CHAPTER 11 A Roller Coaster Ride

CHAPTER 11 A Roller Coaster Ride “We need a fresh face as Area Manager, Queens Road to perform a miracle and erase the lackadaisical performance. There have been widespread complaints regarding the sluggish running of prestigious trains like Palace on Wheels, and Fairy Queen. Loading of Maruti vehicles at Gurgaon and transhipment at Shakurbasti is also hit,” was the missive from Railway Board to the Chief Operations Manager, COM for short (in the earlier avatar referred to as the Chief Operating Superintendent) of Northern Railway. “Does the voice of Universe speak with living beings in its womb? Do transmigratory souls transmit information about our past, present and future,” I mused. Did I receive signals that unexpected events would take place in life while still in the womb…? From mundane jobs, transfers, postings, achievements, marriage and children, where do we finally go? In fact, where do we even come from?” I thought aloud. Meanwhile, all IRTS officers who were hitherto Superintendents became Managers overnight, though there was not an iota of difference in job profile. This new designation of IRTS officers confounded and irked none other than Chaudhary Devi Lal (the Tau of Indian politics) who considered the new title nothing more than unadorned bank managers. The Tau fancied the title Superintendent as in the feudal world this appellation struck a chord with the potentate and servile masses and could awe and shock them. Quite like the five-year plans of the country, I worked for five years, before I was finally moved on as Area Manager at Queens Road in Delhi, though technically this post was a part of Bikaner Division. Like other metros, if one gets posted to Delhi at a young age, the trappings of city life make a person stick like glue for as long as possible. The proximity to the power centre put me on the radar and I was frequently summoned by top honchos of Baroda House and Railway Board. Delhi is a curious animal. One can make it a pet or become a prey. And this is what the popular Prime Minister who stormed to power in 2014 refers to as the power brokers of Luytens’ Delhi and with a missionary zeal has been trying to dismantle the system. This is where all decisions are made, it is populated with all the ministries and those with right connections manage to stay on in Delhi for years together, in all kinds of posts. They move out of Delhi only to serve in the coveted posts such as DRMs and GMs. As once, a former boss while I was posted at Jaipur was candid enough to say, “There are only two posts in railways … be a DRM or a GM.” As Area Manager Queens Road I had to frequently visit Gurgaon to oversee the loading of Maruti vehicles. Apart from this I had to receive and see-off important functionaries who were travelling by various luxury trains that departed from Delhi Cantt. Unfortunately for the family, after seeing off important travellers like Victor Banerjee, Krutika Desai, prominent bureaucrats of Rajasthan and Gujarat government apart from Railway Board officials I would gulp down several pegs of gin and be in my world of delusion, anger and arrogance. Blessed with enormous patience my wife attempted to reason out with me but it fell on deaf ears. And likewise, I ignored the fervent pleas of my parents and grandmother. I was fighting a battle from within and without with no victories and Bacchus seemed to be winning the battle. On a couple of occasions my mother asked the pandits of Hanuman Temple at Kingsway Camp to perform the Rudra Puja to invoke the blessings of munificent Lord Shiva. The chanting and puja do have a therapeutic impact on the human mind, but I was yet to realise. The short, eventful stint as Area Manager, Queens Road, Bikaner Division was sandwiched by a cricket match and an explosion in the skies near Charkhi Dadri. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx On 12th November 1996, Saudia Flight 763, a Boeing 747 from Delhi to Saudi Arabia, and Kazakhstan Airlines Flight 1907, enroute to Delhi from Kazakhstan, collided over the village of Charkhi Dadri. The crash killed all 349 people on board both planes, making it the world's deadliest mid-air collision and the deadliest aviation accident to occur in India. The collision took place about 100 kilometres west of Delhi. I was given directions from the big leaguers of Delhi and the leadership of Bikaner to rush to the spot as the fireball had descended near the railway track. Providentially the passengers of Rewari – Hissar passenger train escaped the falling wreckage. Or else it would have been catastrophic as fusillade from the aircraft would have scorched the hapless train passengers. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx A Little Earlier All cricket buffs headed to home to watch the World Cup Semi-final between India and Sri Lanka at Eden Gardens, Calcutta. Cricket pundits were unanimous in their decision that Azharuddin committed a fatal flaw in opting to bowl first on an underprepared wicket. Thankfully they did not blame his faith for the ill-fated choice. The rambunctious crowds at the fall of the eighth Indian wicket, threw their water bottles in disgust apart from fruits. Eventually they set on fire parts of the stadium and the match by default was awarded to Sri Lanka as India was tottering at 120/8. But more importantly my wife and my kid who could barely ride a small cycle watched me in astonishment as I had consumed a bottle and half of gin all alone and using the choicest abuse against the Indian cricket team. Cricket was our religion and we could not afford to capitulate. My wife was not a typical religious or ritualistic type who would resort to temple hopping but as an expression of some faith and belief she would visit Lord Krishna’s temple during Janmashtami along with our young son and pray for my recovery. On account of the negative thoughts in my mind and my fears, my wife was compelled to turn down the offer of being employed at Tata McGraw Hill as I expressed my inability to look after our son on account of my work schedule and we could not leave the child without adequate supervision. Tragically, my wife lost an opportunity on account of my selfish attitude and had to settle for a job at a play school where my son studied in the Civil Lines area of Delhi. The house that we lived in was an architectural marvel, and situated in the Civil Lines area neatly nestled amidst greenery, and a stone’s throw from the ridge (paradise for lovers of Delhi University) and on the banks of Yamuna River. In the evenings, my wife and I took walks and stretched our limbs, but that was followed by a drinking session and eating greasy butter chicken, kebabs or Chinese fare from the popular joints Moet’s or Moti Mahal, which were practically next door. The year was 1997 and I got promoted to the Junior Administrative Grade (JAG) and posted as Deputy Chief Operations Manager (Dy. COM) Goods 2, Northern Railway. Usually, seasoned officers with considerable operating experience get slotted for this position. It was a tough ask as I had barely worked in two divisions of Northern Railway (Ambala and Bikaner), yet I took up the challenge. But I was stripped of all pelf, power, with no vehicle or bungalow peon at my disposal. I was bestowed with all responsibilities but precious else. The comfort of travelling by a sarkari Ambassador was replaced by wading my way from Civil Lines to Baroda House and back either by an autorickshaw or a DTC bus. One was reminded of school and college days and this led to further remorse and criticism of my bosses and the service conditions and in turn to additional consumption of alcohol. It was a vicious circle where I was broken and found solace only in drinking as my wife and child looked at me with only despair in their forlorn eyes. For some inexplicable reason my boss who was instrumental in my transfer as Dy. COM did not permit me the use of an official vehicle. I cursed him. But the bitterness did not end there. I imprecated all those who were responsible for me joining the IRTS including the entire Valluri menage. I was reduced to a humble servant, a typical sarkari babu and bemoaned my fate and destiny as I was to see my compatriots in the IAS, IPS and other services travelling by a vehicle. Wringing her hands helplessly, my wife hoped that almighty God and the supreme power / intelligence would intervene and our lives would get metamorphosed. Happiness, Bombshell and Border It was during this period my wife was again in the family way which was a welcome news. But I was rattled by another information, the news about my transfer to Allahabad as the Senior Divisional Safety Officer (Sr DSO) as I had to pave way for a senior officer who had returned from a training stint in Australia. I protested with the higher echelons about the injustice and the fact that my wife was in the family way only to be told, “Jo tumen karna tha kar diya ab to tumhari wife ko karna hai. Allahabad jao Sr DSO ban kar.” I was both devastated and disgusted hearing this from a Joint Secretary level officer. “How could they use such language?” I wondered. But here I was scorching in arrogance, anger, hubris and unmindfully scoring self-goals, inflicting wounds of my body and soul. I was wallowing in self-pity as I prepared to take up the fresh assignment at Allahabad. My mind was obfuscated; vision and thought process blurred as I began consuming alcohol in a much larger quantity in melancholic solitude at the ORH (Officer’s Rest House) where I was housed. Instead of visiting the historical sites in Allahabad and appreciating the city’s culture and basking in its glory, I was drinking. As drinking was positively assuming a quotidian shape, my son and wife arrived to spend a few days at the city of Sangam. Four lives were now closeted in the rest house next to the railway station. Unfortunately, my wife was often awakened from her well-deserved rest by the fumes of the stove, and the noxious substance which emanated through my incessant smoking, the rattling and screeching and grinding halts of freight and passenger trains. Willy-nilly I ended up tormenting and torturing my wife, the child to be born and my young son which was to only reflect my inconsiderate attitude. Various art forms reflect the prevalent socio-political milieu of society. Bollywood was not insulated from the nationalistic paranoia which gripped the nation and various films depicting the valour of Indian defence forces dominated the silver screen. Among them was the Sunny Deol starrer Border. My son wore battle fatigues and was fully armed with toy guns and grenades to participate in the hardihood displayed on the screen. He was to ape Sunny Deol and Jackie Shroff animatedly as were the hysterical crowds who kept whistling and sloganeering, Bharat Mata ki Jai with gay abandon. As I took swigs from a bottle of Coke spiked with vodka my son indulged in shadow boxing with an imaginary enemy in the Battle of Longewala. Life was certainly not hunky dory and I was desperate to get back to Delhi. In this Mission Delhi exercise, I was ably assisted by a batchmate who felt threatened by my presence at Allahabad as he was desperate to continue working there and has diligently served the Indian Railways for twenty-five odd years at the city. There was one post and two suitors -me and him. He was still to be confirmed in the Junior Administrative Grade. In this atypical Swayamvar – Draupadi could choose either Karan or Arjun. In a state of stupor, impersonating as a senior official, which terrified my batchmate-competitor, I threatened him with a transfer to a godforsaken place in the coal fields of Eastern Railway or tea gardens of North East Frontier Railway. The traumatised batchmate who never intended to leave city went in to an overdrive to facilitate my transfer back to Delhi And so, it was not too long before my sentinel ensured the transfer back to Delhi on a deputation to a position in MILRAIL (Army Headquarters) where I was the conduit between the railways and the defence forces.