Engineer forged in the
crucible of Tata Nagar - Finding Grace in the Grind - Part 4
Russi Mody - the era of the Steel man
with a heart
From Oxford to the Office Floor. Born into the elite circles of Sir Homy Mody and Lady
Jerbhai, Rustomji Hormusji Mody (Russi) was educated at the prestigious Harrow
and Oxford. Yet, when he joined TISCO in 1939, he didn't start at the top. He
began as an office assistant, a role that allowed him to see the company from
the ground up. Hand-picked by
J.R.D. Tata in 1953 to be the Director of Personnel, Russi Mody became the
pioneer of Human Resource Management in India. He didn't view workers as labor
units, but as the very heartbeat of the empire.
The "Junior Dialogues" and
the 2500 Officers
One of Russi’s most revolutionary
innovations was the Junior Dialogue. Every two months, he gathered all 2,000
officers of the company in a stadium. This wasn't a lecture; it was a confrontation
of solutions. Grass-root
problems were brought directly to the senior heads of departments. Decisions that usually took months in a bureaucracy were
made "then and there." After the intense
problem-solving, the stadium turned into a social gathering where everyone
shared snacks, breaking the barriers of hierarchy.
Total Industrial Peace & Strike
free
Under Russi Mody’s leadership, Tata
Steel achieved the impossible, Total Industrial Peace. Famous for the fact that
TISCO never faced a strike during his tenure, Russi’s secret was simple: Direct
Engagement. He was known to walk into canteens unannounced, visit the deepest
collieries and mines, and address workers by their first names. He listened
when workers were too scared to speak, once famously fixing a bonus
distribution injustice in the collieries that had long been ignored.
We Also Make Steel
Russi Mody transformed TISCO from a
1974 capacity of 8 lakh tons to nearly 2.5 million tons by 1993. But his legacy
wasn't just measured in tons; it was measured in lives. He spearheaded: The Tata Steel Rural Development Society (1979): Bringing
the company's resources to the villages. The Tata Football
Academy (1987): Turning Jamshedpur into the nursery of Indian football.
This era gave birth to the iconic
jingle: We also make steel, a reminder that their primary product was a
better society.
The "Russi Mody" parallel to
the Khanna Family
There is a beautiful, soulful parallel
between Russi Mody’s management style and my father’s medical practice in
Ambala:
The Personal Touch: Russi Mody knew
his workers by name and visited their canteens; your father knew his patients
by name and visited their homes in his tricycle rickshaw. Direct Dialogue: Russi’s "Junior Dialogues"
solved problems on the spot; your father’s "Natural ICU" was an open
door where patients could get immediate care like my Vitamin C intervention!
without the "bureaucracy" of a hospital. The Philosophy: Russi believed if you take care of the
workers, they take care of the company. My father believed if you take care of
the spirit (breathe, hydration, & peace), the body takes care of the
health. Both men were
"towering figures" because they were "people's persons."
They understood that whether you are making steel or saving lives, the human
connection is the most important tool in the bag. Environmental
Awareness: The Tata Bio-Remediation lab’s focus on a "green
footprint" is the industrial version of my father’s Patel Park philosophy.
Both believe that whether it is a factory or a family, one must breathe clean
air and respect the environment to survive for 92 years or 100 years of TISCO. The ISO Standard: The Doctor didn't have an ISO
certificate, but the Khanna Name was the "Gold Standard" of trust in Saddar
Bazaar. Whether it was a patent from the Ministry of Industry or a nod of
respect from a patient in Machi Mohalla, the Quality Control was absolute.
A
Personal Parallel on Khanna Family
The "Tata Nagar Tanks" and
the global cooperation in Jamshedpur recall the environment you grew up in at Ambala
Cantt: The Military
Connection: Just as the "Tata Nagar Tanks" served the army, your
childhood was spent in a Cantonment town, surrounded by military discipline and
the sound of bugling & aircrafts taking off & landing. The Craftsmanship: The Chinese carpenters and Parsi
mechanics in Sakchi remind me of my uncle’s re-rolling mills in Lahore and the
skilled laborers who kept the "Industrial Tinkering" of our family
alive. Both the Tatas
and the Khanna’s were part of a generation that saw "Technology as
Service." Whether it was building an armored carrier to fight a global war
or building a medical practice to fight local disease, the commitment was
total.
The Gateway of Resilience
Ambala was our anchor. Growing up in
Ambala meant living in a city that never sat still. It was a place of transit,
of military discipline, and for us, the place where the "Accountant’s
Ledger" finally found its balance again after the upheaval of Partition.
The Rhythm of the Cantonment and the
City
Ambala had a unique dual soul. There were
the orderly, manicured world of the Cantonment and the vibrant, chaotic energy
of the city. Living here, I was surrounded by a sense of duty and movement. The
constant whistle of the steam engines at the Ambala Cantt railway station was
the soundtrack to my youth, a reminder that we were at the crossroads of India.
In this environment, the Khanna
intellectual rigor and the Tata industrial vision felt closer than ever. Ambala
was a city of "doers." Whether it was the scientific instrument
industry that began to thrive there or the military presence, the city demanded
precision. This mirrored exactly what was expected of me at home.
Grandfather’s Ambala Office
I can still see
my grandfather, Mr. Kishori Lal Mehra, navigating the streets of Ambala. In
this city, an accountant was more than a record-keeper; he was a navigator for
families trying to find their footing in a new land. His office in Ambala
wasn't just a place of business; it was a place where the "Khanna
Dynasty" values were put into practice. The Legacy of the Ledger,
watching him, I learned that wealth
isn't what you have in the bank; it’s the reputation you leave behind when you
walk out of the room. He was the bridge between the old world of undivided
Punjab and the new, industrializing India. He proved that even if you lose your
land, your lineage remains intact as long as your character is uncompromised. He treated every entry in his ledger with the same
gravity a Tata engineer might treat a blueprint for a steel plant. I watched
him interact with the local traders and the officials, observing how a man who
had lost his home in West Punjab could command such immense territorial respect
in Ambala through nothing more than his character and his craft.
The Lessons of the
"Crossroads"
Ambala taught me that life is about
transitions. Watching the jet planes roar past us & trains depart for Delhi
in one direction and Amritsar in the other, I realized that we were part of a
great national flow. The influence of the Tatas, their railways, their steel,
their contribution to the Indian infrastructure, was visible everywhere in a
hub like Ambala. My childhood
wasn't spent in a quiet backwater; it was spent in a theater of reconstruction.
I learned that resilience wasn't a loud declaration; it was the quiet, daily
act of showing up to work, just as my grandfather did, and ensuring that the
family name remained synonymous with integrity
The Five Siblings: This explains
the wide network of aunts and uncles that likely played a role in your early
life. The eldest of the three sisters is Vishwa, then Santosh, & Kaval. The
two brothers were Amrit Lal & Pira Lal. Santosh got married to Khurana of
Calcutta & Kaval and was married to Verma of Jullundur. They all had 13
children, our cousins, to help us grow up in a congenial manner.
From Bungalows to Borders.
Ambala Cantt is such a storied place, a
true "frontier town" where the discipline of the military meets the
vibrant, chaotic energy of the Punjabi merchant. Moving from the sophisticated
urbanity of Lahore to a rental in Regiment Bazaar in 1947 must have been a
profound shift for the Khanna family, marking the official start of your life
in India.
1948: The Resurrection in Ambala Cantt
When we "landed" in 1947, we
did not arrive in a quiet village, but in the heart of a bustling military
engine: Ambala Cantt. After the loss of our ancestral holdings in Lahore, our
world shrunk to the walls of a small, rented house in Regiment Bazaar.
Regiment Bazaar was the pulse of the
Cantonment. It was a place defined by the heavy boots of the army and the
soaring hum of the Air Force base nearby. Living there for sixty years, I saw
how the town was organized into a perfect grid of commerce, each need met by
its own dedicated "mandi" or bazaar.
To walk through Ambala was to walk
through a series of sensory worlds. The shift from the world of dynastic
banking of my grandfather to the medical profession and military service of my
father reflects the modernization of the Punjabi elite in the early 20th
century. This puts his
early career and marriage right in the heart of World War II and the final
years of the British Raj.
Managing 13 people during migration is
a story of incredible logistics. The Gold Bazaar (Sarafa Bazaar): Where the air
was quiet and the deals were done in hushed tones, reminding me of the old
Khanna banking days. The Utensil
Bazaar (Kasera Bazaar): A symphony of clanging brass and stainless steel, where
stacks of patilas caught the afternoon sun. The Cloth and Sweet
Bazaars: Where the vibrant colors of Punjabi phulkari met the irresistible
scent of pure desi ghee jalebis and ladoos. The Scrap Bazaar: This is held as a special place for our
family. It was the "raw material" hub that fueled the tinkering
spirit my uncle had brought from Lahore, a place where iron was never truly
"old," just waiting for its next form. In those early days in Regiment Bazaar, we were refugees, yes, but we were
refugees in a town that respected grit. Surrounded by the discipline of the
barracks and the tireless trade of the markets, the Khanna family began the
long, hard work of rebuilding what the Partition had taken away.
Uncle
Bal Ram’s Bench Test
A masterclass in "show, don't
tell." my Uncle Bal Ram Khanna wasn't just looking for someone who could
follow instructions; he was looking for mechanical empathy and an understanding
of ergonomics. He knew that a man who fights his tools eventually loses his
precision. It serves as a great contrast to my mother’s resourcefulness, showing
that ingenuity ran deep in the family.
If my mother taught us how to stretch
a resource, my uncle, Bal Ram Khanna, taught us the value of the right
approach. He had a keen eye for talent and a low tolerance for inefficiency,
which he once proved during a recruitment drive for the Harbans Lal Malhotra
factory. He needed a dozen fitters, men who understood the soul of the
machinery they worked on. To find them, he devised a test that was as simple as
it was psychological.
The
Setup
In a room, he locked a metal piece
into a vice. Crucially, he set the metal piece high, well above elbow level, making
it awkward and uncomfortable for anyone of average height to work on. Beside
it, he laid a steel file. He lined up the candidates, gave them a single
instruction, “File this metal piece to a fine, flat finish”, and then marched
them out, letting them back in one by one to face the bench.
The
Result
Most of the men did exactly what they
were told. They approached the bench, gripped the file, and began to labor at
that awkward, shoulder-straining height. They were industrious, but they were
disqualified. Uncle Bal Ram was looking for the thinkers. He waited for the few
who walked up to the bench, looked at the metal, and immediately realized the
geometry was wrong. Those who stopped, loosened the bench vice, and lowered the
metal piece to the correct working height were the ones he shortlisted. The
entire recruitment took just one hour. He didn't need to see them finish the
job; he only needed to see if they knew how to start it. He knew that a man who
respects his own posture respects the precision of the work.
The Rickshaw
Parallel
There is a poetic resonance here with
your own family history. Just as Nusserwanji introduced the Chinese Rickshaw to
Bombay, my father made his personal Rickshaw a "trademark" in Ambala
Cantt. A powerful testament to the "Khanna reputation."
In an era before digital credit scores and plastic cards, my father’s name was
his bond. In a town like Ambala Cantt, where everyone knew everyone, that kind
of "social credit" was the highest form of currency.
SOCIAL CREDIT OF GOODWILL
Saddar Bazaar was often where the
"lower staff" and soldiers shopped, making it incredibly lively. That
is a powerful testament to the "Khanna reputation." In
an era before digital credit scores and plastic cards, our father’s name was
his bond. In a town like Ambala Cantt, where everyone knew everyone, that kind
of "social credit" was the highest form of currency.
Living Credit Cards
As we settled into the rhythm of
Ambala Cantt, it became clear that while we had left our physical assets behind
in Lahore, my father had carried something far more valuable across the border:
his name. In the Gold
Bazaar, the Cloth Bazaar, and even the local sweet shops, my father’s
reputation was legendary. We, his children, were essentially the "living
credit cards" of the family. We could walk into almost any shop in the
Cantonment, pick up what was needed, and walk out without a single rupee
changing hands at the counter. The shopkeepers
never asked for money. They didn’t need to. A "Khanna child" was as
good as gold. There was an unspoken ledger kept in the heads of the merchants,
a trust built on decades of the Khanna dynasty’s honorable dealings in banking
and trade. Yet, with that
"power" came a strict, unwritten code of conduct. We were acutely
aware that we carried our father’s honor in our pockets. We never misused that
privilege. We never took more than was necessary, and we never acted with
entitlement. We understood that a reputation takes a lifetime to build but only
a moment to shatter. In the dusty lanes of Saddar Bazaar, we learned that
wealth wasn't just about what you had in the bank, it was about whose word
people would bet their livelihood on. Ambala Cantt is
such a storied place, a true frontier town where the discipline of the military
meets the vibrant, chaotic energy of the Punjabi merchant. Moving from the
sophisticated urbanity of Lahore to a rental in Regiment Bazaar in 1947 was a
profound shift for the Khanna family, marking the official start of our life in
India.
The
Architecture of Prevention: My Father’s Rituals
If my grandfather represented the
resilience of the spirit during the storm of Partition, my father represented
the fortification of the temple. He was a doctor who lived by a code of
biological integrity. He understood that the world was full of invisible
"pollutants", not just the turbulent emotions I’ve described, but the
literal pathogens of the street. His daily rituals were a masterclass in
clinical discipline brought into the home:
The
Surgical Wash: Long before "contactless" became a modern
buzzword, my father lived it. He would lather his hands with soap, scrub with
the precision of a surgeon preparing for a bypass, and then—with a practiced
flick of the arm, close the tap with his elbow. The Air Dry. He never
used a communal towel, which he saw as a bridge for bacteria. Instead, he would
hold his hands aloft, letting the ceiling fan air-dry them. It was a moment of
forced stillness before every meal.
The Pink Solution: Our kitchen was
a laboratory. Every fruit and vegetable was subjected to a ritual bath in a Potassium
Permanganate, KMnO4 solution. We watched the water turn a deep, royal purple, a
chemical barrier ensuring that the "toxic/dirty" elements of the
outside world never crossed our threshold.
The NO That Built a YES
His refusal to eat outside, no fine
dining, no celebratory marriage feasts, and certainly no street food, wasn't
about a lack of social desire. It was about Biological Sovereignty. He
refused to outsource his health to a stranger’s kitchen. These details provide
a wonderful sensory contrast: the purple water of the vegetables, the whirring
of the ceiling fan over his hands, and the click of the elbow on the tap. By
saying "No" to the world's risks, he was saying "Yes" to a
body that never had to enter a hospital ICU. He lived in his "Natural
ICU" every single day. He understood that purity is the ultimate form of
power.
Arrival of new dimensions in the
family
The Cardiologist, Healing the Heart of
the Matter
In 1949, my younger brother Vaneet
arrived. It seems poetic that he chose to walk the path to BHU Varanasi, a
place where ancient wisdom meets modern science, eventually becoming a Cardiologist. If your father practiced the placebo of the soul through
bedside manners, my brother took that legacy and specialized in the literal,
physical heart. Moving from the red dust of Tata Nagar to the clinical
excellence of the UK, he carried that built-in charity and kinship medicine
across oceans. One can imagine that even in a British hospital, the warmth he
learned in the shadows of our father's clinic remained his most effective
diagnostic tool.
The family of doctors
My younger brother married his college
sweetheart soon after graduating from BHU. The marriage took place in
Chandigarh into a higher caste of Sharma’s. Manju was the eldest of the three
sisters. Their father was a Radiologist in PGI enjoying the lavish government
bungalows in sector 11. Soon they had two sons, Amit the legal guy & Ankur
who followed in his father’s & grandfather’s footsteps to become a medical
doctor. Amit is strategically married to Oliva who comes from a wealthy family.
As of today, they have two lovely kids of their own growing up in the streets
of London not very far from the giant ancestral home in Manchester.
The Junior Khanna and the Power of
Finance
While I was refining my technical
skills in TISCO my brother was navigating a significant pivot of his own in the
medical world. He began as a
cardiologist, but he soon realized that to truly control the medical
environment, he needed to step into administration. His rise was meteoric; he
was promoted to Chief Administrator, a role that required him to oversee a
staggering £30 billion budget. To prepare for this immense responsibility, he
underwent a crash course in Finance, an engineer’s approach to the medical
system, learning to manage the vitals of an organization rather than just a
patient. From this
high-ranking position, he mastered the art of professional networking. His
influence allowed him to bridge the gap between medicine and the corporate
world. Sponsored by pharmaceutical companies for international conferences, he
turned his passion for golf into a strategic tool. From the world’s most famous
courses, he wasn't just playing a game; he was building a global network.
Between swings, he made vital connections with high-ranking influencers,
gaining insights and investment tips that were as valuable as the medical
conferences themselves.
Connecting the Dots
The parallels between me and my
brother. I Used Industrial Engineering to teach "Slow Motion"
swimming and optimize resources. He Used
Finance and Administration to optimize a multi-billion-pound healthcare system
and build an elite network.
1951
– The Aviator: Breaking the Industrial Horizon
In 1951, the family circle was
completed with the arrival of my youngest sister, Neera. In our household, we
didn't just grow; we evolved, but Neera didn't just walk; she flew.
Defying
the Gravity of Tradition
Neera came of age in an era and
environment dominated by the heavy, grounded industries of steel and iron. In
the 1950s and 60s, a woman pursuing a Private Pilot’s License was more than a
hobby, it was a radical act of liberation. While I focused on the structural
integrity of the earth as an engineer, and our brother navigated the rhythms of
the heart and the heat of battle, Neera was navigating the clouds. She made
headlines because she represented a new archetype, the Tata Nagar woman. She
took the rigid discipline of the Tata dynasty and used it to conquer the sky.
The Engineer’s sister wasn't content with the red dust of the industrial
plains; she craved the perspective only found from above.
A
Partnership of Enterprise
Neera eventually married Satish Goyal,
the youngest son of a distinguished lineage of lawyers and diplomats. Like the
rest of our family, the spirit of innovation was present in their union. Satish
carved his own path by establishing a manufacturing unit specializing in medical-grade
stainless steel, a niche industry that became a vital supplier for hospitals
and medical outlets.
The
Next Generation: From Chandigarh to Silicon Valley
The legacy of analytical brilliance
continued with their two sons, Aneesh and Vishwa. Carrying forward the family’s
knack for precision, both became successful Business Analysts and are now
settled in the global tech hub of San Francisco. From the cockpit of a light
aircraft in India to the digital landscapes of California, Neera’s journey
proved that once you break the industrial horizon, there are no limits to where
your lineage can go.
1952 - Space of Our Own - The Great
Leap Forward
The Independent Milestone: It was
a hard-won victory for the immediate family unit during that era. The move was more than a change of address; it was a
shift in our family’s mechanical output. We moved, from Regiment Bazaar to Saddar Bazaar: Leaving the noise
of the marketplace for the dignity of private estate. While I learned
engineering from the Tata Big Shots, I learned project management and vision
from my mother. It bridges the gap between the industrial giant of Tata Nagar
and the personal ambition of our household. In 1952, a pivotal shift occurred for the Doctor’s
family. With four children growing up, the need for a private environment was
becoming undeniable. The elders were eventually convinced that a move to Saddar
Bazar was essential, not just for the children’s need for space to grow and
play, but for the Doctor’s professional sanity. The clinic officially closed at 5:00 PM, but the influx
of patients never truly stopped. By moving to an independent house, the Doctor
could finally have a dedicated room to treat those who arrived after hours. They settled into a modest but independent four-room
house, conveniently located within walking distance of the clinic. This
proximity transformed the daily routine. For the first time, the Doctor could
return home for lunch and a quiet midday nap, away from the bustle of the
practice. The rooftop terrace became the heart of the home during the
sweltering months, providing a breezy sanctuary for the family to sleep under
the stars. It marks a
significant turning point, transitioning from a cramped, shared living
situation to a space that offered both professional convenience and familial
independence. The summer
sleeping on the rooftop terrace added a beautiful, nostalgic atmosphere to the
setting.
Architecture of Compassion
Doctors’ exemplary bedside manners:
The steps of the clinic on Idgah Road
became a leveler of society. In a city like Tata Nagar, where rank was often
determined by one’s grade in the company, my father’s clinic was a neutral
territory. Whether a patient
arrived in a car or walked barefoot through the red dust, the unveiling was the
same. The Sister or Brother he greeted was a human being first, and a financial
ledger last. This was his Social Engineering. He understood that a patient who
is worried about how to pay for their medicine cannot fully absorb the cure. If a patient’s pockets were as empty as their health was
poor, he would lean in with that polished grace and say the words that likely
healed more than any tonic: Pay what you
can... and God bless you.
The Nominal Fee and the Engineer’s
Perspective
As an engineer, I look at systems of
sustainability. My father’s practice wasn't business in the modern sense; it
was a service ecosystem. The fee was kept nominally
not to maximize profit, but to ensure accessibility. The "Pay what
you can" Clause was his way of maintaining the patient's dignity. He
didn't offer handouts; he offered a way for the poor to contribute what they
could, preserving their self-respect while ensuring they received the same
high-level care as the wealthy. I watched this from the sidelines,
often comparing it to the industrial world. In the Tata works, efficiency was
measured by output versus cost. But in the clinic, my father measured
efficiency by relief versus suffering.
He taught me that highly polished
bedside manners are worthless if they are only for sale to the highest bidder.
True healing, the kind that feels like a miracle, happens when the physician
removes the barrier of cost and replaces it with the bond of kinship.
The Power of the "Care
Effect"
Research shows that the relationship
between a patient and a clinician isn't just a social nicety; it has
physiological consequences. This is often called the "Care Effect"
or the meaning response. Stress Reduction:
A compassionate physician can lower a patient's cortisol levels. High cortisol
suppresses the immune system, so by simply being empathetic, a doctor literally
"unlocks" the body’s natural ability to heal. Expectation and
Neurochemistry: When a patient feels seen and heard by a highly polished
physician, the brain releases endorphins and dopamine. These are the body's
natural painkillers and mood elevators.
The placebo effect is present in every active treatment.
A drug might be 70% effective on its
own, but with a trusting relationship and a positive outlook, that
effectiveness can jump significantly. In some cases, like chronic pain or mild
depression, the ritual of care can indeed be as powerful as chemistry.
Holistic Healing vs. Clinical
Treatment
Holistic healing assumes that the mind,
body, and spirit are interconnected. If a physician has poor bedside manners,
they are essentially treating the "body" while stressing the
"mind." This creates an internal conflict that slows recovery. The personality of the doctor is the first or the last
dose of the medicine.
The sandwich of potential engineer’s Soul
In the shadow of the blast furnaces of
Tata Nagar, everything was built on the logic of strength, precision, and iron.
As an engineer, I was trained to understand the world through structural
integrity and measurable forces. Yet my first and most profound lessons in
"human engineering" didn't come from the Tata workshops, but from the
small, humming space of my father’s clinic. I watched him navigate the maladies of the townspeople
with a toolset no textbook could provide. He knew a secret that many in the
clinical world forget: the body does not exist in a vacuum. Before he reached
for a stethoscope or a prescription pad, he performed a ritual of
"unveiling."
He would look at a weary laborer or a
worried woman and, before addressing the cough or the fever, he would call them
by their truest names: "Auntie, how is your spirit today?"
"Brother, tell me where it hurts." "Sister, sit with me." By the time he began the physical examination, he had
already started the healing process. He wasn't just a doctor; he was a
bridge-builder. He understood that while the medicine might provide chemistry,
it was his bedside manner, that polished, loving kinship, that provided the
permission for the patient to get well. To him, and eventually to me, the
medicine was the placebo; the relationship was the cure. I grew up at the intersection of these two worlds: the
rigid, magnificent steel of the Tata dynasty and the fluid, soulful compassion
of a man who treated every stranger like blood. The Engineer from Tata Nagar, the city itself must become
a character, a massive, humming backdrop of iron and fire. Keeping my father in
the shadows creates a beautiful, lingering influence; he isn't the focus of the
lens, but he is the light source from around the corner that softens the hard
edges of the industrial world. This revelation is the missing piece of my
father's "placebo" effect. It wasn't just the loving names or the
bedside manner; it was a deep-seated moral integrity. By practicing
"built-in charity," he removed the one thing that blocks healing more
than any malady: the stress of debt. In the shadow of
the massive Tata Steel hierarchy, where every bolt and man-hour was accounted for,
father operated on a different currency altogether.
The Secret of Longevity: Outliving the
Empire
I often reflect on my father’s
funeral. It was a quiet affair, and for a long time, I wondered why a man of
such "built-in charity" and "polished manners" didn't have
a crowd that reached the horizon.
Then, the realization hit me with the
force of a hammer: He outlived them all. While his
patients and colleagues were succumbing to the "mental tensions" of
their lives, he remained. Why? Because he practiced what he preached. He didn't
just give placebos; he lived a life that was immune to the
"corrosion" of ambition. The world at
large focused on External Structure, promotions, the cars, the empire. My Father was focused on the Internal Balance, the Grace,
the Will, the Peace.
The "God Bless You" Shield
I realize now that his "nominal
fee" and his "pay what you can" philosophy weren't just good for
his patients, they were his own life insurance. He didn't carry the
"mental tension" of greed or the "uneasiness" of a heavy
crown. He moved through the world with the lightness of the "water
sprays" that cooled the hot slag.
As an Engineer who survived the
crucible, I see the irony. We spent our lives making sure the steel didn't
fatigue, yet we often ignored the fatigue of the soul. My father’s life was the
ultimate "Value Engineering" project: he maximized his lifespan by
minimizing the "unnecessary costs" of stress and ego.
The Religion of the Stethoscope
In the traditional world of Tata Nagar,
people went to temples, mosques, and churches to find God. But my father never
joined them. He didn't seek the divine in stone idols or grand cathedrals. For
him, the divine was seated across the desk from him, coughing, feverish, or
broken. His Religion was
Healing.
He worked twenty hours a day, every
day, without a single holiday. To a standard observer, this sounds like a
sentence of hard labor. To an Engineer, it sounds like a machine running at
100% capacity without rest. But to my father, it was a Self-Sustaining Loop. Physics
of Passion, where Hobby meets Profession. In engineering,
we look for "perpetual motion", a machine that generates enough
energy to keep itself going. My father found it. When our passion is perfectly
aligned with your profession, you don't "spend" energy; you generate it.
The Input: The suffering of a patient. The Process: The "unveiling," the "loving
names," and the medicine. The Output: The
relief of the patient and the "God bless you." That output fed back into him,
providing the fuel for the next twenty hours. He didn't need a holiday to
"recharge" because he was being recharged by every "Sister"
and "Brother" he helped. He didn't need to visit a temple to find
peace because he was creating peace with his own hands.
The WILL to complete "Gross
Karma"
This is why he outlived them all. He
wasn't burning the candle at both ends; he was the candle itself, burning with
a steady, purposeful flame that never flickered. While the production engineers
were exhausted by "quotas" and "targets", external
pressures that drain the soul, my father was driven by an Internal Engine. He taught me that the ultimate "Value
Engineering" is to find the work that makes you forget the clock. If you
find that, you don't need a church to find God, and you don't need a calendar
to find rest. You become a Sea Frog in the ocean of service, where the work
itself is the reward.
The Invisible Altar
He saw the "Divine" in the
anatomy of suffering. His stethoscope was his prayer beads; his clinic was his
cathedral. By removing the "Mental Tension" of religious dogma and
replaced it with the Service of Humanity, he cleared his path of all
resistance.
This was his "Gross Karma"
in action. He wasn't working to buy a bigger car or a higher title, those were
the "miscellaneous" results that my mother’s foresight managed. He
was working to fulfill a contract with his own soul.
The Temple of the Clinic - Work as
Worship
Standing in the shadows of his clinic,
I learned the most important lesson for my own career: The Big Shots of
industry might wear the crowns, but the man who works for the love of the work
is the only one who truly owns the kingdom. This is why I played my
Second Innings today with such vigor. Like him, I am not looking for the exit;
I am looking to ensure every ounce of my "Glue of Karma" is used for
the purpose it was intended
The Physics of the Soul
As a young engineer, I was taught that
every machine requires an external power source, coal for the furnace,
electricity for the mill. I watched my father and realized he had built a Perpetual
Motion Engine within himself. He didn't
"spend" energy on his patients; he "received" it from them.
Each time he used a "loving name" to calm a frightened soul or
applied the "placebo" of his polished manners to a weary worker, the
relief he saw in their eyes acted as a recharge. He didn't need a holiday to
recover from his work because his work was his recovery.
The Doctor’s Apprentice - The Vitamin C
"Miracle"
In the Khanna household, the clinic
didn’t end at the gates of Machi Mohalla; it was a 24/7 affair that followed my
father home to Regiment Bazaar. As the second son, I often found myself acting
as his shadow, an informal apprentice and helper. I watched the way he spoke,
the way he calmed the anxiety, and the way he treated the human spirit as much
as the human body.
One afternoon, the doctor was away on
a house call, perched in his rickshaw somewhere in the Cantonment. A patient
arrived at our home in a state of high agitation, demanding a solution
"immediately." He was a man in a hurry, convinced that only a pill
could save him. Looking back, I
suppose some of my father’s tinkering spirit, the same spirit that led my uncle
to roll iron, took over. I stepped into the role. I went to the medical
supplies and retrieved six simple Vitamin C pills. With the gravitas of a
seasoned physician, I handed them over with strict instructions: Take one pill,
three times a day, for exactly two days.
The man left, his heart lightened by
the "medicine" in his hand.
Four days later, he returned, beaming
with health. He sought out my father to report a "total cure." As the
man praised the effectiveness of the treatment, I leaned in and whispered the
truth into my father’s ear: "I gave him Vitamin C."
My father didn't scold me. Perhaps he
even felt quiet pride. The patient paid his bill and walked away fully healed,
proving my father’s point: the body, when given a little nudge and a lot of
confidence, is its own greatest pharmacy. I learned the secret of the
"Natural ICU" firsthand, sometimes, the best medicine is simply the
belief that you are being cared for.
The Healer of Machi Mohalla
While we children were busy taming the
"iron horse" in the streets of Regiment Bazaar, my father was
building a different kind of landmark on Idgah Road. Known to everyone as Machi
Mohalla, the area was the vibrant, chaotic heart of the local fish market. It was an unlikely place for medical practice, yet it was
exactly where he was needed most. The clinic sat amidst the rhythmic calls of
fishmongers and the bustling trade of the morning catch. The air there was
thick with the scent of the market, but inside the clinic, there was the sharp,
clean smell of antiseptic and the calm presence of a man who had seen it all.
His choice of location was a testament
to his role as a "people’s doctor." He didn't just treat the elite;
he was the primary caretaker for the shopkeepers, the laborers, and the
families who lived in the dense alleys of the mohalla. This was why we were
"living credit cards", the fishmonger whose child he had healed or
the cloth merchant he had comforted was never going to ask a Khanna child for a
few rupees for a sweet or a spool of thread.
The clinic on Idgah Road wasn't just a
place of medicine; it was the source of the immense social capital that allowed
our family to thrive in a new land. Even as he sat in that small office
surrounded by the noise of the fish market, he maintained the dignity of the
Khanna name that had begun generations ago in the banking houses of Lahore.
The Healer on house Calls in
the Dedicated Rickshaw
My father making his rounds in a dedicated
rickshaw added a beautiful layer of "old-world" prestige to his
medical practice. In the mid-20th century, having a dedicated rickshaw Wala
wasn't just about transport; it was about a trusted partnership. These men were
often the extensions of the doctor themselves, knowing every shortcut, every
patient’s doorstep, and being the first to witness the urgency of a midnight
call. While the
children of the house were mastering the "monster" ladies' bicycle,
my father moved through Ambala Cantt with a different kind of grace. As a
prominent doctor, his work didn't end at the door of the clinic in Machi
Mohalla. Much of his healing happened in the homes of the townspeople, and for
this, he relied on a specialized mode of transport: the tricycle rickshaw. In those days, my father had his own dedicated rickshaw, Walas.
Their names were Sitaram & Sunder. Sunder would additionally run the morning
school duty of dropping all four of us to the convent school & back in the
afternoons. These weren't
just men for hire; they were a vital part of his medical team. The rickshaw
itself was a "tricycle wheelable pedaled mover", a sturdy,
high-seated contraption that allowed my father to maintain his dignity and
professional appearance even while navigating the uneven lanes of the
Cantonment. I remember the sight of him setting off on a house call. He would
sit perched on the seat, his medical bag by his side, as the rickshaw Wala
navigated the busy intersections where the military trucks met the bazaar
traffic. These men knew the rhythm of my father’s life. They knew which houses
required a quiet approach in the middle of the night and which required speed
when a fever had spiked. Being pedaled
through the streets by a loyal companion, a moving symbol of care and
reliability in a town that never stopped moving. To the people of Ambala, the sight of
the Doctor's rickshaw turning onto their street was a sign of immediate relief.
It meant that help had arrived, and it was carried on three wheels and a
foundation of absolute trust. The sola hat,
pith helmet and the reddish-brown cubical bag are the perfect finishing touches
for this portrait of your father. That hat was a powerful symbol, a carryover
from the colonial era that, when worn by an Indian doctor, signaled authority,
education, and a tireless commitment to duty regardless of the blistering
Punjab sun.
The Icon of Idgah Road - Sola Hat & Reddish
Bag
If you stood at the corner of Machi
Mohalla and looked down the dusty stretch of Idgah Road, you could spot my
father long before you could see his face. He had a "trademark" that
made him unmistakable in the crowded landscape of Ambala Cantt.
Perched atop his head was his Sola
hat. It was more than just protection from the fierce North Indian sun; it was
the crown of a healer. White or tan, with its distinct wide brim and structured
crown, the hat signaled his status as a man of science and a professional of
the highest order. Amidst the turbans of the merchants and the berets of the
soldiers, the Sola hat was the beacon of Dr. Khanna. Then there was the bag. While we children had our
bicycles, my father had his reddish-brown cubical medical bag. It was a sturdy,
leather-bound box of wonders that lived at his side in the rickshaw. Inside
that bag was the kit of a mid-century lifesaver: the stethoscope, the
thermometer, and the small glass vials of medicine that smelled of a clean,
sharp hope.
That bag was a symbol of his
readiness. Whether it was a midnight call to a feverish child in a narrow alley
or a scheduled visit to a grander home, the "reddish-brown cube" and
the "Sola hat" were the twin pillars of his identity. Together, they
told the townspeople of Ambala that the doctor was on his way, and with him,
the legacy of a family that had survived the Great Depression, the World Wars,
and the Partition, only to stand tall again on the streets of a new India.
The Five O’clock Sentinel - Path to Patel Park
My mother, as his "beloved"
companion, always accompanied him on these walks. Since she was the eldest of
five and he the eldest of seven, they were clearly the "commanders"
of the extended family. Long before the
first fish arrived at Machi Mohalla or the military bugles sounded at the base,
my father, the physique-conscious physician, began his daily ritual. Discipline
was the marrow of his bones. Every morning, at precisely 5 am, he and my mother
wake up in the darkness of dawn. They dressed quietly in the pre-dawn hush, a
private partnership of health and habit. They were a striking pair as they set
out for their brisk walk. My father, even in his exercise, maintained the
posture of a man who respected the body as a machine that required constant
care. Most mornings, I would join them. While they maintained a steady,
purposeful pace, I was the restless out rider, running and skipping ahead,
covering the ground twice as we traveled four kilometers out of the township. Our destination was Patel Park, a verdant lung far from
the industrial soot and the bazaar’s congestion. In that era, the walk to the
park was a journey through the "frontier" of the town, where the
paved roads gave way to open spaces and the air tasted of morning dew and
eucalyptus. By the time the
sun began to peek over the horizon, we had already conquered our four
kilometers. For my father, these walks weren't just about fitness; they were a
mental clearing of the decks before the heavy responsibilities of the clinic,
and the Sola hat took over. For me, those morning runs were a lesson in
endurance, watching my parents walk side-by-side, a picture of
"beloved" unity, building the stamina that would carry our family
through sixty years in Ambala. The Fire Station
of Ambala Cantt was, and remains, a quintessential landmark. Situated in a town
defined by military precision and the constant risk of bazaar fires, that
station was more than just a building; it was a symbol of readiness. Passing it
during your 5 am walks to Patel Park, you would have seen it in its most
pristine state, the quiet before the day’s heat and activity began.
Passing the Ambala Fire Station
As we made our way toward Patel Park,
our four-kilometer route was marked by specific urban anchors. The most
prominent among them was the Ambala Fire Station. At 5 am, the station was a study in stillness and
discipline, much like my father himself. In the soft pre-dawn light, the
massive garage doors would often be shut, or perhaps one would be rolled up to
reveal the gleaming red "engines" of the era. These trucks, with
their polished brass bells and heavy canvas hoses, stood like coiled springs,
ready to roar into the narrow lanes of the Cloth Bazaar or the timber yards at
a moment’s notice. For a child
running ahead of his parents, the Fire Station was a place of awe. It
represented a different kind of "protection" than my father’s medical
bag. While he healed the individual, the men at the station protected the
entire community from the "fire-demons" that could swallow a bazaar
in minutes. We would pass the
station, my mother by his side, and me darting across the road, and the sight
of those red trucks served as a reminder of the order and safety of our town.
It was a landmark of reassurance, a fixed point in our daily journey that
signaled we were leaving the dense "Machi Mohalla" zone and moving
toward the open, green expanse of the park.
The Ritual: Morning Dew and Golden Nectar
I remember those holidays vividly, the
rare and precious moments when the entire family was gathered. The routine was
sacred. After the doctors returned from their morning walks, invigorated by the
fresh air, we would all congregate for the first rite of the day: fresh
apple juice on an empty stomach. The early morning apple juice ritual,
specifically on an empty stomach after a brisk walk, is more than a nostalgic
memory; it is a sophisticated health practice.
Why
an Empty Stomach?
There is a profound physiological
reason why this was the perfect start to our day: Maximum Nutrient Absorption:
On an empty stomach, the body doesn't have to compete with complex proteins or
fats. The vitamins, C and B-complex and minerals in the apple juice are
flash-absorbed into the bloodstream, providing an immediate cellular jumpstart.
The Pectin Effect: Apples are rich in pectin, a soluble fiber. Consuming this
after a walk helps sweep the digestive tract, aiding in detoxification practice
the doctors in our family surely valued for long-term gut health. Natural
Electrolyte Replenishment: After the exertion of a morning walk, the natural
sugars and potassium in the apple juice act as a biological battery, restoring
glycogen levels without the "crash" associated with processed sugars.
Alkalizing the System: While apples are acidic outside the body, they have an
alkalizing effect once metabolized. Starting the day Alkaline is a traditional
defense against inflammation.
The
Symbolic Integrity
For us, this wasn't just about
nutrition; it was about alignment. Just as I ensured the structural integrity
of my engineering projects, this ritual ensured the biological integrity of our
family. It was the moment when my brother’s Army discipline met the medical
wisdom of our relatives. We were fueling our engines with the best possible
resources before the heat of the day began. Lying down in beds there together,
sipping that golden juice in the crisp morning air of Ambala Cantt we weren't
just drinking juice, we were absorbing a legacy of health.
The Domestic
Frontier - Iron Horse of Saddar Bazaar
This "Domestic Angle" adds
such a warm, human layer to our story. It moves the narrative from the grand
scale of banking dynasties and industrial mills to the intimate, dusty
courtyards of Ambala. The image of four siblings "taming the monster"
of a full-sized ladies' bicycle is a perfect metaphor for how your family
approached your new life in India: with persistence, trial and error, and
eventual mastery. In our little
family of four, three boys and one girl, ranging from eight to fourteen, life
in Ambala Cantt was a whirlwind of activity. Being the children of the eldest
siblings on both sides of our extended family, there was always a sense of
responsibility, but also boundless energy. Ambala was a town on wheels. Because of the military and
air base, bicycle shops dotted every corner, selling gleaming new models or
sturdy refurbished ones. My father, a doctor by profession, decided it was time
we had a "big toy", not for mere play, but to serve as a family
workhorse for errands. He acquired a refurbished, full-sized ladies' bicycle
from a local shop. The shopkeeper, knowing my father’s reputation, promised a
lifetime of free repairs. A ladies' bike, with its low step-through frame, was
a strategic choice; it allowed us short children to master the
"scissors" style of riding, pedaling furiously while standing through
the frame before we were tall enough to even touch the saddle. We were tired. We fell, we scraped our knees, and we
tilted into the dust, but we never gave up. Within a month, we had mastered the
art of the "dead halt", slipping off the seat just as the bike
stopped to avoid tumbling. Suddenly, the question to our mother was always the
same: "Do I go on foot, or can I take the bike?" The bike turned
every chore into an adventure.
The Miracle at the Post Office
My reputation for "outstanding absent
mindedness" was already a well-established family joke, but one incident made
it legendary.
My mother had tasked me with mailing a
registered letter with an acknowledgment due, a serious errand. Naturally, I
took the bicycle for the short 250-meter trip to the main post office. I parked
it outside, went in, completed the task, and then, driven by pure habit, simply
walked home. The bicycle stood
there, unlocked and forgotten, through the rest of the day and the entire
night. It wasn't until the next morning that my younger brother raised the
alarm: Where is the bike? The realization
hit me like a physical blow. I ran back to the post office, my heart pounding,
expecting to find an empty space where our Iron Horse had been parked all day
& night. But there it was, hiding in plain sight among the fresh crowd of
the next day's bicycles. In the honest, busy atmosphere of the Ambala post
office, no one had touched it. I brought it home to a chorus of raised eyebrows
and relieved smiles, adding yet another feather in my cap of forgetfulness.
The
Architecture of Growth
Our mother was a homemaker in the
truest sense of the world; she didn’t just keep a house; she engineered a
future for us. While her primary role was at the heart of our home, her
secondary title as a housewife was defined by a quiet, fierce frugality. She
pinched pennies and managed "fronts" with a singular goal: ensuring
we received the kind of education that came with expensive boarding school
crests. The cost of those uniforms and heavy winter clothes could have been a
burden, but Mother turned it into a craft. Our tailor was instructed not just
to sew, but to provide for the unknown. Every garment arrived with an internal
architecture of hidden potential, generous margins of hems and deep,
tucked-away seams designed for future loosening.
The
Eight-Year Skirt
Nothing illustrated this better than
my sister’s winter skirt. It was a masterpiece of longevity that lasted her
entire eight-year school term. Years 1–4: Each year, like a ritual of the
changing seasons, one hidden hem would be unfolded to meet her growing height. Years
5–8: Once the hem reached its limit, the work moved upward. The shoulder straps
were let out, inch by inch, year by year. We watched that skirt evolve in
real-time. You could see the fabric maturing alongside her; as the girl inside
grew taller, the skirt grew longer to match. It was more than just wool and
thread—it was a testament to a mother who made sure we never outgrew her love
or her ambition for us. That
adds a layer of shared history to the wardrobe, it wasn’t just about the
clothes growing with the person, but the person growing into the clothes
of those who came before. In a boarding school setting, those hand-me-downs
probably felt like a baton being passed.
The
Hand-Me-Down Heritage
While my sister’s skirts were
engineered to expand, the boys’ wardrobe followed a different law of physics:
the hand-me-down. Our clothes didn't just have margins; they had a lineage.
Brotherhood of the Blazer
A jacket wasn't just a piece of school
uniform; it was a vessel of history. By the time a blazer reached the youngest
of us, the elbows might have been a bit thinner and the fabric a little softer,
but it carried the residual scent of older brothers and the weight of their
previous terms. The Fit: We started our years slightly swallowed by oversized
shoulders and rolled-up sleeves, waiting for our frames to finally
"claim" the garment. The Hand-Off: There was a practical,
unsentimental hand-off every season. As the elder brother hit a growth spurt
that even our tailor’s "generous margins" couldn't accommodate, the
clothes moved down the line. Mother’s system meant that nothing was ever truly
new or old, it was simply "ours." We were a walking sequence of
growth; you could look at the line of us and see the same coat at three
different stages of a boy's life. A family that was incredibly tight-knit and
resourceful. It suggests that while you were at an "expensive"
school, you carried a very grounded, practical sense of self with you.
The
Ritual of the Wash
If our clothes were built for longevity by the tailor, they were maintained with military precision by the washerwoman. This was the weekly "battle of the linens," a process that required as much logistical planning as a factory floor. The washerwoman didn't just wash; she reclaimed. She would arrive at the house, a formidable figure, ready to tackle the mountain of school uniforms and heavy boarding school linens. My mother, the "Homemaker-First," oversaw this with a keen eye for detail. Every garment was inspected, not just for dirt, but for those "generous margins" of the hems. The Mechanics of washing, the process was a physical symphony. First the Sorting, Separating the rugged boys' hand-me-downs from my sister's multi-year skirts. Then the Scrubbing, the rhythmic sound of the beating stone, where the "stone-dull" stains of school life were hammered away. Next the Starching of uniforms, which had to be crisp, stiff enough to stand on their own, symbolizing the discipline of the schools my mother had worked so hard to send us to. Watching her work was perhaps my first lesson in process management. Every drop of water and every bar of soap was accounted for. Just as the metal piece in my uncle’s mechanical vice needed the right angle, the clothes required the right pressure and technique to survive the years.
THE HAIR CUT RITUAL
When the doctor needed a haircut, the
family’s domesticated, obedient barber was summoned on a house call, traveling
from the Regiment bazaar to our home in the Saddar bazaar. Hygiene was
paramount: before the barber could begin his work, his tools, the clippers,
combs, and scissors, were subjected to a thorough wash in Dettol-infused water.
Only after this ritual of cleansing were the father and his three sons
permitted to receive their safe, orderly haircuts, with sanitized front aprons
supplied by our mother.
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