Of a burnt palm and missing gall bladder

Idon’t know if by hammering a dent in the ubiquitous VIP culture, we in India shall ever get rid of hero worship or being held in awe of power. I was then superintendent of police (SP) of Sonepat. Rajesh Khullar, the present principal secretary to chief minister Manohar Lal Khattar, was the then deputy commissioner (DC) of the district.

As is the practice with local thanedars (police station in-charges) to keep their bosses happy, especially on festivals, I found packets neatly stacked on my office table at the camp office.

On enquiring, it was found that the city station house officer (SHO) wanted his SP to have an early feel of Diwali and had accordingly sent firecrackers.

Fond of crackers, I began lighting them in the evening with my family. I didn’t realise that the SHO had brought last year’s stock, till a fuse of an ‘anaar (sparkling pot)’ caught fire and burnt my right hand. The skin on the palm came off, sending me writhing in pain. Khullar drove me to hospital, sending messages to doctors to be in readiness through the district control room.

The injured SP was in safe hands in the hospital with the DC and a horde of doctors in attendance. There was a burly elderly nurse in the operation theatre. The first thing she did was to cut the ring in one of the injured fingers, using a frightening set of pliers. She kept quiet all through; more than the doctors around. I got intimidated by her.

Then the inevitable happened. Putting my hand to liberal white swathes, she murmured, not to herself but seemingly to all around—“Look at them! They ask others not to burn firecrackers and they themselves indulge in it!” Obviously, there was no response from those around.

I thanked the control room in-charge later, who did not flash the news of the SP having been injured while burning Diwali crackers early. My guilty conscience did not allow me to punish the thanedar too, though he profusely apologised for having supplied an old stock of crackers.

Last year in February, before my retirement, I had to undergo a mandatory health checkup, when my staff arranged it with the local hospital. The patient being a VIP, the queue was the first casualty. The doctor having examined me on an ultrasound machine, took a little more time than usual. In near-whispers, he consulted another colleague of his. I got a suspicious and thought they had detected something, which they did not want to declare immediately lest I be offended.

I couldn’t bear with the wait and asked, “Something wrong there, doc?” “No sir, in fact I can’t find the gall bladder,” the doctor said. “Oh! Come on doctor, it was removed about a decade ago,” I said. The doctor sat back in his chair and said, “One can’t take any risk or be casual with VIPs.”

And this last one takes the cake. When I was SP at Fatehabad, we were once late by half an hour in reaching for a film show in the local theatre. Lo and behold! The cinema house authorities spooled-up the film back and replayed it from the beginning.

THE SKIN ON THE PALM CAME OFF, SENDING ME WRITHING IN PAIN. RAJESH KHULLAR DROVE ME TO HOSPITAL