1 Katha Land and Siddhant's "Fiiz"

The other day I was very upset at the family of our maid. They have been staying at our Company B’low maid’s quarter for some generations.  I was angry that in spite of volunteering to bear all the education expenses, their both children have stopped going to school. The only profession they will take up is either B’low gardener or maid and the continue to live in the quarters of B’low servants followed by untimely death out of heavy drinking and smoking.

This morning, read Akhil Gogoi has vowed to stop Rahul from entering Guwahati as long as land allotment to the landless people is not done. I have been a fan of Akhil all along as with self less devotion, he has exposed corruption and limitation of Administration. But allotting land to the landless people in the wasteland and Hills, an issue I couldn’t support. Will not this result in more of encroachment  and ring the death knell of a city already suffocating?

Millions of hectares of Land, you kept unused for the people from Bangladesh to occupy. If you look at those land and its inhabitant today, you will be amazed by the prosperity those people have achieved -be it agriculture, pisciculture or education. In contrast, look at the plight of the so called indigenous people - shouting for one Katha land allotment at the Dispur Last gate.

All I can say- you deserve to be landless, weak and get trampled.

      

******************

I have been “Papu”, “papla”, “Paputa” or even “ puppy” to our two year old younger son  Siddhant. Now he has a new word in his vocabulary as I heard him calling me “Paputa .. fiiz, fiiz.... ahana”. Needed some time to beak the code of “fiiz”. It was “please”.

With the addition of this new word in his armory, it  will be even more difficult for me not to allow  him ti indulge all the forbidden activities by his Mama. 

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

On Valentine’s Day, to all the Moral Police with love

Finally Valentine’s Day, 2014 has arrived, a much revered day for the couples in love. Equally enthusiastic will be the hordes of morale police who remind me to our days in Hostel at Engineering College when almost all the discussions with friends somehow got deviated towards the girls. Hours of precious time were spent on discussing various juicy subjects of little value. Then all of a sudden, we find one of our regular members starts skipping the adda on account of his new found status of being “engaged” leaving us, the singles, high and dry. Out of sheer envy, we started discussing on foolishness on the part of our friend to be engaged with such a girl who would totally ruin him. This followed by our  honest attempts to save our friend from the likely spoil.

While the puritans scoff, perhaps, more than any other festivals, Indians should celebrate V-day in the true spirit. Though, the divorce rate in Indian society is still far less than the western compatriot, yet love remains far cry amongst many Indian couples. They simply carry on the relationship for years and in most cases, it is the lady who suffers the most. So increasing divorce rate in India to me is not a mere concern but also reflection of women empowerment and a maturing society. Once they are away from the probing gaze of wives and society, Indian males are equally flirty with piercing eyes.  

If you love someone, there’s no harm on expressing that by holding someone’s hand as long as you maintain decency. Those soft murmuring and loving touch of the loved one  can do wonders to life. If someone wants to re-ignite the long dormant passion and love in this Valentine’s Day, why the morale police should worry much!

And still if you can’t re-ignite, go for a mutually agreed separation, start afresh and go out in search of love. We all live only one single life.

In the Evening Garage Meeting

I got a call from Naba Da, my neighbor at about 8:00 pm last night. He proposed for a standing meeting in the open space in front of our garages to review the preparedness of V-day celebration. Many important decisions of our locality are finalized at this spot like the venue and menu of the next party, script of the Durga Puja drama etc.etc.

Someone cracked a hilarious real life incident on V-day.

One Engineering trainee was undergoing her vocational training in the Refinery. A smart and convent educated girl, she was a little bit more attentive to one particular young and dashing Engineer who happened to be her mentor. We are not sure whether he too enjoyed such special attention.

Those days, V-day celebration was not so common like today. One day, the girl asked her mentor to break the ice – “What do you do in Valentine’s Day ?”

Till then, the young Engineer didn’t hear about St. Valentine. He thought it to be some new Holiday’s declared and so replied

 “ Oh.. Valentine’s Day…We..We go home.”

While his friends preserved this statement for posterity, the girl could realize the futility in pinning her future with  the young engineer.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Racial discrimination- some random thoughts

The other day, I stumbled upon a Facebook Update of one of my colleagues cum friends. The friend has asked the people of North East to rise against the “mainstream Indian” or “mainstream Assamese” with tit for tat attitude for their continued apathy towards the indigenous people of North East (read as “Non-Mainstream Assamese). My friend, who is prone to such emotional outbreaks, made me ponder over the “Mainstream Assamese” and how do I fit myself into this community. 

My friend’s update reminded me to my Father’s Maternal Uncle, an unknown and unsung face, who met a violent end during the movement for separate statehood for Bodoland . Cladded in a pair of immaculate white Dhoti and Kurta, Father’s Uncle (We called him “Aata” meaning Koka in lower Assam) was a true “Bhadralok” (Gentleman). My earliest memories of him are Aata sitting long hours by the side of Grand Mother and both submerged in family discussion. I never heard him ever expressing displeasure or being angry. Aata used to stay in an area marred badly by communal violence. While most of the other people fled the place, Aata (Grandfather) stayed back believing no one would do him  any harm when he had himself not committed anything against anyone. His belief was utterly wrong. His title “Biswasi” was enough to justify some heinous minds to commit the unthinkable.

I was very young at that time and as usual I was burning with rage at the anonymous killer of Aata. Passing years have soothed my rage and perhaps I will spare the killer if I come face to face someday. I learnt to believe that more than the killer, the system that produced the killer is required to be nailed first. For that reason only , I become panicky, when I see educated people fail to ooze out wisdom out of their education and fall into the trap of mob psyche. We had many who once saw rays of hope with the armed struggle of Assam. Many of them today are obsessed with a new Political party in India whose USP is sheer anarchism and gimmickry.

The racial attack against the people of North East is not new. The cause is not lack of policing which some Kejriwal wants us to believe. You can’t depute one policeman after each and every citizen. The large Mongoloid population of North East doesn’t share a common History and culture with the mainstream India. The successive governments missed the important steps of national integration by keeping people of India unaware about North East. That’s the reason Lachit or Chilarai is not an Indian hero though their military pursuits can far outshine many great historical warriors and household names in other parts of India. Not many outside Assam are perhaps aware about the mighty Ahoms, who stopped the Moghul’s reach to China through Assam. But I see a silver lining when Delhi Minister Manish Sisodia states that North east must be included in the syllabus of our future generation. There is no better way to make North East acceptable to the rest of India that teaching the children about the diversity of our country. The onus of National integration lies more on the rest of India than the people of North East.

The University of Banglore has come out with an idea against racism which is nothing but short of rational thinking . The University wants to build a dedicated hostel for the students of North East to protect them from racial abuses. Don’t know how such fertile idea crop up in people’s mind ! North East must go outside the periphery of North East the way rest of India should come to North East unlike the yearly rituals of  Republic Day parade. Efforts to keep  its people isolated, will cause more harm than any good for sure.

When my sons Hrishikesh and Siddhant grow up, I wish them to grow up as a good Indian Citizen in the midst of other Indian students but never in a place exclusively reserved for the people of North East.
 

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Three snapshots of Anarchism- Student Agitation, Engineering College and Aam Aadmi Party etc

 (1)

If you are in late thirties or in the early forties and spent your childhood in Assam, you will have a similar experience to mine. We were small kids during those murky days of the Student Agitation, aftershock tremors of which are still palpable in Assam. The movement for foreigner deportation met an ignominious end. Yet it is a fine example of how a movement initiated for a just cause can veer off in the midst of frenzied public sentient driving the destiny of Assam into anarchism in the next few decades.

I have many memories of those turbulent days. The long marches chanting “Inqilaab Zindabad” stimulated our young minds and we the kids imitated the same words with our friends. The uncontrolled outpour of emotion splitted my own family too and I missed the company of my Maternal Grand Parents for a long time. For many years, I didn’t understand what made my Grandmother weep profusely with my mother holding me tightly to her chest when they saw each other in a marriage party.  

A mere whistle of the village defence party volunteers was enough to raise a hue and cry and the elders rushed to the street with the traditional weapons to protect their families against the “Razakars” who never turned up at our hometown. But some houses did burn at my home place, Hajo. Perhaps, those were the outcome of some smart resolution of long neighbourly feuds.  In 1983, I was eight years old and the nauseatingly stories of communal violence, I used to hear in the discussions of the elders, imprinted a fear psychosis in my mind and continue to haunt me.

After so much of violence, loss of lives and property, Assam finally got a paper accord which propelled the leaders of the Students movement to the throne. Not many asked a question on what the leaders achieved for Assam with the accord and those who raised voices were far outnumbered by the hysteric mob. But the biggest impact of the movement was the extensive degeneration of the character of the nation as a whole and left the Assamese society further fragmented.

(2)

A messenger delivered a small note to me which read like this

 “You are advised to come back to hostel immediately after receiving this letter or else appropriate action will be taken against you. Regards, Boarders of Hostel-7”

This was twenty years back and I was pursuing my Engineering at Assam Engineering College, Guwahati. By then, my friends had successfully stopped all the activities of the College in protest against the Principal for his removal. Principal Mr. Choudhury instead of rusticating a student for committing ragging on new boarders, gave an alternative to the student to stand outside the College building with his fingers in the ear lobes. The student readily accepted the offer.  But the other students got enraged by the immature act of the Principal. Some smart students suddenly sniffed the possibility of postponing the examination and also settle old scores against Mr. Choudhury. So a massive student protest followed for removal of the Principal. Students held long meetings in the Union Hall discussing strategy which only bore the lone outcome– finalization of the time for the next meeting.

Some students had a novel idea. They forced the Principal to put his thumb impression on his resignation letter one day. The thumb impression was the idea of a fertile mind so that Principal can’t deny his signature latter on. Armed with the resignation letter, student thought that resignation of the Principal was in their pocket and met the Vice Chancellor to submit the letter. But as expected, VC ticked them off with a stern warning.

So the students decided as another self inflicting move to boycott the examination. In this mess, feeble voices of protest and reasoning like mine got subdued. Aghast, I decided not to be a part of the tamasha and left college hostel for home. My friends fumed at my audacity of not being a part of a noble cause and sent me a warning letter to call me back.I had no option but to return back.

If you are still reading my blog and you didn’t study at Assam Engineering College in those days, you will be curious to know the end result of the student unrest. The college was handed over to Police and we all missed one entire semester. The Principal ruled like a king for the remaining part of his tenure. The plight of the leaders in our hostel who almost burned my books and mattresses was miserable after the college reopened.   

(3)

Of late some of my friends have suddenly become avid Aam Aadmi activists. They fill the Facebook pages with scraps, supports each and every action of the party workers. Even if that means breaking laws by the law makers, they believe it is required as the man heralded in the Political scene of India is the messiah to eradicate all evils. If you ask them what is his Economic vision, Foreign Policy, past achievement and experience, those wise men immediately turn their guns at you and brand you as supporter of Rahul or NaMo. One of my friend staying abroad proudly proclaims that all great movements were fought in the street and so Mr. Kejriwal’s dharna is justified. Moreover, the concerned Minister has an IIT background. What the AAP supporters should note that IIT background doesn’t warrant anyone a free ticket to the heaven. Our own APJ Kalam never studied in IIT.

With Europe already almost reaching saturation, Africa is going to be the next hot bed of economic activities along with Asia. The continent is Oil rich and already many Indian Oil PSUs have started business with countries like Nigeria. We also should not forget that the father of the nation, Gandhi initiated the concept of non- violence in the land of South Africa and we have long fought against racial discrimination together. With one stroke of irresponsible act of midnight raid against the African people, the AAP Minister Mr. Bharti had done enough damage to dent the India Africa relationship. I will not be surprised if a large scale anti India feeling in the African countries sprouts up making billions of future Indian investment in Africa in jeopardy.

I am not at all cross with my friends and AAP supporters nor I am a supporter of Congress or BJP. My only support is with a strong and prosperous, unified India. People of this country have long suffered at the hands of corrupt politicians and system overwhelmingly hopeless. Anna Hazare’s arrival as a crusader is the reason enough to typify the mood the nation. I had personally imposed great hope on AAP and Arvind Kejriwal, but if the last twenty days at office is any indication of the days to come, AAP slowly and steadily disintegrating for its course.

The irony of mankind is that every man is a law breaker in his sub-conscious mind. Beneath every man, lies the desire to control things in his own way even if that turns society plunge into anarchy. Perhaps that’s the reason; leaders of every successful struggle had the distinctive traits not to be swayed by mob psychology. In the history of mankind, people have fought countless issues in the streets but a very few could see the light of the day.

More than NaMo or Rahul, Arvind Kejriwal should guard himself from his own cronies to keep himself firmly grounded. He doesn’t need to be the Noah’s Arc for everyone but selective and consistent in choosing his friends. More than freebies, he should promise of Industry for job generation. The movement against corruption shouldn’t be frittered away by the winds of Political opportunism just like the Student Agitation or in a smaller scale the student protest to remove the Principal.

I am sorry to all AAP supporters. Till now AAP fails to get my vote in 2014.

 You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

A poem and some random thoughts

Last time, I felt this irresistible urge was fifteen years ago when I  penned down a poem with the title “The trees will grow in Dehra ”. I dedicated the poem to Ruskin Bond, the famous author whose stories captivated our childhood days with a magical spell, the vibes of which are still palpable.

Finally I could complete a poem  after fifteen long years!


                     ঠিকনা

                                                                              কমলজিত মেধি

আজীৱন কঢ়িয়াই ফুৰিছো এখন ঘৰৰ ঠিকনা

চাপৰিৰ বালি গচকি বাঁহৰ জপনা খুলি গৈ পোৱা

মোৰ সৰু ঘৰ য'ত

আইৰ আচলৰ এটা বনৰীয়া সপোন আছিলো মই

তন্ময় চাইছিলো অন্ধকাৰ খেদা জোনাকীৰ জাক

সোনোৱালী পথাৰৰ অবুজ টান 

"ববচা  বনত বকুল” বাগৰে

জাকি মাৰি উৰি যায় “বহলাই বহা” বগলীৰ জাক

আৰু কৈশোৰ যৌৱনৰ আলিদোমোজাত সেই

লিহিৰি আঙুলিৰ স্পৰ্শৰ মধুময় অনুভৱ

ৰেলৰ দূৰণিবতীয়া যাত্ৰাৰ যাত্ৰী মই

সম্ভৱনাৰে মোহনীয়া যাত্ৰা  মোৰ

চুমি চালো কত মহানগৰীৰ হেঙুলীয়া সন্ধিয়াৰ বোল

আজিৰ সহচৰ একালৰ বহ অচিন যাত্ৰী

বহদূৰৰ নামনিত আজি মোৰ ঘৰৰ ঠিকনা

তথাপি বুকুৰ গভীৰত আজিও অনুৰণিত

কাহানিও উভতিব নোৱাৰা

এখন ঘৰৰ চিনাকি সুৰ                                                                                    

The house was small but it had the space for all as some space had to be shared always for the commitment to the extended family. The evening saw the flurry of guests. The discussions over many cups of tea and snacks were endless and diverse from History to Literature, from Poetry to Religion, from Agriculture to natural disasters. I was a passionate listener to all of them sitting by the side of my father. I still can’t believe how my mother managed all the domestic chores alone and yet found time to look after us, those guests, read books for us and herself as well.

Nothing is static in this world and my place and home, I left in my fifteenth spring to join college, has also undergone changes over the years. The hands of my grandparents that showered boundless blessings have long turned into ashes. Going for an evening walk in the gravel road of once, where two buses plied in a day, is a dicey proposition now as unruly vehicles move fanatically with little concern for the pedestrian. The bamboo gate of our home gave way for an iron one and as we, the children, grew, the small house too grew in all directions.

Before I got married, my parents arranged a trip to Shillong with my then Fiancée and now wife as they thought would help us to open up unmindful of the fact that the long telephone conversations had already accomplished that feat. As me and Arpana ran to a hilltop, I saw my parents slowly walking up to the top. For the first time, I felt the pain of seeing them growing old.

A home is not merely a house but it encompasses the people we meet and the ambience of the surrounding, the innumerable chirping birds in the mornings, pristine greeneries with the hills as the backdrop from where the sun rises every morning, the recital of the holy scriptures at the "Namghor" and many more. Each part one got intertwined with the others to make a home of childhood. I can never go back to that home where everything has changed except my parents’ love for me. Be it by the side of the majestic Himalayas or  in an evening of raw exuberance by the river Seine or in those long drives through the hills and valleys , everywhere, I carry my childhood home and this poem is dedicated to it.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

A day in the life a Father

Every year, my wife goes for a long break from me with the kids in the month of March-April after the exam is over. The raucous home suddenly becomes silent. The long skype hours just can’t surrogate the sweet cuddle of my wife after a tiresome day or the fragrance of the two kids at the bed which fills me with joy untold.

Slowly as the silence pervades deeper into the heart, I know it’s time to get submerged in deep conversation with the person hiding in me. Once more I fall in love with myself, my books and days of the yesteryear. I begin to enjoy the seclusion. It doesn’t anyway demean my love and concern for the family. Perhaps my loving wife and kids will appreciate and forgive me for yearning some time for myself without them around.

With the two sons in deep sleep, silence has befallen once again at our home at Digboi. Wherever life takes us to, the four walls of this old B’low, built sometime in 1938, will always remind us of the beautiful time we had here seeing our kids growing up.

I switched on the laptop to write something about Sachin Tendulkar and late Rajesh Khanna.  Sachin and Rajesh both can wait for another day as I decided to write something about my day with my kids. Someday, when our sons grow up and become parents themselves and complain about our grandchildren, I can shield them like my parents and show this piece to remind exactly what they were once.

 (1)

The morning started with a frenzied search for our elder son, Hrishi’s school sweater and the blazer only to realize that he left it somewhere in the school yesterday and didn’t remember where he kept them off. At office, my wife informed that Ricky (Younger one- one year and eight month old pocket dynamo) had broken the Tata Sky set up box and how dearly she missed her favourite serials. By lunch time, chhotu has also added the land phone in the list of broken items and wife enquired whether BSNL would replace the set free of cost. Normally, I always get a warm welcome from the young one right at the entrance. Curious to know what kept him busy to forget my welcome, found him playing with the switch board standing on a stool he placed atop the dressing and a possible accident was averted at the nick of time. In the evening, another phone call from wife informed that Ricky managed to damage some part of a hand pump use to inflate the cycles of my neighbour he visits frequently.

My wife hurriedly left for club after my return for the rehearsal of the coming “Husbands’ Dinner” leaving the two demons at my care (Don’t know why these ladies take such long rehearsal for a simple cultural show). In between, she also informed me to quickly buy a new blazer for Hrishi as his lost blazer couldn’t be traced at school.

Fresh after a hot water bath, I was thinking about the case study presentation I would be making to the visiting Japanese delegates to our plant. I entered my room with a cup of green tea only to find the younger one already knocking the TV monitor with his plastic cricket bat as if I have fixed in at the wall to have knocking practice for him.

I wasn’t angry at all except feeling like pulling out whatever little remaining over my skull.

(2)

After the maid left, I played cricket with chhotu while the elder one made countless visits from his study to the kitchen followed by toilet breaks after I stared at him for his frequent kitchen visits. Hrishi is eight and half year old and a nice gentleman. He no more breaks the crockery or bangs the TV remote on the wall like his younger brother.

Hrishi is out and out an extrovert and never hesitates to speak out his mind. He gets irked at our habit of congratulating everyone after he or she performs in the so called cultural extravaganza by the in-house talents. So, once after such a program, he went straight to the singer and told “Auntie, Why do you always sing? You know, your song sucks”

Imagine the plight of us and the singer in the public and that too amongst the crowd of ladies! This is only one amongst many such embarrassing moments with Hrishi which often evoked spontaneous fun latter.

I had once a miraculous escape too from being thrashed by a lady. Hrishi was small and in those days used to tweak whoever and whatever he could reach. I was standing in a queue in the bank behind   a smart lady. Suddenly the lady turned back at me with a furious look only to realise that the offender was not me but my three year old son who was of the right height for the wrong place! I felt relieved to see her scowl turning to a smile instead of a “cheek handshake” for me. 

Today was a great day for Hrishi at school as he mastered the art of whistling. Very happy, he kept on practicing and my stern warning further made his zeal doubled and quadrupled. This evening, he accompanied me to the market. In the midst of continuous babbling, he once more enquired why it was bad mannerism to whistle in public and then after a second, he did exactly that ….phew…phew…...

A lady with her two teenage daughters was walking at our front. Her daughters felt the pinch of late November cold of Digboi except in their legs. Their mother immediately turned back to find out the mischief monger and couldn’t believe that a grey haired man attired in formal suit and tie could actually did that. With goose bumps, I smiled at her to explain that it was my son and not me.

But after Hrishi’s “phew”, the mother started gazing continuously at the bare legs of her young daughters.  I pulled Hrishi’s finger hard as a gesture to walk faster so that we were no more behind the lady with her two daughters.

                                                         ( Digboi, 20 Nov,23:45 hrs)

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

The lady with a beautiful dream

During school and college, we didn’t have a car or a two wheeler. We used to shuttle by bus between Guwahati and Hajo, my native place. My friends from that area will surely know the plight of the bus passengers travelling in the Guwahati-Hajo-Nalbari-Barpeta route. The roads are bumpy. The wise handyman will never clap the body of the bus to signal the driver to press the accelerator till passengers are stacked like the betel leaves. During summer, in the bus we could practically smell the food taken by the passengers  prior to boarding the bus.

Life has changed a lot in the last sixteen years after I did my Engineering. I drive a car and in the changed lifestyle find hard to adjust in a crowded bus coupled with all the associated hustle bustle. At office, I break my head in finding innovative ideas for energy conservation while I engage a four wheeler all the time for use of a solitary person. So during my last visit to Hajo, reminiscence of the old days prompted me to take a public bus ride from the airport.

Like any other day, the afternoon bus from Jalukbari to Hajo was crowded. I didn’t get a seat and struggled to avoid going off balance by clutching tightly to a seat. Number of vehicles has gone up many folds in this area but so are the passengers. I had travelled innumerable times in this route during my college days. Many times, my bus fare was borne by some generous co-passengers who knew my father well. Even some of them forcibly paid me the onward rickshaw fare. With little apparent reticence, I gladly accepted all those generosity. Only the resident engineering students can appreciate the precarious financial hardship we went through in those days.

Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy the bus ride and cursed myself for the adventure till I overheard the conversation of those two ladies who returned home after a tiring day. From the accent and feature, they seemed to belong to the immigrant community and looked trampled by poverty and hard work. But the words of one lady made my entire bus ride of forty odd minutes meaningful. Her husband had left her and three children after talaq to live with another woman. As she told the other lady about her struggle to get education for her children and their academic accomplishments, her voice choked in emotion and pride. No matter how much she endures, she will make sure that her three bright children have a dignified life through education. 

To me, that lady is the epitome of a rising India who wants to change life through education which alone can transform the future of this great country of once. In the twenty first century, destiny of India will not be written by the upper 30 percent of our society but those 70% who today stumble to afford two square meals a day. I have seen extremely talented children in the remote corners who need little care and grooming to grow wings to fly. With time, many of them will fade away till the right kind of infrastructure reaches them. But no matter how many bills are introduced in the Parliament, how many schemes are finalized, without the spread of meaningful education and infrastructure development, uneducated and unemployed mass will expand in the twenty first century India racing far ahead of the government freebies and create tremors to rock the foundation of this country. That leaves the Planning Commission toil even harder in doing arithmetic calculation to lower the cut off income to distinguish the poverty line! 

They need little care & grooming to grow wings to fly

During my childhood, perhaps hundreds of times, I heard this story. One of our relation and ancestors, Late Holiram Medhi left home in late nineteenth century to join the school established by the Jaminder of Gauripur which used to provide free education. It was an incredible event and decision of a village teenager who defied the traditional wisdom of those days. Latter on, late Medhi was appointed by the British as an Extra Assistant Commissioner. Sequences of the story of the young boy’s adventurous trip to Gauripur changed as it was told and retold but the crux of the story remained the same. Holiram Medhi's desire for education might have inspired many future generations of our locality and a number of times I was reminded that I didn’t have the liberty to become an exception in the twentieth Century.

May be without that adventurous trip of Late Holiram Medhi, today I would have still remained glued to the plough and a pair of bulls under the scorching sun.

A farewell wish and the soothsayer’s dream

We all know about Abraham Lincoln’s famous premonition of his own death. One night in his dream, Lincoln walked to the East room at White House and saw the corpse of the President of America lying in the midst of a group of mourners.   Lincoln was shot fatally by  John Wilkes Booth just after a few days of his dream. Many people believe in Telepathy where  the psi waves travel fast and far to connect with the sub conscious minds of  the receivers. I don’t have much wisdom to believe or disbelieve any of those metaphysical theories. But there have been incidents in my life which were at times funny and sometimes miracles. 

                                                                           (a) 

It was a farewell function of our company’s Chief Executive and everything was minutely planned to make the event a memorable one for the outgoing Executive. The music was soothing even to my impervious ears and the food was excellent. The cadenced sounds of the nearby water fountain with special light affect added more sheen to the whole set.

Finally it was time to wind up the program. The outgoing Chief Executive stood at the exit for the parting handshake with the guests for the final time. Each one wished him a happy retired life.

As my turn came, I wished him too.  But to my horror, inadvertently instead of wishing a happy retired life, I wished him a happy married life.

You can very well imagine the embarrassing situation I was into and so was the outgoing Executive. More I tried to do some damage control, more I fumbled. My wife did an excellent job that day with remarkable ease to normalize the situation only to go wild with laughter after getting into the car so much that I had to stop the car by roadside for some time till the laughter moderated somewhat..

But there were more surprises for all of us. After a few months, this retired Chief made a courtesy visit to our place. But that time he was flanked happily by his newly married wife.

                                                                               (b)

It was a stormy night in the Arabian sea. I was working in one of the Rigs of ONGC at Bombay High. Suddenly a large ship lost control in the stormy waves and collided with the Rig I was working. The Rig exploded with a deafening sound and got engulfed in fire. Terrified, I stood standstill, screaming for help and suddenly I realized I was not at Bombay High but punting and puffing at my own bedroom.

Next morning, I rang up my friend at ONGC if he was still there in the Rig. He laughed at my dream and informed that he was somehow safe in Mumbai. 

After a few days,  on July 27, 2005 , the similar accident did happen in an ONGC Rig when a vessel meant to evacuate a sick person collides with  the Rig turning the entire structure  into a raging inferno. 20 odd people lost their  lives besides properties worth millions were gutted.

I had once purchased a copy of Sigmund Freud’s famous book “Interpretation of Dreams”. I haven’t gone through the book yet. After I left Steel Authority of India, I thought of joining ONGC but a last minute appointment letter from Indian Oil once again changed my decision. Perhaps the safety concern of an offsite rig at my subconscious mind culminated in that dream that night. It was mere coincidence but it could have been more beneficial than some Seer’s dream of 1000 tonne golden treasure hidden beneath the earth.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

Down the lanes of Durgapur- the uncanny side of life

(4)

When I first met him, he was a bundle of energy. A blue eyed Manager, he seemed to be a man in a hurry and nothing seemed to move on well without him whether it was office or outside. As a student, he had a brilliant track record and did Graduation and Master's from Indian Institute of Technology, Madras (Chennai). He had the appetite for enormous job responsibility just like his craving for good food.

This was the person I knew in Bijit Roy (name changed) at Durgapur. Like any other blue eyed executive, he used to maintain a punishing work schedule from morning to night. He was destined to rise very high.

That evening, Bijit was late at office. He had a lot of job to finish so that his superiors can sleep the night peacefully. But in that fateful evening, Life presented a twister to the Roy family. Bijit had a massive heart attack at his office. He was flown out to a super speciality hospital and undergone treatment for months. At times, it seemed like Bijit was fighting a lost battle. That entire ordeal was too intense to endure for his wife, a first time expecting mother. Their child didn’t see  light on earth .

After many months, Bijit joined office at Durgapur. I still remember how slowly he got down from his car, assisted by the driver to adjust his pair of crutches. His right hand required a special device to keep it in proper position and the lips drooped to the right side. He required to frequently wipe the uncontrolled saliva flowing out. It was painful to see  energetic and full of life man of once on the crutches. Though difficult for him to work in an industry shop floor, Bijit insisted to come to the office to be with the people he loved and shared the prime of his life. He wanted life to move on.

The sufferings of Bijit didn’t end here. Public memory is short and it is even shorter in corporate world where we often overestimate our own importance and fail to appreciate that we are important as long as we are useful. The brilliant IIT Graduate failed to understand this simple logic of life. He was asked to take voluntary retirement. Bijit refused as he thought that staying idle at home would do more harm than good. Finally with a heavy heart, he was compelled to take retirement as someone higher up was required to achieve the VR target. Bijit was a potential candidate.

In the last sixteen years of my professional life, I have met thousand of people and each one of them is a separate world in entity. I have seen people working with selfless dedication, people who place responsibilities above self, snobs who run from pillar to post to appease superior with heads always directed towards the Master's knees. Like a country, big industry houses run on the selfless devotion of many unseen faces who barely come to the limelight.

I haven’t heard of Bijit in the last 12 years. Perhaps he is doing well in some corner of the world. But his tragedy often reminds me the triviality of my own self. Money, status and power are important proponents of life. Yet a sweet home waits for you and you are far more important to your family than to the rest of the world.

                                                                       (To be continued)

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com

The Railway Station and my story made in heaven

The Oil Town of Digboi has a small sleepy railway station. The Intercity express from Guwahati to Ledo runs through this station besides the Ledo-Dibrugarh passenger train and the goods trains to transport coal and other raw materials out from this region.

At Digboi, life passes at its own leisurely pace and the passenger train was also no exception . In those days, no one ever knew when the driver would stop the train in between for an unscheduled water break or to meet someone important on the adjoining road. If you travel by rail in this area, similarities of the surrounding will surely make you feel nostalgic making you to hum the popular song "Mere Sopno ki Raani" from the film "Aradhana".

My friend Ranjeet was to catch a train from Tinsukia. Like me, Ranjeet also came to Digboi in 2002 and both of us  joined Indian oil together.  He came to the station to catch the local passenger train to Tinsukia. Unknown about the whims of the local train drivers of this area, he thought the hour or so available with him was enough for the train to take him to Tinsukia.

That day, my friend would have surely missed his train from Tinsukia without the timely intervention of a practical fellow he befriended at the station. The man, took Ranjeet to the train driver and told him how important it was for my friend to reach Tinsukia early. The train driver immediately understood the gravity of the situation. He drove the train nonstop without any break and reached Tinsukia much ahead of time.

I don’t know how many people ever had the luxury of such a favour from a Railway system. Perhaps, Ranjeet still remembers the incident and he will surely get back to me once he reads this post. He once told me that the drivers of the toy train to Darjeeling that passes by his home in Kurseong were as friendly as the Digboi passenger train.

I too have a story of my own at this Digboi Railway station. It’s a real life story of my life.  But to tell that story, I need to retreat a little down the path.

The first time I met her, I didn’t bring sweets  but a collection of some of the immortal classics of Kishore Kumar. I told her that if destiny wouldn’t see us together, the songs would someday remind her of our meeting.  Her family offered me enormous amount of good food and I ensured that nothing was left unattended. It was an arranged meeting by our two families to find out if we two could make a compatible couple. Long Phone calls and occasional meetings, which proceeded that evening, did prove that we were a future compatible couple.

But there were lots of twists and turns in the story and we were on the verge of closing a beautiful chapter of our lives. There are too many people involved in an arranged relationship set up that can lead to a fall off.

Those were hard days for me too. I stayed at B’low 26 Indian Oil Guest House at Digboi. The evenings suddenly became melancholic. The Patkai range mountain, visible from my room, looked gloomier. That day, I had a hurried lunch and left for the Refinery. However for some reason, I was required to come back to my room after some time. While returning, I could see a large group of students assembled in the Hall. Life always preserves some pleasant surprises for you and seeing her that day at the Digboi Indian Oil Guest House was surely one of them.

She came for a field visit to Oil India , Duliajan on the Mass Communication course she was pursuing. From Duliajan, they were taken on a day trip to Digboi on their last day of the Project. From Digboi, they were about to visit Margherita in that same day. Oil India did a wise job to host their lunch at B’low 26 which was also the address of this fugitive for some time.

She left the guesthouse after about half an hour with her friends. That evening she would go back to Guwahati from Margherita in the Inter City express. She asked whether I could come to the station on her return.

I borrowed a motorcycle from my friend great Abhijit Deuri who worked  at Engineers India Limited(EIL) and stayed at Digboi. Abhijit left EIL thereafter and now  work  in Middle East. His Yamaha bike was a special one. The brakes of the bike hardly worked and he showed me how to use both the feet for creating friction with the road to slow down the bike. By the time I reached the station that evening, I was already late. I dropped the bike and swiftly picked  a Cadbury chocolate from a nearby . As I entered the station in that November evening, it was almost dark. The train had arrived at the platform. And there I saw her, franatically searching for me amongst the small crowd in the platform.

As the train slowly moved, I gave her the Chocolate I had for her. We were together for a minute or so. That special minute was something beyond the scope of words for a lesser mortal like me.

Perhaps that Cadbury Chocolate did wonders to our lives. By next year, we got married. In the last ten years, life has enthused us with many pleasant surprises but meeting my (now) wife Arpana at B'low 26 and that November evening at Digboi Railway station remain special.

You can contact Kamaljit at kamaljitmedhi1975@gmail.com