You are what you eat (and drink!)

 

A small observation. 

Much of the world’s misery could be traced to India, more precisely, to the Indians’ obsession with food.

 

Purely as an example, we have seen the water in the kettle boil. George Stephenson saw this and went on to invent the steam engine which changed everything. An Indian saw the same thing and invented the ‘idli,’ presumably the greater invention. Till date, no one has succeeded in fully mechanising (at reasonable cost) the humble chapati, another great invention.

 

Indians invented the spices, saffron and fasting (fastidiously called ‘dieting’). The fame spread far and near. So much so that many intrepid souls ventured out from different shores in search of India.

 

One guy called Columbus went and saw some land and was thrilled thinking he had found India. Later, another guy, Cook, landed up there and, probably to justify his name, thought he could start ‘cook’ing immediately. That piece of land is modern day America. Many expeditions failed but meanwhile, wherever the English, Portuguese, Spanish and the French stopped to pick up food and water, they also colonised. This is how most of the world was colonised.

 

Someone gave me this theory when I was on a UN deputation in Sierra Leone. He was not an Indian. He was Portuguese. And a coloniser to boot.

 

Whatever be the problems between the two countries, the Indian and Pakistani officers get along well in the multilateral work environments like UN deputations. When both the contingents landed almost simultaneously in the Mozambique mission, the initial situation looked a little daunting. Until we, the Indian and Pakistani officers discovered an Indian restaurant called Taj. On our first outing there, when the bill arrived in Meticals (1 USD = 8,000 Meticals), one Pakistani officer exclaimed, “Ghar mein pata chalega to beta bolega, baap lakh lakh ka kha gaya!” [“When they get to hear about this at home, my son will complain that his father has eaten through millions!”]

 

On being allotted our assignments at Mozambique, an IPS batchmate and I reached our duty station, Pemba at around 4 in the afternoon after a 500 km drive. We hadn’t had lunch, were bone weary, and famished. The UN office was in a four-storey building which was earlier a hotel. The owner retained the ground floor and rented out the other floors to the UN. He used the ground floor as his residence-cum-restaurant. He was of Indian origin. We thought we would approach him for our immediate requirement of some nourishment, any nourishment. He was very helpful and polite. Only problem was the language barrier. He could speak and understand any language provided it was Portuguese and we had zero knowledge of that language. Anyway, with a lot of hand gestures and mouth gestures, we managed to convey, after a labour of about 15 minutes, that what we wanted was omelettes and bread. Finally, when he understood our frantic gesticulations which included sound effects of a hen laying an egg, etc., he said, “Ahh, um momento,” or something to that effect which we took to mean, “one moment.” Our choice of the cuisine was predicated on the premise that any restaurant would have these basics and even the worst cook in the world couldn’t really spoil an omelette. After a few minutes, we found the guy revving up his scooter and going off. We could see his travel trajectory. He went into a shop at a distance, bought the eggs, bread, butter and so on, came back, prepared the food and served. From the point of order through the comprehension of the order, procurement of the ingredients, preparation and service was in excess of an hour and a half. JIT (Just-In-Time management) was not even a glimmer in the eye of the management gurus then but this guy was already practising it.

 

Over time, the guy actually became our go-to guy for everything. Pemba was a place where we lived our lives cyclically, i.e., cycles of plenty and cycles of famine alternating with each other. Everything was imported – eggs, matchboxes, vegetables, rice, everything. Once in a month or two at unpredictable times, a ship used to dock and all the shops, roadsides were awash with foodstuff and essentials for a few days. Then the town used to lapse into prolonged barrenness. This UN office guy became our storekeeper and procurer for all these essential items. The booze on offer was generally whiskey and beer (called cerveja). These were of fancy brands like Chivas Regal, Johnny Walker, Heineken and so on. They were all too mild for the Indian palate and taste and the Indian officers used to keep pestering him for procuring something “stronger.” He used to make frantic trips in search of this something stronger. Increasingly stronger stuff was just not meeting the Indians’ exacting requirements. Finally, one day, he announced that he had managed to get hold of the strongest whiskey in the world and, with a flourish, produced it before our astonished eyes. On the label, there was no name of the manufacturer, bottler, or anything. There were just three letters in huge, bold type. R U M. He pronounced it as room (whiskey). That “whiskey” was really coarse, hard and rough and was an infinitely rum experience.

 

At Pemba, we had a most interesting boss. His name was Mattie and he was from Finland. We didn’t see him the first two days. On the third day, he arrived and after a few pleasantries, begged off saying he had a hangover because of a bit too much the previous evening and went home. Later, we found that this was his regular pattern – he would appear for an hour or two every 3/4 days, completely hung over. The officers used to talk about different sizes of drinks, small peg, large peg, extra-large peg and, finally, Mattie peg.

 

Two officers who were IPS batchmates and posted at another station, stayed together and started fighting from day one. Some of these fights spilled over to the workplace also. One of them was Paramjit Bajaj. When the incumbent  Provincial Commander returned to his country after completing his term, Paramjit lobbied long and hard for becoming the Provincial Commander. When the other guy was made the Provincial Commander, he locked the Provincial Commander’s office room and disappeared with the key – to be traced a thousand miles away later. I was in a nearby station and one batch senior to them. Once when we met socially, I asked Paramjit why bother to fight; it was a short assignment; money was the same for everyone; the fight was creating an adverse opinion on the Indian contingent; and so on. He was fairly convinced but suddenly asked, “But Sir, how can I stand him – the guy doesn’t even eat non-veg?”

[Rum-maging for “whiskey”]

 

 

[Some names changed to protect identities]

KK

 

For me, he is always KK – the name is K. Karunakaran Shukla. Going by the surname, I thought he was from up North somewhere. Turned out, he was from Tamil Nadu. Actual name was Karunakaran K. By adding Shukla, he got the benefit of some reservation. First, he became the first boy from his village to complete Matriculation. Then he became the first boy from his Taluk to finish graduation. And when he became the first boy from his district to join the IPS, he felt all that agony of a South Indian body and soul wrapped inside a North Indian name had been worth it. 

He was Additional S.P. in a district called Murshidabad with a very well–connected and very powerful S.P. called Manas Rakshit. The S.P. was very successful, very ambitious and very in with the ruling Party. His only complaint, expressed in private to many people – “Out of all the S.P.s in the whole state, why did KK have to happen to ME?” One day he rang up someone high up in the ruling party and poured his heart out regarding his Additional S.P. and pleaded with folded telephonic hands to kindly remove him – “Ek lo, ek Additional S.P. muft mein doonga!” Unfortunately, at that time, there was a lot of cross-connection. KK got a parallel connection and heard through the whole conversation. Next day, bright and early, KK was in the office of the S.P. in his crisp Khaki with a crisp salute. The conversation:

 

KK: “Sir, I heard you are not happy with my work.”

 

S.P.: “No, no, who told you? You tackled that riot situation well. Crime is coming down.”

 

KK: “Still Sir, I believe, you don’t like me.”

 

S.P.: “Who is spreading these rumours? Why should I dislike you?”

 

KK: “Probably, Sir, you think I am unbalanced.”

 

S.P.: “This kind of misunderstanding should not happen. There are always these mischief-mongers.”

 

KK: “Sir, I was the first boy from my village to finish Matriculation. Then I became the first boy from my Taluk to finish graduation. And after a lot of struggle, I became the first boy from my district to join the IPS. I am really trying to do a sincere job.”

 

S.P.: “Of course, you are. We all are very proud of you. Why should you have any doubts?”

 

KK: “Sir, yesterday, there was a parallel connection. You were telling Sumanto Babu that I am unbalanced, incompetent, unsavoury and must be removed…”

 

Earlier, IPS officers were not allowed to go for UN missions. Good tax-free money, little work, exotic locales but no IPS. In the early 1990s, there was just a small suggestion that IPS officers could also be considered for the UN mission in Liberia. KK grabbed the opportunity with both hands. All of us eight officers of Bengal cadre who had applied got selected but the West Bengal government suddenly realized that sparing so many officers at Additional S.P./ S.P. level would create a serious vacuum so they refused to release us. We tried and nearly gave up but not KK. In Bengal, no one attends office before 11 AM. Every single morning, KK would be at the door of Joint Secretary (Police) office at 1055 hrs, usher him into his own office and start with the story of how he was the first boy from his village to finish Matriculation … and so on and end with the plea to kindly release us. After about a week of this, the Joint Secretary was pissed off and asked KK whether there wasn’t some other important work for him to do as he was in a sensitive district and why he was pestering him every day on end. KK replied that he had a very important assignment but since going to Liberia was more important, he reported sick so that he could hound this Joint Secretary. Finally, in sheer disgust, the Joint Secretary gave in. Even then it was touch and go. When that chartered flight took off from Delhi airport with us on board, we finally believed that we were in fact going on a UN mission and a cheer went up for KK in the plane.

 

Because it was a UN mission in a war devastated country, we were given a special baggage allowance of 140 kgs. KK persuaded the authorities and managed to sneak in baggage weighing 160 kgs. I did not know how tough things could be and went in with 24 kgs and everyone thought I was a fool. When we landed in Liberia, there was a lot of jostling for the officers to get down as though they were the first men on the moon. KK managed to be the first to get down but was very disappointed. There were already people there so he felt cheated out of his Neil Armstrong moment. There was a further problem. NO COOLIE or trolley! Everyone had to lug his own stuff. I was the only one laughing at that moment. It was tough work, heaving all that baggage on to a pick-up van at a considerable distance. One bag of KK fell and broke and about 78 pickle bottles rolled out in 78 different directions. In a place and context like Liberia in the early 1990s, pickle was a very precious commodity. Each of us grabbed as many pickle bottles as possible and tried to run as far away from KK as possible. He chased some of us and finally caught up with me. He pulled rank and demanded his pickles back. I politely and firmly refused and then he told me how his wife had lovingly packed them for him and if I did not return them, divorce was a distinct possibility and there was also the little matter of his having been the first boy from his village to have passed Matriculation and … Finally, we negotiated down to 50 – 50. He was not so successful with the others.

 

I had not seen 10,000 rupees together in my life till then. Liberia offered 105 USD per day plus our salaries. Before we could be posted to our duty stations and rent accommodation, we were put up in an exploitative hotel charging about 70 dollars per day. Most of us were still happy because it was a temporary thing for about a week and even the balance money was fine but not so KK. His world appeared to have crashed all around him. I asked him about the problem and he said he had budgeted for 3 dollars of rent plus 2 dollars of food per day so that he would save at least a hundred dollars per day, else, it was not economical. Economical?!! I thought this was just polite small talk and did not realize how dead serious he was. One morning, he announced to the utter jealously of the rest of us at the breakfast table that he had found a hotel where three of them would be sharing a room for just 10 dollars per night and they were moving out. We the great unwashed bade them goodbye secretly wishing that they would get run over. At 2 AM in the morning, same night, there was a lot of commotion. We saw KK and the two others sheepishly lugging their trunks (KK with 160 kgs minus some of the pickle bottles) and such like on their backs walking back into the hotel. Apparently, that dream castle was a room in a red-light area hotel and some “clients” were trying to wake them up around midnight. Unfortunately, the original hotel did not have any spare rooms so they spent the night searching unsuccessfully for a hotel room elsewhere, all their luggage on their backs.

 

I took over a particular assignment from KK. In the course of the farewell speeches in my honour when I was leaving the assignment, some of my staff described me in glowing terms and some even ascribed some sort of divinity to little old me. I was getting more and more elated until I realised that everything was relative. Compared to KK, my illustrious predecessor, who was by now referred to as King Kobra by some, in certain lights, from certain angles, I was appearing a little bit of all right!

“He’s a walking contradiction,
Partly truth and partly fiction.”

 

 

[Like that song, this is part truth, part fiction and part wild exaggeration; a mish-mash

combination of different people who brightened my days at different points

of time. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidental.]