Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  “ Sex power thoda kam ho gaya hai (Your sexual urge has gone down a little). I will give you jadi-booti as a remedy,” declared the man at the herbal stall in the Health, Wellness and Astrology Exhibition. His flowing kurta, oversized rudraksh mala, and a ring the size of a knuckle were clearly part of the uniform of “ancient knowledge.” The air around him smelt of incense, crushed leaves and mild deception. From the corner of my eye I caught his assistant’s expression: ab murga phasa — the chicken is trapped. Two minutes earlier he had lured me with, “I can read your health by feeling your pulse. Free of cost.” Free is a dangerous word. Soldiers know it. He held my wrist, closed his eyes theatrically, and mumbled something between a mantra and a market calculation. “What is your age?” “Guess it from my pulse.” “Forty-eight,” he said generously. “Try again.” “Fifty-five.” “No, sixty.” Convinced now that I was dealing with a strategic quack. He announced, “No disease. Only li...

“Dadaji, do you just not get technology?” my grandson Goldie asked, rolling his eyes as I handed him the Wi-Fi router to reset. I chuckled. I remembered wearing that exact same expression decades ago, when my own father asked me to light the Petromax lamp after failing for the fourth time. “Goldie,” I said, “the technological transitions I’ve witnessed would make your head spin.” “Really? Tell me,” he said, sitting back, the router momentarily forgotten. “In my childhood, walking was the primary mode of transport. For longer distances, we relied on bullock carts or horse carts. I still remember the day our village got its first bus service—it felt like royalty had arrived. Trains were marvels too, though the steam engines left us covered in soot and coal dust. We carried our own bedding for journeys that lasted days. Today, a twenty-four-hour journey takes eight hours on the Vande Bharat, and you arrive fresh enough to walk straight into an interview.” I smiled at another...

  "It was sad to learn that you lost your property during the 1984 riots," I said as I sat down next to the elderly doctor. She affectionately offered me a delicious matthi . It had the perfect balance of crunch and softness, melting in my mouth with a sip of tea. "Our house was burnt to the ground in the '84 riots," Dr. Trilochan Bhatia said calmly. "That must have been devastating?" "Yes, it pinched a lot," she replied. "But then you find new motivation to work. As you can see, by the grace of God, we have rebuilt it even better than before. Bas, Waheguru da shukr hai —we are indebted to God." "Indebted to God?" I couldn’t help my skeptical reaction. "At least Waheguru saved our lives," she said. "All our family members were abroad at the time. That is His mercy." "Did the government pay any compensation?" "Yes, a pittance. We decided to give it to charity. God has given...

“Aa ja… I’ll send you the sponsorship and an air ticket. We’ll roam around in Manhattan,” said my father’s cousin on the phone. He is just an year older than me and was my classmate till Class 5. The offer was tempting. But temptation has a memory. The last time we landed in the same college, he stayed in the hostel while I rented a room outside. Three months later, he was thrown out of the hostel and landed in my room. We got along well, despite having ambitions that couldn’t have been more opposite. I wanted to join the civil services. He wanted to own a horse—to smuggle opium and illicit liquor after college. Simple dreams never excited him. In 1983, we decided to watch highly subscribed movie 'Betaab'. Seeing the long queue, I said, “Pinke, let’s go back.” “Don’t be a coward,” he said calmly. “I’ll arrange free tickets and snacks. You just stand near the ticket window and be ready to buy four tickets.” Before I could ask how, I found myself standing near the ticket window. ...

  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...