a scanned copy of that overexposed photo. Behind us the flickering neon sign. Professor Singh in the middle. One hand visible. His tie, black and narrow and angled, so unlike the symmetry of his turban. Nelly included Father in the photo, even though she could have kicked him out of the frame.
We urged her to join us in the second shot, but she looked baffled, and insisted on occupying the space behind the camera.
Several years later I wrote about the photo and the handshake and my stoic-faced father. I wrote about Nelly. No other images haunt me more. But for some reason memory fails me here, I have little recall of the onward train journey.
On 30 October we visited the pharmaceutical plant in Kasauli. (In colonial times the building served as a TB sanatorium.) On 31 October we visited the Mohan Meakin Brewery in the Solan Hills. (In colonial times it was called the Dyer–Meakin Brewery. Dyer was the father of General Dyer who ordered the Amritsar Massacre in 1919.) I still remember the enzymes, the smell of fermentation reactors and the hum of giant crushers, centrifuges and heat exchangers. Stage 3 washing with excess CO2 to remove harmful gases from the liquid, the Bengali quality-control officer (a ‘teetotaller’ and a Brahmin) who tasted the ‘thing’ after it ‘matured’. Because I was exactly six feet tall, Professor Singh made me stand next to the inebriated fermentation reactors and commanded the camera-wallah to take a shot. No one asked why. For we understood the implicit reasoning. The dimensions of my body (height in this case) a most convenient way to estimate the dimensions of the reaction vessel! ‘ Back home you will list the design variables and calculate the safety factors. How safe are the “safety factors”?’ Alcohol was pumped like water from a muddy brown river to the bottling zone of the plant. In my ears I still carry an echo of the strange music the pasteurised glass bottles produced on the conveyor belt. Fifty thousand bottles a day.
During our return journey Professor Singh told us about the writer Kipling, who supported General Dyer even after the massacre of innocent Indians. Kipling contributed twelve pounds to the mass murderer’s retirement fund, and called him ‘brave’. Professor Singh also spoke about Gandhi with some admiration. ‘ But,’ he said , ‘Mahatma Gandhi was plain wrong about certain things. I cannot get used to the idea that he opposed the railways! Where would we be without the railways? There – ’ I heard a scream. Someone discovered two rats in the bogie. Perhaps it was the sheer insane energy of youth that made me pick them up. Something was definitely strange about the rats, they had not yet started decomposing. Two rust-coloured bodies, freshly dead, hooked to my fingers, dangled in front of everyone. Abe pagal ho gaya hai kya? teased the chorus of voices. Another whisper: Professor ki pagri main dal de, saleh! Put them inside the professor’s turban, saleh! The rats spun and wobbled when I dropped them out of the moving window. For a brief second I felt I was in my school biology lab about to begin dissections. Odour of formaldehyde. Smell of an anatomy experiment. I don’t recall now my exact state of mind when after a brief pause the professor regaled us with stories about his great-grandfather. When just fifteen, great-grandfather, a self-taught chemist, joined the Maharajah’s court. One day musicians came to the court claiming their music possessed the power to light up all the lamps in the palace. Demonstrate it, ordered the Maharajah. Lots of sitars were strummed and resonant ragas and raginis sung, but the lamps refused to ignite. The Maharajah, more embarrassed than the celebrity musicians, turned to the fifteen-year-old, who knew exactly what to do. In his spare time the kid, the boy, had taught himself the sciences. He dissolved white phosphorus in carbon disulphide and refilled the lamps with this magical ‘oil’. The
We urged her to join us in the second shot, but she looked baffled, and insisted on occupying the space behind the camera.
Several years later I wrote about the photo and the handshake and my stoic-faced father. I wrote about Nelly. No other images haunt me more. But for some reason memory fails me here, I have little recall of the onward train journey.
On 30 October we visited the pharmaceutical plant in Kasauli. (In colonial times the building served as a TB sanatorium.) On 31 October we visited the Mohan Meakin Brewery in the Solan Hills. (In colonial times it was called the Dyer–Meakin Brewery. Dyer was the father of General Dyer who ordered the Amritsar Massacre in 1919.) I still remember the enzymes, the smell of fermentation reactors and the hum of giant crushers, centrifuges and heat exchangers. Stage 3 washing with excess CO2 to remove harmful gases from the liquid, the Bengali quality-control officer (a ‘teetotaller’ and a Brahmin) who tasted the ‘thing’ after it ‘matured’. Because I was exactly six feet tall, Professor Singh made me stand next to the inebriated fermentation reactors and commanded the camera-wallah to take a shot. No one asked why. For we understood the implicit reasoning. The dimensions of my body (height in this case) a most convenient way to estimate the dimensions of the reaction vessel! ‘ Back home you will list the design variables and calculate the safety factors. How safe are the “safety factors”?’ Alcohol was pumped like water from a muddy brown river to the bottling zone of the plant. In my ears I still carry an echo of the strange music the pasteurised glass bottles produced on the conveyor belt. Fifty thousand bottles a day.
During our return journey Professor Singh told us about the writer Kipling, who supported General Dyer even after the massacre of innocent Indians. Kipling contributed twelve pounds to the mass murderer’s retirement fund, and called him ‘brave’. Professor Singh also spoke about Gandhi with some admiration. ‘ But,’ he said , ‘Mahatma Gandhi was plain wrong about certain things. I cannot get used to the idea that he opposed the railways! Where would we be without the railways? There – ’ I heard a scream. Someone discovered two rats in the bogie. Perhaps it was the sheer insane energy of youth that made me pick them up. Something was definitely strange about the rats, they had not yet started decomposing. Two rust-coloured bodies, freshly dead, hooked to my fingers, dangled in front of everyone. Abe pagal ho gaya hai kya? teased the chorus of voices. Another whisper: Professor ki pagri main dal de, saleh! Put them inside the professor’s turban, saleh! The rats spun and wobbled when I dropped them out of the moving window. For a brief second I felt I was in my school biology lab about to begin dissections. Odour of formaldehyde. Smell of an anatomy experiment. I don’t recall now my exact state of mind when after a brief pause the professor regaled us with stories about his great-grandfather. When just fifteen, great-grandfather, a self-taught chemist, joined the Maharajah’s court. One day musicians came to the court claiming their music possessed the power to light up all the lamps in the palace. Demonstrate it, ordered the Maharajah. Lots of sitars were strummed and resonant ragas and raginis sung, but the lamps refused to ignite. The Maharajah, more embarrassed than the celebrity musicians, turned to the fifteen-year-old, who knew exactly what to do. In his spare time the kid, the boy, had taught himself the sciences. He dissolved white phosphorus in carbon disulphide and refilled the lamps with this magical ‘oil’. The
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