Bharat Rakshak

THE TELEPHONE AND THE "WHORE"

The biggest curse of modern life is the telephone. Alexander Graham Bell, if he lived today, would have been lynched by quite a few of us.

The telephone conversations in the Army are quite unique. It follows a set pattern. The syntax is mostly Punjabi, since the majority in the Army are from this community and their cultural invasion permeates the military fabric. Extraordinary is that South Indians, who have no clue of Punjabi, are prone to speak in this language, remaining delightfully untutored of the nuances of this unique language. I, too, though not a South Indian, am in their ranks.

Like it or not, Punjabi is the "national language" of the Army. The Punjabis are also polite fellows. In conversation, they like to build up bonhomie with a personal touch before coming to the point, more so when favours are required.

One day, I was in the office of a South Indian friend when a telephone call came.

"Colonel Nellakipalli Parambil Balakrishnan here!", said this friend of mine. He was also known as "Bala" to friends. Bala was pathological averse to North Indians calling him a South Indian. He repeatedly, ad infinitum, corrected all and sundry that there were four different communities in the geographical entity called South India and that they were as similar as chalk to cheese. He informed that he came from what was known as "God's own country" Kerala and that it was derogatory to club them with all and sundry from the South.

I couldn't hear clearly what the caller said since my friend was holding the earpiece glued to his ear as per the instructions on the "Use of Telephones", issued by the Corps of Signals.

"What do you mean you are fine? I never asked you about how were you. Please be to the point!"

I realised that the caller had replied "I am fine" as per drill since the first sentence normally was a "How are you?"

"Why are you asking how my Mother is?! I don't think you know her. And anyway, she is dead."

There was a long-winded question from the caller as the next reply took some time. Colonel Bala was looking at me like a fish that had just been landed would gasp, when out of water as it slowly died!

"My father?! How is he??? God Bless the old man. I really don't know. He has already entered the Pearly Gates of Heaven. Since you have enough time at hand, as I perceive, why don't you contact God instead of me?!@#$%"

"What??? My dog?! Well, my dog is fine. Anyway, how does it matter even if he has had a touch of rabies? I say, can't you come to the point? What is that you have rung me for?"

"What? You want a vehicle? Well, I am not dealing with vehicles. And anyway, if that was what you wanted, then why the hell did you want to know about how my dear departed family was doing and that too when you didn't know the dear folks? You Punjabis are the limit. To get something out of a guy, you really do anything to be folksy and familiar. May I recommend that you do your homework first!"

"OK OK. I am not being angry but I have work to do. Also, to be frank I don't know Punjabi and so it took me more time to understand what you were talking about."

"What? A Whore?! What do you mean calling me a Whore????!! I can't give you a vehicle since I don't detail vehicles. But I must ask you to have a civil tongue in your head. There is no need to be offensive and call me a Whore! Even there you are wrong. By the way, I am a man so I can't be a whore."

"OK. OK. So, 'whore' is actually '...and what more' in Punjabi? Great. You guys up North can really confuse issues. If I asked you 'more' I am sure you would have thought I was taking about a peacock (in Hindi a Peacock is called a 'More'). Boy, you guys are rare! Thank God I am a Keralite. We at least have a sensible tongue to speak and understand!"

Having said that, Colonel Bala hung up. I could see he was livid but I thought he was being a trifle unfair.

So before he started haranguing me, I quickly said, "Malayalam [his language] is also queer, Colonel Bala. You say 'Sari Sari', when you mean neither a 'Saree' nor an Indianised 'Sorry'; and instead actually meaning, 'Correct' in Malayalam. So, I reckon all languages are funny if you interpret it in another language."

That stumped Colonel Bala. As I left his office having said it, I saw that he was still gasping for words like a fish landed out of water!

What happened to RayC? I have not heard from him since.

THE MOVING MEDICAL MIRACLES

I had gone to Bhopal on a short stint of leave.

The Corps HQ was located in Bhopal. The Corps Commander knew me and so he called me over to his office for a cup of tea and chat.

At the appointed hour, I was ushered into the hallowed chambers of the Corps Commander. I was quite apprehensive, not because he was a very senior officer, but because he had a very odd and cutting sense of humour. Therefore, while I may have been delighted to have the Corps Commander calling me for just a chat, as his Colonel Military Secretary put it, I was a trifle apprehensive that this chat would be an exercise in dripping sarcasm of some omission or commission that I may have inadvertently done or not done in my official or unofficial capacity.

The Corps Commander was most cordial. Coffee was served and he actually was doing small talk about life in general including a gentle reminder of the dinner my wife and I were to attend at his place at 8 PM Indian Standard Time and not Indian Stretchable Time. He continued to chat with the serenity and deadpan of a Chinese Buddha. The emotions of the Indian Buddha, in comparison, could at least be discerned. Therefore, it was difficult to gauge the Corps Commander's thought or his physical state.

As I was trying to gauge the Corps Commander, he gave a deep sigh. It was as if he was immensely tired and that the onerous task of heading the large Corps was wearing him down. It was surprising since nothing could ever wear him down. He was reputed to be the coolest cat amongst senior officers because he sincerely believed in one theory i.e. if you don't have wings, then why flap ?

Thus, the deep sigh, was extraordinary; and that too coming from such a person who could go off to sleep during moments of serious business and when asked if he was sleeping, he could calmly state that he was merely meditating, the soft snore being only a metaphysical clash of temple bells with the wail of a conch shell in the truest tradition of the Indian Puja rituals.

Therefore, I was forced to venture, "Not feeling well, sir?"

"How did you guess it?"

"I didn't guess it, sir. You don't look under the weather and so I am surprised that you proffered such a deep sigh".

"Thank God it was only a sigh. Air can pass through many orifices. By the way Roy, do you know why most of the Major Generals who have just relinquished command like your Divisional Commander [GOC] will become Lieutenant Generals next year?"

This was a real extraordinary bit of news. Even though I was rather fond of my erstwhile GOC, Major General SP, but such a quick promotion was hierarchically extraordinary. And anyway, the rapid promotion of my GOC had not the remotest connection with any illness of the Corps Commander even if the Corps Commander was not at his pinkest best in health.

My brows had wrinkled querulously.

The Corps Commander continued, "I reckon the quick promotion is the order of the day. After all, all Corps Commanders are moving medical miracles and should actually be medically boarded out and be shown the door".

I was aghast.

If all Corps Commanders were medically unfit and sick, then why have they been promoted? Also, how come all the present Corps Commanders were a sick bunch? It was indeed a most unusual coincidence!

"If I may ask, sir, how come that all the Corps Commanders are a sick lot?"

"Roy, it is like this. Not only are the present Corps Commanders a sick lot, all Corps Commanders, Army Commanders and Chiefs throughout history, like all in high offices in all facets of professional life are or were a sick lot".

Now, the musing of the Corps Commander was indeed getting amusingly crazier. Ramblings of a genius on the thin red line of sanity?

"Extraordinary. Would you care to amplify, sir?" Remember, one cannot ask senior officers to explain. They only 'amplified' after the junior made a "submission".

"It is like this, Roy. All Corps Commanders, like all senior officers in government service, have no spine. Further, they have no guts. Their hearts are similar to that of the chicken and thus chicken hearted, but what is just not acceptable is that they suffer from meningitis".

Meningitis? Collective meningitis?

"Meningitis, sir?"

"Yes, Roy, they all have swollen heads!"

That really floored me.

You can't beat the General in macabre wit!

MY FIRST DAY IN THE NATIONAL DEFENCE ACADEMY
THE ENTRY INTO DALDA SQUADRON

This story is about the first day of my military career when I joined the National Defence Academy [NDA] the nursery of the Indian Army. World War II veterans mistook NDA to be Stalag 17 [Prisoners of War Camp 17] and Solzenytsyn took inspiration from it when he wrote on the evils of the Soviet empire.

All momentous and landmark events of my life started on 5th of January (my birthday!). Interestingly, each one contributed in a change in my life, but each one was a dirge. Yet, extraordinarily, each one bestowed me with all the honours that any soldier would feel proud of. Mysteries of God, I reckon.

My army life has been tumultuous. It couldnt be anything else. The day I was selected at the 19th Service Selection Board at Allahabad in October 1962, China attacked India! So, not unusually, my whole life has been one of interesting battles of [or is it, for] life.

I joined the NDA on 5th January 1963. I wanted to join earlier. Nonetheless, John Mukherjee of my school, in whose care my father boarded me on the train and who was a final termer and a Divisional Cadet Captain, strongly discouraged this. Instead, he told me to join my relatives in Bombay and join NDA only on the assigned date. I was most unhappy, but this turned out to be a most valuable advice. When I joined the NDA on the assigned date, I realised the meaning what was meant by “dead meat”! Apparently, 1st termers personified the same. By the end of the day, they also were equally malodorous but that did not discourage the butchers that other cadets apparently turned out be.

On the assigned date of joining, the Deccan Queen regally steamed us into Poona, right into the arms of an officer and some overzealous jawans (soldiers) forming the Reception Committee. The rickety military Studebaker truck rattled us past the majestic Deccan plateau and into Khadakvasla.

The first glimpse of the NDA was awesome from atop the plateau as we wended forth. Vast miles and miles of lush forestry and verdant greenery swamped us into a sublime ecstasy. Majestic buildings unobtrusively dotted the green expanse. The signature dome of pink sandstone, of what we later learnt, was the Sudan Block rose upwards in salute as if in gratitude to the money that had been donated by Sudan for the services during World War II by the Indian Army. The bountiful silence of the forestry calmed us into a pleasant security of a world at peace and order.

We disembarked; more appropriate would be disemboweled, at the Cadets Mess an imposing and sprawling one storey building with teakwood frescos depicting mythological battles. We were convinced that there could be no better profession than being a soldier. Our chests puffed up. I am sure we had the cocky glint of the German General, Rommel. Then, amidst the confusion that can only be whipped up by new eager beaver cadets, we, with a flourish, produced our papers to the officer in charge. It was heartbreaking that the officer was not as enthused as us. He was the only discordant item in the joyous, excitement charged environs.

I was assigned to Dalda Squadron! That was my first shock. Imagine, Dalda hydrogenated oil! I confess that my mother had worked for Dalda with Mrs Ninen as her boss. I distinctly remember Mrs Ninen was not too enthusiastic that Dalda was a good thing for health. So, Dalda did not please me at all. But Tennyson run in my ears its not to reason whyand all that blah blah and more blah blah.

I had a huge army trunk and a bedroll as luggage. A civilian bearer picked this up and cockily led me to my officers quarters [as I had imagined], walking down the slope to A Battalion.

Lo and behold, hardly had I entered A Battalion when a chap in khaki half pants with spindly legs halted me. Like a jagirdar (squire) talking to his serfs, he ceremoniously told me to carry my trunk all of its six feet length - on my head! Bloody cheek I thought, especially since he looked more of a village bumpkin. His accent was so unintelligibly dreadful that it took time to understand him. I was from La Martiniere, a reputed public school in India and France and the only school with Battle Honours in the World and here I was to hear some foreign gibberish akin to English! Peter Sellers would have been closer to English than this bloke!

I was thoroughly baffled, perplexed and odd at ease.

To the diktat of my carrying the trunk on my noggin, I flatly refused. However, with the start of a menacing growl emanating from this rustic, like a pit terrier, I realised that this was not the time to show valour. I tried to carry the trunk, but being the 90 lb weakling (like teh Clarles Atlas ads in the comic books), I crumpled like an aspen leaf under the weight.

The rustic who told me to pick up the trunk compressed with laughter and I was allowed to wend my way beyond. I felt like a worm.

A few moments later I reached the portals of Dalda Squadron. By then I was quite deflated. I was ashamed of myself that I had wilted.

At the portals of this magnificent squadron I met Cadet Sergeant Major {CSM} Chauhan. If I can digress, I call the squadron magnificent because it hardened me to take all the nonsense that was doled out during my service in the name of discipline and things not done. Thus, it was a magnificent delusion.

CSM Chauhan was all sugar and honey and he spoke in Bengali! It was music to the ears [You must remember that one silly bloke at A Squadron had shaken me totally and so anything familiar was great; fie on me to be parochial!]. Under normal circumstances, we from La Martininere dont converse in the vernacular, but then these were not normal circumstances. These were abnormal hours, to say the least. Notwithstanding the Bengali welcome, I poured my heart out in clipped English. The CSM was impressed but excused himself as he was going for lunch.

There I was in front of this magnificent stone edifice called the Dalda Squadron. I entered the Squadron to be met by the most hairy thing that I ever saw in my whole life Corporal AS! He was indeed huge and hairy as Sikhs are wont to be. In fact, it took time to realise that through all that hair, there were eyes peering at you.

"What are you?", said this matchless thing, which I had mistaken for some exotic South Pacific tropical tree. In a clear voice I replied "RayC (whatever was my name). Three times did he ask, as Anthony had asked of Caesar, and three times I replied the same!"

This tree turned pinker than his natural pink. At least he was turning pink in the areas that could be discerned. "Are you a Bhangi?", asked Corporal Avatar Singh. Now, while I knew passable Hindi that I used at home to talk to the retainers, I was not endowed with such technical Hindi. Naturally, I was confused. However, enlightenment dawned on me.

I was getting used to the fact that these blokes in the NDA had a problem with their English accent. Therefore, I surmised that most probably he was trying to say Bengi as the Anglo Indians in my school called us Bengalis.

With a radiant smile I proudly said, "Yes!".

AS visibly recoiled as if he had seen the ghost of Banco. He was incredulous! Keeping a safe distance, thrice [it was his habit of repeating himself thrice in the best of North Indian English] he asked the same question and thrice and I answered the same thrice.

"Are you sure you know the meaning of Bhangi?", asked Avtar totally disbelieving.

"Why not? I presume you mean a Bengali.", said I.

AS buckled with the mirth of a steam engine chugging away from a station and the wheels sipping on the rails. His belly fat quivered like Pompeii about to spew.

As his amusement faded like a wailing banshee, he bellowed, "Silly man Charlie bai [boy]!! Its not a Bengali, Bhangi means a scavenger. A sweeper. Are you a sweeper?"

George Washington could never lie. I too could not and so eating humble pie, I announced that I was not a scavenger. Huge that he was, he showed uncanny gentleness when he said, "You no longer civilian. You now Cadet. Be prod [proud]. You now Cadet Raychodri and add Sir to all seniors."

While I had no objection to being a Cadet, I somehow could not reconcile to the pronunciation of my name since it had an obnoxious sexual connotation in Hindi! I, however, kept my counsel. It dawned on me that I was no longer a human being and instead I was a Cadet!!!!!!

I had barely walked two steps when another unique specimen of humanity accosted me. It was a 3rd termer. He went thorough the preliminaries regarding my antecedents like the FBI would of an Al Qaeda prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. I was careful to add the words Cadet and suffixed with a sir. I thought he was satisfied and would allow me to proceed, but much to my chagrin he asked me to start front rolling!

Catch me knowing what it was. So, I asked him what it was. In the best of military curtness, he collared a 2nd termer for a demonstration. Demonstration done, I exclaimed, "Ah! I see what you mean, sir. A Somersault!" This specimen, from the northern areas of our country and from the Bal Mukund belt {a vernacular school from Kiomandi (clarified butter wholesale market), Amritsar, Punjab}, was furious. He had not understood what a somersault was. His face gave that away. For all I know, he thought it was some special salt that one took during summer and I was being blasted cheeky it being winter now.

"Oh! Getting clavar [clever]? Al-rat [All right], you do five somersaults and eight wintersaults!" Axiomatically that had to be done. In the process, I found that I got terribly giddy because instead of rolling over forward or backward as the case should have been, I wobbled upside down, holding the pose involuntarily in a semi sirshashan [yogic headstand], to crumple as a deflating balloon, with the gas emitting furiously from the orifice, moving to either side in slow motion and returning to the terra firma with an all resounding thud. The sensitive part of my anatomy, in the bargain, felt sorely insulted.

More blokes arrived. I was something like a new addition to a Zoo. I was about to say “Take me to your leader as they say in the comic books when Martians land. But then, they didnt give me chance.

“Hop and Rotate. What, in the name of Dickens, was that? My blank look encouraged a senior to collar another of the demonstration species the 2nd termer. The demonstration was executed. It was asinine. No options could be asked for surely it would not be given. I hopped and rotated like some mentally depraved frog with a sexual fantasia since I am sure such a pose would be in the Kamasutra, but for frogs only.

I thought I could now go, having qualified, not for the Gemini Circus, but for the very best Ringaling Brothers of the USA! No way. The next lot came.

This was like the Korean War repeat of Chinese human wave attack tactics one wave after the other... They had watched me hopping and rotating and the way I was at it, I thought I could have won the figure skating in the Olympics for frogs and other deprived species! However, this new lot had other preferences. They wanted music accompaniment. I, therefore, found myself hopping and rotating, singing my name in 27 different tunes. Why 27? Ask these mental morons.

New murgas [chicken: male and of the 1st term variety] arrived. They lost interest in me. God, where were you all this time?

The bearer [remember him? He had carried my luggage] read a list and ushered me to a ground floor room [later I learnt that they were known as kebin, which in English stands for cabin]. I still remember the number. It was 18 and two 3rd termers, Goofy Vohra and Pain in the Backside [a polite term being used] Agarwal flanked my cabin on either side. If they were pains, I had still not met the Mother of Pains i.e. Sarin [2nd termer] who was on the far end of the corridor but was always available like a cadaver eating vulture looking out for 1st termers to satiate his power hunger. There was also this chap Upadhyaya, who later when he became a Corporal, had a spot at the corner of the Mess dedicated as Checkpoint Charlie, named after his pet name given by his juniors, to catch juniors and punish them. The Geological Survey of India has by mistake annotated this point on the map since they thought Upadhyaya was another immovable object and hence a landmark suitable for compass fixes!

Hardly had I entered my cabin and put down my things when AS surfaced. I was hauled off to his kebin. I was finding the North Indian English accent odd and they were finding my accent odder and hence I was becoming an object d art. In ASs cabin I found Cadets AS Jamwal (now he is our Adjutant General) and Rathore [both my coursemates] were already there. They were convoluted in the murga position [squatting on ones haunches and putting ones hands under the knees and holding the ears!]. I was awfully amused. The NDA was indeed an exciting place where they could convert normal human beings into gymnasts of the highest order and yet Indians never won in the Olympics!

I was asked if I could sing. I could. AS beamed. He barked that I should sing Do hanso ka jora, bichar gaye re. Funny guy, this AS. I told him that I could only sing Elvis and Pat Boone.

“Bone? No picking of Bone. You sing. You bladi mane. I could never fathom even till the time AS passed out of the NDA as to why he ended all his sentences with Bladi Mane [Bloody Man]. Even good morning had this appendage.

Seeing my consternation, he relented. I could sing in English. He was dissatisfied with my effort because he found my rendition of Jailhouse Rock as very noisy. Imagine a Sardar finding Jailhouse rock noisy! I wonder if he had heard the Punjabi song Main choot bolia koina, something kufartoliya koina, balle balle .broooooo. Surely that is not melody, it was pure, unmitigated roar of an avalanche in the Himalayas ! In fact, it was sheer cacophony! The temerity to call Jailhouse Rock noise!

By this time, Rathore and Jamwal were allowed to resume the vertical position and were in boisterous unison singing ASs favourite song “Do hanso….” (two swans…) even though both these boys were more like wet murgis (chicken) by then; forget about being hans [swan]!

After inane questions on our sex life and other mundane nonsense, we were allowed to go. We peeked out and seeing the coast clear tried to scamper to our kebins. But whom do you find waiting? It was none other than MSR. We didnt know his name then but later he was as indelible in the memory as Hitler is to the Jews!

We walked into MSR's metaphoric embrace but then its another story.

^^Ask the admins - why the undue curiosity?

Yes, RayC sir has a flair for writing especially humorous writing with an English twist. He tried to publish a book of these incident buts publishers were not too keen claiming this was only for a niche audience. I guess BRF jingos are that niche audience given that this the age of worshipping Shahrukh Khan and awarding Bharat Ratnas to actresses the size of whose contribution to India's well-being is measured by the magnitude of exposure of their assets (whose impact must not be underestimated though!).

BLADDER BEDLAM

This is about the interesting chemistry between Major J, Brigadier N [my Boss] and the human Bladder.

It happened in Ferozpur, a one-horse frontier dusty town in the Punjab. The period was in the late 1980s.

Major J was one of my Company Commanders. He was massive, fat and immensely swarthy. Shakespeare’s Othello, near bred to the burnished sun, was fairer in complexion.

Major J had a fetish for wearing things in Black. This may have been a fallout from his days in the ranks {Sepoy} when possibly he did not have time to wash his clothes and it was practical to wear black; black rarely looked dirty. The Tamil politicians, who wore dark glasses [cooling glasses as they call them in the South] even at night, could have also influenced his fetish for black. He was also known as the Midnight Cowboy by the irreverent.

On the other hand, Brigadier N, the Brigade Commander, was a polished person, but a trifle officious and highly conscious of his rank and station. Notwithstanding his polish, he was still nonetheless, a true blue from the Land of the Five Rivers (Punjab)!

I had just recently taken over the Battalion and I was totally at sea. I had come from a pure Mahar [one class Maharashtrian composition] unit while the unit I was commanding was an All India mix. The ethos obviously was different. My new unit did not do anything in half measures. Everything here gave the impression that the Moguls were back in business. Providentially, the harems were not.

Brigadier N enjoyed parties and if his social rota was unoccupied, gentle hints by his staff ensured that the evening became occupied. One such evening was organised by my unit. I really do not know the reasons why it was organised, but then the President Mess Committee {PMC} must have had his ears to the ground and so he played by the nose! I was still finding my feet in the Battalion and did not want to upset the style of the unit. The army man management pamphlet had wisely advised us to Take it Easy and look Busy!

N, I was informed, liked good food, exquisite liquor and rather expensive though light in tar imported cigarettes. I was educated by the PMC that such delicacies were always available with the unit and the Mess and that the unit was trained to know their onions. He added that as per the traditions of the unit, COs {Commanding Officers} were never bothered with the mundane; one of the mundane issues being when parties are to be organised. The CO was expected to merely arrive and grace such occasions!

Since I was never to be bothered with the mundane and instead had to only grace such occasions, I decided to be just another guest. In my previous unit, the CO was not just a ceremonious figure. Although I wasnt too happy, it was too early to enforce my views.

I was living in a room adjacent to the Mess as my wife had not yet joined me. To be in time for the Party was no great shakes. The dress code was to be Shirt and Tie [trousers were assumed to be worn] and the time given was 7.30 PM . I was in a position to saunter in, just before the brigadier arrived and simply grace the mundane, such as the arrival of the Brigadier!

I got ready and considering that I had time to kill, I was halfway through a whisky in my room, when the Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant SP Singh arrived to inform me that the Brigadier had just left his residence and would be at the Mess in exactly three minutes! This was interesting. Such was the taped up drill of the unit that a minute-to-minute progress of persons who mattered was always available! I thanked him and as casually as I could, I walked out of my room. SP Singh followed in my wake with the deference of a tug in the wake of QE II entering the New York harbour.

As I walked out, I saw the red dome light of the Brigadiers vehicle flashing on the roof as it passed along the wall of the Mess. The car entered the gate. I took up my position as nonchalantly as I could, to receive the guest. I tried to remain cool as a cucumber since it was but the mundane that I was experiencing, namely receiving my Boss! This, in any walk of life, would have been an important matter of protocol, but in this unit, it was mundane!

The MP {Military Police} opened the car door and the Brigadiers bulk descended on the porch, beaming from cheek to cheek in a most controlled, though uppity manner, of contrived bonhomie.

The party was organised both in the lawns and in the Mess. I would have preferred the lawns since Ferozpur could be very stuffy in summer. I reckon the Brigadier preferred the better-lit anteroom, perhaps to make sure that he was being served whisky that had been matured in oak in bonny old Scotland - the traditional offering that he was used to being proffered at parties in homage and tribute. Since he did not offer the same at home, I realised that this was not his preference under the domestic portals. I wanted to make him feel at home especially since the Officers Mess is supposed to be a home. So, I instructed the PMC [much against his counsel that it was tantamount to sacrilege] to offer a good old Indian whisky, preferably Peter Scot, which in those days was considered a premium whisky.

This must have got the Brigadiers goat. To be fair, he never insisted on Scotch. Nonetheless, with the first sip, he made a face as if he were choking on cyanide! His lips had become so contorted that it seemed a swig of Tik 20 [a cockroach killing pesticide] might have elicited a more pleasant reaction.

"Interesting whisky ", said the good man. It appeared that he had no intentions to take that horrible grimace off his rather huge jowled double chinned face. Possibly, he felt that sewerage gutter water had been served. He wore a look as if he was waiting anxiously for a slow death or something equally horrible and painful to strike him.

I cared to ignore the Brigadiers curled lips and contracted stomach. I was in no temperament to use the magic antidote i.e. Scotch on the rocks or on salt petre, if you wish or whatever.

"Ah, yes sir. Jolly interesting. It is Peter Scot and I am told that it is the best Indian whisky. One must try the Indian stuff. Be Indian, Buy Indian and all that. Keeps the national economy in fit shape. What ho, sir?, " said I, with a straight face. In fact, I was pleased with myself for having invoked the Nation to my rescue. It always worked. Army blokes may be odd fishes, but their loyalty to the Nation could not be contested.

"Yep!" He had this penchant for Americanism. Is the Nation having some hassles?he asked. As though he could do anything about it on the measly pay we got!

"Fledgling economy. Third World and all that. Things can always get better. All of us have to tighten our belts, sir!", was my reply as if I were an MP {Member of Parliament and not Military Police} speaking to the media. Vague stuff, but very hard to dispute.

The waiter arrived as if on cue. A 555 or maybe it was a B&H cigarette that was offered to the good man. Whatever it was, it brought some cheer and untwisted, to some extent, the huge body till then convulsing in excruciating pain. The 555 sop must have convinced him to imagine that I genuinely wanted him to try Indian whisky to shore up the national economy. Fortunately for me, he, as a rule, did not read the newspapers enough in detail to know if the economy was in dire straits or not.

Alcohol is a great social leveler. With the dosage being imbibed, the party got happier by the hour. All, including the Brigadier, appeared to be enjoying themselves.

Then, suddenly the lights went out! Whether it was load shedding or an electrical short circuit, one does not know.

Coincidentally, the band was playing the song, The lights went out in Massachusetts. I thought this was another of the deliberate mundane acts that I was not supposed to be bothered with. The gimmicks were getting my goat since it was contrary to the way I had been groomed in the Army.

SP Singh came into view on cue. The Ferozpur electricity has failed, he whispered in his sombre best.

There was a controlled pandemonium. Some officers unobtrusively rushed to get the standby generator started. Others were generally taking it easy but looking busy, taking full advantage of the ensuing darkness to be their actual self, except when they spotted me, their Commanding Officer, in their vicinity.

Those in the lawn had moved in since some candles had been lit within the Mess.

I gravitated towards the veranda with the fervent, though irrational hope, that by moving out I could somehow will the generator into operation.

Suddenly there was a yelp, the tenor being more of astonishment than hurt. It came from the far corner of the lawn, where there was a large mango tree. In the darkness, I could vaguely discern that something large had fallen on the lawn.

I hotfooted towards this site to investigate.

The Brigadier and Major J lay sprawled on the lawn.

It transpired that the Brigadier tried to take advantage of the dark and use the lawn as a public toilet. Being immensely full of bladder, he took the easy way out, rather than grope in the dark for the toilet. Swift in his pursuit for instant relief and determined to find the corner and possibly a trifle disconcerted by this illegal methodology for relief, he must have been less than aware of his surroundings. Thus, there was this immense collision with the gigantic Major J, to lie crumpled in the horizontal on the lawn with all his blubber bouncing in mighty glee!

J had been invisible to the bladder crazed Brigadier because of his natural hue [those repeated dabs of powder were in vain] and his jet black Zorro outfit!

The Brigadier was mighty angry obviously having been caught in the act.

So, because J was in black, I felt blue the next day, when I was summoned to the Brigadiers office!

Such is the burden of command!

Operation Vijay and the Feathered Battle Casualty

Operation Vijay had just started.

8 Mountain Division had been inducted in the Dras - Mushko sector. Part of the Division was still in the Valley.

The war in Kargil was crystallising and the logistic support was in its infancy. Everything was more of a rough and ready solution to universal problems. The scene was like the World War II movies; lots of beehive like activity with teeth-on-the-edge confusion. Unlike the movies, the pretty women resistance fighters were missing. The other difference was that Op Vijay soldiers shaved, had their baths and they did not eat out of mess tins with broken forks. They also did not sport faces hewn from the Rocky Mountain.

My General, the GOC 8 Mountain Division looked young [honest and no buttering!] and was as sophisticated as any Delhite could be. Providentially, he was not the nouveau riche variety that is found under every stone of Delhi, talking of their Mrutis [North Indian corrupted pronunciation of Maruti] and Assteams [Esteem a bigger car] but the DPS {Delhi Public School} nose-in-the-air ones, talking of Frankfurt and Disneyland. Of course, the General did not have time to perk his nose in the air as also he was wise enough to know that was not good for his delicate nose as the air was cold, it being High Altitude and winter. He could have had got a red nose or chilblain [chillybilly as per the jawans]! He was determined to fight the war and not get a Wound Medal via a wounded nose.

It had been a harrowing day [not only for me but for the General]. I had arrived from our Base where I was in charge of pushing the non-existent supplies and equipment up to the front. I arrived when it was lunchtime.

The General was, at this critical moment, huddled in the pathetically pitched tent, masquerading as the Mess with his jungi [warlike] lot, looking solemn and sombre, as any war would demand. Interestingly, their war weary looks belied the fact that till then none had the foggiest and all were probing in the dark! They looked as limp as any self respecting aspen leaf. In contrast, I was as buoyant as one could be, after half a days helicopter ride trying to organise the administrative tail.

I was brought up on the bottle. A General or no General in attendance, high altitude or no high altitude, I required my high octane quota of two to three small gins. I was an old Kargil hand [something like the old India hand of the British Raj days]. I had served earlier under combat conditions in the same area where the General and his jungi lot were making their abode and planning the war. So, I was more seasoned to the ill effects that high altitude and Kargil can offer. The only ill effect I can remember from those days was that High Altitude bestows something that Kushwant Singh [a popular writer having no qualms about writing on intimate encounters] badly needs a toned down libido. However, Kushwants claim of nursing a hyperactive libido maybe residual effects of High Altitude hallucinations, but then I could be wrong! Therefore, two gins were no big deal and Kushwant Pecker Singh would salute to it with no ill effect to his fantasising.

Lunch was served and the Jungi lot attacked their plates [they had no options]. The fare may have appeared on my plate too, but then my palate at the sight of the gruel could not be placated.

I stood away from the table and ordered and knocked another gin down to develop the courage that was necessary to even politely nibble at the Mess [any Officers Mess] food. The unfortunate part was that I, as the Chairman of the Mess Committee, was technically responsible for the tripe passing off as food.

The chicken came. The General bowed his head and murmured something like the Grace said at school before a meal. I stood aloof. I was savouring the unique singularity of the Indian synthetic gin absolutely free from such noxious and obnoxious substances like the juniper berry from which gin is supposed to be distilled.

The General dug his fork and the chicken somersaulted like an East European champion gymnast in the Olympics. A beauty 10 so to speak! It was as if all the guns from Tiger Hill and Tololing had exploded. At least that is what occurred in my heart. Quailing in my combat dress, I adopted the best defence in these types of crisis the sheepish, asinine, dopey smile. It worked! The General melted but not as much as butter on a hot frying pan. But just about.

Dutch courage vitalized me to enquire like a steward of a second rate restaurant, "A tough cock, sir?"

The General did not answer. He bowed his head like a pious shaven devout at Tirupati [an important temple all Indian VIPs visit regularly] and went through the murmuring ritual through clenched teeth as if he was the modern Osho [a Godman specialising in liberating the soul do what it wants including free sex]. I never knew the General to be sexy though.

"No, not really, Roy. It is as soft as a rhinos hide" , said the General, all 32 showing with immense control as if I were a dentist inspecting his molar.

Curiosity got the cat. I could not but venture to query his sudden religious affliction, since he was no religious man; and, anyway I am wary of these religious blokes. I stood my ground and ventured with the maximum of dega vu that I could muster.

"Sir, why did you say the Grace before your meal? Has the uncertainty of the War made you a trifle more dependent on God than before or have you turned a devout Christian?"

"No, not all old cove", replied the General. "Its just that I have been taught as a child to respect those elder than me. Thats why!", he hissed like a lost adder in the deserts of Arizona or wherever these lost adders hiss.

Since I was older than he was, I was flattered. "Thank you, sir, but there was no requirement; after all I am your junior in rank". I beamed . Good old orthodox Indian upbringing. You could not fault the General for manners, both Indian and English. The bloke was sterling silver and better quality than the gold in Fort Knox. I was impressed that modernity or Delhi had not ruined the good old Indian ethos of the General, even though he was a Baywatch [he called it Body Watch] fan!

That got the Generals goat.

"Who the Dickens [remember, he was from DPS and so he spoke with the British uppah class accent] was giving respect to you. I was only respecting the chicken. It is older than Mohenjo-daro and Harrappa civilizations rolled in one, damn you!"

The silence was ominous.

I beat a hasty retreat, murmuring something about the heavy turbulence for the helicopter at this hour and safety requirements demanding that I left. The speed, with which I left, I am told, proved beyond doubt the veracity of what is known as the Venturi Effect. The silence and the vacuum were loud! There was no option. The Generals mood was as hot as that of a Bofors Gun on heat!

The next day, the Mess got younger chicken and a new pressure cooker!

ISLAMABAD—Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence agency restated Thursday its commitment to the fight against terrorism, pledging full cooperation with U.S. forces during the upcoming strike on an al-Qaeda safe house on June 12 at 5:23 a.m. near the small town of Razmani in the remote tribal region of North Waziristan.

At a hastily convened press conference, ISI chief Lt. Gen. Ahmed Shuja Pasha called Pakistan's long- standing partnership with the United States "stronger than ever," explaining that both countries share an interest in rooting out al-Qaeda before its leaders have time to gather their secret cache of hidden weapons and move to a new location, possibly a tribal area in northwest Pakistan where Pasha said U.S. intelligence is limited in both its sophistication and reach.

"Make no mistake, Pakistan stands shoulder to shoulder with our American allies in hunting down those who threaten our national security," said Pasha, circling the exact location of the safe house on a large satellite photo of the town. "And we will show no mercy in targeting them, whether it be on the battlefield or, perhaps, in a bunker where the walls are thicker and offer better protection from Predator drone attacks."

"These are highly dangerous men," he continued, "who will be taken out at 5:23 a.m. I repeat: The strike begins at 5:23 a.m."

Pasha emphasized the ISI's extensive integration with U.S. forces in planning the attack, saying that the specific time was agreed upon to ensure the terrorists wouldn't try to escape across the porous Afghan border, which he noted is often poorly guarded—especially near the town of Shirhani—at that hour of the morning.

Pasha added that the drones would be coming from the west, targeting the main part of the compound where al-Qaeda operatives would likely be sleeping and not loading all laptops, assault rifles, sensitive documents detailing plans for future attacks, and shoulder-to-air missile launchers into pickup trucks and fleeing as quickly as possible.

In addition, Pasha thanked American CIA operative Aban Changwani, who he said has been working undercover for quite some time. Pasha confirmed that because Changwani had grown a beard to blend in with al-Qaeda members, he more than likely looked different than the picture currently being shown to reporters.

"Throughout the mission, we will be in constant contact with American commanders, providing up-to-the minute intelligence assessments and information on enemy movements," Pasha said. "As the strike unfolds, real-time updates will be transmitted to them via UHF frequency 11.2535."

Added Pasha, "We've also changed the code words we use with the Americans, which is vital to our overall communications strategy."

Specifically, he explained unprompted, Tango, Thunderclap, Pinnacle, Bourbon, Serum, Flinch, Rotary, Wigwam, Crimson, Notebook, and Cask have been replaced by Backpack, Brunette, Icicle, Hallway, Cyclone, Archer, Mustang, Cabin, Velvet, Gambler, Foothold, and Brick.

Pasha said that in addition to U.S. Apache helicopters circling Razmani to prevent the escape of any terrorist operatives, the ISI would be setting up extensive checkpoints on all roads leading north, south, and west out of the town

"I know if I were a member of al-Qaeda, I'd want to cover my tracks very carefully," Pasha said. "Because any evidence that hasn't been carted away through the back alley near the market will be turned over to U.S. special forces, who will arrive approximately one hour later and will have full access to the site."

"And what I definitely wouldn't do is try to escape to one of the other safe houses in town, since the Americans already have them under surveillance, and have been watching them for quite some time," he added.

CIA director Leon Panetta praised Lt. Gen. Pasha's announcement, calling his ISI counterpart an indispensable ally in the ongoing fight against terrorism.

"We've certainly had our differences, but I appreciate the candidness and transparency he brings to our joint operations," Panetta said. "Though there may be some elements within his organization sympathetic to al- Qaeda, I know we have a trustworthy partner at the head of the ISI."

As of press time, the U.S. has given Pakistan more than $20 billion in aid since Sept. 11, 2001.

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Lahore—Punjab Chief Minister Shahbaz Sharif said on Saturday that corruption was rampant everywhere in the country. “There is no doubt that politicians are involved in corruption, but are the generals, judiciary and others institutions not involved in corruption,” he questioned, while addressing a “Pakistan Paindabad” conference here at Alhamra Hall.

He said the politicians will have to seek apology from the nation to regain its lost status in the comity of world.

The chief minister said the refusal by the US to vacate the Shamsi airbase is a slap on the face of the government. He said it is a big challenge for the PPP-led government to vacant the Shamsi airbase from US.

The chief minister urged the nation to forge unity among their ranks for pressuring the US to vacate the airbase, which is being used for launching drone attacks in Pakistan. Shahbaz said the US violated sovereignty and security of Pakistan by conducting a unilateral raid in Abbottabad for killing al-Qaeda chief Osama bin Laden but ironically our rulers sent letters of congratulations for successful operation in Abbottabad to US. “If we always accept all demands of the US then we cannot build our future and self-reliance (??) and one day we will become US slaves,” the chief minister said. He added that the government would have to use its all resources for achieving self-reliance to get rid from foreign aid.

...

Once our beloved PM, Mr. MMS, who is known for his steady silence on all the matters went to see his dentist.

Dentist: Sir, atleast open your mouth in my clinic so that I can work......

Once Laloo Yadav, Sonia Gandhi, a saint and a schoolboy were traveling by a private plane. Suddenly the engine caught fire and the pilot came out shouting, "This plane is going to crash! And we have only four parachutes and there are five of us in the plane.

Since I am a very important Indian Airlines pilot I am taking one parachute and getting out of here." Saying this he rushed to the luggage area grabbed one parachute and jumped off the plane. Sonia Gandhi said, "Since I am the future Prime Minister of India I am very important and have to live!" She also grabbed a parachute and jumped.