THE COMMANDO

My father, seeing my carefree spirit and interest in sports, felt that I was a suitable boy to join the army. A sad day, indeed, for any Bengali father whose child was becoming anything but a doctor. Anyway when the time came, I did give my examination for NDA and finally when the results came out, my scores in math and science were pathetic and the door to becoming General Sen was quashed very early in life.  Now when I became a parent, I tried to see that my child fulfilled my failed ambitions and dreams and thankfully she is now training to become a Commando.

When the word commando comes to mind, I instantly remember Sylvester Stallone as Rambo or Sean Connery in ‘The Rock’ who could survive in almost impossible situations .Surely it must be in their trainings. Here is what the Commando Training weekly program of Royal Marines looks like and these tests are done in full fighting order of 32 lb (14.5 kg) of equipment.

The Commando tests are taken on consecutive days and all four tests must be successfully completed within a seven-day period; they include;

·      A nine mile (14.5 km) speed march carrying full fighting order, to be completed in 90 minutes. 

·  The Endurance course is a six-mile (9.65 km) course across rough moorland and woodland terrain which includes tunnels, pipes, wading pools, and an underwater culvert. The course ends with a four-mile (6 km) run followed by a marksmanship test.

·   The Tarzan Assault Course. It starts with a death slide and ends with a rope climb up a thirty-foot near-vertical wall. It must be completed with full fighting order in 13 minutes

·  The 30 miler. This is a 30-mile (48-km) march across upland wearing full fighting order, and additional safety equipment carried by the recruit in a daysack. It must be completed in eight hours. 

Normally the seven- to eight-day schedule for the Commando Tests is as follows:

·         Saturday - Endurance Course

·         Sunday - Rest

·         Monday - Nine Mile Speed March

·         Tuesday - Tarzan Assault Course

·         Wednesday - 30 Miler

·         Thursday - Failed test re-runs

·         Friday - Failed test re-runs

·         Saturday - 30 Miler re-run if required

The chart implies that there is a Sunday rest and on Thursdays and Fridays only those who fail the earlier tests repeat.  And here is what they get to eat:

Day 1 :Breakfast 3 eggs;  Lunch 3 eggs; Dinner 3 eggs

Day 2: 1 egg or grapefruit; Fresh fruit salad; Steak, Tomatoes, Celery and cottage cheese

Day 3: 1 egg or grapefruit; Fish, Tomatoes, spinach and Salad; Lean Lamb chops, tomatoes and salad

Day 4: 1 egg or grapefruit; Green salad and tomatoes; 3 eggs and dried toast

Day 5: 1 egg or grapefruit; Fish, Tomatoes, and Salad; Lean ham salad, tomatoes and spinach

Day 6: 1 egg or grapefruit; 3 eggs dried toast; Steak Celery, tomatoes and cottage cheese

Day 7: 1 egg or grapefruit; Fresh fruit salad; Lean lamb chops, salad and tomatoes

Where no volume or amount of food is quoted, you can eat as much as you like, within reason. So on the last day a large fruit salad for lunch can be eaten, followed by big juicy lamb chops with a large salad. 

Here’s a day in a life of what a Junior Resident Doctor in a premier medical college in India does.

It’s 6.15 am and an alarmstarts ringing and then within a minute you can hear “Wake up it’s a Beautiful Day”, it’s the jingle in the mobile. One arm to the right and the other to the left, the sounds are silenced.  A few more minutes of lying under the quilt and the blanket in Delhi’s cold is all the toy soldier desires but then a violent rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring of the Twister, as the maid is fondly called ,forces her to open the door. Before the storm arrives into her room, the first reaction is to remove all the phone and medical equipments lying in the room atop the table to avoid the catastrophic loss.

It’s 7.00am and the soldier leaves her termite ridden tent to move to the field duty of the hospital. First of course is breakfast. Monday- Aloo Parantha…Tuesday- Aloo Parantha…Friday- Aloo Parantha. Our most friendly cook can make anda (egg) and toast but they fry the bread instead of toasting it and the soldier does not like it.

It’s 7.30am and the little one enters the wards. She goes through the daily chores of doing the workups, presenting the cases, examining 100s of patients in the Casualty, OPD and the Clinics, assisting in the operation theatres, community service, filling up various forms, charts and files to list a few. In a country where the doctor to people ratio which WHO prescribes at 1:1000 is 1:11,000; where there is 1 bed for 8800 patients the days can be arduous, to say the least. Their exposure to ailments, like TB and Hepatitis, is another stalking killer lurking in the corridors.

You must be wondering what happened to lunch. Of course they do have lunch, once in a while, which again is: Monday- rice with dal & aloo ki sabzi. The friendly man is a perfectionist and the menu also never alters. Yes, on a few special days, the soldier is treated to mushrooms…wow..delicious! On days when the soldier is assigned Operation Theatre duty, the lunch is either a luxury or had at 5-6 pm.

Then there are the famous dinners. Monday- Roti and sabzi which is usually cauliflower and aloo. Here again our Man Friday is a perfectionist…it is the same for all days and on special day it’s again the Utterly Butterly Delicious Mushroom! On some day the soldier’s other troops lay their hands on their ultimate delight of a Domino’s pizza…after all they need to take care of their health to survive such regimen. On days when the work gets over after 11 pm, our Man Friday locks up his canteen and goes for his well earned sleep, my Li’l Soldier goes home to pour some hot water over Cuppa Noodles. The Cuppa Noodles must be terribly good, after all they have Manchester United’s team picture on the body, and Man U is a great team. Surely if Rooney can, my Soldier too can!

The work goes on and on and on, never to stop again. At last it is time to go home which is about 20 minutes walk from the college as no hostel is provided…what irony in calling them Residents while they are truly Non Residents. This moment that they long to go could be anywhere earliest 11pm to 3.45 am. She’s not alone. There are some other soldiers, in some other fields, who get to go home sometimes after 48 hours!

This walk home is the most peaceful as even the dogs and monkeys in the campus have gone to sleep. It is that time when there is no traffic on the road…maybe the Delhi CM could do away with Odd-Even Rule and implement the Midnight Working Rule where half the working class works during the day and the other at night and mind it there should be no exemptions for working women….awake at home parents have become very religious as they pray each night for a safe transit every night. Mind it 3am in Delhi’s winter, walking alone on the streets of the so called R capital of the World…my Ll’l Soldier truly must be very brave. No wonder she is becoming a Commando.

This is the same routine on all seven days of the week including Sundays, National Holidays and Festivals. They also have to manage the home matters of washing clothes, getting water, paying for rent and finding the electrician or plumber when the lights go off or the tap leaks.

Sometime ago a hapless father, who himself happened to be a doctor, wrote a blog “Why I will never allow my child to be a Doctor in India”. It went viral and here is the last para of the same blog:

"You will have every opportunity to choose whether you want to retain your religion or change it ...you will have every opportunity to choose the love of your life irrespective of caste, creed or even gender...you can be a wildlife photographer trekking through the Amazons or dance the poles at Las Vegas. But I will never allow you to become a doctor in India. Because I did not raise my child for two decades just to watch her lose her sense of right and wrong, of humanity or worse, watch her die. And I don't mean just physically."

Not that I wish my Little Soldier, My Commando to become a pole dancer but there are a few requests. She may have grown but she is still my daughter and my ‘noor’ and all I wish is that she gets some sleep, a little more than mere 3-4 hours a day …is it too much to ask? I wish her to get some healthy food at periodic intervals…is it again too much to ask? I wish her to stay within the college campus for her safety…is it too much to ask?  I wish her to get at least a day off in a week on Sundays which even God had decreed to be the holy day of rest.

One night when she returned home, I asked her to go late to work and come back early leaving the work for others. She said,” Baba, don’t say that. After all it’s my work and my life and I have to do it!”

My Commando is getting ready for many more battles and wars. She may not get the Green Beret of the Royal Marine Commando but I will still give her my bear hug every day. Godspeed My Daring Darling.

One happy man of course must be my father up there seeing his granddaughter becoming both a Doctor and a Commando at the same time. As they say in Filmfare Awards and Oscars, I too will raise my hands and say aloud, “Dad, This One’s For You!”

SS

Sorcerer’s Stone

It was one of the most important days in the life of the young boy. He had been dreaming about it ever since the tournament had started. His rag-tag team had surprised many fancied opponents and reached the finals of the football tournament. He himself had played a stellar role in the matches preceding that day scoring a number of goals. It was quite certain to the organizers that, no matter which team won the finals, the man of the tournament would be this young lad.

The night before he hardly slept…his heart was beating fast. He was visualizing the game next day. He didn’t remember when he finally fell asleep but woke up early that Sunday morning to the radio blaring aloud with the broadcast of Mahalaya or the homecoming of the Goddess Durga which no Bengali would ever miss. His father, as usual, would, on this day each year, get up very early and tune into the akaashvani station on an old Murphy radio set. His father made the early morning tea and shaking the boy said, “Wake up….Shibu otho….” Just as he was about to dip the Marie biscuit in the tea, he heard his mother shout…..”Don’t eat anything today till I tell you to.” And we all know mothers; they always have their way.

The boy was asked to take an early morning bath and wear a fresh set of clothes as he was ushered to the place where innumerable gods and goddesses were either seated on a platform or hung from the frames above. It was quite a secular place with Hindu Gods seated and Guru Nanak, Jesus Christ and others watching down. The mother was rubbing the sandal wood on a special stone after dipping the wood in water. With the ring finger on her right hand she put a chandan tilak on the forehead of the lad…..this had nothing to do with his football match although he had heard from his dad that whenever the famed East Bengal and Mohun Bagan would meet in any football tournament, both the teams would go to Kalighat Mandir at Kolkata for divine help to ensure victory. The mother was, on the contrary, seeking divine assistance to make sure the boy, henceforth, would distance himself from the daily routine of football from morning till evening and find more time for school books.

With tilak on his forehead, the boy was reminded of the magnum opus Mughal-e-Azam where Jodha Bai hands over the sword to Emperor Akbar as he went into the battle with his defiant son Jahangir.  But today, instead of the sword, the mother smilingly picked up a plate whereon lay a small blue stone and a piece of cloth. “I don’t need this Ma.” The boy protested but the mother quickly wrapped the stone in the cloth and tied the same to the boy’s arm resembling the band captains wear on football fields today.

The parents had been trying their level best for days, months and years to see their only son take an interest in studies like he did with sports. They had tried everything….love, care, attention, tutors, shouting, caning, belting….but nothing seemed to work. In fact the boy’s scores were going from bad to worse. He was barely managing to cross over into the next class each year. The parents were very worried.  While the father was ever so optimistic that his son one day would become good in studies and make him proud, the mother refused to wait till eternity to see such a day. She was determined to change his fortunes and do it quickly.

The mother knew of a Kala Pandit who was also working in the government office with her. Kala Pandit was someone a lot of office goers had great faith in. There were stories, no less than the miracles of angels, of how he had changed the lives of many and taken people from despair to great happiness. The gravest of illness and the most difficult of times had beaten a hasty retreat at the timely intervention of the Kala Pandit. The mother took Panditji’s appointment and dragged the boy to his residence at  Sarojini Nagar. No sooner Panditji appeared in his white dhoti and kurta, the mother bent down in complete respect and surrender and touched his feet. She then pushed the boy to do the same.

“This is my son Panditji. He is very intelligent  and passes his exams without studying at all. Please do something so that he comes first in his class.” The boy for once felt happy…intelligent beta mera…ha ha. Taking to serious studies was one thing but suddenly his mother’s expectation of him coming first in class was definitely too much. He felt like asking, “Yeh PC Sorcar hai kya?” He looked at the white haired man carefully and wondered where all the caning of the Irish Brothers at school had failed, what magic was our man going to perform on me…let us see and have some fun.

The old man took the boy’s palm in his hand and starting saying things like he will live for long…he will have many cars around him always and become a famous man BUT there is a problem with one line which is currently preventing success and glory to come his way.

“Panditji please do something…I am begging you Panditji.”

“He needs to wear ‘neelam’ blue stone always. You can come and collect the neelam (blue sapphire) next week because they come in various sizes and have different powers. We have to calculate the potency of the stone that will work for your son.”

“Neelam! Panditji, I have heard is very strong. If it suits you then it can do you a world of good but if it doesn’t and you keep wearing it, your fortunes will take a dive for the worse.”

“Yes, you are right.” said the old man. “We will make your son wear the neelam with a thread or cloth for about 10 days for testing and if nothing bad happens during that phase, we will have the stone affixed on a gold ring for him to wear on his finger forever. I am very certain that what I will give him will work and you will then be happy that you came to me.”

The mother happily gave Kala Pandit his dakshina of Rs 200 which was quite a sum in those days. The boy kept on protesting that he did not want any stone on his finger and all this was mumbo-jumbo but all his reasoning fell on deaf ears. The mother already had sparks in her eyes…going to school auditorium and seeing her intelligent son get prizes in front of all and the thunderous applause in her ears drowning all other voices and expostulation of our budding footballer. After a week the sorcerer’s stone came home.

And on the Mahalaya day, the mother was tying the neelam on the son’s arm. She then said a small prayer as she put her hand over his head. This was an auspicious day and Ma Durga and neelam would work beautifully to make sure the next 10 days would pass by without any incident. With schools closed for many of these days plus the fun of Durga Puja would ensure that the boy would soon become the Lord of the Ring and a ring of halo would soon glow behind him. The very thought of this itself happening made the mother happy beyond words.

The boy packed his football kit and left for Chittaranjan Park with his team mates for the annual Vijayadashami Football Tournament finals where they faced the local team, Bengal Tigers. The residents there were all rooting for the local team even before the match commenced. The boy’s father who had sown seeds of the game in the boy by taking him after school to DCM and Durand Cup matches at Ambedkar Stadium, Delhi reached the venue and wished the boy luck as he stood quietly in the crowd.

The match got off to a rapturous start with the golden boy hitting the wood work within the first 30 seconds which almost silenced the home fans. The Bengal Tigers settled down and then started waves of attacks on the boy’s team. The goal keeper was a brave lad. Despite the ground being quite barren with no trace of grass, he dived from one side to another to deny the other team from scoring. The score remained zero-zero at lemon break.

After the half time, the boy’s team started playing spirited football and were all over the locals. The boy found his touch but not the goal. Three times he kicked into the goal but almost every time the goalkeeper or the woodwork came in the way. The opponents realized the danger and started playing rough. Every time the boy touched the ball, they would tackle him badly and the referee, who was a local Bong, would not even whistle for a foul. Around the end of normal time, the referee, for what was no more than a firm nudge by a visiting defender, pointed to the dreaded spot in favour of the Bengal Tigers.  A firm kick and the ball found its way to the back of the net. The crowd erupted in sheer ecstasy and hardly waited for the referee’s last whistle for the game to formally close.

The match was lost. The boy won his individual prize, a small miniature of a man with a ball on his feet on a wooden stand. Disappointed of course, but not humiliated, their team was cheered aloud as they went up to receive their runners up trophy by the well informed but partisan crowd.

Next day, despite his mother’s protests, the boy went to Kala Pandit. No bowing down, no touching of feet this time. No sooner had the man come out to open the door than the boy stretched out his hand giving back the stone.

 "It did not suit me”. 

“Why? What happened?”

The boy simply turned around and walked away. The Sorcerer’s Stone had lost to the Soccer Ball.

The father smiled. The boy had just turned a strong man. The stone had actually worked. 

SS

JOTTINGS OF AN IDLE MIND

“For last year's words belong to last year’s language

And next year’s words await another voice”-T.S.Eliot

In a few hours, we will be bidding goodbye to one year and welcoming another. It is that time of the year when we all like to look back, review the days gone by , make ‘resolutions’ for a new beginning and look forward to something better. But honestly, will there be much of a change?

 I feel I will be spending another evening before the idiot box surfing through the channels…but I doubt whether Mr Arnab Goswami or Ms Barkha Dutt will give us much peace or food for thought. There was a time when I remember spending a quiet 31^st evening watching the world events being covered in a programme called the “The Year That Was” and later following up with a New Year’s Eve special telecast.  But those days are gone. Peace has been completely erased from our drawing rooms ever since Ms Dutt and Mr Goswami have taken over our lives. I simply marvel their infinite knowledge – from Medicine to Literature, Law to Economics, Politics to Poetry, Environment to Entertainment, Terrorism to Gay Rights, IPC to Psephology, Computers to Climate Change, Free Basics to Human Rights. There is no end to how much they know, how much or how loudly they can talk, hear only what they wish to hear, not take into cognizance what they don’t wish to. They are like Gods sitting in judgement. They can never be wrong. In channels like the BBC you find each person covering a particular area of news, a specialized field that they cover. Here they are omniscient. Their favourite panelists are equally erudite and omnipresent- they make sure that they are shown in every channel on a particular day. Once I heard the great Ms Shobha De making a statement in one channel and then doing a complete u-turn in another in the span of an hour. Do they take us to be complete idiots sitting in front of the idiot box?

So I will surf again and probably end up watching reality shows in which little girls and boys are made to shed tears in front of the entire country for making a small mistake in a particular note or for missing a beat or step. We are, however, very careful to see that children are not graded in their exams, their marks must not be declared, their merit must not be proclaimed. The reason- children might be psychologically bruised. But what happens, I wonder, to young children who participate in reality shows, pressurized by their parents and mentors to perform well, and are rejected for not being good enough. They are shown crying on national television.  I wonder who takes care of their scars. When we were kids, no one spared us- not even the Oxford-Cambridge educated relatives, with their ultra sensitized minds. I remember their favourite question was how much did you get in English and Math? I still remember blurting out the marks for the umpteenth time in front of a huge crowd at a wedding or even at a restaurant while enjoying one of those rare ‘eating out’ moments. School education cannot be graded but talent, which is more subjective, can be. Good to see that people are more sensitive to children’s issues nowadays but why so selectively?

Then I surf again and, may be, end up watching serials….even if you watch one, after a gap of two weeks, the story would not have moved by a millimetre. The scene would still be the same. While Pakistani serials, which follow a storyline, get over in 25-30 episodes, our ‘mega’ serials continue to go beyond 25000 episodes. My only appeal to the makers of these serials is please have mercy on us…please spare us those monster mothers-in-law, those scheming sisters-in-law, those utterly moronic heroes and the super-bleached, white-washed heroines who have to look fair, even if the story is that of a dark girl struggling to stand on her own feet without succumbing to the  pressures of social stigma or dowry, on all occasions. I am sure the world over great writers, litterateurs and playwrights must have left behind some good short stories, novels or plays. Can't they be adapted to make better serials?

Sometimes, I feel our culture and our languages have been reduced to the three ‘A’s- Awesome, Amazing and Anyways. If you just know these three words in English you can make your way through today’s society like Shaw’s Eliza Doolittle. You ask a youngster in any city in India any question the reaction is always ‘amazing’. Their answer to almost anything is always ‘awesome’. If you follow a conversation (you cannot avoid it since all around you, be it the bus, the train, the road, the restaurant, or what I call the modern Temple of Athena, The Mall, people are perennially talking on their cell phones) you will hear at least 25 Awesomes, 50 Amazings, and finally almost all conversation will end with ‘Anyways let’s meet up some day’.

And if it is a young Non-resident Indian you are talking to, there is only one response you will be able to elicit. Whatever you ask, the answer is always ‘Good’. Perhaps they think we are incapable of grasping more than that. So I guess it is best to bid such a person ‘Goodbye’!

On the subject of vocabulary, I was once asked by a senior relative, who had spent some years in Great Britain, what I was wearing. In standard II, with my limited vocabulary and completely in awe of ‘phoren’ returned relatives, I had replied that it was a checked skirt in cotswool. The gentleman had pronounced that my knowledge of English was indeed very poor, and was told to remember that it was called a plaid skirt. Later, I was advised to converse and interact more often with my peers in English. I nodded, wondering whom did he mean by my peers? You see, unlike today’s kids, we did not have the smartphones.

Smartphones remind me of an interesting conversation I was witness to in the elevator the other day. A young mother, armed with her smartphone, was asking her five -year old boy, what he had written on MJ. The boy, whom not too long ago I had seen crawling in the foyer and learning to take his first unsteady steps, had recently been admitted to an ‘International’ school. In response to his mother’s query the boy gave the most indifferent look. He made it clear that he had no clue to what she was talking about. The mother started lecturing him on how he should not resort to rote learning but he should have, at least, remembered what his teacher had made him write on MJ. All the time the smart mother was checking her smartphone and asking him if he had written that MJ was the King of Pop and that he owned a house called Neverland. Smart education is indeed going a long way –all the way to break-dance!!! Then the smart mother drove away in a smart car with her ‘not so smart kiddo’ sitting next to her in the front seat but even as she pressed her feet on the clutch and accelerator, her smart phone remained glued to her ears!!

I know my article reeks of intolerance, impatience and cynicism so, like everybody else on New Year’s eve, I, too, must make some resolutions to reform myself. Till then wish you all an awesome New Year party, an amazing 2016 and, anyways, the New Year always holds the promise of a better tomorrow.

“What we call the beginning is often the end

And to make an end is to make a beginning”-T.S. Eliot

DS

Jingle Bells

It was a starry starry night

And two old men were shining bright

And their conversation began

Looney Tony where have you been?

I’ve been at London

But never met the Queen.
And Georgie, My Bushie how have you been?

I keep forgetting where all I was

Sometimes seen, at times unseen.

The two had just come together

On Christmas at Camp David
Two birds of the same feather

Just Bush & Blair

Where no evil shall dare.

Got themselves a lovely pine tree

Decorated gifts big and small

With no one else around

The men felt completely free

And when the music began to play

They danced through the night

Holding each other tight

Drinking the finest wine

Till the old bones could shake no more

Changed into pajamas’

Hopped into bed, together of course

But not to sleep tonight

Tonight the two pals wanted to see Santa come

Come through the window

Driving his sleigh and give them their gifts

After all they were the Jolly Good Fellows!

 It was a starry starry night

When they saw a shadow outside the window

Excited the two jumped out together

Singing

He’ll be coming down the mountains when he comes

He’ll be riding six white reindeers when he comes

As the shadow crept nearer

The friends grew merrier and merrier

Until….

It dawned on them

‘twas no Santa Claus

But You Know Who!

Deadly and Deathly

Armed to the teeth

Guns, grenades and more

It was the dreaded creature from Middle IS..East I mean.

 Fear gripped our toony pals

As they once more held each other tight

Rushed to the phone

Security…Security…they shouted, they cried

But the lines were all dead

And the lights went out as well.

Quite dramatic you would say,

But not them trembling in fear

Pulled out guns hanging from the tree

The ex POTUS, President of the US

And ex LOTUK, Lord of the UK

Hardly looked The Eagle & Hawk

More the Beagle and the Duck.

Felt the earth slipping below

And could see the end of the world ahead

Very clear, very near.

Just then the phone began to ring

And in a voice loud and clear

Deafening laughter filled the air

Ha Ha Ha Ha

Afraid are you two gentlemen, is it?

Who are you, they asked

Why are you troubling us

What brings you here

Shouted Blaring Blair and Shivering Bush

He said in a grim but firm voice

I am Saddam

Sad am I

Sad and angry at what you did to me

Sad and angry at what you did to my family

It was not personal Dear Saddam

We went in search for weapons of mass destruction

-chemical, biological and nuclear weapons

Said LOTUK and POTUS

And did you find any of those, he asked

Weapons of mass destruction?
Weapons with nuclear heads?

Weapons that could destroy humanity?

We searched and searched but couldn’t find

What we started the war for

But found the real weapon of mass destruction

Much later hidden in the sands of Iraq

A brutal and fanatic force uncovered

And one among them IS standing outside

Weapon of Mass Destruction indeed

Why don’t you save us Saddam

Take back your Iraq

Take your IS men back

Save us, save the world from this attack

We’ll give you the Nobel Peace prize

It wasn’t personal Saddam

Hope you understand us Dear Boy.

Save you now…

Remember how you pulled me out of the hole

Remember how you killed my sons

Remember how my statues were pulled own

I can see fear in your eyes

I can see death in your hearts

I can see the end of your world

All for your madness

All for your desire for oil

All for your show of fire power

Today you need my help

When I am helpless and headless

All of this for your foolishness alone

Now suffer as I leave you both

To Rest In Peace

Shall now open the door outside

For you to enjoy the Christmas Eve

With sparkles and glow

In the company of one outside

One who IS not a dictator

One who does not invade Kuwait

But today is found everywhere

India, France, US and more

Bombing, killing, extorting and more.

They are Yours Truly & Lovingly IS

The Real Weapon of Mass Destruction

Discovered & Dug out by you

It is very personal, Mr President

It is nothing but personal now, Mr Prime Minister

Eid Mubarak, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year.

SS

All You Need is Love

(I had written this story for a competition on a given topic but it never made the cut. So sharing it with you all...slightly long but enjoyed writing it, hope you like it too.)

Year: 2004.

It was spring in Srinagar. Deodar and Chinar trees covering the skyline, the flowers in full bloom, the flowing Dal Lake and the majestic view of the Pir Panjal Range truly made this the Paradise on Earth…hamin asto hamin asto, hamin asto.

Shagufta considered herself to be destiny’s child having somehow cleared the state Pre-Medical Test. First day at the Government Medical College, she stepped in with a heart that was beating so fast that she could have easily been admitted to the cardiology wing of the hospital. She was excited beyond words both in terms of a career as a doctor and, after years of slogging in school and coaching classes, she was longing to meet someone here, to fall in love madly. Love was truly a priority and not just in the air.

Shafi was from a well to do family most of who were settled in the USA.  He had an academic career which was among the brightest you would find anywhere. Shafi looked very much like one who had stepped out from the Roman Pantheon with flowing hair, aquiline nose, tall and handsome. His dream was to be a famous doctor, apply a soothing balm to all those affected by intermittent cases of death and violence in the city caused sometimes by the so called jihadis and at times by the armed forces. He wanted to be a doctor with a cause.

It didn’t take long for them to hit off. Not a day would pass when they would not spend an hour or two in the cafeteria. He loved cappuccino and she was fond of ice cream…the chocolaty kind. Funnily they hardly had any fight in the six long years at the medical college. During internship they made sure they were put in the same unit so that they could spend days and nights together. The pressure on their other unit members was all the more tremendous as they were taking the load of the two perpetually missing interns. But no one ever complained, for both Shagufta and Shafi were liked by all. Their love was looked upon by the friends as what an ideal love ought to be…just made for each other.

Year: 2010

No sooner had they turned doctors, than they decided to get married. Post graduation was an ambition both had but were willing to set it aside for a year to settle down. Life, which so far seemed beautiful, suddenly took a turn…an awkward one. Shafi’s family would agree to their marriage if Shagufta converted herself, something to which her family would not agree. It may sound clichéd, but that’s the eternal truth of Indian Secularism in which many a love story gets cruelly crushed and lost.

Shafi got his admission to PG in Surgery at India’s premier institute, AIIMS, Delhi. Shagufta stayed back at Srinagar and started working at the Government Hospital. Even though distance separated them, they initially stayed connected as in their undergraduate days. The only difference was that connect would now happen thanks to Skype and Vodafone. Their talks and chats would be endless. But there was a pain in their hearts, something they knew for certain, that no matter how much they loved, the schism was too big to cross. Shafi would often suggest that they should go away to another country where they did not have to explain anything to anyone and then live together happily.  It was wishful thinking and no more.

Gradually Shafi got more and more busy with his PG which hardly gave him a couple of winks a day to rest. It was work, work and more work with endless patients coming through the doors of the hospital. Shagoofta would dial his number many a time during the day but in vain. She too got busy with her life.

Year: 2013

Three years passed soon and Shafi was back at Srinagar for a few days of break when the two met, held hands and cried together. Their love was deep and they decided that they would always stay connected and of course will wait endlessly for one another, wait for the spring to usher one day in their lives. Both Shafi and Shagufta believed the day would soon come when they would be together forever. Till then they would pursue their own course of destiny.

Even though her family had lived in Srinagar for three generations, the political conditions kept deteriorating. Her parents had moved to Delhi but Shagufta stayed behind in their ancestral home all alone. She would go to the hospital everyday and would work non-stop at the Casualty Wing taking care of those injured by accidents and blasts that echoed through the city at frequent intervals. Love, care and service were synonymous with her. She soon became a legend in the hospital and everyone loved her.

Shafi suddenly vanished from the scene.  Shagufta was worried as there was no news of him and he also stopped calling. Months went by and the silence was complete. She would read the morning newspapers everyday for some news…she even learnt to read Urdu for his sake. But he was nowhere to be seen or heard of.

One night, as Shagufta lay in her bed reading A Thousand Splendid Suns there was a knock on the door. She was reasonably brave to be living alone in an atmosphere of insurgency but this was quite unlike any other night. She looked at the watch…it was 11.14pm!

“Shagufta darwaza kholo jaldi…”. She knew the voice well and so she rushed to open the door. The moment she opened, a bearded Shafi limped in. He had a backpack and was bleeding profusely on his left leg.

Tum yahan..is haal mein…what happened?

I will tell you everything but first help me take the bullet out of my leg.

How did this happen? Why didn’t you go to the hospital…why here?

I can’t go there. Just get some hot water and bring your medical kit quickly…I don’t have too much time. I will tell you everything, I promise.

Next couple of hours seemed an endless struggle to take the bullet out with little equipments at home. He had stuffed two pairs of socks in his mouth to prevent his cries from being heard outside as the operation was underway. Finally, she managed to extract but not before he had lost a lot of blood. As Shagufta finished dressing his wound, Shafi fell down on the carpeted floor and went blank.  She waited till he came around and offered him hot stew and some leftover rice. No questions were asked, no answers given…just her serving, him recovering, slowly but steadily.  

In a few days he left with an unfulfilled promise. But to her it did not matter for she had seen his backpack as he lay unconscious for over 24 hours. There was an automatic pistol, spare magazines, 3 different passports, packets of resins and figs, a copy of the Holy Koran and a bunch of letters neatly folded in a packet. She opened the packet and completely froze, for inside were the letters she had written to him during college days. She felt a lump in her throat and her eyes started watering. She staggered onto the armchair and sat down. The tears just would not stop. She always knew he loved her but even now, though times had changed and Shafi had taken a new life, at heart he remained ever so loyal to her. He was hers and hers forever!

Shagufta was the daughter of Brigadier Rana. Her family had been serving the armed forces for generations and love for the country was something that came to her naturally. But she had gone weak at that moment. Had it been anyone but Shafi, she would have called for the army and would have had him arrested, but love, which gives you strength at times, weakens you beyond comprehension at other. He loved her so, how could she betray him. He was her life, her past and possibly her future that she tried to build in her dreams so delicately. She, too, had many a story to tell him. She had her secrets to tell as well, she too had her yet to be posted letters to share with him….Shagufta just stood still.

Soon Shafi became a local hero, a new Che Guevara roaming the countryside in his motor cycle, killing army men intentionally and civilians inadvertently. Many, wanting self rule, saw in him an educated person who had been pushed to join the rebellion due to excesses committed by the armed forces. There were posters of Shafi at all important buildings and streets, some read ‘Wanted’ and others hailed him as the Che of Azad Kashmir.

Year: 2015

Place: Starbucks, Saket, New Delhi

She sat in the Starbucks café, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. She picked up her mobile phone and dialed a number.

Hello Colonel, this is Major Shagufta Rana of Army Intelligence Unit. The Che-cken is cooked. 

Bravo Major…well done. Proud of you for having redeemed yourself. Jai Hind!

As she waited for the military police to come to the café, she took out an envelope from her bag. She opened the same and took out a photograph of a baby with light curls and sparkling eyes. She was Safia, her child with Shafi, who had grown up at a crèche attached to the hospital. The insurgency in the locality had gone up and those wanting azadi had been rampant in destroying everything that had anything to do with the Dilli Sarkar.

Government Hospital at Srinagar had become the place where the wounded Army soldiers and policemen were being treated after the insurgents had blown away the Army Base Hospital. Rumours were rife that the hospital was also one of the places from where intelligence information was going to the army and they would attack the insurgents with precision, killing many Kashmiri youth. Although the Government Hospital was well protected, those wanting to shake the government were far bolder. One day the truck that carried away the trash daily dashed into the campus and before anyone realized, six men in battle attire jumped out from the rear. Shagufta was, at that moment, in the Casualty Section when she saw the commotion outside. She saw the driver come down and give the orders.

“Jaldi jaldi karo…ooda do fauji aspataal ko…kuchh bhi nahin bachna chahiye…saale iske baad Dilli jayenge apni patti karaney..”

The team was swift in its action throwing grenades at the hospital and spraying bullets at security personnel posted there. Cries and shrieks were heard everywhere. Shagufta froze when she saw the driver, with a Balaclava mask covering his face, had a bad limp on his left leg.…it was unmistakably him…Shafi. How could he? He was a doctor himself…was the cause he was fighting for larger than the cause of humanity he had taken an oath for?

The truck drove away quickly leaving behind a trail of death and destruction. Shagufta ran towards the crèche and all she saw was smouldering fire and smell of burning human bodies…she searched and searched and finally found a little body. A mother had not failed to recognize her baby .She wailed at a shrieking pitch and kept crying till she couldn’t remember what happened after.

Soon after Shagufta passed her college, she had been recruited by the Army as a Special Intelligence Officer who knew the locals well and they trusted her. She could give the Army much needed information that patients and their relatives would give out unknowingly. She had been a great resource and had recently got her promotion as a Major as she continued her life as an undercover doctor at the Government Hospital.

Coming out of the trauma, heartbroken but not weakened, Shagufta had just one mission in her lonely life. She was able to reach Shafi through the interlocutors who managed some contact between the two opposing camps with a hope to bring about lasting peace. She knew they couldn’t meet at Srinagar. So she asked him for a meeting at Delhi.

Shagufta did not tell her superiors where she was going that weekend as she took the flight to Delhi. Shafi too did not tell anyone of his rendezvous. All they knew was that their leader was going on a special mission. Shafi always loved Starbucks for the ambience and its delightful coffee. He had told Shagufta about Starbucks at Saket which was close to Tughlaqabad where he had put up with a loyalist.

That fateful day they met at the appointed time. Shafi stood still but Shagufta was normal as she stepped ahead, held his hand and walked him inside. As they sat down and waited for their order, Shagufta excused herself to go to the rest room. She locked the door from inside and then took off her shoes, picked it up and pulled out the sole. Inside lay a small knife, the surgeon’s scalpel. She touched the blade once and felt the sharp edge. Yes this will do. She slipped on her shoes again and walked out. This time she was confident. Her eyes were shining bright, fingers tight and stable and mind crystal clear.

She had forgiven him many times. Forgiven him for not marrying her. Forgiven him for having joined the rebels. She even forgave him though she faced ignominy and had been reprimanded both by the army and her family who had come to know of the incident where she had helped him after the bullet injury. Her love for Shafi had been far more important than anything else, surpassing the love for the country, in whose service she had enrolled, keeping the family tradition alive. But now Safia was all she had, her baby was her light of the world, her Li’l Noorjehan. She loved her so, loved her more than anything and anyone. No Shafi, not this time. Safia was innocent and you’re not. No forgiveness, no mercy for you!

She took a couple of brisk steps towards the table as Shafi was checking his iPad. With military precision she gripped his forehead from behind with one hand and slipped the other hand through his thick beard and swoosh….one straight cut on the jugular vein..…blood oozed, splattered all over and Shafi’s head slumped on the table which soon turned into a pool of red.

Military Police came in quickly, cordoned off the café and made sure pictures and videos on people’s mobiles were deleted. All this while Shagufta kept staring at Safia’s  picture, laughing till tears poured and poured…somewhere diluting the stains of red flowing from the other side.

SS

Romancing the Grass

It was the summer of 86 and the romance of two men, both no more than 5 feet 2” inches or so, half way round the world separating them, caught my fancy. To be precise it was 29th June 1986.

Mexico City: It was the World Cup Finals and Argentina was playing Germany. One man was making the tournament his own, Diego Maradona. No one can ever forget the two goals he scored to knock England out of the tournament. The first goal was the Hand of God where this short magician out jumped the England keeper Peter Shilton and headed the ball into the back of the net. The television replays showed Maradona had cleverly used his hand rather than his head to score. The next goal, however, no one will dispute, would rank absolutely among the top Goals of the Century. Picking a ball in his own half, Diego dribbled past 5 English players before out maneuvering the keeper to score.

New Delhi: It was the MA (Previous) Finals next morning on 30^th June. 7 of the 8 papers had got over and as luck would have it the last of the exams on American History fell on such a date. Surely the examiners and the illuminati at Delhi University could not see beyond books and cricket.  All the preparations were ready for the Big Night…the Boys Common room was packed. Lines had been drawn between those supporting the reigning champions Germany and the eternal favorites, after Brazil, the Argentinians. No matter which side you were on, all knew this was a one man show…Diego Maradona. My Friend M was no soccer buff but not one to miss the fun, had his early dinner and was there among the crowds who had gathered there that night.

Mexico City: This tournament, apart from Maradona’s marvel, was the Mexican Wave where the crowds in the stadium would stand and wave their hands in air in batches and would appear like the waves in the sea. This got popularized world over after this tournament.  The final was being held at Stadia Azteca where Jose Luis Brown opened the scoring for Argentina in the 23rd minute and it stayed at 1–0 until half-time. It was Argentinian brilliance to German resilience and Diego, the danger man, was marked heavily.

New Delhi: The lemon break for the player meant the bio-break for the hostellers as they jostled together and stood in queues to wait for their turn. Most of them were good boys, what else do you expect from the Stephanians. My Friend M walked out for some fresh air and went beyond the walls of the college. For those who have seen Delhi University, there is no place greener than this. M landed himself walking near the ridge. It was nearly 2 am and little white flowers had filled the shrubs and many of them were falling to the ground. The match in the other part of the globe would have started and Maradona was scorching the green grass, M was picking tenderly white little flowers from the grass. He soon pulled out his handkerchief and started collecting more and more of the flowers…surely his mind was working on the next step, exactly the way Maradona’s was as to how to break out of the tight man marking Germans, who had planned to pin him down.

Mexico City: After the break, Jorge Valdano doubled Argentina's lead 10 minutes into the second half. Karl Heinz Rummenigge pulled a goal back in the 74th minute for West Germany and then equalized in the 80th minute through Rudi Voller. You just can’t keep the Germans down. Diego Maradona was heavily marked the entire game but managed a superb pass to Jorge Burruchaga in the 84th minute who went on to score and that allowed Argentina to regain the lead at 3–2. That is how it  remained till the 90^th minute and the world erupted in celebrations of blue and white.

New Delhi: M had by now collected flowers everywhere…handkerchief, shirt and trouser pockets and hands and as he entered the  hostel gate, he saw a lot of his mates coming out shouting and celebrating in their own way. M’s heart was pounding and was full of joy. He sneaked into his room and shut the door. As he poured the flowers on to his bed, Maradona was lifting the World Cup…the joy for both the men was quite alike. The only difference was that while in Mexico the work was done and dusted, at Delhi the game had just begun. From his cupboard, he brought out the emergency box and out came the needle and thread. Slowly first and then picking up pace, M weaved a big garland out of the flowers. He held the garland admiringly with his outstretched hands and then brought it close to his nose to smell the fragrance…..smmmmm ahhhhh…simply divine! As he closed his eyes enjoying the moment, he was visualizing the Beautiful One in his heart.

As Maradona started his victory lap at Azteca Stadium, M started his journey to Pandara Road where the Beautiful One lived. Dot at 6 am, M reached her house which was at the heart of Delhi where the top civil servants stayed. M never knew the meaning of the word fear and pressed the bell..zzzzzzz. As they say fortune smiles on the brave, not the father or mother but it was the Beautiful One, hoping to see the newspaper boy dropping the paper early morning, who opened the door. And what she saw was M standing there, smiling. He put his hand forward and put the flowery garland in her hands. The girl smiled and took the garland to enjoy the soft beautiful fragrance. M turned around as he heard her say, ‘Thank You’.

30^th June 1986: M along with all other DU students gathered in the large halls to appear for the American History Exam. Almost all looked weary, tired and red eyed…after all none of them had slept for over an hour or two after the match and the celebrations got over. More importantly like all students, they studied generally on the night before the exam but this time it was different for last night they had a much more important thing to do. As they settled down on the benches, the examination question paper was distributed. Suddenly there was an uproar and all looked back. Someone shouted, “Yeh question paper out of syllabus hain….Walk Out!” Possibly this was what all wanted to hear and everyone even before reading the question paper started shouting…Walk Out…Walk Out!! The same happened in South Campus of DU. All walked out and did not give the exam. The Mexican Wave had caught on far too quickly in the backyards of Delhi University.

Bees Saal Baad: Maradona, the Greatest Footballer of all time, was caught with grass and made a mess of his life. The halo of the football field had given way to the smoke rings. M continued his love affair with nature, enjoying the earth in all its beauty….moving around on his bicycle from Kanyakumari to Khardungla, from Sonpur Mela to Ganga Ghats. If you were to hear someone singing an old Bhojpuri folk song on a DTC bus, it may be M sitting somewhere enjoying the ride and the breeze.

SS

DEATH OF AN UNDERWRITER

(Wrote this piece in early 2010 and was instantly rejected for being blasphemous to appear in a government journal. They later showed more ‘tolerance’ and this featured in the IRDA Journal of May 2010 Sharing with you all as one of my favorite official write-up… being normal is boring!!)

On a Black Sunday, I sat and thought,

Is this a life worth living for?

Is this a life worth dying for?

For what is life without the 3 Ps

Pride Premium Profit

The balance sheet of life was staring down at me

Death to this world of woe

Better dead than living.

Being a Master Mariner all my life

Just couldn't hang like an acrobat from a tree

Never think of death by rat venom

Stabbed to death many a times by Brutus

Found my way to the blue sea

Jumped off the rickety Black Pearl

Freedom at last!

Deep under no price to fight for

All is well with no pride to live for.

They found me floating, pulled me out

They put me on a bed, took me to yard

Where my best friend read an epitaph

Agents, brokers, clientele men, lend me your ears;

I come to bury an Underwriter, not to praise him;

The evil that men do lives after them,

The good is oft interred with their bones,

So let it be with this underwriter ... The noble Brutus

Hath told you the underwriter was ambitious:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath the underwriter answered it ...

I found myself floating high above the clouds

Till I reached the Gates of Heaven

Saint Peter was waiting there for me

Blessed was I to see such a sight.

Good morning Father.

Good morning son.

What's your name? What's your PAN number?

Puzzled was I at the last request.

Father said, that's an order from the Boss

The Regulator who controls us all

Says no evasion no con up here…

Sen, AXN 3344, I said

An Underwriter with Tata AIG, Sir.

His Holiness scratched his flowing beard

Underwear, Undertaker, Undercover I know of

What's an underwriter is new…phew

Googled Windows Version Heaven

Pop came the answer

A rare specie of aboriginals on planet earth

Fast eroding, evaporating and eliminating

Sole guardians & interpreters of Holy Tariff, Clauses

Examine Risks but hardly accept same

Write Policies but hardly anyone understands

Believes I am the Best.

Ummm an Underwriter…

A job quite fit for Gods.

Sen & Sensibilities go together for you, son

Honored to have you at heaven

But before you enter we do a check

Check the credentials befitting the place.

A board of 3 Holy men will do the test.

Father, I've faced many a stern test all my life

With no vice of Wine Women Wealth

Have nothing to fear but fear today, said I.

Walked across to the first cave

Brilliantly illuminated and decorated

With heavenly music of Rahman playing

Jai Ho, I knew I had arrived.

Welcome Son, I am Father Saleuman

As my name suggests I'm here for Sales

I ensure that the census here is more than …

You know where…Yes Father.

My motto is “Grow or Go”

Let me open your Book of Life

One - You were very Creative

You wrote a book on business

101 Ways to Kill a Proposal.

Two - You were very knowledgeable

But kept it close to your chest

Never shared it with people.

Three - Your motto in life

Bottoms Up, Top line is for Fools.

No Son- you don't fit in here.

Walked into a soberly adorned office.

Welcome Son, I am Father Orderly

I take care of Compliance and Audits

My motto is “Follow Rules or Fall”.

I check if a soul has done his job correctly

Followed all directions expected of him.

Let me open your Book of Life

One - You were very creative

You made airplanes out of circulars

Of  vessel approvals and overages.

Two - You were very knowledgeable

But why Textiles @ 0.10% Sugar @ 0.01%

Sanity was never your strong point.

Three - your motto in life

Highest Price, Lowest Cover

Sorry Son, you never followed the law.

Finally walked into a marketplace

Where a Saint came up and said,

Welcome Son, I am Father Fairplay

I do a check on the character of a man

My motto is “Johnny Be Good Be Good”

He who is good will find a place in heaven

Even if he fails the tests of sales & audit.

Let me open your Book of Life.

One - You were very creative

A thousand claims denied

As you interpreted words in policies.

Two - You were very knowledgeable

eMarine, STOP, STP- eliminating competition

Driving fellow underwriters elsewhere nuts.

Three - Your motto in life

Only Marine, Only Marine

Let other lines go to…..

Sorry Son, can't let you in.

Hell was staring at me, so was Saint Peter

Son we have a problem

You failed the Sales Test

You failed the Compliance Test

You also failed the Humanity Test

I have just called up my counterpart

In Hell, of course

They are delighted to see your resume.

They are sending a rock band

And an open bus to take you there.

Went down on my knees and said,

Father can't I get a Second Chance

A Second Chance to get it Right this time

Pious Peter saw my tears and nodded

Sent me back to earth

Today I am called SALMAN Bhai

Short for SALes MANager of Mumbai

I constantly wear a T shirt

I am SALMAN and 

I am not a Terrorist.