Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  “KFC and McDonald's are going to take over India. People will forget Indian food,” my NRI friend declared in 1996 with confidence. His prediction stayed with me. Over the next few years, I made it a point to try every new Western food outlet that opened. Out of curiosity, insecurity, and partly because of my complex which whispers, If it's Western, it must be better. The burgers, pizzas, fried chicken, salads, fries were good. Yet, after every meal, I felt something was missing. Nothing matched the comfort of simple Indian food. Give me a plate of Rajma Chawal —steaming rice, thick rajma cooked patiently for hours, and a spoonful of desi ghee slowly melting into it. It doesn't merely satisfy hunger; it somehow convinces you that life is under control. Or Kadhi Chawal . Soft pakoras floating in lightly sour kadhi. Every spoonful is gentle, almost as if your grandmother has quietly placed her hand on your head and said, “Have one more.” Then comes Chole Bhature ...

“There is no future for Manjinder in the Army. I believe he has disobeyed an order. That too in operational area." remarked an officer casually one evening. The words hit me like a punch. I spent the evening wondering what Manjinder had done. It was 1988. We were in Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. The following day I met Manjinder at Nala Junction. “What happened?” I asked. He looked at me for a few seconds and then shrugged. “You remember Rajiv Sandhu's column was ambushed three days ago?” I nodded. “Rajiv had fought bravely. He was grievously wounded. I organised first aid, evacuated the wounded and arranged helicopter evacuation for the casualties. Rajiv died on the way to the hospital. That night a captured LTTE cadre was sent to me. I was told to finish him at the ambush site to give a message to the LTTE,” said Manjinder. “And?” “I refused.” The answer came without drama. Without anger. Without self-righteousness. Just a statement of fact. “I thought about it...

“Aaj CMP aa raha hai, Saab!” Sepoy Ravi's face was glowing with happiness. For a moment I thought some senior officer from the Corps of Military Police was visiting our cut-off post. I later realised that CMP was not a military policeman. It was the chicken. More specifically, those old layer hens with a bright red comb on its head that resembled the red beret of the Corps of Military Police. The live chicken was being brought to the post for dinner. And that was enough to make the entire post cheerful. That day I learnt something important. Indian soldiers find happiness in the smallest of things. A kheer-papad in a Barakhana. A plate of chai-pakora after a long patrol in rain and slush. A bright sunny day after a week of snowfall so that clothes can finally dry. A rainy morning accompanied by the magical announcement: “ Aaj PT nahin hai! ” Wearing civil clothes on the administration day. An extra peg in the rum issue. A volleyball match against the neighbouring unit that be...