CHASING THE ISLAND EXPRESS

CHASING THE ISLAND EXPRESS FROM CHALAKUDY

Campus interviews by big Companies and prospective employers in our final year at IIT Madras was an eagerly awaited event, with great expectations and excitement.  Every year the honour of being labeled “The Most desirable employer” would go to different companies, based on word of mouth rumours, and tall tales from seniors who had signed up in those companies in previous years.  The Companies in the mid seventies most sought after were the “progressive” ones, who employed MBA’s by the dozens.  Graduates from top Management Institutes of that time were indeed the Top Dogs of the industry, with halos around their heads, brimming with ideas and new found enlightenment and management Gyan. 

Madura Coats and Metal Box ( declared a sick company by the BIFR a few years later) were the new kids on the block, along with old, hard boiled stalwarts like Hindustan Lever, L&T, Tatas, and the BARC.  This story is about Madura Coats, who had a sewing thread making factory in Koratti, Dist. Thrissur, Kerala.

A little more information is useful on how this hitherto low profile, hardcore manufacturing company with a long tradition of manufacturing culture, turned into a brash MBA driven company :  An extract from their website gives deep insight into the “Management team” at the helm of affairs.

" Board of Directors

Madura Coats is headed by a group of people who have not only distinguished themselves in their chosen fields of education but also in the corporate world through the excellent professional skills. They are our Directors, our leaders who strive to lead us to the ultimate goal of business excellence through customer satisfaction. "

This anonymous group of Directors and Leaders in the very same website claims “In the 70's, the company came to be known for embracing modern management concepts such as Management by Objectives and Performance Appraisal Systems”  :  Hence the great excitement in IIT Madras in  1974, the year I graduated, when Madura Coats came to town.

We don’t hear much of Madura Coats these days :  I suspect the reason for their sad state to be the rivalry and conflict between the hard boiled managers come up from the ranks in the production factories through toil, tears and sweat and the newly minted Managers “Managing by Objectives” from their air conditioned offices.  The following story is illustrative of this dichotomy.

After I moved to Bangalore in the year 1986, I was called in to the Head office of Madura Coats by a Vice President (an MBA ) to visit their factory in Koratti and set right the Wastewater Treatment Plant there, which had innumerable problems.  I had to interact in Koratti with Mr. J ( Name changed to protect his privacy and pension ) the engineering Manager, a veteran with decades of service in Madura Coats.

Koratti is about 20 Km by Road from Chalakudy the railhead.  Chalakudy itself is some 600 km from Bangalore, reached by an overnight journey on the Island Express.

In earlier times, Willingdon Island near Cochin Harbour  was the terminus for this famous train. Since then the Island express has moved on from Cochin to Nagercoil, and today right down to Kanyakumari ( Cape Comorin) the southernmost tip of the Indian Penisnsula.  Old timers still call it the Island Express.

The journey to koratti was uneventful and I was safely deposited at their excellent colonial era Guest House. Such guest houses are found aplenty attached to old factories established several decades ago in locales, which in their time were considered remote : Sirpur, Chirala, Munger, Saharanpur, Clutterbuckgunj, Veraval, Kymore come readily to mind.

After being refreshed, the factory vehicle transported me to Mr. J’s office, and after some strained initial pleasantries, he turned me over to the care of his junior flunkey.  I could discern his resentment and indeed ill concealed hostility and animosity towards me, being an emissary from the Head Office.  I held my temper, and set about my work.  By that afternoon, I had completed my study and submitted to Mr. J, what I thought was a fairly erudite and well conceived preliminary report adequately addressing their major concerns.  He just put it aside in his OUT tray, offered me tea, and suggested I retire to the Guest House and take rest : I had to catch the Island Express back to Bangalore at 6 PM that evening from Chalakudy.

On that fateful Friday afternoon, the Ladies club of Madura Coats, Koratti had commandeered the Guest House and its kitchen for one of their Annual rituals : I had no choice but to partake as an unwilling guest in their festivities. In between samosas and cakes, I kept an eagle eye on the huge wall clock in the enormous dining room of the Guest house.  Past about 5 PM, I got a little jittery – the vehicle to take me to Chalakudy had not reported.  Fifteen minutes later, when there was no sign of the car, I became positively agitated and called up Mr. J.  The scoundrel had evidently forgotten all about me like just a bad dream wished upon him by the Head office in Bangalore.

The car did arrive, and the driver drove hell for leather to Chalakudy to put me on the island Express.  We arrived in one piece at the station, only to see the train give a hoot, and slowly chug away to its next stop – Thrissur.  The driver, a brave lad, bless his soul, offered to drive me to Thrissur about 25 Km away, assuring me that he would make it in time.  Against my better judgement, I agreed to this foolhardy adventure : I would rather die trying than spend another night in Koratti, where I was not welcome.

If you have ever driven on the highways in Kerala, you will know exactly how dangerous this mission was : the roads  are narrow, serpentine,  villages and habitations are contiguous, and there is nary a free stretch of Highway, where one could push the pedal to the floor.  Twin Horns blaring, Headlights on High beam, and blinking, the trusty Ambassador car raced full tilt towards Thrissur.  Lazing cattle, chickens and humans were blown away like chaff in front of a speeding missile.   Even oncoming traffic respectfully pulled to the side to give way to an apparition audibly and visibly in such dire emergency.

Thrissur Junction was gained just in time, the train pulling in to stop. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thrissur_Railway_Station )  Alas, the train had halted on a platform on the wrong side of the station.  I had to make a lightning quick decision whether to climb over the foot overbridge to the other side, or put life and limb at risk and simply dash across the tracks and catch the train : I chose the latter, since I was still young and fit, and always travel light, unlike my dear wife.  I got into the nearest compartment with an open door, puffing and panting, as the train quickly pulled away.  In those days individual compartments of the train were not connected by vestibules.  I had to bide my time until the next stop to reach my allotted seat and berth in the train.

At Wadakkancherry the next stop, about 20 minutes out, I got off my temporary abode and rushed to claim my rightful place in the train. The Ticket collector had just then decided that poor Dr. A S Kodavasal, possibly having had an emergency on hand, was a “no show” :  he was proceeding to allot my berth to a waitlisted passenger.  I undeceived the kindly soul : “ I treat wastewater, not sickly humans” I said, to the merriment and a round of applause from all around.

Dr. Ananth S Kodavasal                                                                          June 30, 2011

Footnote :

Ever since this experience, I do not undertake any assignment, where the ultimate user is not on the same wavelength as mine : as they say, you can take a horse to water, but cannot make it drink.  I hate wasting my time on an unwilling horse.