MY BEST FRIEND'S WEDDING

Dear Shibu,

Please come to Gurudwara at Sector 5 at 12 noon sharp on the 5^th of August. You have to come for sure.

Signed, Sumit

Those were the days of handwritten postcards and the MTNL phone had not reached our doorsteps. Sumit was a childhood friend since school and, if he had invited, there was no way I could miss. But why was he calling me like this instead of coming home and talking to me directly? Got in touch with some other common friends and a few of them had received similar invitation. They were as flummoxed as me. 5^thof August was a Sunday and Sumit was no Sikh to be inviting us for a puja there. It was then that one of the friends said, “ Jyoti is a Sindhi, which means they are getting married that day.”

Sumit was a Jat staying in the government quarters with a large garden in front, allotted only to senior officials which his father was. He also had an elder brother and a sister. I used to frequent their house almost on all days- on weekends and holidays I would land up early morning and on other days in the evenings to play with him and others near his place. Jyoti was staying in a smaller quarter diagonally opposite Sumit’s place with her parents and two younger sisters. We knew about the two of them and often teased him. They started off by looking at each other through their windows with books in their hands. From books to smiles and smiles to talking took long and had to be done outside the colony area. Soon they started meeting often and everything seemed just wonderful.

The problem with gaining the ‘perfect couple made for each other’ tag, however, lay elsewhere; it was at Sumit’s home. He came from a strict and highly educated family where all the children had studied in the best public schools and reputed colleges of the city.It was, therefore, quite a blasphemy for them to even imagine their son in a relationship with someone from Kendriya Vidyalaya who had later gone to some vague College to do her graduation in Arts. Added to this was the fact that Sumit’s father was a senior government functionary while Jyoti’s dad was an Upper Divisional Clerk in another government department. This was a complete mismatch for Sumit’s family. By the time Sumit graduated from an engineering college and landed himself in a reasonable job, he mustered the courage to speak to his mother and sister first who threw a fit and said a firm No.

The synonym of Jat in casual lingo is someone who is adamant and sees little rationale. He does what he thinks is right and that is what my friend Sumit was…a blue blooded Jat from Haryana. With the girl’s family more than willing and urging the two to take the final step together, it was just a matter of time before Prince Salim rebelled against the fatwa of Emperor Akbar and diktat of Jodha Bai.

Early morning on the 5^th of August, I packed my bag with my football kit to go to Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium to play an important match in the Delhi Football League. While our team played for fun,we hated to lose. So almost all the college team members playing, ours was not the strongest team around but this tournament helped us get good match practice for the college competition against the best that Delhi had to offer. That morning, we played Delhi Tigers, a team from Old Delhi. The match was a real tough one, more so playing in the sweltering Delhi summer and we lost it as well. For once,I was more interested in getting over with the game and played quite badly.  As soon as the referee blew the final whistle, I rushed home, took a bath and changed into a set of fresh clothes- nothing fanciful.

I went to the Gurudwara well in time and saw a couple of other friends hanging outside. Inside, of course, there was a flurry of activity with a lot of ladies decked up in bright clothes and men in safari suits with pink pagris on their heads. After a while we heard a motor bike coming and saw Sumit sitting on the back seat wearing a nice grey coloured suit. Prithviraj Chauhan had arrived for the swayamvar in 100 cc horse power….it was quite a sight. Together we went inside the Gurudwara and, after tying handkerchiefs on our heads, sat down in one corner of the hall. At the centre was the sacred Guru Granth Sahib and the granthi was reading out parts from the text which we understood little. Sumit and Jyoti were seated together near the sacred book and all others inside the Gurudwara were family members and friends of Jyoti. There was none from Sumit’s family except eight of his friends.

No sooner had the granthi finished the path than he raised his voice to say, Wahe Guruji  da Khalsa and all in the hall in unison said, Wahe  Guruji di Fatheh. This was repeated a couple of times. We now knew the ceremony was getting close to being over and food would be served. Having eaten little since morning, I was looking forward to a dawat with lots of puri, halwa and other vegetables cooked in pure ghee. It was then that the priest asked someone from the bride’s side to come and sit next to her. The father being the head of the family stepped forward and sat down with his head bowed in obeisance. Next the priest asked Sumit to call an elder from his family….Sumit turned, looked at me and made a hand gesture inviting me.

Paagal  hai kya….I protested but the Jat was not one to be put down. He smiled and again insisted that I come forward and sit by his side. What came over me, I obeyed and went ahead to be seated as the priest asked the couple now to stand up and exchange garlands to solemnize the marriage. I was quite oblivious of what was happening by my side as my mind started racing…I am supposed to be the father of the groom….I am taking the place reserved for Sumit’s father, a man whom I respected and loved so much. We then walked out of the hall and were offered prashaad of halwa with boiled kalachana. There was so much ghee added to the halwa that there was a common towel hanging nearby which looked dirty. On normal days I wouldn’t have touched that piece of cloth on which, no one knows, how many had cleaned their hands but today was different. I followed the crowd and despite rubbing hard the ghee just wouldn’t go off.

Just as I thought the ordeal was over, Jyoti’s father came towards me with folded hands and said, “Aap ko meri beti de raha hoon, uska khyal rakhna! (I am handing over my daughter to you, do take care of her). He then put his right hand inside his shirt pocket and pulled out some currency notes and put them in my hands saying, “Please take all the friends for a good meal somewhere.” “Why me?” I protested but the old man again folded his hands as if praying and I could actually see his eyes water. I accepted the money and said, “All right. Don’t worry. She will be well taken care of by our Sumit.” Wow! What a dialogue! Even Salim-Javed would have been proud of me.

We hired an Ambassador taxi. Sumit and Jyoti sat in the rear seat and I sat next to the driver. Other friends had their bikes and drove off, I was left along with the newly-weds waving to the bride’s family, many of whom including the mother and sisters were crying. As soon as we moved, I turned around to Sumit and asked, “What have you made me do? How will I ever face your parents? They love me so much and now when they come to know how I took the place meant for Uncle, they will feel completely betrayed and let down.” Sumit just smiled and said, soon everything will be normal. Don’t worry.

We reached Kanishka Hotel at Connaught Place where Sumit had booked a room for the two of them. When all the other friends arrived, we had a sumptuous lunch at the restaurant there. Of course, I paid the bill from the money Jyoti’s dad had given. The remaining cash I dutifully handed over to Sumit and walked out. I lost touch with the couple as they moved out of the country to Vietnam and Laos. Later came to now from some common friends that the family had reconciled with the son and the daughter-in-law and they were living happily together after a couple of years.

I never stepped into Sumit’s house again even when he had returned to India. Just didn’t have the heart to face his parents ever. Now after nearly thirty years the time is not long before I shall have to reverse my role from the father of the groom to the father of the bride but hope the man sitting next to the groom is slightly more mature.

Child marriages in India are not uncommon but suddenly finding yourself to be a father to a boy your age makes you hum the immortal song from the movie Sagina in parody…

Aye Saala Main Toh Baap Ban Gaya.


SS

Ziddi

 “No, I have to go.”

“How can you go today?”

“If I don’t I will be caned by the teacher.”

“I will write a letter for your teacher and surely she will understand.”

“You don’t know her. She just needs a reason to cane me. Plus I can’t let my team down. I am the Vice Captain and this is our first match. I can’t let them down.”

The boy was about ten years old. Never good in academics, he faced the flak from all his teachers for either not doing his homework or faring badly in exams. The only classes he enjoyed were art and games but these never counted in school curriculum. Now in standard 4^th, this was the first inter class cricket match, something which was prestigious for students and the class teachers. For once he had got his chance to be chosen into the cricket team and he wouldn’t let go of this chance to showcase his talent and he a hero in school for once. 

The mother soon stepped in and shouted at the boy, “We have enough trouble already and we don’t want any more. One more time you insist on going and I will give you two tight slaps.”

The father reversed his position and came to the child’s rescue, “Let him go. Anyway he’s far too young and I will only have to do everything.” He asked one of the family elders for help, “Dilip, when you go to Gole Market to get the materials for the puja, drop him at his school. After the match he will come back on his own in the DTC bus.”

The boy was happy for he could now go to the school ground to play. Quickly he changed into the whites and sneakers and went out in an auto-rickshaw. He reached just in time and played the first big school match of his life. He scored 24 runs and picked up a couple of wickets as his team won the match. No, he wasn’t the Man of the Match but the important thing was that the team had won and he had an important role in the victory. Tomorrow morning his name will be on the class notice board with a shining gold star instead of the usual black that he got for his scores.

He caught the DTC bus home. Being a Saturday, he got a window seat. As the bus started moving, his mind went into a rewind mode. He remembered the old man who had passed away that morning. He was his father’s elder brother, Jethu as he would fondly call him.

The boy remembered him from the time he opened his eyes. This man was always around the house when his mother and father went out to work every day. Every afternoon Jethu would be there at the bus stop with a big black umbrella when the boy got off his school bus and walked him home. Never a day passed when he missed this part. On days when the boy would sleep in the school bus, the old man would frantically go to the bus depot which was a couple of stops away to wake up the young lad and bring him back.

It was Jethu who would quickly take the boy to the dispensary when he would get hurt while playing. Often the boy would get into fights, the same old man would even go to the other children’s home to complain to their mothers the boy returned home bruised and beaten. One such regular tormentor was Lovely, the skinny Sikh who would run away with marbles and hit people with his hockey stick. One day when the boy returned home crying with a cut under his left eye, Jethu asked him, “What happened? Who did this to you?” “Lovely beat me up!” the boy cried to which Jethu asked, “Okay, I will go to Lovely’s house now but first tell me is Lovely a boy or a girl?”

Jethu always wore white dhoti and long shirt. The boy did not know much about his education or the work he would have done in the past. To him the old man with his white unkempt white beard was the one who was always at home smoking his daily quota of beedi. Once a month Jethu would go to the barber and get a good shave. This was also the day when he would treat the boy to ice cream and goodies of his choice. Maybe he would get some monthly pension which he would spend almost completely on day one. For the rest of the month, his younger brother gave him small monies and he never demanded more or complained. 

With no family of his own, his world revolved around the young lad. The old man's innings had come to an end as he lay still on the bed while the boy went out to take guard for the start of a new innings.

Today, as the bus whizzed past, the hot Delhi wind blew on the boy’s face as he turned teary. The whole episode struck him late and hit him hard. He wondered, “How could I do this? One match and that was all. Anyway, I am quite used to the teacher shouting and caning me, couldn’t I have done this much for the man who took so much care of me. How many times my father pleaded that I had to do mukhagni (put the pyre to flame), but I refused heartlessly and selfishly and put a school cricket match before this cause. How will I face Baba today?”

Many a question kept coming as he wiped his eyes. The coward returned home in silence.

Almost thirty years later, the scene shifted to Delhi’s Ferozeshah Kotla where a Ranji Trophy semi-final match was going on between Karnataka and Delhi. Delhi faced an uphill task with Karnataka having piled up over 500 runs. That day around 10am the match resumed, with Delhi reeling at less than 100 runs and three top order batsmen in the pavilion, a young 18 year old lad walked into bat. By the time he got out on a personal score of 84, Delhi was safely placed. He opened up his pads and gloves and saw the replay of his getting out many times over. It was then around 3pm when he left the stadium for home to do the last rites of his father who had passed away the previous night.

This man went on to Captain Indian under 19 team and is now the Captain of the senior team scoring runs by the ton, breaking one record after another. You’ve guessed it right, he is none other than  Virat Kohli, the young man who showed courage and passion which have remained his hallmark and reasons for his success. Today he is an icon and a legend. This story of his is oft repeated as a tale in many a management school as an example of highest level of commitment and passion.

History is funny and success changes the way we look at people. The difference between heroes and villains is thin. No one knows how many men have lived a life of ignominy before a Virat is born.

SS

THE BONG PALATE

Some of the memories that I have preserved of my visit to Kashmir with my parents in the late seventies include the heart stopping beauty of the valley of Pahalgam, the rows and rows of chinar trees, the shikaras in the Dal Lake, the unforgivable beauty of the Kashmiri girls, signboards showing ‘Indo-Kashmir’ emporia and not to forget lots and lots of our Bong kindred from Kolkata. They had travelled miles just to be in that place about which it has been said “Gar firdaus, ruhe zamin ast, hamin asto, hamin asto, hamin asto” (If there is ever a heaven on earth, it’s here, it’s here, it’s here).

You cannot miss them anywhere. I mean us, the Bongs. They are everywhere, from the hills to the coast, in buses, trains, boats, shops, hotels and not to miss hordes of them on horseback or even in‘ dolis’ making their way to Kedarnath or Amarnath. As the Goddess Durga arrives on Earth from Kailash each year with her children in tow, the Bengali family too embarks on its annual pilgrimage. The only difference being that the Devi chooses one of these modes of travel – Ashwa (horse), Gaj (elephant), Nouka (boat) or the Palki (palanquin)- we Bongs choose Kundu or Banerjee Specials to help us criss-cross the country.

Actually you can spot them from quite a distance and you will never be wrong in identifying them. They usually move in groups- Pishima, Kakima, Dada, Boudi, Jethu, Thakuma, Sonamoni, Potla, Bonti- a strange medley. Occasionally, you come across a few honeymooners- dressed heavily in colourful silks and costume jewellery with the man invariably carrying the young missus’ handbag- and sometimes an all stag group consisting of office colleagues or college friends.

Courtsey: Times of India- Internet

It is actually very easy to identify members of my tribe. Be it in Kashmir or Mount Abu or Udhagamandalam. The men, usually leading the group like flag bearers, will be armoured with mufflers, monkey-caps, brilliantly coloured sweaters and jackets, which would button up with great difficulty especially at the waist, and finally yards and yards of grey-brown shawls. Children, walking like robots behind their fathers and uncles, their movement restricted by the protective gear supplied by their much concerned mothers, and covered  from head to toe in such a way that, apart from their little eyes, not much is visible. Finally, the rank and file will be made up of lots of waddling ladies, with due respect to their generous waistlines, their sarees and shawls fluttering gaily in the wind. The mothers and grandmothers are usually armed with lots of ‘jholas’, water-bottles, flasks and goodies. The current generation, though, is more smartly dressed, thanks to the malls which have mushroomed everywhere and the television soaps, leading to some changes in their wardrobes whereby they tend to blend more homogeneously with the crowd. Even though salwars may have replaced the sarees, trousers the dhotis and backpacks, the ‘jholas’, the patented monkey caps and mufflers are still there. A closer look will help you recognize your Bong friends unmistakably. Now, coming to the point; the mission of one and all in the group is experimenting with gastronomic delights.

One of the most common sights, wherever you go, is that of a Bong mother running after a cantankerous child pleading with him to have a bite of something, the child irritably reacting “Aar khabo na !”(Don’t want to eat any more) and the father angrily coming out with a ‘fatwa’. This is usually followed by lots of angry outbursts, coaxing, cajoling with finally the child putting an end to it all by exclaiming, “Kheye kheye morbo na ki?” (Do you want me to die eating?). The case is put to rest.

On this Kashmir trip, we came across one such group who, having been away from home for quite some time, had almost gone berserk and were desperately on the lookout for some Dada- Boudi’s  eatery that could satisfy their dried up palates. “They make the most mouthwatering Aloo-posto and chochchori.” My father, who liked experimenting, instead suggested savouring the trout curry being sold at a nearby local joint but they were quite resolute about their mission. “No, no too much aloo parathas with dollops of butter have worked havoc in our tummies, so we want something light.”  Poor Dad backed out, even refraining from mentioning the ‘Gushtaba’ and ‘Rista’ , Kashmiri meat delicacies, we had tried out the night before. So our Bong friends continued their search for the much popular Dada- Boudi joint till they met with success and even gave us the directions to it in our next encounter with them. I salute their perseverance and indomitable spirit!

Perhaps, it is this spirit that takes us across the length and breadth of the country from Kashmir to Kanykumari, from Dwarka to Shillong. I am sure that we Bengalis constitute one of the highest number of Indian tourists, at least, within India. Despite ‘sambhar-rasam’ not really being our cup of tea, the Bongs’ favourite tourist destination still remains ‘South India’. Every Bong has definitely been there once, either with family or friends or on honeymoon. Idli-dosa-uttapam may not be our favourite cuisine and our stomachs may even revolt against them at times, despite each one of us carrying sufficient stock of Gelusil and Digene, but we have definitely braved the trio just to see the Temple of Meenakshi or the Forest of Periyar.

However, this weakness has not deterred us from moving or venturing out of our homeland or trying out and experimenting with the cuisine of other people and other cultures. You go visiting to any part of the country or even outside it, our Bong friend is there eating, enjoying, berating, suggesting and experimenting with all types of culinary delights. Everything may not suit his weak digestive system, his cravings for his machh- bhaat may resurface, but he will all the same venture out. In Kolkata you may even come across a simple middle-class guy, who may not have travelled much beyond the Puri-Digha-Darjeeling circuit, but he has in-depth knowledge of where to get the best Chinese, Thai, Mughlai and even Malabar specialities. I guess this love for travel and food has got something to do with our genes. Perhaps, another Bong, Dr Siddhartha Mukherjee, may throw some light on this in his latest book on the intimate history of genes.

Now with boundaries fading, Bong Bravehearts are touring the world – Dubai, Bangkok, Singapore, Hongkong and London having become favourite destinations. Though we start missing our maachh-bhaat and mangsher jhol after a week of travel, we do not hesitate to try out all the local cuisine. However,here is a note of caution -do not be surprised if, after trying out all the authentic Chinese ,Thai, Italian cuisines, on returning home your Bong friend concludes that the Chinese served in Kolkata’s Chinatown and  the Thai served in the neighbourhood restaurant are the world’s best!

As most of my readers know, most Bengalis, have a problem with ‘b’ and ‘v’. However this, like all our other handicaps, has never ever stopped us from venturing forth and leaving our footprints on distant lands. This brings to mind a little anecdote. A friend’s father, during his trip to Mumbai, joined us in trying the famed ‘Vada Pav’. Standing at the counter and, perhaps being  intimidated by the size of the pav, or the huge potato vada inside it or the red masala being drizzled on it, he quietly asked the vendor if instead of a ‘Bada Pau’ he could be given a ‘Chhota Pau’!!    

Though I have never been to the USA, my friends settled there often let me have a sneak peek into their lives through FB posts and pics. I am impressed, to say the least, that my Bong friends out there, resplendent in their Kanjeevarams and heavy duty gold jewellery, are celebrating all festivals from Dugga Pujo to Saraswati Pujo , from Jamai Shashti to  Poush Parbon in true Bong style with a touch of the ‘phoren’- champagne in their hands but eyes looking longingly at the Galda Chingris (lobsters) staring at them and the Smoked Hilsas beckoning them from the lavish spread on their tables. It only proves that the Bong’s gastronomic longings are actually insatiable and unconquerable and wherever he is, his quest will continue.

Courtsey: Times of India- Internet

Yes, we are a fishy lot and we love our fish (and meat, a close second) delicacies. We think, stink and dream of fish. There may be a few odd ones but they do not count. Our neighbours may not like the smell which emanates from our house while frying fish but we could not care less. We become like fish out of water if we are deprived of its flavours and tastes for too long. Let me be honest, we are not wholly partial, we love our veggies too (like our friends in Kashmir who had become homesick for Aloo Posto and Chochchori) but up to a point. For instance, mark the expression on your Bong colleagues who come out of a wedding feast where only vegetarian fare has been served. They gorge themselves on all the veggie delights but their expression betrays that somewhere, something has gone amiss. There is in them a feeling of incompleteness. Even though they may have taken second helpings of the ‘Malai Koftas’ or the ‘Hariyali Kebabs’, a craving for something more is left in them. A wedding feast without fish kabiraji , chingri malaikari and kosha mangsho is unimaginable to a Bong no matter to what caste, creed or religion he belongs!!

For us all the three Ps- Pujo, Parbon and Parinoy ( Durga Puja, Festivals and Weddings)- are synonymous with good food. A visit to the Durga Pujo pandal without trying out the luchi-aloor dum, Mughlai parathas(our very own Bong creation), dal-puris, egg rolls, mochar chops, not to forget standing in the queue for the Bhog (Prasad), is unpalatable. In any puja pandal it is fun to see the mad rush to the food counters made by devotees the moment ‘Pushpanjali’(offering of flowers to the deity) is over. As the priest recites the mantra in Sanskrit, the hands remain folded and the eyes closed, but the minds of the fasting Bongs start wandering to another territory – malai chamcham or mishti doi ?

In Bong weddings, too, we do not care too much for ceremonies and rituals. In fact, they are getting cut short by the day with inter-caste, inter- community and inter- continental marriages rising in number. As I understand, though, the feast is getting more and more sumptuous and global. In fact Bong weddings are occasions when cousins and friends enter into gluttonous competitions with each other – who can have the most number of fish cutlets, steamed bhetkis or rosogollas .  Most pre and post wedding debates, too, centre around one topic- food.

With malice toward none and love for all, I hope I can safely say may our tribe increase and may we spread this love for eating and travelling to every nook and corner of this beautiful planet.

DS

I’m Strong, I’m Woman

Mumbai is a very different city when the Rain Gods shower their blessings. It pours and pours and pours. It was a Saturday morning and I was asked to do a simple task that day- go to the telephone exchange and pay the monthly bills. Despite my numerous attempts to convince my wife to go the net banking way, she wouldn’t agree. For her the hard copy of the bill and the stamped receipt meant full and final confirmation that the work had been done completely. Today I got a chance to nag and crib…had you agreed to my suggestion I would be relaxing at home with a cuppa in my hands and not trying to venture out in such weather to make some silly payment. The distance was no more than 500 metres but the whole idea of walking out, getting wet despite the umbrella and the water and muck splashing on to you from the passing vehicles made the thought of it so obnoxious. 

Anyway, as it always is with me and with all the peace loving husbands of the world, it is His Master’s Voice and surely thou shalt comply. Walked out of the house and could feel the dripping water over me from all edges but kept up the march to the telephone exchange. About fifty metres from the exchange saw a woman in early fifties in a black salwar-kameez seeking some help. She wasn’t carrying an umbrella and was waiting under a shade with a folded stick in her hand. I asked her, “Where do you want to go?” She said, “The telephone exchange which is close by.” So I asked her to step in under my small umbrella. Just made sure she was reasonably better covered from the rains than me as I would anyway have to change into dry clothes once back home.

As we entered the telephone exchange gate there were a few steps going down. So I told the woman to be careful and guided her about the steps. She hardly slowed her pace and quickly came down without any hesitation as if she knew every step there. I then asked her, if she too wanted to go to the bill payment counter. “No. I work here. Just walk me a little to the left and there you will find a small staircase leading into a big building. That is the main office block. Just take me to the first step there.” As she crossed a few water puddles with ease, I kept giving her clues, she said, “I know this place very well. Every step is counted and known to me. Just that I forgot bringing my umbrella today. Otherwise I need no help.” As I took her to the appointed place, I asked if I could walk her up the stairs. She unfolded the stick in her hand and said smilingly, “No thank you very much. I will manage from here.” The fat tobacco-chewing guard at the entrance kept sitting for he would have seen the lady manage her way every day without any help.

How strange is life? Here I was with all my limbs and eyes working fine and yet cribbing about the short walk in the rain and there was another woman who was happily going to work, unable to see the road she was walking on, without a cover over her head. How petty of me and how wonderful of this woman who told me to be grateful for what we have. She also told me the oft repeated phrase of Man Strong, Woman Stronger.

A couple of days later I met a colleague from office who told me of another such brave and wonderful woman he had had the honour of meeting. Let me tell you her tale of courage, strength and her fight back ending in glory for self and the country.

She was 29 years old when she was detected with spinal tumour. She went through three spinal tumour surgeries and had 183 stitches between her shoulder blades. Wife of an army man with two children, she survived tumours but was left paralysed waist down. She had two choices- to lead a life of self-pity or to make the best of what life had to offer despite her problems. She decided on the second path.

Life on the wheelchair was not easy. She started undergoing physiotherapy and slowly took to some outdoor activities. She said, “It was pretty depressing in the beginning but love and support of my family made the process easy for me. It made me look at life from a new window.” But she never gave up, just kept on at it. Today she is a legend.

Deepa Mallik is an Arjuna Awardee. She was the first woman to represent the country in paraplegic Olympics. She won a bronze medal in javelin in the London Games and many more medals in the Asian and Commonwealth Meets. She swam in the Yamuna against the current; she drove a motor car 1700 kilometres from down Southern India to the highest motorable road. She is today a motivational speaker and doing her bit for those like her.

Deepa says, disability is only in our thoughts and minds. She convinced me even further, Man Strong, Woman Stronger.

Flipping through some web pages met another woman, Priya Semwal. Surely you haven’t heard of her.

Priya Semwal was studying in first year college when she married an army jawan Amit Sharma in 2006. Amit encouraged her to study and she completed her Masters in Mathematics. Naik Amit Sharma of 14^th Rajput Regiment passed away in 2012 fighting insurgency in hilly Tawang area of Arunachal Pradesh. Amit’s commanding officer, Col. Arun Agarwal suggested to Priya to think of joining the armed forces. Despite initial protests and hesitations from the family, Priya thought it fit to pay her tribute to her husband by joining Officer Training Academy, Chennai and in 2014 joined the Corps of Electrical and Mechanical Engineering (EME) as a commissioned officer. Colonel Arun Agarwal came all the way from the border to witness her passing out parade.

There may be instances of wives of army officers joining the army but Priya is the first wife of a Non-Commissioned Officer to become an officer.

Salute Priya, a wife to a martyred soldier, mother to a four year old Khwaish and a soldier and an officer in the Indian Army. If this is not true valour, then what is?

I am convinced that She is Stronger, Braver, Fitter & of course Smarter than Me. More importantly I learnt about gratitude. Thank Him  and enjoy what you have and stop cursing and worrying about what you don’t. Life is much more than self pity and despondency. 

Go live life to the fullest with what you have.

SS

Bucket List

He had been waiting for this day all his life. The ticket was bought well in advance and kept as a precious treasure in a duffel bag he always carried. As he made his way through the miles of crowds that day into the stadium, said his prayers before taking his seat and waited patiently for the match to begin. Wearing a green casual jacket over a white shirt, with a dark shade over his eyes, this short man with long unkempt beard looked very much a suspect. The police had checked his bag over and over again but finally allowed him inside unable to find a single fault with his belongings. The man sat among the ordinary folk with the cheapest ticket available but this was a day he was not going to miss.

The day was 15^th of July 2018

Luzhiniki Stadium, Moscow.

The sun shone bright, two best teams were on the ground below, the stadium had a capacity of 81,000 but on this day it surely looked a hundred thousand strong, singing and cheering aloud. It surely was an ideal setting for the FIFA World Cup Final. On one side were the all conquering youthful Germans in their traditional black and whites and on the other were the Albiceiestes in sky blue and whites, an aging Argentinean squad which was almost man to man same as the one that played the Copa America two years ago.  Same…nearly the same till you looked at their jerseys…there was no player wearing number 10. It had become a part of the team tradition not to give this famous number 10 jersey to anyone. It was reserved for life in memory of the magical man who since had hung up his boots.

As soon as the national anthems of the two nations were played and pleasantries exchanged by the captains, the referee in fluorescent yellow whistled the kick off. From the very first minute the German blitzkrieg was launched. Wave after wave of German attacks were launched from the wings and the centre of the field. This German team did not resemble the hard working, long kicking and fast runs of old. They had under their new coach Pep Guardiola adopted a blend of fine footwork which saw them play the tiki-taka type game yet retaining their originality of speed and strength. On the other side was the brilliant maverick Maradona who had returned to coaching the Argentinean team. But today it appeared the German war machine would steamroll the opposition as flat as the Pampas grassland.

By the 30^th minute, the Germans were up by two goals scored by Ozil and Khedira. But for the heroics of the Argentinean keeper Sergio Romero, they would have been ahead by half a dozen goals. The team in blue and white was listless today. Something had happened which was preventing them from playing their normal game. Forget the game, their free flowing and artistic footwork was completely missing and in front of the mighty Germans they looked more like a B division rag tag team. Maradona was shouting down the sideline and was almost seen tearing away the last shred of hair on his head. Was the defeat of Copa 2016 and lost finals of 2014 and 1990 weighing down on their minds still? Their feet seemed stuck and paralyzed. They seemed most relieved when the referee blew the whistle for half time.

The German fans were roaring as the artist who was to etch the name of the new champion on the fabulous World Cup had already started creating the impression of the impending new champions. The Argentineans’ side was all quiet with little to cheer. Our man in green and white put his hands on his face and appeared wiping tears that seemed rolling perennially. This was not what he had come to see. While the crowds walked out to grab some drinks and bites, our man stayed glued without twitching a muscle or moving an inch from the place where he first sat. He just looked up skywards as if seeking heavenly help.

As the teams trooped into their changing rooms for some rest and refreshments, Maradona quickly grabbed a poster from a young Argentinean fan on his way back, closed the door as he went inside. The men in blue and white were sitting, looking lost and dejected when their fat old coach, who normally spoke to them with expletives and language from the gutters, clapped his hands a couple of times and signaled the troops to circle around as he began speaking as he opened the poster in his hands.

“Look at this picture. This is Messi, our national hero, who stopped playing two years ago. Messi, the greatest Argentinean who ever wore the blue and white shirt. Every supporter of ours in the stadium is carrying not our country’s flag but this very poster. They are not signing the national anthem but chanting his name over and over again. What happened in the first 45 minutes is not what I speak to you about. That’s over, that’s history and cannot be undone. The next 45 minutes each one of you will play with this picture in your eyes. Every time you touch the ball, you touch the Man who we all loved. Today the man has gone missing. No one is able to find him despite all efforts. If at all there is any flaw in this Man’s glorious track record, it would be his inability to win any major tournament in the country colours. This would have played so hard on his mind that he went into virtual oblivion. But no one can deny his genius and place among the greatest of players of all time.

In the next 45 minutes, we shall play for Messi. We shall play to win for Messi. We shall win and surely he will get the news and come back to us. We will run harder than ever before chasing every ball and outrun every German. We shall tackle harder than the bulls in the ring and shall not yield an inch to the Germans while heading the ball or defending our territory. We shall play the Messi way- hold the ball, create magic with our legs, curl the free kicks, pass short and quick and no shot at goal shall miss the mark…we will play to win and win it for Messi. Come here all of you, let us put our hands together on this picture and promise ourselves that we will now play for Messi! Don’t forget we have won this cup thrice and are among the handful of nations in the world to do so. We have history on our side, we have talent on our side, we have heroes on our side and now we have a cause on our side…a cause to set us on fire, a cause ready to die for, a cause that will go out all guns blazing and win.”

The team stood up in unison, came together to put their hands on the picture together and shouted in the loudest possible way, “For Messi”!!

A German scribe who stood outside the Argentinean doors could only hear the last uproar and rushed to the German camp to report, “They seemed to be all down and quiet but at the end heard some loud noises…they possibly are fighting…players against players, coach against the players…all fighting and abusing each other.” The Germans had a mighty laugh but their coach Pep Guardiola told them not to take the match easy. “We have come back from such scores to overturn the match and the opposition has enough talent to do it again. Just sit tight, defend hard and ensure we win.”

Our man on the third tier shifted his eyes on the field below, deaf to the noise around and blind to the mad crowd jostling for space. He sat unmoved, full of concentration as the match got under way. The second half saw the Argentineans kicking off. Normally teams would, after the first kick to the forward nearby, pass the ball to the mid fielders in their own territory but it was different this time. Aguero took off with the ball cutting one German after another. The Germans were completely taken by surprise as they failed to stop the forward dribbling past them till Jerome Boeting, the German defender dived from behind and brought Aguero down. Boeting got a yellow card and the Argentineans a free kick just outside the box. The six men wall was all set and as the referee whistled, Angel di Maria took a couple of steps before unleashing a free kick that swerved into the far corner of the net. Manuel Neur, the world’s best keeper stood there unmoved. As the match re-started the blues and whites were all over. With quick small passes, just the way they do it at Barca, they danced their way into the box and Higuian latching onto a back flick from Aguero shot the ball into the goal. 2-2 was the score in the first 5 minutes of the second half as the Germans stood mesmerized before the completely magical Argentineans who now were all over the ground. The Argentineans nearly scored in the 75^th and 83th minute but the cross piece came in the way.

Three minutes were allowed as additional time as the 90 minutes failed to break the deadlock. As Toni Kroos slipped on the ground, the ball fell to Sergio Aguero who looked up once and took off. Running like a hare, with deft footwork cut five German defenders down, as he came face to face with Nuer whom he shook off with a body feign and calmly pushed the ball into the open goal. He took off his jersey, ran towards the team dug out where he snatched the poster from the coach’s hand and unfurled it to the cheering crowds. There was complete chaos all around as the referee whistled one final time. There were celebrations all around as crackers lit up the Moscow sky. The Argentinean team came together one last time before going up to collect their medal and the trophy, put their hands together one more time on the poster and shouted, “For Messi”!! This time even the German players and crowds also joined the chorus, “For Messi”.

Our man on the third tier was still seen wiping away his tears behind the Raybans glasses but had a smile on his face. Slowly the crowds left the stadium. The celebrations on the streets had begun but our man stayed behind, sitting quite static at the same place as he was when the match was on soaking in the victory. He stayed there till the stadium staff that had come to clean the place literally pushed him out. He went back to the hotel room, opened up the bag and took out a jersey. He wore it with pride as looked at the mirror with a number 10 on his back. Poured himself a glass of wine, raised it in victory and then picked up his bag, went to the banks of River Moskva. He slowly unzipped the bag and pulled out five glittering trophies. One by one he dropped them in the river below and walked away with a smile on his face. Nothing on earth mattered more than what he had seen today. The last thing on his bucket list had been ticked off and he had achieved inner peace. For him the past did not matter. The present did and he could live his remaining life on this one memory of victory as they lifted the trophy and the blue and white flag with the shining sun in the centre was unfurled for once in his life time.

Fishermen on River Moskva were surprised at their catch as they pulled out the net next morning…they had five Ballon D’Or trophies. The crew split one for each of them on the boat. 

SS