Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  "Maili chadar odh ke kaise... dwar tumhare aaun."     Every morning at exactly five, this bhajan floated across the Surangani Project Colony in the Chamba hills. The bhajan was followed by the ringing of bells. Down below, the Baira River rushed over the rocks. Together they created a melody that still echoes in my memory.      Surangani was not merely a colony. It was a family scattered over a mountain. From the guest house, at night the colony looked like a Christmas tree. During the day, it looked like a carefully built sand model clinging to the hillside. The road zigzagged through four hairpin bends. The uppermost hairpin bend doubled as the bus stand. Every morning the bus left for Pathankot. Every evening another bus came carrying passengers, newspapers, vegetables and supplies.     Down the first bend stood Sharma Ji's tiny tea shack. The aroma of freshly fried samosas, matthis and warm besan barfi was impossible to ignore. A cup o...

  “Woh jo saara paani absorb kar leta hai.” That was my three-year-old son’s answer when I asked him the meaning of Whisper . He had learnt the meaning of the word from a television advertisement for sanitary pads. A few days later, someone remarked, “Your son walks exactly like you.” Children copy whatever the parents do. Around that time, my neighbour, Mr Singh, had become the role model of every ambitious parent. His only son, Teetu, was born in the year an IIT topper had become a national celebrity. Mr Singh named his son after the topper, perhaps hoping that a little brilliance might arrive with the name. The entire household revolved around Teetu. In the weeks before his examinations, visitors were discouraged, the television remained switched off and all social engagements were cancelled. Nothing was allowed to interfere with his studies. One day, Mr Singh came to my office. “My parents are coming for my mother’s surgery,” he said. “Teetu’s half-yearly examinatio...

"Koi nahin... move on."    Those were my father's words when I looked at him in despair. I had just been admitted to Class VII. The problem was—I wasn't ready for it. A few weeks earlier, I had appeared for an admission test at a convent school.     "You know this?" the teacher asked.    "I no ," I replied confidently, shaking my head from side to side. I had no idea there existed a word called know  that sounded exactly like no .     Within minutes she announced her verdict.     "The boy can be admitted to Class III."      The problem was that I had already passed Class V from an Inglish-medium school in my village.      Fortunately, another school held an entrance examination a month later. My father arranged tuition, and I passed. But by then the only seat in Class VI had been filled by a transfer case. The school advised me to repeat Class V. Then destiny intervened.      One of my fa...

  “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...