Wastes Meaning In Urdu - Wastes Definition English To Urdu

That reminds me of a story.
I was sitting in the Charles H. Lounge of the Seoul Four Seasons Hotel, in the patio section, of course, drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side, with Tiger beer chasers, hiding from the brutish realities of this intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.
After a record-breaking stint in Best Korea, brushes with officious and covert undercover agents, an impromptu bacchanal that got us ejected ass-first and in the nick of time out of the country; I was due for a spot of rest & relaxation.
But not this enforced, ‘pandemic’ incarceration nonsense. OK, I’ll forgo my impressions of this little global overreaction and just wait for the high-pitched wails of "OK, Boomer!” to die down.
Suffice to say, we’re on the right-hand side of the bell curve and this little piece of nonsense is slowly going the way of all previous pandemic plagues. It’s burning itself out and no matter what the mask-wearing, Purell-soaking, bubble-wrapped cadre believes; it would have done so if people had done precisely nothing other than employ and exercise common-sense symptomatic medicine.
Well, you may think that quite the broad statement; and it is. But you see, I have this little thing called ‘science’ on my side. There is no control study group so that everyone jumping up and down congratulating themselves on ‘flattening the curve’ is spouting nothing but 100% USDA-grade horse, bat, and bullshit.
They don’t know that, in fact, they can’t. That’s why I dismiss them and their lack of scientific proclamations.
I, at least, have the benefit of analysis of the previous history of nearly a dozen similar outbreaks in the last 110 years which have all followed the same bell-curve. Some were worse, some were not, but all followed the same etiology. Many had vaccines developed after-the-fact. That kept them in line until the next virus Andromeda Strained its way into view. Well, that’s viral pathology for you. And no amount of mask-wearing while you drive alone in your car or distancing your socials will change that rock-solid fact one iota.
Which was why I was so surprised when a very dapper looking individual, an employee of the hotel evidently, sought me out while I was in the bar waiting for commercial jet aircraft to once again fill the air so I could once again ply my global trade.
“Dr. Rocknocker?” he asked.
“Yes?”, I replied between puffs of the massively damn fine Oscuro non-Cuban cigar the hotel somehow procured for me during my enforced overlong stay.
“I have this communique for you. I was told to deliver it personally.” He said, without so much as a quip or sneer.
He was bearing a small silver platter, about the size of a competition Frisbee™, but not near as aerodynamic, exhibiting a small envelope emblazoned: “Doctor Rocknocker. FEO”
“Hmmm”, I hmmed.
“’FEO’. ‘For Eyes Only’. This could be fun.” I mused.
I went to reach for the envelope, when the courier, resplendent in his sharp, snazzy suit sneakily backed away a step or two and said: “Sorry, Sir. I must first see your identification.”
“Fine, fine.”, I replied, “But first I want to see yours. Quid pro quo.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“It means I’m pretentious,” I replied.
He was obviously confused.
“It means I need to see your ID before I show you mine. I need to ascertain that you do indeed work for this hotel and are not some sort of insidious secret agent of a dark, rival foreign power.” I noted shady and sincerely.
He produced a hotel ID card. Thus satisfied, I capitulated and allowed him a peek inside my red Diplomatic Passport, complete with its really awful picture of me inside.
It wasn’t the camera nor the photographer’s fault. I admit it was mine alone.
Thus satisfied, he presented the tray to me and I took possession of the envelope. I left 5,000 KRW, South Korean Won, on the tray in its place.
Thus satisfied; he smiled, executed a small bow in my direction, and withdrew without a further word.
“Well”, I chewed it over, “That was weird even by today’s standards.”
I stuffed the envelope into the pocket of my incredibly garish, and newly tailored, Hawaiian shirt. Here in Seoul, in the garment district in such places as the Myeongdong Market, Dongdaemun Market, and Lotte Department Store Myeongdong, I was able to locate many, many fine shops just loaded to the gills with bolt after bolt of incredibly horrible, polychromatic, and nausea-inducing textiles. The perfect fodder for new Hawaiian shirts.
I purchased several meters for each new shirt, as I took a well-fitting and comfy Hawaiian shirt, with all my new cloth samples, to a local tailor. There, he could reproduce the existing shirt in the media of the new textiles which I had procured.
The result was a quintet of the most appalling, comfortable, and insidious Hawaiian shirts on this side of an explosion in a paint factory. That was next to an abattoir. That burned down. And swirled into the remains of an ice-cream factory that had been abandoned due to lack of sales. Along with the dairy and stockyards next-door.
They were awful. They fit perfectly and comfortably. They were perfectly awful. I intended to get more, but first, let’s see what Mr. Secretive Envelope has to say.
I open the envelope at the bar, well away from prying eyes, and the card inside simply stated: “Dr. Rocknocker. Sir, please be in your room at 1800 hours local time to accept an important phone call.”
No “From”.
No “Thank you.”
No “Live long and prosper.”
Just this enigmatic card and the overly polite exhortation for me to be somewhere for a bloody phone call.
“Well, me ol’ mucker”, I thought between puffs of my cigar and slurps of my drinks, “Here we go again.”
“When, how, and where did this old Baja Canada boy take the wrong turn in life to deserve this?” I pondered.
I decided that I required a little more old thought provoker, called the bartender over, and bought him and myself the next round of drinks. Several, actually.
Back in my suite, it was rapidly approaching 1800 hours local time. I couldn’t figure out who might be calling. I already talked to Esme back in the states. She was staying with her mother back in Brew City since it was still lockdown-central back in the Sultanate and the girls, both being ‘essentials’, were working.
I spoke with Rack and Ruin and they claimed innocence.
But, then again, they always do.
“No idea, Doctor”, Agent Rack related, “However, whoever it is, we know you’ll update their dossier or create new ones if the situation demands.”
“Hell, Racko”, I replied, “These could be nefarious uber-stealth agents from a dark and dismal land out to silence me before I spill the beans on whatever they don’t want beans upon spilt.”
“You flatter yourself, Doctor”, Agent Ruin laughed as he chimed in. Little did I know this was a conference call. “You’re important to many, but not that important.”
“Well, hell’s fire”, I said, assuming the martyr position, “Here I go and give you all that good, deep undercover intel and this is how you repay me.”
“Yeah, right”, Rack interrupted, “We had to have your reports cleaned of cigar ashes and rings from vodka and whiskey glasses.”
“Well, there’s a novelty”, I replied, “Considering I send all my reports electronically.”
“Yeah”, Ruin chirps back in, “And if we figure out how you do that…”
We all had a good chuckle. They admitted that they weren’t behind the forbidding phone call and Esme was equally innocent.
“But, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack reminded me, “We will need updates as soon as new data are available.”
“Y’know, guys”, I said, “With all this global lockdown nonsense, I must be about the only one feeding you new and constant data. I think that deserves some form of recognition in the line of duty. Preferably monetary.”
“Once a mercenary…”, Agent Ruin continued, “…always a mercenary. We shall see. You already got your stimulus check, correct?”
“Oh, jolly joke, Agent!”, I swore mildly, “You know that we’re exempt from that. Expat, out of the country; out of sight, out of mind? Except every 15 April.”
“Not to us, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack crooned. “Just to some of our cronies over across the way at the IRS.”
Remind me to be nasty to my agency contacts the next time we meet.
I rang off, poured myself six fingers of iced Old Thought Provoker, Oriental Division, as it was rapidly approaching call time. I needed the few minutes to get comfortable, fire up a cigar, and assume my position at the desk of taking phone calls and notes for dossiers.
Precisely at 1800 hours, my room phone rang. I let it ring a few times to show whoever was calling that I wasn’t that anxious about the whole situation.
Finally: “Hello?”
A monotone voice replied, “Is this Dr. Rocknocker. Late of the Middle East and Baja Canada. Now in unsolicited lockdown in Seoul, South Korea?”
“Yes…”, I replied, “But since you’re the one calling me, you must already know that. What’s, uh, the deal?”
“Please hang up and answer the phone when it will ring in exactly five minutes. Thank you for your understanding.” As the robotic voice called off with a click.
“OK. Shit. This is getting too weird.” I considered. “What the flying Philadelphia french-fried fuck is going on here?”
Well, five minutes later, I had my answer.
“RING!”
“WHAT!?!”
The tone simmered down once the gentleman on the other end of the line explained what indeed was transpiring.
“Dr. Rocknocker…”He began.
“Call me Rock, it’ll save everyone time.”
“Yes, indeed. Fine, um…Rock, I am Dr. Purshottama Mirchandani of the Alang-Sosiya Ship Breaking Yard in the Indian state of Gujarat.”
“I see. Hello, Dr. Mirchandani. How may I be of service? What’s cookin’?” I said, thinking enough of this cloak and dagger bullshit.
“Yes. Right”, he continued, clearing his throat, “I represent a consortium of individuals, primarily Japanese and Indian, who have executed a Memorandum of Understanding to try and bring education, safety, and sensible protocols to the Indian ship-breaking industry.”
“Interesting.” I replied, “And how does that concern me?”
Dr. Mirchandani tells me that India recently passed the "Recycling of Ships Act, 2019" which ratifies the Hong Kong International Convention for the safe and environmentally sound recycling of ships,
“Doctor”, he continued, “Traditionally, ship breaking is an extraordinarily dangerous, toxic, and very hazardous undertaking. It was customarily done with a surfeit of manpower and a lack of education and safety. We propose to reverse that situation.”
“Admirable”, I said, “And still, I am wondering why we are talking.”
“Doctor”, he continued again, “We know that much more can be done, more cheaply, more efficiently, and more safely with explosives.”
“Ah!”, I said as the penny dropped, “Now I think I have a bearing on the conversation.”
“Yes, indeed”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “We have been searching around the world for those educated and certified to handle explosives as well as capable of training and willing to do so. The candidate will have to have experience with noxious gasses, high-pressures and temperatures, hazardous conditions, and multiple cultures of a workforce; with varying, ahem, ‘degrees of education’. Every time we enquire, in several various industries, your name comes up. From Russia to Japan, South America, to Central Asia. We saw that you were last in North Korea, so you’ll please excuse our need for security and seeming subterfuge.”
“Yeah, that was a bit of a hoot.”, I had to admit, “So, Dr. Mirchandani, you got his attention. You’re talkin’ to the hookin’ bull. What do you propose?”
“As we were told to expect. No flowery dialogue, right down to business. Fine.” He replied, “We’d like for you to travel to India, inspect the yards, and do what you think necessary to implement the use of explosives in ship breaking, to develop safety protocols, and train the workforce. Would that be of any interest to you?”
“Well, Doctor”, I replied, “Since we’re being all upright, forthwith, and personable about this whole arrangement, I can tell you that (1.) Yes, I am somewhat interested, (b.) I am available right now, for the foreseeable future until this virus nonsense burns itself out and (iii). You’re going to have to agree to my terms before I lift a single stick of TNT.”
“As we were foretold”, Dr. Mirchandani said. I could almost hear him smiling. “We will send you, by courier, a packet with the proposed project prospectus. If you find it acceptable, please submit, in triplicate, your terms and conditions.”
“Nah.” I replied, “You guys handle the reproduction. I’ll send my T&C as well as my contract. You make the needed copies. We green?”
“Green, Doctor?” he said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Are we in agreement? We on the same page? We smokin’ the same hookah? You diggin’ me, Beaumont?” I said.
He laughed heartily, “Oh, yes, Doctor. The American sense of humor. Most impertinent. Oh, yes, we are very green.”
“I await your curried bundle”, I said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s way past Happy Hour and I’m behind schedule.”
“Yes, of course, Doctor.”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “You will have our prospectus by this time tomorrow.”
“Groovy.” I replied, “Looking forward to it.”
He laughed again, said good-bye, and hung up.
“Yeah. Here we go again” I said to no one in particular as I chose a ghastly new shirt, grabbed a cigar, and headed for the lounge.
Later, I told Esme of my next little job.
“Shouldn’t be too long. At least it gets me out of this fucking hotel and back in the field.” I said.
Es agreed and was pleased that now she could stay in the states a while longer and not worry about going shopping with her mother. Hell, I was gainfully employed and working while the rest of the world was under lockdown.
The parcel arrived the next day and was hurried to me in the bar. Just how they knew where to find me remained a mystery.
I zip it open and there’s a very, very official sheaf of papers for me to digest. I take it, my cigar, and drink over to a booth in the back in the corner in the dark, away from prying eyes. This is official shit. Time for security and introspection.
OK, fairly standard sort of project. Teach people how not to kill themselves, with and without explosives, and safely reduce large sea-faring craft to smaller bits. Actually, it sounds like it has the potential for some real fun. Plus, I get to blow up ship-loads of shit.
Now, I have a go at modifying my usual pirating-forms, ah, contract, to conform especially to this particular situation. This is so much more fun than doing taxes, I muse. I get to go all carte blanche here, but no too far overboard. They let it slip that I was Numero Uno on their hit parade, so that little slip is going to cost them.
Hey. It’s business.
I spent the better part of that night and into the wee hours of the next day modifying my typical contract. There were some new things added, at which they may balk. However, they want me to ramrod this little project for them; the contract, besides being iron-clad, is more or less non-negotiable.
Once finished, I run it past Rack and Ruin and get their input.
“Jesus, Doctor”, Agent Rack said, “Are you wearing an eyepatch and have a parrot on your shoulder?”
“Ah, you’re just jealous”, I snickered back.
“Fuckin-A, Bubba”, Agent Ruin retorted.
I see I’ve trained my agency boys well in the vernacular of the industry.
They had no objections and were pleased with the new intel. Of course, now I had to provide dossier-filler on everyone above the rank of Tea-Boy for them.
Thus sated, I sent the contract back to Dr. Mirchandani. I collapsed in bed and slept the sleep of the wrongfully sleep deprived.
I fully expected to be awakened by a phone call.
I wasn’t.
Shower, shower scotches, and down to breakfast. Still no call.
Back to the suite and go about updating my field notebooks. New code here, new dossier entry there. It’s almost noon and still no call nor Email.
“Fuck it”, I said. I grabbed the latest issue of the Journal of Explosives Engineering, grab a bottle of Korean high-octane hooch, a couple of cigars, and draw a nice, foamy bath in the Jacuzzi.
“If that doesn’t generate a phone call”, I said as I settled back in the frothy foam, “Nothing will.”
A few hours later, and still no call.
“Ah, well”, I commiserated with myself, “Looks like they had champagne tastes and a near-beer budget. Guess I was too pricy for ‘em. Oh, well. Go cheaper. Think hiring a professional is expensive? Wait until you hire an amateur.”
The phone began to rig at that very moment.
“Yes?” I said into the raprod.
“Dr. Rocknocker?”, the voice on the other end of the telecoms device inquired.
“Yes?” I said, slightly annoyed. Who else would be at this number?
“This is Dr. Mirchandani.” He said.
“I surmised as much”, I replied, “How may I help you?”
“Um. Yes. Your contract”, he continued, “It’s very, um, explicit.”
I’ve had my contracts called lots of things: “Piracy via paper”. “The ramblings of a crazy man”, and “Outright legal theft.”
“Explicit” was new.
“Yes”, I replied, “I suppose it is. Beyond that, any further observations?”
“Yes. Dr. Rocknocker”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “However it’s explicitness, we agree. When can you begin?”
“As soon as you can arrange a flight for me, minimum Business class, from here to there,” I replied.
“We can have an Air Force plane at your disposal this time tomorrow. Will that suffice?”
“What kind of plane? I’m not keen on aging Russian transports.” I said.
He bristled a bit, but I knew of the Indian Air Force. Many of their planes had instruments that were marked in Cyrillic.
“We were able to arrange a Gulfstream G700 for you. It is normally reserved for star-class military individuals. But, this was an unusual situation. Will that suffice?” he asked.
“It’ll do, “ I replied, “I will need, as per my contract, transport from the hotel to the airport and in this case, directly to the aircraft. You sort all that out, and I’ll pack.”
“Yes, Doctor”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “Everything you desire done will be done.”
“Good”, I replied, “Cable me the itinerary and I’ll be ready to go. In the meantime, I’ll send you a list of equipment that I will require upon arriving. Will that be acceptable?”
“Of course, Doctor”, he said, brightening somewhat, “I look forward to meeting you.”
“Same here, Dr. Mirchandani”, I said, “Now, when I send my list, no short-sheeting me. I need the best supplies available. We’re not making chapattis here. I am the best only because I work with the best. I’ll also need an assistant. One educated in the geological sciences, and a speaker of English and Hindi. We green?”
“Army green!”, he replied.
Not my favorite shade, but I guess it will just have to do.
I had a few hours, so after a ski-ball tourney down at the lounge, I’m later in my suite, going over explosives companies catalogs. Say what you will, but going from primitive, near-dial up internet connections in Best Korea and the lightning-fast, rip-your-lungs out fiber-optics here in the south is like going from the Neolithic to 2001: A Space Odyssey.
I pondered and paused. I leered over some new devices and got to know some old friends, many in new togs. I was going to cut apart ocean liners, VLCCs (Very Large Crude Carriers), ferries, military transports, and ships of many shapes and sizes. I am going to be training a crew of locals who will in turn train more locals. I’m not going to be in-country long, a week or two max. I not only want the best, but I must also have the best.
Like Grandad always said, “Shoot once; you might not get another shot.”
I finally shut down my laptop at 0200. I was tired. Really bone-deep tired. I had a 15-page email that I transmitted to Dr. Mirchandani.
“Damn.”, I thought as I prepared to hit the rack, “Just the bare necessities. I hope we can find more once we get in-country.”
The next morning, I showered, had only two shower beers before breakfast, packed, and went down to the restaurant. It’s going to be a long, flighty day and I don’t like to eat much on days like that.
So I had a couple of Greenland coffees, a brace of buttered scones, and a nice light Maduro cigar from the hotel’s walk-in humidor.
“That’s right”, I remembered, “I’m going straight to the plane where they’ll doot my passport and take my luggage. No duty-free this time. Best stock up before I hit the airways.”
Back in the room, after last-minute calls to Khris, Tash, Esme, and my Agency buddies, I was waiting for my call that my ride to the airport was here. I was already essentially signed-out, as I wasn’t the one paying for the suite. The UN and other such agencies would be handling that.
I decide to call a bellhop and have him transfer my luggage downstairs, where I would await my ride. I officially checked-out, tipped everyone who had made this part of the trip most enjoyable, and sat outside, under the veranda, awaiting transportation to the airport.
OK, here’s the drill. It’s a balmy 21⁰ C. I’m in Cargo shorts, ‘“Protest Dinoflagellates” Mesozoic Society Against Perverted Practices’ T-shirt, ghastly Hawaiian shirt, field vest, field boots, Scottish knee-high woolen socks, complete with tassels, and my Black Stetson.
Yep. Field clothes. Check. Ready to travel.
Oh, I also had a large, very dark, very ominous looking cigar lit. Plus, the bartender topped off my emergency flasks, so I was sampling one or more of them while I whiled away the time.
A large automobile pulls up to the hotel. Gray in color, no distinguishing decals, totems, or stickers. The white license plate displays a few numbers and a series of black stars.
It wheels up to a hurried stop, and a uniformed individual of obvious Subcontinental heritage pops out. Another shady looking character sits behind the vehicle’s steering wheel.
“You. Yes, you”, he points to me.
“Yes?” I reply.
“You are the ‘Dr. Rocknocker’?” he asked in quick, clipped, and very British-tinged Indian tones.
“Yep. ‘The one and only.’” I drawl in reply.
“Your luggage. Will go into the boot of the car. We will be leaving.” He snaps.
“OK, sure. But be careful, I’ve got some seriously delicate scientific apparatus packed within the luggage.” I reply.
“I will wait while you put your luggage in the car. We are in haste. Hurry. Now!” He snaps again.
“OK, look Colonel Chuckles or whoever you are.” I snap back, “Let’s just take a little assessment of the situation. You are sent to collect me and my luggage for transport to the aircraft. Correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes”, he snaps, “Now hurry and load your gear. We must leave.”
I sit back down and re-fire my cigar. He goes positively crimson with barely contained rage.
“What are you doing?” he literally screams, “We have a tight schedule. You must…!”
I stand up and get right in his face, which is a bit difficult as I’m easily 25 centimeters taller than him.
“NO! YOU must…”, I replied in kind, “…shut the fuck up and listen to me. You got that Colonel Chickpea or what the fuck is your name. You never even introduced yourself.”
He stutters, stammers and sizzles; but remains crimsonly silent.
“OK, here’s the deal, Herr Mac”, I tell him, “I’m the hookin’ bull here, or haven’t you had the chance to read my contract? Your government, at levels so high above yours they’re orbital, contracted me for this job. As such, I am the boss and what I say goes. Errand boys like yourself don’t get the chance to order me around. In fact, no one on this little trek does. Now, go ask the nice Bell Captain, one Yi Kyung-Jae by name, to find a bell boy or porter to load us up. After that, we can be off. But rest assured, I’m not one of your minions and you try pulling rank on me again, and you can explain to Dr. Mirchandani why the fucking plane arrived back in India empty. You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
He sputtered but realized he’s crossed swords with someone who brought claymores to his butter knives and complies.
After I tip the bell boy nicely for loading my gear carefully into the limo’s trunk, I stroll over to the rear door and go to grab the door handle so I can slide inside.
Colonel Chickpea, or whatever his name was as he’s not yet introduced himself, goes noisily apoplectic.
“Your cigar!”, he rages, “It is forbidden.”
“Not for me, asswipe.”, I calmly replied, “Call your bosses or read my contract. I’ll wait.”
I was going to slip my cigar into a special travel tube I always carry. It quietly and without any fuss extinguishes your cigar and safes it until you decide to relight it to enjoy again. I wasn’t about to get in the limo with a lit cigar.
Until that point.
I stroll over to one of the seats out in front of the hotel. I relight my cigar and Yi wanders over asking if he could get me anything.
“Well”, I reply loudly, “Since we’ll be here a while, I’d like to see the wine list.”
Colonel Chickpea is as close to a personal volcanic eruption as I’ve ever seen in a specimen of his species.
“YOU! WILL! ENTER! THE! CAR!” he literally screams.
“Sure, chuckles”, I reply calmly, “Right after I have a look at this wonderful wine list Yi just brought me.”
Colonel Chickpea realizes he’s fucked. He can’t out-stubborn or out-rank me, and he hasn’t obviously read my contract. Plus I might just be telling the truth.
“I……apologize.”, he finally says meekly. “Please, into the sedan, we need to meet your transport.”
“Well, now. There ya’ go”, I smile, “That didn’t hurt too much now, did it? Sure. Let’s make like a baby and head out.”
I slide into the spacious back seat and greet the so far silent driver.
I tap him on the shoulder and ask him if my cigar would be a bother. He grunts a monosyllabic negative.
“Colonel Chickpea? Cigar bother you?” I ask.
“No.” was the only reply.
“Good”, I reply, “As long as one of us is being reasonable”.
I didn’t light the cigar. I’m funny that way.
It’s about 40 miles, give or take, from the hotel to Inchon International. I just sit back, figure it’s going to take about an hour, and decide to continue the article I was writing for Bastards and Blasters Bimonthly.
I pull out my notebook, emergency flask #2, and tappy-tap-tap away.
The ride to the airport was in total silence, save for my typing and sipping from my flask. The traffic wasn’t too terribly bad, as the Cheap Mexican beer virus lockdown idiocy extended over here as well.
We exit the main drag for the airport and instead of heading to departures, we head to Air Cargo.
Past this checkpoint, past another, into the warehouse and air customs district. We pull up alongside a nondescript, weather-beaten shack. We slide to a stop and Col. Chickpea tells me this is customs. I am to take my passport so it can be stamped. My luggage is not to be searched, thanks to my contract and Diplomatic Passport.
I wander over to the shed and see there is one military type sitting in the lone chair behind the lone desk in the place. I knock first and I hear a grunt of “Enter”.
So I do.
“Passport!” the unsmiling character behind the desk commands.
I handover the red leather-encased document.
He flips it open after looking at the Cyrillic on the cover and being slightly confused.
“You are…Doctor…Rocknocker?” he asks.
“Yes.”, I reply.
“Do you have any identification?”, he asks.
“Look in your right hand,” I reply.
He bristles somewhat. I answered truthfully. He knew that as he didn’t ask for “any other identification”. He was going to raise a ruckus when he sees my whole-page special UN North Korean visas in my passport.
“You traveled in North Korea?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. Five fun-filled weeks”, I replied, “At the behest of the Untired Notions and Best Korea’s leader supreme.”
He stiffened visibly. He stamped my passport, stood, saluted, and handed my passport back with surprising alacrity and politeness.
“Doctor.”, he said, “Thank you for your time. Pleasant journeys.”
“Thank you”, I replied, “Let me tell you, of the two Koreas, I prefer the south.”
He smiled and nodded.
Nice chap.
Back outside, the limo driver was leaning on the car, smoking a cigarette. Colonel Chickpea was nowhere to be seen. There was another Indian military fella standing next to the car.
“Doctor Rocknocker?” he asked, as he walked toward me, hand extended.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied and received a hearty handshake.
“I am Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, your liaison for this part of your trip. I will be accompanying you to Gujarat. However, time is of the essence, and we’re running slightly late, so if you would please get in the car, we’ll be off.”
“OK.”, I replied, “Major… ahh…”
“It is a mouthful”, he smiles, “Please, ‘Major Nak’ will be fine.”
“Groovy. Call me Rock”, I said as we shared a handshake once again.
In the car, we were whipping past commercial airliners that haven’t moved for the last 6 weeks. This virus business is killing international air travel. It’s really going to take a global toll once it’s all done and dusted. Luckily I have a fully functioning immune system and can still travel.
“Major Nak”, I asked as we zipped past a Meraj Airways 747 that needed a good wash, “What happened to Col. Chickpea or whatever his name was who brought me here?”
“Ah, yes.”, Major Nak replied, “Lieutenant Dhuleep’s behavior was noted. I am replacing him for the remainder of your trip. You see, I have read your contract.”
“I see”, I replied, noting the only one to rat out the rambunctious Lieutenant was the silent driver, so I need to open a couple of new dossiers.
“I’d like to know the name of our driver. He’s been very polite and I wish to commend him in a letter I wrote for Dr. Mirchandani.” I asked Major Nak.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He assured me.
“Oh, I think I should note exemplar conduct and deportment as well as that not so. His name?” I asked again.
Major Nak looked rather uncomfortable. The car slowed to a stop. The driver slews around in his seat.
“I am Aryabhata Ranganekary of The Indian Research and Analysis Wing, Doctor. Please convey my regards to Agents Rack and Ruin the next time you should talk together. Happy trails.” The driver says.
I am flummoxed.
The car starts up and we drive the last mile and a half in silence.
We pull up alongside an exquisitely appointed and brand new looking Gulfstream G700. It’s a beast of a private jet. Twin engines, tasteful white and blue exterior, and just a small circle of five black stars betray it as something not fresh off the showroom floor.
The trunk lid pops on the limo and my gear is whisked away to the cargo hold of the jet before I could get out of the car.
“Careful with that, it’s…oh, never mind…” I say as my gear disappears.
I walk over to the driver’s window and give a slight tappy-tap. It rolls down.
“I’ll give Rack and Run your best, Agent Ranganekary”, I say and hand him one of my best cigars. “Please, enjoy.”
He smiles and shakes my hand. “Do not forget, Doctor. Hello to Rack and Ruin. It’s been years.”
“No worries, mate,” I say, and with a tip of the Stetson, he departs.
I’m escorted onto the jet. It’s plush, lavish and all of this is entirely wasted on me.
“Have a seat, Doctor. Any actually. You and I are the only passengers.” Major Nak notes.
This is one of the few times in my career that the passengers on the flight will be outnumbered by the flight crew.
I pick a plush seat on the left-hand side of the jet. Major Nak chooses one opposite. A pair of stunning, nubile, young Indian misses arrive. They help me sort out the in-cabin storage and put my carry on gear safely away but readily convenient.
The captain, co-pilot, navigator, and security agent, I suppose, come aboard and greet Major Nak and myself personally. They promise it will be a smooth flight.
“Normal flight time for this trip is 7.5 hours. We’ll be flying above 50,000 feet at Mach 0.90, so we should be able to shave that to 6.5” Major Nak informs me.
“That works for me”, I reply, “I may be a seasoned world traveler, but the less time in the air, the more I like it.”
“You will enjoy these hours.” Major Nak assures me, “You are but the second VIP to travel in this aircraft. The first was the General Vishnu Heravdakar of the Indian Armed Forces.”
“I am honored”, I said and gave a little clasped hand bow.
“Very good, Doctor. Can I interest you in a drink?” He asks.
“Only if it’s large, cold, and free,” I replied with a chuckle.
“Rushpa!” He calls.
One of the Indian cabin crew magically appears.
“A drink for our guest. And one for myself as well.” He orders.
She smiles, executes a quick little bow, and hurries off to the galley. Moments later, a very tall, nicely iced vodka, lime, and carbonated citrus cocktail is finding a home in my hand.
“As per your contract.” Major Nak smiles.
“I didn’t specify what drink I required.” I protested.
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor.” Major Nak says, “Aish'!” which is the Indian equivalent of cheers.
I reply “Salaamat'!”, which is an Urdu equivalent of ‘Cheers!’, a term which I use in the Sultanate from time to time.
He looks surprised that I know this and begins to rattle off in machine-gun cadence Urdu something or other indecipherable.
“Sorry, Major”, I say, “But that’s the extent of my Urdu.”
He laughs and says that he was saying how unusual it was for some ‘gora’ to speak Urdu.
He goes on to explain that ‘gora’ means ‘white’ and is not meant to be derogatory.
“Oh, no problem, Major”, I say, “I’ve got a really thick skin, yaar [mate].”
Major Nak laughs, “You’re going to fit in perfectly.”
Before half my drink as gone, we were wheel-up and headed south. I have to comment again, I have never seen international airports this quiet, and I’ve been I some in countries with active shooting wars. This viral business is taking a serious toll, and I don’t mean just in human life. Though, that is a regrettable statistic, but not novel.
Anyways, we’re whooshing to Angel’s Eleven and according to the readout on the bulkhead of the cabin, we leveled out at 54,000 feet above mean sea level, at an airspeed of Mach 0.87.
We were cookin’ now.
I’m looking out the window and seeing the tops of clouds and not much else. I smell smoke and turn to see Major Nak lighting up a Gold Flake King cigarette.
I’d have never thought to fire up a heater in a plane, much less one nudging the sound barrier at over 10 miles altitude.
“Oh, Doctor”, he says, “If you’d like, I’ll arrange an ashtray for you.”
“Please,” I said, slightly confused.
“Vijaya!” he barks. One of the other of the pair of cabin attendants materializes out of nowhere.
“An ashtray for our distinguished guest.” He orders.
She departs with a smile and a slight bow. She returns with a standing ashtray that somehow locks into the floor and hands me a new drink.
“I saw your drink was almost finished.” She purrs.
“Thank you” I said, “Aapaka bahut bahut dhanyavaad.” [आपका बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद।,Thank you very much.]
She beams and retires to wherever they store the cabin crew on these flights.
“So, Doctor, tell me. What brings you here?” Major Nak queries, obviously making small talk as he’s already admitted to reading my contract.
We spend the next 5 or so hours just chewing the rag, talking things over. I gave him a play-by-play of my experiences over in Best Korea. He laughed so hard at the way we spent our last night in-country, I thought he might wet himself. That he was not so covertly trying to match me drink-for-drink I think might have helped elicit his raucous response.
We had a choice of Western or Indian food as an in-flight meal. I like Indian food, but sometimes, it doesn’t return the favor. I asked for the Western meal, and Vijaya asked me how I’d like my steak.
Well, that was weird on several levels. But since they offered, I replied, “Blue, please.”
It arrived blue as blue can perfectly be on a 2” thick T-bone. There was grilled corn on the cob, small, whole buttered parslied potatoes, and camp beans on the side.
Of course, a fresh drink accompanied the meal.
Major Nak decided to take a nap right after tea. I didn’t want to wake him. Poor soul.
He was just too high-strung...
To be continued…