Silent moonrise o’er a silent world
Silent trees with their leaves unfurl’d,
No breeze at all,
No birds do call -
Thoughts run amok in a silent world !!
I have lived with silence for many a year,
Far from everyone near and dear,
Earning my bread
So they could be fed,
But this is silence laced with fear !!
Silent silhouettes of trees so high
And a waning moon in a starless sky
Frogs and crickets completing the milieu,
‘Cause the locked down streets are silent
too !!
Those were the early
days of a Hydel project deep in the jungles of Koraput, high up on the
I was barely
twenty-two then, and in charge of setting up sub-stations and drawing power
lines all over the countryside (I think jungle-side would be more appropriate).
One day, we had to
get this 1000 KVA transformer hauled up from the store yard at base of a hill
and installed at a sub-station at the top of the hill overlooking the actual
dam site. A few days earlier, we had received a circular (this was the early
80’s – no email) from the Project Manager, asking – or should I say ordering –
us to put a check on overtime claimed by the general populace.
The overtime rates
were double the normal hourly rates – with one half being paid as salary and
the other half being accumulated as paid leave. This was a very convenient
arrangement for both the company and the workers because the latter could enjoy
long leave periods during the monsoon months when no construction work was
possible, and for the former, the actual pay-out in terms of hard cash, was considerably
lower. And yet this circular came.
It was 10 in the
morning. I called a Khalasi Sardar to my site-office on the hill. This
particular individual was in his late thirties, about six feet three or four,
maybe taller, quite dark for a Sardarji, with a small hole where his left ear
should have been, a deep, very deep, gash on his left cheek, probably caused by
a large knife or a sword, and a very dour countenance. He quietly listened to
what was required of him and then said, “Thik hai Saabji – dus aadmi lekar kar
doonga – teen ghanta de dijiyega.”
I was aghast. “Kya?
Abhi to sirf subah ka dus baje hain. Teen ghanta kis baat ki ?”
He did not answer,
but stared at me very hard and for a very long time.
Standing at
five-feet-something in my shoes after drawing up my full breath, nature never
intended me to deal with men like him. I could not stare back. The sun got into
my eyes. I kind-of murmured, “Kam to shuru kijiye !!”
He went off quietly.
The truck arrived
with the 1000 KVA thingy. They set up a 3-pole arrangement and a system of
pulleys with a very heavy rope running around – “gargatta”, they called it.
They put a “chhiling” (sling, technically) made from steel ropes around the
transformer and attached it to the hook of the gargatta…
They had to winch the
transformer up from a truck, bring it down on the ground, roll it over wooden
rollers for about ten feet to the designated spot, and winch it up over a ramp
again, to a pedestal built for the purpose.
This Sardar tied the
loose end of the heavy rope to his body and was the last man in line. The other
khalasis lined up, gripping the rope.
“B-o-l-e S-o-o-o-o
Ni-h-a-a-a-a-l !!!!”, shouted the Sardar.
Sat Sri
Aka-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-l !!!!”, replied the gang, tugging at the rope in unison.
(I never really
figured out if this was a prayer or a war cry, but that is how they always
began their work…) The rope and the steel “chhiling” became taut.
“Ey-y-y-y-y-y-y-y
bole ha !
H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
One synchronised
pull, and the transformer rose three inches in the air. The truck trundled out.
Then they gently lowered the monster on to the rollers, dismantled the 3-pole
arrangement and set it up again around the concrete pedestal – the final
destination. The chhiling – gargatta arrangement was adjusted to make
horizontal movement possible, and they lined up with the rope once again.
“Bol re bol !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“J-o-o-o-o-r se bol
!”
“H-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Pyar se bol !”
“H-a-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Dekh re dekh !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
The transformer
started lurching gently along. My foreman said, “Saab, chaliye, inko kam karne
dijiye.”
I was the
effervescent manager – “Nahi, dekhte hain pura kam teen ghanta lagta hai ki
nahi !”
“Chhoriye na – chaliye,”
said he. But I was adamant.
“Chhokri dekh !”
continued the Sardar.
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”, replied the gang.
“Chhokri aaeeee !”
“H-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
Their faces were as
expressive as the transformer they were hauling.
“Pehni choli !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Choli ke bhitar !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Lal kabutar !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Dekhne wala !”
“H-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Gandu sala !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
Ten zombies tugging
at a rope. My foreman literally tried to drag me away. “Saab chaliye, abhi”, he
whispered….
“Dekh be dekh !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
“Khada hai sala !”
“H-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”
My intelligence,
which for no apparent reason, had gone for a walk, finally returned. I turned
around and walked off to my office, with my foreman in tow.
“J-o-o-o-o-r se bol
!”
“H-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-s-a
!!!!!”……………. the chorus continued.
Within minutes, there
was a dull thud. We rushed back out. The transformer was tottering on the edge
of the ramp and a portion of the concrete pedestal had been chipped off…..
“Kya hua?“ I asked.
“Saabji !! Enu katni
thi, enu kat gayeee !!!!”, replied the one-eared Sardar in apparent wonderment,
gesturing at the transformer. As if that huge contraption had ideas of its own
about climbing the ramp.
A few moments of
pregnant silence ensued.
My foreman, now with
a visibly creased brow, called the Sardar aside, and had a long, animated
discussion. The transformer teetered on the edge while the younger gang members
quietly held on to the rope with insouciance calculated to unnerve the most
dispassionate observer.
If there was a potted
palm at that spot, it was me.
Then the foreman
moved away and gestured me to follow him. I obeyed like a lamb. “Hum do ghanta
par settle kar liye hain”, he announced as soon as we were out of earshot. “Dus
aadmi ka bees ghanta hota hai – kuchh bhi nahi – woh transformer gira dega to
satyanash ho jayega.”
“Lekin…” I protested.
“Chaliye – chai peete hain”, he cut in. It was about 10:40 in the morning.
Legend has it that
many workers at that site actually cried when I quit the job three years later.
I had, by then, become the Chairman of the OVC – “Overtime Vardaan Committee.”
I made the last trip to Kanyakumari about five years ago - the beach area was full of buildings of different shapes and sizes. There were jetties for launches to take tourists to the Vivekananda Rock, there were churches, hotels residential buildings, shops selling everything from trinkets to items of daily use - the skyline was an eyesore, to say the least.
The beach practically does not exist anymore. Yet, it is the southern most tip of India and the point where the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea meet.
Memories of my first visit to the place came flooding back... I had gone there with my parents and sister when I was this high. The last building on the mainland was the Gandhi Memorial, with the beach at a significant distance. The Vivekananda Memorial on the Vivekananda Rock was being built, and still in the early stages of construction.
I remember running around the beach with my sister, playing with sea-shells, and pebbles. I also remember collecting sands of different colours. That memory stayed with me as I completed this trip and told my family about the sands of Kanyakumari.
The other day, while cleaning out a cupboard, a flat, white plastic box popped out. I opened it - and there it was !!! The coloured sands of Kanyakumari in three little glass bottles staring back at me from the trip I made more than fifty years ago...
The red sand was from the Bay of Bengal side, the white, from Indian Ocean, and the black sand from the beach of the Arabian Sea. Sharing the picture for you all :
It is a pity that today's travellers to the place will never get to see this.
