Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  When I first learned that an eleven-year-old child was praising my book 'Soldiering: A Life on the Edge', I felt oddly insulted. It is unexicting to see your book read by kids when you have written it with pride for young military leaders. A book that shares my own mistakes, impatience, and lessons from counter-terrorist operations. My hope was simple: if patience could save even one life, the book was worth writing. The seed to write the book was planted the day I could no longer bear the sight of a mother wailing over her son, killed in action. Two days later, that feeling of insult shifted to guilt. Another young boy called and said, “Uncle, I didn’t sleep the whole night reading your book.” I braced myself, expecting fear or confusion. Instead, he said, breathless, “It was so gripping I finished it in one night.” Before I could digest that, a twelve-year-old girl told me, “Uncle, I loved the chapter about Captain Bharat honey-trapping the terrorist.” The guilt came rushin...

“Khalse, I am so handsome, you are so ugly and still I never dated a girl?” Asked my coursemate dragging me in front of a mirror on hearing my sexploits.  People may call it body shaming but such name calling is common among the course mates. Course mates are the only people on Earth who can insult you, analyse you, expose you and still hug you later without losing a drop of love. Because they have seen you all naked. The Academy strips you down—physically, mentally, emotionally—and these fellows are standing right next to you during every fall in, punishment, drill, heartbreak,  boxing bout, and the tiring tactical exercises. “Oye, bakwaas band kar ,” Will be said by your course mate when you try to hide yourself behind chikni angrezi picked  in your unit. Or when you pretend to be elegant, refined, polished by putting on classy clothes chosen by your sophisticated wife. Because they have seen the seams of safety pins which held your clothes intact in the Academy Meeting...

      “Your new boss is an a**hole,” my friend announced the moment he walked into my office.      “Why do you say that?” I asked.       “He never grades anyone as outstanding. He’s kaan ka kaccha  (gullible). This is your grave.”      “I’ll manage,” I said. “Don’t worry.”      “Yes, yes, you’re one hell of a smart alec. How do you do it?”       “Not difficult,” I replied. “One boss was convinced I had a relative who owned a mango orchards. Another believed my cousin had an apple orchard. A third was sure my brother-in-law controlled duty-free shops. And then there was a tough one—so I made his wife believe my family was in the diamond trade.”     “That’s pretty unethical.”     “What?”      “ C h*t* ye ko Ch*t* ya banāne mein kya galat hai? (No harm in making an idiot out of an idiot)” I shot back. “If a man doesn’t know that apples are not h...

     “ मूली दे परांठे खा लिए जाएं आज ?” — मैंने बड़े प्यार से कहा। पत्नी ने जो डर्टी लुक मारी , लगा जैसे मैं   परांठे नहीं , सोने का गहना मांगने की बात कर रहा हूँ।      नौकरानी नहीं आई थी , तो सोचा चुपके से किचन में जा कर कुछ कर दूँ ताकि पत्नी की   मदद हो जाए ।      तीन स्ट्रोक में पहली उंगली कद्दूकस , खून नहीं निकला तो जारी रखा। तीन और स्ट्रोक — दूसरी उंगली भी शहीद। धीरे से बैंड-एड लगाया , ताकि वो न देख ले।      अगर देख लिया होता तो पूरा   ऑर्डर आता — “ निकल जाओ मेरे किचन से बाहर!”      फौजी हूं , इतनी जल्दी हार मानने वाला नहीं। सोचा — “ग्रेटर की जगह मिक्सी क्यों नहीं ?”       मूली काटी , जार में डाली , पाँच मिनट बाद देखा — मूली के बड़े बड़े टुकड़े थे परांठा तो नहीं बन सकता था।        फिर मैंने मूली को छोटे जार में डाला और घुमा दिया मिक्सी को मूली का स्मूदी बन गई। परांठा तो नहीं डोसा शायद बन जाये।   चुपके से मूली की स्मूथी को पॉलिथीन में डालकर डस्ट...

  'Dirty look' I got from wife as I suggested having mooli ke pranthe on my sixtieth birthday. The maid was not coming. I in my wisdom decided to help and sneaked into the kitchen. Started grating the mooli. Three strokes and I grated my finger. Not much as no bleeding, so continued. Another three strokes and another finger grated with some blood oozing. Surreptitiously I placed a band aid. I didn't want her to know because she would have shouted "Get out of my Kitchen". Didn't want to give up. So thought of better way of grating mooli. Why not use mixie. Chopped it and put it in jar. After a prolonged grind I opened the jar. Half the mooli was perfectly shredded; the other half was mocking me in big chunks. Certainly not fit for the paranthas. Shifted the mixture in smallest jar. A few minutes later I found a fine smoothie. Could make  a dosa but certainly not a parantha. So, quietly poured the *batter* into a polythene bag and dumped it into the dustbin. My ...

“Look, Khazana Babu is being punished,” said a soldier, pointing towards Sepoy (Clerk) Khazan Singh crawling near the unit’s Gurudwara. The others laughed as it was odd to see a clerk undergo physical punishment. Khazan Singh knew they were mocking him, but instead of anger, he smiled. He wasn’t repentant for what he had done. The punishment — seven days of rigorous imprisonment — felt light compared to what he could have faced. After all, he had taken his revenge and gotten away with it. The victim hadn’t exposed the theft, and the Head Clerk had promised to ensure the punishment wouldn’t appear in his service record. As he crawled, Khazan drifted into his thoughts, silently thanking God for always blessing him. Khazan Singh was the eldest son of an army man from the rugged broken lands of Tanda, in Gujarat District (now in Pakistan). His father, Ganga Singh, had wanted him to become a granthi (scripture reader) and got him admitted to the Gurudwara. His younger, more handsome b...