Mohanlal returned to India with a rather generous pension from the RAF that enabled him to start up a limited-route air charter service using an old Hawker Hart. It was to lead to the wonderfully simple and elegant solution that Agrawalji spoke of.
‘See? That’s Patna city below you,’ bellowed Mohanlal as the sputtering Hawker Hart lurched once more. Gangasagar was ready to throw up his breakfast, and cursed both Agrawalji and Mad Mohanlal for placing him there at five on a bitterly cold morning. The plane seated the two men one behind the other.
‘Can you see those ruins, south of the railway lines? That’s Kumhrar—the ruins of the ancient city of Pataliputra from which Patna derives its name,’ yelled Mohanlal, oblivious to the discomfort of his first-time air traveller. Both men were wearing B-8 goggles with RAF helmets, A-2 bomber jackets and 1941 RAF Mae West parachute backpacks. Gangasagar peered nervously over the side of the aircraft to see what Mohanlal was pointing out.
‘Pataliputra was the capital of Chandragupta Maurya’s massive empire two thousand three hundred years ago. Difficult to imagine, given the pathetic state of Patna, eh?’ he barked as he turned the noisy machine northwards to follow the river.
‘The city is located along the south bank of the Ganges but the entire region is rich in iron ore. The trick lies in figuring out what the government hasn’t yet done— identify exact locations!’
Gangasagar muttered some obscenities under his breath, thankful that the din of the engine would prevent the pilot from picking up on his utterances.
‘Around the world, there’s been a phenomenal increase in the use of geophysical techniques in mineral exploration. What I’ve got here with me up front is a piece of technology called a magnetometer. There are only a few of them in the world. Your boss managed to get one through his American contacts. It’s bloody incredible!’ exclaimed Mohanlal.
‘So how does this thing work?’ shouted Gangasagar, ignoring the sensation of his breakfast sloshing around inside his belly.
‘What this thing does is measure the relative magnetic attraction of different parts of the earth’s surface. Iron oxide gives the strongest magnetic pull of any mineral. So when we fly over mineral deposits we should see a definite variation in the magnetic pull,’ explained Mohanlal, his voice partly drowned by the roar of the propellers and the ominous wobbling of the engine.
‘We’re going down!’ screamed Mohanlal as the Hawker Hart lost altitude rapidly. Gangasagar cursed Mohanlal, then Agrawalji and then his own luck—in that order. For a moment he had thought that the crazy pilot was playing a vicious joke on him but within a few seconds he realised that it was no joke. The airborne junk heap was collapsing fast.
‘We must bale out!’ cried Mohanlal. Below them lay the ruins of Pataliputra, seemingly devoid of gawking tourists at this early hour of the morning. ‘Just my luck,’ thought Gangasagar, ‘I’m going to die surrounded by two-thousand-three-hundred-year-old bones. Even if they discover my body later they’ll think I’m just another relic of an ancient civilisation! Why did my greedy boss send me up in the air to fucking search for iron ore that is hundreds of feet underground? Instead of digging for iron ore they’ll be digging for my body, entombed in this rusting iron bird. Look, Agrawalji, here’s the iron you wanted!’
Gangasagar felt dizzy as the plane shuddered and went into a tailspin. ‘Jump! Now!’ shrieked Mohanlal as he ejected himself and pulled the ripcord of his parachute. Gangasagar blindly followed. He was now beyond caring.
He knew that he was about to die and didn’t care if the damn parachute opened or not. Considering the state of Mohanlal’s plane, it was very possible that there would be no parachute in the backpack at all!
He was in heaven. He was quite certain that he had died and was now floating
‘See? That’s Patna city below you,’ bellowed Mohanlal as the sputtering Hawker Hart lurched once more. Gangasagar was ready to throw up his breakfast, and cursed both Agrawalji and Mad Mohanlal for placing him there at five on a bitterly cold morning. The plane seated the two men one behind the other.
‘Can you see those ruins, south of the railway lines? That’s Kumhrar—the ruins of the ancient city of Pataliputra from which Patna derives its name,’ yelled Mohanlal, oblivious to the discomfort of his first-time air traveller. Both men were wearing B-8 goggles with RAF helmets, A-2 bomber jackets and 1941 RAF Mae West parachute backpacks. Gangasagar peered nervously over the side of the aircraft to see what Mohanlal was pointing out.
‘Pataliputra was the capital of Chandragupta Maurya’s massive empire two thousand three hundred years ago. Difficult to imagine, given the pathetic state of Patna, eh?’ he barked as he turned the noisy machine northwards to follow the river.
‘The city is located along the south bank of the Ganges but the entire region is rich in iron ore. The trick lies in figuring out what the government hasn’t yet done— identify exact locations!’
Gangasagar muttered some obscenities under his breath, thankful that the din of the engine would prevent the pilot from picking up on his utterances.
‘Around the world, there’s been a phenomenal increase in the use of geophysical techniques in mineral exploration. What I’ve got here with me up front is a piece of technology called a magnetometer. There are only a few of them in the world. Your boss managed to get one through his American contacts. It’s bloody incredible!’ exclaimed Mohanlal.
‘So how does this thing work?’ shouted Gangasagar, ignoring the sensation of his breakfast sloshing around inside his belly.
‘What this thing does is measure the relative magnetic attraction of different parts of the earth’s surface. Iron oxide gives the strongest magnetic pull of any mineral. So when we fly over mineral deposits we should see a definite variation in the magnetic pull,’ explained Mohanlal, his voice partly drowned by the roar of the propellers and the ominous wobbling of the engine.
‘We’re going down!’ screamed Mohanlal as the Hawker Hart lost altitude rapidly. Gangasagar cursed Mohanlal, then Agrawalji and then his own luck—in that order. For a moment he had thought that the crazy pilot was playing a vicious joke on him but within a few seconds he realised that it was no joke. The airborne junk heap was collapsing fast.
‘We must bale out!’ cried Mohanlal. Below them lay the ruins of Pataliputra, seemingly devoid of gawking tourists at this early hour of the morning. ‘Just my luck,’ thought Gangasagar, ‘I’m going to die surrounded by two-thousand-three-hundred-year-old bones. Even if they discover my body later they’ll think I’m just another relic of an ancient civilisation! Why did my greedy boss send me up in the air to fucking search for iron ore that is hundreds of feet underground? Instead of digging for iron ore they’ll be digging for my body, entombed in this rusting iron bird. Look, Agrawalji, here’s the iron you wanted!’
Gangasagar felt dizzy as the plane shuddered and went into a tailspin. ‘Jump! Now!’ shrieked Mohanlal as he ejected himself and pulled the ripcord of his parachute. Gangasagar blindly followed. He was now beyond caring.
He knew that he was about to die and didn’t care if the damn parachute opened or not. Considering the state of Mohanlal’s plane, it was very possible that there would be no parachute in the backpack at all!
He was in heaven. He was quite certain that he had died and was now floating
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