9 MKD - The fourth story on ordeals, trials and tribulations (the first part of a two series - Ordeals and then in the second part : Faith)

 It had been almost ten days since Abhi had been out on the operational reconnaissance (op-recce). His Commanding Officer had spelt out the aim very clearly - to meet all formation commander and explain the operations of unmanned aerial vehicles so that people did not come up with funny taskings. The extent of Western Command stretched from Ramgarh near Jammu to Romeo Sector in Rajasthan. It had taken him ten days to cover the distance back to his base in Rajasthan. 

His newly married wife waited for him there. Just before he had left she had shown him the pregnancy test kit with two red lines. He didn't want to be away from her for even a second. This was time when he should have been there with her, humouring her tantrums, food cravings and anything else that he had heard or read about. Instead duty called and he had been on the road for the past ten days along with his driver, Sahu. 

As they crossed Majahan, the midway point between Suratgarh and Bikaner, his impatience to reach back home increased. He had picked up some Indian sweets for his wife from different places to give her a feel of where all he had been. As he imagined feeding his wife those, the jeep they were travelling in slowed down to a halt. That damned Sahu couldn't have wanted a break from driving so soon. Abhi loved driving and he had driven half the way to ensure that Sahu doesn't get fatigued. 

But it wasn't Sahu. There was a jam on the road which was most surprising. This road was known as a super highway - broad, empty and smooth with hardly any traffic. They waited for five minutes before his patience wore out and he decided to check what had caused a traffic jam in the middle of nowhere. 

In the center of the road was an army truck which had crashed into a civil truck. The driver of the civil truck was conscious but in shock and lay on the side of the road. The front of the army truck had caved in. The driver was stuck behind the driving wheel. His co driver's face seem to be falling off from the left side with a solid chunk of his cheeks and teeth hanging to one side. There seemed to be a third person inside but he couldn't make out. The bloody sight brought back images from Kargil when he had seen a young soldier being cut into two. 

Surprisingly no one had bothered to rescue them. Surely, pulling out the frame of the front of the truck should not have been so difficult. He ran towards the truck but as he neared some drivers grabbed him and held him back. They pointed to the leaking fuselage which had a steady trickle of diesel flowing from it. A single spark could have lit the pyre of these soldiers trapped inside.   

Then the situation hit him. There was no time for him to nurse his PTSD. Abhi pushed the civilians aside and shouted for Sahu to bring the jeep ahead. The army jeep was 4x4 with sand tyres to enable cross country movement. As Sahu ran back to get the jeep, Abhi leapt ahead and grabbed the front panel of the army truck from outside. God knows where he got that strength from but he hung from the solid front panel with both his feet on the fenders and pulled it out. 

Abhi got the co-driver out, he was a junior commissioned officer (JCO) whose face had been cut from the left side. A solid chunk of his cheek and his jaws along with teeth was swinging as he moved. There seemed to be some bleeding from his chest but there was no way to access the damage. Abhi rolled his handkerchief into a round circle, pressed the handkerchief on the wound on his chest and tied his belt around it to keep it in place. He took the JCOs hand and pushed the flesh on his face into place with it. 

Abhi then took out the driver who had a deep and big gash in his chest and below it. Blood and what seemed to be his stomach were pushing to come out. He was unconscious but had a weak pulse. Sahu meanwhile drove the jeep on the sand and got it near the truck. He told Sahu to hold the driver in his lap keeping the gash pressed and asked to sit behind. the back of the jeep was filled with their holdalls and spare diesel cans. As Sahu struggled with the luggage, Abhi threw out the holdalls to make space. The sweets lay scattered on the ground. 

There was a third soldier sitting behind the driver and co-driver. There seemed to be no wounds on his body though he was unconscious. Abhi checked him for a heart beat and was relieved when he found a strong one. He took out the soldier from the truck and lay him down on the scond seat behind the jeep. He then picked up the JCO who was now unconscious and put him in the co-driver seat of the jeep. Taking out his phone, he rang up the army exchange in Bikaner and relayed a message for the Military Hospital asking them to get the OT prepared. He knew that this was the closest hospital which was an hours drive and by the time medics reached here or got them back to surgery, he would definitely loose some. 

The next one hour went driving at breakneck speed towards Bikaner with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand holding the JCOs face to keep it stable and to keep the hanging mass of flesh in place. As they reached the hospital, stretchers had been lined up and surgeons stood waiting for him. His timely action and basic first aid ensured that the JCO and the soldier who lay behind survived. Unfortunately, the driver had broken his lungs, lost too much blood and his stomach was almost out of his body, passed away in the hospital. 

Epilogue. Abhi was walking down to his office in the unit when a jeep of a Commanding Officer drove in. It was the commanding officer of the troops in the truck. He walked up to Abhi and saluted him before Abhi had a chance to do so, shook his hands and thanked him for saving the lives of the two men. He then outlined the measures taken for the surviving family of the driver - they would be well taken care of. Abhi was later awarded a Commendation for saving the lives of the soldiers.... 

OP -1 - The third story on ordeals, trials and tribulations (the first part of a two series - Ordeals and then in the second part : Faith)

It was almost 10 pm by the time the OP party reached base camp. The company commander briefed Abhimanyu about the operational aspects and then the DOs - Reach the post before day light else the enemy would fire at you, reporting twice a day on a conference call, an observer to monitor the route to the Pakistani side of the glacier 24x7, ration the water, send a link patrol to collect ration every Wednesday and Saturday and so on. 

Then came the DONTs. No movement during the day - don't step out of the bunker in the daylight. Simple one line and that was it. How difficult could it be. As it is he was lucky that he got his turn for his Siachen tenure during the summer months and that too at this post where there was no ice during the summers. He'd seen the others melt snow on a stove to get water in the glaciated parts. Since the area was limited, so there was only that much space to step out of the bunker and stretch and shit. Ice from around the bunker would be gathered to be heated for the daily requirements. You couldn't venture far for an enemy sniper might sight you and take a pot shot. Often a lump of shit would appear in the pan after the ice had melted.... 

The party started its climb to the post at around midnight. It was supposed to take them 4 hours of climbing at altitudes of 11000 feet to reach the post. Abhi checked his watch and the radium dial showed it to be 4:30 am. It would be daylight in an hour and at this rate they were still an hour away. Ballu, his radio operator was struggling with his rifle, large rucksack and the radio set. They would definitely not make it in time. Abhi pictured the next day radio log as "One officer and three jawans shot dead by enemy". He picked up Ballu's rucksack and shoved him along to pick up the pace. They barely managed to reach as dawn broke out and huddled into a 4 feet by 4 feet bunker made of large stones and covered by a time roof  which had a sign "kitchen" painted outside. It was just about 3 feet high and everyone huddled around the stove on which tea was brewing. 

Narry, the officer who was de-inducting was waiting sitting with a tea cup in hand. He welcomed the party and handed out 'shakar paras' cautioning them to drink less of tea since the time to go for ablutions was over. The tea itself reeked of kerosene oil and a fine film floated on top. 

He then explained to Abhi that since they were 'eyeball to eyeball' with the enemy, the 'morning drill' had to be done with one at a time before dawn broke or after the fall of darkness. Shitting was a simple process - sit on the edge of the cliff and shit below. There was a rope to hold on to in case you weren't too sure of your balance specially since everything had to be done in the dark. 

The officer in the party had the luxury of a separate bunker to sleep. 2 feet by 7 feet with a height of 3 feet. So you crawled in and crawled out. There was a bottle of kerosene with a rope inside which burned to help you read books and magazines if you had carried any with you. The roof of the bunker had a layer of soot - thick enough to start a small scale eye liner industry. Water would come on mules every Wednesday in 20 liter jerricans from which kerosene had been emptied out and so irrespective of how or what you cooked or what ingredients you used, kerosene and it's smell was going to remain an integral part of your diet for the next 90 days. 3 liters of kerosene enriched natural water for each person to cook, drink and wash - everyday. And this was supposed to be a summer luxury.... 

Four people confined to an area of 20 feet by 20 feet for 90 days. As the days passed, each one of the four men party knew each stone of every bunker, the complete history of everyone's family, their crushes, their fantasies, their fears. Discussions graduated from 'this is what I joined army for' to 'we're part of a larger plan' to 'this is all bullshit' and finally to 'politicians are all idiots and no one gives a damn'. Life, God, comparisons between the young Sonia and Benazir, everything possible was discussed. The toughest were the 45th to 60th day after which it was all downhill waiting for the next party to induct, blessings counted and plans made to discuss what would be done after going into civilisation ...

Most of the day went in writing letters - they too graduated in a similar tone/ tenor. Friends, relatives, people you'd met only once for 5 minutes, anyone whose address could be remembered was written to. All letters were sent open for the unit censor to strike out with a marker anything that was 'unparliamentary'. Each one knew what time to wake up, where to step and how much of rope to hold in the dark of the morning. Soon brushing your teeth also became a luxury and kerosene certainly helped control your desire to drink water. Shaving was not even thought of. Everyone came down from the post as a sardar with long hair and flowing beards. The same magazine had been read umpteen times. The same songs heard every night on the HX radio set which managed to tune onto AIR Radio when 'fauji bhaiyo ke liye' would play.

Food was the salt rich tinned mutton, dried onions and potatoes, powdered eggs, tetrapacks of milk and some pulses. All of which would cause astronomical amounts of acidity and constipation. It was all designed to make you last and survive in such a scenario... Once a month some 'special rations' would come - nuts, chocolates, condensed milk, juices. Soon hunger died and some posts had even made Cadbury shelves and Cadbury steps ...

Many cried when they finally left the post after ninety days. Some clicked photographs wearing a turban with flowing beards. Some went back to Base Camp (Siachen) to offer ammunition to OP Baba's shrine for a successful tenure! Some gloated about their mental fitness, others took years to forget the experience. Some suffered from short term memory loss while it took years for the stomach lining of others to recover. you can leave Siachen, but Siachen never leaves you ..... 

TUPPAA (to-pa) - The second story on ordeals, trials and tribulations (the first part of a two series - Ordeals and then in the second part : Faith)

Abhimanyu stood marvelling the tiny holes in the wall of his fibre glass hut. He was pretty sure they weren’t there earlier. Meanwhile he could hear the faint boom of the engineers as they blasted the rocky hill side near his observation post making new bunkers. In the background the 5 bravo phone was ringing. It had to be his adjutant asking for the daily morning report. He was sick of the bureaucracy of this reporting - it wasn’t analysed anywhere and no action taken on it. It just got buried in piles of paper which would slowly be eaten away by termite. Age, adrenaline and ambition drove him. He’d joined the army hoping to see some action in the Kargil war but active hostilities had been reduced to artillery duels by the time he reached the forward area.

The boom of the engineers blasting sounded a lot closer as the phone continued to ring. Reluctantly he picked up the receiver pulling out his pad to give an NTR (nothing to report) feedback to his adjutant. He could hear the high pitched tense voice of his adjutant shout from the other end, “you bugger why aren’t you picking the phone? You’re being shelled idiot. Get yourself and your men to safety”. 

The holes in his FGH suddenly made sense. They weren’t holes but jagged incisions where shrapnel from enemy bombing at ripped through. It was a miracle that he’d not been hit. Dropping the receiver he ran outside to see his 3 men hiding behind a makeshift stone wall - they called it a ‘sangarh’. 

The phone started ringing again with its incessant and continuous “rrrrrrr” getting drowned out by a closer boom. The ground shook now. He checked his body to see if he’d been hit. The Gods seemed to be benevolent today. It was the adjutant again and he ordered Abhi to move to the observation post (OP) bunker to ascertain the direction and distance of the flash where the fire was coming from. To reach the OP bunker he would have to move about a 100 meters in direct visibility of the enemy. The path was littered with 3 inch long pika bullets - an anti aircraft gun which the enemy was using to hit own personnel who came to the OP bunker. 

He shouted out to his radio operator to run behind as he started sprinting towards the OP post. The whining pika bullets started ringing out hitting the stone mountain side ricocheting in every direction and sending stone shrapnels flying everywhere. He would have definitely beaten Maurice Greene had some timed the sprint. 

Over the next 20 minutes he diligently recorded the flash to sound gap to work out the distance and noted the bearings at which the flash could be seen. Plotting it on the map, he was pretty sure that it was close to a village called Shaqma and he passed on the intelligence report to his adjutant. By then the firing had stopped and he was ordered to fall back. 

Here was another day wasted, another instance of lives risked and another opportunity lost. Disgusted he crawled back to his bunker. 

Epilogue - Shaqma was hit by over a hundred rounds of 155mm bofors after a gap of 15 odd days. The 15 days went in preparation, lulling the enemy into a false sense so security so that they brought their guard down, and making sure that gun end was surveyed accurately to ensure precision at the target end. An ad-hoc OP was established to correct the fall of shots. Intelligence reports gathered through eye witnesses and radio intercepts later confirmed that the enemy gun position had been completely destroyed with multiple casualties

APATI (uh-pa-tee) - The first of a series of stories on ordeals, trials and tribulations (the first part of a two series - Ordeals and then in the second part : Faith)

It had been a long day. The gun position had just fired over 200 rounds and the men were tired. As expected, just as the guns were given rest to manage the spent ammunition and provide relief for the crews, the counter bombardment started. It had never been so close. They had been well sited, tucked right behind a mountain and the gun position officer knew that it would be difficult to target them. 

However, it was with unease as he saw the rounds creep closer and closer to them. As Sachin observed the rounds falling behind, he noticed the glint of glass in the hills behind him. He wondered what it could be, there was no inhabitation there. Taking out his binoculars, he surveyed the area and could definitely make out the reflection of glass but nothing more. He was tucked away in the command post bunker and didn’t want to take a chance stepping out to take a better look as enemy shells still rained down though yet a safe distance away. He noted the bearing of the shining object and passed it on to his adjutant. 

Meanwhile, they got orders to resume firing and the new target required the guns to redeploy in the same gun pits. As he barked the orders on the microphone, the detachments swung into action running to shift the trails of the guns and make safe any ammunition in the way. Soon the ready report of the guns started pouring in - all but gun number 5 had reported ready. 

It was very unlike the detachment to take so much time and he climbed the bunker stairs to see why they were taking so much time. An uneasy feeling crept into his stomach as he saw men crowding around something on the ground. He could just see a pair of feet with the DMS boots lying on the ground. Some was down and he sprinted towards it. 

Sachin had just been commissioned a year ago and had joined the operations in Kargil after completing his Young Officers course to perform the duties of a gun position officer. His trial by fire was literal in every sense with the bofors gun position he commanded seeing action every day and night. 

Suddenly the Hollywood life that he’d been living so far turned into reality. Balwinder, a jawan of the 5th detachment lay on the ground. His body lay cut into half, the stomach and intestines had spilled outside with blood trying to seep into the rocky ground below them. Sachin was too shocked to react. This couldn’t be happening - not on his guard at least. He picked up the torso and tried to join it with the lower body scooping up the stomach and intestines. Screaming for an ambulance he mumbled that maybe the doctor could stitch the body together and bring the limp body back to life. 

His men pulled him back as someone covered the body with a sheet. His shrieks of agony were drowned in the dull thuds of enemy shells that continued to rain down. 

Firing had been called off for the day. Sachin’s buddy helped him clean the blood off his hands and clothes. He spent his whole day trying to come to terms with the loss. The day had gone bye, he’d missed his lunch. A retaliatory fire plan had been chalked out by the meticulous staff officer. Revenge had to be taken. Hungry and eager to be prepared for the morning, he made his way to the officers mess. As he entered the mess, he saw his Battery Commander brooding over a glass of rum. Suddenly, the helpless and rage bottled up inside Sachin erupted and he shouted at his boss. How could he drink when they’d just lost a soldier. The battery commander looked at him, a glint of water visible in his eyes and quietly went back to his drink. 

Epilogue - The shimmering glint that Sachin observed on the hill side was a local villager who had been trained by the enemy to direct fire. He was shot at the spot observed earlier. The battery commander nursing his grief with quiet maturity went on to become a commanding officer as did Sachin - years in combat taught him his lesson in maturity and tolerance. The enemy was targeted ferociously over the next month soon after which a cease fire was called out and hostilities ceased in Kargil that year, 2003.

Papa

Colonel Surinder Jeet Singh Chabba - Papa for me and veera, and Dadaji for Tanveer, Aarya, Ahaan and Sairah...

(as told by Dadaji - minor literary liberties taken while writing this)

Photographs on 

Surinder Jeet Singh Chabba (@sjs.chabba) • Instagram photos and videos

Dada ji was born in village Painth Chakk (65 Chak) at Lyallpur (Faisalabad) in Pakistan on 19 October 1942. He stayed there till partition and was brought up by Pandit Bhagwan Das, fondly referred to as Dada, and the governess who was referred to as Amma. When partition happened the whole family was shifted to India (Amritsar, Chabba) by Squadron Leader Shivdev Singh (who later became Air Marshal) who was a good friend of Dada ji’s chacha, Captain (later Colonel) Surat Singh (Billoo chacha and Koni – Mohan chacha’s father). Sqn Ldr Shivdev flew down a transport aircraft and shifted most of the sikh families from there including Shri Ram Lubhaya, the village grocery shopkeeper (Late Harbans Lal Khurana’s father).

On shifting to Amritsar, the family lost all its landed property in Lyallpur and was given some in lieu in Sohiyan village. The next few years he studied at Government School, Chabba - what he'd lovingly call "Chabba Convent". The school had just been opened and the little kids would take gunny bags to school to sit on. Sardar Manjit Singh (Teji/ Pali/ Golu’s father – Pilibhit), Sardar Jasjit Singh (Vicky/ Dolly’s father) would stay at Sarkaria House and sometimes in Chabba with the three brothers Inderjit (shammi), Narenderjit (nindi) and Surinderjit (billoo). Dadaji studied at “Chabba Convent” till 6^th class (1953) after which he shifted to St Paul’s, Palampur and stayed at the hostel there. The fee was Rs 50/- per month. Captain Datar Singh (my Dadaji) who was on active duty all this time, thought that the kids would get supervised better at the hostel rather than at the village where there was no one to "lagao danda".

Bibi Kartar Kaur Chabba (Dada ji’s bhua ji) had no children and her husband died in the second world war. When her husband died, the family had no 'waaris' and so she got her father in law married again so that the family line could continue. After her father in law’s second marriage, she came and started living in Chabba out of her attachment with the family. She was very fond of Shammi tauji and insisted that he stay at the village with her so that she could look after him. And so the three brothers got separated - 'Nindi' and 'Billoo' going to Palampur and 'Shammi' staying on at Chabba. 

After desi ghee and parantha's at the village, eating the hostel rice was very difficult. Perhaps this started their love for good food - specially non veg. Nindi tauji and Dada ji couldn't reconcile to eating the staple hostel food - rice. A dalit (lower caste) classmate once invited Dadaji for dinner since he had cooked some chicken or pigeon. Dadaji had a yumm dinner with him. 

However, the family got to know of this and the hostel warden sent a complaint to Pardadaji - Sardar (Captain) Datar Singh after which a stern message came to the kids directing them to eat whatever was served and Dadaji got a solid thrashing for having eaten with a lower caste boy. The boys studied there till 10^th. Nindi tauji  failed in science and so both of them came to the same class after which they studied together. Once when the boys were coming to Amritsar, they decided to catch the train from Pathankot. At the station, Dadaji was so mesmerised by the movie posters that he missed the train. By then Nindi tauji had gotten onto the train. Dadaji wasn't carrying any money (it was all with Nindi tauji). Perhaps this left a very very lasting impression on him. Later in life, he would have money tucked away in various nooks and corners, chor pockets, etc. He would get very upset if I would at times travel with no cash. 

When he missed the train, Dadaji started crying and some (very pretty) college girls who were passing by took him to the Station master. The station master gave him a rupee (big amount then) and boarded him on the bus to Amritsar. The bus left him at Shaheedan from where he walked to Chabba. At Chabba Advocate Avtar Singh (Manjit tauji’s father) saw Dadaji coming and heard the whole story. By then Nindi tauji hadn’t reached and now the focus completely shifted from Billoo being left behind to Nindi missing. Dadaji was warned that if Nindi didn’t come, he was in for a thrashing of his life. 

Thankfully Nindi tauji came in the rickshaw shortly after crying that his brother had gotten left behind. Both the brothers were overjoyed at seeing each other and the evening ended on a happy note. This laid a solid foundation for the brothers and they would go on to stand by each other for everything in life after that. 

Dadaji captained the school basketball, cricket and hockey team. The Principal at St Paul's was Mr Guttoun (?) – Canadian and later Mr P Samuel, an Indian. Many years later Dadaji presented a trophy to the school and we revisited it together a couple of times when he'd talk about his arts teacher and show me the school playground, St Andrew's hostel and classes.  

 

After 'matriculation' (class 10th/ year 11), Dadaji wanted to appear for NDA exam and so shifted to Delhi and stayed with Bhenji Daljit who’s husband, Lt Charanjit Singh (IN), was posted in Delhi (Dr Rituraj and Gogi di's father). In Dadaji's words, it was a very 'different experience' staying in a nuclear family in a metropolitan city - he definitely didn't like it too much. He attended classes at SN Das Gupta College. His friend Harbans Khurana who had shifted from Pakistan to Delhi with them, was already there. Both of them would enjoy riding bicycles from India Gate to Karol Bagh. When he couldn’t clear NDA, Captain Surat Singh, his chacha, called him to Agra for his higher education. Dadaji wanted to stay with his brothers but could not dare refuse his chacha. In Agra, he was enrolled into St John’s College, Agra. He studied science for one year there. He would ride a bicycle to the college and some boys would trouble him enroute. During one such incident he found Surinder Uncle and they became friends for life. Surinder uncle continued to stay in Agra and had two sons. One joined the army and another opened a shoe factory. Dadaji couldn't stay away from the family and wrote to his father about it. Much against Captain Surat Singh's (my father's chacha) wishes, Dadaji was allowed to move back to Amritsar. Years later, during the 65 War, Captain Surat and Dadaji served together in the same sector.

After St John's College, Dadaji joined Khalsa College, Amritsar and stayed at Nabha Hostel. Years later when I didn't do too well in my 12th, he got me enrolled into Khalsa College and made sure I too got Nabha Hostel. At that time I never knew that Dadaji also used to stay there. Perhaps after that fate rewrote both our lives.

His fondest memory of Khalsa College was the Bhangra team. Dadaji used to stay at Nabha hostel with his friends Sukhwant (who went onto to become a spare part engineer par excellence but gave it all away to become an astrologer), Manjeet, and his brother Nindi. Under his 'Captainship'. the Bhangra team won Bhangra competitions in Ropar, Pathankot, and Bhiwani. A regular at these festivals was Jagjit Singh, the ghazal singer, who would come from the DAV Jalandhar team. In 1961 Khalsa College team won the all India inter university festival at Bangalore and in 1962 won the All India Bhangra Competition in Delhi. In 1961 he also performed at the 2^nd International Film Festival at Bombay which was organised by BR Chopra. The festival showcased Vijayanti Mala’s dance and Khalsa College’s bhangra. The team started getting a lot of offers from Bollywood and featured in movies like Vilayat Paas, Laado Rani, Kashmir ki Kali, besides others.

Dadaji was also on the basketball and hockey teams. 

19 Oct 1961 Dadaji’s father suffered a heart attack and passed away while in service. He was on leave to meet Shammi tauji, as he was not happy with Tauji,s job who was then working at the Bhakra Nangal dam. Years later, the bane of heart disease would take away many a Chabba's. The curse of October would also strike quite a few. 

To support his family after his father death, Dadaji joined the Punjab government untrained teacher scheme wherein anyone who was 10^th pass could enroll as a teacher and was sent to villages to teach children there. Dadaji would go to Majitha to teach in a school there and was paid Rs 100/-.

During the 1962 conflict, Emergency drafting for the army was started and he got selected for the EC4 course. He went for this initial interview at Khalsa College. This interview was conducted by 4 professors and 2 army officers. They asked him what the difference between artillery and infantry was. Dadaji replied that infantry walks on foot and in artillery there were “topes”. Everyone started laughing and so did Dadaji. Then they asked Dadaji what is New York. Dadaji replied it was capital of USA. So all the answers were wrong. After the interview Dadaji requested one of his professors to do something to get him selected. However, the professor said that he couldn’t help since all his answers were wrong. 

The next day when the result was declared, Dadaji was the only one to get selected. The army officer felt that he was the only confident one who could laugh at himself too. For the SSB interview Dadaji went to Meerut. The interviewer there on finding out that Dadaji was part of the Bhangra team, asked him to perform and was very impressed by his performance - perhaps more by his lack of inhibitions and the desire to join the army. In April 1963 Dadaji joined OTA Madras (then called OTS which had shifted from Mhow to Chennai). 

During a 26 kms endurance run, Dadaji couldn’t do well. He was amongst the last people. The heat and humidity was so much that he removed his turban and poured water on it. His room mate Rana who was ahead of him decided to go through the fields to take a shorter route. When Dadaji somehow dragged himself to the end point, he found that Rana had still not reached. A close friend during the troublesome training, Rana used to tell Dadaji that he would be the first officer from his family but destiny had something else in store. While taking the short cut, Rana suffered a heat stroke and passed away in the rice fields. By the time he was found, Rana was no more. 

Dadaji raised the OTS bhangra team which performed at the end of term cultural show. A lot of instructors congratulated Dadaji after the performance and were keen that he joins their unit. Out of 565 cadets, Dadaji was 65^th in merit. The Commandant, Brigadier Ram Singh invited the first 100 to his house for a cup of tea. It was a proud moment for him. Years later when I was asked to the Commandant's house for tea in NDA, Dadaji would proudly narrate his story. 

Dadaji didn’t attend the pipping ceremony as no one from the family came to pip him. He wore his uniform when he reached Amritsar and asked bibi ji to pip him.

In 2020, during my last posting in Chennai, Dadaji visited OTA. He felt very happy to drive into OTA in my staff car. Robby, a dear friend, organised for an LO to show us around. We walked in the drill square, the cadet mess and tried to find his barracks but sadly, couldn't find them. Much had changed in those 56 years since he had left OTA after his training.

I intended to get more stories out of Dadaji during our next meeting. Unfortunately, it never fructified. The rest of this blog is from what I remember - fond memories of my father, as narrated and as remembered....

Dadaji got commissioned into 20 Locating Regiment. A whole batch of 7 YOs joined together. The best part of the unit was their officers mess cook who had been taken a POW by the Chinese Army during the 62 conflict. On being released, he came back as an expert in Chinese cuisine!

Dadaji fought on the western front during the 65 conflict. He narrowly escaped death when his willy jeep was targeted by the enemy. Somewhere around the same sector, another artillery officer, Lt Varinder Sachar gave the supreme sacrifice for his motherland and was martyred in enemy artillery shelling. Years later his niece and I would marry. 

During the 71 War, Dadaji served as Staff Officer to General Jacob. After the war, Dadaji was accompanying General Jacob on a flight. Being a war hero, General Jacob was a celebrity in his own right and was very well known and respected. Midflight the general called the airhostess and complained that there was a stench coming. They were seated in business class and the mortified airhostess started fretting and trying to find what had troubled the General who had liberated Bangladesh. When the General had had enough, he burst out laughing, called the airhostess and told her that the stench was coming from outside the aircraft because they were crossing Chabba village! 

Dadaji was very fond of letters, photographs and valued relations. He would unhesitatingly implicitly trust everyone and carry fond memories of them irrespective of their behaviour/ sometimes vested interests. His photographs are catalogued on Instagram "sjs.chabba"

Another incident he would narrate was that of Ambala Cantt. He was newly married. It was a sunday and the bachelors had come home for beer and biryani. After a few bottles, the youngsters started bragging about who was the bravest and they decided on a unique test to find out the bravest of the brave. They would strip down to their birth suit and climb the water tower. Anyone who could do it, won and the loser would have to part with a hefty amount of money. Dadima was immediately hushed into a room and locked so she couldn't see what was happening. Despite Dadaji trying to control the "developing situation", clothes were flung and the race started. When the person who was betting against this saw his salary of a few months also running with these guys, he started shouting "chor, chor" (thief thief)... You can well figure out what chaos ensued next. It was day time..... 

Dada ji was also very fond of his "Bullet" Royal Enfield motorcycle. It had to be tuned to a certain sound. Dadaji would call it "thak thak thak" and had to start in half a kick. He never used a number plate and the motor cycle would just have "Chabba" written behind it. This started his friendship with Channa chacha would would tune his motorcycle like no one else could. Years later when I donned the uniform, I would often meet people who would tell me about Dadaji and his Royal Enfield. 

Once while in Yol, Dadaji decided to go to Dharamshala. He wore a kesari kurta, a rudraksh maala, and tied his hair in a pony tail behind. Unfortunately, his commanding officer noticed this "hippie" going out and stopped him at the unit gate. He then told Dadaji, "Swaamiji kabhi humaare office mein bhi darshan dijiye".... The next day, Dadaji and his battery commander were both standing outside the Commanding Officers office. Needless to say, he couldn't visit Dharamshala for quite some time after that. 

Dadaji appeared in Staff College exam from Devlali where he was commanding 206 SATA Battery. Also posted there was Maj (later Brig) Chamba. When the results were announced it wasn't clear whether Chamba or Chabba had passed. Since Chamba was an instructor and very bright, everyone congratulated him and he even threw a party. When the written result came, unfortunately for him, Dadaji had passed the exam and Chamba had failed. 

Later, Dadaji was told to take over command of 113 Field Regiment in Jhansi. A few weeks before he could take over, CO 79 Medium died in a fire accident and overnight, he was transferred as CO 79 Medium. A tag that stuck with him till his dying day. 

79 was a mixed bag. While 5 years of command in Punjab helped him establish and make a name for himself, the timing was slightly inopportune as it was in the midst of Operation Bluestar. Worried about a pure sikh regiment in Punjab during the zenith of sikh insurgency, his GOC sent a message that he wanted to address the troops. Sensing that there was nothing positive to be gleaned from such an interaction, Dadaji told the GOC to have faith in his Commanding Officer and asked him not to come to his regiment. Luckily for Dadaji, the General appreciated the Commanding Officers confidence and his ability to take a stand refusing a General to visit his unit. He would often quote this example of courage of conviction to others till he became Chief of Army Staff. General BC Joshi then directed for Dadaji  to be posted to Delhi under him. During one of the inspections at his office, one of Dadaji's commanders liked his sofa and wanted it to be gifted to the brigade for his own office. Dadaji refused and all hell broke loose. When the steward brought tea to the office, Dadaji yelled at him to take the tea back and told him to get the Commanders vehicle placed since the inspection was over. The commander got the message and quietly left. Obviously, Dadaji didn't make it to a Brigadier but definitely won over the hearts of his men and officers. Both these incidents were more special for me since they played out in an almost exact similar manner later when I was a commanding officer - and I told the DG Artillery not to visit my unit and yelled at my Commander asking him to leave since he too wanted extra favours. Proudly, I maintain that I learnt all the right things from Dadaji. 

Another Commander had a fad of making a staff officer place a nickel coin on top of a window sill/ door a day prior and then during his inspection, the Commander would swipe out the nickel coin - much to the horror of the unit being inspected - and give them hell for lack of cleanliness. Dadaji noticed the coin and instead of removing it, had it polished and replaced at the same location where it had been planted. You can imagine the Commanders surprise when he came the next day. 

He faced an extraordinary challenge of keeping the sikh troops constructively occupied during these troubled times and so devised a novel method of doing so. After the morning PT, there was one hour of compulsory Bhangra for everyone. Even the biggest of shammers could only resist the drum beats for some time and would then join in the revelry. After an hour of bhangra, they would be too tired to do any "hanky panky". Some incidents did happen but were "managed" by the excellent team of officers Dadaji had. 

When Dadaji missed his promotion to the rank of Brigadier, he asked all of us to sit together and asked us whether we felt ok as a family. We all said that the rank didn't matter to us and his happiness did. 

He retired from the army on 31st October 1995, a few months after I joined NDA - in his words, it was "jyot se jyot jagate chalo". 

During service, Dadaji was allotted a flat in NOIDA and we often saw him scrounge, make trips to HDFC and ask his brothers for help to make the payments for the house. A few years before retirement he applied allotted a plot in Amritsar. Much to his dismay, he wasn't allotted one and went to AWHO to ask them to reconsider since he wanted to settle in Amritsar. They assured him that they would give him one and allotted him a size which was available for Brigadiers and above - 500 square yards. He couldn't afford it but since it was the only one available, after a lot of arguments with AWHO, he gave in and accepted it. He worked in a Flour Mill after retirement to repay the loans, oversaw some construction work at Bansal Sweets and did a stint at WWICS too. To make sure that he wasn't paying extra, he would personally go to Rajasthan to buy marble, hire a truck and get it himself. Brought concrete blocks since he was convinced they were stronger than bricks, laid down the garden himself making a waterfall (the sound of which he loved) and a small sit out next to the lawn to feed the birds (he loved it when parrots came to feed there). Dadaji married both his sons (me and Veera) and saw their families settle. 

In 2006-07, Dadaji was diagnosed with Parkinson's. He fought it really well and put himself on a strict regimen of good food and exercise. He would often say, "I have to see my grandchildren getting married".....

In June 2022, Dadaji came to London for my convocation and stayed over for about a month. We would go for walks, sit and have a drink at the pub opposite our house - they played some live music there. He then went to New York to spend time with Veera before returning to Amritsar.

In October we planned a surprise birthday party for his 80th birthday on the 19th, organising a dinner at the lawns at Taj Swarna, Amritsar. We invited over a 100 guests - friends, relatives and anyone who had been associated with him - and asked each one not to let him know about it. We told him that we would have a small dinner at Taj. Dadaji dressed up smartly, asked me to help him tie the turban and put on his famous "buddha" belt. On reaching, he was shocked when he saw everyone. Dadaji broke down, it was a really pleasant surprise for him. He interacted with everyone, didn't sit for a minute and loved the evening. He was the first male Chabba member to reach 80. 

On the 22nd, before leaving Amritsar, I told Dadaji to stay strong. Dadaji retorted that a pundit had told him that he had a very long life. The next day, he was feeling exceptionally energetic. He asked Dadima to come for a bike ride on my Bullet motorcycle to relive old days. Obviously, she refused. He then drove the car and went out for a drive. On the 25th, he went for his usual walk. Just that unlike his usual shy self, today he interacted with everyone he met on the road. In the evening he again took a stroll to get "limca" from the corner shop since he had a burning sensation. When the heartache was too much, Dadima took him to the hospital. He got dressed, used his deodorant spray and walked on his own. Colonel and Mrs Bachchitter joined them there. The MH doctor told Colonel Bachchitter that Dadaji had had a heart attack and asked for him to be rushed to Fortis since the military hospital didn't have a cardiologist. The doctors at Fortis put him on oxygen, said that he was stable and would be discharged after a couple of days under observation. Since he couldn't speak due to the mask - he asked for a paper to write on but just scribbled a few lines. He passed away that night .... 

Edit ... 

Dad had this inimitable sense of style and could carry off anything simply because he believed that he looked handsome in it. If we'd - once in a while mention that this was trending, he'd reply what is trending is what you wear! He insisted on wearing suspenders with his trousers, knew umpteen dozen styles of tying a turban, had brass buckled belts with buddha or ajanta scenes on them. On his 80th birthday, he wore my NDA scarf which had KILLER written on it. He would love wearing the softest cloth night suits - would but the most expensive cotton and then get night suits made out it (much to the consternation of the seller and tailor). 

Dad was also obsessed with CHABBA. As a youngster when very few people owned a motorcycle, his Royal Enfield had CHABBA written instead of a number plate.  As kids we had track suits with CHABBA embroidered behind them. When we became teenagers, we had jeans which had leather alphabets of "chabba" stitched vertically on the side of the jean. When I bought my first car, Dad got chabba written in red below the number plate and on the rear glass, "Boyz listen to Mama, Men join the Army".

After he passed away, I also solved the mystery of why he'd take away so many passport sized photos of mine. Every briefcase, his drawers, his cupboard shelves, his files and folders had a photo of mine. I was a self confessed Papa's boy. I'd feel proud when some one would tease me saying that I was Papa's "chamcha". Yes, I was. He was life for me. 

He also had this funny thing about "pundits". Maybe his friend who left a fledging career as an engineer to become an astrologist started this fascination of his - and maybe that rubbed off on me. When I got commissioned as an officer in the army, Dad and mom once took me to a pundit. They were very worried about my elder brother wanting to get married to a tamil iyengar brahmin. I stood behind, near the entrance of the room as a dutiful son. In my world that was the place to be when my father wanted to have a private consultation with someone. After the pundit had pored over the astrological chart, he looked at me standing behind and said, "aapka bada beta toh aapki marzi se shaadi karega. Lekin ye jo peechhe kahda hai ye apni marzi se karega" (your elder son will marry as per your wishes, but this one standing behind will marry as per his own will). Maybe that's how my fascination of astrologists started. 

Dad was also a foodie. He loved a good meal and my mom would pamper him for his whole life learning recipes and cooking the most yumm dishes we'd ever had. He loved eating out to - keema nan's were a must when we'd go on a holiday to Amritsar, or chinese at Crystal. He would often have just a missi roti and nothing else. Many a times, I was taken along when he and his brother would go out for a drive (and drink). I'd sit in the back seat of the car and get delicious fried prawns wrapped in a newspaper while they enjoyed a peg or watch Piara Singh with amusement as he'd prepared mutton curry as per Tauji's recipe while they laughed over childhood memories. Dad never had more than two drinks - actually his 30 ml would get split into two but his concept of a successful party was if people went back drunk. He would feel very happy about it. He kept the choicest scotch with him and treasured a couple of bottles of King of Kings which his father had left behind. We were supposed to open the last one on his 50th anniversary. Dad also loved meetha (sweets). Every meal had to have something sweet afterwards. He was especially fond of kulfi and every week would pick up a carton of verka kulfi. Once I told him that he should have more than one and then went to my room to sleep. After I left, he was livid on how I could ask him to have only one and immediately had another one. Often he'd sneak away a kulfi while everyone was busy, lie down on his bed and slurp away while lying down. Rasmalai and fruit cream were other favourites.

Dad loved Chabba. He was most upset when his cousin sold off the ancestral house despite Dad making an offer for the same. He often rued about it and would feel very upset when someone would sell off their share of the land. He'd tell us that we derived our name from that land, our village "Chabba" - it was our identity. 

Six Life Lessons for Aarya

The best way to recognise good friends

1. Good friends will never encourage you to do anything wrong. Watch out for a friend who offers you the first cigarette, or the one who asks you to tease a girl or spike her drink. 

2. True friends never instigate. They act. A friend who tells you something that upsets you and suggests that you take action on it should be the first one to be kicked to a side. A true friend would have taken action on your behalf and wouldn't have bothered to tell you. 

3. True friends never keep count. If someone starts reminding you of things done or purported favours, it's time to say goodbyes. 

4. Good friends do not mind calls at 2 am. They probably will abuse you when you do so but will always come to you at 2:30. 

5. True friends never crib or play blame games. They may get annoyed at times but are fine by the next day. 

6. Instead of finding good friends, be one. You will automatically be surrounded by good friends. 

The girl friend rules

1. Never spend money on girlfriends. Go Dutch. 

2. Never fight with a friend over a girl. Remember - Friend's sister & Sister's friends - are out of bounds!

3. Always protect her honour and dignity. Never disrespect her or let anyone do so. Never embarrass her in any way. Best to never reach a situation which would cause embarrassment - so avoid places, people and actions which have the propensity to result in something like this. However capable you are of handling the situation, the mere fact that a situation arose indicates failure. 

4. Everyone will treat her the way you do so. So, treat her the way you would want everyone to treat your girlfriend. 

5. Never force her for anything - sentimentally or otherwise. 

6. Remain a gentleman - always. Even in goodbyes when parting ways. Remember, the behaviour of others should not define yours.

The Rules of Marriage

1. Remember, it's more important to marry someone who loves you than someone you love. It's ideal if you get a combination of the two.

2. No amount of familiarity will prepare you for the reality. 

3. If you do want to see your future, see the parents of the girl. If the mother dominates the father, your would-be partner will dominate you in life. If the father is dominating, she will always be submissive. Try and find an ideal mix of the two.

4. Do not rush into marriage. It's a lifelong commitment - formal or not. 

5. Do not rush into Children unless your marriage is rock solid. Babies do not make a marriage stronger - they only prolong the agony - plus you end up ruining their lives. 

6. When there is no respect in marriage, it's time to end it. Try your best not to reach that stage. 

On the Diving Board .....

14 Aug 2020

Am at a cross road today when I want to venture into the unknown. There’s something that I’ve been doing for the last 25 years, something that’s almost become second nature, a part of me – even if I’ve hated every bit of it for the 9130 odd days that I’ve been at it. Never wanted to do this, but then life has its own way of spinning its web around you – trapping you below layers of security, family, obligations, fears, insecurities and the final topping of the absolute lack of confidence that your closest one have in you – the biggest resistance that I’ve faced while trying to break through this web, my closest ones. Surprisingly, it has never been an “I’m there for you” but always an “it’s not that easy”. Almost fringing on “you won’t be able to make it” instead of a “well face it together”….

So, come the second thoughts. The sentimental blackmail of time for children, lifestyle, household help, status & the worst – “you’re good at this”!

What if I’m better at something else? What if I am able to give my children a better future than what I can afford as on today? What if it’s finally a question of my happiness?

I read somewhere that you can never find out how deep the water is unless you take a plunge in it. So am the diving board now. Let’s find out how deep the water is. Question is are you on the sidelines, are you just waiting to watch the fun & give a “I told you so” or are you in the water training to save me in case I drown…. Time will tell. If nothing else, this’ll atleast tell me who I’m swimming with!

06 Nov 2021

Its been one year of intense studies. Am much more confident of my abilities and learnings. I often laugh at the interview I gave for ingram micro in September last year. Even I wouldn't have hired me then. Battling a new challenge now. The challenge of finding a job. You are either over qualified or lack industry experience. Many do not want to hire a veteran - say they have too much ego or are too old to learn. I wonder when and where will I strike the balance. There of course remains the weight of having shifted bag and baggage to the UK and having invested my lifes earnings into education. They say that good education never fails you. I hope it is true .... 

TIGERS OF THE PANTHER GOLF COURSE

It was a funny sight. The golfer was almost prostrated on the ground – the word to describe someone standing at 45 degrees angle escapes me – the ball almost a good three feet away from him. Having played to a decent level of golf myself, the sight was truly amusing.  As expected the swing missed the ball. However, other than me who suppressed his smile out of politeness, everyone else patiently waited for the second swing which struck gold! No flight but the ball rolled onto the green. Everyone cheered & appreciated the shot in a manner typical of golfers nudging each other on. Hands quivering, a smile played on the golfers lips as he trudged along. At 78 years of age and quivering hands, flightless shots or even missed swings were all eclipsed by the spirit.

This was definitely not golf at its best but the spirit of life at its zenith – the indomitable spirit of the super veterans at the Panther Golf Course at its best. And not that he was a one off exception! The course was teeming with many other such golfers, clearly outnumbering the younger golfers. Here was an example of enjoying life at the prime of their youth – psychologically if not physically! You couldn’t get younger & healthier at heart. Regular at the course, they’d come in car pools, some too old to drive but not too old to play. The coordination of the tee off time was probably the most important task of the day. Laughter rang out incessantly right from the first tee off! Jokes, wisecracks at the shots of fellow golfers & abundant appreciation of a shot hit well filled the green environs with a festive atmosphere. Their shots consistent – straight & steady!  

And here I was, completely floored by the way this lot was living life to its hilt at the golf course.  I was the focus of their amusement today.  On leave from my posting at Leh, I was caddying for my father – another veteran golfer. They found it very amusing to see a CO (commanding officer) sahib pulling a trolley on the course.  They’d all pull their own trolleys, some had caddies of their own & an occasional odd who couldn’t walk the course had his own golf cart. Father wasn’t too keen to let me pull the trolley. It was going to be difficult going back to pulling it on his own after this pampering but between this and the happiness or pride of having his son caddy for him, I think the happiness won. After all this was all about happiness.

The nine holes were full of anecdotes on battles fought, the places served in were described intricately & fights picked up with bosses were given a special place of pride. My occasional two bits at attempts to impress them were scoffed at and paled in comparison to their experiences. And their battles still continued – maybe more now than ever. Some were fighting Parkinson’s, some Vertigo, some Alzheimer’s, some had sacrificed their knees to posts climbed, actual battles fought, injuries in sports and general rigors of military life. Many were fighting loneliness – their children fighting their own battles in far away places. But the one thing common to all of them was that they were all giving everything negative a run for its money & living life to the fullest.

I wondered if I would be able to live this life when I was old. This generation on the greens belonged to an era when the army was considered a way of life and not a profession. All, without exception, had been through atleast one war. They knew the price of life and so knew how to live it. Their careers were built by their own styles, their own rules of engagement. They didn’t know how to butter up seniors. They were not careerists. They were life-ists!  They had donned the uniform & hung it at almost the same time. Army Welfare Housing initiatives had given them an opportunity to settle close to cantonments. My generation is not so “life” oriented – we’re a serious lot – out to make a killing in the rat race of life. We would never be able to live life the way they were.

It was then that I realized that this was the Golden Age of the Panther Golf Course (or Environmental Park and Training Area). The age and creed of golfers would never be repeated again – anywhere. I was fortunate to be a witness to this era, to learn the lessons of life from them – to get an opportunity to let their indomitable spirit rub off on me. Golf would continue but not these endangered Tigers at the Panther Golf Course, Amritsar. 

GOODBYES

Goodbyes are painful. Have never liked them. Over a period of time realized that different people have different ways of dealing with them. Some like to build a wall around themselves right before you’re about to leave – as if steeling themselves. Some like my wife cry – maybe it helps them lessen the grief of parting. Some like my brother are simply indifferent – its just an opportunity to give space (maybe enjoy some too) and get back rejuvenated. For me they’re slightly different – having understood the inevitability of them – I then start thinking why we met in the first place & when we’d meet again. But this write up is not about the types of goodbyes or which ones are better. This is about the goodbyes that shaped my life.

There was this one where I left home. I had faught with my mom. Penniless, I came back a few days later. The goodbye showed me my place in life – how much I mattered to those who mattered to me – what love or the lack of it was. It helped me loose expectations, surrender myself to fate or the inevitability of it & left me directionless in life. Have written about it in one of my posts.

Then there was one which never was. She just disappeared. In an era where letters were the only means of communication there wasn’t much one could do if someone would stop responding. I initially kept writing, hoping I’d get a reply. It never came. This one taught me that one could be a disposable commodity for someone, that the world didn’t revolve around me & that love didn’t always have a happy ending.

Another one was forced on me. A meeting that I was desperately looking forward to on a very special occasion was eclipsed by someone who drew a promise to break a heart. Sentimental blackmail! Don’t know how I could do it but between the secret meetings, the discussions on goals in life & stolen kisses, I bid goodbye. And I curse myself for what I did. It taught me that some people have to be shunned – that some people have to be given a no for an answer. It left me with a guilt for life, didn’t know whether to be happy for the occasion or whether to cry for my loss. Cried bitterly in the arms of my brother but could never speak about what had happened – he never asked – perhaps he understood that I would have broken down only if something had happened which was beyond repair. Some part of me was broken, some part stolen, some part went missing for life.

My work also gave me quite a few opportunities for goodbyes. Every time my son would ask when I would return I would think if my profession was worth it. Every time my daughter would cry I’d wonder even more. The long drawn loneliness which followed would often question if this was the life that I wanted.

However the goodbye that I remember the most was when I was perhaps in 5^th grade – 1987/88. I’d gone to meet my uncle in Dimapur. Spent quite a few days with uncle enjoying Nagaland, which at that point of time was a peaceful paradise – shopping baggy jeans (an “in” thing then), buying cassettes of Modern Talking, playing Tambola at parties and what not. And the person who made all this happen was my uncle. As the holiday grew to an end & we were about to leave, I jumped into the waiting army truck – eager to get home. I didn’t even hug or kiss my uncle goodbye – something that I immediately regretted and something that clung onto me for the rest of my life. He passed away a few days later.  I can never forget his face as I waved goodbye – smiling, understanding & happy at my happiness. How I wish I could have said goodbye properly. 

The Story So Far - Sairah

It was a chilly morning in end January when Diya & I sat in the porch of a guest room in Sukna (Siliguri). She was a whopping 78 kgs & you could now start to see the baby feet on her bump occasionally. As the morning fog started to clear, we sat remembering the journey that got us here.

Till about a year ago the doctors had ruled out having another baby. She suffered from acute thyroid & neurocysticercosis. While the thyroid wouldn’t let her conceive, the fits kept reminding us that the pregnancy wouldn’t sustain. Numerous second opinions, visits to Dargahs, Mandirs & Gurudwaras, special aahuti from shrines,water from lakes were undertaken & finally everything miraculously stabilised. The thyroid from being super high stabilised itself. The fits stopped. We couldn’t believe it & waited for a year before seeking a go ahead for a child.

The obstacles didn’t cease here. Being posted in Bagrakote (about one and a half hours from Siliguri) and with no doctor (forget hospital) around, monthly trips to the Hospital in Siliguri were preceded with ample prayers to both – God & the car, to help carry us through the broken road for an hours journey to the hospital & back. Through all this, He kept holding our hand & as an angel sent a boss who gave me a months leave to shift Diya to Siliguri for the ninth month.

So we sat, patiently biding our time. The pregnancy had progressed fine. The baby and mother were doing well. It was any day now said the doctor. The guest room was bliss – totally isolated. Next to a forest, we would only need to sit in the porch of the room (the only building there) and watch wild elephants pass by or see the wild boar family stutter around in the evening. It was perfect “us” time.

As we slept one night, I was woken at around 3:50 in the morning by Diya’s movements. I hoped as hell that everything was fine as I switched on the lights. There lay her trembling body in the throes of a neurocysticercosis attack. I watched helplessly as her body thrashed around. The doctor had warned us that a fit at this stage could be fatal for the baby. The bed was wet – could it be the water bag? Hundreds of scenarios of the worst possible nature rushed through my head. Suddenly the seizure attack stopped and I tried to rouse her. In a semi-conscious stage we managed to reach the car parked outside. I forewarned the doctor as I sped towards the hospital. Meanwhile the seizures started again. The short journey to the hospital was probably the longest I ever undertook.

As I pulled into the emergency entrance, I realised that the seizures had stopped, she was unconscious and the body had gone rigid. I screamed for the nurse & we struggled to get her out of the car. Meanwhile the doctor alongwith the surgeon had already started preparing for the operation.

Within a few minutes of her being wheeled in, I received a statutory form from the operation theater asking for consent to operate which read, “patient in comatose. Chances of survival minimal. Operation necessary to save baby.” As I signed, the thoroughly professional nurse asked me arrange for blood & apologised for “my loss”. “My Loss”?? Tears streamed out. This couldn’t be happening. A few hours ago we were laughing at the antics of the baby boar and the elephant rumbling by. Life couldn’t turn upside down so fast. God couldn’t take so many tests! If they were asking for blood, meant that chances of her survival though less, were still there! It was 4:40 and no one would attend my call. The battery started to dip. My frustration & helplessness didn’t help. Finally I got a call through to my angel – my boss who told me to pray – everything would be fine & to leave the rest to him. As I sat praying to Sai Baba & Guru Nanak, I got the confirmation from one regiment that some boys of the required blood group were on their way. In the meanwhile, another friend who would have seen the missed call, called back to check & promised help asap.

In a matter of minutes, a burly khalsa in uniform was running in the corridor towards me. I was shocked when I met him as he was the same driver who was driving Diya & me around 14 years ago in Leh trying to find a place of worship to get us married. Neither did he know that it was me who needed help. As we struggled with our astonishment, he rushed to the blood bank to donate blood – he was the same blood group as Diya.

The pediatrician meanwhile walked out with a small bundle nicely wrapped up. It was a girl & she was healthy as per the doctor. The doctor asked me if I’d thought of a name for the miracle baby & I said “Sairah” – split into Sai – rah (she who would walk on the path of Sai) for this wouldn’t have been possible without the divine intervention.

Before I could ask her about Diya, she rushed to place Sairah into the incubator in the Neonatal ICU. Meanwhile the gynecologist came out of the operation theater with a grim face. Three concurrent operations had been performed on Diya. The baby delivered, a blockage in her throat due to some liquid getting stuck there which caused her to stop breathing & lapse into coma had been cleared by the ENT specialist & her tongue which had been bitten during the seizures had been scraped & stitched up by the surgical specialist along with the ENT specialist. However, she was still in coma & nothing could be said as of now.

It was the 13^th of February. Today my son also turned 9!. Our daughter had been born on the same day as our son. As he came to the hospital, he innocently asked for his birthday cake & quietly asked me friends coming to his birthday next year would get different gifts for them or a combined gift. Since we couldn’t celebrate his birthday, I took him to the coffee shop nearby & made him cut a slice. Diya would have wanted him to be happy. Soon he left with his grandparents for our home in Bagrakote & I sat outside the ICU praying for her to revive. The next day, the matron asked about the baby & I realised that I hadn’t even seen her. I rushed to the ICU & held Sairah – my little Diya – our miracle baby – for the first time. For the next four to five days I would come every two hours to the Neonatal ICU, don the cape & slippers & with a bowl & spoon feed my darling & make her burp. Many a times I wouldn’t be able to control my tears as I held her & the nurses sobbing away wouldn’t help at all.

On 15^th February, as I stood next to Diyas bed, her hand gripped mine & she whispered “Happy Birthday” before losing consciousness again. We were thrilled! The doctors & staff upbeat. She gained full consciousness on 16^th. I distributed sweets throughout the hospital. Diya & the baby were united with each other on the 21^st – eight days after her birth! By the 27^th we were out of the hospital with our miracle baby – our gift from Sai Baba – our Sairah! A little sister with her elder brother!

The Wonder Years ......

As a kid Tripta aunty, as I would fondly call her (all the others were “ma’am”) introduced me to religion. She taught me the “Panj Pauris” & I grew up listening to stories of Guru Nanak, of faith & brotherhood, of how it was mandated that as a Sikh you were to stand up for the weak & downtrodden – which got me beaten up really bad once but that’s a different story. So I firmly believed that if would pray & talk to god with complete sincerity, he would listen to me & never disappoint me – which he never did.

I started the wonder years eclipsed by the pressures of being born in a middle class Indian family where you thought you were expected to match up to a genius elder brother (& you saw no logic in doing so). His fantastic performance needed to be supported by finances which were difficult to come by on a fauji salary. So mom taught in schools, dad toiled in fauj & I pondered on the sense in doing so well!

At some point of time, before I left the rat race & was still trying to match up to the benchmarks set by my brother, isolation, loneliness & desperation at not being able to adapt to the Indian education system of mugging up, got to me. It started with attempts at social recognition, of a sardar trying to blend in with Biharis – of trying to look cool. Very  soon it graduated to the usual experiments with beer, smoke, fights & brawls. I would desperately pray for someone with whom I could share my fears, apprehensions & aspirations – someone who could lead me away from all this. My brother was too far away. Parents were desperately trying to support his education & balance it out with building a house while in a fauji environment. The experiments with Dads plastic bottle of Peter Scot or cigerettes or attempts at slashing my wrists didnt help. With no one to share myself with, I turned to God & would desperately pray for someone with whom I could talk, laugh, love, be myself without fears of prejudice or judgements.

Thankfully, he listened to my prayers & sent a lovely girl in my life – Sona, my first love (the story in my blog above). Life was bliss! Self motivated & willing to take life head-on, I toiled away trying to balance out the by now warped, contorted heady mix of books, babe & bhaigiri! Everything was still in fine balance till one day she left me. No explanations, no good byes, no reasons. She just left. It had by then become long distance love – perhaps too difficult for her to handle. I realised that day what pain was. No physical hurt could compare to this.

The fear of getting dumped took hold so strongly that as a teenager, I could never commit to a girl for fear of going through the pain again. Did meet a lovely, smart & intelligent girl then - Pam. We’d meet up in DSOI Dhaulakuan, sit on the diving board of the pool holding hands and chat. However, when the relation started to get mushy & serious, I bailed out. Couldn’t risk going through the pain again. Kept in touch for years after that. We’d often share notes on our kids & parenthood. Maybe someday we will sit together & laugh about those days while watching our grandchildren play.

Meanwhile, the dismal academic performance in school didnt help. My long hair would constantly bother me with truck loads of dandruff on my scalp acompanied by itchiness. Dad would help out by shearing off some hair from the middle so that I could still tie them in a bun on my head. One day as it was at its irritating peak & Dad was out of station, i thought I’d shear them myself. Couldn’t dream of asking my mom to help out – she would not just baulk at it but beat the hell out of me. Never realised when I’d cut them too short in my attempt to don the role of a barber. All hell broke loose when I got out of the washroom. I got the beating of my life. Between my sobs I asked my mother if she loved me or my hair. I don’t think that helped too much because she asked me to get out of the house. By now I was so hurt that i walked to the neighbourhood barber & got my head shaved. When I came back home, another thrashing followed & i was asked to leave the house. With seven rupees in my pocket, I left home. Took a bus ride to the railway station, bought a platform ticket & sat and cried on the platform till I saw Dadar Amritsar Mail standing on my platform. Having grown up for many years in Bombay, I boarded the train as it left Delhi. Whatever money I had, had already been spent on the bus ticket & the platform ticket. Penniless, I started the journey hiding in the toilet of the general compartment, under the seats and travelling between bogeys. By the second day I was starved. Had been surviving on water for the last almost two days. The core of the apple eaten by a co-passenger was yelling at me to pick it up. It looked so juicy & delicious. There was so much of it still that could be eaten. I realised that day what hunger was.

Never got a chance to pick up that apple core because the Ticket Examiner caught me before that. The next half an hour was spent in begging him to let me go. I dont know what impressed him but he took pity on me & left me. I realised that day what helplessness was – what begging was.

The rest of the journey was eventless. Three days without food led me to think of God & why I was going through what I was. Was keeping hair so important to God? He carried me through, loved me & made sure I got back home. Friends acted as messengers who guided me well all through. A nice thrashing was again in store when I got back – this time it was Dads turn. The stash of mens magazines (some of which were dads) hidden in my cupboard added fuel to fire. I guess, they gave up on me doing anything meaningful with my life thereafter.

By now bhai was settled in whatever he wanted to do – pursuing an MBA at IIM Ahmedabad, life was set for him. And here I was – pursuing a B Com in Khalsa College, Amritsar – a cultural shock from the open society of The Army Public School, Dhaulakuan. God helped here too & sent me a friend, Nike, who’d help keep my sanity alive in a place where I was considered an exotic alien specimen. We’d watch movies together, explore eating joints & go for rides on her moped. I never realised when the relationship took a serious turn for her.

Meanwhile relatives also helped out. Would spend hours discussing life with Munna. She’d cry about her problems & me about mine. She introduced me to blind faith. I saw her struggle with her apprehensions, cry her heart out but never let herself stray from the path of righteousness. Her faith in God was unwavering. She’d religiously go to the Golden Temple & pray. I woud often accompany her & it was here itself that she later met her life partner. She never let the doubts of her own parents  about our relationship – funnily, conveyed to mine, affect her or us. She taught me to stand by my beliefs & convictions & not let anything in the world affect me. Maybe my turn towards religion & faith saw me through this phase & I cleared my National Defence Academy written exam & the interview.

By now Nike wanted  a serious & immediate commitment which was virtually impossible with a four year training ahead of me. We parted ways only to meet years later. I guess life has a predefined path chalked out for us all. She’s doing fantastically well with two angels & a wonderful husband. We often catch up on life.

The news of my clearing NDA was perhaps when I saw Dad the happiest. We went shopping for bathing robes, trunks & other items for my training on his Bajaj Chetak. He& his friends even taught me front rolling on the drawing room carpet – I didn’t know whether to feel shocked at what was in store in the training or happy at how happy he was. Could never gather the courage to tell him that this was the last thing that I wanted to do in life. Inspite of the gruelling schedule, physical abuse & mental torture that followed for the next four years, I never had the courage to take a stand & say that this is not what I wanted to do. When I did do so at one point of time, the cost of training was so prohibitively high that even though Dad was willing to stand by me, I couldn’t bear the thought of making him go through it all.

Meanwhile I met the one girl that I really really wanted to spend the rest of my life with. However, perhaps because of the hearts that I’d broken, God decided it was payback time. Her sister gave me a sob story of how I was ruining her life. How, instead of helping her, I was styming her growth & potential. Finally I gave her a word that I would step away from her so that she could grow & achieve whatever she wanted in life. Perhaps my pain was recognised by God who made me bump into my furture wife soon who stood by me in hail & storm. The journey so far would have been miserable had it not been for her. Would have probably quit ages ago had it not been for her.

Twenty one years of my life – my prime youth, my best years went doing what I never wanted to do and there are still three more to go..... These were the best days of my life – my wonder years!

Experience

Someone asked me about experience. Wanted to try out something but the typical judgemental Indian nature wanted to pass the decision on my fate without even letting me have a go at it...
So what experience did I have??
Actually nothing .... Nothing that I'd ever experienced would be of use to me in whatever I wanted to try.
I couldn't justify that pulling dead bodies would prepare me better for pulling sacks of potatoes or food.
Digging trenches could never be of any use unless I was planning to make a living out of shoveling snow off the sidewalk.
Firing a gun would never be of any use because I couldn't hold one without firing it & the CIA wasn't too warm to recruiting me.
I really don't know if setting uniforms immaculately or spit shining shoes would be a job option at all.
I was useless - no useable experience at all. Written off for life!!!
But there was one thing I had - lessons from life ....
When I first killed someone - I learnt nothing was permanent in life. Your best plans could be laid waste by the movement of one finger.
When I ran through a hail of bullets & survived to brag about it but saw a fellow soldier die from a road accident in my arms, I learnt that you couldn't fight fate.
When I jumped without knowing what lay beneath, I learnt that if you don't jump you'll never know how easy it was.
Life taught me a new lesson at every step... Whether it was the resilience of my body, mind or spirit. It pitted me in all kinds of places from Siachen - the highest battlefield in the world to the dunes of the Thar desert. It made me serve under the widest spectrum of bosses each with a spectacular set of idiosyncrasies - very different from the others. It taught me to write articles, reports & assess as well as run behind terrorists & kill, if necessary.
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And here was this guy, who himself never had the guts to take the plunge himself & advertised the ribbed & dotted condom line of "Play Safe"... , passing judgements on what I had not even tried so far ....
Let me try atleast?? Give me a chance - one go at it?
Fate has kept the chance at bay once again .... I presume, for my good! But give up - I will not! I may be down but I'm not out... For the one thing that stuck on from years in olive was the fight in me. I may have lost this battle but the war is yet to be won & win I will !!!!

20 POINT AIR INDIA/ KINGFISHER REVIVAL PLAN

1.            Before take off/ in flt upgrades at nominal but effective cost.

2.            Last minute fares for normal class travel  –  like the tatkal service – start 5 – 6 hrs before the take off – avlb only online – no manual scope for hera-pheri.

3.            Downsize – shift manpower from flts to ground staff – especially into customer care.

4.            Reduce ground crew – make them effective, available & helpful.

5.            Prune down food on aircraft – too much in excess, too elaborate & not palatable for a normal person. Make food suit the sector of travel. Outsource it to local caterers in the port of embarkation. Ask crew/ mandate checks for actual consumption/ feedbacks.

6.            Take feedback from passengers. Incorporate prizes for effective feedbacks. Publicise.

7.            In flt entertainment – pay per view games/ movies. X Box consoles on hire basis in flight.

8.            Wi-fi on flts.

9.            Lucky draw/ gift tie ups. Tie up with portals like AHA/ Fashion.com etc.

10.          Publicise in flt sales – give a cut to flt crew for sales.

11.          Quantize performance – reduce/ restrict pay but include allces based on performance, sect, number of flts, number of complaints.

12.          Reach out to the public – advertise and ask for their participation.

13.          Care per person               -              introduce concept of amount of hospitality being showered on a passenger.

14.          Go social – Facebook/ Twitter/ Orkut.

15.          Better ground services – lounges/ ground support staff/ baggage staff.

16.          Improve baggage handling – introduce personalized baggage transfers post flight.

17.          Tie up with railways & cty cabs for end to end transportation.

18.          Tie up with hotels for destination accommodation.

19.          Introduce courier service through flights.

20.          Hire me as a consultant!!!!