I had gone to Baramati to ask about loans. I came back having done a small, accidental good.
I had gone to Maharashtra on an assignment. A bank wanted to know why Maharashtra businessmen were not taking the loans being offered, while Gujarat couldn't get enough of them.
My guide in this mission was Anosh Malekar. As usual. He knew the area well. He took me to Baramati Agro.
You may not have heard of Baramati Agro. Or may be.
It belongs to the Pawar family. And if you want to understand the psychology of Maharashtra farmers, the Pawar family is a good place to start.
I got an appointment with Rajendra Pawar. You may not have heard of him either. But you may have heard of his son Rohit Pawar, who is an MLA from Karjat.
Rajendra is the least known of the Pawars.
That is not a small thing to be, in that family.
He stands on his own. No shadow, no borrowed shine.
These days he is busy with something new. AI farming. He goes around telling young farmers to try it.
Good farming has always been the Pawar family business. Not just politics. The soil first, then everything else.
Maybe it helps them too. Land like that does not stay poor for long.
But others benefit as well. That is how it usually works with good habits. They spread before anyone notices.
We had gone to Baramati to meet a Pawar. Just not the one everybody asks about.
We sat at the portico for a while. Then we were taken inside to a room with sofas and air conditioning.
A couple of managers from the factory came in. A tray of tea arrived, cups jostling for space. We emptied it.
I had my notebook out. I was ready.
The door opened slowly. The managers stood up. We two were the only ones still sitting.
The sofas were very soft. Even if we had wanted to stand, it would have taken some effort.
A man walked in, limping, clearly in pain. His staff introduced him. Rajendra Pawar.
The man who ran the business. Whose uncle once came very close to becoming the prime minister of India.
I noticed the limp immediately. As a conversation opener, I asked him about it.
He said he didn't know what was wrong. His toes and the lower part of his feet were not making proper contact with the ground.
Not because he was a sportsman doing some drill. Because of excruciating pain. He had been on painkillers for some time, as prescribed by doctors.
This was two decades ago.
I understood immediately. Not because I had access to some insider medical knowledge. But because I was myself a sufferer of this exact condition.
It was called Gout. At that time, it was considered a disease of the elite.
Too much protein in the diet. Uric acid forming needle-like crystals in the joints and surrounding tissues, making it impossible to put your foot down. Quite literally.
I raised my hand. Not like a student answering in a medical class, but something close to that.
I said, this is Gout.
He looked at me. What? What is that?
I explained. Uric acid. Crystals in the joints. That is why the ground feels like fire under your feet.
He turned to look at his staff. They studied the floor first, then the ceiling.
I told him there was medication for this. I shared the name of what I had been taking myself. I asked him to start on it and also get a uric acid test done.
A few weeks later, his son called. He was simply a son then who was cared for his father. Not with the current power and aura.
To say thank you. His father could walk now. Normally.
I had gone to Baramati to ask about loans. I came back having done a small, accidental good. I will take that.
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff
