Life Experiences

Like all my friends, I too was once a 17-year old awkward looking human in that shaded area when you are considered a naïve boy in certain estimations and a grown up man in the other situations. It leaves you so confused that you behave as neither of those. And I have also used the adjective ‘awkward’. It is because, at that age, facial hair appear to the extent that you are unsure whether to shave or not.   

In those good old days nobody asked you, “Son, what do you want to be when you grow up?” You generally were preached to from the pulpit. Unsure about what future held, I had to sit through sessions where three, mostly idle, older cousins and uncles ruled the roost. The agenda invariably was what I should be doing with my life. My Dad, an engineer himself and rather a busy man, didn’t have time for idle chatter. He gave all of two minutes to the first of those meetings and announced that I should go for an engineering career at Roorkee. He walked away and chose not to participate in the deliberations on my future career thereafter. 

The Gang of Three was, however, not done. Inquisition sessions continued in either the veranda or the front lawn with tea and savories served. The advisory board comprised an uncle who had never had anything to do with academics and was running a distributorship of transistor radios, a recently passed out lawyer who had earlier failed twice in his BSc, and an older cousin who was a professor of physics at the local degree college.    

All of them, regardless of the questionable credentials of the two of them, threw their advisory at hapless me. Talk about inquisitions? It was like getting raked over coals. If a stranger walked in during those sessions, he would have had to be excused for thinking I was caught red-handed misbehaving with that pretty young girl living next door. You get the picture. My career was being constantly planned by the elders—some genuinely concerned and the rest getting some sadistic pleasure out of seeing me shriveling like a grape does turning into a raisin, and thereupon sitting terrorized.

The Khap Panchayat surmised that Roorkee, being the crème de crème and the best aspirational option possible, was pretty much beyond my capabilities. Cautioning me against any misplaced optimism, an action plan was hatched. It was built around the core premise that I, being unmentionably ordinary, should safeguard myself with some fallback options. The professor cousin produced a list comprising IIT, Indian School of Mines and a regional engineering college. He had to put in Roorkee without which the plan would not have been ratified by my Dad. I found it somewhat insulting that I was being asked to take the entrance exam for that regional college, but considering their lurking suspicion that I most probably deserved nothing better, I remained mum. 

Well, to cut a long story short, I defied all elders and got into Roorkee, which later turned into an IIT. Lesson learned that don’t listen to naysayers beyond a certain point.

In mid-1960s, when in Roorkee, I loved everything other than engineering studies. Running away to Dehradun, hills of Mussoorie and Simla and also to Delhi for watching movies like Goldfinger was par for the course. 

Amidst all this America held a special place. This mindset developed after reading whatever American material I could lay my hands on—that included ‘Old Man and the Sea’ on one end and dozens of Earl Stanley Gardner mysteries on the other. Sunday morning shows of Hollywood movies of all genre couldn’t be missed. The menagerie included Ben Hur, Roman Holiday, Who is afraid of Virginia Wolf, Guns of Navarone, The Great Escape, and a lot many other classics.    

To me, America was synonymous with modernity, spirit of inquiry, technological development and the ultimate destination for those who had a reasonable chance to get there. After my engineering degree, getting into a US Graduate School was the extent to which I allowed myself to look into future. Nothing else mattered. 

It happened. I was accepted at a great college in America’s southeast, and that too with a fellowship covering tuition and other expenses. I was on that proverbial cloud nine and all clouds above that. After a month of orientation with the new environs, I ventured out a bit. On a blind date, sought by me, I drew up a girl in her late teens who hadn’t till then been to a movie alone or with her friends. I learned she had graduated from a church-affiliated high school, and that date with me was her first attempt at breaking free from the moral straitjacket she had till then lived with. Next quarter of an hour was even more enlightening vis-à-vis her moral compass. In all politeness, conviction written all over her face, she told me that if one wasn’t a Christian, they were a heathen. I took it sitting down, for taking an umbrage would have meant an opportunity lost. 

Curiosity was taking hold of me for this was an altogether unexpected face of an American. I learned further that upon getting wedded, a husband was to love his wife as Christ loved the church. Husband had the god-given responsibility to provide for, to protect, and to lead his family. And, feminists such as Gloria Steinem be blown, a wife was to submit herself graciously to servant under the leadership of her husband as the church willingly submits to the headship of Christ. This thing about husband being next to Christ in the pecking order, I realized was exactly what orthodox middle class Indian families drilled into their young girls. This! In America? 

She was raised in a culture that equated woman’s worth to her sexual purity. “Premarital sex contaminates a woman beyond restoration,” she had said.

It was obvious that the date wasn’t going anywhere beyond handholding. Yet, I felt important, for it was plain to see that the evening she was spending with me was some kind of a milestone for her. I mean, she allowed herself to share that pitcher of her first ever draft beer with me. I couldn’t help but feel honoured. I was a prop, if not the lead character, in that act of her some kind of breaking free.  

Was it religious orthodoxy that went under the label of conservatism? Or was it the other way around? Within that one year and a half at the grad school, I learned what right and left meant, and what exactly was liberal and conservative in US politics. At that age, to all, I daresay, radical ideas hold greater appeal. In keeping with that I evolved into a Democrat at heart. After earning my degree in 1972 I worked for Prudential in Jersey City on the east coast. Presidential election of 1972 loomed large. It was an exciting time for me. I chose to volunteer with the local office of Democratic candidate, Senator McGovern. I am certain I pasted more ‘McGovern for President’ bumper stickers than any of my co-volunteers. For no lack of effort from my side, however, McGovern was roundly drubbed by the Republican Richard Nixon. 

Liberals roundly beaten, Conservatives seemed like harvesting what the Republican Senator, Barry Goldwater sowed in his run for presidency in 1964. "I would remind you that extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice. And moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue," he had thundered. Liberals of all ilk were shocked. The party they had controlled for so long had fallen into the hands of extremists.

American sheen tarnished several notches. I was back in India in the state of Gujarat where I worked with a management consulting firm which was bigger than Tata Consulting Services of those times. This firm belonged to a business house that had Dr Vikram Sarabhai – the renowned physicist and astronomer – at its head. For me, it was a tremendous place to work. Thinking laterally, identifying problems, deep-diving into those, and coming up with solutions; the whole jing-bang was possible to work on at the age of 28. It was a near-miraculous job, like of which I never thought existed in India in early 1970s. Yet, it was there. 

The good times were further brightened by the prettiest woman on Earth who decided to marry me. Then came the most valuable experience that is serving me well to this day. My wife is everything that I am not. Conversely, I am everything she is not. So much for the conventional wisdom of matching two like-minded people for a successful marriage! Priceless union it has been when I learned when to lead and take control, and also when to take the back seat and let her drive through. Thank God, we are not like-minded for it would have ended up in a daily game of upmanship.

The need to explore new frontiers has somehow been a bug not far off from my arm’s length all along. A good friend warned that a rolling stone didn’t gather any moss. I mulled on that some and decided that I would be damned if my sole objective in life were to gather moss. I mean, why would a man in his right mind consider moss gathering his singular achievement? I chucked the Sarabhai job, and went off to Africa; Kenya in East Africa to be precise. 

I travelled the length and breadth of the country. Loved the place. I developed keen interest in wild life photography, spending my hard earned moolah on an Asahi Pentax and an array of lenses. That is when neighbouring Uganda opened up. Dada Amin ran away to Saudi Arabia and the country became a free for all – politicians of all ilk, vigilante groups and to all and sundry who possessed a gun and half-a-dozen bullets. The family of my Kenya-based employer had huge investments in Uganda, including sugar factories, breweries, steel rolling mills, and whatever else you can think of. He and I, as his most valued sidekick, boarded his private jet and went in and out of Uganda. The idea was to reclaim all the assets grabbed by that maniac Dada Amin. The boss man used to fly back after a day or two, leaving me to lead a team of three. 

It was a situation when bullets started flying every evening after 5.00 and the show continued till midnight. The country rudderless, very few knew who was shooting at whom and why. Kitchen pantry ran out of supplies every now and then in the guest house I was staying at. For some inexplicable reason there were six crates of Uganda waragi – a gin-like alcoholic drink made with banana and millet – were stashed away in the cupboard of my bedroom. It was a situation where food was nowhere to be seen but liquid nutrition was available in abundance. 

One day when Godfrey failed to find any meat or vegetable in the sole market 5 kilometres away, I decided to try my hand at cooking. I ordered Godfrey to climb up one of the jackfruit tress in that guest house compound in Kampala and bring down a fair-sized fruit. Godfrey was both amused and irritated at my whimsical command but probably put it to one too many waragi I might have ingested. 

Well, I fast forward to the moment when Godfrey served the jackfruit curry on my plate and placed a loaf of bread on the side. I merrily gobbled while he looked at me aghast. I insisted that he joined me at dinner. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, he obeyed. After the first morsel, his eyes lit up. After eating a good amount of the stuff, Godfrey, the cook, nearly prostrated in front of me. He was astounded that anything worth eating could be made out of that fruit which he and all other Ugandans till then treated with utter disdain. Besides, the darned thing tasted almost as good as goat meat, he admiringly admitted. The very next day, Godfrey rather apologetically inquired whether he could bring in his wife and two friends for the jackfruit curry dinner. 

I readily consented to be the chef one more time. The nyama — Kiswahili for meat — feast along with copious portions of waragi created a memorable evening. The musical background was provided by frequent gunshots at some distance!      

I learned that every little event is a learning opportunity for you and people around you.

Mine is a long story fit for a fair-sized autobiography. But for now let this much suffice.