The secretary did not look convinced and asked me to follow him. We went up a flight of stairs to the CM’s office.
The CM was on a stroll down the corridor with his ministers. The personal secretary went up to him and whispered something in his ears. I heard Chandrababu Naidu asking the PS, ‘Where is he? I will meet him immediately!’ He left the ministers behind and took me inside. I told the chief minister that I heard his speech in Bengaluru and candidly added that we had finally chosen Hyderabad over Chennai for investment because we thought what he was doing in Andhra and in Hyderabad were great.
Chandrababu Naidu said, ‘That’s fantastic! Tell me what support you need from me.’ ‘Mr. Naidu,’ I said, ‘the first thing I want is a telephone.’ The new millennium had just dawned but it still took a long while to get a landline connection. The intervention of a VIP alone could speed up the process. Besides, a telephone was an absolute necessity for our business. Cellphones had made an appearance but the networks were not yet India-wide and far from reliable. The chief minister called his personal secretary and asked him to have the telephone department give us three landline connections.
I also asked him for hangar space at Hyderabad Airport for parking, maintenance, storing tools and equipment. He gave instructions to that effect. This was great help because hangar space was not available at Hyderabad Airport unless you were Indian Airlines. To wrap up, I said he should use my helicopters and encourage me till the private sector demand for helicopters grew. Without a blink, he said that the government helicopter, now grounded for maintenance, would be given to the state police department to tackle the Naxal menace and that he would use my helicopter.
I invited Mr Naidu to inaugurate our helicopter base in Hyderabad. I said we would organize it on a day when he needed to travel the state. He willingly agreed.
We left the secretariat, thrilled to the core and decided not to check in to a hotel and found ourselves in an apartment instead. We bought mattresses to sleep on, drank rum and Coke, and feasted on Hyderabadi biryani in toast of our success. The Hyderabad base was set up.
Ten days later we returned to inaugurate our Hyderabad operations. Chandrababu Naidu flagged off the service and we received national and regional media coverage. Naidu was true to his word and was for three consecutive years our biggest customer, flying twenty hours or so a month. The corporate sector utilized the balance of flying hours, and we soon broke even. Chandrababu Naidu became a personal friend of mine. I admired his vision and determination to build a new Andhra Pradesh.
After setting up our Andhra Pradesh operations, we had opportunities to expand further northwards. The first call from the north, came from the secretariat of the governor of Jammu and Kashmir. The governor, had been a former inspector general of police in the state. The call was about a helicopter service to the holy shrine of Vaishno Devi, at about 2500 metres above the sea level. Vaishno Devi enjoys a vast devotee following as does Tirupati in the south.
Vaishno Devi, together with Amarnath and Mansarovar, is one of the most ancient centres of Hindu pilgrimage. Interestingly, a large part of the support infrastructure is provided by Muslims: transport (especially ponies and mules), food and accommodation, and accessories for the pilgrimage, including sacred offerings. Local Muslim families have set up shops where tourists can buy souvenirs, talismans, and other things. In commerce there is no religion. My involvement with the silk industry revealed this.
I would like to digress here to narrate a poignant story. At one point in time I used to rear silkworm cocoons and sell them in the market. Those were hard days. When the silkworms became cocoons we put them in lidded bamboo baskets and took them from Javagal to Ramanagaram in crowded buses.
On one occasion, the bus in which we were travelling arrived at the Bangalore bus station sometime after midnight. We wanted to reach Ramanagaram before dawn. So we took an auto-rickshaw to a private bus stand in Kalasipalyam near City Market. Private buses plied odd hours those days. We reached Ramanagaram at daybreak but found the entire town deserted and shops closed. It looked like a ghost town. We learnt that there had been communal disturbances in the town and a curfew had been imposed. We had no hope of finding a reeler to buy our cocoons. There were many like us who had arrived in buses with their cocoons. But without a buyer we were forced to dump the cocoons by the roadside. Yellow cocoons lay in piles upon piles along the road. It was a huge waste, a loss we would find very difficult to recoup. Thousands of farmers were in despair. With nowhere to go for succour, they faced ruin.
The silk supply chain comprises a frail ecology of mutual dependencies, a frail ecology of communal harmony. The supply chain is made up of players belonging to different communities. Harmony is therefore of essence for its survival. The farmer who rears silkworm cocoons is typically a Hindu. For the silk farmer the reeler is god. Without the reeler his cocoon has no value. And the reeler – the craftsman who draws the silk yarn – is typically a Muslim in this part of the country. For the reeler, the weaver is god. And the weaver, drawn from many weaver castes, is commonly a Hindu. For the weaver of the silken fabric, the wholesaler is god. The wholesaler is largely a Marwari, a Jain. The wholesaler sells the sari or fabric to his god, the retailer who is principally from the Vysya community – a Shetty, Chetty, Gupta and so on. The retailers depend on the ocean of humanity – a multitude of gods – for their livelihood: the consumers. The society is like the sari. Every thread represents a different community. The sari is metaphorically as rich in its texture and as delicate as the society that has produced it and will wear it.
Coming back to Vaishno Devi, the pilgrimage begins at a village called Katra, about 600 metres above sea level and 55 km from Jammu in the plains. It is a steep climb from there to Mata Vaishno Devi. Most pilgrims trek up the hill or get a pony or mule ride. The less able sit in palanquins and are carried up. Pawan Hans used to operate a helicopter service that picked up pilgrims from a helipad in Katra and dropped them at the foot of the shrine. Only those who were in a rush, or were very ill, or had a physical disadvantage, used this mode of transport. Most pilgrims, even those who would normally find it quite a task to climb a few steps at home, chose to walk all the way.
Pawan Hans had discontinued its helicopter service when I received the call. There had been an accident and the company had found it difficult to sustain the service. Regular users had felt let down by it and had exerted pressure on the governor to resume the service.
The caller was the governor’s principle secretary, Arun Kumar, who was also secretary of the Shrine Board. He invited me for a meeting with the governor, which I accepted and went over to Jammu.
Six million pilgrims throng Vaishno Devi shrine every year. There is such a rush during peak season that pilgrims have to wait for a couple of days for their turn to trek up the mountain. People from all walks of life undertake the pilgrimage.
The governor came straight to the point. ‘Captain, we would like you to take up this helicopter service!’ My greatest concern was terrorism which was at its peak. Sensing my reluctance, the governor said the venture was a Hindu–Muslim one and would be free from terrorism. He would not take any chances however, and assured me complete security for the operations.
I needed some time to think it over. The opportunity was lucrative; would help build brand image; it was a service to the community and would be well received. I spoke to the pilots in the company, many of whom had flown in Jammu and Kashmir. There was no compulsion but would they be willing to fly to Vaishno Devi? The pilots were unanimous in their enthusiasm for the venture.
We signed the contract and the governor inaugurated the new service. The operation was a runaway success from the very outset. Soon we began carrying about a thousand pilgrims a day. Letters of appreciation and gratitude poured in from across the country.
Capt. Preetham Philip was a founding member of Deccan Aviation, and had set up our offshore operations. He had earlier been flying for Bristow Helicopters (later Malaysian He
licopters) in Malaysia and prepared a safety manual for one of their clients, which was adopted by Bristow Malaysia and Shell.
Preetham Philip camped at Vaishno Devi and set up standard operational procedure (SOP) for the operation of the flights. We positioned two helicopters at the Katra base camp and operated a shuttle from base camp to the shrine and back. Each shuttle flight carries four to five pilgrims. The success at Vaishno Devi led to a contract with the Amarnath Shrine to ferry pilgrims from the Baltal base camp, beyond Srinagar, to the caves at over 4500 metres up the mountain.
Deccan added new operational nodes as we went along. We set up base in Sri Lanka with local partners, our first overseas venture. It is a 52:48 split investment, featuring a helicopter and a small plane. The team members of Deccan—every one of them—have had a role in the success the company enjoys today. They scrounged every rupee, managed with frugal resources, kept expenses to the minimum, and worked zealously night and day and around the year for the company. Deccan became profitable within a year and remains profitable to this day.
In addition to operations in Bengaluru and Hyderabad, we added Mumbai, Delhi, and Bhubaneshwar where we offer regular services. From our bases in Surat and Rajahmundry we provide support for offshore oil exploration and production. The company has become synonymous with helicopter charters in India.
Kaavya Returns
In time I had become hostage to the cold logic of business. My natural urge for the aesthetic and the sentimental had become subject to the yen for profitability. Life has however its ways of making us listen to what lies hidden deep within each of us. It came in the form of a girl’s voice. I could not recognize it initially, but there was a hint of persistence in her voice when she said ‘Sir, I am Kaavya, the girl who wanted a helicopter for her father.’
Things had happened since we last spoke. Kaavya had married and her husband was lending her a hand. Together, the two would be able to gift a helicopter ride to her father. I assured her that the offer stood and scripted a drama for her. I told Kaavya, ‘This is what we do. We fly you to Madikeri. You walk into the house. You ask your father to come out for a drive. When he agrees we will surprise him with our helicopter. In addition, we will fly you to the Kaveri river.’ She loved the idea.
We took Kaavya’s mother and sister into confidence. They had packed and kept her father’s travel bags ready. The father was happily surprised by the daughter’s sudden and unannounced visit. Kaavya and her husband followed the script. They invited the father outside and he saw the helicopter.
‘He almost had a heart attack and I almost lost my father,’ she said later, laughing. They cut cake in mid-flight. Her father had forgotten it was his birthday. We flew them to the Kaveri Fishing Camp. The Kaveri river is of special religious significance for the people of Coorg. From the fishing camp, the company flew to Bengaluru.
There was more food for the soul as we went along. A man called me who had a heavy Indian–American accent. He was calling from the US and his name was Manjunath. ‘Did we hire out helicopters?’ he asked. ‘That is part of what we do,’ I said. Manjunath wanted a helicopter to land right in front of his village house. He wanted us to pick up his parents and aunt and fly them to Chikmagalur and then fly them back.
Manjunath’s village is close to Belur. We have a helipad near the temple in Belur. I said we would land the helicopter at the helipad. If Manjunath could fetch his parents and aunt to the helipad, we could take off from there. Making a landing in a village was cumbersome.
Manjunath was adamant. He did not care how much it cost. The helicopter would land in a paddy-field near his village house. He would meet all the costs. But why was he so insistent that we land in his village?
Manjunath comes from a small village in Hassan district. His father was a very poor farmer, but poverty did not stop his father from encouraging and supporting his son’s education. A bright student, the son scored high marks throughout school and eventually got entrance in an engineering college. His father could not afford even the relatively small sum needed to pay for higher education in those days. He went around asking for a loan. He went to wealthy farmers and to money-lenders in the village but returned empty-handed. One day, Manjunath and his father walked into a gathering of the village elders around a pipal tree. A wag turned to Manjunath’s father and said, ‘Don’t waste your money. Your son will be better off herding cattle,’ and this led to general laughter. The sensitive youth felt deeply embarrassed by these flippant remarks.
He took a solemn oath never to set foot in the village until he had made something of his life and was determined to live his pledge. His father somehow scraped together resources by borrowing and mortgaging whatever he had and put him through engineering college. Manjunath went on to do his master’s in the US, and then joined General Motors and rose to become head of the computer aided designs and systems lab for a division.
We flew Manjunath to his village and picked up his parents and aunt. They were visibly taken aback and were at a loss of words at the son’s sudden visit and their tryst with the helicopter. The rest of the village looked on with wide-eyed astonishment. It was a sweet and very positive way of seeking revenge for the humiliation the boy had faced from the village elders, years earlier.
Stories like these were repeatedly lapped up by the media. As a result of the media coverage, Manjunath found himself a bride and took her with him on his journey back to the US.
10
It is not that I am a genius; I am infinitely more curious and I stay with the problem longer.
—Albert Einstein
Air Deccan: The Beginning of a Low-cost Airline
W
e inducted the Pilatus and busied ourselves building the helicopter service network. A wind of change had begun to waft across India, starting out as a gentle, subtle breeze and blowing with greater urgency as years passed. People expected change and novelty; they had begun to expect better standards of goods and services. They were seeing new possibilities. This applied to our helicopter business too. Customers wanted different; they wanted better and more. Chandrababu Naidu was quite succinct in his articulation of this altered consumer mindset. He posed this question to me: ‘Why must a helicopter be a one-off service? Why not start a regular service to Vijayawada?’
Naidu had given the lead and other politicians took the cue. They began asking for regular helicopter flights to their constituencies, typically second-and third-tier cities like Hubli, Belgaum, Vijayawada, and Rajahmundry. It was not possible to accede to their requests because of the cost dynamics. Fare per seat, even at full occupancy, would be two to three times that for business class seats on an airline. That would not work out. It, however, got me thinking.
Things moved in a different direction when S.M. Krishna, chief minister of Karnataka, wanted to visit a temple near Palani but not in a helicopter. He said chopper journeys made him feel uncomfortable. Could I fly him by plane? I consulted my pilots. They said that they could fly him in the Pilatus to Madurai or Coimbatore. From there he would have to undertake a road journey to Palani. The road trip would take two or three hours, and that wouldn’t solve the problem.
Rahul Singh Rawal, one of our young pilots, brought me an old Survey of India map. The map was drawn by British surveyors and is still used by the Indian Army and Air Force. Rahul identified a small airfield on the map located near Palani in a place called Dindigul. That came as a pleasant surprise! I asked Rahul to travel to the airfield marked on the map and undertake a ground recce.
Rahul hired a cab and drove to Dindigul armed with a GPS accompanied by a technician. Having arrived there he called me to report excitedly that the airfield actually existed. ‘It looks fine to me,’ he went on. ‘There are one or two anthills on the field. I see some stray cattle grazing on the grass. Some cleaning up will make it perfect for landing.’ That was great news for Deccan, and the chief minister. We already flew the Pilatus to Bellary and Mysore, landing on grass strips. We should now be ab
le to fly the Pilatus to Dindigul and land it there. I asked Rahul to get in touch with the owner of the land.
The airstrip belonged to a man who owned a textile mill that had been set up by the British. Rahul asked the owner if he would help us land the chief minister on his airstrip. The owner said it would be a great pleasure and, as often happens in rural India, he went out of his way to help. He brought in workers to clean up the place and get the runway ready.
I called up S.M. Krishna and said we could now land him close to the temple.
Helicopters are best suited for short-haul flights over uncharted terrain. The Pilatus, on the other hand, is better suited for relatively longer routes provided there is a landing patch. The African experience had given me great confidence, having demonstrated that we could land a Pilatus on a grass strip.
Now that we had helicopters and the Pilatus, our operational reach had become extended. We wanted potential customers to know the travel options we could now offer them. We began an advertisement campaign. It was not a product advertisement but a tourism one, and featured a girl and a helicopter on an island, presumably a remote one. It showed the girl fishing on the island with the helicopter in the background. The copy simply said: ‘If it’s on the map, we’ll get you there.’
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