Engineering a Life

by Krishan K. Bedi

  Chapter 21

  I arrived in New Delhi on November 13, 1983. Raj and the boys had moved to India in July so the kids could start school at the beginning of the school year. Rajan was in first grade, Christopher was in fourth grade, and Subhash was just starting middle school. They attended Delhi Public School, a school with a good reputation. The Goels helped get them accepted on such short notice.

  The car driven by our chauffeur brought Raj and the kids to the airport to meet me. Raj hugged me tightly, and the kids jumped up and down, wrapping me with hugs and shouting out loud. I hugged each of them, but to Rajan, I gave the biggest hug of all, lifting him off the ground and holding him in my arms.

  Being so far from my family the past four months had been a trial. During that time, I struggled to sell my properties, finding it necessary to sell them for much less than their worth before my departure to India. Losing these investments and watching my money go down the drain was almost more than I could handle. On top of it, my cousin Raj Dev Bedi called after he returned from a visit to India with the news that my entire family had contracted malaria. “Why are you in the US and not in India taking care of your family?” my cousin chided. My wife, not wanting me to worry, had not said a word about it.

  I broke down and cried that day. Shutting myself in my bedroom, I fell to my knees and cried out to God in anguish. At one time, my net worth had been $125,000, and now, although I still had $30,000 in a 401K plan, I had barely $3000 in cash. My properties were not selling for the prices I had hoped for, and now I feared for my family, knowing it was my fault they were in India, instead of in America where malaria was not a threat.

  I would wake up every morning, drag myself to the pictures of my Guruji and Lord Krishna set up on a table, and fall to my knees, crying out to God. Tears of desperation flowed down my cheeks, and for the next fifteen minutes, I wept. Please God, please help me, I said over and over in my heart. After saying the Gayatri Mantra, I wiped the tears from my face and resolved to put my best foot forward. No one else could help me, and so no one else would see my tears.

  Now my family was well, and I was finally in India. As the chauffeur drove us to our house, I tried my best to look forward and put on a cheerful face for my family. Raj warned me about the house D.P. Bakhsi pressured her to choose. “It’s not in the best neighborhood,” she told me, “but it’s the best I could do out of the options they gave me.”

  The chauffeur pulled onto a narrow street in the Masjid Moth area. All the houses were crowded together, and our house looked small and plain with peeling paint and scraggly bushes in front. The chauffeur helped me unload my suitcase and bags from the trunk, and we all entered the house. There was not much furniture inside, just a couch, a table and chairs, and some bedding to tide us over until our custom-built furniture arrived.

  Oh God, what is this? I thought, looking around at the dingy walls and dirty concrete floor. Even though the windows were open to let in the breeze, the air felt stifling hot. I gestured for the chauffeur to set my suitcase and bags in the bedroom, and then I turned around and smiled at Raj. She watched me nervously.

  “This is fine,” I said. “When I’ve been working at the hospital a while, I will have more influence with the Goels. Mr. Bakhsi will not be an obstacle. Then we will find the right house for us.” I hid my true feelings, not wanting Raj to sense my disappointment. She had worked hard to find a house.

  Upon our arrival, a servant prepared tea, and Raj rang the bell to be served. She showed me the bell ringing system connected from the bedrooms to the kitchen. Whenever we needed a glass of water or cup of tea, we could ring the bell and the servant would appear, asking, “What do you need, sir?”

  The next morning, I met with Mr. Mangal at the Goels’ office to discuss the hospital. Afterward, D.P. Bakhsi escorted me to the construction site. The construction team had built a few temporary offices on the site, and one of them was reserved for me. The office contained only a table and chair, nothing more. I was crestfallen at the sight of the tiny, dank office. I could not imagine meeting with staff members and important hospital figures in this confined space. I had hoped my office would resemble Mr. Bakhsi’s spacious office with its large desk, shelves, and comfortable chairs. I hid my distaste, knowing Mr. Bakhsi enjoyed seeing me working in such conditions. He was jealous of the importance given to me, and he failed to hide his dislike.

  Mr. Bakhsi introduced me to the staff—one architect to coordinate construction, a retired colonel in charge of the construction, an accountant, a draftsman, four peons, two secretaries, and a medical doctor just returned from the Middle East. I liked the colonel right away. He had an open, honest nature I could trust. While the staff filled me in on the project’s finances, construction, and architecture, the colonel took me aside, fixing me with a serious expression.

  “There are some elements assigned to this project who might not be honest with you,” he cautioned me. “They might try to pull you down in every effort to make you fail.”

  Mr. Bakhsi came to mind, but were there others too? Puzzled, I simply thanked him and moved on. I was here to do a job, and I planned to do it the way I knew best. Besides, I preferred to have a fresh start with the staff. I would draw my own conclusions.

  Later that day, I met with D.P. Bakhsi. Sitting in his site office, I could look out the window and see the construction workers building the frame of the hospital. It looked like hot, dusty work, and the sound of drills and hammers made its way into D.P. Bakhsi’s tidy office. Mr. Bakhsi sat behind his desk looking at me intently, not with an expression of dislike, but one of boldness, almost bordering on insolence. I already detected friction between him and the colonel, and this was to be confirmed later, but at that moment, there were several factors to discuss.

  “Prior to your arrival, the colonel has been holding weekly meetings with the project staff members,” D.P. Bakhsi said. “Now that you are here, you should hold the meetings.”

  I nodded my head. In a way, it made sense, but at the same time, it was obvious he was attempting to create friction between the colonel and me. Nevertheless, I spoke to the colonel about it, and he said it would be okay. “Bedi Saheb, just to be sure,” he said, “I am the project director of construction, and any issues related to construction you should communicate with me.”

  “Yes, I will make sure to do so, Colonel Saheb,” I said. With that, I gave him a firm handshake, a friendly yet professional gesture to say I meant no ill will.

  After being in Delhi for a month, I held my first meeting with the organizations associated with the hospital project. To my annoyance, people arrived thirty minutes to an hour late. Right away, I established a few rules, the first rule being that everyone must arrive on time, and we would start the meeting at the scheduled time. Second, we must listen to each other, and only one person could talk at a time. “There will be no meetings going on within the meeting,” I said. If we were going to accomplish anything, the meetings needed order and discipline.

  During the first few months, I toured several hospitals in Bombay and Madras (now known as Chennai), in order to familiarize myself with healthcare facilities in India. When I returned to New Delhi, I tried to conduct business in my small office at Nehru Place. This was more difficult than I anticipated. First of all, there was no phone. Second, I could not hold meetings with anyone because of the room’s size. To make phone calls and talk to people, I used D.P. Bakhsi’s office, feeling uncomfortable because he was supposed to be working for me. Since Z.M. Goel was a busy man, most of my communication was with Mr. Arun Mangal. One day, I proposed to Mr. Mangal the idea of moving from my much smaller office into D.P. Bakhsi’s office, and he could find another office in the Nehru Place building. I also talked to D.P. Bakhsi about it, and while he didn’t outright say no to me, I could tell he did not want to move.

  In the end, Z.M. Goel gave me the go-ahead, and I moved into the nicer, more spacious office. D.P. Bakhsi did not appreciate my pushing him out of the office
. He was considered a big man in his profession, and since he was dealing in finances, everyone was afraid of him, especially because he pushed his weight around and usually got what he wanted. He felt I had undermined him in front of his staff by taking over his office.

  This was simply the way things should be. As executive director, a title I requested in place of “administrator,” I couldn’t let D.P. Bakhsi control me. It seemed only fair that I should have an office to conduct business in, since I was in charge of the entire hospital, not just one area of it. To D.P. Bakhsi, my position and responsibilities did not matter. From that point on, whatever I tried to accomplish, he found a way to interfere.

  The first week of January 1984, my family and I moved into a house located at 333 East of Kailash. We lived on the second floor, and an American man who worked with Goels Sterling Drug lived on the first floor. The second floor had three bedrooms and was clean and well-furnished. The third bedroom was located above us, and there was a staircase to the roof with a table and chairs. We felt lucky to live in a nicer house, and having an American living below increased the status of our new home.

  After a couple of months in India, I sensed the financing of the hospital wasn’t coming through. The State Bank of India rejected the initial proposal, forcing the Goels to scale back the project to a 350-bed facility. But when the papers were prepared, the project was still not financially viable. The Goels arranged for me to meet with the minister of health, explain the scope of the project, and plead our case. I also met with Pranabh Mukherjee, the minister of finance who was also the right hand man to Prime Minister Indira Gandhi.

  As the months passed, I became more discouraged. The funding for the hospital was not coming in, and what had seemed like a sure thing was now full of uncertainty. A few weeks earlier, I’d spoken with Mr. Gilreath to follow up on my financial matters—the bills needing to be paid in the States as well as house payments that needed to be deposited to our accounts there. I casually said, “Maybe I should come back. The project is not going as planned.” However, Mr. Gilreath only sympathized with me and did not give any indication that I would get my job back if I returned. I decided to continue working hard to see if the project would still come through.

  The entire time, I also dealt with the politics of seven cousin-brothers and the competition and jealousies arising between them. Even though Z.M. Goel was managing director of the project, the other cousin-brothers were also members of the board. G.B. Goel, for instance, wanted to be the managing director, and his father, Gobind Lal, also wanted him to be in charge. There was a lack of professionalism and no organized structure. The Goels did not show as much interest in the project as they should if they wanted it to be a success. In fact, it was extremely difficult for me to meet with Z.M. Goel on a regular basis to give him updates on our progress, financial or otherwise.

  The Goels scaled back the project to 200 beds, and we still weren’t getting loan approvals. D.P. Bakhsi was the director of finances and had played a major part in getting the loans approved. Now he was a failure. He only did the required amount of work, not putting his heart and soul into it. Sometimes it seemed he was spoiling the project, throwing in a monkey wrench. He wanted the colonel out, resenting him because the colonel threw him out of a meeting, telling Z.M. Goel he did not want Bakhsi coming to the construction site at all. I dealt the best I could with these obstacles and controversies, hoping this project would somehow come out on top.

  In India, bugs and mosquitoes flourished at our house on East of Kailash. The only spray available to kill insects was DDT, a chemical spray banned in the US. I hesitated to spray DDT, but the bug problem worsened until I had no choice. The night after we sprayed, Rajan’s breathing became heavy and labored. We took him to a hospital for treatment, and I felt deep remorse for exposing Rajan to harmful chemicals. The environment in India was twenty years behind the US, and in times like these, I wondered why I had brought my family to India. Environmental dangers lurked all around us, not to mention the traffic, which only added to the stress and chaos.

  During the summer months, the temperature reached over one hundred ten degrees, and sometimes the air conditioners would shut down because it was so hot. The children tossed and turned sleeplessly in their hot rooms, so I sprinkled cold water on their sheets each night. My parents and I did the same thing when I lived in Malaudh. The water creates a cooling effect on the body when air blows on it. As I sprinkled water on my sons’ beds, I couldn’t help thinking to myself, After twenty years of living in the US in houses with central air, here I am in New Delhi, creating a cooling environment just as my parents and I had done in Malaudh. It was the only effective way to keep cool at night, and at times, Christopher said he felt like he was sleeping in a bucket of water.

  As always, Rajan’s health challenges lay heavy on my heart. I did not share all my son’s medical challenges with my relatives and parents because it would worry them tremendously. His testes had not descended, and there was still concern over his kidneys and his small stature, but Rajan looked healthy and normal. He brought joy into our lives just by his presence.

  In April 1984, I decided it was time to go to the Naina Devi temple. Years earlier, I made a pledge to Naina Devi, a goddess of Hindu mythology: “If you keep Rajan well during his surgeries, I will come to the temple and do pushups across the 1.5 mile distance up the hill to your first gate.”

  There are many phrases, called jaikaras, chanted over and over by people who come to Naina Devi with their requests. A common one is “Jai Mata Di,” meaning, “You fulfill everybody’s wish.” On the appointed day, I would lie down at the beginning of the path with my arms stretched forward, and I would mark the dirt at the point my fingers reached. While saying my own jaikara in Hindi, “Please accept my plea,” I would stand up, move to the mark in the dirt, and lay down again, still chanting my chosen jaikara. This ritual was called a Dandhot, and I would repeat it over and over until I reached the temple gate.

  When I arrived at the temple with my wife, my sons, and my parents, only Raj knew what I planned to do at the temple site. Neither my parents nor my sons knew anything. It was a matter I kept close to my heart, knowing I must be strong and determined to accomplish the strenuous feat.

  We arrived at the parking lot two miles away from the Naina Devi temple. The steep steps leading up to the temple gates were unmistakable. I could see devoted worshipers climbing to the top. On either side of the steps, there were souvenir shops selling religious items. As my family members got out of the car and stretched, I tied a red bandana around my head, a symbol of a devotee of Naina Devi. A few minutes later, we walked together to the winding pathway that led up the hill and through the trees. My sons, who had been noisy and talkative in the car, were now quiet and observant, curious to see what would happen next. Before beginning our walk to the temple, we hired an Indian boy to carry Rajan on his back because Rajan was small and would have trouble walking up such a steep hill in his orthopedic shoes.

  The steep path zigzagged, making the ascent much longer. My parents were amazed I was doing the Dandhot ritual, and they prayed for me to successfully complete it. As I ascended the hill, my mother and father spoke encouraging words to me while Raj and the kids walked a few steps behind. Thirty minutes later, I reached the steps where I took a short break. There were more than 450 steep steps, and since my mother could not walk up them, we hired two men to carry her in a palki, a chair roped to a long, thick wooden rod. With the men on each side of the rod, they began to carry her.

  Gathering my strength and taking a deep breath, I climbed the steps in the same manner I climbed the hill. Other people were walking up the steps at the same time, and they looked toward me. Many of them chanted with me to help fulfill my vow. Others spoke encouraging words, saying, “You can do it. Not much farther to go.” The sun blazed hot on the concrete and marble steps. Subhash and Christopher walked behind me. Raj walked to my left, and the boy carrying Rajan was on my right. Rajan, se
ven years old, was too young to know that my prayers were for him, but I prayed all the harder, chanting until my throat felt raw. My lips were parched, and my bandana soaked the sweat from my forehead. I prayed for his health with all my might, and at the very last step, I remained prostrate a moment longer, saying my jaikara with as much feeling as I could muster. Tired and my shirt soaked with sweat, I smiled as I came slowly to my feet. I made it to the top, finally accomplishing what only the truest devotees would do as I fixated on the promise of my heart.

  The Indian boy set Rajan on the ground, and the two men helped my mother out of the palki. Together, my family and I entered the temple, where I stood in front of the statue, praying, “Please accept my pledge and continue to protect and provide good health to Rajan.” It had been a good day, one of hope and joy, and despite the troubles Rajan faced, I knew his life would be blessed.

  In May 1984, New Delhi’s temperature rose to a sweltering 120 degrees. During this time, Rajan would come home from school red-faced and sweaty. Without saying a word, he would go straight to the bedroom he shared with his brothers and sit in front of the A/C. When mealtime came, he was uninterested in any food we gave him, and he would go to bed in the evenings having eaten next to nothing. After a few days of this pattern, Raj and I became worried. He was not a big eater to begin with, but now he was losing weight. Looking weak and pale, he walked slowly, dragging his feet.

  One day, I called a pediatrician and told him of my son’s symptoms. He told me to bring Rajan to his office the following Monday.

  “My son is losing weight and has not eaten for the last four days,” I said, desperation creeping into my voice. “I would like to bring him to you today.”