PARADISE LOST!

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

Former three-time national TT champion and international player, V. Chandrasekhar, 36, went into Apollo Hospital for a simple knee surgery. He returned from the hospital blind and paralysed. Thus began a life of struggle and despair; a fierce fight to regain the use of his faculties through physiotherapy and an 8 1⁄2-year lawsuit with Apollo Hospital for compensation. An update on all that has happened so far…

By Shevlin Sebastian, Madras

The first sight of Chandrasekhar’s drawing room through the semi-open door was astonishing. There were clothes strewn all over the floor – full-sleeved shirts, trousers, and T-shirts. Another bunch of clothes was placed across the back of a chair. Some books and papers lay on the floor. And near the entrance, on a stool, was the Arjuna Award, placed in a glass casing. There was a patina of dust on it.

I rang the bell.

V. Chandrasekhar (Chandra) suddenly poked his head from a nearby sofa, whose back was towards the door. His face looked truly stunning. It was a face of enormous sadness, bitterness, despair, and longing. It was a face that had seen a lot of suffering. The straggly growth of beard seemed to heighten the sadness.

Chandra got up slowly and came to the door. He shook my hand and immediately said, “I’m sorry for the mess that the house is in. My mother had a heart attack and is recovering in the hospital. My father is there with her. We have no servants. And so, everything is in a mess.”

We sat down in the drawing room. He was on a chair and I on a small stool. His voice was husky and thick. It seemed like the voice of a man who had smoked hundreds of cigarettes over several years.

“I have a severe cold,” he said. “I hope you can understand what I am saying.” I assured him that I could understand him clearly as I pressed the record button of the dictaphone.

He smiled suddenly, a soft, sweet, child-like smile. It took years away from his face. For a brief moment, he looked young and vivacious. Then his face once again assumed that deep, melancholy gravity. And I guessed you could begin to understand why he had such a sad face when you listened to the story of his life. So here he went:

ON WHAT HAPPENED IN APOLLO HOSPITAL

“On September 14, 1984, I went into the hospital for a minor knee surgery. Dr. H. Ranganathan, who was doing the operation said that I would be able to play much better after this. He said that I would be discharged within a week. But what happened was that I went into a 36-day coma.

After that, I spent another three weeks in a half-comatose state. When I came back to my senses, I realised that I had become blind. I couldn't see at all. I couldn’t move. I didn’t have any sense of balance.

At that time, I didn’t know the seriousness of it. The doctors kept assuring me that everything would become all right. But after six months of secondary physiotherapy, there was no improvement at all.

I finally realised that they were taking me for a long ride. I knew that nothing was going to happen. Ultimately, the MD of Apollo Hospital, Dr. Pratap Reddy, and the other doctors said, “It’s just bad luck. There’s nothing else that we can do now.”

Think of the situation. I had gone into the hospital a fit, young man and I came out with 90 percent blindness and an inability to move my limbs at all. It was the most horrific time of my life.

I sank into a deep depression because I felt so hopeless. I wanted to commit suicide because I felt that there was no point in living any more.

I thought to myself: now I am 27. If I live to a normal age of 70, then I would have to live another 43 years in this vegetable-like state. This possibility was difficult to digest. But, by the grace of God, the thought of suicide was never really translated into action.

In those months of despair, there also arose within me the first signs of a determination to fight back. I felt that I had to come back, so to speak, from the grave.

In this, I was urged on by a large group of friends, relatives, players, other doctors, and my parents.

They all suggested therapy of some sort or the other. They said that come what may, I must make an attempt at recovery.”

Chandra took the first step when he applied to get the case history from Apollo Hospital. And immediately, he hit a snag. The hospital was reluctant to part with it. It was only after some top-level pressure was applied that the case history was given to Chandra.

After that, he went for treatment to the Institute of Naturopathy and Yogic Sciences, near Bangalore. And it was here that he met one associate of Dr. Paul Cutler, who was one of the leading doctors of Toronto. The associate told Chandra that Dr. Cutler would be of help.

So Chandra started corresponding with Dr. Cutler, and the latter agreed to take up the case. But the total cost of the treatment was calculated at a whopping Rs. 10 lakhs. This included the airfare for a nurse and Chandra. Since he was still partially blind, it was not possible for him to travel alone. Now, the quest for the money began.

Chandra approached newspapers and they published his appeal free of cost. It had the desired effect. Within days, the money started to come in.

“I was very lucky,” Chandra said. “I got the money fairly easily.”

From whom did the money actually come from?

If I give certain names, then I will be leaving out other names. That will be unfair. But I can generalise by saying: many Hindi and Tamil film stars; sportsmen; industrialists and well-wishers. Within three months, I collected a sum of Rs. 10 lakhs. I left for Toronto in February 1986.

How was the treatment in Toronto?

Initially, I improved a lot. They gave me medicines that were not available in India. The process of regaining my faculties was quicker. My eyesight improved a lot. The doctor explained to me that it was not my eyesight which had been damaged, but my brain. So once the brain began to improve, then all the other faculties would come back automatically.

Of course, you can never fully recover since the central nervous system has been damaged. But you can get some faculties back, depending on luck, your physical condition, and hard work. For this specific type of treatment, after the course is over, there has to be a break.

After that, the treatment has to start all over again. In all, I must have gone back about four times, with gaps of six months or a year between trips. The last trip was made in September 1988.

What therapy do you do nowadays?

I do physiotherapy, yoga and speech therapy. (It was difficult to listen to Chandra later on the tape. His voice slurred time and time again. The voice seemed to suggest enormous tiredness and fatigue.)

What was wrong?

The breathing space between speaking is not all right. I still have to learn to control my tone – the loudness, the softness. There are also other disabilities. I still cannot board a moving train. It’s embarrassing but I can’t ride a scooter. My night vision is bad. I still do not have peripheral vision.

If I look at the opposite wall, it’s difficult for me to see the floor at the same time. I doubt whether I will regain my peripheral vision.
—-
It was while we were talking intently that the doorbell rang. Chandra got up and went to the door. I switched off the dictaphone. Chandra returned with a packet. He opened it and saw that it contained a video cassette of Newstrack. And there was a letter in it for him.

It was written by correspondent Minnie Vaid, who had done an extensive interview with him for the Eyewitness programme. She had written to apologise: she said that for ‘technical reasons’, they could not air the interview.

Minnie wrote by hand, and you could sense that beneath her sentences was her disappointment at what had happened. She said that the matter was in the hands ‘of my bosses.’

Chandra looked disappointed. “They took me all over the place. Shooting here and there. You know, TV has maximum impact. It could have helped my case if they had aired it.”

“What could be the reason for them not airing it?” I asked.

“Pressure,” he replied succinctly. “Or alleged pressure by interested parties. I can’t say anything more because I can be sued. Or it could be a genuine technical reason.”

He looked to the floor, his entwined fingers placed on his lap, and was lost in thought. After a while, he looked up and said with a grin, “I hope Sportsworld does not have any technical problems.”

He had a sense of humour. When I asked him casually during the interview whether it was risky for him to cross the road on his own, he replied, “Well, I can tell you, it’s not as risky as going to Apollo Hospital.”

ON WHEN HE DECIDED TO LAUNCH HIS FIGHT AGAINST APOLLO HOSPITAL

I don’t want to term it as a fight.

Okay, the idea that justice has to be done?

Yeah. Once the damage had been done and I could not function as a normal human being, I felt that I had to be compensated. After all, my life had been shattered. I was convinced that all this had happened due to the doctor’s negligence. Although I knew that they had not done it deliberately, a wrong-doer has to pay a price. And the price? To enable me to live a decent life. That’s what I think Apollo Hospital should have done a long time back.

When did you file the suit?

Around 1985, when I left to go abroad. The court fees were very high, about Rs. 50,000. Because of this, I had to limit the amount of damages to be claimed, since I had a limited amount of money. My initial idea was to seek a compensation of Rs. 75 lakhs. I had to bring down the amount to about Rs. 20 lakhs. We filed the suit in September 1985. The judgement came out on May 25, 1993.

Facts: it took about 8½ years of constant fighting, relentless adjournments, the coming and going of six judges in the Madras High Court, before Justice S. Pratap Singh awarded a hefty compensation of Rs. 17 lakhs (Rs. 10 lakhs as compensation and Rs. 7 lakhs for reimbursement of treatment expenses incurred both in India and abroad).

Justice Pratap Singh stated that the doctor, H. Ranganathan, and the anaesthetist, Monica De, were responsible for the acute disability suffered by Chandra. Apollo Hospital was also held responsible since the doctors were employed there.

The judge said that the evidence showed that there had not been a proper supply of oxygen to the patient during surgery. All this demonstrated negligence on the part of the doctor and the anaesthetist. They had failed in the discharge of their duties, which resulted in severe complications.

He said that it was the duty of the doctor who performed the surgery to explain what had happened. But he had not given any convincing explanation so far. Justice Singh concluded: “I hold that the defendants were negligent in the treatment given to the plaintiff.”

If I remember right, a Division Bench of the Madras High Court stayed the payment of Rs. 17 lakhs.

Yes. But a two-member Division Bench of the Supreme Court announced that I should be given relief of Rs. 7 lakhs.

So what next? Hasn’t Apollo Hospital gone on appeal against the judgement?

Yes. The appeal will be heard by a Division Bench of the Madras High Court. Because an appeal to the Supreme Court is not a fundamental right. You have to get permission from the Madras High Court in the form of a special leave.

So, if the Bench says no, then the case should be over?

Yes. Then legally, the case is finished. And I hope it is, since my parents and I have already spent Rs. 2 lakh from our personal savings on the legal expenses.

What do you feel now, after this landmark judgment?

I feel a great sense of pride. Justice and fair play have prevailed in the end. It’s a boost for the system and the society we have here in India where the poor and the downtrodden have no chance against powerful institutions.

Think what would have happened if such a thing had occurred to an average clerk in a bank or an office. He will simply lie down and blame destiny and fate. Then somebody will read out some verses from the Bhagwad Gita, and he will be very happy.

I was lucky simply because I was famous and the media highlighted my case.

What else had you learnt during the course of this case?

The essential goodness of the people of India. They had come forward to help me. Not only during the medical crisis, but even later, the kind of support that I received, the kind of phone calls that came, made me feel good.

I was happy that for a less popular game like table tennis, there had been such a response. Of course, had this happened to a cricketer, the situation would have been completely different. Parliament itself would have been in uproar.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as he got up from his chair and went to a table at one corner of the drawing room. He sat down on a chair and emptied a brown packet. Then he called me over and said, “It’s time to take my medicines. Could you just identify the tablets?” He had a doctor’s prescription in front of him and he called out, “Crocin.” I took out the tablet and gave it to him.

“I am sorry to bother you, but I have difficulty in reading small print,” he said softly.

Eight different tablets of different sizes and colours were collected. Then he got up, with the tablets held in his enclosed palm, and went to the dining room to get some water.

As I stood near the table, I saw Chandra’s horoscopes and, along with them, the bio-data meant to be sent in response to marriage proposals. Some were already, tragically, yellowing with age.

Chandra came back and sat down on the chair, and the interview began once again.

ON THE EFFECT OF ALL THIS ON HIS PARENTS

For them, it had been a very big blow. As an only son, I had been their only hope. Having risen to a position of eminence as a player… I had also been a brilliant student.

I was a gold medallist in law from Madras University, and then such a tragedy occurred to me. They had hoped that in their old age, I would look after them. But now, it was a complete reversal, although my parents were not keeping in good health at all. There had been too much stress. And all this controversy had been too much for the conservative South Indian society in which we lived.

You had not been able to marry because of that?

Physically, there was no problem. But when the parents of a girl came, it was difficult to convince them. How could we convince them? Should I have gone to a doctor and got a certificate stating that I was fit for marriage? Somehow, it was difficult for me.

ON HIS NORMAL DAY-TO-DAY LIFE

I get up very early. Then I go to the terrace and do exercises for developing my co-ordination. For example: picking up small objects from the floor, with my left leg forward, right leg backwards. Bend over and pick it up. Then bend sideways and pick the object up.

After I finish my exercises, I come back, have my bath and breakfast, and then I go by autorickshaw to the bank. I am an Administrative Officer in the Staff Training College of the State Bank of India in Mylapore.

In the evening, I go to the YMCA in Royapettah. I do coaching there for about three hours. I return home at 8.30 P.M.

What do you do in your spare time?

I like to watch horse racing. I don’t gamble, but I like to see horses run at high speed. I like to watch cricket on TV. I listen to Hindi classical music. Singers like Mohammad Rafi, Manna Dey, Hemant Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar.

What about Alka Yagnik?

Alka Yagnik? Who’s that?

She’s the latest singing sensation.

No, I have not heard of her at all. See, I don’t follow modern music at all.

At six o’clock in the evening, I went to the YMCA, Royapettah branch. Chandra had invited me there to see him coach his students.

The YMCA TT centre is in a shed-like building. Inside, there were two tables. A boy and a girl were playing. The boy was in shorts; the girl wore a blue t-shirt and trackpants.

It was hot inside the hall. There was no ventilation at all. The thought arose: how did they play in summer, especially in May when the heat was at its peak?

Chandra said, “Come on, let’s go outside. It’s so hot here.” So we went out and sat on chairs brought out of the hall by a young girl student.

Chandra was gasping a little now. This coaching can be a little tiring. But he said, “This is the off-season. The Nationals in Calcutta last month signified the end of the season. Now I am training boys and girls who aspire to reach the State level.”

Soon, photographer George Francis came on his black Kinetic Honda. He took his camera out and started taking pictures. The sun was beginning to set. We were silent now, and the only sound was the clicking of the shutter.

A white Tata Sierra came up and out popped one of Chandra’s students, Nikhil Nath. He was about 12, bespectacled, chubby, clad in a white T-shirt and shorts.

In sotto voce, George said, “Chandra’s student comes in a Tata Sierra, while poor Chandra does not have a vehicle at all. He has to be picked up by a student on a bike and dropped back home.”

Chandra smiled enigmatically and his head drooped on to his chest. He said, “I don’t feel good today. I’m having a severe cold.” Students came up and said something in Tamil. He replied; then they went away. George finished taking the photographs. There was really nothing more to talk about.

I got up and said, “Thanks very much for your co-operation.”

Chandra gave me a limp hand to shake. Then I walked away.

It was the last stages of twilight. And at a far distance, I turned around and looked back.

Chandra was still sitting in front of the YMCA building, as the darkness continued to grow around him. A solitary figure lost in melancholy thought.

But this tragedy-marred individual has waged a ceaseless battle against his own inner despair at what had happened and against the powerful and influential Apollo Hospital.

And in this battle, he seemed to have won on both fronts: the inner and the outer. Quite simply, in our world of puny individuals,

Chandra is a hero of our times.

(Published in Sportsworld, March 23, 1994)

More details

In 1995, the Apollo Hospital made a payment of Rs 17 lakh to Chandra.

Chandra’s autobiography was titled, ‘My Fightback from Death's Door’ (2006).

He died on 12 May 2021, at the age of 63, in Chennai, due to complications from COVID-19.

Chandra did get married to a bank employee named Mala. They had a son, Sanjay, who was about 20 years old and a final-year engineering student at the time of his father's death.

The Secret in her Almirah -- A Short Story

Painting generated by AI
 

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, Madhavi Menon was sitting with her friend Aparna Krishnan at a first-floor cafe in Kochi. Through the glass panes, they saw buses hurtling past, missing scooters and bikes by inches, while car drivers leaned on their horns, their eyes wild, and their mouths opened in a silent snarl.

Madhavi leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘I’ll get you a dildo.’

Aparna’s eyes flicked, for no reason, to the deep cleavage in Madhavi’s red blouse.

As her ears felt hot, splotches of red spread across her cheeks. Madhavi’s lips pressed together, about to burst into laughter.

She said, “Oh my God, you are blushing.”

“I’m not,” said Aparna, as she took out a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her face.

Madhavi laughed again. ‘It’s not hot, Aparna. We are sitting in an air-conditioned space.’

Aparna exhaled and said, “Okay, I am embarrassed.” Yes, she had read about dildos but had never seen one. “I don’t… don’t see the point of it.”

Madhavi smiled again, her eyes softening, as she said, “Wait till you try it. Then you’ll thank me from here to eternity.”

This time, it was Aparna who smiled.

Aparna and Madhavi met for the first time when they shared desks at South Park Kindergarten. Almost three decades now, Madhavi, ever-practical, was the first to marry through an arranged match. Now, a home-maker, she was the mother of a three-year-old boy.

Aparna, who always thought of herself as a slowcoach, had taken five years longer. Her husband worked in IT, while Aparna was involved with an NGO in Kochi that dealt with street children. She realised it was corporate career versus social service. Sadly, the marriage had not worked out.

For the past two years, Bijoy and Aparna slept, each facing the opposite wall. A pillow lay between them, a soft barrier. Rarely did they cross it. On nights when Bijoy came late, he slept in another room. She thought Bijoy was dull.

Once when she asked whether they could go to a painting exhibition at the Darbar Hall, he scratched his head and said, “Can we go for a movie?”

And so, they went to see a film at the PVR, Oberon Mall. He had no interest in culture, plays or books. Only interested in his work. Never asked me about my work. Sexually, he was on a single track; get on top; shoot; roll over; sleep. Mouth sometimes open. But no bad habits like drinking or smoking, true. Yes, that was good, but staid things bored me. Her heart, she thought, lived at the North Pole.

She once watched an American TV show where the anchor said women found it easier to reach orgasm when they were on top.

Aparna nodded vigorously and said to herself, “Yes, that’s right. The missionary position does nothing for me.”

There was talk about divorce, but neither had taken the next step of filing papers in the Family Court. Their eyes were laser-focused on their careers.

A week later, when Madhavi gave it to Aparna, she stared at the beautiful pink object, the pointed end giving it the look of an elongated penis. Near one end, there was a protrusion with its ends shaped like rabbit ears.

“That’s how it got the name of Rabbit,” said Madhavi. “This is used to stimulate the clitoris.”

Aparna’s breath caught as she held the rabbit.

Trying to sound casual, she said, “It looks so sleek.”

“Imported,” said Madhavi. “You can’t get it in India. A friend brought it for me three years ago. I got a new one. That’s why I’m giving this to you.”

For a moment, Aparna wondered whether Madhavi used it in front of her husband, Sreekumar, or in private. But she was hesitant to ask.

“How do you use it?” said Aparna.

“It’s battery operated,” said Madhavi. “Switch it on. It vibrates. Insert it, and guide the ears onto your clitoris. Trust me, once you use it, you’ll never need a man again, at least not for sex.”

Aparna looked up with saucer eyes. “Oh my,” she said, grinning.

Later, when Madhavi left, Aparna wondered if she needed it. She had been in a sexual desert for so long. Sure, she watched porn sometimes. It was satisfying enough, though she missed the foreplay. It was always, ‘Wham, baam, thank you Ma’am.’ That irritated her.

Her mother called one night from Chennai. “Aparna, we are coming over. One of my cousins, Meenakshi, has died. Pancreatic cancer. Do you remember her?”

Aparna closed her eyes, trying to remember. Then she said, “No, Amma.”

“We’ll be coming for two weeks,” her mother said.

Aparna wrapped the rabbit in a plastic bag, tied it with a string, and buried it under her clothes in the almirah. She only hoped her curious mother would not stumble upon it and wonder what it was.

Aparna had no children, and she was not keen now that the relationship with Bijoy was like being inside a dark tunnel. No light at either end. She never believed the old saying about a child bringing a couple closer. Conservative hogwash, she thought.

When her parents arrived, the rabbit was the last thing on Aparna’s mind.

Now and then, Madhavi would call and say, “Did you try it?”

Aparna kept replying in the negative. She could sense Madhavi’s disappointment, but there was nothing she could do. And then one day, while her father, a retired brigadier, sat in the living room, one leg placed over the other, watching TV, her mother beckoned her with a forefinger from the bedroom door.

When Aparna entered, she saw the open packet and the rabbit gleaming on the bed. A lightning bolt shot through her body. She was quivering, her forehead breaking into sudden beads of perspiration.

Her mother gripped Aparna’s arm, just like the schoolteacher she once was, “Why are you sweating?”

“I’m feeling hot,” said Aparna.

“Hot?” her mother exclaimed. “How can that be? It’s raining.

Monsoon time. The weather’s so pleasant.”

“I don’t know,” said Aparna, sitting on the edge of the bed and wiping her face with the counterpane.

“Anyway, what’s this?” her mother asked, shifting her gaze back to the rabbit.

Aparna licked her lower lip. Her brain raced, levers pushing at high speed for a plausible answer. Finally, she said, “Oh, you’ll be surprised. It’s a vibrating machine. You press it against the back of your neck, and you get instant relief from pain.”

“Oh,” said her mother, picking up the rabbit. “Can I try it?”

Again, Aparna’s thoughts whirred at Formula 1 speed.

“Amma, you need imported batteries for that,” said Aparna quickly, even though the batteries were already inside the socket. “Madhavi gave it to me. Now she’s asked a friend in London to send the batteries. It’ll take time.”

Her mother’s eyes drooped.

“Oh,” she said. “I was so keen to use it.”

Aparna felt her breath release slowly as her heartbeat calmed.

Thank you, brain, for the swift answers, she thought.

“Amma, on your next visit, sure,” she said.

Her mother nodded several times, then said, “Listen, if it’s good, get me one as well.”

“Sure,” said Aparna, tying the packet with the string once again. Soon, her parents returned to Chennai.

One day at 10 a.m., before leaving for work, Aparna took the dildo into the bathroom and locked the door, though her husband had already left.

She sat down on the commode and switched it on. A dull, monotonous buzz filled the bathroom, like the whine of a swarm of mosquitoes. For a moment, she wondered if it was too loud, if the neighbours might hear. But the moment the rabbit touched her clitoris, her mind felt as if it was floating in the sky, her body gone, only a radiant spirit rising higher and higher.

Am I going to meet God? she thought, as waves of emotions rushed through her. She cried out in sheer excitement, then, fearing discovery, pressed her palm against her mouth. Wow, she thought. This is good.

In less than a minute, Aparna’s entire body shuddered, as if caught in an earthquake. Her thigh muscles trembled as she reached her first orgasm. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she kept murmuring, breath rushing out of her parted lips in hot bursts. She had finally reached an oasis in the desert.

Once, at thirteen, she tried, using her finger. But she pressed her ear to the door, terrified her mother might hear. She opened the tap to fill the bucket, to pretend she was bathing.

Then her Class Five teacher’s words came back: “Don’t look at boys. Your parents will find the right boy for you. Be a virgin until your wedding night.”

Aparna later told Madhavi, “I have to thank our conservative society, and our lousy sex education in schools for this.”

Then she inserted the rabbit and experienced wave after wave of ecstasy.

“It took me from zero to 100 so quickly,” she told Madhavi. “It was joy… I was having an explosion inside me after so long.”

Nowadays, the moment Aparna switches on the rabbit, her heart raced in anticipation. Without realising, she licked her lower lip.

“I am addicted to it,” she told Madhavi. “Thank you, thank you for this. I have to be honest with you. I wish I had got this before. I have lost so many years.”

Madhavi laughed as the two of them hugged. On the net, she read about the G-spot. Hidden somewhere inside, the experts said, is the most sensitive of places. Great, she thought, her mouth falling open. I never knew this existed. None of my so-called advanced friends ever told me.

At times she couldn’t reach the G-spot with the rabbit, so she learnt to manoeuvre it until she found it. “The moment it touches the spot, it’s awesome. I am guaranteed a physical and mental release,” she told Madhavi.

She also manipulated her clitoris with her fingers. The sighs that escaped her sounded like the satisfied sighs after a good meal.

When Madhavi asked how it compared to sex with a man, Aparna said, “The most significant thing is you don’t have to please a man. No shaving arms, legs, armpits. None of that nonsense. This is about me. That’s freeing. I don’t have to pretend. No man interrupts me. I am servicing myself.”

Initially, Aparna used the rabbit every day, but later she slowed down because the good feeling lasted for days. She smiled a lot more.

When she was alone at home, she sang Hindi songs in a low voice. Once or twice, she did a small pirouette in the living room.

These days she reaches for it three or four times a week. Five minutes later she’d be humming, a secret smile refusing to leave her face. As for the emotional effect, Aparna said she felt liberated.

“I don’t know if it gets rid of my stress, but it makes me glad when I do it,” she told Madhavi. “I would be very unhappy if I no longer had the rabbit with me.”

But there have been bumps on the road. Once when she was using it, the batteries stopped working. Aparna bit her lip so hard that she drew a bit of blood.

“I should have bought spares,” she whispered to herself. Desperate, she experimented with the dead rabbit, stroking her G-spot with the tip until she managed a climax.

No surprise that Aparna kept extolling the rabbit’s virtues to her friends, none of whom had ever used one. One unmarried woman admitted she had heard of it but never seen one. She reminded Aparna of her own earlier self.

Another friend, Roopa, ordered one from the Swedish company ‘Lelo’, but it got stuck in Customs. She could do nothing about it, since she could not involve her husband.

“That’s Rs 4000 down the drain,” Roopa said. “My friends told me to get in touch with anyone coming from abroad.”

When another friend asked to borrow it, Aparna shook her head and said, “Hygiene.”

Yet Aparna was candid enough to admit that sex with a man was different. “The warmth of skin on skin, the interlocking of tongues, the feel of nipples being sucked. None of this you can get from a rabbit,” she told Madhavi.

Madhavi grinned. “You can’t get a baby either.”

Aparna’s smile stayed fixed, as she had never told Madhavi about her marital troubles. She saw the image of Bijoy sleeping in another room. He has a good heart, she thought. I can’t deny it. Just lacks fire. When I touch him, it feels like touching a wet blanket. God, I’m so sorry I sound so mean.

(Published in kitaab.org, Singapore)

Made for Each Other

 

COLUMN: The Tunnel of Time 

JAGAT and ANITA NANJAPPA, the husband and wife team of motorbike rallyists, have consistently won national-level rallies for the past nine years. But, despite their stupendous achievement, they are unknown and unsung. This is the story of a couple who, with dedication and courage, have etched their names in Indian rallying history.

By Shevlin Sebastian, Coorg 

It was while sitting in photographer George Francis’ studio in Madras that the idea to do a story on the Nanjappas came. He showed me numerous colour negatives of shots that he had taken when he had gone for a three-day holiday to the Nanjappas’ plantation.

“My God,” I suddenly remembered. “This story has been pending for years. Whenever we go to Bangalore, Joy George of our office there used to urge us to visit the Nanjappas. But who wanted to go to Coorg? I mean, there was the hassle of taking a photographer along!”

“So you go now,” George said, immediately opening a small, white book which contained telephone numbers.

“The Nanjappas do not have a telephone,” he said, as he dialled a number. “The phone is in Anita’s mother’s place. She runs a school for infants.”

George got through, then introduced himself and later, me. When I came on the line Mrs Deviah was friendly and forthcoming. She said, “Do come. There is no problem at all. You will enjoy your stay here.”

“But Madam, what about accommodation?”

“Virajpet, the town closest to us, does not have good hotels,” she said, in a soft voice. “But don’t worry. You can come and stay with us. I have a spare cottage nearby.”

And so it was that I took the night train to Bangalore and from there, at the State bus terminus, I got into a luxury bus that sped off to Virajpet, 300 kms away. I reached Virajpet in the afternoon. From there, I took an autorickshaw to the Deviah Memorial Preparatory School in Bitangala. The house was set, at quite some distance from the road, amidst large trees and flowering plants. Mrs Deviah, on hearing the roar of the autorickshaw came out of the house. She was a woman in her late fifties, with silvery hair and a child-like face and wearing a white saree.

I introduced myself. Then we went into the drawing room. She brought me a glass of orange juice. Then she said, “I will send you to the empty cottage which is nearby. Jagat and Anita will come in the evening. They live on a plantation which is 15 kilometres away.”

A young girl, in slacks, picked up my duffle bag and we walked down a mud path for about ten minutes. Then we reached a whitewashed cottage, which was surrounded on all sides by tall, swaying casuarina trees. It was a beautiful setting — the deep, blue sky; in the distance, the rolling hills of Coorg; the fresh and pure air; the exhilarating silence.

At about 5 p.m., I heard the hum of a vehicle as it approached the cottage. There was a long driveway from the gate to the cottage. I peered through the window. A man was sitting behind the wheel of a red Matamobile. He came to a stop and sat inside for a while. I went out and introduced myself. He looked a little askance at my striped Bermuda shorts and red t-shirt. He seemed to have expected a more formal dressing.

But the first impression of Jagat Nanjappa was that he was very retiring. The words seemed to be stuck in his throat. The next impression was of his slimness. He seemed perfectly fit, wearing brown denim trousers and thick soled brown shoes. His wife ambled over, through the path on which I had walked earlier. She was slim and cute but there was a look of wariness on her face. I told her the truth: that I had no plans of doing this story when I set out from Calcutta. Then I told her about George Francis’ photographs.

Anita smiled suddenly. I could immediately sense that she was disarmed by my frankness. She said, “Come on, let’s go to Mother’s cottage and have tea.”

We sat in the drawing room, the windows opening out into the garden and we had tea, biscuits, cakes and sweets. Thereafter the interview started smoothly, as the sun began its daily journey into the bottom of the western horizon.

On when they started rallying

Jagat: I first got the idea in 1980. I saw the Karnataka rally which passed through Coorg. I compared the timings of the bikes on the regular route which I used to ride, on my way to college. I saw that I could easily match the timings of the rally riders. So, the very next year, I took part in the same rally. And I came fifth.

When did you have your first victory?
It was in 1985. We won the Coffee 500. Then, the next year, we won the South India rally. In the course of the past nine years, we must have had about 40 victories. But I can’t say this with certainty, since I don’t keep track at all.

What qualities does a rider need to be successful like you?
A rider should start very young. Then automatically, he learns balance. His body knows how to adjust to a bike. Because when you go at high speed, there is a sort of hammering. The whole body gets buffeted. So you have to learn to balance yourself on the bike. And this balance can only be learned if you start very young.

Secondly, there should be good preparation of the bike. It must be in top class condition. It should be finely tuned, so that the engine can perform at its best. You have to know how every mechanical part works and for what reason. Basically, you must know how to repair a bike on your own.

Thirdly, you have to have an excellent rapport with your navigator, who, in this case, is my wife Anita. Then you need to have pretty good mental and physical endurance. For example: if I make a mistake, as regards the route, I have learnt to be calm. By being calm, I avoid making more mistakes. This calmness is very necessary since we are performing under high stress and pressure. I have seen bikers, who, when they have a small accident, try to repair it on the spot and because they are not calm, they take longer to repair it. And inevitably, the job is not done properly.

Coming to another point, what is the reason for this fascination with speed? Some people like to go fast all the time.
It’s nice to have a feeling that you are the master of a vehicle. It’s sort of having a sense of power. There is also a sort of freedom. When you are on a bike, you are away from life’s hassles and tensions. There is just you and your bike and you can ride like the wind.

Is there a connection between bike and rider? Pesi Shroff talks about a non-verbal connection between horse and jockey. Can there be such a connection with a lifeless thing as a motorbike?
Yes, there is a connection.

But a bike is an inanimate object. How can there be a connection?
I don’t know. Somehow, you feel it. By tinkering with the machine, by fine-tuning it so well, you give it life. I even talk to my bike, especially after it has done well! I tap it and say, “Good show, boy!” I congratulate it after a win. Because, for me, a bike is alive, it’s got a mind of its own. It can throw you off, when it does not like the way you have ridden it. There is a sort of communication between the bike and me and it responds all the time.

Do you practise every day?
I ride every day. And whenever I ride, I always go very fast. So that is the practice for me. I have noticed that whenever I ride slowly, I tend to make mistakes. Because when I go fast, I concentrate better.

You mean, a high level of concentration is synonymous with speed?
Yes. As I begin to go faster and faster, everything becomes razor sharp. For example: my hearing becomes very sharp. I listen to the sound of the engine, to know if everything is working smoothly. So then I know whether I can rev it higher or whether I need to slow it down a bit. Then my eyesight becomes keener because I don’t want to crash into anything.

Do you notice the scenery at all?
No, it just passes by me.

What, if a pretty woman walks down the road?
(Smiles): I will see her in my peripheral vision. But I am going much too fast to really appreciate her!

On the husband and wife partnership

When did Anita join you?
In 1981. At that time, we were not married. We married in 1982. I met Anita in Coorg, at a cousin’s wedding. She was studying in a boarding school in Ooty and had come down for the holidays. We are related in a way. Anita’s mother is my first cousin. So, in a way, I have married somebody like my daughter!

Anita, when you started out, did you have any idea of navigation?
I had no idea at all. I had no idea of bikes before I met Jagat. But he explained to me the basic things and then I picked up as we went along. I remember, in the first rally, I made plenty of minor mistakes but it didn’t matter at all. The rally was 36 hours long. And it finally extended to 42 hours. So, it was one of endurance. So even if we wandered off and went down a wrong route, we could come back and correct ourselves. In those early days, things were very different. It was of a short duration, almost like a sprint.

Jagat, you mentioned earlier, that …
… you should have confidence in the navigator. For example: if the bike has a fall, the navigator should be strong enough to get up quickly and start again. Or if the navigator makes a mistake and we go down a wrong route, then try to correct ourselves, instead of wasting time in recriminations.

Normally married people try to do different things, to have a sense of space. You don’t have that problem of being together for 24 hours?
I am not always with my wife. When I have to repair my bike, I have to go to Coimbatore or Bangalore. So I am gone for a few days. Then I get the break I need. It’s not 24 hours at all.

But in a rally, you are always together. Then, don’t you grate on each other’s nerves?
In the initial years, yes. Because we were new to rallying and we did not have the necessary confidence and experience. We were still learning. The co-ordination was not there. But now, we have a keen idea of each other’s movements. The mental understanding is much deeper and so everything goes smoothly.

What qualities do you find in Anita that eggs you on?
Anita has got a fantastic memory. For example: she can memorise most parts of the rally chart, so that she can tell what is coming next on the road, almost by memory. That is a very important quality. So, in spite of being bumped about and not being able to read the rally chart properly, she can still give directions through the strength of her memory.

Then she gives good directions on how to improve the functioning of the bike. We have been together for so many years, doing the same thing, so she has a good idea of what sort of bike we need.

Then what other qualities?
If we have a toss, she will always pull me up and say, “Come on, we’ve got lots to do.” When I would think, “Enough, no point in carrying on.”

You tend to give up earlier than Anita?
Yes, I tend to do so.

Are tosses a regular occurrence in rallies?
In every rally, you can expect at least one toss. And sometimes, it has been dangerous. There were times when I was injured badly. It is very difficult to ride a rally without falling off. Because most of the terrain is through dirt roads.

The next day…

The next day, on the dot of eleven, Jagat zoomed in, in his Matamobile. The car’s engine was in such perfect tuning that there was no noise at all. It was like a silent ghost. He was dressed in the same manner as yesterday — white shirt, tucked into light brown denim trousers and thick brown shoes. I got into the car and we turned around and moved off. The drive was smooth and easy. The road to the town was deserted and silent. It was no wonder how Jagat learned to drive fast. On these roads, you could go on for quite a while before you encountered a vehicle.

We reached Virajpet and there was the astonishing sight of Jagat saying ‘Hi’ to so many people. Most of them were in Maruti vans or jeeps or bikes.

“How come you know so many people?” I asked. 

“The Coorgis are a small community,” he said. “So everybody knows everybody else.”

Here, all the plantations were owned by the Coorgis while all the shops and the businesses were owned by Keralites. After all, Kerala was less than 100 kms away.

He stopped in front of a liquor shop. 

“What would you like to drink?” he asked. 

I did not know what to reply, as I was not much of a drinker. 

“You could have some beer,” he said, smiling slightly. 

“Well I could give you some company,” I replied.

He laughed sardonically as he got out of the vehicle and said, “That’s what everybody says.” He went into the shop and within a couple of minutes, he returned with a case of beer. He put it into the back and got in. He inserted a cassette into the car stereo — that perennial classic — ‘Country Roads’ by John Denver.

We started again and now we were climbing a hill. We went further and further away from the town. It became beautifully silent except for John Denver’s dulcet tone. There was greenery all around.

“If you look hard, you will see different shades of green,” he said. And true enough, there were a variety of different shades of green. One tree had one colour of green leaves; another, a different shade altogether.

Then Jagat stopped the car and pointed at a small, bright pink polythene packet lying on the side of the road. 

“Don’t you think,” he said, as he lit a cigarette, “that this packet is an eyesore?”

And again, astonishingly, what he said was true. It was indeed an eyesore. He started the car and now, we moved away from the road onto a yellow dirt road. We drove on for fifteen more minutes before we reached the house, which was on a lower level than the road. 

Jagat cut the engine and we rolled down the slope. He parked the vehicle to the left of the porch. It was a sprawling house with a red tiled roof. Anita came out. She was dressed in a white t-shirt and black denim trousers. She was also wearing sneakers.

She smiled. She looked cute when she smiled.

We went into the drawing room. The dogs were barking like mad. Jagat told them to shut up. Inside, there was a coir carpet on the floor and the chairs and sofas were made of coir threads. At one corner, on a low table, there were a few trophies. Nice taste. Simple, yet elegant. Anita went into the kitchen and returned with glasses of iced watermelon juice. I took out the dictaphone and we started talking once again.

What rallying is all about 

What are the formalities for taking part in a rally?
First, we fill up the entry form along with two passport-size photographs. You are supposed to have a competition licence. This is different from the normal licence. This is issued by the Motor Sports Federation (FMSCI) and it is valid for a year. The navigator should have a passenger licence. 

Then a day before the event, the officials scrutinise the bike. They find out whether it is eligible for that particular class; whether the safety standards are okay. Then we have to produce a medical certificate, stating that we are physically okay. You have to mention the blood group. In the evening before the competition, there is a compulsory briefing by the organisers. They tell you where to be careful, what you should do. Then they brief you about the rules.

How is a rally conducted?
There are two stages. One is called the competitive stage and the other is called the transport stage. This always alternates, from one to the other. The transport stage is when we go from one competitive stage to the other. This is usually through city roads clogged with traffic.

The competitive stage is where the actual competition takes place. The organisers normally try to find deserted sections for this part of the rally. Usually, the rallies start in the city and we have a speed of about 30 km/h. So, you are not allowed to overspeed through cities. You are also not supposed to go early to a time control. If you go early, for every minute, a penalty point is given. And it is the same for reaching late. After the transport stage, in the competitive stage, the speeds are usually unattainable.

That means?
They will give you speeds which you will find are very difficult to attain, because of the terrain. Now the maximum is 110 km/h.

What happens if you cross the speed limit?
In a competitive stage, it is just not possible to attain these speeds. Because the terrain is usually very rough, and they are normally dirt roads. But if it is a tarmac road, there is a chance. But even that becomes difficult, because the road is rarely straight.

What then is the idea of having an unattainable speed?
To give points to those who can reach the closest. If you have an attainable speed, then everyone will reach the time control, and so, there is no competition at all. Generally, the person with the least penalty points wins.

Do people cheat in these rallies?
Sure! They try to put in parts that are not allowed by the organisers. The reason is that they want to win desperately. Because if they win, they will get sponsorships and then they can earn more money. But inevitably, they get caught.

Is there a chance of them not getting caught?
That’s very rare. Maybe, you can escape in one rally, but you will get caught in the next one. Because the checking is very strict. Although these riders are very smart. Just before they finish, they put back the old parts, so when the checking is done after the rally is over, everything is in order.

On sponsorship and its problems

Jagat, how much does it cost to take part in a rally?
Till recently, we had MRF as our sponsor. So, for them, it cost between Rs. 75,000–85,000 per rally.

How is the money given?
They give some money for preparation costs. So, you can spend all your money on the preparation costs or save some of it. It comes to about Rs. 25,000. Then they pay for your accommodation, your travel, the charges for the service team.

Did MRF pay you extra for wearing their logos?
No, this is included in the Rs. 80,000 total contract that we sign. However, if we win a MRF sponsored rally, we get a bonus of Rs. 25,000. Incidentally, after the initial payment, I do the spending for the rest of the season.

How much would you spend in a season?
I would spend about Rs. 40,000 for a rally. So I end up spending close to Rs. 3 lakhs in a season. And if the bills are cleared after a year then it’s almost like a bonus to me. For example: I have not had my 1992 bills cleared so far. We stay in all those fancy five-star hotels, but we are getting nothing and people don’t know about it. We are now thinking of financing our own races. We know that, if we are careful, we do it cheaply. You know, instead of staying in a hotel, we can stay with somebody.

How about getting some more sponsors?
In India, to get a sponsor, it is better to meet them personally. Then there is a chance to get something. But we live so far away. The sponsors live in cities like Bombay, Madras, or Delhi. It is just not possible for us to visit them often. It’s also not possible to run for sponsors and do top-class competition at the same time. Abroad, the case is different. There are agents who will do this work for you, in return for a commission. But here, we have nothing like that, although we have got feelers from Sunil Gavaskar’s Professional Management Group.

Just out of curiosity: how much would your average income from rallying be, in a particular year?
It depends on the victories. There are about six rallies in a year, spread over 12 months. I earn about Rs. 1 1/2 lakhs a year as profit. But the pressure is on me to win.

The plantation life and the big ride

We went out to the porch and sat on low stools. Anita brought the beer, frothy and cold, in large glass mugs. We sipped and I looked around. This place, like the cottage where I am staying, was beautiful: coconut trees in the distance; paddy fields; coffee bushes for miles together; guava and orange trees.

“How big is this plantation?” I asked Jagat. 

“About 75 acres,” he replied, as he gulped down a deep draught of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his right wrist. “But this is a small plantation. People own 200–300 acres on an average. So I call myself a small landowner.”

“Actually,” Anita added, leaning against the doorway, “our plantation is neglected. Since we are rallying so much, we are rarely here to look after it properly. For example, now is the time for sprinkling water on the coffee plants. But we do it two or three times only. We are off on some rally or the other. It’s not possible to do both: look after the plantation and rally at the same time. Because plantation work is a full-time business.”

“Then who looks after the place when you are gone?” I said. 

“Thankfully, we have more or less honest servants,” Anita replied, as she poured more beer into Jagat’s mug. “We have an old man, called Chellappa, who has been here since Jagat was a kid. They are honest people and keep a sharp eye. But these servants are disappointed with me. They feel that I am not the ideal bahu. This house belongs to Jagat’s grandmother and Chellappa comes from there. He is always comparing me with the grandmother and says that I have a lot to learn.”

Jagat gave Anita a mocking grin. Anita twisted her lips in a grimace.

We went into the drawing room.

Then she sighed and said, “Let’s go in for lunch…”

The dining room was in the middle of the house. Instead of walls, there was wire netting all around. You could see the sky from the dining table. Lunch was simple: rice, chicken curry, cabbage, mango pickle and pappad, eaten in silence. Jagat’s eyes were slightly red now. He got quieter and quieter.

After lunch, he said, “Would you like to sleep for a while?” 

“I don’t mind,” I said. It was clear from his question that he wanted to sleep. The beers were having their effect.

Anita took me to a spare bedroom. Because of the high ceiling, the room was exceptionally cool. There was a bookcase there and as I looked at it, she said, “I am an avid reader. Here, there is nothing else that you can do. We have no entertainment, no TV and so reading is the only thing that I do.”

“Who is your favourite author?” I asked. 

“At present, I am reading Roald Dahl,” she said, as she held the thick Penguin paperback. “He is very good. His trick endings, the suspense is superb.”

Anita left; I drifted off into a deep, pleasant sleep…

In the evening, Jagat and I sat on the porch drinking cups of tea. Anita was watering rose bushes with a hose. Then she turned to Jagat and said, “Why don’t you take our friend for a bike ride?”

Jagat was not in the mood, but he was too polite to say no. We finished our tea and then he took out his 350 cc Rajdoot bike from the garage.

I got on at the back and instantly, he zoomed up the dirt road. Then quickly, he began to speed down the road, and the lack of a silencer, created a loud, throbbing sound. He leaned forward, and you noticed it instantly, he had such a sure feel of the bike. We hurtled down the dirt road, my body felt the jerks so keenly, but for Jagat, it was just another day at the office.

We reached the tarred main road and then without any warning, Jagat increased the speed dramatically. It was one of the more frightening moments of my life. We began to go faster and faster. The scenery began to blur. The wind hit me with enormous force and my eyes narrowed to thin slits. I gripped the rod at the back with both my hands, but still, I was almost lifted off the bike. My heart started to thud like crazy. I wanted to shout, “Please stop, please stop”, but that would be a shameful thing to say. Jagat went faster and faster. The roar of the bike was huge, throbbing and menacing. 

And just when I felt that this was the end of the world, he suddenly slowed down. From tremendous speed, quickly down to the speed of a tortoise. What a topsy-turvy contrast. He looked back, tears streaming down his face and said, “That was140 km/h. Actually, this bike is in very poor condition. Because I can do 160 km/h on it.” I nodded and thought to myself: ‘Thank God for screwed-up bikes.’

I exhaled through my mouth audibly. Jagat smiled sardonically, as he saw the shock in my eyes. Then he turned the bike around and again, without warning, he went to full speed once again. This time, I was totally terrified. I closed my eyes tightly and held on for dear life. Again, I felt that I was about to be blown off. I opened my eyes and saw a lorry whiz past us. ‘How did Jagat manage to avoid it,’ I think, ‘especially since the road is full of curves.’

Then, as suddenly, Jagat slowed down once again and I felt that I had stepped back from the abyss. This was too much for a guy who rides a bike at 40 km/h in the overcrowded streets of Calcutta. Slowly, ragged nerves began to calm down as now we drifted down the dirt road back to the house. As we slid down the slope and came to a stop, Anita immediately said, “Jagat, there’s something wrong with the engine. It’s not sounding right.”

Jagat acknowledged it with a nod of his head and said, “It needs a complete overhaul. But I think it is time to buy a new bike. I have heard that Karivardhan has a 350 to sell. Let’s see if I can get it.”

It was peaceful and quiet. The sun had begun to set. I inhaled deeply the fresh air. I wished I could live in a place like this. Away from the pollution, the noise, the overcrowdedness and the sheer stress of living in a cramped city like Calcutta. But, for them, they had taken all these things for granted — this fresh air, this silence, this privacy. Jagat was tinkering with the bike. Anita stood nearby with her dog Lizzie in her arms, looking at Jagat and the conversation started once again.

Anita on Jagat and other matters

Tell us something about Jagat the man, not the rally rider.
He is very understanding and sensitive. Jagat is a man who doesn’t talk too much. Most of the time, he is silent. If you ask him to express himself, it is very difficult for him. Most of the time, he is quiet. He does not like meeting other people. He is a bit of a loner. The only people Jagat likes to meet are other rally drivers. I suppose he can relate to them in some way. Here in Coorg, we keep to ourselves. This is because he has hardly anyone to talk to, on his wavelength. Both of us don’t mind staying at home the whole day, relaxing in each other’s company.

Photographer George Francis said that you are not planning to have any kids. Is this true?
Yes. We discussed all this before we got married. I felt that a kid would hamper our rallying career. Although when I started rallying, this was not such a firm thing. But now, kids will take too much of our time and energy. Also, I have never been a maternal sort of person, although I love other people’s children. I love my sister’s children. But when I see people having so much trouble with their children, I am glad that I do not have a child.

How old are you now?
I am 30 and Jagat is 33.

On the poor media coverage

Jagat: One of the reasons why the sport has not gained in popularity is because of the way it has been covered by the media so far. Because abroad, the coverage is always excellent, with their superb camera angles. They have cameras in the car, on the bikes focusing on the driver’s face. They even show how a suspension works through the help of a camera. 

In India, the camera is placed somewhere far away, and we are shown a distant shot of a Gypsy speeding through. The camera man shows lots of scenery and just a small car in the distance. The focus is not on the car at all, or how the driver is encountering the dangers and all that. They just say that this is car no. 33 and then they rattle off something like, “Driven by so-and-so.” Meanwhile, the car has whizzed past and gone out of sight.

At night, after dinner, they dropped me back to the cottage, which is 15 kms away. Jagat again drove with that easy, languid control of his. Anita talked about holding a rally in Coorg, with both of them being the organisers. It was utterly dark all around; there were no street lights at all. The road was lit by the steady light of the vehicle.

At the cottage gate, I got out. The only natural light was from a sliver of moon in the sky. I said goodbye in the reflected light of the headlights and both of them said, with deep warmth, “Next time, when you come, don’t come officially. Come for a holiday. You are always welcome.”

Then Jagat turned the car around, and pressed the accelerator. I stood at the gate and watched as the red taillights were finally devoured by the darkness all around. Jagat and Anita Nanjappa, husband and wife, testing the limits of speed and endurance and courage in their chosen profession and winning regularly.

They are stupendous achievers in a sport that tragically is not a popular one. Hence, they are almost unknown, virtual strangers, in the consciousness of the average sporting person.

But that does not bother them much. Because for them, more than adulation or money, the ultimate kick is to always live their lives on the razor’s edge.

(Published in Sportsworld, April 20, 1994) 

Photographer George Francis, the doyen of motorsports photographers, passed away on April 11, 2019, aged 58, at Chennai.