Duped in Milan and caught in India
Nylon was the wonder yarn of the 60s that took the garment industry by storm. Cotton was passé. Nylon clothes were lighter, did not show wrinkles or get soiled. These were convenient to wash and you could dispense with ironing. I had the privilege to be a part of the first-ever nylon yarn manufacturing factory established in India in the early 60s.
By 1980, polyester had arrived on the scene, relegating nylon to the second position. However, our management did not want to let go of the old nylon plant machinery, which had been a cash cow for the last two decades, and decided to revamp it. A technology transfer team was to go to Europe to import latest nylon technology. I was part of the team.
For most of us, it was our maiden trip to Europe. Armed with visas for four countries, one fine morning, we boarded the upper deck of an Air India plane in New Delhi and flying high on the wings of Bacchus, arrived at “Leonardo-da-vinci Aeroporti-di-roma” i.e. Rome airport by evening. We were lodged by our hosts at Clusoné, a small village hidden somewhere in the vastness of Alpine forest. With its rain-washed hill roads, shopping plaza and hilltop church, it looked like a mini heaven. The blue of the streams gurgling below bridges built over deep gorges, the gabled roof villas scattered in the hilly terrain and a factory nestled in this setting far removed from the world of heat, dust, smoke, speed and mad rush literally bowled us over. After a string of technical meetings lasting over four days, our hosts gave us a pair of spinnerets consisting of two heavy metal blocks with ultrafine holes for molten nylon to flow into yarn for trials at our plant back home. Each block weighed more than 5kg. While one of the blocks became part of my luggage, the other was carried by a colleague, Mr Rai, in his briefcase.
The next day, four of us were waiting on a pavement in Milan when Mr Rai went to the tourist information centre across the road to get a few brochures, asking us to take care of his briefcase. Three hippie-looking boys approached us with some address written in Italian on a piece of paper, asking if we knew the place, engaging us in discussion. We told them that we were new and did not know Italian.
“Oh! You are Indians, OK, OK, no problem”. They laughed and left. Mr Rai returned a minute later and asked, “Where is my briefcase?” There was none. The trio vanished with it, hoodwinking us. Mr Rai was furious. May be, he was a bit relieved too, since now he will not have to carry the heavy block all the way to India. But I was still stuck with one.
We were sure that the briefcase containing cash, besides the metal block, will never be found. However, while departing, we lodged a formal complaint at the airport police station. All of us concurred that whatever happened was just bad luck and let us not spoil rest of our trip.
At Venice, our next stop, I had become wary of carrying the other half of the heavy metal block. After all, these spinnerets could be used only as a pair, so why should I carry this useless load all the way to India when its counterpart stood stolen? Thinking thus, I quietly immersed it into the street canal opposite our Pensioné (hotel), with full reverence as one observes while immersing ashes of the dead in the Ganges at Haridwar.
After a month, a letter was received by the management from Italian police saying: “Your briefcase has been found with a metal block in it, sans any cash. You may make arrangements to repatriate it.”
It arrived in due course. When the CEO roared, “Who has the other half,” I stood twiddling my thumbs, bearing an innocent look of Rowan Atkinson (Mr Bean) spying for a place to hide as the actor does in one of his classic episodes. Not even a rat-hole was visible in the spick-and-span office.
‘OH! YOU ARE INDIANS, OK, OK, NO PROBLEM’. THEY LAUGHED AND LEFT. MR RAI RETURNED A MINUTE LATER AND ASKED, ‘WHERE IS MY BRIEFCASE?’ THERE WAS NONE. THE TRIO VANISHED WITH IT, HOODWINKING US