A Fatal Error

It must have been more than six months since my last visit to the Bank. But, today was different -- I was literally laughing all the way to the bank, the reason being that I had just realized that we must have put aside at least three lakh and fifty thousand rupees by way of pension saved during the last six months. So, all in all, our recent trip to U.S had proved quite a ‘profitable’ one! As I entered the building I met Mr. Keluskar, our new neighbor, who stopped in his tracks on seeing me and said flashing his usual, wide, amiable grin “Ah, how very nice to see you again, Hattangadi Sahib! When did you come back from America? Must have been quite an enjoyable trip, what with splendid time you must have had with your children and grandchildren. ----- Oh, that reminds me. It was probably a month or so after you left when an inspector from our Virar police station dropped in one day making discreet enquiries about you. Nothing important, I am sure, because when I told him you were abroad he just went back without another word.” It was probably meant to be my first shock of the day even if a mild one, but, little did I know it then. So, I just took it all in my stride.

I then proceeded to the new Passbook Printing Kiosk in our bank to get my passbook updated; however, on seeing a long queue I changed my mind and went to the “CASH” counter instead to draw some money, which we badly needed to meet our household expenses. On re-opening the kitchen after a long time Kumud had prepared a big shopping list of grocery and other urgently needed items. When I presented the cheque for encashment, however, the pretty girl at the window asked me when I had operated my account last because it seemed to be suspended at the moment. I informed her that, in fact, I had not operated the account for quite some time as we had been out of the country and she gave me a sweet smile saying, “No problem, Sir. Please see our Operations Manager on the first floor. He will revive your account in no time.”

The Operation Manager turned out to be one Mrs. Chandra whom I had known since our Chembur days as she was working as a clerk in the SBI branch there. Although I couldn’t recognize her at first, she did and gave me a broad smile of recognition. When I told her of my problem, she said there was nothing to it and asked for my passbook. Then, she started typing out some instructions on her keyboard, gently at first, but, it soon turned vigorous with heavy banging on the keyboard. I could see my account was just refusing to open until finally she said throwing up her hands, “I don’t know, Sir. Why is your account not opening even after I’ve revived it twice? Oh, wait a minute. Did you submit your Life Certificate in November, Sir? ”  “No, I told you I was out of the country and your branch manager had told me that it was no longer a problem because all pension accounts are now linked to Aadhaar”  “ Still, at least once a year, you have to authenticate your account, Sir. Please, let me have your Aadhaar Number, Sir” she said while she produced a small rectangular widget from her drawer, plugged it in her computer and asked me to press my right forefinger on its glassy surface. There was a small beep from the device when she said, “There! We’re done, Sir. I will now update your passbook and print it.”

When she handed me the passbook, I gave it one close look when I got my second shock of the day! There was only one single entry in the book after I had drawn my pension last May and it showed a balance of only Rs. 58,000 or so. I told Mrs. Chandra that for the past six months I had not drawn a single penny from my account; so, I had expected to see my balance accumulate to at least 3 to 3.5 Lakhs rupees. “So, how come my pension has not been credited to the account for the past five months?” I asked rather peevishly. She said she wouldn’t know because all pension accounts are now handled by their Centralized Pension Processing Centre(CPCC) at Belapur in Navi Mumbai. She said everything regarding pension, whether it was passing the monthly bill, crediting the pension into your account or maintenance of records, was all done at CPCC in Belapur and the Pension Paying Bank(PPB) in Virar acted only like a “Cashier” window, where the actual payment was made into the pensioner’s account either in cash or by cheque.   

“Actually, the CPCC people can’t take suo moto action like this, you know.” said Mrs. Chandra “They just have no authority to revise or withhold anyone’s pension or even change the address --- only the sanctioning authority like your PAO or CPAO in BARC can do it. Wait a minute. I will call them and find out what the matter is” For next ten minutes, she was pretty busy talking on the phone to someone at CPCC.  After a while, she put down the phone and said, “Sir, he says that your pension account has been closed as of June 12^th, 2015 most probably by your CPAO from BARC. But, no one can touch your pension; so, they won’t close the account unless there’s either a specific request from the pensioner himself or a court decree or something like that. Then also it will be implemented only by CPPC. He said it’s all there on the next page.” She then shifted the screen display to the next page by pressing the “Page Down” button and indeed, there was a small cryptic message at the top left hand corner of the screen:

“June 12, 2015 :  Acct. CLOSED.               Reason: Pensioner Deceased.                                                                                              (vide CPAO1666.1014.4515) ”

It was for me not merely the third shock of the day but also a veritable Bolt from the Blue! For the first time in my life, I had that queer feeling in mind which one gets on learning from someone else that one is in fact dead! Suddenly, I felt totally drained out and I dropped down with a in a heap with a desperate sigh in the nearest chair. Mrs. Chandra’s face had turned pale white with a terrible look of fear in her eyes as though she had just seen an apparition walk into the room!

“No, Mrs. Chandra, it’s not true! I AM NOT DEAD!! I am still alive and kicking, see? ” I almost screamed.

Mrs. Chandra gulped down a glassful of water before she could barely manage to say, “I know. I know, Sir. We’re terribly sorry, Sir. I just don’t know how this could happen. You see, usually we at the bank are the first ones to know about the death of an account holder. We generally learn about it from his or her next of kin and in turn we relay the bad news to, CPCC or CPAO, who then inform PAO. It’s he who passes the order to close the account because only he has the authority. But, we will not do it until and unless we see an official Death Certificate first confirming the news. So, obviously, either there’s a bug in the program or someone has given a wrong command. But, there’s built-in safety against just such an eventuality. I have absolutely no idea how or who could have done it. Wait a minute. I will talk to the CPCC guys again”

“Hello, Mrs. Chandra here. Mr. Madhavan, something terrible has happened! Mr. Hattangadi, the man who I talked about a little while ago --- yes, that’s right, the man whose pension has been stopped --- Well, he is very much alive. Yes, Sir, you heard it right --- he is not dead, I repeat, NOT DEAD!  Yes, he is alive and he is sitting here right in front of me, all worked up and fuming, naturally. Yes, I know him very well, like the back of my hand. Aarre Bhai, only this morning I helped him upload his Digital Life Certificate. No, no. We didn’t report anything; we don’t even know where this news originated, probably it was his office at BARC.  No, Sir, I told you we didn’t ---- just one minute, Sir. I just saw a 12-digit number next to the last entry in his passbook; probably it’s his file number. Can you access it, Sir and see if we can get some more information about his reported death?  ----- Oh, you can? Fine, I will wait then for your call, Sir.”

           After some time, Mr. Madhavan of CPCC called back and told us that it was quite evident from the file that the pensioner, Mr. Hattangadi had died about five months back in a fatal car accident near Ambala and as proof, they had even included in the file a Death Certificate issued by Health Department of State Government of Haryana! He then proceeded to display the certificate on our screen for our benefit. Almost instantly, I saw on the screen staring in my face most derisively was a graphic of my own Death Certificate! I must be the only privileged man on earth to have had this honor of viewing one’s own death certificate during one’s lifetime! The certificate in question included, besides such demographic information as full name, gender, age, address etc, also other vital information as to the nature and cause of death, whether it was a natural one from old age, prolonged sickness or pregnancy, or whether it was due to electrocution or some other cause like a fatal car accident and further, in latter case, if it was caused by a sudden mechanical failure of the car or by drunken driving etc, etc. From the certificate, all I could gather was that I was supposedly involved in a tragic road accident on the Grand Trunk Road in a Haryanvi village, called Goripur, near the city of Ambala and that the driver was the sole occupant in the car and that he had died instantly on the spot leaving behind no clue as to his identity.  Probably, as it happens often in such cases, the body was badly mutilated and disfigured beyond recognition and the police could find no one to identify the dead body. I did not understand how, under these circumstances, the police could so conclusively say that the body was mine and how on earth had they managed to get even my correct name and address!  Perhaps, the dead man was a crook or an imposter, who had assumed my identity as his alibi from some dastardly crime that he might have committed!!  I shuddered at the mere thought of this remote but nevertheless most likely possibility.          

           Next day, I paid a visit to our Chief Pay & Accounts Officer (CPAO) sitting in Anushakti Bhavan at Old Yacht Club near Gateway of India and found that the authorities there were not even aware of my existence as a DAE ex-employee, let alone my ‘alleged’ death in Ambala. However, fortunately, I found in the present CPAO, one Mr. Mukul Mehta, a congenial old fellow in late fifties, who gave me a patient hearing and then promised to do what best he could for me. He picked up his intercom and asked his secretary to call one Mr. Sanatani to his office. A little later, I was introduced to the man who, it turned out, was their software expert looking after their computers.  After Mr. Mehta briefed him with my tale of woes, Mr. Sanatani promptly sat comfortably in his chair closing his eyes as if he had gone into a deep trance and then suddenly, opening his eyes, burst out: “But, how is that possible? We have built-in safety, proper firewalling and anti-phishing codes in our system to protect it against any malware and spyware attacks. So, I don’t understand how some silly Death Cert. from Haryana could make its way into the system to block payments in your account? ”   “Silly or not, it has succeeded all the same in withholding my pension for the past five months! ” I interrupted making a weak attempt at a polite reminder of the primary reason for my being there. “Oh! That can be easily explained.” he said waiving his hands, “You see, the SBI computers are probably programmed to auto-close a pension account the moment it encounters a Death Cert. in its cache memory. It becomes the responsibility of the bank personnel therefore to check the authenticity of the certificate before it gets uploaded in the system. In the present case, however, no one seems to know in the first place how or by whom the Cert. was uploaded in the database.”

“No matter how it got in there, we all know now that it’s a fake one. So, why can’t we just delete it and go ahead to revive my pension account?”

“No, Mr. Hattangadi, it’s not simple as that! We did try it this morning and found to our dismay that no sooner we delete out the Cert. it pops back into life again in no time! Why, I can show it to you right now.” So saying, he pulled a laptop lying on the table, tapped on some of the colorful icons and swiftly swiped his finger across the touch screen to scroll the display until he arrived at a file named BARC/NPD/G/601/0047. He opened the file and pressed on the “Page Down” button to reveal on screen a message that gave me a strange feeling of ‘déjà vu’:

         “12 June, 2015: Acct. Closed.                      Reason: Pensioner Deceased ----”

There was also in addition alongside a small graphic showing my alleged ‘Death Certificate’, which too I had seen once before. When Mr. Sanatani pressed the ‘Delete’ button on the laptop, both the message and the graphic disappeared instantly, only to make a re-appearance a moment later with only the date changed to the current date. For reasons best known to him, Mr. Sanatani kept playing with the keyboard to flash the blessed certificate on screen again and again. It was most irritating and getting on my nerves. It was then that I suddenly noticed for the first time something unusual about the certificate.

    The Death Certificate from Govt. of  Haryana

         

         “Hold it there, will you?” I almost yelled at the perplexed officer “Tell me, like Bank account can you also link a Death Certificate to Aadhaar card?”

“No. --- Not at present. Well, there’s some talk going on those lines in some of the States like Haryana and M.P, who are planning to introduce it. But, why do you ask? ”

“I am asking because for a fleeting moment I think I just saw my Aadhaar Number on that Death Certificate.” 

  

Mr. Sanatani took a second look at the screen to verify my observation and then, like Archimedes in his bath tub, he was so excited that he could not help, but scream, “Ah, there you are! Now, I know why your Death Cert. refuses to go.” he said almost in one breath, “You see, as it was issued in Haryana it’s got linked to your Aadhaar and hence, also to your pension account in SBI. As long as there’s Aadhaar in the SBI database it also has your Death Certificate and so SBI protocol cannot help blocking your pension”

“Is there then no way out of this mess?”

“No, not unless we delink Aadhaar and Death Certificate; only Haryanvi’s who did the linking in the first place will be in a position to do that because they would have the proper codec. Well, SBI can at the most delink your pension account from Aadhaar, but, that will again stop pension from getting credited into account. So, Mr. Hattangadi, I think you have no option but to go to New Delhi and seek help from UIDAI. Maybe they can help you out.”

 “UIDAI, what’s that?”

“Oh, they’re the Aadhaar people.”         

Next morning, I was in UIDAI office in Delhi sitting in the office of Mr. V.P.  Singh, the Deputy Director General of UIDAI (Unique Identification Authority of India). He was sitting in his chair deeply engrossed in thought, probably mulling over my narration of the story of my recent experiences. It took him some time before he leaned back in his chair and said pleasantly, “Oh! Congrats, Mr. Hattangadi!  You have nothing to worry about!! I see your biometrics match perfectly with what we have in our database thus authenticating both your identity as well as existence. As I told you, our unique identification methodology is quite reliable and safe from any un-authorized intrusion or attempt at duplication, forgery or fraud. Once your biometrics is entered into our database, by default it gets locked there and no one can ever change it. Even if some unscrupulous element did try to steal your identity, he would only succeed in getting himself caught in the act by our de-duplication process and face subsequent legal action with severe penalties.”

 “But, obviously the dead man in the Ambala car accident had successfully assumed my identity because his Death Certificate shows all my personal details from full name, date of birth and present address to even my Aadhaar Number! How come? ”

  “Well, to tell you the truth I am also completely baffled. Because, we seldom reveal or transfer to anyone your personal information held in our database, except for the specific purpose of verifying a person’s identity by giving a simple ‘Yes/No’ response to queries made. UIDAI database has no links with any other database or no one has access to information held therein, except for some public service agencies approved by UIDAI, like banks etc, which can access the data through our e-KYC service only for the specific purpose of verifying the identity of a person before making him a payment from the Government like pension, gas subsidy etc and all this is made possible with a one-time-password, issued with express knowledge and permission of the Aadhaar card holder.”

  “So, also, your personal identification data appearing in the Death Certificate becomes possible, if and only if it is linked to your Aadhaar Number. Although we ourselves are still to introduce Aadhaar seeding in Birth / Death Certificates, I understand some State Governments like Haryana have already done it. This seems to be the most plausible explanation, but technically we are not in a position to help since it is up to the Government of Haryana now. It is their baby and the ball is in their court. However, do not worry, Sir. Give me a week and we will do what we can to help you out of this most vexing problem. I am sure we will find some way.”

“I have already assigned one of our bright young officers to get to the bottom of this rather unusual problem and he is right now in Chandigarh seeing the DIG (Police) there, who is a good old friend of mine. He will give my man all the help needed to get the low-down on this case.” said Mr. Singh and as if to placate me, he offered me a cup of tea and biscuits, “But don’t worry, Sir, your pension will be revived, eventually; only, please bear with us until then. We are extremely sorry for all the trouble and unnecessary anxiety caused by this problem.”     

  

Just then, there was a light knock on the door and a smart young man walked in. Mr. Singh nodded and showed him to a chair by my side. When the young man settled in his chair, he said, “Oh! Mr. Chopra, I see you’re back already from Chandigarh. Well, we were just talking about you. By the way, this is Mr. Hattangadi from Mumbai who is having this most unusual problem with his pension. Now, could you please brief us on what all information you could gather in Chandigarh? ”

 “Well, to cut the long story short” said the young man after a slight pause, “Sir, the mysterious man killed on the spot in this horrible accident at Amballa was probably just driving through the city on his way to Delhi. As he was a stranger in the city, there was no one around, who the local police could find, to identify the body which was anyway badly mutilated with the face disfigured beyond recognition. So, the police searched his belongings for a possible clue and found a blood-stained Aadhaar card, with the help of which they could identify the man as one Mr. Vasant Hattangadi from a small town called Virar near Mumbai. Haryana Police, on their part, were discreet enough to request their counterparts in Mumbai to pass on the sad news to the deceased’s next of kin. They were all too stunned and taken aback, however, when I told them that they had made an obvious mistake in identifying the dead man as Mr. Vasant Hattangadi was alive and at the moment sitting in our Delhi office protesting about being declared dead though alive. They immediately rushed someone off to the police station to get the personal effects of the dead man, which luckily they were still holding. I found the ‘offending’ Aadhaar card in the lot in a very bad shape; it was so mucky and dirty that it was hardly legible. However, with some difficulty we could manage to read its serial number as 1234 4683 9011 and not 1234 4638 9011, as mentioned in the Death Certificate. Obviously, someone either at the police station or at the hospital which issued the Certificate, had goofed-up. Now, of course, the defective Death Certificate has been duly invalidated and cancelled, while a new one has been issued in its place and linked to the correct Aadhaar Number. By the way, we now know the real identity of the dead man: he was a businessman dealing in automobiles, by name Vasan Hattikundur, hailing from Malleswaram in Bangaluru.”   

 “The rest is all history. All’s well that ends well...” said Mr. V.P. Singh chuckling triumphantly, “So, Mr. Hattangadi, now you don’t have to worry anymore about some unknown, dead man running away with your pension. I knew all along that our Aadhaar methodology of personal identification is simply impeccable and there had to be a human error somewhere in this hullabaloo! After all, as they say, to err is human and --------”

“To forgive divine!  But, this error or blunder proved quite unfortunate for me. Well, let me take your leave, Mr. Singh and thank you so much. Thank you very much, indeed.”

 After almost a week of running around from pillar to post, I was at last feeling relaxed and happy. When I stepped out of the building it was nearly sunset time. As I entered a radial road in Connaught Circus, I just turned back to have one last look at the sprawling UIDAI building, now silhouetted in all its glory against the backdrop of a crimson evening sky of New Delhi.

            Au revoir, Aadhaar!                 

A Parting Gift for Ron

        “Your flight’s at ten o’clock, right?” asked Emil as he swerved the car on to the highway and as Ron gave a slight nod, he said “Don’t worry; we will be there well in time.” 

    Ron Clarke, Australia’s Olympics Champion athlete was returning home after having spent an enjoyable weekend in Prague with his ‘role model’, Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia, the man who had earned for himself the sobriquet, ‘Czech Locomotive’ because of his unprecedented, great accomplishments in Olympic Games. In the entire history of the Games he is the only one to have made a ‘hat trick’ of sorts in distance running by securing a triple win: he had won all three gold medals for running in the 1952 Summer Olympics at Helsinki (500 meters, 10,000 meters and marathon) and to this day, the record remains unbeaten by anyone. 

          Ron too was a sporting legend in his own right; well before he had crossed thirty he had already proved himself by notching up seventeen world records to his credit. In the 1964 Tokyo Games, he was the sole hot favorite for the 10,000 meters event. But, though he had by then broken almost every previous record from 2 miles to 20 kilometers, the Olympic Gold medal had, however, eluded him so far and he had to be satisfied with winning only bronze or silver medals and that was precisely what had been eating him up lately. The 1968 Summer Olympics, which had just been concluded in Mexico City, had proved to be a total fiasco for Ron Clarke. Not being used to running at high altitudes, the lack of oxygen there had caused him problems and though he had somehow managed to finish in the sixth place, he had collapsed and almost died at the finishing line surviving with a somewhat weakened heart and a ruptured valve that called for surgery. But, one thing was certain: he had returned from Mexico as a completely heart-broken man!

             As the car sped towards the Prague International Airport, its occupants observed an awkward silence for a while, only to be broken first by Emil who glanced sideways at his friend as he spoke: “It was just too bad, Ron ---- I mean, what happened to you in Mexico City was just too unfortunate. Well, as they say, the most important thing in Olympics is not to win but to take part in it. So also in life, the important thing is not the success you get but it’s the struggle you make to find it. The essential thing is to have fought well and not to have conquered.”

“When the chips are down, there’s nothing one can do except, perhaps, let them fall where they may. Anyway, no use brooding over it because, it’s all water under the bridge now. All you got to do is stand up again and face life with a renewed vigor. I have a gut feeling that you can do it if only you try once again, young Man. I am not saying this because I like you as a person, but, because, gold or no gold, I respect you as an able athlete! ”

“You really think I can do it?” asked Ron eagerly.

“Yep, all you got to do is to train the right way and put in some hard work.” said Emil. “Running is easily understandable: all it requires is speed and stamina. When I was young, I was too slow a runner, but, I had a passionate desire to win the race. I thought, I already knew how to run slow and all I needed to learn was how to run fast; so, for that I would have to practice running fast. So, I started running as fast as I could, first for a hundred meters stretch and then, I gradually upped the figure to 400 meters. I’d do it forty times in the morning and then once again in the afternoon, that is, I ran total 20 miles in one day! I did that for about two weeks.”

“What 20 miles a day for 2 weeks! That’s mind boggling, Man!!” Ron couldn’t help shouting.

“Well! People thought I had gone crazy. In this business, you’ve got to train like mad. There’s no other way, because, the more you tax your body, the more you’re in control. You must practice running at a steady, maximum sustainable pace at which you can easily manage a 5K or 10K meters stretch and you will have to log in at least 20 to 30 miles a day. For, if you do it once nothing happens; it’s only when you force yourself to repeat the strenuous part hundred times under most excruciating conditions that you start seeing results in more ways than one. I have trained in snow, in slush and in bad weather in army boots on rough, countryside roads and sometimes, even uphill. For my resistance training, many a time I would carry my wife, Dana on my back. Training under most unfavorable conditions not only builds up your endurance but also your will power and I tell you, it’s worth the great relief and pleasure you get when you cross the finishing line ahead of all others in the race." 

“Don’t you think continuous training at moderate steady pace over long distances, while you keep increasing both gradually everyday is a better bet, any day?“, asked Ron. 

“No, that’s the traditional way – this slogging day in and day out. In the long run, it doesn’t do you much good, you know. I think running at one’s personal best pace even if it be over short durations is a much better idea. Between these bursts of intense activity you try to squeeze in short periods of recovery, which you run at much lower comfortable speeds. For example, you run two minutes at a hard effort and then follow it up by two to three minutes of easy jogging, or even walking, while you catch your breath. I think this method --- I call it “Interval Training” --- wherein you alternate between bouts of fast running and slow running is more beneficial to distance runners than a traditional, more rigorous and strenuous regime. Firstly, it trains your muscles to work more efficiently at higher speeds and you learn to quickly switch over from slow to fast speeds and vice’ versa. Secondly, because you’re running at higher speeds, just above your discomfort level, at which you gasp for breath but not really so hard as to pass out, your maximum uptake of oxygen increases as in any aerobic exercise and your muscles gain in strength and train faster. It improves both your PR running speed as well as endurance in a much shorter time than the traditional tedious method that focuses more on high-volume, medium-paced workouts rather than one with a better efficiency. Running at your fastest sustainable speed – but not at an all-out, topmost racing speed – is the key to running with good form and avoiding injury. You must choose your running pace just above the level, which you perceive as the one you can easily withstand for 10 to 12 minutes, depending on your fitness. In other words, it’s a controlled, intense effort followed by a truly easy jog. The secret of success of the method lies in the so-called recovery period during which one recuperates from exhaustion of the previous half, just enough to enable you to run hard again in the next interval. Thus by end of the session, you’re a little fatigued, but, not necessarily completely fagged out.“

          Ron Clerk was pondering in serene silence over what Emil had just told him. Little did he realize then that what he had just been witness to was the birth of an innovative idea for effective training that would be wildly accepted and commonly used someday in athletic training, not only in running but also in allied fields like bike-racing, sprinting, steeple chase, swimming etc. It is called, “High Intensity Interval Training” or simply HIIT.

         The airport Control Tower with its rotating radar dish were just appearing on the horizon when Emil suddenly announced, “Well, there you are, Prague’s Ruzyne International Airport! ----------------- I think you got to hurry, Ron; you have just enough time to catch your flight at Terminal 2. Okay, then. Take Care of yourself and wish you All the Best. Good Bye and Bon Voyage! ---- Oh, wait a minute! I almost forgot. Here, take this --- this is for YOU, Ron. I am giving it to you not because of friendship, but, because I sincerely believe you deserve it. Please don’t open it right now, though – wait till you reach London. Bye again!” He felt his own voice slightly choked with emotion as he warmly embraced Ron. Then, he reached into his inner vest pocket and produced a small parcel, neatly packaged in pink paper, which he gently passed into Ron’s hands. 

        Ron was curious to know what the parcel contained. “Was he being used to smuggle something out of the country, like a precious diamond, secret weapon, contraband or something else? No, Emil won’t do such things. Or was he trying to defect to the West like some of his countrymen? ” he wondered. Whatever it was, he decided, he was not going to wait patiently all of two hours to London. So, no sooner had he boarded the aircraft and settled down in his seat than he was seen rushing towards the toilet taking the pink parcel along with him. Once inside the toilet, he hurriedly opened the package and to his utter astonishment found inside a tiny round, brightly shining, metallic piece staring him in the face. It was Emil’s 10,000 meters Olympic gold medal that he had won at Helsinki in 1952! For a minute, he was too stunned to react; it was then that Ron Clarke, the famous Australian long distance runner, known for his seventeen world records, slowly sat down on his toilet seat and wept like a small child. As long as he lived, Ron would tell everyone that the gold medal he had got from Emil that lucky day in Prague was his life’s most cherished possession.

A Different Honeymoon

“Honey!” she said tenderly as she entwined her slender fingers into mine. “Tell me, no, where are we going for the honey moon?” Like many other young, dreamy-eyed couples waiting desperately to tie the knot, we were at the sea beach locked in each other’s arms, while eagerly counting days to the big event and the honeymoon to follow.  Naturally, we wanted to plan it all very carefully in every detail--- especially, in view of my finances not being exactly encouraging, I had to make all my lavish plans very cautiously.  “Tell me, Dear, where would YOU like to go for the honeymoon?” I countered benignly while keeping my fingers crossed and heaved a big sigh of relief when she opted, thank God, for Gulmarg in Kashmir and not some exotic place like Rome or Honolulu! However, all the same I was in real hot soup. For, with my wallet nearly empty, I knew I’d have to either rob the nearest bank or shock my future wife on the eve of her marriage by revealing the truth about my current financial status.

                In such difficult situations, I usually turned to my friend, philosopher and guide, Simon D’Souza, a very resourceful soul, who always had ready solutions for all sticky problems in life. But, when I asked him for a small loan, the guy gave me a big sermon. “First of all” he said “Remember all girls are little starry-eyed and have their own lofty, romantic ideas about honeymoon and if you spoil them for her, then you had it for the rest of your life. So, be considerate to your wife’s wishes; it’s better to have a short and cheap honeymoon than no honeymoon at all, though a very long one runs the risk of being too boring. Honeymoon is like the anesthesia that a surgeon uses to protect you from pain and fear during a basically scary and risky operation that, we know, in the long run is for your own good. It does not have to be a grand seven day package tour of Europe or the Orient. One can enjoy it even if it’s just a weekend in a small, seaside cottage in Alibag! These days, you can rent a shabby, little room or cottage at a cheap rate with bed, breakfast and a sumptuous Malwani meal with spicy, fish curry. After all, what else does one need for a decent honeymoon but a little privacy and solitude to get to know each other better and enjoy some much needed togetherness? You will be surprised how much love you can pack into a weekend, not far from your home! ”   

  

      So, finally, we decided on the two cities of Bangalore and Mysore as our honeymoon destinations. With cash gifts we were certain to get at the wedding, I thought, we might just as well manage to ‘break-even’ in this enterprise. Now, all that remained was to convince my much disheartened fiancée that this was a small compromise one would have to make for the sake of some quality time to share alone with your beloved; moreover, Kashmir was not cancelled for good, but only postponed to brighter times in the future. Besides, was it not true that our entire life was going to be just one, big, prolonged honeymoon! Though reluctant at first, Kumud finally gave in to my entreaties. The next part of the battle was to make my father-in-law agree to delete the “No-Gifts-Please” notification from the invitation cards!!  While making the hotel reservations, I was particular to let them know that we were a newly married couple on our honeymoon, hoping against hope that they might just as well offer some promotional concession like “a free, extra night  for the cost of two”!    

***************** x ******************

              After the Wedding Reception was over, we returned late in the night to Kumud’s parent’s place in Dadar. While everyone was keen on unwrapping and seeing the various gifts we had received, I for one was eagerly waiting to savor the ‘best wedding gift from God’! However, I was given to understand that there would be no filmy style ‘Suhag Raat’ with the bashful bride walking in with a glass of milk and the groom gently raising the ‘Ghungat’ to reveal the beautiful face that would launch a thousand ship etc.  For one thing, they don’t make brides bashful anymore and for another, my mother-in-law had already decreed that a proper ‘safe distance’ had to be maintained at all costs between the main protagonists until some Puja or some such thing was performed the next morning. In any case, with half a dozen guests floating around in the house, what possibly can a newly married couple accomplish within the confines of a 1-BHK flat in Mumbai, except stealing some meaningful glances at each other? But, my father-in-law, Capt. Rao must have been a real romantic in his own younger days, else he wouldn’t have gone to such great lengths as to make arrangements for us in the neighbor’s vacant flat. Before we had returned from the marriage hall, one enterprising brother-in-law of mine had already got the flat done up and the bed decked up with flowers and spray of an exotic perfume! Somewhere deep down in my mind, I felt very happy at the prospect of what was going to be a very memorable night. As we bid goodnight to everyone and were about to leave, Kumud asked her brother for the keys to the flat and suddenly, he turned pale like a ghost! In his excitement, it seems, he had pulled the doors shut behind him leaving the keys inside. The way of man is not in his own hands. For, man proposes but, God disposes.      

                                           ********** x **********

            We were about to take off on our honeymoon completely oblivious of what was in store for us during the next ten happiest days of our life. Ajit, the youngest of my four brother-in-laws, who was only eleven years old then, had fetched the taxi for us and had firmly settled himself in the back-seat waiting for his dear ‘Babyakka’ in the happy misconception that he too was coming with us to Bangalore. My father-in-law was already in the front-seat and as Kumud got into the back of the car, her grandmother, entered through the other door with a small airbag in her hand and sat smugly next to her favorite granddaughter. In a slightly hushed tone, I asked my wife, “Don’t tell me, your grandmother is also coming with us to Mysore!”  “Don’t be silly!” said Kumud, a little amused. “We are just dropping her home on our way at Grant Road.”

“Oh, I see! I thought your mother was sending her as your chaperone.”

The taxi was full and Sardarji, the driver started the ignition. I was still standing on the footpath with a bag in my hand and when they were about to embark, I shouted almost in panic, “Hey! Wait a minute. How can you go on this trip without me? It takes two to make a honeymoon, you know.”

                When we landed at Victoria Terminus, our train was about to leave. In the hurly burly of loading the luggage, locating our seats, saying ‘good bye’ and so on, no one had noticed that Kumud’s youngest brother, Ajit had gone missing. Lo, there was panic again and everyone started looking around for him and found him sitting calmly next to a smiling young man who, I thought, I had met somewhere very recently. Ajit, however, was refusing to budge from his seat as he was firm in his resolve to accompany us all the way to Bangaluru! But, Kumud somehow managed to convince him and succeeded in cajoling him to go home “like a good boy” but only after he had elicited a promise from her that we would definitely take him along the next time. God, I thought, the lady was making promises for the next honeymoon when even the first one was still nowhere in sight! 

              The young man in front of me was still smiling sheepishly at me. “Don’t you remember me?” he said at last. “I am Raja Ketkar, Sheelu Srinivasan’s fiancé. We had met other day at your Wedding, remember? ….. So, going for honeymoon, are you? Where’re you going by the way, Mysore or Ooty?  These days, every Tom, Dick and Harry goes to Mysore. Can’t blame them, you know. It’s the only place middle-class people like us can afford. I am also getting married next month and both of you must surely come, please.” Then, after a slight pause, as if he had remembered something important he winked at me and added, “One more thing. Please don’t forget what you promised me the other day. We will keep in touch, okay? ” Luckily, the train soon picked up speed and the guy started dozing in his seat. Kumud, who was waiting impatiently for just such an opportunity asked me what it, was that I had promised him. I told her I had no idea, but, whatever it was it was I was not going to oblige.

************ x ***********

                It was just early dawn when our train chugged into the sleepy town of Bangalore, with birds chirping and cocks crowing somewhere in the far distance; only a few horse-driven carts, called Tongas and milk vendors riding on bicycles could be seen on the roads. After coming out of the railway station, we hired a Tonga to go to Hotel Woodlands. At the check-in counter, we had a surprise waiting for us; someone had already booked one room for us two days earlier! Just as I was wondering who could be this mysterious man who had done the favor, a puny little man, probably in his late thirties, came forward with folded hands and a broad grin on his face and said, “I’m Murlidhar Joshi working in your father’s office, National Pharmacies Limited ----I’m working as the manager in their Mysore branch. When I got the letter from ‘boss’ that his son is coming here with wife, I did not wait even one minute and came down here straight to book a room in the best hotel for you. Today, I am what I am only because of your father, Sir. Err …hope you’ll like the room, Sir. I took great care to select the best room for you with a nice view -- you can actually see the backside of Lalit Mahal from your window.” So saying, he picked up our suitcases himself and escorted us to our room with the ‘best view’ which turned out to be the royal cowshed behind the palace, with its all-pervasive aroma of animal poop filling the air! But, the room itself was neat and tidy and esthetically done up with a classic painting of Radha-Krishna in erotic pose hanging on the wall!!

So, some thirty six hours after the wedding, we had found at last some free time and solitude for ourselves. I suddenly felt a whiff of inspiration in the air and I thought it was high time we should at least open and have a cursory look at God’s gift, but, before I could even think of it, there was a light knock on the door and standing there in the doorway was this smart looking bell-boy with an impish smile. “Room Service, Sir” he said and handed us our ‘welcome drink with compliments of Woodland Hotel, “Where would you like your breakfast served, Sir, here or downstairs in the common Dining Hall?”

   After the breakfast, Kumud wanted to take a stroll in the beautiful garden and look at the roses whereas I was of the opinion that we should return to our room and attend to more important things like most honeymooners generally do. But the crux of the problem was that I didn’t know how to broach the subject and where to begin. I took a deep breath and told Kumud, “Let’s go back to our room. There’s something interesting I want to show you”. When we reached the room, Kumud said, “I know what you’re going to show me!  Well, it must be God’s Gift, isn’t it? What is it, anyway?”

       

           “Come, sit here by my side and I will show you, Dear.” I said as I gently pulled her by my side and she slowly sank into the cozy, velvety double-bed. “No, not now --not in broad daylight!” said Kumud in feigned anger rising quickly to her feet. “Well, I only wanted to read a book together with you and for that, we will need some good light, I think.” I said coolly. “What book? You don’t mean that ancient porn, written by Vatsyayana or someone, do you?” she asked me quite seriously and I felt happy that, at least, our conversation was going in the right direction. “Well, it’s a book for newlyweds, ‘How to Be Happy Though Married”. It gives many practical tips for leading a happy married life. Well, you know someone has said that a beautiful girl is also like a good book – once you start reading it, you can’t put it down till you reach the end, when though you may feel bit exhausted, you don’t want to stop because it’s such an exhilarating experience.” Just then, there was a thud on the door and cursing under my breath for this most untimely and not-so-welcome an interruption, I got up and opened the door. 

        It was our ever-smiling friend, Mr. Murlidhar Joshi accompanied this time by his family. “Oh! It’s our great Murli Manohar Joshi! But, what’re you doing here, Mr. Joshi, instead of campaigning for Jan Sangh in Rai Bareilly?” I said welcoming him inside. “No, no!  Not Murli Manohar, it’s just Murlidhar Joshi. Ha, ha! I liked your humorous nature, though. By the way, Sir, this is my wife, Sunita and two children, Rohan and Shakuntala. But, we call her by her pet name, Chingi. Well, we thought you might like to do some sight-seeing today. I can take you round the city, Sir and show you some of the important places of historic interest. My wife said she has also not seen them as yet and so, I thought I will bring them along too. I hope you won’t mind, Sir”

        

       We then roamed in the city seeing Vishwesharaya Technological Museum, Cubbin Park, Lal Baug etc and returned very tired to the hotel late in the evening. We requested Mr. Joshi and his family to join us for dinner, which he readily agreed. After dinner, when we were just enjoying our dessert in the lounge, a short, well-dressed man walked in and started making polite enquiries about food, our well-being and other arrangements in the hotel etc. From his pleasing, sophisticated manners and polite way of speaking, I could rightly guess that he was the hotel manager, Mr. Namboodri. Just as he was leaving, however, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned back and asked me what then seemed like an innocent question: “Mr. Hattangadi, have we not met somewhere before? Yes, I remember now. I think you were here three years back for our hotel’s Silver Jubilee. Right? ” I looked at my wife who was smiling good-naturedly with a slightly amused look on her face, as I coolly replied: “No, not right at all, Mr. Namboodri. I think you’re making a mistake. It must be someone else. This is my first visit to Bangalore, you know.” “No, Mr. Hattanagdi.  I’m sure you were the one. If I am not mistaken, I think, only the madam who was then with you was probably a different person! Because, I think, she was slightly taller and fairer in complexion.” said the manager. A warning bell rang deafeningly in my ears and I realized that I just couldn’t afford to allow this nonsense to continue any longer. I sprang to my feet shouting, “Just, what the hell, are you talking about, Mister? We’re a three-day-old, married couple and we are here in this hotel for our honeymoon and you have the temerity to suggest I was here before with another woman.”  “Yes, Sir. I am quite certain about it. Yes, I remember now. You had with you even your three year old son and one more was expected!”

   Kumud, who was a mute witness to all these goings-on, suddenly got up fuming with rage and walked out in a huff without even a single word. Oh, there goes my Honeymoon, I thought, even before it had started thanks to Mr. Namboodri! “See what you’ve done, Mister? --- Oh, No! Kumud, please wait for me. Please don’t go away leaving me like this.” In a desperate attempt to save my marriage, I ran after her pleading my innocence. I told her that I was shocked myself at the sudden turn of events. “Don’t believe a word of what he’s saying, dear. This guy is either drunk or has gone nuts! I swear I have never seen this man before, nor I have ever been married to any other woman. I have never come to Bangalore before, let alone stay in this hotel. Look, why are you packing your suitcases?  Look, Kumud -----”

            “Stop there, you cheat and double-cross! Don’t you dare even touch me.” shouted Kumud now almost in tears. “I never imagined you being a married man and also a father of two kids! Tomorrow, take me back to Mumbai. I will tell Papa everything. He will teach you a good lesson. He will take you to court for cheating and bigamy and see that you’re punished, neat and proper.” “Please Honey! Why don’t you understand? Obviously, this man, Namboodri is mistaking me for somebody else who, believe me, was not me. Toh mee navhech! ”

                Naturally, I had to spend the whole night shivering on a sofa out there in the lounge. I had no other alternative, until and unless I could furnish some tangible proof about my innocence and bona fides! But, for that, I would have to wait until the next day to meet the root cause of this problem, Mr. Namboodri and sort out the mess with him, once and for all. However, when I met him early next morning, at first he stuck to his story and kept insisting that he had met me in the very same hotel in 1957 and then, as if he had suddenly remembered something, he rushed into his office and returned immediately with a thick album of photographs, taken during the ‘Silver Jubilee’ celebrations. He said he was certain to find at least one photo in there that would prove his stand and indeed after some searching he did produce a photograph, with a victorious smirk on his face. I almost snatched the photograph from his hand, saw it and then ran upstairs straight to show it to my doubting wife. “Just as I told you, Kumud! See, I have been cleared of all the charges. I was telling you it was not me but some other bloke. It was my elder brother, Dada who had stayed here in Woodlands for four days in 1957, along with Vahini and their son, Arun. You see, they had come here to attend our cousin, Medha’s marriage and afterwards, before returning to Mumbai, they had taken a four day break! ”

            

            Having placated my wife and all her doubts about my fidelity allayed, I could breathe a sigh of relief. I even thought the way was now clear for the long pending, Opening of God’s Gift. But, you must have it in your destiny first, else it’s either a flop or postponed again. Presently, someone started banging on the door repeatedly as if the building was on fire! Making a mental note not to forget asking the Manager to provide us with a “Please Do Not Disturb” sign to be hung on the door, I went and opened it. It was Mr. Murlidhar Joshi again who had come with his wife and three year old daughter, Chingi who was crying inconsolably. It seems, she had been throwing tantrums all evening as she wanted to sleep with her favorite Kumudaunty in spite of her parent’s entreaties and all out efforts to the contrary. When she saw Kumud, she calmed down a little and leaped into her open arms. She clung to Kumud like a child clings to her mother and refused to go back with her own parents. We told Joshi’s that it was perfectly alright with us if they let the child sleep with us for the night and soon, Chingi was dancing with joy all over our bed. We had no other go but to give in to the child’s wishes and let her sleep in our bed, comfortably ensconced between the two of us.                   

              

                On the eve of our departure from Mysore, I was just sitting in the balcony turning over in my mind events of the last few days. Right since our wedding, I found that some or other stumbling block kept us away from the unveiling of ‘God’s Wedding Gift’ but, we had not even succeeded in as much as untying the ribbons. The very first night had turned out to be a damp squib because it was ‘No-Go’ till we had official clearance from Lord Satya Narayana (read ‘mother-in-law’).  Next night was a fiasco for want of a latchkey! The third evening, we were travelling in the train to Bangalore in a Three Tier Sleeper coach, comforting myself that, not to worry, we would make up for the lost time during the honeymoon in Bangalore. But, thanks to Mr. Namboodri, on the very first day I got busy extricating myself from an embarrassing situation that resulted in ‘walk-out’ by Kumud and consequent ‘adjournment motion’. I had to spend the night out crouching on a sofa while my better-half slept peacefully inside in a soft, cozy bed! To add injury to the insult, that spoilt little brat, Miss Chingi landed herself next night in our bed literally kicking me out of my rightful place in the process! Next, we were travelling again in a so-called Luxury Bus to our next destination in Mysore. What possibly can one do in the most uncomfortable, reclining seats of an ancient luxury bus except hold hands? Especially, when snoring right behind you there is none other than our ever helping, worthy friend, Mr. Murlidhar Joshi, along with his family! It seems, though posted in Mysore, the poor fellow had come all the way to Bangalore only to ensure personally that we had the most comfortable and enjoyable a stay in Hotel Woodlands. Needless to add, contrary to our great expectations and hopes that we might just yet be left alone to fend for ourselves, Messers Joshi graciously kept us company all through our three day stay in Mysore. They were there with us when we went to see the Mysore Palace and Mysore zoo and when we visited Chamundi Hills, Jaganmohan Palace, Krishnarajsagar Dam and Brindavan Gardens and besides, in the evenings, our little friend, Chingi was there to keep us company, the whole night, in our bed.  Then, to add to my misery, during the last two days Kumud had suddenly gone silent and sullen leaving me wondering if it was due to something I had unintentionally said or done that had caused it or if she was feeling really unwell. After much coaxing and persuasion, she finally came out with the truth; she was feeling terribly homesick and missing her siblings and mother. Naturally, I had to drop all my plans to take a break on our way back home, for two days at Lonavala or Matheran, where we could have one last ‘go’ with God’s Gift. For some, the honeymoon phase ends with that first trip, for some others it lasts for a couple of years and for people like us, it is still on after so many years ---- still sweet like honey though waxes and wanes like moon, sometimes.       

              ************ x ************

“Hello, this is Raja Ketkar. So, how did it go, Vasant?  I mean your   honeymoon.”

“Well, it was fine while it lasted. When is yours, by the way? ”

“Very soon, I think. We're getting married next week. Both of you

must come, okay?  Now, it’s time for you to keep your promise.”

“What promise did I make? I don’t remember”

“Well, you had told me you will give me some practical tips and  notes after returning from your honeymoon.”

“Oh, did I promise that? But, I don’t know, if my notes will be of    any help.”

“Why? “

“ Our honeymoon was different! ”

-------- ooooooo --------

Three Close Shaves

               Laboratories are dangerous places and accidents, big or small, are common in most of them all over the world. More often than not, they store dangerous chemicals, strong acids, toxins, highly inflammable materials, high voltage devices, radiation sources or powerful lasers etc. With constant use and familiarity, one tends to become careless about their dangerous potential and hazards with the result that accidents sometimes occur in the lab as if they were just waiting to happen. Many a time, these are mostly minor accidents resulting in only the burning of an eyebrow, scalding of the skin or a broken limb, but, occasionally they may also prove to be catastrophic with lifelong injuries or sometimes even fatal with loss of life. Anyone who has worked in a scientific laboratory has, sometime or the other, either himself fallen a victim in an accident or met someone who has, this author being no exception to the rule. During the initial years of my long carrier in BARC there was a time when I was involved in a spate of accidents in the lab and in spite of my taking utmost care and precautions, there have been at least three occasions on which I have had very close calls in serious accidents but, by Grace of God, I have always managed to scrape through without much serious consequences. All the same, these incidents have left an indelible mark on my mind and now, as I reminisce about them in my twilight days, each time I have relived the harrowing experience as if it had happened only yesterday!  

             Sometime after joining BARC (then known as AEET), I was assigned as technical assistant to a young Englishman, Mr. C.B.G Taylor, who was a visiting technical expert from England come to help us develop indigenously BF-3 filled, proportional counters for slow neutrons. I remember how I had felt very elated when I was selected for the job as I thought that it was a great opportunity for me to work directly under a foreign expert from whom I could learn such a lot. In fact, I found Mr. Taylor to be a very energetic, knowledgeable person with technical knowhow in many fields such as high vacuum and other techniques; in the course of one or two years, I learnt from him several practical skills ranging from brazing, welding, glass blowing to even operating a lathe machine. Soon, I had come to be regarded as somewhat of a technical expert in vacuum technology with “more vacuum than Physics in his brains”!

              The boron tri-fluoride gas(BF-3) used in our counters is known to be a highly corrosive gas, reacting with almost everything in its wake causing serious damage to various materials it comes in contact with; so, we had to constantly face many technical problems in our work. We had built the gas-filling system for these counters using ‘Pyrex’ or borosilicate glass tubes and stopcocks, which were lubricated with special, “Apiezon-T” grease, as it was known to be free from ill-effects of reaction with BF3 gas. We also had to maintain a high degree of cleanliness in the counters as well as its gas filling system. For this purpose, we would first dip the counter and its parts in a “magic” mixture of strong acids to clean them chemically and then remove all traces of acids and chemicals used by flushing it with plenty of water. Finally, it was followed up by a thorough rinse in ethyl alcohol and ether, which was removed in turn by just allowing it to evaporate in the atmosphere, warming it up, if necessary, to accelerate the process.

          The BF-3 gas required for filling the counters was generated ‘on-line’ in a closed evacuated system, by heating a substance called ‘CaF2-BF3 complex’ to  250-⁰C and freezing the gas so released in a glass ‘thimble’ cooled to sub-zero temperatures with dry ice. I don’t remember all the details; however, the gas produced thus was 97-98 percents pure and adequately suitable for use in our counters. We stored the BF-3 gas produced in a large, spherical glass flask attached to the system.  One day, Mr. Taylor asked me to replace present 3-litre, gas storage flask by a larger one as he felt the storage capacity of our system should be increased.  I was just waiting for such an opportunity to try my newly acquired skills in glass blowing. So, instead of calling a professional glassblower from the Glass Blowing Section, which was what we normally did, I was only too happy to carry out the job myself.

               So, I proceeded to get a new 5-litre, spherical, glass bulb from the Stores, which I cleaned  thoroughly using our standard cleaning procedure for glass by giving a dip in chromic-acid, followed by washes in water, alcohol and ether. I knew very well that the latter two solvents were highly inflammable and so, I took all necessary precautions to get rid of all traces of the perilous vapors from the bulb – or, at least, so I thought at the time -- by warming the glass bulb all over its surface using a broad ‘brush-flame’, while allowing a tiny, little flame to burn merrily at the end of the nozzle. When the tiny flame refused to light up anymore, I guessed, all the dangerous vapors inside had been completely expelled from the bulb.  However, I was wrong and soon discovered to my horror that my plans had failed miserably! For, as soon as I applied the torch flame to the nozzle tube to cut it to required length and started pulling out the molten glass, it got ‘sealed-off’ momentarily and the lingering vapors inside suddenly burst into a narrow jet of a flame and like a space rocket leaving its launching pad, the huge bulb took off with a loud, shrill roar hurtling itself straight upwards into the empty space above my head.  I stood there like a dumb dunce gaping in awe at the rising bulb and the live demonstration of the principle of Jet Propulsion at work!  As the bulb hit the ceiling, it must have got deflected a little on the return path, because it did not land bang on my vulnerable head as expected, but, luckily, it had missed the target and landed a few inches from me!!  Naturally, the gas filling system, made mostly of glass, was partly damaged and it took several weeks of repairs and reconstruction before we could get back into business.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

            I did not have to wait for more than even two months for my next nerve shattering, near-death experience.  As already mentioned, we were using lots of strong acids and other highly inflammable solvents like ethyl alcohol and ether etc. for chemical cleaning of glass and other components and so, mainly for reasons of safety, we stored all our major stock of hazardous materials in large drums in a small store room at the backside of our lab, while for daily use, we kept some of the oft-needed solvents in smaller, one-liter bottles kept on a wooden shelf above the wash basin. When I found one day our ether bottles nearly empty, I immediately got down to the business of getting them re-filled. So, I went to our backroom to get some ether in a large glass beaker and started pouring it out straight into smaller bottles. Now, it so happened, that morning I had done some glass blowing work on our filling system to carry out some minor repairs. During the repair work, I would often leave the gas torch on the table, when not needed, with its flame reduced to a safe, smallest size. This was our normal practice, but, we would put off the flame in the end after finishing all the work in hand. But, that particular day, I had forgotten to put off the flame, as it had completely escaped my mind until after it was too late! I remembered about it only after the ether vapors hanging around in the airtight, AC room had suddenly caught fire and a bright flare of fire had leaped across the room through a distance of about eight feet! Before I knew what was happening, the flare had whizzed past me through under my right arm straight into the glass beaker held in my left hand! The inflammable liquid in the beaker had instantly turned into a huge “ball of fire” and I instinctively let go of both, the beaker and the bottle. They dropped down to the ground and were shattered into small pieces with the burning liquid spreading all over the floor! I was standing near the entrance door, which was just next to the wash basin and I realized to my utter dismay that I had got myself trapped in the small room with a deadly fire raging all around me! I shouted for help, but no one came as it was lunch time and the lab was almost deserted.

             I noticed then that the burning liquid on the floor was spreading out, slowly but surely, towards the back room, where we had kept our entire stock of inflammables! I knew at once that if I didn’t take some drastic steps, I was heading for a great disaster!! Again, I shouted for help; the help did arrive this time, though it was of little avail. Someone tried to push open the door, but, when trying to enter he was accosted by raging flames and had to retreat immediately. I knew then that I was on my own! I had to do something or whatever it took to quench the fire myself or at least, keep it from spreading further into the backroom. The only source of water in the room was a set of taps located near the wash basin, which was itself immersed in fire. What a pity, we didn’t even have a fire extinguisher in the room, the only ones available being kept at the security desk, near the main entrance! I looked hopelessly at the flames, which were now reaching out to almost the height of the false ceiling, which I hoped was made of some fire-proof material. Therefore, without giving it a second thought, I removed my lab-coat and began thrashing out the flames with it like a mad man. Within minutes, thank God, the fire was brought under control and before long it had simmered down to naught!    

* * * * * * * * * * * *

          The last but not the least shocking of my three “narrow escapes” occurred within six months of my marriage. My wife was already in the family way and expecting our first child. In those early days of marriage, my place of work was at TIFR in Colaba though there were occasions when I had to visit Trombay for some work or the other.  It was during one such regular visit that I found myself quite free early in the day having finished my work in Trombay and so, having nothing else to do, I decided to return to work in Colaba taking some public transport rather than wait for our office bus, which was scheduled to leave not before noon. It was raining fairly heavily since morning and I was just debating in my mind whether to proceed to Colaba or just call it a day and go home to give wife a pleasant surprise. As I was waiting at the bus-stop, there suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, a Bombay Telephones van which came to a halt right in front of me. The driver asked if anyone wanted a ‘lift’ to Colaba and immediately several men from the queue scrambled into the back of the van while I hopped into the front-seat, next to the driver. With the rains lashing out since morning, the roads had become quite wet and slippery. Soon after, when not even two minutes had passed since boarding, the driver tried to negotiate a sharp turn in the road, when our speeding vehicle skidded with a loud screech, jumped the road divider and landed straight into a three feet deep ditch on the other side of the road, all this in a jiffy!  Everyone in the van screamed out in unison as the vehicle suddenly turned turtle and came to a dead halt three feet below the ground level!                  
                   One by one, we crawled out of the overturned vehicle as it stood majestically, like a true yogi standing on his head, in the middle of filthy mire and dirty water! By now, a crowd had gathered around us to witness our sorry plight while some among them came forward to help us clamber out of the ditch. Thank God, we all had such a miraculous escape with only some minor bruises to show. I had a small scratch myself on my left leg that was bleeding slightly. A good Samaritan in the crowd came forward to give me ‘first aid’. He took out a match box from his pocket and taking a pinch of the Phospherous on its striking face, rubbed it vigorously on my leg and the bleeding stopped instantly. I took the next bus and went home happily as if nothing untoward had ever happened. On reaching home, it was my wife who first noticed that my brand new umbrella had changed its shape into a veritable, inverted ‘U’ when it dawned upon me that the poor umbrella, which had silently borne the brunt of the impact, had been my real savior! The latent, internal injuries made their presence felt the next day. For the next fifteen days, I was confined to bed with a badly swollen left leg!!  

        Two days later, my boss sent his P.A to my residence to make anxious, if discreet, inquiries regarding my unfortunate accident because, to his utter confusion, he had learnt from our Transport Officer that no official vehicle, whether bus, car or of any other form, had ever been involved in any major or minor road accident in the recent past! Naturally!!                                                                           

Old Man and the Tea

                     I  looked at my watch as I alighted from the auto rickshaw and realized that I had just about twenty minutes left before the banks closed down for the day.  As everyone knows, the banks work only for ‘half-day’ on Saturdays and so, close all transactions by 11:00 a.m. and today, of all the days, I was short of money and wanted urgently to draw some cash before the bank pulled its shutters down. So, I was almost sprinting along the footpath wending my way through Virar’s Weekly Bazaar crowds, when suddenly I bumped into this grand old man, who was standing there at the curb looking like a forlorn, lost kid. I had never seen him before in all my life. With his frail, outstretched hands he seemed to be desperately trying to catch attention of some passer-by. He was probably in his early eighties and perhaps, all he was asking for was some help in crossing the road and hence looking for a Good Samaritan like me to escort him through the busy traffic. Dressed in an old, tattered pair of dark blue jeans with a light blue shirt, tucked-in haphazardly, a ruffled scarf around the neck and a rumpled pea cap on the head he looked every inch like a rugged, old seaman, but it was the blank look in his deep, blue eyes that betrayed the inner sadness in his heart. When I was just a few feet from him, I could make out what he was muttering in his soft, deep voice: “Can someone help me, please? God will bless you if you help this poor, old man.” When I was very near him, I stopped in my tracks and asked him how I could help him. However, before he could reply, thinking that all he wanted was to safely cross the street, I took his right hand in mine and started to lead him by his arm; his palm was soft to the touch like silk, quite warm and affectionate. No sooner than I had offered my hand, he had gripped it like a small, insecure child afraid that his dad may just go away leaving him alone, bereft of his usual, protective cover. The two senior citizens then stepped out in glory, literally, hand-in-hand.

                   The old man’s face was suddenly lit up brightly. “Oh, thank you so much, son and God Bless you!  You see, I just want to go to Vithal Mandir on the other side of the road. I go there regularly every morning, you know, to listen to Vazebuva’s kirtan, they say it absolves you from all sins you committed in life in your younger days; but, as for me it’s a good old-age pastime, you see? ” he said winking with a mischievous smile on his wrinkled face.  “Can you guess my age?  I’ve crossed seventy five already and I can hardly see because of this wretched cataract in my eyes. In my father’s time, a cataract operation would cost no more than two thousand rupees, but, My God, everything is so expensive these days; now, it costs a fortune --- thirty thousand rupees for each eye! Which fellow like me will ever afford it? ”

              I was just a silly clerk in the post office, but, I have managed to give the best of education to my two sons. They’re now both well settled in the U.S. --- one is a computer engineer working for Microsoft and the other teaching Applied Physics or something like that in M.I.T. Both are married and have children, who think Virar is a very dirty, old, shanty place. Well, can’t blame them. But, they’re all happy and that’s what matters. What more can you ask for? …………. It’s almost two years now since my wife went “off”. Poor girl, all through her life she suffered trying to make the two ends meet. But, she was always in a hurry, way ahead of others and I was exact opposite: always slow and unsteady! She’s gone now and I’m still here, fending for myself! Ha, ha, ha!! ” Then, for one full minute he was silent and I could see a lonely tear welling up in his deep, sunken eyes.

                “Oh, where are we now, near Eskay’s?  Ah, well, there’s a small wayside tea-shop here somewhere; I think it’s called Shankar Vilas Café. Have you ever gone in there and tried their Elaichi Chai. No? Then, it’s time you did. I tell you, if you try it once, you will never be the same man again. It is so good and stimulating -- simply out of this world! I can promise you that, like me, you’ll also come back again every day! Just try one cup and see for yourself, No? ”.  So saying, he stopped at the tea stall and before I could even ask to be excused as it was really getting late, he had placed an order for two “cuttings” (or half-full cups, in local lingo) of their special, ‘Elaichi’ tea.  I glanced at my watch through the corner of my eyes and found to my horror that there were just seven minutes left for the bank to close.                                            .

               I think you should also try their ‘Jumbo Vadapao’ once. It’s so delicious and filling. I am going to order one for myself. How about you? Just have one. No? Okay. Okay, as you please! You seem to be in particular hurry today. What’s the matter, a date with a girl friend or what?  Hey, don’t you worry; I am not coming in your way ---- One Jumbo Vadapao, please.” I was too worried about the bank closing time to bother about the old man’s silly chatter. I asked for the bill and as I took out my wallet to pay, he said “Oh, you have paid already! I would have paid, no? Anyway, never mind, there’s always a next time. All the same, thank you very much, son and God bless you! ”.

              After making the payment, I looked around for the old man, but, he was nowhere to be seen in the vicinity. “Oh, where did that old man go all of a sudden?” I asked no one in particular “He was saying he wanted to go to Vithal Mandir. It is still some distance from here and how will go there? He was saying he is visually impaired because of his cataract.”

               “Don’t worry, Uncle. He will manage to find his own way. He always does.” said the tea vendor knowingly and smiled benignly!