A friend once told me how he escaped what felt like certain death. He had been posted in Ladakh, at a time when there was effectively no dependable road link. He served as the Commanding Officer of a unit in Leh from 1978 to 1981.
Though a road did run from Srinagar to Leh and further ahead, it was unreliable, often swallowed by winter. From October to June, heavy snowfall would block it completely. Some years were harsher, the passes closing as early as September and not reopening until July.
When the roads closed due to heavy snowfall, the only means of transporting fresh rations and other essentials for Defence Services personnel was from the Chandigarh Transit Camp to Leh, using giant Russian AN-12 transport aircraft. In clear weather, flying was not a problem for the pilots. In bad weather conditions, however, when visibility was low, the pilot’s skill and expertise came into play at the distant end.
On one such occasion, the officer had come to Chandigarh and was scheduled to return by a particular flight. However, exigencies of service forced him to postpone his programme, and the original flight crashed, killing all its occupants. Worried that his family might think he was on that flight, he managed to convey to them that he was safe. He later thanked his lucky stars for having had such a close shave with certain death, as he too would have perished.
I, however, hold the view that perhaps his good luck would have come into play had he been on that fateful flight, and the aircraft might have landed safely, thus saving the lives of all those on board. Although this may not hold true at all times, as in the case of the Air India Dreamliner crash that occurred last year in Gujarat, where all occupants perished except for the passenger in seat 11A, who reportedly unbuckled his seat belt and walked away to safety from the smouldering wreckage. Thereafter, when making flight bookings, seat 11A became the first choice for many travellers.
Looking back at times gone by, in the twilight years of my life, I recall several instances when a stroke of luck came my way. In 1998, I travelled to Bangladesh. The plan was to go via Calcutta, cross the Benapole border by road to Dhaka, and from there proceed to Assam via the Dauki border, returning through Guwahati, where my younger brother was posted with the North East Railways (NER).
However, on reaching Dhaka, I learnt that the entry and exit points to the country had to be the same. After about a week’s stay, I returned to Calcutta and from there took a train to Guwahati. I spent a few days there with my brother and then boarded a train to New Delhi.
The next station was Pandu, just across the Brahmaputra River, where the headquarters of NER is located. Lulled by the motion of the train, I dozed off for a while and woke up about an hour later, only to realise that the train had still not moved. On inquiring, I was told that a goods train had derailed, blocking the railway line to New Delhi. After some time, the train began to move back towards Guwahati, and we were informed that it would not proceed any further and that we were to await further instructions. I returned to my brother’s place.
In the evening, we received news that all passengers would have to travel to Bongaigaon by bus, located about 150 km towards Delhi, and from there a train would take us to our destination. Passengers were to report at the station at around 8:00 am, where 8 to 10 buses had been arranged for the journey. I boarded one that was almost full, assuming it would be among the first to depart.
There was hardly any traffic, and the road was in good condition, barring its wavy surface, which, although smooth, caused the bus to lift and land with a thump. The driver, a local, made no attempt to slow down over them. After a while, tired of the bumpy ride, I approached him and asked him to be careful. He replied, with a broad grin, “Don’t worry, Sahib; this is my everyday route. Nothing will happen.” I sat back, and sure enough, on the next bump we heard a loud sound. The bus stopped, and it was discovered that a bolt holding the suspension had broken. The driver then had to proceed slowly to the next stop, where repairs were carried out, after which we moved on.
As a result, we reached our destination three to four hours late. By then, our train to Delhi had already departed from Bongaigaon station. We took the next train, which reached Siliguri station the following morning. There, we learned that a train accident had blocked the route ahead, and we had to stay overnight until the line was cleared. The AC coach I was travelling in was detached and placed on another platform and given a direct power connection, allowing the air conditioning to remain functional through the night.
In those days, mobile connectivity was not as reliable as it is today, and coverage was inadequate, especially in smaller towns and intercity areas. One had to rely on Public Call Offices (PCOs) for local calls or STD and ISD facilities for long-distance communication. I decided to call my family to inform them of what had happened. The only PCO was on the other side of the station, where I found a long queue of around fifteen people waiting to make a call. After standing there for a while, I gave up and returned to my coach.
Our train reached New Delhi in the early hours of the morning, and I reached my house at around 6:00 am. Knowing the habits of our household, including the maid, who all woke up late, I rang the bell and waited patiently. I had the habit of ringing the bell in three quick, successive bursts, ting ting ting, announcing to everyone that it was me at the door. I did the same that day.
I was surprised to find my wife on the balcony, and upon seeing me, she greeted me with a broad, welcoming smile. I found it rather strange that she was up so early and appeared in such a cheerful mood. She came down and opened the door, and what followed over the next few minutes was a highly emotional moment, which made me feel that life was still very much worth living.
At home, they were under the impression that I was travelling in the same ill-fated train that had met with the accident. After a while, when things had calmed down, I asked, “Where is Arshad, my son?” “Oh,” she replied, “he has gone to Old Delhi Railway Station, where the train is supposed to arrive,” and then she quickly dialed Arshad on the phone. I could hear Arshad say, “Mom, we have searched the whole train, but Dad is not here.” By then, my wife had recovered her composure and a bit of wit, too. She said, “Your dad is not that saintly a person as to be visible in two different places at the same time. Come back home. He is sitting right here in front of me, sipping his cup of tea.”