Crumpled note from Nairobi changed the course of my life

The farewell at Keamari harbour was as tearful as at the airport when I was first flying to England in February, 1955, with just one difference.

In the previous journey there was implied promise of return while this time, it seemed like a one-way voyage into the unknown with serious doubt if we will ever meet again.

As it turned out, we met the Karachi family often; we went to see them frequently and took our children with us and most of them visited and stayed with us in Nairobi and this exchange eased my guilty conscience.

But we could not see the future on that miserable occasion. Since many members of my family emigrated for different reasons, I no longer felt being the solitary black sheep of the family nor its only prodigal son.

CONFUSED EMOTIONS
Amid these confused emotions there was a surgical colleague come to see me off, indeed an oracle not unlike the Goan gentleman I met at Beynon Smith High School in Belgaum, who changed my destiny. He was one of my confidantes, on whose shoulder I had cried and he had tried before to dissuade me from leaving the country saying: “We need people like you to change the situation here. You are our only hope.”

I used to reply like a rebel. “I have only one life and I don’t want to waste in fighting a war with professionals in high positions and a war I have no hope of winning. Between the times I left here and returned, the shore has moved!”

This friend was genuinely sorry to see me go and had come to bid me farewell. Just before I boarded the ship, he foraged his trouser pocket and pushed a crumpled and open aerogram in the pocket of my bush-shirt and advised.

“This is from Nairobi. Read it when you are on the high seas.” That crumpled aerogram literally changed the course of my life!

Our first stop was Aden and while the ship was finding a berth to offload and load, Marie and I sat in the lounge, watching the activities on the harbour. Adorning one wall was a large map of the world.

AEROGRAM
Naturally our eyes focused on Aden and Marie spotted Nairobi nearby on the map and the words of the oracle flashed through my mind.

I rushed to our cabin and rummaged in the pocket of my bush-shirt where I found the aerogram. It had been forgotten in the turmoil of our sad departure.

I came back to the lounge, unfolded the aerogramme and we read it together. It was from the late Yusuf Eraj, obstetrician and gynaecologist in Nairobi, addressed to Col. Shah, dean of Dow Medical College.

It said that the Aga Khan was looking for a young surgeon for his newly-opened hospital and, though the job was advertised in Britain, it was open to anyone, with the right qualifications. Could the dean suggest a suitable candidate from his postgraduate students and if so he could write to the Administrator of the hospital, C/O P.O. Box 30270, Nairobi.

“No harm in applying.” Suggested Marie.

“There is a proverb in my language, which says that a man scalded by hot milk is scared of buttermilk,” I retorted.

BOOSTED MORALE

It was the proximity of Nairobi on the wall which impelled me to do what I did to please Marie. I picked up the Parramatta letterhead from the desk and with a pencil on the desk, in the absence of a readily available biro wrote to the Administrator.

After giving a brief introduction of myself perfunctorily to prove my bonafides, I asked a few details about the job. To sound enterprising, I added a postscript and mentioned that in addition to English, I spoke four Indian languages.

We went ashore to see Aden, came across a post-office in our wanderings, posted the letter and forgot all about it!

We anchored at Liverpool on January 13, 1960 and headed for Mansfield to Bee and Arthur’s home in the company of Gavin, their fifteen-year-old son who met us at the port.

A warm welcome at the house boosted our morale. Next morning, I went to Mansfield General Hospital in search of a locum job and landed one straightaway because the surgical registrar was looking for one so that he could go on holiday.

PROTESTED
Before the locum job finished, I obtained a substantive registrar’s post in what was then known as City General Hospital in Sheffield.

There early in October, eight months after I had posted the letter in Aden, Bee and Arthur forwarded a letter, addressed to me from St. George’s Hospital in London, asking me to attend an interview at the hospital on October 20 for the post in Nairobi.

I read the letter with amusement and brought it home for Marie to see it. After reading the letter, she remarked. “No harm in attending the interview. You like to go to the Royal College and read in the library and dine in the college canteen to meet foreign students which once you were. This time we arrived in Liverpool and you haven’t been to the College. This is your chance to attend the interview and do what you like to do.”

“As you know, I didn’t apply for the job but asked for more details,” I protested.

“Doesn’t matter,” Marie replied. “If you aren’t offered the job, you can still collect your fare and get a free trip to London on the Aga Khan Hospital account.”
“What happens if I am offered the job?” I asked.

“Then we can think about it,” she replied.

I pulled her leg about being a pukka Memon and save her pennies, wondering what the mode of transmission was!

This is precisely what happened. Giving the details of the interview at St. George’s Hospital and subsequently meeting the Aga Khan himself at his mother’s flat in Eaton Square will need a full column to do justice to the two topics and I promise to deliver in the next instalment.