Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

    "I am not working in the Army for money," I said when the politician casually inquired about my salary, while in the waiting room near helipad.      He smirked. "CO saab, then I pray to God that you never rise above this rank."     "Why?" I asked, taken aback.      I had grown up in a fauji family, where it was common to say, If you’re looking for money, don’t join the Army . It was ingrained in me. But then I had forgotten that the times had changed.      Gone were the days when society looked up to a fauji, not just because of his patriotism and  he served in harsh terrains far from his family, but because he could treat people with a bottle of rum, hand out an odd blanket BK, an jersey woollen OG, or sometimes an overcoat. An officer or a JCO could once get village boys recruited into the Army.      But now? That influence was gone. A fauji’s ability to "help" his fellow villagers had d...

       Once upon a time, deep in the forest, there lived a Tiger. He was a rebel, always criticizing the King Lion. The Tiger wooed the masses by proclaiming that he would lead a simple, no-frills life after winning the elections. And so, he won—but only to rule a minuscule part of the forest.      Soon enough, he forgot his grand promises of shunning luxuries like Ghoda Gadi. Just like everyone else, he indulged. Power brought him privileges, and privileges brought him haughtiness. He criticized the Lion even more.      Sensing a threat, the King Lion called his chief jaasoos (spy) and tasked him with digging up dirt on the Tiger. The jaasoos came back with an unexpected revelation.      "Boss, the Tiger’s ultimate weakness is his royal toilet seat!"      And this wasn’t just any toilet seat. It was a state-of-the-art, custom-fitted, hot-and-cold-jet-equipped throne that even made the monkeys jea...

  "Sir, are you from the Army?" a teenage girl asked, her eyes wide with curiosity after witnessing the change of guard ceremony at the War Memorial. "Yes," I replied, mildly surprised. "But how did you know? I’m not wearing anything that screams 'ex-serviceman.'" She smiled knowingly. "It’s the way you stood—upright and proud. Anyone could tell you're a Fauji ." Her words warmed my heart. Praise is rare after retirement, and for a moment, I basked in it. But my moment of pride was cut short when she followed up with, “Why were the Navy and Army soldiers standing together for a while?” “Oh, that was for the handing and taking over of guard duties,” I explained. “But they barely spoke to each other! All I heard were some loud, clipped commands. It didn’t look like much of a handover,” she said, her tone skeptical. I chuckled. “Ah, that’s the ceremonial part. The actual handover happens beforehand. What you saw is more abo...

  “Ki haal hai, Kalu Seth? (How are you, Mr. Dark Complexioned?)” said the man from my maternal village, flashing a toothy grin. I didn’t appreciate being addressed by my complexion, but I had been taught to respect elders. So, I mustered a polite smile and replied, “I’m fine, Mamaji.”      On the way back from the village, I turned to my mother and declared, “I’m never going back to your village.”        She chuckled and said, “Beta, yeh to mama-bhanja teasing hai, Punjabi culture ka hissa hai (Son, this uncle-nephew banter is part of Punjabi culture). Don’t take it seriously. In fact, it’s totally acceptable to give it back.”        That was all the encouragement I needed. The next time someone called me " Kalu ," I was ready with my retorts:   " Khurki Mama " (Itchy Uncle), " Langda Mama " (Lame Uncle), or " Kana Mama " (One-eyed Uncle).   Within two days, my mother received a soft complaint:   " Munda j...