Last Working Day

Dear Colleagues,

Today marks the culmination of my tenure at Wipro. And as oxymoronic as it may sound, I can’t help feeling this sweet sorrow as I brace myself up to leave port and embark on a new endeavor and bid adieu to this place that has been like a second home to me.

The past two years have been extraordinary. I still remember the poignant days from my first assignment here when we had to push the envelope each day to break new ground. The project called for immense commitment and copious sacrifices and the team willingly obliged. That included not only burning midnight oil to meet the tight deadlines but also, and most reluctantly, cancelling a New Year trip to Goa. But all is well that ends well. The inchoate hitches notwithstanding, our efforts eventually came to fruition and the project was a grand success and the compunction of not taking that trip to Goa was gleefully forgotten (I did eventually bunk office and took that trip afterwardsJ ). Had it not been for Chandra’s immaculate planning and Gaurav’s and Sudhir’s technical dexterity, it is beyond a shadow of doubt to assume that what we accomplished would never have been imaginable.

Life was a joy ride back then and I was cruising along briskly until I hit a brick wall. The devil-may-care attitude that I wore with mocking nonchalance came crashing down when I was diagnosed with cancer. In that one unfathomable moment I saw my entire life fall into pieces like broken glass. It was a life-changing event that veritably turned my perspective about everything on its head. I was shattered and devastated and distraught but I found great solace in the comforting words and gestures of my colleagues and friends who still believed that cancer could be beaten and that I deserved a second chance at life. They kept my faith up even when I was languishing in the vortex of despair. I wish to thank everyone here in Wipro for standing by me in those turbulent times.

I also wish to extend my heartfelt sense of gratitude to my superiors especially Chandra, Rajesh, Satyan, Nags, Sudhir, Gaurav, SriVidhya, Kotresh and Murali. Thank you for believing in my abilities and giving me a platform to showcase my skills. I did my best to stand up to your lofty expectations. I hope you enjoyed having me here as much as I enjoyed working with you. I sincerely believe that it was your commitment to quality, far-sighted vision and unwavering determination that propelled the project to the success that it eventually achieved. The people in the TED/HR department also deserve mention here, especially Jayshree. She single-handedly brought my affairs into order when I was ill. Despite the initial problems I was having with my insurance, she eventually sorted out everything. Thanks Jayshree. All the very best to all of you.

Special thanks are due to some of the most wonderful and fascinating friends I met here. Deserving special mention amongst these are Anuradha, Sudipta, Ashok, Aparajeeta, Manish, Amiya, Amar, Manoj, Jayaram, Badrish, Anil, Lalit, Dev, Sowmya and Anju. You guys are terrific and you are my most prized possessions. If I were to thank each of you individually, I'd have to write till eternity. So, let me cut the long story short and just say that I could always count on you no matter what. I wouldn't be the person I'm today without you. If I were to sift out the single most precious take-away from here in Wipro, it would be you. Your presence lends meaning to my life. Thanks. I wish nothing but the very best for you. Saying good bye to you feels just like another session of chemo. I'll miss you.

Finally, I wish the company a successful undertaking and a long lasting success.

“May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

Good bye.

Confessions of a motorist

Driving in India For the benefit of every Tom, Dick and Harry visiting India and daring to drive on Indian roads, I am offering a few hints for survival. They are applicable to every place in India except Bihar, where life outside a vehicle is only marginally safer.

Indian road rules broadly operate within the domain of karma where you do your best, and leave the results to your insurance company. The hints are as follows:

Do we drive on the left or right of the road?

The answer is "both". Basically you start on the left of the road, unless it is occupied. In that case, go to the right, unless that is also occupied. Then proceed by occupying the next available gap, as in chess. Just trust your instincts, ascertain the direction, and proceed. Adherence to road rules leads to much misery and occasional fatality. Most drivers don't drive, but just aim their vehicles in the intended direction. Don't you get discouraged or underestimate yourself except for a belief in reincarnation, the other drivers are not in any better position.

Don't stop at pedestrian crossings just because some fool wants to cross the road. You may do so only if you enjoy being bumped in the back. Pedestrians have been strictly instructed to cross only when traffic is moving slowly or has come to a dead stop because some minister is in town. Still some idiot may try to wade across, but then, let us not talk ill of the dead.

Blowing your horn is not a sign of protest as in some countries. We horn to express joy, resentment, frustration, romance and bare lust (two brisk blasts), or, just mobilize a dozing cow in the middle of the bazaar.

Keep informative books in the glove compartment. You may read them during traffic jams, while awaiting the chief minister's motorcade, or waiting for the rainwaters to recede when over ground traffic meets underground drainage.

Occasionally you might see what looks like a UFO with blinking colored lights and weird sounds emanating from within. This is an illuminated bus, full of happy pilgrims singing bhajans. These pilgrims go at breakneck speed, seeking contact with the Almighty, often meeting with success.

Auto Rickshaw (Baby Taxi): The result of a collision between a rickshaw and an automobile, this three-wheeled vehicle works on an external combustion engine that runs on a mixture of kerosene oil and creosote. This triangular vehicle carries iron rods, gas cylinders or passengers three times its weight and dimension, at an unspecified fare. After careful geometric calculations, children are folded and packed into these auto rickshaws until some children in the periphery are not in contact with the vehicle at all. Then their school bags are pushed into the microscopic gaps all round so those minor collisions with other vehicles on the road cause no permanent damage. Of course, the peripheral children are charged half the fare and also learn Newton's laws of motion en route to school. Auto-rickshaw drivers follow the road rules depicted in the film Ben Hur, and are licensed to irritate.

Mopeds: The moped looks like an oil tin on wheels and makes noise like an electric shaver. It runs 30 miles on a teaspoon of petrol and travels at break-bottom speed. As the sides of the road are too rough for a ride, the moped drivers tend to drive in the middle of the road; they would rather drive under heavier vehicles instead of around them and are often "mopped" off the tarmac.

Leaning Tower of Passes: Most bus passengers are given free passes and during rush hours, there is absolute mayhem. There are passengers hanging off other passengers, who in turn hang off the railings and the overloaded bus leans dangerously, defying laws of gravity but obeying laws of surface tension. As drivers get paid for overload (so many Rupees per kg of passenger), no questions are ever asked. Steer clear of these buses by a width of three passengers.

One-way Street: These boards are put up by traffic people to add jest in their otherwise drab lives. Don't stick to the literal meaning and proceed in one direction. In metaphysical terms, it means that you cannot proceed in two directions at once. So drive, as you like, in reverse throughout, if you are the fussy type. Least I sound hypercritical; I must add a positive point also. Rash and fast driving in residential areas has been prevented by providing a "speed breaker"; two for each house.

This mound, incidentally, covers the water and drainage pipes for that residence and is left untarred for easy identification by the corporation authorities, should they want to recover the pipe for year-end accounting.

Night driving on Indian roads can be an exhilarating experience (for those with the mental makeup of Chenghis Khan). In a way, it is like playing Russian roulette, because you do not know who amongst the drivers is loaded. What looks like premature dawn on the horizon turns out to be a truck attempting a speed record. On encountering it, just pull partly into the field adjoining the road until the phenomenon passes. Our roads do not have shoulders, but occasional boulders. Do not blink your lights expecting reciprocation. The only dim thing in the truck is the driver, and with the peg of illicit arrack (alcohol) he has had at the last stop, his total cerebral functions add up to little more than a naught. Truck drivers are the James Bonds of India, and are licensed to kill. Often you may encounter a single powerful beam of light about six feet above the ground. This is not a super motorbike, but a truck approaching you with a single light on, usually the left one. It could be the right one, but never get too close to investigate. You may prove your point posthumously. Of course, all this occurs at night, on the trunk roads. During the daytime, trucks are more visible, except that the drivers will never show any Signal. (And you must watch for the absent signals; they are the greater threat). Only, you will often observe that the cleaner who sits next to the driver, will project his hand and wave hysterically.

This is definitely not to be construed as a signal for a left turn. The waving is just a statement of physical relief on a hot day.

If, after all this, you still want to drive in India, have your lessons between 8 pm and 11 am-when the police have gone home and The citizen is then free to enjoy the 'FREEDOM OF SPEED' enshrined in our constitution.

Armageddon - My Fight With Osteosarcoma

This story is as much about me as it is about my parents, and for that matter it is about anyone who has had to endure a tribulation of such humungous proportion as humanly imaginable. It is about the greatest fear parents can ever have – the fear of losing their child at the prime of his life. It is also about an individual’s innate desire to experience his life in its entirety despite having the odds stacked up against him. Above all it is a story about courage, faith, hope, love and unassailable human spirit.

At happier times

To fully comprehend the scope of what happened, let me take you back to June, 2009. Frankly, I have a horrendous memory but, strangely, everything that transpired between June and December that year, even the most minuscule and insignificant details, has stuck. It is as if every passing moment were etched into my memory like an engraving on a stone.

I was in the UK on an overseas assignment when it all began. I woke up one day experiencing excruciating pain in the left knee. The pain was so intense that I immediately popped a pain-killer for relief. The drug worked and the pain never came back for about a week. Then it came back again. Luckily, my assignment would end the very next day.

I came back to India on 4th July and strangely I did not have the slightest sensation of pain for another week or so. Then suddenly it came. Deciding not to neglect it any further, I went to see an orthopaedic surgeon. He attributed the pain to muscle fatigue and prescribed an ointment to alleviate the pain. I applied the ointment for about a week but this time the pain never subsided. I went back to him and this time he suggested that I get an X-ray done. The X-ray report suggested something bad but wasn’t conclusive. To rule out any ambiguity, we got an MRI scan done. My worst fears came true when the MRI report came. The MRI report said it all - I had high-grade osteosarcoma (bone cancer) in the left femur. The tumour measured 9cm by 5cm. My world came shattering down like a like a building that had been bombed. I fell into pieces. Time passed in ultra-slow motion. That was on 14^th July, 2009 – 2 weeks before my 24^th birthday – a birthday present that I will never forget for as long as I live.

The next day I went back to my parents in Guwahati. I had been rocked from the inside but I tried really hard to put up a brave face when I saw my parents at the airport, and they did likewise. We all were bad at pretending, especially my mother – putting on fake smiles to hide the fear and uncertainty that dwelled inside. I knew it would not be long before the floodgates would open and tears would come pouring out and it did. The very next moment, my mother flung her arms around me and we both began to cry. We cried till the tears ran dry. My father had already fixed an appointment with an oncologist. We drove out of the airport and went straight to see the oncologist who, after taking a look at my MRI plates, referred me to Tata Memorial Centre, Mumbai – a hospital that specializes in cancer treatment. The next day I was on a flight to Mumbai.

The doctors in Mumbai again ran a battery of tests - bone scan, CT scan and biopsy – to determine the stage of the cancer. Luckily, the cancer had not metastasized – that gave me a 60% chance of getting cured. With all the reports in place, the doctors chalked up the treatment plan. I would receive 4 cycles of aggressive chemotherapy followed by surgery and more chemotherapy afterwards.

Taking Chemo at BBCI, Guwahati

We decided to take chemotherapy at Guwahati because of the practical difficulties of taking it in Mumbai. I started chemo on 9 August, 2009. In retrospect, I don’t think I have experienced anything more traumatic and devastating than chemo. Every session of chemo would run for 5 days with 8 hours of daily intravenous infusion of some of the most toxic drugs – Adriamycin, Ifosamide and Cisplatin. Chemo, in itself, is a painless procedure but the side-effects are inconceivably appalling - so much so that sometimes I begged for death for deliverance from the ghastly chemo. I battled severe bouts of nausea, depression and pain. I tried reading books to pass the time. It was a bad idea – I would read the same paragraph 10 times over and still it did not make sense. Left with nothing else to do, I would lie down in my bed and blankly stare at the NS bottles that patiently emptied the ‘elixir of life’ they had inside them into my blood. Since I would be hospitalized for the entire duration chemo (5 days), my father and mother took turns to stay with me. I still remember the desperate wait for the chemo to finish so that the tubes could be removed from my body, the minced bananas that my mother surreptitiously put in the milk because I hated bananas so much, and those revolting pills I would be fed to control the regurgitation. Chemo was brutal. Suffice it to say, I walked into the hospital on foot but came out on a wheelchair. My hair began to come out in tufts. By the time the second cycle of chemo began, I was bald.

I took 4 cycles of chemo and then came back to Mumbai in November for surgery. The doctors ran an MRI scan over my knee to see how successful the chemo had been. The report had pessimism written all over it. Necrosis was a merely 50% and the tumour had grown in size and was now intruding into the joint-space. I was wheeled in for surgery at 7:30 am on 4^th November. The surgery, called Total Knee Replacement, would involve cutting out the distal end of the femur and reconstructing the knee with prosthesis. Once inside the Operation Theatre, my anaesthesiologist briefed me about how the surgery would go and how she would make it magically painless with something called as spinal epidural anaesthesia. I nodded and managed a wry smile. The she put me on a drip and we kept chattering until I fell asleep. It was a complicated surgery and lasted 7 hours. Those 7 hours simply disappeared from the face of the earth for me. After the surgery I woke up in intense pain on my left leg. I was put on morphine to keep the pain at bay. The only relief was the realization that the surgery was successful.

I remained at the hospital for about a week and was then discharged to go home. During my stay at the hospital I received several sessions of physiotherapy to strengthen my leg. My oncologist at Mumbai suggested that I would need another 2 sessions of chemo. I went back to Guwhati and took the chemo there. Finally, on 30^th December 2009 I took my last dose of chemo and was discharged from the hospital.

I recuperated for another 2 months. It was frustrating that I could not walk but I knew I was lucky enough to still have my leg intact. It seemed very weird that something so natural as walking should now and henceforth require so much effort. I learned another lesson - we don’t really know what we have until we lose it. Finally I decided to come back to Bangalore and resume work. I returned to work on 15 March, 2010. I still need crutches for walking but have got accustomed to using them now. They almost feel like an extension of my body now.

I and my parents still live everyday with the fear of the cancer returning - I still sometimes wake up in the night in cold sweat fearing that it has come back. As I enter the next chapter of my life, my future is yet to be determined. The apprehensions, notwithstanding, my life is filled with optimism, hope, and an enduring faith. This is a story about not giving up and parents’ enduring love for their child. If there were a definition of courage, it would be defined by my family and friends. This time was as horrendous as it was unforgettable, both for the pain and for the life-changing and almost mystical encounter with the epitome of unconquerable human spirit.

Let me just sign off with these lines from the song "No Surprise"

It’s no surprise I won’t be here tomorrow

I can’t believe that I stayed till today

There’s nothing here in this heart left to borrow

There’s nothing here in this soul left to say

Don’t be surprised when we hate this tomorrow

God knows we tried to find an easier way

Yeah you and I will be a tough act to follow

But I know in time we’ll find this was no surprise

If I could see the future and how this plays out

I bet it’s better than where we are now

But after going through this

It’s easier to see the reason why

Valediction

Dear Co-workers and Managers,

I'm fighting the jarring dissonance of myriad thoughts as I set myself up to write this final memo. As absurd as it may seem, I can't help feeling vehemently nostalgic at having to bid adieu to my first company, and also, concomitantly, I can't help feeling ecstatically rhapsodic in eager anticipation of a wonderful journey I am waiting to embark on.

From being inducted into the organization two years back to the present day, I've come a long way. It's been a momentous undertaking for me - one that has seen the crests of exhilaration and troughs of despair; fortunately, the crests have by far outnumbered the troughs. From the carefree indulging in the youthful exuberance during my training days in Mumbai, to learning to cope with the vicious pressure of meeting deadlines, life has indeed come a full circle. And before I depart from here, it only befits that I give credit where it is due.

Foremost, special thanks are due to some of the most wonderful and fascinating people whose ingression into my life helped me see life in a new perspective. Deserving special mention amongst these are Abhishek, Amit, Amrita, Anil, Anitha, Bishnu, Chirag, Lalit, Mudita, Nancy, Neeraj, Piyush, Vanshika and Writu. If I had to thank each of you individually, I'd have to write till eternity. So, let me cut the long story short saying that I could always count on you, which kind of makes me think that I must have done something genuinely angelic to deserve guys like you. I wouldn't be the person I'm today without you. Your presence lends meaning to my life. Thanks. I'll miss you.

My thanks are long due to Mr. Manojkumar Khandelwal. Of late you've been looking despondent, which I would probably attribute to the anguish of watching your stocks plummet in the wake of the recent meltdown in the stock market (deliberate pun intended). I hope your stocks resurge with an even greater force than with what they went down. Apologize if I took liberties with you, but it's only you with who I could take liberties with. Despite me being several years junior, you always treated me like a friend. Your presence will be terribly missed. Have a wonderful life ahead.

Also, I wish to extend my heart-felt sense of gratitude to my managers and co-workers for showing faith in my abilities and providing me a platform to showcase my skills. Special thanks to Mr. Raghunandhan Kadirvelu, my on-site project manager. The fact that the project was a plain sailing right through could be majorly attributed to your perspicacious competence. I'll regret not meeting you in person. It was an honor to work under you nonetheless. Thanks.

And, last but not the least, thank you, Mr. Srinivasan Ranganathan for giving me the opportunity to make that presentation to Flowserve (if you can still remember). I'll never forget you walking up to my seat (after the presentation was over), shaking my hand, and then uttering, "Great job, Chief. I'm impressed" - undeniably, a magnanimous gesture from you and a remarkably proud moment for me. I still savor that moment and always will. You never fail to dazzle me with your sophistication and pristine demeanor. Thanks.

Finally, I wish the company a successful undertaking and a long lasting success.

Once again, thank you very much. Good bye.

Sincerely,
Sankash Thakuria.