Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

  "Sir, terrorists have entered my camp at ****. Firefight is on. Subedar saab says… we might’ve already lost a couple of our boys." It was past midnight. My phone buzzed and so did my brain—for a second, I just froze. Not out of fear, mind you. In moments like these, it’s like your brain is trying to find the ignition key, and the enemy's already pressing the accelerator. The officer calling me was looking up to me. Not just because I was senior in rank, but because I was, let’s admit it… a bit more ancient and hopefully, a bit more wise. Now, I’m not one of those “Ready-Reckoner” types who shoot answers like they’re hosting Kaun Banega Crorepati. I like to pause, think, and breathe. After all, we’re not deciding toppings on a pizza here—this is life and death stuff. So, I told him, “Get your Quick Reaction Teams ready. Get as many bullet proof vehicles as possible.   I’ll give instructions in five.” I’ve been through these storms since 1987. Each time, the se...

“It’s surely enemy drones,” I muttered to myself, squinting at the dark sky on that blackout night as a sinister humming sound buzzed overhead. And suddenly—flashback! My mind drifted to 1990. Someone standing over a sand model had confidently declared, “Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA) is round the corner.” I had waited... and waited... and honestly, I didn’t see it. Not till I hung my boots three years ago. But tonight—there it was. The RMA. Hovering right above my head, like an uninvited UFO with possibly explosive intentions. As a civilian (yes, a retired fauji is technically a civilian, but don’t tell my moustache that), there's not much you can do in such a moment—except pray the warhead hits a few metres away from you and not dead centre. I wondered what the Air Defence (AD) guys were doing. And just then—bam! Guilt hit me harder than a court of inquiry. For most of my career, I had treated AD officers like Fair & Lovely cream —apply when needed, and then t...

  "Sir, we’ve finally taken our revenge," said the youngster, eyes fixed on the Prime Minister’s televised address. "Yes, we all saw it," I replied solemnly. "The attack on Pahalgam shook the nation." Many blamed the government. Some defended it. But in all the noise, nobody asked the right question: who’s really responsible? We did surgical strikes. We did Balakot. Now we’ve done Operation Sindhoor and crushed them again. But has Pakistan changed? No. After all that thrashing, they do a copy cat DGMO conference and tell everyone ‘Kuch hua hi nahin sab jhot bolte hain’ ( nothing happened, they are lying) .” “So then what?” he asked. “Prevention. Make it costlier for Pakistan and its terror volunteers to act again.” “But prevention, sir? Right now I just want to hit back still harder.” “That’s your young blood talking. You must also feel the pulse of the mothers who send their sons to war. The fear of unknown when a soldier gets a sudden recall ...

Back in 1973 the war of 71 was fresh in the minds of people of Punjab. Whenever my father (a Captain saab then) would come on leave, the next morning four or five old people would come to meet him.   My father, a true fauji sanskaari son, would touch their feet. They then would sit in our baithak ( drawing room). Over a cup of tea someone would ask, “Gurbaksh Ladai te nahin lagan wali? (I hope there is not going to be war).” And then they would listen to my father very intently for about half an hour. I could guess that my father was talking sense as I saw the beards of all of them moving in the same plane. I felt proud when I saw these same set of old men sit under the banyan tree and discuss in a wider group what Gurbaksh had to say. I later realized that the concern for war was because every household had a serving soldier. They wanted to know what the army officer had to say. But it made me think of growing up and look intelligent like my father. As a 7-year-old soldier-...