Simply Fly

by Capt G R Gopinath

  I decided to undertake physical work during the day; work on my plans and read after sundown. Such images flashed in and out of my mind, prodding me to plan and act. A dairy would generate a daily income, I thought, while a poultry and silkworm rearing would bring in a monthly income. I would grow seasonal crops and could get three yields a year. Bananas would be a good annual crop, I reckoned, and coconuts, miraculous trees that they were, would keep me going for a hundred years if I nursed the saplings for about seven or eight years. In the scriptures, the coconut tree is called kalpavriksha, the tree that lives a long, long time and grants all wishes. As the success or failure of my farm would be decided by the end of the time-span I needed to grow my coconut palms, I decided to dedicate myself entirely for ten years to build an integrated farm.

  I was blessed with a natural farming instinct, I would like to believe. I had been exposed to the ways of the farmer as a child. My father was my guide and mentor. Farming was our family profession and I guessed that my natural willingness to work amidst nature would more than make up for the initial mistakes I made.

  I began by clearing the brush and bramble undergrowth. My work routine also included a daily splash in the stream. While I was in the process of growing familiar with the land I found saplings and shoots, curiously beneath wild clumps of thorns not where the land was barren. I asked an old farmer about it. Birds perched on the branches of the thorn-bushes and dropped a seed after eating the fruit or sometimes the seed would drop into the soil beneath the thorny thickets wrapped in its own dung. And with the onset of monsoon, a sapling would sprout. He identified the saplings as neem, sandal, honge, tamarind, fig, jamun, and the likes.

  Along the periphery of my farm ran a meandering perennial stream. In the rains, it was in spate and in the hot season it ran in a trickle. The alternating wet and dry phases made it capable of sustaining a variety of vegetation. The foliage formed a natural habitat for throngs of bugs, beetles, rodents, and snakes as well as wild cats, leopards, wild dogs, wolves, rabbits, and jackals. My father said it formed a natural barrier, putting a brake on wind speed, while the wadi would also help keep the soil moist.

  Typical new-age farmers brought in heavy farm equipment to clear the existing vegetation. They dug up the earth with heavy bulldozers and clean-shaved the undergrowth. When it became known that the government would be compensating the loss of land in the submersion area with land that once supported the grazing of royal cattle, neighbouring farmers moved in quickly and felled the trees standing on it for timber and firewood. What now remained was thick undergrowth.

  I could not explain why, but I was uncomfortable with this approach. Later I discovered how, from the fruit seeds in bird droppings amidst the vegetation, nature produced its own best conditions for the seeds to sprout with the first rains, grow into saplings, and eventually, trees. Subsequently I discovered the first rule of farming: Do not clear up the land.

  I pondered about which trees I should grow on the farm. It was not a cause of concern for me as I was confident that the birds would bring in the right seeds from fruit-bearing trees. What was good for the birds would be good for the farm. The trees would provide a mixture of habitats and nurture a wide variety of bird species.

  There is a saying: Less government is good government. I recognized a parallel saying that was true for farming: Less farming is good farming. I set a diktat—nobody should touch anything that grew on the land, the rule extending right up to the periphery. I gradually learnt to recognize local tree and plant species and worked towards ensuring that they were allowed to thrive, selectively clearing the undergrowth to expose the soil.

  I also needed to arrange for funds in order to ensure the best returns from my investments. My financial resources were limited: a total of approximately Rs 40,000 including my army settlement money and about Rs 35,000 borrowed from friends with the promise that I would return the amount once the bank loan came through.

  The monsoons were a good six months away and I urgently needed to raise a loan before the onset of the farming season. I paid daily visits to Hassan on my motorcycle, peddling my dream to local banks, where the managers asked me for a business plan. I submitted an elaborate handwritten plan of my intended investments but I was unable to specify the time-frame within which I would be able to repay the loan.

  I completed a round of all the eight or ten public sector banks in Hassan, including nationalized ones like Canara Bank, Syndicate Bank, and Vijaya Bank. I routinely returned empty-handed, the managers promising to get back to me. One day, a manager sent word that he was busy and would not be able to meet me. I lost my temper, stormed into his room, and charged him of harassing me, using a double expletive of which my school principal would certainly not have approved.

  The authorities also have their prerogatives. The shell-shocked manager handed back my file and said: ‘Please take this. There is nothing I can do.’ That was the end of all transactions with him. I was, however, determined not to give up and was prepared to appeal to higher authorities.

  Those were the days of Janardhan Pujari at the helm of the finance ministry. He had taken a staunch pro-borrower position and was notorious for his public humiliation of bank managers who did not lend money to farmers. The government had cried itself hoarse with policy announcements favouring the farmer. Government functionaries proclaimed agriculture to be the number one priority sector. Farmers must be given loans and every support, they said. I, however, discovered the ground reality to be very different.

  Bankers were rude, apathetic, and indifferent. I occasionally lost my temper but not my patience. I realized that bank managers, as custodians of public funds, would not be easily inclined to lend money to poor farmers whose prospects of paying back dues in time were generally low. I was however persistent in my efforts and could never imagine going home empty-handed. The government’s pro-farmer policy gave me confidence. I had sustenance for the present and was content but I lived in the future and tried to generate new ideas about the ways and means of approaching the banks.

  There were five or six other farmers who had been rehabilitated and had settled on their new plots of land. They however did not have any formal education or much exposure. There was only one who had come over with the idea of doing something with his new land. He was my neighbour, and lived in a thatched hut. One night I heard a commotion in the neighbourhood. It transpired that villagers who had traditionally grazed their cattle on the grazing land—since no one objected—had come to attack the new settlers. They had ransacked huts, scattered pots and pans, and attacked the cattle. In one sense the villagers’ anger was justified, though they had no legal claim to the land given to the new settlers—who now had to face their wrath.

  People have this strange tendency of not sharing space. While travelling on a train they do not want new passengers to join them midway. All of us share similar emotions and subconsciously label the new claimant of the seat next to us as an intruder. The local farmers felt the same way about us, the new colonizers. They were loath to give up their ‘right’ over their grazing land. The situation was tense.

  I was sleeping in my tent and woke up to the sound of rumbling earth just before daybreak. I scrambled out and was shocked to find a large number of farmers working on my land, digging furrows in the earth with the help of cattle, uprooting saplings and young plants which had just about taken root. They ransacked all they could. I guessed the reason and decided in a split-second what should be done.

  I came out, looked the leader in the eye, and thundered, ‘Look here, I will not take an inch of land that does not belong to me. But at the same time I will also not forego an inch of land that belongs to me. This land is mine by law.’ I had realized that these people would be sharing the same neighbourhood and local resources with me. We would in the future occasionally require one another’s help. These farmers were good people and they were resentful simply because the government had drawn-up faulty plans and had used these natural pastures t
o rehabilitate displaced farmers and landowners after building dams that had submerged their villages and agricultural land.

  I reasoned with the marauders, promising to try persuading the government to allot them the remaining land and bring over the government surveyor to clearly define the extent of my land. Till then, I promised to do no tilling, not dabble in village politics or interfere in other people’s affairs. My neighbours took me at my word and we shook hands.

  The surveyor came and marked the boundaries of my farm. He also declared the remaining land, ranging over hundreds of acres, to be unclaimed. Local farmers could send a petition to the government with a request that the unclaimed land be allocated to them. It was a time when the government was awarding ownership rights to tenants and sharecroppers, i.e., the people who cultivated but did not own the land. My neighbours were thrilled with the news. The government subsequently legalized their ownership.

  This was my first encounter with a village mob. I learnt my first lesson and developed the art of working with the local people and finding mutually acceptable solutions. I had an ingrained skill of looking at things from other people’s perspectives, which my father had helped me to develop. This guided me in resolving many conflicts. I would have been a fool to pick up a fight with the local people, making the environment hostile. I knew they would see my point of view if I was patient and discussed their problem with empathy. They did and they are all friends now. They come to work for me, and I also promised to work towards the improvement of the infrastructure, particularly the roads, and bring electricity to the villages. They accepted the barter offer and withdrew.

  The stream marked a kind of boundary between the new arrivals and the traditional dwellers. The new settlers had been given land (2000 acres of unclaimed grazing land) to the west and north of the stream. Land to the south and east was the property of the old inhabitants. I, in a sense, held centre ground. The grazing land was a testimony to the maharaja’s foresight. His government had planned economic development, keeping the future generations in mind. General economic infrastructure development included roads and highways, tanks and check-dams, state-managed orchards, and common grazing land. The trees selected for lining the roads and the borders of tanks were either fruit-bearing or produced timber. They provided shade and shelter against the occasional harsh winds that swept the open countryside. The maharajas of old have a lesson for our modern maharajas in the appreciation of ecology and a holistic approach to development.

  One of the things that I observed with much curiosity during the first days on my land was what the visiting relatives and guests did on a neighbour’s farm. I watched, with a sense of wonder and a twinge of shame, how they busied themselves with farm chores right from dawn. The guests helped milk the cows, gather the dung, and plaster the walls with cowdung patties. They cleaned the courtyard, helped in the kitchen, picked vegetables, and helped cook breakfast. Later in the day they took part in whatever farming activity the host had planned during that part of the season. The relatives and guests were well looked after but they shared the work. I found it a very humbling experience, unlike guests who come to our houses who are wined and dined and never joined in the farm work.

  One day, as I was clearing the field, I saw a very dark, handsome man in his mid-forties approaching me. Features exquisitely chiselled, he was solid of build, clad in a pure white dhoti, and had a firm and confident bearing. The visitor introduced himself as Manje Gowda, my neighbour. I did a ‘namaste’ and we shook hands, I felt the reassuring hand of a farmer, rough and calloused with years of work on the land. I had only heard of Manje Gowda, a very capable and helpful farmer, who had settled south and east of the stream. I had also heard that he was a recluse. His family property had come up for division about thirty years ago. Manje Gowda had taken the larger piece of land that was untamed. He had come away with his bride, set up camp and (now) lived in a thatched hut across the stream. There were many legends about the man; about his fearlessness, his indomitable courage, and about how he had tamed the wild and raised a coconut plantation. He had fought off brigands and dacoits, staved off the attacks of wild animals. He must have had his share of other irritants too, but he had remained absolutely aloof from village politics (and had prospered through sheer willpower).

  As we shook hands I saw how strong the man was and I had no doubt that most of the legends about him must be true. I also felt my conceit peg down a notch because till then I had entertained the implicit belief that my adventure had been quite unique. On the positive side, I felt a greater confidence that I would succeed in my farming project.

  Manje Gowda was a farmer in the widest sense of the term. He had five children—all grown up. Like other farmers in Karnataka who traditionally worked on the land with their families providing support by performing complementary farm chores—weeding, ploughing and sowing, protecting the crop from grazing cattle, harvesting, carrying, threshing, winnowing, and the rest—Manje Gowda worked alone on his land.

  He had observed my labours on the farm and knew that I cooked myself. For some strange reason he had taken a liking for me. Then, as days passed, we became friends. This was a true friendship. I would often receive a meal of ragi roti and chutney from the Manje Gowda household. His wife would carry a small basket of rotis wrapped in a banana leaf on her head, walk two kilometres to my farm, wade through a stream, and deliver the meal. Manje Gowda persuaded his wife to volunteer. ‘This young fellow lives in a tent. He works on the field all by himself. He is not married. His family is not with him. So why don’t you give him some food,’ he would say. The pure affection I received touched me profoundly. Manje Gowda and his wife were like parents to me. Whenever there was a village festival (habba) they called me over for a meal. Those were some of the best parties I attended. The Gowdas hardly had any wealth of their own but their generosity was unmatched. People like them and my father show how you need not possess a lot to be able to give and share.

  People dropped by to give me farming tips. I was aware of the hardships and problems of rural life. Nonetheless, I derived inspiration from the inexhaustible enthusiasm, and zest for life of farmers and the near-landless workers on my farm. They had mastered the art of living with meagre resources. Rather than despairing and brooding over their misfortune or the uncertainty ahead, they remained firmly rooted to the present and stoically went about their daily business. They would often quote a Kannada proverb: ‘If He has created you, won’t He feed you?’ And on a festival day, they would abandon everything else, prepare the traditional festival sweet dish (payasa), and celebrate. People offered help with labour, bullocks, and new ideas. My money was running out but I never worried because I was so completely involved with the life around me.

  One afternoon I was completely immersed in my work, when my sixth sense alerted me to the presence of a stranger. I turned around and saw a gentleman in formal western clothes.

  ‘Hello!’ I said.

  The visitor introduced himself as Chandrashekhar, manager at Vijaya Bank’s Javagal branch. I wondered what the manager was doing on my farm. How had he got there in the first place? Had he waded across the stream? One could wade through if the water was sufficiently shallow.

  Chandrashekhar said he had heard about a crazy army officer who lived all by himself in a tent. He wanted to see this maverick with his own eyes. I was not aware that people were calling me a huccha (Kannada for crazy)! The bank manager said he admired my pioneering spirit and courage. The village was apparently under the impression that as I had been unable to secure a bank loan, I would pack up and leave. He had come over to see if he could prevent it.

  I asked the manager to stay for lunch. It was a meal I had prepared with my own hands. The menu was the invariable vegetable-dunked sambhar and rice. The only addition was a kosambhari. Kosambhari is a raw salad that is made with softened daal and grated cucumber, carrot, or any other vegetable that can be eaten raw. Curd rice (mosaranna) completed the simple but tasty meal. It was
particularly memorable, because at last I had a glimmer of hope. A little sluice of light had opened up somewhere in the dark tunnel. The manager asked me over to his house for a first-hand discussion about the merits of my case.

  That evening I reached the manager’s house at the appointed hour. The latter had his living quarters on the floor above the bank. I wrote out my plan in simple longhand on a foolscap paper and Chandrashekhar created the blueprint of all my dreams on an ancient manual typewriter.

  I spelt out my plan. I wanted to fence the farm and dig a borewell, buy and commission a gobar gas plant, buy cattle and build a dairy farm. I hoped to establish a silkworm-rearing house and raise mulberry. In addition I wanted to cultivate plantation crops like banana and coconuts.

  I decided to keep my requirements to the bare minimum as I was wary of borrowing a great deal of money and resolved to initially allot a limited amount of money to each project and manage. Cost-cutting has been my passion. Years later, while working to launch Air Deccan, I sought to cut costs in every possible way. Indeed, the seed of my low-cost airline was sown on my farm!

  I ruthlessly imposed cost-cutting regulations on myself too. The logic was very simple: whatever was not going to bring me returns was wasteful expenditure. By that logic, the house was last on the list as it would not generate any income. I loved nature, my needs were simple, and I was happy living in my tent. However, as I realized that the tent might not last more than two years, I set aside Rs 5000, the cost of mud, thatch, and labour, for a thatched hut to live in to enable me to move out of the tent in the future.

  Meanwhile, the manager translated the blueprint into a seven-year business plan. He estimated a cash flow and evolved a virtual repayment plan. Thanks to him, I learnt what capital expenditure meant; what cash-flow and amortization implied. In short, I learnt a rudimentary banking vocabulary.