CHINA’S GREAT BALL!

 

This is a rare analytical piece by me.

Throughout my career, I tended to focus on the human story. This was thanks to my mother, who from the time I was a baby was constantly telling me stories.

So stories became fascinating for me. Whenever I meet people, I am keen to know their stories. Everybody has a river of stories flowing inside them.

I also realised the human story never grows old. It can withstand the passage of time. So I stuck to story. And I continue to do so.

COLUMN: The Tunnel Of Time

The 1990 Asiad turned out to be a victory party for the host nation. Shevlin Sebastian investigates the almost unbelievable success of the Chinese athletes at Beijing

Photos: Nikhil Bhattacharya

China has turned the Asian Games upside down. Never has any country so dominated a Games as China did at this year’s Asiad. A simple statistic proves the point: of the 262 gold medals at stake, China won 183. By contrast, India collected just 59 medals.

Most journalists and foreign visitors at the Games were confronted with an extraordinary spectacle. We would keep an eye on a race or an event, wait for it to start. The pistol would go, and predictably, the crack of the gun was followed by the sight of the red flag moving into the lead, unchallenged, untouched. Seconds or minutes later, the same flag would break the tape first. No surprise at all.

The result: complete boredom.

Midway through the Games, out of 18 gold medals at stake, China won 17. There was almost a desperate hope that some other nation would win, just to make an impact. But no, the Chinese juggernaut just rolled on.

Each medal ceremony became a routine. We would stand up for the national anthem, watch the red flag with one large yellow star and four small ones in a semicircle sway in the breeze, and hear the anthem repeatedly. Hours of cheering by the spectators, the waving of miniature red flags, and then another medal for China.

As the days went past, curiosity grew about how the Chinese managed to perform so magnificently at the Games. Interviews with a cross-section of journalists, athletes, officials, and trainers revealed the answer: planning and preparation on a massive scale.

THE PLAN

At the ’86 Seoul Asian Games, China came first in the medals tally but only narrowly, with 94 gold medals to South Korea’s 93. But even then, Beijing worried. Yet when China competed in the Seoul Olympics two years later, it won only 10 gold medals. This was in sharp contrast to the 50 medals claimed at the 1984 Los Angeles Games.

The government sat down, or rather, called in the national sports organisations, and reviewed the situation. The conclusion: more attention and more money had to be diverted into sport. Soon, there was a nationwide campaign to make people aware of the need for China to excel at the Games.

As hosts of the 1990 Asiad in Beijing, the government propagandists stressed, it was imperative that China give its best performance.

Thus, within a couple of months after the Seoul Asian Games, training camps were set up both at the national and provincial level. It was a systematic, long-term programme aimed to culminate at the Beijing Asiad.

The plan has worked perfectly. Because of it, China is today on top of the pile. But what were the other factors that contributed to this extraordinary success?

THE MOTIVATING FACTORS

What made the Chinese athletes train so assiduously, to push themselves so hard, that they performed so well? What motivated them?

A) Patriotism

B) Money

C) Fear

PATRIOTISM: Perhaps one of the singular and unwavering qualities of the Chinese people is their deep sense of patriotism. Frequently, on the winners’ rostrum, as the national anthem was being played, a Chinese gold medallist would wipe away tears of joy. “No matter how angry they may be against the government,” said Wang Shenguin, an official, “we are a deeply patriotic people.”

Moreover, this was the first time China was holding such an extravagant sporting event, where the eyes of Asia would be on them. The Chinese believed that as host nation, not only should they show utmost respect and deference to foreign guests, but they must also put up their best performance. And you could see it on hoardings across Beijing: ‘We must do our best’ or ‘We must stand up proud in the world.’ The message was clear: China must rule.

MONEY

Another great incentive for intensive and sustained training was the prospect of money and jobs. In China, the average person and the average athlete earns about 100 yuan (Rs. 500) a month. Although clothing, food and shelter are subsidised (for example, in Beijing, rents of apartments are fixed at five per cent of your salary), living is a tight financial squeeze. For most athletes, a good performance promised a better future.

The government offered incentives of 3,000 to 5,000 yuan (Rs. 13,000–15,000) for a gold medal. To Indians, this might not be much. But, says Zweng Huang, an athlete, “In China, it is a lot of money.”

The general feeling that sporting success could mean more money was reinforced by the great, successful former gymnast Li Ning after retiring from competition.

The multiple Olympic gold medallist started his own business, a clothing line in his own name, and because of his famous name has been highly successful. Time and again, in Beijing, one came across young people wearing T-shirts with the name Li Ning emblazoned in white across the back.

Li Ning is rich now, and has a flat and a car, and sport was his route to money and fame. He was a shining example for all to see.

FEAR

The fear of the State, the repercussions of failure, also accelerated the athletes’ drive. The State was spending money on the athletes and the State wanted rewards.

The State, in the form of coaches and officials, put immense pressure on the athletes, and there have been documented cases of athletes suffering a nervous breakdown because of these pressures.

On the flip side was the danger of failing. In China, there are hundreds of athletes who have not won anything. They are unknown. And because they were involved in sports for so long, they were unable to develop a new skill.

Some tried to go back to university but most settled for working jobs in departmental stores or as gardeners and workers in factories. “It’s a tragedy,” said an athlete who requested anonymity. “If you don’t win anything you are nowhere. No education and no medal. People don’t care about you.”

POVERTY, DRUGS AND TRAINING

Another interesting fact was that most of these athletes came from low middle-class or poor families. Poverty thus became another factor. For example, the new gymnastics star, Li Jing, comes from a poor family in Hunan province. He was selected for gymnastics at an early age, struggled and practised remorselessly, and now, after twelve years, has achieved nationwide fame.

So, it was these factors that have collectively pushed the Chinese to excel. Yet it is imperative to add that they were aided by a superb system set up by the Chinese sporting authorities. The two-year camps were brilliantly organised on scientific lines, programmed so that an athlete would reach his peak during the Games.

An average day in the camps would consist of long-distance runs, weight training, physical fitness and practising for a specific event. Then there would be psychological classes, the need to develop mental strength and to stay calm. There were further classes then on strategy and tactics.

This took about four hours every day. It was four hours for two long years. At the most, the athletes were allowed to go out for a few days during the spring festival, which is in February, and in October, when the National Day celebrations took place. Otherwise, it was just training, training, and more training.

China was also blessed by the fact that they had highly competent coaches.

Said Win Shangquin, a Xinhua news agency journalist: “A qualified coach is necessary. Hard training is one thing, but good coaching is needed to complement the hard training. China, thankfully, has many qualified coaches, especially in cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Canton. And because the government was keen, all the training camps were provided with the best equipment.”

Yet there were also consistent accusations of widespread doping. No single Chinese person admitted in private about this, such was their deep fear or perhaps their deep patriotism.

But as Jeremy Walker of the South China Morning Post said: “I think it is obvious. It is impossible to have such a high level of performance without the help of drugs. I am sure the 400m hurdles winner was on drugs. She looked so tired after the race. And there were hints of a moustache and a beard on her face. And the Chinese have so many herbal drugs that the Western world has not even heard about, let alone put them on the banned list.”

And here in Beijing, with the doping tests being supervised by the organising committee (and let’s face it, China has a powerful voice in the Olympic Council of Asia), the chances of a Chinese getting caught was relatively slim. “I am sorry to say it but I am convinced that they are taking drugs.”

NATURAL SELECTION

To produce winners, you need to select athletes from a large section of the population, so that the best talent can be weeded out. And in China, they have a superb system that enables them to select athletes at an early age.

Firstly, when a child shows a particular talent for a particular discipline, the school recommends his name to the sports council of the province. The sports council then tests whether he is a deserving case. If yes, they recommend his name to the national association. The national association receives a list of names and then selects and chooses the best among them. The selected few are put into sports schools.

In these sports schools, children are given special training in their specific sport. They do their normal studies but, in the evening, they are given two hours of special training. They are put on a free diet but the food is rich and nutritious.

The admission age for these schools depends on each specific sport, but the age varies from 8 to 13 years. For weightlifting, it is from 14 to 17, while for gymnastics, children are admitted when they are five years old. Five years old! Can you imagine putting a child under intensive and systematic training at five years of age?

Every now and then, there is a monitoring of the student. If he does not improve after a period of training, he must leave. On the other hand, an outstanding student may be selected by a city, a province, or a national side.

There are 3,411 such schools across China and so far, they have produced 80–90 percent of China’s national team and 90 percent of China’s World and Asian record holders. Names like high jump record holder Zhou Jianhua and Li Ning are the ones that come to mind. They are all products of these sports schools.

But there is now a backlash against these sports schools across China. Parents now resent losing their children to a sports school. And this has become even more pronounced ever since the government announced that a couple can have only one child.

“So, people don’t want their children to go into sports,” said a People’s Daily journalist. “When you do sports, you can’t do your studies well and if you are not successful like Li Ning, you are nowhere.”

The result is that fewer children are being enrolled in these sports schools. Admitted Wang Chen, a director of a sports school: “Despite the fact that the sports school has been successful, we have a lack of promising students.”

Not surprisingly, this is really worrying the Chinese sports authorities. They believe now that their chances are bleak of duplicating their present performance in Hiroshima in 1994.

Nevertheless, that is the future. Today, China is the hero of the Games. Statistically they are untouchable.

In swimming, out of a total of 36 gold medals at stake, they won 28.

- In rowing, out of 12, they won 12.

- In Wushu, out of 6, they won 6.

- In cycling, out of 11, they won 6.

- In weightlifting, out of 19, they won 12.

And out of the 198 multiple medal winners at the Games, 82 were Chinese.

You know, they made a mistake. Instead of calling it the Asian Games, they should have simply called it the Chinese National Games.

(Published in Sportsworld, October 17, 1990)

In the Line of Life and Death

 

Photos: Author Arup Ratan Basu; the book cover; Indian Air Force Squadron leader Ajay Ahuja

In his book, ‘The Kargil                                                                                                                                                    War Surgeon’s Testimony’, Arup Ratan Basu offers a gripping first-hand account of what it was like to serve on the frontlines during the Kargil conflict

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Arup Ratan Basu was deputed as a general surgeon to the field hospital in Kargil. To reach Kargil, Arup was flown from Chandigarh to Leh, and then drove to Kargil on May 19, 1999. The surgeon on duty Major RPS Gambhir was going on a two-month leave. 

One of the first things Arup did when he reached Kargil was to buy a hardbound notebook at the town bazaar. The aim was to note down his experiences.

With just a month’s surgical experience, Arup felt understandably nervous about the assignment. By this time, the skirmish between the Indian and Pakistan armies had begun in the heights near Kargil.  

On Arup’s first night itself, casualties were brought to the hospital. At first glance, he realised that they were wounds from bullets or artillery shell splinters. They hit limbs, necks and shoulders. 

Thankfully, Major Gambhir did all the necessary surgical procedures. 

Two days later, Major Ramaprasad told Arup, tongue-in-cheek, that he had not received a proper reception since he arrived in Kargil. Moments later, the Pakistani Army responded to that request when there was a booming noise and the hospital shook. 

Arup’s first patient was a 21-year-old sepoy, who had a splinter on his left armpit. Arup quickly got to work. 

Once a sepoy, who was returning to consciousness, as his anaesthesia wore off, shouted, ‘Of you mother……, just wait till I get you. And that bi…, who does she think she is. You bloody Benazir, just you wait.’ 

As Arup wrote, ‘In his reduced mental state, the poor fellow thought that Benazir Bhutto was still the prime minister of Pakistan.’       

Soon, Arup got settled into the routine of the surgery: ‘scrub, drape, pass the forceps, scissors, suck this area, ligatures, artery forceps, and hydrogen peroxide, saline and betadine dressing.’ 

When asked why the casualties were always arriving in the evenings, a hospital staffer explained that during the day the soldiers were trying to scale up the peaks to get rid of the Pakistani intruders. So, if they were shot, they had to lie down till night because the rescuers wanted to avoid getting shot during the daytime. 

As the fighting intensified, one day, Arup received a call that an officer had been wounded gravely. When he asked the name, he was told it was Major Vikram Shekhawat of the Jat regiment. 

The same seemed familiar. Then he realised that some news channels had already declared him dead. He bemoaned the inaccuracy of the media reports. 

Arup realised some people had miraculous escapes, to the detriment of others. Once a lieutenant colonel was travelling in a jeep from Leh to Kargil. After a while, the colonel took the wheel to give the driver some rest. As they neared Kargil, an artillery shell exploded and a splinter pierced the passenger seat and hit the driver. 

But when Arup opened up the stomach, he found that the splinter had missed the spinal cord, the bigger blood vessels of the abdomen and the right ureter. As Arup wrote, ‘If any of those had been hit, the injury would have been fatal.’

But not every surgery ended in success. 

One day a 22-year-old sepoy was brought in, hit by a splinter. Despite several hours of surgery, the sepoy died. ‘A healthy and energetic man was gone forever,’ wrote Arup. ‘Never will I forget the sight of his pale face and his distended abdomen. He had come to me for help – and what had I done? I was numb with guilt, shame and disgust.’    

During a lull in the fighting, Arup came to know from wounded soldiers that they lacked proper rations and clothing for the freezing weather. One captain was suffering from frostbite. He said that he had survived on one chapati by day and another by night, with occasional dried nuts and sugar candies. When that ran out, they ate snow and ice to satisfy their hunger pangs. 

‘Of course, we had other things to eat too,’ he said, with a sardonic smile. 

‘Such as?’ Arup asked. 

‘We could feast on a steady stream of bullets.’         

Arup was summoned to examine a body in a coffin. This turned out to be Indian Air Force squadron leader Ajay Ahuja whose MIG 21 was shot down by a Pakistani heat-seeking missile. When Arup inspected the body he realised that Ajay had been subjected to torture before being shot.

One day an officer rushed into the mess and begged for water. When asked why he looked in so much distress, he said that he had seen the bodies of Captain Saurav Kalia and his team who had been captured by Pakistani soldiers. 

The officer was trembling as he blurted out, ‘I have never seen such horribly mutilated bodies… their nails had been pulled out, their earlobes cut away, their eardrums punctured, their eyes gouged out, and their bones broken. Even their penises were cut off.’

Arup had one thought, ‘Could the Geneva Conventions be simply ignored like this? Besides, could any human being do such a thing to begin with?’        

There were light moments, too. 

On one occasion, the wards lit up with excitement when Bollywood luminaries,  Javed Akhtar, Shabana Azmi, Salman Khan, Javed Jaffrey, Vinod Khanna, Raveena Tandon and Pooja Batra arrived. 

The commanding officer pulled Arup aside, pointed to one of the patients, and said, ‘Wasn’t that fellow admitted three days ago with intense back pain and sciatica-like symptoms?’ 

Arup looked with narrowed eyes and confirmed it. 

‘Then how is he jumping from one bed to another trying to get photographed?’ bellowed the senior officer. ‘Discharge him right away.’  

As India slowly regained control of the peaks, aided by the firepower of Bofors guns and precision airstrikes, the soldiers began moving up the peaks. The Pakistani soldiers began to withdraw when their positions became hopeless. International pressure was also heaped on Pakistan. As a result, there were fewer casualties for Arup to minister to.  

Interestingly, when the Indian soldiers captured bunkers left by fleeing Pakistanis, they were met with a putrid stench – the bodies of dead Pakistani soldiers left behind to rot.

Arup’s book offers a raw, eyewitness account of war’s brutal realities. The sheer waste of human resources, and equipment, the damage to the environment, the terrible loss of life, and the resulting disruption to normal life – there is nothing good about war. 

Or as Shashi Tharoor wrote, ‘In Basu’s view, it’s not so much about the futility of war as its untold human cost, which gets muffled beneath the nationalist pomp and clamour of any war effort – even one like Kargil, undertaken in self-defence. Yet for the parents who lost their sons, wives, husbands and children, their fathers, this is the only real consequence of war.’ 

Adds Lt General (Retd.) Vinod Bhatia, ‘Basu captures the human face of the Kargil war. Touching, easy to read, and an interesting perspective.’ 

After his short stint of two months, when he did an astonishing 250 surgeries, as Arup prepared to leave, he fell into a philosophical mood. ‘The concept of war is based on the idea that others should be subjugated,’ he wrote. ‘Humans have a desire to dominate others, and control and possess that which does not belong to them. This insatiable greed has led to history repeating itself time and time again.’ 

For his services, Arup received the Yudh Seva Medal. 

In 2001, he was deputed to Kabul, following the collapse of the first Taliban services. He served with distinction for ten months. Later, he served in various command hospitals of the Army Medical Corps before retiring to his hometown of Jamshedpur in 2013 where he works as a consulting gastroenterology surgeon. 

Arup has written three books in Bengali. This is his first in English. 

(Published in kitaab.org)  

The Great Beijing Scribes’ Race

 

Photo: With Pradeep Paul at the Great Wall of China 

COLUMN: TUNNEL OF TIME

By Shevlin Sebastian

In Beijing during the 1990 Asian Games, there was enough action on the field, but somehow, it could not quite match the action off the field.

Here are a few stories of what happened behind the scenes in the Forbidden City, with its broad avenues and the massive Tiananmen Square.

Adidas sponsored a media race for journalists in Beijing.

Among the participants was the lean Ranjit Bhatia (1936-2014), who, as no one bothers to mention, is a former Olympian and a marathoner, a Rhodes Scholar, and in excellent physical shape. Even in Beijing, despite the late hour that he finished writing his reports, he made his morning runs.

Lee Evans, the 400m gold medallist at the Mexico Olympics and now trainer of the Qatar squad, started the race.

Evans, who is in his mid-forties and extremely trim, said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen (and yes, indeed, there were a couple of women journalists), I wish you all the best of luck. However, just remember to take it easy because unfortunately, there is no ambulance outside the stadium.’

Nervous laughter rippled through the group. And when Lee Evans announced that the first twelve would get the expensive Torsion sneakers while fourth and fifth places would get tracksuits, the scribes shuffled their feet in anticipation.

The gun cracked, and a motley crowd of ageing, paunchy, young-to-middle-aged never-was—has-beens, broke into a furious run. But it was a brief flourish.

By the end of the first lap, everyone had collapsed except for Giao Biyang of Radio Beijing, Ranjit and my Sportsworld colleague Pradeep Paul.

A few were panting like fish out of water, and a couple of them stood, with hands on knees, mouths wide open, puffing out air like an old man leaning on his stick trudging up a steep hill.

I was lying happily in last place with India Today’s Shekhar Gupta, forming ‘Joggers Incorporated’. But as the front group slowed down, there was hope we might get somewhere. The desire to win slowly crept up like a tortoise suddenly realising it could win when he saw the hare asleep at the starting line.

The threesome in the lead just went on and on and finished the 400m race with Ranjit second and Pradeep third. And since even visions of a tracksuit could not motivate everyone else, thanks to collapsed lungs, a non-smoker like me slipped with ease into fourth place.

Not everyone was at ease in Beijing.

Consider the South Indian journalist, whom the Indian Ambassador invited to his house for a get-together with medallists and journalists.

He expected dinner, but he got samosas instead. He stood and moaned out loudly in Malayalam to a few fellow Malayali journalists about this stingy act of the ambassador.

The ambassador’s wife stood nearby, and surely that was not a problem. Until a journalist walked up and whispered: ‘Just forgot to mention to you, but the Ambassador’s wife is a Malayali.’

The journalist’s mouth opened like the entrance to a large cave, even as he whispered a tortured, ‘Aiyyo.’

That’s not all.

A crusty, old, God-fearing Indian newsman, who shoots not only from the typewriter but also from the lip, for once lost his tongue in Beijing. A deeply religious man, he wanted to go to church on Sundays. So he rang up the telephone number given by the organising committee because they told him that was where he’d get directions to the church.

The lady at the other end said, ‘Do you want women?’

For once, the words jammed in his throat, like Monday-morning traffic.

We don’t know what happened after that, but he certainly didn’t see any churches in Beijing.

And finally, here’s the story of how optimism survives even in God-forsaken Beijing.

Al-Ahmed, a photographer from Saudi Arabia, had ranted and raved about the impossibility of dating Chinese girls, but then he smiled and twirled his moustache.

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I am now waiting for eight more years and a few months.’

Whatever on earth for?

‘Because that’s when the 1998 Games will be held in Bangkok, the sex capital of the world,’ he said with a mischievous smile.

Al-Ahmed was like a Chinese farmer ploughing his field from dawn to dusk, confident that in the end he would reap a bountiful harvest.

(Published in Sportsworld, November 7, 1990)

Beijing Before the Boom

 

Pics: Panpan, the mascot for the Beijing 1990 Asian Games, in front of the National Olympic Sports Center in Beijing; the author at the Great Wall of China 

(Fear, Discipline and the Asian Games, 1990)

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Photographs: Nikhil Bhattacharya

It was an incident in a restaurant that really opened one's eyes to the lack of freedom in China.

A Filipino journalist walked in, accompanied by a Chinese girl dressed in a suit. 

The restaurant went into a flurry.

A waiter approached her and said in Chinese that she wasn’t allowed inside. The journalist mentioned that she was his guest. The waiter continued to rattle off something in Chinese to the girl. She replied, a defiant look on her face.

The journalist insisted she was with him. 

The waiter turned away, but suddenly there was a palpable tension. An elderly head waitress came in, whispered something to the waiter, and withdrew. The girl looked embarrassed now.

But that was not the end of the matter. Within moments, two big, muscular Chinese plainclothesmen with close-cropped hair came in from the kitchen. 

They walked past the girl’s table and positioned themselves near the door.

Then a balding head security man, in his mid-60s, joined them. They huddled briefly, then spoke to the waiter. By now, the look of defiance on the girl’s face had turned to fear.

It was a chilling sight: the State asserting its power against the individual. 

The individual wilted under the twin forces of fear and helplessness. She ate her meal, but there was no joy in it.

China’s authoritarian control was laid bare in that restaurant in Beijing. Yet, the city had been spruced up for the Asian Games. There were wide avenues, broad sidewalks with flower pots at every corner, flags flying from lamp posts, and, every now and then, someone sweeping the sidewalk with a broom. The roads were wide and smooth, with a separate lane for cycles. It was right-hand drive in China, although most of the cars were of Japanese make.

It would seem a modern city. But what lingered in the air was the unmistakable weight of fear. A glass wall that cuts through daily life.

Crowded, dirty and noisy, the bylanes told a different story. People spat on the streets — an act that would incur fines on the main roads, but was ignored in these alleyways.

The Chinese people, by and large, were wary of foreigners. They had been instructed not to mingle with them. As soon as they saw one, they looked away.

The government added another barrier. Foreigners had to use a separate currency — the Foreign Exchange Certificate (FEC). It differed from the regular Renminbi. Shopping was hard, especially in places not designated for tourists. Some shopkeepers flatly refused to accept the FECs. Even taxi drivers demanded Renminbi.

It was not a free country. 

A young Chinese student put it plainly: “China is not a good country to live in. People are scared all the time.”

Cosmetic changes aside, China remained poor. The average monthly income was about 100 yuan (Rs 500). But food was cheap, clothing inexpensive, and rents fixed at just five percent of a person’s salary. Still, mobility was severely restricted.

To travel from one province to another, a special permit was required. Going abroad was nearly impossible. 

“How lucky you are,” said a university student wistfully. “We are not allowed to do so.”

The government rarely issued passports. If a businessman wanted to travel abroad, he first had to deposit 10,000 yuan (Rs 50,000) as a guarantee.

And yet, ironically, despite this intense insularity, the Chinese wore unmistakably Western clothes. Men wore shirts and trousers; women wore jeans, skirts, and suits. Only the older generation still clung to traditional attire. 

The people in Beijing said that September–October was the best time of the year. The temperature hovered around 20°C, with a beautiful breeze, bright sunlight, and a clear blue sky. There was no need for a pullover and the air was so pure. 

Surely Beijing, with its numerous cycles and trolley buses, must be one of the least polluted cities in the world.

But when you went to a restaurant, they muddled your mind. 

If you ordered soup with your meals, they would serve it at the end. And if you ordered pudding, they served it at the beginning. And if you asked for a glass of water, they brought boiling water. Amazing! 

But they think we want to drink tea all the time, even at 9 p.m.

All this sounds depressing, but there were high points to the trip. 

One was the visit to the Great Wall of China. It was 75 km from Beijing. No doubt, it was one of the most incredible sights. A man-made wonder. It was only when one was physically there that one could comprehend its magnificence.

It was a testament to the will and determination of man, to build a wall like this, stretching 6000 km across rugged mountains. It was not a high wall, about 50 ft in height, but very rugged. But the length boggled the mind. 

It was built around 700 BC by the Eastern Zhou dynasty to repel invaders. The raw beauty of the place: mountains on all sides, a cool breeze blowing constantly, and the air that came from Siberia. The utter stillness. Just you, the Wall, and the clean air.

What a contrast to Chowringhee in Calcutta at office time.

To walk on the Wall was physically tiring. Up and down it went, and sometimes it was so steep that steps had to be cut into the stone, and handrails inserted, so that we could climb it. 

They say that it is the only man-made construction visible from the moon.

The other high point was a 2200-km train journey from Beijing to Canton. 

The train was an express and the cost of the hard sleeper ticket was 250 yuan. The railway clerk discouraged this writer from buying a hard sleeper ticket, saying that it was uncomfortable. But it wasn’t. It was equivalent to AC first class in India.

There were three-tier berths filled with upper-class Chinese families. For the average Chinese, 250 yuan meant a fortune. The train was clean and a worker swept the floor every two hours with a wet broom.

Outside, the scenery was exactly as in India: paddy fields, mountains, small huts, towns and trucks on the highway. Although cars seemed non-existent.

And in the midst of it, some drama: a young Bangladeshi had bought a 100 yuan (Rs 500) student’s ticket. At a station, the collector wanted to see his passport to verify whether he was actually a student or not. 

In fact, he was a journalist. 

By then, a small crowd had collected around him, curious and surprised. But the Bangladeshi was calm in the centre of so much attention. He pretended not to understand, then in sign language said that he was a refugee and brazened his way out. After a while, they left him alone. 

Later, he said, with a mocking smile on his face, “Munjia and China have good relations.” (“Munjia,” incidentally, is the Chinese name for Bangladesh.) 

When the Bangladeshi was being the centre of attention, one was reminded suddenly of how Ashwini Nachappa became the centre of attention at the Indian Ambassador’s party. 

She came in dressed in a black chiffon saree with a halter blouse. She left the Kerala female athletes’ contingent trailing in her wake.

Photographs were snapped of Ashwini, first by photographers, then with photographers, athletes, officials, journalists, and the Indian Ambassador. The poor man’s Flo-Jo had metamorphosed into the Marilyn Monroe of Indian athletics.

The train was one-and-a-half hours late. 

We arrived at 9 a.m. 

It was with relief that one took another train (and how one bought a ticket in English-ignorant Canton is another story) from Canton and out of China to Hong Kong.

The overwhelming impression is of people stifling under repressive controls, wanting to be free, and yet not confident enough in making that bid for freedom and multiparty democracy. As a student said: “We are waiting for the present leadership to die, before we can hope to make changes.”

Throughout the stay of three weeks, I was so glad to be an Indian. That I could stand at any corner and say anything about Prime Minister V.P. Singh without any fear; that there is a free press at home; that one can travel freely from one part of the country to another without asking permission from anyone, except your wallet.

(Published in The Telegraph Colour Magazine, November 25, 1990)