Somebody changed my news

It would be a faint noise. A small thud followed by a rustle as it slid across.

That was ‘The Statesman’ being thrown by the vendor on to our verandah. I would be the first one to rush towards it, not so much as to read it but to pick it up and rush towards dad as if handing over a trophy. En-route I would indulge in the luxury of smelling the fresh waft of printed paper. Fortified with a cup of tea, Dad would then proceed to settle down in his arm-chair. A hushed, almost respectful, silence would descend in the room. After all, the master of the house was engrossed in a highly intellectual activity that demanded pin-drop silence.

But before one goes into the joys of reading a newspaper a quick thought on the ambience surrounding it.

First of all there was this armchair.

Boy!! What a piece of furniture that was. In many ways it symbolized the laid-back era of the sixties. It flourished long before houses shrunk, gardens vanished and those long verandahs disappeared. Then came the Flats, bringing along with them the concept of “itna-feet-by-utnaa-feet”. Armchairs like dinosaurs were doomed for extinction. And with it part of the luxury of reading also died.

Tea was an essential part of the newspaper. One simply did not go without the other. There was nothing better than a good invigorating “cuppa” along with the newspaper. Of course if you came from South then there was a slight variation. The paper from “The Statesman” became “The Hindu”, the tea was replaced with filter coffee and the cup with a steel tumbler.

Apart from the beverage, cigarette was a necessary evil that followed intellectual pursuits. It probably brought a gravity to the entire proceedings. You could read a few lines and then puff out the smoke and watch it meander across the morning breeze. The pipe was better but was rare. There were numerous theories against it. From being a sin to causing heart attacks cigarette was (and is) at the core of every disease. But heck who cared. The Marlborough man was right. Freedom of Choice came before anything else.

In the Berhampur of the sixties and seventies a newspaper probably symbolized much more than news. It was a window to the outside world. Devki Nandan Pandey and Ramanuj Prasad Singh with their Hindi news at 9 in All India Radio was the other window. Almost everything we read was like gospel. We never doubted its authenticity. “Arre bhai paper mein chap gaya” was phrase that was never contested. Chapa hai toe sahi hai, was the principle.

My own journey from smelling the newsprint to actually reading the newspaper started from the sports page. The pictures of Farookh Engineer, Pataudi or a Solkar diving full length at forward short-leg were duly cut and pasted in a hard-bound register. A few editorial corrections were then carried out. For example when Sardersai scored a double century against West Indies (1971) his name would be scratched and replaced with Arun. It was a childhood fantasy but it gave a kick to read out aloud “Arun Caught Findlay bowled Holder- 212.” Things became better when the “edited” score card read – Sobers caught & bowled Arun 13.

Next on line was probably page two or maybe four. That’s where comic strips, join the dots (and discover a swan, a star or a flower!!) and colour the pictures were to be found. Then of course there was this Junior Statesman where the artistic wizardry of Desmond Doig spun out awe inspiring imagery making us feel like the Harry Potter of the seventies. My memory is dimmed. But you could do this and could do that, colour something here and something there and become part of the Benji club. You could then be a proud owner of a colourful badge that you could pin it on your shirt.

With age one gradually progressed to the front page political news and finally the edit page. Reading a Statesman editorial and be able to discuss this with your friends was a sure shot symbol of having ‘arrived’ intellectually.

Then came Emergency and the electoral defeat of Indira Gandhi. Newspapers and Magzines were churned out in large numbers. There was more colour, more pages and more content. With Asiad in the eighties the era of colour TV began. We saw with wonder as Hum Log and Nukkad unfolded as did The World this Week on DD. But very soon channels multiplied like rats. Serials became saas-bahu tearjerkers and news in a 24 X 7 format became live shows. News, like most things in the new emerging India became a commodity - an item that had to be sold. And therefore an item that had to be packaged and served hot. A new rat race had begun.

Today, in this bazaar I don’t know whom to believe. The dividing line between politics and journalism and between a journalist and a businessman all stand blurred. At risk is not just a nostalgic lifestyle of the sixties and the seventies but the entire credibility of the product itself. Is there an hidden agenda behind the “news” is what worries every reader. Has the fourth estate itself crumbled? Has the watchdog of democracy itself become a Brutus ? Is Wikileaks the saviour? Is this mask ripper another devil in the garb of an angel?

While positions will be taken to suit one’s own convenience, I note with sadness that my own little world is dead and gone. I don’t mind the demise of the armchair or the absence of the leisurely pace of the sixties. It is the death of credibility and the death of my own innocence that pains me most.

Somebody changed my news did I say?

Sorry, somebody just killed it.

TO THE LAST BULLET: BOOK REVIEW

Aaple saheb gele….

In plain English it meant, ‘our boss has gone’. But actually the cook who was informing a senior police officer, with whom Ashok Kamte had his last dinner meant, ‘our boss is no more’.

9.45pm 26/11/2008: “Are you watching the TV?” asked Ashok Kamte, ACP East Mumbai to his wife Vinita Kamte, who resides in Pune with their children. “Switch it on once you reach home. Some kind of gang war seems to have gripped Mumbai.”

The family watched events unfold on TV.

Rahul, their elder son, asked “Mamma, Dadda looks after East Mumbai (Chembur/Ghatkopar/Mulund)….” Clearly the son was hoping against hope that since the events were not happening in his dad’s area he would not be summoned.

A little while later Arjun, the younger of their two sons, said, “Mamma, see Karkare uncle.”

Reality TV was unfolding events live and Arjun had just spotted Mr. Hemant Karkare, Head of Anti-terrorist Squad (ATS) donning (by now the in-famous) bullet proof jacket.

10.43pm 26/11/2008: Mrs. Kamte rings up her husband once again only to get confirmation of her worst fears. Ashok Kamte says, “Mr. Hasan Gafoor (Police Commissioner) has asked me to head South Mumbai…”

11.15pm 26/11/2008: The anxious wife calls once again. This time Ashok says, “I am on my way to Hotel Trident.”

Arjun says with anxiety, “Mamma please call up Dadda and tell him to wear his bullet proof jacket.”

11.27pm 26/11/2008: Vinita Kamte calls up again. This time her husband said, “I am on the spot and in the middle of an operation, so don’t call me.”

Arjun the younger son goes upstairs to catch some sleep.

1.30 am 27/11/2008: Vinita and Rahul hug each other and begin crying.

Scrolling at the bottom of their TV screen was a one liner, “Ashok Kamte Saheed”

The main gate clanks. The dogs begin to bark. Neighbors begin streaming in. Relatives start rushing in. Phone lines get busy. This is India. No grief is private grief.

Instead of collapsing in shock and sorrow Mrs. Vinita Kamte takes charge. It is from precisely this point on one starts seeing the steel in Vinita Kamte’s personality. Since her father in-law had suffered a heart attack she first alerts her family doctor. She finds out the hospital where Kamte is admitted. She heads for Mumbai and gives one last instruction to the family. No one should say anything to Arjun, “Only I will break the news after I get back.”

This is virtually how the gripping story of “To the last Bullet” by Vinita Kamte with Vinita Deshmukh and published by Ameya Prakashan unfolds.

But if you thought this was the tragedy then you are wrong. The wife’s quest to find out what exactly happened is a bigger tragedy. The search for what were the circumstances that led to the death of her husband assumes epic proportions.

Tragedy becomes a calamity as wife and family helplessly see truth being suppressed.

There are questions, questions and questions. Till date she does not understand as to why her husband was diverted from Trident to Cama Hospital. She does not know as to why re-inforcements never arrived. She does not know as to why she had to take the RTI route even to get her husband’s post-mortem report. She does not know as to why it is being made out that three of the best officers (Ashok Kamte, Nitin Karkare & Vijay Salaskar) in Mumbai police are being portrayed as people who did not understand the gravity of situation. She still does not understand as to why it is being said that such people got killed instantly and went down without a fight and without a strategy to combat the terrorists.

Clearly not all is well with the system. For then how can you explain that the bullet proof jacket that Mr. Karkare wore that night has now disappeared?

Although this is not the subject matter of this book yet I feel really-really sad for encounter specialist Vijay Salaskar. He was there at the spot taking on the terrorists but yet he did not have his AK-47. In pages 48, 49 there is a reference in passing that says and I quote, “Mr. Salaskar was adept at the use of AK-47 but the weapon had been withdrawn from him.” Now if your officer cannot have an AK-47 for whatever reason (valid or invalid is a different issue) why should he then be on the front line of the anti-terrorist operation?

The second half of the book deals with the early life and times of ACP Ashok Kamte. It throws light on his zest for life, his love for sports, his passion for music and food and above all his dedication and commitment to his family. His stints in Bhandara, where he took on the Naxalites and Solapur where he took on the local mafia are very well documented. The fear he drove in the hearts of the mafia earned him the wholesome praise and love from the people of Solapur. They even put up a hoarding, “Solapur ka Don Kaun? Ashok Kamte aur kaun?”

The book also throws light on the work of Ashok Kamte’s paternal grandfather, Narayanrao Marutirao Kamte, the first post-independence Inspector General of Police (IG), Bombay State. Late Mr. Ashok Kamte’s father was also a colonel in the Indian Army. Clearly wearing the uniform was a family tradition.

I feel that the readers would have been happier to know more about the steel will and determination with which Mrs. Vinita Kamte, her children and other family members came to terms with their personal loss and grief. That is precisely why the chapter, “A New Day, A New Dream” was really touching.

It very briefly talks about how Rahul, their elder son, expresses the desire to study in Kodaikanal International School. The Principal and the staff welcome Rahul with open arms as this is the very school from where Late Mr. Ashok Kamte did his XII before moving on to St. Xaviers, Mumbai and St. Stephens Delhi. A paragraph towards the end of this chapter is also very reassuring and shows just how strong the Kamte family is.

I reproduce it verbatim:

Once I was I was lazing in bed in the afternoon. Arjun kissed me and said, “I also want to go to Kodaikanal International School, but then who will look after you? You will feel lonely?

In an effort to reassure him, I smiled and told him, “No, why should I feel lonely? I will find things to do and will be happy to see you both well settled in the same school. I can always come and spend a few weeks with both of you.”

I know that soon he would also pursue his dreams in that picturesque landscape which gave their Dadda the formidable foundation in life.

The name Ashok itself means ‘beyond grief’. All of us are trying to go beyond grief to find our bearings.

To the Last Bullet is a gripping book and a must read. One really hopes that Mrs. Vinita Kamte continues her crusade and takes on the system in the hope that events like these do not deter the bright officers but goes on to motivate them to take on the terrorists fearlessly in the future.

Apla saheb gele. It is the sad truth. But as long as there are women like Mrs. Vinita Kamte in this country there would be many- many more sons of India who would be willing to defend this great country from evil eyes and intentions.

BACK TO BERHAMPUR: FOR THOSE WHO CHERISH MEMORIES

After thirty six years, last fortnight I drove down memory lane to BAM - my first trip to this town after 1973.

Twenty years after my dad retired, twenty years of fighting a court case, twenty years after living on 50% of the pension that he ought to have got, my octogenarian dad had been informed that his service book had disappeared. No apologies, no regrets, no remorse just a matter-of-fact information conveyed with a casualness that only Indian bureaucracy is capable of, “Atey borso heyee gola kono kariba file-potro hoji gala.” After one year of following up the duplicate service book had been reconstructed and now my dad had been summoned to sign it in twenty places.

Just as we reached Khalikote college the tyres laid across the road were being lit up amidst shouts of zindabaads and murdabaads. The principal’s office had been ransacked, the administrative offices had been closed down and the main gate was crowded as one of the hunger strikers had fainted. The principal hid somewhere to avoid the wrath of the rampaging students. The babus followed suit. We could do nothing else but wait for the passions to cool down. What to do, in India patience is not an optional luxury it is a basic necessity.

That’s when I pushed open the half-closed gates of St. Vincent’s Convent School and peeped in.

The first problem when you revisit the past is always the issue of scale. In 1960's I was probably three foot three and everything about the school in my minds eye was huge. The class-rooms, the open spaces, the trees, the nursery class everything now looked much smaller.

I was soaking in the view when this garrulous lady began asking me as to what I was looking for.

“Nothing, just looking around” I said.

“Then you must be an old student” she
said.

“ Yes”, I said. “Old. Very old indeed. Do you know Sister Rosalie? ”

“No. She had gone before I joined.”

“You must meet the principal madam,” she insisted and proceeded to guide me her office leaving me with no choice. Instinctively I asked, “Sushanti, are you Dharma’s daughter?”

Her face lit up. “How do you know?”, she asked.

"Just a guess" I said.

Sister Sudha, the principal is a kind lady. She enlightened me about the “new” management – the Mangalore based Little Flower of Bethany that took over in 1979. How it is more professional. How education runs in their genes. How they have expanded. How they have become bigger and better. How students get over 90%.

“Is there any teacher of my generation?” I asked her.

She thought for a while and said, “Anima who used to teach Oriya retired a few years back”.

“Why did the nursery class change its character?” I asked. “And what happened to the piano.” She knew nothing of the piano. The nursery hall is now used for Yoga she said. “It is very essential for overall health and mental agility of the students” There is a computer lab too, she added and I noted a pride in her voice.

I went around the school and noted the disappearance of the See-Saw, Jungle-jim, Statue of St. Vincent. The entire playground has been cemented. A new double storey wing has come up.

I went towards Dr. Firoz Ali’s residence. A three storey building now stands there. There is nothing imperial about it other than the name “Imperial College.”

Giri road too had changed beyond recognition. We spent some time in Hill Patna also where dad met his colleague.

It was really nice going back in time and reliving the moments of our golden era. Berhampur still retains many of the elements of the sixties and early seventies.

Some day I hope to return for a longer trip. After all memories are priceless and as the ad-line goes- for every thing else there is MasterCard.