Pinto Has An Idea

by Rajeev Saxena

  Alok said, ‘You visited the exhibition last year. Don’t you remember how many questions you asked the participants?’

  Pinto was a bit nervous, ‘Asking questions is one thing, actually participating is another.’

  He thought back to the event of the previous year. He had spent his time trying to trip up the participants.

  Pinto had asked one of them, ‘What’s your project?’

  ‘It’s instant cooking gas. In one bottle, I have petrol, another bottle is filled with brine solution. I pump air into the petrol, the vapours are passed through the brine so that it reduces inflammability. You can use this gas in stoves.’

  Back in those days, nobody cared how dangerous it was to carry petrol around in a glass bottle in a school lab.

  Pinto was prompt in firing the question, ‘Well, why would you not pump in oxygen instead of air?’

  ‘Bhai, I don’t know, I just copied it from the Science Today magazine. You tell me.’

  ‘It’s simple. If you want to use it for cooking, the only practical solution is to pass in air as it’s available everywhere, not oxygen as you’ll need to first get an oxygen cylinder.’

  Pinto’s father Ram just gave a little guidance but a lot of motivation. ‘Whatever you do, be original,’ he advised.

  So Pinto decided, ‘Let me be really original.’

  He borrowed a Leclanche cell, voltmeter and ammeter from Mr Yadav. The teacher asked with curiosity, ‘What experiments do you need it for?’

  Pinto answered, ‘I just want to try a different solution in the cell for the science project to see whether it’d be cheaper to produce electricity that way.’

  Mr Yadav encouraged him. ‘Son! I’m proud of you. Feel free to ask if you need anything else.’

  Pinto, filled with excitement, came home running with the Leclanché cell. He strictly warned his younger sister, ‘Pummy, I got this from the school lab. Do not touch It. It’s really expensive.’ She was curious, ‘Expensive? This glass jar and some metal piece inside?’ Pinto explained, ‘It’s not an ordinary jar. This is a battery we use in the lab. It uses ammonium chloride as an electrolyte. I’ll use it for my science project. You know, you can actually run a flashlight on this?’

  Pummy looked amazed. ‘Interesting! This solution actually generates enough electricity to light a torch? I can hardly believe it!’ Pinto revelled in her admiration.

  Pinto tried different solutions in the place of electrolyte… liquid mud, pond water and also fruit juice.

  All of a sudden, he wondered, ‘What would happen if I used urine as the electrolyte?’

  Pinto collected his own urine, poured it into the container of the Leclanché cell and dipped two electrodes into it. Bingo! To his delight, the voltage output was approximately 1.5 volts—which was the output of a normal cell.

  It was getting late in the evening and Rita called out to him, ‘Crazy fellow, don’t you have school tomorrow? Have dinner and go to bed.’ Pinto obeyed. But he thought about the experiment all the time, during dinner and even when he was brushing his teeth. In the night he had a dream. Sheikh Chilli (a Sufi saint and a character in an Indian folk tale who dreams big but does nothing), appeared before him. ‘You are a genius,’ the saint told him. During the days of the Moghul empire, I gave so many great ideas to the public, but they only made fun of me. I’ll not let that happen to you.’

  Pinto asked, ‘What should I do, Sheikh Chilli Saheb?’

  Sheikh Chilli was in good form. ‘Well!’ he began. ‘You need to change the plumbing in your bathroom to collect more urine in a big vessel. So that you have electricity backup all the time.’

  Though Pinto was dreaming, he was still in his senses. ‘But the electricity will still be very little,’ he pointed out.

  Sheikh Chilli was sarcastic. ‘I thought you had all the qualities I did to think big. But you are disappointing me. Think about the scale. Every household and shopkeeper would be using this device. It’ll change how India urinates.’

  ‘Sir, would you please explain?’ requested a confused Pinto.

  Now Sheikh Chilli was happy. ‘Of course, my son,’ he said graciously. ‘I don’t charge for advice. You know, several people pee on the streets, out in the open, due to lack of public urinals. This was a problem during Moghul times, too, but I could not find a solution then. Shopkeepers have urinals but restrict the public from using them; some won’t allow even their customers to use them in the fear that they’d dirty them. Once shopkeepers have this device they will be welcoming users instead! “Please come to my shop,” they’d invite their customers, “and it doesn’t matter if you buy something or not, drink some water and feel free to use our toilet.”’

  Pinto woke up. ‘I never thought of that!’ he exclaimed to himself.

  But Pinto was only building castles in the air. All of his plans were shattered when he connected a small bulb and it didn’t light up. He went to Alok. The older boy suggested, ‘I’ve a better ammeter, let’s measure the current.’

  Alok got excited though there proved no reason to be. ‘I knew it,’ he said in disappointment. ‘The problem is that the current is only in milliamperes. It can’t light a bulb.’

  A disheartened Pinto went back to his teacher, Mr Yadav, to return the battery and other equipment. The teacher asked casually, ‘Son! How was your experiment?’

  ‘Sir, I didn’t succeed,’ said Pinto.

  Mr Yadav tried to encourage him. ‘I am really pleased that you have such innovative thinking. None of the students so far have even asked about which solution we use in this cell. I am proud of you that you think out of the box. By the way, which solution did you use?’

  ‘Sir, I used my urine,’ Pinto said innocently.

  Mr Yadav couldn’t believe his ears. And regardless of being a science teacher he had a very weak stomach, so the mention of urine was well outside of his comfort zone. He jumped out of his chair. ‘So, you used my electrodes for urine! Stupid fellow, go away, don’t touch me and don’t bring this cell back to the lab.’

  Now, in modern India, people are used to Westernized houses where the toilets are attached to the rooms, but in the traditional setup, people were accustomed to using an outhouse of the main building and did not come into contact with anyone touching human waste of any kind. Mr Yadav’s reaction was natural under the circumstances but turned out to be to Pinto’s advantage since he now owned the equipment without it costing a single penny.

  In the staff room, teachers made fun of Mr Yadav when he told them what had happened. The Sanskrit teacher teased, ‘I’ll not eat with you today.’

  The chemistry lecturer, who was really jealous of Mr Yadav, went one step further. ‘Ravindra’s scolding was fake. He probably got an idea from Pinto and is going to steal it to get an award.’

  They were more jokes. All the teachers loved Pinto.

  His maths teacher, Mr Jaipal Rawat, encouraged him, saying, ‘You should not worry that the bulb didn’t light. In itself, it is a big discovery that urine can move the voltmeter.’ He suggested Pinto present his idea at the science exhibition. That’s what Pinto did—even though Mr Yadav, the main organizer of the exhibition, was not very happy. Pinto’s pitch was, ‘If we had thousands of cells in a series, we could produce electricity enough to light a bulb.’ The idea was highly appreciated and he won a gold medal for it.

  But at the same time, Pinto was faced with a strange problem.

  In the exhibition, Alok’s booth was next to Pinto. He wondered, ‘Why are so many girls coming to Pinto’s booth?’

  Pinto was equally curious. ‘Hey, Alok,’ he asked the senior schoolmate, ‘I’ve never talked to a girl after my 5th grade. Help me.’

  Alok smiled, ‘Last year you were a hero at asking questions. Now, you are at the receiving end.’ But Alok admitted being surprised. ‘Yaar,’ he marvelled, ‘I have never seen girls and boys talking to each other during a science exhibition. I know co-eds are different but we are not one of them. How come girls and boy
s are coming together in groups to your booth? See, you used to play the role of the naysayer and grand inquisitor, but today the tables are turned.’

  And Pinto found himself on the uncomfortable end of all the questions asked and pointing fingers. The irony was lost on Pinto who just wanted to be left alone.

  ‘Have you experimented with elephant urine? Maybe tiger urine is the best, but who can get it?’ one girl asked.

  Boys were even more vulgar. They would say things like, ‘We are coming to your place to urinate,’ or, ‘Why does Pinto get 24 x 7 electricity? Because he pees all day.’

  There was a famous slogan popular during the freedom struggle of India: ‘Give me blood and I’ll give you freedom.’

  One student teased Pinto with a variant: ‘Give me urine and I’ll give you power.’

  Alok consoled Pinto, ‘Don’t worry about these guys. They cannot take these experiments seriously. It’s not their fault. We don’t have any infrastructure in our labs. How will they learn?’

  Pinto wondered, ‘Really? I just started 9th grade, and I’ve had no exposure to labs.’

  Alok whispered, because his chemistry teacher was around, ‘You know, the chemistry lab is a total fraud’.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Pinto.

  ‘All the reagents are diluted,’ Alok informed him. ‘Nothing works.’

  ‘But then, how will we learn? How do we pass the practical exam?’

  Alok winked: ‘We are a bunch of innovative folks. There is a nexus among students, teachers, examiner and the lab attendant.’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Pinto curiously. ‘I can’t bear to wait to know all.’

  ‘For a practical examination,’ explained Alok patiently, ‘an examiner is appointed from another city. He gets travelling allowance but he saves the whole thing. Our teacher collects five rupees from each of us and spends that money on booking a good hotel room and food for him. He even arranges a car for the examiner.’

  Pinto began to understand: ‘So, if the examiner is happy, he’ll give you good marks. I get that point, but you have to write something in your answer sheet.’

  ‘Well,’ amplified Alok knowledgeably, ‘the lab attendant writes a code word on the packet of chemical salt which you are supposed to identify. You give him five rupees; he’ll tell you the name. Now you just pretend to perform the experiment for some time and then write all the steps nicely as if you had synthesized it.’

  ‘But what if some higher authority makes a surprise visit, to check whether everything was being done honestly?’ asked Pinto.

  ‘Arre, it’s an open secret, yaar,’ laughed Alok in a superior way. ‘Also, they do start the H2S plant so that everybody comes to know that practical exams are being conducted “genuinely”.’

  Pinto grew more and more fascinated: ‘What’s H2S?’

  Alok: ‘It’s a gas… hydrogen sulphide... smells like shit.’

  Such was the low level of academic environment Pinto grew up in. But it didn’t impact his thought processes and innovative skills. Talent never dies.

  FIVE

  F

  or his summer vacation, Pinto went to Atrauli again. As was expected, he looked for Dauja first. He found him taking out a big jute sack full of corn from his bullock-cart. ‘Can I sit in your bullock-cart?’ Pinto asked him.

  ‘Of course,’ Dauja replied, indicating that Pinto was from his employer’s family and couldn’t be refused. ‘It’s yours only.’

  Pinto was curious, ‘What do you eat in the village?’

  Dauja was illiterate. His innocent response was, ‘Just what you do.’

  Pinto didn’t stop, ‘I heard you guys eat a lot.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ Dauja acknowledged. ‘We work hard in the fields. To tell you the truth, I never count how many rotis I am eating. I make a stack and measure it with my hand span. A couple here and there do not matter.’

  Now Pinto understood why his grandma made thick rotis for Dauja. It was the quantity of wheat that mattered to him, not the the quality of the flatbread.

  ‘What else do you eat other than lunch and dinner? Do you like sweets?’ Pinto wanted to learn everything about village life.

  ‘We like sweets but they are not like yours. Mother earth gives us everything. We make rice pudding with sugarcane juice. Most of our sweets are made of wheatflour and jaggery. One day, I’ll tell you all the recipes.

  ‘Don’t you use milk for sweets?’

  ‘Oh, no. We can’t afford milk.’

  ‘I thought that since there were so many cattle in the countryside, milk would be in plenty.’

  ‘Yes, there are herds of cattle around us, but I don’t have the money to buy a single cow. I don’t complain. I’m happy with what I have. We have so many things to eat. We go to fields, pluck out a bunch of peas, gram and corn, light a fire and roast them. Nothing can compare with those snacks.’

  ‘How do you take the corn from the cob?’ Pinto abruptly changed the direction of the conversation.

  Dauja had a simple answer. ‘We make a pile of dry corn and beat it with a wooden stick. The grain comes away and we collect it.’

  Pinto was a bit disappointed. ‘Why don’t you use a machine?’

  ‘That needs investment.’ Dauja had no interest in introducing stress into his life over such unnecessary matters.

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just come. We’ll go in your bullock-cart.’ Pinto always had fun riding in the cart. They stopped at a carpenter’s shop.

  Pinto walked up to the head carpenter. ‘I want you to make me a wooden tool with a star-shaped hole in it.’

  The carpenter was curious, ‘To do what with?’

  ‘To shuck the corn off the cob.’ Not wanting to prolong the conversation, Pinto almost ignored him.

  The carpenter was a smart guy. ‘Let me tell you something. This will not work. Cobs are of different thickness. You’ll need to keep multiple tools with different-size holes.’

  Pinto’s expression turned to interest. ‘You have a point. You know what? Let’s do something. Let’s instal springs around the edges so that the hole in the tool becomes adjustable.’

  The tool was ready in two hours. Dauja pushed in different sizes of cobs and it worked perfectly.

  Pinto also made an alternate mechanism consisting of big and small wheels connected to a belt. The start tool was attached to the small wheel, and a pedal connected to the big wheel. One would pedal and the tool would begin to rotate.

  And that was how Pinto’s corn kernel-removal machine evolved.

  This machine was Pinto’s first invention. It became widely used, first in his village and then in neighbouring ones. At the age of thirteen, Pinto became an inventor and many people from the surrounding villages came to know of him.

  SIX

  P

  into’s father, Ram, was not a sycophant. He knew he worked hard and well, so he saw no reason to suck up to his seniors. Sometimes his behaviour and ego would seem rude to his bosses, especially if one of them wanted to get something done which was not appropriate. It happened throughout his service, but Ram’s seniors got to understand his style and ignored him because they knew he was morally correct and wouldn’t budge on his stand.

  But this time, fate was not in Ram’s favour. His college principal didn’t like him and Ram was transferred to another district, Orai, which was also in Uttar Pradesh but pretty far from Mainpuri and Atrauli.

  Rita was upset. ‘We were so nicely settled here. We also had contacts, so we were even able to get unlimited stocks of kerosene. Can’t you try to get your transfer cancelled?’

  Ram would argue, ‘Neither do I have the political contacts to get my transfer cancelled nor do I have enough money to pay the bribe. Anyway, I don’t believe in getting things done with a crooked finger.’

  While the discussion was underway, his neighbour Madhav entered and offered his help in cancelling the transfer. Madhav was frank, ‘You teach my son and
he really likes you. I’m doing it for him.’

  Ram thought to himself, ‘If my transfer order does get cancelled, my boss, the principal of the school, is going to resent me. In fact, he’ll be more annoyed with me than he already is. He could harm Pinto as well!’

  Rita, sensing his thoughts, was sarcastic, ‘You used to be very “brave” with your principal.’

  ‘In this case, my decision could affect our son. I cannot endanger his future to suit our convenience. What’s so difficult about starting over in a new town? I don’t need Madhav’s help.’

  In the hot summer of June 1985, the family packed their stuff onto a rented truck and headed out on an eight-hour journey to Orai. This move would become a turning-point in Pinto’s career. Orai is situated between two major cities of Uttar Pradesh, Kanpur and Jhansi. Even though Orai is a small town, just a little bigger than Mainpuri, it is connected with others by both rail and road. It also has two degree colleges.

  In fact, it came as a blessing in disguise for Pinto. People were more serious about education in Orai, and they were even more serious about music and films. Everybody was busy producing some movie or directing one. Most of the time, they’d use just their personal video cameras to make a short movie or documentary. The city had seen some small success stories, as well, in TV serials as well as in Bollywood.

  Ram knew his son’s potential and would often imagine, ‘Pinto will go to an IIT (Indian Institute of Technology – one of the top engineering colleges) one day.’

  Rita would, typically, be skeptical, ‘It is not a doll’s game to get admission to such a prestigious college; more than 100,000 students take the entrance exam, but only 2,000 are selected.’

  Ram would be frustrated. ‘You need to think big,’ he told his wife. ‘I’m sending him for IIT coaching to Kanpur. If he is not selected for the engineering course there, he can attend the local degree college in Orai.’

  Kanpur, located on a bank of the Ganges, is a major railhead and had been a centre of industry in northern India. It was also a major hub of the freedom movement.