Why Asha cried?

Rajshekhar Chandola is sad.


Why?


Because Asha is sad and disillusioned.


Why the 3-year sibling of a Malaysian accountant working for Sohar Aluminimum is sad?


Because the promised dolphin did not show up apparently on the Indian Ocean off the Muscat coast.

We – Raj, the walking encycleopaedia from Lucknow; Jasper Daniel, the bearded creative head from ‘Bangalored’ – India’s silicon city; Rajesh Burman, our photographer colleague, and self – were mentally prepared when we set up on a hot summer Friday morning for a ride into the sea in the glass-bottomed boat from Marina Bander near Al Bustan Hotel in Muscat, Oman.

Because, we have been forewarned. Gulf Leisure Boat in charge Rashad Al Wahabi did not mince words as we climbed into the 22-seater top-covered motorboat: ‘There is no guarantee that we will see dolphins. We will try our best to locate spots and take you there, though.” Jas jokingly told the plumpy Omani guide – speaking decent English - to send an SMS to the dolphins. “Why not?” quipped Rashad much to our delight.

The cute little Asha with her elder brother – may be 4 years – accompanied by parents were in the same boat as it moved away from the jetty on the Friday morning under the blazing sun. She kept muttering, ‘dolphin, dolphin’. Bro was equally in fine spirits.

Captain Saif Al Wahabi, bearded and in white shirts and a ‘Gulf Leisure’ emblazoned collarless T-short beautifully took out the water chariot on to the sea, as Rashad began briefing on how to wear the life-jacket in emergencies. I paid a lot of attention as I had rough experience on air and road in the recent past. Water experience was the only missing element. Did it happen? You bet, it did. Wait for details.

The journey was smooth with Rajesh happily clicking from the speeding boat anything that captured his imagination. Both Rajesh and self were on an assignment for a Cover Story on whether Oman is ready and adequately equipped to handle the 2-day weekend being introduced by the private sector.

Half an hour into the 3-hour long ride on calm sea, Rashad shouted: ‘There… There…’. All of us began scanning the inky blue ocean surface for signs of the dolphin. Honestly, I did not see. “Where’s it, Rashad?” I quipped. ‘There….’ I turned around to check out with Raj and Jas. They also did not spot anything. Little Asha and her bro were curiously scouting the horizon. Another assistant, who joined Gulf Leisure just 48 hours ago and speaking Hindi, suddenly tut-tutted: ‘oh, oh.. it just vanished’. Meanwhile, the captain was navigating the boat into a circle formation to spot dolphins again. But in vain. Asha began to cry again.

Raj and Jas were closely watching the children on the lower deck while Rajesh was busy clicking photos on the upper open deck. ‘Did you see it?” I shouted at Rajesh to receive a negative reply.
A few minutes later, Rashad alerted to another sighting of dolphins. We did see some movement of black and white combo. Still unsure whether it was a dolphin or we were mistaking the little wave/tide for the elusive dolphin. The problem was our preconceived notions. Most of us have seen on celluloid the dolphin shows in the United States and Europe where dolphins dance, jump through a ring, kiss the coach and do everything. You see the dolphins in full flight, so to say. We have also seen the visitors in the auditorium going into delirium on the intelligent water creature’s actions.

But that was not to be the case on this Friday morning on the Indian Ocean. Dolphins were not in a mood to show up and perform for us. Or, if they did, it was not in that pre-conceived format. Jas wondered whether Rashad was fooling us. ‘Look, the 3-hour ride is the actual thing. If dolphins come up to show, it is a bonus,” I told them.

Contrary to our fear that we may get muggy due to hot and simmering sun, the ride was pleasant. The speeding boat kept on sprinkling sea water like a mild shower as it raced at a decent speed and the wind was equally cool. Yes, each one of took turns to stand at the astern to get fully drenched.


With Rashad and company knowing our media background and on an assignment they treated us royalty. We felt like we were on a private yacht. Soft drinks and candies were on tap constantly. His frequent alerts of dolphins were taken with a pinch of salt. Asha, meanwhile, had gone into sulking. Forget about dolphins, not even fishes which she had eagerly come to see, obliged her. Parents kept cheering her up by showing the water under the boat through the glass bottom.

Jas was getting excited. He was mentally prepared for the promised snorkeling. Rashad reminded us that we would stop for 45-minutes of snorkeling towards the end. Raj kept shuffling between the two decks with Jas in tow, while I was directing Rajesh to shoot this and shoot that. Actually, there was no need to tell Rajesh. He knows his job. Yet, I needed excellent images and want to utilize the ace cameraman to the maximum. Rajesh was not eager about snorkeling as we left home around 7.30 a.m. ‘There will be a lot of crowd and women …. How can I undress?’ was his concern. But I knew he would.

Rashad quietly showed up behind me and pointed to a boat bobbing on the sea at the distance. “We are going towards that boat. These boats stay put for fishing where they have spotted them. If fishes are there, dolphins are bound to be there.’ Asha’s bespectacled father gave a short synopsis of this good message to her in some indecipherable language while her mother repeated the same in English. ‘You know, she understands English,’ she told me as I queried.


All of us moved to one side of the boat to take a close look at the distant boat and the boat began to tilt onto one side dangeroulsy. Rashid advised us to spread ourselves on both sides so that the boat does not turn turtle!

However, disappointment was in store as there were no dolphins in sight. We moved away. Suddenly, Rashad began shouting: ‘There…. There. See there, two huge tortoises.’ Rajesh shouted back from the upper deck: “Yeah. I got it. They are mating. They are making love on high seas!’ Wow. If not dolphins, at least we had tortoise ‘performing’ for us. In no time, they vanished into deep waters, never to be seen again. Some solace. Some compensation.

Then we spotted a cargo vessel moving close by. It was first time, I saw a moving ship with containers in real life. I requested Rashad to circle the moving ship. Then I realized that it would not be possible because it was moving fast. I have seen several times moving ships from the air from the window seat of Oman Air/Gulf Air and Indian Airlines. They were just toys from above and the only indication that they were in motion was the white foam they were forming and leaving behind as they moved ahead.

‘Get ready for snorkeling,’ said Rashad. We realized that almost 90 minutes had passed since we left the shores. Despite disillusioned with dolphins’ ‘no-show’, we roamed around the waters to witness the Mattrah Fort, the Mirani Fort, caught up with a dozen fishermen anchored for fishing and speeding ones as well. Also glimpsed several motor boats carrying foreign visitors enjoying the May summer on the Oman’s seas.

Jas was the first one to equip himself with the snorkeling kit. The entire crew assisted each one of us personally to get into the gear. Even Rajesh relented and readied. With one condition that he would not be bare-bodied and he would wear his white vest. Of course, life jacket. Asha’s 38-year old father, an adept swimmer, jumped into the water non-chalantly and began stroking.


And Jas, from our side. Raj followed. And then Rajesh. I was the last to climb into the water. It was warm and transparent. We could see the sea bed at 3 metres below. Some rocky formation we could detect. However, we were unable to go down and touch the seabed thanks to the life jacket that kept us afloat on the surface of the water.

I began plying my hands and feet to gain movement. Moved away from the boat and steered towards the other side. I quietly caught up with Jas holding onto a round hole on the boat side. He was feeling uneasy, saying he had swallowed salty sea water in large doses. Empty stomach and the late night party the previous day at a colleague’s home added to his discomfiture. He quietly returned to the boat, ably assisted by the crew, never to return to the water during this trip.

Meanwhile, Raj and Rajesh hung on to the rope thrown at them and enjoying themselves. While Asha with her mother in tow remained on boat, her dad and bro splashed in the water. Bro was enjoying to the hilt and her mother was happily clicking photos to carry home. Soon, I saw Raj climbing back into the boat. Yes, he again swallowed sea water and felt giddy. He also got himself cut and bruised at several places. The crew was trying to apply ice cubes to stop the bleeding.

I had my own bit of trouble. I lost breathe and clung onto the sides of the boat for a while. Assisted by the crew again, I returned to the boat. Once on board, I realized that I had cut myself at several places and was bleeding profusely. Rashad and the Captain came rushing to wash up my wounds and tried to stop bleeding. But to no avail.

Like Raj, I had swum close to the hull of the boat and in the excitement got myself spliced by the rear engine blades. Added to that was the rough exterior of the boat that had bruised me badly. My only worry was that the blood should not alert sharks if there were in the vicinity! Then I will be a dead meat sooner than later. Luckily, the Oman coast is dolphin-friendly and not shark-infested.

I was in deep pain and consoled myself saying that I am unlikely to come for another ride in the near future. What’s happened has happened. Just get going. Again I jumped into the water to join Rajesh who hung onto the rubber tube tied through a rope to the boat. I caught hold of another thick rope and remained in water until the captain reminded that it was time to return.


Having removed the goggles and breathing apparatus, I remained floating on my back basking in the bright sunshine. Rajesh was the last swimmer to emerge out of water! What an irony? The man who said he would not jump into water, spent a lot of time on water and the other guy – Jas – who wanted to snorkel to his heart’s content could not.

Once on board, I noticed the deep cuts and bruises. I was still bleeding. The colour of blood was fascinating. It raced down from belly, thighs and knees like small streams. A month ago, Zack (my one and half year old Lhasa Apso) had expressed its displeasure while being treated for some ailment by leaving its claw marks all over my body. They just vanished now to be replaced by the Oman’s water marks!

The reason for those marks were pretty well known to my wife and daughter: dog-created. Now these deep cuts and bruises happened in Oman. Away from their eyes. Have I been mauled by someone in the course of some physical violence! My conscience is clear. I won’t be surprised if my family were to nurse doubts!

By the time, the clock stuck 12 noon, we were back on the shore. Did we see dolphins? Yes and no. But Asha did not, definitely. She kept on crying. I told her to go home and watch some DVD. Raj was sad, no doubt over Asha’s disappointment.

On the road back home, I SMS-ed family and friends:

‘WENT TO SE(A) DOLPHIN AT PLAY. INSTEAD GLIMPSED PASSIONATE LOVE MAKING OF TORTOISES ON HIGH SEA.
MORAL: TARGETS ARE MEANINGLESS!

Life is full of compromises, no?

An Argentinian Affair

‘I’m just Nigam for you. Cut the ‘Mr’ out. No need for formality,’ opined Nigam Prakash, a retired Indian Foreign Service officer. ‘Don’t we know each other well over the past two sitting?’ asks he as we sip piping hot tea seated on the verandah of the India International Centre, the prestigious watering hole of India’s power elite, on Lodhi Road.

He’s just plain. Simple. I watch him closely as he niftily lifts a potato wafer from the porcelain plate and scoop a bit of Tomato sauce from another plate kept near me. Soon I hear the crunchy wafer getting crushed inside his oral trapdoor.

‘How is the toasted cheese sandwich?’ Again Nigam. He recommended that I try this out, a favourite with many regulars at IIC. This is was my second sitting with him in the past 72 hours as we explore. I did not cherish the cheesed sandwich. Can I afford to be impolite to the diplomat? What diplomat? Is he not an ex? Don’t be fussy, I tell myself. Be straight. Tell him the truth. The journalist in me raises his head. Cool, Cool. ‘It’s fine. But it’s a bit heavy,” I respond. Before he recommends another serving, I politely move the plate away. Quietly my hands move towards his vegetable sandwich plate to pick up one quarter. In no time, it is melting in my mouth. Divine feeling.

Nigam was born hardly 24 hours before Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi – Yes, India’s father of Nation – launched the Quit India movement. ‘Possibly I heard his call to quit the country from my mother’s womb!,’ jokes the tall and lean bespectacled 1962 IFS cadre officer who had spent most of his life outside India serving India’s interests in far off lands. His last posting was at Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina where he served for a six-year long stint – the longest stay at a single posting in his career.

In my first sitting with him, when we sat inside the airconditioned cafeteria at IIC, both were a bit stiff. Very formal and quite business like. Though hungry, I politely declined his offer of sandwich or hot pakoras. Nevertheless, I had partaken a quarter of slice with yummy salad and hot cuppa by the time we parted. When we left that day, we never knew that we would come together again so soon. But it so happened, we were together again in a jiffy.

One thing I must confess. He is possibly the only person who had beaten me on punctuality. For a 4 p.m. appointment, I meet him at the parking lot 10 minutes before the deadline on day one. Second time, I reach 30 minutes early – again for a 4 p.m. rendezvous. As I gingerly amble across the empty IIC reception desk, I see him occupying a cane chair in the open air space under shades. Shucks! Beaten again. Next time, I must reach an hour earlier with a prayer on my lips that he does not turn up before me! Don’t be in business, if you cannot manage your time properly. If you fix a programme, better stick to it. No excuses, please!

‘Hi,” he waves at me with a cigarette dangling between his lips. ‘National Security’, screams a library edition book lying on the lawns near him. On the way for this meeting, I had decided that let me play the journo role to perfection. No business-like postures: Maybe I am too raw to play that role. Journo will be a cakewalk.

By the way, what is journo role? Simple. Make the other party feel comfortable. Loosen him/her up with light banter. Absolutely go for a freewheeling conversation. Talk anything and everything under the sun. Play by ear. No structured agenda. Not a formal q&a session. Just be yourself, I tell myself.

“What were you doing in Argentina of all places?,” is my opening gambit. That too for six years. ‘A beautiful country. As big as India, you can say… The full credit goes to my daughter…” responds Nigam. Daughter? What’s this mystery? Could not help asking the inevitable ‘how?’.

Nigam’s second daughter was studying in British School and one fine morning told her diplomat father that the best British School in the world is in Buneos Aires. So what? asked the dad. She wanted to pursue higher studies in the US/Canada and felt a hop from South America will be better and quicker. Who told you so?, asked the father. Another highly placed officer’s ward, her classmate, was the one planting the seeds of Nigam’s Argentina plans. Anyhow, he did not pursue. During a casual meeting with his senior colleague in the foreign ministry, Nigam was stumped when he was asked: ‘I am hearing that you are looking for Argentina posting.” Nigam’s daughter was lobbying hard behind his back on his behalf. After all, she is a diplomat’s daughter and knows how to lobby. The rest, as they say, is history.

Do you know Tagore spent three months in Argentina? Nigam asks.

You mean Rabindranath Tagore? I demand and Ambassador Nigam (that is how he is introduced to me by a mutual friend) nods his head affirming that is the truth.

What was Tagore doing in Argentina? According to Manishankar Aiyer, a cabinet minister in the present government and a former IFS officer, Tagore had fallen sick on his way to Peru and spent time in Buenos Aires for three months under the care and watchful eyes of the government. After all, he was the Nobel Prize winner for literature and a friend of the British. Incidentally, Mani was Nigam’s senior batchmate. Another interesting fact: Nigam had played Mani’s father in one of the stage plays and they maintain that father-son relationship even today. ‘Mind you, I am younger to him at least by 2 years,’ reminds Nigam.

A lot of stuff he had shared with me on Argentina is meant for my ears only. Too hot and will be impolite to share with one and all. Maybe Nigam is planning a Memoir. ‘Don’t know… I love poetry,” interjects as he seems to be in an open-sesame mood. Twinkling and smiling eyes. Relaxed posture. Tea pot gets empty in double quick time and sandwiches are vanishing.

What about his Gulf stint? That’s another story.

Memory Lapse

‘Wipe everything. That’s the only way out,’ advised Murali Kannan, senior systems manager at UMS Interactive. I gawked at him. Thirty odd months hard labour. Cherished conversations through email. Official and personal.

‘Can’t something be done as an alternate route to save my hard disc?’ I posed the question to Shamir Ravindran, another IT wizard at the Muscat office. His effortless extended lower lip as response convinced me of the impending misery. Money, I can afford to lose out. Memory? I can't.

They were helpless. Not that they did not try. For a week, my life came to a standstill with my official email id – the only link with family, friends and colleagues, business partners (existing and potential) – getting jammed. I was literally crawling and bawling .

What the heck? Information is power. Suddenly I became powerless in the absence of access to business intelligence stored on my mail server. I was in a soup. A month ago, a truck ran over my flash/pen drive on the National Highway 8 linking Delhi with Jaipur in a bumper-to-bumper drive during peak hours. Soon after that, my laptop hard disc crashed – yes, cleaning my information bank in one stroke – thus forcing me to go in for reformatting. So I have to begin from a clean slate. Triple tragedy, did you say? Ohmigod, mercy pleeze!

‘What options I’ve! Do it,’ I told Murali grudgingly. At least, my mail identity will be restored immediately. My circle of acquaintances will be able to recognize me once again. Otherwise, my missives sent from unofficial ones were spiked at the recipients’ end. Loss of face and business.

When I logged in a few hours later, my official email id was restored, bereft of any back up files. Inbox, Sent and other folders appeared like ghost house. Empty. A severe pain shot through my spine. What cannot be cured must be endured!

What if my mental – instead of cyber – memory were to be wiped out? This quirky thought ran through abruptly as I sat on the hard bed in my seventh floor guest accommodation. Except a few sparks of lights on the nearby black and grey hillock on the horizon, Muscat was in deep slumber. What do you expect at 2 in the morning as I blog this? That too on Friday early morning! Floodlights on the court yard behind my building was switched off to save energy perhaps. The row of white multi-storeyed (not more than 7 floors, as is customary in Oman) concrete edifices stood up clearly giving a good contrast to the pitch dark backdropp.

Suppose, I lost all my memory but alive! I was fully drenched in cold sweat from fear in no time. Got up, toothbrushed, gulped my daily quota of blood sugar and b.p. medicine. Made a cup of hot tea – sugarless, of course. Powered up ipod and laptop. My college days hot babe, Zeenat Aman began to woo the one and only saintly Manoj Kumar with ‘Hai hai majboori’ from the 1970s flick, Roti, Kapada Aur Makaan.

My memory began to unspool fast. The day I saw Roti, Kapada.. was a red letter day in my life. Know why? I saw three movies – back to back in a single day, hopping from one theatre to another on the busy Mount Road, Chennai (then known as Madras) for the first time. (yes, I have repeated the 3-flicks-in-a-day format last year in Delhi and Bahrain a few weeks ago. Details soon.)

It was in 1974-75. Midsummer Madras heat. With two friends in tow, began the day with Cleopatra, featuring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton for a 70 mm screen presentation at Safire (the first multiplex perhaps in the southern metropolis. Or is it for the entire India?). The next halt was at Devi complex, three kilometers away for Roti, Kapada cinema hall. For the third and record breaking day, I did not have to scoot because the next film chosen was playing in the same complex but at Devi Paradise, Selvam (meaning wealth), featuring the evergreen Tamil matinee idol and thespian Sivaji Ganesan. An English movie, a Hindi flick and last, but not the least, a Tamil entertainer.

As I fast-forward to 1990, how can I forget getting pushed to the ground outside Larsen & Toubro corporate headquarters by bodyguards as I had chased Mukesh Ambani after a board meeting in Ballard Estate to get a quote for Mid-Day whom I was reporting for? The Ambanis had clandestinely taken over the multi-crore engineering conglomerate and the V P Singh government was trying to disentangle the powerful business family from L&T and I was covering on a daily basis.

How can I brush aside the sweet memories of chasing my first crush – a junior girl in the neighbourhood – by rolling a discarded rubber tyre a few yards behind her en route to the vegetable market every morning? Was it the early 1970s? Or the maiden public kiss on a crowded railway platform in Chennai and the embarrassment of facing co-passengers inside the compartment till the Bombay Mail reached its destination in 1980?

Or trying to recollect the October 2005 situation just outside the Seeb International Airport, Muscat. Emerging out of the airport for the first time, I scan the horizon for camels and sand dunes! Or the smelly experience of living with just one pair of pant, shirt and a black jacket in Dubai for three consecutive days after Gulf Air for strange reasons routed my baggage to Amman in Jordan instead of Muscat, Oman – leaving me clotheless, brushless and everything less.

Memories, sweet and sour. Nevertheless, educative, expressive and soulful. Saint, I was. Sinner I was. More years to go, perhaps. Sober maybe. What if my mental disc gets cleaned out for whatever reason and kept alive?

By the way, who am I? What am I doing? What’s the sound I am hearing? What’s that? Where am I? And, who am I talking to?

More to follow….