Just Aspire
()
About this ebook
'When I left Jabalpur, the small town where I grew up, to pursue a career, I could not have dreamt that I would find myself at the vanguard of pathbreaking revolutions that would transform India.'
Entrepreneur, sportsman, salesman, engineer, educationist, jazz aficionado and investor-meet Ajai Chowdhry, the HCL cofounder who dons many hats, all with equal ease. Growing up in the sleepy town of Jabalpur in a family that had migrated from Abbottabad post India's Independence, Ajai's life was set for a linear trajectory-engineering, a well-paying job and a comfortable life-but for the year 1975.
This was the year when Ajai quit his job at DCM Data Products and jumped into the uncharted waters of entrepreneurship, founding HCL with Shiv Nadar, Arjun Malhotra, Yogesh Vaidya, Subhash Arora and D.S. Puri. In the 1970s, leaving a stable job with one of India's leading brands was nothing short of crazy. To add to that, not many Indians knew what a computer was. The word 'start-up' was decades away from its use in common parlance.
Over the next four decades, HCL would go on to become one of the largest IT companies in India and a household brand. In Just Aspire, Ajai not only shares the story of a successful business behemoth but also of dreams, aspirations, hope and achievements from the eyes of a small-town boy. Along this journey, he shares timeless lessons on entrepreneurship, technology and the future. For all dreamers and doers, this book is a treasure trove of inspiration.
Ajai Chowdhry
Ajai Chowdhry, one of the six founding members of HCL, began an exciting journey more than four decades ago, with a dream to give India its very own microcomputer. The pioneers of digital electronics in India, they scripted three major milestones of the IT industry: the PC revolution, mobile telephony and systems integration. Ajai, regarded as the ‘father of Indian hardware', has been a relentless advocate of self-sufficiency in electronics. He has served, and continues to serve, on several government committees working towards making India the electronics hub of the world.
Related to Just Aspire
Related ebooks
Book It!: How Dinesh Dhamija built and sold online travel agency ebookers for £247 million Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Big Reverse: How Demonetization Knocked India Out Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBangladesh - Culture Smart!: The Essential Guide to Customs & Culture Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Corrupt Inept Rudderless Politicians: Impediments to India’S Forward March Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5The Black Tiger Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsOdyssey of an Indian Bureaucrat Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsIndia - Culture Smart!: The Essential Guide to Customs & Culture Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Guru: A Long Walk to Success:An Autobiography Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5ASIABOOK Asian Quote Guide Book with 1000 useful proverbs, quotations and thoughtful insights Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Planet India: How the Fastest Growing Democracy Is Transforming America and the World Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Mahabharata in Polyester: The Making of the World's Richest Brothers and Their Feud Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Mother Pious Lady: Making Sense Of Everyday India Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Rise of a Tribal: An Autobiography Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTogether With You Forever: Set against the backdrop of the Mumbai floods around 26th July, 2005 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMoving Singapore: from Rickshaws to Motorbikes: Raising Singapore Family Business Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPathways to Greatness Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Moving of Mountains: The Remarkable Story of the Agastya International Foundation Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsEfforts Never Die: A Voyage to the Sky Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5From the Village to the World: A Long Journey To Success Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRoots, Routes, and Roofs….. the Road so Far: Understanding the Meaning of Becoming a Global Citizen Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsIntelligence Character for Nation Building Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Spirit of Change: Rediscovering Our Humanity in a Precarious World Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Struggle And The Promise: Restoring India's Potential Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHow India Works: Making Sense of a Complex Corporate Culture Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCarefree Days: Many Roles, Many Lives Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Candle in the Wind: The Corporate Lobbyist Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Blue Sweater: Bridging The Gap Between Rich And Poor In An Intercnnected World Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAcross Many Borders: The Diary of a Wandering Explorer Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsI Too Had a Dream Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Family And The Nation Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Small Business & Entrepreneurs For You
Your Next Five Moves: Master the Art of Business Strategy Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Nine-Figure Mindset: How to Go from Zero to Over $100 Million in Net Worth Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Don't Start a Side Hustle!: Work Less, Earn More, and Live Free Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Overcoming Impossible: Learn to Lead, Build a Team, and Catapult Your Business to Success Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Company Rules: Or Everything I Know About Business I Learned from the CIA Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Robert's Rules of Order: The Original Manual for Assembly Rules, Business Etiquette, and Conduct Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Capital Gaines: Smart Things I Learned Doing Stupid Stuff Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Starting a Business All-In-One For Dummies Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How to Grow Your Small Business: A 6-Step Plan to Help Your Business Take Off Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Side Hustle: How to Turn Your Spare Time into $1000 a Month or More Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Feck Perfuction: Dangerous Ideas on the Business of Life Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Beginner's Guide To Starting An Etsy Print-On-Demand Shop Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSmall Business For Dummies Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The E-Myth Revisited: Why Most Small Businesses Don't Work and What to Do About It Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Millionaire Fastlane: Crack the Code to Wealth and Live Rich for a Lifetime Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5What Your CPA Isn't Telling You: Life-Changing Tax Strategies Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Freedom Shortcut: How Anyone Can Generate True Passive Income Online, Escape the 9-5, and Live Anywhere Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Everything Nonprofit Toolkit: The all-in-one resource for establishing a nonprofit that will grow, thrive, and succeed Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsReal Artists Don't Starve: Timeless Strategies for Thriving in the New Creative Age Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ultimate Side Hustle Book: 450 Moneymaking Ideas for the Gig Economy Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Yes!: 50 Scientifically Proven Ways to Be Persuasive Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dream Big: Know What You Want, Why You Want It, and What You’re Going to Do About It Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Selling 101: What Every Successful Sales Professional Needs to Know Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Creative, Inc.: The Ultimate Guide to Running a Successful Freelance Business Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5EntreLeadership: 20 Years of Practical Business Wisdom from the Trenches Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Love & Whiskey Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Unstoppable: A 90-Day Plan to Biohack Your Mind and Body for Success Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for Just Aspire
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Just Aspire - Ajai Chowdhry
1
JABALPUR: THE WONDER YEARS
MOST BOYS GET A DOG for a pet. I had a tiger cub. My father, the then commissioner of Bundelkhand and Baghelkhand, gifted it to me when I was recovering from measles. Alas, the cub fell prey to the vagaries of India’s malaria control programme. While romping around the grounds of our sprawling bungalow in Rewa, it ingested a lethal dose of pesticide. For years, I couldn’t think of my lost pet without a pang.
There were other pets: rabbits, a deer and the stray puppies gambolling around the servants’ quarters of our home. Rewa, once a princely state known as the ‘land of the white tiger’, offered many amusements for a young boy, but very little by way of education. After my father, Jai Krishna Chowdhry, retired from the Indian Administrative Service in 1961, we moved to Jabalpur, which combined the gentle, laidback ambience of a small town with one of the finest educations India had to offer.
Surrounded by highlands and nestled in the valley of the Narmada, the town had passed from Maratha to British rule in the early nineteenth century. It had multiple claims to fame: the fabulous Dhuandhar waterfall and Marble Rocks gorge, central India’s first ordnance factory (GCF or Gun Carriage Factory), and a rich history dating back to pre-Mauryan times.
Jabalpur, or Jubbulpore as the British called it, expanded in the twentieth century. The clement climate attracted a large migrant population. To this day, the names of many of its localities reflect the town’s long colonial past, such as Lordganj named for Governor-General William Bentinck, and Miloniganj, Jonesganj and Napier Town, each named for a former British commissioner of Jabalpur.
The cultural impact of the British was visible in the emphasis on an ‘English’ education and an inclusive, open-minded social milieu. With its strong sense of community, relaxed pace of life, access to amenities and high standard of education, Jabalpur was an idyllic setting for my journey through boyhood and adolescence.
We stayed at Sarguja House while my father negotiated the purchase of his retirement home in Napier Town, appropriately named ‘Ashiana’ (nest). Fortuitously, he was offered a two-year extension and the post of Jabalpur municipal commissioner, which he accepted with alacrity.
The decision to settle in Jabalpur followed naturally from my father’s long stint in Madhya Pradesh and the fact that as a Partition refugee, he had no ‘home’ to which he could return. His family was originally from Tank, in the North West Frontier Province (carved out of British Punjab in 1901, now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa in Pakistan). The rolling tract between the Hindu Kush mountains and the plains of Punjab has long served as a confluence of cultures, having been ruled by the Persians, Greeks, Mauryans, Sikhs, British, and finally, the sovereign state of Pakistan.
At the time my father was born, Indian nationalism was charting a new destiny for the subcontinent. As a young man, his first karmabhoomi (land where he worked) was Abbottabad, where he set up a thriving practice as a criminal lawyer. The family lived in a beautiful house opposite the Abbottabad Club, framed by tall poplars, with white rose bushes wreathing the large verandah. The library was well stocked with books in Persian, Urdu and Sanskrit, apart from the vast array of legal volumes my father needed for his work.
A fervent nationalist, he joined the freedom struggle and became the president of the Hazara District Congress Committee. Partition was a shattering blow. Overnight, Jai Krishna Chowdhry the freedom fighter became a nameless refugee.
ABBOTTABAD TO ABU
At the urging of well-wishers, the family boarded the last train from Pakistan, fleeing with the clothes on their backs, clinging to the hope that Partition would be short-lived and they would return in due course. The train left from Haripur at dawn. The coaches were jam-packed, with hundreds perched precariously on the roofs. It was a journey fraught with terror. Frenzied mobs on either side of the rail track were baying for their blood. Thousands had already perished in the infamous ‘blood trains’ ferrying refugees to India and, but for the contingent of brave Gorkha soldiers on board, this bunch of passengers would also have been slaughtered.
My grandmother did not survive that horrific journey; she passed away just as the train arrived at Ferozepur cantonment. Here, the Sutlej river, mirroring the turmoil of the times, overflowed, causing a terrible flood. As the waters receded, cholera stalked the refugee camps. My parents made their way to Delhi, where they found a home of sorts in premises vacated by a coal and scrap merchant who had departed for Pakistan. It was a grimy, noxious hellhole, located six kilometres from the Viceroy’s House (now Rashtrapati Bhavan).
Fortunately, my father found employment as assistant commandant of the Kingsway Camp for refugees, helping other displaced people find their feet. His performance was noted with appreciation, and he was appointed assistant regional commissioner of the Rajputana states, tasked with persuading the princes to sign the instrument of accession and integrate with the Republic of India before 26 January 1950. He was posted at Mount Abu, where I was born in August 1950, in a lavish bungalow called ‘The Wilderness’, overlooking the Nakki Lake. The youngest of seven children, and the second boy, I was the pink-cheeked, chubby little apple of the family’s eye.
Senior officials of the British Raj had enjoyed a luxurious lifestyle, which the Chowdhry family inherited. With the bungalow came a large staff, including a cook, masalchis (spice blenders), numerous bearers, a dhobi (washerman) and several others with miscellaneous jobs. Soon after, while I was still an infant, my father was posted to Jaipur. His ardent nationalism had survived the rigours of Partition, and he wanted to play a role in establishing the sovereign Republic of India on firm footing. To that end, he applied to the Indian Administrative Service (IAS), the successor to the Indian Civil Service (ICS), whose British members had been repatriated. His education and administrative experience made him an ideal candidate, and after nine months of training at the Metcalfe House Academy in Jaipur, he joined the first batch of the IAS, at the age of forty-five.
Allotted the Vindhya Pradesh cadre, he was sent to Jabalpur for nine months of field training, before being posted as district magistrate of Shahdol, a heavily forested tribal area. Electricity had yet to reach this remote district, so the DM’s bungalow had no power, and hence, no electrical gadgets, not even fans. Tarred roads were non-existent and sanitation was decidedly old-school—thunderboxes rather than water closets.
It was hard on my older siblings, but I, as a three-year-old, was more concerned with escaping their attempts to teach me the alphabet, so that I could ride my tricycle. Frustrated, my sister Sneh would lock me up in the bathroom. If the objective was to frighten me into learning my ABCs, it failed. Even as a toddler, I had a sanguine temperament. They would invariably find me sitting calmly on the bathroom floor, waiting to be let out. That innate composure, which I owe to the stable emotional environment created by my family, has proved invaluable throughout my life.
I have pleasant, if rather vague, memories of our next home in Nowgong. My father was divisional commissioner of Bundelkhand, so we lived in a fabulous British Residency, which had six bedrooms with attached bathrooms; a durbar hall; a vast, chandeliered dining room; a swimming pool; a summerhouse and tennis courts. After Shahdol, it was a veritable paradise.
The previous incumbent seemed to have departed precipitously, as he left behind a fully equipped home, right down to a dinner service and library. It was an estate in itself, with orchards, fields, outhouses and acres of lawn. One of my sisters was married there and the guests, I imagine, must have been suitably impressed by the venue.
JAWAHARLAL NEHRU AND THE PHATPHATI
A few months after we had settled into Nowgong, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and his daughter, Indira, came to dinner. Nehru’s interest in the development of Khajuraho as a tourist destination is well-documented. He declared his desire to see the temple complex, which was part of my father’s jurisdiction. Ahead of the visit, my father undertook a preparatory tour of the area.
Captain T.S. Burt had rediscovered the Chandela temple complex, dating from the ninth to the eleventh centuries CE, in 1838. He brought it to the attention of eminent archaeologists, such as Sir Alexander Cunningham. But when my father saw the site over a century later, he found it utterly neglected, overgrown with vegetation, and encrusted in bat guano. So foul were the interiors of the temples that one couldn’t stand there without holding one’s breath.
He initiated a mammoth effort to clean it up before the PM arrived. Even so, Nehru was shocked when he saw the temple complex in decay and disrepair. As a result, Khajuraho became one of the first sites in India to be developed for tourism.
After the tour, the PM and his daughter came to the Residency for dinner. The top brass of the state was in attendance—the lieutenant governor, the chief minister and the home minister. Also in attendance was the PM’s head of security, one Mr Handoo. After a guard of honour by the police contingent, the family lined up to greet the Nehrus.
Clutching the red rose I had been given, I looked wide-eyed at the prime ministerial cavalcade of motorcycles and cars, so much more interesting to a juvenile than the distinguished visitors. I was introduced to Nehru, who wore a benign smile. He accepted the rose and spoke to me kindly, quite tickled by my obvious fascination with the phatphatis (motorcycles).
He promised me a phatphati of my own someday.
‘Aap ke haath ko kya ho gaya hai?’ (What happened to your hand?) I asked, distracted by a bandage on his finger.
‘It got caught in the car door,’ he said ruefully.
The Nehrus stayed for dinner, before leaving for Jhansi to travel to Delhi by saloon. The PM was gracious, but my sisters found his daughter rather remote. She walked past them, failing to notice the malas (garlands) they had painstakingly strung for her!
My father’s next posting was in Rewa, where I was enrolled in a Hindi-medium school. I had no interest in books, but developed a love for music. As far back as I remember, music was always in the backdrop of our lives. Morning ragas wafted gently through the house at dawn, up-tempo songs from Hindi films enlivened the day, and meditative Urdu couplets lent a tranquil touch to the twilight. As we moved from place to place, music was the constant, permeating our homes and our hearts. If it wasn’t my sister diligently practicing her swaras (musical notes), it was Papaji humming along to K.L. Saigal on the radio, or my brother whistling a tune from Kishore Kumar’s latest romantic comedy.
The Chowdhry family’s musical inclinations stemmed from Papaji’s passion for poetry. Educated in Urdu and English, he demonstrated a talent for Urdu shayari early on. By the time Partition brought him to India, he was a noted litterateur, having published numerous books, including collections of poetry. Like all poets of the genre, he adopted a takhallus (pen name). His was ‘Habib’ (Arabic for friend), and he was indeed a friend to the musical arts.
Regular mehfils (gatherings) were held at our home, where my father and his fellow poets would recite or sing their latest compositions to the accompaniment of a harmonium. As is the custom, a candle or lamp would pass from poet to poet. Towards the end, it would be placed before Papaji, and he would render a nazm or ghazal, to great acclaim. We also attended the mushairas (poetic gatherings) that were frequently held in Rewa.
My first onstage appearance was in Rewa, as a tabla mouth percussionist. Let me explain. By this time, my older siblings had moved out to pursue higher studies, leaving my sister Indu and me at home. The two of us became close. So, when she trained in Hindustani classical singing at the instance of our mother, she prompted me to pick up an instrument. I opted for the tabla, but my performance was indifferent, so I tried mouth percussion instead. I accompanied my sister’s vocals with great aplomb, and to my delight, I could keep up with her.
‘YOU ARE A HANDSOME BOY’
In Jabalpur, I was enrolled at the Christ Church Boys’ Senior Secondary School, an English-medium institution founded in 1870 and regarded as the finest in the region. I was nine years old. My early education had been in Hindi, at a school in Rewa set up by Maharani Pravin Kumari of the erstwhile princely state. Realizing that I needed to upgrade my English skills very quickly, my father engaged a tutor to give me a three-month crash course. As a result, I have two native tongues—I often think in Hindi and speak in English, and vice versa.
Christ Church school was a revelation. It was a Christian institution, with all the characteristic emphasis on strict discipline. The principal, whose residence adjoined the school, was an English canon, Reverend J.E. Robinson. He was an upright, rather heavy-handed gentleman, as students who found themselves at the business end of his cane could testify. Our vice-principal was the worthy Donald Beatson, known for his fluent Hindi.
The school day began with an assembly in the main hall, where a brief address by the principal was followed by the school prayer and hymns. On Christmas day, we went to church. We knew all the rituals—how to make the sign of the cross, dip our fingers in holy water before entering the chapel, and kneel at the pews.
The emphasis was on all-round character-building. Enrolment in the National Cadet Corps (NCC), which aimed to turn out disciplined and patriotic citizens, was mandatory. Sports received a lot of weightage; in fact, our school was regarded as one of the best in the country in that respect. For one thing, it had a long-standing culture of hockey. In the 1920s, a team of Christ Church old boys won India’s premier hockey tournament, the Agha Khan trophy, three times.
Competition in sports with other schools was intense. Racquet games were my forte. I had picked up table tennis in Rewa; when I first started playing, I had to stand on a stool to reach the table! I continued to play in Jabalpur, where I would go to the club after school to practice. It soon became an obsession and I would play for two to three hours a day, reaching home so late that I didn’t have time to study. My mother would yell at me, to no avail.
The practice paid off, and I won a number of competitions. At one time, I was ranked number two in the state of Madhya Pradesh. I tried my hand at tennis as well, mainly because my father played regularly, and at badminton. Many years later, I would pick up squash while living in Singapore.
Christ Church school also had the advantage of a superb faculty. Among our favourite teachers was the mathematics don, and later mayor of Jabalpur, R.P. Guru, fondly referred to as ‘Guruji’. Another was the inimitable Mr Shinde, the English teacher, who would close the doors and windows of the classroom and regale us with the plot of the latest movie he had watched. He was a superb orator; I remember him bringing every scene of The Horror of Dracula to life.
One of the teachers gave me a reason to smile. She was beautiful, the object of many a secret adolescent crush. One day, as I was lounging with my friends, she summoned me.
‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘Ajai Chowdhry, ma’am.’
‘You are a handsome boy, Ajai. But I have never seen you smile. Why is that?’
I found myself smiling bashfully. From then on, I made it a point to smile more, especially when she was in the vicinity.
Being an affable chap, I quickly forged lasting friendships. Sharat Saxena (who went on to become a popular Bollywood actor) was a great buddy and the strongman of our group. I actually saw him break a brick in two with his bare hands.
The highlight of the year was Annual Day, when the school’s unique ‘torch drill’ was performed. We got to participate in and witness competitive sports, but more importantly, to interact with girls. The Christ Church girls’ school was right opposite ours on Sleeman Road (named after Sir William Sleeman, the British officer who wiped out the ‘thuggee’). It was sequestered behind a high wall, and intermingling was possible only on that one day.
I am proud to have sported the Christ Church boys’ khaki uniform and green-and-yellow school tie. The school has produced a number of politicians, war heroes, sportsmen and academics. There was Frank Anthony, member of Parliament, educationist and adviser to Indira Gandhi; the sons of Crown Prince Abdullah of Afghanistan, as well as members of India’s Olympic hockey squad and an honour roll of World War II heroes.
A HOME OF OUR OWN
Our home in Napier Town—a quiet neighbourhood—was a pretty cottage, roofed with terracotta tiles. It had been dilapidated when we first acquired it, but my mother and sisters had it renovated and restructured. It was set in landscaped gardens designed by Papaji, with a profusion of flowers and several trees. All in all, it was a charming home—a far cry from the splendid bungalows where I had spent my early years, but the first that our family could call its own.
Adding a serene touch to the gardens was a tenth century Buddha statue resting on a raised platform, under a beautiful gulmohar tree. It was the first object that caught a visitor’s eye. Antiques were one of Papaji’s hobbies; he was an avid collector of old books, photo-frames and ancient idols.
After his term as municipal commissioner, he resumed his legal practice, which had come to an abrupt halt with Partition. He practiced in the Madhya Pradesh High Court at Jabalpur, and was much sought-after. Mahakoshal, where Jabalpur is located, is a mining region, so he numbered several collieries among his clients.
Having a house with a large garden meant that I could keep a dog. Enter Tiger (named in memory of my long-lost tiger cub). He was tall, dark and handsome—a regular heartthrob—and when he entered a room, he owned it. A tad short-tempered, he was perfectly amiable if you were courteous, but fiercely intolerant of disrespect. I saw no flaw in him, for I loved him and he loved me back.
Tiger, like most Alsatians, was a one-man dog. Once he had decided that I was his human, he gave unstintingly of himself. I was his to protect and play with, and he was my faithful companion in good times and bad. He would greet me exuberantly when I returned from school, bounding up to the gate and barking as if to say, ‘Hello! You’re back! I missed you’.
Alsatians, or German Shepherds, are highly intelligent and courageous. But they tend to be a bit aloof, and one cannot take liberties with them. My little niece Sonali once teased him by pulling his tail, as children do. Irritated, he went for her face and nipped her before I could pull him off.
Tiger’s guarding instincts were so strong that even when he was very ill, I couldn’t stop him from rearing and barking his head off when he spotted a stranger at the gate. The strain was too much. He collapsed, and within seconds, I had lost him.
My English teacher at school, Mr Shinde, having learnt about the sad event, introduced me to a poignant poem about a dog. Oliver Goldsmith’s An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog (produced below) is a satire. The principal takeaway is that man, however ‘good’ by his own standards, is so toxic that he can poison even a rabid dog. In other words, dogs are purer creatures.
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond’ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light
That showed the rogues they lied,—
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died!
– OLIVER GOLDSMITH
POWS, DINOSAURS AND BOOKS
Jabalpur was a lively town; at least for a gregarious, energetic boy with varied interests. In a world without internet and TV, there was so much to do: hanging out with friends or playing with pets, reading storybooks, practicing sports, tinkering with this or that and, very occasionally, studying. There was simply no time to be bored.