Week 23 (2010): Bogdan’s Fear of Flying

Bogdan was my colleague when I worked in Poland.

He was not tall. But when you looked at his bald head and hefty physique, you could easily think of him as a bodyguard, or a character from a James Bond film. During conferences, whenever he made presentations wearing his tinted glasses, we thought we were watching Bruce Willis in action.

Bogdan could be outspoken. Unlike many Polish managers, he was a businessman by nature.  His views and actions would have been the same were he the owner of the company, rather than an employee. And these views he often expressed fearlessly, in open forums. I was his boss, but often became a target of his anger or displeasure when our viewpoints didn’t match. Nonetheless, I liked him. He was a rational person. He represented strength and solidity.

“I’m nominating you for the ‘Account Management’ meeting in London next month.” I told him once.

“No, I can’t go. I’m very busy.” He said.

“It’s only for a day – on a Friday. If you don’t wish to take a weekend in London, you can fly in the morning there and fly back the same evening.” Bogdan’s family lived in the South of Poland. He rented for himself a small apartment in Warsaw. On Friday evenings, he drove at unlawful speeds to reach his town. The big jobs were in Warsaw – the capital.

“These one-day meetings are a waste of time,” Bogdan said. “I can be far more productive here.”

“Look, I think this one will be useful. They want one person from each European market. You’ll represent Poland.” With those words I thought I had closed the discussion.

“What’s the date?” Bogdan asked.

I told him the date of the meeting in London.

“Sorry, I’ve to take an off that day. There is an important family function to attend.”

Bogdan took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. That was his way of avoiding meeting mine. I stared at him without saying anything. When the awkward silence filled the room, Bogdan looked at me and grinned, his expression similar to that of a thief caught in the act of robbing.  

“Ok, I’ll be honest. I can’t. I can’t go because…because I’m scared of flying.”

“What?”

“I’m scared to death at the thought of flying.”

“You’ve never flown?”

“Not since the time I can avoid it.”

“But… you went for that Amsterdam conference…”

“Yes, I drove there. You remember I had taken a day off before…” Bogdan took out a handkerchief and wiped the front of his bald head. “If I must go to London, I can drive all the way and then take a ferry or something. You must allow me a couple of days.”

“This is ridiculous, Bogdan. No, no, I don’t want you to drive…. You’ll drive for four days to attend a meeting lasting four hours.”

“Thanks, Ravi.” He said. “For your understanding.”

“Well, I’m not withdrawing your name. I want you to fly to London. Shut your eyes on the flight. Listen to music. If you become sick, the planes have paper bags. Once you start flying….”

“No. I’ll become sick before and won’t be able to fly. Why don’t you send someone else?”

“Bogdan, but you are the “National Key Account Manager”. Why should I send someone else, when you are the person who’s required there?”

“Look Ravi, I’ll go when the conference is in Germany. I’ve driven to Germany often. And there are no speed limits on the autobahn. I can drive very fast.”

“You know Bogdan, the way you drive… that’s far more dangerous than flying.”

Bogdan didn’t go to London. I lost the argument that day. Well, there was nothing to argue about. Bogdan was not as rational a person as I thought he was. I learnt later that others in the company knew about Bogdan’s phobia, and laughed at it.

In British American Tobacco, every competent manager was classified into ‘Lister’ (meaning someone with the potential to progress further in career) and ‘Asset’ (meaning someone good for their current level but unlikely to progress higher).  The company invested considerable efforts in training and development of listers. Bogdan was a lister.

“I may have some good news for you.” I told Bogdan. This was at least a year after Bogdan had refused to go to London. “I’m talking to you informally at this stage.”

Bogdan’s face brightened.

“The company is considering sending you abroad for six months. To get exposed to the trade marketing practises at Souza Cruz.” Souza Cruz was the Latin American arm of BAT. The Latinos were the most advanced in sales and distribution.

“But Souza Cruz is in South America.” Bogdan said.

“Yes. We’re talking about Brazil. Yes, yes, I know… I know… you have to fly…” I saw Bogdan’s face flushing. “…but just two times. Once there and once back, after six months. That’s a small price to pay for such an opportunity.”

Bogdan smiled and shook his head.

“You know, Ravi, Brazil is much farther than London.”

“Listen Bogdan, the company thinks you have a potential for promotion.  They’re willing to invest in you. Six months in Brazil is no joke. Do you want to know the number of candidates from Europe who were keen to take up this assignment? We’ve managed to get this secondment for Poland after a fight.”

“You saw what happened on 11^th September, didn’t you?” (I think we were talking two or three months after the 11^th September.)

“Listen Bogdan, plane crashes appear terrifying because of the way television shows them, newspapers report them. If you look at the number of planes flying…” I started scribbling on the white board in my room. In places like Chicago and Frankfurt, flights land and leave every minute. I took that as a base, and started writing numbers rapidly. To show the astronomical number of flights that don’t crash. “You see, Bogdan,” I continued, “Statistically, flying is the safest. The probability of your flight crashing is negligible, almost zero. I can get you the official data. I fly three or four times every month. Look, here I am, after so many years of flying. You are now what, 39; you must get mature at some stage. This is part of your leadership competency, how to get rid of your irrational fears. You’re such a rational person otherwise. I don’t understand how you can ignore all the statistics. And 11^th September was a terrorist attack. The first of its kind. Hopefully, we won’t see anything like it again. Anyway, when you refused to go to London last year, 11^th September hadn’t happened. So that’s only your new excuse.”

“Please drop me from the list. Give any excuse you wish. I don’t want to go to Brazil.”

“But your fear is completely irrational, Bogdan. I’ve never seen a senior manager like you sacrificing his career because of such childish nonsense. This way, you won’t be able to move on in this company. Or any other company.  You may even risk your job. You’ll not go very far.”

Bogdan shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head again and left my office. I didn’t know what to do. The whole world was flying, and here right under my nose I couldn’t persuade a competent grown-up man to accept the opportunities offered on a platter. I thought I should recommend downgrading him from “lister” to “asset”, but what reasons should I mention? Writing Bogdan’s fear of flying as justification looked as absurd as that fear itself was. He should have treated himself with hypnotherapy or medication, or these days you have simulators that give you a flying experience. But I don’t think we discussed any of that. At work, I was his colleague and boss – not a psychiatrist.

In 2002, I left Poland and moved to England. Two years later, I received an email from Bogdan asking me to write a reference letter for him. He had left BAT, and after a year-long frustrating job with some distributor, was on the job market again. I wrote to his potential employer a well-worded letter pointing out Bogdan’s business acumen and rational decision-making. Bogdan sent me a thank-you mail. This was a Polish company, and Bogdan wouldn’t need to cross any seas, I thought.

Then I lost touch with him. Once you move countries, it becomes difficult to keep writing to your former friends and colleagues. That relationship and warmth get frozen in some corner of your heart. I checked for “Bogdan Grzegorczyk” on facebook, but didn’t find him. I was not surprised. He didn’t look the type who would waste his time on facebook.

I also had no idea if he overcame his flying phobia, whether it hampered his career – until I received an email from Zbigniew this week. Zbigniew had worked with Bogdan and me in Poland.

“Not sure if you heard this. Bogdan Grzegorzyk died in a plane crash last week.”

I kept staring at the computer screen for a long time. Bogdan had, after all, overcome his fear and agreed to fly. But, that fear of his was not irrational.  

Ravi

P.S: Until last month, Bogdan, now 48, worked as an “Export Sales Director” with “Kanlux”. On 31 May, he was part of a delegation flying to Germany in a private plane. The plane crashed killing all three passengers and the pilot.

http://www.kanlux.pl/en-UK/

(You can see Bogdan’s picture (center) at this link.)

A funeral mass will be held for Bogdan tomorrow, on Saturday, 12 June. 

Adieu Bogdan, how I wish now that you were loyal to your phobia.  

R.

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