Myanmar was, and because of its self-enforced insularity, perhaps still is, a country from another time, another world. It was beautiful, natural, untouched by modern technology. It lived in the past and far-flung settlements were perhaps 200 years behind the modern era. Its changelessness had a mystical aspect. Thinking of Myanmar as congealed history made me acutely aware of the loss of innocence. At the same time, I felt a longing to recover the loss of the primordial in me—in us. I also, however, imagined how difficult, dangerous, and life-threatening a trek it would be from any of these locations. One would have to walk for days in the marshy bogs, forests, and mountains before reaching civilization. I was struck by the dismal odds of being discovered and rescued if we got marooned. I made light of the fear and turned to Sam and said, ‘If one is cast away in these jungles, one hopes to have someone like Brooke Shields for a companion, or a female pilot at least, so that we could spend the rest of our lives in the style of Tom Hanks, if it came to that!’ Sam agreed. He was referring to the passenger and not the pilot this time. That somewhat lightened the moment for us.
We stopped to refuel well before sunset. As a rule we refuelled well before sunset or we would lose ourselves in the dark. As we approached Yangon, I could spot the golden domes of the pagodas. Yangon is known for its world famous Buddhist monasteries. Sam kept an eye for the airfield; I took pictures. My general knowledge often enabled me to identify which city it was that we were approaching or flying over, just by spotting some famous landmark or monument. I spotted the Shwe Dagon, the famous 2,500-year-old pagoda in the centre of the city. Sam had got his coordinates right. We landed at Rangoon for the last refuelling point in Myanmar.
I wished we could have spent a day or two in Myanmar. Along with Nepal, Myanmar too was part of the British Indian Empire. We share many common elements in our culture. I would have enjoyed exploring historic Yangon. We spent the night in a hotel. The food was much like ours. They served us rice and spicy curries. The pressure of flying ten to twelve hours a day, three days in a row, was telling on Sam. He was tired. He had to fly ten hours the next day. He insisted he was fine. He always wanted us to sleep on time and we did.
The next morning we were left with ten minutes at the airport before starting out. Myanmar is renowned for its precious stones, so I sneaked down and picked up some travel memorabilia for my wife and for Sam. I did not even ask how much they cost. Sam was livid with rage. He said we did not have time for shopping. As always, I convinced him that it was ten minutes well spent, and we took off on time.
As we took off from Yangon, the Irrawaddy valley suddenly opened out a vista before us. The celestial river shimmered in the horizon like an iridescent ribbon of suffused white light. After an hour of flying, we flew over the Arakan Yoma mountain ranges. My mind went back to the days at the IMA where I had studied the military campaign in Myanmar. Initially the British in Myanmar were relentlessly pushed towards the Indian borders by the advancing Japanese troops. The soldiers had to negotiate the thick impenetrable jungles of the Arakan mountains. The treacherous jungles claimed thousands of Indian, British and Japanese troops in addition to those who died fighting. The Japanese had surrounded the cities of Kohima and Imphal. I remembered that the Japanese had crossed these mountains to enter India during the Second World War and cut off the Myanmar–China road which was used to carry supplies. That is when the famous airlift of supplies over the Himalayas, crossing the ‘hump’ into China, one of the greatest and the longest-lasting airlifts in history, took place. The airlift kept China provisioned and prevented the diabolical plans of the Japanese to starve China to death. However, by the time the airlifts commenced, hundreds of thousands had already died of starvation. The 14th division of the Indian Army fought a campaign led by British General William Slim that drove the Japanese back from the current Indian border regions of Imphal and Kohima. The British prevailed and regained Myanmar. I thought aloud, addressing Sam as we overflew the ranges. ‘Sam, I don’t think anybody has set foot on these mountains in the six decades that have elapsed since the Second World War barring the local inhabitants!’
Reaching the Myanmarese border before dusk, we broke journey for the night at the last Myanmarese airfield in the historic town of Sittwe, or Akyab as it was known during the war. Myanmar and India shared cultural and culinary ties when they were part of that very British Empire. The affinity was greater at this border town and I longed for food cooked in the Indian style. We were fortunate to find an old-time gardener who seemed to emerge from Myanmar’s British past who was familiar with our cuisine. We persuaded him to make us a simple meal of dal, chawal (lentil soup and rice) and spicy fish curry. The food was an excellent counterpoint to the rum I drank with the meal. Sam did not drink because he had to fly the following morning. As we slipped into slumber that night, we smelt the salty air of the Bay of Bengal which roared below the promontory of Akyab and a mélange of images of the sea, beaches, sand, and jungles dissolved into one another, transporting us to a dreamworld that seemed very real.
It was six in the morning by the time the helicopter was aloft. We headed for Bangladesh and drew up near Chittagong, landing there to refuel. Sam and I had been in Bangladesh three decades earlier during the war of liberation. Sam was in the Chittagong region, bordering Myanmar and I was in Dinajpur and Rangpur to the west, bordering India. We reminisced about those days. After a few more hops we reached Dhaka by the evening. In Bangladesh the people had hitherto been very helpful, warmly welcoming us, serving us food, treating us with respect, and engaging us in friendly banter. They took care of immigration formalities and wished us well when we took off.
Things were different when we landed at Dhaka airport this time. As soon as we landed, our aircraft was surrounded by what looked like a platoon of military and paramilitary armed soldiers. A jeep with blaring sirens raced towards us, flashing its emergency beacon lights and as if a hijacked aircraft was being cordoned off. When we disembarked, security personnel whisked us away to an isolated room for questioning. Sam and I looked at our ‘interrogator’ defiantly. I asked him, ‘Are you a Major in the Bangladesh Army?’ He replied ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘Look, I am Capt. Gopi and this is Col. Sam, from the Indian Army. We were here during the Liberation War. We fought the Pakistan Army to help liberate Bangladesh. We have very fond memories of this great nation. So what is this fuss all about? Why are you treating us like criminals?’
Impressed by my defiant tone and what I had to say, the major was a changed man. He smartly saluted us and said apologetically, ‘Sorry, sir. We never realized it.’
The major became friendly and began chatting with us. He took us to the cafeteria, bought us tea, saw to all our documentation. He told us that his father had fought the 1971 war. We eventually parted on very friendly terms.
There was one thing I noticed at Dhaka airport. Dozens of people sat around in the lounge areas, watching television. As with some Indian airports of the past, there were more government employees than passengers in the terminal, gossiping and whiling their time away, reading newspapers, watching television, and generally having a good time. Airline passengers were few and far between. Government servants lazed in the air-conditioned terminals. It was hot out there on the tarmac, and airport interiors provided the most luxurious way of escaping the scorching sun.
Bangladesh is an extremely fertile country; its people very talented. They have wonderful arts and crafts. It is a country known for its singers, poets, and writers. In physical features, the Bangladeshi most closely resembles his Indian counterpart in south and east India. It is difficult to tell him apart from people from those parts of India. I felt sad that the country, often rocked by violent upheavals, nurtured policies that did not allow for creativity, freedom of thought and speech. They did not seem to allow the creation of wealth, nor the growth of conditions conducive to enterprise.
Bangladesh is a country I knew as a young man and had played a bit role in its creation; as had Sam. This is where our ad
ult life began. I gazed intently at the great expanse of poverty and saw excellent potential being wasted.
Our journey from Singapore had been along an inverted arc trajectory. As we moved north from the prosperous curve of Singapore–Malaysia– Thailand, the thriving economies and enlightened government policies yielded to tightly controlled bureaucracies and dictatorships that had stifled economic initiative from within.
We were brimming with excitement when we took off from Dhaka and headed towards India. We flew into Kolkata in the late afternoon, our joy unfettered as we had arrived at home turf. We heaved a sigh of triumphant relief, aware that should we face any technical glitch, help was just a phone-call away.
We had hoped to fly out of Kolkata to Bhubaneshwar that evening but were delayed by Kolkata customs. When we were eventually cleared for take-off, it was too late. Helicopters everywhere are given a separate flight corridor but India has antiquated rules that obliges helicopters follow the same tedious runway procedures and paperwork as fixed-wing aircraft. This delays both helicopters and aeroplanes. If a helicopter is landing or taking off an aircraft is made to wait, and vice-versa. Helicopters have limited fuel capacity. Once the engines are on and the rotors are running, if a helicopter is made to wait, its fuel is quickly depleted. If a helicopter that is capable of a two-hour flight is made to wait with its engines on, by the time it is cleared for take-off, it has used up much of its fuel and is not in a position to undertake a point-to-point flight. Successive DGCAs and airport authority officials who work in coordination have acknowledged this but have not implemented the necessary ameliorative measures. Also, as helicopters do not fly after dusk, if permission is not granted in time, it has to spend the night on ground in the hangar.
We were desperate to fly to Bhubaneshwar, but by the time we received clearance, Sam looked at his watch and made a quick calculation that we would not be able to reach there before sunset so he switched off the rotors and we stayed the night at the airport.
We took off at six in the morning and, crossing the Hooghly and the Gangetic delta, headed for Bhubaneshwar airport. It is impossible to miss the city because of the eye-catching cluster of the Lingaraj temple. At the risk of sounding repetitious, you can’t help becoming ecstatic each time you view the magnificent temples all over India. Like an excited schoolboy, I kept prodding Sam to look at this temple or that waterfall. He sometimes chided me. ‘Gopi,’ he would say, ‘enough of gazing at temples. Now focus on the map.’ As we refuelled in Bhubaneshwar, Sam and I were determined to reach Bengaluru before sunset. We still had to touch down at Vizag, Vijayawada, and Tirupati to refuel and therefore had to keep a close eye on our watch. A few minutes after we took off from Bhubaneshwar we flew past the famous Chilka Lake. When we lifted off from Tirupati, on our last leg, we still had a little time. I asked Sam to do one perambulation around the sacred shrine of Balaji to pay obeisance. Sam glanced at his watch and headed straight for the seven sacred hills on which Lord Venkateshwara is perched. Then, after an aerial salutation to the deity we set course for Bengaluru which was now only an hour and a half away.
The sun was dipping in the west when Sam sighted the Jakkur airfield and informed the ATC. As we neared the helipad, I could see people next to our hangar waiting for and waving at us. We were overwhelmed by the joyous homecoming. Bhargavi, Sam’s wife Maya, Jayanth and Ponnu, and Vidya Babu were there to receive us with cheers, flowers, and hugs. The exhilaration of being home more than compensated the five-day test of endurance and adventure.
9
When we build, let us think that we build for ever.
—John Ruskin
Elections, Evangelism, Helicopters
T
he general elections had been announced. Indian elections were, and continue to be, a spectacle of colour and sound; of pomp, pageantry, and theatrics. Thousands of political hopefuls pit their fortunes. The competition today is fiercer than before with astronomical sums of money being spent by the parties and candidates. The hustle brings to mind the words of the bard of Avon: they are like the ‘[t]ale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.’
Helicopters add a touch of drama to electoral grandeur, and serve as crowd-pullers. They are also practical, permitting politicians to change their schedules depending on the circumstances.
The helicopter company has to be adaptable and ready to accommodate new landing coordinates, move engineering and logistics support, and review security on the ground. It must never lose sight of the thumb-rule of the army: a helicopter service is only as good as its logistics’ support.
Our pilots were equipped with Iridium satellite phones which allowed them to get in touch with the ATC and the company bases from anywhere at any time. The international phone service was offered by a consortium of companies that had invested billions of dollars in the technology and low earth-orbit satellites they had launched. Modern cellular mobile technology has made these phones unviable and now they are used only by the US defence forces.
People have been curious about how I managed to make politicians pay. Politicians consider the service provider’s favour as an instrument of future exchange: licence, contracts, waivers. Large corporates that own helicopters lend them to politicians for use, free of cost, as indemnity for later use. Sometimes it could simply be a goodwill gesture.
It was the other way round with us. Helicopters are our bread and butter, and we had no other business to sustain us. We had already a reputation for reliable, prompt, and timely service, and political parties were aware that we did not offer our service free. They were apprehensive that they might not be able to hire our helicopter at a later date even if they paid for it because someone else would already have booked it. They fell over each other to pay in advance and by cheque. Nobody asked for a free ride.
We made good money during the elections, charging a higher rate because of the higher wear and tear and greater demand than supply. However, having paid in advance, no politician would tolerate a goof-up, even a minor one. We therefore stretched ourselves , working to our utmost capacity. Even so, notwithstanding the meticulous care we took,we could not completely escape the occasional glitch.
Once we had an incident with a UP-based politician, a former MP. He hired our helicopter to attend a string of election rallies, promising the pilot he would pay after landing. He failed to do so, flying from venue to venue, always surrounded by a posse of fully armed private security guards.
After one rally, when he was seated in the helicopter and the pilot asked for payment. The politician pulled out a gun and stuck it to his head. The pilot kept his cool and took off. As soon as the helicopter was airborne, and the politician out of earshot, the pilot called me up on the Iridium and described the situation: what was he to do? I asked him to keep going, and called up friends in political parties to check on the man’s credentials. They said he was one of the biggest criminals with cases pending against him for murder and extortion; he would never pay and advised me to write off what he owed us. I called my pilot and told him to simply take off as soon as the candidate and his henchmen had got off at the next halt.
The pilot followed my advice. Once he had dropped off the thug-in-the-garb-of-politician and his entourage, he turned on full throttle and flew away. The court later found this very politician guilty of a criminal offence and sent him to jail.
There was another bizarre episode. We were flying former minister and veteran of Indian politics Sharad Yadav in the part of Bihar which has now become Jharkhand. During elections it was a lawless place. The helicopter was about to land when a huge crowd of supporters and onlookers closed in on the touchdown pad. As soon as the helicopter touched ground, someone began to pelt stones at the helicopter. Sharad Yadav and our flight engineer were hurt. The Perspex glass dome was damaged but the rotor blades were intact and still running so the pilot took off and escaped.
Another incident occured in Jharkhand. Our helicopter landed with BJP chief Venkaiah Naidu on b
oard. A throng came forward to welcome Naidu when some miscreants threw a petrol bomb at the helicopter. The missile landed inside the helicopter just as Venkaiah Naidu, the pilot, and the engineer jumped out. The bomb exploded and the helicopter went up in flames. The three were whisked away to safety on motorcycle pillions. We sought the help of Laloo Prasad Yadav, who arranged for reserve police to escort the pilot and the engineer when they visited the accident site the following day to record details for insurance claims. The local police were simply unable to help us.
Deccan quickly became the helicopter service of choice for most politicians. We had a fairly ubiquitous presence. We were seen everywhere during the election jamboree. The money was good, but there was also the thrill and excitement of participating in the most spectacular democratic process in the world.
Many politicians feel uneasy and are intimidated by the presence of a helicopter. They look up to the pilot and obey his instructions. There are, however, others who are enthusiastic, and irritating, back-seat drivers. They know nothing about helicopters but they must issue instructions to the pilot. They are bullies who question the pilot’s wisdom at every turn. Pilots are polite but they usually stand their ground. Some get bullied or intimidated, and occasionally come to grief. Jayanth once rebuffed Chagan Bhujbal, former Shiv Sena strongman and deputy chief minister of Maharashtra. Bhujbal was getting pushy and restless because he was desperate to make it to an election rally. On that occasion, it was nearing dusk and the weather was inclement. Bhujbal insisted that Jayanth fly him to his destination and began issuing instructions—a cloud here or a hilltop there. Jayanth humoured him for a while but found that he was unable to land because a detour under the prevalent conditions was impossible. Vexed by the politician’s continuous meddling, Jayanth eventually turned to him and said, ‘Would you like to take my place? If you can fly the plane, I’ll be glad to cede my place to you.’ Bhujbal spoke no more.
Simply Fly Page 33
