Week 26 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part Two

On 29 April, we landed in Venice. But landed may be a wrong word for Venice. We came out of the airport simply in order to catch the vaporetto. The water-bus took us to our hotel.

***

The same evening, I was standing outside a supermarket close to our hotel. The supermarket was located on a river-bank. I watched the Venetians, young and old, carrying colourful two-feet high trolley bags that they wheeled in and out of the store. A plump lady came out carrying three huge cloth-bags. Her young son followed her. She somehow dragged the bags ahead, and stood at the bank, facing the Adriatic Sea. Her shopping bags had no wheels. And her son was too young. How were they going to carry those bags home?

For a while, both she and her son did nothing but to look at the water. She then looked at her watch, and said something to her son. Her son, probably ten years old, threw his hands in air and shook his head.  She adjusted her bags, and both continued to look at the sea. Suddenly, from the right, a small boat appeared. It manoeuvred its way adroitly, and stopped in front of them. The tall Italian man driving the boat smiled, took the bags, then his wife and son in. The family boat sped away. 

***

Venice allows no cars. Or any other vehicles with wheels- not even rollerblades. You can only travel on water, or if on land a piedi. Venice is a maze of 117 islands, surrounded by 177 canals, and the land mass is connected by 455 bridges. You may be a great walker, but you also need to be a great step-climber. A walk of few meters is invariably followed by a bridge. Come to Venice only if you know how to travel light. Your suitcase may have wheels, but at every bridge you have to stop, climb the steps with the suitcase and carry it down on the other side. I saw young mothers trying to go across a bridge with prams. That’s a circus act. To make sure the child doesn’t fall out, the mother must hold the pram parallel to the ground on the steps. This requires muscular strength, a sense of balance and immense patience. (The bridges could be one reason why Venice’s population declines, while the rest of Italy’s grows. The historic old city of Venice has shrunk from 120,000 people in 1980 to only 60,000 today.)

***

When I say Venice is a maze, I use the word technically. The city is made of thousands of narrow lanes – so narrow that sometimes a maximum of two people can pass together. Bridges are more or less standardised. While aesthetically speaking, all this was great; for a geographic moron like me finding my way back to the hotel became a daily pastime. I tried a few maps. Venice is akin to the cardiovascular system in human body – with innumerable veins, arteries and capillaries. So the maps are cluttered and use the smallest available print. On the streets, the names are seldom visible. And when they do exist, they are somewhere up – often painted on building walls. (Because in winters, Venice gets flooded). The streets are full of people frustratingly studying maps and trying to make sense out of them. The city is divided into six districts, and houses have four digit numbers. The address often has the house number, followed by the district, but no street! Now go to the district, and try looking for a particular number. For a whole week, I tried to figure out the logic behind the numbers, and gave up. I remembered George Mikes (how to become an alien fame) mentioning in some book the way houses were numbered in a German town – chronologically! Every time a house was built anywhere in the town, it was given the next available number. Venice may not be that bad, but is very close to it. 

***

For a middle-aged man like me, using Venice maps was a struggle. I should have carried a compass as well.

To add to the mess, a street has hundred odd synonyms. While everywhere else in Italy a street is called a via, here it is called a calle. I had learnt that a square in Italian is piazza, but in Venice it is called campo. Canale is Italian for canals, but here they are rio. A street beside a canal is a fondamenta. A smaller street is ruga or rughetta, and the oldest streets are salizzada. Ramo is a tiny side lane, and corte denotes a dead-end street. As if this wasn’t enough, a street passing under a building is sotoportego.

To find my way through the tourist foe-ly mapping, I often used the Indian system. In India, only foreigners use maps, Indians ask the address to strangers. With my limited knowledge of Italian, (in the four months that I studied the language, I had managed to learn only the past and present tenses, no future. Whenever I spoke to Italians, I tried to divert the conversation to my past), I would ask directions.

That was when I first understood how Venetians were a different race. In other places, you ask for directions, and if the person knows them he tells you. Here, everyone I asked started moving their hands wildly, talking in rapid Italian and then walking the talk. Where the address was close-by they walked with me all the way. Despite their having to go in the opposite direction. It’s possibly because they understand how difficult it is to find an address in Venice. But also because they are Italians, warm-hearted, talkative and helpful.

*** 

How many languages does Italy have? I warn you it’s a trick question.

The answer is two. Italian and.... body language. You may have heard the joke about an Italian walking on the street carrying two giant watermelons under his arms. Someone stops him, and asks for an address.

“Could you please hold the watermelons?” The Italian asks the person asking for the address. That person obliges.

Released of the watermelons, the Italian throws his hands in the air and says, “I don’t know.”

Italians speak with their hands. The gestures are excessive. On a street, simply by observing the hands, you can tell who is an Italian and who is not. (Just like in the Soviet Union, one could tell from the dress who was a Russian and who was a foreigner).

This civilisation has toiled for centuries to create a whole new dictionary of hand gestures. You can learn some of them in those two short video clips. Also note in the second clip the different ways in which one can express “you are crazy.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0n4Vw6twKo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_MqrW3adT6E&feature=channel

But in the clips, you see the gestures in slow motion. In reality, the movements are rapid and dramatic. This nation is a theatre.

*** 

Italians are warm-hearted. And it is an open nation. They dry their washed linen in public. Not as easy to do as it looks. In the picture where you see the jeans on top, the person living on the left side has to keep cordial relations with the neighbour living across him (in the building on the right). They have to agree on who is drying which clothes, how to bring some symmetry into it, and with clever pulling and pushing, to transfer all clothes on the rope. Venice has many such courtyards. And Naples has lanes after lanes full of hanging clothes.

*** 

 The Italian sense of humour is mischievous. Child-like. In Naples, they manufacture t-shirts with a seat belt design over the front. The drivers wear them while driving and never get caught.

Andrea (from Roma) was a friend of mine. We worked together at a voluntary camp in Austria – way back in 1987. He visited me in Bombay as well as Moscow. The letters I received from him were unique – well, not the letters themselves but the stamps posted on them. Andrea drew well. He would take a used postage stamp, turn it on its blank white side, and draw a picture on the stamp. He claimed that the post offices didn’t recognise his forgery. I can confirm that I did receive letters with stamps drawn by Andrea affixed on them.

In Moscow, when he stayed at my house, he started collecting the five kopeck coins.

“What will you do with so many?” I asked when I saw his rucksack full of five-kopeck coins.

“This is my hobby.” Andrea said. “I measure the coins from different countries. Many of them are similar, if not identical, in size. Then you can try to use them in automats. Use the coins from a cheap country in an expensive one. Now, these Russian coins I will use in German metros. The beauty is that you drop a Russian coin, and the automat will give change in Deutsch marks. This hobby can be quite profitable.”

Another Andrea story typifies Italian humour.

Andrea would pick up the telephone directory and select a number at random. He would call that number up.

“Is Roberto at home?” He asked.

“Sorry, there is no Roberto here. Wrong number.”

“Please tell Roberto,” Andrea would continue, undeterred, “that his grandmother died this morning.”

After another two weeks, Andrea would call that number again.

“May I speak to Roberto please?”

“No Roberto lives here. You’ve got...”

“I have a message for Roberto. Please tell him that he should come to Milan on the 15^th. His school classmates will be waiting for him.”

And these calls would continue, week after week, for a few months. After that Andrea would call the same number again. When the phone was picked up, Andrea would say,

“Hello, this is Roberto speaking. Do you have any messages for me?”

Ravi

Week 25 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part One

 “Life is not complete without a visit to Italy.”

***

The canals, bridges, a maze of narrow lanes and zero vehicles convinced me that Venice was a singular city. Could anything be more exotic or romantic? From Venice, we moved to Florence. The Duomo and the riverbank, the historic centre and Michelangelo’s 15-feet David convinced me that Florence truly represented Renaissance. Could any city be more touristy or ancient? After travelling to Rome, we forgot about Venice and Florence. Rome was an open air museum. I have visited quite a number of cities in Europe, but I don’t know of another where you can stand on any street, look in any direction and find something that is aesthetically magnificent and connects you to history. In the heart of Rome, even today, you become part of the Roman Empire. If you can visit only one city in Italy, you must visit Rome. (Though I had made similar statements when I was in Venice and Florence).

The first part of my narrative, unfortunately, is devoted to the mundane – mundane always comes before the exotic. Beast before beauty. For an Indian, visa before the travel. Italy is beautiful only after you enter it. 

***

My past diaries include stories about my getting the US visa (Cult Devotee in Looney land, week 21, 2003) and about my parents’ not getting it (US visa: keep fingers crossed, week 27, 2006). Every time I go to a consulate, I feel I must have exhausted all the visa stories. Nothing new can happen that is interesting for me to write or for you to read. But it appears that the number of visa stories, like chess moves, is infinite.

A friend of mine recently visited the USA for four days for a stage performance. She had a 10-year tourist visa, but because she was performing she had to go to the US consulate and take something called a P-3 visa. This is normal by the US standards, and I can understand this. US have more visa types than letters in the alphabet. Now, after coming back from that four-day trip, she was required to visit the consulate again. To prove that she has come back to India. The consulate officer asked her a few questions to ensure it’s the same person, and then stamped her visa with a stamp bearing huge letters: “Cancelled without prejudice.” By the wording, I presume there is another stamp that says the opposite. (Consulates don’t seem to have pride any more, only prejudice).

Or take the case of another friend of mine, who had planned to travel with his family to Italy in May this year. He heads a bank and has hundreds of stamps in his passport. The Italian consulate refused a visa to him because – because his passport is valid for 20 years. Apparently, as per the new regulations, no Schengen visa can be issued from 1 May 2010 if the passport has a validity of more than ten years.

Well, Mena’s and my passport were for ten years and Devyani’s for five years. And we were not travelling to the USA to perform. Little to worry about.

***

In the past, Indians had to go personally to most embassies and face the foreign staff there. Embassies and consulates were flooded with tons of paper and queues of natives. It didn’t take the foreign embassies long to understand that even 0.1% of billion is one million. They did what management books prescribe – delegate. They outsourced the operation to a company called “VFS global.” No more contamination of the consulates.

In Bombay, Indians now submit documents to this company – VFS global. It’s a middleman, and naturally you pay more to cover the expenses of the middleman. VFS is staffed by Indians, and there is no imminent fear of rejection. They check your documents, collect the non-refundable fees, and let you go. You can track the result on the web by typing in the receipt number. Once the website says passport arrived, you go to the same VFS office and collect your passports with visas. (There are exceptions. E.g. the US consulate wants every applicant to appear for an interview. The French consulate wants to fingerprint you if you haven’t travelled to France in the past two years – supposedly fingerprints change every two years. And curiously enough, you can go to Italy without giving fingerprints and freely travel to France. In short, Indians are a security risk if you travel directly to France, but not if you go there via another European country). 

***

I juggled my timetable to make a window for the visit to VFS for the Italian visa. With years of experience, I know how to make an application file. When I finally travelled in the morning with passports, supporting documents, photos, glue, stapler, perforator, and pens of three different colours, I had the satisfaction of doing a good job of it. If you go very early, you spend fewer hours in the queue.

I sat there, with a smiling face, for three hours holding a book that I couldn’t read. Anything to do with a visa, it’s good to practise a smiling face. I checked once again the supporting documents numbered from one to eighty six. The girl at the counter took my documents and messed up the order completely. I didn’t say anything. Anything to do with a visa, you just answer, you don’t ask.

“You are travelling with your daughter?” She asked, though she had to be a complete illiterate not to understand it from the documents.

“Yes.” I said.

“Where is your affidavit?”

“What affidavit?”

“For your daughter.” She said.

I took the printout from the Italian consulate website. It didn’t mention any affidavit. By now the manager appeared.

“You have to submit an affidavit.” He said.

“Oh, I suppose one does that for an unaccompanied child. My daughter is not. Both my wife and I are travelling with her.”

“That doesn’t make a difference. We still want you to submit that affidavit.”

“What should I say in the affidavit? Show me the wording.”

“We don’t have any format. You should guarantee you will bring her back and also take care of her when in Italy.”

I looked at him. My smile had disappeared.

“She is my daughter.” I said. “And my wife and I are travelling with her.”

“I heard you the first time. Without the affidavit, we can’t take your documents.”

“Why don’t you have this on your website?”

“Because this rule is applicable only in Bombay. In Delhi, such affidavit is not required. And the website is national, you see.”

“Can I write what you require on a piece of paper and submit?”

“No. It should be on a 100 Rs stamp paper, get it notarised in the high court... and yes...” he added as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him, “you need to go to the Home Department of the Government of Maharashtra and get it endorsed. That department is somewhere in Mantralaya.”

“Why don’t you take the other documents now? I won’t have to carry them again.”

“No, we can’t do that. Without the affidavit, the set has no meaning.”

“Are you saying I have to queue again the next time?”

“Yes sir, if you come with incomplete documents, it’s not our fault.”

***

My wife and I spent the next two days visiting a lawyer, the high court notary, and the home department (we both had to go, because both should sign in presence of the notary. Daughter is a joint responsibility). That meant arranging for someone to pick Devyani up from school and taking care of her. Not only the Italian consulate cares about our daughter.

Here is an extract from the final wording in the affidavit. If you wish to visit Italy with your minor children, you may copy-paste it. (Not necessary if you apply in Delhi).

We being a duly married couple....along with our minor daughter propose to visit Italy... we state that after the stay Mr Ravindra Abhyankar, the father, will travel to Finland. Mrs Mena Malgonkar, the mother, will return with Devyani, the daughter, to which Mr Ravindra Abhyankar, the father, hereby gives and records his consent...

We hereby jointly and severally agree and undertake during the said stay to take due care and responsibility of our daughter Devyani and bear, pay and discharge all and whatsoever her expenditure including travel, stay and food.

Signed by the parents, identified by the advocate, notarised by the high court, endorsed by the home department of the state of Maharashtra. (On a 100 Rs stamp paper).

***

I have learnt this. You should never judge a country by its consulate. Ronald Reagan once explained why politics was full of incompetent people by saying that business takes away the best and politics has to do with whoever remains. In Embassies and consulates worldwide, normally the worst, humourless people from the Foreign Service are allotted to the visa sections. The power of allotting or rejecting visas in American and European consulates is comparable to the terrorist who is on a killing spree. He becomes god and decides who should die and who shouldn’t. And here the victims themselves appear at the window begging to be shot down. (Anyway, all these consulates can have their fun for another one hundred years. After one hundred years, when there are only Indians and Chinese left on this planet, these consulates will disappear from Bombay.)

You may realise that my Italian visa story has not ended. I am simply rambling to let you know that there was a long time between my submission of documents and my getting any feedback. Before closing this rambling, to be fair, I must say that the British visa section is the best I have found so far. They are efficient, find it embarrassing to reject without justification, and have a toilet for the waiting applicants. Also, humour is appreciated, as seen from this story.

When in BAT, an Indian colleague of mine was based in London. His name was Rahul Prakash. He invited his father to London. The father went to the British embassy for the visa interview.

“You want to go to London to see your son?” The British visa officer asked.

“Yes.” Said Rahul’s father.

“You have asked a visa for six months.” The Brit looked at him and said. “That’s a little too long.”

Rahul’s father grinned.

“You British...” he said in his broken English, “stayed in India for two hundred years... without a visa... and you ask me about six months?”

The British visa officer started laughing and quickly stamped a visa for six months.

***

More than two weeks passed and I didn’t get any news about my Italian visa. I had booked the hotels, had bought non-refundable air tickets (risked that for the first time) and had learnt the Italian language for four months. That week, at a function, I got my language certificate at the hands of the Consul-General, an Italian lady, but resisted the temptation to ask her as to what had happened to my visa application.

Finally a phone call came. From VFS global.

“You have applied for the Italian visa, sir?”

“Yes, it’s been quite some time. I was wondering. Have our passports come?” I asked.

“No sir, we’ve got a message from the consulate. They need an affidavit.”

“What affidavit?”

“To say that you will take care of your daughter and will bring her back to India.”

By this time, I recognised the voice of the VFS manager.

“But I submitted it, along with all the documents. If I’m not mistaken, it was you I spoke to when submitting the documents.”

“I remember sir, but they don’t have it.”

“How can they not have it? You saw it, you took it....”

“I understand sir, I remember. That’s why I’m calling you. I’m afraid they’ve...er...lost it. We had sent it. In the Italian consulate they lost it.”

“So now what? Should I sue them?” I asked. The first thing I thought was about the non-refundable air tickets.

“That won’t help, sir. It’s your word against theirs. And they insist they never received it. I tried to argue myself. They won’t issue visas.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You’ll have to make a fresh affidavit. The same way as last time. Hopefully, they won’t lose it the second time.”

“Won’t a photocopy do?”

“Oh, you have a photocopy? Of the affidavit you had submitted?”

“Of course, I never give a single paper to a consulate without taking a photocopy first.”

That settled it. Two days later, based on the copy of the affidavit, we were given the visas. We were now permitted to visit Italy, with our daughter.

There is a reason why I’ve written about the Italian visa at such lengths. That reason will become clear in one of the future diaries about Italy.

Ravi

Week 24 (2010): The Last Post

     

From Bombay, you drive five hundred kilometres south to reach Belgaum. Then you reduce speed and drive through the forest area honking at the curves. Occasionally you stop to carefully bypass the cows that refuse to move from the middle of the road. Tall trees, blossoming bamboos and shades of thick green run along with you on both sides. After an hour of driving, you see a small stone plate on the ground: “Burbusa”. The name makes no sense in the languages you know; neither do you know what it stands for. If you didn’t know somebody lived here inside the jungle, your car would simply continue its journey. But if you knew, you would turn left at the stone plate. The road now on is made of clay and cobbles. The world of asphalt and concrete is behind. You keep going, and going, wondering if there is anything at the other end. After all, this is part of the forest. Then, like the establishing shot in Hitchcock’s Rebecca, a palatial house stuns your senses. The gates are open, the house is open and all its doors and windows are open. There are no locks and no guards.

Today the compound is filled with simply dressed villagers and fancy cars. On the right and in the background you can see the tasteful garden with yellow, maroon, red, white flowers; tamarind, mango trees; giant thorny jackfruits, tall coconuts. The drizzle since morning has made the garden look greener and younger. Considering it is only noon, the sky is dark. Monsoon has arrived.

If you enter the house through its main arch, where the stone sculptures are, you see a shield and swords on the wall. The ceilings are too tall for the time we live in. On the left is the living room, filled with Persian carpets, a hearth and wall paintings. If not for the satellite television, this could have been a hall in some museum. The grand veranda behind faces the central part of the garden. Sat here, you wouldn’t know which country you are in.

But without turning left, if you take the narrow corridor on the right you reach the simplest room in the house, with a single bed – on which uncle is lying now. The position of the bed makes sure that its occupant can see the portrait on the wall as well as the garden through the window. From across, a standing Ganesh statue, probably a gift, is staring at the bed. On uncle’s left side is a giant two-in-one, on which he used to listen to classical music and the BBC news. World Space was his constant companion, which with a sense of foreboding stopped its operations this year.  The side table has several clocks, mostly antique but functioning well. On uncle’s right is a wooden walking stick, one that he reluctantly used in his nineties. On the corner table, a single candle is standing but not burning. The cane chairs in the room are all taken up by elderly visitors today. The servants are moving around.  

A servant calls me out of the room and takes me to a bespectacled gentleman.

“You will give shoulder, won’t you? Since you are the relatives, you and Raja should be where the head is. I’m telling you in advance so as to avoid confusion later. And those two...” he points out... “will lift from the other side. See you first walk in that direction, then turn it the other way... you must carry it for the first few steps, then you can pass it on. And yes, who’s doing the seven rounds around the pyre?  Sorry we need to decide all these matters now, to avoid confusion later. Two months ago, when...” He suddenly stops talking to me, turns around and gives different orders to two or three people. This gentleman is a self-appointed funeral director. Today, his resume will vastly improve by having uncle’s name listed amongst the clients he has serviced.

I notice several unknown faces chatting on the veranda. This house has never seen so many people on a single day, I don’t think. People make a far greater effort to meet a person once he is dead.

I go back to uncle’s room. A small, chubby man storms in. He is carrying a bunch of photocopies.

“See I wrote an article on him, see the date, a month ago. Take this, this is in Marathi... and this one in Kannada. Yes, please take both, both written by me.” He distributes the copies to everyone in the room. “You... you are from Bombay? Yes, it appeared in our Bombay edition on the 9^th of May.” Standing right at uncle’s feet he punches a number on his mobile.

“Yes. Yes. Mr Manohar Malgonkar passed away, in the night.” He turns to his right and asks “what time? Exactly what time?” Someone says 11.30. Somebody else corrects 11.15. “Yes. Write 11.15. Write: after a brief illness. A great novelist, international yes. We should give the news before Tarun Bharat. And tell them I gave the news. I am here, right here. Don’t forget to tell I was the source.” I look at uncle. I am glad he can’t listen any more.

The chubby man takes out his camera. I reflexively move between him and uncle.

“I want to take a few photos.”He says.

“No.” I say.

“Ok, just one or two for my collection.” He says.

“No.” I say and wave him out of the room.

The dead can’t defend themselves.

I suddenly realise Moti and Angel, the three-legged Angel, are not here. Whenever we come here, they bark with joy, jump on us, want to play with Devyani. Today so many strangers have entered the house, and I haven’t heard a single bark. In another room, I find Moti sat on a sofa looking vacantly ahead. His eyes are open, but they don’t seem to notice anyone in the room.

Two doctors are sat in that room.

“It’ll take longer.” One of them tells me. This is an elderly family doctor. “You see when the body has lots of flesh, it burns more easily. When there are only bones left...” I nod. Doctors are entitled to talk like that.

The self-appointed funeral director calls me back. “Who is doing the last rites?”

“Mena, I suppose” I say. “She is his niece, and uncle was fond of her.”

“No, she can’t. A man has to do it. Why don’t you take over that responsibility?”

“We are in the twenty-first century.” I try to say.

“Raja can do it. He is on his way from Pune.” I am told. Raja is a nephew, not as close to uncle, but he is a male.

Outside the house, villagers are making a wooden stretcher to carry uncle. It’s a bamboo ladder kept horizontal, now getting wrapped in a white cotton sheet. Close by are flowers, incense sticks, and auspicious colourful powders. Raja’s car arrives. It’s still raining. But the time has come to take uncle out of his room. Out of his house. Everything must happen before the sun sets.

Meanwhile, uncle’s son-in-law confirms uncle wanted Mena to do the last rites. Uncle’s word still has force in this house. We reach a last minute compromise whereby Mena and her male cousin would share the rituals.

Then we go inside. By now uncle is wearing a few sandalwood garlands. Villagers bring the bamboo stretcher inside. We shift uncle on it. As delicately as possible. Outside, I am one of the four men who carry that stretcher on the shoulders. As instructed, I am where the head is. We walk carefully. The ground is wet, and in places muddy.

It’s a short walk. Uncle wanted to be cremated at the same spot where aunt Cukoo was. At that spot, in front of the house, a bed of crisscrossed wooden logs is made ready. We deposit uncle on it. The thought of how uncomfortable this bed must be crosses my mind. Cans of butter are lying next to the pyre. Kerosene is brought in makeshift containers.

Uniformed army men now come forward. An army truck is standing on the lawn. Most of the people gathered today either can’t read English or, if they can, haven’t read uncle’s books.  The servants possibly judge his stature by the celebrities who visit the house; villagers by his photo in the news flash on television. For many villagers, he may simply be a landowner with the local grapevine talking about his hunting episodes; and for the army men he is Colonel Malgonkar.

Firecrackers go off. This is the army salute. We notice two uniformed men holding bugles in their hands. All the noises stop and create an all-enveloping moment of silence. The bugles begin the music. That music defines uncle’s stature. That music brings serenity to the atmosphere. That music reaches inside us and stabs our hearts. The raindrops falling on the cheeks mask the tears.

The music stops. The men from the infantry now move forward and lay down the wreaths at uncle’s feet. They bring their feet together and give a ceremonial salute. Villagers start putting additional logs on the pyre. So as to cover uncle completely. Mena lights the pyre up. More butter gets added, more fuel poured. The incenses burn. The final journey begins.  

We hear the phone ringing in the main hall. People are in a hurry to call today. Soon there will be nobody in this house to offer condolences to.

Ravi

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