Afghanistan A Different Take

 Afghanistan is the elephant in the room, a topic for discussions on the idiot box, in the drawing rooms, in coffee houses, print media and of course our think tanks. Indians have a rather deep and historic as well as mythological connect with Afghanistan and Afghans. Kandahar in fact was a major princely state in Mahabharat, Gandhari the queen of Dhritrashtra was from Kandahar. Shakuni the evil uncle of Duryodhan whose scheming with the dice in a way led to the epic battle. We  are also nostalgic about that Afghanistan which predated partition when Indian empires stretched upto the Hindukush which unfortunately gave way to onslaught of Islam. Historically right from the time of Kanishk who ruled in the first century over large tract of North India, with his capital at Peshawar. In literature too we Indians have an  emotional connect;, the image of Afghan is linked to the Kabuliwallah story of Gurudev RavindraNath Tagore or the Hindi medium types would instantly recall Heengwalla by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, poetess who is known more for her immortal "Khoob ladi mardani woh to Jhansi Wali Rani Thi". As readers would recall Kabuliwallah was very friendly with a small girl child who reminded her of her daughter back home. The mother of the child was not favourably inclined towards the Kabuliwallah but the father approved of this chit chat. Till one day when the Kabuliwallah was jailed for a murder. The story was also immortalised by Balraj Sahni playing the Kabuliwallah singing "Ae mere pyare watan " from the precincts of the jail suffering the pangs of separation from his beloved motherland.

In Khuda Gawah an Amitabh starrer Bollywood film, who is a Pathan who stays true to his word.

Traditionally Afghans in India came for trade,  their wares included exotic dry fruits almonds, pistachios, chilgoze or Heeng (asafoetida), they were also money lenders who would extract the repayment of the loans without any scruples. Heengwalla was a story of the deeply polarised partition time, when communal riots were a common phenomena. The protagonist would be roaming the streets of the town selling Heeng, the kids were intrigued by his turban bearded persona and were deeply suspicious, however the mother would patronise him and buy Heeng from him. On his part Khan considered the mother as a lucky customer,  as she always brought good luck, hence sought a bohni (the first sale of the Day) from her  When the kids go out for a fair with the servant and get separated in the stampede, it is the Heengwalla who brings them home safely. 

Alas that Afghanistan is long buried and blown to smithereens along with the Bamiyan Budhhas. The Taliban have made a remarkable comeback albeit with the tacit support of our nemesis Pak. The typical image of an Afghan today is that of the bearded turbaned Kalashnikov wielding brutes who belong to an era long gone by, professing their allegiance to the Sharia only with practically no rights for women. They are the antithesis of modern day liberal democratic value systems. While the beard and the turban have remained the jihadi mindset which has emerged as their raison d'être is a cause for global concern.

SPARE THE ROD

 

Millennials would possibly not be familiar with the once ubiquitous Immersion rods, which were found in all middle class households without exception. May be they should have called it an immersion “coil”, wonder why??A misnomer obviously, because while it was immersed alright but it was actually a coil with two identical symmetrical rods at either end to complete the electrical circuit.

Come winters and they would make their appearance in the ‘bathrooms’, as they were referred to then, as against the more sophisticated ‘wash rooms’ of today. Geysers were a luxury which few could afford and even if one was rich enough, there would be just one which would hardly suffice for a large family, especially in the early morning hours when there was a rush for schools and offices. So immersion rods filled in, they saved many a soul from the bouts of flu, providing the much needed succour in the form of warm water for the bath during winters. 

 The arrangements were unique with a bucket of water which was invariably of plastic material, so there had to be a non-conducting material such as a wooden stick which would be placed on top of the bucket, from which the immersion rod would be ‘sentenced to be hanged’ till the water in the bucket reached the boiling point. The point to be borne in mind was the level of water in the bucket, which had to be adequate for the rod to be dipped in, if it was too less the rod would get damaged, if brimmed over, then water may seep in to the plastic holder, and may end up short circuiting resulting in an electricity outage thus inviting curses from everyone. This elaborate arrangement resulted in the luxurious bath with some cold water mixed for the optimum temperature to be arrived at, for accomplishment of the task at hand. Obviously showers were a luxury which could be enjoyed only during summer months, when availability of water was suspect and any extra consumption invited not just angry glances but downright slaps for being selfish.

Of course there were the brave ones, who were indoctrinated into Buddhism in their previous births, who could courageously pour mugs of cold water over themselves, indifferent to pleasures and pain, “sceptics”. In RIMC although we had geysers, we never saw them functional, I don’t know if it was the doing of MES or our own Administrative Officer who wanted us toughened up. Dehradun winters are severe and after a gruelling 30 minutes of Physical Training, one had no choice but to bathe…there were exceptions here too, who would be generous with their consumption of talcum powder to suppress the sweaty stink. Most of us would make a bee line for the copper contraption (bamba) which guzzled wood and coal to give out a few miserly buckets of hot water.

The seniority counted and we had to await our turn, at times getting just the psychological warmth in the water which poured over our shivering bodies. But obviously felt a lot fresher and hungry. Water was precious, hot water more so....

We realised the value of water rather early in life. No wonder, in later years with strict rationing of water during our exercises and operational alerts, the hard scale of five litres per man could be endured with a couple of drops conserved for the dehydrated friends.

The Mango People

 “Chewing the honey’d cud”, that is how rumination was described by Keats, if I am not wrong, what a beautiful metaphor! I was wondering, how was I reminded of this, actually I was relishing some Jamun, which has now acquired a distinct exotic aura and aroma ever since it graduated to the neatly packed plastic boxes from the venerable “Dona”, a small bowl made out of leaves of the trees. 

In the pandemic era, disposable plates and bowls have suddenly become a prized commodity. Usually it is the thermocol variety which is in use, however, the traditional Pattal Dona are the more environment friendly poor cousins.More about that some other time; eating Jamun is a pleasure, its taste is neither sweet nor sour, just different, since the fruit itself is small and the seed unusually big for the size of the fruit, I always wondered why couldn’t God design the seed in the right proportion to the size of the fruit. May be He wanted us to savour the taste to the last part since it is so heavenly. Anyway I can go on and on about Jamun but this blog is not about the health benefits of this humble native Indian fruit, but about chewing or rather extracting the delectable part and in the process make your tongue explore the seed from end to end extracting the edible portion. That our face assumes funny contortions in the process does not bother anyone. While we are at Jamuns, can Mangoes be far behind, as both are typically summer Tropical fruits and relished, although mangoes are head and shoulder ahead in the popularity race, having literally conquered the world with its status as even the fruit of diplomacy as well. 

Like all kids of our age, we were extremely fond of the King of Fruits, “falon ka raja” and enjoyed them thoroughly in every possible form, from raw to ripe, its juice or simply cut and popped in without the messy seed,’guthli’ in the vernacular. Those days local varieties of mangoes, which were much smaller in size but more juicy were available in abundance, the sophisticated Alfonso or even the lower in the rung Langda Dashahri etc were beyond the reach of the common man. But the pleasure of eating or rather drinking the mango  straight can’t be described in words. It has to to experienced. Summer vacations was always looked forward to eagerly back from school, Sujay my younger sibling and me would be off for a game of Tennis early in the morning to the local Uday Ranjan Club. After some good fun with the racket, we would cycle down to the market, where there was an exclusive mango bazaar, which was by the roadside and had scores of shops selling their produce calling out the customers and offering them a taste of their produce, something which the youngsters of today and even people of our age who did not have the privilege of a small town upbringing can’t visualise. They would pick up a mango and squeeze it gently so that juice would flow out and then simply pour it in the cup of your palm, so that you could taste it and then choose the sweetest and best ones. Since we were regulars we would often spot uncles who would be moving from shop to shop tasting the mangoes, which I think was adequate for a full fledged breakfast. The tasting in the cup of the palm was a messy business, which our sensibilities did not permit so we acquired the skill of distinguishing them with just their aroma, smelling them we could make out whether it was sweet or sour, in fact smelling any fruit one can easily ascertain its general taste. 

Raw mangoes were the objective of our raids in RIMC and even earlier, oh the sheer pleasure of stealing those mangoes from the orchards or even our Master's bungalows! Like a a troop of monkeys  we would storm these unsuspecting trees, generally in the wee hours of mornings, when the occupants and guards were fast asleep and pluck every possible fruit, raw or ripe did not concern us, just the pleasure of this loot and then the ecstatic taste which lingers on till today. Of course the spoils were distributed when we were safe in our dormitories. We would even distribute these to some others quite generously, as they say in Urdu "Maal-e-muft, die beraham" ( when it is free the kindness overflows).

Raw mangoes could be put to tastier uses, my mother would get hold of the raw mangoes which were plucked for ripening in the orchards and keep them wrapped in paper and husk, providing ideal environment for ripening gradually, thus ensuring a perennial supply throughout the summers. Raw mangoes are an essential ingredient for a number of mouth watering delicacies, with different types of Chutneys, Pickles, Mango Panna ( a drink made out of raw mangoes and jaggery, ideal for cooling down after a hot summer day. The palate was always overflowing …….for us the Mango people!

XXXIV

 That is me, many moons ago, actually 34 years to be precise, with a healthy growth on the head. Over these years while most of us have greyed, some like me have gone bald but that is not the sum total of these decades. It's 34 years today since we took the proverbial "Last step" "Antim Pag" through the hallowed portals of Chetwode, at our alma mater the Indian Military Academy after a gruelling but highly enriching year in Dehradun.  My better half always chides me that we have stopped growing since that day because, we got stuck by the 'Antim Pag'......how I wish, somebody takes a call and introduces the next step there itself as the "Pratham Pag", after all it is the first firm step that we took that very day on this glorious journey. To paraphrase Neil Armstrong, the first man on the Moon, "A small step for the Young Officer  but a giant leap for the guardian of the sentinels of this great nation." For some it was an year and a half, while for some of us more fortunate ones it was after 9/10 years, having been through RIMC, Sainik Schools or Military Schools. Three decades plus is a life time, in our profession it not just the number of years spent pursuing our passion, our career, it has actually shaped who we are and no wonder our brotherhood and camaraderie is unmatched.

Our course was baptised in the icy heights of Sia Chen and the jungles of Sri Lanka. Immediately on commissioning, many of our friends were inducted into OP MEGHDOOT and OP PAWAN. We realised the pain and anguish of losing our buddies rather early, with Ramesh Rawat and Kang making the supreme sacrifice in OP PAWAN. Two Ashoks, Ashok Chaudhary and Ashok Sharma were awarded VrC in OP MEGHDOOT. Quite a beginning...Later we made it a habit with everyone of us doing our duty in Kashmir, Punjab, North East, UN and of course Kargil where again Deepak Rampal did us proud by his gallantry being awarded VrC. 

Out of sheer habit, I congratulated my neighbour, squadron type and dear friend Manjeet Singh Mokha on this momentous occasion. His response that it was I who had completed 34, he had since retired, got me thinking.....can we actually retire. I am amongst the fortunate ones to be still donning the uniform, albeit the colour now is black as against the Olive Greens that we chose, but those who have superannuated or have chosen to pursue a second career early on in life, they may have shed their uniforms but their heart still beats for the fauj. I am sure each of the veterans will swear by that, in fact, the bickering which we come across on various Whats App course groups is a testimony to the fact that we all continue to remain so involved with our Army, Navy, Airforce, Units, Paltan, Reunions and so on. Had we not been concerned, we would have gladly ignored the travails today, but at the drop of a hat we are prepared to trudge hundreds of kilometres just to break bread with our very own. Yes, they are the actual kith and kin, our brothers who were there to cover for you then and they are here today, should the need arise. The pandemic is one such period when this brotherhood has been at display in ample measure.

Life goes on, future remains as uncertain as it always is, "Kal ho na ho..." some of us God willing will serve a couple of years more, may rise in the hierarchy further .....it will be cause celebre for all of us, as though we have achieved the very same milestones, actually each one of us can take some credit for their success. It is also time to be grateful to the Almighty for having taken good care of us, some of our brethren haven't been that lucky, they laid down their lives in the service of their motherland, some others have crossed over to Valhalla by His design.The ones in the civil street today are also by and large acquitting themselves well, some have rapidly climbed the ladder of success....we have entrepreneurs, Cricket League COOs, AirLine owners, politicians, Financial wizards, Tech whiz, Management Gurus ; some chose to keep on running have become ultra marathoners, some have entered the academic arena, criss crossing the continents but just a call away when in need. So here is to the brotherhood of arms.....cheers!

Masking

 "To mask or not to mask", borrowing from the Bard's Hamlet "To be or not to be", obviously the similarities are stark, masking actually is being, and without the mask is an invite to "not to be" almost akin to committing suicide. Masks have become a way of life in the past about 15 months or so, ever since the advent of Covid and the Nation wide lockdown in Mar 2020; we are dutifully following the diktat. How times have changed.....

Masked men apart from the surgeons, were essentially criminals, robbers, thieves, kidnappers, killers etc who wanted to hide their identity while they committed the crime and got away without being recognised. Surgeons, of courses adorned the masks for a benevolent life -sustaining cause of ensuring hygiene before wielding the scalpel to prevent the patient from getting any other infections. Although, there used to be a joke doing the rounds that the doctors covered their faces to keep the patient from identifying them in case of a botched up surgery. 

Our introduction to masks and masked men was through the super heroes, Phantom, the ghost who walks, Spiderman, Batman and our own desi Kriish. Most of these super heroes stared at us through the pages of the comics, which each one of us treasured and enjoyed reading and rereading them umpteen times. They were fascinating characters, masks added to their enigma. Even today quite a few of us would rather spend a leisurely Sunday perusing our favourite comic, the child in each one of us rekindled. 

Then somewhere we grew up and jettisoned these divine pleasures, exchanged them for the worldly stresses. That is where we came across "masking" as practised by the people, to hide their real intent, feelings, emotions. Masks are traditionally worn by the tribesmen and these are treasured by most of us. In fact  we prominently  display them in our Living Rooms.The traditional African mask is worn during celebrations, dances and festivities and ritual ceremonies commemorating social and religious events. They play a very significant spiritual and functional role in the community (Wikipedia). In India Kathakali dancers as also our tribals in different parts of the country too have their own distinct masks.

Professionally also we were introduced to the term Masking, a term associated with manoeuvre warfare, with an elaborate definition, although quite self explanatory, which was exploited by most of us during war games and exercises quite successfully in keeping away from prying eyes of the umpires and the senior hierarchy. The software geeks are also familiar with their own versions of masking.

Trust the fashion industry to latch on to anything and exploit it, so our divas proudly strut around in matching masks, which are specially customised to their attires. The ladies now have another accessory added to the haute couture.

Masks and the theatre were synonymous, with actors donning them in their different avatars. As  life itself is a theatre where each character has to play different roles, thus each one has to put on different masks. Jim Carrey's Mask in the Hollywood film was an apt description of the way mask gets its evil act on.

As we grow old, we lose our innocence and the masks make an appearance camouflaging our real self, our very identity. So much so that we start identifying ourselves with these masks and lose our true selves.Philosophy apart, we have been behind these triple layered masks for a while, though many amongst us continue to be stupid thereby endangering not just themselves but also others who come in contact with them. The masks of ignorance which most of us display very proudly now needs to make way for the masks of responsibility for not just each one of us but also as a social responsibility. So mask on until we finally bid adios to Corona....

Sameer you will be missed

Sameer Anukul, 16304, 49 Div, Mike Squadron, NDA Wing Ghorpuri, a thin and wiry spectacled young boy with a ready smile, that is the recollection of our first meeting. We were roommates, with Reuben Peters, NA Vinod, KPS Rana, Sameer and self. Quite a motley bunch of cadets, Peters from Orissa now Odisha, the NDA merit list topper, the joker of the pack, always upto some tricks. Sameer’s dad was in the Air Force, he had studied in KV Tirumelgherry Secunderabad, KPS was from Sainik School Nagrota, an outstanding sportsperson, but generally quiet by nature, may be a little uncomfortable amongst the Angrez, that the rest of us were. Vinod was a TamBramh a Tamilian Brahmin, a second generation fauji, his father was a Gunner, with quite a few tales of his participation in the 71 War. 

We were blooded together, never heard Sameer complain or crib, always cheerful and a voracious reader. The six months just whizzed past and we landed up in the main academy, but in different squadrons, he was from Social Science stream, I was a techie, so hardly any interactions during the next five terms. Then we landed up in the same Company in IMA, Keren, his frame remained the same, more cheerful and outgoing and was an excellent team person. He opted for Paras, which seemed a little odd with his physique, we would often joke that you needed weight for the parachute to descend down, he would probably simply fly off. These maroon berets types are made of a different mettle, whether Sameer, Akshaya, Yash, Sreehari or GP or even Arvind Sharma, each one very different from the other, the first three very thin, but fit, not the cross country or Boxing or Obstacle medallist variety but fit, GP was a fit candidate, my class type since NDA, Arvind was big, taller on the plumpish side but every bit a paratrooper. Battle hardened, each one an outstanding professional soldier. 

After the academy, we did not cross paths, but then you keep hearing about your friends through mutual friends. He had done his staff course after the Kargil war where his battalion 5 PARA had a major role to play. I finally caught up with him when I was doing the rounds of Army HQ prior to my UN deployment, he was in the HQ, having been overlooked for the promotion, already made up his mind to quit after 20 years and was preparing for it in right earnest. He made a very successful transition to the Corporate world, excelling and quickly rising in the hierarchy, just going on to prove that his parting ways with the Army was Army’s loss. His calibre was recognised by the industry and his industrious nature, clear thinking and strategic vision propelled him into the big league. 

I again bumped into him in Bengaluru, that is where he was settled sometime in 2009-10. I was recovering in the AirForce Command Hospital from a bout of Bell’s Palsy. I met Yash and Amit Pande also there. Amit was in the CMP Centre preparing to jump ship, while Yash as usual remained the hard core OG. Then we met up during the Reunions, always a pleasure to chat up with him, pull his leg for the girth that he had accumulated around his waist and the whiskers that he was so proud of, resembling those of Merv Hughes, the Australian bowler. Until suddenly when I saw Haldia’s desperate message on the group on 20 Apr that he was with Sameer driving, looking for a hospital bed, as his condition had deteriorated. The course-mates started to look for beds in these pandemic times, the most prized commodity. Finally it took Arvinder  who swung it in the Max Hospital at Patparganj, after he was denied admission in Base Hospital. Though later even that was available after the Generals of our course got into the act. The next battle was looking for a Plasma donor, where again, Sehrawat and Haldia managed it. Haldia has been rock solid , a true brother, he left no stone unturned. Despite all the efforts, it was time for him to say adios, I am sure he would not have wanted to go down like this, but he did go down fighting, truly like a soldier, despite the odds, he did not give up and we all remained hopeful that he would recover. Sadly, he didn’t. Loss of a course mate is like losing a brother, having been through thick and thin, we are way more than blood brothers. May he rest in peace at Valhalla.

Digital Thermometer

There was a time, when the thermometer inserted into the mouth, one was hoping and praying to the Lord Almighty, please let the mercury be at 99 at least and higher the better, a 101 was a sure Att"C" (Sick in quarter) for 72 hours, but even a 99 would get you at least 24 hours off. We would try all possible stunts, someone suggested keeping a cut onion under the armpit was a confirmed method of tricking the mercury in the thermometer into generating a reading of 100 plus. It never worked for me though! We would convince ourselves that we were down with a fever and the thermometer was playing tricks, despite blowing all the hot air into it, it just refused to budge beyond 98.4 deg F. With a normal temperature there was no hope for any leniency from the Duty Medical Officer and the Medicine & Duty (M&D) was like extending an invite to the CSM to be transformed into the mighty Khali in the WWF arena and  we were reduced to the punching bags who would be reduced to pulp.

Anyway, without digressing, the culprit was the thermometer and even today it is this device which continues to play truant. In the pandemic times, how one wishes that the instrument stays true to its traits of returning a 98.4 reading, but alas, it just refuses to heed our call. The mercury in the glass thermometer has paved the way for its digital avatar, which is quite precise in its reading down to decimal place. Its predecessor made the reading such an art form that as kids we could not make head or tail of that invisible streak of mercury which just flashed for a millisecond and before we could correlate it with the scale, it disappeared, despite squinting, holding it against light or any other means, till one of the oldies in the family grabbed it and with a flick announce the severity of fever. I always felt they fibbed, till I grew old enough to be able to read it myself. The digital one also comes with the beep to take it out of the mouth, unlike the glass mercury one, where one had to just hold the pulse and try reading it for about a minute. Then the elaborate exercise of giving it massive jerks to bring the mercury down again before depositing it in the case for safekeeping from kids. Mercury was highly toxic and could prove highly dangerous.

But somehow, due to the reliance on "old is gold" adage, we are more comfortable with the good old ones where there are no false reports, no cells discharged. Same as in the Blood Pressure instrument, the old phus-phus variety clinical mercury manometer as against the digital version, where discharged cells return erroneous results, which could prove very costly.

The latest to join the bandwagon is the pulse oximeter, a household name, which was unheard of till Covid struck. This is a simpler device though, and the readings are also pretty simple to record. In fact for the Corona patients it is the lifeline, which gives out the Oxygen level in the blood and any reading below 92 is a cause for worry, something akin to the CBSE Board score of less than 90. A report of 85 spells doom whether Board result or Oxygen level. 

As we battle the pandemic at all levels including personal ones, I wonder, how the cadets reporting sick would be feigning sickness now with all these digital gizmos, may be the CSMs are themselves armed with these to weed out the malingerers. But trust the ingenuity of cadets, when they could fall from the Log Tables, thereby getting photosynthesis in their legs to fool the Drill instructors, I am sure they will devise methods to hoodwink these machines as well.....