Remembering Fusion Dancer, Astad Deboo

Among the many fortunate happenings that shaped my life, my meeting in 1980 with Contemporary Fusion Dancer, Astad Deboo at Park Street, Calcutta, dancing holding to an electric pole, is one permanently etched in my mind. He had a great laugh and sense of humour when I revealed that I am from Gwalior, land of the Chambals . Sipping tea from khullar, he remarked, 'wish I could do my performance in the midst of Chambal ravines to the tune of chattering gun shots'. He passed away on 10 December 2020

Remembering Vinod Dua

I met Vinod Dua ji once again in a January 2017 evening on the steps of India International Centre at New Delhi. ' Aarey Amitabh, Kab Aayey' He insisted that I should have Darjeeling Tea with him while he introduced me to Pakistani writers and scholars. They said that they are indebted to Shri Vinod Dua ji because his personal invitation allows them to visit and stay in India for long periods. Vinod ji went into a split of laughter, winking at me, explaining about his possible love and connection with Pakistani and Indian intelligence. There was laughter all around and the Darjeeling tea tasted better than before. Before leaving, we all embraced and I invited Vinod ji including all the Pakistani intellectuals to my other home in East London, South Africa. Vinod bhai succumbed to Covid 19 on 04th December 2021.

Awarded Pro Patria Medal, South African Military Health Service, The Highest Honour

National Persecution Authority, South Africa

Appreciation of my work by National Persecution Authority, United Nations Special Rapporteur on Violence against Women and the Hon. East London Mayor

With the Indian Deputy Consul Mr.Pandey and Kamla Dhaya, Author of 'Eastern Delicacies and Vegetarian Curries' at East London The book is a part of South African Literature at the library of Consulate of India, Durban.

Ahmed Timol

Ahmed Timol (3 November 1941 – 27 October 1971) He died at the age of 29 from injuries sustained when he fell from the top floor of John Vorster Square police station in Johannesburg. Charcoal on Paper by Amitabh Mitra

Somali refugees and Mdantsane, South Africa

The Somali refugee was shot dead through the steel mesh window at his spaza shop in Mdantsane. He sold even two bread pieces to starving locals. He survived Mogadishu and the Al Shabab, arriving in South Africa penniless and on an asylum status. They worked hard and started tiny grocery shops all over Mdantsane. The existing business being run by Bangladeshi shops had to close down because of fierce competition. The Somalis got involved in the spam of marrying on contract local South African girls to keep their residency status. But who killed the Somali man and who stabbed them. I had asked the Maulana accompanying them to my Emergency Medicine Department. I told him in humor, You are bringing stabbed and shot Somalis every week and I have healed them, what have you done for me. The Maulana smiled, I will offer my duas for you in the mosque. Later I found out it’s the Somalis killing other Somalis and has never been a case of Xenophobia. There is Al Shabab in South Africa and every Somali has to donate and become a member The radical islamization from where they fled has caught up with them here again. There is a turf war for the sale of Methamphetamine popularly known as the Tic. The Nigerian Mafia controls the drug trade, disguised as Pastors, they move around effortlessly. A certain elderly Nigerian whom I had treated in the Emergency Medicine Department and walks with a gold walking stick pondered and asked if I cared to join him in an impeccable English. Memories of the Nigerian Nobel Prize winner for Literature, Wole Soyinka wafts in, he had said, ‘The man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny’. I remember at Nairobi airport filled with Somali refugees and the acerbic smell of Khat chewing, postponing hunger. I was on transit for an Air Afrique flight to Niamey where I was to serve as an UNV Volunteer Orthopaedic Surgeon there. Most of them eventually died in Complex Humanitarian Emergencies, running from their home to a foreign land which they wanted to call as “home” I keep a 9 mm in my car, just to have the feel of fond memories of gun toting dacoits of Gwalior Violence is only the way to Peace and loving is the only poetry encompassing life