnapped, raped or murdered after this incident? Would she have been riding her bike with the same confidence in the subsequent days as she had done earlier? …Perhaps not.  

(A real-life incident)

                               *****

AN ENCOUNTER WITH DACOITS (A REAL LIFE EXPERIENCE)

He was driving his open Ford 1919 one summer afternoon, his wife seated on the front seat holding their six month old baby. Two of his children, a daughter and a son aged 5 and 3 years, happily seated on the rear seat, were obviously enjoying the outing in the car. A distant relative who was all of 18 and who had come all the way from Dehra Dun to spend his summer holidays with them was also seated on the back seat.

It was a Sunday afternoon and he was not on any official visit but his eyes and ears were alert looking around for any unusual activity. He was the young Sub Divisional Magistrate of that area.

The year was 1954 and the place was somewhere in District Jalaun in Uttar Pradesh, close to the infamous dacoits infested ravines of Bhind, Muraina and Chambal Valley.

While driving along, he noticed a rickety UP Roadways bus which had stopped to take the passengers at a road-side stop. What he particularly noticed was a posse’ of police men trying to get into the bus.

“What are these police-men doing here?” he said slowly emphasising each word as if thinking aloud.

Without losing time, he drove the car straight towards the rear entry of the bus. Bringing the car to a screeching halt, he hailed the police men, “Arre O! Kaun ho tum log?” (Hey, you guys! Who are you?”)

Hearing his strong and powerful voice, the last of the constables who was getting into the bus, turned his head, saw him and quickly asked others to come down. They were five of them, in UP Police khaki uniform with badges, pistols and bullets etc. They fell in single line and saluted him with alacrity.

The commanding voice of her father and the nervous sound of the heels clicking into “Attention” mode was found to be very thrilling by the little girl on the back-seat who was intently watching every action of this drama and is able to recall it even today after 58 years with total clarity.

“Kaun thane ke ho? (Which Police Station are you from?)” he roared.

“Sahib…hum XXXX thane ke hain. (Sir, we are from XXXX Police Station),” the senior-most of them uttered with almost trembling voice.

“Kahan jaa rahe ho? (Where are you going?)” he shot another question.

They stood attention and replied most deferentially, “Sahab, XXXX gaon se dakaiti ki khabar aayee hai, wahin ja rahe hain, saab (Sir, There is a report of dacoity in XXXX village. We are going there only, Sir.)"

“Theek hai… Jaldi jao… Tehqeekat kar ke ittala bhejna. (OK. Hurry up and go. Send your report quickly after investigations!”), he said waving his hand at them. He was about to shift the gears of the car when the young lad Hari Ram who was sitting in the open car on the rear seat stood up and pointing fingers at the constables started screaming, “Chachaji, ye jhooth bol rahe hain…..ye dakoo hain…inhe pakad leejiye. (Uncle, they are lying. They are dacoits. You catch hold of them.)”

My father turned around to look at him and then turned to look at the constables. Were they dacoits? No, no way! They all had recognised him and had, therefore, come down from the bus to salute him like any disciplined police force members.  He smiled and said, “Arre nahin. Ye sab police constable hain..Inhe jane do. (No, no. They are Police Constables only. Let them go.)” And he confidently waved at the bus driver to carry on and the bus trudged off.

The only action that I noticed at that time was that the last constable on the steps of the bus had turned around and was looking at our cousin who was still throwing his arms up and creating a ruckus repeating excitedly, “Chachaji, Ye dakoo hain. Inhe pakad leejiye. (Uncle, they are dacoits. Catch hold of them)”.

We drove away from there but Hari Ram kept arguing that they were definitely dacoits and that we should have caught them. My father kept asserting that they were not.  


I now at times wonder how my unarmed father single-handedly could have caught five armed men even if they were dacoits. Thank God, he was totally convinced of his own observation and did not agree with my cousin. If he had even an iota of doubt about the identity or genuineness of these people, he would have got into an encounter forgetting about his young wife and three small children seated in the open car.

Next day morning, my father left early in the morning for touring a far off place for four days. That day itself, as we were settling downing for lunch in the afternoon, our cook Chattroo walked in and handed over a long brown envelope to my mother, “Memsaab, This envelope was lying near the door. Somebody seems to have slipped it in from below the door.”  My mother tore it open. Out came a yellowish page as if taken  out of a very old register. 

As she read it, her looks became stern and resolute. Was she stressed, I cannot say for she was a very strong woman who knew exactly what needed to be done. She called an orderly and told him, “Call Tehsildar Saab and Thanedar Saab,” and turned to Hari Ram, “You quickly finish your lunch and pack your bags. You are leaving right now.” But Hari Ram would not pack up unless he was told what had happened. He wanted to grab the letter and read it but my mother did not give it to him. She read it out aloud.

“Adarniya SDM Sahib, 

Sadar Pranam!

Kal hum aapko XXX chungi par mile thay. Haan, hum dakoo hee thay. Par achha hee hua ki aapne humko pehchana nahin. Hum aapko koi haani nahin pahuchana chahte hain. Aap apni duty keejiye par SDM Sahib, Dakuon ko pakadne ka kaam aapka nahin hai.Yah kaam police ka hai. Aap police ka kaam karne ki koshish na karein. Aapka kaam tab shuroo hota hai jab police hamein pakad kar aapki adalat mein pesh karegi, aap insaf keejiyega aur humein sazaa deejiyega.

Aur haan, wo jo ladka aapke saath tha jo aapka koi rishtedar hai, wo bahut hee shatir lagta hai. Use aap yahan se turant bhej dijiye nahin to hum use aapke ghar se aaj raat ko hee utha kar le jayenge.

Saadar, 

Hum hain aapke shubhakanshi,

XXXX Gang

(Respected SDM Sir,

Regards and salutations!

Yesterday, we met you at xxx check-post. Yes, we were dacoits only. Good that you did not recognise us. We do not intend to harm you.You do your duty SDM Sir but catching hold of dacoits is not your job. This is the job of Police functionaries. You should not try to perform their job. Your job will start when police will catch us and bring us for justice to your court. You should then do justice and award us punishment.

And yes, that young man who is some relation of yours, appears to be quite shrewd. Please send him back immediately. Otherwise, we will kidnap him from your house tonight itself.

With regards,

We are your well-wishers,

Xxxx Gang.)

Hearing the contents of the letter, a chill went through my spine and the thought of a bunch of dacoits jumping into the courtyard at night and firing from their guns curdled my blood. It was my mother’s call now. There was no way that she could contact my father as there were no phones, no mobile phones and he was to come back only after four days.

We used to sleep in the open courtyard which had barely 6’ high walls. Anybody could have jumped into the courtyard from the side which faced the forest. And the pecking order was first my father’s cot, then my mother’s cot, the next was my younger brother’s cot.  In the last was my cot. You see I was the oldest and could afford to be in the last. Some fearlessness expected from a five year old!

Meanwhile, the SHO and the Tehsildar reached and my mother instructed them to arrange a vehicle and escort Hari Ram to Jhansi railway station and put him in the train for Dehra Dun. Hari Ram tried his level best to not to go because he wanted to fire at the dacoits with my father’s 303 gun which he had seen lying at home but my mother stood like a rock and packed him off. A mother’s instinct to protect her children is definitely stronger than what can be comprehended by an ordinary person. 

That night in the courtyard, with 6’ high walls around, sleep was difficult to come by and I kept awake for I don’t know how long. This happened night after night, every night for four nights. 

When my father returned after four days and heard the entire episode, he was absolutely cool about it and said, “Why did you send him away? Nobody would have dared to come here. This is MY house.”

The shine in my eyes returned and they glistened with confidence. I felt absolutely secure once again, comfortable in the knowledge that I was absolutely safe in this citadel of my father’s domain and that nothing could ever happen to me so long as he was around.

*****

At times now, I shudder to think of what would have been our fate if my father had not failed in his judgement that afternoon. He would have definitely got into an encounter with the dacoits and perhaps I would not have been sitting here punching away the keys of my laptop.