Sandeep Bhatnagar
bio
Tide Water
One leg astride the guardrail, the other firmly
on deck, Raghuvir Singh scanned the horizon. The sky was always
overcast at this time of the year and the wind was liable
to freshen without any warning. The sea, which only a moment
ago had sported waves with foam crests, was now relatively
calm. It had only just stopped raining, so the breeze still
had a cool touch to it. Singh removed his helmet and took
a deep breath as he shifted his gaze towards the setting sun.
In the fading light, less than quarter of a mile away, he
could see another vessel—one he had served on—aground . Grounding
was fairly common in this river port and in most cases the
ship would re-float with the next tide, none the worse for
its misadventure. Still, no one liked to be associated with
a grounding.
On the other vessel, men were busy pulling bedraggled
tarpaulin sheets across the hatch covers. It was quite a job
shutting these antiquated hatches. Singh smiled as he remembered
how, years ago as a trainee seaman, he used to curse vehemently
each time he was called upon to perform this task. First,
the portable hatch covers had to be lifted and refitted with
the help of a shore crane. It had to be done just so. Next
came the mucky part, as the tarpaulin covers, heavy with deposits
of caked mud and iron ore, were physically dragged across
the hatch. Long flat bars that held down the tarpaulin were
then put in place and lashed to the coaming . Finally, the
cleats and wedges, which ensured that the hatches remained
watertight, were fitted. After that, one was left with an
ore- and sweat-smeared boiler suit and barely enough energy
to light a bidi or prepare a plug of chewing tobacco—though
of late, young seafarers were opting for gutka as a means
of stress relief.
Singh had operated these hatches so many times
that he found himself cursing what he could make out to be
a straggler. Like most people with athletic physiques and
energetic dispositions, he was openly contemptuous of even
the mildest hint of sluggishness. Instinctively, he lashed
out with, “Barrat mein aya he, kya?” But there was no one
around to hear him. The second officer, who led the aft watch,
was busy speaking to the cook, a genial Nepali, earnestly
peering over his spectacles as he poked his head through the
galley porthole. The other seaman from the aft watch was the
sukhani-cum-bosun , who was on his way to the wheelhouse to
take the wheel, for none but he was allowed to steer the vessel
in the channel.
Singh’s present ship had winch-driven Macgregor
hatch covers, whose operations were a cakewalk compared to
those on the older vessels of the company. The worst part
was that these were really not so very old vessels, as they
had been built in the early ’90s, whereas “pontoon-type” hatch
covers had probably been phased out in the ’20s. At least
that’s what he’d heard from the second officer.
As his gaze fell back on the ship aground, Singh
stared ruefully at the hull and superstructure. Everything
was as rusted as it had been two years ago when he had served
on the vessel as bosun. It would probably go to the scrap
yard in Alang in the same condition. Nothing ever changes.
That was not really true, for things did change, he corrected
himself. In the mid- and late-90s, these ships used to sparkle
but the crew served on par with the casual shore laborers.
Not only were they expected to clean and scrub the entire
accommodation, including the toilets, and attend fore- and
aft-stations along with the other duties that were their lot,
but they rarely received their pay on time. Money was a bad
word with the company. “At least you are getting food to eat,”
one of the mangers used to infamously remark, until the crew
approached the United Port Union. A rather militant outfit,
it had gained a large following among the seamen who manned
the home trade ships plying the Indian coast, though it had
lost out in its homeport, Calcutta.
Things were certainly much better now, sighed
Singh, as he waved a greeting to the skipper or masterji of
a passing tug, who waved back as he recognized his old drinking
companion. It was the diminutive Tug 1. Tiny and toy-like,
it was miniscule compared to its ocean-going brethren, which
were plentiful in these waters. They were mainly used to push
dumb barges from the inner- to outer-anchorages during lighterage
operations. One of these giants could be seen puffing away
against the stern of an ore-laden barge casting off from a
nearby berth.
It was very rare indeed that one found Singh
in a pensive mood. For he seemed to find hope and joy in almost
every situation. Whether it was with the help of his liberal
packet of bidis, or his abilities as a good listener, Singh
was sure to make friends, even -- or rather especially --
where others were sure to find enemies. Today, however, was
different. Something was worrying him. The only thing that
could depress him now that he had got over the disappointment
of not making the officer grade (it had taken him almost nine
years to do this) was his one and only son.
No one could say that his son Akaash was a bad
sort, much less a juvenile delinquent. Rather, it was a misplaced
sense of what constitutes masculinity that led him to do what
he did. Akaash drew his entire inspiration form Hindi movies.
The swashbuckling, muscle flexing, deep-voiced, villain-bashing,
women-courting screen idols were his lodestars. You wouldn’t
find Akaash and his friends empathizing with the kisan heroes
of yesteryear; but give them a shirt-remover or an oath-taker
and they would take up his cause in the manner of the most
fervent of crusaders. Death and glory, guts and gore, and
so on and so forth: all the catchphrases of the strutting
macho types were gospel truths for these small-town teenagers.
Strangely enough, what was considered admirable
on the screen and the cause of much adulation translated into
misdemeanors when emulated in real life. The authorities tended
not to see eye-to-eye with the denizens of the Hindi-speaking
belt in matters concerning izzat, zaban dena and mardangi
, which roughly translates into “masculinity’ of the most
trenchant variety. Matters came to a head when Akaash led
his group of aspiring toughs in what probably started off
as a friendly feud or rivalry, the kind boys in the North
of India delight in. However, with the disappearance of a
member of the opposing party, things had become much more
serious. Before the police had actually begun their investigations,
the youngster turned up. He had apparently made a trip to
Bombay with a friend, whose brother had been called for a
job interview. Star-studded Bombay, after all, was at the
other end of the rainbow, something no red-blooded teenager
would readily miss out on.
So everything was peaceful for now; but Singh
was taking no chances.
“You’re going to take up a trade,” he had remonstrated
sternly over his mobile. “You will join a polytechnic and
become a fitter. No question of going to college for louts
like you.”
At first, his son was happy, for he was not
interested in the long drawn-out process associated with graduation.
Time was money, he said, and the more one made of it, the
better. Temperamental by nature, the present mood lasted only
a few days and Akaash was soon advocating the benefits of
a higher education. College, as every film-watching boy knows,
is fun. Akaash had conveyed this change in preferences to
his father through his doting, though somewhat bewildered,
mother. It was this sudden spark of rebellion that was causing
Singh so much concern. His mobile rang and he answered it
almost absent-mindedly.
“Yes? Nice to hear your voice. What! Tell him
not to touch it. It’s obviously stolen property. Wait! Get
him on the line. Yes right now. What!”
Singh’s tense features broke into a smile. “
Well, if that’s the case, it’s all right.” He disconnected
the line and replaced the phone in the pocket of his boiler
suit.
“My son wanted to pick up a camera-mobile going
cheap for Rs 2000,” he explained to the second officer, who
had just come up to him. “I told him not to touch it, since
it was obviously stolen property. I said I didn’t want the
police coming home. I had never allowed the police to come
to my house when I was his age and I expected the same restraint
from him. And do you know what his reply was?”
The second officer looked at him expectantly.
“He said: Tell my father that his son is not
like that. Tell my father that his son is not like that!”
Singh smiled broadly and settled down on the non-functional
capstan, next to the neatly coiled hawsers, to smoke a bidi
and to meditate on the vicissitudes of life as he waited for
the departure stations to begin. The second officer, in the
meantime, tapped his walkie-talkie and tentatively adjusted
the squelch control, so as to be ready to receive any orders
transmitted from the captain on the bridge .
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