By RAJBIR DESWAL
Initial years of my settling down in a profession made me dabble in journalism too—an affliction I could not get cured of till date. For about a couple of years, I worked as Editor in the National Dairy Research Institute (NDRI) at Karnal. Editing research publications though remained a daunting task, yet it was still better off than brining out statistics ridden, listless, spineless, boundless annual reports—puns intended. I can still recall the smell of printing ink, clap-trap of the printing machine and compositors’ dexterous finger work.
I liked being with the researchers, young and old. NDRI had a distinct and distinghuishable student population than the rest in the area. They were drawn from various parts of the country and presented a panorama of tastes, attire and moving around. They all seemed to be very talented and put up shows—something which other institutions really envied and emulated.
Another remarkable and passionate indulgence of the student community of the NDRI was, its being on the call for medical emergencies. All through the day, and night, the alumni were as if vying with each other, and outdo one another, in the count of frequency of their donating blood. At the dead of night, or even during the examinations, one phone call from the local hospital would make the hostlers paddle their way, one after the other, to the lineup for donating blood. This gesture really moved me.
I used to park my scooter and visit the press, before reaching the office through the canteen area. Here were some so-called class four employees, who were annoyingly noisy. And one of them, a tall and dark hulk always spat here and there, with a loud grunt, and without being any remorseful. He did not care about a sophisticated class of scholars and researchers being around all the time, and would carry on with his undesirable and uncouth behavior without being pointed out. His picking the nose and removing filth from his wide teeth with a twig or a match-stick, was the most upsetting and slothful.
It so happened that my mother had to go under the knife for her gall-bladder surgery. She was diabetic and had suffered an accident, breaking one of her legs which took six months to recover fully. The doctors needed blood urgently and since mother had a rare blood group, we got worried. An SOS was sent to NDRI but it being vacations then, the hostels were all empty. We were disappointed.
We waited with bated breath outside the Operation Theatre. Restless, I came out in the verandah and saw a lineup of blood donors. What I saw then was no less than a big surprise for me. And a pleasant one. The man standing right ahead of all was the same hulk, who I despised the most in NDRI. I couldn’t help feeling very small in my own esteem. The man perhaps didn’t know how I always strongly disapproved of his conduct. All of a sudden his face appeared to me the most handsome and pretty. He looked to be a guardian-angel. When our eyes met, I found nothing in them but compassion. How did I miss looking at his eyes all those months and years—I lament even today!
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