Mother Serious, Come Soon

The Annual Technical Inspection of the Unit was due, and we had to host a visiting General for dinner at the Officers’ Mess. Imagine my horror when the Mess Secretary informed me that the only mess cook we had, had proceeded on leave.

“He received a telegram, sir – mother serious!” Major Vikas intoned lugubriously.

“All our mothers are serious, Vikas” I spluttered in disbelief “you think mine is joking??”

In the age of the sms, the BBM, the iMessage and Viber, how many of us remember that vile, obnoxious and utterly despicable messaging system that went by the name of `TELEGRAM’ or, as it was colloquially called, the `TAAR’? Delivered by diminutive postmen in khaki, generally in the dead of the night – oh, what manner of horrors that midnight knock held! And those postmen were such past masters, with expressions that ranged from mournful hangdog to Cheshire cat grin, depending upon whether the news he was carrying was that of a death or a birth in the family! For him, it was the baksheesh that counted!

Personally, my animosity towards the telegram was well founded. My daughter was born in Bhubaneswar while I happened to be in Poona. Those were pre STD days, and we didn’t even have a land-line connection. Also, my father in law, Lord rest his soul, was a great one for sending telegrams. Even in his letters, he’d often stress on the urgency/gravity of what he was saying by adding an acerbic `Khat ko taar samjho!’.

So naturally he sent me a telegram. Now the ability to properly draft a telegram is directly proportional to two factors - the amount of money in your pocket, and the number of words in your vocabulary. Being severely challenged on both counts, the old man wrote `GIRL BORN SERIOUS OPERATION COME SOON’. I rushed as fast as I could, or as fast as one could rush from Poona to Bhubaneswar in those halcyon days of the Indian Railways, when such an enterprise entailed train changes and longish halts at Secunderabad, Vijaywada and Waltair. I reached two days later. The `serious operation’ turned out to be no more than a normal C-section, and both mother and daughter were in the pink. 

When my son was born a few years later in Mhow, I had to trudge all the way from the MH to the single ramshackle post office that served as the nerve centre of that sleepy station. The sole employee there also doubled as Post Master, stamp dispenser, telegraphist, chowkidar and pretty much everything. His only link to the outside world was a single telegraph line to Indore.  He first sat at the counter, accepted my telegram, handed me back my change, then waddled over to an ancient key console that was a true museum piece, and laboriously keyed the message to his counterpart in Indore. Click-click, click-click, and hey presto – the birth of Siddharth Puri was announced to the world at large!  And even though his birth too was via a C-section, no alarm bells were generated!

In the Army, a telegram was considered a pre-requisite, almost a sin qua non, for any jawan seeking leave. It was quite common to find telegrams (WIFE/MOTHER SERIOUS COME SOON) stapled on to their leave applications. As Commanding Officer, I made it a point to junk all such applications, while rewarding the other `non telegram’ ones. Would you guess it - within a month of my taking over, telegrams to my unit mysteriously stopped altogether!

The fauji equivalent of the telegram used to be the SIGNAL, which we Signallers had to process and clear. Those of us who performed DSO (Duty Signal Officer) duties in shifts as subalterns will recall just how intricate it was to correctly route a signal from, say Bengdubi in the North East to Pattan in J&K!

An apocryphal story on Army Signals bears repeating. A GOC was to visit a remote location. A signal was sent from his Headquarters –

VISIT GOC (.) WASHER WOMAN AND OTHER FACILITIES TO BE ARRANGED (.)

Now the operator at the sending end, probably towards the end of a long shift, omitted one vital word, and the signal went as

VISIT GOC (.) WOMAN AND OTHER FACILITIES TO BE ARRANGED (.)

The CO Signals was naturally furious, and ordered the DSO on duty to immediately send an amendment. The young guy, fresh from his Young Officers’ Course, sent this gem  

REFER EARLIER SIGNAL (.) REQUEST INSERT WASHER BETWEEN GOC AND WOMAN (.)

Do they still have telegrams, I wonder? Is the Indian Postal Service still in business? What became of that `All-in-One’ superhero at Mhow PO?

Maybe it wasn’t all that bad, the lack of communication had plenty of silver linings.

Fast forward to the present.

A guy carelessly leaves his cell phone lying around. Of course guys, being guys, are totally sloppy and/or overly sentimental, and never delete those lovey-dovey messages, they like to read them again and again. And of course wives, being wives, will make a grab for the phone at the first opportunity, and feverishly browse through the Message Inbox.

End of story? You’re kidding, right?? Oh, for the days of yore….

The Times, They Are A'Changin!

My daughter Puja and I were at the Command CSD Canteen, and I was lamenting the non availability of `Imperial Leather’, my preferred bathing soap.

“You still use SOAP?” she cried incredulously, making the word `soap’ sound like a four letter word (I know it is, but you know what I mean). “Pa, who uses SOAP (there again, the same sound) these days?”

I glanced around the aisle, ran my eye over the three whole shelf rows choc-a-bloc full of the offending item, and was just about to answer “Well, just about everybody”, when she yanked my arm and dragged me to another counter.

“Here!” she said, grabbing a fancy looking tube from another counter, “use this!”

The label on the collapsible tube said `Shower Gel', and I wondered how on earth it could replace a healthy bar of soap which one could (and did) vigorously rub all over one’s torso. At the risk of sounding an ignoramus, I asked her how one used the stuff. She rolled her eyes heavenwards, and gave me the look one normally reserves for mentally challenged six year olds, and sighed “With a loofa, pa!” 

The shower gel, she explained, was not for the face – for that she picked up another smaller tube called a `face wash’. It was my turn to roll my eyes skywards.

As kids, all we had at home were two basic soaps – a hefty red `Lifebuoy’ bar for bathing, and an even bigger yellow one for washing clothes. The richer kids used Lux, the `soap of the film stars’, which accounted for the fact that they always smelt (or so we thought) a bit like pansies. The Lifebuoy, on the other hand, smelt exactly like what it was billed as – a germicidal. I finally gave up on it only when I saw it being used as a hand wash in the Zoology lab in College, and all the girls (the ones that mattered anyway) crinkling up their noses in disgust at its offensive presence in their lives.

We Army guys, our preferred brands of toiletries (disparagingly referred to as `saaboon-tel’) is normally limited to whatever is available in the CSD Canteen! After Lifebouy, I tried all sorts, including the Karen Lunal inspired Liril. Check out the ad – the sight of the bikini clad Karen cavorting under a waterfall sold me quite a few cakes of Liril in the 80’s. Had to give it up hastily when a pretty young thing asked me why I always reeked so strongly of nimbu pani!

Call me archaic, but I still shave with an old fashioned double-edged razor blade, till recently used a cup soap - migrated to shaving cream after my brother complained that my bathroom smelt like a barber shop, and regularly use talcum powder. Yes, TALCUM POWDER – kar lo jo karna hai!

My son, on the other hand, alternates between shaving gels and foams, uses a Gillette Fusion razor, and has a set of colognes, after shaves, perfumes and deodorants that would be the envy of Priyanka Chopra! To be fair, he is way way too conservative when compared to my son in law, who takes the cake, icing et al. Being metro sexual is one thing, but Sukh is just a product or two short of having his own show in Vegas!

Shampoo entered my life just a couple of years ago – earlier it was plain Shikakai soap. The kids have separate shampoos, conditioners and hair products even your hair didn’t know existed! Sukh has now come upon an `All-in-one’ - shampoo, conditioner, face wash and shower gel – which he can use from head to toe. Of course, you can watch the entire season of `Homeland’ by the time he emerges from the shower!

My nephew Rohit was much the same. After a shower, he’d sprinkle an entire can of talcum powder over his expansive frame, and would then stomp all over the house leaving his trademark Size-11 footprints in stark white in every room. We called his showers `maha mast abhishekams’, and I once seriously suggested he use milk instead of water!

We are a nation of washers, not wipers – which is our biggest bane during our trips abroad. Here too, times have changed. The brass `lota’ gave way to the `mugga’ once we entered the age of plastic, and then of course the hygiene faucet (inexplicably called the `muslim shower’ in some quarters) caused a paradigm shift in our morning rituals. What a cataclysmic change that was!

And post the act, like Macbeth, when we need to wash the `guilt’ off our hands, we now have an obscene range of liquid hand washes to choose from - of all fragrances, colours and viscosities. Not for me, however, the ghastly `hand sanitisers’ that the modern lass carries in her handbag (along with pepper spray and a .22 pistol, if she happens to be in Delhi). I tried one once, and found I needed to wash my hands immediately after, since the sanitiser left my hands feeling gooey (`chip-chip’ if you know what I mean)!

The ubiquitous yellow `shining cloth’ we used to brasso our stars and shine our ammunition boots with is now passé. We have separate micro fiber cleaning cloths for every surface - laptop screens, glassware, and even for spectacle lenses! But believe me, if you really want a sparkling shine on any surface, nothing, just nothing beats an old baniyan!

As a kid, I had to hide my Brylcreem from a dad who insisted on `khopre-ka-tel’. Now, I guess I’ll have to hide a bar of soap from my daughter in favour of a tube of shower gel! 

For years, it was our parents who dictated our choices. Now it is our children. The times, sure, they are a changin’!

Abhi toh main jawan hoon...

Have been trying to translate Hafeez Jalandhari's seminal work `Abhi toh main jawan hoon' into English for some time now. To those of us who love, cherish and swear by those lines, the monumental difficulty of the task is apparent. To translate into straightforward prose, all one needs is a good Urdu to English dictionary. The real challenge is to translate it into poetry that can stand on its own. Poetry that retains the essence of the original, yet is not quite a literal translation. Here is my humble effort. Any comments or suggestions towards improving this effort would be more than welcome.

The fragrance wafts o’er the dew

As flowers bloom, in every hue

A thousand melodies fill the air

As spring is here, in bridal wear

It’s time for cheer, bring out the wine

Come back, the moment is divine

Come fill the cup, don’t turn away

Do not demur, do not delay

Do cast your eye upon the spring

The scene’s a dream upon a wing

As evening falls, dark clouds appear

Across the skies, from far and near

Wine lovers will always have their say

As to the taverns, they wend their way

Off with the skeptic look, my man

For I’m not naïve, nor weak nor van

Heaven can wait, as can piety

For I’m still young, so let me be.

Yes, there’s talk of God, of fear

Of salvation that’s never near

Redemption, and the need to know

The after life, where souls will go

But man of God, do hark my word

Is not your contention absurd

Tell me dear man, hand on heart

Can love and beauty stand apart?

When joy and fragrance fill the air

And lissome beauties, tall and fair

Bewitching smiles, do lie in wait

How can our passions ever abate

Sensuous glances, full of grace

Entice one into their embrace

Guiles of love, and passion’s sway

Can mere mortals then stay away?

Okay, to cut the story short

Your point of view, your kindly thought

I may agree with, I may see

But I’m still young, so let me be..

To walk along the mountain side

Or trek the streams at eventide

To hear the nightingales in song

And blooming roses, all along

And then to chance upon your love

And see all worries, gloom dissolve

I guess it’s written in our stars

Tears or joy, what shall be ours..

These tales of love, these songs of yore

Are ones we have all heard before

Some speak of youths, full of flair

And others may merely be hot air

These skies, these meadows evergreen

Are scenes that no one has ever seen

Bounty in joy, calming in strife

They are the essence of our life

A life that’s short, that’s so finite

And so every breath holds delight

But is the end ever so nigh

No, no, not now, how can I die

I’ve long to go, I’ve much to see

For I’m still young, so let me be..

No bondage, nor freedom shall remain

No rise, no fall, no wax nor wane

No past, no present, no despair

No vows, no promises, no care

Hope and despair, both beguiled

With past and future reconciled

All sense, all logic shall now depart

There’s just the wine, and the heart

Come let the wine flow, let’s rejoice

Oh nightingale, where is your voice

Do sing of joy, draw out our pain

Let just the cup, the ale remain..

Let every voice sing out as one

Drink on, the joy has just begun

A drink, a drink, don’t you see

For I’m still young, so let me be… 

Here is the version immortalised by the mother-daughter duo of Malika Pukhraj and Tahira Syed - whom I liken to the finest single malt and blended Scotch respectively.

And here is the original version in Roman Urdu...

Hawaa bhii khushagawaar hai,

Gulon pe bhi nikhaar hai

Tarannumein hazaar hai,

Bahaar purbahaar hai

Kahaan chalaa hai saaqiyaa,

idhar to laut idhar to aa

Arey, yeh dekhtaa hai kya?

Uthaa subuu, subuu uthaa

Subuu uthaa, piyaalaa bhar,

Piyaalaa bhar ke de idhar

Chaman ki simt kar nazar,

Samaa to dekh bekhabar

Woh kaali kaali badliyaan,

Ufaq peH ho gayi ayaan

Woh ik hajum-e-maikashaan,

Hai su-e-maikadaa ravaan

Yeh kyaa gumaan hai badgumaan,

Samajh na mujh ko naatavaa

Kayaal-e-zuhad abhi kahaan?

Abhi to main jawaan hoon

Ibaadaton ka zikr hai,

Nijaat ki bhi fikr hai

Junoon hai sawaab ka,

Khayaal hai azaab kaa

Magar suno to sheikh ji,

Ajeeb shai hain aap bhi

Bhalaa shabaab-o-aashiqui!,

Alag huay bhi hain kabhi?

Hasiin jalwaa raiz hon,

Adaaein fitanaa khaiz hon

Havaaein itr baiz hon,

Toh shauq kyun na taiz hon?

Nigaah haai fitanaa gar,

Koi idhar koi udhar

Ubhaarate hon aish par,

Toh kyaa karey koi bashar?

Chalo ji qissaa muktasar,

Tumhaaraa nuqtaa-e-nazar

Durust hai to ho magar,

Abhi to main jawaan hoon

YeH gasht kohsaar ki,

YeH sair ju-e-waar ki

YeH bulbulon ke chahchahey,

YeH gulrukHon ke qah-qahey

Kissi sey mail ho gayaa,

Toh ranj-o-fikr kho gayaa

Kabhi jo waqt so gayaa,

Yeh hans gayaa who ro gayaa

Yeh ishq kii kahaaniyaan,

Yeh ras bhari jawaaniyaan

Udhar sey meharbaaniyaan,

Idhar sey lantaraaniyaan

Yeh aasmaan yeh zameen,

Nazzaraahaa-e-dilanashiin

Unhey hayaat aafareen,

Bhalaa main chhorh doon yahin

Hai maut is qadar qarib,

Mujhey na aayegaa yaqin

Nahin nahin, abhi nahin,

Nahin-nahin abhi nahin

Na gham kashood-o-bast ka,

Baland ka na past ka

Na bood ka naH hast ka,

Na vaadaa-e-alast ka

Ummid aur yaas gum,

Havaas gum qayaas gum

Nazar sey aas-paas gum,

Hamaa, bajuz gilaas gum

Na mai mein kuchh kami rahey,

Gadaah sey hamdami rahey

Nashist yeh jami rahey,

Yahi hama hami rahey

Who raag chheRh mutribaa,

Tarab-fizaa, alam-rubaa

Asar sadaa-e-saaz ka,

Jigar meiN aag de lagaa

Har ik lab pe ho sadaa,

Na haath rok saaqiyaa

Pilaaye jaa pilaaye jaa,

Abhi to maiN jawaan hoon

   

Main pal do pal ka shayar hun...

Born as Abdul Hayee in Karimpura, Ludhiana 92 years to the day, on 8th March 1921, he would single-handedly ignite my love for Urdu poetry, and ensure that I also learned the intricate Urdu script entirely on my own. I was in college in the late 60’s, and Abdul Hayee had by then metamorphosed into Sahir Ludhianvi.

Being in our teens, it was naturally the intensity of romantic poetry that really drove us. At Fergusson College, we had formed a society much like the Dead Poet’s Society of the Robin Williams film. Ayn Rand’s highly rightist literature, the intensity of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath’s verses, and the sheer passion of Sahir Ludhianvi – these were animatedly discussed and shared in the college amphitheatre, or over dosas and coffee at Vaishali.

The greats – Ghalib, Meer, Iqbal and Faiz were far too obtuse, and would come much later. It was Sahir and Kaifi Azmi and Balraj Sahni of the Indian People’s Theatre Association and the Progressive Writer’s Association who were our soldier heroes of the day.

In 1969, the Ghalib Centenary was being observed/celebrated all over India, and there was a mushiara being held at Bal Gandharva Theatre, Poona. Sahir was to attend. We managed to wrangle our way into the theatre, and seeing the great Sahir stride into the auditorium was the highlight of my college years (yes, dad – I know, that’s the reason I didn’t do too well, and had to settle for a career in the Army!)

Whereas every other poet on the dais recited glowing eulogies to Ghalib, Sahir stunned the audience by reciting his nazm `Who toh Urdu zubaan thi’ which lambasted the step-motherly treatment given to Urdu, while deifying Ghalib.

Ghalib jisay kehtay hain Urdu hi ka shaayar tha

Urdu pay sitam dhaa kar Ghalib pe karam kyu’n ho

 The hall was aghast, and the moderator Ali Sardar Jaffri got into an open tiff with Sahir, right there on the stage! It was scandalous, and of course raised Sahir’s stature to that of a demi-God in our eyes!

Those were pre Internet days, there wasn’t even TV in Poona – so all we had was books. And woe betide me, Sahir’s poetry collection `Talkhiyan’ was available only in the Urdu script! I grabbed it, and got either my father or my brother-in-law to read it out while I furiously copied the verses in Devanagri. Since my father obviously considered this a total waste of time, and since my brother-in-law was based in Bombay, the exercise was frustrating in the extreme. So I said, hell with it, I’m going to learn the Urdu script!

Sahir was an out and out communist. Even in the Johnie Walker song in `Naya Daur’ he says `Aaya hun main bandhu Roos aur Cheen mein ja ke, kaam ki baat bata di, main ne comedy gana gaa ke!’ Or in this fabulous parody of Iqbal’s Tarana-e-Hind – `Cheen-o-Arab hamara, Hindustan hamara, rehne ko ghar nahin hai, sara jahaan hamara’ from `Phir Subah Hogi’. Note the rueful shrug as Raj Kapoor waves at the beat constable, calling him `woh santri hamara, who paasbaan hamara..'

An avowed atheist, Sahir wrote bhajans like `Allah tero naam, Ishwar tero naam’ (Hum Dono), and in the days when it was fashionable to be super patriotic, he wrote `Jinhe naaz hai Hind par who kahan hai’ (Pyaasa).

Sahir’s contribution to Hindustani cinema was colossal. Take away Sahir Ludhianvi, and what is left of `Pyaasa’? His poetry, of course, outlives him, and still stirs passions. Listen to the soulful `Chalo ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jayein hum dono’, or what became my anthem in life `Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya’ – and you just marvel at the sheer genius of the man!   

For himself, he just shrugged it all off, and modestly wrote in his introduction to `Talkhiyan’…

Duniya ne tajurbaat-o-hafadiz ki shakl mein

Jo kuch mujhe diya hai, lauta raha hun main…

Bob Hope's Body...

Bob Hope was before our time. In fact, he was before the satellite-TV-live coverage days. He was even before the Doordarshan days! So not having seen him in action, I’ll settle for Billy Crystal as the best Oscar show host ever. In 2011, despite having the delectable Anne Hathway as his co-host, James Franco’s deadpan act had set the bar so low that I was convinced it couldn’t be lowered. Last night, Seth MacFarlane proved me horribly wrong. Apparently, there are depths and pits that are still unexplored!

“We saw your boobs!” MacFarlane sang to the ladies, naming them one by one as he pranced on the stage. Seriously, is this the depths we have sunk to in our humour quotient? Did none of the aforementioned ladies see fit to slap him across his smug face? Did the producers, the director, the audience see this as actually funny? Were they in splits? And most worrisome of all, is this the way we are headed?

Blaming it on the demographics of today’s movie going audience (over 30% teenagers or in their pre teens) only makes one lose what little hope there is. Seth MacFarlane is the highest paid comedy writer in the US today, and young Bilal, who has just entered his teens, thinks the man can do no wrong!

Have we lost it completely, I wonder? Is gutter humour the way of things to come? I have given up tying to get my kids to read Wodehouse – that they devour the likes of Chetan Bhagat only adds insult to injury!

The other day, another of my childhood icons `Reader’s Digest’ went under. There are no takers for that sort of thing anymore. Another chapter closed. No more Quotable Quotes, no more Laughter the Best Medicine, no more Humour in Uniform. No more Peter and Wilfred Funk to increase my Word Power (how thrilled I would be whenever I scored an `Excellent’ score – over 16 out of 20 correct!).

And where on earth has the uproariously funny MAD `What me worry?’ magazine disappeared? Its spoofs on Hollywood blockbusters were side splitting. Sample this. In the movie `Patton’, the general rips out a curvaceous blonde pin up from a soldier’s locker, and screams at him “Soldier – what would your mother think if she saw this?? Your old mother, who’s knitting socks for our soldiers, your old mother who’s praying for all of us – WHAT WOULD SHE THINK??” In the spoof, the soldier mumbles in response “But sir – this IS my mother!!”

Of course, the nature of humour is bound to change with time. The generation before us loved `Punch’. We grew up on Wodehouse, Art Buchwald (remember him?) and Alfred E Neuman of MAD.

Today, you have MacFarlane describing a 9 year old actress as being `16 years before she’s too old for George Clooney!’. The only actor, he goes on to say, to really get into Abraham Lincoln’s head was John Wilkes Booth!  Not only bad humour, but in such pathetic taste that it makes you cringe rather than smile.

In the mid nineteenth century, the abolitionist John Brown was immortalised in the anthem “John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, his soul's marching on." The anthem became a rallying point for the yankees during the Civil War.

Am posting a clip of the Opening Monologue of the 1955 Oscar show hosted by Bob Hope. Check it out for its zaniness and its sheer class. The complete show (5 parts in all) is available on Youtube, and makes for delightful viewing! This is what true legends are made of! 

Watching Macfarlane last night, Bob Hope’s body must be `a-mouldering’ in his grave. Let’s make this OUR anthem and rallying point against the banality, gross bad taste and boorishness of the likes of Seth MacFarlane!

One Man's Meat....

We are total carnivores, and we love our meat. Also, being agnostics to the core, we are not fussy about what meat is `kosher’ and what is not. The juicy beef steaks at Arthur’s Theme, or the succulent raan at Madhouse Grill, or even the light as fluff ham-n-cheese sandwiches that the Turf Club serves have all been the staple of many a pleasant evening – washed down, of course, with the single malt of choice. 

Most Hindus that I know are of the `take it or leave it’ variety, meaning the strictures against beef are either to be winked at, or shrugged off. However, Muslims are, by and large, more particular about what is `halaal’ and what is not. Major Khan from my Unit, I noticed, was a vegetarian at Officers’ Mess parties, while Mrs Khan served the most delightful biryani and yakhni when you visited their home. However, once I made Major Khan responsible for all non-veg purchases that came to the Mess, they turned out to be as carnivorous as the rest of us!

I can understand the vegan outlook - but favouring one meat over the other makes less sense. I guess it's a case of one man's meat being the other man's poison..

I recall an incident when we were once settling down to a lazy lunch at Lavasa, and our order for bacon sandwiches was erroneously delivered to the next table where a Muslim family huddled together. Before they realised it, their kids had wolfed it down with amazing alacrity and ravenous relish! When the shit hit the fan, the man was apoplectic with rage, and the Restaurant Manager was lucky to survive the ordeal unscathed – all whilst we bemusedly sipped our Budweisers, wondering what the fuss was all about.

The horsemeat scandal that has hit UK, France and Sweden quite understandably has me in splits. Imagine buying a frozen beef burger or beef lasagne or spaghetti bolognaise from Tesco’s and finding that it’s really horsemeat (if you’re lucky) or mule meat (if you’re not that lucky) or donkey meat (if you’re really unlucky)! Are these meats `halaal’ or `kosher’? Some burgers also had traces (30% actually, so it’s more than traces) of pig DNA – which would have Jews and Muslims really up in arms!

The problem apparently lies in the Supply Chain. The meat comes from Eastern Europe. Six years ago, all horse or donkey driven traffic was banned in Romania. The law is being implemented only now, which has led to a host of these poor animals being led to the slaughter house – and thereon into Tesco’s and other retail stores.

Ok, so you love beef burgers. Would you eat a burger willingly knowing if it contained horse/mule/donkey meat? Assuming it tastes just as good? Is it then just a mental block? Nagas relish dog meat, and black dogs are a special delicacy – so why do we turn our noses up at the very thought? I have personally seen them use live (yes, live!) red ants as garnish, much as we use hara dhania!

What they eat in China is enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. My only problem in the two weeks that I spent in China was the non availability of Chinese food! The entire menu of our Mainland China was totally alien to them - and Shezwan was not, as we know it, spicy, but just another province in China! Catch Andrew Zimmern wolfing down the most bizarre of foods on his TV program of the same name – it will make horsemeat seem like an Enid Blyton tea party!

I guess we haven’t heard the end of the scandal. Meanwhile, life trudges on. And the Zinger Burger at KFC, followed by a softy at McDonald’s continues to be my idea of bliss. Horses for courses, did you say?

The Gods Must Be Crazy!

Napoleon Bonaparte, was being extolled of the virtues of a new General - the man's heroism, bravery, skill in battle and so on.  He waved his hand impatiently. "That's all very well," he said, "but is he lucky?"

In the Indian Army, the one quality that jawans deployed in field units seek of their Commanding Officer above all others, is that he be `lucky’. Now a lucky CO is one in whose tenure the unit suffers no casualties. When I was posted as CO of a unit deployed in Nagaland, when the insurgency was at its peak, I too prayed that I remain `lucky’.

I decided to seek divine help. As my gypsy was turning into the unit, I asked the driver to take me to the unit mandir first. On reaching there, I was pleasantly surprised to find it deserted, ie the ubiquitous `panditji’ was nowhere to be seen. Good, I thought, I’ll have a few moments alone with the `Boss’. As I knelt down, I whispered a one-line prayer. “Boss,” I said “apni taraf se I’ll do my best – baaki aap sambhaal lena!”

Within two weeks of my taking over, the neighbouring Signals Unit lost three men when the 3-tonner they were travelling hit an IED. They were escorting a school bus, and we thanked the Heavens that the bus itself had not been hit. But three soldiers had been killed, including a recruit who had just landed up from the Training Centre the previous day! The `luck’ of my co-Commanding Officer had been blown to bits!

A hurried reminder to the Boss was indicated, and despatched post haste.

Did it work? It sure did! In the two years that I commanded the unit, we did suffer a few gun shot wounds, but none of them were fatal. Later, one signalman was diagnosed with cancer, but he too survived. So yes, I was a lucky CO!

Back to the missing `panditji’. He had been waiting outside the CO’s office with the mandatory `prasad’ in his hands. His assumption that the `naye CO saab’ was a deeply religious man, having visited the mandir first, was soon proved to be way off the mark!  My insistence that he wear his uniform and not the crisp white dhoti kurta to my monthly durbars, and perform his duties as a JCO (we were in field, for crying out loud!) caused him no end of anguish.

He tried his best to get back at me. Once he displayed mock horror when he realised I didn’t know the gayatri mantra. “Waisay saab”, he asked me in that unctuous tone that I found so grating “aap ho toh Hindu hi na?” I looked at him sternly, and for the first time, I offered him a seat in my office. The moment he sat down, I recited the Lord’s prayer “Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name..” which we had learnt in school. In full, and pat. Verbatim. He looked stunned, and never spoke of any mantras again.

The only time he thought he’d given me my comeuppance was when he decided to hold a `Satya Narayan ki katha’, which I would be required to preside over. “By all means” I told him “Kariye!”. He said I’d have to fast till the katha was over. “Theek hai”, I replied “we’ll hold the katha at 8 am the next morning”, that way the only meal I’d have to skip was my bed tea. “Nahin saab, it has to be after sunset” he countered. I thought I imagined him trying to suppress a feeling of glee. Ok, so he had me there – he had me starve for an entire day!

On another occasion, Major Chatterjee’s daughter was to begin school, and as per Bengali tradition, a puja was to be held as an auspicious start to her learning process. The eldest in the family was required to hold her hand and write some `shubh akshar’ on a slate that would set her on her way. I took the little girl into my lap, and held her hand solemnly poised over the slate. I looked quizzically at the pandit. “Om likhaiye saab” he intoned, knowing fully well I didn’t have a clue as to how to write `Om’ in Sanskrit! I was flummoxed, but only for a moment. I held her hand and wrote a huge `O’, followed by an `M’. Would have made him feel pretty silly, I thought!

On my last day in the unit, I did look up the Boss again, to thank him. He had seen me through, and my `luck’ had held.