IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 118- OPERATION JADI BOOTI Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

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 “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 libido little down. Two bootis and aap to…”

He already was visualising my credit card swiping.

But, I beat a tactical retreat: “No problem there. I am eighteen in spirit.”

 He could never guess about my BP, diabetes, prostatitis, kidney stones, deafness, appendectomy—clearly his radar system was outdated.

Ahead lay the main battlefield: astrologers, tarot readers, pendulum operators, numerologists—psychological warfare units in civilian disguise. Gemstone stalls glinted like sniper nests. Ayurvedic pain-relief booths formed the artillery line. Cosmetic counters launched aerial attacks promising eternal youth, fair complexion and glowing skin. The soldier in me whispered, This is a two-sided ambush. Extract immediately.

As I exited, I collided with a beautiful young girl offering free millet soup. No man with self-respect—or weak resistance to charm—refuses free soup. While I was still recovering, another smiling operative sold me a “herbal comb.” Only after paying did, I remember I was bald under my pagri. Classic luring into the trap.

The entire exhibition was selling fear—of age, of weakness, of fading charm—just like arms dealers sell insecurity.

Except for that comb, I escaped unhurt. Proud of my prudence, I began writing about my victory while my hair dye was drying. Like the foolish turtle in the Jataka tale carried by two birds, I opened my mouth too much in self-pride.

The dye over-performed as I overshot the drying time.

Result: jet-black beard, with extra black skin underneath. And a face unfit for public display for two days. Kisi ko munh dikhane layak nahin raha.
 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fdKuK04YcZg  



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