Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

“Why do you want the names of the officers who recommended reducing Agniveers' leave to 30 days?” asked my friend. “I want to recommend them for the Jazba Medal. Imagine the tremendous service they have rendered to the nation! Thirty days of annual leave and thirty days of casual leave saved. What patriotism!” My friend smiled. “Sir, I doubt saving money was their intention. They were probably looking for a quick fix.” “Quick fix?” “Yes. Someone must have pointed out that during four years of service, an Agniveer would spend six months in training, considerable time on leave and some in transit. Effectively, he might serve for only about 28 months. So, instead of examining the problem, somebody simply reduced the leave.” “Brilliant! Less leave, more soldiering!” “Sir, have you spoken to any Agniveer from South India or the Northeast?” “Of course! I belong to the Madras Regiment. I have met several. Excellent boys! Full of josh!” “What did they say about leave?” ...

  “Gadhe! You could have got yourself killed!” That was my father's reaction when I told him how an LTTE militant had slipped through our cordon during an operation in Sri Lanka. A lady journalist had come to cover our operations. Suddenly, I discovered great affection for the local children and began distributing toffees, hoping the photographer would capture my humanitarian side. The photograph appeared in a national magazine under the heading ‘ Sri Lanka: IPKF gains public acceptance in Batticaloa’ I was thrilled. My father was furious. Apparently, he was worried that due to such distractions I or my jawans might get killed. That was my first lesson in the hazards of publicity. Unfortunately, the desire to see one's face in the media survives retirement. In fact, retirement makes it worse. Nobody wants your opinion, while everybody else's opinion seems to be on television. When Agnipath was announced, a news channel called. “Sir, we are organising a deba...

      " You can't understand the miseries of a farmer. After all, no one in your family has ever been a Kissan.”      My host made this observation over lunch at a five-star hotel. I was still recovering from the shock of seeing the menu prices when his remark brought me back to my senses.      He was wearing a T-shirt displaying a magnificent tractor fitted with speakers large enough to address an election rally. The speakers proclaimed, “NO FARMERS, NO FOOD, NO FUTURE.”    I felt guilty. My great grandfather had sold our agricultural land, thereby depriving three generations of our family of the moral qualifications to discuss farming.     Fortunately, the waiter arrived with our food, giving me an opportunity to contemplate the farmer's miseries.      The Bhindi Masala reminded me of the terrible itching caused by the tiny hairs on the plant while harvesting it. The chapati brought visions of a farmer thr...

  “Pure shit!” That was my mentor's verdict after reading the first ten pages of my first novel's manuscript. It hurt. I had spent months writing it. I had hoped for praise, perhaps a few corrections. Instead, I had received a literary court-martial. I summoned my courage. “Sir, at least tell me why.” “First, your vocabulary. Why use words that send the reader reaching for a dictionary? Are you writing a novel or conducting an English examination?” He had a point. Somewhere during my education, I had acquired the belief that difficult words made a man appear learned. Apparently, I had mistaken vocabulary for wisdom . “Second, your sentences are too long . By the time the reader reaches the end, he has forgotten the beginning.” “But, Sir, I am trying to explain everything.” “Have you ever tried filling a spoon under a fast-running tap?” “Yes, Sir.” “What happens?” “Most of the water spills.” “Exactly! Your sentences are the tap. The reader's mind is...

     “Always run to the target and check your score. Never let anyone carry your rifle or rucksack unless you are injured. And when you rise in rank, open your own car door.”      That was Subedar Diwan Singh , an old soldier from my native place, giving me advice I would remember for life.      “Dada ji, why all these precautions?” He smiled. “As you rise in rank, people will compete to make your life comfortable. Someone will carry your rifle. Someone will open your door. Someone will laugh at your jokes, however poor. And someone will praise your shooting even when you have missed the target!” “That sounds rather pleasant,” I said. “Of course! That is why it is dangerous.” He leaned forward. “The day you stop checking your target, you will start believing their lies. The day you stop carrying your load, you will forget its weight. And the day you allow others to think for you, you will lose your judgment.” He paused. “R...

“Brigadier, what made your country so advanced in warfare?” asked the Presiding Judge. “My Lord, it began twenty years ago, during the Iran–US war.” The courtroom fell silent. “That war taught us two things. We had the national will to fight a powerful enemy. But if we competed in buying bigger military toys, our treasury would empty before his armoury.” “Toys?” asked the Defence Minister. “Tanks, guns, aircraft, ships, missiles. Every generation wants something bigger, faster and costlier.” “What changed?” “Drones. The sky became full of them. Like mosquitoes.” Justice Coconut instinctively slapped his neck. “Everybody wanted anti-drone weapons. Guns, missiles, even drones to kill drones. Unfortunately, the mosquito was often cheaper than the bullet.” “So you jammed them?” “We tried. But the same spectrum supported civilian communications, commerce and essential services.” “What did you do?” “Something extraordinary happened. Our politicians started thinking....