One of the first sketches I wrote for the college magazine – now, alas, irretrievably lost – was about an imaginary heroic character called Roy. Roy was soft-spoken but strong, mild mannered but determined, who spoke truth to power and championed lost causes. A rugged scholar, he was by profession a librarian.
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That confused my friends and readers. A librarian? It was clear to me nobody thought of the librarian as a heroic figure. A librarian was expected to be a namby-pamby clerk, who kept an inventory of books and loaned them to scholars and students for short periods – and pestered them if the books were not returned in time. In the US, the image was that of a woman with moon glasses, gray hair in a bun, shuffling about noiselessly, shelving books and maintaining a place of sepulchral silence. 

This was vastly different from my mental picture. To me a library was a magical kingdom, where everything was possible. And everything happened. Every villain had his comeuppance at the hands of the just hero; every detective followed abstruse clues to the right murderer; and every prince found the impeccably beautiful, doe-eyed princess. You discovered mysterious new worlds. How two brothers worked on an impossible dream and started flying. How Eskimos built houses of ice and raised families in them. How an arrogant boy from tiny Macedonia made huge empires prostrate at his feet. And how – trust the avid adolescent to look for that above all – men and women come together to have fun and produce babies.
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To be sure, the aura of books for me came partly from their sheer scarcity in the India of fifties and sixties. There were very few community libraries and their collections were pathetic. Schools and colleges had outdated inventories, and restrictive library practices seemed designed to keep students away from books. Open access was unthinkable and you could get only one or two books on loan at a time. The US and British Embassies created a sensation in my city, Kolkata, by opening large libraries where you could walk up to the shelves, browse to your heart’s content and sit and read as long as you liked. I became a member of as many libraries as I could, and then persuaded friends who worked for academic and professional organizations (and never used their large libraries) to let me use their membership cards. 

When I moved to the US, I was delighted by the easy availability of books in large stores and also in libraries. The delight has shrunk over the years as libraries have reduced their staff and hours and new acquisitions. Smaller budgets have gone mostly to popular magazines and best-selling potboilers, and the focus has moved to useful and how-to literature. Serving the community is a laudable goal, and librarians seem largely devoted to improving literacy, assisting seniors and children, helping the disabled and educating the computer Luddites.
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All are perfectly understandable and perhaps defensible. Yet I cling to my idea of the library as a magical kingdom, where impossible things can and do happen. Where your mind is blown by staggering new ideas, your imagination takes awesome leaps as you discover a new poem or play, your heart expands and sings as you read Murakami, Kundera or Rushdie, and you finally know what it is to be truly alive. A library above all is a haven where you discover yourself, joyfully and with abandon.

​Roy, the librarian I had imagined in my college days, was modeled on an elderly friend I had acquired, a man who after a successful career as a professor and senior administrator had decided he wanted to be a librarian. He served as a wonderful mentor in a professional organization to students and executives alike and opened new doors for anybody who cared to walk through the doors of his library. He was a miracle worker and he introduced me to the miracle that a library can be.

​You don’t easily forget it if somebody slaps you hard. It is even more unforgettable if he does so without a reason.
 
It was August 1947, a euphoric time in India. After two hundred years of repressive colonial rule, the British were leaving India, and India was to become an independent democratic country.  There would be week-long festivities in every city.
 
We lived in a close-knit community of about sixty people in Kolkata and father was broadly acknowledged as a community leader. So, understandably, Colonel Grover approached father with a proposal.
 
Grover had an interesting background. His father, an adventurous man, had left India and started a successful trading business in Singapore. Business did not interest Grover and he did an even more adventurous thing. He had heard of an Indian politician who had struggled for India’s independence from British rule for years and then, skeptical of England’s generosity to grant freedom to its richest colony, had surreptitiously gone to Japan and started forming an overseas army of Indians that would fight back into India. Grover found a way to reach Tokyo from Singapore and join the Indian National Army.
 
The Burma (now Myanmar) front was important to the allied powers, and the British army, composed mostly of Indian soldiers, fought back hard. The Indian National Army lost the battle. Grover was captured, tried by an English magistrate for sedition, but was shrewdly represented by patriotic Indian lawyers and was eventually set free. With oncoming independence, soldiers who had joined the Indian National Army became heroes in the eyes of Indians. Grover basked in that glory.

He proposed to my father that he would organize a freedom celebration, in which about thirty young men, trained by him, would march in a military-type pageant, ceremonially hoist the freshly designed flag of free India, salute the flag and then sing the newly identified national anthem.
 
Father assented to the proposed event and the training began in earnest. Every morning thirty persons would march in unison, practice running up the flag and then salute it as a group. Grover watched like a hawk and insisted on perfect posture and coordination. I was eight years old. I watched the proceedings with rapt attention. My admiration for Grover, his energy and tenacity, grew every day.
 
Then came the much-awaited day, 15 August 1947. India became an independent republic after two hundred years of colonial subjugation. Flags flew on top of every house. Radios blared patriotic songs. Local bands marched in the streets playing martial music. In our community the program went like clockwork. Father said a few welcoming words and emphasized the importance of the day. Then the group of thirty marched, raised the national flag and finally saluted in flawless split-second coordination. Everybody congratulated Grover on the success of his elegant choreography.
 
As the assembly dispersed, and Grover started walking away from the scene, I wanted to tell him how moved I had been by the spectacle. I did not have words to express my great admiration. So, to tell him that I had watched everything and admired all, I clicked my heels and raised my right arm and saluted him – just the way I had seen him teach others to do.

​Grover’s brows furrowed, he stepped forward, and then, without a word, he slapped me. He slapped so hard that my head spun and I nearly toppled over. I managed somehow to recover and keep standing. I was stunned. I simply had no idea why he hit me. What I thought would please him – demonstrating that I had learned what he had taught others – had infuriated him some reason. That reason eluded me, entirely.
 
Grover then marched directly to my parents and loudly declaimed, “I am sorry but I had to teach a lesson to your son. He mocked our salute to the flag, and it was a despicable thing to do.”
 
Years have passed since then. I could never forgive Grover, for not just misinterpreting a simple act of admiration as an act of mockery, but for his arrogance in believing that his interpretation alone could be the only one and for his refusal to entertain any doubt that might have induced him to ask me before striking me. So complete was his certainty that he went to my parents and confidently asserted that he had administered me the appropriate instruction.
 
My career has since placed me in the proximity of several professionals whose confidence in the quality of discipline they learned in military training is deep and unbounded. They often remind me of Grover. I shiver at the thought of the havoc such highly disciplined people wreak in life.

​Asian traders have a reputation for cunning and dissimulation. They would, it is said, do anything for a sale. What I remember well is an extraordinary exception.
 
I was working in New Delhi when I had an unexpected call from my friend David in New York. He was coming to India for a conference the following month. He is a dear friend, and I suggested that, on conclusion of his conference, he should come and stay with us for the weekend before his return.

​During breakfast on Sunday, David expressed an idea that appealed to me. He said his mother was 92, with limited vision, and had some difficulty identifying the five different medicines she had to take. His idea was to buy five ornamented silver boxes, of different shapes and colors, so that his mother could easily distinguish the pills placed in them.
 
I thought it was an excellent idea, but regretted that most jewelry shops would be closed on Sunday. Then it occurred to me that jewelry shops in major hotels are sometimes open even on a Sunday, and there was a large five-star hotel near our home.
 
We then found there were two jewelry stores in the foyer of the hotel, practically facing each other.

​We went into the first store, Grewal & Sons, and found the kind of silver boxes David fancied. I asked the price and the saturnine owner said they would each cost 500 rupees. When I enquired if there could be any discount on the price if one bought five of them, Grewal gruffly barked, “No discount.” We had politely asked a legitimate question, and the response was a brusque negative. Flustered, we walked out without saying a word.
 
We walked over to the other store, Punwani and Brothers, and were eagerly received by the store owner. When we expressed our interest in silver boxes, Punwani produced a large and varied collection.  Once again I asked the price and mentioned that we might purchase more than one. The man said that his usual price was 500 rupees, but he would bring it down to 425 if we bought three or more.

​That worked for us and we identified four very different types of boxes, oval, rectangular, square and circular, each with a distinctive color combination, such as green and gold or scarlet and silver. We were both pleased with the choices, but, try as we might, we could not find a fifth box that was identifiably different from the chosen four. We paid for the four boxes, took them and then pondered the alternatives.

I explained to Grewal that David had a 92-year-old mother who took five types of pills and, because of her limited vision, those had to be in five different boxes. We had found four boxes and now needed a fifth box that would be quite different in appearance and dimension. Grewal took a furtive look at our four purchases and immediately brought out a remarkably beautiful and unusual triangular box, with maroon and chrome filigree. We knew instantly, as did Grewal, that the new box was just the right thing for us. We simply had to buy it.

​Then the miracle happened. David brought out five 100 rupee bills and handed them to Grewal, and Grewal – without a single word of explanation – returned a bill to David.
 
Totally mystified, I muttered, “But you said the price was 500 rupees and there could be no discount!”
 
Grewal did not change his hard, morose look for a second. He said, “But you did not tell me that your friend needed it for his old mother!”

Mother had three brothers who were successful doctors. Father has two friends who were well placed engineers. But I did not want to be a doctor or engineer. I wanted to be a cricketer.
 
A cricketer? My parents were thoroughly confused. They mingled with capable lawyers, journalists, professors, musicians, executives, writers and businessmen, and could not understand their son’s ambition. How could he be so aberrant? It was entirely the fault of one man, whom few remember today and many once worshipped: Mushtaq Ali.
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At a time when Britannia ruled the waves and cricket was the prince of games, Mushtaq was, for a brief shining moment, the regal champion of the game, the swashbuckling hero who took a staid game and raised it to the pinnacle of glamor and excitement. Keith Miller, a flamboyant Australian all-rounder, spoke of him as the Errol Flynn of cricket, who could, with feline grace and sheer flamboyance, change a game’s destiny in the twinkling of an eye.

​A lanky youth from a middle class Muslim family in Indore, a commercial town in central India, he first played hockey creditably, and then learned cricket on his own. Initially playing in local and regional matches, he was a star by 19, graduating eventually to the national scene. He entered as a competent left-hand bowler, but promptly showed his mettle as a right-hand batsman, of daring and wizardry unmatched by his English, Australian and West Indian adversaries.
 
I was ten when father handed over to me the prized ticket for a test match between India and West Indies. It was a spectacular match, with an Indian team contending against a redoubtable West Indian team comprising the legendary duo of Weekes and Walcott. The pair burnished their reputation, each scoring a century in the second innings and Weekes scoring one in the first innings too. When you have seen Weekes bending down on his left knee and sending a ball to the boundary in a flawless cover drive, you think you have seen the ultimate cricket.

​Not quite. Mushtaq came out as the opening batsman in India’s second innings, facing the formidable task of matching a huge West Indies score. I can still see a clear, crisp winter morning, the bright sun lighting up the Eden Gardens pitch in Kolkata, its oblique rays playing on Mushtaq’s bronze face as he took his stand at the wicket and slowly turned his head, as if to acknowledge the deafening cheer of the crowd. Never intimidated, seldom cautious, Mushtaq waited only up to the fourth delivery from Cameron before, in a typically bold gesture, he walked forward and sent a shot right to the boundary.
 
That was just the beginning. He played faultlessly, stylishly, dramatically for two hours, against deadly bowling by Gomez and Goddard, cutting, driving, hooking and pulling in a maelstrom of mastery. He achieved a perfect century, before he was bowled lbw by Atkinson. When Mushtaq started walking back to the pavilion, I felt like crying, like every other spectator. However, we had all seen the best of cricket. 

​Selection committees who chose players for test matches did not care much for Mushtaq because they thought of batsmen as run gainers rather than artful performers. On one occasion when they did not select Mushtaq, sports lovers took to a protest march, declaring, “No Mushtaq, no test.” Mushtaq was eventually and reluctantly included.
 
The players have changed. Even the game of cricket has changed radically. But Mushtaq remains a model of devil-may-care sportsmanship, of a kind you rarely see at any time in any game. Aneurin Bevan once spoke scoffingly of “desiccated calculating machines” pretending to be leaders; it applies also to sportsmen. Mushtaq was different: elegant, playful, daring. So he was a darling of the crowd.
 
That is why I wanted to be a cricketer. Like Mushtaq.

​I have had thirty bosses in fifty years of work, but one stands out as unique.
 
Many were well educated, some were very clever, a few were brilliant. In my line of work, several were well travelled, a number of them tri-lingual, the rare ones genuinely cultivated. One was a golf champion; another was a blue-ribbon chef; a third, a female boss, had written two admirably original books.
 
In retrospect, it seems intriguing that the boss who left the most indelible impression was also, in a way, the most pedestrian. He looked presentable, acted fairly and worked with reasonable competence, but in no way seemed specially gifted. To be honest, it was the areas where his gifts were modest that first drew my attention.
 
He read slowly, painfully so, and his ability to work with figures was abysmal. In those pre-computer days he depended on others like me to produce charts and graphs, and he couldn’t even say clearly what he wanted. He would at best tell you what he wanted to achieve, and leave it to you to read his mind and create what he needed.
 
Nor was he any more adept with words. Expressing complex ideas in words was beyond him. So he would write very short and simple letters, rarely longer than a page. He expected underlings to come up with attachments that would deal with the complexities.
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Clearly details bored him. His eyes glazed over the moment the moment I cited the third subsection of a law that had bearing on a major contract or showed relative percentages of market growth. He would gently nudge me to tell him the “essence” of the problem.
 
These characteristics made me look askance at his managerial acumen and even consider a possible transfer to another department. It took me a while to realize that I was quite wrong. He had one trait that was unique and spectacular, and it made up for everything else.

​Like one reads a book, he read his people every day and he read them well. He set his heart on it. Perhaps, because of his modest gifts, he found this the best way to achieve the good results he did out of whatever talents he was able to attract. He placed the highest priority on understanding the people who worked for him. Particularly, if he sensed you were unhappy, he would go to the ends of the earth to unravel the reason and do something about it.
 
On one occasion I resented a decision he had taken, though he cited his reasons in a staff meeting. The next morning, as we were discussing a different subject, he suddenly stopped, pretended to be tired and suggested we take a break over a cup of tea. The fact was he had gleaned my discontent and wanted to create an opening to revisit the issue. Over tea he pried out my annoyance and quickly found a way to make amends.
 
He had realized that I liked independent work. So, even on an important project, he would confine himself to the barest minimum of instruction and would advise me to take his counsel only when I wanted it. Instead he would make sure that I had a generous budget and abundant secretarial help so that I could focus entirely on the work.

​With others too he had a sure touch. If he felt somebody’s draft was below par, he would gently make helpful suggestions and ask for a redraft. If it still did not improve, he would quietly get suggestions from other staff members and provide them to the author – until the draft reached a decent standard.
 
Once he asked me to slant an important report in a certain way and even suggested the words that should occur in the conclusion. When I wrote the report, I was surprised that he excised the precise part that he had virtually dictated to me. When I asked, he replied forthwith, “I took it out because your ideas were better than mine.”
 
In front of visitors or representatives of other companies, he made it a point to emphasize how talented his subordinates were and extravagantly compliment their diligence and competence. He made his people feel tall and eventually, I believe, we truly gained some altitude.
 
Let others sing hosannas of smart and decisive leaders. I would rather go with a boss who made me feel I could do something well and do some good.

​Brenda Wright was a well-known cardiac surgeon in Chicago. I met her only once and very briefly. What she said, however, remains seared in my memory.

​Three days earlier, a large avalanche had come down the Annapurna circuit of the Himalayas and killed an entire seven-person team of Japanese mountaineers. The story broke on Tokyo television and was quickly picked up and broadcast by networks in Europe and the US. It was the height of the tourist season in Kathmandu and there were hundreds of American tourists on the Everest and Annapurna tracks. Panicky Americans started calling the US Embassy in Nepal, asking for news of friends and relations. As the consul it was my responsibility to help them.
 
Quickly I packed a bag, hopped into a helicopter and rose 11,000 feet on to the Himalayan range. The sudden change of altitude gave me a painful headache, but there was time to do no more than swallow a few pills. There was a lot to be done.
 
First, urge all the hikers at the height and the hikers coming down from greater heights to talk to their families, by now besotted by anxiety. For the American hikers, take down their names and those of their relatives so that the families could be reassured. If I already had a message of concern from the relatives, talk to them or arrange with the Embassy to send them a reassuring word.
 
Next, arrange with the police and other government authorities to make sure that hikers from the US receive assistance in coming down to safe areas and, if injured, get special help. Also, contact non-government organizations, mountaineering associations and medical groups, so that ailing hikers are quickly brought to safety.
 
I went to the locations where helicopters were ferrying hikers from dangerous spots every hour and also all the inns and taverns where the incoming hikers were taking refuge. There were only small hotels but ordinary homes that did informal business and housed hikers. It was important to gather information on all American hikers and focus on the people reported missing by their families, trekking organizations or other hikers. Groups that had climbed together had become split in adverse weather and were anxious to know that individual members were alive and well.

​Days of unremitting work yielded the results we were looking for. I had traced all the missing persons except 17 hikers, and I had sufficient information about the movements of nearly a dozen of them to feel reasonably certain that they were safe. A group of five that had gone to 15,000 feet was expected to come down that evening, according to reports the police had received.
 
I came back to my hotel, had some dinner and around midnight ventured out in the hope of meeting the returning group of five.
 
It was around three at night that a watchman came to tell me that the group was tottering in. Yes, there were five in the group and three Sherpas, and one mountaineer was sick and had delayed their reluctant descent. Four were relatively young, overly enthusiastic, and rued that adverse nature and cautious bureaucrats had ruined their adventure.

The fifth member of the party – it took time to realize this as the member shed heavy mountain gear – was a woman in her late thirties, with metal-frame glasses and shoulder-length hair, wearing a well-worn blue-green sports outfit, which identified herself as Brenda Wright. She practiced surgery in a well-known hospital group in Chicago and had visited Nepal six times, thrice as a tourist and then thrice more as a mountaineer.

​Her team had been very near where the avalanche struck and had been saved by the foresight of an old Sherpa guide who had correctly assessed the avalanche as a grave threat and suggested a swift evacuation.
 
“Brenda, you realize, don’t you, “ I asked, in the hearing of her team mates who seemed miffed at the sudden cancellation of their plan, “that you were in serious danger. It could have easily cost your life.”
 
“Yes, I do realize,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation, I know the danger was real and close. I am glad that we got out in time.”
 
“Tell me, what makes you keep coming back to Nepal? To the mountains?”
 
She smiled. “It is hard to explain, “ she said. “At first it was just a sense of fun and adventure. Then it became something different. It became an event – an event that tests me and, in a peculiar way, restores me. I long to come back here and go up the mountain.”
 
I asked, “So you think you will come again, even after this brush with death?”
 
Brenda looked straight at me, “Believe me, I work eleven months at the hospital, always dreaming of the month I will spend on the mountain. It is constantly on my mind. I don’t know why, for I like my work. There is something in life beyond a comfortable existence and enjoyable work.”
 
She gave a pause and added, “I don’t know what that something is. But when I am up there, slogging through ice and snow with a load on my back, with people I barely know and share little in common, breathe thin air and feel my heart work differently, I seem to sense a different aspect of life I haven’t quite understood. I hope I understand it some day.”