Whores, and Doctors of this generation - Same thing.

(Warning: The tone of this post, though factual, is strong and straightforward. If you're expecting a nice/diplomatic read, stay away)

Whores, I'm told, are followers of the best Operations practices, especially a quick TAT. For the uninitiated, TAT stands for turn-around time, or the time it takes between starting with a fresh customer to err, "discharging" him and starting to look out for another. In cruder terms, she's trying to give you a helluva ride but finish off as soon as possible so she can stand out and woo another client. The emotion is fake, its the money that matters.

Today I had a pretty similar experience. Down with viral fever (a recurrence, actually) I visited a local hospital to see a young doctor who's made quite a name for himself. As with all Indian hospitals, a cramped hallway with a cramped reception (and gloomy looking attendants who look like they're doing you a favour by replying to you) greeted us. After standing in queue to pay advance (its always advance, isn't it?) we were allotted a token number at 6.59 PM. The doctor was inside a separate room with a digital display. It read 91. Ours was 114. In other words, he would have to see 23 patients before he could see me.

Fair enough, let's sit. Again, as with all Indian hospitals, the number of patients outnumbered the number of chairs 3 to 1. As with all Indian families, for each single patient, a family of at least 4 had turned up (what is this, a family picnic in hospital?). So actual patients had to stand while buas/maasis/younger sisters of other patients "reserved" seats for the jijaji/papaji/tauji who had just turned up.

So we stood. Tiring, standing wait in a cramped hall, watching the digital display as if your life depends on it.

By 8.30, the display read 114. I told my wife, "Have you noticed? The good doctor has seen 23 patients in the last 91 minutes. That's an average time of just 4 minutes per patient." Memories of the legendary Dr Bidhan Chandra Roy, who could tell a patient's illness just by looking at him, flashed in my mind.

We entered. The doctor was a young chap looking thoroughly disinterested. He asked me what my ailment was. I barely had time to tell him that the symptoms look like viral, and I have had fever and weakness. He took a stethoscope to my chest, kept it for about 2 seconds and removed it even before I started breathing deep. Then he asked me to put out my tongue, gave a flickering glance at it and started writing down something on the pad.

That's the physical check? The words "That's it?" almost came out my mouth when he started to speak. "You have viral. It might be flu, or viral dengue." "But doctor, I told you I have no respiratory blockage, and my body isn't paining." With a dismissive tone " You never know, this might be mild dengue. Have this medicine (a paracetamol), this one (an antibiotic) and do these blood tests. Take rest, and drink plenty of fluids"

"But doctor, I have this characteristic. If I take antibiotic, the fever gets suppressed  and recurs after a few months. Please don't give me antibiotics". By this time, he looked like he was annoyed with the patient acting knowledgeable, and his fingers were already on the digital display controls. So we left. 3 minutes 30 seconds. The doctor had bettered his TAT.

I stormed out of the hospital, asking my wife not to buy anything. Anyone knows that a paracetamol controls fever and an antibiotic suppresses it. Anyone knows drinking plenty of fluids and taking rest is good for fever. Here was a whore with an MD degree, running through patients with almost no physical checks, relying on blood tests to find out what was wrong. The only difference is, the whore wouldn't have made you wait 90 minutes. Agonizingly. And not to forget, YOU are the one getting screwed.

You would tell me its unfair to brand an entire community/profession for the sake of a few bad nuts. The point is, in my 31 years I've seen at least 31 cases of medical negligence, and far worse where the patient has to give up his life.

In 2004 a girl I knew admitted her mom to Suraksha hospital (now AMRI Salt Lake). The lady, 44 years old, had cirrhosis in a small portion of her liver. The doctors said the affected area was small and easily curable with a small operation. They operated on her within a week, and she started recovering. Ironically they also ran up a bill of 5.5 Lakhs in that one week, and this family (which was not very well to do in the first place) had a tough time arranging the money. For the first 2 days after her operation, the lady started recovering. On the 3rd day, she turned blue and collapsed. A check revealed that she had septicemia due to the stitching not being done properly. The doctors did a second operation on her (no guesses as to who paid for it), but she continued to go worse. After a total of 15 days, the cash-strapped family couldn't continue her treatment in a private hospital. They took her to a government hospital, where the doctors said she had developed pneumonia as a hospital infection. She passed away the next day. Poisoned and weakened, killed due to  an ailment nothing to do with her original cause.

I do remember fighting with the private hospital staff. Every day they would just give a single line bill where an obscene amount of money was mentioned. I fought with them everyday, even barging into the super's office and threatening legal action.  On the 7th day they gave me a detailed bill. It had 2.1 lakh rupees detailed out as doctor's fees, room rent, oxygen cylinder etc.). The last page of the bill carried a single line -"Medicine - 2.9 lakhs". I am yet to find out what 41,000 rupees of medicine put together in a single day looks like.

What also depresses me is the attitude of the doctors. That same year a close friend's father passed away in Calcutta Medical college (They were poor people and could just afford a general ward bed). It was early morning, and he had been staying with me the previous night. We rushed to the hospital and went to see his father's body. He was lying on the bed, not even covered with a sheet, no nurses (forget doctors) in sight. It was my friend's brother who had discovered his father in the morning, the news didn't come from the hospital.

It took us 20 minutes to find an attendant, and we had to bribe him to take the body down to the morgue. Still no doctors in sight. Then we went down to the area which said "Free phone for patient's families", as my friend wanted to inform his family. Remember it was 2004, and not everyone had mobile phones. We found a huge queue lined up in front of the phone, and imagine our surprise when we discovered the only resident doctor chatting away with his girlfriend on that phone! I lost it, and started shouting at the doctor, telling him he's not doing his duty and abusing public rights. He would have retaliated, but moved away when the entire crowd became vocal in my support.

I can go on and on, but you get the point. It wasn't always like this. In my childhood, visiting the "doctor uncles" we knew used to be a pleasant experience. They would talk to you in a sugar coated voice the first few minutes, dissipating the child's inherent fear with pleasantries. Then they would ask you to lie down and do a full physical check. Then the sugar coated voice would return as the child was told to be careful and follow certain discipline over the course of the illness. The voice would turn a shade graver as your father was told what the ailment was, big scientific words you never understood. Except injections, visiting doctors always was a pleasant experience. And we did get cured, blood tests be damned.

To sum up, welcome to the 21st century. All doctors are whores of varied kinds, and hospitals are brothels, with the madame looking to make a few extra bucks by sucking your blood, err, testing it, and ultimately your life. As Nachiketa Chakraborty's song goes "The butcher kills in broad daylight, you (doctors) have your chambers."

And don't worry, I've called someone to test my blood tomorrow.

The Mine - A Book Review

Many of my readers would have seen the movie “Saw”. Made by a director fresh out of film school, financed on a shoestring by a never heard of production company, with no stars to speak of. For the uninitiated, the movie starts with 2 strangers waking up inside a dirty public toilet, chained to posts in remote corners, with a bloody corpse lying in the centre of the room. Neither has any idea how they got here. An audiotaped voice tells them they have been brought as part of a horrific experiment, and the only way either may escape is by following a series of clues. A reign of pure terror follows. The viewer is subjected to a series of violent acts as the story unfolds, sheer horror of the human kind with nary a ghost in sight. The massive violence and gore is a put off for many, but the attentive viewers realize it’s all there to take the story forward. The unbelievable ending is the icing on the cake. Days, weeks after watching the movie, the scenes creep up inside you, and you’re reminded that the greatest of all evil a man can face is the darkness that lies inside him.

In one sentence, Arnab Ray’s “The Mine” is the book equivalent of Saw. Sheer psychological horror packaged in a tight story with some memorable and diverse characters.

The synopsis first, borrowed directly from the book.

QUOTE

“At a secret mining facility somewhere in the deserts of Rajasthan, an ancient place of worship with disturbing carvings on its dome, is discovered buried deep inside the earth. Soon the miners find themselves in the grip of terrifying waking nightmares. One tries to mutilate himself.  Worse follows.

Five experts are called in to investigate these strange occurrences. Sucked into a nightmare deep underground, they embark on a perilous journey; a journey that will change them forever, bringing them face to face with the most shattering truth of them all….

THE GREATEST EVIL LIES DEEP INSIDE.

UNQUOTE

Followers of Ray’s blog (greatbong.net) know him as an intelligent writer, well read with the right dose of twisted humour. His first book “May I hebb your attention pliss” was a satire on contemporary social issues, a magnification of the tone of his blog in many ways. But in “The Mine”, Ray re-invents himself as a brilliant story-teller, using intelligent techniques to keep the reader engrossed.

What techniques? Firstly, the pace of horror is unrelenting. From the prologue to the last page, the reader’s mind is jolted by continual events of gruesome proportions. Sometimes flashback, sometimes dream sequences, everything adding up to move the story forward. I never got to breathe easy while reading The Mine. Every page I turned subjected me to another dose of horror. And it’s all psychological, all to do with humans. There are no ghosts, except ones that reside inside humans.

Second, the sheer scope of the story. Ray touches on a little bit of everything that represents horror to the average human mind – mythology, wall signs with ominous messages, historical references of (often sexual) torture, the Nazi holocaust and its ill effects, scientific experiments gone wrong, and of course, characters with twisted backgrounds. Normally a novel which tries to achieve so much falls flat on its face, as the writer usually lacks knowledge of these references and ends up making a mockery of them. But Ray’s knowledge of each event, and how he manages to link them to the core story, is commendable. The aforesaid pace of the story helps too.

Third, the characterization. 5 characters comprise the core story, but everyone else plays a key role. There are no nice guys in The Mine. Everyone has shades of grey, and you learn more about just how twisted everyone is as the story goes on. Not your average ghost story with a cross-wielding Christian priest symbolizing God and everything good in this world.

And that brings me to the best facet of The Mine. It is ALL evil. Good does NOT triumph in the end! In fact, no one represents the good side at all. A welcome break from traditional good and evil stories (where aforesaid cross-wielding priest and the house he represents always win in the end).

Gore? Of course there’s gore, plenty of it. Add to it a few scenes of graphic sex, which come in to heighten the uneasiness. Another person who read The Mine before I did told me she was put off by the “violence”. Sounded suspiciously like how a lot of friends had described Saw. And when I finished reading The Mine, I was right.

But come on, that’s the point of psychological horror. When you put a set of twisted people into even more twisted settings, they don’t hold hands and dance around. The writer probably thought any attempt to ease the pace in a story like this would have dulled the narrative, and I’m with him here. If you read The Mine like your average thriller, you come out sick of the “violence”, and probably don’t finish the book. If you pay attention, visualizing each scene as it is narrated; you come out with a disturbed mind and a fluttering heart after finishing the book. That, really is the triumph of psychological horror.

In summary, The Mine is really a commendable effort from Arnab Ray. If you’re expecting a relaxing Sunday read, avoid the book on all counts. If you’re expecting happy endings, I wouldn’t suggest The Mine either. But if enjoy the genre of psychological horror, enjoy gore till it knots your stomach and don’t mind your brain getting a little screwed at the end, The Mine is just the book. 4 out of 5 stars on my scale.

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Banker in a Junkyard

(This post won the best blog award at the Delhi 48 hour Film Festival 2012)

Life has a few rules.  Rules that preserve the plinth of society, dissuade everyone from trying to do everything and sticking to what they are best at. For example – bricks don’t fly, Yogis stick to spiritual matters, and bankers don’t make movies.

But sometimes an exception must come to prove the rule. Howard Hughes made the flying fortress – the equivalent of not a single brick, but a brick mansion with wings. Baba Ramdev gave up anulom-vilom to go on a crusade against something as material as money – black at that. And Aniket Sengupta, Corporate Banker, decided to join a talented bunch to make a movie.

It all started one Saturday night with my friend Arnab. Over the course of one (too many?) drinks, he started telling me about the 48 hour film festival. Last year he and Rashmi grouped up with a couple of loonies, mostly from the advertising fraternity as themselves, and made a group called Junkyard Productions to participate. Their movie “A Touching Story”, (one of the most brilliant short films I’ve watched) ended up winning 5 awards at the festival. They were planning to have a go again this year, same team with a few changes. “Do you have a vacancy?” I asked, too drunk to care (TDTC). “Yeah, but what are you going to do?” replied Arnab, TDTC. “Well, I’ve acted on stage before, I can sing, I have a good idea of music….(falling short of lies at this point)…heck, I can keep your accounts!”. Arnab, TDTC, looked like he was giving it a good thought. “Ok, you’re in. We’re meeting on the 3rd. Come along.” I agreed, had a couple more, then went home and slept.

3rd evening found me suitably sober and at the agreed meeting point. I had come straight from office, so had everyone else. But while everyone else sported t-shirts/kurtis, jeans, sneakers/chappals and a stubble (ok, not Rashmi) I was the only one in a chequered formal shirt, trousers and leather shoes. Ding! Round one against the outsider.

Everyone knew everyone, or knew something the other had done. I was merely “Arnab’s friend” and no one knew what I do. Round two.

Then they started talking. “I’m Ankur Suman, I head the creative team at XXX, I also directed the touching story”.” I’m Abhishek, I do theatre, currently I’m in a Premchand play which is being staged this weekend”. “I’m Munishwer, I direct, edit and write scripts”. “I’m Rohit, I’m an amateur photographer. I also own a Canon EOS 5D and professional lights”. And so on and so forth. Illustrious, passionate art people. I was last to introduce myself, by which time I was feeling like a leper among knights. Everyone had something worthy to talk about, something pertaining to movies. I had the USD 6M Import Credit deal from the afternoon’s meeting which I was trying best to forget.

“I’m Aniket Sengupta, I’m a Corporate Banker. I err, love cars. I also do long drives and write travelogues on XXX site.  I’m just here to enjoy the ride”.

Pin drop silence. Everyone looking at Arnab to figure out what I was doing there. Arnab and Rashmi tried their best to save round three. “Aniket is also a very good singer with a good knowledge of music. And he can keep accounts.”

Another moment of uncomfortable silence, then the discussion resumed. Teams were made, people were allotted their duties. I was asked to be part of production, which meant I’d be running around arranging stuff so the creative people could do their bit. Obviously, I was also in charge of accounts.

I went home miserable that day. I was in the company of people to achieve a common objective, and everyone else understood that objective much better than I did. I felt like a rookie. I had half a mind to call up the team and cook up a lie to opt out of 48 hours. But I didn’t. I also hoped the other Junkyard members would see the futility of including me and throw me out in common consensus. But they didn’t either. And so, hoping against hope, 10^th August arrived.

We met early in the day. Photography and lighting equipment was being arranged, the editing studio set up, people briefed about their roles and little incidents shared to keep the mood up. I spent most of the day driving around Delhi to get stuff (production team, remember?). In the evening Rashmi and I headed out to Sri Aurobindo Centre for the 48 hours meeting.

From this point onwards, the tables started turning. The meet itself was refreshingly un-corporate, with a bunch of producers eager to explain the process, and a couple of films being screened for the first timers. There seemed to be an air of camaraderie around the place. The guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation, “Which team are you?” Gave me a lot of pride when I said “Junkyard Productions” and saw appreciation in his eyes.

All hell had broken loose by the time we returned. 4 groups were formed, who sat around to think up independent stories. Crazy ideas were floating around the place. Every idea was encouraged, every story worked upon. Exhilarating. I cooked up 3 good stories myself, amazed at how creative a mind tuned to balance sheets and exchange rates could get. None of them got selected in the final run, but I guess baking the cake is more fun than eating it.

The efficiency of the group amazed me. A story was finalized by midnight, and by Saturday morning the script was ready. Our basic plot was to take place inside a school, and within a few hours that was organized to.

Ah, the school. Mann Public School is a pretty neat residential institution on the outskirts of Delhi. Huge campus with all possible facilities for students, with a neat manicured garden, an outdoor amphitheatre et all. We arrived at very short notice, and stayed almost 25 hours out of 48. But the school authorities extended all possible cooperation to us, and made our stay memorable.

Sunday morning I left early with the 2 editors. Majority of the footage was ready, and it was time to head back to the studio to finish the editing. After dropping them I went home and slept for 4 hours, much needed sleep. By the time I was back the final touches were being put. At exactly 5 minutes to deadline, we submitted the film.

When I look back, what amazes me is the camaraderie and professionalism shown by the members of junkyard. In those 48 hours, the maximum someone slept in the entire team was 8 hours. Most made good with less than 2. But even on the final day, the enthusiasm showed no signs of waning.

I remember a scene we were shooting in the school corridor at 4 AM on Sunday morning. The crew and cast, sleep deprived, could barely trudge to the scene. Yet when the camera came on, everyone seemed to come alive. The scene took 6 takes to perfect. Yet not a word of protest, not an expression of disgust. I remember repeatedly requesting the canteen staff for cups of tea, which they provided throughout the night.

I remember another scene depicting a car crash, where the girl driving it is flung out of the door into the mud. The actress actually lay on wet mud for 15 minutes (with a dead expression) while we got the lighting right!

What I most enjoyed, was definitely the attitude. Everyone, with every skill set they possessed, was welcome. No person was too trivial; everyone was part of one big team. If you didn’t possess a certain skill, you were taught that. I learnt a lot of sound recording and even helped in some of the scenes myself. Like the humans in the Matrix, time was always against us those 48 hours. But we did a great job together.

Will I go back? Of course I will. Being a movie buff and critic is one thing; making one is an altogether different experience. And with a team like Junkyard, it’s all one big laugh. There’s no biz like showbiz, so don’t blame me!

Who really, is flying our planes?

The first time I boarded a plane was in the year 1990. Dad was being transferred from Kolkata to Bombay (it wasn't Mumbai then) to take up a very important job role, and his company paid to fly his family. So one summer morning, an eight year old kid who had cried just the previous night saying goodbye to his Calcutta school friends, boarded the aeroplane with eyes wide open, a grin from ear to ear, a heart full of excitement and a little palm firmly clutched in his mother's palm.

It was an exhilarating experience for me, and I still remember every little detail. When we got into our designated seats and the airhostess aunties (no reflection on the general age of IA staff, when you're 8 years old every babe is an aunty :D ) brought us toffees and a welcome drink, I felt like royalty. When the plane completed taxiing and turned on full thrust for the final takeoff, it sank me into my seat, and I wondered how much power the engines must be producing right now. After takeoff the pilot came on to the PA system and announced that the distance to Mumbai is about 2000 kms and we will complete the journey in 2.5 hrs, I turned around and asked my mom "That means we will be travelling at 800 kms per hour (smart kid I was, see? :D ). Our Ambassador has a speedometer marked to 140kmph. The plane must have a speedo marked to 800 kms per hour, tai na?" They served us lunch and I ate heartily, thinking I was ek din ka sultan and the food served to me was no less than what Prince Charles must be served at Buckingham.

The most hilarious incident was I trying to pass motion on the plane toilet. Before boarding, a rather mischievous relative had told me that when you shit on the plane, the (err...) shit falls down on the heads of people over whom the plane is flying. This I had to see!! Sadly, however much I tried I couldn't manage to shit in the plane's lavatory, so I never got to see the unique spectacle explained to me in such graphic detail.

Before landing, one of the aunties gave me a handful of toffees. I remember I had a severe pain in my ears (happens to a lot of people due to the atmospheric pressure change inside the cabin during take-off and landing) yet still managed to thank her and say goodbye to all of them. We got off at Mumbai airport and I promised to myself that flying - the best experience in the whole world - is something I have to keep doing.

22 years have passed since then and I've flown countless times - business and pleasure. I am a frequent flyer on the 2 largest private sector airlines in India. I genuinely enjoy those 2-3 hours of nothingness in the air, and find countless things to do - read a book, work on an office assignment, or just sit back and think. Secretly, I still feel like that little 9 year old boy when the pilot turns on full thrust. The airports have changed from being basic stop-overs to fantastic facilities where you can spend hours. Try the new Delhi airport for instance. (Of course, Kolkata airport still continues to be as miserable as it always was - but hope springs eternal). To put it simply, I love flying!

Every air traveller has his share of stories, and I have mine. Like this one time in 2007 when I was flying from Ahmedabad to Kolkata on a Kingfisher night flight. There was this very attractive young airhostess, dusky, with an Angelina Jolie-esque pout. She showered lavish attention on me, bringing me the customary extra dessert, and laughing with genuine warmth instead of the cold clinical smile that most air hostesses perfect. After dinner most of the passengers went to sleep. There was some time for the flight to land, and I asked for something (probably another bottle of water). She came over, and over the course of asking for a bottle we struck up a friendly conversation. She told me stuff like where she stays in Kolkata, where she's done her education from, how long she's been on the job etc - as did I. That was the only time I've shared any bit of personal information with an airhostess, and in respect to her profession, I never tried to contact her after that. Never saw her again though. Probably in this plastic generation, airlines don't like employing people possessing genuine smiles.

There have been instances where I've been thankful to the pilots. One time I was flying from Kolkata to Hyderabad on an Air Sahara flight. It was terrible weather at Hyderabad, thunderstorms and pitch darkness - at just 5 in the evening. Our pilot warned us of the weather as we were approaching the city. Just when the plane started its descent, it got trapped in the thunderstrom. I could see flashes of lightning outside my window, and the whole plane was shaking. It was so bad that we could hear the luggage getting thrown around in the overhead bins. People were chanting their prayers, and my heart was in my mouth. Yet to his credit, the pilot managed to execute a perfect landing. When we were getting off, he came on the intercom and said "I thank you for flying Sahara". I told one of the airhostesses as I was getting off "No, tell the pilot that we thank him for saving our lives".

And that last incident brings me to the topic I wanted to discuss. Who are the people flying our planes? Today morning's paper carried this article where the aviation authorities have decided to come out with a more fool-proof system of detecting tipsy pilots (Click to activate link). Apparently, in the last 4 days the authorities tried the new system, they've caught 4 drunk pilots. This includes a very senior person in AI who's a training captain in AI and a flight ops inspector with DGCA.

Really? Did you know, o regular business traveller, that all this while your planes were being flown by drunk pilots? The man who was bringing you home to your wife and child could have been in a state where he's incapable to look after himself, let alone a 40 tonne aircraft with 180 passengers???

Please spare us, Mr Pilot. We pay through our noses for airline tickets and then stand in endless queues waiting to be checked in. When we see you, in shiny uniforms, being whisked through the gates, we don't feel sad. We respect you. Don't make us lose that respect. Don't bring yourself down to the level of night lorry drivers, who're often found in the same state as you.

What was that you said? Oh, its not always the pilots to blame? Of course its not. Pilot Fatigue is one of the biggest causes of airline accidents in this country. We have too many aircraft and too many routes to fly, yet not enough qualified pilots. So you're paid double or triple your actual rate to fly extra hours. But of course, you're human, so you tend to buckle under the exhaustion some times. Like when both pilots in an Air India flight fell asleep and the plane travelled to Goa instead of landing at Mumbai (Link). Funny, isn't it? What's so bad about landing at Goa anyway? Just have a couple of beers and come back.

But sometimes it doesn't stay so funny. Like when one of you slept throughout the flight, and the aircraft crashed near Mangalore, killing 150 passengers. The data box picked up sounds of snoring inside the cockpit, and the co-pilot saying "We have no more runway left". Shame.

Sometimes unbelievable things happen, like an instance where a plane landed at Kochi instead of Kozhikode, and no one - the crew, the pilot or the airport - had any real explanation to offer. In the end the crew justified themselves saying they would have crossed the Flight Duty Time Limit if they continued till Kozhikode. Pull the other one, I say.

Who's that little voice in the corner? Oh the airline company? Yes sir, what do you have to add? Its not always your or your crew's fault? I agree. We live in India after all. A country where an Air Traffic Controller actually forgets which shift he's supposed to come in for. As a result his post stays unmanned. When the pilot of a loaded aircraft frantically calls in, the ATC's GM actually has to take the help of a fireman to guide the aircraft in to land!

Its unbelievable. Of course, considering this is religious India, and the airport in question was Tirupati, we will convince each other that it was the lord who took the fireman's guise and saved the passengers. And all will be well.

Enough. I can keep on pulling out little URLs of these instances. But lets make the point. Dear Airline, Pilot, Crew, DGCA, and whoever else is associated with the airline industry in our country. There are millions of people flying your planes at the moment - out of compulsion or out of pleasure. Some of them, like me, still enjoy flying with all the enthusiasm of a 9 year old kid.

These people keep your wallets going. Please be aware that you are responsible for their basic safety. Billions of dollars are spent every year factoring in safety measures into aircraft construction, and some more billions in pre-flight testing. Don't let human negligence destroy all this. We have families to come back to, as have you. Lets bring the joy back into flying.

The courage to face life

Once upon a time, the powers to be decided to build a mega-flyover on Eastern Metropolitan Byepass. A mega road, that, once complete, would take a commuter from Salt Lake to Park Circus in 10 minutes. Inspiring. Trouble is, within days of the construction starting, EM Byepass turned into an apology for a road, a pothole-ridden, part-barricaded, vehicle breaking nightmare for daily commuters.

Like a lot of Salt Lake residents, I too decided to change my office route. EM Byepass was out, the Chaulpotti Road-Moulali-Creek Row-GC Avenue route was in. Second day into the route, and I saw him for the first time.

"He" stands at Moulali Junction, just where Dr LM Bhattacharya road ends and you turn off into Creek Row. An old man with a stubble beard, dressed in a t-shirt and lungi, standing by the roadside begging for alms. He waits for the traffic signal to turn red, then walks from window to window begging. Seems like just another beggar, till you look at his eyes and notice he is COMPLETELY blind. The light in his eyes has gone out ages ago, replaced by grey, lifeless marbles.

The first time it intrigued me. If the man was blind, how did he know when the cars came to a standstill and it was time to go and do his thing? Other blind beggars usually have a helper to guide them, or they're not really blind. If you're observant, or if you've seen Madhur Bhandarkar's traffic signal, you can easily make out the not blind :). But this man was alone, and the best of my observation confirmed he was really blind as a bat.

Then I noticed his modus operandi. This man (lets call him Ahmed for want of a name) stood next to the road divider with a stick in his hand. The right hand held the stick, and the other end of the stick touched the divider railing. He stood and stood as car's whizzed by. Some inert sense in Ahmed (probably vibration sensing through his feet) told him when cars had stopped at the signal. When they stopped, he would slowly, carefully reach out his left hand and try to touch the door of the car nearest. Having set his perimeters (the divider to the right and car door to the left) he would approach the window and start begging. 2 mins at a window, and Ahmed would move towards the next car in line - all the time the stick in the right hand touching the divider railing and telling him he was within safe retractable distance.

This would continue until the signal turned green and the cars started rolling. The moment Ahmed's left hand sensed moving metal, he would retract to the divider grill - and the motion would continue all day.

It intrigued me. If ONE of his judgements was mistimed, Ahmed would be in mortal danger of being injured by parts (or the whole) of a moving car. Yet his begging continued day in and day out.

Most of the summer I saw him in a tattered T-shirt. In July I saw him decked in a brand new white T-shirt and cap, carrying the logo of a prominent NGO. I personally believe these NGOs are dictated by jackasses who think that the best way to do upliftment of the poor is to give them brand new clothes which display their own logos to the best effect. Within a week the new clothes were gone - sold or stolen I don't know - and the tattered t-shirt was back. As winter approached I saw someone had been kind enough to gift him an old sweatshirt - thankfully without logos.

Ahmed was the only beggar in Kolkata I gave a fiver (or anything) to the first time, and continue to give a fiver or tenner whenever I'm in the rightmost lane and he comes to my window. Twice he misjudged my window and moved ahead, when I yelled "Idhar aaiye" and he came back to receive his daily grant. He knows my voice now, which became apparent when I called him one day and tried to make small chat. I asked him how long he has been blind, to which he said something like "Aap to achhe admi hain saab, humko hamesha dekhte hain aur kuch dete hain. Andhe ke lie saal/din barabar hota hai saab, hum to idhar hi hain kab se". He then burst into a smile, the typical large hearted, toothy, innocent smile I've seen many blind people breaking into.

Another day I saw Ahmed being irritated by 2 street urchins who also operate at that same traffic signal. The kids were taunting him, calling him "andha" and pulling at his sweatshirt. He was laughing.

I've reached a point now where I expect Ahmed to come to my window everytime at that signal, and rather enjoy giving him a fiver or tenner when he does. Quite surprising since I'm generally a heartless fellow and hate beggars. The reason, when I dig deep, seems to be simple. In him, I see a reflection of our human lives.

Think about it. The way Ahmed operates in traffic is the same way we lead our lives. Our family - our parents, our wives, our children - are our road dividers. We have a stick in one hand, with which we are constantly ensuring contact with our families. The other hand reaches out to touch everything we do with out lives - our careers, our education, the choices we make. We live life by moving from window to window, picking up experiences, picking up money, picking up the results of the choices we have made. All the time the other hand touching the railing assures us we have some place to go back to.

When one of the results of our choices does not turn out the way we expected - when the cars of life start moving too fast for our comfort, we sense, and we retract back to our families who give us support and shelter. We recover. Then we sense that the time is ripe again - the cars have stopped at the signal - and we're back moving from window to window asking for all that we ask from life.

In Ahmed, I see one more thing. I see the courage to face life. The man has lost his vision a long time back, is probably too old and haggard to be employed anywhere. He probably has no one in the world to assist him in begging, so the only way he can scrape out a livelihood is to play "Sense and touch' games with tonnes of moving machinery. Yet he laughs. When a sympathetic passerby asks him what brought on his current plight, he laughs. When younger fitter humans mock his disability, he laughs. He laughs, and shows people like me how pathetic we really are - scared stiff at the prospect of losing the sand castles we've built out of our educated, protected lives.

So when my boss ensures I've had a miserable day, or when things don't go as planned, I think of Ahmed now. I reach out to my family, try to share the happenings of the day - or simply a laugh - and get on with life.

Its true that God shows you the path in remarkable ways. Maybe Ahmed is one of them. The next time you're at Moulali signal, do call the old man to your window and give him whatever you can. You'll feel happy.