Stayed on

Following being handed over the reins of Limbuguri and with the responsibility of the factory having been passed on to a new assistant who had been transferred there from another estate, an extended daily drive for inspection of specific areas of that large 980 hectare was de regeuir.  Driven by a yearning to get a firm grip on ‘my’ property as quickly as possible and to prove my worth to Mrigen who had reposed such faith in one who was of a relatively young age, heading out well before the crack of dawn, I took it upon myself to visit every single remote and tucked away corners of the estate.

Dotted around the periphery of the estate were several Assamese bastis, many of which I’d have to traverse through to get from one of the estate fields to the other.  Along the way, wherever I’d see a couple of the village folk lounging around, I’d stop to have a chat with them before driving on. In one of these casual conversations, one of the villagers asked me whether I’d met the ‘Boga Sahib’ (literally ‘White Boss’) who lived in one of the bastis.  I most certainly had not.  In fact, had never heard anything of this nature.  Intrigued I started asking around whether anyone on the estate knew of any such person and finally learnt that there indeed was an elderly white man who yonks before had been a manager on this very estate, had married one of the estate labour girls and had, on his retirement, built himself a house in one of the bastis where he currently lived.

It was my senior friend Ron (the lynchpin of our Brahmaputra forays) who came up with the answer to the mystery of the ‘Boga Sahib in the basti’.  Told me that he was aware that a Jimmy Stuart, better known as Stu, on his retirement from Warrens way back in the past, had decided to not return to the UK and had settled down in a basti close to Limbuguri which was his last billet pre-retirement.  Having been handed over this straw to clutch on to, I dug deeper and was finally pointed in the direction of the basti where the ‘Boga Sahib’ lived.

A couple of days later, being in the vicinity of the basti Stu was supposed to be a resident of, I drove to the house of the ‘Gaon Burra’ (village elder/chieftain) who after insisting I have a cup of tea with him, walked me across to what was the only brick & mortar (only partial I may add) building in the basti, knocked on the door before walking off leaving me standing in the veranda.  From behind the closed door, I could hear some shuffling sounds followed by the rattling of a chain before the door opened to reveal an elderly and stooping, bald headed white man confronting me with a quizzical and surprised look on his deeply wrinkled face.

Regardless of my having been expecting to see a ‘Boga Sahib’ I had to literally restrain myself from blurting out the only words which at that precise point popped up in my head “Dr Livingstone I presume”?

Having explained to him who I was, the gentleman pulled up two rickety chairs on to the veranda.  The moment we were both seated, his first utterance of “You’re the first English speaking person from outside the basti, come to see me in almost ten years” were followed by a barrage of short staccato sentences with words literally falling over themselves, almost as though yearning be heard.  What I was witness to was a catharsis of pent-up emotions, almost like a pan of milk which had been simmering for ages (in his case – years) and was now on the boil and frothing over.

What I learnt about Stu in that very first meeting was that his father had been an engineer employed in the railways and that he, Stu, had been born in Jabalpur and when five years of age, had been sent back to England for his education.  On completion of his schooling and wanting to get back to India, he immediately joined the then James Warren & Co and was posted to Upper Assam.  During his tenure of 38 years, he had been to England once every three years on furlough and had, on the second leave got married.  His wife who had never left the shores of England ahead of tying the knot being unacclimatised to the heat and humidity of Assam had quickly concluded that this was not the life for her and, a short and stormy three years later, headed back to England to be never heard from again.

On reaching the age of 57 Stu hung up his boots and returned to England where he had no family nor any friends, stayed there for all of four months before, in his words “feeling like a fish out of water” decided to head back to Upper Assam, the only place he had ever known as home.  With no desire to be alone and lonely for the remaining years of his life, having bought a small plot of land in the basti abutting the estate he had last served on and building himself a rudimentary thatch house, started living with the lady who for many years had been the maid in his bungalow, whom he finally married.  His return from his futile visit to England was all of 21 years to the day that I met him.  All this was shared to me within an hour of my having shaken hands with the gentlemen. 

Having to get back to my routine, while he was most reluctant to see me go, I finally managed to pry myself away from him.  But with a promise that I would visit him again as soon as I possibly could.

Following that first meeting, having been hit hard by the sheer loneliness of the gentleman and having sensed his desperation for contact with a person he could relate to, I made it a point to drop in on Stu at least once a week.  Every time I came away from his place, with his loneliness getting through to me, it was always with a sense of sadness.  A gloomy feeling which I’d unburden myself of by sharing it with Kitty.  Almost a year after my first meeting with him Kitty asked me whether I’d like to invite the gentleman over to the bungalow some evening for a meal.  An excellent suggestion which I acted upon the next time I dropped in to meet Stu.

Overwhelmed by his profuse thanks for the invitation, that evening I sent the driver across to pick up the gentlemen and fetch him to the bungalow.  The Stu who walked in was not the dishevelled Stu I had been meeting in the basti.  All spruced up and wearing a tie, “I haven’t worn one in 20 years” he said.  His exuberance was so palpable that no child with a new toy could have been more excited.  Ahead of sitting down for dinner, the perfect gentleman thoroughly enjoyed his two small drinks of rum and water.  Our bawarchi (cook) have prepared a roast chicken, one could actually sense Stu’s excitement from simply handling a knife and fork.  The evening over, he left us overwhelmed with his profuse thank you’ s and repeated handshakes.

Following that first dinner meet, we made it a point to have him home at least once a month.  Every single time he was driven into the bungalow, it was always this elderly gentleman bubbling over with excitement and happiness like a small child.

And then three years later 1990, which is when I resigned from my planting job to relocate to Dubai.  I’ll never forget the day that I broke the news to Stu.  That he was totally distraught would be an understatement.  It was as though some great tragedy had befallen him.  His words still ring in my ears “You were my last link to what USED to be my world.” 

A couple of days before we were to leave Limbuguri, I received a somewhat formal handwritten note from Stu that he would like to meet us one last time and that could I please send my vehicle to pick him up.  That evening he arrived holding a small, gift-wrapped shoe box which he handed over to Kitty insisting that she open it in his presence.  In the box were a couple of Wedgewood quarter plates, a few of them somewhat chipped.  “These” he said “Are all that I have left from the set I had brought back from England when I first came to Assam.  I want you to have these as a reminder of the kindness you have shown towards this old man.”

And then he did what for him was probably the unthinkable, he came across and hugged me, walked across to kiss Kitty on both cheeks and then quickly departed before we could see the tears streaming his cheeks.

 

Insanity Amplified

There being no way that Mr Kuruvilla’s persona and crazy capers could be encapsulated into just one post, I did end my last blog post with a ‘…. escapades demand more than just a mention in dispatches’ and that there would be a sequel to that.  Well, here you have it.

On our relocation from Sri Lanka to India, it was Cochin that we had moved to.  A series of coincidences, lovely ones I may add, having come into play, Cochin ended up as a temporary 5 month-long sojourn.  More like a launch pad which propelled us to what is now our permanent abode up in the hills – ‘Thikana’.

This having been arranged in advance before the relocation from SL, within a couple of days of our arrival in Cochin, I took delivery of a Mahindra Scorpio.  The vehicle obviously came with a Kerala registration.  Which fact sets the foundation for what was to follow a la Ranjit.  So now I’m fast forwarding to 2011, by which time we were well settled, up in the hills.  Which is also when, the Scorpio having served us well for 6 years, I decided that now would be the right time to replace that with a new vehicle. 

This not having been anticipated when we had bought the vehicle in Cochin, the sale of the Scorpio became a major sticking point.  The vehicle having a “KL” number plate, the car agency in Coimbatore as also independent brokers I contacted, all sang the same tune, offering me nothing more than peanuts for a perfectly good vehicle in excellent condition.  The standard refrain being that for me to realize the actual value, I would have to obtain an N.O.C. from the authorities where I had purchased the car, or that I should sell the car somewhere in Kerala.  The first option meant that I would have to drive down to Cochin, camp there for the 4/5 days it would take me to wade through the bureaucratic red tape which I knew I’d encounter and then drive back to Coimbatore to do the deal.  Not quite an alternative which had me jumping up and down with joy.  While mulling over this and having happened to mention this quandary to Ranjit during one of our many evenings in his house, his answer had been a no-nonsense “Da, just drive down to Thrissur and leave the rest to me. I’ll have your matter sorted out within a day”.  For the ignorant lot, Thrissur is also in Kerala.

Taking the big man at his word, co-opting Madhav as the second driver, on the day it was to be handed over to me, we drove down to Coimbatore to take delivery of the new set of wheels which had been booked.  That having been taken care of, the two of us drove on in two vehicles arriving at the Kuruvilla mansion in Thrissur just a little post lunch.  Having been bestowed with his customary Don Corlone bear-hug and that yucky wet peck on my cheek and with him having once again shrugged off my protestations on this disgusting habit of his with his usual disdainful and nonchalant “Da, you know that this show of affection is reserved for only my very close friends”, Madhav and I were shown to the guest bedroom. 

We had just about settled in when Ranjit had his Man Friday knock on the door to tell me that ‘Master’ was waiting for me in the porch.  Walking across I found Ranjit in conversation with two burly gentlemen whom he introduced to me with a “They’re the buyers of your Scorpio”.  One of the two ‘burlies’ requesting me for the key so that he could check out the vehicle, was admonished with a “Thambi, just sign the transfer document and give Mr Khanna the cheque”!  And that was IT!  Having seen folk who take more time with long stretches of humming & hawing when buying a shirt or even a Kg of Mangos, I was gob smacked (an understatement) at the way this transaction had been done and dusted in a trice.

Having seen off my Scorpio and the two burlies, not allowing us to deviate in any other direction, our host guided Madhav and me directly to his bar.  And that is where we remained rooted through the evening which stretched on and on and on.  Ranjit being a post doctorate in elbow-bending exercises which he had refined to an art form, one could see that the level of the contents of bottle which he was attacking with a single-minded intent was dropping at an alarmingly rapid pace.  In the time I had worked my way through two ‘Ranjit sized’ large Rums which he had insisted on pouring for me, my friend had waded through way more than that.  Having done his duty as a host with the first two, I had thankfully been left to pour out my own drink.

Living as he was in a world of his own creation, Ranjit’s totally warped logic, which gem of wisdom he had shared with me many times in the past, was that in his opinion the measure of a person’s self-respect was his/her ability to down copious volumes of whatever be the poison which was to one’s liking.  Following the initial crazy sized ones which he had insisted on pouring and not wanting to burst the bubble of his irrational belief, to keep pace with his quaffing, the volume of alcohol in the drinks I was pouring myself kept getting smaller and smaller while the water topping up the glass went in the inverse direction.  In the meantime, Madhav having had a beer which he had followed up with a Coke, excused himself to say that he was going to bed.  No sooner had the bedroom door closed behind my son that Ranjit’s twisted logic came to the fore with “See!  No self-respect.  He doesn’t know how to drink”.

The evening having long before merged itself into night, at precisely midnight, reeling just a wee bit, Ranjit walked across to the table on which he had left his leather pouch (an accessory which was his constant companion), unzipped it to pull out his revolver.  Releasing the safety catch and swaying a bit, wondering at where this was leading and following him at a safe distance, we marched into the large atrium in the heart of his house.  Positioning himself in the center of that courtyard, my friend pointed the barrel skywards and pulled the trigger thrice.  Pleased as punch with his self-assumed bravado, as he turned around to head back to the immediate task at hand which he had interrupted to try and puncture the moon, to my question as why I had been witness to this obviously senseless act, “Everyone in this town believes me to be a mad Englishman.  To prove them right, every night that I here am in Thrissur, I let off three shots.  Keeps everyone on their toes so that no one dares to so much as bother me”!  Insane beyond redemption.

By 4 o’clock, fighting to keep my eyes from closing and having even given up on the pretense of matching Mr Kuruvilla drink for drink, with him having become oblivious to the fact that my glass was sitting idle on the table, I suddenly heard a loud snore.  That was followed by Ranjit slipping off his chair to lie sprawled on the floor.  Fast asleep!  Having tried, unsuccessfully – should that need to be said, to awaken the gentleman from his slumber, I called out to his Man Friday to help me get his boss to the bedroom.  The dead weight being impossible for just the two of us to handle, we had to induct the services of his watchman and Madhav.  In the awkward lifting and handling of this rather generous bulk, his lungi having got caught in the foot of one or the other of the four lifters and with his crown jewels hanging loose, we finally managed to get him tucked into his bed.

For me, Thrissur being enroute and not very far from Cochin, in parallel to finalizing the car sale plan with Ranjit, I had also arranged a meeting with one of my suppliers in Cochin for the day after.  The meeting having been confirmed for 9 o’clock, I had planned to leave Ranjit’s place by 6.30. 

Bottom line being that no sooner had we left sleeping beauty in his bed snoring raucously, both Madhav and I rushed across to the bedroom we were sharing to catch at least a couple of hours of sleep.  The two of us exhausted by the long day which had been compounded manifold by the recent drama in which we had been supporting actors, hopping on to either side of the large 4-poster bed the room was furnished with, in a trice both of us were dead to the world. 

It couldn’t have been more than half an hour later that I was woken up by this very loud knocking on the bedroom door.  This was immediately followed by the door being flung open to frame a stone-cold-sober Ranjit Kuruvilla.  Here was this gentleman whom we had deposited on his bed, dead to the world not more than half an hour ago, now standing upright and grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.  From the door and before stepping into the room, in his usual loud voice, the crazy coot tells me to move over as he plans to sleep between Madhav and me.  I followed up on my loud “bugger off”, by hopping out of bed and rushing across the room to make sure Ranjit didn’t march in any further.  Having literally pushed him out, I immediately bolted the door from inside.

An hour later Madhav and I, both bleary eyed and fuzzy headed, were in the car heading off to Cochin.

At around 3 o’clock while we were driving back home, I got a call from Sanjay Pothen who in between loud chortles wanted to know what I (yes, me!) had done to his brother-in-law?  Told me that he had been trying to call Ranjit since noon and that only about now, a few minutes before he had called me, had Ranjit picked up the phone to tell Sanjay “That crazy man Indi, drinks like a bloody fish and managed to get me also drunk”!  How could I possibly react any other way, except to laugh out loud and long.

Mad as a hatter but with a heart of gold!

It’s always the good folk who hand in their dinner pails at a relatively younger age.  As did Ranjit.  Must be somewhere up there, trying to convince whosoever angel may be at his side that his/her self-respect would be measured by his/her ability to keep pace with Ranjit!

Lovable insanity

In my many years of country hopping, I have crossed paths with any number of crazies.  Some who would effortlessly drive anyone up the wall and others whom one could not help but love.  In that latter category the one who, in my book, has to be placed way up there at the very top of my personal, which is by no means small, pyramid is Ranjit Kuruvilla.  A gentleman who, not once but many times over, proved himself to be as nutty as the fruitiest of fruitcakes.

His overdrive (and one can read any meaning into that) on many fronts resulted in him, sadly and very prematurely, handing over his dinner pail years ago. While he’s gone, probably making a nuisance of himself wherever it is that he’s gone to, my memories of Ranjit are as full of life as he used to be when he was around, kicking up a storm and working hard at very consciously (I believe it was that) trying to prove his craziness to all and sundry.

Following our relocation to Coonoor, the Coonoor Club became our home away from home.  In a hurry to start growing roots in what was at that point of time (sadly not so any longer) a lovely overgrown village, come what may, every single Saturday we would wend our way there to meet and interact (always at the bar) with other folk.  All simple down to earth people with whom we quickly began to build a rapport.  And then we had the larger-than-life Mr. Kuruvilla, who was anything but simple or down to earth, breeze into our lives.

I do, at times, sit back and wonder as to what was it that drew the two of us to each other.  Could it have been that we were polar opposites?  While one will never know, the fact is that we did become close friends. 

Whenever he was in town, leaving from the club to head back home, regardless of how late in the night it may have been, was never an option.  In his book it was de rigueur that the ‘evening’ end in his palatial house and only when everyone there was as pickled as was he.

Against all ‘sensible’ advice from all and sundry, in July 2009 in the midst of the usual (read that as buckets of water) Nilgiri Monsoon, just as soon as our “Thikana” was completed (it being another matter altogether that even 3 months later we were still trying to get the workmen to just please get out) we moved in.  At that point of time, the steep slope down to the house being an unpaved dirt road which the incessant rain had converted into a ski slope, ended up in a flat piece of ground which months later would become our backyard lawn but was, at that time, nothing more than a bog full of soft cloying soil.

On the very evening of the day, we moved into our house I got a call from Ranjit to inform me that he was going to be dropping in for a drink and that could we please keep the gate open.  Being told that, let alone a gate, we had no road and fencing or compound wall around the newly built house, in response he only blurted out a quick ‘okay’!  Half an hour later seeing the lights of a vehicle careening down that apology of a road, we opened the door to the patio veranda to see that idiots fancy Mercedes slide into the backyard, at some point of time to be called a lawn.  As we looked on, the four tyres of the car started to ever so slowly sink into the bog. After the car had settled down on the chassis, the door opened to allow this heavyset human being to step out, which he did to immediately also sink into the slush to halfway up his calves. Having managed to extricate himself from the ‘bog’ which was trying to suck him in and trailing gooey clay all over the still to be finished floor, the gentleman walked in armed with a bottle of the finest and his pronouncement that he had come to bless (he loved using the word) our new home.  While seething looking at that trail of thick muck which he so nonchalantly was depositing all over the sitting room floor, faced with that beatific smile plastered across his mug, it was just simply not possible to tell Mr. Kuruvilla what he needed to be told, that he was a moron of the highest order.

How his driver ever managed to unclog that lovely vehicle from out of miniature swap, only that fellow knows, though what I did learn later was that the car ended up in a workshop and stayed there for a goodish period of time.

Fast forward to when Manik, our friend Rohit Nath’s son got engaged to his childhood sweetheart Mehar.  While the youngster and his friends were partying late into the night, at 3 a.m. the mad-hatter, wannabe Don Corleone, called to say that he was going to be dropping in to ‘bless’ Manik (once again that dangerous word which implied ‘duck – the manic is here‘).  Drop in he did!  Driving into their gate after having terrorized the watchman, in his vintage World War II Willeys Jeep.  Replete in full American army attire topped up with a Gen George Patton helmet emblazoned with 3 stars and with three ‘soldiers’ (one of his two sons and two hapless nephews) riding shotgun (literally) in the back seat.  All three dressed to the hilt in authentic GI uniforms, duly armed and while probably feeling idiotic, but obviously not having the guts and more likely than not probably fearing a ‘court martial’ (he being quite capable of enacting that drama) to tell the ‘General’ that he could go suck an egg.  

Alighting from the jeep and marching in with his three-man platoon in two, Ranjit plonked himself on the settee with the inducted members of his squad at attention behind him.  Any slouch was admonished with a stern and very serious “stand erect, you’re a GI in the US army”.  An order which led to the innocent and fed-up-to-his-teeth draftee immediately pulling back and straightening his sagging shoulders.

Was told later that he did not leave the house till the ‘blessing’ was duly administered and not until copious volumes of ‘holy water’ had ended up sloshing around in Ranjit’s ample sized belly.

• Larger than life – Most certainly.
• Lovable – Oh yes!
• Crazy as a coot – Of the certifiable variety!

His escapades demand more than just a ‘mention in despatches’.  Await the next!

Bala – The creation of a Manic

A couple of days ago while playing a round of golf, as is my wont since that helps to get my mind of the fact that I am an awful golfer who manages to spray the ball in every but the aimed for direction, I was gassing around with the other three.  Do that as a regular practice to keep the others from sniggering every time I address and despatch that little dimpled monster into one or the other gorse bushes which the Ooty Golf Course is home to, each bush almost as though waiting to welcome ones misdirected shot into its arms.  During my rambling, I got around to relating to them this particular episode from my past, when it struck me that ‘Hello!  This would be a nice one to put down on paper!’   Kept thinking about it on my bike ride back home so that no sooner than settling my behind down on my office chair, I got down to banging away on my keyboard.

For a change, barring this one of the Ooty golf course bunged in to add some colour to what would otherwise have been a drab page sans any visual support, since I have no photographs of the main tale with which to liven up the blog, trust you won’t get bored before reaching the end of the story.  So do hang in there.

The story goes back to 2000, the year we relocated from Dubai to Colombo.  Not being sure about how long we’d stay put in SL before the itch in my soles of my feet would have me scouting around for other, possibly greener pastures, I had taken a considered decision that I would not buy a car for ourselves and would instead take one on lease so that, should we decide to up and away at short notice (which incidentally is what did eventually happen) we would not have the millstone of a car to dispose off, hanging around our neck.  Having arranged a car on a long term lease and since both Kitty and Muskan had to leave every morning for school, one to study and the other to teach and since I had no desire to be stuck in the crazy Colombo traffic during what are the most productive hours in my working day, decided to employ a driver.

Having asked around, a friend of mine had this gentleman come across to meet me.  Took an immediate liking to a person who, it was obvious from the 15 minutes I spent talking to him, was an extremely mild, well-mannered bloke who had the added advantage of being able to converse in English.  In a nutshell, a classic Sri Lankan.  Not that it matters, but just so that the reader has a complete picture of the fellow, Bala was a Sri Lankan Tamil.

As a person cast from what is obviously the classic and quintessential SL mould, when driving, he would follow EVERY single rule in the book.  Not just every rule IN the book, but also a few which were obviously a figment of his imagination since it had probably never crossed the minds of the framers of that book, to include those in what was already a rather long and tedious waste-of-time list.  In short, a gentleman whose driving, at polar opposite to how we Indians (read that as we simple folk from the Punjab) behave when we get behind a steering wheel and treat the vehicle we are driving as the ultimate killing machine, had me convinced that Bala had been tele-transported into our lives from some remote planet somewhere in another galaxy.

Every now and then whenever I had to head out for any meeting, shunning the irritation of weaving in and out of hordes of vehicles on the narrow roads of Colombo, I’d get Bala to do the honours.  Moving at a snail’s pace, he’d suddenly jam on the brakes, coming to an immediate and grinding halt.
– Bala, why have you stopped?
– Sir, pedestrians crossing the road.
– Yes, but they are 50 yards away so why are you stopping here?
– Sir, have to respect pedestrians.

On other occasions:
– Bala, why are you at the end of this queue of cars?
– Sir, coloured lights (the rather poetic term for road signals in SL)
– Yes, I can see that, but there are two queues so why don’t you move to the parallel one where there are only a couple of cars in front of us?
– Can’t Sir. Not allowed.  Drivers have to stay in one line.

While that lovely fellow and his interpretation of road rules would have my Punjabi blood boiling and would leave me seething, the last thing on my mind was to offend Bala.  So I continued to swallow my bile and learnt to simply grin and bear up with the situation.

With habits at polar opposites to mine, my dear wife loved Bala and his road manners.  To the extent, which incidentally is ongoing to the present day with even my driving, that any time Bala would get close to a car in front or attempt to overtake any vehicle (a rarity) the back seat would be reverberating with ‘Ooohs’ and ‘Ahaas’ almost as though she was/is in acute agony.  To his credit, Bala handled both of our idiosyncrasies with poise and an alacrity which one had to admit, was very commendable.

Life went on in this manner, till came a day when in the car going through the heart of the city, sitting in the front passenger seat, inching along at what I had come to accept as this being his usual sedate pace, I lost my cool.  With Bala, at irritatingly regular intervals, stopping dead for pedestrians way off in the distance, besides getting in at the end of ANY queue of cars we came across, I finally blew my top:
– Bala, where are we coming from?
– From home Sir.
– Where are we going?
– To Mr Lalin Fernando office.

Bala now listen very carefully. The house is point ‘A’, Mr Fernando’s office is point ‘B’.  When I am at point ‘A’ or at point ‘B’, I am working and trying to earn money to pay your salary.  If you waste any more time between those two points I will sack you!!!

A temper tantrum which had an almost magical affect on this calm, cool and mild gentleman.  Because after that day, whenever Bala was driving me around, it was almost as though he had been transomed into some sort of a monster ever ready to mow down anyone or anything that dared to cross his path.

Which was fine by me, but definitely not so with the wife.  Whenever driving her around, Bala would revert to his original avatar.

It was when the two of us happened to be together in the car that poor Bala would have this totally perplexed and quizzical look on his face with me looking for question marks hanging over his head, looking at both of us in turn wondering whether he was to be his original self or take on the mantle of the manic I had transformed him into?

When I look back on it now, all I can do is to fondly remember Mr Bala and admire his sense of balance.

Thankfully it does take all kinds to make the world!

Unwavering Single Mindedness.

This story is going to take you through a journey spanning 2 continents and spread over almost 3 decades.

Starts way back in 1995 when I had just started my own business with a very modest leased office in the Jebal Ali Free Zone with a workforce of two, with yours truly being the second one.  The only other person in that office being a secretary whom one could ill afford.  Back in the day it being almost de rigueur that any self respecting ‘office’ to be called as such should have one would explain why that tiny room had two tables, one being ‘manned’ by a lady who spent most of her ‘working day’ filing her nails!

Since we hardly ever had a visitor walk into our office, one day I was surprised to hear a very discreet knock on the door followed by a head peeping in, probably to check whether there was anyone behind that door.  Somewhat hesitatingly and rather tentatively this young man, looking directly at me, stepped across the threshold to ask the lady whether he could meet the boss.  Having been dismissively and in the most bored manner been pointed in my direction, he walked across to me and, in what was so obviously a well rehearsed tone blurted out what could only be described as a ‘speech’ he likely had delivered to many folk before ending up in my office.  The string of words which came breathlessly tumbling out went something like this:

“Sir, my name is Ramchander and I apologize for walking into your office without an appointment.  I have come from India on a visitor visa with the sole purpose of finding a job in Dubai.  Not having found one and since I have only two days left before my visa expires, I am going door to door to every office in Jebel Ali to try my luck”.

Seeing the look of anxiety and utter desperation written all over his face, when he swallowed to take a breath and before he could move on to the next chapter, I stopped him, suggesting that he sit down so that we could talk.

Learnt that he was a graduate working as a salesman for some electronic distribution company in Hyderabad, earning not even enough to make two ends meet and had decided that the only way to improve his lot was to find a job in Dubai which he had been told would pay him better.  Somehow, the honesty and the sincerity with which he spoke having got through to me I asked him what he expected he could do in our tiny little ‘organization’.  The answer was “Anything you want off me, I just want to be in Dubai”.

Which led me to ask the question, one which I believe to be the most pointless query which logically can only lead to a dishonest response, but one which all interviewers are expected to ask of the interviewee.  That what was his goal in life.  It was his straightforward answer which, besides literally blowing me away, ended up with Ram becoming the third member of our team:
“ Sir, I am crazy about cricket which is more like a passion, and I just want to earn enough so that some day I can go and watch a test match at the Oval in England”!

 Having to wind up my business and relocate to Colombo to try and reinvent my life, Ram in the interim having got married, found himself another job in Dubai, stayed there for many years before he and his wife immigrated and relocated to Canada.  In all that time after we parted ways, he regularly kept in touch with me, initially with phone calls and in later years with WhatsApp messages.  Every single time that he spoke to or messaged me, it had become almost embarrassing because the underlying sentiment was ALWAYS the same, that he was most grateful that I had given him a break and a stepping stone to improve his lot.  Regardless of the number of times that I suggested/requested that he put that thought behind himself since it was his hard work, which was responsible for his success, he never gave up on repeating that litany.

Post Ram relocating to Canada, he worked his butt off to improve his lot by working two, sometimes even three small time jobs delivering pizzas and rental cars.  Regardless, every single time that I travelled to Toronto, he would take time off to come across to meet and spend some time with me.  On one particular occasion even going so far as to take a two-day break to, in his words, “act as your chauffer for your meetings”.  All because I was responsible for him being where he was. Humility personified!

And then…………..

In July 2023, over WhatsApp he shared this photograph with me:

On my asking him where he was and how was he with Virat Kohli, the response “Sir, I have taken 5 days off from work to come to Barbados to watch an India/West indies test match” and ended with the embarrassingly customary “thank you for giving me the opportunity”.

Did I not say “Simple, Single Mindedness”!