WATERING HOLES AND SILENT HEART ATTACKS

 

 WATERING  HOLES AND  SILENT  HEART  ATTACKS

   Watering holes are essential retreats for all species, in the real jungle or the urban one. They provide much needed R+R and the chance to rub noses (and the occasional unsuspecting posterior) in a relaxed setting. But whereas in the jungle there is only one rule- the bigger guy drinks first- we have managed to prescribe a weird set of dictums to regulate membership and behaviour in our gated oases which we call Clubs. In Delhi's Gymkhana club, for example, one has to apply for membership while still an unsuspecting foetus, such is the length of the waiting list. (I applied 30 years ago and have yet to hear from them). New members are inducted only in place of old ones who kick the ice- bucket, as it were, so a kind of Death Watch prevails on the club premises at all times, with the "waitees" keeping a close watch on the "oldies" and plying them with loads of cholesterol to help the natural process of ageing.

  I have just learnt that there exists a club in Europe called the Giga Society; it has only 6 members, primarily because to qualify one has to score more than 195 on the IQ test. That rules out everyone in India except Mr. Mani Shankar Aiyer, but I'm told that they are not accepting any applications from India after Vyapam- they don't trust our marking system. The whackiest membership requirement, however, comes from- where else?- my home state, UP. There is an exclusive club there called the Mritak Sangh, and to become a member one must be dead! No kidding. The saving grace, however, is that you don't have to be dead-dead or brain dead as in a bureaucrat, but only declared dead, through false affidavits, forged letters and documents, usually by relatives who are fed up of waiting for you to call it a day so they can grab your real estate ( and sometimes your wife). These walking dead have now formed a guild so that they can get together and drown their sorrows. In the USA there is an Ejection Club ( I checked twice, it IS Ejection and not Ejaculation, so don't get your hopes up quite yet). It had 5607 members at last count, and to become one you must have survived being fired out of a military plane by ejection seat. Being fired by the govt. from your job does not qualify, so that rules out Urjit Patel and Raghuram Rajan who in any case have parachuted safely to the Davos club. Wing Commander Abhindan of course can now join, with honours because he also ensured that the Pakistani pilot couldn't qualify.

  The ADC club in Shimla persists with a unique caste system, in violation of our Constitution. It's run by the Army but they have to take in some civilians also because the property belongs to the govt. The civilian chappies can't vote, but the unkindest cut is that they have to pay more for their booze! The army guys get their liquor at CSD rates while the bureaucrats have to pay the normal, post excise, bootlegger rates. They are the new OBCs ( Other Boozing Classes) of Shimla. This doesn't do too much for civil-military bonhomie but it ensures that at least one third of the membership is sober at all times and that only civilian bottoms get pinched on New Year's eves.

  Which brings me naturally to another club where liquor poses another kind of problem- the CSOI   (Civil Services Officers' Institute), Delhi. It's a splendid place with a fine bar and two restaurants, created exclusively for bureaucrats so that they can let their hair down without any arms dealers exploiting the bald patches. It's the place where pensioners are dispatched by their wives every morning to get them out of THEIR hair. Unfortunately, it appears to be run by some teetotaler gnome  in the Cabinet Secretariat who has never heard of CCTVs. Nothing else can explain the recent decision that the bar will open only at 7.00 PM on week days. My discreet inquiries have revealed that the govt's innovative 360 degree assessment system had perhaps revealed that some babus were playing hookey on working days, having gimlets at the bar when they should have been recording dissenting notes on various files or suppressing the data on employment generation. But why shut down the bar, for godsakes? Why not just ask Arvind Kejriwal to install one of his CCTVs at the door? That would have worked just as well, for a CCTV a day makes a babu earn his pay, as the ditty goes. I am reliably informed that the retired babus are now planning to move to Assam or Bihar en masse where the hooch is freely available in police stations and excise offices. Their wives will not follow them, of course, which is another reason why they are shifting base. As that other ditty goes: four pegs a day keeps the wife away.

   The India International Centre in Delhi has fine dining rooms where the members come to relax after delivering lectures on how to change the world in 90 days. But its restaurants have the ambience of a morgue, ( the main chicken dish, I learn, is called Morgue Masala) and not just because the median age of its members is three score and ten. I was there last month with a group of cadre mates and their spouses ( for some reason they are never called 'wives' in govt. parlance, have you noticed?), all retired chappies except one couple. Now,  IAS officers while in service are a bit like that Russian dog in that old joke- they are well fed but not allowed to bark. So when the muzzles come off after 35 years they tend to be a chatty lot. In the middle of all this yapping and general mirth a waiter emerged from nowhere like Banquo's ghost with a placard which, shorn of bureaucratese, essentially asked us to SHUT UP. Since it was an unsigned statement, like the note submitted to the Supreme Court on the Rafale deal, we took no notice of it. After five minutes the undertaker himself materialised ( it was actually the Manager) to advise us in a sepulchral tone that the IIC had a high cholestrol, low decibel policy and could we please, therefore, speak in Chinese whispers? I learn that all heart attacks in this club are silent heart attacks because of the rules. Damned irritating if you are a waitee on the waiting list, because you never get to know when a member has left for his heavenly abode. So now I begin my day by reading the obituary columns- I may get lucky some day, you know.

WEIGHTS AND MEASURES

 I don't fly much these days, mainly because I never know whether my plane is being flown by a pilot, co-pilot or auto-pilot. That's a problem for me because these days the pilot is usually busy having photo ops with his proud mom and dad in the cabin, the co-pilot is busy bashing down the washroom door with a lady passenger inside, and the auto-pilot is probably a bunch of algorithms coded by a young nerd in Gurgaon who's mad about getting only a 2% annual increment and has a grudge against everyone. Now, which sane person would get on to a plane in the hands of these three entities? So I prefer to be highway robbed by Mr. Gadkari and his toll plazas.

But on the occasional flight I am forced to take I always encounter an unusual form of discrimination which no one appears to have noticed. Now, I weigh 60 kgs on a good day, which can go down to 59 kgs on days when I do not get my favourite repast, the Delhi Gymkhana mutton cutlets. However, such days are rare since my sister-in-law, Anjali, makes sure that this supply chain works seamlessly. To get back to the point, however, my weight makes me a lightweight in a country where  40% of the population will be obese by 2030. And this is no country for lightweights.

You are not considered successful in life if you don't have a cantilevered pot-belly. On buses or metros you are invariably compressed into a corner and denied your fair share of space. One invariably gets shoved to the back of any queue Ms Sitharaman decides to put one in. Ladies think you lack in testosterone and therefore not worth their time. Insurers consider you a bad risk and double the premium. But it's the airlines with whom I have my major grouse because their baggage rules discriminate against lightweights like me.

Most airlines allow about 20 kg of checked-in baggage on economy class; anything more and you pay through your e-nose for the extra baggage, an average of Rs. 600 per kg. So if  I'm carrying 5 kg extra, I have to shell out Rs. 3000. Fair enough, you might say? But hold on. What is my total WTA (Weight To Airline)? 85 kg. (My weight 60 kg+free baggage 20 kg+ extra baggage 5 kg.) Compare this with the the Great Khali like hulk behind me in the queue: he weighs 120 kg and his luggage weighs 20 kg. His WTA is 140 kg, compared to my 85 kg, 55 kgs more- but here's the catch- he walks aboard without having to pay a paisa, while I paid 3000 bucks even though my WTA was 55kgs less than his ! There has to be something wrong here, right? Isn't this institutionalising and rewarding obsesity at the cost of those who labour to remain trim and supple?

Weight plays an important role in the flying cost of a plane, and airlines are constantly devising ways to cut down on the weight. According to one leading European Aviation magazine an aircraft which performs five flights a day, each round-flight of 1140 kms, would save 6240 kgs of fuel every year costing US$ 4200 for every kilogramme of weight reduction! Why do you thinks the cabin crew (airhostesses in the days when we called a gal a gal) are usually girls? Why do you think one now gets fewer magazines on flights? Why do you think the cutlery is plastic and not metal? It's the weight, stupid: a girl weighs 20 kgs less than a man on average, so just this gender preference can shave about 200-250 kgs off the weight of an aircraft. The same logic drives the cutlery and the magazines.                                                                                                              Therefore the question: why should airlines not apply the same principle and logic to passengers' body weight? Why should they not move to a "Pay as you Weigh" policy? Airlines should calculate the TOTAL weight associated with a passenger- what I have termed WTA- and not segregate the body weight and the luggage weight, charging only for the latter and not the former. Fix a consolidated permissible weight, say a reasonable 90 kgs for both flyer and his luggage, and charge for anything in excess of that. Why give the fat cats a free pass at the cost of the slender, Mr. Bean types like me?

This would revolutionize air travel and be a win-win for all concerned. The airlines would make oodles of money and would not have to convert their washrooms into paid Sulabh Sauchalayas, or introduce standing-only flights; the horizontally challenged would now have an incentive to move towards the vertical plane; those who cavil at this or refuse to change can travel by Royal Caribbean or Norwegian, which may be a good thing after all: we may see a return to the good old days of the ocean liners, which would be a boon for the environment. 

My suggestion is not as far-fetched as it sounds, you know. Airlines are beginning to see the light and count the millions they are losing by carrying excess lard free of cost. US airlines have now started requesting XXL passengers, who are likely to overflow into the next seat, if not the next plane, to buy a second ticket or deboard. The day is not far off when the XL types too shall be charged by weight, and we scrawny types shall finally get our day in the sun, if not the metro.

THE SOVEREIGN RIGHT TO PRIVACY-- OR SECRECY ?

We live in strange times indeed where the rules of logic are turned on their head everyday with every new executive diktat or court ruling. The latest is this new epidemic of "privacy"- one sided, of course. On the one hand the government is doing everything to prise loose every shred of personal information from its citizens, through Aadhaar, PAN, voter registration, face recognition, DigiYatra, authorising the tax sleuths to mine even one's social media chats and emails, snooping on their phone conversations through imported malware. On the other, it refuses to share with the same citizens information they are entitled to in order to meaningfully exercise their democratic rights. In other words, the citizen has no right to privacy, but the government has a sovereign right to it ! 

When you buy a packet of noodles you are entitled by law to know what it contains. But when you choose your Prime Minister- a more consequential decision, you will agree- you are not entitled to know whether he has a valid educational qualification or not. Even though he has declared it in his electoral nomination form, it has been displayed in a press conference by his Sancho Panza and published in many papers! For the Delhi High Court has ruled that this is private information and no public interest is served by revealing it.

There are so many threads of logical incoherence and fallacy in this ruling that it is difficult to separate them. For one, a person in public life cannot claim privacy in matters that may have a bearing on his character or functioning, such as educational qualification, income and its sources, marital status, material disposition of his family members, whether he has a criminal past: these details are necessary for the public to decide whether or not confidence can be reposed on him/her. Second, he has already disclosed this information on oath to the government (in this case the ECI) and it is no longer private. Third, such disclosure has to be properly verified to the satisfaction of not only the election authority but also that of the voter. Fourth, by this same misconstrued logic of the court, all other information provided by a candidate also cannot be verified or made public! Then why ask for this information in the first place, if the purpose is to put it  under lock and key? The logic of this ruling makes a mockery of the election laws and the voter's rights. In effect the court is telling us that we have no right to any information about a candidate and we might as well elect a pig in a poke! 

Actually, this ruling is an inevitable consequence of a disturbing judicial pattern which began with the jurisprudence of the sealed cover, a hideous anomaly in any rule-based form of governance. It started with the Rafale case, was further refined in the Pegasus case and has now become institutionalised with this judgment. 

The recent elevation of some High Court judges to the Supreme Court further establishes how entrenched the element of secrecy (under the garb of privacy) has become. It has been reported that one judge has been elevated after superseding 40 judges senior to him, and inspite of a dissenting note of a member of the Collegium (which is not being made public). Now, in the executive, even an Upper Division clerk cannot be superseded without recording detailed reasons for doing so, in the DPC proceedings. It's the courts which have themselves reiterated time and again this principle of natural justice. But, strangely, they are loath to practice what they preach when it come to themselves, on the grounds that it would infringe on the "privacy" of the superseded judges by besmirching their reputation. Which begs the question: are only judges entitled to have a reputation? It would appear that what is good for the clerk is not good enough for the judge!

This perverted interpretation of "privacy" has now become a weapon to deny legitimate information to the public, whether it be in Parliament, the Information Commissions, statutory or constitutional bodies, the courts, the media. Even the press is being restrained from doing its duty on the grounds of privacy or reputation of individuals. Just last week a Delhi  court has injucted some reputed investigative journalists (including Paranjoy Guha Thakurta and Ravi Nair) from publishing "defamatory" and "misleading" articles on the Adani group, and has asked them to take down some articles. Pardon me, but how can the court be so sure that the articles are not based on facts, or that they are defamatory? Has it examined any evidence to this effect before issuing the restraining order? If any defamation is involved then shouldn't the Adani group be filing defamation cases against the authors, instead of the court doing a preemptive job on behalf of the company? Legitimate questions all, since more and more politicians and "celebrities" are now taking this easy route of claiming "privacy" to avoid any public scrutiny of their deeds.

The dubiously constituted Election Commission of India has set new standards in opacity and secrecy, refusing to share any worthwhile or timely information with the voters, whether it be number of votes cast, VVPAT counts, machine readable voter rolls, reasons that prompted a hasty SIR in Bihar, the names of the 65 lakh excluded voters in the SIR and the reasons for their deletions, the number of "Bangladeshis" detected (a stated reason for the SIR). Whenever it has divulged some information it has done so reluctantly and under the nudging of the courts.

It has, however, reached the height of nebulosity and obtuseness with its refusal to make public the video recordings of the polling process on the grounds of "protecting" the privacy of our mothers, sisters and daughters! This is a formulation worthy of a Uriah Heep or a Goebbles, given that these same ladies are videographed every day in airports, hotels, shops, road crossings, usually without their permission or even knowledge (unlike the polling booths where it is part of publicly proclaimed SOPs). Surely the Chief Deletion Commissioner cannot be unaware of the fact that polling booths are public spaces and not private places? That CCTVs are set up in polling booths precisely to keep an eye on the polling process, including the polling staff and the voters? That this makes for greater transparency, and that no voter has ever objected to it?

How can justice be "seen to be done" when the process is shrouded under a cloak of secrecy disguised as privacy? Justice can be served, and the law upheld, only in the full glare of the public gaze, not in the dark shadows of legally doubtful subterfuge.

BOOK REVIEW : THE KARGIL WAR SURGEON'S TESTIMONY

 The Kargil War Surgeon's Testimony by Col (R) Arup Ratan Basu                                             Published by Bloomsbury India. 2025

                                 

All wars are invariably followed by books, but these are usually about the blood and glory,  strategy and logistics, victories and failures. Colonel Basu's book is delightfully different: while being both humble and unassuming, it is also humane and compassionate, shedding light on the usually ignored "backroom boys" who provide the spine to the arms that fight on the frontlines. Basu is a general surgeon, and this book is a personal account of the two months he spent in the army field hospital at Kargil. It is special and refreshingly different in that it looks at war, not through the eyes of one trained to take lives but one trained to save them.

Freshly commissioned as a surgeon in the Army Medical Corps in December 1998, he was dispatched to Kargil on his first posting where war had just broken out between India and Pakistan. He is candid enough to admit that he was not prepared to be thrust into the jaws of war, ministering to casualties with the most basic of facilities, A field hospital is only the first responder, its job being to stabilise the wounded before shifting them to base hospitals for more advanced care, but that is in theory only, as Col Basu soon found out. Severely wounded soldiers have to be saved during the proverbial "golden hour", sometimes with complicated operations field hospitals are ill-equipped to handle. But this reasoning cannot be an alibi, it has to be confronted as a challenge.

The wounded came every night for two months from sectors which are now household names- Batalik, Dras, Kargil ; Basu and his team worked and operated at night and rested during the day. He gives us the reason for this peculiar time schedule: Indian soldiers, attempting to climb up the lofty mountains on which the Pakistanis were perched, could only do so at night. Casualties therefore occurred at night, but could be evacuated out of the battle zones only the same night (if lucky) but usually on the next night since during the day they would be sitting ducks for the enemy soldiers. So they arrived at the field hospital at night, were attended to and, if required, referred to Srinagar by chopper the next day. Interestingly, the author soon discovered that number of casualties arriving every day was a fairly accurate barometer of how the war was progressing !

Doctors are the unsung heroes of any war, and the figures of the Kargil field hospital prove it: during his short two month tenure there Col. Basu surgically treated 350 casualties and operated on 250- that's a mind boggling 4 operations a day! He lost only two of his patients. It says something about the grit and commitment of army doctors that he had to perform complex surgical procedures which even a state of the art corporate hospital in a metro would find a challenge- splenectomy, thoracotomy, intestine resection and anastomosis; each of these would have ordinarily required a team of specialists. Basu counts as one of his triumphs his success in saving a havildar's gangrenous, splinter-shattered arm from amputation by adopting some dexterous surgical procedures. His peers at the base hospitals, where his patients were forwarded for advanced care, soon conferred on him the well deserved title of the Surgeon of Kargil!

Basu's job afforded him many opportunities to interact with his patients and he learnt a lot about the war from them, details which have to be believed because they came from people who have lived them: how the "disconnect" of our army field commanders led to the intelligence failure to anticipate that Pakistan was upto something on the commanding heights of the border, in spite of being informed by the shepherds and the bakerwals that something was amiss; the complete initial unpreparedness of our soldiers to fight in these heights, without adequate clothing, footwear, snow tents, acclimatisation, even food, a prime reason for the high rate of casualties-527 dead and 1363 wounded; how the tide of war turned with the introduction of the Bofors guns; the deceitful nature of the Pakistan army which planted mines even as they vacated the occupied areas when cease fire was declared.

There are moments of great poignancy too. As when news filters down to the field hospital of the handing over of the bodies of the gallant Capt. Saurav Kalia and his six-man patrol; the anger and sorrow at learning of the horrible mutilation and tortures inflicted on them before their murder in cold blood. Or when Basu is informed to be ready to receive a special casualty; it turned out to be that of Squadron Leader Ajay Ahuja, whose MIG was shot down as he was trying to rescue Flt. Lt. Nachiketa whose plane had also been shot down. Nachiketa was lucky- he was released after a week or so in captivity when India took up his case at international fora. Ahuja was not so lucky: when Col. Basu examined his dead body he found clear signs of torture and cold blooded murder of a POW. What happened to the Geneva Convention?, he asks. Did the government fail in mounting pressure for his release, as it did for Nichiketa? he wonders. But he realises that though wars throw up many questions they provide few answers.

It was not all shelling and surgery at the hospital, though. Soon enough, it was swarmed by journalists ( Barkha Dutt, CNN, Reuters) and celebrities, for as news of the remarkable work being done here got around Col. Basu himself became a celebrity of sorts! The glamorous visitors included Javed Akhtar, Shabana Azmi, Suneil Shetty, Salman Khan, Raveena Tandon, Vinod Khanna, Javed Jaffrey, Bachendri Pal the Everester. . They were a bit of a nuisance at times with their airs, but they were wonderful as morale boosters for the wounded jawans. The author recounts how one patient, bed-ridden with intense back pain and sciatica, jumped out of his bed to get himself happily photographed with the stars, hopping from frame to frame, his pain dissipated! This was noticed by the Commandant who promptly had the chap discharged and sent off to the front lines.

Kargil is located on the banks of the river Suru, originating from the snowfields and glaciers of Trishul. The last chapter is devoted to this river, which had seen so much bloodshed and disruption in these few months, and longed to return to the peace and tranquility its vales once enjoyed. The book ends with a number of poignant questions asked by the river: Why did our neighbours [Pakistan] have to tread into our territory, the territory that never belonged to them? Why did they cause so much destruction? Was it all worth it? There are also questions asked of the river by the gallant soldiers who laid down their lives for their country: Did we not do right in defending your vale? Have you forgotten us too, Suru, as all the others have? Why should you remember this tale, when my countrymen have forgotten me? Do you think that I deserved to die this way?

Questions that will haunt the reader for a long time. For they have no answers.