IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT — MY PLEASURE! Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

“Sir, gas pass kiya?”The nurse asked me the question in her unmistakable Malayali accent on the morning after my appendicitis operation. In my sixty years of life, I had always considered this a somewhat indecent question. Among friends, it was usually asked only when someone was accused of poisoning the atmosphere. Naturally, my defensive instincts took over.

“No,” I replied.

The nurse looked worried. Half an hour earlier, a nursing assistant had asked me exactly the same question and had displayed the same concern at my answer. At that time, I had assumed they had planted some sensors. Now a second person was asking. The matter was clearly becoming serious.

Fifteen minutes later, the surgeon arrived. His first question was also, “Have you passed gas?”

At this point, I became curious. Instead of answering, I asked him why the question was so important. The surgeon patiently explained that after abdominal surgery, the return of bowel function is an important indicator of recovery and gut health. His explanation was perfectly scientific.

Mine was not. In my mind, I had already developed a far more exciting theory. Since they had detached my appendix from the intestine, I assumed they were trying to determine whether there was a leak somewhere in the plumbing system. Perhaps pressure was building up somewhere in the system and the engineering staff was trying to locate the leak.

Fortunately, after a few more questions, the doctor concluded that everything was functioning normally and looked visibly relieved. And that was when a profound realization struck me.

For the first time in my life, I realised that in a hospital, the successful passage of gas is celebrated more enthusiastically than many professional achievements.

“Any other problem?” asked the surgeon.

“No problem,” I replied with a smile.

But that smile had nothing to do with my recovery. A fifty-year-old memory had suddenly surfaced.

When I was about ten years old, my father took me to the club of a hydroelectric project where he worked. A group of senior engineers was playing bridge. Like most ten-year-olds, I possessed two dangerous qualities—curiosity and an inability to mind my own business.

So, I wandered towards the place. One gentleman suddenly announced, “Excuse me,” and released a sound that could only be described as a well-executed artillery round.

The gentleman sitting next to him immediately replied, “My pleasure.”

For a few seconds, I was confused.

Then I burst out laughing. The kind of laugh that makes breathing difficult and attracts unwanted attention.

Soon a few others started laughing too.

Unfortunately, the person who had been laughed at happened to be my father's boss.

My father, who was watching all this from the next table, instantly saw this as an end of his illustrious career. He sprang from his chair with the speed of a commando reacting to an ambush. Before I knew what was happening, I received a slap, was grabbed by the collar, and was escorted out of the room with a level of urgency usually reserved for national emergencies.

I stopped laughing. But I did not cry. Because another problem had taken hold of me. Curiosity.

Why had the second man said, “My pleasure”?

Was it etiquette?

Was it sympathy?

Was it a sophisticated code among senior officers and engineers?

Or was it pure, unadulterated naukribaazi?

If it was the last option, then the gentleman deserved a Lifetime Achievement Trophy for Excellence in Flattery.

After all, replying “My pleasure” to a fart requires lightning-fast reflexes and a level of dedication to hierarchy that ordinary human beings can only admire from a safe distance.

The hospital eventually discharged me. My appendix was gone. My curiosity remained.

And even today, whenever someone says “Excuse me,” I wait with mild anxiety to hear whether somebody nearby replies:

“My pleasure.”

Note: Some readers may wonder why this Sardar is writing about such matters when the world is busy discussing wars, missiles, tariffs, and geopolitics.

The problem is that I was brought up in Punjab, where people somehow found reasons to laugh even during the darkest of times. When Ahmed Shah Abdali repeatedly invaded Punjab, people coined a saying:

*“Khadda Peeta Lahe Da, Baaki Ahmed Shahe Da.”*

(What we have eaten and enjoyed is ours; the rest belongs to Ahmed Shah Abdali.)

It was a philosophy of resilience. If hardship is inevitable, one might as well laugh before it arrives.

Jai Hind.

Please leave your comments.