LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC

Republic Day, we Indians are justifiably proud of this momentous day, when we adopted our constitution and finally bid adieu to the British crown forever. As a kid, when there was no TV, we would eagerly wait for the day, go to school very proudly, be part of the flag hoisting and sing the National Anthem with patriotic fervour culminating in the Bharat Mata ki Jai!   I chose the profession of arms rather early and joined the RIMC Dehradun, proudly adorned the Olive Greens for the first time as an eleven year old way back in 1978. The colours of the uniform underwent some changes in the course of last 45 years, turning Khaki for a brief period in NDA for three years, thereafter it was OGs and combats till I landed up in NSG, the Black Cats and am equally proud of the black attire.

  On 26th January the President reviews the parade and a kaleidoscopic display of the unparalleled, unmatched diversity of a vibrant democracy is presented, the proud citizens watch the grand event with justifiable pride. The President's address which was eagerly awaited in the days of yore, without TV is however, just ignored these days. Old timers would recall the mellifluous rich baritone of Melville de Mellow and Jasdev Singh reporting on this important national event. We did not miss the TV, as the live commentary actually brought the detailed account of the Parade in the drawing rooms where the radios were housed and the whole family sat there spellbound, with each individual imagining the splendour of the marching contingents in their own way. One major attraction were the children who were awarded for their conspicuous acts of bravery, who would be perched atop elephants and would also form part of the procession. The most poignant moment was always the posthumous award of Param Veer Chakra or Ashok Chakra to the Next of Kin of the brave sons of India, who had sacrificed their lives in the defence of the country.

  Plato's Republic was authored way back in 375 BC. The word republic in English originated in the early 16th century. Its etymology is traced to Latin rēs pūblica, meaning “public thing,” in other words, the state is run by the people who are elected as against the monarchy which is based on heredity. In India we did have a democratic set up at village level as recorded, however, monarchy was prevalent and hence could not be classified as a republic. Although there were a few instances when the monarchs were also chosen by the people, but thereafter the rulers practised heredity for succession. World had to do with some "banana republics" in the comity of nations, but thankfully unlike our neighbours, ours is a genuine one. So there is an  Islamic republic of Pakistan or a Democratic Republic of Korea, little realising that merely calling themselves republic does not make them one. "Republic" these days has also been usurped by  an electronic media channel. US of course boasts of Republicans as a dominant political party, although in the recent past ex President Trump reduced the republic and the republicans to a rump of democracy, treating the public to burlesque acts. Republic  has "pub" closeted within, may be it is the effect of heavy duty binges indulged in.

  In the military units, the only celebration is the invite to the Junior Commissioned Officers for cocktails to the Officers Mess. The JCOs reciprocate by inviting the officers to the JCOs Mess on 15th August. The tradition can be traced back to the 15th August 1947, when India won its independence the JCOs hosted Indian Army Officers to their Mess, as the Officers Mess also had British Officers as members of the Mess. This was reciprocated by the officers on Republic Day from 26th Jan 1950. Army takes pride in its traditions and lives by them. 

I wonder why is formal flag hoisting  not carried out in the units and formation Headquarters on these important occasions. May be the men in uniform felt that they don't have to carry patriotism on their sleeve, the rest of the citizens get to display it only twice in a year.

Avian Friends

That was the Mahratta woodpecker  Of course there are scores of parrots, mynahs,  peacocks and babblers  but alas no sparrows. As a sparrow myself (Signal Officers are called Sparrows in military parlance!), this obviously is painful. We were back in Delhi, Covid times...sky was clear, less vehicles less pollution and Cantt area retained its greenery bearing the onerous responsibility of being the lungs of the capital. During my morning walks when I heard the Mahratta woodpecker's call, I was pleasantly surprised,  didn't  expect this colourful avian to be found in Delhi of all places. After all it is not such a common bird, but the call was unmistakable, a long screeching tetetete..... Sure enough I found it having a go at the Neem tree. 

This is the Tree pie, 

Birds have always fascinated me, and I am sure everyone, after all the flight of the birds probably gives wings to our imagination. Moreover they are so colourful with such melodious voice that every child is automatically enamoured by them, wanting to touch them, hold them, caress them. Later in life, the urge remains but the preference shifts to the unfeathered variety.  Ornithology is the science of bird watching, no it is not for ogling, but actually observing their habitat, breeding, migration etc. While in RIMC, we were introduced to this hobby, I volunteered to join, but was disappointed that most of the study was undertaken with the Britannica Encyclopaedia only with no outdoor trips. Even at NDA, the Nature Study and Wild life club was there, but it was the sole preserve of the "well connected", as it entitled you to skipping the cross country runs on Sunday mornings, with the study being restricted to the Gole Market or a casual trek around the hills with no serious attempts at studying nature. You could argue, we were as it is very close to Mother Nature  going around periphery or Sinhagarh. Other than attending to the Nature's call, we did not have the time or inclination to admire or seek solace in the otherwise pristine surroundings of Khadakwasla. It was only later when we visited NDA, that the realisation dawned on us, NDA is really ideally located at the foothills of Sahyadri Hills and sort of descending into Khadakwasla Lake itself, with thick vegetation in the periphery region. The hillocks of Karpa, Rale-Rassi, Point 2475 provide it the much needed  contours and curves to the landscape. But frankly while we were running all over these hills, nature was the last thing on our minds!

'Birds and the bees' are commonly cited for explaining reproduction in the animals, wonder why not butterflies, as bees are not attractive and in fact their stings are rather painful. On the contrary, butterflies are pretty and do the same thing, cross pollination, no honey though. Have you ever observed how keenly a child watches a butterfly and how excited s(he) gets on watching it take wings. I am sure we all have got hold of caterpillars and then seen them evolve into pupas and finally grow those wings to break the shackles and fly out. It is the nature's education at its best.

Anyway to return to the avifauna, the only name which comes to mind is Dr Salim Ali, his phenomenal research and love affair with these feathered creatures resulted in the most exhaustive treatise on birds in the subcontinent. While in Udhampur, I was lucky to spot the Paradise Flycatcher, a rare siting indeed and it is such a beautiful bird with a tail almost like a kite, no not the bird but kite as in flying paper objects, with a tail soaring in the sky.

Its diminutive  size notwithstanding, its flight with its tail following in the wake as if in waves was a treat to the eyes. We are indeed blessed, if we can spot some of these beautiful creatures and then actually feast our eyes on them.  Incidentally my father in law, Dr Bharat Poorey is an avid bird watcher himself, may be once I re-attire I will get to spend more time chasing these birds ......

Winter Blues

 When winter comes, can woollens be far behind? In the last about 35 years plus we have crisscrossed the length and breadth of the country, courtesy the Army. From Leh in Ladakh to Wellington in the South, from deserts of Rajasthan to Chakabama Nagaland in the North East, braving extreme weather conditions, scorching heat to biting cold and torrential rains, salubrious environs to pollution capital, all part of the game for all soldiers. In the bargain, we had to collect and accumulate clothing and woollens to match the seasons. Normally a person residing in Bengaluru or Mumbai would not need any warm clothes, or a person in Kashmir would not need summer wear, but since we are not sure as to where we are headed next, we hold on to all types without any prejudices or bias. 

So as Diwali festivities are over and winter quietly starts to creep in, the lady of the house gets busy, digging into the trunks to pull out the woollens which were banished there sometime in end Feb early Mar, making way for the summer wear in the limited wardrobe space which the MES/CPWD provide. The complexity of the challenge grows manifold due to the ceremonial attires of uniformed personnel. Our trunks, each one of them has umpteen number of stories buried in them along with the clothes. Blazers, Lounge Suits, Tweeds and jackets of all hues and types, be it leather or woollen which receive a royal treatment and are sent to the laundry for dry cleaning to rid them of the smell of naphthalene balls (for the unversed these are used for mothballing). The country cousins i.e. pullovers, scarves, cravats, mufflers, caps, hats are not so lucky and have to make do with just good old sunshine and some much needed airing. In addition there are thermal inner wear who though like to remain incognito but serve the most important purpose of keeping us warm and protected.

The challenge now is how to accommodate all these into the same wardrobes which were quite content with the much smaller inventory of T shirts and shorts galore. The winter clothes are left sulking for almost nine or ten months in a year, as they are sent to the dungeons, not because of any fault on their side but because despite being the costliest and most exclusive part of the wardrobe they simply can't overstay their welcome. Just like the years gone by, they had probably expected to be rescued by the time it was December, but this year winters have been late setting in, blame it on the climate change. Then it makes a grand entry by the year end and threatening to shatter the records by plummeting  the mercury to the dreaded zero or just about there, leaving in its trail a shivering North India. Surprisingly even good old smog also did not come to our rescue this year which chose not descend to our levels and stayed in the upper reaches. 

There was a time when I would have preferred cold weather to summers any day, simply because you could add layers of clothing to provide insulation and keep yourself warm, in contrast you could only strip to the bare essentials which did not prove effective. The peegate accused could have got away if he was traveling in a general compartment in Train on a chilly evening, as with the layers of clothes he could have blamed it on the inability to be able to extricate the willy which would have been buried under all the innerwear.

  The times have changed with little hair left on my balding pate and old bones creaking, summers are preferable; a headgear is a prerequisite even indoors now. In fact I have a collection of caps and hats of all kinds now; in the Army as it is, we collect all kinds of caps some presented on the golf courses, some picked up as memorabilia from the academies and institutions (no not mental ones, supposedly cerebral ones, although there isn't much to choose between the two!) and some as  tourists, last count I think I had more than 50 of them. My better half is at her wit's end how and where to keep them... I have my plans for my permanent dwelling where each of them will find a pride of place. But as of now most of them have to rest content in the trunks with only a few of them allowed within the premises.

While the struggle with the wardrobes is playing on Rahul Gandhi seems to have shown us a path towards salvation with his half sleeves T shirt appearance in this peak winters. I am eagerly awaiting some bytes on this closely guarded secret and I am sure so would many others. But I think out of consideration for the  wooly woollens he has not let the cat out of the bag, after all woollens industry would go bankrupt and he would not like to harm their interests. We, the lesser mortals will carry on withstanding the rigours of weather with woollens!

Deadly Daggers

 

Deadly Daggers

 

A posting to Wellington as a Directing Staff post your command is greeted with mixed reactions by most of the Colonels in Indian Army. Yes, the first feeling is euphoric, that professionally you have probably made a mark and this is just its recognition. But soon the day-to-day mundane issues overpower this feeling and one has to start staring at some of the facts, primary among them is a separation in the offing due to the kids’ education and of course the distance from the heartland so to say. The environment also conveys a similar approach; some of the colleagues go green with envy, while others bring out the practical difficulties associated with such a move.

Mine was also a similar predicament, in fact, when the command was nearing an end, I had sought out the Mysterious Branch (Military Secretary branch, responsible for what is euphemistically referred to as Human Resource Management, in simple language they manage our postings and promotions) and asked them if they had any issues with my application for study leave, fearing that I would probably be told to lay off. But surprise of surprises, I was told to go right ahead, and so I decided that it was about time I hone my technical prowess and opted for pursuing postgraduation in Engineering. The added attraction of course was that my son was at a crucial juncture in his academic pursuits, the proverbial class XII and I felt I could help him stay focussed on task at hand. We have all been through this age when the hormones start to make their presence felt and an adolescent lad can be more than a handful for the mother to handle all by herself, with you providing just the moral and material support long distance.

  I was already imagining myself as a student and for the first time in my life in a real college (!!) so to say. National Defence Academy, Military College of Telecommunication Engineering and Defence Services Staff College don’t really qualify as colleges as they are premier military institutions and are more military than academic. Looking forward to interacting with youngsters in the college canteens, GTs (the mass bunking), yes it seemed rather exciting. I had even started to colour my hair to keep that youthful appearance. But all that was short-lived and then came this bolt from the blue, the Mysterious Branch unveiled another one of their famous mysteries and sent me packing to the salubrious environs of Wellington. As luck would have it, my reliever, Col ( now a two star) KV Kumar, a fellow Rimcollian was coming in for his second command himself, having earned the coveted Dagger here. Another one of those mysteries of MS Branch to send him for another command assignment having done his time in hell in his previous avatar as the CO.

Daggers can be earned, or you are born into it, Delta Squadron NDA guys are born into it, not by merit, just by birth like in our Caste system. Then there are those who earn it the hard way like the Commando Daggers who are awarded this coveted title after a gruelling commando course in which they come out trumps, leading the pack. The last but not the least by any means are that breed who were sent back to Wellington as Instructors since they did not do full justice the first time, they landed up here.

Be that as it may, we all have very fond memories of this institution, so grudgingly one accepted the Wellington has, to use the cliché, “the old-world charm” and far from the madding crowd, it is an idyllic haven for a recluse like me. Having landed up here, the pristine beauty and nature at its magnanimous best naturally made me thank the Almighty for having got me here yet again. Once again the Mungerilal (the one who indulged in the favourite pastime of many a students here, day-dreaming)in me took off on flights of fancy, golf, nature walks, bird watching (I mean the feathered ones!!) and lot of time for creative pursuits. But alas, I was yet to be blooded and as the ignoramus that I am, wondered what was all this whining for something as innocuous as corrections, something which we undertook on a routine basis in the units, correcting drafts! The old timers just smiled very indulgently, amused at this banter by the first termer.

 The first interactions with the student officers were naturally very interesting and despite the hours spent on the table, it did appear to be good. We managed to steal some golfing moments also once in a while, renewed my acquaintance with Squash court (my old pal) and of course the course-mates only provided that icing on the cake. It seemed too good to be true and so it was, the first set of corrections soon made their way to our tables. Having perused the sample corrections by now, the mammoth proportions were now quite evident to the rookies like me also. For unversed, the Directing Staff here write more than the students themselves, so for every line of theirs a paragraph worth is added in terms of corrections and value addition. But putting on a brave front, we set upon this in a warlike manner, the first one was overcome with no bruises, neither the ego nor the intellect, all safe in their respective havens. But soon it was time for some thinking with “Soch Vichar”(name of an Exercise), and I realised as to why was it named “Kaise Karoon” when we did the course, it was more apt naturally. About 225 pages (nine files multiplied by an average of 25 pages submission each! for the uninitiated!)took their toll on our limbs and I was left wondering as to why didn’t Almighty make us all ambidextrous, if not all at least the Directing Staff at DSSC at least should be blessed with this boon. A new ailment was soon reported which left the medical fraternity all puzzled, “Correction Elbow”, yes just like its more common cousin Tennis elbow it afflicts the person whose elbow has been over-exercised. The followers of Hippocrates have thrown up their hands in despair, now we are on the lookout for alternate medicines, as the corrections stream doesn’t appear to be drying anytime too soon, what with spate of exercises Chinthe, Parvat Raksha already piled up and Laxman Rekha to follow soon.

 

Ps and Qs

Air India has been in the news for all the wrong reasons last couple of days, the premier Airline of the country back with the Tatas committed a faux pas by forgetting their own Ps and Qs by letting the passengers literally peeing and getting away with it. Appalling behaviour by the passengers who too forgot their Ps and Qs, crass, crude and abominable.. well we will run out of adjectives and we will be forced to resort to expletives ignoring our own Ps and Qs. The poor lady who was at the receiving end of the ‘pee’ did not have a ‘c(l)ue’ about the stream she was subjected to. Interestingly one of the theories regarding the origin of this phrase traces it to the pints and quarts of tipple. Obviously the pee man had gone overboard, forgotten the measures of the pints and quarts and probably consumed gallons.  

Air India was at the receiving end of the troll army with memes galore, some examples, “Earlier Air India pissed you off, now you are “pissed on”!” Another one wished the passengers that they  “have a pissful flight”. One air stewardess was announcing that “In case of increased pressure in the bladders, diapers would automatically drop down!”

Bladders are tricky and can give way rather unexpectedly as discovered by the elderly, enlarged prostrate being the culprit. But with the advent of adult diapers, the oldies are spared the embarrassment. Our mothers have probably had to suffer getting wet in the middle of the nights tending to us as infants when we did not have any control over any of our activities. I am reminded of another episode which too occurred in a public transport in another era, the episode dates back to 1978, when we were on our way back from Allahabad to Indore. It was peak summers, my father and me were to take the train back to Indore. Needless to say reservations in the train were not available and hence we were forced to travel unreserved in the General compartment. The fact that General compartments are overcrowded is an understatement, that evening, we were reduced to the state of sardines in the can, jam packed, actual cattle class. We climbed onto the space where luggage is to be stowed, incidentally there are no top berths in these coaches. The coach was full of tribals from Eastern Madhya Pradesh probably returning to their villages having finished their labour contracts. A Babaji was also stuck like us, but unfortunately he could not climb onto any of the upper echelons and had to brave it out amongst them. Sometime in the wee hours of the night, we heard the sage blow up as one of the kids perched on top had decided to let go. The kid was not to blame as there was literally no space for him to go to the lavatory as that too was fully occupied. The sage was thus given an abhishekam. 

Air travel was not supposed to be risky business though you were airborne, thousands of miles above the sea level, having placed your trust in the hands of expert pilots to steer you through safely. The risks to life have been substituted by grave concern for the dignity. The culprit was not in the cattle class but ensconced in the Business Class and obviously a valued Frequent Flyer, no wonder he was treated with kid gloves. Had he been travelling Economy he would probably have been escorted to the P(prison) without any Q(queue)!!

OUTTARRA from FENGOLO

                                                 

He was short, skinny, with sunken cheeks typically those of a chain smoker. A scraggy beard just added to the nondescript personality. His attire was always the same, dark coloured pants and an even darker repulsive smelly shirt with plastic sandals. At first glance, though, there was something mesmerising about him, may be his eyes, which seemed rather sharp. They somehow did not gel with his overall persona. Or maybe the fact, that he was so coherent and articulate in his speech, which again was rather odd. In Africa, the norm was to talk incessantly, annoyingly repetitive and in a language which sounded like French but only occasionally. In fact one really had to exercise one’s restraint to the optimum limit from repeating verbatim what had been spoken a dozen times by more than a dozen people.

Outtarra is a common West African family name and the person bearing this name could be of any nationality in the sub Saharan West Africa ie Mali, Burkina Faso, Côte d’Ivoire or may be even Guinea. It was more important for him to be identified as a ‘Malinke’, which incidentally is an ethnic group amongst the umpteen number of such groups in all these countries. Malinke are the dominant tribe in neighbouring Mali. The ethnicity here takes precedence over everything else including nationality. Getting back to Mr Outtarra, the man who has just been described above, was the chief spokesperson as he liked to describe himself, of all the foreigners in that village called Fengolo in Western Côte d'Ivoire. Yes he was a foreigner in his own land and so were all the villagers. The reason for their being treated as foreigners by the locals are strange but well to be honest, haven’t we heard of the “sons of the soil”, right here in India. 

Outtarra was my source, as the sleuths would like to call their informants, only difference being that he wasn’t being paid to do this. Generally intelligence operatives resort to various means to elicit information, the three Ws weaknesses ‘wine’, ‘women’ and ‘wealth’ money of course makes the mare go, wine being the other universal vice  and women even Rishi Vishwamitra could not control himself and fell for the charms of Menaka. History is replete with stories of Mataharis who have turned the tides of war many times. But Outtarra was keeping me posted with the happenings purely from a very selfish perspective and that was of self preservation. He and his ethnicity brethren knew they were being targetted by the “We” pronounced as “Vay” people.The We, sometimes called the Krahn or Guere, are an indigenous African people that inhabit areas in eastern Liberia and western Côte d'Ivoire. 

The fact that the two ethnicities had also embraced different religions, ‘We'  had adopted Christianity and ‘Malinkes' were essentially Moslem, may have played a part, but that was not the major issue. The core of the problem was post colonial arbitrary division of boundaries of nations. Asia and Africa have been at the receiving end at the hands of their respective colonial masters. Brothers turned into bitter rivals by this travesty of history. He had his own little business essentially dealing in Timber, the buyers were the Lebanese merchants who controlled this illegal trade in the war torn nation. Considering Ivorian standards he was well to do and was a natural leader of his community.

His information was always timely and gave us an edge over the militias, who were planning attacks on Fengolo itself.  Belligerents were located on either side of a Zone laid down by the UN. The village was located in the “Zone of Confidence”, a misnomer as that zone was everything but confident, the villagers in the Zone were lucrative targets for both sides. Fengolo lying to the Northern end of the Zone was targetted by the Govt backed militias. With his critical inputs we, the Casque Bleu (Blue Berets) managed to preempt the militias and prevented any major mishaps, so much so that the Force Commander Maj Gen Abdulaye Fall, a Senegalese national,  singled out the Duekouye Military Observers Team  and commended its sterling contribution to peacekeeping.

Actually it was Outtarra who deserved this commendation. 

 

Shift Delete

 

There is a feature in Windows Operating System, when one presses two keys, Shift and Delete together, the file or folder which one wishes to get rid off is deleted permanently. As against plain and simple "delete" as that merely sends the file to the 'recycle bin', from where we can retrieve it anytime. I can see the smirks on the faces of nerds, try it as much as you wish to, we will recover what we need to. This data once on the hard disk can only be deleted once the disk itself is physically destroyed, with the help of a hammer or crushed and burnt/buried. But for ordinary mortals the data once permanently deleted is gone unless you get into the past life regression therapy to recover it. The parallels which  are being drawn with rebirth are obviously with a purpose. The Gurus want us to “live in the moment”, I am sure each one of us has encountered these spiritual Godmen who sermonise on the joy of being and living the moment and most of us have found it takes barely a few minutes for our minds to start with its antics and we either hop skip jump to the future or land up in sometime past with huge regrets on actions and deeds done or missed.

 How I wish we could do the same in life, all the unpleasant memories, experiences despatched forever into the black hole, irretrievable. But all that we manage to do is send it to the recycle bin of life from where, it just makes a comeback like a counterfeit coin. Ekhard Tolle waxes eloquent on the "Power of Now", but we would rather procrastinate on everything, worry about inconsequential issues rather than just observe. Easier said than done...

So 2022 is gone dead and buried, an year when we thought we had seen the worst part of Covid and come out with our mental physical being intact, although one can't say the same about the emotional or psychological ones.  2022 will be remembered for the Russia Ukraine war which shows no signs of abeyance even after 10 months. World obliviously seems to be hurtling on the path of a climatic armageddon and the powers that be are too busy playing the fiddle trying to sort Russia out even if they have to cut their own nose to spite their faces; in the bargain losing out on the much needed sanity. 

There is an urgent need for a format command and rebooting the processor, unfortunately formatting the disk will lead to losing the pleasant memories as well. As individuals who are spiritually inclined and enlightened, this process of discarding the trash comes naturally. The lesser mortals struggle with it and there are those relish it, just love living in the past; oldies are normally afflicted with this disease,"In my time...", "When I was so and so..." Without these memories they would be reduced to zero, something which is anathema for them, little realising that all the Zen masters were striving to just be that, a big Zero, with no thoughts, just be there. As the French say "Joie de Vivre"....