Disaster Management: Kutch Earthquake (2001)(26)

26. Disaster Management: Kutch Earthquake (2001)

Bhachau — The Epicenter of the Earthquake

When we entered Bhachau on 27 January 2001, devastation surrounded us on all sides. Countless buildings had been reduced to rubble. The earth still trembled from time to time, shaking hearts along with it. I stood before a completely collapsed building. From deep under the debris came faint cries — someone was trapped below, calling for help. The remains of a two-story building lay on top of them. I wanted to remove the debris and rescue the person immediately, but the heavy RCC beams wouldn’t move.

I saw a constable nearby, called him loudly, and asked him to help rescue those trapped. He replied helplessly, “Sir, this debris cannot be lifted by human hands. There are not one but hundreds of such collapsed buildings with people trapped underneath — but how can we remove the debris? There are no JCBs or any other machines, no drivers, no laborers, not even electricity. Everything has stopped.”

Seeing humanity’s helplessness before the fury of nature brought tears to my eyes. I walked through the lanes filled with wrecked houses while the tremors still continued. How could one save people while the earth itself was shaking? Since I had been ordered to reach Bhuj, I decided to move on to the District Office there. With a heavy heart, I left Bhachau.

Bhuj — Rescue and Relief Efforts

Before entering Bhuj, I stopped at the Collector’s office. The same office where I had worked 6–7 years earlier now looked like a ruin. Collector Kamal Dayani stood there — speechless, visibly shaken. When I inquired, he said, “G. Subba Rao Saheb has arrived from Gandhinagar and is sitting in the RDC’s room.”

There I met RDC R.S. Ninama — his body language charged with energy. I then met G. Subba Rao Saheb and informed him that I had been deputed to assist him in the earthquake rescue and relief operations. A government team from Gandhinagar had already arrived by air. Since Bhuj was a base for the Army, Air Force, and BSF, they, along with police and other uniformed forces, had already begun rescue work. The injured were being treated at Army Base Hospital and Tent Hospital at Jubilee Ground, and the critically injured were being airlifted to Ahmedabad or other large hospitals.

Together, G. Subba Rao Saheb and I began assigning specific responsibilities to officers from different departments and set up a system for daily coordination meetings. But how to reach everyone? There was no electricity. Telephone poles had fallen, so all communication was dead. Trucks and government vehicles stood idle; drivers were missing. And without power, there was no diesel or petrol supply.

From a drawer, I found some loose papers and two carbon sheets. I remembered how, back in August 1979, the head clerk at Gujarat College had taught me how to draft circulars by hand. So I opened my pen and began drafting orders manually, distributing written instructions to whichever officers I could reach.

Health Commissioner R.M. Patel smiled and asked, “Punambhai, are you giving us instructions now?” I replied softly, “Sir, at this moment, no officer is small or big. We are all one team fighting to rescue our people from this calamity.” As a former Collector of Kutch, the pain of my people weighed heavily on my heart.

Medical Crisis and Relief Efforts

The Bhuj Civil Hospital had collapsed in the quake, killing over 400 patients and staff. Setting up medical teams and treating the injured became an enormous challenge. For the first four days, the Army Base Hospital provided crucial support. Another medical team arrived from Pune. Meanwhile, a temporary tent hospital was established at Jubilee Ground in collaboration with the IMA. At Lalan College, Red Cross teams began operations, setting up treatment centers wherever possible.

Gradually, doctors and paramedical staff arrived from other districts. International aid also began pouring in — from foreign countries, NGOs, and even figures like Bill Clinton. 

Israel team set up a tent hospital at Patel Hospital, where the first delivery (childbirth) after the earthquake took place — a moment that symbolized hope. 

Once the rescue and treatment stabilized, everyone turned to epidemic control. Health Commissioner R.M. Patel and Health Minister Ashok Bhatt coordinated the efforts brilliantly.

Scenes of Despair and Humanity

What I had seen in Bhachau, I now saw in Bhuj — people buried alive under debris, but no tools or laborers to help them. I roamed through the city and saw stray dogs, starved and weak, feeding on human remains — the sight horrified me. The transient nature of human life shook me to the core. Yet amid the stench of death, seeing volunteers removing bodies and performing respectful last rites reminded me of the fragrance of humanity.

News came that JCBs from Reliance were on their way. They were expected to arrive in 12–15 hours to begin clearing the debris. We waited for those machines like a ray of hope. Then came another blow — the Surajbari bridge had collapsed, delaying the machines’ arrival by two days as they would come from another route.

Prime Minister’s Visit (January 29, 2001)

Gradually, the coordination among rescue and relief teams improved. Sureshbhai Mehta became active. When news arrived that the Prime Minister was visiting, we discussed how to present a realistic estimate of the damage. 

Kutch’s population was about 1.5 million at that time. Estimating around three lakh houses, with about 50% destroyed, we arrived at roughly 7.5 lakh damaged houses. Based on reports from Bhachau, Bhuj, and Anjar, we estimated around 20,000 human deaths, three times that in livestock losses, about 100,000 injured, and extensive destruction to public buildings, hospitals, schools, roads, substations, and telephone infrastructure.

We compiled all this into a memorandum. When we showed it to Sureshbhai Mehta, he felt the figures were too low — but with no time or means for a proper survey, it was the best we could do. Despite his displeasure, we presented these figures to the Prime Minister. He personally visited the victims, assessed the devastation, and upon returning to Delhi, immediately dispatched rescue and relief teams, equipment, water coolers, and other essential supplies. He also ordered the reconstruction and modernization of Bhuj General Hospital.

Restoring Power, Water, and Communication

Our next focus was on restoring electricity and telephone services. Once power was restored, tube wells could pump drinking water, mills could grind grain for food, petrol pumps could operate, and vehicles could move — all of which would accelerate rescue operations. 

Engineers from the GEB, Water Supply, and Telecom departments worked relentlessly, coordinating their units to restart substations and pumping stations.

Radhakant Tripathi, from the Water Supply Department, jumped straight into the field — he was rarely seen in our office, but his results spoke loudly. 

The GEB engineers, showing remarkable ingenuity, connected horizontal and vertical lines to restore partial power supply even before substations were rebuilt — a major victory for the system.

Under the Vast Sky

The first week after the earthquake was the hardest. The tremors continued. The entire city slept outdoors in the cold January nights. We would leave the office only around 11 or 12 at night and return again by 6 or 7 in the morning. But where could we sleep?

There were limited rooms at the Leuva Patel Samajwadi Guest House. Senior officers and ministers occupied those. I spread a couple of blankets in the open compound and spent three nights sleeping under the sky. 

G. Subba Rao and I often left the office together late at night. When he learned about my sleeping arrangement, he offered me space to share his room from the fourth night onward.

With no electricity, we bathed using buckets of cold water — when available. I bathed once in four days. Later, volunteers arranged for buckets of heated water, which felt like luxury. Even Minister Ashok Bhatt would lift buckets and help distribute them — everyone shared each other’s hardships.

I had no food of my own, so for the first two days, I survived on biscuits and water that RDC managed to procure. Gradually, community kitchens were set up, and bottled water and relief supplies began to arrive, easing our struggles.

The Chief Minister had arrived by then, but that day we noticed a difference in coordination between the Chief Minister and the Finance Minister. After the Prime Minister’s visit, for reasons unknown, Sureshbhai Mahera recalled G. Subba Rao Saheb and replaced him with L. Mansingh as Chief Coordinator. I felt unhappy because Subba Rao Saheb had been working tirelessly, but a government order is a government order. He returned to Gandhinagar — though destiny still had a significant role for him to play in helping me later in change of my house in Gandhinagar.

Shri L. Mansingh Saheb

In place of G. Subba Rao Saheb, my former boss, Shri L. Mansingh, took charge as the Chief Coordinator. My batchmates — Sanjay Gupta at Anjar and Atanu Chakraborty at Bhachau — also joined the operations. The Collector of Kutch was replaced, and though I was working with full energy, with Sureshbhai Mehta (Minister) himself present there, who would really notice my efforts? Soon, another of my batchmates, Anil Mukim, was appointed as Collector. Thus, our 1985 IAS batch found itself deeply engaged in the Kutch earthquake relief work.

A few days later, an order came transferring me from Bhuj to take charge of the Rapar unit to handle relief and rehabilitation there. However, L. Mansingh Saheb spoke with Gandhinagar and decided to retain me in Bhuj. Arvind Sharma was then assigned to Rapar instead.

L. Mansingh Saheb was highly resourceful — he managed to arrange two laptops from somewhere. I was given one of them, and I immediately began recording data and preparing reports on the ongoing rescue and relief operations. Work could continue only as long as the battery lasted, but we hoped that electricity would soon be restored. Thanks to the relentless efforts of the GEB team, power did return on the seventh day, and with it, life in Bhuj began to revive.

Soon after, Chief Secretary Mukundan Saheb arrived with a team of senior officers. We presented a detailed briefing to him. He was surprised at how such meticulous, ground-level data had been compiled under such difficult conditions. Our priorities at that stage were clear — restoration of electricity, water supply, telecommunication, transport, community kitchens, and distribution of relief materials.

Shifting the Family to a New Home in Gandhinagar

Back in Gandhinagar, Laxmi, Ujjwal, and Dhawal were spending their days in the earthquake-damaged government quarters. Laxmi took the scooter and began scouting around Sector 19 and Sector 20, asking here and there, until she finally found a vacant government house.

I instructed her to go to the Fisheries Commissioner’s office to get an application drafted for the house change. After signing it, I asked her to submit one copy to Shri Jamdar, Secretary of Roads and Buildings Department, and another to G. Subba Rao in the Finance Department. She did exactly that.

When I was promoted to the Senior Scale in 1989 and posted as Deputy Secretary, Roads and Buildings Department, Jamdar Saheb had been the Joint Secretary there — so he knew me well. And G. Subba Rao and I had just recently worked together in Bhuj. During the Chief Minister’s visit to Kutch, I had already mentioned to him about my family’s housing difficulties.

As fate would have it, help came our way. A house was allotted to us in Sector 20, and on 13 February 2001, Laxmi, Ujjwal, and Dhawal took possession and moved in. That house became our beautiful and final government residence — where we would live for the next 15 years, and where both our sons’ weddings would later take place.

Distribution of Relief Material in Kutch

Meanwhile, in Kutch, road access from Mehsana side had reopened, and convoys of relief trucks began to arrive continuously. Officers were reporting for duty in large numbers, but before they could contribute effectively, their own accommodation and food arrangements had to be made.

At the Bhuj Airport, piles of relief material had begun to accumulate. If the airport was not cleared quickly, incoming flights carrying more supplies would be forced to halt. It became essential to organize proper storage, sorting, and distribution systems for the relief goods. Once the Surajbari Bridge reopened, another route became available, increasing the inflow even further.

We deployed officers and staff, arranged vehicles, and enlisted the support of NGOs to manage the distribution. However, things did not go as smoothly as planned. In Bhuj alone, five lakh (500,000) blankets were distributed, yet the queues never seemed to end. Later we discovered that some families were sending every member to stand in line separately, collecting multiple blankets, storing them at home, and returning to queue again. Maintaining records and ensuring that recipients didn’t come back repeatedly was nearly impossible under those circumstances.

Even some of the NGOs assisting us turned out to be troublesome. They would hang their own banners over government-supplied materials, trying to create the impression that their organization was solely responsible for the relief distribution. One so-called “Bapu’s son” even seized government stock and brandished a sword when challenged. We had to send armed police to bring him under control.

This experience taught us to be extremely cautious of organizations that use disaster relief for self-promotion or fundraising. The government faces public criticism while such groups gain fame and donations. Eventually, we managed to bring order and discipline to the entire relief distribution process.

BAPS Swaminarayan Organization and Other NGOs

During the Kutch earthquake relief operations, the BAPS Swaminarayan Sanstha performed exemplary service that deserves special recognition. The organization deployed Brahmavihari Swami to lead their on-ground efforts. From Ahmedabad, Pramukh Swami Maharaj personally reviewed the situation every morning and late at night, giving detailed guidance on how to manage the relief centers and community kitchens.

The BAPS team showed remarkable foresight—even small but vital items like candles, matchboxes, torches, and batteries were included in the thoughtfully prepared relief kits. Once the kits were ready, hundreds of dedicated volunteers efficiently distributed them among affected families.

They also established a large community kitchen—similar to their traditional Annakut arrangements—serving thousands of people daily. However, to maintain dignity and comfort for families hesitant to eat publicly, they even arranged a tiffin delivery service so that no one would remain hungry. On a stretch of open land along the Mundra Road, they built a huge tin-shed shelter, providing much-needed warmth and refuge against the winter cold.

We too offered support wherever possible. The Food Corporation of India (FCI) godowns had stocks of wheat and rice, which we allocated to the BAPS kitchen to help sustain their massive food operations. When a large water cooler arrived as a donation from the Prime Minister, we also handed it over to the organization for public service. Through these interactions, a deep friendship with Brahmavihari Swami developed—one that endured for life.

Just like BAPS, many small, lesser-known NGOs from across Gujarat and India set up kitchens, distributed relief materials, and embodied the spirit of “Ek Bharat, Shreshtha Bharat” (One India, Great India). The Sikh community’s langar was also widely appreciated. During those days, there was no distinction of caste, creed, or religion—no Hindu, no Muslim—only Indians united in compassion.

Transfer of Administrative Powers and Settlement of Debris Clearance

This time, the government granted Shri L. Mansingh special financial powers, allowing him to sanction expenditure up to ₹5 crore per item. This greatly simplified the process of engaging agencies for relief and restoration work. Once the financial taps opened, contractors naturally appeared in droves—since tenders were waived, everything became “estimated”—the scope, the cost, even the urgency.

The ₹5 crore-per-item sanction limit meant that file volumes multiplied rapidly, and there was a risk of disorder or misuse. Mansingh Saheb would often say, “PK, should we just approve it?” But how were we to determine fair rates or proper justification for each task?

We therefore designed a systematic strategy. We tied all work estimates to standard Schedule of Rates (SOR) values. Executive Engineers were made responsible for certifying the quantity of debris cleared and the number of trips made. This allowed us to approve crores-worth of proposals with lakhs-worth of accuracy, ensuring both speed and integrity.

In other departments, officers used the new powers judiciously—drawing from related departmental budgets when funds were insufficient. 

For the temporary shelter colonies, we had experienced officers, so there were no hurdles in sanctioning expenses. Mr. Jagdishan arrived in Bhuj and, through coordination with the Municipality, identified open grounds, laid out plots, and supervised the construction of tin-roofed colonies for displaced families.

External Assistance

Delegations of ministers and officers began arriving from different Indian states. Soon, foreign teams also landed. My batchmate Praveen Pardeshi joined the UNDP team, assisting with coordination. A Japanese delegation arrived with a large consignment of tents and medical teams, which we deployed to Gandhidham. Other international teams brought RCC cutters and heavy equipment to help in rescue operations—but by that time, the chance of finding survivors beneath the debris had become minimal.

Each visiting delegation was given a list of affected towns and villages, and within their available budgets, they were asked to adopt and rebuild specific rehabilitation units. This approach worked very well—it allowed us to channel external aid effectively while reducing the workload on our core administrative team.

A delegation from Haryana, led by their Chief Minister and including my batchmate Ram Niwas, adopted an entire village and rebuilt it from scratch.

Coordination and Cash-Dole Distribution

At times, a few political leaders would visit the affected areas and try to engage in empty talk with us. We would gently point to their spotless, freshly ironed clothes and tell them that if they truly wished to earn merit through service to humanity, they should step into the field — work among the dust, sweat, and rubble — and soil those clean clothes for a worthy cause.

Soon came the phase of damage surveys and cash-dole distribution. The administration formed teams of officers and staff to collect survey data and assess losses for financial relief. The entire district machinery became deeply engaged in this massive operation.

Shri Ashok Saikia

One incident from that period remains memorable. After the Prime Minister’s visit, Shri Ashok Saikia, the Prime Minister’s Secretary, came to Kutch for a detailed review. He was a friend of L. Mansingh Saheb, and his stay was planned for about a fortnight.

At that time, accommodation in Bhuj was extremely limited. Apart from the Leuva Patel Samajwadi building, where our entire team was stationed, there was no other suitable facility. Mansingh Saheb and I were sharing a room there, while other officers occupied the remaining rooms — also in shared arrangements.

To make space for Saikia Saheb, I vacated my room and slept in the lobby outside. As the saying goes, “A good deed never goes unrewarded.” He remembered that small gesture of goodwill, and later, when a training program in Japan came up, he ensured that I was selected for it.

Farewell to My Parents

By then, I had been in Kutch for more than two months, overseeing relief operations. On 31 March 2001, I received a call from home: my brother-in-law Vinod had suffered a serious brain ailment and needed immediate medical help.

Since the situation in Kutch had stabilized somewhat, I sought leave from Mansingh Saheb and left for Gandhinagar. Vinod underwent brain surgery, but sadly, he did not survive — he passed away on 6 April 2001.

That same day, my father underwent cataract surgery. A few days later, on 10 April 2001, he suffered severe angina pain, and on 12 April 2001, he passed away from a heart attack at the V.S. Hospital, at the age of 81.

Even before I could recover from the loss, after completing his last rites and memorial observances, my mother fell seriously ill. She was hospitalized and put on a ventilator, but she too could not be saved. On 23 May 2001, at the age of 78, she left for her heavenly abode — to join my father once again.

With both parents gone, I felt an emptiness I had never known before. Yet, their values and teachings became my guiding light — the lamp that would illuminate my path through the rest of life.

2 October 2025

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Return to Homeland - Struggle for Posting(25)

25. Return to the Homeland and the Struggle for Posting

(Kalpsar, Scheduled Caste Welfare, Education and Midday Meal)

Kalpsar Project

After completing my MBA studies at the University of Ljubljana, Slovenia, I returned to India.

The knowledge of management and computers had enhanced my administrative skills. I believed that since the government had spent a large amount of money on our education, it would surely assign me to a key managerial or executive position — perhaps as the Managing Director of a board or corporation.

However, upon my return, I was appointed as Joint Secretary (Kalpsar Project) in the Planning Division, General Administration Department. A retired Chief Engineer, C. K. Patel, had been assigned as OSD (Officer on Special Duty) for the preliminary study of the project, and I had to work with him. My reporting officer was Secretary Mr. Bhagat of the Planning Department.

At that time, Kalpsar seemed more like an ambitious imagination than a concrete plan. Engineer C. K. Patel was preparing the pre-feasibility report with some agency from the Netherlands, so neither he nor I had much actual work. Once that report was received, it would need to be studied, followed by a feasibility report, then a DPR (Detailed Project Report), and only after that could the actual project be conceived — if at all.

The idea was to construct a 30-kilometer-long dam across the Gulf of Khambhat, creating a Kalpsar (lake) of fresh water. On top of the dam, a 10-lane road would provide a direct route for trucks traveling between Saurashtra and Surat — a huge logistical shortcut. As a result, fresh water from the Sabarmati and Mahi rivers flowing into the Arabian Sea would be retained, forming a freshwater reservoir where fish could thrive and the coastal lands of Bhāl could be revived for cultivation.

However, when the Narmada Dam project itself was struggling to raise funds, this ₹25,000 crore plan appeared far from feasible. Still, it was worth studying to assess whether such a bold engineering venture could even be attempted.

Now, 27 years later, the projected cost is estimated to have reached nearly ₹1 lakh crore.

Meanwhile, the political climate in Gujarat had settled down until the Bhuj earthquake shook things up again. The Shankarsinh Vaghela government, sustained by Congress support under leaders Amarsinh Chaudhary and Sitaram Kesri, collapsed within a year after their alliance broke down.

Dilipbhai Parikh succeeded Vaghela — a stroke of luck for him — but his government too lasted only four months. Midterm elections followed. Vaghela’s Rashtriya Janata Party (RJP) failed to strike a fair seat-sharing deal with Congress, which helped the BJP sweep to power with 115 seats and 44.88% of the votes. Though Congress (34.90%) and RJP (11.69%) together secured a higher 46.49% vote share, their split cost them victory. The old Janata Dal managed to take 2.64% of the votes.

Now, with the BJP government firmly in place, things appeared stable. It was Chief Minister Keshubhai Patel’s second term, and he focused on solving Saurashtra’s drinking water crisis, rural development through the Gokulgram Yojana, and promoting Samras Panchayats. The internal conflicts subsided, and bureaucrats’ voices began to be heard again — along with those of their relatives and well-wishers, who also became more active.

Director of Social Welfare

Tired of a life without meaningful work or even an official vehicle, one day I casually asked in the General Administration Department if there were any upcoming transfers — and soon enough, they appointed me Director of Social Welfare. Within the administrative cadre itself, certain posts were reserved for specific categories.

Since there was a separate Director for the OBC community and a separate Commissioner for Tribal Welfare, my responsibility was limited to Schemes for the Welfare of Scheduled Castes (SCs). Our Minister at the time was Fakirbhai Vaghela — a man of discipline and precision. He worked like clockwork and expected others to do the same. His meetings started on time, ended on time, and the next one began exactly as scheduled. If someone arrived early, he made them wait outside; if late, he scolded them sharply.

As the Minister for Social Justice and Empowerment, he personally conducted detailed reviews of both SC and OBC welfare programs. He ensured that each department’s secretaries were present, insisted that the mandatory 7% budget allocation be properly utilized, and reprimanded poor performance. Under his leadership, we were able to accomplish several constructive initiatives and introduce new welfare schemes.

We instituted the Dr. B. R. Ambedkar Award to recognize outstanding contributions in Dalit literature — an initiative that brought much pride and visibility to Dalit writers in Gujarat.

In Gujarat, the Mochi (cobbler) community of Dang and Umargam was historically treated as untouchable and thus eligible for reservation benefits. However, when in 1977, the Central Government (Janata Party) declared the entire Mochi community as a Scheduled Caste (SC), other SC communities expressed strong dissatisfaction.

We successfully persuaded Menaka Gandhi, the then Union Minister for Social Justice in the Vajpayee government, to remove the Mochi caste from the SC list. Eventually, the Mochis were excluded from the SC category, and later included in the Mandal (OBC) list, which helped reduce resentment among other communities.

At public functions, if I was given the microphone before the Minister, my speeches were so impactful that it became difficult for him to re-engage the audience afterward. Once, from the stage itself, our Minister humorously remarked,

“PK, are you planning to contest elections? Leave some of the applause for us!”

Dr. P. K. Das Committee Report

Our Additional Chief Secretary, Dr. P. K. Das, was a learned and kind-hearted man — fond of long conversations. He was married to Binduben, a Gujarati woman, and like me, had a keen interest in astrology, which helped us bond well. He had earned a Ph.D. in the United States, where his son later settled, though they had some coordination issues.

Dr. Das often said that since his father had been a government doctor, he spent much of his childhood in villages, playing with children from underprivileged backgrounds — which gave him deep empathy for welfare programs.

The government formed a committee under Dr. Das’s chairmanship to review all ongoing welfare schemes across departments, eliminate duplication, and strengthen effective programs. I was appointed Secretary of the Committee. My academic background, analytical ability, and computer skills learned in Ljubljana proved highly useful.

We prepared an excellent comprehensive report, which was later implemented by all related departments. Ironically, the Finance Department found in it a new “weapon” — a structured way to write “No” on funding files!

After Dr. Das was transferred, L. Mansingh took charge — a remarkable personality with a booming laugh that filled the entire room. His conversation never seemed to end, especially when discussing bureaucratic affairs. We developed a warm friendship.

Later, even after my transfer from that department, fate brought us together again — this time in Bhuj, during the Kutch earthquake relief operations.

But that story, I’ll share in the next chapter.

Scheduled Caste Welfare

The schemes for the welfare of the Scheduled Castes (SCs) were primarily focused on educational scholarships, which had been running for years. Compared to the national average of 15% SC population, Gujarat had only about 7%. One reason was that in other states, communities like Dhobi (washermen), Devipujak, Vanzara (nomads), Koli, and fisherfolk, who were listed as SCs elsewhere, were not treated as untouchable in Gujarat, and thus were excluded from the state’s SC list. These groups were also sparsely present in Gujarat’s eastern tribal belt.

We strengthened the implementation of ongoing welfare programs. The housing assistance scheme was renamed the Dr. Ambedkar Housing Scheme, with improved eligibility criteria, increased budget allocations, and higher targets — emphasizing self-employment and economic empowerment.

As an experiment, we toured Dalit neighborhoods in villages of Chunval to directly understand housing issues. Everywhere we went, people would rarely point out actual beneficiaries in need — instead, they would start talking about their own concerns. I realized the difficulties field staff faced in selecting limited beneficiaries amid widespread need.

In departments delivering social services, officials and staff often need motivation; without it, both morale and performance suffer. So I took two key initiatives:

1. Equipped every branch with new computers, trained all officers and staff, and ensured all office work was done digitally.

2. Ended the practice of staying late after office hours — I insisted that all work must be completed during regular office time.

To keep morale high, I arranged Art of Living workshops inspired by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, helping awaken a sense of commitment and energy. We also revamped the system of reporting formats and procedures. The result was a team that began to work with renewed enthusiasm and purpose.

For the development of SC communities, education, self-employment, and entrepreneurship were key tools. To help them study abroad like the Patels and earn in dollars, we launched a foreign education loan-assistance scheme. 

The Manav Garima Scheme was expanded to provide toolkits for self-employment. 

To help girls reach higher education, we started giving bicycles to female students from upper primary onwards. 

I still remember — the file for this scheme was signed by Chief Minister Keshubhai Patel on stage during the Dr. Ambedkar Award Ceremony at Tagore Hall, Paldi. Later, the scheme was restricted to girls studying outside their home villages, narrowing its reach. The broader health and empowerment benefits of girls cycling — improved height, digestion, appetite, and reduction in anemia — were overlooked. Back in 1986, during my Bharat Darshan tour, I had seen groups of schoolgirls cycling to school in Tamil Nadu villages. Compared to that, Gujarat seemed socially conservative.

The SC community in Gujarat is religiously Hindu, but due to the lack of Brahmins willing to perform rituals for them, they developed their own sub-caste of ritual specialists — the Shrimali Garos, who acted as priests. Similarly, since barbers (Valands) refused to serve them, a sub-caste called Senmas performed that work. From among them also came the Turi-Targada, who traveled from village to village performing Bhavai folk theatre, entertaining their own people. Their drummers (Dholis) were indispensable for everyone.

Every village was divided into Savarna (upper-caste) and Avarna (untouchable) sections — separated by a psychological wall. Yet within their own settlements, Dalits built a self-sufficient social system, living with dignity and cultural identity.

The Shrimali Garo sub-caste was relatively educated — proficient in astrology and almanacs. Unlike Patels, who often named their children freely, SC families always named them strictly according to zodiac signs. Their house construction, farming, and rituals followed astrological timing — based on muhurta and vastu. Weddings, from Manek-stambh installation to Ganesh worship, the four sacred rounds (fera), and Ganesh immersion, were all aligned with nakshatra (constellations) and choghadiya (auspicious times).

Even for auspicious journeys, feasts, and social visits, muhurta was consulted. Death rituals — the 12th and 13th-day ceremonies and shraddha offerings — were observed like in mainstream Hinduism.

One major difference was in cremation: instead of burning, they practiced burial — yet followed Hindu directional rules for laying the body. 

From the time of Israel King Solomon (970–932 BCE), a similar belief persisted — that the spirits of the departed remain on earth as ancestors, and should be worshipped with lamps and offerings. Even today, placing cooked rice in an earthen pot near the grave remains a living tradition. The ancient practice of offering animal sacrifice for divine blessings for the birth of a first son continued in some villages for years — and still survives in a few.

Seeing the shortage of Brahmins and the growing SC population, we conceived a plan to train young Shrimali Garo men in ritual and priestly skills, helping them earn better livelihoods. During school vacations, when SC hostels stood empty, we launched Karmakand Bhaskar training programs to enhance their ritual knowledge and self-employment capacity.

Ujjwal’s Accident and Rescue

At the time I was serving as Director, a terrible incident struck my elder son, Ujjwal. He was then studying in Class 12 Science. We lived in Sector 19, and his Physics tuition was in Sector 8. I had bought him a Vicky (moped) on which he went to tuition every evening and returned home around 9:30 p.m. After he came home, we would all have dinner together.

One night, when it was already 9:45, he still hadn’t arrived, and I began to worry. Those were the days before mobile phones, so there was no way to contact him. Suddenly, the landline rang. I picked up the phone — it was a police constable asking, “Is your son Ujjwal? Please come quickly to Gandhinagar Civil Hospital — he has met with a serious accident.”

I froze. My wife, Laxmi, was right there and asked what had happened. I said, “Grab your purse and whatever cash is in the house — get in the car.” We rushed to the Civil Hospital. When we reached, we saw Ujjwal unconscious, froth coming from his mouth, a deep cut on the back of his head, and blood flowing. My heart sank.

Upon inquiry, I learned what had happened: while returning from tuition in Sector 8, near Sector 9, outside the Directorate of Economics and Statistics building — right across from Secretariat Gate No. 3 (used for ministers’ vehicles) — new speed bumps had been constructed that very day. The zebra markings hadn’t yet been painted. Ujjwal, used to that smooth road, didn’t notice the new bump. Riding in his usual carefree way, his moped hit the bump, and he was thrown off, crashing hard onto the road.

Knowing the limited facilities at Gandhinagar Civil Hospital, I didn’t waste a moment. I had him immediately loaded into an ambulance with an oxygen cylinder, nurse, and doctor, and we sped toward Ahmedabad Civil Hospital.

On arrival, the duty doctor said, “Sir, we can’t start treatment without a CT scan. In head injuries, if the brain is swelling, we need to give medicine to reduce it — but if the brain is contracting due to shock, we need to give the opposite treatment.” Unfortunately, the CT scan machine at Civil Hospital was out of order. My fear grew worse.

Without delay, I ordered the ambulance to head to Samved Imaging Center, Navrangpura. Traffic was light, but near the center, a drunk motorcyclist got in front of our ambulance, driving slowly and blocking the way. I was furious — we kept honking continuously until we somehow reached the imaging center.

After registration, we wheeled Ujjwal in on a stretcher toward the CT scan room — and just then, he regained consciousness. What a relief that was! We completed the scan, took the report, and rushed back to Ahmedabad Civil Hospital, where the medicines and injections were immediately started.

Ujjwal survived.

However, he lost about a month and a half of studies. Though he passed his Class 12 Science exam, his marks dropped, forcing us to revise our plans for his higher education, and that, in turn, changed the course of his life.

Commissioner for Midday Meals and Schools

How long could I be kept doing the same kind of work? Perhaps the government thought, “Let’s test this officer in the field of education.” So, I was transferred as Commissioner, Schools and Midday Meal Scheme.

In the Midday Meal Scheme, our focus was on improving the quality of food supplies through the Civil Supplies Department and on curbing irregularities in implementation. I carefully read the Government Resolution (GR) of 1980 related to the scheme. It had been written by a very capable hand. The objective of the Midday Meal Scheme wasn’t limited merely to increasing school attendance. Its purpose extended to improving children’s nutrition and also to providing employment to the organizers, cooks, and helpers.

Creating one lakh jobs through a single GR was considered a major achievement in those days. Moreover, appointing cooks and helpers from economically weaker families fulfilled the government’s social responsibility toward their nourishment too. So, if a cook or helper’s family shared the same food prepared in the school kitchen, how could that be termed misuse? How could anyone justify that in such a large kitchen, two hungry stomachs should remain empty?

As Commissioner for Secondary Schools, I constantly faced pressure to approve new teacher posts. In grant-in-aid schools, managements appointed teachers directly. Whenever student numbers increased, they sought new teaching posts because each new post meant financial gain for the institution. Meanwhile, when schools had a surplus of teachers, no one wanted to move; some teachers refused transfers, and some institutions didn’t want to accept them.

In some schools, student numbers were too low, and the minimum staff had to be retained just to keep them running. In others, when enrolment exceeded the sanctioned strength, they demanded additional full-time teachers. Many students were chronically absent — and how many were actually ghost students could only be discovered through impartial inspections.

When I analyzed the academic standards of high schools, I found that teaching hours were taken as the key benchmark. Even daily group prayers and weekly physical training (PT) conducted by the PT teacher were counted as part of every teacher’s academic workload.

By rough calculation, those 15 minutes of prayer each morning cost the government ₹55 crore a month! I revised the norms to make them more realistic and began efforts to relieve the government from the burden of unjustified extra teachers.

Most high schools in the state were grant-in-aid, but there were still about 16–20 government high schools functioning. Teachers there drew full government salaries, yet student strength was low, and results were poor. So, we considered an idea — why not hand over management of such schools to some successful educational institutions to improve performance?

At that time, schools run by organizations like Swaminarayan Gurukul and a few other religious trusts were performing well. The idea was still under consideration when we received a complaint that a religious group, assuming the government school would soon be handed over to them, had already begun visiting and making students chant “Hari Om” and “Jai Swaminarayan.” We immediately realized the potential danger and dropped the experiment altogether.

Around that time, it was the early IT boom — every young graduate who developed a small piece of software would rush to market it. One such trio of entrepreneurs came to me offering a school attendance register software, priced at ₹30 lakh!

I thought to myself, “A school has just 15 teachers — their attendance fits easily on a single-page register. Why would we need such an elephantine system for that?” Besides, there was no internet infrastructure then to record and monitor attendance online. Many schools didn’t even have computers.

However, since the trio came with a recommendation from a GAD officer, they assumed an easy sale — sell the CD, pocket the cash, and walk away. I refused outright. I told them, “If the government ever needs such a system, it will issue a proper tender and select a suitable vendor through competitive bidding.”

They left — but soon after, my negative attitude toward their proposal reached their well-connected friend. That friend made his move when I was promoted to Secretary cadre in February 2001, getting me transferred as Commissioner of Fisheries — right when I was on Kutch earthquake relief duty.

My car and driver changed, and with that, so did my chapter of work.

Natural Disasters

During Keshubhai Patel’s second term as Chief Minister, his government lasted three years and seven months — but both natural and man-made disasters never stopped following him. When Keshubhai first became Chief Minister in 1995, it was a man-made crisis that brought him down. When he returned to power in March 1998, the Porbandar cyclone of June 1998 struck as if to welcome him.

Nine districts were affected, 1,173 people lost their lives, and property and infrastructure damage was estimated at around ₹2,000 crore.

Then came January 26, 2001 — Republic Day. We were all waiting at the Gandhinagar helipad for the Chief Minister to arrive for the flag-hoisting ceremony. As soon as he arrived, the ground began to shake violently. It was instantly clear that something catastrophic had happened. Soon, news started pouring in — from Kutch to Ahmedabad, the earthquake had flattened thousands of houses and caused massive loss of life.

When I returned home from the helipad to our government quarters in Sector 19, I found a deep crack running from the house to the garage. The floor tiles had split in several lines, and one wall of the building seemed to have tilted. When I arrived, Lakshmi and the children were sitting outside, waiting for things to calm down.

We reported the damage to the Inquiry Office. Their staff came, inspected the house, and noted down the details. While we were still wondering what to do next, I got a call from C.K. Koshy Saheb’s office — instructing me to leave immediately for Bhuj–Kutch for earthquake relief work.

I told Lakshmi, “You manage the house. I’m leaving now.” I asked her to follow up with the Inquiry Office, and if possible, find a vacant government house and submit an application to shift. I told her, “If the house feels unsafe, make the garage your home for now.”

I packed two pairs of clothes and one bottle of water, got into the car, and left. I had no idea about the full extent of the disaster — so I didn’t carry any food or plan for a long stay.

But as soon as our car crossed Radhanpur and headed toward Bhachau, the atmosphere of sorrow and devastation began to grip my mind. When we finally reached Bhachau, I stopped — and for the first time, realized the true magnitude of the tragedy.

1 October 2025

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My First Memorable Journey to America (24)

 24. My First Memorable Journey to America (22)

(Christmas Vacation: 25 December 1997 to 4 January 1998)

Bakulbhai’s Company and the Visa Connection

Our Christmas vacation was approaching at the University of Ljubljana. I came to know that getting an American visa which is usually difficult to obtain from India, was much easier to get here as a student. So, I thought of spending the Christmas vacation in the United States.

But where to go? I had never been there before. Then I remembered Bakulbhai Pandya, who lived in New Jersey. I liked his warm and friendly nature. He had once told me, “When you visit America, you must come to our place.” Bakulbhai was associated with the Asaram Ashram, and I had first met him at the Motera Ashram in Ahmedabad. His son, Dipal, was a devotee of Asaram Bapu, and I had met him earlier in Surat. So, I called Bakulbhai from Ljubljana and asked if I could visit. He warmly welcomed me, saying, “Don’t worry about anything — just come!”

I then applied for a U.S. visa at the American Consulate Office in Ljubljana. They interviewed me and granted me a six-month visa. With the help of Ashwin, I booked a round-trip ticket on Lufthansa Airlines and departed for New Jersey, USA, on Christmas Day, 25 December 1997.

I arrived the next day, and there was Bakulbhai waiting for me at the New Jersey Airport. I found him easily at the exit gate. We drove to his house in New Jersey, where his wife Gitaben and sister Varshaben warmly welcomed me and served a home-cooked meal.

That night, they laid out a mattress for me in the living room and explained where to fold it up in the morning and which bathroom I could use.

The next morning, after milk and breakfast, while we were chatting, Gitaben asked, “So, what’s your plan for your return?”

I was brand new to America — I hadn’t even figured out where to go yet! That question immediately made me think.

Sensing my situation, Bakulbhai smiled and said, “We’ll see about that in the evening. For now, put on this black windcheater jacket and this cap — let’s go see the Statue of Liberty and a few other places.”

I happily agreed and got into his car, ready for my first American adventure.

New York

First, we went to see the Statue of Liberty — a gift from the people of France to the people of America. Standing tall in New York Harbor, it has witnessed the dreams of millions of immigrants who arrived seeking a new life.

In America, everything requires a ticket — even seeing the statue and parking the car. So, you have to keep your watch handy! Bakulbhai paid for both the entrance and parking tickets.

From there, we went to see the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center (which were later destroyed in the 9/11 terrorist attack). Since it was a holiday, the buildings were closed, so we just drove around and saw them from outside. After that, we headed to the Empire State Building — the 102-storey skyscraper built in 1931, one of the tallest in the world at that time.

It was the first time in my life I had seen such a tall building. The elevator took us up to the 80th floor, where we walked around the circular lobby and then came back down.

In America, people don’t usually eat lunch. They have a heavy breakfast in the morning, go to work, and then have dinner at night. But I was used to eating at noon, so by afternoon I was quite hungry. Bakulbhai noticed and took me to a nearby store where we stood and had coffee and French fries — a makeshift lunch. Meanwhile, he took several photos of me with his old roll-film camera.

We roamed around the streets of New York City, and by evening we returned home, where Gitaben had already prepared dinner.

While we were eating, she asked again, “When are you leaving?”

I replied, “I have a friend, Yogesh Patel, who lives here — I’ll contact him and stay with him for a while.”

I called Yogesh, but he said, “Let me ask Kashmira (my wife) first — then I’ll let you know.”

Now my confusion deepened. It was only my second day in America, and I had nowhere to go!

Silently, I prayed to God, “Please show me a way.”

Gitaben used to copy and sell cassette recordings of Asaram Bapu’s sermons, so we spent some time discussing Bapu’s teachings and spiritual topics. It was during that conversation — around 8:30 at night — that a Swaminarayan Patel friend of Bakulbhai unexpectedly dropped by. Usually, no one visits that late, but perhaps destiny had planned it so.

He listened to my situation and suggested an itinerary for my “America darshan.”

He said, “Disneyland is quite far, but you should go to Orlando, where there’s Disney World and Universal Studios. There’s also a temple — a former church purchased and converted into a Hari Mandir — managed by Kanubhai Patel. He’ll arrange your stay and food there.”

He even called Kanubhai on my behalf and gave me his phone number.

We discussed the route and decided that on the way back, I could stop in Washington, D.C., for a short visit.

I wanted to see America from the ground — up close. To travel economically, I decided to go by Greyhound bus — truly a pilgrim’s journey, like the humble Siddhpur yatra.

Orlando

Since it was a long journey, we woke up early the next morning. I packed just enough clothes for my southern trip into a shoulder bag, and by 6 a.m., Bakulbhai and I reached the bus station. I bought a ticket from New Jersey to Jacksonville, and from Jacksonville to Orlando — the total fare was $116.

I had planned to stay in Orlando for two nights, then stop in Washington, D.C. on the return trip before coming back to New Jersey. I requested Bakulbhai to pick me up on my return. When the Jacksonville-bound bus arrived, I boarded it, offered a heartfelt farewell to Bakulbhai through the window, and watched him until the bus pulled away.

As I looked out the window, I observed the American landscape, its people — both Black and white — passing by. Occasionally, the bus would stop for breaks, and we’d glance at the food in the restaurants, but since I was used to fasting often, I continued without eating much. Once, I had some coffee and French fries to keep going.

After 20 hours of travel, we reached Jacksonville at 2 a.m. I switched buses and continued for another four hours, arriving at the Orlando bus station early in the morning. Despite a full 24-hour journey, I didn’t feel tired — I had managed to sleep well on the bus.

I called Kanubhai, who said, “Just take a taxi from the station and give the driver this address — he’ll bring you straight here.”

I hailed a taxi; the driver was a West Indian named David. I sat in the front seat and chatted with him along the way, learning about his life and family. He had been married for five years, and he and his wife were hoping for a child. I gave him my blessings, paid the $15 fare, and arrived at the Hari Mandir.

Kanubhai greeted me warmly and said, “Sir, you have two options — I can book a motel room for you, or you can stay here at the temple. Right now, we’re hosting a three-day cultural camp for Patel girls, so food won’t be a problem. We’ll also arrange for someone to take you to the sightseeing places in the morning and bring you back in the evening.”

I replied, “All I need is a mattress to sleep on and a nearby toilet and bathroom — the temple will be perfect. Plus, I’ll get to meet people here.” So, my stay was arranged at the Hari Mandir. After a refreshing bath, I enjoyed a hot breakfast and got ready for the day’s sightseeing.

One of the Patel brothers was waiting with a car, and we headed to Disney World. He bought a full-day ticket and pointed to a meeting spot: “I’ll pick you up here at 8 p.m. If you finish early, just call Kanubhai.”

I entered Disney World, queued up for one ride after another, and enjoyed each one. But how much fun can you have when you have to stand in line for half an hour or more for a ride that ends in a few minutes? Still, it was an exciting experience. I met Mickey Mouse, shook hands with him, and smiled for a memory — though I didn’t have a camera, so my eyes became my camera.

There were tourists from all over the world in those lines. Sometimes I made brief friendships, exchanging names and countries. I noticed that many people seemed to know very little about India.

At 8 p.m., I reached the designated spot, and the same Patel brother was already there with the car. He drove me back to the temple, where the camp girls had prepared a hot dinner. I ate heartily and chatted with a few of the girls, who spoke a mix of American English and Gujarati — the latter being our sweet mother tongue.

The next day, I visited Universal Studios, and on the third day, after thanking everyone warmly for their hospitality, I left for Washington, D.C.

Washington D.C.

Once again, I had to travel nearly 20–22 hours by bus. The journey stretched through the day and night. By morning, I reached the Washington D.C. bus terminal, placed my shoulder bag in a locker, and purchased a Hop-on Hop-off bus ticket for a city tour.

That day, a strong cold wind was blowing, so I couldn’t enjoy sightseeing as much as I had hoped. Still, by around 3 p.m., I managed to see the White House, the Capitol Building, the Lincoln Memorial, a national cemetery, and a museum — all the major landmarks. Then, I returned to the bus station, bought my return ticket to New Jersey, and called Bakulbhai.

That night, around 8:30 p.m., Bakulbhai picked me up from the station. On the way home, he said, “Parmar Saheb, make sure your friend comes to pick you up tomorrow morning.” We reached his house, and I phoned Yogesh, telling him, “Now, whether your wife agrees or not, you must come tomorrow morning to take me with you.”

After spending that night at Bakulbhai’s home, I had milk and breakfast in the morning. Just then, Yogesh arrived. I loaded my luggage into his car. Before leaving, I had a short chat with Japan, Bakulbhai’s second son. I already knew his elder son Deepal, whom I had met in Surat, India.

I thanked Bakulbhai and Gitaben wholeheartedly — after all, they were the main reason my first trip to America had happened. Then I got into the car with Yogesh and set off. Yogesh was my friend from our 1983 Secretariat training, when we had first met as Assistants (Deputy Section Officers).

Edison

Yogesh’s home was in Edison, a modest two-bedroom apartment, where he lived with his wife Kashmira and their two small children. Kashmira welcomed me warmly, bought fresh vegetables, and prepared a hot Indian meal — dal, rice, roti, and sabzi — which I ate with great satisfaction.

Yogesh stayed home, while Kashmira went out to work. Their children, full of curiosity, would ask me questions about the stories from the Ramayana I told them. In the evening, Yogesh took me to a Swaminarayan temple. Seeing a Hindu temple in America filled my heart with joy.

Observing that both husband and wife worked, I got a sense of their financial situation. Kashmira worked at a Dunkin’ Donuts store. The next morning, she brought home donuts for me — it was my seventh day in America, and the first time I had ever tasted a donut. It was delicious — perhaps because it carried Kashmira Bhabi’s warmth and affection.

She continued to prepare hot meals for me every day. One afternoon, Yogesh and I went shopping — I bought groceries like atta, dal, rice, turmeric, chili, and spices, along with a 2-in-1 radio-cassette player and a Sony camcorder. I regretted not buying it earlier, as I could have captured photos and videos of New York, Orlando, and Washington D.C.

During our talks, Yogesh shared how his hard-earned savings had been lost in the stock market. He also mentioned how lifting heavy loads at work had caused him back pain. From his company’s medical support, he had received a special waist belt, which he kindly gifted to me.

That evening, I called Laxmi from Yogesh’s home and told her about my entire U.S. trip so far, and that I was now staying with Yogesh. Kashmira Bhabi, who was nearby, overheard the call — and as soon as I hung up, she flared up!

She said sharply, “Why didn’t you tell Laxmiben that Kashmira Bhabi is taking such good care of you — cooking fresh food and feeding you hot meals twice a day?” I was taken aback! I tried to calm her down, saying I would mention it the next time I spoke, but she remained upset.

That night, we went to New York’s Times Square to see the New Year’s Eve lights, but my mind was preoccupied, so I couldn’t fully enjoy the dazzling atmosphere.

The next morning, there was a bit of awkward silence between us. To lighten things, I went out shopping and bought a pair of jeans and a few household items for her. We spent that night peacefully.

On the third day, Yogesh dropped me off at the airport. With 56 kilograms of luggage, I boarded my return flight, traveling via Frankfurt, and by Sunday, January 4, 1998, I landed back in Ljubljana, where I returned to our ICPE hostel — my home away from home. The next morning, our academic program resumed.

Thus ended my first-ever, unplanned one-week trip to America — a journey full of learning, emotions, divine coincidences, and unforgettable memories.

Divine Help

Throughout that first journey to America — from the moment the idea arose, to obtaining the visa, finding accommodation, meeting helpful people, and returning safely — everything seemed to unfold so smoothly that it felt guided by an unseen hand.

At every stage, when uncertainty appeared — like where to stay, how to travel, or whom to contact — someone would suddenly appear to show the way. It was as if the Divine was silently arranging everything.

When I didn’t know where to go in New Jersey, Bakulbhai’s friend appeared late at night with a perfect plan for the rest of my trip. In Orlando, Kanu Bhai and the temple community received me with affection and ensured my comfort. In Edison, Yogesh and Kashmira Bhabi provided me with warmth and care as if I were family.

Such coincidences were too precise to be random. It felt as though God had already charted the path, and I was merely walking upon it — protected and guided all the way.

That’s why, when I recall this journey even today, I don’t see it as my personal achievement.

It was a story of grace — divine help at every step.

— 30 September 2025

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MBA in Europe (23)

 

23. MBA in Europe 

The year was 1997. I was 37 years old. From Ahmedabad I flew to Delhi, from Delhi to Frankfurt, and from Frankfurt I reached Ljubljana — Europe. That charming city in Central Europe! The Alps end where Slovenia begins. In winter, the temperature here can drop to minus 15°C. More than the cold itself, the whistling winds could chill your bones — so whenever one stepped outside, a windcheater and cap were a must. During winter, snowfall would cover the entire country with a white blanket. Lake Bled would freeze so solid that people played sports on it.

ICPE (International Centre for Promotion of Enterprises) Hostel

At the Ljubljana airport, one of the two staff members from the ICPE training institute a Nepalese named Ashwin was waiting for me. He assisted me with the formalities, got my passport stamped, and arranged a car that took me to Dunajska cesta 104, where ICPE (International Centre for Promotion of Enterprises) was located. I was allotted Room No. 703 on the seventh floor. I took the key and entered my room.

It was a hostel building, with each floor having rooms for trainees and visitors. Each unit had a single room with an attached bathroom — once the double bed was in place, the room was nearly full. There was just enough space for the essentials: the bathroom and a wardrobe. The room had a built-in heating system through hot-water piping, so no heavy bedding was needed. I hung my clothes on hangers, arranged my belongings in the wardrobe, placed other items in their spots, and went to check out the kitchen.

During the initial briefing, we were told that each floor had a shared kitchen with four burners — two on the left and two on the right. We had to coordinate our timings to cook. The washing machine was in the basement — we’d collect our clothes for the week and wash them together.

Since we had arrived at the end of August, the weather was pleasant. Food didn’t spoil easily. In the beginning, enthusiasm for cooking was high, so we would cook enough vegetables for four or five days, store them in the fridge, and reheat as needed. Our chapatis turned out like maps of different states, so for the first fortnight, we mostly stuck to rice and khichdi. But rice digests quickly, and we needed meals that kept us going through long study hours, so gradually we learned the tricks of kneading, rolling, and roasting dough — and soon became good at making chapatis too.

Just like with the curry, we’d prepare dough for two or three days in advance. Our student coupons were limited, and none of us wanted to spend unnecessarily. Moreover, the icy winds outside discouraged us from bundling up and walking an hour to McDonald’s or other fast-food places. So, we continued with our simple Indian meals — and in that way, though we were in Europe physically, our hearts stayed connected to India.

Interestingly, beer was cheaper than water there! And the tap water in the bathroom was cleaner than what came through our taps back home, so whenever we felt thirsty, we’d drink straight from the washbasin. Drinking water was also available in the classroom.

University Campus 

As morning broke, streams of fair-skinned young boys and girls would fill the streets of the university, flowing like a tide of youth. Some students lived in the city and came every day using bus passes, while others stayed in the university hostels.

In those hostels, there was no division between “girls” and “boys.” Students could choose their roommates freely — male or female — as they preferred. Once the day’s classes were over, the entire campus would grow silent. It reminded me of the celestial Gandharvas in our myths — they would appear at night, dance, and vanish by dawn. Here, youth and beauty blossomed in the daytime and disappeared into stillness by night.

After sunset, the place became completely quiet. We would cook, eat, and watch some television in the lounge before lying down to sleep. And as I drifted off, I could hear vehicles racing down the highway beside our building — the sound like stones whizzing from a sling. Listening to that steady rhythm, I would finally fall into peaceful sleep.

Classroom Learning 

There were 18 students in our classroom in total. Each of us had an individual desk and chair. Every morning, people sat wherever they liked. From India, besides me, there were Sudhanshu Mohanty from the Indian Accounts Service, Mohan Varghese Cherian from ONGC, and later, IAS officer Dinesh Kumar joined. From Pakistan came Rafatullah Barki; from Bangladesh, Khalilur Rahman Khan and Safiullah; from Sri Lanka, Deshapriya. From Bulgaria came Yuli Kalkonov, and from Albania, Eston Taro.

Among the Slovenians, there were men — Marko Bahor, Mitja Kreger, Anton Lenko, Miha Rozman, and Slavko — and women — Dunja Buder, Anja Kokzanjkic, Tanja Turk, Mataya Zonk, and Vesna Ster. From Uganda came Jolly Zaribwende, who worked as a bank officer but was academically a veterinary doctor.

When I left India, I wondered how refined European English must be — how would ours compare? But after meeting the students and professors, I realized it was quite similar to ours. “Ah, brother, we are alike!” Out of 18, we were eight Asians, one African, and the rest Slovenians and Europeans. Since their mother tongue was Slovenian, their English was actually weaker than ours.

If we ever needed to coordinate with the university or one of its faculties, we did so through our course directors — Mansoor Ali from Pakistan and Ashwin from Nepal. The Director General of ICPE was an Indian official. He and his wife would meet us during public functions and had invited us for meals once or twice. Both Ashwin and Mansoor were married to Slovenian women. Ashwin never invited us home, but Mansoor did once. His daughter lived with him and her boyfriend in the apartment upstairs.

Market and Shopping

For flour, vegetables, rice, and spices, we went to the shopping complex on weekends, carrying bags and returning on foot. Because of the language barrier, we couldn’t converse much with shopkeepers, so we mostly relied on gestures. The bus routes and stops were confusing, and since most people used passes or cards while we dealt in cash, we gave up on four-wheeled buses and managed with our own two-legged “Bus No. 11” (walking!).

When crossing roads, car drivers would stop and let us pass — unlike in India, where we must let them go first.

Youth Culture

When we went to the market, we often saw young couples with their arms around each other, kissing passionately in public. Watching them made me quite uncomfortable — on the first day, I even felt nauseated. I wondered, how could they exchange saliva like that? Once, I asked Jolly, “Girls wear lipstick — do the boys end up eating it too?” She laughed and said, “Lipstick is edible.”

After a while, it became a common sight. Here, physical intimacy was just a part of life. They stayed together as long as there was mutual attraction; once it faded, they simply moved on — “You’re you, I’m me.” In our Slovenian group, some three boys and girls once had a “nude party” at one of their homes. Dunja used to tell me all the gossip. Her mother was Slovenian and her father a Turkish Muslim.

I never saw my classmates drink water — beer was their beverage of choice. Whenever they went out, they drank beer, which was cheaper than water or orange juice. When they dined in groups, no one treated or paid for everyone. Each person would take out their own wallet and pay exactly for what they ordered — very disciplined! Unlike in India, where one person often ends up paying for all out of courtesy.

They couldn’t handle spicy food — if they saw curry with gravy, they’d wrinkle their noses and say “Oh!” Their social reserve was such that they wouldn’t invite anyone home for a meal or offer to take you out in their car. Among them, Mitja Kreger was married, and hence more open-hearted. Toward the end of our program, Kreger hosted a party at his home and invited all of us with our families. He cooked chicken tikka marinated in liquor, while we vegetarians made do with roasted potatoes.

Venice Carnival 

When the Christmas vacation arrived, I took a short trip to America. Later, in February 1998, our group went to attend the famous annual Carnival of Venice at St. Mark’s Square. We couldn’t explore all of Venice, but the experience of the carnival itself was unforgettable. People wore colorful and creative costumes, painted their faces and bodies, and paraded through the streets to the sound of music and instruments. Tourists gathered around to watch and enjoy the spectacle.

During the same season, we also visited Lake Bled. It was frozen solid — walking over the icy lake was a delightful and surreal experience.

Money and Lifestyle

Today Slovenia uses the Euro, but back then the currency was the Tolar — roughly five Indian rupees to one Tolar. At our hostel reception, the phone worked on a per-minute basis, so to save money, we would cleverly time our calls — we’d dial just as the minute hand touched 12, start speaking, and hang up right before it crossed 12 again, saving one precious minute! Phone calls were expensive — about ₹100 per minute.

When we went shopping, we’d always check the price tag in Tolars, convert it mentally into rupees, and buy only what seemed affordable. Potatoes were the cheapest — around ₹ 28 to 30 a kilo — but eggplants cost nearly ₹400 a kilo!

I saw celery for the first time there. At first, I mistook it for oversized coriander leaves and bought it despite its high price. When I added it to a curry, the flavor turned out strange — that’s when I learned it wasn’t coriander at all but celery!

The locals mostly ate hard bakery bread, so we couldn’t find flour like the wheat flour we use in India. We’d visit the stalls of flour-sellers, mix two or three varieties — fine, semi-fine, and coarse — and make our own version of wheat flour. Then we’d knead the dough as best we could, roll it into uneven chapatis, roast them partly cooked or fully cooked, and eat them with curry. Round or not, it all ended up in the same stomach anyway!

The rice there was thick and sticky, so we had to keep experimenting with the water ratio to get it right. We’d use it mostly for khichdi in the evenings, and on holidays, we made dal-chawal.

Cooking wasn’t entirely new to me — I’d spent my childhood watching Raibhabhi cook, my father frying fritters (bhajiyas), and my mother managing the kitchen all her life. So within the first fifteen days, I learned to cook reasonably well.

Seeing how expensive things were, when I visited America in December 1997, I brought back all the essentials — flour, pulses, rice, spices, and vegetables — whatever I could find cheaper there. My total luggage, including two check-in bags and hand luggage, came to about 97 kilograms!

Later, when my wife Laxmi came to Slovenia in May 1998 during the summer vacation with our children, I had specially requested her to bring flour, pulses, rice, turmeric, chili powder, and other spices. The combined luggage of the three of them must have been over 100 kilograms too!

Jaysukhbhai 

One day, while walking through the market in Ljubljana, I met an elderly man named Jaysukhbhai, a descendant of the Ahmedabad-based industrialist Shrenikbhai Sheth family (of the Lalbhai Group). He showed me the ISKCON Centre there. I was pleasantly surprised to see fair-skinned young men and women joyfully singing Hare Krishna, Hare Rama while playing the dholak.

Jaysukhbhai had left his wife and son in Ahmedabad and settled in Slovenia after marrying a Slovenian woman. The couple had no children. Initially, he had a job, but by then he had stopped working and was living off his Slovenian wife’s income. Every Sunday, he would go to the ISKCON Centre for the free lunch served there.

Though his family was wealthy in Ahmedabad, he was helpless here. He believed that his son had forged his signatures and usurped all his property. He requested me to help him find a good lawyer and to assist him in reclaiming his share of the estate. Since I was going to be in Slovenia for a while, I assured him that I would look into it once I returned to Ahmedabad. I also asked him why he didn’t just go back himself. He said, “I’m 55 now and have been here for about 20 years. Where can I go back to now? Ahmedabad is full of disputes.”

A year later, when I returned to Ahmedabad, I called Shrenikbhai to follow up on the matter, but he denied knowing anyone by that name.

Studies 

When it came to academics, I was among the top performers. In numerical subjects, while others used calculators to solve problems, I would calculate mentally and speak out the answer. My speed and quick responses became well-known among the university staff — people began saying, “An Indian has come who’s exceptionally bright.” I always maintained good relations with all the faculty members, local or foreign.

Computer training was a compulsory part of our curriculum. Back home, I had been used to pen-and-paper work — our government offices had computers mostly as showpieces, often placed in officers’ chambers so they could enjoy the air conditioning that came with the “computer room.” Most secretaries didn’t know how to use them, but having one was a status symbol.

At the university, we had to submit project work in Word documents and sometimes make PowerPoint presentations. Most of us were beginners, so in the beginning, we often forgot to save our files and had to redo the work. The computer lab was open 24×7, and there were no passwords in those days — anyone could use any machine.

Among the students were some clever copycats too. I would finish my project work in the evening and leave; later, someone would open my folder and copy my work. I’d be surprised to see presentations almost identical to mine. Sometimes I’d even wonder, “Did I copy theirs by mistake?”

Those “copy masters” had likely noted which computer I worked on and then duplicated my files later. Eventually, as the number of documents and folders increased, each of us began using fixed computers for our work — and that solved the problem.

Helping Fellow Students 

My reputation was high not only among my classmates but also among the faculty. Some students struggled with difficult subjects, project reports, thesis proposals, and synopses. I often helped them — staying back after class to coach them and explain tough topics more clearly. Among the girls, Jolly, Anya, and Vesna had no problems; Mateja managed with a little help. Tanya would pass if she got guidance, but Dunya was a real challenge to teach — helping her pass was the toughest task.

Some even tried to bring cheat slips into the exam hall. And if the supervisor happened to be strict, they would get so nervous that they’d forget everything they had prepared, managing to pass only in their second attempt.

One professor, Dr. Daniel Pučko, was feared by everyone. He was strict by nature — gave no hints about exams, showed no favoritism, and taught Strategic Management. Because of that fear, Dunya could neither understand nor remember the subject. During his exam, she would wear a skirt and hide numerous cheat slips as if they were ornaments — even preparing an index sheet of where each note was concealed! But as soon as the exam started, she would forget where she had hidden them.

Despite all the tutoring I gave her, she failed the Strategic Management exam three times in a row. I was exhausted from helping her, but her fear overpowered her learning. She focused more on preparing cheat notes than actually understanding the subject. Now, if she failed a fourth time, she would lose her academic year. She came to me crying bitterly and said, “PK, you have a good rapport with Prof. Pučko. Please recommend me — I can’t pass otherwise.”

Because of my good performance, Prof. Pučko respected me. Though I felt hesitant to ask, Dunya’s course was company-sponsored — and if she failed, all her expenses would be deducted from her salary. So, I went to the university staff room, requested an appointment, and appealed to his human side. He looked at me silently for a moment — and, out of regard for me, he agreed. As a result, Dunya finally passed.

Tanya got stuck preparing her thesis synopsis. She tried four times, but the university rejected it each time. Frustrated, she came to me in tears: “PK, please make it for me.” I set aside my own work, studied her thesis, and prepared the synopsis myself.

Guest Faculties 

A visiting professor from Denmark taught so fast that no one could keep up. Most students couldn’t grasp the definitions of the technical terms or the tricky calculations — everything went over their heads. Since I was good in statistics, I understood easily. After his classes, I often spent an extra hour explaining things to others. The professor stayed in our hostel as a guest faculty member, and he would see how I simplified and taught the material to everyone.

After our exams, when the results for his subject came out, the scores were excellent. Delighted, he brought beer cans for everyone and a special orange drink for me.

Another visiting professor, Dr. P.K. Jain from IIT Delhi, was also impressed with me. He invited me to pursue a PhD at IIT Delhi under his guidance.

Thesis Material 

For my thesis material, Laxmi helped me from India. There was no Wi-Fi at that time, no WhatsApp, and email was uncommon. So, the only way to exchange material was by post. I would tell Laxmi what I needed, and she would collect it from the office and send it by mail.

Results 

In my MBA, I studied 16 subjects. My results were:

• 11 subjects – Grade A

• 4 subjects – Grade A-

• 1 subject – Grade B+

Combining my coursework and thesis, I earned First Rank with Distinction, and we all walked a little taller with pride.

The Constricted Coil of the Secretariat 

The Secretariat — a truly confined complex in every sense. Two incidents about telephones are worth recording. At that time, only Secretaries and a few Joint Secretaries in the Secretariat had access to ISD (international calling) facilities. Fortunately, my department’s phone could make ISD calls. So, I had told Laxmi that if she ever needed to contact me urgently, she could go to my department office and call me.

I had explained the timing to her — since Slovenia is 3 hours and 30 minutes behind India, if she called before noon, she would reach me conveniently. One of my batchmates had taken charge of my post while I was abroad, and we were both aware of this arrangement.

One morning, Laxmi went to the department as planned. As soon as she saw the nameplate of my batchmate, she went into his chamber to meet him. When he learned that she had come to make an ISD call, he flatly refused — saying he had a meeting — and walked out, leaving her embarrassed and disappointed. Laxmi returned home hurt and humiliated. Even after 28 years, whenever she happens to see that officer, she still remembers that painful incident — how he had refused to let her make that one phone call.

But the telephone saga didn’t end there.

As soon as I left for Slovenia and my successor took over, the Administrative Branch of the department wrote to the Telecom Office instructing them to disconnect the telephone at our government residence in Gandhinagar.

Suddenly, Laxmi and the children were left completely cut off from communication. I could still manage abroad — but what if my elderly parents in Ahmedabad needed help? Or if Ujjwal or Dhawal faced any emergency?

Laxmi somehow managed to call me from a STD booth and inform me of the situation. I advised her to meet Mr. Ashok Bhatiya, the Additional Chief Secretary, who lived nearby in Sector 19.

Laxmi was furious inside — “What kind of system is this? My husband has gone abroad on official duty, not quit his job. Why would they cut off the connection?”

Mr. Bhatiya, being a kind and considerate man, listened to her patiently. The very next day, he wrote a letter to the Telecom Department, and the telephone connection was promptly restored.

Laxmi’s First Courageous Journey Abroad 

Laxmi’s journey to Europe — traveling alone with Ujjwal and Dhawal to reach me in Ljubljana — turned out to be quite an adventure. I had written her a detailed letter explaining every step of the process.

All three already had passports, so they only needed to obtain Schengen visas. Following my instructions, she applied and went to the German Consulate Office in Mumbai with the two boys to get the visas. She then booked Lufthansa Airlines tickets via Frankfurt, keeping the return sector open.

The trip from Ahmedabad to Delhi, and Delhi to Frankfurt, went smoothly. But once they arrived in Frankfurt, confusion began. The connecting flight to Ljubljana was a small one and operated from a different terminal, and she didn’t know how to get there. It was her first international trip. She assumed it must be close by — but Frankfurt Airport, being one of the largest in the world, was massive.

Managing two children and three pieces of hand luggage, with no knowledge of English, was daunting. She looked around for an Indian face and managed to ask for directions in Hindi. Looking up at the electronic screens, she somehow figured out which terminal and flight she needed. Then she realized that the terminal was very far away and could only be reached by subway train.

She boarded the first tram but ended up at the wrong place. After struggling to ask in broken English, she was guided upstairs to catch a second tram, which finally took her to the correct terminal. Much time had been lost, but luckily, the flight hadn’t departed yet. The airline staff had been waiting for them. As soon as they saw her from a distance, they rushed forward, picked up their hand luggage, and literally escorted them onto the aircraft.

And then, at last, they were in the air again — bound for Ljubljana.

At the Ljubljana Airport, I was already waiting eagerly. When I finally saw them coming out, it was a moment of immense relief and joy. I received them warmly, and we all went together to our home — the ICPE Hostel.

Now I finally felt at ease. Laxmi took charge of everything — cooking, laundry, ironing, and keeping the room tidy. The room was small, but the four of us fit comfortably and happily within it.

Europe Tour

Then came our Europe Study Tour — a part of our academic program, a 15-day educational journey across Europe. The academy had arranged a luxury bus for the trip. There were 18 participants and 2 course directors, so many seats were still vacant.

Our expenses were already covered in the course fee, but this seemed like a perfect opportunity to take our families along. We submitted a proposal suggesting that since the bus would travel half-empty anyway, our families should be allowed to join at half price. We even requested that children be charged at 25% of the rate. The organizers were hesitant at first but eventually agreed, since the trip was profitable for them anyway.

So, we — the participants, along with our families — embarked on our memorable European journey.

Over those fifteen days, we traveled through eleven countries: Italy, Switzerland, France, the United Kingdom, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, and Austria, among others — visiting their most famous cities like Milan, Geneva, Paris, London, Brussels, Amsterdam, The Hague, Bonn, Munich, and Salzburg. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, filled with unforgettable moments.

Highlights from the Trip

London:

Watching the Buckingham Palace parade was a sight to behold. And a visit to Big Ben and the London Tower — no London trip is complete without hearing those iconic chimes.

One afternoon, our driver dropped us off at a posh hotel for lunch. The menu looked tempting, but when I read the prices in pounds, I was stunned — £65 for one lunch! I decided to skip it. We went to a nearby departmental store, bought bread, butter, tomatoes, and cucumbers, and made delicious sandwiches — our lunch cost just £10! While there, we also picked up a packet of Pakistani basmati rice, which later came in handy in The Hague.

Hague:

At The Hague, Laxmi managed to get into the hotel kitchen, added some oil and spices, and prepared a fragrant pulao. Since we had two children with us, no one objected.

Paris:

When I saw the Eiffel Tower, I remembered Mahatma Gandhi’s words — he once called it not a monument of man’s wisdom, but of his folly.

At the Louvre Museum, we marveled at its magnificent sculptures and paintings — especially Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, which left an unforgettable impression.

Amsterdam:

By the time we reached Amsterdam, it was late evening. To our surprise, the bus driver dropped us off near the famous Red-Light District.

Our Slovenian classmates — single young men and women — were thrilled and rushed off to explore theaters and shows. Even one of our couples wandered off.

As for me, Laxmi, and the kids — what could we do? We found ourselves walking through streets lined with shop windows displaying beautifully dressed women selling their bodies, just as mannequins model clothes. Music blasted from every corner, and crowds filled the alleys.

To pass the time, we bought some snacks from a street stall and strolled around. After all, it was a study tour, so I joked to Laxmi that we should “study this part of society” too!

We stopped near one such window. The woman said, “75 dollars.” Then, pointing toward Laxmi, she laughed and said, “You already have her — nothing new here. Move along!” I realized that even for conversation, one had to pay $75 an hour, so we simply walked away.

Late that night, everyone regrouped, and we returned by bus to a hotel outside the city, where we fell into deep sleep.

Beyond the Study Tour

Apart from this official trip, we also took a personal tour — visiting Rome, Pompeii, Florence, Pisa, and Naples.

Before Laxmi arrived, during Christmas 1997, I had visited America alone.

In February 1998, our classmates went together to see the Venice Carnival.

After Laxmi joined me, some of our Asian colleagues traveled solo to Vienna. I, however, had to wait another twenty years before I could visit Vienna myself.

If I were to write about every experience, the pages would never end. But one thing is clear — seeing the world is richer than merely living it. As the saying goes:

“He who travels, thrives — he who stays tied, starves.”

A Gift from Ljubljana

I managed to save some of my dollars from the trip. The government later allotted me a plot in Gandhinagar, and with a loan approved, we built our own house there.

We named it ‘Ljubljana’ — the city that had given me my degree, and whose blessings helped me build my home.

In the next chapter:

I’ll share the story of my first trip to America, during the Christmas vacation from Ljubljana.

29 September 2025

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