My Afghanistan Days

Ibtida-The Prelude

 

 

Station was situated amidst paddy fields which stretched till horizon in all directions. We arrived here in the month of May. Sun baked the plains of Punjab with a ruthless malice. Sowing of paddy had begun and fields lay inundated with water the whole day. An unbearable hot-vapour seemed to rise from the ground relentlessly. Stifling heat was not the only stuff fields generated. Snakes abandoned the watery graves and took shelter in the sprawling grounds surrounding officers’ bungalows. Archana was mortally scared to move into the house we were allotted. A narrow road and a barbed-wire fence separated it from the fields. I had to resort to minor trickeries, embarrassing all the same, to claim a first-floor flat.

 

Civilian neighbourhood abutting the station was an urbanised village. It had two central schools; both appeared the refuge of rowdies. On my first day at hospital, a boy seemingly in late teens but studying in ninth, was brought by his mother for medical attention. He had allegedly been thrashed by the school guards. Later I came to know that he was caught near female washroom, indulging in exhibitionism. We couldn’t see our children in such school. Convent nearest to us in the city, at a distance of about twenty kilometres, refused admission to the kids. Dejectedly we admitted them in the middling school run by the local Air Force.

 

My last posting was to a busy zonal hospital which in those days was one of the busiest military hospitals. I was young, not yet forty, and it was fun and gratifying for the ego, to work in an operation theatre which never seemed to run out of surgeries. This was a puny section hospital, seventy-five bedded and usually with minimal occupancy. It was an overgrown dispensary. Between cups of innumerable tea, idle hours stretched interminably. My colleagues in other specialties had outpatients to provide some diversion. They also seemed to enjoy the indolence of a sinecure. I found it killing.

 

Nearest city was thirty-five kilometres away. Few hospitals we visited there, did not have vacancy for a pathologist. If and when Archana landed a job, she would travel seventy kilometres daily.

 

In the blazing afternoons, when I returned from hospital, tired and drained by the unending idleness, I often saw Archana sitting listlessly in the balcony (our house was surrounded by a glade of eucalyptus trees which afforded a cool shade and often a mild breeze even in afternoons). I knew she despised these jobless interludes whenever I was posted to a new place. It was distressing to watch her plod through mundane household chores spiritlessly, without complaining.

 

Amidst this incurable boredom and dismal existence, a letter arrived in the hospital calling for willing anaesthesiologists to serve in Afghanistan for a few months. It felt like the first hint of rain-clouds after months of soul-scorching heat. Same relief spread on Archana’s face when I told her the news.

 

But doubts trooped in soon. Even if this was an escape, it was only for me. Archana and kids will continue to suffer this plight, which may worsen in my absence. Situation in Afghanistan was nowhere normal. It was the month of August in 2003. Taliban had retreated from major Afghanistan cities less than two years back. Hamid Karzai was the interim head of government, nominated by Loya Jigra, the grand tribal council with legislative functions. But his rule, as media often reminded us, barely extended even across whole of Kabul city. He was lampooned by the same papers as Mayor of Kabul. This only emphasised the lawlessness in this predominantly rural, land-locked nation. US and British dominated, NATO-led, International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) was present in large numbers, but mainly in urban areas. Attacks on civilians and ambush with ISAF were a daily occurrence.

 

There was little time to ruminate over the decision. Ministry of Defence (MOD) was in a rush to send the new team. Incumbent doctors had long completed their tenure and made frequent impatient calls to be recalled. I and Archana discussed the situation endlessly. I recounted the difficulties. Archana reminded me of my extreme frustration with the hospital. This is a fantastic escape, she would counter. They would manage easily in my absence.

 

Present anaesthetist in Afghanistan was my MBBS course mate. I mailed him, asking his advice. ‘It’s a fabulous place, lot of work, freedom of a civilian life, and the money you get doesn’t bite.’ He replied promptly and resolved our dilemma. I consented for the deputation.

 

Archana came down with typhoid fever as I waited for the move. She grew frighteningly weak and could barely stand on her feet. I resolved to withdraw my consent. Commanding Officer of the hospital would not listen. ‘You rarely get such opportunity. We will look after your family.’ He insisted.

 

Archana recovered as dramatically as she had plunged. Same month she joined a hospital in the city. We found a sincere driver for her. Amreek Singh eased my anxiety the most. He never absented from work, was dot on time every morning, never complained if Archana was delayed a little at the hospital and was a good, safe driver. His was the common, unfortunate plight of young men from Punjab those days. He had sold much of his ancestral land to facilitate immigration to Germany. He drove a taxi there for few years and returned back to his village, because of menial salary he earned there; his hopes for a better life dashed, his coffers empty, his land in the village gone.

 

It was the month of October now. Punjab plain was tilting away from sun as earth went around its orbit. Autumn was on us. Mornings and evenings grew pleasant. We often visited the city in the evenings. We discovered some good eating joints. Shreya and Divyank were happy with these outings. They loved the rich food and the huge ice-cream cones. Convent that had refused them admission was on the way. Archana grew hopeful that next year both of them would be able to secure admission here. Massive paddy harvesters mounted in the rear of tractors, moved slowly on the road to the city. Fields lay dry and desolate, with stubble awaiting fire. The humidity, the heat, and the gloom had ebbed.

 

On 3^rd November, I arrived at the Medical Directorate in Delhi for the departure formalities. My friend in Afghanistan shot me detailed instructions to expedite the process. I didn’t understand much but in the present sanguine mood believed I would finish the task in a few days; Previous doctors had stayed for two months in Delhi for this job.

 

I was wet behind the ears. I had only my interests in mind. Bureaucrats of the Lutyens’s Delhi were responsible for the wellbeing of one billion Indians.

 

I and a surgeon from Bangalore made up the new surgical team of the Afghanistan mission. We presented ourselves, beaming with confidence, at the desk of the Principle Director looking after Human Resource in the Medical Directorate, as soon as the office opened on Monday morning.

‘Yes, what can I do for you gentlemen?’

We introduced ourselves. Surely, our names would suggest him the stupendous responsibilities we were soon going to shoulder for the country.

He squinted hard, ‘What brings you here?’

I was crestfallen and told him the purpose.

‘Oh! Is it time to replace the team in Afghanistan? But they left only a few months back. I’ll check. You meet Mr Nateshan’.

 

Mr Nateshan did not know why doctors from Air Force were required in Afghanistan.

‘Sir, you come after tea. I’ll speak with director on this.’

We slithered to the grubby tea-room. We spent as much time there as we could, over a cup of cold tea and sickly wada-sambhar.

‘Sir, I have understood the matter. I’ll have to look for the letter of recommendation. Meet me in the morning tomorrow.’ Mr Nateshan informed us.

 

This became my routine in Delhi for the next four weeks. Mondays were too busy to waste on matters relating to young doctor’s deputation to Afghanistan. Friday was the day for closing the ponderous files that had chugged through the week. On Saturdays and Sundays, Delhi babudom tried to catch a few moments of unhurried breath after the rigours of the back-breaking week gone by and prepare for the hardships of the next. Our letter of deputation was an orphan – a non-descript light-weight like us – in the crowd of hefty files with momentous decisions lurking impatiently between their covers. These onerous notes could make – or if treated lightly wreck – the foundations of the nation. And we dared our overwrought babus to consider our personal interests – a visit to a foreign destination!

 

It was another matter that the foreign destination was a country which had been fighting a civil war for three decades, where military of the most powerful country in the world was incarcerated for two years, where a bomb attack in a public place was as grievous an incidence as a motley crowd of ragamuffins protesting against the policies of a municipality council, where no doctor from anywhere in the country–except Military– had ever volunteered to serve. Well, these were frivolous facts lacking cogent argument.

 

On Tuesday, Mr Nateshan initiated a note-on-file for our move. It was a hefty piece of official work comprising four ponderous sentences. Quietly, we made our way to the tea-room. Whereabouts of ‘note’ were unknown in the evening. We had grown wiser and volunteered to return the next day. We were given the file on Thursday. We rushed to the Vayu Bhavan in the Sanctum Sanctorum of Lutyens’ Delhi and stood triumphantly in the office of another senior officer in the Deputation cell.

‘Doc, why Afghanistan of all the places?’ He sifted through the notes cursorily.

‘I suddenly got interested in the Great Game mischiefs of Britain and Russia in nineteenth century and the ancient Silk Route. What better country to sate my curiosity then the friendly Afghanistan?’ I almost said but didn’t.

‘You meet Mr Nateshan. He will initiate the process.’

We met Mr Nateshan of the Deputation cell. We explained him the situation. And told him we will meet him after lunch. He was impressed by our workmanship. Cafeteria here was airier, cleaner and larger. We sat here for hours.

 

In the weekend I bolted to home. Weather was now prettier. Shreya and Divyank appeared happy at the local school. Archana’s hospital was like an old provincial establishment: lackadaisical administrators, laid-back attitude, delayed payment. Amreek came even earlier in the mornings. He brought us the first Sarson-ka-Saag of the season.

 

In my naivety, I had overlooked the critical issues involved in our deputation. These were scrutinised minutely, as our file moved from one room of the Vayu Bhavan to the other, from Directorate of Movements, to the Directorate of Intelligence, to the Financial Directorate and back to the deputation cell regarding a query, a new round of these rooms with answers to the query and an occasional sojourn to Medical Directorate. We spent more time in the cafeteria than the offices. We could rattle the menu faster and more confidently than the waiters.

 

My life moved on a parallel path to the file. Our paths crossed only occasionally. I treated the file with the reverence it deserved. It grew fatter every day, in the company of the sagacious babus. While the file rolled in the hallowed corridors of the august offices, I sneaked visits to friends who had been fortunate to be posted to Delhi. But I exhausted these means in a week. Evergreen tearoom came to my rescue unfailingly.

 

File cleared a major hurdle and was catapulted to the Ministry of Defence in the vaunted South Block. My perambulations increased. I had neglected workouts in Delhi. I tried to compensate a little by walking around in the city and not taking taxi for short distances. I now made a couple of rounds of South Block from Vayu Bhavan daily, via Raj Path and Vijaya chowk. These are some of the grandest avenues in Delhi. Weather helped. Sun was weak even in the afternoons. Stately buildings on Raisina Hill glowed wonderfully in the rays of setting sun, as I walked across Rajpath in the evenings.

 

At home, I shopped for winter clothing in bazars of the city. It was the ‘woollens capital’ of the country. CNN forecasted a ridiculously absurd temperature in Mazar. Minus ten in December? Were we on a mission to Antarctica? Archana advised caution. I ended up buying more warms than I had purchased in all my life.

 

File earned Raksha Mantri’s approval after being pushed, shovelled, frowned at and cursed for two weeks. RM’s note capped the fifteen hundred other scribblings our file had gathered in these days. Well, I didn’t count these, but they definitely looked this numerous. ‘Anumodit’ (Approved) he had written. Great souls are men of few words.

 

Our last camp of this long expedition was in another wing of South block, the Ministry of External Affairs. Mr Namgyal, the Additional Secretary dealing with affairs of Afghanistan, was the first officer of the Government of India who talked to us about our destination. Our objective in all this running around, he seemed to be saying, was not to seek Raksha Mantri’s approval on the file, but Mazar-i-Sharif, the city in Afghanistan, where we were headed. I had quite forgotten. I saw few pictures of Afghanistan adorning Mr Namgyal’s room, and realised I knew nothing about the place. Mr Namgyal knew all the Military doctors who had been to Afghanistan in two years. He spoke to us about our work, peculiar problems of each of the five Indian Medical Missions in the country, how he could help us and things which were beyond his influence. He gave us his contact numbers and e-mail ID; in case we needed his help while in Mazar. Mr Namgyal’s friendly chat was reassuring. I reckoned bureaucrats dealt with problems of people too, not only with files. But it was a little disturbing also; the file had vanished and Afghanistan now loomed nearer.

 

We had pushed the file hard. We were finished in less than four weeks. Mr Namgyal, ever so good, asked us to make ourselves scarce. I took the next bus and reached the city late in the night. There was no bus for the village. A truck driver agreed to take me along. I squeezed between the driver and his two helpers. Wind rushing through the open windows was severely cold. I had no warms on and froze stiff in the hour-long drive. This diverted my attention from the machinations of the alcohol-reeking driver on the highway, which was fortunately barren at this hour.

 

At home I packed some more stuff, mainly music and books. Internet was not ubiquitous then, nor were mobiles smart. Our world was analogue. My collection of music was on magnetic tapes, wound on cassettes. I crammed a vast number of these. Kindle was launched in US in 2007. This was November of 2003. My books sat solidly on the racks – as they still do – not hidden in the impenetrable chips of a 150-gm slab of plastic and glass. My collection was measly then and with little variety. I had some books by Somerset Maugham, few classics and a sprinkling of nonfiction. From these I salvaged a respectable sized hamper. We were permitted hundred kgs of luggage. I had only half of this; most of it must have been books.

 

I tried to run errands that might ease Archana’s life in my absence. I made list of important telephone numbers and put copies of it in different rooms in the house. I got the car serviced. I paid the club-bill in advance. I met my colleagues in the hospital and reminded them that ‘Archana and kids are still in the station’.

 

I looked up internet. Mazar-i-Sharif, I learnt, is the fourth largest city in Afghanistan, in the north, about fifty kms from Uzbekistan borer. It is named after the Blue mosque, which is believed by few – but refuted by majority – to be the place where remains of Ali, son-in-law of Prophet Muhammed are interred. It is the capital of Balkh province, which was in past, part of Greater Khurasan, the northeast region of the Great Sassanid Empire of Iran, in 3^rd to 7^th centuries. All this sounded impressive, but I couldn’t read further.

 

Staying away from family for extended periods is a part of life in Military. Afghanistan seemed more distant in mind than in space. Kabul is about a thousand kms from Delhi, as a plane flies west. Mumbai is 1148. I thought a period of nine months would pass in no time. Divyank looked a little sad as I bid him good bye. Shreya had suddenly matured in the last year. Her face was inscrutable. Archana appeared worried about the journey and stay. ‘Do not go out unnecessarily.’ She was not sure if I had packed all I would need in Mazar. I had big bags and was travelling in train to Delhi. Amreek came to drop me at the station. ‘Sir, don’t worry. Madam will not have any problem.’ His words, as always, sounded sincere and comforting.

 

Intelligence people at Vayu Bhavan wanted to brief us on the mission. I knew little of the ways of military intelligence and entered the office of the Air-officer in the Intelligence wing with trepidation. Mr Nateshan of the intelligence directorate gave us a printout of information about Afghanistan which would be of importance to us. It was the same web-page I had accessed in the weekend.

‘You must keep the dignity of uniform high in the foreign land,’ pontificated the Air-officer as he gave us intelligence nuggets about our mission.

‘Sir, we are going to be in civvies there. We are not to disclose our Military background.’

‘Is it? I must check. Keep your eyes and ears open. Kabul is a hot-zone in international diplomacy these days. Inform your Military Attaché, if you witness something interesting.’

‘We would be stationed in Mazar-i-Sharif, sir.’

‘Hmm…, well we have given you the needed knowhow. All the best docs.’

 

On Friday we collected the official white passports. We visited office of Ariana airlines, the National carriers of Afghanistan to gather our tickets. Word Ariana, I learnt later, is derived from old Persian, meaning land of Aryans (Sounds familiar? Aryavrata? It seems, all great people want to lay claim on Aryan blood). It comprised the eastern provinces of one of the greatest ancient empires of the world, the Archaemenid Empire.

 

In the weekend I purchased Indian masalas, pickles, papads and namkeens, my friend had advised.

 

Early morning on Sunday I was at IGI airport, checking-in at the Ariana counter. Most of the people in the que were Afghanis. Few men were attired in Salwar-Kameez. Most women wore burquas, not black, women in India wear, but blue. Each family had a large brood of cute, cuddly children.

 

At Seven, Airbus A300 was airborne. Ariana had begun its operations only in 2002, after a lull of many years. It’s fleet of three airbus was donated by the Government of India. Plane flew over Pakistan, and in no time, we were over a jungle of snow peaks, the mighty Hindukush range. However hard I try now; I cannot remember the meal we were served (or not) in the flight.

 

My Afghanistan journey had begun.

 

 

An Afterthought

Urge to relive past becomes stronger as we grow old. I am not in my dotage. The Biblical lifespan of man, three score years and ten, is still a decade and a half away. But more years stretch behind me than ahead.

Memory, cognitive psychologists tell us, is not as faithful to facts as we like to believe. It is coloured by our later experiences. Paucity of space, does not permit brain to record minute details of each passing moment in the myriad ways it excites our senses. Brain stores only important features of the ongoing experience. It fills the mundane details, whenever we recall these memories later in life. But it would seem, devil’s in the details. Through these blank spaces brain changes the perception of past which now agrees with our present beliefs rather than facts.

I had a swell time in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, I did not take any notes there. But I wrote long mails home. These may provide me a scaffold, on which to build the edifice of my Afghanistan memories. I hope, I will be able to cobble together a few pieces on my Afghanistan Days.

These jottings may afford a diversion when body will no more be equal to the rigours of travel, but mind’s eye would retain the strength and desire for the same.

 

गो हाथ को जुम्बिश नहीं आँखों में तो दम है

रहने दो अभी साग़र-ओ-मीना मिरे आगे

 

Though arms have lost their vigour, eyes retain the strength,

Let wine’s cup and goblet be displayed in front of me.