Mr. Kadri and other people

Mr. Kadri and other people 

 It is my fate that Mr. Kadri is just one of the long list of people who disappeared forever from my life. 

I arrived in Ahmadabad to join an MBA program, simple and mundane in the good old days. We learned the basics of commerce, law, accountancy, administration, marketing, and how to become employable. Such a placid pattern of studies made me happy. I roamed around the city on my second-hand bicycle, enjoying whiffs of history and culture. I made few friends but quickly lost them in my quest for a career. 

 In a quirky twist, Calico Mills, the premier textile mill belonging to the family of eminent scientist Dr. Vikram Sarabhai; asked our institute to send a panel of names for employment with the company. I got lucky, and after brief formalities and meeting with Gira Sarabhai, the job was mine. They assigned me to the mill's garment business. 

 Mr. Kadri was the factory manager and my first point of contact. A charming gentleman from a highly cultured Muslim family of Ahmadabad, Mr. Kadri made me do things that knocked off a lot of nonsense from a young and arrogant MBA. He made me lift cartons of garments, made me collect garments from the workers for inspection, and taught me how Japanese sewing machines work. He and I used to sit with the workers for lunch at the same table. He taught me what is the meaning of 'making one's hands dirty. 

 There were other people around us. Victor Castellino was a Catholic from Ahmadabad. He spoke better Gujarati than me and constantly smoked. This irked me because I sat next to him and my clothes stank of cigarettes all the time. 

 Miss Sulakshana Mehta also sat next to me and made me more civil and gracious than I normally am. Danial was a Jew from Bombay and was my boss. He made me into a worthwhile salesman, teaching me the art of buying and selling. I understand he is now a rabbi and a cantor in a synagogue in the New York area.  A handsome Bengali gentleman, Ranjit Banerjee, taught me my manners and made a gentleman out of a rowdy mofussil boy. 

Prem Mulchand Mulchandani was a colorful man with whom I roamed the textile markets of the city on his scooter. He was a great foodie who introduced me to the street food joints of Kalupur and other lanes of the walled city of Ahmadabad. 

I had a few deputies and one of them was a chap called Chhaya. I recall him doing a brisk trade of selling ladies items like combs, ribbons; even bras stored in his desk drawer. He was always surrounded by women staff. 

A young packer boy called Kalia was my Man Friday. As a trainee, I often lost my ways in office politics or work practices. Kalia helped me retrace my steps. Kalia knew everybody and everything. He repaired my cycle, arranged my lunch, booked train tickets for me, and even loaned me money from his meager salary. 

 In an unexpected pull of destiny, another job in Baroda pulled me away. On a hot, sultry afternoon, I went around meeting and hugging everyone to say my farewell. The excitement of a new job in Baroda perhaps overpowered my emotions, so no tears rolled down. That afternoon was the last I saw all those lovely people.

 In the journey of life that I am making, I am reminded constantly how many people have gotten off, never to be seen again. 

Such is life, I tell myself.