My Medical History: Two stories

  

Our pain is our own.

This week, three different guys tried to share their pain with me.

An old man, whom I know since the time he wasn’t old, gave me a lengthy discourse on the series of ailments he suffers from. He consumes something like forty tablets each evening. And now, the doctors have recommended a hernia operation for him. At my age, imagine, he said and talked in great detail about that malady. I made a grave face, said sorry I was in a rush and left him.

A friend of mine, who had an operation performed on his buttocks this week, called and began describing graphically – using technical and lay terms – the operation and its aftermath. I said sorry I must have network problems, can’t hear anything, and finally cut the call.

Yesterday I saw an acquaintance standing on crutches. Before I could greet him, he said he was on crutches for the past 47 days (and 5 hours), and went on to tell me about his motorbike accident. It wasn’t really his mistake, he added, and cursed the traffic police for not having the right procedures. When this went on for forty minutes, I said sorry I was getting late for the gym (which I was) and wished him a speedy recovery. 

Pain of someone else is easy to bear. Particularly when you are healthy and not suffering from the same affliction. (Two diabetic or arthritic patients can lovingly talk to each other for hours). I’m normally sympathetic and have enough imagination to understand what the other person must feel. But please, spare me the details and the graphic descriptions. I’ve decided that if I reach old age, and find myself in a situation similar to the man on forty tablets, I should consciously try to keep my miseries to myself.

Having said that, in this article I plan to talk about my medical history. Contradiction? Hypocrisy? No. First of all, the stories here have happened in the past. I don’t seek readers’ sympathy. Secondly, the objective of this piece is educative. God forbid, but if you experience similar symptoms, you’ll be able to identify the malady immediately, and know what to do and what not to. I’ll try to keep out unsavoury descriptions as much as I can.

I’m not a qualified doctor. But I’m a qualified patient. I was a sickly child. It’s a wonder how I managed to survive childhood. Some people donate their bodies after death for the benefit of medical science. I’ve done the same thing while alive.

***

You have possibly heard this story from me.

Non-muscular young men observe their bare chests only when shaving. Shaving is one ritual that forces them to stand in front of a mirror. In 1990, I was working as a consultant in Moscow. I lived in the hotel Sevastopol. One morning while shaving, my eyes caught something unusual in the mirror. My chest, from neck downwards, was full of black patches. Oval-shaped spots that looked like rash. I caressed the patches with my palm. There was no pain, no itch. Simply a chest full of black patches. I waited for two or three days, and began feeling uneasy. A focused thought about the patches made permanent residence in my brain. Except for the fact that my chest was spotted, I was fine. But without pain and without itching, what were the patches doing there? What was going to follow? How did they appear in the first place?

Ten days later, I went to see a Russian doctor.

‘Must be some allergy.’ He said and gave me an ointment. Doctors, who don’t appear confident when giving opinions, aggravate your discomfort. I decided I would consult an Indian doctor. In a week’s time I was scheduled to fly back to Bombay.

The first thing I did on reaching home was to call my aunt –a pathologist.

‘If it’s not bothering you, why are you worried?’ She asked.

‘I have the patches for three weeks now. I just can’t get them off my chest.’ I tried to be witty though I was genuinely scared.

My aunt said I should go the following day to the Sion hospital, the municipal hospital where she worked. Her colleague was a skin specialist. 

The hospital smells frighten me. They are normally accompanied by bad news. My black-spotted heart thumping, I walked with my aunt in the hospital corridors.

‘Oh, there she is.’ Said my aunt.

‘Who?’

‘My friend – the skin specialist.’

The two women started chatting – and the chat was interminable. Both were doctors, but women first. I looked at my aunt with my eyes full of meaning.

‘This is my nephew.’ My aunt said. ‘He has some patches on his chest.’

‘Please take off your shirt.’ Said the skin specialist.

‘What? Here?’ Awkwardly, I removed the shirt in the corridor.

The lady doctor threw a fleeting glance.

‘Ok, you can put it on again.’

‘That’s it?’ I asked and wore my shirt.

To my amazement, the skin specialist continued her chattering with my aunt. And no mention of my chest at all.

‘Excuse me…’ I pointed to my chest.

‘Oh that, nothing to worry about.’ The doctor said.

‘I haven’t told you, these patches have appeared more than three weeks ago.’

‘Do you travel much – in different weather conditions?’

I nodded. I spent alternate months in Bombay and Moscow. You couldn’t have weather conditions more different. Had my aunt told the doctor about me?

‘That explains it, then.’ The doctor said.

‘But what should I do? You know for the past three weeks…’

‘You should be proud of yourself. This thing happens only to healthy young men.’

‘That may be so. But I would rather be a healthy young man without black spots on my chest. What’s wrong anyway?’

‘The name is Pityriasis rosea,’ she said, ‘the patches will vanish on the 42^nd day since they appeared first. And you won’t get them again in your life.’

I went home and checked the medical encyclopaedia. It said exactly what the doctor had said. This was an unknown lady doctor in a municipal hospital. She had correctly diagnosed in seconds. The type of experience that an Indian doctor gets makes her far superior to the European colleagues. I’ve heard of Indian surgeons who have performed more than ten thousand heart transplants. (I also wonder if that’s the reason why Indians are wiser. We see so many samples of human emotions – jealousy, hatred, anger, love, indifference, cruelty, goodness – that we are better at recognising human behaviour instantly.)  

On the 42^nd day, the patches vanished and never appeared on my chest again.

***

At the beginning of 1991, I moved to my first apartment in Moscow. I loved winter, I loved snow and I was convinced that the Moscow weather was good for my health. In Russia, I had never fallen ill.  Naturally, it took me some time to realise my cheeks were swollen like tomatoes. Cold and flu were not new to me. But this time my head, my cheeks, my teeth, my nose… one after the other began aching. It was a comprehensive package. Breathing was difficult. On the third day, I lay flat unable to think of anything except the pain in every part of my head. Outside the window, it was snowing. The temperature was twenty degrees below zero. I could feel the chill even when heating was on.

My Russian fiancée, Lena, tried the folk remedies. Like putting boiled eggs on the cheeks. They didn’t work. I didn’t even feel like eating the eggs.

‘We’ll have to take you to a hospital.’ Lena said. ‘No sensible person should go to a Russian hospital, but your condition is worrying.’

I agreed after a promise that I would go for a diagnosis, but wouldn’t lie in the hospital. Lena needed to make a few phone calls. In those days, it was impossible to get a hospital appointment without contacts or gifts.

‘You have Gaimorit. You probably didn’t cover your head properly.’ Said the Russian lady doctor. ‘A serious one. Come tomorrow at eleven. You need punctures.’

By this time, my voice was a croak. Anyway, I didn’t have the courage to ask what punctures meant. It was true I hated wearing fur hats. I had never used Long Johns. In my textbooks, I had read about Russia’s human seals who swim bare-chested in freezing temperatures. Of course, I never dreamt of matching them, but yes, I had occasionally run in the mornings wearing only the sportswear. My head really needed to be checked.

The next day, in the hospital, I was surprised to see the room where I was summoned. It looked more like a theatre – not an operation theatre but a drama theatre. Yesterday’s lady doctor asked me to take the chair on the stage.

‘I should… should I… sit here?’ I occupied the chair. My face was red and bulging. I kept opening my mouth for breathing. I hope you have not experienced them, but there are certain types of pain when you think death is preferable.

‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked. It was more than twenty minutes since my entry in the auditorium.

‘I have called my students.’ The lady doctor said.

The students arrived and took seats. My hand reflexively covered my face. There must have been forty or so students. The lady doctor stood up.

‘I thought I should invite you.’ She addressed her students. ‘This is a fine specimen of double-sided acute antritis. You may have seen the left- or the right-sided antritis, but this is a rare example where both nasal antrites are inflamed. In fact, this is at a fairly advanced stage. The maxillary area is entirely inflamed. Such advanced cases can lead to meningitis and death. Why don’t each of you come forward and take a closer look?’

The students then formed a queue and one after another scrutinised my nose – as if it was part of a Madam Tussauds exhibit. One girl pressed my cheek and asked if it was painful. I smiled artificially and said yes. Taking cue, everyone started pressing different parts of my face and head.

‘Is it painful here? And here? Does it hurt more here… or there?’

‘Your teeth are very white. Can you tell us how?’ one girl asked.

‘The white teeth are also aching now.’ I answered and everyone laughed.

‘Ok, I think enough of inspection.’ interrupted the doctor-professor. ‘Before I start punctures, please ask any questions you have.’

That was followed by a Q&A. I was ensconced in the chair all the while. If I had an appetite, I would have felt hungry.

Finally, she took a needle in her hand.

‘Come closer, all of you… so you can watch it.’

The students gathered around me.

The Russian lady doctor poked the needle in my nose. It tickled my nose, but it was a lethal tickling. I stifled my scream with effort.  

‘As you can see it’s painful, but effective. I haven’t yet managed it. The puncture pumps out the impurities.’

The doctor gave me another shot. Another tickling. I wanted to scream and sneeze. I kept my eyes shut.

‘You need to find the right spot. I’m not getting it.’ Said the lady. ‘Maybe I should try the other nostril.’ 

She went on poking the needle in my nostrils. What was left of my brain considered fleeing. This was more unbearable than the antritis itself.

After another try, and an agonising sound from me, she said,

‘I think I should call Dr Petrov. I’m not able to use the necessary force.’

She then left the auditorium. I wiped my face with my handkerchief.

After a few minutes, she reappeared. With a man in a white coat. This must be Dr Petrov. He didn’t say a word. He took the needle, stood close to me and gave a jab. For a moment I thought I died. It was a moment of supreme pain – no tickling, no whining, one single moment of supreme pain, and it was over with that nostril. He repeated the procedure on the second nostril. I lived another supreme moment. But I didn’t scream at all. And my face felt lighter. My eyes weakly smiled at Dr Petrov.

‘See the type of strength you need.’ Said the lady doctor. ‘When this patient comes the next time, those of you who feel you are strong enough can try executing the punctures. I think you had a good lesson today.’

I am not in a position to describe the next few days. Before going to the hospital, I trembled. I felt what the enslaved prisoners in concentration camps must have felt before attending their torture sessions. One thing I managed through skilful negotiations was ensuring Dr Petrov would deal with me, alone, in his cabin. No students ever saw me again. Two bottles of vodka had convinced Dr Petrov that this was the best strategy to treat the patient.

When I returned to India in March, I went once again with my aunt – where else, but to the Sion hospital. To check that there was no long-term damage.

‘In Moscow you said? What treatment were you given?’ The doctor checking me asked.

‘Punctures.’

‘Punctures? What punctures?’

I gave the details.

The doctor laughed. He called his colleagues and said look what they do in Moscow to treat maxillary sinusitis.

‘This is…’ he said to me, ‘a 19^th century method. Primitive and long forgotten. In India, we don’t use it. Indian antibiotics would have cured you easily.’

Ravi

Baqri Id

Asif Anwar always woke up a half hour before the local loudspeakers began the first namaz. Hameeda and the three children would still be asleep. Asif was accustomed to move around the house in the pre-dawn dark without disturbing them. His house was small enough, and his habits tidy enough, for him to know where to find the water jug or the prayer rug without switching the lights on. This was the quietest hour of the day. Once namaz was over, the sun sneaked in through the blinds and the street noises began. The daily routine made Asif think it was all part of a script written by Allah.

But today was different. He woke up at a sound that he initially thought was made by Abdul, his youngest son. Why was he laughing in the middle of the night? Asif got up and realised it was not Abdul who was making the sound, but the goat outside. The white goat which was tied to the terrace grille. Asif went to the terrace and patted it. His patting palm felt the healthiness of the goat’s torso. Indeed this one weighed a little over sixty kilos. Only one and a half year old and more than sixty kilos. Year after year, they were becoming expensive. This year, Asif had paid thirteen thousand rupees for it, at two hundred rupees a kilo. It was in bad taste to bargain when buying an al-qurbani for Eid al-Adha. But this wholesome white creature was good value for the money spent. As per custom, Asif would distribute twenty kilos to the poor in the neighbourhood, give twenty kilos to his cousins, and keep twenty for his own family.

The white goat had been bought three days earlier. Bilal had painted his horns blue, and put a traditional pink mark on its back. Abdul had made a colourful necklace that shone even now- in the morning dark. The terrace floor was littered with leaves, broken branches and grass. The goat had little else to do but chew leaves whenever it was left alone. The last two days, Asif’s children had played with it. Abdul had tried to ride the goat as if it were a horse. His riding and falling were both delightful, and his friends had laughed. Now with the morning near, the goat apparently longed for the children’s company once again. Did it sleep in the night? Asif wanted the goat to rest well before slaughtering it.  

Asif checked his watch and decided not to go to bed again. Anyway, today his first namaz would happen in the masjid. He once again patted the goat’s back. ‘You sleep, it’s too early’, he said to the goat. The goat, not understanding what was said, bleated again. Asif left the terrace and entered his bedroom. From the cupboard, he took out the new white dress – an embroidered one – and kept it gently on the sofa. Hameeda had pressed everybody’s new clothes.

In an hour’s time, brushed and bathed meticulously, he was ready to leave the house. Wasim and Bilal shared the other bedroom. They must be still asleep. Asif switched on the small light to watch his reflection in the cupboard mirror. The round white cap and the long ironed clothes made him look funny, but they also made him feel the festive mood. Dhu al-Hijjah was a sacred month, and Eid al-Adha was its most special day. He sprayed scent on his clothes and wore his silver ring. Later in the morning, his three sons would wear similar clothes.  Asif’s cousins would arrive at noon, to join in the feast.

Asif noticed Hameeda get up from the bed.

‘No need to switch the light off’, she said, ‘I am awake. I couldn’t sleep well; the goat was making all those sounds in the night’.

‘It’s only tonight’, said Asif. ‘Please see if the goat can sleep a bit, and ask the children not to play with it. It gets too excited. They say it’s better if the goat is well rested. I’m going for the prayers. Get everyone ready so we can have breakfast when I come back.’

The masjid was not far. But as custom required Asif took a different and longer route to go to it. He would use the normal route on his way back. Night had ended, but the street lights were on. The wind blew onto his body, but it couldn’t affect his starched clothes. Asif softly chanted takbir all the way to the masjid. Outside the masjid, groups of men wearing round caps and lengthy white dresses hugged one another and wished Id Mubarak. Roads were empty of vehicles, making the festival spirit even stronger.

By the time he returned from his prayers, his family was ready – at the breakfast table.

‘Let’s finish breakfast, we want to go out and play’, said his sons.

They all looked good in their new clothes. Wasim, the eldest, looked particularly handsome. Only last month, a thin moustache had appeared on his face. How the years pass by; Asif thought. Soon we’ll have to find a dulhan for him.

Asif and Wasim ate seven dates each, and the others five. Breakfast was light, more ritualistic.

‘Don’t eat too much before lunch’, Asif said to his sons. Hameeda had promised to make mutton biryani today.  ‘Today’s lunch is going to be delicious. And don’t start playing with the goat again. You should all go out now’, he shouted looking at the terrace. Little Abdul was trying to shake hands with the goat. Bilal was watching it and laughing.

‘Listen, it’s not a dog. It’s a goat. You can’t train him’, Asif said.

‘No, see, it’s giving me a handshake’, said Abdul, holding the front leg of the goat.

Asif went to the terrace with a raised hand, and drove away his sons. He pushed the remaining leaves and grass close to the goat’s legs. The goat briefly bent its head, took a few leaves in its mouth, chewed them and bleated loudly.

Two of Asif’s cousins arrived first. They met Asif on the terrace, heartily embraced him and wished Eid Mubarak.

‘What a lovely goat’, they said, staring at it.

As if to acknowledge that, the goat gave a bleat of delight. It was happy in human company.

‘Why don’t we move inside the house’, said Asif. ‘I would like to sharpen the knife.’

All of them moved to the kitchen. Asif sat on the floor and placed the grinding stone in front of him. Taking the foot-long knife in his hand, he began honing the knife’s edge. With his hands engaged in the rhythmic movement, he continued to talk to his cousins. Every few minutes, he tenderly touched the knife’s blade with his finger and then went back to sharpen it. This particular knife was used only once a year, on the day of Eid al-Adha. Although washed after every use, the blade had a reddish tinge on it.

Wasim entered the kitchen.

‘Abba-Jan, when are we planning to have lunch? I’m already hungry’, he said, ‘I’ve met everyone I was supposed to meet.’

‘Why don’t you help me with this’, said Asif to his son. ‘You are now an adult. In a few years you’ll be doing this yourself.’

Wasim took the knife from his father’s hands and sat next to the grinding stone. His young hands moved more energetically.

‘That may be enough’, Asif said finally, coming closer and testing the blade once again with his finger. He could hear the sound of children playing cricket on the road.

‘Since Bilal and Abdul are out, let’s get going now. Wasim is hungry, I’m sure you are as well, he said looking at his cousins. And Hameeda’ll need time to cook the meal.’

The cousins nodded.

‘Let me find… here it is… I wear this every year…’ Asif wore the long apron to cover his white dress. ‘I suggest you stand behind after you hold it down, so that your shirts don’t get spoilt. Wasim, you please take a bowl of water.’

Asif hid the knife inside his apron. He went to the main door and locked it. ‘Don’t come to the terrace and don’t open the door for children’ he warned his wife. ‘We’ll try to do it as fast as possible, so that you can start your cooking.’  Followed by his two cousins and Wasim, Asif entered the terrace. The goat, bored of chewing leaves, looked at them and made another high-pitched sound. It was time someone played with it.

Wasim put the bowl of water in front of it. The goat happily drank it.

‘Good. Now we’re ready. Take that rope in the corner and tie its legs.’ The cousins did as told. The goat thought this was some kind of game and shook its legs playfully. The sun shone in the centre of the sky. The sky above the terrace was blue, cloudless. The only sound one could hear was the playing children’s clatter and occasional firecrackers.

‘Wasim, you hold it down… down on its left side… yes, like this. And the head should be in that direction… facing Qibla… yes that way.’ The goat issued another high-pitched bleat. Its head tried to turn back to watch those holding its legs.

‘I’ll make a single cut… here’ Asif said pointing to the goat’s throat. ‘… and the blood will flow all over that side. All of you stand behind. You need to be careful, sometimes the blood can splash. It’ll bleed for two or three minutes. Then we can take it to the kitchen and start cutting. Make sure all the blood is gone before we remove it from here. We’ll clean the terrace once Hameeda starts cooking.’

‘Bismilla, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar’ all of them began chanting. Asif took the knife from inside his apron. He looked at the goat’s throat. He decided the point where he should apply the cut. He put his hand on the goat’s head and raised his arm holding the knife.

All of a sudden, he felt that hand twisting. His eyes closed. Asif felt his body turn upside down and rotate. He wished he could stop that involuntary movement but couldn’t. It was as if his whole being was getting sucked inside a whirlpool. He was losing himself and was worryingly aware of it. And then he felt it. He felt the presence of Allah.

Allah can’t be seen. Allah can only be experienced.

‘Don’t worry; I want to communicate with you.’ Allah said. ‘You were chanting my name. I thought it was the right time.’

‘Bismilla Allah hu Akbar,’ said Asif, getting out of his stunned state, ‘O Allah, I’m at Your service. Please command.’

‘I don’t have to tell you,’ proceeded Allah ‘why you celebrate the Eid al-Adha.’

‘O Allah, yes, I know the story.’ Asif narrated what every Muslim knows since childhood. ‘You had commanded Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, to sacrifice his son, prophet Ishmael, peace be upon him. When they were moving towards Mina to perform this solemn duty, Satan tried to dissuade them, but did not succeed. As Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, was about to pass the sharp knife over his son an angel intervened, turning the knife upside down. The Prophet had shown his sincerity, and he was allowed to sacrifice a well-fed Ram in lieu of his son.’

‘Yes. That’s the story. And as I had expected you know it well. It happened more than four thousand years ago. The times were different. People were more sincere and angels more charitable. These days, angels are fewer. And I’ve decided to test the sincerity of my followers again.’

‘O Allah, You need to give the command. I’m at Your feet.’ Said Asif.

‘I want you to sacrifice your son, the one standing next to you,’ Allah said, ‘instead of the goat whose throat your knife is pointing at.’

‘Bismilla, Allah hu Akbar’ said Asif, his tone that of a question.

‘Yes, you heard me right.’ Said Allah. ‘I want you to sacrifice your son, and not the goat.’

The next thing Asif heard was Wasim, his son, calling him by name.

‘Abba- Jan, are you all right? Please drink this water.’

Asif drank the glass of water. Drops of sweat had covered his entire face. He was sat on the terrace floor. The knife lay on his side. The goat, his legs tied, was kicking and screaming. Asif’s cousins looked at him, worried.

‘What happened, Asif? Your face became completely white. We thought you had an attack of some type.’ One cousin said.

Asif looked at Wasim who was standing two feet away. Asif’s eyes reluctantly focused themselves on Wasim’s neck. The skin was smooth and tender. Asif was surprised his young, well-built son had such a delicate neck. He took the knife from the floor, and gathering his strength stood up. He held the handle of the knife firmly, and looked at the sky. He said a prayer, but silently.

Bending down, he cut the ropes that had tied the legs of the goat. The goat bleated repeatedly, stood up, and ran inside the house. Wasim ran after him.

‘If you’re not feeling well, I can perform the duty.’ Said Asif’s cousin. ‘Allah will not forgive us if we don’t offer the qurbani that He commands.’  

‘I don’t have the courage nor the strength to offer the sacrifice Allah has asked for. I hope Allah can forgive me for that. I don’t want to deceive Him by offering something else instead. We will not sacrifice the goat. I’ll speak to Hameeda. We’ll see what to do about lunch.’

Saying this, Asif hurriedly rushed to the house. His cousins didn’t understand what was wrong with him. However, since he was the eldest member of their generation, they decided to abide by Asif’s wishes.

Ravi

Memoirs of a Russian Interpreter: Part I

Without my realising it, my career as a Russian interpreter began in 1984 with a phone call from someone who didn’t know what interpreter meant.

“The USSR consulate gave us your name. A delegation from Russia is coming to Bombay. We would like you to work as a translator.” The clerk from ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations) said over the phone.

“Do you mean interpreter?” I asked, my heart thumping. Until then, I had read about that species only in fiction. My mind recalled the story of a Greek interpreter who was coerced to help a kidnapper talk to his victims.

“They said you are a translator.”

“Would I need to translate written material, or do you want me to accompany your delegation so that they can talk at their meetings?”

“Yes, we want you to go everywhere with them. It’s a small delegation; only three people, all musicians. I’ve got their names here. Two girls and a man – Nurilla, Nuri and Jan.” He paused and in a that-was-the-good-news-now-here-is-the-bad-one tone added: “We can only pay sixty rupees a day (about four dollars then). We are a govt organisation, you see.”

I was working with a chartered accountants’ firm, an occupation that I detested wholeheartedly. I applied for short leave and two days later was at the airport waiting for the two girls and a man to emerge.

***

I could not see two white girls and a man – with or without musical instruments. The only foreigners I saw were three elderly men who looked lost. One of them had Mongolian features. Where was my delegation? As I walked around, I heard the elderly men speak in Russian. Even the man with narrow eyes spoke in Russian. Quite a coincidence this. I thought they might know something about my group. I went and greeted them.

“Where is Ravindra?” One of the men asked me in Russian.

“That’s me. My name is Ravi. Ravindra is the official name.”

“Oh, hello! We’ve been waiting for some time.”

The three introduced themselves.

“I’m Nurilla Zakirov.” Said the youngest of the three men. As I learnt later, he was in his early forties, but I thought of him as an elderly person since I was only twenty-two. (Now-a-days, I don’t consider people in their forties to be all that old). Plump, short and half-bald, Nurilla had a very round face. Though he wore glasses, you could clearly see how piercing his eyes were. He was a composer from Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Nuri Mukhatov, the oldest, looked like Onassis (Anthony Quinn) in The Greek Tycoon – but without his wealth. He came from Turkmenistan. The third person who hardly spoke was an Estonian composer – Jan Raats. In 1984, blue jeans – an American symbol – were disapproved by the USSR authorities. The three gentlemen wore formal trousers and full-sleeve shirts. Age and enthusiasm had dictated Nurilla to be the natural leader of the group.

“Please tell ICCR not to call us a Russian delegation.” Nurilla said. “None of us is Russian.” Calling Soviets from the other republics Russians was as great an offence as calling a man from Scotland an Englishman. 

***

One of the planned visits was to the Sangeet Mahabharati conservatory. It was founded by Nikhil Ghosh, a Bengali musician with a long beard. His family welcomed us. His sons Nayan and Dhruv Ghosh, already well-known instrumentalists, were ready with their tabla and sitar tuned.

“Please tell our guests I don’t see them carrying any instruments.” Said the patriarch Ghosh.

“We are composers, not players.” Clarified Nurilla.

“Please tell them… in our country composers normally play on some instruments, at least the harmonium.”

“Yes, we play a bit… but we can’t carry grand pianos with us on our travel.” I translated what Nurilla said and everyone laughed.

Nikhil Ghosh then began a discourse on Indian music and instruments.

In India, we’re not accustomed to working with interpreters. He started each sentence with “please tell them…” which quite annoyed me. I was going to tell them everything that was said. Professional interpreters use first person when translating. For example, when Nikhil Ghosh said “these are my two sons.” I said in Russian “these are my two sons” rather than “these are his two sons.” The job of an interpreter is to replicate what’s being said in the right tone and emotions. One school considers that if the speaker is crying while speaking, the interpreter should cry as well. I’ll discuss this in detail in one of the future diaries.

To return to the Sangeet Mahabharati, Nikhil Ghosh continued to talk about Indian classical music and instruments. After I translated, he would once again explain the same thing. As a faithful interpreter, I continued to translate whatever he said, but eventually I grew tired of the repetition.

“Excuse me, but I’ve already translated what raga is.” I said.

“I know. But these are difficult concepts to understand for you. Unless you understand well what I’m saying, you won’t be able to translate for them. I want…”

“Sorry, but…” I interrupted. “… I was born in a musician’s family. My father, Shankar Abhyankar is a sitarist, vocalist and composer.”

“Oh,” his eyes glistened, “you are Shankar’s son! You should have said that in the beginning. Then of course you know all this very well.”

The talk moved smoothly after that.

***

The three composers stayed at hotel Ritz, Church Gate. One afternoon, after lunch, I said to Nurilla we could visit a bank as he had wished. Nurilla immediately changed the subject. Later, he took me aside and said,

“I don’t want those two to know about it. I’m carrying some money – of my own. I would like to change it into Rupees so I could do a bit of shopping.”

While the Turkmen and the Estonian enjoyed a siesta, Nurilla and I went hunting for a place that would change Soviet roubles into rupees. Everywhere, at the banks and Thomas Cook, they looked with wonder at the notes Nurilla was carrying and said they couldn’t convert those. In those days, black-market moneychangers operated across Khadi Bhavan. For each US Dollar, they normally offered two rupees more than the official rate. The man would take you to the staircase of a nearby building. The operation would be effected on the stairs. If the amount involved was big, he first made you wait until his accomplice brought the required sum from an unknown ‘head office’.

Looking left and right for any signs of police, I talked to one such street moneychanger. He was from Kerala. Nurilla, he and I went to the staircase and he inspected the notes. On his pocket calculator, he rapidly pressed some keys.

“Nobody deals with Russian money.” He said. “I’ll offer two rupees for each rouble. You have… two thousand? Ok, you get four thousand rupees.”

“Listen Nurilla, this is daylight robbery. Officially, you should get something like 25 rupees for each rouble, he is offering just two.”

“But I’ve many roubles in Tashkent. I need Rupees here. I would like to buy something for my children, my wife. The exchange rate doesn’t matter.” The moneychanger looked at us blankly, unable to understand a word.

I took Nurilla away from the black market. The following morning, I went to his hotel room and opened my wallet.

“I’m not rich. But from my savings, I can offer you this.” I took out 2000 rupees. “You can buy things for your family.”

“No, why are you giving your own money? I can’t take it. Or you can take the roubles I am carrying.”

“What am I going to do with Roubles here?”

We talked in circles. Finally, it was agreed Nurilla would take the rupees. I wouldn’t take any roubles from him – they were useless anyway. (Also it was illegal to take roubles out of the USSR or bring them in). When I went to the USSR, he could pay me back in roubles. At that time, I thought it was unlikely I would ever go to the USSR.

In this manner, my first assignment as an interpreter resulted in a net monetary loss for me.

***

Despite the financials, I enjoyed working with the Soviet composers. At the airport, we exchanged postal addresses.

“It was good fun, thank you.” I said. “I’ll be honest with you. Nurilla and Nuri are female names in this part of the world. That was the reason, you know, why I was looking for a… different composition… when you arrived.”

The three composers exchanged glances. Nurilla burst out laughing.

“Now that you say this… we were told our interpreter was some ‘Ravindra’. As you know, in Russia, every name ending in –a is a female name. We expected a beautiful Indian girl to work with us, and not someone in a goatee beard.”

***

Nurilla remained in my debt only for two years.

In 1986, I landed in Moscow as a student. House of Friendship, my sponsor, was willing to organise subsidised trips for us. Even with subsidies, travelling to Uzbekistan was expensive. A three-hour flight from Moscow to Tashkent, another couple of flights to Samarkand and Bukhara and staying at hotels everywhere. It was beyond what I could afford.

In those days, people still wrote letters. I had exchanged a few with Nurilla. I now queued at the post office to call him. After exchanging pleasantries, I came to the point.

“I can come to Tashkent, but I’ve no money.”

“Ravi, I’ll pay for your trip. I owe you money.”

“I’ve calculated. I need more than what you owe me. I propose barter. I’ve certain things you don’t get in the USSR. I’ll give them to you.”

“That’s not necessary. You just take as much money as you need.”

“No Nurilla, I would prefer it this way.”

I then temporarily borrowed from my Austrian roommate for the Uzbekistan trip. On my first evening in Tashkent, (after seeking permission from the accompanying KGB escorts) I took my university-mates for dinner at Nurilla’s house. When we left, Seth, my American friend remarked: “It’s some kind of magic. Ravi, I thought you were carrying a blue suitcase when we reached the house. Now I see your hands are empty.” I simply blinked my eyes and smiled mysteriously.

I had thrust into Nurilla’s hands the suitcase, an alarm clock, an umbrella – all from Singapore, and an Indian shawl. I took Roubles from him. The account opened in 1984 was now settled.

In later years, both Nurilla and I would look back at this whole business with amusement.

***

From the beginning of 1990, I lived in Moscow and could afford to make phone calls to Tashkent. As a consultant to the Menon group of companies, I was responsible for their USSR (and later ex-USSR) operations and was “obliged” to visit every republic to explore business opportunities. The first republic I flew to was Uzbekistan. Nurilla was at the Tashkent airport to welcome me.

I can now live in a hotel, I said.

No, in Tashkent you can’t live in a hotel, said Nurilla.

Nurilla owned a four-bedroom apartment on Navoi Street. Independent sources confirmed it was the biggest house in Tashkent.

“My great-grandfather, Abdullah, owned the whole of Tashkent. In the 19^th century, Russian troops attacked us and captured the city. Now I am left with this – a four bedroom apartment.”

I don’t know whether this was the reason why Nurilla was never particularly fond of Russians.

“In private, I can hate them. But in public I must take a party line. Had I not joined the communist party, they wouldn’t have allowed me to compose for ballets or operas. My symphonies would never have got published. Why, I couldn’t have travelled to India. All three of us who came to India were party members. Party members first, composers later. You know in this country, we have to create literature in the socialist spirit, write music in the socialist spirit.”

Nurilla also held strong views (expressed mildly) about his own culture disappearing. He and his wife talked in Uzbek, but his children in Russian. Zakirov was not the family name of his ancestor who lost Tashkent to Russians. The imperialists had managed to Russify all Muslim names by adding ‘-ov’ to them.

“You see this?” Nurilla once took me to see a Tashkent mosque. “Only the oldest. Those near their death. No young people ever come here. The Soviets have made us into an atheist nation. It’s my dream to visit Haj. Every Muslim is supposed to go there once in life. I don’t think with my party ticket I’ll be able to do it – ever.”

Our meetings became more frequent as I joined British American Tobacco. I was part of BAT’s acquisition team for Tashkent and Samarkand. I went to Tashkent every couple of months. On some evenings, I went to Nurilla’s house – ate Uzbeki plov made by his wife, played chess with his son Iskander, ate juicy Uzbeki cherries endlessly while listening to Nurilla’s latest compositions. With Nurilla on the side, entrance to Tashkent theatres and ballets was free for me.

Life began to change faster than he had expected. In 1991, Uzbekistan had become a free country – no longer ruled from Moscow. Nurilla’s joy was short-lived. Islam Karimov’s rule made him feel that the Soviets were better. The bomb blasts and other activities by Uzbekistan’s Islamic movement made him feel that atheism was better. He became disillusioned and sought to move away in search of a better life for his children. If earlier, he was forced to compose in socialist spirit; now he became spiritless and his music output stopped.

In 1999, I was transferred to Poland. I decided to call Nurilla only in 2001, when one of my colleagues was posted to Tashkent. I tried the phone several times. It didn’t work. Country and city codes change so often in the modern world; it didn’t surprise me at all. I gave my colleague Nurilla’s address, told him about the biggest apartment in Tashkent. Since he would be based in Tashkent for the next four years, he must meet this friend of mine. I sent a small polish souvenir for Nurilla. 

Only a month later, my colleague e-mailed to say the Zakirov family had migrated to the USA. No, he didn’t leave behind any address or phone.

Finally, Nurilla had succeeded in fleeing – not from the Russians, but from the Uzbeks. I didn’t know how or where to look for him. For me, Nurilla was associated with Tashkent. I wouldn’t like to visit Tashkent again, I thought.

***

In 2005, in one of my diaries I wrote an Uzbeki story (Open diary 42, 2005). I remembered Nurilla and thought I would Google him. Try to find his whereabouts in the USA and call him. I was surprised to find an entry on him in Wikipedia. The entry was fairly accurate and said ‘in 2000, he moved to the USA for political and professional reasons.’

Only after reading the entry, I saw its heading.

“Nurilla Zakirov (1942, Tashkent, Uzbekistan – 2003, Atlanta, USA)”.

I had to read it a couple of times before I understood its meaning. I wish I hadn’t searched the web for his name. For once, I was annoyed with Wikipedia for supplying me with information I hadn’t asked for.                                                                                   

Ravi

Pending on 31st December

You can’t imagine the number of photographs we have at our house. The oldest, I think, is a group photo that features my great-great-grandparents. In effect, we have photos taken over 100 years or so. And they are all over the place. What I want to do is to systematically organise them. Buy albums of the same size, the modern ones you know where it’s easy to insert pictures without dirtying your hands – arrange them either yearwise or think of some themes. Birthdays, Ganesh festivals, our trips et cetera. Label each of the albums and number them. I can imagine how nice they’ll look ranging from number one to say two hundred – all standing like army soldiers in the showcase. I want to do this. It’s simply a matter of finding time. In fact, I would love to scan them as well. Maybe not all – but certainly the oldest ones. The yellowing ones. It’s such a wonderful gift of technology. It’ll take only a few seconds to convert to electrons the picture of my great-great-grandparents. Next Sunday, after lunch I must try to do that.

 

Same Sunday I want to write down all the numbers in my cell phone. My cousin had his phone stolen last week. It reminded me I’d planned to do this for a long time. If my phone is stolen god forbid I’ll lose some of my friends for ever. I want to note down all the numbers, and yes I want to delete all unnecessary messages. I think my box is full. That should be easy. I can do it when sitting in a traffic jam. But noting down the numbers somewhere is a priority. Someone said you can transfer them directly to your computer. Yes I remember that’s the reason why I postponed writing them down. But I need to find out which cable to use. And how. I have no idea how to do it myself.

 

My cell phone and our television’s remote control look very similar. And they both keep getting misplaced inside the house. No problem if I can’t find the cell phone. I simply go to my landline, and call myself on mobile. I know it sounds silly, and I must be the only person in the world to call myself from one phone to another. It’s such a pleasure to anticipate the familiar ringing from some corner of the house. Normally the mobile is hidden under a newspaper or my wife’s purse or something like that. Once, to my embarrassment, I found it in my trouser pocket. (Yes, I was wearing those trousers). Finding the remote control is more painful. We must search and find it because the knobs on television are no longer working. (If we press the volume up, it goes down.) Remote control is the only thing that keeps our TV going. Which reminds me I have to change its batteries. They are smaller in size. Every time the remote becomes dysfunctional, I take each battery out and rub its head on my shirt - vigorously. You will be surprised how well batteries get charged by rubbing them on a cotton shirt. I’m afraid one day they won’t respond to my shirt. I’ll then change them.

 

It’s strange how you find things – when you are not looking for them. The other day I was searching for the remote control and I found the manual for my digital camera. This manual I’ve been searching for more than a year now. Since the time I bought my Sony digital. My brother tells me I don’t use more than 5% of the functionality. That may be true. For more than a year, I’ve kept the initial setting. I must say I do manage to get the pictures. I take them only in the daylight. That’s why I wanted to read the manual, understand all the different signs (P, S, A, M, setup, AE lock, Ω, SCN, ∆… so many of them). I must read the manual to start using my camera properly. I tried once or twice to press the Menu. Whenever I press the menu, what was working also stops working – be it the digital camera, remote control or computer.    

 

Talking about the computer, I must call a computer doctor. Every time I open my computer, there is this message flashing – your system may be at risk. This copy of windows did not pass the genuine validation. I don’t want that message. It keeps appearing every few minutes. What’s the point in telling me what I already know? I keep deleting it. I want the computer doctor to clean up my computer; I think it has far more temporary files than permanent. I wonder if he can help me unblock my blog as well. That is another embarrassing thing – like finding the cell phone in my trouser pocket. I had a blog, and I wrote on it on and off. I came back from a two week trip and tried to log in. I couldn’t remember the password. I have so many logins and passwords now – and they are all fairly similar to one another. I haven’t written them anywhere, because you’re not supposed to write down passwords. Now my own blog has got blocked and I don’t know what to do.

 

Talking of passwords reminds me of the bank matters. The three-digit security code at the back of my credit card is apparently a huge risk. I’m told waiters note that number and start using your card in the internet. I don’t know if I can scratch the three digits off. If I do, I’ll have to remember the number, because I can’t write it down anywhere. And remember it for each of my credit cards. Currently I pay my restaurant bills by cash – until I find a solution. There is the HDFC bank matter to be settled as well. The bank sent me a card without my asking for it– must be six or seven years ago. I never used it. But in the first year, they still charged some amount. And now each year I get a bill with 18% added. This year it’s become a sizeable amount. I write to the bank every year denying all this, cursing the manager and the bill keeps mounting. That’s one thing I must sort out-urgently.

 

The other urgent item is the dentist. I haven’t been to the dentist for, I think, more than a year now. I read somewhere you should go every six months. But it doesn’t happen if nothing happens. Now, though, I feel something is wrong in the upper left corner, I hope it’s not a cavity. It’s not hurting or anything – just a funny feeling when I eat on the left side. I must take an appointment urgently. For the last four months I’ve been eating exclusively on the right side of my mouth.

 

If I get an appointment this week, I could also go to the car mechanic next to the clinic. Both the back doors have child locks, even when we don’t want them. (My daughter sits in the front). The other day, I wanted to escape from a wedding and go to the gym. I’d decided to change to the gym clothes in the car. I changed at the back side of my car, and then couldn’t get out. Somehow I squeezed myself over the top of the gearbox to fall in the driver seat, but my back is still hurting. I must get the child locks unlocked.

 

Dentist. Car mechanic. Plumber. I must not forget. They’re all located one after the other. For months now, the tub in the bathroom is leaking. I can’t see where the leak is. But it must be fixed. Of course, tub bath is out of question. But I’ve found an angle. If I take shower from that angle, the water doesn’t leak. I don’t know what the connection is. This is only a temporary solution. I must call the plumber to get the leak fixed.

 

These are small matters, and given time most of them will get sorted out quickly. I’ve now made a file in my computer where I note the pending item, and write a deadline by which it must be resolved. Some are pretty minor. Like buying a pen stand. I’ve decided I must have a pen stand next to my land line. Or maybe hang a pen to a string next to the phone. Alternatively I can buy some twenty cheap pens and keep them in the drawer below the phone. And a notepad next to it.

 

In the computer file, everything I have mentioned here has a deadline of 31^st December. But today is 31^st December. And I’m busy. I’ve to attend a party this evening. I’m afraid the new deadline will have to be the end of January.

 

Ravi 

The Ethics of Nuclear Bombing

My rambling this week, and a genuine rambling it is, is based on random thoughts generated while doing research for the Hiroshima/Nagasaki article last week.

Quotes, snippets and Bhagvad Gita

Before boarding the plane leaving on a mission to bomb Hiroshima, Dick Nelson, a 24 year old kid then, an old man now, recalls:

“You knew it was big, you just didn’t want to mess anything up… When we were in the air somebody said… this bomb costs as much as an aircraft carrier…well … then you really get the monkey on your back.”

Van Kirk, another crew member, also 24 at that time, remembers the late-night scene just before departure. Spotlights had lit the aircraft up. Van Kirk compares the atmosphere to a Hollywood premier. Dick Nelson thinks of a supermarket opening,

“Klieg lights and all kinds of photographers… you’re almost embarrassed.”

The glorious event in America’s history needed to be documented for posterity.

The most famous photo is that of a grinning Paul Tibbets, the pilot of the plane that dropped the Hiroshima bomb. Just before departure, he is seen waving, delight on his face, to the night-time crowd. Tibbets had named his plane “Enola Gay”, his mother’s maiden name. This was his way of honouring her.

Bernard Waldman, a physician, was part of the crew with the task of taking live photographs of the historic explosion. The Hiroshima mushroom cloud pictures we see today were taken by his Pentax camera that could take 7000 frames per second.

Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, and a philosophy scholar; on hearing the Hiroshima bombing described his feelings by recalling a verse from Bhagvad Gita:

“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

[Bhagvad Gita, chapter 11, verse 32]

It’s said Oppenheimer had quoted another verse in regard to the explosion itself:

If the radiance of a thousand suns were to

Burst forth at once in the sky, that would

Be like the splendour of the Mighty One.”

[Bhagvad Gita, Chapter 11, verse 12]

The prophetic Bhagvad Gita has it all. In Mahabharata, the Indian epic probably five thousand years old; the two armies of warring cousins are ready to begin the battle. Arjuna, a master archer, one of the central heroes of the epic, a conscientious man; suddenly (in chapter 11) develops moral doubts about the whole exercise. He wants to put the weapons down to stop the potential slaughter. His chariot is driven by God Himself. Lord Krishna, his charioteer and advisor, boosts his morale by doing two things. Krishna first reveals his divine form to Arjuna. (Form comparable to thousand suns bursting in the sky at once. See verse above).  Secondly, he explains to Arjuna his duty in the battlefield. “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. Whether you kill them or not, they’re all going to perish one day. Remember, only bodies can be killed, the souls are immortal. So please, dear Arjuna, do your duty without worrying about the consequences.”

[Nothing much seemed to have changed in 5000 years since the Bhagvad Gita. The civilians in Hiroshima, and later Nagasaki, were going to die one day anyway. And only their bodies got radiated and pulverised. The souls of the Japanese – like those of other humans – are immortal.]

And finally, President Truman ordering no more nuclear attacks without his explicit approval. He said he was tired of killing, particularly all those kids.

***

The Ethics of killing Civilians with A-bombs

In school, I remember some teacher telling us about the pilot who bombed Hiroshima feeling remorse and committing suicide later. That is patently untrue. Both pilots repeatedly said how proud they were of their patriotic heroic actions. (Sweeney, the Nagasaki pilot died in 2004; and Tibbets, the Hiroshima pilot, is 91 and alive).

Which brings me to the question of ethics of atomic bombing. For most Americans involved in the creation and use of a-bombs, it was not an ethical issue at all. I think I understand their psychology.

In WWII, the professional warriors were engaged in destroying the enemy. Allies wished to kill as many Japanese, civilians and combatants alike, as possible.  Killing them one by one with 200 pound bombs was a time-consuming activity. It also risked American lives.  The A-bomb was 200,000 times more powerful. It was simply a far more efficient weapon. It destroyed in few seconds what normally took months. So the issue was not moral or spiritual, it was one of economics and cost of production.

My personal view is that nuclear bombing is as ethical or unethical as ordinary bombing, or use of a handgun. Only the scale is different. Human race, as it progresses, strives to benefit from economies of scale. Technological inventions make this feasible. I can send this essay to 100 readers worldwide through a click. My grandfather would have spent a year to achieve similar results. The same with nuclear weapons. They are more efficient, and offer better value and quicker results for materials and labour expended.

The second moral issue is that of killing civilians. Again, in modern times, I personally don’t differentiate between killing of civilians and military. The combat is no longer face-to-face with primitive weapons. Deception and surprise attacks are a norm of the 21^st century warfare. Moreover, many uniformed combatants are conscripted (drafted) against their wishes. Russian kids, unwilling and untrained, sent to die in Chechnya are a good example. For me, in a surprise attack, killing of a civilian or of a man in uniform is ethically equal. If you don’t agree with me, please compare the 11^th September attacks on Pentagon and the World Trade Center. Was killing of the military personnel at Pentagon less unethical than killing the civilians in the World Trade Center?

Uniform by itself does not make the action of killing ethical. 

For Americans in the Second World War, atom bomb was not a moral problem. Neither it is, I suspect, for the present American government.  In Afghanistan and Iraq, nuclear weapons are not used, only because they are not necessary. There is no need to kill a million Iraqis for controlling oil in Iraq. (On the contrary, nuclear explosion may endanger the oil reservoirs.)  

At least 50,000 Iraqi civilians are confirmed killed to-date, for a loss of 2811 Americans and 120 British, which though not as efficient as the 911 ratio (on 9-11, each suicide bomber took 150 lives of the enemy) is fairly decent at about 17:1. (Vietnam was about 40 Vietnamese corpses for each American corpse.)  For expediency, I will call it the Corpse ratio. Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombing had produced the best corpse ratios in the history of warfare.  If you ignore the small number of unfortunate Americans stationed there, the two bombs killed more than 200,000 enemy bodies without losing a single of their own.

***

A Million to One Ratio

These days, imperialism is rarely a declared motive for a war. In recent wars, after a few years of fighting, no-one understands or remembers the war objectives any more (Americans in Vietnam, Russians in Afghanistan). If you ask an American or a British soldier in Iraq today what exactly he is fighting for, improving the corpse ratio is the only rational answer he could come up with. If we accept ratio analysis as the basis for war, we can analyze the following three situations of a nuclear attack:

(a) A Nuclear State against a Nuclear State

(b) A Nuclear State against a Non-Nuclear State

(c) Terrorists with nuclear weapons against any State

In the first scenario, say America striking China, they’ll have an excellent corpse ratio for a short time. Until China strikes back. The ratio will keep fluctuating with each strike. Because of China’s population, America will be in a favourable position. However, when both countries are obliterated, the war would have produced at best 4:1, too low a ratio to be acceptable. Owing to the deterrent nature of the mutually iterative operation, one nuclear State striking another is unlikely.

In the second scenario, the Hiroshima/Nagasaki scenario; countries like America could use a-bombs or Hydrogen bombs if a particular situation warrants terrorising a country into submission. N-programmes such as the ones developed by North Korea and planned by Iran could trigger such a threat. However, as the examples of Afghanistan and Iraq have shown, conventional weapons are strong enough to achieve the objectives. This chess board contains material so unequal on two sides, that the game is not interesting. This scenario, as things stand today, is also unlikely.

Terrorists using the nuclear weapons is the most likely scenario. Human casualties are most important to terrorists. Corpse ratio most relevant for them. Even at the 9-11 ratio, Al Qaida would need 2 million suicide bombers to expunge American population. A nuclear weapon, on the other hand, could achieve an impressive million to one ratio.

***

Population Density

Any weapon, including nuclear bombs, targets an area, not people. The stronger weapons destroy more square miles. People just happen to be part of that area. Hence, population densities become important in a war game. Some readers (you can guess from where) have asked me why I keep harping on about Manhattan being a high-risk proposition. The answer is its density. Manhattan has a density of 66,950 people per sq. mile compared to say Los Angeles (8,190). Terrorists always want value for money. Blowing the weapon in Manhattan makes eight times more sense than in Los Angeles. Then again, Manhattan or Central London for that matter, being working places, the threat enhances dramatically during working hours. I can say with certainty no major terrorist attack will happen there in the night-time or on a Sunday. (Note 1: Hiroshima was bombed on Monday, Nagasaki on Thursday, and 9/11 happened on Tuesday. All three acts took place during office hours).

(Note 2: If the USA wanted to destroy the military infrastructure in Japan as claimed, the ethical route was to (a) warn first; (b) allow Hiroshima, Nagasaki to be evacuated and then (c) bomb them. Unfortunately; Americans knew that destruction, without human casualties, does not have the same psychological impact.)  

***

Can the Terrorists get their hands on it?

The nuclear virus exists. In several forms. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, three new nuclear states had emerged in a day: Ukraine, the third biggest nuclear power after US and Russia; Belarus, no.4 and Kazakhstan, no.8. Allegedly, all three are now denuclearised. Not without creating a black market for spare parts and technical know-how. Fifteen years after the Soviet demise, Americans are still doing book-keeping; trying to reconcile the missing inventory. You also have the Soviet scientists, their brains still functioning. Not all of them are taken good care of by the societies they live in. As the example of Pakistani Dr Abdul Qadeer Khan showed, smuggling of know-how or parts is as dangerous as smuggling of actual weapons. 

A palm-sized i-pod today easily contains 2000 songs. Like laptops, nuclear weapons keep increasing in power and reducing in size. Eventually, the suitcase n-bomb in the James Bond films must become reality.

http://lugar.senate.gov/reports/NPSurvey.pdf  is a survey collating opinions of 85 non-proliferation and security experts. It says the possibility is real and increasing every year. The risk of nuclear attack in the next 10 years is estimated to be 29.2%. (That of a Radiological attack 40%). A majority of the group designated a black market purchase as the most likely method by which terrorists could obtain the weapons or fissile materials.

http://www.icrc.org/Web/eng/siteeng0.nsf/htmlall/review-859-p497/$File/irrc_859_Egger_Wirz.pdf

This link from a scientific year-old report is benign. Trusting it will make you feel comfortable. The report gives in detail why manufacture of a nuclear weapon or use of a stolen one by terrorists is improbable. It, however, concurs with the earlier link that risk of radiological terrorism is high.

Nuclear explosion: Manhattan.

http://www.atomicarchive.com/Example/Example1.shtml

This link offers a wonderful, if wonderful is a word I could use, simulation of terrorists detonating a nuclear bomb in the heart of Manhattan. The nine slides give a ball-by-ball commentary on what happens in the few minutes after the explosion.  20 sq. miles of property get destroyed; 800,000 killed and 900,000 injured.

For comparison, I attach another example, this one of a nuclear accident near San Francisco.

 http://www.atomicarchive.com/Example/SF_Example1.shtml

Due to lower density; though 105 sq. miles of property get destroyed, only 224,000 are killed and 175,000 injured.

***

PNAC: Launch of World War III

The United States of America had two options.

One option was to concentrate on economics and material prosperity of America, non-aggression towards others, non-interference in the running of other sovereign nations.

The second option was the one they have chosen. Of starting World War III.

In 1998, Usama Bin Laden issued a fatwa declaring war against America. Few people know America had declared their desire for war a year before, on 3 June 1997 – through the “Project of the New American Century” (PNAC). (http://www.newamericancentury.org/). The project signatories attempt to make a case for the global dominance by America and aim to rally support for it. They believe America has a vital role in maintaining security and peace in Europe, Asia and the Middle East. They want America to create an international order – friendly to American security, American prosperity and American principles.

Signatories include some familiar names: Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfield, Jeb Bush, Paul Wolfowitz and John Bolton.

Careful analysis of the vocabulary used by modern American rulers shows how the current war is cleverly juxtaposed with the World War II. I’ll give here only two examples that are widely known.

On and after 11^th September 2001, the term “Ground Zero” was extensively used. The current generation is unlikely to know its etymology. The expression was used first in 1946 by New York Times in connection with the Hiroshima bombing. Oxford Dictionary explains: “Ground Zero is that part of the ground situated immediately under an exploding bomb, especially an atomic one.”

America calls its coalition partners “Allies”, again a WW terminology. The World War II was fought between Allies and the Axis powers. The Axis of evil then was: Germany, Japan and Italy. Bush has contemporarised the term using replacements: Iraq, Iran and North Korea.

America has subtly begun the third World War. God bless America, and may they win the war against terror. I’m not a technical expert to calculate the probability of terrorists acquiring or blowing a nuclear bomb. But my analysis confirms to me that once it is technically possible, the political probability of it happening is high. Once America has declared a “War on Terror”, its opponent - “Terror” - is forced to think of counter-moves all the time.

In this World War III, the Mighty One may come from the wrong end.

Ravi