The Swift Horses and My Rusty-Wheeled Cart

January 28, 2008

There are a few swift horses which are running neck to neck to grab the ownership of my rusty-wheeled, lurching cart, creaking and clanking, to take it fast on the smoothly tarred road of modern society.

The road is smartly smooth. It has all the trappings of a great, enjoyable ride. But a good ride needs not only a good road; it requires a smoothly running cart as well. But unfortunately, my cart cannot dare to run, being pulled by the swift horses of my choices or helplessness.

Whether I should go for a job, or seriously take up the business—not like at the moment, when I do know that I am not giving 100 percent to it—and so take our small firm beyond its current survival mode and make it profit-making. And I am sure that I can do it, provided I am able to devote 100 percent focus to it instead of being drawn in other directions, shackled by the past losses, and then this distraction of appearing for job interviews. This much can be expected from an averagely practical individual; for my own benefit and that of my friends.

The programme has already been set with Babu and Inder, after that postponement due to the yellow fever injection issue. Our scheduled departure is on February 4, at 2:20 a.m, IGI, New Delhi.

But the other horse, as if not to be left behind, has been trying to push its inviting neck ahead.

ELI Research, the U.S.-based research and information company, has been impressed with my portfolio. They have contacted me many times for the interview date.

Unsure about whether to dedicate an entire day to travelling to Faridabad and then giving the test and interview, even though I know that I won't be taking this job, horribly unsure of so many things, I have said neither yes nor no, though at one time I came perilously close to closing the door forever. Yet that slight glimmer of a settled life with a secure income kept pouring towards my heart through a tiny creek.

Now that I have another week before the flight, I have decided to take up the matter again, much to the chagrin of the HR executive. I called her and sought an interview. Giving a good example of refined breeding and education, she confirmed my interview for Monday.

Let us see how it goes.

For the next planned visit to Africa with Babu Bhai and his brother-in-law, Shekhar and Anil also got yellow fever injections, even though the latter two won't be travelling at this time. But they seem too excited about the venture. 

I already had my yellow fever injection more than a year back, when I first went to Africa to take care of affairs there.

So overenthusiastic Shekhar and Anil also got yellow fever injections at NDMC on Mandir Marg on the 24th. Babu and Inder arrived from Ludhiana to get their dose against the deadly African disease.

The injection gives you immunity against this African scourge for ten years, they say at least.

In Africa, this yellow fever card becomes virtually your second passport.

On separate days, the injection is provided at different places. Since they were coming in their Lancer car, we asked them to wait for us at Bahalgarh Chowk.

As we reached there in our little ragtag car, there they were, the larger trade sardars.

Their way of greeting is embracing you on meeting and then, when taking leave of you, again giving you a hug.

This magical jhaphi instantaneously puts you at ease, for it so marvellously removes that veil of separation and insecurity. You feel better acquainted with the person.

From Ram Manohar Lohia, we found out that Palam Domestic Centre, near Palam Arrival Terminal 1A, was the immunization venue for that day.

A look at the domestic airport's arrival and departure lounges is enough to convince you that the upwardly mobile middle class is now really a force to reckon with.

Internal air traffic is on the rise. There are enough high-end professionals and businessmen or women in the country to keep Indian Airlines and the new entrants quite busy.

The domestic airport now no longer bears that look of exclusivity. It is fast acquiring the colours of normalcy, the normal colours of everyday life. With competition, airfares are becoming quite affordable as well.

Palam Domestic Centre is an isolated, single-storeyed, nondescript block.

It has no exclusivist pretensions. In fact, you smell the typical government health sector's slovenliness and negligence all over the place.

The heavy wooden door is sharply closed in your face till exactly 2 p.m.

To keep the few people waiting there on tenterhooks, there is a notice warning that in case the last group consists of fewer than ten persons, no injections will be given, because, costing at 150 rupees per person, the government can afford only groups of ten for a vial. They would have to waste the remedy if the last group happened to be fewer than ten.

So even though you are at least a dozen people, you can smell a sense of uneasiness behind their faces.

It can be really interesting and informative to talk to the yellow fever injection aspirants.

You see people of all ages and backgrounds, from established professionals and businessmen and women to strugglers and labourers.

I can remember the thickset, stocky, 70-year-old retired bank official with dreams in his eyes of a foreign visit to his son in Africa.

He was originally from Hoshiyarpur in Punjab and became nostalgic while talking to Babu and Inder.

Another one, a fair-complexioned, moustachioed fellow provided you with interesting anecdotes from the lands he had visited, in his significantly emphasizing Hinglish.

And there was a gentleman in a business suit. He had academic features, puffy hands, and thought over every English word he spoke.

Talk of Africa and you don't come across a scrap dealer—it just can't happen.

Here was this scrap trader who had delved deep into African pockets for scrap. He had brought his wife for the injection. After all those sweet-sour experiences in the pleasantly turmoiled and tragically placed African land, he must have garnered enough experience to take his wife with him also.

It was really impressive and encouraging, in more ways than one, to see a young girl walking up to the queue.

She was the last to arrive there, with all the quickness, agility and confidence of any modern, educated girl next door.

The man with her was starkly dark, poorly clad and almost perplexing against her background. But before we could start on any surprising thought regarding a dark man having such a fair-coloured daughter, he approached us with ever-lessening timidity.

A Haryanvi culture brands you pretty stoutly. You can be recognized by your words, style of standing, your gestures and manners.

He smelled this and introduced himself.

He was a Subedar in the Army from a neighbouring village.

The girl was his General's daughter, and it was here, on this point, that she took all the appreciating points we could afford to give her from our poor kitty.

She was standing there with so much normalcy and a feeling of unassumingness, strongly unlike the gentlewomen of high-status families, just waiting for her turn.

If there had been a daughter of an IAS officer, IPS officer or politician in her place, she would have either done it without waiting in the queue, or would have arrived with her authority-splashing insignias of power and status, I thought.

It was a soothing thought.

There are still good officers with decently, normally behaving kids who obey the laws of the land, who move around like any other human being, not like power-drunk alien species. 

Meeting the Subeday was a nice experience; he belonged to the same cultural entity as we Haryanvis. We talked over Haryanvi politics while she patiently waited for her turn in the queue.

A very pleasant sight indeed.