Homeward Bound

Homeward Bound Soon I received an official communique that I had been appointed as the Deputy Director General (Rail Movement) in the MILRAIL (Military Rail) in the Movement Directorate at Army Headquarters, Sena Bhavan. The basic job entailed monitoring running of military specials, defence specials (code named VPs) for personnel and SPs (stores specials), movement of defence cargo, military ambulance specials, getting familiar with the ORMP (Operations Rail Move Plan), releasing of defence quota, looking after all defence owned railway stock and coordination with the Railway Board at the headquarters level and all zones for movement of military trains. I hurriedly packed my bags, thanked my unwitting benefactor and continued to have swigs of gin and tonic. I was absolutely sozzled as I boarded Prayagraj Express bound for New Delhi as I listened to Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound on my Walkman. The trappings of government postings include a decent accommodation, a vehicle and a bungalow peon. I continued to be deprived of majority of these at MILRAIL too. As usual my parents were my ministering angels and helped me out by sending their vehicle, a Fiat, from Hyderabad to Delhi. They had settled down at Hyderabad once my mother sought voluntary retirement. This was indeed a generous act and the vehicle stayed with us. Fortuitously, my parents’ former driver, always known as Sardarji was reappointed. My father stayed with us and worked for a missionary organisation as my mother was quite disturbed with my quotidian drinking and decided to spend some time in solitude in the United States with my sister and her family at Boston. I thanked my stars as the major problem of transportation was solved and made commuting from Civil Lines to Sena Bhavan easy as I did not have to depend on DTC buses or autorickshaws. My grandmother with her entire paraphernalia of religious texts joined us at Civil Lines, as she had lost the alcazar at Chennai (yes, it was no longer Madras). The final piece of jigsaw puzzle was resolved when my maternal aunt (married in to a North Indian Khatri family in Delhi) helped us identify the much-needed domestic help. So, everything seemed picture perfect at the surface. However, at the subterranean level was an alcoholic scuffling with life. Now I could gird up my loins to face the battery of seasoned army officials who were battle scarred defending our frontiers and the railway administration on the other side in our day to day working. My junior and I were to hear gut wrenching stories replete with valorous acts performed by the men wearing battle fatigues. Those of us from the railways had divided loyalties. One was towards the Railway Board and the other for the defence officers at the Movement Directorate. It required all skills to navigate this thin line as railways and defence were (and are still) working for a common purpose to safeguard our boundary and territory. The ADG (Move) an officer of the rank of a Major General (Movement Dte) used to get ballistic almost like an errant missile when railway codes, manuals and procedures were quoted during our daily morning conference, for he felt slighted and opined that we were deliberately torpedoing his plans. As per the hierarchy, he was assisted by two Deputy Director Generals – one from the army and the other from railways. The former was a genial brigadier who was a paratrooper and had waged several battles during insurgency plagued minacious terrain of Jammu and Kashmir and the North East. His designation was Deputy Director General (Movement), while I was referred to as Deputy Director General (Rail Movement), a rather pompous sounding title. But the appellation was rather short-lived as the espionage network of ADG (Move) and the armed forces discovered that I was still in the JAG and in no manner could have held the coveted position of DDG (RM). Soon I was stripped off my rank rather unceremoniously and was designated as Joint Director (MILRAIL). Fortuitously the humiliation remained short-lived as I was elevated to the selection grade and to my delight the prefix of Joint was deleted and I became Director (MILRAIL). I let the matters cool down and did not wish to scrimmage to be called Deputy Director General more importantly, “what’s in the name after all,” I conjectured. As government servants we proudly sport an identity card, which allows us certain privileges and access to various corridors of power. But the identity card of the Ministry of Defence and Army Headquarters provided us the ingress to places which an ordinary citizen or even a government employee would not gain access to, such as the security check area of the international airport, all Ministries of GOI, important clubs and the list went on much to my delight. Not that I was visiting all these places, but I regained the feeling of power and prestige. The new found power embedded in the nametag made me heady and often in an inebriated state and, I had to unleash my ripped muscle even caught on the wrong side of law as my vehicle was caught by the cops for jumping signals. But the policemen, seeing the Ministry of Defence name tag let me off lightly. This was nothing but sheer supercilious attitude on my part. The flip side of the posting was an easy and inexpensive access to liquor in the army canteen. My wife was certainly not pleased with my easy access to the army canteen. A bottle of Rosy Pelican was just Rs 8/-, Blue Riband Gin hardly cost Rs 25/-, whisky and rum too were well within my budget. It was not Kosher. But a trade-off took place, I was assured of liquor supplies and return, defence personnel had an access to emergency quota by trains. This was over and above the normal Defence Quota they were entitled to. Double Engine – Double Delight – A coveted Prize IRTS like other government services provide a wide vista to perform at national scale which is extremely satisfying. The 11th and the 13th of May,1998 were momentous days which gladdened zillions of Indian hearts. India conducted a total of seven nuclear explosions over those two days. This was executed in the perspective of threat in an environment where our neighbours had acquired nuclear weapons. The famous Prime Minister with remarkable oratorial skills parried international opprobrium and India found a place in the nuclear club. Once India had detonated the nuclear bombs, we were involved in a major task of mobilising troops to beef up our borders. Suffice to mention the challenging work was taken up by the Movement Dte. by both the army and railways with all earnestness and following the tenets laid down in the Operation Rail Movement Plan (ORMP). This was a highly classified document which provided the bulwark and strategy to run the defence specials across the country to secure our borders. Then began the mobilisation of troops with vigour and fervour to seal our frontiers. Tasks Assigned and Accomplished Now the distance between Guwahati and New Delhi is 2,030 kilometres and generally the arduous journey is traversed in forty-one hours and seventeen minutes. The ADG laid a task before Director, Movement, (a Colonel who served in the IPKF operations in Sri Lanka, apart from other theatres of war), and me to ensure that a troops special consisting of army personnel returning from Eastern border clock the journey precisely within that time frame. “Why cannot a troops train run on this path like any other mail or express train? Are people serving in the defence forces second class citizens? We guard our borders at the cost of our lives,” he remonstrated at the top of his voice. This was well-nigh impossible as all military specials get detained inordinately for a variety of reasons like availability of path on already choked paths, detentions caused by army personnel themselves, change of traction, supply of food to the men in battle fatigues to name just a few. I had expressed my apprehension, but Director, Movement goaded me to achieve this impossible task. I took up the challenge armed with adequate liquor supplies, cigarette packets, Pan Parag and was awake for most of 41h and 17 minutes. We crossed the Rubicon and I was reliving my days as an operating officer sitting in a control office. The Major General, a veteran of three wars twirled his moustache with glee and thumped the table with enormous jollity as the troops special reached Delhi within the targeted time. We were feted for achieving this herculean task. Seldom are civilians honoured with the coveted military honours. But I was decorated with the Chief of Army Staff (COAS) Commendation medal for my contribution and so was the Director Movement. All three branches of the defence service issue Commendation Cards, which are badges awarded for individual acts of gallantry or distinguished service or devotion to duty performed either in operation or non-operational areas. I caroused upon receiving the award and to an extent that I fell from the chair and badly bruised my right hand which was in plaster for some time. Silver Lining Those were dark and gloomy times, where life hurtled towards an abyss and our family was enveloped by darkness, with little to be cheery about with my drinking. One day my wife was indulging in her favourite past time of window-shopping and was attracted to a cassette called Shivoham. She found the music extremely soothing and mellifluous. My wife was not aware about the singers, nor the band or the organisation which had produced the bhajan. She just found the lyrics and music extremely soulful and eloquent. The lyrics were those of the spellbinding Nirvana Shatakam composed by Adi Shankaracharya. The song was sung by a group of foreigners and proclaimed it to be an Art of Living production, under the guidance of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, on the banks of the Ganges. This was a much-required balm for her frayed nerves. Little did she know this was merely our first encounter with the Art of Living. Years ago, my parents were suffused with joy when they heard the soulful singing by Swamiji. My mother realised the therapeutic powers of bhajans. Meanwhile cold and icy winds of North India, swept across Delhi. There was a sharp shower in Delhi and temperatures plummeted. It was 27th November and the year 1997 and my wife was in labour. She was suffering with severe pain and rushed to the Central Hospital of Northern Railway. Some years back, I was admitted to the ICU of this very hospital after the episode in Saharanpur. In 1993 our son arrived on planet earth in this very hospital and now in 1997 my wife was wheeled in to the hospital. The next day as a baby was born, the general refrain was “Family complete ho gayi, family complete ho gayi”. So, the quartet comprising of me, my wife, son and daughter were all Sagittarians. Quite coincidental and certainly never planned to be this way.