MY FIRST MANAGEMENT LESSON

 Those were the early days of a Hydel project deep in the jungles of Koraput, high up on the Eastern Ghats, somewhere close to the Andhra-Orissa border. The last outpost of civilisation was Vizianagram, about 170 Kms away. There were innumerable machines and just as many people gathered at the site. The excavations for the dam were on – the fist bucket of concrete was yet to be poured. Equipment was arriving by the tons and being moved around and put in place in preparation for the dam building. Most of the manual labour for handling heavy machinery was provided by gangs of tall, burly Sardarjis called “khalasis”.

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.”