The New Saheb in the Cantt.

The New Saheb in the Cantt. In a country like India, despite a burgeoning economy, we continue to lay premium on securing a permanent job. I wonder why? This was particularly true before the unshackling of the economy to the industrial and economic liberalisation. Perhaps this has to do with years of slavery, colonial rule, impoverishment which was accompanied with vast shortages. As humans we are all born and arrive on this planet, get educated (schooling, followed by college), then we look for a permanent job (that is nirvana for us, particularly the middle class), followed by marriage, then procreate and bear children and then become grandparents. This process goes on unabated. And then, only in the winter of our lives, we search for happiness. So, as ordained by the COPS of Northern Railway, I took the ship to Ambala. The weather was cool and crisp on a March morning and while travelling by Himalayan Queen Express I happened to read a poem called Suppose. I dozed off for a while and was in a dream land and supposed that had I followed the advice of Dr S Rau, I would have perhaps been the SDM of Ambala today rather than joining two years later as the Assistant Operating Superintendent or AOS for short. And suppose I had joined the IPS, in place of IRTS, I would have been serving as a DSP of Patiala perhaps. Is human life full of suppositions? Only the unshrinking can carve a niche for themselves by performing daring acts. In my case I ought to have joined the IPS and taken all responsibility for my actions. Now I would have to take responsibility for my inactions. I realised that my mother whose halo was growing by the day followed a scrupulous and bold path. She was always correct in judging persons and situations and I should to have followed her guidance and counsel. Soon the iron wheels of the train came to a grinding halt at the station and I woke up from the short slumber. My palms were sweaty and the heart was palpitating with unusual nervous energy. As I stepped out, I ran into the Senior Divisional Operating Superintendent (Sr DOS) and the Divisional Railway Manager. For a moment I assumed that they were a part of a reception committee for the new entrant to the Indian Railways and my frayed nerves were assuaged. However, I soon realized that such dramatic things seldom occur in the government, and dare say even in the private enterprises of the country. This was a colossal thought. Could a tyro like me expect senior officers to be receiving me at the platform of Ambala Cantonment station on my very first posting. This was virtually asking for the moon. The duo was at the station were there incidentally to attend to an emergency and had little time for me. The DRM, a Sikh officer appeared pompous, officious and snappy, while the Sr DOS maintained a Zen like poise and controlled the exigency in an unruffled manner. The episode was regarding a derailment which appeared quite thrilling and for a moment I forgot about IAS and IPS. I was engrossed in how the salvage operations were taking place to rerail a derailed freight train. The DRM and a group of officers boarded an ART to proceed to the accident site. It was a study in contrast of personalities- the top boss went over the top while his junior managed the affairs calmly and with poise. “Well, Ravi Valluri I have spoken to your COPS and you are being posted as AOS in charge of passenger movement (AOS, Coaching in railway parlance). You are not looking after freight operations. Take over today,” the DRM commanded as he boarded the ART. Ambala division was headed by the Divisional Railway Manager. This division was the latest entrant to the Northern Railway family. It was created o¬n July 1, 1987 by transferring 639 kms from the Delhi Division and 348 kms from the Firozpur Division. Ambala division euphemistically declared independence from its parents on August 15, 1988 and became free. These interesting nuggets were some notes handed over by a rather uppity looking Traffic Inspector (TI looking at a tyro in a condescending manner. I was trying to knock some sense into my mind about the content and lamented the time I wasted at RSC Baroda. In a short while I was seated before the Sr. DOS who had studied economics from Delhi School of Economics and like me had not joined the IPS, opting for the IRTS instead. “Ravi, now calm down and take it easy. Whenever you wish to go home, just let me know. For starters, move around the division and familiarise yourself with various stations, yards and other important loading and unloading points, besides passenger facilities as your orders have been changed by the DRM. Have your lunch and dinner with me,” he further assuaged me. At the behest of Sr. DOS an itinerary was soon drawn out and I was to visit places like Kalka, Shimla, Ropar, Saharanpur, Bhatinda, Dhuri and Sriganganagar and chaperoned by the Traffic Inspector (TI) who had handed me those notes about the division. All these are fascinating and remarkable places steeped in Mughal and Sikh history, several battles which were fought and these dot the landscape of Ambala Division. “Just hop on to a four-wheeler carriage (or a saloon as it is known in railway colloquial) and visit all these places and get the real feel of railway working,” the Sr. DOS added reassuringly. It became my firm opinion and belief that nuances and intricacies of railway working and in particular operations could never be taught in classrooms. It is necessarily a hands-on approach where a guru imparts the training. Thus, the Sr. DOS became my guru. It is purely Guru-Shishya Parampara. Three Cheers for those Years! My five-year stint at Ambala from 1991 to 1996 was filled with drama as I had the first live encounter with the killing fields of Punjab. The ultras continued to be vengeful. Several officers dealing with train operations spent long nights in the Control Office, which is the nerve centre of any division. Like the ATC, the Control Office plots the running of freight and passenger trains on the tracks. In our country’s economic and political history, between 1991 and 1996, two Sikhs rose to prominence. Dr Manmohan Singh, as the reformer Finance Minister for us tax payers, especially the government officers with a slew of reliefs. The other was K.P.S. Gill, an audacious police officer who as Director-General of Police of Punjab tackled the menace of terrorism with a firm hand and terror acts ebbed. Along with this so did our repeated nocturnal stay in the control office. My senior – Another Bumboo The shadow of Bumboo continued to plague me at Ambala too. For some strange reason, I have found both of them highly patronising and intrusive in nature quite like numbers which were hard nuts to crack. This Bumboo was my senior officer who chaperoned and guided me in working. This garrulous Sikh gentleman enjoyed his drink and introduced me to exquisite brands of liquor and delectable non-vegetarian food. While we travelled by inspection cars (saloons) we were lavished with platters of tandoori chicken, butter chicken, kebabs, dal makhani, dal fry, paneer delicacies and rotis. The whiff of our inspections and travels soon reached our boss who was absolutely livid. Our Sr. DOS never appreciated the Sikh officer’s brazen manners and rampant exhibitionism while working. “Ravi, I forbid you travel with that officer. If you feast on the loaves of the staff, what respect would you command and how can you take punitive action at their errors?” a puritanical and infuriated Sr. DOS was to admonish me as I scampered home to Delhi for a breather. In the evenings after a few games of badminton, my body and mind started craving the elusive drink. Were these first signs of alcoholism? The following morning, I had a recurrence of abdominal problems and I was to wonder if it was a recurrence of malabsorption or amoebiasis or some other stomach ailment. An unhealthy, unhappy stomach spoils the entire day and makes a person feel sick and lethargic. Moreover, I was yet to become a regular practitioner of yogic practises to obtain any kind of relief from this problem which became chronic. But the first thing I did after getting up was to run for about 15 to 20 minutes which helped and the bloating feeling was tackled to an extent. Even in cold winters of Ambala I ran in the thick fog encountering some canine species who barked at being disturbed. Nuptial Knot The date to tie the nuptial knot appeared to be in a jeopardy as there was large scale violence, looting and arson in the country following the assassination of a former Prime Minister of India during the hectic electioneering taking place for the 1991 national elections soon after the fall of the Janata Dal (Secular) government. Sriperumbudur is a town panchayat in the Kanchipuram district of the state of Tamil Nadu. On the fateful day of 21st of May 1991, the handsome Rajiv Gandhi, former Prime Minister of India was blown to smithereens by a human bomb, which was proved to be the handiwork of the dreaded Tamil ultra-outfit LTTE based in the island of Sri Lanka. Embers of his funeral pyre had eventually settled and so did the frayed tempers in the country. Thus, fortunately there was no change in marriage date. Soon I was on leave and on my way for my marriage. My wedding to Lakshmi was solemnised on the 2nd of June that year in the sultry and hot conditions of Rajahmundry. We celebrated our honeymoon at the idyllic Carlton Hotel at Kodaikanal. My wife was to see me relishing Bacchus and I used to goad her to try some too, which she did. Perhaps she too wanted to enjoy her new found freedom or experience the kick of alcohol. Ambala days, spanning five years was replete with fun and frolic, where we made plenty of friends across all departments within the railways and outside and travelled the length and breadth of the division. Basically, it was a period of work hard and party harder. But the seeds of alcoholism were slowly but surely growing. I enjoyed working round the clock like a machine, chasing wagons (to use typical railway operating lingo). Over a period of time, I put on weight with my drinking binges, reckless eating and began smoking heavily. Then there was a strange prophecy which both my wife and I were to witness loud and clear. Our neighbour’s dog was in pain and had been howling the entire night. My winsome wife cringed and suggested that I should perhaps defer my programme scheduled for the following day. My wife possessed a sixth sense which she effectively, though seldom uses. The demure and soft personality does not accept it easily, but I always believed that she had a sixth sense which could foretell something amiss. How did this happen? Was this her belief, a faith in something supernatural or may be simply a sixth sense? I was directed by my boss to visit Kalka to monitor potato transhipment from narrow gauge wagons to broad gauge ones and immediately proceed to Khanalampura Marshalling Yard at Saharanpur to ensure mobility of wagons. Prior to this the previous week I had foot plated (travelling by a locomotive) by coal rakes to Bhatinda Power House and Ropar Power House. Physically and mentally, it had been a challenging time with a heavy workload and a propensity of excesses combined with little physical activity. My wife’s gut feeling proved right. I reached the yard, foot plating once again, to the town of Saharanpur, where ITC produced cigarettes. The yard was choked with a humongous number of wagons and completely jammed. As I climbed the tower to get a better view, I felt breathless. I quickly came down and went to the doctor at the local medical unit where I was administered a shot of diazepam. After a brief while I rushed up the stairs once again only to feel a heavy thud in my chest and was extremely uncomfortable. The doctor was clueless and shifted me to the Railway Hospital. Anxiety writ large on the faces of the doctors attending on me as I was profusely sweating as the blood pressure recorded an alarming 220/180. Apparently, the ECG too was erratic. A decision was made to shift me to the Civil Hospital of Saharanpur and soon I was atop a truck covered by an umbrella to protect me from the harsh sun. From the truck I was soon lying on a stretcher as there was no ICU room available. “Will this be my end?” I wondered, extremely anxious as fluids were being injected into my arm. Any person would feel wrenched, helpless, at the prospect of termination of life. Then at that moment I decide to hold on to the tayatu given to me so mysteriously by Swamiji. I began chanting Jai Ram Shri Ram, Jai Jai Ram in desperation. My mother had always asked me to chant the name of the Lord because of her faith in the almighty. For no reason in particular, I remembered that as I entered my 13th year my Upanayanam (thread ceremony) was performed at Swamiji’s Mysore Ashram. After this ceremony, the sacred thread is to be worn by the twice born, in particular the Brahmins. I was taught the Purushasuktam. At Swamiji’s Ashram in Mysore, at that young age, I was exposed to esoteric and profound knowledge. And for some inexplicable reason I used to chant Purushasuktam, Sri Suktam and Gayatri mantra despite my drinking As I look back, perhaps some seeds of positivity were planted in my mind which enabled me to grapple with various ordeals later on in life. Meanwhile, the Senior Divisional Commercial Superintendent (Sr DCS) who was at Saharanpur was informed about my medical emergency. He immediately rushed to the Saharanpur Civil Hospital and was to be my ministering angel. He upbraided the hospital authorities and the railway doctors and very soon I was provided a bed in the ICU. My charming wife was picked up from the school where she was teaching and rushed by the Sr DOS’s saloon to Saharanpur as she was quite dazed at the happenings. “Ravi had some stomach problem and I thought you ought to be with him. Though there is nothing serious,” my boss assured her and she believed his words incredulously. The next day I was transported by a freight train, accompanied by my wife and a few doctors to Central Hospital of Northern Railway, at New Delhi. My parents held back their tears as I was moved to the hospital by a stretcher. Several concerned high-ranking officials with moist eyes received me at the saloon siding at the New Delhi Railway Station. Normally freight trains are not dealt with at this terminal but an exception was made in my case. It was a poignant moment and soon I was rushed to the ICU. This was the third hospital in as many days. It was a long stay at the hospital and I was finally discharged but was under very strict medical instructions and regime. I was on a frugal diet and the plan worked. Soon I began to resemble Dilip Kumar once again. All appeared to be hunky-dory. But unfortunately, the incident did leave a mark. During the recovery process I began to suffer from panic attacks. Panic attacks typically begin suddenly, without warning. They can strike at any time, while you're driving a car, or at the mall, sound asleep or in the middle of a business meeting. You may have occasional panic attacks, or they may occur frequently. Panic attacks have many variations, but symptoms usually peak within minutes. Worse still, one usually feels fatigued and worn out after a panic attack subsides. I was prescribed medicines (Fludac and Alprax) to arrest the panic attacks. In addition, medicines were administered to keep blood pressure in control. After a few months under enormous protection and cover, me and my wife reached Ambala to resume our lives once again. Moderate walks and very light meals were what the doctors ordered. I stayed clean – no liquor or cigarettes for a year. I had solemnly promised my wife and my mother that I would abstain from these vices. Things appeared to be normal at the subterranean level for some time, when my wife and I took a trip from Kalka to Shimla by a well-furnished narrow-gauge saloon. The Shivalik Hills beckoned us as we were trying to disengage our minds from the ordeal we had passed through. Call it hubris, but the moment we passed Barog Tunnel, I committed hara-kiri by smoking a cigarette after almost a year, much to the shock of my wife. At Shimla, I had a few drinks. All promises were broken … and she watched me helplessly. Life had come a full circle. It began at Kalka when I was directed to monitor potato loading at Kalka station. I was a couched potato by then. And once again on the Kalka – Shimla section I was to once again to hit the bottle… Five years passed by and I was transferred to Delhi. I was still on the medication to arrest anxiety attacks and for blood pressure. But unfortunately, I had once again resumed drinking and smoking. This was an unpardonable sin I had committed on myself, my family and parents, but a weak mind hardly thinks rationally.