NIGHT-SHIFT REPORT SET THE TONE

An everlasting memory of my childhood, spent in Bhilai during the 1960s, is of my father taking the night-shift report. Appa was in the foundry and pattern shop of the Bhilai Steel Plant (BSP). The foundry met the requirement of all types of metal castings — ferrous and non-ferrous — of the BSP. The pattern shop produces the patterns required by the foundry. Each morning, Appa would receive a telephone call from the foundry night-shift in charge. The report would cover all activities during night shift. There was a standard template — how many castings, the types, the tonnage of the metal cast and so on. Specific incidents meriting Appa’s attention, breakdowns and deviations from the normal would be discussed.

Listening to the report, I learnt about foundry products like ingot moulds and bottom plates, but my favourite was the ‘pig casting mould’. I learnt that it was not a mould to cast a pig, but one in which the pig iron produced in the blast furnace is cast. Although I had never spoken to, or seen most of the shift in charges, I was used to their reporting habits. One in charge was so loud on the telephone that Appa kept the handset a few inches away. Even I could hear him rattling off the production figures at lightning speed. He was said to be a no-nonsense engineer who went about his duties in a professional manner and achieved the production targets laid down for his shift, with minimum fuss. The conversation would occasionally extend beyond the report. Like Appa, he was a voracious reader. If there was a new book to be read, this was the time for discussion on it.

Then there was one who had all the time in the world. He would ask if Appa had had his coffee, would he be attending so-and-so event that evening, etc. Appa would patiently coax him into revealing the production figures. He would speak softly, mention a few figures and again digress. Appa would again bring him on track, only to be told, ‘There are some shortfalls.’

The nickname of one engineer was Mr PlusOne. No target was beyond him. Every morning, when he would give the report, it would be laid-down-target-plus-one in every category. His positivity was contagious. Appa would be very cheerful after taking the report from him, saying that Mr PlusOne was a problem solver. He was a bundle of energy and there was never a ‘no’ from him. Appa’s final comment would be, ‘He is like an Army man’, the ultimate accolade he could bestow on anyone. As a child from a non-Army family, growing up in the non-Army environment of Bhilai, I would be intrigued by this comment. Years later, after I joined the Army, it was always my endeavour to live up to the image which Appa had of an Army man.

(This was published in “The Tribune” on 30 September 2020.

https://www.tribuneindia.com/news/musings/night-shift-report-set-the-tone-148765 )

 

WHAT INDIA NEEDS TO LEARN FROM BHILAI

India's largest integrated steel plant, the Bhilai Steel Plant, came up with Soviet collaboration in the late 1950s.

It is one of the largest producers of high quality steel rails and has an important role in keeping alive our country's vast railway network.

A host of other steel products -- including angles, channels, rounds, bars, wire rods and plates -- are part of the BSP's product mix.

It has won the Prime Minister's Trophy for 'best integrated steel plant in the country' 11 times.

The BSP annually contributes the biggest share to the profit generated by the Steel Authority of India Limited.

You would think that these would be enough reasons for the Bhilaians to feel proud of their city.

For them these are important, no doubt, but these are not the only aspects which characterise their city.

There are many other facets of Bhilai which the Bhilaians would like to talk about.

The Bhilai township, spread over 9,000 acres, is one of the most well-planned large industrial townships in India.

It has an exceptionally well-maintained road network that connects the 16 sectors into which the township is divided.

To understand the importance of the role of health and education in improving the well-being of the citizens of the country, look no further than Bhilai.

The founding fathers of the BSP laid great emphasis on providing the best medical facilities to its employees and their families, free of cost.

Every sector has a well-equipped and fully functional health centre.

A main hospital was conceptualised for secondary care which, with its dedicated team of specialist doctors, has become a benchmark for medical care in the state.

Each sector has at least one school. The campuses are well laid out, with good gardens and adequate sports facilities.

The importance given to school education by the BSP in the early 1960s attracted some of the best teachers of the time from all parts of India.

Midday snacks were provided by the BSP to all school-going children. Those attending BSP schools were provided free uniforms.

The children of Bhilai's system, healthy in mind and body, made their mark by routinely bagging seats in all the top colleges of the country.

Maroda tank area, a picturesque picnic spot adjacent to a lake, has a park spread over 160 acres.

The park was named Maitri Bagh (meaning Friendship Park) to commemorate the spirit of Indo-Soviet friendship, which made this steel plant possible.

Maitri Bagh boasts of a zoo, a musical fountain, lakes and well-manicured lawns. Besides Bhilaians, it attracts visitors from nearby places who marvel at the greenery and the peace and calm it provides.

A Bhilaian is spoilt for choice when it comes to games and sports. There are many sports complexes, stadia and grounds available all over the BSP township.

Facilities exist for athletics, badminton, chess, basketball, bodybuilding, boxing, cricket, football, gymnastics, handball, hockey, kabaddi, swimming, table tennis, tennis, weightlifting, wrestling, volleyball... to name a few.

Again, these are not the only reasons why Bhilaians are proud of their city. If you want to see what India should be like and how Indians should live, you have to see Bhilai and the Bhilaians.

There is no other city in India more truly cosmopolitan than Bhilai. It is a microcosm of India in terms of representation of people from every part of the country.

Within the gates of the steel plant, the employees are united with the singular aim of making steel -- making more and more steel and making the best steel. There is no place for caste, creed, state, community or religion in the pursuit of this aim.

The same culture has permeated outside its gates, into the society of Bhilai.

In the early 1960s, in one of the sectors in Bhilai, lived a BSP engineer Mr Feroz*. His wife was a homemaker and they spoke Malayalam.

In their immediate neighbourhood were the Patels from Surat, the Ahluwalias (Sikhs from Amritsar) and the Lobos from Goa.

Ms Patel, Ms Ahluwalia and Ms Lobo were working women who would leave their young children under the care of Ms Feroz when they left home for work.

So as to not make the other children feel uncomfortable, Ms Feroz would converse with her infant son only in English and Hindi, like she would with the other four children.

On most Sundays and holidays, all four families would get together either at Maitri Bagh or at one of their residences.

It was only a matter of time before all four families picked up not merely a smattering of all four languages but also a deep understanding -- and respect -- for the culture of each others's states and religions.

This was true of many other clusters of families spread all over the township.

It was not uncommon for children of one household to accompany their neighbours to their hometowns during school holidays.

One incident which exemplifies the fiercely cosmopolitan nature of Bhilai, which is still spoken of by some old timers, is of a fight which erupted in a school bus in the 1960s.

Twin brothers, new to Bhilai, who had just joined a school in a senior class and were unused to Bhilai's cosmopolitan culture; they picked on a diminutive boy, Rizwan, and taunted him for being Muslim.

When they were about to manhandle him, in stepped an equally diminutive Chinmay who shouted at the twins, 'So what if he is a Muslim? We are all Indians and all Indians are equal -- Muslims, Hindus, Christians and Sikhs. You will have to hit me first, before you touch my brother, Rizwan.’

The stunned bullies backed away at this sudden and unexpected twist which united all the other children against them.

Truly, that day Bhilai had lived up to our first prime minister's expectations of being one of the temples of modern India.

*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of the Bhilaians mentioned in this article.

(This was published by rediff.com on 22 September 2020 https://www.rediff.com/news/column/what-india-needs-to-learn-from-bhilai/20200922.htm )

A STATION LIKE NO OTHER

One of my earliest memories is from the early 1960s of a few hours spent at the Madras Central railway station. My mother and I had travelled from Mangalore, and we were to take another train to Nagpur on our way to Bhilai.

We were opposite a counter in the reservation office. Amma handed over some document to the bespectacled gentleman who immediately opened up a register. He looked at Amma’s document and looked into the register a few times and finally, in an authoritative tone said, "Congratulations, Mrs Udupa, your reservation is confirmed in the Grand Trunk. Have a pleasant journey." I was impressed by his demeanour.

I asked Amma what this was all about. She explained to me that a telegram had been sent from Mangalore for reservation by the next train; he had checked and informed her that it was confirmed. But the manner in which he congratulated Amma and mentioned "Grand Trunk" remains indelible in my memory. Though almost everyone refers to it as the GT Express, for me, after that incident it has always been "The Grand Trunk".

Amma then took me to the Higginbothams book stall. It was well spread out, with books, magazines and newspapers neatly arranged. Amma took her time there and made a few purchases. We then spent some time in a refreshment room.

Those few hours at Madras Central made an everlasting impression on me. The high point of all my Bhilai-Nagpur-Madras-Mangaluru train journeys during school vacations and later when I joined college in Mangalore, would be the time spent at Madras Central.

Coming back to this journey, when we reached Bhilai, father was at the station to receive us. He took me in his arms, and asked me about my grandparents at Mangalore. All that I was interested in telling him again and again was, "Congratulations, Mrs Udupa, your reservation is confirmed in the Grand Trunk. Have a pleasant journey." To his amusement, I also mentioned "Higginbothams", thus impressing him with the two big words I had learnt recently.

During our next visit to Madras Central, on my insistence, my parents took me to the reservation office but that gentleman was not to be found. Appa made some enquiries and learnt that he had migrated to Australia. But the Higginbothams stall and the many refreshment outlets continued to hold their sway on me.

Madras Central had something new to offer almost every time I passed through it. Once we found that the staff of one of the refreshment rooms were differently abled women. I thanked the woman who had attended to us. Amma was quick to note that my words did not have any impact on her as she was hearing challenged. Amma insisted that I thank her by bowing respectfully. When both Amma and I thanked her this way, tears welled up in her eyes and she instinctively hugged both of us.

A few years later, Madras Central introduced a free luggage trolley service. Those were the days before the advent of wheeled luggage and the trolley was a great boon to passengers. The range of passenger amenities within the station kept improving. Whether food and snacks or other daily need items, Madras Central seemed to have them all.

In the mid-1970s, a direct train was introduced between Delhi and Mangalore. But I refused to travel by it. First, it was not the Grand Trunk. Most important, it did not pass through Madras Central. I was unwilling to miss any opportunity to spend a few hours at Madras Central. And why would I forgo those trips to Mount Road or Moore Market, from Madras Central?

In September 2019, I was back there after almost 38 years. Now Chennai Central, it did not fail to charm me again. I had my favourite snacks and sipping rose milk, went to Higginbothams to buy some reading material. Standing there, I gazed into the distance and almost saw a three-year-old prancing around, saying in every possible tone, "Congratulations, Mrs Udupa!"

(This was published as an "Open Page Web Special" in "The Hindu" dated 09 August 2020)

SOMETHING SPECIAL, SURELY

As newly-commissioned Sapper officers, we went to the College of Military Engineering (CME) at Pune to undergo the Young Officers’ Course. A few days prior to that, during our brief orientation, we had been allotted our respective regiments. I felt I was the luckiest amongst my course mates — my regiment was in CME itself. Thus, I became part of what was to be my regiment six months before formally joining it and was invited to many of the regimental events. The very first of these was a dinner hosted by the Commanding Officer, to which were invited all the unit officers and their families.

Our CO and his wife were known to be excellent hosts. Since it was my first visit to their residence and being the juniormost there that evening, I was extra pampered. But before that, when the CO personally asked me what drink I would prefer, I replied, “Sir, I don’t drink.”

He raised his eyebrows, “Trying to impress me?”

I replied, “Sir, in the Army, how can anyone impress anyone by claiming to be a non-drinker?”

He was taken aback by this unexpected response from a youngster. In an authoritative tone, he advised, “No, it’s not that. But if you are indeed a non-drinker, be assured, contrary to what is assumed, in the Army nobody will force you to drink. If you want to drink, your choice, if not, again your choice.”

The CO’s words that evening set the tone for my being completely uninterested in anything even remotely related to liquor.

My only association with liquor was when I would be present for the ‘rum issue’ to troops after the company roll call. And yes, for a few months, I was the Wine Member in our Officers Mess when my own company commander was the Mess Secretary. I was intrigued by the liquor peg. Each bottle of liquor is 750 ml and a peg measures 60 ml. So, a bottle is 12.5 pegs. I would wonder why a bottle should have the peg measure in fractions and not a whole number. One day I eagerly suggested to the Mess Secretary, “Sir, this system needs to be changed. Let us from now on have a peg of not 60 but 50 ml and thus a bottle can have 15 pegs.” Looking at me sternly, he chastised me, “Never mention this to anyone; 50 ml ka peg sunte hi sabka nasha vaise hi utar jayega.”

Years later, in Delhi, one day my boss told me, “I am off for a meeting. My retired course mate Panchhi will be here shortly. He wants some liquor. On my behalf, get him whatever he wants from our canteen.”

When Brig Panchhi arrived, I made him comfortable and offered him tea. “You are the bloke who will help me?” he asked. In those few minutes itself, I realised that he had a great sense of humour and that he had taken an instant liking to me because of my oversized moustache.

“Yes, sir, do let me know what you are looking for,” I replied cheerfully, trying to match his josh.

“I want four bottles of Something Special,” he demanded.

“Sure, sir, whatever you want, our canteen is well stocked, just tell me what you want,” I answered with some more cheer and josh.

“Told you, I want Something Special,” said Brig Panchhi.

“Sure sir, we have everything. Just name it. We have every special thing,” I repeated.

A few more iterations of this back-and-forth took place before he became visibly irritated and snapped, “Are you a non-drinker?”

Taken aback, I realised this was not going as smoothly as I had imagined. “Yes sir,” I grinned sheepishly.

He looked up, raised his hands above his head and in mock despair said, “Look what the Army’s come to! Who gave a non-drinker the permission to have such a big moustache?”

Then, very softly, “Son, just get me ‘Something Special’. That’s the name of the Scotch whisky that I came here for.”

(This was published in "The Tribune" on 26 April 2020)

MORE THAN THE SUM OF ITS PARTS

My father’s favourite Sunday activity was maintenance of his Ambassador car. I would watch in fascination as he effortlessly went about his hobby, happily whistling a tune. It convinced me that vehicle maintenance was the easiest thing to do.

When I turned 11 and learnt to ride a bicycle, my parents decided to buy me one. Sukhdevji, the proprietor of the cycle shop, addressed me directly, making me feel important. Then, he selected a machine for me and sweetened the deal with a free bell and a spongy seat cover.

Sukhdevji and Brijlal, the mechanic who put it all together, walked to the door and formally handed over the spanking new bicycle to me. Before I pedalled off, they advised me to come back after a fortnight for oiling and minor adjustments.

On my visit, Brijlal tightened a few nuts, oiled the chain and inflated the tyres. I was asked to return after a month.

But I decided to maintain the bicycle myself. Had I not observed Brijlal’s work closely? It was all so easy.

One Saturday, a half-day at school, Appa was away at work and Amma had gone to visit Aunty Mathur. I took the car’s tool-kit. Also other useful things such as Amma’s kitchen pincers and her can of sewing machine oil. I started whistling Appa’s tune and went about the work.

One hour later, as the bicycle was torn down, there was a knock on the door. It was Amma. I proudly led her to my workplace. She surveyed everything, but did not utter a word. She picked up her pincers and pulled my ears with it till I let out a cry in pain. Only then did I realise that something was wrong. Reluctantly, I began putting the parts back. But nothing seemed to be fitting. When Appa returned home, he looked at me sternly but did not say anything.

Though even today I am not too sure, I think I heard the suppressed laughter of Appa and Amma and words which translate to “family tradition of fixing things which ain’t broke”.

Soon, Appa helped me collect the parts in a gunny bag and sent me to Sukhdevji in a cycle-rickshaw.

Brijlal saw the gunny bag, the bicycle frame and the two wheels. A quick glance at me and my sheepish, disconcerted look told him everything. No explanations were required. He just yelled to inform Sukhdevji, “The work of yet another budding engineer has arrived.”

(This was published in "The Hindu" on 01 March 2020)