Vishnu called me up one day. He said he was in Bengaluru to fly a UP government helicopter that had been brought to HAL for routine maintenance. He was to take off the following day and said he could give me a joy-ride in his helicopter if I went over to HAL. For some strange reason, rather than accepting his offer of a joy-ride, I asked him which route he would take, flying back to Lucknow. He said he would be doing a zigzag detour. He would be flying first to Mangalore, and then would fly on to Goa, Pune, Nagpur, and on to Lucknow. I realized at once that he should be flying over my farm or thereabouts. I asked if I could exchange his offer of joy-ride with a ride to my farm instead, as it would be on his way.
Vishnu asked where my farm was. I said it was close to Hassan, off the road to the famous temple town of Halebid and a few kilometres from a village called Javagal. Vishnu had an army map with him and he had already located Javagal. He wanted to know where exactly—near Javagal, the farm was and I told him it was north of Javagal and just short of the next village of Bidare. He said he had it on his map and he would be pleased to take me to my farm. I asked if it would be okay for me to bring Bhargavi along, as well as Jayanth and his wife Ponnu. He said it would be a pleasure, but we must be at the HAL airport before 9 a.m.
It sometimes seems as if my mind is a seed-mill of ideas. When the time is ripe and the soil fecund, an idea quietly germinates. One such seed seemed to have coaxed its way to life at the time I was talking to Vishnu over the phone. It was still incipient, but I imagined people taking a helicopter ride to the wondrous spots of Karnataka; to the temples, to the ancient monuments of Hampi; the statue of Bahubali in Shravanabelagola; the Jog Falls; to just anywhere their fancy took them. In those days, only the very rich could afford to ride in a helicopter. If a business magnate wanted to ride his own helicopter his company executives used to initiate preparations much in advance. Vishnu was able to locate the farm in less than a minute, so it should be possible using good maps to take people to where they wished to go at short notice. I remember the vague stirrings of a thought. Could we make it possible for just about anyone to fly—and at short notice?
In preparation for the landing on the farm, Vishnu asked for a field to be cleared and a fire lit up to help him locate the smoke and find the landing spot as also the direction of the wind. I called Raju in Javagal and asked him to make the necessary preparations for our arrival the following morning.
We were to take off at 9.30 a.m. Vishnu would get his Chetak helicopter ready for the journey. The Chetak helicopter was the same as the French-made Ecuriel. The Ecuriel had a 180-degree view and was unsurpassed in its ability to negotiate difficult mountain-flying conditions. It was, and remains, the backbone of the Indian army’s helicopter operations. HAL made the helicopters under a French licence. Vishnu asked me to sit with him in the cockpit to help with micro-navigation when we approached Javagal. I sat with a map spread out on my lap.
The engines whirred, rotors turned, and the helicopter was airborne. I felt a surge in my heart. I wished I were a bird; wished I could fly at will. This is what helicopters and airplanes do to human emotion.
The army had made a good map reader of me and I expected to be able to correlate ground objects with markings on the map. However, when you fly 200 km an hour you are in another dimension. By the time I could note my bearings, we had crossed Bengaluru. It would have taken an hour or so to get from HAL in the south-east to the city exit on Tumkur Road in the north-west. Before I knew it we had crossed Nelamangala. Landmarks flitted past on the ground below: streets, buildings, farms, and orchards, lakes and hills. Objects looked a little warped as we flew over. As we headed out I experienced a sense that it was a divine hand that had scripted this incredible helicopter ride so that I would actually go forth and set up a company for aerial sightseeing and helicopter tourism.
We skirted Shivagange and as we approached Shravanabelagola, the world’s largest monolithic statue of Gomata on the hill, rose before us on the western horizon. I asked Vishnu if he would like to take an aerial view of the 1000-year-old statue. He veered the helicopter south-westward and we circumambulated the statue from about 600 metres. The view was magnificent. There was an added serenity to the placid defiance of Bahubali. Totally exposed to nature, the Gomata was wholly defenceless and completely vulnerable but he appeared invincible.
We then flew over the towns of Channarayapatna, and Arsikere. Before I knew it we passed Javagal. As we flew over my farm, it looked verdant and far more luxuriant than it did on ground. It was beautiful. One transient moment I saw before me a parade of past events: the first expedition there, life in a tent, the stream and the flood, life with donkeys, the first rains, the mulberry, the silk-rearing house, Manje Gowda and his family, Bhargavi and my marriage. It was an oasis now. Raju had lit a fire in a nearby patch of ragi from which rose a wisp of smoke. Raju and a host of neighbours and many others who had got wind of the event—momentous for a village milieu—crowded around the ragi patch when they heard the sound of the helicopter. There were perhaps a thousand people—farm workers, women and children, and the more preoccupied-looking elders swarmed closer to get a view of the flying wonder. A gust had been whipped up while landing and the loose ends of their clothing flagged and fluttered. Everybody looked on, dazed and wonderstruck. For those who had never seen a helicopter, and there were hundreds of them, it was like a page from mythology: the mythical bird had landed in their midst. The journey had taken less than fifty minutes.
We alighted. Raju brought us tender coconut water to drink. I knew after the aerial journey in the helicopter that there was no going back: I would definitely set up a helicopter company in commercial space. I asked Vishnu if he would like to join me. Without hesitation he said he would be thrilled to team up with us.
We took a short break, walked around the farm, and ate a simple meal. Vishnu took leave and was off.
The journey back to Bengaluru in my old Tata Mobile pick-up truck seemed far longer than the six hours it actually took. The ease with which we had travelled to Javagal in the helicopter made it seem like sixty hours. During the drive, my mind was full of images, dreams, and plans for the new venture.
Col. Jayanth Poovaiah, Sam, and Vishnu were my course-mates at the NDA and the IMA. Jayanth is an outstanding pilot. He had fought the Bangladesh War in 1971, fought the LTTE in Sri Lanka, and flown helicopters. He had also flown extensively in Kashmir. I realized that as Jayanth and Vishnu had both flown in arduous wartime conditions, flying passengers in normal times should be quite easy for them. In addition to their flying skill, both were good administrators and logistics experts. It is true that former armed forces officers initially find themselves unsuited to civilian life. However, with training and some adjustment, they make good leaders and managers.
Jayanth and I got talking on our drive back. Jayanth said he was studying for a BA degree to help him fit into civilian life after retirement.
Officers in the army have a degree in military science. For them, post-army, a BA degree is quite redundant. When I heard that Jayanth was planning to get a BA degree, I suggested that he get a flying licence instead. I revealed to him my plan. I said, ‘Jayanth, I am setting up a helicopter company. Get a flying licence and perhaps you can join us.’ Jayanth had a habit of looking incredulous. He did not say a word, not knowing what to make of my words. As I drove on towards Bengaluru, I got the feeling that the idea was taking hold of Jayanth. He had fallen into a reverie and seemed to be clutching at a new dream. It may have appeared far-fetched but a dream is irresistible especially when it sharply contrasts with the humdrum life of an administrator or clerk. Oh! how wonderful it would be to start flying again! At the end of the journey, Jayanth woke up from his dream and asked me what was the first thing I wanted him to do.
I asked him to get a posting to Bengaluru. He was then to wait until we got the helicopters. He had done twenty years of service in the army and was entitled to premature retirement with pension and was also in his early fortie
s. Because he was close to pensionable age, he could choose the location of his posting. I also advised him against quitting the army before we received our helicopters.
Soon Jayanth called to say he had got a posting to Bengaluru. ‘Welcome aboard!’ I said.
Sam, Jayanth, and I formed a threesome. We went to the langar or the jawan’s mess for a good army meal. It had been fifteen years since I had last visited a langar. We ate and chatted till the wee hours of the morning.
Jayanth’s brother-in-law, Dr Ashok Pandey, was a very senior IAS officer. He was a secretary in the Lok Sabha and his wife, Jayanth’s sister Reena Pandey, was a senior officer in the Indian Foreign Service with the ministry of external affairs. She went on to serve three prime ministers. She is now an ambassador. The most ardent words of gratitude would not sufficiently express how beholden I am to them for their help. In all probability, but for their unstinting help and encouragement, the venture would have got aborted in the labyrinths of bureaucracy. In my less agnostic moments I think they had been sent by God to help me and my team. Perhaps it is true that people determined to achieve their objective receive god’s help at critical junctures. Ashok and Reena Pandey repeatedly made efforts to ensure that our files got pushed forward. I had experience with the tardy way in which files moved at the electricity board and the government offices at the district and taluq levels. I had prided myself that as I could surmount those hurdles I should be able to do likewise in Delhi. Delhi is, however, an entirely new species of bureaucracy. Despite our efforts over a two-year period, our application for a licence and the NOC had not moved an inch. The exercise involved frequent travels to Delhi. It was extremely frustrating and a complete drain on our meagre resources.
Jayanth arranged for us to meet Reena Pandey at the external affairs ministry. We met her and gave her an idea of how the files had moved to one place in the hierarchy and got stuck. Reena called up contacts and friends in the bureaucratic echelons. The bureaucracy is well networked and the web of contacts came in handy. Reena and Ashok did all they could to speed up the movement of the files through the tangle of red tape. We did not want to bribe as a matter of principle, and had we even been inclined to occasionally, we did not have the resources.
Sam and I worked in tandem. Sam prepared the groundwork to create training and engineering manuals as per the requirements of the civil aviation ministry. These had to be meticulously prepared and needed to be accurate to the last technical detail to satisfy DGCA rules and guidelines. I busied myself with the licence process. It is difficult to describe how frustrating it was getting the licence cleared. Each visit to Delhi, over two prolonged years, was as agonizing as another, and each ended with no result. I have selected two incidents to shed light on the gargantuan size of the bureaucracy and the intricate web it weaves around the unsuspecting supplicant. Most return overawed by the size and unable to extricate themselves from the tangled mess of this web.
The joint secretary is the officer who deals with the initial stages of an application. It is at this level that an application is translated into a file. Thereafter it is the file that is at the core of everyone’s attention. The secretaries of the government are forever attending meetings. I filed my application and waited all day for a meeting with the joint secretary. When I eventually I got to see him, he asked me why I was there. I said I had filed an application for a no objection certificate to operate a helicopter service. He said, ‘We will look into it.’ That was it.
I was relentless in this pursuit. Months rolled by but there was no sign of the NOC. The file had got stuck at the joint secretary’s table for six months. The answer was the same each time, ‘We will look into it.’ By the time I had made fifteen visits to the joint secretary’s office, three incumbents had come and gone. On my sixteenth visit I met the official. Wearing the standard expression of impatience, suggesting that he had more important tasks to attend to, he asked me curtly what I wanted. I said without losing my cool that I had applied for a NOC to start a helicopter charter service and that the file needed his attention. I also said we did not have the funds to make endless trips to Delhi. He seemed to be getting even more impatient after listening to my litany. The officer managed to smoothen the crinkle on his brow and, putting on a deadpan expression, he said, ‘We will look into it’. I was not easy to shrug off this time. I drew his attention to the fact that three joint secretaries had come and gone but the file remained steadfastly on the table. He looked perceptibly annoyed. He glowered at me as though I had transgressed the line. Then with a flourish of the hand he brought the wrist watch in front of him, indicated to me that he had given me sufficient time and, with a noisy shuffle of his official chair, stood up and motioned to me to leave.
Subsequent meetings with the officer were enactments of a pre-recorded video of the officer and me. Each meeting ended with a brusque dismissal. I did not give up. I dogged him even if it meant making more trips to the capital and a further drain on resources. I think he was fed up with me and eventually said he had sent the file to the secretary. One small step for bureaucracy and a giant leap for me! That was how I felt.
Bureaucracy had tested templates for dealing with applicants. Mine comprised the following series of actions: make him wait, give him short shrift, browbeat, dissuade, and procrastinate. There is a shorter secondary loop between the secretary and the joint secretary. The secretary does this to seek clarifications on the application. This took some more time. I continued in my routine and was not easy to shake off. Finally, the secretary told me he had sent the file to the minister. On my third visit to the secretary, he said not without some annoyance, that the minister had neither signed the file nor rejected it. ‘So please don’t come to me. Go to the minister.’
When I asked the secretary to remind the minister about the file, a very knowing smile appeared on his face. He was a little sheepish at the message he intended to give me. He said, ‘Once a file is sent to the minister, if he neither approves nor rejects it, I do not go and remind him, especially when it concerns private sector licensing. If I did, the minister would impute motives to me. The minister does not need reminding and knows your file requires to be signed. He has kept it aside. It obviously means that he’s expecting you to meet him.’ I understood that when a minister sets a file aside but does not approve nor reject it, there might be certain expectations.
The corridors of power in Delhi are colonized by wheeler-dealers, touts, and fixers. They charge a professional service fee plus speed money. I abhorred this practice. People are not willing to go direct to a minister, assuming that he will not do their job. They are convinced that the only way to get their work done is get hold of a middleman. From my younger days, I have not resorted to this practice. I did not want to do it now. The minister of civil aviation was Ghulam Nabi Azad, so I decided to go straight to him.
I sought and was given an appointment. At the meeting, I told the minister that I was an ex-army officer seeking to set up a helicopter company. The application for the licence had been on his table for quite some time. I was running out of time and resources. I had used up all my savings, shuttling to and from Delhi for two years and had reached the tattered end of my tether. I wanted him to grant me the licence.
Many of us don’t get what we deserve because we do not ask for it. I have found that most official work actually gets done without people asking you for money. If you are on the right path you don’t need to fawn. You can be direct and honest and ask what is rightfully yours. You will be amazed how the political–administrative machinery often yields to honesty and integrity.
I told the minister what I had been through, and said I could not believe that it took so much time for an ex-army officer to get what he had a legitimate right to seek. The minister asked his secretary if there was a file on the application made by Capt. Gopi. The secretary brought the file to the minister’s table. Politicians as a class in India are corrupt; so are businessmen as a class. Individuals can however, and often do,
hold back the urge. The minister said, ‘I am approving your application and will sign it today.’ I did not believe him but the minister was true to his word. He gave me the government’s approval-in-principle to establish an airline. He referred us to the DGCA for further processing. Two years of unrelenting effort had paid off; two long, years of torment just to get those two sentences on the NOC: ‘The government hereby has no objection to your starting a helicopter company.’
I had two friends in Delhi. One was Capt. D.V. Singh, who later joined the venture. We stayed with him during our visits to the capital. Capt. Abraham Ben was the other friend and was associated with Nirula’s in New Delhi. Ben got us lunch and helped us with printing and faxing letters and our correspondence. We did not of course have the money to pay business centres.
The egg had been hatched and had broken free of its shell. We needed to give it wings and get the helicopter. Sam pored over aviation magazines and newspapers and jotted down the addresses of prospective suppliers. He wrote letters asking whether they could lease us a helicopter. Brokerage firms asked us to deposit $10,000, which they said would be adjusted against the brokerage fee once the leasing deal actually came through. We did not have that kind of money so we abandoned brokerages. RBI foreign exchange rules were stringent. Leasing companies asked for a bank guarantee. Banks said that if they could provide a bank guarantee, they could as well give us the money. Indian banks, a majority of them nationalized ones, did not have exposure to structuring loans and instruments for the aviation industry, having no knowledge of aviation financing. Helicopter leasing is a sophisticated business and they did not have the financial instruments to address its requirements. They were unaware of how an aircraft could be repossessed if a lessee defaulted or went bankrupt. An aircraft cannot remain idle in the hangar and requires daily maintenance even on ground or else it will become worthless. All these factors made banks wary of aviation projects.
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