The Nervous Nineties

The Nervous Nineties

Puneet Walia

Notion Press

5 Muthu Kalathy Street, Triplicane,

Chennai - 600 005

First Published by Notion Press 2014

Copyright © Puneet Walia 2014

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-93-84391-70-6

This book has been published in good faith that the work of the author is original. All efforts have been taken to make the material error-free. However, the author and the publisher disclaim the responsibility.

No part of this book may be used, reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Email: puneet@paraminternational.com

This book is dedicated to all the 21-year-olds in this world, who do not know what to do with their lives.

Disclaimer

The characters in this book are mainly fictitious. Any resemblance to any character, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intentional. Some references in the story may have been inspired by real life experiences.

Prologue

Sunny, I am so glad that I met you again after all these years, though not in person but through the virtual world of the Internet.

It is amazing how, once I registered my school and college details, so many of my old friends’ names popped up on the screen. Most of them I would go any length to avoid and perhaps some of them would also dish out the same treatment to me.

But you are different bro! You are the first best friend I had growing up. The memories of our school days are still so fresh in my mind. It’s a pity that you moved out of India so early in life, when your family migrated to Canada.

I am sure you have had a great time growing up in a peaceful and clean, developed nation like Canada, but it is really heartening to note that you have stayed in touch with your roots. I read that long e-mail you sent me about your life in heaven-like Canada ever since you left Delhi.

The stories of your ‘encounters’ were hilarious but what really stood out is your love for India and the longing for the country that I sensed in your e-mails.

It makes me want to share my experiences with you Sunny, not knowing if you have grown up the same way as I have, to understand them or appreciate them the way I do, for it took me a while growing up myself.

Love,

Pi

You may not have the time you think you have.

The eternal fountain of youth and the eternity of life are the biggest myths we live our lives around. The truth could not be farther away.

Sunny, it is not that I have been living in denial regarding the reality of life. But sometimes things happen and when they do, they come as a rude wake-up call.

I recently had this experience that made me sit up and take notice of how fragile the thread of life could be and it also made me realise that it was time I shared my life stories with the ones who care for me…. Just the way you have chronicled your own life to me in your recent e-mails.

It happened in May 2010, but the memories and the emotions are still fresh.

I had not yet wrapped up my work at the Mansa manganese mine, north of Lusaka, close to the border of Congo, a place infested with malaria and malaise.

It was very early on Monday morning in Zambia when I got a call from Dr Pesky, an Australian geologist from a large Chinese state company, who had expressed interest in our new iron ore deposit in south Karnataka.

Dr Pesky was a short, chubby fellow of Polish descent. I didn’t know if that was his real name or his parents had named him so for his habits.

I am coming on Friday. We have to finish it by Sunday and then I have to be back in China on Monday, thundered Dr Pesky.

He sure was a busy man. He was coming over to examine our mineral deposits and carry out preliminary testing of the samples from the site, which, after being sealed in large polypropylene bags in his presence and sent for testing to the Chinese company’s labs worldwide.

Saturday, was tight.

My cargo was almost ready but screening and

transportation was still underway. The ore is transported from Mansa in trucks across the border to neighbouring Tanzania and then shipped onto a vessel from Dar-es-Salaam port to India.

This was a flagging business; the economic downturn of 2008 had taken the fizz out of most of the commodities and minerals market, and we were just carrying on for the sake of holding on to our customers, hoping that the markets would turn around soon.

Still, it was a big call. Should I let go of the bird in the hand for two in the bush? The mine in Karnataka was still an unknown entity and getting funding from investors was a long shot, compared to small but safer manganese exports from a North Zambian mine into India.

I had never taken such risks. I would never forego the chapati on my thali for the lure of dessert later on.

But this was different. The company had been showing a lot of interest and was eager to inspect the deposits for quite some time.

After the 26/11 incident, the Government of India had imposed new visa restrictions which made getting Indian visas a slow process, thus disrupting the momentum on our deal.

So when a 64-year-old geologist, who was also the director of the company, was eager to see the reserves in person, I had to be present at the designated hour.

Prioritising has not been an innate virtue with me, but just a cautious life long effort.

I was still undecided when I reached the mines that morning. That’s when the gods decided to help.

Sunny, the gods, when they decide to do something, always tend to do it in some funny, unforeseen, unthinkable way.

It started to rain that afternoon and it rained the whole of Monday and Tuesday too. It looked like the place would be flooded soon and the trucks wouldn’t be able to reach the bush.

You probably have not been to that part of the world, so you may not know that ‘bush’ is a generic term for the whole of forest land on the high plateau of the African continent. There are cities and villages, and then there is the bush. The roads in this part of the world are few and far in between. The roads, except for a few national highways, could not be described as ‘all-weather’ terrains; they quickly caved in at the onset of rains.

Now why I called it a funny act of god was precisely because this spell of rain was certainly out of place. May is not the month to rain in central Africa and the intensity of this spell was astounding.

The mine was located 40 miles off the nearest black top road and by Tuesday it was clear that no trucks would be able to reach the mine for at least a couple of weeks till things settled down again.

A crucial export delivery was going to be late. Sitting there in Mansa , I realised that there was nothing I could do and I decided to act on Dr Pesky’s call.

It was Tuesday afternoon. I called up Usha, my travel agent in Delhi. She was just about to leave office for home.

I have to reach Bangalore by Friday evening positively. I commandeered as always.

Where are you calling from? I cannot hear you at all.

I am 250 miles from Lusaka and I have to reach Bangalore by Friday evening. I cannot even take the Wednesday noon flight out of Lusaka as I won’t be able to make it there in time.

So my options were limited. I had to take a Thursday flight from Lusaka, reach Dubai, and then fly to Bangalore to meet Dr Pesky, and then travel with him in the car to the mine site.

Give me 10 minutes. I will call you back, she said.

If you don’t get through to my phone, keep SMSing me at least, so that I know the status.

The first SMS arrived exactly 10 minutes later. ‘No seats on Lusaka-Dubai sector on Thursday. No seats on connecting flight to Bangalore either.’

I tried calling her but the call could not connect. The universal connectivity of the mobile phone is a big myth, a modern day myth.

The earliest I can get you out of there is Friday, the 21st. You arrive in Dubai late night, and I can then get you on the first flight to Bangalore, she said, over a call.

"No, that’s not good enough. We have to travel from Bangalore to south Karnataka by road on Saturday morning positively. Your connecting flight should bring me to Bangalore sometime in the afternoon.

Not good. Tell me the options. I had to scream in the microphone to beat the thunder of the clouds in the backdrop.

Wait a second. I continued. Fly me into Mangalore on Saturday morning. I will ask Vicky to meet him at Bangalore and drive him down to Shimoga. I will meet them there on Saturday evening and save myself a back-breaking car journey. Suits me.

Mangalore… Just one Air India flight in the morning, she replied after checking. But it is a good option. You will be there by 6.30 in the morning.

Even better. Don’t tinker with the Dubai-Delhi sector. I shall use it some other time. Get me a one-way ticket from Dubai to Mangalore. Mail me the ticket and thanks a lot, once again. I don’t know which part of the world I would get stranded in but for you.

It looked like a good plan and I started to pack my bags to leave quickly. There were two roads from Mansa to Lusaka. The shortest route cut through DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) and takes 16 hours. The regular route took about 21 hours. But that was for regular times.

Right now, the roads were all flooded and the pot holes made it difficult to drive at a reasonable speed.

God bless the Tatas for their wisdom to build a Taj Hotel in a place like Lusaka. Having left Mansa on Wednesday morning, I managed to reach Taj Lusaka by late afternoon on Thursday, with a completely broken back that screamed for a hot shower and a good masseur.

By Friday, the gods were at it again. There was a dust storm in Dubai and the incoming flight took off late. I was at the Lusaka airport wondering if I could still make it. By late evening, even the faintest hope of making the connecting flight was gone. There was no point in calling Usha in Delhi for she would have retired for the day already.

I called Vicky and told him what had happened. I asked him not to tell Dr Pesky anything yet. I would reach Dubai and then try reach Mangalore or Bangalore as soon as possible.

I also gave him the brief about the project and what he was supposed to tell Dr Pesky, if I failed to reach on time.

Then I resignedly took the flight to Dubai and, as I always did on long overnight flights, took a sleeping pill that I had borrowed from my mother. I slept, leaving the rest to fate.

I arrived in Dubai the next morning. I picked my luggage and made a call to Usha on her cell-phone, as I walked out of terminal 3 of the airport.

She immediately picked up the phone even before it could ring once.

Is that you Pi? she was nearly screaming.

Yes. It is my mobile number on the screen, isn’t it?

Yes, yes. Indeed. Where are you calling from? She was almost trembling, from fear or joy I could not tell.

I told her what had happened. The incoming flight was late, so I arrived late and missed my connecting flight.

Before, I could ask her what my flying options were, she started crying. In fact, she was wailing loudly on the phone.

Are you okay? Is everything alright? Can you tell me what is happening, Usha?

I kept asking the same question in different forms, while she just kept crying.

A good three minutes later, she got a hold on herself.

And then she said, God is great Pi. God is really great.

Yes, yes. But what’s so great about being deserted in Africa and missing the connecting flight?

You know you were booked on flight IX 812 from Dubai to Mangalore, she said, knowing very well that I could never remember the flight details.

Sir, that flight crashed at the Mangalore airport this morning.

It was my turn to be stunned.

I have been running around like a crazy person ever since I heard the news on TV. I was wondering how to call your family. I have just your mobile number and not your residence number. And your Delhi office is not yet open. I was having a terrible time coming to terms with it. But thank god you are safe, sir.

The voice on the other side was cheerful now. But I was silent. Stone-stunned.

Wow! Thank god, I heard myself saying.

Listen I need to go. I will catch the news on BBC here and then I will call you later.

I completely forgot to ask her about my next connecting flight.

I didn’t go to any lounge. I just sat there. In silence. The airport terminal was busy all around me, bustling with people walking briskly past me as they went about their journey.

Suddenly, I was in no hurry to go anywhere or reach any place.

I slowly picked myself up and went into the Marhaba lounge at terminal 1 and started watching the news.

166 people on board. Only 8 saved so far. How many will eventually survive was not known.

I looked at the visuals on the large LED screen like a zombie. Not a single muscle moved in my body for a long time.

The god I was cursing the day before, had planned something miraculous for me.

Have I lived all my life like this, from one miracle to another? It was probably the first time I had asked this question.

I didn’t know the answer. I was too busy living. I was too busy growing up and planning a good life for myself, and making a career and raising a family that I didn’t know. I was too busy believing that my destiny and fate were in my own hands that I never thought about this question before.

Was this the first time I had been saved or have there been such instances in the past? Was it because it was too close a call this time that I could appreciate the fact that I had been saved?

All my life, I had taken so much pride in being the lone warrior, winning battles and wars of life with grit and gumption. But I may have missed a chance to appreciate the presence of grace in my life. A life-saving or life-fostering grace.

Many weeks have gone by and I still wake up in cold sweat, not shuddering at the thought of what may have been, but thinking often and thinking hard as to how many such instances I had encountered in the past when the powers of the Unforeseen may have come into play and helped me by either cushioning my fall or saved me from being pushed over the hill.

When I look back, I realise this wasn’t probably the first time, even though this may have been the closest one. It was probably the sense of déjà vu which left me startled, this time more than ever.

It also made me very aware that we just assume we have lots of time. How much time we really have, we will never know.

Love,

Pi

Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Disclaimer

Prologue

1. The Raja of Manda

2. The Nineties Begin: To B.E. or not to B.E.

3. The Raja of Manda(L)

4. Gham Diye Mustakil

5. O Mother Meri!

6. The First Calling

7. Ami Aso Ami Aso Ami Ast

8. A Close Encounter

9. The First Rendezvous

10. Laut Ke Buddhu Ghar Ko Aaye

11. Back to D.U.

12. Jinhe Naaz Hai Hind Par Woh Kahan Hein

13. The Amazonian Jungle

14. Snakes and Ladders: Snakes First

15. …And the Ladders Follow

16. Madras: A Close Encounter with Tranquillity

17. Back to Square One

18. Kuber vs. Kaamdev

19. Duniya Bananey Wale… Kahe Ko Duniya Banayii

20. Kurukshetra

21. Movies, Masala, Magic

22. Kapil Dev Da Jawab Nahin…

23. The Mandarin Years

24. Back off! It’s My Life

25. Love and Chrysanthemums

26. Dil Maange More

27. Marriage is But a Certificate

28. Daddy Cool

29. Past Imperfect, Present Tense, Future Continuous

Chapter 1

The Raja of Manda

Ithink it was the first of December, 1988. I am never wrong with dates and remembering events. But reading them well? I am not too sure.

It was a bright and sunny day unlike the hazy winters in Delhi these days. After all, there were two million fewer cars on Delhi roads then and the pollution was nothing compared to what it is now.

That morning, I left my college in Kashmiri Gate after just one lecture. I don’t remember why, but normally my attendance was among the best in the class. Perhaps the fifth semester was coming to a close and I had already attended way too many lectures than the minimum number required to sit for the semester exams.

Perhaps there was another reason. The girl from Daulat Ram College (DRC) from Shalimar Bagh whom I had been eyeing the whole morning in the U-Special bus. Her eyes had been failing to ignore me only long enough to keep me interested.

A fifth semester engineering student missing his classes for the day to hang out in north campus outside MH or DRC – this was more of a norm and less of an aberration for engineering students of the Delhi College of Engineering (DCE) those days. Half our class could be found there on any given day. A quick correction: Half of the male class, we had 15 female classmates n most of them were the most studious and ferocious female homo sapiens to have ever lived on this planet.

So that day, bright and Sunny, was no different from the dreary existence we had otherwise. Our routine was predictable: Go to college, ogle all the girls on campus, except the ones in our class. They were not our type after all, since they matched us in everything from ambition to IQ to morality, and in some cases facial hair too.

This was the eighties and kissing was a big deal in campus. Holding hands in public places was like a promulgation of the conquest. The ones who could, were grudged by the others in a crowded class of seventy odd wannabe engineers.

70 classmates, comprising of 70 toppers from 70 different schools. What a scary place was DCE, in those days.

More on DCE later.

As I took route No 932 from ISBT (Inter State Bus Terminal), which went all the way home, I had different plans for the day. The bus was stuck in the middle of a major traffic jam at the Mall Road intersection and after ten minutes we came to know that the roads to the campus were closed and all the buses plying through the campus had been asked to take the ring road instead.

With a single-minded focus to reach DRC, I got down at the Khalsa College bus stand and started walking towards Patel Chest. Instead of taking the straight road in front of Khalsa College, we students often took the back lane (a lane then, a road now) crossing daily pilgrim spots such as the International Students Hostel, Miranda House back gate and the PG Women’s Hostel, hoping to spot a familiar chick who