MY FIRST DAY AT WORK

With the holidays coming up, I am averaging less than twenty five emails a day and feeling kind of unemployed – thought it would be good to give other people some reading practice.

Some years ago, I completed 25 years of service life and wrote small piece on how I started off on my first day at work. The piece is reproduced below for your reading pleasure.

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“A quarter century of service life;

Full of surprises, fun and strife.

Has it come too early or late ?

Need to sit and contemplate !!”

To give a sort of background to the uninitiated, I had got the job through a campus interview during my final days at the Engineering College. They had selected 16 people from our batch, but I was the only fellow who finally joined the construction company. Never got to know who the other 15 were. 

Koraput district of Orissa (in India) is sometimes referred to as the “Kashmir of the South”. Most of the district straddles the Eastern Ghats – a long range of mountains and hills covered in dense forests, with gurgling streams and pristine natural beauty. The forests were home to bears, wild boar, cheetahs, pythons and the most dangerous of them all, wild dogs. (I hope those animals still live there).

For the anthropologically inclined, these forests, to the North and East of Koraput town are the fabled “Dandakarnya” forests mentioned in the Ramayana.

When I landed there back in the early 80’s, the local tribal population were the only people around. They had a wonderful openness about them – simple-minded, trusting people, ever ready to serve you food and help in any way they could. They spent the evenings dancing and drinking “handiya” as the local hooch is called, with one significant difference – after a bout of drinking, more often than not, it would be the men-folk who would get beaten up by the wives and thrown out of the house, thus being forced to spend the rest of the night at their own doorsteps.

Between July and September you got to see nature at its most furious – violent storms, rains that continued for days on end without letup, ending in terrible flash floods. It is also the coldest period then, with night time temperatures hovering around the 5-7 degree Celsius mark.

There is a broad-gauge railway line starting from the sea-shores of Waltair (Vishakapatnam), climbing into the hills and rolling on to the plateau beyond, up to Kirandul. Semiliguda, on this line, was once the highest broad-gauge railway station in Asia at about 3600 feet, till the Sino-Tibetan Railway came into being in China. The railway line itself is an engineering marvel, with about 50 odd bridges and 67 tunnels taking the line from sea-level, to 3600 feet over a distance of about 21 miles.

Araku Valley (or Arku) is just beside Semiliguda, where all the migratory birds from Siberia come for the winter nesting. Between the months of December and March, you can barely hear yourself speak in this valley.  It is a wonderful place to go for a first honeymoon or a repeat one, especially during the winter months – between December and March.

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My hydel project was somewhere in that Koraput district in southern Orissa. The place was not to be found on any map – only the nearest railway station, Koraput town, was shown as a tiny dot high up in the Eastern Ghats. My only guide was the appointment letter stating that my “project site was about 54 Kms from this town”. Remember, India was then a relatively “phone-free” country.

Day One : I boarded the Coromandel Express from Howrah to Vishakhapatnam, accompanied by a suitcase and a bedding (or “holdall” as it is known). I do not know why, but in those days, a bedding seemed to be an integral part of everyone’s luggage.

Even though I was in the first class compartment (I do not think they use them these days anymore), my sleep was rudely interrupted at regular intervals throughout the night by coffee vendors… The jarring sound of  “ey – Kaffeeee” emanating from their throats, like someone polishing a hollow metal bucket with sand paper was enough to keep one awake for a long while.

Day Two : Reached Vishakhapatnam at about five in the morning. My train to Koraput – the “Waltair – Kirandul fast passenger” – left at about 10 in the morning, and almost immediately started its climb into the hills. When we started, there were about 20 odd people in the only first class compartment on the train.

Halfway through the journey, there were just three of us, all going to Koraput – no wonder they called this train “the fast passenger...” And to top it all, those two gentlemen who lived in Koraput, had never heard about my project. The journey through the hills was indeed scenic, but bereft of food and water supplies; had biscuits and tea for lunch. And then more biscuits and tea... When the thirst overpowered me, I would get off at some of the innumerable stations on the way and partake of a pale, reddish fluid that dribbled out of the “Drinking Water” taps.

The train reached Koraput from Vishakhapatnam, six hours late, at about 11 o’ clock at night. The only food that was available nearby consisted of stale dosas, and some violently sour sambar. No one had told me it could be so cold at night in what is almost southern India.

Had to spend the night alternating between shivering and paying urgent visits to the loo – the dosa turned out to be murderous…

So here I was, a greenhorn fresh out of college, about to enter service life, 1000 Kms away from home, shivering on a dimly-lit railway platform high up in the hills in the middle of nowhere, with the geographical location of my destination undefined, while that assassin of a dosa continued its assault on my intestines… If I wanted to turn back, I could only do so two days later, when that “fast passenger” train would wind its way slowly down the hills once again...

Day Three : Emerged from the railway station in the morning, bleary-eyed and still shivering. Visited all the tea-stalls trying to figure out a way to get to my destination. No one seemed to know where my project site was. A huge Sardarji at one of the tea-stalls took pity on me, told me he was a bus-driver, going to a town called “Jaipur”… (I always thought Jaipur was in Rajasthan at the other end of the country), and perhaps, my site was near that town… (Much later I came to know this one was called “Jeypore”)

I boarded his bus, a typical red-and-yellow contraption belonging to one of the state transport corporations, where the windows on the side had rolled up canvas sheets instead of glass, and the whole vehicle made more noise than five hundred baby-rattles put together. Sat on the first seat, right beside the engine, parallel to the driver’s seat. He kept up a steady chatter, but the engine was louder, so all I could hear were certain words or snippets of the conversation he was trying to make. He slowed down at every road sign on the way to allow me to identify the road crossing that would lead to my project site. My co-passengers were a mixed lot – goats, vegetables, with people in tow.

After about an hour or so, when we were so deep into the forest, that sunlight could be seen dancing only on the treetops, we came upon this sign saying “Upper Kolab Hydel project – 15 Kms.”  The Sardarji jubilantly stopped the bus, helped me to get out with my suitcase and my bedding, and set me up on a small concrete block beside the road, that, I think, was once used for survey purposes. He told me I would definitely get some vehicle to reach the project site. And then the bus left for Jeypore.

It was about 9:30 in the morning. I was stuck in the middle of a dense forest now, with my suitcase and my bedding, and a lot of invisible chirping crickets for company, unable to move forward or return home. And that dosa of the previous night was not yet done with me, even after all those visits to the loo. Any thought of trying to walk that distance was quietly obliterated from my mind by that huge bedding sitting beside the suitcase…

The sound of crickets chirping was presently overcome by a huge tractor – trailer combination hauling cement bags. As it came closer I could see five people on the tractor, apart from the driver. I waved it to a stop and asked if they were going to the project site. They said no, but also said that I would not get any vehicle here, I needed to go to the next crossing, as that was the road used by the project people.

The only option was to get on the trailer. They helped me, my suitcase and the bedding on to the trailer, and we were off again…. “Some progress” I thought to myself.

They dropped me off at the second crossing, some 7 Kms and thirty minutes later, but still deep in the forest. My suitcase and bedding were white with cement dust, and I could only imagine how I must have looked…

The sign here said “Upper Kolab Hydel project – 10 Kms.” “I’m getting closer” – I thought.

This crossing had a small hut with half the roof missing, which perhaps, served as a roadside tea-stall once upon a time…. There were a couple of logs set up as benches, and a decrepit mud oven, in which a cat had made its home. Well, I at least had a cat for company now, as compared to the previous halt….. The cat woke up, viewed me disgustingly with half-closed eyes, as only cats can do, and went back to its slumber.

A couple of hours later, a white Ambassador car came along and slowed down as it was turning into the road that apparently led to the project site. The driver looked at me, then stopped, and asked if I was supposed to go to the project site. I answered yes and showed him my appointment letter. He cast a disbelieving look at me, helped me put the suitcase and bedding in the hold, and then laid a towel on the seat, saying “You have cement all over, please sit on the towel.”  I asked if this was a company car and he said yes. That was a comforting thought, indeed.

Well, after an uneventful 10 Kms, I reached the Project office, was greeted with incredulous looks from the people around, and taken straight to the Project Manager. He took one long look at me, drew a deep breath and asked, “Why did you not come in the car I sent for you?” 

 “Which car ?”, I asked.

“It was waiting for you at Jeypore bus-stand since 10 in the morning, and returned a few minutes ago”, he replied. “Never mind, now go to the officer’s mess, wash up, have lunch and come back.  I can barely make out your face through all that cement.”

It dawned on me that had that enterprising Sardarji just allowed me to stay put on his bus till it reached Jeypore, my travails would have been that much lighter…

In all my travels thereafter, I have never ever carried a bedding with me again, and I make it a point never to have a dosa for dinner either – their benign façade can sometimes hide a vitriolic backlash.

I have also always steered clear of enterprising bus-drivers ever since.

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