Harvinder's Sister - By Deepak Edwin
I first met Harvinder at a construction site in Khammam, Andhra Pradesh in the mid eighties. he was one of those types that came across like a flu or cold – infectious yet effusive, joking, always sporting a smile, a chalta hai attitude, probably in his mid thirties and a toothy, paan stained grin.. He was a steel worker from a Delhi based company that had taken a contract there while I had just entered Construction Industry as a greenhorn – straight from college and was representing a Chennai based construction company. We ran into each other in the canteen and managed a smile. I had been specifically instructed by my senior colleagues to avoid ‘strangers’ at sites as invariably it would lead to familiarity, contempt, labor unrest and finally strikes. You are an engineer and so stick to engineers, I was told. Towering at 6 plus and weighing over 90kgs, Harvinder’s presence was overpowering and intimidating at the erection site. It was always Harvinder who checked slings and the rigging before any erection, Harvinder who signaled to the crane operator for the lift and Harvinder who first shook hands with the clients and consultants gathered around soon after a successful lift. Harvinder’s voice with its typical earthy Punjabi slang and a booming voice – mostly filled with expletives, getting things done in a jiffy - soon became a regular feature at site.
One evening as I was preparing to leave site, Harvinder strolled by. Deepak bhaiya, care for a drink? he quizzed. Why not? I asked myself – for a change than spending the evening with my drab colleagues.
‘Meghdoot bar at 8’ he said and walked off before I could say yes.
Meghdoot was pretty crowded at 8pm.
Above the din and the swirling cigarette smoke, I could make out Harvinder’s colorful turban; there was a group of 6 or 7 people around him, listening in rapt attention, bursting into laughter now and then as he regaled them with his humor and wit. I joined the crowd and ordered a beer for myself – a cardinal sin I didn’t know then as no construction guy drank beer in India – it was a lady’s drink and men were to gulp sterner stuff!! Harvinder looked at me with a peculiar expression on his face that sent the whole crowd roaring.
I was not amused.
Harvinder was quick to realise.
He ordered a beer for himself as we shook hands for the first time.
We became thick friends as days passed by.
Harvinder taught me the basics of erection and rigging. In return, I taught him a few words in English. We spent chai-time smoking and exchanging notes about our families. Evenings were invariably at the Meghdoot, where, by now, a table was reserved for us by the portly owner who occasionally joined us for fun and laughter.
Harvinder was from a village near Pathankot; his widowed mother and sister lived there he said.
‘Deepak bhaiya, do you know my sister is the prettiest girl in our village?’ he once asked.
‘She is 17 now and I intend getting her married in a few months’ time to a nice guy. Probably from the army – like my Dad’ he said.
‘Harvee, are you married?’
‘No, only after my sister gets married’ he replied as he fished out a dog-eared passport size photo of his sister from his wallet. ‘See, isn’t she beautiful? He said. I couldn’t do much justice to that – the photo had seen many a construction site from his wallet and was faded beyond recognition and crumpled.
‘Yes, yes’ I nodded in consent, cant hurt a friend like Harvee, can you?
We soon became a regular feature – seen together at sites and the rest of the workers developed a healthy respect for me – just because I hung around with Harvee.
We toiled from daybreak till well past sunset as deadlines got closer; steam blowing had commenced and the shrill sound of venting sent people scurrying around with spanners and wrenches – precommissioning of the plant had begun!
Days whizzed by.
Soon it was time to leave.
The plant had been commissioned.
There was a lot of backslapping and camaraderie around.
‘Phir milenge’ and ‘see ya soon – it’s a small world’ were the phrases of the day.
Harvee and I travelled to Vijayawada station together.
Over a dirty glass of tea at the platform, we reminisced over the good times we had at site.
As Tamilnadu Express thundered in, we shook hands for one more time as I boarded the train.
It was time to think of home.
And dream too.
1992 – Jamul, Madhya Pradesh, Central India.
I had settled down to a fairly routine construction schedule in my company. I had a few years of experience, a pretty 19 something girl who had my first name as her surname and an eleven month old bundle of joy as my baggage when I stepped off Chattisgarh Express at Bhilai Railway Station in Madhya Pradesh one hot and steamy summer afternoon. The smell of raw unburnt coal dust wafted in the air to one’s nostrils from the nearby coal siding as my wife hurriedly covered as if to protect the little one’s nose from the overpowering smell. I picked up the baggage as we hurried across the entrance to a dilapidated jonga, which had seen the better part of life in the pre-independence days and was now nothing short of a miracle-on-wheels.
Bhilai boasts of one of the biggest steel plants in this part of the world. My assignment was at a nearby cement plant in Jamul, about 15 kms away. Our rickety jonga thundered away defying all laws of mechanics along the dusty, narrow and crowded lanes of Bhilai and Jamul before screeching to a halt in front of the Cement Plant guesthouse. It was an old, single storey sprawling building with tall trees on either side – a welcome respite from the searing heat. A big bougainvillea creeper arched across the entrance to the veranda with its white and red flowers as we scampered in to the cooler environs of the guesthouse. ’It is so hot’ my wife remarked acidly. I side stepped that one as I headed to the shower to unwind and get the dirt out of my system. Tomorrow would be a long day, I said to myself as I scrubbed myself under the shower. We spent the evening unwinding in rattan chairs at the verandah and headed early to bed.
The next morning, I picked up my briefcase, kissed Neeta a fleeting bye, cuddled the little one and was off on my way to meet the General Manager of the cement plant which would be my second home for the next 45 days. Our team was here to carry out a shutdown job (the factory is shut down for a pre-determined period of time to carry out certain major maintenance and overhauling as well as replacement of certain machinery). The old Ambassador car which I was bundled into was creaking at all joints as we screeched to a halt at the office building. I stepped into the reception, neatly carpeted and handed my business card to the secretary who looked suspiciously at me before taking my card.
‘Mr. Arora please’ I said.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes, I do – at half-past nine’
I stole a quick look at my Titan Classique – I was ten minutes early.
‘Please have a seat’
Gawd, isn’t that what these secretaries all over say? I mumbled under my breath as I stretched myself in an old sofa.
The wall was covered with faded black-and-white photographs of people right from Jawaharlal Nehru to Rajiv Gandhi – shaking a hand here, planting a tree sampling there, being garlanded in yet another one – relics of a bygone era. Now, a sleepy factory with nothing really happening other than the shrill drone of the siren at regular intervals reminding people that time hasn’t come to a standstill.
‘He will see you now’
I interrupted my thoughts and hurried over to Arora’s room.
Arora was a beefy man with a big paunch and a big, round face to match. He was dressed in a spotlessly clean and crisp white shirt with matching white trousers. A balding pate and two meaty ears dominated his face. He came over from across his table and said in a loud voice ‘Welcome Deepak’ as we shook hands.
‘Good morning Sir, It is my pleasure’
I took the chair he offered and then it was down to business.
I pulled out a few documents I was carrying and handed them over to him. He pulled out his gold-rimmed reading glasses from the table drawer and peered into the papers. This guy could pass off for a scientist in a tissue culture laboratory, I said to myself.
After a strenuous two-hour session of schedules and mobilisation plans and what-nots with him, I stepped out, relieved, and ambled across to the reception, to wait for my car. I casually glanced over beyond the nice little garden in front of the office towards the factory when I saw him.
Yes, it was Harvinder!
Or?………..
I wasn’t too sure.
I darted across the reception, hurriedly opened the glass door, stepped out and yelled ‘Harveeeeeeee!’
The distant figure stopped abruptly and turned towards me; yes, it was Harvee all right!
Harvee came running across and we pumped hands and hugged each other.
I was delighted.
‘How are you Harvee?’
‘I am fine; how about you?’
He had lost weight.
And had aged too.
There were quite a few creases on his forehead and his face didn’t have that usual jolly grin.
I pulled out a cigarette pack and offered him one, he waved it away.
‘Let’s have tea, there’s a good canteen over there’ he said as we walked over.
He wore a yellow turban, which was old and faded; unusual – harvee took pride in his turbans when we were in Andhra Pradesh 6 years back and sported flashy and new turbans.
We sipped tea in silence.
‘Deepak, are you married now?’
‘Yes’
‘Kids?’
‘Yes, one. Harvee, tell me, how is your family?’
Silence.
‘How’s your sis? Mom?’
Silence again.
He gulped down the tea, put the glass on the wooden table in front and started.
‘Mum passed away last year’
‘Sorry about that harvee; I knew you were very attached to her’
‘Sis is unwell’
‘What on earth is wrong with her?’
‘Blood cancer they say’
Needless to say, I was shocked.
‘Is she getting good treatment Harvee?’
‘Yes, at the Government Hospital at Ludhiana. My aged aunt is with her; I send them money every month; marrow transplant they say – very painful, but she bears it with a smile all the while. I go to see her every alternate month. Can’t afford the train ticket - it is so expensive’ he muttered.
I pulled out another cigarette and offered him one.
‘No thanks. Parminder doesn’t want me to smoke. She wanted me to tell you too to stop it. I stopped smoking for her. She says it can lead to lung cancer’.
I took a few deep drags and dropped the cigarette down and squashed it with my heel.
‘Is there anything I can do to help Harvee? Can I lend you some money or something?’
‘No thanks’
I gripped his hand firmly.
‘If there is something, let me know Harvee’
I think I saw his eyes glisten a bit - I don’t know, I’m not sure.
Days rolled by; Harvee left abruptly without informing anyone.
I settled down to my chores though frequently Parminder’s face flashed in my memory and her advice to stop smoking kept nagging me. Poor thing, she deserved a better deal, hope she gets all right – I thought.
1993 – Chennai, South India
It was Christmas season.
Neeta and I were helping little Rahul to decorate the Christmas tree.
The deco-lights were out of the box and, as usual, didn’t light up.
I tired to fix the stuff as Neeta and Rahul watched impatiently.
I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Neeta angrily pulled the cigarette off my lips and put it off in the ashtray.
‘Not in front of the kid please – you are killing him too; and for heaven’s sake, when are you going to stop this?’
Rahul nodded vehemently.
I cursed myself as I tried to figure out the maze of wires and colored bulbs that lay strewn on the ground amidst streamers, santas, stockings and balloons.
Neeta brought in a big bunch of mail – all greeting cards from mostly people you remember only during Christmas.
I went through them and saw an envelope with a very shabby handwriting on it – addressed to me.
Obviously, someone for whom English was not a comfortable mean of communication.
I opened the envelope with the scissors lying on the floor.
The letter was from Harvee.
I tensed.
Dear Deepak,
Parminder die 3-day back. Last rite I perform in Punjab.
Maybe doctor no good.
Yours faithfully
Harvee.
The broken English had more to say than just the words – it hit me like a jackhammer.
I furiously looked at the envelope – no address.
Goddamn it!
Neeta read the anxiety in my eyes.
I got up and walked out to my car and got in.
At times like these, you need a bit of quiet for yourself.
I drove down to a shady lane on the outskirts as my mind was flooded with memories of the good times harvee and I had had together. The laughter, the beers. How he adored his sister. His dreams of her future – ‘Maybe an Army guy’ – his voice still echoed in my ears. I lit a cigarette as parminder’s advice flashed.
She wanted me to tell you too to stop it
I flung the cigarette out of the window, shifted gears and headed back home.
1999 – New Delhi, North India.
I was in an enviable position in the company that I had joined now. No more travelling or slugging it out at sites. I got to stick around in plush offices, attend meetings and generally look busy and serious with a tie and a full sleeved shirt. Power tools gave way to PowerPoint and construction slang was passe – boardroom-speak was in.
It was six years since I smoked my last cigarette. The day I got harvee’s letter. I had done it out of impulse. A simple advice of a pretty gal I had never met all my life. Who wasn’t around anymore.
I had spent a lot of time trying to trace Harvee – nope. The guy must be out there in some site. Erecting equipment. Or structural steel. For sure.
I have never believed in angels.
They say there are plenty of them. All around us.
It’s just that we have to keep our eyes wide open.
Well, on second thoughts, I think there might be.
Is it?
I don’t know, not too sure.
And, by the way, if you run into Harvee, give me his address, will you?
Thanks.
I first met Harvinder at a construction site in Khammam, Andhra Pradesh in the mid eighties. he was one of those types that came across like a flu or cold – infectious yet effusive, joking, always sporting a smile, a chalta hai attitude, probably in his mid thirties and a toothy, paan stained grin.. He was a steel worker from a Delhi based company that had taken a contract there while I had just entered Construction Industry as a greenhorn – straight from college and was representing a Chennai based construction company. We ran into each other in the canteen and managed a smile. I had been specifically instructed by my senior colleagues to avoid ‘strangers’ at sites as invariably it would lead to familiarity, contempt, labor unrest and finally strikes. You are an engineer and so stick to engineers, I was told. Towering at 6 plus and weighing over 90kgs, Harvinder’s presence was overpowering and intimidating at the erection site. It was always Harvinder who checked slings and the rigging before any erection, Harvinder who signaled to the crane operator for the lift and Harvinder who first shook hands with the clients and consultants gathered around soon after a successful lift. Harvinder’s voice with its typical earthy Punjabi slang and a booming voice – mostly filled with expletives, getting things done in a jiffy - soon became a regular feature at site.
One evening as I was preparing to leave site, Harvinder strolled by. Deepak bhaiya, care for a drink? he quizzed. Why not? I asked myself – for a change than spending the evening with my drab colleagues.
‘Meghdoot bar at 8’ he said and walked off before I could say yes.
Meghdoot was pretty crowded at 8pm.
Above the din and the swirling cigarette smoke, I could make out Harvinder’s colorful turban; there was a group of 6 or 7 people around him, listening in rapt attention, bursting into laughter now and then as he regaled them with his humor and wit. I joined the crowd and ordered a beer for myself – a cardinal sin I didn’t know then as no construction guy drank beer in India – it was a lady’s drink and men were to gulp sterner stuff!! Harvinder looked at me with a peculiar expression on his face that sent the whole crowd roaring.
I was not amused.
Harvinder was quick to realise.
He ordered a beer for himself as we shook hands for the first time.
We became thick friends as days passed by.
Harvinder taught me the basics of erection and rigging. In return, I taught him a few words in English. We spent chai-time smoking and exchanging notes about our families. Evenings were invariably at the Meghdoot, where, by now, a table was reserved for us by the portly owner who occasionally joined us for fun and laughter.
Harvinder was from a village near Pathankot; his widowed mother and sister lived there he said.
‘Deepak bhaiya, do you know my sister is the prettiest girl in our village?’ he once asked.
‘She is 17 now and I intend getting her married in a few months’ time to a nice guy. Probably from the army – like my Dad’ he said.
‘Harvee, are you married?’
‘No, only after my sister gets married’ he replied as he fished out a dog-eared passport size photo of his sister from his wallet. ‘See, isn’t she beautiful? He said. I couldn’t do much justice to that – the photo had seen many a construction site from his wallet and was faded beyond recognition and crumpled.
‘Yes, yes’ I nodded in consent, cant hurt a friend like Harvee, can you?
We soon became a regular feature – seen together at sites and the rest of the workers developed a healthy respect for me – just because I hung around with Harvee.
We toiled from daybreak till well past sunset as deadlines got closer; steam blowing had commenced and the shrill sound of venting sent people scurrying around with spanners and wrenches – precommissioning of the plant had begun!
Days whizzed by.
Soon it was time to leave.
The plant had been commissioned.
There was a lot of backslapping and camaraderie around.
‘Phir milenge’ and ‘see ya soon – it’s a small world’ were the phrases of the day.
Harvee and I travelled to Vijayawada station together.
Over a dirty glass of tea at the platform, we reminisced over the good times we had at site.
As Tamilnadu Express thundered in, we shook hands for one more time as I boarded the train.
It was time to think of home.
And dream too.
1992 – Jamul, Madhya Pradesh, Central India.
I had settled down to a fairly routine construction schedule in my company. I had a few years of experience, a pretty 19 something girl who had my first name as her surname and an eleven month old bundle of joy as my baggage when I stepped off Chattisgarh Express at Bhilai Railway Station in Madhya Pradesh one hot and steamy summer afternoon. The smell of raw unburnt coal dust wafted in the air to one’s nostrils from the nearby coal siding as my wife hurriedly covered as if to protect the little one’s nose from the overpowering smell. I picked up the baggage as we hurried across the entrance to a dilapidated jonga, which had seen the better part of life in the pre-independence days and was now nothing short of a miracle-on-wheels.
Bhilai boasts of one of the biggest steel plants in this part of the world. My assignment was at a nearby cement plant in Jamul, about 15 kms away. Our rickety jonga thundered away defying all laws of mechanics along the dusty, narrow and crowded lanes of Bhilai and Jamul before screeching to a halt in front of the Cement Plant guesthouse. It was an old, single storey sprawling building with tall trees on either side – a welcome respite from the searing heat. A big bougainvillea creeper arched across the entrance to the veranda with its white and red flowers as we scampered in to the cooler environs of the guesthouse. ’It is so hot’ my wife remarked acidly. I side stepped that one as I headed to the shower to unwind and get the dirt out of my system. Tomorrow would be a long day, I said to myself as I scrubbed myself under the shower. We spent the evening unwinding in rattan chairs at the verandah and headed early to bed.
The next morning, I picked up my briefcase, kissed Neeta a fleeting bye, cuddled the little one and was off on my way to meet the General Manager of the cement plant which would be my second home for the next 45 days. Our team was here to carry out a shutdown job (the factory is shut down for a pre-determined period of time to carry out certain major maintenance and overhauling as well as replacement of certain machinery). The old Ambassador car which I was bundled into was creaking at all joints as we screeched to a halt at the office building. I stepped into the reception, neatly carpeted and handed my business card to the secretary who looked suspiciously at me before taking my card.
‘Mr. Arora please’ I said.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes, I do – at half-past nine’
I stole a quick look at my Titan Classique – I was ten minutes early.
‘Please have a seat’
Gawd, isn’t that what these secretaries all over say? I mumbled under my breath as I stretched myself in an old sofa.
The wall was covered with faded black-and-white photographs of people right from Jawaharlal Nehru to Rajiv Gandhi – shaking a hand here, planting a tree sampling there, being garlanded in yet another one – relics of a bygone era. Now, a sleepy factory with nothing really happening other than the shrill drone of the siren at regular intervals reminding people that time hasn’t come to a standstill.
‘He will see you now’
I interrupted my thoughts and hurried over to Arora’s room.
Arora was a beefy man with a big paunch and a big, round face to match. He was dressed in a spotlessly clean and crisp white shirt with matching white trousers. A balding pate and two meaty ears dominated his face. He came over from across his table and said in a loud voice ‘Welcome Deepak’ as we shook hands.
‘Good morning Sir, It is my pleasure’
I took the chair he offered and then it was down to business.
I pulled out a few documents I was carrying and handed them over to him. He pulled out his gold-rimmed reading glasses from the table drawer and peered into the papers. This guy could pass off for a scientist in a tissue culture laboratory, I said to myself.
After a strenuous two-hour session of schedules and mobilisation plans and what-nots with him, I stepped out, relieved, and ambled across to the reception, to wait for my car. I casually glanced over beyond the nice little garden in front of the office towards the factory when I saw him.
Yes, it was Harvinder!
Or?………..
I wasn’t too sure.
I darted across the reception, hurriedly opened the glass door, stepped out and yelled ‘Harveeeeeeee!’
The distant figure stopped abruptly and turned towards me; yes, it was Harvee all right!
Harvee came running across and we pumped hands and hugged each other.
I was delighted.
‘How are you Harvee?’
‘I am fine; how about you?’
He had lost weight.
And had aged too.
There were quite a few creases on his forehead and his face didn’t have that usual jolly grin.
I pulled out a cigarette pack and offered him one, he waved it away.
‘Let’s have tea, there’s a good canteen over there’ he said as we walked over.
He wore a yellow turban, which was old and faded; unusual – harvee took pride in his turbans when we were in Andhra Pradesh 6 years back and sported flashy and new turbans.
We sipped tea in silence.
‘Deepak, are you married now?’
‘Yes’
‘Kids?’
‘Yes, one. Harvee, tell me, how is your family?’
Silence.
‘How’s your sis? Mom?’
Silence again.
He gulped down the tea, put the glass on the wooden table in front and started.
‘Mum passed away last year’
‘Sorry about that harvee; I knew you were very attached to her’
‘Sis is unwell’
‘What on earth is wrong with her?’
‘Blood cancer they say’
Needless to say, I was shocked.
‘Is she getting good treatment Harvee?’
‘Yes, at the Government Hospital at Ludhiana. My aged aunt is with her; I send them money every month; marrow transplant they say – very painful, but she bears it with a smile all the while. I go to see her every alternate month. Can’t afford the train ticket - it is so expensive’ he muttered.
I pulled out another cigarette and offered him one.
‘No thanks. Parminder doesn’t want me to smoke. She wanted me to tell you too to stop it. I stopped smoking for her. She says it can lead to lung cancer’.
I took a few deep drags and dropped the cigarette down and squashed it with my heel.
‘Is there anything I can do to help Harvee? Can I lend you some money or something?’
‘No thanks’
I gripped his hand firmly.
‘If there is something, let me know Harvee’
I think I saw his eyes glisten a bit - I don’t know, I’m not sure.
Days rolled by; Harvee left abruptly without informing anyone.
I settled down to my chores though frequently Parminder’s face flashed in my memory and her advice to stop smoking kept nagging me. Poor thing, she deserved a better deal, hope she gets all right – I thought.
1993 – Chennai, South India
It was Christmas season.
Neeta and I were helping little Rahul to decorate the Christmas tree.
The deco-lights were out of the box and, as usual, didn’t light up.
I tired to fix the stuff as Neeta and Rahul watched impatiently.
I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Neeta angrily pulled the cigarette off my lips and put it off in the ashtray.
‘Not in front of the kid please – you are killing him too; and for heaven’s sake, when are you going to stop this?’
Rahul nodded vehemently.
I cursed myself as I tried to figure out the maze of wires and colored bulbs that lay strewn on the ground amidst streamers, santas, stockings and balloons.
Neeta brought in a big bunch of mail – all greeting cards from mostly people you remember only during Christmas.
I went through them and saw an envelope with a very shabby handwriting on it – addressed to me.
Obviously, someone for whom English was not a comfortable mean of communication.
I opened the envelope with the scissors lying on the floor.
The letter was from Harvee.
I tensed.
Dear Deepak,
Parminder die 3-day back. Last rite I perform in Punjab.
Maybe doctor no good.
Yours faithfully
Harvee.
The broken English had more to say than just the words – it hit me like a jackhammer.
I furiously looked at the envelope – no address.
Goddamn it!
Neeta read the anxiety in my eyes.
I got up and walked out to my car and got in.
At times like these, you need a bit of quiet for yourself.
I drove down to a shady lane on the outskirts as my mind was flooded with memories of the good times harvee and I had had together. The laughter, the beers. How he adored his sister. His dreams of her future – ‘Maybe an Army guy’ – his voice still echoed in my ears. I lit a cigarette as parminder’s advice flashed.
She wanted me to tell you too to stop it
I flung the cigarette out of the window, shifted gears and headed back home.
1999 – New Delhi, North India.
I was in an enviable position in the company that I had joined now. No more travelling or slugging it out at sites. I got to stick around in plush offices, attend meetings and generally look busy and serious with a tie and a full sleeved shirt. Power tools gave way to PowerPoint and construction slang was passe – boardroom-speak was in.
It was six years since I smoked my last cigarette. The day I got harvee’s letter. I had done it out of impulse. A simple advice of a pretty gal I had never met all my life. Who wasn’t around anymore.
I had spent a lot of time trying to trace Harvee – nope. The guy must be out there in some site. Erecting equipment. Or structural steel. For sure.
I have never believed in angels.
They say there are plenty of them. All around us.
It’s just that we have to keep our eyes wide open.
Well, on second thoughts, I think there might be.
Is it?
I don’t know, not too sure.
And, by the way, if you run into Harvee, give me his address, will you?
Thanks.